Truly, I meant to post this when I was practically giddy. Now I can't remember why I was giddy except for the fact that I had finished my college entrance essays (my mom's stopped fussing at me to write them, so I count it a double blessing), but now I'm busy just trying to convince myself I'm not too tired to post. It's not quite working. Hehe.
Oh! Did everybody see my new summary? Better, right? *nods hopefully* Right? Lol. Okay. Anyway, responses to all your wonderful reviews are at the bottom and you're quite free to ramble in your reviews if you like. I must be really odd, but I actually truly enjoy reading whatever you have to say, related to my story or not.
And now, on to the story.
Chapter 7
The grass that had withered in the face of winter's chill crackled dryly underfoot, a pale sickly green color that spoke naught of the life the grass had known until cold and ice drove it away. It poked at the lad's bare feet, alternating between whispery tickles and sharp pain when he stepped upon them wrong. Had the boy's mother been around, she likely would have had a fit at the thought of her boy running across the lands in the full of winter barefoot. As it was, she never had need to worry over it ever again.
Young Sairen's mother had met her end at the hands of a group of ruthless men that were rumored to stay in the Blue Mountains south of Rohan. They had come up from their haunt and troubled about the lands, poking mischief and causing trouble. For some reason, they had taken after some of the children, and she would not abide that. She was never given time to regret anything, for within moments she was dead, and Sairen was transfered to the care of his uncle, his father having passed early in the year when Easterlings had dared to attack the south village. No one was sure how they had made it so far.
None of these things, though, bothered the red-haired youth. It had been months before, and with the resiliency of a child, he had managed to put them behind him. Now, he focused on what he had heard on the far plains not moments before.
A man on a dark brown horse rode up from the south, coming from the direction of the mountains, dressed in a dark green cloak of Rohan make, but there was something about his manner that led one to believe he was not kind nor given to light-hearted chatter as was often the wont of the Rohirrim.
He was met in the middle of an empty plain, a little over two dozen feet from where Sairen crouched just ouf of sight in a stand of tall grasses he had been playing in long before anyone approached, by thirteen men on horseback. Whether the boy would have run or not, they stood too near for him to dare.
Any thoughts of flight were erased from his mind when they started to speak. "Are you ready to carry out the Master's bidding?"
"What he want us to do, snivel brains?" one of the thirteen demanded, sounding angry.
A glare was the response, but apparently whatever "the Master" wanted, it did not including him getting in a fight with these men, and glare was all he did. "There are two beings who might come this way: a man and an elf. They are wanted, dangerous folk with no business intruding in these lands. You should drive them out. If you do, the reward will be handsome."
"Why can't we just kill them, if they're so dangerous?" another man asked.
"Because the Master does not want them dead," the lone man retorted. He turned his horse back the way he had come and twisted to look at them over his shoulder. "See that they head south."
With that, he kicked his horse sharply and rode away, fading into the distance. The men grumbled amongst themselves and Sairen listened with wide eyes as they discussed what they thought of this "Master's" demands, but eventually all fell quiet.
One man spoke, "Let's go wait for these visitors so we can get this over with. If the 'Master' wants them alive, then they'll be alive." Short, disgruntled nods preceeded a fast retreat and the men kicked up dust as they rode away.
Sairen was not sure what the meeting meant, nor exactly what it had been about, but he knew his uncle would want to know. That man had come from the south, and he always wanted to know about the men from the south.
He jumped a small fence and raced across the yard, jumping a fence at the other side, and sliding between two poles of another. He moved quickly between the horses who were stabled in the pen, and emerged on the other side. The hard packed ground he raced over slapped at his feet, and now he had to dodge people, too. He swerved easily, not overly concerned about missing people, and most knew enough to get out of the way of careless little boys.
Baskets with fruits or vegetables piled inside were moved out of the way at the last moment as he rushed by and stern glares were directed at his retreating back before each man or woamn going about their daily chores returned to their duties.
He pounded up a short flight of three stairs, and pushed open the door at the top with little care for what it hit. It slammed into the wall with a crash and the individuals inside looked up, frowns on their faces.
"Sairen, boy! Stop all that racket!" an irritated voice yelled.
"Sorry, papa!" he called, then turned and closed the door, pushing the heavy wood back into place. The men had returned to their discussion and ignored him, but he walked up to his uncle anyway and tugged at his sleeve. "I've news, papa."
"Boy--"
"Men from the south, papa."
Everyone went quiet. "What is it, son?"
"A man from the south rode up and spoke to a group of men, said two strangers would be coming into town and that they were dangerous and should be driven out but that the master in the south didn't want them killed. Said they should see to it and would be rewarded."
Siirl, the boy's uncle, leaned forward with interest. "Did he now? Well, that is interesting. These men, what did they look like?"
The boy frowned. "There were thirteen of them and they were on horseback. Most had short beards and their hair was darker than ours. They wore dark cloaks, and spoke with a strange accent."
Siirl's eyes gleamed. "Outsiders. And they're planning some trouble, see. Well thank you, me boy. We'll take care of it sure 'nough. If these here boys want them alive. We'll just have to see that they're dead."
*~*~*~*~*
Legolas held Aragorn close and continued rubbing at his arms and legs, helping to warm the man back up. The shivers were getting worse, and he was not sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but it was not the lifeless stillness of moments ago so he was more than willing to take it as a good sign.
"What should I do, mellon nin? How can I help?" He hoped Aragorn was coherent enough to talk, and he had a vague idea that keeping the young man focused would help him. He ignored the voice in his mind that said he just wanted him to talk because he did not like the human's silence. There was more to it than that.
"Mm. . . ." Aragorn murmured, his eyes fluttering a bit as they tried to remain closed. "Cold."
"I know you're cold, Strider. How can I warm you you up?"
"Nee' warmth. . . ."
That caused the elf to frown. Was that not what he was trying to give? He was trying, there was just not all that much that could be done with so little in such conditions as they found themselves. "Like what?" Legolas asked, more anxious to keep the young man talking than convinced he would learn anything useful.
"Tea," mumbled the human--at least that was what it sounded like, and the elf prince frowned, then raised his eyebrows in realization. Tea, of course. Why had he not thought of that? Was that not what was always given for every ache and ill. Amusement danced around the prince's thoughts. When in doubt, serve tea. It was a ludicrous notion, but if it worked. . . .
The human's head lolled to the side, and his eyes closed. Legolas shook him. "Don't go to sleep, Strider. I need you to stay awake." His eyes fluttered, a spasmatic movement that briefly revealed his silver eyes, but the lids remained stubbornly closed. He shook him harder. "Come on, stubborn Dúnadan, I know you can do better than that," he tried teasing. "I mean, just think of all the trouble you give your father when he wants to put you to sleep. Don't tell me you're just going to give in now?"
"Diff'ent," came the lackluster response of his friend, but it was still a response.
"How's it different?" Legolas prodded, lifting himself up and craning his neck to get a better view of his surroundings. If he could just make the fire, everything would be so much easier. To do that, of course, he needed wood. Dry wood. And there was no wood near the river, wet or dry.
"Jus' is."
"No, you have to tell me. Spell it out."
"Elves no' so dense."
The elf prince laughed, amused in spite--or perhaps because--of his worry. "Humor me, mellon nin. I would hear your voice."
No reply came, and Aragorn was silent so long Legolas feared he had fallen asleep, so he looked back at his friend and found silver eyes regarding him steadily amid half-lidded eyes, the most aware he had seen them since he had managed to wake his friend up. That had not been very long, admittedly, but it did his heart good to see. A badly trembling hand reached up and clasped one of Legolas', stilling his movement as he gaze it a sqeeze.
"I'm not going anywhere, mellon nin." His voice was soft and raspy, but steady. A violent shiver wracked his frame, and he tried to pull him on himself, pushing his legs into Arduevui's side. "I'll be here. I won't leave."
Legolas smiled down at the man, and could tell that his smile was shaky. "I know you won't. I have to go get firewood if I'm to make tea." Aragorn nodded. The look in his eyes said he had known that before it had occurred to the prince. Legoals stood. "Arduevui, keep him awake."
The horse whinnied and the man frowned. Carefully, the elf disentangled himself from the young man and stood, nearly laughing as his faithful steed began licking at the ranger's face. Aragorn squirmed, trying to get out of her reach, but could not manage it wrapped as he was, and settled in to endure in silence. The elf raced away into the trees to the east in search of wood suitable for a fire. He hoped he would be able to find some. He hoped it would not take too long. He did not like leaving Aragorn alone when he was not sure he was well.
*~*~*~*~*
Warm, wet, sticky saliva from a horse's mouth was not a favorite substance of Aragorn's, and he did not appreciate receiving it in abundance. Even as he could understand his friend's concern--his would likely be the same were their positions reversed--he did not appreciate the elf siccing his horse on him. There had to be another way.
His face scrunched as the felt the creatures hot, unbearably moist breath on his face, but he dared not open his mouth to protest the treatment. As much as he hated it, he really did not want a mouthful of the disgusting substance for his troubles. He turned his head away so he could breath without inhaling it, and winced through his shivers as the horse found the rather nasty gash on his head, the saliva causing it to sting momentarily.
It was a testament to how worried his friend was that he failed to note the rather vivid scrathes he was sure adorned his back and hand and head. How he had missed the head injury was beyond the ranger's comprehension, in fact. He was also rather convinced that a fair amount of incredibly colorful bruises adorned his torso, or would soon if they did not already. He almost winced again as he considered the level of mothering these injuries would incur from Legolas when he finally calmed down enough to be concerned over them.
Aragorn laughed, a small chuckled that turned into a fit as the absurdity of that observation made itself known. He leaned forward and buried his face in the horse's fur to escape his licking tongue and in an effort to ease the fire that traveled across his chest. He choked, and laughed all the harder, his body no longer shaking from the cold but from his amusement.
He had never, ever thought that Legolas would need to calm down to notice cuts and bruises. Usually, such injuries caused the exact opposite reaction, and it was likely that the elf would calm down only to be sent into a frenzy of worry again. Despite that that thought was not nearly so funny as the original thought before reason decided to add its two cents, Aragorn could not help his laughter. Not even when it hurt. And it hurt bad.
Did that make him machosistic? He thought it might. Or maybe it's just the concussion. Just the concussion. He snorted. He must be the only person in all of Middle-earth who could think of broken bones or concussions, contusions, and bloody welts as only or just. There had to be a law against that somewhere, did there not? Sanity had to protect people from such thoughts, did it not? He supposed if it did it was failing in its trust.
Ardevui snorted in agitation and nudged the back of his head with her nose. The horse did not know what to make of his behavior, and was concerned it was not something her master would be pleased with. This human was rather odd, but even that did not seem to cover his current behavior.
Aragorn rolled over lazily and looked up at the horse through somewhat dazed eyes. He was feeling quite comfortable at the moment, pleasantly warm and fuzzy, and his head was making his vision swim somewhat nauseatingly, blurring the outlines of the horse. What actually sounded really good right now was sleeping. Closing his eyes and drifting in a world with no borders and no demands rather appealed to him, and his eyelids drooped to half mast.
Was there a reason he could not go to sleep? He thought there might be, but the thought was hazy and difficult to hold onto. What was so wrong with sleeping? He hurt, and his father always said sleep was good for him when he was hurt. He frowned, his brow furrowing in consternation, and blinked his eyes back open. He would not give in to oblivion until he found his answer. He was determined not to drift away until he had it. For now, at least.
He turned his head and closed his eyes as Ardevui returned to her ministrations, guarding his eyes against her assault. Annoyance quickly faded to the back of his mind as the warm, sticky, wetness vanished in the rythmic predictability of the lapping. Any chance he had at keeping his eyes opened vanished, and his good intentions fell by the way side. It felt so good to simply float. Surely he could just rest his eyes for a moment, just let the vile sun that glared at him be subdued by the dark press of his lashes. It was only for a moment. . . .
The horse did not agree. She whinnied a loud protest (loud to his ringing ears, at least) and hit him firmly about the head with her nose, pushing it unyieldingly to grab his attention from the quiet drift of sleep.
Pain, chased by irritation, flowed through the young man and he rolled over, moving away from the heat of horse flesh and close press that constricted him. At least, that was the idea. His movement, though, became no easier the further he went, and the constricting cloth moved with him. Damn it, Legolas! I am not a child, he thought in frustrated fury.
And all at once he remembered why he could not go to sleep, could not release himself to the comforting embrace of the emotionless void: he had promised Legolas. He sighed, a soft, weary sound that spoke eloquently of his fatigue and his pain, his lack of strength, but the young man was stubborn and noble to a fault. If he had given his word, his word he would keep.
Thus it was that he rolled again, despite his bodies desperate pleas for stillness, and manuevered, twisting and wriggling (also against his body's wishes), until he managed to free his hands and push himself into a sitting position. Once there, he found it an interesting experience. The world swayed listlessly about him, a peaceful swirl that reminded him of a young maiden standing in a sea of flowers and twirling slowly to more fully feel the sun on her face and the cool breeze of spring through the air, though it was a feeling he would have prefered to experience differently, as it now made him feel distinctly ill. He hated being ill.
The colors around him, not incredibly varied to begin with, blurred together in a menagerie of streaks of varying shade, like paint slung onto a canvas with little care as to whether it streaked or overlapped, left wherever it fell without guidance by the artist. That was familiar, somehow, and if he had doubted he had a concussion before, he knew it with utter certainty now. Had he not felt the wet grass beneath his fingers, he might have believed he floated in the spinning blurred world, and was exceeding grateful for the reassurance of firm ground beneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut woozily, and stilled his breathing a moment before taking as deep a breath as he dared and slowly let it back out. He would not be sick.
Movement registered in his mind, movement not his own, and he heard something large shifting beside him. His bleary mind obediently, if sluggishly, informed him it was a horse, and, more specifically, that it was Legolas' horse, Ardevui. He wondered what ever had possessed his friend to give the horse that name. It was odd, even for an odd horse of an odd elf, but that was not important. What was, was that he had no idea where his horse was, and he frowned, then opened his eyes and looked around.
The scenery had, miraculously, decided to rearrange itself into a tapestry he more or less understood, and his eyes came to rest on the river before him, its water raised and angry in her bed. He blinked, and was transported back to the fall, remembering the icy surprise, the fear of his horse as it shrieked at the fire that suddenly crashed to the earth from the sky.
Another blink chased his silver eyes from view, this time longer than the last, and Aragorn sighed in resignation. He knew where Hodoer was. Or where he would likely go. His faithful steed would return to Rivendell, and there await his return, or come with anyone who left to see what ill had befallen his rider. Not that he thought anyone would come, no one knowing where to look, and not that he was willing to wait. His mind was not so fuzzy as to release him from the knowledge that he was still seeking his brothers, nor the fear that they were in grave peril. Even worse was the dread knowledge that he was the cause of their ill fortune, even as he could not fathom why that would be so now. Why now?
He sighed, then brought up a hand to rub wearily at even tireder eyes. This was all so much more complicated than he felt capable of dealing with right now. He was tired and he hurt and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, a desire his body agreed with, and he could induge neither himself nor his body until his friend returned bearing firewood. Despite everything, he started laughing, not even knowing why, but finding something about his situation incredibly funny. He was sure it was the concussion.
That made it funnier.
Aragorn shifted slightly to ease the ache of his position and noticed something that had eluded his attention previously: his clothes, which by definition were his, were not on him. He frowned, then shifted again so he could pull the cloak that had been wrapped around him closer about his shoulders, the chill of the wind sending shivers up his spine and pinching his flesh into prickled bumps. It was vaguely amusing that even the flesh tried to hide and pull together when one was cold, mirroring the acts of the body when it curled in upon itself. He really needed to do something about this concussion induced hilarity of his. It made his thoughts all together too disturbingly flighty.
But the realization that he was not wearing his clothes made another fact abundantly clear: he had no supplies. With the fleeing of his horse, he had no food, no cloaks, no tunics or pants, nor any of the other necessities that had been strapped to Hodoer's saddle. He groaned, then flopped back down on his back.
A hiss sounded through tightly clenched teeth, and his back arched, impossibly tense, as his body registered its disapproval. Then he gasped in a deep breath and held very still, willing his mind to forget the pain and release it; wishing, even, for the childish turn of his thoughts brought on by the concussion as they contained no pain. His eyes pressed tightly together as if he could shut out the pain by not seeing anything, the instinctive reaction of a child that never seemed to fade with maturity, no matter who the man was, and slowly the pain faded away as the insult to his pained form faded with the passage of time.
With the passage of that pain, his body eased and the bowstring tension left his body. What remained was his newfound realization of his problem. His clothes were wet and he had no waiting pair that could be used. Legolas' clothes were not an option as the elf was too short (admittedly the least problematic option, as there was only an inche difference in their height), too thin, and too lithe for the ranger to wear his clothes. The other way around would have been an option, ridiculous though it would look, but this was not possible. He would have to wear his wet clothes.
That was not something he looked forward to. He had already been wet and not dry and was now relatively warm, he had no desire to reverse his fortune. Plus, he was injured, and tired, and the weather was cold. Legolas would have a fit. Elrond would have had a fit if he knew, and Aragorn could feel the approach of a cold, could practically see its sharp, dark claws digging into the soft ground as it stalked closer, low to the ground and prepared to pounce, prepared to strike hard and fast where he was most vulnerable and wrench from him even the semblance of control, and leave him helpless in unwilling bondage--
"Aragorn?"
The ranger jumped, startled, automatically whirling to remove his back from the perceived threat, his head lurching dizzyingly with the abrupt motion, and his momentum carried him around full circle, landing him on his back when he had meant to catch himself on his hands. Fire engulfed his senses once more and his head fell back, striking the ground an unyielding blow and lightning flashed before his eyes, only this time free of thunder. His breath left him in an uncontrolled rush, and he floundered helplessly, lost in pain, his mind crying out even as he was nearly sure no sound passed his lips.
Somewhere, he thought he heard something or somethings clatter to the ground. Then he felt two strong hands on his shoulders, grounding him past the pain, and he dragged air into starved, struggling lungs, his shaky breaths strained even to his own ears as sounds echoed loudly. His hands came up blindly to instinctively clasp his friend's forearms in his hands, and he registered the renewed ache in his fingers and he gladly focused on that as it diminished the fire that rage in his back.
Slowly, he pried his eyes open. It was like battling an orc captain in a test of strength, but he managed to detach the top lids from the bottom lids. His eyes wanted to follow his lids back into his head, and it was a disorigenting moment when he saw nothing before he realized the problem and forced himself to look out front. When he managed, he saw exactly what he had expected to see: concerned blue eyes, taut face, pressed lips. Legolas searched him closely, making the ranger uncomfortable, so he smiled slightly.
"I stayed," he croaked, surprised by the sound of his own voice, though he probably should not have been.
Legolas smiled back, a measure of relief in his gaze to know his friend could joke. "Are you all right?" he asked back.
"I don't even have my boots." Aragorn frowned. That had not been what he meant to say, not at all.
Blue eyes darted down towards his feet before refocusing on his face, a bit of amusement coloring them. "Well you're just a sorry sight, Ranger. And we haven't even managed to catch up to your brothers yet. At this pace, I do not think you'll make it so far."
"Me neither," admitted the ranger with a sigh, his eyes drifting closed before refocusing on Legolas.
The elf frowned. "Perhaps we should head back to Imladris," he offered after a moment. "Lord Elrond could treat your injuries and I could continue looking for Elladan and Elrohir."
Aragorn's brows drew together, and he tilted his head slightly to the side as if to question Legolas' sanity. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head, Legolas?" he asked, sounding concerned despite the rasping of his voice.
"Aragorn, you are not well. I am admittedly not very knowledgable about how humans get sick, but I would wager being cold, wet, and tired does not help your situation in the least."
"And you would win," the man responded quietly, "but do you honestly expect me to return and let you continue after the twins alone when we both believe they are in serious trouble? Truly, my friend. I had thought you had more sense."
"I wish you did," the elf shot back, not pleased.
Aragorn met his gaze steadily, refusing to back down. He knew Legolas did not want to see him hurt, but he did not wish to see the elf hurt, either, which had started the mess they had just gotten out of a few months prior in the Mountains of Mirkwood. While a part of him still feared being the cause of his friend's pain, a bigger part feared being absent to help if aid was needed. He could not stand the thought of not being there if Legolas needed him, and a somewhat egotistical part of him felt he could help protect the elf better than anyone else, a fact he was pretty sure was not so, but the feeling would not be gainsayed so he did not try.
"We go together, Legolas, or not at all," Aragorn insisted. "If you try to leave me behind, I'll simply follow you, and then what kind of trouble would I be in?"
A somewhat dubious expression marred the prince's face as he asked, "With whom? Whatever foul creatures you managed to cross between Rivendell and Mordor, me, or Lord Elrond?
The ranger chuckled appreciably, and pushed himself up. Looking annoyed, Legolas helped him, his face set in disapproving aggitation that Aragorn knew covered a difference emotion all together. "All of the above?"
An unwilling smile quirked the elf's lips and he shook his head. "Nay, Strider, were you to encounter all three, you would be long past trouble. You would be dead, and it would be hard to say who got you first."
"Granted." He studied the elf a moment, trying to see past the mask his friend wore, now hiding behind a veneer of calm. He knew that calm was fake, but he could not determine if it was fear, anger, or concern that it covered, or perhaps a strange mixture of all three. "Mellon nin, just as you would not have me go alone, I could not stand the same. At least when we are together, we always have the other to drag us back home."
"Well there is that," Legolas agreed, glancing down. Aragorn watched him take a deep breath, as if gathering himself, before he looked back up. A small but true smile pulled at the elf's lips. "I don't know why I bother trying to argue with you, mellon nin."
"I don't know why, either," Aragorn answered with a frown. "Maybe I'll sleep on it." Then he eased himself back down and curled up on his side. His eyes closed and he went still for a long moment, half tempted to truly give in to the allure of sleep, but he could not resist peeking at the elf's reaction, and so opened one eye to peer at him.
Legolas shook his head, exasperated. "Oh, Strider. I don't know what I'll ever do with you."
"Wake me for dinner," he answered, his voice slurring slightly without his leave. He blinked slowly, trying to stay awake, but his eyes did not want to cooperate any more now than they had when he had first tried, and Legolas made no move to try to keep him awake, so it was a battle he destined to lose.
Slowly, his eyes drifted closed and did not open again, the ranger caught in a deep sleep that took away the pain that lingered in his frame.
*~*~*~*~*
Silence slowly settled over the small, improptu camp, and Legolas allowed it, abruptly curtailing his initial impusle to shake the human, letting the vague calm settle in his mind in the hopes it could ease his heart. So much had happened so quickly, and he needed a moment to discharge his anxiety. A task made easier as he watched his friend's breathing slow and deepen, his rest bringing with it ease from pain and discomfort.
A frown marred the elf's fair face, replacing the lines of concern that had begun to ease just moments before. It was somewhat amazing to him that he had nearly forgotten his friend's injuries again, so great was his relief to return and find the human coherent. That the human was injured again was something he could not bear easily, though apparently Aragorn could. He sighed. The ranger cared little for his own safety, he knew, and so long as his friend was not injured would not complain of his injuries unless absolutely necessary. At times like this, he wished it were not so.
With no little bit of irritation, Legolas set about regathering the wood he had dropped mere moments ago and began building a fire. When the first flames jumped among the wood, he glanced at the human. The fire had been meant to make a tea that would warm the young man. Did he need to keep him awake until he was warmed? Did he want to? Blue eyes peered anxiously at the calm face, and he noted a bit of color in the human's cheeks, not deep or sharp enough to be from fever, and his lips were not blue. His breathing was deep, and while slow not so slow as to be a danger. How grumpy would the ranger be if he woke him now? Hesitantly, he decided he would make the tea and wake the young man when it was done.
As he worked, his mind turned to other things, namely supplies. Barely cognizant of the situation as he was, the human was still right, though he had not touched on the situation as well as he might: there were not enough supplies for both of them to continue their journey. It was with dreary resignation that the elf admitted that meant they would need to stop somewhere and procure more. Which also meant going into a human town, most likely, as there were no elven settlements nearby, an enterprise that invited all kinds of trouble in and of itself, but at least there were also no dwarven camps to which they might travel. That, however, still left the traveling. To do that, Aragorn would have to redon his wet clothes. His cold, wet clothes.
The elf sighed, seeming to deflate before pushing himself to his feet and continuing on with the duties that needed to be accomplished before noon turned to night. First and foremost was preparing the tea. To that end, he filled a pot with water and set it over the fire.
The flames lept cheerfully, mesmerizing in their shifting life, reaching to the sky before dropping back, constantly replaced by another, the gentle roar a steady hum against the silence that was only broken by the quiet steps of Ardevui shifting nearby. Sometimes he wished his life were so simple, that he only had to consume fuel and burn brightly as a beacon for others or a provider of warmth for his destiny to be completed. Other times that was far too simplistic for his tastes and he desired something more. Those times were usually followed by some outlandish escapade that inescapably led to a reversion to the former wish.
A small smile pulled at his lips, rueful humor momentarily overcoming his depression before he stood and made his way to the steed that stood obediently nearby. A more genuine smile crept onto his face, then, and he stroked her neck gently. "Hannon le, mellon nin," he whispered. "You're a good friend." She nudged his shoulder with her nose and his smile widened. "I think I can secure you a nice rest for your efforts, my girl. I'll appeal to his conern for others if I have to. You deserve it."
Then he carefully removed the saddle, bridle, and a few small packs from her back and brushed her off as best he could. When he was done, she left him and went to drink from the river before turning her attention to the grasses on the river bank. He watched her for a few minuntes to assure himself that she was taken care of then turned his attention to his friend, who was not.
Other things had been more pressing at the time, and his relief had been great once his friend had woken, but he had not missed and refused to forget Aragorn's injuries. He had seen the angry scratches across the human's back, and the smaller ones over the back of his hand, but it was the contusion on his head that gave the elf the greatest pause and made him most wary of letting the human sleep, never mind the cold. Head injuries he knew about. Deep sleep could slip into too deep sleep and the young ranger would be lost, never to wake up again, but his eyes had not seemed overly dilated or dilated too little, nor was one dilated while the other was pinched so he hoped it was well. If nothing else, he could always wake the young one up every couple of hours, make sure he was still there.
He frowned, then crouched by the bags he had removed and rifled through their contents, searching out the bandages and herbs he carried as a matter of course whenever he traveled with Aragorn. (He knew the ranger had had a similar stash because of him, but that did not matter.) He found them easily, tucked into pouches that were pressed into the mixing bowl, and he pulled them all out before removing a couple of the pouches. The elf took his water bottle and a bit of cloth and knelt by Aragorn's head near the fire.
He checked the tea, and removed it from the fire, letting the bags steep in the scalding water. He glanced between the two for the long minutes it took to complete. When it was ready, he poured a glass and moved over to his friend. The human would not wake fully, but he woke enough for the elf to coax the warm liquid down his throat. Then he eased him back down and wrapped the young man more firmly in the cloaks, easing him nearer the fire. How many times would he need to tend his friend while wet and cold?
Carefully, he brushed Aragorn's hair back, then tried to move the dark strands away from the bloodied cut near his temple. The blood pinned the hair in place, and Legolas poured some of the water into the bowl after dumping the pouches. Then he dabbed the cloth in the water and wiped it across the cut. Red crept over the white but left no perceivable change in the view of the cut. Undaunted, he did it again, continuing his ministrations until the blood was cleared away and his hair free of the sticky embrace.
Finally able to see the true extent of the injury, he breathed a sigh of relief that it looked to be mostly superficial though the skin was tender and a little warm to the touch. Faint touches of red that might have been irritation from his attention touched the edges of the wound, likely nothing, but the elf would take no risks and set to making the paste that would fight infection and lessen inflamation.
When that was accomplished to Legolas' satisfaction, he moved on to Aragorn's other injuries, seeing to them with the same diligent devotion, willingly taking on the duty of caregiver while his friend was indisposed. He set about preparing a simple meal for later, half enjoying the silence, half wishing it would end. It was strange to walk on a razor's edge as he was, but the desire for Aragorn to recover was greater than the need to hear his friend's voice and he let the human sleep on.
Eventually, there was nothing else for him to do, and he could no longer lose himself in simple tasks, finally left alone with his thoughts, exactly where he did not want to be. Thoughts could take dark paths, paths he had no desire to tread here and now. The image of Aragorn, motionless, lifeless, still flashed before his eyes, now alternating with his first sight of the young man upon being led into that cursed cavern months prior with when he had dragged him from the river. Both experiences were different, but both had stilled his heart with the same fear, and it was a concern he found difficult to let go.
That Aragorn would die was a given, something that had to be because he was mortal, an inescapable fact that never left his mind, even if it was not foremost in his thoughts. For all that he was afraid it was something he would never be able to accept, never mind that he had believed he had accepted it only to be shown once more that such acceptance yet eluded him, he managed to push it to the back of his mind most of the time. Perhaps it would be different when the man was called by old age. Yet that was a faint hope, for the elf suspected it would still seem too short a time.
He shook his head. That was not now. There was no use dwelling on such thoughts when that was not the present, not what he faced. With a sigh, Legolas sat down to take up watch, unconsciously mirroring the position he had held just a few days prior, the last time the human had sat under his care.
He cast his eyes to the west in desperation. Sundown was approaching. It was nearly time to get Aragorn up.
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Review responses:
Aromene: Ah! That river! Yes, it's a wonderful plotline...subplot, whatever. Lol. A gray-haired elf would be something to see, actually. Hmm, perhaps longer than you think. There's a break in angst coming up.
Nerfenherder: Hmm, I think Legolas has it pretty well in hand, but you may ask him if you like. *g* lol. Oh, Star Wars was my first love. I sat down and dialogued the three originals. My brothers make fun of me because I can quote them from memory. Lol. I prefer Aragorn, too. I think it makes me neglect Legolas. I shall have to change that. Hmm. Oh! Rambling's fine. I love listening to rambling. I'm very good at it. *g*
Grumpy: lol. Not the way I'd chose to take a bath. Had he had a chioce, I don't think he would have chosen it, either. Ehm, it's one group that's looking for him, but one guy whose making the storm. It gets fairly complicated.
NaughtyNat: lol. Don't say that. Art of....It reminds me of school. Had to read a poem called "One Art" about the art of losing.... *shudders* I hate poetry and don't really know why. Lol. Tell me how she reacts when you do! I watch Friends some, mostly just recently, and I seem to have a vague memory of something like that, so maybe I saw it and maybe I'm just making myself think I did, but--lol. You're right. *sigh* I so need to see ROTK again. I only saw it once, but I'm pretty sure I'll just have to wait until it comes out on DVD and then simply make up for lost time. I hope you make it through False Reality this time; I have the awful feeling I should revise it. *frowns vaguely* lol. Yes, asking for it, but--he was already in trouble when they said it. So noone caught the irony. *sigh* *smirks* I had the same thought when I was writing it. I swear sometimes I'm worse than all these bad guys about trying to cause them pain....*g* lol. Well, you find that out next chapter, actually.
Rangergirl: lol. Not to mention he was already in trouble, right? Yes, I'd say his fate is definitely sealed. Hm, not a ranger. I even said it: "...dressed so like a ranger that it faded into the shadows, though ranger it was not." Hehe. Why does everyone want to assume darkly cloaked people are rangers? *looks bemused* You'll understand who it is soon enough, I think. Hmm, well, there is Aragorn torture, and as it is still in the future, that would mean it is coming up; but unless I miss my guess, you mean is it coming up soon....And that's a bit harder. Hm.....Well, in a manner of speaking. I can't tell, though--it'll spoil the surprise. *smirks*