Oh look, it's the missing author…sorry? Thanks for waiting though. And please ignore the weird line breaks, all my spacing went away when I wasn't looking.

P.S. – watch me mangle medical techniques! Mwahahaha. Or something.

No matter what any tale or song might say, war is not glorious. It is looking around to see your friends cut down before you, unable to help as you try to avoid the same fate. It is the grim knowledge that your opponents firmly believe that they are in the right, and that you are the enemy who will take their homes and families should you win. There are no rules, no niceties. There is only survival, and living with yourself afterwards.

'This is no time for philosophy,' Aragorn scolded himself as he rushed from the wall to join the fight. 'You cannot save them all, and you force no one to fight. You can only do your best, and lead them as well as can be.'

His preoccupation cost him. Only years of experience allowed the faint prickling on the back of his neck to translate into evasive action, with the result that the oncoming weapon came down on his raised sword, rather than his skull. The shock of impact sent his defense clattering to the stones. His attacker's face glowed with sadistic glee as Aragorn dove for the fallen sword.

The creature simply kicked it further away, to fall end-on-end down the nearby stairway. Aragorn scrambled to regain his feet, cursing himself and the situation. The voices of every instructor he had ever studied under spun in his head, berating him for breaking one of the most important rules: never drop your weapon.

As his opponent lifted its axe in final preparation, he silently agreed with those voices.

The dwarf had long ago vanished into the melee, traceable only by the trail of axe-hewn bodies. From his high perch, keen elven eyes followed the damage almost unconsciously, as his he wrought his own destruction at a distance. The riot of noise surrounding him he tucked away, narrowing his focus to himself, his weapon, and the target. Shot after shot, a small corner of his mind counting the kills, a smaller portion reveling in the routines of archery. Choose a target. Aim. Release. Another. Another. He was reaching for his last arrow when he saw the Ranger fall, saw the axe rise.

Grasp the arrow. "You let him die!"

Arrow to string. "Do something, say something, anything! Hit me, curse at me, just please, please…"

Aim. "Too many are depending on him."

Fire.

The future king fought for steady footing, tripped over a discarded helm, and continued to pull away, scanning all sides for a weapon, anything, as his attacker gave a cruel laugh-

And gasped, dropped the heavy axe, and fell, nearly flattening the human. Aragorn blinked in surprise, his knees turning to jelly at this sudden respite. His mind recovered faster than his body, clearing enough to spot his attacker's downfall.

An elven arrow was embedded in its spine.

Silently his eyes backtracked the arrow's trajectory. Brown eyes met cold blue for a moment; Aragorn bowed slightly, hand over heart, unable to fathom this development, nor the effects it would have. When he looked back, the elf was gone. The Ranger drew away from the scene, rushing down the stairs to recover his fallen weapon and rejoin the battle elsewhere, forcing his body to stop shaking as he went. No amount of experience in battle could prepare you for staring into the eyes of death, and the relief of Legolas' intervention was still jolting through his system. Shaking his head to clear it, clearing the worst of the dust from his sword, he tried to put the events from his mind and headed toward the worst of the fighting.

The tiny force behind the walls of Helm's Deep may have been vastly outnumbered, but they could never have been out-motivated. They fought for their lives, their homes, their friends…and, though few knew it, for the fate of all Middle Earth.

The few who knew it, had no time to dwell upon it. Aragorn and Theoden threw themselves into battle and leadership as necessary, determined on both sides not to let their people and friends down again. Gimli fought proudly, both for the cause and for the honor of his race. And Legolas…

Amidst the orcs, he fought for his life.

Against his demons, he fought for his soul.

The faces of too many Men swirled around him, undifferentiated behind mangled metal and dust. Battle fever twisted their features in rage, and rage was an emotion he had learned to fear in the race of Men.

The familiar patterns of strike and lunge, block and parry came to him as easily as breathing. This, he could do. Here, he could release some of his anger and fear.

Bodies fell around him, cut down by his own daggers or the weapons of others. He whirled as a new foe arrived, more sensed than heard, behind him. A man-sized figure, with a fierce expression of sadistic glee leering from behind the dark helm-slit. A familiar expression, the look of one who has a desired target before him. He'd seen that look before.

'No,' he thought in horror. 'Not again…'

Defying his logic, his body froze in terror. He never saw the blow coming.

Gimli saw it, saw him fall, and roared in anger, unable to stop it. Axe flying, he made his way faster than he would have thought possible to Legolas' side, slaying the beast that had injured the elf. Human beast or mage-spawn mattered not, it would pay for damaging the only newly healing archer.

Gandalf's aid had arrived none-too-soon. It was only with the additional forces the wizard had roused that Helm's Deep was saved. Now the dead were being identified and mourned, the enemy dead burned, and the injured healed. It was Aragorn's skill as a healer that was needed and prized now, and he worked single-mindedly at his task, trying not to think about one patient in particular.

Legolas lay on his side on the small cot, talking quietly and painfully to the dwarf beside him. His fair hair was darkened with sweat and matted in places with blood, though fortunately little of it seemed to be his. What was, came from the obvious slash that ran across his left jaw, over his left shoulder and halfway down his back. Threads from his tunic tangled in the torn flesh, which was already puffing up unpleasantly as substances from the weapon's edge met with the elf's bloodstream.

Their conversation died suddenly when they caught sight of him. He saw Legolas stiffen, then wince as the movement caused him more pain.

"The head healer asked me to see to you, as I know more about the elves than the others, and we need every hand available. I- can fetch someone else, if you would like," he said nervously, trying to project calm and failing miserably.

Gimli looked between them, but said nothing. Silence dragged out for a moment, until Aragorn moved to find another healer.

"Wait," came a hoarse voice. Legolas' voice.

Aragorn stopped. "You accept my aid?" he asked professionally, trying to hide his surprise. The elf gave a miniscule nod, all that his wound would allow him. Gimli seemed to take the elf's words at face value, but gave the Ranger a glare that promised rather unpleasant results if he caused undue pain of any kind. Probably results carried out with blunt objects. Aragorn met that gaze steadily, having no intention of harming the elf again.

That intention, however well made, had little to do with reality, unfortunately. In order to get to the wound, he had to first remove the mangled tunic, which he knew would cause extreme discomfort at the least. He finally resorted to soaking the material loose with clean water and a solution meant to remove clotted blood. It resulted in some fresh bloodflow, but that would serve to help clean the injury, so he merely had Gimli hold clean bandages to it while he worked.

Stitching it was a new trouble entirely. The muscles in Legolas' shoulder would not cease spasming, making it next to impossible to repair them properly. Even when he could manage to find the right spot, the next twitch would bring twice the normal amount of pain. He growled quietly in frustration, then sat back and faced the elf.

"This isn't going to work," he announced. "I need to stop the movement of those muscles if we're going to finish this any time soon. The only problem is" and he looked straight into the pain-filled blue eyes "I don't have any localized drugs. The only one I have access to will freeze your entire body for nearly an hour." He didn't mention the similarity to another drug Legolas had experience with; he didn't need to. They both remembered that night far too well. This one would dull the sensitivity, not increase it, but the elf had only his word to go on in that regard.

He saw several emotions flit across Legolas' eyes- fear, at the front, followed by pain, and something that might have been desperation before he heard a whispered, "If you must."

He cringed inwardly at the defeated tone of his friend's voice, but forced himself to remain expressionless as he retrieved the package he needed. "It's a contact powder," he said neutrally when he returned. Legolas' eyes showed that he knew what Aragorn meant, but the elf simply nodded ever so slightly again, and grasped Gimli's hand with his own good one. Aragorn nodded as well, if a bit more shakily, before retrieving a pinch, warning Gimli to sit back for a moment, and blowing it into the elf's face.

He worked quickly then, trying to ignore the memories of the last time the elf's still body had lain helpless beneath him. He was holding off tears only by strictest will by the time he set the last stitch and stood. "Will you stay with him?" he asked the dwarf, proud that his voice was reasonably steady. Gimli didn't take his eyes off Legolas' face, but nodded in acknowledgement.

"It'd take two dozen orcs to get me from his side," the dwarf said firmly. Aragorn believed him. He gathered his the materials he'd needed, and returned them to their places to be cleaned.

Then he took himself off to cry for his friend, for himself, for the entire situation, before he had to be the responsible future King again.

Gimli sat wearily beside his still friend. Legolas' eyes told him clearly that he remembered being frozen and helpless before. To try and take the elf's mind off his situation, he began to speak. "I remember the first time I saw you, back at the Council. My first thought went something along the lines of 'prissy elf, probably spends more time with a comb than a weapon'. Aye, and it's funny to think back on that, knowing you now. Had someone told me then I'd be sitting at your bedside, or worse, fixing that hair I'd joked about, I'd have wondered if they forgot to duck going under the low branches.

"By the time you came back injured- the second time, actually- I'd started to see you as just another warrior, not an elf at all. An equal, no matter your race. And I understood why you'd allow me to see you at your worst, when you couldn't allow the Hobbits near. We all tried to protect them, didn't we? We still are trying.

"I remember the night Aragorn was nearly taken again. I found you in the courtyard that night," he whispered to the shining form before him. "We were worried when we did not see you. You must have witnessed the attack, and had no way of knowing that Gandalf had remedied it. That was the night you fled from us, from life. Then you began to return, and I found out that I actually cared. Look at me, a warrior of my people, getting maudlin over a silly elf! But we are friends, are we not? Friends are there in all weathers, in good times and bad.

"Don't let what happened take you away from us again."

He woke with his hand empty, and Legolas nowhere to be seen.

His frantic searches took him across and through most of the populated areas of Helm's Deep. Amidst the rejoicing people it was difficult to search for one individual, especially when looking from hip-height, but he would not be swayed. His friend was missing, and he would be damned if he let it stay that way.

His search finally led him toward the top of the walls, where the sentries still stood watch over the shattered gates that protected them. He puffed his way to the top; even his stamina had its limits, and he'd been rushing about for several hours.

The sight of a pale blonde form rewarded him. Legolas stood on the edge of the wall, his hair streaming in the wind that seemed to never cease over the walls of the fortress. The elf seemed to be speaking to himself, or to the winds, as he contemplated the damaged plains before him. His face held a confusion of emotions, and Gimli felt himself tense. Legolas could not be considering…

Even before his horrified mind could dare finish the thought he was moving closer, downwind of his friend. What he heard broke the icy fear that had clenched his heart, and he smiled in pure joy for the first time in far too long.

Legolas was singing.

Gimli ignored the happy tears that trickled down his cheeks and bled into his beard. Legolas turned towards him with a small smile, glittering trails on his face. He finished his song as the dwarf approached, but made no move to retreat nor climb down from his perch.

The two stood together as darkness crept over the scenery. For the first time in over a week Legolas did not cower from the dark, watching silently as the stars illuminated the sky. He turned to Gimli and smiled, a tentative smile that threatened to contain all the joy in the world. Gimli allowed himself to hope.

Someday, his friend would be fully healed.

FIN (for now)

Thanks to everyone (yes, all five of you J ) who stuck with me through this painfully drawn out ordeal. But look, I did finally post!

I could, conceivably, continue this through RotK. Should I? Or would someone else like to? If I do, it won't be posted until I have at least half of it written (approximately a million years from now), and that would have to wait until I read the book again (or at least see the movie, whichever comes first).