"The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned."

–W.B. Yeats, The Second Coming

Chapter 25: Wrecked

Captain Aelon of the King's Guard sat at his desk in the citadel and examined the message by the sunlight that filtered through his open window. There was no need to read it again – he had memorized the brief text – but he did so anyway. The handwriting was authentic and the signature was absolutely valid. Cross-hatchings filled the small remainder of space at the bottom of the page to prevent any possibility of additions or forgeries. The seal was unmistakably King Elessar's.

Finally Aelon pushed the small parchment away and sat back in his chair. He stared blankly out the window for a time. His office looked down onto a small courtyard on the south side of the citadel. In the corner a group of pigeons fluttered and pecked about the wire mesh of their hutch.

Aelon sighed. "This," he said aloud to no one in particular, "is going to be a tough one."

*~*~*

Legolas' head ached. The pain was his first sensation as he moved toward consciousness, and he very nearly stopped there. It was not the throb behind his temples that made him hesitate, but the sure knowledge that worse pain awaited him if he should awake fully. Dimly he sensed it, like a shadow cast upon the rippling surface of a pool. There was hurt waiting for him there: pain and betrayal and loss so great that he did not know if he could face it. It was so much easier to drift here, in the warm depths where nothing could reach him. It was so much easier to forget.

Yet he could not. There was something he must do. Something important . . . a sound filtered through the depths. Someone was calling his name. Urgency, fear in a voice where he had rarely heard it before. Aragorn? Aragorn . . . was hurt? No – he had fought. He had tried to . . . but there Legolas stopped. Something horrible waited down that path, and he would not think of it now.

Aragorn needed him. Estel . . . If Aragorn goes to war, we will lose him forever. The cold certainty filled him: Estel was dying. He was lost, and Legolas could not reach him. He strove toward the surface, the light and shade flickering just beyond his grasp. The shadow lengthened, blotting out the light, blotting out all hope. Pain grew, and horror loomed ahead, but he fought on in growing desperation. Estel needed him.

Legolas awoke. The pain broke through his head like a thunderclap, and he groaned. "Ohhh…"

Aragorn's voice stopped in mid-sentence. There was a brief silence, and then came the whisper. "Legolas?"

Legolas kept his eyes shut. He could feel the texture of the rug beneath him: rich wool over a hard surface. He could smell smoke and wood and leather, tinged with the fresh scent of athelas. Somewhere a flap had come loose and was rattling in the breeze.

Aragorn's voice came closer. "Legolas? Legolas, please wake up. Please?"

He sounded so young in that moment that Legolas could have smiled. But his lips were parched and seemed glued with a sticky film. His nose and throat were painfully dry and his tongue felt swollen and thick.

With an effort he managed to crack open his eyes. The blaze of light sent a fresh throb of pain through his head and he shut them again quickly. Blinking carefully, he managed to focus on the tent canvas overhead. Candlelight cast a warm glow over the interior cloth and gave a golden sheen to the furnishings within Legolas' view: the edge of a table, a chair leg and the iron stand of a brazier.

Slowly Legolas turned his head. Aragorn was watching him closely, kneeling a few feet away. The Man's brow was furrowed, but his eyes lit when Legolas met his gaze. "Thank Eru," he breathed. "Blessed Elbereth, Legolas, I thought . . ." but he did not say what he had thought, or feared.

Legolas struggled to lick his lips. "Estel . . ." his voice was barely audible.

The next moment Aragorn was beside him, lifting Legolas into a sitting position. He cradled the back of Legolas' neck and held a waterskin to his lips. "Here. Drink."

Something deep within Legolas cried warning, but he did not know why. The water was clean and cool. It flowed like a blessing over his cracked lips and down his burning throat. He drank eagerly, but after a moment Aragorn pulled the waterskin away. "You mustn't have too much, or you'll be sick. Here, I'll put it next to you. You can have some more in a few minutes."

Legolas fell limply back as Aragorn set the waterskin aside. For a long moment he allowed the Man to simply hold him. Aragorn hugged him, his head bowed close over Legolas'. His rough fingers twined through Legolas hair, and his breath was hot as he murmured against Legolas' ear, "Thank Eru. I thought I had lost you."

Aragorn had lost him? No – it was Estel who was lost. He had done something . . . something terrible, if only Legolas could remember . . .

Aragorn was holding him too tightly. Panic flared and ran down Legolas' nerves – this was wrong. Something was terribly wrong, and he had to get out. The smoke and the leather were too close, too hot – he couldn't breathe. Didn't Aragorn know that he was hurting him?

Legolas wrenched free of Aragorn's grasp, staggering to his feet. He swayed as the room spun sickeningly around him. With a moan he fell to his knees, bracing himself with his hands, his hair hanging over his face. Aragorn touched his shoulder and he scrambled away. He crawled blindly into a corner by the tent's entrance. A breeze worked through the fastenings and he turned his face toward it, breathing hard.

"Legolas?"

Legolas shook his head and then moaned again as a fresh wave of nausea swept over him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on making the room stop spinning.

"Legolas?" Aragorn sounded uncertain. "Are you ill? Can I help you?"

Legolas swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that stung his throat. "I am well, Aragorn. I only . . . need a moment."

Gradually the sickness passed. Legolas sat with his arms crossed over his stomach and allowed his head to roll back against the tent wall. His muscles felt weak and his skin was bathed in sweat.

"Here." A warm cloth touched his temple. Legolas took it, breathing in the scent of athelas that clung to the wet fabric. He wiped his face and pressed the cloth against his closed eyelids.

When he looked up Aragorn was watching him. The Man attempted a smile. "Feeling better?"

Legolas sighed. "Yes," he said, handing the cloth back to Aragorn. "I think, though, that I now have a reference for what mortals call a 'hangover.' The wine –" he stopped.

Aragorn had taken the cloth, and as he did so their fingers touched. Legolas stared at him. "The wine . . ." he said again slowly. "It wasn't the flask. You did something to it."

Aragorn looked uncomfortable. "Legolas," he began.

"And when I did not drink, you –" Legolas shuddered as the memories came flooding back. "Valar! Aragorn – you did this to me! You hurt me."

Legolas' hands flew to his throat, his chest, touching the rent fabric, feeling again the pawing, brutal hands on his skin. He gasped and pulled the torn material of his shirt close, his fingers deftly retying the tunic fastenings.

"Legolas, I didn't – I stopped." Aragorn said. He looked pleadingly at Legolas. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt you."

Legolas reached the opening of his leggings. He turned away, pulling the lacings closed. He remembered. Oh Elbereth – he remembered everything. His breath came fast and thin – he couldn't breathe. Aragorn was choking him. Aragorn was hurting him. He tried to fight, but his limbs were leaden and weak. The cloth, the burning, choking fumes that leeched away his strength; pleading, crying, begging – Aragorn would not do this!

Aragorn touched his shoulder and Legolas struck so fast that he sent the Man sprawling across the carpet.

"Daro! Don't touch me!"

"Legolas, it wasn't me!" Aragorn sat up, clutching his jaw. "I swear to you, I would never hurt you."

"But you did!" Legolas shuddered. He knew now why he could not will the nausea away. Elven minds were so closely attuned to their bodies that they could consciously overcome mortal ailments such as injury or disease. But that strength was also their weakness, and it was not his body that had suffered most in Aragorn's assault.

Legolas was shaken to the foundations of his being. The sickness he felt now was the physical manifestation of the hurt done to his faer, his soul. He lowered his head, pulling his legs tightly to his chest.

"It wasn't me," Aragorn said again.

"There is no one else here, Aragorn." Legolas kept his head down to hide the tears that pressed hot behind his eyes. His voice was muffled. "The flask, the drug – you planned this. You enjoyed it."

"Legolas, no . . ."

"Do not lie to me!" Legolas cried. "Valar, you owe me that much at least. Speak truthfully: how long did you desire this? All the years we have been friends . . . was it all a lie?"

"No! Eru, Legolas," Aragorn knelt at his side, his large hands enfolding Legolas', gently drawing them down. "Please," he said, his grey eyes searching Legolas', "please, you must believe me. You, Arwen, Gondor . . . I only wanted to keep you safe."

"Keep us safe." Legolas gave a hollow laugh. "Has it occurred to you that I led patrols in Mirkwood centuries before you could lift a sword? Do you realize that the Evenstar lived for millennia before you were born? And now – this is how you would protect us?"

"If I must." Aragorn's mouth set in a familiar line, but his eyes were very dark. "I would not wish it so, Legolas, but I must have control. I cannot . . . I love Arwen too much to risk . . ." he shook his head, and his calloused fingers brushed Legolas' cheek. "I love you both too much."

Legolas jerked away. "Is that what you call this? Love?" His heart was pounding so that his head throbbed with sick fury. "Tell me, when you return to Gondor, will you tell Arwen that you love her while you rape her? Is that what love means to Men?"

Aragorn's face darkened and his hand clenched into a fist. "You dare to –"

Legolas dodged the strike and caught Aragorn's wrist, yanking the Man's arm around and behind his back in one swift motion. He shoved Aragorn down, driving his knee between his shoulderblades. Aragorn gave a muffled yelp, his face pressed against the carpet.

"Touch me again, Aragorn," Legolas hissed into his ear, hearing his own voice gone cold with promise, "and I will kill you."

He broke away, standing despite the rush of dizziness. Aragorn rolled over, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth.

"I knew it!" he gasped. "All those promises of friendship – tell me again that I must trust you, Legolas. Show me your devotion by attacking me!"

"I attacked you?" Legolas said. "You have the gall –"

"I am your King!" Aragorn roared.

Someone coughed. Legolas turned. A guard stood in the tent entrance, looking worriedly from Aragorn to Legolas and back again. "My lords?" he said hesitantly. "Do you need assistance?"

Aragorn stood, pulling his tunic straight. "No, thank you, Trafmir. We are fine."

"Yes, Your Majesty." The guard swallowed, but did not move. He looked at Legolas. "Only we heard noises . . ."

Legolas flushed, acutely aware of his torn shirt, the frayed lacings of his tunic. How much had the Men outside heard? The drug had cast a merciful fog over his memory, but still he recalled with painful clarity his own pleading cries and Elessar's voice raised in triumph . . . his cheeks burned hot with shame.

"Your devotion to duty is admirable," Aragorn said. "But all is well. You may return to your post."

Still the guard hesitated, looking searchingly at Legolas. When the Elf did not speak he finally sagged in resignation. "Aye, Your Majesty." He bowed and withdrew. The candle flames streamed briefly as the tent flap fell closed again.

Aragorn sat down heavily in his chair. He buried his face in his hands. Legolas could hear the muttered voices of the guards outside, and then the muted tramp of footsteps receding over the sand.

"I'm sorry," Aragorn said at last. "I didn't mean that, Legolas. I didn't mean to . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

Legolas did not answer. If he stood very still, he found that the room did not spin quite so badly. Whether he could also restrain himself from knocking Aragorn unconscious remained to be seen.

Aragorn groaned, clutching at his head. "It's this . . . this thing in my mind. Even now I can hear it, telling me to make you listen, make you obey . . . I am the King, I need to . . . Gondor needs me to . . ."

"What?" Legolas asked. "You have the army. You have reached Harad. What more do you need?"

Aragorn groaned again. His hands bunched into fists, pulling at his hair. "I don't know. It tells me . . . impossible things. Horrible things. I don't want to listen . . ."

"Then do not." Legolas sighed, feeling a deep weariness wash over him. He was so tired, and his mind and body ached. He desperately wanted to be away from here: away from this tent, away from the choking heat and smells of leather and dust and the memories of what had happened here. Were it not for the lingering scent of athelas he could not have borne it at all.

"You are the King. You must master yourself before you can command anyone else." Trite words they had seemed when his father had first said them centuries ago, but they had struck a chord in Legolas even in the midst of adolescent rebellion, and had grown truer with the passing years. He wondered if Aragorn were able to hear them now.

"You don't understand!" Aragorn stood abruptly, twitching as a horse might to throw off a troublesome fly. "It gets inside my head, and it pushes and it pushes and I don't know anymore what is my thoughts and what is that thing, and I try, I do try, but it's so hard, and I'm so tired . . . if I could only think . . ."

"The palantír," Legolas said flatly. "Aragorn, you must get rid of it! Can you not see what it is doing to you?"

"No!" Aragorn whirled, his eyes glittering as though with fever. "It is mine. It came to me, and I alone can wield it! For Gondor's sake I have to . . . I must . . ."

"This is not about Gondor," Legolas said. "That thing has hold of you, and while you make excuses it tightens its grip. You have a choice." He took a step toward Aragorn, his voice softening. "Please. If there is any part of you left . . . if you were ever my friend, be rid of it. Please."

"I can't!" Aragorn snapped. "Don't you think that I would if I could? I hate it, I hate what it wants me to do, but I can't. Gondor is in danger – Arwen is in danger. I have to save her. Even if it kills me, I have to save her."

Legolas stood still for a long moment. "Then you have made your choice." He closed his eyes, swaying as the full import of it struck him. "I would have followed you," he said. "But if you will not fight . . . there is nothing more that I can do." He turned away.

"Wait!" Aragorn cried. He caught Legolas' arm. Legolas froze, ready to strike, but it was Estel's voice that called him back. Estel's clear grey eyes looked at him from a face lined with care and shadowed with fatigue.

"Wait," he said again. "Please, Legolas . . . I need you. It is . . . easier, when you are with me. Please, stay with me."

Legolas stared at him. His whole body shied in revulsion at the physical contact, but the pain in Aragorn's eyes was real. He was hurt and confused . . . but he was still there. The shadow had not won, not yet. And Estel needed Legolas.

But Elessar . . . Valar, how far would he go? How much could Legolas give? And when there was nothing left . . . how much more would Elessar take? Aragorn had not even acknowledged the true horror of what he had done this night.

Legolas swallowed. "How shall I serve you, my lord?" he said. "Am I then to be a . . . a trophy for you to turn to, when you have need to prove your mastery? Will people marvel to see a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen made catamite to Elessar of Gondor? When you tire of the Evenstar's bed, shall I crawl to your feet? Is that what you desire?"

Aragorn hesitated. Legolas saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, heard the echo of twisted lust in the quickening of his breath. The next moment he blinked, shaking his head. "Legolas, no," he began, but it was too late.

Legolas stepped back, pulling his arm free. He was trembling. "I would not have believed it of you," he whispered. "Valar, Aragorn . . . I never would have believed it of you."

"Legolas, wait," Aragorn said. "I didn't mean to – Elbereth!" He shoved his hands through his hair in frustration. "It wasn't supposed to be this way! I had it planned so that it didn't have to be this way!"

"You had it planned," Legolas hunched his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest. "How, Aragorn? What else could you possibly have planned?"

"In Minas Tirith," Aragorn muttered. "There had to be control . . . leverage, you see? I had to do it. I had to protect them all."

A chill ran through Legolas. "Lothíriel," he whispered. "Dear Ilúvatar . . . Imrahil pledged you his support, Aragorn."

Aragorn shook his head. "It wasn't enough. Don't you understand? I had to make sure. Imrahil might aid us this time – but what of the next? What of the time after that? Gondor's enemies multiply, Legolas, like weeds. Cut one down, and another appears. I had to be sure."

"Éowyn," Legolas said. "Valar, Aragorn – she is with child!"

"I kept her safe!" Aragorn said. "I kept them all safe – and I will continue to do so, for as long as necessary. But you, Legolas . . . Eru, you are so blasted stubborn. If you would only listen to me I wouldn't have to do this!"

"You mean if I would obey you," Legolas said. "I have seen how you would have me obey . . . Elbereth," he felt his skin go cold as the blood drained from his face. "Gimli. Aragorn, what have you done?"

"What I had to do," Aragorn said. "I've only ever done what I had to do, Legolas." He smiled sadly. "I never meant for it to come to this . . . but you see, old friend, you will stay with me. For as long as necessary."

"Old friend," Legolas shuddered. "I do not know what friendship means to you anymore, Elessar, but it is not this. I . . . I would have given everything of myself to bring you back, but I will not watch you betray those who trusted you. I will not stand by while you hurt those who love you. And I will not play these games any longer."

He left. Elessar shouted at him to stop, ordered him to stay, but Legolas did not look back. The night air stabbed deep into his lungs, painfully cold after the suffocating heat of the tent. Legolas' head swam, but he kept his feet, striding quickly past the guards and onto the shifting desert sand.

"Prince Legolas!" Éomer was walking toward him, his breath trailing in white clouds behind him. "The men reported a disturbance in King Elessar's tent, but they did not know –" he broke off, his eyes widening. "Legolas, what happened? Are you all right?"

Legolas drew the tattered fabric of his collar closed over the bruises at his neck. "Aragorn has gone mad," he said. "There is no enemy here, Éomer, but he will not see that. I –" he hesitated. I loved him. Tears stung his eyes, and he forced them back. He could not think about it now. Later he would have the strength to sort through all the pain and confusion of this night. He could not bear to think about it now.

"I cannot stay here. There are . . . things to which I must attend. Please, will you keep watch on Elessar? Do not let him take the invasion further, whatever he tells you. Do not let him hurt anyone else."

Éomer stared. Then he nodded. "Yes. Yes, but – are you sure? Elessar . . ."

"You were right, Éomer King," Legolas said. He lifted his head and whistled. A piercing whinny drifted over the night air, followed by the thud of hooves. "A worm has invaded Elessar's mind, and he cannot defeat it. Stop it here, Éomer King. Stop it here."

"I will," Éomer said. "Eru, Legolas, I will!"

Arod galloped toward them, his hooves thundering over the sand. A length of rope trailed from his right forefoot where he had broken his hobbles. Legolas took two steps and leaped, swinging up onto the horse's back without breaking his stride.

"The army is in your command, Éomer. Stop it here!"

He drew Arod around, the horse's muscles bunching beneath him as he reared. The night wind whipped back Legolas' hair and tore at Arod's mane and tail. Arod plunged forward, and in a spray of sand they were gone.

*~*~*

Gimli was inspecting the city walls. He'd already checked every level of the city once before, and he'd sent stonemasons to correct the flaws that he'd found, and he'd sent other masons to check up on them, but he did not consider the job done until he'd approved it himself. He'd been very clear in his instructions, but the workers were after all only Men and could not be blamed for their inevitable shortcomings when it came to stonework.

Not one drain, he'd said. Not a culvert, not a pipe, not a hole, not a crack, not a line anywhere in the base of any wall, no matter if it's on the first level or the seventh. No matter if it's the main sewer of the city – it gets routed underground for at least fifty yards beyond the city wall, and I want grill work in every five yards of those fifty, and solid iron at that, and don't you roll your eyes at me, Erlich Foundryman, I know the cost of good iron but you weren't there at Helm's Deep when the Morgoth-begotten Orcs blew the blasted wall to pieces, now were you?

He'd worked his way from the first up to the sixth level and had yet to find any flaws even to his exacting standards. Grudgingly he straightened up, chewing at his mustache as he massaged the small of his back. At this rate he'd have to tell the Men that they'd done a satisfactory job. Not exactly to Dwarf quality, mind, but . . . well, not very far from Dwarf quality either, if he was forced to admit it.

Not that he wanted there to be any mistakes, of course. He'd taken responsibility for the defense of the city. He was guarding the daughter's daughter of Lady Galadriel, and he could not think of a greater honor than that. But . . . it was easier when he had something to be upset about. When he could work himself into a proper rage and shout and stomp so that the sparks flew from his boots and the Men cowered a little around him . . . it helped to keep him from worrying quite so much about the danger that Legolas had undoubtedly landed himself in, and how the fool Elf could ever manage without him.

There was a tap on his shoulder. Gimli turned and found himself face to chest with a burly soldier dressed in the livery of the palace guard. He stepped back, taking in the five other guards who stood in a huddle behind the first one, hands gripping their sword hilts and helmets not quite hiding their nervous expressions.

"Lord Gimli?" the first guard said. He cleared his throat. "Sir, I must request that you accompany us."

"Really?" said Gimli. "And why is that?"

The Man shifted his weight. "Ah, by order of King Elessar, my lord, I am to take you into protective custody. Um, for your own safety, you understand."

"What now?" Gimli frowned. "Lad, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Er, yes sir. I believe so. Um, you'll have to give your axe to us, my lord. You're under arrest, you see."

"Ah ha, I thought so." Gimli grinned, feeling the vague worry that had haunted him all afternoon dissipate in a welcome rush of real, concrete anger. "Good."

*~*~*

The army's camp was miles behind Legolas now, the light of its fires swallowed in the desert. The sand stretched in empty waves around him, wind-sculpted dunes rising in black mounds under the hard starlight. There were no forests here, but the stars were clear and bright and close as they had never been even in Eryn Lasgalen.

The silvery light was enough for Arod to keep a steady trot as they moved west. Legolas set a course for the fastest road back to Minas Tirith, and that meant going to the coast, where perhaps he could find a ship back to Dol Amroth. The army might be several days' march from Umbar, but the distance could be covered in a night of hard riding by a single Elf. Or so he hoped. He had left with no pack or provisions for this journey, and if he and Arod did not find shelter by sunrise they would be in trouble.

But he would not think of that now. Now there was only the sand and the stars and the biting wind that swept back his hair and worked its way into the rents of his clothing. He would not think about that either.

Arod had regained his breath. Legolas pressed himself close to the horse's neck, urging him into a canter, then a gallop. They raced over the sand, and Legolas murmured in Arod's turned-back ear, telling him to go faster, faster, faster. There were no memories here. No choking heat or burning, poisoned fumes. Nothing touched his skin but the cold, clean wind, and his heart pounded with the rhythm of Arod's flying hooves.

His senses were given wholly to the speed and power of Arod's flight over the dunes, his mind focused so that he would not remember, would not remember, would not remember. So that it was only distantly that he was aware of the fading of the stars, and felt the stirring of warmth at his back and knew that the sun was rising.

But far more strongly he felt the call, growing in strength as they drew near. He laughed aloud, heedless of the tears that streaked his cheeks. It was too distant to smell the salt or hear the gulls, but he knew. The sun eased its red bulk over the horizon, stretching his and Arod's shadows long before them, but it was too late. A few hours more and they would be at the sea.

Arod plowed up the long slope of another dune. They reached the crest and Legolas pulled up so sharply that Arod's hind legs nearly overran his fore. Legolas kept his seat, drawing the horse around in a tight circle, and stared open-mouthed into the valley below.

The sand flattened here into a long, rolling plain that stretched toward the distant glitter of the ocean. But this one time Legolas had no eyes for the sea. The plain was filled with a tide of black. Dark tents stretched on in row upon endless row, and over them ragged pennants and flags fluttered from a forest of glittering pikes. Men were everywhere, faces veiled against the wind, armor glinting beneath their long robes.

It was the enemy's army. It was here, and all too real, but not in Harad. Not in Harad at all.

A horn blew, and one of the figures below shouted, pointing to where Legolas and Arod were silhouetted against the rising sun. Several horsemen broke away from the main camp and galloped up the slope toward him, splitting and circling wide to come at him from two sides. And now for the first time Legolas heard the hoof beats behind him, and turned to see the scouts closing on them from the north and southeast.

Arod sidestepped nervously as they approached and Legolas reached for his bow. It was not there. It was piled with his quiver and the rest of his weapons in Aragorn's tent.

Legolas swore under his breath. He could not possibly outrace the archers' arrows. Here there was no shelter to which he could run, no trees that he could climb. No hope of rescue. He watched the Men come and readied himself for what he knew would be the last fight of his life.