Note: From this point onwards, the story borrows a few ideas from a fantastic story written by Peaceangel, with her permission. The plot of my story, however, plays out very differently, so it is basically a different story altogether.
Chapter 7: Brief Comforts
As I cast my eyes around me, and I see a scene that I could only have imagined in my worst nightmares, only one question runs through my mind:
How did we survive this?
How did we survive an assault of ten thousand bloodthirsty Uruk Hai and orcs on three hundred Rohirric refugees, many of whom were merely farmers and peasants, and who had seen too many or too few winters?
The grim shadow of death spreads itself over the scene, and the stench of blood sickens me. Destruction is all I see at Helm's Deep. It is littered with carnage: lifeless bodies – some twisted, some more bloody than others, some looking peaceful as in sleep, but all horribly dead.
There they lie: bodies of men and orcs and Uruk Hai and – what is most painful to me – elves, the fair creatures who need never have been involved in the first place.
I descend hard stone stairs, and my eyes linger on the bodies of the elves being sorrowfully gathered by their kin. I cannot help it; I seek out the body of Haldir the Marchwarden, surrounded by several of his people. They sing softly and sadly, their angelic voices floating on some other plane, and horribly out of place in this field of demonry.
I can hardly take three steps without feeling sick, without hating Saruman for what he has done, for having sent his hordes of killers. My eyes and throat burn from the smoke and ash that hang heavily in the depressing air. I turn and see Theoden in deep conversation with Gandalf and Eomer, their faces grave.
Gandalf. Because of Gandalf, we won, but just barely. Thank the Valar he came in time, bringing help, bringing back Eomer and the Rohirrim whom Theoden had foolishly banished from Rohan on the whim of Grima Wormtongue. Thank Elbereth Theoden had been saved from Saruman's power over him in time to be king again, or all three hundred refugees - and every single one of us – would have perished, for we would have fought to the death if help had not arrived.
The face of Legolas drifts into my mind even at this moment, and I feel weak when I think about how easily he could have been lost as well. If he had fallen… if he had fallen… I would not have lived. I would not have wanted to.
The thought hurts my chest, and I veer away from the three figures. I am in no frame of mind to be engaged in talk with them. Not yet. My head hurts, my body aches, and my heart weeps. Anger beats darkly in my breast. My blood still boils with the heat of battle, and I cannot find peace – not in the companionship of Theoden or Gandalf or Eomer, nor the courageous Gimli who had saved my skin during the battle, nor even the beautiful elves of Lorien.
Nay, my eyes search the courtyard for only one person.
And I see him.
He looks only a little disheveled, amazingly whole – like the surviving elves – despite the battle he has fought. He attacked and defended without a halt, with arrows and knives and sword – whatever weapon he had on hand, and I know that if he had lost all of them, his bare hands would have served. He would have been just as deadly, just as precise, just as strong. But he too would have been overpowered in the end, and I thank the Valar yet again that he survived.
And because he survived, I, too, can go on.
There he stands now, still clad in the protective mail Theoden's men had found for him. He is dressed in the mail of Rohan, but he is with his kin. They grieve over the death of so many. Orophin holds Rumil close to his chest, comforting him over the loss of their brother Haldir. Legolas bows his head, though I can hear his melodic voice blend into the soft, heartbreaking elven chorus.
Rumil turns to him and they wrap their arms around each other. I feel the familiar surge of jealousy rise within me, yet I cannot grudge them this moment, for they are kin, and I an outsider in their grief, although I share the keenness of their loss.
So I merely sit and watch from a distance, for I know not what to say that could make things any less painful. I can only curse the Ring and its very existence. I curse Sauron and wish that the whole war with him could be over now. Whatever happens, I have to make sure Frodo gets his chance to destroy it, I have to –
"Do something before it's too late," came the voice of Gimli, startling me.
I turn and see the sturdy dwarf seating himself at my side, boring into me with his hard eyes.
"I am doing something," I say in retort. "We all are. What do you think this war is about?"
Gimli rolls his eyes and does not bother to hide his grunt. "I am not talking about the Quest," he hisses in irritation. "Are you blind, or daft, or both?"
He points a large, dirty finger at Legolas who is still in the arms of Rumil, their fair heads close together.
"They are elves," is all I can say, as if that explains everything: their closeness, my lineage, my responsibility, and the pain in my heart.
"And you, Aragorn, are an ass," Gimli pronounces. He opens and closes his mouth much like a fish in the ponds of Imladris and looks like he has more to say. But then he gets up and walks away, leaving me to stare after him and wonder how much he knows.
I look back at Legolas and see him with his arms still around Rumil. They whisper, and Rumil leaves his embrace to go to where Orophin is, and the two brothers kneel at the side of their fallen sibling, their looks sorrowful enough to draw tears of pity from a stone.
Legolas lifts his head and turns it slowly. His eyes, wide and woeful, are searching for something. The proud, dependable warrior, prince of his Mirkwood kin, now simply looks lost.
His face turns towards me now, and when our eyes meet, I see him exhale and his shoulders relax, and I entertain the thought that he might have been searching not for something, but for someone: me. Is it my imagination, or did a spark fly from his eyes to mine?
I see a ghost of a smile touch his lips in spite of the glint in his eyes that tells me they are moist. I see him standing there, a forlorn but utterly beautiful angel. Even among his fair kin, he is like a ray of sunshine in a bright sky, and my heart skips a beat. I start to smile back, but just then, a hand touches his shoulder and he turns to face a Lorien elf who gently draws him into a small knot of elves, bidding him join them in offering another song to honor their slain.
Soon, my ray of sunshine is hidden from me.
--xx00xx--
The sun is setting.
Red like the blood on the ground beneath which my people lie. They are – they were – elves of Lothlorien, but they were still my people.
Glad I was to see them earlier, but now part of me wishes they had not come. Then Haldir would still be alive, and Rumil and Orophin would not be lamenting his death.
Blood. So much blood.
I cannot get it off my hands. It sits on my clothes, a hateful reminder of what has happened, and the losses we have to bear.
Begone, you vile stain. Leave me and torment me not. I would remove you and all you signify. Go, go. Why will you not leave me?
I would scrape you off if you did not cloy to me so cruelly. I would bleach you from my skin – nay, I would bleach my skin, if I could rid myself of you.
Leave me be!
--xx00xx--
That was how Aragorn found Legolas later that evening: sitting alone, facing a stone wall in a dark, remote recess of Helm's Deep, rubbing at the blood stains on his clothes and trying to remove them in vain. Gimli stood a little behind the Ranger, having alerted him to where the elf had been seated for the past hour, silent and unresponsive to even his dwarven friend.
Legolas had shed the protective shoulder-guards and his arm plates, for which Aragorn was glad, for the Ranger had found it ill-fitting: hard Rohirric mail on the fine, lithe figure of a Firstborn. His breast plate, however, still remained, for the side-catches were harder to reach without help.
"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice called softly, but there was no response, and the elven hands did not cease in their motions, attempting to erase marks that the elf was well aware could not be removed.
"Legolas," Aragorn called again in concern, moving closer when there was still no reply, and no halt in the strange movements.
"He's been sitting there in that manner for nigh over an hour," Gimli muttered, as if in annoyance, but he could not hide the note of worry in his voice. "He's been rubbing and rubbing, and I can't get him to stop!"
Aragorn closed the distance between himself and the elf and caught hold of the slender hands, grasping them firmly when the elf tried to continue their futile task. Small cuts – obviously inflicted by ruthless orcs during battle – were on the elven hands and arms, but there were also signs of abrasion where the elf had tried to clean them of blood – none too gently, by the looks of it.
Aragorn swore under his breath and released one hand to grasp the elf's chin so that he could look into his eyes. The blue orbs stared back at him, frighteningly distant, lost in grief and hard with anger, and a tear traced a thin trail down one cheek. His lips were set in a firm line – wordless and cold.
"Legolas!" Aragorn called firmly, kneeling and shaking the elven shoulders. The elf gasped suddenly and raised his hands to push the man away, but Aragorn held him quickly, trapping the pale hands between them. Feeling the elf shiver, he whispered gently into an elven ear.
"It is over, Legolas," he said soothingly. "It is over."
"It will not leave me," the elf replied in a broken voice against Aragorn's cheek. "I loathe it, but it will not leave me!"
Aragorn looked at Gimli, who shrugged, concern written on his face.
"What will not leave you?" the Ranger asked, mouthing his question against the golden hair.
"This blood… this gore! This stain of death!" came the choked reply. "So much…"
Aragorn sighed in sympathy. The deaths of his kin had hit Legolas harder than the man expected, for he had never seen the elf crumble in this way, and the Ranger needed to comfort him. "It will – " he began.
"I cannot wash it away," Legolas croaked out sadly. "I cannot wash it away." And the elf tried to free his hands to continue scouring them of blood that was no longer there.
The piteous lament went to Aragorn's heart, and he thought quickly. "Gimli," he called, and when the dwarf approached, he gave him some crisp instructions, his arms never leaving the one he held. When the dwarf had left, Aragorn kissed the delicate ear close to his lips and whispered: "Hold on, Legolas. We will wash it off, and it will leave you."
He kept repeating this till he felt the elf grow limp. Slowly, he loosed his hold on Legolas and moved back so that he could see the elf's face. The look of sorrow there was now mixed with a yielding trust, and the startling blue eyes – still beautiful in the setting sun – held Aragorn's without blinking. The man's eyes wandered to the elven lips that were wet with tears, and he wanted nothing more than to seize them with his own. But he held back.
Instead, his hands moved to trace the dents on the breast plate still covering Legolas' chest, and he shuddered to think what an orc scimitar would have done to that slender body if the plate had not been there. Yet he hated the sight of that armor now, and he quickly loosened the side-catches of the breast plate with his calloused fingers and lifted the heavy contraption free of the elf.
Then they waited.
--xx00xx--
An hour later, man and elf were seated upon Brego as the horse made its way carefully up a rocky trail to a small pool in the hills behind Helm's Deep. The route there was exactly as Eomer had described to Gimli: up a rocky trail with six turns, till falling water could be heard; then one simply needed to follow the sound along easier ground.
Aragorn had decided that both of them should ride only on one horse, both because Eomer had said the trail was narrow, and because he wanted to feel the elf against him, stealing whatever moments were left to them to be close together.
As they neared the pool, Aragorn cleared his throat and threw a hesitant question to the elf behind him. "What…. What happened… to you… earlier?"
The question took Legolas by surprise, and he tightened his hold about the man's waist. The elf hid his face against the man's shoulder and sighed. His response came in a pain-filled voice: "The deaths… so much blood… all the innocent… I just wanted them gone from my mind… my clothes…. my hands…"
Aragorn stroked a thumb along the smooth skin of the elf's hands around his midriff, comforting him with the small touch. "You are no stranger to battles, mellon nin," he said quietly. "Why – ?"
"This was different!" the elf retorted, bringing his head back up. "No battle I have fought in has been so senseless, so ruthless! All those people died for someone's greed – all those elves – and Haldir… Haldir…"
Hearing the torment in the elf's voice, Aragorn regretted having reminded him of the ugly event, but before he could voice his regret, Legolas spoke first.
"I am sorry, Aragorn, I was not strong enough – "
"Legolas! Do not reproach yourself over it," the man admonished, clasping the elven hands with his free one. "They were your kin; of course you would grieve."
"But I was weak, Aragorn," the elf protested. "You do not need a weak fighter beside you – "
"You do not know how far from the truth you are!" Aragorn rejoined, turning his head a little to make sure the elf heard him. "You, Legolas, are my strength. You are the reason I can go on."
Legolas exhaled. "You cannot mean that, Aragorn," he whispered. "Your commitment to the Quest and to Gondor – that is your strength. I am merely here to help you."
"You are wrong, Legolas," the man breathed. "You are so wrong."
They fell silent again, and before either could think of something more to say, the pool appeared before them. Fed by a small fall of water at one end and flowing over a lip of rock at the other, the shallow body of water was perfect for Aragorn's present needs. He wanted Legolas to be able to wash himself of the stains of battle, and wash away some of his grief in the process. This water – remote, silent, and fresh – would offer that reprieve.
Dismounting quickly, he watched Legolas get off the horse as well and gasp in quiet delight at the pool before them. A smile curved Aragorn's lips while he retrieved from their packs the precious supply of soap that the Imladris elves had provided them with at the start of the Quest, and the last of the clean clothes they had brought along.
Walking up to the elf who was already starting to undress, Aragorn handed him the soap and said gently: "We're away from death and lifeless eyes now, Legolas. Here, wash it all away, my friend, and be whole again."
Legolas turned to him wordlessly and as he took the proffered soap, he gave Aragorn such a heartfelt smile of gratitude that it took the man's breath away and made the trip here worthwhile. Before long, the elf had removed his shoes and every inch of clothing, no longer caring that Aragorn was watching. The man felt an ache in his groin at the sight of the slender, ivory body. He had seen Legolas naked before when he was much younger and they had been swimming in a pond near Imladris, but the heat he felt now was more intense. Even covered in the gore of battle, Legolas was stunningly beautiful, and Aragorn found himself struggling to control his desires when the elf walked gracefully to the center of the pool, glowing faintly in the light of the rising moon.
While shedding his own clothes, the man's hand brushed against the chain of the Evenstar, and he froze.
Arwen. Gondor.
They surfaced in his mind and made him release a hiss of frustration. Then he cast his eyes to the figure of Legolas and saw – or thought he saw – the stains of battle on his arms, and the blood and gore in his golden hair, and he remembered how closely the both of them had come to never seeing another day.
Aragorn made a decision. They had escaped a horrible death by the faintest of hopes, and for tonight at least – they deserved to be away from the reminders of the responsibilities that awaited the heir of Isildur.
He removed the Evenstar from around his neck before wading out to where Legolas was washing himself with undisguised fervor. Aragorn had to stop himself from imagining what he might be soaping beneath the water. He watched the elf for a while, fascinated by the grace and sensuousness of his movements even in bathing himself. When the elf tilted his head and moved the soap slowly up the side of his neck, Aragorn swallowed. At that moment, all he wanted to be was that cake of soap in the elf's hand.
Legolas turned to him just in time to see Aragorn standing still, looking at him with tenderness – and clear desire – in his eyes. He felt so much love for the man then that it hurt, but he reminded himself of what should not be, and he frowned. He immediately regretted it, however, when he saw the look of disappointment in Aragorn's eyes, and he wanted to kick himself. The man had understood his needs, brought him here so he could clean himself, and was now probably holding back what he truly felt. Whatever the constraints they had to observe, Aragorn deserved some comfort too this night.
Smiling warmly at the man, Legolas held out an inviting hand to him and said: "Come, Aragorn, let us enjoy this pool while we can, for the Valar only know what vile times lie ahead."
Even in the moonlight, Legolas could see Aragorn's expression brighten immediately as the man waded over and allowed the elf to press down gently on his shoulders so that he sat in front of him on the smooth floor of the pool.
"Close your eyes, Aragorn," Legolas whispered from where he knelt behind the man, once again sending shivers down the Ranger's spine as he had not failed to do since the man was eighteen. "Let me wash away your grief as well."
He tilted Aragorn's head back gently and washed his hair slowly, feeling the man's tension melt beneath his hands. The elven hands then dropped to the man's shoulders, cleaning them and moving downwards and beneath the water to wash him around the waist. With his eyes closed, Aragorn held his breath and waited to see what would happen. But Legolas moved back up to lovingly clean the regal cheekbones and the bearded jawline, brushing his fingers softly along the man's chin and slowly down his neck, feeling the man tremble slightly. When he leaned over Aragorn's shoulder and swept his hands slowly over the collarbones to travel a soapy path down the broad chest with its soft hair, both man and elf could feel their breathing growing more rapid. The absence of the Evenstar did not escape the elf's notice, but he said nothing, still determined to give Aragorn this brief time of respite.
Aragorn's eyes suddenly snapped open, and he grabbed both the elf's arms and held them in place. The man turned his face to where the elf was leaning over his shoulder and found their lips a mere inch apart, so close that their breaths mingled and they could almost taste each other's want. For a few moments, all they could do was gaze at each other and listen to the soft swirls of water in the pool.
"Legolas," Aragorn murmured, swallowing.
"Yes?" the elf responded, hardly above a whisper, and waited expectantly.
Aragorn quickly closed the gap between their faces with a passionate kiss, holding the elf's arms so that he could not move away. It was an unnecessary precaution, for Legolas was in no hurry to unwind his arms around the man's neck and chest. He tightened his hold and pulled Aragorn closer, rubbing his nipples against the man's back, while his mouth savored the man's lips and tongue. Aragorn moaned into their kiss, weaving the fingers of one hand into the wet hair at the back of the elf's head.
"Valar… Legolas…" he murmured into the elven mouth, and with one quick twist, he had turned himself around in the water to face the elf. Before Legolas could come to his senses, he had spread the elf's legs and wrapped them around himself. Man and elf gasped as their arousals came into contact for the first time, and Legolas made to pull away with a look of guilt, but Aragorn held him in place with a strong arm about the slender waist.
"We know our boundary, Legolas, and we shall not cross it," the man said sadly, caressing the elf's cheek with his other hand, "but for tonight… let us just be together."
Legolas gazed into the eyes of the heir of Isildur, and in that moment, he saw in the blue-grey pools both the confusion of an uncertain future and the pleading look of one in need of comfort. A moisture filled his eyes that did not come from the waters of the pool, and he smiled tenderly before he kissed the man on the tip of his nose.
Teasingly, he brushed his soft lips against Aragorn's, dodging them when they tried to capture his, and bent his head to bite gently on the man's neck instead. A moan escaped Aragorn's lips, which grew more desperate when the elf moved downwards to lap a wet tongue at the taut nipples through the manly hair. As Aragorn went slowly insane, Legolas pushed himself back from the man, and his head quickly disappeared beneath the surface, his golden hair floating like fine golden reeds. A moment later, Aragorn gasped when he felt Legolas graze his teeth along his abdomen.
"Legolas… oh Valar," the man cried in tormented passion, grasping the golden head he could feel but could not see in the darkness of the water. "If you… keep doing that… elf… I shall lose… my senses…"
Legolas resurfaced, looking utterly clean and beautiful in the moonlight, his hair swept back from his delicate features.
"Legolas, I… I cannot have my pleasure with you and then leave you for Gondor," Aragorn said in exasperation. "It would not be fair on you – "
The man's blue-grey eyes shone with regret and frustration, and he opened his mouth to speak again, but Legolas clamped it with his wet hand that smelt of sweet soap.
"Hush, Aragorn, I know what we both want, and I know what we cannot have," Legolas said quietly. "Thank you for bringing me here, for at least part of our grief has been washed away," the elf continued softly. "For a while at least, I can forget all about war in Middle-earth, and it is wonderful."
Aragorn nodded sadly. "We both need it," he confessed. "Let us speak no more of our sadness for a while, Legolas, let me just hold you and drown in your warmth."
With that, his lips closed over the elven ones in a hungry kiss, and he pulled the elf close to him so that every part of them touched. They remained locked in each other's arms, drawing strength and comfort from each other till the moon began to set.
--xx00xx--
As dawn announced a new day, man and elf returned slowly to Helm's Deep. Though they were refreshed and cleansed more than they could have hoped for, they were once again immersed in the grim reality of the power of the Ring when they watched elves and men sing their liturgies to the dead.
A sense of profound anger filled Aragorn as he rode in.
Because of Sauron's greed for power, Middle-earth stood threatened, and to stem that threat, he had to reclaim Gondor and re-establish the line of kings. And that meant giving up the elf he wanted.
Because of Saruman's own greed, hundreds of good men were dead here. Thousands more elsewhere in the Westfold.
Enough death, enough destruction, he vowed. The quest must be fulfilled, and the only thing that had to be destroyed was the Ring, for with it would come the fall of Sauron and Saruman.
"Frodo, my friend," he thought, "We fight to keep hope alive, to take his attention away from you. My hope is that you are alive and still hold true to your purpose."
'I must draw the attention of Sauron,' Aragorn thought. 'I must let him know I am alive – so he will not focus on Frodo.'
He did not know how he would do it, but somehow he must.
He could not foresee then what the consequences of that resolution would be.