To Resist both Wind and Tide

Chapter Four: Soul Light

The sunlight vanished as they were swallowed in the ever-present shadows of ancient trees, the limbs and roots and trunks so twisted and gnarled that Aragorn wondered if they had been growing since the very beginnings of Arda, planted by the goddess' own hands. Fangorn did not feel like a holy place, though, and he had the definite sensation of having been noticed, identified, and categorised as an unwelcome interloper. One heard rumours about Fangorn but little one could account truth. Even the folk of Lorien were reticent on the topic of what lived in the dense forest, and their silence was fraught with uneasiness as much as respect for whatever ancient power protected the place. That elves did not call it home was telling: they considered it someone else's home.

Aragorn had little time to stew over it for just then Legolas gave a violent jerk, stiffening and rearing back so abruptly that his head struck Aragorn's chin. Sparks flew before the man's eyes and when they cleared both he and the elf were on the ground, he flat on his back with Legolas sprawled in twitching agony over his chest. Another seizure had commenced and the concerned healer had all he could do to hold onto the convulsing archer. Ignoring the dull throb at his jaw, Aragorn held him as still as he was able, worried anew about the possibility of a bite through the tongue. He groped with his fingers and found the jaws clenched tight, but no warm wet liquid oozed between the compressed lips. Relieved, he absently caressed the smooth, taut skin and cupped the narrow chin in a compassionate grip.

"Sîdh, mellon, Im na sí; le gerin. Ha thinnatha," he murmured. (Peace, friend, I am here; I have you. It will fade.)

In minutes it passed and Legolas lay limp, groaning between mighty gulps of air, and Aragorn could feel his muscles quivering in the aftermath of the spasm. He had no need to seek for the pulse at the neck; Legolas' racing heart resounded through him and the man thought he could actually feel each contraction where their bodies were pressed together. Aragorn moved his hand from chin to neck anyway and settled his palm protectively against the elf's larynx. He could not see much through the tangle of hair strewn across his face, but noted the softness of its silky texture, the weight and lustre of the golden mane, the provocative way the shape of an ear was defined by the style in which Legolas dressed the locks.

Such distinct braids must mark either Legolas' rank among the King's warriors, or perhaps his clan. Cautiously, Aragorn let his fingers run along one of those fine plaits. Legolas grew still and his pulse calmed; either he did not mind the touch or he was suffering too much to acknowledge it. He inhaled a deeper, steadier breath and Aragorn felt him swallow.

"Kalrô," he said, and now it was Aragorn who stilled, hearing something in the word that bordered on desperation but with an ardent undertone, limned with emotion that struck a resonating chord deep in the man's being. "Kalrô," Legolas repeated, the word barely a whisper in the stagnant air, and shivered, swallowing again.

"Im na sí; le gerin." (I am here; I have you.)

"Adanno calad enni. Boe gerin nín galfaer adonen." (Return the light to me. I need my soul-light returned.)

"Galfaer?" Aragorn repeated, confused. "Úchenion." (Soul-light? I do not understand.) He shifted so to crane his head forward in an attempt to catch the Wood Elf's eye, worried he might be slipping into another bout of delirium.

Legolas sucked in another breath that preceded a complaining moan and began to stir, seeking to roll to his side and off the man. A cramp gripped his gut and he realised he was about to expel more of the putrid efflux from the poison. "Ai! Nay, nay, not again," he ground out, struggling to subdue the urge to vomit as he threw himself sideways and found he was trapped in the man's embracing arms. "Aragorn!" There was nothing sentimental in his speech now.

Aragorn twisted with him, holding Legolas as gently round the chest as he could, and lay spooned against the rigid back. He gathered up the lengthy blond tresses just in time as the grotesque and noisome black fluid surged out. The elf's hand slid to the man's arm and grabbed on tight as he retched, shaken with the violent expulsion, his noisy gagging and the foul, pungent odour enough to make the man feel a sympathetic urge to regurgitate. He suppressed the need through sheer force of will and continued to offer reassurances. Like the fit, this episode of sickness passed quickly. Legolas cursed and squirmed in revulsion, his senses assailed by the unbearable stench, his pride offended by the involuntary purging.

"Nestegi! (Fuck) Ai, let me go; please, I cannot endure this," he growled, gagging from the smell. "Let me free, echil!" (human)

"All right, stop struggling and let me help." Aragorn gathered his knees beneath him and hauled Legolas backwards, pulling him half upright but keeping a firm hold on him, arm securely wrapped across his sternum, not sure he truly had strength to sit unaided. He made sure there was a good metre between them and the puddle of black serum seeping into the soil. "Wonder what the trees will make of that," he murmured, trying to lighten the mood, and bent forward to offer his patient a kindly smile.

"Valar!" Legolas seethed. "They are already displeased with our trespass; who knows how they'll interpret that disgusting mess." He slid his eyes sideways to meet the man's and could not suppress the grin that broke free, seeing Aragorn's, but he tried. "It is not amusing."

"Am I laughing?"

"You are smiling, almost as bad."

"So are you."

"I am entitled; I'm the one who is sick. And I still owe you for that blow last night."

"Aye, to none of that will I argue," said Aragorn, serious again and surprised to hear Legolas name himself ill. Either he trusts me more or he is so bad off he cannot afford the pretensions of pride. He hoped it was the former. "How are you, really?"

"Weary," Legolas admitted. "There is pain and heat around the wound, spreading. I want my clothes and I need to rest, but the forest does not welcome us." He did not explain that it was Aragorn to whom the trees objected.

"I was not the one who insisted on taking refuge in Fangorn." Aragorn felt a twinge of conscious over the garments, but he hadn't had a chance as yet to see to his patient's desire for modesty. "Those horsemen would be of greater aid to us, Legolas, than these trees. The herbs I carry with me are not indicated to treat poisoning such as yours. Cures for illness, infections common to humans, yes, and antiseptics to cleanse wounds I have. The men of Rohan may have a remedy for this toxin and surely we can both rest easier under the protection of so many warriors."

Legolas did not reply and Aragorn felt him slump in his arms, realising with dismay that he was unconscious again. "Mellon?" There was no answer and he hurriedly shifted the elf to lie flat on the mossy ground, troubled to see the blue eyes fully closed and the chest wound oozing a black and yellow discharge. The atrocious smell, he discovered, was not all from the regurgitated mass congealing in the duff. Legolas was not healing as he should and the man was disturbed by his mysterious reference to soul-light.

How can I give him elvish light?

He shook his head and automatically checked the warrior's vital signs, frowning over the irregular pulse and the fact that the eyes were rolled back, only the whites visible. His training told him the wound would need to be opened, the diseased tissue cut out, the gouge drained, perhaps cauterised, packed, and rebound. What to use for bandaging he had not determined; his shirt most likely. Legolas' was not fit for anything but the bonfire. He wondered if he might find athelas in the forest; the climate was warm and damp enough for the plant. An infusion of the herb might retard the poison's advance. As he considered all this, Aragorn gathered Legolas up as gently as he knew how and deposited him on Tuilelindô's back. There was no reaction at all and while he had no wish for Legolas to suffer, it was not a positive sign.

"What we need is a place with clean water," he told the horse, "and if there is some sunlight, too, it would make searching for herbs the easier." He gathered a handful of mane preparatory to mounting up but sounds behind him belayed the action. Aragorn turned to see one of the Rohirrim approaching through the trees on horseback, lance held at the ready. Their eyes met and the warrior reigned back his steed.

In silence they regarded one another, each taking the other's measure, and Aragorn found himself facing cool hazel eyes beneath a helm of iron crafted in the style of an equine head, a grimly set mouth nestled within a richly auburn beard, the nose protected behind a shielding plate. The man sat tall and proud in his saddle, one hand wrapped in the leather leads, long, booted legs gripping the sides of his war horse, feet steady in the stirrups, radiating intense wariness and ready to fight. His stern gaze flickered to the naked elf draped over Tuilelindô's withers and the mouth pulled into a tighter grimace of disapproval. Narrowed and accusing, the eyes came back to Aragorn's blazing.

"Stand away from her, trespasser, or you'll pay with your life," he growled darkly, adjusting his grip on the lance.

"I mean no harm here," Aragorn raised his hands in front of him, well away from the hilt of his sword, as he took two careful steps back from the mare. "I need your help, friend. I am known in Edoras, a friend and ally of Thengel King until his passing."

"Your definition of harm is perhaps not the same as mine," remarked the horseman, again passing his eye over the nude body of the elf, lingering over the crude bandage circling the torso. He used the lance to point. "Your victim might share my notion of the word. Be she dead or alive?"

Aragorn startled, unprepared to hear either this accusation levelled at him or the inaccurate reference to the sex of the incapacitated elf. "Nay! He lives, I assure you, but his wounds are serious and not given by me. We have fought orcs, greatly outnumbered, yesterday and again at…"

"He?" scoffed the horseman. "If so then he is but a youth. Stay where you are." He dismounted and approached the mare, bearing the lance at the ready so that Aragorn backed further, his worried gaze alternating between Legolas and the man. "What proof can you offer that your words are truth?" demanded the horseman, but then he gave a cry of surprise and fear, having drawn close enough to see the pointed ear. "An elf! A Wood Elf!" He raised his free hand in a warding sign and fell back a pace.

"Aye, he is from Mirkwood and his words will substantiate mine, since you have need of such assurance. You need not fear him." Aragorn was not happy to see the man's superstitions at full force and Legolas' concerns verified.

"How came you to bring it here? We do not want them in our lands, no matter if it is your slave. That, also, is not condoned by our laws. You must leave and take it away with you at once!"

"He is not a slave; why would you assume this? I would never try to hold bound in captivity one of the First-born," announced Aragorn, indignant. "I told you; I am a friend of Rohan and of Thengel King. Just days ago I passed through the Gap and spoke with Eádmar…"

"Give me your name, then," the horseman interrupted irritably, his expression filled with doubt and misgivings as again he graced the unconscious elf with wary scrutiny.

"I am known here in Rohan and in Gondor," said Aragorn, standing taller and letting his attitude announce his displeasure with the horseman's manner. "Mayhap you have heard the name Thorongil?" He propped his fists on his hips and glared, fully expecting a respectful apology. The man's eyes grew wide and his sight travelled up and down Aragorn's person, taking in his filthy, half-dressed state before darting back to the unclothed, insensible elf. He did not proffer his regrets or beg pardon for his suspicions.

"Lord Thorongil is indeed known to the people of Rohan. He is a noble man, a doughty warrior with the bearing of the Numenoreans of old, it is said, and has served in the White City these many years. Though I have not met him personally, you do not fit the descriptions I have heard."

"I am he nonetheless," sighed Aragorn, rubbing his forehead. "Not even a King comes away from battle with his robes unsullied by the grime and gore of war."

"Perhaps, yet neither is it common to come from battle naked, or nearly so. I do not believe you."

"A man, or even an elf, may indeed come from battle naked if there are injuries to tend," countered Aragorn irritably. He felt Legolas' life dwindling as they argued; this sort of problem could be fatal for the Wood Elf. "His wounds are serious and I am trying to heal him; that is why I asked your help. Put aside your fears and suspicions; we are no threat to you or to Rohan."

"Indeed, one man alone is no threat to even a child of Rohan," boasted the man. "Maybe you caused his hurts. Yon Wood Elf is your prisoner, taken in this skirmish you mention, and you have done as the uncouth and unjust will do with prisoners…raped him to satisfy your lust." The spear came level with Aragorn's heart again. "Even a Wood Elf does not deserve to be abused in that manner. We have laws here in Rohan to punish brutes such as you." He gave a shrill whistle and waggled the lance. "Move aside there and lay down your weapon," he ordered.

"I have not done such an unspeakable thing to him," insisted Aragorn as he obeyed, reluctantly settling his broadsword on the mossy turf. "Legolas will vouch for me when he regains consciousness, but he is in danger of dying if something isn't done quickly. He is naked, and myself half-naked, only because we were drenched in the river and subject to the chill night air. I made a burrow and in it we crept, lying skin to skin to preserve body heat and forestall death."

"So you say," replied the horseman drily. He was joined by two comrades who took in the scene with inscrutable faces, waiting for their leader to explain. "This man claims to be Thorongil and names the elf his companion, but until his story is confirmed we must keep them under guard. Gather his weapons."

The men nodded and did as told, taking Aragorn's sword and the elvish dagger he'd kept. They searched his pack and spilled the contents out upon the forest floor. Even Legolas' quiver of arrows was taken away, though they avoided touching him and made their sign of protection to guard against spells and enchantment. Aragorn wondered whose providence they were beseeching. They tried to get to the elf's pack, too, but Tuilelindô would not permit them near her, though she did not go far enough to be out of sight of her master. Finally, the three Rohirric warriors stood glaring at Aragorn expectantly as though to indicate he should call the mare to him.

"She is not mine," he shrugged, "but Legolas'. If she stays away it is because she knows you fear her master. She does not trust you."

"We do not fear him," insisted the leader.

"Right," said Aragorn wryly. He looked from one to the other of them impatiently. "So we are now your captives. Fine. What do you plan to do, stand by and watch as he fades before your eyes? I must have help for Legolas; his death will be on your heads if you hinder me. I doubt the Wood Elves would be pleased if one of their own expires in Rohan."

"Nay, we are in Fangorn," the leader argued, "and the Woodland King cannot hold us responsible for something you have done. Indeed, we will deliver you to him to answer for your crimes."

"This is intolerable!" fumed Aragorn. "I have not met the Elf King, but by all accounts he is a formidable foe and no fool. Aye, I will go to him gladly and explain how one of his warriors risked all to save my hide, even to taking an arrow from an Uruk archer. I will tell him of Legolas' valour and then reveal how your over-zealous desire to render justice resulted in the elf's death. He will hear the truth of my words and see what your pride and posturing have wrought, and Legolas' kin are certain to want revenge. You'll have war with Mirkwood then. Have you ever seen Wood Elves in battle? it is said they are the fiercest of the First-born. Speak your name that I may report it to your King when he wants to know who brought his nation into such a bloody feud with the sylvan folk," demanded Aragorn.

Well, it was a compelling scenario to say the least. There was a strained silence as the Rohirrim wavered between wrath to be so taken to task and apprehension that they had made a huge mistake.

"I have no love for Wood Elves, yet also no wish for this one to die," ventured the captain, scowling. He cleared his throat awkwardly and lowered his lance slightly. "Do you know anything about curing the fair folk?"

"Some," Aragorn nodded. "I was trained by no less a person than Lord Elrond of Rivendell. You have heard of the elven folk of Imladris?"

"We have," the man admitted, beginning to believe he had been precipitous in his evaluation of the situation. Still, he was a cautious man and would not be duped. He motioned to Legolas. "We will suspend our charges until he is either dead or strong enough to ride. At that time, I will bring you to Edoras where the new King awaits his crowning. If you are Thorongil, many there will know you on sight."

"Good," sighed Aragorn and let his grimace soften. That this man wanted to do right he did not doubt; he was simply misguided. "Now, I am in need of fresh water and was about to have this mare lead me to it, unless you are familiar with Fangorn and can tell which way to go."

"Nay, we do not venture far into Fangorn, only to run down orcs who try to hide here. They fear to go deep beneath the trees. Let the horse guide us."

"So be it. Now give me your name and if you have any medical supplied I would be most grateful to have them."

"I am Selwyn, Sheriff of the North Wold. Mine is the responsibility for the crofts and the herds here. I must be leery of strangers, for there has been trouble from outlanders posing as traders from Rohan. They are slavers, selling their captives to Mordor, we suspect. To make their ruse believable, and to increase their profits, they steal from our herds." He bowed his head, all the apology he was able to offer, and signalled his guards to lower their weapons. Just like that the enmity dissolved and all were at ease, or as much so as men could be in such an ancient and perilous place as Fangorn. Selwyn went to his horse and delved into his saddlebag, proffering Aragorn a kit of field dressings and medicinal herbs. "You are welcome to what we have."

He took it with deep thanks, but before anyone could say more Legolas began to regain his senses, the poison assailing him anew. A low groan escaped him and he slid an arm around his middle, shaking visibly. Aragorn was at his side at once, steadying him and speaking softly.

"Mellon, can you hear me?" Legolas only gave a violent shudder, gripped with convulsions so that Aragorn had to bring him down again to lie upon the moss, holding him as the spasm ran its course. When it was done he lay panting, clutching tight to Aragorn, eyes locked on the man's.

"Faerlim (soul-light), please, Kalrô. I cannot recover…" The need to expel the bitter fluids from his stomach interrupted this plea. When he was done, Legolas was unconscious again and Aragorn became alarmed.

"Legolas, mellon, you must not give in!" he exhorted, gently shaking the lax body. There was no response. Frantic, he laid Legolas down and arose, advancing on Selwyn, who stood aghast with his hand clamped over nose and mouth, vision glued to the still form coated with reeking, gelatinous vomit. "Now you understand how greatly he suffers. Have you a water skin to spare me and would you have your men kindle fire? I must cleanse that wound now."

"I see," nodded Selwyn. "He suffers, but not for much longer. That is a dead elf, my friend; poison takes him."

"No," said Aragorn obstinately, lifting his hand and pointing at the Sheriff. "Poison it is, but he still lives and I intend he should continue doing just that until all of time expires and you and I have long been dust."

So vehement were his words and so intense his expression that none could doubt he truly meant it. His dedication to the sickly elf could not be gainsaid. Selwyn ordered his men to comply with Aragorn's request.

"Selwyn!" cried one, astonished. "We should just bind them both and take them to the borders, drop them there. Let the people of Lorien give them shelter and aid."

Now, this was not a plan Aragorn would oppose, except for being bound, yet he feared Legolas would die on the way. Even as he opened his mouth to protest, Legolas returned to awareness, again struggling with the torment of the poison coursing through him. Aragorn knelt beside him and gathered him close, supporting him through the throes of the convulsions and the vomiting that followed. The archer exhaled a weary cry and reached up a shaking hand to touch Aragorn's face.

"Why do you refuse? I ask only what I gave to you. Please, I do not want to die here; I must get home."

"Ai, mellon, I would not refuse you aid," insisted Aragorn, greatly distressed by this charge. "Tell me what to do and it shall be done. How do I defeat this poison? What did you do to me in the burrow at night?"

"Shared light, strengthened you," mumbled Legolas. "Need it back now, please."

Uncomprehending, Aragorn shook his head. "How? I am but a man, Legolas. Mayhap Lord Elrond or the Lady Galadriel could give you light, but I have none to give."

"You have elvish blood," stated Legolas and his hand slid down to reside against Aragorn's heart. "Healing is in your hands. Touch me, Kalrô." With effort he gathered Aragorn's hands and drew them to his breast, pressing them against his chest above his heart. "Touch me." The whispered words accompanied the action of dragging the man's hands over his body and down to his groin, then back to his chest. Carefully, he settled one palm over the nasty wound and made the other describe a tender caress from crotch to pectorals and back. "Thus. Healing is in your hands if you will freely give."

Aragorn had never heard of healing of this nature, and was nearly desperate enough to try anything, but his reason warned that what was needed was irrigation and sterilisation of the wound. Legolas was failing and feverish, no doubt this request was the result of rising delirium. Even so, Aragorn complied with his patient's request for a few minutes, noting that the connection calmed Legolas considerably. An easier breath came and went form the elf's lungs and his eyes blinked open and locked with Aragorn's. A faint smile lit his eyes.

"Aye, like that. Give," he encouraged.

"I would give whatever you need," affirmed Aragorn, "but what you need is to have the injury opened and thoroughly cleaned. I must remove the putrid flesh, mellon, if there is to be any chance at all."

"Nay, just light, that is all I need," insisted Legolas. "Wood Elf," he reminded.

In spite of the seriousness of the moment, Aragorn had to smile. There was certainly no harm in the calming massage and he had observed Elrond use touch to cure. Granted, the Elf Lord held the power of Vilya, but there were many mysteries yet in the world and the workings of the elvish body retained a considerable number of them. He continued the gentle caress, raising his eyes to Selwyn. "The fire and the water, friend, I still need them."

"I understand, but this is Fangorn," said Selwyn. "I am sure flames are not welcome here."

"Normally, I would agree, but the fire is necessary to heal the elf. The trees will know and allow it; they have great love for Wood Elves." Aragorn hoped he was correct and looked to Legolas for confirmation, but he would only offer a half shrug.

While the Rohirrim gathered dead wood and dug a small pit, Aragorn concentrated on soothing his hands as gently as possible over Legolas' torso. He drew him fully into his lap so to be ready for the next seizure when it accosted the archer, but minutes passed and none came. Silently he prayed to Estë: If there is any power of healing in my hands, teach me how to give it freely now.

Whether it was purely due to Legolas' belief in the cure or through something real passing between them, the tension left his body as the pain visibly lessened. His pulse became steady and even, matching the tempo of the man's. He reached up, a serene smile on his face, and entwined his fingers in Aragorn's hair, pulling. Slowly the man leaned closer, thinking the Wood Elf had words to speak and wanted only the two of them to hear. He turned so that his ear was near the parted lips, but Legolas used his hold to twist him abruptly back. Blue eyes met his and then their mouths were pressed firmly together, Legolas inhaling the very breath from the man's lungs so that Aragorn was frightened and retreated from the unexpected kiss.

"There," Legolas whispered across the minimal space between their lips, eyes shining with warmth. He exhaled a contented breath, snuggled up against Aragorn's chest, and retreated into healing repose.

Aragorn leaned aside and judiciously spat, for the Wood Elf's mouth unfortunately retained the flavour of the vile sputum he had recently disgorged. A loud, exaggerated bit of throat clearing garnered his attention and he looked up to see the men of Rohan gazing everywhere but at them, faces stained crimson.

"We'll wait over there," announced Selwyn to the net of branches above his head, "while you 'treat' him."

"Nay, that is not necessary," explained Aragorn, trying not to smile over their shocked sensibilities. "We are not lovers, and he is sleeping now anyway. You may look me in the face, Selwyn, without fear of seeing anything private."

"As you wish," the man said, but when he looked it was first at Legolas. Then his gaze met Aragorn's and he raised an admonishing brow. "We are not children; you need not hide your relationship."

"There is no relationship," insisted Aragorn. "We met two days ago."

"Of course, as you say." Selwyn nodded vigourously, his incredulous eyes sharing his disbelief with his men. He settled his forefinger against the side of his nose. "We will not say anything different if that is what you wish." The two soldiers were grinning broadly at Aragorn now and one laughed.

"Wouldn't have thought of that," he said. "Maybe those sylvans are useful for something after all."

"That's enough of that," barked Aragorn, face dark with displeasure. "He is not my slave and not my lover. He is my friend. If a kiss cured him, I am happy to see it happen but there is nothing more in it. An immortal's heart is too giving to love a mortal; they cannot survive the grief of parting and that parting must one day come to pass."

"No offence was intended," muttered the guard sullenly and he passed an unseemly leer over the naked body in Aragorn's lap. "He's your 'friend'; so be it. I'm not one to get between 'friends' anyway."

Aragorn inhaled and exhaled loudly through his nostrils, sending Selwyn a pointed glare. The Sheriff admonished his men sternly and sent the one with the loose tongue back to report on the situation to the remainder of the troop waiting in the Wold. He built the fire himself with great care, setting it within the deeply scoured pit for there were no stones of substantial size to ring the flames. He took a small kettle from his gear and arranged a tripod of sticks over the fire, and using these began to heat water. No more was said about the intimate embrace between man and elf. They were all too concerned with how Fangorn would react to the presence of the crackling blaze.

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 Shakespeare's Henry VI, part 3, Act IV, Scene III