The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

OIOIOIOIOI

Chapter 3

The Father And The Son

"On your feet," Legolas commanded once he had reached the child. The boy stared blankly up at him and an already frustrated Elf demanded, "On your feet." When the child still didn't respond, Legolas frowned down at him, trying to figure out what the problem was. Then he realised he was speaking in his native Sindarin tongue and the boy had only been talking in Westron, the common tongue of Men on Middle Earth. The problem was that he didn't understand what Legolas was saying.

With patience Legolas no longer realised he even possessed, he repeated in perfect, if heavily accented, Westron, "Get up. Let me see your father."

Slowly, the boy got shakily to his feet, his eyes never leaving the tall, blonde being as he knelt down in the mud. Pulling the man over onto his back, Legolas was actually relieved to find that although his breathing was raspy he had not yet passed. Realising that there was no way the human could walk, Legolas swung his backpack off his shoulders and replaced his knives in the sheathes inside.

"Hold this," he said, shoving the bag at the boy, who wrapped his arms around it in surprise.

Legolas lifted the man up then hauled him over his shoulder, surprised by how weighty he was. People now tended to be weak and slender from lack of food and yet this particular human seemed well-fed, plump even. Legolas wondered distastefully if perhaps he was one of the Men from the South; one of the Southrons maybe, or one of the Haradhrim or Easterlings, dangerous but treacherous folk who had given themselves over to the ways of the Dark Lord with little hesitation and had consequently reaped the rewards of betrayal.

Bitter hatred surged in his heart at that thought that he was aiding an ally of the Shadow but he did not stop helping the man and his child. He couldn't turn away from his promise now no matter how tainted by Darkness they may have been.

"Follow me," he told the nervous child, walking off before he had a chance to say anything in protest or question.

Legolas walked onwards in silence, mostly because he couldn't think of anything to say. Silence for him was far more comfortable and natural anyway.

Clearly the boy did not think the same way though, as when he caught up with the Elf, jogging to keep up with his rescuer's pace, he asked, "Where are we going?"

Legolas did not answer the inquisitive child even though he knew perfectly well where he was heading. They could not go to the cave he had just left; it was too close to the site of the slaughtered Orcs. So Legolas settled instead on another, equally secluded, spot he had used for respite during his twenty years wandering the Old Forest Road. It was a long walk to reach their destination but he could handle that, it was nothing new; he only hoped the boy was not adverse to travelling long distance.

Dawn came before they reached the place Legolas had chosen. The small copse of dead trees did not provide the same kind of shelter as the cave but Legolas knew that, being off the beaten track so to speak, it was isolated enough to be considered safe.

Legolas came to a halt in the centre of the stand of bare, scorched trees and lowered his burden to the ground with a grunt of effort. The boy followed close behind, Legolas' bag still clutched tightly to his chest. He looked down in obvious concern at his father then back up at the Elf, pleading with his expressive grey eyes for him to help.

Resisting the urge to sigh in annoyance, Legolas knelt down in the cold mud and pulled back the man's hood to reveal his face. He was young-looking, Legolas guessed in his early forties at the most, and he actually looked reasonably healthy, which was rare. His eyes were closed tightly, his brow creased in pain even through his unconsciousness. Stubble covered his chin but he did not wear a thick beard as so many Men Legolas saw did. He seemed to take care of himself despite the lack of tools with which to do so. Thus, the only thing convincing Legolas that this man was not a servant of the Enemy was the clothing he wore. They were not of the rich finery bestowed upon those who swore allegiance to the Dark Lord but more akin to the clothes worn by wanderers, like Legolas himself.

It did not take a trained healer to recognise the symptoms of illness the man displayed. Legolas had seen enough of it in the poor vagrants he had come across on the road over the years. More often than not it was a simple chill that killed off the Men in the end. It usually started with a cough but soon the infection would set in and that, without the luxury of the medicines used before the War, there was little chance of recovery.

This man seemed to be in the latter stages of the illness. The rasping sound coming from his chest every time he drew breath proved that.

Legolas could have cursed. He had gone to all that trouble for nothing. With the fragile boy watching though, he could not show the hopelessness of their situation, so he held out his hand for his bag and from it retrieved his canteen of water. It was very nearly empty but he nevertheless placed it to the man's lips and dribbled water into his mouth. Fortunately, the man did not choke and swallowed the precious liquid easily. Legolas then handed the flask to the child waiting in anticipation for his father's awakening at his side.

"Not all of it," the Elf snapped as the boy greedily guzzled down the water.

"Sorry." The admonished child replaced the lid carefully on the canteen and laid it on the ground close to Legolas. "Is he going to be all right?"

"I don't know yet."

Once, Legolas would have lied, would have sought to comfort the boy but he found that the words would not come to him. Truth be known, he had never been all that good at consoling children, even before the changing of the world. He never knew quite what to say. And now was no different, made no easier by the circumstances.

All the once eloquent Prince of Mirkwood could come up with was, "He needs to rest."

The boy nodded and slowly sat down on the ground next to his father, crossing his legs and taking the older man's large hand in his own small one.

For a long while nothing was said. Legolas liked the quiet, appreciated it, but clearly the boy did not as he soon got fidgety and his eyes went to the person who had rescued he and his sick father.

"Are you a Ranger?" he asked curiously.

Legolas looked up from what he was doing, surprised that the silence had finally been broken. "Excuse me?"

"Are you one of the Rangers?" the boy repeated patiently.

"What Rangers?"

"You know, the Rangers."

"Uh…No, I am not."

The boy's small head bobbed up and down and small shoulders shrugged beneath his thick jacket. "The Rangers are very brave, just like you," he innocently pointed out.

Legolas scoffed dismissively. "I am not brave."

"You fought the monsters."

"Yes," the Elf agreed blandly; fighting not to add that he had no earthly reason to do so, that he should have left father and son to their fates regardless of his pesky conscience.

"The Rangers fought the monsters too and they are all very brave. Who taught you to fight?" Legolas ignored this question completely; the flash of his pleasant days of weapons training on the sunlit green in Mirkwood's vast training grounds hurting to dwell on. Realising that the strange creature wasn't going to answer his question, the child continued with another. "Is this your home?"

Legolas frowned at the suggestion. "No."

Changing topic so suddenly that it caught the Elf off guard, the boy said, "I'm hungry. Do you have any food?"

Legolas could have laughed in wonder – and no small amount of incredulity – at the innocent brashness of this odd child. "No, I don't have anything to eat," he answered slowly, crouching on the muddy ground.

"Oh."

Surely this strange boy could not seriously be disappointed or surprised by his lack of resources. It had been days since Legolas had had any food and to go that length of time with nothing at all was not out of the ordinary. Food – at least for the civilised person – was not readily available anymore. Few animals remained to hunt and for the most part the lands had been stripped bare. Yet, as he had observed before, the child looked far from starving. Legolas turned his eyes down to the man, still unconscious at his side, and wondered in growing concern if maybe he was one of the nomadic wanderers, the wild and dangerous men who, in their desperation, had resorted to cannibalism and subsequently descended into madness. True, this man and boy did not look crazed but Legolas trusted no one anymore.

Interrupting the boy's on-going stream of questions, Legolas asked him, "What is your name?"

"I'm Aragorn and my father's name is Arathorn," the boy answered quickly, a beaming smile coming to his lips at finally being spoken to properly.

"Aragorn," Legolas tested the name on his tongue. "Do you carry any supplies, Aragorn?" Usually people travelled with at least the basics, whatever they could scavenge or steal on their travels. To travel with nothing was risky indeed.

"The monsters took them," the boy answered quietly, looking down again with sad eyes at his father.

"Alright," Legolas sighed, getting to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Aragorn asked as the saviour and slayer of the monsters picked up his pack from the ground.

"To find your possessions. Perhaps I can salvage something useful."

"You're going back to where the monsters are?" Aragorn swallowed thickly in fear at the mere thought.

"They are all dead. There is nothing more to fear from them," the Elf replied disinterestedly, wondering how on earth in this hard world the child could be so afraid of everything. Fear, although on occasion useful, was more of a hindrance and to survive one must conquer it or perish.

"Sh…should I come with you then?" he asked nervously.

"You stay here with your father."

"What about the monsters? What if they come?"

"Just stay put and you will be fine."

"You won't leave us, will you?" Aragorn asked with imploring eyes.

The question surprised Legolas somewhat as that thought had not even crossed his mind despite it being exactly the sensible thing to do, the kind of thing he was now liable to do. Yet he had not considered leaving the boy and Arathorn.

"I'll be back," he assured genuinely after a moment.

Not waiting for any further questions or protests, Legolas stalked away, returning once more to the well-known road. He wasn't worried about an Orc attack this time; it was unlikely that there would be two patrols on the same stretch of road so close together so he didn't bother drawing his weapons this time.

The walk back to the site of the fight was swifter when not burdened with a heavy human over his shoulder and he made good time. The bodies remained predictably unchanged although their thick black blood had seeped into the ground slickening it so he took care not to slip. The smell was foul but it was one he knew all too well from the attacks on his home and from all those he had slain since so it didn't really bother him too much.

Legolas took no notice of the repulsive sight and stench and with no hint of squeamishness searched through the corpses for Arathorn's belongings. He took a couple of weapons from the Orcs, anything that could be in some way useful to him. Scavenging was a way of life for him and he felt no guilt at taking belongings from another, especially not the Orcs.

The bag he was looking for was crushed beneath an Orc body so he shoved the filthy mass aside and dragged the light bag out of the mud. Crouching down, Legolas rifled through the bag, disappointed to find that it only contained a hunting knife, a couple of packets of dried meat and two sets of spare clothes, one for an adult and another fitted for a child. Perhaps the Orcs had already been through it and taken anything of value.

Still, it was better than nothing so Legolas did the bag back up and made his way back to Aragorn and Arathorn. The man remained in the same position as before but now Aragorn was laid down, his head pillowed on his father's chest. He seemed peacefully asleep so Legolas laid the salvaged bag down quietly and stepped quietly around them so as not to disturb the child.

"Poor thing is tired out," a man's croaky voice shattered the silence, actually making Legolas physically jump in surprise. The Elf was instantly on alert, eyes darting around the clearing for an intruder but common sense quickly won through and he looked down to the only possible source of the voice and saw bleary dark grey eyes looking up at him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," the human smiled softly before having to pause to cough harshly.

"I didn't realise you were awake," Legolas told him, trying to calm his erratically pounding heart.

"Where are we?" the man merely asked weakly, trying to look around without moving his head and beginning another bout of coughing.

"Somewhere safe."

The man nodded his head carefully, his hand running slowly over the dark curls of his son's head, which rested against his chest peacefully. "Thank you for taking care of him," he whispered lovingly of his child.

"He wouldn't let me leave you to the Orcs."

"Touching sentiment," the man quipped with a lop-sided smile.

"How are you feeling now?" It felt so strange for Legolas to be having an actual conversation with another living being and even stranger to be asking after said being's welfare. All the politeness he had been taught during his days in his home had long since been pushed aside for lack of need but he dragged them out now, even though it did sound awkward even to his ears.

The man merely turned his head away, not answering and Legolas knew that he knew the truth of his condition. There was no recovery from this illness that assailed him. This quiet moment, this reprieve would be short-lived. But for the moment it was time to merely relish the time he had left with his son.

OIOI

Aragorn startled awake to the sound of harsh, strained coughing and he opened his eyes blearily. He was no longer laid resting on his father but rather on the cold, muddy ground. Quickly sitting up, Aragorn looked around and found his father being propped up by their rescuer – he must remember to ask the other man's name later, he thought – and being fed water from the canteen that had come from their own pack that their saviour had obviously retrieved.

"Dad?" the boy asked in a worried whisper and Arathorn wearily turned his head to look at him.

Legolas gently eased the man back down so his head was again pillowed on the Elf's own folded up jacket. The man reached his trembling hand out from underneath Legolas' threadbare blanket and beckoned to his son in a gasp, "Come."

Nervously, Aragorn got up and went as asked to his father's side, kneeling beside him on the ground. The last time he'd been awake his father hadn't looked so bad. Never before had the wise, kind man looked so pitiably small in Aragorn's eyes. His father was not supposed to look small, so powerless; he was meant to be strong and confident, unflinching in the face of danger and adversity.

Arathorn forced a shaky smile onto his face and laid the palm of his hand gently against his son's small, pale cheek. "It's alright," the man whispered in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. "Go and get yourself something to eat. There is some food left in my bag." When Aragorn hesitated to do as asked, his father insisted, "Go on and do as you're told. I need to speak with Legolas in private for a moment."

"Alright," the boy agreed, obediently – and rather reluctantly - moving over to where the bags were, conveniently too far away from his father to hear anything that was being said between the two grown-ups.

With the boy out of earshot, Legolas looked back down at the man, who had again closed his eyes wearily and spoke in a soft voice. "I know I have…no right to…ask anything of you." A small smile tugged at the corners of the man's pale lips. "I barely know you. But my…my son needs…He cannot be left alone. His mother is…gone now. He has no other."

"Arathorn, I don't…" Legolas went to object to what he knew the man was getting at.

"Please," the human gasped desperately, resulting in another coughing fit, which this time was accompanied by a spattering of blood. Swallowing the metallic taste so he was able to speak, Arathorn continued with determination if not strength, "Please, you have to…" He closed his eyes again and took another couple of deep but increasingly laboured breaths in order to recover himself. When he returned his glassy grey gaze to Legolas he looked more resolved and said, "There is something you have to know…about Aragorn."

At this Legolas listened more closely, leaning closer to the man, sensing the seriousness of what was coming. How odd it felt that less than a day ago he really couldn't have cared less if these two odd strangers lived or died, and yet now he felt connected to them in a bond of friendship that he had almost forgotten was possible and all this despite the fact that he and Arathorn had only shared one conversation. He was interested in what the man had to say about his son now and hoped he lasted long enough to speak it.

From his place distanced from his father, pretending to eat some of the dried meat from their backpack – for once he just didn't feel hungry – Aragorn could not hear, no matter how hard he tried, what was being said in carefully hushed voices by his father and the man whose name he had now discovered was Legolas, but both looked extremely serious as they talked and a couple of times Legolas' shocking blue eyes flicked over to him in surprise and he felt like squirming under the concerned intensity of the stare. He got the distinct impression that this intense conversation was about him and that troubled him greatly.

As the adults' conversation drew to a close Legolas sat up straighter once more and they no longer bothered to keep their voices to the level of a whisper, indicating that all the important things had already been discussed.

"I'll do all I can. You have my word," Legolas promised flatly, still a little stunned by what he had just been told. Were it not for the absolute truth and certainty in Arathorn's voice he would have dismissed the man as delusional in what were now unquestionably his final moments.

"Thank you," Arathorn breathed in relief, relaxing as if a massive worry had been lifted from his mind and body, then he looked towards his son with tears pooling in his eyes. He stubbornly blinked them back though and once more motioned the boy over to him. To Legolas he asked, "Could you give us a moment?"

"Of course," Legolas readily agreed, getting up as Aragorn sat down by his father's side. He wanted to lay a supportive hand on the boy's shoulder after what his father had just told him about his legacy and what lay ahead of him but it felt awkward as he barely knew these people despite having been confided in. So instead he stood at a respectful distance, aware that neither human realised that his superior Elven hearing meant he could still catch every word being said.

"Daddy?" Aragorn asked fearfully.

"It's going…to be…alright, I promise," Arathorn told him, although even his false confidence was gone now as his energy drained.

"I'm scared," the boy whispered, leaning over and hugging his father.

"Don't be…afraid," the man replied as firmly as he could manage, rubbing Aragorn's back gently with a shaking hand. "You…have to…go with…Legolas. Do as he says. Learn…from…him."

"Daddy," Aragorn whimpered pleadingly.

"I…love…you…Aragorn. Never forget…that."

"I won't."

"Promise…me."

"I promise," Aragorn vowed, his small voice choked.

Arathorn smiled between gasps and whispered, "You're a good boy."

Returning the smile shakily amidst his tears, Aragorn slipped his small hand into his father's colder, much larger hand, squeezing tightly, disappointed when his fading father did not – or could not - return the gesture. He laid his head down on his father's heaving chest, just holding him close whilst life still remained, knowing that the end was coming and not being able to do anything at all to prevent it.

He wanted to demand that Legolas, the mystery man who had recklessly plunged into the fray to rescue them - unwilling as it might have initially been - do something to prevent this from happening, to bring his beloved father and protector back from the brink. But Aragorn could not bring himself to move or even speak. He wanted to be close to the only thing he had left of a family until it was no more.

Aragorn stayed silent and still until the thin chest ceased all movement beneath him. Only then did the grief that had choked his tight, constricted throat pour forth and the tears that had been blurring his eyes fall and he let himself really cry. For this young boy's life had just been brutally displaced as his father, Arathorn, passed from the world.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reading and to those who left a review. Hope you enjoyed the chapter and feel free to leave a review, I love reading them.

To Be Continued…