Author: Mirrordance

Title: Estel

Summary: Legolas deals with the dire consequences of practicing forbidden magic to save the life of Aragorn

PART 2: Aragorn

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CHAPTER 2: Secrets

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      His loyal men had already made productive use of their time since Aragorn had seen them last; the stables have been converted into a functional camp.

      The horses were well-settled, and some of his men had taken a corner to rest in their bedrolls, while others were preparing to cook.

      "The host will prepare a broth for us," Aragorn murmured to one of those men as he passed them by, "We can save our provisions."

      "That's fantastic, sire," said the man, grinning widely and starting to put away the cookware, "We've not had a home-meal in so long."

      Aragorn sat down amongst his men, in a loose circle around a warming fire.  One of the three men who had joined him inside the house earlier, Diego, sat apart from the soldiers, his back to them as he kneeled on the ground, murmuring fervent prayers.  Aragorn watched him curiously.

      "He is a devout Lumenari, sire," the man beside him informed him, "He says he has set his eyes upon a witch, and he prays that this will not bring a hex upon his life."

      Aragorn frowned.  "And did you see this witch?"

      The man looked at the King curiously, "No sire, I was not among those who had gone with you inside the house."

      Aragorn's brows rose.  "There was no such witch."

      "The child, sire," said Anilov, one of the men who had entered the house with him, "Adrianna.  The little girl I had spoken with.  Diego says she is a witch.  Or at least, witch-born.  It's her eyes, he says, it looks like the moon."

      Aragorn's eyes narrowed, set his gaze upon Diego, "Diego."

      Diego stopped his prayers and turned to face the King.  "Sire?"

      "I've been told that you've set your eyes upon a witch," Aragorn said invitingly.

      "Us four have, sire," replied Diego, "I pray for my good fortune as well as your own, after this disaster."

      "How do you know she is a witch?" Aragorn asked.

      "Her mother was, surely," said Diego, "It's her eyes.  It is for those eyes, and their black magic, that they have been called the Lunaris."

      "I've not heard of the Lunaris," said Aragorn, "And I am well-traveled and learned."

      "Their reality has been distorted by legend and song," said Diego, "But we the Lumenari, who have brought them to rest, our tradition does not allow us to forget so easily.  All of the Lunaris are supposed to be dead.  We vanquished all of them thousands of years ago.  Every single one of them.  Women, their consorts, their children…"

      "Surely such a fate you could not wish for the girl," Anilov retorted, disbelieving.

      "She is a Lunari," Diego snapped, as if this were reason enough.

      "She is five years old!" said Anilov, "And surely not learned in their spells and enchantment.  Especially with her mother already dead.  She is like any other child."

      Aragorn raised a hand to still the argument.  "What has the Lunaris done to deserve such a black end?"

      "They have no respect for life," said Diego, "They are dangerous.  They resurrect the dead."

      Aragorn's brows furrowed, "It is a child's game."

      "No, sire," said Diego, "This is true.  They resurrect the dead by using the life force of another.  Kill one man to raise another.  It ruins the balance of things.  It is unnatural.  It is evil."

      Aragorn mulled this over.  He had a lot of questions, probably only Legolas can answer…

      "Either way," said Aragorn, "No one harms a hair on that child, do you understand?"

      Diego nodded gravely, "Yes, sire, as you bid.  But I must warn you to keep caution."

      "Broth!" a young, pert voice exclaimed from the door of the stables.  Wearing a too-large coat and trailed by her brother, the young witch in question bore a large pot and delightedly brought it to the soldiers.

* * *

      Witches who raise the dead…, Aragorn mused, Legolas, what straits you get into…

      It was a disturbing thought.  A witch-wife, a witch-child, an elf-like son, an ex-elf father… What did one have to do with the other? Curiously, a recurring dream of his came to mind as well, although he wondered where it fit in this crazy puzzle.

      For years he had been dreaming of Legolas, with his smooth hands clamped over Aragorn's mouth, cutting off his air, killing his voice as he ran a sharp dagger across his throat.  He would feel his life ebb, until he shoots up awake.

      Why would he dream about such a thing? With his great friend as his villain and assailant? Why has Legolas been hiding from him and everyone else all these years? Why was he suddenly, seemingly a mortal man?

      Such thoughts coursed through his mind as he slipped on his cloak, trudged through the rain to the main house, intent on getting answers from the elf, who would surely have them, if anyone did at all.

      Aragorn led himself into the house, finding Legolas where he had left him, slumped on an old, padded chair in front of the fire, covered in blankets.  His eyes were closed, and this gripped his heart.

      "Legolas!" he exclaimed, kneeling in front of his friend and grasping his shoulders.

      Legolas's eyes shot open, and he looked around him in alarm.  "Aragorn!" he said, "What's wrong?"

      "Are you well?" Aragorn replied, "Your eyes were closed! I thought perhaps you had died…"

      "Elves sleep with their eyes open," Legolas said, a slow smile forming across his weary face, "I'm no longer an elf.  I apologize for alarming you.  It seems I have learned the finer points of closing my eyes when I sleep."

      Aragorn looked at him skeptically.  "You hide things from me," he said distastefully.

      "Are my children disrupting your company?" Legolas asked, "I notice they have not returned from delivering the soup."

      "Mattheas is fascinated by the swords and the armor," Aragorn replied, willingly falling into the lighter subject, "And Adrianna is regaling my soldiers with myths and legends she had gleaned from her father.  Such fantastic tales you tell."

      "And yet they are real," pointed out Legolas, his eyes shining in remembrance, "You and I were there."

      "Legends have a way of emerging from some form of truth," Aragorn said reflectively, watching Legolas's face closely, "Don't you think this is so?"

      Legolas nodded cautiously, "Of course."

      "I've heard a legend, just tonight," said Aragorn, "Of witches who bring the dead back to life."

      Legolas tried to keep a straight face, not quite knowing how much Aragorn already knew and what he was trying to discover, "I've heard the same tale.  It was a game, when we were children."

      "There must be a grain of truth in it," Aragorn said, "Or more."

      Legolas shrugged, said nothing.

      "Especially," Aragorn continued, "when you have one such witch living inside your house.  I know that Adrianna is of the Lunaris.  Undoubtedly, her mother must have been."

      Legolas met the King's intense eyes levelly, "What of it?"

      "What of it?" Aragorn shot back at him, "Tell me, my friend.  Why must you hide such secrets? Did you fear for the life of your wife and your child? Did you fear we would turn away from you? Why do I feel as if I have much to do with everything? Speak to me.  Let these ghosts rest."

      Legolas looked at Aragorn in the eye, held his breath, weighed his words.

      "Six years ago I found out you were ill," said Legolas slowly, "And everyone believed you would die.  Even you."

      It had been true.  Aragorn was so certain of it.  And yet one morning he had woke up, seemingly from a long sleep, revived completely and highly energized.  The recovery, according to Gandalf and Arwen, had been nothing short of miraculous, and had said it had been a cure that Legolas had brought, shortly before he left for more merry misadventures.  Aragorn had figured that the cure had come from the forests of Mirkwood, or some other mystical place that only the wise elves knew of.  He sent his thanks to the Prince through Mirkwood, then continued with his duties.  Apart from the recurring dreams, he had thought nothing strange of those times.       

      "And you did die," Legolas continued, "but not by the disease.  You died by my hands.  I'm sorry, Aragorn, it was the only way I could…" he hesitated, couldn't seem to find the right words, "I wouldn't have been able to without…" he decided he had already got the message across, "Well.  Your eyes shot open and you looked at me.  I thought you might have remembered."

      "I thought it was a dream," Aragorn admitted.

      A nightmare, he thought, but deigned to aggravate the guilt of the elf any further.

      "Did it hurt?" Legolas asked quietly.

      "It was swift," Aragorn said instead.

      Legolas looked at him, measuring, then simply accepted the reply with a nod.  "I needed the light of the full moon to resurrect you. So I had to kill you that night.  And then I brought you back to life, by the blade of the Lunaris.  One that my wife had made with her own blood."

      --

      "And how much did my life cost you?" Aragorn asked quietly, after a long moment, "I have been told that it takes the killing of one man to give life back to the other.  Who was sacrificed in my name?"

      Legolas averted his eyes.  "It was me.  The process kills a human, but it only makes an elf mortal.  It didn't hurt me at all."

      "It's hurting you now," Aragorn said gravely, full of self-loathing, "You would not even be ill if it wasn't for me.  I understand, now.  You've been hiding from me all these years, because you hate me for what I cost you."

      "That is a lie," said Legolas soothingly, "I have no regrets.  I hid so you would not regret for me, as you are doing now.  I did not want you to hate yourself, for there is no need to, Aragorn.  What I did was of my own choosing.  And do you see where such choices have brought me?"

      Aragorn looked at him in doubtful inquiry.

      "Here," Legolas said reverently, "It brought me here.  Where all my longings have come to rest at last.  In my house.  With my family."

      --

      Aragorn shook his head.  "My friend… you are a crazy elf."

      Legolas chuckled.  "I'm not an elf."

      "Just crazy," Aragorn said, smiling hesitantly.

      Legolas smirked, stifled a cough.  "You should have met my wife."

      "Yes," agreed Aragorn longingly, "I wish to know whom you have settled with at last, what kind of a woman she was."

      "I couldn't believe she loved me for the longest time," Legolas said with a smile teasing his lips, "She was the last of the Lunaris, and she needed a daughter to keep the line alive.  She constantly claimed that I was merely her… provider."

      "Did you love her?" Aragorn asked.

      Legolas considered this carefully.  "We had an agreement.  She would help me resurrect you, and I would give her a daughter.  Our first child had been a boy, so I stayed to give her another child.  As we waited to see if our next child would be a girl, I kept wishing it wouldn't be, because if it was, the bargain was done with and I had to leave.  I didn't want to leave anymore.  I loved my son, and she raised him with so much care.  I grew to care for her then.  And when our second child, Adrianna, was born, the deal was done and yet she did not ask me to leave.  It was then that I knew that she understood me.  And we made a good home for ourselves.  We lived quite happily."

      Aragorn smiled.  "She sounds…"

      "Different," Legolas laughed, the musical sound cut off by a dry cough.  He covered his mouth consciously.

      "Would you want something to drink?" Aragorn asked.

      Legolas shook his head, "It's all right, Estel."

      "What ails you, my friend?" Aragorn asked softly, "Do you even know? Have you even asked a healer?"

      "I have," replied Legolas, gulping in breaths, "It is the consumption.  They are too busy burying their own dead in town to bother with one sick man out here.  I hardly need a healer anyways."

      "Hardly?!" Aragorn exclaimed, disapproving.  He knew Consumption to be such a deadly disease.  It took some of its victims suddenly, some it took slowly, either way, almost all of them found their way to the grave…

      "How long, now?" Aragorn asked.

      Legolas paused in thought.  He sighed.  "A few months.  Jacinda delivered some of her work to town—she was a blacksmith, and most talented.  The town was already severely ravaged by the disease.  She undoubtedly returned with it.  She suffered for a few weeks, I knew not what ailed her until I went into town myself, to summon a healer.  Healers who had their hands full, I could take none of them from their duties to my house.  She passed away a few weeks after, in a deep sleep.  I cared for her, and kept the children away.  A few days later, I too had it.  I've been fighting it since.  It has been a couple of months."

      Aragorn's brows furrowed, and he looked searchingly upon his friend, "Has it shown signs of dispersing?"

      "I do not know," Legolas admitted, "But I have learned to live with it.  Some do survive the affliction, you know.  You needn't look at me as if I have already died."

      Aragorn frowned, "You musn't say such things."

      "You look at me as if I were fading from your eyes," Legolas said with a laugh, "It is how my son looks at me.  With great distrust.  Fearing to turn away, as if I would vanish if his eyes left me," he sighed, since Aragorn did not say anything about that, "You needn't worry, Aragorn.  I fight the good fight."

      "I know," Aragorn said soothingly, "But the enemy is strong."

      "So am I," Legolas smirked at him, slowly rising to his feet, "I will retire for the evening."

      "As you should," Aragorn said, his arms flailing hesitantly, wondering if his friend needed the assistance.  He was able to make it to his feet without incident.

      Legolas walking a few steps ahead of him, Aragorn took the blankets and followed as they moved down the narrow, aromatic, wooden corridors to the master room on the far side of the house.  Legolas opened the door, and through a large window in the room, Aragorn saw the breathtaking sight of the sea, tossing and thrashing with the storm.  The window showed a fine view of the slim stretch of sand that separated the shoreline from the house.

      "I knew the sea was nearby," said Aragorn in surprise, "I smelled it and heard it.  But I didn't know it was so near your home.  I never thought you would settle next to the sea."

      Legolas smiled at the sight in pleasure.  "I told you all my longings have come to rest here.  It no longer stirs me as if I were incomplete.  Now daily I could just marvel at its beauty.  I no longer feel as if I needed the tides to bear me away.  Instead, it's as if I've already come ashore."

      Aragorn watched Legolas sit on the edge of his bed, his hands absently running through the woolen covers.  He unlaced his boots, and leaned back on the headrest.

      He smiled in pleasure as he stretched out, grinning at Aragorn, "I tell you, my friend.  You've not felt so warm until you've felt cold.  And you've not felt great rest until you've become so weary.  Such strange things I've missed in my years as invulnerable as an elf.  Strange old mortal pleasures."

      Aragorn chuckled, "I've never seen it that way," he said, handing the blankets to Legolas, "I will see you in the morn."

      "Stay in our guest room," insisted Legolas, "Your men will understand.  You are the King.  It is the door next to this."

      Aragorn hesitated.  He had always kept camp with his men, no matter where he went.  Undoubtedly, they would understand if he stayed elsewhere, but he preferred the equity of it.  Tonight, however… Legolas had been right, about him fearing to turn away, lest the former-elf would vanish suddenly.  He wanted to be as near as he could.

      "Thank you," accepted Aragorn, "I will.  I shall inform them, and then will return and take advantage of your hospitality."

* * *

      Even in times of peace, Aragorn's well-disciplined men would keep such a trustworthy watch.  As evening came—hard to tell since the night looked just as obscured with cloud and rain as the day—most of his men had taken to their bedrolls to sleep, while a number guarded the camp.  One more man stood just outside the house, and discreetly followed the King on the short walk back to the barn.

      "All is well?" Aragorn asked Anilov, who was in the nightwatch.  He surveyed the scene of sleeping soldiers.  Curiously, his eye fell on Adrianna, who was asleep on a bedroll, beside Diego, who was on the bare ground, curled up on one side with his back to her.  Her little hand was fisted at the back of his shirt.  Anilov followed his line of sight, and smiled a little.

      "She seemed to just find her way to him," said Anilov quietly, "She has some magic in her, indeed, sire, just not the kind that Diego had suspected."

      On Adrianna's other side was Mattheas, who slept as well, always loyally and protectively close.

      Aragorn nodded in approval.  "I will be with the host in his home, tonight.  You needn't assign a guard upon my door.  I assure you, we are safe here."

      "Have good night, sir," Anilov said.

      Aragorn stepped out into the rain once more, and headed back to the main house.  Removing his coat, he left it upon the rack, and made his way towards the corridors that led to the sleeping areas.  He passed by Legolas's room towards his own, except sounds from within made him pause.

      His heart wrenched at the sight of his old friend, shivering miserably beneath his blankets, his eyes shut tight, his teeth chattering.

      Legolas… Aragorn thought, never thinking that he would have to come to grips with his old friend's newfound vulnerability in so harsh a way.

      I've done you a disservice, he thought achingly, If I could give you back your life, and your strength, I would

      Quietly, Aragorn stepped inside the room, and settled himself on a worn chair next to the bed.  It was going to be a long night.  He was determined that his eyes would never leave the ailing man, watching him with great distrust.  Fearing to turn away, as if Legolas would vanish if Aragorn's eyes left him.

* * *

      And he did.

      Shooting upright, Aragorn awoke to find the day still dark, the rain still pouring, and Legolas's bed empty.  The King was sore from the inhospitable old chair, but Legolas seemed to have taken a blanket and covered him with it, making him as comfortable as possible, just before the blasted former elf left.

      He did not even stir! Aragorn growled and shook his head in dismay, rising to his feet.  Making his way to the living room, he found the ex-elf in question standing by the door, shedding his soaking coats and laying them upon the rack.

      "Of all elf traits you did not lose," Aragorn said dispassionately, "It had to be those blasted light feet."

      Legolas turned to face him and smiled shamelessly, "I must admit.  I wanted to see if I could still get past you."

      Aragorn frowned at him, glancing at the dead animals that he had placed upon the ground.  "You went hunting in this ridiculous weather?"

      "I go hunting in any weather," Legolas said absently, "We have to eat.  Life goes on.  I told you I've learned to live with the disease."

      "I saw you last night," snapped Aragorn, "no one who has come from a night like that should even be on their feet, you stubborn--" he had to pause in thought, "--man."

      "That," Legolas said flatly, looking embarrassed, "I'm sorry you had to see it.  I assure you though, there is nothing to fear.  The fevers come in the afternoons, the shivers come at night.  I do my business in the day, when I feel most strong.  I have been doing it for months."

      Aragorn glowered at him. 

      "We need it to live," Legolas said quietly, "I could hardly not provide for my children."

      Aragorn shook his head, sighed.  "It's just that… you could have told me.  I have a small contingent of the best marksmen of Gondor at my disposal.  Sometimes, such sacrifices are unnecessary."

      "I… apologize for worrying you," Legolas said, accepting the chastisement with a nod.

      Aragorn let the subject drop.  He glanced at the game.  "That's not a very big catch, is it?"

      Legolas smirked at him, "I'd love to see you do better, with poor visibility and most of the animals hiding from the rain."

      "Much more clever than you," Aragorn pointed out.

      "Ha!" Legolas said, just before his smiling face contorted to a pained expression, and he doubled over in harsh, hacking coughs, sinking to his knees.

      Aragorn caught him easily, lowered him to the ground slowly.  Legolas turned his face away from Aragorn, catching his breath and struggled to tell Aragorn between the incapacitating coughs to move away.

      "I will not," said Aragorn stubbornly, "You need help."

      "Please," Legolas managed, barely able to breathe between the spasms.  He jerked away from Aragorn, landed on his backside on the ground as he struggled to catch his breath.

      Aragorn looked at him in alarm, as blood trailed down a corner of his mouth.  The hands he had covered his coughs with were just as stained.

      Legolas stared back at him, knowing what he had seen.  Legolas's eyes were a picture of anguish, of a false confidence and a stubborn façade, with all of its assurances, now shattered.  Aragorn stared at his friend, and both knew that this disease would not stop until it has turned Legolas inside out. 

      "I'm sorry, Aragorn," Legolas said quietly.

To be continued…