Mae govannen, mellon nin!
Two chapters have content warnings (both are very brief and non-graphic) and are clearly marked as such. If you find them distressing, please let me know and I can provide an alternative.
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"Aragorn, I do not like it here. The trees, they are not happy to see me."
"Legolas, this is the swiftest way back to Rivendell. Otherwise we must go along the river Bruinen and with spring floods near, I dare not travel so close to its banks. Merely because a few trees do not extend their finest greetings to a wood-elf does not mean we should spend three days slogging through mud as high as your pointed ears. I wish to be home, a cup of good elvish wine in hand, and my weary feet resting before the hearth."
"You wish to be home to your Lady Arwen."
"And what of it if that is also guiding my steps? Nay, is there not someone in Mirkwood to catch the prince's eye?"
Legolas' eyes dart away from the man, "There has been no time for folly, not when patrols come back more blood than skin."
Aragorn sobers swiftly, hearing the undertones of despair in his friend's voice, "I am sorry, Legolas. I do not mean to make light of that which shadows your every breath."
"It is no matter, Aragorn. It is my fault for taking offence to that which was obviously jest."
"Regardless, I will ensure the kitchens have a pot of mushroom stew and loaf of stalwart bread on the table to gladden your heart when we arrive. It is the least I can do for dragging you along."
They had been gone a mere fortnight in Sleekhollow, a mannish town south of the Trollshaws, following reports of unrest there. Considering it to be an advantageous exercise in diplomacy (and, Aragorn thought secretly, a chance to shove off a less-than-rousing responsibility), Elrond had instructed his foster son to go. Legolas had been staying with them since harvesttime as the mountain passes were too perilous in winter for a return journey to Mirkwood. The wood-elf was exasperating the others of the Homely House with his peculiar Silvan behaviours and Aragorn had not desired to travel alone. So with a heavily-handed suggestion from the elflord to "get Legolas away from Glorfindel before something happens," they had set out.
An accidental burning of a storehouse was found to be the root of the distress. The resulting shortage of grain and the fear of hunger in the cold drove villagers to the point of desperation. Despite living within Elrond's purview, the people of Sleekhollow were not particularly cordial to the accompanying wood-elf and Legolas had spent much of his time there on edge. He had been on the receiving end of hostility previously and wished dearly to avoid it here - for his sake and Aragorn's. After assuring that the community's request for aid would be fairly voiced to the elflord and that a shipment of grain would arrive in a few days' time, the two gladly bid the stone cottages goodbye.
The steady warmth of spring had not yet graced the lands and both wore heavy cloaks pulled tight against them as they trekked across the sodden fields towards Rivendell. The muddy roads were too dangerous for horses so they travelled by foot. While their task had not proved the most arduous, both desired to be back within the halls of the House, dry and well-rested.
They walk through the wood mostly in silence, the constant pattering of leaves lending an offhand cadence to their steps. Aragorn finds he does not mind the quiet, eyes distant with thoughts of Arwen, of home, and of the nearing heat of summer. He has always enjoyed the warm months the most, leaping from sunbaked rocks into the cool river water with his brothers and eating summer melon beneath a shade tree. These few months he has spent together with Legolas however, have been some of the most merry of his life and he rues the day the elf must return home. No matter how much he and his brothers (and secretly, Lord Elrond) beg him to stay, the prince is needed at his father's side as the forests of Mirkwood grow more sinister with each passing day.
The man is no fool, he can see how the constant battle weighs heavily on his friend. It is said that one can tell the age of an elf by the glint in their eyes. If that were true, then he would think Legolas to be ten millennia older, despite knowing of the elf's real age. He is a captain, a master archer, and their prince. No amount of imploring from the man has ever, or will ever, sway him to send others to die in his place. Aragorn knows this wholly, holding the same morals in his own chest and yet they have the same argument each year, the man needing to voice his thoughts before he should lose his closest friend. But more recently, doubt and exhaustion have started to claw at the elf and in the dark of night, he has given voice to them before Aragorn. Legolas is on edge at nearly every moment and his already infrequent sleep is troubled by friends slain and futures bloodsoaked.
It is because of the depth and gravity of these thoughts, so far from where they started with his dear maiden, that Aragorn's attention is taken away from the matter before him. He does not see how Legolas' gait falters or how the branches above them rustle impatiently but no wind strikes their faces.
A growl of hunger from his own belly has him returning to his body and he opens his mouth to call for a rest. A pace ahead of him, the elf stumbles, instinctually reaching out to catch himself on a tree but the moment his hand makes contact, he jerks back as though burned.
"Master Elf, have you dipped into your cups without sharing?" Aragorn jabs but his friend remains quiet. "Legolas, are you well?"
The prince makes it only a little farther, each step more erratic than the last before he wails, dropping to his knees in the mud. Hands release his beloved bow in order to press over his ears with a clear desperation for silence.
Aragorn darts forward, fearing an attack, a trap, something. But he finds none; only his friend in apparent agony amidst the decay and damp of a thawing forest.
"Legolas, Legolas! Can you hear me?" He attempts to pull a lithe hand away from a pointed ear but the archer's strength keeps it there. "What is the matter? Are you ill? Legolas, speak to me!"
When pale eyes open, there is the hazy wash of delirium across them. Has sickness swept him so quickly? Is it a poison? Something from the town?
"The trees, Estel, the trees."
"What of the trees? Legolas-" The man grips his friend's shoulders, "what of the trees?"
"They scream." And the elf topples listlessly forward.