The Great Hall of Helm's Deep is stuffy and foul-smelling, but I barely notice. I am searching, my eyes keen and determined, as I wade through a sea of wounded soldiers. No, not all soldiers—some children, some old men. They should be laughing and playing in the meadows, growing ancient by their firesides. But not dying on rocky ground and wooden floors. My heart aches at the sight. What a waste of the sacredness of life.
Finally, I spot him in a dim corner, hiding himself from attention and glory. I know what he would say—there are others who have greater need than he does. How noble he is. He is leaning his head back against the stone wall, his eyes closed. How tired he looks, how drained. Dirt and sweat cake his bearded face, accompanied by streaks of blood. His surcoat and leggings are torn, showing cuts clotted with dark red. He has not bothered to remove his soiled garments or tend to his own wounds.
He opens his eyes as I approach, and he smiles languidly; my heart is gladdened. "Legolas, mellonin, it does me good to see you," he rasps. How I love that voice.
I kneel beside him, bringing a hand up to his stubbled cheek. "And I you, Aragorn. But, my friend, you are not looking after yourself. Come, you must see to your wounds," I implore.
Aragorn sighs, hanging his head. "Yes," he agrees robotically, "I suppose I must." I know he is exhausted, and I also know he would never admit it so long as there is a task to be done. He squares his shoulders, making a move as if to struggle to his feet, but I gently push him back down.
"No, my friend, you have not the strength. I will tend to you, if you will allow me." If he will allow me to touch him, to look upon him, knowing what I feel. To my relief, he simply nods.
I begin by unlacing the fastenings of his surcoat, removing his belt, and laying them aside to be cleaned and mended later. He does not need to be told to raise his arms above his head as I lift the mail shirt from him; he visibly relaxes once relieved of its weight. I tug off his muddy boots, shaking them to rid them of some of the accumulated dust and dislodge pebbles. Then, with a quick glance to which he responds with another barely perceptible nod, I force my hands not to tremble as I unlace his leggings, the last layer of clothing he wears, and slide them off his long legs.
It is torture, a miracle of concentration, to try not to think of how I've fantasized about undressing him. Each layer I systematically peel away is a layer I long to rip from his body with the knowledge that it is because he wants what I want. And what I want is unspeakable. Each inch of skin revealed to me so trustingly is an image locked away in my mind for another time—a time when I am free to dwell on forbidden things. But now—now is not my time.
After finding a cloth and basin of water, I begin to clean him. Dabbing the rag in the basin, I carefully, lovingly, wipe his face clean of any grime, taking care to mind the cuts on his cheek. I wash the blood from his sparse beard, relishing the rough texture against my soft skin. Dropping the rag for a moment, I immerse my hands in the water and then run them through his hair, using my fingers to work through the tangles. Again I pick up the cloth, squeezing water out of it, and turn my attention to his torso and legs.
His muscles are hard from years of activity and taut from overuse and exhaustion. As I work, I massage the areas I know to be particularly tight and sore, and he moans softly in gratitude. I do not let myself think about the sound. With every path my hands travel—washing, cleansing—longing fills me to my core. I have yearned to do this, to touch him as I do now. Only, this is not enough. This is the caring touch of a friend and comrade; I could give him the burning touch of a lover. This desire, this love, is an all-consuming flame, taking my softness and my purity and setting them alight. This hot flame brands me daily, nightly, always there, always tormenting. But it must be enough; it cannot be otherwise.
Once the washing is done, I set to stitching up the gashes on his arms, his thighs, in places where the mail shirt failed to protect him. I thread the needle with a speed and accuracy peculiar to my kind, and I offer a glance of apology before I plunge it into his skin. He braces himself, bearing it with quiet endurance as I sew him back together, though I know he is in pain. It never ceases to amaze me, the never-ending strength in this mortal Man. How ironic it is that 'tis a Man, who ought to be frail and temporal compared to the Elves, who possesses such tireless resistance as to leave me quivering in awe and adoration.
We sit together in companionable silence until I finish my task. "There," I murmur, tying off the last thread in the last gash. Aragorn is clean, his injuries taken care of, but there are still bruises covering his solid figure. I lightly brush my hand over one. "I can make a poultice for these later, if you'd like. They will heal faster."
He nods, another smile gracing his lips. "Thank you, Legolas. I appreciate all you've done for me this morn." He clasps my hand in his calloused one, pressing it in brotherly affection.
I smile in return, savoring the swift touch. There is nothing I would not do for him. But right now, all that needs to be done is dress him. I reverse the process I went through earlier, helping him into his leggings and his undershirt. "Now, sleep, mellonin," I insist gently. "A fierce battle has been fought this night; you have need of rest. I will stay with you if you wish."
Aragorn does as I tell him, shifting his weight so that he is stretched out on the cold floor. He rests his head in my lap and sighs, his eyes already closed. I reach down to caress his face, stroke his hair soothingly. He has need of some peace in these dark times. Thankfully, he is asleep within minutes, his breathing deep and even. Now that my task is done, I allow my mind to wander as the dreamlike slumber of Elves comes over me. I love you, my brave king.