Elrohir entered Estel’s room carefully balancing an enormous tray of food in one hand, while the other turned the door handle. Reaching the table without any mishap he lowered the tray down, thankfully, without spilling anything. Casting an eye over the food he was disappointed that Elladan had not appeared in the kitchens, there was plenty of waste from the night before that would have been just perfect as a projectile. Taking a hunk of bread for himself, he turned to the bed to offer Aragorn some breakfast. Sighing, he was unsurprised to see the bed empty, linens rumpled and twisted, pillow thrown across the room in a fit of rage. Inwardly he had known that Estel would not find rest last night, but he had hoped that torment would have been spared from his brother. His troubled eyes roamed the room, noting from the scattered bedclothes that he seemed to have spent much of the night pacing, not sleeping, and he sighed again knowing just how bad the night terrors must have been to have forced the exhausted human from his much needed rest.

Feeling the bedclothes with one hand, Elrohir determined that they had not been used for at least an hour; knowing Estel it would have been much longer. He had heard the man checking on Legolas last night, but had hoped that the worst of the dreams would be over after that. Filling a plate with food, he opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside. His heart briefly clenched, as he perceived Aragorn leaning over the rail, gazing down as though to jump, but before he could fling down the plate and grab him, Aragorn looked up at him. Elrohir was struck silent at the pain that dulled the grey orbs staring at him. Gone was the enthusiasm, the sparkle that attracted so many to Estel.

Colourless eyes, the whites streaked with red from too many tears, were half-closed in physical and emotional fatigue. Deep shadows framed them, the smears standing out harshly against his pale, drawn face. Elrohir could bear it no longer and, putting the plate down on the bench, stepped hurriedly forward, wrapping his arms around his brother, and drawing him close. Elrohir could feel Estel shivering in the chill air of the morning, despite the blanket wrapped around him. He pulled him closer still, one hand at the nape of his neck, and the other on the back of his head, drawing it onto his shoulder. As Estel continued to tremble, the hand at his neck lowered, and began to rub soothing circles on his back, calming him.

Long minutes passed as the two stood there, taking comfort in the embrace. Deaf to the growing noises of the household, ignorant of the sun’s light rising up towards them, they stood. Eventually Estel pulled away, unwilling and undeserving of any comfort. Elrohir did not let him pull away far, leaving a comforting hand upon his shoulder, guiding him to sit down upon the bench. Aragorn curled his legs up beneath him and continued to gaze out into the grounds, ignoring both Elrohir, and the plate of food he placed in front of him. As he stared out at nothing, memories returned to torment him.

//

Aragorn flung himself to the ground, ignoring the stones that attempted to impale him, focussing his attention solely on the falling figure. Legolas lifted up his eyes, displaying only mirth; no hint of fear or even recognition, no hint that this action could result in his death. As Aragorn watched, Legolas fell ever lower, until he sank beyond sight, into the waters below.

“NOOOOOOO!” he cried. “LEGOLAS!”

Aragorn was on the point of diving after his friend, but realised that if he injured himself in the fall he would be unable to help Legolas. Throwing down his pack he glanced rapidly around him, searching for the easiest way down, and flung himself along it with little regard to his own safety. The dry soil provided no stable purchase for his weight and, rather than running down the steep slope, he spent much of his time trying to keep his footing whilst maintaining his speed. The knowledge that even elves needed oxygen to survive enabled him to give extra speed to his movements, despite his fatigue, and he abandoned all thoughts of safety, relying upon his natural instinct for balance to preserve him. Eventually, after some hair-raising moments teetering on the brink of falling, he found himself, panting, at the cliff bottom.

There was no trace of the elf, no sign that anyone had fallen in and disturbed the serenity. The waters were smooth and calm, although light ripples caused by the breeze produced a distorted image of the overhanging trees and sky above, preventing Aragorn from seeing beneath the surface. A quick glance at the lake’s edges revealed no tracks, no broken branches or fallen leaves, no marks in the mud to indicate that another creature had passed this way. No sign of any life. Realising that Legolas had not managed to find his way out of the water, Aragorn prepared himself to search the lake for his friend’s body. Removing his cloak and boots, Aragorn dived into the water, eyes open against the pressure, desperately searching for any traces of colour that might lead him to the elf.

For over an hour he continued in his futile search beneath the waters, his need for oxygen frequently forcing him to abandon it, and resurface. His eyes became half closed; partly due to the coolness of the water, but mostly because of the irritation caused by the layers of silt that had risen from Legolas’ uncontrolled dive. He continually tried to brush aside the silt with his hand, in order to see through it, but this was proving ineffectual. Despite the low level of visibility, Aragorn was able to determine that Legolas had not met his fate here. Following the path of the silt to its origin, he had observed a very recent elf-shaped dent in the residue on the lake bottom; it was clear that Legolas had landed here. The depth of the water was unfortunately too shallow to have done more than slow the elf’s momentum; it could not stop him impacting the ground. But Legolas was not to be found here, nor anywhere below the surface that Aragorn could see. Resurfacing for the last time, shivering in despair and the cool breeze that permeated the surface, Aragorn staggered out of the lake, donned his discarded clothes, and continued with the search.

//

Aragorn jumped, startled, as Elrohir shook him. He turned reflexively to face his brother, wide eyes still glazed in shock and memory.

The youngest twin placed his hand on the side of Aragorn’s face, preventing him from turning away. Looking him deep in the eyes, he willed him to see the truth in his. “Estel, it was not your fault. You did not force the orcs to attack, nor did you know that the Rucin would have such an adverse effect upon elves.”

Aragorn stared blankly back at Elrohir, unable to completely relinquish the grip the images had upon him.

Elrohir frowned at the lack of response, and tried again. “Legolas was in pain, you needed to give him something for it else he would likely not be here now. Estel, both Elladan and myself would have done exactly the same as you; you are not in the wrong here!”

The wearied eyes blinked at this, a quiet, hoarse voice issued from below. “You would?”

Relieved that Aragorn was listening, and had finally spoken, Elrohir continued. “Ai, we would. There is nothing we would have done differently.” Elrohir nodded vigorously in agreement with his statement. “If either of us saw the other in pain and knew of something that would ease it, we would not hesitate to use it. We have taught you well to act as we would.” Elrohir sighed thankfully as some of the pain in Aragorn’s eyes was eased. “Father was just worried about Legolas last night; he did not mean his words to you. He probably did not even realise what he was saying would hurt so much.”

At the mention of his foster-father, Aragorn’s tension was reawakened. His raspy voice, brittle with despair, was haunted at the memory of his father’s accusations. “He has been concerned for Legolas’ health before and has not reacted in such a manner, I cannot believe that this was the cause of his words to me. No, it is me he is angry at, and my actions; ergo I must be at fault somewhere.” Aragorn tried to duck away from Elrohir’s grip, but was not allowed.

Unwilling to let Estel turn away from the truth, his brother rested his other hand on Estel’s face, gently cradling it. Wiping away the tearstains from the night before with his thumbs, he tried for a third time to convince Aragorn that it was Elrond at fault not him. “You cannot believe that you are the cause of Legolas’ mishap. One word in a conversation does not put you at fault. Chances are that he would have injured himself further, in a far more tragic way, had you not mentioned flying.”

Although Aragorn remained looking away, somewhat of the heaviness in his features and posture was relaxing. Noting that his words were beginning to sink in, Elrohir sighed in relief. “Come inside Estel, you are still shivering, and the sun is hardly quiet today. You were soaked yesterday, and it can hardly have helped staying out here for most of the night. Come, I need your help to plan my revenge upon Elladan.”

Expecting at least a half-hearted inquiry, from Aragon, about Elladan’s antics, Elrohir was dismayed to see Aragorn’s shivers increase, and the clarity in his eyes begin to fade. Elrohir’s distraction had been working until Aragorn was reminded of his frantic search consuming most of yesterday. He could not soon forget the long hours spent diving and resurfacing in the lake, hunting along the shores ignoring his fatigue, guilt forcing him onwards to uncover Legolas’ fate.

//

Aragorn had reached the conclusion now that the elf could not have survived both the fall and the river in his drugged and probably unconscious state. His observation of the lake had detected a small current that was perhaps strong enough to pull Legolas’ body away from the impact site. Aragorn resigned himself to a long walk circling the lake’s edge, following the current. He began walking.

Despite all reason telling him that Legolas had perished in the fall, Estel was unable to prevent himself from closely examining the ground in the hope that Legolas had somehow survived the fall, and dragged himself out. Hope was too much a part of his character for him to surrender easily to despair. For several hours he shivered in the stiff breeze that disturbed the water, as he staggered on exhaustedly, searching desperately for any sign that Legolas still lived. Submerged in his guilt, mentally rehearsing how to tell Elrond, and worse Thranduil, how Legolas had died because of his faults, Aragorn’s faltering steps took him to a small stream. The entrance was almost obscured by the overhanging trees and, gently brushing aside the leaves, he lurched to a halt as he espied a figure facedown at the shore, still half submerged in the water.

He had finally found his friend, still and lifeless.

For more than a passing amount of time Aragorn had remained rooted to the spot, unable to approach and confirm that Legolas had perished in the fall. Eventually he had braved up enough courage and waded out into the water to retrieve the body. His hand was stayed just before it made contact.

Aragorn gazed down at his friend, tears building, as he stared at the mud-coated form, so still before him. Dropping to his knees beside Legolas, heedless of the cold water that soaked him, Aragorn gently lifted the elf into his arms. Brushing away the mud from his eyes and hair he held him close, tears falling in earnest now. The chill from the water had seeped into him; numb hands clutched the elf’s body to his chest, afraid to let him go. As he was beginning to lose all feeling, Aragorn felt an unexpected warmth against his icy skin. Puzzled he lifted his hand and saw blood on it, Legolas’ blood, mingled with silt and water. Remorsefully, Aragorn examined Legolas for injury, discovering that his head wound, obviously received by impacting on the lake floor, still bled.

STILL BLED?

But that would mean…

Legolas lived! As Aragorn began to reason through the despair that gripped him, he realised that the body he held so tightly to him, was rising and falling regularly, he was breathing!

Frantically checking for a pulse to confirm the unbelievable, Estel could feel the warmth of the elf’s breath where his head lay supported on Aragorn’s chest.

‘How could he have missed this?’ he wondered.

Rising to his feet he gathered the trembling form in his arms, and, shuddering with relief, began the long trek home to safety.

//

He had not felt warm since first seeing Legolas fall; indeed Aragorn was not even aware that he shivered, still. Consumed with memory, he was unable to quiet his mind enough to gain sufficient rest to cope with the images he re-experienced. He desperately hoped that he could sleep, that when he awakened everything would be less stark, less painful, but in order to sleep he need to forget. It was a vicious circle, which he could not break, and it was severely weighing him down with guilt and exhaustion.

Aragorn curled himself in more tightly for warmth and protection. Exhaustion permeated every muscle in his body, and he was unable to prevent his slide down the bench. Resting his overly weighty head upon Elrohir’s broad shoulder, he tensed slightly as he felt his brother’s arm wrap over his shoulder, pulling him in. His mind believed him undeserving of comfort, but his body welcomed it.

The transition from wakefulness to rest did not come easy for him; he was unable to prevent flashes of memory from attacking him. Every time, as he was close to drifting off, the images would cause him to flinch awake, forcing him further from sleep. His father’s accusing voice echoed in his mind. Just as he was losing all hope, a soothing hand began gently easing away his tension, comforting him, allowing him sink much nearer unconsciousness. His desperate need for sleep was still interlaced with horrifying memories, but these were chased away by his brother’s comforting presence. Supported and temporarily feeling secure, Aragorn slept.