Greetings my friends. I must apologise again for the delay - I seem to start every chapter in this vein. I have taken this chapter apart more times than I care to remember, hopefully the result is more satisfactory than earlier attempts. Thanks to all my readers, and especially my loyal reviewers. Your words mean more to me than I can say.
love forever nenny xx
Disclaimer: (just in case you didn't know by now) I am only writing this story for my personal enjoyment. I don not own any of the recognisable characters or places in this story, and I am not making any financial profit from it.
Chapter 10 - Lost
He looked down at the elf in pure shock. The creature lay still, pain-filled sapphire eyes darting around the talan, trying to get his bearings. He slowly shifted his head, and looking upwards, noticed Aragorn. The elf looked at him in silence for what felt like a very long time, and Aragorn had a strange feeling of rightness, like the world had just fallen back into its correct path. He was even more surprised when Legolas spoke in the common tongue, his voice rough with pain.
"Estel. You've grown."
Then the elf closed his eyes and passed out.
Aragorn sat frozen, staring at the still elf, barely able to comprehend what had just happened. Numbly he leaned forwards and took the elf's pulse again. Legolas lived. And he, Aragorn, one supposed to be knowledgeable in the art of healing had not noticed. What kind of healer did that, took an observers word that life had gone, and did not check himself? Who knows how badly he had aggravated the Prince's wounds by moving him.
A rush of emotions; anger, relief, panic, sadness; flooded through him so strongly he was unable to move for it. Elladan and Elrohir…they would wait for him by the forests edge, grieving. He wasn't even sure if he could find the meeting clearing again. Sweet Elbereth, what if his brothers sent a missive to Thranduil? But the Prince was alive, and that was what mattered. But what if Legolas died in his care, because he wasn't capable enough to save him? He didn't know what to do. With surprise, Estel realised there were tears on his face, and for the second time that night, the young man angrily cursed himself, wiping his eyes furiously on his sleeve. This was not the time to be feeling self-pitying. He quickly fumbling in his pack for his healer's bandages and herbs, and set to work to save the prince's life.
Half an hour later, Aragorn rubbed his eyes with his blooded sleeve, and looked up. It must have been nearly fully daylight, but only a muted half light filtered through the dense foliage above. He fell back against the tree, exhausted. Prince Legolas's wounds were extensive and they frightened him. The young man had done his best. What else was there to do?
He found several deep cuts on the Prince's body, the worst of these being an abdominal stab wound. Aragorn worked as fast as he could to stop the sluggish bleeding and clean the wounds. He couldn't see well enough in the dawn light to sew them, praying that a compress and bandage would hold until he could get to help. And when that would be, who could say?
There was also a sword cut into the elf's leg, which looked as if infection had already set in; the skin surrounding it was mottled red and inflamed. After cleaning the wound as well as he could, the young man moved to the elf's right arm, feeling sickened by the orcs' cruel behaviour. The limb was broken just below the elbow, and Aragorn saw that by carrying the elf, he had caused the arm to become even more badly twisted. He bit back his resentment. Getting angry with himself would not help Legolas. He strapped up the Prince's arm as best as he could while being careful of the elf's broken ribs in the process. There was nothing further he could do to help there.
The elf's face was pale as death in the dark light of Taur-nu-Fuin, and the blood from the cut which slashed across his brow still trickled down over his cheek and lips; a horrible, violent colour. Aragorn put down the half-full water bottle; he couldn't spare any water for cleaning the elf's face. Any traveller unwise enough to stray into Mirkwood knew he would not find untainted water flowing in that forest, Aragorn had never intended on being divided from his brothers and their supplies. Pushing down this new worry, Aragorn dug into his back and came across a spare shirt he had packed back in Imladris – was it really a mere four days ago? Mindful of the elf's wounds, he carefully pulled the faded shirt over the unconscious blonde head. It was far too big, and hung from the elf's thin frame, the sleeves falling over his delicate hands. Tiredly, Aragorn picked up the elf's discarded blood-soaked shirt. It felt surprisingly heavy, and Aragorn saw a small leaf-shaped clasp which had somehow remained pinned to the collar of the shirt. The man absentmindedly tucked the pin into his tunic pocket, before tearing a clean hem from the Prince's old shirt. Estel gently swabbed the blood from the Prince's face, before falling back exhausted. There. He was done.
The elf had not woken or stirred throughout Aragorn's ministrations, and for that, he was grateful. The young man was desperate for rest, but he knew he could not afford to sleep now. The Prince was already closer to death than life. Aragorn sighed, reached out to pick up his pack and his arm stabbed with a sudden searing pain. He dropped the bag, biting back a cry, and carefully rolled up his own blooded sleeve; surprised to see a long jagged sword slash that had torn the flesh down the length of his arm. It must have been the fight back in the camp, but in the heat of the moment he hadn't even noticed the injury. The sight of the oozing wound suddenly made him feel dizzy; he fought against the nausea, and, using a tiny amount of their precious water to wash the cut, bandaged it tightly with a spare cloth. Now they would have to be gone.
Carefully, he crawled on his stomach to the edge of the flet and peered over. The morning forest looked scarcely different to that of the night before. The dense trees bowed inwards, cutting off the light as effectively as if a black shroud had been laid across the forest. If there had ever been a path from the elven talan, it had long since disappeared, and the dense foliage stretched away into the dim darkness under the trees. Aragorn strained his senses, but heard no movement in the forest around. There was a deep stillness under the trees.
Watchful.
Waiting.
With a sigh, the young man repacked his bag, and moved over to the unconscious elf. His healer's instincts knew it could be very dangerous to move the elf in his condition, but what choice did he have? If he didn't get out of this forest they would both die.
The weight of the unconscious elf pulled on his wounded arm; Aragorn stumbled, dizzy with tiredness and hunger and pain. A harsh cry echoed through the still trees as a startled raven took to wing, eyes glinting in the gloom as it vanished into the darkness. Estel froze, waiting for watchers to leap on them from the shadows, but the deep silence slowly refilled the forest around them. Carefully lowering his precious burden to the ground, Aragorn looked about him, finally forced to admit that he was completely lost. The dense trees offered no glimpse of the sun and so no notion as to how many hours had passed since they had left the safety of the flet behind them, or even what direction they were travelling in. Once Aragorn had stumbled across an orc path, but had seen no other clue as to the direction the camp they had fled during the night.
Fighting the rising panic, Aragorn fell exhausted next to the injured elf, blinking to try and clear his head. Automatically, he leaned forwards to check the elf's bandages, pulling the faded shirt aside to check the stab wound. The elf's eyes jerked open; he gave a sudden cry of pain, and Aragorn snatched his hand away in surprise. Legolas rolled away from him, his hand reaching to his missing belt to grab his missing dagger. Aragorn, heart racing, quickly caught the elf's shoulders trying to hold him still as gently as possible. He murmured soothing nothings, trying to calm the elf, to stop him moving and hurting himself. Legolas lay still glancing about him, confusion and fear in his bright eyes, and pale forehead creased with pain. "Gwanno ereb nin! Iston le? I moe dhuath…orthor sinome…." (Leave me alone! Who are you? There is a shadow…holding sway in this place…) his voice unintentionally loud and tinged with panic.
Aragorn hushed him soothingly. "It's alright. You're safe! I rescued you from the orcs, and we're heading back to Riv- I mean, Imladris and-"
"Iston le?" (Who are you?)
Aragorn suddenly felt surprised. The Prince had recognised him last night! Why had that not occurred to him as strange before?
"My name is Estel."
"Estel?" A half look of recognition glimmered in the elf's fevered eyes, but it faded, to be replaced with confusion. "Le Ú-a-edhelen? Heniach nin?" (You are not an elf? Can you understand me?)
"Ye. Telin le thaed." (Yes. I've come to help you.)
"Mani marte? Im…naeg…" (What has happened? I am…in pain…)
"Idh, idh si." (Rest, rest now) Aragorn comforted. "Ea na gwiil". (Be at peace.)
The elf's mouth moved as if he would say more, but he lay quiet against Aragorn's arm, fever bright eyes blinking slowly against the darkness. Aragorn carefully lifted the water skin and poured a little onto the elf's lips. Legolas lifted a shaking hand to hold the skin. Aragorn let him, steadying the flask whilst the elf drank gladly. He knew how important independence was to many elves. He wondered how much of their current situation he ought tell his patient.
"Do you want anything to eat?"
Legolas shook his head, his face pale at the thought of food. Aragorn let the subject rest. They only had a small amount of food left.
"We must get to the edge of the woods, my lord. My brothers are waiting there for us. Can you walk at all?"
The elf nodded but did not speak. Aragorn stood, and carefully helped the prince to his feet. Legolas winced slightly, leaning on Estel's arm. Swinging his almost empty pack over his shoulder, and swiftly looking behind to check there was no sign of their passing, the man lead the elf slowly on through the trees.
"Don't worry. Everything will be just fine, you'll see. We'll make it safely back to edge of the woods, and my gwadors will help us find the way back. Do you have any brothers? Rivendell is beautiful in Laire, our summer."
Estel felt he had been chattering on inanely forever, desperately hoping to distract the elf from his pain and stop him passing out. Legolas did not make any answer, concentrating all effort on putting one foot in front of the other. His face and lips were pale and each breath stabbed pain through his cracked ribs.
A nasty voice inside him had quickly informed Aragorn that he was trying to distract himself too. He knew it was true. The moment he began to think about their situation, fear coursed freely through his veins, cold ice in his stomach. He was lost in Mirkwood with a desperately wounded elven prince, an arm injury, no horses, few supplies and two hundred orcs on their trail. Things could hardly be grimmer. At least it's not raining…
Estel's heart felt wracked for the elf's pitiful condition. If they did not meet up with the twinssoon, he would have to carry the elf again. And even though the creature was light, Estel knew he would not be able to carry him far. And then… And then? Do not think it. It WILL NOT come to that.
Legolas' arm hung like a weight on Aragorn's neck and shoulders. Every so often the elf would give his head a small shake, and once he whispered something in a ancient tongue that Aragorn did not know. To shake off the demons Aragorn thought suddenly, without being able to say why. Despair began to grow like a canker in his heart. The nasty little voice in his mind began to whisper what ifs and he couldn't deny or answer them.
Suddenly–either by some coincidence of sparse foliage and moving clouds, or by miraculous grace - the leaves rustled and the pair were bathed in a bright shaft of golden midday sunlight. The elf sighed, his head lolled onto Aragorn's shoulder, feeling the sun's warmth on his closed lids. The man simply stood, bathing in the life-giving rays, and for a moment felt as if every prayer was answered, every question and doubt melting in the sun's warmth. Then, the moment passed, and the light faded, leaving two pale faces like ghosts in the gloom. The light had lasted for little more than five heartbeats, but it was enough. Determination sprang anew inside Aragorn's heart. "Come on" he murmured through gritted teeth and led the elf on.
A feather skittering across the path in front of them caught the man's attention, and he glanced down. The soft ground beneath their feet was marked with the lightest indentations.
"Sedho, mellon nin". Frowning, he un-wrapped his arm from the puzzled elf's shoulders, and knelt on the ground, touching the tracks with his fingers. Light hoof prints stretched away across the glade, vanishing into the gloom. Elven horses. Four elven horses. Trying to quell the excitement building up in him, Aragorn quickly moved forwards, doubled over, following the tracks. About fifty yards further on from where the elf stood, the hoof marks suddenly crossed each other in a confusion of prints, and Aragorn suddenly saw a single human boot mark in the damp ground. Estel couldn't stop the stupid grin that plastered itself across his face. His boot mark. They were back on track! This was the very clearing where he and his brothers had dismounted their horses only yesterday. The orc road and the rendezvous point were just ahead through the trees. The twins and Glorfindel would be waiting and- He was so caught up in his own thoughts; he barely heard the elf's whisper.
"Estel!"
Spinning round, he saw the Prince's eyes involuntarily close, and the elf swayed. Running over, Aragorn caught the elf as his knees gave way. The elf collapsed forwards into Estel's arms, and the young man lowered his weight to the ground. He quickly grabbed the elf's hand, patting it desperately.
"Thranduilion! Hir nin, lasto beth nin! Kwivra!"
Legolas did not respond, but Aragorn saw a slight sheen of sweat on his brow and closed eyelids, and touching Legolas' skin, the man found it burning with a trembling heat. He had pushed the injured elf too hard. Gently he straightened the elf's limbs and, with one hand under the elf's neck, carefully lifted his head to rest it on the discarded pack. Aragorn knew then his options were running out. He dare not carry the elf further, not with a fever setting in. But if he did not get the elf to safety soon he would be beyond any help, save that of the gods. Estel was torn. He glanced down at the pale elf. The cut on the smooth forehead had pulled open again, and a slow trickle of crimson blood was dripping down the side of the immortal's cheek. Aragorn wiped it with his sleeve, watching as Legolas' eyes darted under his closed eyelids. Elves never slept with their eyes closed, unless they were in great pain.
His mind made up, Aragorn carefully lowered the elf into a small hollow at the roots of a twisted pine, and, unhooking his cloak, laid it gently over the elf's still form. He grabbed handfuls of leaf mould and quickly scattered them over the cloak, bending a branch down to cover the elf as best as he could. Stepping back he nodded, satisfied that the elf was concealed from any unfriendly glances. Leaving the elf alone jarred against every instinct and feeling, but he had to find his brothers and the horses. He had to get aid. He prayed they would be back soon. He knelt beside the wounded prince, laying a gentle hand over the elf's shadowed eyes.
"Rest easy mellon nin. I shall return. This I swear to you; fedhin na anar arien, kemen nen, cuine sereg."
The elf's eyes seemed to still beneath their lids and his breathing quietened. Aragorn didn't know if he imagined it.
With one final, uneasy, lingering glance backwards, Estel turned to stumble off through the trees, towards what he hoped would be their salvation.
Taur-nu-Fuin - Mirkwood
"Mellon nin" – My friend
"Hir nin" – My Lord
"Gwadors" – Brothers
"Laire" – Summer, the second season of Imladris.
"Fedhin na anar arien, kemen nen, cuine sereg" – bound in agreement by sun's light, earth's waters, life's blood.
"Thranduilion! Hir nin, lasto beth nin! Kwivra!" – Son of Thranduil! My Lord, hear my voice. Awake!
"Sedho". – Be still
N.B I chose to translate the conversation as it happened, just to save you all the inconvenience of flicking to the bottom of the page for every line. Hope this was okay.
Sorry - no Glorfindel or Twins this chapter, but they will be back shortly, never fear!
namárië ar sérë, híninya
nienna xx