Title: Walking Wounded

Summary: Danger does not stop for grief or injury. For Legolas, there is no rest, respite, or relief on the seemingly endless road between Moria and Lothlorien. He, with the Fellowship he has sworn to serve, has no choice but to move forward, hurting and heartbroken.

hi gang!

Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, favorited, discussed - or anything else that these modern new fanfiction . net features allow people to do - my most recent LOTR story, "A Stranger Comes Home." As I mentioned in the fic's Afterword, (and in PM's I've since sent out to reviewers who made such contact available), I am really really grateful for you sharing your time and thoughts with me, and you should know you are instrumental in inspiring further writing.

I would also like to thank those whom I was unable to PM: anonymous readers and guests, kikyou, vikky-leigh, Irish Anor.

Thank you everyone for your kind words and encouragement. I hope you have fun with this one too:

Chapter 1: Walking Wounded

"I hope you do not think me indifferent to what you suffer."

Aragorn's feet were inhumanly light, but the elf's ears were sharp to begin with and even more so at that moment, attuned and hyperaware of his surroundings. They were still being chased and hunted, and all his senses reached out broadly - a net cast wide - for signs of threat against the remnants of their Fellowship.

Legolas let the ranger come up beside him without bothering to move from his position. He was stooped over, one palm planted on his knee and the other hand clutching at his side as he tried to catch his breath. The rest of the company was trailing a minute or two behind.

For a moment he considered continuing with the ruse, but it was too trifling a thing to bother with, especially after all the greater things they've thus far suffered. After all they've lost.

"I thought I was being discreet."

"You are clever," Aragorn conceded with a sigh. "The excessive scouting, the distance you keep. It stood to reason you kept trying to be alone for… for your grief. But I realize now you must have been tending to your wounds, seeking particular herbs perhaps, or as now, bent over trying to breathe."

The elf had claimed enough rest and humor to ask, ruefully, "So what gave me away?"

"The smell," replied the adan, "It is very distinct."

"Ah." Legolas' brows rose in realization. "That would do it."

He had used a salt wash to clean the wound, a salve of sap, spice and ground leaves and flowers as coagulant, willow bark for the pain, a bit of mint to ease the head and stomach from the willow, a leafy stimulant to chew on for alertness against the disarming comfort of the mint… There was an herb to counter another herb to counter one more that helps contain the wound, Legolas realized, perversely. Or maybe it was weakness and weariness that prompted the macabre side of his sense of humor. Either way, he was unsurprised that a healer of Aragorn's caliber, with experience in the treatment of soldiers and warriors, would recognize the combination of smells anywhere.

"The skills employed are not negligible," Aragorn said, impressed as he sniffed.

"Our warriors are trained in providing rudimentary aid for ourselves and our brothers in the field," Legolas explained, "but the King Thranduil felt it especially prudent to educate any heir of his in all aspects of warfare. I did a number of seasons with healing arts after a lifetime of combat training." He tried to straighten up but couldn't, and so continued the conversation and used its distraction to buy time.

"I didn't mind the temporary reassignment." He chuckled to himself and stifled a cough, "I've seen firsthand from journeys with you that it can be most useful. Not that I had much choice in the matter. It was by King's command. I was a notoriously insufferable patient, and he thought the immersion would give me better perspective."

Aragorn snickered. "Did it?"

"It was an eye-opener," Legolas said. He tried to straighten up again but his side and lower back traced a hot, crooked line of burning pain along its length, his breath hitched, and he hunched to appease his body's demands.

"Learning lifesaving ways was a given and I made a decent apprentice," he shared, "But I was surprised by acquiring other wisdom. Among them patience for the ailing and fellow-feeling, and how to trust the Realm's warriors to get their job done without my help so that I can focus on my own. I tell you, Estel - it was torture, having to pick up wounded soldiers and tear them from the front for treatment without raising my own weapons and charging toward the enemy."

"The healers have their own brand of courage," Aragorn said.

"I've learned how to handle stubborn, half-healed warriors fighting me tooth and nail to get back out into the fray," Legolas added gravely. "There are those you force down, and others you just have to let go. I also understand better now, all the effort it takes to mend a body. One shouldn't be so reckless."

Aragorn blanched theatrically to tease him. "Are you sure you've learned that part?"

Legolas found it worth the effort to remove his hand from his burning side to take a swipe at the adan, who did not dodge and took the hit in good humor. Legolas groaned and brought his hand back to where it was resting, squeezing as if to keep the pain from expanding.

Aragorn sniffed again, and Legolas knew he was trying to determine what ailed the elf based on what treatments he smelled. Legolas decided to spare him the guessing game.

"I'd taken a miscellany of cuts and bruises from our skirmish in those accursed caves," the elf confessed. "Just like all the rest of our party."

"Poison?"

"No," Legolas replied wryly, "but dirty blades, unsurprisingly. Enough to incapacitate, not to kill."

Yet, they both thought. Neither one voiced it.

"The only thing distracting me is a hit I'd taken about my side and around to the back," Legolas said. "A light punishment if you think about it, considering I've courted the ire of a cave troll armed with a club."

"Broken bones?"

"Not even cracked," Legolas answered.

"Broken skin?"

"Insignificant."

"Bruised lungs."

Legolas considered his level of pain, breathlessness, dizziness and coughing. "Aye, that would account for much."

"It's getting worse," Aragorn said quietly, conclusively.

But we cannot stop, came another unvoiced, shared thought. But Aragorn worked his lip furiously, and Legolas could all but hear the gears turning in his head, of calculations made and risks and rewards measured.

"I think we can spare a minute, even for just a look."

"Nay, Aragorn-"

"There are herbs on my person," Aragorn insisted, "Things you do not have and that I wield particular skill in applying. It won't take long."

Legolas sighed. "Careful removal of quiver and tunic and shirts alone will take aggravation and more time than we have, much more any further treatment. If we should stop lengthily enough, I will consider it. I am as well as I can be given the circumstances, my friend. The injury is well-tended and the plants and trees of our path have been generous with things that help. I cannot ask anything more at this time."

Aragorn was silent and Legolas felt a storm brewing, so he straightened up to illustrate strength of will, if not necessarily strength of body – he had to stifle another groan and cough.

"I swear on my name and the very blood of Mirkwood elves that runs in my veins - the injury does not interfere with my duties to the Ringbearer," Legolas said vehemently. "Otherwise I would have made it known."

"I expect nothing less of you."

Legolas nodded and glanced behind them. Elf and man stood at a descent from a small hill, their companions not yet within eye line but close behind.

"Do you trust me?" he asked the ranger suddenly.

Aragorn hesitated, which made the elf's lip turn up in a grin.

"Yes," the man replied pointedly before Legolas could tease him. They were old friends, and trusting each other meant they had a host of memories doing something extreme or odd for the other at some point in their lives.

"Then trust my judgment," Legolas implored, seriously. "There is nothing further to be done with the wound that will not incapacitate me, and we do not have that luxury. We are barely ahead of our foes, Aragorn. They are so close their feet shake the very ground we stand upon. But we are nearing our refuge. We must move forward and to move forward, we must let it be. I tended to it as best I could. I swear to you this body will hold."

Aragorn's stormy gaze bore into his. There was no decision to be made here, they both knew it. Only assurances. There was no way but forward and no time to waste.

"Lorien is at least a day away," Aragorn said quietly.

"It will hold," Legolas promised.

"But at what cost?" murmured Aragorn.

Legolas looked away and shook his head at the man dismissively. Any price would be worth it, if the Fellowship can succeed in what they had set out to do.

Aragorn set his jaws in continued disapproval but nodded. In a firmer voice, he said – "Take no unnecessary excursions. I will watch you carefully so stay in my sight. I beg you not to hesitate to speak to me of any further difficulty. I will interfere with you as I see fit, but understand that when I do, it is out of necessity."

"Thank you, mellon-nin," Legolas said.

"I expect complete honesty when I inquire of your situation," Aragorn added, "Spare no detail."

"I've been straightforward thus far," Legolas pointed out.

"That you have," sighed Aragorn. He sniffed at the air again. "Which brings me to another question. I sense something in your treatments. Something unfamiliar to me."

"I should hope so," Legolas said, knowing exactly which aromatic herb the healer may have scented. "I'd taken a stimulant—"

"Legolas—"

"Small doses," Legolas said in defense, "Perfectly suited to the constitution of an elf, but yes, otherwise lethal. Especially to humans and other peoples. I can handle myself with them, as many in our Woods have learned to."

Aragorn gave him a long, measuring stare. It made him uneasy, so he explained further.

"It's a trick I've picked up from another immersion Father had seen fit to expose me to."

Aragorn knew the elf was trying to distract him into a different line of conversation, but he was curious enough to ask, warily, "I'm assuming you've had seasons doing something either extraordinarily dangerous like a lengthy border patrol, or something exceedingly mundane such as night duties at the deathly quiet, interior Halls of Thranduil."

Legolas couldn't help the grin that formed in his lips at Aragorn falling, even knowingly, into the desired deviation. "I've done those, yes. But the stimulants I picked up from duties with the Quartermaster, if you can believe it. To this day it puzzles me how a series of tasks can be all at once repetitive, uninspiring, thankless and without glory, yet still be of the utmost importance and needed, always needed promptly. I've crafted arrows and bows and other weaponry and kept and cleaned them. I've acquired and transferred provisions of shelter, food and water fit for an army and yes, I've done my share of laundry, Estel."

Aragorn's brows rose. "Never let it be said that the Thranduilion does not know his Father's army inside and out, top to bottom, indeed!"

"It wasn't a popular division," Legolas said, "but the few who were there never let overwork hamper their efficiency, sometimes at the cost of their own health. They taught me the importance of every job, and how to toil quietly and without desire for anything other than service. We are, after all, a people at war." He said this with some unhappiness, before adding with considerable pride, "More than any other elven realm, Mirkwood demands everything out of everyone within it. We reach the end of our rope often, only to find there is always something left to tug and pull and gnaw on. There is always something left."

Aragorn looked at Legolas with a light in his eye, something the elf couldn't completely grasp.

"Now that lesson," he said quietly, "I think you've mastered."

Their conversation was cut short by the sound of their approaching fellows. Man and elf glanced in the direction from which the rest of their group would soon emerge.

"Please speak of my injury to no one," Legolas implored his companion. He winced and rubbed the back of his neck in chagrin. "It is not from some vanity though when it comes to the dwarf I can confess to some. The halflings… have had quite a shock. I do not want them to have any further reason to fear for their safety. They must find me able."

Aragorn grimaced, but nodded. There was little anyone could do to return the hobbits' carefree innocence after the fall of their beloved Gandalf, but he understood the elven warrior's compulsion to try.

Side by side, they watched as each of their remaining company – but six, now – trudged down from the hill in their direction.

Frodo led the way, pensive, burdened, somewhat detached from the others. Sam trailed after him with a soft clanking of pots and the padding of clumsy feet, never too far away. Behind him were a weary Merry supporting Pippin, who had his heart on his sleeve and grief marring his ever-expressive face. The dwarf came up behind the hobbits, eyes fiery red from tears and determination. The man from Gondor brought up the rear. Strangely, Boromir looked extraordinarily strong and in his element – no stranger was he to danger and mortality – but his gaze was concerned for the young ones he had always seen as misplaced children.

"You have my trust and my silence," Aragorn promised Legolas, before any of the others could hear. He pressed a hand upon the elf's shoulder reassuringly, before joining their other companions.

TO BE CONTINUED...

In the next chapter, we go back to a time in Mirkwood, where Legolas' time in the Quartermaster's office proves much more perilous than Thranduil could have imagined. 'Til then, thanks for reading and as always - constructive comments and criticism are welcome :)