Aragorn shuddered as his first step into the water numbed his foot to the point where he was unsure if he was standing on solid ground, or still hovering in the water. The chill soaked through the material of his trouser legs, easily reaching over the lip of his boots and filling them with water. Squelching uncomfortably as he stepped forward, Aragorn brought his other leg alongside, shuddering again as that boot filled too.

‘The things I do for you Legolas,’ he mused wryly.

Hitching his coat tighter around his chest, Aragorn tightened his grip on Legolas’ bow; having only just rediscovered it he was determined not to lose it now. Shivering as a keen wind caused the surface of the water to ripple, he took another step forward muttering under his breath as the water reached to his mid-thigh.

The force with which the water was hitting him was much less than he would have expected given the ferocity of the rain last night, but he was not one to pass up an unlooked for bonus. Aragorn had chosen an area to cross, which had a large rock not quite halfway across. He felt tired already, and knew that by the time he had reached that far he would welcome the rest.

As he advanced towards it, the water began to grow deeper. Aragorn took his jacket off and balled it up tightly it around his shoulders, making sure to secure the bow back over it. With his luck the water would be too deep to walk across and he would have to swim, but if not then he knew he would need something dry to wear when he exited out the other side.

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

Legolas grew more and more frustrated as the argument continued. The room seemed to have grown taught with the tensions that flew from the Peredhil’s eyes. The air literally crackled with pain.

Not insensitive to the plight of the twins or Elrond, Legolas nevertheless felt a rising sense of anxiety blossoming. Aragorn was fleeing his home, believing himself unwanted and unloved. His own part in that misconception ate at the elf, and he thrummed with the need to be out there, riding after his friend. Given the distraction that Estel’s family seemed to be buried under, Legolas believed that the storm would have ended long before they finished their rants. They had obviously forgotten all about Estel.

The wind rattled hard against the panes, and Legolas repressed a shudder. The human was out in this, and no doubt he had managed to find trouble. Legolas could wait no longer.

Rising silently from his chair, he found himself forced to lean heavily upon its arm as the room span a little. Shaking his head to clear it, Legolas repeated firmly to himself the thought, ‘I stood up too quickly, that is all this is.’

Despite this mantra, Legolas was beginning to think that there was something more severe happening with this Rucin thing than he was aware of. He should have been nearly recovered from his leg wound by now, and his concussion also, yet it seemed that the dizziness lingered. Despite his growing concern about his own condition his fear for Aragorn was greater, and Legolas crept over to the heavy oak door.

Glancing back to see whether his movement had been detected, Legolas noticed that the twins’ eyes - the only ones facing him - were glazed over in memory. Satisfied that he was still free, Legolas eased his hand onto the gilt handle. Holding his breath he pulled it down, wincing as the latch clicked in release. He looked nervously behind him, but over the raised voices in the room no one had heard it. Easing the door open, he desperately prayed that it would not creak, but fortunately the doors were well tended in Imladris. He slipped through.

Once outside he pulled the door to, unwilling to risk shutting it completely in case the latch attracted someone’s attention this time. He leaned against the wall; eyes closed, and heaved a deep sigh of relief.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Aragorn hefted Legolas’ bow higher around his shoulders. The water was waist deep and he needed his hands free for balance. Moving was much harder now, as he had to push against the force of the water. Suppressing a shudder as the water inched up to his chest, Aragorn found himself clenching his jaw tight shut to prevent his teeth chattering.

“Valar,” he muttered, “ am I to spend this entire week wet? This is my second swim in four days, the little shower last night, what is next? A flash-flood?” He sighed, shaking his head in wry amusement.

Taking another step forwards, Aragorn felt his way carefully for his foothold. The water was murky; mud sloughed from the earth by the force of the rain had found its way into the river and was obscuring his vision of the bed, making Aragorn’s crossing more treacherous.

His feet were growing numb from the ever-present chill of the water, and he knew that the wet leather of his boots would be chafing his feet; he was rather glad that he could not feel it. Unfortunately the riverbed was made of rolling stones that moved with the current, and he was forced to be very careful else he would sprain an ankle. That really would not help him in his haste to get home.

Taking another step forward, Aragorn tested his weight on the rock, and it seemed stable. Shifting himself forward, he placed all his weight on it, lifting his other leg forward.

The stone pitched beneath his feet, and Aragorn fell headfirst into the water.

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

Legolas sunk lower against his horse’s neck. The bay nickered softly, sensing that something ailed her master, and he summoned up the energy to run a soothing hand along her neck; she quietened. Clicking softly, he urged her along the grass, taking a less used route out to the rear of Rivendell. Although he had escaped without detection so far, Elrond’s study was at the front of the house and he did not want to be caught now; not with the way he was slumped over the horse. Not with the way sweat soaked his brow, and the way he was panting harshly. He would never be left unwatched again if they caught him now.

Legolas knew that the Peredhils would just fuss and coddle him. He was a Prince of Mirkwood, entrusted everyday with decisions that affected dozens of lives. He could be trusted to know when he was well, surely.

Four days after being stabbed lightly in the leg and knocking himself unconscious for a few minutes, he should easily be able to ride out after his fool of a human friend. His wounds should not still be affecting him this much.

A hollow sensation began to gnaw at the base of his stomach. The twins and Elrond had been far more attentive than normal; Estel was so distressed that he had fled. Legolas knew he was missing something, and he did not like it.

All he had done was walk - ‘well stagger,’ he admitted - down a flight of stairs, and slip quietly into the stables, thankful that Rúndil was not in sight. That should not have caused him such exhaustion as he felt. He had taken one brief, dismissive glance at the saddle and bridle hanging on the wall, and realised that with his hand in the state it was there was no way that he would be able to use them. Normally this would not be a problem, since it was his preferred way of travel, but as dizzy as he was feeling he did not think he would be able to balance from so high above the ground, and on a moving object as well. Sighing, he knew that he would have to stay on without them.

The rain hissed down upon his unprotected back. Legolas had no idea what had happened to his cloak last night, and had not been in either condition or frame of mind to search for a spare. The storm was dying down; he would soon have no need for it. Besides he was an elf, the weather would have no effect upon him. He had also not wanted to attract attention, and stealing a cloak was probably one of the quickest ways to go about getting it.

His blond hair hung heavy against his back, his clothes stuck to skin when he moved – something the tried to do as little of as possible. Though the wind and rain were but a fraction of what they had been earlier, Legolas was buffeted by it, finding it hard to catch his breath. Unable to withstand the force against him, which swayed him in the saddle, he leaned closer to his mare’s neck, trusting in her to keep to the path, and using her to shelter from the wind.

His head was pounding. Despite the cold rain that shrouded him, he felt hot. Raising his hand to dash away the rain from his eyes, he felt unnatural heat rising on his brow. Staring at his fingers in puzzlement he could see them trembling slightly, white-tipped. Something was definitely wrong with him.

His introspection stopped when his mare balked at a large pool of water. Legolas looked around, uncertain. He had thought that even in his state he had kept track of the route he was taking. Legolas was following the path that the lighted figure must have taken, for any tracks had long since been washed away in the storm. Indeed the very surface of the soil was being eroded.

Legolas had not expected to reach the water’s edge this soon, even with the floodwaters having risen. The river had been shallow before, and there should have been ample room for it. He was not expecting it to burst its banks to a distance of several yards. He sighed. How was he supposed to follow Aragorn with the path flooded?

He walked his horse slowly onwards, taking care to feel the way slowly, for the ground was made invisible by the water, and it would not do to be hasty and cause his horse injury. Not only would that cause him and his horse pain, but he would not be able to catch Aragorn back up, and he honestly did not think he had the strength to walk back to Imladris.

Slowly and surely the two edged their way forward, with the water level gradually rising above his horse’s knees. Legolas clung tightly to his mount’s back; not only did he not want to fall, he certainly did not want to land in water. Not twice in one week. The twins would never let him live that down. The rain collected in his eyes, and his hair hung even heavier against his back. His body was wracked by what he could only imagine were shivers. He had seen Aragorn suffering from them before, but had never himself been tormented by them. Dashing the rain from his eyes once more Legolas peered into the storm, staring at a large obstruction in the river.

Legolas’ mouth filled with the taste of bile, and he urged his bay onwards with more haste. The lump looked rather too body-like for his comfort.

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

Aragorn burst through the river top, shaking his head to free his eyes from water. He inhaled one deep, gasping breath, followed by another and then a third, as he began shivering in the cool breeze that circled above the water.

‘Typical,’ he thought, ‘just typical. How is it that I always manage to find the one unstable rock on the whole of the riverbed? Am I cursed?’ he received no answer.

Aragorn pulled his now-soaked coat down from his neck, and wrapped it tightly around himself, grateful for whatever warmth he could get. Living up to his name, Aragorn found the positive view.

“Well I would have had to have swum for it soon,’ he thought. ‘I am barely within my depth now, and it gets deeper further onwards.’ Even knowing that he would have been submerged soon did not help him fight the cold now.

Aragorn was standing shoulder deep in water, and the force with which it hit him took all of his effort to withstand. He knew that he would not be able to swim directly across the river – the current was too strong. No doubt it would sweep him downstream some way, but it would use less of his already depleted energy to swim with the current than trying to fight it. He staggered his way over to the rock, and dragged himself mostly out of the water, taking up all available space. His trembling limbs sagged in relief, while he wrapped his coat tightly around his shoulders. The wind was picking up again, and cut right through his soaked clothes. He sighed again, feeling tired and cold, and not up to this. The thought of swimming the river, let alone climbing the bank on the far side, or starting on the long walk back to Rivendell once across, was extremely daunting.

Gritting his teeth, Aragorn stared out at the far bank and took a deep breath. ‘First things first,’ he thought. ‘Let’s get to the other side before I begin to borrow trouble.’

Lifting his feet fully from the water, Aragorn unlaced his boots, wincing as the leather scraped at his feet when he pulled them. He bore the pain though, knowing that his boots would hinder his attempts to swim, and in his state any such hindrance could prove fatal. Balancing carefully on the rock, he threw first one boot, and then the other, to the far bank. Aragorn breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the Valar when neither of the pair fell short, though he did experience one brief, heart-stopping moment when the second boot started to roll backwards down the slope. One final check that the bow was strapped securely to him, Aragorn slid back down into the water.

Aragorn winced as the chill bite of the water crept through first his feet, then legs, before making its way up to his shoulders. ‘Surely it had not been this cold earlier?’ he wondered.

Clenching his jaw against the cold, a sharp cry of shock still found its way through as his shoulders slipped below the surface. He swam vigorously in the hopes of warming himself through his movements, yet not even these strokes were enough to prevent him from slipping downstream.

As soon as Aragorn’s feet left the riverbed he found himself being swept away with the current. While the water had not appeared to be particularly fast moving from the bank, a strong current pulled in the deep sections. Redoubling his efforts, his arms carved powerfully through the water, pulling him slowly towards the far bank. For every yard forward, however, he was carried two downstream. Aragorn realised that unless he wanted to face a long, uncomfortable, and bootless walk back to Rivendell, he would have to fight against the current.

His arms felt leaden and useless as he churned them through the water. His lungs burned; his breath was being swept away in the struggle against the current, and the biting cold. The weight of his drenched coat was weighing him down, and it belatedly occurred to him that he should have removed it with his boots. Fighting the water and the temperature would have been tough under the best of conditions, let alone for one who was wearied and hungered from a night of turmoil, and the heart-ache of the last few days.

Inevitably, Aragorn’s strokes grew weaker as his strength began to fade. No matter how hard he struggled he was beginning to be drawn inexorably further away from where his boots had been thrown. Feeling himself being dragged lower under the water, Aragorn desperately felt beneath him with his feet, hoping to have reached shallow enough water to stand.

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

Leaning forwards, Legolas peered through the storm, impatiently brushing the rain from his face with trembling hand. The figure lay in the shadows, caught in the gnarled roots of a tree, and was being constantly battered by floating debris. Legolas could not see a head, and he sent pleas to the Valar that it was not his friend. He could not bear the thought that Aragorn would have perished in this way; recollecting the anger in the last words that Legolas would ever speak to him, feeling himself hated and shunned.

Legolas gave a moan, gnashing his teeth together in anguish. It was taking too long to reach the shadows, and he could feel the tension sapping his strength. He was practically falling off his horse in his eagerness, lying prone against the neck, blond hair mixing with brown mane. Finally, the water now risen to the horse’s chest, Legolas was close enough to reach out and touch the figure. He let out a gasp.

Relief swept through his body, conversely sapping more of his strength. Legolas buried his face in his bay’s black mane; his hand burned with cold from the water, but he was relieved there was no memory of chilled, dead flesh at his touch. The object was not a person at all, but a large trunk, which had been uprooted during the storm. It had obviously sailed downstream with the floodwaters, but had caught up in the roots, and was the reason why the water overflowed its banks here, yet appeared much shallower downstream.

‘It is not Aragorn.’ Legolas’ tired brain was having trouble getting past that fact. The relief was so great it overwhelmed him.

‘It is not Aragorn,’ he sighed again. He closed his eyes tightly against the rain and the tears of relief that threatened to fall. “Eru be thanked,” he called out. ‘Thank you,’ he echoed silently.

He stayed like that, leaning into his horse, drawing strength from the creature with every breath. The mare, for her part, stomped her feet in mild irritation at the cold and wet, but could sense that her master was heart-sick and weary, and was careful to keep him on her back. After a time Legolas lifted his head, realising something.

“Ai, Aragorn,” he cried, lifting his head into the wind as though seeking guidance. “Where are you?”

Legolas had tried asking the trees if they had noticed any sign of the human’s passing, but they still fought against the strong winds, and were only concerned with the loss of nutrients as the soil was washed away beneath their very feet. They were no help. Looking around, searching for any indication of where the ranger may have headed, but he saw nothing.

Sighing, he realised that he was closer to the far bank than he was to the near, and he urged his horse forward. He hoped that Aragorn would have enough sense to stay close to the river where food and water were readily available. He doubted that even in the ranger’s state he would have forgotten the very basics of survival. Legolas intended to reach the far side and then ride downstream searching for signs of his friend’s passing on both sides of the bank.

It was a sound plan.

Unfortunately he never succeeded.

Legolas had been sliding lower and lower upon the horse’s back, clutching his fingers tighter into her mane. When she finally reached the bank, there was a large incline up from the water to the shore, and it threw Legolas off balance. Not expecting it, the elf had not prepared himself for any sudden movements, and he tumbled off to one side, landing half in the water.

The fall itself was fairly insignificant, what troubled him more was the pain as he landed on his bad arm.

Legolas gave off a cry, which ended in a choked sob as he stuffed his hale hand into his mouth, biting down hard. Burning rivulets of pain soared up his arm, despite the cool water that soaked through the bandages. Legolas pressed his forehead hard against the churned mud, wincing as the mare’s hooves came down near his face. She was guarding over him, breaking much of the wind, but there was a little thing called overprotectivity.

Legolas tried to push himself back up, but placed too much weight on his injured hand. With a cry, the world swiftly blackened around him, and he collapsed once more, unconscious to the rising floodwater.

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

The tips of Aragorn’s toes touched the rocky bed, although by now they were so numb that he could not feel them. The first he could sense of his footing was when he could push down no further. Sighing in relief, Aragorn put his full weight on his feet, standing back up at shoulder height in the water. He braced himself against the current, which still sought to sweep his feet out from under him, and stood there, uncertain which part of him was colder – the part below the water, or his head. Either way, he decided, he was cold.

‘Cold, ring, ringa, HELCA!’ he mused to himself, finding perverse pleasure in naming the affliction. It didn’t help battle the cold, but it brought a dry smile to his face.

All Aragorn wanted now was to get out of the cursed ice pit, drag himself onto the far bank, and trek the few miles back to Rivendell where warmed blankets, a hot meal, and a bed in a fire-warmed room awaited him. He realised that the only way for this to happen was if he actually lifted a tired foot, and struggled onwards, so he did.

The going was trickier now, with his numbed feet, and Aragorn winced at the thought that he could probably tread on cut glass without realising it. That thought caused him to stop still and lift each foot in turn, feeling the soles with his iced fingers. Sighing in relief at finding only unmarred skin, he forced all idle thoughts from his mind and concentrated solely on the object of getting to the far side. It took all of his willpower just to lift one foot forward and keep moving to the far bank.

Two things prevented him from achieving that goal. The first was the sudden wall of water that surged towards him, down the Bruinen, frothing and boiling. The second was the large wooden stump. Scarred and scraped from its storm-caused fall, it was thrust along ahead of the waves, and collided solidly with the side of his head.

The world dimmed. A grey film appeared over Aragorn’s sight, and he struggled to make his limbs respond to his commands. He had been swept off his feet by the force of the water, and by the blow, though the extra water would have taken him beyond his depth anyhow.

Through rapidly blurring vision, Aragorn looked passively at the riverside sweeping past him. It dimly occurred to him that he should try to stop himself, and he reached out a wavering hand to grasp at something, or at least he thought he did. His arm was not answering his instructions.

A roaring sounded in Aragorn’s ears as the spray began to collect in his eyelashes, preventing him from seeing. The warm trickle of blood on his face belied the chill of the water that was slowly creeping into his veins. Aragorn’s drenched clothing was dragging him under, and this time he was powerless to prevent it. His chin sank below the surface, and he inhaled a mouthful of water before he could stop himself.

The roaring in his head grew louder, and Aragorn dimly recalled hearing a similar sound, when water surged through rocks. Before he had a chance to digest this thought he felt himself connecting with something underwater, which scraped and bruised his legs. His cry of pain went unheeded as his mouth filled with water the instant it was opened. A second crash threw him into agonies when he slammed, shoulder first, into anther rock.

Not even giving him time to register the new pain, a third rock appeared from nowhere, planting itself directly in his path. At the speed he was travelling, even without his rapidly lessening grip on his senses, Aragorn would be going too fast to avoid it, and he collided head first with the rock. That second blow to the already damaged area was more than his beleaguered head could take, and his mind retreated into unconsciousness.

Mindless to the swelling water, which was slowly dragging him under, Aragorn was pulled along limply by the current, still clutching Legolas’ bow.

***

Ring – Cold (Sindarin)

Ringa – Cold (Quenya)

HELCA! – Ice cold (Quenya)