As much as I hate putting author's notes at the top of the page, I always seem to do so with my oneshots because often they need a bit of an introduction and, well... who am I to mess with tradition?
A few of you might recall, way waaaaay back in the mists of time, that I alluded to a oneshot that I had written whilst I was still posting The Silence in the Song. That oneshot never appeared, because frankly it just kind of died a death when it was two thirds written. It just evaporated out of my head. A good few weeks ago I revisited it, and realised I now knew how to end it. Cheekybeak was then kind enough to stop me from just scrapping the whole thing and chucking it in the bin, turned around quite possibly the fasted beta read I've ever experienced, and so you have her to thank for this little fic. She kept it out of the bin and fixed a few bits that were giving me trouble, and so I dutifully finished it and here it is!
Thank you my dear - this one is entirely on you, and this fic is dedicated to you.
For once, you need no prior knowledge of my characters for this one, and you do not have to have read any of my previous work. Of course please don't let this stop you from exploring my back catalogue if you like this one :)
I hope you enjoy.
~{O}~
Aragorn reaches the edge of Mirkwood and his face splits into a grin.
There is a steep hill leading up to the edge of the Forest Path. It is stony and hard, hot beneath the summer sun and singing with crickets. The forest stretches in either direction: shadowy and full of whispers, huge and dark, and the entrance is bracketed by wooden gates – dead trees carved into twisted markers either side of the road. It is here that elves stand.
With a cry he kicks his mount forward and he is out of the saddle almost before he has stopped, walks toward the elves with a broad smile and a light heart. For a moment he does not seem like a young man; he is the boy that he was years ago, the last time that he walked this path.
"Legolas Thranduilion," he nods carefully, suddenly unsure, and a golden headed archer eyes him with amusement. "I am surprised to see you here."
"Estel," the other greets, not one for formalities. "I was on my way to my father when we intercepted your missive, it was not much of a detour."
Aragorn looks anew, peering into the gloom where the other elves stand dappled beneath the heavy canopy. They are almost invisible – ghosts in the wood – and they are dusty and exhausted, leaning upon their bows or trees or one another. The prince himself seems tired, although he is trying to hide it.
They are newly returned from the south… they have not yet been home.
The Mirkwood Prince casts a glance at the small group on the road behind Aragorn – barely a shifting of the eyes, but a clear question as though he had spoken it aloud. Legolas has not moved, an island of stillness, but Aragorn has known him for his entire life and can read his silences. He casts a look behind him as well.
A small group: two large and brutish looking men who have yet to say a single word. An aged valet: wheezing, pale and sweating, but too sour and too proud to utter a breath of complaint. A podgy young man, barely more than a boy, dressed in clothes far too fine for the weather and upon a very expensive horse.
The lad wears a haughty expression of disdain – indeed he has yet to look any other way – and is squinting into the trees with a look that says exactly what he thinks of his reception.
"My father," Aragorn explains flatly, "says that it will be good for me. I am to escort them to Laketown, and we cannot get there quickly enough."
"They seem…" Legolas trails off, struggling for a moment to find the right words before finally settling on: "unhappy."
"The boy is vile," Aragorn switches to Sindarin, "I was almost hoping for trouble as we crossed the Hithaeglir but regrettably, there has been no opportunity for accidents."
Legolas' face twitches into the barest ghost of a smile, but his eyes shift back to the group on the road just as the boy begins to complain very loudly to his valet.
Why – he asks – does the Woodland King send such bedraggled and sorry looking elves as their escort. He enquires as to whether this is the best that the forest realm can offer, and wonders why the elves of Rivendell are so much finer.
Legolas' eyes harden. He is fresh from long months spent battling orcs and spiders in the south, and the wildness has yet to leave him fully. He is cold and frightening in that instant, and Aragorn goes as if to reach a hand out – as if to stop any poor reaction to the insult – but there is no need. The elf recovers, his gaze softens, and he looks back to his friend.
"I will keep you company on the road, gwador nin," he promises. "But I expect repayment for this."
Aragorn grins, retrieves the small bag of strawberries that he has collected along the road, because they are Legolas' favourite and he had expected just such a thing.
Legolas laughs.
~{O}~
Elves pass beneath the trees.
Sunlight dapples upon horses, upon creaking caravans and upon grey and green cloaks. A hundred of them at least; beautiful and bright, a thousand shades of every colour: cooks and valets, courtiers, soldiers and families – a royal convoy, returning from the south as the last of the summer days come upon them.
Smiling faces and lilting voices ring into the air. There is the smell of hot grass crushed by hooves and booted feet, all tangled together with the smell of dust and the woods in summer… flowers and hot sap, pine and dry soil. The leaves have not yet begun to turn but they are dark and tough, burned by the endless heat.
Dusk begins to draw in and clouds of insects dance in pillars of light, dusty and diffused by the canopy above. They will make camp soon, but not yet.
"Legolas! Idhren!" calls a voice – endlessly weary of singing out the same names so many times. "Do not stray too far; we will stop soon and you will become lost."
Two heads turn, one golden and one red, and the young elflings look up at Almárean upon his horse. Both have a look of consternation upon their dusty faces, they glance at one another with identical expressions of disbelief, because it has been many years since they have become lost. They are laegrim both, and laegrim do not get lost.
"We wish to run ahead with the soldiers," Legolas speaks up, because he is ever the ring leader of late. "Faelwen, Sidhion and Alagos are already up ahead. We will take Orthorien if you do not trust us."
Almárean sighs and takes a moment, but all it does is grant him time in which to note that the young prince has torn his tunic, and somehow they have managed to lose their boots again.
"Dragging along a sindar will make no difference at all, you know well enough that I trust you. You are old enough to run where you wish in the column however…" he raises his voice slightly as they turn to leave, thinking they have been granted permission. "However, Legolas, your father and Lord Ionwë will be eating with us tonight. It will be awkward if I must make conversation alone whilst you chase moths about the forest, or whatever it is that keeps you so occupied out there. Do not do such a thing to me, I beg it of you."
The young prince squirms, torn. He is getting taller, but he has not yet caught up with the older elflings and he still seems very small and fragile when he is unsure of himself. He looks up to Idhren for inspiration, but he is met with horrified eyes of summer green. His friend shakes his head fervently.
"I shall not be eating with Lord Ionwë or the King," he says quite frankly, as though nothing could ever terrify him more, but the prince looks so crushed by this declaration that he softens, droops and sighs. One hand rests upon a tangled golden head and shakes him, tangling it further. Legolas has seen little of his father of late, and Idhren has never been able to deny him much. "I will stay nearby, and if Ionwë tries to feed you to the wolves you need only call out."
Legolas beams, the two of them seek permission to run ahead a short way and Almárean grants it with a nod. They run with a grin and then they are gone, and Almárean catches the glance of a valet nearby. He is given a look of pity and a warm smile.
"They have lost their boots again," he is told, quite unhelpfully.
~{O}~
Legolas – who has been painstakingly taught almost every language over his many years – has somehow forgotten how to speak the Common Tongue. And Westron, and also Rohirric which has exhausted the young Lordling's attempts at conversation. The lad has shouted fractured words, slowly and loudly in a hope to make himself better understood, but at every try the fearless captain of the Mirkwood archers has adopted a politely puzzled expression. In return he has garbled some nonsense in the most obscure laegrim dialect available to him, just in case the lad can speak Sindarin as well.
The other elves are finding it endlessly amusing, but Aragorn is fuming.
"If you do not stop, then I will tell him that you are Prince here," he mutters angrily after a few hours of it. Legolas peers at him guilelessly, a carefully constructed look of confusion and helpless apology draped over his features. "Oh stop it!" Aragorn snaps. "He cannot hear us, he is too far back. I thought that you were to keep me company, and you are far too old for this."
"It does not matter my age; I am weary, and he is rude," Legolas mutters back, unapologetic and far too amused for Aragorn's liking. "How old is he in any case? Fifty? He should have learned better manners by now."
"He is fourteen."
"Fourteen…" Legolas repeats vaguely. Astonished.
"The rich need no manners. He was not meant for Laketown for another week, but my father could not cope with him in Imladris for a second longer. I am sure that you could at least manage a few words, even if to lighten the burden of one who has put up with this for days."
"Oh I am sure that your father handled matters with a grace that only Elbereth herself could hope to match, but I am merely a warrior and laegrim at that. There will never be another like lord Elrond. I will only exhaust myself by trying."
"I recall now why I have not visited for so long," Aragorn huffs. "I do not know why I remember you with such fondness, your character is woefully lacking."
Legolas laughs lightly, and Aragorn's ire is swept away in an instant. Legolas does not laugh needlessly, but when he does it is light and soft and honest. He laughs with his whole being – it is the sun emerging from the clouds on a dark day – and the two share a look that says quite plainly how much they have truly missed one another.
They fall into silence for a while, but it is pleasant and easy, just as things always have been between them. It is cooler here, shaded and sheltered although it is still too warm. It is dusty and there is the smell of a distant fire, sharp and biting, but the elves do not seem concerned about it. There is birdsong that echoes, near and far: trilling and grating and warbling, a thousand different voices scattered through the wood. Some of them are elves, in truth, speaking of the road ahead and making impolite comments about their guests. Aragorn smiles, because he has missed the company of these elves.
"How have you been, my brother?" he asks. "In truth, because you are a poor liar. How fares the wood, and how goes the fight?"
Legolas does not meet his gaze, but rather keeps his eyes forward on the path ahead of them. He bears an odd look – strangely frozen and rigid, as though he does not know what expression he should wear right now. For a moment there is blood and darkness and horror there, all together upon his face, and Aragorn can see through it all. Legolas has not changed for even a moment in all of the years of their friendship; not in countenance or character, not even slightly, and so he has learned the elf quite thoroughly over time. Legolas is exhausted and damaged, deep in his fëa, but he is strong. He has always been so very strong.
"It goes badly, my friend," is the eventual reply.
~{O}~
The caravan stops in a wide clearing, deep in sweet grasses and wild flowers. It is fragrant in the way of summer evenings – moth soft and blossom sweet – and the darkness has not come with a chill, but rather a warm breeze that sets the trees dancing, lifts long hair from hot necks and faces. The hushing of the leaves and the clear starlight has the laegrim distant and wild, but Legolas has remained nearby and his friends have stayed with him. They tussle and argue, they laugh brightly, and the sound of it eases the hearts of all who hear it. The last of their elflings are a delight, but they are growing too quickly. Far too quickly.
The stars are bright; scattered huge upon an endless sky, and there are many eyes cast upward tonight, many minds walking the path of the Song, but when Almárean calls for Legolas he comes without argument. He washes just as he is bid, silent and held together tightly, but it is a pleasant anxiousness; he is looking out for his father. He allows a comb to be tugged through his hair without too much of a battle and sits quietly and patiently, leaned up against Almárean, although he pretends that it is by accident.
He is getting too old for such things, but when he sees his father he runs to him. Thranduil walks across the grass as though it is a stately stone corridor, endlessly fair and lit brightly by Elbereth's glory. He is shoulder to shoulder with Lord Ionwë and together they are forbidding, frightening… a pair to be respected.
Legolas runs across the grass, and the King of the Woodland Elves bends with a smile of joy to catch him and hoist him high. The prince's laughter rings clear and bright, and even the fearsome general is smiling. The child reaches out and Ionwë catches him, drags him from the arms of his father and dangles him upside down as though he is nothing but a very lively sack of oats. He squeals and growls, and the look that Ionwë bears – gentle, so gentle – is only there when he is with Legolas. The son of his sworn brother.
They come to the fire together and the small prince sits with his father, chattering endlessly about what he has seen and done during the day. Thranduil listens silently, the softness of a smile ghosting about a face peaceful and glad for this time with his son. Golden head rests upon golden head, and Legolas really is getting too old for such things, but he falls asleep that way. Almárean hands over a blanket and the king takes it with thanks, but refuses the offer to take him away to bed.
~{O}~
By the time they make camp in the evening Legolas has yet to give in, and is still feigning ignorance around the young noble. The lad – whose name is Bregas – has given up and decided that the elf is mentally feeble, or perhaps off in some way. He sits with his minder and his lumpish guards in a sullen and silent cluster, eyeing the elves with distaste.
The elves ignore him. This wood is their home, and they will not be bothered by strange mannish boys or their taciturn minders. They set to make camp, they mutter with their captain in musical voices that trip and dance upon their tongues. They are fierce and wild and beautiful, but they are also dirty and mussed and this is all that the adan lad can see. He eyes them with doubt and disdain, holds himself rigid and upright as though he has been spurned in some way.
Aragorn himself sprawls upon the ground, quite happy and content to seem nothing more than a slovenly ranger now that the focus has been taken away from him, but as he looks closer he sees that perhaps the elves are not so peaceful. There is a tightness to them, a grim look of determination as they move about their business, stiff and careful.
Pain. It is pain.
He rises, finds Legolas and enquires about it. The prince grimaces, ducks his head and lowers his voice, as though he is speaking of something distasteful.
"The forest fire," he explains. He lifts his gaze up, a flicker of blue, just for a moment before turning his head to the east. Aragorn recalls the smell of it earlier, feels a thrill of worry. They had not seemed so concerned earlier. "We are close enough to hear the trees."
His breath leaves in a sigh, and he knows that he must show some sign of pity upon his face because Legolas turns away and leaves. He returns to what he does, and suddenly their behaviour makes complete sense. They can hear the trees burning, and they are indeed in pain.
He wonders for a moment whether they scream, whether it is violent and painful, or whether it is more a sleepy confusion – helpless and childlike fear as they are taken by flame. Legolas has tried to explain it to him before, has tried to describe how the voices of trees sound to elves, but he has never truly been able to imagine it. He is glad now, because this is an awful thing and he had never even thought of it before. The world in which the elves live is very different to his own.
Once they are finally stopped for the night Aragorn finds Legolas, takes him away somewhere quiet and peaceful and he tells tales of Imladris. He does all that he can to distract his friend with tales of his brothers: of Elrohir's foolishness and Elladan's inability to keep out of his endeavours. He tells of Elrond, Glorfindel and Erestor and their ongoing pursuit for peace in the Last Homely House. He believes that one day they might truly find it, but as it has yet to happen, he is entirely unsure.
As a distraction he is fairly successful, and Legolas laughs on occasion. He sits in perfect stillness, attentive and focussed, and although it has been a long time since Aragorn has felt intimidated by the weight of an elf's gaze, it can still be uncomfortable at times. He is saved by the fact that he can barely see his audience, because Legolas is exhausted and so his light is muted and pale.
The forest continues to burn, the laegrim hear every moment of it, but one elf at least finds a few hours of distraction.
~{O}~
The road ahead shimmers, and crickets call out their song in the dry golden grass at the side of the road. The horses run with sweat yellow with pollen and throw up thick dust as they walk – slowly, because it is very hot indeed.
Idhren is the only one of Legolas' group who has remained behind – the others ride ahead with their families – but then the two have been virtually inseparable for a long time now. They mutter to one another in conversation, and although they walk at the side of the convoy with many others, it is as though they are in a world entirely of their own; impenetrable and secret. They are quiet and do not stray too far from Almárean's side, because he is a part of their world as well.
The air is heavy, thick, but the sleepy lethargy of the travelling elves is pierced by a shrill whistle up ahead. It is unexpected, out of place, and it has every single elf attentive and alert in a moment. A thrill passes through the column, a murmur of disquiet.
Soldiers move, archers run ahead. Something is wrong.
Almárean is watchful and focussed now. The elflings draw closer with wide eyes and pale faces, and he reaches out an arm to draw them in. The elves shuffle and murmur, unsettled and afraid. There is a commotion ahead… far ahead at the front of the phalanx. There are voices shouting, and warriors begin to run to the fore leaving behind the rear-guard, who are grim faced and serious.
Almárean dismounts quickly and the elflings are against his side in a moment, Idhren trying to seem brave and calm but doing a poor job of it. His eyes widen as he looks to his protector for reassurance, because Almárean might well be their minder but first he was a warrior.
The rear-guards unsheathe their weapons and begin to shout instruction to dismount, to take cover, and Almárean grabs one as they pass. He is known and respected, and he indicates the elflings with only a look.
"Arm yourself," the warrior suggests lowly, and Legolas and Idhren are very frightened now. Almárean grabs both of his wards tightly and pulls them in close as the shouting in the distance becomes louder – becomes the sound of battle.
As black arrows begin to fly out of the trees toward the unarmed elves, the screaming begins.
~{O}~
The elves are tired; worn by weeks and months of fighting and now they are distracted by a fire to the east. It is a wonder, then, that there is any warning at all. The elves still watch, they still see and hear more than any, but Aragorn knows that on any other day and at any other time, nothing could ever have caught them so unawares.
The call in the trees to the north is barely audible – indeed, Aragorn has to stop and hold his breath the first time, because he is unsure that he has heard it at all. The second time though, ai he cannot doubt it. He knows those calls, he knows the sound of them very well. The call is urgent, panicked.
Orcs.
Bregas sees the change happen. He watches this band of dusty elves turn from weary travellers into warriors – right before his eyes – and if he didn't understand before then he certainly does now. Mirkwood elves are not like any other elves, and their difference is immediately apparent. They are upright and attentive, their weariness shed like dust from the road and their eyes burn. The lad is afraid, confused; he does not know what is happening, and suddenly he does not seem like an arrogant young lord at all. He glances to his side to make sure that his guards and his frightened old aide are still there with him, and he seems like little more than a boy.
The whistle that Legolas sends out is shrill, so very loud, and it makes them all jump in surprise. The elves in the trees are scattered far apart but it is louder than it need be, because he must be obeyed without hesitation. Aragorn understands the force in his orders, the unquestionable command, because these are laegrim elves and what he is telling them to do is to retreat.
They are exhausted, they are almost dry of arrows and they escort untrained edain, one of whom is just a boy. They are so close to home – ai, he has never heard of an attack so far north before! There will be others, there will be reinforcements nearby. To stay and fight is too great a risk, and so with a hiss of disgust and a snarl of anger, they flee.
~{O}~
Legolas does not cry, because Legolas never has, but he is a tight knot in Almárean's arms. He shakes like a leaf in the breeze, white faced and wide eyed as he watches all that goes on around them, deafened by the screaming and shouting and baying of orcs.
Almárean has dragged the elflings into the trees at the side of the road, crouched in the green as their caravan is mown down. Daylight… it is daylight!
Idhren whispers to his younger friend, a constant litany: a promise that their fathers will come for them; that Almárean will keep them safe, that things will be well, but the young prince's fingers dig into his arms with painful strength and he does not respond.
He watches the slaughter; he sees orcs hacking his friends and kin into sodden and still things. This is not his first experience of it, he does not weep or run, but he is desperately afraid. Misshapen and foul, twisted and dark, the orcs hiss and curse, laugh and cry out; howling for the joy of the slaughter. They wipe blood across their faces and into their matted hair, they lap at it and croon at the taste of elven blood. The warriors fight them off; beautiful ellyn and elleth, shining so brightly and fighting as though it is a dance. They are dirty and blood streaked, but they are fair and wondrous even as they fight off so many… too many. They are not going to survive this.
They are caught then: a group of five, hunting along the side of the road for stragglers. Legolas is dragged from the safety of the bushes by his golden hair, dragged across the grass with a shrill scream and a cry for his adar, but he is not quiet after that.
He fights and he fights. He is screaming rage and fear: hissing, biting, clawing until he is struck about the head into silence. Stunned and reeling he is flung to the ground, pulled into the arms of Idhren who has followed him out into danger and curls around him tightly. He is older and larger and no less afraid, not even slightly.
Almárean stands before them, pulling his sword free.
~{O}~
They have been herded like sheep, and Legolas is livid. They are cut off from reinforcements by the fire, which has caught with the fury of a winter storm and now cuts across the Forest Path. To the north and east and south the forest burns, and there is not a thing that they can do.
Before them is fire, and behind them are orcs, and they have run out of places in which to escape. Legolas will go no further south than this, and Aragorn trusts him implicitly. To stand and fight might be a death sentence to some of them, but to run to the south with orcs at their heels and no way back would kill them all.
The boy is smeared in ash and soot, tear tracks run through the muck but he has not made a sound. By the stars, the lad is far more resilient then they had ever expected, and even Legolas has softened toward him. He has lost his guards, because big men are not always smart men, or men who are good at fighting. The old man, however, holds the boy tight to his chest as though he is his own.
He says that his name is Artur, and he clearly cares for the lad. His health is a worry: he really is terribly old and the air is thick with smoke, they have been fleeing most of the day, but although he is shaking and his breathing is shallow and laboured, he is also proud and perhaps too stubborn to die in Mirkwood. Aragorn wonders at what has had to happen for these two to show their true characters, but they have no time for such ruminations. None at all.
Legolas has tucked them both into the bole of a huge and ancient tree; a split in the trunk that has hollowed with time and opens out onto a sluggishly running river. It is summer low and stinking with rotting vegetation, not what they need at all, but it is the closest that they can find, and they have run out of time.
It is so hot, so very hot. The air is acrid, a sting in the throat and a tickle in the lungs. They cough and strain for breath, their eyes stream constantly, and now they can hear it; the crackle and snap of the dying trees. The wind is constant: a driving force that has turned north and west, and Aragorn curses it, because it is the very thing that has put them in this position in the first place. It is a furnace wind, dry as tinder and full of the fury of the fire that it brings.
The elves have spread out, a defensive line, and although it is foolishness itself to stand and fight with a river to their backs, it is barely a river right now. The sluggish line of water is a break in the trees, indeed once the fire reaches them fully it might be their only hope to survive this. The laegrim are ready – soot blackened and wheezing – but they are ready for the fight, just as they are always ready for the fight.
Legolas crouches in front of the boy, who looks at him with frightened eyes wide and trusting. – all pretence aside now – and he speaks to him softly, confidently.
Aragorn hears a bit of it, just a few words, and then the Mirkwood Prince presses a blade into the lad's hands and then turns away.
They stand side by side, they hear the ugly and flat call of an orcish horn over the roar and snap of the fire, and they share a look. Legolas grins – perhaps a little too wild and dark, a slice of madness – but Aragorn has always found strength in the confidence of this elf; it is no wonder that his men follow him so absolutely. In truth Aragorn is terrified, and he needs that strength to see him through this. It seems that Bregas is not the only young adan in need of some elven confidence today.
He tightens his grip upon his blade, grins back, and when the orcs burst out of the trees he is ready.
~{O}~
Two, there are only two left.
Almárean has been so brave, so fine and skilled, but he has been outmatched five to one and his mind is half on the elflings that he protects. He has been struck down and he cannot rise, he cannot pull himself up again, because his arm is broken and something is wrong with his leg, and all of this blood cannot be his, surely?
The orcs are furious with him, because they did not expect such a fight… did not imagine that it would be so difficult to take two little elflings. They hiss and snarl and spit, filthy weapons dripping gore upon the ground, and Almárean drags himself slowly backward. His leg trails upon the summer dust, trails redness upon the dark grass, but he gasps and heaves his way until he is curled about the elflings again, covering them with his own body. Idhren and Legolas are silent, shaking, terrified, but they are good elflings. They have stayed still and they have stayed quiet – fawns in the meadow. Had they run they would have been chased down, and they would be dead.
The orcs advance, leering and thirsty for the blood that hangs so heavily upon the air, and Almárean is finished. He is exhausted and hurt, he cannot fight any more, and so Legolas twists free of the arms that hold him tightly. Two voices call out in dismay, sharp and horrified, but he does not hear. He screams, a thin and furious sound; ragged and raw and feral as a wolf cub. He is anger and fear and a blood stained face, and he plunges his hunting blade deep into the gut of an uncomprehending orc.
The creature gapes, bends at the waist, the hunting knife deep within its belly. It is a small blade, used only for skinning rabbits before now, and so Legolas thrusts and twists it deeper. He is weeping now… wildly and inconsolably, and the beast drips black blood from its mouth and down upon him, snarls and snaps at the child who has taken it so by surprise. It grabs him by the throat and he drops the blade, makes a soft sob of fear, but still he rakes his nails at the orc's eyes… a laegrim child, as wild and feral as the wood itself.
Almárean cries out, calls him back, begs and chokes because there are more… there are more out there, and Legolas is meant to hide and stay hidden and silent, and not fight this way. The orc is fatally wounded, it leans forward until it is face to face with the elfling in its grip, jagged and vicious teeth hissing into his face, but then Idhren is there. He buries his teeth into its arm and it is enough to surprise it, enough to have it dropping the golden haired prince.
Idhren pulls him away, pulls him back to Almárean, and the three of them cling tightly to one another as the last orc advances.
~{O}~
There are too many of them – by the stars, far too many – and when an orc fights, it does not fight to live. Orcs fight for the sake of hatred and rage, they do not go to war with the expectation of surviving... to battle an orc is to battle madness itself; a beast that does not care if it lives or dies. To battle thirty of them – maddened by the chase, thirsting for blood – is like trying to fight the fire itself, and it is taking too long.
Every moment that they fight is another moment where things might turn badly. Every heartbeat, every breath is more than enough for a life to be lost, every movement could be the one that turns the battle. They are running out of time.
The air is little more than a soup of ash and smoke; acrid and hot, a choking miasma. The air itself is burning; embers drifting to alight in hair and upon clothing, catching in the arid dryness of undergrowth and leaf. The heat is unbearable, sapping strength faster than any battle might. Aragorn feels his legs and arms turn to clay; heavy and clumsy, uncoordinated, but he does not stop. He can barely see what he is doing past sweat and ash and blood, barely breathe past his own choking gasps, but he carries on.
Four of the elves are down, still and silent, and he does not know if they live… he cannot think on it. Three are still on their feet but there is not much left of them; they barely had much in them to begin with, and no matter how much strength of will and mind they might have, the body cannot move on willpower alone.
Legolas has taken a blade across his ribs, there is blood all down his side but he has barely slowed. He favours his side, he does not extend himself so far and he is winded, but he carries on, just as he ever does. His eyes burn as hot as the flames, as cold as the heart of winter. He makes no concession to his injury, he stands before his wounded friends and he fights with no sign of his exhaustion or the desperation of this battle.
Not until Aragorn falls.
With a soft cry, the young adan ranger – the boy he once carried to bed as a sleeping child – take a blow to the head and falls, and finally he can rise no more. Blood runs down his face, filthy and ash covered, and there is simply nothing left to give. It is too hot, he cannot take a breath, his limbs shake and now he can barely see. He raises a blade to fend off the final blow – the one that he knows is coming – and Legolas forgets himself. He forgets all of his composure and silence, his strength and stillness and he cries out in anger, fury and a desperate, desperate fear.
He leaves his position, moves away from his fallen friends, away from the tree where the mannish boy and his old minder crouch. He leaves them, because how can he not? How can he stand and watch? How can he be there – right there – and not come to the aid of his brother?
Aragorn is saved by a silver blade, dripping with orcish blood. It is soaked in it, stained by countless hundreds of years steeped in its foulness. He is saved, but Legolas has given ground and allowed the last of the orcs a chance to pass him by. The other elves are entirely taken with their own battles, and as the exhausted prince of this burning wood pulls his friend to his feet – drags him back upright despite that they are past their last – they hear a frightened, thin scream of terror.
The boy has been found.
~{O}~
An arrow rescues them… an arrow fletched in green, and it is over. They have won, for what good it is, because they have lost so many, and it does not feel like a victory. It is a charnel field; their bright and happy procession nothing but a road thick with blood and bodies, and in the ringing silence Thranduil can be heard bellowing – fearfully, desperately – for his son.
Legolas is gone; a streak of gold, running blindly into the crouched form of his blood soaked father. The sound that he makes is terrible; it is a thin, keening sound of distress.
He has killed today. For the first time he has taken a life, and although he may be too old for sitting upon his father's lap, he is far too young to have felt a blade sinking into flesh. Far, far too young.
~{O}~
It is the boy's first kill, and that is for certain. He is a man from today, and there is not a living soul in this clearing of ash and blood that would not have happily borne this burden for him. Just for a while longer… just a few more years.
When Legolas and Aragorn reach the tree they find the orc flat upon its back, a blade protruding from its eye and foul blood staining the ash covered leaves. The boy is not crying, not weeping, not saying or doing anything at all. He is staring at the body, eyes wide and his hands held before him. They are bloodied, although it seems as though there should be more; they should be dripping, covered to the elbow, never to wash clean and never to be free of the feel and the smell of it.
Aragorn drops to the ground – to his rump, and then falling to lie flat upon the crunch of dry leaf and ash. They are done. There are no more orcs to fight, they are triumphant, but it never feels like a triumph. Not ever.
Legolas is not far behind him, although he lowers himself far more carefully. He does not sprawl, but rather settles himself as though he is far too tightly strung to move that easily. His arm is tucked into his ribs, he watches the fire as it begins to lessen… to pass them by, to spare them. He eyes it bitterly – because damn it, damn it for the trap it became – and then his eyes dance over to the elves. Those of his men still upright begin to check for signs of life in their fallen kin. His face is empty, devoid of anything. He watches without blinking, and holds himself so still that a single touch will shatter him into dust, burn him to ashes. Aragorn turns to the boy.
Artur tucks Bregas close, murmurs things that make no sense at all. He tries to wipe the blood and ash from his face and perhaps it is this – this attempt to change him from a thing of fire and cinders and blood, back into a man again – that has the lad fighting.
The Bregas of this morning did not know the feel of blood spilling across his hands. He did not know how a blade can scrape against bone. He had never heard the sound of a last breath, wet and shuddering into his own ear. He did not know the give of flesh beneath his hands… did not know how easy it was.
Bregas begins to weep, and if he is ashamed then he does not care. With his head in his hands he breaks down, racking sobs and heaving breaths of grief, alone and raw and wildfire hot. No one stops him.
~{O}~
"What did you say to him?" Aragorn asks, his attention entirely upon the boy because it is something to focus upon whilst he is shirtless and hissing beneath the healer's ministrations.
Their reinforcements finally here, but Legolas does not answer. He has poured a skin of water across his head: scrubbed his face into some semblance of cleanliness, rinsing the ash and blood from his skin so that his hair drips and clings to his face. He swills his mouth, spits, drinks but all of the time his eyes are far, far distant. Elves are like this sometimes: slow to return from the places their minds wander, easily pulled into the past because they have so much of it behind them.
Legolas' men will live, and it is a relief that has taken the last of his strength, left him wrung out and worn to the edge of endurance. He allows the healers to paste salve upon his burns, to bind his wounds until they can treat him properly back at his father's palace, and it is this quietness that speaks of his exhaustion. Aragorn knows this elf, knew that normally he would be ignoring the healers as though they were illusions or wood spirits. His men know it too – they eye him suspiciously, waiting for him to keel over, but he does not.
Legolas blinks, sniffs, coughs and hands the water to Aragorn who takes it gratefully. Pours it over his own head at the umbrage of the elf binding his own injuries, now decidedly wetter than he was and muttering in irritation. Legolas is back from wherever he has been, rubbing at reddened and stinging eyes, wheezes a racking cough again with a wince. He looks at the silent adan boy, leaning against his minder, although he really is too old for such things. His face is pale beneath the ash and blood and his eyes are empty, absent. He looks bereft, weighted by a knowledge that he is too young to have.
"I told him something my father once said to me," Legolas answers finally. "I was also too young when I first took a life."
"There is no correct age for it," Aragorn points out, and the elf shrugs but does not explain… does not say how he was a child, had barely mastered his letters. It is true; there is no right age for such a thing. He falls silent and Aragorn prompts: "what did he say? What did you say to the boy?"
"That it will not get any easier, and it will never stop hurting," Legolas coughs again, scrubs his face once more and leans back against the tree. He cradles his arm to his ribs and finally notices that Aragorn is blinking at him, a little bit horrified.
"I do not think that was as comforting to him as you imagined," Aragorn frowns, speaking slowly as though struggling for the words. Legolas flutters one hand, a dismissal, closes his eyes tiredly and continues.
"I told him that it should not stop hurting, and if it ever does, then that is the day he is truly broken. An honourable man feels the weight of every drop of blood he has spilled, deep in his fëa, and it is a wound that does not heal."
He opens his eyes again, locks a sharp and penetrating gaze of summer blue with those of storm grey, and this time he smiles. It is a shadow of his normal smile: too heavy, too weary, too sad, but there is the ghost of it there. True and kind. Aragorn feels himself respond to it as he always has; every day of his life he has known that smile, and for a moment his own weariness fades.
"I told him that the weight becomes easier to bear with every act of mercy, and for every life saved. Every kindness he shows will silence the hurt in his heart, and all men learn to carry their own burdens. He is strong, and he will live, and it is for him to decide where he goes from this moment."
He closes his eyes once more, and this time Aragorn knows that he is done. He does not sleep, will not sleep, indeed he is probably more aware of what happens in this clearing than anyone else present, but he will say no more and Aragorn will not press him. He watches the elf – the prince of this forest, the captain of these wild archers, his teacher and brother – and settles back against his own tree. He aches, his muscles tic and twitch and he can feel a rattle in his own lungs that he knows will be unpleasant fairly soon. He is safe though, the battle is over, and just as is ever the case, he feels grief and sadness and a terrible sinking sensation in his heart.
He hears Legolas' words over and over, and they give him comfort where he expected none.
He wonders at the weight of a thousand years of war, how heavy the burden upon Legolas' fëa, and then he wonders at the heart that has shown enough mercy… saved enough lives, protected and guided and shown kindness enough to have come through it all. To be here, to be sane and whole and strong.
He feels something kindle in his heart, something new, and Legolas' words fan the flames of a determination as solid as the mountain and enduring as the wood. This is the man he wishes to be… this: balanced and peaceful or at least to seem as such. He knows that there is blood in his future, so much blood, he knows it just as he knows the ruin he sits in – scorched and blackened – will be green and flush again next spring.
Aragorn smiles, entirely to himself and unbidden, and vows to one day become a man worthy – to one day be good and great and honourable enough to wash the blood free from his heart. He will.
One day.
~{O}~
The northern residences are quiet and subdued, dappled with fading sunlight and whispering with the grief songs of the elves. Wood smoke is sharp upon the air, with the bite of pine and softness of the last blossoms. Horse chestnut trees – the first to rise in spring and the first to fall – burn furious gold as the last of the light catches the upper branches, leaves curled and heavily burdened.
Thranduil sits in an arbour, deeply hidden in a bower of sweet honeysuckle, with ponderous bees humming peacefully in the deepness of the flowers. Legolas is curled into his side, small hands clutching his robes tightly and with Thranduil's hand – so large in comparison – resting upon his narrow back. He has stopped crying, but only because he is exhausted. He is hot and quivering and his father's heart has broken a thousand times.
It is silent, heavy… sad.
"But how do I know, ada?" the tiny elfling mumbles into robes damp with tears and sweat and fear. "How do I know when I have been good or kind enough?"
Thranduil closes his eyes for a moment, presses them tightly. Something hurts at the back of his throat: sharp and bitter and painful.
"You never will be, penneth. To take a life is to never heal, to never be whole again, but you must spend your whole life trying."
Legolas takes a deep breath, it shudders from him as he tries to steel himself, tries to be brave, and he is far too young for this sort of thing. He is strong though. Thranduil knows it, knows it deep in his heart… knew it from the moment he felt the first stirring of life within his wife's belly.
His son is strong, but by the stars and the trees he wishes he did not have to be.
END
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