The War Of Light And Shadow

by Freddie23

In a world changed by the rising of power in Mordor, Legolas gets entrusted with the life of a young boy. But he gets more than he bargained for as he must fight for his own life, for Aragorn's life and for the very future of Middle Earth. AU. Not slash. Complete.

72. The Bitter Truth

The War of Light and Shadow

By Freddie23

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Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.

A/N: I am so sorry this took so long! It just seemed to take an age to write. Anyway, here it is now. Enjoy. And thank you all so much for the lovely reviews.

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Chapter 72 – The Bitter Truth

They walked almost like a funeral procession; certainly with the same feeling of grief and despair. It felt like bearing home the dead.

Legolas hung limply in Jecha's arms, unmoving and unaware it seemed that he was safe at last, loose limbs swinging in time with the Easterling's long strides.

It seemed to Aragorn to take an age to reach the city. They had to take various detours to avoid piles of dead Orcs and Mumakil and even then had to be cautious where they trod for the field remained scattered with the often gruesome remnants of the fierce battle. It was a winding path towards the White City which was once more shrouded in early morning fog and Aragorn was impatient. He considered that had he been the one carrying Legolas and thus setting the pace then they would have arrived already at their destination such was his desperation to reach Minas Tirith. But Jecha carried his burden carefully – slowly. Perhaps it was for the best. Legolas was, after all, injured severely. Too much jostling could make things worse still. Regardless, Aragorn didn't have to like the pace set and he was entitled, he believed, to be eager to reach the city.

As they finally approached the gate, they saw people beginning to filter out from the entrance on the First Level. Aragorn frowned though. Even from this distance, he could tell that none of them were healers come to assist them but rather warriors searching out the dead Men still lying out on the field. Jecha had sent Gimli on ahead to get the healers prepared for receiving Legolas. Anger flared in the king's chest that the order seemed to have been disobeyed as no such help awaited them.

Walking against the flow of slow-moving soldiers come to finish last nights' work in clearing the field of the dead, Aragorn glared openly at them, although it had no effect. They showed no sorrow at the sight of Legolas being borne home in such a state. Their eyes did not sparkle with tears, there were no cries of grief or outrage at the falling of the guardian of their king. They simply looked…resigned. Tired and emotionally weary; one more soldier coming to the city fatally injured was no cause for added despair for most had reached their limit. They had seen too much death in the recent days to be shocked by it anymore.

While he sympathised with their pain, Aragorn thought that Legolas deserved at least a little ceremony. The Elf was, after all, his guardian and without him these Men would not now be standing upon free, Human-controlled earth.

He did not pause to remind his men of this fact. Even if he stood there shouting the injustice at them in his fury he doubted they would have responded. They were still too numb. He wondered fleetingly whether they would be so impassive if it was he, their new king, being carried back in the arms of the Easterling.

He did not dwell on the thought though because right then only Legolas' well-being mattered to him but he would not forget their lack of interest.

Jecha increased his pace once they passed through the Great Gates on the First Level and reached far more level cobblestones, still having to negotiate his way through the passing soldiers when some failed to make way for them. Once free of the throng, he strode around the corner towards where the healers had set up their halls. At the end of the open corridor, Gimli stood waiting for them and he motioned them towards him with an almost frantic wave of his hand.

"They are prepared," was all the Dwarf said and Aragorn could see his eyes looking sorrowfully at the Elf as though he were already dead.

Catching up with the Dwarf, Aragorn grabbed his arm and irrationally growled, "He is not dead yet." It felt good to say that. It gave him some hope. Then he shoved the Dwarf behind him and strode on ahead of Jecha. To himself, he repeated, "He is not dead. He cannot be."

Jecha suppressed a sigh, shifting Legolas' slight weight in his arms. Looking down at the Elf's pale face, he doubted that it would be much longer before that statement was contested.

The healers were gathered waiting for them. Two of them in total. Aragorn almost yelled his anger at the small number. He had wanted more. He had wanted every healer in Minas Tirith working on his guardian, working to keep him alive, he wanted every resource expended to keep Legolas' heart beating; and although he knew that this was impractical considering how stretched they were already, he wanted more and he told them so.

One of the healers was Valon, the Rohan healer with whom Legolas had developed somewhat of a rapport with over the years; namely, he didn't despise him quite so vehemently as he did others. Calm as ever, he urged Aragorn to get ahold of himself once he had silenced the king's protests, insisting that two was plenty to tend to the prince's needs no matter what they were and that it was a good deal more than many soldiers had gotten upon coming to the improvised halls of healing.

Legolas was placed down on the floor, only a blanket covering the flagstones, and the two healers began their work.

From their brief initial assessment, Aragorn couldn't tell whether they considered the prognosis good or not. They gave nothing away. Their faces were grave, but they rarely looked otherwise to him. Precise, confident hands, steadier than Aragorn would have thought possible, carefully removed Legolas' ugly yellow jacket and red-stained shirt, tearing at the thin cloth where they could not release it normally and prodded at the ugly gash running almost the length of the lithe torso with practiced fingers. Legolas made no reaction to any of this attention, not even flinching at a touch that should have had him protesting in agony. Not once did the two physicians confer. They spoke no word of comfort to Aragorn or Jecha as the two warriors watched helplessly at the side of the small side room they were in. It was infuriating. Aragorn wanted to know the truth, no matter what it may have been. But he held his silence with effort, letting the healers do their work in peace.

His foot tapped impatiently on the floor and he chewed on his nails as he waited for the assessment to be complete. It took all his willpower not to tell the healers to hurry up. And Legolas laid on the blanket on which he'd been placed, naked and exposed, not moving under their touches when Aragorn knew that given the severity of his injuries he should have been crying out in pain every time he was touched. Beside him, Jecha was composed as normal, standing perfectly still, waiting with patience that Aragorn could not even imagine right then.

Just when he had reached the end of his tether and was considering grabbing Valon by the arm and dragging an explanation from him, the healer looked up at him. The look in those severe eyes nearly broke Aragorn and he took a trembling step forward even whilst one hand remained on the wall behind him as though he needed it to keep him steady as he stood waiting for the prognosis. He had seen that very same look that now shone in the healer's eyes too often before. Most recently he had seen it shining in the dark eyes of Gimli following the confirmation of the death of his father.

"No." He simply could say nothing more. Bad news was poised on the tip of the healer's tongue but Aragorn did not want to hear it. "No."

"Aragorn," Jecha said softly, his hand moving to the younger man's shoulder in support. "Listen to what the healer has to say."

The command was impossible to ignore, mostly because Aragorn knew that he had no choice; he couldn't have moved even if he wanted to. So he nodded jerkily for Valon to continue, swallowing back the terror that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"This wound if very serious." Aragorn nodded again and Valon was filled with the kind of pity he felt every time he had to break bad news to a loved one - and then some for he had come to know ward and guardian well. "He cannot recover. Perhaps if he had been found sooner—immediately, I mean, after sustaining the injury." He shook his head then, thinking that the simple action would get through to the stunned man better than words. He was right.

Grey eyes were already brimming with tears but they did not fall, for he did not yet believe what he was being told. The physician was clearly mistaken. Legolas could not die. It was the one certainty in Aragorn's world. His guardian would always be there at his side. Always had been, always would be. After all, Legolas himself had promised his fealty until the very end, until the moment he confronted the Dark Lord for the freedom of Middle Earth, and Legolas would never dare break a promise to his ward.

"You-" the young man started, not realising that his voice was trembling so hard that the words came out almost impossible to understand, "You, do something." He pointed one shaking finger at Valon. Trying his best to make it sound like a command, he repeated, "Do…something."

"There is nothing we can do for him. Even with the very best treatment it would be-" Again Valon shook his head. "I am truly sorry, Your Majesty. There is no hope."

"You-" Aragorn attempted another command but couldn't get any further than that first shaky word, mostly because he could think of nothing above the screaming of disbelief and outright grief that swamped his mind. He forgot where he was standing, he forgot that behind him Jecha stood in support, he forgot that the Ring of Power sat tantalisingly close in his pocket. The only thing he knew was the words Valon had used. 'No hope'. There was no hope for his guardian. His breath whooshed from his lungs and he stumbled backwards, almost falling against the wall but staying upright somehow. He felt Jecha then, holding his arm to keep him from dropping but he knew he would not fall. Not now, for surely Valon had gotten it all terribly wrong.

Aragorn smiled then; a peculiar sight, Valon thought, given the news he had just delivered. "No," the young king finally smiled then closed his eyes as if in relief, the tears finally spilling down his cheeks and streaking through the grime that remained from the battle. "No, you see, Legolas is different. He is not like Man. He is an Elf."

How painful it was to go through these same phases every time with the grieving. Denial. And always the healer had to be the one to shatter it, to break that fragile hope in two. It was the cruellest part of his work. Sometimes, Valon would have liked to have been the one to say 'No, it isn't true. All will be well'. But he could not. It was not ethical for any physician to say such, no matter how much they wanted to erase the suffering of the bereaved as they protested what was fact.

"I am sorry, Aragorn. An Elf he may be but such a wound cannot be healed in any being."

"But- But Legolas heals quickly. Quicker than any Human ever could. He told me that of his race once," the young king protested, wiping his tears away with a swipe of his hand.

"Healing in a Human body requires strength," reasoned the healer slowly so that his words were perfectly clear, "I would imagine that an Elf is much the same. And Legolas just has no strength left. He has lost too much blood from his body, the wound is too severe. He is too cold. It has been too long. Look at him, Aragorn. Look at him. He has nothing left in him to fight this injury."

"But...you can do…something. You can do something."

"There is nothing left I can do."

Suddenly stepping closer to the healer, almost threateningly, Aragorn yelled, "Yes, there is always something! There must be…something. Please, Valon. Please, do not let him die."

"I can make him as comfortable as possible with the resources available to me. We can warm him up. He might regain consciousness before he loses his battle, but if he does it will not be for long."

Aragorn laughed now, a hysterical, almost maniacal sound that did not seem in place with their surroundings nor with their usually more composed king. "You're wrong!" he accused, wagging a finger at Valon and the other healer watching in silence from where he knelt beside Legolas. "You-You are wrong."

"Aragorn, please," Valon pleaded, reaching out into the king's bubble of rage and taking the man's hand and enfolding it within his own warm hands in the hope that he might yet be able to get through to him. "Look at him for a moment," he said softly, almost in a whisper as he turned to Legolas. He urged Aragorn forward a little. "Just look at him."

How it hurt to do as he was asked, to give up in his fight in denying with what the physician said. He did not want to look at Legolas for he knew that in doing so he would be confirming to himself what he knew already to be true, what he had known even before Valon spoke the terrible words, what he had known when he struggled to find a pulse out on Pelennor.

Legolas looked so small laid out on the ground before them. Impossibly small for a person of his age, size and strength. The other healer knelt at his side had covered him with a blanket from the waist down to preserve his modesty, for which Aragorn was grateful; he could well imagine how mortified Legolas would be at such exposure in public. The wound too had been covered with a bandage and a little blood was already seeping through the white fabric, although Aragorn knew that it was nowhere near as much as it should have been from a wound that size and depth. His skin remained an unhealthy ashen colour, not improved by the change of dreary sunlight to warm candlelight. His hands remained still at his sides, torn and scratched from fighting. Every so often – although Aragorn knew not often enough – the thin chest raised and lowered itself a little way in a shallow breath. Apart from that slight movement, Legolas remained entirely still. There was no pain etched on his face - perhaps he was too deeply unconscious to feel anything and Aragorn was also grateful for that small mercy.

Pain welled in the king's chest, as though something heavy were sitting on top of his lungs, squeezing out the air. It was the same crushing feeling of terror that he had felt out on the battlefield when he had first seen Legolas lying lifelessly on the ground buried amongst his fallen foes. He slumped slightly under the weight and felt two sets of hands going to support him by the arms. But he didn't need support. He would not fall. Legolas needed him still. Instead, he took another step towards the bed, disengaging himself from his two concerned helpers, and reached out one hand towards the Legolas. Sinking at last down onto his knees, he stared for a long moment at the unmoving Elf before him. Somewhat uncertainly, he reached out for his guardian. He traced his fingers over the back of Legolas' bony hand, wincing at how cold the skin was. Legolas didn't so much as twitch at the touch and Aragorn felt a pang of disappointment that his guardian did not even know of his presence.

"When will he wake?" he asked shakily, his voice hushed.

"He may not wake. You need to prepare yourself-"

"If, then. If he wakes, when will it be?" snapped the king impatiently, closing his eyes at the healer's answer. It wasn't what he wanted – what he needed – to hear.

"There is no way of knowing," Valon answered more sedately this time.

Aragorn nodded his understanding and folded his legs beneath him. "Very well. I shall stay with him until he does." His voice challenged any to contradict him and no one did.

Valon stepped closer again and said, "We will clean him up and give him a change of clothing and make him as comfortable as possible."

"Can we find him some proper bedding?" Aragorn said, distastefully looking at the ratty blankets shrouding his guardian. "He deserves better than this."

"I'll see if I can find a spare bed somewhere within the city where he can rest until—" Valon stopped himself when Aragorn's head bowed. "I'll sort something out, sir."

Jecha lowered his head respectfully. He wanted to stay with his king. He felt the young man's pain acutely. He knew how it felt to lose a loved one. The pain was unbearable and yet one had no choice but to bear it. And now, Aragorn must go through it. Again. Already the man had lost a beloved father and now he must lose a beloved guardian too. How cruel the fates had been to this young king. It did not seem fair. However, there was still much yet for Jecha to do within the city. Chiefly, he had to inform people that they had found Legolas at last. That would not be an easy job but he didn't want Aragorn to have to do it later. Better that he, who was not so close to the Elf, break the news to friends.

"I'll be back soon. Send for me if you need anything," Jecha told the room and received nods from the healers and, as expected, no acknowledgement whatsoever from Aragorn.

The king watched numbly as the healers brought a bowl of water forward and began cleaning Legolas from head to toe. To Aragorn it was like watching funeral preparations. He cast his mind back to all those years ago when he had lost his father to the Orcs. No such ceremony there. Barely time for even the briefest of goodbyes and then a hasty burial in the woods where he had died before Aragorn had been pulled away into a completely different life. How strangely the world worked. It had taken from him Arathorn and given him Legolas as if in repayment for that wretched parting. And now it had taken Legolas from him and what would he get now? Who could replace his guardian? No one, he thought darkly; there was no one. Was this a punishment, he wondered. Were the fates angry at his lack of progress against the Dark Lord's regime? Had he not done enough for Middle Earth? If this was so, then how wrong they were in taking this course, for he was nothing without his guardian. He had always maintained that he could not complete this monumental task by himself and he believed that more now than ever. What did it matter now? Not one man within the vastness of the taken White City meant as much to him as Legolas. He would not die for them, he insisted to himself as he watched the healers wipe the blood and dirt from Legolas' sharp features to reveal bruising all over his hollow cheeks. He felt no anger at what his guardian had endured upon the field of battle, for the injuries marring his body. It was the act of the Shadow and he could do nothing about it. Being angry would not help Legolas. Nor, he supposed would feeling helpless and yet that feeling overtook him until it had settled deep within his mind and he knew it would not easily be shifted.

"Aragorn, do you need anything," Valon's gentle tones cut through his dark thoughts of defeat.

"No."

"We're going to go in search of some wood for the fire and some more blankets. We won't be long. Call out if you need anything; someone will hear you."

"All right."

Valon sighed; Aragorn didn't even seem to be hearing what he was saying, so consumed was he by the terrible truth. He could say nothing though. He knew how the man grieved. So, he merely squeezed the king's shoulder as he passed by and followed his colleague out the door, half closing it behind him to allow Aragorn and his guardian some degree of privacy.

Meanwhile, Jecha was charged with the unenviable task of informing the others of the prince's situation. Not everyone would be told directly, he decided. Many were already back out on the field searching for the dead. But Eomer remained in the main healing hall with his sister. He drank in the news of Legolas' injury quietly, thoughtfully, then simply nodded grimly and turned his face away, looking again to Eowyn. He sat still for so long that Jecha considered his task complete and himself suitably dismissed. He could not tell whether the man's reaction was grief or indifference and he had not the patience to remain to work it out. Next he sent out messengers to bring back Faramir, for although the man had no love for Legolas he did need to know for the sake of the king. He also sent people out to bring all the Rangers together. They knew Legolas better than perhaps anyone else within the White City save Aragorn. Also, Jecha summoned his own ragtag group of followers. All except Gimli, who had his own grief to deal with and probably knew the truth already, having seen Legolas out on the field.

Predictably, it was the Rangers who found him first. They were eager for news. Jecha took them into a small room that stank of Orc filth but that was the most private place close by and no one cared too much about the smell. They seemed to know instinctively that the news was bad. Jecha would have been celebrating had he brought them together to tell them that all was well and the Easterling was most definitely not celebrating.

They fell silent upon hearing that Legolas would not survive. All of them stood still and silent in the wake of the news, just as Aragorn had in the beginning. At first Jecha could glean nothing from their reaction. Perhaps they were stunned into emptiness, unable to feel for a moment. But when it hit them all, as the reality set in, it was obvious. It clouded the atmosphere and suddenly the small, Orc-defiled room felt horribly dank and oppressive, as though the grave news were seeping into the very walls and in turn leaching out and poisoning the air.

Ciaran was the first to break the hush. He let out a sharp cry and moved close to Janor where he stood sobbing into the older man's shoulder. Janor himself looked utterly stunned by what he had just been told but although tears filled his eyes he clung to Ciaran with his uninjured hand as though he needed the support just as much as the younger Ranger.

Kalub broke away from the rest of the group, going to stand below the high window, which was positioned too high in the grey fascia to see anything out of, yet he gazed at it as though he could see the whole of the Pelennor spread out before him until he bowed his head low, shoulders slumped. Tarsem simply remained where he was, looking at Jecha in pity, feeling sympathy for the man who had to break the terrible news to the friends of Legolas. No tears filled his eyes but Jecha was sure he saw a flicker of respect for the fallen warrior in his sharp eyes.

The remaining Rangers all grouped together, gathering as one around Janor, their leader. They were filled with sadness, for they considered Aragorn and Legolas to be of the Rangers more than any other faction of Men. No one asked any questions of Jecha. Not one wanted to know how it happened or when or how he had been found. Perhaps they didn't care. What was, was. No amount of details could change the fact that Legolas was dying. There was nothing any of them could do and they made no attempt to offer their services – although Jecha knew that if he asked they would all seek to help in any way they could. But there was nothing he could ask from them and so he stood in slightly awkward silence, waiting for the moment he considered his duty done. Almost reverently they stood in a respectful silence of their own. Jecha felt more like an intruder amongst them now than he had ever done. This was private grief he was witness too and he was not comfortable with it at all. He considered slipping away from them but he did not. He let their pain wash over him, as he had done earlier with Aragorn. It felt jarringly familiar – for it was the same pain that lingered over his heart and that he was not alone in it was of some small comfort.

When at last he decided it best to leave the Rangers alone to grieve amongst themselves for a while, Jecha found Bracell and his wife waiting outside along with Sonal, his fellow Easterling. Their young daughter was nowhere to be seen but Jecha had not expected her to be in attendance. He had not summoned her as he had the others. With all that had happened she must have been frightened and she had shown no regard whatsoever for Legolas in the time they had travelled together.

Only three now left amongst them. Their unusual grouping, come together out of need and necessity, had suffered greatly in the battle it seemed. Gloin had fallen, so too had the enormous Haradhrim man who had become somewhat close to Aragorn when they travelled together. Gimli was not present, but Jecha had not expected him to be. Also missing was the Wild Man from Dale he had travelled with but whether he had fallen in battle Jecha did not know. He wouldn't have turned up upon being summoned anyway, he was too independent to ever listen to orders. Either way, it didn't matter. He would not care one jot for Legolas' demise.

His people took the news stoically. No tears were shed. No laments spoken. They barely knew Legolas, after all, and even those that did know him did not care for him much. Sonal stared at him, as if questioning the need for bringing them all together in the first place and Jecha lowered his eyes almost in shame, for his companion must have known that he felt grief for the loss of a friend and thought it foolish. Bracell looked to the ground, as if feigning grief and his wife closed her eyes only briefly then seemed to shake off the bad news and, deciding that it did not matter to her, looked to her husband. They shared a look that suggested that they were relieved that it had not been worse, that it had not been someone close to them who had died.

Jecha dismissed them, a little disappointed at their ambivalence, and they left gladly. Sonal lingered a moment longer, maintaining his stare, but Jecha merely looked away from the piercing gaze and the man walked stealthily away without a word to his companion.

And that was it. Everyone who could be informed, who needed to be informed, had been told, and Jecha found himself at a loss. He did not want to return to Aragorn. He didn't want to witness the man's grief anymore. He knew it too well and he needed a break from it. To have to replay it in his mind over and over would be too much. Besides, he had seen plentiful death before; he did not need to witness more to be certain of its outcome. Yet he also felt guilty for leaving Aragorn alone. No matter how much the distraught king might have protested, he would not want to be completely by himself when the moment finally came. It was not good for him. Torn, he decided to seek out a place to gather his thoughts before returning to the king. Better that he be composed when next he faced Aragorn, than show his true sadness.

OIOI

The healers had long since left them alone. In the aftermath of the battle, there was still much to do. Patients needed checking on, bandages needed changing, relatives needed comforting. They could not spend all their time one just one single patient, no matter that he was the guardian of their king. Aragorn understood this even if he didn't like it particularly. There was nothing more they could do to help Legolas, both Valon and his fellow healer had made that perfectly clear several times – so many times, in fact, that Aragorn was sick to death of hearing the words.

What did it really matter whether they were there or not, was the unspoken comment made by the physicians; their presence could no longer affect the outcome. Aragorn could see their thinking in their eyes even as they tried to obscure it with platitudes and because of that it brought him no comfort.

At least Valon had been good enough to do as Aragorn had asked. Unable to find suitable bedding to transfer to the hall for the fallen Prince of Mirkwood, they had found him a private room just down the corridor from the hall being used to house the injured. It was not much. A meagre space with just one tall window long ago boarded up and only one room. A bed had been dragged in. Again, it was little but the frame but in comparison to what they were used to it was almost luxurious. Aragorn himself had gone around the other rooms close by in order to clobber together some more blankets, no matter what their state of disrepair, and clothing, whatever could be used to pile on the wooden frame as a mattress for his guardian. It had been satisfying for a time, to be actually doing something useful. Such a minor inconvenience for others would, Aragorn was certain, make his mentor's rest somewhat easier to endure.

He had found candles too, brought from Osgiliath, and placed them around the room for when darkness came. He did not light them, nor did he build a fire in the hearth, for Legolas would have considered it a terrible waste when there was daylight to illuminate the room.

The moment of usefulness had been brief and when it passed and Aragorn was again perched on an upturned wooden crate that had once been used by the Shadow to store weaponry in Minas Tirith, he felt even more useless than ever. What more could he do? Patience had never been his strong point. He wanted Legolas to wake. To pull himself from whatever pain was keeping him down in the depths of unconsciousness. It was unfair, to expect such a thing, but his selfish side could not be ignored and for once he did not wish to ignore it. Had he listened to what his mind was screaming at him, to what the healers had implanted there, then could knew he could not have stood it.

So now Aragorn sat in silence, waiting with patience so forced that it was beginning to ache behind his eyes. His thoughts turned inwards again and then towards the battle that had been, but that, he knew, was dangerous territory to explore. Had Legolas been there as he should have been to offer support, then Aragorn would have allowed the melancholy to take him wholly. He would have languished in the horror of all he had been forced to do and see during the Battle of Pelennor Fields. He ached to have his guardian tell him that he had done the right thing, that all that had been sacrificed was necessary, that they had made a dent in the armies of Shadow. Aragorn found himself feeling irrationally bitter that his mentor, the one who had coached him through such dreadful moments so many times before, was not there to give his advice now as he should have been.

Shifting, he shoved these dark thoughts aside. There would be time, later, when Legolas was recovering, to take stock of all that had happened in Gondor.

After a while, Aragorn found himself staring at his guardian and mentor, watching the agonisingly slow rising and falling of his chest, which became almost hypnotic after a few minutes. Every rise brought Aragorn relief that Legolas' body was still struggling, no matter how feebly, to maintain life and every exhale made his heart flutter in fear that he would never see the former again. His guardian lived. He clung to that knowledge tightly for it was the only thing holding him together. Legolas, however, didn't stir once under his careful watch, never responded once when Aragorn adjusted the blankets over his body. Each unbearable moment became more torturous than the last and there was nothing to distract him from the truth of what laid before him.

No one came to him and he couldn't decide whether about this he was pleased or saddened. Was the whole of Minas Tirith really ambivalent towards the fall of the Elven Prince of Mirkwood? Did they not care at all?

He took Legolas' hand in his own but it brought him no comfort. It didn't feel like Legolas anymore. Legolas was strong, firm. This felt like the hand of a frail, elderly Human rather than that of his immortal mentor. But he held on anyway, hoping that maybe even through unconsciousness Legolas could feel the touch and appreciate and draw comfort from his presence.

The grey day gave way to the night and still nothing stirred in the room. At dusk, someone came by to place a candle in the room to provide light and an hour after that a healer came and checked on Legolas, only to report that there was no change. Aragorn, hopeful as he was, took this as a good sign. No change was better than a change for the worse, he reasoned with somewhat strained positivity. Jecha did not return to them as Aragorn had thought he might. But then, he supposed, people were extremely busy with the clean-up, too busy to trouble themselves with the fallen. Maybe later they would come.

He sat in a kind of contemplative trance, staring at the rising and falling of the thin chest in fascination. He didn't notice when a soldier he had never met before came to ask him if he wanted something to eat only to quickly retreat upon seeing the king's mood and receiving no reaction for his troubles.

It was Aragorn's own voice, much to his surprise, that finally broke the heavy pall clinging to the room. How unnatural it sounded amidst the thick silence, cracked and weary after hours of shouting out orders on the field of battle followed by a long silence.

"You can't leave me, you know," he uttered matter-of-factly.

Upon hearing the noise come from his mouth, he startled, sitting up-right on his crate. He had been thinking those very words almost constantly, like a pleading mantra, for the last few hours but this was the first time he had spoken them out loud, even inadvertently. It felt strangely pleasing to give voice to thoughts too terrible to dwell on. It felt like at last he was doing something, no matter how small a thing it was.

Now that he had broken the trance he had fallen into though, he found that he could not stop his words pouring forth to the one who probably would never hear them even if he wished to.

"You swore to me that you would stand with me until the bitter end. You remember swearing that?" He scoffed to himself at his own words. As if Legolas would ever forget. "Would you now break that promise?" He shook his head, answering the question posed in Legolas' stead. "No. You would not. You would never betray me." Squeezing the limp hand held in his own ever so slightly tighter as a small act of comfort, Aragorn shook his head again, blinking slowly, although for the first time in hours his eyes were clear.

More quietly now, he told his guardian in a hushed voice, "You once told me that you would follow me anywhere; even unto the ending of the world, so you said. Well," he steeled himself, like a parent admonishing a small child for a wrong-doing even though punishment somehow felt unjust, "as your king, Legolas, I forbid you to leave me. Do you understand me? I command you to fight this. I forbid you to leave."

He got no response even to his veiled threats. Legolas remained silent and unmoved by the pleas, stubbornly inert on the bed. Aragorn lowered his head into a bow of grief, all fight disappearing from his countenance. Legolas would answer if he were able, he reminded himself. Perhaps the words would have gotten through to him, perhaps they would have some effect even through whatever suffering Legolas fought.

And then, he felt the slightest twitch beneath his fingers. Movement, for the first time in many long hours.

Sitting up straight on the bed, Aragorn stared wide-eyed at his guardian, torn between remaining where he was, waiting for some further sign of activity and running to find a healer just in case Legolas was waking and would require aid. Selfishly, he opted for staying put. His face would be the first Legolas would see, of that he was determined.

"Legolas?" he whispered, his eyes transfixed upon the pale face of his mentor. The Elf shifted his head a fraction on the pillow. Not much. But it was more than Aragorn had seen in what seemed a lifetime and it sent a thrill of relief and joy rushing through him. "Legolas, can you hear me?"

A small moan escaped him then and Aragorn's heart rate sped up once more. Expectantly, he kept his eyes fixed on Legolas' face, waiting.

Then, miraculously, Legolas' mouth opened a little way and whispered words left his dry throat. "As you…command, so…shall I obey."

Aragorn could have burst into hysterical laughter at the familiar words of acknowledgement of his pleas; they were an echo of those Legolas had spoken to him once before, spoken in jest that time, but now deadly serious.

"You're awake?" the man asked enthusiastically although it was entirely unnecessary.

So far Legolas had not opened his eyes even a little to look at Aragorn but at the man's question a tired smile of amusement flitted across pale lips. "Seems so," he whispered, his voice so terribly weak and coarse that Aragorn could hardly hear it. He made no attempt to move or look at his ward. He simply laid there, still and pale, looking no more alive than he had a moment ago and Aragorn would have believed that it was merely his imagination that had conjured those words of reassurance but for the ever so slightly increased breathing of his guardian, seemingly brought on by the simple effort of speaking aloud.

"I should go find Valon. He told me to summon him when you woke," Aragorn said, going to stand up. Not that he would tell Legolas but these had not been Valon's words to him before he left to see to his other patients. His exact words had been, 'If he awakes, come find me immediately.' Legolas did not need to know this pessimistic order though.

Legolas, however, did not need to be told directly. "It…It is bad…then?" Legolas swallowed thickly with effort and it seemed as if the slight movements it took to speak were painful to him as his brow wrinkled as if in distress.

"No," the man quickly answered, almost too fervently. It was a lie, plain and obvious and even in his weakened state, Aragorn knew that there was no way that Legolas would mistake it. He always had an uncanny way of seeing right through whatever bluster or lie Aragorn constructed to fool him. Still, he could not stop himself. As much for himself as his guardian, he added confidently, "You'll be fine now."

"You…cannot promise."

To this, Aragorn made no reply, although he was glad that Legolas' eyes remained shuttered and he could not see the desperation that must have so plainly shown on his face. Deciding that he needed to fetch Valon before his bravado in the face of his guardian faltered, Aragorn informed his guardian that he would be back within moments then strode from the room in search of the physician, uncertain now as to whether this waking was a good thing or not.

OIOI

Where had Aragorn gone? He was sure that his young ward had been there just moments before. Had he not just been speaking to him? And yet now he was gone. Where? Why would he leave now? Or had Aragorn never been there. His mind was so confused, thoughts mixing and roiling together until they mashed, becoming impossible to distinguish between truth and falsity.

Pain assailed his whole, deep, bone deep pain that he knew could not be quashed by strength of will or herbs dragged from the earth. He had a nagging thought in the back of his mind that something was very, very wrong with him. Something more than simply the injury he could feel burning across his chest. He couldn't see this intangible wound but he could feel it there just the same; not sharp pain as when the cursed knife that had caused his physical injury had ripped through him but rather a dull aching filled with an inexplicable but very real feeling that some darkness lingered deep within his flesh and soul; magic, dark magic of the Shadow.

Suddenly, he arched painfully on the bed, gasping and heaving for breath as he remembered and the truth of the battle assailed him, bold and unrelenting now that it had been unleashed. He could feel the hands of the Wraith upon his skin, burning him in their intensity, muddying his purity and defiling him as nothing else on this earth could. How close he had come to Death itself. He had touched the Darkness, had felt its hand upon him. He felt it even now, coiling through him, seeking out every nook and cranny of his Light to pollute and destroy. He tried to fight it, to push the Darkness from his mind but he knew he was not strong enough. It was too late anyhow. He was poisoned just as surely as if he had been struck by a tainted dart. How could he ever forget the terror that coursed through him, burning him, stripping him of his life-force?

"Aragorn," he breathed through the agony tearing at him, at long last forcing his eyes open and turning his head on his pillow in an attempt to search for his ward. But no, he was all alone here. "Aragorn."

Tears gathered in his eyes and he didn't have the strength to keep them from falling. They trickled from his eyes, dampening the stiff, musty-smelling fabric of the pillowing his head. Moaning, he tried to sit up in a futile attempt to escape this torture but he couldn't move. Everything hurt too much. He considered almost manically the Dark poison now working its way through his body, seeping into his spirit. There was no antidote, he knew, nothing any healer could do to fix what had broken in him. The Black Breath was fatal; he knew that much, he had been required to read up on the Wraiths when they first came to haunt Dol Guldur in his now lost homeland. His mind was cast to the accounts of the terrible deaths suffered at their hands. Poisoned swords, thick with magic impenetrable even by the greatest sorcerers allied to the Light; slow lingering deaths that remained entirely untouched by whatever potions the healers could design. There was no comfort through the pain, no hope. His soldiers had always feared venturing near Dol Guldur for just that reason. All other enemies they could tolerate to a certain extent, although all were abhorrent to them. The Nazgul were not regular enemies though. They were something else entirely. Something that couldn't be bested. For even their death brought death upon those around them. They were a weapon too great to be beaten. And he had thrown himself at their mercy.

Legolas remembered what had happened to him with perfect clarity; the memories swept nauseatingly over him and he fought the pain of truth. The Wraith had descended from above on its wretched beast; he had killed the monstrous steed but it could never have been enough, such a feeble attempt it was laughable; it had died not by his sword as would have been right but rather at the hand of Eowyn, defiantly ignoring his command and helping him before he could be killed outright as would have been just. He worried for the woman as he remembered how she had been struck down, but what could he do now to help her? He could not sit up and he certainly couldn't walk. Perhaps when Aragorn returned he would ask him of her fate. He knew not whether she even lived, whether Aragorn would even know whether she lived. Gimli too had been there but he found that he was even less certain about the Dwarf's fate.

His own fate, he knew, was certain, set in stone; as perhaps it had always been. What had been done could not now be undone. The only thing left to do was wait, to endure whatever trials stood between him and peace.

Aragorn returned some minutes later with Valon in tow. The healer smiled upon seeing him awake, although like Aragorn's smile, it was vacant, not reaching his eyes nor brightening his face.

"Good to see you awake at last, Legolas," Valon said gently and Legolas imagined he had said it numerous times to various people in all kinds of states since the ending of the battle. As a youth he had spent enough time with the healers of Mirkwood to detect the signs of false pleasantries intended to soften the blow. "How do you feel?"

The healer went to take Legolas' wrist, to check the rate of his pulse, but the Elf pulled away from him stubbornly. "Don't," he ordered so croakily that it barely sounded like a word at all.

In his years training as a physician, using only the wisdom of those who had come before him and what scraps of information left over after the ravaging of Rohan to hone his skill, Valon had come to be able to read every subtle sign his patients deigned to give him. He could tell when a warrior was in pain but too stubborn to admit it, he could see behind the masks of bravado and indifference and had come to learn how best to approach those who considered privacy the greatest privilege of all in their final moments. It had been a long road to build up this kind of skill, far more delicate than learning the physical aspects of being a physician, but it had served him well over the years. A great many times in the past he had seen the same look in Men's eyes as Legolas now fixed him with. Whilst lesser trained Men might have mistaken it for pride or determination and greeted it with condemnation at so petty a view, Valon, with his wealth of experience better than any lesson that could be taught, saw the truth behind those heavy blue eyes. He saw defeat; the unmistakeable knowledge the Elf held that the inevitable was coming and there was no point in even attempting to fight it. He nodded slowly in acknowledgement and pulled his hand away with a look that he hoped conveyed his understanding to Legolas, well aware the whole time that Aragorn was stood behind him, staring intently at his back, ready to step in the moment he walked away. But he could not ignore Legolas' wishes no matter what the King wanted. The patient always came first.

"All right," the healer finally whispered softly, laying his hand gently on Legolas' shoulder.

Deep blue eyes closed briefly and a slight smile came to thin lips. "Thank you."

"I'll do what I can to make it easier."

"What does that mean?" asked Aragorn sharply, sensing the tone of finality in the healer's voice and not understanding just what had passed between physician and patient without his knowledge. "Valon? What does that mean, you'll make it easier?"

"Keep your voice down, Your Majesty, please," rebuked the healer. "We can talk outside." If he could, he wanted to spare Legolas having to listen to what he knew he had to do next.

"Go, Aragorn," Legolas said wearily when he saw his ward hesitate. Aragorn knew the truth of his situation too, he was sure. Deep down, he must have known. But he would not accept it, of that Legolas was certain. He would never accept it. There was nothing else to be done though, and Aragorn's anger could not alter that fact. "Go. Please."

Aragorn did not want to go. He wanted to remain at the side of his guardian, watching as Valon, famous healer of Rohan who had dragged many a man back from the brink of death, healed his ailing mentor of whatever dreadful wound afflicted him. But that would not come to pass. That was surely what this coming conversation would be about. It was the 'prepare yourself' conversation. Aragorn wasn't sure he could bear to hear it. And yet he knew he had to. Legolas knew he had to, and so did Valon. They would not relent until it was done and he could no longer refute the truth that had laid before him ever since the end of the battle.

It proved to be just as horrific as he had anticipated. Outside the door, sheltered from Legolas' bleary gaze, Aragorn stood tall and unmoving and let Valon's words of apology wash over him. He was told that there was no hope and he nodded. He was told that Legolas would not be allowed to die in pain and he nodded. He listened as Valon explained how the process would go and he nodded. He was given a potential deadline and he nodded. That was all he could do. Nod. None of the words really registered with him. He couldn't let them. If he absorbed them as Valon wished him to do, as Legolas wished him to do, then he would fall apart and so long as he could keep this pretence of everything being just fine then it would become true and all would be well in his mind. He wouldn't have to deal with it if he didn't accept it. It was perfect logic.

"Do you understand all I have said, Your Majesty?"

Valon's question washed over him and Aragorn was prepared to ignore it but the healer was patient and he waited for acknowledgement. Grey eyes cleared and Aragorn shook his head slightly to clear it.

It was mistaken for a negative. The healer launched into another explanation, slower this time to compensate for his king's apparent confusion. Aragorn couldn't bear to go through all that again, even when he was only marginally focusing on what was being said. He held up his hand.

"I understand, Valon."

The healer nodded, slow and attentive, not at all like Aragorn's distracted acknowledgements. Sympathy shone in his eyes, carefully controlled. It would not do for the healer to break down when working. Aragorn admired that quality and wished it was one he possessed naturally.

"Anything you or Legolas need, Your Majesty-"

"No. Just leave me- Leave us." He turned back to the door, hand on the knob, ready to go back to the nightmare that awaited him inside. "And…don't ever address me by that title," he added shakily, not glancing back. "It means nothing."

The king disappeared back into the room where Legolas lay and Valon let him go, unable to do anything. The man was grieving. He should be left to it, not pursued by his subjects, even those who were trying to help. So he turned away. Sorrow filled him. He had done this too much since leaving the relative safety of Osgiliath. So much grief from such a hope-filled campaign. It was an oxymoron; impossible to fathom in the eyes of a healer. Yes, the armies of Light had won, but so too had Sauron in a way. He had taken many people from them, had torn apart friendships and families. And now he had broken the heart and spirit of their king. It was a victory for the Darkness, not the Light, secured in this battle. Perhaps the soldiers would come to see the good once they had licked their wounds, but the healers would always know the truth for they saw what others did not. They saw suffering that soldiers could not imagine and did not want to imagine. It was the lot of the healer but it was one that Valon had always known about. Born into war and living through it, it had become something almost natural, easy to bear at times. But at other times, when the price was as high as this, he saw no reason in it.

The healers always knew the truth. There was no true victory. Not in this war.

To Be Continued…