Title: After The Storm
Author: girlwithtulips
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Bunny: #2 -rain at an inopportune time (very loosely) #16 - smooth, cool, wet, damp, "It's so cold!"
Rating: NC-17 - one short but graphic slash scene (Aragorn/Legolas)
Feedback: NO feedback please.
Summary: After Helm's Deep, a sick Aragorn finds himself doing the comforting
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Tolkien and New Line, unfortunately, but I have plans to kidnap the boys for my own enjoyment...
A/N: Happy birthday, tarotgal. You are so incredibly wonderful *hugs*

Aragorn had thought that the rain would never end. He had thought that the battle for Helm's Deep would never end, and they would spend a night-long eternity fighting against foes that knew no tiredness and gave no mercy. His whole body ached with a bone-deep weariness, but he took little notice. There was too much to be done. Too many injured to care for, too many friends to be buried.

He caught the stench of orc-bodies being burnt further upstream. There were too many of them to bury, even in mass-graves, and to leave them lying where they'd fallen was to invite corruption and pestilence to Rohan. His nose twitched in protest against the foul stink.

"Soldier," he said to a passing Rohirrim, not knowing the man's name and feeling a brief pang of guilt. His voice grated in his throat, which was raw from a night of yelling. "Burn the orc bodies downwind of us, not up."

The soldier looked doubtful for a moment, taking in the dullness of Aragorn's eyes and the woodenness of his voice, but apparently some vestiges of authority still remained.

"Yes, my lord." The soldier sounded resigned, but dutifully made his way towards the piles of carcasses waiting to be burned.

Aragorn watched him go until a sharp tingle in his nose made his breath catch. "HuhCHEH!" He rubbed impatiently at his nose. He had been sneezing since the dawn, infrequently at first, then more often as the day went on. It probably didn't help, he thought wryly, that he was wet, chilled, hurt and exhausted, but then, the same could be said of everyone still alive at Helm's Deep. And he certainly had more pressing matters to deal with than the beginnings of a slight sniffle. He scrubbed a grimy hand across his eyes, willing the steady pounding in his head to lessen.

"No such luck," he muttered.

"Talking to yourself is an early sign of madness," a voice behind him said, faintly tinged with amusement.

Aragorn blinked. "Eomer," he said, taking a split second longer than he should have to recognize the man.

Eomer frowned at his glassy-eyed gaze. "You are not seriously wounded, are you?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I am well."

They both knew that he was not, but they both knew that what he meant was that he was not so badly wounded that he could not endure it.

"What of you?" he asked Eomer in turn. "And what of Gimli, and Legolas?"

Eomer's frown of concern deepened. "It is Legolas that I wanted to speak to you about."

A bolt of fear shot through him, even though he would have thought that he was tired beyond feeling. "Legolas? Is he wounded?" The elf had seemed fine when Aragorn had seen him last, but the man's recollections were quickly growing hazy.

"Not in body," Eomer said slowly. "You can find him in the keep."

Aragorn managed a limping run up the rampart, urgency dulling his body's protests. The inside of the keep was littered with makeshifts pallets for the wounded. Their soft groans and the sharp smell of blood filled the air. Aragorn's unease grew.

"Legolas!" he called. A few men raised their heads to look curiously at him, but he ignored them. "Legolas!"

Not in the guardroom. Not in the infirmary. "Legolas Thranduilion! By the mercy of Elbereth, answer me if you are able!"

An old, stout soldier scowled at him. Bloody bandages obscured where his left eye should have been. He jerked a thumb towards the eastern corridor. "The mad elf? Yonder." Aragorn looked at the man's hands, calloused in all the wrong places. A farmer, not a soldier.

"Thank you," he said, suddenly humbled. The man deserved thanks, indeed, not just for Legolas' whereabouts, but for the sacrifice he had made to keep Rohan standing. "HahISHcheh!

The old man gave a dismissive grunt, but his expression was not unkind. "There's a time to look after others, and there's a time to look after yourself," he said shrewdly. "Eh? Don't you forget it."

Aragorn kept the irony from his smile, and thanked the man again.

There was a small room tucked into the end of the eastern corridor, smelling of the memory of herbs and spices. A narrow window set into the wall gave a view of the ? River. Legolas stood with his eyes fixed far beyond it, not turning even when Aragorn's footsteps were plain.

"A red sun will rise," he said, voice strangely choked.

"Legolas," said Aragorn softly. "Are you well?"

The elf turned, then. His skin was whole and unblemished, his silken hair untangled despite his exertions the night before. But his eyes –
his eyes were full of pain and despair, and for the first time since Aragorn had known him, Legolas looked as old as his three thousand years.

"How do you bear it, Estel?" Legolas whispered. "How do you bear the thought of mortality?"

"A'maelamin." Aragorn stepped closer, reaching to trace the curve of Legolas' cheek with his hand. A gesture offering comfort only, but Legolas turned away. It is too early for comfort, his eyes told Aragorn. Too early to do anything but endure.

"Sit," Aragorn urged him, motioning to the bed that was nestled against the wall. This had been a healer's room once, he saw. A cupboard occupied the wall by the door, and a sturdy workbench ran beneath the window. The faint scent of bitter herbs lingered. "HehCHISH! HahCHEHH!" He sniffed sharply, trying to rid the last of the itch that remained in his nose.

Some of the anguish in Legolas' eyes faded, replaced by concern. "Are you ill, Aragorn?"

Aragorn shook his head, still sniffling. "It is the smell of this place," he said wryly. The sharpness of Legolas' gaze did not lessen.

"Sit," he commanded, pointing to the same place that Aragorn had just done for him. "You look as if you are about to fall over where you stand."

"I am not – " Aragorn started to protest, but the sudden stiffness in his legs stopped him. He hobbled to the bed and braced an arm against the wall as he tried to sit, then thought the better of it. He hadn't stayed still for this long all day, and the stretched and torn muscles in his right leg had locked up. "I think I'll just stand," he said a touch breathlessly, wincing at the sudden stab of pain. Legolas was by him in an instant, strong arms supporting his weight as he lowered himself to the bed.

"Human foolishness," Legolas muttered, but his usual humor was absent. He sat next to Aragorn on the bed. "He is… he is dead, you know," Legolas said suddenly. The words were awkward, as if Legolas did not truly understand what he was saying. "Haldir."

"I know," murmured Aragorn. I know. I saw him fall, and I could not aid him.

"So many of us are dead," Legolas said, and Aragorn did not miss the sudden divide between them – so many of us are dead, meaning all those who fell at Helm's Deep, but referring to Elven-kind. He sniffled again, the persistent itch in his nose growing.

Legolas shifted restlessly, turning a long, slender hand over to absently study the palm. "A despair grows in me that I cannot withstand," he admitted softly. "I know not what to do."

"Grieve," Aragorn said. "For the comrades who fell, and…" He turned sharply away. "HahCHESH! HahISCHOO!" He rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand, lacking for a handkerchief and having no idea where to find one in the middle of Helm's Deep.

"Here," Legolas said, handing him a soft square of white cloth.

Aragorn looked at him in surprise even as he accepted it gratefully.

"I know you well enough to know that you will never think of bringing one," Legolas said dryly.

"What would I do without you?" Aragorn said lightly.

"Sniffle, no doubt," Legolas retorted.

Aragorn leaned closer to the elf, wrapping an arm around Legolas' shoulders as the tentative humor between them dissipated quickly. Laughter seemed out of place.

"Grieve," Aragorn told him again. "There is too much hurt to keep inside you. Release as much of it as you can."

"I don't know how," Legolas whispered.

It was true, Aragorn realised. Legolas had seen comrades fall in battle before, but to him, death was a hazard, not a certainty. He understood the cycle of nature in other things – in the trees, animals, lesser beings – but he had never thought to apply it to his own kind. And he had never seen war like this, had never been faced with the deaths of hundreds upon thousands of his kin, all in a matter of hours.

"Just let yourself feel," Aragorn said. "Even if it's painful. Even if you don't want to."

"Feel…" Legolas repeated. "I feel… afraid of living. Afraid of feeling, because if – "

"HuhChisheh! Huh…HahISHEW!"

Legolas frowned, watching Aragorn blow his nose. "You are ill," he said flatly.

Aragorn shook his head, rubbing at his nose with the handkerchief. "It is of no consequence. It is just a minor… a minor… – hehCHESHH! A minor inconvenience," he finished.

"It is not – " Legolas began, but Aragorn interrupted him.

"I am well, a'maelamin," he said gently, "but your spirit is troubled."

Legolas bowed his head, too wearied by grief and despair to protest. "Aye," he whispered. "How is it that you bear it, Estel, knowing with certainty that death waits for you?"

Aragorn was tired and hurt enough that he considered giving a dismissive reply, but the lost look in Legolas' eyes stopped him. He shifted into a more comfortable position, taking his weight off his aching leg, buying time as he considered the matter. 

"Mortality has always been more fearsome to those who are not subject to it," he said carefully. "Men are born knowing that, even as we are born, so we will die."

"But elves are not," Legolas said, so softly that Aragorn might have imagined the words.

"You are not," he repeated, his heart full of sorrow. He had been told of his father's death, remembered the tearing grief of his mother's passing. Had come to accept, grudgingly, that all Men die, and not the strongest love cannot keep them from it. But it was a new concept to Legolas, that all who he loved could die, and that even Elves were not immune from a Man's death in war.

"Does… does it hurt?" Legolas asked, sounding suddenly like a very small child.

Aragorn raised a brow and smiled. "Are you afraid?" he said lightly, because he was – gripped by fear that he could not promise that it did not, and petrified that Legolas – his elf, his mind thought defiantly – might meet such an end as that. Without warning, his eyes flickered shut, and his breath caught in his chest. "HehtCHEHH!"

"I am." Legolas' confession hung in the air. For a moment, neither of them knew what to make of it. "It's so cold," Legolas said, and Aragorn knew he did not mean the chill that lingered in the air from a night of rain. "So cold, that I begin to think that this emptiness inside will never fade. Ta naa sai ringwe!," he said again, a furious despair in his voice.

He abruptly cupped Aragorn's face in his hands and kissed him with savage efficiency. Legolas' breathing was ragged when they parted, and a fierce light shone in his eyes. The color in his cheeks was high, and there was a conspicuous swelling in his leggings.

"I need…" he said, and Aragorn understood. He had seen the battle lust many times in men – the desperate need to prove that they were still alive, when so many around them were dead.

"Amin naa lle." Aragorn watched as Legolas took a small bottle of oil from the shelf on the opposite wall. When Legolas unstopped it, the air filled with a bitter but sharply refreshing scent.

"HahITSCHH! HuhESHHeh! HehETCHHH!"

"Aragorn?" Legolas sounded concerned.

Aragorn shook his head, eyes fluttering shut again. "Heh… Heh… HAHTSCHOO!" He blew his nose with a sigh, and opened his eyes to see Legolas' worried expression. "Do not worry about me," he said with a small smile. I cannot help sneezing…" He trailed off, but gave his nose a forceful rub instead of succumbing again. "But I am ready, if you are…"

Legolas' eyes were hungry, but his hands were gentle as he helped Aragorn into position on the bed, mindful of the man's injuries. He was deft in unlacing the other's breeches, so that they could be pulled down, but not off.

Aragorn watched Legolas unlace his own leggings, his already full erection straining at the cords. Legolas reached for the bottle of oil, but Aragorn stopped him.

"Let me do that," he said, and his voice was huskier than just his tiredness could account for.

The oil pooled slick and cool in his palm. "HahISCHHeh!" Aragorn turn sharply away to sneeze, the pungent scent filling his already irritated nose. Without a free hand to reach for the handkerchief, Aragorn just sniffled, coating Legolas' erection with the slippery oil and trying not to breathe in too much of the smell.

The elf gave a half-muffled moan as Aragorn's hand closed around him, rough and calloused against his own smooth skin. He twisted as Aragorn continued his ministrations, pressing harder against Aragorn's movements as his need grew. Finally, he pulled away, breathing hard.

"Not…like that."

Aragorn nodded, trying not to sniffle. Legolas approached him from behind, rubbing his erection against the cleft of his buttocks.

"Ai… Elbereth," he managed, feeling himself harden at the touch.

"Ready?" Legolas murmured, slicking his fingers with oil.

Aragorn responded with a wordless sound of desire that answered better than words could have. Legolas pressed a finger against his entrance, but Aragorn jerked convulsively away. "HuhESCHOO!" He sniffled again, harder this time. "Again," he said hoarsely.

Legolas didn't hesitate, but inserted a finger in. Aragorn drew a sharp breath. When his body relaxed, Legolas added another one. And another. His erection was weeping now, milky drops gathering at the head. "Now," he grated, and pushed in with one smooth movement.

Light exploded in Aragorn's vision, and all he could feel was painpleasurepain as Legolas moved in him and his wounded leg bore their weight. A hand curled around his own neglected erection, and Aragorn groaned at the relief. Then Legolas moved against the sweet spot in him, thrusting up at the spot, and the pain was forgotten, lost with every other thought and sensation other than the feeling of Legolas being in him. His nose twitched in expectancy, but he wasn't aware of it, just turned away to sneeze harshly when it came, and the jerking of his body was followed by a hot rush and a muffled moan from Legolas that was as filled with loss as with release. A few moments more and Aragorn too found release, body shuddering as his breath came out in a long sigh.

He lay still, unmoving from where he'd collapsed when his legs had given way, cheek pressed to the rough blankets. What seemed an eternity later, he opened his eyes to see Legolas, also unmoving, stretched on the bed beside him. His dark golden lashes were damp.

Aragorn reached a hand over, movements sluggish and heavy, and reverently traced the line of his jaw.

"Are you well?" he asked, words more comfortable in the silence now.

Legolas opened his eyes, the darkness within them faded but not gone entirely.

"I will be," he said softly.

Aragorn leaned across and placed a gentle kiss on his brow. Legolas smiled, that love and life could indeed exist in times as dark as these.

"Thank you," he whispered, but Aragorn made a small sound of distress, attention clearly elsewhere.

"HehtCHEHH! HahISCHHeh! Huh…HahISHEW!" He paused, hands cupped over his mouth and nose, expression drawn into a frown. "Heh… HehISCHHeh! HehISCHHeh!"

Legolas handed him the handkerchief which had fallen to the bed, and waited as Aragorn drew a deep breath and wearily blew his nose. A sudden shiver wracked the man's body, and he tried to curl himself into a tighter ball to preserve warmth.

Legolas pulled the blankets over him, but Aragorn gave an involuntary cry as he brushed against his shoulder.

"Let me see that," Legolas said. Aragorn neither answered nor responded, so Legolas gently pushed the blanket away. Aragorn had removed his mail shirt earlier, which Legolas was grateful for. It would have been difficult to remove it now without causing considerable pain. Still, Legolas' eyes widened at the patchwork of bruises and cuts that marred Aragorn's body beneath his shirt. The gash on his shoulder was deep, blood still seeping slowly through the crude bandage. It looked as if it had been made over an older, shallower wound which was only just beginning to heal.

"That will need to be stitched," Legolas told him. He covered Aragorn with the blanket again and left to find some hot water and a needle.

Aragorn watched him go through heavy-lidded eyes. He could feel shock setting in now that the adrenaline which had kept him going had worn off. Small tremors shook his body, coming more frequently until he was shivering non-stop beneath the thin blanket. He was lightheaded, and his stomach suddenly threatened to lose its contents, even though he was fairly sure it was empty. A cold sweat broke out all over his body.

"There is not the time," he murmured, thinking of the destruction that lay outside the keep and all that was yet to be done.

"We will make the time," Legolas answered calmly, appearing suddenly beside him. "Be still, Estel. You are of no use to anyone in this state."

Legolas carefully cleaned the wounds on Aragorn's body, and washed away the blood and the grime that covered him. There was a shallow but jagged cut on his right thigh, which looked as if it had been made by a serrated blade. Legolas grimaced, and cleaned it as best he could. The sweet, clean scent of athelas filled the room, even though in Legolas' hands, it had no medicinal properties. But there was a wholesomeness to its fragrance that reminded them both of other forms of healing, of wounds other than those of the flesh, and they both felt invigorated by it.

A small candle stood on the table, and Legolas lit it, although its light would have been feeble to all but an elf. He passed the long, curved needle through the flame, and then through again. It grew hot to the touch.

"HahISCHH!"

Legolas blinked, momentarily distracted from threading the needle. "Are you finished?" he asked Aragorn, amusement almost-but-
not-quite showing in his voice. "You cannot sneeze while I am stitching this cut, so you may want to get any others over with now."

Aragorn gave him a dark look. "Stitch away, Elf; I will not interrupt your work." 

"Here," said Legolas, giving him a stout stick wrapped in several layers of leather.

Aragorn bit down on the stick, then bit down harder with a sharply indrawn breath as Legolas made the first stitch. He knew Legolas' hands were deft and gentle, but at that moment it felt as if he were being sewn up like a rag doll by ham-fisted orc. To make matters worse, the persistent itch in his nose grew worse. He bit down harder on the leather-wrapped stick, wriggling his nose and trying to concentrate on the pain in his arm. It was not quite what he wanted to focus on, but he knew that the pain would be markedly worse if he sneezed mid-stitch.

Legolas caught sight of his distress. "Three to go," he told him mildly. "I will count for you. Three… two… one and three quarters… one and a half… one and a quarter…"

Aragorn growled through the obstruction in his mouth, thoroughly cursing elves who could not even count backwards from three.

"One… a half… finished," said Legolas, neatly tying the final stitch.

Aragorn spat the stick from his mouth, chest already heaving.

"HuhCHESHH! HehISHHEW! HahISTCHOO!"

"Nice timing," Legolas remarked as Aragorn rubbed at his nose with the now-damp handkerchief.

Aragorn glared at him, but it was a half-hearted attempt. "Are you finished poking holes in me?" he asked hoarsely. He sat up gingerly, head swimming with the effort. "The fools are burning... burning the…" Black spots danced in his vision, his weary body refusing to obey him.

Legolas hurriedly put an arm around him, lowering his limp form back to the bed. Aragorn's skin was clammy to the touch.

"You are a fine one to speak of fools," he muttered, worry making him sound sharper than he meant to.

Aragorn gave a small grunt of amusement, which eased Legolas' concern somewhat. After a moment of hesitation, Legolas joined him in the bed, pressing close to Aragorn's body. The man relaxed against the sudden solid warmth at his back, and Legolas took comfort from Aragorn's presence.

Curled around Aragorn this way, Legolas was instantly aware when his body tensed.

"Huh...HuhITSCHOO!" This one sounded less restrained than the previous sneezes, as if Aragorn had given up fighting them. "HehESHHOO!" He sniffled again, and gave a sudden shiver.

"Are you well, Aragorn?" Legolas asked him gently, tucking the blanket tighter around them both.

Aragorn's head ached dully, and the fresh stitches in his shoulder stung and throbbed. He felt as though he were a scrap of metal which had been thoroughly hammered by a dwarf-smith, and thought that if he wasn't so exhausted, he'd probably have to sneeze again.

Faintly, outside the keep, he could hear the sounds of Men and Elves, cleaning away the last of the destruction from the battle. Beside him, Legolas shifted slightly, wrapping his arms around Aragorn and encircling him with warmth and love.

He didn't open his eyes, but a ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "I will be," he murmured.

~~~~

A'maelamin – Beloved
Amin naa lle – I am yours
Ta naa sai ringwe! – It's so cold!