Title:  The Breaking - Chapter 1/?
        Author:  Keil
Author's Email:  keiltagh (at) comcast (dot) net
       Pairing:  Aragorn/Legolas
        Rating:  NC17
       Summary:  Strange forces are at work against the remaining
                 members of the Fellowship, but none feel it more
                 than Legolas or Aragorn.
    Disclaimer:  Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien
                 and all that, no money being made, utmost respect
                 for his works.
  Authors Note:  This is my first ever piece of fanfiction, and it
                 has been a very long time since I've written
                 anything at all. I don't have any betas yet but I
                 do my best to go over everything. Any and all
                 feedback is greatly appreciated!
                 
                 My intent here is to attempt as canon a missing
                 scenes piece as possible. (Book, not movie).
                 
                 Current rating is PG-ish but it will increase to
                 R or NC-17.
                 
                 Enough notes, hope you enjoy!
  
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    The Breaking
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Chapter 1


Three days and nights now he'd felt it; a pressure so real that
if he was not sure of his own sanity he might expect to find
someone's hands pressing into him, reaching through cloth and flesh
to lean heavily into his insides. This was not the sort of thing
that could escape his notice, and neither did he overlook the
difference between the chill he would have expected and the way
this feeling so often left this skin feeling branded. He was being
watched. Lifting his elven eyes toward the encroaching false dawn
glimmering with faint, dark hues over the horizon, he carefully
upturned some soil and slid it over the last remaining embers of
the small fire. It was one of the few times there had been both a
need for warmth and a lack of danger -- while the cold affected his
kind not at all, the night had brought an unusual chill and a wind
slicing earnestly between the dagger-like spires surrounding them,
cutting more easily into his companions than usual.

The lack of threat was not entirely rationalised in his mind,
though neither the dwarf nor the man showed any awareness of the
eyes he so constantly felt burning into him. No -- as far as the
others were concerned, this time they were not the prize.

As the last elements of glowing charcoal disappeared beneath a
heavy spray of loose earth, he turned his back on the cooling mass
and immediately lashed out with one foot. The deep, soft snoring
that had previously seemed almost an icon of the landscape was
abruptly cut short by a grunt of surprise and a throaty grumble.
"Up, Gimli," he ordered, stepping off toward his unused bedroll and
kneeling to collect his things. "Dawn arrives and we fall farther
behind our quarry." Before the dwarf could utter even an incoherent
syllable of discord he added, "Aragorn will be waiting," and slung
his quiver onto his back, pausing to run a set of slender fingers
over his bow. All was in order.

Paying little heed to the garbled sounds of protest behind him,
some of which should have at least garnered a raised brow in a show
of amusement, Legolas shifted his gaze to the west, into the rocks
and sparse trees that were too thin now to call a forest. A barren
field of grey and brown stood gregariously in stark contrast to the
sound of rushing water he could still hear floating on the wind
from the east. It was but a moment before he caught sight of a
figure in the distance at the crown of another rise; he had heard
Aragorn depart while the stars had still been dancing brightly
overhead, undimmed by the procession of the rising sun ready to
force its way over the shoulders of the world.

He was not sure whether to call the man impatient, or the dwarf
lazy, but if he were to choose the former he would have to apply it
to himself as well, for he did not want to stop moving until the
last of the Orcs had been slain. They had not taken even half a
night's rest, and Gimli was really the only one who had taken
advantage of the short respite. They must continue on keenly; the
creatures they tracked showed no signs of slowing, and if they were
to find the trail that had been lost sometime before the arriving
dawn they could not compromise their fierce pace.

The elf shot a glance behind him, brows drawn downward in a show
of impatience, although there was some humour behind his glare.
"Gimli --"

"Right, right," the dwarf said darkly, slipping a last throwing
axe through a thick leather hoop over his armour. "Can't fall
behind, can we?" A gloved hand twisted part of his beard back into
place, and he heaved a growl of a sigh before setting his feet into
motion. Gimli was about to offer a few choice words about that
lunatic of a ranger, but Legolas was already on the move, striding
smoothly even in this labyrinth of tricky stone. And in truth, he
would not have really agreed with his own words. Despite his
inclination to take advantage of the dark hours for rest, he was as
anxious to overtake the enemy as anyone else. With a grunt, he
closed his gloved fingers around the handle of his double-headed
axe and took of with steady, albeit much shorter strides, his bulky
square boots crushing or tossing aside whatever plant or stone
happened to fall in their path.

The terrain of the Emyn Muil was sharply undulating, rock and
hill joining forces to great effect at slowing progress and often
forcing one to spare a second thought for the placement of each
step. Legolas could hear the dwarf's heavy footfalls some distance
behind him, landing heavily on the ground and accompanied by
various disdainful grumbling about this hill and that. He did not
for a moment consider slowing -- if dwarves could live in those
sunless mountain caves of theirs, surely they could see by the pale
pre-dawn light whose blue hues were steadily being driven away by
the hint of red and orange flames licking delicately at the indigo
horizon. Above them the stars had begun to recede, fading softly
into the night behind them, and the elf sung quietly to himself;
it would not be long before they would reach the top of the large
rise upon which the still silhouette of a solitary man stood, one
knee bent and his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed
sword.

Legolas suddenly narrowed his eyes and cast a piercing glance
into the shadows surrounding him. His flesh tingled at the
sensation of eyes upon him, skin crawling beneath the heat of some
unseen stare. He nearly broke stride, but as suddenly as it had
come, it was gone, leaving him to feel somehow chilled. But the
cold was brief --- so brief in fact that he was unsure whether he
had felt it at all, especially without having ever truly
experienced such a sensation before. The corners of his mouth
tilted downward, but he pushed on until his feet carried him up the
last rise and he came to a halt near Aragorn.

For a moment the man did not acknowledge him, rather stood
motionless and lost somewhere in the grey distance, his eyes
searching something that was not there. "Are you sure one of us
should not carry Gimli?" the elf asked just loudly enough for the
breeze to carry his voice back to the ears of their short
companion. "The dwarf may have admirable stamina, but his legs
appear to be of little use on such a swift journey as ours." At
this his frown transformed into a smirk, but after a moment his
mouth settled into a line and his brow lowered pensively.
"Estel?"

The ranger's lack of surprise indicated he was well aware of his
surroundings, however deep in thought he might appear. His
expression was heavy, but somehow blank, which suggested there was
more on his mind than just the trail laid out before them. Silence
hung delicately in the air for a long moment before the echo of a
deep sound of frustration snatched it from the air as a leaf caught
in the wind, scattering across the hills and meeting their ears. It
was then Aragorn turned, giving a laugh that was more of a forced
breath than anything, but letting his lips twist into a smile that
did not quite reach his eyes. He might have answered at last, but
the stout shape of a running dwarf appeared and ambled towards
them.

"I'd like to see the princeling try it," Gimli said gruffly, his
voice sounding as if it had been scraped over as many rocks as the
his boot soles. His jaw was set, but his eyes twinkled slightly
beneath his helmet.

Legolas was about to retort when the sun finally broke into the
eastern sky behind them, sending glittering deep golden rays to
loosen the shadows' hold on the world, burning them out of crevices
and corners. There was much to ponder this hour, as Aragorn
indicated his discovery of a slaughtered group of orcs, some of
whom appeared to hail from the north. Careful examination, however,
yielded no clues as to the direction their game had taken, and
Aragorn returned to scouring the land in ever widening circles
looking for evidence. His sharp eyes were strangely unfocused as
they took in every bent stem of grass, every depression and rise of
dirt, the pattern of each scattering of rock. The smooth skin at
the edge's of the elf's eyes barely crinkled as he watched the man,
whose behaviour was not lost on him. He was used to his friend
being somewhat stand-offish at times, even overly serious, but
there had been a strange cloud over his face for the last day.

Boromir, perhaps; it had been only a short time since Gondor's
son had fallen, since he had redeemed himself from the weight of
the ring and given the very last thing he had to give in an attempt
to prevent the shattering of the Fellowship, and save Merry and
Pippin. He had borne himself valiantly out from under the spell of
Isildur's Bane and paid with his life. Legolas had watched his
last breaths with Aragorn at his side. He had been witness to their
exchange of words, and it had been a heavy moment, the air filled
with uncertainty and despair and more than a little anger, even if
it had not entirely been a surprise. The ring might have taken them
all had the Fellowship not broken as it had. But such things are
hard on the heart and no less easy on the mind, especially when one
was falling into step with his own fate, as was Elessar.

It was not long after Legolas spotted an eagle flying so high it
was beyond the sight of any of his companions that they caught a
glimpse of their quarry trampling across the hills in the distant
fields, barely a smudge of motion on the horizon. With renewed
energy, the group set about to discover the path the Orcs had taken
out of this cursed place of razor sharp rock.

He could hear the dawn arrive in full, although its song was
muffled by a cry to his right. Giving up his own scrutiny of the
landscape, Legolas turned just in time to see Aragorn slipping off
to the north -- he must have made a discovery. In an instant he was
running after the ranger, catching up to the dwarf, who stood
scowling. "He's found the way out," his shorter companion nearly
growled before offering a keen-edged grin; if anything could get
Gimli running, it appeared to be the promise of a chance to sever
various body parts from the Orcs. Returning the smile, Legolas
passed the now sprinting dwarf and headed up a water channel,
seeming for a second to lead nowhere, until suddenly it deposited
them without ceremony at the edge of Emyn Muil.

Before them, the earth appeared to drop off, tumbling downward
in the form of a cliff wall that perhaps even the most skilled
climber could not scale. But presently Aragorn discovered tracks
leading down a narrow, stream crafted ravine. Rock and dust tumbled
down after them, the sounds of their collisions echoing smartly off
the solid stone walls. A few curses reached the elf's ears as he
heard Gimli nearly take a fall, but the dwarf had righted himself
he could see as he gave a quick backward glance. It was not long
before the crags suddenly disappeared, and the grey of old
weathered stone gave way to something much more alive.

Indeed, it was as if they had stepped from night into day as the
desolate scape they now left behind was lost beneath a tide of
thick, rolling green meeting the base of the cliffs -- the eastern
border of Rohan. His face split into a grin as if he were breathing
life for the first time, the elf glanced toward Aragorn. His intent
to approach the man about his worries was out of time, here; talk
of darker things could wait until a time when it would not mar such
good news as the trail they saw laid out so blatantly before them.
The grass of the fields was so thoroughly damaged it was blackened
and nearly gone in places. Legolas took a few steps ahead of his
companions to survey the fields. As soon as he had advanced a few
paces, he shivered: there it was again, that burning feeling he
knew should have been cool. His eyes closed almost to slits, he
spun back to face the others, looking again the Aragorn. "Estel
--"

"We should continue directly," the man said; his voice was hard
and deliberate, as if he had just forced his jaw to unclench.
"Come." Leaving no room for protest, Aragorn took off at once, eyes
dark and cast downward at the trail spreading in a wide swath into
the distance. Gimli seemed unfazed and followed without hesitation,
determined to overtake the Orcs as much to destroy them as to save
the little ones. Only Legolas lingered for any amount of time, a
hand on one end of his bow while the other tip rested in the long
grass. Perhaps Aragorn had felt it, too. Or perhaps he was not in
the mood for conversation, it was hard to say -- but something was
obviously troubling his friend. With a flick of his wrist, Legolas
caught the bow by the middle and set off in pursuit with strides
that easily brought him up to run alongside the others. The man
would not meet his gaze, and he knew they were in for a longer
journey than he had expected.

Through the day they ran on, their progress coming more easily
on the open land with little worry of missing the trail. They ran
on as the sun circled lazily overhead and fell into dusk, and set
now in front of them as their path had turned westward. Estel had
found the Lórien cloak pin of one of the hobbits, surrounded
by tracks that indicated he'd managed to get away from his captors
for a short time. With renewed hope which in turn gave them new
strength, they took bites of lembas and kept running, sprinting,
until the world was painted orange and purple and it felt as if
they were passing through a dream. Until the purples calmed to
blues and greys and made the landscape seem drenched in black and
white. Until finally all the colour disappeared completely, and
they only had the company of the stars and the waxing moon to see
them through. Legolas sang the stars out in his native tongue as he
did so many nights, making them seem to shine all the brighter. It
was not until the moon set that they paused, watching the world go
dark around them.

It was finally decided they should stop and rest, for fear of
losing the trail or missing signs the hobbits might have once again
escaped. Aside from Gimli, who seemed quite happy to stop for the
evening, they made camp with reservation in the shelter of a
jutting boulder atop a small hill. It was warmer within the valleys
of the Riddermark, so there was no fire. Legolas watched Aragorn
quietly as the man and Gimli prepared for sleep -- he was keen to
go onward, but something strange was causing their hearts to weary,
and in this way their bodies, too, wearied. It was not long before
the familiar snoring of the dwarf indicated he was fast asleep, and
the man finally turned to look at the elf.

"I will take watch. You rest, my friend," Legolas said, though
he knew it was not necessary. He did not need sleep, and he would
not take it this night. If he needed it at all, he might let his
mind wander to home and along dream-paths even as their steps
carried them farther across the plains.

Aragorn nodded, his eyes almost black beneath the shadow of his
brow, and he tore his gaze away to lie quietly on his bedroll. He
knew he would not sleep well, so he folded his hands over his chest
and watched the stars for a while. The elf's voice drifted to him
on the wind, and he was not surprised none before the elves had
ever sung, for this sound could make all others in the world seem
like some terrible cacophony. His chest rose and fell heavily as a
sigh escaped him, but he closed his eyes and let the sound lull him
into a fitful rest he had not seen since the start of their
journey.

As his song ended, voice fading and rising up toward the sky as
if it intended to take root with the sparkling stars, Legolas drew
his knees up to his chin where he sat on the boulder. He let the
wind carry its stories from the western valley and wash over him.
Breathing deeply, he savoured every scent that was shared with him
on the breeze, and closed his eyes. He heard nothing but the
distant call of some birds and the rustling of foraging creatures.
And the breathing of his companions. He eyed Aragorn as the man
tossed in unquiet nearby, gaze growing sharp. The knot which had
been building in his belly for the past few days tightened, and he
found himself annoyed that he thought he should go wake the man and
tell him he must only be dreaming. He was sure this ache in his gut
was only the disintegration of the Fellowship; he did not let the
others know of the depth of his sorrow for the events which had
unfolded the previous day. Frowning, he lifted his gaze once again
to concentrate on his watch. It was not long before he heard
stirring below, and the scraping of thick leather over stone.

"Are you certain you require no rest?"

He was not startled by the voice, but did turn towards it.
Aragorn had joined him on the stony outcropping, but did not move
to sit. Legolas offered a soft snort of mock offence and turned
away again. "Certain, yes," he said, a smile evident in his voice.
"If I begin to feel tired or faint," he continued lightly, "I will
merely take a sip of miruvor, and you will not have to worry about
needing to come to my rescue." He waved absently with a slender
hand.

It was the ranger's turn to snort, although beneath the
amusement in the sound, Legolas sensed something coursing deeper.
Indeed, Aragorn said nothing after this, rather stood in silence
watching the fields for a long time. Watching, but not entirely
seeing them. It may have been a long while, but measurements of
such things as time are relative, especially to an elf, but at
length Legolas felt a hand on his shoulder, its fingers tense but
not gripping tightly. "Hannon le," and the hand and the source of
the words were gone. His head pivoted only far enough to see his
jerkin remained uncrumpled where the hand had rested, as if it had
not been there at all, but he could hear Aragorn's steps as the man
departed, even if he did walk like one of his kin.

Legolas frowned and climbed to his feet while smoothly dusting
himself off. The rustle below told him the dwarf was also awake,
and he navigated the drop off the boulder with a nimble leap and
joined them. He was surprised to find Gimli nearly ready, and for a
moment was disappointed he hadn't been able to kick his friend
awake again. The thought manifested itself in a smirk that did not
escape th dwarf's attention.

"Thought you might get to carry me?" he asked the elf as he
secured an axe into straps across his back.

Instead of answering, Legolas offered a cutting but humourous
smile and a mock bow. Gimli chuckled at this and then jerked his
head in the direction of Aragorn's departing back. "A bit quiet,
isn't he?" He lifted a hand to smooth his beard absently before
turning back.

Making a non-committal sound, Legolas nodded and followed
Gimli's gaze, running a thumb and forefinger down the string of his
bow. "It is curious." But he said no more, for a falter in Estel's
stride indicated he'd overheard them. He stopped himself from
rolling his eyes and looked back to Gimli, mouth pulled to the side
somewhat. "A bit /loud/ aren't you?" he asked good-naturedly,
although his expression was creased with worry.

"Oooh," came the grudging reply that was more grumble than word.
"Let's go. Or are you going to stand around all day singing?" He
lifted his axe in one hand and headed after Aragorn, a guffaw
winding its way back to the elf's ears. Legolas stood where he was
and pondered Gimli's form for a moment -- from the back he appeared
not unlike a large, trotting pony. He flashed a grin that went
without witness and ran off to catch them up, sparing a wide eyed
glance at the disappearing stars sinking into the deep blue field
above, and began singing once again in a voice that carried just
far enough to be heard by his friends. Gimli smiled to himself; he
could not deny the sound of the elf's voice was something he
enjoyed, and he was certain, or nearly so, one could tell evil from
good by whether or not a creature fled before its sound.

The night fell heavily on a day of little talk and less food,
though the lembas truly was a blessing. This night, as the others,
they were forced to pause in their pursuit lest the cover of
darkness disguise some sign of importance. Always the one to take
advantage of such moments, Gimli was quickly adrift in slumber.
Aragorn lay still enough to appear sleeping, but his breath was
ragged and uneven.

"What troubles you?" Legolas asked suddenly, keeping his face
expressionless, his voice soft enough so it did not disturb the
quiet of the field, rather seemed as if it might belong. With a
graceful motion he bent his knees and settled down across the small
fire from Aragorn.

The sound of breathing ceased, and one might have wondered if it
was going to begin again so long was the air still. "'Tis nothing
but the toils of our journey, Legolas," the man finally replied,
one arm lifting up so he might run a hand through unkempt hair.
After a moment he shifted on the ground and pushed himself up to
mirror the elf. "You have seen the way something in these lands
works against us, and gives those creatures some strange advantage
of speed over these hills." Absently he ran a thumb along his ring
finger, feeling the cool metal band and sliding it over his
skin.

Legolas kept his eyes on the ranger's though Aragorn refused
steadily to meet them, and instead insisted upon staring into the
fire. "You are too quiet my friend, ever since we left the Anduin
behind us."

Without looking up, Aragorn replied, "Where Boromir was lost and
Merry and Pippin taken? Where the Fellowship was destroyed leaving
us with barely enough shards to wonder if indeed we have strayed
far enough for hope of defeating Sauron? Do you expect something
else?" His voice was throaty and game barrelling out through his
teeth. He glanced toward Gimli, but his voice had no disturbed the
dwarf. He doubted much could, right now.

The elf frowned -- there was anger in the undercurrent of so
many of the ranger's action of late. "You sound as a man without
hope to drive his heart," he said after many minutes.

"It is nothing, Legolas." Aragorn made as if to lie down, but
again changed his mind. "I am just letting this weariness get to
me."

Legolas nodded. "Then get some sleep. I will take the watch."
With as smooth a motion as he had dropped to the ground, the elf
once again stood and turned from the fire. His breath hitched,
then, and his shoulders stiffened under the heat of skin feeling as
if it were being ever branded. He felt someone's eyes boring into
him once again, like fire in a forge onto cold steel. Spinning
around, he thought he saw the last of the slowly fading embers
mirrored in a pair of eyes in the darkness beyond. But then it was
gone, and Aragorn was already shifting on his bedroll with his back
to the dying flames. The next time, he was going to ask Estel
whether or not he'd felt it even if the man had found his most
restful sleep in years.

Well before dawn the sleeping pair woke to find Legolas again
ready to be on the move. The elf's eyes held a distant somberness,
and as they gathered their things beneath the red dawn and set off
once again at top speed, it soon became clear they were at least a
day and a half behind now. They had lost much time even though it
appeared their quarry had rested a while, and though Gimli was
weathering such a gruelling quest as well as his friends, he indeed
felt a heaviness upon his soul that bent his back and made his
strides shorter. Aragorn's face was drawn, and his own stride
seemed weaker. Only Legolas seemed to be as fleet and light as
before, leaving no footprints behind him as he ran. But they kept
hoping, and so kept moving.

The insistent roar of the Entwash could be heard to the west,
and as the day grew late the tracks became more sparse, nearly
disappearing over ground, which had become much more solid and
riddled with stone, holding fewer things for the Orcs to blacken
and destroy along the way. Near the ending of the day a dark swath
on the horizon became visible, and they stopped once more in sight
of the dark jutting peaks of the Mist Mountains and th darker slab
of Fangorn Forest below it.

A cold wind carved its way down from the snowy peaks that lay
hidden in heavy bellied cloud to the north, and so Aragorn and
Legolas went about collecting wood for a fire. It was in the
shadows of the dark evening that the elf called out suddenly.
"Aragorn!" He dropped his bundle of kindling and before it his the
ground had drawn an arrow to his bow.

A quiet haunted the air, and within it a moment that, if one
were listening for it, all the night's creatures seemed to cease
their speech. In another moment to short to measure a voice broke
the stillness. "Legolas?" came the call as the shape of a man
approached, sword at the ready.

"I must ask you, Estel," the elf said gravely and not without
some impatience, "have you felt as though we are being watched?"
His boots made no sound over the grass and leaves as he slowly
turned a circle and squinted out into the surrounding
landscape.

Aragorn's jaw tightened until it nearly popped, and he dropped
his hand from Andúril, curling his fingers instead into a
fist. "Do you sense something, Legolas?" he asked slowly, allowing
himself to turn and stare off into the deepening dark when the elf
finally looked in his direction. "I have neither seen nor felt
anything since we left the Falls of Rauros behind us, save for
those we chase."

The elf did not overlook the hand that was now missing from the
sword, and the corners of his mouth turned downward to match the
movement of his brow. "Tell me what it is, friend," the elf said
slowly, but steadily, not yet ready to loosen the tension on his
bowstring. Now was not the time for games, and the Aragorn he knew
was not the type to play them. There was something the man kept
hidden behind those eyes, and it grew stronger the more they
removed themselves from the ring.

"There is nothing," Aragorn insisted a bit too harshly. "Perhaps
it is the same thing which works to tire us so, yet harry the
Orcs." His excuse was a weak one, and he knew it, but he hoped it
was enough to sate the elf's sudden curiosity. In truth, he would
not know what to say anyway.

His answer drew a nod from Legolas, who decided not to press the
issue for the time being. Again, he felt a knot in his stomach as
he watched the ranger return to his wood gathering. Still, he could
not tell from where it came, nor its reasons for settling itself so
heavily in his gut.Maybe this chase was affecting them all more
than they realised, or could understand. Watching the night swallow
his friend, he nearly scowled. The elf stood for a long moment
before finally scooping up his discarded pile of sticks and
branches, and finally headed back to camp. Gimli was already
snoring soundly.

With a shake of his head Legolas said, "I do not think he would
wake even if the enemy came thundering back over him."

Aragorn had already gotten the first sparks of the fire going,
and was feeding the smaller twigs and branches into the hungry
flames before finally adding the thicker tree limbs. "I would call
it a draw," he replied with a hint of a smile, "between sleep and
slaughter for that one." Standing up, he brushed the remnants of
dirt and splinters off his hands and stepped back. "You will take
watch?" he asked in a moment of wry mirth that seemed so rare these
days as he arranged himself for sleep.

With a nod of his head, Legolas narrowed his eyes a fraction
while he studied Aragorn. "Of course," he said simply, not
realising he'd lifted his hand and placed it supportively against
his abdomen. The man broke eye contact and set off in search of
rest, while Legolas was left to turn his attention to the sky. He
spent his time walking the land and singing softly to himself, but
in the back of his mind, he realised the knot in his stomach was
getting tighter still, and he set to trying to unravel it.

Time passed quickly, and for once Gimli appeared to have as much
trouble finding the dream world as Aragorn. Often they would wake
and watch the elf as he paced to and fro, creating melodies and
spinning them off into the night, and for the most part ignoring
them. It was only towards morning when he was certain beyond all
measure that there was someone there. He turned, glaring, behind
him, eyes glistening and aimed toward the circle around the
campfire, where his friends were sleeping. The fire bathed things
in sharp relief, and his gaze was at last met, again a pair of
intense eyes flickering orange and gold as a mirror of the burning
wood before them. Mirrors which were, behind the flame painting, a
steely, grey blue.

"Aragorn."


Title:  The Breaking - Chapter 2/?
        Author:  Keil
Author's Email:  keiltagh (at) comcast (dot) net
       Pairing:  Aragorn/Legolas
        Rating:  Currently PG, will increase
       Summary:  Strange forces are at work against the remaining
                 members of the Fellowship, but none feel it more
                 than Legolas or Aragorn.
    Disclaimer:  Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien
                 and all that, no money being made, utmost respect
                 for his works.
  Authors Note:  This chapter's a bit shorter than usual in order
                 to keep the timeframe working without drawing it
                 out too long.
  
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    The Breaking
---------------------

Chapter 2


His cry seemed to dissolve. There was but a vault of blackness
enveloping the frigid fire which was carving, into the orbs behind
it, a deep contrast of amber and gold. Legolas was not about to
allow himself to become transfixed at such an ethereal sight -- the
fate of the Wood had long since accustomed him to the dangers the
Darkness had wrought upon this world. In less than an instant he
had drawn and knocked an arrow, aiming steadily in the space
between those burning eyes. Scarcely a second had passed, but it
was enough to set the elf's skin crawling with some foreign heat
just beneath the surface; at last he was confronted with the source
of his recent ill-ease, and he was determined to put and end to
this now. In one smooth motion he increased the tension on his bow,
careful to keep the path of his arrow true, as he stepped around
the campfire so he might see beyond it.

Legolas's focus was cleaved in twain by a sound that came
scattered from his left, and he was forced to rely on his finely
tuned reflexes to shift his balance, retreating backward to widen
his field of vision. In the sparse moments these movements took,
the sound had turned to a growling, and the small flames ahead of
him came to the verge of burning themselves out. Vanished were the
eyes before the elf's piercing gaze. He did not lower his bow.

"What is it now?" The query came thickly, almost in a roar, and
between the shadows Legolas could see Gimli rising swiftly from the
ground, alert though he had just been heavy in slumber. His call to
Aragorn must have woken the dwarf, but that Gimli had been roused
in the middle of the night was not his immediate concern; his
disquiet rested in Aragorn's direction, and it was there he turned
his attention, his eyes fraught with worry.

"Aragorn!" he repeated more fiercely this time, uncertain as to
whether he had come to any harm. But the man was already climbing
to his feet, pushing himself upward in a nimble motion with one arm
and drawing his legs beneath him as his free hand reached for his
sword. He was up only a breath after Gimli and casting a furtive
glance around him for any present dangers, rubbing his jaw along
his free arm's sleeve. When he saw nothing which posed a threat, he
turned back to the elf with an eerily penetrating stare, the
shadows thrown from the light at his feet exaggerating the angles
of his face, making his eyes seem sunken and rimmed with black.

"What is it, Legolas?" he asked, his voice sounding strained
almost to the point of breaking. His grip flexing on the leather of
his sword handle, causing the leather to protest slightly, and he
recovered to the point his voice sounded only gritty, perhaps from
sleep. "Do you sense something near?"

"Did you not see it?" the elf asked with more than a hint of
incredulity, finally lowering his weapon, though he did not relax
the tension that placed his arrow at the ready. He lifted his chin
toward the area between the fire and the ranger's bedroll. "It was
just before you, nay, right on top of you I should guess, and you
were unaware?" Without moving his head, Legolas let his eyes wander
to the left and then the right before hastily looking back to
Aragorn.

The man cast his own eyes downward as if to look for signs left
by this thing of which the elf now spoke. He was somewhat taken
aback by the outburst, and the soles of his boots rustled the
sparse grass as he shifted his weight. "What is it you saw?"

Gimli, who had armed himself without hesitation upon standing,
cleared his throat. "I saw nothing, nor heard nothing," he said,
providing each of his companion with a curious look as he searched
their faces. His words hung in the air until the elf finally tore
his gaze from Aragorn to look at him.

"And you, have you not felt as if something were watching us
these last days?" If there was any panic driving the frustration
evident in his voice, Legolas was not letting on. But it was
obvious enough the fair haired elf thought something amiss.

A deep frown marred Gimli's features, and he reactively turned
in place as if he might now sense something to which he had so far
been oblivious. "No," he said carefully once his eyes had fallen
again on Legolas. He watched the elf for a moment, sparing Aragorn
a surreptitious glance, and wondered if in fact his own senses
might be failing him -- perhaps there /was/ something out
there and he was too focused on one task to notice it. "What do you
see, then, elf? My eyes are keen, but they have spent much time in
darkness this evening, and my ears in quiet." He placed the head of
his axe on the ground and rested both hands atop the end of the
handle.

For a moment Legolas appeared as if he could at any moment
launch into a string of unwholesome curses, but his composure did
not break, and instead he merely set his jaw with lowered eyebrows
and stared hard into the dying fire; slowly he removed the arrow
from his bow and slid it back into his quiver. Something was
terribly wrong here, and he refused to consider that he might be
losing his mind. Nay, it was not possible. "Then it must be
nothing," he said finally, lifting his head and turning to take a
few steps away from the group. "A trick of the eye, a mixing of
exhaustion and inconstant firelight. The same black forces at work
all around us which begin to plunge this land into shadow, and take
with it all those that inhabit its borders." He was well aware how
similar his statement sounded to the one given by Aragorn only a
few hours earlier, but he desired not to let himself be forced into
any other explanation. No, not now.

"Perhaps some rest, then," Gimli ventures in earnest, though he
held high doubts that the elf would take his suggestion with any
measure of sincerity.

"You take yours, Gimli, it is well deserved," Legolas said
absently. "I will rest as soon as we have completed this quest, and
Merry and Pippin rest safely within our guard." His voice was
stronger now, but the eyes staring stoicly off over the plains were
not shining with hope as they had in days previous. He breathed the
night air deeply, letting it fill his chest and work to calm him.
Wanting to put some distance between himself and the experience, he
paced off beneath the light of the remaining stars.

A half growl of protest was aimed at Legolas's back -- the dwarf
wished, it seemed, to say something else, but had thought better of
it and returned to his place beside the flickering flames. He
settled himself on the ground, but did not expect to sleep again
before the sun rose.

Aragorn had not said anything after the elf's well delivered
parry. Its meaning was certainly not lost on him, and, had their
circumstances not been so dire, the idea of the elf saying he was
addled by exhaustion might have made him laugh. All he could do now
was offer a nod to the dwarf as his friend set out on a search for
the dream world again; but he did not relax. His shoulders were
strung more tightly than Legolas's bow had been, and he stood,
turning his eyes to watch the last flame flicker out and curls of
smoke spiral into the darkness that now surrounded them. As the elf
retreated out of sight, the last of the smoke dissipated into thin
air, and Aragorn felt a wave of nausea wash over him, strong enough
to force him to his knees. He nearly fell to the ground as he
crossed his legs, hitting the earth heavily and feeling some of the
air leave his lungs. Resting his elbows on his knees, he sat in
silence until the sun rose.

The dawn broke without song, and the thought came unbidden to
Aragorn that Legolas had made no sound he could hear in the hours
since the incident. As the light began to pour over the land like a
slow wash of tide, he could see his friend some ways off, standing
facing the north and west, unmoving. He took in the scene with a
little pain, and finally gathered his feet beneath him and pushed
himself up. His joints groaned softly in protest; he had not moved
since he had succumbed to near sickness earlier. He kicked at the
mound of charcoal before him with a boot to see if it might flare
up again, but it was too cold, and the remaining wood disintegrated
into a thick black powder at his touch. Gimli had finally fallen
asleep again an hour before, and his hallmark rasping breath was
drifting up and down on the breeze.

Aragorn grimaced, running a calloused hand roughly through his
hair as if he might drag out whatever weighed so heavily upon him
with such a simple gesture. He was no longer unwell, but a ghost of
the feeling remained, as if he had received a fierce blow to the
stomach and the pain had faded, leaving only a mark in its place.
He took a moment to collect his thoughts, folding his arms across
his chest and breathing slowly in and out. Finally, he stepped away
from the camp, dropping his arms to his sides and slowly
approaching Legolas.

"I do not think you mistaken," the ranger ventured as he drew
within several paces of the elf. His words were slow and
considerate, as if it took great effort to form them and allow the
sound to escape past his lips.

Legolas did not turn, but held up a graceful hand instead. "We
all hold our secrets, Estel, some buried deep enough it feels as if
we might never unearth them. But there are those which would allow
the Shadow that so readily tries to engulf the world to swallow us
more easily." It was then he turned, his even-eyes like ice yet not
unkind, for they were rendered dark with worry. "Something is
amiss, my friend, and though I will trouble you no more after this
unless I hold good reason, I ask you again to grace me with the
reasons behind your strange silences and all the glances that fall
askance." After a pause, in which Aragorn remained composed but
silent, he added, "Do you think it so strange for one to find cause
for concern when his friend will not meet his eye?"

Aragorn could not help but feel somewhat shamed at this. He felt
compelled to reach out to his friend, but kept his hands still by
his sides, and somehow managed to avoid wringing them, or crossing
his arms. "Of course I do not think it strange." He straightened
his back but stood motionless otherwise, getting lost in the smell
of fresh grass and distant rolling waters. At length, he lifted his
chin. "I cannot say." Legolas's brow drew downward and he frowned,
but he held the ranger's gaze. "No -- I mean it not that way."
Aragorn hissed softly in frustration. "In all honesty I can tell
you I know of no secrets I keep which would be cause for such
regard. And if I know of none, either my mind serves to keep them
from me, or else none exist." And it was truth, but he feared the
possibility of the former, as his mind did seem to be playing at
some unknown game.

Often did his heart leap to beat hard within his breast, as if
it might at any time burst though his rib cage, and more and more
did his eyes rove to places he'd never before lingered a glance. It
angered him, with visions of losing others as he had Boromir or
Gandalf before him had been lost. He was no stranger to death or
pain and had borne witness to more than enough atrocity to steel
himself for anything. He could not corner the source of cold sweats
and sleepless nights, and he feared it would get worse.

All the sounds of the valley could be heard, and the rushing of
the distant Entwash suddenly seemed deafening in the quiet that
followed. It was clear the elf remained unconvinced, and perhaps
had even taken some small injury at the words, but if he did, he
was not about to dwell upon it. Aragorn found he could no longer
keep his hands still, and reached out toward Legolas to put a hand
on his shoulder. To his astonishment he found his wrist caught by a
nimble hand, and Legolas took a step closer, his eyes reminiscent
of a stalking cat. The ranger inhaled a bit too sharply as he
avoided wincing at the surprising pressure being applied to his
arm, and awaited whatever harsh words that waited to fall from the
elf's lips.

But none came.

Rather, the blue eyes under the stern line of the elf's forehead
were ripped from his and he felt them roving over his face, resting
now and then before moving on. The entire thing lasted but briefly,
and then his arm was all but thrown back at him and Legolas was
gone, striding back toward Gimli.

He balled his fingers into fists and clenched them so tightly
his battered nails left half moons on his palms, and would have
drawn blood had they been just a fraction longer. A defeated snarl
escaped his clenched teeth and he shook his head in an effort to
clear it. He had little luck in this venture. Legolas had not
accepted his answer -- the elf would remain true to his word, but
Aragorn knew he could not evade this forever. What did his friend
expect? The recent months were no secret, the weight they each bore
was shouldered between them all and attempting to unearth the
things that might lay beneath the surface could do as much to
weaken as to strengthen. Aragorn's anger flared at this thought,
despite his knowledge he knew he was merely hedging the undeniable.
His problem lay in his inability to decipher precisely what it was
he fought to deny.

A pain in his jaw brought him back to the present; he was
grinding his teeth. It was a recently obtained habit, and one he
should stamp out soon enough. A raucous curse split the air, and
though he might have stood there forever, Aragorn made his way back
to the camp, where Gimli was standing indignantly and attempting to
stare down Legolas.

"I would do the same to you," the shorter one said, glowering,
"if I weren't sure your ribs couldn't handle it!" This earned
naught but an arched brow on the part of the elf. Legolas
acknowledged the man's arrival with no more than a locked gaze, and
gave a wide berth to Aragorn's belongings. The tension was stronger
than the new wind blowing in from the east, and Gimli eyed his
companions as he quietly situated his throwing axes.

While Aragorn belted his scabbard around his waist and sheathed
Andúril, the dwarf attempted to divert the tension. "You,
elf, need to calm down, unless you plan to run circles round the
Uruks until they dizzy and pass out from exhaustion."

For a moment it appeared to be a one sided exchange, but after a
hard stare Legolas shook his head and laughed. "Better me than
you!" was all he said before he took off over the grass. "Come,
Gimli!"

The dwarf gave an exasperated shake of his head which was easily
countered by a good natured chuckle. Seeing that Aragorn was ready
to be on the move, he hoisted higher the axe he carried and started
after Legolas. Without pause, the ranger readjusted his quiver and
took up his place in another arduous day of travel, chasing down
the enemy. Another day yet of running, running: on without end. But
today, it was not long before they found themselves outnumbered by
scores, and surrounded with razor edged steel at their throats.



Title:  The Breaking - Chapter 3/?
        Author:  Keil
Author's Email:  keiltagh (at) comcast (dot) net
       Pairing:  Aragorn/Legolas
        Rating:  Currently PG, will increase
       Summary:  Strange forces are at work against the remaining
                 members of the Fellowship, but none feel it more
                 than Legolas or Aragorn.
    Disclaimer:  Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien
                 and all that, no money being made, utmost respect
                 for his works.
  
---------------------
    The Breaking
---------------------

Chapter 3


At last they took their leave from the Riders of Rohan. It had
been uncertain enough a meeting at first, as upon contact they had
been surrounded, encircled by men upon their great war horses with
long spears aimed at the Three Hunters like the spokes of some
giant wheel. And if this was not a bad enough thing already, Gimli
had done quite a job offending Éomer, the Third Marshal of
the Riddermark, and Aragorn had done well to step in once Legolas
had aimed an arrow at the son of Éomund before anyone could
blink an eye. The ranger's words had safely eased the tension, and
at length they had been lent horses of some of the Rohirrim's
fallen men. Hasufel, a great dark grey beast, became Aragorn's
mount, and a lighter but still fiery steed, Arod, had come to
Legolas. The elf had sent both saddle and bridle away with the men
of Rohan, and had leapt lightly up without use for such things to
find the horse tame and eager beneath him. Behind him rested Gimli,
who had not wished to borrow nor be bothered with a horse, and so
sat gripping the elf, ill at ease as if certain it meant life or
death.

Away they galloped, covering ground quickly, and soon the group
of Rohirrim were but a small, dark motion fading rapidly in the
distance. The horses were fast, and they sped toward the banks of
the Entwash and the trail of which Éomer had spoken like
ghosts of the plain. The tracks of the riders that hastened back
from the Wold were much easier to follow than the sparse evidence
that remained of the group of Orcs as they had fled in front of the
mounted pursuit. They hurried east along the trampled ground and
toward the Wold, careful to keep enough distance from the trail to
avoid marring it with the hooves of their own horses. Many times
Aragorn would ride ahead and dismount, approaching the path and
inspecting the ground -- crawling over every disturbance that
caught his eye. Legolas found himself more often than not watching
the ranger work, though rising beneath the admiration for the man's
tracking skills was something that made him frown darkly, something
he could not yet label. At last it became easier to follow a sparse
trail of fallen Orc bodies than to keep up with the sights of
marked earth and bent grass. Here and there along the way were
twisted corpses, more often than not with grey feathered arrow
shafts protruding from neck or chest.

Afternoon wore on and still they rode, more hopeful now as the
horses ate up the land in huge strides, and the distant mark of
shadow that was the Forest of Fangorn came to be large enough to
discern the presences of individual trees. Clouds hung heavy in the
sky, rolling darkly and obscuring the sun, though rain did not
fall. Because of this the light seemed to fade early, and more
quickly than usual, but it was about this time they reached the
edge of the old forest. In a large glade they discovered a pile of
smouldering ashes, the remains of the Orcs that had been
slaughtered in the recent battle. Nearby lay a pile of bruised and
battered gear of war: cloven shields, broken swords and cracked
helmets. In the centre of this pile, overlooking the smoking dead,
was the head of a goblin impaled upon a stick, its empty eyes
watching the burning bodies and looking after the departed soldiers
that had earlier slain him. As well, not far from there, near where
the Entwash poured from between the trees, was a mound of freshly
tilled earth surrounded by fifteen spears -- the fallen
Rohirrim.

The riders dismounted, Aragorn stepping deftly out of the
stirrups. Gimli had more trouble with this task, and despite the
attempt by Legolas to assist him, the dwarf ended up tumbling to
the ground and writhing on his back for a few moments. "You, my
friend, remind me well of a stranded tortoise," the elf said with
little, or perhaps no, attempt at concealing his amusement. Gimli
struggled and righted himself before springing to his feet,
shooting his fair haired friend a glare that might have struck a
lesser being dead on contact and then strode away, mumbling
something about 'fell beasts' and cooking. Legolas gave one last
chuckle and shook his head as he slid effortlessly from the back of
his steed.

Leaving the horses picketed, they set to scouring the land as
the light finally abandoned them completely, leaving them swimming
in darkness once again. No trace of the little ones had yet been
found, and each of the company could not help but feel somewhat
heartsick as the possibilities of Merry's and Pippin's fates
narrowed. It was with lowered eyes they came to make camp beneath
the eaves of an old chestnut tree, whose dried leaves whispered
softly in the encroaching night. Between the chill air and Gimli's
insistence, they decided to build a fire, and the dwarf set out to
gather wood.

"'Tis not safe to cut from the living trees," Aragorn warned
with a wary glance into the deep dark behind the populous trunks of
the trees. "Make sure only to gather wood already dead for the
fire, and do not wander too far." He settled himself with his back
against the trunk of the old chestnut tree, hearing the leaves
shiver slightly above him. There was no argument from Gimli, who
was out of all of them the most suspicious of the ancient wood, and
insistent upon keeping his axe at his side.

Legolas stood not far from Aragorn, looking out across the Wold
and into the eastern night. No stars joined them this evening,
hidden stealthily in the pitch that stretched forever overhead.
After some time, he turned toward the forest, peering keenly into
the obscurity of the trees, and seemed to be listening to the
distant calling of voices. Gimli was out of sight, busy collecting
kindling, and the only disturbance in the air was a muted groaning
that sounded as if it hailed from far over the hills in the depths
of Fangorn, wafting down the slopes and busying the elf's ears. His
mind left the sounds of the forest behind after a while; his skin
had not crawled so heatedly under scrutiny since before their
encounter with the Rohirrim, but he now discovered the uneasy
feeling had returned to some degree. With a slight grimace marring
his otherwise placid features, Legolas turned his head in Aragorn's
direction.

The ranger was lost deep in thought, else he might have taken
notice of the elf's movement much sooner. A pair of penetrating
blue eyes met his, and the seconds stretched on much longer than he
would have liked, he thought, before he was able to rip his gaze
away and banish it instead to the ground before his boots. Indeed,
aside from discussion pertinent to the quest before them, there had
been few words exchanged in the past day -- less, even, than the
quiet days that had preceded that. Aragorn did not know if he
expected the elf to speak, but no words came to his ears. Though he
could feel the other's eyes seeming to pin him to the trunk behind
him for such a long time, he found himself scowling and was nearly
brought to say something himself. Even as he looked up again the
feeling disappeared, and Legolas was now looking back at the woods.
The rustling of leaves and the soft scrape of boot over rock
signalled someone's approach, and but a few seconds later, Gimli
appeared from the shadows with a bundle of wood piled so high in
his arms it obscured half of his face.

Their sheltering tree appeared to enjoy the warmth of the fire
Gimli built, its higher boughs drawing downward and seeming to rub
its leaves together like old, dry hands. As Legolas commented on
the strange behaviour of their plant companion, they fell into a
lengthy discussion of the ancient forest, and Gimli once again made
known his aversion to its peculiar presence. The light haired elf
passed on Celeborn's warning not to push too deeply into the heart
of the wood, and the others nodded their approval.

"You might be safer without an axe," Legolas pointed out rather
cheekily to the dwarf, without a second thought to entering the
forest unarmed.

Gimli's eyes widened slightly as if he were appalled, and one
side of his mouth twitched before he spoke. "If I didn't know
better," the dwarf said, "I would swear you were trying to get me
killed, elf." His voice was light-hearted but for a small tone that
undercut it with a seriousness that proved his aversion well.

Legolas flashed him a sympathetic smile, and they drew lots for
watches. The first fell on Gimli, and Aragorn reminded him once
again about taking only the dead wood for the fire, and to let it
burn out rather than stray too far in search of more fuel. At last,
the ranger and the elf each settled in their places and fell
quickly asleep. The elf's eyes remained open and staring, almost
unseeing, mixing dream world and waking world as his kind were want
to do, fair hands folded across his chest. Gimli sat alert, his
axes at the ready, listening, but for now the only sounds aside
from the soft crackle-pop of the fire was the rustling of leaves
all around.

As the night wore on, suddenly there appeared a cloaked man,
face hidden by the wide brin of his hat. Gimli started, but was
unable to utter a word straight away. His stirring, though, roused
the others as well as any words might, and Aragorn and Legolas both
sat up to stare at the newcomer. The ranger rose to his feet and
invited the stranger to warm himself by the fire, but the man
disappeared without a trace beneath the moonless sky as soon as
Aragorn had taken a step. It was at this point that Legolas cried
out at the departure of their mounts, who had pulled themselves
free and had perhaps gone the same way as the strange visitor, for
they, too, were out of sight. The only sign of the horses was a
distant whinnying from far off, and the three stood troubled before
this new stroke of foul luck.

The passing of the night was slow, after that -- they had
decided it must have been the work of Saruman and there was nothing
to be done for it at the moment. Gimli was relieved of his watch by
Aragorn, and the dwarf headed readily to find sleep, though his
hands never left his axe. Legolas resumed his place on the ground
and rested open-eyed and motionless.

The old man did not reappear during Aragorn's watch, and his
only company was the wind and the branches that shifted and
whispered, singing softly behind him. He wondered, though, how much
of the noise was caused by the breeze. The fire burned steadily,
and while he watched the blue and orange flames lick at the dry
wood, he bent his knees and rested an elbow atop one of them, his
fingers entwined in his dark hair thoughtfully. His line of sight
drifted, moving toward Legolas's prone form, and though he was
unsure how long his gaze remained there he felt suddenly as one who
was falling. Having to drop both arms to his sides, he placed his
palms flat on the ground to steady himself. He felt dizzy, and
cursed silently under his breath.

Reaching out then, and unsheathing Andúril, Aragorn
withdrew also the whetstone from a buckled pocket on the scabbard.
He held the sword pointing straight out from him and watched the
fire trail bright lines over the gleaming metal, the light tracing
in sharp arcs in an inconstant dance over the blade. He began to
sharpen it slowly, so as to not make too much noise. His insides
felt unsettled, as if they shifted in anticipation of something he
could not yet fathom. It was not the hunt for their hobbit friends,
and it was not the parting of Frodo in the days before. It was not
the loss of any of the Fellowship, and it was not, for once, the
path that fate seemed it would have him walk. He chanced a glance
once again at the elf, and gritted his teeth before returning his
attention to his watch, and to the task he had set himself to while
away the time.

The wind picked up briskly, carrying with it a sharper bite and
threatening the fire. The ranger tossed a few more pieces of wood
into the thirsty flames and watched the sparks that wound
themselves upward in lazy loops on the heated air. For the time the
fire flared up, much more of the area was visible around him.
Though the shadows shifted with the movement of the flames, giving
things a sense of false motion, he could see Legolas had woken, and
was watching him with a look that might send him bursting into
flames, or freeze the bones within his flesh -- he could not
decide. Aragorn shifted under the weight of the stare, and, and he
placed his sword slowly back into the scabbard. Replacing the
whetstone as well, glad for an excuse to keep his hands busy, he
exhaled heavily and finally let his weapon fall to the ground
beside him. "My watch is over," he said, a question though it was
phrased as a statement.

The elf stood and took a few steps toward the fire. Seating
himself across from the ranger, he did not break eye contact just
yet -- at least, he was still focusing on Aragorn's eyes even if
the ranger was avoiding his. If the ranger felt he could look at
him in such away but not hold his ground when it was returned in
kind, so be it. Above them the clouds began to blow away, trailing
into ever thinning wisps and allowing a few stars to peek through
in front of a field of black. "No," Legolas said smoothly, the
firelight shimmering over his hair in much the same manner as it
had danced over Aragorn's blade. "You are quite contemplative, my
friend," he added softening his eyes though there was a light in
their depths that remained sharp and unexplained. "And I do not
believe your mind wanders to any paths we have so far taken, nor to
any we might take in days to follow." Letting his forearms rest on
the knees of his folded legs, he continued, "I know you will try to
convince me otherwise."

Aragorn straightened, feeling the bark press uncomfortably into
his spine as he leaned against the tree. He drew his knees up a bit
higher, crossing his arms over them to hide the bottom half of his
face as he chewed a lip. "Then I will not," he conceded, and his
brow crinkled in unspoken confusion. "Though did you not say
--"

"I said I would not again request that you reveal your reasons
for silence, Estel," the elf interrupted, yet he made even this ill
mannered move seem gracious. "But that is not my intent this night.
I wish to know your reason for watching me so." His request was
rather brazen and artless, and it threw Aragorn off more than a
little. He was not used to such forthcoming from his elvish
friend.

"I --" The ranger found himself unable to respond, and he was
forced to consciously stop his jaw from working in silence. He
returned his hand to his hair, and his eyes hardened as he found a
suitable rock toward which to direct his frustration. Realisation
was slowly dawning on him, day by day, but that brought
understanding no closer to his grasp. For this moment, he decided
to be as truthful as his mind might allow. "I find myself wandering
much, of late," the man said after a long stretch of silence. "I
would ask your forgiveness; you must think me less capable of the
wit and provision required for such a journey as ours."

The corners of Legolas's mouth turned down slightly. "I do not
think you unfit," he replied, remaining still across from his
companion. "These days have set all our minds to trouble, immersing
us in replaying the past or attempting to gauge the future. I do
not find your preoccupations to be keeping you from the task, as
without you we certainly would not have come this far, and still
retain enough hope within our hearts." He finally released Aragorn
from his gaze, but did not completely avert his eyes.

The man could do naught but nod, relaxing his arms enough to let
his hands come to rest on his knees. The jewel in his ring
glittered harshly in the shifting light, and he thought he could
see it reflected in the elf's eyes.

"It was your eyes I saw last night behind the flames, shining as
something, some/one/, I could not know, and so at first
thought them belonging to some strange beast or demon behind the
reins of Sauron." Legolas had restored his gaze to Aragorn's eyes
now, waiting for the man to look up.

Aragorn tensed, every muscle seeming to quiver in protest as his
body went rigid. His chin snapped up, and he aimed a darkened look
toward the elf with eyes that suddenly appeared ragged and
red-rimmed. But his glance faltered once burnished grey eyes locked
with icy blue. For a moment, his look became haunted, and he could
not bear for it to show so he turned away again. Legolas had to say
no more than this; it was clear it explained much to the elf. It
came to him that his friend had complained not at all of feeling
watched since that night, and for good reason. Aragorn had set
himself the purpose of avoiding even looking at his friend once it
had become a forethought for them all. He was certain that the
strange occurrences and ill fortune in these lands did much to add
to these experiences a sort of exacerbation, and it did much to
lend reason to the extremity to which Legolas had reacted the
previous eve. In truth, the ranger had been sitting quietly,
considering the darker places that had made small homes in his soul
when he realised that having his friend near somehow made them
better, and yet worse all at once. He had been regarding the elf
through the flames when Legolas had finally turned and called
out.

His silence seemed to be taken as an affirmation, as a voice at
last reached his ears that he could hear above his rushing blood.
"It is my watch, now. You should rest." So he offered no more
words, merely stood and moved to the side where he had previously
unfurled his bedroll, and lay down once again. He turned his back
to the fire and he lowered himself to the ground, and behind him he
was sure he heard Legolas's voice very quietly in the dark.

"Ú-moe edaved."

As the ranger had taken his shift on watch to sharpen his
weapon, Legolas set about using his own time alone to fletch some
new arrows. This was something he could do in his sleep, but he
found himself taking longer than usual and putting an aggravated
force behind each of his actions. When he had damaged a third
feather with a violent motion, he sighed heavily and thought it
wise to put it off, at least until he had cleared his head. As he
took Aragorn's place in front of the tree, he leaned back and
suddenly felt that ever present knot in his stomach twitch. He
could not, however, tell if it was tightening or loosening, such
was the ambiguity of the feeling. So he did his best to ignore it.
Legolas set his eyes and ears to the lookout, and spent the rest of
the night in stillness, letting the fire burn itself out.

The pale wash of dawn greeted them with a bitterness that left
even the green of Rohan feeling barren. Aragorn was awake when
Legolas finally stood, and the elf was quite certain his friend had
not slept since their talk during the night. Sparing Gimli a kick
this dawn, Legolas instead placed a hand on the dwarf's shoulder
and shook him lightly; he was feeling overly gentle this morning,
even if it was only because he felt quite distant. This method of
rousing earned the elf a curious look from Gimli, but he was not
questioned further, and was rather glad for it. Instead they
quietly set about fixing a small breakfast with their remaining
supplies. It was not as rejuvenating as lembas, but it was a
welcome difference, and still allowed their stomachs to feel full
and their hunger to be sated in a more rewarding fashion.

They deliberated on the loss of their horses, and the elf
thought it was not the fault of the cloaked man the night before,
even if that had been Saruman. The animals had sounded as if they
had not run in terror, rather in joy, as if they were off to a
reunion with an old friend. There was still nothing to be done
about it, however, and they accepted that they would return to
proceeding on foot, unless the beasts returned of their own accord.
They would have to search for them later, as they had left an oath
with Éomer to return them at the outcome, no matter what it
might be, of their quest.

Gimli was as silent as the others as the sun rose without
offering much warmth to the land. He appeared quite aware of the
strain that had tightened further over the course of his
companions' watches, and he wished not to disturb anything that
might lay between them. Instead of attempting conversation, he
resigned himself to be contented lending what assistance he could
in the search for more signs of the hobbits.

Aragorn began at their encampment, starting to circle outward
from the dead fire and making his way back in the direction of the
location that had seen the battle of Orcs and men. As the day began
to progress, none gave voice to the fears they all shared that the
bodies of their small friends lay mixed forever in the pile of
charred remains. The higher the sun rose, the slower they began to
move, as if fighting something within themselves that arrested the
movement of their limbs and turned their minds again and again to
the rubble that had still not ceased smoking. A yolk rested heavy
over their hearts as the ranger drew nearer the knoll of the
battle, and Legolas let himself lag behind to search other areas.
He was certain Aragorn must have heard the words tumble from his
lips while the stars had still shone in the sky, as he had
seemingly been powerless to stop them. It angered him, that sudden
inability to keep himself in check, and, more than that, he was
furious that he could not explain it, even to himself. Presently,
he paused, standing to his full height and moving one graceful hand
to settle atop the handle of the white knife in his belt, and let
the other come to rest over his abdomen, fingers listing over the
material of his soft over tunic.

Before he had much opportunity to delve into his own thoughts,
his introspection was cut short as a shout came from the distance;
Aragorn was bidding his friends to join him at his side. Without
hesitation his nimble feet carried him over the hill, Gimli's path
meeting with his own along the way. As they crested a small rise
they saw the ranger examining closely a spot of well worn ground.
He had discovered something. It was not long before traces of a
hobbit were found; it must have been one of the halflings, for
despite the muddled footprints there were, beside a severed rope
and a knife that must have cut it, crumbs of waybread. Only a
hobbit would have paused in the midst of a chaotic battle for a
bite to eat. The evidence suggested at least one had escaped, and
they followed the trail toward the brink of Fangorn Forest, seeing
where it disappeared beyond the trees. There was little to discuss;
there was great need to follow, and follow they would.

It was at once easier and more difficult to track within the
darkening confines of the wood, but Aragorn kept the trail as they
wound around trunk and under limb and over rock and branch. The air
was thick and the bark of the trees a murky charcoal with strange
patterns of lighter moss the grew reminiscent of curling smoke.
Legolas was sure the outer edges of the forest were of no danger to
the party, though the trees still shook fretfully with anger and
sent hisses back and forth above the heads of the company. Although
it had been their intent to avoid the deeper places of these woods,
they had no choice but to follow each sign that was unearthed as it
lay a path ever inward, and finally to a hill covered in strange
tracks.

From this hill, atop a great piece of stone they again caught
sight of the old man in a tattered grey cloak and hat moving
amongst the foliage below. Gimli gave great urging for Legolas to
dispatch the man before he could approach, but Aragorn countered
his words. Of a sudden, the stranger approached with great steps
toward the hill, and climbed it to look up at them from the base of
the rock. The three attempted to draw their weapons but found after
doing so they were unable to hold onto them. It was with great
despair Legolas watched his bow and arrow clatter to the ground as
his arms willed themselves to his sides. With mighty leaps the man
scaled the stone and stood before them, speaking as if he knew
their names yet he did not give his own. When Gimli discovered he
could again lift his axe, the dwarf prepared to strike the old man,
and as the man and elf retrieved their weapons, once again they
lost control of them. Gimli dropped his axe, Aragorn's sword burned
in his hands and fell to the ground, and as the man cast aside his
grey cloak to reveal shining white robes, Legolas at last shot an
arrow high into the tree tops before crying out, "Mithrandir!
Mithrandir!"

It was Gandalf.

The three hunters were awestruck, unable to believe their dear
friend had come back to them. Legolas felt his heart swell and
Gimli could barely contain himself. The reunited group set to
exchanging tales, and the company marvelled at the wizard's story
of his battle with the ancient Balrog. The wizard, in turn, mourned
the valiant loss of Boromir at the Falls of Rauros. But all of
their hearts were lightened further by the news that Merry and
Pippin were safe in the care of old Treebeard, upon whose hill they
now stood. With this good news, and the knowledge that the fate of
Frodo and the ring was out of their hands, they decided with haste
to turn to Rohan, and to give aid to the ailing King
Théoden.

The group, now numbering four, eagerly trekked back though the
paths of Fangorn, though none quite so eagerly as Gimli. Once they
reached the plains of the Wold, Gandalf summoned a great white
horse, Shadowfax, to the astonishment of the others. Perhaps the
only thing more surprising than Gandalf's alliance with this great
steed of the Mearas was that their missing horses came running back
at the heals of the white stallion.

It could not be helped that the faces of the elf, dwarf, and man
were all split with mirroring smiles. Their friends were safe,
Gandalf had returned, and the horses had not been lost to them.
Forgetting himself in the joyous moment, Legolas clapped a hand on
Aragorn's shoulder and turned toward him, wanting, without giving
it thought, to share his happiness. The ranger instantly looked
back, but as their eyes locked, both smiles faded ever so slowly;
their gaze held fast for a moment, though it appeared as though
lightning might dash between them so charged did the glare become.
The elf drew his hand back almost as if he had been burned, and,
letting his gaze linger only a second longer than was appropriate,
he turned away swiftly and stepped to Arod's side. Gimli was too
busy speaking cheerily with Gandalf to take notice of the exchange
that took place behind him.

As Legolas swung himself adeptly onto the horse's back, he
beckoned his shorter friend it was time to get going. Hasufel came
to Aragorn at the ranger's call, and he climbed into the saddle,
spinning the steel grey horse around to face Gandalf, who was in
the midst of swinging himself onto the back of Shadowfax. The elf
and man avoided each other's eye and set their concentration to the
task at hand with no little ease.

Aragorn's hands sweat lightly on the reins and he clenched his
jaw. Legolas felt his hands slip just a small amount over the
strands of thick mane he held in one hand. But such fortunes gave
them renewed strength, and with hearts lighter than they could
recall, they prepared to make off with speed toward Edoras and the
halls of Meduseld.

---------------------
** Ú-moe edaved. -- 'There is nothing to forgive.'



Title:  The Breaking - Chapter 4/?
        Author:  Keil
Author's Email:  keiltagh (at) comcast (dot) net
       Pairing:  Aragorn/Legolas (brief implied Aragorn/Arwen)
        Rating:  Currently PG13, will increase
       Summary:  Strange forces are at work against the remaining
                 members of the Fellowship, but none feel it more
                 than Legolas or Aragorn.
    Disclaimer:  Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien
                 and all that, no money being made, utmost respect
                 for his works.
  Authors Note:  Major assumptions in this chapter:
                      -- there is a guest hall near Meduseld for
                         visitors (ie: political/important) to Rohan
                      -- it took enough time to muster forces that
                         before the group were allowed to choose
                         mail and armour that they might have been
                         provided chambers for a short rest after
                         Wormtongue's departure.
  
---------------------
    The Breaking
---------------------

Chapter 4 


It had been but a few short hours since the group had taken
leave from the Golden Hall. Upon their arrival to Meduseld, Gandalf
had carefully freed Théoden from the mist that had
overthrown his mind beneath the Shadow and veiled his eyes to the
truth. The king had seemed to wake from a long dream, and it was
not long before the citizens of Rohan were rejoicing, the happy din
rising from the streets below and filtering into the court. With
more than a little haste they had submerged themselves in talks of
the war that seethed on the edge of everyone's vision: of the
probable moves of Mordor and Isengard, and of the Orcs now
rampaging through the hills of the Riddermark. At length
Théoden had sent for the collection of Edoras's forces with
orders that every Rohirrim should be called to the ready with all
speed.

Gandalf unveiled the servant Grima as the snake he had become,
uncoiling words over the king's mind and taking hold of it, pushing
it into the murky water and holding it beneath the surface in hopes
of allowing the Shadow to more easily engulf and besiege the
kingdom. Théoden barely held his wrath at the revelations of
leechcraft he had suffered at the hands of his once trusted
servant. However, after some deliberation, Wormtongue's life had
been spared, and he had been granted a horse despite the
reservations of many. He was also given a choice: to run and never
look back, or to stand and fight alongside his ruler and his
people. But the king's former advisor had chosen to flee, and in
leaving spat violently at his lord's feet.

Preparations were in their final stages. The women and children
would be readying for the protection of Dunharrow, and the men were
already collecting to ride to Helm's Deep in the very north of the
White Mountains. A small feast had been conjured expeditiously to
celebrate the recovery of Rohan's leader, and Aragorn and his
friends had been offered places in the king's guest hall to take
what respite they may find following their mighty journey. It would
do little good to have them suffering under the yolk of exhaustion
in the shadow of the trying days ahead.

Théoden called for them each to be taken to chambers
within the guest halls, though Gandalf declined, wishing instead to
keep counsel with the king. The elf, dwarf and ranger gladly
removed themselves from the court and made their way outside the
walls to the Hall's stone steps, and from there they headed down
the dusty path that led to their offered accommodations. They
walked in silence, save for the sound of their boots connecting
with stone and the soft creak of the well worn leather of their
gear. Gimli had been, as he so often was when faced with the
opportunity, quite glad for a chance to get some rest, and he
eagerly took the first room the court's attendant led them past. As
they parted, Legolas was almost certain he already heard a steady
rumbling filtering through the thick wood of the door. With a
chuckle, the elf disappeared into his chosen chamber, as he had
deemed the chance to at least was and change desirable.

The ranger, too, thought it wise to make the best use of this
time to acquire some uninterrupted sleep after so many nights going
without, even if it was to be found only in a short span of hours.
Aragorn laid his things on a narrow table without haste. His hands
lingered over the leather of his belt as he traced the smooth
surface to where it intersected the scabbard. He pulled his hands
away, but not his eyes, which remained pinioned upon his weapon
with heavy lids. The flicker of candle light bouncing shadows off
the uneven stone caught his attention, and he blinked slowly before
backing up and turning toward the bed. He pinched the bridge of his
nose with a grimace, and rubbed lightly at the inner corners of his
eyes. With a heavy sigh he fell onto the mattress, not even
bothering to remove his boots. But he discovered his slumber was
fitful, for the brief moments it came at all, and he felt more than
trapped by the high walls around him and the dark, empty corners of
the room. It was not long before he accepted defeat, and gathered
his things to him, intent upon returning to Meduseld and the
anticipation of war that was surely so palpable it seemed ready to
set the timber alight.

Aragorn's hand pulled closed the door to the room so graciously
lent him, fingertips tracing over the cool metal of the latch
before he drew himself up to his full height and turned to face the
stone walls of the corridor. Dark tapestries rich in colour and
texture decorated the passageway, each depicting the horses for
which Rohan was renown; some appeared in battle and some within the
strong but delicate imagery of the shields of the Lords. Directly
across the hall towered another door of solid oak and dark brass, a
mirror of the closed archway that led to his own chambers. Both had
one torch burning boldly on each side, the four fires challenging
the moonlight that filtered in through the unshuttered window. The
ranger emitted a soft sigh through his nose as he stepped lightly
over the flagstone and turned towards the night. Beyond the open
stone he caught a glimpse of the moon hanging solitary in the pale
sky, tendrils of cloud caressing it as if they whispered secrets
only the night could know. The stars had not yet shown themselves,
but the heavens above the hills of the city already wore a dark
cloak which spun ever deeper as he drew his weapon from its sheath
and held it still before him.

With a frown, he let the sword of Elendil, and all it entailed,
slice the invading moonlight, the clean metal inflaming it into a
fierce battle with the burnished gold that cascaded over his
shoulders from the sconces at his back. As the man's eyes swept
over the blade's edge, the clink of a door hinge came to his ear.
It was but a brief moment his muscles tensed as he strained to hear
the anticipated flutter of footsteps. None came. He dared not wait
another instant and turned quickly, lifting his sword as his
shoulders twisted; he was only partly surprised to hear the
collision of metal on metal echo back down the hall with sharp
precision before it faded into the stone.

Andúril had come to rest against the blade of a white
elven knife, and as the rest of Aragorn's body caught up with his
sword only an second later, he came face to face with Legolas.
Neither moved to drop their weapon, rather stood and listened to
the dying sound of clashing steel and carefully locking gazes. The
corners of the elf's mouth were subtly upturned in a strange smile,
and his expression quickly earned him narrowed eyes and a creased
brow from the man standing opposite him. "You seem easily troubled
tonight, mellon nîn," Legolas said quietly, his eyes
squinting ever so slightly as the words slipped past his lips,
seeming as if they sought to look beyond the shadows that partially
shielded his friend's face.

Without making any motion to draw back, Aragorn slowly allowed
himself a deep breath. "I would do better not forget you can move
as a ghost when you wish," he replied, his excuse deliberate in its
deficiency, and the elf thought there lay beneath the statement a
hint of accusation. The man tilted his head to the side as he
spoke, one edge of his mouth lifting upward as a distant light
flickered faintly in the depths of his eyes; whether it was
something the remained unspoken, or merely a retelling of the
torchlight, Legolas found it suddenly difficult to discern. With an
abrupt motion the ranger moved his sword in a tight circle,
dislodging it from the long knife, and brought his second hand
alongside the first on its handle. He was not entirely taken aback
when the elf did not retreat but instead recovered and brought his
weapon down again, forcing Aragorn to parry with a sideways twist
of his sword. There was a brief pause during which the man would
have sworn on the Valar the elf smiled, and then blades were
flying: blistering combinations of blocks, parries and thrusts,
neither willing to give, or take, quarter.

Certainly the clatter would soon draw someone's attention,
Aragorn thought, though his focus did not drift or wane. Instead,
he clenched his teeth and grunted as he put a new force behind his
attack. This time he was surprised to find the elf respond in kind,
and he growled faintly as the unexpected contest of skill began to
edge across the line of a friendly sparring match. Sweat did more
than bead on his brow, falling now in small rivulets over the
angles of his face and matting his hair in dark curls around his
ears and the base of his neck. Legolas was not subject to quite the
same evidence of effort and was sweating only lightly, but the
ranger could tell the elf was straining as much as he. Steel
flashed sharply in the light, and the torches seemed to flare more
brightly as the edges of the tapestries shifted in the wind of
conflict. Finally, Legolas brought his knife straight down from
above his head and Aragorn caught it on the cross guard of his
sword. There the din calmed, and the sound dimmed and faded, but in
their ears remained a steady ringing. The man's shoulders were
angled at the elf's chest, their arms nearly touching and their
eyes shining brightly.

With a movement that was certain to do justice to his elvish
upbringing, Aragorn lashed out with a leg, hooking it behind one of
Legolas's and pulling it back swiftly. The elf was clearly caught
off guard by this and lost his balance. Before he allowed himself
the luxury of contemplating this move, as Legolas fell he was able
to swing his other leg out with enough force to knock the ranger's
supporting limb out from under him. The elf hit the ground first,
his back crashing into the stone nearly hard enough to knock the
wind from his body as his head cracked smartly against the smooth
slate of the floor. A moment later he felt a weight collide with
him from above, hard enough to finish the job of robbing his lungs
of air, and he fought a gasp. Legolas blinked hard, trying to chase
from his vision the stars that must have rushed in from the night,
and when he opened his eyes, Aragorn was staring down at him,
inches above his face, tendrils of dark hair hanging down to brush
his cheeks with no more force than a whisper of air. He could feel
the man's breath coming rapidly over his lips, and he swallowed
thickly as he tried to calm a gasping that rose up in his breast.
The elf's stomach twinged, causing his eyes to widen, but he caught
in his throat the sound that tried to escape him and his gaze
sharpened. Without warning Legolas collected himself and twisted
his legs just enough to lock around the other's, mustering enough
force from his prone position to flip Aragorn over. His hands fell
to either side of the man's head as he reversed their positions,
and he couldn't help but smirk at the shock apparent on the face so
close to his.

Now pale hair rained down from above to fall on darker skinned
cheeks, and Legolas glared down at his friend, his lingering gaze
smouldering cobalt. Just as the elf was about to push himself up,
Aragorn's closed fist struck him squarely in the ribs. With a
jolted expression of shock for being caught off guard twice in such
a short span of time, Legolas made to stand with one hand cradling
his side, and the ranger struggled to his feet once he was
unhindered by the other's weight. As soon as they were both upright
once again, the elf pulled back one arm, and when it came forward
again it drove his knuckles right into Aragorn's eye. With that, he
bent to pick up his knife and returned the blade to its place on
his belt before stalking off down the hall, leaving the man staring
after him.

When the elf reached the juncture of corridors, one arm still
held tenderly around his injured ribs, he nearly ran straight into
Gimli. "I thought you saw everything coming!" the dwarf said
gruffly and not with a little frustration as he was forced to
recover with a quick backward step. He eyed Legolas with
exasperation, preparing for whatever remark the elf might throw his
way, but none came. His expression reformed slowly, and looked to
his friend now from beneath an arched brow, seeing the elf's
condition for the first time.

Legolas had narrowly avoided trampling the dwarf in his hasty
escape, stopping short just before he bowled into him, but he did
not remain where he was for long. At the dwarf's comment, he
narrowed his eyes and resumed walking with giant strides,
disappearing quickly around the corner with steps that echoed
behind him long after he had gone. Gimli expressed his astonishment
with round eyes for a moment as he watched the elf exit the hall,
but his face quickly melted into an annoyed frown as he shot a dark
look down the corridor in Aragorn's direction. The man was still
standing where he had been when Legolas had punched him in the
face, his fingers palpating the tender flesh above his cheekbone
and below his eyebrow. Removing his fingers from his head, he
glanced down to see a small amount of blood on the tips of them,
which he rubbed slowly between thumb and forefingers. With a quiet
curse he used his sleeve to wipe what he could away, as it was
already beginning to dry. Certainly that would never go
unnoticed.

"Oh, that's it!" came a roar from the dwarf's end of the hall.
Indeed, Gimli was stalking down the walkway toward the ranger, axe
in hand and not carried lightly. Aragorn would have sworn he saw
the torches shrink beneath the sound, flames retreating into the
sconces the light dimmed momentarily. "I don't claim ta know what's
goin' on b'tween tha two o' you, but if anyone's goin' ta be
beatin' the life outta anyone else, it's going ta be /me/
beating it outta you both!" As if to emphasise his point, he
hoisted the axe in one hand and glared with eyes reminiscent of
hard coals. "Now what was that lit'l display all about?" Aragorn
blinked a few times and looked down at the dwarf before bending to
pick up his sword. He sheathed his weapon, but kept his hand on the
pommel as he stood straight again.

With an exasperated breath the man said shortly, "Take it up
with him, he started it," before stepping around the dwarf and
beating a trail along the same path Legolas had taken on his way
out. He did not stop to consider that his statement was not,
perhaps, entirely true but was also incredibly puerile, and instead
forced his mind to jump ahead to their imminent departure. There
were things that needed doing before they left, and he was not
about to let them fall to the back of his mind. In only a few long
strides he had reached the meeting of corridors and turned down the
one that led out of the guest hall.

"He -- Oh, that's rich!" came the thundering reply, but there
was nothing else Gimli could say once Aragorn had vanished, gone
the same way as the elf, and he placed the butt of his axe handle
on the ground thoughtfully. This was just what they needed, to have
the man and elf fighting like spoiled children on the eve of a
great war. Never had he seen a row last so long between the two. In
fact, he was sure that aside from a few short disagreements, his
friends had never found themselves at such odds before. He,
however, was not one to dwell on such things without reason, and
while he fully intended to follow through with his threat of a
thorough pummeling should this continue much longer, for now he was
interested only in the food and drink that awaited him in the
Golden Hall. With a greatly heaved sigh, he shook his head to no
one and set his feet to follow after his friends.

The four companions reunited in their seats at the king's board.
The food was already awaiting them and they quickly joined in,
eating and drinking what they were able stomach well enough before
they were to ride out once more. Aragorn and Legolas both faced the
meal with little conversation, though the elf seemed more willing
to partake in banter with the surrounding crowd than the man.
Gandalf laid upon Aragorn a sharp eye at one point, but he said
nothing and the ranger offered no words of his own. The wizard had
noticed his new injury, and Aragorn absently lifted a hand to touch
the split flesh before he returned to his meal. He did little more
than stir the food on his plate into something less recognisable,
the taut feeling that plagued his midsection was unyielding, and it
ruined his appetite. He glanced over in Legolas's direction, but it
appeared the elf was not having the same ill fortune as he in
partaking of the meal catered them. He grumbled in frustration, or
envy, he did not know, and returned his eyes to the plate before
him as he resumed stabbing at the food, quite a bit more heavily
than before.

Upon finishing, Théoden wished to impart to each of them
a gift, in thanks for their presence and their aid. Gandalf spoke
of his growing bond with the great stallion Shadowfax, and the king
gladly granted the wizard the greatest horse in his kingdom. For
the rest of them he offered the choice of anything that lay within
the armoury. They finally came arrayed in the raiment of the
Rohirrim, though Gimli had no need for mail, as none could match
what already covered him, made in the depths of the mountains by
his own people. At the gate, the dwarf made reparations with the
king's sister-son Éomer before the host of a thousand strong
men set off into the distance, leaving Éowyn,
sister-daughter of Théoden standing alone in sparkling
armour and in charge of a still, empty hall.

The sun began to fail as they rode deeper into the plain,
falling slowly behind the hill and setting ablaze the gold fields
that lay before them. Night crept closer, chasing the burnished
pinks and blues finally from the sky and carrying on its tail a
host of stars that sparkled lightly above them. The men could oft
hear Legolas singing as he travelled along with the head of the
company, and they rode for long hours before finally making camp in
the wake of deepening darkness. They were not but halfway to their
destination, and the wind was too warm for the time of year, a
foreboding of what force rode strongly behind them, somewhere they
could not yet see. They lit no fires in their uncertainty, and kept
a strong watch.

It was not long after the ranks broke and many of the Rohan
riders had set up simple white tents in tidy rows that Legolas
found himself faced with the rather unsightly wrath of the dwarf.
Gimli had come to him with a sour expression and an attempt at
intimidating stature just as the last light was finally slipping
away behind the swarm of distant mountains. "A fine hit," the dwarf
said, his voice low but rumbling nonetheless. "Now, laddie, the
point of concern is, what do you intend to do about it?"

Though behind his friend's apparent anger he could see a driving
force of great concern, Legolas was faintly surprised at the
softness of the dwarf's words given Gimli's contradictory
appearance. His brow creased lightly as he observed his short
friend, but he did not offer explanation: whether or not it was
needed, he was not sure.

"Nay, I know not what happened," Gimli said preemptively,
answering the question that was brimming in the elf's eyes and made
clear by his silent voice. "But," he added with a strange gleam in
his expression, "I know quite enough. An' if you two don't settle
it, this row o' yourn, I'm going to hav' ta do it for ya." He
offered a smile, at the same time both impish and sad, as he
clapped Legolas heavily on the arm. Without another word to
Legolas, he turns on his heel and walked away, muttering something
about youngsters and idiocy.

The elf did not watch him leave, but crossed his arms where he
stood and looked up to the sky. He absently rubbed a hand over the
lower ribs on his left side. Aragorn might have walked away before
it began, but then, so might he have done the same. The hand
touching his ribs moved over his stomach and flattened there; it
was almost as if he could feel the knot within his gut as a
physical thing and it quivered at the memory of his injury's
circumstances. His eyes shot daggers into the darkness, as if there
he could find the cause of all this and slay it once and for all.
It must lay out there, somewhere, the same thing that heated the
wind and drove their enemies forth. It was the same will that
preoccupied his mind and altered his senses. Yet at the same time
he wished to destroy it, he dared not consider giving up this
feeling though he might try to disconnect himself from it. The warm
breeze wandered over his face and he flushed at the remembrance of
Aragorn's hair tracing the contours of his cheeks. Valar deliver
him, he thought as he closed his eyes -- these were strange fates,
and he dared not allow them to become any stranger.

Aragorn had been purposeful in his choice of place to settle for
the night. He sat on the edge of the encampment, not separate but
none to close, either, to the rows of tents behind him that were
now the only things to stand out past a few feet. His gaze was
directed westward along the peaks of the White Mountains that now
were invisible to him, his arms draped loosely around bent knees.
They should reach their destination sometime late on the morrow,
and he expected they would have little leeway between their arrival
and the coming of what forces drew closer from the darkness to the
northwest, or the storm laden sky that growled silently in the
east. Grinding his teeth lightly, the man cast his gaze downward
and pressed one thumb heavily into the palm of the opposite hand.
The night felt as a heavy blanket over the eyes despite the stars
that broke though the black shield stretching overhead. He was glad
for it, whatever else he thought, as he wanted to be alone, and it
would make him more difficult to find among the small army behind
him. Certainly, save by pure chance, Gimli would never come across
him; though the dwarf might boast the sight of a hawk, in truth his
short friend often mistook shapes in broad daylight, and missed
some things altogether. It was probably something to so with the
idea of dwelling beneath the ground, but Aragorn could not say for
sure.

The wind had grown stronger and came often in short bursts that
tore at clothing and felt harsh against the skin. It was one of
these gusts that Aragorn felt against his face that reminded him of
his encounter with Legolas earlier that day. The air brushed over
the cut on his cheek, and he lifted a hand to bring his fingers to
the near fresh wound, his eyes thoughtful behind closed lids. When
he made contact with warm skin that was not his, the man's eyes
flashed open again and he froze. He felt fingers beneath his --
what he had felt was not the wind after all but someone's hand
tracing the small gash below his eye. He moved his head back to
break the contact as his eyes sought the source of the fingers that
lightly closed around his.

"Your words come back to haunt you," came a soft voice, melodic
even in its subdued tones, and Aragorn quickly focused on Legolas.
It seemed the elf had purposely approached him without a sound,
like a ghost, and Aragorn could not help but exhale small breath of
a laugh before his throat tightened and he furrowed his brow, his
expression becoming strained. Legolas lowered the ranger's hand and
released it, placing it on the man's knee before letting his own
arm rest on his leg where he stooped next to his friend. "I am
sorry for the injury," the elf said quietly, his eyes intently
searching the ranger's face for a long moment, lingering at last on
the cut before slipping back up to the stormy grey eyes.

Aragorn swallowed, and managed a simple "Hmph." The corners of
his mouth twitched shallowly in the direction of a grimace, but a
moment later his face was once again masked. "I concede I did aught
to earn it," he added slowly, a long time later, and not without
letting his eyes rove to the elf's side. "And here I believe I
might offer the same words of apology, but to your ribs instead."
He lifted his chin along the same path as his eyes.

The elf laughed softly, though where it should be a musical
sound it seemed strained, and shook his head. "My side pains me no
longer, whatever damage was done is healed, or nearly so," he
countered. His expression was pensive, but retained the traces of
that distant smile.

"I might offer more, but you should not forget you began it,"
Aragorn added with a gesture of his hand, giving Legolas a sidelong
glance from beneath unruly hair and then looking back out into the
night uneasily. He allowed the heel of one boot to dig into the
soft earth.

"Are you claiming I fight dirty?" The elf asked ineloquently,
attempting a sound of mock offence as he watched the earth gather
in a small, semi-circular pile around the ranger's foot.

Aragorn did naught but shake his head before letting the silence
stretch itself near to the breaking point, even the sounds of the
wild seeming to pause. "You fight well," came his clumsy reply at
last, but he did nothing to elaborate and there was no answer from
the other in the dark. For a long time, in fact, there was nothing,
and the sounds of the night slowly began to return. Aragorn did not
allow himself to look up, thinking at last his friend must have
left him in the same silence with which he had arrived. He heard
not even the breath that had just been falling so closely he could
feel it against his cheek if he tried hard enough. His shoulders
sagged under an invisible weight, but as he drew a ragged breath he
felt the tips of two fingers trace again over the ruined trail of
dried blood on his cheekbone, before the sound of footsteps
retreated into the night.

Tangling both hands into his hair, Aragorn stared at the ground
beneath him for a long time, not truly seeing it in the dark, but
knowing it was there, nonetheless. Knowing he would not suddenly
disappear into some void below or find himself unable to stand. It
was constant, and in this way somehow comforting. No matter the
outcome, it would still be here in some form or another, and while
this aided not the rifts that were ever shifting in his soul, it
served to calm him in light of the uncertainties, of the things on
which he could not depend nor set his heart. Friendship, love -- it
made him sick to his stomach to think of losing those dearest to
him. And as the first face that entered his mind was that of the
elf that had just left his side, he squeezed his eyes shut and
fisted his fingers around large tresses of hair, but the small
pains did nothing to clear his mind. Others he saw, too, amongst
them being Gandalf, Gimli, the hobbits, and of course Arwen.

Arwen. Surely it was this tainted land that did not bring her to
the forefront of his mind, and instead sought to stir within him
the unknown, delving into his most hidden places and drawing out
whatever fear lay within them and feeding readily on each one. It
was this that caused his mind to wander and his eyes as well. It
must be this. His breath hitched, and it was a long time before he
looked up. When he at last lifted his gaze, the dawn had begun to
paint the landscape with an angry hand, seeming to engulf the peaks
of the mountains in the distance in red flame. His eyes immediately
followed the path Legolas had taken upon leaving him last night,
but he did not see anyone but the few alert Rohirrim. He did not
know, either, what he expected to see, but he did not have time to
dwell upon it, for the horns sounded and the camp came to life.
Within an hour they were again on the move, riding on through the
fiery dawn towards Helm's Deep.



Title:  The Breaking - Chapter 5/?
        Author:  Keil
Author's Email:  keiltagh (at) comcast (dot) net
       Pairing:  Aragorn/Legolas (brief implied Aragorn/Arwen)
        Rating:  Currently PG13, will increase
       Summary:  Strange forces are at work against the remaining
                 members of the Fellowship, but none feel it more
                 than Legolas or Aragorn.
    Disclaimer:  Characters and the world of Arda copyright Tolkien
                 and all that, no money being made, utmost respect
                 for his works.
  Authors Note:  In this chapter, because it fits so well and
                 doesn't exactly throw off book canon (and I
                 couldn't resist), I am borrowing a scene from the
                 movieverse (rewriting only a mention of its
                 occurrence and some actions taken, but imagining
                 something like it happened).
  
---------------------
    The Breaking
---------------------

Chapter 5 

Onward they rode, the sun circling all too quickly overhead. A
rider from the scattered Westfold's forces had come out to meet
them with news of the remaining warriors. It was near this same
time that Gandalf had taken leave for, in his words, a swift
errand, though the Rohirrim held little store that he would return
to their aid. Shadowfax carried the white wizard like pale silver
on the wind out of sight and into the darkness, and the party rode
ever deeper into the claws of the northernmost White Mountains
without him. As the wavering veil of night began to draw across
them from the east, their path turned abruptly southward. In the
last misty blue shimmering of the evening, the great bulk of the
Thrihyrne towered above them, its silhouette as dark its bottomless
promise of safety beyond. Helm's Deep was within their reach, and
they went now to the aid of whatever people awaited them within its
walls.

News had come of wolf riders loose in the surrounding valleys,
but their need drove them onward. Of Orcs, too, they heard, but any
bands they came across swiftly scattered and departed, leaving the
members of the company chasing shadows. Up and up the trail finally
carried them, and though the air was still warm it did not hold the
same vague oppression of the valley wind; the riders seemed to
exhale a long held breath at once. Behind them in the canyons and
slopes they had not long left, they could see torches, small flames
flickering in the distance that melted into larger, leaping fires
that tore through the darkness. The enemy was behind them, and they
were burning and despoiling everything in their path as they
marched determinedly on in the wake of the men of Rohan.

At last they reached the Hornburg, dismounting and sending their
horses far into the heights of the Deep before beginning to ready
what forces were available. They had perhaps a thousand men ready
to fight, but many of these had seen too many years, or were young
sons in the company of their fathers. Éomer did not hold
much confidence in the timely arrival of Erkenbrand and the
Westfold's remaining Rohirrim, at least those that were not the
women and children already present in the safety of the caves. In
time they drew all their men inside the Deep. Most were given
orders to ready themselves upon the Deeping Wall, while the king
and the men of his household took shelter in the Hornburg. The
steady groaning of the mountain grew beneath the constant paces of
the enemy, a small roaring that became ever more insistent as the
seconds passed. They had little time before the stronghold would
find itself under siege, and the men already prepared watched the
distant red orange fires with the same anticipation a moth showed a
flame.

Their company once again down by one, the three hunters loosed
their horses with the guard that had been spared to keep them safe,
and their mounts disappeared into the heights of the stronghold to
join the others. While they were already arrayed well enough with
weaponry and mail, it was with a desire to take stock of the
situation that they descended into the Hornburg's armoury. Upon
arriving, Gimli apparently decided it was best to let Aragorn do
whatever it was he wished to accomplish on his own, and he found a
tall wooden chair in which he was happy to prop himself. Here he
rested whilst the ranger and elf eyed the available stock of
weapons and armour, watching it disappear steadily into the throng
of men that came to claim what they could.

It was when they realised how small their numbers stood compared
to the sea of flame and steel that steadily approached the Deep
that Legolas expressed his concern. The elf was sure it would be
naught but a slaughter, and he pointed out the fear dancing in
every man's eyes and as well that the able bodied were not all, in
fact, entirely able. Aragorn responded with ferocity, taking a few
steps in Legolas's direction and meeting his eye with a gaze carved
with dagger; if death was their fate, he would fall by their sides,
as one of them. Gimli was forced to hold the elf back as the ranger
turned on his heel, leaving his belongings behind in his eagerness
to remove himself from any company. He wanted solitude, yet at the
same time he found himself desiring not to have to think. Certainly
the forces they had mustered here at the Hornburg were not enough
to defeat the hordes that had emptied from Isengard and stood upon
their doorstep. But this was not worth considering. They must
fight, and fight they would, with hope at least of holding off the
enemy and inflicting as much damage upon their masses as possible.
There may be no glory ahead, but he was determined also that there
would be no regret.

Aragorn stepped swiftly down a set of steps that branched off
the hall, not too far from the rooms from when he'd come. His steps
echoed harshly in his ears as he turned the corner at the bottom of
the stairs. finding himself in a small corridor lined with windows.
The pitch of night hung heavily outside, so coarse it lent no light
to the hallway and left the torch fires uncontested and burning
slowly. The ranger stepped up toward the stone sill of one archway
and placed his palms flat on its cool surface, letting his weight
shift forward to lean on his hands. He stared into the deep sky in
hopes of catching a glimpse of some twinkling star or facet of
moon, no matter how faint. But the heavens remained hidden from the
word behind a sea of black bellied cloud. A sharp sigh escaped
through his nose and he closed his eyes, letting his head fall
forward while he breathed slowly. He wished to calm his nerves. The
night air was thick and warm and did little to clear his head. It
began to feel as though the more he breathed it in, the heavier his
chest became. With a small, frustrated growl he pulled back from
the window and, without turning, took a few backward steps.

The air was no different, but he inhaled deeply again, eyes
unfocusing to some point outside beneath the cover of night. He had
not been standing there long when he felt a hand on his shoulder
and a subdued voice reached his ears.

"Aragorn."

His anger not yet spent, indeed now flashing like an oil fire,
the man spun without hesitation. He knew to whom the voice
belonged, but it was as if the single word spoken by the elf gave
cause to further incense him. He struck out as the figure behind
him in a move that was not intended to harm, but that forced
Legolas back up against the wall next to the steps. Aragorn held
his forearm across his friend's chest, his elbow digging into the
soft flesh at the inside of the elf's left arm and his hand
grasping the opposite shoulder tightly to hold that arm in place.
His eyes were raging clouds, and they unleashed such a fury in
their gaze as to nearly cause Legolas to forget just who was there,
pinning him to the wall. The elf offered no struggle, only held up
his left hand placatingly and lifted his head back just far enough
that he could feel his hair brush against the rough granite behind
him. This did not leave much room between himself and the furour of the
man only inches away. Legolas nearly closed his eyes at the
familiarity of the warm breath he now felt against his cheek, but
he forced them to remain open and in even contact with the silver
blue pair looming so closely. He felt his throat hitch as he tried
to swallow, but he was able to say one word in a clear, soft voice.
"Estel."

At this, the ranger's lashes fluttered over his eyes when he
blinked rapidly, as if he were unexpectedly returning from
somewhere not at all similar to where he now found himself. His
eyes became taut and a distant wind seemed to blow the raging storm
away, leaving behind only a cool, uncertain ocean that now searched
Legolas's face. He did not ease the pressure with which he held his
friend against the wall, but he did drop his eyes in an effort to
take in the situation. His brow furrowed as if he were surprised to
find himself standing as he was, bearing much of his weight on the
arm laid across the elf's chest. With a ragged breath, he tilted
his head upward, expression becoming drawn as he did so. When at
last he met Legolas's gaze once more, the calm ocean in his eyes
had once again become tumultuous; they no longer held anger, but a
strange comprehension and the beginnings of a tide of anguish that
threatened to overthrow them. Slowly, his fingers relaxed their
grip and he transferred some of his weight off his arm. Though
instead of easily leaning back, he stepped in closer to Legolas to
allow his legs to bear the burden of his weight.

The elf shifted only a fraction, acutely aware of his proximity
to Aragorn but wanting to quiet the aches the rock pressed into his
shoulders. He made no other move just yet, every sense attuned to
the soft rush of air between them, the coalescing of fabrics that
clung to their bodies and the heat he could feel coming off the
ranger's skin. As he returned the man's searching look, his mouth
pulled into a soft grimace. His friend's head fell forward
slightly, and quietly, Legolas allowed his own head to drop until
his forehead met Aragorn's. The man did not flinch, and he could
not help but smile to himself. They stood like this for some time
before the man allowed his eyes to slip closed. Legolas watched him
with an expression worn with confusion and concern, but he waited,
unmoving, and let his friend collect himself. It was all the elf
could do to keep his breathing at some level of normalcy, or to
lift a hand to the troubled cheek before him. The knot in his
stomach felt suddenly as a beast that threatened to claw its way up
and out through his throat, trapped there as be was between the
wall and Aragorn's body, but he set his jaw harshly to quell the
feeling.

At length, grey blue eyes slipped open, this time tinted with a
grave determination, and Aragorn let his arm fall away from his
friend. It ceased its journey halfway to his side, then, and his
hand came up once more. Reaching with a battle weathered hand
toward the pale skin of the elf's face, the ranger swallowed
thickly and inclined his chin. Their mingled breath traced warm
shapes over lips with barely a trace left of the night air between
them.

"Aragorn..."

One lip brushed faintly against another. "Legolas, I must--" the
man said as he heard his name fade into the shadows surrounding
them. But before his fingers could connect with anything, a hand
grasped him around the wrist. Aragorn's brow quirked downward, but
the firm grip was released and there came to rest a finger pressed
against his lips.

"Forgive me," was all the elf said, pulling away enough so that
he might now raise the arm that was now freed and holding Aragorn's
belt and sheathed sword. He dropped his other hand from the man's
face and lifted a collection of leather and metal with both hands
in offering, his mouth upturning in a smile.

Aragorn inhaled a sharper breath than he'd intended as he felt
the slight pressure against his lips disappear. He tore his eyes
away to look down at what Legolas held for him. He was not entirely
certain of the subject of Legolas's apology -- though perhaps it
was more than one thing. He felt as if he needed a long drink to
sooth the parched ache that sprang up so suddenly within his
throat, but he nodded in thanks and reached out to take what was
offered him. Not immediately trusting himself to speak, Aragorn let
his fingers run over the scabbard and then grasped the sword and
belt both. With a sudden, but slowly executed step backward, the
man finally locked eyes once again with the elf prince.

"Ú-moe edaved, Legolas." The elf's past words were
deliberately returned to him, and his ears rang with their distant
echo. Aragorn did not look away, and he lifted his hand to grip his
friend warmly on the shoulder. Flexing his hand softly for a
moment, he reached up to brush the elf's cheek with his fingertips.
"Too often of late have we been seeking to render some apology
between us."

Before Legolas had the chance to respond, the sound of horns
slicing though the walls of the keep reached their ears,
reverberating off rock and stone and gliding down hall and stair to
shatter the stillness. It was the final call to gather the
Rohirrim. Battle was nigh, and it was but a final, lingering glance
the two gave each other before taking off up the steps. Once they
reached Gimli, Aragorn set off to join Éomer, leaving the
elf and dwarf together to attend the forces gathered on the Deeping
Wall. As they parted in the crowd, Legolas felt a hand on his arm
for the briefest of moments, and then the ranger was gone.

"Well, come on, laddie, yer not goin' soft on me now, are yeh?"
Gimli growled as he jabbed Legolas lightly in the side. The elf
started, turning with a drawn brow toward the dwarf, but he nodded
and wasted no more time. He and Gimli took to the hall, setting out
to fill their places and await the forces of Isengard.

...

The battle was hard fought. Time after time the men had nearly
lost the wall to the never ending flood of Orcs and Uruk-hai and
the men of Dunland, such was Isengard's endless well of dark
soldiers. At length, much of the wall had been destroyed in a blast
of granite that decimated an entire portion; the Hornburg had been
flooded with a black river of deformed creatures of battle seeping
in through every hole in rock and stone. It was with a final rally
of hope that the king and his men rode out with Aragorn in such a
charge that nothing withstood their wrath. It was the coming of
dawn that brought with it the return of Gandalf and a host of men
at his heels. The wizard had sought out Erkenbrand and his
remaining men, and they now came in a lasting charge that tore
gaping holes in the legions of the enemy, sundering them into a
madness that fled in terror toward the trees. It was from beneath
these trees that they would never emerge alive.

Théoden put forth his intent to join Gandalf on his
passage to Isengard, and chose a host of men that would attend
alongside him. But they had need of sleep and time to recover their
strength, so they returned at once to the Hornburg in search of
this respite. Gimli, who had at one heart wrenching moment in the
battle seemed lost to them, had taken a wound to the head. The
dwarf refused to allow it to slow him down, or prevent him from
joining the journey ahead. His helm was nearly split, taking the
worst of the blow, but he was in need of aid if the injury were to
heal properly. Aragorn said he would tend it while the dwarf
rested, and despite the short argument, Gimli finally
acquiesced.

Aragorn clapped a hand on Gimli's shoulder, careful not to jar
him, and they turned their backs on the fields of dead. The fallen
would be tended to and buried by those who were not under swift
need for other duties. A small messenger party rode with happy
haste past Legolas and his companions, and at once, in their wake of
victory, it became easier to remember there would be a time for
mourning, but it was not now. With lighter steps helped aloft by
happy, if tired, hearts, the three made their way back to the
Hornburg, carefully scaling or sidestepping the rubble that
remained of the Deeping Wall.

The ranger led Gimli to the bed in a small room and convinced
him to lie down. The dwarf's cap was removed but not tossed aside,
rather placed carefully onto the table against the wall. Within
moments of being relieved of this pressure, the ranger's short
friend was sleeping. With water and cloth and gentle strokes,
Aragorn cleaned the wound on Gimli's head, humming softly to
himself as he worked with care. Once the mud and blood had been
washed away, the ranger rung out the cloth one last time before
setting it side on the floor. He had already removed his belt and
its myriad decorations when they arrived, and he stepped now to the
table. He pulled the thin leather strings of one pouch, reaching
inside to remove a clump of greyish green. Tugging some leaves from
the plant in his hands, he chewed them slowly as he replaced the
remainder back into the pouch. Turning back to Gimli, Aragorn
removed the pulp of leaves from his mouth and placed them onto the
wound. The dwarf stirred, but did not wake, and at last the man
wrapped a second cloth over the mashed leaves to keep them in
place, and to prevent them drying out. His friend should be in fine
shape once he woke.

Legolas had remained in the hall when they'd arrived at this
room and set himself to pacing quietly and unhurriedly outside the
open door. After some time, the sound of snoring reached him, and
he paused, bow still in one hand, and stepped to the threshold.
"How is he?" the elf asked, looking to the bed where Gimli's broad
chest rose and fell seemingly without worry.

"Exhausted," Aragorn said, slowly wiping his hands on another
towel and letting that drop onto the table, his eyes on Legolas the
entire time. "But with rest he will heal quickly, enough even to be
quite himself once he wakes later. His stubbornness is no surprise
to me," the ranger added, taking a few steps in the elf's
direction.

"I am glad." With a slight smile, Legolas looked from the prone
figure of the dwarf and toward the man in front of him as he lifted
his bow and stored it over his shoulder. He surveyed Aragorn with
cool eyes, but the corners of his mouth remained slightly upturned.
When the ranger made no move, the elf took a step back, leaving
enough room for someone to pass by him. Aragorn's eye was caught by
a motion of the elf's arm as Legolas gestured with a hand outside
the room. The message received, Aragorn lifted his chin in
acknowledgement and brushed past his friend, pulling the door
closed behind him. His throat felt tight, and he lifted a hand to
the fabric around his neck to give it a frustrated tug. Legolas was
already striding ahead of him, and the man followed. His friend did
not go far, as the elf merely wished to allow some breathing room
should Gimli wake.

They both came to a halt after they had passed only a few empty
rooms, and Aragorn was surprised to find hands on either sides of
his shoulders pushing him back against the wall without warning.
The action was not rough, despite the pressure he felt from
Legolas's hands, and thought this a taste of his own medicine, to
which it would be foolish to object. The only thing the
ranger offered the eyes now staring intently into his was a clouded
look, one withered with exhaustion yet with something still
glinting underneath. The skin at the corners of his own eyes
crinkled faintly.

Legolas leaned in close, the trace of any smile now completely
wiped from his expression as he carefully searched Aragorn's face.
The silence weighed over them as real as heavy winter cloaks, and
it was almost to the point the ranger could no longer stand it when
finally the elf spoke. "You take foolish risks, Estel." There was a
hardness behind the penetrating blue stare that Aragorn could not
place, but he could not deny the words rubbed him the wrong
way.

"I did naught but what was necessary to defend--" the ranger
began heatedly, his head moving tersely with his words, but he was
cut off by the force of his shoulders being pressed flat into the
layered stone behind him.

"No," came the short reply as Legolas moved in even closer, his
knee brushing against the man's, though he made no move to displace
it. "I speak not of risking body and life in war or battle," the
elf continued with a heavy breath, and Aragorn's muscles tensed
involuntarily. Legolas's eyes tightened somewhat, and he corrected
himself without explanation. His gaze softened. "Nay, not
entirely." His grip relaxed enough to allow the ranger's shoulders
to sink forward from their harsh position against the stone.

Aragorn's throat tightened and relaxed as he swallowed roughly,
his jaw twitching as if he meant to speak, but no words came. A
moment passed, and he lifted one hand to run it through his hair in
a display of frustration. His action unseated Legolas's hand from
his shoulder, but the elf did not withdraw it. Instead, he let it
drop lower and come to rest flat against the centre of Aragorn's
chest. The ranger ceased all movement for a second before allowing
his arms to drop loosely to his sides. "Legolas..." he said
cautiously, eyes flicking back and forth in their focus on the
elf's face as he sought understanding. He could feel sweat
beginning to bead upon his brow, and he blinked slowly as for a
second, the world seemed to sway. He pressed his palms back, flat
against the wall to steady himself.

"The air is hot, can you not feel it?" his friend said at
length, the sound of his voice distant, mirroring a look that
flashed briefly through the elf's eyes as he broke the man's gaze
to give a suspicious glance around them. Legolas blinked slowly as
if clearing himself from the fog of some uncertain thought and
again met Aragorn's gaze. "It seeks to seep into all of us with
some invisible malice, to twist beyond recognition whatever it
might find within its grasp." There was hardly any room left
between them, but he stepped closer, and the fingers that lay
against Aragorn's chest curled just enough to pull some fabric into
their hold, and then stilled.

Aragorn's figure slumped slightly, his head falling forward as
he sighed. His hands were still at his sides against the stone, for
he feared moving them just yet. "I can," the man said at last; the
atmosphere was thick with something none of them had yet been able
to discern, and it had not dissipated with the defeat of Saruman's
forces. His mind was reeling and his eyes tilted downward to the
slender fingers caught up int he cloth of his shirt: just above his
heart. Aragorn took a deep breath, lifting his gaze back to the
elf's face, watching the shifting paths of gold trimmed shadows the
firelight cast over his soft features. "Legolas--" he began again,
but before more words could tumble past his lips, he felt the
remaining weight recede from his shoulder and the strikingly
familiar feel of fingers against his mouth.

"It sets the mind to a fever," the elf said, his expression
becoming grave and his eyes unmoving as he regarded Aragorn. "And
seeks to entangle one's thoughts until it becomes unclear which
come from the heart, and which arrive from some place unknown and
ignoble." Legolas fell silent for a moment, his eyes becoming
hooded. He dropped a hand back to Aragorn's shoulder, leaving the
man's mouth unhindered. When again he spoke, his voice was muted
and his eyes remained downcast, staring at the fibre he held
tightly in his other hand. "It wishes to make us forget ourselves,
at times..." Legolas remembered well enough his friend's
unanticipated reaction to his initially friendly ambush in the
guest halls of Edoras. While the elf had not felt compelled to
antagonise the man further, neither had he been willing to allow
Aragorn to enforce such an upper hand while he merely walked
away.

The ranger licked his lips and let his upper body rest more
heavily against the wall. His friend was right; he had been
forgetting himself more often of late, and coming to blows with
Legolas had so far been the most obvious consequence. And the way
he had turned on him just before the battle had begun. His brow
furrowed deeply as his eyes ceased flicking back and forth in the
only evidence of any internal conflict. "And you mellon nîn,
do you find yourself so troubled?" His gaze steadied itself on the
face of his fair friend, and one hand left its supportive place on
the stone behind him to be placed on the elf's shoulder.

Legolas shook his head, his attention refocusing at the offered
contact. "I feel it strongly, around us all, but it is not my heart
that causes me worry." At this, his blue eyes locked with the grey
across from him, and he lifted his chin.

"Not your heart," Aragorn repeated slowly, his voice strained
and low in his throat. His face flushed with a suddenness that
caught him well off guard, and he broke eye contact with the elf to
turn his head aside. He found himself locking his jaw in an attempt
to bite back something to which he was not quite able to give a
name but that made him feel as if he'd been hit hard in the gut.
Absently, the ranger lifted his other hand off the wall and laid it
across his stomach, brushing against the elf's wrist where his
friend still clutched his over shirt. The feeling caused his throat
to constrict and drew his concentration back to Legolas. "Ú
hûn lîn, sennui nîn," Aragorn said, the tone of
his voice regaining a warm composure. The firelight flickered
mutedly off a background of grey, distant flashes of lightning in a
motionless rain storm.

Legolas proffered a subdued smile, and at last let his fingers
loose on the fabric as he dropped both hands to his side. Aragorn
started faintly at the loss of contact, but allowed himself to do
nothing more. "I do not question that you remember who awaits you
at journey's end," was all the elf said before he stepped back from
the ranger, his boots soundless over the flagstone.

Aragorn could not help but believe the elf could at that moment
see straight through him, piercing clothes and flesh and staring
sharp eyes at the heart that now pounded so strongly within his
breast; it kept tempo with the breaths that came and went so
rapidly. Of course he had not forgotten, never lost the knowledge
of the sacrifice so freely offered him, nestled quietly away in its
own recess within his chest. Even in his brief visitation to this
memory of Arwen he knew it could not fade, no matter what influence
sought to twist or remove it completely from the depths of his
soul. But elsewhere within him, there was a turbulence growing ever
less intense in its uncertainty, and ever more ardent in its
insistent presence. It was this, too, that Legolas saw, and he was
sure now it was one aspect of the elf's concern. He nodded, his
shoulders falling with a heavy sigh beneath the weight of his
burgeoning mistrust in himself. Yet he knew not why Legolas should
be so worried about this; certainly, despite the existence of
feelings of which he was growing well enough aware, the
acknowledgement of possible causes should remain prominent enough
in his mine to prevent any more uncouth reactions. Unless --
Aragorn's eyes lifted with immediacy and he pinned the elf under a
steady gaze. What exactly was the elf saying?

"Legolas, is there something --" The ranger's question was cut
off as promptly as it had begun, severed, but not before the
meaning had sprung deftly to hang in the air like a shield between
them. Aragorn could feel the air change as the elf took another
step backward and placed a palm on the handle of the knife in his
belt.

"The sound of snoring has ceased. I think Gimli must be awake,"
the elf said, lifting the other hand in a way that brooked no
argument as he turned his head in the direction of the dwarf's
room. "Someone should go to him before he rouses himself and causes
further injury." His pale face still held a smile, but it was not
reflected anywhere in the depths of blue above that Aragorn could
see. The man half opened his mouth to speak, but the look on the
elf's face made him think better of it. He settled for a nod,
ignoring the sharp twinge beneath his ribs. Again, he conceded his
friend was right; he must be more attentive and careful in
discerning what was real and what was not. This was but a figment,
some ethereal wand