CHAPTER 23. THE STORM

The descent down the mountainside was equally as slow as it was hazardous, and equally hazardous as it was cold. The freezing wind tore through Aragorn's body, threatening to make ice of every piece of bone and sinew that resided in it. There was no way for him to shield Legolas from the icy gale, and Aragorn feared that his condition would worsen, exposed as he was to the elements. All that the king could do was move as quickly as he could manage, his hands fumbling in his haste as they scrambled over the icy rock.

Still, the gentle stir of Legolas' breath on the back of his neck was reassurance, however feeble and irregularly it came. Time was spreading ever thinner, and yet, whilst Aragorn could hear the patter of Legolas' heartbeat, as light and quick as the wings of a hummingbird, there was still hope. Perhaps if he was quick enough, and perhaps if the Elf was as strong as Aragorn knew him to be, they both might just make it out of this waking nightmare alive.

The grey clouds grew dim as night fell – not that they had ever been truly bright to begin with. Indeed, Aragorn had almost forgotten what such luxuries as warmth and sunlight were like, for it seemed as though the days had waxed to resemble months. Had it truly been no more than a week since he left Minas Tirith at great speed, and no more than a month since Legolas had done the same?

A rumble of thunder echoed overhead, and Aragorn begged silently that the rain would hold off until he reached the flat grounds of the plain. He hastened his shaking hands, trying to halt the shivers that quivered and coursed through his whole body. His muscles ached, but he was no stranger to fatigue and he did not allow his exhaustion to delay him. He was grower closer now, the cliff beginning to level itself out, becoming less and less steep until at last he could walk ordinarily and take the strain off his smarting hands. His heart leapt triumphantly as he rounded a corner and his horse came into view, and he hastened his weary, stumbling footsteps.

When he reached the animal, it reared up, unnerved by the scent of blood that mingled in the air with his approach. He slowly approached the horse, murmuring gently in Sindarin to abate its nerves. When he reached the animal's side, he ran a soothing hand over the smooth flank, at the same time removing the reins from the crevice into which he had shoved them as a makeshift tether bar.

Swiftly but gently he bent down, sliding Legolas' slight figure off his shoulders and onto the ground. He took a moment to gather his breath, arching his back to stretch out the tired muscles, before lightly scooping up the Elf. Legolas inhaled sharply and flinched away from his touch, his eyes flying open in alarm.

"Sssh, ssh, do not fret, it is me. It is Aragorn." he murmured, gently but with a definite and fearful haste to his words – what had been done to his friend to make him so uneasy, so afraid?

Legolas' eyes seemed slightly unfocused, only gliding across Aragorn's face before sliding shut again, but his breathing slowed back to a calm pace, and something in the way his limbs relaxed seemed to imply recognition of his friend. Aragorn embraced this sign, gently carrying the Elf over to the horse. With some difficulty, he swung the long, slender legs over the saddle, shifting his weight until he sat in a semi-upright position. Keeping one hand firmly knotted in the fabric of Legolas' tunic so as to stop him slipping off the horse, Aragorn placed a foot in the stirrup and deftly sprang onto the saddle behind him. Without hesitation, he picked up the reins and kicked the horse into movement.

The first few minutes were spent manoeuvring about the rocky and precarious ground with as much speed as possible, Aragorn directing his steed towards the grassy plains, conscious of the jarring movements each stride would surely deliver to Legolas' battered body. Aragorn simply prayed that he could endure just a little more, for the sake of bringing him home quickly.

It was with great relief that the incline slowly decreased, the rocks underfoot gradually being replaced by greensward and shrubs. Soon it was flat enough to bring the horse to a gallop, and no sooner had Aragorn done this than a deafening clap of thunder sounded overhead, and the darkening sky opened, and the rain began.

The downpour hit them as suddenly as if they had been tossed into a pool, and the result was much the same – in instants they were drenched through to the skin, their hair and clothes sopping wet. Aragorn shook his head violently to whip the sodden hair out of his eyes. The air was laden with the scent of it - the petrichor of earth and grass and freshness. Aragorn suddenly wished, before realizing the foolishness of the thought, that Legolas were awake – the Elf loved the clean, pure smell of the rain. As they rode onwards, the downpour began to wash away the grime on their skin, and the blood too; Aragorn had not even been aware of the crimson that had seeped into his clothes from where Legolas' shoulder leaned against his.

He wished it were so simple, that he might simply wash himself of the damage. That, once they were miles from the mountains, the physical remnants of the ordeal all but gone, it would somehow sit easier in the soul. That he might begin to forget. But with each stride their horse took, guilt and horror weighed yet more heavily at his heart. Because Aragorn knew that even if Legolas lived – if –there would still be hell to pay for all this. The Elf had flinched from his touch – his. Even when all the wounds had healed, Aragorn knew that there were scars that were far more than skin-deep. Who knew how long it would take for him to recover – a month, a year, an eternity? How could Legolas, born of a kind that never grow old and never forget, ever truly heal?

A sudden, grim thought hit Aragorn's chest. What if Legolas chose to sail to the Undying Lands, far across the sea and into the West, to find a cure for his suffering, just as Frodo had done?

He wouldn't. He wouldn't leave me like that, was Aragorn's first thought, and he was instantly disgusted by his own selfishness.

Yet, revising the idea, he was struck also by uncertainty. Would Legolas remain in Middle-earth – mostly, if not purely, for his friend's sake? Their recent quarrels made him doubtful, and it ruined him inside to think that such a long friendship could be ruined by a moment of thoughtlessness, such as he had shown.

It can be fixed. We are not yet beyond repair, Aragorn tried to convince himself.

But, he realized suddenly, that repair was dependent upon Legolas' survival, and that itself was far from guaranteed.

Aragorn gave the horse a firm kick, and they hurtled onwards with greater speed, the sharp sting of the rain on his skin not even a thought in his mind.

~~~{###}~~~

A low rumble of thunder echoed through the walls of the White Tower, the storm lashing against the windows with ferocity. The occasional prong of lightening pierced the sky, flashing briefing through the just-fallen night. The wind howled like a fearsome animal, thrashing at the trees below in the city.

In spite of being indoors and in front of a warm hearth, Arwen shivered, as though she too were out in the raging storm. Her heart was filled with such a deep feeling of unease that, out of instinct, she placed a hand to her abdomen, as though to protect the child that grew inside her.

The thought brought the baby to the top of her mind, a place she had been fighting to remove it from ever since Aragorn had left Minas Tirith. It was a hopeless struggle, for her pregnancy had at last begun to show; despite being with child for some time before announcing the news to their friends (namely, Faramir, Gimli and Legolas), there had been no visible sign of her gravidity until several months had passed, a fact she could only attribute to the half-human, half-Elven nature of their child. Now, her body grew faster than ever to adapt for the baby it nurtured, a very definite bump appearing beneath the silk of her clothes.

The healers that tended to her expected the baby to be born in just a month, no more than two, and Arwen was beginning to fear that Aragorn might not yet have returned to be with her for the birth. He had left without any real plans, giving no indication of when he would come back, and thus Arwen was left in a limbo of uncertainty, alongside her fears for his and Legolas' lives.

A flash of lightening outside brought her attention back to her immediate surroundings, a fact she found strangely infuriating. If only she had her father's gift of foresight in a degree more than to sense merely feelings of misgiving, she might be able to put herself and the rest of the kingdom at ease.

But nay, all my supposed Elven magic is good for is to detect a sense of unease – I could have guessed as much! she thought furiously, and had she not been raised to hold her temper, she would have lashed out in her impatience.

After all, she was Arwen Undómiel, daughter of perhaps the greatest Elf-lord in Middle-earth, and wife of the first king Gondor had seen in a thousand years – she had no choice but to be poised. She was privileged, she knew, to have been born into nobility, but she had also been born also into expectation – an expectation of tranquility, and composure, and level-headedness, even in times as strenuous as this.

But there is something to be gained in knowing that one is entirely in control of oneself, even if they cannot be in control of anything else, she thought. As is certainly the case now, for scarcely before can I recall a situation where I could be of less help.

Besides, she added, with a sly sideways smile, there is some satisfaction in knowing that any Man would have kicked out at some innocent piece of furniture a long time ago, had they been in my place.

"True, m'lady, most true." Came a laughing voice from the doorway, and Arwen realized only as Faramir walked towards her that she must have spoken aloud.

"Of course I do not mean you, Faramir, I merely – " she hurried to apologize, instantly blushing at the thought of how naïve she must have sounded, but Faramir appeared to have taken the comment good-heartedly, and waved off her apology with an amiable smile.

"No, no, do not express regret on my behalf - you are quite right in saying it. That chair?" he gestured to the seat beside the queen. "It would be splinters."

Arwen smiled, and Faramir sat down beside her – without consent, which made her feel oddly pleased. Their mutual hardships had brought them close in recent weeks, and the fact that he had ignored the usual formalities – which would dictate that the queen give permission for him to sit, before he did so – was a sign that their friendship was both genuine and firm. She need not concern over him growing too fond of her, either – she happened to know for certain that Faramir was entirely besotted by Éowyn of Rohan, who returned the sentiments equally passionately.

"Is there any news?" Arwen asked, the smile slowly sliding from her face as she came falling back to earth.

Faramir shook his head, and the queen, glancing at his face, saw how it bore the signs of stress and burden. His skin was lined from worry, though he was yet to even reach forty years of age. His eyes, too, bore a depth and sadness about them, as of seeing too much of the darkness in the world at so young an age. But still there was joy in them, and youth, and hope, and it heartened Arwen somewhat to see it.

"There has been no word from Aragorn himself. I have, however, had word spread that the king is travelling the country, and that any help that can be afforded is to be given to him." Faramir stated gently. "I have also asked for notification to be sent directly to the White Tower, if he is sighted. As of yet, though, there has been no such instance."

He must have seen the crestfallen look that crossed her face, for he immediately added:

"But that does not mean to say that he has come to harm. Most of our soldiers travel via the main Road, so it may well be that Aragorn is merely following a less-travelled track or way. There are many places in Gondor where one might not be found, if it was not their desire to be. Or perhaps he has even passed into Rohan, where he would be beyond our sight. He said that he was headed for the White Mountains, did he not? It is easier to pass, I believe, from their lands than from ours."

And then, boldly and entirely against any sort of etiquette, he grabbed her hand, in what he surely intended to be a reassuring manner. Arwen, however, was so shocked by the gesture that she flinched quite perceptibly, and Faramir let her go quickly.

"I am sorry, I am so sorry, that was quite improper of me, I should not have done that." he stammered, eyes downcast in embarrassment. "I do not know what I was thinking, please excuse – "

"It is nothing." she cut across, and there was truth in her words – there had been no intimacy intended in the gesture, he had merely meant to comfort her. "I was merely surprised, that is all. It is my fault."

Faramir opened his mouth to protest the idea, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he changed the topic by asking:

"Have you any news, my lady?"

Understanding what he meant, Arwen shook her head.

"Nothing but… unease, and cold." she replied, eyes closed and frowning slightly. "I do believe they may be out in the elements, for I feel the rain as if it were on my own skin…"

Faramir edged forwards keenly in his seat.

"What else do you see?"

She frowned yet more deeply, before her eyes flittered open to glance at Faramir with a worrisome air. "I am afraid my father's gifts have not manifested themselves in me to a proper degree. I see nothing, I merely feel, somewhat."

"Perhaps, if they are out in the storm as you say," Faramir began excitedly. "They may be returning home!"

"It may well be." Arwen replied, but there was no sign of the worry in her voice fading. "But I feel, in my heart, that this happening will not end with such ease as their mere return."

Faramir's face showed his bewilderment, and he observed as the queen stared into the dying embers of the fire, her bright grey eyes more blank and empty than ever he had seen them.