For hours, Legolas sat in a daze, until the east grew grey and the stars sank into the night, until the grey became gold and the white sickle moon turned a dusty silver. He sat until the blood on his fingered dried. He sat, eyes on the sky, until the sun rose up over the treetops. Then, when he could bear to sit no longer, he drew a sharp breath and stood.
During the night, his body had stiffened into a tight knot of pain. Legolas' head spun as he unfolded his legs, then pushed himself forwards onto his knees. He was forced to pause for a moment, steadying himself against the tree-trunk, and as he fought to calm his racing heart, he took a moment to take stock of his situation.
The Orcs had found him and Aragorn at the entrance to Mirkwood at dusk. How long ago that had been, Legolas could not say. Whether the Orcs had tracked the travelers' scents or followed their footprints, the Elf also could not guess. But the beasts had somehow come upon them before either had the chance to draw his weapons. The night had been split with the screams of metal against metal and the air was filled with the dark, cloying scent of blood as the Orcs fell upon them like a bolt of lightning.
Legolas had felled six before he felt the bite of the blade. A dark-eyed beast with rotting teeth had swung his sword, intending to open the Elf from stem to stern, but had missed. Instead, the curved blade found Legolas' arm, slicing easily through the thin leather armor he wore, digging its point in towards the bone. Then something had brought itself down upon his head with great force.
After that – he recalled little. Images were burned into his mind, indistinct, disconnected: Aragorn's alarmed cry, the sound of tearing fabric, Elven blood mixing with the Orcs'. He stood now upon a platform, but he could not recall reaching it – although he must have. Someone, presumably Aragorn, had bound his wounds and left him here.
Licking his lips, the Elf grimaced as he tasted blood. His lip was split in two. The iron taste on his tongue reminded him to check himself for further injuries, and so he did. For a few long minutes, he did not move except to pass his good hand across his skin, waiting for a flash of pain, rubbing his fingers together, searching for blood.
He had been lucky, however. The pounding in his head was the only other injury. For that, he thanked Palúrien. The wound left by the Orcish blade was the only one. It was deep and it pained him, but it was alone.
Legolas almost smiled. Breathing deeply, he brought himself to his feet, surveying his surroundings.
The platform was a small one. Built into a tree just where the trunk split into many smaller boughs, it was meant for standing or for resting. The Elves of the Mirkwood had laid down wooden slats, tied them to the tree, but had done little else to make the platform comfortable. Instead, they had built another, larger platform high above it : a flet in the style of the Galadhrim, a house built into the branches.
Looking up, Legolas could see the flet several yards above him. He could see only the bottom, yet he could imagine the rest. Walled, roofed, and well-supplied, the small house was meant to provide shelter to the sentries keeping watch over the Elven-road. Now Legolas knew that it had been Aragorn who had brought him here: any Elf would have known to climb but a little higher to the flet, where bandages, food, and blankets could be found.
Looking down, the Elf winced. He stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down. He peered first to the left, then to the right, looking as far down the Elven-road as he could. There were no signs of Aragorn.
It puzzled him that the Man had left. Although his head was foggy with pain, the Elf managed to wonder why his lover had departed. Aragorn was not one to leave a friend in need – and certainly he would not have left his bonded partner without due cause. Part of Legolas wanted to believe that the Man had gone in search of Thranduil, or of another sentry posted in the woods – but the thought made his heart sink. The palace was far away. Any number of calamities might have befallen his beloved on the road. The Orc pack had proven that the Shadow in the South was growing stronger and bolder by the day.
With Aragorn gone, however, Legolas was unwilling to leave the platform. If the Man was to return – and Legolas dearly hoped that he would, and soon – then he would expect to find the Elf where he had left him. Knowing this, Legolas could not leave the platform in good faith.
And yet— His eyes went to the flet above him. There were herbs there, he knew, as well as food and drink. His throat had gone dry during the night and his arm throbbed. The thought of water to ease his parched throat and herbs to dull the pain was so welcome that he drew himself onto his feet and stepped quickly towards the tree trunk.
Hissing a curse, Legolas paused as the world began to spin. He could not so much as walk without pain leaping up his arm; how, then, was he to reach the platform above? He could not climb to the flet without both arms. Even an Elf such as himself could not boast to being able to ascend the twisted branches of a tree of Mirkwood one-handed. The injury sunk so deeply into the muscle that Legolas could hardly bring himself to move his shoulder, let alone climb with it. Moving to the flet would mean risking a fall that would leave him with broken bones and bruises.
Yet Legolas could not keep himself from thinking of the herbs, the water, the small camp bed—
Reaching up, the Elf caught hold of the nearest branch with his good arm. Then, with an immense effort, he brought his other hand up to join the first. White flashed before his eyes; pain like a dagger cut through his shoulder, stealing his breath away. Long fingers tightened against the branch, the bark cutting mottled red furrows into the pale skin.
Legolas' breath caught in his throat. He steeled himself against the pain, bent his knees, then pushed himself up, attempting to drag himself upwards. He reached the first branch without crying out, pressing his toes against the wood as he stood upon it, then forced himself to raise his arms once more, stretching for the next bough.
A hoarse voice shouting his name broke the silence. "Legolas!"
Startled, the Elf's hands slipped. Had he been well, he would have kept his balance, but the pain and the sudden surprise undid him. His feet fell from the branch and struck the platform, and his knees buckled beneath him. Strong arms wrapped themselves about his waist, keeping him from falling further.
The effort required to lift Legolas even an inch above the platform combined with his sudden shock had left him dizzy, head reeling, but even through his daze he could recognize the familiar scent of sweat and earth that clung to the intruder's skin. Aragorn had returned. The Elf attempted to smile, but it came out sickly.
The Man turned him around, lifting him with ease. Legolas was light, even for an Elf, and it required no great effort for Aragorn to hold him on his feet. "What were you intending to do?" There was something like concern or pain in the Ranger's voice, Legolas realized, though the Man's expression was stony. Only the fine creasing around his lips belied his nonchalance.
It took Legolas a long moment to find words. They had been mixed up inside his head during the fall, and it took all the strength of will he had left to force them into coherency once more. "There is," he managed, "a flet-" It occurred to him that Aragorn might not have heard of the houses of the Galadhrim. Legolas himself had never seen them, but he at least had heard tales of them, of their practicality and their beauty. "-a house," he corrected.
Aragorn's mouth softened with worry. "A house?" he repeated. "Legolas-"
"A house." The Elf pressed his good hand to his temple, feeling the burning skin there, then pointed upwards. His lover's eyes followed, then widened. "It is safer, and well-supplied. I thought you had gone, and so I, ah-" Aragorn nodded. Legolas, relieved that he did not need to speak further, fell quiet.
Silence fell. The Ranger took a small step backwards, surveying the Elf. Aragorn's eyes asked the question his mouth did not: are you well? Legolas smiled wryly in response.
After a moment, when he had seen all that he needed to see, Aragorn touched his lover's good shoulder. "You ought to lie down."
"I have lain down for hours."
"Then do so once more." Aragorn's touch became insistent.
Legolas met his eye, then sunk slowly to his knees, guided by the Man's hands. He folded his legs beneath him, leaning back against the tree trunk with a sigh. Kneeling beside him, Aragorn reached out. With his thumb and forefinger, he brushed the stray hairs from the Elf's brow, fingers brushing the skin. He paused. Then, concerned, he opened his hand and passed the flat of his fingertips along Legolas' brow, feeling the unnatural warmth spreading across the Elf's cool skin.
"Why did you leave?" Legolas' fingers closed over his lover's.
Aragorn sighed. "To find help."
"And what did you find?"
"Shadows and silence. Your people, meleth, hide themselves well in the trees."
Tiredly, Legolas smiled once again. "Aye, we of the woods can choose not to be seen if we so wish." He brought Aragorn's knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss against them. "I am glad," he murmured, "that you sought aid. But do not go again."
"Legolas-"
"Do not go again." Another kiss was pressed to the skin. Then, gently, Legolas' hand found Aragorn's cheek, fingertips brushing the rough beard. "Bring me instead to the flet, and rest with me there. There are herbs to be found, and a bed. You are tired, I can see; you need rest. A sentry will pass by soon - my father rarely leaves any portion of the woods unguarded - and then help will come."
"Rest? I? Better that you should sleep."
"Well," Legolas murmured, "whether you or I shall sleep, let us go up."