Rating: PG-13 to R (Angst... proceed with caution)

Summary: When Legolas is forced to make a decision that could very
well determine the fate of all Middle Earth, what will he do? And
what consequences will his choice have?

Disclaimer and Acknowledgements: As in Chapter 1

// = elvish translations
# = flashbacks
* = thought

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chapter 4 - The Messenger

Aragorn’s breath caught in his throat and a wave of panic washed over him. The two brothers made their way towards their friend in a few quick steps and Elrohir reached under the injured elf’s chin, afraid of what he was going to find… or rather what he was not going to find. He fumbled around frantically searching for a sign of life and let out a sigh of relief when he felt the weak pulse under his fingers. "He’s alive but barely. Let’s get him back to camp," Elrohir reached over and scooped the prince off the ground, one hand wrapping around his shoulders and the other supporting him behind the knees. He clutched the frail body close to him and his steps became more urgent when he felt an unnatural heat emanating from the young elf prince. Aragorn hurried behind his brother trying to keep up with his long strides.

Laying his precious burden down beside the fire, Elrohir took a closer look at Legolas. The prince was a sorry sight. He looked deadly pale, his clothes torn and bloody and his hair matted with dried blood. A deep cut ran from his right temple down to his cheek and a dark bruise marring the left side of his face. Red welts and torn flesh covered his wrists and judging from the injury, he had been held suspended by his captor… or captors. The shoulder and chest wound looked bad but not life threatening. However, Aragorn’s brow knotted as he examined the wounds more closely. Something is not right… The injuries looked fresh, barely half an hour old but if Legolas had been attacked only recently, the prince would not have been left in such weakened state. It looked to him that his friend had travelled long and far but if so, the wound would have started to heal by now and he would not have developed an infection-induced fever. "Estel, bring me my pack," Elrohir’s voice brought him back to the present and he hurried over to where they had left their belongings. He found Elrohir’s pack and gripping it firmly in his left hand, he rummaged through his own pack for the extra cloak that he was forced to bring. For once, he was grateful for his brother's fierce protectiveness of him.

The fire at their camp flickered, the amber flame dying slowly in the cold night. Elrohir rested one hand on the elf prince’s uninjured shoulder and pressed his other hand on Legolas’ forehead, feeling his body temperature raising. Cold sweat dampened his hair and soaked through his clothing. A gust of wind swept over them causing the unconscious elf to shiver uncontrollably, his body shaking like a frail leaf under Elrohir’s hands.

"Hurry, Estel!" the twin beckoned to the young man anxiously. "Tend to Legolas while I fetch more wood for the fire. We must keep him warm."

Upon seeing the ranger’s approach, Elrohir gave a small nod and rose, vacating his spot for Aragorn. He did not want to risk sending his brother into the night for the firewood. The task was more fitting for him as his elven senses were more suitable for working in the dark. Aragorn walked swiftly over and settled down, spreading the extra cloak over his friend’s legs and pulling it up to his waist. He sifted through the items in Elrohir’s pack. Picking out a piece of clean cloth and wetting it with some water, he gently cleaned the wounds on the elf’s shoulder and chest as best as he could. Finding the appropriate herbs in the pack, he crushed them in his hand and made them into a sticky paste with some water. The elf prince moaned when the paste was applied to the wounds but quieted down when Aragorn soothed him softly as he dressed the cuts. When that was done, he pulled the cloak up to Legolas’ shoulder, tugging the edges firmly under the elf. Aragorn discarded the soiled cloth in exchange for a new one. Dampening it again with water, he proceeded to wipe away the blood on his friend’s face, frowning as he saw that the wound was still bleeding, blood sipping out slowly from the deep gash. He pressed the cloth onto the wound to staunch the bleeding when it happened.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The pain in his head jerked him back into the cruel reality. His head pounded painfully but he forced his eyes open nevertheless. Heat burned through his body but yet he felt chilled to the bone. A blur figure loomed before him, silhouetted against the dim fire. *No!* his feverish mind screamed. *This cannot be true!* He was still there with Delund. But he remembered walking for hours away from the nightmarish place. Or was it just a hallucination brought on by the fever? He had tried so hard… but everything he did… all the pain that he’d gone through… was in vain. He had never left the cave. He was still with the monster that had taken him by force. Realising that his hands were no longer bound, Legolas swung at the hated figure with strength that he didn’t know he had, his fist connecting with the figure’s jaw sending his captor reeling backwards. Jumping up unsteadily to his feet, eyes darted around taking in his surrounding, he looked for a best route of escape.

Aragorn was caught completely off guard as Legolas attacked him. He fell backwards onto the ground as he watched the frantic elf sprang onto his feet, swaying dangerously as the cloak fell into a heap onto the forest floor. Aragorn pushed himself off the ground, stepping forward, ready to catch him should he fall but was taken aback by Legolas’ reaction. The elf backed away from the human in quick succession, his fevered mind showing him the face of Delund instead of his long time friend. "No… I will not help you…" he whimpered, shaking his head vigorously. Desperate to reach his friend, Aragorn took another step forward but his action only caused the elf more distress. Legolas stumbled backwards in panic, ramming his back into a tree, the impact knocking the air out of him. He gasped and sank onto the grass, finally accepting the unacceptable. Broken and defeated, he hugged his knees and hung his head, a small sob left his trembling lips.

Aragorn approached the elf cautiously, not knowing what had caused him to react that way. His heart twisted painfully in his chest as he watched the elf curled up on himself like some trapped animal. The young elf flinched as Aragorn carefully reached out to clasp his shoulders, his head snapping up, his haunted silver-blue eyes staring at him without recognition. Bright red blood soaked through the bandages as the wound was torn open by his harsh movements during the escape.

To Be Continued...