To Resist both Wind and Tide

Chapter Nine: The Way Home


"A new name must be bestowed upon you, for you have been reborn in spirit, renewed in heart, and remain a child in years alone. Forevermore you will be Belêsjandô in the language of the sylvans, which is Strong Blade. All men have a set time of living and after that, none know whence their spirits fly. It shall be the same for you, Belêsjandô son of Brynja, but so long as my feä, my the elvish light, burns bright you will remain alive in the knowledge of the elves and that is no small thing, perhaps.

"In days to come, your people will give you another name, 'Ancient One', Gamling they shall call you, for your years will be counted long among the horse-lords and many deeds of service you will render unto your King, you and your son and your son's son. Before then, before your hair grows white and your skin leathers, you shall be called Egil in the tongue of Rohan, for you stood at the brink of doom upon the slender edge of a deadly blade and survived. So shall you stand again some day, and on that day I will stand there beside you. Friends and allies shall we be from this day forward."

Legolas spoke to the boy, Arison, in these portentous words, a hand upon the child's shoulder, glittering eyes staring unblinking into the young one's open heart and unresisting mind, their vision locked once more. Easily he traced the poisonous insults and deriding scorn with which the father had laced his son's once buoyant soul, cruel and acidic words that had etched themselves into the boy's perception of himself, weighed down that vibrant, questing spirit and sunk it low with shame and fear. It took some work to erase them, delicate work more exacting than the most intricate surgery of torn flesh, excising the damage but leaving the memory of how the wound had been taken. A warrior had need of such memories but not of the crippling fear and helplessness that came with hurts so deep, so destructive.

He must remember it else he will not be able to own the courage with which he fought and conquered Shadow.

Beside the boy stood his uncle, Bjorn, his hand upon the child's other shoulder, and Brynja was there, too, beaming with proud tears upon her cheeks and her infant daughter upon her hip. Round them all the Riders of Rohan watched the solemn ceremony, understanding it instinctively even if the elf's impact on the lad's inner heart was not acknowledged. Upon the faces of these sturdy folk awe and wonder transformed their battle-weary faces, they were no longer superstitious soldiers but devout believers and had gone from hating the Wood Elves to seeing in them powerful allies, perilous friends. They heard prophecy in his words and potent magic in the shimmer of elf-light clinging to him, imagining that energy filtering into Arison, now Egil Belêsjandô, where the long, lethal fingers touched him.

Aragorn stood beside his friend and watched all this, thinking the Men of Rohan were not entirely wrong about the sylvan folk after all. There was surely an influx of Legolas' vital essence pulsing through the child; the man could sense it easily and wondered how he had ever missed it when it pulsed through him. Of course, he was much more intimately acquainted with the character of the archer's soul-light now. There was a facet of Legolas that he and the elf shared and a corresponding aspect of his psyche that was open to the ellon as it had never been to anyone, not his previous lovers, nor his mother. Not even Lord Elrond with his grey eyes that razed through all lies, those the man generated to fool others and those he created to deceive himself, not even he saw Aragorn as clearly as did Legolas.

And yet, he is not invasive, will not pry out my secrets and examine them one by one, bringing me to shame for my flaws and frailties. He just accepts. In thinking this, Aragorn realised that what was given was what the elf needed in return, and this had been true from the very beginning. Life instead of death, light to conquer darkness, pleasure to soothe pain, love to conquer hatred. Could he love the elf enough to make him forget Dol Guldur?

"What say you, Selwyn, Sheriff of the East Wold? Is this naming acceptable to the horse-lords?" Legolas concluded, hand still clasped on the child's shoulder.

"It is, Legolas of the Woodland Realm," answered the Sheriff formally, bowing his head, finding nothing discordant about the juxtaposition of the ellon's noble bearing and his humble appearance, and then he faced the woman. "How say you, Brynja daughter of Dacre? Are you content for your son to bear this elvish name?"

"Content? I am honoured that a child of my blood and bone should be called this way. May this blessing spill over and benefit all my people," said Brynja and smiled through her tears at the elf.

Then Legolas took away his hand and stepped back, presenting the boy to his people.

"So let it be known throughout the Mark," announced Selwyn. "From this day forward, Egil son of Brynja is to be counted a man among us in all but years, as our friend Legolas says. He is to be trained as a soldier and a councilman, both, and enter under the protection of Theoden King since his father is no longer able to teach him the ways of our people."

"Hail, Egil Belêsjandô, son of Brynja!" shouted Caedmon and all the men took up the cheer, raising their lances high, and there was much merriment and congratulations and clapping the boy on the back.

As for Egil, he was able to look them in the eye without shame, for his dishonour was erased and he was now a ward of the King. He truly felt reborn, his hated father-self cast away like clothing that no longer fit. In his heart burned a fiery devotion and loyalty to these men that extended to all the folk of Rohan and in all his long years that followed this stalwart allegiance was never overmastered by any circumstance, no matter how dread. He became a bulwark against all enemies of Rohan and a mighty fighter to whom every soldier looked for reassurance, but today he had eyes only for the elf. Now it was his chance to speak and say his first words from his new heart, but he found it was too full to let anything out. Instead, he ran and threw his arms about Legolas' waist and squeezed and squeezed, grinning up into the bright blue eyes that looked down upon him.

"So, Egil Belêsjandô," said the elf, smiling. "There is another custom among my people that a naming must be more than a word. The word must become synonymous with the life of the person to whom it is given. This is done through blood and breath, through the fuel that gives the heart its rhythm and the air that gives the spirit voice. Are you prepared?"

"I am ready," announced Egil bravely, though his pulse jumped nervously. It had all been explained to him and he was not afraid of the pain, but feared to disappoint his powerful benefactor by flinching when the cut was made. Even so, he held forth his right hand steady and unwavering.

Sunlight glinted briefly on the dagger in Legolas' hand as it darted out and quickly nicked the skin in the centre of the boy's palm, incising marks deep into the flesh. The child sucked in a sharp breath, tears sprang to his eyes, and he bit down on his lip hard but made no cry. "These are the signs for 'fate' and 'gift', umbar and anna, for a name is both things at the same time. The gift is the summation of all the hope, love, and respect the giver holds for you, his or her idea of you complete." Blood welled up and he let it fill the child's palm, spoke over the liquid life. "Fate is the way the Music shapes those concepts, shapes you into a new incarnation of those hopes and dreams, unique. Now, claim both as your own, Egil."

"I am Egil Belêsjandô, son of Brynja, a man of Rohan." As he had been instructed, Egil spoke the words over the cuts in his hand, over the blood pooled in his palm so that he saw the surface of the red puddle shiver in the wind of his breath. Then he made a fist and turned his hand; the blood dripped into the dirt, a thin stream, and Legolas guided it, writing the new name with this precious ink upon the skin of the earth.

"Nasan," (So be it.) said Legolas, nodding in satisfaction and then he passed the boy to Aragorn who bound up the shallow cuts with salve and cloth.

"It is a sacred thing," the man told Egil as he did this, "and not often done for men. Even the name he gave me is only a word he calls me and nothing else. Yours is now part of Arda itself."

"And of Rohan," said the boy proudly.

"That it is," agreed Selwyn. He smiled on both his guests and motioned for them to follow him out from the crowd a ways. "For what you have done for the boy, I cannot begin to express my admiration and gratitude," he said to Legolas. "You will both stay for the feast we are making in your honour."

"We will be glad to stay," Aragorn said, offering Legolas a serene smile when the archer turned an exasperated frown upon him.

"I regret that this is not possible," Legolas objected politely, having no wish to remain in Rohan any longer.

"Please stay, Legolas, and let us honour you in this small manner. It is the very least we can do," coaxed Selwyn, matching Thorongil's expression as the elf turned on him next.

"I would think the least you could do would be to let me go in peace," Legolas snapped angrily. "Already I have been delayed too long."

"Legolas!" Aragorn chastised.

"You want to stay, stay," the elf growled and stalked away to find Tuilelindô.

"What is wrong?" Selwyn asked. "I was under the impression all was well with him after last night."

"I am not certain I understand you," Aragorn said, lifting a cautionary brow at his friend.

"There is no need for embarrassment," laughed Selwyn, "though the whole countryside heard you. I told you he would not easily let you go, nor do I think you would choose to have him permit another to take your place. Be at peace, we celebrate the healing of the rift between you, for surely now you will not let him from your side."

"I'm not embarrassed," insisted Aragorn, but he could not prevent the flood of colour to his cheeks. He strode off after the elf, Selwyn's rejoinder ringing in his ears:

"Aye, and you are only friends and not lovers."

He caught up with Legolas out in the meadow where the mare was grazing, unsure what to say. The archer stood in tense expectation staring at him with that same unreadable expression presented before. "I'm sorry if I spoke for us both; I should have asked you about this first. Selwyn told me about the celebration this morning while you bathed. They want to give us gifts: clothing and weapons for you, a horse for me, provisions for the journey. I thought it would show our goodwill if we accept these things."

"I don't care about that." Legolas' aura was verily crackling with annoyance. "I don't need their goodwill or they, mine. I need to go home, Aragorn. Will you go or stay?"

"You want me to come to Greenwood with you?" Aragorn asked. Here was the beginning of what he most feared: the elf thought their night of pleasure meant more than an exchange of comfort and elvish light.

"Yes. What say you?"

"I also have need to return to my home," Aragorn hedged. Somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to repeat that he did not love the ellon. For one, it was more a lie than truth. He did not know exactly what he was feeling anymore, some mixture of desire and what he could only call possessive admiration. For another, he did want to go, but balked at being given an ultimatum like this. "I could come with you through Anduin to the Forest Road, but my path takes me on into the west, to Eriador."

"I see," Legolas nodded, smiling, and there was no hiding the bitterness in his heart. "Healed by dawn." A sigh moved out of him, a soft little laugh at his own expense. "What of our bond?"

"I cherish it, Legolas."

"So prove it."

With this sombre challenge Legolas abruptly sprang upon the mare, golden mane and burgundy cape billowing out around him, and without need of command Tuilelindô leaped into motion. They sped away over the grassy meadow, rapidly diminishing with the distance before Aragorn could begin to object.

"Prove it?" he asked the empty air, incredulous. Legolas surely wouldn't go thundering away into the Wold without provisions and only the most rudimentary of garments, alone and unarmed. "If this is some ruse to make me come chasing after…" he raised his voice and yelled, but bit off the rest of the words as his heart stumbled violently. A dull, gnawing dread encircled the muscle and made his mind produce graphic images of the things that could happen to Legolas if he ran into a band of Orcs without his bow. Fear became anger; this was childish and irresponsible behaviour, no way to go about resolving this issue over the bond they shared. "Legolas! Come back here! I know you can hear me, you…you…" Aragorn struggled to compose the most offensive slur he could imagine about Wood Elves and drew a complete blank. "Wood Elf! Stubborn Wood Elf!"

"Hi there! Thorongil!"

The shout came from behind and Aragorn turned to see Selwyn running toward him, Caedmon and Bjorn and little Egil following. The rest of the soldiers were milling about with that unmistakable wariness that every warrior projects as muscles long trained came alert and readied themselves for action. Every set of eyes was fixed upon him in stern accusation. He groaned and found he no longer had any difficulty calling those invectives to mind. Selwyn reached him first.

"What has happened? Where is Legolas?" The Sheriff glared at Thorongil then peered over his shoulder, scanning the horizon. "What did you say to him?"

"Why do you assume this is my doing? He does not want to stay; I cannot stop him. I told you before not to be taken in by his fragile external appearance," barked Aragorn. "This is a wild Wood Elf we're discussing and they are not exactly the most rational of people." He deliberately raised his voice and faced out toward the horizon as he spoke the last words, hoping Legolas would hear.

"What has that to do with anything?" Selwyn snapped back. "Who can be rational in the face of such horrors as he has known?"

"Aye, and wild or not, even a Wood Elf needs a weapon to fight with and he has none," Caedmon admonished as he joined them.

"He has the long silver knife with the golden runes in the blade," corrected the boy, skidding to a stop beside the men. He looked from face to face and ended with Thorongil. "He gave me the naming dagger, but maybe the other knife is powerful, magical?"

"No need to fear," said Aragorn, setting his hand on the child's shoulder. "He's not in any danger. I'm sure he's waiting just beyond sight, daring me to go after him."

"Then why are you standing here? Go!" This from Bjorn, who was having difficulty deciding whether the moment called for a furious scowl or a grin big enough to make counting all his teeth a simple feat.

"Well, he can't go afoot," a new voice laughed. It was Brynja and the men turned to see her leading a fine charger over the field.

The horse was already accoutred for the journey, complete with a saddle pack stuffed with provisions and clothes for the elf. The stallion was as splendid a steed as the brothers had in their herd, coal black and glossy with a pure white star upon his broad brow, mane and tale of silver streaked with onyx strands, and one white fetlock on his right hind leg. He nodded his head impatiently, rolling the bit with his tongue so it jangled, dark eyes seeking and nostrils flaring as he marked the trail of the woodland mare. Then he gave a soft snort and butted the woman's back gently, eager to get on with it. Indeed, he was Brynja's own mount and his pedigree included blood of the Meara's, but since she'd hung up her shield to marry and bear young, the charger had not seen battle and chaffed for his old life.

"Here is a horse worthy of Lord Thorongil," said Brynja. "He is Azrubêl, see?" She touched the white spot on his head lovingly then shoved the leads against Thorongil's chest. "Take him. I charge you now, as a friend of our people, to go after the one who gave my son a noble destiny and guard his life as best you can."

"You are most generous," Aragorn said with great restraint, for really she was starting to sound just as bossy as her sister now that the pall of her husband's cruelty was removed. Who was this woman to charge him with orders and obligations? Still, this was a wondrous horse and he took the reins. "I am sure there is nothing to worry over and Legolas will return if we only wait a while."

"How sure?" asked Selwyn.

"Aye, what if he keeps on going?" asked Egil.

"He has to go past the Black Tower to get home; there will be Orcs waiting for him," Bjorn warned.

"Well, I'll go if you won't," threatened Caedmon and turned, issuing a shrill whistle. An answering neigh sounded from the barn. He cast a disparaging eye upon Thorongil. "I want to give him a bow and sufficient arrows to see him home."

"No need," growled Aragorn. "I will see he gets the bow." He mounted Azrubêl and settled his feet into the stirrups, glaring down at the young soldier coldly. "Where is it?"

"Here, Lord," said another soldier and Aragorn looked around to see they were all collecting in the field, each shoving and pushing to get close enough to hand him some gift or token for Legolas.

"I've a quiver of arrows."

"A water-skin; I saw he has none."

"Here's a kit of medicinal supplies in case he's hurt again."

"Take this blanket, Thorongil."

"Boots, Lord, and here's a cloak and shirt for you."

One by one they came forward and efficiently strapped these items down and Aragorn found he was deeply moved by their hope to undo the unkind words and accusations uttered against Legolas. Here were good, honest folk willing to own their wrongs and do what they could to right them. It did not sour their generosity to know Legolas had spurned them, for these were practical people who could perceive that the archer's wish to go home did not necessarily mean he despised Rohan. Had he not sworn friendship with Selwyn and forsworn his discontent at the same time? Once more, Aragorn was chagrined to realise his assumptions concerning Legolas' motives were rather less than charitable. It wasn't an ultimatum the elf had issued; he was just too proud to plead.

"I thank you," Aragorn said seriously. "I will make certain Legolas receives these gifts and I will not leave his side until he is safely under the Greenwood's branches once more."

"Go with our prayers and blessings," said Brynja and slapped Azrubêl hard on the flanks. The stallion bolted into a gallop and the men cheered as Aragorn was born away.




The sun dazzled, ready to sear the land again, but a light breeze blew from the north bearing hints of shadowed dells and cool, clear pools beneath mighty trees, but they were far away and the scents of the woods seemed a taunting tease. Here, the plain stretched out beneath the ruffling wind, an undulating sea of emerald licking at the boundary of earth and sky, green grass as far as elven eyes could see. So many, each blade minutely alive with the vibrant energy of Anor, so small, so singular, like leaves that had no tree on which to cling. Individually, these slivers of life rang notes in a primitive theme, basic and barely discernible. Individually they were nothing, like specks of dirt, but in the same way that those crumbs of soil formed the foundation of the forest, the very medium in which Tawar grew, so these blades combined framed an immense chorus, a glorious, resounding chord of beauty and strength that at once defined and deferred to the people living here. It was the Music of Rohan he heard and Legolas could not but marvel at its proud, majestic simplicity.

So different from the valley of the Great River where the wizard lives and the Beornings dwell, where the meadow lands are all shot through with scrubby oak and stands of willow, weedy with dandelions and daisies. The land has forgotten the horse-lords there.

Without his willing it, Legolas saw in his thoughts not the broad, lush valley that delimited his forest world but the dry, blasted fields of the Brown Land. Once the horse-people had lived there, too, but it was long years before his birth, and the war that had ravaged the place had left an evil residue so toxic the earth could not digest it. Nothing lived in Baran Dalf save insects and the rigid stalks of tan sabre grass; the only Song he'd heard there had been an unholy anthem of hate and war and death. That, and his own thrumming Music, so faint when played against that cacophonous cruelty, so faint, barely an echo. It was only that which had made his hiding possible. Like a single blade of grass in the desert, his soul had withered and could but twist in the blasting breath of Manwë's wrath, muted, his Song reduced to a solitary, repetitive note: the fragile, persistent rhythm of his beating heart.

How I listened!

For an immensity of time, or so it had seemed, there had been nothing else he could bear to heed. He could not permit his ears to record the other sounds that reverberated through the soil, slipping through roots and rhizomes to reach him, whispering of death and things worse than death, calling to him, calling him back to pain and blood and imprisonment. He would be safe there, hidden in the dark blackness, and none would ever see how he'd been marked, changed. He need never confront it there; he could let go and drift away, drown his Song in screams of agony and fountains of blood. Drifting…drifting.

Legolas gave a violent shudder and stifled a cry of fear, listened to his racing heart, gazed up into the blue expanse of heaven then out over the rippling grass. He was not in the dungeons of the Wraiths. Mithrandir had found him, got him free. Gradually the Song reached him and his pulse steadied.

Rohan.

He gulped air, breathed the scent of peace and freedom, and thought of the wizard's task. Mithrandir, who had made him see again, made him look, made him listen, and how he hated him for that. Mithrandir, promising that there was hope, that if he would trust to fate he would find hope again and be healed. The wizard had had to fill him with new Music then, for there was so little left of his own, and Legolas had screamed as the burning purity of the Ainu's Song scoured him clean but left him empty and trembling, unable to retain the Maia's light. Instead, he discovered a promise planted in his thoughts beside a memory of the future, a remnant few chords of a bold Song he'd never heard.

A man, a noble hero would charge through Baran Dalf and Legolas must be there to save him, for he was not supposed to be there and would surely die. Called there for no good reason, a wizard's whim. Save him, Legolas. Save him, save yourself, save Greenwood, save your mother, save him. The ideas revolved round one another, each a single note, a single step in a running scale, sharp when it rang with his mother's voice, brash with the man's tones. They made a frantic, manic melody in his mind and he listened to that as his light slowly kindled, so slowly. Thus Mithrandir had left him in Baran Dalf.

Unable to stop himself, Legolas turned and peered over his shoulder, looking for Aragorn.

He will follow; the bond will draw him. It must.

He faced forward again and nudged Tuilelindô into a trot with his knees for she was reluctant to hurry, sensing his agitation, but he would not just stand by and wait. He must be in motion when the man arrived, heading for home, could not seem to be fretting over their parting, must radiate indifference at Aragorn's appearance. Oh, he would follow now? That's nice, fine and welcome, Kalrô, you'll love Greenwood. Legolas smiled at this ridiculous scenario; the man would know. He would know and not be insufferably arrogant and smug over it, either. No, Aragorn would be troubled and reluctant, unwilling to claim what was so freely offered, unable to see that it was not a gift at all but a desperate soul grasping at him, trying to live and fulfil this one promise.

Perhaps he senses it and rebels to be used thus.

But Legolas was prepared to pay any price required to buy him. There was nothing he would not willingly give: mind and heart, body and soul, his loyalty, fealty, his very life if need be. He already loved him; how could he not? Who would not prefer to feel love and desire in place of hate and base lust? It was so easy to just let go and fall into the strength and beauty of that noble heart, to feel the vibrant flame that fuelled so bright a soul, so determined a mind, so certain a destiny. A healer, he gave light freely; a Numenorean, he would honour a life-debt; a man, he mastered his need and made his partner need mastery. Compassion, obligation, and the hungers of the body were all the man could give him now, but perhaps there would be more later.

He could learn to love me.

Legolas made a disgusted snort at this wistful hope, lips curled in a self-deriding sneer. Aragorn was a mortal man and sooner or later must bend to the instinct to make a family, to continue his life through the life of his children. When that urge overbore every other desire, then his elven lover would be gently sent away. Surely that is what made him hesitate to take what Legolas offered. He would make the man understand he did not expect love. Eternal friendship and the heat of this passion, however short lived its fire might be, these would be enough; he would make Aragorn see it.

Legolas knew this to be a lie; that could never be enough. He wanted to be loved and so he deceived himself. Compassion might ripen into devotion, obligation become affection, and desire arise from love as much as lust. He looked behind once more, anxious, for if Aragorn did not follow, Legolas was sure he would never get past Dol Guldur.

Then there will be no recourse but to kill whatever I can and die. Perhaps that is the better fate.

He shivered and felt a shadow creep over him. He could not take that path unless all else failed, for his solemn word was already given and he must not break that promise, though keeping it surely meant breaking a heart. Was that not a greater evil? And once it was done, what would become of him then? He didn't know if he could go over-sea, but neither could he stay in Greenwood anymore. Tuilelindô stamped and snorted in discontent, her master's mood infecting her with nervous dread. She turned, trying to go back to that comfortable stable and its abundance of grain, ears twitching back and forth.

"Daro, Tuilelindô, dartho," he said quietly, soothing her as she danced, but then he caught movement and caught his breath, watching. A dark shape crested the green horizon. A smile spread through his soul for it was a lone rider and could only be Aragorn. Now, he would wait for him and composed himself to do so, thinking on what he would say, but in the passing of mere seconds Legolas found he could not do it. With a bright laugh he sent the mare flying through the space between them, galloping to join the man, circling once around the mighty charger and drawing up beside them, Tuilelindô prancing in time with his happy heart. "Kalrô."

Aragorn grinned, hearing the mixture of relief, delight, and unbridled joy in the ellon's voice. "Legolas, that was rude, leaving me there to explain your behaviour to our hosts, but I guess I cannot fault you since I have been discourteous to you so often since we met."

"I am glad to see you, too," Legolas laughed. He reached out and touched the man's arm, missing the closeness they had shared before. Then he surveyed the horse and gear and lifted his brows. "This is fine regalia! The horse-lords must believe you are this hero Thorongil."

"I am Thorongil," Aragorn insisted, sitting tall and casting his new cloak back. "I have only recently come from Minas Tirith where I served with Thengel King of Rohan and the Steward Ecthelion. I am a mighty captain of men, Legolas, though I may not look the part just now."

"I never doubted it."

"Never? I seem to recall a few remarks to the contrary."

"You must admit that you do have a knack for attracting trouble, trouble that tends to spread and encompass those around you who are trying to get you out of trouble."

"I cannot account for it; usually I have better sense than to trail a pack of Uruks heading for a known fortress of Shadow."

"Alone," Legolas threw in helpfully.

"Aye, thank you," Aragorn dipped his head to acknowledge the inclusion. "Alone, without hope for reinforcements or aid from any quarter. Then I let the quarry catch my scent, too, and that is something that has not happened since I was a very young man."

"No?"

"No. I am rather famous for my tracking skills and I would consider it a great blessing if you would promise not to reveal that part of the story to anyone, particularly my brothers who went to some pains to train me to be such an exceptional huntsman."

"Your brothers?"

"Aye, Lords Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris." Aragorn watched to see how the Wood Elf would react to this and smiled at the expression of disbelieving shock that wiped the smile from Legolas' face. "You might have heard of them."

"I don't believe you," scoffed Legolas, but he could see the man was not prevaricating. "Name-dropping, really, Aragorn, must you resort to something so childish? Besides, I find you impressive in your own right."

"Yes, I noticed that," Aragorn grinned, but then he grew serious. "Why did you do it? You knew nothing about me except that I was fighting Uruks. Did Mithrandir tell you who I am? Did he send you there to save my sorry arse?"

"Ah, you figured it all out," said Legolas quietly, nodding, deciding not to enlighten the man further. Perhaps he would not like to know that the wizard diverted him from his normal mind-set so to save a single Wood Elf.

"You dropped enough hints," Aragorn shifted in his saddle and regarded the ellon critically, concerned that the wizard had given up this secret to someone he knew nothing about, a Wood Elf more likely to be prejudiced against the heir of Isildur. "Was that your way of repaying him for getting you out of Dol Guldur?"

"What? No, that can never be repaid." Legolas looked away; this was nearing dangerous ground he had no wish to cross just yet.

"Then why? You came out of cover to draw the fire of that Uruk archer. You might have died, Legolas." Aragorn reined back his charger and reached for the ellon's arm to stop him, too. "It was a very near thing."

"He said you were worth saving," Legolas shrugged in an attempt to make light of his actions. "I saw that it was so. It isn't as if I planned to be shot; I was just not fast enough. I was not fully recovered yet."

"Why did Mithrandir leave you, then?" Here was the main issue Aragorn had with the entire tale, for he would not have thought Gandalf would leave a wounded person alone in such a place. Something was wrong with the story. "Had he been there, he could have managed my rescue without need to endanger you."

"He is a wizard; they have their own reasons for the things they do, their own agendas." Legolas licked lips that felt as dry as summer leaves. He met the inquisitive stare with silent pleading but instantly realised that was a mistake, for the man's eyes took on a stubborn cast.

"Nay, there must be more than this. Why won't you answer me? Mithrandir told you who I am. Was it he who set you free or were you turned loose on purpose by the Wraiths?" It had suddenly occurred to the man that maybe the Nazgul had tortured the elf into revealing the truth about his heritage and then used the archer for bait. He did not expect his query to have such a strong impact on Legolas, for he did not intend the question to accuse him. Indeed, he considered the elf must be strong indeed to rally after all he'd endured and wreck the evil plot, giving no thought to his own peril.

"You accuse me of treachery, of serving the Shadow?" Legolas growled, face contorted in fury. He jerked his arm free of the man's hold and then backhanded him across the cheek. The report was loud, the force sufficient to throw Aragorn sideways as the horse shied away from the sudden motion. In vain he snatched at the pommel, but Azrubêl half reared and dumped him on the ground. Legolas leaped from his mare and drew forth the long silver knife the child had brought him, slipping it deftly under the rugged chin. "I saved your life and it means nothing, still the lie persists that my people are so easily turned to darkness. Why is it so impossible to believe I am incorrupt? You name me a confederate of the very creatures who put my mother in the breeding pits with their Orcs and Uruks and foul men."

"No, Legolas, that is not what I meant," Aragorn hardly dared breathe for the blade was already cutting his skin. He met the fiery eyes openly, hoping Legolas would have enough control to look and see the truth there. Seconds sped away into history and slowly the fury diminished, though it did not vanish. Another minute and both knife and elf retreated. It was the longest minute of Aragorn's life by far and for several minutes more he could only sit, hands a protective shield about his neck, watching the archer riding off alone.

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