Even as Glorfindel's whisper died in Aragorn's ears, even through his own revulsion the man thought he heard a whistling in the air.  The sudden bite of nails deeper into his shoulders was the only warning he had as Glorfindel let out a yowl behind him.  But that failed to root the Man's attention as well as the shout that came from above:

            "Aragorn!"

            Detesting his name in Glorfindel's mouth, Aragorn whirled, chain preceding him.  He relished the thought of iron wrapping around that pale, fragile neck before him; relished the snap of blonde hair turned blue with shadow that would follow.

            And then he saw the eyes, so lost and quizzical.

            "Noo!"  Aragorn hauled on the chain to no avail—but when it reached the point where it was supposed to wrap and break, the air was empty.  Instead the Man felt cool hands thrust up against his naked skin, hot tears spilling down into his welts and stinging.  "L-Lego…las…"  No.  No, he didn't believe it.  Wouldn't believe it—it was just another one of Glorfindel's tricks, or a hallucination.  "Don't touch me," he snarled, bringing his chain back for the final blow.

            "Aragorn."  Long, familiar fingers turned toward the sky in supplication.  Wood clattered on stone as a bow dropped to the ground, echoing in the chill air.

            A shudder wracked through Aragorn from his lacerated feet to the hand that clenched the chain high in the air.  He let loose a sound, not a howl and not a sob but somewhere in between, such that any stranger hearing it would have glanced nervously to the side for fear of attack by a wild animal.  He fell.  And in that moment Legolas was there, no cruel trick or floating memory but real, grasping Legolas, catching the Man as he pitched forward and holding him as great wrenching tears poured forth from his eyes.

            "I thought—for so long—"

            "Shh," the elf soothed, holding the Man close but lightly, sensing the harm raw want could bring.

            "I almost—oh please forgive me, Legolas, I—"
            "There is nothing to forgive."  Legolas smiled as recognition dawned through the tears in Aragorn's eyes.  "You remember that?  I'm returning the favor."

            Fresh sobs wrung Aragorn and this time it was his turn to cling.  Legolas tightened his grip only a little and Aragorn drew his face from the crook of the elf's neck in worry.  "Don't you—but—"

            "I don't want to hurt you," Legolas breathed.  His voice barely registered above a whisper.

            "You can't.  Not you.  Not ever."  Aragorn moaned as Legolas' arms circled him fully. 

            "I wish that were true."  The elf touched the collar around Aragorn's neck as if afraid of being burned.

            Aragorn saw his lover's grimace and fought back a sob long enough to hiss, "It wasn't your fault, Legolas.  Don't even think it."

            "It is.  I didn't tell you…"  Legolas frowned.

            "Tell me what?"

            "Where's Glorfindel?"

            The name twisted Aragorn's face into a snarl so vicious it stayed Legolas' treeward glance.

            "What…did he do…to you?" the elf asked, his voice tender. 

            Aragorn whirled up off the ground, brandishing his chain.  "Kill him.  Kill him—I was sure you shot him!  He screamed, I was there!  I was there…"  Tilting, swirling trees and nameless shadows spun before him.  Dimly Aragorn heard Legolas' cry, felt strong hands cupping his elbows, brushing old scabs.  His attempt to grimace rendered little as the trees were whirling faster and Legolas' voice was getting farther and farther away. 

            "It's all right…all…right…"

            But it wasn't all right, Aragorn tried to protest.  Where was Glorfindel?  The arrow hit home; Aragorn heard it.  He was there…

            The trees finally blurred into their own shadows and settled into his mind's black night.

*    *    *    *

            "Leg--!"

            "Shh.  I'm right here."

            Aragorn's eyes flew open and yes, there was Legolas, his blue eyes bright in the darkness.  "How long have I been out?  Oh, Legolas, I'm so—"

            "Absolutely not," the elf cut in, brining a finger to Aragorn's lips.  "You've only been unconscious a few hours and you are not to be a bit sorry.  I didn't even think of the  condition you're in, and now that I look at those wounds…"  He shook his head in marvel.  "You truly are a wonder, Elessar.  This—" Legolas brought Aragorn's red-ringed wrist to his mouth and brushed his lips across it; the Man hadn't realized his hand was in Legolas'—" this alone nearly cut to the bone.  And your feet, your poor feet—don't you even think of apologizing."

            "Where is Glorfindel?"

            "There isn't any athelas up here—it's even rarer at these heights than it is up north of the Grey Havens—so I did what I could.  There are poultices at your ankles so be careful not to—"

            "Legolas—"

            "And eat.  You're skin and bones.  What have they been feeding you?"

            "Pain," Aragorn blurted.  He winced at the look on Legolas' face, but he had to do this.  "Legolas.  Where.  Is.  Glorfindel."

            The elf looked away to the star-strewn sky, or tried to.  Aragorn caught the smooth chin in his hand, forcing eye contact.  "I thought I shot him," Legolas whispered.  It came out as more of a whimper.  "I was sure I did."

            "You did shoot him.  I heard him scream."

            "Then it wasn't fatal."  At the hardening of the Man's face, Legolas threw back his head in a soundless wail.  "I tried, Aragorn!  There was no trail, no nothing!  Some blood on the rocks, and then…"  He picked up Aragorn's mutilated hand and clutched it to his chest.  "I didn't know.  I didn't know what he did to you.  But after you fainted, to make sure you were all right I checked all over and…and…" 

            "Don't."

            "I'm sorry."

            "Don't!  Don't say it, Legolas!"  Aragorn tightened a fist around Legolas' grasping fingers.  His voice was hoarse.  "It is not your fault.  It never was.  What's done is done, so it doesn't matter now, anyway."

            "Doesn't it?  Doesn't this—" Legolas touched the now glistening shackle-marks so lightly Aragorn could hardly feel it— "Doesn't this matter?"

            "I don't want it to."

            A bitter wind cut across the mountains to where they sat, and Aragorn shivered beneath Legolas' cloak.  "You're cold.  Here."  The elf reached for his hobbit-fashioned belt buckle and looked up with a grimace when Aragorn's hand stopped him.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean—I only want you to be warm.  I promise I won't do anything else."

            "Is that what you think?"  There were tears in the man's eyes; they shone hard and piercing in the silver streaks at his temples.  He took one of Legolas' hands in both of his and tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

            Legolas' face was in shadow cast by the rind of moon, and he was glad.  "I don't…want…to hurt you, Aragorn."

            "Mereth."  Aragorn forced Legolas to meet his eyes, blurred though they were.  "I said I didn't want it to matter.  I meant it.  What he—what Glorfindel did," and he fought to keep his voice level at the name, "is gone now.  Over with.  You are here and…did you know that the first day I saw the sky after all that time, I thought of you?"

            Legolas shook his head.

            "I did.  It was the blue of it, I think.  Just like your eyes.  Oh, Legolas, you have no idea how much I missed you."

            Not wanting to correct him or hurt him, and unsure whether he could avoid either, Legolas sat still as the rocks they sheltered in.

            "Please, Legolas.  Don't—don't hold back."  A skirl of dead pine needles whisked over their heads before he added, in the barest of whispers, "Not for me, anyway."

            "There is no other reason!" Legolas cried, scooping the Man up into a fierce embrace and kiss that left both their lips pulsing.  "There is no other reason I'd hold back, Elessar.  None," the elf panted into Aragorn's ear.  Then, softer, silkier, "Are you still cold?"

            "Very," Aragorn replied, cracking a smile he knew Legolas could see even in the dark.  It was the first time Legolas had seen that smile since their parting.

            Assurances or no, the elf was gentle.  Hands first, stroking Aragorn's face as his lips flitted across it, then down to his neck and shoulders, feeling bone where there should have been muscle.  Sensing Aragorn's distress as his hands slid lower, he kept them tangled in his chest hair as his tongue followed up.  When he reached the first cut he licked it tentatively and Aragorn whimpered.  "Did I—"

            "No!" the Man gasped, groping for Legolas' golden mane and burying his fingers there.  "Go on."

            Legolas moved from wound to wound, never pressing, only bathing, taking care to slip his hands a fraction of an inch lower each time.  Finally when he moved to hold Aragorn the Man yelped, and instantly Legolas was cupping Aragorn's face in his hands.  "It's all right, it's all right, we don't have to—"

            "No!" Aragorn hissed, though tears leaked from his eyes.  "I want you to.  He won't have that power over me.  He won't!" 

            Legolas kissed the tears away and stroked Aragorn's head where it lay in his lap.  "Of course he won't," he murmured, "but there's such a thing as rushing it, my—"

            "Legolas."

            "Yes?"

            Aragorn shuddered.  "Please…please don't call me king.  Don't apologize, just—please."

            "All right."  Legolas' hand never faltered in its tender caressing, despite the mist in his eyes.  "It's cold and getting late.  Shall I just keep you warm, then?"

            Aragorn nodded in Legolas' grip and the elf divested himself of the rest of his clothing, draping it over the two of them as an extra barrier against the mountains' chill.  Legolas lay as close as he dared under the blankets, fearing to upset what fragile balance was left to his lover, and when Aragorn made the move to pull and hold him close, closing the space between them, he could have wept for joy.

            Instead he returned the embrace, wordless, and in such a sleepy, rapturous state of mind he forgot Eowyn's order.

*    *    *    *

            The sun dawned pale and cold on the mountaintops and on the two tiny figures making their way amidst boulders and sudden drops.  The remains of a campfire lay behind them, freshly stubbed out and kicked askew, but not even a core of the wizened crabapples cooked there rolled in the ashes.

            "You should have eaten some, Legolas," Aragorn admonished for the tenth time that morning.  "You look famished."

            "Your eyes are still bleary from sleep, then.  I'm fine."  The elf had to look hard at the rock wall in front of them to bring it into focus.  "Besides, Shadowfax and I fished a stream a little before I found you.  There—is that one too steep, as well?"

            "Let me try."  Aragorn, garbed in Legolas' cloak and tunic at the elf's insistence, approached the sheer face and found a handhold.  Putting his weight on it sent the paper-thin scabs on his wrists cracking he bit back a bark of pain.  "No, still too steep.  Listen, Legolas, why don't you scale this then go back and get Shadowfax—"

            Legolas was at Aragorn's side, his pale hand gripping the Man's shoulder, before the tiniest tumbling pebble betrayed him.  "No, Aragorn.  If we never see Shadowfax again, I'm not leaving you."

            Tears of frustration and love both blurred Aragorn's eyesight and he had to stand still for a moment to wrestle them away.  No use giving in now; they'd never get out of the mountains if they fell into raptures every ten minutes.  "Well then," he coughed at last, turning toward what passed as a rocky path.  "Let's find a way out of here."

            Noon had passed as well as many worried looks toward the storm clouds brewing in the west when Aragorn let out a shout and went running.

            "Wait!  Aragorn, it's not safe!"  Legolas yelled, barely keeping his balance as he stumbled after his lover.

            "We're here!  We're here!"  Undeterred, Aragorn vaulted over twisted scrub and glacial chunks of boulders, bounding ahead with the exuberance of a small boy.  "We made it, Legolas, we made it!"

            "To where?" cried the elf, though he found he didn't need to.  When he had stood still long enough for his vision to quit its reeling, great stone walls, smoother than was natural, rose before him, emblazoned with a white tree higher than three men.  "The Citadel," he breathed.  "Minas Tirith isn't far off…"Then, summoning air for the long jaunt, panted after Aragorn.  "Wait, Aragorn!  You've got to be still—"

            But Aragorn never heard Legolas' call.  Nor did he see the half-shadow that flew from the great tree's carved branches, hurtling with speed unknown to man to where he leaped and frolicked through the rockfield.  He was still leap-limping toward the Citadel, iron chain banging off the rocks behind him, when the shadow fell.

            "Aragorn!"  Legolas saw.  In fits and bursts between trips, and stumbles, and near-blackouts when spurs of rock caught him in the face, he saw the shadow take Aragorn from the ground; saw it rise again like a remade beast, flitting away only a hairsbreadth less quickly than it arrived. 

            Legolas tried to call Aragorn's name again and again, but a sticky substance was welling his mouth and darkness was bubbling in his eyes; he felt woozy and the precious word would not come.

            "Missing something?"

            Legolas pitched forward, screaming, "Gwanno lle!  Gwanno—"

            "How sweet.  After a month of failing to kill me, you're taking up your lover's sword."  A laugh that only elven ears could catch carried on the wind.  "So to speak."

            "I'll—" Legolas fought his way to unsteady feet, crying blindly, "I'll kill you!  All the curses of Elbereth on you, Glorfindel, I'll kill you!"

            "That's what he said, too!"  A cackle.

            Legolas lurched forward again, throwing out cut and bleeding hands where his elven grace failed him.  Where was the wretched creature?  Gradually his sight returned through a haze of stars and nauseous ebon waves.  The tree spread its branches before him, stark white against the sheer cliff face and as inviting.  "Glorfindel!" he howled.  The rock field lay empty. 

            A smattering of sound to his left brought his bow up in an instant, arrow notched and drawn.  There; he could just see over a muddle of boulders downhill as the larger shadow that was burdened Glorfindel whisked behind—no, into—a cleft in the cliff face.  Even as Legolas charged in that direction he shouldered his bow, knowing it would be useless.  He could not shoot while Glorfindel held Aragorn; certainly not with his head and stomach crying out for food and wobbling for lack thereof. 

            "I should've killed him, I should've killed him, but I know I shot him…"  Legolas swiped at his eyes, not knowing if it was blood or tears of both that ailed them.  "Why didn't I check?  Curse him, oh curse him!  Aragorn, I'm so—"

            He reached the cleft in the rock, and had to catch himself.

            The highest ramparts of the White Mountains, the ones that protected Minas Tirith and its Tomb of Kings from northward invasion, fell abruptly away before him.  Thin trickles of streams coursing like tears down the cliff face were the only things to gain purchase; even clouds seemed to shun the precipitous drop-off.  To either side the high rock wall that flanked the Citadel remained as impenetrable as ever; this one crack appeared to be the only infirmity in a monolithic structure spanning thousands of years.

            And for this part Legolas could not see what good the crack did anyone, particularly an injured elf—he was sure he shot Glorfindel—burdened with an unconscious man.  Beneath his boots, shorn rock weathered by time continued on for a few feet, then sank altogether into the yawning expanse of sky and sun and wind.  Legolas whirled around, ready to face a backward blow from some hidden fold in the rock, but the passage was empty.  With a sudden blow to the stomach that bit deeper than any hunger pang, the elf peered over the edge of the impossible cliff. 

            He wouldn't.

            And he hadn't.  For there, cunningly hewn into the rock perhaps five feet below where Legolas stood, a terrace began to run the length of the rock wall.  Squinting, Legolas could make out many such arched terraces climbing the breadth of the cliff in man-high steps to the top, where a set of low doors marked the exit—or entrance, from this side—to the Citadel.  Why hadn't he seen this before?  Legolas blamed his wooziness, cursed it, and leapt easily down to the foot-wide shelf where it joined the retaining wall.

            "Ai!"  His yelp hurtled away with the wind that nearly took him with it.  Never one to balk at heights or the gales that accompanied them, Legolas was still hard-pressed to keep his balance on the thin band of rock and in the face of the wind that lashed it.  It was as though the elements themselves conspired to guard the north flank of Minas Tirith, whipping the cleverly hewn terraces with air sharp and biting.  The elf blinked away tears that replenished themselves immediately, surveying the way ahead with at best a blurry eye.  Maybe Glorfindel had taken a different way?

            But no, there—there!—near the middle of the great terrace, a humped figure pressed ferociously on against the wind.  Legolas seethed even as he shouldered his way forward—how had Glorfindel gotten so far in so short a time?—and contemplated hurling a knife into Glorfindel's back before he discovered him.  But between the wind  and the betrayal of his eyes, Legolas couldn't be sure where Aragorn ended and the wretched shadow creature began.  The thought enraged and fueled him, and he lessened the space between them.

            The wind shielded any sound of his coming; Legolas would be upon them in a minute.  And then Glorfindel turned, alerted by some sense beyond all reasoning, and with a maniacal grin rooted Legolas to the spot in horror.

            He had no left eye.  In its place gaped a searing hole, raw and red at its loss, leaking gore at one corner to form a sort of half-mask on the elf.  Glorfindel grinned all the wider and somehow made his voice carry to where Legolas stayed staring. "Lovely job you've done with me, eh, Legolas?"  Then he turned to face the wind and jumped.

            Without thinking Legolas jumped after him, and was rewarded with the feel of rock under his feet.  How many terraces were there?  Legolas spared a glance to his left and counted, one, perhaps two.  That last one might have been a trick of height or shadow; he wasn't sure. 

            "Worries even the Prince of Mirkwood a little, doesn't it?" Glorfindel called.  Legolas snarled; the other elf had already gained a furlong of distance.  "I should think so.  That's thousands and thousands of feet you're looking at there.  It would be a terrible thing, wouldn't it, if I were to—whoops!"  Glorfindel shifted so his burden tipped sideways.  He caught Aragorn again easily and laughed at Legolas' face.  "Scared you there, didn't I?"

            In answer Legolas sped down the narrow terrace, blinking back tears as soon as they came, gripping the worn hilt of his hobbit-fashioned longknife in numb fingers.  Glorfindel turned, too, and it became a chase along a foot-wide path, one which Legolas was slowly losing.  For although his fury and his passion gave strength to his legs, it could not fill his stomach or quench the pulsing in his head, and the fight against the wind became harder and harder as he went on toward the far wall.

            Glorfindel jumped and Legolas did too, stumbling some as he landed.

            "Be on your guard, oh prince!" 

            Shadow no more, Glorfindel sliced unencumbered and with cold steel through the air before Legolas' nose.  Legolas jerked back into thin air, caught himself from falling into the gap in the terrace, and skipped backward, brandishing his knife.

            "Where is he?" he screamed, barely managing to parry Glorfindel's hack.

            The mutilated elf bared his teeth in a smile.  "A tad overprotective, aren't we?"

            Legolas slashed at Glorfindel's throat and felt it to his shoulder when the other's blade blocked it.

            "Oh, he's quite safe and knocked cold as snow, I assure you," Glorfindel crooned, swinging up to nip through Legolas' shirt. 

            He cut again, this time from the right, but Legolas was ready and met his blow with one of his own.  The two locked blades in a shower of sparks, their faces mere inches from each other.

            "I don't want him spoiled any more than you do."  Glorfindel's maw of an eye socket transfixed Legolas' attention as he knew it would.  "After all," he purred, left hand silently slipping something from the folds of his cloak, "I do take good care of my toys."

            In his rage Legolas wrenched his eyes from Glorfindel's empty socket to the rest of the face that laughed, and in that moment he sensed something up the other elf's sleeve.  With a roar to do Aragorn proud he whipped his knife free of the lock, ignoring the leap of flame along his collarbone as Glorfindel's main dagger sped free, and drove the homely hobbit blade between black-clad ribs.

            A faint clink of metal on rock was all that was to be heard of Glorfindel's dropped knife as the marred face broke into a sickly grin.  "Touché," he whispered, his voice having to labor against the howl of the wind.  "But I think—"

            "I don't care what you think," Legolas snarled, disgusted with his close proximity to this wretch.

            "I think," Glorfindel continued, licking dry lips before smiling again, "that our dear Elessar will be a most lonely man."

            And before Legolas could respond, or even sort out through the hunger in his mind what had been said, Glorfindel had buried his fists in the green garb of the other elf and flung the both of them off the last terrace, into the cloudless, breath-robbing vault of blue.