Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

For many years, Aragorn had not seen the family who had once embraced him with warmth and compassion—those who had welcomed him as their own after he had been captured and sold into slavery in Harad. And so, one day, a deep, restless longing stirred within him. He needed to see them again. They were now a free people, and he had to know—were they safe? Had they held on to their hard-won freedom?

Legolas had not hesitated for even a moment to accompany him once more.

Their reunion was nothing short of joyous.

They spent precious days among the tribe, immersing themselves in daily life: aiding the shepherds in the fields among the mighty mûmakils, and gathering in the evenings to share stories and song around a campfire. The air pulsed with the rhythmic, uplifting chants of a people who had once known chains—and had broken them.

Parting was no easier than it had been the first time. It never is, when farewells are given without knowing whether another meeting lies ahead.

Before long, they were travelling once more, following the familiar path through the grasslands they had once crossed on horseback. But the journey was not as it had been.

Fresh signs of Orc encampments marred the landscape, and a sudden warg attack—fierce and unexpected—forced a violent detour. Though Aragorn and Legolas fought the beasts off, their horses panicked and bolted into the wild.

So it was that the companions found themselves continuing on foot, drawn to the edge of the desert. Northward they turned, toward home, tracing the dry bed of a once-living stream. The land stretched before them — lifeless, silent, and heavy with stillness.

A dead, sandy valley...

Legolas sorely missed his home. He did not understand this strange land they were crossing. Only moments past, the air had been searing hot and deadly dry. And Anor seemed to burn the naked earth angrily from the sky. Then, that same sky had turned dark as night, and the temperature suddenly dropped.

The wind rose like a living thing, lashing the sand in billows against anything in its way. It whipped into their faces despite the hoods and cloaks they pulled tight for protection. It forced its way into every crevice — into their mouths, their nostrils — grating against their teeth and scouring their throats. The sand pierced through the fabric of their clothes, like thousands of needles pricking the skin.

This place felt unspeakably alien — hostile, ominous, a mass of extremes. First raindrops fell — thick and heavy — but they vanished on contact, hissing against the scorched sand before they could moisten it. Then more came, swift and unrelenting. The rain thickened into pounding drops that hit the earth in sharp splashes.

The cliffs far behind grew threatening and black against the dark grey sky. Sudden lightning reached down like slashing fires. Each bolt struck the earth with a deafening roar, thunder rolling in waves that shook the very air. For brief, blinding moments, the world lit up like a false dawn — a phantom light within a storm-born night.

Legolas' senses screamed in alarm. He narrowed his eyes against the blinding light, scanning the trembling landscape. Between the flashes, he caught sight of the dried-out riverbed—smoothed by water, too deep to remain dust. It was not dead, only waiting. Suddenly, he understood. The water would return, vast and unstoppable. A mad fear seized him.

"Estel, we must get out of here!" he shouted, his voice barely rising above the roar of the oncoming storm.

Whether Aragorn heard him or not, he could not tell — even his keen elven hearing struggled against the chaos. The wind howled like a living beast, drowning all sound beneath its fury.

Without waiting for a response, Legolas reached out, seized his friend's tunic, and yanked him forward. Aragorn stumbled, then caught stride as Legolas dragged him into a desperate run, toward the scattered boulders and jagged rocks that marked the valley's edge. Beyond them loomed the towering cliff face, its crags dark and slick under the storm-churned sky.

Then it was as if the heavens had split open.

The sky unleashed itself in torrents — rain pouring down in blinding streams. Legolas could see no more than an arm's length ahead; the world had vanished behind a wall of water.

The sand beneath their feet turned into heavy, yielding ground, pulling them deeper with every step. Treacherous, it clutched at their legs as if to hold them fast, making each movement a struggle. Brown rivulets carved their way through the dissolving earth. They were swallowed in a curtain of rain, soaked to the bone within a single breath. Legolas' hair clung to his face, his clothes heavy and cold, plastered to his skin.

The water raged, and the lightning in the sky left the earth groaning, grumbling and shuddering beneath their feet and Legolas felt each tremor travel up through his legs like the pulse of something ancient and furious stirring below.

They clambered over loose stones, pushing toward the larger boulders that jutted from the slope, toward higher ground. Legolas led the way, nimble and sure-footed even in the storm, glancing back frequently to ensure Aragorn was still behind him. He knew the climb was harder for the man. The slick stones and driving rain made every step treacherous. Aragorn stumbled more than once, but to Legolas' relief, he kept pace, grim determination in every movement.

Then Legolas turned again — and his heart lurched.

Aragorn slipped.

"Estel!" he shouted, panic cutting through the storm.

From his higher perch, he watched in helpless dread as Aragorn reached for the wet rock — fingers scraping, failing to grip — before his head struck the stone.

A cry caught in Legolas' throat as Aragorn collapsed, slumping lifelessly against the rock.

He did not move.

Through the pouring rain, Legolas scrambled back down the slope, heart pounding. He froze in horror as he spotted blood trickling down the stone from beneath Aragorn's head. For a moment, he dared not breathe, fear tightening around his chest like a vice. His fingers trembled as they sought the artery at Aragorn's throat.

Relief surged through him as he found a pulse — weak and racing, but steady.

He leaned in, his face close to his friend's, urging, "Estel, are you with me?"

No answer.

"Estel!" he called again, voice cracking as he gripped Aragorn's shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. "Estel, can you hear me?"

Aragorn blinked.

"Legolas…" he croaked, barely audible.

He looked wretched — soaked, pale, his eyes clouded and unfocused. But he was conscious.

"Clumsy human," a shaky smile touched Legolas' lips as he ruffled Aragorn's hair, masking his rising dread with a familiar, gentle reproach.

"Can you rise?" he urged.

Aragorn lifted his head with effort and braced against the stone, trying to push himself up. But his body gave way, and he slumped back down with a groan of frustration.

"My leg is trapped… I cannot move it!"

Legolas bent lower, inspecting the jagged crack in the rock that had ensnared Aragorn's leg. He braced himself and pushed, pulled, strained with all his might, until pain flared in his hands and arms, but the stone refused to shift. It was like trying to move the mountain itself.

He swallowed hard, forcing calm into his voice. "I need to find something for leverage."

Rain hammered down, blurring the world around them. Even with elven eyes, he could barely make out more than the shapes closest to him. His gaze swept the landscape, wild and searching. Then he stilled, extending his senses, straining beyond sight, beyond sound, reaching for anything. Anything at all.

He knew not how long he stood like that — motionless, focused — until Aragorn's urgent call broke through the storm.

"Legolas! The water is rising!"

The shout was raw, too loud for his weakened state, and it jolted Legolas like a slap. He turned sharply, eyes locking on Aragorn's pale face, the wide pupils and flickering fear.

But something — something vita l— was pulling at the edge of his senses. He could not lose it now.

He held up a hand, silently willing Aragorn to trust him, his gaze unwavering even as his heart pounded.

Then instinct surged through him. In a single, fluid motion, his muscles coiled, and he leapt up the rock face.

"Please, Estel," he called out behind him, his voice tight with urgency. "Hold on. I will be back as fast as I can!"

Leaving Aragorn behind in such a state, exposed beneath the cold, merciless downpour, was like a blade to Legolas' heart.

But up there, higher among the rocks, something was calling to him. A voice, thin and strangely persistent, tugged at his senses, refusing to be ignored. He climbed toward it, pushing onward through wind and storm.

At last, he saw her.

A small, meagre tree, fragile in form but rooted with defiance, clung to life between the rocks, thriving against all odds in this land of extremes. She stood firm, her limbs trembling under the weight of the storm.

Legolas reached out, touching her gently as she shivered beneath his hand. She had felt him. She had called to him. In this harsh, unforgiving place, she knew about the fragility of life, the cost of survival, and the price of sacrifice.

She would give what he needed.

As he drew his knife and cut into her living wood, he flinched, wincing at the wound he dealt. But her quiet voice whispered to him, soft and steady, of endurance, of grace in hardship. She could bear the pain.

His heart swelled with reverence for the small, brave tree. Rain streamed down his face as he bowed his head, whispering an apology, and his thanks.

Then he turned and raced back, downward, toward Aragorn.

Through the streaming rain, Legolas heard him calling his name. It was no longer just fear; it was desperation, raw and urgent. The cry tore through the storm. Legolas flung himself down the slope faster, reckless now, heedless of the slippery rocks and the tearing wind. He had to reach him.

The sight that met him turned his blood to ice.

Water surged around Aragorn's chest, rising with terrifying speed. His friend was pinned, struggling to keep his head above the flood, drenched, gasping, limbs trembling with the effort to stay afloat. One slip, one more inch, and he would be gone beneath the torrent.

Legolas dropped to his knees beside him, forcing the branch between the heavy stones that clutched Aragorn's leg like a trap. He wedged it deep, as he leveraged his weight against it. His muscles burned, rain and sweat mingling on his brow.

Aragorn, teeth clenched, was pulling too — desperately, blindly — his strength nearly spent. Every heartbeat felt like a countdown.

Legolas ground his heels into the rock, pushed harder. Faster. Stronger.

"Hold on, Estel," he gritted through his teeth, voice hoarse with strain. "Just a moment longer."

The branch creaked, the stone shifted — but not enough.

As if the storm had not yet reached its peak, the rain turned to hail — shards of ice hammering down with violent force. Each impact struck like a blow, bruising. Without hesitation, Legolas plunged into the rising flood, the water now lapping at Aragorn's shoulders, threatening to claim him.

The cold hit him like a wall, stealing his breath the moment he went under. The current tore at him, the world a blur of motion and silt. But his grip on the branch never faltered. He drove himself downward, lungs burning, eyes straining to find the place where the rocks had ensnared his friend.

His fingers found the crevice again. Heart pounding, he shoved one end of the branch deep between the stones that pinned Aragorn's leg. The gap was narrow, but it bit down hard enough to hold. He wedged it tight, angling the other end upward — then twisted his body sideways in the water, planting his back against the slick stone wall behind him.

Using the rock as a brace, he bent his knees and pushed hard with both feet. The branch strained under the pressure, bending. Water roared in his ears, fought to drag him back, but he bore down with everything he had, driving the branch like a lever into the stubborn stone.

For a moment, nothing. Then — a shudder. A sudden shift.

The rocks moved.

Legolas kicked to the surface, lungs screaming for air. He broke through with a gasp, rain and hail lashing his face. His breath came in ragged heaves, but he had no time to rest.

Beside him, Aragorn flung his arms over his head, trying to shield himself from the hail that now pummeled them like falling stones.

His hands clenched tighter around the slick, precious wood. He knew, if the current tore it from him now, Estel would die.

Legolas braced again, pushing and pulling with wild desperation, the roar of the storm pounding in his skull. He fought against the water, against the cold, against the stone. His entire body burned with effort. The fear of losing Aragorn gave him strength beyond reason, beyond pain.

It felt futile, like defying the will of the mountain itself. But he would not stop. He could not.

And then — movement. The stone shifted further, grinding free beneath the force.

Legolas gasped, panting, chest heaving. A cry burst from him, strangled, raw, torn from the depths of his being.

"Estel, pull!"

But Aragorn had no strength left.

His limbs flailed weakly. He was gagging, coughing, swallowing water that now surged into his mouth with every breath. His eyes were wide and unfocused, panic and exhaustion flickering in them as the flood reached its final, fatal height.

With a desperate surge, Legolas heaved himself out of the torrent, boots scraping against the rock. He hooked his arms beneath Aragorn's shoulders, planting his feet against the shifting mud, and dragged him upward, straining against the flood. The current clutched at them, trying to pull Aragorn back down the slope. But the elf was stronger. Fueled by adrenaline and fear, he half-lifted, half-carried his friend toward higher ground, muscles screaming in protest with every step.

"Stay with me," he panted. "Do not let go now. You are safe. You are safe…"

They reached the base of the larger boulders, and Legolas slumped against the rock, cradling Aragorn's shivering form. Rain pounded down in sheets, and the storm showed no sign of abating — but they were above the rising water, for now.

Aragorn gasped for air, teeth chattering, eyes fluttering closed.

"Estel," Legolas whispered, brushing soaked strands of hair from his friend's brow. "Do not fade. Stay with me."

Aragorn stirred, eyes cracking open just enough to meet Legolas' gaze.

Then he reached out, planted a hand on the slick stone, and tried to push himself upright—but his strength failed him. His arm buckled, and he slumped down again, breath hitching with frustration.

Legolas slipped Aragorn's arm over his shoulders, steadied his grip around his friend's waist, and pulled him upright. Aragorn sagged against him, limp and heavy, barely able to stand.

He began to climb.

The slope was steep and slick, the rock treacherous beneath the pounding hail. Legolas stumbled more than once, his knees slamming into stone, his wrists scraping raw as he broke their fall. But he twisted each time to shield Aragorn, ignoring the pain that flared through his joints and tore at his skin.

He pressed on.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, he found a shallow cave cut into the rock, just above the floodline. Shelter.

He eased Aragorn down gently. The man lay still. His skin was cold as stone; his lips had turned blue.

Fear clenched tight in Legolas' chest.

But then, he found a pulse. Weak. Unsteady. But still there.

I have to warm him, Legolas thought, alarm sharp and immediate.

Legolas frantically rummaged through their packs with bloodied, trembling fingers.

His hands slipped on wet fabric, grasping at anything dry — anything at all. But everything was soaked through. Rainwater had seeped into every seam and corner. Useless.

There was no fire to be made. No dry wood, no spark, no chance.

Only one source of warmth remained.

His own body.

Without hesitation, Legolas acted. Though his limbs ached and exhaustion dragged at him, he still held heat. That was all that mattered. Urgently, he peeled the sodden clothing from Aragorn's limp form, working fast despite the cold air and the way Aragorn's limbs resisted him in unconscious stiffness. Then he stripped off his own wet garments, clinging cold and heavy to his skin.

He lay down close to his friend, wrapping the wet cloak around them both.

Legolas wrapped his arms tightly around the shivering body, holding him with fierce determination. He had tried to keep the man awake, whispering to him, shaking him gently, but it was no use. Aragorn had already slipped into unconsciousness.

So Legolas stayed like that, still and alert, his senses trained on the fragile signs of life.

He listened to every breath, fast and shallow. He felt the erratic flutter of Aragorn's heart. He dared not rest, but he did not know what else to do than to lie there and wait until the storm calmed and the night would come and pass.

Legolas did not know how long they lay like this. Time lost all shape. But slowly, he felt the slightest shift: Aragorn's skin was no longer icy. His pulse, though still too fast, had steadied. A flicker of relief stirred in Legolas's chest.

More than once, Legolas found himself drifting. Exhaustion pulling at him with quiet insistence. He fought it, blinking hard, forcing himself to stay alert. He focused on the rise and fall of Aragorn's chest, the fragile rhythm of his breath, the subtle pulse beneath his fingers, on the rain that, he suddenly realized, had faded into a hush.

There was the repetitive sound of water dripping from the cave's ceiling to the stone floor as it gathered in rivulets along the edge of the hollow. The sound calmed him and he felt his own heart pounding strong and steady in his chest. his breathing deepened. And Legolas felt, for the first time that night, a welcome softness taking hold of his limbs. The pain and anxiety faded…

… The next time Legolas blinked, heat struck him.

Blinding, crisp light spilled into the cave, and he started, disoriented. He was with Aragorn. He remembered — he had been cold, slipping under, and Legolas had held him through the storm, watching each breath, guarding every beat of his heart.

But now, the man in his arms was burning.

Aragorn's skin was slick with sweat, fever radiating off him. Legolas' own body was damp with it. Panic surged in his chest. He must have fallen asleep.

He cursed himself for letting it happen, for giving in to his fatigue.

He gazed with concern upon the beloved face close to his own. His friend's eyes were closed, his cheeks flushed with heat, and he shifted uncomfortably in his restless dreams, whining softly. His fast, ragged breaths sounded painfully whistling.

He was ill.

The day before had pushed him too far. The storm, the cold, the injury—too much for any man, even for one like Aragorn. The sickness had crept in and now gripped him fully, settling in his lungs.

Legolas saw it in the way his friend winced with every breath, the way the fever flushed his cheeks and stole the clarity from his face.

And suddenly, he was afraid.

He had faced wounds, battlefield injuries, blood, broken bones. Those he could mend. Those he understood.

But this… this slow, creeping shadow inside a mortal body…

This terrified him.

He felt terribly alone.

Dear Eru… What was he to do?

How could he cool a fever under the blaze of the desert sun?

A sudden thought pierced Legolas' mind—the stream from last night!

He sprang to the cave's edge and looked down into the ravine. The flood had vanished, but in its wake, it had left behind wide, clear pools. Water shimmered in the deeper pockets of the earth, still and glistening under the morning sun. Their surfaces caught the light and sent it dancing upwards, reaching him in strange, flickering patterns. He was puzzled, and at the same time, a sensation of awe and relief overcame him.

Fast and furious, the water had broken into the dryness of the desert. Merciless, with ferocity, it had threatened to swallow them. Precious and quiet it glittered now, like crystal in the heat of the sun. Water to drink, water to heal, water to wash the heat of a fever away, water to stir athelas, for a weary body strained with illness to revive. And he found hope.

Outside, Anor was burning in all its brightness from the sky, pouring its searing heat. Sweat dried before it could bead on the skin.

Aragorn lay still behind him, his once-strong frame now wracked with fever and raw, labored breath. Legolas worked with quiet determination, wrapping him in the light shirts they carried to shield him against the burning air.

Carefully, he moistened Aragorn's cracked lips, letting droplets water trickle into his mouth. His movements were steady, patient, though inside, worry still gnawed at him.

Legolas never rested.

He fetched water under the blazing sun, climbed jagged rocks in the simmering heat. He cleaned Aragorn's head wound, replaced the bloodied bandages, kindled a small fire on the now dried wood, stirred athelas in the steaming water. He checked his friend's pulse again and again, pressed a hand to his burning brow, murmured soothing words he wasn't sure Aragorn heard. All the while, fear gnawed at him, deep and constant.

He must recover. He must survive.

But even as the thought anchored him, another crept in, sharper, more desperate:

What if it's still not enough?

He worked relentlessly, without pause, without breath. Until the world began to tilt.

Darkness bled into his vision — large, black spots dancing across the light. The ground lurched beneath him — and then it caught him hard. He collapsed. Pain flared through his limbs as he hit the stone, and for a time, he simply lay there, unable to move, unable to think.

Only then did he realize:

He hadn't drunk a drop since the night before.

Only then did he notice the blood on his knees and hands, scraped raw from climbing rock after rock.

Only then did he feel the full weight of exhaustion in his bones. He was beyond drained.

Aragorn would have scolded him, had he been in any better shape. Would have made him stop. Would have made him rest.

Slowly, Aragorn blinked, for crisp light hurt his eyes and flashed stabs of pain through his head. Everything in his mind and before his eyes was but a dazzling blur. He struggled to clear his mind, pushed up on his elbows, but strength was not on his side. His stomach churned violently.

Something lay on his chest, a gentle pressure, holding him down. And then a voice, soft, close and familiar:

"Hush... take it easy, my friend. You have suffered a serious concussion and just survived a lung infection. You were very ill, Estel. I feared losing you."

The words were laced with quiet relief and deep exhaustion.

Aragorn managed to crack his eyes open and focus, barely. A pale face he knew well came into view. Legolas.

"Where are we? What happened?" His voice croaked out hoarsely, dry and foreign in his own ears. He flinched at the sound.

Stone surrounded them. Bright beams struck through an opening in the rock, stabbing at his eyes. He squeezed them shut, turning his head away from the light with a wince.

A cave. Or the entrance of one. Narrow stone walls, darkness on one side, blinding brilliance on the other — Goodness! — they were in a cave! He could not believe it.

"If you found shelter in a cave, it must be dire, no other options left..." he murmured, not daring to open his eyes again.

As much as he tried, Aragorn could not remember how they came to be here.

"We are only sheltering in the entrance of a cave," Legolas corrected gently, but pointedly, "And yes…there was no other option."

Aragorn tried to listen as Legolas explained. He watched his lips move, tried to grasp the shape of his words. Snatches made sense, others dissolved into fog. His thoughts slipped and muddled like water through his fingers.

He sighed in frustration. "Here we are again... How on Arda do we always end up in these situations? " He did not remember the details, not fully — but he remembered who he was. Who his friend was. And that this…this pattern was not new.

Legolas shrugged, and for the first time, a trace of his old smirk returned — wry and tired.

"I just thank the Valar that it is over now and you are recovering. That is all that matters."

Aragorn did not know what Legolas meant. What was over? What was he recovering from? He almost wanted to ask. But Legolas' relief felt comforting, and so Aragorn kept his mouth shut.

He was exhausted and hurting, and despite the heat, he shivered. Even if he could not remember how they got here, he still knew who he was and who his friend was, and from the condition he was in, he had a bad feeling, for he knew from experience how situations with them could get from bad to worse. He took in the unfamiliar surroundings and could not leave it to counter.

"It looks like we are far from home, my friend," he murmured. "Thank the Valar, but dare not pretend it is over..."

Legolas exhaled a defeated breath, dragging a hand across his face. "Aye. How could I forget? Walking with you this far south and escaping without more trouble is utterly improbable, if not impossible."

Legolas' laughter rang clear and uplifting as the weight of the last days wore off him. A pang of guilt hit Aragorn at the distress and strain he must have caused his dearest friend.

He said south...Aragorn wondered...and the question left his lips before he could stop it, "But Legolas, where are we? And how did we get here?"

Legolas suddenly became serious again, gazing at Aragorn with concern.

Had he said something wrong? Aragorn changed the subject and picked up on Legolas' teasing that the elf seemed to enjoy, "I fear you are confusing something. How many times did I get you out of trouble?"

It seemed to work, because Legolas beamed a bright smile at him as if his friend's challenge brought him joy and relief.

"I am not the confused one here." Legolas laughed, and sprang up — swift even now — and helped Aragorn back into the shaded part of the cave, away from the sun's encroaching glare.

"Wait here, Estel. I am going to fill the water skins," he announced, already in motion.

"And where should I go in my present state, gwador-nîn!" Aragorn rasped.

"Oh, with you, one never knows. Trouble might be waiting behind the very next rock," Legolas parried.

Legolas would not tell him, but Aragorn knew that he had gone through a terrible experience because of him. He could see the relief in all his friend's movements, in his gentle teasing, in his concerned glances, and in his affectionate laughter.

Now Legolas stood at the edge of the cave, tall and golden, lit by the streaming rays of Anor, gazing out into the ravine. And he spoke fair words as if he were singing a song. Aragorn could not help but wonder at how Legolas always found happiness in the simplest of things, even after the strain had almost bent him.

"The desert... it has not ceased to surprise me. The burning heat of the day, the freezing chill of the night, all-claiming dryness shimmering in the air, and the next moment, water in streams drowning the sand. See now! In the seemingly vast lifelessness, life blossoms against all expectations. What beauty to my eyes!"

He was truly a star. A ray of light in the dark. What would Aragorn do without him?

He smirked dryly at the thought. Probably be dead.

"By all the beauty that your elven eyes do see," he muttered, "you cannot deny that it is a bloody trap."

"Aye," Legolas chuckled unperturbed, "that it is. But still… I am in awe."

And he swung over the ridge and was gone.

Once alone, Aragorn could not resist dragging his aching body to peer out into the ravine. What he saw left him open-mouthed, to say the least.

Pools of clear water were pooling beyond in what looked to be the valley of a once-deep river. In the heart of the desert, life stirred. Green life unfurled between stone and sand. Tiny flowers crowned the new growth, fragile and defiant.

Aragorn stared, unable to look away.

Eventually, the sun pressed too hard against his throbbing skull. He inched back into the shade. The motion triggered a violent cough. He curled into himself, every breath an agony.

Legolas returned with filled water skins.

The moment Aragorn saw him, he knew something was wrong.

Legolas' face was deathly pale, haunted. He did not speak. His eyes did not meet Aragorn's. Wordlessly, he slid down to the cave floor, his back pressed against the stone wall opposite his friend. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his long arms around them, and stared into the void, unblinking.

His breathing came shallow and fast. His entire body was taut, like a bowstring stretched too far.

Aragorn frowned, chilled by the sudden shift.

"Legolas? What is it?"

Legolas finally looked at Aragorn. His gaze glazed, distant. Something in it made Aragorn's stomach clench.

Then Legolas spoke, low and sharp, a hiss through clenched teeth:
"Men. Evil men are camped in this place. I saw them. I heard them."

He flared his nostrils.

"They have prisoners—children. Human children, maybe sixteen summers at most, chained like beasts. And what they do to them…"
His voice faltered, trembled with rage. "I heard it, Estel. I saw it. It is vile. It is—" He choked back the word.

"I must stop them."

Gone was the lithe, shining creature. Gone, his fair, joyful song. His words were sharp, his voice hard. And Aragorn dreaded what it meant.

He stared at the elf, stunned, not knowing what to say. His heart tightened at the pain in Legolas' eyes.

Aragorn knew this shadow. He had seen it before. Long ago. Legolas had healed. He had buried it. And Aragorn had been there — had borne witness. But buried does not mean forgotten.

Legolas' next words were flat, brittle:
"I cannot allow… just cannot allow that to happen."

The words burned into Aragorn. It hurt to hear his friend like this, to see his litheness and music extinguished.

"We will stop them, gwador-nîn. I promise you."

"You are injured," Legolas snapped. "You cannot fight. You need rest. And they… they are many!"

"I am better already," Aragorn assured him — anything to calm him — and added with quiet steel, "And if they are many, all the more reason I will not let you go alone."

Their eyes locked. Aragorn did not waver. "Just keep watch. Make sure they do not leave without our knowing. Give me time — just a little time. And for Eru's sake, promise me you will not pull any stunts on your own!"

Aragorn reached out and clasped Legolas's forearm, firm and grounding.

Fire and ice flashed in the elf's storm-grey eyes. He pinned Aragorn with his gaze. He did not flinch under his grip, but Aragorn felt the tension, the restraint. Legolas' eyes kept burning, stirring up Aragorn's unease.

"Legolas. Promise me."

A long silence. Then, finally, a slow breath escaped him, like steam from a boiling pot finding release.

"…I promise," he whispered.

Since that night, Legolas ventured out only under cover of darkness to fetch water. He moved like a shadow, silent and sure-footed. From time to time, he slipped away from the stream and climbed to a ridge near the enemy's camp to observe their movements.

His shoulders were tight, drawn up as though he carried a weight he could not lay down. His jaw clenched, his gaze distant. He could not rest.

Still, Legolas tended to Aragorn, gently and without complaint. He changed his bandages, brought him water, and gathered what food he could scavenge to preserve their provisions. Aragorn could do nothing to help him; his strength had not yet returned. The helplessness gnawed at him.

When there was nothing left to do, Legolas busied himself redressing his own wounds, though they had already healed. His hands moved by habit, not necessity. Then he sank back, curling into himself, knees drawn to his chest, his back to the cold stone wall. His eyes fixed on some point, Aragorn could not see — blank, distant.

Aragorn said nothing at first. But he knew that silence was a fragile dam. He asked gently, gave Legolas space. He waited. He had learned patience.

And eventually, the words began to tumble from Legolas like broken glass.

"The men… they are Northerners. They speak Westron," he said, his voice brittle, hollow. "They call the children dirty Haradrim. Say they deserve it."

His lips curled with disgust.

"They beat them," he murmured. "I heard it — the snap of impact, the quiet, stifled cries. They try not to scream too loud… they know worse will follow."

Legolas paused, swallowing hard. His knuckles whitened where his fingers gripped his knees.

"They touch them," he whispered. "They tease, humiliate. Whenever they please. They… they have orders not to leave visible marks. Their so-called lord wants them unmarred. For his own use."

He spat the word like poison.

Then his voice dropped low, sharp with fury. "I will kill them all."

Aragorn's stomach turned.

What he saw before him was more than fury. It was a wound reopened, bleeding through Legolas' strength. The elf was reliving a nightmare Aragorn knew too well.

And yet they were badly outnumbered.

To rush in would be folly. They must act with caution. They must wait.

Aragorn's body remained frail. His hands were not yet steady on a sword hilt. And Legolas burned like a fuse nearing its end.

Chapter Text

The waterskins were filled. They were well equipped to depart at a moment's notice. Legolas had made certain of that. He had also insisted that Aragorn would rest to gather his strength, but Aragorn found it to be quite a challenging task while having to witness his friend's constant restlessness. He kept himself busy sharpening his sword as he waited. He thought of home, of his foster father, his brothers, and that they were right if they worried.*

He dreamt of strides under the cool shades of trees. He longed for fresh air with the scent of damp forest soil and pine needles. He had not stepped beyond the mouth of this cave since the incident. Yet even there, within the cavern where sunlight did not reach, the heat and dryness clung to everything, inescapable.

Evening had come. The sun still hung high, and by northern reckoning, it would have resembled mid-afternoon. Aragorn felt well enough, renewed in body, and with that, the urge to act grew steadily within him.

Legolas burst into his reverie. "They are breaking camp!" he announced, and Aragorn could feel the agitation rippling off him like a sudden gust.

Aragorn had been waiting for Legolas to return from his vantage point, but he realized that he was unprepared for the storm his friend brought back with him. Aragorn watched, bewildered, as Legolas burst into motion, hastily throwing their belongings into the packs with little care or order. Before he could whirl past him again, Aragorn caught his arm — his fingers closing firmly around Legolas' lean wrist, and Aragorn could feel the wild rhythm of his friend's pulse beneath his grip.

Legolas' breathing was fast and ragged — not the breath of weariness from battle or long pursuit, but something deeper, more primal. Startlingly, Legolas' eyes flashed with a savage fury Aragorn had never seen in him before. His grey-blue gaze was like a storm-tossed sea, dark and roiling.

"Legolas, peace," Aragorn said gently but firmly. "Please, calm yourself. We cannot move forward like this."

He drew him toward the cave's mouth and took both of Legolas' hands into his own. They were shaking. His fingers quivered. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Aragorn pulled him close, holding him tightly. Legolas' breath caught in his throat.

They stood together, looking down into the ravine below, and slowly, Legolas surrendered to Aragorn's grounding hold.

"Legolas, breathe with me," Aragorn whispered, concern threading his voice.

And to his quiet relief, Legolas tried, drawing in long, unsteady breaths, deeper with each one, struggling, but slowly finding calm in the rhythm they shared.

The setting sun cast the desert sky into a hushed, tranquil beauty. The water in the valley below had long since vanished, yet life persisted. Plants rose and unfurled, gifted with the remarkable ability to draw vitality from even the faintest trace of moisture hidden deep in the soil, transforming it into sustenance, hoarding it patiently, and thriving against the odds.

They breathed together, and Aragorn sensed Legolas being soothed by the quiet strength of the green essence of life.

That night, he marvelled once again at the strange behaviour of the sun in those lands. In mere moments, it slipped from its high perch to the edge of the horizon, as if in a hurry to flee the creeping chill of night. Yet in its descent, it left behind a breathtaking trail of shifting hues, painting the sky in softened light. The moon, already risen, waited in silent vigil to cast its pale, gentle glow across the darkening landscape.

They followed the large group of men and prisoners from a distance, weaving through the jagged terrain and slipping behind rocks and boulders for cover.

As they moved, Aragorn watched Legolas. He seemed to draw strength from the beauty around them—beauty shaped by the hand of The One. His long, slender fingers trailed over the leaves as they passed low bushes and small trees bathed in a faint silver glow. He touched them lightly, almost absentmindedly, yet there was reverence in the gesture. The tightness in his posture eased, and a faint smile softened his features. The strain that once marked his face melted away in the moonlight, revealing again the quiet grace he so naturally carried.

Those plants, rare and tenacious, were a final breath of green life before they left the valley behind and faced the barren vastness of the open desert, which made their presence all the more precious.

Aragorn had nearly regained his full strength. Even so, they dared not risk an assault. The party was heavily guarded, as though they anticipated an ambush at any moment.

Soon, the vastness of the sandy landscape compelled them to widen the distance between them and the group they followed. There was nothing to shield them, only dunes, rising and falling like vast, motionless waves in a sea of sand.

In the boundless stillness that stretched around them, Aragorn could almost hear Legolas' quivering unrest. Though he moved with perfect, practised silence, he was a mercurial force, like a drawn bowstring — taut, volatile, and ready to snap.

The column they pursued moved at a sluggish pace, dragging its prisoners mercilessly across the desolate land. The poor children were bound in a single line, chained wrist to ankle, stumbling more than walking beneath the weight of exhaustion and cruelty. Aragorn heard not a sound of their agony, but the snarls and harsh shouts of the men, and the sharp slaps of their hands when they hit carried along over the nightly plain.

Despite their torment, the young ones carried themselves with unexpected dignity. Their backs remained straight, their heads held high, enduring, proud. The sight pierced the heart more deeply than cries ever could.

Legolas flinched with each blow, as though the pain were his own. The tension radiated off him, mounting steadily until it crested into something almost unbearable. In the stillness, Aragorn could almost hear his heart pump, thumping hard against his ribs, each beat resonating in the hushed night air.

Aragorn laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, hoping to anchor him. But Legolas turned to him, and his eyes flashed, sharp, bright, and storm-lit. Aragorn lowered his gaze to the ground and sighed, resigned. There was no reaching Legolas in this moment.

They walked through the night without pause, beneath the chill of the desert sky. Aragorn could only imagine the depth of suffering endured by the young ones, worn thin by exhaustion, pain, and the unrelenting bite of wind and cold.

Above, the stars twinkled as if trying to speak hope into all hurting hearts. The moon gazed down with silent compassion, casting its pale light over the weary procession.

Legolas seemed to endure his own quiet anguish. The moonlight carved his face in silver and shadow, tracing sharp lines that shifted in a strange play of one who feels too deeply to speak.

Slowly, the lights of night faded into the soft bloom of dawn, heralding the rise of Anor. They reached the crest of a dune just as the sun's first rays gently spilled across its curve. Aragorn knew well the deceit in that tender warmth — soon, the desert's merciless heat would bear down on all who dwelled beneath its sky.

Hidden just behind the dune's upper ridge, Legolas lay flat in the sand beside Aragorn, unmoving, quiet as the smooth light of early morning. His long hair spilled across the golden sand, mingling with the grains, glowing faintly where sunlight kissed it. Aragorn swallowed hard at the softness of the image, for what lay ahead, stretched out below them in the waking light, sent a cold weight into his chest.

Legolas' gaze was impenetrable. He remains utterly still, watching the stronghold in the distance. A great, grim structure, part hewn from rough stone, part carved into a massive outcrop of dark grey rock that jutted from the sand like a wound in the earth. It loomed, forbidding and full of menace.

Aragorn had known Legolas for so long, and yet these sudden shifts in him eluded his understanding. What was it that made him freeze when, before, he had been a bundle of tension breaking free?

"This place is evil," Legolas stated, his voice low and hoarse — like a blade scraping over stone. The sound chilled Aragorn, though the sand beneath them was still warm.

The party passed through a tall, forbidding gate, vanishing into the grim stronghold. Aragorn's heart sank as he watched the children disappear into that vile place, swallowed by its darkness.

Legolas remained motionless, his face cold, like sculpted marble. Aragorn did not trust this calm. It was too quiet, too controlled. He feared the storm that might follow.

The cover of night yielded to the growing brilliance of day. The sand glittered almost merrily in the crisp morning light, as though unaware of the peril it concealed. They must find shelter, quickly. The sun was rising fast, and so was the danger of being seen.

Aragorn scanned the dry landscape urgently. A vision took shape in the distance, drawing his eyes. Squinting against the brightness, he caught a glimpse of something blue, shimmering far away. Riders — approaching swiftly.

He shot an alarmed glance at Legolas, and knew in an instant that he had seen them too. They were exposed on the crest of the dune, no rocks, no brush, no shadows to hide them. Aragorn whipped his head around, searching for anything — any scrap of cover.

"Legolas — the chain of rocks down there! Run!"

But Legolas did not move. He stood frozen, eyes wide, fixed on the blue-veiled riders hurtling toward them.

The threat drew nearer with alarming speed.

What was Legolas doing?!

Aragorn yanked him as he broke into a run. The Legolas stumbled for a heartbeat, and then, as if snapping out of a trance, he followed, easily running toward the sheltering rocks.

They reached a shallow recess in the cliffside, just enough to hide them from view. Aragorn pressed his back against the stone, breath ragged as he struggled to steady himself after the sprint.

He rounded on Legolas. "What is the matter with you, Legolas? Are you mad? Do you realize how close we were to being seen — captured?"

But Legolas remained calm, so very calm it was maddening. His eyes were still wide and lost in the distance, glistening and transparent like glass.

"Estel, did you not feel it? – An imposing appearance, they are. Beauty and elegance in the strangest of ways. I could hardly tear my eyes away."

Legolas did not see sense, caught as he was in his fascination.

Aragorn huffed and shook his head. He was beside himself with indignation.

"You are mad! Imposing they looked indeed!... and dangerous!"

Legolas did not answer. He turned away, almost irked, and began scanning the land in silence.

Aragorn drew a deep breath to steady himself, then ran a hand through his tangled and sand-crusted hair, and his fingers caught in the knots. Frustrated, he gave up. He could not reach Legolas at the moment; his friend was shutting him out.

From where they hid, the entrance to the stronghold lay fully in view below. A great rock formation jutted out before them, shielding their shallow recess and providing cover.

Yet Legolas' attention lingered in the opposite direction. His agitation was rising — palpable in the air between them. Legolas moved like a prowling feline, peering around the edge of a boulder with tense, predatory focus.

In that moment, Aragorn knew: if he did not stop him, Legolas would be gone, following whatever intriguing thought just stirred that breezy mind of his. And Aragorn was not certain that would lead to anything good.

He grasped Legolas' arm, pulling him back a little. Legolas whirled on him with a frown and shrugged his hand off.

"I will go watch for a sign of the riders," he said, his voice firm and final.

Aragorn was not surprised. He had already guessed as much and had hoped to prevent it.

He started another attempt at smoothing his hair, dragging his fingers through the tangles, because he could not reach the knots in his stomach in the same way.

"Allow me to go!" he offered, pleading with his eyes, though he already knew Legolas would not agree.

"No," he rebuked him at once, just as Aragorn had expected. "I will go. I can sense they are close. I will find them."

Aragorn sighed, defeated, and rubbed his brow, heavy with weariness.

"Legolas, please — be careful."

Aragorn gave up and said nothing more. He would not press his friend again; He did not want to offend him.

But to his surprise, Legolas laughed — a clear, bright sound that rang like sunlight off water.

Legolas was laughing at him.

He was not angry. And somehow, Aragorn was bewildered.

"Why do you not trust me?" Legolas said, his voice light with mischief. "You know I am always careful."

Then, with the nimble grace only he possessed, he scrambled up and around the rock and vanished from sight, without waiting for an answer.

A deeper unease settled over Aragorn. Legolas' strange behavior lingered in his mind. Aragorn knew of his friend's sudden changes of spirit. He knew him well enough. And yet, all that had happened led him to suspect that Legolas was not acting like himself. He was more unpredictable than ever, even for him.

But perhaps it was Aragorn who was not himself.

Aragorn gave up his attempts at untangling his hair and pressed his fingers to his temples because his head started throbbing. He had taken only a few sips of water since they left the valley, and thirst took its toll on him. The sun glared overhead, setting the air aflame.

He took another small sip from his waterskin, rationing carefully. They could not know how long it would be until they could refill. Legolas had refused to drink even a single drop —he said he would not need it yet, and that Aragorn might soon need it more urgently.

Aragorn knew Legolas was right. Still, it unsettled him. Legolas said Aragorn worried too much for him.

Before he could worry further, Legolas returned, landing gracefully before his friend with a lithe leap from the cliff.

"What have you seen? Where are the riders?" Aragorn demanded, his voice sharp with urgency.

Legolas hesitated, narrowing his eyes as if considering something.

"I could not find them," he replied at last, his voice thoughtful. "They have simply vanished, like a false image in the heat of the burning sun, dissolving into the glimmering air..."

He frowned.

Aragorn furrowed his brow, incredulous. He could not believe Legolas found no trace of them. No, not Legolas—his senses were unmatched; he could detect anything.

"The air has not yet reached its full heat yet this early morning for the apparition to be a mirage," Aragorn said, alarmed.

But Legolas remained unruffled, almost contemplative.

"They are no mirage," he insisted softly. "I can sense their presence, even though I find no proof. That can only mean they do not want to be found — and they are skilled at it."

He seemed not at all vexed by the fact that he failed to detect their whereabouts, and a strange fascination gleamed in his eyes as they drifted back into the distance.

Aragorn looked at him sceptically, "I am sure they have seen us. It disturbs me that they seem to have disappeared. I have a strange feeling that we have been followed."

Legolas was still, too still even for him.

"We have been followed," he confirmed, his voice low, "They might even know our position, they may be watching our moves. — Still, my senses perceive no danger from them. Those are no foes," His stance was sure, convinced.

His breath came silent and shallow. He looked wary, but also strangely thrilled.

It did not disperse Aragorn's concerns, and he gave way to them in a deep sigh, "I only hope your senses are right."

But what could they have wanted there?... That worried Aragorn. Yet they shared no more words on the matter.

They peered cautiously from behind their hiding place. There was constant movement — people coming and going through the fortress gate. Men bearing goods on camelback and horseback: Northerners and Haradrim, diverse in dress and skin tone. Even an oliphaunt lumbered through the large, heavily guarded entrance.

"It should be possible to move unnoticed inside," Aragorn mused aloud, "to blend in with the steady stream of travelers."

He glanced at Legolas. "That is, if we can find a way past the gate. Once inside, leaving should be much easier. They scrutinize all who enter, but pay far less attention to those departing."

"We must stay alert," he added, "and seize any opportunity that presents itself."

Aragorn's patience wore thin with every passing moment. The day grew hotter and hotter. Each breath became more strenuous beneath the oppressive sun. The heat peaked unbearably.

They waited too long.

Legolas shifted restlessly, a simmering storm coiled tight within him. If they could not find a way into that fortress soon, they would be forced to retreat — seek water. And honestly, Aragorn had not the faintest idea where to begin that search.

Legolas had sipped only the barest trickle of their dwindling rations since leaving the valley, entrusting Aragorn with the rest. He would never admit it, but Aragorn knew even he was close to his limit. Even for him, enduring another day under this scorching sky without water would be impossible — and for Aragorn, even more so.

Chapter Text

"Estel!" Legolas whispered, low and sharp. "Our access rides in."

At the far edge of the rocks, a caravan creaked into view — weather-beaten carts drawn by weary mules, flanked by grim-faced men. The procession skidded to a halt, dust curling around their wheels. After endless hours crouched in silence, watching, waiting — finally, their moment had come.

Aragorn stiffened, eyes narrowing. This was it. The next step was risky, possibly fatal if mistimed.

From their vantage point, muffled shouting reached their ears. Peering carefully around the jagged stone outcropping, Aragorn caught sight of two men at the head of the convoy, locked in a furious argument. Their words, half-spat in Westron, flared in the air, like sparks from a fire. Something about coin. Something unpaid. Typical.

They were a mismatched pair. The shorter man was wiry, twitching with furious energy, his seemingly overlong arms flailing as if trying to fling curses with every wild gesture. His straw-like hair, tangled and filthy, bounced in one ridiculous puff with each jerk of his body. Spittle flew as he shrieked accusations.

His opponent was a mass, towering over him with a neck like a tree stump. His bald scalp gleamed with sweat under the sun, flushed an angry crimson. Thick veins bulged at his temples as he bellowed back.

And yet, the rest of the caravan seemed utterly unmoved, barely glancing at the spectacle. A few men rolled their eyes or yawned.

"Charming company," Legolas muttered dryly.

Aragorn's lips curled into a tight, mirthless smirk. "We are not here for charm."

Legolas gave a soft snort, then moved. In a flash, he was a shadow among stone — slipping from rock to rock, all coiled energy and grace. Aragorn's breath caught for a moment, then he followed, heart pounding harder with every step.

The quarrel proved the perfect distraction. No one noticed as they reached the last wagon and slipped beneath the heavy canvas. Heat hit them like a wall. Crates and barrels loomed around them, the stifling air thick with dust, sweat, and the acrid tang of old metal. It was hard to breathe. Each inhalation felt like dragging fire into his lungs.

Voices from outside filtered through the fabric, dulled but tense. Then a sudden bark of orders. Whips cracked. The cart lurched into motion.

Aragorn pressed one hand to the wood, bracing himself as the wheels jolted over stones. The mules strained, hooves thudding on the packed earth. He flinched at the sound of their suffering, jaw tightening. But there was no room for compassion now, only endurance.

The cart jerked to a halt. Aragorn's head slammed against a barrel. He bit down on a cry, his vision flashing white at the pain. Outside, boots scuffed the gravel. Voices approached.

There was the shuffle of a panel being opened somewhere nearby.

Too close.

He froze, his breath caught in his throat. Reaching out blindly, he found Legolas crouched beside him, as still as stone. Yet beneath his fingers, Aragorn could feel the coiled tension in the elf's arm, every muscle taut.

Then Legolas' hand found his — cool, steady. The contact grounded him. He inhaled shallowly, listening with every fiber of his being.

"Finally!" a voice outside exclaimed. "You are most welcome — our supplies are near gone. And with the feast tonight, the uproar would have shaken the walls if you had not made it in time!"

Laughter followed, loud, rude, and grating.

Aragorn barely dared to exhale. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, louder than the wheels that soon began to turn again. The wagon rolled forward, rocking unevenly down the road once more.

Legolas shifted slightly beside him. Aragorn could hear the quiet rhythm of his breathing, and finally let out the breath he had been holding for far too long.

Beside him, Legolas shifted the canvas just slightly, just enough to open a sliver of sight to the world beyond. Through the narrow gap between the wooden frame and the cover panel, a slice of dim light cut into the shadowed interior. Aragorn crept forward on hands and knees, the barrels pressing close around them, the air stifling and heavy with the smell of dried wood and old liquor. He joined Legolas, shoulder to shoulder, peering out.

What met their eyes was a vast, echoing stone hall — cold, hollow, and utterly unlike the sun-drenched terrain they had left behind. The cart clattered on, its wheels echoing off the walls as they moved down a long, vaulted corridor. Torches flickered against dark-grey stone, casting restless shadows.

As they passed deeper into the structure, side tunnels began branching off, crudely carved into the stone, gouged from the mountain like gashes, like wounds.

The cart finally slowed. Wood groaned. Then, one by one, the others began to turn left, grinding over hard stone as they entered a side passage. Through the gap in the canvas, Aragorn glimpsed a gate — ironbound, half open — and behind it, stacks of barrels lining the walls.

Cellars.

"Get to work!" a harsh voice barked.

The cart jerked to a halt.

Legolas' reaction was swift. In a blink, he slipped out from under the cover with barely a whisper of fabric. Aragorn followed, his movements less elven but practiced. He winced as Legolas dug firm, strong fingers into his upper arm, preventing him from an unsmooth landing, stopping a thud that might have given them away.

They were in a shadowed corner behind towering shelves. Around them, the cellars echoed with the dull thump of barrels, the scrape of boots on stone, and the hollow grumble of weary voices.

"I need a rest after this," the large, red-faced man muttered — the same one from earlier, his voice unmistakable. He yawned loudly, revealing a cavernous mouth that made Aragorn grimace. "We are to leave again before dawn. This lot will drink the supply dry in days, and if we are late, Lord Flambrol will have our heads!"

"That is no wonder in this cursed oven of a land," growled his smaller companion. He looked even more disgruntled now, his straw-like hair damp with sweat.

Footsteps approached. Another man joined them — a guard, by the looks of him, dressed in chainmail half-covered by a long leather coat. His manner was too casual to be on duty. He clapped both men on the shoulder in familiar greeting.

"Take your rest," he said with a grin. "You have earned it. The Lord is pleased with this shipment. There is a reward waiting — fresh stock from the last raids. Pretty girls. Two boys, too. You will see tonight. We will break them in properly."

He chuckled darkly, rubbing his palms together.

The bald man barked a laugh. "Now that is the kind of welcome I was hoping for!"

Even the straw-haired one grinned.

Aragorn felt bile rise in his throat. Disgust twisted his stomach, and beside him, he sensed Legolas go rigid. The elf's jaw was clenched, his shoulders tight with barely restrained fury. His hand twitched close to his dagger at his belt. And again, Aragorn feared he might burst out of their hiding place at any moment.

He reached out, laying a steadying hand on his friend's shoulder. Legolas' breath hitched slightly at the contact. Then his eyes found Aragorn's, stormy, full of rage, and flickering with something strange, that made a shiver creep down Aragorn's spine.

Aragorn gave a slight tilt of his head toward the gate, narrowing his eyes emphatically, stern. Now.

Legolas gave the faintest nod in reply. And Aragorn was beyond relieved that he accepted.

Still cloaked in shadow, the two friends slipped between crates and barrels, creeping like wraiths. The gate stood open. The men, engrossed in their vile amusement, didn't so much as glance their way.

Outside the cellars, they pressed against the corridor wall. Aragorn exhaled slowly, trying to calm the wild thunder of his heart.

As if by shared instinct, both pulled up their hoods, shadows falling over their faces, cloaking elven grace and Númenórean sharpness alike. Behind them, the men's voices receded, still soaked in crude laughter.

"They will lead us to the captives. We just need to find where they nest first," Aragorn murmured.

Legolas gave a single nod. Wordless, but enough.

The hunt had begun.

They moved like ghosts, careful to keep distance. The sounds of the men ahead drifted back: laughter, slurred threats, the occasional shuffle of boots. Then, suddenly, a tug at Aragorn's sleeve.

He froze.

Legolas' gaze locked onto his, piercing even from beneath the lowered hood. A tilt of the elf's head directed Aragorn's eyes back down the corridor, just in time to catch the last glimpse of the group disappearing through a side passage.

Astonishing, as always. Legolas' ears had caught the change before Aragorn had even registered it. It was like he could feel the shift in the air itself.

They followed, noiseless and swift, slipping into shadows as the men ahead paused before their quarters. One by one, the guards peeled away into their chambers, doors creaking shut behind them.

As the last door shut behind the merchants, a hush settled briefly in the corridor. Aragorn exhaled, slow and steady, his eyes fixed on the worn stone where the men had vanished. The trail ended — for now. But the hunt had not.

Sounds broke the silence: a clatter of wood, the low murmur of hurried voices. From farther down the corridor, life stirred. Servants bustled past, arms laden with steaming platters, jugs sloshing with wine. The scent of roasted meat and warm bread drifted toward them, rich and heady, curled through the air. Aragorn's stomach clenched with hunger. It had been too long. Far too long. He would no doubt be in better shape for what was to come, with something in his stomach.

He glanced at Legolas. No words, only a flicker of a raised brow. He understood.

Legolas' mouth twitched upward — barely a smile, more a dry concession. Aragorn answered with a brief nod.

With the unhurried stride of those who feared no scrutiny, they walked into the main hall and claimed a place at one of the lesser tables. A passing maidservant noticed them, dropped a hasty curtsey, and returned moments later with hot stew and a rough wooden cup of mead.

Aragorn murmured thanks. She did not wait, just bowed her head and fled.

They ate in silence. Aragorn forced himself to pace his bites, despite the gnawing in his belly. The stew was plain but hot, salted well, and it tasted like salvation. Across from him, Legolas barely touched the food, his expression unreadable, nose wrinkling in distaste. Of course. The scent of unwashed bodies and sweat-drenched cloaks pressed in around them.

Aragorn frowned slightly, sparing a thought for how he must smell. Likely no better.

The men at their table were Northerners. They talked loudly, boisterous and unguarded. Aragorn tuned in, pretending disinterest.

"…biggest feast in months," one was saying. "Lord Flambrol's calling in every favor he has owed."

"Invited the traders too. Reward for loyalty, he says."

"They'll be too drunk to walk by nightfall," another snorted. "Ale's already flowing. And wait till the second course hits — roast boar—and did you see them? Dancers from the east, all color and skin. Flambrol knows how to throw a feast."

Aragorn's knuckles whitened around his spoon. Across the table, Legolas' fork hovered in midair, unmoving. His face was as if carved from ice.

Good. The more festive and crowded this place became, the less anyone would notice two unfamiliar faces moving through the dark.

They would not risk wandering aimlessly — not yet. Too dangerous. The captives could be anywhere in this stone maze. But if they followed the merchants when they were summoned for their vile "reward"… then they might find what they sought.

After brief, whispered deliberation, they slipped from the hall.

A shallow recess in the stone wall near the merchants' quarters offered cover — just enough shadow to hide them from passing eyes while giving them a clear view of the door.

Time passed. The sounds of celebration swelled beyond the corridor. Music spilled into the stone hallways, joined by raucous shouts, the clang of tankards, the dull rhythm of feet and fists on tables. Once, a troop of orcs passed, snarling in Black Speech, their guttural tongue bouncing off the walls. But they paid the alcove no mind.

Aragorn waited, every sense coiled tight. Sweat prickled at his brow despite the cool stone.

Then, at last, a heavy knock rang out. Aragorn and Legolas tensed, peering from their shadowed alcove.

The door creaked open.

The bald man emerged, his eyes glassy with drink, face flushed with sleep and gleaming with sweat. He squinted into the hallway, barely registering anything beyond the waiting figure before him.

"Sir," said the newcomer — a guard, thick-set, reeking of wine and arrogance. "Lord Flambrol sends for you. It is time. He offers the honor of first pick. Fresh stock, untouched. You may do the breaking."

The bald man let out a grunt. "We will be right there," he slurred, and vanished inside once more.

Moments later, the two merchants emerged, following the guard, eager without a backward glance.

Aragorn's jaw tightened. Legolas, beside him, was silent — but his eyes burned.

The lanterns and torches lighting the corridors grew sparser the deeper they ventured into the stronghold's complicated labyrinth of tunnels and cavities. What light remained cast flickering shadows that seemed to recoil from their passage, leaving stretches of corridor swathed in near-total darkness. The air was colder here, stale.

Legolas moved beside Aragorn like a caged predator finally loosed. The tension that had coiled within him during their wait now simmered just beneath his skin. Aragorn could see it in the way his fingers twitched, in the restless flick of his eyes. Every line of his form radiated poised, dangerous energy.

And Aragorn feared what might happen if that force was unleashed too soon.

They followed at a measured distance. The contrast of the two merchants' silhouettes ahead—one hulking, the other twitchy and wiry — was unmistakable even in the dim glow. The third man, the guard, led them with an easy arrogance.

The tunnels twisted like roots, disorienting in their sameness. But Aragorn's mind marked every turn, every alcove. They would need to find their way back out — and quickly.

Then the men veered suddenly into a side passage. Their voices grew louder, then stilled. No further footsteps. They had stopped.

Aragorn and Legolas pressed to the wall just before the unlit aisle, listening.

Other voices joined the ones of the merchants. There was laughter, low and mocking.

Legolas' brow furrowed. He tilted his head like a stag sensing danger in the wind. Aragorn waited, tense.

A gate creaked open with the groan of long-neglected hinges. A scrape of metal against stone. Then silence, heavy and watchful.

"There," Legolas whispered, voice low as falling ash. "That must be where they keep the young ones."

He raised a finger to his lips, eyes narrowing in fierce concentration.

"A key… turns in a lock — metal grates. A gate swings inward… Someone speaks… no, too many voices — I cannot make out the words…" He flinched slightly, as though touched by something unseen, his hand shot up suddenly, as if hushing Aragorn, although he was still completely silent.

Aragorn's heart skipped a beat, but as Legolas still listened, he allowed his rushed breath to even. He could have kicked Legolas for startling him like this.

"…metal shifting on stone." Legolas continued, unaware or unmoved by the fact that he just spooked his friend, " A heavy thud. "And —"

The silence stretched, thick with held breath.

Legolas' hand shot up again, halting Aragorn. The ranger's pulse spiked — again."

"Something else," the elf hissed.

Aragorn leaned closer.

"A whimper. And sobbing." Legolas' voice was strained now, brittle with emotion.

Without another word, he vanished into the aisle like a wisp of smoke.

Aragorn cursed silently and followed.

The narrow corridor swallowed them, the air close and breathless. Their backs brushed cold stone as they slid deeper into the dark. Aragorn's heartbeat thundered in his chest. Too loud. Too fast. But Legolas pressed on, silent as a shadow, and Aragorn trusted his friend's senses more than his own fear.

Soft sounds echoed ahead. Chains clinking. Muffled sobs and whimpers. Now Aragorn heard it too, the quiet distress.

A gate in the wall ahead appeared.

It was iron-barred, half-lit by flickering torchlight from within.

There were no guards now. The merchants had gone, and no one watched this side.

A narrow window — no more than a hole between stones — allowed a glimpse into the room.

Aragorn peered through.

Inside, shackles lined the walls like grim decorations. Collars hung like trophies. In the center stood two upright poles fitted with more restraints. A heavy stone door in the wall, metal-bound, closed, where that wretched lot they were following must have disappeared. And in a corner, crumpled on their knees on the stone floor, two figures: one boy, one girl. Young. Barely past childhood. Their arms were tied back to the wall, their feet in shackles, their bodies slumped forward. Their garments reduced to torn, filthy lumps. The boy's hair at shoulder length, and the girl's long to her waist, raven black, hung in strands over their bowed heads, a tangled veil obscuring their faces.

Aragorn's breath caught.

Legolas stood motionless beside him, staring wide-eyed and unblinking. His face was unreadable, carved in pale stone — but his eyes burned. As if he saw himself in those captives. Not literally, but some mirror of a past pain Aragorn could only guess at.

Aragorn reached out, laid a hand on his shoulder. The elf flinched, then met his gaze. His eyes were fiery with anger, they glowed in the dark.

"I will find the others," Legolas murmured, voice low, controlled, but trembling beneath. "They are near. I can feel it. There must be another path. I will be swift."

Aragorn hesitated, then nodded. Legolas was old enough and more than capable, proven by the unfathomable number of battles he had survived. Still, at times, Aragorn felt like he had to protect him from his recklessness. And funnily, his friend often seemed to feel the same need towards him.

"Please," he said softly, "be careful. This place… it stinks of more than just blood and stone."

Legolas did not reply. When his mind was made, there was no way to dissuade him. He was not a child — not at all! — and that look he gave Aragorn — stern, resolute, and a little bit reckless — spoke more than words.

And then he was gone, moving down the dark aisle with the silence of a wildcat on the hunt.

Aragorn lingered a moment, fear curdling in his gut. But there was no time to waste. He approached the gate, kneeling to examine the lock.

From a hidden pouch inside his cloak, he drew a slim, curved pin. Forged from Elvish steel, bent and worn smooth with use. His fingers trembled as he set it into the mechanism, but he forced his breathing slow. Focused.

His mind slipped back, unbidden, to the Hall of Fire.

He was young again, knees scraped, heart bright with wonder. Elrond, seated beside the hearth, would spend time with him every evening — sometimes telling a tale, other times inventing a game to end the day. Those moments had been precious, full of quiet affection and subtle lessons wrapped in play. To young Aragorn, the Elf-lord's teachings had seemed like nothing more than entertainment. He remembered them fondly, especially the excitement of learning one particular "game" that involved the delicate art of opening locks.

In the days that followed, the game became a fascination. He tried his new skill on every door and latch he could find — sometimes out of curiosity, other times simply for the thrill of it. His brothers had covered for him more than once when his experiments got out of hand, until eventually Elrond was forced to intervene.

"To be able to open locks does not mean you must do so whenever you find one," he had said, his voice calm but firm. "It is a skill to be used only in times of true need. That is why I taught you, my son."

What was self-evident to Elrond had not been so clear to little Estel. Aragorn could still recall the moment vividly— his foster father's steady gaze, the patient tone of his voice, and the weight of the lesson. He remembered how Elrond had drawn him close, wrapping him in strong arms before ruffling his hair with quiet affection. Aragorn had nodded solemnly, his young face earnest, and promised that he would never do it again unless it were truly necessary.

And for the most part, he had not.

Well, except for one other time. The honeycakes in the locked cupboard had been calling his name, and surely that counted as a sort of emergency...

In the years that followed, the skill proved far more valuable than he could have imagined. More than once, it had saved his life and the lives of those beside him. Elrond had not taught him for mischief, but for survival. His foster father and his brothers had prepared him for the life he was destined to walk, one that would carry him through shadows and danger, and demand every lesson they had given him.

Aragorn smiled faintly. Then, with a soft click, the mechanism gave.

The lock slid free.

But he didn't open the gate, not yet. Not until Legolas returned. Not until they knew the way forward… and back.

From within, the girl stirred.

Aragorn froze.

She lifted her head slightly, eyes rimmed in red, cheeks streaked with grime and tears. Her lips parted—but no sound came. Just the faintest tremble.

Aragorn pressed a finger to his lips and gave the smallest shake of his head.

Chapter Text

Legolas kept perfectly still, his back pressed flat against the stone wall. He almost dared not breathe, which was quite a difficult task, with his blood charging through his veins as his body fought to contain the storm rising within him. From the dark corner where he hid, he peered through a slit in the wall. He had found what he was searching for.

But he had not anticipated the force of emotions it would unleash.

Two girls were chained inside, their wrists bound behind them, ankles shackled, heads bowed in silent dread. The image mirrored what he and Aragorn had witnessed earlier — but now it was worse.

Two guards at the open gate stood at ease, distracted, their attention fixed on the scene unfolding within.

Legolas' fingers twitched toward his bow.

Not yet.

He forced himself to stay still — one breath, then another. But fury coiled beneath his skin, taut and waiting.

"Are they not pretty?" the man who seemed to be the Lord purred, stepping close. He reached down and tipped one girl's chin upward, forcing her face into view. Her skin flinched beneath his touch. Fear was etched into every line of her face and shimmering in her dark eyes... then she shut them tightly, as if willing herself away, retreating into the only refuge left to her from the men's greedy stares.

The lord laughed, the sound low and self-indulgent. "A pack of dirty Haradrim!" he scoffed, turning to the others. "These ones are quite fair, only a light brown tinge. The desert breeds them fierce — arrogant rats who'd sooner die than kneel."

He paused, gesturing with a flourish toward the girls. "But look how pretty their whelps are."

The room responded with lewd grunts and dark laughter.

Legolas did not move. Could not. His jaw clenched, nails biting into his palms. He would remember every word. Every voice.

And soon — he would silence them.

"A delight to look upon, indeed, Lord Flambrol!" said a tall, broad man, his voice slick with amusement, a filthy grin splitting his face.

Flambrol smiled at the praise, slow and sinister. He ran his fingers along the girl's arm, mock-gentle, as if caressing fine silk. She flinched at his touch, her muscles tightening beneath his hand. When he reached her shoulder, he paused — then closed his fingers around her throat.

She shuddered. Her lips parted in a shallow gasp, and her eyes clamped shut, as if darkness could shield her.

"Not dark like the last brats from Far Harad," Flambrol mused, "Those were stronger, coarser stock. Useful in their way. But these..."

His grip tightened slightly.

"These are little jewel-whores."

Rough laughter erupted around him.

He slid his hand through the other girl's long, black hair. His fingers tangled in the strands at the back of her head, and he pulled roughly, forcing her head up. A strangled cry escaped her lips, and she kept her eyes forcefully shut.

"Their skin is so even, so young. Literally screaming to be touched. I am pleased indeed to offer you this opportunity."

The girl opened her eyes for a moment. They went wide with horror as she stared from one man to the other, terrified, before she shut her lids again. Her slight frame quivered.

Legolas pressed his back so hard against the wall that the jagged stone dug into his muscles, sharp and unyielding. But he welcomed the pain — it anchored him, kept him from shattering.

His heart pumped with such force that it felt as though the very stone thrummed and reverberated with its rhythm. He suddenly feared they would hear it, the vile men, their laughter still echoing inside the chamber like the snarls of carrion beasts.

The scene had cracked something deep within him.

Old memories surged — unbidden, unwanted. Centuries buried, now clawing their way back to the surface as if they had never truly faded.

He could not move. Not yet. His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, breath coming in shallow, panicked bursts.

Control. He needed control.

But it was slipping.

He forced his gaze away, teeth clenched, straining to anchor himself in the present. He could not afford this, could not be dragged down by memories, not now. The past was over. Buried. Locked beneath years of friendship and fire, of sorrow and song, of blood spilled and lives saved.

His breath slowed. His gaze wandered, inch by inch, steadied.

And then — there. In the far corner, where the lantern light failed and shadow clung to the stone, he spotted it.

An opening. Narrow. Low.

He focused, sharpening his senses.

A soft sound — a whimper. The faint rattle of chains shifting with movement.

The others.

The remaining children were there.

The realization struck like ice water. It cleared the haze. Snapped his thoughts into sharp lines.

That was all he needed.

He had to reach Aragorn. The lock would be open by now.

And they needed a plan — fast.

But just as he was about to retreat, movement caught his eye.

Two figures — veiled — ghosted around the far corner, swift and silent as moonlight on steel. One slipped through the darkened doorway and vanished into the shadows beyond, where the soft chain-rattling sounds had hailed from. The other pressed flat against the unlit wall, barely more than a dark silhouette.

But Legolas' eyes, keen beyond mortal sight, caught it.

Blue.

Not just any blue. That blue.

He froze, struck and mesmerised alike.

The Blue Riders.

He knew now what they were here for.

Legolas strained to listen, every sense attuned. From the darkened chamber where the blue-veiled figure had vanished came the soft clink of metal, followed by a hushed exchange—too faint to decipher, but unmistakably urgent. Purposeful.

A voice cut through the slit in the wall at his side.

"They are yours!" Flambrol declared, his words thick with twisted delight. "Do whatever pleases you."

Legolas' stomach turned.

"The two on the other side I am saving for myself alone," the man continued, grinning audibly in his tone. "I will send the guards to fetch the remaining two, for our shared pleasure. Just go ahead!"

A ripple of eager laughter followed, ugly and full of anticipation.

Legolas did not flinch. He could not. Every muscle locked in place, bracing. He no longer heard the laughter, only the rushing of his blood and of time slipping away.

He had seconds.

And if the guards reached that far cell before he or the veiled rescuers acted—

It would be too late.

Legolas dashed out of his hiding place, shooting the guards before they could even see him. He leapt through the gate and felled another one. Ire flashed inside him, hard and cold, and he drew his knives—for the men, although horrified, moved close, heaving at him with their weapons. He barely registered the stunned expressions and the fear on their faces, as he was almost dizzy with rage. He nimbly avoided their blades, ducking, twisting and spinning around in a wild dance. His twin knives struck flesh, slashing one man's shoulder and another's arm. A third one was unlucky enough to draw too close in his attack. Legolas plunged his blade deep into the man's chest. A surprised outcry left his throat, and as Legolas jerked his knife out of the body, it bumped heavily to the floor. Legolas whirled around and was charging again as a frantic voice rang in his ears, grabbing his attention.

"Cease! Drop your weapons or she will die!"

Legolas froze mid-movement. His eyes locked on Flambrol, to whom the voice belonged. The man had pulled the girl's head back roughly by her long hair, her slim throat exposed, the blade ready for the lethal cut. Legolas' eyes widened in shock.

"Drop them! Now!" Flambrol yelled, pressing the blade tighter against the tender skin, drawing blood.

The girl gasped in fear. Legolas had no choice. His knives fell to the ground with a loud clatter. The men grabbed his arms, and twisted them painfully behind his back.

He knew he could have wrenched himself free; they could not match his strength…but there was the girl, and the knife at her throat.

He was trapped.

His thoughts swirled uncontrollably. He steeled his jaw, glaring at the men — cold, sharp, fearless. But beneath the surface, a silent panic clawed its way up.

No! They could not take him! Not like this!

The memory of past times, when he had been captured by men, crept over him like a waking nightmare. His breath hitched. A surge of raw defiance overtook him, and he thrashed in their grip, nearly breaking free despite knowing it was futile. They had the hostages. He could not risk it.

"Hold him!" Flambrol barked, shoving at the heavy stone door until it groaned open. More men rushed in, piling on with brute force. It took all of them, their combined weight and strain, to keep Legolas subdued.

Whatever was coming, he would not go quietly.

"Bring him to the other side," the Lord snapped. "Bind him to the poles!"

Aragorn had bent the pin with utmost precision. He had then worked it into the lock and carefully lifted the barb, turning slightly...

…until it gave a sharp, satisfying spring.

He exhaled sharply, a mixture of thrill and relief flooding through him. He had unlocked it!

But there was no time to savor the moment. Suddenly, the heavy stone door screeched open with a harsh, grating sound. Instinctively, Aragorn slipped back into the shadowed passage behind the hole, pressing himself flat to the cold wall to watch unseen.

His heart plunged as he saw the men roughly shove the struggling Elf inside. Legolas fought fiercely, muscles taut, but was overpowered. His face was pale, yet his eyes burned with fierce defiance.

Flambrol stalked after him, a cruel grin spreading across his face as he barked orders.

"Bind him to the poles!" the Lord commanded, voice cold and commanding.

Two guards stepped forward, chains rattling ominously in the still air.

Aragorn clenched his fists, tension coiling within him. The lock was open, but the danger was far from over.

"I thought all your kind had long vanished from the Southern Lands," the gallantly clad man bellowed, his voice thick with fury. "Yet here you are, still skulking in shadows, aiding these desert rats and spoiling the finest of moments!"

He struck Legolas full force right beneath the ribs. Legolas bent over at the violent blow as the air was forced out of his lungs. The men seized upon his moment of pain, forcing his limbs against the cold metal rings fixed to the poles. Rough hands tightened the ropes. Legolas writhed, muscles straining as he twisted and yanked against his bonds — but they held fast.

After the initial shock, Aragorn readied himself to rush to his aid. The gate was now unlocked. He knew he had only a slim chance of facing them all alone and surviving — but he had to try. He could not bear the thought of leaving Legolas in the clutches of these men another moment. He refused to imagine what they might do to him.

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

If he could just reach him — if he could cut those bonds — then, together, their strength might be enough.

He took a steadying breath, muscles coiled like a spring.

But as he was about to charge, a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder, and a blade was pressed against his throat. Aragorn gasped in shock.

How could he have been caught so unawares? He had sensed nothing — no footstep, no whisper of movement. Nothing. How…?

"Shhh!" The figure behind him breathed, a quiet but commanding hush. A gust of warm breath grazed his ear.

The blade at his throat did not waver. Its presence was chillingly precise. One wrong breath, one twitch, and it would open his skin like parchment.

Aragorn dared not move. From the corner of his eye, he tried to catch sight of his captor. He glimpsed slender, long fingers resting on his shoulder — delicate, yet firm — the hand cloaked in a flowing sleeve of deep blue.

A woman?

Was it truly a young woman restraining him?

The grip did not bruise or shake him. It was controlled. Steady. Almost gentle — if gentleness could be found in the cold edge of a blade poised at his throat.

Pinned like this, Aragorn had no choice but to obey the unspoken command: remain still.

"But then again..." Flambrol sneered, his face twisting into a loathsome smirk, "Look what opportunity offers us..."

His voice had taken on an oily, gloating edge. Legolas felt a chill crawl down his spine.

"Oh yes," the man continued, strolling slowly between the captives like a predator surveying prey, "we have young, tender flesh waiting to be initiated..." He paused, eyes glinting with vile intent.

He gripped one of the children's chins, forcing it upward. The girl clenched her eyes shut, trembling.

"...but what about having our fun with an elf?" Flambrol said, turning his gaze on Legolas, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "What say you, gentlemen? How enticing such beauty, such grace, and strength—chained and bent for our pleasure. Pride and fierceness to break…A prize unlike any other, tempting even the darkest desires."

A low, ugly chorus of laughter and confirmations rose from the men around him.

Legolas had given up on struggling against his bonds. He steeled his body as the man began to stroll towards him playfully slowly.

"The children will go nowhere...In the meantime, they can watch!"

Legolas fixed the men with a glare, cold and unflinching, though within him, hatred surged like a tide. He clung to his pride and fury like armor, shielding himself from the creeping dread that threatened to break through. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the fear knotting in his gut no less real for being suppressed.

But his control faltered when Flambrol seized the front of his shirt and tore it open with a brutal tug. The sudden exposure sent a shock through him — his heart pounded a wild rhythm against his ribs, each beat sharp and jarring. It was as though the years had collapsed in on themselves, and he stood once more in the midst of that long-buried nightmare, as real now as it was then.

He writhed against his restraints, wrists twisting hard against the ropes that bit into his skin. Pain flared, sharp and raw, but he welcomed it — anything to break the feeling of helplessness, anything to remind himself that he still had fight left.

His thoughts drifted to the trees of his home. He needed to reach out to them, cry to them of his agony. But they were far and could not soothe nor help him. His silent screams lost on their way.

"Look at how pretty he is, the elf-boy!"

Flambrol's voice dripped with lust. His hand cupped Legolas' face.

Legolas tried to let his mind drift up high and away into the sky, deep blue and bright with Anor's golden light. He longed to lose himself in its infinity. But the sky was cut out from him, spreading freely over the vast desert — and he was trapped, restrained.

Hate flared in him, and he bit hard before he pulled away in disgust, spitting the blood to his tormentor's feet.

The man gave a pained groan, and his face turned a dark shade of red. Pain flashed beneath Legolas' collarbone as the dagger buried itself into his shoulder. He bit back a cry, but the dagger already slashed into his side. He cried out and jerked at the repeated attack.

Legolas clung desperately to the memory of a slender waterfall in spring, rushing into a clear pond. Cool and pure water, enveloping him, a cool caress upon his skin, liquid and soothing as he dived into it. But reality surged back, merciless and sharp — the searing throb of his wounds, the stifling nausea of disgust. There was no escape.

"This will teach you not to fight me when I touch you, elf!" Flambrol spat.

Aragorn winced as the stabs struck his friend. The bile rose to his throat. The woman behind him tensed, but she did not release her firm grip on him.

The men watched with a broad grin on their faces, enjoying the violence.

A sharp punch made Legolas' head drop back. When he lifted it again, Aragorn saw that his lip was split. He glared at his attacker, eyes hard and ice-cold.

"You are a coward!" he hissed.

"Using children to satisfy your nasty desires! I will kill you! — All of you!" his voice sliced low and lethal.

"You are not in a position to threaten me, elf!" The filthy Lord stepped close, slowly, as if he wanted Legolas to feel his absolute power over him, and then he grinned at the men surrounding him expectantly.

"He seems so proud, the pretty boy! Never did I guess to get a fair one like this to toy with! Gentlemen, after I am done, every one of you can have his turn with him!"

Aragorn felt a surge of frustration and helplessness twist inside him. Fury flared. He burned to kill…

…the men…this woman...

He was about to shatter with the need to eliminate anything that prevented him from rescuing his friend.

But the woman held him firm, and if he moved, his throat would be sliced in an instant.

The blood rushed loud in Legolas' ears, and his heart raced away, making him dizzy.

He would not survive this again. Those children would see. They should not see! And Estel..where was he? Had he been captured?

Legolas hoped Aragorn would not risk capture to reach him. He wished his friend would retreat—save himself, return later with a plan.

But deep down, he knew that was not Aragorn's way.

At least he should not be forced to witness his weakness, his shame!

Flambrol's thick finger, stroked slowly over Legolas' lips, smearing the blood from the cut. Legolas did not bite this time. He knew the man would drive the dagger straight through his heart if he dared to fight him again. Briefly, Legolas thought that at least death would come quickly then, he would not suffer.

The fingers stroked down over his chin, his throat. The man's breath was on him.

His own breathing quickened uncontrollably. His muscles went rigid, like stone, like steel. And as the fingers wrapped around his throat, and the hand pressed on his airway, he writhed and tossed, the horrible feeling of suffocation clawing at him.

It seemed to arouse the man, who let out a groan.

And then he let go of his throat. Legolas' lungs heaved, greedily pulling in oxygen.

"I cannot kill you now, it would be such a pity," the man sighed and panted through his open mouth.

Legolas saw the cruel glint in his eyes and felt the fingers tracing the fine line between the tense muscles of his chest, down, trailing over the ripples of his abdomen.

"Hard, defined the muscles…how dangerous a warrior you could be, impossibly handsome…but look now…how tender the fair flesh is," the man moaned, "Perfectly smooth, the pale skin…The pride will soon be gone from these pretty blue eyes!"

Legolas then closed his eyes and tried to escape in his mind to the moon and the stars in the night.

But the moon was pale, and the stars about to fade. And all he saw was increasing, menacing darkness.

Aragorn thought he would burst, forced to watch his friend shudder in the agony of his deepest fear. A buried memory, catching up with him, becoming once more reality.

It could not happen before his eyes! He had to stop it!

It was to him as if the figure restraining him trembled as the events evolved. Just barely. But enough for him to feel it through the press of her hand on his shoulder, the blade at his throat.

Something was shifting. And he dared turn his head cautiously, seeking her face, heart pounding.

To his surprise, he met dark eyes glistening with compassion in a face concealed by a blue veil.

He should have killed her!

Instead, his eyes pleaded. But the veiled woman did not relent her grip on him.

Slowly, she shook her head.

"Not yet—" she whispered, so softly it was more breath than voice.

The knife remained, hard and cold at his throat, a silent threat. She did not want to hurt him; Aragorn was certain of that. But if he fought her... she would.

His throat burned, from the pressure of the blade and from the pain of this twisted situation.

Suddenly, two figures slid past them, swift and silent. Clad in flowing blue robes, they seemed to glide over the earth. Their garments masked everything but their eyes and hands, heads crowned with elaborate turban-like coils. As they passed, they cast fleeting nods toward the woman — acknowledgement without a word — and vanished toward the iron gate.

"Now!" the woman hissed into Aragorn's ear, releasing her hold on him.

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.

Thanks for reading, and I wish you stay well.

Chapter Text

Aragorn held Legolas close throughout the journey. His light frame leaned slack against him. His head nestled between Aragorn's neck and shoulder, Legolas drifted in and out of consciousness. One arm, Aragorn kept wrapped firmly across Legolas' chest, steadying him, trying to soften the jarring rhythm of Baradhroch's gait.

His efforts to rouse him had failed. Aragorn's fingers rested at Legolas' throat, lingering on the artery beneath the skin. It pulsed constantly, yet ever faster, ever fainter. Aragorn did not move his hand. He scarcely dared to breathe, as though the rhythm might falter if he did.

The strange, tranquil stillness of those desert people, once fascinating, now gnawed at him. They rode as though this were nothing — as though the sun were a companion and not a tyrant. Their silence pressed against him more cruelly than the heat. But exhaustion had drained him too deeply to give voice to his anger. He said nothing. He clung to the quiet, as if breaking it might shatter something fragile and final.

He held on, he endured, as best he could. He could not think straight anymore. He could not see anything but stone and sand, an endless furnace beneath a pitiless sun. His throat burned with thirst. His tongue felt thick as leather in his mouth. When water shimmered on the horizon, he did not even stir, knowing it was likely a mirage. They only rode toward more jagged, blistering rock.

His fingers were still feeling the softly thrumming pulse. He clung desperately to it, to him, and prayed he may endure.

Aragorn must have drifted, for suddenly, the rocks loomed above. It felt as though he had been jolted awake from a nightmare. He blinked, once, twice, then again, before he could trust what he saw.

Clear water flowed from an indentation in the rock face, streaming down into a shallow pool that glistened on the stone below. It trickled over the rocks and sank into the sand. Low, hardy bushes clustered nearby, thriving in this unexpected oasis.

So they were not entirely insane after all. Relief washed over Aragorn. They had not led them into the heart of nothingness — not on a death march through a land without mercy. They knew these lands. They knew how to survive them.

The water slid down Aragorn's throat, cool as shadow, and for a moment the world steadied. He dared at last to lift his fingers from Legolas' pulse as he stirred. And when Aragorn pressed a tin of water to his lips, he sipped. Then Legolas seemed to recognise his presence. Clasping Aragorn's arm with weak fingers, Legolas leant back, resting against him with quiet trust.

"We will not stay long. We must reach the camp before nightfall. It lies in the region of the Taneghur, the Spread Mountain Hills. If we ride northeast, we should arrive in time," Amar explained.

Aragorn frowned. Amar's words did little to reassure him after what they had just endured. The location sounded vague at best, and Aragorn's doubts about their sanity, though momentarily eased, began to resurge.

Still, the brief reprieve had done Legolas some good. He was sitting upright now on Baradhroch, steadied in front of Aragorn, no longer sagging against his chest. He barely needed Aragorn's support. Yet Aragorn was grateful that Legolas had not insisted on riding alone. He dreaded to think what it might have taken to convince him otherwise, now that he had regained a measure of clarity. In the presence of those people, Legolas seemed much more cooperative.

They did not falter. They rode through the entire afternoon without pause, under the parching heat. Legolas and Aragorn had drawn their hoods low over their brows, mimicking the veiled warriors, shielding themselves as best they could from the parching heat.

The sun had dipped low toward the horizon, casting their shadows long across the ground, when the men began to slow their mounts. Some lifted their faces into the warm, whispering breeze and loosened their veils, revealing strangely handsome features — slim, straight noses above full lips. Their eyes grew distant, unfocused, as they drew in deep breaths of the shifting air. After a quiet exchange of words, they altered their course slightly, angling now into the wind. Whatever the wind bore to them, Aragorn could not discern.

"I smell water in the air," Legolas murmured, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the distant hills. "And more… leather… coal… fire..." He turned back to Aragorn, and something had kindled in his eyes.

As they pressed on, Aragorn caught it too, the unmistakable scent of life ahead.

The land had changed. The terrain had grown rougher, layered with tangled rock formations that broke through the sand in scattered ridges and chains. A thin stream wound its way through the dry earth, irregular and spare, yet unmistakably real. Around its course, tufts of grass and clusters of stubborn bushes rose.

They encountered shepherds clothed in the same flowing, blue garments as the men who rode with them. They walked tall and proud beside their majestic beasts, moving in calm rhythm with the herd. Quiet greetings were exchanged, soft-spoken, yet rich with joy.

A quiet excitement began to stir among the riders as they approached the edge of a vast chain of rocks. Then, spreading before them, a camp came into view, simple reddish-brown tents, glowing like embers beneath the golden-orange light of the sinking sun. No banner flew above it, no wall encircled it, yet it stood against the waste with a quiet dignity that needed neither.

At the camp's edges, goats grazed peacefully. Children with tightly braided, raven hair darted between the tents, their games echoing in laughter across the open air. As they spotted their caravan, they broke into a run, sprinting toward them, their delighted shouts rising into the cooling evening.

Their eyes grew huge as they took in the sight of Legolas and Aragorn. They stared, transfixed, at Legolas, whose pale features, touched by the fading light, seemed almost otherworldly.

He smiled gently at the curious, young faces. Shy gazes flickered away when they met his bright, kind eyes, only to be pulled back again, filled with wonder. The children whispered and murmured among themselves, exchanging excited looks. Their laughter rose and tangled in the evening air as they ran beside the caravan.

Before they reached the outermost tents, teenage boys stepped forward to take over the camels and their horses. With practiced ease, they led the animals to the stream, allowing them to drink their fill and graze on the tough bushes and rare patches of grass growing along the banks after the long, punishing journey.

Amar guided Aragorn and Legolas through the camp. Behind them trailed the rescued children and the veiled woman who had journeyed at their side. Eyes followed them — curious, but never impolite — brushing over them as the people continued quietly with their daily tasks. Teenagers with long black hair, men draped in turbans and veils, and women with loose scarves flowing over their dark tresses all moved with a calm, unhurried grace. Smaller children played between the tents in the warm, fading light.

Amar stopped before a tent that looked no different from the others. He stooped and slipped inside, the flap falling closed behind him. A murmur of his voice followed — low and respectful. A woman's softer reply drifted through the reddish goatskin walls, barely audible.

Aragorn glanced at Legolas, who stood beside him, tall and composed, his posture as effortlessly elegant as ever. It seemed almost impossible that only hours ago Aragorn had pressed his fingers to that throat, desperate for the fragile pulse. Yet Legolas's wounds remained, hidden beneath silence and pride. Aragorn's hand tightened at his side — but he said nothing.

After a while, Amar emerged once more, followed by a tall, slender woman. She moved with quiet grace, her long, blue robe and scarf, adorned with delicate silver embroidery, glimmered with each step. Engraved, silver rings encircle both her arms, chiming softly as she moved. The hair showing under her scarf was silver-streaked by age.

She regarded them with a serene composure Aragorn had only ever seen in Elves — ancient Elves who had weathered the turning of ages. Though age had drawn its fine script across her face, a spark of unwithering curiosity and joy danced in her dark eyes, glinting in the amber light of evening.

A warm smile lit her face, wrapping them in wordless welcome. Then she turned to the veiled woman. The two drew near, until they stood face to face. Their palms brushed. The younger woman met her eyes and did not bow her head.

The elder woman's attention shifted to the children. Her eyes rested on each of them in turn as she spoke in a voice as soft as wind stroking over sand and stone. Her words, though foreign, carried something that stirred within Aragorn: a quiet ache, both sorrowful and soothing. He could not explain it.

Together, the two women guided the youths gently into the tent. Amar remained with Aragorn and Legolas, still and silent, until the elder woman returned once more.

She unrolled a mat and gestured for them to sit. A hushed pause stretched between them before she nodded once, prompting Amar to speak.

He did so with lowered eyes, never meeting her gaze. Only when he finished did he dare lift his head. She replied with a single nod — of acceptance, perhaps.

Then she turned her gaze to Legolas and Aragorn. Elvish rippled from her lips — low, rich, resonant, warm as distant water. Aragorn drew in a breath and could not let it out. Beside him, Legolas grew still; his chest lifted, then froze, and his eyes widened.

"With hope, I foresaw your coming. Today is a good day," she said, her eyes alight with joy.
"The children you have saved will need time." A shadow passed across her gaze. "Time we, and the desert, will give them."

She paused. Her next breath let a soft smile bloom around her lips, reaching her eyes, and the beauty of her younger days shimmered through.

"Legolas and Estel… my nephew has spoken of you," her smile deepened. "...like Beleg and Túrin…"

Aragorn felt the old tales stir in him, felt a pulse of awe and disbelief rise in tandem with Legolas' own silent intake of breath.

"Did you see the eyes that watched you in secret? The children's awe? Their delight?" Her voice remained warm, reverent.

"A friendship between Man and Elf — a bond our people have not let fade. Their coming changed these lands in ways no wind could erase."

She placed a hand lightly over her heart.

"We are honored to welcome an Elf among us once more. And you, Estel — you bring us hope."

The woman moved with slow grace toward the small fire burning before the tent's entrance. The air shimmered faintly with heat, scented with sand and smoke. She knelt, her robe pooling around her like a dark blue wave, and from a slender leather pouch she drew a handful of dried leaves and desert blossoms — pale, fragile things that seemed too delicate to have survived this land.

From a beaten-silver kettle, she poured water into a narrow-spouted pot, its sides etched with flowing sigils that caught the firelight. The soft hiss of boiling water mingled with the sighing of the wind.

She spoke then in the quiet tone of remembrance, her voice a soft current flowing through the stillness. The language was unknown to Aragorn, but its cadence felt timeless, older than the dunes themselves. Amar bowed his head in silent response.

When the steam thickened, the woman lifted the pot and poured the tea from high above the cups, so the liquid fell in a gleaming thread of light. The first, she offered to the fire itself, letting it soak into the sand beside the embers.

"For what has passed," she murmured.

The second, she poured into three small cups and handed them to each in turn.

"For what endures."

Then, at last, she poured a final measure and set it gently upon the ground between them.

"For what will come."

They drank in silence. The tea was strong, earthy, and fragrant, its taste carrying the warmth of stone and the breath of distant rain. The heat spread through them, easing the weariness of travel and the ache of unspoken thoughts.

When the cups were empty, the woman placed her hands upon her knees and inclined her head.
"This is Asera'nai," she said softly. "The Three Cups of Time — a gift of remembrance, of endurance, and of trust."

Aragorn met her gaze. There was something steady and knowing in her eyes — as if she saw the path they still had to walk, and the trials waiting beyond the dunes. Beside him, Legolas sat in quiet reverence, his eyes reflecting the firelight. For a moment, it felt as though the desert itself was listening — holding its breath around them.

Aragorn found he could not look away from her. It seemed to him that even the fire bent toward her rather than the wind. He dared not voice even one out of the many questions that stirred inside him, afraid to shatter this fragile moment of wonder as he basked in the steady calm of her presence.

"The children you rescued will be reunited with their families in the camps when their spirits are ready. And you, too, you may stay here with us as long as you wish."

"Your hospitality is a precious gift," Aragorn replied, bowing his head and holding his hand to his heart. "We are grateful to dwell with your people until we are well-rested. I could not ask for a better place in this land for Legolas' wounds to get time to heal."

No more words came forth; the questions swirling in Aragorn's mind remained unspoken, for now. It was enough, simply, to be welcomed so wholeheartedly.

The woman closed her eyes briefly as if in acknowledgement.

Legolas shot him a sharp glance. Aragorn did not return it.
They would remain. Of that he had already decided.

The elder woman spoke a few words to Amar, who still avoided her gaze, before she rose and slipped quietly into the tent.

Amar led them to another tent nearby.

"Here you may settle," he offered, his voice rough but careful as he shifted to broken Elvish.

A smile flickered around his eyes.

"I am her sister's son. She is Taria, woman of Tar — the moon. The moon speaks to her. It shows her what it does not show us."

His eyes gleamed knowingly, as if he had already guessed the questions pressing in Aragorn's mind.

"We all know how to speak the Elvish tongue," he answered one of Aragorn's unspoken doubts, "Our friendship with the elves has taught us since ancient times. We learned Westron as well — but only out of necessity, for we do not like it. The men of the North who enter our lands bring only evil. They come with chains and iron. They do not ask. They take." his voice darkened, then fell silent.

"Now, rest. I will have food and tea sent to you, and hot water and herbs to clean the wounds." With that, he left.

After a meal rich with unfamiliar and intriguing flavors, Aragorn was determined to convince Legolas to let him examine his wounds.

When Aragorn asked him to remove his shirt, he braced himself for protest — but Legolas complied without a word. His pale, drawn features made Aragorn's chest tighten.

He sighed deeply. "We have made it out of trouble once again, my friend."

Legolas seemed too weary to reply, and instead of reacting to the jest, his expression hardened.

"Estel, you let me appear weak in front of them."

His voice was rough with fatigue, yet laced with a firm insistence.

"Please… do not do that again."

Legolas knew Amar and his companions had witnessed his wounding and his poor condition throughout the day. And he must have sensed at least as much as Aragorn had that these people were not easily deceived. Aragorn said nothing, letting the quiet speak between them, wondering and worrying what ghosts drove his friend's pride.

He carefully removed the bandages. At least his stitches had held, and the elves' remarkable gift for healing showed its effects. But despite it all, the injuries and the ordeal of the last days had drained Legolas' strength. Even as Aragorn washed the healing wounds, he finally succumbed to sleep.

Aragorn gently cradled his friend's head in his lap, covering him against the desert night. As sleep claimed him, his features were calm, soft in the lantern's glow.

Muffled stirrings from the waking camp seeped through the red-brown hide of the tent. Aragorn was already awake, watching Legolas' sleeping form until his eyes flickered open, adjusting to the tent's dim morning light. His gaze sharpened as it met Aragorn's.

"Why are you staring at me?" Legolas grumbled, frowning.

With a good-natured shove, he pushed Aragorn away.

"I am feeling much better, if you must know. And stop fussing over me!" Legolas glared at him.

"Testy after such a long rest, are we?" Aragorn teased him gently, and Legolas ignored him. Aragorn knew he was tired of feeling weak.

"Do you not want to get up and do something useful instead of sitting around here and watching me like a Daernana guarding the elflings?" he snapped while dressing and pulling on his boots.

Dawn had just broken, and the early sun graced them with a pleasant warmth. Aragorn noticed a restless energy in Legolas, as if the elf's feet itched for movement, like the shifting desert wind. All too soon, the desert's merciless heat would descend in full force.

Aragorn felt the weight of curious eyes upon them. Their glances were discreet, but unmistakably inquisitive. Aragorn stole a sidelong look at Legolas. His expression remained composed, unreadable. Aragorn could not help but wonder what thoughts lay behind that façade.

Suddenly, a small boy appeared at their side, striving to keep pace. His raven curls bounced with each step, framing his face alight with joy. He reached for Legolas' hand, beaming up at him with unguarded delight. Legolas returned the smile, a bright, effortless expression that lifted Aragorn's spirits. The child gestured to Aragorn with a tiny hand, waving for him to follow as he skipped lightly beside the golden elf. Legolas glanced at Aragorn, smiling, and the tension in his chest eased.

So small a gesture from an innocent child it took to turn Legolas' heart towards the light.

They reached a tent where a woman was tending a small fire, a baby swaddled on her back. She looked up as the boy approached, laughter dancing in her eyes, and waved Aragorn and Legolas over. She offered them breakfast, which we gratefully accepted — flatbread still warm from the fire, goat meat, and dried fruit with a subtle, sun-drenched sweetness. The boy's little face glew with joy, radiant as Anor's own rising light, as they sat and ate together in quiet serenity.

Throughout the day, they were invited into several tents, guided by both children and elders, to sip fragrant tea or share in their simple yet delicious food in quiet, sunny company.

Women stirred fires, men led goats and camels, children carried water, and elders moved among them, guiding the tasks. All went about their work with quiet precision, as if the desert itself had taught them patience.

The day stretched long. And despite the warmth of these people, and the measure of peace it seemed to bring him, Legolas appeared still restless in his recovery. He turned to what his hands knew best — tending to his weapons, setting arrowheads firm and straightening the fletchings.

The children, captivated by his great bow, soon swarmed around him with eager eyes, begging for a demonstration. Legolas inclined his head and stepped forward.

One by one, the arrows swished through the air, each striking the mark with flawless precision. The children grew bolder, tossing the small, improvised targets faster and farther, their laughter rising with each attempt to outwit the elven archer. Yet Legolas met every challenge. The tiny targets darted through the air in a flurry, but his arrows found them all, swift and unerring.

His tall, lean body coiled and uncoiled with the bending of the bow. The string sang; the arrows flew. No trace of strain marked his movements.

The children gaped, momentarily stunned, before erupting into gleeful applause. They leapt and cheered, clapping and shouting in delight, and each one wanted to try.

It eased something in Aragorn to see how Legolas softened among them. The children shed their shyness; their initial awe dissolved into bubbling laughter. They darted and tumbled like a flock of sparrows, and he laughed with them — freely now. His eyes shone; color rose in his cheeks beneath the sun.

Aragorn watched him, light-hearted and light-footed among them, as though no shadow had ever touched him.

Legolas lifted a small girl and spun her through the air. Her delighted squeal rang out like a song. Before her feet touched the ground, another boy tugged at his tunic. With a grin, Legolas scooped him up and tossed him skyward, catching him cleanly. The child gasped, then burst into breathless giggles as he was thrown and caught again, and again — each time higher.

For a fleeting instant, Aragorn's hand tightened at his side. But he did not call him back.

The laughter was worth the risk.

It was his heart that was healing now.

Legolas made their small faces shine, and in turn, he shone with renewed light. Aragorn cherished his laughter. He could not get enough of it. He joined to laugh and play with them.

It filled Aragorn with joy to have him back —
That shimmering star, that was Legolas.

Daernana — Grandma

Chapter Text

The games with the children slowly quieted as their laughter faded into small, contented murmurs. Pebbles rolled across the sand as they knelt, intent on the new challenge, their fingers tracing paths in the warm grains.

Legolas' eyes lingered on Aragorn, his brow furrowed, pebble poised, the children's anticipation reflected in his calm, steady focus. A small smile tugged at the corners of Legolas' mouth. Even in such a simple game, Aragorn's presence carried weight, a quiet gravity that drew attention effortlessly.

With the children absorbed and Aragorn bent on the game, Legolas' gaze drifted to a lone tree at the edge of the camp. Its gnarled trunk and embracing branches seemed to beckon. Silently, he rose and slipped away, unnoticed, feeling the wind lift at his back as he climbed, the leaves brushing his skin like tiny sparks of life. Nestled in the dense crown, he let himself breathe, letting the height and solitude cradle him.

Enfolded in the crown of leaves, he let his attention wander over the camp. Strips of weathered leather and shifting shadows between the fire pits passed beneath him. Quietly, he searched for the young woman who had traveled with them on the black horse, daring to hope for a glimpse of her. For a moment, his breath caught as his gaze reached Taria’s tent.

A woman and a man approached, carrying pots of food. They stopped a few paces away. When Taria stepped out, rising with quiet authority, they instinctively lowered their eyes, avoiding her gaze — just as Amar had done the day before. Their hands, cautious and deliberate, extended the pots toward her. Taria took them with a slow, steady motion, then slipped back into the tent. The pair lingered for a heartbeat before turning away, their eyes still cast down.

Then — … His heart stumbled as he caught sight of the figure clad in blue moving toward Taria’s tent. She lifted her scarf, concealing her face as she drew nearer. Even without seeing her features, he knew her at once — in the set of her shoulders, in the silent, fluid precision of her steps, as though she moved across the sand without disturbing it.

He held his breath. No one was there to see him. He let his gaze rest on her, drinking in the sight as if he could preserve it before it faded.

She paused before the tent. For a brief moment, the air itself seemed to hold still. It didn't take long before Taria appeared, sunlight touching her dark, silver-streaked hair. Their palms brushed briefly, no more than a whisper. Words followed — soft, foreign, earthy. Legolas listened. Their voices merged into a melody, deep and steady like water gliding over smooth stones.

The young woman's eyes met Taria's — calm, unshaken.

She did not lower them. Legolas wondered why, yet the reason eluded him.

Then she bent to follow the older woman into the tent and disappeared into the shadow of the entrance. Legolas did not move, his eyes fixed on the empty shadows where she had stood only moments before. A faint sting of loss pierced him, and with it grew a longing to see her again.

Legolas was still caught in his daydreams when the fresh evening breeze brushed across his skin and whisked him back to the present. A fleeting thought passed through him: Aragorn was surely wondering by now where he had gone.

He stretched, straightened, and settled himself more firmly upon the branch, drawing in the cool breath of the coming night. She had not stepped out of the tent again.

With a quiet sigh, he reluctantly turned away from Taria’s tent, letting his gaze pass once more over the deepening shadows before he began to search the camp for Aragorn.

He found Aragorn speaking with Amar. Aragorn shook his head in what looked like exasperation — and Legolas could have sworn he saw him heave a long sigh. After a few more words, Aragorn left Amar and slowly strode back to the spot where they had been playing with the children. From above, Legolas watched as he scanned the ground.

A smile flickered across Legolas’ lips. Was the Dúnadan tracking him?

Soft laughter bubbled out of him as Aragorn slowly made his way toward the tree, eyes fixed on the ground. Every so often he crouched to inspect some faint disturbance in the sand — marks that only one with a ranger's keen sight could discern.

Legolas shifted, deliberately rustling the leaves, and popped his head down, out of the leafed canopy. Aragorn spun around, his brows raised, as if he had sensed the movement by instinct. In the next instant, Legolas swooped from the tree and landed lightly before him.

"I should have known where to look for a flighty wood-elf without tracking him," Aragorn muttered, "so please — do not say anything."

"You should have, I agree," Legolas smirked. "Nevertheless, I admire your tracking skills, master ranger."

His laughter drifted softly through the camp, light and playful.

Aragorn rolled his eyes but then laughed with him. The firm squeeze of his hand on Legolas' shoulder, and the light in his eyes as they jested on their way back to their tent, filled Legolas with joy. And in turn, the more Legolas sparkled with mirth and mischief, the more it seemed to lift his friend's spirits. They were so good for each other.

Night had already fallen. A final shimmer lingered on the tents, then faded, and darkness took its place.

Not long after they had settled on the small carpet at the edge of their tent, Amar appeared.

"I invite you to join us around the fire," he announced. "Tonight will be a night of stories."

His voice softened. "We love telling stories — stories with truth."

The men, women, and youngsters gathered around the fire were silent, as though they had been waiting for them. A faint thrill of anticipation hung in the air.

Amar spoke first, as if it had been agreed that he would open the night of tales. He addressed them in Elvish — ever since the previous night, when Taria had astonished them by speaking the Grey Tongue. Each sound seemed steeped in history and experience, and Legolas felt as if another space were unfolding around him.

"It is an honor, Estel and Legolas, to welcome you into our circle."

Amar spoke slowly, each syllable infused with respect and warmth. His words lingered in the air for a moment, as if refusing to fade away.

Aragorn’s curiosity was barely contained; a faint smile played at his lips, yet he remained alert. In Legolas, questions, hopes, and uncertainties stirred, still hidden in shadow.

He drew a deep breath, holding it for a moment before lowering his gaze to take in the circle once more. The flicker of the fire danced in the eyes of those gathered, all sitting motionless, as if holding their breath.

Aragorn turned to Amar and spoke with calm openness: „Darf ich von eurer besonderen Freundschaft mit den Elben erfahren?“

Legolas now listened with rapt attention.

"You dare, my friend!" Amar replied, his eyes gleaming. "And I will be glad to tell you the story."

He took a deep breath, as if he gathered time itself, then began:

"They came from the North, long ago — ages ago..."

His eyes grew distant, unfocused, as if seeing through the veil of time.

"I speak of a time deep in the past. The Taruen are a people who have endured since the days of old. We do not count the days — we live into them — and we carry the treasures of the past along with us in our stories."

Legolas listened, letting the words settle within him. In the firelight, a quiet current of awe and wonder stirred through him, yet he held himself back, content to simply observe. His heart beat steadily, carried by the melody of the tale.

"Our people first met the Elves when they camped in the lands further north, where the grasslands merge with the desert. Yet the desert in those days was not as harsh as it is now. Wellsprings were scattered richly across the land, and around them grew green jewels of life, and our strength blossomed."

Legolas listened, letting the words settle within him. In the firelight, a quiet current of awe and wonder stirred through him, yet he held himself back, content to simply observe. His heart beat steadily, carried by the melody of the tale.

"Our friendship with the Firstborn grew swiftly from that first meeting. Their wisdom and profound connection with nature and the ways of the world resonated with how we lived and saw all things. They sang to us of the richness of the forests in the lands they had left behind, and we showed them the vastness of the desert, with its rare yet radiant jewels of life preserved from ages past. They cherished all that grew and lived.

"Yet they sorely missed the trees. Still, they were determined to journey onward, even if it meant crossing the harshest wastelands.

"Our warriors were forged in endurance. They read the desert as one reads a living scroll, following the faintest traces of water and life, and their skill was handed down from one generation to the next, enduring even to our own time.

"They accompanied the Elves on their slow journey through those lands, offering hospitality at the nomadic encampments of our ancestors, until they reached the southern borders, where the grasses grew thick and lush.

"From there, their path led them into the forests of the South.

"For a long time, the Taruen held back the tide of darkness pressing from the north. But the army of Evil laid waste to most of the rare and precious water sources. Our people suffered grievous losses to sickness and hunger, for the wells ran dry. Our strength waned, and we scattered into small clans, striving to survive as free people in the harsh conditions of an ever-drier land.

"The Sirith — 'The Flowing', as the elves called themselves — sustained us in our survival, sending gifts from the rich forests where they had made their new home.

"In the Sirith, the Taruen found steadfast allies. We learned from one another, our lives intertwined in spirit, and together we combined our knowledge of healing to accomplish great things."

Silence followed as Amar's throaty voice ebbed away. All listened, gazing into the fire, as if from its flickering heart surged the warriors of the past:

Proud, blue-veiled camel riders, moving across the desert side by side with fair Elves.

Tall and slender, their bearing noble and graceful, they seemed to rise from the flames themselves, their silhouettes licking upward into the night.

Amar found his voice once more. It was deeper now, husky and forlorn, carrying the weight of one pensive and lost far away in the past.

"We have never believed the lies Sauron spread. We have never seen death as a curse. It is part of life. Even the wind, the sand, and the precious water of the desert are alive. We listen to the elements, living in balance with them, in peace and respect with all creation, as a part of it — never claiming superiority.

"We know we are born into this world with a free spirit, no matter the pain or the challenges we face. Our faith remains unbroken, that one day we may rejoin with the One — a faith many humans have lost in their struggle, deceived by lies.

"The Sirith encouraged and strengthened us in this belief. Our friendship with endured until they departed for their lands of light, they called The Undying Lands. Though we are saddened by our parting, we rejoice as well, for they have finally found the light they long sought.

"It is an honour and a joy to have one of the Firstborn — and a man named Hope — among us. Our friendship is forever granted to you."

The tale sank into Legolas, stirring more questions — questions that required no answers just yet. Something stretched within him between waking and dream, so delicate he could scarcely grasp it.

His gaze fell on Aragorn, equally caught in quiet fascination. The weight of his friend's shoulder against his confirmed that this was no dream.

A young woman in the circle lifted her eyes from the fire. The flames cast flickering shadows over her unveiled features. Her skin was smooth and luminous, like a perfect statue, an artwork of a culture deep-rooted in time. She fixed her gaze on both Legolas and Aragorn, serene yet intense.

"Please," she said softly, "Tell us about your home — tell us stories of elves."

As she spoke, her eyes glinted with expectation and excitement, like the eyes of a child.

Legolas was shaken by her request, and by the way it was brought to them — unveiled, direct, and utterly genuine.

He would have liked to tell them of his home — of forests once alive with breath and memory, of trees that whispered softly to the Elves and stretched out their branches in gentle welcome… lifting them high into their crowns and toward the light.

He thought of the song of the woods, the murmur of leaves, the rush of streams, the birdsong threading through it all — the countless small and great wonders of Eryn Galen. A quiet sigh escaped him as the memories drifted through his thoughts like shafts of light.

Tears pricked his eyes. He swallowed the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him, casting his gaze to the ground.

How could he speak of the evil creeping into his beloved home? Of a majestic wood, darkening, bending, withering… of the songs of the trees and the birds violently silenced… of Elves forever at war… of friends never returning from patrols… of searing battles claiming too many immortal lives?

How could he tell them?

He could not.

These people were suffering; he could see it in their eyes. A creeping malice had claimed their lands. They survived. They struggled against the odds.

They needed hope.

Slowly, Legolas lifted his eyes, holding the tears at bay with quiet effort. His gaze met his friend’s — brief, fleeting. His lips trembled as he fought against the ache rising within him. He felt the weight of the words that remained unspoken.

Aragorn’s nearness was both steady and unyielding. No words passed between them, yet that single look anchored him, a silent reminder that he did not bear the turmoil within him alone.

He let out a slow breath, allowing some of the tension in his shoulders to ease, though the sorrow lingered like a faint shadow beneath the surface.

Aragorn still felt his friend’s gaze on him as he turned back to the circle. For a moment his hand pressed more firmly against his knee, as if gathering himself before he spoke. The fire crackled softly. Sparks leapt upward and vanished into the dark.

He lifted his head and looked at those assembled. Their faces lay in the flickering light, expectant. The words he was about to choose were not meant for them alone — they were meant for Legolas as well, seated beside him.

Slowly, Aragorn drew in a breath.

He listened for a heartbeat to the quiet around him, then began to speak. The images of his homeland rose before his inner eye: the birdsong, the soft rustle of leaves in a gentle wind. He felt the warm air drifting through open windows, saw the gardens where vines wound gracefully around carved archways, climbing high into the starlit sky. As he spoke, the present almost slipped away; the world he painted stood vivid before him.

And when he told of the waterfalls — of their strong, unceasing song as they plunged through the beauty of the land — the listeners’ eyes widened further, if that were even possible. Aragorn himself was wholly immersed in his tale, feeling the living nearness of his home, and as the images settled into the minds and senses of those around the fire, a longing for his father rose in him, steady and inescapable.

“And in the heart of that radiant place, called Imladris,” he said softly, “dwells a wise Elven lord. He is gentle and just, and he bears the gift of sight. Once a valiant warrior, he is now a devoted healer — and a loving father.”

Thoughts of home and family stirred within Aragorn. Precious memories wrapped around him like a warm cloak, smoothing the turmoil left by the trials of the past days. Here, in the still desert night, beneath watchful stars and the steady glow of the fire, peace returned to him.

Legolas squeezed Aragorn's shoulder gently in the silence that followed the tale.

"It is so good to hear of elven home," he murmured. "And you have pictured it beautifully."

His gaze lingered on the blazing flames, then drifted across the circle, catching on a pair of dark eyes — the eyes of the only woman wearing a veil. She watched over the fire as if following the picture the tale had evoked… looking toward Imladris.

Or was she looking at him?

The thoughts of home and family tugged at Estel's heart. The fond memories wrapped around him like a warm cloak, soothing the stir of emotions after the trials of the past days. Here, in the quiet of the desert night, beneath the watchful stars and the steady glow of the fire, peace settled upon him.

He only wished to give Legolas time to recover. Then, at last, they would return home.

Deep in his thoughts as he was, Legolas' soft voice gently reached Aragorn's awareness. His friend was singing — a melody that seemed to rise naturally with the nightly breeze. It came lightly, as if carried from the forests of his home to the desert, painting in sound the growing strength of trees and the rustle of green leaves woven into the song of the wind.

Aragorn shivered at the beauty of it, at the quiet joy in his friend's voice.

"You give us hope," came Amar's deep voice, echoing what all the eyes around the fire seemed to say. "There is such fairness in the lands far to the North. It is good to hear that bright places still exist, and that the Elves still dwell within them."

He paused, his voice thick with feeling. "The Sirith carried the beauty of their woods in their hearts. It kept them alive. They could not have endured the dry vastness of the desert otherwise. Yet they understood as well how we could carry the hidden depth of that same apparently dry vastness within our hearts."

A tall, graceful silhouette emerged from the night, slowly stepping into the circle of firelight. She stood proud and straight — Taria, the queen of the red tents.

Silence fell. All around, the people grew still, sensing the quiet strength of her presence.

Now Legolas understood why her eyes seemed unlike those of any other mortal — deep and old, as though they had lived through ages. And as he looked at the people around the circle, he saw that their eyes, too, held a depth beyond a single lifetime — more than mere human experience or knowledge.

But hers… hers were older still. They carried within them all the wisdom and memory of their ancestors, passed from generation to generation – deeply valued and closely treasured, never lost.

Her voice, when she spoke, was both rough and tender — coarse and soft at once.
"The sand is not evil. The power that drives it to creep forward and extinguish life is — but the sand itself is not. It has its own spirit. It is a rough spirit. We have learnt to live in alliance with it.

"The desert is a challenge; it tries one hard. It throws us back to the essentials, yet it teaches us to cherish even the smallest spark of life, every drop of water, to value oneself and the other. It teaches us to listen closely — to see the hidden, to smell, to sense, to feel.

"It teaches us who we are, deep inside.

"The desert is not our enemy. It is our ally — part of Eru's creation, as we are. And we are part of the desert."

The words blended with the crackling of the fire and the gentle wind drifting over the sand.

"We do not fear death, because we love life so deeply that we see it even in death."

A faint shiver ran down Legolas’ spine as he sensed Taria’s steady, yet gentle presence within the circle of the fire.

She sat down close to the fire. Her hand emerged from beneath her wide garment, holding an instrument — beautiful in its simplicity — with a single string stretched over a gourd covered in goatskin. Black ornaments, surely bearing a deeper meaning, adorned its surface. She took the bow and gently drew it across the string, as if caressing it, and the instrument began to sing.

It was the song of their ancestors, of the wisdom carried on through generations for ages; never forgotten, never lost. Legolas sensed the passing of time it bore as it merged with the air around them and the immense multitude of grains of sand beneath. It also sang of their friendship with the elves. Taria's voice resounded in that soft, dark tone that reached deep into the soul.

"The Sirith built their dwelling within the rich forests of the Far South, stilling their longing for light and for the deep bond with all that grows and lives. Only those who have been there can fully comprehend what impact their forest home could have on human eyes and senses. The plants and trees had slowly grown into intricate, twining shapes, their wild nature lightly tamed by the gentle hands and hearts of the elves. Strong, immense trunks, vaulted boughs, and winding, leaf-laden branches interwove, ever growing, ever developing, forming the refuge of the elves. Something for us, accustomed to wide, open spaces, so foreign, of another world — magic.

"How different they were from us, and yet how close our hearts had become… Our souls intertwined and so our bodies joined in love. From these unions, new life was born, with both our blood flowing in their veins."

She looked at those present.

"Yet never did one of these children choose to remain among us. Too strong were their elven bonds. They had sundered from their kin in the North, bound closely together among their own. Their sense of belonging would never have allowed them to part... a Sirith who severed that bond would have faded."

Legolas sat quietly, his gaze fixed on Aragorn. He recognized the same feelings in his friend’s eyes. Their hands brushed briefly, and a warm thread of connection wove between them — a shared appreciation for the night among people, calm, warm, and openhearted.

They stayed awake for a long while, staring into the fire. Legolas watched the flames dance and felt the song echo within him as the stories came to life. Elves, unnamed in the tales of Middle-earth, appeared as vivid images before his mind’s eye, accompanied by the unceasing song of the desert, drifting softly through the night.

Chapter Text

The night had been crisp and dry, laced with the scents of sand, coal, and worn leather. Legolas had rested deep and dreamless until the morning sun fought its way through narrow seams in the tent, like molten gold, accompanied by the soft, guttural sounds of camels chewing outside. He stirred beneath the camel-hair blanket that had shielded him from the desert's biting cold. A slender band of morning light slipped across his closed lids, warming lashes and cheek, until he blinked and eased his way back into the new day. His senses sharpened as the first heat of morning unfurled around him. Drawing a slow breath, he opened his eyes.

Nearby, Aragorn sat cross-legged on the woven mat, watchful as ever. The Ranger's face was stern in its scrutiny, concern still etched into the lines of his brow. After a moment, he leaned forward and knelt beside him, so near that Legolas could feel the warmth of his breath. His touch remained careful and precise as he inspected the bandages on Legolas' side and shoulder, yet a soft gentleness shone in his eyes.

A renewed clarity unfurled within Legolas. Even for one of his kind, the healing had been swift. What had been wounded was mending — and something within him was straightening again, quietly, as if remembering its own strength.

"You are doing well, my friend," Aragorn said at last, a smile lifting the corner of his lips, the quiet relief in his voice evident.

Legolas returned the smile, warmth kindling behind his ribs. Aragorn, so often burdened by duty and doubt, now seemed lighter, the strain of the past days momentarily lifted.

The sounds of camp life filtered softly into the tent, quiet yet alive. A dog barked in the distance, its echo drifting between the lines of tents. Children's laughter intertwined with the low bleating of goats somewhere beyond the tent poles. Pans clattered, voices rose and fell like the desert wind rippling over sand. The aroma of cinnamon, cumin, and something sweet curled through the warming morning air, blending with the faint smoke from the campfire.

Amar's voice echoed from the entrance of the tent.
"May I come in?" he called cheerfully, a smile evident in his tone.

"Come in, friend!" Aragorn replied, and Amar stepped inside carefully. In one hand, he balanced a steaming pot, in the other two bowls, juggling them with practiced ease so that not a drop spilled.

He paused briefly, scanning the guests with a playful grin.
"How are you today? Hungry?"

They shared the meal in companionable silence. Amar sat cross-legged beside them, calm and warm, like a soothing shadow that simply existed

When Aragorn finished, he held the spoon lightly between his fingers, eyes fixed on it as if each movement bore its own quiet weight. Legolas felt the subtle hesitation, the focused calm in his motions, and for a fleeting moment, his friend seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Then he looked up.

"We are deeply grateful for your hospitality," he said, his hand over his heart. "It is a precious gift."

Amar nodded, his dark eyes steady, attentive.

"As wonderful as the night by the fire in your company has been, the longing for home stirs deep," Aragorn continued. "The tales of Elves and forests have only deepened it. We wish to resume our journey as soon as possible. With your blessing, we would depart tomorrow."

Legolas knew they had waited for his wounds to mend before journeying on. There was no longer reason to linger. He shared Aragorn's longing; it had been too long since he had walked beneath the quiet majesty of ancient trees, felt the wind rush through shivering leaves, and inhaled the rich scent of forest soil, damp moss, and pine. He missed his people. His home.

And yet, a faint ache stirred in the hollow of his chest at Aragorn's words.

He struggled to keep it from his voice. "I am much improved," he said. "And I miss the woods. We both long for home, our families, our friends — they may worry for us."

His voice caught, hoarse and fragile. He could not quite contain it.

Amar watched silently, expression unreadable. Legolas' heart raced; he felt a little breathless, yet held Amar's gaze until the man nodded slowly, then shifted his eyes to Aragorn. At last, the corners of Amar's eyes crinkled in a gentle smile.

"Then, my friends, tonight we shall gather and let the brilliance of our heritage blaze — in your honor, and for the pride and strength of our free people! Rest today, my friends, and prepare your hearts for Aseran'Teshar, the Festival of Liberating Fire and Unbound Hearts."

His eyes flickered with a secret delight.

After Amar departed, a ripple of anticipation spread through the village, growing steadily, like waves swelling before breaking. Animated voices and laughter drifted into the tent.

Legolas stepped into the sunlit day. The village was alive with quiet purpose: every soul preparing for the promised celebration. Joy sparkled in the eyes of veiled men; the conversations of the women were soft, melodic, and bright with laughter. Fires crackled, filling the air with the scent of spices and roasting meat. Saddles gleamed freshly polished, adorned with beads and tassels. Children darted through the bustle, cheeks flushed with mischief, tugging at Legolas and Aragorn, pleading for one more game, one last story. Their parents welcomed the guests into open tents, eager to share food, tea, warmth, and kinship before night fell.

Anor still stood high, casting golden rays over the sand, while the shadows stretched long and lean. Amar joined them by the narrow stream where they washed and prepared themselves. He wore wide, flowing trousers and a softly draping robe, topped with a turban and veil—clothing finer than his everyday garb, yet still allowing the ease of movement he was used to. Sunlight danced on the water, glinting in his dark eyes as he watched them openly. "Have the meals pleased you, my friends?" he asked, amusement in his voice, clearly alluding to the endless stream of dishes offered in every tent.

"Delicious. And plentiful," Aragorn replied, combing through his damp hair. Amar nodded, satisfied. He accompanied them back to their tent, waiting patiently while they changed into fresh garments.

"Come now, follow me," he said at last, voice thick with anticipation. "It begins!"

The sand, still warm from the sun, glittered as Amar led them toward the gathering place. Legolas drank in the scene, eyes wide with growing wonder. Like Amar, men and women had shed their daily garments for finely woven robes in shades of blue that caught the last rays of sunlight like gemstones. They looked like desert royalty — noble, radiant — but there was no pretense, only grace and the powerful humility of those who live in harmony with the land.

A quiet joy pulsed through the camp. At its edge, young men mounted their animals, ready to join in the celebration. Legolas watched them, a faint crease of curiosity in his brow, as the fires cast a warm, dancing glow over the tents and the figures moving among them.

"For our daily cooking fires, we usually rely on charcoal — and sometimes dried camel dung, when the land itself offers little wood. Both burn steadily, hot and long; the dung keeps the embers quiet and gentle, without sending sparks into the air. The charcoal comes from the oases or the edges of the grasslands — sometimes carried from far-off lands along the old trade routes."

He gestured toward the large fires prepared for the evening.

"But for Aseran'Teshar…" His voice sank with reverence. "…we have always brought special coals and select pieces of wood with us — gathered over many moons. These fires are not meant merely to warm. They are meant to blaze, bright and proud, so that our people remember who we are."

Legolas understood. The everyday fires were practical, necessary — but the festival fires were meant to shine, to glow with a brilliance all their own.

He beamed at Aragorn, barely able to contain the surge of energy within him. The gentle elation of the people swept him along. Aragorn returned the look, a slow, bright smile spreading across his face. No words were needed — the moment existed fully in silence.

The air shifted, smoothed, as dusk descended.

Amar walked with reverence now, his steps purposeful, his expression solemn. He brought them to where the elders sat in a great crescent around the central fire. Their faces were carved with age and experience, flickering in the firelight like ancient stone. The youths they had rescued were seated among them, surrounded with care. Mothers swayed gently with babes at their breasts, while children laughed and darted about nearby, the firelight catching in their eyes and braiding itself into their laughter.

A little distance off, the young women had gathered. They sat close, their voices blending in soft conversation and bursts of laughter that rippled through the air, like fine threads of sound. Their faces gleamed in hues of gold, amber, and ochre — sunset tones painted in living skin. Kohl-lined eyes sparkled beneath the dying light, each glance lively, intense. At first, they seemed delicate, even demure. But behind the softness of their forms, their eyes, full of passion, willpower, and pride, glinted keenly in the warm light of eventide.

Their joy was bold, unashamed. They spoke and laughed with ease, glancing sidelong at the men with playful courage and defiance. Their scarves, light and finely embroidered, draped loosely over thick, raven-dark hair, which caught the firelight like black silk.

Legolas' gaze moved across the group, searching, hoping to find her — the one who would not leave his thoughts. The crackle of the fires mingled with the soft rustle of fabric, with glimmers of gold and blue shifting in the light. A gentle stir rose in his chest, trembling at the hollow between his collarbones — a quiet ache of longing, unsettled like the shimmering heat wavering above the dunes.

But she was not among them. He would have recognized her. The absence hit with a dull, familiar sting in the pit of his stomach.

Just as he was about to resign himself and accept that she was not there, a familiar shape emerged from the shadows. Tall and straight, she moved with fluid grace, each step precise and unwavering, toward the group of women. The firelight caught on the threads of silver embroidery on her blue robe. Her scarf was draped over her hair in the same manner as the other women's.

She paused among the others and exchanged a few soft words. Legolas could not hear her voice, but the women's expressions answered in warm smiles and laughter, their faces lifted, relaxed. The mood was light, joyful. And yet, her own face remained hidden, veiled from his sight by distance and angle.

Legolas watched, unmoving, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat, hushed, tense, waiting.

Then, after moments, she moved again — this time toward the circle by the fire. With smooth poise, she passed the flame-lit stones, the murmuring elders, and came to sit among the rescued youths she had led through danger and dust. As she settled, she lifted the end of her scarf over her mouth and nose with quiet precision — a gesture of deliberate boundary, still and unmistakable. She was there. And yet unreachable. Her features remained shielded from Legolas's view. He could not shake the feeling that she was purposely hiding — from them, from him — and he could not comprehend the reason why.

The great drum began to pound.

The silhouettes of the riders stood out sharply against the orange-tinged sky. The men's eyes glinted with roguish smiles as they watched the young women, who began clapping their hands in rhythm to the drum, letting out bright, vibrating cries that rolled through the camp like a singing wave.

The drum came alive; it breathed, and its rhythm reached out into the desert — into the sand, the air, into him. Each strike found its way beneath Legolas's skin, lodged itself in his chest, and drew his breath into an unfamiliar, commanding measure. An ancient, primal heartbeat rolled across the dunes, heralding the beginning of Aseran'Teshar — the celebration of freedom and passion. The vibrations coursed through him, thrumming deep within, claiming his pulse, his breathing.

The camels lifted their necks high, their footfalls blending into the beat of the drum. Across the sky, shades of orange bled into deep purples, and where the light had already withdrawn completely, the sky dimmed to a molten indigo, stars peeking through the deepening canvas of night. Riders and animals moved like living flames around the women, who clapped and sang, their voices rising and soaring with the wind. The fringes and tassels decorating the saddles wafted, and the silver ornaments flashed. Colours and lights fused as they danced in the light of the fires.

The young women's voices, low and haunting, tender and raw, wove a song whose meaning Legolas could only sense — of passion and pain, of joy and survival. The tunes entwined with the drum into a single song of life. Their eyes flickered with excitement as the men rode close and pulled away in a playful, daring ame.

It was all foreign, sense-capturing, breathtaking.

Legolas caught the gleam in Aragorn's eyes beside him — a silent exchange, mischievous and knowing.

His gaze drifted back to the fire. Without him knowing when or why, it slipped away again. The blue of her robe emerged — impossibly calm amid the surrounding tumult. For a single breath, nothing else existed.

A rider surged forward, swooping toward a chosen woman. With swift precision, he snatched her scarf, revealing the cascade of her ebony hair. She watched him with sparkling delight as he raced away, the silk trailing behind him like a flag. Laughter rang out, playful and ringing like bells. Each stolen scarf was a token, each catch a fleeting victory, teasing glances and bold smiles exchanged in the firelight.

Legolas' heart lurched, caught in the whirl of color and sound, in the playful freedom of the women — and then something shifted.
A nearly imperceptible pull in the air, as though the night itself had drawn a breath.
She tightened her scarf. Not in haste. Deliberately.
Her eyes flashed in the warm firelight, the flames mirrored gold within their darkness — and his breathing slipped out of rhythm.

Around the fire, the scarves fluttered — vibrant swaths of silk that caught the flickering flames and danced like living things.

Her eyes showed subtle crinkles of a smile as she observed and listened. But she remained quiet and withdrawn, veiled.

The young woman with the piercing black eyes...

She had retreated into the security of the circle of elders.

How could she stir his heart so fiercely? Command his breath, his pulse? She could not have seen more than twenty summers — though here, where there was neither summer nor winter, the Taruen did not count by seasons.

But those eyes...
Those eyes stared at him from behind the veil she never removed in their presence.

How could the eyes of one so young hold such power over him?

He could not tear his gaze from hers. There was a depth there — not like the eyes of a mortal child, more like Taria's. And they bore a shadowed wisdom, a weary knowing of one who had seen too much, far too early — a burden no one her age should carry.

Or was it merely his imagination?

She was still watching him, calm, steady, unflinching. The veil hid her lips, yet her eyes reflected the fire's dance as if it blazed within her.

The cool night grew hot as a desert day, pulsing with the heartbeat of the drum. The air, the ground, the sky; all vibrated — the pounding was both without and within him, enveloped him, filled him. Legolas' pulse rose to an exhilarating frequency. His breath faltered. His heart reverberated with the beats of the desert — and the quiet ache of her presence.

Then, as if sensing the height of the night's fever, the sound of the drums began to soften. Their beat slowed — deepened — until each strike was like a pulse receding into the body of the earth. A hush spread over the gathering. Voices fell, leaving only the crackle of the fires and the distant whisper of the dunes.

Amar stood, lifting one hand. "Aseran'Teshar," he intoned — the Night of Liberating Fire.

The name passed through the crowd like a breath. The men and women bowed their heads slightly, their gestures filled with grace and gratitude. From the shadows, the elder woman emerged — Taria. In her hands she carried a slender, long-spouted vessel of hammered silver and three small, clay cups.

She walked to the central fire, her robe glimmering faintly with each step. The people parted, allowing her through, and she knelt before the flames. Amar joined her, his movements reverent.

It was then that Legolas realized: this was not a mere ending, but a sacred part of the celebration. A ritual of stillness following passion — fire giving way to peace.

The elder woman poured water into the vessel, her motions deliberate, graceful. Then she lifted a small pouch from her sash — filled with pale, curled leaves — and cast them into the steaming water. A fragrant aroma rose, sharp and sweet, mingling with the smoke of the fire.

Three times she poured the tea: the first cup for strength, the second for endurance, the third for joy. With each pour, she raised the pot high, letting the liquid arc through the air like a ribbon of molten silver, the sound of it mingling with the faint hiss of the flames.

As the first cup was passed to Amar, he held it aloft and spoke softly, his words carrying across the silent circle:
"Fire burns, but it also warms. Passion consumes, but it also creates. May the spirit of Aseran'Teshar free what must be freed — and bind what is true."

He drank, and passed the cup to the elder, who in turn filled the second and extended it toward Aragorn. The Ranger accepted it with a bow of his head. The scent was deep — earthy and spiced, with a faint hint of mint. It spoke of life drawn from arid soil, of survival, of quiet persistence.

When the third cup came, it was offered to Legolas. For a moment, his eyes flicked toward the circle of elders — and found her there, watching him still.

He accepted the cup. The clay was warm beneath his fingers. He lifted it to his lips and drank. The liquid was unlike any tea he had ever tasted — sweet at first, then bitter, then sweet again. The warmth spread through him, seeping into his limbs, his chest, his very spirit.

A stillness followed — vast, encompassing, profound. It was as though the desert itself exhaled, and every grain of sand shared in that peace.

The elder woman spoke once more, her voice low and resonant:
"May your hearts be light, your steps guided by flame and water alike. The night is ours — and you belong to it now."

The people bowed their heads. The flames crackled. And then, slowly, conversation returned — laughter, music, soft song — but now, all of it gentler, slower, as though the fire that had burned so fiercely had learned to breathe.

Late at night, after the elders and families with children had retired, the fires still burned. Legolas' heart beat stronger than usual, caught in the strange magic of the desert — its vibrating breath now softened by the deepening dark. Some fires had gone out, but the embers still glowed, bright orange and pink, crackling softly as the night's cool air stirred around them.

The riders who had seized a scarf during the game still held their prey tucked into their belts, their eyes gleaming hopefully.

Legolas searched for the place where she had been.
Nothing.
Only the darker imprint in the sand where her weight had rested — and a hollow pull, as though someone had stolen his breath in passing.
Like water sinking into the sand at dusk — slipped away before he had even thought to reach for it.

The loss of her presence burned inside him like a hungry, consuming flame.

The young woman who had first lost her scarf now rose, approaching the man who had dared take it from her. Her step was light, her posture bold. She reached for his hand, saying something teasing in their raw, rhythmic tongue — her voice warm and playful. His eyes glinted keenly and yet somewhat shy. She laughed, drawing him along, their silhouettes melting into the dark. Their soft, mirthful voices drifted back to the fires — echoes of laughter fading into night.

Legolas watched with quiet awe as the desert's age-old ritual played out — sweet and sensual, yet sacred in its balance of freedom and desire.

Amar's voice floated over and claimed his awareness. Legolas blinked, trying to concentrate, as the man explained to them the rules of the game.

"If the woman wishes to reclaim her scarf, she will use her charm to persuade the man to return it to her."

A smile sparked in Amar's eyes as he held his own trophy in his hand, and it was to Legolas as if the fine fabric shivered.

Or was it Amar's hand that trembled?

Then he saw why. The woman was walking towards him — slow, deliberate, radiant in the glow of the flame. Her face caught the light, turning it to gold.

Aragorn shot Legolas a knowing look and grinned as the woman took Amar by the wrist and led him into the dark beyond the firelight. Legolas couldn't help but smile back, his thoughts wandering toward an imaginary scarf he wished to hold — and the cascade of heavy, raven-dark hair it would unveil. He hoped his friend could not hear the wild hammering of his heart.

The night air shimmered faintly with the lingering warmth of the embers as they returned to their tent.

Aragorn fell asleep almost at once, his breathing deep and steady — and Legolas wondered briefly if his friend was dreaming of Arwen, of her flawless, moonlit skin.

In the comfortable silence, the image of caring hands, long and sleek, glowing amber in the firelight, ghosted through his mind and lingered. Only slowly, and almost imperceptibly, he floated over the thin line of elvish dreams.

The soft light of a candle illuminated the tent walls, its flame casting a restless dance of gold and shadow across the reddish-brown leather. Legolas blinked lazily, caught halfway between sleep and waking, his mind adrift in a hazy calm.
He turned his head; Aragorn lay soundly asleep beside him. The even rhythm of his breathing merged with the low crackle of the candle. Legolas let out a slow sigh, sinking back into the dream's gentle pull.

The memory lingered...
...of the desert, its heat, the air of the night, the freshness of it, ember-lit fires, stories of elves and forests, blue-clad people of Tar...Ithil... the air brimming with the hush of ancient magic and wordless promise... the earth pounding with its melody.
... and the tender intensity of deep, dark eyes striking across firelight.

This was a good dream…

Only the faint whisper of the desert wind pressed against the leather walls, and the wavering flame of the candle swayed, wrapping the world in a silken veil of amber and red.
A whispering rustle stirred the silence.
The air shifted, and the fine hairs on Legolas' skin rose in awareness.

And then — she was there. In the opening of the tent, as if conjured by the night itself, motionless, framed by the faint, golden light.
For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.

Her eyes found his, widening as if in surprise, catching the flicker of the candle with a strange, spell-lit gleam — and Legolas felt the air between them grow heavier, warmer, as though it carried her breath.

Black eyes, glimmering with firelight, searched him — bold yet uncertain — tracing the lines of his face, the curve of his cheek, the pale exposure of his throat. Cautious, hesitant, they lingered briefly over the flickering pulse beneath his skin. A shiver ran through him, a breathless sigh slipping from flushed lips.

Strong, slender hands reached for the laces of his shirt, fumbling hastily until the garment loosened.
It was his own hands...
What was he doing?

Lithe, long fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling it apart, revealing pale skin and taut muscle.
…his own fingers — trembling and unbidden.

His lungs tightened briefly.
The candle flame wavered.

Something inside him loosened, melted.

His eyes beseeched hers, pleading. His lips parted, silently screaming for their touch. His hands wandered lower, fidgeting to free him from all restriction, exposing him further.

The chill of the desert night did not affect him. He felt warm...
So warm...

He did not know whether it was the air between them, or the subtle tension in her stance, or the way the candlelight trembled across her veil — but the moment he leaned toward her, even slightly, her breath hitched.
He heard it — soft, sharp, unsteady — a sound too fragile to be anything but involuntary. It brushed across his skin, stirring the fine hairs along his collarbone.

Her lashes dipped, then lifted again. She held herself perfectly still, yet a quiet tremor moved her frame.

Her scent thickened, sweeter now, warmed by her exhale. Myrrh and night and something fiercely alive.
It wrapped around him like heat rising from desert stone at dusk — ancient, dangerous, impossibly soft at the center.

Her gaze dropped to his chest.
Not by accident.
Not in confusion.
It stayed there — lingering on the shape of him, the bare inches he had leaned closer.

Her fingers moved.
He saw it — a tiny twitch, a hesitant curl, quickly stilled. But it was enough to send a sharp flare climbing his spine.

Her hand lifted — just a little. But he felt the shift of the air, close against his chest, quivering faintly with the promise of touch.
She froze halfway.

The pause hit harder than any movement.
Her hand hovered, suspended, shaking as if caught between instinct and restraint.

Yet her eyes travelled slowly, tracing him as if by right. Her gaze pooled in the hollow at the base of his throat, caressing, probing…then skimmed over his collarbone, like the impossible brush of her fingertips.

Her palm splayed over his pecs, claiming the rise and fall of his chest. He inhaled — a thin, uneven breath — and she followed the movement, as though drinking in the motion itself. As if every inhalation belonged to her.

He felt the glide of something warm and featherlight drifting along the inner line of his pecs, where the skin was thinnest, most vulnerable. And the moment she lingered there — on that delicate, defenseless point — something inside him buckled. Longing coiled sharply, a pulse of wanting so raw it sent his breath stuttering.

A shiver raced down his sternum, rippling outward. His heartbeat kicked hard beneath the touch, as if straining toward her, as if his body had been waiting for her to find that exact place.

She looked at him like she could feel everything he felt — the trembling restraint, the shiver beneath the surface, the way every point she marked with her eyes turned molten and alive.

She tracked the fine sculpted line beneath the muscle, drifting with exquisite precision to that spot so sensitive it stole his breath as she reached it. He didn't know if it was her gaze or the imprint of her fingers, but he felt pressure on that delicate skin — gentle at first, then firmer, insistent, oscillating.

His body answered by instinct.
Not gently.
Not obediently.
But with an involuntary pull, as if every muscle leaned toward her.

She inhaled sharply.
He felt the air shift around her. The trace of her exhale slid lower — his body reacted again, helplessly, a tremor rippling through the coiled muscles of his abdomen.

The world beyond them fell away.

A hand coiled around his hardened heat. His pulse quickened impossibly, a wild flutter rising through his chest.

He didn't decide to move.
He simply did.

Her eyes never left him, pools of night and fire that held him captive. She would not move, she would not stop. He surrendered entirely — his breath caught, broke, drawn helplessly to the haunting glide of that fierce, wordless hunger in her stare.

Desire flooded through him like a tide — silent, unstoppable. A raw cry, laced with a delicate edge of pain, erupted from his throat as the surges of release came unrestrained — wild, untamed.

Only slowly the shudders ebbed. The cool night pressed softly against his pulsing warmth, and every breath became a silent confession.

Then something faltered in her gaze — a flash of disbelief, of fear at the boundary they had both crossed.

She stepped back.

The flame wavered, shuddered — and she was gone.

Only the hush of night remained, and the faint scent of her presence clinging to the air.

Legolas lay still, breath uneven, the fire of her eyes alive beneath his skin. He turned slowly, seeking calm against the weight of his heartbeat — shivering, weak, lost in the haze of exhaustion and the afterglow of warmth in his loins. He pulled the blanket snug around himself, keeping it close, sensing every stir of his body still resonating, as if it carried on within him.

Was it dream? Or had she truly stood there, watching him burn?
No one would ever know. A secret whispered into the dark.

Chapter Text

Spots of light danced behind his lids and he blinked slowly, as though surfacing from deep water. Awareness returned in gentle waves as he drew in long breaths, warm air spilling into his lungs, heavy with the scent of leather and smoke.
The red canvas of the tent emerged around him, dim and glowing where the morning sun sifted through the seams between the stitched goatskins. The candle had burned down to nothing but a thin curl of wax at its base.

Legolas shifted, taking in the quiet stillness of the space. At the other end of the tent, leather rustled softly. Aragorn was kneeling by his belongings, arranging them with practiced movements.

When he noticed Legolas stirring, he paused and straightened slightly, turning his gaze toward him. A faint, patient smile touched his features.

“How do you feel today, my friend?” Aragorn asked softly. “Is this the day we depart toward home?”
There was a light in his eyes — bright, expectant.

Legolas’ vision was sharp, the details of the tent standing out with elven clarity, yet his thoughts drifted, tangled and slow, as though part of him still lingered elsewhere. He remained wrapped in the thin coverlet, warmth gathered beneath it — and only now did it strike him as strange that again he had slept longer than his human companion.

Only then did Aragorn’s words truly reach him, along with the quiet eagerness in his tone. He knew his body had recovered enough to take up the journey. And he missed home as keenly as Aragorn did.
Yet his fingers curled slightly in the blanket, reluctant to release its shelter, as if something more than warmth were caught there — something fragile, held too loosely to be named.

…a dream that, once freed, might drift away, lost beyond recall.

The thought tightened painfully in his chest, a slow burn rising into his throat.

Aragorn’s expression shifted at once. The brightness in his eyes softened, concern etching faint lines across his brow.

“Legolas, I do not mean to press you,” he said gently. “If you need more time to gather your strength, we can stay — as long as it takes.”

It was not that. Legolas knew it. His body was ready. And he could not bear to dim the quiet joy in his friend’s heart for something his own mind would not allow him to voice.

“No, Estel. I am ready,” he said. “This is a good day to return home.”

He swallowed against the tightness in his throat and shaped a smile for Aragorn, willing it to look easy. A sudden, sharp twinge flared low in his stomach, stealing a fraction of his breath — and he hoped Aragorn had not noticed.

Aragorn studied him, head tilting slightly, the lines of worry refusing to fade.

“Are you truly well, Legolas?” he asked quietly. “Or are you keeping something from me?”

Legolas’ gaze slipped away. He let it wander instead to the pale threads of sunlight slipping through the seams above, tracing their thin paths across the blanket with one finger, following them as though they might lead him somewhere safer than his friend’s eyes.

“We are going home,” he said lightly — too lightly. “How could I not be fine…?”

His fingers busied themselves with the play of light upon the fabric, anything to avoid meeting Aragorn’s gaze, lest his eyes betray the lie.

When at last he dared to look up, Aragorn’s eyes had narrowed, just slightly — unconvinced. But after a moment, he seemed to decide to let it pass.

And Legolas, for that small mercy, was deeply relieved.

Word spread quickly through the camp that the elf and the ranger would depart that very day. People came with quiet purpose, offering provisions for the long road as the two prepared their horses. Amar and several of his warriors would escort them as far as the northern borders of the dry land.

“We are a people who speak with the stones, the sand, the trees and the waters,” Amar said, his voice steady and resonant amid the low murmur of the camp. “The sky and the earth sing an eternal melody to us. The earth is the instrument, and the wind draws from her surface the tunes of her song. It carries much with it — stories of what has been, what will be, and what yet lives in the present. We have learned to listen to it. I know you can hear it too.”

Legolas felt the truth of those words settle in him like a quiet echo.

“The desert does not allow for pride,” Amar continued. “It destroys those who seek to master it, or who cannot hear its melody. It is perilous.”

His dark eyes grew grave.

“The ones who weave nets of evil in these lands — Orcs and other foul creatures — do not venture deep into the dry heart of the desert. They cannot endure it. They follow their paths. We know those paths, and we know how to pass unseen by their eyes. It is our charge to guide you until you reach lands more familiar to your feet.”

A tall, slender figure now stepped forward from among the gathered people. Her presence drew the eye at once — not by ornament or grandeur, but by the quiet majesty of her bearing. Taria.
Her garments were simple as her life was simple, yet the grace of her walk and the calm authority of her stance made her seem a queen of light — reflecting the beauty and humility of her people. When she spoke, her voice was soft and warm, and yet carried with clear strength.

“Estel,” she said, “hope of the free peoples of the North — you are the hope of all humankind. Never forget that. We all depend upon hope… hope to preserve our freedom, the beauty of our lands.”

Aragorn stood utterly still, as though the air itself had left him, absorbing her words in silence.

Legolas’ breath faltered at the weight of the moment. He saw with sudden clarity how deeply this encounter would mark his friend’s path toward his destiny. Aragorn was hope to people far beyond the borders of Middle-earth — and this woman, who spoke in riddles like a sister of Mithrandir, had named it plainly.

Pride welled in Legolas’ chest, fierce and bright. Once more he knew, beyond doubt, that he would stand with Aragorn until the very end.

And yet, even as Taria spoke, Legolas found his attention drawn elsewhere — against his will.

Among those gathered, one slender, willowy figure stood apart. Though he strove not to look too openly, he felt her presence like a quiet pressure in the air, sensed her gaze upon him — a face half hidden by a veil, eyes set in light amber skin, deep black with unveiled passion in their depths...

... how could such eyes belong to a child?

Oh, Elbereth! It was not right! It could not be.

...and yet, how could their pull be so strong?

Nothing within him could deny the truth.

He was leaving the desert behind.

He must banish it. Deny it.

But the longing burned.

Those eyes pierced and yearned and demanded — and yet withdrew, shy and wary all at once. How could he drive her from his thoughts? How could he ever forget eyes that turned shame into quiet delight, with the fascinating depth of their darkness?

So lost was he in sensation and in her nearness that Legolas only dimly realized Aragorn had raised his hand to his heart in the elven greeting to the Taruen — and out of long habit, he mirrored the gesture.

Beneath his palm, his heart hammered so fiercely that he feared it might burst as he mounted his horse and they finally turned away.

He dared not look back again.

The road before them stretched long, drawing them slowly away from a world that seemed almost unreal, touched by magic — and toward home, toward the forests and the people they loved and missed.

As Amar had promised, they met no evil on their way, even as they parted at last from their new friends and the desert slowly gave way to more familiar ground.

Finally, they reached the ravaged forests of Ithilien. The air here was cool and damp against Aragorns skin, filled with birdsong and the soft drip of hidden water — so unlike the dry, breathless silence of the desert that still seemed to linger at the back of his senses.

Almost hastily, as if he had been waiting for this above all else, Legolas swung himself from his horse and vanished between the trees, climbing into their heights with a fluid, effortless grace. Many of the trunks bore the scars of shadow and fire, yet even more still stood firm and unbroken — living witnesses of hope and resistance. He sought them out as if guided by instinct, greeting them in swift leaps through their boughs. The branches seemed to reach for him in return, leaves stirring eagerly as he whirled through the dense canopy. They brushed his skin, his hair, whispering against him, craving the slightest touch. He was like a streak of gold moving through green and shadow. The soft breath of wind through the foliage wove itself into a melody wherever he passed.

Throughout the long crossing of the dry land, Legolas had been silent. Silent and disquietingly distant. Stranger than his natural elven reserve — withdrawn in a way Aragorn could not quite grasp. He had spoken neither of what troubled him, nor of anything else.

And now, the moment they reached the trees, he withdrew into them, as though the forest itself had claimed him. Here, among their living pillars, he seemed to loosen whatever held him bound. He became boundless again. Alone with his song and the forest, a whirlwind of life. Aragorn imagined there were things for which Legolas could find no words — things easier entrusted to bark and leaf than to any voice. The trees tamed his restless energy, soothed whatever stirred beneath his surface. They received him without question, without demand. They let him be.

Aragorn had learned, over time, to allow him that freedom. Yet he himself was not a tree. And in this moment, Legolas seemed to need them more than him. He gave himself to the forest, and the forest gave him what he sought.

Still, Legolas knew Aragorn was there whenever he chose to share. Aragorn rode between the towering trunks, guiding his horse steadily toward home, while above him he could hear Legolas moving through the leaves — a soft presence threading through green and light.

At times, Aragorn glimpsed him between the branches: a bright shard of gold amid dark leaves. In the next breath, he vanished again, slipping through thicket and shadow with supple silence. Then he would move so soundlessly that Aragorn could not even be sure he was still above him.

Lost in these thoughts, Aragorn noticed that Gwedal had stopped behind him. He drew rein at once, alert, and turned to the stubborn white mare. She shook her head, snorted, but refused to follow. Aragorn turned his horse and rode back toward her, seeking her elusive rider.

There he saw him — not far above her, leaning into the twisted bough of an ancient tree, half embraced by its leaves, almost hidden. The trunk was thick, scarred and old, yet the leaves were young and tender, strikingly pale in their fresh green. They clustered around him, sprouting from slender shoots, eagerly encircling him. A light breeze stirred his hair and the leaves alike, making them sing together, melting them into a shimmering tangle of gold and green.

One hand rested against the bark, fingers lightly splayed, as if he needed the living roughness beneath his skin to anchor him there. His breath moved slow, deep — too deep, as though he were listening inward rather than to the world around him.

Aragorn rode closer. From this angle, he could see Legolas’ face. His gaze was fixed southwards, distant and unfocused. The urge to call him rose in Aragorn’s chest — he was not a tree, and he could not always simply leave him to himself.

“Legolas?” he called, softly, saying nothing more.

For several long breaths, there was no response. Just as Aragorn drew breath to call again, Legolas spoke, without turning his head nor shifting his position. His voice was little more than a whisper, hesitant and rough.

"The desert has affected me strangely."

It was the first thing he had said in a long while. His voice bore the rasp of long silence, guarded, as though he barely dared shape the words.

Relief washed through Aragorn at hearing him speak at all, and he answered at once, giving voice to what stirred in his own heart.

“I feel it too, my friend. Those people are astonishing. I found things there I never thought to find. I see much now with different eyes. And I am grateful I was allowed to know the Taruen and the desert.”

His thoughts drifted to their farewell, and to the hope that had been spoken over him. Strength gathered quietly in his chest as he thought of the road that still lay ahead.

Yet Legolas did not answer. His gaze remained fixed southwards. No reaction came to Aragorn’s words. A faint crease formed between Aragorn’s brows, but he waited. Patience was something he had learned from the elves — from Legolas most of all.

Only after a long while did Legolas disentangle himself from branch and leaf and spring lightly to the ground beside Gwedal.

Still his eyes seemed anchored somewhere far beyond the forest. Aragorn could not tell where he truly was — certainly not fully here with him, though they rode on together. Aragorn guided Baradhroch closer; their horses’ flanks brushed, his leg touched Legolas’. That small contact drew Legolas’ gaze back at last. He smiled — bright, intense — and for a few breaths, Aragorn thought he truly had him back.

Then his eyes wandered again, slipping toward that same unknowable distance.

The days that followed slipped by in an uncounted rhythm. Mountain and valley unfolded beneath their path; the air grew cooler, richer, riverlight and high ground answering one another as the road carried them north.

Aragorn’s heart glowed with quiet serenity as they drew nearer to home. There it lay before him — his sheltered haven, spread in gentle light and green — peaceful, hushed, almost untouched by outward threat. After all they had seen, it felt unreal: an island of calm, of safety, of warming familiarity.

It seemed to Aragorn that Legolas’ very being began to glow in harmony with his own heart. His features softened at the birds’ welcoming songs, and he joined their calls, humming a light, buoyant melody.

No longer did he cast those strange, lost looks toward the South. Aragorn was deeply glad that Legolas was truly arriving home with him. He knew this valley was, for him as well, a place of healing and quiet reprieve.

From between the broad trunks ahead, flashes of silver caught his eye: two tall figures, their grey cloaks flowing like mist as they hastened toward them beneath the calm, watchful trees of Imladris. Raven hair streamed behind them in the gentle wind.

Before Aragorns mind could fully grasp that he was truly home at last, a sound rose to meet him — the distant, ever-present voice of Bruinen, clear and cold, threading through the valley like breath through a living body. Light spilled between the trees ahead, pale and silver-gold, catching on stone and leaf alike, and for a heartbeat the air itself seemed to brighten.

And then he was swept into an overwhelming embrace. The familiar warmth of two strong bodies crushed him close in tender force — Elladan and Elrohir. His brothers. His family. How deeply he had missed them.

Legolas was still singing softly. Aragorn heard the joy in his voice as he watched them, and his own spirit lifted in answering delight. Legolas’ laughter rang bright as he greeted Aragorn’s brothers.

How grateful Aragorn was that they shared this moment.

The joy of this ever-beautiful valley shone from the trees and the water alike, radiated from the faces of those he loved as they walked together toward the Last Homely House, their faithful horses following at their heels. There his father awaited him, anxious for his safe return. Light fell across Elrond’s drawn features, smoothing the lines that worry and fear of loss had etched once more upon his ancient, ageless face.

“I am glad to see you are both well this time — riding and walking, and strong with health,” Adar said with gentle jest, and Aragorn could only guess the depth of his relief. Now it was Elrond’s turn to crush him fondly in his arms. For once, he did not have to stand — he was held.

There would be long stories to tell. But for now, Aragorn was simply happy to be home — and more than anything, he wished to remain in the presence of those he loved most.

Chapter Text

It was a bright autumn day in Imladris. Gold and crimson still clung stubbornly to the branches, as though the trees themselves were reluctant to surrender their splendor to the earth. Sunlight spilled through the high canopy in molten shafts, setting the leaves aflame. Now and again, a breeze slipped through the valley, teasing a shimmer of foliage loose and sending it spinning down in lazy spirals.

The forest seemed to carry its beauty out into the world once more, and the afternoon was filled with their laughter.

Golden leaves scattered beneath their boots as they chased one another along the path, voices bright beneath the high branches of Imladris. Estel lunged for Elladan, who had just evaded him with infuriating grace. Elrohir darted past them both, scooping up an armful of leaves and flinging them into the air. Gold and red rained down upon them in a blazing shower. For a moment they were no sons of Elrond, no chieftain of the Dúnedain — only three brothers intoxicated by light and movement and the rare gift of unshadowed hours.

These days had grown rare. And so Estel ran harder, laughed louder, let himself forget the weight that so often rested unseen upon his shoulders. He would remember this. He always did.

"Too slow, Estel!" Elrohir called, laughing.

Then the air around them changed. The laughter fell silent almost at once, as though an unseen hand had stilled the sounds of the forest. A faint chill brushed the back of Estel's neck.
Elladan came to a halt. Estel, still half in motion, felt it a heartbeat later — a presence where, only moments before, there had been none.

He had heard nothing — no snapping twig, no disturbed gravel, no warning carried upon the wind.
His ranger's instinct stirred only now, sudden and cold beneath the warmth of the afternoon.
Between the nearby trees stood a horse, tall and motionless. Its coat was black as polished obsidian, smooth and dense, and the light slid over its muscles, catching hints of dark blue in the curves and shadows. Only its mane stirred slightly in the breeze.

Estel's breath stilled.

The rider did not move. A slender figure, wrapped in a silver-grey cloak, the hood drawn low over brow and cheeks so that the face lay in shadow.

An invisible weight pressed down on them, a quiet heaviness that made their breath catch. No words, no threat — and yet they felt the relentless attention, dark and watchful, laden with unspoken things.

Estel straightened. He became aware of the steady beat of his own heart, of the sudden stillness of the wood around them. Beside him, Elladan stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was steady and resonant.

"Where do you come from, and what brings you this way, stranger? May we be of help?"

For a moment there was no reply. Then the hooded head lowered.

"I came… to seek the Lord of this valley."

The voice was soft, unmistakably female — and carried a foreign cadence. The words seemed to cost her something.

Elladan's gaze flicked briefly to Estel.
They had not expected this.

Elladan studied her for a moment.
"Then you have come to the right place," he said at last, his voice calm.

She faltered. The words hovered unfinished between them, as though she feared they might betray more than she intended. Her gaze lifted only briefly under the hood — and in that fleeting moment her dark eyes met Estel's. Something flickered there — perhaps a moment of recognition, or rather a searching scrutiny, a cautious weighing.

A heartbeat passed. The breeze stirred the hem of her cloak. When she spoke again, it was slowly, as though each word had to be chosen with care.

"…he is known to be wise. And… his counsel is held in high esteem."

She said nothing more.

Estel noted the omission at once. She had answered without answering. No name. No homeland. No cause.

Her Sindarin was fluent and yet the cadence was wrong. Certain sounds softened or swallowed, others pressed too firmly, as though her tongue had learned the language elsewhere, under different skies.

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged the briefest glance.

"Mae govannen, hîril nîn," Elrohir replied at last, his tone courteous, though Estel caught the faintest thread of surprise beneath it. "You are welcome in this valley. We shall lead you to our father. All who seek counsel in sincerity may find refuge here."

For a moment she did not move.
Then she lifted her head slightly, and beneath the shadow of the hood her eyes widened — not in fear, but in something that was almost disbelief. Maybe relief, still too fragile to trust.

"Hannon le, hîrath nîn," she answered softly.

With fluid grace she dismounted. Even that movement carried exhaustion, as though strength alone did not banish whatever burden she bore. And when her boots touched the earth of Imladris, Estel felt it.

The light of the afternoon seemed dimmed by a breath. The laughter that had only just echoed among the trees now felt distant and unreal. Her weariness went before her like a shadow.

They turned toward the path that led to the Last Homely House. The air grew cooler between the tall trees, carrying the scent of damp leaves and the clear water of the falls.

For a while they walked in silence. At last, Elladan cast a brief glance at the stranger.
"You have travelled far," he said quietly.

"Yes," she answered simply.

Whatever lightness had filled their play was gone. Leaves whispered beneath their steps. The wind had quieted. Even the birds seemed to watch. And Estel, walking beside his brothers, could not shake the feeling that something had crossed the borders of Imladris that day — and it carried a weight that did not belong to autumn.

When they passed beneath the great stone arch, she faltered. It was only a small thing — a tightening of her shoulders, a hesitation scarcely longer than a breath — but Estel saw it. Her slender form went rigid. Then she raised her head slightly and looked up toward the vault above. In her eyes there was no wonder, no relief — but fear. It flashed there unguarded before she mastered it.

Estel's steps slowed. He had never seen anyone look upon Imladris with fear. Travelers arrived weary. Wounded. Grieving. Some came in desperation. Some in hope. But when they beheld the valley — its terraces of pale stone, the sound of water threading through air, the light resting gently upon carved pillars and ivy-draped walls — something in them always softened.

This place did not threaten; it healed. Yet whatever warred behind her dark eyes barred even that peace from entering her.

"We have a visitor," Elrohir said to the guard who stepped forward in greeting. "Call Adar. And see the horse brought to the stables."

At that, she moved. Too quickly. Her hand flew to the horse's neck, fingers tangling in the dark mane as she stepped closer to its flank, as though the great animal were a shield of flesh and bone.

"Please—" The word broke from her before she seemed aware of it. "My horse is not to be locked in."

Her voice was rough, strained, as though it had long gone unused. The sharpness in it echoed briefly between the stones. And as if startled by herself, she stepped back. After that, only the distant, unceasing murmur of the waterfalls remained, running through the valley. Her hand trembled against the horse's mane. From the shadow of her hood, her gaze flickered toward Elrohir — wary now, almost apologetic.

Elrohir stilled for a moment, surprised by the force of her reply. Beside him, Elladan cast him a questioning glance. Then Elrohir smoothed his expression.

Estel saw the truth of it. His brother had merely spoken from custom. Yet this was no ordinary guest — Estel felt it clearly.

The horse shifted, sensing her unrest. The warm scent of fur and dust rose into the cool air of the valley. Estel noticed then how close she stood to it — not as a rider idly fond of her mount, but as one who had relied upon it. Relied upon it to carry her far.

A subtle tightening drew through his chest.

Something had crossed the borders of Imladris that day. And its echo would not release him.

She stared at the paving stones beneath her boots. Heat rose to her face.
Had she spoken too sharply — too boldly? May the Valar forgive her — she had meant no disrespect.

Yet the thought of her horse locked behind wooden bars had struck something raw inside her. She could not have borne it — not now, not when it was the only familiar presence left to her in this strange place.

She felt exposed, insecure. The elven lords before her were striking — tall, broad-shouldered, possessed of that effortless grace that never needed to prove its strength. She could well imagine them standing with drawn blades, their grey eyes flashing like honed steel.

She swallowed.

What if the Lord of Imladris heard her name — and turned her away? She had been warned. Her kin might not be spoken of kindly among the Elves of Middle-earth. They had sundered. Drawn nearer to Men than some deemed wise. Crossed quiet boundaries others would have left untouched. And in doing so, in the eyes of many, they had become… something other.

In this moment she wished only to vanish. All the courage that had carried her across leagues of wild land deserted her in a single breath. Her knees weakened. The courtyard tilted faintly. The rush of her pulse filled her ears until the murmur of elven voices became distant and distorted, as though she stood beneath water.

Her hood and her horse — the last fragile barriers between her and the world.

If only they would not see how close she was to breaking.

She forced her breathing to steady. Forced her body to remain upright. To collapse at their feet would be humiliation beyond bearing.

And then he came.

The Lord of Imladris descended the steps, and even the air seemed to draw back before him. Ageless. Composed. Every movement measured, effortless. Authority rested upon him without weight. His grey eyes found her at once. There was no sharpness in them. Only awareness.

"Mae-govannen, young lady. I am Elrond of Imladris. You are most welcome in this house."

No demand. No suspicion. No question of blood or origin. Simply welcome.

The words undid her more than accusation ever could have. Something heavy — something clenched tight around her heart for many miles — loosened.
She had not realized how tightly she had been holding herself together until that moment.

Slowly, almost cautiously, she lifted her hands to her hood and pushed it back. Dark hair fell free over her shoulders. Graceful, pointed ears caught the light. A soft intake of breath sounded at her side — the young man. The twins' composure faltered only slightly, but she saw it. The widening of eyes. The flicker of recognition.

She held herself still. Let them see.

"Mae-govannen, my Lord," she managed, her voice steadier now, though not entirely free of strain. "I am Mîaddar… I have come… from far away to seek your counsel."

She did not name the place. Not yet. Her gaze lifted to his for the briefest moment before dropping once more — not in submission, but in uncertainty.

Elrond regarded her without visible surprise.

"It is an honour to receive one who has journeyed so far," he said gently. "Rest now. Be refreshed. Let this house grant you the peace you seek. When your heart is ready, you may come to me."

He knew. Not who she was — perhaps. But he knew much. Warmth lingered in his eyes, not pity, not judgment. Only Understanding.

"My son will show you to your chamber."

"Thank you, my Lord," she answered softly, hand pressed to her heart.

She turned to her horse, resting her forehead briefly against its dark neck. A hush passed between them — too low for others to hear.

The mare snorted, then turned and moved swiftly back through the archway, free. She watched until she vanished from sight. Only when the last echo of her hooves faded into the murmur of water and wind did she draw a steady breath.

The brothers exchanged glances — startled, thoughtful. Elrond had already withdrawn. She remained still for a heartbeat longer. Then, gathering what composure she could reclaim, she followed Elrohir.

She moved through Imladris like a quiet shadow.

At times she could be glimpsed upon a balcony, standing motionless, dark eyes turned toward the valley as though measuring its silence. At others she passed through the corridors with soft, near-soundless steps, only to vanish between the trees. Soon after, the distant neigh of a horse would rise from the woodland's edge.

She spoke little, and when she did, only as much as was necessary.

Once, however, Estel came upon her on one of the narrow terraces above the watercourse.
"Do you find your way in our valley?" he asked, more out of courtesy than curiosity.

She lifted her gaze only briefly.
"It is… fairer than I had expected."

She said no more. Her gaze had already drifted past him, over the trees, as though searching for something beyond the mountains. Then she lowered it again, as if the finely wrought floors of the house deserved her full attention, and slipped past him.

She went almost unnoticed — but not by Estel. Nor by his brothers. With her, something had come into the valley. He noticed it in Elladan's stillness in unguarded moments. In Elrohir's gaze lingering too long upon distant horizons. A softness of grief stirring again — the old wound, never wholly healed. The memory of their mother's departure, of the shadow upon her fëa that had never wholly lifted since her cruel captivity. Of loss endured and borne in silence.
Estel knew those signs.

Since his childhood they had told him that his presence brought them healing. Estel ran his thumb along the rim of his pipe without raising it. Perhaps there was some truth in it — that in loving him, in caring for him, something of their own pain had been eased. And when they said it, they smiled at him with that familiar warmth that still, even now, made him feel the cherished boy he had once been.

He treasured that. He treasured their laughter ringing through the trees. The hunts. The mock duels. The evenings in the Hall of Fire when song and story braided light through the gathering dusk.
These were not idle pleasures. They were breath between battles.

Estel let his gaze wander over the valley, where golden leaves danced upon the wind, yet the light seemed dimmed, as though a faint veil lay upon the autumn's gold. Since her coming, it had been so — and he resented her for it.

The Valar knew how dearly he needed these reprieves. Beyond the valley waited long roads and harsher duties. He bore the title of Chieftain without flinching; he did what was required of him. But he did not pretend he could do it alone.

He needed this place. They all did. Imladris was not merely refuge. It was renewal. And something in him recoiled at the thought that her shadow had touched that light.

He drew upon his pipe and let the smoke drift slowly from his lips. The stem rested easily in his hand — a habit of the wild, not of the valley. He rarely smoked at home; the elves bore the scent with tolerant amusement at best. Today, however, he had withdrawn beyond the nearer terraces, to a quiet rise overlooking the trees. Far enough not to trouble any elven sensibilities.

He wished to think — of her silence, of the shadow her presence carried with it. Of the weight he could neither name nor dismiss.

Ada had shown no sign. Elrond remained, as so often, calm and composed. To Estel he was a rock, steadfast and unyielding. But did he not feel the shadow? Did he not worry?

"You think too loudly."

Estel turned his head slightly. Elladan stood a few paces away among the birches, as though he had been there for some time.

"And you move too quietly," Estel replied dryly.

A fleeting smile touched Elladan's face, though it did not quite reach his eyes.
"You have noticed it as well."

Estel let the smoke drift slowly into the cool air.
"One would have to be blind not to."

"Ada knows already," Elladan said softly. "Little escapes his sight."
Then he was gone again among the trees. Estel did not watch him go.

The questions circled him without rest.
Was he unjust?
He knew nothing of her burdens. Nothing of the road that had driven her to their gates. He had seen fear in her — fear of them? Or perhaps of something she carried within herself.

And yet the resentment persisted.

Whas it selfishness? To wish this valley untouched? To wish its healing light guarded?

He leaned forward, forearms resting upon his knees, the ember flaring briefly as he drew again upon the pipe.

What did she carry beneath that quiet? And why did it trouble him so?

Below, the river sang on, indifferent. Golden leaves whirled in the fading light.
Imladris endured. But for the first time in many seasons, Estel wondered whether sanctuary was meant only to restore — or also to receive. And whether his heart was wide enough for both.

hîril nîn — my lady

hîrath nîn — my lords

Chapter Text

High arches spanned the open spaces like frozen waves of pale stone. Through the open arcades, moonlight fell silently into the halls, gliding over delicate, faintly shimmering carvings and following the flowing lines of the ornaments.

Vines climbed the pillars as though they had always belonged there. Leaf and tendril wove through the carved stone, as if both had grown together. Pale blossoms opened toward the night, and somewhere leaves whispered softly to one another in the light wind. The sight touched her heart.

Veils of memory stirred — of home, of belonging.

Slowly, she went on. Her steps faded softly upon the smooth stone floor. Here and there her gaze lingered upon the walls, where ancient paintings adorned the stone: ships beneath foreign stars, forests in the first light of morning, figures passing through storm and fire. Their quiet gravity and dignity stirred something deep within her.

The passage opened into another hall. The scent of leaves and cool earth lay in the air, as though the garden itself had found its way into the house. Between the stone slabs, a narrow stream ran, carrying a soft murmur through the stillness.

The house did not seem built, but grown — as though it had arisen from light and air and living green.

She let her fingers brush lightly over the cool stone of a pillar, feeling the fine patterns worked into it. Fragments of memory rose within her — of living wilderness, untamed and familiar alike. Rough, moss-covered bark beneath her palm — not stone, but living wood. Rivers winding through deep valleys far from here. Lands long left behind.

For a few fragile breaths, she let those memories hold her.

Then something upon the ground caught her eye.

Moonlight touched steel, running shallow along its smooth surface and catching in the broken edges. Upon a white cloth lay the broken remains of a sword, carefully arranged. Within the fractures of the blade something rigid gleamed, like frozen water.

Only then she noticed the young man kneeling beside it.

He did not at first look up. His fingers hovered above the broken blade, not quite touching it, as though even memory might cut. Shadow lay along the line of his jaw, while dark hair fell across his brow.

She stood unmoving and stared.

Then, as though sensing her presence, he lifted his eyes and met hers.

For a heartbeat, all else fell away.

In his eyes lived a flame. Something restrained — and yet smouldering.
Ithil took it and turned it to silver, until his gaze seemed forged of both fire and steel.

Recognition flickered across his features — and with it, the light in his eyes dimmed. He lowered his gaze and drew the linen cloth swiftly over the shattered blade.

When he looked at her again, he sighed. He appeared once more merely the young man she had glimpsed laughing among the trees, striding beside his elven brothers with easy familiarity. And yet she knew there was more to him. She had seen something not meant for careless eyes.

He was young — inconceivably young to her ageless reckoning — and yet authority rested in his voice when he spoke within the House. Not claimed. Not demanded. Simply there. And the set of his shoulders bore the strength of someone who carried a responsibility unfathomable, and he carried it well.

She could have withdrawn — slipped back into the shadows with the secret she had stolen.

She did not.

"I did not mean to intrude," she said softly.

She flinched, for her voice betrayed her — roughened, uncertain, unused to shaping words for a long time.

He regarded her in silence. Not hostile. Weighing.
She felt the air tighten between them.

If he chose to close himself to her now, she would have no defense against it.

At last, something eased in his expression.

"Do not trouble yourself," he said quietly. "I believe you."

A faint smile touched his mouth — quick, silver-bright, and gone almost before it fully formed.

"We all carry a story that weighs upon us."

The words were simple. And yet they struck her with full force — washed over her like a gentle, warm wave that, for a fleeting moment, made her feel less alone. She released the air from her lungs in a long freeing rush. He could have resented her. And yet he had not… He had shared and acknowledged, dispelling her fear. There was light in him — not the untested brightness of youth, but something tempered, hard-won.

Around them the House breathed in quiet harmony. Voices drifted faintly from distant chambers. Somewhere water sang over stone. A place where Elven grace and the mortal pulse of Men intertwined without fracture.

She had not believed such a thing could exist in the northern lands. She had closed herself against it at first — against its gentleness, its welcome — fearing it might reject her in turn.
Yet the valley did not press her away. It waited.

She managed the smallest smile, though it faltered before reaching her eyes. Words failed her. Gratitude felt too vast to speak without breaking something fragile.
So she inclined her head and stepped back.

Retreat, this time, was not flight.

She knew this encounter would not leave her unchanged. And somewhere within her, long sealed and silent, something had stirred.

For some time now, the ancient Lord of Imladris had spent his evenings in the Hall of Fire.
At times he sat among song and quiet laughter; at times alone. The flames would rise and fall before him, and he would let his thoughts wander waywardly.

Was he waiting?

No. Waiting implied unrest. He was not restless.
His sons were near him once more. The house was full. The valley breathed in harmony. Peace had returned to him — the deep quiet which comes after long endurance.

He had time again.
Time to give. Time to listen. Time to love.

And among those now sheltered beneath his roof was another young life — one who bore the weight of years, too heavy for her slight form. He had seen the shadow about her, a burden long borne in solitude. It clung to her like dust from far roads.

He did not seek to dispel it by force. Imladris did not heal by interrogation. He would not press her. As she had found her way to the Last Homely House, so too would she find her way to him — when the hour ripened. The valley had patience. So did he.

That night, a pair of dark eyes lingered at the threshold of the Hall of Fire. Moonlight lay pale upon the stone beyond, but within the hall the flames burned amber and gold, casting a warmth that softened shadow and silence alike.

She stepped inside. Her tread was nearly soundless.

Elrond did not turn at once. He had sensed her before her foot crossed the threshold — the subtle shift of air, the restrained breath. She came to stand beside him. Fingers brushing lightly along the hem of her cloak, as if testing the solidity of the world beneath her. Then, quietly, she seated herself.

They watched the fire together. The flames bent and flickered upward, shaping themselves in endless becoming and passing away. Light illuminated Elrond's ageless face, then withdrew again into shadow.

He waited.

At length he turned his gaze to her — not questioning, not demanding. Simply present.

"Do not fear, young Elleth," he said gently. "Do that for which you have come. I know not who you are, nor whence you come, yet I would never turn you away for that. Fear binds the spirit and clouds the path. Lay it aside."

The words were not command. They were release.

A breath left her — deep, shuddering, as though something long confined had at last found space.

She spoke. Slowly at first, as though testing the air.

"This… is the first time in many years that I stand again among Elves."

Her hands tightened in her lap.

"I have come… from the South, deep Far Harad. I am of the Sirith. My kin have gone. I… I remain… alone."

The words slipped free, trembling in the quiet. Not merely confession. Exile. Aloneness.

She risked a glance at him.

Elrond's gaze neither hardened nor grew cold, nor did it turn away.
He received what stood before him.

Encouraged by the gentle acceptance, she spoke with greater certainty, though her hands still fidgeted at her knees. She told him the history of her people, remembered and passed down among their kin.

She spoke of a beginning in the First Age — of young Elves in Beleriand who had heard whispers of Aman's light, who had grown restless within guarded borders, and felt within themselves a different calling. Not rebellion for its own sake, but yearning. A desire to seek understanding beneath Arda's open sky on this side of the sea before ever turning their eyes West.

She spoke of Beleg Cúthalion — of admiration for loyalty that crossed kindred lines, of love freely chosen over decree. In their youth they had looked to Beleg Cúthalion — hunter of the hidden people whose father was the forest and the fells his home — and seen something that answered their unrest. Captain of the marchwardens of Doriath, he was true of heart, strong, bold, and free in spirit. He moved between realm and wilderness as though no boundary could claim him fully.

They had left not in hatred. They had left in hope.

Families had watched them go — some with blessing, some with grief. Messages had once passed between sundered kin, then fewer, then none. After the fall of Doriath, silence had sealed what pride and misunderstanding had begun.

"They called us Sirith-said," she said softly. "Flowing on their own."

She lifted her chin slightly.

"But we called us simply Sirith, Flowing. We chose the name for ourselves."

Flowing — not erring.

She spoke then of the southern deserts beneath star-heavy skies, where the moon cast silver upon endless dunes. Of forests rich and humid, older than memory, where towering trees had sheltered her people and welcomed them without question. Of humans whose lives burned brief and fierce, and of the beauty of it all.

As she spoke, something in her posture changed. The hesitance thinned. Her voice steadied. For a moment she was not the last of her kin. She was their echo.

Elrond listened. He did not interrupt, he did not speak. Not even as her words grew softer and finally faded.

They sat long after. Flame and shadow moved across the vaulted hall. Light rested upon her face, withdrew, returned again. At last weariness claimed her. She rose quietly, bowed her head in gratitude unspoken, and departed as silently as she had come.

Elrond remained. His gaze lingered upon the embers.

The Sirith… Flowing.

Much had been sundered in the long years of Arda. Not all divisions were born of pride alone.

The fire sank lower.

He felt the weight she had carried — the long journey, the solitude, the hope, and the fear — and understood what had been left unspoken. The valley itself had absorbed it, as it always did, carrying her story quietly toward the heart of its own enduring peace.

At length he too rose and withdrew, his thoughts deep and untroubled — yet turning, like slow water seeking its course. When she was ready, she would come again; and he would be there.

The next day something subtle had shifted.

When she crossed the corridors of the House, she did not hurry as before. Her steps were no longer those of one seeking shadow. Once, near the garden arch, she met Lord Glorfindel's bright gaze — and though a flicker of old instinct passed over her features, she did not lower her eyes. She inclined her head instead in greeting, steady and composed, and moved on.

She did not hurry past as though she wished to vanish between one breath and the next. Her steps were unhurried now. In the sunlight of the terraces she lingered, letting the wind stir her dark hair. She walked the paths of the gardens without glancing over her shoulder. Yet the sadness remained — not sharp now, but distant — like a horizon one can never reach. Often her eyes would grow still, as though listening to something far beyond the valley.

Yet her reserve had not wholly faded. She still preferred to be alone.

Estel watched. And shame stirred in him. He knew then that he had judged her too quickly.
He had seen something in her eyes — not darkness, but need. Not shadow, but hope. So he resolved, that he would do something to beckon her out of her silence.

He went to the kitchens and wrapped two honeycakes in a cloth, tucking them into his pack with an air of secrecy he would not have admitted to.

He made his way beyond the nearer gardens, toward the edge of the Imladris woods, where an ancient beech stood apart from the others. Her trunk was vast and pale, her branches winding in great, sheltering arcs. Even now, that the leaves were fated to fall, she held on to them, letting them burn with the deep gold of the sinking sun.

During wanderings with his brothers, he had noticed that she favored this place. Often she would sit high among the branches, almost hidden in the dense foliage.

Estel settled at the foot of the tree, his back against the broad trunk, and waited.

The wind moved softly through the canopy. Light filtered down in shifting patterns. No other sound disturbed the stillness — until a squirrel darted along a lower branch, pausing to fix him with a bright, suspicious eye, and vanished in a streak of russet fur into a hollow in the wood.

Estel huffed a quiet laugh.

"It would be easier," he murmured to himself, "to bargain with you."

He had not even called her name. He did not know whether she was there. Yet he felt — somehow — that she would know he had come.

Doubt crept in. What if she wished only solitude? What if his presence was another intrusion? He exhaled and rose at last, conceding defeat. But before turning back, he placed one honeycake carefully upon a low bough.
Just in case.

He ate the second on his walk home, wondering whether unseen eyes watched him from above — and whether, at that very moment, careful fingers reached for the offering.

The following day he returned — not alone.

"These days will not linger," Elrohir said lightly when Estel suggested tea beneath the beech. "Let us not waste them indoors."

Elladan gathered a basket; tea was prepared; laughter followed them down the woodland path. Anor shone warm upon their shoulders.

Elrohir climbed first, as he often did, light-footed and swift.

"What a day," he called down. "One I would gladly hold fast and never release."

Estel felt his breath catch as Elladan followed. He tried to listen — to sense whether she might be there. A flicker of movement stirred the upper leaves — the squirrel again, darting anxiously from Elf to man and back again before vanishing.

Estel's heart beat harder. If she were hidden among the upper branches, would they frighten her away?

"Come down," he called lightly. "The tea will grow lonely without us."

Elladan slid down with effortless grace, followed by Elrohir, who gave Estel a curious glance. They spread the cloth, poured tea, broke bread and cake.

Estel placed a honeycake once more upon the low branch.

Elrohir arched a brow. "Is the squirrel now to be treated as honored guest?"

"Leave it," Estel said, striving for casualness.

Elladan ruffled his hair, amused, and reached for his share. Elrohir lay back against a mossy root, staring upward through the leaves.

A rustle sounded above. This time all three heard it.

"There is someone," Elrohir whispered, brushing crumbs from his fingers. "Not a squirrel."

The twins exchanged a glance, then looked at Estel.

"You knew," Elrohir mouthed silently, half accusing, half impressed.

Their gazes lifted.

A slight shape shifted between light and leaf. For a heartbeat she remained motionless. Then she began to descend.

"Come and join us, Lady Mîaddar," Elladan called gently.

"Please… just Mîaddar," she said hesitatly, still climbing.

"Then Mîaddar," Estel added, feigning casual ease, "there is a cake on the bough just up here. Would you mind bringing it?"

She paused, glancing down at him — and for the first time there was mischief, faint but unmistakable, in her eyes.

"I thought it was meant for the squirrel."

Estel widened his eyes in mock horror. "You have given it to the little creature?"

"Of course not," she replied gravely. "It would not be good for it. I had to eat it."

The seriousness of her tone broke him. He laughed — a real laugh.

For a heartbeat she held his gaze, uncertain. Then shy sparks flickered in her dark eyes, and she covered her mouth as her soft, rough-edged laughter escaped. It was not yet free of restraint. But it was alive.

Estel had not expected such swift success.

They remained beneath the beech until the afternoon waned. The brothers told stories — of hunts, of mischief in the Hall of Fire, of long rides with the Rangers beneath cold stars. Sunlight lay warm upon their words, lending them a quiet radiance.

Mîaddar listened.

She was a quiet listener. But when laughter brushed against her, her own would follow — quieter still, yet less concealed.

"You seldom laugh freely," Elrohir remarked once, without mockery, rather with a note of curiosity.

Mîaddar lowered her gaze briefly, and a trace of embarrassment flickered across her face.
"Perhaps I have forgotten how."

Elladan shook his head lightly. "One does not forget. One merely forgets what it feels like."

For a moment, no one spoke. Then a smile touched Estel's lips.

"Well," he said, lifting his cup, "then we shall have to see that you remember."

A low, rough laugh slipped from her again — and this time, she even forgot to raise her hand to cover it.

That day a light had awakened in Mîaddar's eyes, at times brushing the sadness aside. She even joined the family for meals now and then, whenever she was invited — and she was always invited, without pressure, without expectation.

The brothers spoke and joked as they often did when together, voices overlapping, laughter rising easily between them.

"You see," Elrohir said once with feigned solemnity, "in this house, no one is safe from our company."

Mîaddar inclined her head slightly.
"I begin to fear I might grow accustomed to it."

"That would be no misfortune," said Elladan warmly.

Mîaddar listened with quiet attention to their tales of the wild and the thoughts they shared, and from time to time she answered with a smile — or a small laugh when some playful remark struck true.

Estel saw it. He saw how her eyes began to catch the light in their company. And he saw that his brothers noticed as well.
Elladan and Elrohir knew too well what grief could do to the Fëa. They carried their own sorrows with quiet dignity, and there was something gentle in the way they gave her space — never prying, never pressing. To share the small ray of sun Estel had dared to offer her seemed to bring them a quiet joy. There was strength in them. Serenity, hard-won. And perhaps she felt it too — that they were not strangers to loss, and therefore cherished laughter not as something careless, but as a precious gift.

One night he found his brothers upon the bridge. The moon was waning, its silver light thinned to a pale wash over stone and water. Below, the waterfall leapt foaming into the depths, breaking into countless scattering droplets before vanishing into shadow. Elladan and Elrohir sat side by side upon the low edge, their legs dangling idly above the dark rush. Beside them sat Mîaddar.

For a moment Estel did not announce himself. He watched.

Their heads were bent toward one another, the cadence of their voices low and unguarded. He crossed the bridge softly and, when he reached them, seated himself beside Mîaddar without a word, letting his boots hang above the water as theirs did.

They were speaking of her. Not Mîaddar. — Their mother.

"…She was strong," Elladan was saying, and there was no boast in his tone, only reverence. "A shining warrior. When she rode, there was a light in her — a certainty. Determination burned in her eyes."

Elrohir's voice followed, as though he carried the same memory and simply turned it so the light caught it from another angle. "She was gentle also and graceful. I see her still — the sun upon her profile, her hair like living gold in the wind. Strength and tenderness in one breath."

The water roared beneath them, but their words were not lost in it.

"And her arms," Elrohir said more quietly, "when she gathered us close. The world was safe there."

As they spoke, their faces shone — not with grief sharpened by loss, but with remembrance burnished by time. The old wound was present, yes, but no longer raw. It had become part of them, woven into their strength.

Estel studied them in the pale light. They were her sons. In the proud line of their brows. In the quiet fire of their gaze. In the union of grace and resolve. The shadow he had once feared to see deepen in them did not linger now. What rested upon them was something gentler — a sweet melancholy, touched with trust. Trust that she was at peace beyond their sight.

Beside him, Mîaddar had not spoken. Her gaze was fixed upon the falling water, where moonlight shattered and reformed without ceasing. The spray caught in her dark hair. Her hands rested loosely upon the stone, still — too still.

He recalled her laughter beneath the beech — rough and cautious, as though long unused. And he felt, with quiet certainty, that the resentment he had harbored was gone. It had slipped from him so gradually he had not marked the moment. At times he still saw the shadow touch her — a passing dimness in her eyes when she thought none observed. But it was hers. Not a darkness cast upon the House. Not a weight laid upon his brothers. She was not yet freed of it. Not yet.

He watched the water plunge into darkness and rise again in silver spray.

We all have a long road ahead yet, he thought.

He had his brothers. His father. The Rangers who rode the wild with him. And Arwen — bright as evening light through leaves.
They were his strength.

But whom did she have?

The moon dipped lower and the river sang on. The water did not answer.

Chapter Text

The tales never ceased in the Hall of Fire. They ebbed and rose like the river below the valley — tales told and retold, remembered, reshaped. Laughter had lived here; so had grief. Hope had kindled and dimmed; tears had fallen and dried. Beneath that roof of stone and carved timber, with the fire ever burning, they never died.

This place was familiar to them all — to the twin sons from the earliest days of their lives, and to the mortal boy who had later grown up under their watch. Here they had listened wide-eyed to ancient lore; here they had tested their own voices in song. Here they had learned that sorrow and mirth might dwell side by side without diminishing one another.

And on that night, they gathered once more.

Lord Elrond sat somewhat apart from his sons, not withdrawn, but content in watchful nearness. He did not always join in their speech. It was enough to hear the cadence of their voices — so alike and yet distinct — and to know them safe within his sight. The firelight moved across his ageless face as he gazed into the shifting heart of the flames.

Soft steps, measured, almost reluctant, crossed the stone behind him. A presence drawn not by sound alone, but by something deeper — by warmth, perhaps, or by the gravity of remembered things.

She did not speak. She came to stand near him, and after a moment seated herself within the fire's reach. Dark eyes, deep as still water under starlight, fixed upon the flames. Their glow kindled faint reflections within them — gold caught in shadow.

Elrond did not address her.

The brothers' voices carried through the hall — rising, falling, bright with remembered triumph, then softening as older wounds stirred beneath the telling.

Elrond knew them far too well ever to mistake one for the other. Elladan's voice was calm and measured, carrying a gentleness that endured even in gravity; Elrohir's, by contrast, was sharper, quicker to kindle, and beneath its lightness lay something unrestrained that did not always rest.

"…you should have seen him run," Elladan said lightly.

"I was not running," Elrohir returned at once.

"You were moving remarkably fast."

Estel laughed softly, the warmth of his voice stretching between them. "I am sure the warg appreciated that."

"It did not," Elrohir said dryly. "It objected rather strongly."

Their laughter still lingered in the air — then faded of its own accord, as it often did when a story had run its course. For a moment, there was silence — not uneasy, but gently filled, as though the memory itself continued on. The fire crackled softly in the hearth.
The brothers' voices resumed, quieter now, as though the words had gained weight.
"Do you remember…"
Laughter gave way to remembrance; remembrance to something quieter. Images of battles long past, of partings borne, of wounds endured and survived rose and faded with their words.

Elrond let his gaze rest on the flames and listened.

Mîaddar sat very still.

At first she seemed only to rest within the warmth, letting their voices pass over her scarcely heeded. But Elrond saw the moment when that quiet hardened. Her gaze unfocused. The firelight flickered across her features, and something in her expression withdrew. He sensed the gathering storm in her, long before it showed — in the tightening of breath, the tension held a heartbeat too long.

Silent tears began to trace their way down her cheeks.

Elladan faltered — only slightly. Elrohir's gaze shifted toward her, sharp, attentive. Estel followed it.

A brief hush settled.

Then she spoke, her voice low and strained, as though drawn upward from great depth.

"We were burning," she said. "Burning with passion… full of hope."

The hall did not stir.

"That fire was my reason to remain. I believed it righteous — for the free peoples of the South, for the lands I loved. Their fight was my fight. Their wounds… my wounds. And mine to tend."

Her hands lifted slowly into the firelight. They did not tremble — yet something in her gaze did.

"These hands were shaped to heal. To close what war had torn open."

Her breath faltered. The flames flickered, catching in the unsteady rhythm. Shadows climbed the pillars like dark memories claiming the stone.

"I fought. I healed. I endured. I told myself that so long as the fire burned, hope persisted."

Then, softer:

"I loved."

The word did not shatter. It sank.

"He was mortal. I knew it. I knew our paths would part one day. But not yet. Not beneath that sky. Not upon that field."

Her eyes were no longer in the hall. They were far away — beneath other stars.

"He was strength to many. To me…" Her voice wavered, barely more than breath.
"…he was the flame itself."

Elladan lowered his gaze. The silence deepened — not heavy, but attentive.

"And then, one night, beneath the southern stars, the fire went out."

Elrohir held his cup loosely, but did not drink.

Now her hands trembled.

"So much blood," she whispered. "His skin, once warm as sun-touched earth, grew cold beneath my hands."

Elrond's gaze rested on her upturned palms, as though he could still see the memory clinging to them. A soft, broken sob escaped her.

Estel's hand tightened unconsciously where it rested upon his knee.

"I failed — failed him, the people and the Lands of the South… I failed hope…"

Her voice grew thin.

"I carried him home, laid him in the earth. I listened to the trees mourn until I had no tears left to give."

For a fleeting moment, it seemed to Elrond as though the scent of earth and rain had found its way into the hall. The words no longer rushed. They ebbed.

"I left, searching for nothing and all… beneath the moon, into the desert."

The firelight dimmed in her eyes, and for an instant Elrond thought he glimpsed endless dunes beneath a star-heavy sky reflected there.

"I found welcome. Respect. Honor."

A hollow breath escaped her.

"But not what I was searching for."

At last her voice broke, exhausted.

"I lost my reason. I lost all hope. And now…"

She lowered her head.

"…I know not what I'm still here for. I know not where to go."

The words faded, but something of them lingered in the air like heat after flame. She bowed forward, dark hair falling like a curtain around her face. The hall did not rush to fill the silence. No one tried to quiet her pain.

The brothers had grown very still. The fervor of their earlier tales had faded; what remained in their eyes was recognition. They knew what it was to lose the light.

Elrond did not move immediately. He allowed the silence to stand — not empty, but sheltering.

At length he rose. Slowly — as one who understands that presence is sometimes the only answer grief can bear. He crossed the hall and returned with a blanket, woven in silver-grey and soft with age. He placed it about her shoulders without a word, the gesture light, yet steady. Only then did he speak.

"You are still here," he said quietly.

His gaze rested on her bowed head, steady and untroubled.

"Hope does not always burn as fire," he said after a moment. "At times it endures as ember — unseen, yet not extinguished."

He did not ask her to believe it. He did not demand strength of her. He simply laid the thought before her, as one might lay kindling beside coals not yet cold — and remained, as he had through long years, a quiet presence beside grief.

Then he turned to his sons, who had sunk upon their cushions into a quiet, dreamlike stillness. With the same gentle care, he drew a covering over each of them and brushed dark hair back from faces that had seen too much battle for their years.

For a brief moment his hand lingered upon Estel's cheek.

"Hope," he murmured, though whether to the sleeping youth or to the hall itself, none could have said.

When he resumed his seat, he did not withdraw from her sorrow. He kept watch. And the fire burned on.

Late into the night — or perhaps already early morning — Estel stirred.

A voice entered his dreams, delicate and strange, like wind over desert sand. It did not call him by name — and yet something in him answered.

He was there, by a low fire, the night cool around him. The air carried a dry distant scent — one he knew, yet had not breathed in a long while. The song rose, shaped by passion and grief, by something raw and unguarded, and it drew him in, wound itself through him, as though it brushed against something long buried within him. And suddenly he was no longer alone.

He saw a figure moving with fluid grace, bow in hand, hair catching the pale moonlight — Legolas. Not as he had seen him in laughter beneath green boughs, but as something more. A warrior. Fierce and precise. Each movement measured, every arrow released in perfect rhythm. There was beauty in it, and something that made Estel's breath catch. He knew that movement. Not from sight — but from trust.

A memory stirred — long roads shared, quiet watches beneath the stars, laughter that came easily and without weight.
His friend. The word did not need speaking. It lived in him.

The song carried him further, folding sand into sky, wind into melody. The fierce clarity of battle, the steady certainty of purpose — it wrapped around him, familiar in a way he could not explain. As though it carried something of them both.

But then… a tremor. A fracture in the rhythm, so slight it might have passed unnoticed —
and yet it struck him deep, like a misstep on unseen ground.

A shadow stirred beneath the harmony.
Something in him tightened. He did not understand it. But he felt it — deep and certain.

Across the hall, Elrond lifted his head. He had not slept.

He felt the shift in the air before the first clear note reached him — the subtle drawing of breath, the gathering of something long restrained.

Mîaddar had risen. She stood near the fire. And she sang.

The melody was unlike the measured harmonies of the Eldar of the North. It did not seek balance. It moved as living things move — circling, rising, breaking — carrying heat and dust and distance within it.

Elrond did not close his eyes. He watched the fire. And in its depths, he saw.

~.~.~

Black panther on a moonlit night,
fire sparks on the darkened plain,
waterdrops like pearls on velvet skin,
deep sea in the eyes.

Run, hunt, dance —
black panther; wild, strong, proud.
Drops of blood like rubies on smooth skin,
elegance — the grace of a breathing night.

Sun rays in the morning heat,
a horizon of fire.
Eyes of the sea, dark as night.
Land of the South.

Red reflections on the midnight river,
rubies hidden in the deep dark,
secret of Arda — hope.

Run, hunt, dance —
black panther; fast, silent, light.

Sunlight on a powerful body,
water pearls sliding down warm skin,
falling onto the waiting earth —
fire sparks.

Land of the South.
Black panther —
run, hunt, dance.

You are silence and grace,
part of water, fire, and earth.
You know the secret —
hope, life, death.

~.~.~

When the last note faded, the fire did not return at once to its former shape. It altered. The flames leaned as though stirred by a wind none else could feel.

Elrond's gaze did not waver.

Within the heart of the blaze the image began to gather — not fully formed, and yet unmistakable. At first it was no more than motion — low, fluid, powerful. A dark shape pouncing through firelight, the living rhythm of hunt and strike. The cadence of the song ran through it.

Then the form lifted — lengthened — changed. Not wholly, not cleanly, but as though one shape remembered another. A tall silhouette against the burning gold — swift, controlled, deadly in its grace. Hair like pale flame streamed with the motion, and for a brief moment it seemed wholly alive — filled with a fierce and unshadowed strength, as though the very pulse of life moved through it.

Then something faltered. A fracture beneath the rhythm, subtle and wrong. A sharp crimson flash broke through the gold, like a wound opening in the light. Not flame, but blood — and it clung to the vision, unwelcome, refusing to fade.

For a fleeting instant, the song still lived in it — as the force that had shaped it.

The image dissolved. The embers settled into their quiet glow once more — warm and ordinary. But something beneath that calm was no longer as it had been.

Elrond did not move, nor did he speak. He only let the fire hold the story, the song, and the shadow of what he had seen.

Mîaddar, her voice now silent, lingered in the shadow, unaware that the threads of her song had already taken shape within the fire — not merely memory, but something that reached beyond her,
touching what was — and what might yet come.

And for a long moment, the Hall of Fire breathed quietly, holding them all — dream, vision, and song — together in its amber light.

The dream drew Estel back once more to the desert fire. Legolas stood beside him — not distant now, not shaped by flame and shadow, but near. His friend. His brother of the heart.

Then the vision thinned. Sand dissolved into smoke. The song unraveled into fragments of wind and ember. Other images followed — swift, indistinct — and were gone before memory could claim them.

He woke with the echo still in him. Morning light streamed through the high arches of the Hall of Fire, washing stone and pillar in gold. The great hearth had sunk to embers, subdued beneath the day. Elladan and Elrohir lay stretched upon their cushions beside him, already awake.

"You sleep long, little brother," Elrohir murmured.

Estel blinked against the brightness. For a moment he did not answer. The melody lingered — not heard, but remembered in the body, like the fading warmth of sun on skin, gentle and persistent.

Had it been only a dream?

For a moment, a faint unease stirred — a discord already slipping from his grasp. He pushed himself upright slowly. The hall was empty now. No trace remained of the night's song save the faint scent of smoke and the quiet. But the feeling passed like a shadow at the edge of sight, leaving no shape he could name.

Throughout the day he moved more quietly than usual. The song would not leave him. At odd moments he found himself listening for it; in the wind between the terraces, in the rush of the river below. And with it came the image of Legolas — not as he had last seen him, but as he knew him: swift, bright, unyielding. The unease did not follow. Only the memory remained.

He had not realized how deeply he missed him, until something in him had reached, and found the absence.

Legolas would come soon, as he often did. He would come with the turning of the season, before the passes grew treacherous. Estel held to that thought — simple, certain — and felt the quiet steadiness of it settle within him.

Mîaddar did not join them that day. Nor the next. She remained within Imladris, yet apart. The wind stripped the last gold from the trees, and she wandered beneath the thinning branches alone, seeking neither concealment nor company for long.

But when night returned and the Hall of Fire grew still, she came. And there, beneath flame and shadow, she and Elrond spoke in low voices — of lands far to the South, of fire that destroys and fire that endures, of grief carried too long — and of things not yet ended.

Chapter Text

“Mîaddar! Wait!” Estel called before she could slip away to spend the afternoon alone.
“We are heading out for shooting practice. Would you join us?”

The Elleth halted mid-stride and turned toward him. She tilted her head, one shoulder lifting in uncertainty.

“To join your company — anytime,” she said slowly. “But shooting… that is not truly among my skills. I am not certain…” A faint crease formed between her brows.

“Oh, worry not. If you wish, I could teach you. And there will be plenty of stories to be told on the matter. You know us.” He smiled. “I promise it will be entertaining.”

She hesitated only a heartbeat longer. “Then I will gladly join you,” she answered, returning his smile. Their company always did her heart good. And Estel had that rare, effortless way of making her feel at ease — without asking anything of her.

Elladan and Elrohir stepped across the threshold, both bearing bows and full quivers. But what held her gaze were the swords at their belts — dark hilts, dark sheaths, and runes flowing along their length like liquid silver in motion.

She shuddered faintly, before she knew why.

For the briefest moment, she caught something in their eyes — a strange gleam that echoed those swirling inscriptions, as though the steel remembered something their eyes did not show. A depth and a shadow that did not belong wholly to the present moment. Something in her stilled.

“Mîaddar will join us!” Estel announced brightly, as though nothing in the world could be amiss.

The sharpness vanished from Elladan’s gaze, replaced by a warm smile. “I am glad to hear that.”

Elrohir inclined his head in greeting, his expression open now, friendly as his brother’s.

She was never certain what she sometimes glimpsed in them — that flicker of darkness. Perhaps it was only her own past casting its shadow upon them — finding shapes where there were none.
She let the thought drift away, though not entirely at peace with it.

What she had not anticipated was that the training began with a run — straight from the house and into the surrounding woods. Puzzled, she hurried after them, the cool air catching in her lungs as she crossed from stone into leaf-shadow.

The steady pace soon dissolved into a playful race between brothers. They skimmed between trunks, leapt roots, swerved around fallen branches — boots striking soft earth, scattering dry leaves in whispering bursts. Laughter rang bright through the trees, rising with the golden shafts of sunlight that filtered through the thinning autumn canopy.

“Try and keep up, Estel!” Elladan called over his shoulder, laughter in his voice.

“I am right behind you,” came the answering breath, quick and determined.

As she ran among them, something inside her lifted — a strange, light dizziness, as though the ground no longer claimed her fully, as though the air itself bore her forward. The scent of damp earth and moss rose beneath her feet, sharp and alive. Cool wind slipped through her hair, brushing her skin, carrying with it the fading warmth of sunlit leaves. She felt fully, fiercely alive.

It had been long — far too long — since she had felt such freedom in her limbs. And with astonishment she found herself laughing with them, the sound unforced, unguarded, spilling from her like water long held back. The relief of it stole her breath more surely than the run itself.

For a fleeting moment, memory stirred — racing through the trees of her own home, branches whipping past, the rush of wind loud in her ears, the world reduced to motion and light. It felt like another lifetime.

They reached a wide clearing where long, sappy grass shimmered in the sun, its pale tips catching the light like rippling water. The race ebbed into quiet steps. Mîaddar let her fingers trail through the tall blades as they crossed the meadow. The slender strands brushed her palm — tickling, bending, springing softly back in their wake, alive beneath her touch.

In the middle of the glade, the man and the Elves came to a halt. Their weapons slipped from their hands into the grass, forgotten, metal dulled by green and gold, as they leaned back, closed their eyes, and let the gentle warmth of the sun wash over them.

Mîaddar watched them a moment — then slowly followed. She lowered herself into the grass, the earth cool beneath her, the sun warm upon her face, and drew in a deep breath. The late autumn air was fresh, yet softened by afternoon light, carrying the scent of damp earth and fading leaves. A breeze passed over the clearing, stirring the grass in slow waves that whispered against her skin.

Above them, white clouds drifted across an endless blue. They formed and unraveled again, taking on new shapes as they wandered the sky.

“There — do you see it?” Estel asked after a while. “A great hound, chasing the wind.”

The long stretch of cloud was already fraying at the edges; its head lost shape even as its body lengthened across the sky.

“It has already lost its legs,” Elrohir murmured, one eye half-open. “A poor hunter.”

Farther west, another cloud swelled upward, round and ponderous.

“A mûmak,” Estel declared.

For a moment the cloud truly lumbered across the heavens like some vast beast, before its broad back dissolved into pale shreds.

“Now it is a rabbit,” Elladan observed.

Only two narrow strands of cloud remained, standing like ears against the wind.

“It changes sides quickly,” Estel said.

“Or perhaps,” Elrohir murmured, “it was never only one.”

A breath of amusement passed between them, soft as the moving air.

“We used to do this with our mother,” Elrohir said after a while.

He did not look at her, yet Mîaddar felt the words were meant for her all the same.

“Whenever I watch the sky like this, I wonder whether she does so as well — where she is now. And whether she remembers lying beside us, tracing shapes in the clouds.”

His voice was soft, almost distant. Beneath it lay a thread of longing, fine and unbroken, drawn taut against the stillness.

“I am sure she does,” Elladan answered gently, though a sigh followed the certainty.

They remained there in silence afterward, each drifting into their own remembrance.

“Hannon-le,” Mîaddar murmured at last into the quiet, the word scarcely more than breath.
A grateful smile touched her lips as the breeze cooled her flushed cheeks. The clouds moved on. None seemed willing to disturb the peace that had settled over them like a blessing.

At length, Elrohir rose and gathered his bow, beckoning Estel. The two moved toward the far edge of the clearing, grass whispering around their legs as they went.

Elladan lingered beside Mîaddar a little longer, as though reluctant to wake from the dream of sky and sunlight. Only when his brother’s voice called, did he rise and join them.

Targets stood scattered among the bordering trees — weathered wood, marked and scarred by countless strikes. This was clearly no new practice ground.

The twins took their places.
Mîaddar watched.

They moved with effortless assurance. Tall forms flowing into alignment, drawing — breath settling, shoulders easing into stillness. The bowstrings sang; arrows cut the air with a sharp whisper. Release. Pause. Impact. Grace and lethal purpose wove together in each motion.

Estel followed. He did not possess elven lightness, yet he came close in strength and endurance. His arrow struck true — scarcely a grain’s breadth from Elrohir’s, the dull thud of impact echoing softly between the trees.

She had watched them once, blades in hand, from the shelter of the trees — and even then she had been unable to look away. The way they united beauty and destruction in a single act was both compelling and terrible. Gentle as they were in peace, she did not doubt what they became in battle. Fine warriors. All three.

They practiced in focused silence for a time, until the intensity eased and they returned to the grass, the tension leaving their bodies like a breath released.

Stories followed — many and lively — enough to carry them toward evening. Tales of misadventures and narrow escapes. Of companions not present, whose names wove easily into their laughter. They spoke, too, of skill — of Glorfindel, slayer of a Balrog, whose prowess with blade had long since passed into legend. And of Legolas, Sindarin prince of the Woodland Realm, who, according to Estel’s animated insistence, could catch arrows mid-flight and send them back whence they came — who could split shaft after shaft with unerring precision, faster than sight could follow.

“You exaggerate,” Elladan murmured, though a smile betrayed him.

“I do not,” Estel returned. “You have seen it.”

“Once,” Elrohir said. “And I am still uncertain I believe it.”

The light lowered slowly around them as the tales flowed on, gold deepening into amber, shadows stretching long between the trees. Mîaddar listened — at times amused, at times appalled or quietly terrified, and most often simply amazed.

When enough stories had been told, the twins rose and retrieved their bows once more, resuming their practice as though the pause had been no more than a single breath.

Unexpectedly, Estel’s voice reached her, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Mîaddar — now you. Try,” he said, a hint of mischief in his tone.

She almost laughed, a soft breath escaping her.

“Oh, I told you, I do not count this among my abilities. Since I was an elfling, while others trained with bow and blade, I learned the lore of herbs — how to find them, how to prepare them, and how to guard life with their aid.”
She lifted one hand slightly, almost apologetic. Slender fingers, unmarked by callus or scar.
“I have my knife, and I know how to use it in self-defence. But I am no warrior, nor hunter. I am far from that. In war, I preserve life. I do not take it.”

“And that is a noble calling,” Estel said softly. Then, with a small smile:
“But this is no battlefield. No life hangs in the balance — only our pride, perhaps.”
A faint glint touched his eyes.
“Take heart. Only a single shot? For the sake of the game. If the arrow flies astray, we shall blame the bow.”
There was no pressure in his voice — only invitation, light and warm.

She hesitated — not in refusal, but in uncertainty. A part of her stirred, curious despite herself.

“If you truly have the patience,” she replied at last, a grateful warmth touching her smile,
“then… with pleasure.”

Estel stepped behind her, close enough that she could feel the steady warmth of him at her back — not intrusive, but present, grounding.

“Like this,” he said quietly.

He guided the bow into her hands, adjusting her grip with careful precision. His fingers brushed lightly against hers — brief, deliberate — then withdrew again, leaving only the memory of contact.

“Do not hold it too tightly,” he murmured. “Let it rest. The strength comes with the draw, not before.”

He stepped half a pace to the side and back again, adjusting her shoulders with a gentle touch. There was nothing hurried in it, nothing taken for granted.

His voice remained calm, patient. Familiar.

“Stand firm… but not rigid.”

He lifted her elbow slightly.

“There. Let your back bear the strain.”

Mîaddar stilled. The closeness did not unsettle her — and yet she was aware of it. The warmth at her back, the quiet certainty in his movements. It was… easy. Uncomplicated. A presence that asked nothing of her.

She drew a slow breath. Something rose withing her — not from him. A memory — or something like one — brushed against her thoughts. A different presence: taller, lighter. Movement like flowing water, precise and unbroken. Hands guiding without hesitation. Not unfamiliar.

Her breath caught almost imperceptibly.

The impression shifted even as she reached for it, dissolving before it could fully form.

Behind her, Estel’s voice came again, grounding her.

“Legolas would be the better teacher,” he said lightly. “He taught me the art. None could teach as he does. And it will be but a few days until he arrives.”

Mîaddar glanced back at him. In his grey eyes she saw something kindle — a flicker like firelight caught in silver. Even as he sighed, the glow remained, soft and enduring. It awoke something in her. She knew she would not forget that light in his gaze when he spoke of his friend.

“You miss him dearly,” she said, and there was gentleness — almost shyness — in her smile.

Estel nodded. No denial. No jest this time. Only truth.

Mîaddar drew in a long breath of Imladris air — clear, living, untroubled. It filled her chest easily, without resistance. The peace of the valley lay over everything like a blessing. She wished, to carve the feeling into her heart, so that it might remain when other days returned.

On the way back to the Last Homely House, she walked in quiet thought, the fading light cool upon her skin, the hush of evening settling gently around them.

At dinner she sat beside the brothers and Lord Elrond, listening more than speaking. Their conversation flowed easily around her, familiar voices, the soft clink of cups, the warmth of lamplight and the cosy nearness at the hearth.

Elrond’s gaze rested on her once — steady, knowing. She sensed that he understood more than she had spoken aloud. Perhaps far more.

That evening, when Mîaddar entered the Hall of Fire, Elrond was already there, waiting — as though he had expected her. The flames burned low and even, their soft crackle the only voice in the vast hall, shadows gliding along the carved pillars like quiet watchers.

At last Mîaddar entered, silent as ever. The faint whisper of her steps brushed the stone as she approached slowly, without haste — certain he would wait.

She took her place beside him, as on so many nights before — nights when she had sought the wisdom of the Elf-lord and the solace of the flames. The warmth reached her skin, seeping through cloth and bone, deep and lingering.

They sat in companionable silence until Mîaddar spoke, her voice soft, yet unwavering.

“I love this place. I love your family. You have eased the loneliness within me. You have taught me to smile again. You will remain in my heart — always.”
She drew a breath, slow, as though gathering herself.

“And yet… as much as I wish it otherwise, I cannot stay. The time has come for me to move on.”

“I know,” Elrond said gently. “Imladris was but a stage upon your road.”

The words undid her composure. Tears gathered and burned in her eyes, blurring the firelight into wavering gold, but she forced them back. When she spoke again, her voice trembled.

“I am afraid. The path lies before me — yet I do not understand where it leads. I search… but I do not know what I seek. The questions… the doubts… will they never cease?”

Elrond’s grey eyes found hers, and in their depth she glimpsed a stillness of ages — the patience of one who had endured grief and outlasted despair.

“The day will come when you sail to other shores, child,” he said softly. “But it is not this day.

“I have seen echoes of your song in the fire. It has not yet reached its final refrain. The Sea does not call you. Not yet. You have already stood before the fire, and it did not consume you. What you saw there was not an ending.

“And do not despair. You are not alone. As in this valley — and in the desert before — you will find acceptance and friendship upon your path. You found Imladris. You will discover what lies beyond.”

His gaze flickered toward the flames, their light reflected deep within his eyes.

“The world stands upon the brink of struggle. The shadow deepens. Yet hope endures.” His voice lowered. “Look into the fire. See how it burns against the dark. Do not surrender to weariness. Your people entrusted their light to you. Do not forget it.”

She did not answer at once. But something within her, once restless and unanchored, had grown calmer.

That night she remained in the Hall long after Elrond had withdrawn. Her eyes remained fixed upon the living flame, its shifting light mirrored in the depth of her gaze.

Only in the pale hours before dawn did her lids grow heavy, and the dark of her gaze soften into elven sleep.

She dreamed.

A warrior stood amid a landscape of fire — tall, dark, strong. Heat shimmered in the air, the ground beneath him cracked and glowing. Around him writhed creatures of shadow, raw and formless, their shapes breaking and reforming like smoke caught in a storm. He moved among them like living flame, unafraid.

Then his shape shifted.

Where he had stood, a black panther leapt — sinewed and silent, muscles coiling beneath dark fur, eyes bright and burning against the blaze. It sprang through smoke and embers, its movement soundless, yet she felt the force of it in her chest, swift and relentless, striking down the shadowed beasts.

Again the vision changed.

Warrior and panther became one — a dark form against the firelight, long hair streaming with the force of his motion. Nimble as the great cat, he fought with fluid precision, each strike fierce and unyielding, as though fire itself answered his will.

Her heart pounded. Wonder rose within her — fierce and breathless at the sight of him. And beneath it lay something else: not fear of him, but fear for him — sharp and sudden. The flames climbed higher, roaring now, devouring the dark — or perhaps feeding it. She could not tell.

And still he stood — and she could not look away.

The following morning broke cold. The days had shortened, and the trees surrendered their leaves to the earth, yielding to winter’s approach. A pale light lay over the valley, thin and without warmth.

Mîaddar had not joined them for breakfast. Estel noticed it at once — an absence at the table, a place left untouched, as though something had changed in the night.

He looked up in surprise when she entered the chamber only after the meal was done. After greeting them, she said softly,

“I must go. Hannon-le — for all that you have done for me.”

She inclined her head and placed her hand over her heart.

Elrond showed no surprise. He returned the gesture with calm understanding. But Elladan and Elrohir regarded her in open bewilderment, and Estel felt much the same. Only yesterday she had run and laughed with them, listened to their stories, shared their ease. She had seemed, for a little while, almost one of them — and now, without warning, she would depart. Just like that. Now that they had grown used to her quiet presence. Now that they had come to value even her silences.

For a moment none of them spoke. The room felt oddly hushed, as though the air itself had paused.

At length Elladan said, his voice roughened with regret,

“These tidings come to us unlooked for. Yet if this is your will, may the road lie fair before you.”

“We are glad for the time you have spent among us,” Elrohir added. “May the memory of it remain with you, as it will with us.”

“Oh, it will. Believe me — it will.”

Her eyes shimmered, though she would not let the tears fall. Estel saw the effort it cost her — and did not look away, as though that, at least, he could give her.

“You know that this house will ever stand open to you,” Elrond said quietly.

She bit her lower lip and nodded once. Estel stepped forward, almost before he had fully formed the thought.

“If you permit it, I would ride with you a little way.”

Mîaddar smiled faintly.

“Hannon-le, Estel.”

The elves gave their farewells in the old way, hands to heart, then outward. Estel followed the gesture — though his gaze lingered on her, as if he had not yet finished taking leave.

Estel saddled his horse quickly. Provisions were brought; Mîaddar accepted them with thanks and secured them in her pack, her movements precise, measured, as though she had already stepped beyond the moment of parting.
The black horse waited in the courtyard, calm but alert, ears flicking. Baradhroch shifted beneath Estel, snorting, breath steaming in the cold air, ready for the ride.

They rode out together, leaving the Last Homely House behind and entering the woods at an easy trot. She did not seem hurried. They rode in silence. Only the steady rhythm of hooves and the breath of the valley accompanied them, the sound of leaves stirring underfoot, the distant murmur of water between the stones.

Mîaddar rode without saddle or bridle, as though horse and rider were one. The powerful muscles shifted beneath her hands, responsive and sure. She stroked the dark mane, her hand resting against the strong curve of the neck, attuned to the animal’s breathing. At times she whispered to it — words too low for Estel to hear.

Yet he felt no slight in it. Baradhroch matched the mare’s pace, ears flicking toward her, reading her like a silent partner. The two horses moved as though guided by the same will.

"Where are you bound?" he asked at last.

She shrugged.

"I do not know. Calad will carry me. Wherever she leads, it will be good."

Estel studied her — then followed. She did not urge the horse. She did not guide it. She simply allowed herself to be borne.

"Calad?" he asked after a moment. "You call her Light? It is a fair name — yet surprising. Is she not ink-black — so dark that one might lose her entirely against the night or the dimming shades of sunset? Or do my eyes deceive me?"

Mîaddar smiled faintly.

"Black she is — black so deep that blue glimmers when light touches her. Do you not know? Black gathers all colours within it, as white scatters them in air.
The Sirith poured their light into this creature before they departed. All colours dwell hidden in her, concealed in darkness — and so Evil does not see her.”

The mare took a small step, ears turning, as if in quiet agreement.

“The black of Mordor is a black of shadow, not of light. Her black swallows the shadow, like the indigo-blue robes of the people of the desert swallow the rays of the sun, to shield against its burning heat. — She protects her own light — and all she would conceal from the shadows; unseen by the evil eye — or so they said. Caladdolen: Hidden Light.”

Her voice faltered.

“Yet now, I doubt many things — the light, the words of my people. Sometimes they seem distant, unreal, like a tale told to comfort a child left alone. What if they only wished me to believe I was not abandoned? When they left me, alone with the burdens of these lands…”

Her hand rested against the mare’s neck. Caladdolen stirred beneath her touch, a quiet, steady presence that seemed to acknowledge her thoughts.

"Still… she has never failed me. I trust her with my life."

Estel did not answer. He let her words rest between them. There was something fragile there — and something unyielding. He did not know how to answer such doubt, nor whether it was his place to try. Baradhroch shifted beneath him, patient and steady, ears attentive to Caladdolen’s every movement.

They rode on until she drew Caladdolen to a halt. The horse lowered her head, nostrils quivering in the cool air.

She turned toward him, gratitude bright in her gaze.
"Estel. Thank you. For the stories. The smiles. The thoughts. The laughter… the honey cakes."
A flicker of mischief passed over her face.
"You are special. I am glad our paths crossed along the way."

Estel felt the words take hold in him, unexpectedly weighty.

Then her expression steadied.

“Navaer, Estel,” she said softly, and her hand rested for a moment over her heart.

She then swept her hand outward in the traditional farewell — and turned away. She did not look back. Caladdolen bore her further between the trees, dark form weaving through shadow and light, until the forest itself seemed to close around her. Baradhroch’s ears twitched toward the departing mare, alert and watchful, though he remained rooted where he stood.

By the time words formed in Estel’s mind, she was already gone. He returned the gesture alone.
Still faintly dazed by her sudden departure, Estel turned his horse and rode back toward home. The woods lay still.

Chapter Text

With hope in her heart and new friendships to treasure, she rode across the lands — over mountains, through snow and storm, through chill and rain, beneath warm sunlight spilling over green hills and quiet woods, into country unknown to her.

Slowly but relentlessly, doubt crept back into her heart. It did not come as a sudden shadow, but as a quiet persistence — a weight threading through her thoughts, lingering, settling deep within. It followed her into her rest and denied her peace. It drove her onward, restless and unyielding.

If peril stirred along her path, it passed her untouched. She neither saw it, nor would she have cared. What she felt instead was absence.

She missed them — the murmur of voices around her, the unspoken closeness, the simple certainty of not walking the world alone.

What remained were memories… and she found that memories could ache more sharply than loss itself.

It was a constant farewell.

What lay before her? What was it that drew her onward still? Why did she still carry on, when weariness had long since settled deep within her?

Her thoughts turned, again and again. And sometimes they reached for the words of Lord Elrond. His voice lingered within her — a quiet ember that refused to die.

The fire…

Night had fallen cold and thick, the kind of darkness that pressed close and dimmed even the edges of the world. She rode along the forest’s border, where the trees stood like shadowed sentinels, their dark branches woven close beyond the path, their forms barely discernible against the gloom.
They whispered — softly, as though they feared to break the stillness. Their voices brushed against her thoughts, hesitant, subdued… not the full, living song she had once known, but something quieter, restrained, like leaves stirred by a wind too faint to touch her skin.
As she passed, her fingers grazed their leaves. They stirred at her touch, reaching back — yet not with the quiet certainty she remembered. A faint unease lingered in them, as though they felt the unrest within her and did not know how to answer it.

Above, clouds smothered the sky, hiding the moon and the stars.
With her heart, she reached upward. Ithil… please, she called silently. Do not leave me in the dark.

For a moment, nothing answered. Even the trees seemed to fall still, as though listening with her.

Then — a thinning in the clouds. A pale shimmer broke through, spreading silver across the sky. Slowly, Ithil’s quiet light revealed a path before her, gentle yet unwavering. And in that glow, she saw a figure.

An old man sat at the forest’s edge, leaning easily against a weathered stone as though he had always been there. Long grey hair fell about his shoulders, and his beard caught the moonlight in soft strands of silver. His robes were of the same subdued hue, blending almost seamlessly into the night around him.

A thin curl of smoke drifted upward from the pipe in his hand.

He regarded her with calm interest — not surprise, not curiosity, but something far more settled, as though her arrival had been expected all along — as if it were the most ordinary thing on Arda, to meet an elleth walking the borders of a dark forest at night. A smile touched his lips, and a youthful glint stirred in his indescribably old eyes.

“Mae govannen,” he said warmly. “You walk like one who has misplaced her path. If you will, sit a while… and hear the counsel of an old wanderer who has known these lands for a long, long time — and then some.”

She studied him in silence. He was speaking to her, as if it was a common occurrence to just sit down and have a talk with a perfect stranger, in the middle of the night, at the edge of a dark forest.

There was something undeniably strange in this meeting — something that should have unsettled her. And yet… It did not. As strange as it seemed, she did as he asked, dismounting and sitting as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She felt strangely comfortable in the presence of this old man with the youthful twinkle in his eyes.

He lifted his grey, pointed hat and placed it upon his knees, then resumed his quiet smoking, shaping the rising smoke into perfect rings that drifted and dissolved in the pale light.

For a time, neither spoke. The forest lay silent at the edge of the path, the darkness held at bay only by the pale spill of Ithil’s light. She watched the smoke, its pale shapes shifting and dissolving. And though she did not know why she remained, she felt no urge to leave.

“You are not merely travelling,” the old man said at last, his voice slipping gently into the silence. “You are on a quest.”

She did not answer. It seemed to her that he spoke not to ask, but because he already knew.

“…a quest for light,” he continued, “for something you believe you have lost — or perhaps never fully grasped.”

The smoke curled and thinned between them.

“Long ago, others walked such a path,” he went on, untroubled by her silence. “They turned from all they had known, believing that somewhere beyond duty and memory, beneath open skies unbound, they might find a purer light.”

His gaze lifted briefly, following the drifting smoke.

“They did find light. And they carried it with them — as their kind had ever done before. For light does not lie waiting in distant lands. It is borne within.”

His eyes returned to hers.

“And wherever they went, they found darkness also. Yet their light did not fade. For in darkness, light shines brighter still — and bonds are forged, friendships deepening and enduring. It is love that bears hopeful souls through the shadow.”

She listened. And found, to her quiet surprise, that the words of the old, grey man settled within her with a strange and effortless familiarity.

“What do you seek, penneth?” he asked softly.

He called her young one – Did he even imagine how old she was? And why was he asking of that which he appeared to know, or seemed to think he knew?

It stirred something faintly indignant within her, and yet she had no strength to challenge it. She blinked as if doing so could bring some sense to it all.

“I do not know,” she admitted at last, her voice low, worn thin by long silence. “I thought I did. But now… I do not know anymore. My people are gone. They are but a memory to me. I no longer know why I remained.”

Her breath faltered.

“I do not know where I belong. Or what I am meant to do. I am… lost.”

The old man regarded her quietly, the faintest hint of a smile softening his features.

“You are not lost,” he said quietly. “You are a Sirith.”

The word seemed to settle around her — and within her — with a familiar, aching warmth — like something long and preciously remembered.

“You walk the same path still. And they walk it with you.”

His gaze sharpened, though his tone remained gentle.

“They left you their light.”

He leaned back slightly, drawing once more upon his pipe.

“As the Sirith journeyed through lands of hardship, they found new friendships, new unions. They wandered across the desert where life clings to the smallest mercy. There they found those who knew how to cherish even the faintest spark… and in that rough, dry land, their light did not diminish. — It was strengthened.”

His voice softened.

“They went where darkness gathered — to seek light. Light they brought, and light they found.”

A silence followed.

“The light…” she whispered, her gaze lowering. “I cannot see it anymore.”

“You need not see it,” he replied. “It is enough that you carry it.”

His eyes, bright beneath heavy brows, studied her with quiet intensity.

“I see it,” he said.

For a moment, the world seemed to still. She did not know why — but she believed him.

“I see shadows rising,” he continued, more quietly now. “From the East and South alike. I see a path unfolding — a great weaving of many threads, uniting races and peoples once more. Danger… darkness… sorrow… suffering — yet also friendships growing stronger with each passing day. Hope will falter — and be rekindled.”

His gaze did not leave hers.

“This is no time for despair.”

Something in his voice — calm, unwavering — held her fast.

“Your path is not ended. It is… joining another. You are already part of what is to come… though you do not yet perceive it.”

He paused, as though considering something distant.

“The road of the Sirith bends back upon itself,” he said slowly. “A circle drawing closed… toward its beginning.”

His eyes met hers fully.

“And there,” he added softly, “you may yet find what you seek.”

She lowered her gaze, unable to bear the weight of it.

“Lord Elrond spoke in much the same way,” she murmured. “I fear I have doubted him.”

A faint chuckle escaped the old man.

“He is a dear friend,” he said. “And seldom wrong in such matters.”

Something within her stirred then, but she only nodded. By now she was no longer surprised that this old man knew the elf-lord, and was even his friend. It astounded her even less that he knew about the fire in the Great Hall of the Last Homely House.

This old, grey man was strange — so very strange. But she found that she liked him. He emanated comfort. He had answers. She had so many questions, too many to bear. She wanted to ask them. All of them. They were boiling up in her, close to breaking the surface, pressing for answers. Her heart was hopeful. She glanced at him expectantly, but as she opened her mouth, he raised a hand.

“Ask nothing of me,” he said, and though his tone remained gentle, it allowed no refusal. “I know no more than I have told you.”

A glimmer of wry amusement touched his expression.

“Though many seem convinced otherwise.”

He narrowed his eyes and grumbled into his beard, “People are ever inclined to expect too much from me.”

She blinked, caught in confusion, and then stared at him, her mouth twitching in a few failed attempts to speak, for her thoughts scattered before she could form them to words.

At last, he rose.

“Come,” he said more lightly, settling his hat upon his head and taking up his staff. “It grows late.”

He paused, then inclined his head slightly.

“Mithrandir,” he added. “Of the Maiar — and counted among the Istari.”

The name lingered in the air like the fading trace of smoke, and his blue eyes twinkled.

“I need not know your age to call you penneth. Now rest here for the night. It is safe. The elves still control this part of the wood."

Before she could respond, he turned. And with unhurried steps, he passed into the shadowed forest — his grey form soon swallowed by the dark, as though he had never been there at all.

Mîaddar remained where she was, unmoving. The silence closed in again, deep and watchful, as the forest seemed to draw its shadows closer once more. Only the faint scent of pipe-smoke lingered in the cool night air, as though his presence had not yet wholly faded from the night.

Chapter Text

For one terrible stretch of time, Legolas had believed Estel dead. Grief had dug its claws into his chest, crushing the breath from him. Estel was gone. Torn from him with merciless finality. With Hope gone, only ruin seemed possible.

The humans in this stony place felt far away, unreal; in his haze, he barely perceived his surroundings. Voices echoed around him as though from a great distance.

As he stood leaning against the cold stone, struggling to bear the unimaginable, something touched his senses. A flickering glimmer moved through the darkness toward him. And as he lifted his gaze, Legolas saw him.

Against all odds, and by the grace of the Valar alone — he was alive!

Dark locks caked with mud, clothes torn and marked by bruises and cuts — yet his silver eyes still burned, ardent and unbroken. This was Aragorn, son of Arathorn — Hope of Middle-earth — and simply Estel to him. His friend. His brother of the heart. He had returned like nothing could kill him. A light refusing to be extinguished.

The crushing weight inside him vanished so abruptly that Legolas almost swayed. He could have danced with joy, could have climbed the highest tower of the burg outright.

Their eyes had met and their hearts had spoken to each other.

Legolas' long fingers brushed the calloused skin of his friend's hand. Warm and strong it felt as he gently closed it around the jewel of the Even Star. Hope shone from those silver eyes straight into Legolas' heart.

"Come, Legolas, we must find the King! Come, my friend — I need you by my side!" Aragorn said. Breathless and restless, yet ever determined.

Strong hands pushed open the massive door. Legolas watched as light streamed into the hall, revealing the stern features of King Théoden briefly brightening in surprise at the unexpected sight.

Aragorn's voice thundered through the hall as he announced what he had seen to Rohan's King. The threat exceeded even their darkest expectations.

War loomed before them, inevitable. A great army of Uruk-hai, bred for the sole purpose of destroying the world of Men, was relentlessly marching toward them.

"Please, Legolas, go find Gimli," Aragorn said, turning to him with a softer tone. "I would have you both with me when we discuss our next course of action."

Legolas left the hall in search of the Dwarf.

Only now did the sight of his surroundings truly hit him. People crowded every corner; the injured and sick lay on mats and blankets upon the ground or slumped against the walls. The smell of blood, strain, and sickness assailed him.

Besides the wounded soldiers from the recent warg attack, many women, children, and elderly people had also sought refuge there after fleeing the marauded villages. Some of them had suffered injuries through the enemies' attacks and others were recovering from sickness and exhaustion, weakened by the long way they had taken on themselves, to find shelter behind the walls of the Hornburg.

Nearby, a child whimpered in exhausted intervals while a wounded rider struggled to suppress harsh coughs into a bloodstained cloth.

Deep sorrow clutched at Legolas' heart as his eyes took in the scene. Misery surrounded him.

Some women had taken up the care for the sick and injured. Éowyn, the young and fierce Lady of Rohan, was among them, managing the helpers. She gave gentle but firm orders, her face serious and pale, her eyes wide and marked by strain, yet burning strong with the light of determination.

As he turned from the noble, fair maid, his attention caught on a slender figure bent over an injured soldier. Her movements swift and sure, she worked to stop the blood flowing from a deep gash in his side. She worked until the wound mostly ceased bleeding.

Legolas' attention held there, unwilling to move, while her nimble fingers stitched the deep cut. Others took over the task of binding the man's torso when she moved on to an elderly woman trembling with fever.

The trembling eased beneath her touch. The old woman briefly closed her eyes and leaned into it, as though drawing comfort from her presence. She gently caressed the elder woman's cheek, speaking words of encouragement before uncorking a small vial from the bag she carried. A few drops of the mixture fell between the dry lips.

Not once did her hands falter.

She took the cloth from the water-filled bowl, poured a little of the mixture onto it, and pressed the cooling compress against the woman's forehead. Then, gently, she took the woman's hands and motioned for someone nearby to take over.

She rose again, turning without pause to another in need.

Devotion lay in every movement she made, quiet and unwavering. He found himself unable to look away. Her long, dark hair fell densely over her back. Some strands were held back by a carefully ornamented silver brooch, keeping them from falling across her face as she worked.

As she rose once more, she sought and approached Éowyn, and exchanged a few hushed words with her. Nodding at each other in agreement they parted.

Legolas noted the stark contrast between those two leading women. While the young Lady of Rohan was fair and pale, and despite her strength appeared almost fragile, the other carried aught heavy and raw within her. An almost unearthly calmness clung to her presence. But with all her delicate paleness and golden light, the Lady of Rohan looked perfectly at home in the fortress of stone, while the other appeared strangely and utterly misplaced to his eyes. Despite the burden she seemed to bear, she moved with the weightless, yet sad grace of a feline enclosed in a cage.

And as she suddenly turned to leave, Legolas stared.

He noticed the faint glow of her amber skin, and the delicate point of her ear slipping out from between dark strands of hair.

She was unmistakably of elven kind.

But hers was an appearance that differed oddly from other Elves. He had not recognized her as being elven before. He had not expected an Elleth among this multitude of desperate humans.

As she became aware of him across the crowded refuge, her motion halted, and for the length of a few heartbeats, they both stood perfectly still, their eyes locked in surprise.

Her eyes were black — deep black — long-shaped and framed by dark lashes.

They struck him. For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.
Those eyes!
It could not be!

Who was she? What was she doing here?
An Elleth... alone among war-worn humans?

Legolas took a steadying breath to regain himself. Showing nothing of his puzzlement, he composed himself and evenly voiced the question.

"Why are you here and not safe among your own kin in these dark days?"

She answered slowly, without moving her eyes from his, slight defiance in the tone of her voice;

"I could ask you the same question..."

She paused and her voice softened, "For the same reason as you, maybe…"

She hesitated, as though listening to a thought of her own.

"Perhaps we follow the call."

She glanced over the people around them before turning back to him, her expression softening as she sighed.

"They are reserved, unsure about our kind, but need is great when times are dire, so I gain acceptance, and every so often even true gratitude in return."

She said it with such gentleness as if it was an essential gift she sought and held dear.

"Then why are you leaving now? There are plenty of injured humans left here." A frown creased Legolas' brow.

Deep weariness marked her eyes as she answered steadily.

"I need to leave! My strength is coming to an end. My soul seeks rest. My energy needs rebuilding. They know now how to take care of their own people. I came to their aid owed to the calling... I have done my part. And now it is beckoning me back."

Her voice was rough and worn down.

The crying of a child drifted over to them, inevitably catching their attention.

Legolas saw how the Elleth faltered, compassion softened her tired features and she could not help but reach to where it was lying in its mother's arms. Yet her movements seemed unnaturally heavy and bereft of the grace they had borne before. Once, her hand briefly steadied itself against the wall before she moved on.

The little girl's skin was covered with burns, flaming red against her small frame. The Elleth took a small pot from her bag and gently spread the ointment on the little one's wounds, with fingers so careful the girl stared at her wide-eyed and uttered not even a sign of distress.

With a sad, compassionate smile the Elleth delicately ruffled the little girl's locks and then handed the pot to the mother. The woman clasped the little jar to her chest as though it were something precious before murmuring a heartfelt thanks.

The Elleth firmly clasped the woman's shoulder and nodded to her. Then she rose again. And Legolas noticed that even that motion took more effort than it should have.

He stood unmoving, unable to look away as she pulled the hood over her head. She slightly flinched when their eyes met again, as though only now becoming aware of how intently he had been watching her.

But she composed herself quickly. Unexpectedly returning to his question from before, she spoke, "Some time ago I was thinking precisely what you asked me now. I wanted to save the whole world from suffering."

Her unfocused gaze seemed fixed upon some distant place beyond him. Yet somehow, he had the strange feeling that she was looking directly through him.

She went on speaking, her voice as raw as before.
"I had to learn from it... I was there healing the wounded… so many... so much pain and need..."

Her eyes widened, and for a moment her voice nearly broke.

"I worked relentlessly, despaired at the horror of all-encompassing death and destruction… I saved many lives — but lost far more. Each loss cut deep… until guilt drowned all else."

Her voice turned low and worn.

"When the call came, I did not hear... I was too occupied...
The call was strong... but my senses were too taken to perceive it..."

For a brief moment, her breath faltered,

"As I finally heard it, I ran, pressing my horse to race with the wind..."

Her gaze dropped to the ground. Her voice flattened, became choked, almost soundless.

"But when I got there... it was too late."

Legolas saw her dark eyes glazed with unshed tears as they again met his.
He could not look away.

He studied every expression crossing her face, listening intently to the coarse, grave sound of her words.

She lowered her head and shut her eyes, only for a breath, just to look back up at him again.

And as the Elleth spoke again, she pinned him with that distant gaze. Legolas could not tell whether she truly saw him.

"This time... I cannot be late..."

Her voice was low, carrying that strange, earthy melody.

Then suddenly she flinched again, shaking her head in distress.
"I have to go!" she gasped as if running out of time.

He stood motionless as she passed him.

And in that very moment, a sharp pain struck through his chest — sudden, precise, and gone too quickly to grasp.

The breath left his lungs in a sharp rush and his hand shot up to his chest. He was almost surprised to find no hilt of a blade, so vivid the strike had felt.

She had already turned away and was hurrying down the path.

His heart hammered hard against his palm as he watched the hooded figure mount a tall black horse and ride away without looking back.

She drove her horse hard, fleeing the valley. Her body trembled, her breath came short, and her mind would not release the image of the Elf; of his fine, pale face, of their conversation just now, and of the secret she had seen in the limpid, silver-blue pools of his eyes.

Why had she revealed to him such private things?

Had she grown so desperate from the lack of contact with her own kin that the first time she met this Elf face to face, she would lay herself so bare?

And then, the last words she had spoken to him — she knew not where they came from. She was struggling to find the sense behind her own speech.

What was happening to her? Was she turning completely mad?

The whole puzzle had her more and more confused. This Elf prince, close friend to Estel Elrondion — Was it him she had seen in her dreams? Could it have been him?

The tall, sleek fighter she had seen in the battles haunting her dreams; had he revealed his face to her right here and now, so unexpectedly?

Her dreaming eyes had been captured by his swift, violent dance, by the lethal precision of his bow and arrows. She had been stunned by the deathly grace with which he wielded the white, flashingly beautiful knives.

Again and again, she had dreamt of the bitterly twisted fights.

She remembered that last night in Rivendell where it began. Her dream then had brought forth the pouncing panther in the fire, whose shape had slowly changed into that of the warrior standing black against the flames.

But never had her dreams shown her his face.

She had seen the destructive aggression in those visions and she had sensed the undaunted strength in the elf facing her in the fortress of stone. There was something hidden deep in his eyes that struck her, that tore at her heart. And she sensed aught treacherous — a threat yet unknown — surrounding him. The disconcerting feeling was gnawing at her. It accompanied her tenuously the whole way of her long ride.

She held on fast to the mane of her horse. She felt powerful muscles stretch and gather in the tireless rhythm of its stride and the warmth of the beast beneath her. She strove to retrieve the strong, calming energy from its fluid motions. And she longed so badly to reach the sheltering forest who had welcomed her openly, years ago, when she had been homeless, and ever since had become her home.

She rode until the day and most of the night had slipped by.

She urgently needed to hear and feel the low, quiet voices of the trees. Their wisdom would calm her confused, reeling mind. The forest called to her.

At its battered border, great viciousness was at work, grown more and more destructive with the passing of time. The forest was being wounded, its steadfastness shaken by the rage of evil; thousands over thousands of years of life eradicated, felled, thrown into pits of darkness, devoured by the fires of betrayal.

But still, the forest stood.

It ever swallowed unwelcome and malicious creatures in its depths, offering shelter to life — stalwartly growing, living, contributing with all its power, for the sake of hope — for life to prevail over doom.

As she entered the forest's protection, she drew the pure, fresh air of the wood deep into her lungs. Relief grew tall in her heart and rushed through her veins, releasing her tense muscles from their strain.

She felt a subtle change in the air, in the giant trees' breathing; a prickling, sharp spark that had not been there yet when she had left. The forest stirred and groaned.

Something important had awakened. And as she listened closer, it flooded her senses akin to a tidal wave.

All the hate and the anger the forest had suppressed for too long a time, boiled up in its murmurs, hot with green, vigorous fire. The shepherds between the trees were in motion, slowly but persistently moving towards their revenge.

Finally.

A hopeful smile played at her lips as she relished the force of their anger.

The time was long overdue for the shepherds to take action, for the forest itself to rebel. She had long hoped for it to happen, but it had not been her place to compel. They had chosen their time without pressure.

She prayed that the ancient and powerful, yet gentle and patient giants would be successful.

But she was held far too tightly by her own turmoil to join the uprising.

The forest and its shepherds would handle it...

She was only a small, irrelevant being under their shielding canopy. Her task lay elsewhere. And the forest, though in turmoil, remained aware and careful of the creatures beneath its shelter — attentive with the wisdom of ages, offering it freely to her and to all the life it harboured.

Legolas' gaze lingered in the direction she had disappeared. His breathing would not steady, nor the frantic beating of his heart. With unease, he acknowledged that he was shivering. He could not dismiss the sharp longing tightening beneath his ribs.

The amber-skinned being unsettled him in ways he could not understand. The strange glow emanating from her sent his blood racing through his veins. Her impenetrable black eyes, her coarse, quiet voice, her slightly haunted movements… He frowned. Aught in her presence was painful and delighting alike.

Gimli's grumbling, teasing voice dragged Legolas almost violently out of his thoughts. He was startled, as though shaken out of a dream. Mild annoyance flared inside him when he saw the Dwarf grinning. He had managed to turn the stick around this time.

"The Dwarf startles the Elf? — This point is definitely mine!"

Gimli studied him closely, craning his neck back as if to get a better look at him.

"Prove me wrong if this does not look like my pointy-ear princeling has seen an elf maiden for the first time in his life!" His eyes gleaming with gentle affection.

Legolas felt as though caught at something forbidden, that he would reveal to no one. He felt embarrassed… irritated, even. He felt warmth rise to his cheeks as he downplayed his confusion and the unsettling emotions stirring within him, giving Gimli an amicable shove and a playful, pretend smile.

"Follow me, Gimli. Aragorn wishes for our backup. I came looking for you. It took me quite a time to find your short, bulky figure hiding among so many taller ones," he said with feigned casualness.

But then he added, skipping back to the game, "And here you are… roaming around, talking to all the burgh's maidens. Now is not the time for such luxuries, master Dwarf..."

Gimli retorted, "You cannot blame me for the lightness in my heart at Aragorn's return. Happy I am indeed, and relief makes me talkative!"

He stole a sidelong glimpse upwards and groaned, "Besides, look who's speaking! What were you doing just now? Gawking at that pointy-ear lass..."

And he added, frowning and under his breath as if speaking to himself, "A strange creature she is, even stranger than you, and that is saying much…"

Gimli glanced up, waiting for an answer Legolas had no intention of giving.

The stone passages around them had grown restless. Hurried voices echoed through them, mingling with the clatter of weapons as preparations for battle spread across the Hornburg.

As Aragorn emerged from the hall beside the King, Legolas and Gimli joined him at once.

Legolas was abruptly drawn back into the grim reality surrounding them. Aragorn's silver eyes found his, and whatever light his return had kindled seemed dimmed by what lay ahead.

Around them, men hurried to the walls. Everywhere steel, stone, and anxious voices seemed to strain toward the coming night.

The battle ahead looked desperate.

Chapter Text

The evening after The Battle of The Hornburg:

Aragorn had withdrawn to a high terrace of the burg. He sank down upon the cold stone, too weary to care for comfort. The day after the battle had stretched on without mercy. From the first light of dawn until the sun had begun to fall, he had been bent over the wounded. There had been no rest for him — no true pause, and certainly no sleep.

So many had fallen.

The air still carried the mingled scents of rain, smoke, and blood. Below, the fallen were laid to their rest. Swords were placed upon folded hands. Cloaks were drawn over still faces. Names were spoken softly, as though the hills themselves might remember them.

He had fought for the lives of the grievously injured as fiercely as he had fought upon the wall. Some he had drawn back from the brink, feeling the faint stir of breath return beneath his touch. Others had slipped from him despite his skill. He could still feel the fading of their pulse against his fingers.

And yet, the day had been theirs.

He remembered the moment clearly: the sudden light upon the ridge, a white figure revealed against the dawn, and Éomer’s riders descending like thunder over the field. The armies of Isengard had broken beneath that charge. Helm’s Deep had stood.

Preparations for the departure to Edoras had already begun. Horses were being tended; armour repaired; wagons loaded. The clang of hammer on dented steel rang out from the lower yard. War did not pause for grief.

Aragorn felt hollow as he considered the cost of this victory. Too many lives spent. Too many voices stilled. And this was but the beginning. Greater darkness still lay ahead.

Aragorn drew slowly upon his pipe. The smoke curled upward into the clear evening air. After the night’s tempest, the sky had opened wide and pale, washed clean by rain. The first stars were kindling above the dark line of the mountains. His gaze searched for one in particular.

When he found Eärendil shining in the west, small and steadfast, he felt a quiet easing within his chest. Against all odds. Against all evil. Still he endured.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Rivendell: to the hush of its woods, to sunlight falling through green leaves, to the calm voice of Elrond and the easy laughter of his brothers. And to Arwen — her presence like light in deep water, her hands warm in his, her promise carried silently between them.

A faint sound stirred the air behind him.

Not the ring of mail nor the scrape of boot upon stone. Only the softest footfall, careful and unhurried. The subtle shift of presence that few would have noticed.

Aragorn did not turn.

Long had he lived among the Eldar; his senses were keen. Yet this was not mere sharpness of hearing. It was familiarity. Trust forged in hardship. A nearness known without sight.

There was only one who could approach him in such silence and stand so close without breaking his solitude.

Legolas’ presence settled beside him like a breath of cool night air — light, and yet unwavering. No word was spoken. A slender hand came to rest upon Aragorn’s shoulder, fingers pressing once in quiet understanding before falling away.

For an instant Aragorn caught the scent of pine and rainwater, clean against the lingering smoke of battle.

Then, with scarcely a sound, the Elf moved. He stepped upon the low wall as though it were no more than a woodland path, balanced there for a heartbeat, and leapt lightly toward the outer rock. With effortless grace he climbed along the face of the cliff, found a narrow ledge, and seated himself there, legs dangling over the drop below. The wind seemed to find him at once, stirring his hair and cloak as though greeting something familiar.

For a moment he looked back.

The fading light caught in his hair and set it aglow like pale fire. His eyes, wide and luminous, lingered on Aragorn — and then turned outward, thoughtful, toward the horizon.

Aragorn’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

He would have thought himself long accustomed to this by now. Many years had passed since first he had watched Legolas choose the highest branches and the narrowest ridges, as though solid, sensible ground were a personal affront. And still, that same unwelcome tension coiled within him each time.

Trees were one thing. They knew the elf; they bent and whispered and seemed almost to steady him in quiet allegiance. But stone was cold and indifferent. It would neither bend nor warn. Should a foot slip, it would offer no mercy.

Not that he would slip.

That, perhaps, was the greater irritation. Legolas moved with the infuriating certainty of one born to balance upon the edges of the world. There was no hesitation in him, no misstep to justify concern. Aragorn felt the old impulse rise nonetheless — to call him back, to bid him choose safer ground like any reasonable being.

He did not.

Experience had long ago taught him what such concern would earn: laughter bright as bells, a tilt of the head, and some insufferably light remark about his fretfulness. Aragorn exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.

Tonight, however, no laughter came.

Even from a distance he could see the strain in Legolas. The pale planes of his face were sharpened by weariness; shadows lingered beneath his eyes. The wind tugged lightly at his braids, yet he sat very still, head tilted faintly, as though listening to something beyond the walls — wind through distant pines, perhaps, or the restless murmur of the night itself.

They remained thus for a time — Aragorn within the shelter of the wall, Legolas poised upon his narrow seat above the abyss — both gazing westward, each following thoughts unspoken.

Aragorn studied him quietly.

Through choices wise and reckless alike, through paths that promised little but hardship, Legolas had never wavered. Blade beside blade. Step beside step. A constancy that required no oath. Gratitude stirred deep within him — and something fiercer and older: a love akin to brotherhood, forged not of blood but of battle and long trust.

Yet even so, he would have been considerably better pleased had that brother chosen firmer footing.

As if aware of the weight of his gaze, Legolas turned.

Their eyes met across the narrow span of air. In the Elf’s blue glance there flickered — despite grief, despite weariness — the faintest spark of mischief. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

Aragorn almost frowned.

There it was again — that lightness, that quiet defiance of gravity and gloom alike. A star, he thought. Bright, untethered… and entirely too fond of perilous heights.

And still the tightness in his chest eased.

Legolas’ moods were like quicksilver; shadow and light chased one another across his spirit with bewildering swiftness. One heartbeat radiant with laughter, the next distant as starlight beyond reach. Aragorn had watched him coax a reluctant smile from Gimli with song alone, though the dwarf would grumble at every note. Even in sorrow, there was a brightness in him that refused to be quenched.

Tonight that light was tempered, but it endured — a slender flame against the memory of slaughter and dark stone.

At last, with a movement fluid as falling water, Legolas rose. He sprang from the ledge, caught the wall with effortless precision, and in the next instant stood beside Aragorn once more, boots scarcely stirring dust.

Relief loosened something within Aragorn — a release he would never have admitted aloud.

He turned toward him, and a faint smile touched his lips — gratitude without words… and perhaps a trace of unspoken reproach.

Legolas answered it with one of his own: quiet, almost innocent — and just bright enough to suggest he knew exactly what Aragorn had thoughts.

When his thoughts were no longer held fast by Legolas’ chosen perch, they strayed — drawn by a tide he could not master — back to the battle.

The night returned in fragments.

Torches guttering in rain. The crash of ladders against stone. The thunder of iron-shod feet upon the causeway. He saw again the press of dark forms surging beneath the walls, countless and relentless. Heard the harsh cries in a tongue bred for cruelty. Saw men — some scarcely more than boys — stand their ground with white-knuckled resolve.

And fall.

The memory did not fade with daylight. Blood upon wet stone. The weight of a dying soldier in his arms. A young face turned upward in disbelief.

Aragorn closed his eyes.

A slow breath left him, unsteady despite his effort. The images did not disperse; they shifted and returned, sharp as broken glass. He had faced battle before. He had known slaughter. Yet there was something in the scale of it, in the merciless fury of the assault, that clung to him still.

The air seemed to carry it — the echo of screams, the memory of iron.

When he opened his eyes again, the contrast struck him.

Legolas stood beside him, straight and still against the vast sweep of evening sky. In the fading light his fair features held a faint radiance, as though some inner flame refused the dominion of shadow. There was nothing fragile in it. It was not softness, but clarity — the undimmed light of the Eldar.

And yet he was no creature untouched by sorrow.

In the deep woods of his home he had learned more than the music of leaves. He had learned vigilance. Endurance. His body held that readiness even now — balanced, poised, every sense quietly alert. His face might seem calm, even distant, but Aragorn knew the swiftness that lay beneath it. Knew how those clear eyes could harden in an instant, turning cold and bright as drawn steel.

They were not the eyes of innocence.

They were the eyes of one who had watched darkness gather at forest borders. Who had buried kin. Who had stood against creeping corruption and refused to yield. Grief lay there, deep-set and old — not worn as a wound, but carried as knowledge.

And still he shone.

Not with careless mirth — though that, too, belonged to him — but with a steadiness born of long resistance.

A breeze stirred across the terrace. Aragorn saw Legolas lift his face into it for the briefest instant, eyes half-closing, as though gathering strength from the cool night air itself. He drew strength from living things: from trees rooted deep, from starlight unmarred by smoke, from bonds freely chosen and fiercely kept. And he gave that strength in return, without measure.

Aragorn felt it now.

The nearness of him. The quiet certainty. The unspoken assurance that whatever road lay ahead he would not walk it alone.

The weight within his chest did not vanish. The war was far from done, destiny waited, stern and unyielding, but the presence at his side made the burden bearable.

Beneath the rising stars, Aragorn straightened, drawing a steadier breath, and turned his gaze once more toward the darkening East.

Legolas’ spirit weighed heavy that night. He thought of the lives lost, ended so swiftly — fleeting mortal lives, most of them far too young to die. He could do nothing but mourn them in silence.

He had watched too many fade, before their strength had fully risen.

The scent of turned earth lingered below the walls. Faces returned to him if he let them: boys gripping spears too large for their hands, men standing firm though fear shook them. He had seen the light leave their eyes. He had seen it too often, and it never grew easier.

Gimli’s head wound had been slight. Aragorn had tended it quickly, and the dwarf had grumbled more at the fuss than the pain. And yet the sight of blood on his friend’s hair unsettled Legolas. Even the strongest among them were not beyond harm.

Yet in the midst of all this tragedy, he was still strangely shaken by what had passed the day before the fight.

The pain that had pierced him so suddenly was yet fresh — sharp, intrusive, impossible to dismiss. It had struck deep, without warning, and lingered in a way he did not understand. At times he felt it still, a faint tightening beneath his ribs, as though the memory itself had weight.

And yet, alongside it, there stirred something altogether different.

The encounter had been brief. Only a few words exchanged. A gaze that had held more than it gave. Something in it had unsettled him long before the pain came — and when she had turned away, that piercing ache had followed, swift and searing.

The sensation troubled him. But it also drew him. It distracted him, more than he wished to admit, from the sorrow pressing in after the battle.

As he stood beside Aragorn in their shared silence, the question rose within him before he could master it.

“Who is she… the Elleth?”

Aragorn tilted his head and met his eyes with slight surprise flitting across his features. Legolas averted his gaze to the far horizon, concealing his face in the shade of his hood. He felt his heart pounding fast and achingly heavy against his ribs.

He felt the urge to leap over onto the rock wall and take up his previous position over the chasm. But he resisted. He needed not distract Aragorn. He needed to know! Maybe Aragorn knew more. He was from Imladris. He was Lord Elrond's adopted son. He knew many things about the world of elves, some that even Legolas himself would have no knowledge of, since Rivendell had always been open to all kinds of visitors and travellers, and many it had received and harboured within its safe borders.

Aragorn tilted his head, and a flicker of surprise crossed his features.

Legolas eyes did not leave the horizon. Only his breathing shifted, shallow and tight. His heart struck hard against his ribs — not from weariness, nor from the memory of battle. The heaviness in him was of another kind.

For a breath, the urge seized him to step back onto the wall, to climb again, to let height and wind steady the restless pounding within him. The ledge called to him — open air, balance, control.

He did not move.

He would not distract Aragorn. He needed the answer.

If anyone might know, it would be he. Raised in Imladris. Fostered by Lord Elrond. Rivendell had ever been a haven for wandering kindreds, for tidings carried from far borders. There were histories kept there that Greenwood had never heard.

Aragorn’s gaze followed his toward the west. From the corner of his eye, Legolas caught the faint crease forming between the man’s brows before he spoke.

“She is Mîaddar, of the Sirith — the Elves of the South.”

The name struck him like a stone cast into still water.

Mîaddar.

Aragorn’s eyes flicked toward him, brief and measuring.

Legolas did not stir. He stood utterly composed, every line of him controlled. Only the tightening of his fingers upon the stone betrayed the force of his restraint. The terrace suddenly felt too narrow beneath him.

Mîaddar.

He let the name sound within him, testing its weight.

“The Sirith,” he said at last, his voice low. “‘The flowing’… How do you know?”

His eyes lifted — only for an instant — toward the jagged outcropping above the chasm. The pull of it sharpened, insistent. Height. Air. Escape from the closeness of his own thoughts.

His hands tightened on the wall instead.

Memory stirred — firelight upon desert sand, the Taruen speaking of their alliance with those southern Elves. A bond forged long ago.

He kept his gaze forward. But every sense leaned toward Aragorn’s answer.

Aragorn was silent for a moment before he answered.

“Mîaddar’s grandmother was Taruen,” he said at last. “A seer and healer — one deeply bound to earth and sky. Taria of her time.”

He drew a slow breath.

“Her grandfather was Sirith. A healer among his own people, held in esteem for his humility and wisdom. He was among those who departed Beleriand in elder days — not in anger, nor in defiance, but drawn by a call that others did not hear. They sought wider lands beneath open skies. Peace of mind, perhaps. Or simply a road that was theirs to walk.”

His gaze remained westward.

“They say he loved the desert queen from their first meeting. The blood of the people of the desert runs in Mîaddar’s veins.”

He let that settle before continuing.

“In later years the Sirith allied with another tribe — the Ashinto. Proud warriors of the southern forests. Long did they stand against the shadow of Mordor. The Sirith sustained them as they could — through counsel, through healing, through knowledge, and by standing with them in battle when the need arose. And the Taruen carried tidings across the wastelands, warning of movements from the North.”

His voice grew quieter.

“But the shadow does not rest.”

“It crept further. Villages fell. Peoples were bent to its will. The Ashinto fought on — stubborn as stone — yet even they could not turn the tide forever.”

“The Sirith found themselves pressed on every side. Their strength waned beneath the weight of encroaching darkness. At last they chose the Sea.”

A faint tightening crossed his features.

“They sailed.”

A brief silence followed.

“All but her.”

He glanced toward Legolas then.

“Her heart would not suffer her to abandon those who remained. Her father named her Mîaddar — ‘his jewel’ — and it near broke him to leave her behind. But her will was set.”

Legolas listened, eyes glued to the horizon, straight and unmoving at Aragorn's side. A quiet tension gripped him, a small tightening in his chest, as the words took him by surprise. He had never imagined one of the Sirith would remain behind, lingering in the South after all these years. Times past, by the fire, when the people of the desert had spoken of them, he had never guessed.

Aragorn’s gaze returned to the darkening horizon as it followed his.

“She dwelled long within the forest formed by the Sirith, where the trees had been guided by their hands and hearts. She did not linger in the villages of Men. When need called, she went. When her task was done, she returned to her dwelling — alone.

“The horse she rides was left to her — black as midnight. Caladdolen, they name it. Hidden Light. It runs where it will, and it is said that unfriendly eyes seldom mark its passing.”

“The Sirith sailed,” he finished quietly. “But they did not abandon all hope in the lands they loved.”

A pause.

“Mîaddar stayed, giving her strength to a bold and steadfast Ashinto warrior — her beloved, the father of her children, who had remained behind when her parents departed by ship. He was the leader of the last free army of the South, guiding the Ashinto in their struggle against overwhelming odds. She healed the wounded warriors, aided the desperate, and tended to those left to suffer after the savage ransacking of villages. She loved him, supported him, and remained at his side until the final battle, where he fell, grievously wounded, and bled out upon the field.”

“She came too late…” Legolas spoke absently, the words scarcely more than breath. Beneath the hood his face remained hidden.

“Aye,” Aragorn answered quietly. “When she reached him, he was already gone. She could not save him.”

A shadow crossed his expression.

“It near destroyed her. He was taken from her too soon, and with him the last strong hope of the South. Grief took root — and with it, a bitter self-reproach. She bore him back to the forest the Sirith had shaped and laid him to rest beneath its trees.”

His voice lowered further.

“For three long years she did not leave that dwelling. Perhaps longer. Time had no measure for her then. Hope dimmed. Even the sense of her place in Arda seemed to fade.”

He drew a slow breath.

“The forest grew wild again. The shaping hands of the Elves were gone, and the trees reclaimed what had once been lent. She did not resist it. To her, it seemed only fitting.”

“The last free army of the South was broken. Leaderless. Scattered. And the shadow spread unhindered.”

Silence lay between them for a moment before Aragorn continued.

“At last she called Caladdolen. The horse bore her into the desert, where the Taruen received her with kindness. Yet she did not remain. Though their blood runs in her veins, she is not wholly of them.”

“She was searching still. For the reason that still kept her from sailing.”

“Caladdolen carried her onward. She wandered far, with no clear road before her. She wished to leave the South behind, yet she knew not where her steps should turn.”

A faint softness entered Aragorn’s tone.

“In the end, she came to Imladris. She sought my father’s counsel. I was in the Hall of Fire when she spoke with him of all that had befallen her.”

“She dwelt with us for a time. Much she kept to herself. She would walk the gardens alone, or wander beneath the birches beyond the river. The valley eased her somewhat. Its quiet… its memory of light.”

A hint of warmth touched his voice.

“She welcomed our company in quiet silence. My brothers and I played as we always did. In time, we drew a smile from her, and that was all the encouragement we needed to carry on.”

A sigh escaped Aragorn.

“At first, I resented the sorrow she seemed to carry into our halls. It weighed upon the air. But trust grows in strange soil. She spoke little, yet she listened. And in time we found ourselves speaking more freely in her presence.”

“When she departed, my father told us what he had learned of the Sirith and their fate.”

Another silence.

“He gave her direction,” Aragorn said at last. “That much I could see. Her spirit was lighter when she left.”

His gaze turned briefly inward.

“What passed between them in full, my brothers and I did not ask. Nor would we.”

With that, he fell silent. And the night gathered around them. None of them spoke for a while.

Legolas’ muscles tensed. He felt the urge to climb, to gain height, to feel the wind in his hair, to be free of the stone and walls that seemed to press in around him. Yet he stayed at Aragorn’s side, subtly matching his friend’s breathing, grounding himself.

One by one, the words formed on his lips, a whisper barely carried by the air:
“Those eyes… do you remember… those eyes in the desert?”

Aragorn furrowed his brow, regarding him with a questioning glance, clearly uncertain.

Legolas drew the hood lower, letting the shadow hide his face. His heart beat fast, heavy in his chest. He clenched his hands against the stone, as though it might anchor him against the rising storm of memory.

Those eyes, carrying the heat of the desert and the piercing grains of the sand, in an unveiled face the faint shade of amber, and bearing the image and shape of the people of the moon...

“...they are old,” he whispered, “…she was no child… those were her eyes. The veiled woman’s eyes.”

Legolas’ hand found Aragorn’s arm almost without thought, swift as a reflex, as though he needed something solid beneath his grasp. His fingers closed — then stilled, as though he had caught himself. Aragorn flinched faintly. The warmth beneath his touch grounded him for a fleeting moment before he loosened his hold.

“I have not seen what you have, mellon-nìn,” Aragorn said gently, his voice calm, tinged with puzzlement.

Legolas released his hold slowly, speaking almost to himself, so low it was nearly lost in the night:
“Those eyes… they have haunted me…”

And then he fell silent. His nostrils flared with a sharp intake of air, his hand came to his chest where his heart hammered. He shuddered.

“She said… this time… she will not be late,” he murmured, voice grave. He turned slightly toward Aragorn, narrowing his eyes, as if waiting for an answer to a question unspoken.

Aragorn met his gaze but did not speak, holding the unasked question in the quiet between them.

Legolas could restrain himself no longer. Swift as a gust along the cliffs, he moved to the ledge, lowering his hood and closing his eyes. The wind blew through his hair, tugging at it playfully, and he inhaled deeply, letting the breadth of air, the height, and the quiet tension wash through him.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, letting the wind carry memory and longing, grief and unsettled hope alike.

oOoOoOo

Aragorn sighed, closing his eyes briefly and rubbing his brow in mild exasperation. Just leave him, he told himself. Do not say anything.

His gaze returned to Legolas, perched lightly on the ledge above. The elf’s silhouette was sharp against the night sky, still and watchful. Despite the height between them, there was a quiet understanding, a shared stillness that needed no words. Stars wheeled overhead, and Ëarendil’s light glimmered far to the west, carrying hope in its steadfast shine. Aragorn’s thoughts lingered on the two small figures far away, venturing into Mordor, and he felt both the tight pull of worry and the swell of trust that they would endure.

Aragorn barely had time to brace himself as Legolas leapt down from the rock, landing beside him. The elf’s eyes were wide beneath his hood, his body tense with urgency.

“There is something out there!” Legolas said, voice tight with alarm.

Aragorn followed his gaze, reading every subtle motion, every shadowed line of his friend’s face. He had learned long ago that when Legolas spoke this way, it was not speculation. His senses had already mapped the danger.

“Out on the plain… vibrations, so strong I can feel them from here… and voices, carried by the wind… they are dark… it is evil!”

Aragorn’s jaw tightened. The Elf’s pale features were grave beneath the hood, his focus absolute.

A surge of resolve rose in him. “If a threat lingers so close, we must act. The Rohirrim are returning to Edoras in days. I cannot imagine what might befall them unguarded.”

He glanced at Legolas. The Elf’s determination was like steel, unyielding, and he knew they could trust his warning.

“Come, my friend. Let us find Gimli and ride with Éomer and his Éored.”

Aragorn considered what might remain hidden. Perhaps the outer lines of the Uruk-hai had retreated, slipping away unnoticed as the tide of battle turned. Now they could be lying in wait, ready to strike the unsuspecting humans. He had faced orcs before, but never a breed so cunning, so deliberately cruel.

Chapter Text

Leather straps creaked softly in the night as the riders finished saddling their horses. The last buckles were tightened in silence. Legolas let his gaze drift over the riders. Hollow eyes flicked toward him only briefly before turning away again. The men spoke little, and when they did, their voices dropped as he passed.

His jaw tightened reflexively and he laid a calming hand along Arod’s neck, grounding himself in the stallion’s steady warmth. He forced his breathing to match the slower rhythm beneath his palm.

Aragorn had spoken firmly enough to sway both king and marshal. The riders obeyed without protest, though several mounted reluctantly, their movements heavy with exhaustion. Yet no one voiced complaint openly. Thus, when Éomer’s second finally spoke his doubts, he did so in a lowered voice, meant only for his captain.

But Legolas heard it all. His fingers tightened briefly in Arod’s mane before he made them loosen again.

“With all respect, Captain, the men are spent. We have scarcely survived one battle before riding into another. Darkness still crawls over these lands at night. Must we truly seek it out?”

Éomer merely straightened in the saddle. He clipped the conversation short.

“If there is threat abroad tonight, better we face it now than with women and children upon the road to Edoras.” His voice remained low, leaving no room for argument. Aragorn stood near Éomer, steady and immovable, and no man voiced further protest.

Éomer’s second lowered his head, lips tightening, but offered no further protest.

With a brief nod, Aragorn turned toward the riders. “We ride for the safety of your people.”

Legolas helped Gimli onto Arod and then easily mounted to settle before the dwarf. Gimli patted his back and grumbled encouragingly.

“Worry not, lad. They will soon learn that the elf’s senses are better trusted.”
He snorted softly.
“Though I would gladly have you proven wrong.”

The dwarf’s hand lingered briefly at his back before falling away again.
He let his gaze remain upon the dark road ahead, though some of the tightness in his chest eased. Gimli had understood nonetheless. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide anything from him.

The night lay clear beneath the moon, the rolling land washed in pale silver light. Above them the stars burned cold and distant, untouched by the weariness below.

Aragorn rode at the front beside Éomer, while Legolas guided Arod silently through the dark with Gimli seated behind him. Gandalf had remained within the Hornburg with King Théoden, watching over the grieving people left behind.

Only the steady thunder of hooves and the occasional jingle of harness and steel disturbed the night. Few lifted their eyes from the road ahead. The smell of smoke and blood still clung to their armour.

They had been given no time to mourn their fallen.

The men rode in silence. Too silent.

Though he had fought beside them upon the walls of the Hornburg, they still kept their distance. Few met his gaze directly. Others looked away too quickly, as though unwilling to be caught watching.

Legolas knew that look well. It no longer surprised him — but neither had it ever ceased to wound.

Years beside Aragorn had taught him how swiftly the mistrust of Men could turn dangerous. Yet he had long since learned to endure it in silence.

He did not look toward the riders again. Aragorn’s steady presence ahead of him and Gimli’s familiar weight at his back formed a quiet barrier around him, enough to keep the old unease from tightening further beneath his ribs.

Arod shifted restlessly beneath him, sensing the strain in his rider, though Legolas’ hand remained steady against his neck. He turned his attention away from the men at once, letting his senses reach outward into the night instead — searching, listening, hunting for the distant taint upon the wind.

For a long while he caught nothing beyond the endless breathing of the plains and the faint murmur of grass beneath the passing night.

Then at last it came again — faint, rotten, unmistakable.

The corruption brushed against his senses like cold ash upon the wind. Instinct pulled at him at once — to rise higher, to gain clearer hearing, to seek open ground and distance from the press of men and horses. He turned Arod sharply toward the wind.

Ahead of him, Aragorn immediately glanced back. Éomer’s hand tightened upon the reins as both men watched him closely, reading meaning into every subtle movement. Neither spoke, as though even the smallest sound might disturb what he could hear upon the wind.

The sudden movement at his back made Legolas tense before recognition settled almost immediately. It was only Gimli who shifted behind him with a low groan.

“If this horse runs any faster,” the dwarf muttered under his breath, clutching tighter at Legolas’ belt, “I shall arrive in battle with no bones left unshaken.”

Despite himself, the corner of Legolas’ mouth lifted. The sound of Gimli’s grumbling grounded him more effectively than any effort of his own.

The stars glittered brightly that night, their distant light flickering softly through the branches high above her. Moonlight flowed in silver streams across the dark sea of leaves, slipping gently through the canopy. Usually such quiet beauty brought her peace. Tonight it did not. An unfamiliar agitation stirred within her, unsettling and cold, like a shadow slowly winding itself around her heart.

She lifted her gaze toward the trembling shafts of silver light, seeking calm within them as she always had before. But instead of peace, strange images began to gather within the moonbeams themselves, shifting and sharpening before her eyes.

At first they came only in fragments — flashes of movement, pale light upon steel, the dark shapes of creatures writhing in battle. Then suddenly she saw him clearly.

The warrior with the pale golden hair.

He moved amidst the chaos of battle with terrible grace, swift and deadly as an elven blade. His bow sang beneath his hands, and arrow after arrow vanished into the darkness with flawless precision, finding its mark among the foul creatures pressing around him. Black blood stained the stones beneath their feet as the beasts fell.

A dwarf fought fiercely beside him, grim and unyielding, while near them a dark-haired man wielded his sword against the mass of Uruk-hai surging upon them.

Then the elf’s knives flashed beneath the moonlight.

She watched him turn and strike with measured swiftness, every movement flowing seamlessly into the next with lethal certainty. The pale blades seemed almost alive within his hands. It was the same uncanny grace she had witnessed so often within her dreams.

Only this was no dream.

The realization tightened sharply within her chest.

And then she saw his face fully revealed before her.

It was him.

Moonlight traced the fair lines of his features, though battle had hardened them now with fierce resolve. His bright eyes burned with wild determination as he fought amidst the dark creatures surrounding him.

Suddenly his gaze shifted beyond the ranger beside him.

Two Uruk-hai were rushing through the chaos of battle, their heavy blades already raised for a strike the man had not yet seen.

She startled violently.

And then the vision seemed to slow around her.

The elf darted forward without hesitation, swift beyond mortal sight, his knives flashing in pale arcs through the darkness. Both creatures fell almost at once beneath his strike, scarcely a breath before they could reach the ranger.

She heard the sharp hiss of breath forced from him with the effort of the blow.

But even as the beasts collapsed, another presence emerged behind him — a towering shadow moving through the battle with dreadful purpose.

The creature had followed his movement unseen.

The elf spun with astonishing speed, pale hair whipping through the moonlight, yet not swiftly enough to evade the crude blade descending upon him.

The knife struck deep into his chest.

A broken cry caught within her throat. His body jerked back beneath the blow.

For one terrible instant she saw recognition flare across his face before the pain reached him fully. Not surprise. Knowledge.

He had known.

Known that he could not shield the ranger and escape the blow himself.

Pain twisted sharply across his features as the blade drove into him, yet even then he forced himself forward once more with a fierce cry of effort and fury, striking the creature down before his strength finally failed him.

Then he sank heavily to his knees.

Blood spread swiftly across his tunic, darkening the fabric almost to black in the silver light as it soaked into it, flowing unrestrained from the wound.

And suddenly the vision shattered.

The forest returned around her all at once, silent and unchanged beneath the moonlit canopy.

Mîaddar stood trembling amongst the trees, struggling to steady her breathing as the cold shock of what she had seen swept through her.

A vision.

But of what nature?

Had it already come to pass? Was it yet to come? Or had she merely witnessed one possible thread of fate not yet woven fully into the world?

She did not know.

Yet the call remained.

Strong and urgent, it pulled at her mind, drawing her away from beneath the sheltering branches, out into the darkened forest.

She ran.

Usually she moved lightly amongst the trees, as though the forest itself welcomed her passing, roots softening beneath her steps and branches bending gently aside. But now haste and fear robbed her of all grace. She stumbled repeatedly upon roots and uneven ground, scarcely aware of the sharp breaths tearing through her chest.

Her thoughts spun wildly, yet at the same time she felt strangely hollow, as though part of her remained trapped within the vision still.

When her black horse finally reached her through the trees, she caught at the mane and hauled herself up in one swift, unrefined movement, far rougher than was natural to her. Caladdolen tossed her head uneasily beneath her touch, sensing the turmoil within her, but she needed no urging. At once she surged forward through the silent forest paths with tireless speed.

The woods lay hushed around them now.

Only the pounding rhythm of hooves and the horse’s harsh breathing broke the heavy silence as they flew beneath the moonlit branches.

Mîaddar clung tightly to the dark mane beneath her fingers, struggling to hold onto the fading pull of the vision, to follow its call through the chaos clouding her mind. She scarcely knew where they rode, only that they must continue onward without delay.

As Fangorn slowly fell behind them and the open plains of the Mark stretched wide beneath the night sky, another vision suddenly seized her.

Once more she saw him.

His eyes were closed now, his face pale beneath the moonlight. And from beneath his dark lashes a single tear slipped silently down his cheek, catching the silver light as it fell.

The quiet sorrow of that sight pierced her far more cruelly than blood or battle ever could.

Her fingers tightened convulsively in Caladdolen’s mane.

Behind a jagged chain of rocks upon the valley’s slope, the Uruk-hai had made their camp.

Low fires burned between the stones, casting red light across cruel faces and battered armour darkened still with blood from the battle at Helm’s Deep. Harsh laughter and guttural voices drifted through the night as the creatures sharpened their blades and spoke eagerly of the slaughter yet to come.

Soon the humans would leave the Hornburg behind and begin their road toward Edoras.

And they would not expect death waiting for them upon the plains.

The thought filled the creatures with vicious anticipation. The humans believed the battle won. They would ride weary and grieving beside their women and children, never suspecting that a portion of Isengard’s host had slipped away amidst the chaos before the fall of the fortress.

Dugbúrz crouched near the largest of the fires, tearing bloody strips of meat from a bone with heavy fangs while satisfaction simmered darkly within him. Unlike the fools who had thrown themselves mindlessly against the walls of the Hornburg, he had kept close to the outskirts of the battle, watching carefully as the tide turned against them. As defeat had become certain, he had withdrawn with those who still remained under his command.

A cunning decision — or so he believed.

One worthy of reward.

He grunted low with grim amusement at the thought, yellow eyes glinting in the firelight as he imagined the carnage awaiting the people of Rohan once they entered the open plains unsuspecting and unguarded.

Their cries would please Saruman well.

And when the slaughter was done, his master would know who had possessed the wit to preserve a fighting force when all others had rushed blindly toward death.

Screeching voices and rough, guttural sounds rose from behind the rocks. Arod shifted uneasily beneath Legolas as he slowed him at once, every sense sharpening toward the darkness ahead.

“We must leave the horses behind if we are not to be discovered,” Legolas said quietly.

“Hear me,” Aragorn called in a low, firm voice to the weary riders. “We go on by foot. We must reach those rocks unseen.”

The men obeyed without argument now. As they advanced through the dark grass and scattered stone, even the humans began to catch the sounds drifting toward them — harsh laughter, guttural shouting, the crude clamour of creatures too certain of their own safety.

Legolas felt the change among the riders immediately. Their glances found him more often now, lingering only for an instant before turning away again. Fragments of whispers reached him on the wind. His shoulders tightened instinctively before he forced them to ease again.

“…the elf was right…”

“…heard them from that far away…”

“…the old tales…”

Legolas kept his gaze ahead, though the whispers found him easily. Wonder and unease walked close together among Men.

Aragorn signalled for the riders to remain behind while he and Legolas climbed the ridge ahead. They moved silently between the rocks until they reached the highest ledge and looked down into the valley below.

Uruk-hai crowded the camp beneath them.

Fires burned between jagged stones. Dark figures lounged around them, shoving one another, laughing in harsh black speech, weapons cast carelessly at their sides as though the night already belonged to them.

Aragorn’s jaw tightened.

Legolas needed no words to know what his friend had decided.

Their eyes met briefly. Legolas had already shifted his weight forward, every line of him sharpened with readiness. Then both withdrew from the ridge.

The plan was formed quickly once they returned to the others.

They were outnumbered, but surprise remained their advantage. If they failed to strike now, these creatures would vanish into the hills before dawn and fall upon the people of the Mark when they least expected it.

Aragorn spoke swiftly with Éomer while the riders gathered themselves in grim silence. Nearby, Gimli rested one broad hand upon the handle of his axe, his expression darkening with every passing moment. Legolas stood beside them, still and intent, listening to the sounds below the ridge, measuring movement, numbers, distance.

Then they moved.

The company split apart silently, circling through stone and shadow until the Uruks lay surrounded.

Still the creatures noticed nothing.

Firelight flickered across brutal faces. Harsh laughter echoed between the rocks while weapons lay scattered carelessly beside them.

For one suspended moment the camp remained utterly unaware.

Then the first arrows fell among them.

The night exploded into chaos.

Legolas’ bow bent and sang in swift succession. Arrows vanished from his fingers almost faster than sight could follow, each shaft finding flesh with deadly precision. Around the fires Uruks toppled with startled cries before the survivors seized their weapons and surged to their feet roaring.

The camp erupted in violence.

Steel rang harshly against steel. Men shouted. Uruks bellowed in fury as the narrow ground between the rocks dissolved into brutal close combat.

More creatures poured forward than Aragorn had hoped.

Too many.

They pressed hard against the Rohirrim, driving into them with sheer force, trying to break their formation apart. Aragorn fought beside Gimli and Legolas at first, Andúril rising and falling in deadly arcs, but slowly — relentlessly — the Uruks forced themselves between them.

Step by step the distance widened.

Aragorn cut one creature down and drove forward again, trying to regain the ground he had lost. Then Legolas’ focus snapped beyond him. His whole body changed at once — sharpened, alert—Before Aragorn could turn fully, Legolas moved. He darted forward with terrifying speed, twin knives flashing white beneath the moonlight. Two Uruks behind Aragorn fell almost in the same instant, their blades never reaching him. They had been behind him, coming for him.

For one breath Aragorn saw only the fierce blur of movement. Then another shape rose behind Legolas.

Too close.

Too fast.

Legolas spun — but Aragorn knew immediately it would not be enough.

The blade struck.

Aragorn saw the violent jolt that ran through Legolas the instant the weapon drove into him. The sound that tore from the elf’s throat was unlike anything Aragorn had ever heard from him before — sharp, raw, ripped violently between pain and fury.

Yet he did not stop. With one final desperate strike he drove his knife into the creature before him, killing it outright.

Even then Legolas fought to remain standing. He staggered violently as one hand flew to the wound at his chest. Then his knees buckled beneath him. As he fell, his hand searched blindly for one of the dropped knives.

Aragorn barely caught him before he struck the ground.

For one terrible instant the battle vanished into meaningless noise.

Warm blood spread rapidly across Aragorn’s hands. Legolas’ ragged breathing sounded unnaturally loud against the muffled chaos around them, his body trembling violently against Aragorn. Blood soaked through the fabric at his chest, the silver moonlight turning the spreading stain almost black.

Aragorn stared down at him in horror, unable for a heartbeat to understand what he was seeing.

Not Legolas. Not him.

“Aragorn!” Gimli’s voice crashed through the haze around him.

The dwarf was suddenly beside them, axe buried deep in the chest of an Uruk that had come too close. Only then did Aragorn force himself to move again.

“We have to get him out of here!” he shouted.

Together they fought their way toward the rocks. Gimli hacked forward relentlessly, driving the Uruks back step by step while Aragorn carried Legolas against his chest, tightening his hold instinctively each time the elf shuddered in pain.

They reached a hollow at the base of the ridge, half concealed by broken stone. Aragorn lowered Legolas carefully to the ground, though every instinct rebelled against letting him go. For a moment his hands refused to leave him, tightening helplessly against blood-soaked fabric before he finally forced himself to pull away enough to examine the wound.

Legolas’ breathing had turned shallow and uneven. One blood-slick hand still searched weakly beside him, as though seeking knife, earth, or balance — anything to anchor himself against the pain. Beneath the moonlight his face was frighteningly pale. Aragorn pressed one trembling hand against the wound, trying uselessly to slow the blood welling hot between his fingers.

“Please hold, mellon-nîn,” he whispered, his voice breaking despite every effort to steady it. “Please…”

Legolas’ lips parted faintly, as though he wished to answer, but only a strained, ragged breath escaped him. His eyes fluttered.

“Stay with us,” Aragorn said sharply, almost desperately. “Legolas!”

Then steel clashed violently behind him.

Gimli cursed aloud as fresh Uruks drove toward the shelter between the rocks.

Aragorn looked back down at Legolas for one suspended heartbeat longer than he should have —  pale beneath the moonlight, blood dark upon his chest —
Then Gimli seized his shoulder hard enough to wrench him back to himself.

“Go!” the dwarf barked. “I will guard him!”

Gimli knelt beside the elf at once, one hand already pressing hard against the wound.

Aragorn hesitated only an instant. Then a dark shape lunged between the rocks behind him.

Aragorn surged to his feet and met it with his sword.

But something inside him had changed. Precision gave way to fury. Every strike of Andúril fell harder now, driving the creatures backward from the rocks, away from the place where Legolas lay wounded beneath Gimli’s guard. Fear and rage burned through him so fiercely that they drowned all exhaustion, all restraint. The Uruks fell before him one after another. And Aragorn fought like a man trying to hold death itself at bay from his wounded friend behind him.

Chapter Text

His own strangled cry still rang in his ears, echoed through his pounding head as he fell heavily to his knees beside the injured Elf — the one who had so unexpectedly become his friend.

In his mind the Uruk-blade struck again. He saw the violent jolt of Legolas’ body beneath the blow, the sharp twist of pain across his face. Blood welled dark and swift from the wound in terrible pulses with every heartbeat.

For one suspended instant Gimli could only stare. Unable to act, unable to even breathe, incapable of accepting the reality of it.

With the gasp of one drowning, Gimli tore himself from the paralyzing clutches. His hands shot to action. His palms frantically pressed against the wound, desperate to keep life within the Elf's body. But the blood surged hot between his fingers, soaking cloth, skin, and earth alike in cruel mockery of his efforts.

“No…” he rasped under his breath.

He tore at his tunic and forced the fabric hard against the bleeding gash. The cloth darkened almost at once. He desperately ripped another strip free, and then another to press on top – to no avail.

The blood would not stop — soaking cloth, hands, and earth alike.

“Don’t you dare leave me!” Gimli choked out. “Reckless pointy-ear! You cannot score me so and then sneak your way out without granting me the chance for a rematch!”

For the briefest instant, something flickered within Legolas’ eyes. The ghost of a smile. Fragile and fleeting beneath the pain — yet unmistakably meant for him.

It struck Gimli harder than any blow. Memories flashed unbidden through his mind; of bitter quarrels upon long roads, sharp glances cast across campfires, endless contests and muttered insults that had slowly turned to laughter. Somewhere along the miles between Rivendell and Rohan rivalry had twisted itself quietly into something dearer, so naturally that Gimli no longer knew when the change had come.

How could it be that this irrepressible whirlwind of a creature now lay trembling beneath his helpless hands? His life running out across the stones.

Legolas’ eyes remained fixed upon him. The fragile, glistening sheen in them made him appear far too young for one his age. A tearing plea surged from their depths as he sought comfort in the certainty that he was not alone while life was slowly draining from him, seeping with his blood.

Legolas was not ashamed of his weakness — he was frightened.

The realization hollowed Gimli’s chest.

“Nay…” he whispered roughly, tightening his grip against the wound as though he could force life to remain by stubborn will alone. “I am here, lad. I am here.”

Suddenly a terrible coughing fit seized Legolas. A horrible sound; ragged, wet with blood, and cruelly lethal. His body convulsed hard beneath Gimli’s hands. Blood stained the Elf’s lips as harsh, broken breaths fought their way from his chest. Gimli felt the shuddering struggle for air and dread tightened coldly within him.

“Easy,” he pleaded under his breath. “Easy now…”

Legolas’ trembling fingers grabbed suddenly Gimli’s wrist, holding with surprising strength despite the weakness overtaking him. Pale grey-blue eyes locked onto his once more, bright now with pain and desperate awareness. They broke Gimli's heart.

He felt his own throat tighten painfully. There was nothing more he could do than to stay by Legolas’ side. They both knew it. So he only held on tighter.

Finally the spasms weakened into shallow, rasping breaths. Beneath Gimli’s blood-slick hands the elf’s heart still raced wildly, straining in a final desperate effort to sustain the failing body. He could feel the frantic rhythm faltering into something uneven and fragile, where once such strength had lived effortlessly within him.

Gimli’s tears flowed freely now, vanishing into his beard and falling unchecked upon the Elf beneath his hands, mingling with the dark crimson staining them both.

“Do not leave me, lad,” he pleaded brokenly. “Please…”

Another cruel attack wracked Legolas. His body jerked violently with the force of it. Dark blood spilled from his lips as each breath tore painfully from his chest. Gimli could do nothing but hold him through it, one hand pressed desperately against the wound while the other tried in vain to steady him against the shaking.

At last the coughing eased. But something in Legolas seemed to falter with it. The strength that had carried him through battle after battle was failing now before Gimli’s eyes. His natural glow was gone. Beneath the cold silver light his face had turned deathly pale, edged with raw pain.

Slowly his gaze found Gimli again.

“Gimli…” The words scarcely rose above a breath. “’m sorry… mellon-nîn…”

His breath caught hard in his throat.

“Tell Estel…” Another shallow breath. “I cannot… hold on… anymore… I tried…”

The words frayed apart weakly between breaths.

A terrible tightness seized Gimli’s chest.

“Nay,” he whispered fiercely at once. “No, you do not speak so. Stay with me.”

But Legolas’ eyes had already lifted beyond him toward the wide heavens above them, where cold stars burned silently beyond the drifting haze of battle. For a moment the strain eased from his features.

It frightened Gimli more than the pain had done.

“Do not…” Legolas whispered faintly, struggling now for every breath. “Do not let guilt… consume ‘im…”

His voice weakened further.

“No regret,” he murmured. “I would… do it again…”

Then, after a long silence broken only by the uneven rasp of his breathing:

“…gratitude… t'you… for staying…”

His eyes slipped closed. A single tear escaped beneath dark lashes and traced silently down the pale curve of his cheek.

Gimli felt the body beneath his hands go suddenly still. The slight flutter against his palm was now barely palpable. The only thing he heard and felt clearly was the broken sound that tore from him before he knew it had left him.

He bent helplessly over his friend, his hands still pressed against the blood-soaked chest, the Elf’s limp fingers resting against his own, as he refused to surrender him to the stillness creeping steadily through him.

Gimli's blurred vision trailed over the plain, where the fight still lingered, distant and muffled to him. — They might even win this battle, but at what price? — The price of losing the friend he had only just found.

In a state of deep sorrow and through tear-veiled eyes, he saw a faint light chase through the valley.

Dashing over the battlefield, it oddly reflected the moonlight; teasing and tender, almost disturbing his eyes in the darkness that dulled his senses, and yet incomprehensibly depressing, catching at his emotions.

As it drew closer, Gimli could distinguish a dark-blue shimmering horse in a stretched gallop — or was it black? — mounted by a slender figure. A silver-glittering coat fluttered in the wind like the sailing wings of a night bird — or a herald of death.

For a moment Gimli thought his grief had begun to unmake his sight. The image seemed surreal. And yet it came directly toward him.

The rider halted the horse in front of the shelter of stone, abruptly cutting off his sight of the battle, and dismounted in a motion that appeared far too heavy, too strained for the gracious form.

Only then did recognition strike him. The Elleth from the Hornburg. The healer.

In his confusion and grief, irritation flared suddenly through him. He remembered too clearly the way Legolas had looked at her upon the walls — attentive in that quiet elven manner Gimli had never fully understood. And now she came out of the darkness as though drawn there by something he could neither understand nor trust.

How did she know? And why now, when all was already lost?

Legolas had slipped away from him.

What a paradox!

How dare she come now? — What cruel purpose?

A bitter anger twisted painfully through him.

“You come late!” he cried hoarsely.

Her strange, elongated eyes flashed toward him, wide with anxiety and sharp with warning, but she did not answer. Instead, she dropped gracelessly to her knees beside Legolas, as though Gimli were no longer there at all.

Her soft luminescence shed a shimmer on the Elf’s still form, making him appear too young and delicate – and broken. Gimli hated her glow in that moment.

He reached for Legolas' hand, which lay abandoned on the blood-dark earth, as though reclaiming his friend from her. He was startled at how cold it felt. He stared at the elleth and what she was doing while he was cradling his elf's hand gently in his own, wishing to warm it. Despite the despair which had turned to anger and which he now flung at the Elleth, he caught himself kindling aught akin to hope — some humans said Elves could do magic.

But as soon as he realized his thought, he resigned.

 What was he doing?

Trying to hold on to an illusion? A human superstition?

It would hurt even more when the narrow bridge of irrational hope inevitably collapsed.

Gimli did not look away. He could not.

Her fingers worked on unlacing Legolas’ tunic, then unceremoniously ripped the fabric apart, revealing the wound.

Something in Gimli’s breath broke sharply at the sight. The damage looked even worse uncovered beneath the pale light — cruel, deep, final.

The Elleth’s hands moved closer — then suddenly recoiled. As though burned.

They trembled and she pressed them into fists with such fierce force that her knuckles turned white. For a moment she simply held them there, as if wrestling something unseen within herself. Then, with visible effort, she released them again.

The shades on her face darkened.

Still her hands shook. Slowly, she placed one palm over Legolas’ chest. Right above the heart. And closed her eyes.

Gimli watched her blankly. He could still not believe, even less accept, what he was witnessing.

What was she doing, why had she come?

To add her despair to his?

To show him his friend was beyond all aid?

To shatter everything, undoing his fragile ray of hope for a wonder?

The thoughts knotted viciously within him.

He wanted to shout at her. Wanted to deny what lay before them. He wanted to have it all unmade, to cry it out for her and all of Arda to hear.

He is meant to be flighty, always in motion—not still.
He is supposed to taunt me, to laugh, to sing…
A green leaf in Fall.
Alive — not dead.

He kept holding Legolas’ hand. Kept watching. But the words would not come.

Instead, the truth that tore through him came out rough and broken:
“He is beyond aid. I felt it… the last faint flutter of his heart beneath my hands.”

His voice cracked.

“Blasted elf,” he burst out suddenly, anguish and fury tearing together inside him. “How dare he leave me like this? The lad is supposed to be immortal!”

“Shhh…”

The elleth’s voice cut through his outburst, quiet but firm, never lifting her hand from Legolas’ chest.

“You know not,” she said. “I am not late.”

And then almost voiceless, "...I cannot be!...”

Tears shimmered within her eyes.

“His heart is still warm,” she breathed. “Still moving… barely… but I can feel it.”

Gimli could not believe what he was hearing; his rational thoughts refused to hold on to a hope that surely would be cruelly broken.

“He has lost too much blood,” he answered raggedly, almost pleading for her to understand what he himself could not bear.

“Elven blood may answer differently than yours,” she replied sharply, though grief trembled visibly beneath the force of her words. “You do not know our kind. We are not the same.”

Then she closed her eyes once more and began to speak in the lilting tongue of the elves. The words sounded strange and aching upon her lips. She repeated them over and over again, the tone of her voice coarse and raw as she commanded and implored. Her hand on Legolas' chest trembled even more.

When at last she opened her eyes again, she looked only at him. Her tears then fell, following the shallow shades of grief and leaving glittering traces on her pale amber cheeks.

For one brief, stolen moment she touched Legolas’ face with unsteady fingers, brushing softly across his cheek as though the gesture itself pained her.

Gimli could not help but notice, if only for an instant, how heartbreakingly soft the gesture appeared. He could not look away. There was something ancient and deeply sorrowful in it, something he could neither understand nor name.

Then abruptly she moved. With surprising strength, she gathered Legolas into her arms.

“He comes with me,” she said. Not loudly. But final.

Her dark eyes lifted toward Gimli, steady despite the tears within them.

“I will keep his heart warm.”

Her horse lay down beside her as if it understood the weight of what was being asked. Carefully, she lifted Legolas onto its back and mounted behind him, holding him close against her.

Then the horse rose. And turned away.

With unblinking eyes, Gimli followed the faint reflection of moonlight — the dark-blue horse with the fluttering wings of her coat — as it swiftly bore her away over the plain, taking with it his precious elf.

He might never see his friend again. That was the only thought he managed to form. And as they vanished, his hurting heart yearned for blankness and void, the only release he could fathom.

Aragorn fought relentlessly, with no way of reaching his friends anytime soon. Wherever he looked, there were Uruks around him.

Vengeance and bloodlust possessed his mind. One brutal strike following the next, he felled foe after foe. Until, after a long, dazzling outburst of unrestrained rage, he found himself standing alone, surrounded by foul bodies felled by his sword, his rushed breath heaving from rage and exertion. The lingering combat suddenly seemed an event he had no part in. The hard clashes of metal, the sinister snarls of vile beasts, the screams of the dying, and all the sounds battle carried with it were blocked from his senses. All he could think of and yearned for was to reach his companions. The worry and deep sorrow for his wounded friend he had left with Gimli now crushed down upon him with nagging guilt.

Legolas had done it again! He had saved him, ready to sacrifice his own life.

As he hurried towards the shelter, Aragorn feared the state in which he would find the elf. His feet carried him to the outcrop of stone where he nearly stumbled over an utterly shattered Gimli kneeling on the floor beside a pool of blood.

"Gimli! Where is he?!" he shouted at the dwarf, falling to his knees his trembling hand brushing the blood-soaked earth, the coppery scent assailing his senses. For a moment, Aragorn could not breathe.

"Talk to me!" he harshly commanded the shattered dwarf.

Staring obstinately at the ground, Gimli stammered: "The blood...'t was flowing with every beat...I-I've tried… but 't would not stop... flooding incessantly beneath my hand...”

At that point, a sob cut his voice off.

Aragorn’s heart twisted at the devastating truth in Gimli’s words.

This insidious fight had forced him away from his friend. He had left his side — and eventually left him to die. — And now...even his body had been taken from him.

The very thought that those foul beasts had taken Legolas' body was destroying him. — They might not even leave him whole. — He knew how much the dark creatures hated the elves.

And yet something in him stubbornly refused to believe that Legolas was dead. Despite all the respect he had for Gimli, Aragorn rejected the dwarf’s words. Until he saw it with his own eyes, until he did not feel the stillness under his own hands... it was simply too painful to accept. They had gone through too much together for it to end like this.

"I told you not to leave him, no matter what!" He flung the words at the dwarf in despair.

But then he realized how utterly broken Gimli looked. Aragorn had never seen him this way; a bundle slumped to the ground, his hanging head buried in stout, yet quivering hands.

Aragorn suddenly regretted his biting words. After all, Legolas was much dearer to Gimli than the Dwarf would ever admit.

Aragorn moved close to his friend, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I am sorry Gimli," he whispered.

Gimli kept his head bent, "Sh—She 's taken 'im away..." he rasped.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes, trying to grasp what Gimli meant. He cupped Gimli’s face in both hands, forcing the Dwarf to meet his eyes. What he saw in the his stare was highly unsettling. The brown, beady eyes were shining wet and looked startlingly vacant.

"Gimli, look at me!" he urged, holding the Dwarf’s face firmly.

"Who is she?" he asked, gentler this time.

Gimli shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as though struggling to remember.

"She...she came…on a black horse — and their glow…it was odd…it was starkly depressing." He described what he had seen, then opened his eyes and frowned at Aragorn as though he scarcely believed his own words.

"It is all wrong! Please tell me this is merely a dream, a nightmare, and I will wake up — …That strange glow was all around them and yet, no Uruks harmed 'em, nor seemed to notice. She attracted not one of the beasts; their glow was... almost dark. This cannot be real! 'm going mad, Aragorn!"

"Mîaddar," it dawned on Aragorn, "The healer we saw on the Hornburg! You are not mad, Gimli!"

Aragorn felt a flicker of hope as he imagined what must have happened.

"…They do not see. The horse shimmers with what the Sirith, the elves of the South, left behind as a hope for all good things upon these shores. Evil eyes do not see it. And it hides its rider and all that is not meant to be seen behind it. That's what they say. And there is grief concerning their sailing woven deep into those two beings, perhaps that's why the glow appeared to you gloomy and dim."

Gimli frowned, still not daring to hope. "His heart ceased beating before she came. Look at the blood-drenched earth..." His gaze fell once more to the stained ground.

"How can she say he's not dead? 'Promised she will keep his heart warm. And then the horse carried 'em away. Why is she speakin' foolishness, playin' with my hope?"

"She did not come late…" Aragorn whispered absently, as if to himself. Now he began to understand Legolas' words earlier that night…

His gaze met Gimli's confused, questioning one. His heart was lightening slightly, holding onto the thin thread of hope, true to the name he bore.

“Gimli,” he said quietly, as much for himself as for the dwarf, "Do not lose faith, my stout friend!"

Gimli was still faltering, "She was distressed, Aragorn, and dark were her features," he retorted.

Aragorn looked straight at Gimli, crushing down his own nagging doubts before they could take hold. Because if there remained the slightest shard of hope that Legolas would live, he would seize it.

"She cannot be certain. She is a living creature with feelings like you and I. She is not infallible. And she possesses the wisdom to know that. She knows not if she can keep him alive, but it seems that she has hope. As should we."

"Elves!" Gimli exclaimed, "Who understands them? Odd sprites that they are!"

Suddenly Gimli threw himself into Aragorn’s arms. Then pulled back to look up at him with the slightest spark of hope dancing hesitantly across his face.

"I pray you are right, my friend, and our princeling will wake up facing this strange creature, he probably considers pretty... I have seen how he looked at her… this lucky Elf! Little rascal!" Gimli grunted, more to comfort himself than anything else. He was trying a smile behind welling tears, and struggling hard to turn sobs into chuckles.

The pain still restricted Aragorn's throat, because despite his words of comfort fear at that moment was still far stronger than hope.

Chapter Text

She charged over the plain, leaving the cruel sounds of battle behind, flying over the land, aware of nought else but the broken body of the elf she held close. The wind tugged at the rider and her still burden, blowing strands of his pale gold hair across her face.

The wind…a raw power easily shifting. It could be softly caressing, soothing and calming, playfully teasing or singing of freedom. It could angrily unleash its fury in a storm. And if never before she had feared it, now she did. She feared its cold bite, feared the chill that was slowly spreading within her.

The blood was now barely a trickle from the wound, due to the too weak life-flutter. She desperately strained to gather all the warmth from her own body and the close connection with her horse, forcing the heat to stream through her hand, driving it into Legolas' heart. The moonlight illuminated both rider and horse as if wanting to aid in generating more of the reviving life-essence.

She rode without rest, the stars guiding her. To where, she knew not.

She was exposed to the mercy of the wind and jostled by frantic urgency. She yearned to reach the wood with the great, ancient trees. Fangorn Forest. Mîaddar needed its quiet comfort, its wisdom, its strong, living energy. And yet she knew that the elf in her arms would not last the long ride. His life would inevitably slip from her grasp, snatched from her hands by the wind's constant bite.

She struggled to keep her course, searching within for a steadying anchor.

She imagined the forest appearing in her sight, waiting for them, and finally receiving them into its comforting embrace. The trees would part for them, welcoming them into the wood's heart and protection.

The night was always dark under the thick canopy of leaves. The forest, which had become home to her, bore a heavy weight. But the trees would hum the melody of the wind and the sun above them, and their song would disperse the darkness.

They would reach her tree. The tree she had chosen–or had the tree chosen to be hers?–that day, all those years past, when Fangorn Forest had first welcomed her after she had left Imladris with new hope in her heart, and a rediscovered meaning of life.

That day, a lone elf had entered a mighty forest, overwhelmed by the beauty it preserved, despite the evil creeping and growing around it, awakening the memory of her own, distant home, where the trees silently guarded the hope of growth and life, resisting destruction, mourning with them, yet offering solace.

The wood was deeply hurt. She could ever sense it speaking to her heart, mirroring her own aching soul. It was carrying grief and sorrow, and yet it was living, breathing, growing, and singing its ancient song.

That day, after wandering for hours between broad trunks that whispered quiet songs to her, soothing her resurged homesickness, she had finally allowed her body to drop down, exhausted, onto the roots of a mighty tree. She had embraced its gnarled trunk in gratitude, feeling a deep connection with the life inside it. She had felt the life energy flowing from deep in the earth, channelled by the old, twisted roots, into her body clinging to the bark. She had been one with the tree as if they were melted together by this power that flowed and flowed through them, soaring into the wide sky.

The tree's topmost branches reached out to receive the light of the moon and the stars. Every leaf drank its fill until the light coalesced and flowed into every branch, filling the trunk, and her body embraced the bark. It flowed further along the roots, running deeply into the earth.

That day, she had felt her profound connection to life through this steadfast, living creature, and it had become her source of strength from then on, the tree's roots keeping her linked to the land. Its boughs and branches grew into vaulted and twisted forms over the years, keeping her close.

Moved by deep love, her heart sang of her tree.

~.~.~

The tree is gentle to me.

She gathers the moonlight and the glitter of stars.

I can see her shining softly even in daytime under the shade of the canopy.

She keeps the light she drinks during clear nights, to give it to me.

She knows that I need it.

Her light heals my aching heart and preserves my ability to heal other beings of this plagued land.

I believe the moon and the stars know, for they offer their light every cloudless night.

The tree is so gentle to me.

~.~.~

She yearned for it so desperately that in her mind, her tree appeared. Familiar for its glowing shape among many other trunks. Mîaddar sought to absorb its light, even from far, for it gave hope to her hurting heart. She strongly believed that it would warm the heart of any who could see it. But they were so far from her home. And Legolas' eyes were closed. Therefore, Mîaddar's hand radiated the light directly into his heart.

And then, as if in a dream, as she rushed down the hill, on the bank of a shallow stream, appeared the weeping willow. Mîaddar had known of the lonesome tree. Several times before, she had ridden past it. Yet never had the elleth dared to approach. She could not bear the sorrow the great willow-tree awoke in her, so lonely and abandoned in a place where endless hills and grass built the landscape. The tree had silently implored her from afar, but never had Mîaddar stopped in her ride to visit.

The willow's boughs were bent to the earth and water as if carrying an enormous weight. Her innumerable long leaves shimmered like falling tears. But that night, the tree glowed in Mîaddar's eyes, warm and inviting. And it called her, softly and hesitantly, but hopefully, it called her.

And Mîaddar answered. Endlessly grateful for the willow's generous offering, she answered.

For the first time in many long years since she crossed these lands, she reached the tree and entered its shelter while the willow's hanging branches eagerly caressed the slight shape of the elleth.

Mîaddar dismounted Caladdolen, gently pulling Legolas down with her. The elf was limp and heavy in her arms, and yet alarmingly frail. She carefully laid him down under the tree's bent boughs, never withdrawing her hand. There was no pulse where her hand lay pressed flat over pale skin, only stillness —no true beat—only the faintest, irregular quiver deep beneath, as if the heart could not decide whether to return or let go. She feared he would slip away to where she could not reach, so she held on to him.

Hold him...hold him...hold him! Do not let him leave! Her heart screamed.

But then she realized with a sigh of relief that the nightly wind did not reach through the curtain of leaves.

She remembered words as if engraved in her memory:

He had said, "In the course of your life, you might accomplish things close to wonders. But you have to hope against reason, to want it with every fibre of your being, to wish it against all sanity. Then it may happen. You would call it a wonder, aught on the brink of the impossible."

She had been confused then. Everything had been too much for her.

They were about to leave. She would be abandoned to the darkness they needed to flee, and to herself.

He gave his all to prepare her for what she might face, to teach her everything he knew, and even speak of what he knew not. They worked incessantly during those last nights and days. The devastation was endless. They did not need to go and search for the wounded. They were brought to them in scores.

Dire were the times.

Warriors died under their care, regardless, they died despite their labour. They grieved. And still, they worked. And people were healed because of their unceasing efforts.

"Never resign, hope against reason, wish against sanity, trust your hands and your skills. Praise the potent properties of the plants offering their healing treasures. Wherever you are, you know how to find all you need. I have taught you. The woods grant us what we require for healing. Never give in. You are a healer. Wonders are possible. And never underestimate the strength of an elven body."

It had been too much for her then.

She remembered their last hours together.

She remembered her people.

She remembered her family.

She remembered the last time she looked into the deep black eyes of her father, which were so much like hers.

She remembered the last glimpse she caught of his long hair, the color of a raven's wing, before he disappeared into the thickness of the wood, leaving it behind, leaving her behind. And her loving Nana, who had sung her the lullabies of her childhood when she could not sleep in the nights when they had lost too many lives. She was leaving with him.

She could not forget the tears trembling in her little ones' eyes when she had kissed their soft infants' cheeks, the sounds of their crying and their tear-streaked faces looking back at her, as they were pulled gently along. The eldest was clinging to her mother's hand, and the two younger ones were led by the strong, secure hands of her father.

Her heart shattered.

It had been too much for her then. And she knew it had been too much for him.

Perhaps he had accepted her decision because, in a way, she made up for their abandoning the lands.

But she knew it broke his heart. And it broke her heart.

And somehow, she resented him.

It was too much for her, and his words were still confusing.

Mîaddar unrolled her surgery kit, laying out the gleaming utensils on clean cloth. Without hesitation, she snatched a small dagger and cut the bloodstained clothes from Legolas' injured torso. She struggled, but her healer's mind, used to working rationally in the healing art, won against her distress, assessing the damage.

The knife had struck a deep gash that went close to the heart. Important blood vessels had been severed.

The trickle of blood from the wound had ceased. The elleth knew too well what it meant, and she knew that hope would diminish with every missed heartbeat. She was running out of time.

He could just slip away. Too fast. Too far.

She had told the dwarf that she was not late, that the elf was not dead, that the short being knew nothing at all. But now, as she beheld Legolas' blue-tinged lips, Miaddar knew not if she had foolishly spoken out of mere desperate and irrational desire.

Yet the willow above them did not weep as she expected it to. She glowed.

She did not know how, but eventually, Mîaddar managed to keep her fingers steady. Her mind was blurred as if in a haze, and her hands worked all by themselves.

She thought of her father, of all the lives they had saved and about his words, about all he had taught her.

And so she worked swiftly, suppressing the doubts and the fearful trembling in her fingers which threatened to hinder her. She worked without rest, bringing to use the potent effects of plants and herbs. She fought against time. Her fingers worked deftly and with surety, although her emotions were far from that. Fear and despair gnawed at her, accompanied by an unbearable longing to see light and life in those unbelievable eyes that reminded her of the ocean's breeze.

They could not remain shut forever. They simply could not!

Anxiously, she placed her fingertips on the main arteries at his throat, then his wrist and his groin, waiting, feeling, holding her breath until her throat hurt and she could barely swallow. The small came with incredible relief, as hope swept her. She gasped for air as her lungs reminded her that she still needed it. It had worked; she had done it right, the herbs' abilities had not deceived her. There was a pressure building within the veins—uneven, faltering, as though the flow resisted its own return. But slowly the threads close to the skin became visible, palpable as they swelled.

'Never underestimate the strength of an elven body,' he had said.

She had been told that it was possible to bring back the beat to an elven heart that had been still for so long. She remembered her father telling her of it. But to her, those had been stories edging to miracles, merely tales, not from this world, not real.

'You have to hope against reason,' he had said.

Maybe the power to accomplish such was hidden somewhere within her. But doubts and fear still clung to her heart and painfully pressed her throat closed from within.

Swallow. Breathe. She told herself, and in her mind it was the voice of her father.

She laid her hand over Legolas' heart once more, channelling all the warmth she could gather, until she trembled with exertion. And it seemed to her that the willow with its shimmering silvery leaves collected the light from the moon and the stars for them, aiding her, willing him to live.

But his heart was not responding.

Silent and still, he was—too still—his chest unmoving for long, dreadful stretches before a faint, shallow pull broke the stillness again.

"Legolas", she begged, "Come back to life!" Her voice was a thin thread, her emotions crushing her, the lump in her throat choking her.

Hope against reason!...

...Wish against all sanity!

Tears spilled from her eyes, falling onto Legolas' too pale face and chest.

Lost in her grief, she spoke to the silent heart, begging it to tell her what it needed to beat again. And then something happened that caught her attention. Legolas' almost translucent skin, where it was wet from her tears, glittered faintly, and the gleaming particles seemed to permeate through it.

Hope flared for a breath, enough to lend strength to her fëa to reach deep into Legolas'.

And then—beneath her hands—his heart fluttered, faint and unsteady, a fragile motion that threatened to vanish as soon as it came.

Was she losing her sanity?

She began to see...

Legolas' eyes shining—bright, clear and full of life. His easy smile radiated peace. He stood amidst a gathering of Kin and comrades, joy encircling him.

...There was Estel, beside the twins, Elladan and Elrohir. Lord Elrond himself stood near, noble and serene. Behind them, a great waterfall foamed, the constant rushing underlining the music of Imladris.

...Under a broad, age-old oak, appeared a tall, mighty elf whose presence seemed to draw the light. His hair flowed like white gold down his back, cascading to his waist. His countenance was stern, regal, yet his features bore a striking beauty. Upon his brow rested a crown of leaves, blossoms, and twisting vines—she saw the splendid King of the forest.

And he embraced Legolas with fierce tenderness. In his steel-blue eyes blazed a love ancient and immutable. A father. The blood-bond between them shone unmistakable.

Visions flooded her senses.

She saw Legolas in the freedom of youth, thundering across grassy glades on wild chases, flanked by two companions. Young elven warriors, armed with long bows, their voices raised in laughter, sharp with good-natured jesting. Mirth danced across their faces like light through leaves.

She saw him high in the canopy, agile as a squirrel, leaping effortlessly from bough to bough. His song drifted through the branches—soft, lilting, a little rough with joy. His laughter rang out, bright and free, like the laughter of a child.

He was alive, vibrant and untamed. Not still—never still.

Beneath her hand, his body answered in fragile echoes—shallow breaths, uneven, catching—as if each one had to be fought for.

He brimmed with life. Not lost. Not gone.

And there was more.

...the wood—his beloved home—its beauty marred by the slow creep of shadow, its glades veiled in spider silk...

...elven eyes darkened by sorrow, yet unbowed...

...warriors of the forest standing firm, a silent wall of will against the encroaching dark...

...battle-born and resolute, their spirits fierce and wild...

...brothers in arms, fighting in silence, blood and bark and starlight on their skin...

She saw them—sleek forms flitting between the trees, silent, unseen and deadly.

And at their forefront: Legolas, their captain.

His fey, agile body inducing grace and terror. His pale gold hair a banner in the twilight, his movements war-wrought in lethally sharp beauty.

His eyes blazed with an unyielding flame.

She saw strength. Loyalty. Compassion. Hope. The fire of endurance and the grace of mercy.

He was loved. Honoured. Remembered. Needed.

But something held him. Something unseen. A shadow wrapped around his spirit.

Mîaddar's breath came ragged as she leaned closer, her hand pressed firmly against his chest. She let her own fëa reach for his, threading her will into the weave of the world. With every heartbeat, she poured into him all the warmth, all the light, all the life she could summon.

He had to return.

He had faced countless perils—he had won so many battles.

He could not lose this one.

And there, his heart revealed to her the pain.

Not the pain born of wounds struck in battle, nor the burden carried by a captain leading his people through strife. Not the sorrow of lost comrades, nor the aching absence of his mother.

Those injuries were carefully guarded—sealed within the sanctuary of memory, alongside precious moments cherished like jewels: victories hard-won, laughter shared with dear friends now gone, the wood he loved, where trees and elves lived in perfect harmony, when the forest still sang a song whole and bright, memories of his beloved family, his mother…

No—this was a different pain.

A cruel and terrible torment.

She saw dreadful scenes—the countless abuses inflicted upon him by creatures vile and unrelenting.

She beheld the coldness and fierce pride in his eyes—the shield he raised against their cruelty, unyielding and defiant, refusing to break beneath their torment.

She had witnessed pain before, through her long life—countless sorrows and suffering beyond reckoning—but these visions struck her with a violence unforeseen. One horror chased the next without mercy.

The relentless visions gripped her, and she could not withdraw. She was forced to witness the elf's fierce endurance, pushed to the limits of spirit and flesh.

She saw fear flicker alongside weariness in eyes that had borne too much.

How could he be so achingly vulnerable—and yet so unbreakably strong?

There lay the vulnerability she had glimpsed before, hidden deep within those endless grey-blue depths. Now it bared itself to her in brutal, vivid clarity. She had no choice, no escape. If she withdrew her hand, he would perish.

She would not allow that.

She had reached into his heart—and it lay bare before her, dragging her into its secret, shadowed depths.

She saw Legolas, slightly younger, his unyielding will flickering fiercely in his eyes. Held fast by men, his body already bruised and bleeding. The way they looked upon him filled Mîaddar with a heavy unease.

She had seen enough—desperately, she tried to push the visions away, refusing to endure more.

Her mind screamed.

The willow sang a song of grief.

He had endured torments beyond what an elf was meant to survive. Were it not for Elrond's healing touch, the tender care of kin and friends, and his own staggering strength, he would have perished long ago.

But Eru Ilúvatar had sent him a healer unmatched in Middle-earth, gifted him with boundless love and care, and endowed him with a stubborn, unyielding resilience.

He had endured. He had survived. And with the aid of a very special human named Hope, he had healed.

But how could a wound so deep ever truly close without leaving its mark? He would carry it—hidden far inside—through endless ages.

And now, weakened and vulnerable once more, that ancient scar resurfaced, hindering his fight to hold onto life.

…And she saw it.

The cold pride in his grey eyes giving way to raw, trembling fear…

The rough, filthy hands tracing against fair, unblemished skin…

Despair and horror edging his once-smooth features.

She was shaking with rage and revulsion.

Legolas' pain pulsed from the depths of his heart, flowing through her hand pressed upon his chest, piercing her own heart in turn.

She could not bear it, but the visions would not relent.

Under her hand his heart stuttered, reacting to what she saw—each surge of pain threatening to drag it back into stillness.

She saw Legolas' eyes glazed with unbearable pain and unshed tears, mirroring the terrified cries he refused to reveal. She felt the shame consuming him—shame born of a perceived weakness he could not accept.

Her heart shattered, bursting into a myriad of pieces.

Mîaddar wept as she had not in many years, her whole body shuddering with deep sobs, while the sickening images would not release her.

She longed to stop the cruelty. To reach him in that dark, forsaken place, and draw him away from the agony.

Her will burned so fiercely it pulled her there.

Legolas' liquid blue eyes locked with her endless black depths, full of disbelief and despair, before closing in shame, as if to shut her out, to send her away.

She felt she had trespassed upon a forbidden place, one never meant for her eyes or heart to witness—Yet still, his chest arched beneath her hand, as if desperate for the contact that tethered him to life.

She pulled him with her, escaping the nightmare to return to the waking world.

And then — there — a pulse—still weak, still unsteady—but undeniably there.

A flood of overwhelming emotion swept her, washing over her body and soul, filling her with renewed strength and hope.

Her tears still flowed freely, but now they were tears of relief and deep, abiding gratitude.

And above them, the weeping willow glowed—while beneath its shelter, the elf’s fragile breath still faltered, held only by her will.

Chapter Text

Once more, she was waiting behind walls while she had longed to ride alongside the warriors, sword in hand, ready to fight for her people, Rohan and Middle-earth. She was more than capable, and she knew that they knew it too. Yet, they did not allow her to show it. The wind on the wall tugged at her long dress and blew wayward strands of hair across her delicate face. Her long, fair mane lashed furiously behind her. Éowyn stared out into the night over the wide plain, her eyes in the moonlight bearing a watery shine, moist from the biting winds or maybe owed to her strong emotions.

Waiting was torturous to her every time.

They would fight. Adrenaline would shoot through their veins. They would prevail or they would fall. But she was forced to wait in unrest every time. She was forced to see them return at times wounded, or not return at all. She was exposed to painful uncertainty, her heart troubled, about to burst. And she could do nothing–nothing at all; caged in waiting until they returned, hopefully easing her heart by being whole and victorious.

And so, as she spotted the men approaching the wall, her gaze sought the shape of Éomer, and her heart eased at the sight of her brother, and as she recognized even Aragorn, relief filled her. She rushed down to the gate to receive the returning party.

But as she saw them close, she realized that they had indeed fought. Some of the men were injured, albeit riding on their own horses. Aragorn gave her a curt nod. His grey eyes were not bright at that moment, but dark. He appeared worn down and dishevelled. And behind him on the horse sat the dwarf, a heavy air about him, eyes dull and spent. Arod followed alone, a horse without his rider.

Éowyn stared in shock.

And so it happened once more that one did not return. She had barely known the elf, and yet his absence hit her like a blow. It was as if the party, despite the men's weariness, had ridden out with strength and confidence, a strange steady light among them, and now returned in darkness.

Mîaddar lifted her gaze to the sky. The soft light of dawn gently seeped through the density of falling twigs adorned with flowing leaves.

'She cries with me,' the elleth realized.

She had never found the heart to greet the tree before. So young, compared to the gnarled, ancient giants of Fangorn Forest, the lone creature had appeared to her fragile and lost and reminded her of aught she preferred to suppress. Never had the elleth guessed what one day she would accomplish with its support, and how those hanging leaves would not mourn but rejoice with radiating strength, soothing her grief. And she felt safely cradled even more.

The night was warm under the comforting embrace of the weeping willow tree embracing her from above. The wind had stilled. Instead, her ears were filled with the soft sound of the elf's breathing.

She smiled amid her tears and hummed her song of gratitude beneath the willow's leaves.

'It is not I who accomplished this wonder,' the elleth silently whispered to the heights. 'I could never have done it on my own, if not by the grace of the Valar and the help of the weeping willow, and Legolas' own, stubborn strength.'

What she had seen in that last vision's cold, cruel place, she wanted to forget.

Patiently, she waited for Legolas to wake. Basking in the feeling of his now warm skin beneath her hand, the rise and fall against her palm, soaking in the sight of his pale, even features, now resplendent with a natural glow.

Legolas' eyelids blinked as consciousness slowly returned. He felt heavy and exhausted. There was pain, he noticed, but something kept it at bay. Something warm rested over his heart, steady and grounding, its presence spreading through him. The feeling was strong and real. Legolas' hands instinctively moved up to find the source. He opened his eyes, blinking into the dancing morning light. He breathed and allowed himself some time to adjust to the brightness, and then, squinting again, he tried to focus.

The quiet, low light of an awakening sun shimmered through gleaming leaves all around him. He flinched as long black eyes looked back at him. His dense eyelashes fluttered several times in utter surprise, trying to clear his blurred vision, unsure if he was not dreaming or dead. They stared at each other.

"Mîaddar–?" he whispered in confusion, "...Where am I?–...What happened?–...Are you–...real?" He frowned, his voice raw from disuse, grated in his throat.

A glint of mirth lit Mîaddar's eyes, and a shy sparkle flitted through their darkness.

"Oh yes, I am very real!–And yes, it is I," she said.

Warmth smoothed her slightly hoarse voice.

"We are under a lonely willow on Rohan's hills, Legolas. I have brought you here in dire conditions. Your heart was silent for too long…I have feared–"

Her breath stuttered, and her voice broke. She lifted her eyes as if taking in the shivering leaves above them. And then she reached out a hand to touch a close willow bough. There was a melody, soft and trembling, that Legolas couldn't discern if it came from her or the leaves all around them.

"This lonely tree–" Mîaddar breathed into the softness of their song, "She has sustained us through it all."

The melody soughed through the branches and leaves, sad and lovely, expectant and hopeful. Her full lips twitched to a soft smile, bringing a sheen to her eyes. She tipped something to his lips, and Legolas nipped at it absentmindedly. The fresh trickling of water down his parched throat swept him out of his reverie. He swallowed greedily, wanting more. But the elleth allowed him only small sips.

Pain flared, but he focused again on her warm, ambered face, drifting. He remembered those kohl-rimmed eyes behind the veil, ones he had forcefully banished from his mind.

Those eyes–dark, unknown yet knowing, piercing, shrouded in blackness, protecting the depth of her soul.

Realization struck! – His dream…she knew!

And now she was here, and she was real!

He had believed that the apparition in the red tent had been an illusion brought about by the magic of the desert night. A stolen fantasy to ever remember the desert by. But now he guessed that what he had thought a mere dream had been anything but.

Yet reality felt like an abstract construct in his hazy state, where dream, past and present all intertwined, and strangely kept the pain somehow away.

He had lain there at the time, bare and yearning, and her intense gaze had stirred him willingly, bringing about sweet pleasure. It had felt so natural, so right.

Legolas stared up at her, momentarily stilled.

He clutched her hand and pressed it harder to him, as if fearing she could disappear like that night in the desert, vanishing into a dream. He inhaled deeply, absorbing the gentle pressure.

Fully aware of how he lay before her again, a suppressed longing unravelled, his breathing quickened, her nearness sending a quiet thrill through him.

The willow above them went completely still as if holding her breath.

With one hand, he held on to hers, and with the other, he reached out, his fingertips barely brushing her cheek. She stared at him with those eyes, wide like in that night in the desert. He buried his fingers into the dark locks at the base of her neck. He felt the shudder shaking her, and in the black depths of her eyes, he recognized the same flicker as the one of the candle in the red tent.

She did not pull back, but she hesitated, resisted, and lowered her eyes, an almost fearful expression on her face.

"No," she spoke weakly as her eyes tentatively sought his again, "It is not allowed–" her breath caught slight.

Legolas' brow furrowed in confusion, the unleashed longing causing his hand cupping her slim neck to tremble.

"I–" she stammered.

"As much as I wish...forbidden it is! I am a healer, and you are under my care. I cannot–" She shook her head, eyes cast to the ground between them, as if in shame.

"I cannot...take advantage of that..." she pressed out, voice hushed to a whisper. "And you are recovering from grave injury...your body needs rest...and..." she trailed off as if for some reason she could not continue.

He could have pulled her down towards him until their sighs mingled, until their lips gently touched. Could have quenched the need painfully searing his throat and tightening his groin.

He did not.

His hand slid from her locks. And he saw the faint movement of her throat as she swallowed, the sheen in her eyes turned moist, and her full lips trembled.

And then it all crashed down on him, as he remembered the recent events; the knife thrust into his chest, the slashing pain, the struggle his body had put him through; trying to hold on, not to leave his friends. He remembered his last thoughts before passing out.

And from there, in a tangled spiral, confusing pieces of visions and feelings of harrowing memories pushed their way into his mind, awakening a dread and shame. He recalled hands of men, rude and demanding, their rushed breathing, too close, too harsh—the pungent scent of sweat—

He had buried it all, locked it away long ago.

It could not reemerge! He would not allow this to affect him once more!

But now, unbidden, her eyes had pried the forbidden images.

His fingers curled into the grass beneath him.

How dare she!

In an uncontrolled reflex, he shrugged her hand away, jerking back as far as possible in his prone position. He glared at her as something searing assailed him from within. Anguish and the pain of the wound suddenly coiled in his chest. Tears shot into his eyes, stinging as he refused to release them.

Through his blurred vision, he saw her freeze, her full lips parted in a fearful gasp.

His breath hitched—a thin strangled sound broke from him, and he pressed his eyes closed. He wanted to forget!

He remained like this, eyes forcefully shut, his breathing harsh and laboured. His chest barely seemed to release the air again. Dizziness overcame him, and a consuming agony flared beneath his wound. His heart thundered in his ears. He was completely out of control, terrifying emotions taking hold. And at the same time, he felt miserable about rejecting her in such a manner. None of this was her fault.

He had to regain control!

As he forced his eyes open, the sight of her hit him.

She had recoiled, her back pressed to the trunk of the tree, her hands gripping the roots at its base, knuckles turned white from the strain. She struggled to keep her balance, her eyes wide open and staring. A wild blend of sorrow, insecurity and dread glistened moistly upon their blackness.

Like a cornered animal, frozen between flight and collapse.

The thought pierced him, almost detached from the turmoil he felt within.

Cornered, and frozen with fear.

Intermingling with his tedious heaving, he heard her silent, restrained, but quick breathing.

She shook her head in fear, urgently.

"Don't," the elleth gasped, "Please breathe slowly!"

He saw how she trembled.

Legolas struggled to calm down. But he failed. The ache in his chest was now nearly unbearable.

This should not have happened!

It had once been a dream. Untainted desire, pure and delightful.

But now a shadow had descended upon it.

Why had she dug so deep?

And yet, if she had not…What would have happened?

Caught in his emotional turmoil, the agony of his wounds and the dizziness of blood loss, Legolas suddenly saw the elleth get closer. As much as he despised it, he could not avoid his body's reflex to tense.

Mîaddar froze, but she did not hunch back into the trunk's protection again.

He warily followed the movement of her shaking hand as she picked up the waterskin lying between the roots of the weeping tree before she hesitantly resumed her approach.

"Please," she pleaded, "Drink! You need it."

At first, she stayed still, staring at him, as if awaiting a harsh reaction. But then came close and gently helped him hold his head up.

He let it happen.

Dizziness and nausea washed over him once more, and he was too depleted to hold any consistent thoughts.

She touched the tip of the waterskin to his lips, and reflexively, he swallowed, his throat working weakly, slowly sipping the pure, reviving liquid. He longed for water–more water!–and she seemed relieved for every drop he accepted from her. Her gaze changed from terrified to concerned, and–...almost bright with hope.

As she lowered him back down, his muscles stiffened, painfully so, and his breathing was difficult to keep in check. He was fighting hard against the torrent of emotions that threatened to flare and engulf him again.

She had to get away. He needed rest. He seemed not to find it when she was near.

What had she done?

It had been a dream, the soft caress in a red tent...her eyes and the light of a candle playing on sleek muscles. Fluid motions, beautiful and bare before her.

It now all burst like a bubble of soap in the air. She dared not touch him again–not even with healer's hands, afraid of defiling the magic that had once happened between them.

His rejection burned her. It hurt! As did the wild thumping of his heart, painfully refusing her.

Like a searing sting piercing her spirit, flared the image of flickering torchlight in a dark place, a cruel game of fire and shades on sleek skin. Tight sinews twitching with pain and shame. She had violated a secret never meant for her to see, had meddled in things forbidden.

But had there been any other choice?–The alternative would have been unbearable.

His biting reaction unsettled her.

Too soon, he would leave. He needed to rest for what lay ahead.

It hurt her immensely that where once she had brought delight and received pure beauty and passion, she now triggered shame and dread. It was hard to accept.

Her hand hovered in the air between them—then stilled.

Even in his hazy state, Legolas noted that the elleth near him was now intensely shivering. And then, almost hastily, like a haunted deer, she fled behind the trunk of the willow.

The tree above him reached out to him, weeping, her leaves all around him. The feeling caressed his senses, and his keen hearing caught the familiar trickle of a small stream. He waited breathlessly, but she did not return.

What was she doing?

She seemed to play with the water, diverting its natural course. The soft, fresh, springing sound finally calmed him and gently sung him into sleep.

She tried to busy herself, sort her emotions, channel her actions.

Behind the trunk of the willow, she held her hands into the chilly clear water-stream. She cupped her hands and brought the cold water up to her face, letting it trickle over her eyes and down her cheeks, repeating the procedure again and again, not wanting to cease, as if to wash away what she had seen. The water refreshed and soothed her.

When Mîaddar returned, she saw that he had fallen asleep. She was relieved.

He was exhausted. He was sleeping with his eyes closed. A hand near his injury rested over his heart, as if to protect it.

She watched him silently, following the play of the sun through the leaves on shaped, supple muscles. The lines of his face looked now strikingly smooth, almost angelic. The fine beams of sunlight caressed him gently as if all the torment of before had never taken control. His hair lay sprawled on the floor in a bright halo, accentuating the fair, peaceful image.

But still, the elleth was perturbed. She was insecure.

His intense reaction had caused his heart rate to increase in a way that made her fear it could affect his recovery. She dared not touch him, but she found no peace. Mîaddar was beyond exhausted, and yet she watched him closely, surveying his breathing motions.

Finally, she took courage. Softly lifting his hand from where he held it, she slipped her own hand under his–careful not to wake him–until it came to rest on his heart. The beat was strong—but not yet steady, still uneven beneath her hand. The deep, thrumming pulse carrying an elf through centuries and millennia. It was reassuring. It calmed her. And Mîaddar allowed herself to lie down and slowly drift into sleep, her hand shielding the life quivering beneath it. And on top lay the warm, calloused hand of the warrior.

The day had reached its peak when Legolas slowly blinked and found himself lying beside her. She was asleep, close to him. His wound ached dully.

He felt something else. Something warm on his chest. There lay her hand again, relaxed, over his heart, and unaware, he had held it to him.

He realized how much his body's strong reaction must have terrified her. She had been monitoring, she had been worried. She had not trusted his strength.

Legolas felt a shiver of tenderness. The tension eased—but did not fully leave him as he watched her peacefully sleeping.

And yet, he had to come to terms with the fact that she had seen, as much as he wished he could undo it.

As he shifted and released her hand, her eyes blinked, struggling to focus. For a short breath, the elleth seemed alarmed. Her eyes shot wide open, and she softly gasped.

"Worry not, I am alive," Legolas said. His voice low, as if to soothe a frightened child.

He turned to his side, regarding her. She blinked again. The confusion was apparent on her face. She pushed herself up on her arms, warily putting some distance between them.

She attempted a smile, cautious and hesitant, and then she turned serious.

"You have to leave," Mîaddar said, voice soft but firm, but with a hint of sadness. "Your friends think you dead, you should not let them suffer any longer."

"I know, I should not…" Legolas replied, and his heart tightened, "My call is to stay by their side, to fight with them, to protect them, to fight for the future of these lands. I have fought all my life, and soon it could all be decided." He felt all the years of struggle and battle weighing on him, the power of hope in the new bonds of friendship. His tone left no doubt of his strong conviction, and it was a good way to cover the unsettling awkwardness he felt.

"Besides, I was leading Gimli by some kills in our challenge, and I intend not to let him catch up on me," he grinned somewhat mischievously.

"You what...?" Mîaddar frowned at him, bewildered but also relieved for the change in mood. She tilted her head, regarding him seriously.

"This is no game…!" She uttered aghast.

"I know. It is not. We all know it," his voice darkened, "but at times reality is more bearable if you can escape into a game with a dwarf, and I believe that the same holds for him."

"You are good friends." She stated almost casually.

"I dare say so," he replied, shrugging, barely suppressing a warm smile. It was good to speak of Gimli.

And finally, she smiled back at him, relaxing a little.

The day stretched long. The aftermath of the battle still lay heavy upon the Hornburg. And now, even as the sun shone, it brought no warmth.

She had not spoken to Aragorn–not a word. Both ranger and dwarf had kept a weighty silence. Éowyn had not dared to approach them.

She had sought the company of her brother. He was absent and lost in thought since he had returned. He seemed starkly affected by the events.

"Éomer, dear brother, I am so glad you have returned to me unscathed," Éowyn uttered, her voice nearly breaking.

He wordlessly cradled her in a tight embrace, protective and affectionate. And she relished in the brotherly warmth, thankful that he was still with her. But as he released her, she looked at him gravely.

"What happened?" She whispered, eyes wide, desperate to know.

"He took a blade aimed at Lord Aragorn." Eomer released his breath in a sigh, and his voice dropped in tone, "Straight to the chest…"

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply as a cold shiver ran through her.

Éomer swallowed dryly before he continued.

"There is no body. The dwarf claims that the elleth came to take him away. They insist that there is still hope. Yet if you had seen the blood on the ground, you would not believe it."

And then Éomer brought his hand up to press it firmly against his heart. He spoke in a low voice.

"Against all the doubts I held, the elf has earned my deepest respect. The son of the Elvenking he is, and captain of fey elven warriors defending their realm. He has fought the darkness in that accursed forest for time unimaginable. I have seen him fight with unmatched boldness, regardless of himself. His loyalty surpasses that of my most trusted men. I join in his companions' hope against what my reason says."

Éowyn watched her brother silently. A strong warrior who had gone through battles, trials, and banishment and had faced it all with an unwavering façade of determination and strength. To see him so moved in concern and uncertainty for this unknown elf shook her deeply. And even if it seemed against reason, she could not help but join in that hope herself.

The thought of the elleth she now called her friend burying yet another she lost, alone in the forest, shredded her heart. This time, in her precarious state, the grief would surely overwhelm her, and she would inexorably fade.

The late afternoon sun was warming them, pouring its healing as they rode on Caladdolen over the hills of Rohan, Legolas at Mîaddar's back. There had been no other possibility than to travel together on her horse, and Legolas could feel the unspoken tension between them — the warmth of contact, a lingering, uneasy thrill as their bodies brushed.

Having ridden along like this for miles, surrounded by nearly unending hills of green grass, Mîaddar slowed down the pace of her horse until she brought it to a halt. She turned her head to look back at Legolas.

She met his eyes briefly before dropping her gaze to the ground. The wind blew a few thick, raven strands of her hair across her face, making her amber skin appear almost golden. The contrast between the warm colour and shine of her features and the deep dark of her slanted eyes looked alien.

"I will not go beyond the walls with you. I will leave you here. I will go no further," she said firmly, almost stubbornly.

Legolas slowly released a long breath he had not realized he had been holding.

Mîaddar looked carefully back up at him. He saw it from the corners of his eyes. But he kept his gaze focused ahead, and her eyes followed it.

As though she owed it to him, she explained, "I am an elf of the South, descendant of the Sirith and the Taruen. I am a child of the deep forest and the open width of the desert. My spirit follows the freedom of the wind and flows into the heart of the mighty woods. This is who I am, and that is how it will be–always–in this world and the next."

Her voice nearly broke. But before she allowed it to fade, she spoke again.

"There is more for you to accomplish. Now go. They are waiting!"

Legolas knew she spoke true, though it was hard for him to leave in this manner. Mîaddar's eyes glistened sadly. But still, she spoke softly, hopefully even, "A bond that is tied will not be undone by any power on Arda. Nothing can break what was long written."

What bond was she speaking about? - So many strong bonds had been tied in his long life.

There was the lifelong bond of love with his father, with the trees of his home, with his mother...even now as she was no more he he could sense it...his people, his friends, his soldiers had forever a place in his heart...the bond of friendship and dedication with the fellowship, bearing strong feelings towards each one of its members...and especially the new, precious and unusual bond with Gimli the dwarf...the ever-deepening bond of brotherly love with Aragorn...

And then...she was now before him...she had brought back the beat to his heart...

What bond did she mean? Maybe all of the bonds ever tied in his life...because they all were significant...

But he revealed none of his thoughts and remained silent.

Almost casually, he leaned forward to steal one last, secret touch, to feel her against him. He inhaled deeply, increasing the pressure. And he consciously sensed, for the first time, the scent of her skin, like lush healing herbs on damp forest ground right after rainfall, when the sun broke through the canopy striking it with clear, warm beams, and like water in the desert.

She was not younger than he. She had seen ages of life, of good and evil, of love and joy, and pain and suffering with her strange, black eyes…

And there it surged again, unbidden, the resentment of what she had seen of him. He could not help his muscles stiffening once more, but this time he managed to carefully keep his mien unshaken and composed.

As if she had sensed it and wanted to avoid further hurt, she suddenly dismounted, cutting off his thoughts, and left him alone on her horse.

"Caladdolen will carry you swiftly, until the last hill overlooking the plain before the wall."

She then turned abruptly and left him.

"May Ilúvatar watch over you!" the elleth breathed as the distance grew between them.

Legolas heard her, and as Caladdolen sped on, he cast a glance back at the diminishing figure, until she disappeared amid the hills.

Caladdolen came to a halt on the last ridge, shying and bolting, refusing to descend the slope. Legolas understood and pressed the Light of the Sirith no further. He dismounted and whispered his gratitude to her, gently patting the strong neck.

The late afternoon light touched the tops of the hills. The horse rose and whinnied, catching the sun's now soft, golden shine, its shadow stretched mighty and long. And then the animal bolted, dashing back over the hill.

Hope lingered throughout the day, but as the shades deepened, it wore more and more thin, and it was as if the sky was sinking, weighing heavily on them. The people in the burg went on with their businesses. The injured rested. The children hesitantly came out of the halls and started playing games on the stone.

The guards had been given the order to watch out for anyone approaching, be it friend or foe.

And so, as the sun still shone in the sky, they spotted the elf running down the slope towards the fortress, fast and light in his stride.

"He is alive!" The voice thundered down from the watching post. And then again, the voice tumbling over with surprise at the unbelievable sight, "The elf is alive!"

Aragorn heard. He had been waiting and hoping too long for those words. He ran to the gate and beyond, at a speed that only a man mad with despair and joy could reach. The two friends fell into each other's arms, hugging tightly, solid and real. Legolas slightly flinched at the pressure on his injury, but he did not want to pull away from the warmth of this welcome.

"Mae govannen, Legolas, gwador-nìn!" Aragorn exclaimed, eyes gleaming with tears. The tears quickly started spilling down his cheeks and he pushed the elf an arm-length back to look at him, as to persuade himself he had seen right. "Forgive me, I will be more careful this time," he said softly, and then he wrapped his friend in another more tender embrace.

"Wait for me!" the small being, running somewhat clumsily, shouted out of breath.

As the dwarf reached the man and the elf, he literally threw himself at them, hugging them both around their waists.

"Nobody can kill this elf! - Blasted princeling that you are! You are indestructible, lad!" His voice was shaking with emotion.

Many were watching, not least the young Lady of Rohan from where she stood, eyes bright, her spirit soaring at the sight. And as she turned to run up the stairs with her mind made up and eager to reach Éomer, she barely avoided a collision. Before her stood Gandalf the wizard, his old face smooth in his calmness, eyes knowing and glinting with joy. He nodded at her and she answered with a radiant smile as she hurried past him.

The wizard clasped his hands behind his back and took up her position, watching the reunion of three so utterly different friends. His old eyes calm and alight. And yet behind them, a shade of uncertain foresight lingered as he sighed.

Chapter Text

As Mîaddar reached the weeping willow, its shade stretched long into the soft light of dusk. She had run the entire way back over the hills, from the point of their parting. The recent events had demanded much of her. She was exhausted. Nevertheless, before allowing herself rest, she neatly rearranged her belongings in an attempt to bring some order to the confusion which chafed her inside. Her eyes stared vacantly at the blanket she folded slowly and then gently smoothed its surface. For a while, she knelt before the folded bundle, her mind suspended somewhere between turmoil and void, her hands resting in her lap, clasped into each other. And then she reached, softly cupping the fabric in her palms, and buried her face in it. She inhaled deeply and savoured its scent. The scent of damp forest soil and pine needles in the sun, of dewy leaves in the morning. It was his scent – he had been lying here, wrapped in her blanket, recovering, and now he had left. Soon he would be strong enough to pursue his mission, to sustain his friends, to fight the next battle…

When–... would there be peace?

She thought of how utterly wrong it all felt, this life... where children of the forest were forced into warriors, hardened to deadly weapons, exposed to war. A place where mortal beings fell in high numbers or were enslaved, forced into misery. She had already seen too much; she did not know how much more she could take.

She went on, unfolding the linens stained with his blood and immersing them into a bowl filled with clear, cold water. Once the fabric was cleansed of stains, she would boil the linens to be reused. She watched the brownish colour of dried blood spread in the water, and the coppery scent invaded her nose. She shuddered at the recent struggle it so vividly evoked.

Caladdolen had long returned and was now grazing and running free on the near and far hills. Mîaddar drew comfort from knowing the mare would always be close when she called her, and the thought wrapped around her, welcomed and reassuring.

The willow above and around her relished the elven company and sang her the song of companionable silence with whispers of slender leaves stirring gently in the breeze. The creek gurgled along, springing merrily over sleek stones and soft moss. Mîaddar listened as they reached out to her, but her mind lingered somewhere, suspended, quite absent from the life of the plants and the elements around her.

Time slid by, as she was lost in her mind, in memories and hopes, in fears both new and old intertwining, in the immense relief of a precious life saved, in desire and longing, and in blurred foreboding.

She climbed into the willow, which tried so hard to make her feel at ease in her company. She caressed the rough bark with the tips of her fingers, in gratitude to the tree for offering her this time in the peaceful security of her bent boughs. The willow seemed to lean into the touch, softly moving with it in the wind's slight tug. And so, softly rocked like a child in its mother's arms, Mîaddar slid into sleep.

When she awoke, the first light of dusk broke softly through the leafed canopy. Mîaddar closed her eyes as a song reached her of both strong and pale green leaves lit by the golden rays of the sun, a fresh melody sprinkled with the glitter of dew on soft grass and moss, deeply rooted in the calming brown of solid trunks and moist, rich soil. It was the song of his fëa, marked by the weight of struggle, yet radiating and bold, mirroring the colours of the forest. Behind her closed lids, she saw his finely chiselled features, his long, fair hair, his hard, lean body formed by long years of battle. She recalled his movements defined by the force and the lithe grace of a wildcat.

She relished in it – in the dream she had dreamt for long, now intensified, shaped out, become real and close – a child of the forest, deeply touched by the shadow, yet resilient and shimmering from deep within. Overwhelming sensations crashed in on her, bittersweet and demanding, stealing her breath, speeding her heartbeat. The longing tightened her throat, burned in her chest, stirred deep desire, warm and low in her womb, and through her full lips, slightly parted, escaped a moan. She felt dizzy, lost balance...felt weightless as she fell...reflexes kicked in as with a start she thumped to the soft, earthy ground, damping the impact with a roll at the roots of the tree.

Blessed Eru, what was happening to her?

She had never fallen from a tree before. It partly shocked her and partly amused her, made her smile at the thought that fortunately, nobody had seen her embarrassing stunt. – At least nobody who would tease her.

As she steadied herself, scrambling to her knees, her palms flat on the cool earth between the willow's roots, the early morning light fell dappled on her skin and the moss-covered ground. She watched the colours slowly unfold with the growing light. She noticed how the skin of her hands shimmered almost golden on soft green moss and rich brown soil. For a short while, she stared bewildered, and as she shrugged the sensation of wonder away, her gaze locked on the bowl. The linens were still soaking in the water, and what she saw made the barest sensation of delight immediately fade.

The water—

It was wrong.

Not the brown of old blood loosening in clear water — she knew that well. This was darker. Too dark. Thickening, as though something bled into it still.

Her breath caught.

No… that was not how clean wounds healed.

Her eyes widened in horror. Her face paled until her usually warm, amber skin turned ashen.

Fear made the world around her melt into a blurry daze. She swiftly grabbed the pack with her belongings. Without a word or a touch, or any farewell to the willow, Mîaddar fled. The tree's leaves stroked her desperately, questioningly when she broke out from their protective shield, as if the willow wished to hold her back, afraid of renewed loneliness. But Mîaddar did not heed, could not listen, nor answer in that moment, nor promise that one day she would come back.

Mîaddar reached out frantically to her home, the steadfast forest. And the forest answered the call, reaching out to her in return. But her head was spinning, and she started running in a dizzy chase between the majestic trees revealed to her fëa; trunks, branches and leaves mingling in her vision.

The trees tried speaking to her, tried to calm her hasty stumble through their spiritual presence, growing more and more insistent; they whispered and hissed and sang and cried – but she did not hear. They spun around her, muddling her vision, and their voices could not break through her confused and frenzied daze. Their colours of pale and strong green, of comforting brown lit by the golden rays of the sun, receded from her sight as if frayed by growing, menacing shadows.

Exhaustion clutched at her, pulled her down to the earth, making her feet heavy and slow. – Much too slow! – The oppressive feeling of a nightmare.

Dark shadows of too many losses of the past obscured her sight; the marks of resigned weariness.

Was that how it felt when an elf was fading?

Loss and defeat would be hers again, and it was by her fault, by the shadows of her own guilt!

She should have known, she should have guessed!... How could she not have seen it coming?

It had been clean! – The wound had been clean, healing fast. His elven body had been marvellously mending…

But it had been an illusion, a cruel deception. For the water in the bowl had turned black! – Dark like the shadows that must be showing under her eyes; the shadows of her guilt, of her repeated failure.

They had held counsel. Aragorn and Gimli would return to the Uruk-hai camp, the field of the last battle, with Éomer and a few of his riders. So it was decided, in agreement with the King. Aragorn wanted to ensure that they had all been killed, the Uruk-hai whom they had fought the night before. They had to be certain that no one escaped to warn and gather reinforcements. The tracks would tell them the facts. The people would leave for Edoras soon, their escorts needed to scout the way ahead with the ranger, the best tracker they could get. They would make out the dangerous points they had to scan and secure when leading their people back.

Aragorn had insisted that Legolas should stay at the Keep. His injury had been serious, the healing flesh still too tender. Legolas' body, with its amazing elven properties, would certainly mend itself within a few days, days they unfortunately did not have at their disposal. Time was pressing. The circumstances were urging the elf to gather all his strength because they would have to depart to Orthanc in the night of the morrow, and Aragorn meant not to leave his friend behind.

As was to be expected, Legolas countered that he was fine and ready to join them by morning light.

Perhaps he was already strong enough for a scouting mission, but Aragorn would not allow him to waste a day of rest and risk a precarious recovery.

They raised their voices. Legolas' nostrils flared in his anger, his eyes turned to ice-blue daggers. He hissed cutting words and accusations. Aragorn could see how the elf's body steeled, how the lineaments of his face stood out sharply. Gimli said not a word, only stood by, looking utterly lost. He stared at Legolas and attempted to open his mouth, and Aragorn thought for a moment that the dwarf would try to soothe his friend, call out to him with 'lad'. But that hope soon dwindled as Gimli's mouth shut again, and he just swallowed under his beard.

From the corner of his eye, Aragorn could see Legolas' fist clench and twitch, as if he could barely restrain himself from a physical outburst of violence. But Aragorn stood firm, eyes narrowed, unmovable and determined like the leader he was. The dispute ended with Legolas hissing out a sharp breath, and then falling silent, shooting daggers from his eyes to the ground before Aragorn's feet, instead of delivering the blow. Abruptly, he turned and left in frustration. Aragorn did not follow him. Not even Gimli did. They let him go.

On this mission, there was no space for proper rest. Legolas felt ready to face the odds of this war again, or maybe he wanted to prove to himself that he was ready. For him, there was all or nothing. As long as he was alive, he would fight to his full extent, only death could stop him. He knew his injury had been grave, could have been fatal. He had barely escaped. But there was a reason he had survived, and he would make himself useful.

He had retired to a dark corner inside the empty Hall of the Keep. There, secretly, he tested his condition, channelling his anger. He knew he had to push his body to its full tenacity. He would allow himself no weakness.

As if wanting to prove this strength, he unsheathed his knives in a countenance of utmost concentration and suddenly unleashed a tempestuous dance against imaginary foes.

Éowyn, who had been looking for the King, halted in the open portal as she heard the sharp hisses of blades slicing air. Her gaze slid to the corner where Legolas offered a formidable performance, demonstrating his ability to no one but himself. She stood rooted at the entrance, holding her breath; saw brilliant blue eyes, gleaming with confidence, as his powerful body slashed through the air.

For a while, Éowyn gaped at the show of strength unfolding before her, unable to move, enthralled by its savage beauty. And then silently she stole herself away, swallowing at the lethality her eyes had seen, and glad that this impressive being would fight on their side.

Aragorn knew he had hurt him.

He had commanded him to remain behind that night — commanded, though Legolas had openly disagreed. The argument had not been quiet. The Rohirrim had witnessed it in strained silence, watching the Dúnadan and the Elf clash in words sharp as drawn steel.

His heart had bled when he spoke harshly. Yet gentleness would not have prevailed. Legolas would not yield to soft counsel when his mind was set. The stubborn wood-elf drove himself beyond reason — for the mission, for his people, for his friends. He thought little of his own life.

Aragorn did not.

The memory of how close he had come to losing him still tightened his lungs. He had seen Legolas pale and unmoving, felt the nearness of death lingering like cold breath. He had come too near. Far too near.

And the fear had not left him.

It was so like Legolas, when angered or frustrated, to withdraw — to seek solitude rather than speak. But Aragorn needed to speak with him before he departed. Needed him to understand that the harshness had not been born of pride or authority, but of love.

He wanted him to know that he was his brother in all but blood. That the thought of losing him carved deeper than any blade.

For in these dark days, who could say what dawn would bring? If he rode out and did not return? Would he ever have another chance to say it?

Even if Legolas knew.

Beneath the archway he encountered Éowyn. Her eyes were wide and troubled; she had witnessed their quarrel.

"He is in the hall," she said quietly, glancing toward the entrance.

She hesitated, visibly unsettled, then breathed, "By Béma, he is afire."

Aragorn inclined his head in thanks and lengthened his stride.

The air in the hall seemed charged before he even crossed its threshold. Then he saw him — and understood.

Legolas moved like a released arrow. His body was all precision and lethal grace — a weapon honed and unrestrained. Every turn was controlled, every strike deliberate, yet there was something fierce beneath it, something driven.

He sensed Aragorn's presence. He did not turn — but he tensed, and his movements sharpened further, power surging into each motion.

Aragorn felt his own muscles tighten in answer. There would be no quiet conversation. Only one language would reach him now.

He drew his sword.

The ring of steel cut through the hall.

Legolas attacked without hesitation.

Aragorn met him in time — he had expected no less. The bright elven blade shrieked as it met his own, a high metallic cry that echoed off stone. Legolas' eyes flashed — defiant, burning.

He pressed forward again.

Aragorn refused to yield ground so easily. He pivoted, used the momentum of the clash to drive a counterstrike. Legolas spun away with effortless fluidity, evading the blow by the breadth of a breath.

They moved across the floor in flashing arcs — bodies weaving, blades striking and sliding, steel singing again and again.

Even now — even after having lain at death's very threshold the night before — Legolas' skill was breathtaking.

Aragorn was not an elf. And though trained among them, he did not possess their tireless endurance. He felt the strain creeping into his limbs. And then he faltered.

Legolas turned with sudden speed and surged toward him. The elven blade struck true — stopping sharply over Aragorn's heart.

For a heartbeat, Aragorn was stunned.

Their gazes locked. Legolas' jaw was set hard; fury still burned there. His breath came fast. His chest rose and fell sharply. The hand that held the blade steady trembled — only slightly, but Aragorn saw it.

Legolas saw it too.

Slowly, he lowered the weapon. He did not look away.

Yet something shifted.

His breathing did not ease as it should have. It came heavier now — strained. A shadow crossed his expression. His eyes dropped briefly; his hand moved to his chest as though steadying something unseen.

When he looked up again, the anger had ebbed. In its place lay something far more painful — weariness, and a quiet defeat.

It struck Aragorn harder than the blade had.

He stepped forward and clasped Legolas' shoulder gently. The muscles beneath his hand were still taut.

"I am no match for you," Aragorn said quietly. "You have proven it again. But we both know your body has only just defeated death. Do not drive it there once more."

His voice lowered.

"I am afraid to lose you. I would not endure it. This is why I hold you back — not to command you, but to keep you whole. When we depart, I will not be able to restrain you. And when that time comes, I would have you at your full strength."

He held his gaze steadily.

"We need you whole."

Legolas drew a slow breath and bowed his head, reluctant but yielding.

Relief moved through Aragorn, quiet but profound.

"We ride at dawn and return before noon. Until then, you will hold this position. The Rohirrim will take comfort in your presence should anything arise."

His tone left no room for further debate.

Silently, he prayed no such trial would come. That was not the true reason he left him behind.

As the scouting party left, Gandalf mounted his horse and left as well, at high speed, in yet another direction. The reason for his sudden departure, he did not tell.

Legolas could find no more rest, strangely out of sorts as he felt in the stone fortress. He leaned against the cold wall, trying to relax and dismiss this sudden, seemingly unreasonable feeling of threat. Clouds obscured the sky that early morning, casting shadows on the already dark stone. He took a deep breath but could not release it in a freeing sigh. Something felt strange, and it forced him to arduously press the air out of his lungs.

There were soldiers at a distance, standing guard. Legolas sensed how the Rohirrim were still unsure how to approach him. He felt as if he still stirred a strange fear within the men, which they could not easily overcome. It was as though his presence unnerved them and made them wary, as if they faced one that might behave like some unpredictable, wild animal. He picked up on this respectful distancing and did not join them, occupying himself with the fletching of new arrows.

The strangeness within his torso grew more and more oppressing. At first, he had thought it was the anxiety as his friends left, but now he knew for certain it was more than that. A sharp, burning pain burst in his chest. He pressed his hand tightly against it. Dark spots and harsh, dazzling flashes threatened to rob his awareness, and as the pain finally lessened, he tried hard to level his breath. The odd attack scared him, and his thoughts raced, trying to make sense of what was happening.

But he had not the time to linger on those thoughts, because soon after, an agonizing cramp struck him again. It felt as if it would tear his stab wound and rip skin and muscle from him. He dragged in air — too quickly, too much — but could not force it back out.

His ears roared with his thundering blood, and the enhanced noises from all sides he could not hold apart. As he finally exhaled, in a harsh rush, he heard a cry, keening and raw, and then he saw how the guards looked his way, suddenly alert. He realized, that it had been his own voice crying out.

The soldiers hesitated at first. They stared insecurely, confused, but at his obvious and rapid crumble of strength, they laid aside their wariness.

Legolas was not prepared for their sudden change in behaviour. The men ran towards him. – He was terrified! – In a futile attempt to escape them, he staggered back against the wall. The wild thrumming of blood and the jarring of his strained breath were deafening in his ears. Severe flashes of pain struck again, making him jerk. – The wall pressed against his back, and lacking breath, he was trapped. There was no space, no escape, no air to breathe.

The men were getting close – the faces; men's faces...

And the pain came in never-seizing waves...

He saw hands reaching out towards him; hands of men...

No! They should not touch him!

With enormous strength, he pushed, he hit, he slammed whoever was getting near. He did not know how he managed. If it was the terrible roar in his ears spurring him, or something wild, led by instinct, led by fear.

But eventually, that savage power failed him and he was forced to steady himself against the stone, merciless, hard and cold as he leaned into it. Panting heavily between the spasms and cries of pain, he could no longer defend himself.

Hands of men took hold of him, seized his arms—one forcing them back, another bracing his shoulder against the wall. He thrashed and tossed against their grip, while agony exploded inside him.

Through a haze and the constant roaring, he heard the men's voices calling out in a jumble.

"What is happening to him?"
"He cannot breathe — look at him!"
"Hold him — hold him!"
"No, not like that —!"
"Call for a healer! Quickly!"

The meaning of the words could not reach him through the panic.

He felt fingers roughly pulling at the laces of his tunic.

No! They should NOT touch him!

In a surge of inhuman strength driven by extreme fright, he kicked out and hit. The man in front of him fell backwards. But the ones on the sides held him still, doubling their efforts, now careful of staying out of reach of his feet.

They fumbled with his tunic and shirt, pulled at it as he suffered, and then he felt the cold like a lash of ice hit his chest – and they stared...

"There — look” a voice shouted, close to his ear, then broke — “Poison!" bursting through the roaring.

"Lady Éowyn! Send for the ranger!" the voice screamed.

In his panicked struggle, Legolas trembled and his eyes darted in disbelief and horror from one face to the other; faces of men...

"Do not let him collapse in on himself—keep him up, keep him up!" The same voice shouted in urgency, breaking into a frenzied squeal.

Hands held him still, pressed his shoulders to the wall, clutched his arms. They all stared at his now bare chest. They were many, and he was too weak to fight them. He felt helpless, exposed in a horrible scene that had haunted his worst nightmares.

Chapter Text

She could barely see ahead as she rode. The landscape blurred in the stretched gallop of her horse and in the turmoil of her mind. Heavy clouds closed up the sky and hung low over them, casting looming shadows. But Caladdolen saw, and carried her swiftly, on a seemingly endless ride, towards the grey rocks of Helm's Deep; a restricting, depressing sight to a creature used to open plains and thick, green, living woods. Yet all she wanted at the moment was to reach that rigid construction, built into hard, jagged rock.

A rider leaving the burg at a hurried speed crossed her way when she arrived. Éowyn stood in the ruined gate, tall and motionless like a statue, her gaze following the flight of the rider. Steady and fair she shone, an image not diminished but enhanced by the steadfast stone. It was to this image Mîaddar clung for support, as she felt crushed and lost at the prospect of being enclosed by the walls.

"Mîaddar!" the young Lady exclaimed, staring at the elleth, eyes wide with concern. "You come at a time of most desperate need! – The elf prince… There must have been poison on the blade that wounded him!"

And there, Mîaddar saw in her the girl she had first met a long time ago, full of feeling, of dreams of vigour of passion, but also bearing insecurities and fear, vulnerable and compassionate.

The words tumbled out of Éowyn's mouth, they tripped over, her voice was trembling.

"He is in pain — they tried to help him but — He fought them — like a wild thing — He struck them — one of them hit the wall — "

She stopped gasping for breath, eyes wide and shaken.

"He is dangerous...but—they managed to get hold of him. They opened his tunic, tried to help him..." Her voice dropped, hoarse with emotion. "There is a field healer now with them. The scar… it is dark. Inflamed!"

Mîaddar's eyes went wide in shock and terror.

"They—...what?" she choked.

A cold shiver ran down her spine.

"By the Valar, NO!—Take me to him! Hurry!"

They ran upwards, the cold, hard stone of the Hornburg under their feet, the naked, grey walls around them. It could not be! So close to the surface had the old memories only just emerged…

The clouds pressed down, heavier even, and darker. And the wind—…The wind was still; no air stirred.

Mîaddar was freezing, shivering at the horror of what was happening, as if a fever took hold of her body, crept into her limbs, pounded heavily inside her head.

And then she saw him, lying pale on the dark grey stone. She saw the men over and around him, holding him, hands moving on his exposed chest in a desperate attempt to help. The image stung, and she ran as fast as her feet would carry her. She saw him struggling, shuddering. She heard his cries, fearful and keening. They tore her heart.

"Stand back! Leave him!" she shot at the soldiers in a voice sharp with urgency and concern, torn in a wail of despair.

The men faltered — glancing at one another — before they released him and stepped back as she sank to her knees. She slung her arms around him, pulling him up against her own body.

"Hush...I am here!... I am so sorry...so terribly sorry!" she tried to calm him, speaking in the grey tongue in that earthy accent of her people.

She felt the tremors of his body against hers. His heart was racing, his breath came in ragged gasps. He dragged in air—but it would not leave him. She rocked him gently against her. She stroked circles over his back. She tried to imitate the wind in the leaves, tried to radiate the warmth of sunrays breaking through the foliage. And only for a short moment, it seemed to affect them both, simmering into their bodies and singing to their souls. Even in that fleeting lull, his body did not loosen—his muscles trembled, half-locked beneath her hands. She could not hold it as the poison was creeping, expanding, quenching the warmth, and stilling the wind.

"I am here!" she pronounced the same words repeatedly, like a litany, because she found no others.

"They only meant to help... but I know…" She whispered into his ear, "I saw it all... I am so incredibly sorry!" It came as a sob.

He flinched, struggled weakly against her hold, but eventually gave up. Tears ran down her cheeks. Mîaddar did not know what else to offer. He seemed to slightly slump back in her arms. But she did not know whether to be relieved or troubled by his sudden lack of resistance.

She had stroked the rigid, knotted muscles of his back. She sought the sun for him and whispered the melody of the wind. He had seen the treetops and had swayed in them under the sun. Only for a fleeting, releasing moment, the pain had lessened. But then he was violently drawn back to crude reality. His mind reeled between relief and shame. There was no point in fighting her.

His thoughts came in flashes — broken, uneven —

She had seen.

But the humans had not. He should not have cried out! How could his voice betray him like this? How could that happen to him?

He was a warrior, unfailing in strength. Whatever torment, he would take it; he could stand it!

He had taken injuries that nearly claimed his life. He had retrieved injured companions from battlefields, where it had seemed impossible to escape with their lives, getting badly wounded in the action. He had been captured and tortured by vile creatures.

But not this! NO… not this! Never again.

He had seen how they looked at him; how they were awed, fearful, distantly respecting. It was good like that. It should stay that way. They should keep their distance.

She had seen! How much he wished she had not! But there in that moment, in his miserable state on that fortress of grey and cold stone, he accepted what could not be undone. He had no choice. She was his only shield, his only relief, his only connection to the song of the forest, his only chance for air to breathe. No matter how foreign her ways, her appearance, she bore this strong and soothing elven familiarity. And so he gave in, and allowed her to aid him.

Holding him tight, Mîaddar glanced up at Éowyn and the warriors, who watched the elves in confusion. She recalled Éowyn's wide, startled eyes as she stuttered about the injured elf who had become a wild thing. And her own voice resonated harshly in her mind the way she had yelled at the warriors. She briefly thought to say something soothing, reassuring, but her voice came weary and raucous, "I know you only meant to help. It is not your fault... but your help is not needed now. I am taking over."

Mîaddar felt how Legolas suddenly tensed against her as his body was reclaimed by the effects of the poison. But the raw scream of unbridled agony that followed took her unawares. Thoroughly startled and dismissing any thoughts of windy treetops and shimmering leaves in the sun, even less caring to appease spooked humans, she bid the soldiers urgently, "Please go! Bring two women with experience in healing assistance. They must be strong in spirit. — And do keep others away!"

The men immediately went off to accomplish their tasks.

Mîaddar saw how Legolas struggled, forcing his own body to comply. He gripped her arm with strong fingers; his gaze pinned her. "Please," he spoke hoarsely, but determinedly, "Help me — move — from here! — Behind the pillars. There — they cannot see... At least — the pillars — I can — make it!"

It was not a plea, but the command of a captain, a seasoned warrior injured in the midst of battle. She saw the fiery flicker in the grey of his eyes, of one prepared to fight.

She lent him assistance to rise, and he reluctantly accepted. "I can — walk — on my own," Legolas insisted, breathing heavily, as Mîaddar wanted to support him. Each step hitched — his breath catching — his grip tightening painfully on her shoulder.

Once shielded from the people's immediate sight, his knees buckled, and Mîaddar caught him in her arms. She had been expecting it.

She glanced around urgently, and was beyond grateful to the young woman who had stayed by her side, "Éowyn, please help me! Slide his tunic and shirt from his arms! Place the clothes spread out flat on the ground so I can lay him down."

Éowyn did as instructed, all the while observing the elleth with worried eyes, as she carefully lowered the elf to the ground. To have Éowyn there with her, fair and familiar against the dark walls of stone, felt like an immense support to Mîaddar.

As soon as he touched the ground, Legolas reflexively tried to curl into himself, but Mîaddar did not allow it. She pinned him down, trapping his hips and pressing his shoulders down. She wrestled with him as he rebelled driven by irrational instinct.

"Breathe, Legolas!" she begged, as he thrashed under her.

Leaning over him, she got full sight of the mess his injury had become. The scar had turned a dark purple, and angry red stains spread out to all sides, creeping through the veins and capillaries like lightning flashes beneath the skin.

Mîaddar swallowed, dry and painful. She could not control the sudden quivering of her lips and the moisture that shot into her eyes. It burned in her eyes, in her throat, in her chest. — This would be a hard battle. — And then, another consuming cry surged from under her, tearing the very air. She pressed down his body as it writhed in agony, in an attempt to prevent him from hurting himself.

Godliss was sitting by her son, a boy merely twelve years of age. He had suffered a blow to the head at the battle for the Keep. She had kept him awake for long after he had been brought back to her. Because this was to be done for his head injury. When finally he was allowed to sleep, she had woken him repeatedly to check on his state and make him drink and maybe also eat something if he could manage. Now that he had overcome the worst, Godliss considered it safe to let him entirely succumb to his exhaustion and hopefully find some healing from the physical and spiritual strain of the battle.

She had found the relief to drift in and out of sleep, close to her son, her eyes on him every time she woke.

Under Godliss's hand, the hair of her boy felt tender and soft as she smoothed it in a gentle caress. Her heart was swollen with love for her child, her treasure she had feared to have lost in a cruel battle where even old men and boys had been forced to fight. The fear and despair were still vivid and devastating in her memory, and she knew that for long it would be rooted in her body, in her bones, in her very soul.

In her mind, the scene played out again and again, like a wonderful, bittersweet dream, when she had seen her boy alive in the arms of that nearly magical being. She had fallen to her knees before the elf. Wild he had looked, covered in blood and dust; a raw warrior. But to her, the moment he carried her child to her… magic he was, and luminous... His eyes had been deep with understanding, their bright grey had strangely flooded her heart with comfort. She remembered the blue streaked irises bearing both hardness and softness, chill and warmth in a way she could not comprehend.

Her heart was now somehow at ease as she watched her sleeping boy, stroking his hair tenderly, drifting on her thoughts and the images. The worst had passed, and he was now recovering. Nightmares might still come haunt him. But she would be there, always be there to support him.

She could not get enough of observing and relishing the sweetness of her boy; the soft shades his eyelashes cast on his cheeks, his back rising and falling as he breathed deeply and evenly – peacefully – and she startled as heavy footsteps thundered into the cave. The two men were armed; they were soldiers.

In an unconscious reflex, Godliss protectively leaned over her son, shielding him. The dread of the scene when they had snatched him from her flared up instantly.

The men stood close, directly over her, as the voice of one of them rang urgent and breathless, "We come to summon two women with experience in healing and steady nerves to assist," and then, after a short pause in which he seemed to contemplate what to say next, he added more levelly, "It concerns the elf, he was struck by a poisoned blade."

A murmur went through the place. Godliss' breath caught in her chest, and she stared disbelievingly and then blinked up to the soldiers; the fair image of the elf carrying her boy in his arms so present and strong in her mind. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Take me there," she spoke determinedly, before anyone else offered, "I have assisted before."

With pleading eyes, she glanced at the woman who had helped her through when she had feared her boy lost. The mother of two girls, who had cared for her as she had crumbled with despair. Such harsh experiences sealed friendships. And as the woman nodded, face serious but soft with understanding, her hand reaching out to lay gently on the boy's slender arm, Godliss knew her son was safe. She placed a tender kiss on his pale, soft cheek and whispered, "I have to do this! - You are in good hands."

Layrun, a young woman she knew from Edoras, had also answered the soldiers' summons. She was an apprentice at the healing halls back home in the fenced city, and she had just returned to her family in the caves to rest after aiding in the tending of the injured after the previous day's battle. Despite her young age and frail appearance, she was a dedicated and brave soul, developing skills to become a great healer. It was much like her to volunteer whenever there was need. But the girl looked somehow shy and lost as she stumbled behind the soldiers. Mirroring her own insecurity, Godliss thought. And as she was the elder, and a mother at that, she took the girl's hand, squeezing it and nodding in respect and encouragement. Together they ran, keeping up with the men leading the way.

Soldiers were standing guard in a broad area around the place, keeping the people from getting closer, directing them back to their businesses. The men broke through the line of the guards with the women in their wake.

Behind a pillar, Godliss saw pale golden hair spread out on the stone, and as they hurried closer, she got full sight of the scene. Long, ink-black hair spilt over a male body on the ground and melted with fair golden strands. The light shape of the elleth she knew as a healer was bent over the elf. Beside them knelt their Lady Éowyn; she looked utterly shaken. Unmoving, frozen in time and pain, the scene appeared to her. Partially covered by dense raven hair flowed long, defined muscles under pale skin, now tense and atrociously twitching. That was the only movement she recognized apart from the wet glitter in the eyes of their Lady.

She felt the girl at her hand slightly flinch. The soldier delivered them and nodded in respect before he left. Godliss ignored him entirely, she was too struck by the sight before her. Her hand was still firmly clutching Layrun's cold, slim fingers, and so as she joined the women on the ground, she pulled the girl down with her.

They both knelt, staring for endless seconds. Until the eerie silence was suddenly broken by a desperate gasp for air. The elleth lifted her head and pointed ear, replacing it swiftly with slender hands the colour of amber, pressing down firmly in the centre of the elf's chest.

"He cannot force the air out — so we must do it for him."

Godliss heard the grating rush of air being forced out of his lungs. She suddenly released the girl's hand and resisted the urge to cover her eyes to not witness it all, to not have to look at the dark and inflamed stain shimmering through the white skin, and the pale grey-blue eyes staring up at the elleth in wild panic.

There was nothing magic about it, nothing shining crystal-bright, only crude physical suffering. She quickly seized the hand of the young woman again, which had lain useless and slack on the stone, as Layrun was completely still beside her. The girl seemed to revive and released a breath she had been holding for too long. It was then that their lady Éowyn acknowledged them, with a slight nod and understanding in her gaze.

They watched the elleth work the elf's chest, pressing the air out of his lungs, while they seemed to refill under violent spasms. The elleth spoke in a strange, earthy tone of an elven tongue, her voice coarse but controlled. Its music and rhythm were ever changing. For there was a music in her voice; a foreign, coarse, emotional tune. At times, the words came urgent, commanding, and then they calmed and soothed, they rolled in lilting tones until they became pleading, imploring. The elf seemed to listen and react to her words, to her voice, to the movements of her hands; they seemed to work together until he regained control of his breathing, and the elleth briefly shut her eyes in relief.

As she was observing the elleth's drawn face, catching her eyes, Godliss almost startled at their darkness and the shades marking the sunken areas around them. Her flawless amber skin looked frail and young, yet threateningly ashen, discoloured, like that of a human in the final stage of an incurable sickness. Godliss shivered.

"What are your names?" the elleth then asked, her voice raw with fatigue. The girl said her name very softly and shyly. Godliss tried to sound stronger; she needed the elleth to think them capable, to be of support, but she felt like it did not sound as convincing as she had intended.

"Gratitude for coming to aid, Godliss and Layrun," the elleth said.

And then, without further delay, she went on explaining, in a stronger voice, shifting her stare from one woman to the other and then to the elf for all of them to know what they were dealing with.

"I have heard of this… in the South—among the Haradrim…"
Her voice faltered, then steadied with effort.
"I never thought to find it here…"

She swallowed.

"It is a wicked thing. It takes the muscles — forces them into spasm —"

Her voice shifted to a slightly enhanced volume as she looked up at Godliss and Layrun, with sudden urgency, "We cannot know when the next attack strikes, we need to be ready anytime."

She instructed them to gently but firmly hold down the elf's shoulders should need arise, "Do not let him fold in on himself — he will lose what breath he has!"

Godliss was now facing Layrun, whose young, hazel eyes were huge, and searched the elder woman's as if for reassurance. But Godliss could not give what she herself sorely needed. Though what she did was to lay her hand on the elf's shoulder, very gently and as comfortingly as she could muster. The elf reacted, turning his head to the side and closing his eyes. The soft shades his dark lashes cast on his pale cheeks reminded her of the young face of her sleeping boy, if only for an instant. Encouraged by her gesture Layrun did the same. After the first, unclear reaction, the elf seemed to get steadied by their hold, his laboured and controlled breaths deepened. And Godliss was glad that no matter how faintly, her gesture had helped.

Her attention swept again to the elleth, whose voice regressed to the deep tone once more. Now that she seemed satisfied by the way the women were positioned, she went on with her very factual explanation in a flat voice.

"It lies hidden… spreads before it is ever seen — And when it wakes… it strikes all at once.”

She lifted a trembling hand, brushing lightly along the ridges of his ribs—just beneath the skin—

"It takes hold here first — near the surface — where the tissues are most exposed…"

Her fingers pressed more firmly, sliding inward, toward the centre of his chest—

"— then it spreads deeper… where the breath is held."

"In the torso — it is worst —"
Her voice tightened.

"First, he cannot release the breath—"
"Then… he cannot draw it in."

The women listened and watched the elleth who stared down at the elf. Her hand hovered over the spreading stains, then pressed low beneath his ribs, slim fingers trembling—

"It has reached here… the deeper muscle that drives the breath — If it takes that fully…"

Her voice dropped.

"He will not be able to breathe on his own at all."

Her voice sounded eerily void and yet was precariously wavering as she spoke of the elf's anatomy, as if she forcefully tried to keep the emotions at bay, which were pressing in on her threateningly, and so very palpable to Godliss. The woman asked herself with dread how much it would take for the elleth's flimsy frame to break.

But then, unwittingly, her voice steadied while she spoke again. "We have researched for an antidote, my father and I. Though, we never made it in time for the cure to unfold. The human warriors died soon after the manifestation of the symptoms, due to both excessive pain and respiratory failure. When we arrived, it was always too late." Her words blended into a restrained sob.

Godliss saw the cruelty of those deaths engraved into the darkness of the elleth's eyes. She shuddered and shot a glance at Layrun who stared from the elleth to the elf before her, tears gleaming and trembling in her eyes as they threatened to fall. And their brave and strong Lady had brought a hand to her mouth to cover a silent gasp.

Ignoring their reactions, the elleth said, "He is an elf, he can endure much longer!" Her voice then became urgent, determined, "I have to try and create the antivenom! It is a delicate procedure. I need time that I do not think I have... but there is no other option."

As if emphasizing that urgency, the elf's breathing grew more and more strained, and Godliss saw how he struggled to keep it under control. A pained moan left his throat. He convulsed and inhaled in a hitching wheeze that sounded utterly painful in Godliss' ears. Instinctively, she put steady pressure on his shoulder, holding him down. The skin under her hand was hot to the touch, hot with fever from fighting the poison.

The elleth immediately began to work on him as before, supporting his breathing — forcing the air out of his lungs when he could not. But Godliss noticed that she looked ill, as if the struggle were breaking her. With feverish eyes, she glanced at the Lady Éowyn, and her voice left her throat in a strained plea, "Éowyn, I need you to take over. He is in desperate need of a remedy. Time is running short. The effects of the poison will increase."

The elleth took the Lady's hands under her own and pressed them on the elf's chest, doing the motions that helped him breathe together with her. "Like this! Do you see? Like this!" They worked together until the seizure seemed to be over.

The elleth tore herself away from the elf. With a last pleading glance at the Lady Éowyn, she grabbed her pack and made to leave for the fireplace. But the young woman held her back. She looked directly into the elleth's eyes with insecurity in her own. "What if his heart ceases beating?"

The elleth stared at her, horror in her dark depths as if shocked by what the woman had dared to express. Godliss had sympathy for the Lady's insecurity; in fact, the same thought had occurred to her. But the elleth shook her head frantically. For an instant, she looked like one who was losing her mind.

"Do not speak of it! Do not let it happen!" she whispered, "I would not be able to revive him again if he leaves into complete stillness; not now with the poison creeping in him, and not… in the state I am." And then very silently and distressed, she murmured as if to herself, "Only once in your life... something close to a wonder... only once, and never again..."

"It might not be within my power..." The Lady Éowyn said then, frowning deeply, her voice shaking, almost accusing.

Now the elleth pleaded, "Please... Éowyn! You can do it! He is elven kind. He is strong. He can survive much longer than any human. If his heart falters — do not let it fail. Force it back — press as I have shown you, as we tended the wounded in Edoras — again and again — do not stop!" The volume of her voice had increased; she almost yelled. She tore herself away from the Lady Éowyn's hesitating grip and ran off towards the fireplace with her pack clutched tightly to her.

Godliss then remembered Layrun, who had been so silent that she had almost forgotten about her. The girl was staring wide-eyed, and it was difficult to guess what was going on in her young mind. Her hold on the elf's shoulder was steady, her hand firm, but still, Godliss asked herself if she was not too young for this.

The elf gazed up at them with bleak, glassy eyes, but right before his struggle began anew, the grey blazed in their pale blue. And for an instant, it was to Godliss as if he revealed all the battles he had fought, the losses he had suffered, the victories he had achieved, the injuries he had survived… reminding her that as fragile as he might look in that moment, he was not a boy barely older than Layrun, but an elf, stronger than any man, who had lived long before many of their forefathers in line. And she found that she could not fathom what he had already endured in his long life, and what he would be able to endure further.

Gathering their strength, the women worked together, helping the elf through the spasms. Godliss was astonished at how Layrun, against all her initial insecure appearance, now worked with a clear mind and calm hands. The girl held the elf's shoulder firm, comfortingly pressing and massaging his twitching muscles, as Godliss tried to do herself. The young woman laid her fingers on the artery at the elf's throat, reporting to the Lady Éowyn about the intensity and the constancy of the pulse. And even as her eyes were wide in dismay, her voice was solid. She was truly becoming an adept healer.

Godliss had always admired the strength and the compassion of their Lady Éowyn. At her young age, she was a capable and dedicated leader wherever she was needed. And now she was in charge of the delicate task of keeping the elf breathing while inside him, the venom worked against his lungs. Her eyes were hard and determined to win that fight, but every now and then her lids faltered, and she seemed to battle against the tears in her eyes.

Godliss did not know when it happened that they lost control. She felt the elf's shoulder nearly jerk from her hold. His eyes were very pale and panicked, and his body bolted and twisted under the Lady's hands. The sounds grating through his throat had become rare and choked. And even as he was unable to scream, the pain was etched on his face and writhed his chest.

Godliss realized with dismay that, as strong as the elf may be, the intensity of the pain he felt would not be any less.

She saw Layrun's fingers pressed into the pulse point even as the girl spoke urgently, "The beat is too fast and erratic."

"I cannot get him to breathe sufficiently!" Éowyn shot back, her voice pitched.

The breath filled him — but would not be released.

The mother's touch slid down the elf's arm, taking hold of his quivering hand, while her other hand pressed harder on his shoulder.

She thought she saw a slight tremble of Layrun's fingers as they lingered at the elf's pulse.

"His heart is racing! He cannot keep up this way for long!" she urged, her eyes fixed on their Lady.

It had looked so smooth and natural, the way Mîaddar had sustained the elf's breathing. But now the spasms increased constantly in frequency and intensity. The elf jerked violently under the touches that wanted to help him. And Éowyn had not the strange music in her voice to go with her hands.

Layrun's voice came firm and urgent again and again, assessing the elf's declining vital state. Éowyn had doubted the girl, had thought her too young to witness such physical torment. But she had been wrong. This young one proved strong and steady, while Éowyn found herself unable to cope.

Her mind struggled to put the images together — gone was the powerful warrior, the explosive lethality she had seen. Vulnerable, he seemed now, delicate and pale, almost frail. The contrast felt devastating.

She recalled the grace and the merry laughter, the lightness with which he walked beside the handsome ranger, his friend. The radiating smile he had gifted him with when the ranger had surprisingly arrived at the keep, after they had thought him lost, the litheness of his motions, and the quiet, determined grace of his entire being. — Now lying in jerking spasms, a body contorted in torment. — It felt wrong, so utterly wrong and unnatural. And yet those eyes, in their impossibly deep blue, betrayed a knowledge of suffering and endurance that went beyond human comprehension.

As if from far away, she heard Layrun urge her, "My Lady, the pulse is flattening. It is fluttering away! My Lady…"

Water shot into Éowyn's eyes, blinding her. She could not lose him!

In her mind, she saw Mîaddar's pleading eyes before she left. The elleth had placed her trust in her. - She who had given so much for them. A creature so old and deeply scarred by all she had seen and lost. The elleth had clung to Éowyn, like a girl desperate for support and guidance. And yet with her skill and experience, she had helped save the lives of their people in the direst of times. She had given so much, just for simple acceptance, and for their friendship, because Éowyn knew that this was what had tied between them over the last years. - How could she now fail in her trust?

They had been whispering of a wonder, murmuring to each other of the magic of the elves — the people, the soldiers — when the fair warrior had returned. But that wonder was now dissipating, rendered futile, even cruel, because it had led to the torment of a once beautiful body that was meant to swirl in astonishing, lethal dances against creatures of darkness. Lean, strong muscles meant to paint the graceful motions, playing formidably, smoothly moving the perfect shape, were now forced into convulsions, tensing and jerking unnaturally, atrociously breaking the once astounding grace.

Through the troubling muddle of her thoughts and the girl's rising, urgent voice, broke a hastened clattering of hooves, heavy and strong, the stone pounding with it as it thundered close. Éowyn could not see anymore through the blur of tears. She wished to be on a battlefield, wielding her sword, striking down enemies. But not here. Between the pillars, she then caught a blurred image of the man she had hoped for. He ran fast towards them, a strong, saving presence as he came to kneel opposite her. His gaze swept the wound — took in the discoloration in an instant — strong callous hands were immediately upon the elf. And she retrieved hers, relieved. The rider she had sent had delivered her message at great speed.

She heard the girl, Layrun, supply Aragorn with knowledge about the poison and the state of the ailment. The ranger murmured foreign words to his friend, his voice low, dripping with emotion, while with his firm, experienced hands and the girl's instructions, he managed to partly still the convulsions and allow the elf's lungs to exhale and draw breath.

Another horse thundered over the stone. And then from far, Éowyn recognized the loud voice of the dwarf echoing between the walls, climbing the ways of the burg, "Where is the lad! What did they do to him!" The short being was running as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him, breaking through the line of soldiers who kept the people away. "What did they do to my elfling! I promise that orcish breed will meet my axe!" And then his tongue loosened in a swell of dwarvish curses, both furious and desperate.

The dwarf Gimli awkwardly dropped to his knees beside Aragorn, holding the elf's slender hand in a motion too gentle for his gruff dwarven ones.

His eyes bore the glitter of tears. "Aragorn, please tell me that he will be all right! He will be fine, will he not?"

"I fear I cannot promise anything. I am at a loss! It is a poison unknown to me, and without something to counteract it, it might be very likely lethal," Aragorn admitted, nervously brushing back some unruly strands of hair that had fallen into his face.

"Mîaddar..." Éowyn whispered, glad to give at least one good news, "She is working on a remedy. She is here." And then she felt her brother behind her. Éomer squeezed her shoulder, his hand warm and comforting. He must have ridden with Gimli; she remembered the dwarf would not ride alone on a tall horse. And she leaned into him for support. No words were needed between them.

Godliss observed all that played out around her. Her hand still held firmly the elf's shoulder, from time to time rubbing and massaging the rigid sinews and muscles. She could do nothing more. Her son was safe, back in the caves, and she was kneeling beside the elf who had brought him back to her. It was the least she could do, to offer her assistance, no matter how little it would help.

And so, she and Layrun were still there as the elleth finally staggered back with a pot in her hand that emanated a strange scent. She looked beyond strained and tense, frail like a child who had risen from her sickbed, trying to escape a desolate fate. The elleth said not a word to them, nor to the elf's friends. She seemed to deliberately ignore everybody and everything in her surroundings, focusing her attention only on the ailing elf.

Godliss noticed how the ranger withdrew his hands, giving space to the elleth, who now dipped her fingers into the scented pot, spreading the ointment on the elf's chest, massaging it into the skin. The convulsions seemed to calm with the ministration, and the elf breathed with the motions.

The silver stare of the ranger was locked on the elleth's work. A deep sigh of relief lifted his chest and shoulders.

But the elleth lifted her eyes to meet his, and Godliss saw that her gaze was hard and unforgiving. "Do not be deceived, Estel, I cannot save him so easily. This will only buy him time. It will slow it—but not stop it," she said lowly.

She spoke in the common tongue in her heavy, strange accent. Godliss knew she did it out of respect for them because in other circumstances, she would surely not speak their language to a man who was comfortable in the tongue of the elves.

"The poison has gone unnoticed for too long. It has spread deep. The healing ointment administered through the skin is not potent enough to eliminate it. It will spread further. It is only a matter of time until his state will deteriorate."

Layrun spoke then in a strangely firm voice, "I have already informed him of what you explained of the effects, my Lady."

"Gratitude, Layrun, you are of great help," the elleth simply said, seemingly emotionless.

The ranger ran both hands through his dark hair in a frustrated gesture. And his voice was accusing and sharp with pain as he threw a flood of words at the elleth in the elvish tongue. Only her name, 'Mîaddar', Godliss discerned.

Mîaddar then answered evenly, keeping her speech in common and her voice flat. "It means what I said; I am buying us time."

"Time for what, Mîaddar? How long can he go on? – And what will happen when that time is up?" The man did not relent.

Despair was now seeping through the elleth's voice, causing a slight tremble, "I do not know! We never had the chance to win against this ailment. I do not know more. For now, we can keep him breathing. – However, the spasms might increase again, which would, in the end, lead to respiratory failure," she paused, and then said in a dark tone, "Or even sooner, the venom might reach the heart heart."

"What do you mean, Mîaddar?" The man was shouting now, losing his temper.

The elleth flinched and she barely managed a murmur, "The heart is a muscle."

Godliss shut her eyes and swallowed.

Chapter Text

Her own words struck her. As if it had not been her who had spoken them. She tried not to imagine what they meant, what soon might happen. There was fear, intense and horrid because she did not know what to do. She was unable to answer. She had said it; she had not seen any man survive this before, yet he was no man he was an elf - but did that mean Legolas could defeat this, or would it only prolong his agony?

For now, she kept him breathing, but she knew her hands could not cease moving, and she also knew that soon — very soon — it would not be enough. The poison would slip from the reach of the salve, penetrate deeper, take its cruel course.

She was only buying him time. But for what? Time to suffer?

Beside her was Estel, the boy who had accepted her in his home years ago, who had offered her honeycakes and warmth, who had beckoned her out of her loneliness with his open acceptance. The boy was now a man, the one carrying the weight of the future on his shoulders. And he was afraid — terrified! — of losing his dearest friend on the way to his destiny. He was fixating her with his gaze, accusing and sharp, like silver spikes, boring into her. And he insisted, "Time for what, Mîaddar! Tell me! Do something!"

The walls around them pressed in hard, cold and lifeless. She had the sensation that they moved closer, unrelenting. The stone wanted to crush her. She could not breathe. Cold sweat covered her skin, and Mîaddar shivered violently in the heavy dampness. Her hands on Legolas' hot clammy skin were ice-cold. She felt him burn, burn away beneath. The sickening strain crept up her arms, spreading through her body, locking her in place. And there was a voice, calling out the same words again and again; 'You are failing!... fail… fail…' multiplying like an echo inside her head that would not fade but increased in volume. It became deafening in her ears, and her head pounded with it painfully. Mîaddar realized she had known this voice for long, it had accompanied her; a constant dread, a shadow ghosting over her since the beginning of her journey north. She had kept it at bay, muted it to silence, but now it could no longer be contained. She was failing.

The moisture in her eyes clouded her vision; she stared through it, blinking. She saw Legolas' hands pressed against the cold stone, his fingers trying to get a grip, scratching the hard surface. She heard the raw grating, tearing in her ears, and his back arched away from the ground. Through the deafening echo in her head, broke the urging voice of the girl, assessing the alarming frequency of the pulse. A voice, too young, and yet so persistent. While Mîaddar was old and weary and feverish. She stared down at him, took in his pale convulsing form, his quivering lips now parted — but the sound broke, thin and strangled. He was not breathing — his chest locked, no release, no air leaving him.

Mîaddar realized her hands were on her ears, frantic and desperate. But she heard it, right in front of her; Aragorn's sharp, furious outburst.

"Damn it, Mîaddar! How can you give up!?"

She stared at his hands now on the pale skin, still raw and dusty from the scouting, but firm and secure like the healer he was as he took over while she failed to go on.

"Mîaddar! It cannot be! There must be a way! Help me! Damn, Mîaddar!"

There could be a way, perhaps... but she did not know. She had never done it. And if she failed… she would kill him instantly with her own hands. The voice drove her mad, mad with the fear of failure, drumming in echoes through her, resounding tenfold, banging between the stone of the burg.

She was doomed to fail.

What had she stayed for, long ago…? For the illusion that she could change something, change the course of things? How presumptuous of her! What had she been thinking! - He was a warrior and warriors died. - How could she think that she could make a difference? Who was she to believe this of herself?... She was a failure! The voice was screaming it. And there were more voices, adding to it, multiplying, shouting from all sides, making it worse.

She wanted it all to cease.

"There might be a way..." Mîaddar suddenly whispered, barely hearable to human ears. Nausea washed over her at the thought of it. She stumbled towards the stone wall, wanting to get away. But the voice inside her would not cease, and she heard over it Gimli, the dwarf, call to his friend in a voice swollen with anguish, "Legolas? Legolas, lad! — Be strong lad!" Her stomach churned painfully.

And then the dwarf's scream reached her, harsh and condemning, "By Aulë's rocks! You dratted sprite, do something!"

On her knees, leaning her forehead heavily against the stone wall she retched painfully. Her stomach emptied itself of its meager contents. The nausea was unbearable and the painful spasms continued, though there was nothing left to expel.

"Mithrandir… Where is Mithrandir!" she called out, her voice weak and trembling. Searching for an anchor like one drowning.

"Mithrandir is not here! We need you! Now Mîaddar! Do something!" Aragorn's distress and fury brought her back to her senses.

She felt a firm, gentle hand clasping her shoulder. Holding her for a moment, preventing her from being washed away by the tide. She turned to look directly into Éowyn's eyes. Bright, steady Éowyn, full of hope and dreams. The woman squeezed her shoulder, reassuring her with a strong voice. She was young, but it did not matter, she knew how to fight. "I have seen you heal so many, save so many lives..." It was true, she had seen it all during their time spent working together.

But this was different! So different! She did not understand! She did not know!

It was him, the one she had dreamed of… she had yearned… she had hoped... she had — ... desired!… and who, maybe, ultimately might have prevented her from sailing…?

She had wished never to feel so intensely ever again. Because it consumed her, it was pure agony. Like a blade thrust into her heart, again and again and then twisting, around and around, the barbs shredding it. He was a warrior. And warriors died!

Never had Éowyn seen the elleth in such a state. So often had she come for support in times of need and destruction. Éowyn knew her, always pouring her healing care, working with resolute calmness. Many lives had she saved with her hands, and yet, many had slipped away under the same devoted care. Compassion and sadness she had seen in those dark eyes. Though never, in the most extreme situation, had the woman seen her lose control.

But this was different; she knew it; she felt it because she was her friend. "Switch off your feelings, Mîaddar! There is time for them later. Do not give in now! Focus on the task. You said healing is like battle. He is fighting, look at him! You said it yourself; he won't just slip away as those humans have. Fight with him, Mîaddar! You can make it! I do believe in you!"

Something in the elleth's gaze seemed to shift, sobered, and she suddenly looked almost surprised. Her eyes glittered strangely. "You, believe what you say, you truly do…" she frowned as she whispered, "and… you know!"

Éowyn was almost baffled at the strong and immediate effect of her words. Was this all the elleth had needed, the support of a friend? "We are all with you, Mîaddar!" She squeezed the elleth's shoulder and nodded to her. Mîaddar took a deep, steadying breath. The fever sent a tremor through her, and Éowyn held her faster as they took the few steps back together.

The elleth went down on her knees at the side of the elf, now strangely steady though her limbs looked oddly stiff, Éowyn noticed. Her firm words, spoken in a hoarse, low voice, were directed at Aragorn, who was helping his dearest friend breathe, with the expert touches of the healer he was, and with the love and care of a brother. The dwarf held the slender hand gripped in his own as if he was the hold on his lifeline. The elf breathed again — but each breath caught, filled him without fully leaving. Mîaddar was speaking in the elvish tongue, so none apart from the ranger understood what she said. Éowyn stood close to her brother just behind the elleth, and she observed, as they all did, in heavy suspense, waiting for the effect of those incomprehensible words. Aragorn's eyes widened and his gaze became dark like the stone surrounding them. Éowyn saw the muscles in his jaw steeling. He reached into his boot, and brought out his dagger, while Mîaddar unsheathed her own blade from her belt. Her gaze was hard and impenetrable.

The elleth gave clipped orders, "Go, Layrun. Hold the blades into the fire. Make haste!" and she sent Godliss to fetch hot water and clean linens, buckets and soap. Éomer followed to help the woman, and Éowyn felt proud of her brother, who never shied to give support in any task, no matter how high of rank he was.

When they returned, there was a strange, expectant silence. The elleth then spoke, not bothering to clear her throat from the grating raucousness, "I have never done this..." she paused, and Éowyn saw a faint shudder ripping through her frame before she went on, "… but the only way I see for the antivenom to reach and eliminate the poison effectively, is through the way it originally entered."

Of course, they had suspected her intent, when they had seen the daggers in her hand. Nevertheless, her words seemed to shock the ones present. There were swallows and eyes briefly shut and sighs that hitched like gasps. And Éowyn felt her brother's grip imperceptibly tighten around her arm.

The elleth's demeanour was remarkable, Éowyn thought, she seemed to have turned any emotion off. And Éowyn was glad for it because she knew it would be the only way for the elleth to stand through this.

They all kept a grave silence. But Gimli stared in blank consternation, gasping for words, "You are not going to... how can you?... you won't...!"

As he somehow caught himself he growled, "So much about the gentle healing touches of elves! What kind of creature are you!? What you are up to is like the blow of a goblin!"

Aragorn gave him a firm look, shaking his head and frowning at him in an attempt to restrain the dwarf's accusations, trying to cut off the enraged outburst.

Mîaddar shot the smaller being a sharp, piercing glare, that meant to shut off any further comment. "Watch your tongue, dwarf!" she snapped. "If I knew not that your biting words come from a loving heart, I would not hesitate to use this blade to silence you! My heart already bleeds and your words dig even deeper!"

Her voice sliced sharp like wetted steel, but the last words were so strained with anguish, that Gimli seemed to regret his over rushed outburst. Éowyn watched him as he swallowed meekly and lowered his gaze to the ground, muttering something about the strange ways of pointy-ears. Éowyn was deeply shaken, as she felt for the elleth, and in that same moment, she saw that her friend's gaze had sought her. Éowyn nodded briefly, to assure that she was still behind her. And then Mîaddar began her instructions in a bland neutral voice, the way it is expected of one of her profession, "I need Éomer, to hold him down at the shoulders. Gimli, you brace him around his ribs, Éowyn you pin down his hips, and Godliss, the legs, he will kick out mercilessly and must be restrained. I will work together with Estel - and Layrun; be at the ready to offer assistance. We need him completely still. Any movement could be fatal; the cut will go deep and dangerously close to the heart. Be prepared to struggle. He might develop unfathomable strength," she warned.

They all obeyed wordlessly, taking up their positions, and as she went down to her knees, Éowyn shuddered at the near translucence of the elf's pale skin observed from such closeness.

"Wait—" Gimli interrupted, "Can you not at least give him something against the pain, something to dull his senses?" he pleaded.

"I cannot!" Mîaddar murmured. "Anything potent enough to give him relief would further depress his breathing and slow his heartbeat. Basically, it would suppress the ability of his body to fight the venom, and shut down what has kept him alive until now. I would longtime have spared him the pain if I could." These words to the dwarf so matter-of-factly were no more clipped and aggressive, although they bore an untouchable finality.

Gimli lowered his head in defeat, and Éowyn could see his welling tears as he cradled the elf's hand.

Legolas' mind reeled. Leave the fallen!

There was pain, crushing agony, his muscles cramping and twitching uncontrollably. And always the air; not enough, too thin, straining his lungs and his senses. At least the men had gone, she had chased them away - again.

She had spoken to him, in a deep, raw melody, of earth, of wood, water and wind, of leaves, warm in the morning sun. She had coaxed the air into his lungs, kept it pumping through his body, rushing in his blood. But then he had lost sight of her black eyes. He had lost the touch of her hands on him. She had left him with the women. Their hands helped, they tried, but it was not the same, their voices held not the earthy music. They rose and pitched, mirroring his own panic. The fierce young Lady, a warrior in her heart, he had seen it in her eyes; bold, but not a healer. And a boy's mother, overwhelmed with gratitude and care. And this girl, slight and tender, barely out of childhood, yet strangely steady; a healer, but not elven - human, unfamiliar, too young. - Their faces above him, came clearly into focus in his wild agony and then flickered and were lost in the muddle of torment.

But then, before Legolas gave up his senses, Aragorn was suddenly there, his silver eyes like a beacon in the storm, his hands strong and steady. But there were shouts, an argument, heated voices, beloved and familiar, and confusing, Gimli's stubborn gruffness, and the dwarf's callous thick palm gripping his hand tight. And then there was a gust of wind, a thin ray of sun brushing him, fine slender hands, strangely strong, rich like dew on a freshly born leaf. And then, black eyes - terrorized - disappeared again. But Aragorn stayed. His hands were warm and gave at least the slightest relief. But he shouted and cursed and was desperate, utterly uncharacteristic, unsettling the elf.

They were all around him. He was causing way too much trouble!

Thoughts came in fragments — slipping, breaking apart —

They were supposed to focus their efforts on the quest. No delays! He was not important! The Hobbits trying the impossible were important. He had sworn to protect them. Until he could, until he was able. Now he was way too much of a burden; heaving, choking, dying.

Leave the fallen.

The sound of the room faded completely.

"Leave the fallen! Retreat!" The superior bellowed the command in urgency.

~.~.~

Legolas had been young then. And in another realm, he might still have been in the middle of his training, in safety, far from the battlefield. But growing up in a wood where danger and darkness loomed behind every trunk, under any shadow, had forced elflings to grow into warriors too early.

The orcs had grown bolder. They had come close to his home. They differed from the usual vile creatures; larger, smarter, and they fought with strategy.

How dare they come so close to his father's halls?

The elves had moved out, they had been hunting the monsters in parts of the wood where the trees had been muted to silence. From above in the leafed canopy, they had let arrows rain, and they had dropped silently from the branches, felling their enemies. But it had been a trap, a deception. The number of beasts had increased. Like ants, they crept out between the trunks, covered the forest ground. The elves had not expected a sheer mass like this. They had fought to their limits. - Many orcs had fallen. Too many elves had fallen.

The orcs had unexpectedly overwhelmed them in number. They had been well prepared; they had planned it! - They usually never planned!

"Leave the fallen! Retreat!"

But Legolas saw his friend covered in blood, lying on the soil, helpless. Leithon, his childhood friend, his companion in arms. Legolas heard the shrieking of the orcs approaching, horrible in his sensitive ears.

The wounded elf stared, fervently shaking his head as he saw him faltering. "Go!" he urged. "Flee!" his broken voice came, heartbreakingly determined.

He had not fallen too far. Only some trunks away. The orcs were nearing, snarling and eager to pour over him. He was near enough, near to perform the mercy killing, to spare him a cruel death at the hands of their enemy! But he could not. He was certainly near enough to reach him! He would disregard the repeated order of retreat, aware of what they both would face if he failed. But he could make it!

He ran. So close he was…

A whizzing sound cut the air. He got knocked down by the impact. Violent pain slashed into his side.

'Get up, run! He is close!'

That certainty gave him the necessary power to heave himself up and stumble forward, to lift the wounded elf from the ground and carry him. Away, away from the beasts!

'Run! Retreat! Run!'

... with a precious burden in his arms.

'Run! Reach your companions! Save him!'

He ran until he could no more. He carefully lowered the precious burden to the ground, close to relative safety, and then he collapsed; a raw bolt protruding from his side.

He heard muddled, hurried voices. He was jolted up into strong arms, and pain jarred his side and tore through his body.

He had disrespected a direct order. It had happened before. They had scolded him therefore about the danger he had put himself into, about the risk he had brought upon his company.

~.~.~

But this was different, they should go on! Leave him behind. He was not important.

They had sent him, because he was loyal, because he was formidable, and he would fight, he would fight to the end. But now no more.

'Leave the fallen!'

~.~.~

The bolt had felt like a burning pole striking his body. He had been set afire, his blood like flames charging through his veins, searing. And then he remembered nothing again.

He woke in the healing wards, his father beside him, the healers looking over him, working frantically. Damp cloth had been placed on his brow, neck, and limbs. He was barely conscious. He saw everything through a haze of flames. His body was on fire. Burning alive.

He had disrespected a direct order. He had done it before, and would do it again. The pain he would take. He would suffer it. - Even death. Death would be relief.

Legolas remembered his father's eyes. The image of them engraved in his mind forever - pooling blue eyes, transparent with tears, deprived of all hardness and severity, wide with fear and filled with a grief so deep he could drown in it. Oh, he could never forget those eyes!

His body was burning - the pain he could take. He would suffer it - but not the pain in his King's eyes.

Day after day his Adar hovered over him, never left his side. And every time he miserably opened his eyes, he saw the pain in the eyes of the Elvenking.

He had disrespected a direct order. He would do it again. - His friend might live.

He wished he could die, escape the flames consuming him...

But what would his death do to his father...? - It would eat him, tear him apart, burn him alive. Torture him to his end, and the wood and all that was dear to him might fall around him.

... He would endure. He would fight for his life. - For Thranduil, his father, the Elvenking!

He could take any pain. - But not the pain in his father's eyes.

~.~.~

'Leave the fallen.'

They should go ahead, leave him behind with the elleth. - She was still there. She would stay. She was fighting her own battle, with her own, crumbling self.

Leave the fallen...

But how could Legolas demand of his friends that what he would ignore himself?

He could die. It would be easier.

Thoughts came in fragments — slipping, breaking apart —

They should leave him with her, to die under the touch of her caring hands. Let him slip away from the pain, with his last breath. He would feel just those slender hands after the last breath has left. A drop of water on a shivering green leaf, warmed by the first ray of sun after a storm and caressed by a slight gush of wind; his last sensation. And then the world would turn black. - He would welcome death.

But he could not endure the grief of his friends.

Gimli staring with glittering tears, in despair and unbelief, holding his hand, ready to shatter.

He feared what his death would do to Aragorn; misplaced guilt would consume him... He saw it in his eyes. Bright silver now darkened, any spark dulled with grief, the creases on his brow set deep. He could take the pain, but he could not take the pain in Aragorn's eyes. - He would fight for his life, he would endure as much as was in his power. And he would do it again; take the blade aimed at his friend, his brother.

Legolas wanted to tell them; he could take the pain! He had seen the blades, they had gleamed before his eyes, sharp, clear and merciless. They should go ahead with whatever was to be done. He would take the pain. But he could not speak.

And then they assailed him. Their weights on him crushed him into the hard stone. White pain exploded. His body jerked at the further injury that was inflicted on it, uncontrollable agony tore him apart as cold, hard steel slowly cut through his skin, drove down to his heart. His mouth parted to release a terrible cry, his eyes snapped wide open with horror. The faces and arms over him, melted into one blur. He tried to make out Aragorn's eyes, Gimli's eyes, Mîaddar's eyes, to get comfort, to get an anchor to hold on to, but as soon as he found the eyes he loved and that were now wet with tears, he lost them again in his blurred, chafing misery.

He would fight for his life! He would endure. For Aragorn, for Gimli, for his father... for Mîaddar. But was his body strong enough to survive?

"Hold him steady!" Mîaddar cried.

Éowyn used all her slight weight. She had thrown herself over the elf, but it would never have been enough, had they not all struggled together, combining their strength to restrain the savagely powerful body who fought to arch and buck.

Her vision blurred at the cruelty of it. But through the mist she saw Aragorn, the man who had carried them through the battle on this fortress, the one who had refused to give up and had brought them to victory, as bitter as it had been, but victory it remained indeed because Rohan still lived. She had admired him and more; she had felt for him, had felt with him.

He worked with the elleth, hand in hand. Urgent were their movements but controlled, as if they had worked together for long, in practice and understanding. They fought together for the one they loved. Their hearts in their throats, but their minds set with their healers' resolve. Éowyn observed him, the man who would be king. His eyes were grave and age-old, like Mîaddar's at that moment. And he spoke in Sindarin to Legolas. The man and the elleth uttered both low, lilting words in a calming tone.

When she was nearly at the end of her forces, at the end of what she could bear, both physically and emotionally, the elf stilled — but not fully — his muscles still trembled beneath their grip, half-locked even in the lull. Her first thought was that they had lost him, but then she felt and saw his faintly shaking muscles.

“Shock,” Layrun said — voice tight. “The body is shutting down to endure it — do not mistake it for safety.”

But still, Éowyn felt some relief. Aragorn and Mîaddar still worked, and the girl was there with them, assisting with firm, expert hands, and monitoring the elf's vitals.

Éowyn remembered his heart-shredding screams, the thundering beats of his heart that wreaked him. The maiden had felt the thrumming under her, where she was holding him, and it had mingled with her own increasing beats. She had seen his eyes, sightless with panic. Now tears streaked his face. And his eyes had turned to endless depths of age and war and suffering. It was pure anguish.

The mother of the boy, behind her, was weeping. And Legolas' eyes shuttered.

There were linens soaked in blood, carelessly scattered all around them and herb-infused, steaming hot water, and they still worked and monitored, and spoke curt words between them with voices forcefully hushed by emotions.

The stillness of the elf after the struggle weighed heavy — too still, like a body held together by effort alone. The tension of uncertainty lay thick in the air. Time carried on sluggishly.

But then Éowyn saw how Aragorn's and Mîaddar's eyes met, and they held their gazes for a while. Aragorn's tense shoulders slightly slumped with the release of a sigh as he lowered his eyes. His features looked weary but strangely bright as a tear of relief rolled down his strong cheek. Mîaddar's sigh followed right after; it was more like a sob, and Éowyn saw how she attempted to control the increasing tremor in her limbs.

No one moved for a heartbeat.

The wound was closed; a deceptively slight cut, now sewn with a few stitches.

Éowyn felt a hot surge of energy. She was proud of the elleth who had fought her battle. Éowyn had stayed with her through this. But now it was her turn. She would gather the courage to defy them all and ride to battle; for Rohan, for her people, for Middle-earth. Her part was still to come, it had just begun. She was not made for this; to wait and endure the warriors' agonies after they returned injured. She was made to fight with a sword in her hand, steel clashing against steel with cries of battle.

Mîaddar stared at her own hands; the shade of amber appeared to her a stark contrast on the white skin. Those long, slim hands seemed strangely detached from her as they worked close to the solid, callous hands of the man opposite her. The rise and fall of the pale, bruised chest under them had slowly taken its own rhythm. Still supported by those hands forcing the breath from his lungs when he could not release it himself, but without demanding much pressure. Despite the unfathomable, shocking torture, he had endured what no man had survived before. Barely.

It took a long moment before anyone truly believed it was over.

Estel blinked between tears, threw his head back watching the sky, in gratitude, in relief, then returned his gaze on the quiet, pale form, now breathing — uneven, still shallow, still forced but steady enough — and still his hands did not leave Legolas’ chest — and his tears fell. His gaze lifted once more to the sky — then returned to his friend's face.

"I would have failed, Legolas, if you had left me, all would be lost. I cannot do it without you!" And he lowered his head and wept.

Something close to a wonder... Not once, but twice in her lifetime!

Estel quickly wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of one hand, and was calm and secure once more before her, breathing deeply and evenly, his eyes glittering silvery with love and care. And Gimli blinked back tears of relief; earth-brown eyes shining, short hardy fingers fondly patting the archer's strong, slim hand laid in his own, a deep sigh moving his sturdy shoulders.

The tension fell off her, crumbling away into pieces. Relief spread within her, but with it, Mîaddar suddenly felt strangely insubstantial - light and transparent - as if she was not there, should not be there. Her whole body shivered. Her mind whirled in confusion as if solving and diffusing in the air. Her hands trembled like leaves in the breeze, and she retrieved them, leaving Estel's strong, soothing ones to do their work alone. The man glanced up at her, questioning, but he was calm and anchored as he did so.

She was in the wrong place. Legolas' friends were close. He was in good hands. She could not stay any longer. She wished to, but she simply could not. She touched the back of Estel's hands on the elf's chest. They were warm. She briefly shut her eyes and gave him a nod. Blinking, with tears glittering, she rose, wavering slightly. Estel watched her. Mîaddar did not know if in understanding or merely in acceptance of her action, and then he ignored her, redirecting his entire care and attention upon Legolas.

As she stood unsteadily, dizziness claimed her. Black spots danced in her vision and she heard her own blood rushing in her ears. She was breathing heavily to regain control, standing on the same spot for some instants. A gentle hand came resting on her shoulder, wanting to steady her. She knew it was Éowyn's, but Mîaddar did not look her way.

As if in a surreal, detached world, she observed Estel and Gimli kneeling at Legolas' side, his face now peaceful and features even, his eyes closed, elegant and strong the high cheekbones, dark the long lashes on the pale skin, impossibly beautiful.

He would be fine. He was where he belonged; close to his friends. With that knowledge, she slipped away from Éowyn's hold, ran away, without looking back, down the stony ways of the Hornburg - and she bumped straight into the white robe of the wizard, who stopped her fleeing.

"Whereto so hastily, penneth-nìn?" his quiet, deep voice inquired.

Mîaddar took a step back, stunned, and froze to the spot. She wanted to run on, but she could not. She glanced at the wizard blinking unbelievingly, anger and despair suddenly bubbling up in her.

"Mithrandir! Where were you, when you were most desperately needed?" she pressed out in a shaking, choked voice.

She could no longer hold back her tears. They flew down her cheeks in warm rivulets. They blurred her vision and her frame shook under sobs of anguish. "We almost lost him!"

The Maia stepped close, and Mîaddar grabbed his white robe to steady herself. Before she could crumble to her knees, he wrapped his arms around her shaking frame and held her close while the emotions wreaked through her. "You almost lost him, but you did not, am I right?"

She did not answer.

He allowed her to weep until her sobs eased down, and then the wizard spoke in the same, warm voice like before. "Tell me, what should I have done that you did not do? - Sometimes healing comes along with pain and fear. It is not to me to interfere when it is taking its course."

Why did he always have to speak in riddles? This time Mîaddar was not in the condition to guess the meaning, even less to understand. She was furious. What had he known? Had he allowed her to go through this struggle willingly? She would never know the reason for his behaviour, what knowledge he possessed… and often she doubted that he did really even know himself. Though, his voice and the sound of the words somehow calmed her. She loosened from his embrace and looked into the friendly old face before she took a deep, shuddering sigh and ran again.

She ran and ran, and did not rest. Caladdolen picked her up somewhere between the hills as she was stumbling, exhausted, through the grass of the mark. The horse whinnied her welcome and brought her to the willow who stood alone and forlorn but never abandoned by the small creek who gurgled happily its clear melody, springing and gushing over the tree's roots and the moss-covered stones.

Mîaddar slid from the mare, her face heated and pulsing, wet with hot tears. Caladdolen gently nudged her and Mîaddar stepped through the rich curtain of slim twigs and leaves, reaching out with her arms, touching, tangling herself in them, feeling their embrace. The tree sang and wept and breathed with happiness. "I am here, I have returned…" Mîaddar hummed to her from her heart, and she apologised for how she had left. But the tree did not resent her and tangled her even more intensely into her foliage as if she knew the elleth needed the closeness.

The sun as it sank plunged the sky in crimson light and Mîaddar stayed under the safety of the tree peering out between the leaves and staring at the beauty of dusk and then she shivered and shuddered at the images the intense colour evoked.

She stayed a whole night and day under the willow, cradled and protected and grateful for it, humming, and crying and feeling emotions she could not express nor truly grasp. Mîaddar washed her flushed skin and her clothes in the fresh stream and smiled delightedly as it sprang and gurgled around her in quiet laughter.

This time as she parted from the willow and its clear creek, she did it properly, singing, joining their melody. She laughed as Caladdolen snorted into the harmony, impatiently shaking her mighty head before Mîaddar mounted her and they rode on.

But then, as she left her new haven amidst the endless grass, the events of the last days rolled over her as if she had just left that burg in the rocks. She chased along the hills, haunted and restless, and when Caladdolen finally reached the great, ancient forest in a stretched gallop, Mîaddar wasn't sure whether or not the forest had called her. She garnered more of a feeling of surprise at her sudden, hasty appearance. But it mattered not. The trees welcomed her once more, and that was all she needed and cared about.

Legolas had been overwhelmed by the consuming sharpness, jolting into him with ferocious savagery. But then he could remember no more, as if his fëa had fled his body for a while, retreating from the unbearable assault. And as he slowly became aware of his body again, he sensed the pain. It was still there, but it was now bearable. It was nothing unknown in his long years of battle. The tearing spasms had lessened. His breathing still came ragged and strained, but at least it came on its own.

There was a moment — thin as a thread — where no one spoke at all.

He had seen Mîaddar over him and had felt delicate hands supporting his breathing motions. And then suddenly his chest had lost the feeling of those comforting hands. Her face and her frame had disappeared.

The present dimmed.

He saw waves as he closed his eyes and a black horse with a slender figure on it, swiftly galloping over the water, weightless and almost unreal - until it disappeared. A bird cried as it circled in the sky. It was a gull. - His heart ached.

The air still would not settle in him properly. But it stayed.

And then, he felt strong, warm hands, that eased the constriction in his heart. He blinked into the sky. - The bird he saw then, was not a gull. It was an eagle, strong and majestic as it sailed the skies. And the warm hands supporting his breathing were Aragorn's.

Gimli was at his side. "Do not dare scare me off like this again, lad! I'll make you pay for this strike in points. You will not get away unscathed! I promise you this." But his emotions caused the intended gruffness in his voice to break and shake. Legolas was too exhausted to properly react to the challenge, but with what strength he could muster he gathered a fond, naughty sparkle in his eyes, flashing it up at the dwarf with a faint smile.

His friends were there. They had never left him. And whatever was to come, they would face it together.

Chapter Text

Bright sun rays slid out between white fluffy clouds casting warm beams of light on the stone burg. Éothain walked slowly, his gaze straying from the illuminated stone tiles to the pale fleecy softness; like cotton wool, like spun sugar, he mused.

He remembered how, as a child, he had asked his mother if he could touch them. He remembered it now, on this day, after the gruesome battle; after the fear, too many deaths, and immense grief to this fortress. He felt the strange sensation pricking his fingers as if he could do so. - The feeling he had imagined as a child; to sail on a cloud, a huge woolly mound, but softer… like velvet, like silk. How comforting and delightful it must be… and for a brief moment in his heart he was that child again, who had seen nothing yet of war, who was living and playing with his siblings in their little cottage and in the small garden, well protected, with his mother who was always there to care. Sometimes his father would return home. Éothain remembered him, riding high up on the horse, clad in armour, tall, his helmet gleaming in the sun. He had held them close and played with them. He remembered excitement and laughter and strong arms around him anytime his father was home. Until, one day, he did not return anymore. But the fluffy white clouds returned, time and time again, and he had never ceased to imagine how it would feel to touch and to sail on them, up high, in the wide sky.

They had delayed their departure to Isengard for a day again, because of the grievous wounding of the elf, to allow him time to at least partly recover. Éothain had heard very well that the ranger and the dwarf had no intention of departing without their friend. And the wizard would certainly not want to separate them. In the bonds of friendship lay their strength. That made the difference to the sheer number and empty, violent power of their enemies, Gandalf had said. Éothain had witnessed the truth of those words in these few days. He now felt ashamed at how, at the time, they had struggled to value over everything the fact that they had emerged victorious, where none of them had dared to hope - against the odds and all sane logic.

They had been exhausted and grieved by the overwhelming amount and cruelty of their losses. They could not see what they had achieved - that they had miraculously escaped the destruction of Rohan. Not least because of the steadfast endurance and determination, the strong courage surpassing all reason, of this ranger of the north, named Aragorn - the exiled heir of Gondor no less - and his loyal companions; a dwarf and an elf. Creatures he and many of his men had never met before, as if escaped from legends, now standing real and fleshed out before them. Far from their homes, they had fought at his people's side. Ready to sacrifice their own lives for these lands and a future belonging to men, for hope and friendship.

With the dwarf, it had been easy. His gruff, direct and practical ways they had quickly learned to appreciate. Not so easy to handle had been the presence of the elf. Éothain sighed as he recalled how unfair he had behaved himself. He and his companions had felt a strange power emanating from this being. And as difficult as it was to admit, he knew they had feared him; feared the unknown and magic of tales told around campfires, feared the fey grace of this lean yet strong body, the beauty of this ageless face. They had dreaded his strange, penetrating stare.

Éothain remembered that he himself had worded his protest at following the elf's sense of danger. As the second in command of Éomer's Éored, he had spoken for his men, had argued with his captain regarding that mission. The elf had not flinched, his stare barely brushed them, an irritating indifference in those eyes, so alien and incalculable like deep cold water. The dwarf had glared at them, and followed the elf, turning his back on the men…

In the night the elf had watched the stars with Gimli, Elvellon, and they had fallen asleep side by side. Legolas was depleted by all he had endured, and Gimli had crumbled with relief after much helpless anguish.

Sometime in the night, Legolas had been startled out of sleep. He blinked rapidly, clearing his senses. Gimli was snoring loudly beside him, the scratching sound increasing and ebbing in irregular patterns. Legolas nudged the dwarf gently, but as Gimli happily snored along, he pushed him quite roughly. The dwarf mumbled, grumbled, and shifted, and the rasping sound ceased. Legolas turned to the other side, just in case the dwarf might resume his annoying habit, but he smiled fondly, glad his friend was resting soundly after what Legolas knew he had caused him.

The elf settled rather stiffly, still careful of his injury. He blinked into the night surrounding them, and nearly started, taken aback. - Aragorn lay there, at a suspiciously strategic distance; close enough that Legolas did sense his body heat, making him wonder how far gone he had been not to notice him earlier, but far enough that the man might have calculated to pass undetected, considering the depth of his friend's fatigued sleep.

Legolas' eyes narrowed slightly as he intently observed the prone man. Aragorn's lids were shut, and his breath kept even, but by means not deep enough to cover the deception. Legolas regarded him intently. He knew that as soon as he would succumb again to sleep, the man's eyes would snap open to watch over him. Aragorn would be capable of staying awake the entire night to survey his state and track his breathing. For a while, the elf considered if he should feign sleep to catch the man in his enterprise and scold him for not taking the rest any human needed.

Legolas lay there, his back turned to Gimli, his eyes fixed on Aragorn, alert, but the man did not move nor give any sign of wakefulness. Gimli hunched closer in his sleep and then settled cosily, spooning him. Legolas smiled and sighed, feeling the warmth of his friend's body agreeably radiating through him. Fatigue tugged at him then mercilessly and he found it difficult to pursue his intent. He only once elbowed Gimli sharply as the dwarf attempted to resume his rasping, guttural sound. At that, the dwarf grunted twice and then silenced. Legolas settled contentedly, satisfied at having prevented a noisy outburst, protecting the pleasant quietude. His muscles became agreeably soft and warm, and then he knew no more.

The sun tingled his face, and he blinked. He had fallen asleep under the soft light of the stars, and had rested with his eyes closed. He was aware of that as soon as his lids fluttered, tediously opening to the dazzling daylight. Of course, it was nothing unusual, and nothing to worry about in particular after his ailment.

The first thing he noticed, as he had at least partly adjusted to the brightness, were two pairs of eyes watching him from both sides - pinning him even. And Legolas realized that his friends might not share his opinion in the judgment of his current manner of sleeping.

He felt Aragorn's hands on him before he had even braced for the next thought. Groggily, somewhere at the edge of his awareness, he registered the man's hand slipping into his open tunic and shirt, and carefully fumble with the bandage beneath.

Legolas blinked at Gimli, who was seemingly trying to behave as inconspicuous as possible, but miserably failed in his attempt, of course. From the corner of his eyes, the dwarf peered at Aragorn's work with concern. Legolas did not defend himself from this first assault, he had not had the time to even fully awaken. He sighed tiredly and grinned slightly at the forced indifference of the dwarf, and he allowed the man to lower his ear over his heart, and the head with the dark dishevelled hair to rest there while he listened in grave concentration. Legolas resisted the urge to push him up when he thought it was quite enough, but the man apparently thought differently.

When it seemed Aragorn had made certain his friend was still alive and most probably would be so for a while, he uttered reluctantly; "Mellon-nìn, I do not like it, but we have to leave you for some time to help the Rohirrim prepare their return to Edoras. They will depart still early this morning. I will be back very soon, to check on you."

Legolas lay quietly for some time, to please, or rather appease his friends, when they left him alone to rest. He watched the morning sky for a while; the clouds shifting and gleaming white in the growing light. His limbs prickled and tensed, his muscles gave slight twitches. He found those impulses impossible to resist. He stretched, relishing the feeling of every muscle fibre reviving, and slowly probed rising. It worked surprisingly well, and he felt almost fresh after the rest, pleasantly weightless. His head was still a bit dizzy but he was sure he would rein that in, in due time. He decided he would join the others to help. He would not lie here while his strength was returning, leaving them to do all the work. Although he thought it safe to avoid crossing Aragorn's and Gimli's paths for a while.

He climbed down to where people were walking about, readying packs and carts and horses. Litters were being prepared for the injured, and Legolas found himself lending a hand exactly where their transport was being readied. He noticed some people regarding him with huge incredulous eyes, and he grimaced at the irony of it should his friends detect him here. He concentrated on the tasks at hand, to not dwell on the unease of what would happen then, and distract himself from the unwelcome tiredness that still lingered in his limbs and at times made his head slightly spin. He stretched out his senses, alert for any sign of a certain Dúnadan, readying his reflexes for an eventual timely escape. But he did not feel bad because he only worked according to his actual state, adjusting to the rhythm his recovering body could take. Of that, he was confident, he tried to convince himself.

With all this in mind, he was too caught up to notice the four girls at a distance, prying secret looks at him, which under other circumstances he would have perceived with ease.

"Hush, do not speak so loud, Sigerun! He may hear you," Merewyn hissed, reproaching her friend, and brushing a stray, light-brown curl out of her eyes, which had come loose as she worked. "Elves have very sensitive ears, they say." In a low voice she then excitedly stated, "And look at that pointed shape: it is beautiful, so elegant..." She sighed as she squinted over while tying the bag she had just filled.

"Do you think he would talk to us?" Sigerun blinked at Layrun expectantly, "Please, could you not make introductions?"

"Shhh, not so loud!" Merewyn reprimanded her again, shooting her an admonishing glare.

Cynefled brought her hand to her chest and whispered, "I think I would melt under his gaze if I stood before him. - Please, Layrun, can you do it," she urged.

"He is not a boy, that you could just dance up flirtatious and talk to him anyhow! He is an elven lord, a seasoned warrior, perhaps centuries old or even millennia."

All three looked at their friend, flabbergasted.

"He-... looks-... strong, aye," Sigerun stuttered, considering and gaping. "But still-... he looks so young, barely older than us. How can he have lived through millennia?" Her gaze was confused, dismayed even.

And Cynefled covered her mouth while she gasped, "I can't even grasp how much time that is!" the exclamation behind her hand came out muffled, and for a moment her big, light-blue eyes were even wider and startled.

"You have seen no other elves before, but you have seen the elleth who sometimes showed up in Edoras," Layrun said, her mien very serious.

"You mean the healer from Harad?" Merewyn dropped in.

Layrun nodded slowly, and did not change her expression. "She looks young as well, but she is old..."

"Oh, that one..." Sigerun said almost dismissively, "I'm glad for what she is doing for our people-" and as Merewyn flashed her another berating look, she hushed to whisper, "-but she is creepy..."

"You are being unfair!" Layrun said earnestly, and she meant it. "They are elves. You cannot comprehend them... do not judge so easily!"

"But her eyes are so dark. Have you not seen it? I mean not the colour..." Sigerun insisted, "Looking at her, it is easier to imagine the age."

The other two said nothing at that, but their darkened gazes suggested the same unease as Sigerun had voiced at the thought of the elleth.

Layrun narrowed her eyes and looked at them holding each of their gazes briefly, and she felt the heaviness in her own voice while she emphasized the words, "Oh, I have seen his eyes when he was suffering, in his dilated pupils there was the same darkness; something deep and consuming I am still trying to comprehend, and yet I know I will never be able to seize it. - You cannot know..." She shuddered and trailed off.

But her friends had not seen, they did not know, and their spirits were high and tingled by the sight of the handsome face, and the elegant beauty of his tall, sleek body. It was as if they did not hear, or did not want to know. They were mesmerized, their minds swirling and tingling and caught in attraction. They went back to talking about the elf in excitement again, while Layrun stayed silent. And she could not resent them for this, because despite all she had seen, when she dared a glance at him she saw all that her friends admired, and because she knew, she was even more in awe.

She would not walk up to him to introduce her friends, she had made that clear to them. But she felt that politeness and respect demanded of her to greet him and ask about his well-being. Besides - and she frowned at that - how in all the world was he walking around and working already...? She had been told of the swift healing of elves, but she had not witnessed such before, and she briefly asked herself if he should not rather rest only a little while longer. But that was not hers to decide. She restrained herself; the elf was an experienced warrior, and he would surely know best the abilities of his own body.

"My lord-," Legolas heard a soft voice at his side and lifted his eyes from his business. He felt strangely caught by Layrun's shy gaze, and he brought his hand to his chest, where the wound lay bandaged under his tunic, and if he was honest still ached. His eyes latched on hers.

"I-," for a brief lapse he was almost about to stutter or apologize to the healer, and let the suppressed fatigue overwhelm him, but as he paused Legolas saw how her eyes were very young and wide with awe, as she stood there open-mouthed. He calmed as she blinked up at him. He stood tall, and her admiring look swept up over his broad shoulders. She was very still, and seemed surprised, or even startled. He took a deep, slow breath. His hand still at his chest, the elf bowed his head in respect to her, "Gratitude, Layrun for what you have done. There are no words."

"I am so glad to see you well, my lord," she blurted out with unabashed sincerity.

"You are so young," he found himself staring at her, as if in startled realization, "but what you have done lifts you into my highest esteem; do not call me Lord, I'm only Legolas, or I at my turn shall call you Lady if you should prefer that."

The girl blushed and swallowed and lowered her eyes but could not hide her coy, cheerful smile. "Of course, you shall call me Layrun. I am only a girl, an apprentice healer, and I will be honoured to call you Legolas."

Legolas thought she was a beautiful child, and brave, true and skilled; she would become a great woman.

"You will be a great healer, Layrun, you already are," he said.

Slightly pitched voices and shy, soft laughter drifted over. Layrun nervously squinted at the group of girls not too far away. They talked excitedly, among each other while packing bags and different items into the carts, too obviously stealing looks at them. They seemed all very young, probably less than a twenty summers, Legolas thought; maybe eighteen, or nineteen at the most. It was so difficult for him to guess human age.

At that realization, he admired the steadfastness of the young apprentice-healer before him even more. She looked so tender and timid, but then, when it mattered, her sober toughness had been impressive.

She blushed furiously now, and insecurely peered at the girls close-by who were not even trying to hide their interest, pursuing their agitated chatter with eyes continuously prying furtive looks at them.

Legolas beamed an amused smile at Layrun, "Are they your friends?"

Layrun fidgeted with her gown, her gaze fixed on the ground. "Aye, they are. I- apologize for their indiscretion… they…" she trailed off and the flush on her soft cheeks intensified further.

Legolas chuckled softly. "Worry not, it is fine!" he assured her.

He found that he enjoyed their secret, appraising glances. It was a welcome distraction, from all the terror of what had happened, from all the weight of what was still to come. The girls' excitement was uplifting and bright, and their glee was infectious. The fact that he had this effect on them made him feel young and light, and prickling with mischief, and he realized how much he missed Pippin.

As if he had called for him with that last thought, instead of the hobbit, behind the cart appeared the dwarf, and a deep voice rumbling over to him, "Ah, look where you are, you reckless woodelf; preparing the litters for the wounded, while in fact, you should be among the ones using them. - Barely escaped the halls by a miracle. Are you aware of what our dear friend the ranger will do to you if he catches you here?"

Layrun bowed quickly and rather awkwardly at the dwarven Lord. Her face still bore a tender rosy shade, and she appeared quite confounded at the dwarf's snippy threat.

Legolas braced himself for the sparring. He knew the best defence with the dwarf was attacking in turn. He was not going to give in and admit his exhaustion. Even less now and here. Still roused in defiant mischief, he handed out the first punch.

"His name is Gimli, Layrun. What applies to me, is also valid for him, he is my friend," Legolas said fondly, with a voice sweet like honey, "Forget about the Lords!"

He grinned triumphantly at Gimli. Layrun looked slightly bewildered between them. Gimli suddenly glanced at the girl, earth brown eyes blinking, taken aback - he seemed not to have recognized her at first.

"O- of course my Lady, I mean- girl- Layrun- I-," he stumbled on the words, not wanting to get distracted from his initial intent of scolding the elf, but clearly wishing to offer the girl his gratitude and respect. He bowed low, like a polite dwarven lord, before the confused girl. He had clearly lost that point against the elf and it amused Legolas to no end.

"And, ah, these are her friends." With a cheeky and bright flick of his gaze, the elf indicated the girls who had moved imperceptibly closer.

Gimli politely nodded his head at the suddenly shyly smiling girls, and grumbled under his beard, twisting its end between his fingers, "It is not me whom you have to worry about princeling, I'm merely here to keep an eye on you, I will force you to nothing."

Legolas tilted his head, looking down at the dwarf, asking innocently, "What do you mean, Gimli?"

"I mean, it is not me you have to distract. I keep an eye on you, I admitted it already. Although if Aragorn catches you up and around, he will check your pulse and your breathing right here in the crowd, and then he might even tear open that tunic and shirt to get to the wound." Gimli narrowed his eyes now almost menacingly, "I do not think you would appreciate it, would you?"

"Do not think you can scare me back to rest, Gimli, I got your intent," Legolas in turn narrowed his eyes at the dwarf accusingly.

And then he glanced over to the girls very gently and with calculated calm, "I think here it is due to make some acquaintances – but I give you precedence, my friend," he smirked over to Gimli, "You may well keep good company to the Ladies, master dwarf, I might return later…"

Legolas knew Gimli could not help but being gallant to the girls, a circumstance which would most certainly prevent his friend from pursuing him. And so he was gone with a nimble leap onto the wall. He briefly turned, once again standing tall on the stone rim. His long hair gleaming pale gold in the sunlight, he brought his hand to his heart once more, this time in graceful greeting, leaving the girls' longing looks to follow him. He gazed back at Layrun, one last time, and nodded to her in respect, a gentle smile directed to her, before he slid down to the other side of the wall and vanished, even from sight of a possibly soon appearing ranger.

From over the wall he heard the deep tenor of Gimli intermingling with higher, female tones, he heard the rumbling voice saying something about a certain lad, and soft laughter bubbling in between. He smiled to himself, stifling a chuckle, and felt also a little guilty. - Not towards Gimli, because the dwarf would certainly enjoy the company.

He had taken it too far and he felt now his limbs trembling and nausea making his stomach churn. Safely alone with nobody to witness he leant over the wall and expelled whatever his stomach was so forcefully rebelling against. It was not much, but that was even more straining. Certainly it all would get better as soon as the remnants of the poison would wear off.

In the tower where they had passed the night, Aragorn finally found Legolas sitting silently, leaning back against the wall, his legs stretched out long before him on the stone. His nimble fingers twirled a sharp dagger with astonishing speed, tossing it occasionally up and catching it, his palm securely cupping the hilt. He stared absently out into the sky over the rim of the wall, seemingly at nothing in particular. Aragorn leant back to the wall, close to the elf. He let himself slide down beside his friend and a sigh of frustration, or anxiety, or relief left his lungs in a rush. He could not decide which it was.

"So here is where you came to, after busying yourself with the carts for the wounded, when you still are recovering yourself."

"The dwarf told you then?" Legolas mumbled, feeling slightly betrayed.

"Gimli told me nothing; the girls did."

"Layrun?"

"No, she would not open her mouth. I do not know how you drew even her onto your side. But her friends were very cooperative. They even offered to help search for you." Aragorn lifted an eyebrow at him, looking very much like Elrond at that moment.

Legolas shrugged, "I left Gimli to help them with the bags, while I came here to think. They seem to enjoy his company, they are very talkative with him."

"You ran away, to escape me, and said you would return. I have no doubt that he entertained them, and enjoyed their company as well - of course! – Yet, they muted when they saw me and stared. But as soon as I said I was looking for you the girls were keen to help."

Legolas gave a soft chuckle. But as Aragorn remained serious and stern, the elf's gaze darkened and suddenly he looked very tired.

"I am sorry Estel, I did not mean to become such a burden," he said.

Aragorn turned towards him, frowning at those words, and narrowing his eyes. What was Legolas speaking? How could he say this? Aragorn felt the line between his brows crease deep, in his indignation about Legolas' words.

"What are you saying, mellon-nin…" he nearly gasped.

Legolas stared at the ground like a guilty child. He resumed twirling the knife and with the index of his other hand, he began drawing the patterns of the stone tiles beside his long outstretched legs, as if the constant movement of his fingers could soothe the turmoil in him, "I hate it to have become a burden to you, I hate it that you delayed your departure because of me, I hate to be claimed by such weakness; that is not what was expected of me, what I expect of myself… I hate it to worry you!"

Aragorn found himself shake his head in utter disbelief. He blinked rapidly at the wave of furious emotions that wanted to overwhelm him.

"How can you say that? - You saved my life! And you did so before, countless times. There are few who can match you in fight. You survived, where any other would have perished. That blade- it was meant for me, but you took it. And whenever I think of what you have suffered through, I just want to weep! I feel immense gratitude. And the guilt for even allowing that feeling crushes me. You are fierce and gentle, and your heart is noble and true. How could I ever have carried the responsibility of my predicament alone!? You were always there to support me. You are incomparable - to me and to this quest!" Aragorn was beside himself, and he suddenly noticed that he was shouting.

Legolas completely stilled, his index stuck between two loose stone tiles, the blade of the knife pinned between two fingers of the other hand. His features looked very pale, almost white in the shade of the wall. He seemed not to breathe. Aragorn started as he took him in. He grabbed at him, shaking him urgently. "Breathe, fool!" Only then, Legolas drew in a sharp breath, as if suddenly remembering how his lungs worked. Aragorn stared at Legolas' face, panting from the shock. The man ran shaky fingers through his hair in nervous frustration and lowered his voice, but he was by means not finished.

"Let the decision for whom I worry be mine! We are a fellowship, we all care for each other. Frodo and Sam are always in our minds, we are deeply grieved for Boromir whom we lost, we worried for Merry and Pippin and grieved for Gandalf until our grey wizard returned white, and thank goodness, assured us our two small friends are fine. - We still worry for them. And they worry for us. So why should it be different with you?"

He paused to regather himself, and as Legolas still did not speak, he added very gently and softly but with emphasis, "I appreciate your strength and your skills to no end, Legolas! I am beyond grateful; there are no words for how I feel. The hobbits' courageous hearts are overwhelming, but I am glad I was not made to set out with them small cheery people of the shire alone, no matter how brave they are. You guard my back and are at my side at all times, Legolas, you are my great strength, and I would not want to miss you, for nothing." He smiled wearily and then he sighed, "For any other, warrior or not, barely more than a day to recover would by means not suffice. But I know you. I know of your resilience, and therefore tonight we will depart. I do not like it at all, but what choice do we have. I do not have any energy to spare for a fight with a stubborn elf insisting to ride, when the last thing I wish is to leave said elf behind. You will be riding at my side, with Gimli clutching your waist from behind, pretending to steady you while we know it is the other way 'round."

At the mention of Gimli on Arod behind him, and the cheering feeling at teasing the dwarf in his uncomfortable perch high up on the horse, Legolas' lips tugged to a faint smile, and something recalling Pippin's look sparked in his eyes. But Aragorn now turned to face him, confronting him openly, and baring his soul.

"I am demanding so much from you, Legolas… - Allow me to worry! You are my gwador!"

He clasped Legolas' shoulder, regarding him intently. And then he almost startled as he suddenly felt the elf's hand strong and steady and comfortingly warm on his own arm.

"You are not demanding from me anything I would not give freely." Legolas' gaze was firm, sharp and bright as he spoke now. And Aragorn sighed in utter relief, blinking slightly, biting his lip as he fought to contain again his rising feelings.

"And now will you please freely allow me to check on you!" He was careful to make it sound stern and grim; a command, not a question.

Legolas rolled his eyes, as if it was a must to oppose him.

"Do what you must," he sighed.

The man's words had deeply moved him. Although he knew of the depth of his friend's love for him, to hear all those nakedly sincere words was like a flood-wave that overwhelmed him, swept him under and whirled him up, with a force Legolas found difficult to control at the moment.

He rested then, mainly to keep the distress away from Aragorn, but also because, if he was honest, the elf felt that the torment had not at all left his body unscathed even less his mind. He did not go back to help before the convoy departed. Much to the girls' disappointment, as he heard later from Gimli. But the girls had appreciated the dwarven charm, Gimli pointed out what they apparently had told him. And they had sent Legolas their greetings, which Gimli delivered gladly.

Although Legolas had now accepted to give his body some small, well deserved time for recovery, Aragorn had fussed over him disturbingly often in the course of the day. Legolas had let him get on with it because he knew how much it calmed his friend. He tried to keep the patience of ancient elves, but no matter how much he loved Aragorn, he had to admit that it was becoming quite bothersome, and despite what may be expected of elves, this kind of patience with his friend was not his strong point.

Of all this, he mused while he strode determinedly towards the stables. They would not delay their departure any further, of that he would make sure. Cautiously, he rubbed his palm over his chest, over the small, deep cut where the blades had struck. The healing flesh was still tender to the touch, but his body was mending fast, and he was convinced that much of his strength had already returned.

He wished to spend some time with Arod until they departed. At least the horse would not fuss, nor worry for him. He could tend to the beast and they would have the chance to get some peaceful time together and deepen their bond. They still had a long perilous way to go, and Legolas liked the horse and was pleased with how the connection between them was tightening. The beast seemed even growing attached to Gimli, as if the dwarf were merely a part of the elf's body. The thought made Legolas grin.

But then his musings were interrupted by a man standing on the side of the way. He recognized the very same man who had openly declared his disapproval a few days past, before the fateful nocturnal scouting; Éomer's second in command. Legolas stiffened, and an unease spread in his breast. He remembered well the hostile defiance in the man's voice as he had spat the words, and the angered grumbling at the scolding of his captain. The man had deliberately avoided meeting the elf's eyes that night as if to demonstrate his complete rejection.

Legolas held his head high, and his shoulders broad as he passed the man with long determined strides, struggling against the wave of weariness that wanted to overwhelm him again. His heart hammered hard in his chest, and he only briefly flicked his gaze over the man, ready to react to any threat that might come from his side. Legolas' fingers wrapped tightly around his bow. The smooth wood emanated security, spreading up his arm. He took a deep breath to ease the tension in his chest.

… Éothain lowered his eyes in shame as the elf passed his way, his strides long and elegant. The fair being's pale hair gleamed in the morning light, streaming down his back in soft waves to his waist. And Éothain briefly thought of the soft white clouds and if the elf's hair might be silky in a similar way. It was difficult for the man to comprehend how quickly this being had recuperated from an ailment that had nearly claimed his immortal life, that to any human would have been fatal. The elf's face was set in strong lines, cheekbones perfectly arched, his skin smooth and even, like carved ivory, his expression unreadable.

Éothain slightly flinched as the gaze of the elf struck him; it was clear and bright like the sky at sunshine, but the silver strikes in his blue pooling irises gleamed like ice, rending his look, impenetrable, sharp. The man hoped that the elf did not notice his unease, as he felt all colour drain from his face.

"My lord-," Éothain began, clenching his fists over the borders of his sleeves, taking a deep breath, gathering the courage to make amends for his previous, unfair statement, that now did not sit well with him at all. He felt responsible in his position and for his men to right it.

"I-," he stuttered, and to his chagrin, the elf tilted his head ever so slightly towards him, as if expecting something, with irritating calmness. Éothain suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He scratched at the borders of both sleeves, picking at them with the tips of his fingers, blurting out quickly, barely pausing to get a breath in between, wanting to get over with it.

"What you did, and suffered for us and survived, did not go unseen. We admire your strength, we have not seen its like. I-" at that point he was forced to pause for the tension had left him rather breathless, "I apologize for myself and my men, for the mistrust we have put upon you. You do not back down from anything. We value your prowess and how you fought at our side."

The elf did not blink as he stared at him. It made him nervous, and his fingers picked at his sleeves furiously. He did not dare avert his eyes from that strong, handsome face, but it was hard to stand the quiet scrutiny. Éothain dared not look away, it would be like denying the respect the elf deserved, and so he held his gaze firm, with all the force he could muster.

He was rewarded, for to his surprise, the elf's lineaments softened and brightened. A smile played around his swung lips, and Éothain could not help but grin at the relief he felt and the strange serenity that surged within him under the sudden luminosity of those eyes. And like a flash piercing his mind he saw the endless sky, and across it slowly sailed huge flossy clouds gleaming white in the sunlight. At that moment Éothain thought that the being before him looked young like a boy, that ancient strangeness in his eyes had shifted and bared something dazzling, thoroughly disarming.

He found his hand reaching the elf's shoulder before he even realized what he was doing. He had the fleeting sensation that the elf slightly flinched at his gesture - but surely, he was mistaken. The elf's shoulder was hard, strong and warm under his palm, and the sensation of it strangely comforted him.

"Come," Éothain said, building the bridge with more ease now, "join my men, we are about to tend to the horses."

For a brief moment, the elf regarded him unblinking, quiet and pensive - and searching. Éothain resisted the urge to avert his eyes once more and for some breaths he got the disconcerting feeling that the elf read all his thoughts, his secrets, and in his confusion, he slightly frowned. But then the elf's face lit in sudden glee, seemingly satisfied at whatever it was he saw in him.

Legolas felt a weight lift from him; something that was pressing on his heart, the unease he had felt clutching his breast. It must have shown in his face, because he had been unable to restrain the sudden joy he felt. Like something inside him opened - something that had tightened his throat, his heart; it was released and poured out fresh like a forest stream towards the man.

"I was just on my way to the stables, I will be pleased to join you and your men," he heard himself say unexpectedly, light and free.

The scent of horse and hay and straw grew stronger as they neared the stables, silently walking side by side. More men were already busy inside. Some horses snorted and nosed the elf as they passed and he touched a muzzle here and there and patted another's neck gently. He offered them fond words in his own language, their intelligent eyes regarded him approvingly, and then they returned scraping up hay and munching contently. The scents and sounds the noble beasts emanated were familiar and soothing. And Legolas sucked them in with deep breaths.

Éothain beside him seemed at ease now and rather merry as he greeted his men. They returned the greeting and nodded respectfully to Legolas, and as they did so their gazes were friendly and honest.

"Please my lord Legolas, I could need the skills of an elf here," a man called casually from behind a dark brown stallion who was dancing nervously, and pounding his hooves against the wooden wall as the man tried to reach the gash in its leg he was tending and binding, "They say your kind is good with the beasts, even more skilled than us."

Legolas smiled. "Please, only Legolas," he said. He had not expected such open welcome and easiness. Warmth spread in his heart, and his words in Sindarin to the horse reflected his joy and relief. The stallion lowered his muzzle to the elf, who cupped it gently in his hand. And then the elf slid quietly to the side to get a look at the wound and helping the man with its tending. He could feel eyes watching them curiously. There was a slight tension. Legolas guessed that most of them had never met an elf before him, and with regards to that, their insecurity was more than understandable. But the ice was clearly broken, and the contact between them built more and more easily.

Éothain's words repeated in his mind. What you did, and suffered for us and survived, did not go unseen. We admire your strength, we have not seen its like.

They knew what had happened to him! Some of them had even seen, or part of it at least. They may have talked together about him and they seemed to regret their former hostility born of wariness and fatigue.

I apologize for myself and my men, for the mistrust we have put upon you. You do not back down from anything. We value your prowess and how you fought at our side.

The man had said nothing about the scene where he had behaved like a wild animal, injuring them even. No weakness they had seen in him, it had been only himself. Legolas looked at the men intently when they watched him, or even when they were now interacting with him, searching for any pity for his suffering. But the men did not lower their gazes, nor did they flinch. There was only steady respect in their eyes.

The tension quickly dissipated and Legolas found himself easily involved in their talks and even their jests and laughter. Oh, how he needed it! And he remembered the times at home with his comrades when they were readying their animals together before leaving for patrol.

After some time he felt the need to retire to Arod's side and be alone with himself and the horse for a while. He leaned his head against the horse's strong neck, feeling the sleek fur under his fingers as he stroked it.

"Ah, here he is, the lad," a too familiar voice rang over to him, rumbling like great stones rolling down a rocky slope. "I told you Aragorn, that it was his laughter and not that of a tree bird we heard. There are no trees on this burg. And no other birds."

Legolas peered over to the bright opening, where the stable portal had swung wide-open. Three figures stood dark against the bright daylight. Of course, one was sturdy and short, and the two others were taller and broad-shouldered.

"Legolas, I am so glad to see you well!" The man in whose face he had once pointed an arrow stood before him, regarding him evenly, serious but friendly, his hand strong on the elf's shoulder. "The speed of your recovery is an unbelievable phenomenon," he said with a voice deep and throaty, while his eyes betrayed all that they had seen to make him utter these words.

Legolas held Éomer's gaze, seeing the emotions well in it, and then the man clasped his other hand around the elf's upper arm squeezing firmly. Legolas held his breath only for an instant as his body reacted with alert hesitation. But then he clasped the man's arm equally in return, inclining his head in gratitude and respect. He saw the man's breath hitch as he regarded him intensely and his broad shoulders shake with a silent sob. And when he released him, Legolas noted that although his face was dry, his eyes glittered brightly.

Aragorn regarded his friend, quiet and calm, his eyes warm, deep grey with affection. He said nothing, and did not attempt to check his health, for which Legolas was incredibly grateful.

And Gimli merely kept an eye on him. Or better two, that were now shining with the colour of rich brown earth, watching him contently.

Chapter Text

Gimli was troubled since they had left the Hornburg. He had been at Legolas' back because he could not and would not ride a horse on his own. Secretly, he was glad that it permitted him to watch over his friend closely, without awakening the elf's suspicion. — And Gimli noticed the elf's breath become ever so slightly laboured when it should not have, he recognized even the faintest strain in his muscles, the mild tremble in his long fingers when he let his guard down. Legolas kept himself in check with masterful self-control, but Gimli discerned even the slightest sign that suggested fatigue.

Although the road had brought many distractions, Gimli admitted.

They had passed under those scary trees, who had gathered and grown into a thick, dark forest overnight. Their long sweeping boughs seemed slowly in motion, and their ends reached down like long creepy fingers. Their roots, like strange winding limbs, encompassed gloomy caverns or covered the ground reaching and hugging into one another. They could easily grow to devour the road at eyesight, thought Gimli, taken by a shudder; a forest not of simple trees, but of monsters! For once he was glad to be high on the horse, so far from the ground. But then he uttered an irritated grunt, slapping himself inwardly against the back of his head to empty it from these insensate musings. He creased his brows, looking up at Legolas giving another grunt.

But Legolas thoroughly ignored him. He seemed entirely absorbed, ever glancing from side to side, and he oscillated from awed wide-eyed silence to spirited exclamations of wonder. He spoke of the trees' thoughts that he wished to learn and understand. He often halted and went still, tilting his head and listening, "They have voices..." he whispered.

Gimli groaned; he preferred not to know, because all he could guess was that their speech was of crushing and strangling. Even if it was only Orcs they hated and devoured — as Legolas had assured him very earnestly — Gimli would have covered his ears with his hands to ward off their creaking and groaning, their angry, wordless murmurs and far cries. But his hands were busy digging his fingers into Legolas' tunic to hopefully stay where he was, far from the ground.

Gimli pressed his eyes closed and strained himself to think of something else… Maybe he could count sheep!... No, no... that did not work, it had never worked when he had wanted to sleep, so even less now. Sheep were not a good distraction. Nothing for dwarves. Something else then... something nice... — Caves! That was it! He would escape from here and enter caves in his mind. He tried with all his willpower to imagine them vividly, soon realizing that already he was speaking aloud — "… Ah! Legolas, gems and crystals and veins of precious ore glint in the polished walls; and the light glows through folded marbles, shell-like, translucent as the living hands of Queen Galadriel..."* — A torrent of his own deep voice telling of dreamlike shapes glinting in countless colours, loosened from his throat. He was there in the Glittering Caves in his mind as he spoke, drinking in the sight and the sensation of delight that went under his skin and made him thrum from deep inside in the slow, soothing rhythm of the stone. He listened to his own voice as if it echoed under the domes.

He had obviously captured Legolas' attention with his raving. The elf seemed deeply moved as he looked back at the dwarf. For a moment Gimli took in those eyes that were wide and glistening with uncontained emotion; like the innocent eyes of a child overwhelmed by a world he knew nothing of and was eager to discover, Gimli thought. He sighed. They made the bargain then; if they both returned safe out of the perils that awaited them, they would journey for a while together. "You shall visit Fangorn with me, and then I will come with you to Helm's Deep,"* Legolas concluded exaltedly.

Almost, only almost, with his delightfully irritating way, this elf had made Gimli forget all the trouble he caused to his heart and mind.

At last, they had passed through the trees. But just as Gimli was about to relax, allowing his fingers to uncurl from the fabric of Legolas' tunic, the elf gave a cry, startling the whole company. They all turned, staring at him. Gimli realized Legolas started riding back towards the trees. The dwarf grabbed the elf's tunic and pulled as if to hold him back. But Legolas was speaking of eyes he had seen and was clearly keen to meet the creatures they belonged to. He seemed out of his mind. And in shock, Gimli wondered if the elf's eyes had grown even wider.

Out of the forest then came strange creatures like walking trees. Wading through the grass with overlong paces, they moved at great speed. Gandalf barely prevented Legolas from running after them, calling him back with his most stern voice. To Gimli's relief, Legolas heeded the wizard's command and reluctantly guided Arod to follow the company.

This elf was a distraction in itself... and one way or another, he always caused trouble, Gimli decided.

The riders, including the King, had cried aloud in wonder at the sight. "You have seen Ents, O King, Ents out of Fangorn Forest, which in your tongue you call the Entwood,"* said Gandalf. And he told them then of the herdsmen of the wood; beings who became alive in the old tales the People of the Mark recounted by the fireside. But here and now they were real, like dwarves and elves, they were no mere fancy, or magic of Legends.

"Songs we have that tell of these things, but we are forgetting them, teaching them only to children, as a careless custom. And now the songs have come down among us out of strange places, and walk visible under the sun."* said Théoden solemnly, clearly shaken. Gimli saw the king glance back at him and Legolas and then meeting Gandalf's eyes again. Gandalf nodded expressively, and then he too glanced back at them, suppressing a smile that he did not bother to clear from his eyes. Legolas was immersed in daydream; his gaze unfocused, he was humming softly a strange melody, and his thoughts were probably wading ahead, northwards, with the long strides of the Ents, Gimli suspected. But when he perceived the King's and the wizard's gaze resting on him, he blinked and smiled at them gleefully.

They rode for some hours at an easy pace, and Gimli was glad, mostly for Legolas — because the constant agitation was surely not good for the elf in his state — but also for himself and his stiff lower back.

When they reached the Fords of Isen, Éomer lamented the once fair springs that Saruman had destroyed. Many of their men had fallen here. King Théoden's face was set strong but under it lingered the grief for his lost son. And Gimli could see the slight tremble in Éomer jaw. By now Legolas had ridden up beside Éomer, sharing in the warrior's grief. He reached out to clasp the man's shoulder. Gimli felt like doing the same, but he could not let go of Legolas' waist if he wanted to keep his position on the horse.

Strange things happened that night as they camped beside the empty Isen river. Gimli could not sleep, because he was worried for Legolas and imagined all the worst scenes. He knew already that counting sheep was senseless, and this time even all the nice thoughts seemed unreachable. The air was laden with something dreadful. In the middle of the night then it approached; Towers of shadow so huge Gimli felt he was choking, as in those nightmares when he was small and wanted to run away, but he could not. Thick walls of gloom moved towards them and Gimli thought they would crush them. He knew this was not a dream, and he held Legolas' hand to keep him close and watch over him. The elf was very still. He did not move nor blink, and for a moment Gimli feared that he was not even breathing. He urgently tugged at the hand he held tight in his grip, and there the elf's eyes latched on his. His nostrils flared and huffed out the air he had been holding. But Gimli did not release the hand from his grip. The impenetrable darkness rolled on and on, going northwards, and was gone.

After that stretched silence. But then there was a rush of water running down among the stones; and when it had passed, the Isen flowed and bubbled in its bed again, as it had ever done.* Legolas' eyes lit at the sight, and Gimli huffed out a noisy sigh.

At dawn they made ready to go on. They went slowly, riding through heavy fog, into the wizard's vale, which had become a sad country where smoke and steam drifted in sullen clouds and lurked in the hollows.*

The riders did not speak and in the silence, Gimli turned all his attention upon Legolas and was once more perturbed.

At last they were come to the doors of Isengard. At the edge of his awareness, Gimli perceived, as if surreal, Théoden, Éomer and their men as they rode wide-eyed and — much like himself — gaped at the amazing ruin surrounding the magnificent Tower of Orthanc. Stone cracked and splintered by an enormous power lay scattered in jagged shards, or heaped in huge mounds immersed in pools of steaming water trickling in rills between the cracks. Saruman's power was overthrown, beaten into dust, as if angrily overrun by a storm flood.

As they all stared and could not manage to give it an end, they spotted two figures, grey-clad and small, almost to get overseen between the stones, leisurely relaxing; one sleeping, one smoking.

They had found Merry and Pippin — alive!

According to the bottles and bowls and platters laid beside them, they had fed abundantly from the storerooms of Orthanc.

Legolas had literally bounced off the horse in a great arc and landed lightly in a crouch beside their two friends. The joy at finding the hobbits well and lively, and immersed in their favourite pastime, had set Legolas' eyes blazing with brightness. He and Pippin had conspired in eager chatter from the instant they had reunited. And Merry had not been shy about joining them.

As Gandalf and the King's company rode away, making the circuit of the ruined walls of Isengard, Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas remained behind, celebrating their reunion with the hobbits, goodheartedly enjoying the fine food and exquisite wine. Gimli had felt all warm around his heart and had let his laughter agreeably rumble; a deep tenor, that calmed him, and brought delight to the friends around him. The weight Aragorn carried all the way seemed to have lessened, and the man looked light and serene at beholding them chatter and eat.

After they had enjoyed their well-earned meal, Legolas eased the first laces of his tunic and shirt, lay down on his back beside the hobbits, crossing his hands behind his head, watching the sky. He intoned a cheerful melody. Pippin's and Merry's laughter bubbled up in between, as they joined with their own songs, and Legolas' fair voice rang with laughter in turn.

But then Pippin pushed himself up on his elbows, giggling at a funny line of their song, and his eyes unexpectedly stumbled upon an edge of the bandage that showed between the laces of Legolas' shirt. The hobbit abruptly fell silent, frowning. Legolas seemed to note the slight change in the air, because he pushed himself up into a sitting position and his long fingers quickly worked to fasten the top laces of his shirt.

He shot a sharp glare at Gimli before the dwarf could even open his mouth to utter any revelation. In a swift elven reflex, he cut off Pippin's beginning of a dismayed exclamation, grabbing the young hobbit's hand with startling suddenness, and gazed with emphasis at both halflings.

"In the joy of finding you whole, and the cheer of good food and merry song, I almost neglected to tell you to take care of our dear master Gimli," said Legolas gravely.

Gimli frowned as both hobbits and Aragorn glanced at the elf and finally at him, all eyebrows lifted. Legolas then added seriously, blinking worriedly at Gimli, "He fights like a rock, although, he is not as hard as stone, our dwarf. He suffered a nasty head wound in the battle on the Hornburg. Aragorn tended it, and it is good he gets some rest here."

Gimli lifted his fingers imperceptibly to the stitched cut on his head, as all around him stared, but he halted mid-motion, his hand hovering over the healing bruise and the few stitches. His mouth fell slightly open as he gaped incredulously at his friend. How dare this suicidal, mad being divert from his own deathly injury so deliberately, on Gimli's own cost?!

"I-… It is but a scratch!" he grumbled angrily, and glared at Legolas, who was smiling innocently as the hobbits began to target Gimli with questions about his well-being and offered him more food and wine, insisting that he eat.

"But Legolas— …" — despite the diversion, Pippin seemed not to have forgotten about what he had seen — "You are also wounded… the bandage— …" wide eyes blinked questioningly, definitely worried.

"Oh, nothing to talk about. Only a minor scratch by now," Legolas dismissed readily, "You know, elven healing and all... — Rather make sure Gimli gets enough food and rest," he added with a serious mien.

"Do not make such a fuss, Elf," Gimli grunted, quite irked. "Despite this…" he waved a hand to his forehead, "… I bested you by one kill," he pointed out.

"Only because the ladders did not count," Legolas retaliated.

Pippin glanced confusedly back and forth between them, wrinkling his brow. "The ladders? Which ladders?" he asked, aghast.

"The ones packed with Orcs I sent crashing upon the mass of their own foul companions," Legolas explained gently, "But Gimli could not see — the wall was too high."

"Why do they not count?" inquired Pippin earnestly, making a stunned face, blinking at the elf and the dwarf with big eyes of innocence.

Legolas shrugged, "Ask him! He made the rules." He jerked his head slightly towards Gimli.

Gimli felt annoyed. This was going in the wrong direction entirely. And he felt dragged into its current, completely helpless, unable to detour the flow while Legolas floated sovereignly on the drift, trying hard not to grin.

Merry was scratching his head behind his ear, blinking rapidly as if intently processing his thoughts, considering something. "Hmmm," was all he said.

"Only the ones we take down one by one, eye to eye—..." Gimli stabbed his index and middle finger forth and back in the air before his eyes, "...—are allowed for the count. Otherwise, we cannot be sure if it was by our own doing or by a lucky coincidence," Gimli defended himself.

"Aye, he is right — They were too many on top of the ladders and on the ground. They could not be counted," Legolas agreed, nodding gravely.

"That does not sound like a reasonable rule," Merry decided.

"On the contrary," Gimli countered, "That is fairly sensible; When the axe hits, my hand is on it. That means it was intended — you have it? — The same is with his knives and arrows when they kill the target directly. Those you can count," Gimli explained with emphasis, for the hobbits to understand.

Pippin seemed unconvinced. He frowned, "But when your axe hits with your hands on it, how can one know it was intended, and not just a lucky incident?"

Legolas burst out laughing, hearty and bright. And Gimli let out an exasperated sigh. He thought it wise to leave it now.

And so Pippin settled, and they went on talking about other matters.

Merry made sure that Gimli would not lack food, piling abundant amounts all around him.

Gimli glanced over at Aragorn for support, but the ranger seemed to keep completely out of the conversation and was now rubbing a hand wearily over his eyes and forehead while he sighed. He looked exhausted.

Despite his anger at the diversion, Gimli said nothing of his concern for Legolas. He had contented himself with watching him closely. He had to admit that he was glad to see Legolas in companionable mischief once again with the hobbits — even if at his own cost. He endured it with more patience than he ever thought possible, because it brought about a welcome and missed feeling of the lighter moments of their fellowship, and that was incredibly soothing. He thought of when Boromir had still been with them, and Frodo and Sam were in their midst under their protection. He remembered the way Legolas had been delightfully detestable, arrogant and nearly invulnerable in his eyes. So much had changed…

Later that morning they met that giant, gnarled creature, the chief of the Ents, who watched over the old forest and tended it, and now would keep Saruman captive with his fellow Ents. His name was Treebeard, Gimli learnt. From so close now, the dwarf observed the walking tree's stiff limbs, the bark-like skin and leafy hair. It was a wondrous thing indeed.

That meeting had been an occurrence to behold. The hobbits were all fond of him and his equally gnarled companions; those curious creatures had done great deeds. They had freed the river, restored it to its original course and destroyed the vast, evil forges of Saruman's army. The hobbits' eyes brimmed with excitement as they recounted it, and they also made sure not to leave out their own part in it.

Gimli and Aragorn had looked in wonder, but Legolas had stood there rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and awed, with a bright glee in his face, glowing like a lamp. And when he spoke with Treebeard he was all eagerness and excitement, telling him of his dream to visit the old forest. His voice abuzz with anticipation, he charmed the Ent to convince him into accepting the dwarf in his realm, when they would come, because he was such a great friend and had slaughtered many an orc with his axe that was not meant for trees. The Ent, even if suspicious, seemed to consider it, obviously very impressed by the stout being's heroic deeds, and Gimli fervently hoped Legolas could one day live that dream. Really not because he absolutely wished to enter that forest — he thought it quite creepy — but for Legolas' sake; because he loved him, and the elf's trust and enthusiasm touched him. If they lived through this, Gimli would do anything to see his joy.

Legolas' high spirits lasted the whole day. He relished his time with the hobbits and he cherished the lightness that had grown between him and the Rohirrim. Gimli almost convinced himself that he should put down his exaggerated fretting.

But then, that night, Pippin's cursed curiosity led the hobbit to look into that gloomy magical ball of glass after tricking it away from under Gandalf's guard. The hobbit could have got lost in the darkness or given them all away to the enemy, which only by fortune did not happen, Gandalf had pointed out earnestly. The wizard had called Pippin a fool, but he had been very gentle to him and concerned. He spoke of his great relief that the young hobbit was still there with them, alive and well, and the worst had not happened.

Gandalf and Aragorn had discussed very long and fervently upon that stone. Gandalf himself seemed afraid of it, and in the end, he admitted that Pippin might even have saved him from looking into it himself — which would have been disastrous at this time.

But then a strange chill took hold of the night, like a dark mist it crept and curled around the tents. An enormous winged shape wheeled high above. Men cried out and crouched, their arms over their heads, desperate for protection, their faces tense, expressing blank terror. Gimli did not crouch or cry out, but the dread had entered his bones and stiffened his limbs. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He stared out over the cowering men at Legolas who at the edge of the camp silhouetted tall, bow in hand, face upturned; his shape standing out against the darkness as if the last glow of moonlight had caught and lasted upon him before it was cut off.

And then the shadow was gone, flying north at a speed faster than any wind.

Gimli heard Gandalf cry out, "Nazgul!" He urged them on, "Ride, ride! Wait not for the dawn!"*

In a flurry of white robes, the wizard ran straight to Pippin and picked him up in his arms. "You shall come with me this time," he said.* Aragorn helped Pippin to stumble along behind Gandalf as he ran to reach Shadowfax. Gimli tried to keep up with Legolas who, with speed, had returned from the edge of the camp leaping with long elegant strides to catch up with Aragorn. Beside Gimli, Merry hurried along, extremely agitated, his curly hair bouncing about his head.

The wizard leapt upon the horse's back, with a force and agility that did not at all befit an old man. Aragorn lifted Pippin and set him in Gandalf's arms. Legolas looked long at Aragorn, and his eyes were wide, and then he glanced up at Pippin with that same expressive gaze, unblinking and desperate. The young hobbit looked so utterly small and lost upon the mighty horse in front of the wizard, wrapped in his cloak and blanket, meekly accepting his parting from his friends, from Merry.

"Pippin—," Merry started, wanting to say something, but his voice died off although his mouth opened, yet he was lacking words. He reached up with his hand as if to touch Pippin or hold him back, but small as he was, he reached not higher than the horse's legs, and so he let his hand fall back where it crumpled to a trembling fist. "—take care..." he barely said then, his voice like a wispy ribbon, tearing in the air. Gimli sighed, feeling immensely sorry for the young hobbits, and stealing a worried glance at Legolas who still stared and looked utterly unsettled.

"Farewell! Follow fast!" cried Gandalf* before he departed with haste to Minas Tirith, taking Pippin with him. The great horse tossed his head as they flew over the earth fast as the northwind from the mountains. His tail flicked in the moonlight.* And Legolas stood there with Merry, staring behind them, long after they were gone. Gimli was not sure if the elf would even have moved to prepare for departure, had Aragorn not come and slung his arm around his shoulders, squeezing gently, redirecting his attention.

"Come Legolas, we must go on," Gimli heard him whisper.

"Of course," Legolas answered. His voice was low and slightly caught in his throat, "I am with you."

And Gimli saw how he blinked and gave Aragorn a tentative smile. Aragorn nodded, and held his gaze firm, "I need you, my friend!"

Gimli was saddened but also comforted by this exchange of gestures and words. Aragorn had seemed so far from them in the last days, lost somewhere in an inconceivable responsibility. But right now he had moved closer again, and for a moment Gimli felt less lonely in his concern for the elf. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the next ride. "I need you too, my friend," he grumbled, "you make quite a good hold upon this unsteady beast."

Chapter Text

They did not wait for the dawn and rode immediately as Gandalf had urged them. Legolas did not speak much, only some words in between when they all did their best to distract Merry from his abrupt parting with Pippin, his closest friend and cousin and faithful companion in merry-making and many jaunty pranks. As they rode, the air of the night seemed to coil around them, thick and sticky, heavy with the gravity of what was to come. Gimli noted how Legolas kept Arod close, flank to flank with Aragorn's horse. And he saw how the man glanced sidewards at the elf, nodding at him slightly in respect. But in the hitching long breath he then sucked in, Gimli could read the unease. And when his friends' gazes met, Gimli observed their backs almost imperceptibly straighten, as if a boost of energy shot through their bodies. In the corners of their eyes, a light gleamed that did not need words to speak of the trust between them. Even Merry glanced back and upwards at the ranger and the elf in mild awe from where he was sitting in front of Aragorn, as if he felt the strong soothing flow running between them.

Not long after passing the Fords of Isen and the mounds ringed with stones where the fallen men of Rohan rested, a sudden commotion arose. From the rear line, a rider galloped up to warn the King. "There are horsemen behind us. They are overtaking us, riding hard."* Legolas did not move from Aragorn's side as they halted and turned around, seizing their weapons. Flank to flank were their horses, the riders' legs touching, and their trust still brimming within them, lending them strength.

The sounds of beating hooves were nearer, and then dark shapes appeared, riding up swiftly towards them. They were at least as many as their own company in number. Gimli felt a jolt, and the muscles at Legolas' waist harden as in a swift, fluid motion his great bow was in his hands, arrow nocked, string drawn tight, his body perfectly still in precision and coiled force. His breath was thoroughly controlled, barely audible within the tension.

"Halt! Halt! Who rides in Rohan?"* Éomer cried.

The pursuers brought their steeds to a sudden stand. A horseman dismounted at a distance and strode towards them.

Gimli then felt Legolas' muscles uncoil. Slowly the elf lowered his bow, watching silently, as if in wonder. His breathing deepened. But Gimli held his axe firm and ready in his hands and the King's men gripped their swords and spears tighter.

The man stopped and stood tall, a dark shadow before them, undaunted. Then his clear voice rang out, and Gimli saw Legolas turn his head towards Aragorn, observing the man with bright expectation as the dark, tall shadow revealed himself; Halbarad of the Dúnedain, he was, Ranger of the North, kinsman and close friend to Aragorn. He had taken thirty men with him, as many as could be gathered in haste.* They had ridden hard to reach the South, to support Aragorn, their chieftain, companion and future king.

Aragorn could barely restrain his joyful relief as he quickly dismounted, embraced Halbarad and greeted the rangers. Something had changed in his face, and for a short time, Gimli saw hope there again; the grimness chased away by an open, genuine smile and by a renewed, confident gleam in his eyes.

Gimli observed the rangers from behind Legolas; all clad in grey cloaks, with a grim air about them. A controlled half-smile played on their lips at the greeting, but their hoods were cast low, obscuring their faces. Gimli could not deny how much Aragorn was one of them as he walked in their midst; the same proud and stern posture, the strength and calm in their movements, and the sombre silence. But still, he stood out from them. Gimli could not exactly name what it was. There was a light about him, a power, an elvenness, if he dared say that. It set him above them all; even if he was among them, at eye level, with humility and respect - or maybe more so even because of that.

"Watch out, Gimli!" Legolas suddenly startled him out of his musings. "Hold on to your mount!" And already he leapt off the horse. Gimli tried to keep his balance swaying precariously, while Arod stuck down his head to tear up some tufts of grass, munching delightedly and then searching for more.

Legolas strode purposefully towards two men who stood out from the company with their bright mail beneath silver-grey cloaks gleaming faintly in the darkness. Their faces were fair and noble, strong features finely chiselled. Their skin smooth, shoulders broad, elegant their bearing, they looked neither young nor old*, they were elves; the sons of Elrond of Rivendell. They were so much alike, that Gimli wondered how in all of Arda Legolas greeted them each by their name at first sight. It must be some elven skill, he thought, while he scrutinized the brightening of their features as they clasped shoulders and he listened to their clear but deep voices.

Legolas turned back to Gimli and Arod, saying something to the sons of Elrond. Arod lifted his head, chewing and twitching his ears, with tufts of grass sticking out of his mouth. The twin elves followed Legolas' gaze with flickers of mirth dancing in their bright silver eyes, their lips curving to a smile. Gimli suspected a joke at his cost by the wood-elf and narrowed his eyes in annoyance. - Or had they truly laughed about the horse? - Gimli grunted sulkily, diverting his attention upon Arod, whose head was high and alert. Legolas strode back to them, glancing at Gimli with brilliant blue eyes and an innocence that contrasted with the darkness.

"Naughty boy," he reproached the horse, "green dripping saliva," he grinned. "Now, is this the way to show respect to your rider?" he reprimanded good-naturedly, smirking up at Gimli.

"He does not obey you," Gimli grumbled, "I have nothing against him taking a snack in between," he said airily.

Legolas laughed, radiant and beaming. His tall body lithe and seemingly brimming with energy, he effortlessly swung himself up before the dwarf on the broad back of the horse. Arod nickered contently as Legolas affectionately patted his neck.

"You are lucky I have a good hold on the beast to allow you to show off such fancy mounting-acrobatics," Gimli muttered, still offended. But Legolas deliberately ignored the defensive challenge as he quickly spurred the horse on.

They were all excellent riders around him, and they sped, according to their skills, making good time to reach the cover of the hills and the rocks of Helm's Deep. Gimli held on stiffly to the mad display of agility before him. His anger slowly dissipated in the drift of their speed, and his head slightly spun as the landscape blurred past. The message Gandalf had brought from the Lady of the Golden Wood turned and swirled under his skull, incessantly and unbidden...

… Aragorn's kinsfolk had ridden from far in the north to reach him. And darkness still was foreseen on his path. The Lady Galadriel's words suddenly made sense. Gimli shuddered. He feared the message the Lady had sent Legolas. - If part of her prediction had already come to pass, there was no doubt that all she had foreseen would take its course. Queen Galadriel was surely not one to speak idle words. So wise and ancient she was… and oh, so beautiful…, Gimli sighed, but quickly refocused. He had to talk to Legolas seriously, and also to Aragorn - to Aragorn most of all, because he doubted that the elf would heed. He would most probably proceed with stubborn determination, dismissing all signs of warning. Gimli unconsciously doubled his grip at Legolas' waist as if afraid the elf may get snatched from him on that very ride. He strained to listen to the elf's breathing between his own rushed pants, and with dismay, he noted again those signs that suggested fatigue - they were there, perceptibly, were they not? It was surely not his imagination. One could not recover completely so quickly from such an ordeal as the lad had suffered, not even an elf. Gimli searched scrupulously and noted clearly the slightly slumped shoulders and tired sighs, that were not at all ordinary for this irrepressible sprite. Legolas seemed unable to hide it from the dwarf's watchfulness, and that in itself was alarming.

Finally, Helm's Deep appeared and as they rode over the Deeping Coomb, Gimli gazed at the mountain before him; high, steadfast and thrumming with the deep beat of wisdom of all that had come and gone. It bore treasures within, that tugged at the dwarven heart, with intense longing to feel, to be immersed and to dwell in its powerful, soothing peace. His sore bottom shortly forgotten, Gimli pressed his eyes shut and hoped to, one day, ride here with Legolas in joyful anticipation, as his friend had promised. But the fear that the elf would not make it to hold his word crept into him and took a strangling grip on his heart.

The morning enveloped the Burg in grey mist. Gimli was with Merry and Legolas. They missed Pippin dearly. Legolas tried hard to cheer Merry up, chatting with him as he had done with the hobbits when Pippin had still been with them. But as much as he tried for Merry's sake, Pippin's absence was heavily felt and quenched every attempt at lightness. At last, silence won out and Legolas leapt onto the wall. They peered down at the coomb and their talk turned to serious matters. Gimli noted Legolas lifting his hand and rubbing it over his chest carefully.

They spoke of the rangers. Gimli grumbled at how grim and silent the lads were, but he could not conceal his awe as he compared them to weathered rocks. Legolas' eyes were wide and bright as he spoke of how they were noble and courteous - like Aragorn! - and as he spoke their friend's name, his eyes truly sparkled. "I am so glad his kin has come at such a time, and Aragorn can be among them once more," he announced sincerely. And as he spoke of the sons of Elrond, deep esteem lay in his words.

Merry listened and looked out on the plain, and then back to his friends as he still seemed to work his mind through all that had happened. He nodded approvingly at what his friends said. "I am also glad that Aragorn has his kin here to support him."

Gimli shifted uncomfortably. His heart truly did not begrudge Aragorn his new company, of course. It was good that the rangers and the two elven warriors, which the man called his brothers, had reached him. They must be such a support to him… and they could use more reinforcements, especially such valiant ones as the Dúnedain.

"Why have they come?" Merry asked in wonder.*

"They answered the summons," said Gimli, "Word came to Rivendell they say."* Gimli felt a strange sadness while speaking it, and it sounded in his voice.

Aragorn had been surrounded by the rangers from the moment they arrived. He was their like and their leader. And the sons of Elrond were ever by his side. Gimli felt slightly abandoned, left aside; he, Legolas and Merry. Their fellowship had broken apart. They had lost Boromir first, and then Sam and Frodo went off onto their perilous path, and now Gandalf and Pippin were far. He felt alone with his worry for Legolas. - Did Aragorn not see? - Gimli would not have left Legolas behind either, but Gimli was the one watching over the elf, and Merry was oblivious and should not know too much… and Aragorn seemed to notice nothing at all. His mind was on other things entirely; trusting too easily - or for necessity - on the elven abilities and healing. He was absorbed in more important matters, it seemed, thought Gimli sadly. A darkness clouded around him; he looked stressed and grim and overladen with responsibility. But how could Gimli blame him? The hope of Middle-Earth lay upon him, an unmeasurable weight.

But still, the dwarf found himself thinking of the way it had been, and he wished Aragorn back to the small remains of their fellowship; close to them and attentive. He felt they were losing him, and he feared losing Legolas in this war. It had not happened by a miracle before.

He heard Legolas say to Merry; "Galadriel, did she not speak through Gandalf of the ride of the grey company from the North?"*

"Yes, you have it," said Gimli*, and despite his great worries, his heart beat faster at the thought of her beauty and his hand wandered to close around the pouch where he kept the golden strand of her hair. "She read many hearts and desires."* He sighed dreamily, and then said what later he wished he had not voiced; "Now why did we not wish for our own kinsfolk, Legolas?"* he said it aloud and thought of it with longing. He might have felt less lonely had a company of dwarves joined them… They could even help him watch his elf's back.

Legolas turned his bright eyes away north and east,* he was very quiet and seemed to strain to listen to something carried by the slight wind, his fair face was troubled.*

"I do not think that any would come,"* he answered, his voice was low and thin – almost broken, thought Gimli. "They have no need to ride to war; war already marches on their own lands."*

Gimli said nothing at that. He regretted his question immediately.

"And we are here, Gimli… we are not with them to defend our homes. We let them fight their war alone." The elf's voice was choked, toneless, with suppressed despair.

There was silence then, and Legolas blinked rapidly and pursed his lips as his gaze was fixed north-east, and when he glanced at Gimli, his eyes were not bright with the colour of a sunlit sky, but with tears.

"Take heart, lad," Gimli rumbled encouragingly, "They know how to fight, even without us."

And Gimli saw how Legolas stroked his palm over his heart where the wound was, his breath hitched slightly.

For a while, the three companions walked together in the strange quiet of a weary valley after a great storm.* After some time, as if he could no more bear the sorrow, Legolas abruptly changed the subject.

"Come Merry, let us not miss our midday meal," he urged on excitedly, his face suddenly bright again and grinning, "I know you would mind; we missed already first and second breakfast." And then he took Merry and Gimli by the hand. Gimli let himself be dragged only for a few strides, then snatched his hand free, but Merry hurried easily beside the elf, suddenly gleeful, "You know Legolas, it means much that you noticed, you are becoming more and more like a hobbit."

The king was already there, and as soon as they entered the hall he called for Merry and had a seat set for him at his side.*

Gimli watched the hobbit smile shyly but proudly as King Théoden talked with him. Gimli would be alone once more to plunge into his worry for Legolas, but he was glad Merry was carried high in the King's care and friendship. He truly deserved it.

The dwarf looked around, searching. Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. Gimli grew increasingly concerned and impatient. He absolutely needed to speak to the man about Legolas' state and the looming predicament, because the worry was pressing on him. They had almost lost this elf. He did not want to remember the mad struggle for the lad's life. They could not risk getting even just close to anything like it again. But Aragorn was not there - did the rocks know where he was! - For an insane moment he wished stones could speak and whisper to dwarves as trees did to elves. But they spoke not of fleeting things; they thrummed low with unspoken wisdom, and the deep vibrance entered Gimli's limbs, calming his nerves a bit, inducing more patience into him. He dared not voice his thoughts to Legolas without reinforcement from the man. He knew for certain that the elf could easily divert the subject, and he would miss his chance.

The horses nickered and danced rather restless, and Rohan's banner with the white horse snapped in the wind above the riders. Gimli stood still beside Legolas. King Théoden and Éomer would depart with their people to the weapontake at Edoras. And Merry was going with them. He was so eager to ride with the King, proud and honoured to lend him his service. Legolas smiled at him, so genuine, so deceivingly calm. The elf was patting Stybba, the hill-pony who had been readied to carry their little friend, speaking lilting elvish words to the beast with an earnest, fatherly mien. He lent Merry his strong hand so he could place his foot in it to mount up into the saddle with dignity.

The riders assembled down at the base of the Burg on the green. The glint of steel shone off their armour and sparkled off the sharp points of their spears. Théoden King rode on Snowmane and beside him was Merry on his pony.* Finally, Aragorn appeared at the gate, with him was Éomer. There was a darkness about the ranger as he stood there side by side with Halbarad and the sons of Elrond. He looked weary and grim, as if years upon years of Middle-earth's history weighed down upon him.

The great staff that Halbarad bore was close-furled in black. Gimli studied it and guessed its weight just as he heard Aragorn say: "We must ride our own road… I will take the Paths of the Dead."* At first, Gimli stared at Aragorn, not trusting his ears. But as he was about to shake his head to clear his mind from what he had surely misheard, Théoden exclaimed, "The Paths of the Dead! Why do you speak of them?"* The King's voice trembled.

Gimli glanced around him, sticking the index fingers of both hands into his ears, rubbing vigorously to clear out the dust or whatever must have entered them to hamper proper hearing. But then he saw the faces of the riders turn pale. Even Éomer did not hide his dread. The first marshal's words of parting were full of concern. He spoke of his regret, should they never meet again. Even if his voice sounded respectful and firm, Gimli guessed from his expression that the man thought the Dúnadan reckless, bordering on mad. Gimli could not blame Éomer, for no other sensible thought crossed his own mind at the moment. His ears were clearly bereft of any hindrance; he had definitely not misheard.

The King and Éomer said their farewells as if they would never meet them again, but Aragorn stood strong, determined and calm, stubborn and ready to face whatever may come - or what he was plunging himself and all of them into, thought Gimli, nervously tugging the end of his beard.

"In battle we may yet meet again, though all the hosts of Mordor should stand between."* Aragorn declared.

If we survive the dead, ... what a great prospect, thought Gimli sarcastically, biting on his lip not to speak, but the sigh that followed he could not, by all the effort, suppress.

Halbarad had not moved from Aragorn's side the least - in fact he had not moved at all and had shown no sway in his bearing and mien. The sons of Elrond stood tall beside him, grey eyes hard and determined. The lads must all be mad, and from what showed in their expressions, probably hopelessly stubborn, Gimli decided, squinting at Legolas who stood very still wearing a mien that easily matched those of the two raven-haired elves. But the wind teased his pale hair and the light of day caught in it, making it gleam. In the gloom of the air around them, he looked strikingly fair. Gimli then felt a stab at the vulnerability he feared in the image before him.

"Good-bye!" said Merry.* Looking puzzled and depressed by all the gloomy words. He said nothing more.

Legolas stood tall, lithe and strong, nodding at Merry reassuringly as the hobbit glanced at him. But then they rode, and the elf's breath caught slightly as he watched them go.

Gimli closed his eyes briefly in concern. Now was the time, he thought, to speak to Aragorn.

They went back into the Burg. Aragorn finally would eat his long due meal, and Gimli thought it a sensible thing. They sat at the table but Aragorn was very silent, and only when Legolas hedged him to speak of his burden, Aragorn revealed that he had looked into the Palantir.

Gimli gaped at him in fear and astonishment. He could not hold back his dismay. "You have looked in that accursed stone of wizardry!"* This foolhardy man he considered his friend had done it! What even Gandalf feared. Gimli could not believe it.

"You forget to whom you speak," said Aragorn sternly and his eyes glinted.* But then the grimness left his face and he looked weary as one who has laboured in sleepless pain for many nights.* He had revealed himself to the enemy, had wrenched the stone to his own will. And even if he was its lawful Master, Gimli thought with a shudder how it had worn him down, how much it had changed him, how pale he was. He did not doubt Aragorn's strength, but he dreaded the new, strange distance between them, and the possible treachery of the magic globe.

After eating, they walked out the hall and strode along the wall. The very air weighed more and more heavy. Gimli could hardly bear it. Finally, he burst out, revealing his trouble.

"You will lead us through the mountain path, the road no living has used since the coming of the Rohirrim.* They all trembled with fear like leaves exposed to the wind's chill – the King, Éomer and his warriors – at hearing your intention. All colour withdrew from their faces. – They think you mad Aragorn! Completely insane… desperately reckless at the least! – I am still stunned in unbelief. – But if we survive, and those dead spirits will allow us passage, then it will lead us close to the sea… Have you forgotten Galadriel's message to Legolas?" said Gimli accusingly.

Both Legolas and Aragorn were suddenly very still. Aragorn briefly closed his eyes and took a very long and unsteady breath. Legolas had turned away from them, poised slightly, eyes narrowed and listening to something that was coming from the north as if carried to him on silent whispers.

"Stop doing this, Legolas! I know you are listening." Gimli groaned. "Am I the only one taking the Lady's warning serious? Am I the only one troubled by it? You both seem to deliberately ignore her message."

Aragorn was biting hard on his teeth, Gimli could see the muscles in his jaw tense and shift.

"There will be gulls, Aragorn," he insisted. "They circle over the lands so close to the sea. You know it! – Tell him to stay at Edoras! He can ride with the Rohirrim. If needed, I may stay with him. Is the fear of almost losing him not still stuck in your bones as it is in mine?"

When Legolas turned towards them, he looked directly at Gimli, almost defiantly. "I decide myself with whom I ride. I do not fear the dead. - I will go with you, Aragorn. I promised you this before, and I say it again; I will go with you to the end!" His eyes flickered silver-blue, sharp and bright in the early afternoon light.

Gimli sighed and his eyes rested expectantly on Aragorn. But the man's face was troubled, tormented, torn. His gaze held Legolas' and there was moisture and love in his eyes.

"I would tell him to stay, Gimli," he said tiredly, "If he did heed me. – I have tried. But it makes no sense to speak to deaf ears." And while he said so, his gaze was soft and still held Legolas'.

"You have not been vehement enough!" Gimli shot.

"The sense of Galadriel's words is unclear," Aragorn sighed and dropped his eyes to the ground, "It must not be death. We do not know what she meant," he said hopefully, now looking at Gimli.

"Of course," Gimli groaned, "Has he convinced you of this?" he spoke as if Legolas were not there. "Elves never speak clearly. A bothering habit, that is. The more ancient they are, the worse it becomes… but let us be honest; if Legolas lives, where should his heart be if not in the forest…"

"It could be that she meant he falls in love…" Aragorn offered.

Gimli let out a mirthless snort, "I think that has already happened, and the gulls are still far," he countered, stealing a sidelong glance at the elf who said nothing and had turned again into the now upcoming breeze, slightly leaning into it, his head tilted as if listening intently to something carried along from the distance.

"And besides," he said, gesturing meaningfully towards Legolas, "where should she drag him if not into a forest; she is a tree-sprite! – Nay Aragorn, it is something else… something worse…"

At that moment, Legolas turned towards them. As if some sudden realization had struck him, he said seriously to Aragorn, "Although, if Gimli fears the mountain path and the spirits of the forgotten people, tell him to stay at Edoras, Aragorn! He can ride with the Rohirrim. One of them will surely suffer him to guard his back." He gave Gimli a challenging smirk.

Gimli knew he had lost this one. He resigned, retreating to their usual, soothing and familiar game of competence.

"Of course not," he groaned, puffing out his breast, "I will go with you even on the Paths of the Dead, and to whatever end they may lead. I hope that the forgotten people will not have forgotten how to fight,"* he grunted, "for otherwise I see not why we should trouble them."*

This mad-elf would never heed. Unless they put him in chains to drive him away, he would stick to this path tenaciously. All Gimli could do was to be by his side. At least there would be a dwarf always close to watch his back.

Aragorn's silver eyes shone with gratitude and pride as he took in his friends, standing before him. Gimli could see the strong jaw tremble as the man clearly reined his emotions. But his eyes were unblinking and there was a fierce resolution in them. He clasped Legolas' shoulder and then Gimli's and squeezed with affection and strength.

"Come!" he cried, and drew his sword, and it flashed and cut through heavy air, making it prickle and crack where he passed. "To the stone of Erech! I seek the Paths of the Dead. Come with me who will!"*

Chapter Text

The cool nightly breeze caught in her unbound hair as she strode up towards the highest point of the hill where Meduseld stood, high, proud and kingly. Éowyn hurried past the great arched entrance, making her way around the tall building housing the Golden Hall. From the platform at the rear, she could oversee the gently swung hills stretch out wide around the fenced city. Her sword-belt was striped around her narrow waist, her hand rested on the worn leather. Her fingers trailed over the smoothness of it until they curled around the hard ornaments of her beloved weapon's hilt, gripping it, while her thoughts spun their ways, tormenting her. In her frustrated despair, she had clutched her weapon and retreated with it, letting it anchor and soothe her. It's familiar, mercurial weight steadied her.

She loved her home and her people, and her people loved her, but now, behind the high wooden fence, she felt cramped and breathless. It was bad, so bad, that her breaths had become short, desperate gasps. Her mind swirled, making her dizzy, and her stomach was tight. She had no control anymore. She clutched almost hopelessly the hilt of her sword until it warmed, then became hot and clammy against her skin. Immersed in her anguish, she went to stand on the border of the terrace, balancing right on the edge as if she wanted to leap, to feel free and weightless. She sucked in the air, deeply and hitching, trying to calm her tense nerves.

Her hand then let go of the sword, and her arms hung now freely at her sides. She allowed her mind and heart to pour over the vast extent of grass that spread now dark in the night beyond the city. She imagined horse's hooves pounding on the rich earth, grass blades softly gleaming in the moonlight and bending in the streaming wind of the Mark. Éowyn fancied the hills blurring past, and the rhythmical movements under her, of a horse flattened in the speed of a mad gallop. She cried out loud from deep in her belly, from the bottom of her lungs, a long, freeing shout, releasing all her anguish, her anger, driven by a boundless energy and sapped with longing. She inhaled the air that streamed past her and breathed slowly, deeply… Standing on the high terrace, she took in breath after breath, like sobs. The woman of Rohan let her head hang as if defeated, closing her eyes. She felt warmth running down her cheeks and then the nightly air cooling the wet streaks. She was weeping.

This valiant man, chieftain of the Dúnedain, exiled heir to a great lineage, this man bringing hope to Rohan, hope to her, would fight and stand when everything around them seemed to fall. He would suffer and die with them. He held so much love in his heart, was loved so deeply in turn… and had earned her deepest respect. She had seen his hope, his fear, his anguish and despair, his courage, his persistence, his valour. He had earned her awe and revealed a never yet discovered place in her heart, made it beat faster.

She wished nothing more than to fight by his side, for her people, for all that was dear to her, be part of something important that was about to happen in Middle-earth; something she craved for and had now reached her, brought along by this one particular man, concealed in the clothes and the heart of a ranger of the North. And yet he was so much more… simple, sincere, valiant and bold... a promise of hope... She wanted, she needed… so much more than to stay behind every time.

She clenched her hands into fists in frustration and turned her face upwards, gazing into the sky. It was veiled, but the stars fiercely glittered and shone wherever they found clear patches and spaces between dark clouds. She turned and looked at Meduseld towering before her, tall and familiar, crowning the hill. She clenched her fists tighter, her lips trembled.

Her blurred gaze swept over its high roof and suddenly caught and came to rest on a fair shape on its edge. Through the thin veil of tears, she frowned and blinked, watching in mild wonder as the shape unfolded long limbs and rose in a light, graceful motion.

"Lady Éowyn," a deep musical voice floated down to her. And she stared at the elf on the roof, slightly startled and stunned by the sight that seemed unreal in its fey delicacy. The elf slid down from the roof and landed soundlessly at the base of the building close to the young woman.

He regarded her, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Are you well?" he asked. Éowyn closed her eyes briefly, sucking in a long breath that she released in a heavy sigh. She then opened her eyes and looked at him. He stood at a small distance, watching her, and held her gaze with eyes that were bright like the stars that shone in the dark patches of the veiled sky on this night. For a moment, she did not know what to say, as if all coherent thought was lost in the shifting light of those strange eyes.

He absently lifted his hand to his chest and slowly rubbed his palm over the place where his injury had been.. From the corner of her eyes, Éowyn caught the motion, and a shiver rippled through her. He was close, his presence so strong that she felt his body warmth. And as all was quiet, the woman heard his soft breathing, which had now slightly enhanced with a surging memory.

Flashes of the recent events shot through her mind; of a heaving body at her knees, of hot, clammy skin under her hands, of savage cries filling the air, fair features unnaturally contorted in torment, tear-streaked, alien eyes melted in a deep, consuming madness.

Her own breathing became harsh over the soft breaths of the elf, filled her ears, her awareness, and she trembled. She wanted to scream, flee this anguishing constriction choking her, feel free, ride over streaming grass in the wind of the Mark.

The elf said nothing. He stood beside her, staring out over the darkness beyond them.

"I cannot bear to watch when they send children to battle," she burst out.

"I know," he said, deep in thought, "You speak from my soul."

Only a few words of understanding in his warm, rich voice comforted her. She had broken the silence, and now she felt compelled to speak of it all, break the bars caging her. "I cannot bear to wait and see warriors return injured and dying. Or wait in vain, while they will never return. I cannot bear waiting, doing nothing while the fight for my people and Middle-earth unleashes out there."

The rush of her own words whirled her into dizziness...furious despair. The blood in her body pricked and surged.

She became aware of the elf's even breaths and the warmth and strange glow that emanated from him. She heard the wind rushing over the grass of the Mark, and it gleamed in the sun while she raced over the land of her home on a mad ride. It all melted into one soothing melody. Warmth flooded her limbs, increased until she burned with heat.

Éowyn was so swept up in the tide of her senses, in her longing, this dream, that she startled as the hiss of an unsheathing blade briskly punctuated the air, as the air beside her perceptibly coiled, shifted and prickled. She whipped around to see the elf poised, eyes narrowed; in his hand, one of his white knives glinted dangerously at his side. She gasped in shock and gaped.

He waited a moment, holding her gaze, sharp and unblinking, and then gave a nod with his head.

A challenge.

Adrenaline charged through her veins, blew her mind with something explosive, fierce, and her limbs tingled with anticipation. She did not think. Her hand flew to the hilt of the sword at her belt, and she drew the blade from its sheath with natural ease. She accepted the fight. She would push her limits, relish in the thrilling sensation of it.

Éowyn lifted her sword almost solemnly, holding his gaze, which was cold and hard and dangerous. Suddenly, flashingly swift, she shot forward, thrusting the blade towards him. There was a sharp clash of metal and a shrill hiss as Legolas parried, deviating the blow with such force it jolted through her whole body, and she stumbled.

He sprang to the side, whirled around, and she felt him close, too close; the warmth of his breath brushed her neck for a mere instant. But she had already recovered from her astonishment. Her reaction was prompt, well-schooled, and she hurled herself back to catch his blade with her longer, heavier weapon. The metal shrieked and further fueled her passion for battle. She was dizzy with it, brimmed with inflamed ecstasy. Her trained senses were sharp, focused, and so she was led by the dance of the elf as he sprang, pounced, and twisted away.

His blade was shorter, slender, but bit sharp and swift. It glistened and sparked, drawing bright arcs and patterns into the crackling air all around her, as if aflame. Gradually, the sensation of her skin burning, of her head pounding, stole her breath. Her limbs became heavier by the minute, and with every motion, Éowyn found them increasingly hard to control; she was tiring.

The elf did not slow his speed nor retain his power. He unleashed upon her his inexorable, deadly elegance. She knew that if it had been an actual battle, not a sparring match, she would be strewn with perfect, painful cuts that, while not deadly, would considerably obstruct her abilities. They most likely would have meant her defeat. But even as she would fight to the last to stay alive, now her pride would not allow an easy defeat. With this resolve, her spirit soared once more.

After a moment of breathing, the elf consented to her, she joined him again in the dance to the song of their blades. It was awesome and thrilling. He seemed not to tire in the least and slashed more imaginary gashes into her flesh. She tried not to envision the pain they would spike, had they been real. Instead, panting, Éowyn observed him intently, nostrils flaring, eyes furiously alight. He had not yet dealt out the last strike that would have taken her life, forcing her beyond her very limits. Her face was flushed, and she brimmed with self-confidence. He had challenged her, not holding back. She was awed by the coiled power of her opponent.

In a real fight, she would bleed and suffer, and he'd be unscathed. She knew Legolas would long have used this advantage to deal out the final, merciless blow. But she was not afraid, and she was not ashamed. He was not the kind of being she pretended to defeat or even match in battle. He was the kind who left her speechless and awed and so very glad that he was not an enemy. And then, she had seen him nearly defeated, exposed to a poison that almost killed him; her support had helped save him. She felt a trust between them that went deep. Éowyn had seen him vulnerable – even the most brilliant of warriors died… His resilience and his magnificence in battle thrilled her, pushed her to unleash everything that lingered furiously within.

She breathed heavily as she saw him bolt onto her, a dark, defined silhouette before the misty, glowing pattern of veiled stars in the sky; smooth, feline ferocity. He fought with two blades usually; she knew it. He wielded them swift and utterly deadly. They would have swirled and blurred the air, her vision, and when her sword parried one knife, it would have cried out, high-pitched and shrill, while the other would have found flesh and pierced. But now just one blade came down towards her. One sword – one knife; that's how the elf had established fairness to the fight. Those thoughts just flashed through her mind as she saw the shaded, tight body fly in beauty and violence. Her eyes were wide as Éowyn stared at the white, dazzling light glinting off the fine metal.

Time slowed, and it was but a fraction of a blink of an eye when she spotted his side unprotected. With a deep roar, she released the very last strength she could gather, swept out her long, heavy sword, a mere hair away from his body, along his side. The strike diverted his course, and he landed in a crouch in front of her, head bent, his hand pressed to his ribs where the sword would have sliced.

In full contact, this blow would have cut deep, ripping him open from hip to armpit, not killing instantly but thoroughly crumpling and sentencing to final and terrible agony, so that a last stab to the heart would mean mercy.

Breathing heavily from the effort, Éowyn stared, startled, at the bent elf before her. His torso heaved, although he was utterly silent. She went down to her knees beside him, suddenly afraid that her sword might really have struck him. She stared at his strong warrior's shoulders shuddering, and the long hand pressed to his side, her eyes fearfully searching for blood that, to her relief, she did not find.

Slowly, he lifted his head and gazed intently into her eyes. Éowyn held her breath for a moment, although it was hard to do so, still strained from the effort. Legolas nodded to her, slowly, approvingly. The ghost of a smile played around his lips. From somewhere in the pit of her belly, a flurry of feelings soared. She felt suddenly light and euphoric, almost bursting with it.

He rose slowly and turned his face to the soft wind. The faint star-glow peeking out between the dark shrouds of clouds seemed to gather on him. His skin shone softly, white-gold and sleek, and his hair gleamed and drifted long behind him.

Éowyn saw him standing tall, fair and strong beside her. She took in his face, pale and noble, and then she looked away. A lump formed in her throat as the memory rose once more and tore her. She hitched a sigh, and then she said desperately, "I do what I can while I am waiting, but I am not a healer. It is not my call. I cannot bear it."

She blinked up at him. A shade dimmed the brightness in his eyes. And he nodded in acknowledgement.

"You are strong, my Lady Éowyn," he bowed to her, his hand pressed meaningfully to his chest, "You have my gratitude for all you did," he said earnestly. "You have proven much already. If you fight on the battlefield the way you fight for the wounded – and the way you just performed…" he turned his face to look at her, and his eyes glistened, "… you might defeat the most terrible of enemies."

She said nothing, but she felt a pull, a boost of excitement and confidence. Éowyn felt strong as she stood there quietly beside the elf, sensing the reviving melody soaring within her. She relished in the vision of the wind blowing over the grass of the Mark on the hills, the exhilarating sensation on her skin, caressing her, filling her. This was her own melody, she realized, and it soared from deep within her heart.

And then she blushed upon realizing the words full of respect from this warrior, seasoned beyond years she could imagine. She lowered her eyes and felt humbled, saying nothing about the fight.

"It was not my skills nor my knowledge saving your life, I only assisted as best I could," she quickly dismissed, "My Lord Aragorn…" she began… she had to pause on that name, and breathe twice before she could go on, "…my relief was great when he arrived. His hands are those of a born healer, his determination and skill I cannot but admire, and his heart..." she trailed off and silenced, dropping her gaze.

"He is a great healer, a fierce warrior and a true friend…" The voice of the elf was soft and warm as he spoke about the man.

"I have asked him to allow me to follow him," she said then in despair, "His eyes are so clear I can see understanding – but even he bid me stay."

"He has not the heart to answer the responsibility if he took you with him and you should fall," the elf said. "So much already weighs on him. He even tried to talk me out of following him after my wounding. But he has no command over me. Even if counted young among my people, in years, I am far older than he. I made a pledge and a promise, and I will not listen," he laughed softly, his eyes flashing a stubborn glint, and he looked as young then as he was among his people, Éowyn thought.

She sighed. "I do understand it," she said, "But I cannot accept it."

She lowered her eyes, sad, and then she was quiet.

The elf had stepped forward to the edge of the platform, where she had stood. His hair lifted softly by the light wind, and his shirt fluttered behind him. The icy breeze seemed not to affect him the least. He stood straight and still, leaning ever so slightly forward, and stared out into the darkness as if straining to listen. The wind flattened the light fabric against his body, and she could see his chest rise and fall, but she could not hear a sound of his breathing, so silent he was.

Éowyn wondered what he heard or sought. And then – she knew not if it was carried along by the wind or if the elf close to her had somehow conjured it - she felt the air slightly shift, and a soft melody carried on it, like a lament, soft and quivering, and something else hidden in it; the rushing of sappy leaves, thick and dark green… and the sun, gleaming on a vast glittering plain… water trickling over stone… and a fleeting flash of dark eyes bright with tears.

She blinked and glanced at the elf, tall and unmoving beside her. His strong, slender hand on his heart was trembling.

And then Éowyn spoke, as if it was clear what just touched their thoughts and senses, "I do not know how she can bear it all, for years over years of war and death, misery and despair unending. And yet she was there, again and again, when it struck; enduring, persistent, supporting a people at war even far from her home."

"She would not have carried through it all without your support, without your strength. And I would not be here anymore," he said dryly, still staring out over the plain.

Éowyn swallowed thickly, "I have seen her quiet despair, I know of her sadness, ever lingering… but that day I know she reached her very limit. I cannot guess what it did to her."

She saw the elf close his eyes, and his breath shuddered.

When he turned back to her, there was something else in his strange eyes, a quivering longing, and she thought she saw tears well and flicker in the starlight.

But then he blinked, and it was gone.

Focusing on her, his face brightened. His voice was firm and reassuring as he spoke.

"I cannot tell you what to do. Nor have I the right to do so. Only your heart knows your true call," He smiled at her again, soft and genuine, childlike. "It sings your song," he said. And he turned away.

Taking a slight hold with his slender hands on the rain gutter, he swept up the roof of Meduseld, light and nimble, seemingly with no effort at all. He swiftly climbed towards the roof's highest point and then disappeared from her sight.

Éowyn clenched her sword tight while she listened to the song of the wind on the hills, to the rhythm of horse hooves pounding on the earth of her beloved land and the long blades of grass streaming, calling to her heart. The beginning of her path was mapped out clearly before her, yet at the edges and in the distance, the map was blurred. But there she stood, straight and confident, and the cool breeze did not affect her.

There was a child, a little girl, who like so many, had been touched by the war. Amidst all the death, the misery and suffering back on that burg of dark grey stone, she had been a light – fragile, and shivering, and all the more precious. Sorwyn was her name; sorrow and joy. Such intangible meaning in the simple name of a child from a ravaged village of Rohan. The mere thought of this child he had come to know in those hard days on the stone-burg both tore and kindled Legolas' heart.

Their roads met again, here on this hill where Sorwyn might find a new home – at least for some time. It had been good to see her again. So good that Legolas could not explain it in words, nor would he want to. She looked up at him with those wide children's eyes, "I… I know you will fight," she said seriously. "Be safe, Legolas!" and her cheeks slightly flushed, so innocently young and puffy. She beamed him a trustful smile that set his heart on fire with flames of power that would not burn him but scorch all that could harm this little girl and all that was dear to him in this world. And before he could blink, she had bounced up at him, throwing her slim arms around his neck and broad shoulders. She clung to him with such eagerness that, surprised at the strength of her small body, he nearly staggered. The elf held her tight, breathing deeply and then coddled her fondly, teasing blissful laughter from her lips. He whirled her around in the air, making her giggle and squeal.

Sorrow and joy, wrapped in the name of a child.

The people looked at them, smiling, surprised that a small girl would so easily and naturally be affectionate towards a being they dared only behold from a distance. This child was building a bridge between the worlds. They both looked so young and serene, their fair voices soared, like wings, and many a heart sparked with hope. But still, they did not see all it meant, the immeasurable depth in the gesture; only a few did.

The time had come for them to leave. Legolas hugged Sorwyn one last time and set her down so that immediately she could cling to the gown of her mother. He bowed low before Sorwyn's mother and Godliss, and then stood before them, his hand resting on his heart. The women returned his gaze, eyes caring, full of gratitude and hope, but also insecurity and concern and other emotions impossible to put into words. The boy close to Godliss shyly lifted his hand in greeting, and Legolas swept his hand from his heart towards him as he went.

The elf then caught Éowyn's gaze.

She had seen, and she knew much of it, knew the greatness of the impact.

Then Legolas turned and joined Gimli and Arod, who were ready to leave, the dwarf already packed upon the horse's broad back.

"How on Arda did you get up there?" Legolas blurted out, both eyebrows lifted in amused surprise.

"That is of no import…" Gimli grunted, "I could have mounted up on my own, for all you know." He squinted at Legolas grimly. "Need a hand?" he offered with played dwarvish gallantry.

Legolas snorted and leapt off the ground to settle easily in front of Gimli. "No need. But gratitude, master dwarf, horse-master." He smiled back brightly over his shoulder, where Gimli scowled and mumbled something about the politeness of dwarves that stayed unreturned and grumbled and growled quite indistinct things about Wood-elves, poor manners and arrogance, that he did not mean but were part of the game.

Legolas ignored him, but secretly found those gruff words soothing, which was ridiculous, he thought. He smirked at his own thoughts, which pushed Gimli to grumble even more, which Legolas again ignored as if it was a rule of their game. Instead, Legolas spurred Arod and wheeled him around to once more pass by Sorwyn and her mother and Godliss and Gram. They gazed up at him, and he smiled, drinking in the sight of those who had conquered a place in his heart. Behind him, Gimli was now finally well settled and distracted and raised his hand in greeting.

There they were going, all of them, towards the unknown and fateful battles ahead. Aragorn, his mien strong and determined. He looked straight at Éowyn, bidding her farewell. She gave him her blessing and tried to conceal the hard hammering of her heart and her aching longing to ride at his side with the valiant Dúnedain, all broad, strong and noble men, but so utterly simple and weathered from a raw life in the wilds.

Close to him, as tall shades cast by two different suns, were the two elves whose faces bore the same smooth perfection. They shone in their bright mail and shimmering, long, raven hair as some warrior princes of ages long past, sprung from a book of legends of the Firstborn. Like two divine protectors, they looked upon the man as a precious treasure they kept safe in their midst. And Éowyn thought how similar the man suddenly appeared to them. They looked almost like kin, like brothers; the same silver gleam in their eyes, proud and fierce. With great effort, she pushed down the tears that threatened to well and burst free from the storm of emotions raging within her.

Her gaze followed Aragorn as he turned towards Layrun, who stood with her friends. The girls looked up at the elves and the man, eyes wide, mouths slightly open. There was awe in their young eyes, but fear also. They stared and blinked as the imposing men passed them by, and they seemed to tremble and sway slightly. Their usually excited chatter was muted and lost for the moment. Aragorn lifted his hand in farewell and gratitude to the young healer, and she smiled and waved her hand shyly.

Éowyn steadily held Aragorn's gaze as he passed her by. He gave her a last, respectful nod, and she found that moment almost unbearable.

Further behind, she spotted Legolas on Arod riding with Gimli. And the girls that before had been in wordless stupor now suddenly fidgeted nervously in a surge of excitement, coyly glancing up at the two unlike riders in a flutter of lashes. Despite her sombre spirit, a burst of quiet laughter escaped Éowyn as she observed the scene. It was like a fresh gust of wind, a dancing flash of brightness, a welcome lightness that broke through the thick gravity of these days. The elf caught the flicker immediately and gracefully bowed his head at the girls, his face smoothing into a dazzling smile. Their cheeks flushed and gleamed fresh and rosy, which seemed to delight him further.

"My Ladies–" Éowyn heard him say in his warm, deep voice, while he inclined his head, bringing his hand to his chest. Éowyn saw the amused, heartened glitter in his blue irises. Gimli was waving at the girls eagerly, his warm brown eyes agreeably pleased and alight. He said something to Legolas, grinning, at which the elf narrowed his eyes, and with a mischievous smile on his lips, made a sharp noise with his tongue. As if responding to a trained command, the white horse bolted. The elf smoothly navigated the jolting motion, and the dwarf hugged his waist in sudden urgency, looking both angered and terrified. Éowyn then heard him mutter grumpily – probably a curse – while clutching fast at the elf. Legolas laughed; his face was radiant, as if the clouds in the sky had parted only for him.

By the time they reached Éowyn, Gimli had calmed and greeted the Lady good-heartedly, wishing her farewell. Legolas' features became calm and serious, and his gaze held hers for a very long time. He said nothing, but his strange eyes shifted in the bright colours of a clear pool, speaking more than words. She listened to the melody surging within her, standing before him straight and confident.

"Hannon le," she said as she had heard Aragorn say before, "Thank you."

She felt that same deep trust between them again as he returned the words of gratitude, bringing his hand to his heart. How many times had he done that gesture... But this time, it meant so much more to her; it meant strength and sorrow and hope, and she felt her resolve settle. Still holding his gaze, she mirrored the gesture.

His lips slowly curved in an encouraging smile. She smiled back at him openly, and this time, as she had often thought before, Éowyn was now sure he could read her; her heart pounded in the rhythm and strength of horse hooves on the earth; there was the wind and high grass around her, and on her hip, held by an ancient leather belt, she felt the comfortable weight of her weapon.

Legolas' smile widened, and then he swept Arod around and spurred him on, away from her towards Aragorn, who was already ahead, leading the party of quiet and serious rangers to the Paths of the Dead. The pale early daylight caught upon him, and he glowed slightly as if he were riding to a completely different place. Behind her, she heard the young healer's friends gasp before their tongues loosed in lively chatter.

But the people retired fast, hiding in their houses, for the dread had crept into the city as they watched the reckless strangers ride towards the gloom and darkness of the Haunted Mountain. "They are elvish wights," some muttered, and others just stared and thought them bewitched or deranged, and yet many, despite their fear, were awed at the sheer boldness.

Chapter Text

Gimli clutched at Legolas' waist while they rode over the uplands of Lamedon. Pouring down the slopes their horses' hooves thundered, and behind them, the dead souls followed, swarming silently, voiceless dead whispers, unsubstantial hisses. Gimli's hair stood on end, even his beard. His hands clamped at Legolas' waist, rigidly. The unnatural chill emanating from the dead spirits terrorized him.

But Legolas moved smoothly before him in flow with the motions of the horse, seemingly without the least effort and fearless as they rode at breakneck speed. And just for a moment, Gimli was almost comforted. The thought that his fear for this unquenchable whirlwind of a wood-elf was completely out of place and bordering on absurdity, was welcome.

Gimli tried to hold on to that feeling, as the elf's long hair lashed at his face, fair strands rich and heavy in the wind of their speed and he huffed, sputtering in annoyance while they caught in his beard. There was no chance for him to use any of his hands to ease this trouble.

Legolas turned his head to look back at him. In the elf's eyes gleamed a bright, almost madly flickering light of excitement that must have come from his delight at the rush of their ride.

"I would have told you to hold fast, Gimli," he shouted back over his shoulder, "if your fingers were not already crushing my bones!" he laughed, and the light sound caught in the streaming air, rippled over the dwarf and eased the chill in his heart while he groaned.

But they were riding to reach Pelargir, near the sea, and Gimli's fear could not be cornered. The shadows of ghosts, their cold sighs, their lifeless whispers surely did not help – they froze him. On this mad ride, clutching at Legolas' waist, his thoughts streamed and lashed in his mind. Like Legolas' hair in the speed of the wind.

He looked over at Aragorn. And Gimli felt once more alone in watching this impetuous, vulnerable elf's back, while the man was swallowed and lost in the responsibilities of his destiny, surrounded by the Dúnedain, Halbarad and his men, the aim they strove for over generations soon being fulfilled or all lost to darkness.

Aragorn, the heir of Isildur, spurred his faithful horse Roheryn, brought to him by Halbarad from the North, to unleash all his force into speed. There was a grimness and a strange darkness about him. In his face, the marks of worry ran deep. And yet he looked determined to follow what was expected of him, fuelled by an enormous pressure to push on and accomplish his destiny.

The Dúnedain, riding all around him, fortifying him, sustained their cause; the end of long years of exile in the wilds, finally drawing near in their hope. A tide of determination on hard pounding hooves pressed forward, rolled and charged like a thunderstorm. And with them, in their midst, flanking Aragorn, never leaving his side, the two sons of Elrond shone; their long dark hair streamed behind them, their faces were fair and sharp, their broad swordsmen's shoulders imposing, and yet their bodies were graceful and elegant in both form and motions. Their eyes gleamed, as did the silver-bright runes on the black sheaths of their swords.

Legolas plunged Arod into the tide and then reemerged, pulling away, seeking distance, sailing the edges of the streaming power with lightness.

Gimli heard the fearful shouts, the calls reaching from every town and every village they passed; "The king of the dead is come upon us!"* And people ran frenzied, unhinged by the fear that went on over the land before them.

Gimli's own dread ran deep, but Aragorn charged forward and the shadow host followed, held in check by the man's sheer will. Gimli knew it was wearing on him, but Aragorn's features were set and showed no weakness.

They crossed the rivers Ciril and Ringló and when they reached Linhir above the Mouth of Gilrain they found the fords under attack, but the men of Umbar and Harad stopped fighting and fled in terror as the ghosts swept over the land. But Angbor, the Lord of Lamedon, stood his ground and faced the army of the dead. He was a brave man. After swearing loyalty to Aragorn, he gathered his men, and they followed the grey company on their way towards the Anduin.

During the day, they halted only enough to recover, feed and water their sweating and foaming horses.

Legolas brushed down Arod's flanks, speaking lilting, comforting elvish words to the horse. Gimli listened to the familiar musical voice of the elf, and warmth filled his heart, keeping the cold, voiceless whispers of the ghosts surrounding them further away. He wondered at how this wood-elf's fair, melodious voice had grown beloved to the point of soothing him like the deep hum of a mountain would, or the steady beat of a hammer on iron. This unbelievable creature had become a natural part of his life.

~.~.~

Gimli remembered how his blood had frozen in his veins, how his breath had hitched in terror as they stood at the door to the dead. All the hearts quailed, but Aragorn's will and determination had been so strong that his men followed him into the threatening darkness with deep trust. Unquestioning, one by one, their cloaked shapes had slipped through the gate in the rock. Their faithful horses loved and trusted their masters to the point of walking devotedly by their side, encouraged by the lead of the rangers' firm hands on their reins, and the calming murmurs of their voices.

But Arod, the feisty and skittish Rohan horse, had shrieked and bolted and whinnied in terror. The high-pitched cry resounded and echoed hollowly between the rocks, multiplied, and spooked the horse even further. It cantered, nerves undone in terror. Gimli felt sympathy for the beast as he was sharing the same feelings. Legolas had been calm and steady then. A warm, glowing presence amid the gloom, the elf had reached gently to cover Arod's eyes, had sung to him quietly, and the horse had relaxed into his secure lead. Gimli had stood there alone for a moment, all the hair on his body stiff with fear, he had briefly wished for Arod's place, but then before the soothing sound of Legolas' song would get lost behind the stone, Gimli had muttered to himself, "Here is a thing unheard of! An elf will go underground and a dwarf dare not!"* With that, he plunged into the gaping mouth.

…Intrepid Legolas! He had absolutely no fear of the dead. And Gimli shuddered again at the thought that the elf was even ignoring the warning of danger to his own life, waiting somewhere there, imminently on the way, close to the sea. The constant nagging had robbed Gimli of many hours of sleep.

Legolas had complained, "Sleep Gimli, I cannot rest if you shift and turn endlessly. I can hear your thoughts roiling."

"You know what I think?" Gimli had frowned at the uncanny thought.

"No Gimli, but I can hear the rumble in your mind like gravels in a cave-in. – I wish you would sleep snoring gently," he said then more softly – fondly – and grinned. Gimli knew the elf was troubled then, for there was no other way he would admit such a thing otherwise.

But Gimli did not snore that night and neither of them found sleep.

~.~.~

Gimli was exhausted. This ride demanded too much from him. All this passed through his mind as he stood now square on firm ground. Although his legs felt cramped by the struggle to cling so long upon the horse, his bottom felt even worse and he welcomed the change in position. He watched the elf leaning affectionately against Arod. And Gimli did not miss the elf's gaze, staring worriedly to the north, toward their homes. He looked beyond worried. He looked haunted. Strange shadows flitted over the brightness of his eyes.

As if Legolas felt Gimli's gaze scrutinizing him, he shifted and glanced at the dwarf. And as he saw the frown on his face, the corners of his mouth curved upwards to smile hesitantly, "Why, Gimli? Why are you watching me so?"

"Hmm…!" Gimli's voice came in a gentle grumble, "I don't like your gaze!"

Legolas gave a nervous laugh. "You are watching me too closely, my friend!" But then his eyes sought the same direction again, and he went very still.

Gimli harrumphed, clearing his throat.

"We are drawing near the sea, and I'm thinking about the meaning of Galadriel's words," Legolas finally admitted, not moving his gaze from the north, "I think of home… if there will still be a forest to return to… if at this moment my people are falling, and my father with them, if the great wood is burning and with it both our homes, Gimli. My heart pains me. I worry for them… It is torment. Horrible dreams return every night, and now, dreadful visions claim and haunt me during daytime as well."

At those words, a surge of homesickness rippled through Gimli. He thought of his mountain home and his people defending it with all their honour and skill, with their lifeblood. And he felt himself shuddering, deep in his bones. He needed to stay calm. He planted his feet firm on the earth, closed his eyes and thought of deep mines thrumming with the low sonorous song of stone, the soothing glint of precious gems and mithril… the peace of persistence over long ages… of steadiness…

And then he looked at the elf and took a deep sigh. Of course, this one's worry concerned everything but himself. Legolas worried once more about his forest, his people… diverting from his own vulnerability. And Gimli was left all alone with the worry for this wild wood-elf. As much as he joined the elf in his thoughts and concern for their people, he doubted very much that the Lady's words had been about the war in their homes. The prediction bore a clear warning. And Legolas was discarding it too lightly. It made Gimli anxious, and as much as he did not want to allow the feeling, it made him resent Aragorn for leaving them on the side, unwatchful, for allowing their friend to follow him into danger, into what could be his demise.

He said nothing to Legolas. But he sought Aragorn with a grim, accusing gaze; the leader among his people, amid the grey company who had claimed him, pushing him on, away from his small group of friends who had come so far hunting orcs together, sealed to brotherhood by the choice of their hearts.

Gimli almost jumped as the elf was now suddenly behind him and his long slender hand wrapped gently over his rigid shoulder.

"Peace, Gimli. Do not look at him so. It is not his fault. We all pledged to follow him to the end. It is our own choice. Do not resent him, for he needs our support."

Gimli blinked up at the elf in unbelief. Had he been so easily readable? He shrugged. There was indeed no going back now.

"It was our own choice, and Mahal knows, I do not regret to be at this young ranger's side while he rides to claim his throne and the mighty name of Elessar," Gimli stroked his beard thoughtfully, "but the price we pay is yet uncertain."

"Come lad, let's ride on. We cannot know what will befall our homes," he said. "We are not there and we cannot change the way things go. We are in the middle of the same war."

Legolas was still staring North, chewing his lower lip. He blinked several times before looking at Gimli, and it was as if his heavy sigh hitched before he mounted, his eyes unfocused and suspiciously moist. But Gimli pretended to not have noticed. He rubbed his sore bottom and cramped legs in an exaggerated gesture, hoping to divert his own mind and his friend's from their sombre thoughts before catching the elf's hand which reached down to him and then hauled him up to the usual place, to watch his back.

I promised to follow you to the end. Nothing will hold me back. Those had been Legolas' words. And they turned in Aragorn's mind relentlessly. Words of unconditional trust and loyalty, of comfort and encouragement. Words of his dear friend, his brother. But what gave him the right to accept the elf's promise so readily?

Isildur's heir had summoned the shadow host, and it swarmed and pressed behind him. It took all the man's strength to keep the unleashed power of the dead in check; so much of his determination and will. And he was grateful that his powerful brothers were close, supporting him in the task. And Halbarad and his kin had ridden to his aid, from far in the North, to claim this crucial road together, ever faithful.

From time to time, he caught sight of the white Rohan horse and on it a flash of light, a stubborn, graceful warrior of the wood, following him wherever he may go. Moving close and taking distance, navigating the fringe of the grey company, constantly in motion, but always there, always persistent. But although he tried to evade it, Gimli's occasional accusing gaze did not slip from his awareness, boring into him, digging into his conscience, uncovering a nagging fear and fuelling it.

Aragorn recalled their conversation the night before they left the Hornburg riding down the Coomb like thunder. More than ever, he had looked upon Legolas and Gimli with gratitude and respect. – How could he ever carry this burden without them?

He had tried, tried to talk Legolas out of it, offered him to send Gimli along with him to Edoras. But Legolas had been fierce in his refusal. His posture had been calm and controlled, yet a passionate fury had flashed in his eyes.

Gimli was right; Aragorn was tired. He had not even attempted to insist and engage in a fight. He had lowered his eyes, nearly closing them, and his shoulders had risen and fallen and hitched with a sigh as relief washed over him; Legolas would stay by his side. – It would not be death, surely; there were so many other possibilities… And Legolas looked so strong already. He had mended particularly well, even for an elf. – Aragorn told himself again and again as if to persuade himself, chase his own biting reproaches away.

He owed this elf and this dwarf so much; it was his to give them the King Middle-earth deserved. With great determination and hope, he controlled the sheer mass of ghosts; unsubstantial bones, bloodless muscles and sinews reduced to eerily shimmering mist, eyes glowing, voiceless cold whispers and hisses leaving empty throats pouring between tight, fleshless lips. He was guiding them towards their freedom. He had to hold them, hold them back as they pressed on – not yet, he could not let them go yet…

Minas Tirith was burning. He had seen it in the Palantir. And on the horizon up the Anduin, the smoke curled and drifted to the sky. There was no time. They were needed. The sheer urgency and despair kept all the doubts about Galadriel's words somewhat away. So much depended on him now, and he – they – could not fail. The pressure from the host coiled more and more until it became almost unbearable… soon, very soon, he would discharge the cold power of dread, unleash the forgotten army of the dead upon the harbour and the black ships on the Anduin, let terror spread upon Pelargir.

Now was the time! They pushed him hard, to release them into the battle below. Aragorn could bear it no more; the black ships loomed on the dark, deep waters of the mighty river. The harbour was beleaguered by the forces of the enemy. Now was the time! Aragorn exhaled, freeing a low, guttural battle cry. He felt the tension uncoil, the shadow host pouring, melting into a flood of terror spreading down to the river. Men cried out frantically and fled without even resisting. But the orcs stood and fought, and there were many of them. The horses of the living charged into the servants of Mordor.

His brothers fought beside Aragorn. Their swords flashed bright, raw violence glinted in their eyes. They struck down their enemies, wild and efficient, razing to the ground any foe in their way. Their eyes that were so caring and soft when they looked upon Aragorn had now turned to hard, transparent ice burning with hatred. Aragorn knew it was still present; the grief and the pain of their mother's suffering, the loss, and it unchained in hatred, demanded release in battle. Aragorn felt their power sustaining him, fuelling his own battle-lust. He cut the orcs down, strike by strike, stalwart and capable. All around him, the grey company fought, sustained by the dread that the army of ghosts spread.

Aragorn was grateful for they fought mostly orcs and the beasts were much easier to kill for the heart, would not leave such a bitter taste lingering after he spilt their black blood. Most of the Easterlings and Southrons who had beleaguered the harbour feared the shadow host and ran away in blank horror and uncontrolled chaos. They were easily captured by Angbor's forces, which had joined Aragorn's party on the way.

But suddenly, in the distance, high over the Anduin, something white struck Aragorn's vision. Wide-spread wings circled and sailed the wind over the river. Galadriel's words rang in his head. The calm, grave voice of the Lady of Lórien intensified, echoed within him and his heart lurched. His gaze sought frantically for his friend, for a flash of gold amongst the rage of battle. He swung his heavy weapon, meeting orc flesh, and in between, at any break he could take, he looked out for Legolas or Gimli. He knew that where the dwarf was, the elf could not be far. His distress grew by the second, as he could find none of them.

The army of the dead had reached the black ships of the Corsairs, spreading fear, hunting the men. Aragorn ran towards the river, scanning the shore almost frenzied, followed by Halbarad, who was shouting to him from behind. And there he caught sight of the elf's elegant shape climbing upon a close-by ship, as the first living creature to go with the assault of the dead, fearless as was his wont and utterly reckless. Halbarad urged Aragorn on to take to the fleet before the Corsairs could loosen the anchors and flee. Right before them in the harbour was docked the greatest ship. They were together as they climbed on board the mighty vessel.

But Aragorn's mind was still clouded with the sight of the white wings of the gull, stretched out wide, sailing the wind, and he glanced upwards as they reached the planks on the ship. He saw and heard men cry out and scream in terror. They sprang from the balustrade, but some of the bolder ones struck out at him and Halbarad and some other rangers who had climbed on board behind them. Aragorn defended himself by swinging his sword mechanically, led by reflexes. His mind was still caught by the bird and the fear for his friend encompassed him. As soon as he could manage, he rushed to the gunwale that admitted a view on the ship Legolas had climbed. There he spotted him, agile and swirling in action. The elf's white knives were still in their sheaths at his back and Aragorn saw the elf strike down a man with a hard punch of his fist. He saw Elladan hauling up Gimli into Elrohir's firm grip who hoisted the dwarf upwards, while Gimli looked not at all pleased at needing the help of the elves because the hull was too high for him. He almost could hear him humph despite the chaos ringing all around.

But then Aragorn heard what he had dreaded all along. The gull's call cut through all the sounds of fear and battle; the frenetic shouting, the clashes of blades, the thrumming of feet on wooden planks, the rushing of the river, the hisses of the dead - all seemed far away, fading to nothingness, while the gull's cry pierced Aragorn's ears, spiking an icy fear.

Aragorn stared over at the elf, frozen and shocked. His knees buckled, and attentive as Halbarad was, he held his friend and leader upright when he would have sunken to the ground. One arm around Aragorn, Halbarad struck out behind him at an enemy with the other because a battle was still raging between the rangers and a few Corsairs who had been bold enough to stay. But Aragorn stumbled forward towards the gunwale. He fought against his friend's hold on him, he wanted to leap…

"No!" Aragorn cried out, "Noooo!" He wanted to stop what was happening. He felt such crushing guilt and fear. He had allowed Legolas to follow him, because of his egoistic need to have his dear friend close. And now the call of the gull had struck and he could lose him. The deep pulling waters of the Anduin were dark and unforgiving. Legolas had been fighting hard, but now he could not see him anymore in the streaming dark. He had to do something! Anything! He had to leap…

"Aragorn!" Halbarad shouted, restraining him, "You cannot do this, you cannot plunge into such danger, the risk is too high! Your brothers are there, they are capable."

Aragorn thought he would go mad. He wrestled mindlessly against Halbarad's hold. But the man was broad, his senior and mentor, succeeding to restrain him, secure and calm him with his deep voice until Aragorn slumped desperately against the elder man's body, staring paralyzed, and still crying out; "No!" He panted and shouted, again and again, until his voice became coarse and broken. He now scrambled and struggled just weakly, resignedly in Halbarad's grip. His lips trembled while he stared helplessly at what was happening on the other ship. His eyes were wide in dismay, tears welled, quivered, and burned. Halbarad stood by his side, his strong arm around his shoulder supporting him, preventing him from sliding to the ground.

Chapter Text

A call from the sky tore through Legolas' heart, high pitched and keen, strangely sad and sweet. It forced him to his knees. He succumbed to it, thoroughly defenceless, his face tipped to the skies, eyes wide in shock and amaze.

Light shone down on him from above where the creature glided, soaring, coursing and diving, white wings spread out wide on the wind. Mesmerized he sucked in the glittering air as he was transported on the wings of the bird, to a shore of land he had never seen, the white sand soft under his bare feet. Fresh water caressed his skin. He smelt the salt in the air, and the light of the sun warmed and comforted him. There was song all about him, so joyful and lovely, as he had never felt it before. His heart soared, light and free. He was suspended in a place far beyond the planks under his knees. Far, far away, over water and waves, far beyond the river. The beauty of it all hit him with such a magnitude that he barely realized the impact his knees had made with the wood of the ship-planks. As if out of another world, he sensed the pain shooting up his limbs. He gasped and blinked as his heart plummeted heavily from the height, where it had roamed in overwhelming music and freedom. It gave a few painful thumps and he almost couldn't breathe for the longing that pulsed through him. He wanted to scream, but he found no voice as he was suspended in a void filled with yearning.

As if in a haze he took in the ghosts swarming the ships, like a shadowed mist with glistening dead eyes. They spread terror among the men who many ran madly, horror in their eyes as they leapt into the dark waters of the Anduin.

Legolas' gaze, still wide-eyed and stunned from the gull's rapturous, piercing cry, caught upon the shape of a young man clambering on the balustrade, half hanging down to the other side, shouting afeared, downwards to the water as if to somebody he held onto. His voice came out hoarser with every scream, sobs tore through his whole body shaking his frame, visibly weakening him. Another cry down to the water, pleading, and at the next desperate wail, he lost hold and slid.

Legolas stared, saw dark locks plastered to the boy's light-brown skin. Dark eyes staring back at him. The raw fear and despair in them jolted him into action. With their last strength, the boy's slim fingers clutched the railing. Their knuckles turned pale by the effort of clawing the wood.

The elf shot forward towards the boy, reached out with his arms, but before he could grasp the hand, a sleeve, anything, there was a raw cry of pure anguish and the hand slid away, gave in to the pull downwards. Legolas doubled over the balustrade just to see the boy plunge into the dark water beyond. He had been pulled down by a weight. There was a man there in the water and the boy now clung to him in blind panic, thrashing and spluttering, out of his mind. The man was older, Legolas recognized, dark-grey hair and stronger built. The man tried to break free, to overwhelm the youngster in his frenzied, deadly terror. But the force developed in panic proved indomitable and pulled the man underwater. The stunning strength of the youngster's desperate strive would bring them to death in the floods of the great river.

Legolas heard the gull cry over him, the call of a white sea-bird over the black ships, and he had to struggle to not crash to his knees, fight against the tearing call that seemed to paralyze him. His knees shook, wanted to give away. He saw the two bodies dragged by the current in a tangle of limbs disappearing at times from the surface, exposed to the force of the waters.

In his mind's eye, Legolas saw a flash of those young, fearful eyes staring at him. His body jolted forward all by itself. He was barely aware of his panting breaths. A jumble of emotions clashed and chafed in his breast, collided with his racing heart. His thoughts seemed void, as he leapt, head between his arms, splitting the water like one of his arrows. For a moment, he lost all his senses as the cold water enclosed him, plunged him into its silence.

The current helped him, as driven by instinct he dove and reached and got hold of a twitching shape. He grasped it, kicking and kicking against the pull of the river. He split the surface, gasped for air. He heard voices from above, heard his own name, saw long raven hair reaching down to him, a strong arm appearing from under it, taking hold of the man in his arms, pulling him upwards. But the limp bundle, the man had been holding onto, slid, ripped away by the water.

The man was heaved up on board into safety. He coughed and gasped, and between it cried out in broken Westron, "Please!" he begged, "Please- save him!" He gulped and choked, but then he managed more words, "He should not have held me, he cannot swim. – Please! Save the boy!"

Legolas heard his own name again in between the pleas of the man; weighty, compelling. It was Elladan, or Elrohir… and he heard a shout, a reverberating groan, like a cave-in, urgent and deep, even as he plunged again. He knew it was Gimli's voice; a low rumbling tenor increased by dread, much stronger than worry.

But then he was underwater again, and he heard no more, let the current seize him. The shape of the boy was dragged under. The water was dark; Legolas could not see. He remembered the cry of the gull and it pierced the silence. He heard the man's pleas, the gull's song strong in the silent depth of the Anduin. His lungs hurt, he could endure no more.

But then he discerned a shape, dark and still, dragged with the current and sinking. He dove faster, using the water's speed. The thought brushed his mind that soon his senses would fade, leave him to drown… but then he was close, his hand shot forward, snatched the dark shape. He kicked and fought against the current, against death in the water, pulling the unmoving burden with him. His lungs burned, all organs in his chest screamed. Suddenly there was a sharp pull to his tunic, and it hauled him to break the surface.

He was barely aware as the soaked bundle was taken from him. He blinked up at the hands reaching for him. But his body felt heavy, like stone. He could not lift his arms anymore. The water closed over him, muting the shouts, the frantic screams. All turned silent.

He heard only the cry of the gull but he could not see the sky, nor the waves of the sea, and he felt burning pain in his heart, in his lungs, crushing him. And then darkness came, and over it rushed the waves, not of the Anduin but of the sea. Gleaming foam in the sunlight as they broke on the shore. A deep longing and sadness claimed him, that he might never see those promised lands of elven home…

Almost violently, he was hauled up again. He choked, overwhelmed by the tearing air; the pain was searing in his starved lungs. Hard planks impacted with his knees, his ribs. He was stunned, motionless on the ground. But then his body jerked and he coughed and gagged and expelled water. There was somebody there, close to him, holding his head, stroking him encouragingly. Long, dark, soaked hair, reaching down to his face, strong hands and a voice rich and deep, speaking softly, soothingly, yet coarse with anxiety.

Legolas trembled uncontrollably. His breath hitched as he shook from deep within. He turned his head away from the wooden planks, saw the boy and the man with the dark-grey hair he had pulled from the waters. The man cradled the youngster close to him while Elladan was bent over them, checking the boy's vitals with the concern of a healer. The man and the boy both squinted over uncertainly at the elf sprawled on the planks. His senses dulled in agony, Legolas blinked, focusing, and saw how the two humans' gazes met in relief and then looked back at him. He saw their hands intertwining.

The gull cried; a lament, a deep wailing… soft and spiked, and painfully sweet, with the promise of a land far to the west, over the waves crowned with foam, gleaming white in the sunlight, where all this pain could not reach. He longed… so achingly deep… to flee these lands, where men would enslave and slaughter their own, again and again. He felt a hopelessness, a heavy doubt that even if the Dark Lord may be defeated, it would not cease. This thought, this feeling, took hold, wrapped around his heart and pressed heavily. He found it hard to breathe.

Another day without dawn.

He blinked blearily; it was hard.

And yet – two lives saved, two hands intertwining in love, eyes expressing care and comfort - maybe one day… there was hope.

But still, he was weary, and the gull cried in the sky, circling and circling.

The colour of their skin reminded him of her. And their eyes… still young, not ancient like hers, but bearing this sadness in their depth, of all the cruelties they had seen, the loss of lands succumbed to darkness, of people forced to fight for a horrible purpose, pushed into battles where they did not even know what or whom they served. And he understood her then. He felt her love for those lost, swallowed lands, the pain of their people enslaved, reduced to misery, forced into soldiers abused for a vile cause. He felt the clutches of hopelessness.

He breathed, hitching... and the man and the boy regarded him with those sad weary eyes but also gratitude and something else… flickering softly, hesitantly – fear... and hope…

His heart soared and plummeted with the wails of the gulls' song, the pain, bitter and sweet, stole his senses, stole the air from his lungs. He gasped. He could not breathe anymore. He coughed in agony, expelled more water on the planks of the ship, lying slumped on his belly. His hands under him trembled from the effort of gulping air in, of trying to push himself up to his knees.

The pain peaked, the waves raged, tugged mercilessly.

Who would understand him? Would Aragorn? – He knew about it, but never felt this way… and he was laden with duty and responsibility towards these lands… Would Gimli, who feared the unknown? – He knew not of such things as the call of the sea, the ailing heart of elves… it would scare him…

Who would understand? – Would she?...

… She who was weary, running from everything, running from him, ceaseless… She who was fighting her own battle, unknown to anyone. She who had the knowledge and the power to heal but perhaps would not return anymore. Would she understand the pain and the beauty, the tearing beckoning, of the gull's song? – But she was not here now, and they might never meet again...

And the gull called, ceaseless, a sweet lament and a promise of a land bathed in everlasting brightness – of home.

It tore him apart.

Finally, panting and trembling, the elf pushed himself up; he felt the wet, hard planks under his knees, saw in his mind dark eyes filled with agony, the waves of the sea raged and soothed and tore at him. He looked upward, facing the heavy sky hung low with grey clouds. – Another day without dawn.

He wanted to scream, but he could not. A painful sob shook him from deep within. For a moment Legolas wished it all to cease, for the sea to take him and drown him, welcoming him in its depths where he would feel nothing but the all-encompassing silence.

The waves crashed over him, pulled him down and all muted once again. Even with the hard floor under his knees, he was drowning.

But then strong arms wrapped around him, hauling him up to the surface. The breath burned in his lungs and Legolas felt he would burst, for the longing was painful, persistent, strangely soft and sweet, and yet unbearably oppressing.

He cried out in despair and leaned in, slumped forward against a firm, warm body. A deep voice hummed to him, soothing, while the sea was restless. It was Elrohir's voice, holding him up in the tide, cradling him, moving with the waves, smoothing their pull, sinking and rising softly with him.

"I know," he heard the voice say, full of compassion, over the sighs of the waves, "It will never end, but you will learn to float and navigate rocking gently, you will learn to weather it."

There was a knowing soreness in Elrohir's voice, but such strength and control as well.

For a long time, Legolas kneeled like this, on the hard planks of the black ship, letting Elrohir's hold steady him. The gull still circled above in the sky, and at every cry, the magnitude of the waves rose and spiked the tearing pain in his heart.

"Breathe," Elrohir said, his voice calm, his chest rising and falling soothingly against Legolas' own – like the tide, rising and ebbing and constant. Legolas closed his eyes and breathed and breathed, the sea all around him. Saltwater burning in his eyes, wetting his cheeks, catching on his lips.

He knew not how much time had passed when he blinked his eyes open. Elrohir still held him. Water dripped from them both, pooling at their knees. Beside him was Elladan, so very close now, and like them, down on his knees. Legolas tried to focus on him. And there, in the deep grey of the other elf's eyes, he saw again the sea. Pain and understanding filled them. Elladan's lids lowered and closed over the sea of his eyes and he freed a long shuddering sigh. When his lids opened, his limpid gaze caught Legolas' lost one and held it. His hand sought the wood-elf's, wrapping stiff fingers into comforting warmth.

Then, as if awakening from an exhausting, tormenting dream, Legolas let his gaze wander. The pain was still there, still burning, in his chest, in his throat, and the clouds hung low, but Elrohir's and Elladan's closeness, and that they knew, was bringing him comfort. – He was not alone. – They sheltered him somewhat from the force of the waves.

The gull was circling above, but his awareness drifted slowly over shapes around him seeping into his vision. He found Gimli, standing pale and startled, not far away, staring at him, the end of his beard in his white-knuckled fist, as if holding on to it not to faint. And beside him were the man and the boy he had pulled from the waves, looking at the elves in insecure, wide-eyed confusion.

Legolas then pulled back from Elrohir. Unsteady and wavering, he rose. Elrohir did not hold him back. Step after wobbling step Legolas walked until he reached the balustrade. He felt Gimli's eyes following his every shaking movement. But he could not face the dwarf now, did not know what to say, how to explain what had overcome him. He could not find words at all, could not speak at the moment. The feelings and the waves were too strong, their sighs and the rushing of the foam on their crests captured his senses. He became distantly aware of Elrohir standing watch not too far from him..

Wrapping his fingers around the wood, Legolas leaned forward over the deep water of the Anduin. It was not the sea... dark streaming water… but the sea was now in him, overwhelming, and he knew he could never forget, would never again be rid of its call. The dark waves broke and slapped against the bowel of the ship.

Legolas lifted his gaze from the water to look up at the great ship beside theirs. There were men over there, organizing things in calm, steady business. People clothed in dirty, torn lumps were rising on deck warily, mostly men, but some women also; the slaves who had been chained to the oars, it sunk slowly into Legolas' quavering perception. Behind him, he heard voices and the creaking of feet on wooden steps – captives regaining freedom. There were slaves on their own ship being freed... – It was not in vain! Their struggles and sacrifices, the deaths, were for freedom. All the killing… it was for freedom. It was not in vain... But the price had been steep.

And there on the great black ship right before him, staring at him, stood Aragorn. He was not alone. Halbarad held a powerful arm across his shoulder, steadying him, soothing him, much like Elrohir had done with Legolas. Aragorn took a step forward. Halbarad squeezed his shoulder and then released him, standing vigil just one step behind. Aragorn stood completely still, as if he was not even breathing. Wayward strands of his ruffled, dark hair hung into his face, but he seemed not to notice, did nothing to brush them away. He lowered his eyes, nearly closing them, his lids hiding the liquid fear and despair that was still showing, and his broad shoulders rose and fell and hitched with a sigh as visible relief washed over him. Like a white crested wave of the sea, thought Legolas, as he gazed at Aragorn blearily, realizing that for him there would be no such remedy.

I will go with you to the end, he remembered his own words, and there was nothing apart from death that could pull him away from this promise, not the cry of the gull, not the sea, its foaming waves, the spray of saltwater on his face, not the pain in his heart, for there was a feeling so great in that same place, that would withstand the draw of the waves, no matter how furious the storm raged… There stood his friend… a great man with a heart that overwhelmed him… the heir of Isildur, valiant and bold, a boy grown into a mighty Lord, and yet so humble and sincere, that he wore the naked fear and relief on the rim of his sleeves.

Legolas felt something insistently pull at the seam of his tunic. The gulls crooned above him and circled, demanding his attention, his heart. The man who would be a great King still stared at him, but the tug on his tunic now came more forceful. His eyes snapped downwards, catching Gimli's anxious face frowning up at him.

"Come lad," the dwarf croaked, "there are a man and a boy just here who wish to express their gratitude." Legolas blinked down at the dwarf, his mind processing his sluggish thoughts, slowly returning onto firm deck.

Gimli harrumphed to free his throat, "You have quite scared the wits out of them, you know?"

As Legolas still did not respond, Gimli continued more exigently, his voice gaining in volume. "They thought you would drown… And as Elrond's sons dragged you out…" he paused, swallowing, before continuing in a strangely coarse tone, "… it looked like you might still die in the aftermath, from shock or from water in your lungs. They do not know what elves are made of…" he pulled again at the tunic as he dropped his eyes and his voice, "The way you jerked and choked… it was not an easy sight to behold."

Legolas regarded Gimli, deep in thought; this dwarf who, even upon a floating ship, stood square and firm like a boulder, anchoring him with his gruff practicality and rumbling voice. Legolas sighed, long and heavy. Gimli eyed him critically through narrowed eyes, considering, and then shoved him along until they stood before the two humans Legolas had saved from certain death in the deep waters of the Anduin. As the dwarf and the elf approached, their bodies tensed like those of cornered animals. The man came to stand slightly before the boy in a protective stance of defence. For a moment, his eyes narrowed in doubt, but then he lowered his head. There was guilt in the gesture, and respect also. His dark gaze was fearsome, yet alert. Converse emotions visibly battled inside him. Legolas did not know if he was still terrified by the wisps of shadows, by their gleaming eyes, their cold hisses as they rushed past over the water, assailing the remaining ships. If it was the fear of retribution, or even his own mere elvish presence having that effect on him. The man parted his lips to say something while the boy stared, stunned and bewildered.

"We are… forevermore… in your debt!" the man finally spoke in broken Westron, "We pledge… our lives to you!"

Legolas stared back at them, still hearing the cry of a gull in the distance. He noticed their increasing disquiet with the stretching silence and how they glanced at him uncertainly. Gimli shifted impatiently beside him, elbowing him not so gently.

The dwarf's voice rumbled, "By Mahal... forever is a very long time for you, they need not come up to it – tell them, laddie…" he looked up at Legolas, frowning, and then he continued himself, now speaking sternly to the two humans, filling the strained silence, "If you travel with us up the river, lending your skill with the ship, consider your debt to be paid. – Do you agree, master elf?"

Legolas felt another elbow from Gimli jammed into his hip. This time it was rather forceful and jolted him to stagger slightly sidewards. He became very aware of the irritation of the dwarf and the wide, bewildered eyes of the men before him.

"O– Of course!" he stammered, somewhat embarrassed, the tips of his ears flushing, "My friend here said it," – he tried to remember what Gimli had said, since the waves had washed over Gimli's words, jumbling them somewhat up in his head. … he had been talking about forever, and that they would sail, and needed skills with the ship, and they would free Minas Tirith…

– Yes, they would help Aragorn reclaim the throne and vanquish the Dark Lord! Legolas smiled at them, relieved. And to see the shadow lift from their eyes brought warmth to his heart. The corners of their lips tugged upwards, and the men appeared visibly eased.

"Are you with us?" Legolas asked, with sudden, regained enthusiasm at the thought of the fellowship, his dear friends, his promise to support Aragorn to claim his right as ruler and bring peace and hope to Middle-earth. And he clasped their shoulders as they nodded their alliance.

Gimli sighed, "Good lad," he patted Legolas' arm, "you almost scared them under deck with your strange manners," he mumbled, "I am glad you are back with us."

Finally, as he seemed reassured by Legolas' recovery, his face split in a broad, warm grin, and he lifted his axe, "Let us sail to kill orcs. Come on! To Minas Tirith!"

Chapter Text

The ghosts' misty shapes hung in the air like wisps of shrouds; they crept and floated and hissed. Sharp, insistent whispers grew to an unbearable cacophony, sending chills down Gimli's spine. It was like cold vapour clung to the ships. The dully gleaming eyes appeared once here, then there, all around, honed with demand and yet so eerily inconsistent. They pressed on Aragorn, they pressed on them all, so dense that they swathed the sight to the next ship in thick fog.

Legolas had distanced himself again, ever in motion. He was indomitable. Through the swathes, Gimli could see him take to the masts. The dwarf waved his hand in front of his face as if to clear smoke away.

"Why does Aragorn not release them?" he pressed out uncomfortably between clenched teeth, shooting a glare over to where he could barely see the shapes of the men on the other ship; he could dimly discern Aragorn's voice, dampened through the brume as he was shouting orders.

"Although,…" Gimli scratched and pulled at his beard and narrowed his eyes considering, "… they proved quite useful… the ghosts, I mean," he admitted, squinting up to the son of Elrond standing beside him. He wondered quickly which one it might be, though it did not matter at the moment. He considered suggesting to Aragorn to keep those ghosts a little longer. He could try to yell to his friend from ship to ship, although yelling was not something befitting a dwarf, he pondered. Or he could find a way to join him, or maybe he could ask the son of Elrond – no matter which one it was – if he agreed and might overtake the task. The elf could reach the neighbouring ship faster and easier than Gimli, surely... it would be a pity to just let those vaporous but thoroughly effective fellows leave at this point… they could be easily shipped to Minas Tirith.

The tall elf beside him seemed completely oblivious to the dwarf's thoughts. He stood perfectly calm, almost too still, as if in expectation of something that was ineluctably about to fulfill. Gimli stared up at the compelling presence of the elf, wanting to speak, but then he heard Aragorn's voice floating over through the mist, strong and determined, holding his word.

"I consider your oath fulfilled! Go now and find peace."

The hisses slowly lost in intensity, ebbed down to soft murmurs and sighs. The son of Elrond stood still and unblinking beside Gimli, grey eyes cutting through the mist, as it slowly dissolved, and the fleet on the Anduin became visible. The shadows of bones and sinews melted into nothing, and the lingering chill Gimli had felt all along since Aragorn summoned the ghosts, dissipated. Silence settled, and Gimli could hear only the rushing of the river and the slaps of shallow waves against the bowel of the ship. Although Gimli was not sure he found the relief he had hoped for. Despite everything, it might have been good to keep those ghosts just a little longer…

The stillness the shadow host left in the air after its passing felt unnatural. As if the air itself dared not to stir, fearful of disturbing the peace of the ghosts who had gone, dispersed into it. The absolute absence of wind was almost oppressing. Gimli wondered if he was the only one feeling that way, or if the others felt the same.

"Elrohir," the son of Elrond beside him called, and Gimli thankfully jolted into another train of thought. So this was the other one; Elladan. Gimli made a mental note, trying to memorize the details of his appearance with his keen dwarvish perception, as when he memorized the locations of precious layers of stone in the mines. Speaking of stone, his gaze lingered briefly on the perfect, defined lineaments of the elf's profile – as if carved out of soft limestone by an artist unknown. Absorbed in those thoughts, Gimli almost startled as Elladan set to move towards his brother in long strides. The elf spoke animatedly, a rush of words in the tongue of the elves, at which Elrohir gave a decided nod with his head, face grim, equally chiselled by the same artist. His sharp eyes darted over to Aragorn, shouting something at him, at which the man seemed to agree, and then returned the attention to giving orders on his own ship, which was the greatest of the fleet.

The boy and the man they had pulled from the river stood side by side, glancing about warily and uncertain, as if lost on their own ship.

Elrohir strode their way, and just for a moment, he towered before them, staring them down unforgiving. The man flinched under his steely gaze, but his eyes met the elf's bravely and he moved as if to shield his young companion.

Gimli saw it and was already following his impulse to rush to their rescue, when Legolas appeared out of nowhere, giving Elrohir a friendly pat on the shoulder and a sweet smile.

"Let's get to work," he called on the boy and the man, as familiar as though he'd worked on the Corsair ship with them for months. They obeyed without objection.

And Gimli noticed a relief in their bearing as they set to the work they knew well. Elladan gave Legolas a curt nod with his head while Elrohir's eyes, still hard and narrowed in suspicion, watched the two Haradrim. The elder man was strong, his arms bulkily muscled, his shoulders broad, and the pull he had on the ropes hoisted the sails with great vim. He spoke out quiet instructions to the men and the elves on the ship, his voice firm and confident, and they did what he said, albeit surveying him warily. Even Elrohir uttered no more objection, although, Gimli thought, he watched the two Southerners like a hawk.

Gimli had no clue about ships and sailing. He highly valued firm rock under his feet. He contemplated that fact once again as he stood on the wooden planks of the slowly rocking vessel. But he knew how to hold a rope firm, and firm he held it in his hands as if it was stuck between solid rocks, while the man slung them skillfully to solid knots. The man shouted up to the boy who had climbed on the ladder and was fixing some higher, thinner ropes to tighten the canvas, and of course, Legolas was helping wherever he could, balancing high amid the great sails, swinging lightly between ropes masts and ladders. The sons of Elrond lent hands wherever needed; on deck, or even up with Legolas and the boy on the masts and the ladders.

After a while, the ship was ready to sail, much like the other vessels of the black fleet. Only the air seemed not to care and the ships fought through the water stream inch by inch up the river, towards Minas Tirith, sluggish and slow, heaved only by the sheer muscle force of the struggling men at the oars.

Elrohir paced nervously between his brother and the masts, peering up at their work, and probing at the ropes they had tied, occasionally throwing an impassive glance at the two former members of the Corsair crew. He still distrusted them. Elrohir was undoubtedly the more rash and impatient of the twins… Gimli made another mental note, as he observed how Elladan was speaking to his brother softly, soothingly and his brother's strained stance progressively calmed. Although he still looked anxious, at least he shot no more glares tormenting the two men, which was notably Elladan's merit. Elladan was clearly the easy and level-headed of the two… Maybe this knowledge might prove useful, thought Gimli while he studied their faces accurately, frowning as he realized the difficulty of the task he demanded of himself. It was as if one was asked to discern two identical statues carved to perfection by the hand of a skilled dwarven craftsman.

Although Elrohir was not the only one getting edgy at the unfavourable meteorological odds. Gimli saw Aragorn restless on the great ship as he talked to his companions and they glanced upstream. Above him, the great banner of Gondor Halbarad had tirelessly carried all along hung slack on the pole. At this pace, they would reach the city when its fate would already be sealed. They would find only ash, destruction, and death. Gimli knew it, as everybody else in their company did. And so the stillness of the air weighed more and more heavy. The clouds loomed dark, like the smoke curling up to the sky from the mountain.

In that moment, Gimli wished badly for Legolas' cheerful ways. He wished for him to sing to the wind as he often had done when the fellowship was weighed down and disheartened. He wished for his merry voice to float over to him, for a golden flash of mischief teasing him, rekindling his hope. He called up to the elf, who still lingered on the ladder, absently picking at the useless end of a rope and staring out high over the river. Gimli frowned.

"Legolas," he repeated the call in a gruff tone to cover his unease. But if the elf heard, he ignored him. Legolas' ears were sharp; surely he must hear. Gimli guessed that his friend evaded him deliberately. But he did not have the heart to openly blame him therefore. Legolas seemed elsewhere entirely, his head in the clouds, and might not even notice his friend's voice. It worried Gimli immensely.

The dwarf stood stubbornly set, both feet planted on the planks of the ship. One had to mark calm and security, he thought - and who should stand strong and steady like a rock in the river if not the dwarf…? – If only Legolas could feel it and join him...

He saw the son of Elrond approach him instead, and he looked at him squarely, thumbs stuck in his belt, considering; he was sure it was Elladan, for his tall body emanated tranquillity despite the tightness in the air.

"He better come down here, the lad!" Gimli groaned, "As so often, once more he is not listening to the sensible words of a dwarf." He could not suppress a sigh of distress. He felt Elladan's strong hand then on his shoulder, giving a strangely welcome, reassuring squeeze, which confirmed Gimli's guessing about the twin's identity.

"What is happening to him?" Gimli found himself spluttering, "He is always strange, but I've never seen him like this! He usually listens to me at least. Yet now he seems to not even hear!" he complained helplessly. He had heard of elves fading just like this, and he could not keep his voice from shaking slightly as he dared ask what he feared. "Could he… die?... I mean… the way elves can die just like this… he has been wounded badly… maybe… he is–… because that's what the Lady Galadriel of Lórien said in her warning…"

Elladan looked down at him then, and his grey eyes were soft and gentle.

"He will not die – not here, not now at least… My grandmother's message seems to bear another meaning."

His grandmother – Gimli stared at the elf for a moment with widening eyes, trying to grasp the concept in his mind, while Galadriel's grandson gave him a tentative smile that was surely meant to reassure him. But Gimli noticed it did not reach his eyes. Rather, the elf sighed, and his eyes wandered along the river towards the sky. After another deep sigh, his gaze distant, he spoke, "Have you never heard about the sealonging that befalls our kind, master Gimli? It overwhelms all our senses. We feel the urge to sail home to the point that it seems unbearable. That is what happened to Legolas."

Gimli was staring at the son of Elrond, trying to follow his words, trying to understand.

"Is it something bad?" he asked. "Did it happen to you also, before? Or to your brother?"

"Aye, we know of it," the son of Elrond, grandson of Galadriel, who must be Elladan, answered, regarding Gimli steadily. Something strange, fair, and sad alike showed in his eyes.

"It is not bad, it is… beautiful, and sweet, but hard and painful if you decide to resist it and stay on this side of the sea. I cannot say how he will cope and if he can manage the intensity with which it took hold of his heart. He is a wood-elf with sindar legacy, and it strikes them stronger. They are all power and intensity, and so are their feelings. He needs you now Gimli, he will need a strong and unshakable Elvellon, anchoring him gently on these shores."

Gimli frowned. He had heard the words, but still, he did not really understand. It was strange. For him, it was indeed bad that Legolas' heart would be in pain if he decided to stay on these shores. And it was even worse if he left them and sailed to this land of the elves. He did not understand how this could happen so suddenly. His own heart ached at those thoughts. He sighed deeply again and wished once more for the familiar, comforting rock under his feet. He longed for halls strewn with glittering minerals and the deep wisdom of stone all around him, reverberating in the air deep under the mountain, constant and old. He forced himself to breathe levelly, ignore the sway of the ship and let the memory of the mountains ground him to stand unyielding and strong in order to be an anchor for his elf. To keep him safe and here on this side of the sea. Close to him.

He said nothing to Elladan.

Absorbed in his pondering, Gimli suddenly saw the other twin had reached and was now speaking to his brother in their elven tongue. His voice was insistent, upset almost, and there was worry in the tone also, Gimli contemplated. While Elladan spoke calmly and assuaging.

"They are still prisoners," Elrohir said grimly. And Gimli knew the elf had switched languages for him to hear.

"It is to Aragorn to decide what to do with them," Elladan said. "Look at Legolas; do you think Estel would put any fate but freedom upon them? Since he almost gave his life for theirs, they have grown close to his heart. And Gimli is already in it as well," it sounded both reproachful and understanding.

Elrohir gave Gimli a speculative glance. Gimli did not flinch, but he felt the elf's deep grey eyes scrutinizing him and he shifted as he looked up towards Legolas who had now finally descended from the ladder and was speaking to the man in question. Legolas looked frail, Gimli thought, and it was to him as if he swayed slightly. He did not like it.

Elrohir was already making his way towards them, fast and determined. He said something to Legolas, ignoring the man, at which Legolas turned towards the other elf to answer. Elrohir spoke again and Legolas shook his head dismissively and made to return to the man, but Elrohir did not relent, seized his arm and pushed him back against the mast, insistent. Gimli saw Legolas roll his eyes and then give in. The healer son of Elrond spoke instructions while he lowered his head to lay his ear against Legolas' chest and then against his back, listening. Legolas obeyed reluctantly, breathing deeply in and out several times, following the healer's instructions.

Gimli was secretly grateful for the insistence this grandson of Galadriel forced on his friend. As Elrohir clasped Legolas' shoulder, nodding satisfied, it was like some of the weight was eased from the dwarf's heart. He would not die – not here, not now.

Gimli watched as Elrohir let Legolas rejoin the man and then reached his brother, his stride easier now. Elladan gave Gimli a lighter smile that now reached his eyes, following his twin on the wooden steps that led them under deck, maybe to reinforce the men at the oars with their strength.

Gimli stayed upon deck. The journey was long, the wind not blowing. Somebody knowing had to watch the back of this wood-elf closely. Because still, the worry for Legolas acting strange, sometimes absent on the railing or fidgeting with ropes up on the mast held Gimli fast.

The dwarf paced back and forth, hoping for any change in the air, for wind, for Legolas to cease behaving the way he did. He glared over at Aragorn on the great ship for leaving him on his own. He witnessed helplessly Legolas climbing up higher and higher on the mast until he reached the very top and lingered there, leaning into the still air as if he wanted to take flight on the first gust of wind that might come up. Sunken in all that trouble, Gimli suddenly felt the man - Wali was his name - hesitantly tipping a firm hand to his shoulder, "Master Gimli, is it not dangerous for him to linger so high?" he gazed questioningly at the dwarf. As if awaiting reassurance or an order to call him down.

Gimli harrumphed as he was shaken from his own thoughts. At first, he tried much to reassure the man and maybe even himself, "He is an elf. He says they do not fall, they climb trees all day when they are in their forests. But, I also don't like the lad being up there. I dislike the way he sways, he is so distracted today," he admitted, fussing and twisting at the end of his beard.

But Wali seemed to settle and sighed, staring up along the length of the mast, wandering into some fond memory, Gimli thought, because a slight smile tugged at his lips, "The young boys in my home also used to climb high, to get to the fruit of the palm trees. When I was about his age I was good at the task. I scrambled up the trunk like a little monkey." He gave a deep, throaty laugh at the last anecdote.

Gimli pulled his bushy eyebrows together and looked at him quizzically. "I– do not think– " he said slowly, watching the man, "you– have ever been his age nor will be." And then his face broke into laughter, and he rumbled heartily as he realized that the man had no clue what or who the precariously swaying lad on the mast was.

Wali looked at him questioningly, confused by the sudden amusement. Gimli savoured the moment, but then finally he explained.

"He is centuries old, maybe millennia. I don't know exactly, he never told me, only that he is still counted young among his people, although he has seen many an acorn grow into an oak of ruinous age. I do not know how old your palm trees become, but imagine a bunch of them reaching up to the years he has seen. - And by the way, those two headstrong lads who just lingered here are the same. Elves, we call them."

Gimli enjoyed the mischievous satisfaction he felt at the huge, shocked eyes of the man before him.

"I– " the man stammered, in utter stupor, lifting his eyes to gaze upwards, to where Legolas was, "I did not know they existed for real."

"What do you mean 'for real'? – Did you not see their pointy ears? Did they slip from you so easily?" Gimli said, with an affectionate grunt in his voice as he thought fondly about his friend's ears.

The man looked at Gimli, surprised, and then his gaze drifted in thought, "No, I just did not think…" he seemed appalled. He blinked as if processing his thoughts.

"Elves..." he said slowly, thoughtfully, as he seemed to realize, "Aye… they are... impressive… and their eyes… you are right... the glow... I thought… I– did not know…" he swallowed.

"… They told us that in the north there are silvery fiends, beautiful and terrifying, with eyes so bright they can burn holes into one's body. They said that in elder times, they were everywhere in these lands, but nowadays they retire into the forests. They say the northern forests are swarming with them, that they are a plague our armies must fight and with them the tribes of Northerners who ally with them, lest they all but invade and conquer our lands, taking everything from us. Some people say that those tales are true and that some of the fiends had pressed south long ago and were housing our thick southern forests, hiding away, preparing our doom. They say that they would eat whoever ventured too far into those woods, that they are fierce and terrible and almost impossible to kill, and that they live forever. They also are in allegiance with rebels in our lands, with folks of the desert and the wood, dangerous opponents, who might attack us. That they are... cursed and poisoned our lands and the water, that's why sickness and misery spread, and often the rain does not come or washes everything away. They say they captured the sun and the rain, divert the underground streams, and want to burn us. I did not believe all those tales, but many do… They say that this is why the Lords are keeping the lands, to protect the territory and to safeguard the people. Some of the big landowners are Northerners but they say they distanced themselves from their northern kin. According to them, they secured the land of our ancestors, together with some of the local chiefs, took it under their protection. They allow us to work the fields, they give us pay, but mostly it is not enough to feed our families. So many give their kids to join the army. They give them up to fight. So there are fewer mouths to feed, and our lands need protection, the Lords say, the soldiers are heroes; it is a little comfort to their families – many never return..."

"Is this the reason you and the lad are on these ships?" Gimli asked. The man took a long, heavy breath before he spoke, "I was a fisherman once, but one night my boat burned, along with many others in the small harbour, our village, my house and my family… I had been out, to the neighbouring villages inland, selling fish. I returned late when all were sleeping… – The fire came before me – I could not save them. I lost all I ever cared for, all I ever possessed." His voice died off, his broad shoulders slumped and his gaze dropped to the ground. "I had never worked on the fields. My life has always been on the water. The water was all I was left with. Apart from that, nothing mattered anymore," and then he looked at the youngster on the ladder who was at work with the ropes on the masts, "until the boy joined us. Leyth – young Lyon. He does honour to his name. He has dreams, he has hope, and he has a family; a mother and siblings back home. The dream of finding fortune in far lands, and one day return and buy them a small house with some land around it, to work it modestly, getting what it needs for them all to eat and live in peace. He stirred something deep within me and he gained my support. He did not know the water, he cannot swim, but he is good at any craft, strong and agile, and light at climbing the masts."

Gimli stood still, both feet planted firmly, his fingers in his beard, deeply touched and pensive.

"Although," the man said nervously, squinting guiltily towards Gimli and then upwards to where Legolas was. "Even he has never climbed up that high, nor anyone else on this ship or the rest of the fleet... Is he well enough for such a hazardous feat after the turmoil he has gone through...?" he lowered his eyes to the ground guiltily, "...to save us..." he added softly.

Gimli lifted a bushy eyebrow, and clasped the man's arm amicably, squinting upwards.

The wind was not blowing, the ghosts had gone, melted and dissipated in the air. The men who had been slaves had returned under deck; they were slaves no longer, and they rowed with vigour to reach Minas Tirith. Legolas watched Aragorn on the greatest of the black ships, Halbarad and the Dúnedain at work with the ropes and the masts, readying the sails in the hope that the wind would come. But all was still as if the dark clouds had swallowed any air, any breeze, had fed from it to get heavy and thick. The great black banner with the white tree Halbarad had carried along tirelessly, hung slack from its pole. Many had joined the men under deck, had seized an oar themselves for the great sails were limp, no wind stirred.

Legolas stared north and east. Like the sails, he longed for the wind. He needed air to breathe, because a weight pressed on him, on his lungs, on his heart. The clouds hung low, and he was high up, but he could not quite seize them, could not get rid of the weight that hung from the sky and pressed on him. He searched for the wings of the white sea bird, but it was gone, and he longed… he longed so badly to see it again, to hear its sweet call.

He heard Gimli's voice drifting up, and then the man's; Wali was his name, he had said. They were talking about him, Legolas, about his health and the height he had chosen, about elves, and Harad and its people's fates. He listened to their words and his thoughts drifted in the still air…

Their light-brown skin – like hers… and he sensed her song then, deep and sad…

The song of hope between sickness, lies, misery and suppression; a song dripped with blood, quivering, almost drowned…

Her eyes, deep dark, filled with the pain of all the tears in those people's eyes…

He stared into the gloom of the clouds, and like in a dream, he saw the eyes of children; wide, beautiful, and dark with pain. Soft amber or light brown toned cheeks streaked with innocent tears. Saw mothers slumped over lifeless bodies. Sorrow, poverty and destruction.

It all melted with the waves… with the yearning for distant shores of fair elven home…

In his chest, his heart was burning.

…"He is in love, with one of your fiends from the Southern Forests," Gimli mumbled, "Although I would not quite call her a silvery fiend… She is rather– like you... maybe," he said matter-of-factly and he put his weathered, suntanned hand close to the man's, considering and then nodding approvingly. "Yes, I would definitely say so, more like you... like us!" he agreed with himself, "As Legolas, is more... pale-gold, I would say, definitely not silver. Only maybe the two Elrondion's eyes... they definitely are silver. I'm quite studied in colours and properties of minerals. But her eyes are different: not a common black, that you could make any comparison to a mineral, like onyx maybe, no– a deeper, secret, haunted one. And the glow... she certainly sheds one. She is the most elusive creature who ever crossed my path. Sometimes she appears out of nothing and then she runs away as if bitten,"

Gimli gave a wry laugh as the man stared wide-eyed. "Oh yes, you are right to stare so, she is strange indeed, and to scramble up trees in a thick southern forest, hiding away as a habit, quite suits her. Although she is not a fiend, she is only an elf, like him – strange as they all are. He finds her rather pretty as well, it seems, from the way he looks at her." He pondered a moment. "I guess they would fit together." He sighed long and heavy, "Surely I'm being unfair, I don't know what drives me... As mad as she might be, she saved him from a miserable end, and for that, I would lay all I'll ever possess in Arda at her feet."

Gimli pulled and twirled the end of his beard. "Maybe he is looking out for her. That's why he is fluttering up on the mast that way, I guess."

He did not want to tell them about that other thing. About his conversation with Elladan and that Legolas was hearing some call from the sea. How should he explain something as ungraspable as this sea longing of the elves to somebody who only just found out that such creatures were real? If he was honest, he did not want to think about it himself. Seeing the elf sway and flutter up there so precariously stung his heart. It was highly unsettling.

Something as natural and as simple as love to explain it was more reassuring, more down to earth, - even if here, in Legolas' case, the lad was up on the mast. But Gimli had heard of people behaving strange because they were in love, and so it was plausible.

He fleetingly thought of his feelings when he'd glimpsed Galadriel, and only briefly he pondered if it would be enough to make him climb on a mast or, more securely for him, one of those ladders. But then he touched the pouch where he kept her hair and decided that it would do, quickly discarding the thought of himself anywhere above the ground. His feet cherished the comfortable firmness of the wood underneath.

Gimli looked up again, where Legolas had finally descended to a lower level. The elf had settled himself between some lower ropes and was swinging slightly, close to the boy who was sitting on the ladder dangling his feet. They were speaking companionably. Gimli listened to the sound of their voices; it was soothing. From time to time, light laughter reached him, and the warmth of that tone chased the chill from his bones.

He looked at Wali beside him and answered the man's broad smile with a joyful one of his own. He felt his beard and his hair then getting ruffled and whipped across his face; it was blown by the wind.

Chapter Text

"Leyth! Come down, lad, come get your meal," Wali's powerful voice rose up to him, "soon, we're to sail, and you will need the sustenance."

Leyth sighed. From his position, perched on the ladder, he squinted down to where the insistent voice came from. But then he was distracted again by the wind and dipped his face into it, breathing deeply. He let his thoughts drift back to a time when all had been different.

"Come, lad, you cannot live from air and dreams alone. The wind will blow you down from there soon enough."

Wali's voice bore a warm, caring tone, and it was to Leyth as it reached up to him, cradling him, and with the surrounding wind, the ladder swayed gently. He took another breath, and let his mind float into memory…

… He had been a child then, and he had been happy.

He remembered the children he played with in their village. It was small, and they all knew each other. Sometimes he would roam with his friends outside. They would visit each other's houses, or all together they would come back to his. They helped their parents; simple tasks like cleaning the courtyard, or making fire, fetching water…they would follow their fathers and mothers to the fields. They worked, but their parents made it feel like a game. They would compete at who would gather the most beans, and then, at lunch break, they would play the game with the beans in the holes in the ground. Leyth was clever and often came out the winner. They would thresh the grains from the wheat. And, in between, they would play hide-and-seek, climb and jump from the walls; who would climb higher and who would run faster? They would play with the stones and the soil, dig grooves, pile up mounds and build their own little villages… the games were innumerable, they would never end, and he still remembered most. With his best friend Adil, he often led the goats to feed on the nearby hills. He loved the long strides, the peace and the freedom, and the talks and jokes he shared with Adil. They would return tired, with hurting feet. And they'd be rewarded for their help with a tasty meal crowned by dates or figs, fresh in the season and dried the rest of the year and then even sweeter.

How long had it been since he last savoured the taste of it…? How long had it been since he had spent a peaceful evening around a fire, clapping his hands to the rhythm of song and music, or listening to tales, tired and content after a day of work and games?

So often, when he was on the ladder or on the mast, the wind in his hair, the sails blowing, Leyth remembered. The sense of freedom he felt then was sweet, and it stung, for it was carried along with the wind, elusive, intangible.

The sudden voices on the ship startled him. He heard orders and answers, and saw the men in motion down on the planks. "Leyth, descend! Get to work!" a man barked up at him. It was Bashir, and his order had to be followed. Leyth flipped into motion and scrambled down the ladder. Bashir was already shouting into another direction, but shot him an admonishing glare. Leyth flinched and wheeled around to hurry to his task. His heart was in his throat, for he never dared fail an order given to him on this ship.

And while he set to work detangling the ropes, that day flashed back into his mind once more and took hold…

… the day when the foreign men burst into their village, armed with daggers and knives and swords, some curved some straight, some broad, some slim. But all were sharp, and the men were rough and violent. The people he knew were afeared. He remembered how they left all their work, all their games, at the menacing presence of the intruding men. The people slowly, cautiously, retired to their houses, in tense silence. But the foreigners chose some of the men of the village - the strongest. When they picked them out harshly, the men obeyed.

His father was among them.

Leyth waited in their house with his mother and his siblings, not daring to speak. Time seemed to stretch into unbearable tension. The air pressed down on them, hot and heavy, nearly unbreathable. Outside, harsh voices tore through its thickness. When his father finally joined them, his face was serious, and his voice raw as he spoke. He said they would give him a sword and more knives, to carry on him and to fight, and he had to go with the men. Leyth's mother cried. She did not want him to go. His sisters and brothers sobbed and cried and hung themselves to their father's waist, clung to his legs. They wanted to hold him back. Leyth tried to stay strong. He asked his father why he had to leave. His father just said he had to do this in order to protect them; if he did not obey, something bad might happen to them. Leyth asked more questions as tears burst from his eyes; where he would go? Whom, or what, he had to fight with those knives and swords they gave him, and when would he return? His voice broke into sobs.

His father answered his many questions with one soft, "I do not know." He held him fast, clasping his shoulders.

"You have to be strong, Leyth, you are the eldest. Be bold, help your mother, and when you grow older, protect her and your siblings." His father's strong hand cupped his cheek. It was warm and comforting, and so deceiving. Thick, heavy tears welled in Leyth's eyes and ran down his face along the line where his father's hand lingered. The tears were silent. Leyth repeated the questions. His father bent down and hugged him close, and Leyth hid his wet face in the crook of his father's shoulder.

From that day, the happiness of childhood had slipped away, never to return.

He tried to help his mother. In the village, they all supported each other. But all the strong men were gone, most of the fathers and the elder brothers, and only the aged, the women and the children remained.

They all worked hard. Their children's games had ceased. The laughter and liveliness had fled the fields. The rain had been sparse that year, as it often was. But this time it was different. The fountain, which had always provided them water in times of need – water to drink, to cook and to irrigate the fields – was now dry. It had never happened before. There must be another reason than just the scarcity of rain. They lost almost all of their harvest.

One day, a high-pitched, desperate cry woke Leyth. His mother hurried out of the house and when she returned, she told him the baby brother of his best friend, Adil, had died. The hard work and the lack of nutrition and water had left Adil's mother dried out of milk. She was going mad because she blamed the fault on herself, on her own weakened body.

His own grandmother could not walk anymore, her skin looked shriveled like old, torn parchment. Her eyes were dull, and she had no more the strength to wave away the flies that would gather at their crusted, leaking corners. Sometimes, when Leyth sat by her, holding her thin, bony hand, washing her eyes with a herbal infusion, she tried, but she was too spent to even smile. She fell asleep, and she did not wake again. Two other babies died soon after; one had been his cousin and the other, a friends' sister. Both of the same friend's grandparents had passed away just the week before.

Leyth and the other boys helped dig the holes, where the bodies were buried, wrapped in white linen. The sun was merciless. Their hands and arms hurt from the effort. Leyth remembered the pain spreading through him, how the sweat mixed with the tears, how he became dizzy, and his dry throat constricted and burned.

One day, when they were too worn out to even despair anymore, foreign men came into their village again. They appeared well-clad and formal, polite, surrounded by grim guards with weapons. They offered them gold, wanted to buy their dry fields and said they could provide food for them from behind the hills, which with the gold from the sale they could buy. The elders and the women retired for council, and when they returned, they tiredly agreed. What choice did they have...?

But Leyth felt like that day their land had been stolen.

The gold lasted for a few more months because the council shared the rations and they were used to scarcity. Families were split because many, like Leyth, went to work over the hills where the soil was richer. They worked hard from dawn to dusk, and they were allowed no breaks. They got their pay at the end of the day, but the few coins he received would have only been enough for one proper meal. All the same, he saved more than half, and ate only what he must, as to sustain himself into the next day without crumbling on the field.

Some of Leyth's friends were working alongside with him. They rose with the first light of dawn, and the work was silent and hard. They were not allowed to talk or to sing. When dusk settled, they would return to the barracks, exhausted and hungry. They would eat blankly and crumble to immediate sleep. It was then, mostly, that Leyth dug out the pouch he had hidden in the sand under his sleeping mat, slid the unspent coins into it, then clutched the pouch to his heart until his fingers hurt from the pressure. It was then that he allowed himself to weep and remember his mother, his siblings, his father, his cousins, his friends… and thought of the games, the laughter, the smiles, the joy he had felt in his simple and peaceful child's life. Only some few more days, some few more coins, he thought, as he hid the pouch in the earth under the mat once more. And then he wept himself into sleep, missing them all, missing the life he had lost.

Leyth stumbled and bumped into a firm, strong body. He lifted his face, eyes wide and fearful, his lips half-open, already stammering words of excuse. But it was Wali's friendly brown eyes that met his, and the man clasped his shoulder soothingly.

"Peace, Leyth," he comforted, but then with a stern undertone, he added: "Gather yourself, lest you bump into one of the others."

Leyth only nodded and made to scurry away. But Wali caught his arm and pulled him back.

"Here." He produced a piece of dried meat and a handful of bread from his pocket. "Eat," he hissed, squeezing his arm and glancing at him sharply, before letting go.

Leyth told nobody, not even his friends. He left the barracks at night. That evening, he spent all the coins of the day on food and water. He knew his village lay beyond those hills where the sun was settling every evening. He walked all night and all day. The food soon dwindled. But that was not the problem; the water was. The hills seemed to stretch endlessly. The second night, he slept for a few hours, so exhausted was he. He drank the last drops of water before he set off again. He had underestimated the journey, thought himself strong enough, and the way much shorter. But the hills stretched endlessly before him, and he hurt so badly!

But Leyth walked - because what would become of his mother if he died now? Who would protect her? – It was night when from above he saw the village. The moon shone, and it gleamed silver, unreal, like in a dream. It blurred and darkened and glimmered as he stumbled downhill. He tripped, and the pain slashed through him, but he scrambled back onto his feet only to trip and fall again soon after. He was weeping, he could not give up now when he was so close! He did not remember how many times he got up, how many times he fell, only that in the end he reached the village and there he collapsed. The entire world was shrouded in a dull ache, and then he knew no more.

Time must have passed as he became aware of a bustle of voices because he blinked, but the light was too bright. It hurt his eyes and shot spikes into his throbbing head. He closed his eyes and did not open them again, as he felt himself being hoisted up by several arms. The surrounding voices were agitated. He could not move as he was jostled along and then laid down carefully. Only much later did he wake. Water trickled down his sore throat, blissfully moistening his mouth. And as he blinked his eyes open, the beloved face of his mother stared back at him. He was back in their little house. And his mother hugged him, and cried in both relief and grief.

His loving mother.

Leyth had just finished the last bite of meat that Wali had slipped into his pocket when a heavy silence surged from the dark water and crept to cover the ships and the harbour. But high above, the still wind blew, rippling the black banners. Leyth paused in his stride. Thick muteness wrapped around his heart.

He had vowed to protect his mother. But what could he do to change the fate that was upon them? So much had happened as he'd been away to work over the hills…

He remembered his baby sister, how he held her in his arms before he left. How she had wrapped her tiny fingers around his thumb. How she gurgled in delight when he kissed her tender neck. She had been so slim and fragile. And while he was away, working for some coins in the fields, she had gotten sick and died. He would never hold her again.

His lively little brother, who had been loud and laughing and would never sit still, had no more the strength to run; he could barely walk at his return. Leyth remembered his slim, fragile limbs and the hard, bloated belly. The flies began bothering him like they had his grandmother. And one morning, he too did not wake anymore. Leyth wanted to remember the shiny child with the bouncing locks, his excited squeals, his laughter. Not the still, emaciated form with the huge, suffering eyes.

His mother looked weary, consumed, but she carried on, despite the tears. Every day she worked in the fields, with the other people left in the village. His other sister was caring for their home and their little siblings. As soon as he recovered, Leyth joined the workers on the fields again. Since the land had been sold to the new owners, the water had miraculously returned. They were still not allowed to sing, nor to pause. At the end of the day, they would get paid, each pay enough for one proper meal. But there were still five more mouths to feed.

Sometimes in the evening, armed men came along. They entered their courtyard without asking permission. Every time, his mother shot up and hurried towards them in obvious distress. Leyth could not hear what she said, but he could see that she was begging. He did not like the way they looked at her, nor the way they glanced at them over her shoulder. She always followed them out of the house and would stay away for a while, and when she returned, she was all dishevelled. – Sometimes her clothes were torn. Her eyes were dull and her cheeks dry, but streaked where tears must have run through the dirt. Leyth knew what his mother did, and that she did it to protect them, hoping the men would be sated with her so that they would not lay hands on her children.

It was then that he knew he could not protect her.

He hated those men. He wanted to kill them. But what would be of his sisters and brothers? What of his mother if he did that? They would take him away from them, kill him, or worse?

Other men would come, and all that would change for his mother was that she would have lost yet another child.

The men on deck turned their heads towards the mountains. Some froze, some gasped. Leyth blinked and squinted and his eyes widened in shock as he took in the fog that poured down the slope at frightening speed. From afar, he heard the thunder of pounding horses' hooves on the earth. It rolled down the mountain like a landslide. The fog thickened as it relentlessly approached. Distant hisses pierced the oppressing silence, like voices not of this world. Ice-cold. Dead. What was happening? Leyth's heart hammered. Was this the end? Would he ever see his mother again?

He had promised her he would return. That day she had wept, begged him to stay, as she had done with his father. But Leyth could not bear it anymore, to struggle each day for nothing, to suffer, to witness his mother's silent despair and to fear for his siblings. He was the eldest. His father would want this from him. And so, he took the way of the sea. Adil had left before him. He had heard that they were recruiting young men to help on the ships. Those who worked well would get a good share of the goods the Corsairs brought back from their sailings. And he would leave the close shores to see other lands. With some luck, he could find a place to settle, work hard, to one day return to his family with enough in his pocket to buy them their freedom.

The cold fog swept over the harbour, and Leyth realized, frozen in horror, that it was not fog but grey, vaporous ghosts on flying ghost-horses. Their eyes gleamed eerily, yearning for death and piercing through the swathes. Their empty, sinewy limbs bled grey vapour. They wielded swords and spears, lacking substance but cutting ice-cold. The swishes of their blades were accompanied by battle hisses out of dead throats.

The ship was suddenly filled with the screams of the men, and a tumult broke out as many ran blindly to save themselves. Some stood frozen, horrified, swords unsteady, wide eyes blank. Leyth's heart pained in anguish at the thought that this was the end, and his mother would never see freedom again.

Leyth saw men leap from the ship in mad fear. And even if most knew how to swim, he also knew the strong pull of this broad river would drag many to drown. The ghosts encompassed all. They followed and pressed down on the water. Leyth huddled himself low against the balustrade, trying to hide, but the chill of the fog reached every corner. There was no escape. He hid his face, arms flung about his head.

As he peered out between his shaking limbs, afeared, he saw a clear shape emerge from the opposite balustrade and, with a fluid leap, land silently on the dark planks. It was a young man, a few years older than him in appearance, and he glowed, fair and fearless in the middle of the cold grey mist. Leyth stared, briefly forgetting all else.

He was not the only one having noticed the stealthy invader. Even from the crouch where he had landed, the young warrior shot up with a speed that seemed alien, unnatural. On his back, he carried a great bow carved of fair wood, and two long knives were strapped just beside it, revealed by their gleaming white handles. Daggers of different lengths were sheathed in his belt. But he used none of his weapons as he met the bulky, yet terrified and unsteady attackers. He struck them down with effective punches and kicks. Leyth gasped as he observed, transfixed, the tight force of that slender body. And while he followed his movements, in his astonishment, he had missed that other solid shapes had reached the deck.

A very short, sturdy man, amply bearded, rumpled over the planks, and the hilt of his axe hit hard those who did not run from him or the ghosts. Just behind him in a powerful charge leapt two identical warriors, clad in black. Their armour gleamed silver, and their raven hair fell down their backs, so sleek it gleamed almost blue in the eerie light dimmed by the fog. They looked beautiful, mesmerizing, but too perfect, too sharp, deadly – like demons – thought Leyth with growing panic. His arms before his face were shaking badly, and he shot up, eyes darting around for an escape, one that would not bring him to immediate death; but as much as he spun around, caught in his panic, he could find none. There was mist all around, the gleaming eyes of the ghosts, the cold sharp hisses of death, and unknown, bold warriors now accompanied by some strong, unfamiliar men. The only way of escape would be to leap to immediate death into the dark water below. But Leyth wanted to live. There was his mother waiting for him, far away. One day, he wanted to give her a home again.

Leyth called out for his elder companion, "Wali! Wali! Where are you?" But there was no answer.

Instead, he caught sight of Bashir on the opposite side of the ship. The captain had been thrown back by a hard punch of one of the twin warriors' sword hilts. Leyth saw him scramble back up just for his jaw to meet the swift fist of the warrior. He crashed to the planks and moved no more. But Bashir was hardy, and when the warrior turned because he thought him unconscious, Bashir raised, lunging forward, sword pointed to impale his opponent's unprotected back. There was a raw shout of alarm in a strange, unknown tongue and then the dark warrior whipped around at a speed that Leyth's eyes were not able to follow. The next thing Leyth realized was that the beautiful, sharp warrior stood tall, sword bloodied, over Bashir's collapsed body, nostrils flared, silver eyes narrowed, gleaming in a wild mix of anger and anguish as he took in the body slain by his own sword. It was to Leyth as if the silver gleam in his eyes was fluid with tears. The warrior looked up at the one who must be his twin brother. Their eyes met and held for a moment as if finding comfort in each other, an understanding, before they both lowered their heads briefly in a reciprocal gesture.

Bashir was dead.

The day Leyth had reached the havens of Umbar, the sun had been high and his throat, dry. At the end of his strength, he had applied to join the ships. Bashir had summoned him to his crew with a curt nod of his head, and Leyth had been intimidated by his stern mien and the lack of words. Then Bashir had handed him a tin of fresh water.

He had always been straight and strict with Leyth, as he was with every member of the crew. He had been a man of few words and clear, direct orders. His authority had never been questioned or challenged by any man under his command. It was natural. And Bashir had never taken advantage of it. He had never beaten nor humiliated another man of the crew, not even a young one like Leyth.

Leyth knew this was not the way on every ship. Adil had told him that he often was suffering. Floggings were not a rare punishment for the lesser or younger men on his ship. Leyth, who had been worried for his friend, had decided to ask Bashir for a possibility of moving Adil to their ship. But he had not yet found the courage to address Bashir on the matter, for fear of not catching the right moment, of being ignored and losing the one chance. Bashir had always been just to them, but what Leyth did not know was whether he cared.

Bashir was dead. And with the image of the man's bloodied body and the silver gleaming eyes and armour of the warrior who dealt the lethal strike in his mind, Leyth ran panicked through the grey mist. In front of him, he saw a material shape through the swathes. A coiled brume of ghosts swarmed towards it and the man that slowly came into view had no way of escape. He screamed in deadly terror.

Leyth's heart gave a lurch.

"Wali!" he called, "Wali!" He screamed as the man was pressed back and then just disappeared from the ship.

Leyth dashed towards the balustrade. His mind formed only one thought and determination; he would not lose him! Leyth hung himself over the railing and caught Wali's arm before the man fell into the river below, but he was heavy, and Leyth could barely hold him, lest pull him back up onto the ship.

"Leyth!" Wali screamed over the rushing of the water and the hisses of the ghosts, "let me go!"

"No!" Leyth cried desperately. "You will drown!"

"Let go! Leyth! You will drown with me!" But Leyth's hand clutched the man's wrist in a firm grip. The bulky weight pulled him down, painfully overstretching his joints, as the young man grasped the railing with his leg and his free hand.

Was this the punishment for his decision to join the fleet, knowing that what they did on their travels was not right? Had he not been punished enough in his life? Nothing was just in this world. He had suffered to the point of despair, where he did not care anymore but to get riches and his own share. On the ship, it had felt like a common business.

The men all talked little. They did their work. They raided together, took goods and slaves, killed. But they never looked like they enjoyed the killing or the punishment of a captive. It seemed all bereft of feeling, a necessity... a business. And behind their stern faces, they may all have their stories that Leyth did not know.

Only Wali – he was different! At the beginning of Leyth's service on the ship, the elder man's eyes had been dull and empty, like to him nothing mattered, and his bearing had been heavy, as if a weight pressed on him. But soon, warmth pooled in his hazel eyes when he looked upon Leyth, and Leyth felt love and sadness flooding him.

He knew, by now, that nothing was right in this world. What they were doing was wrong. But he pushed the gnawing conscience aside, and did what was expected of him, serving on the ship as they all did. They never pushed him to kill. He was the boy of the ropes and the masts. The one who would spy anything from afar.

Wali was respected and valued, for he knew much of the water, the weather, and the sails. He knew the sea, and he knew how to live through its tempers. His experience was of great import to the fleet. He served well, and Leyth had never seen him kill. But he never complained, never questioned.

Wali talked long into the nights with Leyth and listened to him.

Nothing was right in this world. Leyth pushed those thoughts away every new day. He had embarked on the ship, and there was no returning with nothing to bring back to his mother.

Leyth cried out in his effort and despair. Wali was slipping away. But Leyth would not let go of him – never! – and so he was pulled downwards by the weight of the man. Even as he slid, he stared back at the deck of the ship that had been his home for long months, realizing this was the end.

And suddenly, there on the planks, he discerned the young warrior who had first stepped onto the ship; down on his knees, as if he had been struck. He stared at the sky, his chest heaving. Leyth felt a sudden pang of sadness at the image, at the thought that this glowing being should die here. It felt wrong. But as Leyth stared, in his own despair, he saw no blood on the body of the warrior, and it was to Leyth as if he was kneeling on the verge of another world where a bright glow like his belonged. Then the warrior focused clear eyes upon Leyth, and there, just for a breath, Leith felt hope as the glowing warrior's gaze held his. His long eyes widened, and in their clear blue, a grey-green storm unfolded, like the moving waters in the open sea.

He jolted forward with great, agile speed.

Too late. Leyth knew, as his cramped fingers gave in to the pain. The beautiful face of the warrior, directed at him, torment in his sea-deep eyes, was the last thing Leyth saw before he fell into a mad, panicked struggle, gripping at his beloved Wali and the cold water closed over him.

Chapter Text

He was alive. He could not believe it.

Overrun by an avalanche of haunting fear, choked by all-encompassing, pure dread, Leyth had been pulled under by the power of the river; doomed to die as he was swept away – pain and horror the last sensations before oblivion closed around him and all his hopes faded to nothing...

And now, he held Wali's hand, gripped it fast in gratefulness mixed with disbelief for what could only be a miracle. His dear Wali was alive and beside him, squeezing his cold fingers with protective pressure.

Leyth stared at his saviour, who walked slowly and quavering towards the railing over which they had fallen – the same place where this young, courageous warrior had thrown himself into the water to reach them.

He heard the creaks of the ship's wooden steps as the slaves from under deck were being freed, then brought upstairs to breathe the open air and to finally see the light of day again. Leyth's heart went out to them, and a sting of guilt pierced it at the thought that even if he had never wanted any of this, he had still been a part of the crew upon deck. Now that the gift of life had been given to him so selflessly, and to one so undeserving, Leyth felt humbled.

The ghosts still sighed and flowed like chilling mist between the ships, but Leyth's eyes remained upon the dripping form of his saviour. Leyth stared as the warrior clutched the railing to steady himself, his gaze directed to the great ship just opposite. There, so close and yet beyond a swath of roiling sea, two men stood tall, clad in shades of dark brown, black and grey, strong and broad-shouldered – they were warriors too. One man was supporting the other, who looked devasted and at the end of his strength. Slowly, the second man disentangled himself from his steadying companion and moved towards the wooden railing to meet the gaze of Leyth's saviour. There they stood, facing each other, different yet very much alike in the brightness of their eyes and the wash of emotions clearly visible on their faces and in their deep, shuddering breaths.

Leyth squeezed Wali's hand as a sob shook him.

The men who had taken over the ship were a tight team. Leyth and Wali had expressed their readiness to help with their knowledge and skills as they knew their ship well. Their offer had raised critical voices, but after a heated discussion, in which their side had been vehemently supported by their saviour and his short companion (Legolas and Gimli, as the two had introduced themselves later), they had been allowed to join.

They had all worked together to prepare for any upcoming wind. Leyth had recognized anxiety in their serious faces. Gimli had taken the time to explain to him and Wali that behind the mountain, where the smoke soared, a human city was besieged and burning. If they did not reach in time, it would be too late. All, down to the last child, would be dead. Leyth knew that even before they were overtaken, it was where the fleet had been heading. Shame had flooded him and he had averted his eyes from Gimli's.

He had thought of his home then, of his family. And that only because Legolas had saved him, one day he might even see them again. With all his heart he hoped they were alive. The thought that a great city was about to be destroyed, and that entire families much like his own would die, hit him hard and he sympathized readily with the grim, serious men, understanding their burden.

The realization had also made the unforgiving look of the warrior with the long, raven hair all the more comprehensible. Although Leyth wanted to tell him, that he was not a threat, that by joining the ship he had not wanted this, only seeking a way to help his family – that his choices had not been many – that hard, silver gaze, cut like metal, freezing any word of justification in his throat.

His twin brother's eyes were different. As Leyth had been pulled from the waters and had regained consciousness, their fair gentleness had welcomed him back to life. Against the pain and the cold water drowning him, paralyzing his lungs, those eyes had been warm and smooth like molten silver. Leyth had choked and gasped, as the panic of suffocating had overwhelmed his senses once more. He had retched out the water in agony while the warrior-healer's hands, gentle and soothing, had held and helped him. Support and compassion had enveloped him like a soft light, cradling him.

He would not die. He had been saved. He was allowed to live.

Of all that Leyth thought as his eyes swept over the ship and to the river, and then rested on the irregular line in the distance where land and water touched the sky.

Wali was still nearby, talking to Gimli some few feet away. Their deep voices sounded soothingly in the unmoving air the ghosts had left behind. Leyth sought the height because from up there on the rigging he always felt closer to home, and watched the lands stretching to the South where his family was.

"Legolas?" Leyth called tentatively, his voice sounding shy and insecure to his own ears.

The elf did not answer.

It remained baffling; the boy Leyth had guessed to be slightly his elder, was hardly young at all. Gimli had explained this too as he was talking to Wali. Leyth had overheard, his mouth falling agape at what Gimli had revealed.

Leyth would never have guessed, when he had embarked on this journey, that it may lead him to meet races he had never seen before. This 'boy' was a being of myths inducing fear among the misery-battered people in the lands of his home. Gimli himself was a dwarf, as he had told them with pride, a race whose skill in battle was unmatched although, according to him, the elves also made strong enemies. Leyth suspected he was bragging, although he did not doubt the dwarf's strength.

He thought about the elf's name, how foreign it had sounded when the elf had first pronounced it while introducing himself. Leyth had repeated that name, silently mouthing it in wonder, and every time his lips formed the word, the image they painted was that of young, light-green leaves that sprung from the bushes in their garden back home, when the rain season began. The peace that flooded him then was hard to combine with the wild display of speed and power engraved in his mind, the first sight he had caught as the warrior had leapt onto the ship.

Leyth swallowed, feeling self-conscious, but refused to give up. Gathering all his courage, he tried once more to form the name that brought the image of green life to his heart.

The elf swayed high above, where even Leyth had never climbed. The dwarf worried and fussed beneath, standing close to Wali. Leyth frowned, thinking of how much this short being resembled his Wali in that. And, somehow, he knew Legolas had heard but ignored his friend – something that Leyth could relate to.

He chuckled softly, feeling a flash of companionable complicity with the elf, and climbed higher with renewed determination. "Legolas!"

When the terrible ghosts were gone, and he and Wali had been admitted to join the preparations, he had climbed through the rigging with Legolas, two boys working hand in hand, in the height together…. Leyth had been cautious and shyly distanced towards the one who had saved his life so readily, at the risk of his own. Leyth felt an alienness about him, a strength, something glowing even in plain daylight. And yet, Legolas had been natural and thoroughly accepting towards him and Wali, trying to make them feel comfortable.

But then Leyth had not yet known….

With an uneasy feeling, he remembered again the one who had pulled his saviour out of the deadly waters while Leyth himself was already safe. He remembered the strong, insisting hands grasping the still body sprawled on the planks, and then how the tall, dark-haired warrior held his companion, Leyth's saviour, as he violently expelled the water from his lungs. That stern warrior had regarded him and Wali with flashing eyes, resentful and menacing. Leyth's blood had run cold in his veins, and he had tried in vain to escape that piercing gaze. He was grateful, now, that the terrifying man had disappeared under deck after his brother. He did not doubt that the twins' combined strength aided the ship in its constant, slow push against the flow of the river.

Lost in his musings, Leyth almost lost balance when he saw Legolas next to him, perched on the loop of one of the ropes attached to the rigging above. The elf smirked at him, Leyth noticed confusedly, not having expected such a display of amusement from a being older than several generations of men put together.

He stared, not knowing what to say or how to behave. Then he opened his mouth and stammered the words, "Gratitude…for saving us. I mean…you leapt…uncertain…even of your own fate."

"Life is precious and unconditionally worth saving." The elf suddenly grew serious, and did not smile as he said that. "I would do it again – and rest assured, I am well aware of my skills. I knew there was at least the possibility of a good outcome. I would not leap to my death senselessly." He then grinned, surprisingly, sheepishly even, and murmured, "Although the dwarf often accuses me of being too reckless."

"I guess he is scared; he fears for you," Leyth offered.

"Aye, that's what he is," Legolas sighed. His lips tugged into a smile, his gaze soft as he looked down at Gimli.

"Maybe he is right?" Leyth ventured.

"Sometimes… maybe…," Legolas admitted, "but mostly I would say he is exaggerating." He chuckled then, his bright, clear eyes cast downwards. "He is far too soft the stout warrior-dwarf, in that regard," he said fondly.

"He cares for you," Leyth said, and then he added, probing Legolas' reaction: "jealously so…."

Leyth would have sworn the elf had gripped the rope he was perched on tighter as he suddenly looked up to stare into Leyth's eyes. Leyth glanced back at Legolas, unsure, and tried not to avert his gaze. The elf's features became unreadable, and his irises shifted to a darker shade while his gaze swept to the river below. Legolas seemed not to breathe for too long a time. And the dark, lowered eyelashes stood out starkly against his skin.

To Leyth's great relief, Legolas finally heaved a long, slow and very soft sigh. A strange glitter shimmered in his eyes. Leyth looked away, feeling guilty for having pried out such a reaction, before he redirected his gaze on the elf once more.

The elf swallowed before he spoke, "He does care, and so do I," he smiled, his pallor now gently overrun by a light flush upon his cheeks.

And then, unexpectedly, the air changed; a fresh wind blew in from the south, from the sea. Something caught the elf's attention and his gaze swept upwards to the sky. A white seabird wheeled over them in the dim light of dusk and gave a small, clear cry.

"Is it not beautiful?" Legolas said in wonder, his eyes still glittering, "It brings the image, the scent, the sound, the sensation of the sea with it." Leyth said nothing for a while because the elf's face was tilted towards the sky, his gaze dreamy and distant as if he were not really here, but on the verge of another world. But then he focused on Leyth again and said: "In every battle, the greatest fear we carry is to lose a dear friend. We fight readily together, each for the others, but who will survive, we never know."

Leyth looked out to the river, his eyes catching the flare of the burning ships that remained in the harbour while they would set off to Minas Tirith. Where was Adil? Was his friend safe? He should have gathered the courage to ask Bashir to bring him onto their ship. But now it was late, and all he could do was hope that Adil had made it. The uncertainty stung his heart. He looked straight at Legolas.

"What are you fighting for?"

"Freedom," Legolas answered at once, without the slightest doubt in his voice.

Leyth stared, mesmerized, and then lowered his eyes. "My father was recruited and left us to go fight, long ago, although what for he did not know." He paused, remembering the day his father had gone. The day when so much of their lives had been lost. Leyth chewed on his lip and blinked as the repressed feelings threatened to soar. "I want to fight with you for freedom," he declared, swallowing heavily as he met Legolas' gaze again.

In the elf's eyes, he recognized acceptance and understanding, but there was also a hesitation in the elf's bearing. He regarded Leyth steadily for a long while. "I doubt he will let you join the battle," the elf then said, glancing down at Wali.

"Oh, he won't, you can be sure of that. But I'm stubborn; we both know that. That he would join to redeem himself if I was not here, is as clear as day, I know him."

Leyth had never seen Wali readily go forth to kill on their raids, but he knew well how to defend himself; Leyth had seen him use his weapon several times on their journeys. Leyth himself had never felt the compulsion to fight until now. He had stayed in the background and since he was still young and inexperienced, it had not been questioned. It made no sense to send forward a good worker just to lose him. All Leyth had ever wanted was to work, keep his hopes up to one day return home with enough money to change their lives. But he was not a child anymore. He had trained hard with Wali, and now he would prove himself worthy to fight for the most noble cause. Hate soared, constricting his throat at the thought of what the soldiers had done to his mother. How he had wanted to kill those men! Now, finally, he was helpless no longer, and he would refuse to be considered the weak boy to hide and protect!

"I won't be a burden! I've never fought in a real fight for my life, but I've had some hard training on the ship. Wali himself sparred with me. I am capable and I will join! I want to fight for a cause dear to us all."

Legolas did not interrupt him until Leyth was done. Then, he answered: "We will fight orcs and goblins and other foul creatures, corrupted men…." he paused, watching Leyth with a penetrating, serious stare, before he added with a strange hoarseness in his usually musical voice: "…and humans who do not know for which cause they have been summoned to war."

"I am ready!" Leyth exclaimed, refusing to let anything change his mind.

Legolas slowly shook his head. "I am not, and will never be," he said in a low, throaty tone, "I kill out of necessity."

In the sadness that darkened his eyes, Leyth saw the truth of those words. For a moment he wanted to weep as the elf's grief flooded him. But then he collected himself. "I will follow you nevertheless."

"You will not!" Legolas stared at Leyth hard, his jaw was set and his eyes cold and narrowed.

Leyth almost squirmed, lowering his head. He did not know if it was the fear of the impending battle or the harsh reaction of the elf that impacted on him so. He stared down at himself, his gaze swept along the ladder, and came to catch on a point down on the wooden planks, where one piece of wood joined the other. Then suddenly he felt a strong hand rub his upper arm. He lifted his gaze to look at the elf. Legolas nodded at him and, without any warning, swung himself towards the mast, climbing back up from where he had descended.

"Come Leyth, let us cherish the pull of the wind," he called back to him, his eyes gleaming, "and give our friends something more harmless to worry about." He shot Leyth a mischievous grin before looking down to where Gimli and Wali stood. It did not take long before he had captured the dwarf's attention, and the short being's gravelly voice commanded him to descend, which the elf good-heartedly ignored.

Leyth welcomed the distraction, at least as much as the dwarf. He climbed higher on the ladder, laughing at the sudden, surprising antics of his new friend. Just moments ago Legolas had appeared ancient and strange, laden with weariness, and now he behaved like a boy his age again, light and silly, infuriating on purpose a fussing, caring and very much beloved someone.

The ship was bustling with activity, excited sailors hoisting the sails as Leyth and Legolas supported the men on deck by unlacing the holds and unfolding the canvas, tightening the ropes to perfection. The wind caught in the sails, blowing them up and, finally, the fleet sailed upstream at growing speed towards the burning city.

Chapter Text

The skiff cut through the heavy, dark waters with ease. The ships sped gracefully forward, racing upriver towards Harlond. Legolas was perched on the ladder, only a few inches above deck – where he had descended so as not to overstretch Gimli's nerves – looking across at Aragorn's ship so close to theirs. Over there, at the prow, stood his friend, his head held high. His handsome profile was set against the background of faraway grey clouds, dense and yet penetrated by beams of orange and gold morning light, catching on the star upon his brow. To Legolas, he looked nothing less than the King that he was.

The gulls wheeled in the sky above them, following their journey. They called and beckoned, but in that moment, Legolas paid them no attention. The sweet call of the Undying Lands in his heart had ceased and time slowed, halted almost, for he was full of love and pride for Aragorn. – I will follow you…wherever your path may lead…to the end…. – His own words echoed silently within him, the soft notes entwining with the song in his heart in a beloved, familiar melody. Legolas had never been more certain about their meaning.

He became aware of Leyth's stare. He stole a glance at the young man who stood, tense and uncertain, in the ominous atmosphere, his large eyes fixed on Legolas.

"Who is he?" Leyth asked with a tremor in his voice, as he redirected his stare upon Aragorn.

Legolas followed the youngster's gaze and, even before he spoke, his heart swelled: "He is Elessar, the King of Men by lineage and destiny. Estel, born to be the hope of Middle-Earth. Aragorn, Chief of the Dúnedain, Ranger of the North, who serves his people with great courage, and who has fought against the darkness ever since the time he could wield a weapon. But under his many names and above all, he is my dear friend and brother in heart."

"Oh!..." he heard Leyth utter in awe. No more words came from the boy then, and his full lips were parted in wonder.

As they neared the Pelennor, Legolas perceived the vibrations of the battle raging on the fields, even on their ship upon the river. It resonated in his chest and quavered his breathing. The horns of the Rohirrim blew in the distance, calling out in despair, followed by the profound bellows of the Mûmakil. Legolas knew, then, that Théoden and Éomer with their men were out there, in the midst of the bloodshed. He hoped with all his heart that they were still among the living. The air shook with the booming rumble of destruction, battering the gates of the city. The fires loomed from over the city, red flames against the brightening sky. The thunder of hooves roared in the air. The commotion penetrated Legolas' skin and pounded through his veins. The sounds of war encompassed the fleet, the flames mirrored in Leyth's black eyes; a flare too hard in a face soft with youth. Legolas' heart constricted in compassion.

Aragorn's dark hair was bound at the back of his head, kept out of his face despite the wind. Only a few strands had come loose and fluttered across his brow, but he didn't lift his hand to brush it out of the way as he turned towards Legolas, seeking out his gaze. He stood still and strong like the great King he was. His eyes were wide, pooling with anxiety as they met Legolas'. Legolas did not shift but solemnly brought his right hand to his chest. Tightly fisted, he pressed it against his heart, holding the man's gaze with firm reassurance. He mouthed the words in silence: "I am with you, my friend!"

Legolas did not know whether Aragorn had read the words on his lips, but he had clearly perceived the gesture for his shoulders slowly rose and fell, and he closed his eyes briefly before nodding in acknowledgement. His fist reached his chest and rested over his heart as he looked straight at Legolas, his gaze softening with gratefulness. Legolas sensed a warmness overwhelm him, and he took a deep breath, feeling the energy spread inside him.

And then, Aragorn gazed ahead once more, and to Legolas, it seemed like he had grown even taller, broader, and the star upon his brow glowed brighter than the stars in the night sky.

"Come Halbarad. Let us bring hope to Gondor!" Aragorn called out. Halbarad strode forward and clasped Aragorn's shoulder. With a grim smile, he unfurled the great banner, which immediately caught and snapped, streaming in the wind. There flowered the White Tree and Seven Stars were about it, and a high crown above it; the signs of Elendil that no lord had borne for years beyond count.*

The orcs at the harbour cheered and stamped and lifted their crude spears, swords and scimitars, clashing them against their shields in triumph at the sight of the approaching ships, thinking that it was the Corsairs coming to their aid, joining in to besiege Minas Tirith.

Legolas felt Leyth flinch beside him. The boy stared ahead at the ugly, howling beasts, and their contorted visages. Their noise over the background of battle was earsplitting, horrific. Legolas knew Leyth had seen violence and misery before, in his home and on his sailings with the Corsairs. But the dismay he saw in the youth's eyes told him that it had never reached a battle of this extent.

From somewhere in the distance the cry of a gull sounded. Legolas lifted his eyes towards the sky to seek it out and rest his sight on the seabird which had followed them so far, as it wheeled off and away from the fleet, catching the light of the rising sun upon its white wings. For a moment Legolas felt stretched with longing, pulled between the place where he stood and the height of the bird and the beckoning promise it carried. And, as it disappeared in the distance, a sadness almost tore him apart.

But then, he heard shouts of men, shouts of greeting and relief. And they snatched him back to the battle on land before him. Their allies had recognized the sign of Elessar, and their fight was rekindled with renewed hope and vigour.

The stars on the black fabric flamed bright in the sunlight. The white tree moved in their glow as if the wind trailed through its branches, reflecting the starlight, and shining upon Aragorn's stern, handsome features. His beloved Arwen, the Evenstar, had crafted the standard with all her dedication and heart, wringing it with precious gems, gold and mithril.

Legolas turned to gaze at the Elrondion twins, and saw tears of pride and sorrow glinting in their eyes as they stood, looking upon their foster brother; but their features were set, as if worked out of marble, stern and impenetrable.

Beside him, Gimli held his axe hefted with both hands. He nodded at Legolas, narrowing his eyes. "Let's skewer these orcs and see who got the most in the end!"

Aragorn unsheathed Andúril, and lifted it high with a cry of war. It flashed bright red with the flames of the burning city. And then he led his men down into the fray of battle.

At that, Legolas reached into the quiver on his back to grab three arrows. He fired them into the mass of orcs, where each hit its mark. And so he went on, tearing holes into the enemy, supporting and covering Aragorn's assault.

The Orcs screamed in horror as they realized that these were not reinforcements reaching them, but death in the person of their enemies. From Legolas' bow the arrows flew: two, three at a time, and the holes in the black mass grew wider. Gimli gave a satisfied grunt.

Men leapt from the ships. Most were hardened warriors, experienced and skilled, plunging into battle as if they knew nothing else in their lives since they came of age. Like a storm they raged, reinforcing their allies on land.

For a breath, Legolas paused to look back one last time at Leyth and Wali. The man held his arm protectively around his young friend's shoulders. Nodding at them in respect, Legolas saw Gimli squeeze Wali's arm at the same time, in farewell and friendship. They were leaving the two men behind. Legolas knew it was the only thing they could do to protect that youngling from his own reckless euphory. The discussion against his will of joining the battle had not been easy, but with the combined vehemence of elf, dwarf and man, Leyth had finally acquiesced.

After biding his farewell, Gimli charged with stomping feet towards the border of the ship where Elladan was calling to him, while Elrohir took off, leaping from the balustrade. Elladan lent Gimli a helping knee to climb up on his own, but then, for the sake of speed, hauled the dwarf over the railing. Unsteady and half hanging down on the other side Gimli glanced back at Legolas, flaring his nostrils and then squeezed his eyes closed, pushing away from the ship and releasing his grip on the railing. He disappeared with a deep, guttural growl, like a rock rolling down a slope, to where Elrohir must have been waiting to catch him. Elladan followed with contrasting grace, all but flying over the railing.

Legolas darted towards the spot they had left, still firing arrows, covering his friends from above. With satisfaction he beheld the twins' powerful charge, and that Gimli was keeping up count against his own initial advance in number of kills. Just as he took off from the planks to follow his friends into the fray, he heard Wali's deep voice crying out in alarm, and from the corner of his eyes, caught sight of Leyth breaking away from the man's side.

Even as he flew Legolas let out a harsh scream of dismay, "No! Stay, you fool!" And, right after, landed two shots to fell the orcs who had meant to impale him upon his landing. He saw nothing again of the man and the youngling; anger and anxiety about the boy's reckless stunt, deliberately disregarding all orders they had given him, almost broke him.

The combat was hard and close, the slightest hesitation costing one dearly. Many fell, men and orcs alike. Blood, black and red, spurted from their torn flesh and splattered the fighters' armour. Somewhere to Legolas' left fought Elrohir and Elladan, their swords like blurred, bright lights cutting through the dull, murky mass of the enemy. Just like Aragorn, they fought with stars bound to their brows. Fair they were, and valiant. The men followed their assault, taking down reemerging and regrouping orcs. Among them, Legolas caught sight of Wali and Leyth. His heart briefly fell with relief that for now, they were alive, but he could not quench his anxiety laden with sorrow.

In that instant, he heard a cry; a roar, deep and familiar, peaked with urgency, so sharp that it could have rendered stone. Legolas spun around and saw what was coming towards him. He plunged one knife into the chest of an orc while the other drew a spurt of black blood from another opponent's now gaping throat. Another huge beast towered right in front of him, yellow eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation, a fanged maw contorted in a snarl of malice. A crude scimitar swished in the air, about to plunge into Legolas' unprotected side.

Many thoughts shot through his mind as Legolas acquired the certitude of an inexorable impact. How could he have gotten so distracted? The sincere worry about a boy and a man he had saved had rendered him too vulnerable.

A gull called sadly in the distance, black eyes filled with the pearly shine of tears appeared in its wail…Aragorn standing on the prow of the black ship under the white tree, hand held to his heart, looking at him almost pleadingly.

This was the end….

And then Gimli's brown eyes, the colour of earth, the colour of a broad tree trunk on a massive mountain…wide, unbelieving….

They were real…!

Legolas imagined – anticipated – the pain tearing into his side, the agony of the crude weapon slicing through muscle and bone….

The rumbling cry repeated. A guttural, thundering roar like a rockslide, so very familiar….

The huge mound before him crashed to his feet. Its heavy scimitar chopped a gaping gash into the earth. And Gimli appeared behind, yanking his axe from the back of the beast it nearly had split in two.

Legolas had forgotten to breathe; his eyes must have been wide with shock, staring at his friend.

"This is not the time to lose your head in the clouds, elf!" the dwarf growled. His eyes were hard, unforgiving. "Watch your back! I might not be right behind you next time. Keep your count up!" And then he grunted, "This one would count for at least three by its size alone, but I'll be fair and keep it at one."

Gimli swung his axe. An orc's head rolled to the ground, followed by its collapsed body.

"Gratitude…." Legolas finally breathed, then focused again and bolted around, orcs shrieking as they tried to flee his swirling knives. He realized that without one another, neither he nor Gimli would have been alive by now. This was not the time to let worry overwhelm him! It would not keep them alive. This was the time to fight and kill! It was what he was good at, what he had done since the youthful days of his life…what he had been trained for. And between the screams and shrieks of the dying orcs, Legolas hissed at his friend: "It does not qualify you to change the rules, dwarf! One point per kill, and one only." He narrowed his eyes in challenge, which Gimli answered with a similar mimic and another prompt kill.

In the chaos of battle, there was no way to find Wali and Leyth again, less even to reach them. Legolas hardened his heart, shielding it from the thoughts concerning the man and the youngling. He thought it better that Gimli was oblivious of it all as they rejoined their allies, like a tide sweeping North, razing down the host of Mordor.*

Leyth's knees were weak, his breath came short, cold fear running down his spine. Above the noise of battle, the familiar clank of masts from the ships sounded behind him. Smoke burned his eyes and the mass of monsters before him blurred, their contorted faces twisted further into grotesque grimaces as they snarled and screeched all around him.

The handle of the sword felt slick in his sweating hand. He had removed the weapon from the armoury earlier when nobody had paid attention to him, for all had been busy with the sailing and the preparation for what was awaiting them upon their landing. Well hidden under some rags he had used to clean the deck with when Bashir had still been in command, the sword had been ready by the railing just to be snatched on his precipitated descent. But it was heavy and hard to hold now in his cold, clammy hand.

Leyth had never seen a battle of this extent, never heard the deafening roars of mass destruction, or smelled the acrid scent of smoke and death, so heavily damping the air he felt he would be crushed. In the distance, Legolas was firing arrows at dizzying speed, the white flashes of his blades intermingling, whirling around his bright, dynamic form. But then he halted and turned around, seeking something. Leyth realized it was him, and when their eyes met for the briefest of instants, he saw in the features of the elf helpless despair.

In the next instant, those features hardened, sharpening at the deep, roaring cry behind him. Leyth saw a tumult of bodies and weapons, some slim, some heavy, swirling, and lashing, black blood spilling from falling, bulky bodies. To his relief, the elf and the dwarf reemerged between the felled beasts. Gimli swung the deadly weight of his axe through the air, striking foe after foe, while Legolas darted around like a wild predator. The masses of orcs thinned everywhere they passed. But the battle was dense; more orcs and men quickly filled the gaps. Leyth needed to keep his attention close about him and so, in the tumult, he soon lost sight of his friends.

The twin elves, with their gleaming armour and raven hair, seemed to be everywhere around them, their positions shifting constantly. Leyth could no more discern one from the other. Both had shot him furious glares, sharp silver flashes piercing him like daggers. They looked like high princes, both fair and dangerous, and killed with ease, their motions mighty and swift. Deadly beautiful, thought Leyth with awe. Beasts fell around them, and still more came. Leyth struck right and left at nearing orcs. He knew how to wield a sword, but a battle, he now realized, was much different from sparring with Wali. At any given moment he could be no more. But Wali was close beside him, solid and determined, brandishing his weapon, and many a well-aimed blow he landed, shielding Leyth. He had screamed in dismay and followed close on his heels when Leyth had run and leapt from the ship. Once they had reached the ground, there had been no time and no more sense for a proper scolding. It was all about staying alive.

Leyth did not know how much time had passed. He wearied easily, unused to anything like this. That was not what he had imagined when he had followed his determination to fight for freedom, disregarding the concerns and orders of all the elder beings around him.

His action had been pure madness. But now it was too late.

The beasts were many, their masses seeming never to diminish, and for each one that fell, another seemed to emerge. The sun slowly rose and peeked between the grey smoke and clouds. Gore-splattered armours gleamed, red- and black-smeared blades and spears glittering cruelly. Leyth had always thought that orcs could not stand the sunlight, but the beasts they fought were not cowed by its rays. Men and orcs both lay on the ground, twisted and broken, their blood staining the churned earth.

Leyth's foot caught on something heavy yet soft as he ran, keeping up with the battle. He tripped and went sprawling across the muddy ground. Lifting his head, he found the still face of a man staring at him with unseeing, glazed eyes. His throat was a gaping mess. Leyth's stomach cramped in horror and he scrambled in the mud to get back on his feet. He heard Wali shout out to him in urgency before a strong hand grabbed him and hauled him up. Leyth panted heavily as he glanced into the strained face of his dear friend. It was blood-smeared, but Leyth noticed with relief that the man seemed uninjured.

"Are you alright?" Wali asked, anxiety in his eyes as he quickly scanned Leyth up and down.

Leyth only nodded. There was no time for words, no break from the assaults.

He did not know how it had happened. He did not know where the snarling faces of the monsters to his left had come from. To his right, men charged at them; too many, a tide meaning to overrun them. Panic rose from his belly, a bubble that painfully soared to reach his throat. Leyth gasped. Blades and lunging bodies were all around him, battle cries, deep roaring, and the terrible screams of the dying. The men were close; their swords, glinting sharp, clashed with Wali's weapon beside him. Leyth saw their faces. He realized, from their tanned skin and their traits, that they were from the South, from his homeland. His kin. He felt sick. The faces blurred and muddled as Leyth tried to evade.

Where were the twin elves?! Had they been separated from them?

A blade sliced his side, and he writhed in agony. His shirt was quickly soaked in warm wetness. Leyth wanted to run but slipped on mud, and collided hard with the ground. A sharp pain shot through his head and he saw nothing more apart from a white, exploding and blinding light.

The army and artillery of the enemy was overwhelming. There were towering machines of mass destruction pulled by trolls, rolling on and on towards the city with threatening rumble. Huge Mûmakil ridden by entire battalions of Southrons trampled the earth, the dead and the living, crushing everything in their way. These huge beasts, despite their patient and steady nature, had been trained for war. They would follow and obey their masters with loyalty and trust to whatever end, be it doom and death.

Aragorn carried on. In his hand Narsil reforged become Andúril, Flame of the West, was like a fire rekindled, as deadly as in days of old. He had not kept count of his kills on this day, in this battle. He had fought his whole life, but this was the day they saved Minas Tirith from complete destruction. His brothers and rangers were with him. Many had already fallen, sacrificing their lives for a purpose, a dream they would never see; for a great realm to be restored and the lands to be cleansed from the Shadow. Aragorn thought of how they had come from the North to join him, to give him strength. He remembered how they had welcomed him in their midst, had followed him and served loyally their entire lives. Many were still fighting at his side, bold and valiant, as though there was only one outcome: to win or to die trying.

Halbarad had been beside him. He had brought the standard with the white tree of Gondor and the shining stars of Elendil upon the crown. Sword hefted into his hand, he had not hesitated to charge at the enemy, spurring the Dúnedain ever on. He had been there with his force – always – courageous and capable. But in the uproar and violence of battle, even the best fell and died.

Aragorn would never forget how his companion, his mentor and protector was slain before his eyes. In that moment he had seen nothing else, had thought that this was the end…the end of everything. It was to him as if the ground had been pulled away from under his feet, and he had fallen to his knees.

Halbarad would never return to his beloved lands in the North. All Aragorn could do for this great man, who was so much more than a friend, had been to close his eyes for his last rest and whisper a prayer of peace and respect. And then he had returned to fight with raw and desperate power to carry out his destiny and pay honour to all who were still fighting for that purpose.

Aragorn's heart twinged at the heavy impacts of those losses. But then, between the dust and smog, reached a sound like a fresh gust of wind rustling through young, light-green leaves, and the sensation of sunbeams on his skin warmed him. Like a flash of gold cutting through it all, Legolas leapt into his vision. Not far behind followed Gimli, like a rumbling rock, his mighty axe clasped firmly in both hands. Aragorn's heart gave several leaping thumps as relief washed over him, and in his hand Andúril flashed bright with new hope.

Many emotions soared and collided inside him. Aragorn felt like he would burst as they swelled in his breast. He ached to close Legolas into an embrace, not letting him go again until the battle was over. Due to his duty to Middle-Earth and the weight of his destiny, Aragorn had repeatedly come close to losing his friend. The latest event on the ship, the elf's audacious rescue mission after the gull had released its fatal call, still chilled Aragorn's bones from within. So many things he wanted to say, but around them, the fight demanded their attention. Aragorn locked eyes with Legolas' briefly, wanting him to know, and Legolas nodded to him as if he knew it all, even as he drew his bow and shot into an approaching battalion of trolls and orcs. Aragorn caught Gimli's serious eyes and nodded to him in heartfelt apology and gratitude. He knew the dwarf had much to reproach him with. But instead, the short, squat being who was now his friend roared: "It has begun! Let us fight to the end!"

The dwarf's deep voice was joined by a rumble of thunder that came from the ground. It vibrated upwards through Aragorn's legs, resounding within him. His eyes widened in alarm as he beheld the colossal Mûmak rapidly gaining ground. The beast seemed mad and panicked, but still it followed its master's lead. Its massive trunk-legs crushed all on its way. From high upon its back dozens of Haradrim shooted down bolts and arrows, felling the fleeing soldiers.

For a moment Aragorn's mind remained sluggish, as though paralyzed. He stood in the way of the beast, aware of what was happening but unable to stop it. He saw Legolas stare at him. The elf's face hardened and his eyes narrowed to dark slits.

"Legolas!" Aragorn shouted over the Mûmak's bellow.

Legolas lunged at the beast. Aragorn and Gimli only barely managed to throw themselves out of the way, diving one left, one right, just before the giant's broad feet hit the ground where they had stood mere seconds before. Aragorn rolled, catching himself on his hands and knees. The ground shook as he stared at the beast thundering past. Legolas' sleek form was already halfway up the beast's leg, using the arrows protruding from the animal's thick skin as handholds, swinging and climbing ever upwards. The elf looked small and insignificant on the huge moving mound.

Yet the battle was far from its ending. Aragorn leapt to his feet in time to parry the assault of a group of Uruk-hai. He slashed out with Andúril, blocking the thrusts of their spears and driving off the knives aimed at him. He hacked at them and pierced them through their mouths, throats, eyes…any part Andúril found became a kill. Somewhere behind him, he heard a deep howl, like a Mûmak screaming in pain. He whipped around to see the stumbling fall of the huge beast in the distance.

'Legolas!...' he screamed in thought and, from deep within his wildly hammering heart, he hoped that the Valar would allow him to hold his dear friend in his arms once more.

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.

Chapter Text

The sword at his side was heavy with the blood it had drunk. But still it thirsted for more. Its lust surged and swelled with every kill, endlessly.

After so many years, the image of his mother in the orcs' den still flared. In these moments, it stung mercilessly. Hate seemed the only way to withstand it. To repel it. It roared inside Elrohir like an intoxicating thrill, claiming hold of his heart, of his mind, of his body...

More slaughter, more death. – Revenge! – More blood for his thirsting weapon.

They had killed masses of orcs, trolls and other fell beasts, as well as men fighting on the side of the enemy. The latter ones had brought no satisfaction, but in the furore of battle, Elrohir dismissed them as casualties Fate would not spare either way.

The smoke and fog lifted slowly from the battlefield, to be carried away by the wind. Elladan rode beside him, impassive, eyes hard. His rain-washed armour gleamed in the evening sun, reflecting the now-clear sky. The wind pulled his hair back and it streamed thick and black behind him.

For a fleeting breath, the sight of his brother, whom he knew so gentle in caring and healing, hit Elrohir. Elladan was terrifying in his beauty of unyielding sharpness. Realization struck Elrohir that he must be looking much the same. But instead of shocking him, the recognition spurred him with even more intemperate power.

He chased alongside his twin after the desperate, fleeing men of the South and the East, who had fought for the enemy and lost. They were running towards the ships in the harbour, hoping to escape. But what they did not know, was that the ships were in the custody of freed slaves now guarding their former captors as prisoners. The fugitives would soon meet death, or join the surviving Corsairs in captivity.

Those men were running for their lives, shooting fearful glances over their shoulders, their eyes filled with dread. Shouts were coming from the ships. Arrows flew from the river and blades glittered. Many of the fleeing threw their weapons down and, without ceasing to run, lifted their hands in surrender. Many, but by far not all. Those who did not yield, Elrohir thought, might soon meet certain death. His brother beside him slowed his mount, and it seemed only natural to follow his motions as they moved flank to flank.

The men on the ships took over, and there was no need for more chasing or bloodshed. His heart still pounded hard from the fury released in battle, his horse snorted and danced nervously between his thighs. With the sudden decline of urgency and of adrenaline that followed, an emptiness overcame Elrohir. A gaping void spread in his breast that desperately longed to be filled. It was then that he heard, from deep within, the calm rush of the sea – as if from the hollow of an empty shell – soft and distant, and enveloped in quiet, sweet sadness. The last image of his mother, her long hair whipping in the breeze, and her pale face with long-suffering eyes appeared, looking back at him, and then slowly blurred as the ship left the shore, gliding away into the distance.

Elrohir patted his stallion's neck comfortingly, feeling his warm, fuming coat against his hand. The caress soothed him. Somewhere at his side, he heard Elladan giving orders, having dismounted. Elrohir's blood calmed. He unbuckled his armour and peeled it from his shoulders.

Enough killing, enough hatred!

He could not tend to the wounded in that state. Yet, as he strapped the gleaming metal to his faithful horse's saddle, Elrohir knew he would soon need it again; but for the time being, he would lay it down, and get rid of that too-familiar weight.

Everything in its time.

This was a time for healing. He did not want to shoulder that burden while tending to the wounded. He would give of himself without any shield.

Thus, Elrohir went and searched between the dead for the flutter of a pulse under his fingers. No matter whether a man was friend or foe, no matter the colour of the skin under his touch. Every heartbeat he found meant hope, a chance for life to endure. Bleeding wounds could still be staunched, and so he worked tirelessly, stabilizing many a wounded for transport, or closing glazed eyes in respect and prayer when there was nothing more to be done.

He did as much for a young man whose last breath he had just witnessed, three arrows of Dúnadan making protruding from his chest. His skin was of a pale brown, so unblemished that Elrohir thought he must have been very young. Black curls were plastered to his forehead with the sweat of his suffering. Elrohir paused, moved by the sight, then closed his own eyes and breathed deeply into the pain. As he opened them again, he let his gaze sweep over the plain; in the distance, a lone horse galloped madly to who knew where. Dusk had claimed the colours of the world and dulled the field of death to shades of grey. Further away, he spotted a man limping miserably. The harrowed figure then swayed and fell. Elrohir blinked and watched how the man heaved himself up with a limp weight in his arms, just to fall again after another, tortured step.

Elrohir leapt up and ran. The man lifted his head, and slowly, shakingly rose. He was a man of strong build, muscled and hardy. He took another heavy step, but then, as soon as he saw Elrohir, his last strength seemed to leave him and he all but crashed to the ground, holding the weight of the body he carried tight against him, twisting himself to protect it from the impact of his fall.

The dwarf's new friend. The one from the ship! – Elrohir realized in shock. The one who had glared at him, holding his stare, standing protectively before the youngling on the Corsairs' deck.

Now he held the motionless body of that same boy in his arms over him.

The respect for the man grew strong roots into Elrohir's heart. He remembered his name.

"Wali!" Elrohir called out, speaking the man's name for the first time, as he ran towards him.

Wali looked up with eyes still flickering with determination, even though he was miserably struggling, and failing, to rise.

Elrohir bent, reaching for his unmoving burden, and lifted it from Wali's arms. The man did not resist, slumping back to the ground as soon as he was relieved of the weight. There was despair in his eyes, but Elrohir thought there was something else also; stubbornness…and trust! The man was entrusting Elrohir with the one so precious to him.

Elrohir hesitated, holding the young man to his chest. He reached out his free hand to Wali, who seized the offered hand, trying to push himself up. But it was futile and Wali surrendered, collapsing with a scream that died down to a groan. Elrohir noticed how the limb was now bent at an awkward angle. The fall must have injured him further. It was clear that in this state there was no chance for him to walk nor get up again. How Wali had managed but a step, just before, Elrohir could not fathom. The man lay helplessly on his side, protecting his belly where the fabric of his shirt was lashed open. Elrohir winced at the sight. Wali's clothes were soaked with fresh blood, and Elrohir suspected that the leg may be the least grievous of his injuries. As Wali lifted his head from his frustrated slump, his face was ashen. "Go!" His voice was raw. "Save him. Go!"

Elrohir startled at the plea. He hugged the still form closer while the man's eyes stared at him, resolute and full of despair. Elrohir became intensely aware of the precious weight in his arms, of the bond tying those two humans together. He swallowed the sorrow rising in his throat.

"Leave me! Go!" Wali urged. It was a hoarse scream by now.

With a last glance to the man and a wordless nod, Elrohir started to run. He could feel the distance growing between them, could sense it with every fibre of his body. It was like his heart was tearing apart.

The boy was warm against him. Too warm. Elrohir surmised, from his long practice of the healing skills, that he was dealing with a concussion, and that the blade that had sliced into the boy's side had not been a clean one. Already, infection was setting in. The young man's head was lolling back as Elrohir ran. He increased his grip around him, cradling his head protectively against his chest.

Somewhere on his way, a group of Rohirrim were searching for life between the fallen – an unlucky task, for survivors were scarce, and the dead too many. Between them, Elrohir made out his brother on his knees providing first aid to a soldier on the ground. Some of those rangers capable in healing were with him. They noticed Elrohir at once as he neared.

"Two of you! Quick! Back there on the way to the harbour, I found one still living. Broken leg. Abdominal wound. Major blood loss. Bring him to the infirmary!"

Elrohir was rattling out orders. His voice was harsh, he knew, as all looked up from their search. As if in practised accord, Dímalagos and Cemmon shot up at once at his command. Elrohir was glad for these two who had travelled with him, and that they were still alive after the massacre.

Pain. The first sensation hitting him. The next was that of being jostled this and that way, and with every motion, his head pounded heavily. He could not move. It was as if spikes stabbed into his side. But then he sensed he was held against something warm. A strong hand clasped his head pressing it cautiously against a tight warmness. A steady deep sound thrummed against his ear, his cheek. And constant rushing of wind came from the same depth. A strong, living energy cradled him, surrounded him. He relaxed into it. His breath slowed, evened and smothered the pain a bit. There Leyth realized that arms were around him, hugging him firmly against a taut body. He realized that the rushing sound was not the wind, but breath that came in strong rhythmical pushes. And he was nestled against the vibrations of a beating heart.

But then he was overwhelmed again.

Sensation faded….

…Surging from the depths of oblivion, Leyth blinked, trying to focus on the sharp, bright face above him. He could not keep his eyes open for long, for the throbbing beneath his temples made everything difficult. Especially thinking.

Above him was…the elf.

For a moment, Leyth stopped breathing.

That elf!

It was as though he glowed. The torment swept far away, becoming a constant but distant pulsation and, transfixed, Leyth perceived the elf's words in a voice that was deep and sonorous.

"One day, he will see his mother again."

He said it with a vehemence such that it was as if he intended to make sure of it, as if anything else would shatter the proud being. His face was serious, determined, his lips perfectly shaped but Leyth noticed that they were quivering ever so slightly as he spoke. In his eyes, there was the sharp glimmer of an unreadable emotion.

Another harsh wave rushed in like the tide, struck him again. Leyth lost focus and everything blurred. But the glow was still there and radiated warmth. Leyth felt firm, gentle hands upon him. He squinted from under his heavy lids. Other faces appeared. More hands joined, shifting him, relieving him of his clothes, holding his head. His head was hurting and his side was sore, a heavy tightness that peaked into a stabbing within his chest every time he inhaled or exhaled. Breathing burned, and it was too much to even try and follow what was happening.

But the elf was there, and his light was powerful, the sound of his voice profound and soft. And Leyth remembered the deep-sounding breath, and the pounding of the elf's heart against him. Was this the same being who had assailed the crew on the ship? The one who had killed Bashir, and barely restrained his fury against Wali and himself? From mere sight, he could have as well been his twin, whose quiet, steady voice had called him back to consciousness. The gentle healer whose calm, strong hands had eased the spasms when the breath had returned to his lungs, who had cared for him when he had lain soaked in a puddle on the wooden planks of the ship. The being with the quiet, strong energy. Though Leyth knew from the forcefulness with which he was held, from the ardent gleam in the eyes of the elf, from the intense heat of the spirit he sensed, that this was not the one who had tended to him back then.

In his memory flickered a battle. He and Wali in the midst of it. This very elf fighting alongside his twin, as savage as a furious beast, with his thirstily gleaming sword bringing death to any enemy crossing blades with him.

Wali! Dear Wali! Where was he?!

Leyth moaned. He could not speak. He could not remember. He focused again on the halo surrounding the elf and on his full lips moving softly, hushing him. There was a painful tightness in his throat that among all the hurts, now was the most torturing. He parted his lips to speak, but no words came.

He tried again and this time, a sob tore from his throat and from it broke a whisper.

"I…m sorry."

Such effort it took to release it! Leyth closed his eyes. He was exhausted. A warm hand came to his cheek, a gentle caress of strong, calloused fingers. His breath eased with the touch.

There was a flapping of canvas, as urgent voices burst in. Then Leyth heard his name from a voice so familiar, so loved and from that voice a moan long retained, escaped with the relief of a sore, hitching breath.

Wali! Dear Wali!

The urgency of the voices grew. Leyth heard the elf above him speak a few elvish words in a tight tone. Another voice, less clipped, answered. The different tongues muddled in Leyth's mind as he tried to grip onto consciousness. But some words in Westron still reached him, slicing deeper than his wounds ever could, as despite his jumbled awareness he still made out their gravity.

Wali! No! Wali! Please live!

Anguish swamped him. There were new hands on his side, on his face. All of him was sore and the touches no longer brought relief. The warmth and the glow were gone, and so Leyth welcomed the darkness that ended his plight.

The healing tents were crowded already, and still more wounded men were carried in. Elrohir followed the instructions of the healer in charge of triage at the edge of the camp, directing the rescue parties returning full-handed to the best-suited tents. He strode through the flaps of one closest to him and lay Leyth down on a mat that was still empty.

One of the healers in presence, a Gondorian with dark hair and grey eyes, followed by a young man who must be his apprentice, hurried over to him. He spoke up as soon as he reached them. "He is a Southron. We treat the ones who fought on the other side in the tent of the prisoners, Sir."

"He is no prisoner, and will be treated here," Elrohir snapped. "Look at him! What threat could he possibly pose, in the state he is?"

The healer gave a curt nod, swallowing, and lowered his eyes in obedience. Without another word, he set to help Elrohir with the inspection of the boy's wounds.

"The head injury worries me," Elrohir commented, "and his side must get cleaned before being stitched, lest it festers. Southron or no, I would have him live." He pierced the two men with an emphasizing stare, so that they both nodded gravely. They would not try to challenge him again.

Leyth looked strikingly young as he lay there, stirring restlessly in his feverish torment. Elrohir was caught by the sight of his slight body when they cut off his clothes. This was a mere boy, and surely not a soldier fit to fight in a battle like the one they just came from. Elrohir swallowed, and his heart lurched.

"One day, he will see his mother again." Those words came from the very depths of his soul.

He had killed in madness for centuries, as if the spurting black blood of the orcs could fill the emptiness left by the loss of his own mother, blind hate bursting from him. He had slaughtered men without a second thought, mere casualties in his outburst. But their deaths only filled the hollow with more despair. Never before had Elrohir realized with such intensity how the void left by his mother had grown into a gaping pit, a desperation swallowing him. This young man, once on the side of the enemy, a young soul, naïve and fiery, and hurt...Elrohir had pressed him close to him, cradled him to his heart.

The care he felt was overwhelming.

The tent flap swatted aside as Dímalagos and Cemmon strode in, carrying a wounded man between them. Their voices kept low for the sake of the patients, they conversed among themselves, dismayed by the dwindling health of their ward.

Wali!

Elrohir startled at the state of the man, wondering how he could still hold onto consciousness. Wali's eyes were wide open, scouring the tent and, as he saw Elrohir, he set his eyes on the boy he was tending to.

"Leyth!" he cried out, and sagged with relief before his body went limp.

"We need a healer, quickly! The blood loss is threatening, and the extent of internal damage is yet unclear." Dímalagos' voice was as stern and controlled as ever despite the urgency. Once again, Elrohir was grateful for having tasked him with retrieving Wali, of all people. Dímalagos might be no healer, but his lifetime as a ranger had taught him more about wounds and their treatment than any teacher or book.

"How he could hold on that long is a puzzle to me." Young Cemmon let out a hitching sigh full of empathy. "Does he even have a chance of making it still?"

Elrohir refused to answer the question. "Lay him down and remove his armour!" he ordered, the clarity of his words contrasting the state of his mind.

With that, he looked down at his young charge, Leyth, and wished he could split himself in two. But he could not, and thus the heavy choice of whom to help first settled upon his shoulders. Elrohir made a quick calculation, tallying the wounds with long-practised detachment.

Cemmon's question was justified; a blood loss must be staunched first and foremost.

"I shall see to him. You two, I leave the boy in your care." Thus, Elrohir entrusted Leyth to the Gondorian healer and his apprentice, certain that if anything else, they knew now full well of the worth of his life.

Nevertheless, it almost tore him apart to leave him as he rushed over to Wali's side, and set to examining the grisly injury that had previously been hidden under fabric and armour. He felt Dímalagos' and Cemmon's expectant eyes on him. He was grateful for the unconsciousness that had claimed the man, for as he took in the open, displaced fracture of his tibia, a hiss escaped him. For all its ugliness, that one had to wait, for the swelling tissues had all but clamped the wound shut. All around him, the tent was quickly filling up, empty cots being claimed and swarmed by harried healers. Elrohir lifted his gaze to the two Dúnedain who still lingered by Wali's bed, regarding each in the eyes, considering how better to use their eager, if unskilled hands. They did not waver in returning his stare, Dímalagos his usual, reliable and calm presence, while young Cemmon had learnt much from his mentor. These two were a good team, and in these circumstances the best he could wish to assist him.

From behind the separation canvas of the surgery area came a commotion of feet and low-kept voices. One much like his own gave out orders about what had to be done with a case of a nearly-severed limb. – Elladan! – His voice was so welcome and familiar, that Elrohir's heart gave a strong, joyous thump at knowing his brother close. But he did not look up from his task as he went on giving further instructions to the two men at his side. No words were needed, for Elladan knew he was close as his soul reached out and entwined with Elrohir's. Elladan's calm power had always managed to placate the agitated twirls of his own mind and smoothed out the wild edges for Elrohir to unfold his potential. His hands, which had been on the verge of trembling moments before, calmed and worked with newfound efficiency. Both hope and grief settled in his heart and in his mind, guiding him in his vehement battle.

This man, who had so much love for a son who was not his…what had brought him onto that ship? What was his story, the burden he carried?

Elrohir cared, and he had so much to give. He fought with the same fury as the one he had shown on the battlefield, for the lives of these men, as if by saving them he would make up for all the slaughter. He knew he could not, and that it would still be a long way towards healing, but at that moment his heart was filled with the worry he held for their lives, and it fuelled him.

They were on a straight and purposeful stride towards the field healing tents. Gimli knew that Aragorn was looking for his brothers and that he intended to take Legolas to the infirmary for an examination. Despite his victorious outcome under nearly impossible odds, his elven friend bore some scratches and cuts which needed treating.

As they reached the field camp, Aragorn exchanged a few words with the triage healer and then headed towards one of the closest tents.

"My brothers are here," he explained. "Please give me directions as to where I can find them."

They passed an area where healers were tending to the more lightly wounded outside, on the very ground, while more tents were still being raised all around them. Gimli concentrated on his friends as he stumped behind them.

"It is nothing!" Legolas was insisting, as Aragorn held up his arm, examining a nasty, bleeding cut to the inside, more tender part, of his biceps, even as they were hurrying along. "Some water and bandage will suffice to fix myself up just enough to join the helpers."

"I heard this from you way too often. I would rather not be forced to join a healer fighting for your life like when you last pretended you were fine." Aragorn retorted.

It was difficult not to look at the wounded milling about the entrance of the camp. To ignore the healers' unending combat, too few as they were in comparison to the numbers of the injured, unable to ease the screams or the silent suffering of the dying in favour of saving the ones who still had a chance to survive.

Aragorn slowed his stride, and then briefly squeezed Legolas' shoulder. Legolas regarded him reassuringly, as he always did. "Go, you are needed." he firmly said, with a tender undertone to his voice. Aragorn nodded and then broke away from his friends. Some paces away two limping soldiers were struggling to carry the weight of an unconscious man to a tent.

"Legolas must get checked for poison!" Aragorn threw over his shoulder. His gaze as he looked back at Gimli was stern, ignoring Legolas' protest. But Gimli, who knew him well, saw guilt and fear flicker in that steely glare.

"I will make sure of that," Gimli grumbled under his breath, intent on supporting Aragorn with all his tenacity. He saw the Dúnadan nodding his head, releasing a deep breath, his eyes filled with trust, before he picked up his pace and ran towards the struggling, injured men.

Gimli turned to continue on their way, but Legolas was taking exaggerated long strides, so Gimli was scurrying, trying to keep up while pointedly looking ahead at the elf, who neither answered nor looked back.

Chapter Text

Paintings on the Walls

"Leyth, come!" Adil waved his hand excitedly, looking down at Leyth with sparkling eyes. The dark circles around his irises seemed filled with bright gold. His face was shining. "You must see this!" he cheered, reaching down his slim hand to help his friend.

Leyth had never been as nimble as Adil at climbing, nor as fast a runner, and never as eager for adventure as his best friend. But he had always loved to follow any of the numerous ideas that crossed Adil's mind. Every day with Adil was a surprise. Laughter was easy on his fine face, and so very infectious. Of the two of them, Leyth had been the quiet and careful one, but with Adil he had learnt to be bold, to not shy away from excitement or exploration. The world was a place with much to discover, and waiting for the two friends to conquer it.

The crevice in the rock was barely broad enough for them to slip through, but one had to climb before getting to it. Leyth needed but a little help from his friend, and then they snuck to the other side, through the long rift that reached upwards and continued like a crack in the ceiling. Sunshine broke through the gap in radiant stripes. They both gasped as a fantastic sight opened to them, as though they had entered another world. Sleek walls, as if washed out by water long gone, surrounded them.

Adil touched his hand to the stone – he always touched everything, and the grown-ups used to scold him for it. Leyth preferred to avoid the chiding, even if that meant keeping his hands to himself – but they were alone here, and so Leyth joined Adil by laying his hand beside his friend's. They watched and touched, mesmerized, stroking lightly over the surface. Adil turned towards him; so close they were, that his breath ghosted over Leyth's cheek while they beamed at each other in marvel and joy for their new discovery.

Strange paintings adorned the smooth walls. Long lines, like waves, trees and tall grasses, and animals on pilgrimage towards a refreshing source.

"A lake!" Adil breathed, eyes wide and staring at the crude painting. "These must be old, Leyth! There must have been a lake and a river rushing to it, right here, long ago. Can you imagine? Rich trees growing along the riverbed!" Adil blinked in wonder. "Can you imagine how it would feel, to jump from a rock or a tree right into the water, and swim?" he fancied, "How much fun it would be!" His voice was full of excitement. "The people living by the water, they can swim. I would love to learn how to swim! Leyth, we could learn together!"

Leyth watched the waves. He felt afraid of the great waters, insecure. But he did not want to disappoint his friend. He swallowed, staring at the lines on the wall, trying to come up with the words to tell Adil about his fears. But then, before he even found the voice to speak, something strange happened.

The lines began to swell and slither on the wall before him, rising and sinking, turning a dark, ravenous blue. His breath caught in his throat; he could not find his voice. The water tugged at his hand, then at his entire body. It wanted to pull him into the wall, rushing and roaring. The pull was powerful, near-impossible to withstand. A too-familiar feeling of panic surged within Leyth's chest. A terrible memory engraved within him, of water all-encompassing, sucking him in, muting everything but the terrible rushing howl, and a crushing sensation of nothingness that was even worse.

But this time it was different. The powers surrounding him shifted. A wind rose and swelled, and he found himself in the midst of nothing but raging air. It was no longer the water but the wind – a storm – that jostled him violently, and stole the breath from his lungs. And yet the water remained in wait.

As they entered the infirmary tent, Gimli was aware that now the challenge began – the one consisting in fulfilling the promise he had made to his friend, the heir of Gondor. He also yearned to appease his own concerns, and get the elf's injuries examined.

But Legolas' attention was already elsewhere. He gave a small gasp and darted away, falling to his knees beside a prone body. Gimli stood still, a frown wrinkling his brow. It would have been too easy if Legolas had just allowed him to have his way, of course, and this squirrel of an elf never just let anything happen the easy way.

Gimli glowered after his friend, growling lowly in discontent. But then came an urgent, hushed cry, from the elf. "Gimli – It is Leyth!"

Gimli's eyes snapped wide and there were no further summons needed for him to scamper over in haste. "Leyth!" he gasped in turn between relief and concern, plopping down to his knees with a heavy thud.

Only then Gimli noticed the young man kneeling beside Leyth's head. In his hand he held a soaked rag which dripped water on the ground, while he gaped at them as if wondering to himself who on Arda they were.

"Do you know him? I-I have to protect him – from anybody who could want vengeance," he said suspiciously, moving even closer to Leyth as if to shield him.

"You have our gratitude, for he is our friend. His name is Leyth." Legolas said.

"Oh. I see." The young man nodded and blushed, as Legolas regarded him for a moment. Gimli knew how confusing Legolas' stare could be for one who did not know him. But the young man blinked bravely, resisting.

"Please, may I…?" Without waiting for a response, Legolas took the wet cloth from the astonished young man, and laid the cool compress on Leyth's sweat-beaded brow with careful tenderness. The young healer seamed overwrought and Gimli could not say if it was confusion or relief that showed on his face about the pair of them dropping into his healing work.

An older healer with dark, silver-streaked hair joined them. He checked Leyth's pulse, and then his temperature by laying a sure hand against his skin. He lifted the blanket to check the bandages covering his ribs. That done, he looked up to Gimli and Legolas as if acknowledging them only just then, but his narrowed eyes betrayed that he had been watching them from afar.

"He is stable for now, although the fever is still high." He sighed. "I expect the medication should soon show effect. Keep on with the cooling compresses, Abrâzan. It is essential that his temperature does not rise any further."

His eyes then caught on Legolas, scanning him from head to toe in a mere second, and then briefly resting on his injured arm. He seemed to hesitate, parting his lips as if to say something.

A mask of impassiveness flicked over the elf's face, as if for a moment he became a being of another world. Distant, untouchable, forbidding. He must have learned that from his father, Gimli thought, for the sight matched his own father's description of the famed Elvenking.

The healer averted his eyes and turned around, summoning the young healer to him. They stepped aside towards the table where the medical supplies and pots of water were held. Explaining something to the young man, he placed a mug in his hands and nodded toward Leyth's bed. Abrâzan returned swiftly.

"If he can drink this, it will keep him hydrated and sustain him in fighting off the infection. We tried before, but he would not swallow. Perhaps from you he will take it. The Lord Elf – I mean that one of them with the dark hair – has commanded he must live," he added anxiously. "I have much hope for him, but how can I grant such a thing?!" he said, as though relieved he could speak of his burden.

That one of them with the dark hair must have had a terrifying effect on the poor lad. Gimli knew at once which elf matched the description.

"You are accomplishing your task with dedication," he patted the young man's back reassuringly. "I am Gimli, son of Glóin. Some familiarity cannot harm, given the circumstances."

The young healer nodded at Gimli, wide eyes full of gratitude. "My name is Abrazân," he offered readily. "But you may have heard as much already."

Legolas did not speak. He did not seem to listen at all, entirely focused as he was on Leyth.

Gimli, loaded with more than one worry, looked around for help. There, in the corner, bent in concentration over his healing work, he spotted one of them with the dark hair, his long, raven mane pulled back into a high ponytail.

Finding the healer-elf in their proximity brought meagre relief to Gimli, however, for he was well aware that Legolas' injury was minor compared to those of the men surrounding them, and knew therefore that the chance to bring his friend before a healer's expert eye shrunk considerably, even more with Legolas' reluctance to accept any offer of such precious time for himself.

In that moment the son of Elrond lifted his head and looked in their direction. His silver-grey gaze lit up gently, and he slanted over a tired smile, happy to see them well, before he bent to his task again. Gimli knew then it was Elladan.

He heaved a sigh of resignation.

That must have attracted Legolas' attention, because his eyes suddenly latched on Gimli, blue and wide and filled with worry.

"Gimli! Are you well?" he asked in alarm.

Gimli frowned. "Of course I am well! We did not come here for me, remember?"

Legolas deflated, obviously relieved, and deliberately ignored Gimli's question. Instead he turned his attention to Abrâzan, who was busy renewing Leyth's cooling compresses.

"I am Legolas, from the Woodland Realm," he informed calmly, the corners of his lips curving upwards in a gentle smile. "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Abrazân."

Gimli's eyebrows shot upwards. He could, by the best of wills, not keep up with this display of squirrelly mind-hopping. While before Legolas had seemed to be floating on some foaming wave far away from the present, against all appearance he had been well aware of the conversation, and had unexpectedly picked up on his missed introduction at a completely random moment. As if time and the order of things were running another course for him. He never failed to plunge anyone with practical thought into confusion. Or had it been a calculated diversion, meant to put Gimli's fussing off?

Leyth snatched their concentration back onto him for he suddenly twitched and tossed in his sleep and his small, huffing breaths quickened.

"Easy, lad, we are here with you!"

"Breathe, just breathe slowly".

They were all worry and concern, and caring hands wanting to help.

Leyth heard voices. One was booming, yet in its own way – "booming" with gentleness, if this was an expression that could fit how it felt. The other was soft and calm, with a musical lilt. With all his heart he reached out for them, wanting to keep them close, for they spoke of comfort. But despite his efforts they slipped further and further away, quickly fading until they lost completely.

Leyth found himself once more alone, struggling to hear anything above the onslaught of the storm and the howling of the wind. He stared at the waves as they melted out of the stone before him. Dark ships materialized. At first, they seemed to be mere paintings on the wall, but then they grew huge and, like the water, loomed at him like lumbering beasts. They rushed towards him and, still, he could not move. Closer and closer they surged, picking up speed. Soon they would crush him.

Leyth wanted to scream.

On the brink of his own obliteration, he realized that he was standing on a deck adorned with human bones and empty skulls. There were carvings in the dark wood of the masts, grotesque grimaces of fell beasts, orcs and demons, as though trapped inside; all the terrible creatures Leyth had imagined while sitting around a campfire, immersed in sharing scary tales with his friends. Adil had been the best storyteller of them all, summoning the most grotesque creatures for the sake of that delicious thrill of dread shivering along their tiny, secure circle.

But now, no friends were sitting or sprawling around him. No children's eyes shone with excitement, no cosy fire warmed his skin. The sea boiled with a storm, raging mercilessly all around.

Leyth reached out to grab Adil's hand, but was startled to find himself alone. Adil had vanished. The absence hit Leyth like a stone. He felt such loss, such loneliness, as though a bond which had always been there had been severed, leaving a deep pit of nothingness that was sucking him down into its gaping mouth.

In that moment of horror, as he was about to plummet, all hold lost, something he could neither see nor name came to save him, preventing him to fall into the abyss. A warmth laid itself around his shoulders like an embrace. It helped withstanding the misery tearing every fibre of his being apart.

Legolas began humming a soft melody. Very slowly and with the utmost care, as if Leyth could break, he slid his good arm under the young man's neck and shoulders and, holding the head with the other hand, he gently lifted Leyth's upper body. Gimli took the mug offered to him by Abrazân. He began talking encouraging words to Leyth in a low but insistent voice. To his delight, their young friend parted his lips, accepting what was given to him, and swallowed. Two, three tiny sips, and then he coughed and moaned as if it had been a great effort.

"Good lad," Gimli muttered fondly as they laid him slowly back down.

After that small achievement, Gimli scanned the tent again. Elladan still was absorbed in his life-saving work, and Gimli wondered where his brother was. He surmised that the twin-elf must be somewhere close, if Abrazân was to be believed.

Allowing them no break in their worry for him, Leyth's breaths became harsh, and he made attempts to turn. He flailed with his arms as they tried to calm him.

"He will tear his stitches, if he keeps up like this!" warned the young healer in alarm, while attempting to hold him still. Gimli and Legolas immediately lent their support.

What kind of horror was his tormented mind putting the poor lad through, to make him struggle so hard against the hands that wanted to help him? Gimli's heart stung with pity at hearing him gasp and cry out in panic, while they tried their best to restrain him without hurting him further.

The sharp crack of a whip lashed through the storm. Adil's voice resounded from afar in a broken scream.

"Adil!" Leyth called out.

The whip cracked again. Biting, harsh.

Another scream tore through the storm, strident and desperate.

Tears were now streaming down Leyth's cheeks.

The ships rose like black silhouettes – bloated before a grey, murky sky of either dusk or dawn. Flames soared from the river. Leyth stumbled on muddy ground, his feet heavy as the mud clutched them fast, sucking him down with smacking sounds. Sweat beaded on his brow with the effort to keep going.

"Adil!" he cried, "Adil!"

The ship from which Adil's voice had sounded from was on fire. Flames taller than Leyth had ever seen, like the great tongues of a giant monster, licked hungrily upwards.

Leyth climbed up into the smoke. His hands grasped for purchase, his feet scrambled to get whatever hold available. His joints were hurting, burning from the strain. He clambered over the railing, collapsing upon the ragged wood of the planks. He could not breathe, for the smoke was acrid and charred him from within. A storm of blazing heat, like a persistent explosion, throbbed in his head, numbing his ears. Sweat poured down his temples. His whole body was damp with it.

"Adil!"

There, in the smoke creeping along the planks, Adil stood, postured for a fight. His once wiry form was still slim, but had hardened and changed to that of a youngling used to hard work. Broad shoulders held tense, a curved knife hefted firm in his hand, while in front of him towered the captain of the ship – his tormentor for many weeks.

"Adil! Adil!" Leyth cried, again and again.

But Adil did not hear him. The huge black-bearded man stood bulky and inescapable above him.

"Adil!" Leyth tried again. This time, he could not hear his own voice.

Adil approached the broad man. His eyes flashed dangerously, fearless, like those of a wild animal released from its cage with nothing to lose but its regained freedom.

Then, as though something had snapped inside him, Adil pounced. His knife speared the man in the stomach, and twisted. A groan died down to a gurgle as the man sunk to the ground. Adil stood, stunned and unarmed, his knife now lost under the fallen body.

Leyth stared numbly. He could not feel his own body, or process any clear thought. It was as if time had impossibly slowed, and his movements were heavy and sluggish against the stagnant mass of smoke. He tried to push himself up, to creep forward.

Suddenly a green-gold light – or was it a song? – pierced through the grey swathes. It pulled at his heart with a bittersweet quality, like the sun lighting his father's face, or the warmth of his arms around Leyth before he left. The voice of his mother as she sang him a lullaby, drying his tears when he could not find sleep even when there was no one to prevent her own tears from falling. Immersed in that green-gold light he could see Adil and himself under the shade of the acacia trees back home. His friend's eyes were bright with laughter, his cocky grin lighting them with a spark of mischief. Their hands joined, their children's voices ringing clear. That golden smile could never be quenched completely; not by all the pain, the losses, nor by all the hardships of their dried out and enslaved homeland. That golden light in Adil's eyes had never been extinguished…until the day they had been parted, and Adil hat set foot onto that accursed ship.

Leyth's feverish sleep allowed no rest; not to him, nor to the ones tending to him. But at least he was no longer thrashing as violently.

Legolas was humming that sweet, melancholic melody that Gimli suspected was as soothing to the boy as it was to himself. Much to Gimli's concern, the elf seemed strangely distant, and his eyes were like water, a fluid blue-green as if the sea reflected in them.

Abrazân washed Leyth's brow and heated limbs relentlessly, and Gimli rubbed small circles into the palm of his hand.

From time to time the entrance flap was swatted aside for a new patient to be carried in. Gimli looked up and, every time, he hoped this would be the last of the injured. Around them, the healers had a hard time keeping up with the number of wounded brought into their custody.

After what felt like hours, the flow of new arrivals ceased. When the canvas was parted once more, it was Aragorn who appeared, wild and dishevelled, but with such a presence that many a healer and patient turned to take in the sight of him as he stood, tall and unwavering, at the entrance. His grey eyes were intense with emotions raging in them. He let them sweep through the tent, and then he strode straight to Elladan, who was bent over a man he was tending to, close to the entrance. They exchanged greetings and spoke hushed words in what must be Sindarin, for Gimli did not catch their meaning.

Aragorn then glanced anxiously towards Legolas, who did not react as his song seemed to absorb him entirely. He caught Gimli's eye, and was making his way towards them just as in a sudden, unwelcome burst, new voices exploded outside. Loud, hastened and heavy with worry. A group of men appeared, some carried or supported by others, most of whom were injured themselves. A few healers rushed over, ready to lend them their aid. Others laid out blankets on the ground to provide for more sickbeds.

"There has been a revolt on one of the ships...the corsairs…." One spoke up, his voice quavering with agitation.

One man carried a boy of Southron origin – if the hue of his skin was to be believed – in his arms, and was calling for help, frantically, as if unaware of the uproar he was causing. A flushed apprentice approached him and led him quickly to the last free cot. Gimli got a sight of the trembling body he carried as they came close, and even he, a hardened warrior, found himself staring in horror, his stomach twisting.

The young one's belly had been sliced open. Jagged wounds yawning like a lipless mouth where the boy's and the man's blood-slick hands desperately clamped on. The white tip of a rib was sticking out like a fang. Blood welling up from the gashes had soaked his torn clothes, and those of the man carrying him. Yet, that was not what shocked Gimli the most. The poor boy was still conscious, his eyes blown wide with fear, his bronze skin – where it was not cut or stained crimson – was dull and clammy. He was ranting in a foreign tongue. His big, hurting black eyes slid over Gimli, and the anguish in them burned into his heart without mercy. His stare caught on where Gimli rested his hand upon Leyth. He became agitated, crying out, and gulping for breath. He whimpered pained words and, for a moment, Gimli thought he had made out a syllable that sounded much like "Leyth" – or had he misheard?

Legolas snapped his head up and stopped humming. He sucked in a deep breath, while his eyes fluttered closed, his long lashes casting dark shades on his pale features; much too pale and drawn for Gimli's liking. He knew, then, he had not misheard.

As Legolas opened his eyes, they revealed a sea in turmoil. Slowly, quietly, his gaze drifted back to Leyth, absent and pensive. Lost, thought Gimli.

Aragorn was immediately snatched by the urgency. He called over to Elladan in elvish, in a grim, pressing tone. The raven-haired elf's head whipped around at that, assessing Aragorn's dismay and request, catching the seriousness of the situation. He gave an abrupt nod, throwing back a curt answer in the same tongue.

An attentive assistant rushed over with a bucket of water, soap and fresh linens. Aragorn washed his hands with quick, practised motions just as Elladan reached him, another healer having taken the elf's place by the patient he had been tending to. The space dedicated to surgery was fully occupied, so they had to make do with the means available. A wooden table was hurriedly cleared and brought over. They laid the gravely wounded youngster on it. The man who had carried him did not budge from his side, so that Gimli could not see much of the boy.

"He rebelled against his own captain, he saved me," Gimli heard the man's voice croak. He sounded broken, like a father of a dying son.

The golden-green light had been devoured by the fire on the ship. Shouts melted from the noise, along with shapes of battling figures, like shades, barely recognizable in the smoke. Leyth could only make out Adil as he stared back at Leyth. There was the dullness in his eyes of one who had lost all hope. A bottomless sadness tore Leyth's heart apart. He had to help his friend, whom he loved like a brother. He had to get to him, let him know he was not alone, and give him the strength to fight on.

Leyth needed to run, to reach him, but he had no control over his body. He could not move from the spot. He could not move at all. He wanted to shout, but his throat was dry, scorched.

The smoke pressed in on him like tar, creeping around his legs, his arms, his neck. It forced its tentacles into his mouth and down his throat, clamping it closed, choking him. He could not swallow, he could not move, he could not…breathe.

The tightening pressure on his hand, where Leyth's fingers now squeezed with tremendous force despite his weakened state, directed Gimli's focus back to their young patient. Leyth twitched, and his eyelids fluttered. He opened his lips to say something. But all he managed were gulps for air like a fish out of water. And then finally, a thin voice made its way through his lips, "Aaa…Aaad…iii..." he whimpered, again and again, and there was a terrible despair in the sound of it.

Gimli patted his hand. He wished he could do so much more, but he was at a loss. It was a torment to see his young friend suffering while being unable to help him. Leyth opened his lips again and, with great effort, he uttered something between a moan and a whisper which Gimli did not understand.

Having experienced how Legolas' voice had been effectively helping just before, Gimli now went for a deep tenor, low vibrations like a soft echo resounding in a cavern. His own voice grounded him, and he hoped it would have the same effect on the youngling. Leyth whimpered again and then sobbed, moving his lips as though wanting to speak. Legolas leaned down as if to listen, with such grief and forlornness in his eyes. Gimli hummed on that deep, familiar underground tone to steady himself and, hopefully, the boy as well. Maybe, he mused – he hoped – it would also reach Legolas, and bring him back from where he had strayed.

Aragorn's and Elladan's voices cut through to him, tight with suppressed gravity, as he knew they worked in what must be a desperate attempt to save the boy with their skills combined.

Legolas was stroking Leyth's hair, whispering words in that same elf-tongue, as if talking to both himself and the boy. He did not seem concerned that Leyth might not understand his language, as if words carried less meaning than their music.

Helplessly paralyzed, Leyth had to watch the grey shapes lash into Adil out of the thickening smoke., They cut into him, as sharp as pointed steel. Leyth watched Adil fall. Hot tears escaped his burning eyes, searing his heat-flushed cheeks. The shapes thrust down at Adil as he lay on the ground. His screams soared from the noise, growing unbearably loud before they suddenly – dreadfully – died out, leaving a gaping void.

Aragorn's and Elladan's voices had changed in tone. They had shifted from the clipped practicality of healers at work to a timbre of dull resignation. Gimli's heart fell.

"Do you know his name?" Gimli heard Aragorn ask the man over his deep, reverberating hum.

"Adil," the man said. "His name is Adil–" His voice broke. "He rebelled against his own captain. If he had not, by now I would be slaughtered. He saved my life. I owe him everything."

Aragorn regarded the man with a look that bore both grief and concern. He slowly shook his head. "I am so sorry, then, that we have to let him join his forefathers. He is beyond our help."

The man did not respond. From behind, Gimli saw his shoulders shake as sobs tore through him. Aragorn cleaned his hands and then clasped the man's shoulder, rubbing it soothingly until his sorrow subsided.

Leyth cried out in despair, but still he had no voice. He was suffocating on his own muteness.

He wept and screamed voicelessly while the shapeless fog was all over him, crowding in on him in thick swathes like the tentacles of a giant octopus.

There was no space…no space…no space to move…no space…no space to breathe, no space to even be! It was crushing, maddening…a feeling like the end of all things. And Adil's lost gaze, his lifeless, broken form were dissolving in a blurred, grey cloud.

Chapter Text

Bonds of friendship

Gimli drifted in a dejected, dreamlike state, jostled by the bustle in the infirmary and the familiar voices of his dear friends and the sons of Elrond. Legolas had helped moving Adil to lie beside Leyth. Gimli could not understand the words the elves and Aragorn spoke into the silence of their circle; they ghosted around him, husky and solemn accompanying the fate of a young one who would soon breathe his last far from his homeland. Only the word "mellyn" Gimli discerned when it caught in Legolas' throat, before rolling from his tongue like the sad note of a bittersweet song.

Elladan was talking softly to Adil, while he pulled up a blanket over his shaking body, tucking him in up to his chin, as a parent would do for his child as they lulled him into sleep.

The soft, lilting sounds of Elladan's words joined the vibrations of Gimli's own, deep hum he kept up persistently like a litany, in an effort to anchor both himself and their young, ailing friend he was tending, for Leyth was violently wrought by fitful dreams. Under his closed lids, his eyes were moving restlessly.

Gimli felt Legolas' quiet presence beside him, like a halo of warmth emanating from him. His elven friend reached out with the utmost care, cupping both the boys' hands, joining them. Leyth's fingers closed around the shaking hand of his dying friend, and as they lay like this, hand in hand, Leyth calmed in his sleep. Adil was sedated and shivering weakly. The thin blanket over his chest barely quivered with his small rattling breaths.

They all stared at the two young ones united in this farewell beyond their awareness; a last moment of friendship bargained from death. Gimli's voice had stilled with the pressure that grew in his throat. His eyes stung with the cruelty of the tender image before him.

Suddenly, slicing through the deceptive peace, a cry tore from Leyth, a deep wail of despair and sorrow which gave Gimli a chill, freezing his heart and then shattering it in agony. Adil had stopped breathing.

Oh, how Gimli needed to feel the heat of the forge deep in the mountains in that moment! But he could not find his voice again to evoke the energy of stone and fire. Through the blur of the tears he was fighting to keep back, Gimli observed Legolas stroking strong, slender fingers through Leyth's dark curls, repeating the movement until the boy's ragged breathing slowed to a calmer rhythm. He murmured something soft in his language, a prayer maybe, that stirred up in Gimli the image of sunshine on bright green spring leaves, ephemeral and delicate as they stirred in the breeze. Legolas let out a hitching sigh, like the wind had now stilled. Soft and hoarse, he breathed, "I am deeply sorry for your loss, young one." And he pressed his hand to his heart.

Gimli, shaken by Leyth's heart-tearing scream, looked up at Legolas, searching for comfort. In the elf's eyes tears shimmered in patterns of fluid light breaking through shards of cracked, blue-green glass. In that moment his friend appeared as a being of another world, strange and familiar alike, and the lump that had formed in Gimli's throat overwhelmed him, releasing into deepest sadness as his tears slipped down his cheeks into his beard.

Adil lay still. He looked so young, like a child forever asleep. His face was unmarred – peaceful. Only the dark circles under his long lashes, and the dullness of his bronze skin, betrayed the suffering preceding his passing.

Legolas glanced over at Aragorn, blinking against the moistness in his eyes. Gimli perceived the energy of the connection between the man and the elf vividly, as though a fine ribbon spun out of particles of light was drifting between them. Gimli saw it clearly then: a golden shimmer reaching out from the elf towards Aragorn, blending into silver as it touched the King. Aragorn ran a hand over his brow, exhaling a hitching breath. Their eyes met and held for a while. It was almost like a physical contact. It was, to Gimli, as if the silver-gold thread, misty and shimmery as it was, grew in brightness. He blinked, and shook his head brusquely, trying to get rid of a madness, or a deception. He murmured Aulë's name into his beard to berate himself. What was happening to him?

Legolas' strong hand was on his shoulder in a firm, soothing hold. And Aragorn gave him a sympathetic nod, regarding him with such friendship Gimli got all warm around his heart.

He had not slept for two entire days and one night, and was now awake through a second, here was what! He was beginning to hallucinate, and the aftermath of the battle was taking its toll on him. Though, perhaps, it was not just the battle. Throughout his lifetime Gimli had endured many fights, but the emotions now threading around him were too many and too great to sort in his present state. There was an intensity in the air, threads of feelings wafting on silent melodies, laments that only the heart perceived. The fragility of life and the agony of loss laid out inescapably before him, keen and raw. The fear of losing the ones he loved most threatened to overwhelm him. With great effort, he managed to remind himself of the steadfastness of stone, willing himself to imagine hard rock surrounding him, the heat of the furnace and the clang of a hammer shaping metal into a useful work of art, grounding him. He had to regain control.

Somewhere at the rim of his awareness, Elladan carefully unclasped Leyth's hand from his grip on Adil's. Legolas wrapped Leyth's cramping fingers in his own, while Aragorn and Elladan pulled the blanket over Adil's still face and, with the help of the man who had never left the boy's side, carried him out of Gimli's sight.

Gimli swallowed the tears which were hovering in his eyes and patted Legolas' arm. "How are you coping, lad?" he asked, forcing a sober tone to his voice.

Legolas took a deep breath. His own tears precariously held in check, he murmured: "I'm greatly affected by Leyth's loss. Adil was his brother of the heart. Their song has woven their story into the melody of my own. The grief is so near, I do not yet have words to describe it." Then he rose tall beside him. "Would you stay with him, Gimli?" he said. "I must speak with Aragorn."

Gimli nodded wordlessly, holding now both Leyth's hands in his own. The boy was still. Too still, thought Gimli, alarmed. He checked the young man's pulse, feeling relief when he found it strong and steady.

Legolas reached Aragorn in a few long steps. Gimli watched from his vigil beside Leyth as he briefly clasped his uninjured arm with Aragorn's. The two were not speaking and, for a bat of an eyelid, Gimli thought he could see that silver-gold thread entwining around their clasped limbs.

He lowered his eyes to where his hand was caressing Leyth's. He was so tired…he needed to sleep.

Gimli might have dozed off for a few breaths, for when he blinked again, there were the twin sons of Elrond engaged in a hurried conversation with Aragorn and some of the healers. Legolas was back with him at Leyth's bedside. As the discussion seemed to have come to an agreement, Aragorn came over to Gimli, accompanied by one of the elven twins. He looked overwrought, thought Gimli. He needed sleep as direly as he did.

"How are you, lad?" Gimli slurred between wakefulness and sleep, squinting up at the ranger-become-king.

"I am still alive, my friend, and that must be enough for the moment," Aragorn attempted a smile.

Gimli was made to move back from Leyth as Elrohir began to examine the boy in grim concentration. When he was done, the elf nodded, the serious look never leaving his features. "He is strong, and the healers here are doing a good work." He looked approvingly at Abrazân, who had returned to his patient's side. The healer's face lit up with pleasure, and he blushed self-consciously at the compliment.

"I must return to the Healing Houses of Minas Tirith with my brothers." Aragorn lowered his gaze, and bit down hard on his lower lip. "For many who lie there as well, we are the only hope." He shook his head tiredly, as if that responsibility was a weight too heavy to carry. "Some of the worse wounded who can yet be moved will come with us. Leyth and Wali will stay here." He heaved a weary sigh. "Resentment against those connected to the Enemy might be great in the city. I would not want to endanger their lives, or even expose them to scorn." He clasped both Legolas' and Gimli's shoulders as if to reassure them, laying his gaze onto Leyth. "They will be well treated here. Stay at their side for the night. The closeness and care of friends in these critical hours of their recovery will do them well, as much as it will settle your own hearts."

Gimli shrugged himself awake. "Wali? You said…Wali? He is here? He lives?" His heart filled with hope and concern.

Elrohir and two of the Dúnedain appeared, carrying a litter. The man lying upon it was wrapped in bandages around his stomach, and his right leg was tied to a splint. Elrohir gave the rangers directions and they lay Wali close to Leyth. Despite his dark complexion, the man was so pale that it looked like all his blood had been drained from his body.

"He lost much blood…" Elrohir said, while further instructing the elder healer on the current state of the patient. The healer nodded, confident about the task he was taking over.

Gimli was taken aback at how exhausted the vigorous warrior-son of Elrond appeared. But his own heart was overflown with bittersweet joy, for Wali was still with them.

Soon the sons of the Hidden Valley were ready to leave. The twin elves flanked Aragorn, both supportive of their little brother now grown to a leader fulfilling his destiny. There was an emotional gleam in Elladan's eyes, while Elrohir, the grimmer one of the two, had looked at his young foster brother – the worthy king of men, his friend, thought Gimli with a jab of pride – with a fondness, like he would have liked to ruffle that tousled dark hair even further in a display of affection. To have them at his side seemed to bolster Aragorn's confidence, as if his burden grew lighter with having them close.

Yet, Gimli could not forget how tense his friend had become, right before leaving, and how insistently he had spoken to the healer in charge. How sternly he had held the man's gaze, and how the healer had nodded emphatically, in an effort to reassure him. Aragorn looked relieved about the firm reassurance the healer gave him, he had patted him on the shoulder in a companionable gesture, before leaving the tent together with the twins.

However determined he seemed, Gimli thought, that healer did not know to what he stepped into with his promise. After checking on Wali, he had gone straight to Legolas.

"My Lord, if you permit, I would examine your wounds and have them treated."

But Legolas dismissed him quickly, "My injury is not worthy of stealing your time from those who truly need it. It is a mere scratch. I can tend to it by myself."

Gimli could tell, the healer had not expected such prompt refusal. One of his eyebrows shot upwards, as if keen to argue. But then he seemed to think better of it.

"Well, as you wish. I will have a kit with healing utensils brought to you. Make good use of it, and if you need help, just ask." Gimli was impressed by his calm nerves and his firm, yet unintrusive presence.

Legolas gave a curt nod and turned away from the man, busying himself with carefully detaching the fabric of his sleeve from his arm, where the clotted blood stuck it to his skin and injured flesh. When it was loose, he took one of his daggers from his belt, dealt one well-placed cut to the fabric of the already sliced and blood-stained sleeve of his shirt, before all but tearing it off with a sharp rip. Fresh blood seeped from the deeper cut in his biceps, and Legolas pressed a compress of linen onto it.

Gimli observed him suspiciously as he was working, washing his wounds and stilling the bleeding. The cut in his biceps was deep and it needed sewing.

Gimli observed his friend's self-treatment from the corner of his eyes. He would have liked to have an expert check it for poison. It had been inflicted by an orcish weapon after all. But he dared not open his mouth, and decided to rely on the healer's attitude, and the effect it could still have on his friend. He knew Legolas could be unrelenting in his stubbornness, and maybe he might rather give in to the healer's discrete offer for help if Gimli would not pressure him.

Legolas scrutinized the cut repeatedly, in between the pressure he was putting on it. He shot a glance up at Gimli, as if he had felt his stare on him. Gimli averted his eyes, caught staring a bit too obviously than he had intended to. He mumbled into his beard, scolding himself for his clumsiness.

For a while, Legolas regarded him with slightly narrowed eyes. Gimli could feel his piercing stare almost physically, even as he had dropped his own gaze to the ground. And as their eyes met again, the elf's were soft, and he heaved a resigned sigh.

Legolas sat still for a while, holding his arm, and when the healer passed close by, he lifted a hand to call him over. The man approached the elf calmly, his eyes flicking onto Legolas' sleeveless arm.

"If you could…" Legolas lowered his eyes, another sigh escaping him, "…just have a look to ensure there is no poison, and then place a few stitches, I am sure my friends would be much more at peace."

"Of course, my Lord. I'm sure they will be." The healer nodded, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

And so, Legolas let him do his work on him. During the entire procedure, he did not flinch. He pursed his lips, looking at Gimli and then scanning the movements going on in the infirmary. As soon as the last stitch was placed, Legolas pulled away.

"You have my gratitude, and now you can no longer bother yourself with me. I can manage from here on."

He fumbled with the bandages one-handed. Gimli barely resisted the impulse to offer his help, but then Legolas' long fingers quickly caught up with the practice of a seasoned warrior well-used to basic field treatment. Gimli settled to watch him wrap the gauze neatly around his arm to protect his injury.

"So, this is fixed!" Legolas stated, quite satisfied with himself.

Gimli huffed a relieved breath. He was beyond grateful that Legolas had been sensible this time, and if not for his own peace of heart, at least, he had done it for his friends. Gimli did not say anything again on the matter, instead, he changed the subject to a more playful and reassuring topic.

"So? How many?"

"How many what?"

"Orcs, of course! What else?" Gimli mumbled.

Legolas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I lost count, Gimli, I truly have. I was alone, and their numbers were too large."

"Hmmm. I feared so!" Gimli admitted, grumbling. "But let us not speak of it again, and start all over from beginning," he offered generously.

Legolas looked at him in surprise, blinking rapidly and frowning, as if he had not heard him well. At first, he said nothing, and so Gimli lowered his gaze to Leyth's hand he was holding, stroking it gently. But then he heard the elf muttering something about dwarves and their outrageous cheating habits.

That did not sit well with Gimli, and he snapped his head up, an appropriate retort at the ready…but before he could drop it, his friend tilted his head to the side, smiling sweetly and cutting him off: "Sleep, Gimli! Do you think I did not notice you nodding away several times already? Now you can give in. How else do you intend to walk all the levels of Minas Tirith up to the Healing Houses, to see Merry and Pippin tomorrow? You would collapse midway, and I would have to carry you." He frowned, pulling his fine eyebrows together, as if in true worry. "Our dear hobbits would then tease you to no end. And they would have my help, you can be sure of it!" There was the familiar and oh-so-reassuring glint of mischief in his eyes, as if everything would be well again.

Gimli grunted something unintelligible even to himself, and later would not remember anything further from this exchange. He only remembered that he dreamt of Merry and Pippin, and of Legolas. Of their eager mischief, and their eyes filled with laughter.

In his dream, Legolas was short as a hobbit and had big, hairy feet.

He dreamt also of silver, gold and bronze ribbons entwining around Aragorn and Legolas and himself. They were soft and fluffy, and glittering. Legolas was tall again, as they all embraced, and Gimli reached only up to their waists. Legolas' feet were hairless once more, Gimli realized as he looked down their legs. Beside his and Aragorn's booted ones, the elf's toes were bare, elegantly lean and pale between the lush grass.

Chapter Text

Heat and despair tormented his body, consuming every part of him. Leyth wanted to cry, to scream, but he found he was numb, paralyzed, trapped inside his battered body. A hand came to lay in his own. There was a semblance of warmth, barely there, almost gone, and he grabbed the hand, wanting to hold on to the warmth, to life. He held on fast to that familiar touch: the light of the sun, the sensation of home, the memory of laughter and games, of family, and love…but as much as he squeezed, desperately holding onto it, it was slipping away. Fingers too fragile barely brushed his, growing more and more insubstantial, the warmth draining away. The loving touch abandoned him. The sun left. Cold, clammy grey enveloped him, and a terrible sense of loss tore his heart apart…

…And finally, finally he screamed, lending a voice to his grief.

The scent of iron lingered, clinging to his nostrils. The cold water in the bucket numbed his fingers. Aragorn plunged his hands into it, drowning the blood smeared upon them in a manner that bordered on desperate; drowning the death, the suffering. He welcomed the numbness. He longed for it to spread into his arms and to his aching body. He cupped his strong fingers and palms to a vessel and splashed water upon his face, willing to wash the fatigue and the weight of his labour, of the fighting and – most of all – the losses, away. The water slipped easily from his skin, but grief and exhaustion clung to his heart.

The physical effort of battle, and the spiritual combat against the Black Breath, the healing energy that had coursed through his veins and which he had poured into saving so many lives, had left Aragorn drained. Too many had needed him, so that it felt as if there was no more strength left for himself.

"Estel, are you ready?" Elrohir spoke up from behind him. Despite the demand, his voice carried in a low, warm vibration, imbued with care.

Aragorn panted for breath beneath the water that ran down his face. Was he ready? Had he ever been ready for something like this?

He was used to leading, but before Elrohir, he could allow himself to let go of it all.

Sucking in a deep breath, Aragorn dried his face. "It is time to move on, to return to the fields," he declared all the same. His voice came out hoarse, but never hesitant.

"My little brother, the great King," Elrohir said affectionately.

Aragorn ran his fingers through the tousled strands of his hair while turning to find his elven brother standing in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame. Perfect and straight, broad shoulders and chest of a long-trained swordsman.

After so many years, Aragorn could still not help his astonishment and wonder when beholding the perfect stature of the elf standing before him. While his own eyes – he was sure – must show deep, dark circles from lack of sleep and the strain of the last few days, Elrohir's noble, strong features remained smooth and even – a graceful display of unbroken strength. And even as a few strands had come loose from the high, thick ponytail he wore while working on the wounded, his long hair tumbled sleek and perfect down his strong back.

Aragorn had always looked up to his brothers with affection and awe; the same awe he had seen in the eyes of the people of this city when they looked at him.

When he had been younger, he had regarded the twins as invincible heroes, an eternal force to rely on, to trust – as firm, infallible rocks. And with the playful, loving way they had cared for him as a child, they always had meant safety to him, family and warmth.

Home.

As he had grown older, Aragorn had learned to understand, from small gestures, or a fleeting sheen in their eyes, a hunched shoulder, or the slight timbre of weariness in their voices, that they were not as invulnerable as one might believe; that under their armour beat hearts overflowing with emotion. Joys, love and tragedy had carved and moulded their long lives, and whenever they wielded a blade, it all burst out of them in slicing sharpness.

"You have done what was in your power," Elrohir's voice sounded deep and firm.

Aragorn nodded wordlessly, allowing himself this moment to rest, leaning into Elrohir's guidance.

"Let us leave the city and get you some rest, Estel!"

Aragorn sighed, wondering if the people who regarded him with such awe, with such trust as they relied on him, did guess at the vulnerable core their King hid under the façade of a tireless warrior and devoted healer.

Elrohir, as usual, knew to read him.

"After battle, the work in the healing wards is never finished, much less after one of this extent. You have done your part here for now, and soon you will be needed elsewhere." A deep resonance of understanding underlined his strong voice. "We must not tarry long, or the morning will overwhelm us too soon," he warned.

Aragorn knew all of this. He had fought many fights, had led his people through the wilds, had protected the lands to the north all his life. But still, it was good to have Elrohir look out for him. To pause, and allow himself to be led, reassured; to lay his grim readiness down and let himself be carried, just for a moment, before he had to load all of it back up onto his shoulders.

The people of Gondor would rely upon him as their leader for guidance and protection. They would trust him with their lives and those of their families, and with their city, unknowing of the turmoil and pressure of such a responsibility, unaware of his fear to fail them all, to fail his friends, his folk and all the great hopes laid upon him.

But Elrohir, whom any who did not know him saw as a formidable warrior first and foremost, remindful of the great Elven lords of old, knew better than anyone what was going on inside the man he had known since he was a boy. How many times had Elrohir patched up Aragorn's knees, and dried his tears? Aragorn remembered his childhood with fondness, slowly discovering the world in the protection of the hidden valley.

"We will be there as long as you need us."

Aragorn's eyes snapped away from Elrohir, searching the dimly lit corridor for the source of these last, encouraging words. The voice sounded much like Elrohir's, but from the distinctly calm tinge to it, Aragorn knew it to be Elladan's. The second twin approached, standing beside Aragorn with his quiet, strong presence, looking at him from the deep pools of his silver eyes. No words were needed for more warmth to penetrate Aragorn's heart, and from there to spread inside his chest. Elladan poured fresh water into a clean bucket beside Aragorn's, and set to washing his hands in silence. Aragorn stared at the long, elegant fingers as the red stains dissolved, revealing unblemished, pale skin and the sword callouses of a fighter. Aragorn blinked, and lifted his gaze to find Elladan regarding him with a kindness and intensity that spoke volumes of his fondness.

They left the Houses of Healing together, riding down all the levels of Minas Tirith, and leaving the collapsed gate behind, without looking back. Aragorn rode between his elven brothers. Even under the light of the decrescent moon, the white of the city was dimmed by the dark of night.

There was one last thing he must do before seeking rest: ensure that Legolas was safe. To leave him behind injured and not yet properly mended stirred in him a lingering anxiety which now nagged away at him. He remembered too well the last time he had left his friend behind after his injury.

Strong slim fingers curled around his own in a gentle hold. Leyth remembered fear, despair, pain, all of them now muffled to a dull ache in his chest, as if the sensations were of another world. He stared at his hand entwined with the other. The sun kissed their skin, making it glow, soft and sleek like velvet. Warmth expanded into his arm, as if it had entered his veins and joined his blood. It flowed through him and flooded his heart, spreading into every part of his body with every beat, pulsing softly, reaching his mind and his soul, overwhelming the entirety of him with peace.

He turned his face to the side, and was met by Adil's brightest smile.

Oh, Adil's smiles were easy! He knew how to find laughter even in the hardest of times, and the brightness of his gleaming eyes had lightened their hardships more often than not. But this time, Adil's face was like the warmth of sunshine at dawn, and it brought quiet joy into Leyth's troubled heart, even if he did not remember by what.

He had been scared. Leyth remembered as much at the edge of his awareness; his aching limbs, his head throbbing, and the crushing heat burning his body, alternating with ice-cold spikes that made him jolt and shiver. But now the sun was shining, warming him from without and within, illuminating the beloved face of his friend, so smooth and even like it was molten gold. The long grass tickled Leyth's arms as they strode wordlessly through the lush, green land, the likes of which he had never seen before.

The earth here was rich, Leyth thought. They sat down side by side atop the hill in that sea of long grass, their hands still entwined. Adil did not speak, and Leyth wondered briefly why he was so silent, he who was more wont to be chatting away animatedly about all kinds of things that had Leyth listening raptly at times, and laughing at others. But now, there was only silence between and around them. A comfortable quiet, reassuring and calm. There was peace and friendship in it, and words were not needed.

They sat in the grass, holding hands, peering down the hill together. There was water there, wide and deep. Not the sea, but a silent stream meeting with another further away. Trees grew upon the banks, and bushes, and the shores were strewn with great, sleek pebbles. From the hill they had a vast view of the landscape, which revealed more such streams in the distance, running parallel to each other between chunks of land, meeting and splitting again in their slow flow. Between the grass and the trees, blunt stones and simple cottages made of wood and reed were strewn across the land as if they too, had sprouted there as part of nature itself.

It was evening, and the sun hung low already. Boats floated in the water. Fishermen anchored their vessels into flocks against wooden piers, or pulled them onto pebbled shores, unloading their catches of the day. They chatted with one another companionably, and greeted one another as they finished securing their boats, and selling some of their catches to whoever had come to the riverside to get fresh fish for dinner, before they headed towards their nearby homes with their bundles, in groups or in pairs, or sometimes alone.

Leyth watched it all, while marvelling at how beautiful the scenery was; how peaceful fell the golden rays of the sinking sun in the warm evening air. Lost in his slow, placid thoughts, he watched a man bind his boat to a stake. His strong, calm and secure movements reminded him of Wali, the dark, grey-streaked locks much like the hair of his friend. And as the man turned, Leyth's eyes widened.

It was indeed Wali!

Wali stood there before him at the foot of the hill, a broad smile on his face as he exchanged words with the fisherman who had anchored his boat beside his. Together, they carried their catches over the short gangplanks.

Leyth could not believe it.

This was Wali, and he looked happier and more at peace than Leyth had ever seen him before. This is how he must have looked before Leyth had known him, before he had joined the Corsairs; when his family had still been alive, and he was a fisherman by the seaside. This Wali looked as strong as ever, his muscled arms shouldering the sacks and buckets, but Leyth noticed that he was limping ever so slightly.

A young man ran to his aid to take over some of the weight Wali was carrying. He was of slender build, a youngling just come of age, still in his growth but probably used to hard work already if his broad shoulders and sinewy muscles were any sign.

Together, the three of them made their way up a narrow path between the high grasses of the river bank. The young man's dark locks bounced while he walked, or when he looked back at Wali and the other fisherman, cheerfully calling out to them. The elder men chuckled, and Wali hurried along the path in pursuit of the youngling, grinning and laughing as if eager to challenge his young friend, who increased his speed in retaliation. The soft light of the evening sun illuminated the young man's serene face, his skin a dark honey-gold.

Leyth blinked, mesmerized. The young man…was him...Leyth himself!

Baffled, he sought out Adil's gaze, and Adil just nodded to him, quietly smiling. He squeezed Leyth's hand with his strong, slender one, and Leyth squeezed back.

A gesture as utterly natural as breathing.

But after a while Adil let go, uncurling his fingers from around Leyth's. Leyth gasped, and reached out into the air before him to grab hold of his friend, who was now slowly striding away through the sea of high grass.

"No!" Leyth called after him, "Please do not go! Do not leave me alone!"

Leyth wondered if he had said those words aloud, or if they had just resounded in his mind, for it was to him as if he had not opened his mouth at all. Adil paused, and turned around. Even if the sun was now low, Adil's cheeks glowed with a healthy blush, and his eyes were a bright gold, as if another sun shone through them from within.

"Worry not, Leyth! I will be with you on each of your days. I am not leaving." And then he whipped around and ran down the hill, bouncing slightly as he went, in that cheery manner that was his.

He ran down to the path where the three men were walking.

Leyth hugged his knees to his chest. The grass raised high all around him. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and there was a lump in his throat where he felt Adil's absence despite his promise. They had been so close, leg to leg, shoulder to shoulder, side to side. Leyth had felt his body's warmth, his soft breathing, and now there was only an empty spot of pressed grass where Adil had been.

By now, Adil had reached the second Leyth down on the path, and Leyth watched from above as Adil lay a hand upon his shoulder as he fell into step beside him. After a while, that second Leyth paused in his stride, and climbed upon a stone beside the path. He spread out his arms to the wind, and waved at the two fishermen. The wind played with his hair, ruffling his locks, before Adil effortlessly hopped onto that stone and came standing with his friend, his hand on Leyth's shoulder.

Up on the hill, Leyth cried, but his tears were warm on his flushed cheeks, and comfort flooded his heart as he watched himself and Adil standing together once more.

Upon entering the infirmary, the healer Aragorn had entrusted with the trying task of taking care of Legolas noticed him at once. As if he had read Aragorn's mind, he gave him a reassuring nod, his lips curving to a smile that could mean many things, but was enough to make Aragorn breathe out a long-held sigh of relief.

Striding purposefully through the tent, he caught sight of Gimli deeply asleep on a mat at the foot of Leyth's cot, a soft snoring vibrating in the air over him. It was not much longer before Aragorn's eyes fell on Legolas, for his bright, agile form was easy to distinguish. Even as Aragorn sensed something shading his glowing energy, Legolas was up and about, and spotted him immediately. He slid easily between the field cots to meet him, reprimanding Aragorn gently about how terrible he was looking once again.

"I have had my arm checked and tended as you wished. It only needed a few stitches. And now it is my turn to be concerned," he announced triumphantly. "You must sleep, Dúnadan! And I fully expect you to comply, just as I did!" Legolas laughed, but then turned serious once more. "Estel, please, I mean it! Do not make me worry. I cannot endure it right now."

And such a fatigue obscured Legolas' eyes as he pleaded, that Aragorn felt a deep urge to reassure him. "I know my limits, my friend. This weight I will take from you gladly."

Closing his eyes briefly, Legolas sucked in a deep breath. But instead of bringing him relief, the air seemed to hitch and tremble in his chest, and he pressed his lips into a tight line upon releasing it. Aragorn frowned, his brow already creasing with worry, a weight pressing upon his chest again. But then he felt a sudden warmth on his forearm, and he looked down to see Legolas' hand clasped around it, holding him with gentle firmness.

"Worry not, Estel. We are here with you. Always! Your brothers, and Gimli, and myself."

There Legolas paused, his gaze flicking down to the spot where Gimli slept, all four limbs stretched out, a small gap in his slightly shaking beard that was his open mouth. Legolas glanced back at Aragorn, a flash of mirth chasing away the shadow from his eyes as he softly chuckled.

Despite his weariness, Aragorn huffed a laugh. He took a long breath and smiled tiredly.

"Thank you. I cannot find words to express how much that means to me."

Gratitude overflowed his heart for the unbelievable gift he had been blessed with, and he embraced his friend tightly. It was a gesture of a few seconds only, but enough to give Aragorn the strength to let go and retire for what little remained of the night.

He finally reached his tent, almost stumbling in his last steps as he allowed himself to succumb to the deep need to simply lie down, and neither think nor feel anymore, allowing some much-needed rest to his mind and his battered muscles and bones.

Legolas was safe for now, and Gimli sprawled out on the ground, peacefully snoring. His brothers were there, lending their support in the infirmary once more, tireless as they were with their elven bodies. They would wake him as soon as they deemed his presence needed.

Aragorn was the King of Gondor, the long-awaited heir returned, and yet he was only human. He had to allow himself a respite too long neglected. And so he would rest, to pour all his strength into the next battle. The cushions of his sleeping cot seemed to absorb all his troubles and pains. With the feel of Legolas' hand still lingering on his forearm, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Thanks to you all who are still following, for your immense patience and support, be it in the form of comments (which are, of course, my greatest encouragement and reward), but also favs, follows or kudos, it's great to know you're there!

Thanks to Windsurfbabe for beta-reading and making it better. All mistakes are still mine, since I did not resend it after the changes.

I hope you enjoy.

Waking Up

The white canvas of the tent ceiling came first as a blur, and Leyth immediately closed his eyes against the brightness blinding them. He squeezed them forcefully shut, and tried again. This time, he blinked cautiously, and the white above came into sharper relief as his eyes focused. He took a deep breath, which stuttered before he could completely inhale as the movement pulled and pinched at his side. He groaned, and tried to raise his head in confusion. Voices filtered through to him in different timbres, from afar, and from much closer.

"He's waking," the voice right above him said.

Leyth's head was throbbing, and his body was aching all over, heavy and battered. But he needed to see where he was, wanted to know to whom the voice belonged. He squinted until the light became bearable and he recognized shapes. One was right over him, and Leyth focused on it as it became clear. Black hair framing pale skin, and big, grey eyes… A young man a few years older than Leyth, smiling quietly at him.

"How are you feeling, Leyth?"

Leyth frowned, "I–I do not know…."

Who was this? Where was he? And how did this stranger know his name?

Leyth dared not move. He darted his gaze around the tent to gather more information. There were lines of cots with men lying on them – an infirmary. He had been injured. Men moving up and down the alleys, and bent over beds – healers…. The young man over him must be a healer. Of course. He had asked him how he felt.

"I am thirsty," Leyth rasped, almost surprised that his voice somehow still worked.

"Very good," said the young healer, handing him a cup that seemed to have been waiting for him. He helped Leyth lift his head and upper body, and pushed a thick pillow under him, so that he would be able to drink. The movement sent spikes through Leyth's chest, and his skull hammered, wrenching a moan from deep in his throat. The healer apologized before helping him hold the cup. Leyth panted, trying to catch his breath again, until he finally managed to sip at the fluid. The taste spread across his tongue, and he could not stop his face from contorting and his mouth from uttering a dismayed "Bleh…" as his stomach revolted, and he nearly spit the foul potion back out.

"I– meant water!" he whined. Leyth's frustration got the better of him, and he glared at the healer as if he had just tried to poison him. The young healer frowned guiltily, but the slightest smirk quirked the corner of his lip upward. Leyth then realized how his reaction had burst out of him unrestrained.

"Forgive me. You will get water, of course. But first, you must take a few sips of this. It will keep your fever down, and help with the pain. And, as unbelievable as it sounds, it is good for your stomach and will help you to keep the other fluids down."

The lightness of his humour, the care he conveyed with his quiet, grey eyes and the calm sound of his voice, put Leyth somehow at ease despite the foulness of the drink tormenting his palate. He took a deep breath to brace himself and obeyed, schooling his expression into compliance

"You are doing very well!" the healer praised him, smiling encouragingly. "And now, here is the water! I do keep my promises. But take only one sip at a time. By the way, I am Abrazân. It is only fair for you to know my name when I already know yours."

Leyth looked at him, bewildered, trying to make sense of it all, and only nodded. He still could not remember how he had come to be here, and how this Abrazân may have learnt of his name. Digging through in his memory made his head spin and pulse with pain, adding to the incessant throbbing. He leaned back fully into the cushion, exhausted.

His gaze wandered wearily around the tent. From his new perspective – the cushions behind him helping – he caught sight of the man on the cot next to his. He was lying there, very still, a leg splinted under the thin blanket, and a layer of bandages peeking from beneath the cover's edge. This one is in bad shape, Leyth thought. He could not pull his eyes away from the blanket, for he tried to discern whether that man was still breathing.

There was a slight rise and fall of the man's chest. He indeed lived. But his face was too pale despite his swarthy complexion.

Leyth's stomach lurched. "Wali!" he exclaimed.

Images and emotions rained down on him with unrestrained brunt, the memories swamped him in a confused torrent. He had been enraptured by a word…by all the dreams and promises it carried.

Freedom.

Leyth had lost his mind on that ship. That word had made him euphoric, made him disregard all caution. He had acted against his friends' warnings, for a dream worth fighting for.

Freedom!

Leyth had never known battle before. And when he had realized the truth of it, it had been too late.

Shame and guilt pressed in on him. That Wali lay in this dire state was his fault. He had been foolish, and Wali had paid the price. What price was Leyth ready to pay for freedom?

Not Wali's life!

His mind raged. Images came up: of the mighty, black sails, of Adil – his best friend, with his easy smile and his pull towards adventure, which had ultimately led him to a life of suffering on that accursed ship. Was that all worth their dreams?

Leyth's heart was stricken with guilt, for he had not managed to help him.

He remembered his own life with the corsairs: for all the harshness and the hard work, he had never been mistreated. And he had been lucky, because there was Wali, who had become like a father to him when he missed his own.

Wali…who now lay grievously wounded, too still, barely breathing.

Leyth remembered…

...the assault on the ship; the ghosts, the screams, the fear. The raven-haired elves, their features sculpted out of fine ivory. Hard, unforgiving in the process of killing…terrible fiends of war-tales become real. Bashir, slain. The growl of the dwarf-warrior with his great war-axe, standing firm and square...but his earthy brown eyes gentle, and filled with laughter. The lightning-speed of his agile friend, death striking in a swirl of gold and green. The light in his eyes, and the depths of the sea...

Leyth remembered warmth, permeating him as he was pressed against the powerful chest of the elf, the strong heartbeat throbbing against his face, filling his ears and shuddering steadily through his entire body, shielding him with life and safety.

A voice pierced its way through to him.

"Leyth, can you hear me...?"

Freedom. What was its price?!

"Easy…just breathe…"

It was Abrazân, a worried expression upon his face. Leyth felt a hand on his brow and another on his chest. They were warm and comforting. They helped. The pressure crushing his lungs subsided as he breathed more deeply.

"He was brought here in a sorry state shortly after you," Abrazân answered Leyth's unspoken question and his distress both, as if he were reading him like an open book. "The elf who carried you took charge of him and fought with fury for his life. The surgery was successful. He is stable now, and we are confident about his recovery."

Abrazân glanced at Wali with a caring softness in his eyes and, exhaling a cautious breath, he seemed to give way to something pressing him from within. Insecurity, maybe.

"He woke up once and asked about you. We brought him to your side. The closeness might help you both recover." He observed Leyth gently, and paused before his gaze slid back to Wali, quiet and pensive. "We keep him sedated until he is over the worst. He should not be waking for quite a while."

Abrazân's words were calming yet sincere. Leyth drank them all in. And, as he slowly processed their meaning, his breathing eased. Wali was alive, close to him. Leyth wondered how so young a man could have such control in his voice, such maturity speaking through him. Who might have taught him? And what might he have seen already, in his few years in the profession, to mould him like this? It meant that war probably had reached him long before this battle.

Leyth winced at the pulse of pain in his side that reminded him of his own inexperience and rash actions. A groan soaring from the ground pulled him out of his spiralling thoughts. He turned his head just so, so as to not jar his injury again, and saw a bearded face rise beside him. Warm, brown eyes squinted at him, dazedly.

"Good morning, lad," came the voice out of the thick, auburn beard.

Leyth blinked twice in surprise to see the dwarf beside him, still groggy from sleep. He must have slept just there by his side, and the thought was utterly comforting.

"You cannot guess the weight of rock being lifted from my chest to see you awake and looking much better!"

Gimli's voice sounded like stone scraping on stone. Leyth smiled as he felt the warmth it conjured in his heart. "My thanks for you being here, master Gimli!" he rasped, his own voice raw from disuse.

But then, the welcome familiarity of the stout being that had become so close to him in such a short time allowed him to let go, and guilt overtook him again.

Tears shot into his eyes.

"I am sorry! It is all my fault. I should never have…" he gasped, wincing at the lance of agony the movement caused to his injured side. He closed his eyes in shame, before glancing to the cot beside his, where Wali lay.

Gimli followed his gaze. "Shh," he hushed him. "He is alive. You both are. What is past, is past, and you cannot change it. Now rest and recover. You owe us this!" His voice was strong and steady, firm as a rock to lean into, an offer of rest to Leyth's battered soul.

After patting Leyth's arm while urging the lad to get well as soon as possible, Gimli rolled his shoulder. The grind of stiff muscle making him grunt under his breath. He must have slept in an awkward position on the ground, his sore limbs were telling him. But if he had not, they might have complained about the fact that he had not relaxed them in two days.

He rubbed his eyes to get himself properly awake, and was stretching his tight shoulders when his attention was snatched by raised voices.

By the entrance flap stood five men.

Wait– one of them was unmistakably Legolas! Gimli huffed, and his attention increased, now that his friend was involved. He pricked up his ears, bracing himself for what was to come.

The discussion was heating up, and Gimli heard Legolas' voice cut in sharply. It was two against two, and between the two parties stood the healer who had so noticeably managed to handle the elf last night. It looked like the healer was about to placate or mediate, and given how he had already proven his remarkable skills, Gimli was confident in a peaceful outcome.

That aside, Legolas seemed to be in good physical condition and was brimming with energy, as evidenced by his intimidating posture, which helped considerably to keep Gimli's still sleep-groggy mind somewhat at ease.

The man at Legolas' side hung his head, as if too tired to fight. He looked defeated. Beneath his eyes, hollowed dark rings of exhaustion. Gimli recognized him. He was the one who had carried poor Adil.

Legolas stood tall, flanking the man and staring their opponents down, hissing at them, his eyes lightning-sharp.

The healer laid a hand on the elf's uninjured bicep to hold him back. But Legolas shrugged it off and took a step forward. The two men backed slightly away, as if the elf's closeness was threatening and they were unable to bear it, but not wanting to cede too much ground. The healer stepped in once more, speaking up.

Legolas' gaze stayed trained on the men, suddenly unnervingly calm and expectant, calculating almost – Daring. It was like a game where the ones who would look away first, lost, and Gimli knew Legolas. When his eyes flickered and flashed like a honed knife's edge, hot and ready to burrow into his opponents, he never gave way. Too determined, too stubborn...only with Aragorn, maybe, or with him, when friendship softened his passion, Legolas may consider retreat.

Gimli pitied them. Almost.

As expected, they finally surrendered, shifting nervously and lowering their gazes. They nodded, heads bent, avoiding looking at the elf again and only speaking to the man beside him – the one who had carried Adil, instead. The man nodded, and his hunched shoulders rose and fell, as if with a heavy sigh. It looked much like relief, and Gimli deflated, with something that tasted like victory and satisfaction flooding him. Had Legolas been right beside him, he would have patted his arm to let him know he had his support.

As if Legolas had sensed Gimli's thoughts, he gave the man beside him an encouraging glance, clasping his shoulder in friendship. His movements, brusque right before, had now smoothed. The two defeated men nodded a curt greeting at the healer, stealing a brief sideways glance at Legolas, who did not mind them as they turned and left.

The young healer Gimli knew from last night checked on Leyth, looking satisfied by his progress. Leyth was sipping from the cup offered to him, making a face at the taste of the medicine.

"See how it brought your fever down. It is well worth its bitterness," he teased, bringing a weary smile to Leyth's cracked lips. "Perfect. Keep drinking like this, drink it all," he coaxed.

The young man was maybe a few years older than Leyth, but his work as a healer made him look more mature, and Gimli appreciated seeing his young friend in good hands.

"I will be right back, lad," Gimli assured Leyth, and shuffled over to Legolas. "May I ask, what trouble you are already into, my friend?"

"I am in no trouble, friend Gimli. I only helped defend the boy's body." He glanced at the bundle wrapped in white linen that lay at the foot of the tent wall right by the entrance. His eyes darkened and came to rest on the man who was standing before him. "They said the body cannot stay here any longer, and came to take him to a mass grave. We could not agree. It took much sternness and determination to make them leave."

The man beside Legolas sighed, "I will bury him before nightfall. I promised. I need to pay him this last respect. That's the least I can do for what he did for me."

The man looked so tired, Gimli thought he might need quite some rest to gather enough strength to dig out that grave. It was good that they had stalled for time until nightfall.

"Does Leyth know?" Gimli asked, pulling anxiously at his beard.

Legolas pressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head, looking sadly at Gimli.

The man beside them spoke up then, his deep voice soft but determined.

"It is my duty to tell him of his dear friend's great courage and deed. I am obliged to him, and still, nothing will ever repay what he gave me, throwing himself against his leader, saving my life, and stopping their revolt. How can I find words that sound right for something that feels utterly wrong?" He clamped his teeth heavily into his lower lip, shaking his head in resignation. He heaved a stuttering sigh and left them. Legolas followed his slow stride towards Leyth's cot with his gaze, and nodded to him encouragingly when he looked back at them as if to summon all his strength and courage. Gimli watched him reach Leyth and then stole a glance at Legolas, who still held his gaze latched on the man.

There was a blast of air that had Gimli suddenly distracted.

The infirmary tent flap opened a hatch. Gimli stared as the space was filled by a long, white robe. A pair of keen, blue eyes peered inside, narrowed, and then a smile cracked over the lined, bearded face of the wizard as he spotted them and bent his head to step into the tent.

"Something was telling me I would find you here! Quite a commotion drifted towards me as I was passing this way. And then I heard voices coming from this direction, muttering about an elf. Sure enough, here you are, Legolas Thranduilion, in good health and fiery as ever! I hope you have not overly scared these people?" He lifted a bushy white eyebrow, tilting his head.

For an instant, Gimli felt the compulsion to step in. But Legolas was quick to react. "Well met, Mithrandir. Worry not," he smirked, albeit lacking his usual mirth. "We were conversing, and we found an agreement," he explained. "Gimli can confirm."

"Merely conversing!" Gimli nodded firmly.

"Of course! I do not doubt that! – Good morning, by the way, Master Gimli. I see the bond between the two of you is ever tightening."

Gandalf looked between them eyes soft with quiet fondness, his lips slightly quirked up to a smile, in the way they had so often when he had regarded the hobbits.

"Well-met, Master Gandalf, good to see you too," Gimli said sincerely, the lump still heavy in his throat for what their young friend was about to learn.

"It is a sad matter Legolas discussed and fought for, a matter with heartfelt importance to both of us."

Gandalf's traits gravened. He nodded once, twice, as if he knew all in deep understanding. The circles under his eyes darkened, making him look impossibly old, as if he were carrying the suffering and grief of all the wars ever fought on Arda.

"This battle has left none of us untouched. Many lives have been extinguished either for a good or a wrong cause, and many an innocence taken – on both sides! Sauron's work is unscrupulous. Right and wrong do not follow a clear line in war. Many grieve even as they win. And too many are dying, not knowing whom or what they are fighting for. Victory is still far from our grasp."

"I worry for the hobbits," Gimli sighed, the feeling of helplessness in leaving them to their fate once more overwhelming him, and he hoped that Gandalf could bring some hope and reassurance to placate his dread. He was a wizard after all, and he saw and knew things out of others' knowledge.

"We all fear for them," Gandalf agreed, his eyes on Gimli soft with understanding. "Frodo and Sam will now be in the Black Land. The only thing bringing us comfort is that the Ring must not yet have been found, since we are still here. And that leaves hope that they, too, still live."

"Have you got news from Merry and Pippin?" Legolas inquired anxiously.

Gandalf's eyes lit up. "I do indeed. And good news they are! Merry and Pippin are in the Houses of Healing, on the top level of the city. Those young, fierce troublemakers are the reason Éowyn of Rohan and Faramir of Gondor are still alive. They will be excited to see you, and to recount to you their deeds. You know how they love stories and legends. Now they have their very own to tell. And if this world prevails and we conquer the odds, they will be long sung of."

Gandalf paused, his shoulders sagging as if suddenly weary under the weight of the ages he carried. "They have changed…" he added, as if to himself, his gaze serious, before he trained troubled grey eyes on Gimli and Legolas. "The cruelty of war is not going to pass by them idly."

The seriousness in Gandalf's eyes did not relent as he began scanning Legolas, who lowered his gaze as if looking Gandalf in the eyes was taking him somewhere he wanted to avoid.

Gandalf exhaled in a loud rush through his nose, and then the question came soft and gentle. "Tell me, how fare you, Legolas? Something has changed in you. I can sense it. The sea reflects in your eyes. I can hear the sound of the waves in your song."

It was like a stab to Gimli's stomach. Legolas' shoulders slumped, and he stared at Gandalf with a lost gaze, his eyes brightening and moistening as if sea salt burned in them. Gandalf clasped his shoulder, squeezing it, and Legolas took a deep breath, meeting his friendly gaze while his teeth worried his trembling lips.

"Friendship and love will lead you the way," Gandalf soothed, but there was concern in his eyes as he regarded the elf with a calmness that only an old being like him could muster.

Gimli stared at Legolas' throat moving as he swallowed, and felt the pressure in his own. Then all of a sudden, Gandalf's demeanour changed again and he smiled, setting alight bright, sun-stormy eyes.

"Yet, some things may never change, and I wager those two young hobbits on the sixth level of the city will be delighted to welcome your company." He paused to huff a laugh and look at Legolas as if trying to spot the effect his words would have on him. "Any mischief on the present day will be forgiven!"

The smile on his wrinkly face made his blue eyes flicker with youth.

"Merry is out of danger, thanks to Aragorn. Pippin is caring for him now, not leaving him out of sight, troubling the kitchen maids already with breakfast before sunrise, for Merry woke up early and was hungry, of course. They shared the meal, asking for double portions, for Pippin claimed Merry must be doubly hungry after what he accomplished."

Legolas was all ears, and a sudden spark made his eyes dance with excitement while he listened to Gandalf talking about the two hobbits.

Merry and Pippin...Gimli needed to see them more than ever. He wanted Legolas distracted by some mirth and mischief only they could bring up.

"I cannot wait to see them!" A smile bloomed on Legolas' handsome face in anticipation of their reunion.

Gandalf's features reflected the elf's joy. He looked tired but satisfied at the change in Legolas' expression. And Gimli's heart widened at the warm beam of light that was his friend once more, overcoming grief and sorrow amid this war.

"Let us join them as soon as possible. We can still make it for second breakfast!" Gimli encouraged, surprised by the tone clanging in his voice like a deep bell that lifted his own spirits. His belly gave a hollow groan, as if agreeing, and Gandalf chuckled softly.

But Legolas' attention had already slipped away to where Leyth lay, where the blanket covering his slender form quivered as sobs jostled him. The man who had brought the sad news to him was holding his hand in his, and as tender as a father would be to his son, was stroking his brow and smoothing his curls.

Gimli looked up at Gandalf, whose blue eyes had lost their twinkle. Sadness overcame him once more, shaking him like an earthquake would unsettle the stone of his home.

"One of the sea-crafty men of the Ethir he is. His name is Calmaron. The name speaks honour to his way of life and of his skills," Legolas said. "He is alive because a boy on one of the corsair ships died in his stead; he just brought the sad news to his young friend."

"Bridges of forgiveness are being built even as this war is still in full rage, reconciling the ones who have love in their hearts and only want to live in peace."

Gandalf stayed with them until Leyth had cried his last tear and fallen into an exhausted sleep. And Gimli was glad for it. He felt steadied and secure with the old wizard close.

Calmaron was a man of strong build, who looked like a captain, and might well be one, but at the brunt of the tragedy he had experienced, he seemed to have lost control of his vessel on this tormented sea. Legolas' golden light was being swirled and swept by the foam on its breaking waves.

But Gandalf was like the great rock Gimli wished for. A mountain, ancient and persistent, that made Gimli get an odd sense of home.

Chapter Text

Light clouds raked across the morning sky, pale against its deep blue, casting fleeting shadows upon the scarred fields of Pelennor. Gimli stood beside Calmaron, the fisherman of Ethir Anduin, whose broad shoulders bore more than nets and oars had ever demanded.

He owed his life to Adil. Now Adil lay still, his revolt and courage silenced aboard that ship. Calmaron would one day return to his kin, thanks to a young man whose family had forever lost him to a foreign shore, never to return.

Across the plain two figures came walking, tall and resolute in the brightening light. Gimli knew them at once — Aragorn and Gandalf, striding with purpose. Aragorn's steps were swift yet measured, while Gandalf's staff struck the damp earth, each thud deliberate, the muted sound echoing the weight he carried. Their faces were grave, and Gimli felt the pull of their presence, as if the plain itself acknowledged the importance of their passage.

So, Gandalf had gone to rouse him, Gimli thought. And well he must. After the labors Aragorn had borne, after the weariness written plain upon his face before he took up more burdens still — no man would wake by himself after so little rest, king or no.

When Aragorn caught sight of them, he turned slightly aside and came toward them, pausing for a brief halt. Gandalf followed, his keen eyes sweeping the small gathering with quiet sympathy.

Aragorn went first to Legolas. For a long moment he spoke no word, but laid a hand upon his friend's arm. Concern flickered in his eyes — not for the bruises and cuts that Gimli knew still pained the elf, though he would never show it, but for something deeper, unspoken. And Legolas, in turn, met his gaze, as if weighing the burdens Aragorn bore. A quiet peace seemed to pass between them, their breathing falling into the same rhythm. Aragorn closed his eyes and drew a long breath; his hand still rested on Legolas' arm, and to Gimli it seemed that he stood suddenly taller, as if renewed.

Then Aragorn looked to Gimli.

"Gimli, your axe and your heart have never failed me. This war is far from over. We shall call the Captains together in my pavilion for council — I do not wish to enter the city, not yet. As much as I long to share what time I may with my dear friends, I fear I cannot seek you in the Houses of Healing with Merry and Pippin, even when the debate is ended. Bring them my greetings, and enjoy your time together. Know that I shall be with you in heart, and return to me with tidings to lighten my path. For whatever lies ahead, I will need the memory of such precious moments of fellowship — and the hope that more of them yet await us."

A warmth kindled in Gimli's chest.

"Aye! To have my friends together once more — that will put heart back into me. And I'll gladly bring you cheer from the hobbits to hearten you, lad!"

For the first time that morning, Aragorn smiled.

"Aye, may Merry and Pippin's laughter not be long withheld from us."

Legolas remained silent, biting his lip; his faint smile was touched with worry and wistfulness.

Gandalf glanced at Aragorn and said in a half-stern, half-fatherly tone: "Aye, come, Elessar! Duty calls. Let us go find your elven brothers. The respite will be dearly bought." A quiet sigh followed from under his white beard. "And when that hour comes, I shall gladly share in it. We shall have earned that peace indeed."

With a firm clasp of Gimli's arm and a final nod, Aragorn turned once more, his steps heavy with the weight of duty. Gandalf fell in beside him, his staff thudding softly against the earth.

Gimli watched them go. Nay, the crown had not lessened Aragorn's burdens. Yet still he had paused — still he had remembered his friends, and was the stronger for it. That, Gimli thought proudly, was the mark of a true king.

Gandalf glanced back from where they walked along the way between the infirmary tents and caught Gimli's gaze. He nodded knowingly, as though he had read his thoughts.

Behind them, the infirmary stirred with hushed voices, with groans of the wounded, with the clatter of basins and the shuffle of healers. Leyth had begged to see Adil's face one last time, his tears flowing freely under Calmaron's caring vigil, until finally exhaustion had claimed him; he was now fast asleep. Yet not alone: Wali lay beside him, still unconscious from the surgery, but his steady breathing lent quiet comfort to Leyth's rest. The healers said he was strong.

Legolas had moved a pace ahead, and stood now still as carved stone, his keen gaze lifted to the horizon, his head tilted, alert — seeing, listening or smelling things Gimli could never fathom, as he so often had on this journey.

He did not turn when he spoke, nor shifted his position at all.

"There are trees upon the bank of Anduin," he said softly, as though echoing voices carried to him. "They call out to me when I hearken, though their voices are dimmed. A lament for the deaths they have witnessed has seeped into their song. At their roots, they will cradle Adil, and sing to his soul. Their melody will join the steady rush of the river, flowing southwards, down and ever down toward the Sea."

The Sea. Gimli gripped the haft of his axe tighter. That word was ever present, an unseen foe that he could neither fight nor master, a shadow that left Legolas bright-eyed and faraway.

Beside him, Calmaron's voice broke the silence, roughened with grief. "So be it. I will go and lay him into the earth beneath the trees you name. Before nightfall, I will return, to help where I can in the infirmary, to stay by Leyth and Wali." Calmaron's lips quivered, and his eyes were glistening. "He was but a boy!"

Gimli laid a strong hand upon his arm. "He saved a good man, Calmaron. No man can mend the past. You grant him a last honor, and you guard the ones he loved. Adil's gift was not in vain."

For a while they stood in silence. The wind stirred through tattered banners, whispering of sorrow and endurance alike.

At last Legolas turned, his gaze bright with that far-off light that so unsettled Gimli. But then his eyes cleared, and he clasped Calmaron's shoulder. "We must go. The little ones await. My heart is at peace knowing you remain."

Gimli gave a short nod, throat tight though his words came out gruff. "Aye, you speak for us both, Elf! And to know we will see Merry and Pippin again fills my heart with cheer."

Yet as they made to leave, Legolas halted, his voice edged with command and care alike. "Wait before you depart," he told Calmaron. "A horse shall be sent to you once we reach the stables. You carry so much on your shoulders already, that I would have you keep your strength for the living."

Gimli looked once more at the man, who lowered his eyes with a weary sigh, and nodded. They were leaving one who weathered the tide of grief as steadfastly as the tides of the river.

"We will return," Gimli said, though he knew not when.

They walked side by side in silence until the looming gates rose before them.

Gimli turned to the fields once more, taking in the weight of loss that lingered in the air as tangibly as the smell of smoke and trampled earth. But before him, the sun gleamed off the majestic white walls, climbing layer upon layer nestled high against the mountainside. And while Gimli strode beside his elf-friend, admiring the solid craft of this city of Men, the crisp morning air filled his lungs, driving out the remnants of tiredness from last night's short sleep upon the rug of the infirmary. Gimli clenched his strong fists until the joints cracked with a satisfying snap, then stretched his fingers wide, repeating the motion until his hands tingled supple and ready.

Passing beneath the ruined arch of Minas Tirith he halted, his gaze fastening on the splintered white stones of a once-proud work. The sight pierced him with sorrow. He bowed his head in respect for the sundered craft, now marred by the evil forces at work to destroy all that was good and fair in Middle-earth. He drew a shuddering breath, forcing it past the knot in his throat, and raised his gaze to his friend. All that was good and fair included him, not least of all.

Legolas had tipped his face upwards, eyes lost in a sky so blue between the drifting clouds, it was as if it could erase the crude slaughter of the last night with its clearness.

Gimli felt a twinge deep in his chest. He knew it was a deception, for some scars would never heal, and some things could never again be as they had been. Yet, he refused to let the weight of that realization drag him under.

"When this war is ended, I shall offer Aragorn the service of stonewrights from under the Mountain, and we will raise anew what lies broken, fashioning the stonework of the city according to the finest dwarven standards!"

His hand pressed flat against the cool, cracked wall, and his voice rang out with determination to soothe his own fears and doubts, and making Legolas shine sky-blue eyes at him. The sun cast a golden hue upon the elf's skin as it did on the white walls of the city, as if agreeing.

At Gimli's words, Legolas's stride took up length and drive, and he walked with lightness, beholding in turn the high walls wide-eyed with the wonder of a child. Gimli trotted hurriedly behind him to keep up, a groan already gathering in his chest. But when Legolas' gaze slid down from the wall to regard him with such affection and pride, warmth stole through Gimli's heart, and the groan dissolved before he could utter it.

"I know you will, Gimli! And my people of the Wood shall bring him birds that sing, and trees, and flowers. We will weave living gardens between the walls of this city."

Legolas' voice sparkled with hope, and the tightness in Gimli's throat eased, rising into the clear morning sky with his friend's fair words.

Then, without warning, Legolas slowed and stopped so suddenly that Gimli nearly collided with him, barely suppressing a growl this time. Gimli frowned, for Legolas stood still for a moment, and he tried to catch a glimpse of the elf's eyes, which from one moment to the other had once more become misty and troubled, the hue of storm-tossed seawater swirling in them.

Gimli swallowed hard, a sting pricking his own eyes as if the salt had reached them. The ache in his throat spread deep into his chest, burning like brine against an open wound. Then Legolas blinked, as if waking, and his gaze cleared, bright flecks of green stirring like young leaves in spring. His lips parted, and he began to sing.

Gimli would never grow used to the sudden turns of his particular elf. As much as he had come to cherish him, Legolas' moods were a storm to weather, not steady stone to stand upon. Yet in learning him so well, Gimli had begun to see things he had never noticed before — even when the flood of his friend's feelings threatened to sweep him off his feet.

To Gimli the melody of Legolas' song painted a world of high grass shivering in the breeze, young trees swaying strong and supple, and butterflies fluttering between their blossoms. There was a light bounce in Legolas' step, and his increasingly long strides made Gimli puff and huff to keep up. He groaned in protest, but truth be told, he was just too glad for the elf's enthusiasm, and he could have marched for leagues on end if it meant seeing his friend's joy shine so brightly.

Still, it was a welcome pause when they came upon Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and Legolas stopped to greet him. The elf spoke with gladness, his eyes bright as he said how heartened he was to see that not all of Nimrodel's people had sailed. Gimli thought that such cheer would do him good — a bit of sunlight to drive off the shadow and quiet the gull's cry, if only for a time.

Imrahil bowed with all the grace of his noble house, yet he could not hide his wonder at seeing one of the Fair Folk here, in the midst of ruin and war. Gimli held his breath then, watching Legolas warily, half-expecting those words to cut deep. But the elf stayed steady, light of voice and quick of smile.

With eager warmth he introduced Gimli, speaking proudly of their friendship, and he praised Aragorn no less highly. He told Imrahil that Aragorn asked for him and for Éomer to join the Captains' Council in his pavilion. They exchanged a few more courteous words, and in the end Imrahil offered to send a man to guide them to Merry and Pippin.

As they resumed their climb through the streets, Gimli glanced back and saw the Prince of Dol Amroth watching them go, a fair light upon his face — enough, Gimli thought, to show that the tales of Elven blood in his line were no idle talk.

But Prince Imrahil was not the only one to turn and look after them. Legolas's song drifted softly between the walls, drawing eyes wherever it passed. Men and women stilled in their work or slowed their steps to watch him. Legolas, lost in his song and the glad thought of seeing their friends again, seemed not to care — or perhaps not to notice at all.

Yet, as more and more gazes followed him, like moths drawn to a flame, he faltered. His eyes swept the street, the music fading from his lips. Then he lowered his gaze, studying the stones beneath his feet as though he had taken a sudden interest in them.

"This is too much," he murmured, frowning. "Their eyes… and the walls, I mean…" His breath caught. "I cannot escape them. It is as though they close around me, pressing upon my chest."

He drew up his hood and turned aside, vanishing almost at once into a narrow alley. For a few breaths Gimli stood staring after him — then he set off in haste.

"Legolas? Wait! Where are you going?"

Legolas did not answer at once. His gaze flickered between the tall houses, searching the walls as if for a way through them. At last he stopped, eyes tracing upward along the stone until his head was tipped back, following the line to where the roofs met the sky.

Then he turned to Gimli, his voice breaking low. "Would you forgive me, friend Gimli? I crave another road — one closer to the sky. I must see the crown of a tree in the distance, or a bird wheeling free above. These walls smother me. I cannot breathe."

Again the sting of sea-salt burned Gimli's eyes. The ache sank deep, searing his throat as he beheld that yearning gaze — dark blue and green, churning like the restless tide. Legolas looked upward once more into the white-clouded blue, and Gimli watched his profile, strong and smooth at once. It was the same look he had worn when the gulls had called; when they had sailed upon the ships and Legolas's gaze had wandered far into the endless width of the sea, too distant for Gimli to reach.

"Please, Gimli."

Strain tore through the elf's voice as he pleaded.

How could Gimli deny him? He wanted nothing more than for Legolas to find whatever it was his heart sought — to let the sea fade and the gulls fall silent. He hated the sea, for its raw sting and its overpowering pull. But he could not speak it. He only grunted and gave a small twitch of his head in assent.

"My thanks, my friend," Legolas whispered, the music of his voice choked away.

Gimli sighed as he watched him climb — nimble as a mountain cat, or one of those slim-limbed, palm-sized wood spiders.

It brought to mind a moment in Lórien, when he had first seen how an elf could marvel at such small, insignificant creatures. Legolas had crouched beside a spider's web strung between the tall grass, eyes alight as though he beheld some great wonder. Gimli had stood there, eyebrows rising higher with every passing heartbeat, unsure what to make of it. Their friendship had still been young then.

He had tugged at the end of his beard and harrumphed to himself, frowning, while Legolas — unaware, or uncaring for his confusion — had smiled and said, "Gimli, look how they catch the dewdrops and string them like pearls upon the morning air — the whole web sparkles as if woven from light."

Gimli, at a loss, had merely grunted thoughtfully, for no words had come to him. Yet that day, somehow, they had spoken of home — each in his own way — and had listened to one another, and though their manners were as different as stone and starlight, Gimli had begun to see that they shared more in heart than ever he would have guessed.

The walls here were rougher and more uneven than those along the main road, yet still they rose high — like the carved cliffs beneath the gates of Erebor, sheer and proud. Gimli wondered how Legolas found hold enough to climb with such fluidity, the muscle force and agility it must take to make it look so easy.

Gimli sighed as he came back to himself and turned once more into the main street. The murmurs that had followed them earlier had faded now, though a few curious glances still trailed after him. For while the elf had been the true marvel, whispers still rose here and there of Elves, Hobbits, and a Dwarf being the friends of the new King of Gondor.

Gimli had to admit, he did not mind the admiration. Yet he did not linger to bask in it. His heart yearned for Merry and Pippin, who would surely know how to ease the weight upon it simply by being their unshakably cheerful selves — as they always were.

Halfway up the city, the servant sent by Imrahil finally found him. Gimli excused his companion with a brief wave of his hand, saying only that Legolas had taken another road — one not meant for mortals. That earned him a puzzled look from the man, who, finding no sense in it, wisely chose not to ask further. He only shrugged and gestured for Gimli to follow.

The fellow must have been a local, for he led the way with sure-footed ease, turning from the main street into narrow lanes and steep flights of steps, easily avoiding the many side courts and dead ends.

Chapter Text

If only he could have walked alone with Gimli, singing with the birds, his heart threading through trees and blossoms, among butterflies that fluttered to the melody rising from his soul...

He felt a glance here, a glance there, as he sang, and for a time it seemed as if the people they passed were brightened a bit by the light in his song, as if they found relief in it as he did. But the eyes multiplied swiftly, and their gazes pressed in on him, tightening like a net. Within those scarred and battered walls, the scrutiny and awe confused him, stripping away the ease he had felt. The music faltered in his throat. He felt too exposed — the suffering he had seen pressing close, old wounds stirring beneath the weight of a people scarred by this war. What would they see of his soul? It became unbearable, overwhelming. The past bled into the present, sensations colliding with emotions beyond his hold. The gulls were growing louder. Blurred, unreachable hopes he could or dared not name, pulled at his heart.

Yet there was one smile, one timid blush, he would yield himself to without resistance — of one who had looked into the hidden chasms of his soul. One, who in her own mad struggle had sought the sun for him and whispered the melody of the wind when pain and darkness had almost swallowed him whole.

Gimli understood, and if not, at least he let him go.

When at last he left the crowded street behind and scrambled over the ridge of the roof, Legolas exhaled relief as if a shackle had fallen away. He fled upward, racing across the rooftops; with every leap, tension drained from him, dissolving into the open sky. Every muscle tingled with life and a longing for more.

At length, he stilled. A tremor ran through his limbs — born not of exertion but of the yearning that not the wildest of sprints could appease. His eyes darted around for a place that could bear what surged within him.

The small tower just two bounds away beckoned. He leapt with quiet certainty, alighting at its base, and let himself fall against the warm tiles. Sprawled wide, he surrendered, releasing all the weight of this war, his heart thrumming in anticipation. The early morning sun glimmered upon the white roofs. It bathed his skin in its rays and kissed it with warmth. Legolas closed his eyes, drawing breath as though from the very sky. Up here, none would see him; no humans clambered the buildings, nor Hobbits or Dwarves. Only two other Elves were near — and they had no habit of roaming the rooftops as he did. So close to the sky, only the wind could reach him. He discarded all thoughts, all of his burdens, his mind straying to the meeting he craved. His heart leapt — that sweet ache fluttering in the hollow between his collarbones.

She would come, as she always did, in the rare stolen moments — in stillness, in whispers, in the small corners of his mind where grief lingered yet could not reach them.

Now, upon the city's white roofs beneath a plain, bright morning sky, the wind caressed his sun-warmed face and shaped her image: her dark eyes, deep and unguarded, fixed upon him — thick lashes casting shadows trembling over her cheeks, a shy, fleeting glimmer shining from within. Her dark hair spilled in supple waves, the veil stirring free, no longer hiding her. She was radiant — alive — in his dream, returning to him again and again.

And in that brightness, she smiled. Light danced in her gaze like embers kindling, setting his heart aflame, a delicate fire throbbing low within him. Her lips parted as though to speak, yet all he heard was a breath, a hush stirring through him.

With unsteady hands, he loosened the laces of his tunic, fumbling at the shirt beneath until sunlight spilled unhindered onto his bared skin.

Eyes shut tight, he cried her name in silence — syllables rough and earthen, born of a land where every drop of life was precious. The soundless plea tore through him, raw and long-starved. The warmth upon his chest unfurled visions of her body flush against him — glowing amber, dark-honey-sweet.

Her hair grazed his neck and shoulders, raven waves tumbling along the sculpted contours of his torso. Soft curves perfectly filled the lines of his chiselled form, fluid and easy, like water sliding over warmed stone. His hands and the wind did it all unasked for, tracing shivering paths along taut planes and sharp lines.

Her voice rose and faded with the breeze — not sound, but memory — and her black eyes, glazed with longing, undid him. How many times had he dreamed like this... how many times sought release in secret moments — his fear quieted, war held at bay, life rising in the rush of his own blood?

He shifted against the tiles, opening himself as though to welcome her nearer. In his vision, her eyes were all pupil, pleading for respite, begging him to lift her sorrow. Skin to skin, unguarded sensation — his body quivered with need.

His thoughts blurred into touch and memory: the warmth of her closeness, the phantom brush of lips and breath along his skin, a tide of imagined whispers that drew him closer to the brink. In the hush of the morning, longing took form, shaping her presence around him until he could no longer tell where dream ended and desire began.

He clenched his jaw, breath shuddering, as if sheer will might still the surge within him. He pressed his palm harder to the tiles, grounding himself, fighting the rising tide — but the longing only swelled, fierce and ungovernable.

And then he was lost — lost to the wave that coiled higher and broke cresting in white foam that washed through him. The tremor ebbed slowly, each pulse softened by imagined surf of a far, quiet shore, unknown and soothing, on a beach rippled with dunes of white sand. He surrendered, adrift, the sun and her phantom weight warm upon him. A treasured reprieve, a dream summoned whenever he needed it.

Endless were the ways she would come to him — a garland of fantasies and desire, woven and re-woven, softening the harshness of war until blissful exhaustion claimed him. Ever since he had seen her again upon the Hornburg, she had haunted his waking thoughts and his dreams alike. In the rare quiet moments of their long march — beneath starlit skies, in the hush before dawn, in the brief lulls between terror and battle — he slipped into these imagined sanctuaries, seeking breath, seeking life.

Just as this morning, when he had parted from Gimli and vanished across the roofs of Minas Tirith — like a thief after a jewel. Yet, however often he clung to such moments, whether dreamed or stolen, the hunger only deepened. Desire did not ebb. It coiled tighter.

For a precious moment, he let himself forget that she was not there — and might never return.

The dream thinned, edges fraying like mist under sun.

She could have stayed. She could have come back. But she had not.

She had abandoned all to their fate.

She had driven a knife into his chest, and then she had fled, leaving him raw and aching. She had carved a scar upon his heart.

Yet if she never returned, she would still come to him in his dreams.

For a while, he lay still, his breath slow and uneven. Sated and depleted, he imagined her warmth in his arms, soft and sweet. But even as he lingered, the heat began to stir again. He drew a sharp breath and pressed his palm against his chest, forcing himself to stillness.

He pushed himself upright.

Soon they would wonder where he tarried so long — Gimli, Pippin… Eru forbid they come searching for him. He laced his tunic swiftly and tightened his belt. Still flushed and trembling, he felt the glimmer of her eyes haunt him, pleading, sorrowful, wringing a raw tenderness from him — and want.

No. He had to break away.

His hand went to the subtle swell in the pocket of his tunic, just over his heart, where Sorwyn's gem lay beside the crystal. He pressed them close, whispering a silent prayer that one day he might keep his promise. His heartbeat thrummed against the stones under his palm.

Then, drawing a long breath, he gathered himself, slid down the slanted roof, and vaulted the wall. His feet found the earth in a soundless landing — and there, breath still unsteady, he nearly collided with Gimli and Pippin.

"Look who comes skipping about like a happy grasshopper while we wear ourselves thin, in search of him!" Gimli muttered, as if speaking to Pippin, folding his arms across his chest. His accusing glance slid sidelong at Legolas, sharp beneath his bushy brows.

"Where have you strayed so long?" he demanded outright, his keen gaze inspecting Legolas from boots to brow, fastening on his eyes as they slipped away.

"You look rattled, princeling…are you well?" The question was softer, worry lacing through his gruff tone.

Legolas smoothed his wind-tossed hair with a deliberate hand. "I… uhm… am well," he replied, his voice too quick, too airy, his gaze darting aside.

It caught upon a cluster of delicate blossoms sprouting from a crack in the wall — purple, vivid, their color so intense and lively it calmed the discomfort of his stumbling heart. The pull to touch them was irresistible. He brushed his fingertips against their silken petals, welcoming the small caress as distraction from Gimli's scrutiny.

But in that instant her memory surged unbidden, sharp as lightning through his body, his skin still tingling with the ghost of her touch. He felt, rather than saw, Gimli tilt his head, frown deepening. This Dwarf knew him too well — far too well. It was unsettling. Heat crept into his face as Gimli's gaze lingered. He silently cursed himself. He could not blush like a youth before his Dwarf friend! There was no way Gimli could know where he had been, or what occupied his mind… and he could not hear the wild thumping in his chest, could he? Yet Gimli seemed way too perceptive for his liking, and for a moment he stood exposed, before sliding his mask swiftly back into place.

The shock came when something plummeted from above, nearly crushing them. Gimli stumbled half a step, before he realized what — or rather who — had landed beside them. The very Elf they had been seeking!

With this Wood-elf, one never knew when he would appear — or vanish, for that matter.

Legolas stood there, eyes wide, as if startled by his own sudden descent, bare inches away from landing on their heads. Gimli's gaze sharpened, and what he saw startled him even more: pupils blown wide, surrounded by a rim of fluid blue-green, shifting and shimmering like glass over deep water. But Legolas turned away too quickly, lashes lowering before Gimli could hold his gaze. A faint blush tinted his cheekbones, softening his normally precise features. He looked young, almost boyish, and unmoored in his sudden landing. It unsettled Gimli — but then suspicion surged, and he narrowed his eyes, scanning his friend from brow to boots.

Legolas' gaze flicked to a patch of purple flowers growing from a chink in the wall. He slid his long fingers over the tiny blooms in a tender caress, his fingertips lingering, gaze fixed a moment too long on the purple and green.

Then, abruptly, he turned to Pippin, who was bouncing on his feet, eyes alight and beaming at him.

"So glad to be back with you, Pippin. I have missed you!" Legolas exclaimed warmly.

The Hobbit flung himself into his arms, small body brimming with delight. Words spilled out of him in a torrent the instant their eyes met, as though he had dammed too many feelings for too long.

"I was so happy you are safe… so glad you came looking for us!" Pippin exclaimed, his bright face glowing. "Merry is in the garden; he's injured, but recovering now. You should see it! Not like Rivendell, nor Lórien's glens — small and green, with a touch of elvish about it."

He paused for a heartbeat, and the sparkle in his eyes dimmed. "Éowyn still lies silent, though Strider says she will live. I… I worry." His grin faltered, and his bright face grew momentarily grave. "Sam would love that garden too… I miss him and Frodo. Boromir's brother is there as well, nearly healed, though it was almost too late."

Pippin's eyes lit up again, though the shadow of grief lingered. "Merry was so glad to see Gimli, as I am!" He swallowed, voice dipping for just a moment, then steadied. "The Steward is dead…"

Pippin's face softened, the weight of the news lingering only briefly before he brightened again. "But they serve excellent fare here to the wounded," he said, eyes twinkling. "Not as fine as Sam's cooking, of course, and they don't always know how often a hobbit should eat, so I've told them—"

He waved his small hands in animated explanation, nearly bouncing with excitement. "I made sure Merry got food! He must eat to regain his strength… and the others too." Even the shadow in his eyes eased when food entered his tale.

"Let us join Merry in the garden," Legolas interrupted at last, laughing, his voice lifting with Pippin's joy.

Gimli's sternness softened at once. He watched Pippin's boundless excitement, darting about with small hands, gesturing at flowers, meals, and friends. And he noticed Legolas too — the Elf's laughter, the light in his eyes, the way his shoulders eased for the first time in what felt like ages.

The tightness in Gimli's chest eased. Pippin… the Hobbits… and even this strange, elusive Wood-elf — they were balm in themselves. If Legolas needed healing, their company was the finest remedy.

But Gimli could not linger long in sentiment. He squared his stout frame, hands on hips, and grumbled, "Aye, that is where we have come from. Looking for a stray Wood-elf who drifts like smoke. I reached the Houses long since — where have you tarried?"

Legolas gave no sign of hearing, his full attention already turned to Pippin, who burst with another revelation.

"Merry helped Lady Éowyn slay the Witch-king!" Pippin cried with pride. "He's a hero — and she a heroine!" He barely paused for breath. "And I've missed you too, Legolas! Now that you're here, may we take the shortcut over the walls? Please?" His eyes shone, his small hand already grasping at the stone.

Gimli groaned. "Of course not. We walk the halls like civilised folk." But even as he said it, he knew it was hopeless.

"To walk all that way is dreadfully dull," Pippin complained, wrinkling his nose. "Come, Gimli, it will be fun! We may have short legs, but with Legolas here…" He stretched his arm high to measure the Elf's height, grinning.

"That is no decent way to enter a garden! Dwarves build strong walls, not climb them!"

"Pay no heed to dwarves, Pippin," Legolas said with airy finality. "They are as unyielding as stone. We, however, climb. The Dwarf walks." His smile curved slyly. "Race you there, Gimli. A point for the first to reach Merry!"

Before Gimli could snarl a retort, Pippin already had a foot braced in Legolas' clasped hands, the next on his shoulder. In a blink, the Hobbit was atop the wall, the Elf leaping lightly beside him, waving down in triumph.

Gimli growled deep in his throat. This was surely the Elf's revenge for Gimli's reset of their scores, for if he was honest, his firm suggestion had been quite close to cheating. Forfeiting one point was still better than the indefinite amount that the Elf should have gotten for the Orcs he had slaughtered in his desperate stand-alone. He bit his tongue and swallowed the protest. However, his beard bristled, and he turned with a grumble toward the bright marble halls, stomping into the shadowed corridors muttering dwarvish curses.

Pippin's heart felt as light now as it had been burdened for many days. To scramble up the walls with Legolas, to tease Gimli back into his familiar, delicious grumbling — it lifted him in ways words could scarcely hold. That comforting sound wrapped him like a soft quilt, warm and familiar. And Legolas' laughter — bright, clear, bounding along the stone, carefree as the breeze — made Pippin bolder, wilder. He squeaked in delight, trusting those deft, strong elven hands to catch him if he stumbled.

"Merryyy!" he cried, voice bubbling over. "Look who is here!"

Merry waved from beneath the linden, perched in his armchair, eyes flashing with a spark that looked ready to lift him right out of his seat. Legolas' wave matched his cheer, and the picture was exactly as Pippin had hoped.

With feline grace, the Elf hopped from the high wall, landing light as breath upon the grass. Pippin leapt after him without hesitation, tumbling into Legolas' waiting arms with a burst of laughter. Joy spilled between them, bright and unguarded, and Pippin felt suddenly lighter than he had in days. Oh yes — this would do Merry good. With friends and food, he would heal quickly.

Gimli's sudden appearance through the garden gate completed their circle, though Pippin could not fathom how the Dwarf had made his way so swiftly.

"We win this one for Legolas!" Pippin declared, feet bouncing with irrepressible cheer.

Gimli scowled, his breath coming short despite his forced nonchalance.
"If this is another one of your contests, Elf, I'd have fair rules this time."

"The rules are always fair," Legolas replied with innocent composure. "You simply object to losing."

Pippin smirked knowingly, earning a narrowing of Gimli's eyes and a glare cast toward Legolas.

"Who is in advance?" Merry asked, eager to fuel the contest.

Legolas smugly pointed to himself, Gimli's grumble confirming the score. It is perfect, thought Pippin. He sighed happily.

They lingered long, sharing tales both grave and merry. Their voices rose in laughter, toes wiggled bare in the grass, eyes widened with excitement — but at times silence fell heavy, weighted with the memory of battle and the shadow of loss. Pippin's gaze often strayed to Merry, weariness etched upon him, and Éowyn's still form in her chamber pricked at his thoughts like thorns.

As if sensing it, Legolas spoke warmly, eyes bright: "If you ask me. Merry is the true hero here. He should have all my points." Pippin's heart kindled at the gentle strength in those words. Merry laughed, modesty faltering, and seemed to sit taller in his chair.

"I'll take only some of your points, Legolas," Merry countered, "I'd rather share them with Éowyn. She deserves the greater part — after all, she felled the Witch-king and his foul steed. No — better still, let's give them all to her! I would prefer a second breakfast, truth be told. They know nothing of it here, and it's long overdue."

He smiled gently. "And I think Éowyn might welcome a good meal even more than our points."

"An excellent idea!" Pippin agreed, mouth watering. Their talk naturally turned to food — the need of Hobbits for hearty meals, the men's inability to grasp it, and the Elf's curious valuation of points over plates. Legolas insisted he wanted both and would not yield his score to Gimli's gain. Gimli muttered his refusal but finally offered to fetch second breakfast for all. Pippin clapped in delight, grateful for dwarven sense.

And then he stilled as he watched Legolas reach for the purple bell-flowers growing out of the wall. Legolas' hands looked almost too tender on them, Pippin thought — strong as they were when he drew his bow. Remembering the ear-shattering screech of the Nazgûl mount on the Anduin, slain by that same hand, the contrast unsettled him. And then he caught a glimpse of those eyes — glistening, moist, the irises melting to transparent pools of blue-green, like seawater. Pippin gasped, recalling what Legolas had once said of gulls and the Elves and their hearts. He had never seen the sea, but in that instant, he was sure he had glimpsed it there. Gimli, beside him, shifted uneasily, brown eyes clouded with worry. Merry kept very still, staring at Legolas.

"Legolas…?" Merry said quietly.

But then the Elf blinked, lifted his chin, and a gentle smile tugged at his lips. The sea was gone. Gimli exhaled heavily. "Hmph," he grunted.

"Only flowers, Master Brandybuck," Legolas said lightly. "Do not trouble yourself."

"Pippin, what do you think? If Éowyn cannot yet make it into the garden, may we pot some of these and bring them to her?"

"Of course, Legolas! Food and flowers — the perfect gifts from Hobbit- and Elf-friends for Éowyn. She will love it!"

Gimli grunted again and stomped off. Pippin bit his lip, realizing he had left the Dwarf out of the plan. He followed Gimli's disappearing, square form with a worried gaze, then looked back at Legolas.

There was an encouraging expression on the Elf's face as he shrugged. "Worry not, Pippin. He will be fine. Gimli is always up for surprises. Just wait!"

He busied himself, digging a cushion of flowers from the wall with nimble fingers.

"But we do not have a pot!" Pippin fretted. "Flowers without a pot seem terribly unfinished."

"Wait for Gimli to return," Legolas replied with a laugh, repeating it as though to calm Pippin's concern.

From the moment he had gotten to know Legolas on this journey, Pippin no longer felt the Elf was strange. He had become a mischief mate, like a Hobbit — only taller. Occasionally, the otherworldly traits of Elves shimmered through in words and deeds, but they now felt familiar rather than alien.

Just as Pippin wanted to ask another question, Gimli appeared, balancing a tray of delicacies fit for five hobbits' second breakfasts. Under his arm, he carried a chunk of stone that looked like a piece of wall torn off during the siege, along with hammer and chisel.

He laid the tray on the table and lifted the stone and tools meaningfully. "That is my contribution to Éowyn's gift. Hobbit-, Elf-, and Dwarf-friends, of course!"

Pippin's eyes widened. "You made a pot out of a wall?"

Gimli snorted. "A proper gift should last longer than breakfast."

Pippin stared at Gimli's large, square hand and strong arm, easily clutching the heavy objects as if they were feathers.

Gimli sat down, hammering and chiselling the stone until it was artfully shaped for the flowers. Pippin dug some earth from the garden, and together they crafted a lovely bouquet.

They ate together, chatting and enjoying each other's company, while looking forward to bringing Éowyn their gifts. They set some food aside, hoping she might be well enough to eat with them, so she wouldn't have to eat alone. If she was not yet hungry, the food would wait for her, ready whenever she wished to take a bite. It would surely help her recover more quickly. After all, what could be better than a rich breakfast to regain strength after such a struggle? "Heroes must eat. It will keep them strong," Pippin said with certainty. Merry agreed, and Gimli and Legolas chuckled in encouragement.

Pippin skipped along, his curls bouncing, while Gimli bore most of Merry's weight with steadfast care and Legolas balanced tray and flowers as if they weighed no more than air. The corridors of the Houses were cool, hushed, filled with the scent of herbs and faint echoes of distant footsteps. For a moment Pippin's steps faltered. His curls brushed his eyes as he lowered his head, suddenly aware of the hush pressing close about him. Yet at his side Legolas lowered his head a little, meeting his eyes with a gleam that spoke mischief, as if whispering without words: "We carry more than food and flowers — we carry cheer, too. Let's smuggle it past the healers and into her room."

"A most dangerous mission," Pippin whispered.

"Then we must not fail," Legolas returned, barely audible.

Pippin nearly giggled aloud at the thought, biting his lip, but Legolas' answering twitch of a smile gave him away. No one else seemed to notice the look that passed between them. Good. Pippin bit his lip harder, guarding their secret as fiercely as any treasure.

Gimli cleared his throat, perhaps sensing something brewing, and muttered about "Hobbits and their nonsense," but that only made Pippin's grin widen. He saw the corners of Legolas' mouth curve higher, boyish now, no trace of the ageless warrior, just a friend caught in shared jest. Merry, too weary to walk unaided, still caught the glimmer and shook his head fondly, though his lips twitched in amusement.

The air grew quieter as they neared Éowyn's chamber. Pippin's hand hovered a moment before the latch, his earlier grin fading as the silence deepened. Yet in the hush Pippin felt the warmth of that unspoken alliance with Legolas — like carrying a hidden candle cupped between them, a promise that joy would not be snuffed out, not here, not today.

The door creaked softly as Pippin pushed it open with both hands, careful as if it might shatter. The hush of the chamber wrapped around him, cool and still, and his heart thudded painfully at the sight of Éowyn lying pale against the pillows. For a moment his breath caught — she looked so still, so far away.

"Merry…?" Pippin whispered. "...Is she asleep?"

Behind him, Gimli shifted Merry gently upright, and the room seemed suddenly too solemn, too heavy. The scent of Athelas lingered faintly in the air. Even the morning light fell cautiously, as though unwilling to disturb her rest.

But then Legolas slipped in with the tray and the stone pot of flowers, setting them down with the same quiet grace he had carried them. His eyes flicked sideways to Pippin as though to remind him — We smuggle in cheer as well as gifts.

Pippin swallowed and nodded, curls bobbing more soberly now. He tiptoed forward to arrange the tray and flowers so they would be the first sights to greet Éowyn when she opened her eyes. Legolas hummed under his breath, soft as sunlight on grass. The melody held its warmth, yet it no longer winked; it steadied the air rather than teasing it, like a small light set carefully against encroaching dark.

Merry's voice came out hoarse. "She would like those flowers."

Gimli grunted. "Then she shall have them when she wakes."

They scribbled their names and good wishes on a slip of parchment, Pippin clutching the quill as though signing something far weightier.

"For her," Pippin said softly, almost to himself.

Merry leaned heavily against Gimli, blinking fast, and though a faint twitch of fondness touched his mouth at the sight of Elf and Hobbit together, it did not quite become a smile.

When Legolas' hand settled gently on Pippin's shoulder, the squeeze was warm but firm — less a conspirator's signal now than a quiet reassurance. The squeeze lingered. Pippin straightened a little beneath it.

"See?" Legolas said softly, his voice low enough not to disturb her rest. "She will love our gifts." The words were simple, yet there was something in them that reached deeper — as though he spoke not only of flowers and food, but of her return to light.

Merry only nodded, unable to trust his voice.

The room settled into stillness again. Pippin glanced at the flowers against the white linen, then at Merry standing despite his weakness, and at Legolas beside him, unbowed. He drew a quiet breath. Not bright. Not loud. But alive.

Chapter Text

Something That Lives

The door closed softly behind them, the latch settling with a quiet click that seemed too loud in the stillness. For a moment none of them spoke. The hush of the Houses of Healing seemed to follow them into the corridor, mingling with the faint scent of herbs and clean linen.

Pippin shifted from foot to foot, as though the quiet would not settle around him.
"She looked peaceful at least," he said, though he was not entirely sure it was true.

Beside him Merry leaned wearily against the wall, pale but hopeful.
"Aye… if only she would wake."

They had gone only a few paces when a brisk voice hailed them.

"Ah! There you are."

Ioreth approached along the passage, a small bundle of linen and a flask tucked beneath her arm, her keen eyes already moving over their faces, quick and assessing.

"Well then?" she asked. "How fares our lady?"

"She still sleeps," said Gimli.

Ioreth nodded thoughtfully. "That is no ill sign. The body must claim its rest after such hurt. She has passed the darkest danger, I deem, though we keep careful watch yet. When she wakes, we shall know more."

Pippin felt a small knot loosen in his chest.

"That's good news then," he said quickly.

"Good enough for the morning," Ioreth replied. "Now if you gentlemen—"

Gimli cleared his throat.

"If you have a moment more, mistress," he said, "my friend took a cut from an orc blade yesterday. It was tended in the infirmary outside the city… but I would be easier in my mind if you looked at it."

Pippin blinked, turning at once. Something cold settled unpleasantly in his stomach.

"Legolas was wounded?"

Legolas glanced down, as though it barely concerned him, and gave a faint shake of his head, his hand straying briefly to his chest — an absent, almost unconscious gesture — before falling to his side again.

"A small cut only. It was seen to last night. It was nothing — the healers there had many worse wounds to tend."

"Nothing?" Gimli snapped.

The word came out so abruptly that Pippin blinked again.

Gimli had already moved forward. "It was stitched in the field infirmary outside Minas Tirith in the middle of the night, with half the wounded of the Pelennor waiting their turn. And then bound by your own stubborn hands because you refused more attention."

Ioreth's brows rose sharply. Legolas shot Gimli a pointed glance.

"An orc blade, you say? And stitched in the field?" Her brows rose further. "Well then, I will see it."

"To trouble you further is unnecessary," Legolas began.

But she was not listening. She set down her bundle, deftly drawing out fresh linen and a small vial of spirits.

"You will kindly remove that tunic or at least free the arm," she instructed.

Legolas sighed and unfastened the ties at his collar. With careful movements he drew the garment partly aside, sliding the wounded arm free. A bandage about his upper arm came into view — darkened in places where old blood had seeped through.

Pippin felt a flicker of surprise. He had not noticed it before at all — caught up in the relief of finding them together again, and in the strange lightness that always seemed to cling to the Elf even after battle. Only now did he notice it — the sleeve crudely mended, the fabric dark where blood had soaked in and dried.

As the cloth fell further from his shoulder, Pippin's breath caught. Dark bruises spread along Legolas’ side and shoulder — the dull bloom of heavy blows. One lay along his ribs darker than the rest, where a strike had landed with brutal force.

Pippin swallowed. He had seen the Elf laughing that very morning on the walls. He had not imagined the battle had come so close to breaking him.

Merry stared as well.

"Legolas…" he murmured.

"Orcs are not known for gentle company."
He seemed almost too at ease. Pippin felt suddenly uncertain.

Gimli said nothing. He was watching the healer's hands.

Ioreth carefully unwound the bandage. The linen came free with a faint tack of dried blood, revealing the long cut along the inner side of his biceps, the stitches clean and close.

"Ah — it has already been stitched." She examined the neat work. "Well done too. One of the field surgeons, I would say."

She turned his arm slightly to catch the light, pressing gently along the edges.

"Hm," she said.

Pippin suddenly found himself holding his breath. Legolas, however, stood perfectly still — or too still? At length Ioreth nodded.

"Clean enough," she pronounced.

She dabbed the wound with fresh spirits and reached for clean cloth.

"No sign of poison?" Gimli asked quietly, too quietly for him, and with brown eyes slightly too wide.

The healer looked over at him.

"Poison? No indeed. Had there been any such ill-work we should see the flesh blackening already."

She wrapped the arm again with swift, capable fingers and tied the bandage firmly. As she drew back, her gaze lingered a fraction too long — not on the wound, but to where the fabric of Legolas' tunic had shifted. Something in her expression tightened. Legolas' hand moved at once, settling the cloth back into place. His eyes met hers — just for a heartbeat, before she looked away.

"There now," she said quickly. "Keep it clean and do not strain the arm overmuch. Even Elves must mend in their own time."

"You have my thanks," Legolas said with a small inclination of his head. He lowered his eyes, and it was to Pippin as if he deliberately avoided looking at him.

Only for a second Ioreth’s gaze jumped to Merry and Pippin, then she gave the binding a final pat and moved off down the corridor, already calling instructions to another healer.

Gimli watched her go. Then he let out a slow breath through his beard.

"I have learned not to trust an orc-blade," he said, narrowing his eyebrows.

Legolas glanced at him, and just for a second bit on his lip.

Pippin glanced between the Dwarf and the Elf. It had looked like nothing more than a cut. Yet the way Gimli had watched the healer's hands, and the insisting weight of his words, made Pippin think there was more behind it than he understood. But already Legolas flexed his hand lightly and gave a wink.

"Do not trouble yourselves, it will mend."

Yet the breath he drew after was a little too careful. It was on Pippin’s tongue to voice his worry. But then Gimli grunted, and there was relief in it. He shifted his stance and glanced down the corridor toward the doors that led out of the Houses.

"We must go down to the Pelennor, there are friends yet there who have need of us — those who still lie wounded, and those who grieve."

Pippin's face fell a little.
"Oh… must you go now?"

Legolas turned to him, his expression softening, sweet and reassuring.
"We will not be far," he said. "And we will return."
And Pippin felt suddenly calmer.

Merry straightened, though he still leaned on the wall.
"We'll stay here," he said quietly. "If she wakes… she should not be alone."

Gimli nodded. "Aye. That is well thought."

Pippin hesitated, then stepped forward and caught Legolas' hand briefly, holding it just a moment longer than needed.

"Don't find any more orcs," he said.

Legolas smirked.
"I shall do my best to oblige you."

"See that you do." Gimli scolded grimly.

They lingered a little longer — no one quite willing to move first.

Then the Dwarf gave a short nod.
"Come, lad," he said to Legolas.

“No, wait.” Pippin burst out.

All three looked at him, and for a moment he almost lost courage beneath Gimli’s stare. But then he could still see it perfectly — Legolas atop the garden wall in the sunlight, bright-eyed and laughing while Gimli vanished furiously through the halls below — and the thought of letting the Elf leave properly through the gate now seemed entirely wrong.

“You cannot go out through the gate,” he declared.

Legolas blinked slowly.

“I cannot?”

“No! You climbed over the wall to get in,” Pippin explained, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “If you leave properly now, it ruins the score.”

A deep groan rumbled at once from Gimli.

“There is no score.”

“There is always a score,” Legolas replied with airy confidence.

Merry gave a weak laugh beneath his breath, and even Pippin felt some of the heaviness in the corridor ease a little at the sound of it.

“You encouraged him,” Gimli muttered darkly. “That was your doing from the beginning.”

“And I do not repent of it,” said Legolas solemnly.

Pippin grinned triumphantly. For a brief moment it felt almost like earlier again — like sunlit walls, racing feet, and Legolas’ laughter bounding over the stone while Pippin scrambled after him without a second thought.

Before Gimli could object further, Legolas caught the edge of the stone archway and vaulted lightly upward.

But Pippin saw the hitch at once: the flicker across Legolas’ face, the sharp breath drawn too carefully after. One hand remained braced against the stone a fraction longer than it should have done.

Legolas turned then. Their eyes met. And Pippin had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that Legolas knew perfectly well he had been noticed.

Yet the smile came all the same — quick and a little reckless.

“You see?” he called from above them. “Still ahead.”

“You are bleeding again,” Gimli barked from below.

Legolas glanced down at the bandage around his arm as though mildly surprised by the discovery.

“Ah,” he said. “Only a little.”

"You are impossible."

Legolas’ grin widened — crooked now.

"And yet you continue to follow me everywhere."

Gimli muttered something in Khuzdul that was almost certainly unfriendly.

Pippin was laughing openly by then, though the tightness in his chest had not fully gone away.

Gimli had thought himself prepared. He had walked battlefields before. He had seen the cost of war written plainly enough in broken shields and still faces. He had left this very field the same morning. Yet as they passed beyond the gates, something in him tightened all the same. It carried the scent of trampled grass, of iron, of smoke long settled but not forgotten. And beneath it — fainter, but inescapable — the stillness of those who would not rise again.

Ahead of them, the field infirmary lay where they had left it: a scatter of tents, hastily raised, their pale canvas stirring in the morning breeze. But it was not as they had left it.

Gimli slowed.

Outside the nearest tent, forms lay wrapped in linen. More than before. Set side by side. He did not count them. He did not wish to.

Beside him, Legolas said nothing. But his stride lengthened with an unmistakable urgency. Each step carried him farther ahead, swift and soundless over the worn ground. Gimli swore softly and pushed forward.

"Easy, lad," he muttered, though it did no good.

The Elf moved like a thought given form, and for all Gimli's strength, he found himself forced into a jog to keep pace. His mail shifted with a dull rasp, his boots striking heavier than he would have liked.

"By my beard—" he grumbled under his breath, "If you mean to fly, say so plain—"

Legolas did not turn. But after a moment, he checked his pace — only slightly. Not enough to ease the tightness in Gimli's chest.

They passed the rows. Gimli kept his eyes forward. He would not look. Not unless he must.

The tent they sought, stood near the edge of the encampment. The overturned stool still lay where it had been cast aside. The spear still marked the place. But the ground bore fresh marks — footprints, dragged lines, the quiet signs of those who had come and gone in the hours since dawn.

Legolas did not pause. He pulled the flap aside and stepped in. Gimli followed close behind. For a heartbeat, the dimness obscured all, before his eyes adjusted. Gimli stood a little longer, then followed to where Legolas was already heading.

Wali.

The man lay as before, though propped more securely now, his broken leg bound and splinted thickly, his middle wrapped tight. His face was grey with pain, the lines of it deeper than Gimli remembered — but his eyes were open. He was still there. Alive. Awake. Relief struck him, sudden and sharp.

"Well," Gimli said gruffly, stepping forward, "you chose to stay, did you?"

Wali's mouth twitched faintly. "Had little say in it," he rasped.

But Gimli was already looking past him. To the place beside him. It was empty. The blankets on the cot were disturbed — creased, half-folded back — but there was no sign of Leyth. Gimli's chest tightened at once.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

Legolas had gone utterly still. For one brief moment, something hard crossed his face — grief, or fear, Gimli could not tell — before it vanished again. Wali drew a slow breath, as though even that cost him.

"Not far," he said. "He was here."

"That is not an answer," Gimli replied.

The man's gaze shifted, unfocused with pain, then steadied again.

"He woke after I regained consciousness," Wali said. "Head still clouded… he did not remember everything at once." His voice roughened. "But he would not lie still."

Gimli's jaw set.

"He should not be on his feet," he said.

"No," Wali let out a weak breath. "He should not."

"Someone helped him," Wali went on. "One of the camp hands, I think. He could barely stand on his own. They took him outside… just there." His eyes flicked toward the entrance. "Said he needed air. Or…" He hesitated. "To see where his dear one had gone."

Gimli's expression darkened, but he said nothing.

"Not far," Wali added. "He could not go far."

Legolas' voice was soft, but hopeful.
"Which way?"

Wali shifted his gaze toward the tent opening, as though tracing the path they had taken.

"That way," he said faintly. "Toward the river… but only a little way. He could not walk properly."

Gimli turned at once, looking out through the open flap. For a heartbeat he saw nothing — only the shifting movement of the camp, men passing to and fro, the pale wash of daylight over trampled ground.

"There," Legolas said. He was already moving. Not far. As Wali had said. Just beyond the next line of tents, where the view opened toward the river, a small figure stood — no, not stood, but leaned heavily.

The young healer was with him, one arm braced firmly about his shoulders. Gimli felt something in his chest ease.

"Aye. That is him."

They reached them quickly. Leyth's head was bowed, his weight sagging against Abrazan's support. The bandage at his temple was still in place, though slightly askew now, and the long wrapping at his side showed fresh staining where the wound had pulled. His face — Gimli stopped short. It was wet with tears. Not silent ones either, but the kind that came whether a man would have them or no, his breath catching unevenly as he tried and failed to master it. Abrazan glanced up at their approach, relief plain in his expression.

"You are back!" he said, exhaling in relief, "Good. He should not be out here. I was just trying to bring him back, but he would not—"

"I'm fine," Leyth said, his voice hoarse, though he did not straighten, nor loosen his grip on Abrazan who held him upright.

"Aye," Gimli said dryly, coming to stand before him, "you look it."

Leyth gave a weak, frustrated sound, turning his face slightly away.

"I just—" He swallowed hard. "I needed to see."

Legolas stepped closer, his voice gentle.

"And have you seen?"

For a moment, Leyth did not answer. Then, very faintly, he shook his head.
"It's too far."

His gaze had been fixed somewhere past them — toward the distant line of the river, where the land dipped. Gimli followed that look. That would be the direction. He drew a slow breath, then looked back at the lad.

"You have seen enough, then," he said, not unkindly. "And more than you should in your state."

Leyth shook his head weakly. "He shouldn't be alone."

“Nor is he,” Legolas said quietly.

Leyth's eyes flickered to him, uncertain.

"Calmaron is with him," he went on looking briefly at Gimli as if to demand emphasis, "And we will go as well."

Gimli gave a short nod. "Aye. We will see it done proper."

Leyth's breath hitched again. "I should—"

"You should lie down," Gimli cut in firmly. "Before you fall down."

Abrazan at his side nodded emphatically. "He can barely stand," he said. "I told him as much."

Leyth made a faint, frustrated motion, as though to pull away — but it came to nothing. His strength was spent. Legolas reached out then, resting a steady hand against his shoulder.

"There is no dishonor in this," he said quietly. "Not in surviving."

Gimli mumbled incredulously into his beard, “Ha, look who speaks...”
He turned on Leyth. “The lad should follow his own advice… But he is right.”

Legolas did not so much as glance at him. "You have done what you could. Let us bear the rest."

Leyth closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the fight had gone out of him.

"…you'll find him?" he asked, voice low and rough.

"We will."

"And Adil…" Leyth swallowed. "He should—"

"He will not be left alone."

That, at last, seemed to settle it. Leyth sagged a little more against the healer, the last of his resistance fading.

"Come," the young man said gently, shifting his grip to better support him. "Back to your bed now."

This time, Leyth did not argue. Gimli stepped aside, watching as they turned back toward the tents. The lad's steps were uneven, his head bowed, but he went. Beside him Legolas took a slow, deep breath.

Silence stretched between them briefly. Gimli stole a glimpse at Legolas and glanced toward the river once more.

"Well… we have a grave to see to."

Legolas did not answer. His head had turned slightly, as though he had caught some distant sound beneath the low murmur of the camp. His gaze shifted — not toward the river, but off to the right, where a loose line of horses stood beyond the tents, some tethered, some wandering within a rough boundary.

Gimli followed the look, frowning.
"What is it?"

Legolas still said nothing. But then— "He is here."

The words came with such sudden joy that Gimli startled. And before Gimli could reply, the Elf had already changed direction.

"Oh, no you don't—" Gimli hurried after him.

The horses stirred as they approached. A few lifted their heads, ears flicking. One stamped lightly at the ground. And then one broke from the line. Arod came toward them at an easy trot, mane catching the light, head high — but not in alarm. His pace slowed as he drew near, until he halted before Legolas and shoved his nose into the Elf’s shoulder with a soft huff of breath, nearly knocking him off balance.

Legolas laughed — an abrupt, breathless sound that cracked strangely in the middle.

“Easy,” he muttered, gripping the horse’s neck with both hands and resting his forehead against Arod's neck.
"I had thought you lost," Legolas murmured.

Arod's ear flicked, as though in answer.

Gimli came up beside them, hands on his hips, eyeing the horse.

"Well," he said, "you have found your long-legged friend again."

Arod turned his head.

Gimli snorted. "Aye, I'm here too. No need to look surprised."

Legolas laughed again — this time it was a light bubbling sound — and in one smooth motion, he set his foot and swung onto Arods back.

Gimli eyed him.

"Don't tell me you mean to ride," he said.

Legolas glanced down at him with a brightness in his eyes that spoke plainly of how fiercely he cherished this moment. "It will be swifter."

Gimli grumbled under his breath. Then, without further protest, he caught the saddle and Legolas pulled him up behind.

"If this beast objects," he muttered, settling his weight, "he is welcome to say so now."

Arod shifted once — no more than a settling of muscle beneath them — then stood easy.

Gimli huffed. "See? Sensible creature."

Legolas did not answer, but his hand moved lightly along Arod's neck.

"Come," he said.

Arod stepped forward at once, then lengthened into a smooth, ground-eating stride. The tents fell behind them quickly. Wind moved past them, cool and clean, carrying the scent of the river. The field opened again, wider now, emptier — and ahead, the line of trees drew nearer with each stride.

The movement jarred unpleasantly through Gimli's bruised ribs, though he refused to give the horse the satisfaction of hearing it. He held fast, scowling into the wind.
"This is still a ridiculous mode of travel," Gimli muttered.

"Mm."

"Did you hear me?"

"I did."

Arod abruptly surged forward. Gimli nearly bit his tongue.

“By Mahal’s bones— warn a Dwarf before you do that!”

Legolas laughed — bright and sharp and far too pleased with himself.

“You seemed comfortable.”

“I was breathing five seconds ago!”

They did not ride all the way. Before the ground dipped toward the river, Legolas drew Arod to a halt and swung lightly down. Gimli followed with less grace, muttering as his boots struck earth.

"Aye, now we walk," he said, adjusting himself. "As sensible folk would have done from the start."

Legolas said nothing, but his hand lingered briefly against Arod's neck before he turned away. The horse remained where he was, head low, as though content to wait.

They went on between the scattered trees. The ground here was softer, the grass high, not torn. The sound of the camp had faded far behind them, replaced by the quiet movement of water nearby.

And there — was Calmaron. He had chosen a place beneath a willow, its long branches trailing low, stirring faintly in the breeze. The earth beneath it had been broken open, a dark hollow cut deep into the ground — too deep for one man. Gimli saw it at once. The sides were uneven where the soil had given way under strain, the edges marked by repeated effort. A spade lay cast aside. Nearby, a horse stood tethered loosely to a low branch, its head drooping with weariness. A length of cloth and rope still hung from its side — a makeshift tack for bearing a weight. The ground around it was marked where a burden had been carefully lowered.

Gimli's gaze flicked once to it.

"Good," he muttered under his breath. "You did not carry him alone."

Calmaron himself knelt beside the grave, shoulders bowed, his breath heavy and uneven, as though each draw of it had to be fought for. He was bare to the waist despite the chill, his skin streaked with sweat and dirt. His hands raw, torn at the palms. He did not seem to hear them at first.

Legolas stepped closer.

"Calmaron."

The man flinched slightly, as though waking from far away. He turned, eyes unfocused for a moment — then steadied.

"You came," he said hoarsely.

"Aye," Gimli answered.

Calmaron looked back at the grave.

"I would not leave him to strangers," he said. "He… he should have one who cares to lay him down."

His voice broke on the last words, but he forced it steady again.

Gimli's gaze shifted. Adil lay nearby, carefully wrapped in linen. As though each fold had been set with thought.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Gimli moved.

"Up," he said. "You have done enough of this alone."

Calmaron hesitated — then his strength seemed to give way all at once, and he leaned back, breathing hard as he yielded the place.

Legolas knelt without a word. Between them, the work was finished swiftly, but not hastily. The grave was deepened where needed, the sides steadied. The earth moved with purpose now, not desperation.

When it was done, they lifted the slim, still form. Gimli took the weight at the shoulders. Legolas at the feet. He was light. Too light. They lowered him gently into the earth. Gimli looked away before the last folds of linen vanished beneath the shadow of the grave.

For a long moment, no one moved. The willow stirred above them, its branches whispering faintly. Slowly, they filled the grave. Each handful of earth fell with a soft, final sound. When the last of it had fallen, Gimli set the spade aside and stood, breathing deep. Behind them, the tethered horse stamped once and stilled again.

"He should not have died so," Calmaron said, low, as if the words themselves were a burden. "He was only—" He did not finish.

"He did not die alone," Legolas said quietly. His voice roughened on the last word. "Nor is he left so now."

Calmaron swallowed, nodding once. He did not rise, as though something in him had been set into the ground with the boy. He bowed his head, his hands clasped tightly before him.
Silence settled beneath the willow, for a long time no one spoke again.

Then—

Gimli frowned.
“He was here a moment ago…"

Legolas was no longer beside him.

Gimli turned sharply, looking about.

“By stone and iron—”

He looked up. A voice drifted down from above him.

"Your powers of observation remain unmatched, Master Dwarf."

Gimli jerked backward so violently he nearly stepped into the grave again. High above them, half lost among the hanging branches, Legolas lounged along one of the great limbs as though he had always been there. One knee hooked lazily over the bark.

Gimli stared. "How long have you been up there?"

Legolas tilted his head thoughtfully. "Long enough."

"You insufferable squirrel of a sprite—"

Legolas flashed a brief grin. Then he went suddenly still. His gaze had shifted upward into the canopy. For one strange heartbeat his expression changed — sharpened.

"There," he said softly.

And before Gimli could ask what in Durin's name he meant, Legolas dropped. Not climbed. Dropped. Straight through the hanging willow branches.

Calmaron made a strangled noise of alarm. Gimli swore violently.

Legolas landed in a crouch beside the roots with barely a sound, one hand braced against the earth.

He brushed aside the damp grass.

Between the roots, half-hidden beneath trailing green, a tiny shoot had forced its way through the soil — slender, new-grown, its leaves just unfurling pale and tender. His fingers touched it lightly.

"It will grow," Legolas said softly, though his gaze lingered on the fragile leaves as if he needed to believe it.

Gimli followed his gaze and huffed quietly.

"Aye," he said. "Stubborn thing."
And then he swallowed because there was something in his throat that pained him a little.

Calmaron looked up, confusion flickering through his grief. Legolas glanced at him.

"We will take it," he said gently. "To one who would have stood here, had he the strength."

Slowly, he understood.
"Leyth," Calmaron said.

Gimli blinked because there was a pressure in his eyes too, and gave a low grunt.
"Aye."

Calmaron bowed his head again.
"He should have something," he murmured. "Something that is not… only this. Something that lives."

Legolas loosened the earth carefully around the shoot, as though disturbing something that must not be broken, lifting it with its small roots intact. Dirt had gathered beneath his nails from the grave, dark against pale skin. He held it for a moment, as though weighing something unseen. At last he rose.

Behind them, Arod shifted lightly where he stood among the trees, and the other horse lifted its head in quiet answer, ears turning toward Arod as if in shared understanding — but neither came closer.

Gimli glanced once at the grave, then at the small green thing in Legolas' hand.

"Well," he said gruffly, "we had best see it planted again before you forget you're carrying it."

A faint light touched Legolas' face — no smile, not quite, but something gentler.

"I will not forget."

And together, they turned back toward the camp — leaving Calmaron beneath the willow, and the tree to keep its watch.

They did not speak much on the way back. Arod bore them steadily, his stride even now, the haste had gone from it. Behind Legolas, Gimli sat more quietly than before, one hand resting against the saddle, his usual grumbling gone. Legolas held the small shoot carefully, one hand curved about its roots to keep the earth from falling loose.

The camp came into view again — tents, low voices, the slow movement of the living among the aftermath. This time, they rode all the way in. Gimli slid down first with a muted grunt, then turned as Legolas dismounted more lightly. For a moment, the Elf rested his hand again against Arod's neck.

"Wait," he said softly.

Arod stilled, as though he understood.

They went to the tent. Voices murmured somewhere beyond the canvas, low and indistinct. Inside, the dimness closed around them again — but it was not as empty as before.

Leyth had been brought back. He lay where they had left him at dawn, though now propped more carefully, blankets drawn up about him. His face was pale with exhaustion, the strain of what little he had done written plainly upon him. Wali lay beside him, as before — but now turned slightly toward him, as though keeping watch even in his weakness.

Both looked up as they entered. Gimli saw Leyth go still the moment he noticed what Legolas carried.

"We found him," he said.

Leyth swallowed, his throat working.

"And…?" he asked, though the question faltered.

"It is done."
Legolas’ gaze lowered, as though the words themselves carried weight.

Leyth's eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again they were bright, though no fresh tears fell now.

Wali stirred beside him, drawing a careful breath.

"You went."

Gimli nodded. "Aye. And we did not leave him alone."

After a moment Legolas stepped closer.

"There was a tree. By the river."

Leyth looked up at him, uncertain.

"A willow," Gimli added, gruff but not unkind. "Stubborn thing, growing where the ground is soft."

Legolas knelt, lowering his hand. From it, the small shoot showed. Its roots wrapped in damp earth, leaves pale and new.

"This has grown beside him," Legolas said. "We thought… to bring it back to you."

Leyth only stared at it at first. Then, slowly, he reached out. His hand trembled — not from weakness alone — and he took the small plant as though it were something far more fragile than it seemed.

"He would have liked that," he said, barely above a whisper.

Wali turned his head more fully now, his gaze settling on the shoot. A faint, tired smile touched his mouth. He lifted a hand as though to touch the leaves himself, but let it fall again before reaching them.

"I'm sure, he would."

Leyth held it carefully in both hands, his grip tightening slightly.

"We will plant it," he said after a moment. "When I can stand."

Gimli huffed softly. "You will plant nothing until you can walk without falling over."

A hesitant shadow of a smile flickered across Leyth’s face.
"Aye. That too."

His gaze dropped again to the small roots, the loose earth beginning to crumble between his fingers. Beside him, Wali drew another careful breath.

"You'll not keep it like that," he murmured. "It will dry before the day is out."

Gimli folded his arms.
"Aye. Needs soil. And something to hold it."

Leyth glanced up, uncertain for a moment — as though the practical thought had not yet reached him. Legolas' eyes moved briefly about the tent. And then he was already in motion again. There — near the low table, half-hidden among cloth and small instruments — a simple cup stood, earthen, its rim chipped. Legolas lifted it, and turned it once in his hand.

"It will serve," he said.

Gimli took a step over, peering into the cup. "Better than your hands, at least." Legolas smiled faintly, apparently satisfied.

"Water," Wali added faintly.

Gimli snorted. "Aye, we'll not forget that part."

He reached for a small jug set nearby and took a handful of loose soil from a basin used for packing dressings, adding it to the cup.

"Here," he said.

Legolas knelt once more and, with careful hands, settled the small shoot into the cup, pressing the earth gently about its roots. He added a little water, just enough to darken the soil. The leaves trembled slightly, then stilled.

All three watched it in silence. Then Legolas lifted it gently and held it out. Leyth took it with both hands. This time, his grip was steadier.

"I will keep it," he drew a breath, "Until… until I find where it belongs."

Wali's gaze softened, though the strain had not left him.

"You will find that place," he said. "Not just anywhere… not for him."

Leyth nodded. "No. Not just anywhere."

Gimli folded his arms, looking between them.

"Well, then you have something to tend besides your own bones… and that's no small thing. That should keep you from wandering off again."

A faint breath of something like a laugh escaped Leyth.
"I will try."

Legolas rose, his gaze resting on him a moment longer.

"It will take root," he said quietly, shifting his gaze to the small shoot .

Leyth looked down at the small green leaves in the cup.
"I know."
His fingers tightened once around the cup, careful not to crush the fragile stem.

The tent fell still again, but the silence had changed. In the dimness, there was something more than memory held there — something living, waiting to be carried forward — beyond this day.