A/N: Well, folks! Here is that story I promised about two years ago. Better late than never, right? I am actually super excited to be back. I only hope that I still remember how to write. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: not mine and it will never be.

The Deadly Ones

The rain was beating a steady rhythm against his face. That was the first thing that Aragorn registered. It smarted against his skin and he turned his head to the side, trying to escape.

A piercing pain shot through his head, beating a pulsing rhythm to match the pattering rain and he dragged a hand up to cover his face. The limb was strangely heavy and he couldn't move his other hand. A thrill of panic pierced through his heart and he stilled, listening intently to the sounds around him.

Aragorn could hear nothing except the wind and the rain. Blinking his eyes open, he snapped them shut as his head gave an unfriendly jab of pain. Waiting for a minute, he reopened his eyes and turned his head to look. To his great relief, his left arm was not bound like he had first thought and he brought it up or tried too. Pain shot through his arm and he stopped the movement, wincing.

Gingerly, he sat up. For a second, the world swirled around him and he found himself taking deep breathes. Once the dizziness had passed, he gently pulled his arm up into his lap with a hiss. It was broken or his father had failed in teaching him anything about healing.

Looking around, Aragorn couldn't help a deep frown. He was sitting on a jagged stone shelf that jutted several inches out from the wall of a steep ravine. That at least explained why his head hurt so much and the broken arm, but it did little to tell him how he had gotten there in the first place.

He couldn't remember anything. The last thing he did remember was leaving Rivendell but that didn't feel like a recent memory and his frown deepened.

Looking up, Aragorn glared at the low grey clouds continuing to dump rain on him. Awkwardly pulling his already wet cloak around him, he moved stiffly to his knees. He needed to bind and splint his arm before he could get off this ledge, but the rock that Aragorn had landed on was painfully bare.

There was nothing.

Aragorn abruptly realized that he had no pack or supplies and the sword that was almost always at his side was missing. All he had was the clothes upon his back.

"Could this day get any worse?" he muttered to himself, unable to escape the feeling that something was wrong—really— wrong.

Cursing in a low voice, he gripped the end of his cloak with his teeth and his good hand. With a loud ripping sound, he yanked the bottom edge of his cloak off into a long stripe. Holding his breath, he gripped his injured arm and carefully moved it from its protected position against his chest.

Pausing, Aragorn prepared himself for the pain that was about to come before pushing up his sleeve. He stopped as his vision hazed out. That arm was defiantly broken. Feeling along the rapidly swelling skin, he found the break and began to prod at it. It hurt and he wished sorely for his packet of herbs.

He stopped, stiffening. The hair on the back of his neck was standing on end and he had the feeling that he was being watched. Whirling around, Aragorn scanned the trees above him. He frowned, shading his eyes from the rain but could find nothing out of the ordinary.

Hastily, he once again found the break. Grunting, he clenched his teeth together.

With one sure movement, Aragorn snapped the bone back into place. Grinding his teeth, he let out a clenched cry and blinked back black spots. Turning his face into the rain, he let it washed away the few involuntary tears from his cheeks. He kept his face skyward for a minute, trying to sense if he was still being watched. The feeling had gone but his unease remained.

Looking back down, he began to wrap the frayed remnants of his cloak around his arm.

It wasn't going to be enough. Grunting in frustration, he glanced around for some sort of stick or twig, anything that he could use as a splint. His eyes landed on a small plant peaking up out of a crevice and he frowned. That would hardly be able to hold a string straight, never mind an arm. There had to be something else he could use.

His eyes found a similar ledge just a few feet above and to the left of his and he crawled towards it. Keeping one hand pressed against the wall, he staggered upright. Standing on his tiptoes, Aragorn could just see over it.

To his surprise, there were a few arrows scattered along its length. One was broken in half, probably from impact with the rock. Aragorn didn't know how they got there but he wasn't going to complain. Stretching, Aragorn felt along the top until his fingers brushed a sharp tip. Grinning, he managed to pull one back. Quickly breaking the ends off, he tossed them to the side. He placed the long, straight stick against his arm and was just beginning to bind his wound when he paused.

Aragorn's eyes went back to the fletching and he stopped.

Those were not just any fletchings, he knew that style. Scooping it back up, he felt his heart beginning to beat rapidly. What was one of Legolas' arrows doing out here, unless—

"Legolas!" he called out as loud as he dared. His own voice echoed back and a strange loneliness swept over him. "Legolas!" he tried again only to for the same results. A horrible thought occurred to him.

Making his way over to the ledge, he looked down into the gully. Closing his eyes, Aragorn took a step back as his stomach churned uncomfortably. There, sprawled in an inelegant heap, was Legolas. He wasn't moving.

"Valar." Aragorn took another step back, running his hand through his wet hair. "No!" Looking back down, he stared at Legolas' body. The elf was lying in a puddle of what could only be blood and Aragorn felt sick. Cursing, he resumed his task of splinting his arm with added urgency. His hand was shaking.

Once his arm was secured, he began to scout for a way down. He might, might, be able to land the jump but if he was to break a leg or his other arm then they would both be doomed. The rain made the rock face slippery as he felt along it, looking for a different way to the reach the ground.

There, a few feet beneath him was a small rock. It would have to work for now. Grasping tightly to edge with one hand, he lowered himself down until his boots touched the stone. Balancing on it, Aragorn hung there for a moment, realizing that he was stuck. There was no way that he could go up with only one hand and he couldn't reach the next foothold.

Glancing down, he could just see Legolas prone figure in the mud. Throwing all hesitations to the side, he did the only thing he could think to do; he jumped.

Hitting the ground hard on the tips of his feet, Aragorn felt the shock go up through his legs before they gave way beneath his weight. He crumpled to the ground and tasted blood as his chin smacked into the mud. There was no great amount of new pain (though his head was throbbing nastily) and Aragorn staggered to his feet.

Legolas lay several feet away, completely still, and Aragorn limped his way over to his side.

"Legolas?" Falling to his knees next to his friend, he felt his stomach drop. The puddle of blood beneath the elf was substantial and when Aragorn reached out to find a find a pulse he was cold to the touch. Aragorn froze, unable to convince his fingers to work. If Legolas was dead…

Aragorn was going to hunt down whoever had done this and make them pay.

"Don't be dead, don't be dead," he muttered, forcing his fingers to work. He brushed back Legolas' long hair and held his finger against his throat. Holding his breath, he waited.

A rapid pulse reached his fingers and he bowed his head in relief.

"Thanks be to the Valar."

Legolas' tunic was wet with blood just below the ribs and he pressed along his back until he felt the skin gave away under pressure. Pulling the edges of the elf's ripped tunic back, he cursed.

There was a rather nasty looking hole decorating Legolas' lower back. Aragorn bent closer, wiping rainwater out of his eyes. Hastily making sure that Legolas' spine wasn't broken; Aragorn grabbed Legolas' by the tunic rolled his limp body over onto his back.

Blood was everywhere. It covered the prince's face, stemming from what looked like a broken nose and some of it trickled out of the corner of his mouth. But the majority of it came from a gaping hole in the elf's stomach. Acting swiftly, Aragorn began to ripe several sections from his cloak, glancing back at Legolas' lax face. The elf had a grey tinge under all the blood.

"Hold on, just hold on for me," he bent back over Legolas, bandages at the ready. Aragorn began to pack the wound hurriedly with long strips of cloth. His hand came away covered with blood and his left bloody prints against the sage of Legolas' tunic. He rolled Legolas back over, working on the exit wound.

"When I found out who did this…" he trailed off, wrenching Legolas' quiver free and throwing it to the side so that he could have better access. Aragorn couldn't help but notice that Legolas' pack was also missing, along with his white knives and bow.

How could they have both lost everything? No, something wasn't right and they needed to leave this place. The feeling of being watched returned and he glanced back up. A shiver went up his spine. They were exposed, and a clear shot to anyone from above.

The thought made him hunch protectively over the elf as he began to wind the last bandage around his back, holding everything in place.

"Here we go, mellon-nin," Aragorn whispered. Grabbing the elf by his tunic he heaved him over onto his side and finished wrapping the last strip into a tight knot. The makeshift bandages were already turning red and he shook his head, feeling completely helpless. Reaching out, he once again felt the elf's pulse. Legolas' heart was beating at an unnaturally fast pace, trying its best to keep blood pumping through the elf's body.

"Now, don't you give up, understand?" Aragorn instructed under his breath, squeezing the elf's hand.

Frowning, he braced himself against Legolas' shoulder and rose to his feet. How on earth was he going to carry the elf? Shaking his head, he looked around for inspiration. Something silver glinted up at him just past Legolas and Aragorn frowned, squinting hard. It looked like a weapon.

Thinking that some good luck had finally come their way, he stepped carefully over Legolas' still body.

It was the pommel of a sword; his sword.

Smiling, he limped over to the blade and hunched down, grasping the handle. Standing again, the smile on his face vanished.

The weapon was streaked in blood from point to hilt. Aragorn stared at the sword, wondering whose blood it was, and caught some of the red drops on his finger. Hesitantly, he held them up to his nose. His eyes grew wide and he dropped the sword as if it had burned his hand. It bounced against the ground, clanging.

That wasn't just any blood. That was elf blood. That was Legolas' blood.

TBC...

There you have it! Hate it? Love it? Let me know in the reviews!