A/N: Another difficult chapter to write. Thank you to Nilmandra for being such a tough beta reader, and for bettering what was here as a result.

The Hunting Trip
Chapter 46: What Lies Beyond

They met on the stairs. Gimli bounded them blindly, nearly leaping past the king in his downward trek. Aragorn understood the course of the Dwarf’s journey, turning to join him in his run. Still he would know. “Gimli, what news of Bäla?”

“Dead, Aragorn, but now is not the time for tales. They cry of the dead below! We must know who else has met an end!” the Dwarf cried, panic lacing his voice, but those words were enough to confirm to Aragorn that Bäla would not darken their lives again. Gimli was correct, of course. They had a greater deed, and the luxury of assessment was not theirs at the moment.

With chin raised, the king ran to meet the aftermath of this horrible affair. He followed and came upon a scene that was pandemonium. Though the rooms of the cave were large enough to hold the numbers now within them, they were not large enough to contain a panicked scene. Fighting, pushing, crying and cowering actions ruled the people, and all Aragorn could manage was to wonder where in the tangled mess his friends might be.

Aragorn ran into the fray, immediately losing sight of Gimli in the madness.’He turned then as a familiar voice was heard, and he saw Mattias trying to calm and quiet the crowd about him. The Romany was bowed over Kattica and a few women were protectively gathered, though he could not tell the extent of the girl’s situation.

“She’s in labor!” Mattias called to him, panic in his eyes.

He ran to her then, giving her the attention he had not been able to give when the battle with Bäla had raged. He ran a hand over her belly and felt the contracting muscles and confirmed Mattias’ diagnosis was correct. With discretion, Aragorn lifted her skirts to her knees and he could see the trickling remains of the briny fluid that had poured from the woman’s body. To his relief it was clear. He then put his hand under her skirts, assessing how far she had progressed while trying to maintain a modicum of privacy in this very exposed place. The baby comes soon, he decided. He then directed his attention to the girl’s well being. She had moaned with his intrusion on her body, but her eyes only now came open. She grimaced in her waking with her back arching into the hurt, and he knew a contraction seized her. In a minute’s time though, the agony passed and he forced her lids open as she rested. “Kattica,” he said when he realized she was otherwise coherent, “The baby comes. It is time. You will give birth.”

Tears squeezed from the girl’s eyes with this remark and she shook her head to negate his words. But he knew there was more he need do here in this cave and so he turned to Mattias and ordered, “Gather your midwives to her aid,” he ordered, then added, “The baby comes too early, but that cannot be halted. Better to prepare for such. I will return in a few minutes to help, if I may.”

Cries of anguish turned his attention to the opposite side of the room, and there another voice called. “Aragorn!”

It was Faramir, though it took a moment for the former ranger’s eyes to fix upon the speaker. The steward had an arm about his wife, who in turn hovered over Legolas. Fear seized Aragorn then at the sight of the prone Elf. Quickly he rose, running to their side, and as he neared, he gazed at both the man and woman. He could see scratches and bruises marring their figures, but he discerned with a glance that they were otherwise well. A more thorough examination would be needed later, but for the moment they were well enough to offer aid.

And then he turned his eyes to Legolas.

Gimli was there as well, and Aragorn noticed that the Dwarf moaned in anguish as he gazed upon their still friend. Looking at the sight before him, Aragorn could understand that which Gimli found to voice. Legolas could have passed for one who was dead. Near white was the Elf’s skin; the color in the blue orbs was paler than Aragorn could recall ever seeing, and though the Elf’s eyes were open, they did not appear to see, except to gaze on the curtain of water. Aragorn’s hands immediately went to examine the body, fingers probing for a pulse and the source of the injury. Then he noted the litter on which his friend lay and he felt a tremor of fear for what he suspected.

“Tell me what has happened to him,” demanded Aragorn, turning his gaze from the still body to Éowyn. Everything else of the world faded, and to Aragorn’s mind the scene dissolved to include only himself and these three lingering over Legolas’ form.

She looked up, fear in her eyes, and he read that for the bad news that it was. She paused only a moment before relaying what she knew to him, her eyes sparkling in the dimming light. “His back, my lord. It is broken,” she said in a quavering voice.

“No!” Gimli cried in a soft sob.

Dismayed, Aragorn asked as he tried to remain calm, “How?”

“He fell, sire, from a tree, as he tried to escape,” she said almost apologetically.

“From a tree? Nonsense!” Gimli dismissed. “Legolas never falls!”

Éowyn ignored the Dwarf’s words as she kept her eyes fixed on the king. “He was pursued from above. A great bird, I believe. And he was not in his right mind when it happened, I think. Or perhaps after. He was terribly out of sorts when I reached him,” she explained.

Aragorn gazed into the unseeing eyes of the Elf. He waved a hand before his friend but saw no change in focus to indicate Legolas realized anything about him. “But this,” he said more to himself, implying the transfixed gaze, “this is not sleep.”

“Nay,” she answered as if he had asked. Her head bowed with something of shame, but then she brought her chin up and looked at Aragorn directly again. “It is sea-longing.”

His head shot up, surprised but knowing he perhaps should not be, and then he gazed down again, noting the appearance of anguish in his Elven friend’s eye. He wondered aloud at it. “Bäla mentioned something of this. He said he touched Legolas and then . . . He is pained!” Aragorn cried, nearly jumping away from the moan now being voiced by the Elf.

“He has been in turmoil all this day. He cries out from time to time, and I have yet to learn what causes it,” she replied.

“But . . . sea-longing? Now? How can this be? It would not be a path his mind would be wandering were he in pain from a fall.” He gazed up, his eyes searching for answers, and then he turned to her and asked, “You said he was not in a right mind when you came upon him. Do you know if he suffered a head injury?”

“Nay. I witnessed the fall, but I did not see him hit his head,” she answered. Aragorn then glanced again at her. He sensed there was something she was holding back in her reply.

But Faramir offered an explanation before the king could query. “We were splattered with a potion of the witch’s make. It had an effect on me until Kattica helped me. Perhaps some got on Legolas as well. We were separated then, Aragorn. He might have been affected in that way.”

But Aragorn kept his eyes focused upon Éowyn. She knew something. He could see the worry in her brow and her guilty sidelong glances at the Elf and he remembered more of what Bäla had said. “How do you know it is sea-longing, Éowyn?” he asked. His voice was not gentle.

“I . . .” she hesitated. “I induced it,” she whispered.

Gimli gasped and Aragorn’s breath hitched in his throat. The pale woman looked as if she wished the earth would swallow her up then.

“I had no access to a healer’s kit and the witch was unwilling to help me. She was long in returning with herbs to make a sleeping draught and I feared he might die of his shock while we waited. I was not even certain the old woman would return. She offered help only reluctantly, as she thought we meant to trick her,” Éowyn quickly explained.

Aragorn could feel sympathy for her, for he could see the woman’s dilemma. At the moment, however, he was beside himself with shock and worry. He knew what she had done was somehow responsible for Legolas’ worsened state. Still, he could see the remorse in her eye and he knew it would do nothing to admonish her for what was past. And then he reminded himself too that she had been through much already. Still, his compassion was directed at Legolas. For whatever reason, the illness was causing turmoil in Legolas, and he knew he needed to break his friend away from it.

“Legolas,” he called softly, placing his face before his friend’s, but Legolas only stared through him, as if he were not there. Looking to Éowyn for affirmation that it was well to move their friend this much, he gently put his hands on either side of the face and turned Legolas’ head, so that their eyes again met. He called again, “Legolas, can you hear me?” To his anguish, his friend moaned ever so slightly, then looked around the room before closing his eyes, effectively sealing Aragorn out. The king noted in his close proximity the slow rasp of breath. His touch had already detected the weakness of his friend’s pulse, and he felt panicked for the dire condition of the Elf before him.

He could not bring himself to say what he thought and it was Gimli’s flat statement that brought Aragorn out of the stupor that seemed to seize him. “He fades,” the Dwarf said.

Desperate for something to control, he turned his eyes to the scene of the room. Aragorn noted the commotion about them and he knew it was not helping Legolas, who greatly disliked loud noise and crowds. He would not find comfort in the thick of such a scene, even if he appeared trapped in a disinterest to it all. If there was to be healing, the Elf would need to be removed from this environment. Or perhaps the environment needed to be removed from the Elf.

Aragorn turned his eyes to Faramir. The man seemed dazed and shocked. His expression looked to be one of shock. “Faramir?” he began, and his friend blinked and then gazed back at Aragorn. “Are you well?”

The steward cast his eyes down, his expression revealing something shaken within. But the man’s words negated what Aragorn thought he might see. “I will be fine.”

But Aragorn wondered if indeed it would be so but decided he might believe his steward. Besides, in the interest of healing, he knew action needed be taken for the sake of them all, and so he directed his command to his friend and said, “Then see to having this room cleared. All unhurt should be made to exit and kept under the guard of the Elves. Send the wounded to the back and have their injuries tended, but leave Legolas where he is. I do not want him moved. And bring Arwen forth if you will. We will need her help here as well.”

The steward seemed to come to life under the orders, and Aragorn was heartened by the response. But then he remembered something else of his worries. He grabbed Faramir’s arm as he turned to leave and asked, “Faramir, Bregus is dead, is she not?”

The steward’s eyes met his and there was both pain and a small smile within them. The man’s pallor noticeably lightened with the question. “Faramir?” the king again asked, his worry grown greater with the younger man’s changed appearance.

But Faramir simply nodded his assurances, drawing away then and glanced to the blood red window. “She fell,” he said. It was enough to know for now, though the king felt he would need to press on for more details than this at a later time and so he released Faramir to his task.

Then gazing at Éowyn, Aragorn said in a voice that was compassionate, trying to ease what he recognized as her pain by masking his fears behind a calm countenance, “Please help with Kattica. The baby comes early, and it may be in distress. She needs a healer at her side.” Dipping her eyes in acquiescence, she too nodded and went as she was directed.

That left he and the Dwarf. Gimli reached forward and he clutched the Elf’s hands. It was then that Aragorn noticed the stone twined in the Dwarf’s fingers. But he said nothing, only gazing about as he watched the room begin to clear of the restless furor. As it was slowly evacuated, he felt the tension lifting, as if there were less stress within the quieter setting. He noticed too that Legolas seemed to ease a bit in the calm. The Elf’s eyes opened again, and though they drifted again to the cascade of water, the pinching marks at the corners of his friend’s eyes that told of the aching misery were no longer present.

With the quieter setting, Gimli deemed it worth another attempt to rouse his friend. As Aragorn had done, he leaned into the Elf’s face and called to him. And as before, there was nothing to indicate recognition. Here too, the Dwarf maneuvered himself into Legolas’ sightline. However, this time the Elf seemed to blearily focus on the face before him. “Legolas?” the Dwarf called. The Elf blinked, his face blank, but his eyes studying and perceiving the one before him. “Legolas!” Gimli cried. “Can you hear me?”

The Elf’s lips parted, and it appeared he attempted to speak, but no words came out.

As if he understood, Gimli provided aid by offering, “It is I, Gimli. Can you hear me?”

Confusion was imparted on the Elf’s face as he tried again to speak. “Gimli?” he said, and the word was but a whisper.

“Yes! Yes! Legolas! I am here!” The Dwarf was holding the hands even tighter. “As is Aragorn,” he added, directing his eyes to the king.

Aragorn nudged closer, placing his hand over the Dwarf’s. “I am here, Legolas,” he said with a small smile.

“Ara . . . Aragorn,” came the slow word, dragged out by a long pause as the Elf seemed to take in his presence. The utterance was barely heard, so soft did his friend’s voice come. Both he and Gimli leaned in that they might hear him.

“Are you in pain, Legolas?” the healer asked. “I might do something if you are in pain.”

“My . . . legs,” the Elf slowly drawled out. “Cannot feel . . . legs.”

Aragorn leaned in close and brushed a hand across the Elf’s cheek. Warm to the touch, it was odd to see the flesh so bereft of color. “You fell, Legolas. Your back was injured.”

“I . . . I cannot . . .” the pale figure began, but he did not complete the statement.

“We must give it time to heal,” Aragorn encouraged, surmising his friend’s fears. “You are very strong. You will overcome this.”

Wide-eyed, the Elf looked at Aragorn with eyes that seemed to plead for something. “She wants me,” Legolas said.

Aragorn brushed a hand over the Elf’s anxious brow. “No more. She is gone,” Aragorn replied.

Legolas turned away, his eyes gazing again at the waterfall. “She is not gone. She lives. She wants me.”

Aragorn remained calm as he considered his response. And then he queried further, wondering if they were even speaking of the same thing? “Who, Legolas?” he asked.

”The sea,” the Elf answered on a small sigh, his eyes again unfocused.

There it was, the longing that had been pressed upon the Elf. What had Bäla said? “All I needed to do was lay my hand upon him and his desire was enhanced . . . And already it was so strong. Such an easy way to take a victim: offer them that for which they already yearn.” Was this the remnant of a spell? And if so, how might it be broken?

“You must fight this, Legolas,” he said, his voice gentle but stern.

It seemed Legolas had stopped hearing him though, and so he put his hands to the Elf’s face again in hope of regaining his attention. “I will help you, my friend. I will free you from this curse,’ Aragorn promised without means to know how he might do it.

And suddenly Legolas’ eyes came to focus, and he seemed to understand the king. “I . . . please, Aragorn, no! Please do not force me. It hurts too much,” Legolas pleaded in a weak voice.

Aragorn flinched, a new set of worries plaguing him. It hurts too much? “Where, Legolas? Where does it hurt?”

Legolas winced and turned his head, closing his eyes, and Aragorn drew back, somewhat frightened at the Elf’s reaction and scanning the body to see if anything had changed that might cause the sudden pain. “What would it be to live without use of my limbs? I . . . I could not bear it, Aragorn,” the Elf said, his voice but a breath of a whisper.

Relief washed over Aragorn. He had thought what the Elf claimed was a far worse injury. The answer he need give his friend was simple. “You may not need to, my friend. You have not had the chance yet to heal,” Aragorn answered. He knew of Elven healing, and he knew Legolas stood every chance for a cure with time. Shattered bones could be healed. A shattered heart . . . that was another matter entirely.

“There is such pain in my chest, Estel.” Suddenly Aragorn’s stomach dropped. “She has already shorn me of my heart. I will let her take me. She is calling me . . . She is insistent. She will not be . . . made to wait.” These last words came out on a moan, and the pale eyes shut to the anguish that seemed to be within the Elf, and Aragorn knew his worst fear was true.

Aragorn knew of this hurt. The Elf was giving in, and he would die of heartbreak and despair if he was not turned away from this course. Even if his life were no longer in mortal danger of the witch’s devices, Bäla had somehow put it upon his friend to find no hope.

He needs to understand, Aragorn concluded. The Elf’s natural abilities to heal must be given a chance to do what they may. “Legolas, you must not fade! You have not given yourself a chance! Do not give in to this pain!”

Though his training was not as thorough as Lord Elrond’s, Aragorn had studied in the libraries of Imladris. He knew of Elven history. There was no lore telling of permanent damage to the spine or paralysis to one of the Firstborn, only temporary cases at best. Somehow he did not think it was within the Valar to allow such a thing to pass.

In fact, Aragorn had seen amazing things pass under the abilities of those people. How many times had he witnessed blows that would concuss a mortal into permanent idiocy glance off an Elf’s skull leaving nothing more lasting than a bad headache requiring a few day’s worth of bed rest? Unequal though it was, Elves had an amazing ability to mend, given close care and time. Legolas stood every chance of recovery if he would only give his body the chance to heal itself. Legolas knew this. Yet, if the Elf gave in now, yielding to the heartbreak over losing the power of his limbs before healing could take place, his spirit would fade and his body would perish.

Legolas’ eyes went bright with a slow rage. “You may not tell me what I shall decide!” he announced, then he groaned with new pain. Wincing in his agony, he grunted, “You do not know what I endure. I have fought this long on my own. I will choose my own fate.”

No! This is not right! This is not like him! the king thought.

Panic flared in him, and he feared anew this spell of Bäla’s. He leaned over his friend, hands on either side of the body. He was determined to reach the Elf and he cried out in a voice he hoped would draw notice. “You choose death! This is not your will, Legolas! Bäla did this to you. He magnified your desire for the sea, and in succumbing you give up all else. Fight this, Legolas! Fight this,” he beseeched. Then growing angry at the despondency he saw, he proclaimed with more authority, as if he were commanding the Elf, “I will not let you give up, Legolas. I will not let you succumb to this! You must be made to --”

Legolas cringed, his breath suddenly coming fast. He shook his head, negating Aragorn’s plea, turning away and refusing to look.

“Aragorn –“ Gimli began.

“I will give you something to help you sleep. That will help break the sea’s call,” the king offered, trying to remain calm as he considered the options that he might use to reclaim his friend.

“Aragorn –“ the Dwarf began again.

“I can stop this, Legolas! Have hope and it will ease the ache. You do not want this, trust me and listen,” he urged, placing a hand on the Elf’s chest.

Legolas’ nostrils were flaring, and his breath came fast and furious as he shot a hand out, pushing Aragorn away. “Do not touch me!“ he screamed, then recoiled into pain.

“Aragorn, stop!” Gimli frantically cried, pulling the man away. “You are pushing him! Stop!”

“He must see--!” he began, gaping at the Elf, and then the Dwarf.

“All that he sees is he is being made to do something that someone else wants for him!” Gimli interrupted. “Look at him! You are not reaching him by forcing him! This is what Bregus and Bäla did to him – they tried to force their will on him!

“Surely you do not mean to give up?!” Aragorn cried, looking for a reason for action.

“Of course I will not give up! But I will not foist my will on him as you are doing!” the Dwarf replied.

And then the rest of what Bäla said became clear as the words rang again in his ears. “. . . Sea longing . . . Magnified by his other feelings of subjugation . . .” But what did that mean? Was the Elf compelled by the spell to answer the sea’s call because he felt powerless to control his own fate?

Aragorn opened his mouth to relay this to the Dwarf, but then he realized somehow Gimli already understood this. He could see the desolate expression that the Dwarf wore. Gimli was just as broken over what was occurring as Aragorn. But as Gimli turned to speak to the Elf, his voice was suddenly gentle and Aragorn saw he was showing example of what he might give of a healing method to their friend.

“It is not time to despair, Legolas,” the Dwarf said. “Let us work together to find the cure to this ailment.” He paused, his brows drawing together into a querulous expression. “. . . Legolas?” he called. But the Elf’s eyes were turned away, and his gaze was again set to the water.

“Estel,” a voice interrupted, but Aragorn could not turn away. He was too devastated to answer. “Estel,” the voice came again with a gentle hand laid upon him, and Aragorn was made to turn away from his own worries by the concern in the word spoken. He gazed up at Arwen’s sweet face, knowing well his ache was visible upon his brow. He knew she would understand it though, and he felt no need to soften it. However, as he looked on her, he saw other concerns in her expression.

His eyes softened with compassion and he urged her with his glance. “The baby comes,” she said, and he knew that she was asking that he might come and give them aid.

Aragorn felt torn, but the Dwarf looked up. “Go with her then, Aragorn. I will call you if there is a change,” he said, and then he disentangled his fingers from the Elf’s long digits enough to remove the necklace wrapped around his hand. “Give this to Kattica, please. Perhaps she might find comfort in it. It is hers.”

The stone felt warm from the Dwarf’s touch, and its weight was comfortable in Aragorn’s hand as he took it, but that did not dispel the edginess that tugged upon Aragorn’s conscience as he allowed himself to be pulled away.

Yet as he entered the back room, he saw the reason for the worries that had lined Arwen’s face. Though he was torn at the idea of leaving Legolas, he could see why he had been called away. Kattica had been near unconsciousness when he had briefly examined her before, and therefore he had not noted her complete distress then. Now she was near hysteria in her fright. Her cries were loud, and she was doing nothing to cooperate with those attending her. Her hands fought any who sought to aid her.

“Too soon! Too soon!” Kattica was crying as she fought against the contraction robbing her of her breath.

“Kattica, please!” Mattias was imploring her from his position at her shoulder. “Listen to them! They will help you!”

“No!” she cried, twisting around to try to break away. “I can stop this! I can force the baby back! I can assert my will! Stoke the fire and find the stones. I must make this a Protected Place again!”

“Kattica--” Mattica pleaded.

“I will not let it happen! I will not succumb to this!”

Aragorn knelt before the distressed young woman. With a calm voice he said, “The baby is coming. Do not fight this, for that does not help your child.” The words distressed them, for they were in direct conflict to what he had advised the Elf only a minute before. And like Legolas, Kattica was shaking her head to his plea.

“I can stop this!” she sobbed. “I must --!”

He bent down, taking her hand and struggling to open the clenched fist. This, too, she fought, but finally he was able to break her down enough that he could splay the hand. Into it he placed her amulet.

Panting between contractions, she looked down at her hand, eyes opening wide at the token.

Her eyes filled with tears, but he could not tell if they were tears of happiness or sadness. “He is dead then,” she said in an uttered gasp, leaning her head back into Mattias’ body and wrapping her hands into her husband’s, as if consoling him with the news.

“Aye,” said Aragorn. He noted Éowyn’s gesture then indicating that the girl was ready for the final stage of her labor. “But so it seems a new life comes,” he said in a light tone in hopes that he might ward off another round of hysteria.

“No, she cannot,” Kattica said as she twisted around again. “It is still too early yet. She has yet a cycle and a half of the moon yet before she is due. My baby is too young to survive if she comes!”

“It is not so early that she will not survive. Your water is broken, and you know as well as I that after that event, there is no stopping the birthing process,” Aragorn said, holding her hand sympathetically.

“I will stop it! I have the power!” she replied on the edge of hysteria.

“No, Kattica. It would do neither you nor the baby any good to stop the process. Let her come,” Aragorn answered calmly.

“It is not time!” she sobbed.

“Please, listen to me. All may be well. If you might do anything, give a means to your child that she might breathe. That is what might prevent her life at this early stage. All else we can work as healers to treat upon her arrival, but if she cannot breathe, there is nothing we might do to help her,” he said, squeezing her hand, maintaining his calming voice. He knew it was better she expect this reality rather than being misguided to believe all might be well.

Her eyes widened as she heard him, but then her expression softened and he could see her understanding. She nodded before closing her fingers over the amulet. “The stone was a gift to me from my grandmother. Perhaps it will help me. It holds a part of her spirit and it is meant to bring out what is strongest in one’s heart.”

Aragorn smiled softly as he said, “I think you have already proven your heart is good without it.”

Éowyn said then, turning to him, “Any moment now.”

Aragorn nodded, knowing what was to come. “Kattica, when the next pain comes, you will need to push. You will feel the pressure to bear down. Do not fight it. And remember, work what you may to will breath into your child.” Then turning to Mattias, he said as he nodded to the small fire lighting the room, “You may help by stoking the fire higher. Make it burn brightly. We must create what we can of a false Protected Place if Kattica’s magic is to take effect.”

The man sprang into action, and Aragorn smiled. He could sympathize, knowing how inept Mattias must feel at this moment. Even now, he, as a healer, had to wonder at what he might do to help. Éowyn seemed to have the situation under control, and except for quelling the girl’s panic, there was really nothing he had contributed in the way of aid. The labor was progressing as it should, and the only thing he might do was offer assistance if needed when the baby came.

But such a feeling of ease did not last. “Aragorn!”

He gazed up to see Gimli standing on the other side of the door, his eyes anxious. “Aragorn! Come, please! He needs you!” the Dwarf cried, and the man began to rise in his fear.

Kattica’s hand reached out to clutch his. “Is it Legolas?” she asked with panted breath, her eyes coming to focus as the pain remained at bay for the moment.

“I must go to him,” the king said. His heart was frantically beating a hurried racket within his chest but his voice was even and strong. “He . . . I know not what I may do. He should live, but he gives up.”

“He would not let me enter his thoughts,” she said, nodding her head and sitting up, anticipating the push that would be coming with the next contraction. “There is nothing either that I may--” But she stopped abruptly, staring at Arwen’s hand, which was pulling her upright. “Where did you . . . ? That belongs to Legolas!” Kattica said pulling on the hand, and fingering the braided cord that was looped and tied to Arwen’s wrist.

“Yes,” Arwen nodded, looking with careful eyes at the young woman as she removed the braid and handed it to her. “I found it in the woods. The dogs picked up his scent from it and let me pass as a result.”

“It is a protecting charm. . . ! Aragorn, you must take it and bind it to Legolas! It might help him!” the woman said in an eager voice. “And,” passing both this and her grandmother’s amulet to him, she said, “take this other charm as well. Twine them together and then wrap them about his wrist. My grandmother may be able to guide him where we cannot.”

“But what of you? Will you not need this?” he asked. But before anything more could be said between them, she pulled back, stiffening as she started to breathe in sharp gasps, her focus suddenly guided toward a place above Éowyn’s head. She groaned then, her face contorting with pain and then she cried in the agony that was upon her. The moment had come.

“Aragorn! Please!” cried Gimli, still standing at the door, though he glanced back into the front room of the cave and toward their friend.

“Think of your baby now. Give her breath. Help her find strength to survive,” Aragorn urged Kattica, giving her hand a final squeeze, and as she nodded, grunting in her concentration, he backed away.

Turning, the king ran to the next room and nearly fell to his knees at the sight that met him. He could see Legolas struggling on the pallet, his movements limited, but the blue eyes wild, as if searching for something. His hands blindly reached out, grappling for something unknown.

Gimli grasped his hand upon his return, and the Elf noticeably calmed with that contact. Yet it was not enough. Legolas’ appearance had suffered in the few minutes Aragorn had been away. He appeared even frailer. Immediately dropping to the hurting Elf’s side, the king saw his friend fighting for air, and in taking Legolas’ thready pulse, he noted the blue tint of the fingernails on the long, slender digits.

Realizing there was nothing of time to spare, he began to do as Kattica had instructed, coiling the cords together, and then wrapping them to Legolas’ wrist with shaking fingers. But the Elf seemed to sense something of the thin ropes twisting about his wrist and began to push him away, shoving his hands aside with strength that Aragorn would not have thought possible given his condition.

“Legolas, please,” he implored, though the Elf seemed not to heed him.

“Sever it! Sever it! No more! No more ties to bind me!” Legolas cried, his breath grating, strangled, and heaving in a rasping chest.

“Take it, my friend,” Gimli softly urged, “Take it! It is a lifeline, not a coil of entrapment!”

“Please, Legolas! I will not force it upon you. I only want to help you,” Aragorn quietly implored from the other side of the litter. Legolas then stilled and gazed upward, seeing and finally recognizing his friend and his intentions not to do harm. But apparently the struggle was too much for the Elf, for though Aragorn was able to then loosely wrap the amulets into digits suddenly gone limp, Legolas appeared to have lost his ability to do more. With a gasp that sounded hollow and devoid of drawing power, the Elf looked at him with eyes gone wide in a gaze akin to surprise. As if in slow motion, Aragorn watched it pass. The realization came as the expression softened, the look of dismay fading, and eyes going unfocused, seeing something beyond Aragorn, before him, behind him. And then they closed, no longer looking at anything, be it the wall of water or his friends. He was only seeing inwardly now as he stopped taking air into his body entirely.

Parted blue lips and pale white skin seemed ghostly as the body before them ceased to move, and Aragorn stared, disbelieving that this could come to be.

“NO!” he screamed, pushing away, leaping back, dumbstruck and crying for his helplessness. It was too ghastly a horror to be real! This was not happening!

“No no no!” he cried again, caught in his shock as he tried to put reason to this.

“No!” he exclaimed, refusing to believe it could so easily end. He had seen death before, and he knew it was not kind, but this should not be happening. It could not be happening!

Then he pushed his torment away, fighting against the agony, ignoring it so that he might be delivered from the anguish that drew on him from deep within. In his gut he felt his determination, and he pushed it out. It was the same grit that drove him to order his men forward in the wailing charge of war. He could persevere.

He rushed back then and loomed over the Elf, grabbing hands that had no life and shaking them. Gimli clutched at the body, gulping on air and tears.

“Do something!” the Dwarf cried, looking at Aragorn with desperate, pleading eyes.

Reacting without thinking then, the healer pushed on the Elf’s chest, willing the heart to beat, for breath to be drawn. Instinctively he opened Legolas’ mouth, dragging a finger inside to make sure air passage was clear. Air circulated the room then and a whirlwind of freshness gathered about them.

Kattica’s spell, he thought, remembering what was occurring in the next room and wondering if the magic might carry to his friend as well as the babe.

Breathe! Breathe! he urged in his mind, but nothing happened. He knew it would not. The Elf’s fëa was fleeing.

“Please, please,” he cried. “Legolas, I beg you, please! Do not give in to your anguish!”

One last time he put his hands to the Elf’s face. He beseeched his weary cry. “Do not die, Legolas! We love you! We have fought that you might live. Do not surrender!”

Then Gimli added to the plea. “Do not forsake your soul to Mandos, Legolas. Please do not leave us like this. Let us send you off by sea, if that is your desire, but do not shatter our hearts too in choosing so abrupt an end. Please, Legolas! Your friendship is too great for me to bow to its parting so easily! Do not leave me like this! I would die of heartbreak! Please!”

And then something happened.

From the next room, the breaking sound of a baby’s cry could be heard, and as that spilling music met his ears, Legolas sputtered, coughing and gulping on air, his eyes coming back to life as they shot open in a look of sorrow. Aragorn fell back, watching, waiting. Gulping breath followed gulping breath. Flesh slowly turned pink and lips went to a rosy hue.

Tears of joy streamed down haggard cheeks as Aragorn gasped a sigh of relief. He is alive, he thought. He has been delivered from death!

But at what cost, he then wondered as he saw the fingers of his friend’s hand close around the cords of those twined amulets. Kattica had said her grandmother’s charm brought out what was strongest in the heart while the other served to protect from harm. The Elf hung to them as if only half willing to do so, and the small sob emitted by Legolas was one given as if in resignation. Was their anything of strength left in his friend’s heart? Aragorn wondered as he watched tears fall from the eyes of the Elf, while in the next room the newly voiced cries of the baby continued.

****

There was much to clean up in the aftermath, and much had gone on in the course of that night. It had been a sleepless one for some. For others, it had been a time to shut down and relinquish to what their bodies required.

As was natural, Kattica and her baby had given in to rest after a time of nursing and quiet bonding. Mattias, however, had resumed his role as leader of the tribe, spending much of the night in counsel with his people, and quelling their worries for their plight.

Arwen had watched as Aragorn had given Legolas a mild sleeping draught to ease his pain. Surprisingly, the Elf had not fought him on this, and had drifted off into the deeper places of heavy sleep. His glazed eyes slipped shut with nothing of fight, and Arwen felt trepidation for Legolas’ state, as the surrender appeared too willingly given. She feared for him, knowing how close they had come to losing him.

She would have liked to see the same medicine given to Faramir, for he appeared to be fighting off something in his heart. She knew he would not sleep and indeed he had rested little, occupying his time instead with ordering the soldiers about and procuring food and bedding for the Romany people. It might have been her feelings of trepidation, but it seemed he purposely avoided halting for rest, though in those times of activity, there were moments when he lost himself and drifted away on a thought, staring into space with a look of quiet misery. But within another moment, he would shake himself loose, and resume his activity, obviously pushing his sorrow to be behind him.

Arwen glanced at Faramir as she sat the bowl of broth next to the sleeping Elf. Her eyes gazed down at Legolas’ pale figure before she moved away from him, coming to stand before Faramir, who had entered the room. She could see the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Might you not sleep now, Faramir?” she asked, offering him courtesies that he might see he was being asked and not ordered.

“When it is time,” he curtly answered.

“Perhaps some fresh air,” she offered in consolation. “You have been hiding in the dark reaches of the cave for hours, setting the inner room to order. I think some sun might do you good.” It was really an unnecessary comment, for a small breeze constantly blew within the cave and the light was bright. She knew she often felt better when she could feel the sun on her skin and the Song on the breath of the wind. She put a concerned hand to the man’s shoulder as she uttered this thought.

He nearly jumped at the invasion, though the touch had barely grazed his shirt.

“I am fine,” he said hastily, moving away from her and leaving Arwen to wonder what might have caused such a reaction.

Éowyn came to her side then, handing her the implements needed to feed the Elf. The lady looked with concern to where her husband had gone and absently said, “I will see to Faramir.”

Arwen sighed and turned to the sleeping creature. She noted the amulets had been pulled away from Legolas’ wrist, though she had not seen it happen, and she dropped to her knees, speaking to him as she rewrapped them. This had occurred twice before in the night.

“Why do you remove these, my friend? Do you not see that they help hold you in this world until a time when your injuries might heal?”

The Elf remained silent and still as she completed her task. She looked at his pale complexion and thought about what had just occurred with Faramir. Then she said, “Fresh air might help you too, I think. I will speak to the healer when he arrives today. I think it might do to set up a place outdoors where you might rest and hear the treesong. It might also help to chase away the call of the water. I know that yet plagues you, despite your healing sleep.” Dialogue had taken place between Aragorn and the Elves over moving their friend back to his habitat in Doro Lanthiron. The healer would have his say on this, but Arwen was fairly certain the terrain was too rocky and unsteady for a smooth descent out. Despite this, she saw no reason that they couldn’t attempt to bring Legolas outdoors from time to time, so long as they were careful in carrying his pallet. The weather was warm and the sky was clear. Perhaps tonight she might even convince Aragorn that it would be good to camp under stars. Such a thing was best when the healing of a Wood Elf was concerned.

Legolas’ pallet was already propped up, so she need not worry for tilting Legolas’ head, or jarring his neck. She lifted the bowl to her lap, nestling the tepid liquid between her knees while taking up towel and spoon in her hands. She gentled the utensil into the broth and brought up a small amount, drawing the spoon to Legolas’ lips. Pulling his slack mouth open with the hand holding the towel, she drizzled the liquid into his mouth, then watched as he reflexively swallowed. He took sustenance. That, at least, was a sign of healing.

She gazed again at the amulets and thought of their power. Kattica had approached the Elf numerous times just in this short day, attempting if she could, to enter his mind and pull him away from his longing and melancholy. But each time she had tried, he had grown agitated, almost fighting to wakefulness. She had said it was Bäla’s spell that did this to him. She said that Legolas fought anything he perceived as oppressing him. Even the amulets, she said, Legolas saw as holding him back from his desires.

Arwen hummed softly as she continued to feed Legolas the broth, watching his hands as she did. She saw then his subtle movements, the small worrying of fingers into the cords. By the time she had finished the bowl, she had noted the ropes were looser on his wrist. Moving the bowl aside, she took his hand into her lap, and again tied the cord tighter.

“Do you feel we keep you here against your will, Legolas? Is that why you keep trying to be freed from these small cords? I understand your plight. Truly I do, for I know what it is to be bound to one place when one might want to be in another. Please understand though, my friend, it pains me to bind you like this, and unlike the binds that held me, these cords will be released when you have found healing. For the moment only, we do this to keep you safe. Once healed, we will not hold you back from your intentions. I promise you that.

“At least Kattica can read this in you. She tells us your bones and nerves are beginning to show signs of healing. She might help you more, as I know she could touch your mind. You push her back, though she wants to help. She says she might mend you if you would allow it, but as you seem opposed, she says at least your body will find repair on its own. That is a good thing, is it not?

“I hope that your mind might find healing too. Kattica said that you told her once, when the sea called you, you found your strength in your remembrance of friendships and duty, that they rooted you to these lands. Might you try to remember these alliances now?”

She shifted, directing her eyes outward at the window. “Éowyn is horribly distressed over what has come to you. She says it not, but she blames herself, though Kattica tells her your illness is not her making. Estel says you would have found your way free had Bäla not plied you with this horrible feeling of oppression, and I think Éowyn reads blame in that, though he knows it was not her intent to hurt you. It would do good for them both if you awoke with a sound mind. In fact it would do all in this cave some good.”

She stroked his head as she spoke, then she leaned in to him, softly uttering. “I fear for Faramir. He has been wounded somehow, and I think there is a horror the witch put upon him of which he will not speak. His heart breaks, just as yours does. I hope Éowyn might reach him, for none others of us may. He flees. He is like you in this. He runs from the horror of the invasion put upon him.”

Clasping Legolas’ hand, she asked, “I wonder. Did the same happen to you? Or were the crimes against you different? A little of both, I think. The violation was dissimilar, but the effects are alike.” She touched the amulets then, her fingers running over the twined cords. “Hold on to your life, Legolas. Remember your friends and your duty, and let us see if we cannot also get Faramir to do the same.”

She looked up then to see Faramir standing in the doorway, his fingers tracing the craggy surface of the stone. She gazed at him then as he stared at the Elf, and then he turned and returned to some task in the inner cave where the shadows were deepest.

****

She was there, staring at him, touching him again. He pushed her away, but she was touching him in such a way to make him vulnerable. The intimacy was vile!

He had to get away! She was there and he was captive to her desires. He could not flee as he was paralyzed by the spell that she had cast on him, and so he was forced to endure what would come. Stroking fingers glanced over his body, lusting, wanting him. And worse was what came next. The feelings she stirred in him sickened him.

He was there in the cave, fighting her, attempting to get Éowyn away from her. Horrible was the vision. There was light and water everywhere, and the earth rumbled as he fought against the winds. Wicked and ugly was her face, matching the terror put into his heart. But the true horror was her voice. It cut through the wind, seeking him. It was a paradox to all that had been put before him for it was enticing and sensual, hypnotizing him with her desires and his. She prodded him with the sound of her words and he was helpless.

He did not want this! Groping against the constraints put upon his body, he twisted in the effort to get away! He had to get away!

Trapped. Claustrophobic. He felt as if there was not air enough to breathe. As if there was not room enough to spread his arms and legs. As if his heart was being squeezed by the constraints of his own chest.

And yet she remained.

“Do not touch me!” he cried. His voice boomed out and he heard it echo throughout the cave. And still, she was there.

“Keep away from me! DO NOT --!” He shot away, fighting the hands that were holding him, uncertain how she had made everything go so maddeningly still.

“Faramir?”

It was Éowyn’s voice.

His breath spilled out in panted gulps; his skin felt damp with perspiration. A baby cried, and it was dark. Somewhere someone lit a lamp, and he heard voices echo about, calling to see what brought this commotion.

“Faramir?” It was Éowyn’s hand that stroked him. So gentle and caring was she. And yet he felt as if he might jump out of his skin should she lay her slender fingers upon him again. He hissed as she started to pull him to her, and rather than wait for her unwelcome touch, he jumped up and away.

“Faramir, please,” she pleaded to him.

But he pushed through the dark, saying only, “It was nothing. Go back to sleep.” And then he removed himself to the outer cave, to be free of the pervading sense of oppression he felt from within.

He could feel the breeze blowing and he could smell the comforting scent before he even drew the curtain. Those small freedoms were what he sought, for he found peace with them. He was drawn to the outer chamber where Legolas was laid. There was something of a commonality between he and Legolas that he felt attuned as in a kinship and now he sought it out.

The moon shone brightly upon the Elf as the water raced past the window of water. The blue light upon the fringes of his silhouette made Legolas appear as an apparition. The Elf looked dead and Faramir almost gasped when he saw his friend. A moment later he saw the rise and fall of Legolas’ chest indicating the elf yet lived.

He nodded to the Elf healer who took this watch. The Elves guarded their lord as if they feared he indeed might slip away were they not to watch him.

Taking a place in the vigil, Faramir seated himself at the Elf’s side and watched the subtle motion of his friend’s chest rise and fall. Except for that, there was no sign of life.

In the other room, he heard the sound of those settling within. The baby’s cries softened, and the lights again dimmed, and Faramir was left with his thoughts.

He breathed deeply of the athelas scent that was made a constant where Legolas lay. It relieved his soul, and he had found himself time and time again drawn to it, using it for his own healing just as much as it was for Legolas’. Though he could not prove it, he felt it might have been made that way for just such a purpose. Aragorn had not pressed him for details on what had occurred in Bregus’ attacks, but it was only a matter of time. He knew he must tell what was in his heart, somehow, to someone.

She is dead, Legolas, he thought, finding that at least to be something worth celebrating. She cannot plague us again. But he knew this was not entirely true, for Bregus lived still in his dreams. At least they found the bodies, he thought. Though sent plummeting into water, somehow both witches had burned, and Faramir knew that was just. Yet he also knew there was more needed to relieve him than just surety of her death.

Relief was not his, and it appeared not to be the Elf’s either. Legolas faded still. Though the Elf was stable now, that bit of news did nothing to belie the fact that the will to live simply was not there. That the Elf had lapsed into deep unconsciousness and had not waken in the couple days since Bregus’ death only affirmed to Faramir how terribly serious the situation truly was. The reactions of the others made it even more so.

The evidence was clear the moment they had turned the Elf that first day. With the aid of the other Elves -- the healers among them -- a secondary litter was crafted that was used to help keep Legolas stationary while he was turned. It was deemed his spine must be relieved of the pressure upon it by putting Legolas’ body in other positions. Several times each day he was moved, carefully, as if they were lifting the most fragile of parchments.

What they found when they did this was a horrible sight to behold. Aragorn’s breath had hitched when he had first seen, and Faramir felt sick inside. Though it seemed Legolas’ body was bereft of color, his back was a mottled canvas of hues. Reds and violets and blues and blacks told the tale of the injuring blow to the Elf and what had come to fell him. Upon seeing that, Faramir suddenly felt as if he understood Legolas’ pale coloring; it was like all the color of his skin had been sent to the areas of the hideous bruises. That hurt drained him of life. From there he bled into his own soul.

Do you still bleed, Legolas? Faramir wondered. For I do, he thought, continuing the random musings, and I cannot seem to stop it.

He could not even put into words what he considered then, for he felt it was too ugly a thing to consider. Yet he felt he must do something to wipe the memory of the witch from his mind. Otherwise, it might take all the athelas in Middle-earth to purge the ugliness from his mind and complete this task.

Was it rape he had suffered? Partly, but not. Not a finger had been laid upon him, and yet he felt as if he had been forced to endure just what a rape might be. But the worst part was his body’s response. It had been against his will, what had occurred, but his body found pleasure in it. His mind had been made to find sensual enjoyment in the witch’s perverted act and his body had responded.

Heinous! Ugly!

He had thought he was past it. In the wilds, when she had modestly offered healing, Kattica’s touch had seemed to work it away, freeing him from his guilt and giving him reason to laugh again. She had given him a chance to slip past the memory and to focus on what was most important now. But in his last encounter with the witch, when she had attacked both himself and Mattias, he had felt it again. The old woman’s fingers had been on his body, and the memory of that original horror was returned!

It was like a bandage that had been ripped away. He had been nearly healed, but now the memory was a raw wound again. He knew Kattica would aid him again if he asked, yet he could not bring himself to do so. It was like admitting weakness. Asking her would be relying upon something that was outside of himself, and he knew he needed to find his healing from within.

She was there, watching him, eyes piercing his back. He felt her stare and he turned, eyes seeking out her physical form. The moon cast light upon her and he found himself both drawn to her and frightened simultaneously. The memory prevailed. What she wanted of him, he knew, and he felt he must run from it.

“Faramir,” she said in her hauntingly beautiful voice.

He cringed, fearing her. “Go back to bed, Éowyn. I will be fine. I just needed some air,” he politely said.

She hesitated, staring at him, pressing him with her expectations. “You are sure?” she finally said.

“It was just a dream,” he answered.

Pacified, she turned, slowly withdrawing, and he watched her ethereal figure disappear into the recesses of the cave.

A dream. A nightmare. . . he thought. Would it ever end?

The healer looked at Faramir with an assessing glance, but then the Elf returned to the care of his patient, retying the cords about the Elf’s wrist and putting fresh athelas into the steaming pot. So you have your ties to this world too, Legolas, Faramir thought as he looked back to where Éowyn had disappeared. And then he turned back to the faint silhouette. But I know for what you ask.

Faramir understood it. It was a plea for freedom, as if the Elf asked to be allowed to bleed. As if Faramir asked to be allowed to flee from his memory.

And yet for both their sakes they were made to stay. Legolas’ amulets were tied back around his wrist, and Faramir was left to breathe the scent of athelas. Desperately, they were made to stay. Softly, Faramir cried.

****

It was raining. It could be supposed that might be enough to bring everyone indoors, but on this third day since their retaking of the cave, the lot of the group was outdoors, in the drizzle, erecting a structure that might be used for Legolas’ healing.

Gimli kneeled next to his friend and murmured, “Soon. You shall have your outing yet today if Aragorn has anything to say of it.” And as he said this, he felt a small stab of guilt that he had taken the task of watching his friend over that. Over these days though, he was hard-pressed to do anything but stay at Legolas’ side.

There was no denying the return to the outdoors was helping. Color seemed to be returning to the Elf’s pale complexion with each hour spent under the trees, and rain or not, it was determined such removal from the cave was of benefit to the healing process. At this rate, they might again see their friend healthy, and soon.

Of course, the Dwarf’s impatience made it that such a thing could not come soon enough. “When might he wake?” he had asked Aragorn, but the answer had not been forthcoming.

It was not an easy thing to watch, but Gimli had to believe Aragorn’s assurances. It had taken too much of the Dwarf to witness his friend’s death and subsequent return to hold anything but faith that what was occurring was for the best. It was heart rending to find Legolas, a noble creature of great strength, succumbing to this harm. That left Gimli to wonder if what happened now was just one more way for the Elf to slip away?

He pushed the thought away as he tried to find faith that all would be well. And so he had watched as Legolas fell into what the Dwarf would call a coma, while Aragorn called it a healing sleep. Nary a word had been said by the Elf after he had breathed life yet again those few days ago. It was disconcerting if for no other reason than that Gimli wanted reassurances that his friend would heal in mind, as well as in body.

Still, he had to agree with Aragorn’s assertions that the Elf would walk again. Legolas was too strong-willed and stubborn to surrender, and under normal circumstances of mood, Gimli might have not worried. Yet it did worry him, for he saw little indication of Legolas’ will and fire, as he knew them to be. Though the fear of the crippling wound was great, what might happen to the Elf’s mind and mood was truly what paralyzed the Dwarf with fear. The torment and trauma that seemed to plague his friend was enough to make him eager to know of Legolas’ sanity. It appeared the Elf had been pushed too far.

Gimli took a seat on a nearby stool and looked down at his foot, studying the cloth that bound his boot. While his head no longer bothered him, the foot yet ached. Gimli would not complain of it though, especially knowing his friend both suffered greater pain and also suffered nothing of his legs. It was an unfair situation, and though in a moment of quiet resolve Aragorn had offered to change his bindings, to free his foot from the boot, to look over the wound, Gimli had refused. Secretly, Gimli had done this already, cleansing and treating the injury, then rewrapping it in fresh bandages and then the same cloths on the outside. The injury was healing well enough, and he was not troubled enough to prod at it unnecessarily. Deep down too, he felt there might be benefit in having his foot wrapped as it was, though what those reasons might be, at the moment he could not guess. He just knew he would not relinquish his foot from the red casings until he was assured his friend too was on the mend.

Gimli grumbled softly as he thought of this. At the heart of it, he knew how frail Elves could be. Truly he saw weakness in them, but not the same fragility as men might perceive. Elves were much different.

He could forgive them for all the blessings bestowed upon them by the gods, for, though he would never confess it, he appreciated their wealth of physical powers and strengths, their keen intellects and insights, their appreciations of beauty and nature; but he could not forgive their acute sense of emotion. Though Legolas tried to mask it, Gimli read him as if he were marks written on a page. All the hurts, the joys, the sufferings and the celebrations Legolas might know, Gimli could see. The stoic aura and jovial mannerisms of that race did not fool the Dwarf.

So it was no surprise that Gimli worried for Legolas’ heart. Such a pull could tear his friend in half, and that maddening trauma might be enough to send his friend to surrender in one form or another.

At the same time, he knew Legolas was not typical of Elfkind, and if there was anything he had learned in these short years of their friendship, it was to not underestimate his companion. Still, a sign that Legolas might be whole again would do much to quell Gimli’s anxious mind.

I should be out there helping, he guiltily thought. In truth, he wanted to be, but his pull to be at his friend’s side was greater, and even when the structure was complete and they had Legolas outdoors, Gimli knew he would not stray far from where his friend would be.

“I have become a nurse, I think. Not to fret, though as this part of the task I enjoy,” he said aloud, defending his choice to stay and tend the Elf. Vesawen stirred in his arms.

The baby girl had been put there when Arwen had sensed his agitated mood. Subsequently, the women folk had disappeared to fashion a roof for the bower, and Gimli had been left alone with the babe. He decided it was meant to teach him something about opening himself to the needs of others, beyond Legolas. The Dwarf was not so dense as to miss the message. He did not fight off the effort, and secretly he enjoyed it. Though he had not asked for the child to make herself a place in his heart, he could not help but feel a sense of tenderness and protectiveness toward her. She was ward to them all, and he would help where he may. He knew that she was but part of what the future held. He did not mind tending her.

Vesawen she had been named. Kattica said it was an old name among her people, that it had been her grandmother’s. She said that it meant ‘guardian in the forest’ and recalling the markings on the amulet, that seemed an appropriate name.

Tiny dark eyes opened to gaze at him. He could not really tell if she saw, for her expression was blank, accepting without questioning, expecting nothing and everything, and Gimli almost could not bear to see this. Legolas too had opened his eyes on a few occasions in these days, and his gaze had been much the same. Sadly those moments were unfulfilling, for like the babe, after a moment or two of staring outward, the Elf’s eyes would slip shut again and he would lapse back into a heavy doze, despite any activity occurring about him.

Gimli rocked the small infant in his arms, feeling the grip of her tiny hand curled around his littlest finger. She clung so fiercely. In this, Legolas was different. Hours could go by with one of his companions holding the Elf’s loosely unfolded hand, speaking to him or softly humming a soothing song, biding their time as they waited for the Elf to find healing, but unlike the baby, Legolas did not hold the hand given, almost as if he did not trust the feel of flesh pressed to his own.

“Find your strength, Legolas,” Gimli encouraged, yet the face remained still.

The baby yawned widely, shuddering as the pull of that small thing rippled into her chest. Her body twisted, and her head rolled back with the movement, and Gimli had to readjust her so that she was securely fixed again in his arms. She was so weak, so frail, a tiny thing, no larger than a loaf of bread that fit easily between his palm and the crook of his elbow. His heart ached for her vulnerability. And yet, her little stretches and signs of life encouraged him. She was strong. She would live.

Finding a knot welling in his throat, Gimli choked back the sorrow that was catching there. He wished the same evidence could be found in his friend, but there was yet to be a sign that anything beyond a grasp on life yet existed.

“My friend,” he said, speaking aloud. His voice was soft, and no one else was about to hear him, and so the words were shared only between himself and the Elf and the baby. “This must come from you,” he began. “You will have to find it within yourself. The world has been a cruel place to you of late, but it need not fall on you to battle it alone. You have friends, and we would offer aid to you whether you would ask it or not. We would help you, if you would let us.”

Transferring the small bundle in his arms, he brought the babe around and laid her across the Elf’s chest, tucking her into the crook of his friend’s arm. As he drew the Elf’s hand to bend around the tiny body, he noted that Legolas seemed to hold to her, weakly but his fingers modestly curled around the slight form. It was something. It was a start.

“This baby,” he said, glancing at the sleeping form enclosed in the Elf’s arms, “should not have been. So much has gone against her admittance to the world, from her conception to her birth. And yet she clings to life with a fervor that cannot be disputed. She lives. She does not fight us, or our desire to protect her. She accepts our love without question.”

And then Gimli felt tears fogging his gaze; he blinked them back. “I speak of your soul, Legolas, and what lies beyond. I cannot choose your path, but I know that if you will have it, we will help make it clear to you. The witches did . . . unspeakable things to you. I know this. You should not have suffered so cruelly. But they are gone, and we are all that is left. We will not harm you if you can find it within yourself to trust that.”

Only the soft breaths of the Elf’s rising and falling chest met his words. But when he placed his hand in his friends, he felt what was unmistakably a return of the gesture. Gimli watched and waited for something else, but it did not come, and he knew he had to be contented with just this.

In the Elf’s other arm, the baby shifted, and as Gimli gazed down, two piercing dark eyes looked at him and saw, truly saw, and then that little mouth parted, and a tiny smile ran over the face as the baby gazed into Gimli’s eyes. He knew it was not a true smile, for that might not come for a few months yet, but it felt good to see it. A smile. Such hope was contained in that small thing.

****

They were gone, and Éowyn was left to a moment of silence as she watched the company pass. The drizzle had ceased in hours past, and she could see the soldiers carefully carrying the Elf to the newly constructed bower on the other side of the forest path. More comforts would be needed in that shelter, but it was a good place to rest him for the time. It was amazing how quickly it had been constructed, but the Elves knew their design, and not only was the small arbor a beautiful thing, it looked as if it had been there for years already. It was a good place to heal, she decided. If only that might now take place.

She stepped carefully across the stones to take a seat on Faramir’s rock, and once there she curled into herself, huddling knees to chest. Tears unbidden came to her as she wept quietly.

Her guilt overwhelmed her again. Legolas’ progress was small and she felt anguish for her part in this fiasco. The others had told her this was not her fault. They had told her Bäla had taken this one small failing and had emphasized it for his own advantage. They had told her Legolas might well turn out fine for all he had suffered. She wished she might believe it.

The guilt was crippling, immobilizing, and she found herself hard pressed to move past it. Like a ghost making motions that were but a shadow of the real thing, she had acted the role of friend, comrade, healer. But it was a falsehood, a mask to the reeking culpability that consumed her. She wanted to see the Elf well. Only then might she begin to forgive herself for her failing. She felt like screaming for her rage against herself. No others might despise her for what she had done, but she could still despise herself.

The soft sound of steps behind her made her stiffen and turn. Within a heartbeat though, she realized, she need not hide her distress. She was safe in the new company that had found her. She need not look up to recognize his tread, for she knew his steps with all the familiarity that she knew her own heartbeat.

He hesitated a moment, and then in one fluid motion he was there, and he held her. She turned to him and melted into Faramir’s arms, sobbing softly into his consoling chest. Just the feel of his arms about her was great comfort, and his presence and his calming embrace eased the desolate feeling within her that had plagued her unrelentingly. She could have fallen into the mire of it were it not the arms enclosing her, shielding her from the stab of blame. She would not forget what had been done.

But she also knew it was something time would dull. Very slowly would she learn forgiveness.

The tears subsided, for the comfort of Faramir’s arms was a wonderful cure, and she had not realized until then how much she missed him. She had thought his comfort might never come again. He had distanced himself from her, and she could not help but feel he was ostracizing her as punishment for her wrong. Though he does not say it, he blames me too, she had thought, and the echo of that hurt had grown in volume in her heart. If Faramir could blame her, why would not the others?

Nothing would he say in the few days that had passed, and his silence was crushing. He fled her presence constantly, and she had wondered if he might ever find it within him to forgive her. Her anguish was magnified by his silence. She felt as if all eyes pressed upon her, hating her. Such was the weight of her blameworthiness.

But now he held her. Could it be that he forgave her? How wonderful it might be to feel free of the oppression of her responsibility for this error.

Salvation was before her in his gentle touch, the alluring musk of his skin, and the intoxicating feeling of passion and completion he might give her. She dipped her head, lifting her chin, parting her lips that she might taste the sweetness of his lips. She longed now to live a moment of wild abandon. She would feast on the consuming hunger that seemed to well from within her. The touch of her husband, his flesh against hers, would be the means of placating her ache until her soul could find the calm to gather relief and forgiveness.

He forgave her, and she was grateful. To kiss him. That was her first desire.

Faramir jerked back as if it burned to feel the gentle pressure of her lips pressed to his. It was a reaction she had not expected and she gasped a small sob at his response. She was stung yet again. Was this rejection? Did he yet punish?

She stiffened, as did he, and the tension between them was a reflection on her damaged soul. But suddenly it was passed, for she realized there was something more in him than what she might have thought. It was there in his eyes.

Pain.

Why had she not seen it? Was she blind? Was she so unfeeling? Suddenly she realized it had been there all this time and her neediness and self-absorption to her own turmoil had kept her ignorant to what he might feel.

How selfish am I that I would not recognize what was there before me?

There was a wall between them now where once there had been free admittance. Cold and hard and nearly impenetrable it seemed, for the look in his eyes told her he was afraid to trust. She had to break through it that she might free him, and in that, free herself.

Slowly she put out a hand that she might touch him. Innocently she placed it upon his shoulder, a consoling gesture as one might give to a friend. And with that, a brief amount of his hesitance faded, and he returned his hand in kind with a gentle caress to her cheek. She leaned into his touch, eyes closing at the contact as a tear rolled down her cheek and into the bowl of his palm. And then she touched him with the breath of her voice, exhaling gently to ask, “What did she do to you?”

His eyes dipped, and his skin reddened and he seemed unable to gaze upon her. He turned away.

It was too much for him, and she could tell it would not be something he could reveal with any ease. Suddenly the whole of her worries was focused on him, and she knew he needed consoling more than she did.

She put her hand into his, twining her fingers into his strong digits. He did not pull away, nor did he grasp her hand in return. His fingers were limp in her hold, yet she guided him despite this, sensing that he needed something of her fellowship to pull him out of his misery. She placed his hand to her belly and laid her own hand over his.

After a moments pause, she interrupted his quiet ponderings with words of her own. “Arwen tells me the baby is well. There was no harm.”

He looked down at his hand, saying nothing in answer, and so she reached out and touched his chin, drawing his eyes upward as she continued, “The baby will be well. Will you be well also?”

His face was pale, his countenance grave. He looked ill for the asking, but she knew it what riled his soul was not physical. There was something that pushed for withdrawal, and she tilted her head, patiently waiting for his response. At last he gulped, fighting for the words. Quietly they whispered from his throat. “I ache,” he said.

She felt the tremble of his hand held in place by her own at her womb. She mustered grievous sympathy for the agony he suffered.

He pulled away, stiffening his pose as he had before, and it seemed as if he realized himself, for his face drew forth a sober gaze. “I apologize,” he stammered as he again looked away.

“For what would you apologize?” she asked almost pleading, turning his face that she might reach him again.

“I would not be a burden on you,” he answered, his voice steady now.

“My love, you could never be a burden upon me. So long as there is love between us, I would never conceive your troubles as a burden,” she said, her voice growing strong with the words. “Tell me, please. What might I do to aid you.”

He paused. A long minute passed before he found the words to explain. “I wish to be away,” he began. “I wish to forget the misery done to me, to you, to Legolas. I wish to forget the violation and the feeling of being used. I wish . . .”

“Yes . . . ?” she asked, afraid of what he might say.

“I wish to run away. I wish to be clean of the memories. I wish to start anew as something untouched by the repulsion she left upon me,” he said, hugging his arms about himself.

Éowyn was unsure what to say to this; and so she asked what lay in her heart as her greatest fear. The knot in her throat nearly prevented the words. “Will you leave us then?”

He turned to her then, and she could see what he might answer were his world made of other things. But he sobbed when he looked at her as he said, “How could I when you would need me so? You . . . the baby . . . our children . . . the responsibility is too great for me to desert!” Yet she knew this pained his heart.

“Oh, Faramir!” she cried, and together they wept. Her hands combed into his hair, and they brought their foreheads together and sobbed into each other. His arms went about her, and the comfort he had earlier offered was wrapped about her again. Only this time the consoling gesture was one mutually offered as she ran her thumb over his cheek, rubbing his tears away with the palm of her hand.

He was shaking his head, his tears unstoppable, crying like a child. She took him in her arms, rocking him, cooing soft nothings that he might calm. The blathering words spilled out of him and she knew this was the core of his anguish. “I would not wish it, Éowyn. I would not consider it had I not . . . I feel so unwholesome, so repulsive. The loathsome memories are in my head. What she did . . . I feel fouled.”

Then she held his face in her hands and she smiled a sweet smile, one made of love, for she felt it; and though her heart was aching, she knew she must say what she could toheal his broken soul. “Would you journey then? If so, please know that I would not hold you back, Faramir. I would not keep you from what might help you. If it will make you whole, then that is what I would want for you.”

“Would you not try to stop me?” he asked in surprise.

“I would ask you to let your heart guide you, but otherwise I would put nothing upon you. I would wish healing for you, my love, for that is my greatest concern. Nothing more is required between us,” she said in a serene voice.

A choked sob emanated from his throat, and then he told her everything.

He told her of what Bregus had done and she held him and heard him; and though what he said was painful to hear, she listened without judging him or commenting on what he perceived to be his failings. She heard him and stroked his head as if that might ease the words out. They were spilled, ugly and vile, but they were released from him and he sobbed as they poured from his lips. Like a horrible retching illness, they were released until there was nothing left but his heartbreaking tears.

She let him cry, his body nestled into hers. She let him cry.

“There,” she whispered after a long while, when the tears had subsided. She said this as if she were chasing away a bad dream. “There . . .”

He ducked his head, his breath hitching as he said, “I am a coward.”

“You are not!” she said with anger sparking in her eyes. “You faced your nemesis again and again! You never fled her despite knowing what she was capable of wielding upon you! You stepped forward to face her, putting your own self aside that you might aid those you loved. Cowardice is not a word I would use to describe these actions!”

“I did not think. I merely acted. Now I think and I do not like the person I find making such considerations. This person I find within would depart from his loved ones when they need him the most,” he admitted in a voice that was filled with self-loathing.

“Would you want me to demand you stay?” Éowyn asked. “Would you not despise me if I forced this upon you? Have you not been despising me these past days for the constraint staying puts on you?”

“I would despise myself instead,” he answered.

“Stay then,” she said, laughing softly at his duplicity, “or go. I will not make the decision for you. This must come from your heart, and only you would know what is right.”

He sighed. “I know not my heart, except . . . “ He turned to face her, his eyes misty. “Except I would have you with me.”

She smiled, accepting his words for the sweet utterance he offered. “I am with you, Faramir. Now and always.”

“You are the brave one, Éowyn. You are the one who deserves languishing love, not some doubting fool such as I,” he said, shaking his head.

A small smile crept over her face. Speak of fools, she thought, feeling embarrassed for his doting words. “Think you that I have no doubts? You would be wrong for if I could run away from this nightmare, I would. But it serves me none in the long term to turn my back on it.” She paused a moment, knowing these words were both for herself as well as him. Then she said, “I wish I could reverse my actions, go backwards in time and make things right as they were meant to be; but I cannot. I have what I have, and I can accept that or forever live with regrets. I have to live with my failures or I would always be one for thinking I am unflawed.”

His hand extended out and he reached for the soft bulge of her abdomen. “Would you reverse this?” he asked.

She placed her hand over his, cradling the warmth of his hand and enjoying the intimacy of his touch come unbidden. She considered what he asked, for it had not been so long ago since she had altered her mind on her decision regarding this child. But the question was not the same. The question was asking if she would choose a child at all and that was not an answer that came easy.

“I think we could ask over and over again of the choices we make and what life presents to us. And we might always second-guess our expectations, finding disappointment in ourselves for not achieving perfection. I will not regret, Faramir! I may feel sorry for myself for a time, but I will also learn from my mistakes and make myself a better person for having made them,” she said.

“But is this child a mistake?” he asked, his voice sure, but also giving clue to her that he needed her affirmation to set his heart right.

“At one time I thought she might be. But then I came to see that putting my will forth was only destroying a greater potential. That is the worst manipulation upon another I can imagine. And so I put my wants aside and came to see there could be benefit in letting her be. Just as I know you must be and do what you will. I set you free, Faramir. I will not control you.”

He kissed her then and it surprised her that he did so in this aggressive manner. But at the same time she smiled, for it was not the passion-filled intimacy she had been longing for before, more him asserting himself on her, marking her as his. She laughed, as did he, and he said, “You are going to be very disappointed come the day this baby is born and you learn it is a boy.”

But Éowyn smiled, wrapping her arms about him in a warm embrace as she said, “Nay, it is a girl. I know it is so.” And she could feel it in the core of her soul.

“We shall see,” he said as he bent down to kiss her in a more intimate meeting of their lips. Upon a pause of their breath he whispered, “Together we will be there and together we will see.”

A/N: The last chapter and epilogue remain. Coming soon: First Steps.