Another’s Guilt
folder
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
5,269
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
5,269
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
“Wise Counsel”
Another’s Guilt by Númenora
Rating: NC-17, PG this chapter
Disclaimers and Summary: See chapter one.
Warnings: Remember, this is slash; AU, Mpreg. Un-betaed, all mistakes are mine.
A/N: The Great Plague which occurred in SA 1636-37 and the Fell Winter of T.A. 2911–2912 and the great floods came from snow and ice meltwater that followed (rushing down Gwathló and ruining the city of Tharbad; this caused the people of Enedwaith to suffer greatly as their lands were flooded), will be changed to centuries after Last Alliance (SA 3434) to explain some elements. And since this is AU, many of the particulars will also be changed such as who was affected most by them; also, I will take liberties with the lay of Middle-earth, especially the Misty Mountains; we will pretend that they don’t separate Eregion (former Elven land) from Eriador—so don’t be too concerned about that. This will be necessary to explain how Legolas managed to enter the realm of men without having to cross it.
Please re-read Chapter One’s A/N’s concerning the background of this fic, especially the life-span of the Dúnedains or Númenóreans. I apologize for the altered history lesson here and the ones up-coming in this chapter (and future ones)—sometimes these can seem more dry than entertaining, but they are necessary.
Thoughts, stressed words and Italics denoted by **
Chapter Four
“Wise Counsel”
Haldir gave some final instructions to the group of elves standing before him before he sent them off to search again. It was day six of the Prince’s disappearance and morale was truly low—especially with Thranduil’s middle son, Arminas, who was still blaming himself exclusively. Haldir and Oropher were very attentive to him and kept the young elf busy, which seemed to help during daylight hours; but as night fell, his distress increased and was heartbreaking to watch. Both elder elves feared that if Legolas was not found, Arminas would fade and King Thranduil would lose two of his ions. Haldir was determined that that would not happen—not while he still drew breath!
As Oropher approached him, Haldir noticed the weary look upon his friend’s handsome face. The normally tireless elf was exhausted—between searching for Legolas during the day and watching over Arminas as he slept fitfully during the night, he was near to collapse.
“Please rest, Mellon-nin; you can not keep to this pace you have set for yourself.” The Marchwarden pleaded.
“I will rest when Legolas is found or when I’m in Mandos’ Hall—whichever comes first,” Was his macabre response.
“If you continue this way, you will surely see Námo before you can gaze upon Greenleaf’s perfect face again.” Haldir felt near to tears as he realized the truth of this statement, so he was loath to say what had been on his mind, but thought it best to say it nonetheless. “I think that we should consider that Legolas is...” He paused at horrified look on the face of the other.
“He is not dead, Haldir—do not say that!” Oropher was panicking for this very fear was on his mind.
Calmly, the Lórien elf pulled the Prince into his arms, holding him tightly. “I was not going to say that, Penneth (young one); I was going to say that perhaps our Legolas was among the Edain. He is neither in nor near Lothlórien; nor has any fresh sign of him been found heading back towards Greenwood. The only other place he could be is with Men.” He rubbed the trembling back of the sobbing Prince as he slowly began to calm down.
“I am sorry, Gwador (Sworn Brother). I have considered this; but Legolas knows to stay clear of our once allies—Men being untrustworthy. He would not go willingly with them.” The Prince let his own words sink in, not truly believing them and liking the alternative not at all.
“He may be injured from his fall. Perhaps...perhaps he is being cared for, but is unable to tell his rescuers where he is from or who he is, even.” Haldir was grasping at straws, trying to keep his friend and himself from believing the worst which he refused to even think about.
“You are a wonder to be around; only you can make me feel better in a near hopeless situation.” As they moved to sit beneath an oak tree, Oropher began staring at it, “I wish that all this had happened closer to Greenwood; this area is so close to the realm of the Edain—these trees so young, that they know so little of us. Only the ancient oak that dwelled in the gorge where we found Legolas’ broken bow and arrows knew of the Firstborn. The others were useless—speaking of a pretty boy who slept near! They could have been talking of some mortal, for all we know.”
“It will be fine—you will see. The scouts that we sent beyond the gorge know to look for any signs that may lead to our Greenleaf; they must go slowly—to stay clear of the humans.” Haldir tucked an errant strand of golden hair behind the Crowned Prince’s ear, leaving his hand on the broad shoulder in comfort.
Green eyes clouded over in distress. “That area...Eregion and beyond in Eriador...is little more than plains and bare land; there are hardly any trees at all. The trees that are there are so young, some no more than one hundred years! Legolas loves trees...climbing them...talking to them...” He grew quiet.
“It was the Great Plague; I was just an elfling when it happened. I remember asking my father where all the trees were when we traveled to Gondor. He told me that the people of Eriador—Enedwaith and Minhiriath—also Isengard and parts of Rohan burned the trees to stop the spread of the disease; using them to burn the dead, their homes, animals. Only Fangorn was spared for fear of the Ents there. It must have worked, Ada said, for Gondor suffered very little loss of life—at least those of Númenórean descent. The other shorter-lived mortals were not so blessed.
“Gondor, with elven healers, were able to tend the sick and eventually, they began to recover; but, then a harsh winter followed that caused great flooding when the spring thaw came, bringing more devastation. Men were very slow to replenish the land which lay bare for centuries until King Argonui and his son Arador after him decreed that trees be planted and the lands between Gondor and Eriador be settled. That is why so few ancients still live; I remember crying about it for months...for years afterwards. It still saddens me, but especially now when they could be of some help in finding Legolas.” Haldir grew as quiet as Oropher.
It was the Prince’s time to comfort and he smiled at his friend, pledging that no matter what, “We will find Little Leaf—whole and hale.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lord Marach, Senior Minister of the Arts of Healing, watched Prince Aragorn; his young protégé seemed not himself and the elder healer was deeply concerned. He and his escorts had met up with the slow-moving party transporting the injured Lord Faramir last evening before dark. His concern had nothing to do with Aragorn’s care of the young Diplomat—the Prince’s skill was exemplary, his natural talent had few rivals. His apprehension lay with Prince’s state of mind and his behavior towards the Elven prisoner.
His favorite student was usually a very kind and thoughtful soul, having the best bedside manner of any healer that Marach had had the fortune to work with in his 200 years as a man of medicine. If Aragorn had not been heir to the Gondoran throne, his career—his calling—would be in medicine. The only other person with whom the Minister had worked alongside that inspired this level of admiration was Lord Elrond of Rivendell—Marach having spent time in Imladris as a very young man and again much later when relations between Gondor and the Elven Realm seemed to be headed towards renewal (but that abruptly halted without explanation).
He would speak with him and then he would check on the elf regardless of Aragorn’s wishes—Marach was a healer first and a citizen of Gondor second. He took one last look towards the prisoner leaning with his face against an elm, mouth silently moving and eyes closed as in prayer; then he went to stoop next to the patient, across from Aragorn.
“How is he, my Prince?” Boromir made room for the healer, sitting nearer to his brother’s head, Éomer standing near, keeping his vigil.
“He is much the same, Lord Marach. I would love to have him in the Houses of Healing back in Rohan or Gondor instead of out here in the wilds. Even the infirmary at the outpost in Eregion would be preferable. His fever has lessened, but not as low as I’d like; each time he wakes, his pain is so great, that I must sedate again—especially when we must travel.” He paused as his emotions escalated. “I am so...this should never have happened!” His fiery glance swept towards Legolas.
“We can not change what happened, but we can heal our young charge; you have done excellent work and I have every confidence that Faramir will recover.” Reaching over to grasp Aragorn’s wrist, he said with feeling, “I could not have done more—you should be proud!”
“Thank you, my Lord.” Aragorn’s face lightened as his mentor’s words sank in, but soon hardened at his next statement.
“I’d like to examine the Elven prisoner; I noticed that his bandages are bloody and soiled with dirt.” The words were said quietly and even, but the Prince didn’t miss the censure in them.
“The elf is fine.” The young Prince said tightly. “His kind heals quickly—I will waste no more of my time on him!”
Not deterred, the healer continued as the other Nobles listened. “You said that the elf was injured during your first encounter with him; that was over two days ago and he still bleeds. If he were healed, then the bandages should have been removed and even if they had not been, the stains should be nearly black and not red as they are—you know this, Your Highness.”
Blue-green eyes met the gray of elder dúnadan unwaveringly, “So?” He said coolly, though his inner-self warred with conflicting emotions; his normal compassionate personality conflicting with a fear of some sort—but fear of what, he did not want to examine too closely.
“So, he either is being ignored or deliberately mistreated—which are one in the same thing. I have taught you better than that; this is not you. What troubles you so, Aragorn? You have treated prisoners before; some were unrepentant and quite vile, but you treated them with the proper dispassion of a skilled healer. Why is this elf different—though I think I can guess?” Lord Marach said the last with understanding, willing the younger man to see reason.
The young dúnadan’s words came out angrily, laced with sarcasm, “You know nothing of it and you overstep your boundaries, Lord Marach! *I*, not you, am Crowned Prince here and I will not be criticized by one of my *loyal* subjects!” Aragorn stood up, caring not at all at how unreasonable he was being; he had no wish to pursue this conversation further for fear of where it may lead.
Marach stood as well, saying, “I will treat his injuries, Your Highness and if you wish, you can have me arrested for my disloyalty; but I ask that you delay that until after I have finished my work.”
Aragorn turned back to the Senior Minister and sounding like a lost little boy, said, “Do as you wish—I care not,” Then continued walking away towards the woods, a guard following.
Lord Marach was not pleased with how this exchange with his former student went; he planned to pursue it later when the younger man calmed himself. But now, he had another patient to care for; so he headed towards the blond Elda.
As Senior Minister of Healing, a position granted him by King Arador, King Arathorn’s father, one of his duties was overseeing the management of the Houses of Healing all over the Gondor and the United Kingdoms which included Osgiliath, Ithilien, Dol Amroth, Isengard, Rohan and the various outposts and settlements in Eriador and the valleys surrounding Mordor.
He never cared for the idea of a government post or becoming a bureaucrat—preferring to care for the sick and keeping the healthy well. But, the late King was persistent, convincing him that he could do more for medicine and keep more people alive by taking on this post. He could personally see to it that healers everywhere operated according to his standards. Today, he and his staff of ten (personally trained by him) travel all over for weeks and months at a time.
It was hard work—often thankless or more often, boring in places without patients like Outpost 40 where he was when the message to come here came—but very necessary; he continued to thank Elbereth that he had been there because of Lord Faramir and especially for this poor elf. There weren’t very many Men who had knowledge of Elven physiology; he only knew of two—himself and King Arathorn II, both having spent time in Imladris studying the Elven Art of Healing.
He could tell by looking, that the young elf was not faring as he should; he may even be fading. Lord Marach prayed that this was not so. Gathering his supplies from his belongings near where he had slept, he continued his previous path.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Legolas’ silent song stopped as a shadow passed over him, causing his eyes to open fearfully. He never knew what to expect with these mortals; they haven’t beaten or tortured him physically, though he have been shoved roughly, falling down several times during their trek to wherever they were headed. His hands were kept bound and his feet were hobbled, ropes tied in such a way to allow him enough slack to walk, but not enough to run or to climb trees.
His wrists and his ribs were hurting again—becoming aggravated whenever he fell wrong; and he had several more bruises and abrasions from the same. Whenever someone remembered to feed him, he had little more than stale bread, but he was grateful for the clean water—sometimes fresh whenever they neared a stream or wine-treated to stave off staleness when they were not. He didn’t know what would become of him and he’d lost hope that his brothers would find him—not knowing to look for him among Men.
*Perhaps they think you are dead and have given up looking for you. Oh please, kind elm—tell your brethren to send out word to my fellow woodelves of Eryn Lasgalen where to find me; I do not wish to die here among these unfriendly people * Legolas had been hearing what these Men thought about what would happen to him—execution if the young human died or imprisonment if he lives. He prayed that Faramir would live to exonerate him, but the blond Prince couldn’t place his hopes on someone who may or may not absolve the elf of any wrong-doing.
These Edain cared nothing for him; his only chance was rescue by his own kind or escape—neither of which seemed likely. As he stared up at the gray-haired mortal standing above him, he braced himself for the worst.
Lord Marach saw the fear in the elf’s lovely blue eyes, though he put up a brave front, refusing to look away. The healer smiled in a benevolent manner, one he used to calm apprehensive patients. “My name is Lord Marach; I am a healer from Gondor. May I ask your name?” He inquired gently.
Legolas was surprised to hear this man speak in Sindarin; the only one here who seems to know his native tongue was the angry dark-haired Prince called Aragorn who rarely spoke to him except in short, clipped words uttered in anger. Although this man seemed friendly, Legolas didn’t answer him, waiting to see what he would do next.
The Lord carefully kneeled next to the young elf and instead of asking his name again, he unpacked his bag, laying salves and bandages on a piece of cloth to keep them clean. Next, he took his waterskin and poured fresh water into a wide, deep bowl, lacing it with pleasantly fragrant oil—the scent of it was familiar to the blond Prince.
“Asëa aranion?”¹ Legolas asked quietly.
“Yes, Mellon-nin. Asëa aranion or athelas; we also call it kingsfoil in Westron. Do you speak Westron?” At the Prince’s nod, he spoke again. “Well, we will continue on in Sindarin, if that is alright with you?” When the elf didn’t answer, he asked the guard standing to the side of the prisoner, “I need these ropes removed—the ones on his wrists and his ankles.”
“That is not allowed, my Lord Marach. The elf can not be totally unbound—he is quite dangerous.” The lieutenant said firmly, but respectfully.
“I can not tend his wounds so bound.” At the obstinate look on the younger Gondoran’s face, he relented somewhat. “Then untie his hands so that I can tend them and then, you can release his feet.” Then to Legolas, “How are your ribs?”
“They still hurt.” He froze briefly while the armed man untied his hands. Then when he moved away, he spoke as the healer removed his soiled bandages, “Legolas...” Lord Marach looked askance to him. “My name...I am called Legolas.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Greenleaf,” Lord Marach placed his clasped hand against his heart in Elven greeting.
Legolas did the same, smiling disarmingly. “That is what my adar and brothers call me—sometimes it’s ‘Little Leaf.’”
“Where are your adar and brothers—in Greenwood?” The elf’s smile disappeared and he grew quiet again. The healer knew that it would take time to gain Legolas’ trust.
He cleaned the raw wounds and applied a heavy coating of the kingsfoil salve, wrapping the wrists with a double bandage to help protect them from the rough, mithril lined ropes. Next, he removed the soiled tunic and shirt to examine the elf’s ribcage. There were black and blue and yellowish bruises back and front.
The healer exhaled an angry breath—*Aragorn knows better than this! A healer never lets his personal feeling interfere with his oath as a man of medicine.* Marach reined in his temper, remembering that the Prince was still little more than a child—especially in this matter, his emotional scars running deep. Turning his attention back to Legolas, he carefully cleaned away the old salve and replaced it with a new coating before re-wrapping the Elda’s chest.
“Your clothing is very dirty; you must be beside yourself, not being able to bath, um?” He remembered the elves of Rivendell, especially Lord Elrond’s twins and how fond of cleanliness they were. He could only imagine that woodelves would be even more so.
Legolas’ smile was back. All of his family loved the water, but he was extremely partial to it; so much so that his own brothers teased him relentlessly about it.
“Why don’t I take these and put them in with my things and I will lend you one of mine—well, not actually my own, but I brought some clean shirts so that Lord Faramir would have something sanitary to wear.” At the sad, sympathetic look on Legolas’ face, the kindly healer patted one pale shoulder gently. “He will recover—have no fear.”
Legolas let Lord Marach help him put on the plain-weave garment, tying the laces at the neck. “It’s not much to look at, but it is well-made and will stave off the cold at night. I know that elves don’t normally feel the cold, but you are injured and that changes things.”
After the wrist bonds were replaced, the ones on the ankles were removed, the healer examining them after the light boots were taken off. The Minister was pleased to see that no open wounds were present, though there were bruises, on which he put a light coating of ointment.
They were quiet for a time until Legolas’ curiosity got the better of him. “Where did you learn Elvish, Hir-nin?”
“Rivendell, though Elvish remains a part of every noble’s basic educational instruction, I personally know only a tiny few who speak it fluently. My father’s family has always been fascinated by elves—his ancestors remained close to the Firstborn even after our peoples drifted apart. I can remember sitting on my great-grandfather’s knee as he spoke about his visit to the Golden Wood with his grandfather at the age of 10 years. Needless to say, he fell in love with Lady Galadriel.”
He finished treating the bruises on the otherwise perfectly formed ankles. “There...I suggest that you leave off your boots for a while until it is time to leave or unless your feet gets cold.”
“Hannon le, Hir-nin; you have been most kind.” Legolas was quiet for a while as the healer re-packed his bag. “I didn’t hurt him...I...I tried to help, but I was too late.” He looked up into the healer’s eyes before he continued, “I wish that I had stayed home as my adar wanted me to do; but I wanted to see some of this world. Should I live to see him again, I will apologize for not heeding his wisdom and I shall never leave his side again.”
Lord Marach watched as crystal tears fell from impossibly beautiful cerulean eyes. He took a clean cloth, wetted it and handed it to Legolas who washed his grimy face. “I believe you, Little Leaf and I will not let you come to real harm. I do not know how old you are, but I can tell that you are little more than a child—am I correct?”
“I am not a child! I am 700½-years-old.” He blushed at the knowing look from Lord Marach. He asked the healer a question, “You are Dúnedain?”
“Yes; from an unbroken line.”
“Then you are blessed with long life.” The healer saw something that none of his people here had or may ever see—Legolas’ sense of humor and playful nature. “How old are *you*?” He asked impishly.
“Both younger and much older than you!” He laughed quietly, then he became serious for a moment. “Sometimes I feel quite old—much older than my 346 years. When I see injustice and the innocent suffer and am unable to prevent it; but that will not happen here.” He patted Legolas’ shoulder again, “This I promise you, Mellon-nin—this I promise.”
Legolas watched as he stood to leave and spoke with authority to the guard standing over him. “I want him feed properly; when you or the other guards take food and drink, you will feed him first and give him the same as you would give to me or any other here. I’m I understood?”
“Yes, Lord Marach! It will be done.” The young man answered.
With one last look at the young elf, Lord Marach went to check on Faramir with the intent to find Prince Aragorn afterwards.
He didn’t know it, but Aragorn had returned to camp for a time and watched his exchange with Legolas. He was angry at first and then he began to feel guilty that he had failed in his duties as a healer. His father, grandfather and every other King before as well as all Royal family members studied the healing arts since the very first King, Tar-Minyatar who was born Elros, the Noldo elf who chose the Gift of Men.
His guilt continued to mount when he noticed how bad the elf’s wounds were; but then he grew angry again when he saw the blond smile at his mentor, not really knowing why. He told himself that his teacher went too far acting friendly towards the Faramir’s attacker. But as he continued to watch, he felt himself become jealous when the elf smiled teasingly at Lord Marach and the healer laughed.
Why would he be jealous? Lord Marach was his teacher and...and...
Aragorn was totally confused and he walked away again, re-entering the wooded area beyond the camp. His personal guard watched in sympathy as his young charge struggled with his feelings. As the Prince returned to the forest, he followed dutifully.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In another camp far away...
“Prince Oropher...Hir Haldir!” A Lórien elf called out excitedly.
Haldir and the Prince stood as the Silvan ran towards them, closely followed by several others, just as excited.
“Calm yourself and speak,” Haldir instructed.
“We’ve found something, my Lord...something that may lead us to Prince Legolas!”
TBC
¹ Asëa aranion—Quenyan for athelas.
A/N: Sorry for the long delay of an update; I wanted to finish ‘Revelations’ first (which I did) and I also had a couple projects to finish. I also joined a few LotR communities at livejournal.com where I have been posting my fiction (some new drabbles as well as one Aragorn/Boromir drabble/fic called ‘Golden Mist’: aragornlegolas, blackforest_fps which I joined a while back, tolkien100, tolkien_weekly.) I will update again as soon as possible. ‘Golden Mist’ can be found at my homepage, Aniron, Mirrormere and Lord of the Rings Fanfiction (all links can be found at my homepage The Prince & The Heir http://home.bellsouth.net/p/PWP-numenora.) I haven’t posted it at ff.net because it is rated MA/NC-17.
To everyone who have been reviewing my stories, I want to thank you all for all the kind words and to the anonymous reviewers w/o emails listed like at ff.net, adultff.net and others that don’t allow author’s responses on site, look for replies at my livejournal (just give me a couple or three days).
Rating: NC-17, PG this chapter
Disclaimers and Summary: See chapter one.
Warnings: Remember, this is slash; AU, Mpreg. Un-betaed, all mistakes are mine.
A/N: The Great Plague which occurred in SA 1636-37 and the Fell Winter of T.A. 2911–2912 and the great floods came from snow and ice meltwater that followed (rushing down Gwathló and ruining the city of Tharbad; this caused the people of Enedwaith to suffer greatly as their lands were flooded), will be changed to centuries after Last Alliance (SA 3434) to explain some elements. And since this is AU, many of the particulars will also be changed such as who was affected most by them; also, I will take liberties with the lay of Middle-earth, especially the Misty Mountains; we will pretend that they don’t separate Eregion (former Elven land) from Eriador—so don’t be too concerned about that. This will be necessary to explain how Legolas managed to enter the realm of men without having to cross it.
Please re-read Chapter One’s A/N’s concerning the background of this fic, especially the life-span of the Dúnedains or Númenóreans. I apologize for the altered history lesson here and the ones up-coming in this chapter (and future ones)—sometimes these can seem more dry than entertaining, but they are necessary.
Thoughts, stressed words and Italics denoted by **
Chapter Four
“Wise Counsel”
Haldir gave some final instructions to the group of elves standing before him before he sent them off to search again. It was day six of the Prince’s disappearance and morale was truly low—especially with Thranduil’s middle son, Arminas, who was still blaming himself exclusively. Haldir and Oropher were very attentive to him and kept the young elf busy, which seemed to help during daylight hours; but as night fell, his distress increased and was heartbreaking to watch. Both elder elves feared that if Legolas was not found, Arminas would fade and King Thranduil would lose two of his ions. Haldir was determined that that would not happen—not while he still drew breath!
As Oropher approached him, Haldir noticed the weary look upon his friend’s handsome face. The normally tireless elf was exhausted—between searching for Legolas during the day and watching over Arminas as he slept fitfully during the night, he was near to collapse.
“Please rest, Mellon-nin; you can not keep to this pace you have set for yourself.” The Marchwarden pleaded.
“I will rest when Legolas is found or when I’m in Mandos’ Hall—whichever comes first,” Was his macabre response.
“If you continue this way, you will surely see Námo before you can gaze upon Greenleaf’s perfect face again.” Haldir felt near to tears as he realized the truth of this statement, so he was loath to say what had been on his mind, but thought it best to say it nonetheless. “I think that we should consider that Legolas is...” He paused at horrified look on the face of the other.
“He is not dead, Haldir—do not say that!” Oropher was panicking for this very fear was on his mind.
Calmly, the Lórien elf pulled the Prince into his arms, holding him tightly. “I was not going to say that, Penneth (young one); I was going to say that perhaps our Legolas was among the Edain. He is neither in nor near Lothlórien; nor has any fresh sign of him been found heading back towards Greenwood. The only other place he could be is with Men.” He rubbed the trembling back of the sobbing Prince as he slowly began to calm down.
“I am sorry, Gwador (Sworn Brother). I have considered this; but Legolas knows to stay clear of our once allies—Men being untrustworthy. He would not go willingly with them.” The Prince let his own words sink in, not truly believing them and liking the alternative not at all.
“He may be injured from his fall. Perhaps...perhaps he is being cared for, but is unable to tell his rescuers where he is from or who he is, even.” Haldir was grasping at straws, trying to keep his friend and himself from believing the worst which he refused to even think about.
“You are a wonder to be around; only you can make me feel better in a near hopeless situation.” As they moved to sit beneath an oak tree, Oropher began staring at it, “I wish that all this had happened closer to Greenwood; this area is so close to the realm of the Edain—these trees so young, that they know so little of us. Only the ancient oak that dwelled in the gorge where we found Legolas’ broken bow and arrows knew of the Firstborn. The others were useless—speaking of a pretty boy who slept near! They could have been talking of some mortal, for all we know.”
“It will be fine—you will see. The scouts that we sent beyond the gorge know to look for any signs that may lead to our Greenleaf; they must go slowly—to stay clear of the humans.” Haldir tucked an errant strand of golden hair behind the Crowned Prince’s ear, leaving his hand on the broad shoulder in comfort.
Green eyes clouded over in distress. “That area...Eregion and beyond in Eriador...is little more than plains and bare land; there are hardly any trees at all. The trees that are there are so young, some no more than one hundred years! Legolas loves trees...climbing them...talking to them...” He grew quiet.
“It was the Great Plague; I was just an elfling when it happened. I remember asking my father where all the trees were when we traveled to Gondor. He told me that the people of Eriador—Enedwaith and Minhiriath—also Isengard and parts of Rohan burned the trees to stop the spread of the disease; using them to burn the dead, their homes, animals. Only Fangorn was spared for fear of the Ents there. It must have worked, Ada said, for Gondor suffered very little loss of life—at least those of Númenórean descent. The other shorter-lived mortals were not so blessed.
“Gondor, with elven healers, were able to tend the sick and eventually, they began to recover; but, then a harsh winter followed that caused great flooding when the spring thaw came, bringing more devastation. Men were very slow to replenish the land which lay bare for centuries until King Argonui and his son Arador after him decreed that trees be planted and the lands between Gondor and Eriador be settled. That is why so few ancients still live; I remember crying about it for months...for years afterwards. It still saddens me, but especially now when they could be of some help in finding Legolas.” Haldir grew as quiet as Oropher.
It was the Prince’s time to comfort and he smiled at his friend, pledging that no matter what, “We will find Little Leaf—whole and hale.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lord Marach, Senior Minister of the Arts of Healing, watched Prince Aragorn; his young protégé seemed not himself and the elder healer was deeply concerned. He and his escorts had met up with the slow-moving party transporting the injured Lord Faramir last evening before dark. His concern had nothing to do with Aragorn’s care of the young Diplomat—the Prince’s skill was exemplary, his natural talent had few rivals. His apprehension lay with Prince’s state of mind and his behavior towards the Elven prisoner.
His favorite student was usually a very kind and thoughtful soul, having the best bedside manner of any healer that Marach had had the fortune to work with in his 200 years as a man of medicine. If Aragorn had not been heir to the Gondoran throne, his career—his calling—would be in medicine. The only other person with whom the Minister had worked alongside that inspired this level of admiration was Lord Elrond of Rivendell—Marach having spent time in Imladris as a very young man and again much later when relations between Gondor and the Elven Realm seemed to be headed towards renewal (but that abruptly halted without explanation).
He would speak with him and then he would check on the elf regardless of Aragorn’s wishes—Marach was a healer first and a citizen of Gondor second. He took one last look towards the prisoner leaning with his face against an elm, mouth silently moving and eyes closed as in prayer; then he went to stoop next to the patient, across from Aragorn.
“How is he, my Prince?” Boromir made room for the healer, sitting nearer to his brother’s head, Éomer standing near, keeping his vigil.
“He is much the same, Lord Marach. I would love to have him in the Houses of Healing back in Rohan or Gondor instead of out here in the wilds. Even the infirmary at the outpost in Eregion would be preferable. His fever has lessened, but not as low as I’d like; each time he wakes, his pain is so great, that I must sedate again—especially when we must travel.” He paused as his emotions escalated. “I am so...this should never have happened!” His fiery glance swept towards Legolas.
“We can not change what happened, but we can heal our young charge; you have done excellent work and I have every confidence that Faramir will recover.” Reaching over to grasp Aragorn’s wrist, he said with feeling, “I could not have done more—you should be proud!”
“Thank you, my Lord.” Aragorn’s face lightened as his mentor’s words sank in, but soon hardened at his next statement.
“I’d like to examine the Elven prisoner; I noticed that his bandages are bloody and soiled with dirt.” The words were said quietly and even, but the Prince didn’t miss the censure in them.
“The elf is fine.” The young Prince said tightly. “His kind heals quickly—I will waste no more of my time on him!”
Not deterred, the healer continued as the other Nobles listened. “You said that the elf was injured during your first encounter with him; that was over two days ago and he still bleeds. If he were healed, then the bandages should have been removed and even if they had not been, the stains should be nearly black and not red as they are—you know this, Your Highness.”
Blue-green eyes met the gray of elder dúnadan unwaveringly, “So?” He said coolly, though his inner-self warred with conflicting emotions; his normal compassionate personality conflicting with a fear of some sort—but fear of what, he did not want to examine too closely.
“So, he either is being ignored or deliberately mistreated—which are one in the same thing. I have taught you better than that; this is not you. What troubles you so, Aragorn? You have treated prisoners before; some were unrepentant and quite vile, but you treated them with the proper dispassion of a skilled healer. Why is this elf different—though I think I can guess?” Lord Marach said the last with understanding, willing the younger man to see reason.
The young dúnadan’s words came out angrily, laced with sarcasm, “You know nothing of it and you overstep your boundaries, Lord Marach! *I*, not you, am Crowned Prince here and I will not be criticized by one of my *loyal* subjects!” Aragorn stood up, caring not at all at how unreasonable he was being; he had no wish to pursue this conversation further for fear of where it may lead.
Marach stood as well, saying, “I will treat his injuries, Your Highness and if you wish, you can have me arrested for my disloyalty; but I ask that you delay that until after I have finished my work.”
Aragorn turned back to the Senior Minister and sounding like a lost little boy, said, “Do as you wish—I care not,” Then continued walking away towards the woods, a guard following.
Lord Marach was not pleased with how this exchange with his former student went; he planned to pursue it later when the younger man calmed himself. But now, he had another patient to care for; so he headed towards the blond Elda.
As Senior Minister of Healing, a position granted him by King Arador, King Arathorn’s father, one of his duties was overseeing the management of the Houses of Healing all over the Gondor and the United Kingdoms which included Osgiliath, Ithilien, Dol Amroth, Isengard, Rohan and the various outposts and settlements in Eriador and the valleys surrounding Mordor.
He never cared for the idea of a government post or becoming a bureaucrat—preferring to care for the sick and keeping the healthy well. But, the late King was persistent, convincing him that he could do more for medicine and keep more people alive by taking on this post. He could personally see to it that healers everywhere operated according to his standards. Today, he and his staff of ten (personally trained by him) travel all over for weeks and months at a time.
It was hard work—often thankless or more often, boring in places without patients like Outpost 40 where he was when the message to come here came—but very necessary; he continued to thank Elbereth that he had been there because of Lord Faramir and especially for this poor elf. There weren’t very many Men who had knowledge of Elven physiology; he only knew of two—himself and King Arathorn II, both having spent time in Imladris studying the Elven Art of Healing.
He could tell by looking, that the young elf was not faring as he should; he may even be fading. Lord Marach prayed that this was not so. Gathering his supplies from his belongings near where he had slept, he continued his previous path.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Legolas’ silent song stopped as a shadow passed over him, causing his eyes to open fearfully. He never knew what to expect with these mortals; they haven’t beaten or tortured him physically, though he have been shoved roughly, falling down several times during their trek to wherever they were headed. His hands were kept bound and his feet were hobbled, ropes tied in such a way to allow him enough slack to walk, but not enough to run or to climb trees.
His wrists and his ribs were hurting again—becoming aggravated whenever he fell wrong; and he had several more bruises and abrasions from the same. Whenever someone remembered to feed him, he had little more than stale bread, but he was grateful for the clean water—sometimes fresh whenever they neared a stream or wine-treated to stave off staleness when they were not. He didn’t know what would become of him and he’d lost hope that his brothers would find him—not knowing to look for him among Men.
*Perhaps they think you are dead and have given up looking for you. Oh please, kind elm—tell your brethren to send out word to my fellow woodelves of Eryn Lasgalen where to find me; I do not wish to die here among these unfriendly people * Legolas had been hearing what these Men thought about what would happen to him—execution if the young human died or imprisonment if he lives. He prayed that Faramir would live to exonerate him, but the blond Prince couldn’t place his hopes on someone who may or may not absolve the elf of any wrong-doing.
These Edain cared nothing for him; his only chance was rescue by his own kind or escape—neither of which seemed likely. As he stared up at the gray-haired mortal standing above him, he braced himself for the worst.
Lord Marach saw the fear in the elf’s lovely blue eyes, though he put up a brave front, refusing to look away. The healer smiled in a benevolent manner, one he used to calm apprehensive patients. “My name is Lord Marach; I am a healer from Gondor. May I ask your name?” He inquired gently.
Legolas was surprised to hear this man speak in Sindarin; the only one here who seems to know his native tongue was the angry dark-haired Prince called Aragorn who rarely spoke to him except in short, clipped words uttered in anger. Although this man seemed friendly, Legolas didn’t answer him, waiting to see what he would do next.
The Lord carefully kneeled next to the young elf and instead of asking his name again, he unpacked his bag, laying salves and bandages on a piece of cloth to keep them clean. Next, he took his waterskin and poured fresh water into a wide, deep bowl, lacing it with pleasantly fragrant oil—the scent of it was familiar to the blond Prince.
“Asëa aranion?”¹ Legolas asked quietly.
“Yes, Mellon-nin. Asëa aranion or athelas; we also call it kingsfoil in Westron. Do you speak Westron?” At the Prince’s nod, he spoke again. “Well, we will continue on in Sindarin, if that is alright with you?” When the elf didn’t answer, he asked the guard standing to the side of the prisoner, “I need these ropes removed—the ones on his wrists and his ankles.”
“That is not allowed, my Lord Marach. The elf can not be totally unbound—he is quite dangerous.” The lieutenant said firmly, but respectfully.
“I can not tend his wounds so bound.” At the obstinate look on the younger Gondoran’s face, he relented somewhat. “Then untie his hands so that I can tend them and then, you can release his feet.” Then to Legolas, “How are your ribs?”
“They still hurt.” He froze briefly while the armed man untied his hands. Then when he moved away, he spoke as the healer removed his soiled bandages, “Legolas...” Lord Marach looked askance to him. “My name...I am called Legolas.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Greenleaf,” Lord Marach placed his clasped hand against his heart in Elven greeting.
Legolas did the same, smiling disarmingly. “That is what my adar and brothers call me—sometimes it’s ‘Little Leaf.’”
“Where are your adar and brothers—in Greenwood?” The elf’s smile disappeared and he grew quiet again. The healer knew that it would take time to gain Legolas’ trust.
He cleaned the raw wounds and applied a heavy coating of the kingsfoil salve, wrapping the wrists with a double bandage to help protect them from the rough, mithril lined ropes. Next, he removed the soiled tunic and shirt to examine the elf’s ribcage. There were black and blue and yellowish bruises back and front.
The healer exhaled an angry breath—*Aragorn knows better than this! A healer never lets his personal feeling interfere with his oath as a man of medicine.* Marach reined in his temper, remembering that the Prince was still little more than a child—especially in this matter, his emotional scars running deep. Turning his attention back to Legolas, he carefully cleaned away the old salve and replaced it with a new coating before re-wrapping the Elda’s chest.
“Your clothing is very dirty; you must be beside yourself, not being able to bath, um?” He remembered the elves of Rivendell, especially Lord Elrond’s twins and how fond of cleanliness they were. He could only imagine that woodelves would be even more so.
Legolas’ smile was back. All of his family loved the water, but he was extremely partial to it; so much so that his own brothers teased him relentlessly about it.
“Why don’t I take these and put them in with my things and I will lend you one of mine—well, not actually my own, but I brought some clean shirts so that Lord Faramir would have something sanitary to wear.” At the sad, sympathetic look on Legolas’ face, the kindly healer patted one pale shoulder gently. “He will recover—have no fear.”
Legolas let Lord Marach help him put on the plain-weave garment, tying the laces at the neck. “It’s not much to look at, but it is well-made and will stave off the cold at night. I know that elves don’t normally feel the cold, but you are injured and that changes things.”
After the wrist bonds were replaced, the ones on the ankles were removed, the healer examining them after the light boots were taken off. The Minister was pleased to see that no open wounds were present, though there were bruises, on which he put a light coating of ointment.
They were quiet for a time until Legolas’ curiosity got the better of him. “Where did you learn Elvish, Hir-nin?”
“Rivendell, though Elvish remains a part of every noble’s basic educational instruction, I personally know only a tiny few who speak it fluently. My father’s family has always been fascinated by elves—his ancestors remained close to the Firstborn even after our peoples drifted apart. I can remember sitting on my great-grandfather’s knee as he spoke about his visit to the Golden Wood with his grandfather at the age of 10 years. Needless to say, he fell in love with Lady Galadriel.”
He finished treating the bruises on the otherwise perfectly formed ankles. “There...I suggest that you leave off your boots for a while until it is time to leave or unless your feet gets cold.”
“Hannon le, Hir-nin; you have been most kind.” Legolas was quiet for a while as the healer re-packed his bag. “I didn’t hurt him...I...I tried to help, but I was too late.” He looked up into the healer’s eyes before he continued, “I wish that I had stayed home as my adar wanted me to do; but I wanted to see some of this world. Should I live to see him again, I will apologize for not heeding his wisdom and I shall never leave his side again.”
Lord Marach watched as crystal tears fell from impossibly beautiful cerulean eyes. He took a clean cloth, wetted it and handed it to Legolas who washed his grimy face. “I believe you, Little Leaf and I will not let you come to real harm. I do not know how old you are, but I can tell that you are little more than a child—am I correct?”
“I am not a child! I am 700½-years-old.” He blushed at the knowing look from Lord Marach. He asked the healer a question, “You are Dúnedain?”
“Yes; from an unbroken line.”
“Then you are blessed with long life.” The healer saw something that none of his people here had or may ever see—Legolas’ sense of humor and playful nature. “How old are *you*?” He asked impishly.
“Both younger and much older than you!” He laughed quietly, then he became serious for a moment. “Sometimes I feel quite old—much older than my 346 years. When I see injustice and the innocent suffer and am unable to prevent it; but that will not happen here.” He patted Legolas’ shoulder again, “This I promise you, Mellon-nin—this I promise.”
Legolas watched as he stood to leave and spoke with authority to the guard standing over him. “I want him feed properly; when you or the other guards take food and drink, you will feed him first and give him the same as you would give to me or any other here. I’m I understood?”
“Yes, Lord Marach! It will be done.” The young man answered.
With one last look at the young elf, Lord Marach went to check on Faramir with the intent to find Prince Aragorn afterwards.
He didn’t know it, but Aragorn had returned to camp for a time and watched his exchange with Legolas. He was angry at first and then he began to feel guilty that he had failed in his duties as a healer. His father, grandfather and every other King before as well as all Royal family members studied the healing arts since the very first King, Tar-Minyatar who was born Elros, the Noldo elf who chose the Gift of Men.
His guilt continued to mount when he noticed how bad the elf’s wounds were; but then he grew angry again when he saw the blond smile at his mentor, not really knowing why. He told himself that his teacher went too far acting friendly towards the Faramir’s attacker. But as he continued to watch, he felt himself become jealous when the elf smiled teasingly at Lord Marach and the healer laughed.
Why would he be jealous? Lord Marach was his teacher and...and...
Aragorn was totally confused and he walked away again, re-entering the wooded area beyond the camp. His personal guard watched in sympathy as his young charge struggled with his feelings. As the Prince returned to the forest, he followed dutifully.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In another camp far away...
“Prince Oropher...Hir Haldir!” A Lórien elf called out excitedly.
Haldir and the Prince stood as the Silvan ran towards them, closely followed by several others, just as excited.
“Calm yourself and speak,” Haldir instructed.
“We’ve found something, my Lord...something that may lead us to Prince Legolas!”
TBC
¹ Asëa aranion—Quenyan for athelas.
A/N: Sorry for the long delay of an update; I wanted to finish ‘Revelations’ first (which I did) and I also had a couple projects to finish. I also joined a few LotR communities at livejournal.com where I have been posting my fiction (some new drabbles as well as one Aragorn/Boromir drabble/fic called ‘Golden Mist’: aragornlegolas, blackforest_fps which I joined a while back, tolkien100, tolkien_weekly.) I will update again as soon as possible. ‘Golden Mist’ can be found at my homepage, Aniron, Mirrormere and Lord of the Rings Fanfiction (all links can be found at my homepage The Prince & The Heir http://home.bellsouth.net/p/PWP-numenora.) I haven’t posted it at ff.net because it is rated MA/NC-17.
To everyone who have been reviewing my stories, I want to thank you all for all the kind words and to the anonymous reviewers w/o emails listed like at ff.net, adultff.net and others that don’t allow author’s responses on site, look for replies at my livejournal (just give me a couple or three days).