Aragorn could have counted every single step the horse made through the pain in his bond-brother's soft grey eyes.
He had reluctantly agreed to allow someone else to ride with Elrohir so that he could take a little rest while they rode. He had to admit that even as Thoron had offered he had been wondering if his arms would take the continued strain. He was bone-weary; days among his friends, dead and injured sapping all of his strength and vigour. He could only hope that they got all the way back to the palace before he broke down, knowing that it would not be too long before the horror of the last few days began to sink in.
And meanwhile he got to watch Elrohir's eyes flinch with every footstep the horse took. In face he was completely stoic, and his shoulders showed no sign of the tension that flickered through his eyes, but Aragorn had had a good number of years now to learn to read his brothers. He knew it would have been no better for the injured elf if he had been riding with him, but at least then he didn't have to see his pain. It was a selfish thought, and Aragorn immediately felt guilty for it.
Travelling in this way – with little talk and much thought – left Aragorn in the difficult position of considering the future of his sworn-brothers. He knew well of the grieving sickness that could destroy an elf after a loved-one's passing, and they had both lost someone dear to them in this earth-shattering event. Been witness to his demise in the most devastating of ways. Been subject to torture of their own.
How long before those he loved like the closest brothers, despite millennia between them, began to show signs of grief and waning? He could not see any way of escape for them save the two that held the most pain for him. The path west, or the path less travelled in times of peace, through the halls of Mandos to the other side. Though whether or not these could still be considered times of peace was a question to be asked. The actions of Dol Guldur - sending their prisoners away into the forest unarmed and fatally injured - seemed an act of war if any was to be seen. Especially considering whom their prisoners had been.
Aragorn looked over to Elladan, biting his lip at the look of vacant concentration on the elf's face, still trying to work out what was going on around him. Caramir rode with him, having taken over from Seregal earlier in the day. His mind trailing down another path, Aragorn wondered at the strange symptoms of the twins, and what little they had been able to tell him about their cause. A man, Elrohir had told him as they had passed through deepest darkest Mirkwood. A man with some strange strength, some power unprecedented. He wondered if the effects would be permanent, or whether the twins would be able to expect some reprieve. It seemed impossible to think of his sworn-brothers so incapacitated for any length of time. As elves, they were rarely bedridden at all, save for those rare confrontations with the enemy that didn't go quite as planned. Even then it seemed to the young man that they were hardly in bed a day or two before they were on their feet again and out of the door on their hunts less than a week later.
How different would life be in Imladris with the twins in such bad shape? With none to teach him sword-play, none to show him how to string a bow, cast a fishing line, gut his dinner in a beautifully constructed bivouac. The elves rarely did things by halves.
He had always thought - before Lord Elrond had told him of the heavy weight that was laid across his shoulders - that his sons would also be fostered by the Imladrian elves, as his father had, and his father before. And they would be taught as he had, of all the skills they would need to survive as rangers in this harsh world.
Who now would teach them, should there prove to be no solution for the twins? Who would help him through the most turbulent times to come? He was sure that he would have no easy ride to completing his destiny, but he had always been reassured by the thought that the two would be at his side through the whole thing.
Mirkwood was in the middle of a gathering feast when they arrived, and their appearance brought immediate worry for though Elladan and Elrohir had borrowed clothes from the soldiers it was quite obvious that they were injured. Elrohir had fallen unconscious after the long and trying journey, and was rested against Aragorn's chest as they rode. But even still, the panic was not as it might have been, had they known… Aragorn dismounted, Elrohir in his arms. He was hustled towards a covered area of the wood by two elves that split from the crowd to meet them as two more rushed to take their horses and Caramir followed him with Elladan. He hesitated only momentarily as he saw that Seregal and Thoron had turned to a different path.
"They have gone to talk to the King." Caramir told him. "They will return later to see how these two fare."
Quietly Seregal approached his Lord and King, waiting for his attention before asking for a private audience for a moment. His rumpled appearance - having come directly from his horse - was enough to garner the King's attention and they slipped away into one of the quieter spaces.
"My Lord." Seregal began, swallowing down fears that had been building in him since he had realised that this talk would have to come from him. "We were sent out to seek out Daefindir and Minastir and the Noldor twins when their horses returned riderless almost a week ago now."
"They went out seeking my son." Thranduil observed, his attention now full on the Captain.
"Yes my lord." Seregal hesitated again, his words unsure.
"Well, tell me what you have found, edhel! Or do I have to read the information direct from your mind?" Seregal flinched backwards.
"We found a man in the south, sire and… he…" He sighed, he could not avoid the words to come. "Sire, your son is dead, and all of his troupe with him." There was a dazed look in the King's eyes for a moment, and then his gaze hardened.
"You lie. My son travels with the guard, his skill is too great to allow his fall."
"He was in the south, sire, as per your order. He was spying upon Dol Guldur. They were captured and their rescue, planned by Daefindir and Minastir was unsuccessful. None… none save the twins survived, sire, and they are seeking treatment for dire wounds at this moment."
"Do you think I would send my only son into the south of Mirkwood? Into the arms of death as though I had no love for him?" The king demanded, his face reddening in rage.
"You could not have known, my lord. The tasks you ordain are assigned by others." Seregal soothed.
"Speak to me no more of this absurd notion." Thranduil stormed, waving the soldier away.
"But… my lord…?"
"No! I will have none of it. Take yourself from my sight!" Quietly, Seregal led Thoron away.
The healers made quick word of Elrohir's wound, already beginning to scar at the edges, and bound all of the small scratches, abrasions, burns and lashes on the twins that they could reach with cream and linen. Finished, they turned to umming and ahhing over the strange afflictions brought on by the as-yet unidentified man of Dol Guldur. And yet, um and ah as they might, no solution could they find. 'Time,' they said at last, was the cure for the malady. Some evil presence had laid its power over them and only as the menace was allowed to shift would they shake off its grip.
Secretly they muttered amongst themselves, saying that perhaps the younger Prince's paralysis was not as the other symptoms, and what a deep wound he had taken to his back, but they said nothing more for fear of a misdiagnosis.
When Seregal and Thoron returned, they tersely told the others that no word was to be spoken of the Prince's demise until the King could be brought to see sense. They could not tell others of his son's demise if he did not truly know of it himself. And Elladan and Elrohir clung to each other like lifelines as they were examined and treated, with their sworn-brother watching on, and hoping beyond hope that this situation could find some kind resolution.
