#46: Sickness

"No…"

"Shh…Estel, you're here with me. We're in my home. You are safe here."

A blade, a camp, cold nights, rain, a burning in his throat, in his chest, all over. "No…Legolas, please!" Teenaged back arched in agony, one tiny drop of water landing on it from the elf over him, crying because he had no idea how to help.

***

Legolas let his back slide against the slick ground, trying not to let the pain of his injuries show on his face. He didn't want to give their captors any more reason to hurt him, or Estel.

Aragorn was faring far worse than he. Orcs, it seemed, had an old vendetta against the race of men and once they realized that Estel, though he dressed and walked and talked like an elf, was not in fact one of the fair race, they'd begun to…the only word was mutilate…his body, destroy his spirit.

"Oh, Estel." Legolas ghosted one pale, bound hand over the body of his friend. "What am I ever going to do with you?"

They were still in Mirkwood, on the outskirts, in a place that Legolas rarely ventured, but they were within the Woodland Realm, and Legolas had no doubt that his father or one of his brothers would find them before long. He knew these facts and they comforted him, but he could give no comfort to Estel lest the information alert their captors and forced them to press on.

Legolas knew that the only reason they were being kept alive was because they were valuable prisoners, but while the small army of elves would be able to find them easily as long as they remained in the familiar setting of Mirkwood, scouring the mountains or plains for two small beings would be an insurmountable task, even for those as powerful as Elrond and Legolas' father.

Estel was barely breathing, his teenaged body shaking from the wounds. And just days before he'd been laughing and healthy, happy to have brought down a warg before it could attack their camp.

Legolas leaned close, until his breath tickled the tiny hairs of Aragorn's ear, "Estel, tua es no I'men." Help is on the way.

He had faith in that fact. Finding him and Aragorn was his father's job. His job was to keep his Estel alive that long.

"C-cold, mellon." It was the hitch, the stutter at the beginning of the word that made Legolas see red.

He hoped whoever found them would kill the orcs, the whole lot of them, because they'd hurt his Estel, because they'd scared him.

"Stay with me, Little One." A twitch of the lips was the only indication of a smile, but it was enough. Legolas hummed absent-mindedly under his breath and smoothed his friend's hair, willing him to sleep during their brief respite from their captor's tortures.

The first time Legolas had called Aragorn 'Little One' was when Aragorn was barely ten, still so much a baby in the eyes of elves. Back then, Legolas had been halfway through his sixth century on this world and beginning to feel the nervous energy that came with age. He'd begged his father for a stay in Lorien, in Rivendell, anywhere outside of their woods. And his father had granted him that permission.

The last time he'd visited Rivendell, Aragorn had not begun to live there. Now, the boy flitted down the hallways, trailing after Elrond when he could and dogging his brothers every time they returned home. Legolas had found his demeanor interesting, childish, had called to him on the first day, before he even knew his name.

"Little One!" His call echoed through the deserted clearing to where Aragorn sat, staring at his elvish home. The lad had turned to him, eyes bright, itching for an adventure.

And now that Legolas had his attention, he didn't quite know what he wanted to say. "Do you know how to shoot a bow? I am told that I am one of the best marksman among my people."

Estel had beamed with pleasure, happy for the distraction from his boredom, happier still for the attention. He'd come running up, all long legs and high expectations, and informed Legolas very quickly that his name was Aragorn, but he was called Estel.

"I am named Legolas." Legolas said easily, "And I am called Legolas."

Legolas didn't leave Rivendell for four months, and from then on spent ever increasing amounts of time with his newfound friend, up until this hunt, Aragorn's first official hunt. He'd been so proud that he and Legolas had been assigned a part in getting food for Elrond's enormous table. And then everything had gone so wrong.

Elves didn't sleep, but Legolas was jerked out of his reverie by the sounds of hooves, the strange, guttural cries of orcs. He and Estel were still tied to the tree, and Aragorn was shivering violently. From their low vantage point, their obscure position, they were in danger of being trampled to death in the middle of a rescue mission.

Legolas strained against his bonds, but no matter how he contorted he could not do more than loosen their grip around the sturdy tree. In no way could he shake such thick rope off. So he threw his body over Estel, protecting the man as best he could, and waited for the worst to be over.

It was Elrohir who cut their bonds, Elladan who stood by them, sword flashing, as Legolas massaged some feeling into his wrists and ankles, sore from after being bound for so long. "Take my horse!" Elrohir called, felling orc after orc with his blade, face shining with the mad exhilaration of battle.

Legolas didn't need to be told twice. He wavered for a moment, nearly collapsing under the burden of Aragorn's weight, having not eaten for several days, but rallied with the thought that they were both weak, and sitting ducks in the middle of a battle. He jumped nimbly onto the grey and white beauty of a horse, setting Aragorn carefully in front of him, and rode as fast as he could for home.

His oldest brother found him in the rain eight hours later, with a death grip on Estel, muttering soothing words to the horse but unable to muster the energy to get off of it and into the house of healing. And though he was eventually taken off the horse, none of the soothing words from his brothers could get him to release his grip on Estel.

Murmured words flew around Legolas, who was in pain, wet and cold and exhausted from the hard ride, not to mention hungrier than he could ever remember being. And in pain…

"They've both got fevers. Legolas' is higher, though."

"He has four broken ribs."

"The man-child has nine, but it's that cut --"

"On his head. Ada, can his mind be saved?"

And then, later, the steady, even voice of his father's most trusted advisor. "Calm yourself, Thranduril," Thranduril was his father's name, though his sons rarely remembered that, calling him either Ada or Enrai (King), "Legolas will awaken. The sons of Elrond are here to see the fate of the man-child Estel, not to watch your son drift into the next world."

But for a while, Legolas did hang on the knife's edge of reality, so deep was his exhaustion. When he did re-awaken, it was with his arms once again around the soft, warm body of Estel. And for the first time, he moved.

It wasn't just movement, though, not the flick of a wrist or the furrow of the brow. Estel began to struggle against Legolas so that, for the first time in days, or perhaps weeks, Legolas was forced to let go. "Shh…Estel, you're here with me. We're in my home. You are safe here." His throat burned as he said the words.

Estel's voice was also rubbed raw, like fish skin scraped until the scales peeled off, but his words were of more concern, "Please, don't hurt me…please…"

As if Legolas had ever hurt him before, ever hurt anyone so helpless in his life. Though Aragorn was still struggling, still writhing in the grip of whatever nightmare was plaguing him, Legolas managed to wrap his arms around the torso, managed, somehow, to hold on.

The tone was not beautiful, not perfect, and did nothing to soothe the fire in his throat, but Legolas began to hum the tune of a lay that Estel had always loved, stroked back his hair and held his face, careful not to press too hard on the numerous cuts and bruises that he wasn't supposed to know about.

"And don't hurt Legolas," Estel murmured into his shirt, "You can use me however you wish, just do not hurt mi mellon."

Legolas rocked with his friend until Aragorn stopped struggling, until the cries and pleas turned to whimpers, then sighs. He rocked until he could not remember the sight of a blade ripping into Aragorn's skin, until he could no longer recalled Aragorn's desperate cry to please, please hurt him instead.

***

A/N: (and we don't often do this, so just bear with us) The little drabbles are supposed to contradict each other. Despite popular belief, we did read the books and enjoyed the immensely, which is why we wrote this in the first place. Some of the facts we stretched: like the fact that Legolas has six brothers, when he was most likely an only child. Their ages. The length of the journey. But, overall, we think that this just adds to the mini stories, not detracts from them. Just in case you were confused about why there seemed to be an incredible amount of contradictory accounts.

Anyways, please review.