Chapter Three - Memories and Nightmares
The day wore on. Gandalf stayed a while, talking of what had occurred when he parted their company to seek Éomer.
Night engulfed the world outside, and Aragorn soon found himself alone in the room - well, he was the only one awake, anyway. Gimli lay on his elven cloak on the floor beside Legolas, and Éowyn lent back against the wall, the Elf's head still in her lap. Aragorn had told her that she could leave if she wished, as Legolas now slept. But she had refused, stating that there was no sense in disturbing him when he was comfortable. And now she was also asleep, the fact that Legolas shifted feverishly on occasion failed have any effect on her slumber - which was just as well, he thought, as she looked worn out, her fair hair lining her face like a frame on a painting.
He absent-mindedly fumbled with the Evenstar that hung from his neck. How he missed Arwen...
In an attempt to drive his mind from his pain he dabbed Legolas' brow with a cool cloth. He was still blisteringly hot, even though he shivered like a leaf in a gale.
'You and I know that a cool cloth will make no difference.' Gandalf was back, and he seated himself by Aragorn, who sighed and lowered his hand.
'I know. I just wish it would.'
They sat in silence for a time, the deep breathing of the others and the occasional fevered groan from Legolas the only audible things in the room, as Celdan had left to supervise in the burial of his comrades.
Eventually Aragorn broke the silence. 'This is all my fault.'
'How is that?'
'I dragged him - and Gimli - into this war; I forced him into this; he knew that something was going to happen last night, and all I did was shout at him when he voiced his worries. What kind of a friend does that?'
Gandalf sat for a while watching the fire with pensive eyes before he made any reply.
'Do you remember what Lord Elrond said to us all before we parted Rivendell? "No oath nor bond is laid upon you to go further than you will." That applied to Legolas as well, and he knew it. Did you not realise that there have been several points in our journey where he could have indeed left us to go home? But he didn't; more out of loyalty to you than anything else, I believe. Even here he could have left, even though it would be a very long walk.'
'But I am still the one responsible - I drew him into a fight that did not concern him or his people and that he had a bad feeling about.'
'As to that,' Gandalf replied, 'you were fighting in a battle with terrible odds. Of course he had a 'bad feeling' about it. I would have thought him arrogant and an idiot if he hadn't.
'But as this stands, Aragorn, you shouldn't blame yourself for another's hurt - not unless you inflicted the wound yourself, which I know you didn't. So stop fretting about it.'
Aragorn gave a mirthless laugh. 'That's what he said.'
'Then you know that we are both right.'
Aragorn paused for a moment, trying to calm his panicked breathing as new thought struck him with all the power of a lightening bolt. 'What if he dies? What if he dies because I made him fight against his will?'
Gandalf heaved a sigh from the night air that drifted through the open shutters. They were burning the Orc corpses from outside the Deeping Wall, and the smell caught in his throat.
'I personally believe that he will not die so long as you are here, Aragorn - as I said a minute ago, he is loyal to you. The loyalty of a friend to his companion is a very powerful force, especially in a friendship where the relationship has formed over years as yours has. It is a bond that binds his soul to this body, no matter how battered it is, because he believes that he has a duty to you. Nay, Legolas Greenleaf will not leave for the Halls of Mandos this time.'
This was of small comfort to Aragorn, who found tears stabbing his eyes with all the mercy of a band of Urûk-hai.
Legolas' head began to toss more than it had been, his brow creased in a frown...
His back hit a cold stone wall as he backed away from them. He threw a hand out behind him to the wall to find it felt tacky. His hand came before his eyes, and it was then that he realised it was slick with blood - the blood of Elves that lay at his feet. He gasped in horror. Why had he not noticed them before?
He held his long knife defiantly before him, poised to make an attack on any of them if they dared to come at him. It was only one knife that he held - he briefly wondered why, and also why his back was against the wall and not his quiver.
He faced the Orcs that out-numbered him - there were three that snarled before him, leering and making jests at him in the Common tongue so that he knew what they said, what they wanted to do...
'We'll gut you like a rabbit.' 'Come here you so that we can see if your eyes shine out of their sockets.' 'You've nothing to fear from us - we just want to see what colour your blood is and what you look like inside!'
One of them came at him with its own dagger set before itself, the dirty blade aimed at his throat. It was slain with a quick flash as the long knife went to its work. The Orc squawked as it fell - but there were three others in its place, all identical to the dead one. This he could not even begin to comprehend. Where did they come from?
More dived at him, and he killed them - but they were replaced just as the first had been. He soon found himself surrounded by them.
'Leave me alone!' His hollered cry went unheeded - they simply pressed in closer, repeating the threats that they had made earlier...'We'll gut you like a rabbit.' 'Come here you so that we can see if your eyes shine out of their sockets.' 'You've nothing to fear from us - we just want to see what colour your blood is and what you look like inside!'
'No!'
Aragorn and Gandalf looked on helplessly as the Elf yelled and threw his right arm out at invisible foes.
Éowyn and Gimli had awoken to his cries.
'Aragorn help me!' The desperation in Legolas' voice stung the man to the core.
'I'm here, mellon nin.'
He heard Aragorn's voice faintly; a sound distant and hardly audible, like the cry of an eagle borne upon the wind from leagues away. He was nowhere in sight.
'No, you're not, you're not here! Why won't you come and help me?'
The Elf's breathing had become harsh with the panic that his dream was installing in him.
'LEAVE ME BE!'
'It's the fever talking,' Aragorn assured the others.
What was he on about? Fever couldn't talk! What a ridiculous thing to say.
He was tired, and there was the dim awareness of pain hovering around his mind. As to where this pain was or what was causing it he had no idea. All he knew was that he was stuck, alone, and that the multiplying Orcs and their mockery wouldn't cease, no matter how much he wished it to.
'Get them away!'
'Who?' The voice of his friend was faint still.
'The Orcs, you moron!'
Those words caused several eyebrows to raise in amusement, Aragorn's included.
'You are dreaming, Legolas. No more than that. There are no Orcs near you. Open your eyes and look for them if you don't believe me.'
There was no response to that. He stilled suddenly, no longer shouting or thrashing his arms - but the frown remained, his breathing still came harsh and uneven, and the heat continued to rise as the fever took a greater hold over his body. Aragorn could feel it from where he sat, and realised its true intensity when he laid his hand over the Elf's brow yet again. The skin was dry as an old bone in the sun, only hotter. The sweat had to break soon, or they would lose him. The threat of losing his best friend was more than he could cope with. They had been through so much together - too much - for them to be parted in this way.
He was flying over lands wide and wondrous. He had never seen the world like this, had never known of its beauty from this perspective that was reserved only for the birds, or of the wonder of flying like an eagle. He was with an eagle - a large magnificent bird with a cruel, handsome head and talons designed for killing, wings with such a span that it need not flap like much of its prey had to. It was designed specifically for that purpose, for killing, but that was not what this bird was being used for. There was a letter tied to its leg, and it glided with amazing speed over the land towards where it needed to make its delivery.
Fangorn passed beneath them, then Anduin came into view, slithering beneath them, a great snake sliding its way over plain. To the west the Misty Mountains forked down from the north. Then a larger mass of trees became visible, spreading like a great stain of dark green over the land. His heart lifted at the sight of it. Mirkwood sprawled under them, his homeland, stretching almost as far as his elven-sight could see.
The eagle began to dive steadily from its great altitude as they swept over the main body of the forest, heading for the north-eastern edge. Its decline became more pronounced as it neared an area that was not quite so dense with trees. Leaves rushed up to meet them, then parted as the lord of all the skies swooped between the branches of the upper canopy and then into the moderate clear beneath the out-stretched arms of the trees between their trunks, flapping on occasion.
Its barking call rang out as it announced its arrival, causing the heads of several Elves to lift to watch the bird glide over them between their tree- top homes. It cried out again, homing in on an Elf that held his leather- gloved right hand out. Its weight caused his hand to sway under the impact as the beak ripped at a piece of rabbit that the Elf held as its reward. Whilst the bird was preoccupied by this, the letter was taken from its' leg by a messenger, who set off towards the palace with it. Legolas followed closely.
The great stone doors opened to permit them entry to the cavernous palace hall. Nothing, Legolas noted, had changed since he had left six months ago - except the tables had been stripped of their fine decorations and were now covered in armour and weaponry of various sorts; swords, bows akin to the one he had left in Lothlórien, clusters of arrows wrapped in fine cloth, it was all there. All of the weapons his people used for warfare.
The messenger took the letter to a tall, silver-haired Elf that sat on his throne with his forehead in his hand, massaging his brow, his eyes closed. Legolas had never seen his father look so strained before.
'A letter, my King, from a Lord Aragorn, brought by an eagle with the Horse- Lord's ring on its' leg.'
Thranduil opened an eye to observe the scroll that was held out to him, and took it uncertainly. The messenger left with a deep bow to his king.
As he unfurled it, Legolas stole up behind his father to read it too, intrigued about what Aragorn had to say to his Adar.
King Thranduil,
The content of this letter grieves me deeply, but
you have the right to know of this news as Legolas' father.
Legolas heard his father swallow as he read that line, and a slight tremble came to his hand.
Your son, myself and our friend Gimli son of Gloin became involved
in the battle of Helm's Deep, during the course of which Legolas
was wounded by an Orc. The wound was poisoned by a new type of
Orc toxin to which we do not have the remedy; he feels constantly
cold himself though he burns with a high fever. The sickness is serious
but we are optimistic, as he is fighting it well. I shall keep you informed
about any changes in his condition.
Lord Aragorn
'My only son lies dying amongst strangers,' he muttered to himself, his inner agony at the news showing itself in his pained tone as his shaking became worse. 'My only son. My boy.'
'But I'm here, Adar, I'm alright.' Even as the words parted his mouth he knew that his father wouldn't be able to hear him; but that failed to deter him from trying to alert his father to his presence, to comfort him.
Since his wife had gone to the Halls of Mandos, King Thranduil of Mirkwood had relied heavily upon Legolas to keep himself from the total grief that he knew would overwhelm him if he did not focus on his child. And as he had grown, the prince had become the one reason that he continued, the very centre-point of his life. Legolas reminded him so very much of his lost wife that it sometimes felt to him that she was still there with him; his sons' smile, the way he talked and things he came out with, his eyes and his cool temper all came from her. He needed his son, and this news of Legolas' sickness resembled what had happened to his wife too closely. He was unable to discharge the thought of her poisoning and slow death from his mind, and the possibility of the passing of the only child they had had together terrified him. He knew what this poison must be - they had had several men die from a new Orc toxin that they had no solution for, and the symptoms that Aragorn described fitted those of what he had seen recently too well...
Legolas could see the tears begin to gather in his fathers' eyes.
'Adar!' His cry went unheeded. 'ADAR!'
Thranduil's head snapped up, his reddened eyes scanning the area of the Great Hall frantically, disbelief playing across his confused face as he searched for what he was not entirely sure was there. To his grey eyes the room was completely devoid of anyone save himself; but that did not stop his voice from venturing tentatively: 'Legolas?'
The Hall blurred - as did his father - and all blackened.
The sweat still had not broken. It was three days now since his fever had begun, and Aragorn could see no end to the illness. They had waited all that time by the Elf's side as he tossed and groaned, sometimes shouting out in a fevered fashion. The strangest of these occurrences had happened two hours ago - they had heard him shout to his father. It had not been a frightened call to his parent like a child would make in the dark; it was more of a demanding cry, as though he were trying to get his Adar's attention, startling them with the intensity and very volume of his voice. They had never thought that it could be so loud, even in his health. But he had stopped trying to call to his father after the loudest shot, and had resolved to distressed tears, which brought them to Aragorn's own eyes. This was the purest agony he had ever been through, seeing his best-friend fighting for his life, harking his cries and observing the inner pain that came through even during sleep. He would have given his life to be in Legolas' position at that time, just to ease his suffering.
Gimli had gone to fetch something for them to eat. It was mid-afternoon and the Dwarf had decided that it was high time for lunch. He was taking advantage of the ready supply of food after their uneven eating over the previous few days, claiming that he was too thin - which had made Aragorn chuckle.
Legolas' bow, quiver and other knife were propped up against the wall - a product of one of Gimli's walks. The bowstring had been severed, fraying the fine twine that had been twisted from real Elf-hair to such an extent that the hairs were unfurling. The quiver itself had taken no harm, but the belt that had strapped it to the Elf's back and passed down his left side had been cut, with blood at the point where the Orc's blade had penetrated both leather and skin.
The tossing had lessened of late. The fever was weakening him. He no longer shivered - it was worse than that. His body had resorted to the bone- jerking shuddering of severe cold, despite the number of blankets and cloaks that were tucked firmly in to his body. The energy that he required to do this was eating his fat-resources, and his face had thinned with the sickness as it did so. Aragorn feared that even if a sweat did break there would be too little left for after the fever for the Elf to actually survive.
Gimli re-entered the chamber, cradling a loaf of bread, a stack of dried meat, a couple of apples and a flask of wine. As to where he had managed to up-root the wine, Aragorn had no idea, but was glad all the same for it when it arrived. It gave him a small pleasure that he had not indulged in for quite a while as it touched his tongue, and he savoured the moment. The Valar knew when he would be able to have some more.
They ate in silence, both through not wishing to disturb the few Elves that remained in the room, and for lack of having anything to say. It was not an uncomfortable silence - they just had nothing to convey with each other, and their friendship understood this.
As it had previously done, the day of waiting wore on slowly, just as it had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Light that had flooded through the open shutters now faded into grey, then nothing at all, and the only light came from the fire's soft glow that played a dance of oranges and yellows across the stone and sleeping bodies that surrounded it.
It did not take long for Gimli to slip into the stuff of his dreams. Aragorn swore to himself that he wouldn't do that himself - he had to keep an eye on Legolas, lest there be any change during this dangerous stage of his fever.
He opened his eyes. Then he cursed himself profusely for ever having closed them in the first place. He had sworn that he would not fall asleep, yet he had. What a sign of weakness.
He sat up straight and rubbed his sore neck, as his head had drooped to his chest as he slept.
Then he noticed the chair before the fire. It was covered in something dark. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realised that they were cloths - Legolas' cloths - drying in the fire's heat.
'Good evening.'
The sound of her voice made him jump visibly as his eyes snapped about the room to find to source of the voice. He did not need to look any further than the side of the fire, for there sat Éowyn on a hard wooden chair akin to the one being used as a cloth's horse, with Legolas' jerkin in her lap. A needle danced in her fingers as they stitched the fabric nimbly.
'Evening, my Lady.' He paused, surveying what she was doing for a time before he spoke again.
'This is very noble of you.'
She lifted her head from what she was doing to give him a small smile.
'He must have clothing to wear for when he wakes,' came her gentle reply.
'I'm afraid the blood won't come out of the silk,' she commented, biting off the thread as she finished.
'That's alright; no one will notice once it's covered.'
He lowered a cloth into the bucket of cold water that lay to the side of him to dab it on Legolas' heated forehead lovingly, his brow furrowed with worry.
'You really care for him, don't you?' Her intonation was soft as she said this, gentle as a summer's breeze.
Aragorn finished his task before dropping the cloth into the bucket, not having the heart to wring it out. He sighed before he answered.
'I was raised amongst Elves in Rivendell when both of my parents had died-'
'-Ah,' she cut in, the smile that he knew without looking at her on her face as much as in her voice. 'You grew up together.'
Aragorn smiled himself at her misconception. 'No. He is older than I am.'
'Really? He doesn't appear to be so; by how many years? One or two I'd say at most.'
Her guess made him chuckle. She cocked her head to this, frowning in a confused fashion at his laugh.
'By nearly three thousand.'
She gasped with surprise as he said this, temporarily forgetting her sewing as she gazed upon the fair face in wonder, trying to understand how it was possible that one who appeared so young could be so old. She knew of elvish immortality, but had never really allowed it any thought.
'As far as the Elves are concerned, that is actually a fairly youthful age,' Aragorn commented.
'Like just over twenty, say, in our lives.
'We met when I was little more than fifteen. He came to Rivendell - or Imladris, as the Elves prefer - with his father, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, as part of a party that came to discuss the matter of Orcs who were venturing further into the realm of Mirkwood.
'While the two lords talked seemingly endlessly, we went on a hunt together, with my foster-brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, on foot, taking a few provisions with us.
'We tracked for a couple of days before we found anything, but when we did find game it made us consider what we were hunting and whether or not it was worth the risk - wild boar. We knew how dangerous they are; none of us wanted to get skewered. But we were eager to bring back something worth our while rather than just rabbits and so persisted all the same.
'Never had any of us anticipated that it was herd of males that we tracked - until it was too late.' Here he paused, his mind recounting what happened next in all the detail he cared not to remember. 'We knew from the tracks that they were large animals, but we had thought - for some reason - that they were sows-' He laughed again, this time at their stupidity all those years ago. 'Fine hunters we were, when I got tusked.'
Éowyn gasped appreciatively at this, horrified by the very thought of such a thing happening.
'I startled them from their rest by sneezing,' he continued bitterly. 'After that bedlam broke loose. Three of them shot into the bushes - the largest one was not so easy to scare, and he charged at us; we were forced to scatter.
'Not being of elf-kind myself, I was unable to leap nimbly into the trees, and the beast tore my leg. I fell, the pain of the injury rendering me helpless in the mud. Legolas saved me.'
'How?' Her question was quiet, yet she sounded gripped by his tale, eager to find out the conclusion.
'He jumped from his tree to place himself between the pig and me. He angered it by slashing it's snout with his long-knife, made it chase after him instead, allowing my brothers to come and get me away.
'He ran with the boar after him - it caught up with him, too, and ran him down. As soon as that happened he stabbed it properly as it went for him again upon its second approach - you see, it had been running so fast it actually charged over his back.
'Elladan finished it with an arrow. So we got our wild boar in the end.'
'How badly were you hurt?'
Aragorn thought for a time, watching the face of his friend pensively. 'I suffered a torn calf in my right leg, Legolas got a couple of broken ribs, wrist and a few scrapes and bruises from the hoofs and we were both drenched in mud. Apart from that, we were fine - well, 'til we got home. Our Adar's rebuked us to no end.' He chuckled at that memory. 'It was like being children again when they confined us to that healing room for a month.
'Since that moment we have been best friends - age is not something of any matter or consequence as far as an Elf is concerned, so the difference never fazed either of us.
'The experience with the boar brought us together; if one is worried or concerned for something, the other is always there for support...' His voice trailed off at this as the lump of choking pain clogged his throat and tears stung his eyes mercilessly. 'I don't know what I'd do if he were not here with me.'
He laid his fingers over Legolas' cheek, smoothing the clammy skin lovingly - clammy skin? Aragorn sat bolt upright, laying his palm flat over the Elf's brow. But then he thought that it could be his own skin that was sweaty - so he tested the back of his hand against the skin of his friend's bare shoulder. Sure enough, it was damp, to the pure elation of Aragorn.
'He sweats,' he breathed with disbelief. He could even see the gentle sheen of perspiration over the Elf's shoulder blades in the dancing fire light. 'He sweats!'
Aragorn shook Gimli's shoulder hard to wake the Dwarf, who presently jerked upright, flinging his arms up in alarm, shouting out gruffly at being awakened in such a fashion. Then he saw Aragorn's face close to his own, and furrowed his brow in confusion at his friend's broad grin.
'He sweats, Gimli!'
The Dwarf's face slowly cracked into a grin like to that that Aragorn wore, and he began to chuckle with joy, until the sound became a full-blown laugh.
Celdan - having been roused from his light elven-sleep by the pair - came over to see them.
'He sweats.' Aragorn's eyes shone as he said this to the tall Elf.
'So I have heard,' came the reply as the Elf beamed down at the positively ecstatic Man. 'Four times now.'
He crouched down to check the other Elf's pulse - which he found weaker than he would have liked - and to make a mental note of his temperature.
He appreciated the joy that the companions of the Mirkwood Prince were feeling, but he held his own restrained doubts about this; Legolas had - in his opinion - been too long in the pre-sweat stage of the fever. Had it started yesterday, he would be a little more optimistic - he did not feel pessimistic just for the sake of it. The fever could have wrought irreversible damage to the Prince's vital organs and body tissue, and dehydration was going to be even more of an issue now than before; he had managed earlier that day to rouse Legolas just long enough to force a small sip of water down his throat. But a drop of water had little chance of sustaining him through a fever-sweat as big as this one promised to be.
The day wore on. Gandalf stayed a while, talking of what had occurred when he parted their company to seek Éomer.
Night engulfed the world outside, and Aragorn soon found himself alone in the room - well, he was the only one awake, anyway. Gimli lay on his elven cloak on the floor beside Legolas, and Éowyn lent back against the wall, the Elf's head still in her lap. Aragorn had told her that she could leave if she wished, as Legolas now slept. But she had refused, stating that there was no sense in disturbing him when he was comfortable. And now she was also asleep, the fact that Legolas shifted feverishly on occasion failed have any effect on her slumber - which was just as well, he thought, as she looked worn out, her fair hair lining her face like a frame on a painting.
He absent-mindedly fumbled with the Evenstar that hung from his neck. How he missed Arwen...
In an attempt to drive his mind from his pain he dabbed Legolas' brow with a cool cloth. He was still blisteringly hot, even though he shivered like a leaf in a gale.
'You and I know that a cool cloth will make no difference.' Gandalf was back, and he seated himself by Aragorn, who sighed and lowered his hand.
'I know. I just wish it would.'
They sat in silence for a time, the deep breathing of the others and the occasional fevered groan from Legolas the only audible things in the room, as Celdan had left to supervise in the burial of his comrades.
Eventually Aragorn broke the silence. 'This is all my fault.'
'How is that?'
'I dragged him - and Gimli - into this war; I forced him into this; he knew that something was going to happen last night, and all I did was shout at him when he voiced his worries. What kind of a friend does that?'
Gandalf sat for a while watching the fire with pensive eyes before he made any reply.
'Do you remember what Lord Elrond said to us all before we parted Rivendell? "No oath nor bond is laid upon you to go further than you will." That applied to Legolas as well, and he knew it. Did you not realise that there have been several points in our journey where he could have indeed left us to go home? But he didn't; more out of loyalty to you than anything else, I believe. Even here he could have left, even though it would be a very long walk.'
'But I am still the one responsible - I drew him into a fight that did not concern him or his people and that he had a bad feeling about.'
'As to that,' Gandalf replied, 'you were fighting in a battle with terrible odds. Of course he had a 'bad feeling' about it. I would have thought him arrogant and an idiot if he hadn't.
'But as this stands, Aragorn, you shouldn't blame yourself for another's hurt - not unless you inflicted the wound yourself, which I know you didn't. So stop fretting about it.'
Aragorn gave a mirthless laugh. 'That's what he said.'
'Then you know that we are both right.'
Aragorn paused for a moment, trying to calm his panicked breathing as new thought struck him with all the power of a lightening bolt. 'What if he dies? What if he dies because I made him fight against his will?'
Gandalf heaved a sigh from the night air that drifted through the open shutters. They were burning the Orc corpses from outside the Deeping Wall, and the smell caught in his throat.
'I personally believe that he will not die so long as you are here, Aragorn - as I said a minute ago, he is loyal to you. The loyalty of a friend to his companion is a very powerful force, especially in a friendship where the relationship has formed over years as yours has. It is a bond that binds his soul to this body, no matter how battered it is, because he believes that he has a duty to you. Nay, Legolas Greenleaf will not leave for the Halls of Mandos this time.'
This was of small comfort to Aragorn, who found tears stabbing his eyes with all the mercy of a band of Urûk-hai.
Legolas' head began to toss more than it had been, his brow creased in a frown...
His back hit a cold stone wall as he backed away from them. He threw a hand out behind him to the wall to find it felt tacky. His hand came before his eyes, and it was then that he realised it was slick with blood - the blood of Elves that lay at his feet. He gasped in horror. Why had he not noticed them before?
He held his long knife defiantly before him, poised to make an attack on any of them if they dared to come at him. It was only one knife that he held - he briefly wondered why, and also why his back was against the wall and not his quiver.
He faced the Orcs that out-numbered him - there were three that snarled before him, leering and making jests at him in the Common tongue so that he knew what they said, what they wanted to do...
'We'll gut you like a rabbit.' 'Come here you so that we can see if your eyes shine out of their sockets.' 'You've nothing to fear from us - we just want to see what colour your blood is and what you look like inside!'
One of them came at him with its own dagger set before itself, the dirty blade aimed at his throat. It was slain with a quick flash as the long knife went to its work. The Orc squawked as it fell - but there were three others in its place, all identical to the dead one. This he could not even begin to comprehend. Where did they come from?
More dived at him, and he killed them - but they were replaced just as the first had been. He soon found himself surrounded by them.
'Leave me alone!' His hollered cry went unheeded - they simply pressed in closer, repeating the threats that they had made earlier...'We'll gut you like a rabbit.' 'Come here you so that we can see if your eyes shine out of their sockets.' 'You've nothing to fear from us - we just want to see what colour your blood is and what you look like inside!'
'No!'
Aragorn and Gandalf looked on helplessly as the Elf yelled and threw his right arm out at invisible foes.
Éowyn and Gimli had awoken to his cries.
'Aragorn help me!' The desperation in Legolas' voice stung the man to the core.
'I'm here, mellon nin.'
He heard Aragorn's voice faintly; a sound distant and hardly audible, like the cry of an eagle borne upon the wind from leagues away. He was nowhere in sight.
'No, you're not, you're not here! Why won't you come and help me?'
The Elf's breathing had become harsh with the panic that his dream was installing in him.
'LEAVE ME BE!'
'It's the fever talking,' Aragorn assured the others.
What was he on about? Fever couldn't talk! What a ridiculous thing to say.
He was tired, and there was the dim awareness of pain hovering around his mind. As to where this pain was or what was causing it he had no idea. All he knew was that he was stuck, alone, and that the multiplying Orcs and their mockery wouldn't cease, no matter how much he wished it to.
'Get them away!'
'Who?' The voice of his friend was faint still.
'The Orcs, you moron!'
Those words caused several eyebrows to raise in amusement, Aragorn's included.
'You are dreaming, Legolas. No more than that. There are no Orcs near you. Open your eyes and look for them if you don't believe me.'
There was no response to that. He stilled suddenly, no longer shouting or thrashing his arms - but the frown remained, his breathing still came harsh and uneven, and the heat continued to rise as the fever took a greater hold over his body. Aragorn could feel it from where he sat, and realised its true intensity when he laid his hand over the Elf's brow yet again. The skin was dry as an old bone in the sun, only hotter. The sweat had to break soon, or they would lose him. The threat of losing his best friend was more than he could cope with. They had been through so much together - too much - for them to be parted in this way.
He was flying over lands wide and wondrous. He had never seen the world like this, had never known of its beauty from this perspective that was reserved only for the birds, or of the wonder of flying like an eagle. He was with an eagle - a large magnificent bird with a cruel, handsome head and talons designed for killing, wings with such a span that it need not flap like much of its prey had to. It was designed specifically for that purpose, for killing, but that was not what this bird was being used for. There was a letter tied to its leg, and it glided with amazing speed over the land towards where it needed to make its delivery.
Fangorn passed beneath them, then Anduin came into view, slithering beneath them, a great snake sliding its way over plain. To the west the Misty Mountains forked down from the north. Then a larger mass of trees became visible, spreading like a great stain of dark green over the land. His heart lifted at the sight of it. Mirkwood sprawled under them, his homeland, stretching almost as far as his elven-sight could see.
The eagle began to dive steadily from its great altitude as they swept over the main body of the forest, heading for the north-eastern edge. Its decline became more pronounced as it neared an area that was not quite so dense with trees. Leaves rushed up to meet them, then parted as the lord of all the skies swooped between the branches of the upper canopy and then into the moderate clear beneath the out-stretched arms of the trees between their trunks, flapping on occasion.
Its barking call rang out as it announced its arrival, causing the heads of several Elves to lift to watch the bird glide over them between their tree- top homes. It cried out again, homing in on an Elf that held his leather- gloved right hand out. Its weight caused his hand to sway under the impact as the beak ripped at a piece of rabbit that the Elf held as its reward. Whilst the bird was preoccupied by this, the letter was taken from its' leg by a messenger, who set off towards the palace with it. Legolas followed closely.
The great stone doors opened to permit them entry to the cavernous palace hall. Nothing, Legolas noted, had changed since he had left six months ago - except the tables had been stripped of their fine decorations and were now covered in armour and weaponry of various sorts; swords, bows akin to the one he had left in Lothlórien, clusters of arrows wrapped in fine cloth, it was all there. All of the weapons his people used for warfare.
The messenger took the letter to a tall, silver-haired Elf that sat on his throne with his forehead in his hand, massaging his brow, his eyes closed. Legolas had never seen his father look so strained before.
'A letter, my King, from a Lord Aragorn, brought by an eagle with the Horse- Lord's ring on its' leg.'
Thranduil opened an eye to observe the scroll that was held out to him, and took it uncertainly. The messenger left with a deep bow to his king.
As he unfurled it, Legolas stole up behind his father to read it too, intrigued about what Aragorn had to say to his Adar.
King Thranduil,
The content of this letter grieves me deeply, but
you have the right to know of this news as Legolas' father.
Legolas heard his father swallow as he read that line, and a slight tremble came to his hand.
Your son, myself and our friend Gimli son of Gloin became involved
in the battle of Helm's Deep, during the course of which Legolas
was wounded by an Orc. The wound was poisoned by a new type of
Orc toxin to which we do not have the remedy; he feels constantly
cold himself though he burns with a high fever. The sickness is serious
but we are optimistic, as he is fighting it well. I shall keep you informed
about any changes in his condition.
Lord Aragorn
'My only son lies dying amongst strangers,' he muttered to himself, his inner agony at the news showing itself in his pained tone as his shaking became worse. 'My only son. My boy.'
'But I'm here, Adar, I'm alright.' Even as the words parted his mouth he knew that his father wouldn't be able to hear him; but that failed to deter him from trying to alert his father to his presence, to comfort him.
Since his wife had gone to the Halls of Mandos, King Thranduil of Mirkwood had relied heavily upon Legolas to keep himself from the total grief that he knew would overwhelm him if he did not focus on his child. And as he had grown, the prince had become the one reason that he continued, the very centre-point of his life. Legolas reminded him so very much of his lost wife that it sometimes felt to him that she was still there with him; his sons' smile, the way he talked and things he came out with, his eyes and his cool temper all came from her. He needed his son, and this news of Legolas' sickness resembled what had happened to his wife too closely. He was unable to discharge the thought of her poisoning and slow death from his mind, and the possibility of the passing of the only child they had had together terrified him. He knew what this poison must be - they had had several men die from a new Orc toxin that they had no solution for, and the symptoms that Aragorn described fitted those of what he had seen recently too well...
Legolas could see the tears begin to gather in his fathers' eyes.
'Adar!' His cry went unheeded. 'ADAR!'
Thranduil's head snapped up, his reddened eyes scanning the area of the Great Hall frantically, disbelief playing across his confused face as he searched for what he was not entirely sure was there. To his grey eyes the room was completely devoid of anyone save himself; but that did not stop his voice from venturing tentatively: 'Legolas?'
The Hall blurred - as did his father - and all blackened.
The sweat still had not broken. It was three days now since his fever had begun, and Aragorn could see no end to the illness. They had waited all that time by the Elf's side as he tossed and groaned, sometimes shouting out in a fevered fashion. The strangest of these occurrences had happened two hours ago - they had heard him shout to his father. It had not been a frightened call to his parent like a child would make in the dark; it was more of a demanding cry, as though he were trying to get his Adar's attention, startling them with the intensity and very volume of his voice. They had never thought that it could be so loud, even in his health. But he had stopped trying to call to his father after the loudest shot, and had resolved to distressed tears, which brought them to Aragorn's own eyes. This was the purest agony he had ever been through, seeing his best-friend fighting for his life, harking his cries and observing the inner pain that came through even during sleep. He would have given his life to be in Legolas' position at that time, just to ease his suffering.
Gimli had gone to fetch something for them to eat. It was mid-afternoon and the Dwarf had decided that it was high time for lunch. He was taking advantage of the ready supply of food after their uneven eating over the previous few days, claiming that he was too thin - which had made Aragorn chuckle.
Legolas' bow, quiver and other knife were propped up against the wall - a product of one of Gimli's walks. The bowstring had been severed, fraying the fine twine that had been twisted from real Elf-hair to such an extent that the hairs were unfurling. The quiver itself had taken no harm, but the belt that had strapped it to the Elf's back and passed down his left side had been cut, with blood at the point where the Orc's blade had penetrated both leather and skin.
The tossing had lessened of late. The fever was weakening him. He no longer shivered - it was worse than that. His body had resorted to the bone- jerking shuddering of severe cold, despite the number of blankets and cloaks that were tucked firmly in to his body. The energy that he required to do this was eating his fat-resources, and his face had thinned with the sickness as it did so. Aragorn feared that even if a sweat did break there would be too little left for after the fever for the Elf to actually survive.
Gimli re-entered the chamber, cradling a loaf of bread, a stack of dried meat, a couple of apples and a flask of wine. As to where he had managed to up-root the wine, Aragorn had no idea, but was glad all the same for it when it arrived. It gave him a small pleasure that he had not indulged in for quite a while as it touched his tongue, and he savoured the moment. The Valar knew when he would be able to have some more.
They ate in silence, both through not wishing to disturb the few Elves that remained in the room, and for lack of having anything to say. It was not an uncomfortable silence - they just had nothing to convey with each other, and their friendship understood this.
As it had previously done, the day of waiting wore on slowly, just as it had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Light that had flooded through the open shutters now faded into grey, then nothing at all, and the only light came from the fire's soft glow that played a dance of oranges and yellows across the stone and sleeping bodies that surrounded it.
It did not take long for Gimli to slip into the stuff of his dreams. Aragorn swore to himself that he wouldn't do that himself - he had to keep an eye on Legolas, lest there be any change during this dangerous stage of his fever.
He opened his eyes. Then he cursed himself profusely for ever having closed them in the first place. He had sworn that he would not fall asleep, yet he had. What a sign of weakness.
He sat up straight and rubbed his sore neck, as his head had drooped to his chest as he slept.
Then he noticed the chair before the fire. It was covered in something dark. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realised that they were cloths - Legolas' cloths - drying in the fire's heat.
'Good evening.'
The sound of her voice made him jump visibly as his eyes snapped about the room to find to source of the voice. He did not need to look any further than the side of the fire, for there sat Éowyn on a hard wooden chair akin to the one being used as a cloth's horse, with Legolas' jerkin in her lap. A needle danced in her fingers as they stitched the fabric nimbly.
'Evening, my Lady.' He paused, surveying what she was doing for a time before he spoke again.
'This is very noble of you.'
She lifted her head from what she was doing to give him a small smile.
'He must have clothing to wear for when he wakes,' came her gentle reply.
'I'm afraid the blood won't come out of the silk,' she commented, biting off the thread as she finished.
'That's alright; no one will notice once it's covered.'
He lowered a cloth into the bucket of cold water that lay to the side of him to dab it on Legolas' heated forehead lovingly, his brow furrowed with worry.
'You really care for him, don't you?' Her intonation was soft as she said this, gentle as a summer's breeze.
Aragorn finished his task before dropping the cloth into the bucket, not having the heart to wring it out. He sighed before he answered.
'I was raised amongst Elves in Rivendell when both of my parents had died-'
'-Ah,' she cut in, the smile that he knew without looking at her on her face as much as in her voice. 'You grew up together.'
Aragorn smiled himself at her misconception. 'No. He is older than I am.'
'Really? He doesn't appear to be so; by how many years? One or two I'd say at most.'
Her guess made him chuckle. She cocked her head to this, frowning in a confused fashion at his laugh.
'By nearly three thousand.'
She gasped with surprise as he said this, temporarily forgetting her sewing as she gazed upon the fair face in wonder, trying to understand how it was possible that one who appeared so young could be so old. She knew of elvish immortality, but had never really allowed it any thought.
'As far as the Elves are concerned, that is actually a fairly youthful age,' Aragorn commented.
'Like just over twenty, say, in our lives.
'We met when I was little more than fifteen. He came to Rivendell - or Imladris, as the Elves prefer - with his father, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, as part of a party that came to discuss the matter of Orcs who were venturing further into the realm of Mirkwood.
'While the two lords talked seemingly endlessly, we went on a hunt together, with my foster-brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, on foot, taking a few provisions with us.
'We tracked for a couple of days before we found anything, but when we did find game it made us consider what we were hunting and whether or not it was worth the risk - wild boar. We knew how dangerous they are; none of us wanted to get skewered. But we were eager to bring back something worth our while rather than just rabbits and so persisted all the same.
'Never had any of us anticipated that it was herd of males that we tracked - until it was too late.' Here he paused, his mind recounting what happened next in all the detail he cared not to remember. 'We knew from the tracks that they were large animals, but we had thought - for some reason - that they were sows-' He laughed again, this time at their stupidity all those years ago. 'Fine hunters we were, when I got tusked.'
Éowyn gasped appreciatively at this, horrified by the very thought of such a thing happening.
'I startled them from their rest by sneezing,' he continued bitterly. 'After that bedlam broke loose. Three of them shot into the bushes - the largest one was not so easy to scare, and he charged at us; we were forced to scatter.
'Not being of elf-kind myself, I was unable to leap nimbly into the trees, and the beast tore my leg. I fell, the pain of the injury rendering me helpless in the mud. Legolas saved me.'
'How?' Her question was quiet, yet she sounded gripped by his tale, eager to find out the conclusion.
'He jumped from his tree to place himself between the pig and me. He angered it by slashing it's snout with his long-knife, made it chase after him instead, allowing my brothers to come and get me away.
'He ran with the boar after him - it caught up with him, too, and ran him down. As soon as that happened he stabbed it properly as it went for him again upon its second approach - you see, it had been running so fast it actually charged over his back.
'Elladan finished it with an arrow. So we got our wild boar in the end.'
'How badly were you hurt?'
Aragorn thought for a time, watching the face of his friend pensively. 'I suffered a torn calf in my right leg, Legolas got a couple of broken ribs, wrist and a few scrapes and bruises from the hoofs and we were both drenched in mud. Apart from that, we were fine - well, 'til we got home. Our Adar's rebuked us to no end.' He chuckled at that memory. 'It was like being children again when they confined us to that healing room for a month.
'Since that moment we have been best friends - age is not something of any matter or consequence as far as an Elf is concerned, so the difference never fazed either of us.
'The experience with the boar brought us together; if one is worried or concerned for something, the other is always there for support...' His voice trailed off at this as the lump of choking pain clogged his throat and tears stung his eyes mercilessly. 'I don't know what I'd do if he were not here with me.'
He laid his fingers over Legolas' cheek, smoothing the clammy skin lovingly - clammy skin? Aragorn sat bolt upright, laying his palm flat over the Elf's brow. But then he thought that it could be his own skin that was sweaty - so he tested the back of his hand against the skin of his friend's bare shoulder. Sure enough, it was damp, to the pure elation of Aragorn.
'He sweats,' he breathed with disbelief. He could even see the gentle sheen of perspiration over the Elf's shoulder blades in the dancing fire light. 'He sweats!'
Aragorn shook Gimli's shoulder hard to wake the Dwarf, who presently jerked upright, flinging his arms up in alarm, shouting out gruffly at being awakened in such a fashion. Then he saw Aragorn's face close to his own, and furrowed his brow in confusion at his friend's broad grin.
'He sweats, Gimli!'
The Dwarf's face slowly cracked into a grin like to that that Aragorn wore, and he began to chuckle with joy, until the sound became a full-blown laugh.
Celdan - having been roused from his light elven-sleep by the pair - came over to see them.
'He sweats.' Aragorn's eyes shone as he said this to the tall Elf.
'So I have heard,' came the reply as the Elf beamed down at the positively ecstatic Man. 'Four times now.'
He crouched down to check the other Elf's pulse - which he found weaker than he would have liked - and to make a mental note of his temperature.
He appreciated the joy that the companions of the Mirkwood Prince were feeling, but he held his own restrained doubts about this; Legolas had - in his opinion - been too long in the pre-sweat stage of the fever. Had it started yesterday, he would be a little more optimistic - he did not feel pessimistic just for the sake of it. The fever could have wrought irreversible damage to the Prince's vital organs and body tissue, and dehydration was going to be even more of an issue now than before; he had managed earlier that day to rouse Legolas just long enough to force a small sip of water down his throat. But a drop of water had little chance of sustaining him through a fever-sweat as big as this one promised to be.