Chapter Four - The Flow of the River
It did not take long for the sweat to really break out. When it did, Legolas' bedding became soaked, his fair hair turned dark as it became plastered to his skull with the perspiration.
The loss of water now worried Aragorn and Celdan, as the thought of dehydration also struck Aragorn. He was now a lot more sedated about his friend's condition as he had realised that it had just as much potential to destroy - if not more - as it did to heal.
Never had either of them seen a fever of this size before in all of their experience of healing - it even surpassed that of Frodo after the Nazgûl attack, which really had been a sickness to be reckoned with, as far as Aragorn was concerned.
Legolas had, at least, stopped feeling cold; his blankets (all four of them) had been kicked off ferociously with such strength as none of them had deemed him capable in his current state. He now appeared to feel hot, for he shifted constantly, moving from one piece of wet bedding to another area that was already drenched.
He cried out occasionally still, sometimes in Elvish, sometimes in the Common Tongue; to the amusement of all, he cussed Gimli frequently...
'Stiff-necked Dwarf!' and 'You're obsessed with holes in the ground' came up once or twice. Aragorn got his fare-share, too...
'You moron, Aragorn!' 'You never listen to me.'
The last one stung the human, because he knew this was true. Legolas had issued so many warnings of approaching danger to him and he and failed to act upon them. What did that make him? A terrible leader or an appalling friend? He could not decide which. And did the Elf's cries reveal what he truly thought or were they the just the fever making him abusive?
The hours dragged by before the sweating became less profuse, and dawn showed her pale face before it stopped completely.
His mind slowly began to rouse itself. He was confused, so he lay and thought about what had happened - he remembered fuzzily the events of the previous night - (or what he thought to be the previous night) and the memories began to sift and fit themselves into the appropriate slots in his mind ... he knew of the battle, and of the stab-wound that had occurred, and as he thought of this, the pain came back, dull at first, then strengthening. It was not as intense as it had been, but it certainly was of a discomfort to him.
He knew that it had made him vomit as he searched for a place to crouch out the battle because his eyes had failed him. Then there was a huge blank.
The next thing he remembered was Aragorn's voice raising his awareness of the world. Aragorn had taken him back up to the Hornburg, where they had met with Gimli who had flustered like a disturbed chicken. They had proceeded into the fort to find somewhere for him to be treated, and had eventually found Celdan. Then he had had his wound cleaned ... after that literally painful memory, nothing more came to the surface.
Having sorted out the events that he had endured, he began to check his senses, paying no heed to the pain in his side.
He could feel a soft breeze skirting over his skin, because there was no shirt on his back. He waggled his toes and found his feet to be bare as well. But the feeling that struck him first and foremost was the dryness of his throat. He was absolutely parched. The thirst made him almost gag as he tried to swallow, his tongue feeling like a piece of dead wood which rasped against the roof of his mouth.
As though someone had read his mind, he felt his upper body being gently lifted upright, and a cup was placed to his lips, water lapping against them like the soft kiss of life. He gladly parted them to allow the precious commodity access, this sweet nectar that he yearned for so desperately. He began to drink it down faster...
'No, no, no, no,' a voice rebuked softly. The cup was taken back from him. 'Not so fast, Thranduilion. Be careful - I shall allow you to have as much as you wish for, just so long as you don't guzzle.'
He knew that voice - it was Celdan's. He did not want it to be Celdan.
'Where is Aragorn?' His speech was dry and course, little more than a whisper even though he tried to make it something more, his voice crackling like walked-upon leaves in the Autumn.
He felt a hand take his own in a firm, strong, comforting grip.
'I'm here, mellon nin. I shall not leave your side.'
The cup came back, and he drank his fill, slowly as Celdan had bid. As he finished he turned his head away from the offering hand; in truth, this was merely a tiny movement, but Celdan understood the Prince's wish.
He was asleep before he was even laid back down to the fresh pillow which was slipped beneath his head while he had been raised, still holding Aragorn's hand slackly.
It was daybreak - he could tell. His closed lids disclosed to him not the strong beams of the sun, nor the pitch of darkness, but the stage of in between. Dawn, at about four in the morning, as far as he reckoned, for there was not the usual shifting of bodies at dusk as he deemed normal for that time of day.
He was less weak than he had been, he knew that for a fact, simply because he was more aware of what was happening around him - which was, at present, nothing at all. But there were people about in the chamber - he could hear their deep breathing as they slept. How long had he been sleeping himself? As to the answer to that query, he had no answer.
Still there was pain in his side, but it was less than it had been when he had awoken last when he had had that cup of water.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the potent smell of sweat - his own sweat he realised. He would need a bath as soon as possible.
His senses were all fine, he knew - besides one that he had not yet tested - his sight. Last time he had used his eyes they had not functioned properly. He now feared that they would fail him altogether. He was an immortal - to be perpetually blind would be the most devastating and difficult thing for him to come to terms with - he needed his eyes.
Lying there not knowing if he were blind or no was driving him mad - so he opened them without any further hesitation, and uttered a gasp, as he gazed blearily up at the stone ceiling. It was merely a grey blur at first, but as he blinked it became crisp and sharp as his eyes had always depicted images to be, be they far or near.
He decided to test his strength and sit upright. It felt to him as though he had not done so for an age - muscles protested as they were forced to work against their stiffness, and his wound defiantly hurt as he stretched it. He tried to ignore them all in all, like a parent omits a misbehaving child - but even the hardest parent cannot completely throw their child from their mind. He managed all the same, despite his pain.
Having ascertained that there was nothing wrong with his sight, he turned his head to look upon the figure who slumped by him, his hand in his.
'Good morning, mellon nin.'
Aragorn started and sat up so abruptly that Legolas thought that the Man was under the illusion that the building was burning or something of the sort.
Aragorn's grey eyes fixed upon the blue ones of Legolas, eyes which he had never thought would open again, or indeed shine as they were now.
Aragorn began to laugh, and threw his arms about the surprised Elf's neck in his joy, crying tears of sheer happiness and relief into the shoulder of his companion - his best friend - whom he had thought he would lose forever.
'You had us all so, so worried, mellon nin,' he declared as he drew back, wiping the tears away that gave his face a sheen in the grey light of the morning.
'Worried? Why?'
'Why? Legolas, you have just awoken from the biggest fever I have ever known any to live through - it took nigh on five days!'
Legolas contemplated this for a time, wondering how it was that five days could pass without his knowing. He looked to Aragorn's face, his head cocked to the side. The Man seemed so worn - his eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale through lack of sleep. There were worry-lines etched into his brow.
'You look terrible.'
The Man laughed heartily, and as he did so, the lines seemed to begin to become erased from his face. 'Don't you ever give me cause to use that line on you ever again, Legolas Greenleaf.'
'I shall try, Aragorn son of Arathorn.'
Aragorn smiled at the Elf. 'I shall hold you to that.'
'I need to thank you,' Legolas began.
'You do?'
'Yes - thank you for sending my father notification on my condition.'
Aragorn no longer laughed. His eyes scanned the Elf's face as his friend looked steadily back at him, his eyes back to their usual way of hardly blinking.
'How came you to know of that?'
'I read it.'
'Legolas, there is no way in Valinor that you could have read that letter.'
Legolas put his gaze out of the window to the fair morning as the sun began to peer over the horizon.
'" King Thranduil, the content of this letter grieves me deeply, but you have the right to know of this news as Legolas' father-"' he shot a sharp glance at Aragorn as though to make sure he was listening to him. "'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.'"
A word-perfect recitation, accurate to the last letter. This was too arduous a thing to even try and contemplate at such an early time in the morning.
'How do you know?' That was the only thing that he could think of to say.
'I told you - I read it; I travelled with the eagle to my homeland.' The Elf's eyes became unfocused as he reminisced of the experience. 'In my dream.'
'Ah, so you rode with the eagle, did you?' Celdan stood besides Aragorn - who had not noticed his coming - and beamed down at the Prince benignly. He bowed, to which Legolas made the appropriate response by returning it as best as he was able.
'Your bow, Thranduilion.' From behind his back, the other Elf produced Legolas' bow, with a new string to it and handed it to its' master, who received it readily. Legolas bent the supple wood as he tested the new string. Then he paused mid-bend, and placed the weapon upon his lap.
'Whence did the string come?'
Celdan exchanged a quick glance with Aragorn, and then hung his head as he replied with a melancholy intonation: 'From Captain Haldir's bow, Thranduilion.'
Legolas' head snapped up at these words, his eyes flickering from one face to the other, burning with emotion at the news of the death of his friend. He said nothing, but made to stand abruptly. He found that his strength was not what he thought it was, however, and stayed where he was, scowling at the fresh pain that the movement had brought more out of irritation than suffering.
He had known Haldir for nigh on a thousand years, a friendship that had been forged when envoys of Mirkwood had traversed to Lothlórien on relations trips that his father had set up, mainly to keep the bonds tight between himself and Celeborn. Such things had never interested Legolas, so he had gone on hunting expeditions with Haldir, during which they had formed their steady companionship. Never again. And as this thought came to him, he drew a sharp intake of breath at the stabbing new pain that he felt - not physical, but in his very soul. Someone who he had held dear and respected had left his life permanently.
Tears stung his eyeballs, and his head bowed with his grief. A hand gripped his shoulder and he heard Aragorn shuffle closer. His sorrow overwhelmed him, and he needed the contact of another. Aragorn sensed this, and pulled the Elf into the tight embrace that he required so much.
After an hour or so, in which he sat and thought of Haldir's passing and the deaths of so many of his kin, Legolas realised that he had not eaten for what his stomach felt was an age. And as this thought came to his head, his gut gave a particularly loud irritated grumble of displeasure, at which the other two laughed.
'Methinks Thranduilion would like something to eat.'
Celdan left to fetch some food and came back with a steaming bowl of something, and handed it over to the Prince. Legolas neither asked nor cared what it was, but set it to his lips without even looking at the bowl's contents.
'Careful, Thranduilion, it's-' Legolas downed the lot in a series of deep gulps in a matter of seconds, tilting the bowl with trembling hands. '- Hot,' Celdan finished lamely as the bowl was placed on the stone floor next to him, totally devoid of any soup. There was not a drop in sight - it may have well have been a clean bowl.
'Is there any more?' asked Legolas, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, uncharacteristically throwing away any recollection of manners, knowing full well that, had his Adar seen him do it, no matter how many millennia Legolas had seen, he would have received a clip round the ear.
'There's a whole pot,' replied Aragorn. 'But you shan't be having any more for a while yet; your stomach needs to get used to having something in it. We don't want you to get ill again.'
There was a brief silence in which Legolas huffed and chewed his cheek - but it was short lived, as a harsh voice gave a loud exclamation into the air...
'Laddie! You're awake!' Legolas was near-choked as Gimli hugged his neck tightly, half laughing, half crying with glee. Aragorn had to leap to his feet to pull the ecstatic Dwarf away form the still weak Elf.
'Careful, Gimli! Not so rough!' He released the Dwarf, who smiled almost manically at the Elf, who smiled back softly with the old light back in his eyes, making them glitter in the early rays of the dawn sun.
'We thought you were never going to come back to us,' Gimli breathed. 'You were so far gone, Lad - I really thought that was the end of you.'
'Unfortunately for you, I came back to grace you with my presence once more.'
Celdan drew Aragorn away as the two friends reunited after the intermission of those strenuous few days.
'This is indeed a strange friendship,' he conceded to the Man. 'Never in all my years upon this Middle-earth have I come across an Elf and a Dwarf that were actually happy to see each other for the sake of friendship rather than for the sake of dispute.'
'It was not always so,' Aragorn replied, remembering the various squabbles and snide remarks that had passed between them when the Fellowship had first formed - they had even scrapped in the middle of the Council meeting at the very beginning. 'They nearly drove us mad - a comment against the race of the other here, a personal jab there.
'But then we got to Lothlórien, and something happened there. I know not what ... they just - well, stopped. My only guess is that they came to some mutual agreement between themselves. They have been friends since.'
'It is good to see such an allegiance,' said Celdan. 'It helps remind us that we should unite in these times of hardship if we truly value what is right. If we are not together as the Free Peoples then we are as good as under Sauron already.'
Come midday it was decided - by Legolas - that he was well enough to bathe, dress, and leave the room for a change of scenery. This was very grudgingly accepted by Aragorn and Celdan. Before Legolas was permitted to have his bath, however, Celdan resolved to set down some boundaries for physical activity...
'Your side is not yet fully healed, Thranduilion, so there are certain restrictions that you must abide to: no archery; no knife play; no strenuous activities such as running, fighting, and so on.'
Legolas heaved yet another sigh at this news. The very thought that had been in his head was to practice with his bow for a bit; he longed to use it after this lengthy duration of doing absolutely nothing. But he had no desire whatsoever of causing further time to be dedicated to his side's healing process, and so conceded to these rules without argument.
Aragorn had had to help him to bathe, as his detriment still caused considerable pain and made him less flexible, making the whole process of washing himself very difficult.
The laceration was, Aragorn observed, doing nicely; it had begun to knit well, despite Legolas' lowered strength levels - one of the many advantages of being of Elven-kind was that healing always took a lot less time than with any human.
One thing that struck him and distressed him in turn was the way that Legolas had visibly thinned thanks to the poisons' part in his sickness. Fever such as he had had caused that kind of deterioration, but not to that extent. It had wasted his muscles and his face had become near emaciated. The sooner he was able to pick up his bow and knives again the better. Aragorn would have to help him with re-building his strength by holding mock-fights with him. He trusted that it would not take too much time in doing, as the Elf clearly despised this state that his body was going through from the heavy scowl that never ceased all the way until he dressed.
All of Aragorn's thoughts about Legolas' condition were, of course, correct. He did indeed resent the way his body had become decisively less than it had been before. He could not go into war in this state - for he knew that it was to war that they would eventually go. Building back up his strength was his main priority at that moment.
It did not take long for the sweat to really break out. When it did, Legolas' bedding became soaked, his fair hair turned dark as it became plastered to his skull with the perspiration.
The loss of water now worried Aragorn and Celdan, as the thought of dehydration also struck Aragorn. He was now a lot more sedated about his friend's condition as he had realised that it had just as much potential to destroy - if not more - as it did to heal.
Never had either of them seen a fever of this size before in all of their experience of healing - it even surpassed that of Frodo after the Nazgûl attack, which really had been a sickness to be reckoned with, as far as Aragorn was concerned.
Legolas had, at least, stopped feeling cold; his blankets (all four of them) had been kicked off ferociously with such strength as none of them had deemed him capable in his current state. He now appeared to feel hot, for he shifted constantly, moving from one piece of wet bedding to another area that was already drenched.
He cried out occasionally still, sometimes in Elvish, sometimes in the Common Tongue; to the amusement of all, he cussed Gimli frequently...
'Stiff-necked Dwarf!' and 'You're obsessed with holes in the ground' came up once or twice. Aragorn got his fare-share, too...
'You moron, Aragorn!' 'You never listen to me.'
The last one stung the human, because he knew this was true. Legolas had issued so many warnings of approaching danger to him and he and failed to act upon them. What did that make him? A terrible leader or an appalling friend? He could not decide which. And did the Elf's cries reveal what he truly thought or were they the just the fever making him abusive?
The hours dragged by before the sweating became less profuse, and dawn showed her pale face before it stopped completely.
His mind slowly began to rouse itself. He was confused, so he lay and thought about what had happened - he remembered fuzzily the events of the previous night - (or what he thought to be the previous night) and the memories began to sift and fit themselves into the appropriate slots in his mind ... he knew of the battle, and of the stab-wound that had occurred, and as he thought of this, the pain came back, dull at first, then strengthening. It was not as intense as it had been, but it certainly was of a discomfort to him.
He knew that it had made him vomit as he searched for a place to crouch out the battle because his eyes had failed him. Then there was a huge blank.
The next thing he remembered was Aragorn's voice raising his awareness of the world. Aragorn had taken him back up to the Hornburg, where they had met with Gimli who had flustered like a disturbed chicken. They had proceeded into the fort to find somewhere for him to be treated, and had eventually found Celdan. Then he had had his wound cleaned ... after that literally painful memory, nothing more came to the surface.
Having sorted out the events that he had endured, he began to check his senses, paying no heed to the pain in his side.
He could feel a soft breeze skirting over his skin, because there was no shirt on his back. He waggled his toes and found his feet to be bare as well. But the feeling that struck him first and foremost was the dryness of his throat. He was absolutely parched. The thirst made him almost gag as he tried to swallow, his tongue feeling like a piece of dead wood which rasped against the roof of his mouth.
As though someone had read his mind, he felt his upper body being gently lifted upright, and a cup was placed to his lips, water lapping against them like the soft kiss of life. He gladly parted them to allow the precious commodity access, this sweet nectar that he yearned for so desperately. He began to drink it down faster...
'No, no, no, no,' a voice rebuked softly. The cup was taken back from him. 'Not so fast, Thranduilion. Be careful - I shall allow you to have as much as you wish for, just so long as you don't guzzle.'
He knew that voice - it was Celdan's. He did not want it to be Celdan.
'Where is Aragorn?' His speech was dry and course, little more than a whisper even though he tried to make it something more, his voice crackling like walked-upon leaves in the Autumn.
He felt a hand take his own in a firm, strong, comforting grip.
'I'm here, mellon nin. I shall not leave your side.'
The cup came back, and he drank his fill, slowly as Celdan had bid. As he finished he turned his head away from the offering hand; in truth, this was merely a tiny movement, but Celdan understood the Prince's wish.
He was asleep before he was even laid back down to the fresh pillow which was slipped beneath his head while he had been raised, still holding Aragorn's hand slackly.
It was daybreak - he could tell. His closed lids disclosed to him not the strong beams of the sun, nor the pitch of darkness, but the stage of in between. Dawn, at about four in the morning, as far as he reckoned, for there was not the usual shifting of bodies at dusk as he deemed normal for that time of day.
He was less weak than he had been, he knew that for a fact, simply because he was more aware of what was happening around him - which was, at present, nothing at all. But there were people about in the chamber - he could hear their deep breathing as they slept. How long had he been sleeping himself? As to the answer to that query, he had no answer.
Still there was pain in his side, but it was less than it had been when he had awoken last when he had had that cup of water.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the potent smell of sweat - his own sweat he realised. He would need a bath as soon as possible.
His senses were all fine, he knew - besides one that he had not yet tested - his sight. Last time he had used his eyes they had not functioned properly. He now feared that they would fail him altogether. He was an immortal - to be perpetually blind would be the most devastating and difficult thing for him to come to terms with - he needed his eyes.
Lying there not knowing if he were blind or no was driving him mad - so he opened them without any further hesitation, and uttered a gasp, as he gazed blearily up at the stone ceiling. It was merely a grey blur at first, but as he blinked it became crisp and sharp as his eyes had always depicted images to be, be they far or near.
He decided to test his strength and sit upright. It felt to him as though he had not done so for an age - muscles protested as they were forced to work against their stiffness, and his wound defiantly hurt as he stretched it. He tried to ignore them all in all, like a parent omits a misbehaving child - but even the hardest parent cannot completely throw their child from their mind. He managed all the same, despite his pain.
Having ascertained that there was nothing wrong with his sight, he turned his head to look upon the figure who slumped by him, his hand in his.
'Good morning, mellon nin.'
Aragorn started and sat up so abruptly that Legolas thought that the Man was under the illusion that the building was burning or something of the sort.
Aragorn's grey eyes fixed upon the blue ones of Legolas, eyes which he had never thought would open again, or indeed shine as they were now.
Aragorn began to laugh, and threw his arms about the surprised Elf's neck in his joy, crying tears of sheer happiness and relief into the shoulder of his companion - his best friend - whom he had thought he would lose forever.
'You had us all so, so worried, mellon nin,' he declared as he drew back, wiping the tears away that gave his face a sheen in the grey light of the morning.
'Worried? Why?'
'Why? Legolas, you have just awoken from the biggest fever I have ever known any to live through - it took nigh on five days!'
Legolas contemplated this for a time, wondering how it was that five days could pass without his knowing. He looked to Aragorn's face, his head cocked to the side. The Man seemed so worn - his eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale through lack of sleep. There were worry-lines etched into his brow.
'You look terrible.'
The Man laughed heartily, and as he did so, the lines seemed to begin to become erased from his face. 'Don't you ever give me cause to use that line on you ever again, Legolas Greenleaf.'
'I shall try, Aragorn son of Arathorn.'
Aragorn smiled at the Elf. 'I shall hold you to that.'
'I need to thank you,' Legolas began.
'You do?'
'Yes - thank you for sending my father notification on my condition.'
Aragorn no longer laughed. His eyes scanned the Elf's face as his friend looked steadily back at him, his eyes back to their usual way of hardly blinking.
'How came you to know of that?'
'I read it.'
'Legolas, there is no way in Valinor that you could have read that letter.'
Legolas put his gaze out of the window to the fair morning as the sun began to peer over the horizon.
'" King Thranduil, the content of this letter grieves me deeply, but you have the right to know of this news as Legolas' father-"' he shot a sharp glance at Aragorn as though to make sure he was listening to him. "'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.'"
A word-perfect recitation, accurate to the last letter. This was too arduous a thing to even try and contemplate at such an early time in the morning.
'How do you know?' That was the only thing that he could think of to say.
'I told you - I read it; I travelled with the eagle to my homeland.' The Elf's eyes became unfocused as he reminisced of the experience. 'In my dream.'
'Ah, so you rode with the eagle, did you?' Celdan stood besides Aragorn - who had not noticed his coming - and beamed down at the Prince benignly. He bowed, to which Legolas made the appropriate response by returning it as best as he was able.
'Your bow, Thranduilion.' From behind his back, the other Elf produced Legolas' bow, with a new string to it and handed it to its' master, who received it readily. Legolas bent the supple wood as he tested the new string. Then he paused mid-bend, and placed the weapon upon his lap.
'Whence did the string come?'
Celdan exchanged a quick glance with Aragorn, and then hung his head as he replied with a melancholy intonation: 'From Captain Haldir's bow, Thranduilion.'
Legolas' head snapped up at these words, his eyes flickering from one face to the other, burning with emotion at the news of the death of his friend. He said nothing, but made to stand abruptly. He found that his strength was not what he thought it was, however, and stayed where he was, scowling at the fresh pain that the movement had brought more out of irritation than suffering.
He had known Haldir for nigh on a thousand years, a friendship that had been forged when envoys of Mirkwood had traversed to Lothlórien on relations trips that his father had set up, mainly to keep the bonds tight between himself and Celeborn. Such things had never interested Legolas, so he had gone on hunting expeditions with Haldir, during which they had formed their steady companionship. Never again. And as this thought came to him, he drew a sharp intake of breath at the stabbing new pain that he felt - not physical, but in his very soul. Someone who he had held dear and respected had left his life permanently.
Tears stung his eyeballs, and his head bowed with his grief. A hand gripped his shoulder and he heard Aragorn shuffle closer. His sorrow overwhelmed him, and he needed the contact of another. Aragorn sensed this, and pulled the Elf into the tight embrace that he required so much.
After an hour or so, in which he sat and thought of Haldir's passing and the deaths of so many of his kin, Legolas realised that he had not eaten for what his stomach felt was an age. And as this thought came to his head, his gut gave a particularly loud irritated grumble of displeasure, at which the other two laughed.
'Methinks Thranduilion would like something to eat.'
Celdan left to fetch some food and came back with a steaming bowl of something, and handed it over to the Prince. Legolas neither asked nor cared what it was, but set it to his lips without even looking at the bowl's contents.
'Careful, Thranduilion, it's-' Legolas downed the lot in a series of deep gulps in a matter of seconds, tilting the bowl with trembling hands. '- Hot,' Celdan finished lamely as the bowl was placed on the stone floor next to him, totally devoid of any soup. There was not a drop in sight - it may have well have been a clean bowl.
'Is there any more?' asked Legolas, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, uncharacteristically throwing away any recollection of manners, knowing full well that, had his Adar seen him do it, no matter how many millennia Legolas had seen, he would have received a clip round the ear.
'There's a whole pot,' replied Aragorn. 'But you shan't be having any more for a while yet; your stomach needs to get used to having something in it. We don't want you to get ill again.'
There was a brief silence in which Legolas huffed and chewed his cheek - but it was short lived, as a harsh voice gave a loud exclamation into the air...
'Laddie! You're awake!' Legolas was near-choked as Gimli hugged his neck tightly, half laughing, half crying with glee. Aragorn had to leap to his feet to pull the ecstatic Dwarf away form the still weak Elf.
'Careful, Gimli! Not so rough!' He released the Dwarf, who smiled almost manically at the Elf, who smiled back softly with the old light back in his eyes, making them glitter in the early rays of the dawn sun.
'We thought you were never going to come back to us,' Gimli breathed. 'You were so far gone, Lad - I really thought that was the end of you.'
'Unfortunately for you, I came back to grace you with my presence once more.'
Celdan drew Aragorn away as the two friends reunited after the intermission of those strenuous few days.
'This is indeed a strange friendship,' he conceded to the Man. 'Never in all my years upon this Middle-earth have I come across an Elf and a Dwarf that were actually happy to see each other for the sake of friendship rather than for the sake of dispute.'
'It was not always so,' Aragorn replied, remembering the various squabbles and snide remarks that had passed between them when the Fellowship had first formed - they had even scrapped in the middle of the Council meeting at the very beginning. 'They nearly drove us mad - a comment against the race of the other here, a personal jab there.
'But then we got to Lothlórien, and something happened there. I know not what ... they just - well, stopped. My only guess is that they came to some mutual agreement between themselves. They have been friends since.'
'It is good to see such an allegiance,' said Celdan. 'It helps remind us that we should unite in these times of hardship if we truly value what is right. If we are not together as the Free Peoples then we are as good as under Sauron already.'
Come midday it was decided - by Legolas - that he was well enough to bathe, dress, and leave the room for a change of scenery. This was very grudgingly accepted by Aragorn and Celdan. Before Legolas was permitted to have his bath, however, Celdan resolved to set down some boundaries for physical activity...
'Your side is not yet fully healed, Thranduilion, so there are certain restrictions that you must abide to: no archery; no knife play; no strenuous activities such as running, fighting, and so on.'
Legolas heaved yet another sigh at this news. The very thought that had been in his head was to practice with his bow for a bit; he longed to use it after this lengthy duration of doing absolutely nothing. But he had no desire whatsoever of causing further time to be dedicated to his side's healing process, and so conceded to these rules without argument.
Aragorn had had to help him to bathe, as his detriment still caused considerable pain and made him less flexible, making the whole process of washing himself very difficult.
The laceration was, Aragorn observed, doing nicely; it had begun to knit well, despite Legolas' lowered strength levels - one of the many advantages of being of Elven-kind was that healing always took a lot less time than with any human.
One thing that struck him and distressed him in turn was the way that Legolas had visibly thinned thanks to the poisons' part in his sickness. Fever such as he had had caused that kind of deterioration, but not to that extent. It had wasted his muscles and his face had become near emaciated. The sooner he was able to pick up his bow and knives again the better. Aragorn would have to help him with re-building his strength by holding mock-fights with him. He trusted that it would not take too much time in doing, as the Elf clearly despised this state that his body was going through from the heavy scowl that never ceased all the way until he dressed.
All of Aragorn's thoughts about Legolas' condition were, of course, correct. He did indeed resent the way his body had become decisively less than it had been before. He could not go into war in this state - for he knew that it was to war that they would eventually go. Building back up his strength was his main priority at that moment.