From the very moment of his birth, Aragorn had been trained to use his voice properly. Before he ever knew of his lineage, he was being learned in all the languages of Middle Earth, the cultures and races and customs. Elrond had brought him into the healing halls, showed him the ways of a healer, how they should act, what they should say. He was educated in medicines and maladies, yes, but also in mannerisms. How one speaks to an ill patient or to a fearful companion. How to speak to others of your status, as well as those above and below it.

And yet, despite all that he was taught, years spent studying and practising, achieving and erring, he could not think of a single other word to shout other than "Mahal!" as Legolas collapsed into his chest. If he'd had even a hairsbreadth of attention free, he might have imagined Elladan commenting offhand about how appalling it was that their brother spoke dwarvish before elvish.

Come now, dwarvish really? Surely we taught you more curses than that, Estel. No Cirdan's Beard? Not even a rabê or pellopë? No Aranrúth Bite or Point-ear?

Legolas was utterly limp in his urgent hold, eyes shuttered halfway and distant. Tremors surge through the elf's muscles and Aragorn is forced to tighten his grip.

"Mellon nin, speak to me! What has happened?" What could work so swiftly and potently in the blood of an elf?

But there is no answer from Legolas and so the man gazes about their surroundings, as if they could provide answers. They do not but he can see no threat. The glade they are in will keep them safe for the eve and Aragorn is loath to move Legolas without determining what has taken him.

"Legolas, mellon nin, can you hear me?"

The elf shifts in his arms, keening moans escaping his lips. "So loud. Like a hundred horses in my ears."

Aragorn's eyes search again but he hears naught but silence. The trees scream only into elven ears, cries that centuries of forest fires, blight, axes, and lightning strikes dare not compare to.

It is the elmscream, Legolas knows it. The Silvan tell stories of it, of how the endless lamenting calls drove some elves who heard it to madness. Of the pain the trees felt, of the ways the curse consumes a tree from root to tip, each branch inevitably falling victim on its own. It is said to be a death so cruel that even the great ent in the southern lands fear it. And here he was in the middle of it all. A lone wood-elf, extraordinarily gifted in the art of treespeak, surrounded by that which his kin call an abomination.

Aragorn hums a discordant note, dark brows pinching. His eyes once more search the clearing for advice, something that might help him. Suddenly digging through his pack, he tears a roll of bandages into pieces and forms two into little wads, stuffing them in Legolas' delicate ears. "Is that better?"

The elf nods, though he doesn't look as though he believes it. The man lifts him from the ground and settles down against a rock in the centre of the glade, as far from the trees as they can manage. The rustle of leaves grows in intensity with each hour and Aragorn holds Legolas to him as the elf seizes from pain and grief. It is a most horrendous night and the feeling of absolute helplessness, witnessing his friend suffer so intensely without any reprieve, only deepens the mire.

Legolas does not sleep, how could he, but the strain has taken its toll and he slumps weakly against the man's chest in the early dawn. No matter how much he tries to stir his friend, he cannot get him to respond.

So instead, Aragorn hoists the insensate elf's arm over his shoulders, "Come on, Legolas, we've got to keep walking."