(The
Hunters)
Disclaimer:
The characters in this story were created by J. R. R. Tolkien. I use them
without permission, but nobody is giving me any money for writing this story,
alas, so I hope the copyright holders will overlook this.
Author’s
Note: This story is set before the events laid out in Lord of the Rings. It
presupposes a friendship between Aragorn and Legolas because I like the idea! I
am not an expert on Middle Earth; please overlook any mistakes I may have made.
A
Note about Language: Words in italics are in Sindarin (the language of the
Grey Elves
created by Tolkien, subject to my mangling).
English translations follow where
necessary and are
not always literal. Special thanks go to Lothenon for assistance above and beyond the call of duty;
any mistakes are my own.
Additional
Note: I have never hunted boar, nor fought against wargs; those of you who have,
please forgive any inaccuracies and allow for artistic license.
Feedback
is much appreciated at taramiluiel@cox-internet.com
Stealth was vital.
Aragorn moved slowly through the underbrush, careful to avoid stepping on anything that would make a noise and give his presence away to his thus-far unsuspecting prey. One strong hand was outstretched to aid his balance; the other held his sword in a firm but relaxed grip by his side.
From the upper boughs of the trees to the north there sounded the clear call of a native bird. Aragorn pursed his lips and replied in the same melodic fashion, letting his hunting partner know his location. Together they closed on their prey.
Years of experience, and many expeditions together, had honed their individual talents as well as their teamwork. The signals they had developed for communicating during a hunt enabled them to hone in on their target effectively and change strategies as needed. A wild boar was not a challenging prey, and today’s hunt was merely for sustenance, but they had in the past hunted far more dangerous creatures. The combination of Aragorn’s sword and his elven partner’s bow had rarely failed.
With one more careful, silent step, the ranger came to the southern edge of the clearing where the boar grazed. He parted the leaves with the end of his blade just enough to take in the lay of the land for himself. The clearing was not large; the boar was only a few feet away, oblivious to danger. He searched the tree line opposite for his partner, but was not surprised to see nothing.
Aragorn tipped his head back and cupped his hand around his mouth to send a gentle bird call to the sky, hoping that its nearness wouldn’t startle the boar from its grazing. The particular call was to let his partner know that he was in position and ready.
High above the ground, Legolas acknowledged the call with a brief pip of his own. Balancing with ease some twenty feet above the ground, he reached over his shoulder and took hold of a feathered arrow in the quiver strapped to his back. He drew it out slowly, soundlessly, never taking his blue eyes off the animal below. Hundreds of years of practice went into the fluid motions of his body as he fitted the arrow in place and drew his bowstring back tautly. Sighting along the shaft, he drew a barely audible breath and held it.
Aragorn tightened his grip on his sword and tensed, ready for his part.
Legolas released his arrow with an audible twang. The boar let out a squeal of pain as the shaft found its mark in his neck, wheeled away from the source, and charged for the protection of the undergrowth. Legolas had notched a second arrow before the animal had gone two lengths, but Aragorn lunged from the bushes to meet it head-on, and the Elf did not release, waiting for his partner’s success or failure.
The boar ran headlong into the Man who so suddenly appeared in his path, but Aragorn thrust his sword out before him, plunging it into the animal’s chest. The force of the impact and the animal’s desperate momentum bowled him over into the very bushes he had hidden behind, and the beast landed on top of him. He turned his face from its last gasping breaths and felt its hot blood pouring onto him. With effort he pushed the heavy, hairy, stinking body off. Pulling his sword from its chest, he immediately slit the boar’s jugular to allow all its blood to flow out, ending its suffering. He had never enjoyed killing, although he had met men who did, but neither did he shy from necessary tasks, however unpleasant.
Across the clearing the leaves rustled and stirred, and Legolas jumped lightly down from the lowest branch, landing well balanced and almost silently. He put the unneeded arrow back in his quiver and slung his bow on his back as he approached. “Boe ammen ruinaw ‘wain, mellonen (We need a new hunting strategy, my friend),” he said with a smile as he took in the Man’s appearance.
Aragorn looked down at his body and grimaced in disgust. His shirt, once soft white linen, was soaked with red blood as though he had bathed in it. “Ad-lű im amrothathon i ngelaidh (Next time I will climb the trees),” he suggested wryly.
The Elf reached his side and extended a hand to assist him up. He was slender of build, especially when seen beside the ranger, who had a powerfully muscular body, but he pulled his hunting partner to his feet with ease. “Thiathach sui narufileg (You will look like a narufileg),” he said with a smile, naming a small bird native to his home that was a particularly vivid scarlet in color.
Aragorn’s lips tilted in a smile at the image as he wiped his blade clean on the grass. “Goston sennui thiathon sui garaniár (I fear I will instead resemble a caraniár)!” he said ruefully, naming a big red-breasted bird that, in spite of possessing large wings that could flap impressively, was completely incapable of reaching even the lowest branch of a tree.
Legolas laughed, and his eyes were bright with merriment. “Thiathach (Yes),” he couldn’t resist agreeing, gesturing to Aragorn’s reddened torso. Then he grew more serious. “Celim i garpholch hen nan hîr cennim. Echedithon i aes. Uwatho, nu fuin dhanna. (Let us carry this boar to the stream we saw. I will prepare the meat. You bathe, before night falls.)”
Aragorn agreed wholeheartedly. He slid his sword back into its scabbard, and the archer removed his arrow from the beast’s neck. Together they bent to the task of hefting the animal off the ground. Legolas led the way, his normally lithe movements hampered by the weight and bulk of their load. Following behind, the ranger couldn’t keep a smile from his face, or laughter from his voice, as he observed, “Si boe uwathathach, mellonen agarwaen (Now you will want to bathe, my bloodstained friend)!”
“Ad-lű celithon i dele carpholch (Next time I will carry the boar’s hind quarters),” the Elf said wryly, for his own garments were becoming soiled by his burden.
“Avo ingin (I don’t think so)!”
“Godref broniatham i amarth hen (Then we will endure this fate together),” Legolas replied in good humor.
The hunters continued on in silence, concentrating on balancing their load and watching their footing as they worked their way through the woods. Legolas led with an uncanny sense of direction and a skill at choosing the best footing that came from untold years of experience, and it wasn’t long before they came to the stream they had taken note of earlier in the day while stalking the boar.
Aragorn saw the shift in the Elf’s shoulders, and they moved as one to lower the boar to the ground. “Mae meditham nef fuin hen (We will eat well tonight)!” he said in satisfaction. “Thenim naur nu uwatham; haimp vîn allagor nathar barch. Sadechad vîn haeron. Ú-bylitham tolthad i mbaich vîn, ar ú-aníron lostad na chaimp limp! (Let us light a fire before we bathe; our garments will dry faster. Our campsite is distant. We cannot fetch our belongings, and I don't want to sleep in wet clothing!)”
“Ú-aníron (Yes),” Legolas agreed with feeling as he plucked his shirt from his skin, where it was beginning to stick. They set to work with the ease of familiarity, efficiently gathering the necessary supplies and lighting the fire. When they were sure that it was burning well and would not die down for lack of attention, the two friends eyed each other, both trying to hold back a smile.
“Si ech thiach sui narufileg (Now you look like a narufileg)!” the ranger said in amusement. Legolas’ long fair hair, normally a silken sheen, was stained on one side with bright red blood, as was the skin at his neck where the boar’s carcass had rested. His brown tunic was merely darkened by the stain, but his silvery blue shirt showed the redness at collar and sleeve.
“Thiad nîn ú-faeg sui gauchamp ruin chîn (My appearance is not as bad as your fiery red shirt),” the Elf retorted with a smile as he began to undo the leather guards he wore around his wrists. Aragorn grunted in acknowledgement and likewise began to free himself of the clothes that were sticking to him in cold discomfort. Legolas shook his head slightly. “Naw uchand hammad gauchamp ‘lan ir farol (It was not a good idea to wear a white shirt when hunting).”
“Mist ú-adgerithon (A mistake I will not make again),” the ranger said firmly, finishing with his buttons and peeling the fabric from his skin. It parted from him unwillingly, leaving his torso sticky and red. “Gaston den allú natha buig (I fear it will never be clean).” He sighed, dropping the shirt to the ground in a heap and checking the state of his pants. Unfortunately they hadn’t escaped the flood of boar’s blood either, and he began to hunt along the stream bed for a plant that he knew grew in these parts, falthonn, whose roots were the closest thing to soap he would have to work with.
Glad that his own pants remained clean, Legolas finished undressing and dove into the stream. He couldn’t abide the stench of the creature’s blood on him a moment longer, for it filled his nose with its sickly sweet odor until his head was swimming with it. The water was blessedly clean, and he let it flow through his hair and flood his ears, bringing relief from the filth. At last he surfaced, only to find that he had traveled some distance downstream. He swam back with strong, graceful strokes that propelled him through the water with barely a splash.
Aragorn had also entered the water, although he had done so with neither the Elf’s enthusiasm nor his grace, for he did not enjoy plunging into icy streams in spring. Gritting his teeth he submerged himself, and there was much splashing and frothing of the water all around as he vigorously rubbed at his hair and beard. He rose again as soon as he dared, shaking water from his ears and deciding that the task was done to his satisfaction regardless of the outcome. Thank goodness they had a fire already burning brightly, he reflected as he waded to the bank to grab his clothes. He watched Legolas swim over with easy, unhurried strokes. The Elf was completely unaffected by the temperature of the water. Aragorn shivered and dunked his clothes into the stream with a scowl. The water was growing colder by the minute.
“Hirnich falthonn (Did you find any falthonn)?” Legolas asked as he also rinsed his shirt and tunic in the stream.
“Hirnin. Harthon nâ far (Yes. I hope it is enough),” Aragorn replied, tossing a root to his friend and rinsing his own clothing in the water. There was companionable silence for a while as they worked quickly. Rubbing the white roots against the wet fabric created soapy foam, which then had to be worked through the garment thoroughly before rinsing it. Aragorn worked a second time on his shirt, using the last of the root, and was dismayed to see that his best efforts still left it tinted pink. He decided that further attempts would be futile and that staying in the cold stream one minute longer would be too long.
“Ú-esteliach (You are giving up)?” Legolas asked in amusement. He had already finished washing his clothes, and washed his hair as well, taken another brief swim, and removed himself to the warmth of the fire to don his dry pants. He fed more fuel into the fire to make it burn hotter for his human companion.
Disdaining to reply with anything more than a withering glance, the ranger wrung as much water out of his clothing as he could and climbed out of the stream with a shiver. There were still a few hours of sunlight left in the day, but the rays were rapidly losing their warmth. He joined Legolas by the fire, pulling on his dry undergarments and wishing they were more adequate. He hung the wet items from nearby branches alongside his friend’s shirt and tunic, and crouched by the fire, rubbing his skin with his bare hands to shed the cold droplets of water.
Legolas took in the dripping clothes, the height of the sun, and Aragorn’s lack of clothing, assessing the situation with a slight frown furrowing his brow. “Anor dhanna, aduial dôl, ar chaimp chîn limpon. Abedithon na hadechad vîn ar tolthathon i mbaich vîn. Heltho i garpholch ar echado aes. I naur chen beriatha nalú athelithon. (The sun is going down, evening comes, and your clothes are very wet. I will return to our campsite and get our things. You skin the boar and prepare dinner. The fire will protect you until I come back.)”
After a moment to search for a better idea, Aragorn growled at the situation. He knew his friend was right; they needed their dry clothes. Separating was risky: the woods could be perilous enough for two experienced hunters together; alone, each would be more vulnerable. At least he would have the fire to scare away animals, but animals were far from being the most dangerous denizens of the woods. As for Legolas, embarking alone on a journey that would have to be completed in the dark was an act of foolishness or necessity.
“Boe, mellonen neth (It is necessary, my young friend),” the Elf reassured lightly, rising from the ground in one fluid motion. “Pylin beriad anim, ar i ‘welu chelch nin ú-bresta (I can protect myself, and the cold air does not trouble me).” He strapped his weapons around his bare torso, looked around to gain his bearings, and nodded curtly. “Dartho nan naur. Nerithon lagor (Stay close to the fire. I will run swiftly).”
“Echedithon vereth achen (I’ll make a feast for you),” Aragorn promised. He watched his friend head westward with a long, graceful stride, leaping easily over obstacles and disappearing into the woods. Clad only in his pants, his slender form seemed even smaller and more vulnerable, but the young Man knew that to be deceiving. Elves had a swiftness and agility that no Human could match.
Well, it was no use worrying. All he could do was set to work on his own tasks, and trust his companion’s abilities to attend to his own.
~
Legolas ~
Sacrificing some stealth in favor of greater speed, Legolas kept a brisk pace as he ran through the woods. He wove between trees and occasionally vaulted over logs and low bushes with the same swift grace as a hart. He could maintain his pace without tiring over long distances; the camp site where he and Aragorn had left their packs would take a couple of hours to reach.
They had searched for prey for several hours before sighting the boar, and had tracked it more slowly for even longer, waiting for it to settle down to graze. Now, however, he abandoned his usual caution and let his feet fly. He winced when he thought of the amount of noise he was creating, although in truth he was no louder than the rustling of leaves when the western winds blew down from the Hithaeglin (Misty Mountains) .
“Every animal in the woods will know I have passed,” he thought, and it injured his pride somewhat. This was not how an Elf passed through the woods! Naturally light-footed and graceful, an Elf’s passage was normally barely detectable. He felt as clumsy as a Dwarf. Most animals would keep their distance, recognizing him as a danger. They were not the ones he need concern himself with.
This wild land near the Hithaeglin (Misty
As he ran he constantly turned his head from side to side, taking note of what he passed and searching for signs of danger. In truth he knew that the real danger would come on the return journey. In the dark he would have to move more slowly, and anything that saw him pass now could be lying in wait. He would have to take a different route and yet not get lost, and the woods here were not as familiar as the ones near his home.
Ahead was a small silvery stream, and near it a large rocky rise. Vaulting over the stream – for he had no desire to get his boots wet as well! – Legolas climbed the small promontory with a couple of well-placed leaps. From this vantage point he took a moment to look back the way he had come, and search around to get his bearings. He had an excellent sense of direction, much improved by the years spent in the wilds. He turned his face into the southerly wind, noting that it was picking up in intensity and growing cooler. The sun was beneath the canopy of the trees now, and the woods were becoming shadowed.
It had been unwise to follow the boar so far from their camp; they could have set up a less certain trap and tried to bring it down sooner. Still, neither could have foreseen Aragorn’s need to wash in the stream, and there was little point debating the merits of actions already taken. Legolas listened with his sensitive ears for a moment longer, but the wind whispered no warnings to him. He resumed his rather reckless run through the underbrush, painfully aware that his fair hair and light skin stood out boldly against the greenery.
The sun no longer stretched long fingers of light through the gaps in the trees when Legolas reached the camp site. When his soft, steady footfalls ceased there was no sound but the hushed whisper of the leaves fluttering in the wind’s playful breath. He looked around cautiously before stepping into the open of the small clearing.
Knowing that they would be gone for hours, Legolas and Aragorn had tied their packs high in the branches of a tree for safekeeping. From the scratches on the trunk, at least one animal had made an attempt to reach them. Legolas laid a hand gently against the tree, closed his eyes, and murmured, "Yavanna nesto i cheiru hin (May Yavanna heal these wounds)." Then, sheathing his knife, he climbed with ease to the small leather bundles. It was no difficulty to undo the ropes that tied them safely in place, but it was very awkward trying to carry them both on his back, when his bow and quiver were already there.
Landing lightly back down on the ground, Legolas considered the problem for a moment. He wanted his hands free in case of sudden danger. Perhaps when he had donned his spare clothing his pack would be empty enough to put Aragorn’s pack inside it. Then he could carry the one pack easily enough without it hampering him.
Anticipating his spare clothing with a smile, he unbuckled the leather band around his torso that strapped his weapons to his back and laid the bow, quiver, and two bone-handled knives on the ground. He unlaced the ties of his pack and withdrew a soft embroidered shirt and heavier cloak. Setting them momentarily on his lap, he examined the space left within his pack. It didn’t seem at all adequate. Reluctantly he removed the wood carving he had been working on and a wrapped package of herbs he carried for seasoning meals, and then tried to fit Aragorn’s pack inside.
Bent to his task, his long fingers working at the uncooperative leather, Legolas was, most unusually, caught off his guard.
He sensed the creature’s presence at the same moment that he heard it leap from the bushes behind him. That scant warning gave Legolas just enough time to twist around and see the huge dark shape hurtling towards him through the darkness. He leaped back from the gleaming fangs that had doubtless been aiming for his throat; they tore instead through his pants and ripped fiery twin gouges across his left thigh. He had seen a warg before, but never so close; it was almost the size of a horse! He felt its hot breath; heard its ferocious growl; smelled its foul stench; saw its muscles bunching for another attack. He rolled away from it, narrowly avoiding its second attack, and came to his feet in one fluid motion, only to discover that the warg was standing on the packs beside his weapons.
He was unarmed.
He was not entirely defenseless, however.
The warg stared at him through narrowed red eyes. It let out a low, threatening sound, and Legolas was immediately made aware of how dangerous his situation was when the growl was answered from his left. Four more wargs slunk out from the underbrush, their jaws hanging open and saliva dripping from their fangs. They spread out, seeking to surround him.
Legolas took a cautious step back, keeping his eyes on the first warg. It was close enough that he would have little time to react to its next move. Was there a way to get to his bow, or better yet one of his knives? He would have to draw it away from the gear and somehow circle back around, while evading the others, and he would have to act quickly before he was surrounded.
At that moment he heard breathing behind him.
An undetected sixth predator closed the trap the others had set, lunging at him from such close range that he had no time to dodge. Only his quick reflexes enabled him to bring his right arm up to protect his jugular from a deadly bite. The creature’s long fangs sank deeply into his forearm, and the impact knocked him down. Using the animal’s own momentum, Legolas was able to turn the fall into a roll that took the heavy animal over with him, and he ended up on top of it. He drew his left arm back and punched the warg hard in one eye, and it tore its teeth out of his skin.
Aware that the others were moving in for the kill behind him, expecting at any second to feel their jaws close around his neck, Legolas gathered himself together and sprang up for the closest branch, his injured leg faltering beneath him. One hand managed to close around the branch, but he almost let go when the pain shot through him, for it was the injured one. Behind him came a snarl, and he gritted his teeth and swung himself up, coming precariously close to losing a foot to the nearest beast.
He was safe for a moment on his perch, too high for the wargs’ snapping, snarling leaps to reach him. The Elf calmly but quickly took stock of his situation. The wound near his elbow was on fire with pain and bleeding profusely, but was not fatal. He pressed it against his chest with a wince and clamped his free hand around it, in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood, but it began to run down his torso. Unfortunately he had nothing with which to bandage it. He looked down at the furrows on his thigh. Although they were not as deep as the gouge on his arm, he knew the muscle was damaged, and it would hamper his movements.
Concerned about his wounds, Legolas next surveyed the situation on the ground beneath him. Two of the wargs were guarding the packs and his precious weapons, watching him with bared teeth. Retrieving the weapons would be impossible. The other four, smelling his blood, were greedily snorting and howling and clawing at the tree trunk below him; their noise would bring any other warg within miles.
Without a weapon he could not possibly take the six beasts on. Reluctantly abandoning the gear he had come for, Legolas turned his thoughts to escape. While the creatures could not join him in the trees, he could not outpace them with his injuries. Nor could he sit and wait them out, for already he could feel the foul contamination of the warg’s saliva stinging as it began to spread through his blood from the wounds on arm and thigh. It was poisonous to Elves, and there lay his greatest danger now. His wounds needed to be cleansed and treated soon, before the poison could spread too far.
His only hope was to keep to the trees and make his way back to Aragorn. The Elf bit his lower lip in concern when he saw the amount of blood running down his chest from his forearm. Time was of the essence. He knew that losing too much blood would make him weak and light-headed, which would make his journey through the trees more dangerous.
Resolutely ignoring his pain, Legolas jumped lightly to the extended branch of another tree, ran along its slender length to its trunk, and then darted along another limb. With howls of fury the four wargs kept pace along the ground, leaping up and snapping uselessly at the air in frustration. He didn’t dare look down, or slow down.
In the rapidly darkening twilight it was hard to see the branches he needed to land on or grasp, and he was very aware that missing one would be fatal. His right hand became slick with blood from the bite wound above it, and occasionally his fingers slipped. He wiped his palm against his leggings, but within moments he could again feel the warm trail of blood reaching down to his fingertips.
Equally troublesome, the wound in his thigh was throbbing every time he put his weight on his left leg, pumping more blood from his body. As time passed and the evening grew darker, his leg grew weaker, his landings more precarious, and his head lighter. He paused for a moment, leaning against the strong trunk of a tree and clasping his left hand around the gouges near his elbow in an attempt to stop the persistent bleeding. Was he still heading the right direction? Legolas shook his head, frustrated. If only he had not set down his bow and arrows! He could have dispatched these beasts easily from this position.
Up ahead was a wide clearing that he remembered crossing on foot earlier. Going around it would take more time, but running through it would make him vulnerable to the wargs’ deadly jaws. He was barely keeping ahead of them. He knew he would never be able to outrun them on level ground. He would have to go around.
Aware that every moment of delay could cost him dearly later, when he might need his strength the most, Legolas forced himself to continue. He circled around the clearing from tree to sheltering tree, slowing now, unsure of his ability to judge the distances he must jump. The dark intensified; he could feel the air grow colder. The throbbing of his leg felt like a drumbeat. The fingers of his right hand had grown numb and useless. He kept it close against his chest now, hoping to stop the bleeding with the pressure, but every landing jolted it, and he could feel the warm trail of blood running down his chest and stomach to soak into his leggings. Every beat of his heart pulsed more of the poisonous saliva through his body.
Still the wargs came on, trailing him eagerly, sensing their prey’s weakness.
At last Legolas spied the faint flickering glow of Aragorn’s fire up ahead, and relief washed through him, for his energy was almost spent. He paused long enough to catch his breath, surprised to find himself so winded. Raising his head, he called, “Aragorn!” The sound was urgent, and touched with the weariness and desperation growing inside him.
Hoping fervently that his companion had heard him, Legolas jumped to the next tree…
… And slipped!
~
Aragorn ~
Aragorn swung his arms vigorously to keep warm as he searched for plants to season the meat. Many years of wandering in the company of Elves - who had seen the ages come and go - had given him the knowledge needed to live off the land. He had no difficulty finding an assortment of greens that could be crushed and mixed into a rub to tenderize the boar meat, selecting those favored by his elven friend.
Glad to return to the warm circle of the fire, Aragorn checked on the progress of the garments hanging from the branches, turning them over to allow the other side better access to the heat. Legolas’ shirt, woven of the light silken thread of the Elves, would not take much longer to dry, but his own shirt, of a thicker, warmer fabric, was still very sodden – and still marred by splotches of pink. Shaking his head with impatience at his own folly, he knew he would never again wear a white shirt when hunting. And next time he was charged by a wounded boar he would make more of an effort to sidestep its death throes!
Uneasily glancing at the lowering sun, the ranger set to work, rapidly skinning the boar with the small hunting knife that he kept strapped to one leg. When at last the messy task was complete, he cut the carcass into portions and washed the meat in the stream. He set the skin itself aside to work on later. Although boar skin was too coarse to be useful in making clothes, it could serve other purposes and he did not like to be wasteful. Similarly other parts of the boar that would not be eaten were set near the fire for other uses.
Aragorn searched along the stream bed until he found a fairly flat rock with a small bowl-like depression. After washing it clean, he put the leaves and berries he had chosen into its curve and pounded and crumbled them with the pommel of his knife. Then he carefully fetched some water from the stream in cupped hands and added it. He rubbed the resulting mixture over each chunk of meat, and then efficiently wrapped them in the broad flat leaves of a nearby lasonorn tree. Each bundle needed to be nestled in the embers of the fire, requiring him to dampen the flames.
“Our clothing will not dry before morning,” he said softly to himself, even as he spread handfuls of dirt over the flames. It would not matter, however, since Legolas would bring back his spare clothing – soon, he hoped, for while he had been busily working the sun had slipped below the treetops. He raised his head now to the breeze that had grown stronger and carried the whisper of night on its cool breath. Shivering, the ranger moved closer to the fire and drew his legs up to his chest. Wrapping his arms around himself, he sought to conserve his body heat.
Seeing the faint pinpricks of the first stars in the velvet sky, he began to sing an elven song in his low, husky voice. It was a song of the travels of a wanderer following the light of Eärendil across the wild lands, one that had always been special to him. He often felt that he was like the wanderer of the song, always roaming, always searching for something he couldn’t even name. He would rest for a time, but sooner or later Eärendil would whisper in his ear and he would be off again.
“Why can’t I find peace?” Aragorn wondered when he’d finished the wistful song. “I should make a home somewhere with Arwen and be content.” His mind conjured an image of spacious rooms open to a sunny vista, filled with items from his many travels and the warm glow of many fires, and Arwen, graceful and beautiful Arwen, always by his side. A part of him wanted it fervently, and yet a part of him held back. It wasn’t right; it wasn’t his destiny.
He turned his face from the fire. ‘Destiny’ – how that word haunted him! He longed at times to return to the days of his youth before he had heard it uttered. A man should be free to make his own destiny! And yet he could feel his destiny inside him, guiding his choices, molding his heart, becoming his desires. Aragorn son of Arathorn, son of the great Kings of old; last of the Númenóreans; the heir of Isildur and the shards of Narsil, the sword that had cut the One Ring from the hand of Sauron himself. These were his heritage, and within their circle lay his destiny.
He did not feel himself a King of Men. He had no desire to exchange his comfortable ranger’s attire for regal robes, crown his dark hair in gold, or wield the power of a kingdom. He was content to sit here on the hard ground under the stars, feeling the night air feathering through his hair, listening to the sounds of peace.
Although he would be more content if he were not growing colder and colder!
Aragorn firmly pushed his thoughts away; they served no good. What would come would come. He would enjoy these nights under the stars while he could, and follow Eärendil wherever he led him.
He rose, rubbing his arms briskly to warm himself, and turned the clothes again, tempted to put on Legolas’ silvery shirt since it was the driest. He doubted if it would fit him, though, for his build was not lean and lithe like the Elf’s. He had the powerful body of a warrior, tempered by the grace and dexterity of a ranger of the woods. Doubtless the fine shirt would rip if he attempted to slide it over his broad shoulders.
He sat close to the low fire again, this time warming the other side of his bare body, and checked on the progress of the bundles of roasting meat. The aroma was tantalizing and his stomach growled longingly; he had not eaten since breaking camp early that morning. The smallest bundles were almost ready. He scanned the edge of the clearing, hoping that Legolas would return soon. He had a bit of lembas left in his pack to complement the meal.
Staring into the fire’s soft glow, the ranger’s thoughts returned once more to Arwen. It had been a long time since he had last sat before an open fire with her, but he remembered it clearly. She had sung to him while they cooked, merry celebrations of life and love, her gray eyes dancing with fire and laughter in equal measure. Afterwards, when the day was done and the fire was banked for the night, she had sung to him sweet songs of longing and belonging in a voice of velvet that wrapped around him. She had caressed his face with her gentle fingertips, brushed her lips against his ear and murmured his elven name Estel in her low, vibrant voice. If he closed his eyes he could imagine her there beside him now, her skin cool and soft to his touch, her long dark hair lightly tickling his chest as she leaned closer to kiss him.
Aragorn’s head jerked up. He had been so lost in his reverie that he had forgotten the present. It wouldn’t do for him to be caught off his guard when Legolas returned. The Elf moved with hardly a sound. It was hard for Aragorn to detect him when he was alert and impossible if he wasn’t.
The ranger diligently attended the bundles of meat, removing some that were done, turning others, and wishing that he could stoke up the fire. The glowing embers let off precious little warmth if he moved but a pace away. Occasionally he raised his head to look into the impenetrable darkness of the trees. He was sure that Legolas would return from a different direction than he had departed. Rubbing his skin again for the warmth of friction, he wondered why it was taking so long.
Then he heard Legolas call to him, the urgent sound carrying faintly through the woods. It was followed by low guttural sounds and the approaching footfalls of something far clumsier than an Elf.
In a flash Aragorn leapt to his feet, reaching for his nearby scabbard as he did so and drawing his sword from it with a ringing sound and a glint of steel. He turned in the direction of the call, but could see nothing in the darkness of the wood. Quickly he began to move away from the fire, senses tense and alert. Just as he opened his mouth to call out his friend’s name he heard Legolas cry out – in alarm or pain or both, he wasn’t sure. The throaty animal sounds coalesced into the roars of a warg attack.
Sword brandished in front of him, Aragorn let out a blood-curdling yell of his own as he abandoned all caution and charged into the woods. He burst through some thick bushes and came across a terrible scene. Legolas was down on the forest floor, a pale heap against the ground. He had a blood-covered arm raised protectively but uselessly over his head. Four hulking shapes were upon him, ready to rip that arm off and tear into him. Startled by Aragorn’s battle cry, they had paused and turned their wild red eyes his direction. He rushed them without hesitation, his voice thunderous with deadly intent.
The closest warg barely had time to switch from its helpless target to this new aggressor before Aragorn’s sword plunged into its chest, killing it instantly. The young ranger wrenched his blade out immediately to slash at another beast, giving it a lethal cut across the shoulder. He lunged again, and danced lightly backwards, drawing them away from his friend. Keeping an unblinking watch on the creatures, he called, “Legolas? Pylich eriad (Can you rise)?”
The only reply was a groan, but he could see the Elf’s fair head move slightly. He could also see now that Legolas’ weapons weren’t strapped to his back. Then a warg lunged at him with open jaws, and for a while he saw nothing but its coarse gray hair, red eyes, and vicious fangs. He moved back to keep it at sword’s length, as the other two closed in. They were cautious, now, working like the pack hunters they were, separating so as to be able to attack him from all sides.
Moving back again, Aragorn sought to keep them all roughly in front of him. “Erio, Legolas (Get up)!” he urged, drawing the wargs further away. Between the beasts he saw the Elf slowly push himself off the ground in response, before his attention was reclaimed by a lunge low at his feet. He managed to clip that one’s head and it bellowed in pain.
Then suddenly things happened in a blur of movement and sound and sensation: a flurry of thrusts and slashes with his sword, the smell of blood in his nostrils, the crunch of a warg’s body slamming into him and the painful scraping of his bare back against a tree, and the feral animal sounds filling his ears. He knew he’d connected a few blows but they were so close now that he didn’t have room to wield his sword. He punched one wet nose and tried to push another off him with one arm, muscles straining against its weight. He managed to get enough room to bring his sword up between them and cut into its hide, and it screamed a wild, frightening sound before it collapsed.
It was Aragorn’s turn to roar a moment later when one of the two remaining wargs snaked its head low and closed its jaws around his calf. He slammed the hilt of his sword down on its skull with all the strength he could muster, feeling a grim satisfaction when he heard a crunching sound. He fought to get into the open where he might have room to swing his sword, dodging to avoid a fatal bite to his throat, crying out when a set of claws raked across his chest, and getting in a glancing blow to the creature’s side. There was a stand-off, all three combatants breathing heavily and eyeing each other warily as they planned their next moves.
One warg seemed to be teetering on its feet after the brain-crushing blow Aragorn had delivered to its head, and the ranger knew that it was the lesser threat. The other one, bleeding and enraged, seemed to be tiring. Off to the right he could see Legolas getting to his feet now, but holding a tree for support. “Pylich anglennad i naur (Can you get to the fire)?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the animals.
“Im… Pylin (I... I can),” Legolas replied, trying to sound confident, but Aragorn had known him for too long to be fooled by a show of strength. Growing more worried about his friend’s injuries, he swung his sword and feigned a lunge to keep the wargs focused on him.
“Ennas i higil faras nîn (My hunting knife is there).”
Legolas began to hobble towards the very faint glow of the fire, but his movements were so stiff and halting that Aragorn’s fear doubled. One warg turned to pursue the Elf, and Aragorn had to leap to engage it. The dark beast swung back to face him, but it was moving sluggishly. Gathering his strength, Aragorn swung his sword and cut the warg’s head off.
The momentum of his strike spun him around, and while he was off-balance the last warg leapt upon him, knocking him down under its heavy body, its claws digging painfully into his naked flesh. His sword was useless now, and he let it fall. He had only his bare hands to fend the animal off, grasping at its blood-slick fur and struggling to keep the gaping jaws from his head. In spite of its injuries the warg had the strength of rage and desperation. He twisted and rolled beneath it but was unable to get it off his chest. His hands slipped repeatedly in its wet fur, and he cried out as its teeth ripped his flesh, but got a new grip and kept the mouth inches away from his head. His hands bled freely, the skin hanging off his knuckles in bloodied strips, and a close call had opened a gash on his jaw, but he barely felt the wounds. All that mattered was the dripping fangs that lunged again and again to puncture his jugular.
Suddenly there was a flash of steel and a disturbance of the air. Mere inches from his face, Aragorn’s knife lodged into the warg’s eye. It let out a long, agonized gurgle, and collapsed on him in a lifeless heap. Twisting his body beneath its weight and trying to rise, Aragorn saw Legolas through the trees some twenty paces away, from where he had thrown the weapon with deadly accuracy. He was about to call his heartfelt thanks for the timely intervention when the Elf’s slender frame suddenly lurched against a tree trunk and sank slowly to the ground.
“Legolas!” he cried out in
alarm, urgently shoving the heavy warg off his body and running to his friend’s
side.
~
Companions ~
Aragorn dropped to his knees beside Legolas’ prone body. The Elf was alarmingly pale and his lips moved soundlessly. “Avo bedo, mellonen, i vaeth orthornen (Don't speak, my friend, the fight is won),” the ranger assured him. The anxious crease in Legolas’ forehead disappeared with relief. “Sedho. Cenithon i gairdh ym di levain dheleb agorer (Lay still. I will see what evil deeds those abominable animals wrought).”
Legolas steeled himself for his friend’s examination, clamping his teeth together to contain any outcries of pain as Aragorn gently turned his right hand over, seeking the source of the copious blood that was still slick on his chest. He blanched when the Man’s fingers wiped at the blood and found the jagged tears on both sides of his arm.
Aragorn concentrated solely on what had to be done and did not look at his friend’s taut face. He was relieved to discover that the blood on the Elf’s torso was entirely from the wounded arm, and that the vital organs were undamaged. There was a nasty wound on the back of his head, but it was not deep. Aragorn retrieved his knife from the warg’s head, cleaned it on the grass, and carefully cut a slit up the Elf’s blood-soaked pants to better examine the dark furrows raked across his thigh. He gently felt along the bones for breaks, pausing when pressure along the rib cage elicited a spasm. He could see the effort it took Legolas to keep silent. He finished his examination as quickly and tenderly as he could, and winced every time he caused his friend more pain.
When he was done he mentally categorized the Elf’s injuries and the extent to which the foul saliva had spread through his system. He considered which ingredients he would need for a curative poultice to counter the poisonous effect. He then examined his own injuries. His hands were in bad shape, his skin shredded in many places. He was concerned about the bite on his left calf, which was deep and jagged, but was confident that he would heal. It was his companion who needed more urgent attention.
Placing a bloodied hand gently on Legolas’ shoulder, Aragorn reassured him. “Avo garo naeth, Legolas. Chen celithon nan hîr ar cerithon buig i cheiru hin (Don't worry, Legolas. I will carry you to the stream to cleanse these wounds).”
Legolas opened his eyes with difficulty, for his head was spinning. He had lost a lot of blood, he realized dimly. “Pylin padad (I can walk).” He tried to sit up, and let out a sharp cry when his broken rib stabbed him inside. He bit down hard on his lower lip to stifle it.
“Seidio i vellas chîn, mellonen 'ornui (Save your strength, my brave friend),” Aragorn told him grimly. He slid one arm under the Elf’s knees and the other beneath his shoulders, managing to keep hold of his knife. He grunted in pain as he rose, and shifted the weight off his injured leg. Legolas was not as heavy as his height would suggest, and normally the ranger would have no trouble bearing him, but his leg could barely take his own weight now.
Legolas murmured a sound of protest, realizing that his friend was injured, but his eyes were sliding shut even as he did so.
“Pylin han cared (I can manage),” Aragorn said firmly. It wasn’t far to the stream bed, but his leg hurt every step of the way. Gingerly he lay the Elf down on the bank. “Minui thenithon i naur. Sedho (First I will kindle the fire. Be still),” he advised, and then realized that his words were unneeded; Legolas was unconscious.
Fearful now, the ranger limped over to the fire as quickly as he could. Jabbing at the embers with a stick to rouse them, he quickly added fuel from the small stack he had gathered earlier, pushing the bundles of meat out of the way. Lowering his face to the embers, he blew urgently on them. Within moments tongues of fire were licking the tinder, avidly devouring it and lapping hungrily at the kindling. Aragorn placed some larger pieces over the flames and laid the coarse boar skin on the ground close by; it would provide a layer of insulation from the cold ground during the night. Then he returned to the stream, gritting his teeth against the pain. During the fight, with adrenaline rushing through his body, he had been able to block it out, but now it intruded on his every breath.
He looked down at the dark flowing water with displeasure. The stream had been cold enough earlier in the day. It would feel even colder now, and the night air would wrap itself around their wet bodies like a blanket of winter when they emerged. Still, there was nothing for it. The blood had to be washed away to expose and cleanse the wounds that they may be dressed. Lowering himself stiffly, he once again caught up his friend in his arms, scraping his poor hands roughly on the ground.
Consciousness returned to Legolas with a fiery stab when he was lifted again. Too late he pressed his lips tightly shut: the cry had already escaped.
“Avo garo naeth (Don’t worry),” Aragorn assured him, knowing how the Elf would hate showing any sign of weakness. “Goston nallatham nu i vethed. Si tangado chűr. I nen chelch negitha. (I fear we will both cry out before this is finished. Now be ready. The cold water will sting.)”
Taking a steadying breath, Aragorn stepped down into the water. He inhaled sharply at the icy shock of it. Deeper he waded, letting out a growl between clenched teeth as the water washed into the wound on his leg. He could see the mute sympathy on Legolas’ face. Forcing himself to keep going, wanting to get it over and done with, he took another step and another. Every fiber of his being wanted nothing more than to turn and escape to the fire, infection be damned!
Legolas’ whole body tensed unbearable when the cold water reached him. It bit into every cut and bite like icicles stabbing at his core. His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white with strain. The water in the wound on his arm was both fiery and freezing simultaneously.
Relentlessly, Aragorn went deeper, until they were both submerged up to their necks and Legolas was floating in his arms. He used one hand to tip the archer’s head back, letting the water flow over his temples and wash the blood from his face. Legolas had shut his eyes tightly, whether in pain or to prevent Aragorn from seeing his pain, he wasn’t sure. After a minute he realized that the initial shock had been the worst of it. The cold water was numbing him.
“Garo ranc nîn. Nestegithon dhôlen nuin nen (Hold my arm. I'm going to put my head under the water,” Aragorn bid his friend, placing the Elf’s uninjured hand on his shoulder. Taking a deep breath and bracing himself, he swiftly sank his head beneath the surface. The cold almost took his breath away. His flayed fingers worked quickly at rinsing his scalp and hair, and then he burst to the surface in relief.
“Cheiru chîn faeg (Are your wounds bad)?” Legolas asked in a weak voice such as Aragorn had never before heard from him.
“Ú-faeg. Broniathon (Not bad. I will endure),” the ranger said gruffly, taking hold once again of his friend’s body and wading from the water.
Legolas looked at him with concerned, knowing eyes. “Cennin gaim chîn (I saw your hands)."
“Nestathar (They will heal),” Aragorn said shortly. He resolutely limped towards the beckoning firelight, thankful for the numbing effect of the water, but the breeze felt like a wintry wind against his wet skin. He lowered Legolas onto the boar skin. Plucking his still-damp shirt from the tree, he dried his friend’s cold body, being careful to pat the gaping wounds. The cold water had stopped the bleeding at last. He dried himself next, less gently and more hurriedly. Legolas’ eyes were glazed, and he laid limp and shivering on the ground. Elves did not normally feel the cold as Humans did, and Aragorn knew it was a sign of how badly hurt he was.
Aragorn laid the Elf’s fine, soft shirt over him, covering him as best he could and wishing it was of a heavier material. He added more kindling to the fire to keep it blazing, and then pulled his damp pants on with a grimace. “Cerithon helaib nestadren an nuithad i baw (I will make a poultice to prevent infection),” he told his friend. “Athelithon lagor (I will return swiftly).”
Legolas tried to reply, but the sounds that came from his lips made no sense, and his eyes again drifted closed.
Knowing that speed was of the essence, the ranger grabbed a fiery branch in one hand and his knife in the other and headed into the black woods. There were many plants whose medicinal purposes were known to him; Elrond had schooled him well in the healing arts from boyhood. He searched for the ones he needed, chafing at how long it was taking. His eyes darted everywhere, keeping a lookout for predators in case there had been more wargs in the pack. He doubted his ability to defend himself or his companion in his current state, and only then realized that his sword was still lying beside the dead wargs. Aware, too, that Legolas lay unguarded and defenseless, he looked in frustration for one more essential ingredient.
When at last he found it he returned to the fire, clutching the plants against his chilled body. The numbness was wearing off, but the cold was increasing. It was, he decided, a miserable state of affairs. He called to Legolas but received no reply. Worriedly he shook the Elf’s shoulder and lightly slapped his cheeks until the blue eyes struggled open again.
“Lasto bith nîn, avo firo (Listen to my words, don't fade),” he encouraged. Pulling close the rock he had used earlier for mixing the seasoning herbs, Aragorn set to work beside his friend. His eyes flew from his task to Legolas’ face constantly, and he talked to him unceasingly to keep him awake.
Legolas let the words wash over him; they were meaningless sounds drifting on a tide of throbbing pain that lapped at the edges of his consciousness. He was faintly aware of the firelight and turned his face towards it, but could not feel its warmth. His thoughts slid unbidden to a time, hundreds of seasons past, when he had been poisoned by the blade of an Orc. Then, too, he had felt creeping fingers of cold death closing around his body. Into this memory intruded an insistent sound. Slowly he turned his face towards it. With effort he focused his gaze on Aragorn’s worried face.
“Do not worry so,” he wanted to say. “I do not fear death.” But the words jumbled somewhere from brain to lips and came out as nonsensical noise.
Aragorn left his friend’s side briefly to fetch water, letting out a guttural sound of agony when he dipped his shredded hands into the stream. When the poultice was ready he forced his stiffening fingers to cut his shirt into strips for bandages. “Legolas? Legolas!” he demanded, but there was no response. He decided it was just as well that the Elf was unconscious for this, and spread the medicine into the awful tears in the archer’s arm. Elves had healing powers beyond those of humans. If he had made the poultice correctly and the infection had not had time to take hold, time would heal him.
Working quickly from experience, Aragorn tended and bandaged all the Elf’s wounds. Only then did he turn his attentions to the pulsating throbs of his leg, and last of all his flayed hands. He wrapped the remaining pieces of his shirt around them with a groan, wishing he could join his friend in the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. The night, however, demanded vigilance, especially in their vulnerable state. He risked leaving Legolas alone briefly again to fetch his sword, and felt better with it lying on the ground beside him, even though he could barely lift it with his swollen, bandaged hands.
He kept the fire burning brightly for fear that the cold would finish what the wargs had started. Some of the boar meat had burned, and he used a stick to clumsily push the bundles out of the fire and onto the ground. His stomach was empty, but he couldn’t eat with his hands wrapped and didn’t think it wise to remove the bandages.
The night wore on. The stars followed their familiar paths overhead ever so slowly. For long silent minutes Aragorn would gaze up at them blankly, shivering. He checked on Legolas regularly, pulling aside the light elven shirt and laying his cheek against the archer’s chest to listen for his heartbeat. It was weak, but it remained steady. The archer’s skin was unnaturally cold, so Aragorn sat close, sharing what little warmth he had to offer.
Occasionally he dragged himself up to search for more firewood, wishing there were enough wood in the entire forest to bring warmth to his bones. In the cold his sore muscles stiffened, and getting up became harder and harder as Eärendil sailed peacefully overhead.
At one point Legolas stirred fitfully, muttering something under his
breath and breathing in short, haggard gasps. Aragorn spoke to him in a low
encouraging voice, clasping the Elf’s chilled fingers and breathing warm air
on them. Seeing his friend’s brow drawn in deep lines of pain, he softly
crooned to him a lilting song of the changing seasons in Mirkwood in the time
when it had been known as
When the sleepy sun finally peered through the trees, Aragorn raised his weary eyes to it in surprise that the long night had come to an end. Had he dozed off? The fire still burned and crackled; his sword still lay at his side, stained with the blood of the wargs. He turned his heavy head to check on Legolas, patting at his chest clumsily with his mitts and calling his name.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the Elf opened his eyes. “Anor eria, mellonen (The sun rises, my friend).”
Legolas ran his tongue over his parched lips and grimaced when a slight movement brought fiery life to his forearm. He tried to speak but could only croak. Aragorn used a lasonorn leaf to scoop some water from the stream and wet Legolas’ lips and mouth.
Chafing at his helpless state, Legolas flexed his stiff fingers and raised his head slightly. “Ian ech i aur hen, Aragorn (How are you this morning)?” he asked, noting now the thickly wrapped hands, the raw gash across the man’s lower jaw, and the long raised welts across his chest that could not be bandaged.
“Ú-‘orf, mellon nîn (Tired, my friend),” Aragorn said, making light of it. “Boe cenin cheiru chîn (I need to examine your wounds).” He removed the bandages from his own hands first, and then did the same for the Elf’s forearm, trying not to jostle it. He gently wiped away the remnants of the poultice and bent low to examine the flesh for infection. Pale and wan, Legolas silently submitted to having a fresh layer of the stinging medicine applied and the bandages rewrapped.
“Nesta (It heals),” was all that the ranger would say, but it was comfort enough to the Elf. If infection had not set in by now, all would be well. It would not be long before he was stringing arrows with ease.
When Aragorn had finished with their other injuries and rewrapped his trembling hands, Legolas said, “Garo dulu enni na chared (Help me to sit up).”
“Avo ingin (I don’t think so)!” the Man said, shaking his head in refusal.
“Boe losto ar nesto thraw chîn (You must sleep and let your body heal),” Legolas argued in a reasonable manner.
Aragorn could not deny that, but gestured to the Elf's ribcage. “Ú-bylich hared; gerich aes narchennen. (You cannot sit; you have a broken bone).”
“Garo dulu enni, hodathon dan i ‘aladh hen ar chen tirithon (Help me, I will rest against this tree and watch over you),” Legolas insisted. “Istach boe, mellonen neth (You know it is necessary, my young friend),” he added in a persuasive tone. “Agorech vudas chîn. Celithon i gaul cellich trîn fuin (You have done your job. Let me now bear the burden you carried through the night).”
Aragorn searched his face, and saw that his eyes had life and brightness in them again. With a reluctant sigh, he relented. “Ae dhannathach, iauron hael, ú-bylithon chen gaded (If you fall, wise old one, I cannot catch you),” he warned, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Dannathon bo nad voe, sui dhôl chîn (I will fall on something soft, like your head),” the archer replied lightly. “Si annach enni gam chîn (Now give me your hand).”
Grinning, Aragorn held out his useless hands.
“Ranc chîn (Your arm),” Legolas amended with an answering smile.
With a bit of difficulty, the two hunters linked their elbows together and Aragorn pulled Legolas to his feet. Pain shadowed the Elf’s features for a moment, but he conquered it. Between them they somehow got his shirt on – it was long-since dried but alas, no longer clean.
Legolas stood stiffly, his back propped against the tree trunk, the sun’s rays falling across his hair and burnishing it golden. “Anno enni vagol chîn (Give your sword to me),” he said, and Aragorn set it in the ground like a staff for him to lean against. “Si losto, mellonen, chen tirithon. Naid bain vaer. (Now sleep, my friend, I will watch over you. All is well.)”
Aragorn wasn’t convinced that Legolas had the strength yet to actually wield his heavy blade, but he knew that as long as the Elf had breath left in him, no harm would come to him while he slept. He patted his friend’s shoulder with one mitted hand, and lay down on the boar skin, still warm from Legolas’ body. Closing his eyes at last, he felt the warmth of the fire caress his face and ease his weary body.
The archer gazed down at the young
Man, watching his face grow slack as sleep pulled him into her soothing, healing
embrace. Raising
his eyes to the glory of the new morning, Legolas sang softly in the dawn while
his companion slept safely at his feet.
~
The End ~