Legolas staggered along the corridor, stumbling and resting his hand against the wall. He leaned against it, fighting to catch his breath, very concerned over how weak he was. It had only been a few days since he had been his usual sturdy self, but now he had lost almost all motor-control, and he found himself struggling to perform the simplest of movements. Confusingly, and very worryingly, the corridor seemed to be closing in on him.

Blinking rapidly, everything seemed to return to its proper position, as he caught a glimpse of Elrond turning the corner ahead of him. Elrond was extremely worried about his youngest, and it showed in his gait. Concern for his son outweighing that for his patient, he had stormed ahead, unaware of Legolas’ fading strength. Sighing, Legolas pushed himself away from the wall, and headed after him.

Finally rounding the corner, Legolas saw the elven-lord waiting at the head of the stairs for him. A muttered oath reached his ears and then Elrond was beside him, taking some of his weight.

“Do not fight me, young prince,” Elrond said sternly, as Legolas fought the supporting arm he had placed around his shoulders. “It is not a sign of weakness to ask for help when it is required.”

When Elrond’s gaze lifted up to watch the steps as he climbed, Legolas aimed a glare at the back of his head.

“If you keep up that expression, young elf, your face will freeze and you will spend the rest of eternity wearing it.” Elrond’s voice contained a hint of amusement at Legolas’ shocked expression.

“How? Who?” Legolas spluttered. The elven-lord had not turned to look at him, there were no mirrors, nothing to give his expression away. How had Elrond known what he was doing?

Sensing Legolas’ perplexity, Elrond turned to the prince and the smile upon his face only infuriated the younger elf more.

“I have had three sons, Legolas,” he replied. “When you are a father it is a trick that you will learn to master.”

His smile slipped as talk of his sons reminded him that he needed to inform Estel and the twins about what had happened to Celebrian, what was now happening to Legolas, and why he had behaved in the appalling manner he had. He eyed Legolas worriedly, searching all the while for signs that the Rucin was taking a hold of him again, before retaking his arm. He aided the invalided elf up the stone stairs, and the two made their way to Aragorn’s chambers. Eventually reaching the door, Elrond entered bringing Legolas with him.

“Elbereth,” he swore. Looking around at the mess Aragorn had made, he swore again. “What has the fool done now?”

His lips pursed as he surveyed the room, noticing instantly that several items of clothing were missing. Stepping back into the corridor, he quickly stopped a passing elf and beseeched him to run down to the stables and ask Rúndil not to let anyone take a horse and leave. As he re-entered the room he flinched involuntarily when a gust of wind drove the raindrops harder against the window panes, reminding him that the storm was still out there. He guided Legolas to a seat on the bed, and found himself inexorably drawn to the window. His march over there, to stare out into the storm and will it to fade, was interrupted as he picked up the remains of a leather-bound book.

Unable to cope with a second bout of manhandling, the burnt pages crumpled under Elrond’s touch. A tear dripped from his eyes at the sight, pooling in the ashes cupped in his palm. Clenching his fist closed over the soot he raised his hand to his chest, heedless of the stains that he was leaving on his robes.

“Oh Estel,” he whispered. “There is no need to run. I understand ion nin. Truly I do.”

He sat on the window seat, gazing out through the streaked pane. The storm was dying down now, but the occasional gust was still striking with some force. Elrond was directing the storm away, sending it back up to the mountains where it could deposit its load with little fear of harm to persons, houses or livestock. He fervently hoped that Estel was not outside, as Legolas feared.

LEGOLAS!

His eyes widened as he realised that he had not heard any sound from him recently, and he spun in his seat. Elrond noted immediately that the blond elf was not anywhere in Aragorn’s chambers. Rising to his feet, he trod hasty steps to the door and paused to peer in both directions for the missing elf. Noticing no sign of him, nor of his passing, Elrond followed the direction his heart beckoned him in, and hurried to the stables.

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

Aragorn groaned as the early morning light caressed his eyes with its breath. His head ached, his mouth was dry, and every muscle seemed to have stiffened overnight, probably due to the cold. It took him several minutes before he unfolded himself out of the niche in which he had sheltered, and stood up to look around.

The rain had slackened off to little more than a drizzle, which he barely felt, though the clouds still hung low in the sky. Drawing his still-soaked coat tighter across his chest, he stared at the almost hidden sun that had woken him. The morning mirrored his mood; the breeze was cold, the ground damp, and the sky oppressing. Kneeling before the lake’s edge, Aragorn winced at his reflection. His eyes were rimmed red, and shadowed beneath. The slightest trace of stubble spotted on his chin, and his hair was still wet and mussed.

‘No wonder Legolas could not recognise me,’ Aragorn thought, ‘Even I can hardly tell that this is me.’ Shaking his head to disperse the image, he destroyed the reflection by dipping his hands into the water.

Aragorn winced at the cold, feeling it numbing his chilled hands; almost making his bones ache with its intensity. Leaning forwards, he splashed the water onto his face, hoping to wipe away the ravages of the night before. He blinked fiercely as the chill stung his eyes, thankful that it had, if nothing else, refreshed and woken him.

The air seemed heavy and still. No birds called out in cheer, even the wind seemed stilled after its efforts the night before. The land seemed to be taking time to recover from its wounds. There were great scours along the soil where trees and other large objects had been dragged along. Several of the tallest and sturdiest trees had been uprooted, their limbs exposed to the air, and Aragorn knew that the elves would be mourning this storm, and its destructive nature, for a long time to come. Feeling his stomach tighten in hunger, Aragorn scooped a handful of water to his lips and swallowed. The iced water chilled his stomach, stifling his hunger, though his throat choked on its coldness. Drinking his fill, Aragorn dipped the lip of his water bottle under the water, taking care to thrust it deep so that any contaminants would be unlikely to enter his drink. Stopping up the flask he made to rise and paused.

Next to his own knee marks, where he had been crouched seconds before, Aragorn detected the faint traces of another’s passing. The prints had been heavy and spoke of haste. It was solely due to the depth they had left that any mark had remained after the violence the storm had thrown upon the ground. Reaching out as though his touch could alert him to the person or thing, which had left its imprint, Aragorn traced the edges, recognising them as his own. He swallowed hard, realising that he was at the same lake that Legolas had fallen into days earlier.

Aimlessly, he followed the tracks, noting the skid patches where he had halted his run thinking he had spotted something in the water, seeing the prints illuminating the point where he had collapsed down in fatigue and despair before resolutely forcing himself on his feet again. Almost washed away by the rain, Aragorn could still see his fear and his worry in the unsteady and directionless pointings of his feet. Heart aching, he came to a halt beside the deep indentation, now rain-filled, that he had left where he had fallen to his knees at the sight of Legolas lying unconscious in the water.

He wrapped his arms around himself, as a cold shiver of dread ran down his spine, and turned his back upon the water, blinking away the fear that was blurring his vision. A part of him felt like it had died when he had seen the prince drifting in the current, blood covering the side of his head. The image was overpowering him now; he could feel his heart beating faster, and his lungs burning from the chase. His eyes still stung from the search underwater, and his muscles trembled in fatigue. Blinking again he forced himself out of this memory.

Aragorn was already regretting leaving Imladris, particularly with Legolas in the state he was. He knew that the elf would be regretting his words, as soon as he recovered. No doubt he was even now trying to ride out after him, and would injure himself further. He needed to go back. Turning away from the lake, he stopped.

Was that?

Yes, there was something lying at the base of a tree, half-buried in mud. Aragorn strode forwards, coming to rest a little further along the narrow stream where the current had dragged Legolas. Kneeling before a bowed tree, the human reached his arms around the trunk, wincing as they came in contact with the chilled water. Feeling blindly, for the bark obscured his view, Aragorn patted the surface of the water, snagged his fingers in gnarled roots, and nearly pulled himself in trying to extricate them, before his hands clasped around smooth wood. After several minutes of tussling with the trapped object, Aragorn managed to remove it unscathed, and he held it up to the little light there was. It was Legolas’ bow.

Tracing his hands along the intricately carved surface, Aragorn could feel the months of work, which had gone into creating the perfectly tuned instrument, thrumming beneath his fingers. Even after days spent submerged, Aragorn was sure that the bow would be as accurate as ever. The weapon suited Legolas perfectly; it was well balanced, taut with readiness to fire, and obviously able to survive great dangers.

Aragorn loosened the string on the bow, not wanted it to become warped from drying too tightly. Slinging it over his shoulder, he knew that he had to return to Rivendell at once. The first thing Legolas had asked about was his bow, and Aragorn, slightly-childishly, hoped that when it was returned everything would return to normal; that the elf would get well again. Taking a last drink from the river, he stood and started to follow the trail home.

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

Elrond’s rapid steps had not taken him past the prince, and he approached the stables hoping that the elf was here, and that he hadn’t taken a fall and hurt himself further. The Valar only knew what trouble Legolas could get into on a good day, and he was certainly not at full strength now. Upon entering the stables, he was relieved to hear the raised voice of Rúndil pleading with the stubborn tones of another.

“No!” Rúndil replied flatly, to the request for a horse. Elrond could almost picture him standing there, arms folded across his chest, staring down the fool who wanted to take one of his beloved charges out in this weather, let alone against the orders of his lord. Even Glorfindel had been known to quail when facing Rúndil’s dark-haired wrath.

“I am a Prince of Mirkwood!” Legolas retorted, emphasizing his title. “Now I demand that you step aside and let me saddle my horse.”

Rising to the demanding tone in the younger elf’s voice, Rúndil responded scathingly. “You may be a prince in your own realm young master, but we are not within Mirkwood’s eaves now.” Seeing Legolas’ mutinous face, he continued. “Are you going to declare war upon Imladris for not allowing you to kill yourself? You are hardly fit to ride, and this storm is too strong for man or elf to ride in.”

Legolas’ eyes gleamed in despair; he had to get out there and find Estel. Desperate, he answered Rúndil’s bluff. “You are keeping me a prisoner here, that is an act of treason against a friendly realm. It is you who have declared war.”

Deciding that now would be a very good time to interrupt before the pair started mobilising armies, Elrond cleared his throat and stepped through the door.

Rúndil’s face was exactly as Elrond had pictured. A deep, angry crease marred the smooth skin of his forehead, made deeper by the shadows his hair cast upon it. His lips were tightly pressed together, and fury and determination blazed from his blue eyes. His arms were firmly folded around his chest and Elrond could see his hands clenched together as though fighting against the urge to physically knock some sense into the prince.

Turning to Legolas, Elrond almost took a step back at the rage that shone back at him. The prince’s arms were also folded, though Elrond suspected that it was to hide the telltale tremors in his fingertips. His hair was flung back over his shoulders, and his was head raised in determination, but Elrond could detect the way he was surreptitiously leaning against a stall, allowing it to take his weight. The elven-lord simply stared at the elf until he bowed his head and stared at the straw-covered ground, in embarrassment.

“How far did you think you were going to get, Legolas? Night is nearly upon us,” Elrond said, kindly. He could see how much the blond felt he needed to be out there. “You cannot even saddle the horse, one-handed as you are.”

“I do not need saddle or bridle.” Legolas retorted. “I am perfectly capable of keeping my balance. I am no human, I do not need such instruments.” He sunk harder against the stall as he said this, and Elrond smiled mirthlessly.

“Legolas, please,” he said, taking the elf by the shoulder. “You will not catch up with Estel, you will only injure yourself further, and get lost. You cannot remove that arm from its splint, or get those bandages dirty or wet, else you risk losing all use of that hand.”

“But I must!” Legolas cried, pulling away from the elven-lord. “It is my fault that he is out there. I must get him back.” His energy faded again, and he sagged back against the wall. Dull blue eyes lifted to meet Elrond’s, silently pleading with him to let him go. “Please,” he whispered. “I must apologise, I must,” he gasped, “must make amends.”

Elrond slipped an arm back over the prince’s shoulders, and pulled him into a swift embrace. “You are not the only one who has caused him to flee, Legolas,” he sighed. “I too have said,” he winced at the memory, rubbing his forehead in pain, “horrible things to him. Things I never believed for an instant.”

When Legolas lifted inquiring eyes to meet his, he explained. “I was drowning in memories. I…I wanted him to suffer, as I had. As you are. And he now is.”

Legolas stared coldly at the elven-lord. “You do not have the excuse of being drugged to balance your words. Why are you not so eager to ride out and make amends?”

Elrond broke away from the prince, and spun to face him. “Do you think I wanted him to flee into the storm?” he hissed. “Do you think I do not care that he is in danger, because of me?” Raising his arms out wide he continued, voice raised. “This very storm is raised because of me, and my son is out in it, all because of me.” His anger trailed off and the only expression on his face was of great weariness. “I am the cause of this, Legolas, not you.”

Slipping an arm over the prince’s wearied shoulders, he led them back into the house, through the connecting door. “Come, we shall find my sons, and when the storm dies down I will send them looking for Estel. You can best serve him by resting, staying here and conserving your strength.”

Legolas looked ready to protest, but thought better of it. If the elven-lord believed that he was co-operating, then maybe he wouldn’t be keeping such a close eye upon him.

The two left the stables heedless of Rúndil’s perplexed stare behind them, as the stable-master wondered just what had been occurring in this household recently.

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

The twins stared into the crackling fire; the paper, lying on Elladan’s knee, was crumpled in his hand. Elrohir leaned his head against his brother’s chest, feeling the weight of Elladan’s head resting on his own. The two sat there in silence for several minutes, feeling the beat of shared pain in every breath they inhaled. They sat like that until Elrohir’s hair was quite wet with this brother’s tears, and there was an equally damp patch on Elladan’s shirt.

“I miss Ammë,” Elrohir sniffed, tightening his grip on his twin’s shirt. He felt an arm tighten around his shoulder, hand gently squeezing him.

“I do too.” Elladan breathed into his brother’s hair, “I wish she was here now.”

Silence settled upon the pair again, as they strove to force back the pain that threatened to overwhelm them. They held each other tightly until they had perfected at least a small mask over it. When they could look at each other without crying at how much the other resembled her, they separated.

“How did we miss this?” Elladan whispered, indicating the paper. “These are not exactly easily hidden symptoms. Wild mood swings, deep depression. Paranoia. They are hard to miss.”

“We did not miss them Elladan,” Elrohir remembered. “Ammë was like this after the orcs…” He stopped, swallowing hard.

Elladan’s fingers dug deep into his shoulder as he too shared the memory.

//

Elladan and Elrohir rode hard. They had been travelling with a guard of five, riding to Lothlórien with their mother, to spend some time with their grandparents. Arwen was already there, she had been staying with Galadriel, who was particularly fond of her. The group had been intending to stay for at least a month, before returning with her back to Rivendell. However something had gone terribly wrong.

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

Ducking yet another orcish blade that swung at his head, Elladan returned it with the fire of his own, anger lending strength to his swing. Sheering clean through the creature’s head, he swivelled in his saddle, and stabbed at another’s hands as it fought to tear him from his seat. Impaling that one through the eye, he threw his head aside to avoid an incoming arrow, and caught sight of his twin and his Ammë.

Elrohir had placed his steed in front of Celebrian’s, facing off against the orcs that strove to reach her. Two guards defended her on either side, while she was backed against the mountainside, her back protected. She stood high in her saddle, raining arrows over the head of her twin and her guard, and Elladan smiled as he saw one of her bolts take down the beast beside him. Momentarily out of danger, he kneed his horse over to where the largest number of orcs were attacking, entering into the fray.

Catching a glimpse of Elladan felling another beast, Elrohir redirected his attention to the numerous ones that placed his mother in peril. Sensing that the circle of elves was defending someone important, the orcs were beginning to press this group harder, and it was becoming more difficult to ward them away. Out of the corner of his eye, Elrohir saw one of the elven guards falling under a wave of orcs that were banding together in the attack. Hearing a choked gurgle, which cut off abruptly into silence, Elrohir flinched and deliberately turned his gaze aside. With renewed vigour and determination, he set to his task of hewing at the encroaching beasts, determined not to let any pass through him alive.

//

Elrohir flinched at the memory, and his brother held him tighter, whispering into his ear. There were no comforting words, nothing that could take away the pain of what the two felt, but each other’s presence was a comfort.

//

Celebrian fired shaft after shaft into the mass of bodies, careful to avoid any of her brethren, but the numbers of orcs did not seem to be diminishing. She was vaguely aware of the elf to her left falling under the deluge, and she found herself being pressed against the rock wall, forced to relinquish her bow for a sword, as the orcs drew too near. Elrohir and her other guard moved themselves even closer to her, valiantly warding off the foes, but the numbers grew heavier and the odds tighter, and Celebrian found her swordplay being pressed into use. Dimly trying to remember the movements that she had learned as a child, she struck at the orcs, but could not breech their defence. As the other member of her guard fell, she felt a blade burning along her side. Clinging tightly to her horse, fighting to keep her balance, she was dragged off by rough hands, and hoisted away from the remnants of her escort. The last thing she saw was Elrohir’s despairing face screwing up in pain as he took a blow to the shoulder.

//

Elrohir flexed his shoulder; it felt stiff with the memory of the blow he had taken there.

//

Elladan and the remaining three guards had swiftly forced back the group of orcs that laid siege to them. Their feat was not without cost though. One of the guards had been clouted on the head by the hilt of an orcish weapon, and was leaning heavily against another, supported by him. The third was bleeding shallowly from a wound that ran from behind his ear around the back of his neck meeting the opposite shoulder in the curve between head and torso. The wound itself was not deep, but there was always a risk of infection. Elladan was unharmed, though fatigued by the fight, and leaned against the rock face, head tilted back and eyes closed for a second. The memory of his mother’s scream forced him back onto his feet, and he turned in the direction where she had last fought.

The scene there was devastation. Carcasses littered the floor, both elven and orcish. Weapons lay scattered, as they had fallen from lifeless hands, gleaming dully in the hazed sunlight as Elladan stepped indiscriminately over them, headed towards where the pile grew denser. He started running as he saw one of his mother’s guards half-buried underneath a decapitated orc. Almost tripping over the scattered remains from the battle, he skidded on a slick patch of blood and slipped onto his back, landing beside his twin. Pure misery seeped from those grey eyes, guarded with pain and shock. Resisting the urge to shake Elrohir out of his stupor, Elladan found himself almost knocked backwards when the younger twin flew into him, burying his head against his chest, fighting the sobs and pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

“They took her Dan,” he said, “they took her.” He shuddered once as Elladan’s hands roamed his wound, “She looked right at me, and, and she was afraid.”

//

Elrohir leaned against his brother, unconsciously mirroring the position he had assumed in the past. His shoulder still throbbed with remembered pain, and his heart beat rapidly as the memories assailed him. A similar pace beat from Elladan’s chest as the elder twin stared into the flame, his thoughts his own.

They both jerked upright, startled out of their memories, as the door latch caught and the wood slowly swung inwards.

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

After several hours of walking, Aragorn came to a halt beside the river. He had kept close to the water, knowing that he was ill supplied, and that it was the best source of food and drink. He had braved the early morning chill and leant over dangling his hands underneath a rock. Just as he had expected there were trout swimming around, and he had lulled one of those ashore with his fingers. After scaling and gutting it, he had roasted it over a small fire. The wood was mostly too wet to burn, and the meal had taken a long time to prepare. After quenching his thirst and sating his hunger Aragon sat for a while, pondering the route he should take.

The human was in a hurry to return to Imladris. He had been feeling an ever-growing sense of urgency since he had found the bow. Legolas was ill, and Elrond did not know of a cure.

‘Well,’ thought Aragorn, ‘it is not his friend in there dying, and I will not give him up without a fight. I will never give up on him.’

That decision made, Aragorn decided that he would lose too much time if he walked all the way to the ford before crossing the river. Although the banks were slightly swollen from the storm, the current was slow and the water wasn’t too deep. He had crossed here before and experienced no difficulty. Aragorn didn’t look forward to yet another soaking though, he had only just dried himself off by that fire. Sighing, and resigning himself to getting wet once more because of that elf, he stepped up to the water’s edge.

‘I hope that elf appreciates what I am doing for him,’ Aragorn thought. ‘With my luck I shall come down with bronchitis or some other ridiculous illness, while he bounces back almost immediately from his, and fusses.’

With a sigh, Aragorn reflected that at this moment in time he would give anything to see his friend well again, even putting up with his endless worrying. Sighing again, Aragorn suppressed a shiver of anticipation, and took his first step into the river.