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.