"Heart's Edge"
by JT
chalice@paper-jungle.com

As Aragorn numbly appraised the two elven bodies left splayed on the
forest floor, a single thought flitted through his mind: they had
died too easily.

The marks of their capture were clear enough. Beyond bruises, claw
and blade marks, rope burns and other abuse, one had had his eyes
gouged out and the other was missing a hand and fingers from the
other. The damage was appalling, especially when it marred the
beauty of one of the Firstborn; any injury caused to an elf had
always seemed sacrilegious, to have something so perfect ruined
through conscious intent an incomprehensible maliciousness, and
after the first flush of surprise had faded, fury had quickly
flooded in to replace it. And yet, Aragorn knew that it could have
been much worse. The disfigurements showed that the orcs had begun a
much rougher play than they usually engaged in while out in the
open, especially at the speed that they were traveling. It was odd
that they had merely stopped there to mete out relatively quick
deaths - one neck snapped and the other's throat crushed - when
Aragorn was quite sure that they had yet to realize someone was
following them.

*Unless it was not them, but someone else who had dealt the merciful
end.* Aragorn's eyes narrowed as he stood, eyeing the direction in
which the orc band had gone, obvious in the wide trail of trampled
vegetation. He had suspected that there were captives from the signs
of old campsites, such as they were...something was driving the orcs
so that they did not even bother with stripping wood for fires,
herding them along like so much cattle so that they stopped only for
shelter and sleep. Something bigger, fiercer, and far more canny. It
was in these rough rest areas that Aragorn had found signs of
trussed bodies, small struggles rapidly quelled...and fresh blood,
from something other than forest game that might have had the
misfortune of crossing the path of a tired and short-tempered orc.

It were these signs that had persuaded him to follow the large band
rather than turn away to spread the warning when he had crossed its
leavings a handful of days ago. While intellectually he knew he
would be meager aid to those within the orcs' grasp, his heart was
loath to abandon them. Rationalization argued that with such an
obvious trail, others would discover their presence soon enough and
carry out the task of warning without his help, and surely little
hope for the captives was better than none at all. Thus far, the
orcs had been headed on a path straighter than a bird's flight
leading directly southwest, one of their most puzzling behaviors by
far, but reassuring insofar as they did not appear to be roaming for
the exclusive purpose of raiding. Pushing - or being pushed - the
orcs were setting a pace that even the ranger had found himself
straining to catch up with after a two day handicap. Currently, he
put himself as being no more than one or two hours behind the orc
band.

*More like half a day, after my task is done,* he sighed to himself
as he cast his eyes about. He did not want to leave the bodies lying
where they were, but if his suspicions were correct, that there were
still captives left and it were they that had granted the unknown
elves the final mercy, he did not have time to convey the remains to
one of the remaining elven sanctuaries. He did not have the tools to
bury them deep enough in the earth to keep scavengers from trying to
uproot them, and a fire large enough and hot enough to consume them
would draw far too much attention. Thus, the only option left to him
was a cairn, and thankfully, there were enough stones strewn about
that he felt he could construct a sizeable enough pile to deter
carrion eaters.

As he worked, he couldn't help going over what he remembered of the
orcs' resting sites once again, carefully cataloguing each clue that
his mind's eye roamed over. If he was not mistaken, there had been
at least four distinct depressions in the dirt, always in the center
of the camp, of the size and shape of bodies that were lighter than
that of the creatures he tailed. Two of them, he was undoubtedly
burying now.

Of the remaining two, he didn't know whether he preferred to
eventually find alive - or dead and beyond any torment that was
delivered to those that had the audacity to keep the orcs from their
entertainment.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

It had taken a little longer than he had expected to arrange the
burial of the two elves to his satisfaction, and ever conscious of
the passing time, he had cast a sinfully hasty blessing and prayer
over the mound of stones before taking up the trail again. His heart
ached for the fallen, but the knowledge of the fair race's
diminishment by such violent means was balanced by the knowledge
that he might be able to keep it from dwindling by two more.

That day he shaved another hour off the time he would have rested,
and gnawed on what dry stores he had brought with him to appease the
bite of hunger as he jogged. In the wake of the orcs' tumultuous
passage, the forest was eerily silent, and he found no chances for
using his bow to supplement what he carried. It was hope that muted
the demands of his body, the hope that he might still be able to
make a difference to the remaining two captives, and he would be
damned if he would let them remain in the foul beasts' grasps for a
minute longer than they needed to be.

He stopped abruptly, tilting his head as some indefinable warning
ghosted across his senses. The orcs had been taking advantage of the
night's darkness as much as possible, but whatever drove them was
relentless enough to try for the early morning and dusky evening
hours as well, wringing every last possible travel time from that
which was allotted. Now, it was still the pitch black of night with
the wan light of a half moon and its attendant stars; there was
still some time left before the sky began to blush with the first
hints of dawn, though Aragorn sensed that it was not too far off. If
he had followed a normal band of orcs, he would have expected to
hear evidence of their search for shelter at this time...which he
did, and that was what most disturbed him. Considering what he knew
of their behavior, it was still too early for the ones he followed
to be searching for bedding already. Yet now, with a few more
furtive steps, he could hear the distant whisper of orcish grunts
and hisses without the accompanying cacophony of their travel.
Taking a deep breath, Aragorn shed his small travel pack, but took
care to secure his hunting bow, quiver, and sword before gliding
carefully through the sparse underbrush.

It did not take him long to maneuver to the edges of the band, and
as he hunched down behind the meager cover of a scrub ringing the
base of a tree, he pulled his bow carefully over his shoulder,
reflexively testing the string with a soft pluck of fingertips while
his eyes searched through the intermittent weave of twigs and
leaves. Shifting every so often when his view was obstructed,
careful not to lean against any of the autumn's dry foliage that had
already fallen at his knees, he tried to tally the number of orcs
that were gathered between the trees while running over the estimate
he had been keeping over the last few days from the trail they had
left behind -

*By Elbereth...* he nearly breathed aloud, unconsciously freezing in
place. Something stood boldly in the center of the dark, huddled
shapes scattered across the forest floor, something that was most
certainly *not* an orc. He could not quite suppress the slither of
cold down his spine as he stared at the thing - what could have
possibly produced it? Orcish in aspect, dark-skinned and ugly, it
nevertheless stood tall - towering - over its "brethren", straight-
backed and arrogant. Its body was thick with knotted muscles, more
like a man's physique than the twisted frames of those that
surrounded it...but most worrisome of all, Aragorn could see the
glint of real intelligence - rather than an orc's simple cunning -
that directed the slitted gaze over the forest, could see the
unusual discipline in patiently timed sniffs when it sampled the
air, broad arms crossed over a chest clothed only in afterthought by
a thick, leather jerkin; a minimal armor.

This was, without a doubt, what had been driving the orcs that now
lay about the temporary camp in various states of panting,
disgruntled weariness. Even now, it was poised on the balls of its
feet, tensed and ready...waiting. It had stopped only now, to wait
for...what?

A sudden scuffle drew Aragorn's head to one side, and he shifted
cautiously in the detritus to peer through another thinning of the
foliage, only to catch his breath a second time. Three orcs had been
drawn into a knot of hisses, growls, and only the occasional grunt
that might be a word or phrase in their own language. Arms and legs
lashed out, and while some connected with one or the other as they
contended amongst themselves, it was primarily something else that
groaned between them, that finally released a choked cry before,
bored, the orcs slowly drifted away...something that gleamed pale
and dull gold in the moon's weak light, limp and gasping.

*Aiee...* Aragorn silently mourned, closing his eyes briefly before,
steeling himself, he forced himself to open them again and examine
the prisoner's plight in detail.

The elf was not only ragged in appearance, but somehow *frail* in
spirit, his body held awkwardly from bonds and pain and the
beginnings of a despair that no longer cared for comforts, no matter
if it be as simple as a shift which might put a limb at a less
painful-looking angle. The once utilitarian but elegantly crafted
leathers and cloth hung in tatters upon the slender frame, blade and
claw marking not only garments but the skin that lay beneath. Even
if his attire had not betrayed his origin, the tangled braids
declared the elf as a Mirkwood scout, falling about a face hollowed
and pinched with strain. A face...that seemed more and more familiar
by the second, and when he finally realized who he was staring at,
Aragorn had to bite down on his lip to keep back his consternation.

*Legolas Thranduillion!* Oh, this did not bode well. Aragorn had
seen the youngest prince on two other occasions, both times at
Rivendell when Legolas had been on his father's errands. They had
even exchanged a few words, and Aragorn found the elf more
approachable than most of his compatriots, if somewhat prone to the
imperious air of aloofness that the woodland king was legendary for.
Nevertheless, Aragorn held at least a tentative respect for the elf -
Legolas acted as emissary while his two older brothers were kept
close, but the only sign of his status was the deference of those
that accompanied him. He dressed the same as they all did, and wore
his weapons with the confidence that only an expert skill that
required no bravado could display. What impressed Aragorn the most,
however, was that after only an initial, startled stiffening, the
prince had displayed no hint of disdain when he had been introduced
to the human without warning when they passed in the halls with
Elrond in attendance, even consented to grip Aragorn's arm in
greeting when the man had thrust out a testing hand. As a child,
Aragorn's foster brothers had delighted in relating tales of
Mirkwood's famed inhospitableness toward strangers and other races -
tales that were not so far from the truth, even if they were a bit
more lurid in detail. While he would not see any of the Firstborn
lost, if *this* particular Firstborn should perish...

*Oh, but what the beasts have done...* The prince's pride was
nowhere in attendance now, with his hands bound behind him, each
breath taken with the short, gasping jerks that hinted at deeply
bruised or broken ribs. In fact, though there was just enough
awareness tensing the lean limbs to indicate consciousness, the
elf's unnatural stillness worried Aragorn as to the extent of his
true injuries - until there was a movement *behind* Legolas. And
another, darker blond head made itself visible with a shift before
it moved once again out of sight, behind the bulk of Legolas' body.
*Of course. There had been four prisoners, and only two bodies...*
And now, his gaze sharpening, Aragorn noted that those sharp,
rhythmical movements were not all due to labored breaths. Legolas
was struggling with something behind his back... *Perhaps his bonds?
No, the other's bonds, at that angle...in the middle of a pack of
orcs? While wounded and alone? Is he mad?*

No, not mad; just desperate. Gritting his teeth, Aragorn threw one
last, helpless look across the numbers spread around the orc-like
monstrosity before he took a deep, resigned breath to steady himself
and eased his weight back onto his toes, preparing himself to move
to a more advantageous position from which he might get the chance
to take down as many from a distance before resorting to the sword.

Any other movements, Legolas' as well as his, were forestalled at a
loud snort from the non-orc, its head lifting like a hunting hound's
as it turned to focus on something to the south. The other orcs
bestirred themselves as well, all turning to look warily in the same
direction, before the non-orc abruptly grunted out instructions and
loped off without a backwards glance. Looking at one another, a
ripple of discontented grumblings disturbed the orcs' ranks before
half of them pushed themselves to their feet, wearily following
their leader deeper into the trees.

Aragorn stared at the suddenly reduced numbers incredulously, barely
able to conceive of his luck. Throttling down an urge to dive head-
first into a direct confrontation now that the odds were less than
purely impossible, he sternly warned himself against over-confidence
as he began to move into the position he had originally intended, a
pair of trees whose bases had melded as they grew to form a broader
expanse near the thickest knot of orcs. He had a chance now to pick
off the majority of what remained behind before he either ran out of
arrows or they got too close...

*I knew it wouldn't last,* he bemoaned when a screech nearly
surprised him into dropping the arrow he had been preparing to nock
against the string. His gaze whipped toward the two prisoners and
the guard that had given the alarm, to see that the unknown elf that
had lain behind Legolas had rolled over to work on the prince's
bonds. Perhaps galvanized into sloppy action by the fresh hope of
fewer orcs, the elf's slip was proving a costly one as he was forced
to defend Legolas against the nearest orc rather than finishing his
work on the crude ropes. "Tahlion!" Legolas cried, kicking out his
legs, tripping the orc while his companion wrestled its sword away
during its distraction and slit its throat.

Tahlion did not reply as he set himself resolutely before his
prince, his stance swaying ever so slightly. Aragorn wasted little
more time, a cold fist of alarm settling at the bottom of his
stomach upon seeing the elf's visible faltering. Tahlion would not
last long in his current condition if he judged the signs aright, no
matter if the elf looked little worse than Legolas did; Aragorn was
all too aware of internal injuries that could kill with no outward
symptom until the fatal moment. Foregoing the cover he had intended,
the man simply drew back and released the arrow before sprinting
toward the cover he had been headed for. His intent to draw the
orcs' attention away from the elves worked almost a little too well;
with the main huddle of the remaining creatures clustered closer to
him, they turned with a roar toward the greater perceived threat,
the shriek of blades being unsheathed joining their cries of rage.

Praying that the other orcs had traveled out of earshot by now and
would not be warned into rejoining them by the ruckus, Aragorn
flinched at the whistle of arrows flying far too close for comfort,
his breath stuttering in his lungs as he finally reached the twinned
trees with nothing to show for his recklesness but a scuffed palm
that he had used to stop his momentum before he could run face-first
into the bark. Pressing his back to the trees' reassuring solidness,
he took a deeper breath, held it, and then swung around the left
bole, aiming smoothly for the source of one of the arrows - then the
other - and then had to duck back again before the third and last
archer could pin him in turn.

Even as he reached for another arrow and then stepped out once more,
he kept an ear tuned to the sounds of blades clashing, the furious
defense that was being made by the one Legolas had called Tahlion.
He silently urged the metallic tempo not to falter as he wasted one
arrow and then finally managed to catch the orc archer with the
next, and settled himself into the smooth rhythm of draw and release
to pick off as many of the creatures as he could before he was
forced to drop the bow in favor of his sword.

Only six left. Five, when the first to reach him raised its sword
too high in overconfidence upon spying a single swordsman and found
itself gutted, its killer already stepping past before shock
collapsed its legs. Keeping his back firmly against the wide support
of the trees, Aragorn cast a hasty glance toward the beleaguered
elves as he expertly forced the remaining orcs to come at him no
more than two at a time, reflexes ingrained by the harshest
taskmasters that Rivendell had to offer making the task almost
instinctual.

Legolas had managed to bring his bound hands before him with the
distraction, though there was little else that he had been able to
do since then. His frustration was visible as he was constantly
pushed back along with Tahlion by two orcs trying to subdue them,
any motions the prince tried to make toward the fallen orc's weapons
foiled by its still living compatriot. One dive, more daring than
most, earned him a slash across his shoulders before he could quite
dodge out of the way, and as he staggered, Tahlion hastily
disengaged to cover his back as the orc tried to take advantage of
Legolas' momentary weakness. A little too hastily. Legolas was saved
from a stabbing, but his companion's former opponent recovered with
alarming swiftness to slide its blade between Tahlion's ribs.

Aragorn's blood ran cold, and his sword-work faltered at the sight.
The sting of a blade's edge sliding across his thigh forced his
concentration back to his own battle, and he beat back their swords
with renewed vigor, lips peeling back in a soundless snarl. *Four
more...no, just three more...* A cry of rage drew his attention
inexorably back to the elves' plight, and what he saw prompted him
to push himself savagely away from the trunks that had shielded his
back, catching another orc by surprise and dispatching it while
earning himself only a superficial cut across the forearm he had
recklessly used to try and bat away its stroke with by the flat of
the weapon's blade.

Legolas was alone, now. Tahlion had sagged to the earth, his sword
still half-embedded through one of the orcs' necks while he had been
run through in turn by the last remaining one. Desperately grasping
the weapon, visibly fading, he nevertheless refused to give up the
blade from his body while the orc struggled, and now the prince -
hands still tied, looking more like wraith than living flesh with
wide, staring eyes in a bloodless complexion - screamed incoherently
and threw himself bodily toward the creature.

Desperate, the orc gave up on the sword to draw a knife from its
belt instead, and Aragorn blinked in surprise. The blade keened a
high, pure note as it slashed toward Legolas, as if in violent
protest of its wielding, nothing but a blur as it sketched its
length through the air. Though its shape was not clear, its
afterimage was a bright, clean arc of silver, cold and glittering
like starlight - a blade of an obvious quality far beyond anything
he would have expected a creature like it to be carrying.

The distraction was nearly enough to get Aragorn decapitated.
Ducking just in time, he drove into his opponent with a wordless
snarl, cutting the orc down and clearing himself some breathing room
with a wild swipe of his sword before taking another, hasty glance
over his shoulder.

Legolas dodged the first few swipes with feral ease, snaking just
outside of the edge with an almost preternatural awareness of its
exact reach. If Aragorn could not see the visible evidence of the
wounds himself, he would never have believed that the elf was in
anything but the best of health, a warrior at the height of his
skills. It was the unthinking, instinctive grace of a wild animal,
sheer reflex directing the eye and body to slide out and around the
deadly gleam of reflected moonlight.

Momentarily hypnotized by the macabre weave of light and shadow, the
edge of blade and bared teeth, Aragorn belatedly blocked a swipe by
his last remaining opponent, the shock shivering all the way up to
his shoulder. *Dodge, break off, run!* he silently pleaded with the
elf when a slash shaved too close to the elegant slope of a fair
cheek, bright red droplets scattering along with a translucent skein
of white-gold hair, strands spread fluttering at the violent passage
of the knife that had freed them. *Run!* Aragorn cried within, even
as he hacked violently at the last orc standing in his way,
discipline lost to the mindless need to simply get past. *Just a
little longer...just a little longer, until I can reach you...one
last - that's it, it's dead! I'm coming...*

The orc's howl snapped the ranger's horrified gaze up from his
killing stroke. Frustrated, the orc fighting Legolas had flung
itself toward its seemingly defenseless opponent, disregarding all
caution in its supposedly superior position, long knife leading in
an overhand arc. Aragorn raised his voice in unison when Legolas did
not retreat this time - did not falter due to weakness or shock -
but actually lunged forward with *conscious* intent and a savage
twist to his right, directly into the weapon's path.

Aragorn had lived amongst elves, had been raised by them and
alongside them in the arts of war as well as culture. He had
skirmished with his brothers, the twin sons of the lord of
Rivendell, as well as with the other illustrious instructors that
dwelled in his adopted home, and knew by the map of bruises and
shallow scars he had accumulated throughout his years of training
just how deadly fast a warrior of the Firstborn could be. But today
he saw desperation and a feverish madness drive an Eldar to a speed
that snatched the remainder of his breath away; the elf's actions
were interpreted more in recollection than in actual observation,
and even then Aragorn might have doubted his senses if not for the
clear evidence of the results.

The elf allowed the knife to land, let it sheath itself in his
shoulder before wrenching violently away. A foot blurred up while
the orc's hand lingered one fatal moment too long, striking even as
he fell back, and the dry *snap* of a breaking limb resounded
through the clearing. The orc reeled away, retracting its broken arm
from the pearl-white handle of the knife, its face twisted and mouth
opening on a shriek of fury or pain that was never voiced. Instead,
all that emerged was a wheezing gurgle when the elf whirled with the
momentum of his strike, dragging the knife from his own flesh in the
same motion to completing the circle and slice its edge across the
orc's throat, the entire impetus of his body behind the blow.

Nearly cut completely through, the orc's head flopped back limply on
its neck as it fell, white bone gleaming dully through the gaping
black edges of the wound.

Legolas did not move for one long moment, frozen in the crouch he
had ended his stroke in. His features were still fierce and savage
from battle, shoulders heaving for breath while black and red blood
dripped mingling down his cheek. It was only when the soft,
distressed gasps of the mortally wounded registered through the
abrupt quiet that the ferocity began to ease. Replaced by the slack
numbness of shock, flickerings of a depthless fear struggled to
assert itself over the besmirched face, the knife slipping from limp
fingers and tumbling noiselessly onto its side, quiescent once more.
*An elvish long blade,* a remote corner of Aragorn's mind
catalogued. Perhaps kept as booty, its craftsmanship unmistakable
even at a distance now that it was no longer just a quicksilver
flash.

The elf staggered upright, glancing forlornly over his shoulder,
before limping heavily toward the body of his sole surviving
companion, weaving precariously all along the way. Aragorn took one,
uncertain step toward them before he faltered to a stop, his heart
aching.

Tahlion was not yet dead, but it was clear he would not survive long
either. Blood tainted the pale lips with every rasping breath, the
rise and fall of the pierced chest already dangerously shallow and
erratic. Legolas sank awkwardly to one knee with an almost absent
wince, reverently gathering one hand and then the other between his
own bound ones, clasping them to his chest as he bowed low over his
ailing companion, his own hurts temporarily forgotten.

"Tahlion...Tahlion, open your eyes. We are free. Open your eyes and
see the brightness of the stars, see how they welcome you with their
light and song..."

The words were whispered on the thready remains of a voice ravaged
by screams and sorrow, the dying murmur of a lonely breeze wending
between riverside reeds. Tahlion's brows tensed, the flutter of
lashes reluctant, but with the continuous spill of Sindarin words
that were produced less for their meaning than the magnetic draw of
the liquid syllables, they eventually rose, revealing dark, hollowed
eyes.

"T-Tahlion..." Legolas stumbled on the name as he noticed the
change, a fragile thread of hope emerging as his grasp tightened on
the captured hands. "Tahlion, come, we must go before the rest of
the orcs return - "

"...no..."

Legolas flinched as if he had been struck, a hint of the desperate
fury returning in the grimace of teeth bared before he continued
insistently, "No, Tahlion, do not speak, save your strength. I am
afraid that this will pain you, but we *must* move..."

"No..." Tahlion winced, turning his head aside as he choked, but
managed to recover with a rattling cough before Legolas had time to
do more than cry his name once again. "...Leg-Legolas...you must
leave...without me."

"*No.*" The single word was weighted by so many emotions and demands
that it was a wonder it left no physical mark when it struck. "You
cannot have forgotten of Vallaniel already! She waits for you, your
wife, your beloved! You *must* return..."

Tahlion's eyes slipped closed once more as he wearily tugged his
hands loose, Legolas' grip falling away at the motion. "My
Vallaniel..." he sighed, the words shaped more by chill lips than
voice. "Do not...blame yourself. You have...freed all of us..."

"I have not!" Legolas denied, curling in on himself with a moan. "I
have only allowed you all to be killed, and even joined in the
slaughter of some! It was no mercy, it was weakness! Please,
Tahlion...do not leave me, or I will follow you, I swear..."

"Foolish...whelp..."

"Fight me, but do not leave...come, Tahlion!" Perhaps there was a
bit of madness in the blank blue gaze, that drove Legolas to try and
prop his companion upright with his hands still bound before him.
Certainly, whatever reason that might have stalled him from moving
such a gravely injured companion was firmly overruled...or, rather,
not present at all.

Tahlion's face twisted on a soundless cry, lacking the breath to
voice it as he was jarred. But the pain seemed to galvanize him, the
same desperate strength that had taken a hold of his prince imbuing
him with a temporary energy as well. "Stop...listen! I charge...you,
Legolas...with a last desire."

"Do not speak of last desires, for you will most assuredly make
more - "

"Will you...deny me peace...even now?"

Legolas froze, face shaded by the tangled curtain of his hair.

"Give...my Vallaniel...my regret...and one last kiss...please..."

Visibly trembling, Legolas raised his head, staring with unmitigated
horror at the bloodless features of his companion. Denial was still
there, but only the unreasoning, unreserved withdrawal of a child
that could bear no more, defeated and broken.

With the wooden, graceless movements of a body whose spirit had
already departed, as if he were the one to receive the fatal wound
rather than his companion, Legolas rearranged Tahlion's body into a
modicum of comfort, cupping shaking hands about the other's face. "I
shall - " His voice broke, and he swallowed heavily as Tahlion's
breath stuttered. "I shall do so, Tahlion...and grant hers in her
stead."

As Legolas leaned over and pressed his lips gently to his
companion's, Tahlion's body stiffened, and released a final sigh.

Aragorn took two, stumbling steps forward before halting in
helplessness, boots scuffing loose pebbles scattered in the earth.

Legolas did not notice. The elf gradually released the kiss,
touching his forehead against the deceased's for two long heartbeats
before he slowly leaned back, tilting his head up toward the
velveteen sky, eyes tight-shut as if to deny himself even the
distant comfort of the stars. Muscles worked in his throat and jaw,
as if he were gathering himself for a lament to expel his grief, or
a dirge to help guide the departed spirit. Almost, almost Aragorn
hoped that one or the other would emerge - though it might draw
danger to them the faster should they linger for too long; though he
would have to suffer through the strains of grief made too-palpable
by a Firstborn's haunting voice.

But there was no song, and there were no tears. As he stared at the
terrible scene, Aragorn wondered why the skies did not crack open
and rain their sorrow upon the upturned face.