Author: Mirrordance
Title: Love, War
Summary: The War brought them together, but the peace will tear them apart. How much is a man willing to pay to keep a friendship, and how much is a friend willing to lose for revenge? Slash.
TIMELINE: the story happens about a year or two after Return of the King— the exact year is immaterial really, just as long as certain future events operate as a given: one, peace is yet to be attained with the Eastern tribes of Middle-Earth. Two, Ithilien is already restored and Legolas lords over the elven colony there, just as Gimli is lord of the Glittering Caves. Three, Eomer is already engaged, as is Eowyn and Faramir. Four, that Elrond and Galadriel have already sailed away to Valinor. The fic is generally faithful to the book and the movie with respect to the major events, although some factors about it may be considered as an AU; the irrepressible Haldir, for instance, is very much alive in this piece.
PART TWO: Possibilities
Interlude 5
The TwoTowers: Stricken
Mid-Morning
Helm's Deep,
March 3, 3019
He came back somehow, and by the harried look of his battered body it might have been some kind of a wild story to tell. But the moment his name graced the batting tongues of the fortress, there seemed little else that mattered over the fact that he was alive and managed to restore himself to them.
Eowyn was tending to the wounded, and handing out food that she had to assure her people that she did not cook for them to reluctantly take, when the group she was serving stared over her shoulder in awe.
"Lord Aragorn," they whispered, and she whipped around to find that a ghost had indeed walked into the fortress and was making his way toward the King's hall in the burg when he was accosted by his friend, the elf.
The two men stared at each other for a long moment, and seemed grateful and satisfied, for the fates that allowed them to just stand there quietly before each other. And then the elf's clouded eyes shielded their considerable revelations and the love deeply lodged in their depths with the veil of a foreign-tongued barb. Eowyn did not understand the words, but it made the adan smile and laugh.
She froze in her tracks, watching the exchange. And then it took on a different tone when the elf revealed he had Aragorn's pendant of shimmering silver and stone, and love undying. The elf placed the pendant over the man's palm, tentatively, as if he feared to touch the other's skin. Legolas looked resolute, but his hands seemed to hesitate with the release of the charm, seemed to hesitate giving back to Aragorn the reminders of the woman who gave him the jewel
She held her ground, and watched the two of them walk away. Thanks to the conversation she had with the elf some hours ago, she knew how it was to know if one already loved. And she knew too what the elf surely knows now: he's just been struck by the plague of it himself.
As Aragorn conferred with Theoden, Legolas found himself drifting back to the healer's quarters in search of that spiked drink of Laure's; the wound was smarting, and there was going to be a battle of epic proportions ahead. He decided Aragorn could use some too.
The familiar and unfortunately depressing sight of the healing wing was awash with activity. The preparation of the dead lorded over one corner. All who were dying the night previous had passed over, and room had to be made for the others sure to come as soon as the new battle begins. Limping, bleeding warriors were trying to escape or trying to get the doctors to release them, and their wives and children voiced their complaints and prohibitions.
It was almost comical; the wounded soldiers were trailing doctors who were busy shooting from one end of the room to the other with their pleas, and the women and children who loved them in turn followed in their footfalls with complaints. It made for a very noisy, busy parade.
"You know what," Laure sighed, looking at one particularly noisy soldier in consternation, "If you can make such a nuisance of yourself following me when I'm trying to work, you can fight the orc. Go, for god's sakes, try not to go back here."
"You're going to kill him!" the wife of the victorious soldier exclaimed, except it was drowned by the renewed vigor of the other soldiers who were also trying to get Laure to release them for the battle ahead.
Legolas cut clear across the crowds. It seemed to him that they were regarding him as That Strange Elf Again, and were going to let him do whatever he pleased. He pulled up alongside the healer.
"We need to speak," he said.
Laure looked at him, relieved for the rescue as the wounded soldiers and their dependents backed away and focused their attentions on someone else.
"What can I do for you?" Laure asked, as she sorted out herbs and prepared medicines. Distractedly, she said, "I wish we had more time. I have a feeling these won't be enough."
"I'm afraid," Legolas winced, "I'm afraid I'd have to deplete them some more, doctor." He then decided not to take any for himself, he's probably already had more than his share yesterday. Besides, an elf can weather wounds on their own and without medicinal aid much better than humans could.
Laure looked at him. The glassy eyes and the sheen of sweat was indication enough. There was also some tremble to the elf's movements. She reached over and enclosed her hands about Legolas' warm neck, felt his fevered skin.
"I did promise you that infection was at hand," the healer said dispassionately, as she readied a cup of the same concoction she gave Legolas the day before. "I suppose I can't convince you to stay here either, so I will save my breath. But you should know as a seasoned warrior, that the more hurt you are going out there, the harder you'll find it to defend yourself, and the likelihood that you will get hurt further only increases." She handed Legolas the drink, and waited expectantly for him to drink it.
"It's for someone else," Legolas admitted at last.
The healer frowned. "I've heard about our heroic returnee. Drink that, and then tell your friend to come see me."
"His duties are making it impossible," the elf said.
"Drink it," Laure sighed, preparing another cup for the elf to bring with him. "We're not so short of supplies that our best warriors cannot have adequate treatment. I suspect we need your strength more out there, than we have need of medicine in here."
Hesitating a little, Legolas drank the preparation and accepted the next cup gratefully. "I will try to bring him here. But it's near to hopeless."
Laure glanced at the throng of soldiers who were waiting for her to be free of the elf and press upon her attentions, to let them out of her sight for a fight.
"Tell me about it," she said wryly, turning from the elf and letting herself be harassed. The tragedy over all of it was that she knew, if she let them out of his sight, they'll likely return to her as corpses.
Afternoon
Legolas had given the medicinal concoction to Aragorn in the King's Hall where the elf caught up to him as he apprised Theoden of the situation.
Aragorn's brow quirked suspiciously at the elf, wordlessly asking if he was literally being given a dose of his own medicine, drinking something that would put him to sleep.
"Do not do unto others as you do not want them to do unto you, eh?" Legolas murmured at him, giving him a slight wink. "I will just ask you to trust me."
The adan found the emotional blackmail unconquerable. Stifling a grin, he took the cup from Legolas' hands and finished it in one gulp. And then as the medicine worked its anesthetic magic, his grin spread wider as the pain vanished from his haggard face.
'Thank you,' he said to Legolas in deep gratitude, for the second time that day, before turning his attention to Theoden completely.
They studied a model of the fortress, discussed their options before walking out of the hall for a field survey. They planned the placements of the soldiers alongside the Theoden, and thereafter busied themselves with the rest of the afternoon, assisting with the evacuation of those unable to fight into the caves.
A weary Legolas trailed after Aragorn, aiding people and urging them forward as he passed them. He realized that if a single wound, grievous though it was, medicine and a night's rest was still wearing him down, even with his elven capacity, the adan must be feeling like the walking dead.
"Take some rest, Aragorn," Legolas said from behind him, "You are no good to us half-alive."
He was not met by a reply, and he did not push the matter further, especially after he sighted a purposeful Eowyn making her way toward them. He backed down, not wanting to be within range of her ire, and not wanting to face her after the realizations of the night past; she was perceptive, and he felt naked before her gaze, especially standing with Aragorn, the man they both apparently loved. It's not that he disliked her, or regarded her as a rival. Just as he did not regard the Evenstar as a rival. The three of them… they weren't adversaries. It was far more fair to say they shared in the same misfortune.
Legolas listened to her make her argument to a helpless Aragorn, before she walked away in a huff. The elf looked at the man's slumped shoulders as he watched her retreating back. He wondered if he shared her affections.
"Aragorn, come," Legolas insisted beside him, "Take rest, and have those cuts and bruises seen to. You will acquire more tonight, I guarantee you won't miss them for too long."
Aragorn shook his head at him in mock dismay. "Your barbs are irreverent, my friend. Have you no mercy for a wounded man?"
"Mercy, yes," Legolas said, taking Aragorn by the arm and steering him toward the inner courts, "Patience, no."
Legolas managed to distract Aragorn long enough to keep him immobile in the healing wing until the setting of the sun and the coming of early evening. But none of them could defy the feelings of the coming of the battle, and the atmosphere in the Keep was as tightly wrought as the cackling, electric of the air just before the onslaught of a terrible storm.
Even the elf could keep still only for so long. "I'm going to the arms room," he declared to his two friends, the three of them seated side by side along the length of a stone wall, "I need to see if I can acquire some more arrows." Gripping at the walls as discreetly as he could, he pushed himself up.
Shouldn't have sat down for so long, he scolded himself. The more one rested, the harder it was to get up again.
"I'm coming with you," the dwarf said, rising to his feet, "See about finding some better armor."
"You should have done that earlier," Legolas told him mildly.
"Well you were sitting there singing and pointing at strange, random things," retorted Gimli, "I lost track of the time."
"I was trying to distract him," Legolas said of Aragorn, wryly, "Not you."
"Well you should have made your efforts more specialized," said Gimli grudgingly, "You've effectively arrested the attention of half the room. You elves think we all have all the time in the world. Terribly unproductive race-"
Aragorn snickered at them, rising to his feet as well. The bickering was going to get more exciting, the closer they came to the battle. The two warriors were anxious for a fight, or perhaps that was wrong- they merely despised waiting.
"Wait one minute, lad," Gimli said to the adan, cutting off his own tirade, "What are you doing? He and I can leave, not you. You look like the dead."
"I'm sufficiently rested," Aragorn argued.
"Learn to delegate more, boy," Gimli said, attempting a rather terrible impression of being gravely offended, "Do you not trust us to look after things?"
"If I don't prepare," said Aragorn, stretching his body, "I won't last a breath out there."
"You know the edain need serious winding up, Master dwarf," said Legolas, "It's those old bones of theirs. They get stiff with misuse. I believe you and I are more flexible."
"Don't the two of you gang up on me," Aragorn said easily, leading the way as the three of them made for the armory. The Keep by now was easier to maneuver around, for no one stood by who had no business there. Only soldiers mulled about, no more women and children.
'They are very lonely folk, aren't they?' Legolas murmured to Aragorn in Elvish, as he stared at the weathered faces of the people of Rohan. They were survivors, in this country. Not particularly spirited, but they trudged on. They managed forward. It was not hard to believe that after tonight's battle, be it in victory or in defeat, some of them will walk away from Helm's Deep and bring the blood of the Rohirrim to the future.
But in the meantime, it was a god's promise that many will fall first. The elf thought back to that scene he had walked into last evening, in the healing wing with the lines of men waiting to die.
Will I be amongst them, he wondered, glancing at the two fellows who walked with him, Will they?
The idea was unfathomable. Aragorn's only just returned, fate wouldn't be so unkind.
Would it?
'They are strong,' Aragorn said of Legolas' comments about the people of Rohan.
They walked on. The crowds thickened as they neared the arms rooms. Men that were too old and boys that were too young peppered the folds, emerging with oversized, still-bloodied armor and old, rusted weapons.
The warrior's anxiety was quickly fading from the elf, to be replaced by a sense of dread. There was no challenge here. They were going to be massacred. The sensation was akin to walking into a room full of ghosts, in the sense that the men in the room were barely there- eyes blank, movements mechanical. They grew up in an age of war, and were of soldier-country. This meant they knew the arts of war, knew their way around a weapon. But acute warrior's knowledge should have also given them an idea of how to count, count their numbers, that of their enemies, and the odds of living past them.
The spirits of Gimli beside him was waning just as much, and though Aragorn's face was carefully placid, Legolas has known him long enough to hear what his silver eyes were dying to say.
"Farmers," Aragorn said in a low, displeased tone, finally unable to keep his silence, "Farriers, stable boys. These are no soldiers."
"Most have seen too many winters," Gimli added.
"Or too few," Legolas said, breathlessly and inexplicably annoyed. Or perhaps, it was no great mystery. The room was stifling him with its ultimate, brutal future. A room of dead eyes and dead men. Was he already amongst them, without knowing so? Were those he loved to die as well? For what set them apart, truly? He was regarding others as dead as if he wasn't going to be one amongst them, just another body, just another life waiting to extinguish. They all stood behind the same Wall, stood for the same cause. The enemy wanted all of them equally dead. He was not exempt. Nor was Gimli, or Aragorn. His heart pounded, and it was difficult to breathe when all these thoughts were locked inside his body. Besides, the running fever was tiring him, the smarting wound was wearing him down. It was hard enough to keep standing, to be ready for battle, without having to valiantly try to keep one's mouth shut too. The fever was making him dreadfully more honest, something he might regret later but needed to do now.
"Look at them," Legolas implored his friends, his tone so low and scornful he might have meant, Look at me. "They are frightened…"
Just as I am frightened…
"You can see it in their eyes," his words caught the attention of the room, and all sounds died out as the makeshift soldiers turned toward him.
Aragorn was not appreciating the pronouncement, and especially not the attention. He glanced around him nervously as Legolas continued, in his own tongue, 'And they should be,' said the elf, 'Three hundred… against ten thousand…?'
'They have more hope of defending themselves here than at Edoras,' Aragorn pointed out, quite uselessly to the elf's ear. Here, there… it didn't seem to matter. If anything, the move had only delayed the inevitable.
'They cannot win this fight,' Legolas predicted darkly, 'They are all going to die.'
We, his mind corrected, We are all going to die…
"Then I shall die as one of them!" Aragorn retorted.
I know, Legolas thought achingly, That's the cursed bloody problem
Aragorn stalked away, having realized he had said the words in the language the people could understand, and that the blanks were not hard to fill. He was going to be one of their commanders, and he'd just written off all of them for dead.
Legolas made a step to follow, but the dwarf pressed a palm to his arm, keeping him where he was.
"Let him go, lad," said Gimli, "Let him be."
"I cannot-" Legolas began, except the dwarf readjusted his hold and unknowingly grazed at the elf's wound, such that he lost his breath and froze in his tracks for a moment. By the time he recovered it enough to have the strength and inclination to move forward, the crowds that had parted for Aragorn's exit covered up the space he had left.
I should not blame him, Aragorn mused, as he readied his armor and his weapons. He returned to the armory when it had completely emptied, to continue his stunted preparations from earlier.
Perhaps he is feeling stuck, Aragorn reflected, The elves have no place here. Not in the midst of death. Not to fight for an Earth that they will soon leave. Not to die for a people who cared little for them.
So what are you doing here? he wondered of Legolas, What makes one like you, with so many better chances at life, with such light feet that can traverse the world at a whim, stay?
His blood had long since cooled. He did not mean to retort, to dismiss, to walk away. But the elf's words stabbed like mistrust, and the hopelessness was terribly contagious. And he had to admit, he was wearier than he preferred, both in mind and body. And heart.
Hard to forget that one, he thought wryly.
People looked to him to know what to do, he mused. And then his own friend had doubted. Or perhaps, Legolas was only speaking the truth, which was probably worse than a friend's lack of faith. He was stung by the truthfulness of Legolas. To hear these truths that he himself knew deep within him said aloud, was giving it a reality that could no longer be dismissed.
No one had said it aloud, he remembered, how they were all in for a massacre. No one but Legolas. But they all knew, no one had argued it, though they had looked upon the elf as a villain for saying it. It shouldn't have been a surprise, for in such bad times the most accessible villain was probably the bearer of the truth.
I should make peace he thought to himself, Battle comes. We may not have a chance, after tonight.
What makes you stay…? He wondered again, as he sought his sword to finish his warring attire. He found the table emptied, and he glanced up to find the friend who had occupied his thoughts was looking at him shyly, earnestly, offering him his sword. His lips parted in surprise, and almost blurted out his question before the elf unwittingly answered it anyway, by his eyes and his words.
"We've trusted you this far," said Legolas apologetically, "You have not led us astray. Forgive me. I was wrong to despair."
'There is nothing to forgive, Legolas.'
There is only a war to be won, Aragorn thought, for I would hate to disappoint your eyes. They look to me as if I alone could change the face of the Earth.
When it comes from you, Aragorn realized, it seems so true.
Just as in Legolas' voicing of his disappointment and hopelessness earlier that night, Aragorn felt he was a failure. And then by his words and his eyes, the elf had managed to restore his spirits.
You stay for your trust in me, Aragorn thought fervently, And I will win if only that I may not disappoint you.
To be continued…