Bill the Pony: Oh, I've had experience with ff.net cutting things off. It kept erasing necessary zeros. Lol. Um, cliffies? *looks guilty* Well, take some medicine. I believe this one falls into the category of a cliffie, too. *backs away quickly with hands held up* But it's not my fault, really.
Nell Marie: Hm, you did hear a rumor about another story. The twins are back in that one. Where's the fun in one bad guy? One is mundane. Anyone can handle one threat. It takes skill to handle two. And, actually, I just realized I left out one. Oh, well. I'll have to add it somewhere else. Not this story, though. But the danger's not over yet. *evil grin*
Grumpy: I completely understand the rock thing, truly! Lol. Actually, that just gave me a really good idea. Thanks! And they shouldn't be allowed outside. In fact, no one should be allowed to go near them, but we both know the chances of that. Enjoy the upcoming angst!
NaughtyNat: *keeps a straight face* Drugs. As for how many stories, there's one more in the works after this, then I think I might bevote some time to writing that Boromir fic I keep brushing aside. After that . . . *shrugs* My ideas usually don't come all that close on the heels of the one before it. My mind won't work properly for it. Waiting months is completely ridiculous, and it's three days because I don't dare post every other day and I got bored posting once a week. A compromise. Lol. And this one is already written. If I wrote as I posted it'd conceivably be months between chapters. Especially when I get writer's block! Which is bothering me right now. *scowls deeply as she considers the next story which is only on chapter 5* My, this is getting long. Well, enjoy this chapter, too, and I hope time permits for you to review! *g*
Now, onto the next chapter. That's what you really want, isn't it? *grins widely at voiced agreement* Well, then, who am I to argue? Lol. It's all yours.
Chapter 8
Guilty Conscience
Pain coursed through Legolas' body. Suddenly, instead of being intensely connected to the battle, seeing everything around him, he was distant, everything moving with a dreamy slowness that resembled attempting trying to move quickly through water. Sound vaguely touched his hears, and he thought he heard someone scream, someone that sounded familiar, but he could not focus on the sounds.
Slowly, he tracked his gaze up from the ground, raising it until he could see straight out from him and caught the pained and panicked eyes of Aragorn, who looked about the way he felt. Then on up, until he could once again look at his attacker. He watched the orc raise his scimitar up above his head. Watched it reach its apex, then begin its descent.
Some rational, pain-free place in the back of his mind was screaming at him, demanding he move, demanding he fight back, dodge, something, anything just so long as he did not just wait for the blow that would end his life to fall.
Yet he could not. His body would not obey the commands his mind was sending. The blow, the wound, the shock, had forced them too far apart; and now the worries of the mind were no longer the concerns of the body. In a few short seconds, they never would be again.
He closed his eyes, the one thing he was able to control. He did not want to see his death, did not want to watch the scimitar fall against his neck when he could no longer control his own body to avoid such a fate; did not want to chance his gaze falling on Aragorn, to see his eyes as life fled his friend, did not want to subject the young man to that. He closed his eyes, and waited.
Waited for death.
It did not come when he thought it would, and he opened his eyes. Confused blue orbs took in the sight of Aragorn fighting the huge orc that had been going to kill him, and dread filled his heart. Surely Aragorn could not win. He did not want the human to die, as well.
Again his mind screamed, screamed at him to move, to help, to do something. Again he could not. Agony of a different kind flowed through him, condemning him as weak for not being able to help his friend in his time of need. He knew, if Aragorn died, it would be his fault.
Not even that thought, painful and torturous as it was, could force the elf to move. It could not force the blood that leaked from his veins back into his body to support his life and hold it to this world. It could not support him when his body failed, and the elf prince slowly collapsed to the ground, slipping sideways when his strength was gone.
Through tired eyes that drifted closed against his will, he watched Aragorn fight, and prayed to anyone who would listen for his friend be all right when all was done.
Then the darkness closed around him, and he saw no more.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Aragorn slammed his blade against the scimitar of the orc, his fury such that the evil creature had to take a step back. He followed it with another punishing blow, and felt the shock of the impact travel up his arms to his shoulders as the other met the attack strength for strength.
The orc, likely a captain, pushed, shoving the ranger off-balance and he stumbled back, twisting to stay on his feet. The whistle of metal passing quickly through the air hummed in his ears as the blade nearly took his head from his shoulders.
He set himself quickly and met the next attack, pivoting at the last moment to burn off some of the power of the strike. This time it was the orc captain who stumbled. Aragorn strengthened his grip and stabbed it towards the creature's loins so it was harder to avoid.
The blow grazed its intended target, drawing black blood that percolated down the orcs side. It did nothing to slow the captain and Aragorn was forced to duck the next swing, moving close enough that he could punch the creature's sternum as he passed. A choked gasp broke the battle sounds, the only sounds around them, and sent a burst of glee through the human as he spun, refusing to leave his back to the foul creature.
A hasty strike from his opponent missed him easily. He feinted to the right, the captain moving with him, then reversed and attacked from the left, striking another glancing blow, this time to the orc's right flank.
An angry growl emanated from the orc captain, and enraged eyes met the human's briefly before the orc charged, startling the man with how quickly he moved. Two large hands wrapped around Aragorn's throat, and his hands automatically went to the other's forearms. He pulled with all his might, attempting to pry the vices away from his throat to allow oxygen to once again flow into his body. It did not work.
His fingernails, short though they were, dug into the skin and tore bloody rivulets across the orc's wrists as he attempted to free himself. Panic made his efforts frantic. If he died, then Legolas died as there would be no one left to help him.
His silver gaze, growing cloudy, returned to the orc captain, and he saw mad hatred there, and malicious triumph, satisfaction. Slowly, the other's fists were tightening, further denying him oxygen, slowly leading him to death by asphyxiation. It was not a way he would have chosen to die, and if he could help it, he would not die now.
He dropped his hands, inching his right one down near his inner thigh where he kept a dagger. So intent was his opponent, that he never noticed the change in the human's attentions. So ignorant was he, that he never even considered that he could be in danger from the pathetic human in his grasp. Aragorn was used to being underestimated, for he had grown up with elves, and he had learned to use that to his advantage.
Never dropping the orc's gaze, he got his fist around the dagger and slowly drew it from it's sheath, careful to keep the movement unobtrusive. Dark spots were beginning to dance before his eyes, gradually increasing to obscure more of his vision. His lungs burned from lack of oxygen, contracting in on themselves as they struggled to draw what was not there; he did not have much time left.
Sure he had a secure hold on the dagger, he swung his arm up and over, burying the small blade into the side of the orc captain's neck. It severed his trachea, ligaments, nerves, and plowed straight past his spine, chipping the vertebrae in his neck. Blood slid past the human's fingers, even as the iron grip around his neck loosened with the lose of feeling and control in the orc, as he could no longer control his body. Aragorn gasped air into lungs greedy for the life-giving gas.
Awareness lasted in the terrible creature's eyes for seconds more as his life faded, terrible hate flaring brightly in their depths even as confusion faded. Then they were dark, glassy orbs that lacked a will behind them, and the beast collapsed to the ground.
Aragorn stumbled backwards, still dragging breath into his tortured lungs, bereft of the strength to hold himself up on his own. His hand went to his throat as he stared, wide-eyed, at the creature who had almost killed him.
The man's reeling mind locked onto Legolas, and frantic eyes searched out the limp form of his friend. They fell on the pale being, motionless less than ten feet away. Darting forward on unsteady legs, the ranger dropped to the ground beside his friend, his labored breathing harsh to his own ears as he frantically searched for a sign of life in the form before him.
Shaking fingers hindered his efforts, and fear escalated, sending his rapid breathing whistling through his lungs even faster as his heart-rate sky-rocketed. His head spun, the world performing a perfect circle around him and he fell forward, shooting out a hand at the last minute to keep him from landing on Legolas.
Then, he found a pulse. A weak, flighty thing that was but a shadow of the normal beat, erratic as the blood flow that sustained it tapered off and there was not enough circulation to maintain the beating of the elf's heart.
Aragorn's breath caught in his throat as two realizations flew through his brain, one sending relief while the other renewed his panic; first, that Legolas was alive, then, that he was going to die if something were not done quickly.
His hands shook, and his racing mind would not cooperate. His breath came racing far too quickly and the world started to black out of focus.
Calm, my son, you cannot help anyone unless you are calm.
He took a deep breath and held it, then let it out slowly, forcing his body to match the pace he was forcing his mind to set. Slow.
You must be calm so you can think clearly. Clear minds work best to save lives.
Clear minds. Silver eyes stared at his friend. The elf was motionless and too pale by far, even for an elf. His breaths were shallow and his eyes were closed. Blood, too much blood, pooled around the fair being.
He reached forward and touched the wound tentatively as his mind slowly returned from the frantic spin it had engaged in. Then, as if something had snapped into place, he snapped into action. He grabbed one of their packs and quickly pulled out the bandages experience had convinced them needed to be carried in double supply. Water, herbs, and a bowl followed the bandages.
If nothing else, he had gained experience in mixing herbs and poultices through the years, and he used that familiarity now to speed the process. Wounds made by orc blades were especially not new and he prayed desperately for there to be no poison. He did not have the expertise nor the supplies to effectively deal with Morgul poison.
He folded two bandages to form two pads and soaked each into the mixture he had made. Then he washed the wound, front and back with water. That done, he took one pad and held it against Legolas' back, and the other one he pressed against the elf's chest, holding both as firmly as he could.
The coagulate he had soaked the bandages with would, he hoped, speed up the elf's normal body functions and render the wound simply dangerous and not life-threatening.
Crashing sounds drew his attention away from the prone form before him. Cloudy gray eyes scanned the surrounding forest, the light from the fire flickering in the worried depths. But despite the light, the ranger could make out no forms beyond the clearing. He frowned.
Turning back to Legolas, he removed the back cloth carefully, pleased to note the bleeding had stopped. A check of the front revealed similar results, and Aragorn sighed in partial relief. That danger was halted.
With a speed and dexterity generally foreign among the race of men, the Dúnadan bound the elf's wound, ensuring the bandages were wrapped tightly to discourage renewed blood loss. He turned back through their packs and searched them quickly, looking for what, he was no entirely sure, but knew a few seconds later that it was not there.
The young man bit his lip as he turned back to his friend and leaned forward, gently brushing stray wisps of hair away from the fair being's face. Tears he could not force away gathered in his eyes, blurring his vision. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Legolas', rocking slightly in his anguish.
If Legolas died, it would be his fault. He had known there was danger, had known the elf would lose a fight with another, had known the being would fall, and still he had suggested a hunt. He had been the one to suggest this outing, and he had potentially led his best friend to his death, all because he did not want to languish for a day at the palace.
A single sob worked its way out of his throat and the tears escaped despite his best efforts to hold them at bay. The drops of despair sparkled brightly as they fell, contrasting the darkness that gathered inside the one who shed them.
Shakily, Aragorn pulled back and took in the still features, idly brushing away his own tear from Legolas' face. He leaned down again, placing his lips beside the other's ear. "Hold on, Legolas," he whispered in elvish. "Please don't leave me. Not here; not now."
He thought about what Legolas would do if he caught the human blaming himself and laughed, the sound trembling and faint, more a sob than anything else. "Stay, my friend. Come back so you can give me grief. Please. . . ."
Another group of snapping branches caught his attention, and his voice trailed off to silence. Shimmering eyes once again scanned their surroundings. Now more than ever, he wished he had elvish sight and could make out more than his human eyes would allow. Shadows danced eerily around him in the flickering fire light.
The ranger turned back to his friend and picked up one of the water skins. Scooting until he cradled Legolas' head in his lap, he slowly began trickling water into the other's mouth, making sure each amount was swallowed before adding more.
That done, he looked around. It was probably not wise for him to continue through Mirkwood's forests as he could not see and could not risk a fire; the acrid scent of burning moth bodies still reached his senses, dulled though they were by exposure. And the eyes still surrounded them. However, staying in the last location of an orc attack was not a healthy option, either.
"Legolas. . . ." he started, but could not finish. His friend had lost so much blood. Too much blood. His hand rested against the fair being's chest, feeling the heart that beat beneath his palm: too slow, too weak. The only thing that gave him comfort was that it was there.
A low growl sounded in the darkness and his fingers clenched in the fabric of Legolas' shirt. He could not move, but he had to.
Determined not to let his weaknesses and failures doom his friend even more than they already had, the young man scooped the elf up in his arms and stood. Legolas was light in his grasp, insubstantial, almost like melting snow that shrunk even as you tried to hold onto it. Despite this, the strain on Aragorn's arms still made him hiss in pain, and he clutched his precious burden closer as his arms threatened to loosen and drop the elf.
As soon as the pain receded, he turned slowly in a circle, attempting to determine the best course to take towards safety--a difficult task since he had no idea which direction safety lay in. He frowned, then closed his eyes and started walking, opening them almost immediately though he did not allow himself to question their course. The only thing he could do was walk, and hope.
He snorted. Hope. Hope, in his opinion, was severely over-rated. It did you no good if your friend was dead.
A root reached up and grabbed his foot as he entered the dark confines outside the fire's reach, and the human stumbled, barely stifling a cry as tired muscles were forced to compensate, not only for his own radically shifted weight, but for the added weight of Legolas.
Fire seemed to shoot up his back with the strain of keeping both of them from falling. He did not quite succeed, but somehow managed to twist and take the impact himself, connecting solidly with a large tree. His head thudded dully against the bark and odd yellowish lights flashed before his eyes, almost like fading sun spots.
The ranger shook his head, then slowly pushed himself back into a standing position. Obviously, it would be wiser to take smaller steps. A deep breath to steady his nerves, and the young man began walking again, bearing more than simply an unconscious elf.
The weight of the whole of Middle-earth had landed on his shoulders, placed there by his own sense of responsibility, passed down through the ages from Isildur. Because of his forefather's failure to destroy the Ring, and thus, evil, the darkness that engulfed Mirkwood was his fault. The orcs that had attacked them, were a sign of his failure, and ultimately his fault. Everything wrong that happened, every time one of his friends got hurt, it was his fault.
It is a curse among caring individuals to take on all the blame when loved one's are injured, thinking that somehow, someway, something could have been done differently that would have prevented the whole mess. Aragorn, being one of the more compassionate souls of Middle-earth, more than willingly accepted every accusation his guilt riddled mind could deal out.
Sauron's existence, orcs, wargs, foul creatures created by Sauron, the plight of those deceived by the Deceiver, every injury ever incurred by his friend--even that terrible time in Dorolyn, the darkness in Moria, Celebrian's passage, his father's worry, his brothers' anxiety, every ache, ill, or general mischance that sprung to mind, was firmly heaped upon shoulders already too weary to bear them, yet bear them he did.
He walked on blindly. Even had darkness not covered the forest, he would still have seen nothing he passed, lost in self-condemnation. Had his mind offered up the thought, he would have unhesitatingly shouldered the blame for the destruction of the Trees of Valinor and the desecration of Middle-earth, whether he could substantiate such a claim or no, but his tired mind was not willing to go back that far, especially into lessons he only half remembered.
Hours passed as he stumbled on in the dark with no conception of where he was going or if he was even heading further away from trouble. How long and how far were questions he could not have puzzled out to save his life.
It worried him that Legolas had not woken, and it scared him that the elf's eyes were still closed. He could barely see the faint blue glow around his friend, and it seemed to be growing fainter every moment that passed.
Slowly, his mind grasped a thought it had been skirting for many hours, always present but ignored, over-looked, shied from: Legolas is dying.
And it's all my fault.
You couldn't have done any more than you did. There were many Orcs; if not him then it would have been you.
Better me than him.
You could not survive that wound.
He's not either. Better Legolas remain while I depart than the other way around. I will make that journey one day anyway.
But not before your time.
It should never be his time!
Every path can not be foretold. Mayhap he had to die so you could live and fulfill your destiny.
I do not want my destiny.
That is not yours to decide.
I cannot live while he dies.
You must, or all is lost, and the destruction of Middle-earth truly will lie on your shoulders. Only you will not be the one to suffer it.
He glanced down at the still form in his arms. It would be those left behind, Lord Elrond, his brothers, countless friends in countless lands, and his kin who suffered the consequences of his actions. He knew, and yet the heart is difficult to convince with the mind. Knowing something and feeling the same are rarely managed when your heart desires one thing and your mind insists another.
It was strange, but Legolas almost looked peaceful, save that he was far too still. Elvish humor had occasion to annoy and befuddle him; elvish energy tried his patience; elvish senses, grace, and a dozen other things which he could never hope to achieve made him feel left out, but at this moment, he would give just about anything for the elf prince to suddenly wake up and do any one of a hundred things which had tried him before.
The knowledge that it would not happen brought tears to his eyes, and he bit his lip savagely to still them. He could not afford to break down, not here, not now, while Legolas' life still hung in the balance; he had to get him to safety.
Nowhere is safe while the Shadow still exists.
And the Shadow still exists because of me. I am nothing but trouble for all of Middle-earth. How can they ever think I am to save it?
Because all things are revealed in time.
Time, Legolas does not have time.
He stumbled again, this time unable to break his fall with a convenient tree, and both tumbled to the ground. The ranger's outstretched hands grasped futilely at the falling elf, then connected painfully with the ground, the left one half-landing on a tree root and twisting painfully, shooting fire up his arm to his shoulder. Pain from compacting bones shot up his right, then he was rolling through the dark black.
Seconds later he finally found that tree he had missed before, and his momentum was checked sharply. His head snapped back and his jaw clapped shut, the sound clearly audible to any in at least a five foot radius. His feet, too, kept moving and his back protested sharply as his body attempted to wrap around the tree.
He groaned but could not find the strength to move. It crossed his mind that he possibly could not and could create no disappointment for that fact. His body, in fact, much preferred the idea of staying put and not moving. His left arm, however, fiercely objected to being laid on.
Slowly, he shifted his body so that he lay on his back instead of his side, his right arm automatically coming up to grip his left and he felt something wet and sticky. He frowned, then moved his fingers to his lips so he could taste the substance. Realization of what it was, though, did not make him feel any better as it came with another realization: his shoulder was bleeding again.
Legolas will not be pleased.
Legolas. His eyes snapped open and he shot up, despite his screaming back. He twisted onto his hands and knees, desperately searching the dark for his dropped friend, his twisted wrist forgotten. Forgotten, that is, until it dropped him back to the ground and forced him to roll into the tree for the second time in less than ten minutes. His other hand immediately grasped the wrist, holding it steady. Once the pain had subsided, he felt it for broken bones and was relieved to find none.
More carefully this time, he again shifted to go looking for his friend, mindful not to put too much weight on his sprained wrist. Catching his weight on his mildly protesting right arm, he used his left to search before him, hoping to connect with something that was not roots or leaves or branches.
It seemed to take forever, nothing but roots and fallen branches coming to his hand, his progress agonizingly slow, both because he could not move quickly on his knees on one hand and because he had to pause and search around him. Panic, worry, and dread were conspiring to crush him. There was no light to lead him.
How could he have dropped him? Legolas was his charge. He was supposed to protect him, especially since he could not protect himself. And what did he do? He went and dropped him. What kind of healer would he be if he could not even take care of his best friend? What if his carelessness had cost the elf his life? His breath caught on that thought, and tears he did not want to shed pushed at his eyes, gathering power until they forced their way past his lids to slid down his cheeks.
Aragorn bit his lip and kept moving. He had to find the elf prince, and soon, or any hope he had of helping him would be lost. Legolas had not been doing so well before he was dropped. The ranger was afraid to see what shape he was in now.
His hand searched blindly before, and every second that passed brought another condemnation for stupidity, carelessness, clumsiness--an elf never would have dropped him like that (it completely slipped his mind that he was not, in fact, an elf), even shortsightedness. Anything, so long as the blame fell squarely on his shoulders.
Then, after an eternity, the texture beneath his hand changed. The ground now felt stringy, and after a moment he realized that meant hair. Tense and hopeful, he quickly felt along the hair for a face to go with it.
"Legolas," he whispered, praying for a response but not expecting one. His prayers were disappointed. His hand moved across forehead and contacted the pits of eyes, then the raise of nose, and finally, the mouth and chin. Having discovered his friend, and with a good idea of how he lay, Aragorn scooted forward so he was directly next to his friend.
His left hand slid back down the elf's hair, a soothing gesture that was more for the ranger's own nerves than any comfort it could give Legolas. With his right, he checked for a pulsed. He found it easily enough, despite the slowness of the pulse. A quiet sigh slid past his lips, and he moved to check for new injuries, his hands sliding slowly and carefully down the length of the still form, beginning at his neck and ending at his feet. Nothing appeared to be broken; for that, he was grateful.
Aragorn moved back up near the other's head. "Legolas," he murmured. "I'm so sorry, my friend. So sorry." He slid his hands beneath the other's head, cradling it in his hands. Something sticky and cold touched his fingers, and Aragorn's blood ran cold in sympathy. He recognized that feeling. Somehow, he managed to keep his head and checked the wound as carefully and thoroughly as he could with no light.
It did not appear to be serious, but merely a light cut that had split the skin (head injuries always bled alot), and not done any damage to the skull beneath. The cut did not appear to be that deep. What concerned him, though, was the blood. Legolas could not afford to lose any more blood.
Again feeling around in the dark, the ranger found their pack and extracted bandages by touch. He dragged himself and the pack back to the elf's side and began wrapping the wound. He had no water, and no light to see with if he had had it. What he needed to do now, was start moving again and hope to come upon help.
That hope was slim. Finished, he cautiously picked the elf back up and began moving in, he thought, the same direction he had been heading before. He tested his steps carefully before transferring his weight, berating himself for not having done so sooner, well aware that that fall could very well have meant Legolas' death, and that another would all but insure it; his progress was slow.
His whole attention was focused on not falling, on placing his feet in just the right spot so that he did not lose his balance, did not stumble, did not fall, did not impact another tree. At the end of an hour, he had traveled maybe three dozen feet. None of this mattered, though, for the ranger could risk moving no faster, and had no particular goal in mind. He simply had to move; staying still got them no closer to help.
He was so focused on not falling, that he never noticed other's coming around him (not that he could have seen them). In fact, he very nearly walked through one of them, his mind just barely recognizing the sharp point that pressed into his neck for what it was: an arrow. He stopped.
Now that he was stopped, he realized they were surrounded. He closed his eyes, hope leaving him. They were surrounded, outnumbered, and he was hampered by Legolas' presence in his arms. He was helpless, and at the mercy of whoever had found him.
They closed in.