Dedication: for a dear friend who I want to show the light to; you know who you are, I sent you here after all. I know that this is not a transcription of what you are going through, but I hope that it will strengthen you for the time being.

Know that there is always hope and a light through the darkness, one must just hold on until that light is obtainable, until you can hold that glimmering form of hope within your hands and use it to shape your future. I want you to find that hope; that sparkling gem of light, and let it guide you through this time of hurt and confusion and most importantly, I never want to hear that you have given up the fight for both the answers to your questions and for the freedom that we all seek…some more then others.

P.s. do not hate Aragorn just for what you read at the beginning…or Legolas for that matter…it does have a point…I think…

*****

To Handle Everyday…

By Minka

*****

I’m not, not sure

Not too sure how it feels

To handle everyday

Like the one that just passed

In the crowds of all the people…

…And I need you now somehow

(And I need you now somehow)

*****

“Why will you not fight me?” Legolas yelled at the human that stood perfectly still before him, no weapon drawn as the Elf raged in front of him. “What? Do not tell me that you are afraid that I shall win!”

“Legolas I…”

“Do not speak; just draw your sword!”

“Legolas, no. I will not…”

The man’s words were utterly cut off when a fisted hand plummeted into his jaw, snapping his head back and enticing a speck of blood from his lip.

Looking to Legolas, his right hand fisted while his left held his two bow- knives, Aragorn could hardly believe that such feelings had been pent up within the Elf for so long. The Elf that always seemed to happy, so content to walk under trees or stars – it was unreal that he had held so much un-channeled odium and anger within his heart and had never once let it show.

“Fight me, Aragorn!” the Elf once again insisted with a flare in his eyes that would normally send anyone backing away. “Draw your sword and fight, human!” the last word was spat out, as if by saying it as maliciously as possible it would make Aragorn take arms against him.

“I have already told you, I will not do it.” Aragorn stated firmly, staying his grounds. He would not be beaten by simple words of a grief stricken prince.

Feeling the hate boil up inside him to an even more severe level, Legolas let out a cry before lunging forward, flinging his fist wildly at the human’s head only to have Aragorn catch it mid air in a vice like grip. Tugging violently at the hand that held him, the Elf hissed at the ranger, bearing his teeth in a deadly growl. “Curse you, son of Arathorn!”

“Oh, just stop it, Legolas…” Aragorn spat out while looking at the Elf that glared defiantly back. “I am disgusted in you, Legolas; you are weak!” twisting his hand back he drew a gasp of pain from the Elf as his wrist was forced into an unnatural angle. “Your attacks are both sloppy and uncalculated – we both know that you could do better.” He could see the anger brewing in Legolas’ eyes, slowly starting to twist his fair face into even more of a scowl, his upper lip turning up in a snarl. Throwing Legolas’ hand back towards the Elf as if it were something that Aragorn wanted to be rid of more then anything, he forced eye contact and glared hard into the prince’s eyes. “If you want to hit me that at least grant me the honor of your full att-”

Once again his words were silenced when a first landed upon his face, this time with the full weight of Legolas’ strength behind the right hook. The force of the blow sent Aragorn to the floor, his nose and lip bleeding where the skin had been split and yet still Legolas stood transfixed within his rage.

“Now draw your sword!” in those few words, spoken demandingly and harsh, Aragorn could still detect the slight quiver, the slight shake in the Elf’s normally musical tone that hinted at the greater force that was playing a major role in his behavior.

“No.” Aragorn stated while wiping at the blood that dripped down his face and standing to his feet. “I shall not fight one so undeserving so you, Legolas.” Spitting blood from his lip to emphases the point and sincerity of his words, he turned his back and made to walk out of the small room within the walls of Helm’s Deep.

The battle had long passed, the fallen accounted for, treasured loved ones laid to rest and wounded treated, yet the emotional cuts still lingered, more so in some as was now apparent.

“Do not walk away from me, Aragorn!” Legolas yelled at the man’s fleeting back. “Come back here!” When the human made no move to do so, Legolas lashed out with his palm up, catching the man in the side of the head and causing Aragorn’s ears to ring loudly.

Spinning around, Aragorn made his face a mask of hatred, blank of any other emotion as he glared the Elf down. “You are pathetic, Legolas, you are truly pathetic!” Aragorn yelled in rage, his tone harsh, clipped and filled with as much spite as he could manage, knowing that his words would hit true within the Elf’s heart. “Yes, you are! There. Are you happy now? Happy that I come out a said it, happy that I shall tell you that is was your inability that let those Orc’s in here? You failed in what you had to do!”

Legolas took a step back as if the words had been a physical strike, his eyes expanded and glistening with unshed tears. He was shaking, his entire body racked with uncontrollable convolutions as his mind registered the words that were being so hatefully spat at him from the one he called friend.

“It was one thing that we relied on you for,” Aragorn continued, mirroring Legolas’ back step with one forward, “one thing and you could not even do that! Those people out there, the ones that shall never wake again; their deaths are upon your hands! Yours and yours alone! You failed…you are a disgrace and obviously the wrong choice for your kindred’s representative in the Fellowship!”

It was as if someone had plunged a heated dagger into his heart and twisted it within his body before roughly yanking it out. His breath was cut off, like his mouth had been gagged with some form of heavy cloth forbidding air to pass through the tightly woven strands and consequently making his body shake even more as he half hyperventilated, half sobbed. He could hear their screams, hear the shouts for help and the commands to fire upon the enemy. He could see the Orc running at the wall, feel his arms trembling as they had in that moment of truth, his inability to control his own reactions to the events at hand costing him the misplacement of both shots. Because of him the Orc had lived. Because of him he reached the drain within the Deeping Wall. It was his fault that the wall had exploded, crushing innocent people and allowing the Orcs free access to the muddy field beyond.

Finding his knees no longer able to keep straight and his legs unable to hold him upright, Legolas collapsed upon the stone floor, his legs folded underneath his quaking body. Eyes glued upon the hewn stone, he could almost imagine that the small chips and groves were soldiers, moving about the battle field in a dance of lethal grace. If he were to get involved, would they perish, would they suffer needlessly like those doomed to die through his malfunctions?

A soft dripping cut into his dark thoughts and, not being able to ignore it, he looked to his left – the direction of the sound – and saw a steadily growing pool of crimson at Aragorn’s feet. Watching the thick liquid as it slowly spread out over the stone of the floor became the focus of Legolas’ attention. The rhythmic patter as each new drop landed upon the last, pushing the edges out further and further like a spreading plague seemed to become the only thing in his life – the only thing that mattered.

Reaching out a shaking hand, he slowly dipped his first two fingers into the sticky substance, feeling it squelch between the two digits and push its way in under his short nails. Another drop fell from either Aragorn’s split lip or busted nose – which Legolas had no clue – and landed upon the back of the Elf’s hand. The drop stayed where it landed, too thick to run off the side of the slender structure while the deep crimson acted as a strong contrast to his pale skin. Moving his hand out of the path the drops took, he pulled it closer to his face; studying the blood with such interest that one would think he had never seen it before now. The prince rubbed his two coated fingers together with his thumb, spreading the liquid further up his long fingers while tilting his hand, letting the drop slowly become top heavy and create a path over his flesh while leaving a glimmering trail of light red in its wake.

For his part, Aragorn just stood and watched, too transfixed upon the scene playing out in front of his very eyes to have the will or want to say anything, let alone move. Never had he seen the Elf slip this far into the world of Elven grief and the sight was a thing that scared him beyond all belief. To see the once strong prince upon the ground shaking while toying with the essence of life as if it were fresh dew taken off the leaves of a fern was beyond unsettling; a thing of nightmares. He watched as Legolas brought his other hand over, grazing his fingertips together and spreading the blood further up both hands, all the while his eyes locked onto the ever advancing colour so alien to him.

“So easy,” Legolas stated concisely. “‘Tis the very essence of life and yet it is so easy to part, to spread out and take away from where it should remain.” It was as if a child had spoken, his words soft and frightened as he continued to gaze intently upon his now blood covered hands with a morbidly curiosity. “This is you, Aragorn.” He stated as he wiggled his fingers as if to prove his words true. “this is you; you passions, your hates, your strength and the hopes that keep you going – keep you living…’tis a part of you that can never be put back, never set back in its rightful place.”

Knowing that he should say something; anything, Aragorn merely took a small step forward, his eyes filled with a kindness that successfully hid his fear. “Legolas…it is…”

“Should I not feel it, Aragorn?” the Elf questioned, not wanting to hear what the human had to say. “I hold what makes you you…a part of you. Should I not feel you – feel your pains and joys; know what is running through your head? Why is it that all I feel is dirty, like I have taken something that I should not have?”

“I can not give you those answers, my friend.” His words made Legolas’ head snap up, the thin crimson coating upon his hands forgotten as he was faced with the prospect of never being able to know the information that he needed. Horror seemed to be in his eyes, as if he were faced with a troop of Orcs while being weaponless, and as he looked deeply into Aragorn’s storm-grey eyes, the man started to wonder if the Elf maybe could read this thoughts. “I can not answer questions that I do not understand myself.”

Dropping his gaze and turning is head to the side in the way that Aragorn knew meant that he was deeply troubled, Legolas pressed his lips together and nodded his head slightly, accepting the fact that he may never learn and understand all there was about the painful curse of mortality.

“Do I bleed, Estel?” Legolas asked softly after a moment yet nothing about the question implied that Aragorn should reply. “I overheard them – the Riders that we journeyed here with. They said that I was cold, that I was heartless; unapproachable.” Finally raising his eyes to the standing man once again, Legolas seemed to plead with him with his entire being; his eyes, his face, his soul begged for the answers to questions only just realized and fully composed. “Am I that cold that my blood has frozen in my veins, like water hit by a winter’s frost? Is the reason that I am here unscathed while others lay lifeless, their blood flowing as their souls’ depart, all due to a cold heart?”

Smiling softly, Aragorn took yet another small step forward. “You do not have a cold heart, my friend,” Aragorn said, all sincerity in his voice. This was what he had hoped for, what he had spoken such malicious and untrue words in hopes of achieving; a questioning and lost seeming Legolas was far easier to deal with then an anger driven one.

“But I failed them – you said so yourself. I killed them…” his sentence was stopped by a loud sob that sounded more like a gasp of pain then anything else and Aragorn had to fight hard against the want to run over and comfort his friend in his time of need.

He had to see; had to understand first!

“No you did not, Legolas, you did not fail them! You saved the living, not failed the dead. If it were not for you, Gimli and I would have been left to die on the path to the gate, hundreds more Orcs would have come up the ladders and the doors within the hall would have broken long before we had the time to get the horses. And Legolas, if you truly had a heart of ice you would not be feeling such guilt over things out of your control.”

The Elf stared up at him, his ice-blue eyes speaking volumes and showing the hope that he so desperately wanted to be able to believe in. “Then why did you say such things?”

Sitting down next to the Elf, the man was almost sure that Legolas would pull away, yet, contradictory to what he thought; the prince seemed to move slightly closer, desperate for some form of human contact that he could relate to.

“I told you want you wanted to hear,” Aragorn started while looking at the being that refused to look at him, “what you needed to hear so you could rid yourself of the wrongly placed guilt and self-hatred. It was not your fault and you know that in here,” his placed his hand softly to the side of Legolas’ temple, telling the Elf that in his head he truly did hold the answers to that which he sort. “Do not let your grief stricken heart convince your mind otherwise. Grief comes to us all, but it is how we deal with it that matters, how we let it out so that it does not slowly kill us from within. Never, ever keep such things pent up inside you for so long, for when there becomes too much pain and confusion within, it has no where to go but out and the results of such an action can often be too frightening for words. Trust your heart in both love and grief, but never let your mind and its rationalization be pushed out, no matter how much it hurts.”

He could tell that Legolas was mulling over each and every word, storing it into his memory for further contemplation if the time ever called for it, and slowly, just like the thawing of ice, he could see the detestation and fury drain from his face, leaving instead a pale expression of sorrow. For the longest time they merely sat there, next to each other and yet each so lost in their own worlds of thoughts and inner-reconciliations that they neither spoke or paid any heed to the other.

“Thank you…” Legolas at last stated, his voice once again his light musical tone with only a hint of sadness playing at the accents. Nothing had left him; he still heard the screams, saw the blood and death and still felt partly responsible, but no longer was that voice inside his head telling him that it was all his fault. They had all blundered sometime within that battle, all made tiny mistakes that had demanded a great price, and yet the legitimacy of the situation was that the blame fell on no one person alone; one Elf could not take the blame for everyone’s faults. He should feel regret for the ones that he could not save, just as everyone left alive should, but not all – he should focus his thoughts upon the relief for the ones left alive; left alive because he and the others had fought the good fight and won. They had made the sacrifices needed to keep a greater number of people safe and free.

Looking to the human that had not only managed to show him such a fact but also was able to put up with his foul mood, it felt as if he truly could feel Aragorn’s strength and hopes within the blood that coated his hands. “I am sorry about your face,” he offered with a small, apologetic smile, wanting to change the subject and ensure that there was no chance of the self-hatred returning.

“There is nothing to be sorry about,” Aragorn reassured the Elf with a smile of his own, “…it makes no difference anyway.” With that said he cast his eyes upon his blood stained clothes, scratched hands and the numerous cuts that lined his arms. Noting that Legolas was also studying him, Aragorn, feeling as if he should say something, offered the prince a cheeky smile. “Ouch…?”

*****

I don’t wanna be angry

I don’t wanna be angry, angry, angry…

This is not worthy of me

But now with clarity I see

That I can walk away

I can walk away, I can walk away…

*****

The End.

Yes, this did sorta turn out like my other story ‘Relinquishing the Past’ but is more the darker side of the loss of grief.

Minka.