Chapter Text
The journey back to Minas Tirith had been long but otherwise uneventful. Aragorn and Legolas rode at the head of the small party, a mix of Gondorian knights and Elven companions who had accompanied them on the diplomatic mission to Esgaroth. The King had maintained his usual commanding presence, speaking warmly to his people and leading with steady determination. Yet, as the days stretched on, Legolas began to notice small changes in his friend.
At first, it was nothing more than a slight hesitation when Aragorn mounted his horse or a wince when he shifted in the saddle. Legolas chalked it up to the demands of the journey—Aragorn, after all, had spent years as a ranger and was no stranger to physical hardship. But as they neared the southern borders of Ithilien, the signs became harder to ignore. Aragorn seemed quieter than usual, his responses slower, his movements lacking their usual fluidity.
Legolas rode beside him, his sharp eyes catching the tightness around the King’s mouth as they traversed a particularly rocky pass. “You are quiet today, Aragorn,” he said softly, keeping his tone light.
Aragorn glanced at him, offering a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just thinking about the council awaiting me in Minas Tirith. It seems diplomacy never truly ends.”
Legolas didn’t press further, but the seed of concern had been planted. He watched his friend more closely over the next few days, noting how Aragorn’s gait grew slower when they stopped to camp and how his hands sometimes trembled as he reached for his sword or his food.
It was on the sixth day of their return journey, as they camped near the Anduin, that the truth could no longer be ignored. Aragorn sat at the edge of the firelight, his posture tense and his face pale. Legolas approached him, his soft footfalls barely stirring the grass.
“Aragorn,” he said, his voice low enough that the others wouldn’t overhear, “something is amiss. Tell me what troubles you.”
For a moment, Aragorn didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the river’s dark waters. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want to worry you—or anyone—but... something is wrong.” He glanced at Legolas, his expression lined with pain.
“I’ve felt it for days now. It started as a soreness, nothing more, but it’s worsened. My body aches as if I’ve been in battle, though I’ve done nothing more than ride.”
Legolas crouched beside him, his sharp blue eyes scanning Aragorn’s face. “Why did you not speak of this sooner?” he asked gently, though there was no reproach in his tone.
“I thought it would pass,” Aragorn admitted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “But it hasn’t. It’s... spreading. The pain is everywhere now. My strength is fading, Legolas, and I do not know why.”
Legolas frowned, his worry deepening. “Does anything else ail you? Fever? Chills?”
Aragorn shook his head, though the motion was sluggish. “No fever. Just this... weakness. As if something inside me is draining my strength.”
The Elf placed a steadying hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, feeling the subtle tremor beneath his touch. “You should rest tonight, truly rest. I will see to it that no one disturbs you.”
Aragorn hesitated, pride warring with exhaustion, but eventually, he nodded. “Thank you, mellon nîn. I trust you to keep this quiet. The men mustn’t know.”
Legolas helped him to his feet, noting how Aragorn leaned against him more heavily than he’d expected. Together, they made their way to the King’s tent, Legolas ensuring Aragorn lay down before stepping back. “I will keep watch,” the Elf promised, his voice steady and calm.
Aragorn gave him a faint smile. “You always do.”
But as Legolas settled outside the tent, his mind raced. Something was wrong with his friend, something beyond the ordinary ailments of travel. Whatever this was, it would require answers—and soon. For now, though, his priority was clear: to keep Aragorn safe and shield him from the weight of his own burdens.