Hello everyone!
First off, thanks to all who read, followed, favorited and especially all who reviewed No Grave, No Memory! Personalized messages will be sent shortly where possible; I just thought I should send over my thanks and best wishes for the weekend with the one-shot below, which was previously previewed in the Afrerword of No Grave, No Memory :)
As always - hoping very much to hear your thoughts on this much lighter piece :) C&C's welcome and treasured as always. All the best, everyone!
"Misfire"
In his first year riding with Strider and the Dunedain, Legolas struggles to earn the reclusive band's trust. His plans backfire when he commits a mistake that could cost them the life of one of Elrond's sons.
"Legolas, stop."
The wood-elf archer gave the pale, ailing Noldo lying on the ground beside him the barest glance, before his steely blue gaze slanted back toward his target. He released the arrow he'd been holding back, and sucked in small, painful breaths at the consequent release in pressure against his strained, healing ribs.
He could see from the hilly incline of their vantage point that the arrow, like all the ones that had come before it, proved true and found its target. It felled an orc and Legolas drew again. For a moment his side exploded in white hot pain, and he could not help the small, frustrated growl that escaped him, nor the grimace it had contorted his face into. But his stance held, and he clenched his teeth and pulled back to find another mark. He tamed his trembling body and looked down at the battlefield below. He had broken into a cold sweat too, and he blinked at the wetness near his eyes.
It wouldn't do anyone any good, oh no, if he ended up hitting one of the Dunedain by friendly fire. But he was confident with his aim. He picked out an orc coming up behind one of his comrades with a club raised, and he released.
The orc fell, but so did Legolas, down to his hands and knees. He doubled over coughing. Releasing the shaft was more painful and sudden than the build-up he felt from drawing, or the strain he felt from holding a drawn arrow. Spots danced before his eyes, and he drew in small, inadequate, whistling breaths. He was tempted to pull in deeper but he knew those would only hurt him more. Slowly, he regained control of his body. Even from his knees he could shoot. He reached for his quiver on the ground beside him. He hadn't even been well enough to wear it.
"Mellon-nin, please. You need to stop."
The waver in Elladan's voice alongside the heretofore unused term of friendship between them compelled him to look at Elrondion with more attention. The dark-haired elf from Imladris looked ghastly pale as he sat, heavily leaned upon the trunk and between the raised roots of an obliging tree.
The reason why was painfully clear to see – an arrow shaft of orcish-make protruded from Elladan's left shoulder at a downward angle. He had been dragged out of the fighting in the valley below by his twin brother Elrohir, and hurriedly deposited where he was now sitting. They feared a laceration to the arteries, and knew pulling the shaft out for field treatment or even having the wound jarred during battle could end Elladan in minutes.
"Do not pull out the shaft and do not, for the love of the gods, allow this fool brother of mine to move!" Elrohir had ordered Legolas as he left, running back down into the fray with just a quick, regretful glance behind him at the brother he could not yet tend.
The skirmish had become more of a small battle by then, with the surprising arrival of orc reinforcements. They all understood a warrior of Elrohir's capacity could not yet be spared, not even for his brother's treatment.
The deterioration of the situation was also why Legolas, sidelined from the fighting due to a previous injury, had scrambled to his feet, picked up his bow, and near emptied his own quiver. He had seen from his vantage that the enemy forces, while not nearly large nor skilled enough to defeat the hardy Dunedain, could very well take a number of the men down with them.
"I have one shot left," Legolas ground out through clenched teeth and hitching breath, "I can't stand by and do nothing."
"That is precisely what you are supposed to be doing!"
"Not... technically." Legolas gave him a sick grin.
He had suffered broken ribs from a skirmish a week past, and despite the quick and appropriate treatment (and less appropriate nor quick fuss) given him by Strider and the twins, he developed congestion in his lungs that stole his breath, and a high fever that sapped his strength – kind compliments of hard riding and camping in the cold outdoors during the rainy season, in chorus with the badly broken ribs and the (now dead) orc that had dealt him a near fatal, blunt blow to the side of his chest.
The days since have been a blur of pain and confusion. The company could not stop from its mission for the sake of what was truly a survivable even if painful injury and complication. But Legolas had rightfully not been allowed to ride on his own, nor carry his own things. He sometimes rode in Strider's arms, or in one of the twins' (he couldn't tell them apart when he was ill).
One good thing from his sickness was that he was too miserable to feel too embarrassed. He'd never had cause to rely on strangers so much before. He'd been hurt yes, but amongst his own people in the Woodland. He was relatively new riding with this company, and yet they were cautious but solicitous, especially from the perspective of an isolationist King's only child.
Legolas was wise enough to feel gratitude. And in the calmer corners of his beleaguered mind, he had hoped the company would find no combat until he was in fighting form so that he could be of better use to them and repay their hospitality in some fashion. But that was not to be the case. Suddenly there they were, caught in another skirmish. At least his thinking was the clearest it's been in days.
That, however, did not mean his body was able to fight. As a matter of fact, it was Elladan himself who had deposited him to sit on the ground away from the battle, resting upon the same exact tree Legolas would later yield to the injured Noldo when he was dragged back with an arrow on his chest.
"I found our wood-elf a most obliging tree," Elladan had said quickly but gently, as he eased Legolas down. "I hope it is to your liking, Legolas, for here you must stand your ground and stay. I need your mithril-clad word you will not run in there after us and fight, Thranduilion. No matter what. You are not fit, and would endanger not only yourself, but all others who will worry and fight for you."
In invoking the Elvenking-his-father's name, Elladan had also invoked Legolas' sense of duty and so, he responded accordingly.
"My word," Legolas said with a grave nod. They were both warriors and they knew their business. Legolas would have asked anyone he was with to do the same if the situations were reversed.
And so for a while at least, Legolas watched from his designated post, trembling from both malady and apprehension as he watched his comrades fight below – the Dunedain he'd been touring with the past year and the impressive young Ranger Chieftain who led them, Strider, along with the surprising presence of Elrond of Imladris' twin sons, who Legolas knew by loose acquaintance.
He had been left behind by his tree hurriedly, but not unarmed. Strider settled Legolas' twin knives near where he sat, and Elrohir did the same with his bow and quiver of arrows on the other side. Legolas knew they were to be used only in case his vulnerable presence was sensed by the orcs and he needed to defend himself.
When the battle started deteriorating however, he realized he was in an ideal position to defend his friends instead, broken bones be damned. He rose from the tree Elladan had sat him upon and started shooting, and when Elrohir trudged up the path bearing the injured Elladan, Legolas gave them covering fire. Elrohir gave him a brief, grateful and worried glance but voiced no complaints.
Elladan, however, was having none of it.
"There's blood on your teeth, wood-elf," Elladan said quietly. Legolas knew that, he'd tasted the metallic tang when he coughed from some shots back and from all the coughing since. "Don't make me get up and try to stop you."
It was the only threat that would have worked. Legolas did not want the twin, whose life literally depended on staying immobile, to move on his behalf.
"If you did not want me to shoot," he tried to appease the dark-haired elf with a joke, "You should have settled me much, much farther." He picked up the last shaft from his quiver. "See? It is just as well as this is the last one."
He made no effort to mask his groan when he straightened up. Elladan rolled his eyes back at him in consternation, but let him do as he wished. Legolas stayed on his knees as he drew, aimed, and shot accurately again. Then he more or less crawled toward Elladan, who held himself stiffly to refrain from moving but was still nevertheless becoming paler and paler. His gray eyes had also become glassier, and he breathed as harshly as Legolas did.
Legolas glanced at the site of the arrow wound. It looked neat, but he deduced there must already be some bleeding inside. Elladan shivered, already in the beginnings of shock. Legolas winced as he maneuvered out of his own cloak and placed it over the other elf, careful to avoid the protruding arrow shaft.
"Hannon-le," Elladan said wearily, "But you need it just as much as I do."
"I did," Legolas said grimly and already he felt much colder too. But he tried to suppress his shivering to keep his ribs from being jarred, and so that the much-worse-off elf would not bother worrying about anyone else's welfare but his own. "But now you need it more."
They fell to a long moment of silence, broken by the nearby sounds of battle – rallying cries, clinking armor, moans of pain, gurgles of the dying, swords singing... but the sudden whoosh! of a crossbow and the thwok! of a hit body followed by a pained yelp had Legolas turning away from Elladan and back towards the battle.
The enemy had a sharpshooter, too.
# # #
# # #
"Elrohir!" came the long, bloodcurdling cry, and it captured the attention of not only the so-named elf, but almost all of the fighters – the handful of orcs remaining, and the triumphant Dunedain among them.
The cry came from Legolas, and knowing it was the wood-elf who had custody of his beloved brother had Elrohir moving quickly. He dispatched the orc he was engaged in fighting, pushed his way out of the battle and ran up the small hill where he previously left the two elves. His sword was drawn, for he expected to find the pair besieged. What he found instead was just as horrifying.
His twin brother was bleeding copiously on the ground, eyes half-shut, pallor gray, mouth parted slightly as he fought to breathe. The shoulder arrow Elrohir had taken such great pains to immobilize was gone. The place where it had been, upon Elladan's left shoulder, was taken over by Legolas' woefully inadequate hands as he pressed layers over layers of a folded cloak to try and staunch the bleeding. Legolas' hands were coated red to his forearms. A medical pack stood open and ready beside him.
"Back away!" Elrohir thundered at the stunned wood-elf, as he quickly formed a picture in his mind of what may have transpired. He tossed his sword to the ground and knelt beside his brother as he continued berating Legolas. "Did you think to help him yourself by pulling out the shaft? You are not nearly skilled enough for a wound such as this, Thranduilion – Estel!" he called out, as he began to tend Elladan by stripping away at the cloths around the spurting wound. Strider was there in moments, having already started for their direction when he heard Legolas cry for Elrohir.
"Estel help me," Elrohir implored the adan.
"I am with you, brother," said the other, already busy rummaging through the herbs in the pack he had recognized as his own.
"What is needed?" Legolas asked, voice low.
"You've done enough!" Elrohir snapped, not even sparing the wood-elf a glance. "If he dies it will be by your hands, Thranduilion."
Strider looked up temporarily from his work, even as his hands stayed busy preparing herbs. He could feel Elrohir's barely restrained fury, and the wood-elf with them was pale, shaking, and injured himself.
"Easy there, son of Elrond," he murmured, calling upon their father's name to subdue the other's testiness. "He is hurting too."
"If he can meddle with healing he can handle the consequences," came the clipped answer. "Keep him out of my way or even better – out of my sight."
"It's best you sit and rest at any rate, Legolas," Strider said gently, motioning a little ways away, where there was another tree. Legolas gave him a short nod, and more or less staggered in that direction. Strider watched him until he leaned against the trunk and used it to support his weight as he sank to sit down, dejectedly. Strider nodded with relative satisfaction. It would do for now, though he knew he would need to check on the wood-elf as soon as Elladan was better situated. He'd already been so ill, after all.
Behind and beneath them, the sounds of battle died down and the Dunedain gave a subdued cry of victory. Strider knew that his second-in-command, Halbarad, would know to triage and tend the wounded, secure the area, set up camp and finally, gather and dispose of the dead.
In the meantime, he had Elladan to tend and tether to the world of the living. Elrohir's life and sanity depended on that outcome and, Strider suspected, so did Legolas'.
# # #
# # #
Just as they feared, the wound, while simple, had nicked an artery. It was easy enough to repair, but Elladan was losing too much blood too quickly that his heart struggled to keep up. They'd gone and lost his pulse twice – once momentarily but the second time long enough to strike true fear – before they finished their work of stitching the wound and all the damage within, closed.
In the meantime, there remained much to do at the camp. Halbarad went about their proper business, just as Strider had expected. A litter was fashioned so that Elladan may be moved gently into a warm tent, and word spread about the newcomer wood-elf's clumsy attempts at providing aid to the Chieftain's foster brother, who had also gained the love of the men along the course of their tours together. It was not well received, and Legolas was left to his own devices for a while. He'd gone on to the fringes of the camp, finding another tree to keep himself company.
Wood-elves, Strider thought fondly, for he had grown to admire the elven prince who inexplicably joined their ranks a few months past.
A reluctant royal burdened by legacy sent out to the world and later, Strider discovered (thanks to a poisoned wound that had the otherwise stoic prince ranting) brokenhearted and rebuffed too, had endeared Legolas to Strider. The Woodland Prince's difficulties, after all, very much echoed his own. It certainly helped that he was a tenacious scout, a tireless night watcher, and a wonder to behold on the battlefield.
Bad cook though, Strider conceded, Downright awful.
Legolas had become a reassuring presence among the Dunedain too, whose grudging respect and trust he had already been well on his way to claiming, until this recent debacle with his mismanagement of the injury inflicted upon the well-loved Elladan. It was a fissure he would have to find a way to breach later, Strider decided, but there were more immediate things to take care of first.
Strider walked toward Legolas, whom he found to his alarm, was seated against the trunk of a tree with one filthy, bloodstained arm wrapped around his middle, while the other clenched to a tight fist at his uninjured side, clutching at blades of grass. His head was tilted upward, neck extended, and his blue-tinged mouth parted as he took in one hard-earned breath after another. His eyes were closed, and his body trembled with cold and shock. Strider remembered Elladan's bleeding had been staunched by a fine cloak – Legolas'. The already-fevered wood-elf was almost certainly freezing by now, and the shaking must feel like torture against his sensitive, mending bones.
"Damn it, Legolas," he muttered, removing his own cloak and putting it over the elf. He knelt before the archer and rubbed at his arms, willing him some warmth. "What were you trying to do anyway?" It was a rhetorical question, not that the elf had any real breath to answer with.
Legolas fought to get his body under control. Strider's shared warmth, and the scent of athelas his hands and clothes were infused with from when he was healing Elladan, were especially soothing. Legolas' shaking gradually eased and with it, some of the throbbing pain that the constant trembling movement kept invoking in his side. Soon he was able to make marginally deeper breaths. His coloring improved quickly, and he opened his bleary eyes.
"Elladan?" he rasped out.
"Unconscious but alive," Strider said. "It really had been a close call, and he is not yet beyond further danger. Elrohir is tending him now, plying him with broth, keeping him warm. Things that someone else would benefit from, incidentally." He looked at the prince pointedly.
Legolas shook his head. "I prefer to keep my own company here."
Strider pressed his lips together grimly. He understood the elf's need for solitude, especially with Elrohir's animosity still palpable in the air and the same sentiment shared by some of the men.
"I suppose it is just as well," Strider said, "as you should perhaps not move around too much yet. How is the breathing and the cold?"
"Better," Legolas admitted. "Thank you, Strider."
"You have blood on your hands."
Legolas' winced. "Not mine. Elladan's. I shall wash them shortly."
Strider nodded and rose. "I shall leave you to it for now, mellon-nin, as there are things that need to be done. But rest assured, I will return to check on you lat– ah, I would require you to keep that." He cut himself off, for the elf was attempting to remove the cloak he had been blanketed in.
"Please take it back," Legolas said wearily, "lest you catch a cold and I be accused of harming you too."
Strider sighed at him in sympathy. "They will come to realize later that you were only trying to help Elladan, my friend. We are all just trying to do whatever we can here, to survive and to help those we love. Sometimes we succeed and other times, not so much. They will understand, later."
"That I was only trying to help," Legolas murmured.
"Yes," Strider agreed emphatically, "they will all come to see that, later."
# # #
# # #
The Company tended to sleep in the outdoors, but for his grievous injury, Elladan had been situated in a tent. There he lay sleeping, deeply unconscious with his eyes closed but in better coloring, with steadier breaths, a still-fast but much improved pulse, and a warmer temperature. It was the only reason Elrohir had allowed himself to be hustled out by Halbarad, who told him to grab some air and a bite to eat. He went reluctantly, and stepped out of the tent into more-or-less fresh air.
It was still ripe with the stench of fresh killing, and the smell of nearby charred remains where the dead orcs had been set afire. He was warrior long enough that he could stomach it, and he even picked up a piece of lembas and munched idly on the bread as he walked about the camp.
It was settled and quiet now, with the injured resting or asleep, and most of the men in quiet conversations sharing a meal around a small fire. They were still near the skirmish; they made camp pretty much where the fighting ended in deference to the grievously wounded. Elladan in particular, required immediate treatment and warmth, and would not have survived movement or delay.
Elrohir shuddered at how close his brother came to an untimely death, and he found his anger at Legolas teasing at the edges of his mind again. He drew toward it willingly; anger, anger was always so much easier to bear than fear and pain. He let himself think about that meddlesome wood-elf, who mistakenly thought to help his twin but only made things worse when he pulled out the arrow and tried to tend Elladan on his own.
Elrohir was relieved Legolas was staying out of sight, and hoped that would be the case at least until Elladan got better and Elrohir's blood cooled, and then maybe there could be trust renewed and forgiveness, later.
Much later, he thought darkly.
He spotted some of the men cleaning and maintaining their weapons and in a neat pile, a collection of arrow shafts of deep-orange-gold fletches that were retrieved from their dead foes. Legolas' arrows, Elrohir realized. He remembered now that the injured elf had taken it upon himself to shoot at their enemies from his vantage point, even if it must have hurt, and accurately even from a distance away. Elrohir tried to think of that generosity, rather than Legolas' careless attempt at tending Elladan's grievous wound. It would certainly go a long way toward repairing their nascent friendship, and improving Legolas' standing with the men. But it was still easier to be angry...
A commotion beneath one thick tree caught his eye. There were Dunedain beneath it tugging and pulling at something, and its branches shook as they worked. Elrohir frowned and walked in their direction.
"What in all of Arda are you doing?" he asked, finishing off the last of his bread and dusting his hands at his clothes.
"We missed one when we were cleaning up the dead," replied one of the men, a beat before a heavy orcish body fell from the branches above and to the ground before Elrohir. It was hours' dead and smelled like it. The beast had a crossbow in its death grip, and Elrohir looked up at the tree where the dead orc had been situated.
"He really came from there?" he asked.
"You saw him fall, didn't you?" came the sniggering reply.
Elrohir frowned. "It's just that..." his voice trailed off. His brows furrowed in remembrance. He and Aragorn had been fighting obliviously beneath that tree, and this orc had a crossbow with him. Either one of them would have been easy pickings and indeed, one or two of their comrades had grievous injuries from a crossbow.
"Will you look at that!" marveled one of the men, pointing at the orc's apparent cause of death. There was an orc arrow through one of its dead, glassy eyes. "Looks like he got caught by friendly fire."
"A hell of a shot if it was friendly fire," commented another.
"Unlucky bastard..."
"Got what was deserved..."
The comments trailed off in Elrohir's hearing, as he contemplated the strange situation. He looked up at the tree again, and then let his gaze drift up to the hill where he and the others had left Legolas and Elladan. It was a good vantage for an average archer, and an excellent one for a crack shot like Legolas. And he remembered too, that Legolas had been shooting from there, one arrow after another after another. Not to mention that a lethal shot through the eye was amongst the wood-elf's expertise...
He looked down at the dead orc at his feet. Part of the arrow that had killed him through his eye protruded to the other side of his head. It had black orc blood as expected but also something else. Flecks of red of a less viscous character. Elrohir's heart thundered in his ears.
This was indeed Legolas' shot...
... and the arrow that killed the orc and prevented it from harming Elrohir or Strider or anyone else - had been the one pulled from Elladan's shoulder.
# # #
# # #
Elrohir found Legolas slumped against a tree just beyond the glow of the encampment's fire. Wood-elves, he thought fondly, until his heart was stricken by the sound of the injured archer's whistling breathing. He was about to run forward and help, but Legolas turned in his direction and he found the elven prince to be conscious and aware, even if clearly miserable.
"I owe you an apology," Elrohir opened, cautiously. "But I believe you owe me an explanation."
The wood-elf grinned at him, and his red-tinged teeth made the Imladris elf grimace. Bloody coughs, he suspected and as he came closer, nothing of the Mirkwood prince's harried appearance offered him any comfort and only served to make his feelings of worry and guilt worse. Legolas was paler than usual and his lips almost gray, save for bright spots at his cheeks that indicated he was running a fever again. He trembled too, even swathed as he was in Strider's coat, which was thicker than that which elves wore. His gaze was glassy and tired.
"Are apologies not supposed to be freely given?" he asked, breathily. He sounded as bad as he looked. Elrohir was about to protest, but Legolas gave him a more genuine, blinding smile. "Tell me your brother is well and I need not hear anything else."
"He is on the mend," Elrohir said softly, and he sat beside Legolas and scooted next to him until their shoulders touched. He closed his eyes at the contact. He could feel the other elf's heated, fevered skin from where he was. "But I still owe you an apology and you still owe me an explanation."
Legolkas accepted this with a short nod. He knew now, that Elrohir had a better understanding of what had happened earlier.
"So what gave us away?" Legolas asked.
"The orc you shot through the eye," Elrohir said.
"Which one?" came the impish reply.
"The one from the tree," Elrohir answered seriously. "The one with the crossbow. The one who had been perfectly positioned to deal a lethal shot to both Strider and myself."
"Ah, that one."
"The arrow that killed him through the eye was of orcish make," Elrohir said, "and it had both his blood and that of Elladan's. I understand now, some of what you did. I know that from your position, you shot your own arrows until you ran out. But then you saw a danger you did not anticipate – a new arrival, up on that tree with his crossbow. But by then you had nothing with which to shoot him. The only shaft within reach was the one stuck in, in Elladan's body. So you used it."
Legolas exhaled slowly at this recollection, and did not bother to deny anything.
"What I want to know is," said Elrohir, "who pulled that arrow from my brother's body? Was it you, or was it him?"
Legolas' eyes glazed in painful memory.
He sighted the orc shooter, and quickly ascertained its location based on the Dunadan it had hit; where he was standing, the direction of the arrow on his arm. The shooter had situated itself up on a tree, and when Legolas strained, he could see almost precisely where it sat shakily for it was large and unwieldly, upon the branches and between the leaves. It aimed again, and Legolas looked in panic at the soldiers below. Elrohir and Strider were fighting right beneath the tree the orc had commandeered.
"No," Elladan beside him gasped, for he had spotted the threat too and knew there was nothing they could do fast enough from where they were.
By sheer luck the arrow the orc released missed Strider by a hair; it went whistling past his ear as he fought on, obliviously. Legolas took the moment of relief to look around him for a shaft he could use, but there was none. His eyes drifted toward the one on Elladan's shoulder, and when he looked up at Elladan, he found the Imladris elf's pained eyes settled determinedly on his.
"Elladan, don't-!" Legolas protested. But they had no time to debate things and the stubborn Noldo up and did whatever he felt was needed and pulled it out before Legolas could reach out and stop him.
"I'm sorry!" Elladan cried out to Legolas, drowning with these words what would have been a howl of pure pain from the forceful pull. The wound spurted with blood energetically, and Legolas had no choice but to take the shaft from the rapidly weakening elf's shaking hand. He had to make good use of it. He had to make it count.
"Elrohir!" Legolas yelled out desperately, so that the twin may come. He screamed it, even as he drew the shaft, aimed, and released. It met its mark before the orc could hurt anyone else, but Legolas did not bother to check. He knew his aim would be true. What he did not know, was whether or not Elladan would survive it.
He scrambled, all pain and discomfort from his own injury forgotten now, and he folded and re-folded the cloak he had previously wrapped Elladan in and held it against the fading elf's shoulder. He settled the elf's cold, heavy hand over it.
"Hold it there," Legolas said fervently, "I will return quickly."
He ran for one of the satchels the group had dropped before engaging with the orcs; it was the medicine pack from Strider's things, and he wanted it to be ready the moment any of the healers arrived to help them. He settled it beside Elladan and took over pressing of the wound, for Elladan could barely exert any pressure upon it anymore. Blood soaked the material and crawled past his fingers, up his hand, up his wrist, up his sleeves to his forearms. It was too much, too fast. Elladan's eyes rolled back in his head and fluttered as he struggled to stay awake.
"Elladan please," Legolas begged, "Elrohir is coming. Hold on, else you will break your brother's heart."
"He will... understand," Elladan gasped. "It was... it was for his life... and for Estel's. Estel."
"Strider yes," Legolas said, for he knew the twins sometimes called the adan that. "Think of Estel too." Legolas pressed down harder, and Elladan cried out in pain.
"He has to..." he moaned, "He has to live. He is... he is... hope. For all of us." Legolas knew what "estel" meant, but what it had to do with Strider, honorable and personally delightful though he was, was beyond his ken.
"He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Elladan said, before losing consciousness. And then Elrohir arrived, and Legolas could only be grateful for it, even if the Rivendell elf was so angry he had murder in his eyes.
"Why does it matter?" Legolas asked Elrohir softly, returning to the present. "Why does it matter who pulled?"
"One would think I can be a little bit angry," Elrohir said teasingly but gently, "I would like to know with whom."
Legolas gave him a sad smile. "Your brother was kind enough to spare me that. He pulled before I could stop him, and all I could do was try to make a shot worthy of his sacrifice. He was determined to save you. You and... and Aragorn."
Elrohir's brows rose at the revelation that Legolas apparently knew the real name of their adopted brother.
"Elladan told me who Strider was," Legolas said quietly, "and thus, why he had to survive even at the cost of Elladan's life. You know I was sent here by adar to lend my services and to have my own learnings in the wild. But I think he meant to ease my heart with purpose. He sent me to seek out Strider, saying only this - he could be a great man, and that his identity was something I had to discover for myself. Thus, I long knew there was more to him than what met the eye. But I did not expect this. I am glad to have played a part in sparing him." His lip curled into a smile. "And you, incidentally."
Elrohir however, was in no mood for joking just yet. He pressed his lips together grimly and shook his head. "I am sorry for my anger, Legolas. I should have sought explanations first, before taking my rage out upon you. It was deeply and profoundly undeserved. But I do wish you had said something to correct my mistaken assumptions."
"I would not have done so then even if I had been given the chance, I think," Legolas said pensively. "Strider – Aragorn – was there. I did not want him to feel guilt for Elladan's hurts, nor did I want him to know his secret had been revealed to me. He'd tell me himself on his own time, I think, and he has not trusted me with it yet. At any rate, I did not want to blame Elladan for pulling out the arrow from his own body, even as he lay there beneath us... bleeding, almost wasting away. It did not seem sporting to divert the blame away from me and turn it upon him."
Elrohir rolled back his eyes. "Integrity is boring."
"It is," Legolas smiled mischievously. "So now that Elladan is better, he should buck up and face the consequences himself. I have had enough of your anger. It is palpable – thick and oppressive. It stifles the air."
"Do not blame me for that," Elrohir chided, "I think your air is stifled on account of your injuries."
"There is that," Legolas laughed, a little breathlessly.
"I know you're coughing up blood," Elrohir told him.
"Oh am I? I'd missed it," Legolas replied sarcastically, and as if reminded, his chest hitched, and he stifled back one such cough before Elrohir could make a thing of it.
"But no punctures, nothing worse inside?"
"Why do you ask me these things when I know you will check for yourself?" Legolas teased, "And then later after that, so would Strider. And if he gets better before me, Elladan. How do you all live like this? It is inefficient."
"We do not do it for everyone," Elrohir pointed out. "Only reckless wood-elf princes who fight when injured and ill. Mostly though, because his father owns a cavern of dungeons. Allegedly."
"Oh, that rumor is very true."
"There you go," Elrohir said. More seriously he added, "From how you sound I think you are no worse." He sighed. "But neither are you any better. The congestion in your lungs, they sometimes yield bloody coughs. Your exertion earlier today could not have helped you."
"I told your brother - if you did not want me to shoot, you should have left me farther from the field."
"I will remember that for next time," Elrohir said wryly before he walked it back, "There won't be a next time."
Legolas looked away and sighed. "Ah, my friend. But there will always be a next time."
"You are maudlin when hurting."
Legolas shrugged. He sighed, and this time he could not keep his breath from hitching, nor the wet, hacking coughs that followed. He doubled over miserably, as the movements strained and ground at his oversensitive, healing bones.
Elrohir shifted beside him, and he felt the Noldo's arm wind about his back in support, but not just merely to lend warmth and emotional comfort. His healer's fingers settled about Legolas' injured ribs and held him steady there as he coughed, and though they still left Legolas breathless and shaking, they did come out easier. He settled back down with Elrohir guiding his way.
"Easy, easy," he said softly, and Legolas found himself nestled in the other elf's arms. He looked up at him wearily.
"Elladan is truly expected to recover?"
"Yes," Elrohir said, and wiped with his sleeve at blood that had sputtered out of the other elf's mouth and settled on his chin. It made him nervous, but he knew from experience bloody coughs most often looked worse than they actually were... not that it was a true comfort, considering how badly Legolas was doing to begin with. The fever on his skin burned through their clothing and Elrohir could feel its radiance upon his chest.
"We need to get you up and out of the cold," he said determinedly. "I will do all the work, mellon-nin. Do not exert yourself."
He stayed on Legolas' uninjured side and slung the archer's arm over his shoulders. With his other arm, he supported the other elf against the injury to stabilize it, and he raised them both up to their feet. It was not pretty and Legolas emerged from the exercise blanched and winded, but soon they were walking forward.
"Don't," Legolas said to the other elf quietly between pants, "Let's not tell... Aragorn... I know anything of him. I don't even think... Elladan knew he said anything to me. He was... too far gone."
Elrohir winced. "I suppose I can do that, I do owe you. But to what end?"
"Strider will tell me of his identity on his own time," Legolas said mildly. "Until then... we spare him the burden of Elladan's sacrifice."
"I must also go some ways toward repairing your image with the men," Elrohir admitted. "I am sorry, mellon-nin. I mistakenly made you seem inept."
Legolas dismissed the concern with a weary wave of his hands. "Do not bother, please. You might find it hard to believe, but I am comfortable in my standing. I have neither need nor desire to be liked. This is not the first company I've joined where I was the newcomer faced with skepticism. Try being the King's son planted on an assignment with an entrenched and well-bonded crew anywhere, and having to command them. But good work will always speak for itself. Or it should – in the right company."
Elrohir's eyes lit up in understanding. "Ah, so we are being tested too, are we?"
"You've seen how I fight," Legolas pointed out with no irony, "Do you think these services are offered lightly? Adar pointed me in this direction. He believes there is something here that has the possibility for greatness. You have no idea the rarity of such a sentiment from the Elvenking." He chuckled to himself. "A bull's eye is not a bull's eye until you hit the very center of it. I am not even a good shot to him, I am just an archer."
Elrohir laughed quietly, but his smile was gentle and sincere as he looked at the wood-elf with fondness. "All right, archer. Test us, too if you must. I welcome the challenge, and will happily play for a bid at your friendship."
"If you wish for me to take you seriously you have to start fighting better," Legolas joked.
"And you need to start learning how to dodge," Elrohir smirked.
Together, the two elves ambled their way back to camp, amongst their fellows, in the warmth and in the light.
THE END
January 24, 2019