Title:  Dire

Author: AK   (calmjedi@hotmail.com)

Category:  First Time, Action/Adventure, H/C, AU

Pairings:  Aragorn/Legolas

Rating:  NC-17

Summary:  Legolas and Aragorn are captured by orcs and taken to Saruman, who is
intent upon discovering the location of the One Ring.
Parts of this are dark.  There is some reasonable angst and torture and a bit of
non-con stuff.  Also, of late I've begun to like doing weird and technically
wrong things with past and present tense to make a point, or set a mood, or for
other nefarious purposes.  Consider yourself warned.

Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema, and others own these characters.  I
wouldn't be writing this if I didn't worship Mister T. and his creations.

Feedback:  Please do--calmjedi@hotmail.com.  It helps to know that people
actually read (and sometimes, wonder of wonders, even enjoy) the twisted
productions of my little mind.

This fic is set after the events shown in the movie version of The Fellowship of
the Ring.  Movie canon taken kinda sorta into account.  I took a tiny amount of
book stuff into account, and I made some stuff up.  Take or leave as you will.

Thanks and elf-love to JWolfine.



Dire
by AK - calmjedi@hotmail.com

* * * * *

The last thing Legolas saw was Aragorn's face.

He'd been rapid-firing arrows in quick succession, felling the Uruk-hai in a way
that would have made his father proud.  Not to mention his cousin--the Captain
of the Guard as well as his teacher in archery.  Gimli stood at his back and
slightly to the side.  He was swinging his axe like a madman, which, Legolas
reflected, he sometimes was.

Dwarves.  In the heat of battle, Legolas smiled.

He was aware of Aragorn at his other side thrusting violently through the hordes
of gruesome creatures with his longsword and sheer force of muscle.  Legolas'
own style of fighting was, he thought, more elegant, and somewhat more subdued
though no less bloody.

Withdrawing a long, white-bladed knife from the short scabbard in which it was
sheathed, Legolas brought the weapon over his head, slashing down at an orc
while simultaneously kicking it away.  He parried a blow and struck a fatal one. 
He was sweating only lightly.

Then he heard Aragorn cry out a warning, but it was too late.  He was struck in
the side with an enemy's weapon, a thin, crudely made metal blade.  The wound
was not deep, but it seared painfully.

Legolas tumbled to the ground, gritting his teeth.  He was bleeding only
lightly.  Legolas landed on his stomach, rolling, but before he could recoup his
composure and stand, he was stunned by the sight before him.

Gimli's body lay there, limbs splayed to the side and axe abandoned, eyes closed
in repose.

He stared at the dwarf's body.  It was only a moment.  Frozen for Legolas--he'd
felt only animosity for the dwarf at first, but gradually he'd taken a strange
liking to him.

Gimli.

Though it was but a moment, it proved to be too much, and as he felt the blow
strike his temple, he took in Aragorn's face.  Aragorn was a sight to behold: 
he looked desperate, as well he might; but there was more to it than that. 
Legolas had been intrigued by the men since the beginning of their journey, and
despite the fear and horror of the moment he fell, he could not help but spend a
fraction of a second on the thought.  Aragorn was a marvel--dirtied and yet
still handsome, frightened and yet still hard.

He did not have long to think on it, however.  He slumped to the ground as the
world went black around him.

* * * * *

Legolas wakes in near darkness.

He's slumped upright in painful bonds, his weight supported largely by his
wrists.  Instinctively Legolas stands to the extent that he can, taking the
pressure off his wrists.  He lifts his head.  He is strapped and bound upright
to a large wooden apparatus.  Two giant, rectangular shanks of wood cross, one
over the other, to form a great X.  He is mounted uncomfortably upon it.

A torture device.  He can recognize that, at least.

Legolas knows little about torture.  He has studied all the ancient armies, of
course, and he knows of the dishonorable practice of torture, the concept of
inflicting intentional, intense pain to break one's enemy mentally.  Most of its
precise means, however, are mysterious to him, for he is yet a young elf, and
though a battle-hardened warrior, this particular experience is new to him.

Mentally, he reviews what he does know of torture:  usually practiced only by
the lower forms of life, humans, goblins, orcs, and so forth.  Legolas isn't
sure about dwarves.  Most often used to withdraw information from one's enemy. 
The specifics are left to his imagination--he knows cutting is used, and he
remembers something about a stretching device...anything, he supposes, that
causes injury to a being can be utilized for methods of torture.

He's never really thought about it before.

The elf already feels stretched, as far as that goes.  Legolas tilts his head
far back, taking in the sight of his hands, dirty and bound by iron cuffs to the
apparatus.

They intend to torture him, then.

The thought is grim.

He can't feel his hands.  Legolas twists them around a bit, attempting to work
feeling back into them.  At least he is still dressed, mostly--his cloak and
boots are gone.  His feet rest bare on the small wooden platforms that allow him
to support his weight.  He does, however, retain a small knife concealed beneath
his undertunic.  Its weight reassures him.

The room is cold.  Elves are not as troubled by the cold as some species, but
Legolas shivers.

The walls are composed of dark grey blocks of stone.  A few candles and a wall
torch dimly light the room, which is poorly, partially furnished.  Several
wooden chairs are scattered around a small table, which is mostly covered by a
ragged oilcloth.  A large mahogany chest rests against the far wall.

Legolas closes his eyes, twisting his wrists within the iron cuffs.  The bonds
remain secure, even when he exerts considerable pressure and pain shoots up his
arm.  Legolas twists his wrists again.  Pulling, he tries to squeeze the swell
of his hands through the narrow cuffs, but his slender hands are not slender
enough, and his bonds are no less secure than they were.

Turning his head up and back again, the Elf examines his predicament more
carefully.  The cuffs are forged of heavy black iron and sealed with a wooden
lock.  He could break the lock, he thinks, if he could reach it.  He can't reach
it.  Legolas flexes his fingers and applies pressure to his hand again, pulling
slightly harder.

He can get out, he decides.  It will break the fragile bones of his hand and
probably leave him unable to wield his bow, but he can do it.

The remaining question, of course, is:  will it be worth it?  He knows of no way
out of this prison.  Guards may stand just outside the doorway, for all he
knows.

After some moments of deliberation he decides to make the only decision that
makes any sense.

He will wait and see what is to come.

He does not have to wait long.

* * * * *

Legolas can sense power in the being that enters the chamber.  Even had he not
been warned, Legolas can recognize a dark wizard when he sees one.  Saruman
moves noiselessly, possesses a silent stare of such intensity that it frightens
Legolas.  The wizard's clothes are the finest ivory silk, and his white hair
hangs behind him like a sickly pale veil.  The wizard has black, dark eyes.  He
is difficult to look at.

Legolas knows who it is.  Gandalf had told them of Saruman's defection, but the
elf did not imagine he would be so ghastly, this thin white ghost of a man,
fingernails long and clawed, face terrible.

"Let us be brief, elf.  A friend of mine has lost something rather important to
him.  I must get it back, and your help would be much appreciated."  The voice
is seductive, moving, and Legolas is partially lulled by it despite his
foreknowledge.  Legolas fears Saruman sees recognition in his eyes, for he
continues:  "Where is the Ring?"

Saruman speaks the question slowly and deliberately.  Legolas can feel his flesh
crawl.

He shifts uncomfortably.  "I do not know the whereabouts of the Ring, nor who
bears it," he responds.

Saruman's face is impassive, even when Legolas refuses to answer any more
questions, all of which are comprised essentially of the same question:  Where
is the Ring.

Saruman is calm.  Translucent skin does not allow for anger.  "But I will get it
out of you, elf.  I know that you know more than you admit, and I have ways of
making prisoners speak.

"What say you to that?" Saruman asks.  His smile is faint, and one hooked
fingernail scrapes Legolas' cheek.  Legolas jerks his face away, turning it to
the other side.  The long face of the wizard is dreadful.

At first, Legolas is determined not to answer.  He shifts his body weight to his
left side.  If the wizard would demand a response, he is not about to offer one,
any more than he should reveal to Saruman the whereabouts of the Ring.  He will
not speak.

But after a moment his impetuous side gets the better of him, and he changes his
mind.  Legolas stares straight ahead, defiantly.  "I am a warrior.  You will not
break me."

The silky voice mocks him.  "Oh, I won't have to break you," Saruman says in his
slow voice.  The wizard is amused.

This time Legolas does not answer.  At a subtle gesture from the wizard, an orc
takes up a weapon from the table and hits him in the back of the head.

* * * * *

He comes to slowly.  He awakens to a headache, and to the sensation of hot,
spicy liquid being dribbled into his mouth, and he knows this heated stuff is
what has roused him.

"Wake, elf.  I have brought something to show to you."

Reluctantly, Legolas opens his eyes.  The act is a small concession to the
wizard's will.  It does not matter.

((Perhaps he will not break you all at once.  Perhaps it shall be a slow descent
along a deceptively mild slope.  Start here, son of Thranduil, and you might not
stop.))

But he will cooperate, temporarily, if cooperating will help get him the time
alone he needs to escape his shackles, find Aragorn, steal horses, weapons,
clothing, and else, and then leave this ugly, lonely place behind.

Should be easy enough.  Legolas tastes bitterness in the back of his throat.

His uncomfortable train of thought is banished when Saruman gestures, and the
creatures place their hands on the structure upon which Legolas is set. 
Wrenching and pulling at it, they begin to turn the apparatus around, in order
that he might face the other wall.  The apparatus twists smoothly, as though set
on oiled hinges.

Legolas is confused at first.

Perhaps the torture will begin now?  He admits to himself--the lack of it thus
far has seemed rather strange.  Welcome, but strange.  Saruman has merely been
playing with him.

He does not understand until the structure is halfway turned, and then he
receives a shock.  Another wooden apparatus looms before him now, identical to
the one upon which he himself is set.

Identical in all regards but one.

Strapped upon this apparatus is Aragorn.

Legolas gasps.

The heir to the throne of Gondor does not look himself.

Legolas feels his stomach turn.

Aragorn is near naked and bruised and bloodied all over.  One eye is rapidly
coloring black, his mouth bleeding sluggishly.  Large and small cuts decorate
his torso and upper arms.  Small, round burn marks spot his thighs, and one of
his hands is clenched with stiff pain.

Broken fingers, Legolas realizes.

Aragorn's shoulders are slumped as though in unconsciousness, and he seems
almost to hang in his bonds.  Aragorn is unclothed, save for a worn and tattered
undertunic, damp with sweat and blood and sticking to the skin of his thighs,
and the ring on his hand.  Legolas stares at the human momentarily, horror
filling his gaze, and then drops his eyes, looking to the side.  He can give
Aragorn that dignity, at least.

Not that it matters--Aragorn looks only semi-conscious.

So this is torture.  His eyes sneak back up, against his will, and slide up to
rest on Aragorn's broken form.  The pit of his stomach fills with dread, and
Legolas teeters for a moment on the brink of tears.  Childish tears of lost
innocence or manly weeping for a comrade lost, he does not know or care. 
Aragorn is so broken, as their Fellowship has been broken.  The tears well up in
him but a moment.

Another second, and he has composed himself again.  Raising his head, Legolas
meets Saruman's gaze.

"Now, I want you to tell me, Legolas."  When the elf's face belies his surprise,
Saruman smiles and his smile is horrible.  "Oh yes, I know your name."  The
wizard draws closer to him, until their faces are mere inches apart.  "I want
you to tell me where the Ring is."

Aragorn coughs, coming to, as the creatures pour drops of the liquid into his
mouth.  As he coughs, bloody flecks stain the floor before him.  "Legolas," he
says, fast, and Legolas, surprised, looks up to meet his gaze.  The swelling
blackness of Aragorn's eye only emphasizes the startling blue color set by the
hand of Nature into his face.

"Don't tell him!"  Legolas can tell that Aragorn is trying to shout it, but the
exclamation comes out half-cry, half-moan.  Out of the corner of his eye,
Legolas sees Saruman gesture, a small motion.

"No!" he cries, before he can stop himself.

In response to Saruman's small movement, one of the disgusting creatures seizes
a handful of cloth from the table and begins to force into Aragorn's mouth. 
Aragorn resists, twisting his head to the side.

"Don't tell him!" he cries once more, and then ceases to fight as the creature
stuffs the cloth all the way in.  For a second he gags, his eyes filling with
tears, but he recovers quickly.  His blue eyes burn into Legolas'--a brutally
desperate look that is nothing short of a command from the son of Arathorn--heir
to the high throne of Gondor; the Elfstone; and the King of the Numoreaneans.

"I will not," Legolas cries, to reassure him.  Aragorn looks like he needs
reassurance right now--the human is frantic, struggling in his bonds as best he
can.

"If you would spare him further torment and a painful, shameful death, you will
tell me," Saruman says coolly, and Legolas' attention returns to him.  Saruman's
voice warms until it is almost kindly.  "If you but tell me who has the Ring,
and where it has been taken, you shall both be spared.  I will release you and
send you by horses to Gondor."

Legolas frowns, staring at the ancient wizard.  He does not trust Saruman the
White, this frosty wizard dressed all in pale silk.  The deceptive warmth of his
voice curdles Legolas' stomach, and simultaneously tempts him.

Still, Saruman should know that an elf will not be so prone to his villainous
trickery as a mere mortal.  And Legolas has been well-warned of the wizard's
power.

Legolas thinks about not answering, but perhaps it would be better to speak now.

He clears his throat.  "There are two things I will say to you."  Aragorn makes
a small noise in his throat, and one of the orcs lashes him brutally across the
face.

Legolas pauses, stricken by the sight before him, and tempted to protest.  He
thinks better of it.

"First, I have told you I know not the precise location of the Ring.  If I knew,
I would never reveal it to you."

Saruman's face darkens, but he says nothing.  The wizard is motionless.  Aragorn
makes a small sound of relief from the side.

Legolas glances back in Aragorn's direction, hesitant again to look him in the
face.  "Second, sparing him further torment would be useless.  If he withstood
all that you have done and did not speak the words you wished, I shall not
betray his sacrifice to you, you who are Sauron's slave and would betray all of
Middle Earth, all for your own futile hopes of salvation from the coming
darkness."  Legolas wants to stop speaking–the wizard's face has darkened
now--but an elf-youth's passion and a rage have gripped him, and the words keep
coming.  "You are a fool, doomed as all betrayers are.  And most would agree
that death would be a mercy for him now," he finishes, jerking his chin at
Isildur's heir, his voice flush with heat and anger.

"Tell me who has the Ring," Saruman demands.  "Where is it?  Where were you
taking it, and what did you hope to do with it?"  The false kindness is gone;
his dark eyes flash and a sick feeling sparks in Legolas' stomach as Saruman
strides to the fireplace and withdraws an iron rod used for stirring ashes. 
Saruman snarls.  "Who was to be given the Ring?"  For a moment he holds the iron
rod suspended over the torchflame, then steps over to the other apparatus and
presses it into Aragorn's stomach.  The flesh reddens startlingly, darkens as
Aragorn struggles not to scream.  Legolas has never seen flesh casually seared
before.  The sight is hideous.  From across the small room, Saruman's eyes meet
his horrified gaze.

"You will tell me," Saruman says calmly, and moves the bit of iron higher on the
human's suntanned flesh.

Aragorn screams, and the noise is bloodcurdling.  Legolas wants to shut it out
but can't.  He closes his eyes and listens instead.  He can tell from the dips
and peaks of Aragorn's wordless, agonized shouting when Saruman is moving the
instrument of torture over fresh, unburnt flesh and when he strokes it again
over places where Aragorn has previously been marred.  Legolas doesn't know how
long it lasts.  Minutes drag by like hours.  But he can tell when Saruman
finally withdraws the heated instrument, for Aragorn's screaming fades, blending
together into a long, dull moan.

When the last groan trails away and Aragorn falls into noiseless, agonized
silence, the wizard hisses at Legolas.  "Tell me now, elf, where is the Ring? 
If you do not wish to tell me that, you may tell me where you would have me burn
him next."

Aragorn moans quietly again, almost in the background.  Legolas can feel
Saruman's glittering black eyes upon him.  Legolas cannot speak.  It is too
much.  To be asked to decide Aragorn's fate in this way?  Even though Saruman
has become a deceiver, and Legolas knows he will not let them go--can he really
watch Aragorn son of Arathorn be tortured to his death?

He pushes thought away.  He keeps his eyes closed, centering and collecting
himself.  He can now feel Aragorn's eyes on him.

"He would not have me tell you," Legolas whispers finally, opening his eyes.  He
takes a breath and raises his gaze to meet Saruman's, and his voice firms.  "The
Lord of Imladris would not have me tell you.  The Lady of Lorien would bid me
say nothing.  I will not be the one to doom all Middle-Earth by my words, even
at such a price."  He pauses, remembering the human's words to Frodo at the
Council of Elrond:  'If by my life or death I can protect you...'

"You can kill him, and myself as well.  We are prepared to die," he adds
quietly, raising his eyes to meet Aragorn's gaze.  Aragorn's blue eyes are
agonized but clear.  Legolas feels that clarity of purpose keenly, and he allows
himself to brush his eyes once again over Aragorn's broken body.  The shredded
undertunic is gone now, removed perhaps for the purposes of torturing Aragorn
even below, in his most sacred parts.  Naked, Aragorn's form is revealed in all
its tender, breakable mortality.  The heir to the throne of Gondor will have to
make good on his promise to Frodo after all.  This thought saddens Legolas, more
even than the prospect of facing a mortal death.  For himself he is mostly
unafraid.

He will only return to the stars, after all.

Saruman simply observes him.

But Legolas can read behind Saruman's darkly inscrutable countenance.  Looking
at the wizard, he can see the agitation, no matter how well it is concealed. 
Saruman is frustrated, furious to be stymied despite his desperate need and all
his power.

Legolas watches now.  He watches Saruman burn Aragorn again and again, and
Aragorn's screams match his terrible pain in every respect.  After a time
Saruman trades in the glowing red poker for a small dagger, and Legolas feels
his heart hammer briefly within his chest.  This shall be it, then, for the heir
of the throne of Gondor.  Legolas weeps, but he does not sob nor voice his
sorrow in any way.  Tears drip down his cheeks, but he will not speak or cry
aloud.

The wizard commences cutting Aragorn in different places.  This new torture
seems to hurt Aragorn less, judging by the sounds he makes.  Aragorn's blood
seeps out slowly, the dripping of blood perhaps muted by the burns he has
suffered.

At last the human sags in his bonds, passing into merciful unconsciousness, and
the wizard stops.  Legolas' heart beats with a prayer of grateful thanks.

"I admit, son of Thranduil, I am impressed by your cold heart," Saruman says,
and Legolas, tears still drying on his cheeks and mouth, feels his face color
with iced loathing for the silk-clad wizard.

Again Legolas thinks of the little white knife concealed beneath his undertunic.

"Yes...few can watch a companion be so heavily tortured," Saruman adds,
obviously savoring the look upon Legolas' face.  "But very well; we shall try a
different tack."  He gestures to the orc servants near to the door, and they
scurry out and back in, retrieving one of the hideous creatures of the kind
Legolas himself had fought near the falls of Rauros.  The Uruk-hai, he
remembers.  Saruman has named them the Uruk-hai.

"Tell me, Legolas, what you think of the creature before you."

Saruman waits.  In the blue light of Orthanc, the creature appears a bright,
vivid blue, and it drips viscous fluids.  Swollen muscles rip across all its
flesh, and its rictus bears incredible snarling ugliness.  Yellow eyes are the
final, crowning, appalling touch.

Legolas looks at the creature for a long time, not sure where this line of
questioning is going.  "It is disgusting," he says finally.

Saruman smiles.  "And yet, beautiful elf, I could make you as he is," Saruman
comments, watching Legolas almost idly.

A slow, chill finger of fear steals down Legolas' spine, and looking at the
twisted, discolored form before him, he knows Saruman's words to be the truth. 
Yes, he should have realized it before--of course elven blood runs in the veins
of this vile creature.  But surely even a wizard cannot do such a thing, cannot
make good on such a wild threat.

Still, Legolas cannot conceal a shudder.

Saruman's features twist into a chill smile.  "It is freshly birthed.  I have
been breeding them in the caverns below my tower.  They are gestated with blood,
flesh, and the darkest magics, and they grow strong."  He nods to himself,
pleased.

Legolas stares at the creature, which stares straight ahead, its dull expression
conveying a keen, cruel stupidity.

Saruman's voice is low and wicked.  "I am going to transform you, Legolas son of
Thranduil.  I shall not change you all at once, but rather sow the seeds of
darkness within you and watch them grow.  Slowly."

He pauses, letting it sink in.  "Slowly, you shall become a perfect, strong,
slavering beast of a warrior, even as the creature before you."

Legolas blanches.  He feels horror growing both within his heart and upon his
face.  He tries to steel his expression, but he is aghast and there can be no
hiding it.

"The process shall be somewhat different, of course, but the end result shall be
the same.  All that is elven in you will be extinguished.  You will be my slave
in mind and body.  My will will be your will.  My commands, your law.  You shall
obey me in all respects, and after a lifetime of servitude, I will torture you,
and eventually put you to death."  His leisurely smile bespeaks the most
pleasurable delight.  "In the slowest and most painful way you can imagine."

Legolas stares at the white wizard.

"Shall we begin now?" Saruman asks, and now it is Legolas' turn to scream.  The
fear is near paralyzing, but Legolas finds it in himself to twist helplessly in
his bonds.  No torment, no threat could be worse than this, but the wooden locks
of his cuffs hold fast.  Given enough time, patience, and self-control, he knows
he could break the bones of his hand and free himself, but he has none of those
three at this moment.  The terror is too great, and so he merely thrashes and
struggles upon the apparatus that holds him fast.

But again he thinks of his little knife, so cleverly hidden.

He quickly closes his mouth when the orcs try to force him to drink from a vial. 
The brew is dark and bitter.  He resists, and they hold his nose until he must
open his mouth to breathe.  The vile liquor is tilted into his mouth, and he
chokes as it slips down his throat.

Meanwhile, Saruman takes a ceremonial black knife and makes small incisions on
Legolas' chest, cutting right through his tunic.  He makes similar cuts in the
palms of his hands, the soles of his feet, and the tops of his thighs and upper
arms.  The wizard speaks fierce, quiet words as he makes the incisions,
muttering and conjuring.  Blood flows sluggishly from the cuts, but Legolas
barely feels them.  The elf is breathless and terrified, a trapped animal more
afraid than he has ever been in his life, and he had thought himself a hardened
warrior.

Such a joke that seems now.  But his old pride lends him strength, and Legolas
bites his lip and summons his warrior's courage.

Thick black winds swirl in the chamber, and Saruman's shouting can barely be
heard above their whistle and pull.

Legolas closes his eyes as he feels the turbulent dark winds buffeting him,
pouring into the cuts in his flesh and pulsing around his body.  He feels his
hair stand on end, crackling, and the choppy air scrapes his skin as if getting
the sand in his wounds, hurting him.

And then it is over.  Legolas opens his eyes as the winds die away as if they
were never there, leaving the room suddenly quiet.  As if abruptly released from
the thrall of his magics, Saruman takes an involuntary step back, towards the
still-unconscious Aragorn.  The wizard looks faintly drained, tired but
triumphant.

Legolas' pain has faded into a sore feeling.  He feels no different, and when he
looks down at himself, he can notice only a slight difference.  His flesh is
stained with a faint dark tinge, but that is all.  It is alarming, certainly,
but not the immediate, ultimate horror he'd imagined.

But then, Saruman had said that he would not do it all at once, and Saruman is
smiling, glowering, eyes as gruesome obsidian shards.  Almost outside of
himself, Legolas wonders why Saruman's eyes are so black.

"The seeds have been sown, elf.  The transformation will happen slowly, but it
is inevitable."  Saruman steps away from him, still smiling.  "If you wish me to
reverse the process and spare you and the human, you might call to me before he
bleeds into death.  I could still free you both.  You could have my mercy.

"Think on it, elf," Saruman says coldly, over his shoulder.  His long white hair
falls about his neck like a shroud, and he departs.  The door slams behind him,
and Legolas and Aragorn are alone.

* * * * *

Legolas knows what he must do.

The moment that Saruman leaves the chamber, he turns his head sharply to the
left, and wriggles his fingers in the iron cuff.  His wrist is held fast,
immobile, but not for long.  Saruman made no allowances for the furious
determination and taut self-discipline of elves.  Legolas twists his wrist as he
had earlier, and does not stop when he feels pressure on his slender bones. 
Gritting his teeth, he pulls on his hand even harder.  Finally he gives a great
yank, and as he feels the fragile bones snapping within, his crushed hand jerks
loose from the cuff.

For a moment he clutches his wounded hand to his chest, cradling it against his
breast in anguished pain.  Then, fighting the agony, he forces himself to lean
down and grasp the poker from where it rests against the wood of the apparatus. 
Steeling himself against the pain of holding the thin iron, Legolas inserts the
poker into his cuff and levers it against the wooden lock.  The metal would not
give if tested, but the aged wood of the lock splinters and breaks easily, and
Legolas soon has both hands free.

Gratefully he transfers the poker to his good hand and repeats the process with
both of the cuffs on his feet.  His head is still reeling from the pain of his
broken hand, but he jumps to the ground lightly and gracefully.

Carefully he shakes Aragorn's shoulder, mindful of the human's wounds.

"Aragorn, wake up," he whispers.

Then he sees the vial of liquid on the table, the hot liquor the orcs used to
awaken him earlier.  Reaching over and seizing it, he opens the human's mouth
and flicks several drops onto Aragorn's tongue.

Aragorn wakes up immediately, looking pained.  "Aragorn," Legolas says, and the
human looks confused.

"Legolas!  You're loose?"  The Dunedan sounds mystified.

"Aragorn."  Legolas stares at the confused human, willing him to be coherent, to
understand.  "I don't know how much time we have.  I have a knife."

Bright awareness enters Aragorn's eyes; he is taken aback.  "And you're
suggesting...?"

Legolas withdraws the knife from its place of concealment.  "I am offering to
slit your throat before I die by my own hand," he says gravely, weighing the
small blade in his hand.  "To spare us both further....anything further."

The human makes a face.  "Get me down from this thing, and we can flee this
place.  I know a way."  He pauses, then adds thoughtfully, "If I had wanted
death, I could will it even as you could, my friend."

Legolas thinks it might be too late for him, but if Aragorn can get them out, he
has a responsibility to get the heir of Isildur to Lothlorien, or somewhere that
Aragorn will be safe.  Besides, he feels fine.  He is tired, and in pain--he has
lost precious blood, after all, and his hand is hurt--but he is not
really...changed...in any way.

But he is lying to himself.  He can feel a strange, dark pull deep in his
slender musculature.  He feels sick to his stomach, though that could be blamed
on other things, and he wants nothing more than to lapse into sleep, not an
elvish waking sleep, but the way humans rest, with eyes closed and mind fully
out of consciousness.

Nevertheless, if Aragorn wants to escape, he will do his best.  He frees Aragorn
without much trouble.  He looses Aragorn's ankles first, so that the human will
be held aloft by his wrists while Legolas works.  The wooden locks are petty
things, not sturdy at all.  With his good hand, Legolas breaks the locks
securing Aragorn's hands and catches the human when he tumbles to the ground.

Aragorn gasps in pain when Legolas catches him, but he gets himself under
control almost immediately.  Aragorn must see the doubts on Legolas' face, for
he weakly grasps the elf's shoulder and stares into his eyes, his face only
inches from his friend's.  "We will not be retaken," he says, and his voice is
low and promising.

It is a dark vow--containing the promise of suicide within it.  Legolas bows his
head before he nods.

"We shall not be retaken," he echoes quietly, and realizes they are sworn now,
for better or worse, to escape or die.  He straightens.  "Can you walk?"

Aragorn grunts as he struggles into a sitting position, still on the floor.  He
seems unaware of his nakedness, wholly unselfconscious, aware only of pain. 
"Yes," he says quietly.

"Can you fight?" Legolas asks, desperation lining every word.

Aragorn smiles grimly in the dim light.  "I suppose we'll find out," he says,
wincing.  "But we shouldn't have to if we can get deeper without being seen. 
There is a tunnel."

"You need clothes," Legolas realizes.  If they are going to try to live....well,
there is much more involved in trying to live.

"Yes," Aragorn admits.

Still grimacing against the pain in his hand, Legolas begins opening the
cupboards, searching for food, clothing, weapons, anything to help them on their
way out of Saruman's citadel.

He finds a gift from the stars in the chest against the wall:  clothes and
weapons.  Lots of them.  Raking hastily though the assortment, he finds most of
their possessions.  He finds his boots and his elven cloak.  He cannot find all
of Aragorn's clothes, so he selects an unfamiliar tunic for the human.  The
original owner, he presumes, likely does not need it any longer.  He takes one
for himself as well--his own has been shredded by the wizard's sharp knife
before his abhorrent spellcasting.  The shirt is too large for him, but Legolas
hastily jerks it over his head.

He does not care.

There can be no telling how much time they have before Saruman returns, or a
guard enters to check on them.  Legolas knows this chance shall be their only
chance.

He will not be able to use his bow with his hand in such condition, but he can
still use his long knives, if his broken hand will hold one.  At least he will
be able to use one of them.  For a moment he holds the pale weapons reverently;
Legolas does not feel helpless anymore.  He tosses Aragorn's garments to the
floor beside him:  leggings, tunic, boots, cloak.  There is no time for an
undertunic, though he stuffs one in with his arrows.  There will be time later,
and the wild is cold and harsh.  He draws on his boots, frustrated somewhat by
the use of only one hand, and swings his cloak over his shoulders.  He straps
his arrows on over his back, and tucks the bow in as well.

He feels marginally better, battle-ready even though he isn't really.

Aragorn winces as he tries to pull his leggings on.  "Help me with these," he
says quietly, through gritted teeth.  Legolas kneels by him, and helps him
dress.  The cloth aggravates Aragorn's burns, and he hisses in pain.  Other than
that, Aragorn seems more frustrated about his inability to dress himself than
embarrassed about his nakedness.  Legolas breathes wordless thanks to Elbereth
to see that Aragorn's sex is unharmed; burns are strategically placed throughout
the area, but Aragorn's fragile, precious organs are not damaged.  Legolas
thinks suddenly that he would have wept if they were.

Legolas helps press Aragorn's boots on, and he flinches when Aragorn does.  The
first thing they must do is find herbs to lessen the pain and make some salve to
treat Aragorn's burns; otherwise, infection shall set in, and he will likely
perish within a fortnight.  Legolas is more tender with Aragorn's tunic, sliding
it down gently over bruised, burned, cut flesh.  Aragorn's eyes are wild with
pain, but he seems both conscious and rational.

"That may not fit in the tunnel," Aragorn says as Legolas fastens his cloak
around Aragorn's shoulders, and Aragorn jerks his head at the elven bow. 
Legolas frowns, pulling his bow back out from the place he'd secured it. 
Aragorn's words ring true; the bow is both long and wide in its curve.  "You
might want to leave it," Aragorn continues, and Legolas suddenly gets the
feeling that Aragorn is talking for the sole purpose of keeping his sanity.  The
elf puts his good hand on Aragorn's shoulder to reassure him.  "I'd hate to see
you get it stuck in the underground--"

Suddenly Legolas sees Aragorn see his hand.  "Legolas," Aragorn says, and his
voice is terrible.

Legolas draws back, imperceptibly.  They have no time for this, and the elf does
not want to look at what he has done.  He lets his good hand drop from Aragorn's
shoulder.

The son of Arathorn shakes his head, distracted and disbelieving, and his voice
goes low again.  "You crushed the bones of your hand to escape," he says almost
wonderingly, reaching out to cup Legolas' broken hand in both of his.  He has
forgotten himself, forgotten the pain, forgotten everything but Legolas'
self-inflicted injury.  Aragorn turns the hand over, and raises his head to look
searchingly at the elf.

"You are made of stern stuff, Legolas son of Thranduil," he says gravely.

Legolas allows him to examine the fractured flesh and bone for only a few more
seconds.

"Elves are resilient creatures," he says remotely, and withdraws his hand.  "I
will live past such an injury.  It was necessary, for whatever happens next." 
He lifts his glance from the ground to regard Aragorn's lower body, remembering
the burns and shallow cuts on his legs, though the sight is now covered with
clothing.  "You are made of sterner, son of Arathorn."

Aragorn is looking at him with a mixture of admiration, pity and disgust.  The
disgust, Legolas suspects, is for the circumstances that led him to such an act
rather than for he himself, but then he remembers his darkly-tinged flesh, and
he shifts away uncomfortably.  "We must get away from here," he says.

Aragorn struggles into a kneeling position and crawls painfully to the chest. 
"Move this," he instructs, rasping.  Legolas takes hold of the chest, which is
rather large, and shifts it out of Aragorn's way as silently as he can.

Cursing quietly, Aragorn scrabbles around with his fingernails until he finds a
loose flagstone and successfully lifts it up.  Legolas comes to stand by him and
together they stare down into the darkness of--as Aragorn promised--a tunnel.

* * * * *

Because he knows the way, Aragorn goes first.

The tunnel is filthy, made of packed dirt, open in places and terribly cramped
in others.  Sometimes Aragorn cannot fit through the narrow, damp spaces.  When
Legolas can, he crawls up beside Aragorn at these times so that they both can
dig until Aragorn can pass through.  Usually he cannot fit, and Aragorn scrapes
away at the dirt alone.  At these times Legolas marvels at Aragorn's discipline
against the pain.  Aragorn is harder than any elf could dream of being, save
perhaps Elrond.

Legolas has trouble crawling with his injured hand.  He bites his lips to make
the pain more remote.  The darkness of the tunnel is stifling, and for a
strange, bare second he wishes Aragorn had let him cut both their throats in
that high stone room.  He wonders if the tunnel will collapse upon them.

"Have you ever been through here before?" Legolas asks.

Aragorn laughs, faintly and grimly from ahead of him, the tunnel making his
voice at once softer and yet echolike.  "Nay, elf, I have not."

"Does Saruman know of it?"

"I don't know."  Aragorn's voice is strained, and it reminds Legolas again that
he is not the only one who is having difficulty crawling.  "He knows of many,"
Aragorn grunts, "but I doubt he would have stored us in that room had he
knowledge of its secret ways."  Legolas can barely decipher the last of his
words, and he asks no more questions.  He continues to creep after Aragorn's
swiftly retreating form; Aragorn moves surprisingly quickly considering the
wounds he has sustained.  Legolas expects that Aragorn is riding a wave of
adrenaline and desperation.  Sooner or later, the rush will wear out, and he
will collapse from exhaustion and pain.

For that matter, Legolas thinks he might collapse himself.  It feels as though
they have crawled for miles.

* * * * *

The tunnel ends by a small brook babbling gently in the slanting afternoon
light.  When they tumble out into the fading daylight, Legolas cannot help but
smile at the sight of the world, the nature untouched by Saruman's raging
destruction.  The tower of Isengard is nowhere in sight, and the sun is shining
and tilted low in the sky.  Both he and Aragorn crawl close to the bank of the
stream to drink from its cool source.

Bending down, Legolas looks at his reflection.  The water is quite still, before
they begin drinking, and he can see himself well.

He is dirty, perhaps dirtier than he's ever been.  His blond hair, usually light
and clean, is oily and dark with sweat and dirt and matted blood and...black
flecks.

((black flecks?))

But he is free.  And he is alive.

For a moment his thoughts turn to Saruman, and those thick, gritty black winds,
and his cuts pulsate, but the cold tower room seems far from this half-bright
day, and even the dark tint over his skin has faded.  He looks nothing but
himself.  The wizard was bluffing, he decides, trying to frighten and intimidate
him the way he frightened him by threatening Aragorn's life.

Besides, Legolas cannot think on it any longer.  He feels fine, outside of his
wrenched and broken hand, and they have more important concerns now.  He turns
to look at Aragorn, but Aragorn has already struggled into a sitting position
against a rock and is looking into the distance.  "We must get to Rivendell or
the woods of Lorien, as soon as possible.  We have few supplies, but it matters
not.  Stay here, I will find herbs that will strengthen us and some to set upon
your wounds."

Aragorn shakes his head, and catches Legolas' good hand as he starts to move
away.  "Not my wounds alone, my friend."

For a second their eyes meet, and Legolas feels a burning, almost painful flare
of passion and despair, hope and yet fear.  The heir of Isildur does not know
all the elf's wounds; he cannot know.  When Aragorn releases him, Legolas
sprints away without looking back, cradling his injured hand to his chest.

* * * * *

He returns within the hour with herbs for poultices, and some to chew for the
pain.  They tear strips of cloth from their tunics and Legolas makes bandages to
tie about their injuries.  He dips one scrap of the cloth in the cool water and
uses it to sponge the darkly red, dried blood from the places it has run over
Aragorn's body.  He tries to avoid the human's burns, but the charrings are too
closely placed.  For himself, the elf clumsily fashions a small brace for his
hand and wrist.

He hesitates to bring up the matter, but they have little time to spare. 
"Aragorn, we should set your broken fingers before they begin to heal wrong."

Aragorn frowns, doubtful.  "Do we have to do it now?"

Legolas nods.  "You know we must.  The longer we wait, the more the injury will
heal and the harder it shall be."

"Very well."  Aragorn steels himself.  "Talk to me while you do it."

Legolas is not certain what to say.  He tucks Aragorn's arm under his and holds
the broken hand in both of his.  When he speaks, he examines Aragorn's fingers,
planning his motions.  "We cannot hope to outpace Saruman's forces.  I think it
would be better if we stay in the shadows, travel only by night, and work at
hiding ourselves and covering our tracks as best we can."  Without warning
Legolas jerks Aragorn's finger to the left, setting it back into a natural
position.  Aragorn's eyes slam shut and his face twists, and instinctively he
tries to pull his arm back, to cradle his badly injured hand to himself.  Fully
expecting this movement, Legolas prevents him from withdrawing and continues
speaking without pause.  "Whether or not the Uruk-hai are good at tracking, with
luck and your skill we can elude them.  If they do not overtake us on our way,
or overwhelm us with sheer numbers, we stand a better chance of escape."

Without opening his eyes, Aragorn nods, still chewing the bracing herbs, still
wincing from the pain.  "A wise plan.  I think we should, for now at least, try
to get as far away from Orthanc as possible before sunset."  He opens his eyes
and holds up his hand, examining it in the light.  "Excellent job."  Staring at
the hand, he reconsiders.  "Do you really need to set the other one?"

Legolas shakes his head.  "No.  I think it will heal well on its own."  He
carefully wraps the two mangled fingers together with Aragorn's unhurt index
finger.  When he is done, Legolas helps Aragorn to his feet, and they walk
slowly, but as quickly as possible, side by side.

* * * * *

They travel a reasonable distance before nightfall and pass a small pond just as
the sun begins to set.  Aragorn kneels by the water, touching it, testing it,
then drinking.  "I must rest," he admits ruefully when Legolas glances back at
him.  "I need but a minute, just to recover my strength."

Aragorn accidentally presses one hand to his thigh, and he gasps in pain when
his fingers brush too heavily on a burn.  Legolas winces in sympathy.  Aragorn
will need more medicine for his afflictions before the night is through.

Legolas turns to stare out over the water at the sunset, to the quickly fading
light streaking the sky.  The horizon is shot through with purple, blue, orange,
pink--all the brilliant shades of color that human eyes can see, and some that
they cannot.

After a moment the human comes to stand by him, following the elf's gaze and
looking out into the distance.

"What is it?" Aragorn asks softly, touching Legolas' shoulder.

The touch brings Legolas back, and he takes a moment to answer:  "Gimli," he
says sorrowfully.  "Would that we could find his body, and send him into the
next world with the honors a warrior such as he deserves."

"He may not be dead," Aragorn says.

Legolas gives him a look.

"What?" Aragorn says, a trifle defensively.  "He may not be."

"I could tell," Legolas replies.  "He is dead."

"I saw him struck in the head, and I saw him fall, but no more."  Aragorn
pauses.  "You only saw him for a second, Legolas.  You might have been mistaken. 
I do not think he is dead."

The elf turns away, and does not answer.

For Gimli is gone.

After another few minutes, they press on into the wilderness in the growing
twilight.  Legolas offers Aragorn more of the herbs he chews constantly for the
pain, and the elf swallows some himself.

The companions continue on long after night falls.

* * * * *

A fortnight later, Legolas wakes up in a musty, dry cave at dusk.

Casting a glance at the human still sleeping beside him, Legolas stretches and
sits up silently, tugging Aragorn's tunic up to examine his injuries, a daily
ritual.  Aragorn does not awaken, for Legolas has been heavily dosing him with
herbs to calm the healing itch and make him sleep soundly and long.  Legolas
strokes a hand over the closed wounds.  Aragorn's burns and cuts are coming
along nicely.  He will change the poultices when Aragorn awakes, but soon enough
Aragorn will need no more medicines.  A few moments later he sets the fabric
back lightly, satisfied.

However, Legolas does not feel the same comfort and certainty for himself.

Legolas does not feel well.

His hand no longer pains him, and he can use it so long as he is careful.  What
troubles him is not pain.  The dark tinge to his skin has faded completely; his
skin is the pale elvish ivory it always has been.  And yet he feels--too full,
almost, as if his guts are expanding, and his skin cannot stretch enough to keep
up.

"Aragorn," he says quietly, and gently shakes the human's shoulder.
The son of Arathorn blinks awake suddenly.  "I was in a deep sleep," he says,
and Legolas helps him sit up.  Constant walking has not helped Aragorn's
injuries, but the danger of infection and death has passed.

Legolas removes more of the precious herbs from his small pouch.  Carefully he
tends to Aragorn's injuries, replacing the poultices.  Aragorn submits quietly,
without protest.

After a moment he leans away slightly, to open Legolas' pack and withdraw an
apple.  Last week Legolas had been blessed enough to find an apple tree with
some cold, crisp fruit untouched upon the higher branches.  He'd climbed the
tree to harvest all the apples he could, and he sang his thanks to the sky. 
Other than that, they have some dry roots and a few edible but untasty plants. 
Considering they started out their journey with almost nothing, they are
surviving well, Legolas thinks.

Except for the sick feeling that lives inside him.  Legolas first feels cold,
then too hot.  His skin feels stretched and uncomfortable, but he is not about
to confess it to Aragorn.  He wonders if Aragorn senses that something is wrong,
but the two do not speak until he blurts out, completely without warning, "I
could not will myself to die."

Aragorn casts him a curious look.

Legolas finishes tying his bandages and curses his own grief and fear and
foolishness and all else that causes him to speak before he thinks.

"Help me up," Aragorn requests, and when Legolas complies, he adds, "Why do you
say so?"

Legolas shakes his head miserably.  "You said, back in Saruman's dungeon that
like me you could have willed yourself into death if you had wanted it.  I am
saying that I do not think I could end my time by force of will alone.  That is
why I took my knife in hand."  His fingers stray to his waist, feeling the sharp
little blade through the fabric of his tunic.  "I have too much hope, even in
the face of death," he says, and his voice breaks.  "I love the forest and the
rivers, and the falls, and being a part of nature.  I love it all too much to
leave it."

Aragorn nods silent acceptance.

"We should get back on the move," Legolas says softly, and takes Aragorn's hand.

* * * * *

Without hobbits to take into account, the pair should have been able to move
more swiftly than they had as part of the Fellowship, but Aragorn's injuries
prevented them from gaining true speed.  They stuck closely together at first,
Legolas patiently restraining his light step so that Aragorn might keep up.

As Aragorn's wounds begin to finish healing, however, the travelers gather
speed.  They go on for the rest of the night and all of the next day, even
through the perilous daylight, and continue on even after that.  Both recognize
the desperation of their situation.  They have far to go before they will be
safe from the forces that surely pursue them.

When the sun hangs in the afternoon sky on the eighteenth day, Aragorn stops
suddenly.  Legolas pauses also, looking back at him.

"Legolas."  Aragorn shades his eyes with one hand, looking searchingly into the
distance.

"Yes?"

"We're getting too close to the mountains," Aragorn says.  "Why are we veering
so much west?  We should be heading straight North, back to Rivendell.  Elrond
must be made aware of what has transpired with Saruman, and of Frodo's decision
to continue to Mount Doom alone.  With Sam," he amends.

"I felt Lothlorien the better choice," Legolas says hesitantly.  "It is closer,
and...and you need rest and better medicine than I can devise for you.  Though
your injuries have healed on the surface, you would do well with a few days of
safety and rest.

"Galadriel is near as capable a healer as Elrond," he adds earnestly, when
Aragorn shakes his head.

"You cannot set our destination based upon my needs," Aragorn says.  "I am
touched that you would spare me the longer journey, but we must go to Rivendell. 
There is nothing in Lorien for us, and nothing for miles around it."

Legolas frowns slightly.  The truth is, he wishes to go to Lothlorien not only
for Aragorn, but also for himself.  Galadriel could perhaps save him from
whatever evils Saruman has instilled in his body, just as well as Elrond might. 
His condition has not advanced much, though his flesh is a fraction darker than
it had been previously, and he has noticed a horrific sharpening of his teeth. 
Aragorn has not noticed, and if he has, has not commented.

"We will tarry in Lorien but a day, perhaps two.  It would not be so much time. 
We could send an elven messenger, on the fastest steed they possess, to
Rivendell."

Aragorn considers this.  "No, we cannot return to the woods of Lothlorien.  It
is days out of our way.  We must go North."

Legolas sighs.  "Let me examine your injuries again, then.  You might move
faster should we tend to them more carefully and more often."

Aragorn shakes his head again.  "We have not the time.  Saruman's orcs will be
searching for us still, and his spies too.  We must go farther before we can
safely stop."

Legolas grimaces.  "Aragorn, there won't be anywhere we can safely stop for such
distances as would strike fear in the hearts of the most steadfast wanderer. 
Except for Lothlorien."

Aragorn shrugs.

* * * * *

They do not make it much farther, and Legolas can sense Aragorn's growing pain
and weariness.  At last Aragorn admits that he can go no further without rest,
and so they make camp on a hilltop at the edge of a great plain.  There is a
small circle of trees to afford them protection from sight, if not from the
elements.

The light of the day fades earlier this night.  The day has been merely cool,
but the night is bitterly cold, with a frigid wind that continually sweeps the
plains.

Legolas has decided not to give the sleeping herbs to Aragorn tonight.  Aragorn
cannot go on taking them forever, and though the night is cold, now is as good a
time as any to wean him away from their influence.  He may have difficulty
sleeping through the night at first, but that symptom will disappear in a few
days.  Sooner, probably, if they keep up the hard travel.

"Tomorrow, after you wake up, I will find us something to eat," he promises. 
The two consumed the last of their pitiful rations-- some roots and apples--that
morning.  Legolas refuses to show his worry to Aragorn, but he secretly fears
they shall find little more to eat on their journey.

Throwing his pack to the ground, Legolas begins to ask Aragorn if they should
risk a fire when he thinks better of it.  He closes his mouth.  Aragorn is,
after all, a hardened warrior, much like himself.  Humans feel cold keenly, he
knows, but Aragorn can suffer through discomfort well enough.  Legolas has seen
him do so firsthand.

Legolas wraps himself in his cloak and sits back against a tree.  He always
keeps watch, for Aragorn must sleep, and he need not.  Aragorn has been grateful
for the respite, for by the end of a day of travel he is sorely tired.  Any man
would be.  Legolas knows greater men who would have long since given up trying
to keep pace with an elf over such terrain.  And then there is the matter of
Aragorn's still-mending wounds.

Twenty minutes later he is forced to reconsider his decision not to ask about a
fire as well as his decision to give Aragorn only the herbs that continue to
prevent infection.  Aragorn is shivering under his cloak, and Legolas can tell
from his breathing that he is not asleep, despite his obvious need to rest.

"Shall I make a fire?" Legolas asks quietly.

"No."  The answer comes flat as a stone step.

For a moment the elf is silenced.  Was there a note of hostility in Aragorn's
voice?  No, it cannot be so.  Aragorn merely wishes to sleep; the huddled form
on the ground looks cold and exhausted, and the man's closed wounds are probably
throbbing.  He does not want to be spoken to but rather left alone to rest.

Still.  He seems to need a fire.

"Though it would mean some measure of danger, there would be no shame in it,"
Legolas says gently.

He'd opened his mouth without knowing what he was going to say (why did this man
cause such strange feelings in him, that led him to speak without forethought?)
but by the stiffening of the body under Aragorn's cloak, he knows he has hit on
the cause of Aragorn's harsh tone.

Aragorn does not want Legolas to think less of him.

And what an amusing thought that is, for the elven Prince of Mirkwood near
worships the man-son of Arathorn, admires him deeply and would follow him into
any danger in this world or the next.

"If you cannot bear the cold, the logical solution is to build a fire," he
continues.

Aragorn is silent a moment.  When he finally speaks, his voice is decided, but
soft and not unfriendly:  "No, I do not want to risk it.  They will be looking
for us."

Legolas accepts that as Aragorn's final wish and does not speak again.

Instead he watches Aragorn shiver.  The man seems unable to sleep, but whether
for cold or exhaustion or pain, Legolas cannot tell.

Finally taking pity on the human, Legolas stands and swiftly comes close to
where Aragorn lies.  Lying down behind Aragorn, he opens his cloak, then draws
close to the man, pressing the warm front of his body to Aragorn's back. 
Aragorn does not react, and so Legolas throws his cloak over Aragorn's and his
arm over the human's shoulder and chest.

* * * * *

Aragorn feels Legolas curling up against him in a mixed heat of shame and
simultaneous excitement, for both of which he must chastise himself.  He feels
himself tense up and the speed of his breathing increase.

((Idiot.  This situation is not sexual to him--he's trying to warm you without
the danger of a fire.))

And yes, that's it.  The embrace only feels strangely electric to him because he
is sick and finds elves, especially this very male elf, utterly fascinating. 
End of story.

For Legolas is certainly very male.  Strong and male in body and masculine in
face, as well, but Aragorn finds himself deeply attracted to the elf anyway.

((He cannot know.))

He is sure Legolas can feel the blood pounding in him due to the proximity of
their bodies, for his heartbeat has quickened greatly as well as his breathing. 
He wants to say something but can't choose a single thing out of the two dozen
possibilities that immediately present themselves.

((He would turn his face from me.))

With dozens of thoughts raging in his mind, half of them utterly ridiculous,
Aragorn does not speak for several minutes.  The elf's body feels intensely warm
next to his, his heartbeat strangely slow, but peaceful for all that.  The human
feels like all his skin--no, all his body--is straining towards the warmth of
Legolas' slender form.

Finally he asks, "Can you truly keep watch like that?"

Aragorn cannot see the elf's face, but he can hear the smile in his voice. 
"Yes.  But if you like, we could move to the tree there, and I would be able to
sit up and keep watch better."

Aragorn straightens stiffly, regretting his foolish desire to speak when the
elf's warmth leaves his cloaked back, offering him to the cold night air.  "All
right."

* * * * *

Legolas rises smoothly and retreats to the tree he'd been sitting against
before, stretching out his legs and parting them slightly.  "Come here." 
Legolas gestures to his lap.  "Lie down against me and rest your head on my
chest.  You will stay warm, and I will stay awake and watchful."

Legolas is aware of Aragorn looking at him strangely, but the man wastes only a
moment before coming over and doing as he is bidden.

Legolas watches Aragorn move towards him, idly observing Aragorn's abundant
grace of movement despite his injuries.  Aragorn sits carefully on the ground in
the space between the elf's parted legs.  Legolas has known a number of humans,
but none have piqued and held his interest so much as this one.

He is glad the son of Arathorn is alive.

"Are you in a great deal of pain, Aragorn?"

Aragorn shakes his head.  "Not very much," he answers.  Legolas wonders if he's
lying.

Legolas waits until Aragorn is settled in, head pressed to his chest, to raise a
hand and slowly stroke his hair.  Legolas had feared that Aragorn should still
find himself unable to sleep, but his concern is soon ameliorated.  The day has
exhausted Aragorn like any other, and he goes to sleep quickly.

For Legolas, the night goes by slowly.  Despite his reassuring words to Aragorn,
he is not able to keep watch with his preferred level of vigilance, and he
strains and worries at even small sounds in the darkness.

His other problem is more localized:  Legolas is excruciatingly aware of
Aragorn's body.  In sleep, he knows, human men can become erotically aroused,
and Aragorn is apparently no exception.  The human's body is fitfully
distracting, and Legolas can scent his arousal in the air.  In repose the son of
Arathorn looks supremely peaceful in a way he never does while wakeful, but his
dreams are evidently more tantalizing than restive, as he continually produces
quiet, sexually evocative noises, and more than once half-rubs, half-thrusts his
aroused pelvis against Legolas' knee.

Also, Aragorn is drooling on him.

But, it is important that Aragorn sleep, and so Legolas can only shake his head
and withstand it all.

* * * * *

But he is distracted, no question about that.  When he sights something moving
beyond the trees, far across the plain, he startles and pushes Aragorn off of
him.

The human is up and awake in seconds, and moves as swiftly and silently as the
elf himself.  "What is it?" he whispers, coming to stand beside Legolas.  The
elf's body is rigid as he peers out across the land.

After what feels like an eternity to Aragorn, Legolas straightens, sighs. 
"Nothing.  An animal," he says, and his voice is ragged and lilting in relief.

Aragorn breathes out, equally relieved.

Legolas gestures to the tree, but Aragorn shakes his head.  "I've slept enough."

The elf stares at him intently.  "You should go back to sleep," he decrees. 
"You need it, Aragorn."

"Legolas, you need rest too, you know."  The elf is about to protest that he
does not when Aragorn adds, "and a bath."  Frowning playfully, he reaches up to
flip up a dirty lock of blond elven hair.

Legolas laughs, quietly.  There is naught else to do.  "Why are humans so
obstinate?" the elf asks wonderingly.  "You know I do not need sleep, Aragorn. 
Now rest."  He assumes his former position under the tree and points to his lap.

Aragorn remains where he stood, looking at the elf.  "All right," he says
softly, and comes again to lie against the elf's warm body.

As he cradles the human to him once more, Legolas abruptly realizes Aragorn is
still excited, sex half-hard and pulsing under his leggings.  For a moment he is
still, considering.  Yes, he decides, Aragorn had indeed been in a period of
arousal when Legolas had pushed him away.

At first he determines that he must ignore it, for humans have the oddest
reactions to having their physical needs pointed out to them.

But Aragorn does not sleep.  His breathing grows more even, but he does not fall
into slumber, and his length remains semi-erect beneath his clothing.

Legolas wonders how much of Aragorn's inability to rest is derived from the
tension of their grim situation, and how much stems from his level of arousal,
obvious against Legolas' thigh.

Well, he will simply have to put both to rest.

He can do that much.

Acting on impulse, he reaches down and grasps Aragorn's sex gently through his
leggings.  The human gasps in surprise, then stiffens, starting to draw away. 
"Legolas, we can't--"

But Legolas does not release the heir of Isildur.  Legolas brushes a lock of
Aragorn's dark hair away from his ear, and kisses his temple worshipfully.

"Let me do this for you," he whispers.

And just like that, Aragorn relaxes, letting him, allowing his lips to part and
his own hands to rise and stray over the elf's lithe form.  He runs seeking
hands over the smooth skin of Legolas' shoulders and narrow, elven chest. 
Breathing in the sweet, pungent scent of Legolas' unwashed hair, Aragorn
swallows with both fear and rising excitement.

Legolas fumbles slightly with the opening of Aragorn's leggings.  Truly,
performing this act makes for an awkward task in the dark, and one-handed at
that.  Yet his fingers are skillful, and he soon has Aragorn's hardened desire
clasped gently within his hand.

He runs his fingers admiringly over the elegantly erect length, caressing the
head and the sac underneath.  Aragorn makes a noise in his throat.

Aragorn is betrothed in promise, he knows, to Elrond's daughter, but what of it,
really?  None need know what transpires in this silent darkness, in this place
of harsh evil.  Anything that bestows even the smallest glimmer of hope is a
blessing of Earendil, worthy of light, and he will not question this gift.

Because it is a gift, as it always is a gift.  Aragorn's profile, in the
moonlight, is a ray of light against the darkness as his eyes close, his lips
producing small sounds of pleasure, his hips thrusting up hard against the elf's
hand.

Aragorn sits up a bit straighter against him as Legolas grips him tightly and
begins to move his hand faster.

Whether he has given this to Aragorn or to himself, he does not know.  And does
not care--such is the beauty of such an offering between friends; it matters not
who gives and who takes, for both receive.  So marvellous to be able to share
this, Legolas muses.  This act, passed with the love between friends, is like no
other thing beings can exchange.

He hopes Aragorn will be able to see it that way in the morning.  He knows less
of humans than he would like, but he knows they can be insensible about such
things.

Under his hand Aragorn is spiraling to a peak.  Aragorn's back arches as he
comes, his head falling back upon the elf's shoulder, fluid wetting both their
leggings and Legolas' meticulous hand.  With a small cry he falls back against
the elf, who holds him loose but closely.

Aragorn tilts his head back, looking up into Legolas' face.  In the darkness
Legolas thinks he looks a little drunk.  His long, brown hair spills in tangled
masses across Legolas' shoulder.

"I am warm now," he whispers into Legolas' ear.

"I am glad of it," he answers.  He turns his head to press a single kiss to
Aragorn's temple.  "Sleep again, _mellon_, if only for a few more minutes."

The elf sits back against the tree, and after a moment, smiles into the first
dim light of dawn.

* * * * *

The next night, things have grown strange between them.

In the early morning, Aragorn kissed him and spoke words of love in elvish.  But
Aragorn has fallen into a progressively heavy mood; Legolas is uncertain as to
what exactly troubles him.

Aragorn comes to lie with him by a tree, but he stops momentarily.  Sitting
between Legolas' legs, he seems reluctant to actually lie down against him. 
Legolas merely looks at him patiently, and at last Aragorn scoots down and rests
his head against the elf's chest, placing his hands together over his stomach.

Aragorn struggles to find the proper words to explain his hesitation, the first
words Legolas has really heard from him all day.  "We cannot continue with
this," he says softly.  "It is not--it would not be considered acceptable,
should someone...find out."  Legolas raises an eyebrow, and Aragorn firms up his
voice.  "For my people, it is considered unseemly for a man to...lie with a
man."

Legolas regards him intently.  "Among the elves, the bonding between
warriors-in-arms is natural and expected.  You know this well."

Aragorn turns his face away.  "Is that what this is to you?  A bonding between
warriors?"

"No."  Legolas shakes his head.  "It is a celebration."  Legolas leans slightly
closer to the human, and he speaks in the liquid verse of the high elves.  "I
have fallen under your enchantment, Aragorn."

Aragorn turns his head then and kisses him, and Legolas holds the man tightly. 
It seems the only thing to do.

* * * * *

The next day, Aragorn's heart is evidently untroubled, for though the day is
spent in travel, the mood between the two is lighter than it has ever been. 
Aragorn is positively merry, joking and grinning like a boy of his race, sending
Legolas into gales of wild laughter as they run.  They keep a quick pace along
their journey and travel many miles.

* * * * *

That night, they lie breathlessly side-by-side, facing each other beneath the
starlight.  Legolas can hear Aragorn's quick heartbeat as he looks at the man
beside him.  Lifting a hand, he presses his fingertips to Aragorn's, then runs
his fingers dancing along Aragorn's arm.  "You will be king," Legolas says
slowly, hypnotically, and his voice is filled with prophecy.  "You will be among
the greatest of your people's kings."

Aragorn does not know what to make of his new lover's words.  He cannot
formulate a response, however, for Legolas soon begins to touch him in other
places.  Wherever Legolas' hands touch him feels holy as well as needy, as
though Legolas' hands leave sacredness as well as excitement in their wake. 
Aragorn's skin tingles, a surprising and beautiful feeling, as Legolas
consecrates him with his white elven hands.

Naked, they find warmth together despite the evening's cold.  Whereas Arwen, his
elf-maid, would never give herself to him fully, Legolas gives up everything to
him and demands the same in return.

Aragorn lets Legolas have precisely what he wishes.

When Aragorn murmurs words of love and promise into the elf's ear, Legolas'
heart surges.  Despite the seriousness of their situation, Legolas is happier
than he has ever been.

Just one gnawing, growing fear mars his happiness.  One fear haunts him.

* * * * *

Aragorn is peacefully asleep beneath the tree, the shade darkened further by the
blackness of the night.  Legolas squirms uncomfortably in his clothing.  He and
Aragorn lie together each night, now, under hill or stars, and the time feels as
though it is given to pass more quickly.  Yet they still will not reach
Rivendell for at least another three fortnights.

Legolas fears he will not reach Rivendell at all.  He has noticed subtle changes
in himself, in his form, and he is changing, changing from the inside out in all
the most insidiously horrible ways he can imagine.  His hair and skin are now a
few shades darker than they were, and he occasionally scents his own breath, and
the smell of his skin, and he does not like their redolence.  His sweat, which
used to be scentless, possesses an unpleasant odor.

Sometimes, when the dread swoops into Legolas' heart like a vicious bird of
prey, he fingers his tiny knife and thinks about death.  Death is honorable, and
is preferable to the idea of life as--as one of those things.  Legolas is not
afraid to die.  He started out this journey in hopes and determination to see
Aragorn live.  Now that Aragorn's wounds are almost fully healed, Aragorn leads
them.  Legolas continues to go on with Aragorn in hopes that he too might
survive their escape intact.

Yet he continues to scent himself, ever more strongly, and cut at his lips with
sharp, unelflike teeth, and his hopes are lessened with each passing day.

* * * * *

When Legolas and Aragorn are far enough from Isengard to travel by both
moonlight and daylight, after the night's rest they travel on long after the day
fades.

One night, as he kisses Legolas in a fervor of passion and need, Aragorn is
suddenly moved to pull away.

For the elf tastes strange.

"What is it?" Legolas demands, voice oddly low and harsh.

Bizarrely, the svelte, fey being is suddenly terribly unattractive to Aragorn,
but the perception lasts but a moment, and the human dismisses it as his own
recently mangled sensibility.  "Nothing," Aragorn answers hastily, and steels
himself to ignore the strange, unpleasant taste of Legolas' mouth and skin.  "I
thought I heard something," he adds, and leans back in to kiss the smooth flesh
of Legolas' neck.

* * * * *

Legolas feels himself react badly when Aragorn interrupts their lovemaking, but
he cannot help himself.  Anger and fear at the horrific changes that are
happening to him, and in him, are taking him over.

That night, Aragorn kisses him only briefly before pulling away again.

"Legolas, my love."

The elf regards him in a ghastly internal storm of fear.  "What is it?"

Aragorn touches ginger fingertips to his tongue.  "You taste...so strange."

Legolas frowns horribly, and it seems to Aragorn that Legolas is both enraged
and ashamed and afraid, and yet the sensation lasts but a moment.  Legolas' face
smooths into its natural, even expression.  "What is this...strange taste?" he
asks, and his voice speaking the question is so cold and formless that it could
have come from a dream.

Aragorn shrugs, unable to formulate a coherent response, and he kisses Legolas
less that night, though they share moments of love and pleasure as always. 
Aragorn finds little peace in his release, however, for he is troubled by the
changes which he senses not fully, with awareness, but subconsciously.

* * * * *

Legolas also finds no respite in his sexual deliverance.  The world looks
different to his eyes, and trees and shrubs and objects and Aragorn begin to
take on a confused, reddish blur that elven eyes would never perceive.  Legolas
swirls internally, his insides a haze of anger, pain, shame and all-consuming
fear.

Fortunately they no longer fear the pursuit of the Uruk-hai, for Legolas can no
longer keep watch when they rest--he slips into a human style of slumber
whenever he rests more than a few minutes.  The waking elvish sleep is lost to
him now, and he and Aragorn cease to come together before resting at the end of
each day, or two days when they travel for longer times and distances.  The
sexual passion is discontinued so naturally and easily that Legolas thinks he
would weep if he ever had a moment alone.  Aragorn, for his part, grows distant
and aloof.

Their journey, however, continues unabated.  Five nights distant, they celebrate
at their crossing of the Glanduin with tears of relief and gentle kisses, for
they no longer fear recapture.  Yet Aragorn gets an odd, faraway look upon his
face when he tastes Legolas' mouth.

As for Legolas himself, his heart has become a hollow chamber, processing tiny
disquiet droplets like a wheel of sober, somber water, and he finds less joy on
the banks of the silent riverbed than he would like.

* * * * *

Distant.

Aragorn is distant from him now.

Legolas does not recognize the extent of his own withdrawal, but he is painfully
aware of Aragorn's.  The days and nights have grown warmer, the winds less
fierce, and Aragorn even sleeps apart from him now.  Legolas does not know how
much is the change working in him and how much is Aragorn's own dawning
realizations about his future, and what it includes, what it means about the
moments they have spent in each others' arms.  Yet he is certain that Aragorn
thinks more often now of his Arwen, and because of Legolas, likely with guilt in
his heart.   Aragorn speaks to him less, looks at him rarely, and touches him
never.

But their journey continues.  The pair run like men possessed, eternally,
dutifully jogging towards their final destination.  What tumult might lie at the
end of their road, neither knows for certain.

* * * * *

By the time they are but a fortnight from Rivendell, Legolas has again taken the
lead.  He sets a brutal pace, and during the night he neither stops nor slows
til the moonlight is again fading, giving rise to the dawn, when Aragorn calls
out to him from behind.

"Legolas!  I can go no further, my friend.  I must stop and rest."

Aragorn is out of breath, but Legolas feels fit and rested as ever.  The elf
jogs several more paces before turning and returning to the man.

Aragorn has bent double, hands on his knees, breathing deeply.  When Legolas
approaches him, he straightens to converse, to discuss the best nearby place to
rest for a time.  But Aragorn takes one look at Legolas and gasps, and takes a
step backwards only to fall onto the ground, where he sits looking up at Legolas
in horror and fear.

"Legolas," he utters, and his voice is stunned.

Legolas feels nothing.  He does not know what Aragorn sees, but he has some idea
of what has transpired to make Aragorn react this way.

When Aragorn stumbles up and runs, clumsily, Legolas' heart tears and he awakens
from his emotionally distanced inner emptiness.  "Aragorn!" he shouts.  "Wait!"

Even exhausted, Aragorn has gotten about twenty paces from him.  The human
pauses and turns warily, hand on his sword.

Legolas bows his head to hide the tears that seep down his cheeks, and he calls
out to the human in agony and a desperation that pains him.  "Aragorn, I know
not what you see in my face that frightens you, but I can explain."  He takes a
few hesitant steps towards the man, small tentative steps.  "After I refused to
tell Saruman the location of the Ring, after you passed into
unconsciousness....he did something to me."  A sob breaks in his throat, but he
goes on, stumbling toward Aragorn.  "The race of orcs, you know that they were
elves, once, but they were taken by dark magics.  Through mutilation, and
torture, they became a fallen race.  I--we, my people, we loathe them more than
anything, and when I refused him Saruman promised to transform me in this way,
into one of his brand of Isengard orcs.  This twisting is what he has worked in
me, and I do not know how to stop it--I was afraid to tell you--"

The elf in him breaks down, weeping.  Aragorn has gotten closer to him, and
Legolas falls to his knees in the long grass.

"I've been thinking of ending it, but I feared you would not survive in the wild
alone, not with your injuries."  Legolas swipes at the tears on his cheeks, and
his eyes burn.  "And too I hoped Galadriel or Elrond would be able to help me,
to heal me.  But I think it is too late.  Aragorn..._you_ must help _me_."  His
glittering, slitted yellow eyes are dull now.  "You are not healed, not fully,
anyway, but you can make it to Rivendell on your own now."

The elf takes a deep, halting breath.

"Cut my head from my body," he says unsteadily, and nods frantically when
Aragorn begins to shake his head.  "Yes!  You must; it must be done.  It is the
only thing."

Kneeling upright before Legolas, Aragorn takes the elf's head between both palms
and stares into his slitted, animal eyes, examining clinically as well as
searching there.  Aragorn keeps shaking his head, dumbfounded and paralyzed but
steady in his refusal.  "Never, Legolas.  There must be another way."

"There is no other way!"  Legolas' voice startles Aragorn; the elf's voice
suddenly turns to the guttural.  "I would have done it for you," he says
insistently, shaking violently free of the hand Aragorn places on his shoulder.

Aragorn looks far away as he stares into the distance, thinking of Legolas'
quiet, intense offer to slit his throat back at Orthanc.  "That was different. 
You thought there was no hope."

Fresh tears sparkle in Legolas' eyes.  "There is no hope now, Aragorn."

Kneeling in front of Legolas, Aragorn looks contemplatively into his savage,
burning yellow eyes.  "You are still yourself.  You have not given in."

"Soon," Legolas answers, turning his face to the rising sun.  "Soon my face will
change and my form will lose the shape it clings to now.  I will become hideous,
and my mind will be lost, slowly lost.  I will become Saruman's slave, even as
he said, and my mind will be lost to this, to the instincts of...of--"  He stops
when his voice breaks.  "You don't know the thoughts I've been having.  You
don't know how bestial--"

Aragorn stares at him, his gaze shocked and open, loaded with sympathy, and
pity, and admiration and revulsion.  But he comes to a decision.

"I had thought you...I thought you changed your mind about me, Legolas.  About
us, being more than brothers-in-arms, and friends...do you realize how you've
changed?  You have barely looked at me for the past month--"

For a moment Aragorn looks hard at the ground, and then he shakes his head and
changes the subject.  "I can't believe you wanted to hide this from me," he says
finally, and places both hands on the elf's trembling shoulders.

"I can't stand it," Legolas mutters.

Aragorn inclines his head.  "What?"

"I can't stand being near you," Legolas answers, his voice louder and guttural
again, and Aragorn tilts his head back from the brutal force of the statement.

"I do not want you to look at me," Legolas says harshly, turning his face away. 
But Aragorn looks anyway.  He looks at the elongated jawline and the sinew of
Legolas' cheeks.  Aragorn cannot believe he hasn't noticed these transformations
earlier--they are clear as day to him now.  The cruel yellow of Legolas' eyes is
not visible in profile, and Aragorn leans in to kiss the swollen flesh of his
pointed ear.

Legolas jerks away from the touch, but Aragorn holds to him tightly.

"You are still you," he says fiercely.  "I know you, son of Thranduil, and I
care for you like a brother, more than a brother, more than a warrior-in-arms,
and I will never leave you, never kill you, and I will look at you as much as I
wish for I find you beautiful, even like this."  Gently he presses a kiss to
Legolas' stretched, sinewy cheek.  "Even like this," he says again, now stroking
Legolas' coarsened, darkening hair.  He whispers soft platitudes, soothing
Legolas.  "Even bent, even changed.  You are my brother," he whispers, "one of
the Fellowship.  Of the most beautiful race, of the first.  You are Legolas, and
to me nothing can alter your beauty."

* * * * *

But Legolas can see it plain as day.  Aragorn's words are sweeter than fresh
cream, his words gentle and soothing and yes, even loving, but his human eyes
lie.  The man is horrified, and his devastation and distress cannot be concealed
by smooth words and caresses.

Legolas wants to let his shortened temper erupt, to stand and throw the human
off of him, but something left in his mind resists the dark urge.  He remembers
how taken he was with Aragorn, as an elf, how fascinated he was by both Aragorn
and Boromir, the tanned, glowingly healthy flesh of men, their ambition and
their short lives, their boundless, gleaming mortal pride.  Legolas stays
perfectly still, letting Aragorn kiss and touch his sickening skin, which now
seems darker than ever.

"The change progresses ever faster," he says dully, looking at the flesh of his
arm.

But Aragorn only kisses him harder, as if with the force of his mouth he could
keep Legolas' spirit within his body.

* * * * *

Legolas allows Aragorn to lie down with him, to touch him and lick him and
quickly sate him sexually.  Legolas drifts to sleep readily afterwards, spent in
every way.  He feels sick.  Part of him recognizes that his two natures are
warring within him as surely as would a mortal illness.  He is drained and
sleepy whilst his innate elven nature fights the bestial, ravening orc-creature
that struggles to erupt from within him.

And this night, Legolas finds Aragorn cradling him to his breast, instead of the
other way around.

* * * * *

Watching Legolas' chest rise and fall peacefully against his breast, with
Legolas' soft head upon his shoulder, Aragorn can hardly contain his horror. 
Indeed, Aragorn is having difficulty breathing.

For a monster lies against him.

A monster birthing wretchedly from within one of his closest companions, a loved
friend—-more dreadful than any mere beast.

For this is Legolas.

Aragorn pensively bites his tongue and does not feel the pain.

He knows Legolas can see through his kind words and reassurances to the horror
and terror that lie beneath.

Legolas is one of the finest beings Aragorn has ever known, and Aragorn has
lived among the elves for all his life.  Legolas is the bravest of warriors, the
kindest of souls and the most true of friends.  Aragorn has trusted Legolas
countless times in battle, and Legolas has never failed him once.

And Legolas is beautiful, the most lovely of all his race.  Sex with him has
been a revelation.  The thought of that beauty despoiled makes Aragorn even
sicker inside.

((Laid to waste.))

And most of all, Legolas is his.

((Mine.))

Aragorn had wondered when Legolas stopped partaking in the elvish manner of
sleep and began to slumber upon the ground like a human, but this unholy
revelation is more than he could ever have dreamed.  He idly takes the elf's
hand from where it lies against his stomach, fingering the long, slim fingers in
his own larger, tanned and rugged grip.  But the elven fingers are not as white
as they once were, nor are they as slender.  They are blunter, less tapered, and
as Aragorn stares at them in the moonlight they seem to thicken before his eyes. 
The sight is an illusion, of course, but Aragorn quivers inside.

((I swear to you, son of Mirkwood.  I will not let you be taken.))

Aragorn lowers his head so that Legolas might be spared the sight of tears
running along his face.  ((I will not let you go. ))

But what can he possibly do?

Legolas will be ruined, a perfect being dissolved into dirt and bestial, craven
ugliness.  An orc.

((I will not let you be taken.))

But there is nothing he can do; no action he can take to aid his love.

Legolas sighs, a tiny sound of breath in the night.

Aragorn sets his jaw, grinding his teeth.

((I will not let you go.  I swear it.))

* * * * *

The next morning Aragorn has to wake Legolas, for he sleeps more deeply now, in
a humanlike slumber.  He sweats heavily in his sleep, a thick sticky nightsweat. 
He sweats all the time now; it drips from him constantly, whether he is walking
or fucking or sleeping.  His limbs have thickened and stretched his clothes, the
swelling muscle ripping them up and open.

The next night, though he is wearied and his eyelids wilt like petals, Aragorn
stays awake while Legolas sleeps, ripping and re-stitching Legolas' torn
garments by the light of their small fire.  He patches and enlarges them with
scraps so that Legolas might continue to wear clothes.

They travel all through the day and night, and through most of the next day. 
Legolas is lost in his own world, and Aragorn's heart has never been so
troubled.  They do not speak.

* * * * *

Aragorn sleeps.  He likely has a nightmare, for he has rolled away from Legolas,
and he tosses and turns and frowns in his restless slumber.

Legolas is awake.  They have long since stopped bothering with keeping watches,
but he awoke over an hour ago, when a thick, dark liquid began to seep from his
skin as if a flask of the fluid has burst just beneath the top layer of his
flesh.  He recognizes the dripping, viscous liquid for what it must be--a
trademark of freshly-birthed Isengard orc.  The Uruk-hai.  His yellow eyes dart
around continually, his night vision dimmed by his changing but his other senses
making up for that.  He would have thought the monsters would have excellent
night vision just as elves, but his night vision is mediocre.

The change has accelerated in him now, and his fear is greatly diminished. 
Sometimes he cannot think like an elf, only like an animal.  Sometimes he looks
at Aragorn and feels nothing but hatred.  Sometimes he looks at Aragorn and
feels nothing, not love or hate or even the constant fear.  When he stops and
does think, pondering this absence of feeling, he fears there will be no
stopping the change.

Nevertheless, at this moment he feels more like the elf he was than he has in
the past days, and he prays for death.  He thinks about rising, about taking up
one of his old knives and plunging it deep into his own throat.

He stays perfectly still, watching Aragorn sleep, and his yellow eyes glitter
with hate and pain.

* * * * *

When Aragorn awakens, Legolas is curled up, sitting on the ground, crying into
his misshapen hands.  Aragorn awkwardly places a hand on his shoulder,
comforting him.

"Legolas, my love."  Legolas continues weeping brokenly.  "Legolas, it will be
all right."

Legolas bursts forth from behind his hands and shouts, his voice guttural.  "How
is it going to be all right?!"  He suddenly snarls and shoves Aragorn backwards.

Aragorn sprawls on his back in the grass, surprised by Legolas' strength--though
he shouldn't be, in truth--Legolas' muscles are swollen and rippling with power
and sheer strength.  But violence was not something he ever expected from
Legolas.  For several moments he simply stares in surprise, fearing and
half-expecting something more.

But Legolas only goes back to weeping, except now his sobs are occasionally
broken by growling.  After a few minutes, Aragorn stands and quietly goes back
to his spot next to his devastated companion, and he replaces his hand on
Legolas' shoulder.

But he doesn't say anything.

* * * * *

Aragorn sleeps.

The creature has been fighting himself most of the night.  He has been
struggling not to roll the human over, divest him of his garments and take him,
with none of the kisses Aragorn favors so much, nor the slickness he needs for
his comfort.  If Legolas needs slickness to enter Aragorn's body, the creature's
darkening skin salivates ever more thickly with its strange fluids.

Legolas wrestles with the vision for almost half an hour before satisfying
himself quickly, crudely, with his hand.  He grips his swelling length too
tightly and hurts himself and likes the pain, blended as it is with the
pleasure.

He cannot manage a prayer to Elbereth, but he is grateful that he has managed to
contain himself this night, grateful that he has not hurt Aragorn in his
bestial, unmitigated orc-lust.

Aragorn sleeps on.

* * * * *

Three nights later, Aragorn calls an exhausted halt to their travels.  He has
been without rest for two days and nights.  They are drawing near to the valley
of Imladris, and he dares not slow or stop, for fear that Legolas will withdraw. 
Aragorn leans against an oak tree for but a moment, catching his long-lost
breath.

Legolas comes close to the human, heedless of the tension his proximity brings
to Aragorn's face.  Aragorn eyes him apprehensively, but Legolas has ceased to
concern himself with Aragorn's thoughts and feelings.  But peering closely into
the human's face, Legolas can see the strain that their travel is placing on
Aragorn's body.  He can smell the traces of old injury in Aragorn's healed
wounds.  Legolas has been thinking about the human's body for most of the day. 
The smell of old blood-wounds mingles with the scent of clean human sweat, and
of Aragorn himself.

"Aragorn," Legolas says, and his voice is low, animal.

Without warning Legolas seizes the human by his shoulders and forces Aragorn to
his knees.  Aragorn cries out as he is knocked to the ground but is too stunned
or tired to fight, and the creature that was Legolas roughly feeds his burning
sex to the half-willing human.

The elf in him watches this nightmare silently from some vantage point in the
back of the creature's mind.

Aragorn cringes back at first, then steels himself to perform the act only to
choke.  In the end he does his best to satisfy Legolas' gross lust.  When
Legolas thrusts into his mouth carelessly, Aragorn writhes like a worm on a
hook, desperate for air or death or anything to escape Legolas' hard, brutal
hold.

He looks unspeakably sad afterwards, but he kisses Legolas desperately and
caresses his face.

The creature lets him, for a few moments.  Then he pulls Aragorn close to him,
curling around the man's limp, death-heavy body.

Aragorn lies still, and he goes to sleep quickly.

Legolas thinks again about slitting his own throat with the knife, or perhaps
throwing himself from the top of the nearby mountain to obliterate this
repulsive body and sickening mind more completely.  He clutches Aragorn more
tightly to himself and inadvertently cuts off Aragorn's air.  He releases
Aragorn when the human begins to struggle and choke.  Aragorn goes right back to
sleep.

The creature looks at the mountain again, and he does not sleep.

* * * * *

Aragorn reels.

When Legolas shoves him to his knees, he yelps, startled beyond words before he
understands.

He takes in Legolas' sex with a resignation that makes himself sick.  He cannot
refuse, and he cannot fight.

Were he to resist Legolas now, physically, all would be lost.  It would be a
fight to the death, for Legolas has grown savage.  Legolas would force him to
kill, or be killed.  Should they fight, Legolas would forget himself, and
Aragorn, and revert to instinct, going for the kill.

Lying on the cold ground afterwards, Aragorn almost wishes for that end, for
Legolas' death or for his own.  He could do it--roll over and simply seize the
creature's head, and jerk.  He could sever Legolas' head, if the creature did
not kill him first, or stab him, again and again.  Aragorn feels empty inside,
sick and angry and horrified and enraged by turns, and even the core of calm at
his center is considering a willful disconnection, considering acting on the
violent impulses to which he is called.  He could end all that is Legolas, right
now, with his speed and the strength of his barely-contained hurt and fury.

But he will not.

He cannot refuse, and he cannot fight.  Neither now nor ever, for he promised. 
He swore, though not aloud, and he will not break a vow, nor go back on it.

Again Aragorn cries, silently and alone.  He keeps his back facing Legolas, so
that the once-elf might not see him weep.  Aragorn is not a man given to tears,
but this turn is not to be borne.  He wonders if he can continue this way, and
doubts both himself and the brutal creature for whom he cared so deeply. 
So...thoroughly.  Like they were meant for each other.  A pair destined to find
love, to be together.

For Legolas had been so beautiful to him.

Aragorn's insides are jagged and hurting.  When the act is over he falls upon
the ground blindly, intending for sleep to find him at once, but he only lies
motionless, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him.  The weight of Legolas'
rippling, muscled arm about his waist feels as though it is crushing the spirit
straight out of him.  Inside, his mind twists, and he reels.

* * * * *

The next evening, Aragorn initiates sex more tenderly, with a gentle kiss,
though tears fill his eyes.  Legolas pushes the man down onto the ground.

While he thrusts into the human, Aragorn talks to him in his soft voice as if
nothing is the matter, vows of love and devotion.  He speaks as if they are
brothers still, as if the creature is still Legolas and they are out for a
pleasant night under the moon and the sacred trees.  Legolas comes quickly and
rolls off him, to the side.

Neither of them falls asleep.

Afterwards, after a period of silent contemplation, the creature rises.  He must
run south, in his heavy way, and then a little bit west.  Nan Curunir is calling
him, and he must return to the Lord, to Saruman.  He makes it only a few yards
before Aragorn half-seizes, half-tackles him, shaking his arm, shaking him down
from his mesmerized vision of return to Orthanc.

Aragorn talks in his low, persuasive human voice to the creature that was
Legolas, and he brings him back to their tiny camp of laid-out cloaks and
blankets.  Aragorn entwines himself with Legolas, heedless of the sweat that the
dark skin secretes, heedless of the slime in the seeping black fluids, and after
lying silently in the night for many minutes, exhaustion overtakes them, and
they slumber restlessly together.

* * * * *

Aragorn has repressed himself.  He knows the creature is not Legolas anymore. 
He knows Legolas is not responsible for himself any longer, and he knows he must
put himself aside.

When they stop for the night, he tries to keep Legolas' viciousness at bay with
a gentle, sensitive kiss.  He kisses those swollen, blackened lips with all the
sweetness he can muster, closing his eyes and gathering his love and caring for
the elf he'd known, shutting out sight and taste and smell and simply fighting
to remember.

He remembers a creature of grace and sunshine filtered through woods, a creature
of light footsteps and a lighter laugh.  He remembers long, golden hair and
dancing eyes and

The bitter, sour taste remains, the texture of spongy lips and rough, callused
fingers pressing on the back of his head, but faintly, Aragorn remembers
perfection.  Behind tightly closed eyes, he replays a vision of that golden elf,
laughing as he turned.  He remembers Legolas defending him at the Council, and
the way Legolas looked naked, on the ground, when Aragorn first sank inside him
those weeks ago, his blue elf-eyes knowing and passionate, his body becoming a
pale, writhing gold in the moonlight like some ancient spirit made perfect
flesh.  He recalls--with the thought of a smile--the enticing feel of Legolas'
strong, delicate elven arms surging around his body, catching him after he and
Frodo had desperately leapt from the breaking stairs in Moria.  An enticing
embrace, transformed into an exact memory despite the fact that they were in
grave danger and his thoughts were elsewhere at the time.

When the creature bites his tongue and kisses him harder, Aragorn tastes  his
own blood, and something breaks deep inside of him.

Aragorn feels himself disconnect, and his insides are exhausted and empty and he
cannot think anymore that night.

* * * * *

He wakes up to find Legolas sitting silently five feet from him, limbs curled
into a still crouch.

Legolas is staring at him with predatory, considering, animal-yellow eyes.

Killing eyes.  Aragorn takes a good look at Legolas in the daylight, and the
sight renders him unable to move even one muscle, or even one inch.

Aragorn lies paralyzed on the ground for several more minutes before he can get
up and move himself toward the creature.

Legolas snarls and looks at him warily.  When Aragorn takes the creature's hand,
he fully expects Legolas to bite him.

* * * * *

By the time they near Rivendell itself, Aragorn no longer dares to sleep, or
eat, or let go of Legolas' hand.  He must practically drag Legolas along now,
the creature's clawed monstrosity of limb tucked securely beneath his arm, for
the creature's huge hand is too large for Aragorn to truly clasp in his own. 
When Legolas tries to escape back to Nan Curunir, as he occasionally does,
Aragorn can usually shake him from his determination without too much effort. 
Nevertheless, he grows consistently stronger in his strange desire to return to
Isengard and ever more resistant to nearing Imladris.

As they approach the valley, the elves patrolling Rivendell's boundaries stop
them almost immediately, surrounding them at arrow-point.  Glorfindel leads
them.  Aragorn throws himself in front of Legolas and places his arms around the
creature, merely in order to keep the elves from shooting him full of arrows
without second thought.

He explains their situation tersely.  The elves are horrified.  One of them
laughs, believing Aragorn's explanations a wild, dreadful sort of joke, and one
of them clearly desires very much to run Legolas through, but Aragorn insists
that they bring him and Legolas, yes, the Elven Prince of Mirkwood, together
before Lord Elrond.

Many of Aragorn's smooth, convincing words are needed, but the elven warriors
eventually acquiesce, leading Aragorn and Legolas through the mountain forests,
to the inner sanctum of the valley of Imladris.

* * * * *

Elrond receives them at the entrance to his House.  He breathes inward sharply
when his eyes fall on the Prince of Mirkwood.

Legolas is no longer an elf.  And yet Elrond knows it to be he--something he
cannot place his finger on, something besides the traveling partner, gives the
creature away.  Yet he is different, changed beyond belief.  His body has
swelled and doubled in size, leaving him hulking and dreadful.  The silken,
once-blonde locks have thickened and browned to the dull color of burned wood.

His face has swelled into brutal ugliness.  His irises are bright and yellow,
the pupils slitted.  His pale, once-slender hands have grown and knotted into
huge dark mockeries of what they once were.

Elrond cannot conceal his shock.  Or his horror.

"Elbereth," he whispers like a prayer, and then asks:  "Legolas?"  The question
slips from him like a mystery, sliding into eternity.  "Legolas Greenleaf," he
says again, more firmly.  The creature before him is no elf, and yet he senses
Legolas of Mirkwood within its gross body, Legolas' once-carefree, youthful
elven spirit floating weightlessly within as this grotesque parody of his body,
which operates now on bestial instincts and the will of the enemy.

But Legolas' spirit is within, dulled and watching.

"What have they done to him," one of his attendants says out of turn, in an
appalled whisper.

"Does he need to be restrained?" someone else asks in an undertone.

Aragorn shakes his head, beginning to weep as Elrond casts an angry glance at
the elves who'd spoken.  "No," Aragorn answers.

"Legolas," Elrond repeats.  "Come with me."  Tentatively he holds out his hand.

Aragorn quivers inside, for he has never seen Elrond so hesitant.

Legolas sees his own blackened, coarsened hand reach out and take the proffered
hand, slickening Elrond's palm with the vile juices his body produces, though
less copiously now, for the change is almost complete.

Elrond winces when Legolas squeezes in a way that feels natural to him, but of
course all that feels natural to him now is far from the ways of the elves. 
Concentrating on his hand, he loosens his grip.  The person holding it relaxes a
bit, and Legolas is relieved.  Relieved even that he feels relieved, for he
_feels_.  Even the light touch of this person heals him, for he can feel again,
if only barely.

Even if all he has to feel is hate, and shame, emotions for which he no longer
has words.  He sees yet cannot recognize, recollects yet cannot name.

Followed by Glorfindel and two attendants, Elrond leads the creature that
Legolas has become to a quiet chamber, open and airy as all of Rivendell, but
private.  Rows of vials and bottles of liquid fill a table across from the bed.

Legolas watches as Elrond dismisses the other elves.  Glorfindel frowns but
obeys.

And Elrond and the being that was Legolas are left alone.

* * * * *

Elrond immediately goes to the table, turning his back in a way that the
creature suspects is a deliberate show of trust, yet the creature can see the
tension and caution in Elrond's erect posture.

"Take off your garments, Legolas, and lie down on the bed," Elrond says, his
hands busy mixing the fluids from some of the vials.

The creature stands there for a moment.

But he thinks.  He is thinking.

The creature had thought his humiliation would prevent him from feeling any
further shame, but at the person's command a new wave of shame and horror sweeps
over him.  Disrobe before the lord  in his despicable flesh?  Reveal with
nakedness his dripping, salivating skin to this person?  The creature feels,
strangely, some measure of a past, unnameable feeling for this person, and no
prospect could be worse.

The name comes to him suddenly--Elrond.  This person is Elrond, Lord of
Rivendell.

And in his fitful, fighting mind a fresh wave of hatred washes over him.  The
creature hates Elrond for his elven perfection.  Elrond has not suffered, will
never suffer this way.  Elrond is immaculate, with his strong, contemplative
features; at 3,000 years old the lord is the absolute picture of handsomely
aged, virile half-elfhood, with his sharp dark eyes and his fine hair.

The creature knows it will never look like that now.  For a second the creature
contemplates rushing Elrond in his defenselessness, attacking him and ripping
out the elf's throat with his newly sharpened teeth.

After a moment, the creature turns away and tries to force the feeling back, but
it remains, muttering in his brain like an evil whisper in his ear.

Nevertheless, the creature begins to remove the few articles of clothing that it
wears.  It still has its elven cloak, the gift from Galadriel; the cloak has fit
it even in its grossly enlarged state.  Aragorn had fashioned the loincloth for
it from an old piece of cloth, and he'd used its leggings to supplement the
material of its tunic so that the garment might still stretch over its rippling,
muscular back.  The creature's fingers are not operating with their former elven
delicacy, however, and it ends up more or less tearing all from itself, ruining
the fineness of Aragorn's hasty but masterful stitching.  The creature drops the
ripped garments to the floor.

Hesitantly the creature stretches out on the bed.

"Rest now, son of Thranduil."  Elrond's voice makes the creature want to sleep. 
The being that was Legolas closes his eyes as Elrond skims capable, flexible
hands over his body, his sinewy shoulders and arms and the thickened, muscular
hips that no elf should rightfully possess.

The lightness of Elrond's touch on his brow causes some of the loathing in the
creature to flicker and pass away.  But still, how he hates what he has become. 
He half waits--half hopes--for Elrond, in his wisdom, to end his existence
swiftly and without warning.

For it would be an act of kindness now.

Which makes a small part of the creature want to laugh--he, or whomever he had
been, had said the same to a wizard of...of someone else, not so long ago.

But that was different.  What he has become is an affront to the elves, and he
can appreciate that still, for he is still at brief times an elf in mind if not
in body.  His thoughts have grown so traitorous of late, but he can still think
as an elf, sometimes.  He can still recognize that his existence in this form is
malodorous, and disgusting, and wrong.

But Elrond touches him tenderly, carefully, and the creature that was Legolas
feels the tears welling up within his evil yellow eyes.  "My lord," he whispers. 
The sound comes louder and harsher than he'd wanted it to; even his vocal cords
are no longer under his control.

Elrond runs hands down over his knobby, hideously splayed knees as if it were
nothing.  Elrond continues down to his calves, but does not touch his enormous,
flat, dark feet, tipped with grossly dirty toes.  Instead, Elrond's careful
hands stop at his ankles and travel back up to slide down his chest, from neck
to nipples to pelvis, down further and Elrond takes his sex in hand, the organ
enormous and seeking and raw, and Elrond strokes the swelled, pulsing sac
beneath to soothe it.  When the creature moans with the grotesque possibility of
rising desire, Elrond's fingers move away from his groin to caress his brutally
huge, dangerously claw-tipped hands.

Elrond's hands feel good on him, sexual but muted, diffident but caring,
respectful and healing, and the various parts of the creature twitch in the wake
of Elrond's sacred touch.  "My lord," he says again, and his low growl of a
voice trembles.  Why is Elrond touching him in this manner?  Why isn't he simply
finishing things?

But Elrond's voice is gentle.  "Yes, Legolas?"

Though he keeps his eyes closed, the tears trickle forth from their corners.  "I
am tainted, my lord," he says in his hideously low, gravelly orc-voice.  "I will
never be right again.  I can feel it.  Perhaps you should--" but his voice
breaks, as it often does now, and Elrond interrupts him.  Elrond's hand brims
with compassion as he places it upon the creature's brow, and the voice of the
Lord of Imladris is so kind and filled with gentleness that the tears spill
forth in earnest then, and Legolas is weeping openly.

"No, Legolas," Elrond says quietly, in Sindarin, Legolas' own tongue.  "I will
put you aright."

The being that was Legolas can find no words with which to respond.  His body
answers with an even stronger flow of tears.

"Drink this," Elrond tells him softly, and the being that was Legolas obediently
opens his mouth for the taste of sweetened liquor, a medicine.

The creature begins to rest as Elrond closes his eyes and murmurs to him. 
Elrond calls to Elbereth, to the stars, and to Legolas himself.

Legolas relaxes under the pressure of Elrond's hands on his temples, and he
continues to hear Elrond's steady, murmured chanting as he slips into the
deepest of sleeps.

* * * * *

When he awakens, Elrond is gone.

Legolas experiences a flicker of pain as he opens his eyes, and he cries out.

At once a hand rests upon his forehead, soothing him.  "Be calm, Prince Legolas. 
All is well."

Legolas' own hands fly to his face, feeling it, and then moving to touch his
hair, his scalp.  But he cannot feel any hair, only flesh, and he realizes he
must have lost it all, but his features feel regular, elven and of a proper
size, reassuring him.  His face feels thin beneath his hands, but no matter.

"We just finished bathing you, and changed your bed linens, Prince Legolas," an
elf says from his side.  The elf is male and blonde, wearing a white robe.

"Please--just Legolas," the Prince of Mirkwood stutters, and then words of what
troubles him fall helplessly from his lips.  "Am I--am I normal?  Do I look...?"
Legolas asks.

His fingers still curl over his scalp, searching hopelessly for the flaxen light
gold of his hair, and his voice quavers and breaks with fear.  "Am I--am I real? 
Will I stay like this, or will I revert again to that monstrous--thing--"

"No, you seem fine to me, and I think that you shall be as you ever were," the
elf says kindly.  "Unfortunately, we could not salvage your hair, it all fell
out.  But it will grow back as beautiful as it ever was.  Would you like a
mirror?"

Legolas barely listens to the elf's reassuring words, but he hears this last and
nods,  still stricken with fear.  The elf reaches to a nearby table and hands
him a small mirror, edged in a design of spiraling silver that Legolas
recognizes as Elrond's own.  Legolas takes the mirror and, blinking to clear his
vision, peers into it.

The creature that stares back at him is nothing but an elf, and Legolas sees his
own dark blue eyes fill with tears at the sight.  His features are as they had
been, high cheekbones, dark spare eyebrows, pale skin.  His face is terribly
thin, and his hair is indeed completely gone.  He watches in the mirror as he
runs a hand--a soft, pale, golden-skinned hand!--over his bizarrely bald scalp. 
He does not especially like his appearance, but his hair will grow again.  He is
so thin!--and his lips colorless, but then, he feels colorless, dull and weak.

The only thing that deeply troubles Legolas is the appearance of his eyes:  the
eyes in the mirror lack the lightness of true elven eyes.  They lack the spark
of curiosity and love and life and song that had marked his eyes before; these
eyes, he thinks, have seen suffering.  He thinks of Aragorn, and realizes these
eyes have _caused_ suffering.  These eyes are harder and sadder than his have
ever been.  They remind him more of Elrond's eyes--or perhaps his father's--than
his own.

The elf, seeing his mollified but still devastated expression, smiles
reassuringly.  "You will recover fully in time, Legolas.  I promise.  Swallow
this."

Legolas drinks the elixir with obedience, then licks his lips tentatively.  He
has a question to ask, but he fears the answer terribly.

"Where is Aragorn?"

"Aragorn departed from Imladris several days hence.  He was fully healed from
the wounds he sustained with Saruman, and we were uncertain as to when you would
awaken.  He asked about you daily, and we let him visit you, but he had to go. 
But fear not, I am sure you will see him before much time passes."

"Elbereth," Legolas whispers.  "He does not hate me?"

The elf smiles again.  "No, Prince of Mirkwood.  He saved you, and I think he
cares for you well."

Legolas closes his eyes.  "And Elrond?"

"Lord Elrond is busy doing other things.  You've been asleep for quite a long
time, you know.  Lord Elrond exhausted himself tending to you, but he needed
only a long sleep to recover, and I know he will be glad to hear you are awake. 
He will wish to see you," the elf notes.

"Oh."  Legolas takes this in.

"Also, your friend the dwarf Gimli is here.  He has been most anxious about your
recovery."

Legolas looks up in shock and wonder.  "Gimli is alive?  And--Gimli is here?"

"And quite eager to see you."  The elf strokes his forehead gently and his dark
eyes are tender.  "Sleep again, now.  You were at the brink, you know--you
arrived nearly too late for Lord Elrond to bring you back.  You need your rest. 
You will see him and Gimli when you next awaken."

"Who are you?" Legolas asks, but his eyes are closing of their own will, and the
elf's kind, timeless face is blurring before him, slipping quickly from his
vision.

"It does not matter, Legolas.  Sleep now, and when you wake again, you shall be
well," the elf responds gently, and lays a hand back over Legolas' brow.

Legolas sleeps.


-finis-