The night had long ago set; the sun had ceased her journey across the sky, leaving only the light of the moon to illumine their path through the dark forest, the heavy storm clouds overhead preventing the scant light from dispelling the murky shadows between the trees. Yellow eyes, hideously intelligent and ever watchful, reflected the moonlight in the boughs above them: they disturbed the Noldo's thinking, and as he passed under a particular set, larger than those that Elladan had seen thus far and ones that trailed his progress under the tree, the elder twin shivered unconsciously. Legolas has said this is the safest route – if this is the safe way, I wonder what risks the dangerous path holds. However, he didn't truly care to find out, for if he had his way, he would not soon be returning to Mirkwood's unwelcoming southern regions.
Repositioning himself on his horse, the eldest of Elrond's sons took stock of the Elves and men around him. We will need to camp soon. Legolas and Aragorn need rest, as do Elrohir and I. The Wood-Elf's weeping had ceased long before Elrohir's, much to Elladan's dismay for his twin. Elrohir could not stop his silent crying, and would start again when he happened to look at the Ranger or the Prince, both of whom radiated sorrow and pain as their ailing bodies were pushed past their endurance. Elladan had not spoken with his twin, as little had been said by any of the Elves or men as their horses sauntered between the thick trunks of the many trees, but the elder twin knew that his younger half suffered. As if his own sorrow were not enough, he feels the grief of us all. Once more he watched his younger brother look over his shoulder to them, and then swipe away the moisture at his eyes. Elladan sighed, expelling the air as easily as he wished he could disperse the sadness clinging to him, and in doing so drew the attention of Aragorn, who rode beside him.
Lifting one eyebrow in silent question, the Ranger inquired wordlessly as to what his Elven brother was thinking, but Elladan gave his human brother a short smile and shook his head. He would not burden the already troubled Ranger with his worries over Elrohir: Aragorn had enough on his shoulders, or so it seemed to Elladan, as he perceived that Estel was troubled with the guilt of losing Tirn, and the possibility of losing Legolas.
His eyes narrowed in suspicion, the Ranger apparently did not wish to accept Elladan's dismissal. Flushed with the febrile heat of wounds gone too long untended, Aragorn returned his attention to the forest around them: even sick, the Ranger listened for danger, his every sense cast outwards in his effort to help keep his brothers and friends protected.
We are almost out of herbs capable of helping his fever. And we are almost out of lembas and dried meat. The elder Elf almost sighed again, but stopped himself lest he attract the attention of the human once more. Elrohir and I will need to go hunting, for both meat and herbs.
Ahead of them, Jalian stopped his horse, holding back a mesh of twisted kudzu vines that barred their immediate path. They could have merely trod around them, had not the vines seemed to infest this particular portion of the forest, such that no matter which path they chose the party of Elves and men would need traverse under the thick, flowering vines.
Jalian is capable of keeping Legolas and Aragorn safe, at least while Elrohir and I hunt. His estimation of the mercenary's character had turned about completely: he didn't understand Jalian's quickness to change from greedy slave trader to benevolent healer and supporter, but as long as the mercenary gave Elladan no reason to suspect him, the elder twin would not rescind his tentative trust in the human. They needed Jalian: though no Wood-Elf, the mercenary was familiar with Eryn Galen and besides Elrohir, Jalian was the only entirely uninjured person with them.
The Mirkwood Mountains, though much smaller than the Misty Mountains that Elladan was accustomed to, loomed to the northeast. They would not need to travel over the small range but circle around them, and once around them, Legolas had told them that with the mountains behind them, they could travel directly to Eryn Galen. Tonight, however, the Wood-Elf had suggested they try to reach the woody foothills – here they would be safe through the night, as few of the dark creatures of the forest plagued this area, according to Legolas' knowledge of his homeland. Although they had traveled slowly, they had traveled long, and even with their delay that morning to bury the noble sentry, they had made good time.
If we make it to the mountains tonight, we can be in Eryn Galen within two days, if we maintain this pace. Sighing despite his best attempt not to, Elladan mused, looking to the Wood-Elf in question, Legolas is as eager to be home as we are to be out of the forest, so I am sure he will lead us along the most direct route.
Legolas was staring at his hands, singing softly under his breath a song that had no words, and this tuneless melody was growing ever softer: both his hands held tightly to the mane of Tirn's horse, which had not been pleased to be leaving its master behind, dead or not, and had been giving the Prince gentle reprimands all morning. Usually, the mare merely tossed her head in her disgruntlement, but earlier, before they had traversed far from the clearing where Tirn was buried, the normally gentle mare had bucked, nearly throwing Legolas from her back. Had it not been for the Prince's excellent horsemanship, and perhaps also that the mare hadn't truly meant to throw the Silvan but only express her displeasure, Legolas could have been injured worse than he already was. For now, Tirn's mare settled for flicking her tale in agitation as she walked, snorting softly as she grumbled her disappointment. Elladan smiled at her, sharing her displeasure in leaving Tirn by the lake.
At hearing the quieting of the Prince's singing, Elladan slowed his horse, though their pace was agonizingly slow anyway, so that he would ride beside the archer. "Legolas?" he asked, trying to gain the archer's attention. The discordant tune that the Prince was humming under his breath abruptly ceased, and Legolas looked up from his hands to Elladan: it became clear in that short moment that the Wood-Elf was near to collapse. His bruised face, while normally pale, had turned the color of the slate roof on the Last Homely House. "Legolas? Are you well?"
The Silvan had no sooner nodded his affirmation than his dull, cobalt blue eyes rolled upwards, his head falling to his chest as his body crumpled forward. For fuck's sake, Elladan thought, sliding off his horse just as Legolas' inert and unconscious form began to fall from the mare: Elladan was not quick enough. The Wood-Elf hit the roots underneath the stamping feet of his horse before Elladan could reach him.
"Elrohir!" he called out, wanting to bring their party to a stop. Pushing at the hindquarters of the mare, he nudged the horse quickly out of the way so she would not trample the fallen Prince before he knelt down, lifting the archer from the ground.
Aragorn was soon beside him, his hand snaking between Elladan's embracing arms to feel for the Silvan's pulse. "What happened?"
"He is exhausted," Elladan told his brothers, hefting the young Elda against his chest. "We have pressed too long and too far today. We should find shelter soon."
"His heart beats too slowly," the Ranger told them, making room for Elrohir and Jalian as they crowded around the Silvan, as well.
Elladan looked once more to Aragorn, who despite his feverish blush had gone dreadfully pale at the Prince's condition. He will not fade like Tirn, he longed to tell his human brother, but could hardly believe this himself, and so remained quiet.
Instead, he told the Ranger, "He needs rest, Estel. Let us make for the foothills, as Legolas has suggested, and then we will rest ourselves, as well."
"Hand him to me, brother," the younger twin offered, eager, it seemed to Elladan, to have the Wood-Elf near him. Not waiting for a response, Elrohir vaulted onto his horse, his arms already out for the Prince before his elder brother had even the chance to gather the fallen, younger Elda up from the ground again.
You will be well, Legolas, he told the Prince, carefully removing the Prince's weapons before accepting Aragorn's help in carrying the Silvan to their brother.
Elladan feared for Elrohir; as he strapped the Wood-Elf's weapons to Tirn's mare, he thought, You have to be well, Legolas. Elrohir, and most certainly your father, would not survive your death. Elrohir had formed a deep connection with the Wood-Elf, one that had allowed the younger twin to experience the desolation of Legolas' fading soul and the lessening of his will to live. It was to this that Elladan attributed Elrohir's need to have the Prince be well and to be beside him, for should the Wood-Elf's faer pass to Mandos or he need travel to Valinor, Elrohir's own empathetic soul would be forever scarred, as it had been when their Naneth had sailed. Elrohir can hardly endure another Elf leaving him to heal while he still carries the grief.
Boosting the Ranger onto his horse, Elladan pulled himself onto his own, leaving Jalian to tether Tirn's now riderless mare to the mercenaries' horses. Watching Elrohir settle the slight Wood-Elf into a position comfortable for riding, Elladan tried to assure them, repeating softly to the shadowy forest, "He only needs rest."
No one responded, and increasing their pace, the sentient travelers took their unconscious companion closer towards his home.
"…he is waking, Jalian. Find him some water," the Ranger told the mercenary.
They speak of me, the Prince knew, hearing the healer's command and amused by it. His tongue, feeling too large in his mouth, seemed to be covered in grit, and his dry throat begged for a drink. Strider has good intuition. He always knows when I am thirsty. The Wood-Elf smiled, but this quickly turned into a grimace as he opened his eyes, his head aching at the simple action.
"Drink, Legolas." Feeling the flask of water against his lips, the Silvan sputtered the tepid liquid as it hit his parched mouth, for it tickled his aching throat, and he immediately needed to cough.
Legolas turned his head, feeling the water dribble down his chin as he began to gasp, the air and water flying from his mouth as he tried desperately to breathe. Strider held the Silvan so that he lay on his side, before aiding the Wood-Elf into sitting when Legolas' coughs had ceased and he attempted to sit for himself.
"I'm sorry, Legolas," the Ranger told him, helping the archer to sit with his back against the trunk of a tree. "I thought you were thirsty."
"I am," the Silvan replied, rubbing his chin with the sleeve of his tunic to clear it of the blood and water, and smiling at the human healer. As another bout of residual, less painful coughs hit him, the Wood-Elf asked, "Where are the others?"
"Elladan and Elrohir have left to find fresh meat, and hopefully more herbs for my fever and your lungs. Jalian is in the cave starting a fire, and we are at the foothills of the mountains." Strider pressed the flask into Legolas' hand, telling him, "It is past midnight, and a storm is soon to hit. When the twins return, we will eat and then you can rest more, Legolas." The healer was speaking to him as if he were an Elfling, but given his recent bout of unconsciousness, and the true concern he saw in the healer's kind face, Legolas ignored this.
For the first time, Legolas looked around him, discovering that they were not where they had been when last he remembered. We have traveled far. Shamed that he had been unconscious for so long, the Silvan lowered his head, inspecting the flask he had been handed as if from it he could gain redemption for his lack of awareness. I told them I would see them to Eryn Galen. I have been remiss in my duties and promise. Rustling about in the cave across the way, Jalian could be heard muttering expletives as he tried to build a fire.
Fluttering about the Elf for a moment, the Ranger seemed unsure of how to act: he did not know what the Prince needed, or how to give it to him. "Just rest here, Legolas." Standing with a pained grunt, the feverish human added, "It sounds as if Jalian could use some help." Legolas' nod went unseen by the Ranger, who hurried into their shelter.
A cave. They had to choose a cave for shelter. The Silvan sighed, fumbled to open the flask, and then took a drink as he decided, I am not going in that cave, much less sleeping in there.
He would not enter the shelter: he would not spend the night in the confines, no matter that he was not a captive now, that he was not tied or in danger. It did not matter that the cave was naturally formed and had stood there since Arda's second design – he could not enter it, not with the memory of being buried under the dirt and stone in Melfren's tunnel, and not when he already felt suffocated.
Within, the mercenary had finally built a fire with Aragorn's help; Jalian began moving quickly in and out of their temporary shelter to gather firewood before the night's storm came, which would render the dead and seasoned wood too wet to burn, should they try to collect it from outside later.
Strider began to carry bags into the cave, so that should the rain begin to fall, their meager supplies would not be drenched with the coming storm, either, while Legolas sat as he was. Perhaps they will forget that I am out here, he thought, flexing his arms above his head and feeling well, despite having buried Tirn only that morning. It was not that he did not mourn his sentry – no, the Prince could feel his fellow Wood-Elf's sacrifice for him as one feels an Orc blade through one's chest. He began to hum to himself, to distract himself from death and despair.
Treading through the woods, Elrohir was comforted by the familiarity of hunting with his twin. Because Elladan could not wield a bow, the younger Noldo had his at ready while his brother tromped through the underbrush ahead. Come on, he pled to the rabbits, squirrels, or whatever comestible, furry, and tasty creatures might be lurking in the brush. Come out. I'd like to get back to camp. While Elrohir walked quietly, his footsteps indiscernible to the sensitive ears of the animals in the forest, Elladan made as much racket as he could to scare the prey into running out in front of Elrohir. Despite his worry over the Wood-Elf and humans he had left at the camp, Elrohir snickered at the sight of his twin trying to be noisy as he walked. Lifting each foot high in the air, Elladan stomped his feet in rapid succession for few moments in the bushes, but then stopped when Elrohir began to laugh outright, dropping his arms down to his sides and leaning over as the laughter took hold of him.
"Elrohir," his elder twin complained with an amused if bewildered smile, but Elrohir could not stop his mirthful chuckles, the release of several days' worth of tension and strain causing the amusing sight of his brother's antics to become much more humorous than they might normally have been.
Elladan came to him, and taking his brother's arm in his, shook his head, his face serious as he teased, "You are making it difficult to hunt, muindor. But I suppose that if we find no food, we could always boil Aragorn's leather coat."
Elrohir shoved his twin lightly, appreciating his brother's attempt to lighten his mood, for he sorely needed it. "Or we could try hunting again, if would promise not to look so silly as you rouse the sleeping rabbits."
Harrumphing with mock hurt, the elder twin told his young brother, "If you promise not to laugh so deafeningly, muindor! We'll have to walk leagues just to find rabbit that you have not already warned of our presence!"
Snorting, Elrohir shoved his brother again, and opened his mouth to return the jibe, but it was an unknown voice that echoed through the dark trees, telling the twins, "I believe you'll be forced to settle for the leather coat, as loudly as you two Noldor walk through the forest."
The Silvan shook his head, sitting against the trunk of a tree, staring blankly at the mouth of the cave. Although he certainly sympathized with the Wood-Elf's inclination not to sleep in the cave they had found, the storm was coming upon them, the sky blackening with dark clouds, heavy with rain. The moon was obscured by these clouds – the stars, too – and the ailing Wood-Elf, seeking the comfort of the forest and nature outside the cave, was only placing himself in the midst of the storm and elements. Wrapping his arms around himself when the cold gust of wind pushing the storm towards them blew open the tatters of his overcoat, the Ranger asked the Prince, "Will you not come inside?"
Numbly, the Silvan only shook his head again. Aragorn took the opportunity to speak with Legolas, as the Prince and he were alone. One hand holding his stomach and the other catching himself as he plopped ungracefully to the ground, the Ranger groaned before saying, "I concur, Legolas. I've no wish to be in another cave or under the earth in any way." The Wood-Elf did not answer, and so Estel tried again to gain the Silvan's wavering attention, telling the Prince, "But there are storm clouds overhead, and the moment it begins to rain the twins will cart us within."
Whether or not the archer was listening, Aragorn could not tell. He is grieving. I should leave him be, the human healer decided. All had carefully avoided the Silvan today out of fear that they might be the instigator of his sorrow, but not once had Legolas showed any signs of grief, save for his slight weeping upon their departure from Tirn's grave. Though he considered that Legolas might need comfort, Estel did not feel qualified to be the one offering it. His father and friends will be the ones to help him through this, not strangers who have had part in his suffering.
"Can you hear it, Strider?"
Drawn from his thoughts of the reticent Wood-Elf by the Prince breaking his silence, Aragorn listened intently to the surrounding forest, and hearing nothing but the normal sounds of the nocturnal movements of wildlife, said, "What do you hear, Legolas?"
The immortal closed his eyes and leant his head back against the tree's trunk behind him: reaching to the collar of his borrowed tunic, the Prince pulled out the medallion hidden underneath, laying the long cord on his chest, while with his hand he held the golden coin tightly. "It sounds like a lullaby that my mother would sing to me, and it reminds me of sleep." The Wood-Elf grinned, but the show of emotion seemed out of place with the archer telling the Ranger, "It feels as if I am drowning, and all I can hear is the sound of the water of the Forest River rushing over the rock shore." At first thinking that perhaps the Wood-Elf spoke of the song of the forest, or perhaps of his own mumbled singing, Estel was saddened to understand that the Prince spoke of his grief, of the despair in which he was submerged. "Have you heard the Forest River, Strider?"
"No," the human healer told the Prince, "I have not heard it." He could think of nothing else to say. He knew nothing of Elven grief save for its possible consequences.
His grin growing, Legolas opened his eyes to look not to the human to whom he spoke, but to stare above him, to where the limbs of the tree on which he reclined stretched out towards the opening of the small cave. "It grows louder than the song of the forest. It lulls me away from the trees and woods."
Disturbed by the Silvan's good humor, when the Prince's conversation hardly called for it, the Ranger crawled to his knees, and then knelt before the Wood-Elf, pulling the Silvan to him, and wrapping his arms around the slight form. For a moment, the Silvan seemed to stiffen, to pull away from the contact, but the stricken Prince then leant into Estel's kind embrace, allowing the Ranger to comfort him. While he did not return the embrace, Aragorn could see that the archer welcomed it nonetheless, for Legolas laid his head on the Ranger's shoulder. He wrapped his arms as tightly around the Prince as he dared to, not wanting to disrupt the Silvan's injuries, nor wanting to release the fading Wood-Elf back to his solitary mourning. His own deed surprised him, for he had not thought before acting, and he hoped his forwardness would not be insulting to the Prince.
Finally, Legolas pulled away, wiping at his eyes with hands, apologizing, "I am sorry, Strider." Following the Silvan's gaze, Estel saw that Jalian had exited the cave – the mercenary threw them a sympathetic and embarrassed smile before he gathered the last of his pile of wood and hurried away from the two.
"No, Legolas. I am sorry. All of this could have been avoided had I acted differently," he told the Prince. "Tirn would not have died, nor Meika. Elladan would not have been injured." Feeling his own eyes well with tears, the Ranger told the Silvan, "And you, Legolas. You fade from grief."
"I cannot die," the Silvan told him candidly, sitting back and resuming his deliberate handling of the medallion. "Tirn gave his life for me, and I would not waste this gift by fading from grief – not if I can help it."
They sat in companionable silence. At least he is willing to try to remain with us.
Legolas suddenly frowned, his head tilted to the side as he listened, and his eyes grew wide. "Someone comes, and they come quickly." Immediately, the Ranger rose, drawing his sword as he stood before the Silvan.
Aragorn heard the arrow as it flew, the unmistakable hiss of the thin rod of wood cutting through leaves and the thick, humid air of the stormy night. It struck the tree in front of Aragorn, behind Legolas, and surprised both Elf and Ranger with its sudden appearance. Estel threw himself at the Wood-Elf, toppling Legolas to the side while hoping he was not injuring the Silvan by doing so. We are under attack, he thought, struggling to keep his sword away from the Prince's body even as he fought to keep the Prince's body covered with his. No more arrows came and no other sounds were heard.
He chanced to look up, to see the threat that had surprised them, but the moment he lifted his head and body from where it rested against the ailing Wood-Elf's, a hand grabbed him by the back of his tunic, and a blade skimmed across his neck. "Get off him, human, or I'll tack your hide to a tree and leave you for the spiders. Drop your sword on the ground."
With the blade still across his neck, Estel was hauled from atop the woodland Prince: he tried desperately to place his feet under him so that he would not stumble forward and thereby invite the sword at his neck to gouge his already tortured throat any more. Before his head was twisted back and his view of the clearing became only the dark, roiling, cloudy sky above him, Aragorn saw the Prince struggling to breathe: having rolled to his side, the Wood-Elf was mired in a fit of coughing, his eyes tightly shut as he tried vainly to draw air into his starved lungs.
"…we're friends," Aragorn heard Jalian argue, though he had yet to see who their attackers were.
"Quiet, human," an authoritative voice told the mercenary; it grew louder as the person continued and came closer to the Ranger, saying, "Hanir, help the Prince."
He could see a flash of green cloth and dark hair in his peripheral vision, and then, by the hand fisted in his hair, the Ranger's head was bent forward again. Aragorn was more than astonished to find himself faced with an irate Wood-Elf.