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 6

The Two Towers: Open Your Eyes

Helm's Deep

March 4, 3019

Early Morning

The Battle for Helm's Deep is over, the wizard had said.

Gimli did not think the assessment was a very fair one. Warriors' battles were done, yes, that was true enough. But the hands of healers were quite full and they teamed up with ailing bodies, jointly warring with the calling of the Earth, the calling of dust and death.

They all won over the Uruk assault, and he was somehow unsurprised. Despite the desperate fight from dusk 'til dawn, something made him believe that victory was not so far away. The dwarf wondered when it was that he's become so optimistic.

The halls were crowded again, for the women and children have emerged from the caves and were busy with work. Many of them served as nurses in the makeshift healing wings, although a greater majority have persuaded their men to rest and recover, as they busied themselves with preparing the dead and clearing and cleaning the Keep. Besides, this way, they could find their loved ones who had fallen.

After that last charge before their definitive victory, Gimli found himself without the company of Aragorn or Legolas. He remembered being hungry, and dashing off for the kitchens. Eowyn was there, overseeing the food rations and the cooking. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him being alive and well.

"What can we do for our dwarven hero?" she asked him indulgently.

He looked at her suspiciously. If he asked for some food, would she give him that vile cooking of hers…?

She smirked, reading his expression. "No need to be coy now, Lord Gimli. You've already told me yesterday that my fare is fairly lethal. I decided my best service is probably to keep from cooking."

"I said that?" he asked, frowning.

"Oh yes," she nodded earnestly, preparing him a cup of stew. "And don't dare apologize now," she smiled, handing him the food.

"I wasn't going to," Gimli said, smelling the food and grinning in anticipation. "I'm quite relieved, actually."

She chuckled, before going back to her work, pouring stew on cups and bowls and placing them on trays which children spirited away to the tired troops.

"You are in good spirits," the dwarf commented, sitting on a stool across from her table and watching her work. "It is good to see you smiling."

Eowyn glanced up at him from her busy hands. "We've not had a victory in a long while. I know we've incurred heartbreaking losses too, but we won, somehow. Rohan lives. It seems to me that the very breath you, Lords Aragorn and Legolas, and Master Gandalf came into our lands, all became well again."

"It's probably just because of me," Gimli said, winking at her.

"Speaking of thy companions," she said, "I ran into Lord Aragorn earlier. But I've not had a chance to inquire of the others. Since your heart seems light as well, it is safe to assume they are well?"

"I was just with them," Gimli replied, "They were weary but they were on their feet. A warrior could ask for few grander things than that, after so fierce a battle. Aragorn lends his hands to the healers, and Legolas went to the stables to see to his horse. That infernal beast Arod sustained considerable injuries in that final charge."

"Well," Eowyn said, "Just make sure they take rest and eat as well. Such things as the activities you've described can be taken care of by the women, and we are all well rested and willing to help. You need all the rest you can get; my brother told me you will be making for Isengard in a couple of hours."

"Ah, yes," said the dwarf, "Give that terrible Saruman a piece of our minds." He finished his broth and rose to a makeshift sink to wash it for its next user. He dried it with a rag and handed it to her.

"Thank you, my lady," said the dwarf.

"Do you need anything else?" she asked.

"No," Gimli replied, as he made his exit, "No thank you."

Noon

Aragorn stared at his hands as he sat on his haunches, taking a quick break from his healing duties. It was a testament to his weariness that he was quite unfocused, and his spinning mind was flying in all sorts of directions…

"Legolas!" he had yelled innumerable hours before in the heat of a hideously uneven battle, having sighted a particularly menacing Uruk bearing a fiery torch toward the Outer Wall of Helm's Deep, 'Kill him!'

The archer was an attentive one, at least, particularly toward Aragorn. It seemed that the man's voice and his presence was so potent that it lorded over everything else. He was always there, always ready with his notched arrow.

"Kill him!"

And the shaft flew true to its wielder and struck the Uruk. But its skin was tough, and it staggered but went along its path, unhindered.

"Kill him!" he felt the desperation in his voice. The sound was unfamiliar.

And then once again, the arrow met its mark. But their foe was sturdily built, and one moment he was in line of their sight, the next the Outer all exploded from beneath their feet.

The blast threw him off to the Outer Court. It might have been a monumental fall, except his mind was reeling so badly he did not notice anything over the ringing of his ears. Darkness tore at his vision, and he remembered a long moment of having been lost to the inky blackness, before he shot awake with the sudden remembrance of his now dramatically increased responsibilities.

The dark forces have broken through the Outer Wall of Helm's Deep. They've made it inside. Stemming the stream of their foes was akin to plugging the flow of the sea with one's bare hands. There was no stopping the assault. As a commander, he knew full well that they had to narrow the sphere of their defense.

The call for a retreat could not have come at a later moment. He heard the King of Rohan's order, and immediately tore across the Keep exclaiming the same.

"Haldir!" he had called upon the elven commander, still stalwartly holding his own. His call for a retreat was properly acknowledged with a nod, though any real action toward the order from Haldir was soon ceased by a strike that brought him to his knees.

"Haldir!" Aragorn exclaimed, shooting forward, catching the golden elf as he fell toward the ground, eyes empty. His heart thundered in his ears as he stared at the elf's face. He blinked, and for a breath he thought that Haldir's face belonged to someone else.

Legolas, he thought, and his grasp of the Marchwarden's shoulders tightened as his heart jerked at the thought that blonde and dirty and misplaced amidst death, Haldir looked too much like the Mirkwood elf.

He blinked again, and Haldir's face was restored to Aragorn's reality. "Dear gods," he said under his breath, winded, unsure suddenly of what all this meant, of what he was to do with himself.

His warrior's senses pricked, and he turned to look behind him to find he was on the loosing end of an Uruk death-charge. He reached for his sword fruitlessly and was bracing for death, when the Uruk stopped mid-swing and fell to the ground, brought down by a pair of white knives.

"Legolas," Aragorn said, a bit of at a loss.

"You're all right?" the elf asked, and Aragorn nodded. But he looked down at Haldir with far less optimism.

The Mirkwood elf glanced at the body Aragorn was embracing too. "He looks like death," he said quietly, "But he lives still, for now. Retreat and bring him with you. I will take command of his post. We will cover your back." With barely a breath to spare, he turned away from the adan and said to his fellow elven soldiers in their native tongue, 'Close quarters! Cover and retreat…!'

Something fell.

Aragorn jumped, returning to the reality of the bustling healing wing around him. The battle was over. His friends were alive. Even Haldir's fought for survival. As a matter of fact, the said elf was lying on a low cot before Aragorn, grave-looking but very much alive and seemingly determined to remain so.

"I'm sorry," he heard a familiar voice say. It was Legolas. "I'm very sorry about that…"

"Pay it no mind, Master Elf," this time it was Eomer, the celebrated Rohan soldier who was the King's nephew, "they have lots more where that came from."

Aragorn rose to his feet and looked for the source of the commotion. He found Eomer and Legolas at the entrance to the wing. The King's nephew had a secure hand about the elf's elbow, steering him forward and keeping him upright. The elf with him looked uneasy and embarrassed, reluctant to move forward from a jar of water he had apparently knocked over.

"Come along," Eomer insisted, "Someone will take care of that." Legolas let himself be steered to a corner, where he was deposited slowly to sit. The elf seemed a bit… a bit absent, for lack of a better term. His gaze was empty, not as intent as they usually were.

Aragorn's brows rose, but he walked coolly toward them. "Legolas?" he inquired worriedly.

"Oh, hello Aragorn," said the elf, pale face breaking into a tired, slightly embarrassed smile. "Have you any time, strength and inclination to spend on another poor fellow?"

"I saw him aiding the recovery of the dead," Eomer explained to Aragorn, "saying special sorts of prayers for his fallen kin. He seemed bloodied and weary, but then we all were. He stumbled once, fell to a knee. And then he could no longer regain his feet."

"I would have," Legolas murmured, "If I had a bit more time."

"We were just together," Aragorn said thoughtfully, "You were on your feet, fighting ferociously. And then celebrating a victory."

Legolas shrugged, unsure of what to say about that.

Aragorn glanced up at the skies out the window. The sun was higher up than he remembered it being when he first entered the healing wing to offer his services, and he belatedly realized that had actually been some hours ago.

"I suppose that is the particular phenomenon of battle raging in the veins," Eomer replied, "You must have had it once before. You know, how the body fails with its hurts only when it is no longer needed to fight. I think you are strengthened by a similar capacity right now, actually. By the look of you, you must be taken off your feet as well."

"Later," Aragorn said distractedly, "I must see to him first."

"Well do not forget to do so," said Eomer, "I'd hate to see you fall. I have great respect for those warriors who helped protect my countrymen though for all other purposes you should not even be here, much less shedding your blood for us. I am grateful. You were here even before I was. You fought and led in my stead." To the elf, he said, "Get well, friend."

"This is all quite unnecessary," Legolas said softly, "I know we all have far better things to do…"

"Thank you," Aragorn said to Eomer, interrupting Legolas, "The elf is hurt and therefore irate and impolite. Had he been in a better frame of mind, he'd have had the decency to say 'thank you' instead."

Legolas sneered at Aragorn halfheartedly as Eomer exited the room. Aragorn looked him over carefully.

The elf suffered the survey miserably. He averted his gaze and shifted in his seat, profoundly uneasy. The silver eyes were always very perceptive.

Aragorn stepped forward and knelt before the elf. His warm healer's hands sought that of the archer's, and found them cold and clammy. He frowned, apparently displeased. His hands then made their knowing way up to the elf's neck and face, which was warm with fever. It was expected, of course, for the very first sight of the elf- flushed cheeks, pale skin, clouded eyes and a slight tremble- hinted of his malady already. He undid the elf's tunic, and found that though the elf's body was randomly peppered by cuts and brutal-looking bruises, the source of the fever primarily must have been the bleeding wound lining his right side, poorly covered by a battle-ravaged bandage. The skin around it radiated heat unto the Ranger's hands, and he knew he'd find a bad infection within it. Furthermore, Aragorn noticed that the elf's right side was far more bruised and cut than the left, hinting that during the battle, Legolas may have been troubled by the wound enough to keep him from properly defending himself.

"It had been a dirty blade," Legolas said nervously, "and some poison. But my body can fight it. It already is doing so, with just minor inconveniences."

"Is that how a collapse classifies in the elven culture?" Aragorn asked him, "a minor inconvenience?"

"Look at me, Aragorn," Legolas sighed, "I'm fully awake. I was regaining my feet. I look much healthier than you. I am not a fool, I sought aid for my wound when I could, I took rest when time afforded it, I've suffered the healer's ministrations already. There is nothing for you to do here, just… rest yourself, or occupy yourself with larger pursuits and more justifiable duties than mothering me."

"You sought aid when you could?" retorted the adan, "Took rest when time afforded it? Why, did I not just hear it said that you were found working just now? Do not lie to me, elf. It is probably infected because of your neglect."

Legolas bit his lip in thought. "I didn't lie," he said tentatively, "I did have the wound seen to, and I did take rest when… when we got here."

It hadn't been a very good defense, for Aragorn's eyes widened in irritation upon the discovery that the wound was an old one, and that the elf did not acquire it during the night's battle, had even fought for Helm's Deep despite of it. But Aragorn reconsidered the tirade that was teasing his tongue. No, he couldn't tell off the elf for wanting to fight. The best warriors always stood on their posts until their knees fell beneath them, and gripped and poised their weapons until their hands failed them. He's never known a better warrior than the elf, and it shouldn't have been much of a surprise that Legolas would fight and work until there was barely enough left in him to rise back to his feet. Besides, it being that Aragorn felt the same, and that he was the walking wounded himself, he didn't think it was an argument he could win.

The man sighed and looked at the elf in defeat. "All right. So. I'll see to the old wound and the new ones. You will take rest now."

"But the dead-" Legolas stammered, clouded eyes darkening all the more with his grief.

"The dead can wait," Aragorn told him coolly, feeling that Legolas needed the command to ease his conscience, not to mention he looked weary enough to deign from fighting back. "Or else you just might join them. Maybe not from the wound, but I assure you, from the consequences of my irritation."

"I don't-" the elf hesitated, and his voice shook, "I don't feel right about leaving them out on that field, sharing a grave with the filth."

"They will be cared for," Aragorn promised him with kind eyes, before imposing his will definitively on the elf and pushing him to lie on the ground.

"Aragorn, won't you rest yourself?" Legolas asked, "I can bother someone else."

"I can rest," said the adan, distractedly, preparing water and bandages and medicine, "When I see you properly settled, no time sooner. So kindly cooperate."

"You are a hideous blackmailer," Legolas proclaimed.

"My heart is not broken by your harsh attempts," said the man boldly, "You are fevered and delusional. The things you say now do not merit much serious thought."

When he woke, it felt as if his sleep had been too long and had gone much too far. The sensation was akin to fighting one's way to the surface of a deep and raging river. It was cold, and dark, and he couldn't quite find a decent breath. His arms floundered as they fought, but his body was heavy, and so sluggish that the struggle seemed futile.

I'm drowning, he thought, renewing his efforts and at the same time thinking that it couldn't possibly be true.

"Open your eyes," a voice implored him, "Please."

My eyes? he thought, they are open. It is just really dark…

"Open your eyes," he was told again. The sound of the voice was dull and muffled, and he fought the current with greater force, now knowing for a certainty that he must truly be underwater after all, for voices to sound like that.

"No, no," said the voice, and he felt digits digging into his wrists, keeping them from moving. The grip hurt, but it was warm, and he realized that it was all that was warm, until the voice breathed against his ear, saying, "Stay still, my friend. You will hurt yourself further."

Warm breath on his ear, he thought, he couldn't possibly be underwater if he could feel such a sensation.

"Legolas," came the voice again, more authoritative now, "Rally to me." And then just as quickly, the tone shifted, and was tainted by desperation and deep-seated hurt. "Please."

The elf stilled his struggles, and the halting of his movements was so gradual that it looked as if he was deflating before the Ranger's eyes. The elf had fallen into a limp so completely, that Aragorn held his breath, finding himself so fearful that he was praying Legolas was still alive.

The elf's chest rose in a great inhale, and his eyes blinked to awareness at the exhale. His gaze was dull, tired and confused. But he was in considerable possession of himself, and his eyes drifted to Aragorn's face, which stood but a breath away from his own, for the Ranger was leaning over him and had both his wrists in a death-grip.

"What in all of Arda are you doing?" Legolas asked him, surprised to find his voice was hoarse, not quite his own. Even his body felt heavy and detached from him.

"You are running a formidable fever," Aragorn told him softly, "The infection is much worse, and the new wounds are not helping you any."

"It is…?" Legolas murmured thoughtfully, "I have an idea."

"What might that be?" Aragorn asked.

"You can," Legolas licked at his dry lips, "You can take your hands from my wrists and then, we can focus instead on cutting off the afflicted part."

Aragorn's eyes lightened, and his lips quirked in a smile. His face was interesting as it was, but up close, with all of its nuances… it was downright arresting. His clear eyes contrasted with their fine, black outline. The scars, the laugh lines about his mouth, and those that crinkled at the corner of his eyes. His forehead creased just so, in worry. There was so much to see, except he did release Legolas' wrists and pulled himself up to look down on the elf.

"We can't cut off half your stomach and expect you to survive," Aragorn pointed out, good-naturedly.

"Alas," Legolas said, smiling tiredly up at the man, "One tries to think of ways. It does work for arms and legs after all." He blinked several times, and each closing of his eye was harder and harder to keep opening again.

"Elves do not sleep with their eyes closed," Aragorn chided him gently, shaking him awake just-so. "The look of you frightens me."

"Well the look of you frightens me too," Legolas drawled, "You don't hear me complaining."

"No, Legolas," the adan struggled with his words, "Be serious now. Stay awake awhile. Long enough to eat and drink, at least."

The elf's eyes drifted shut, he was already halfway away from there. "Tired," he barely got out, and the admission tugged at the man's heart. Aragorn was unused to seeing elves and in particular this one, thus incapacitated and succumbing to weakness. He was delicate enough already, such that even his pride had given way to admitting weariness. Aragorn watched him fall back to unconsciousness, feeling he was at a loss.

He sighed, tearing his eyes away from Legolas and out toward the window. It was already late afternoon. They were supposed to have left for Isengard hours ago, but then he could not quite bring himself to leave the elf as he was.

"What are you thinking of?" Gimli asked, from somewhere behind him. The dwarf deigned to join the party of riders that made for Saruman's tower earlier when he heard that both Legolas and Aragorn were staying.

"Nothing really," breathed the adan, "I suppose I'm just worried. And a bit tired. But mostly the former."

"He won't die," Gimli said. He found the idea preposterous. But in caution, he added, "Will he?"

"He won't," Aragorn chuckled, "I'm being foolish." His eyes softened as his laughter died and he looked back down at the elf's face. "I just wish… I just wish he'd open his eyes."

I wish you'd both open your eyes, Gimli thought, although he kept his mouth carefully shut.

It was Eomer who had sought him out in the Keep and brought him to where Aragorn and Legolas was. The elf was caught in a fitful sleep with his eyes closed, which was apparently an anomaly for the race. The Ranger's hands were clasped about the elf's. It was so natural, that the gesture was almost an absent-minded one for Aragorn. Gimli had walked into the room and Aragorn barely spared him a nod in greeting. The Ranger's iron grip about the elf's hands remained unwavering where it was. And there it's remained for endless hours.

Gimli stared at Aragorn's intent face. "Have you ever thought about what you'd do, if it happened?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

"If what happened?" Aragorn asked.

"If he died," Gimli replied.

"It is not an option," Aragorn said with a shake of his head, "It's an impossibility."

Oh do not get me started on impossibilities, Gimli thought, although he kept this to himself too. He's been seeing much, hearing much, and keeping a whole lot of things to himself lately.

"Loving truly is easy," the elf had murmured to the beautiful lady of Rohan some nights ago, "It is so deceptively gentle, I do not even find it can be considered a fall, rather than the brush of a hand, or the first rays of the sun that warm your face. It is so easy, it is there without your knowing precisely how. And then it hits you when it is gone, or when it teases you that it will leave you, and then you find that the future is no longer imaginable without someone, for you've set your eyes and the rest of your life around the idea that he will perpetually be there…"

The memory of that evening was not quite a happy one, but it was most certainly difficult to forget. He thought Aragorn had fallen to his death. He drank until his head felt it would burst and could lead him to join his dear friend soon. He fell asleep over a half-filled pint. He remembered keeling over and introducing his forehead to the surface of the hard, wooden table. The two had bonded quite well over the course of the night. He remained there for countless hours.

Alcoholic stupor was generally an event difficult to remove oneself from. But first and foremost, he'd always been a warrior. He was relatively easy to stir awake. Now, he wasn't quite so godly that he'd not have his share of the post-binge headache, but he could see, and hear, and rise to his feet and wield his axe if the situation merited that brand of reaction.

That night, the elf had come to him with an apology that was not meant to be heard. That night, Legolas had woken Lady Eowyn too. That night, they spoke of love. And he listened. And he knew precisely what they meant.

"You know you've loved," Legolas continued as Eowyn listened intently, "When you realize you've made him an integral part of your future. And then when you reach that future and look back, you've also given him your most memorable pasts. Lovers own your unforgettable past and your foreseeable future. You know you've loved when you effectively see that somehow, you've decided you were incomplete after all."

Gimli stared at the man's hands again. The spaces between his fingers were filled up by the elf's digits. Even in Legolas' fevered sleep, the elf clutched back with all of his might.

It was a funny thing, dreaming about one's memories.

Their eyes were staring at him as he walked. The empty gazes were dead, but why did it seem as if they followed? He'd stand here and they were looking straight at him. And then he'd stand there and it was the same.

What do you look at? Legolas wondered, his heart thundering in his chest. He walked the rocky ground littered by the empty gazes, the homeless faces, the distorted bodies tightened by the grip of death inescapable, of his fallen kin.

We're not supposed to be here, he thought achingly, that is why you're all dead. This is not our world anymore. This is not our time. This is not our battle…

And I'm not supposed to be alive, he realized, for I belong to you, old, fallen friends. Is that why you stare?

His mouth was murmuring absent-minded prayers for the dead. He wanted his heart to feel the words, but it was preserving itself; to feel what he feared he might feel can choke him, and kill him.

I belong to you, he thought, Is that why you stare?

He thought perhaps one of the bodies had blinked at him in reply. He stepped back, aghast. He gasped and fell to his knees on the bloody ground. The wound on his side had torn hours ago, when they were still besieged by the dark forces, but it hurt like hellfire now. He crawled to the blinking elf he thought to be dead.

But it had been a dream, perhaps. For the soldier was very much dead. The wound was burning. Legolas reached over to touch the fallen elf's neck and feel for a pulse with hands that shook both in hurt and in anxiety. The elf was dead and staring at him. Still, the wound was burning.

He pushed off the ground in an effort to rise. But his legs would not hold him, and he fell to his hands and knees with a grunt; the jolt to the ground was making the wound unbearable. His arms shook. They failed beneath him too, and he lowered himself to the cold, cold ground. The rock was slick with mud and blood beneath his cheek. He found himself face-to-face with a fallen elf, and he fancied they must have been staring at each other.

I belong to you, he thought.

I belong to the dead

But Eomer came and squatted before him, forehead creased in worry as he called, "Master elf?"

Legolas opened his mouth to reply, but then it might have taken him longer than Eomer had the patience to wait, so he was unceremoniously hauled to his feet and taken away from the death fields.

A man had torn him from his kin, and the glorious escape of death. Eomer wouldn't be the first to do so.

'I belong to the dead,' his eyes opened, and he said this softly in his native tongue, just before his breath hitched and his body shook, tense with pain and the desperate desire for release of the spirit it imprisoned. His eyes took on an empty gaze. He was there but not quite, and he was fleeing further.

'No,' Aragorn said to the elf, quite desperately, 'No. Legolas. Please. You belong here. You belong with us. You belong with me.'

The elf blinked, and after a long, quiet moment, he calmed. His eyes focused, and searched, and settled on the adan's desperate, silver gaze.

'Say…' Legolas whispered, 'Say it again…'

The adan had an aversion to being told what to do. His eyes watered in joy and relief, and his lips quirked to a smile. But he kept quiet. And the elf smiled too, albeit wearily.

'Stay,' Aragorn implored him.

'Yes,' murmured the elf.

'Swear it,' Aragorn ordered.

'I promise,' Legolas said, his gaze searching, 'I promise.'

'Good,' Aragorn nodded, tightening his grip on the elf's hand. Legolas fell back to sleep, but this time his eyes were open in the usual elvish fashion. Relieved, Aragorn turned toward the window. It was now deep into the night. He glanced at the dwarf, sitting beside him.

Gimli was looking at him with a thoughtful expression on his weathered face. The dwarf did not know a word of Elvish, so he certainly did not know exactly what it was the elf and man had said to each other. But then again, they hadn't said anything specific or explicit, had they? So it hadn't been about the words, not really. It had been about their tones and their faces. It had been about their entwined hands and their searching eyes. It had been about nearly losing it all, just as their holy value was discovered. And one didn't need a decent grasp of Elvish to understand any of that.

Aragorn braced himself for what the dwarf might say.

"He looks better," Gimli said softly.

To be continued…