Feud

Title: Feud
Author: Nárcolindë, robey61@yahoo.com
Pairing: Legolas/Elrond
Rating: NC17 overall
Warnings: AU, OOC
Disclaimer: Characters, events and locations recognizable from the works of JRR Tolkien are the property of his estate. This story is intended for enjoyment, not profit.

Thanks: First to all the loyal readers who enjoy this story, most especially reviewers! Second, to my beta Sarah, whose attention and insight are invaluable.

A/N: I am sorry, I tried to pare this down but was unsuccessful, so it is split in two parts.

Chapter 32: Gwaedh O Gwend Uireb [Bond of Eternal Friendship]
Part One

The bonfire greedily gulped the close, oppressive air and malingered hungrily over the taste of the aromatic branches buttressed against the lethal darkness and danger of the Greenwood's nocturnal predators. Stretching avidly towards the boundaries established for their short life, the flames tentatively touched the dry ground beyond these limits, tossing out bright sparks, testing the temperament of the surrounding forest floor to determine if anything there could beoureoured as fuel and utilized to advance their escape.

The small flares were bold and the living incandescence darted and weaved cleverly, attempting to steal a greater share of sustenance from the trees and thus, secure its continued growth. Nonetheless, the sources of this tempting feast remained just beyond the range of the slavering jaws of red and orange heat. Wherever the fire chased after a tumbling leaf, it found the earth noncompliant, offering little more than crumbs of bark and tidbits of debris that were rapidly reduced to harmless ash, and so it could not advance beyond the carefully constructed barricade established before ever it burst into being.

The Wood Elf did not trust these flaming tongues, speaking their cheerfully crackling chatter and laughing in short loud pops, blowing soft sighs in blue jets, offering warm comfort and hot food while plotting to charge a heavy fine for the use of their potent energy and orarorary docility. Legolas could not sit with ease and parley with such an inconstant and poorly controlled confederate, and wished he was in an area where the trees bore lofty flets. Then even his guests could ascend to safer rest so the fire would not be needed.

The three companions sat near the blaze in silence, the mortal and the wizard devouring their watery grouse stew while Legolas watched. The Man had offered to share the meagre repast, and he had declined as graciously as possible. Then Aragorn had searched his pack, disclosing a packet of lembas, and handed this to the elf. Legolas took it with thanks but only ate one piece, more curious than before. When he attempted to return the remainder, the mortal had insisted it be kept for future needs.

{Who is this human with such close ties to elf-kind that he carries waybread, and what elves granted so great a privilege to an echil [human]?} Legolas wondered as he tucked the packet away in his quiver. When he returned his eyes to the human, he found Aragorn studying him.

"You are a Ranger, yet I believed the Rangers lived to the north and west of the Misty Mountains," he said to the Man.

"That is true."

"I have not heard of any elves in that region."

"Nor have I." Aragorn took up his pipe again and with exaggerated care filled and lit it, suppressing a smile as the slightest of sighs escaped from the exasperated Wood Elf.

"Then how did you come by elvish clothing, elf raised horses, and that sword was not forged in any human foundry either."

"I got them from elves, of course!" the Man said in tones clearly indicating surprise at Legolas' failure to comprehend the obvious. Truthfully, he was uncertain if it would be wise to admit his connection to Imladris, given the hurt that had come to Legolas from that Realm. He had no wish to return the elf to his previous state of turmoil and wished he had thought to confer with the wizard about this before waking the archer.

"Elves do not trade such goods with humans, to my knowledge." These words from the woodland warrior followed his much more audible sigh of irritation.

"No?"

"No!"

"Then perhaps they were gifts."

"Exactly, but what elves would give such gifts to a human, making him like to one of their own?"

"Why is it important to you? Are you saying humans are not deserving of such gifts?"

"I spoke not those words! Forgive me, I can see you do not wish to discuss it; I did not know it would be a sensitive topic!" Legolas said and removed his gaze to Mithrandir. The Maia had settled back with his head resting on his pack, pointed hat pulled down so that his face was almost covered, and seemed to be, but was definitely not, sleeping. A fleeting glance back at the Man revealed no signs of offense, but Legolas was unwilling to attempt conversation again based on the first failure.

A loud pop grabbed their attention and Legolas startled as a bright shower of sparks erupted from an exploding sap-heavy bough of eucalyptus and dusted his shoulders, briefly inflicting smarting needles on bare skin before he brushed them away in irritation. A larger faggot, flung higher by the force, fell back through the air and settled upon his arm. With a curse he plucked it off, leaping up to create more distance between his person and the glowing embers.

Gandalf stirred to tend the unruly blaze, reordering the displaced tinder and shifting around the wayward branches, trying to tell if any green ones were still aflame in order to pull them out before the event repeated.

Legolas stood gazing at the small blister forming on his forearm and groaned aloud in dismay. His small brush with the cruel heat reminded him of the torment the humans in the woodsmen's village had endured.

"Cemendur!" he whispered and began striding back and forth, furious with himself on realizing he had completely forgotten the suffering child in his own worries. Now he could think of nothing else.

"What was that?" the wizard asked, his regard drawn back to the Wood Elf, and he did not like the heightened agitation Legolas displayed, for it was not the archer's natural state to so behave. The manic burst of activity reminded him of the behavior exhibited earlier in the day, and that had preceded the advent of the elf's overborne rout towards the brink of bleak despondency.
The Man rose and approached to see what harm was done, receiving a bewildered and suspicious look from the elf for his trouble.

"Are you burnt?" he asked, for the wild elf had stopped moving and pressed a hand against his forearm. Aragorn reached out but Legolas backed further away. "I am trained in healing," the human offered as explanation for the Elda was staring at him as though his actions were completely inexplicable.

"What good is that? He is probably dead now, too," these worrisome words were barely audible and the mortal shifted his gaze to the wizard, and both turned to their companion apprehensively. "Alas! My mistakes claim more and more souls! I will never free them all!" Legolas was growing increasingly disconsolate by the second. "Why do these others have to suffer for my faults?" he demanded and sat back down, hunching over his updrawn legs as he glowered into the fire's heart.

"What is this about, Legolas? Who is dead?" Mithrandir asked in trepidation.

"I should never have gone to the Southern Regions!" the archer exclaimed angrily. "My activity there has exacted a terrible price from the woodsmen and Tawar!" Legolas' voice rose in volume as he glared at the Istar. "Children! Innocents, Mithrandir, burned to death! I know not how many trees lost to the shaking ground!"

"How is it you are the cause of that?" the human asked, aghast.

Legolas shot him a look stricken with anguish, mistaking the Man's words for accusation.I maI made the Wraiths come out from Dol Guldur and face me. They were not pleased, for many Orcs perished and yet I was not captured. They caused the ground to tremble, and this in turn felled several trees, and that caused a fire in one of the human's cabins, and before anyone could do anything the flames spread and viciously devoured many lives, human and green." This abbreviated account tumbled swiftly from his lips, pebbles and gravel hurrying before a landslide.

"That is not your doing, Legolas! The Dark Lord has long haunted and harassed that region; for far more numerous years than your recent interests there!" the wizard stated firmly, but he c see see that the wild elf was not hearing his words.

"There were two little babes scorched in the flames, twin brothers called Carnil and Cemendur," Legolas lowered his head in misery, ignoring Gandalf's remark, if even he heard it. "The father was crushed under the collapsing roof, but the mother lived for days while the fire slowly devoured her! Carnil lasted a month in horrible agony before succumbing to his injuries. Cemendur was still living when I left the village, but he had grown worse again. He is probably dead now, too!" he repeated the muffled prediction and rocked himself dejectedly, swept up in the relentless avalanche of guilt and misery.

Aragorn stepped closer and knelt near; his heart wrenched in concert with the warrior's over this fresh sorrow heaped upon the First Born's burdened spirit. That Legolas loved these humans was openly revealed and the mortal wondered at it, for his dealings in Laketown had left an impression of vigilant allegiance between the Wood Elves and their human neighbors, but not friendship. This elf keenly experienced the loss and strife of the people in his Realm, and Aragorn knew not if the primeval atheling could shoulder the additional grief of their persecution.

The Man endeavored to summon words to refute Legolas' claim of responsibility, clearly a manifestation of his shattered soul. No one could be the cause of such events or possess the means of preventing them, nor would Legolas believe these things in a healthy state of being.

{The Maia's prayers were only a charade after all, relieving the burden of the pain but not touching the source of it, like a wound where the skin has regrown over the surface but inside the injury festers and spreads its poison through the body,} the Man thought and cautiously touched the distraught Elda's arm.

"Legolas, what Gandalf says is right! You are not responsible for the Dark Lord's actions!" he reasoned.

"What would you know of it?" the fallen prince demanded, and got up again to resume his excited exercise. "You have no idea what doom dogs all that I care for! What if my failings have become as a weapon in the Dark One's hands? What if I have turned into one of his chief agents?" Legolas' own words terrified him and his appalled astonishment was mirrored in the Man's eyes. The archer retreated, shakhis his head, not believing he had spoken these words aloud. "Ai, Elbereth! It is true!"

Aragorn rose also but did not know whether to stay or draw near. Every instinct in his being predicted that the wild elf was going to bolt, but as to preventing this his thoughts only suggested a running tackle. This he rejected, for he had no doubt that in any contest against the wary warrior he would be quickly dispatched, grief or no. He looked to Gandalf for guidance.

"There is no truth in what you speak!" the Istar turned, a meek and meagre old man no longer, shed of his humble pilgrim's demeanor, and confronted the archer. For here was Olórin in their midst, mighty agent of the Ainur. His voice filled the clearing like a wind from the Western Sea, deeply commanding, flushing away all lesser airs in its path and raising the fire up high in a brilliance of ruby flame and gold-kissed cinders. The simply worded statement rang with the majesty of the Music and echoed in overtones of the puissance of Aman so that Aragorn was overawed and stepped back.

Yet Legolas did not heed him.

The forest champion turned to flee back up into the trees where he could suffer this new revelation unobserved, desperate to find a means to stop these dire catastrophes from accosting all he held dear. Legolas worried his mere proximity to the travelers would result in their demise, rather than granting them protection from the evils in his lands. And how could he ever return to Fearfaron now, bringing this harrowing condemnation to that peaceful talan? This Legolas could not bear to imagine, for so much harm had already befallen the carpenter from his association with the archer.

"Gandalf! Stop him!" Aragorn shouted, and joined the Maia in giving chase as Legolas darted out of the camp and disappeared from view.

Legolas made it just beyond the fire's illumination and vaguely heard the shout of warning from the Man to the Istar before the vehemence of the slashing penetration gutted his soul and brought him to his knees.

He found he could not even breathe, each attempt to inhale increased the degree of extremis tenfold, it seemed, and he curled over until his forehead was nearly touching the earth and his arms squeezed vise-like around his chest. His left hand began futilely searching for the hilt of the blade piercing his heart, so desperate to pull it out, yet there was no weapon there. Panicked, Legolas unfolded his form, a grotesque blossoming of raw torment, and thrashed upon the ground clawing at his old wound, each gasping heave commuted to a gargled and shuddering groan.

"Valar!" Aragorn froze for a second, horrified at this sight. Beside him Gandalf cried out the elf's name in dismay, hurrying past the human to kneel beside the suffering warrior.

Twisting against the affliction as if being slowly dismembered, Legolas struggled against the intangible adversary. A fresh attack swept through him and his heels flailed against the earth, quickly scoring a series of grooves deeply into the indurate soil. In his frenzy to reach the center of this searing torture he broke the buckles of his quiver's harness and tore the tips of his elegant fingers in the process. A scatter of obsidian points littered the soil beneath him and the sharp report of an arrow's shaft snapping accompanied the grueling conflict.

This was not pain; that was something he understood well. Pain was a warrior's friend, warning of the body's injuries and demanding attention for hurts and ills. He knew how to control pain, how to use pain. This was unlike anything he knew; it felt like being devoured, like being eaten alive.

Legolas screamed.

The Man quickly made an about face and raced for his pack and the supply of herbs he had brought with him. Grabbing up the water skin and a blazing brand Aragorn returned, squelching his shock and thrusting the end of the sturdy branch into the ground to secure the light close at hand. In the red glow of the torch's illumination, Aragorn could see the straps of the feral elf's quiver hanging loose from around him and bright streaks of blood across his chest where he had raked through his own flesh.

Quickly and carefully Aragorn mixed a combination of ingredients, grimacing as he tried to determine the patient's body mass, difficult even under the best conditions when dealing with elves. {If only Elrond were here!} he thought, knowing the potency of the remedy might go too far and send the elf into permanent insensibility, or conversely give barely any relief at all. He glanced up to find the wizard regarding him with somber eyes.

Mithrandir was attempting to restrain the archer's pain-racked convulsions, holding Legolas' hands away from his chest. As Aragorn watched, another spasm claimed the elf, heralded by the hideous sucking in of a jaggedly wheezing breath. The attack rigorously stretched every muscle in the slender body and nearly bent him in half as his back arched up off the ground. The quiver disgorged more of its contents, fletching and lembas captured in the disarrayed locks of gold.

Bound in the deepening sorrow's deadly embrace, Legolas held his lungs' capacity as long as possible before necessity demanded exhalation. The sound rushing from him then was unlike any expression of despair or torment either Aragorn or Gandalf had ever heard, for the process of grieving death had not been witnessed by any but the First Born.

"Do whatever you can, Aragorn, and soon, please!" the Istar entreated.

The Man gave a resolute nod and drew closer, lifting Legolas' head from its unnatural angle of repose and raising the medication to his lips. The consummate terror in the elf's eyes as they connected with his nearly caused Aragorn to drop the vial, never having beheld such dread upon the features of one of the fair folk before. {This is no way for such a one to die!} he thought with anger and his determination to succeed in healing the archer was increased.

"This will ease the pain, drink!" he enjoined gently and tried to send his patient a reassuring smile. Slowly he dripped the fluid into Legolas' mouth, drop by drop between haggard draws of his diaphragm, and watched for any sign of effect within the body. Finally the last of it was administered and still Aragorn continued to support the elf's neck, maintaining eye contact whenever the Elda found strength to open his, trying to impart a sense of the compassion he felt for the suffering being. Now all the two travelers could do was wait and attempt to console Legolas through the horrific discomfort they were forced to witness.

The liquid took an hour's passing to make itself known, a minute span of time that required an eternity's domain for its transit, an eon of seconds within which the vindictive and jealous grief so closely coveted the helpless soul. Then the contortions subtly eased and the length between them increased until at last Legolas was able to take more than three gasps in the intervening calm. His body relaxed during these sessations, but overwrought from the unnatural exercise, every limb trembled in the aftermath of the draining episodes. The rending groans wrung from his exhausted lungs subsided, replaced with labored breaths that deepened and slowed as the agony retreated.

Aragorn surveyed the progress of his medication with relief; silently sending a prayer of thanks to both the Star-Kindler for hearing his unuttered prayers and histerster-father for teaching him the ways of herb-lore. He looked up to see that Gandalf's shining eyes mimicked his and they shared guarded smiles.

"It is working!" Gandalf said.

Aragorn nodded and reached over to grip the old wizard's shoulder with reassuring firmness, for which one's benefit, his or Gandalf's, he could not determine. "Stay here with him. I will go make a comfortable spot by the fireside for his rest," he said, and left them there.

The preparations consisted of no more than combining both their bedrolls into one more yielding pallet and folding a blanket into a pillow to support the invalid's head. This done, Aragorn returned and helped Gandalf lift Legolas carefully, one at his shoulders and the other his feet, but they could not help but hurt him anyway for the pain was not centered at the location of a wound that could be thus avoided.

"Daro! Avo! [Stop! Do not!]" the archer pleaded piteously. The pain had only just relented and he wished never to move again. Why must they jerk him about so? Could they not just let him die peacefully? Their hands felt like wicks of flaming lamp oil laid upon his skin. Now that he longed for oblivion, the state remained cruelly elusive and he could not escape his fate.

Continued in Part Two