LotR Fic: Destiny (2/3)
A/N: A big thank you to all of you who read the first chapter of this story and especially to those who told me how they liked it! ((huggles))
Part One of this story can be found here.
Beta: the wonderful Imbecamiel (((hugs)))
Disclaimer: They still belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. (SIGH)
~ Destiny ~
------------------
Chapter Two: Cold Comfort
------------------
“A good friend remembers what we were
and sees what we can be.”
(Unknown)
“You do not need to keep standing there all day.” A quiet voice broke into the man’s thoughts.
Aragorn smiled. He should have known better than to assume that even a weak and distracted Legolas would not notice that he was being watched, or instinctively know who was watching him. Not needing another invitation, the ranger covered the distance between them until he came to stand right beside the bench the elf was sitting on. “I was not aware you had noticed me,” he confessed.
“It was my arm that was injured, not my ears,” Legolas countered mildly, looking up to meet his friend’s gaze. “So, who told you to come - Nestadren, or my father?”
The elf’s voice was carefully neutral and there was no anger in his eyes, but his demeanor was also far from what Aragorn would call welcoming. “It was Nestadren,” he replied, unfazed, “but I believe he had the king’s approval.”
After studying his friend’s face for a moment, he added, “What I would be more interested in is knowing why you did not send me a message.”
“You have enough concerns already without me adding to them,” Legolas murmured, lowering his gaze.
Aragorn would have had a lot of things to answer to that, but, having something more important on his mind, he refrained from making any comment on the elf’s words. “Would you mind letting me take a look at your arm?” he asked instead.
Legolas hesitated, but then he shrugged - or rather, attempted a shrug that turned quickly into a wince - and nodded silently.
With a frown, Aragorn kneeled down beside his friend, studying for a moment the sling and the bandages, before he took the elf’s injured left arm very carefully between his two hands. He felt Legolas tense slightly at his touch, but the elf did not move away. From his friend’s initial reluctance to have his arm examined and the slightly stiff way the elf had been sitting, Aragorn was quite sure that the arm was still causing him pain and Legolas’ almost unconscious reaction to the gentle touch was proving him right.
He knew being permitted to touch the arm at all was a token of Legolas’ trust in him. Closing his eyes, the ranger tried to feel the arm and the injury with senses more reliable than sight or touch, as Elrond had taught him to do years ago. He could immediately sense that the damage was as extensive and severe as Nestadren had told him in his letter. Muscles and tissue still seemed to vibrate from the shock and the intense pain an axe blade forcing its way with considerable force into flesh and sinews and bone had caused.
Disharmony seemed to radiate from the deep wound like red smears, sending tendrils of pain through the entire arm, but even more alarming were dark spots that seemed to be almost lifeless, like a room that had once been inhabited and filled with life and light, but was now empty and deserted. Aragorn pressed his lips together tightly. He had seen such wounds and worse during the war with the Corsairs in Gondor, and had occasionally had to treat them, but this time it was Legolas who had been wounded badly and it was proving almost impossible not to think about how much pain his friend must have been in when the orc’s axe had buried into his arm, and what might have happened if it had cut just a bit deeper.
Aragorn knew from Nestadren’s letter that Legolas had somehow still been able to pierce the orc’s throat with one of his knives before the creature had been able to land a second blow; that the other elves of the patrol had found him a short time later, lying on the ground, bleeding and half-unconscious, but still struggling weakly to rise again; and that he had been unconscious from shock and blood loss for most of the time while they carried him back to Thranduil’s Caverns as fast as they could. For the last, Aragorn was grateful. At least Legolas had not had to suffer through the pain the transport would have undoubtedly caused him.
Not for the first time during the last years, the ranger wished he were able to be in several places at once. He could not help wondering if, had he been here with Legolas, he might have been able to prevent what had happened. He forced himself to shove those thoughts aside. The elves in Legolas’ patrol would have given their lives for their prince and had done all they possibly could. There was no reason to believe his presence would have made any difference. Taking a deep breath and trying to relax his too-tense muscles, Aragorn concentrated on the wound again.
Now that he had calmed his emotions and thoughts, he could feel that healing was indeed already taking place. Beside the red tendrils of pain, he could sense a gentle, soothing influence that seemed as white as the bandages to him and was very slowly spreading through the almost smashed elbow and upper arm. He knew it was the result of Nestadren’s healing treatments as surely as if the other healer had left a signature. Nestadren had told him all he had done, first to save the arm and then to help it mend, and Aragorn was aware that there was nothing he could do that had not already been done. Almost nothing.
Virtually effortlessly, the ranger slid into a light healing trance. His breathing evened out and he could feel the palms of his hands begin to prickle slightly, as warmth and some of his own healing power passed from them into the arm still held gently between them. He could hear Legolas breathe a sigh and feel him instinctively relax under his touch, as the warmth spreading through the injured arm relieved the insistent pain.
A short time later, Aragorn finally let go of the arm, satisfied that Nestadren had been right and that there was still reason to believe the arm would heal, given some time, and knowing that there was nothing else he could do. He opened his eyes, remaining in his kneeling position until the vague sense of disorientation, which usually followed any kind of healing trance, had abated. Then he rose slowly and sat down on the bench beside Legolas. Looking up, he noticed that his friend was watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. His features seemed to soften slightly when he met Aragorn’s gaze.
“Thank you,” the elf said quietly.
“I barely did anything,” the ranger replied, a hint of regret in his voice.
Legolas studied him for a moment longer and then shook his head. “No one but you expects you to perform miracles, Estel,” he said. “Whatever you did, it is more than enough.” More gently, he added, “You cannot always keep all those you care for safe, however hard you try.”
Aragorn suddenly felt very much like a young boy again, who had been begging a certain elf more than once to promise him that he would return safely whenever he had to leave Imladris to return to Mirkwood after one of his visits, terrified that his newfound friend might vanish from his life just as suddenly and irrevocably as his parents had done. Sometimes, he wondered if Legolas was actually able to read his mind. “I know,” he admitted reluctantly, staring down at his hands to avoid the elf’s knowing gaze. “It still does not mean I need to like it.”
Looking at his hands for a while longer, the ranger could not help thinking that it was strange how some things always seemed to stay the same, regardless how many years had passed, while, on the other hand, one single moment in which an orc’s axe had found its mark might be able to change one person’s life and the lives of those around him forever. He still recalled clearly the last time he had met the elf. Legolas had visited him in the Angle then, where he was now living among the Dunédain when he was not away on one of his frequent short journeys.
One of the first things Legolas had done during that visit was to challenge him to a horse race, claiming that he had become far too serious and boring now that he was a chieftain and leader of men. Aragorn had found his friend incredibly annoying back then, but when Legolas was gone again he had to admit, at least to himself, that the laughter and the playfulness he had shared with the elf after Legolas had finally managed to drag him away from his duties had done him a lot of good. Now all the cheerful lightheartedness the elf had tormented him with seemed to be gone, replaced by something much darker that he did not like to see, and all because of one single moment of bad luck.
He decided it was time to find out what exactly was going on in Legolas’ head, though he believed he could easily guess part of it. Without warning, he asked, “What is the real reason you did not call for me?”
Legolas sighed, and this time it was he who was unable to meet his gaze. “I already told you,” he answered wearily. “Besides, there is nothing you could have done.”
“Perhaps not,” Aragorn conceded. “But do you really think I would not want to know when you are severely injured?”
“Perhaps this is less a matter of what you want than of what you need,” Legolas returned, an unexpected trace of anger vibrating in his voice. He raised his hand when Aragorn opened his mouth to say something. “Let me finish,” he asked, a bit calmer.
Aragorn closed his mouth again and Legolas went on, “There are more important things right now than worrying about my health. Our fight is becoming more and more a losing battle each day and this forest is barely a shadow of what it once was. You and Mithrandir - and, perhaps, Saruman - are our and Middle-earth’s only hope now.”
“‘Perhaps’ Saruman?” Aragorn repeated, unintentionally distracted from their original topic by the elf’s strange choice of words. “Is he not still the most powerful of the Istari?”
Legolas hesitated. “Have you ever met him?”
“No,” Aragorn answered regretfully. “I would have liked to, but there has never been the chance.”
“I did, once, some time ago,” Legolas said slowly. “I do not doubt that Saruman is powerful, more powerful actually than any being I have ever met, but he is also distant and inscrutable. Whatever he is doing and planning, he is not doing it for us, or any of the free people in Middle-earth. I think if he believed it to be necessary to sacrifice half the population of Middle-earth in order to ‘save’ it, he would do it without hesitation. I would not put my hope in him, or only if I had no other choice.”
“I can see why such a person would not really inspire confidence,” the ranger commented dryly. “And yet, it seems you want me to become like him.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it!” the elf protested.
“Is it not?” Aragorn wanted to know. “You want me to be able to concentrate on fulfilling my destiny without having to worry about something as insignificant as my best friend almost losing life and limb in an unfortunate encounter with orcs.” The ranger could not help noticing how his friend paled at the “losing life and limb” part and it almost made him rue his words.
“I know you did not want me to hear about it at all,” he went on after a moment. “But, Legolas… I would always prefer worrying to not knowing.”
Legolas was silent for a long moment, looking down at his fully operative right hand. Finally, the hand closed into a fist and he said, “You are wrong… or at least, you are not entirely right. I did want you to know. It is just… when I was feeling well enough to be able to think clearly again, it occured to me that you might have to get used to going on without me, Estel.”
“You believed you would die?” Aragorn asked, surprised.
The elf smiled, but it was a joyless smile. “I have seen enough wounds like this to know what it could mean. That there was - and still is - a very real possibility that having me at your side will be a hindrance rather than a help from now on.”
At last understanding what had been weighing so heavily on Legolas’ mind, Aragorn did not know whether to shake his head or shake his friend instead. “Legolas, there is no way having you at my side could ever be a hindrance to me,” he said gently, but firmly, leaving no doubt that he was speaking the truth.
“Do not treat me like a foolish child, Aragorn!” the elf snapped in response, and there was just as much pain as anger in his eyes. “I know there is a good chance this wound will never heal, at least not enough for me to use my arm again the way I did before. Nestadren knows that, and so do you!”
The angry sparkle in the elf’s eyes vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only tiredness and a hint of despair. Tentatively, Aragorn put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, half expecting it to be shrugged off. But Legolas did not move at all and, encouraged by the elf’s reaction, the ranger tightened his grip to a comforting squeeze.
“There is still a good chance it will heal,” he said quietly, not willing to lie to his friend but also not ready to abandon hope just yet. He could still understand Nestadren’s decision not to worry Legolas prematurely, but he was not surprised to find that the younger elf had already seen right through it. The last thing Legolas needed now was to be left to his own fears. “Your arm is mending, that much I could feel. It is true that there is no guarantee that it will heal completely, but there is no sense in worrying about such a thing before there is any sign that it might happen.”
Legolas was not looking at him, but his head was turned slightly towards him and Aragorn knew his friend was listening intently. “What if I cannot help worrying about it?” Legolas asked in a small voice, and Aragorn could hear the underlying fear the elf had likely not even admitted to himself until now. “What shall I do if it does not heal - if it just stays the way it is?”
“Legolas-” Aragorn began, but broke off, realizing that trying to convince Legolas once more that there was no reason to worry would be futile. Furthermore, it would also not be honest. The wound was severe. Had Legolas been a man, he would either have lost his arm or it would have been completely useless for the rest of his life. Aragorn knew similar cases where even the self-healing power of elves had not been enough to overcome such an injury, one of them being Nestadren, whose leg had never healed completely from a grievous injury he had received during the battle of Dagorlad. He could not promise Legolas that this would end well, even though he still hoped it would.
“It will not stay the way it is,” he said instead. “Of that much I am certain. But even if your arm does not heal, it can only change what you can do and how you do it, but never who and what you are.”
Legolas reacted with a bitter laugh. “I am a warrior!” he exclaimed. “How am I supposed to use my knives or bow when I am - crippled?”
To be continued…
-------------------
The next and final chapter should be up in another week or so (once again depending on Real Life’s willingness to cooperate). I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :) Any thoughts you want to share would be very welcome (and feel free to point mistakes out to me if you spot some)! ;-)
Part One of this story can be found here.
Beta: the wonderful Imbecamiel (((hugs)))
Disclaimer: They still belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. (SIGH)
~ Destiny ~
------------------
Chapter Two: Cold Comfort
------------------
“A good friend remembers what we were
and sees what we can be.”
(Unknown)
“You do not need to keep standing there all day.” A quiet voice broke into the man’s thoughts.
Aragorn smiled. He should have known better than to assume that even a weak and distracted Legolas would not notice that he was being watched, or instinctively know who was watching him. Not needing another invitation, the ranger covered the distance between them until he came to stand right beside the bench the elf was sitting on. “I was not aware you had noticed me,” he confessed.
“It was my arm that was injured, not my ears,” Legolas countered mildly, looking up to meet his friend’s gaze. “So, who told you to come - Nestadren, or my father?”
The elf’s voice was carefully neutral and there was no anger in his eyes, but his demeanor was also far from what Aragorn would call welcoming. “It was Nestadren,” he replied, unfazed, “but I believe he had the king’s approval.”
After studying his friend’s face for a moment, he added, “What I would be more interested in is knowing why you did not send me a message.”
“You have enough concerns already without me adding to them,” Legolas murmured, lowering his gaze.
Aragorn would have had a lot of things to answer to that, but, having something more important on his mind, he refrained from making any comment on the elf’s words. “Would you mind letting me take a look at your arm?” he asked instead.
Legolas hesitated, but then he shrugged - or rather, attempted a shrug that turned quickly into a wince - and nodded silently.
With a frown, Aragorn kneeled down beside his friend, studying for a moment the sling and the bandages, before he took the elf’s injured left arm very carefully between his two hands. He felt Legolas tense slightly at his touch, but the elf did not move away. From his friend’s initial reluctance to have his arm examined and the slightly stiff way the elf had been sitting, Aragorn was quite sure that the arm was still causing him pain and Legolas’ almost unconscious reaction to the gentle touch was proving him right.
He knew being permitted to touch the arm at all was a token of Legolas’ trust in him. Closing his eyes, the ranger tried to feel the arm and the injury with senses more reliable than sight or touch, as Elrond had taught him to do years ago. He could immediately sense that the damage was as extensive and severe as Nestadren had told him in his letter. Muscles and tissue still seemed to vibrate from the shock and the intense pain an axe blade forcing its way with considerable force into flesh and sinews and bone had caused.
Disharmony seemed to radiate from the deep wound like red smears, sending tendrils of pain through the entire arm, but even more alarming were dark spots that seemed to be almost lifeless, like a room that had once been inhabited and filled with life and light, but was now empty and deserted. Aragorn pressed his lips together tightly. He had seen such wounds and worse during the war with the Corsairs in Gondor, and had occasionally had to treat them, but this time it was Legolas who had been wounded badly and it was proving almost impossible not to think about how much pain his friend must have been in when the orc’s axe had buried into his arm, and what might have happened if it had cut just a bit deeper.
Aragorn knew from Nestadren’s letter that Legolas had somehow still been able to pierce the orc’s throat with one of his knives before the creature had been able to land a second blow; that the other elves of the patrol had found him a short time later, lying on the ground, bleeding and half-unconscious, but still struggling weakly to rise again; and that he had been unconscious from shock and blood loss for most of the time while they carried him back to Thranduil’s Caverns as fast as they could. For the last, Aragorn was grateful. At least Legolas had not had to suffer through the pain the transport would have undoubtedly caused him.
Not for the first time during the last years, the ranger wished he were able to be in several places at once. He could not help wondering if, had he been here with Legolas, he might have been able to prevent what had happened. He forced himself to shove those thoughts aside. The elves in Legolas’ patrol would have given their lives for their prince and had done all they possibly could. There was no reason to believe his presence would have made any difference. Taking a deep breath and trying to relax his too-tense muscles, Aragorn concentrated on the wound again.
Now that he had calmed his emotions and thoughts, he could feel that healing was indeed already taking place. Beside the red tendrils of pain, he could sense a gentle, soothing influence that seemed as white as the bandages to him and was very slowly spreading through the almost smashed elbow and upper arm. He knew it was the result of Nestadren’s healing treatments as surely as if the other healer had left a signature. Nestadren had told him all he had done, first to save the arm and then to help it mend, and Aragorn was aware that there was nothing he could do that had not already been done. Almost nothing.
Virtually effortlessly, the ranger slid into a light healing trance. His breathing evened out and he could feel the palms of his hands begin to prickle slightly, as warmth and some of his own healing power passed from them into the arm still held gently between them. He could hear Legolas breathe a sigh and feel him instinctively relax under his touch, as the warmth spreading through the injured arm relieved the insistent pain.
A short time later, Aragorn finally let go of the arm, satisfied that Nestadren had been right and that there was still reason to believe the arm would heal, given some time, and knowing that there was nothing else he could do. He opened his eyes, remaining in his kneeling position until the vague sense of disorientation, which usually followed any kind of healing trance, had abated. Then he rose slowly and sat down on the bench beside Legolas. Looking up, he noticed that his friend was watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. His features seemed to soften slightly when he met Aragorn’s gaze.
“Thank you,” the elf said quietly.
“I barely did anything,” the ranger replied, a hint of regret in his voice.
Legolas studied him for a moment longer and then shook his head. “No one but you expects you to perform miracles, Estel,” he said. “Whatever you did, it is more than enough.” More gently, he added, “You cannot always keep all those you care for safe, however hard you try.”
Aragorn suddenly felt very much like a young boy again, who had been begging a certain elf more than once to promise him that he would return safely whenever he had to leave Imladris to return to Mirkwood after one of his visits, terrified that his newfound friend might vanish from his life just as suddenly and irrevocably as his parents had done. Sometimes, he wondered if Legolas was actually able to read his mind. “I know,” he admitted reluctantly, staring down at his hands to avoid the elf’s knowing gaze. “It still does not mean I need to like it.”
Looking at his hands for a while longer, the ranger could not help thinking that it was strange how some things always seemed to stay the same, regardless how many years had passed, while, on the other hand, one single moment in which an orc’s axe had found its mark might be able to change one person’s life and the lives of those around him forever. He still recalled clearly the last time he had met the elf. Legolas had visited him in the Angle then, where he was now living among the Dunédain when he was not away on one of his frequent short journeys.
One of the first things Legolas had done during that visit was to challenge him to a horse race, claiming that he had become far too serious and boring now that he was a chieftain and leader of men. Aragorn had found his friend incredibly annoying back then, but when Legolas was gone again he had to admit, at least to himself, that the laughter and the playfulness he had shared with the elf after Legolas had finally managed to drag him away from his duties had done him a lot of good. Now all the cheerful lightheartedness the elf had tormented him with seemed to be gone, replaced by something much darker that he did not like to see, and all because of one single moment of bad luck.
He decided it was time to find out what exactly was going on in Legolas’ head, though he believed he could easily guess part of it. Without warning, he asked, “What is the real reason you did not call for me?”
Legolas sighed, and this time it was he who was unable to meet his gaze. “I already told you,” he answered wearily. “Besides, there is nothing you could have done.”
“Perhaps not,” Aragorn conceded. “But do you really think I would not want to know when you are severely injured?”
“Perhaps this is less a matter of what you want than of what you need,” Legolas returned, an unexpected trace of anger vibrating in his voice. He raised his hand when Aragorn opened his mouth to say something. “Let me finish,” he asked, a bit calmer.
Aragorn closed his mouth again and Legolas went on, “There are more important things right now than worrying about my health. Our fight is becoming more and more a losing battle each day and this forest is barely a shadow of what it once was. You and Mithrandir - and, perhaps, Saruman - are our and Middle-earth’s only hope now.”
“‘Perhaps’ Saruman?” Aragorn repeated, unintentionally distracted from their original topic by the elf’s strange choice of words. “Is he not still the most powerful of the Istari?”
Legolas hesitated. “Have you ever met him?”
“No,” Aragorn answered regretfully. “I would have liked to, but there has never been the chance.”
“I did, once, some time ago,” Legolas said slowly. “I do not doubt that Saruman is powerful, more powerful actually than any being I have ever met, but he is also distant and inscrutable. Whatever he is doing and planning, he is not doing it for us, or any of the free people in Middle-earth. I think if he believed it to be necessary to sacrifice half the population of Middle-earth in order to ‘save’ it, he would do it without hesitation. I would not put my hope in him, or only if I had no other choice.”
“I can see why such a person would not really inspire confidence,” the ranger commented dryly. “And yet, it seems you want me to become like him.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it!” the elf protested.
“Is it not?” Aragorn wanted to know. “You want me to be able to concentrate on fulfilling my destiny without having to worry about something as insignificant as my best friend almost losing life and limb in an unfortunate encounter with orcs.” The ranger could not help noticing how his friend paled at the “losing life and limb” part and it almost made him rue his words.
“I know you did not want me to hear about it at all,” he went on after a moment. “But, Legolas… I would always prefer worrying to not knowing.”
Legolas was silent for a long moment, looking down at his fully operative right hand. Finally, the hand closed into a fist and he said, “You are wrong… or at least, you are not entirely right. I did want you to know. It is just… when I was feeling well enough to be able to think clearly again, it occured to me that you might have to get used to going on without me, Estel.”
“You believed you would die?” Aragorn asked, surprised.
The elf smiled, but it was a joyless smile. “I have seen enough wounds like this to know what it could mean. That there was - and still is - a very real possibility that having me at your side will be a hindrance rather than a help from now on.”
At last understanding what had been weighing so heavily on Legolas’ mind, Aragorn did not know whether to shake his head or shake his friend instead. “Legolas, there is no way having you at my side could ever be a hindrance to me,” he said gently, but firmly, leaving no doubt that he was speaking the truth.
“Do not treat me like a foolish child, Aragorn!” the elf snapped in response, and there was just as much pain as anger in his eyes. “I know there is a good chance this wound will never heal, at least not enough for me to use my arm again the way I did before. Nestadren knows that, and so do you!”
The angry sparkle in the elf’s eyes vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only tiredness and a hint of despair. Tentatively, Aragorn put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, half expecting it to be shrugged off. But Legolas did not move at all and, encouraged by the elf’s reaction, the ranger tightened his grip to a comforting squeeze.
“There is still a good chance it will heal,” he said quietly, not willing to lie to his friend but also not ready to abandon hope just yet. He could still understand Nestadren’s decision not to worry Legolas prematurely, but he was not surprised to find that the younger elf had already seen right through it. The last thing Legolas needed now was to be left to his own fears. “Your arm is mending, that much I could feel. It is true that there is no guarantee that it will heal completely, but there is no sense in worrying about such a thing before there is any sign that it might happen.”
Legolas was not looking at him, but his head was turned slightly towards him and Aragorn knew his friend was listening intently. “What if I cannot help worrying about it?” Legolas asked in a small voice, and Aragorn could hear the underlying fear the elf had likely not even admitted to himself until now. “What shall I do if it does not heal - if it just stays the way it is?”
“Legolas-” Aragorn began, but broke off, realizing that trying to convince Legolas once more that there was no reason to worry would be futile. Furthermore, it would also not be honest. The wound was severe. Had Legolas been a man, he would either have lost his arm or it would have been completely useless for the rest of his life. Aragorn knew similar cases where even the self-healing power of elves had not been enough to overcome such an injury, one of them being Nestadren, whose leg had never healed completely from a grievous injury he had received during the battle of Dagorlad. He could not promise Legolas that this would end well, even though he still hoped it would.
“It will not stay the way it is,” he said instead. “Of that much I am certain. But even if your arm does not heal, it can only change what you can do and how you do it, but never who and what you are.”
Legolas reacted with a bitter laugh. “I am a warrior!” he exclaimed. “How am I supposed to use my knives or bow when I am - crippled?”
To be continued…
-------------------
The next and final chapter should be up in another week or so (once again depending on Real Life’s willingness to cooperate). I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :) Any thoughts you want to share would be very welcome (and feel free to point mistakes out to me if you spot some)! ;-)