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Chapter Text

Legolas woke to the feeling of his limp body being dragged across a stony path, rocks scraping away the fabric of his green tunic, threatening to leave marks in his skin. Slowly, his senses started to flood back to him, first with the feeling of rough hands gasping onto his arms, and then the vibrations of the heavy footsteps that encompassed him. The sound of low voices rang through his ears, their murmured words barely distinguishable from one another.

Brief memories of fighting flashed through his mind. He remembered Aragorn and Gimli beside him, swords and axes brandished as they fought back a worryingly large group of orcs. He had been warning Gimli, of an archer in the trees when-

His thoughts were pulled to reality as his body was picked up sharply, and slammed against the trunk of a tree, the back of his head colliding with the jagged surface. He groaned slightly, opening his eyes to the unflattering sight of an orc uncomfortably close to his face. Legolas could smell his rotten breath as a grotesque smile climbed up his mouth, head snapping back to the collection of orcs behind him. He shouted some Orcish words, unintelligible to Legolas’ mind, though the crowd than began to form around him gave away their meaning. The creatures laughed at him, talking and shouting over one another so much he couldn’t grasp how any of them understood wha the others meant.

He became aware of the binding around his legs, and the ropes being hastily tied around his wrists, strapping him against the tree. He squirmed in an effort to escape, heart pounding as the reality of the situation set upon him. Aragorn and Gimli were nowhere to be seen or heard. He had no way of knowing how far he had been taken from them or any perception of where he was. This woodland was foreign land, and whilst the lull of the trees remained the same, it seemed tinted by the darkness that stood in front of him.

“Looks like we got an active one here!” cried the closest orc in broken Westron, and Legolas grimaced as a cheer rose from the crowd. “Don’t you worry though,” he turned to Legolas, hand coming to reach his face, “the ones that fight are always more entertaining.” Another laugh ran through the group, and Legolas shivered as he felt the long nail of the orc trace the line of his jaw, tongue licking his lips as his eyes scanned over his body. Legolas swallowed down the urge to vomit that swept over him, snapping his head from the orcs grasp.

The orc left from where he was standing over Legolas, allowing him to breathe a restrained sigh. They set up a fire, where they huddled, fighting over scraps of meat, and freshly killed animals. Legolas averted his eyes as one bit off the head of a live rabbit, red blood trickling down his chin and hand.

Hungry glances were beginning to come his way, smirks climbing on the orcs faces as they took in his helplessness against the binds. He tried once more to pull his hands from the tight ropes around his wrists, almost dislocating his thumbs in the process. He felt around for a sharp rock, though found nothing useful. He supressed a groan of annoyance, jaw tensing as he forced himself to take controlled breaths.

Anger was useless in this situation, he knew it was.

But those eyes. Something about the way they stared at him made his insides curl. The dance of the firelight across their monstrous faces, the look of desire in their red eyes. Every part of Legolas screamed at him to run, though how he could not tell.

His mind flicked back to Aragorn, wishing him to be okay. If anything were to happen to him whilst Legolas was gone, he didn’t think he could forgive himself. He tried to remind himself of the warmth of his smile, the confidence he radiated, even if Legolas knew he was just as scared as the rest of them.

The sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention, and he caught sight of one of the orcs prowling over to him, the stained metal of his knife seeming to glow in the dim blaze of the fire.

He forced his eyes forward, locked intently onto the tree in front of him, jaw so tight he began to fear if his teeth would break from the pressure. It wasn’t until the orc had a leg either side of him, squatting to the level of his face that he allowed himself to gaze up once more.

The knife was brought to his cheek, cold metal grazing across the elf’s fair skin. He kept his face calm despite the noise his heart was making as it fought to stay inside his chest. He took a deep breath, swallowing hard as he tilted his chin up slightly in false confidence.

The orc smiled slightly at his efforts, twisting the blade until it ran across his jaw. Legolas forced his breathing to remain steady, determined not to be the first to show weakness.

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it already.” Legolas sighed; eyes fixed onto the orc. His voice remained surprisingly strong, despite his position, and a twinge of pride ran through him at the look of shock on the orcs face. “These ropes are irritating my skin,” he lied, head tilting slightly at his lack of care. “I’d rather you just get on with it rather than torturing me with this shocking material.” He smirked, leaning as far forward as he could with his arms bound behind the tree. He was confused slightly as to why there was an odd lilting quality to his voice, his face contorted in fake assurance, despite his mind frantically coming up with faulty plans. It seemed annoyingly natural to him, and he was reminded of his father’s irritating ways of distraction.

The orc suddenly laughed, and a few others that were listening joined in. “No, no, no.” he smiled sadistically, the sharp points of his yellowed teeth showing as a tight smile was drawn over his face. His knife began to trail the length of Legolas’ neck, causing a ripple of tension to flow through his body. "A little elf like you. There’d be nofin’ to eat.” There were more laughs as others spun on their logs to watch them. Legolas tried not to squirm uncomfortably as the blade worked its way down to the base of his neck, slowly pulling away the fabric of his tunic, eyes darting to the soft skin that covered his collarbone. “Besides, you're far too pretty for that.” He smirked slightly, hand reaching to touch Legolas’ face. He pulled his head from the orc’s touch, disgust flashing past the blue of his eyes.

The laughter was joined by nearly all of the orcs, as they scanned him head to toe. “Maybe for dessert!” cried one, and a chorus of laughter ensued, full of snide comments and odd sounds.

Legolas’ face dropped. He had heard this talk before. In dark alleyways at night, or in the corners of bars. Those men hadn’t remained conscious long enough to complete their desires before one of the three (most likely Aragorn) had caused them to be laying still on the floor or coughing as they stumbled away.

But they were not here now. He was trapped. Aragorn wasn’t there to steady his constant nerves. Even Gimli’s comments would have been useful to serves as a distraction from his upcoming fate.

But there was no one. No escape.

“Not so brave are we now elfling?” the orc cackled as he walked away, leaving Legolas breathing unevenly as he balled his legs tight to his chest, head collapsing onto his knees. He closed his eyes tight as he tried to force a sense of calm to wash over him.

His mind flickered back to Gimli and Aragorn. He wondered if they were hurt, if they too were captured, or if they were looking for him.

He begged them to hurry. The main course was almost over.

Chapter Text

Aragorn’s eyes flitted open wearily, muscles aching as he tried to push himself up, glaring around at the bodies around him. He could feel a small flow of blood dripping from a wound in his head, slowly falling over his temple. Aragorn faintly remembered falling, head hitting the rocky ground beneath him. He groaned at the pain the wound caused him, eyes squinting against the setting sun that glared at him, willing him to do something. To notice something.

He could hear Gimli shout his name in the distance, a far-off sound, lost to the harsh winds of the hills. “Gimli!” He cried out, his voice hoarse in his chest. He became aware of an orc body that was lying over him, eyes rolled back, mouth open as blood pooled inside. He grimaced, sluggishly pushing the corpse off of him, staggering to his feet. “Gimli!” he cried again, turning sharply to the sound of his voice.

Pain flared through his skull, and his vision swam. His hand shot out to reach something for balance, though there was nothing there. He cursed under his breath, trying to ignore the throbbing of his temples.

It was then he heard another name along with his own, Legolas.

What had happened to him? Was he hurt? Lost? Or was he simply trapped beneath a body just like Aragorn? Or was it worse, something Aragorn wouldn’t care to admit.

Every time they fought there was always the chance of deaths, injuries. Yet each time the threat became no less intimidating, no less real.

Gimli’s small stature appeared from behind a rock, and he began to slowly stumble over to Aragorn, cursing into his beard. “Any idea where that blasted elf got to?” He grumbled when Aragorn was in earshot.

Aragorn shook his head, breathing heavy at the exertion walking seemed to have on him. “I lost sight of him during the fight.” Aragorn admitted, eyes scanning over the ground quickly. Legolas had been known to disappear for short periods of time if he had heard or seen something unknown to him. But during a battle, when their lives were at stake, he had always remained.

Aragorn’s heart skipped a beat as his eyes spotted something small, a slight disturbance in the dirt. He stalked cautiously over, making an effort of stepping over the bodies as if to delay approaching the marks, scared of what meanings they may hold.

His heart was thudding loudly in his chest, his breathing ragged as he took in the tracks. There were signs of a struggle, and Aragorn recognised the light marks Legolas made when he fought, the arrows and thin cuts from his blades plaguing the corpses surrounding that point.

Then the footsteps stopped, and the grass appeared lifted, as if something had fell, only to be dragged away moments later. The disturbance continued down the hill, heavy footsteps lining each side of the tracings.  

He was vaguely aware of Gimli trailing behind him, and he forced himself to hold back the tears that pricked at his eyes, emotion threatening to overflow at the knowledge of Legolas’ fate. His heart twisted itself in his chest as he imagined what might be happening to his love.

“The orcs have taken Legolas.” He muttered to Gimli, as his eye stayed fixed on the woods the footsteps led into. He forced his voice to remain steady, determined to be devoid of the emotion that welled inside him.

He had grown up by elves, had been raised as an heir to a throne, whether he should take it or not. He had trained himself to hide his true emotions, to show only bravery in the face of the enemy. And yet when the enemy was no where to be seen, he could not help but crack under the building dam of pressure.

He felt Gimli’s hand be placed upon his arm, and he gazed down to find knowing eyes looking back at him. “Its alright lad, we’ll find him.” Gimli offered, and Aragorn forced a smile to grace his lips, though tears rolled down his face, leaving a clean path from the blood and dirt that covered his face.

He took a long, shaky breath in, as he forced himself to look back at the woods. “I know.”

And then they were running, following the tracks into the dark of the trees, where nightfall had begun to set.

Aragorn didn’t allow himself to slow, even though his lungs clawed at him to stop, his brain telling him to analyse the markings more closely.

“We’re going round in circles laddie.” Gimli complained as they passed the same tree for the third time. “Face it, we’re lost.” He sighed and collapsed onto a fallen log, breathing heavily.

Aragorn shook his head violently. “I don’t understand it; the tracks lead back here.” He couldn’t permit himself to fail, not now, not when the life of his beloved was so close to its end. Anger built inside of him, at the woods, at the track, at himself. The feared ranger couldn’t even follow a gang of orcs through a forest, he wouldn’t allow it.

In his anger, he kicked a nearby branch, then again, and again, until his foot was numb, and Gimli had dragged him away. He collapsed to the floor, palms embedded into his eyes as he willed himself to stop crying. But his whole body was shaking under the weight of his emotions.

He had failed. And Legolas would pay for it.

“We shall find him. There is time yet.” Gimli said from beside him, the usual annoyed groan replaced by one close to pity. “I know we will.” There was hope in his voice, real and pure, though a sadness in his eyes betrayed him. Gimli needed Legolas too, just as Aragorn did. The elf and the dwarf had built a friendship over their travels together, one that Aragorn was yet to see matched, one which he knew Gimli held dear to him.

Aragorn groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, straightening his back as he tired to assure himself. He was the King of Gondor, of Men. He would not be this easily defeated.

“Come, I smell darkness to the East.” He spoke softly to Gimli who pushed himself to his feet. “And when in doubt, you should always follow your nose.” Aragorn smiled at Gimli’s cackle, glad he could add light to their situation, if only momentarily. And the two were running once more, following a path the trees seemed to carve out for them. As though they were helping Legolas to be found. They sensed his peril.

Legolas’ way with trees always amazed Aragorn, but now it worried him. If the trees themselves were directing Aragorn to his love, then something terrible must be happening.

As if to assure his belief, a muffled scream could be heard echoing through the woods.

Aragorn recognised it as the voice of his elf, and his heart beat faster in his chest, legs forcing themselves to move quicker. He would not let any harm come to Legolas. Not whilst he was alive.

He hoped he was not too late.

Chapter Text

Legolas tried not to show his fear as the orcs slowly made their way to him, eyes grazing over his body with desire. He kept himself curled tightly into a ball; eyes planted onto the ground as he tried to control his breathing. He did not need his eyes to know they were there, he could feel their presence, hear their movements.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing?” one approached him, fingers tightening around his jaw, and pulling his face up. Legolas’ eyes slowly drifted to the orc, a hatred burning deep within him.

He could feel fingers running through his hair, grasping suddenly at the base of his skull. He was pulled roughly to his feet, arms scratching against the rough tree. His body was pushed harshly as the orc slowly unsheathed his blade. The metal passed over his cheek, pushing his hair from his face in a way that made Legolas’ heart jump in fear. The blade fell down his neck, pushing away the soft fabric of his shirt. His mind rushed to think of an escape, eyes darting to where his weapons lay.

His hands found a sharp nook on the tree, and he began to run the harsh rope along its surface. He tried to distract his mind from the feeling of a hand being placed on his body, pulling open the fastenings of his green tunic.

He could feel another pair of hands be added and then another. A wave of nausea hit him as a cold hand climbed under his shirt to feel the softness of his skin. Legolas shook him off with difficulty as more hands pushed him to the tree. His hands kept working to free himself from the ropes.

Hands grabbed at his trousers, each touch burning marks into his skin as he forced his eyes to look away.

One orc came close to his face, sniffing at his neck, hands drifting through his hair, until he tugged his head back. Painful kisses were placed on his neck, and he closed his eyes in disgust, squirming under the weight of their touches. He tried to force his mind to remain distant as the kisses came to his mouth.

Without thinking, he bit the orc back, head lurching forward to connect with the hollow of his skull. The orc stumbled back, before collapsing, unconscious to the floor. The group laughed, though it helped to only increased the desperation of their touches.

His eyes picked up the glint of the fallen orc’s blade, and a plan started to piece itself together in his mind.

Just then a hand unclasped his belt, earning a cheer from his captors. Hands touched him in places only one man had touched before, and he gasped at their eager violence. Aragorn would find him soon. He had to.

His bounds had been finally cut by the harsh bark, and he found himself clumsily falling forward, hands reaching the orc’s blade. He swung it upwards at the looming orcs.

His action gathered a few gasps, but the majority of his onlookers laughed at his desperate moves. A hand reached down to grab him, but he was quick to react, slicing the blade through the air and cutting of the orc’s hand before he could react.

In one swift move, he was on his feet, cutting the ropes that held his ankles together in half. The orcs surrounded him, moving in on him, desire replaced by hatred.

Before the closest could pull his sword, Legolas had jumped high into the trees, back pressed tightly against its body. Shaking hands fiddled to fix his clothing, legs trembling as adrenaline coursed through him. He tried to breathe, but the sound of movement below him kept him on alert.

He spared a look down and saw an orc readying to fire his bow at Legolas. He moved just in time before the arrow struck into the wood beside him. His mind willed his legs to move, to take him out of site, to regain his weapons. But he was frozen. He could still feel each of the orc’s handprints on his body, their memory burning against his skin.

He swallowed hard as nausea racked his body, legs threatening to give in from beneath him. He swung himself up higher, desperate to escape the red eyes of the orcs below. A second arrow landed where he had stood moments earlier.

Cautiously he crept through the trees, hands holding onto branches for balance. It felt odd, to have to seek help to steady himself as he walked through the growth, odd to not be able to trust his own legs not to fail him. He felt… human.

He pushed the thought from his mind, eyes locked on his weapons that lay stacked against a trunk below him. He shifted the crude sword that he held in his hand, focusing in on the action below him. For a moment his nerves left as years of practice flooded back to him.

He suddenly dropped from his branch, falling until moments before the ground where his arm shot out to reach the last limb of the tree. He swung and landed swiftly on his feet, taking out the two orcs stood by his weapons.

He had them in his hand before he had acknowledged what was happening around him, and then he ran, darting between the trees, slinging his quiver quickly over his shoulder.

He turned round briefly to see the orcs in pursuit, and he released an arrow into the eye of the nearest orc. His mind rushed with thoughts, and yet nothing at the same time, various streams of consciousness rushing by in unintelligible moments.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t noticed the arrows flying past him, narrowly missing its aim. Maybe that was why when one finally hit its target, he hadn’t dodged from its path.

The force of the arrow caused him to stumble, legs collapsing beneath him as he scrambled on the floor. He pushed himself up, firing another two arrows in the process, pain flaring through his shoulder.

He pulled his blades out as the orcs drew nearer, charging at them with his last remaining energy. He was grateful for the years his father had spent hammering into him the ways of battles, so mush so his actions became mere instinct, muscle memory as he parried and dealt blows to the orcs surrounding him. He was outnumbered massively yes. 1:30, maybe. But that had never affected him before, and it didn’t now.

He made quick work of the first ten, bodies falling around him as he fought. But then the pain in his shoulder became unbearable, each small movement causing excruciating pain. He switched his blade to his left hand, as a numbness spread through is right. He became vaguely aware of the blood pouring through his cloths, down his arm.

He gritted his teeth and kept fighting, that was a problem for when he was safe.

At one point an orc had gripped onto the shaft of the arrow and pulled him back. Legolas screamed in pain, trying to muffle the sound behind his lips. He spun round wildly and swung at the orc, snapping of the shaft in the process.

There were very few left, though Legolas could feel his body aching, each movement of his joints causing a creaking sound to spread through his body.

That was never a good sign. He noted, rather unhelpfully.

His senses seemed to blur as his vision grew darker, his hearing diverted by a high-pitched ringing. A sword cut at his legs, gouging deep into his left.

He collapsed to one knee, quickly parrying a shot to his head. his limbs were weak, too weak. He did not understand how he could have lost this much blood so quickly. Though in his confusion a thought stood out to him. Poison.

He groaned as his grip loosened, and his sword fell from his hand.

One orc remained. He had come so close.

“It’s a shame really,” his high-pitched voice rang. “for one so pretty to die.” The orc shrugged his uneven shoulders, prowling closer to Legolas, hand reaching to grab his face. Legolas made no effort to stop him, merely glared up at the orc, exhaustion racking his body. “Though I suppose it’s you own fault so…” His sword came down to swing and Legolas’ neck.

He summoned his final energy to roll away, ignoring the pain it caused him as he grabbed the nearest rock, throwing it as the orc’s unprotected head.

The orc collapsed with a satisfying thud.

Legolas could already hear more coming, others from the camp or nearby. He could hear their footsteps, their mumbling words as they ran to him.

He pushed himself up, a fit of dizziness rushing past him. He was glad for the tree beside him, steadying himself as he reached to regain his sword, collecting as many arrows as he could before he began running once more, blood dripping onto the ground behind him.

He swore to himself, debating whether or not he should climb back into the trees to avoid being tracked so easily. But he doubted his body could take it, as he stumbled through the woods blindly, hand reaching onto any object nearby for support.

He heard the murmurings of the trees, directing him away, to a small cave that shielded him from the view of any orcs. It was well hidden behind thick vegetation which he crawled through with frustrating difficulty.

The ground was dry, lined with timber and old leaves. He was glad to find it empty, and that it went far into the large hill. He huddled against one of the walls, eyes locked onto the entrance, though shielded enough by jagged rock not to be seen.

Half-heartedly, he rounded up small pieces of wood into a pile, bloody hands reaching into his pockets to find his flint and steel. He thanked the Valar for his luck and slowly lit a fire, shivering despite the warmth that flooded his body.

He had removed all his weapons and his green tunic from his body so he could properly look at the wound in his shoulder. The arrow hadn’t gone fully through his shoulder, though he could feel the barbed tip inside of him. He shut his eyes in protest, as if willing anything else to have happened.

Slowly, he reached over to his blade, the small effort causing pain to flare through him. He heated it upon the fire to sanitise it and warm the blade. He decided to deal with his leg first, the blood pooling from the wound worrying him. It was also much simpler to fix by himself, something he had done a few times before.

He took a deep breath, shaking hands placing a stick between his teeth. He brought the red metal of the knife to his calf, eyes closing as he placed the scolding blade against his leg.

He tried to muffle his screams, determined not to alert anyone to his presence though the pain that flared through him was horrible. His vision swam, though he forced himself to focus on the events in front of him.

He prised the blade from his leg, the smell of burning flesh filling his nose as he saw blisters forming along his calf. Though the bleeding has stopped, replaced now by an insistent throbbing pain.

His shaking hands placed the blade next to the fire once more, and he tried not to gasp at the blood that stained his hands, soaking through the white of his shirt. He drew his eyes to his shoulder, arm reaching round to where the shaft of the arrow stuck from his back.

The barb meant he couldn’t pull it back out without causing further damage or needing to widen the wound. His heart jumped as he realised quite how hard this was going to be, as his hand failed to take a sturdy grip on the arrow. If only Aragorn was here, he would know what to do. He was a skilled healer and would be able to help Legolas, maybe in more ways than just physically.

Though some part of him was glad Aragorn wasn’t here to see him like this. He wasn’t ashamed, Aragorn had seen him with far worse injuries, far closer to death, his nurturing hands bringing him back many times. No, he was glad Aragorn wasn’t here because he didn’t know if he could stand the pain it would cause his love to know what had happened. To see Legolas reduced to a bloody, shivering elf whose pride had been so easily ripped by the hands of orcs.

His head swam once more as he remembered their touches, their hungry eyes.

He pushed the thought from his head, instead shifting his body so he sat parallel to the wall.

He closed his eyes as he took a deep breath, hating himself for what he was about to do.

He allowed his body to fall, the force pushing the arrow tip through the rest of his shoulder, until he could feel the tip of the arrow sticking from his arm. He swallowed dryly, his body begging him to lay just a moment longer, to catch his breath. But now more blood poured beneath him. Now was more urgent to act fast then ever.

Shaking hands found the hot blade by the fire and brough it to the back of his shoulder. His other hand gripped the arrow tip. Forcing himself to remain conscious, he pulled on the arrow, instantly placing the hot metal against his skin to cauterize the wound at his back. He held it there as long as he could muster, before fully removing the arrow and sealing the second wound.

Dark spots clouded his vision as he dropped the knife, stick dropping from his mouth, both covered in blood. He tried to move from where he was sitting to escape the pool of blood, but found himself paralysed, back pressed against the cold stone of the wall.

He breathed heavily as he gazed out to the caves entrance, a cool breeze touching the sweat that lay on his brow.

Finally, he allowed his eyes to shut, succumbing to the darkness of sleep.

Chapter Text

Gimli’s breath came hard to him as he stumbled after Aragorn, lightly muttering curses under his beard. He was not as nimble as the human, nor was he as quick on his feet, having to clamber around or over the fallen trees and roots. His eyes remained locked onto the floor, taking caution as to where he stepped, only occasionally looking up to steal a glance at Aragorn.

That being said, Gimli was surprised at how little plants seemed to grow under the shadow of the trees. He could feel the heaviness of the air, could smell the rotting of life, confirmed by Aragorn’s worried glances. An evil still hung over the woods, preventing many plants from blooming and prospering in what should by now be a diverse woodland. Even the wood of the trees had grown darker in patches, something only noticeable in the climbing sun of the morning.

A red haze fell behind the clouds, and Gimli tried to push the elf’s words from his head.

With the sun’s light, they had soon found the tracks once more, stumbling upon a deserted campfire, the flames withered to extinction under the cold breeze of that night.

Aragorn quickly found two pieces of cut rope; the ends still tied together in knots. A tension rose between the two friends as a piece of Legolas’ tunic was soon discovered lying next to it, trodden into the ground.

Two orcs lay dead by a tree, the familiar arrows of the elf protruding from their skulls.

A beaten track lay behind them, the thorny growth flattened by the heavy feet of running pursuers. Orcs. A lighter pair lay moments in front of them, twisting between trees and over logs.

They stumbled across a dead orc, dried blood pouring from the thin arrow in his eye. Legolas.

Gimli followed Aragorn as he squatted to the ground, tracing the footsteps of the chase, and Gimli could hear him mumbling to himself. He almost crashed into the human as he came to an abrupt stop, suddenly taking the time to count each footstep in an attempt to determine the number of orcs that were following him.

Gimli walked on, eyes flickering to notice the arrows in the trees, the dark wood quickly establishing them as an orc creation. Two lay dead in front of him, thin arrows embedded into their heads like the last, though the shots weren’t as clean, hurried almost.

He glanced behind him to where Aragorn pondered momentarily and walked on.

His breath caught in his chest as a sight set upon him mere metres away, hidden by the thick bushes and trees.

“26.” He heard Aragorn conclude behind him, before walking swiftly to where Gimli had frozen.

“28.” He corrected; eyes still locked forward onto the massacre in front of him. He heard a hum of confusion behind him before Aragorn stopped beside him, gazing down at the blood covered orcs. “These are marks from Legolas’ blade.” He mumbled as he walked around to inspect the bodies.

“And these from his arrows.” Aragorn added, both noting the stray orc arrows that surrounded them.

Many orcs had multiple slashes, the further Gimli going, the shallower the cuts became, clumsier their positioning appeared.

Gimli was aware of Aragorn noting the blood that lined some of the orcs’ blades, most only a trace, from a small cut, though one had a thick coat of blood covering it.

Aragorn’s face drained, and he stumbled slightly at what their evidence had concluded. Gimli offered a hand to his arm, a small attempt to stop him from collapsing to the ground. “Its alright lad, that elf’s a tough one.” He attempted, pushing past the idiotic annoyance at saying such a thing. “I'm sure he’s okay.”

Aragorn shook his head in defeat, and Gimli could see the exhaustion catching up to his bleary eyes. Blood had dried in his hair, matting it at the back, and Gimli remembered the head wound he had suffered during the battle. He tried not to imagine how much pain he must be in right now. “Legolas was weak, the cuts are sloppy.” He rubbed the nose of his bridge slightly. “And he had to throw a rock at some point. When have you ever seen Legolas so… uncontrolled in the way he fights?”

Gimli tried to force a positivity into his face, though it came unnatural to him. He knew what Aragorn was saying was the truth, believed his story more than the one he pretended to put up.

Before he could muster up some words, the human’s eyes had locked onto something else, and he was off once more, walking at such a pace Gimli was forced to jog slightly to catch up with him. “What are we-” he started, annoyed at the Aragorn’s undiscussed march.

“Blood.” He mumbled slightly in reply. Gimli saw it, the red that stained the grass and trees where he had held onto them for support. He swallowed his panic down, cursing to himself. He would never admit how much the elf’s situation worried him, would never allow himself to be affected by such things. And yet his heart beat rapidly in his chest at the idea of his potential harm.

Orc tracks followed the trail of blood, less than before, though he had grown to recognise the heavy tread of the retched creatures.

Aragorn stopped slightly as the tracks ended, body twisting around to try and find the next clues. The orcs had veered of to the right, though Aragorn found no reason as to why.

Gimli stared as he gracelessly climbed the nearest tree by a few branches, trying to see if there was a blood trail where he had jumped into a tree, but there was none. Tension racked his body as the week branches bent under the human’s weight, though he mentioned nothing, eyes darting around the forest, hands firmly gripped onto his axe.

In the still, his stomach growled at the reminder of the lack of food he had eaten in the past day, the smell of smoked meat filling his senses, causing his mouth to water. Aragorn dropped to beside him, glancing him up and down and shooting him a questioning look.

Gimli shook his head. “Just imagining the smell of roast cow on a platter, served with potatoes and-” he stopped at Aragorn’s gaze, clearing his throat as he straightened. “I haven't eaten in a day.” He defended himself. “And I haven't had a decent meal in a good few weeks what with tracking down these orcs an’ all.” He grumbled, glancing up at Aragorn expectantly.

Before Aragorn could speak, a clattering of metal sounded from behind him, and the two spun round instinctively, weapons drawn. They faced a large hill, thick growth disguising most of its bottom.

Carefully, Aragorn approached the thicket, using his left hand to push away the thorns and brambles. Gimli stood behind him, facing the woods with his axe. Quickly, Aragorn made his way through the bushes, tugging on Gimli’s shirt as an encouragement to follow.

Gimli restrained himself from muttering annoyances as his skin was scratched by thorns, his long beard snagged by twigs. He could feel blood begin to drip down his face though pushed the feeling aside, deciding it was too insignificant to notice.

On the other side, he was greeted with a dark cave, damp and cold. Aragorn moved silently ahead, walking in deep. Gimli followed, and soon they came across a hastily extinguished fire, air thick with the smell of burnt flesh. Fresh blood sat upon dried blood around the fire, the rock crevasses turning into small puddles of thick red liquid.

A gasp escaped his lips as suddenly a thin blade was placed against his neck, another wrapped around Aragorn’s. The blade trembled slightly, but Gimli recognised the soft sheen of the light metal any day. “Legolas?” He whispered slowly, and the blade dropped from his neck, swinging down to clatter with the floor.

The thin form behind him collapsed to the floor, back colliding with the jagged wall. If it caused the elf any pain, he didn’t seem to react.

“Legolas!” Aragorn gasped, eyes flicking over his body, and Gimli felt himself doing the same. His green tunic had been discarded, pieces torn up to make for a bandage around his shoulder, and a second around his leg. His once white shirt had been died red, along with his blonde hair and pale skin. His face was damp with sweat, pale and thin in the dim light of the cave. His eyes remained distant as they tried to focus on Aragorn's figure.

Aragorn bent down to cup his face, anxiety filling his eyes as Legolas’ head fell heavily into his hand, eyes closing as though he couldn’t summon the energy needed to keep himself focused.

Gimli caught sight of the snapped orc arrow at the corner of the cave, and the realisation set over him. “The wound is poisoned.” He muttered, earning a broken groan of agreement from the barely conscious elf.

Aragorn slowly undid Legolas’ shirt, and the elf stiffened against his touch, slowly flinch away from him. Hurt spread through Aragorn's face at the action. “I'm sorry.” Legolas murmured and allowed the wound to be inspected. Aragorn shot Gimli a worried glance at his reaction, and Gimli nodded in understanding, brows furrowed in worry.

“You cauterised it?” A small nod, and Legolas tilted his head to where a small knife lay next to him, covered in blood. Even still, Gimli could still see fresh blood leaving the wound, the poison stopping his blood from clotting.

“And the one on my leg and back.” His hoarse voice croaked; the usual cheer drained. Aragorn nodded, and Gimli was impressed by the elf’s willpower to be able to do that to himself and remain conscious enough to repeat it.

“Gimli, go find some Athelas.” Aragorn commanded, voice changed to one of a trained leader, though there was a shake to his voice, almost unnoticeable, but Gimli had heard this voice enough to be able to detect the emotion hidden behind it.

“You won’t find any.” Legolas groaned, attempting to push himself flatter against the wall, though his arm buckled under his weight. He took a deep breath in, jaw clenching as he fought to remain awake. “This forest is tainted, nothing good grows here. I saw none as I ran, and none when I entered. Even the trees couldn’t source any of the plants’ roots in the soil.” He smiled weakly, though in the light of the sun from outside the expression only worsened Gimli’s anxiety.

A silence hung in the air for a moment as they tried to develop a plan form their scares options. “We are not far from the edge of the forest.” Legolas explained, head lolling back to rest against the cold stone. Aragorn shifted awkwardly to look at the wound on his leg that seemed to also suffer the same poison. Gimli noticed the same about many of the small cuts and scrapes on his body as nothing seemed to have scabbed over. A new urgency flooded him as he realised quite how much blood he was actually losing. Just from sitting for a few minutes against the wall, blood had already begun to drip onto the stone floor.

“There is a small town not far from the edge, they are sure to have some, presumably under the assumption that it is a weed.” Aragorn finished, and Legolas muttered his agreement.

Gimli shifted where he stood, not wanting to waste a moment. “Then we leave now, if it is not far, we should get there before nightfall, and before you lose too much blood.” He reasoned, taking a step towards the entrance. Aragorn shot him an irritated look, indicating to Legolas.

“I’ll be fine.” Legolas groaned, having seen Aragorn's gesture to Gimli.

“Could one of us go and the other remains? Sure it will be two journeys, but it might be quicker.” Gimli suggested and Aragorn nodded slowly, looking cautiously over to Legolas, and Gimli could see a tender love shine behind his worry.

“I should go.” He decided before Gimli could suggest the opposite. “Whilst I am the better healer, I am both faster than you, and less likely to get lost in these woods than you. Additionally, you do not know the way to the village, I do.” His words were final, Gimli knew that, though there was no time to argue. He nodded his head reluctantly, watching as Aragorn placed a kiss onto Legolas’ forehead, muttering words in elvish that Gimli couldn’t decipher.

Slowly Aragorn raised to his feet, hand squeezing Legolas’ one last time before he was running out of the cave and through the thorns once more, leaving the dwarf and the elf alone.

Legolas’ hand fell to the floor in defeat, and Gimli rushed to catch his head as he collapsed fully to the ground, body giving way to unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

The darkness that fell over Legolas’ senses did not bring the calm he had hoped. Instead, visions of the orcs staring down on him clouded his dreams, the memory of their foul touches against his skin plaguing his mind. Aragorn had come, and Gimli, they had come to help him, but they turned on him, eyes filled with disgust over what he had become.

The dwarf scoffed something about the ‘weakness of elves’, he was ruined now, his pride and beauty stripped away. That which makes an elf shine had been destroyed by a group of lowly orcs, their marks left in bruises which mottled his pale skin with deep purple.

Aragorn had seen their marks when he had checked his wound, Legolas remembered the look of horror on his face. The elf knew how easily human’s minds were changed, how easily something damaged was thrown out. Aragorn wouldn’t love him now, now that he was broken, and so he turned his back.

Legolas could see him walking idly into the town, he would drink, laugh, spread tales of the elf whore who couldn’t fight back against some wandering hands. Gimli had undoubtedly left him too, to rot in the cave, bleeding out onto the stone cold until some animal caught scent of him. He wouldn’t blame them, why would a king and a soon-to-be dwarven lord want to be seen with an ashamed elven prince of a woodland realm so obscure it became only the subject of a drunkard’s jokes and old men’s stories.

And his kingdom, his father? What would they think when he came back, head hung in disgrace? What would his king think when he froze at the face of an orc, unable to see the face of a mindless killer, and only one of his abusers. What use would he serve if he could not summon the courage to push his thoughts aside and perform his duties.

Maybe it was better this way, if he were to die out here in the wilderness, a natural death for him. His father would never need to know of his failures, of his disgrace.

He was about to give in to a silent peace, when the feeling of hands grasped his skin, and his mind came rushing back to him.

He was bound to a tree, unable to move, unable to fight as hands ran over his bare skin, laughter and cheers filling his ears. His legs were weak beneath him as hands made their way along his inner thigh, sharp nails scarping against soft skin. He tried to scream for help, for anyone, though no sound come out, nor could he move, no matter how much he willed himself to fight.

He swallowed hard, trying to draw himself away from his thoughts.

They are only memories. No one is reaching for you. They are gone.

His eyes shot open, and he gasped for air, his body shuffling into the wall quickly to avoid the hands reaching for his wrists. Images flashed through his mind, the ache of rope burn scorching his skin.

“Legolas?” Gimli’s voice was soft in front of him. He had stayed. No doubt to take pleasure in watching his suffering. Legolas’ hand reached for his dagger, and he flashed it at the dwarf, eyes wide as he tried to push himself away.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and his arm went limp, body swaying slightly, Gimli reached to steady him, though he flinched away. “Don’t touch me.” He muttered; voice broken as though he had been shouting.

He curled himself into a ball, arms wrapping around his body. A cold ran through him as breeze met with the moisture of his sweat and blood. And tears, he realised. He had been crying. Just another reason for Gimli to make fun of him. It was becoming a list.

“You alright there, laddie?” Gimli sounded serious, something that confused Legolas. Undoubtedly a trick, to get him to drop his guard.

“I'm fine.” He snapped, nails scratching at the skin on his arms. He needed to feel something. Anything beside the grasping hands.

When Gimli didn’t answer, Legolas’ tired eyes flicked up to Gimli’s worried face, and he could make out blood pouring from a fresh wound on his cheek. Various other scratches littered his bare forearms. Something inside him shifted when he realised, he had caused them.

“I'm so sorry… I didn’t mean… I-” he leaned forward to Gimli who brushed him off.

“Don’t you worry yourself elf, nothing I can’t handle.” Gimli walked slowly over, shooting a questioning glance at Legolas who shuffled slightly to his side. The dwarf collapsed to sit next to him. The two stared out at the dwindling fire in a comfortable silence.

Gimli passed him a piece of bread and butter from his bag, practically having to force feed the elf to get him to eat it. Legolas tried to ignore the faint tapping sound of his blood falling to the floor, the feeling of moisture dripping down his numb arm that hung uselessly by his body.

At some point Gimli had refreshed the bandages on his arm and leg, though blood was already soaking through. He allowed his head to roll back onto the cold wall, eyes gazing at the blackness of the cave.

His breathing rattled in his chest, each breath causing pain to flare through his body, slowly getting shallower and shallower. His vision darkened, and soon the fire became a distant glow. He could feel his heartbeat slowing, his pain seeping away from his body.

He smiled slightly.

His mother stood over him, looking down on him with loving eyes, hand coming to reach his face, wiping away the tears that fell. “My son.” Her voice was soft like the one he remembered from her songs and stories. His breath caught in his chest, it had been so long since he had heard her voice, so long since he had seen her face carved out of flesh and not stone.

He was a child again, receiving new of his mother’s death, watching his father grow further distant from him each day that passed. The love had left his eyes, the hole in his heart replaced by his unrelenting duties.

How he had longed for her to stay, to watch one more sunset fall behind the looming trees, to read him one more tale of old. It is an odd thing for an elf. When you think you have lifetimes ahead of you to share with another only for them to be ripped from the world. It is painful enough to kill.

He tried to reach for her, but his hand passed through hers. Her body began slowly to melt away, revealing gruesome wounds littering her body, marks from orc blades. “No.” His voice broke as he longed for her to come back. He kept his eyes focused on her face, refusing to look at the gouge that ran along her stomach. “Please.” It was little more than a whisper, but he saw a smile twitch on his mother’s face as her skin went pale.

“It is not yet your time.” She began to fade into the eternal darkness that surrounded them, her light dwindling into nothingness. The life was drained from her until Legolas saw her as she would have looked on the battlefield, an image he would never be able to remove. He tried to reach out, to take a hold of her, but he couldn’t move, frozen in that moment as he watched his mother be pulled away from him once more.

He found himself gasping for air as he was pulled back to reality, strong hands shaking him awake. A muffled voice was calling his name, and his eyes found the face of Gimli staring down at him. He tried to focus on his voice, on his face, jaw tensing as he tried to anchor himself to the moment.

His hand came up to reach for his shoulder, palm coming away covered in blood. Even if Aragorn came back with a cure, he had lost too much blood. He shut his eyes as nausea spread through him, the whole world spinning.

A hand shook his other shoulder slightly, and he reached to hold onto Gimli’s wrist, grip worryingly loose. “Come on elf, just hold out a little longer.” His mind latched onto the voice of his friend, and he nodded slightly, relieved when the shaking stopped.

“Bandages.” He croaked, and he felt Gimli’s eyes futter down to his blood-soaked fabric.

“Aye.” Gimli lowered his body to lay on the floor, and quickly scurried over to his bag, revealing the last two bandages they had. Pain flared through him as Gimli worked as quickly and as carefully as he could, applying much pressure onto his bleeding wounds. The flow had slowed, though Legolas felt that had something to do with the lack of blood circulating around his body and less to do with his wound healing.

His vision clouded and darkened as he tried desperately to focus on the sound of Gimli’s breathing, his slight mumblings in dwarvish, a language Legolas had managed to pick up on purely through the dwarf’s side comments. He would never use it, never admit to listening in to his friend’s ramblings, he knew how proud the dwarves were about their language.

The sound of footsteps rung far out in the forest, and Legolas could hear the trees willing him on. Aragorn. Aragorn had returned.

Chapter Text

Aragorn practically burst through the doors of the nearest tavern, panting viciously, and out of breath. He had run as swiftly as his legs could carry him, through the thick forest and into the mud of watered fields. Sheets of rain stung his reddened skin, blinding him to his surroundings.

Though now he had arrived, and his entrance had got everyone’s attention. “I will give 5 silver pennies to the first person to find me a healthy patch of kingsfoil.” His voice boomed over the hushed whispers, and he was greeted momentarily with confused looks. His hand reached into his coat to come out with a bag of coins, which he roughly shook in the air.

If the offer wasn’t incentive enough, the sound of metal clinking was plenty to send nearly 20 men stumbling out of their chairs and out the inn, searching over the streets for the weed. Count on the greed of men to get the job done quickly.

He approached the bar where a confused innkeeper eyed him cautiously. “Do you know where I could find fresh bandages and medical supplies?” He asked, forcing his voice into a slow, calm tone, despite his anxiety.

“Aye, just down the road theirs a small infirmary.” He indicated to Aragorn’s left with his hand, and Aragorn nodded sharply striding to the door.

A hand gripped his arm, stopping him. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” A croaking voice sounded.

He didn’t give himself the time to look down before he shook the restraint off. “No.” He mumbled, running down the street to where the man had directed him.

He was glad for the sweat and grime that covered his face. Glad that nobody in their right minds would connect a tired man covered in dirt with their king. He had kept his face widely hidden, though his name rung strong. He preferred it that way, it meant he could get around easier, though travelling with a woodland elf and a dwarf in his company counteracted that.

He stumbled into the building, hastily approaching the counter, grateful for the lack of queue. “I need bandages and wound cleansing equipment.” He hadn’t meant to sound quite so demanding, but the urgency in his voice made the woman in front of him react quicker. She quickly gathered some bandages and medicine, as well as salt water, mixed with some other antiseptic solution and cloths. “Thank you.” He muttered, handing over to her a few silver pennies for her help, before dashing once more into the cold of the streets.

No later than he had come from the shop with his supplies, was a large bouquet of kingsfoil placed into his hand.

He quickly thanked the man, hand fishing into his pouch to come out with 5 silver pennies, as he had promised. The man practically gaped at them in his hand, shocked that he was actually going to pay him so much for such a small task. “Do with it what you will.” He murmured, having to manually place it into the man’s palm before running off again. He had no doubt that the money would go towards drinks tonight, but he couldn’t care less right now. He had bigger things to think about than a stranger’s drinking habits.

He plunged back into the forest, following the same path he had taken to leave. It was harder now, for the light of the sun had dwindled, and a misty fog had fallen over the dark forest. Willpower urged him onwards, despite the protest of his lungs and legs. Thorns and branches scraped at his skin, and he could hear his clothing rip as it was snared. He knew that no doubt half of the thorns in this dark forest would be laced with some sort of poison, but he decided that was an issue for another day.

He knew he should be being more careful, should move with less impact of the forest around him, cover up his steps. He should be attuned to the movement in the trees, to sounds in the darkness. However, all he was focused on was reaching the cave, the sound of his breathing and heavy footsteps clouding his senses. His vision had tunnelled ahead of him, showing only the path he needed to take.

He felt suddenly like a child once more, fighting and running with his brothers. One of the first things he was told was to keep his vision open, to not let the adrenaline cloud his view, for he could miss something vital. And he almost did. His legs had begun to work automatically, placing one foot in front of another through no decision of his own. If it wasn’t for a broad hand gripping his arm and pulling him through the bushes, he would have missed the caves entrance, would have been lost stumbling through the woods whilst Legolas died on account of his mistake.

He walked briskly to the other side of the cave, the gloom of the fire enough to light up the horrors that grasped his eyes. His legs collapsed beneath him as he stumbled beside the pale elf, whose skin was so white he could have been mistaken for a long dead corpse if it weren’t for the occasional rise of his chest. Dark rings surrounded his eyes, cheeks so hollow, the sharp bones rose like mountains against snow.

His face must have betrayed his feelings for Legolas offered a weak smile, his eyes distant, almost hollow. Though the elf said nothing, his spirit crushed by the exhaustion that racked his body. His shirt had long been discarded, his pale torso turned red from dried blood. Aragorn hastily set down his bag opening it and pouring its contents onto the flap that held it closed.

He began to carefully unwrap the bandages on Legolas’ chest, the blood soaking through them worrying him. “When did you last change these?” Aragorn asked Gimli, who hovered unsure over his shoulder.

“Nought but an hour ago.” Gimli sighed and Aragorn nodded his head to confirm he had heard.

Aragorn placed Legolas’ head on his knee to avoid his wound touching the dirt of the floor, and at last the bandage was freed from Legolas’ body, peeling off with the sticky quality of half dried blood. He kept one hand on the old bandage below Legolas which he had rolled into a loose ball, desperately trying to keep as much blood in his body as he could.

Aragorn’s hand shot out, and Gimli placed a stick into it, knowing him long enough to know his methods. He placed the stick into Legolas’ mouth, hand resting on his cheek for a moment in an attempt to find a calm amidst his frantic nerves. Legolas leaned slightly into his touch, eyes closing as he braced himself.

Gimli handed him the saltwater solution, and Aragorn slowly poured it over the wound in Legolas’ shoulder. His whole body tensed as his face contorted in agony, eyes shut tightly as he stopped himself screaming. His hands were clenched into fists and his sides, and Aragorn’s heart clenched as he watched him writhe in pain. Whatever the other components of the solution were, he hoped they were worth the extra pain. Nevertheless, they all knew the risks of making too much noise in the woods. Orcs were still roaming through the dark trees and they couldn’t risk drawing more attention to themselves.

He wiped the blood from the surrounding areas, trying to ignore Legolas’ squirming as he cleaned around the deep gouge. Gimli steadied his thrashing body, face just as concerned as Aragorn’s. Legolas’ eyes had shot open, and he stared blankly at the ceiling. The blue of his eyes began slowly to roll backwards as he fell into unconsciousness, and Gimli shook him violently until he was back.

“You need to stay with us now lad, okay?” Gimli’s voice was filled with so much emotion that Aragorn hadn’t thought he had heard the dwarf in such distress before. Aragorn was too focused to say something useful, no matter how much his heart begged him to speak some helpful words in addition.

He carefully placed the Athelas into his wound, face grimacing as he realised he would have to do the same on his back. He pushed Legolas’ light body up, and Gimli held him in place, keeping a pad against his clean wound.

He shuffled around, grateful Legolas couldn’t see the way his face was drawn in fear and pity. He poured the solution over his wound, the elf’s back arching in pain. He let out a muffled cry, voice breaking as though he was on the verge of tears. He hated this, hated knowing he had to put his love through this pain. And yet, it had to be done, Aragorn was sure of that.

He was glad when he began to wrap a bandage over Legolas’ chest and shoulder. Glad when the choked back sobs finished. He propped the elf against the cave wall, trying not to look at the bruises and cuts that littered the pale skin. Fingerprints marked his skin, clear now as the blood was wiped away. He swallowed down his anger, he should have been there. If only he had stopped his emotions clouding his mind he could have found him earlier, prevented his torment.

He was glad that Legolas’ eyes were shut, head placed against the wall as he breathed heavily. Aragorn shifted to his leg, rolling up his trousers to inspect the wound. He felt Legolas stiffen at the unexpected touch, and he felt his heart break into smaller pieces.

“Please.” Legolas begged, voice breaking. “No more.” His voice was tired, breathing hard, as though the effort to speak was bringing him to the verge of passing out. It pained Aragorn to see the elf so defeated. He had never seen him reduced to pleading, to begging, not once had his pride been so low. It was an odd sight to see.

Aragorn leaned across his body, hand coming to rest on his cheek. Legolas leant into his touch, shaking hand coming to reach his, though it didn’t tighten. His eyes opened slowly, revealing the pale blue of his eyes, red from crying. Aragorn's breath caught in his throat, and he felt tears welling in his eyes. “Please.” Legolas choked once more.

Aragorn's eyes darted away, unable to look upon the sight of him so broken. His mouth opened to speak, though no words came out. He wanted to hold onto him forever, though he had a job to do now, one which he was so close to finishing.

He took a deep breath in, before moving away, heart shattering as he heard the heavy thud of Legolas’ hand falling.

Legolas’ leg wasn’t as bad as his shoulder for it had not suffered from the direct contact of the poison. Though the impact of the poison was clear. There was no clotting, no signs of repair. A deep gouge was cut into his leg, and Aragorn had to steady his nerve before moving to clean it.

By the time he was finished, his hands and arms were stained red with blood. He collapsed next to the unconscious elf as he allowed himself to relax, a well of strain and exhaustion racking his body.

Gimli had said he’d go on the night’s watch, and after little protest, Aragorn found himself falling in and out of sleep, startling at the slightest movement of the elf beside him.

At some point, the elf’s head had fallen onto his shoulder, nestled into the warmth of his neck. Aragorn's arm had moved to around Legolas’ waist, holding him tight to his body as though he could be pulled away from him at any moment.

Chapter Text

When to morning light flooded through the cave, Aragorn's eyes were greeted with the sight of Gimli and Legolas sitting around the fire, the smell of cooked rabbit filled his nose. Legolas sat propped against a wall, long fingers picking off the meat from the bones, laughing as Gimli practically ate half of it in one bite, shoulders collapsing in relief at the taste of warm meat.

Legolas looked better already; a slight warmth brought back to his cheeks. Aragorn pushed himself to his feet, stumbling slightly to them in a haze, sleep lingering in his vision. He rubbed his eyes, and Legolas smiled sweetly at him. It was the first time he had seen the elf actually smile since before the attack.

He was handed a skinned rabbit, browned from the fire, and his flask of water which had at some time been refilled. He didn’t quite realise how much he needed them, until the dryness of his throat and pain in his stomach subsided. His eyes flicked over Legolas as he ate, and he took in just how much had changed. He wore his green tunic once more, though it was torn and stained with traces of blood. His clothes looked like they had been cleaned, and the matted blood was gone from his hair. Legolas shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze, and Aragorn realised how long he had been staring. “You look… better.” He tried, clearing his throat to try and push aside how awkward he suddenly felt.

Legolas’ face broke into a smile, and he pushed himself forward from the wall, coming closer to Aragorn and the fire. “I am feeling much better now, thank you.” he said cheerfully, and Aragorn could almost see past the bruises and hollow cheeks into his joyful soul. Almost.

“You went out?” he realised, eyes looking down to the rabbit, recognising the small mark of Legolas’ arrows in the rabbit’s eye. Legolas nodded slightly. “Why would you-” he stopped himself, sighing away the anger that rose in him suddenly. “You could have gotten yourself hurt.” He said softly, voice almost breaking at the idea of losing Legolas once more. He knew he shouldn’t try to restrain the elf, but he also knew how fragile a state his body was in right now, how easily he could topple into nothingness.

Legolas opened his mouth to reassure him, but stopped himself, seeing the worry in Aragorn's eyes. It was Gimli that spoke. “It’s alright, I was with him. You should have heard the way he was whining to get out.” He chuckled into his beard slightly, muttering to himself as he went back to eating. Aragorn watched him for a moment, before his eyes flickered to where Legolas’ hand was place upon his knee.

“I'm fine. Really.” He reassured him, and Aragorn allowed himself to relax as Legolas’ eyes met his. Aragorn's hand came to touch Legolas’ jaw, and he rested his forehead against the elf’s.

“I'm sorry, Meleth-nîn.” He choked, and he could feel Legolas smile.

Gimli cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortable as he watched the two, and Aragorn broke away to look at him, grinning uncontrollably at the dwarf’s unease. Beside him, Legolas was practically staring daggers into the dwarf. “What? I don’t want to see you two… fraternizing.” Gimli grumbled, glaring suddenly down at the fire as he made eye contact with Legolas, who was trying to hold back a laugh. “Besides, however much I hate to say it, we need to get moving. They’ll start sending scouts out soon in search of us.”

“I thought we still had a few days before we were expected?” Aragorn asked as confusion ran through him. Legolas and Gimli exchanged knowing looks.

“You’ve been sleeping for nearly two days.” Gimli explained, wincing slightly at the look of horror on Aragorn's face. “Something that snagged you when you were running. We weren’t going to wake you before your body purged the toxins from itself.”

Aragorn glanced over to Legolas who smiled slightly. “But now you are awake. And we really should be going soon.”

Aragorn glared at him. “You aren’t going anywhere until you're fully healed.” Legolas’ face dropped.

“I'm fine, Estel.” Legolas half whined, lifting his right arm as if to prove his point. Aragorn couldn’t help but see the flash of pain behind his eyes as his hand shot beneath him to steady himself. “Okay, maybe not that fine. But I assure you I can travel.” He grimaced slightly, pushing himself to his feet, and offering his hand for Aragorn.

Aragorn reluctantly accepted it, making an effort to push himself to his feet with as much of his own strength as he could. He stumbled slightly as he stood, closing the distance between him and Legolas. The elf smiled quickly, pressing a slight kiss to his lips before moving to collect his clothes and bag.

Aragorn stood in shock for a moment, a heat rushing through his body that the fire could not produce. It was Gimli’s purposeful crashing into him that pulled him from his trance, and the dwarf shot him an apologetic look, though a smug grin played on his lips. He sighed, and collected his bag, counting the leftover bandages he had, sparing a glance to where Legolas was bent over and folding his clothes, a hand occasionally gripping onto the wall for balance. Aragorn forced himself to look away, heart shuddering in his chest and swallowed harshly.

Soon the group were stumbling out of the hedge, glancing around for sight of any orcs. Aragorn could see Legolas’ eyes dart to behind them, posture stiffening slightly. “I have been sensing them for the past couple of hours, though now they draw close.” He said quietly, eyes narrowing over the mound, to some far-off place Aragorn couldn’t see.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Aragorn asked, though Legolas shrugged him off.

“They were not close enough to worry about. And you were sleeping.” With that, he walked of, silent feet moving over the fallen leaves and branches, a slight limp to his walk. Aragorn glanced helplessly at Gimli who merely laughed, walking off to follow the elf. He groaned, jogging slightly to catch up with them.

For all Legolas’ injuries, he set a relentless pace, eyes and ears twitching at unseen movement. Though he held none of his usual dramatics, no leaps or skips, no jumping into trees and disappearing only to drop inches in front of someone and cause them to stumble backwards. He just walked in silence, thoughts far off in a place Aragorn could only wish to reach.

He stopped suddenly, left arm reaching back to retrieve an arrow. Aragorn noticed the change, noted that Legolas didn’t trust his right arm to have the strength needed to draw his bow right now. The other two stood in silence, weapons drawn at the ready.

Legolas’ body suddenly twisted, and his arrow flew high into the trees. All stood still, before the sound of branches breaking could be heard, and the small body of an orc archer fell. No more than a second later, an arrow flew inches above Aragorn's head, and the three were running through the trees, Legolas occasionally firing an arrow behind them to kill their closest adversary.

Aragorn was pulled forward suddenly by the elf, just as an arrow passed behind him. He stumbled slightly, trying to catch the breath to thank him, but Legolas had already turned, face hidden behind his silvery hair. He was limping badly now, and Aragorn could see the white of his knuckles from where he tried to hide his pain.

Aragorn had no idea where they were, following the wood elf blindly. What mattered most now was getting out of this situation. They dodged suddenly passed a large ravine in the ground, and Aragorn was grateful he was paying close attention to his footing. The running orcs behind them were not so lucky, and a few tumbled down into the darkness below.

In front of him, Legolas buckled, letting out a sharp cry of pain as his body gave way. Aragorn caught him before he could fall fully to the ground, pulling his arm around his shoulder. The two stumbled on together, and Aragorn could see the sheen of the sweat collecting on Legolas’ pale skin. His eyes shut tight in pain before flickering open again. “Left.” He said, clarity filling his words. Aragorn was reminded suddenly that through all the elf’s actions and naiveties, he was a prince, capable of leading many elves into battle through field and forest. A smile tugged on Aragorn’s lips, and they veered left as Legolas had instructed them.

At one point, Legolas’ body spun, hand reaching out to catch an arrow mid-flight before it embedded into Aragorn's skull. He chucked away the shaft, pushing the tip into his pocket. Aragorn shot him a confused look. “Same clan, same poison.” He reasoned, earning a nod of agreement from Aragorn.

Not a moment later, had the cleared the forest, squinting as they stumbled into the light of day. “The rocks.” Gimli shouted, and the three rushed behind a collection of large boulders, hidden from the arrows of the forest.

The group pushed their backs against the cold stone, breath heavy in their chests as the harsh sun blazed over them. “How many are there?” Gimli asked, a mixture of confusion and annoyance as he glanced quickly behind the rock. Aragorn listened into the falling of their feet as the left the forest.

“18 on foot.” Legolas croaked from beside him. “I know not how many are in the trees for I cannot hear them.” Aragorn and Gimli exchanged glances, and from one look they understood.

“Stay here.” Aragorn muttered to Legolas beside him, stopping his complaints with a kiss. “Please.” And then he and Gimli were running around the different sides of the rock, charging at full pace at the orcs ahead of them.

The sound of metal scraping and hitting against each other plagued Aragorn's hearing, and he allowed his instincts to take over. His sword cut easily through orc flesh, creating clean slashes across their unarmoured weak points. He spared a glance at where Gimli hacked away at an orc, axe swinging through the air as if it was only a quarter of its weight.

His glance left him off guard for an orc that charged behind him, knocking him off his feet. He scrambled back, stopping as he collided with another orc who bent over him, a grotesque smile climbing on his face to show his pointed teeth. The first orc stood sharply on his wrist, forcing the sword from his hand, as the other raised his own blade.

But before it could come down on him, a singular arrow had plunged into both orc’s heads, the feathers still in the first’s brain so they were held together by the thin shaft.

Aragorn pushed himself to his feet as the two bodies fell to his right, twitching. He saw Legolas standing upon one of the rocks, already unleashing a second arrow at an orc who came too close to Gimli. Then a third swiftly flew into the tree line, resulting in a dead orc to come toppling from the high branches. Legolas caught Aragorn's eye and sent him a wild grin, and Aragorn restrained a groan of annoyance as he turned to fight of the next sword-wielding orc. Though a smile had crept onto his face; he had tried.

Some of the orcs had managed to slip past them and were making their way to where Legolas stood. “Legolas!” Aragorn shouted in warning, and Legolas eyes flicked from him, to where the group of orcs had begun to attempt to scramble up the large boulder. Legolas fired two arrows into the small huddle, though with his left arm he was slow, and the orcs had already found the path up. One had reached out to grab hold of his leg, nails digging into his skin.

Aragorn saw Legolas stumble slightly, eyes full of fear however distant they seemed, as though a memory had flashed through his vision without warning. If he was any other creature, he might have fallen, though his instincts seemed to catch him, and Aragorn watched as he used the momentum to flip himself onto a taller rock, shooting an arrow at the orc.

Aragorn was already running to him, sword drawn and poised at the ready as he sliced off the head of an orc in his path. Legolas had his blades drawn; his bow discarded on the rock beneath him. Aragorn had reached the first boulder, and began to hack at the bundle of orcs, anger rushing through his veins as he cut them down. He was vaguely aware of the sound of Gimli’s armour behind him, and he was glad the Gimli had his back as he scrambled onto the rock, kicking off the orc in front of him.

Legolas scrambled to another rock, foot almost sliding off the blade-like top. Aragorn's heart leaped from his chest, and he forced himself to breathe as the elf caught himself, shaking his head as he tried to blink away memories. Aragorn jumped to the second rock that had now become overwhelmed with orcs. He cut them down, having to pay an annoying amount of attention to his footwork as he dodged a blow, coming close to falling. If it weren’t for a small dagger implanted in the orcs head, he would have been stabbed in his vulnerable state. Legolas sat crouched on the impossibly fine point of the rock, shaking hand still out from where he had released the blade.

With a final kick, the last orc fell from the rock and was decapitated by Gimli’s axe. But Aragorn didn’t allow himself a pause to celebrate, as he rushed to where Legolas had slid from the rock, curled in on himself, eyes shut tight. He rocked backwards and forwards, nails scraping at him skin, breathing shallow and frantic.

“Legolas?”

Chapter Text

Legolas couldn’t see anything. His vision was black, and he found himself stumbling through the misty darkness. Faces emerged from the shadows, contorted expressions reaching out to him, clawed fingers pulling on his clothes, tearing away the fabric, reaching his skin. He tried to run, but his legs seemed buried in tar, unable to escape from the prying hands.

Bodies appeared around him, pulling him down, grabbing him, submerging him into the viscous liquid that kept him in place.

He rose gasping for breath, the feeling of the sticky substance remaining on the places they had touched, burning their marks into his skin. An undying reminder of the way they ruined him. Of how unwanted he had become. Powerless.

The darkness gave way to looming trees, the branches stretching to grab onto him, holding him, twisting around his body. In front of him he watched himself, tied to the tree, the crowd of orcs surrounding him. The way he squirmed in their touch, the tears that ran down his face. The way his hair and clothes had become combined with thorns and branches. He watched as they destroyed his pride, unable to stop it. Powerless.

The branches had spread over his body, the wood scratching along his skin, infiltrating under his clothes. They wrapped around his body, constricting his breathing until he couldn’t move his ribs, slowly coming to branch around his neck, around his head. They covered his eyes, slowly climbing down to his mouth. He took a deep breath as the thorny branches buried him alive, forcing his legs to buckle under him.

Then he was back in the dark, muffled noises surrounded him. He couldn’t let them come again. Couldn’t let them ruin him again.

He bundled himself into a ball, nails desperately trying to itch the burning sensation along his arms away. His whole body felt as though it was on fire, detached from his mind. Like someone had removed his consciousness and place it into a stranger’s body. A dirty, unwanted empty shell.

He tried to suck in deep breaths, but his lungs felt as though an iron grasp was closing in on them, forcing him to take in shallow breaths, each breath only helping to inflate the pain flaring through his chest.

A hand reached out from the darkness, reaching for his shoulder. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be ruined once more. Not if there was still some sacred part of him left. His shaking hand shot to the blade on his thigh, and he waved it into the darkness, scrambling back until he hit a hard object blocking his escape. The hand had gone now, but the sound remained. His ears picked up their movement, their voice, their breathing. But who it belonged to, how many there were he couldn’t distinguish.

He took in a shaky breath, blinking hard as he tried to shake off the darkness. Tears were rolling down his face, and he was vaguely aware of trying to stutter out some words of fake warning. His eyes flicked nervously around him, until the noises stopped, and there was a silence. He balled himself once more, arm wrapped around his knees as he tried to stop as much of his body being exposed. He still held the knife up to the air, though there was no particular direction it was pointing at.

“Legolas?” a voice rang through the murmurs, repeating his name over and over. He recognised that voice, and his body filled with a light sense of security. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “Legolas.” There was no fear in his voice, no disgust, only love, protection. A chance.

Unaware to him, a hand had grabbed onto his wrist, squeezing until he was forced to drop the knife. He tried to kick away the possessor, though he made no contact. His body gave way through exhaustion.

The hand was softer than that of the orcs. And he could feel each of the small callouses, his skin picking up each minor detail. He held onto the physical touch, desperate to ground himself to a reality. He knew those hands, trusted those hands.

The clamp around his lungs loosened slightly, and his breathing became more controlled. A soft voice was talking to him, along with another voice, rougher, but still loving. He shook his head sharply, and slowly his vision started to fade back in, a light from above him materialising.

He listened to the voices telling him to breathe, until finally his breathing seemed more even, though sobs still racked his body. Aragorn and Gimli were in front of him, Aragorn crouched, and Gimli standing behind him, both looking on him. “Aragorn?” He croaked, hand reaching out to him. Slowly, Aragorn took it, thumb running over his skin soothingly.

“I'm here.” He whispered, eyes flicking between the other’s, a soft smile creeping onto his face. Legolas crawled into his arms, allowing himself to be held in for what felt like an eternity. How long had it been since he had allowed himself to simply be held like this, without any barriers or expectations? Aragorn's hands began to run down his hair, and he pressed gentle kisses to the top of Legolas’ head as the two sat wrapped in each other’s arms.

At some point, Gimli had started a fire, and the warmth of the blazing flames bought comfort to the huddled group. Legolas stayed under Aragorn's arm, snuggled into the safety they provided. Gimli started to tell tales of the new life under the mountains, how it had changed since the ring’s destruction. He told Aragorn of the times he had visited Mirkwood, or the occasions Legolas had visited him, trying to pull the elf into conversation. But no matter how much Legolas tried to focus on the stories, he found himself slipping into darkness, focus lost, or too tuned on the environment around him. His senses seemed either to blur or become heightened to each small movement or sound from the forest beside them.

He had the sudden need to leave, every fibre in his body longing to put as much distance between them and the dark trees. He hadn’t realised he had spoken aloud, but soon the three of them were moving, walking back to the road to Rivendell.

“How’s your arm?” Aragorn asked them as they walked, gaze fixed on the setting sun. Legolas spared a glance down at his shoulder, not realising how much pain he was in until he paid attention.

“Its fine.” He lied, eyes looking out to where Gimli strode ahead, short legs moving faster than what seemed natural to keep a distance between him and the long-legged beings behind him.

Aragorn shot him a look, and Legolas could tell his lie had been discovered. Aragorn made no comment on it. “And your leg?” his eyes flicked down to the other’s leg, taking in the blood soaking through his trousers. He shook his head in annoyance. “You should have stayed behind that rock.” He mumbled, though there was no hate of anger behind his words, only regret.

“And let you get sliced in half? I think not.” Legolas replied, trying to sound as light as he could. Though his voice came out tired and mellow, the joy he tried to feed in gone. Aragorn opened his mouth to suggest they take a break, but Legolas stopped him. “I'm fine. We need to get back to Rivendell. Don’t worry about me.” He offered a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

They walked in silence a while longer, and he found his mind escaping in the eerie quiet, nothing to focus on to ground him except the rhythmic falling of feet. In front of him, Gimli complained about not bringing horses, and Legolas found himself agreeing with him. The journey in itself was not long, but given the circumstances, it would draw on for an age.

“Say something.” Legolas muttered into the night, warm breath forming a cloud in front of him. Aragorn looked down to him and Legolas met his gaze. “I need something to… distract me.” He explained, and Aragorn nodded slightly, hand softly coming to hold Legolas’.

Aragorn began to hum a soft tune; one he had heard sung many a time in the walls of Gondor. A smile tugged at Legolas’ mouth, and he allowed the song to swim across his mind. Slowly, he joined in, voice higher than Aragorn’s, yet the two seemed to perfectly match. In front of them, Legolas could pick up the low tones of Gimli’s voice, as he slowly began to fall back to walk in line with the other two. The song seemed to clear Legolas’ mind, the sound washing over him, tune instinctively leaving his mouth as he walked along, the falling of their feet in time with the beat of the melody.

By the time the Rivendell pass had come into Legolas’ view, the sun had begun to rise. A haze had set over the lands distorting the oranges of the sky. The three had been walking all night, and they stumbled slightly under the heat of the summer sun, which shone through the leaves of the trees above them. They had run out of water, forgetting to refresh outside the forest in the panic. Legolas’ arm had been flung over Aragorn's shoulder, and the two staggard about like a drunk couple, dehydrated and overheated. Even Gimli, who was used to the heat of blazing furnaces, had sweat lining his brow, his curses to the density of his armour ringing out.

Legolas might have cheered in relief at the sight of the hidden path, but his energy was spent on trying to stay upright, determined to hold as much of his weight himself, without Aragorn's help. He seemed to be failing at that task, each time he tried to take a step without Aragorn's support left him wincing in pain, leg threatening to buckle. “We’re close.” He managed to croak through his dry throat, for he knew his companions could not yet see the path on the horizon.

Gimli grumbled slightly in response, and Aragorn gave a polite nod, before going back to staring at the beaten road. Legolas hoped that the elves at the borders had good eyesight, hoped they would spot them and send help.

The sound of the rushing water of the Ford of Bruinen was music to Legolas’ ears, and he found himself walking quicker despite both Gimli’s and his own body’s protests. “Slow down elf.” Gimli groaned, and only then did Legolas realise he was walking at a pace a dwarf might consider jogging at.

Legolas glanced to him, and then to Aragorn who seemed to agree with the dwarf. “But we are so close. Can you not hear the river?” Legolas questioned, a bit of his old spirit ringing through his voice. Gimli shook his head violently, and Legolas shot a helpless look at Aragorn, who looked back at him lovingly.

“I'm with Gimli on this one.” Aragorn murmured, and Legolas tried to hide his shock at how his voice seemed so strained and broken. Guilt ran through his body as he realised what he was putting them through, and an idea ran through his head.

“Wait here.” He called, before staggering off as quickly as his broken body could take him, holding onto the trees for support as he pushed himself forward. But now his body seemed filled with a purpose, a new final hit of adrenaline forcing him over the finishing line and masking his pain.

Relief flooded him as he walked out of the wood, the full heat of the sun blazing down at him. He stumbled into the river, groaning as the cold flooded over his skin, washing away his blood with a red streak. He couldn’t see any guards so far, so forced himself forward, taking a quick drink from the cool water.

He stumbled into the woods opposite, forcing his aching limbs into a run, through the dense forest and winding paths. He almost lost his footing three times (an embarrassing number for a wood elf) as he descended the steep slope into the valley, pausing slightly on the ledge that overlooked Rivendell.

The sound of approaching horses drew his attention down the path, and he was greeted with the sight of three white mares. At the front sat Glorfindel, seeming to glow more than ever under the radiance of the sun, though Legolas couldn’t tell if that was real or if it was his mind finally giving way.

The tall elf looked down on him with a mixture of horror and concern, golden eyes flicking over his body. Legolas couldn’t imagine how bad he must have looked in that moment, covered in sweat and grime, soaked in his blood and that of orcs alike. He offered a weak smile.

“The other two are in the wood only a mile or so from the river.” Legolas explained in Sindarin, grateful he didn’t have to summon the brain powers to speak in Westron, and Glorfindel shot him an anxious look. “Worry not, I am the worst of us.” With that, the elf rode away, accompanied by one of his advisors, and Legolas’ legs finally gave in on him.

Chapter Text

Gimli awoke to the bright light of the Rivendell infirmary, the large windows letting in the beaming sun on the morning. Gimli held in a groan as he squinted against the daylight, eyes briefly flicking around the room at the various beds. Some where taken up by inhabitants, though most were empty, unused and neatly preserved in the precise folds and smoothness of the sheets. He pushed himself up with weak arms, surprised by how much his body ached after the tiresome journey. He was glad to find a glass of water by his table, and gratefully downed its contents in one, dry throat soothed by the fresh liquid, no doubt kept cool by some Elvish nonsense. Although he would never admit it to anyone, not even himself, secretly in his mind he had begun to quite enjoy the uses of said ‘Elvish nonsense’.

He sat in silence for a while, allowing the calm atmosphere to clear his mind. He had not dreamed in his sleep, instead falling into a deep, undisturbed slumber he hadn’t appreciated in a long time. He thought back to his embarrassing amount of joy when he saw the blazing light of the golden elf break through the trees, not being able to remember anything past the blurred horse journey back, and the occasional murmur of passers.

His eyes trailed a tall nurse who walked down the hospitals aisle, offering him a sweet smile. The hospitality of Rivendell’s elves would forever shock him. So used was he to the stories from his father’s rants about Mirkwood’s elves, that he had often overlooked the elves of Rivendell’s acceptance of all. He hoped someday there would be more kingdoms like it, for Rivendell was slowly filling with travellers of men, elves and dwarves alike – refugees from the war. Maybe someday he would be able to show Legolas and Aragorn his own home, and Legolas his. Maybe there would come a time where the trio wouldn’t be shot skeptical glances down every street they walked.

That time was not now.

Though here in Rivendell, he could almost allow himself to believe the hopeless fantasy his mind had managed to produce.

He swung himself from his bed, eager to stop his mind spiralling. Where he was expecting a drop to the floor, he found himself greeted with a small platform, at a perfect height for him. Looking around he saw similar levels with other beds, some higher (no doubt to accommodate for the occasional hobbit), and the majority platformless, for those of taller stature like the elves and men. He smiled to himself, face dropping as he realised he had somehow found himself in the white of the hospitals robes, thin shoes covering his feet, a draught from the door making him shiver.

He glanced around quickly, catching eyes with the previous nurse who seemed to understand his predicament. She walked quickly over, the light tap of her heel almost inaudible. “Your clothes are in the box beneath your bed. You may close your curtain to provide privacy if you wish.” Gimli nodded in satisfaction, and she bowed her head before walking back to her station where she began to scribble various notes down on paper too far for Gimli to see.

He drew the curtain, quickly changing into his former clothes to avoid the cold bote of the air. He could smell the freshness of his fabric, and he realised that multiple of his garments had been washed whilst he slept, the soft, floral scent unfamiliar to his nose. He wrinkled his face slightly, before thinking better of it. How long had he been asleep? He wondered to himself as he slung his belt over his waist, gazing off into the ripples of the curtain. His face and body had been washed, though his hair remained untouched, something he was thankful for.

Once he was changed, he began he journey out into the winding halls of Rivendell, enjoying the breeze of the summer, and the shade of the corridors. It wasn’t until he had walked nearly to the other side of the main building that he didn’t actually know where he was walking to. The dwarf wasn’t known for wandering, that was the elf’s thing. No, he always knew where he was going, always did something with intent. He huffed slightly to himself at the revelation, deciding now that his journey would be to locate said elf and his human companion.

He turned on his heels, and began to walk back the way he came, stopping once more as he realised, he had no idea on how to locate them. He began quietly to mutter to himself, stood stationary in the middle of an open corridor, great windows into the wooden walls beside him devoid of glass so there was a constant freshness to the air around him. His confusion earnt him a few looks from those who strolled past him, though he offered no reply to their glances, ignoring their offers of help.

Finally, as his temper threatened to overflow at his predicament, he gave in to the questions, reluctantly accepting an elf’s help with a short bark. Whilst the elf seemed surprised at his sudden anger, he didn’t mention it, face quickly returning to the neutral but kind face they all adopted. He grumbled a quick thanks before heading along the path the elf had told him to take to find Aragorn. What he would do when he got there, he did not know, he just felt the need to seek out someone he knew in the unfamiliar halls of a welcoming house.

He found himself trudging through the rooms once more, slightly frustrated at the building’s endless complex and tranquil design that seemed to calm him each time he found irritation rising in him.

Eventually he found himself facing a door similar to which the tall elf from before had described. Gimli recognised the familiar white star engraved and painted onto the arched doorframe, various vines twisting around to fall either side of the door itself.

He knocked slightly on the door, opening it as Aragorn beckoned him in. The door opened into a corridor, various other doors leading off into rooms, but one stood open. Gimli made his way towards it, deeming that to be where the sound was coming from.

As the dwarf opened the door further, he was greeted by the sight of a very stressed Aragorn pacing in the corner of the room across from where Elrond sat in a wooden chair. Arwen sat on the human’s bed, eyes tracing Aragorn with a mixture of pity and annoyance. Gimli had to force himself to draw his eyes from the shining radiance she emitted as she offered a small smile to him.

Before he had the chance to shut the door properly, Aragorn was striding towards him with a look of determination Gimli had seen mirrored on the battlefield. A jolt of fear shot through his veins even now, and he was dragged further into the room.

“Tell him how ridiculous this all is.” Aragorn’s voice was quiet, though there was no denying the venom behind his words as he glanced towards the Peredhel.

Gimli shifted uncomfortably at the weight of everyone’s stares, unsure of what they were talking about. Aragorn merely groaned as he explained his confusion, going over to practically throw himself onto his bed in the way Gimli had seen many a dwarven teen do so in Erebor. Gimli supressed a small chuckle as his mind draw the comparison, before his eyes flicked to where Elrond calmly explained the situation.

Legolas had denied visitors. That span in Gimli’s head for longer than he would care to admit. Why would he do that? Rather suddenly he understood the human’s rage.

Aragorn was looking at him from where he had pulled himself to sit cross-legged on the bed, and judging by his reaction to Gimli, the dwarf’s face was more obvious than he would care to admit. “See?” Aragorn whined shuffling forward on the bed until his legs dangled over the edge. Arwen forced down a smirk beside him. “Gimli agrees with me.” On any other day, the tone in which Aragorn said that would have had the dwarf up in arms, but on such an occasion, it didn’t even cross his mind. “I just want to see if he is okay.”

“And he is. I have already told you, Estel, that he is awake and making good recovery.” Elrond’s voice was laced with strained patience, and Gimli had the feeling that he had gone over this fact multiple times already. Aragorn began to pace once more.

“So why can’t I see him then?” Aragorn seemed reluctant to change his mind, though Gimli had the feeling that he knew exactly why and was trying to find a loophole around Elrond’s words. The elf shot him an annoyed look which made even Gimli want to crawl into a ball and hide from the irritated elf. Aragorn muttered a slight apology.

“If he has denied visitors, he has denied visitors. There is no getting round that.” Elrond said with finality and stood up sharply. “Now unless you have any other use of me other than to moan, I have a meeting to go to.” Aragorn nodded in acceptance, and the dark-haired elf left, leaving behind his presence in the room.

When the door was shut and Gimli glanced back at Aragorn, he seemed on the verge of tears, and he collapsed into the nearest chair, head coming to fall into the palm of his hand. Arwen and Gimli exchanged a worried look over their friend, before the both of them approached him.

Arwen knelt down to his side, beckoning the human to look up at her. His face bore an expression of great pain, and exhaustion, and Gimli wondered how much sleep he had gotten since they had got here.

“How about we get some lunch, clear your head?” She suggested, and after a pause, Aragorn agreed and pushed himself to his feet, half walking, half stumbling over to where his coat was hung.

Aragorn quickly left without a word, leaving the he and the elf to trail behind him, walking at a pace Gimli wouldn’t deem necessary, or comfortable.

They arrived at a small café in the centre of the quiet town. Many people were out at their jobs, or inside eating somewhere, so the street ahead of them was relatively empty, bar a few.

As far as lunches went, Gimli had had worse, though that was not to say it was good. The majority of the time, the three sat in silence, lost in thought as they stared out at the town. Occasional conversation was made when the waiter ordered their lunches, or when something interesting was seen. Otherwise, a quiet settled over the group.

By the time lunch had finished, Gimli was itching to get up and do something having sat in silence too long. Much to his luck, Aragorn was already up, striding down the long road back to Rivendell. Gimli cursed under his breath, earning a sharp look from Arwen which he waved away, before the two of them were running after the surprisingly fast human.

“Where are you going?” Arwen chided him as she caught up, her breathing annoyingly even compared to the dwarf’s. When Aragorn didn’t answer, she made an effort to slide into his path, blocking his way until he was forced to stop and face her. “You heard my father, you are not to go see him.” Arwen’s words were low and soft, though there was no denying the underlying venom in them which she inherited from her father. Her eyes were heavy as they sat upon him, waiting for him to make his next move.

“I have to, I'm sorry.” Aragorn continued walking, knowing the elf would move out of his path. Gimli could see the pain the action caused the human, though it was hidden by the worry he felt for another. “I can’t just let him lock himself away. He doesn’t have to face this alone.” Aragorn's voice cracked slightly, though he made no effort to stop, walking onwards at the same pace.

“I know.” Arwen said, her voice full of sorry as she glanced at the human. “But you must respect his wishes, no matter him much you may disagree with them.” Her hand came to Aragorn's arm, and he slowed, head hung low in shame.

“She is right, laddie.” The dwarf admitted, no matter how much he hated agreeing with the she-elf. “I'm sure he’ll come round later; he always does. Bright and joyful as before.” Gimli thought back to the previous times Legolas had shut himself away from them, so used to his father’s training of hiding his emotions that when he finally let the barriers go, a deep shame ran through him at revealing his emotions, and the walls would be built again, this time thicker and stronger. And yet, he would always come back, sometimes worryingly so, without a hint of the events before.

Aragorn nodded glumly, though the sorrow in his eyes remained. “Come,” the dwarf started once more, gripping onto the human’s other hand. “I'm sure there is plenty of paperwork awaiting you upon your return to your quarters. Best soon you start them now.” He practically dragged Aragorn back through the halls to his chamber.

At some point Arwen had excused herself with a feeble excuse about needing to meet a friend, though Gimli suspected she just didn’t want to help with the work. The smirk on her face in reply to Gimli’s look said it all.

Gimli had helped the human in his work for a while, but soon the work became too complex for his knowledge of Gondor, and he excused himself, making his way back to his own temporary room as night began to fall.

He could only hope the elf would gather his senses and allow them to see him once more. Though that wish seemed far away.

Chapter Text

Legolas sat in the cold of his room, legs firmly held to his chest, head propped against his knees. He was vaguely aware of Elrohir drawing blood from his arm, though the sharp pinch from the needle was muted so only a shy tingling sensation pricked his skin. The dark-haired elf’s eyes lingered on Legolas for a moment, pity seeping into his gaze as he watched the once spirited elf sink into a state between consciousness and complete unawareness. He had seen it before, in his mother.

Legolas let his arm wrap around his leg as Elrohir left the room, gaze unfocused on the wall in front of him. Unblinking, he stared, so unmoving one might have thought him crafted from the wood of the room. Though occasionally the silence would give way to the sound of a shuddering breath, the muffled sound of the outside world.

He was tired. His entire body ached with each slight movement. His eyes felt heavy, his mind tortured by thoughts that plagued each waking moment. He allowed his head to tilt until his ear touched the smooth fabric of the Imladris hospital gown. His eyelids slowly shut, and he was consumed with darkness.

A peace ran through his body; alone in the darkness he stood. Alone.

A presence pricked at the back of his mind, an approaching figure, and he turned to see the proud smirk of the orc he had spoken to. His eyes shone in the gloom, smile contorting as it was drawn out into the black, a shadowy hand coming out to reach him.

He ran, shaky legs taking him further into the distance, yet the further he went the more the feeling of desperation set into him. More faces spawned around him, hands reaching for him, pulling him back, holding him.

Aren't you a pretty thing.

They began to speak, individually at first, though soon the voices overlapped.

Such a shame to have you ruined-

What will the king think now-

- spoilt. That’s what he is-

Don’t you worry little elfling-

Elves ain't no good withou’ their looks-

He ran, swallowing down the feeling of nausea, pushing aside the sensation of his legs buckling beneath him with every step.

In the darkness appeared a wooden wall, panelled and curved, cracked windows lining its exterior. A second wall cut him off, and he was trapped in the corner of the room, forced to climb onto the hospital bed in the corner, hiding his body from the hands that reached for him. That grabbed for him.

He wrenched his eyes open, breathing hard. He was pushed into the corner of the room, the two cool walls pressed against his back. Their words lingered in his head. The taunts and insults they had thrown at him that night taking hold in his eternal solitude.

Nobody would want to see him like this. The elven prince, reduced to a cowering wreck, all life and meaning gone from the shine of his blue eyes. Already was he a disappointment to his father, never graceful enough, never stoic enough. What would he think of his son now, Legolas could not bear to think of it.

And Aragorn? Would he accept Legolas now? Or would he find another, someone more beautiful, more intelligent, quicker, stronger, better? Humans were so fast to move on, Aragorn would be no different. It would be better without Legolas. He would be able to rule easier, without the appearance of a woodland elf beside him.

No. Aragorn would do just fine without his lingering presence.

He pushed himself from the bed, eager to be rid of the feeling of being trapped that the two walls provided him with. He made it to the middle of the room before his weak legs collapsed under him, causing his arm to shoot out to grab hold of the desk. Anger surged through him as he lent his weight against it, forcing air into his lungs. His grip tightened around the edge, until his nails left dents in the soft wood, his knuckles white as racing thoughts ran through his head. Nobody would want a prince who could barely keep it together enough for three paces. Nobody would love someone who was ruined.

Ruined

Ruined

RUINED

RUINED.

He gasped, pushing himself to the window, arms extending to where the wall curved into make a small gap before the glass panels. His knees collapsed onto the dark wood of the window ledge, his bones colliding hard against the surface. Yet no pain rang through his body, his mind seemed distant from the world around him, supressing the feeling so he didn’t even acknowledge the sensation of the throbbing from his leg.

His shaking hands unhooked the latch on the frame pushing the wide panel open like a door.

He sat for a while, the cold air of the morning breeze setting on his face, touching his skin, calming the flames that burned inside of him. His eyes flicked down to where the towns people went on their way, bustling around before their work. Children ran through the streets, causing gasps and mutters of disparagement as they wreaked havoc on the road. Legolas’s face softened slightly at the sight, remembering his own childhood running through the trees, away from his lessons and lectures, much to the annoyance of his father.

And now? He was once more a disappointment, a disgrace to Mirkwood, to his name. Not that he had ever stopped, that is. Even for a woodland elf he had always been… odd. He was the youngest there by millennia, even when he grew up, his title alienated him from the silvan elves. He couldn’t mask his emotions, play the stoic, calm elf like his father, something proven by his current state.

He swung his legs around, so they dangled outside the window, bare feet touching the sun.

How easy it would be to jump right now, to fall. The sensation of the wind in his hair, the sun on his face. How much simpler it could be just to let go. There would be no evidence of the damage done by the orcs, no reminder of his failures. There would be no more looks of pity from Aragorn, or Gimli, or Elrohir. He would simply slip away, down, down, down.

What would his father think when he caught word? Would he tell the others that he had died heroically in battle defending Rivendell? Or would he simply be glad to be rid of Legolas? He had no siblings after all, his only purpose was to be his heir. It wasn’t exactly like Thranduil wanted children, not that he could have others now that his mother was gone.

Gone.

He would be able to join his mother.

His legs worked to push him to his feet.

She wouldn’t look down on him as others would for being ruined.

Ruined.

Ruined.

His toes curled around the edge; arms dropped by his side.

‘It is not yet your time.’ The voice rang in his head. He pushed it away.

He allowed his body to fall forward.

‘Legolas.’

A breath.

‘Legolas.’

His foot came from the ledge.

“Legolas!” Aragorn’s hand was gripped to his arm as he hung, causing him to hit against the stone wall.

His breath came heavy in his chest, heart beating fast.

“Legolas,” Aragorn’s panic was clear. “Meleth nîn, na vedui.” (my love, please). He held out a second hand to Legolas, but the elf was unable to respond. The numbness spread through his body once more, even as he was hauled back onto the ledge.

Aragorn's eyes scanned over his body, hands coming to rest on Legolas’ shoulders. The elf became vaguely aware of a bombardment of questions being thrown at him, as well as a set of angry comments. Legolas replied to none of them, the sound merely washing over him in an incomprehensible murmur.

“You should leave.” Legolas said, his voice plain and tired. His eyes remained fixed onto the wall in front of him, vision blurred as his gaze remained unfocused.

“I– What?” Aragorn stopped speaking and his eyes stilled onto Legolas’ face. “You think I'm going to leave you now. After – after this… this-”

“Please.” Legolas’ eyes came to meet Aragorn's, and the human visibly retracted from shock at the agony flaring behind the dull blue eyes. Legolas drew his eyes quickly away, pushing past Aragorn so he stood in the middle of the room. He resisted the urge to pick at the skin around his nails, forcing himself to cross his arms.

Aragorn span round to look up at him, and sat himself on the ledge, his knees too high to look comfortable for the human. “I'm not leaving.” Aragorn said softly, a kind smile appearing onto his face.

“Please, just go.” Legolas span to face him, but Aragorn didn’t move. “I asked you to leave.” Legolas tried again, still Aragorn wouldn’t budge. Anger simmered at his surface. “Get out!” Nothing. “Elessar, your royal greatness, GET OUT OF MY ROOM!” Legolas shouted, and Aragorn flinched slightly at the way he mocked the title, and yet he shook his head reluctantly, his hair falling in front of his face.

Legolas realised that it hadn’t been washed since their journey, blood and grime drying it into clumps. He hasn’t had a bath, why hasn’t he- Was he worried, about him?

About you? Why would he be worried about you?

Legolas groaned, stopping himself from kicking the rug in the realisation that it wouldn’t help him seem more authoritative. He collapsed to the ground, legs bent in unnatural angles around him. “I know you Legolas. I know that if you lock yourself away up here then all it’s going to do for you is to cause those annoying voices in your head to spiral.” Aragorn moved his way over to Legolas, remaining close to the ground as if approaching a wild animal. “And I worry that you have begun to listen to them.” he sat himself opposite Legolas, legs crossed in front of him, eyes beckoning him to look up.

The elf glanced up at him, tears heavy in his eyes. Aragorn smiled slightly, and in his gaze, Legolas saw, not pity, not fear, not disgust. Only love. Acceptance.

“I'm sorry.” Legolas’ voice cracked, and the tears began to fall down his face, first in small droplets, before the dam of emotions he hadn’t known he was holding back broke.

Aragorn held him tight in his arms, the warmth providing Legolas with something to hold onto, a new feeling, one that hadn’t turned into another suffocated whisper. He finally felt safe, right here, in this moment.

“I know.” Aragorn ran his fingers down Legolas’ hair. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Legolas sat alone in his room once more, regal posture gone as he slumped against the wooden leg of his bed, cold stone floor leeching through his clothes. He glared out at the window, watching the slight movement of the trees as wind swept through them, catching onto the green of the leaves.   

It had been weeks since his… ordeal, and still he found himself staring at a locked window. There was a part of him that still thought if he scowled hard enough, the welded frames might give. They had left only a small panel at the very top of the window open, in an attempt to let in a breeze. Legolas knew he could easily climb up to it, just manage to wriggle his thinning body through the wooden borders. But he held neither the strength or the will to summon the energy even to stand, let alone to try and escape his cage.   

So instead, he sat. Like a trapped bird in its cage, he sat and waited, slipping to and from consciousness until days blended into nights, and his only way of telling what time it was, was by the inconsistent intrusions of Elrohir, or the nutritional meals piling on his desk, untouched.   

Aragorn and Gimli had tried to visit, multiple times a day at first. But they were met with silence, hollow gazes that spoke only of exhaustion. Once Gimli had tried to show him a new wood caring he had found in the markets, only to be met with a tidal wave of anger from Legolas. The memory of him staring up at him with a mixture of horror and pity as Legolas screamed incoherently at him haunted Legolas’ mind. He didn’t even know what he was saying, a mixture of Westron and Sindarin that couldn’t be patched together to form a logical train of thought.   

They had stopped visiting as regularly after that. Perhaps they had decided he needed space. Perhaps they had finally tired of him.   

The soft creak of his door was barely audible to Legolas when it was swung open rather more aggressively than it had been before. Or maybe he had just become so used to the slowness of the world around him, he had forgotten how fast things seemed to move in real life. His reality, warped by solitude.   

He looked up, his tired eyes meeting the familiar, rugged face of Gimli. The dwarf’s usual gruff expression had softened, though there was no pity behind his eyes now, only acceptance. Legolas found it oddly refreshing.   

“I thought I’d find you here.” Gimli said, stepping further inside, movement slow as though to prevent any sound being created by the weight of his boots. “Can’t have you sulking away all day. Loneliness can drive a man crazy.”  

Legolas tried to offer a small smile but settled for a tired nod. Usually, he would have come back with a quick comment about him not technically being a man, and instead an elf. As such, he was used to being alone, often finding great comfort in the silence it can bring.   

And yet, a part of him knew what Gimli said was true. All he had done the past few weeks was sit in his room, starving himself of food, company, anything that once held meaning in his life.   

Gimli crouched down beside him, pulling out a small pouch from his belt. “I brought you something,” he said, holding up a handful of brightly coloured berries. “Not for battle, mind you. Just... to remind you that even in the darkest forests, there’s sweetness to be found.”  

Legolas took the berries, their tart scent filling the room. For the first time in days, he felt a flicker of warmth, something softer than pain or fear.  

“Come on,” Gimli urged, offering a rough hand. “A little fresh air will do you good. I know a place, a quiet grove not far from here. Trees older than Rivendell itself, and the kind of peace you might just need.”  

Legolas hesitated, before grasping onto Gimli’s hand. He often found it weird how easily his hand was engulfed in the hand of one much smaller.   

Outside, sun filtered through the ancient leaves, casting dappled patterns on the dark forest floor. Gimli grinned up at Legolas as he breathed in the earthly scent of the woods, hand coming to reaching out for the rough of the trunk as he once had before.   

He pushed from his mind the memory of it pushed against his back, the faces and fire that came with it. “See?” Gimli said, nudging him gently. “Not all wounds are meant to be borne in darkness.”  

And in that moment, among old trees and quiet company, Legolas felt, perhaps for the first time since the ordeal, something like hope.  

The two had found a small clearing in the trees and sat in silence against a fallen tree, interrupted only by the sound of delicate birdsong. Sunlight dripped light golden ichor through the boughs overhead, and Legolas could almost let his eyes fall half-lidded in the warmth its rays brought.   

It wasn’t long before Gimli had wandered not far off into the tree line, grumbling and pulling faces as he tried to find good mushrooms. Legolas let a small smile touch his face as he wondered if Gimli knew he could still see and hear him perfectly clearly.   

A soft breeze curled around him, rustling the leaves above in a hush that felt like a whisper.  

He almost didn’t hear the second set of footsteps.  

Not Gimli’s. Too graceful. Too quiet.  

He turned slowly, his breath catching as he saw the tall, silver-cloaked figure standing just within the edge of the clearing. The sunlight caught in the intricate silver circlet, and Legolas knew before he truly saw.  

“Adar,” he said, the word brittle on his tongue. Thranduil’s head inclined slightly towards him, though his eyes never met his.  

Thranduil’s face reminded unreadable for a moment, as it so often was. But his eyes… his eyes betrayed him. No crown or perfectly curated mask could hide the way they swept over where Legolas sat, no doubt sensing the tension in the air around him. How silent he was. He did not need to see to be able to pick up on the changes in his son’s behaviour.    

He stepped forward, slowly at first, as though worried he may spook him.   

“I heard,” Thranduil said quietly. “Of what befell you.”  

Legolas turned his gaze back to the trees, uncertain what to say, afraid of what he might see in his father's face. Pity, maybe. Disappointment, probably.   

“I wanted to come sooner.” He continued. “Though I did not know how.”   

That was new, a welcome surprised. Was that regret? Perhaps a hint of self-doubt. Those words weren’t graced with being in the same sentence as his father.  

And still, that was what lingered behind the ice of his eyes. It was not pity or disappointment as he had feared. It struck him as far too human to be his father. He could almost have mistaken it for care if he had not grown up under the cold glares of his father, the constant rants about his need to improve his skills.   

A long silence was held strung between them. A breeze stirred the trees again. Legolas felt his fingers curl into the moss padding the floor.   

“I though you would not want to see me like this,” he said. “That I had failed.”  

Thranduil knelt beside him, slowly, his expression finally cracking just a little. “You were taken. You were hurt. And yet you are still here. Still fighting. That is no failure, my son.” His hand came towards Legolas’ cheek, the younger instinctively directing it to cup his face. He lent into the touch.  

Legolas didn’t reply, not with words. But his throat tightened, and he looked down, blinking away the burn behind his eyes.  

“I know you,” Thranduil said softly. “Not just the soldier, or the prince, or the elf others expect you to be. I see you, ion nîn. Even now. Especially now.” His hand came to rest on Legolas’ shoulder, and the young elf looked up with teary eyes, a sheepish smile climbing onto his face.   

He pulled his father in closer, wrapping his arms tightly around his body as though worried that this version of him might so quickly leave the moment he let go. He buried himself deeply into his father’s shoulders as he once did as a child, smiling slightly as he felt Thranduil’s arms embrace him.   

It was an odd gesture, for elven royalty. It was an odd gesture for any elf with a shred of dignity. But between father and son, it felt natural.   

They stayed like that until a quiet sniffle drew their attention. Gimli had returned, mushroom basket in hand, now awkwardly pretending he hadn’t walked in on something tender. “Ah. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he muttered, clearing his throat.  

Thranduil raised a brow. “And you must be the dwarf I’ve heard so much about.” His head turned vaguely to the direction of the dwarf, eyes flicking down to compensate for the change in height.  

Gimli straightened with mock pride. “And you must be the one with the stick so far up—”  

“Gimli,” Legolas warned, half-choking on a laugh.  

Thranduil’s lips twitched, almost a smile, and he inclined his head. “It seems… you have found true friends, Legolas. Even in the most unexpected places.” He narrowed his eyes slightly at the dwarf, and Legolas could tell he was biting back a hundred different things he wanted to say for the sake of his son.   

“I have,” Legolas said quietly. “I’m beginning to realize how much that matters.”  

Thrandruil smiled softly down to him, before glancing back up to where the dwarf stood at a cautious distance. Legolas realised this was their first meeting beyond second-hand words and old grudges.  

Thranduil broke the silence that had settled between the two as they glared each other down, each seeing how long it would take for the other to break. It took a firm nudge from Legolas for his father to speak. “Sit down dwarf. You're making me uncomfortable with your hovering.”   

Legolas sighed, realising it was probably as much success as they would get for now.   

For the first time, the weight of expectation lifted—just a little. Not gone, but less suffocating.  

The darkness of the forest was alive with laughter.   

A young Legolas darted from tree to tree, his bare feet barely making a sound against the moss lined trees. Sunlight could penetrate the thinning canopy this high up, and Legolas turned his face to the sun, feeling its warmth against his skin.   

His eyes quickly darted down, clutching a small bow in his hands, its string taut with anticipation. He could hear movement all around, but his senses weren’t yet sharp enough to tell where it came from.  

“Come on Legolas!” A young voice called ahead of him, her voice high from excitement. He grinned slightly, spotting the movement of her bright hair in the stillness of the forest.   

“I'm coming!” He replied, still beaming as he caught up to her, glancing beside him to see a similar smile plastered on her face.   

He leaped over a fallen log, the world a blur of green and gold. The thrill of the chase consumed him, the wind whipping through his hair.   

The dark fur of the spider drew closer as they ran, and Legolas drew his bow close to his cheek, firing an arrow. He didn’t slow in his steps, watching as the arrow hit the spider in the body, causing it to shriek and turn to face its predator.   

“Nice shot,” the girl besides him slowed down at the same time as him, as they faced the spider.   

“Thanks.”   

‘I had been aiming for the neck’. He thought, but decided to let that remain firmly to himself, straightening his posture as he stopped.   

Before either of them could take another breath, the spider had launched itself at them, moving with a speed Legolas hadn’t expected. He nocked an arrow, firing blindly into the spiders’ face, the arrow meeting one of his eyes.   

A smug look fell onto his face. Father thought I wasn’t ready for this, I’ll wipe that stoic, arrogant look from his face when-  

He was not ready for this.   

Mere moments later, a long leg batted him to the side as though he were a small ragdoll, and his body came to collide with a tree.   

His vision swam, darkness blocking out the few glimpses of light through the trees.   

He could make out the young elfling plastered against a nearby tree, caught in one of the spider’s webs. She was screaming something, looking over to him with pleading eyes.   

He willed his body to move, to pushed himself up. The spider’s great mandibles came down around her head, and in one swift move, it was gone. Legolas’ eyes widened in horror as he watched the headless corpse fall swiftly from the web, leaving a red stain were she had been.   

He swallowed down a lump in his throat as he screamed at the spider.   

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen. He just wanted something to happen.   

The spider launched once more, and he evaded, hand coming to reach for the blade at his side. In one move the body fell in front of him, head gone in a way that mimicked his friend.   

The warmth of the sun gave way to a chilling cold.  

Darkness enveloped him.   

Legolas stood alone in a void, the silence oppressive as he glanced into the black oblivion before him.   

He still remembered that day. They day he had let his pride slow him. The price he had paid because of it.   

Voices started to grow from the darkness, growing louder as they spiralled from his control.   

“Ruined.”  

“Disgraced.”  

“Unworthy.”  

Hands reached out from the void, faceless creatures, grasping, pulling. He struggled, but the more he fought the tighter the grip.   

“Let me go!” he cried, thrashing as tears streamed down his cheeks. Hands reached from the void. Too many, too large, fingers like roots, and they pulled.  

A face emerged from the shadows. His own face. A twisted reflection of himself, eyes hollow.   

“You can’t escape it,” it hissed.   

He screamed.   

Chapter Text

Flames soared upwards, biting into the night air with their warmth. Sparks popped and drifted upwards, vanishing into the vast darkness. Gimli adjusted the skewer of hare meat resting above the coal, the familiar smell of smoke and char beginning to settle in his beard.   

Aragorn had joined the three of them after his duties had concluded, sitting quietly beside the sleeping elf. Gimli was glad that his entrance brought new conversation topics that might break the silence between himself and Thranduil. He had almost resorted to complimenting the precision of the elf’s arrow against the hare’s skull. Almost.   

The three had been in amiable conversation when Legolas woke gasping, clutching onto Aragorn’s arm as he struggled to breathe. The elf had woken from sleep as though from a battle, heart pounding and sweat pricking at his forehead.   

He had bundled himself up in Aragorn’s arms, his spindly body folding easily enough to be encompassed in his grasp. The human’s eyes glanced back to where Thranduil sat perched on his chair, his face a mixture of half hidden emotions. He looked rather out of place, in his regal clothes and crown. But Gimli knew that look anywhere, had seen the concern often enough on his own father.   

The elf king looked unsure about whether he should say something, do something, or just stay out of the way, his body tense with apprehension, staring with that unfocused look he always seemed to have. Gimli was not sure as to why he refused to make eye contact with any of them except in accidental glances. He wondered if it was no doubt something to do with the elf’s arrogance, nothing deeper than that. Surely not.  

Gimli was much better when it came to helping Legolas. He had learnt long ago that when it came to Legolas, too many people trying to help was only going to make everything worse. Though each time his mind still willed him to try and help.   

Still, he noted the tremble in the prince’s hand. The way his eyes darted nervously about the trees as though he were a cornered animal. Gimli stirred the fire and said nothing. Yet.   

Even when Legolas’ long limbs extended themselves, and some colour returned to his face. What was there to say that wasn’t patching stone with cobwebs?  

Thranduil still sat like a statue carved from moonlight and marble, his expression unreadable once more. But his eyes, by Durin’s beard, his eyes never left his son. Protective, sharp as a newly forged blade, and crafted with something softer that made Gimli look away out of respect.   

After some time of silence, Legolas made his way closer to the fire, settling against the log his father sat on. The tension between the two was like a shadow Gimli could only half feel. Not hostile, just thick with unspoken words.   

Legolas remained tense, small shoulders bunched up to his ears, eyes flicking at the smallest sound.   

Gimli puffed at his pipe, letting the scent of dwarven leaf calm his thoughts. It wasn’t in his nature to brood, but ever since that night in Rivendell, when he had first come to visit Legolas, to find him on the floor, barely able to stand, he found himself lost to thought more regularly. He had soon been taught that an elf’s strength comes from their spirit, not their bodies. And when that spirit broke… it didn’t always mend. Gimli only hoped that Legolas hadn’t gotten to that stage.    

He remembered being in the mountain halls of Erebor as a lad, watching his uncles raise tankards and roar songs. He remembered thinking that the world was all that simple: strength was strength, honour was honour, and courage was the armour that guarded all. But the world was never quite that tidy. He saw it now, in the way the elf he called his closest friend bore his scars beneath layers of silence and walls of defences.  

Thranduil’s hand came to lay on his son’s shoulder, the long sleave of his robe rustling as he moved. Gimli realised it had been purposeful, to alert his son not to be shocked, for it was the first time he had heard those grand garments of his make a sound.   

Legolas relaxed immediately at the touch, and he allowed his tired eyes to settle on the blazing fire, away from the darkness of the woods. The sight of father and son struck Gimli as more intimate than words. The great Elvenking, the same one who had locked his father in a cell and regarded dwarves with the sort of disdain usually reserved for fungus, sitting together with his son. Not in majesty, but it shared fatigue.   

For a long moment, none of them spoke, instead allowing the sounds of distant birdsong and the festivities of Rivendell to entire into their small clearing.   

“Did you know,” Gimli started, sitting forward to poke the fire. Not because it needed it, but because there was something comforting in watching the embers ignite under fresh oxygen. “That your princeling here once tried to climb a cliff edge littered with orcs with nothing more than a bowstring and a bad idea.”  

Legolas groaned, shooting Gimli a hard look.  

“Oh, I remember that.” Aragorn laughed from beside Gimli. “He insisted that gravity was a ‘human problem’.”   

Legolas sank further into the log, hands coming to cover his face. Gimli could make out a slight flush on the tips of his ears. “In my defence, it did work.” He mumbled through his fingers.  

Thranduil, of all things, chuckled. “He did much the same as a child. Climbed everything, trees, statues, the palace walls.” Thranduil smiled slightly, and Gimli realised where Legolas had gotten the mischievous glint in his eyes from. “Do you remember the time you tried to ride a wild stag?”  

Legolas sunk so far down that he was forced to push himself up for fear of breaking his neck. The memory clearly lit a warm flame in Thranduil. It was odd how light and tender the elf’s voice could become. Gimli couldn’t help but wonder what he was like when he was far, far younger, when the responsibility of leadership hadn’t beaten him into the seemingly emotionless elf he was.   

“I was convinced I could tame it,” Legolas replied, his voice lighter as a smile graced his lips.   

“You ended up in the river.” Gimli chuckled slightly, thinking of all the times he had ended up in a similar situation. “By the Valar, I was so scared when they carried your small body into the hall, cut and shivering.”   

"A fine tactic.” Gimli chuckled, and Thranduil cocked his head slightly. “Dwarves call that tactical retreating. Jumping into a river’s saved me more times then I’ll admit in polite company.”   

Thranduil’s brows rose. “Is that how dwarves train warriors.” A faint smile traced his lips as his unnerving gaze shifted from the trees to just over his shoulder.   

“No,” Gimli said, having gone back to puffing on his pipe. “It’s how we train storytellers. If you can turn a tumble into a tale worth hearing, you're halfway to becoming a legend.” Thranduil hummed, and for the briefest moment Gimli had the horror of believing the elf king agreed with him on something.   

“I once mistook a skunk for a wounded animal.” Aragorn laughed, “I tried to bandage it and all.”  

“Didn’t end well I assume?” Legolas said dryly, the mischievous undertones back to his voice.   

“I wasn’t allowed inside for a week.” Aragorn replied with a grimace. “Elladan and Elrohir still like to bring it up.”  

The laughter was quiet, but genuine. Gimli let it sink in. This was the medicine they all needed. Not poultices, not herbs. Just presence. Stories. Firelight. The reminder that they had lives that existed outside the pain.   

Gimli glanced at Legolas again. The elf wasn’t laughing anymore, but he wasn’t retreating either. His eyes, still rimmed with shadow, had softened. He sat a little straighter.   

“You ever think,” Gimli asked, half to himself, “that it’s funny how we all grew up in such different places but somehow ended up here, together?”  

“Fate,” Aragorn said.   

“Madness,” Thranduil muttered, but there was no heat to it. Gimli was reminded that Legolas had never intended to come along, and to Thranduil his parting really must have seemed like madness.   

Legolas gave the faintest smile, and he wondered if the two were thinking the same thing. “Or perhaps the world simply grows smaller when evil pushes to hard from the edges.”  

Gimli nodded, tugging at a knot in his beard. It had, after all, been evil that brought them together. That had brought nations together.   

“Still. I remember being young in Erebor, watching the great forges burn day and night. My uncle used to say the fire inside mountains burns the same as the one inside our hearts. That the trick is learning when to temper steel… and when to let it burn.”  

He wasn’t sure why he had said that. Maybe for himself. Maybe for Legolas. But the silence that fell after felt full in a way he didn’t regret.   

Aragorn shifted, stretching out his legs. “The first time I came to Mirkwood, I was ten,” he said, and Gimli could see a smile tugging at the corner of Legolas’ lips as though he knew where this story was going. “Elrond sent me with Glorfindel. I remember being terrified. The forest was so dark… so alive.”  

“It is not a tame place,” Thranduil said.   

“No, it isn’t. I lost my footing near a ravine. Thought I’d plummet to my death. And then this… blur of green and gold caught my tunic. It was Legolas.”  

“You screamed.” The elf added helpfully.   

“I was ten!”  

“You screamed like you were being mauled by a troll.”  

Gimli laughed hard enough to nearly spill his pipe ash. Thranduil looked scandalised, but there was amusement beneath his stern mask.   

“That was the first time I met an elf,” Aragorn said. “And he saved me. Even if he did laugh afterward.”  

“Only a little bit,” Legolas muttered, fingers coming up to pinch at the air to fully make his point.   

They fell into a lull after that, each lost in thought, calmed by the occasional pop of embers and the shivering wind in the trees.   

Gimli didn’t speak again for a while. He simply watched, something he had learned after years in the company of two experts in stealth. He noticed the way Thranduil’s fingers would drift absently towards his son, as if to check he was still there. The way Aragorn’s body was twisted towards Legolas, his presence more of an anchor than a statement. And the way Legolas, though quiet, no longer seemed to be scared of the silence that had fallen.    

Gimli had known battle, had experienced firsthand the sweat and blood that covered a warrior’s body like a second skin. But this strange, mismatched group of bent and battered souls offered a strength that no weapon could.   

And maybe, tomorrow, they would fall back into the routines of before. Legolas would wake trembling in his room, plagued by the thoughts and feelings of that eventful night. Aragorn would dart about the halls of Rivendell, trying to run a kingdom far from reach. He refused to leave Rivendell, not until Legolas was safe. And Gimli, he would be stuck battling against his pride as he meandered the halls of an elven kingdom far different from the stone walls he was used to, yet no less beautiful.  

But now there would be a part of them that knew each other was there, to make them laugh, to make them weep.   

He pulled his cloak tighter, feeling the cool stone beneath him bite into his skin.   

“You're not ruined, lad,” he said finally. No preamble. No fluff. Just solid words laid down like bricks on solid ground.   

Legolas turned his head.   

“You’re cracked, maybe. But so’s every good axe. Means you’ve been used. Means you’ve survived. It’s something a warrior is proud of.”   

Legolas blinked once. Then again. He didn’t speak, but the way he inclined his head meant Gimli knew what the words meant to him. The gesture a small token of thanks.   

“Now,” Gimli shuffled forward, shifting to prod the coals with a stick. The fire had dimmed in the length of their silence. “If we’re all sharing tales, let me remind you of the time I challenged a Balrog to a drinking contest in a dream.”  

“Oh no,” Aragorn muttered.  

Thranduil looked horrified, this time his eyes made their target of his face. “You dream of drinking contests with ancient evils?”  

“Better than the dreams I've been having recently.” Gimli said, more softly. “Sometimes you have to laugh, or the darkness wins.”  

He felt the warmth of shared understanding circle them again, like a second fire.  

As the night wore on, no one spoke of wounds or despair. Only of foolish childhood escapades, strange food customs, mountain winters, and summer festivals of songs and dance beneath starlight trees.   

They sat together, not as elf and dwarf, king and ranger, but as weary souls who had each walked through shadow and still found a reason to smile.   

Chapter Text

The fire had all but dwindled to a low bed of coals, casting no more than a gentle glow on the faces surrounding it. The night had grown deep and still, the world outside their clearing cloaked in darkness and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a flute played, sweet and soft, the kind of music made for those half-asleep and dreaming.  

No one rushed to leave.  

Gimli leaned back against the cold bark of a tree, pipe long forgotten, watching the shapes of his companions flicker in the dying firelight. Thranduil had at some point drawn his cloak around both him and Legolas, and though neither spoke, they sat close enough that it no longer needed words.  

Aragorn had slouched into a comfortable sprawl, long limbs extended, eyes half-lidded. A faint smile tugged at his lips. He looked younger now, less like a king, more like the boy who had once wandered through the wilds without a care for where they would lead him.  

Gimli let the silence stretch, then reached for a final word. Not grand. Just true.  

“Well,” he said, rough hands coming to rub the sting of the fire from his eyes. “if this is what peace looks like, I'll take it.”  

Legolas made a small sound of agreement, eyes still closed as he leaned further into the warmth of his father.  

Thranduil's voice came low. “It doesn’t come often. And it never lasts.”  

“No,” Aragorn said, blinking slowly. “But maybe that’s why it matters so much more.”  

The wind shifted, rustling the leaves into scattered applause. The clouds lifted, and all at one the companions found themselves looking up at the brightness of the night sky. The constellations painting out stories and myths of old, passed and changed through time and tradition. Though ultimately all the same.  

They sat awhile longer, each wrapped in thought, basking in the warmth of the fire, and the light of the clear night.  

And when at last they rose and went their separate ways – some to sleep, some to watch, others merely to sit alone a while longer – they carried with them something small and indestructible.  

A memory. A moment.  

A warmth that could last through any cold.  

Far from the warmth of the fire, beyond the trees of Rivendell, a raven cut through the night sky, black wings slicing through the beams of moonlight.  

It landed with precision on the stone balcony of Minas Tirith, talons clicking against marble. A hooded figure stepped forward from the shadow, gloved fingers taking the message tied to the bird’s leg.  

They read the note in silence before burning it in the brazier beside them, watching the cream parchment curl into ash.  

“The king sleeps too soundly.” they murmured.  

Behind them, the wind howled loudly over a sleeping White City. Cold. Rising.