Aragorn could not be frightened easily. In battle, he never faltered when an orc seemingly emerged directly in front of his nose, its roars leaving his ears ringing and wafting the orc's hellish breath in his nostrils. Sauron's Eye staring into his soul left him concerned, but not frightened. Even Legolas, with all his stealth, had once attempted to catch the Man off-guard by leaping from a tree and landing abruptly in front of him ("That was not childish, Aragorn. It was simply an experiment.").
However, nothing had ever frightened him more than the inhuman howl that pierced into the night's air, echoing through the plains and reaching the city of Gondor. The screech rivaled that of the Nazgul, horrifying and sending shivers up the Man's spine. Never had he heard a more mortifying yet sorrowful cry.
Aragorn's heart hammered against his chest once he realized the scream belonged to none other than Gimli. The orcs halted at the sound, petrified. Then, as if they had never attacked the trio in first place, fled without a glance behind their massive shoulders. Stunned and adrenaline still rushing in his veins, Aragorn's befuddled mind considered to pursue the orc party. He glanced at Gimli and the bleeding Legolas then back at the party.
He froze. His mind began to process what it had seen. What was it again? Gimli and the bleeding Legolas. By the Valar, please do not let it be so.
Dread filled his body, chilling his bones and slowing his actions. He turned is head again towards his comrades, praying that the sight only was an illusion. But there, amongst a sea of pale carcasses, lay Legolas, pale and trembling uncontrollably. Gimli knelt beside him, hand pressed against the Elf's chest, blood spilling through his fingers. The Dwarf's face was devoid of any color except a shade of green, and his eyes, wide and unblinking, stared at the Elf.
Aragorn opened his mouth to shout, to scream for help, but only a gasped escaped his lips. His legs moved on their own accord and the Man found himself kneeling on the other side of Legolas. The glossy blue eyes of the Elf stared at him, filled only with agony and sorrow. Aragorn's heart dropped to his feet.
Aragorn's mind was spinning, his cheeks frozen and ears buzzing. For the life of him, Aragorn could not remember what to do as he stared into his friend's distressed eyes. Yet, somehow, the Valar had seized his body and forced it to work.
"Gimli," the Man croaked, snapping the Dwarf out of his shocked state. "Remove your hand." The dwarf stared at him in horror as if he had been asked to sever the Elf's lifeline. "I must examine the wound," Aragorn explained softly, fearing the Dwarf to snap.
Gimli slowly, almost reluctantly, removed his gloved hand now seeped in blood—most of which was not orchish, Aragorn thought numbly. Blood immediately pooled from the wound and Legolas's face paled accordingly.
As Aragorn began to inspect the sword-wound, Gimli clutched the Elf's quivering wrist and hissed to Legolas, "Do not lose your grip, Elf." Wise thought, Aragorn speculated, for the Dwarf could remain assured that Legolas was alive so long as his grip held true.
Terror surged through Aragorn's veins once he finished inspecting the wound. The orc had pierced a lung, breaking several ribs. It was not surprising seeing as the orc had skewered the Elf clean through, but that did nothing to comfort him. Aragorn could not heal a wound of this magnitude. Despair followed dread once the Man realized he could to nothing to mend his Elven friend.
"T-that devastating, hmm?" Legolas's raspy voice cut through his thoughts. Aragorn stared at the Elf, horrified at the weakness and the pain laced in his voice.
"I-it is not that bad," Aragorn lied, knowing full well the Elf could not be fooled. A lump began to form at his throat as desperately as the Man tried to ignore it.
The Elf frowned, blood spilling from his lips. "I see," he croaked. His blue eyes suddenly widened and he began to cough, a horrid sound especially with the use of one damaged lung. Bright red blood spray from his lips, and Aragorn panicked.
"Raise him!" the Man cried to Gimli, fearful the Elf might choke on his own blood. The Dwarf hastily did as he was commanded, eyes riddled with worry and fear.
"Legolas!" Gimli roared hysterically, fat tears spilling over his cheeks and soaking his beard.
The Elf replied with a weak groan, and when he opened his eyes again, a dullness clung to the blue orbs that Aragorn had seen many times in the eyes of dying soldiers.
"C-calm yourself, G-Gimli. I shall not die without a-a fight," Legolas whispered, blinking rapidly. The Elf's words fell on deaf ears, for Gimli look none the more reassured.
The Elf's breathing grew rapid and unsteady and Aragorn could do nothing to prevent it. His throat was burning and his mind became numb, staring at the weakened Elf before him. Hopelessness came upon him and one sentence haunted his mind. I failed.
Legolas watched Aragorn through hazy eyes, before murmuring in his own native tongue, "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, do not let such doubts cloud your mind." Grey eyes rested upon the pale face, now looking disturbingly peaceful. "Death is inevitable." Ah, there was that annoying wisdom the aged Elf always held on such devastating occasions. "As I have heard from a wise wizard, I am simply beginning my next journey in death." Legolas gave a soft, gurgled laugh, his eyes still filled with pain but filled with a second emotion: peace. It was unnerving yet calming at the same time. The confusion made Aragorn sick.
The Elf gave a few more spastic coughs, his hands deathly cold, before his body stilled and sank like a limp rag doll. His half-lidded lifeless blue eyes stared into the blackened sky, accepting their fate.
It had all happened so fast, Aragorn could only remain crouched, stiff as a statue as he awaited the rise and fall of the Elf's chest. As the minutes grew by without a breath from the blonde Elf, Aragorn's mind grew dark and hazy.
The snap of a stick roused the Man out of his stunned state and he saw no Gimli holding the Elf's body. The orc carcasses' stench was the first sense his brain processed, and he quickly turned to expel his stomach. The red sun peeked over the mountains, illuminating the plain in an eerie crimson hue, resembling blood. Aragorn suddenly realized he had remained still for at least four hours.
Powerful, if yet slow, footsteps neared him and Aragorn turned to see Gimli, covered in gore and a solemn look on his face, drop his axe which was covered in an equal amount of black blood.
Surprisingly, Aragorn found his voice and asked, "Where did you go?" His voice was not his own, so hoarse and dead.
Gimli didn't reply immediately, walking over to the dead Elf's body and gently lifting it up. Aragorn realized Gimli had arranged the Elf's body accordingly to a proper burial position, and Aragorn was tempted to vomit once again.
"I killed them," the Dwarf replied bluntly, strutting towards Arod who was tied to a nearby tree. "All of them."
Them? As Aragorn eyes focused and gazed at the carnage before him, he finally realized that 'them' were the remaining orcs. Surprise should have followed, but his dull body refused to respond to any emotion.
"There were at least fifty of them," Aragorn replied as a matter-of-factly, his half-lidded eyes watching Gimli devoid of interest.
"Yes," came the Dwarf's answer. Heaving Legolas's limp body onto Arod, Gimli strapped the Elf securely onto the horse's saddle, who nuzzled Legolas's hair. Arod's motions were sluggish, as if the horse sensed its master's demise and now mourned quietly. Aragorn's horse, Hasufel, was nowhere to be found.
Gimli did not mount the horse; instead he held onto Arod's reins and retrieved his axe, not bothering to clean it.
He watched as Gimli began to guide the horse away, the red sun glaring off of his pelt.
"Where are you going?" Aragorn asked, beginning to stand. His knees groaned in protest, burning like fire. He stumbled and threw his hand into the air to catch himself. His hand touched something warm and soft. The Man turned to see Hasufel staring intently at him. He could have smiled, but with Legolas gone, all mirth had drained from the Man, as well as all other emotions.
"Mirkwood," Gimli replied, his growling voice thick with sorrow.
"Why?"
"For burial."
The answer was so blunt and sudden that Aragorn froze, his throat tightening. His head began to buzz again, and he tightened his grip on Hasufel to keep from fainting. "Burial?" he repeated.
"Yes."
Aragorn knew it would be wiser to ride to Gondor to recover themselves and send a messenger to King Thranduil to retrieve Legolas's body. However, the Man wished not to face his subjects now, looking as devastated as he was. Nevertheless, Mirkwood still held dangers, including the Elves' mistrust towards Dwarves. If the wood Elves saw Gimli with a deceased Elven Prince on the back of a horse, they could suspect the Dwarf as the murderer. So, he asked with a frank question, "What if the Elves think you an enemy and smite you?"
"Then they rid me of the responsibility of doing it myself." Gimli's voice came as a whisper, raspy and miserable.
Aragorn watched as the Dwarf walked on, trapped in heartrending trance. Sluggishly mounting his horse, Aragorn followed, finally deciding to guard both Dwarf and fallen Elf, although knowing in his numb state he wouldn't be of much use. Perhaps, when Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, captured them, he would see the guilt in their eyes and decide to release them, wishing naught for the gloom to reach his people.
And so the two traveled, crimson sun scorching their backs as punishment, their minds filled with Legolas's echoing statement.
"A red sun rises. Blood has been spilt this night."