Test of Friendship

By Vana

((A/N: sighs Does anyone really think I own these guys? Ok, Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas, Lord Elrond and Estel/Aragorn/pain-in-the-rear all belong to Tolkien. This idea came in a rather unusual way. I was reading the reviews for Cassia and Siobhan’s story (can’t remember if it was Siege of Dread or Cell Number 8) and saw the flame left by the person who wanted to see something different, like the buddies fighting or something. That got me thinking. So this story is the product of my sadist imagination and that flame. Enjoy!))

The weather was dismal. Rain poured down in blinding sheets, lit up occasionally by flashes of lightning and accented by mutters of thunder. This was not the kind of day most people favored for scouting or hunting trips. This was the kind of day when most folk drink hot liquids and gather in one of two central spots: the Hall of Fire, where songs were sung and tales told, or Elrond’s library, where cozy alcoves beckoned information seekers.

Only two people distanced themselves from the general public…and from each other.

Aragorn sat alone in his dark room staring out the window, his mood as gloomy as the day outside his comfortable room. And it was all Legolas’ fault.

‘Why does he always have to be so hard-headed?’ Aragorn groused mentally, moving over to the window seat and bracing his forehead against the cold glass. ‘He could give, just a little.’

Perhaps a bit of background would be helpful here. So let us pull away from this gloomy time and look earlier in the day, a few hours before noon…

As a direct contrast to the weather that evening, the morning had been sunny with only a hint of the rain to come. Aragorn and Legolas had been outside by a large pool, throwing rocks into it and challenging each other to rock-skipping contests.

“Ha! Ten!” Legolas crowed, falling back onto his elbows with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Beat that!”

“Easily done,” boasted Aragorn as he fingered his next flat stone. Rising onto his knees, the ranger fired his stone with all of his strength. The stone hit the surface and skipped…and skipped…and skipped…again and again.

“Eleven!” Aragorn whooped. “Beat that, my elven friend!”

Legolas scowled at his stone, gathering his strength. Straightening, the elven prince unleashed his stone, putting all his strength and weight behind it. Skip…skip…skip…

“Twelve,” grinned the blond elf.

“No,” Aragorn argued. “That was only eleven.”

“Your mortal eyes must be deceiving you, Estel,” Legolas smirked, very much the picture of the superior elf. “I distinctly saw it skip twelve times.”

“And your elven pride can’t take being tied with a human,” Aragorn snapped back. “I saw it skip eleven times. Are you trying to cheat?”

Legolas sat straight up, his blue eyes flashing. “Are you calling me both a liar and a cheater?” he demanded, his ire up.

“If the boots fit!” Aragorn retorted, also sitting up.

Legolas went very still, his eyes cold. “I am not cheat, Aragorn son of Arathorn,” he said, his tone as frosty as his eyes. “If any is a cheat, you are. It is in human nature to stab the back of those who trust them. Do not forget what Isildur, your forbearer, did.”

Bull’s-eye. Aragorn went very red as he jumped to his feet. “I never can forget, Legolas!” he yelled. “Every moment of every day, I am plagued with the fear of becoming what he was. But at least I can look at my father with pride! Your father is a jewel-obsessed elf, more concerned with riches than kindness! Perhaps the apple has not fallen far from the tree!”

Legolas rose swiftly and gracefully, anger written on every line of his fair face. “At least my father is yet living!” he shouted back. “Your father was highly inept, typical of a human, and got himself killed before you really knew him! From what I see, he passed that ineptitude on to you!”

“I’d rather have my honorable adoptive father over yours any day!” Aragorn hollered, getting right in Legolas’ face. “I cannot think of a more worthy elf in all of Middle-earth!”

“You are unworthy of him!” Legolas hissed into the human’s face. “Look at you! You wear the ring of Barahir, yet you dodge your heritage. You are a coward, afraid of the distant past!”

Aragorn was too angry to speak by this point. Legolas continued, “You hide in the wilderness under the name I gave you, afraid of what ‘Aragorn’ means. Narsíl remains un-forged because you are unworthy to wield it. Even Isildur was more honorable than you!”

That was the proverbial last straw. Aragorn got right in Legolas’ face and hissed, “Get out of my sight, Legolas Greenleaf. I never want to see you again!”

“No need to worry,” Legolas shot back in the same tone. “I am going back to Mirkwood.” A boom of thunder accented his words and the threatened rain began to fall.

Aragorn turned on his heel and strode into the house, leaving Legolas by the pool.

Neither Legolas nor Aragorn appeared at lunch or dinner. Elrond, the ever-observant elf lord, saw and wondered silently.

The rain fell harder and harder until travel was well nigh impossible. Legolas had to postpone his trip until the rain stopped. So he did, but the common sense that had driven everyone else indoors seemed to desert the blond elf: he remained outside in the blinding rain.

Moving to a soaked bench, the elven prince sat down, ignoring the wet that seeped through his already-soaked clothing. ‘I wish Aragorn had listened better,’ he thought. ‘He did not need to be so bullheaded. But what is done is done.’ He remained on that bench through the night, unmoving save to breathe and blink.

At last, morning dawned and the rain stopped. Aragorn woke to the sun rising outside his window. He stretched like a cat, wondering for a moment where Legolas was. Remembering he was still angry at the elf, the human scowled and headed for the dining hall, his stomach growling at him every step.

In the garden, Legolas stirred for the first time all night. He stood and stretched, wincing at cramped muscles screaming at him. Noticing that he was hungry, the prince headed inside, following his nose. Before heading to the dining hall, however, he stopped by his room for two purposes. One, to ensure that his belongings were packed and ready to go, and two, to change out of his wet clothes and straighten himself up before going to breakfast. He was an elf prince, after all, with an image to maintain.

Aragorn glanced up from his breakfast as he heard someone enter the dining hall. His gaze turned frosty and he deliberately looked away from the newest entrant, Legolas.

Legolas filled his plate with food and looked around. Unbelievably, every seat in the place was full…except a seat between Aragorn and Lord Elrond, where Legolas usually sat when he was on good terms with Aragorn. With a reluctant sigh, the prince went to that seat and sat down, sitting closer to Lord Elrond than Aragorn.

Lord Elrond smiled a greeting to the blond elf. “Good morning, Legolas,” he greeted pleasantly.

“Good morning, Lord Elrond,” Legolas replied politely, ignoring Aragorn’s cold glare. He picked up his fork and began eating.

Lord Elrond’s eyebrows knit together. Normally he couldn’t keep Legolas and Aragorn from talking, even with their mouths full. Now the tension between them was almost tangible. It was so thick that Elrond wondered if he could cut it with a knife. Clearing his throat, the elf lord addressed both beings. “I did not see either of you at lunch or dinner yesterday. Where were you?”

Legolas swallowed his mouthful before replying, “I had…other business. As soon as I am finished eating, I plan to return to Mirkwood.”

“And are you accompanying him, Estel?” Elrond asked, thinking he understood.

“No,” Aragorn grated around a mouthful.

Silence reigned for a few moments as the two ex-friends ate and Elrond watched them silently. At last, the elf lord stood and tapped his knife against his glass. Silence rippled from the high table as everyone turned to look at Elrond. Bracing his hands on the table, Elrond said, his calm voice echoing through the hall, “Because of the excessive rain yesterday, there is the danger of flooding along the river. I will assign pairs of scouts to examine different sections of the river in this valley. Glorfindel, Mithel, the southernmost part. Aragorn, Legolas, the northernmost point.”

Elrond continued talking, assigning the other scouts to other sections, but neither Legolas nor Aragorn heard him through their horror. They had to scout together?! When Elrond sat back down, Legolas said carefully, “Lord Elrond, I really do need to get home. Can you not pick someone else for Aragorn’s partner?”

“No, I do not think so, Legolas,” Elrond replied, his composure perfectly in place. “No one else can be spared from his or her other duties. And surely the other business in Mirkwood can go on without you for a week or so?”

Legolas swallowed hard, knowing Elrond had him boxed in beautifully. The part of him not flabbergasted had to admire the elf lord. “I…suppose so,” he replied reluctantly, knowing when he was beaten.

When the meal was over, the scouts gathered their weapons and supplies. Legolas, Aragorn, Glorfindel and Mithel took the most supplies, as they were going the farthest and would be gone the longest. With some fanfare, the scouts set off, scattering in their separate directions immediately. Within moments, Aragorn and Legolas were by themselves, heading north along the river.

They avoided saying anything to each other for the whole first day, doing their different duties with cold efficiency. No longer were they working to help each other, only to get a job done.

Though this was the Rivendell valley, protected by Elrond, Legolas found his hand continually straying to either his bow or his knife. Something felt wrong; he couldn’t explain it better than that.

Aragorn noticed Legolas’ jumpiness toward nightfall and couldn’t resist asking, “What’s the matter, princeling? Have ants in your pants?”

Legolas just ignored him, tuning his hearing to their surroundings.

Aragorn scowled. Being mad at Legolas was always made more fun by being able to needle him; Legolas ignoring the human did not sit well with him. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?” he asked, his voice louder.

Legolas winced and hastily retracted his hearing. When his hearing was spread far and wide, Aragorn’s voice rang like a tin cymbal and literally hurt his sensitive ears. Glaring at Aragorn as he rubbed his ears, he replied, “Something feels wrong that has nothing to do with a certain filthy human.”

Aragorn bristled. “Are you insinuating that I feel ‘wrong’,” he made quoting signs in the air, “elf boy?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Legolas retorted.

And they were off again, arguing as they continued to walk. They were so caught up in their petty squabble that they didn’t notice the encroaching darkness and the sudden stillness that fell on the world around them.

They were quickly brought back to reality when a dark arrow zipped through the air to land, quivering, in a tree close to Legolas’ head. A string of multi-lingual curses flew from both beings as Legolas straightened from his automatic crouch and notched his bow, Aragorn drawing his sword. They both took up defensive positions–as far from each other as possible–and waited.

They did not have to wait long. A stream of foul orcs flowed toward them in waves. Legolas’ yew bow sang, and an orc in the front dropped to the ground, a white-feathered arrow in its throat. Three more orcs fell to the prince’s arrows before the foul beings were on the two beings, giving Aragorn some work with his sword.

Ordinarily, before they allowed their squabble to separate them, the elf and the man would have worked together, Legolas picking off reinforcements and Aragorn taking care of the closer opponents. Now, however, there were large holes in their defenses. The orcs may have been foolish sometimes, but even they could not fail to see such gaps and take advantage of them.

An orc sniper behind Legolas raised his bow and fired just as the prince was turning, knives flashing in either fist. Really, it was his turn that saved him; the arrow was aimed for his lung. Instead, it embedded itself in the elf’s left shoulder, tearing a cry of pain from his throat. He dropped the knife that had been in his left hand and fell to his knees, his hand covering the bleeding wound.

For Aragorn, time seemed to slow to a crawl when he heard Legolas’ cry. He spun, seemingly in slow motion, and saw Legolas on the ground holding his shoulder. A black-feathered arrow sprouted from between his bloodstained fingers. In that instant, the ranger forgot about the argument, forgot his anger, forgot everything except two simple facts: Legolas was hurt, and they both were vulnerable.

A roar of fury yanked itself from the feral part of Aragorn’s mind as he sprang toward Legolas, sword cleaving every orc in reach. Though the orcs were also scrambling for the wounded elf, Aragorn beat them there and stood guard over Legolas, his sword raised. “Now,” he said, his grey eyes icy cold, “you die.”

The orcs hesitated, cowed by the dangerous light in the human’s eyes. Glancing at each other, they saw that they outnumbered Aragorn 18-to-1. With the odds so firmly in their favor, they hurled themselves at Aragorn. They did not see Legolas rise, graceful even through the pain that turned his naturally pale face pasty white. Deadly resolve burning in his eyes, he firmed his grip on the dagger in his right hand. The orcs also did not see Aragorn shift to a better defensive position, sword before him; they were too busy making sure they weren’t alone in the attack.

Legolas held his left arm awkwardly before him, feeling clumsy and more than a little nauseous as he stood by Aragorn’s side. His right hand, however, did not seem to feel the other parts’ pain as it came up to impale the first orc in reach. Spinning and yanking his knife out, the prince proceeded to make mincemeat of every orc in reach. Turning slightly to hack at a dark throat, his sharp eye caught the orc who had shot him preparing another arrow.

“Oh no you do not,” the elf growled deep in his throat. He dove for his bow and brought it up in a blindingly fast motion, notching it as he brought it to the right angle. The bow of Mirkwood sang and the orc sniper dropped dead, Legolas’ arrow sprouting from its right lung. Legolas whimpered in pain that he could not contain as the arrow in his shoulder dug deeper.

Aragorn was right there, defending the prince until the elf could get his pain back under control and continue fighting. Luckily for Legolas, the fight didn’t last much longer after that. A few moments passed, filled with the cry of dying orcs, then all was silent. Not one orc had escaped; Aragorn had seen to that.

Then, and only then, did Legolas succumb to the pain. His hand released his weapon and flew back to his shoulder as he dropped to his knees. Hunched over himself, the elf struggled not to give voice to his cries of agony.

“Easy, mellon-nín,” Aragorn panted as he quickly sheathed his sword and wiped his hands on his shirtfront. He knelt beside the unnaturally pale elf and carefully peeled Legolas’ hand away from the wound, making him straighten. Experimentally, the ranger tugged on the black shaft of the arrow and was rewarded with a long hiss of pain and a glare.

“Do that again and you will not have your head attached to your shoulders any longer,” Legolas gritted out.

Aragorn smiled as he carefully prodded around the wound. “Back to your old contrary self, I see,” he murmured. Changing the subject quickly, the human said in a more serious tone, “I need to see that wound better, which means the tunic needs to come off.”

“There is no way I will move my arm,” Legolas replied, leaning against the bole of a handy tree. “Go ahead and cut the tunic off.”

Aragorn took the elf at his word and unsheathed his boot knife. He carefully cut the bloody fabric away from the oozing wound then cut a straight line down the front of the tunic. Legolas’ eyes followed the blade with eerie fascination and wariness–he had been a warrior too long to really trust anyone with a blade too close to his body. After a bit of what Aragorn privately termed ‘creative cutting’, he was able to remove the tunic, carefully pulling Legolas forward to do so. Sitting back on his heels, the ranger examined the elf’s chest visually and tactically, confirming what he had guessed earlier.

“The arrow is barbed, Legolas,” Aragorn said softly, wincing in sympathetic pain. He knew exactly what that meant, and he didn’t like it.

If it were possible, Legolas turned even paler. Barbed arrows were trickier–and far more painful–to remove than normal arrows. Barbed arrows had to be shoved through the wound until the head broke the skin, allowing the head to be cut off and the shaft to be removed. If an inexperienced person tried to remove the arrow by pulling on the shaft, they ran a high risk of the arrowhead either breaking free from the shaft and remaining in the wound or of creating a larger exit wound, risking infection. Chewing his lower lip, the elf maneuvered until he was lying on his right side, hands entangled in his ruined shirt and his forehead braced against the roots of the tree. “Go ahead,” he said, closing his eyes.

Aragorn reached into the bag he always carried on his belt and removed a small handful of athelas leaves. Crushing them, he mingled the herbs with some water from his water skin. The sweet smell filled the air, clearing Aragorn’s head and relaxing Legolas’ tense shoulders. Aragorn spread the sweet-smelling mixture around the wound and the area where the arrowhead would exit. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn gripped the shaft and asked, “Are you ready?”

He wasn’t, really, but Legolas nodded anyway, not trusting his voice to remain steady.

Aragorn caught his lip between his teeth as he applied pressure. Legolas stiffened, but made no noise. Quickly, Aragorn shoved, putting all of his weight behind the motion.

Legolas screamed, a keening sound that tore at Aragorn’s heart, as his slender body writhed with pain. Aragorn moved to straddle the elf as he continued to push; Legolas would only make it worse if he moved too much. Deep down, the ranger was quietly grateful that Legolas didn’t get up and decapitate him; he knew how much this hurt. The arrowhead appeared after a few breathless seconds and Legolas’ scream raised a note. Aragorn quickly cut the arrowhead off and withdrew the shaft, throwing it to one side.

Legolas went limp, shaking with in-held shrieks of pain. Aragorn pushed wadded bandaging carefully against the freely bleeding wound before gingerly picking up the arrowhead and setting it aside for later inspection. It took a few moments for the bleeding to stop, but under Aragorn’s experienced hand, it did at last. Legolas focused on breathing steadily; sitting up as Aragorn ran the arrowhead through a poison-testing kit he had with him. Moments later, the sound of soft swearing broke the silence as Aragorn saw the results.

Legolas let out a long sigh. “It is poisoned, then?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His body knew what poison felt like by now; association with Aragorn had ensured that.

“It is,” Aragorn replied absently, mingling herbs quickly. Pouring water into the mixing bowl, the human hesitated an instant. “Legolas, this will really hurt,” he warned the elf softly.

Legolas nodded and closed his eyes. “Do what you must,” he said.

Aragorn bit his lip as he dipped the cloth into the liquid and gently pressed it against the gapping wound in the otherwise flawless skin.

Legolas stifled a scream. The healer had not been exaggerating about the effects the herbs had on the open wound. The elf jerked away from Aragorn, falling forward to rest on his hands, his body simply trying to escape the pain.

Aragorn bit his lip against the anguish in his heart and patiently followed the elf, dousing the wound again and quickly running the cloth along the torn and inflamed flesh. “I’m sorry, Legolas, I’m sorry…”

Legolas reacted poorly, jerking away sharply and retreating as muffled screams took him over again. “I-I cannot…Estel, please do not…”

Aragorn stopped and remained very still, his hands shaking slightly from the distress he was causing in the elf. Tears stung his eyes as his heart broke painfully within him. “Legolas, please, I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you; I know you’re already in enough pain. But it will only get worse if I don’t do this…if there was some other way; you know I would take it. Please, mellon-nín, I’m sorry…” Aragorn felt worse than horrible. He knew this was largely his fault, and that compounded with the hurt of having to inflict more pain on the elf.

“Do I know that?” Legolas gritted through his teeth as he retreated farther from the human and the cloth that bore pain. Aragorn may have forgotten or put aside the fight, but Legolas hadn’t forgotten. He remembered how easily Aragorn darted for his emotional jugular; could he trust him not to hurt him unnecessarily?

Aragorn closed his eyes, letting his tears flood down his face. That hurt worse than anything else thus far. Legolas had always trusted him; to lose that now meant he’d lost everything because of his own stupidity. “Please…” he whispered through his tears, “trust me once again.”

Legolas forced down his natural reactions–primarily, strangling the human who only seemed to be forcing more hurt into his already aching body. “All right,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he gripped his knees tightly enough to leave bruises. “Continue.”

Aragorn worked as quickly and carefully as he could. The elf shook with pain and his soft cries were more than enough to break the human’s heart, but Legolas remained in one place, more or less. At last, the burn of poison lessened and the elf inhaled raggedly, trying not to shake too hard. Aragorn murmured soothing words in Elvish as he bound up the open wound gently.

Turning away for a moment, he let Legolas regain what was left of his composure as the healer took a last herb from his bag and mingled it with water in a clay mug. Turning on his boot heels, the human handed the mug to Legolas, who was more-or-less upright and breathing almost normally. “Drink this, mellon-nín,” he murmured, moving to help support the elf.

Legolas took the mug and sniffed it warily. He made a face at the strong smell and looked at Aragorn with a rueful smile. “You grow more like your adar every day, young one,” he murmured wearily. Lifting the mug to his lips, he drank deeply. Silent moments passed as he drank. At last, he set the mug aside and carefully lay down, supporting his head with his right arm. His eyelids drooped and his eyes went out of focus, proclaiming that he was asleep.

“Of course I do,” Aragorn smiled tenderly as he pulled a blanket over the elf’s slender bare shoulders. “Whom else would I be like?”

As the prince slept, Aragorn set up camp around him, dragging the dead orc bodies out before lighting a small fire and setting his own bedroll beside Legolas’ prone form. As he worked, he thought; always a dangerous endeavor when you have a guilty conscience. He thought about the first time he had met Legolas, all those years ago, and how the elf hadn’t trusted him farther than he could throw him for some time. His heart throbbed in his chest as he realized that they were back to that point again. And it was Aragorn’s own fault, he knew. He had started the whole stupid fight by accusing Legolas of cheating and riling that elvish pride.

Sitting down on his bedroll, Aragorn watched Legolas sleep through watery eyes. He desperately missed Legolas’ friendship after only two days without it. He wanted things as they had been before that stupid day by the lake. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me someday, Legolas,” he whispered, gently touching the prince’s unwounded shoulder.

Hours passed silently, the fire burning down to embers as the ranger sat silently, motionless, beside the sleeping elf. Dawn broke slowly over the mountains, filling the area with warm light.

As Legolas slept, he wandered in his memories. He remembered the adventures he and the ranger had been through together, remembered the many inside jokes and threats the two shared, remembered the laughter and the pain and the tears. Deep inside, the prince knew he didn’t want that to end. He wanted to trust again. His eyes cleared as that thought, resounding through his mind, brought him to the world of waking again.

Aragorn moved slightly beside the elf and sighed, glancing at the horizon. Legolas smiled inwardly, knowing what the human was doing. He was checking the time in the tried-and-true method of looking at the sun. Not moving his head at all, he let his eyes flick up at the human. Aragorn rose, stretching sore muscles, and began preparing a meal. As he worked, he talked to himself in a quiet string of Elvish. Legolas listened, vastly amused by the human’s litany.

“Stupid, Aragorn, very stupid…let the best friendship you’ve ever had slip…stupid, stupid, stupid…”

“That is one more stupid that I would use, personally.”

Aragorn literally jumped about a foot into the air, spinning and dropping his water skin. His wild eyes caught on Legolas. The prince was propped up on his good arm, grinning at the human in that way that always made Aragorn’s self-defense instincts work over-time. “Legolas!” The man gasped, clapping his hand over his heart dramatically. “Don’t do that to me!”

“Sorry.” Legolas said, his grin indicating that he wasn’t really. Tipping his head to one side, the elf inhaled deeply, his eyes half-closed. “Mutton?” he asked, opening his eyes again.

“Yes,” Aragorn replied, picking up the water skin as he tried to calm his breathing. “Mutton with onions and potatoes.”

“Yum,” Legolas commented, sitting up carefully and cupping his hands in his lap.

Aragorn hesitated for a moment. It was easy to berate himself when he believed Legolas to be asleep, but now that the elf was awake and looking at him with those trusting blue eyes, it was much harder to begin what he wanted to say. “Legolas, I-” he began.

Legolas shook his head firmly, cutting the man off. “I know what you want to say,” he said, his expression becoming more serious. “But you do not need to. The blame is not yours to bear. Let it go.”

“But it is my fault, Legolas,” Aragorn said softly, suddenly unable to look the elf in the eye. “I provoked that stupid fight. And if we had been working together, you would not have been hurt.” His grey eyes were drawn to the bandage that encircled Legolas’ shoulder.

“Perhaps,” Legolas agreed, staring at the crown of the man’s head. “But it might have been fired at me, missed and killed you. That-” his voice choked off as he looked away, blinking rapidly. Even the thought of Aragorn dying was too much for him. Regaining control, he continued, “I do not blame you for what happened. Will you forgive my hasty words?”

Aragorn’s eyes flicked up to meet the elf’s and held them for a long moment, searching for any sign of guile. At last he choked out, “Only if you will forgive my words and actions.”

Legolas reached out with his left hand and gripped the man’s right shoulder firmly, ignoring the shock of pain. “Of course,” he replied as Aragorn reciprocated the action, his calloused hand rough against Legolas’ smooth skin.

They remained thus for a few moments, staring into each other’s eyes, until Aragorn tipped his head to one side and sniffed. “Ai, the mutton!” he cried, turning quickly back to the meal. Luckily, it wasn’t badly scorched. The human pulled the meat off the fire, accompanied by Legolas’ soft, melodic laughter as the elf readied the plates for the food.

~~~~~~~~~~

The reunited friends remained in that campsite for several more days, giving Legolas a chance to regain his strength and heal up a bit. When Legolas could shoot with only a twinge of pain–though his shoulder wound remained worryingly unhealed–they continued on their journey.

It was a journey of some three days to the head of the valley; three days filled with laughter, talk and stargazing. At the head, they set up a temporary camp and remained there for a few days. Aragorn set himself the task of checking the water depth and the effects of erosion on the river itself as Legolas wandered the woods about the river, checking to make sure all the foliage was growing well. All appeared to be well, so they started back for Rivendell proper.

“You know,” Aragorn commented the evening after they started back for Rivendell as he watched the stars pop out one by one, “we will be the last ones reporting back.”

Legolas smiled and winced in one motion as he considered that. “Your father will have our heads for worrying him so badly,” he remarked, turning his head to see his friend better. In the darkness, Legolas’ natural glow radiated about him, making his eyes shimmer as he grinned conspiratorially at Aragorn.

“Plus you getting hurt,” Aragorn pointed out. He paused before asking, “How is the shoulder, by the way?”

Legolas flexed his shoulder. In truth, he had looked at it earlier and was deeply concerned. Usually, his healing processes would have at least sealed the wound by now. But the wound was nearly as fresh as the day he had gotten it. It didn’t hurt much, but it was strange. He hadn’t told Aragorn; that was all he needed, more mothering by an over-worried ranger. “It still stings a bit,” he admitted after a moment. “I think there was a bit of poison that was not purged by your foul mixture.” He paused, still moving his arm and shoulder. “I can hold it at bay until we reach your father,” he finished after a moment, satisfied by what he felt.

Aragorn scowled. “Not the best idea, but what other choice do we have? I used the last of my poison-purging herbs on you, and if the taint resisted that purge…” he didn’t bother finishing that sentence; they both knew what he was going to say.

Legolas nodded. “Worry not,” he tried to reassure his friend, “I will tell you if I start feeling worse.” Legolas knew that Aragorn still, at least in the back of his mind, blamed himself for Legolas’ injury and subsequent poisoning. The elf didn’t blame the ranger, but that didn’t seem to change Aragorn’s perspective on it.

Aragorn snorted as he pulled his blanket about himself. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he remarked before falling asleep.

As the journey progressed, Legolas began to feel odd, not exactly wrong-odd–just odd-odd. He could not pin the feeling down any better than that.

Aragorn noticed his friend’s odd expression about noon the third day out from the head. “What’s wrong, Legolas?” he asked, concerned.

Legolas shook his head absently as if he were going to deny that anything was wrong. “I cannot be sure,” he replied after a moment. “Something is not…right. But what it is, I do not know.”

Aragorn paused mid-stride and looked at Legolas for a long moment. “Is the not-right thing within or without you?” he asked, his tone gentle.

“Again, I cannot tell.” Legolas pursed his lips. “I-I just feel odd.” He shook his head. “Let us continue.”

Aragorn wasn’t sure about the wisdom of that, but he kept his peace and trusted his friend’s judgment. That, as it turned out, was a mistake.

As they continued on that day and the next, Legolas felt his body failing, no matter what he did to bolster it. Contrary to his promise, he made no mention of it to Aragorn.

Aragorn actually found out the secret by accident late the fourth afternoon. Legolas had found that he could only focus his attention on two, maybe three things at a time. He had chosen to focus on walking, thinking and listening for trouble beyond them.

Aragorn asked Legolas, “When do you want to stop?”

Because Legolas was thoroughly focused on his chosen three actions, he didn’t hear Aragorn at all and kept walking.

Aragorn frowned. “Legolas?”

Still no answer.

Aragorn strode forward, matching Legolas’ speed, and grabbed the elf’s shoulders, dragging him to a stop.

Legolas blinked, his focus broken. “Aragorn?”

“Are you all right?” Aragorn demanded, still holding onto his friend’s slender shoulders.

“I am fine,” Legolas said somewhat snappishly as he tried to break free from Aragorn’s grip. To the elf’s surprise, he couldn’t break the human’s hold. Pain flashed across his fair features, showing Aragorn what the elf wasn’t saying.

“No, you’re not,” Aragorn said softly. He could feel a slight involuntary shudder spasm through Legolas’ muscles as his friend tried again to break free.

Legolas sighed, bowing his head. “No, I am not fine,” he admitted. “The battle against the poison is not going as well as I had hoped. But there is naught I can do save get to your father as quickly as possible.”

Aragorn released his friend carefully. “Then let us continue, and with all possible speed.”

Legolas nodded his agreement and set his chin stubbornly. He liked life; he didn’t want to lose it to something as stupid as poison.

Aragorn kept a much closer eye on his elven friend during the next day…and what he saw was not good. Legolas stumbled more and more often as the day progressed, and pain flashed across his face when he thought Aragorn wasn’t watching. Occasionally, his hand would stray to his shoulder involuntarily.

At last, they reached a point where Aragorn, even with his weak mortal eyes, could see the Last Homely House plainly. Legolas, of course, could see it just as well, even through his wavering vision. Relief rose in the elf’s heart, overwhelming the shields he had placed around the poison. The poison, angry at being held back for so long, raged through Legolas’ body, taking it by storm. The prince gasped in agony, his hand flying to his heart as he crumpled.

Aragorn knew that they would never make it in time on foot; the elf was too far-gone.

“No! Come on, Legolas! You need to make it just a bit father,” the man encouraged, grabbing Legolas by the shoulders and pulling the elf to his feet.

“A-A-Aragorn…” the prince gasped, fighting not to scream in agony as Aragorn’s hand covered the still-open wound. “I-I-I c-cannot…”

“You can, Legolas,” the ranger interrupted. “And you shall!” Lifting Legolas’ right arm, Aragorn pushed his shoulder under the elf’s arm and began half-helping, half-carrying him toward the Last Homely House.

At first, Legolas thought the poison was making him hear things that were not there as he fought to keep his feet under him and help Aragorn. But as time progressed, bringing him step by painful step closer to Rivendell proper, he heard the sounds of hoof beats clattering closer and closer. “E-estel,” he managed, his thoughts only managing to focus on his native language. “R-roch a-anglenna.” A horse approaches.

Aragorn swore in several languages as he looked down the path, trying to decide what to do in a hurry. Quickly, he helped Legolas over to a tree and leaned the limp prince against it. Unsheathing his sword, he stood guard over his friend. The thought never occurred to him that it might be help, or at worst, someone who meant no harm to either of the friends. His protective instinct, fully riled by Legolas’ condition, urged him to protect Legolas at all costs.

The hoof beats raced toward them, and Aragorn shifted position as he saw the horse round the corner. With a wild, despairing shout, he charged the horse, sword swinging.

A cry rang from the rider as the horse ground to a halt. “Estel! Estel, daro!” Stop!

Aragorn froze in his tracks as the rider’s words and language registered. Only his family and Legolas used his childhood name anymore, and a foe wouldn’t use the fair tongue. He looked up at the rider’s face…and recognized Elladan, his oldest brother. With a cry of relief, the ranger dropped his sword and rushed to his brother.

Elladan swung gracefully down from his black horse in time to catch his little brother in a firm hug. “Ada was so worried,” the older twin whispered in the ranger’s ear, trying to speak with his ribcage being crushed. “He sent Elrohir and I out this morning to look for you; Elrohir went south, just in case your inner compass failed.” Elladan caught sight of Legolas over his brother’s shoulder and frowned. “What happened to Legolas?” he asked, pulling away from his little brother.

“We ran into a pack of orcs, and Legolas was shot with a poisoned arrow. I got most of the poisons out, but I didn’t have the herbs required to do a full purge.” Aragorn managed to condense the painful events of the last week or so into two sentences; he wondered absently how he managed to do that.

Elladan’s lips pursed into a worried line, as he looked the shaking prince over carefully. He was an experienced healer, and he knew that Legolas’ window of help was closing rapidly. “Help me get him onto my horse,” the dark-haired elf ordered tersely.

Aragorn didn’t pause to ask questions. He ran to where Legolas was and gently hauled him to his feet. Elladan helped support the limp prince as the trio headed for Elladan’s horse.

It took a bit of effort to heave Legolas onto the horse, but once he was there, Elladan jumped on behind him and pulled the poisoned elf into his firm, yet gentle hold. “Come as quickly as you can, Estel. Unless I am greatly mistaken, Legolas will be asking for you as soon as he is coherent,” Elladan said, faint glimmers of humor showing through the deadly seriousness.

“I will do so,” Aragorn promised. “Si nor celeg a u-tiria dan.” Now ride swiftly and don’t look back.

Elladan nodded curtly and urged his horse into a headlong gallop, leaving Aragorn in the dust. Keeping his balance whilst holding onto Legolas was tricky work, but the elder twin was a master of the art of horse riding, so he managed to pull it off.

Luckily for Legolas, it was a short trip back to Rivendell on horseback. Within three hours, Elladan was pounding across the stone bridge and into the front yard of Rivendell, scattering startled and angry elves in every direction. Spinning his horse to a halt, Elladan shouted to a younger elf, “Get my father! Hurry!”

The boy nodded, his dark eyes wide as he took in the limp prince, and ran for the staircase. Elladan dismounted, Legolas in his arms. Grunting with effort, he shifted the unconscious elf to a better carrying position and headed for the stairs. Just as his foot touched the bottom stair, he came face-to-face with Lord Elrond, his clothes and hair mused from his headlong dash down the steps. The two healers quickly carried Legolas to Elrond’s healing room, where he could be better tended to.

Aragorn arrived a few hours behind Elladan, panting with the effort of running all that way. He did not pause to rest, opting instead to find Legolas. Taking the stairs three at a time, he found his father’s healing room and burst in the door, letting the wooden door smash against the back wall.

Two identical voices hissed, “Shh!” as two identical dark heads looked up indignantly. The third dark head, the one belonging to Lord Elrond, remained bent over his still blond patient. Elladan and Elrohir got up from where they sat beside Legolas’ bed and embraced their human brother before stepping aside and allowing him access to Legolas and Lord Elrond.

Aragorn knelt by Legolas’ side and took his friend’s limp hand. “How is he?” he asked softly, shifting so his sword rested more comfortably against his side.

It was Elladan who answered. “For the moment, stable. We stabilized his heart and breathing as soon as we got here.” Aragorn glanced at his brother and saw tired lines around his mouth and strong nose. “Right now, Ada is trying to find the identity of the poison so we can treat it properly.” Elladan paused as he saw the anguish on his human brother’s face. “Estel, he will pull through. We got him here in time.”

And pull him through they did, though it was a long battle that sapped the strength from all four of the healers. The first light of dawn was filtering through when the three elves left Legolas in Aragorn’s care and went to rest. Aragorn sat by Legolas’ side on the bed and gently stroked the elf’s hair, holding his warm hand firmly. “We came so close to losing you, gwador-nín,” he whispered into the silence of the room. “I am glad we did not.” My brother.

Legolas’ eyes moved beneath his closed lids for a moment before he slowly opened them and managed to focus on Aragorn’s tired face. “So am I,” he whispered, his voice a quiet rasp.

“Welcome to the land of the living,” Aragorn smiled, forcing back a tired yawn. “How are you feeling?”

The prince lifted his right shoulder slightly. “Sleepy,” he said after a moment. “The pain is not so bad anymore, praise the Valar.” He paused and looked hard at his human friend. “Have you slept?” he asked.

“No,” Aragorn whispered, smoothing the elf’s mused hair off his face with a trembling hand. He tried to tell himself that he was just trembling because he was relieved that Legolas was all right, not because he was tired. “I could not sleep until I knew you were going to be all right.” His eyes found Legolas’ re-bandaged shoulder. Now that the poison was eradicated from Legolas’ body, the human felt confident that the wound would heal fully, as it had not been able to do over the last week. He hadn’t known that it wasn’t healing–the silly elf hadn’t bothered to tell him that.

“I will be fine, tithen mellon,” Legolas smiled wearily. “Go on to sleep.” Little friend.

Aragorn smiled back and curled up beside Legolas, startling a laugh from the prince. “Estel! Your bed!”

“Uh-uh,” Aragorn muttered, already half asleep. “Too far.” His voice trailed off into a soft snore as sleep took him by storm.

Legolas shook his head fondly and rested his right hand on Aragorn’s head in quiet blessing. “Friends like you are a rare treasure, Estel,” he murmured. “I am glad I have not lost you.” His hand still resting on the human’s dark head, Legolas fell back into sleep.

Legolas remained in bed for two weeks, recovering his strength. During that time, Aragorn never left his side for longer than ten minutes, and that was mostly to run errands for his father. Legolas complained occasionally about being ‘smothered’, with particular emphasis on the ‘mother’ part of that word, but Aragorn knew that was just smoke rings to keep the ranger from seeing how grateful the elf really was.

When Legolas was finally released from bed rest (though Elrond would have preferred it if he’d remained there a bit longer), he went for a long walk around the grounds of Rivendell. Occasionally, he would punch at something with his left arm, testing its strength. It needed some work, but it didn’t hurt much to move it anymore. As he walked, his thoughts traveled down several thought trails, including wondering about his father and thinking about the next hunting trip.

His reflections were broken when Aragorn’s voice called his name from one of the balconies. The prince lifted his hand and waved at his friend.

Aragorn cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Come to Ada’s office! He needs to speak to both of us!”

Legolas waved again to acknowledge the brief message and headed inside the nearest door, wondering what Elrond wanted. He shrugged; he’d find out soon enough.

Pausing before the wooden portal that led to Elrond’s office, Legolas knocked with two knuckles. Elrond’s voice beckoned him inside, and the blond elf obeyed. Aragorn was already reclining in one of the two comfortable chairs before Elrond’s desk. Legolas had always liked this room, oddly enough; it had a homey, lived-in feeling that comforted him when he was on edge.

Elrond rose and smiled at Legolas as he approached the blond elf. “Good afternoon, Legolas,” he greeted warmly, clasping Legolas’ shoulder gently. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough, hir-nín,” Legolas replied, clasping Elrond’s shoulder in return. “Much better than I did when your son brought me in,” he added with a wry grin. My lord.

Elrond laughed and gestured Legolas to the empty seat beside Aragorn. “Sit, please. You have not been out of bed long.”

Legolas took the seat gratefully, crossing his long legs at the ankle.

Elrond took his own seat behind his desk and leaned forward, his fingers laced into a steeple. “Now, how is the northern part of the river?”

Aragorn grabbed the sheaf of papers he had written whilst the friends were traveling. He shuffled through them until he found the specific river reports and handed it to Elrond.

Elrond skimmed over it quickly and set it down. “Everything appears to be fine,” he said, leaning forward again. “So would you mind explaining why you two returned as you did?”

Legolas suddenly found the floor very interesting and Aragorn turned a light shade of red. After a moment of expectant silence, Aragorn told what had happened, Legolas interjecting as needed.

When the story was all told, Elrond sighed and stood up, facing away from the friends as he looked out the window. The elf and the man exchanged cautious glances, wondering what Elrond was thinking.

At last, the elf lord turned around to face them and braced his hands on his desk. “To a small degree, this is my fault,” he said, startling both friends. “I sent you out together, knowing there was something wrong. I had hoped you two could put aside the quarrel in order to accomplish your goal. Apparently, I misjudged both of you.”

Legolas bit his lip and looked away, fighting back tears. It had been a long time since any elder elf had had to scold him; he’d forgotten how much it stung. Aragorn scuffed the toe of his boot absently against the floor until his father’s glare reminded him how annoying that was. Elrond continued, “And while I regret that you are wounded and nearly died, Legolas, in one sense, I am pleased it happened. It forced you two to work together to achieve a goal, and it showed both of you just how petty your quarrel was. I trust you both have learned your lesson?”

Legolas smiled wryly as he rubbed his shoulder and nodded. Aragorn cast a sidelong glance at Legolas as he copied the elf’s nod. Elrond pierced both of them through with his gaze before straightening, satisfied. “Then you two are dismissed.”

Aragorn and Legolas rose simultaneously and headed for the door after bowing respectfully. Elrond’s voice stopped them. They turned as he asked, sitting down, “Legolas, when do you plan to return to Mirkwood?”

“I am not sure,” Legolas replied. “Maybe sometime next month, unless Ada calls me home sooner.”

Elrond nodded his understanding and waved them out. They obeyed quickly, laughing between themselves as they ran down the hall.

Once they were out of Elrond’s hearing range, Aragorn slumped against the wall with a prolonged whistle of relief. “I thought we were in real trouble for a moment there,” he admitted, sliding down the wall to sit on the ground.

Legolas joined him on the floor, wrapping his arms around his bent knees. “So did I,” he replied, leaning his forehead against his knees. “But, we did get off easy. He could have scolded us for ineptitude.”

That drew a rueful laugh from Aragorn as he got up, offering his hand to his friend. “Perhaps we did, mellon-nín,” the ranger admitted, helping his friend up, “but do not count your blessings just yet.”

Legolas arched his dark eyebrows as he stood with Aragorn’s help. “And why not?”

“Because my brothers will never let us live this down,” Aragorn groaned, considering the possibilities.

Legolas winced. “Ai…I had not considered that. Any suggestions?”

“Yes,” Aragorn replied, linking arms with the prince. “Lay low for a few days.”

Legolas smiled at the thought as he followed his friend’s lead. “Lead on, thala mellon-nín,” he said with exaggerated courtesy. “And please find us a safe laying-point.” My stalwart friend.

The friends laughed together as they raced down the halls. Though their friendship had been tested to the breaking point and beyond, it had endured through the most recent trial, leaving the bond between the friends stronger than ever before.

The End

((A/N 2: So did my sadist imagination and the flames left by unimaginative people produce a child worthy of reading? Lemme know, please!))