Author's Note: Errr, second to last chapter to the fic. It was going to be the last one, but I need something else at the end, and it needed another chapter added to this one. So I'll write that...yeah.... Anyway, don't worry about the ending to this one, it's not the end, and there's a reason for everything. ^_^
PS - Sorry about the little grammar errors I didn't catch the first time. I put this chapter out as soon as I could, so I kinda hurried through my editing.
Third Day Miracle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Legolas sat out in the long grass, looking over the plains until the sun began to peak over the distant mountains. The whole world seemed to shudder with the dawn. The dawn, as it had come and gone for all the ages of the world, and always would. It reminded him of his immortality, and knowing that he would forever be around to see the birth of the day did not bring him peace, not serenity, but a welcome numbness. It was time to move on.
He took a deep breath and stood, shading his eyes as he stared off into the horizon, then turned his back to it, walking slowly back to the Deep, watching only his feet as he did. He mentally shielded himself for battle, maybe one of the biggest battles he would ever fight in. He had an obligation to the dead...and more importantly, an obligation to the living. He had a responsibility to overcome.
The Deep was teeming with activity by the time he got back. The day of the Rohan started with the cockcrow; there were horses to groom, weapons to tend, armor to repair. The guards changed shifts in a chaotic shuffle that Legolas found himself more and more endeared to every day.
As he walked into the Hornburg, he looked around at these bustling, busy people, too distracted to be sorrowful, too fraught to be afraid. They yelled and beckoned at each other. Some spoke the Common Tongue, others a dialect of the Riddermark. Even with the threat of death hanging over their heads like a dark cloud, they laughed, they argued, they loved, they lived hard. They lived as if they could capture every moment without worrying about the next. They recorded no history but in song or story. They were the most mortal of all the Men Legolas had ever known. They lived day by day.
Legolas found himself in love with these people, with their country. He wanted to protect them, for all their stubborn pride and flaws and doubt. He loved them anyway, with a passion that frightened him in its ferocity. He would not let Saruman have them, or their land. Not if he had a word in it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Under the fierce noon sun, when the Deep had subsided into drowsy quiet, one of the guards from the top of the parapet suddenly spotted a lone figure out near the horizon. It was a horse and rider, but the rider was not riding the horse. The rider was clinging to the horse in exhaustion, and moved so slowly that at first the guard thought it was only a mirage, brought on by his own fatigue and the heat of the day. Then, as the figure moved closer, the guard thought it was just another refugee from Osgiliath. When the figure came close enough to be seen as more than a dark shadow on the plain, the guard saw it for what it truly was.
He leaned over the far wall, looking down into the Hornburg until he spotted the very person he was looking for. A stout dwarf stood in the courtyard of the Deep, arguing fervently with men of the Rohan over the necessity of horses in battle.
"Gimli! Gimli son of Gloin! Master Dwarf, for your father's sake, come up here and look at this! You'll never believe it if not with your own eyes!"
~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn rode into the courtyard, aware of the many pairs of disbelieving eyes on him, and sat up straight in the saddle, his poise proud and tired, like a sword that has had its runes of valor worn away by years of battle, but has yet to lose the bite of its blade.
All people of Rohan stood around him, silent and wide-eyed, as if waiting with bated breath for him to speak, maybe some terrible prophecy before he collapsed in exhaustion. Aragorn was pallid and hollow-eyed with weariness, face rough with stubble.
He finally did, looking around at the people as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in him turning up after being mourned for dead for three days.
"I need someone to tend my horse."
The courtyard roared into commotion, cheers, and approving laughter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gimli could barely speak as the king of Gondor pulled Hasufel to a stop in front of him. When he did, it was a sputtering, hearty laugh. "Aragorn, you imprudent human, you favored fool, you are indubitably the luckiest Man I have ever met!!" He looked around at the men surrounding them, his dark eyes glinting with happiness and pride. "Look at him! Luckiest man to walk this side of the Anduin, mark my words, men of Rohan! This is a true king! No death by warg, orc, or goblin can slay Aragorn son of Arathorn! He'd live just to spite them!"
Aragorn dismounted wearily, having to lean on Hasufel to keep his balance. He smiled at Gimli; it hurt his face. "I wouldn't go quite that far. Fool, eh? I will consider it a compliment, coming from Gimli son of Gloin."
"Are you hungry, son of Gondor? Tired from your long tramp in the countryside?"
Aragorn groaned playfully in response, and they both laughed aloud. It hurt him to laugh, too; he felt like a patchwork quilt of bruises and cuts, but he was live enough to chuckle, and that meant he couldn't be too badly off.
Gimli felt a silly lift in his spirits, as if he had been filled with air. Surely it would be over soon, now that Aragorn-scruffy king of the Numenoreans-had come back to them, whole enough to jest. And perhaps they had passed the worst, then. All the luck had been against the Rohan, but sooner or later, Gimli knew, even the worst luck changes.
Aragorn seemed his old self. Too pale, badly used, face cut from his tumble down the rocks, hands bloodied, terribly tired, but still indubitably the old Strider, with his dry sense of humor, pragmatism and tenacious sense of duty. Gimli clapped Aragorn on the shoulder companionably, and his eyes widened slightly when Aragorn pulled away, inhaling in a soft hiss of pain.
"Ooh, sorry lad. Bit sore?"
"Slightly," Aragorn replied in a wry tone, his voice in a husky croak. He started to walk to the Hornburg, but waves of dizziness stole over him. Gimli was too short to give him a shoulder, but someone-the guard from the parapet-helped him to keep his feet.
~~~~~~~~~~~
When Aragorn entered the cool shade of the Hornburg-now under his own power-he found Legolas talking with a soldier of the Riddermark, their voices cool and serious. When the soldier froze, looking over the elf's shoulder in wonder, Legolas trailed off, not turning around.
"Legolas!"
Legolas turned around, his face going pale. His mouth dropped open in a soft expression of complete and utter shock that Aragorn-in all his years among the Eldar-had never seen on one of their faces.
It was Aragorn, Legolas thought, staring back at him, utterly bewildered, unable to even begin to try and speak. But it couldn't be Aragorn. It was a mirage. It was nothing but a delusion...but the soldier he had been speaking to-Tandir, father of Tamor and Taryn, to be exact-had seen Aragorn first. So...he had to be real...didn't he? Legolas stepped back a pace, rubbed his eyes, and he was still there.
"Legolas?"
The elf stared back at him, eyes wide, as if he was looking at a ghost.
"Legolas, I'm sorry," Aragorn said, reaching forward to touch the elf on the shoulder, but Legolas backed away again slightly, as if afraid of him. Aragorn's voice was hoarse when he spoke again. "I'm so sorry."
There was a period of silence that was like an age. Legolas just kept looking at Aragorn with that exasperating blankness, as if he couldn't recognize him.
"Legolas, are you okay?"
Legolas could not answer. Gimli watched this strange scene, wanting to say something to Legolas, to snap him out of it, but he did not quite dare. The elf could not answer Aragorn. He only stood there, unable to accept what he was seeing, unable to answer. He wanted to cry in relief, but no tears came.
Aragorn's expression became almost pleading. "Please, Legolas...say something."
Legolas wasn't able to accept that Aragorn was alive. He had spent two days and nights in torture, feeling as if his own hidden grief was clawing him to death from the inside out, trying to force himself to accept the fact that Aragorn was dead. As an elf, death was something he understood to a degree, but found difficult to swallow, like bitter medicine. And now that he had finally succeeded, he found that Aragorn was not dead, Aragorn stood in front of him.
He shook two words from himself, with effort. "You died."
This was something he could not comprehend. Death he could understand; resurrection he could not. Gandalf had fallen, and Gandalf had returned. This he could accept, because Gandalf was not human. Mortal in form...manlike..but not human, not really mortal. Aragorn was human. Aragorn was mortal.
// Mortal...mortal...mortally wounded....Aragorn? Aragorn?? //
"No, Legolas. Not dead. He's standing in front of you," Gimli added in a quiet growl, trying to wipe that painfully bewildered expression from the elf's face, and the distressed one from Aragorn's. His own happiness at Aragorn's return was dampened by the fact that it had not helped Legolas.
Aragorn reached out and grabbed Legolas's hand, his eyes serious, never leaving the elf's face. Legolas was shocked; not by the action itself, but by the fact that Aragorn's hand was warm, almost hot. Warmth was life. He had expected Aragorn's hand to have the clammy chill of a corpse. The Ranger took the elf's hand and gently put it to his own face, running pale fingers over three day's worth of stubble. Then he moved Legolas's hand to his chest, to feel the heartbeat beneath it, leading it like a blind child's. He moved Legolas's hand to his shoulder, putting it to the wound there. He could feel the elf's fingers trembling in his, cool against his feverish flesh.
When he let go of the elf's hand and when Legolas pulled it back, it came away stained with red.
"Dead things don't bleed, Legolas. Mellon-nin, let it go. Just let it go."
Aragorn was suddenly old, and infinitely exhausted. He reached out and steadied himself against Legolas's shoulder, watching realization sweep the elf's face, followed by joy and awe as powerful as a cyclone.
The elf began to laugh, laughter a clear, strong, fair ringing bell against the stones. All the anguish and anxiety from the last few days seemed lifted from him in one powerful moment, making him feel more effortlessly glad and joyous than a bird that has been freed after long days of being caged in darkness.
"Not dead! Just late! Aragorn, you look terrible! Terrible!" He could barely talk around his delighted laughter.
Aragorn smiled back wearily.
Legolas spoke more with him of trivial things, every once in a while clapping Aragorn on his good shoulder. But Aragorn noticed there was still something wrong with him, it seemed. The elf appeared to be bursting with joy. At least he seemed to be. His laughter was continuous and almost hysterical. But there was something about his eyes that was too bright. His voice was strangely choked.
He and Gimli led Aragorn to Eowyn, who summoned one of the healers. The healer made him lay down and drink water in small sips, cool from the well, while Eowyn held her wrist against his forehead before putting a wet cloth on it, murmuring about fever as she worked to undo his tunic to get at the dirty wounds beneath. The one at his shoulder was particularly deep.
Gimli talked on and on to him in a happy muttering, growling grumble that was so thick with dwarvish accent in his merriment that Aragorn could barely understand him. He didn't try to anyway. His eyes and ears were on Legolas. Legolas of the unreadable elvish face and the trembling hands.
"Legolas, are you really all right?" he asked finally, keen gray eyes searching the elf's face. He had no doubt that the initial joy on Legolas's face was true enough. But there was something else there, as well.
"Fine, Estel, fine," Legolas whispered, smiling. It was a hard smile, almost a baring of teeth. "Just tired, that's all. Been up two days worried sick about you," he added, trying to make the words light-hearted.
"I'm sorry, nin mellon. I did not mean to worry you," Aragorn replied solemnly.
Legolas laughed. It was a bright sound, which had been cheerful before, and was now just...strange. Like a mask. He put his hand gently on Aragorn's shoulder. "I'm just glad *you're* all right, Estel. Look, you silly young fool, I understand that mortals are inherently clumsy, and I forgive you. But kindly don't go throwing yourself over any more cliffs to make a point of bravery, will you?"
Aragorn laughed, but Legolas did not join him. Aragorn looked up to find that Legolas was absolutely serious. Of course. He had gone from rapturous to solemn in a space of five seconds.
Suddenly, the elf reached under his shirt and undid the Evenstar from his neck, pressing it into Aragorn's feverish palm, folding the Ranger's fingers over it gently. He looked down into Aragorn's eyes.
"I saved it for you," Legolas said, softly, blue eyes impenetrable as a sphinx. He seemed to be about to say something else to Aragorn, mouth opening to speak, then only turned and walked out of the room as quickly as he could, without looking as if he was fleeing.
Gimli and Aragorn looked on at this desperate escape, eyes questioning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well....I was going to end this part of the fic in this chapter, but...I have at least one more to go. So much for a one or two shot, eh?
Anyway, if you have any ideas or certain requests for the Helm's Deep sequel to this fic, by all means, leave them in a review. ^_^ I'll be starting it soon, probably only a day or so after I finish this one, maybe less.
PS - Sorry about the little grammar errors I didn't catch the first time. I put this chapter out as soon as I could, so I kinda hurried through my editing.
Third Day Miracle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Legolas sat out in the long grass, looking over the plains until the sun began to peak over the distant mountains. The whole world seemed to shudder with the dawn. The dawn, as it had come and gone for all the ages of the world, and always would. It reminded him of his immortality, and knowing that he would forever be around to see the birth of the day did not bring him peace, not serenity, but a welcome numbness. It was time to move on.
He took a deep breath and stood, shading his eyes as he stared off into the horizon, then turned his back to it, walking slowly back to the Deep, watching only his feet as he did. He mentally shielded himself for battle, maybe one of the biggest battles he would ever fight in. He had an obligation to the dead...and more importantly, an obligation to the living. He had a responsibility to overcome.
The Deep was teeming with activity by the time he got back. The day of the Rohan started with the cockcrow; there were horses to groom, weapons to tend, armor to repair. The guards changed shifts in a chaotic shuffle that Legolas found himself more and more endeared to every day.
As he walked into the Hornburg, he looked around at these bustling, busy people, too distracted to be sorrowful, too fraught to be afraid. They yelled and beckoned at each other. Some spoke the Common Tongue, others a dialect of the Riddermark. Even with the threat of death hanging over their heads like a dark cloud, they laughed, they argued, they loved, they lived hard. They lived as if they could capture every moment without worrying about the next. They recorded no history but in song or story. They were the most mortal of all the Men Legolas had ever known. They lived day by day.
Legolas found himself in love with these people, with their country. He wanted to protect them, for all their stubborn pride and flaws and doubt. He loved them anyway, with a passion that frightened him in its ferocity. He would not let Saruman have them, or their land. Not if he had a word in it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Under the fierce noon sun, when the Deep had subsided into drowsy quiet, one of the guards from the top of the parapet suddenly spotted a lone figure out near the horizon. It was a horse and rider, but the rider was not riding the horse. The rider was clinging to the horse in exhaustion, and moved so slowly that at first the guard thought it was only a mirage, brought on by his own fatigue and the heat of the day. Then, as the figure moved closer, the guard thought it was just another refugee from Osgiliath. When the figure came close enough to be seen as more than a dark shadow on the plain, the guard saw it for what it truly was.
He leaned over the far wall, looking down into the Hornburg until he spotted the very person he was looking for. A stout dwarf stood in the courtyard of the Deep, arguing fervently with men of the Rohan over the necessity of horses in battle.
"Gimli! Gimli son of Gloin! Master Dwarf, for your father's sake, come up here and look at this! You'll never believe it if not with your own eyes!"
~~~~~~~~~~
Aragorn rode into the courtyard, aware of the many pairs of disbelieving eyes on him, and sat up straight in the saddle, his poise proud and tired, like a sword that has had its runes of valor worn away by years of battle, but has yet to lose the bite of its blade.
All people of Rohan stood around him, silent and wide-eyed, as if waiting with bated breath for him to speak, maybe some terrible prophecy before he collapsed in exhaustion. Aragorn was pallid and hollow-eyed with weariness, face rough with stubble.
He finally did, looking around at the people as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in him turning up after being mourned for dead for three days.
"I need someone to tend my horse."
The courtyard roared into commotion, cheers, and approving laughter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gimli could barely speak as the king of Gondor pulled Hasufel to a stop in front of him. When he did, it was a sputtering, hearty laugh. "Aragorn, you imprudent human, you favored fool, you are indubitably the luckiest Man I have ever met!!" He looked around at the men surrounding them, his dark eyes glinting with happiness and pride. "Look at him! Luckiest man to walk this side of the Anduin, mark my words, men of Rohan! This is a true king! No death by warg, orc, or goblin can slay Aragorn son of Arathorn! He'd live just to spite them!"
Aragorn dismounted wearily, having to lean on Hasufel to keep his balance. He smiled at Gimli; it hurt his face. "I wouldn't go quite that far. Fool, eh? I will consider it a compliment, coming from Gimli son of Gloin."
"Are you hungry, son of Gondor? Tired from your long tramp in the countryside?"
Aragorn groaned playfully in response, and they both laughed aloud. It hurt him to laugh, too; he felt like a patchwork quilt of bruises and cuts, but he was live enough to chuckle, and that meant he couldn't be too badly off.
Gimli felt a silly lift in his spirits, as if he had been filled with air. Surely it would be over soon, now that Aragorn-scruffy king of the Numenoreans-had come back to them, whole enough to jest. And perhaps they had passed the worst, then. All the luck had been against the Rohan, but sooner or later, Gimli knew, even the worst luck changes.
Aragorn seemed his old self. Too pale, badly used, face cut from his tumble down the rocks, hands bloodied, terribly tired, but still indubitably the old Strider, with his dry sense of humor, pragmatism and tenacious sense of duty. Gimli clapped Aragorn on the shoulder companionably, and his eyes widened slightly when Aragorn pulled away, inhaling in a soft hiss of pain.
"Ooh, sorry lad. Bit sore?"
"Slightly," Aragorn replied in a wry tone, his voice in a husky croak. He started to walk to the Hornburg, but waves of dizziness stole over him. Gimli was too short to give him a shoulder, but someone-the guard from the parapet-helped him to keep his feet.
~~~~~~~~~~~
When Aragorn entered the cool shade of the Hornburg-now under his own power-he found Legolas talking with a soldier of the Riddermark, their voices cool and serious. When the soldier froze, looking over the elf's shoulder in wonder, Legolas trailed off, not turning around.
"Legolas!"
Legolas turned around, his face going pale. His mouth dropped open in a soft expression of complete and utter shock that Aragorn-in all his years among the Eldar-had never seen on one of their faces.
It was Aragorn, Legolas thought, staring back at him, utterly bewildered, unable to even begin to try and speak. But it couldn't be Aragorn. It was a mirage. It was nothing but a delusion...but the soldier he had been speaking to-Tandir, father of Tamor and Taryn, to be exact-had seen Aragorn first. So...he had to be real...didn't he? Legolas stepped back a pace, rubbed his eyes, and he was still there.
"Legolas?"
The elf stared back at him, eyes wide, as if he was looking at a ghost.
"Legolas, I'm sorry," Aragorn said, reaching forward to touch the elf on the shoulder, but Legolas backed away again slightly, as if afraid of him. Aragorn's voice was hoarse when he spoke again. "I'm so sorry."
There was a period of silence that was like an age. Legolas just kept looking at Aragorn with that exasperating blankness, as if he couldn't recognize him.
"Legolas, are you okay?"
Legolas could not answer. Gimli watched this strange scene, wanting to say something to Legolas, to snap him out of it, but he did not quite dare. The elf could not answer Aragorn. He only stood there, unable to accept what he was seeing, unable to answer. He wanted to cry in relief, but no tears came.
Aragorn's expression became almost pleading. "Please, Legolas...say something."
Legolas wasn't able to accept that Aragorn was alive. He had spent two days and nights in torture, feeling as if his own hidden grief was clawing him to death from the inside out, trying to force himself to accept the fact that Aragorn was dead. As an elf, death was something he understood to a degree, but found difficult to swallow, like bitter medicine. And now that he had finally succeeded, he found that Aragorn was not dead, Aragorn stood in front of him.
He shook two words from himself, with effort. "You died."
This was something he could not comprehend. Death he could understand; resurrection he could not. Gandalf had fallen, and Gandalf had returned. This he could accept, because Gandalf was not human. Mortal in form...manlike..but not human, not really mortal. Aragorn was human. Aragorn was mortal.
// Mortal...mortal...mortally wounded....Aragorn? Aragorn?? //
"No, Legolas. Not dead. He's standing in front of you," Gimli added in a quiet growl, trying to wipe that painfully bewildered expression from the elf's face, and the distressed one from Aragorn's. His own happiness at Aragorn's return was dampened by the fact that it had not helped Legolas.
Aragorn reached out and grabbed Legolas's hand, his eyes serious, never leaving the elf's face. Legolas was shocked; not by the action itself, but by the fact that Aragorn's hand was warm, almost hot. Warmth was life. He had expected Aragorn's hand to have the clammy chill of a corpse. The Ranger took the elf's hand and gently put it to his own face, running pale fingers over three day's worth of stubble. Then he moved Legolas's hand to his chest, to feel the heartbeat beneath it, leading it like a blind child's. He moved Legolas's hand to his shoulder, putting it to the wound there. He could feel the elf's fingers trembling in his, cool against his feverish flesh.
When he let go of the elf's hand and when Legolas pulled it back, it came away stained with red.
"Dead things don't bleed, Legolas. Mellon-nin, let it go. Just let it go."
Aragorn was suddenly old, and infinitely exhausted. He reached out and steadied himself against Legolas's shoulder, watching realization sweep the elf's face, followed by joy and awe as powerful as a cyclone.
The elf began to laugh, laughter a clear, strong, fair ringing bell against the stones. All the anguish and anxiety from the last few days seemed lifted from him in one powerful moment, making him feel more effortlessly glad and joyous than a bird that has been freed after long days of being caged in darkness.
"Not dead! Just late! Aragorn, you look terrible! Terrible!" He could barely talk around his delighted laughter.
Aragorn smiled back wearily.
Legolas spoke more with him of trivial things, every once in a while clapping Aragorn on his good shoulder. But Aragorn noticed there was still something wrong with him, it seemed. The elf appeared to be bursting with joy. At least he seemed to be. His laughter was continuous and almost hysterical. But there was something about his eyes that was too bright. His voice was strangely choked.
He and Gimli led Aragorn to Eowyn, who summoned one of the healers. The healer made him lay down and drink water in small sips, cool from the well, while Eowyn held her wrist against his forehead before putting a wet cloth on it, murmuring about fever as she worked to undo his tunic to get at the dirty wounds beneath. The one at his shoulder was particularly deep.
Gimli talked on and on to him in a happy muttering, growling grumble that was so thick with dwarvish accent in his merriment that Aragorn could barely understand him. He didn't try to anyway. His eyes and ears were on Legolas. Legolas of the unreadable elvish face and the trembling hands.
"Legolas, are you really all right?" he asked finally, keen gray eyes searching the elf's face. He had no doubt that the initial joy on Legolas's face was true enough. But there was something else there, as well.
"Fine, Estel, fine," Legolas whispered, smiling. It was a hard smile, almost a baring of teeth. "Just tired, that's all. Been up two days worried sick about you," he added, trying to make the words light-hearted.
"I'm sorry, nin mellon. I did not mean to worry you," Aragorn replied solemnly.
Legolas laughed. It was a bright sound, which had been cheerful before, and was now just...strange. Like a mask. He put his hand gently on Aragorn's shoulder. "I'm just glad *you're* all right, Estel. Look, you silly young fool, I understand that mortals are inherently clumsy, and I forgive you. But kindly don't go throwing yourself over any more cliffs to make a point of bravery, will you?"
Aragorn laughed, but Legolas did not join him. Aragorn looked up to find that Legolas was absolutely serious. Of course. He had gone from rapturous to solemn in a space of five seconds.
Suddenly, the elf reached under his shirt and undid the Evenstar from his neck, pressing it into Aragorn's feverish palm, folding the Ranger's fingers over it gently. He looked down into Aragorn's eyes.
"I saved it for you," Legolas said, softly, blue eyes impenetrable as a sphinx. He seemed to be about to say something else to Aragorn, mouth opening to speak, then only turned and walked out of the room as quickly as he could, without looking as if he was fleeing.
Gimli and Aragorn looked on at this desperate escape, eyes questioning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well....I was going to end this part of the fic in this chapter, but...I have at least one more to go. So much for a one or two shot, eh?
Anyway, if you have any ideas or certain requests for the Helm's Deep sequel to this fic, by all means, leave them in a review. ^_^ I'll be starting it soon, probably only a day or so after I finish this one, maybe less.