A/N: So I didn't realize until after I finished writing the whole story that it was Brego (the horse Aragorn set free earlier in the movie) who saved him from the river, not Hasufel. It doesn't really change the aim of the story, though, so please bear with me on that mistake. You can think of it as being slightly AU.
Cliff's Edge
The cliff fell many tree-lengths down a sheer drop to the roiling currents of the gray river below. No mortal could survive such a fall. And yet, as he gazed down into the watery depth, Legolas could not bring himself to believe that Aragorn was dead.
"Come, Legolas!" Gimli called to him roughly, his voice ragged with grief.
Legolas reluctantly turned away from the cliff edge and walked slowly towards where the Dwarf stood in the shadow cast by Arod's tall form. He clutched the Evenstar tightly in his hand. The gleaming silver, untarnished by the orc's foul touch, was cool and soothing to his touch, but his own hands were colder still.
The Evenstar…Úndomiel…Arwen would be devastated. Who would bring the news to her? Perhaps she already knew. The bond between them would surely have broken if either faded from Middle-earth.
But would not he himself have felt it as well? He had come to love Aragorn as he had no other Man. And surely the earth would have given some sign, offered some lament for the passing of the Heir of Isildur and the rightful King of Gondor? Yet the voices of the trees and the stones and the water did not stray from their soft murmuring song.
Then could it be that Aragorn was not, as Théoden believed, dead after all?
Legolas glanced around. The Riders were already mounting their horses, having paid their final respects to the fallen. He longed to descend the cliff and follow the river to look for Aragorn, but he knew his duty was to protect the Rohirrim. Battle was nigh and no warrior could be spared. But then a loud whinny drew his attention, and he saw Hasufel rearing away from the Rider who was trying to lead it away.
A hope flamed in his heart.
"Wait for me," he whispered to Gimli, and rushed to meet the Rider.
"Have you need of this horse?"
"Not at the moment," the Rider replied, grimacing as he strained to hold the reins. "There are more horses left than riders. But when we reach Helm's Deep, there may be warriors in need of a good steed."
At that moment Hasufel managed to tear his reins out of the Rider's hands, and the Rider let out a frustrated cry. Legolas caught the reins and spoke gentle words in Sindarin to the horse; soon Hasufel was still beneath his touch.
"I will take care of him," said Legolas.
The soldier of Rohan looked relieved. "Thank you, Master Elf. It may be that we were wrong to distrust you when first we met."
Legolas smiled faintly and led Hasufel away. Instead of leading him back towards Arod, however, Legolas leaned close to the horse's ear and whispered, "Your master is fallen but not dead. Follow the course of the river, find him, and bring him to the Hornburg. He has a battle to fight and win, and there is an Elven maiden who is awaiting his return."
Hasufel snorted and reared back his head. "Noro lim!" Legolas cried, as the chestnut horse galloped off, to the alarm of the nearby soldiers. A few made attempts to stop Hasufel, but he shot through their grasps and soon disappeared into the distance.
Legolas helped a startled Gimli clamber onto Arod's back, then sprang up to sit in front of him. "Bring him back to us!" Legolas said softly into the wind; then he urged the white steed into a trot, falling into step with the Riders of Rohan as they rode swiftly towards the mountains from whose foothills rose the fortress of Helm's Deep.
When near nightfall Aragorn came up the stairs of the Deep, injured and ragged but alive, Legolas was much less surprised than Gimli and the Rohirrim. Nevertheless, he could not forebear a sigh of relief and gladness as he made his way to the doors of the fortress.
Aragorn, his head bowed in weariness, nearly ran into Legolas as he came up to the walkway. When he raised his head, he could only blink bemusedly as the Elf said to him, smiling mischievously, "Le abdollen."
The Ranger could think of no retort to that, but he laughed as Legolas then frowned and remarked, "You look terrible."
Aragorn clasped his friend's shoulder briefly. When he turned to leave, Legolas caught his arm with one hand and held out the other. The Evenstar lay there, shining gently against his long fair fingers.
Speechless again, Aragorn stared at the necklace for a long while as Legolas laid it in his palm. His heart, saddened by the fleeting vision of Arwen and despairing of facing ten thousand orcs in battle, now filled with a fierce hope.
"Hannon le," he whispered gratefully, looking into the bright Elven eyes that could see into distances as well as men's hearts.
Legolas only smiled and clasped Aragorn's shoulder in return before letting him pass through to the doors of the keep, following closely behind.
"Then I shall die as one of them!" Aragorn heard his voice echo against the stone walls of the keep. The crowd of Rohirrim was silent. Chest heaving with anger, he turned and strode out the doors before Legolas had a chance to call him back.
His fury was fleeting, and by the time he reached the outer gates he felt exhausted at heart. Aragorn could not believe that Legolas of all people was now giving into despair. For so long the Elf and the Dwarf had stuck with him, and not once had they voiced such thoughts as Legolas had just done in the keep. Had it not been Legolas himself who had urged them to look to hope during the long hunt for the orcs over the plains of Rohan, in the face of a situation as desperate as this? How could he so easily forsake it?
He sat down heavily onto the stone steps of the keep. Not matter what doubts Legolas had, Aragorn could not let himself waver from his promise to defend the Rohirrim. To calm himself, he unsheathed his sword and began to sharpen it with a whetstone.
He fell into the rhythm of the motion, and the sharp scrapes of stone against sword seemed to ring in companionable counterpoint to the metallic clashes that sounded from a dozen Rohirric blades as a group of warriors tried to wear out their pre-battle anxiety on each other. These sounds were familiar to the Dúnedan, and while the impending nightfall and the death it would bring cast a shadow over his thoughts, Aragorn felt almost serene. The impossible fight was but a typical skirmish on the borders of the Shire, and he would face it steadily as he had faced the myriad battles of years past.
He paused in his work to gaze up at the sky-piercing stone bulwark of the fortress. In his mind he reviewed the arrangement of the defenses. The archers and the commanders would take position on the upper reaches of the keep. Gimli would no doubt desire to be part of the first defense, and Legolas would join the archers…
A shadow of doubt darkened Aragorn's silver eyes, and he dropped his head. He had come to take it for granted, the unwavering loyalty and courage of his two companions. Who was he to judge if Legolas now doubted the wisdom of this last stand, where, after all, many would die and nothing might be achieved in the sacrifice? And how could he stop him, if the Elf – he paled to think of it – chose to return to his own people, who were no doubt in need of him?
He glanced up again. The sky above the battlements was darkening swiftly – too swiftly for just the descent of night; a storm was coming, in the heavens as on the earth.
A young Rohirrim warrior stood near the steps, shifting uncertainly in his armor. He was gazing longingly at the group of men clashing blades with each other in the middle of the courtyard.
Aragorn was suddenly reminded of his own childhood days spent watching, in awe, the spars of the Elven warriors of Rivendell. Feeling sympathy warm his dark thoughts, the Ranger called the young warrior over to him.
The Rohirrim turned to face him, and sorrow almost immediately re-entered Aragorn's heart. This was no warrior; between the yellow tresses, spotted with dirt, was the pale face of a boy.
Most have seen too many winters…or too few.
But the boy had already approached him, his face displaying equal parts fear and shyness. It would not do to let him know Aragorn's own misgivings.
"What is your name?" he asked gently.
The boy replied in a wavering voice, "Haleth, sire, son of Hama."
How he wished then that he could send this boy faraway, where there would be no war, no death! Hama was dead, and what chance did a boy have to survive when his father had not?
Haleth looked at him expectantly. Not knowing what else to do, Aragorn said, "Give me your sword."
The Ranger took up the sword and gave it a few expert swings. It was an old sword, tarnished with rust and many scars. Plain was its workmanship next to his Elven-forged blade, but it was still a sturdy weapon, and of fine, if not noble, lineage.
"This is a good sword," he told Haleth, offering it back to him.
Haleth gripped the hilt with uncertain hands. "The men say that we will not survive the night. That…there is no hope for us."
They are all going to die. Aragorn's breath caught in his throat, but he gazed resolutely at the boy. "There is hope. There is always hope."
He saw a faint smile grace Haleth's lips, and as the boy took his leave, Aragorn cursed himself. Whatever hope there was, whatever dawn would come after the dark night, the son of Hama would not live to see it. Aragorn did not need his foresight to know what Haleth's fate would be.
At that moment he heard the heavy bronze bell of the Deep's tower toll. It was time for the final preparations to be made. Whatever fate awaited the Rohirrim, he would meet it with them, for he had given his word, and the oath of a king – even a crownless king in exile – was not easily broken.
He cast a last look out onto the keep before climbing the steps to return to the main hall. There was good stone here, as Gimli had said, and the tall walls…
Aragorn halted in his tracks, thoughts flying through his mind: of understanding, of relief, and of shame.
How could he not have guessed the reason for Legolas' fears? The Elf had fought enough battles under the eaves of Mirkwood to last many lives of Men, but he had never fought a single battle constrained by stone walls. Everything here was foreign to him – there were not his people, not his kindred.
But the Elf and the Dwarf had both followed him across leagues of foreign land, and they had defended the Rohirrim against the Wargs as if they were their own people. Whatever fear had so uncharacteristically caused Legolas to voice his thoughts aloud, Aragorn knew that it would not drive the Elf away in this time of need.
How could he have doubted his friend thus? And worse still, he had shown his agitation to the men. He should have understood, should have sympathized with the discomfort of an Elf in an army of men, with whom he had no kinship, nothing in common save for a desire to defeat the Dark Lord.
And while he, Aragorn, had left his friends and his men to mull over his own thoughts, Gimli would undoubtedly have stayed behind to comfort Legolas in his quiet and steadfast way. Aragorn would never have believed it two months ago, but thus it was: a Dwarf understood a Wood Elf better than a Dúnedan who had been raised in Imladris. His outburst, his insensitivity – these were all symptoms, he reflected, of his own fears and doubts. But now was not the time for them, for night was approaching and Saruman's army with it.
With a last glance at the blackening sky, Aragorn heaved upon the ponderous doors to the main hall and stepped into the stronghold.
He could only hope, as he sought out Théoden to review the battle plan, that Legolas would forgive him his unjust anger.
Aragorn did not have a chance to seek out either of his friends after returning to take counsel with the king and his commanders. It was some time later, when the shadow of war loomed so close that he thought he could almost hear the marching of the Orc army across the plains, that Legolas came to find him in the armory.
The Ranger had just finished strapping on his chainmail when he became aware of a soft presence beside him. He turned: it was Legolas, offering him his sword. Aragorn knew then that he had been forgiven.
When the clarion call of an Elven horn sounded clear and bright against the fortress walls, he looked fondly at the Elf and the Dwarf who stood in unlikely friendship beside him, thought of Arwen standing strong and silent in the gardens of Imladris, and trusted to Hope.
I don't own the DVD of The Two Towers, so I had to rely on my memory and imagination for the conversation between Aragorn and Haleth; please forgive me for any errors there.
Thanks for reading, and please review! All my future LOTR fics, if I ever get around to finishing any of them, will likely be strictly book-verse, since Tolkien himself is, after all, the highest authority on Middle-earth.