Chapter Two - All in Good Time

Yet another foe fell at his feet with their companions; they were quickly joined by another, and then another, as Legolas performed his deadly dance, slicing at his enemies as they tried - and failed - to bring him down. There was quite a pile of them now about the campfire.

Aragorn sucked on the end of his pipe, observing the Elf as he fought with the volunteers who had agreed to pretend to be Orcs for him to practice on.

'He's doing well,' commented Gimli, who had seated himself next to Aragorn on the fallen tree, likewise smoking his pipe. 'You can hardly tell anything was ever wrong.'

'But you can tell,' replied Aragorn. 'He won't be very happy when this is finished.'

Sure enough, Legolas ended the mock fight with Éomer's men and declared it over, shaking the hand of each of them as they rose and moved off to rest and massage their bruises. He threw the carved branches he had been using to practice his knife-craft with into the fire, whose flames leapt up greedily to engulf the fresh fuel with orange tongues.

He crossed the camp to his companions and, instead of going to sit on the log, sat on the ground and leant back against it instead, chewing his cheek as he often did when agitated, his breathing coming a little faster than usual thanks to the recent physical exertion - and possibly something else.

'You could have used those again,' Aragorn suggested.

'I could have,' came the terse reply, 'but I can't now, can I, because I threw them in the fire.'

Since they had left Helm's Deep, Legolas had been very easy to get on the wrong side of, which resulted in many people avoiding him at all costs. Aragorn understood what was wrong - he was testy because his sickness had weakened his muscles and his knife-skills had not been the same since; mind you, it had only been twelve days since he had first picked up the wooden versions of his weapons after his lengthy fever.

On the other hand, Elves had the preternatural ability to heal much faster than any human, and the fact that the effects of the poison were still visible in Legolas' face as well as in his physical abilities was of some concern to Aragorn. His eyes held the appearance of one who
had failed to sleep properly for a month. His hair was dishevelled as he simply had not bothered to put it back into the usual braids which kept it from his face. The belt about his waist was somewhat tightened by a few notches. Understandable, really, that he was so frequently in such a sour mood.

'I'm tired of using pieces of wood, anyway - it just doesn't feel right.'

This conversation had been had before - about six times before, actually, and Aragorn was fair fed up of it. He knew exactly what Legolas was pushing for, and waited to hear the next words…

'If you would only let me use my knives again-' There they were, just the same as the last six times they had been uttered.

'-If I would only let you use your knives again, someone could get hurt, just as I said last time. Think about it, Legolas: you have used those weapons for millennia. No matter how experienced all of the people here are, they will never match your level. Elves have a totally different style of fighting, and, as you are the only Elf here, you would not find a suitable enough challenge.' There. He had said it. Hopefully that would quash any wont of going against anyone with real weapons.

Legolas sighed, a heavy frown over his brow … but the frown lifted, as Legolas turned to Aragorn, his face lit by what Aragorn had the deep trepidation of suspecting to be a child of Legolas' inspiration. Children of Legolas' inspiration normally involved him and in their younger years had resulted in a great deal of trouble and usually some form of injury or other.

'You were raised by Elves,' the Prince began brightly. 'Thus you were taught to fight by Elves, and so you fight like an Elf-'

'-No, Legolas.'

'Aragorn, you know how desperate I am,' he pleaded. 'Just one fight, between us, you with your sword and I with my knives. Your skill will prevent you from sustaining any injury and I shall have "a suitable challenge". Aragorn. Please.'

The appeal in that last word forced him to look into those age-old eyes that peered so imploringly up at him. One part of Aragorn stayed with the absolutely-no-way notion … but the other part was beginning to see the logic in the Elf's words, and was being gradually won over by the pitiful expression on his friend's face.

When the pair had been younger and Aragorn had spent time with Legolas in his father's kingdom, the King had warned him frequently against his "son's round-eyed begging stare and to remain, no matter what he says, impervious to it." On the countless occasions when that same stare had been used on him, Aragorn had always relented to it, and it had always ended up with them getting into some form of trouble or other.

And now he cursed himself as he rose to fetch his sword, ignoring the quietly triumphant grin on Legolas' face. Indeed it was almost good to see such an expression - since the fever it had been a rare occasion when the Elf had smiled.

Legolas unsheathed his knives for the first time in what felt like an age. The polished steel blades threw the firelight into a warped rendition of the campfire, somehow mocking the fire with the coldness of their glimmering plains, throwing the raw reds and oranges of the flames into sharp contrast with the darkness of the night which had thrown its black diamond-studded cape about them in the past half hour. The tengwar inscriptions burned and cast their own shadows, as if the runes themselves were ablaze in the metal.

The bone hilts gradually warmed in his hands, fitting perfectly into his grip. It felt as though they had never been parted; but he heaved a sigh of sadness as he traced over a deep cleft that ran over the hilt of one of the knives, parting the intricate gold filigree, to him wholly ruining the knife altogether. It was the one that he had dropped when he had been stabbed. There was even some of his blood in the groove, which had stained the bone forever red. A lasting imprint on the memory of the bone … the stain of shed blood never fades.

'Come on then, Legolas - let us see whether or not you are ready.'

He clasped his blades firmly at Aragorn's call, and crossed with pure confidence over to where the Man stood before the campfire, precisely where Legolas himself had fought with Éomer's men, sword held before him at the ready.

A small crowd had accumulated about the fire to observe this match of ability and strength, curious to see how either of the two faired after a duel with weapons so keen.

They circled for a time, both with their blades poised before themselves, eyes fixed on the weapon of the other, careful, delicate footsteps which were hardly audible over the crackle of the fire, taking them to different angles.

Aragorn was first to make a move. Andúril flashed as it was swept in a graceful arc, singing as it sliced the air in two. But the song was abruptly stopped as the blade was met by a flash of white steel. Knife and sword clashed as Legolas barred the way.

Aragorn made a hasty dive before the free knife of the Elf could come to his neck, and the two parted briefly before they came together again.

Éomer and King Théoden stood beside Gimli - they had been intrigued about why the men were all heading this way. Seeing what was happening, Théoden asked: 'Have they an quarrel between themselves of such an intensity that they need to take it out with blades?'

Gimli allowed himself a slight smile at this.

'No, my Lord: Legolas felt that he was ready to go back to using real weapons, so Aragorn is testing him.'

'This seems to be a very dangerous test,' commented Éomer, a fair brow raised as he watched Legolas block a side swing from Aragorn and somehow change position faster than his eye was able to trace.

'They both know what they are doing,' answered Gimli, his voice ripe with confidence in his friends. 'Each has enough experience to match the skills of the other.'

Aragorn deflected another sweeping action from Legolas' knife, only to have his blade suddenly caught between both of the Elf's as he clamped them together. This was the greatest test of their strength so far, Aragorn reasoned, for it was a fair struggle for him to keep his own sword from being thrown by the knives. He took this opportunity whilst they were locked like this to look at Legolas' face. There was strain their, small beads of sweat shimmering on his forehead like drops of dew. But there was also something else there, and the more Aragorn looked, the clearer it became: Legolas was pained by this. He could see it in his eyes, though they never looked into his own … that small amount of smoke that ever so slightly made the blue sky a little less clear, though his eyes still shone with burning intensity. Legolas was trying to hide it, Aragorn knew that, and he was doing rather a good job of it. In fact, he doubted that anyone else would notice it, it was so well veiled. But Aragorn knew Legolas like no other, and this cloak was too thin to him for him not to see through it.

'Legolas, daro.'

Legolas flashed his eyes to those of his friend. Aragorn knew that his side pained him, he could see it in his face. The expression of Aragorn's eyes was soft, but not pitying, for which Legolas was thankful. They were more understanding than anything else. But he was not willing to comply - his pride wanted to continue, just to see who won this. There was no point in that, he concluded: Aragorn would win … his arms were tiring, and doing so fast. A slight frown crossed his features.

'Legolas. Please.'

'Tîr, Estel. Hannon le.'

Legolas allowed his arms to slack, and Aragorn followed the motion. They stepped back from each other and bowed in the Elven fashion. Just as Legolas turned to leave, he felt a heavy hand rest upon his shoulder, and cast the fingers that clasped it with such fondness an expressionless glance.

'You fought well, mellon nin - a great improvement from last time.'

Legolas paused before placing his own hand upon that of his friend briefly. Then he walked away. He headed for the horses with the intention of spending some time with Arod, which he felt he had not done enough of. But no, he reasoned, he was doing this so that he had some time to calm down a little. He could feel shame in his heart for what had just happened. He was sure that he and his giving-up just then was going to be the joke of the camp, if it was not so already.

Aragorn watched Legolas' retreating back and shook his head to himself sadly. If only Legolas would admit to himself that he was not weak, all would be well. As it was, Legolas refused to see the simple fact that it would take time for his body to get back to prime fighting condition after the severe stress it had undergone so very recently. Muscle had to build back up, fat had to be restored. Aragorn had noticed that Legolas was helping his body along with an assortment of herbal teas that he was concocting for himself as his own medicine; which was perfectly fine, for Aragorn knew that they worked, as he had used some of them himself.

'My Lord Aragorn?'

The Ranger turned at being addressed, to see Éomer standing behind him, his sword at his thigh and helmet beneath his arm.

'The King wishes to head back to Edoras, now. The men have been notified that you are leading them; in fact, they seemed rather happy about this…'

Aragorn chuckled. 'At least they are willing.'

'Yes, well – take care. We shall expect your return to be…?'

'Three days should be ample.'

'Right.' Éomer turned on his heal, heading for his horse, which had been brought over. 'He fights well,' the younger man called back to Aragorn. The Ranger snorted at this.

'Yes, he does: it would be wonderful if he accepted it.'

Éomer's brow crinkled in confusion briefly, before he gave a short bow and disappeared to the other end of the camp.


TRANSLATIONS

Tîr - right
Mellon nin - my friend
Daro - stop

Estel, for all who do not know, is Aragorn's elven name, and means 'Hope'.