CHAPTER 24) HOME AWAITS

Time had ceased to pass in any rational order. The fall of night and the rise of day were barely events in Aragorn's mind, the days blurring into a single perpetuity as he blanked out to all but the ceaseless rumbling of the horse's hooves below him.

He was exhausted beyond comprehension, but the glaringly obvious presence of Legolas, slumped as he was against Aragorn's chest, was a constant reminder of the absolute necessity that their swift travel entailed. Besides, Aragorn had no food left, nor any water, and so the only benefit to be had from stopping would be to allow him rest – which, he noted without a second's hesitation, was not something he was willing to do whilst Legolas' life hung in the balance.

He followed the same path as the one he had come, but in reverse; now he travelled along the ridge of the White Mountains in an almost direct line south-east. Yet riding was so innate to Aragorn that he could maintain their speed without any concentration, and so his mind was left to go blank – which, considering both his exhaustion and the numbness that filled his chest, it soon did. He was void of all energy, all emotion, all rational thought. The only thing that remained sharp in the haze of his mind was a single, simple goal: get Legolas to safety.

Aragorn directed their horse absentmindedly up the slope before them, and as they overcame the crest, he saw it:

Minas Tirith.

It was a sight of hope, just as it had been during the war, and for centuries before it. The white marble of the city was bathed in the glow of the newly risen sun to the east. Upon seeing it, the haze that had blurred Aragorn's mind for days passed almost at once, like a fog lifting with the arrival of day, and he set to riding with renewed energy.

We are nearly home, Aragorn thought, digging his heels into the horse's side - far less mercifully than he would normally have done, but urgency necessitated it – and he hooked an arm around Legolas' chest to steady him as they set off at thunderous speeds for the nearest gateway into the city.

~~~{###}~~~

Arwen awoke sharply, and was struck by the momentary confusion of one awakening not in their usual chamber. A sleep-dazed moment later, she realized that she must have fallen asleep in her chaise by the fire. Sitting up and stretching the tiredness from her limbs, she glanced down her body at the blanket that had appeared there, far less confused about it than anything else so far – she was familiar enough with Faramir's gallantry to know that he must have fetched it for her.

With these initial questions answered, she cast off the blanket and got to her feet, still blinking the sleep from her eyes. The room was lit with the first rays of amber daylight, and Arwen wondered what had awoken her so early. She felt an odd sensation in her stomach, and wondered whether perhaps it had been the baby kicking, though she thought it unlikely; she had never yet been woken by the little one, and could not see it as a probable cause.

No, what she felt was quite unlike anything of that sort. It was… anticipation.

It was clearer than her other foresights had been, far clearer than the unease or even the cold. She could feel the sun on his skin as clearly as on her own, and felt the light breeze brush against her, though the windows were latched firmly shut. Moreso than that, she felt a sensation running throughout her that had become quite foreign of recent: hope.

Perhaps Aragorn's feelings have merely grown more acute, she thought, but in her heart she knew that this was untrue.

She could sense him more clearly because, with each passing moment, he drew nearer to her.

With quick footsteps, still more graceful in pregnancy than any mortal not so, Arwen cast open the outward doors and stepped onto the balcony. Her eyes searched the land below for any sight of dark hair amidst a sea of sandy brown, but the roads were already busy with traders and travellers, and even her keen Elven eyes could not make out any single figure definitely enough to identify them from such a distance.

Arwen stepped back inside, ashamed at her naivety. It was optimism to the point of foolishness to believe him so near, when she had heard no word from him for over a week. After all, she was not her father, and her foresight was unreliable at best.

Suddenly a voice's urgent calls echoed through the stone halls, and the sound of running footfalls grew nearer.

"Lady Arwen? Lady Arwen!"

Faramir appeared at the doorway to the chamber, chest heaving slightly. Arwen took a step towards him, frowning slightly in concern.

"Faramir, whatever is the –"

"He has returned!"

Arwen's face lit up, a myriad of emotions covering her features – shock, joy, relief. A moment later, the spark in her eyes dulled slightly.

"And what of Legolas?"

Faramir paused uncertainly.

"He… he is not well." he stammered.

"But he lives, does he not?" she asked frantically.

"Aye, he lives." Faramir confirmed, eyes crinkling apologetically. "But perhaps not for long."

Arwen clasped a hand to her mouth, horror and despair playing at her every feature. She had been so fixated on her husband's safety that she had quite forgotten about Legolas' – the very cause of Aragorn's departure – and now guilt gnawed at her in equal part with her distress. Faramir stood by helplessly for a moment, before stepping forwards and placing a reassuring hand on her forearm. She closed her eyes and took a pained breath, before opening them, her face a cool, well-practiced mask to her hurt.

"Take me to them."

~~~{###}~~~

Aragorn passed under the gateway and onto the cobbled stones of the city, jaw clenched as he attempted to maneuver through the bustling crowd. Men, women and children swarmed about the streets, which were already filled with market stalls and every manner of obstacle that could possibly bar his travel. He tugged the reins to avoid colliding with a group of children playing on the road, and cut across the path of a merchant, arms filled with his wares. He hastily turned and began to hurl abuse at the horse's rider, until he caught sight of his face, and paled dramatically.

"Your highness, I am so sorry, I did not realize – "

But Aragorn's last priority was hearing the man's apology, and he was already ahead, taking advantage of a break in the hustle by jetting forwards. He pulled his hood up over his head; he did not have time to be recognized and stopped.

The crowds thinned as he moved up the levels of the city, the streets growing quieter and calmer. Eyes were drawn to the sound of hurried horseshoes, and the sight of two ragged, bloodied riders brought stares and murmurs from all sides. He wished he had some way to shield Legolas from the prying eyes of the people watching them; he always despised any sort of public attention. It was enough that he was an Elf – the people of Minas Tirith always found his slender features and silver-blond hair a novelty, added to by the fact that he was generally the only one of his kinsman to be found in the entire city – but today, his tattered clothes and blood-streaked hair made him stand out even more.

"Sire!"

Aragorn glimpsed behind him briefly to see a soldier powering after him, motioning for him to stop. The king ignored the order, and continued at a quick trot.

"Sire! You must dismount from your horse!" he panted, running to keep up. "Foot traffic only from the fourth tier upward."

Aragorn paused just long enough for the man to peer at the face beneath the hood and straighten up awkwardly, and left the man's flurry of words behind in a clatter of horseshoes as he thrust forwards. He sped up to a gallop, wincing at the thought of what each jarring, thankless footstep onto stone must be doing to Legolas' battered body.

Nonetheless, they were close now – so very close. He would get him help, and everything would be set right…

He slowed as he neared the gates at the base of the Tower, and drew up to the watch station. One guard caught sight of the king's face and called for his companion to open the gate. A chorus of shouts and yelled orders followed Aragorn as he directed the horse through the opening gates, announcing their arrival and calling for aid, but the blood pounding in his ears meant that he was oblivious to it.

As soon as he entered the courtyard, he was surrounded by tower guardsmen, eyeing the king with a mixture of relief at his return and shock at the state of him and his companion. He tossed the reins to a nearby soldier and dismounted gracelessly, whilst the crowd of guards quickly shuffled back to allow room for him. He reached up and carefully pulled Legolas from the saddle, drawing him into his arms.

"My lord, allow me – " offered one of the guardsmen, indicating the Elf's body, but Aragorn jerked him away from his reach.

"No!" he barked shortly. "No, I can carry him."

The soldiers parted as he strode towards the Tower, some milling about, others following a few steps behind. Aragorn ignored them all, passing through the stables and directly into the palace – the quickest route to the infirmary.

"Help! I need help!" he exclaimed, his voice dry and cracked as he burst into the sickbay, startling several of the healers who were milling about the large chamber attending to a – thankfully sparse - collection of patients.

Aragorn gently placed Legolas down on the nearest bed as several healers rushed towards him. The blood pounding in his ears was so deafening that it took him a moment to realize that his name was being called.

"Your highness? My lord, are you alright? Lord Elessar!"

Aragorn whipped his head to face the woman talking to him, as another began to fuss over the bruises down his arms.

"Yes, I am perfectly fine. Give all your attention to him." he replied hastily, having to force each word to prevent them from becoming a jumble. He turned away, sickened at the sight of Legolas' broken body – and caught Faramir's eye from the doorway, where he watched on, horrified.

"Aragorn, my friend, I am so sorry – " he began, striding forwards with a look of utter desolation on his face.

"Do not fret – they will be able to heal him. He will be fine." Aragorn returned, but Faramir looked deeply unconvinced – the king ignored this. "Where is Arwen?"

"She wanted to see you immediately, but I managed to dissuade her from it. It would not do for her to see him like this," he cast his eyes over to the bloody Elf, "especially as she is with child. The shock would not deal well with her condition, nor with the baby's. She is waiting for my return in a chamber down the hall."

"Thank you, Faramir." Aragorn murmured sincerely, and the steward gave a small, reassuring smile.

"My lord, it may help to have some insight into his condition." prompted the nurse, and Faramir quickly stepped back out of the way. "What do you know of his wounds?"

"The c-cut on his shoulder has been open for over a week - it may well be infected." Aragorn stated shakily. "You can see the bruising on his chest where I suspect his ribs have broken. A shard of bone may have pierced his lung; h-he was coughing up blood."

The healers tending to Legolas, who had quite evidently been eavesdropping on their conversation, stopped their work. The nurse gazed at the king pityingly.

"There is naught we can do for such injuries, Elessar, you know better than I." she said softly. "The most we can do is help ease his passing-"

"No." Aragorn barked immediately, his breath catching in his throat. "No, there must be something you can do. Bind his wounds, for a start, stitch shut the shoulder, and-"

"He has lost so much blood already, it would aid him not." the nurse interjected gently. "Elessar, I am sorry - he is beyond our help."

The pounding in his ears had reached deafening volume, and his head swam dizzily. His chest heaved with broken breaths, and his hands ripped at his hair so strongly that they threatened to tear it out.

'Beyond help' – it could not be, it could not. They had come too far to fail now, they had been through too much, both these last few days and the many before. If only he himself were able to heal him, but it beyond even a Ranger's ability. Perhaps were he an Elf, he might be able to weave some miracle, but as it was –

That is it, Aragorn thought euphorically.

"Send for the Elves." he murmured.

"Pardon, my lord?"

"Send for the Elves." he repeated, this time directing the command towards Faramir, who had been standing behind him in respectful silence. "The Mirkwood Elves. He is one of their own, they may be able to save him."

Faramir bowed his head silently and ducked from the room.

"It will take days for them to reach us, my lord." the nurse pointed out. "We can keep him stable for a few hours, perhaps, but I cannot guarantee days. We will do the best we can, but he may be too weak to fight for such a long time."

Aragorn nodded understandingly.

"Thank you." he said gently, the gratitude in his voice making the nurse's eyes crinkle sympathetically. She turned to the healers by Legolas' bedside and began directing them in hasty, muted tones.

He had been forced to wait before, but this delay was perched on more of a knifepoint than any other. One side bore Legolas' recovery, and the other – he did not dare to think it.

Ride swiftly, Elves of Mirkwood, Aragorn thought desperately. Your Prince awaits your aid.