Content warning for this chapter: someone attempting to cut themselves with a knife. It is brief and not graphic but please take notice of it if that may be something upsetting to you.
For three days, they keep this routine. Forcing what little athelas and water he can manage into Legolas' lips, hauling him through the dense forest, speaking as if the elf would interrupt at any moment. Maybe talking to him will distract him from whatever he hears. Their progress is excruciatingly slow and they are barely halfway through the wood - at least as far as Aragorn can tell. The stars cannot be seen through the canopy and sunlight is sparse and dappled. They cannot return to the river, Aragorn cannot risk the threat of a flood, not with Legolas in this condition.
On the night of the third, exhaustion finally defeats his anxiety and he slips into unbidden sleep.
A noise stirs him awake and he can see Legolas rummaging through his pack, quiet panting escaping dry lips. The man sits bolt upright, the elf had not stirred all day, let alone been cognizant enough for such movement, "Legolas? Are you awake?"
The elf pulls a short knife from a leather sheath, one he used primarily for eating and carving. And before the man's eyes, he lifts it up to his pointed ear. Aragorn dives forward to catch Legolas' arm before he can cut himself. The look he is given makes his heart stutter; it is one so full of pleading anguish that for a single moment, Aragorn considers letting go.
"Legolas, give me the blade." The hand remains clenched. "Mellon nin, please."
"Hurts, 'stel. Need t'make it stop."
Aragorn places both hands around the elf's wrist, applying pressure to get him to release the weapon. "I know it hurts, Legolas, but this is not the way to stop it. I can give you herbs to help you sleep instead."
The elf finally surrenders, his thin hand dropping listlessly to his side. "Sleeping doesn't make it stop, only quieter… like muffled from another room."
"You can hear them even in elven dreams?"
"No dreams, only screaming."
Aragorn's voice is drowned speechless by horror washing upon him like the tide. Whatever has captured his friend, driven him to such fits of desperation, will not even allow him respite in sleep. Fatigue made Aragorn's decision to enter the forest rash and impatient and now his dearest friend had been left to suffer as a result. He moves to sit behind the elf and pull him in close. "I am sorry, mellon nin. This should not be your burden to bear."
Curled in the man's lap, Legolas sobs like a child who has just lost his entire world. Aragorn changes his mind - this is the most horrendous night. What is he to do with an elf - too lost from sensation to move and of such unsound mind as to willingly harm himself - stuck in the midst of this accursed wood? Once more, he wishes the warm halls of Imladris were not so far away. With one arm still around his friend, he buries the blade deep in his own pack. As he withdraws his hand, fingertips catch a thin metal chain that he recognises by touch alone.
The thin whistle, wrought of fine silver and etched with a tengwar prayer to Elbereth, was a gift from Elrond the day Aragorn was old enough to venture around Rivendell unaccompanied.
This was used by elven warriors of old. Should you ever need help, blow long and hard into it. You will not be able to hear it but have faith that we will. And like the Mûmakil, your brothers and I will come rushing to you. Do not be afraid to use it, there is no shame in a warrior calling for aid. Even the men of Gondor use a horn made of bone that can be heard across their entire realm. Perhaps one day, you will greet me with it resting upon your breast.
There had only been a few distinct moments he could remember using it, mainly when injury had forced his hand. Against his chest, Legolas whines. He does not know any prayers or lullabies of the Silvan to comfort his friend, he does not even know if they have any. Stroking his finger over the lettering, Aragorn recites the prayer - one which he knows by heart. And with a long breath, he blows the whistle. It is soundless to him but with hope only a candleflame in his chest, he must believe in the power of its call. Tightening his arms around Legolas, as though his strength alone would protect the elf from all harm, Aragorn settles in to wait.
Please, Elbereth, let my name be not in vain. Let that which Elrond calls me, Estel, hold Legolas to the east. Let my hope alone keep him from straying beyond the sea.
The arriving dawn is far too beautiful, soft and gentle elanor-oranges mocking the sombre air felt below. Aragorn is awoken to a lance of sunlight directly in his face through a narrow gap in the canopy. Legolas' arms have found their way around him, face pressed into his collarbone. He is still asleep, eyes clenched in distress and golden hair tangled. Heaving a sigh that feels much too old for his bones, Aragorn shakes his friend.
"Legolas, you must wake. I do not know if my brothers have heard my call and we must keep moving regardless."
But he does not shift and the man's own shoulders ache from supporting - dragging - the elf for days.
"Please, mellon nin, we must move. We must get you to my father."
With a pained grimace, he heaves the elf up who mumbles deliriously in response. But it is a response at the very least and Aragorn will take every glint of relief he can. They make it only a mile when the man trips over an exposed root and crashes hard to the ground. After ensuring that his friend has come to no harm, the darkness beckons to him like a temptress. Grey eyes stare at the canopy as the cold ground seeps into the back of his tunic.
As they slide closed, he hears the aft-distant cry of a hopeless soul.