CHAPTER 22. PERCEPTIONS
Aragorn's mind was a hazy blur, his every move shaky and uncontrolled.
"No, no, no, Legolas, no." he sobbed weakly, furiously blinking the tears from his eyes, where they froze upon his cheeks from the chilling wind.
He could not believe it, he would not believeit. Legolas had fought beside him for so long that he scarcely remembered the days when the Elf had not stood at his right shoulder. They had been a pair, a combined force – two halves of a whole. Legolas had always been the calming influence, the cool words of logic to quell his hasty temper. He had been the one to hold Aragorn back from a fight he could never win, the one who never let him cross the lines he was too afraid to break. Without him, the peace they had both fought so hard for meant nothing. Legolas had been the pouring rain to his howling wind, and it tore at Aragorn's heart to realize, as he did in that moment, that he would rather spend a thousand days of conflict alongside his friend than a single day of peace without him.
Surely, Aragorn thought, pleadingly, Surely after such perils as Legolas had endured, he deserved a happy ending.
Suddenly everything around him fell quiet, and it took Aragorn a moment to realize why – he himself had stopped shaking, his breaths no longer deep and trembling, but level and passively indifferent, as though it hardly mattered whether or not he drew them at all. It was in this relative silence that Aragorn heard a sound that made him question his sanity: a sharp but minute intake of breath.
Aragorn gasped and hastened to straighten up the Elf, cradling him into a more upright position as his chest moved, ever so slightly, with the signs of life that the king had barely dared believe real. No sooner had he begun to smile, however - the expression looking more like a grimace on his grimy, tear-stained face - than the Elf began to cough violently. His frail form doubled over, shaking and shivering in equal and uncontrolled measure. Aragorn waited until the worst of the coughing had subsided, before straightening him up gently, his heart almost skipping a beat when he noted the trickle of blood issuing from the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, Eru, no." Aragorn moaned, unable to do anything but hold Legolas upright as he began to cough again, a splattering of blood falling onto his leggings.
The king had spent years as a Ranger, and just as long tending to wounds after battle. His knowledge of remedies and tonics was absolute, as was the knowledge that Legolas was far beyond his help. Aragorn was aware that the Elf had been beaten severely; likely a shard of broken rib had pierced his lungs. He had seen similar cases before; a dagger to the chest, or a spear tip between the ribs.
Such men rarely lasted the hour.
Legolas made a small noise of alarm and tried to move, resulting in another vigorous round of coughing. When finally he managed to steady himself, he turned to Aragorn, eyes wide with panic.
"Ssh, ssh, do not worry." Aragorn hushed, trying to convey a calmness that could not be further from he himself was experiencing. "You are going to be fine. I am going to get you help."
Aragorn carefully curled his arms around Legolas' shoulders, pulling him into an upright position, and making sure to take almost all of his weight so as to prevent him from collapsing. He then bent down slightly and gently shifted the Elf's weight, slinging him across his shoulders so that his hands and arms were free. Aragorn straightened up experimentally – Legolas, though tall, was slender, and the weight was not unmanageable.
Aragorn cast a last quick look around, eyes passing over Beregrond, his face bloody, figure unmoving. Had he of been less preoccupied by Legolas he might have checked to see if he was dead, but no such thought occurred to him – his friend needed aid, and every second was of vital significance. He spotted his sword besides the body, but made no move to retrieve it; the weight would only slow him down, and he still had his daggers if the need to fight arose. Legolas' bow, on the other hand, he picked up and slung over his shoulder, where the carved limb rested against its owner's side.
He will want it when he awakens, Aragorn thought, though he could not have been less sanguine in this idea.
Aragorn moved towards the cliff face, peering over the edge. To climb down the way he had come would be incredibly dangerous, he realized. The wind had picked up to an icy gale, jagged rocks like sharp teeth the only thing below to break their fall. Nonetheless, he saw little choice – every side of the mountain was covered in cliffs much the same as this one, and at least he knew his way somewhat.
"Let's take you home." he grunted to Legolas, carefully lowering to his knees and sliding over the edge of the cliff face.
After just moments, he began to feel the added strain of Legolas' weight on his fingers as they struggled to grip the cold, bare rock. The wind whipped his hair, and his clothes offered little protection from the freezing flecks of snow that stung his skin with each gust. He spared no thought for himself, however, but feared for Legolas, who had already been ill enough without the cold to worsen his condition. The Elf had not spoken a word, and only the slight brush of air on the back of his neck told Aragorn that he breathed still. He might have been unconscious or not, it mattered little. Either way, he needed to get him to safety with utmost haste, and Aragorn was praying to every and any god that Legolas' strength might last just a while longer.
~~~{###}~~~
A strange sensation passed over Arwen as she looked out over Minas Tirith, the sky aglow with streaks of deep, dusky purple. The palace balcony was still warm with the remnants of the afternoon sunlight, and yet a tingle passed over her skin that was distinctly chilled; frosty, like a winter breeze. She shook her head of the notion, murmuring impatiently at her irrationality, and yet she could not shake the feeling deep in her chest that something was very, very wrong.
It was not merely an unease, a nervousness – nay, that she had felt for days. Ever since her husband had fled on such short notice, she had been hopelessly jittery, unable to focus her attention on anything due to the worry that stabbed at her stomach. But this sense that she felt now – this distinct, cold unease – was more acute, more defined.
Arwen hoped that it was nothing more than vain fears and useless fretting, though her heart would say otherwise.
"Good evening, my Lady." came the familiar tone of Faramir, and Arwen turned quickly, wiping from her face any notes of fear or doubt.
"Lord Faramir," she replied, with a polite but distant smile. "How do you fare?"
"Well enough." he replied stoically. "We have been fortunate not to host any foreigners in the last few days, but still, the kingdom struggles in your husband's absence – he does far more than he would have me know."
Arwen smiled, genuinely this time. This was a fact she knew well about Aragorn – his tendency to downplay himself, his modesty that went against the tendencies of most Men. He was not secretive or cunning, but merely kept his cards close to his chest; he was cautious.
That is, until one he loves comes into harm's way, she thought painfully.
Something in her face must have given her away, for Faramir's brow crumpled in concern.
"You worry for him." he said, and it was not a question, but a statement.
"Do you not?" she replied shortly, only realizing the abruptness of her words a moment later, when she hastened to amend herself. "I am sorry, Faramir, I did not mean –"
"Do not fret – it is quite alright." Faramir replied calmingly. "I am selfish to worry about my own burdens, when of course you must be ill with worry."
"No, Faramir, no, of course you are not… " Arwen mumbled ashamedly.
In truth, she had scarcely met a man less selfish than Faramir. Though she had not had a great deal to do with him in the sense of work, their mutual closeness to Aragorn meant that their paths had crossed to the degree that they were, if not friends, close associates. Arwen had found the Steward to be humble, loyal and kind; he lacked the materialistic nature of most Men, and seemed entirely content to serve, never feeling the too-common need for absolute authority. Indeed, her respect for him was strong, and ever increasing.
Faramir did not feel compelled to fill the silence with purposeless words – another trait Arwen liked about the man – and they both stood for a moment, staring out at the distant horizon with similar, worried gazes.
"I will admit, I find it difficult to bear, not knowing if he is well." Faramir disclosed, frowning slightly. Arwen smiled sympathetically.
"It is an awful feeling." she agreed. "Though, I wish I could say that I was unaccustomed to it."
Faramir appeared bewildered, so she went on.
"Have you never considered what it must be like for those left behind when the men march off to war?" she asked, the corners of her eyes crinkling painfully. "The women and children and elderly – those too weak to fight – often do not hear from their loved ones for months. Sometimes it is years! All that time, we must wait in dread, hoping for the best but fearing for the worst, with nothing to satisfy our worry but an empty horizon!"
She gestured to the land before them with an empty, humorless laugh. Faramir looked slightly taken aback.
"That has been my experience, in any case." Arwen finished meekly, casting her eyes down, somewhat embarrassed by her outburst.
"Such proclamation merely adds to my belief that wars consist of far more than just the men on a battlefield." Faramir replied. "And your hope, your faith, does just as much to win them as swords and soldiers. Do you think that Aragorn could fight with the strength of twenty men, as I have seen him do, if he did not have something honorable to fight for – you?"
Arwen smiled tearily.
"Aragorn's luck truly did exceed itself the day you became his friend." she murmured. "And mine, also."
Faramir bowed his head humbly, averting his eyes in modesty.
"I have coped with worry and ignorance before, and I know its ways, but you have not. How are you not sick with worry, when your allegiance to Aragorn is so strong?" Arwen asked curiously.
Faramir raised his head with a small smile. "I take faith in the fact that he is the greatest soldier I have ever met, and one of the best men too. I would never have let him leave if I was not confident he would return."
Arwen nodded, in her heart wishing that the same faith could possibly bring her comfort. Suddenly she shivered, and Faramir glanced up at her in surprise.
"Would you like to move indoors, my Lady?" he asked, as she gently rubbed her arms as though in an attempt to warm up.
"Oh, no, I am alright." she replied quickly. "I am not cold, as such. I… it is difficult to explain."
"Please, do try." Faramir requested, turning to her, frowning slightly. She paused thoughtfully for a second before she began to speak.
"You may know that some of my kindred have abilities somewhat beyond those of Men."
Faramir's eyes widened perceptibly. "Do you mean magic?"
It is not magic - or, at least, my people do not view it as such." Arwen answered. "Rather… enhanced senses, and knowledge. My father, Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, has the ability to see lands far beyond the eye, to view events from which he is hundreds of miles away. I also have this ability – though, of course, not as strong. I am too young to have developed the skill beyond very basic perceptions."
Faramir nodded slowly. "So what does this mean?"
Arwen frowned. "In all honesty, I am not entirely sure. I have never really been able to perform this – what do you call it? – magic. I assume that it is only my closeness to Aragorn that makes me able…"
"Wait, you can see him?" Faramir asked keenly, and the Queen shook her head sadly.
"No, no, I cannot see him…" she replied, in some distress. She had begun to shake slightly, from the cold or the tension, neither one knew.
"Then what? Arwen, please." Faramir begged, and the Elf was somewhat taken aback by his use of her first name – yet, the improperness of the action was lost in the urgency of the moment.
"I can feel the cold, like… like a snow-flecked wind." Arwen answered, struggling to verbalize the sensation. "And…"
She trailed off, a look of horror on her face.
"Arwen?" Faramir said sharply, watching her with concern. "Arwen, what else?"
"Blood." she whispered. "I can smell blood. I can taste it."
Faramir's face fell, his eyes wide.
"B-but we cannot be certain." he stammered. "I mean, we may be misinterpreting the signs…"
"Of course, yes." Arwen agreed, so quickly that it could not have been less convincing.
Oh, Eru, I wish that it were so, she thought desolately, as the sun dropped at last below the horizon, and the last rays of sunlight vanished just as the last of Arwen's hope did.