To Resist both Wind and Tide

Chapter Three: Diverted and Divided

"Aragorn! Ai, where is it? Where? Awake, Kâlro!"

"What?" Aragorn came to cognisance with a rude start, shoving hard against whatever was responsible for persistently jostling his shoulder. A low hiss followed this and he sat upright, peering into the darkness of the close space, disoriented by the smell of turned earth and green leaves around him. Why was he in this trench? Pressed against the side of the ditch a figure crouched and a wan face lifted so that impatient and weary eyes could chastise him. The man recalled everything in the next second and felt horrible; he'd just pushed the wounded elf roughly in the chest. Legolas had an arm wrapped around his bandaged body and was clearly in pain. "Ai, forgive me! You startled me and…"

"No time!" Legolas groaned, scrambling to a tight crouch. "Where is my bow, mellon, where?"

"Your bow?" Aragorn's brow crinkled up as he remembered their flight from Rhovanion. "I'm sorry, but I could not carry it and you also. It lies where you dropped it."

"Dropped it?" Legolas' tone amply conveyed his outraged contempt. "No archer of Greenwood ever drops a bow! I was felled whilst saving your neck, otherwise it would be here with me now."

"Of course," he said dryly, but curtailed his exasperation over Wood Elf pride as reason asserted itself. "Why? What is happening, Legolas?"

"Quiet!" Legolas whispered, low and harsh, daring a guarded peek beneath the flap of the blanket. "Wait here and be still," he commanded and darted out into the open.

The man's brows rose, buoyed on a tide of indignant affront. That was not an order Aragorn was likely to obey, especially given the present circumstances, and when the well-known sound of his sword being drawn from its sheath reached his ears, he breathed a silent curse and roused himself. Cautiously he crawled out of the shallow hole and crept on hands and knees over the dew-damp plains, watching left and right for the sylvan, but Legolas had vanished. There could be but one cause for the elf to take his sword, but the sickly ellon couldn't possibly succeed against approaching enemies with a weapon unfamiliar, wounded and weary as he was. Besides, it was unacceptable to take another warrior's sword and leave him defenceless.

What could the foolish elf be thinking? Aragorn dearly needed to get back that blade if there was any hope for their survival, but dared not cry out for fear of alerting whatever fiends were upon them. Yet, if it was men and not orcs, the worst thing that could happen would be for Legolas to attack them. The horse lords had little love for even the idea of elves; to find one charging at them, naked, glowing, and wielding so wicked a weapon, would hardly dispel their misgivings. He hunkered down and quickly pressed his ear against the chilly, wet ground, praying to detect the steady drumming of horse hooves despite his worries, but there were no discernible vibrations at all.

This both galvanised him and raised his state of alarm, escalating his urgency to locate the elf for it must be orcs on the prowl, hunting for them. He rose to a cramped crouch to scan the darkened plain again. At first there was nothing to see; then, a fleeting shadow appeared through the murky pre-dawn light and raced forward before disappearing, concealed in the tall stalks of rippling grass. It could only be the elf, though no tell-tale glimmer marked the shadow's motion. Aragorn bent lower, slinking in awkward speed toward that spot, mentally berating the sylvan for this faulty strategy, then wondering if Legolas thought him too ill to fight, which gave his ego a slight sting even as it bespoke compassion in the Wood Elf.

But nay, it must be madness, some effect of the poison distorting the ellon's reasoning. I must to stop him and get back that sword; I've gone to too much trouble to lose the Wood Elf now.

All this crowded his thoughts as he made for the last known position of the elf. Before he'd covered more than a couple of metres he halted, for his ears at last picked up what Legolas must have heard quite some time ago: the dull thudding tramp of ungainly orcish feet jogging over the earth, just north of his position.

No more than two, but that is two too many.

His heart rate doubled and he clenched his empty fists in frustration. What could he do? Weaponless and too far from the elf, Aragorn would be unable to help. The Ranger was not of a nature to sit and await his demise in hopeless resignation. More to the point, it occurred to him the nasty creatures might have orders to capture the elf alive and haul him back to Dol Guldur. Why else would the orcs make such a difficult river crossing? If so, cowering in a hole in silence would secure Aragorn's safety and that at least explained Legolas' irrational actions. The man was even less of a nature to permit such a sacrifice, nor to salvage his life by hiding from battle, and suspected the archer would prefer death to imprisonment and torture in the Wraith's lair, and that also explained Legolas' foolhardy attempt to overpower his foes singlehanded.

Now, much past the point of utility, the man remembered the sharp elvish dagger left behind at the shallow shelter. It was not much, but a worthy weapon nonetheless and to have forgotten its existence was incomprehensible. There was no other choice but to go back. With it he could probably kill at least one of the orcs before being cut down. If I had it now mayhap it would make the difference between joint survival and a gruesome death for me. He didn't and nothing could change that. He raced for the pit, stealth discarded, determined to do whatever he must and entrust Legolas to fate and the mercy of the Powers, hoping he could handle the other orc. Aragorn could not suppress a bitter influx of overwhelming disgust at his lack of common sense on this simple trip back to Eriador. He was almost to the trench when a strange sound caught his ear and brought him up short. He turned toward it.

It was a whirring noise, like an insect hum and a low growl combined, menace in it that told of deep hatred and warned of death. It sounded just once, quick and loud, and motion followed it. A blur, rather. A shifting expanse of darkness slightly less dismal than the surrounding plain arose from the ground and seemed to hover above the grass. Then a bright, argent flash glinted in the dusky dawn, the sheen of elf-light on steel, and a fierce and wild battle cry broke free. A thin, high, sweeping whine disturbed the air and was followed by a coarse shout, a heavy thud, and a foul curse in Black Speech.

Aragorn scarcely realised he was tearing toward the conflict. A tense moment passed as an orc bellowed out the grotesque things she planned to do to the elf when she caught him, her Sindarin broken and crude, fear in her croaking words. The spectre reappeared, arising from an entirely new position behind the second orc. Aragorn slid to a halt, staring at the unearthly apparition, for he'd never witnessed anything like this in all his days. Again the scything swish of air and a burst of brilliance heralded a disgusting, grinding, tearing collision of blade and flesh, the same ponderous thump resounded as a body hit the ground, and then silence.

Aragorn gaped in confusion at the scene of the ambush, unable to detect anything clearly in the hazy half-light. He wasn't sure what had just happened. Legolas had attacked, that much was evident, but had he survived?

Impossible.

There could be no doubt the orcs were dead. If not, they would be laughing and doing unspeakable things to the body of their vanquished foe. Yet there was no sound at all and it could only mean no one had survived. Aragorn felt awful; the archer had sacrificed himself to protect him. With a heavy heart he strode to the place, steps sluggish and lumbering, soul stricken, thinking with sorrow that the humble trench that had provided them shelter in the night would now serve as the Wood Elf's grave.

Deep I shall make it that no scavengers find him. Hallowed shall it be and I will return and erect atop it a fitting memorial to this fearless Wood Elf. Lorien and Imladris shall sing him lauds and honour the memory of Legolas of Greenwood.

So lost was he in regret and mourning that he actually trod roughly on Legolas' calf before realising it. The inanimate form jerked and issued a sharp groan even as Aragorn leaped away, stumbling over the corpse of one of the orcs and toppling to the ground. He found himself peering into the archer's intriguingly expressive eyes, the predominant emotion evident that of disgruntled aggravation overlain by pain, and was overwhelmed with joy.

"You're alive!" he cried, laughing as he sat up and reached for Legolas' shoulder, giving the skin a firm pat just to reassure himself it was the truth.

"Aye," Legolas answered, too exhausted to say more. He had not stirred and at once the smile vanished from the man's face.

"That was a foolhardy thing to do," he scolded, "though brave beyond telling. Are you hurt?" Of course he was hurt, but Aragorn needed to know where and how badly. Cautiously he began inspecting the motionless figure and turned Legolas on his back. That raised a quick gasp and a desolate moan. "It is the same wound," Aragorn said sternly. "You've pulled out all the stitching."

"Aye," Legolas managed, thinking this a terribly obvious diagnosis and wondering what sort of healer's skill the man truly possessed.

"Valar, what daft notion filled your head to try such a stunt?" the man demanded, unwrapping the soaked bandaging. "I would have done better with the sword. How you wielded it is beyond my comprehension; its weight is nearly equal to yours, if not heavier."

"You'd have got one," Legolas said faintly. "The other would've got you. Couldn't permit…" At this point probing fingers found the injury and he could not suppress the sharp hiss of agony that touch elicited.

"It is bleeding freely," the man stated grimly. Carefully he gathered his patient up and trotted back to the covered hollow, laying the elf on the ground beside it. The sky was brighter now and he could see well enough to find his pack and supplies, but that success did not please him. There were no more clean bandages. Sighing, he hoped Legolas' natural resilience would defeat whatever dirt and grime clung to his cloak and ripped a length from the upper edge. From that he cut a small section, wadded it up, and pressed it hard against the wound, frowning as Legolas flinched beneath his hands and instinctively sought to get away.

"Nay, be still, mellon, and hold this against the tear." he reached for the archer's hand and placed it over the cloth. "Tightly," he urged and did not let go until he felt the pressure was sufficient to slow the flow of blood. "Good," he breathed out a relieved breath, glad Legolas was alert enough to obey, and used the rest of the cloth to bind the gash. "The fire's out, so I cannot seal the wound, and I don't think stitches will have much effect since you are too stubborn to follow a healer's advice, and it is too dark anyway." He glared reprovingly at the archer and received a brief, hurt look before Legolas turned his face away, hand resting carefully over the makeshift bandage.

"I want my clothes," Legolas murmured in plaintive tones.

"You shall have them, though what you would want them for, wet, foul, and cold as they are, I know not."

Aragorn rose and stomped not to the pile of discarded clothing but away to the scene of combat where he retrieved his sword. The sun was still not high enough to peer above Hithaeglir, but the night was finished and he could see the bodies of the orcs clearly. Each was beheaded. The head of one had detached and bounced a ways from the rest of the corpse, but the second was still partially connected to the stumpy neck and lay resting on the shoulder of its own body, an unsettling sight. Nonetheless, the strength required to achieve such mortal blows was not unknown to the man. Despite his admiration for Legolas, he shook his head and frowned; it would have been better to attack these enemies together or for him to have been the one to sally forth from the trench, given the elf's weakened condition.

Weakened condition?

The idea was not entirely a surprise, for Aragorn had been sceptical of Legolas' boast, but while he hadn't expected the promised miraculous recovery by dawn neither had he expected the elf's condition to deteriorate. All indications the previous night had led him to believe healing was possible, and he was so immured in the myth and mystique of Wood Elf tenacity he'd assumed Legolas would overcome the poison. The next realisation involved his own injury and now the man could not fail to be astonished. His shoulder ached, a dull persistent throb, no more. It merely ached when it should have been flaring in raging agony if not beginning to fester. He was not hot with fever in the least bit nor was his body heavy with fatigue. He shifted the sword to the other hand and raised his arm, amazed when barely more than a twinge accompanied a move he could not make just hours ago. His eyes travelled to the silent elf resting on the ground and he jogged back quickly, coming to his knees beside the archer.

"What did you do?" he asked quietly. "My wound is nearly healed."

"You worsened; I thought death neared," Legolas said, still refusing to look at the man.

"Well, for someone in such danger, I feel remarkably renewed," Aragorn prompted gently and reached to turn the fair face to him. "How is it possible, Legolas? And what of your boast 'healed before dawn'?"

Now the blue eyes flashed in anger. "I was healed of the poison before dawn," he retorted. "The body will follow now that the toxin is vanquished."

"I see," Aragorn nodded, unconvinced. "You will not tell me what you did to change my condition so favourably?"

"No, rude, obnoxious man."

Another slicing glare of the archer's eyes pinned Aragorn before Legolas again turned his countenance away. The man gave himself a rueful smile, thinking how like the elves to have many names for a brave and courageous man but not a one for the opposite. He frowned and debated what to do for he felt his debt to the archer greatly compounded. Something had happened in the night but he had no memory of it. Still, the sylvan was right; whatever it was, Aragorn had plainly benefited and his only response had been criticism and irritation.

That is not how I was raised to behave.

"I owe you my life three times over, Legolas," he said, "and have yet to thank you once. Please, forgive this rude, obnoxious human. My mother would be mortified to know of my lapse in courtesy and I am shamed by it. I beg you will accept my gratitude and my service." He dipped his head and pressed his palm against his heart but Legolas wasn't watching and made no response at all. That was not because he was still offended, the man found, but because he'd lapsed back into healing slumber.

That was just as well for the man felt the need to move on deeper into the land of the horse lords and further from the river. It was his hope that Legolas would remain unconscious for a time and recoup his strength. The two beheaded orcs were likely advance scouts with the rest of the troop following a few hours behind. It was too much to hope the dead demons were the sole trackers and highly possible he and the sylvan would be embroiled in another fight before nightfall. Aragorn permitted himself another moment to ponder what Legolas had been doing so close to Dol Guldur but decided his questions could wait. Their freedom was paramount.

The doughty mare stood ready, alert and vigilant, ears and nostrils testing the air for any indications of danger, eyes glancing worriedly from the motionless elf on the ground to the man beside him. She gave a low whickering snort and eyed the man, her desire to flee plain as if she'd spoken aloud. Aragorn could not but agree with her desire to be underway. Hastily he donned his cloying clothes, gathered up the elf's, collected his few belongings, stuffed it all into his pack, then piled everything on Tuilelindô's back. The sight of the elf's small pack gave him pause and with a guilty glance over his shoulder to ensure those penetrating eyes were not upon him, he eased it open and peered inside, hoping to find fresh bandaging and some way-bread.

The contents were few and included neither: a whetstone to keep his dagger sharp, an odd looking set of bone implements, a flint and striker, a few arrowheads. Something golden glinted in the bottom and Aragorn lifted out a small ring, a marriage band. It was too small to belong to Legolas and a thousand questions gathered in the man's head. He tipped it to see the inscription but there was none. Tuilelindô stamped, blew a windy remonstrance through her nostrils, and set the fine edge of her formidable incisors into Aragorn's shoulder. He grunted and winced, duly chastened, and closed up the pack, turning to gather up Legolas and heave him onto her back. Instantly he woke, a sharp hiss of pain fleeing his lungs before he could control it. Tortured eyes met the man's.

"I am truly sorry," Aragorn kept a hand on the rigid body to steady the elf, "for many things, but we must move from here. Those orcs were likely the scouts for a larger troop." A brief nod came in answer and then Legolas reposed against the mare's neck, one hand fisting her thick mane, the other disappearing beneath him to cradle the injury. Aragorn climbed up behind him and as soon as he settled the horse turned west by south, heading toward Fangorn. He clucked and clicked and cajoled and used pressure from his knees to adjust her course without effect. "Nay, we must travel further into the plains," he said aloud and then gently tapped Legolas' back. "Mellon, instruct your fine steed. We must not wander in the ancient forest now; there is no help for us there."

"Nay, I must rest; she knows this. Fangorn is safe."

"Legolas, I know you need healing sleep but that is not the place for it. What if you worsen?"

"What of it? Can you do more for me in the land of these horse-slavers? Nay, for you can do nothing."

Horse-slavers? The invective was unexpected and Aragorn wondered if perhaps the Rohirims' uneasiness with elves had a basis in truth after all. As for the rest, it stung his pride but he could not refute it. Still, Fangorn was not a place he wished to visit and would feel easier in even the crudest of human homesteads. Already the mare had brought them near enough to mark individual trees and their dark, gnarled branches. "We may be happy for the lances and swift chargers of the horse lords if those orcs were but the advance of the hunters."

"They were running in terror," Legolas countered, voice low and filled with ragged exhaustion, "and had been running long, from Rohan and not from the river. Battle they had seen and were not the scouts but straggling deserters. They were fleeing your horse-lords and were drained and weary from the chase. Otherwise, I might not have killed them so easily."

"What would the orcs of Dol Guldur be doing in Rohan?"

"Why do you think they were from Dol Guldur?" Legolas asked darkly, pausing to breathe, the gasps audible and wet, his body shuddering violently. "There is more than one black tower in the lands."

"What do you mean? Were they from Mordor?" Aragorn tried to recall what gear the vile creatures wore and gave thought to returning to the corpses to check, but instinct warned him not to waste time. To his query Legolas remained silent and the man laid a comforting hand on the trembling back, noting something the dark had hidden from him before. He drew a short breath of dismay; beneath his fingers were the faint traces of yellow and green stripes indicative of a severe lashing. It seemed obvious now what the elf had been doing so near to the Wrath's lair and the man was moved to pity.

All this time the mare had been trotting steadily toward the forest, but now she balked and came to a halt, head up, ears forward, nostrils flared. A second passed as she assessed the region ahead and then she backed and spun, leaping into a gallop that tested her riders' skill in equestrian equitation. Four hands snatched at her flying mane and legs gripped round her girth with frantic strain as the man bellowed some incoherent shout and her master groaned in misery. Away she bounded, rightly thinking her speed was the only weapon that might save them as behind came the distant noise of thundering feet and pounding hooves. Her lead was enough, though surely she was spotted, and in time the rumbling agitation diminished, but not before Aragorn looked over his shoulder and saw that Legolas was right. A small troop of horsemen, spears glinting bright, ran down a pack of orcs in rout.

At once he grinned and scowled, thinking these were men with which he would wish to ally himself, yet unable to convince the valiant steed to slow down or reverse her headlong flight. The forest loomed and Aragorn gave up, hoping instead that the horsemen had seen them and would follow. He heard Legolas murmur a few words in his peculiar variety of elvish that reduced Tuilelindô to a steady trot. Another jarring shudder worked through him and the man began to fear this could be the onset of a fresh round of seizures and vomiting. All their water was gone and Aragorn worried whether the Rohirrim would enter the forbidding woods at all. Hating to disturb his limp and trembling companion slumped against the mare's neck, he shook the bare shoulder apologetically.

"Legolas, mellon, instruct Tuilelindô to stop. We need water and food; the horse-lords will aid us," he said.

"Ai, let her be," Legolas mumbled, voice distorted in pain and drained of energy. "Trust her." More he could not manage and indeed was on the brink of oblivion, eager to topple into the silent black well. He registered the point at which the trees engulfed them and gratefully permitted unconsciousness to claim him.

Aragorn watched the gloomy landscape reaching out to capture his small party, actually cringing back and yanking on the mare's mane in a vain attempt to avoid the inevitable. The first trees were passed and he felt a keen sense of hostility beamed their way, a tension in the stagnant air that raised the hairs on his arms and neck much as the energy of an approaching storm would do. They were trespassers in the ancient forest and he could only hope the presence of an elf would shield them from the dangers rumoured to lurk under the massive, dark, and twisted trees.

TBC


The title is taken from "What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide." which is from from Shakespeare's Henry VI, part 3, Act IV, Scene III

Some Important Dates to Keep in Mind:
taken from Encyclopaedia of Arda (http://www.glyphweb.com/ARDA/)

2930

Birth of Denethor in Minas Tirith, later to become Steward Denethor II.

2931


1 March Birth of Aragorn II Elessar.

2941

Expulsion of the Necromancer from Dol Guldur by the White Council.

October The Battle of Five Armies.

2948

Birth of Théoden, later King of Rohan.


2951

The Nazgûl are sent to reclaim Dol Guldur.

2953

Death of Steward Turgon. He is succeeded by his son, Ecthelion II.

Death of King Fengel of Rohan. He is succeeded by his son Thengel.

2957


Aragorn enters the service of Thengel of Rohan, under the alias of Thorongil.

2980

Death of King Thengel of Rohan. He is succeeded by his son Théoden.

'Thorongil' (Aragorn) leaves the service of Gondor and travels into the east.