A/N: Only one more week 'till the summer holidays, yay! I'll be doing nothing for at least 4 weeks of the seven, but oh well. Now, the content in this here chapter is the very reason I even started writing this story in the first place. I watched a clip from a tv show on youtube- the tv show is COMPLETELY unrelated to LotR- and this scenario just popped into my head. All I had to do was add meat; funny, how something as weird and simple as this became a fic about poison and redemption, right? Oh, and don't worry- no more 2 month hiatuses. Have a very lovely summer holiday all! Read on...

S

Starcrossed
Delirium

The night drew on, the men downing tankard after tankard after tankard, until finally the celebrations began to die down and, slowly, the great hall emptied of drunk soldiers, arms over each others shoulders in groups and singing old shanties as they trudged home. The Hobbits had fallen asleep on the same table they'd sung and danced on earlier, Merry spread-eagle on his back, mouth slightly open and snoring, while Pippin lay curled around an empty tankard, using Merry's stomach as a pillow for his head, which rose and fell with each of his cousin's breaths. Éomer stood a little way away from the two, an arm wrapped loosely around his beloved sister as he took another sip of ale, smirking lethargically as Éowyn wrinkled her nose in disapproval and tried to pry the drink from his fingers. He relented only when she dug her elbow into his side, causing him to recoil sharply and loosen his grip, but received a peck on the cheek for his co-operation. Gandalf nonchalantly leant back against one wooden pillar, absent-mindedly lighting the pipe in his mouth as Théoden spoke softly beside him, his own pipe posed in hand near his mouth as he used it to gesticulate, his head lightly cocked and a far away look in his eyes as he recalled the taste of his mother's strawberries, and lovingly described the smell of freshly hewn grass and dew.

Aragorn himself sat at a table across from Gimli, stirring for him a broth with a heavy odour- Éowyn's, though he took care not to mention this to the dwarf- as Gimli wearily held his head in his hands, elbows resting on the tabletop. He'd only recently come round from his drunken stupor, and now seemed only too pleased to wallow in self-pity as he paid with a banging headache and the urge to let out string after string of colourful, dwarven swears between groans. One word even came close to a yell, making the others jump as slammed his open palm down onto the table.

"How do you fare, Gimli?" enquired Aragorn, lips curling upwards into a grin as considered the dwarf, knowing fully well what type of answer he would receive.

His reply was an almost unintelligible grunt of something to do with trolls and hammers as the dwarf stared down at the small spirals in the wood of the table, throbbing temple cradled in his right hand.

"Perhaps, Gimli," Came Gandalf's deep bass from around the pipe, having heard his fill of strawberries, chuckling darkly, "this will teach you to think twice- nay, thrice, before challenging an elf to a drinking game."

Gimli let go of his head long enough to shoot the wizard a frown.

"Elves have remarkable resilience to ale, my dear dwarf." Gandalf answered his silent question, chuckling again when the frown became a glare, "You had never a chance!"

Aragorn's grin widened, laughter in his throat as he put the spoon down in the bowl and pushed the broth towards the dwarf, "This will help," He told him, with a look that left Gimli with no choice but to take up the spoon and battle the mighty broth.

" 'Tis my pride that needs the help, lad," Gimli muttered darkly, staring down at the liquid and getting ready to scoop a spoonful. As he did so, a curious lump began to drift inconspicuously over the top and the dwarf's skin turned promptly green. "Though, even my pride would not brave this… substance."

With a deep frowned, he gingerly brought the spoon to his lips, taking a small sip. Immediately, he spluttered, spitting the broth out as he did so before collapsing into a fit of coughing that had Éomer come over just to give him an almighty thwack on the back.

"Are you trying to poison me, Lad?"

"You do not like it?"

"I do not like it? OF COURSE, I DON'T." Bellowed Gimli, nose wrinkled in disgust at the foul taste.

"Is that not my soup?" Came suddenly another voice, soft and fair as the beautiful Éowyn joined them. Éomer smirked, before hiding it with his fist and turning away from his sister's prying eyes.

"Y-your, er, soup?" Gimli stuttered, before forcing out a throaty laugh and beaming smile, "Why, your soup is delicious, lass! I was just, er, talking about this here, ale… I suspect the ranger spiked it."

"This ranger has done nothing of the sort!" Aragorn snorted, lifting his hands in defence with a smirk, and a wink in Éomer's direction, "I was simply-"

But Aragorn's explanation was interrupted by a hollow bang and a guard's protest, and all turned to see Grima cowering at the door, sallow skin odd in appearance against the orange hue of the hall.

He scurried towards them, black clothes just sweeping clear of the floor as his hands fidgeted convulsively, and stopped just short of them with a small gulp and hesitation, giving a quick and sheepish bow before keeping his head lowered and eyes averted- especially from the Wizard- in respect.

"Speak, Grima, what is the matter?" Théoden frowned as the black-clad man flinched at being addressed in such a polite tone; the once-traitor had received much insult and controversy on his return to Edoras, and even children glared as he passed them in the corridors. Théoden, on the other hand, held a strange sort of tenderness towards him despite Éomer's clear loathing of Wormtongue- nevertheless, he was not yet used to kindness.

"Er, y-your friend, the Master Elf, is in… d-distress." He stuttered, motioning with a shaking hand back the way he'd came back through the hallways, "There were, are, sounds and b-bangs but- none dare enter…"

For a moment everyone merely stared blankly at Wormtongue, perhaps out of doubt of the reliability of his words- after all, his name held a meaning that was not so kind- before Gimli finally broke the silence, his bench scraping back with the force of his momentum as he stood rapidly.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" He demanded rhetorically, already charging past Grima, through the doors and into the hallway.

The others followed quickly after him- bar the Hobbits, who still slept despite the hubbub and clattering of chairs- passing through hallways and corridors, disgruntled soldiers and confused maids who stared after them before they finally reached the room. Grima had indeed been right, and the loud bangs, clangs and occasional yells passed easily through the thick wood of the door to spill into the hallways. One guard- clad in the amour of the Rohirrim- stood just outside the room and jumped when he saw the approaching figures, his shoulders slumping in relief as Aragorn was the first of the group to reach him.

"We weren't sure whether to enter, my lord." He told the ranger solemnly, stepping out of the way as Aragorn threw a nod in his direction and carried straight on to the doors. With a deep breath, he placed his palms on the wood and threw open the doors.

Disorder and disarray is what met him. The whole room was upturned, each bed ruffled, a cupboard overturned, and even a vase lay smashed in pieces on the floor, spewing crockery, water and flowers over the cold marble. Aragorn noted with disdain that Legolas' sheets alone were on the floor, and moved further into the room as the others poured in behind him, gasps and confusion galore. What had happened? Where was his friend? Where was Legolas?

And, as if answering his silent question, with speed seemingly surpassing that of an elf, Legolas was suddenly in front of him, grabbing his shoulders, covered in sweat with his golden hair tousled and the makings of a bruise on his temple, peaking from beneath the white cloth around his eyes.

"Aragorn!" The elf exclaimed, though out of relief or despair, Aragorn knew not. He decided on the former as a half-crazed grin appeared on Legolas' lips, and the elf patted Aragorn's cheeks as if to make sure he was real. Quickly, the ranger took hold of Legolas' hands, keeping them still in his grasp as he softly asked what was wrong.

"Estel!" Legolas paid no heed to his question, "It's you. It is you, isn't it? Yes!"

His grin widened, and Aragorn's worry would have turned to the elf's sanity had he not caught sight of Legolas' hand. "Legolas, your hand!" The palm was burnt; the fingers already peeling as he peered closer, only to have Legolas snatch his hand away.

"Another time, Estel, not now!" Legolas snapped impatiently, waving his hands in the air as if it emphasised his point. Aragorn found himself holding his own hands up, feeling very much as though he were trying to calm a rogue horse in a stable. Show you mean peace, you mean no harm, you have no wea- Legolas is an elf, not an animal!

"What is wrong, Legolas?" However his mind argued, Aragorn's voice betrayed his tactics of instigating calm, and still his hands remained aloft.

"Wrong? What is wrong?" Legolas exclaimed, and Aragorn was given the distinct impression that he should already know, "Oh, Estel, mellon nîn, everything is wrong. Oh, so, very, very wrong."

Aragorn frowned, glancing back over his shoulder at his companions. Gandalf stood in front, staff in his grip, his frown matching that of the dwarf's beside him, while Théoden and Éomer shooed away maids and soldiers, and Éowyn carried a look of anxiety. Licking his dry lips, Aragorn turned back to his friend, gaze delicate and stature relaxed as he lowered his hands to hang at his side.

"What do you speak of, mellon nîn?" He enquired delicately, cocking his head a margin to the side

"Reality and dreams, Estel. Reality and dreams!" Legolas cried, throwing his arms up in exasperation before suddenly surging forward, seizing the front of Aragorn's clothes, "Sweet Eru, but first you must promise me something, mellon nîn."

Aragorn looked down at the fists knotted in his tunic, then back up to his friend, his worry escalating with almost dangerous speed.

"Anything!"

"Stay away from trolls, Estel." Legolas ordered him, but the ranger simply blinked at the peculiar request, "Oh, you must stay away! And promise me that you will not die!"

Aragorn hesitated, unwilling to make such a promise. How was that in his power? The elf knew that their deaths were not in their hands, he knew all had to die, and he knew they could not even control the future- so why the hysteria and panic? Why would his friend ask such a thing of him? But the elf was desperate for an answer, shaking him forcefully and demanding yet again. "Promise me!"

"You have me word!"

Legolas sighed shakily in relief, a short smile flitting over his face as he released his hold on the ranger, visibly relaxing. Aragorn took a small step back, hoping that was the end to the elf's delirium- but Legolas tensed again, almost immediately, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Oh, but of course you won't die, nor will you receive a scratch whilst I draw breath." He breathed with strength, face falling into angst and turmoil, "Ai, I have failed already, let me be damned if I fail yet again; oh, dear Boromir…"

The last three words were almost whimpered in distress and Aragorn's brow instantly furrowed. Boromir? What was the late Gondorian's part in all of this?

"Boromir?"

"Aye, Boromir- I failed him, Estel, I failed him. Mine may as well have been the arrows that felled him." Aragorn opened his mouth, as did Gimli from behind him, but Legolas interrupted both protests. "Do not! Do not, for I know what you might say," He pointed an accusing finger in their general direction, "but it was my fault. My fault! I had my arrow on the beast, the foul beast, I had only to release and Boromir would be with us. I had him, Estel!" He grabbed his hair in despair, stepping heavily away from them all, "A-and then I tripped. Elves do not trip, Estel- and no creature should trip at all when a friend's life is at risk!" He turned and in his rage kicked his own bed with all his might; he slumped down to sit back against it, his head bowed in his hands.

"It's my fault…" He whispered brokenly, shaking in fear and worry and despair…

Aragorn knew he should be at Legolas' side, comforting him, but the elf's sudden confession was a shock; it was something that took more than a moment. He stood for blinking slowly, before he felt Gandalf's presence beside him and remembered they were not alone in the room. Glancing again over his shoulder, he saw that Éomer was still out in the hallway, using his strong and commanding appearance and presence to keep curious onlookers well away, and Théoden had turned his gaze to elsewhere around the room- out of respect, Aragorn presumed. Contrary to her kinsmen's tactics, Éowyn stood beside Gimli, wearing her heart on his sleeve as she placed her hand on the dwarf's shoulder.

"I fear he is possessed with fever and delirium," Gandalf spoke wearily, voice riddled with trouble and brow with unease, "yet I am troubled by what he speaks of. If I'd but known he had taken full responsibility of Boromir's death on his shoulders, I would have offered him my counsel on the matter." He sighed, and seemed to deflate with the release of air, "How blind I have been…"

"No more than the rest of us."

"And yet guilt gnaws at me, for I know the blame is on- if any- all of us; including I."

The old Istar sighed again, moving slowly over to Legolas' trembling form, where he laid his staff against the bed and gingerly lowered himself in front of the elf. Carefully, he pried the Legolas' hands away from his blond hair and held them in his own.

"My dear young prince, the blame is not yours; it is a shared thing!" He told him with firm strength, almost forcing the words into Legolas' ears, "It was I who ignored Boromir, I who did not aid him as he fought the ring, I who did not heed his silent pleas for help when I was so clearly needed, I who all but condemned him! Aye, fortune fled and Boromir fell, but that was not of your doing." Gandalf's voice softened dramatically, a low and soothing murmur; Aragorn could see Legolas sagging little by little, "I was blind not to see you suffer for it, and for this I beg your forgiveness. You are an elf, Legolas: accustomed or not to death you are a race of mirth, not sorrow."

"Oh but Mithrandir, it is not only Boromir I have failed!" Legolas pulled his hands from Gandalf's grip as he protested, and even in the half-light could Aragorn spot crystal tears plain and stark upon his cheeks, "Had it no been for my accursed wound and slow gait, you would never have fallen in Moria! The Hobbits would never have lost spirit, nor would have the rest of us, and mayhap our fellowship would not have failed." Hysteria was taking Legolas again, Aragorn could see it, and as could Gandalf as he gently reached out and took Legolas' face in his gnarled hands. Yet the elf continued "Had you been there at Parth Galen, Frodo would not have wandered afar, Boromir would not have succumbed to the ring's evil, our fellowship need not have separated!" He bit back a choked sob, the next words a true whimper, "No, Mithrandir, my failing came early on."

It was folly, all of it. The elf was delirious to have even thought it, and just imagining the inner turmoil Legolas had been put through without his knowledge boiled Aragorn's blood. He wanted his friend to see sense; he would slap it into him if it came to it! But Gandalf's methods were much more conventional…

"Do not be foolish, Thranduilion!" Gandalf exclaimed, and with such deep power that it was almost a bellow; he practically shook with anger, "Would you have Eru punish you for an injury obtained whilst protecting the ringbearer?" He lifted Legolas' chin, "You have more sense than that, Legolas: you need only think."

More tears slipped from the beneath the white cloth, and Legolas wept openly now, shaking as he did so.

"But now again, I failed once more not an hour ago!" He cried, "Alas, in my distress I fear I lost all reasoning. Oh, Mithrandir, not a dream, not a dream, a vision!"

Gandalf was lost for words, and Aragorn could not blame him.

"Sweet Eru…"

Théoden's abrupt, soft murmur rang aloud in the room, drawing the attention of even Éomer in the hall, and turning every set of eyes bar Legolas' to the source of Théoden's interest; upon the wall behind the open door was a drawing, composed solely from the black of coal. It was a dead tree; no leaves fluttered upon its withered and gnarled branches, curling like fingers outwards. Black flames reached from the floor to the ceiling, licking at the tree and bathing it in darkness, and Aragorn did not need any clue as to what it was, he'd seen it many a time before: the Tree of Gondor.

With no hesitation, Gandalf spun straight back to Legolas, desperate now as he clutched Legolas' face in his hands.

"Your vision?" He asked quickly, "You saw this in your vision?"

"The eye… in my head. A city burned, Mithrandir," Legolas' voice quivered, a small and drawn whisper, "The eye… I saw the eye."

"What did he say?" Gandalf demanded almost impatiently, "What did the eye say?"

Legolas hesitated, head twitching feverishly in Gandalf's grip as his ragged gasps quickened, and he gulped convulsively in fright.

"I could feel him… in my head… rummaging- he… he w-was looking for s-something." Legolas suddenly flinched, recoiling away from Gandalf as he cried out in despair. "A memory, ai, and my failure this night: he took a memory of Pippin!"