by Anarithilien
A/N: This story is just a one-shot gap-filler. It plays no big role in the whole of the LOTR story arc, so in that way it is written simply for the fun of it. I dedicate it to Ziggy3 who was in need of some inspiration as she writes the next chapter of "More Dangerous, Less Wise." I personally can't think of a better way to offer encouragement than by providing some elf hurt/comfort, but that's just me. What I can say is that every author needs encouragement, so perhaps you can offer her yours by ways of a review or two? Right.
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He was cold though that seemed strange… he was never cold. And yet a fierce shiver ran up his spine, astounding him with the violence of it. Equally as unexpected, he moaned, the sound passing his lips unintentionally. Through all his long memories he could not remember ever finding himself in a state where the unbecoming sound of his own misery might slip past his awareness, spilling out so others might hear it. Yet this was exactly where he was now: cold and in pain and astonished by his own inability to control his condition.
Ai, but the cold was unbearable!
And yet at the same time, it was soothing, lulling him. He felt heavy with fatigue.
…And in pain. A new stab coursed through him, bringing him out of his drowse.
Be aware, he told himself. Strangely though he could not piece together the reason why he should do so. And that bothered him almost as much as the sensations of cold, weariness, and pain.
Where was he? What had caused him these miseries? Memory eluded him.
He shuddered violently, suddenly then, and the uncontrollable spasm created new pain that drew him back to the point of his original reckoning. Pain and cold reawakened, aching from the depth of his bones, shooting daggers through his spine, through his limbs. He gasped, catching the groan this time before it could become a full outcry.
"More wood," someone ordered, the voice seeming a distance away, hazy but drawing his attention. "Give me your cloaks!"
He felt his shoulders being lifted, his body held upright, and then he was laid once more. The ground was cushioned beneath him and he added this new piece to the puzzle of where, why and how he came to be. It didn't stop the ache or the horrible chill though. He felt the weight of what he assumed were the ordered cloaks press down on him. They could have been a blanket of dirt for all he felt them. Still he shivered.
"Get that fire up! Put the blankets near to warm them. Liquids. We need warm liquids."
"He's so blue," someone commented, another distant voice, almost despairing.
"He's nearly frozen," the first answered, seeming nearer now. "He has been trapped in that ice for a long while."
"He shivers," another said.
"That is good. It means his body has not yet given up," the first replied once more. It was becoming clear that he was the one in charge.
"He will live then," someone else stated, the voice deep and resonating, making him feel mildly irritated by the earthy forcefulness, like his sleep was being interrupted. The comment was said more matter-of-factly, as if the speaker was sorry, but also not, an undercurrent of concern carried in the veil of dismissal. It amused him somewhat that he could discern the intermingling of simultaneous disdain and worry, even in his sorry state, and that somehow drew him closer to those speaking, like a curious cat, wary yet eager.
"There is no certainty of that," the one who was leader returned in answer, and he could hear the more direct concern in his voice. "Is that tea warmed yet? It need not be hot. Too much will put him in shock. We need to get his core warmed."
"What of that gash to his head?"
"The physical hurts are secondary. This is first."
He suddenly felt very tired and the voices around him turned into a liquid blur, sounds without meaning, fading. The pain diminished and he was grateful for that. He felt heavy, still. Almost he could sleep like this. Dull, slow, uncaring. Except for the cold. That was still present, but somehow it was less troubling. In the recesses of his mind something told him that if he just settled into it, the cold too would diminish. It was a temptation.
Legolas!
The call jarred him. Almost, in his complacency, he had forgotten his own name. But in hearing it he was startled back to awareness, at least enough to remember who he was.
Someone shook him, slapped him, but he barely registered that. He was tired. Did they not see that? Why was he being bothered so?
"No! You will not forsake me! Awaken now, Elf!" And this time the voice was nearer, pulling him close, the urgency immediate and demanding.
He tried to open his eyes.
"Look at me! Yes! Focus here. Look at me, Legolas!"
He tried to see, the shock of light blinding him. But even as he adjusted to it, his gaze wandered. Another slap and his eyes bolted open. They had closed again.
"Look here. At me. Yes. Do you remember?" the caller said to him, and he followed the voice now, gazing up at the face, haggard, sharp, hard in the winter light. For a moment he did not know, did not comprehend who it was that spoke to him, or even what it was he said. But then it came back to him and he gasped. Aragorn.
Somehow that spark of recognition, that quick draw of breath, reignited the horrible shivers and pain that had earlier wracked him. His mouth, tight with the cold, opened out in a cry, and it seemed that unleashed the torrent of his misery. This time he could not seem to take in enough air. Shuddering gulps of it intermixed with his distressed sounds.
Aragorn was immediate as he pulled him nearer, hugging him tight, as if willing heat into him and nodding as a blanket was thrown over him again. Someone handed Aragorn a cup and Legolas recognized the face of this other as well. Gandalf. He put this with the others points in the back of his mind knowing somehow that it would all come together into a picture soon enough.
"Drink," Aragorn was saying, and the cup was pressed to Legolas's lips. He shook violently as he tried to open his mouth to it, and the liquid sloshed and spilled onto his chin, into the fabric binding him. He could not feel the skin on his face, only the rough texture of the gloved hand as it brushed across to steady the cup.
And then he felt the liquid draw down his throat, warm and soothing, almost cooling the moment it settled, and yet it was reviving.
"More," Aragorn commanded as he handed the cup back to Gandalf, never letting his eyes stray from the elf.
The sound of his breathing was distressing though. The breaths came in quick gulps, the violent tremors preventing him stillness. And too, the pain in his limbs was excruciating, as if every muscle was twisted in a binding cramp. He squeezed his eyes shut to the pain.
"I need you to look at me, Legolas," Aragorn was saying, He seemed to be a distance away now, and the fatigue once more pressed down like a heavy blanket. Again he found the cup at his lips and liquid pouring into his mouth, forcing him to swallow. The heat of it felt good though the tremors increased as he drank. So did the pain.
He opened his eyes then, the ache too much to remain passive. The scene was unchanged. Aragorn held him near, like he was cradling a child, and he was plying the cup, taking a break between the elf's sips. Over the man's shoulder, Gandalf could be seen ministering to something hidden by Aragorn's body. His eyes were down and he was whispering quietly to himself.
And then there was another beside him, draping yet another blanket over his shoulders. "Cover his head," Aragorn instructed and the adjustment was made. Dully he could feel the heat radiating from the coverlet, his skin sensing it. He shifted his gaze to see Sam fussing and tucking the blanket about him. Sam. The hobbit. This acknowledgment was somehow important.
He was on the Quest. He remembered that now and it stirred him. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, like he should be found otherwise, not incapacitated, never incapacitated. He was an Elf, strong, one of the warriors there to protect them. He should be on watch, on guard, scouting. It was wrong to be lounging. But the pain increased in that moment, pushing the thought away as he found himself sucking in breath to halt the newest spasm.
"Breathe through it," Aragorn urged. "Deeply. That's right."
And Legolas knew Aragorn was right though it hurt to do as instructed. Still he opened his mouth, drawing air, the moan of pain escaping him with that intake. He felt weak like this. He was not one to lounge, but clearly something had occurred, knocking him down enough to put him in this state of shame and misery. But his memory was blank.
"Wh-what h-h-h-hap-?" His voice was a whisper,
"The snow," Aragorn began. And that was all he need say, for Legolas suddenly remembered.
The scene, like a series of fast pictures, appeared before him. It all happened so quickly, almost making no sense. But he remembered parts …
They were making the slow trek across the Hithaeglar. Being light of foot, he had been at the head of the party, picking the safest way. The snow had come the week before, covering the ground before they had set off in this journey. The sun was blessedly warm that day and a relief to the grey clouds that had followed them since leaving the House of Elrond. Yet joyous though the day was, he had been fretful about their trek. Light on the surface but getting thicker and heavier beneath, the snow troubled him. He could hear the sound of water low, trickling beneath them, and he used a makeshift walking stick to prod the path, making sure no unknown crevice would open up to swallow them.
He had led them to a safe place, nearer a rock ledge where the snow was thin. The way was getting easier to walk and the path opened out. The line they had walked fell away as they mingled together, conceding the need for rest without waiting for the command from Aragorn. None had settled or disposed of their packs yet, but they halted for the moment. He took an uphill perch so he could look out ahead to mark their path. He was beginning to feel comfortable, assured in this solid place that they would be safe. And then he heard it. He turned, trying to discern how near it was when he met Gimli's eyes. Son of the earth, it was clear Gimli sensed it too, the dwarf's eyes growing wide expressing his fear. And then he was shouting the warning Legolas spoke in the same instant. "Run!"
He didn't have time to process the full of it, but he could piece out enough to realize that the heavy snow above had been loosed by the flow of melt water from below. The line shifted. Gimli took the lead, pushing through the snow like a wedge, cutting a hard path. Boromir was immediately behind him, pulling and lifting Merry and Pippin in his wake. Gandalf was next, followed by Sam and Aragorn. And then there was Frodo who seemed paralyzed by the uncertainty of disaster, and Legolas did not waste time prodding him. He lifted the hobbit and ran. His long legs covered the ground quickly and he was immediately at Aragorn's back. He remembered seeing Aragorn's hair bobbing as he ran, the man's bow and pack swinging with the momentum of his tread. And then, as if in slow motion, he saw his companion turn to look back, checking to make sure Legolas was with them, eyes wide in fear. His mouth opened, a word forming on his lips. But even if he had managed to shout his alert, Legolas would not have heard him. A thunderous roar filled his ears, drowning out any other sound. In the same instant, Aragorn reached out his hands to the elf. Instinctively, Legolas pushed Frodo into them.
And then a cloud of white rose up at the elf's feet, rising like a tide, obliterating the man from his vision almost immediately as crystal air filled his nostrils. He felt his feet slide out from under him. And then there was no more.
Legolas's eyes widened with the memory. "Fr-Frodo!" he gasped.
"I'm here," a small voice spoke out, and Legolas saw the hobbit's hand on Sam's shoulder, pushing forward to crowd into the elf's vision.
His heart rushed with the sight of the Ringbearer. He felt overwhelmed with relief. "Fr-Fro-Fro—" he tried to speak, but the name was stuck in an unrelenting stammer.
Undaunted by the butchering of his name, Frodo smiled shyly, eyes cast down as if he was humbled. "You saved my life, Legolas," he was saying.
Alive! Legolas thought gratefully. The horror that came with the thought of losing Frodo was almost too much to bear. Perhaps it was the trauma of the event, or perhaps it was the depth of his already great emotions, but his heart was tearing at the idea of losing his companion. Their journey was only a week old, yet Legolas had grown quite fond of the young Hobbit. In fact, his affection for everyone had increased dramatically. Even Gimli – yes, he had to admit that the dwarf's annoying habits were beginning to grow on him too. His eyes stung with the sudden realization of how near they had come to failing, and he knew it could be said he had been the one responsible… had he not led them all to the place where the snow gave way? Yet Frodo looked at him with gratitude, and the elf was moved.
Still, friendship and fondness were not the things he was brought on this quest to attain or preserve. And so with combined relief and sense of duty, Legolas stammered out his reply. "Pl-ple-pledged to do-do so," he said, trying not to disclose his fears or depth of emotion in this reply. He hated that he could not control the shuddering of his body or the tears that leaked from his eyes, but he forced a sober demeanor into the words. He noticed Gandalf glance at him then, seeming to frown, but he could not discern meaning in this.
"Such devotion nearly cost your life," Boromir interjected as he crowded forward too, drawing Legolas's attention away from the wizard. "I am not sure everyone could have been so selfless."
It seemed then that they were all there… Merry, Pippin, Gimli, Frodo, Sam, and suddenly he felt compressed, like he was being pushed into a space too small for him. He cringed under their united scrutiny, almost as if they judged him, and though he knew they merely showed their concern, he did not like feeling as if he were being examined in their minds. He felt somehow wrong, like he had committed a slight, and he longed to escape then. He would find an excuse to leave if he could. But his body was stiff, muscles cramped, locked, and he felt weighted down by all the cloaks and blankets piled upon him. Too, the cold was yet unbearable, and he felt that heavy fatigue pulling at him again.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Aragorn said as an aside, as if directing Gandalf, "Clearly we will not be going anywhere today. I think it would be wise to set up camp here."
And Gandalf, apparently of the same mind, agreed. "Yes, this outcrop is hidden enough by those trees. But we can only safely keep this fire lit by the day. Merry, Boromir, Gimli, fetch more wood. We need it still. Come nightfall we will be without and we should make use of it while we can. Frodo, Pippin, tend to Bill. See that he is fed. Sam, you should see to feeding the rest of us." All scurried off to their tasks, relieving Legolas of their hovering presence. "And you, young elf, must drink more. Your temperature is still dangerously low."
And Aragorn added, "That is agreed. You are too cold. We need to get your heat up, though movement is out of the question at the moment. I would warm you in a bath if I could, but seeing as that is not possible here either, we will have to find other means as well. Most important, you must stay awake, Legolas!" This last statement was directed at the weariness that seemed to be crowding in on the elf. His eyes snapped open with this directive.
"I would look over your wounds now," Aragorn announced as he nodded to Gandalf, and the wizard slipped into his place, taking the elf in his arms as the man moved to the other side of him, his eyes scrutinizing and thoughtful. In his effort to remain awake, Legolas followed him with his eyes.
Aragorn proceeded to probe Legolas's head with his fingers. Legolas winced when he neared the gash on his head. He had not felt the wound before this. "Concussed," Aragorn said as he prodded, speaking more to himself than to the elf, but Legolas was glad to know. That could be part of the reason he was having such difficulty remaining awake.
"H-h-how l-l-l…?" Legolas asked, hoping that by talking he might regain a little more control.
"We have been hunting for you for a full day," Aragorn explained, understanding the elf's incomplete sentence, all the while watching Legolas's eyes, indicating points he wished him to fix upon. "The avalanche came yesterday; we had almost given up on finding you. Fortunately the snow formed a bowl around you, not even completely sealing off though you were deeply buried. It was like a small ice cave you were trapped in. Had you been conscious you might have crawled out on your own."
"Y-you sh-sh-should have l-le-left m-me," Legolas protested, feeling weighted down by his guilt. "M-m-my fault. The sn-snow. C-c-costing you t-t-too much."
A smile turned up Aragorn's lips, and it seemed a thought flitted through his mind, but he merely said, "Like you, I have made a pledge. I could not desert you. My task, if it can be managed, is to see all survive this." He was now examining the elf's legs one at a time, carefully prodding, bending, and rotating his ankles and knees, and almost absently Legolas felt this, though the limbs seemed disconnected from him. The cramping in his muscles was great, and he knew it would take some time before the tension created by the cold left them. Even now he felt the shooting pain caused by movement, but at least it was distant.
At the same time, he was beginning to feel drowsy again. Still he admonished, "B-but Fr-Frodo comes f-f-first. I-I ammm not impor-por-tant."
"Rubbish and foolishness," Gandalf barked, startling any fatigue out of Legolas in his abrupt interruption. For a moment he thought the wizard might be speaking to the gathering again. But then he saw his scornful gaze drawn to both himself and Aragorn. The elderly Maia's brow was furrowed in disapproval as he said, "Who are you to say who among us is important and who is not? And further, if you think a life or two has been saved this day because you made promises to do so, we should turn back now as this quest surely is doomed to fail!"
"Gandalf?" Aragorn asked, perplexed, mirroring the response Legolas would have given if he could, the man halting in his examination.
"The Fellowship did not waste a day on searching because you made a pledge, Aragorn. Did Gimli make a pledge? Did Boromir? No! We searched for Legolas because it was the right thing to do!" he admonished.
Taken aback, Aragorn frowned. Shrugging the wizard's scolding off, he went back to his examination.
But Gandalf was not appeased. "Do not take my words lightly, Man! Before this journey is done, I think it will be clear that all of us will be fighting for the sake of friendship, not duty. If you believe your job is to keep all here alive, you will be fighting Mordor single-handedly. More so, the will of that thing Frodo carries will have Its way with your mind. Duty! That is not why you were chosen!"
"That is not what I meant," Aragorn began to retort, but the wizard did not ease his admonishment.
"It may be we are forced to make choices, Aragorn! We may have to decide if we follow duty or if we follow friendship." To this he gave a cutting glance toward Aragorn as if the man knew of what the wizard was speaking. "Which way will you go then? The choices we make will force the paths we end up taking.
"And the same goes for you, Legolas," Gandalf continued without taking a breath. "Of course we are all pledged to bring Frodo forward, but I dare say your actions would have been the same had it been Sam, or Merry, or even Gimli! Had it been a pledge you were fulfilling, you should be back in your father's fold now, for are you not pledged to serve his kingdom first?"
And here Legolas knew Gandalf was right. He would have done the same for any of them. He frowned as he conceded the right of this, saying in a whisper, "Per-per-perhaps not the-the dwarf." Yet he smiled meagerly to show the jest. Still his eyelids began to get heavy again and he felt suddenly quite weary.
"I dare say you would," Gandalf returned, almost muttering.
But then he looked more directly at the elf so he was looming nearer, filling his vision. He said something more then, but Legolas did not understand. Almost he did not care. The trembling in his body seemed to abate then, yet he felt almost colder than he had before... And tired… So very tired. Once again he recognized the temptation of relinquishing to the cold, finding a comfortable place within it, almost losing sense of what it meant to be warm, and in that actually being warm. His eyelids were now closed and everyone was far away. Though he knew in one part of his consciousness that Gandalf hovered above him, for all it mattered to Legolas he could have been on the far side of a meters thick stonewall.
"Legolas? Legolas! You must open your eyes now! Legolas!"
And he knew the words were true, but he did not care. Distantly, so distantly, he could hear voices, shouts. His mouth was being opened, liquid again poured into him, but swallowing seemed like it required too much attention. There was urgency and panic around him; he could feel it. But the words made no sense to him, the reason to fear pointless.
"Legolas! Awake! Legolas!" Someone was slapping the skin of his face, but he paid it no mind. What difference did it make to waken?
But then he felt the wizard's hand wrap about his wrist. The heat was blazing and Gandalf's voice seemed to resonate in his mind. "What I do now puts us at a terrible risk. But you see, you are my friend, Legolas Greenleaf, and friend to all in this company. I would not see you die."
And to that Legolas felt the heat in Gandalf's hand spreading, moving into his own flesh, branching away from the point where the wizard's hand wrapped about his limb. Almost in his mind he could see a molten fire blazing from the juncture, red heat drawing through his blood and bone, sinew and flesh. Such heat… such joyous heat!
At the same moment though, he could feel his skin tingle in wakefulness as his muscles extended beyond his will. And then they were twisting, and suddenly the glory of his warmth was overridden by the searing feeling, like his muscles and skin were burning, combined with the stabbing sensation of cramps. He felt afire as deep, every muscle constricted, his eyes widened in horror at the sudden contortion of his limbs. A guttural scream of pain was wrenched from him. Twisting, extending, his fingers bent and skewed at angles he had no control over. Legs, limbs, shoulders, every muscle revolted and compressed into knots of shooting pain. And he screamed with the surprising shock of it.
Aragorn was shouting, pulling Gandalf's hands free. "It is too much!"
"It is barely anything!" Gandalf argued.
"He is nearly frozen through. It will burn. His muscles cramp and the shock may be too jarring!" And instantly the blankets were torn away, cast aside, and Legolas was rolled to his belly. And it was a good thing too for it felt as if all his insides seized, and he found himself vomiting the liquids he had earlier ingested. But that was not the reason Aragorn had ministered the move.
"Gandalf now!" Aragorn was commanding. "Sam, you too! Rub into his limbs. His muscles constrict. Massage deeply! Press into the flesh. Find the knots. Rub them to try to soften them!" And Legolas could feel them all pulling and lengthening his arms and legs, prying fingers into his body as if trying to piece him apart with their bare hands. He screamed as they pressed fingers into him, the very weight of their hands caused waves of stabbing pain.
On fire. He was aflame, pain, stabbing through him at the very level of his bones. Numb, and yet feeling like his flesh was being torn from his body…He did not want to cry out but he could not help it. Aragorn was leaning into him, urging into his ear, "As before, Legolas! As before! Breathe through it! Draw your breath. In and out, try to soften your muscles." His fingers were coaxing the length of his spine, palms pressing into his shoulders, and Legolas suddenly realized that the man sat astride him like a horse. His weight pressed and lengthened his spine. "Breathe! Breathe!" Aragorn commanded of him.
And all around him voices called out to sooth him too. Even the bellows deep baritone of the dwarf reached out to him. Somehow the notes of that voice had the greatest effect, the resonance penetrating the harshness of his screams.
It was many minutes later before his cries softened. He did as told, loosening his limbs with each inhale of breath and with that he could feel the contortions of his fingers and toes relinquish though the charley horse cramping of his hamstrings, calves and shoulders remained. He grit his teeth as the muscles were worked, and slowly they gave way, eventually releasing.
"You are going to be alright, Legolas… Relax… relax. You are going to be alright.," Frodo was saying, rubbing the elf's left arm and shoulder as he encouraged his recovery. "Be well. Be well."
"Thank you," Legolas whispered in gratitude. He felt shaken and infinitely weary, his limbs heavy but sensate once more.
He attempted to move, and Aragorn seeing it, addressed the group tending him, "That is enough. He revives."
One by one they stopped, sitting back on their heels, awaiting the healer's next command. But still they spoke, urging him in small voices as Frodo had. "Are you feeling any better, Legolas?"
"It was like a fire was tearing through you."
"You seem to be recovered enough now."
"You should not ought to have done that, Gandalf."
"Did he even know it was coming?"
"He was dying! It had to be done!" This last came from Gimli, and Legolas smiled to himself at the stern rebuff. Irritating, but concerned, he wondered if Gimli was beginning to feel for him as he felt toward the dwarf.
Aragorn too had pulled away, giving ground so Legolas could be rolled once more to his back. And then the man reached beneath and drew Legolas into his arms once more, cradling him again like he was a small child. "How do you fare now, my friend?" he asked.
"Friend?" Legolas asked weakly.
"Yes. Friend. Gandalf is right. I could not bear it if you should die. We are all your friends, Legolas."
And Legolas nodded though the action caused a muscle or two in his neck to seize once again. He grit his teeth at the pain, but it was slight, and he knew he could knead this stitch out on his own. All in all he felt as boneless as a bowl of jelly. "I will be well," he said then, avoiding the immediate question and speaking only to the greater point. Directing his eyes to the group, he could see the relief on their faces.
"You see now what I was saying, do you not?" Gandalf asked, gaze pointed at man and elf. The wizard directed a small nod toward the group. "There was no pledge required of them just now."
"No pledge," Legolas nodded, agreeing. "It is what you do for a friend." And that was all that need be said, for every member of the Fellowship smiled at him, even Gimli, and that just affirmed the remark. They would be friends first and always. And he understood now, just as he always had, that sometimes friendship came before duty.
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End.