Title: Love's Labor's Lost

Author: Isys ([email protected])

Rating: PG-13

Genre/s: Slash, Angst, Romance, Semi-AU

Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn

Summary: Set in TTT movie, in the middle of the battle in Helm's Deep, right up to the early events of RotK. The wall has been breached and Aragorn temporarily loses consciousness... but forever loses something else.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings is the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, including all characters, names, and concepts herein. The title "Love's Labor's Lost" comes from the play of Shakespeare of the same title. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is purely for entertainment purposes only.

Notes: This fic is especially written for the Library of Moria's April Archivists' Challenge, specifically for the topic dark fic. Majority of the earlier parts is from Legolas' POV, and the rest should be easy to figure out. Composed of two parts - the former the main story, the latter an epilogue. Both shall be almost completely Aragorn/Legolas-centric.

Many thanks to Alura for the excellent (and truly encouraging) beta.

* * *

He's alive.

Those words were the one coherent though I clung to as I saw you stride up the steps through the entrance of the Hornburg, at last putting my fears to rest.

Battered, true, and wounded, yes, but very much alive. Living and breathing, as I never thought I'd see you again.

It was you, Aragorn, who made my heart pause for the first time in despair and utter hopelessness when the rasping yet smugly self-satisfied words of Saruman's minions reached my ears. Naught I could grasp - a solid thought, a positive reassurance - could explain the truth I knew but could not accept - that you had fallen far from our reach.

Did you struggle, Aragorn? Did you vehemently refuse death to the very last moment? Or had you simply allowed it to wash over you, like the thrashing ocean tide upon the bleak sea shore, uncalled for yet soothing in its calmness? Had I been in your place, I would have defied it, fought it to my dying breath. And now, despite the bitter, beaten atmosphere lingering upon everyone and the conflicting anxiety of the fast approaching siege, I hope and trust that you'd do the very same, if not for me, then for the people of Rohan, for the race of Men, who trust you above all else.

The feeling was strange - foreign - as I had never encountered such unsettling thoughts before; this sensation of drowning under merciless waves yet trusting the ocean's cold caress to find a way to float.

So I let myself believe. For what am I to your eyes? A companion, a comrade, a brother... but surely not someone who would make you smile in the face of war, cry in the absence of your voice, or shiver in the cold wake of your embrace.

Surely not someone to love, in the purest essence of the word. For you are, Aragorn of the Dunedain - who had guided us through nights darker than Mordor's black gate itself, led us in a way truly befitting the kingdom of Men's rightful heir, and whom I would trust and follow anywhere, whether it meant that I had to forsake my flesh and blood or my numberless days. Be you a king of every land in Middle-Earth or just any Ranger, your will is what binds me to my bow as a ruler is bound to his people.

I swear this by the light of Elbereth... but, as you ascended those steps, I could only stare and do nothing.

You continued forward, your shoulders weighed down by exhaustion and injury but your unwavering dignity still wrapped about you like a cloak. For the one of the first times in my whole life I found myself unable to speak. I gave you one long, searching look, a disguised attempt to find even just a glimmer - a sign - that my feelings were returned; then, finding none, swallowing my disappointment and spilling out the first words I could manage to find - "You're late."

Your surprise had passed quickly enough to look back at me, and I used it as an excuse to tear my gaze from yours to the damage the fall had born upon you - your hands newly scarred, your shoulder bloodied, and your clothes frayed with dust and earth.

"You look terrible," I had remarked dryly, indicating in his disheveled presence. Terrible, yet still ever a king to my eyes.

With mounting regret yet compelled by a painful urge to do what I knew was only right, I slipped my hand inside my pocket, drew the shining jewel that I had picked up from the orc's filth encrusted hands, and placed it in yours. Of course it was only right - the jewel, along with its owner, belonged to you. Each one to his own.

Fitting, as I have neither you, nor any seeming chance to do so. Yet I am no thief, Estel. I know who captured your heart, and who rightly possesses yours. And sometimes, whenever I see the unbridled happiness, the hope garnered at the mere thought of her, I find the strength to let you go.

I treasure those times the most, because more oft than not I lose grasp of them.

You were my brother, my comrade, and nothing more. So now, when all that we are faced with are dark tidings of war, why must we fight like this? What disagreement can possibly so grave that they be brought to the fore now? It had begun right after Théoden King had given his order - to arm every soul within Helm's Deep in time for battle with Saruman's forces - an army that could have bested us if we had been thrice our number.

It was folly, that was what it was. Yet when I pointed that out to you, it was clear that this was where our principles truly differed and hindered our luck plainly was! For what can three hundred do against a bloodthirsty devilry of thousands, even with you, Aragorn - Isildur's heir, Elessar, and the Elfstone - with us? What were a few hundred men - some even children and simple farmers - to creatures who were so foreign to Men?

Hopeless. Their fighting chance is but a tiny pinprick of light in this darkening world. They will all die. I told you that, but you refused to listen, saying that you would rather die with them than lie idle.

Practicality was always inherent in elves, stubborn as you might have thought it seemed. Somehow, always they knew when to stop.

But you I could not stop when you turned away.

* * *

Aragorn sat alone on the steps leading to the Hornburg, the very same ones he'd walked up upon his return from the near-fatal fall. This time he felt no relief, nor eagerness or resolve - only exhaustion, frustration... helpless. Defeated. He despised that feeling the most, and here he was, fated to walk its path without thought of any respite.

Despair. It had conquered so many. Had it taken Legolas as well? Théoden himself, along with his people, had already so little to hope for - and the last person Aragorn had expected to fall with them was Legolas. He, who had chosen to aid Frodo in his quest without hesitation, standing for the elves, risking himself through the chill of Caradhras and the fires of Moria on the way, and spending sleepless nights in pursuit of their hobbit companions. Hopelessness was not part of that picture.

He sighed, his fists clenching tightly to each other as he recalled that harsh exchange of words. The elven tongue had been used, to spare his thoughts from the surrounding people. However, what the elf meant went under no guise. Elvish had always been pleasant to Aragorn's ear, but the raw bitterness in Legolas' words bore no resemblance to the one he was accustomed to hearing from him.

[They cannot win this fight. They are all going to die.]

Aragorn responded to it with the only way he could, and the hurt in Legolas' eyes was painfully clear. Yet what time did they have to mend petty fences, when time to defend their own lives was already ebbing away?

About him, hasty preparations for the upcoming battle had already begun. The Rohirrim - soldiers, children, and aged men alike - passed to and fro before him - some tired and spent, some grudgingly, some burdened with the bleak face of downfall. All had one thing in common: a sorrowful, almost wistful sense of regret, and a silent hope that the need to fight would pass.

A child seeming no older than twenty years crossed his line of vision, a sword clutched in his small hand. Stray hair spilled from his bowed head, shielding his face from view, but Aragorn failed to see in the boy's averted eyes the hardened, scathed look usually born by those who had wielded a sword in battle before. Instead there was mixed curiosity and dread... the look of childlike innocence.

The kind he had to fight to protect.

Slowly he got to his feet and walked back into the heart of the Hornburg. There was a battle to fight, and no time to lose. His only hope was that he would live long enough to remedy words that should have been left unsaid.

* * *

It had been several long hours into the battle. Haldir and his warriors had come, an unsullied defense had been erected around the exterior of the Deep, and the wall was holding up despite the massive force inflicted upon it, but that was not the reason for Aragorn's high spirits.

Hannon le, Legolas, for believing in me.

For that was what the elf had told him, moments before the conflict had begun.

That they trusted him, purely and unconditionally. That he had never led them astray. That no despair could have come in the way of asking for forgiveness.

The thought heartened him beyond anything else. He felt no joy in taking a life, be it human or not, but with one sweep of Andúril's blade he cleaved a towering Uruk-Hai before him in half and stabbed a second behind it.

Suddenly, a glimmer of swiftly approaching torch-light caught at his senses, and Aragorn turned reflexively. A wild terror seized him at the sight as the distance between the Uruk-Hai wielding the torch and the drain rapidly dwindled, and already, piles of explosives littered the discreet but vulnerable outlet. One spark - just one touch of flame - could consume the explosives like a hungry beast and completely destroy the wall that arched above them - and everything would have been fought in vain.

Aragorn blanched in horror, for he knew naught of the presence of the drain until now.

"Legolas!" It was the elf's name that first escaped his lips, his voice but a vague echo over the swarming mass of battle. "Bring him down!"

To his relief, Legolas heard his frantic command - but the relief was short-lived. The Uruk-Hai was so heavily shielded with broad armor that one arrow was not enough to fatally wound it, and, though two arrows had now deftly embedded themselves in its skin, it only forged on relentlessly, plunging head-first into the drain.

Time seemed to stand still for a brief moment, and Aragorn could only hope against hope that the water contained within had somehow extinguished the flames...

Then everything exploded in a blinding flash of a white-hot blaze, spitting cracked fragments of the wall into the air like an angry volcano.

The heavy pieces of rock rained down in merciless torrents upon the helpless warriors, man, elf, and orc alike. Ladders fell, ropes severed; the earth beneath them seemed to quail in distress. Even the sky hung silently in grief, growing ominously darker and its rain continued to fall like tears as it mourned with a foreboding sense of despair.

The wall has been breached..

Stunned, Aragorn remained still, unable to move, unable to shield himself from the falling debris, unable to think... unable to grasp anything but for what was playing before him, a cruel scene from a macabre pageant. The wall has been breached...

"Aragorn!" A cry from behind him. "Run!"

His sword was frozen in his hand, his feet would not obey. The wall has been breached...

"Run!"

The urgency finally seized him, and Aragorn found the strength to flee from the deathly storm of the pieces of the wall.

He was but a heartbeat too late.

A huge rock fell, finding its target only too soon and striking Aragorn down with a force so great that everything flashed white for a moment before he fell to his knees at the impact. The ground rushed up to meet him, and as the battle raged on, his mind went black and he knew no more.

* * *

The wall of the Deep had been breached, despite that I hurried at once to answer you when you called. I failed to kill the uruk-hai, stop him from completely destroying the wall. Failure, defeat... guilt. I could not look upon the long bow still in my hands without the guilt of letting you down, letting Théoden down...

[The defenses have to hold] . Those words Gandalf had said to Aragorn, with the complete confidence of trust. Aragorn harbored the same confidence in me. And as my recompense, the bow I carried - the one given to me by the Lady Galadriel with such high hopes - was rendered useless.

Remnants of the wall still littered the air like bleak hailstones. Breathing hard, I did the only thing sheer instinct told me to - I crouched low, shielding myself from the onslaught of rocks and hoping that the others - you, Gimli, Haldir and his warriors - would have done the same.

You had not. I alone could see you, standing frozen as you watched the wall crumble, and the uruk-hai rushing forward like a roaring tide upon its wake.

Then I forgot about protecting myself.

"Aragorn!" I shouted until my throat burned from the effort. "Run!"

Still you did not move, raising in me an unrestrained panic, and I ran myself, in the impossible hope of breaching the gap between us the only fervent prayer in my mind.

"Run!"

My cry at last was heeded, and you fled. Whatever relief this gave me did not last long. The next thing I knew, you were lying motionless on the ground, face down... and failing to stand again.

No!

I ran towards you, knifes unsheathed, the distance seeming insurmountable Already one of Saruman's grotesque creatures was approaching you, ready to trample on your body as though you were only rock strewn carelessly astray... I could not shoot him, for my quiver had long emptied, and my knives were all I had.

With unerring accuracy, I hurled one of them at his threatening figure. The deadly weapon whistled with speed, as it spun blade over hilt, burying itself in the Uruk-Hai's shoulder with the sickening sound of breaking skin. I had barely anything to defend myself save the last knife in my hand.

Roaring in anguish, the uruk-hai staggered backward from your body and wrenched from his shoulder the blade, stained nearly black with blood. It turned to me with a face terribly contorted with rage and flung the knife right back.

It missed... nearly. Like iron wires the pain of its passage seeped into my skin, from my wrist spreading to my entire arm, driving me almost unbearably to my knees before I caught a glimpse of you, still unmoving beside the now dead Uruk-Hai's body. I could not help a hiss of pain as I brought you up, carrying you as fast as I could, at the same time avoiding the arrows that continued to fly.

At last I found near a corner of the Burg a deserted area devoid of any signs of the battle. I moved you into a comfortable sitting position, gently brushing your unkempt hair from your face. "Aragorn," I whispered. "Can you hear me?"

You did not answer but for a moan of pain.

"Aragorn," I repeated, more fearfully this time, gripping his arm tight enough to bruise. "Aragorn! Do you not hear me? Say something..."

Just when my hope was waning, you woke. I could barely suppress a gasp, as eyes wide and dilated; you stared back at me, as though you saw nothing standing before you.

An unnamed fear seized me as I begun to imagine, with increasing dread, of the countless possibilities that the fall had inflicted upon you. Your skin was pale beyond health, and cold as winters past; leaving you a second longer in the bleak air of this battle was would only serve to worsen you. "Aragorn," I said urgently, trying to usher him to stand. "You cannot stay out here any longer - we must take shelter inside -"

"Wait," he mumbled weakly, his feet unsteady and in dire need of my arm to brace him.

The sound of his voice was enough, and my relief was immense. "Aragorn," I said gratefully. "Come, we must leave - "

When your lips finally parted to speak, no words could have possible described my shock.

"Who are you?"

* * *

And I could no more reply, only able stare back, and muster a prayer that I had not heard your words correctly.

Yet I had, as I will always. For to an immortal, time does little to diminish grief, and those words will forever echo, haunting me in dreaming and waking. There was no mistaking the empty bewilderment in your eyes, and the thin trickle of blood on your bruised temples. I knew enough to know what had happened, for if such an impact on the head failed to kill, it would bring the next most terrible consequence.

Memory loss.

Wounded, bleeding... tainted. Destroyed. I was no stranger to the presence of blood, but continue did it to seep from under your disheveled hair, mocking me in all its crimson glory.

Glory, triumph, indeed. It had won - over you, over your soul, over me. It was enough.

Pain, betrayal, freezing fear. For you did not know me! You looked into my eyes yet recounted no memory. I tried to answer, but barely even could I breathe, choked in withheld tears and mounting disbelief, desperately hope that all this was naught but a cruel nightmare, and in time I would wake and forget.

Who am I? I longed to scream at you. Your friend, your brother... how could you have forgotten? Estel, it's me.

Please...

Yet all was in vain. You knew me not. The thought was too painful to bear one moment longer, and I could only reply, "A friend."

After all, that was probably no more than what you could see of me right now, as what remained of your strength gave out and you went limp in my arms, your eyes closed. Despite of your injury and the knife you had unknowingly stabbed into me, you never looked so beautiful. All it served was to hurt me more. All you were now is a shell, and the one who had given it life had fled, to a place far beyond my reach.

I leaned close to make certain you still breathed. You still were, and every warm caress of it against my cheek seemed to impale me like a sword. If you still lived, Estel, will I be one to share what you shall still remember?

It felt as though an impenetrable wall of ice had come between us... strangers. Such an unfamiliar word it is, Estel, with regards to you and I. Strangers. Yet carefully, gently, as though you were of crystal, I wrapped my own cloak about you and carried you as swiftly as I could without disturbing you, into the caves where I knew the Lady Éowyn was sheltering with the women and children of Rohan.

Ai, the irony of it all! Had I not been so stricken, I perhaps would have found it in myself to laugh, and for a bitter moment there I did. I never spoke of it, would have blindly denied it, but long have I desired for a moment so like this, a day that I could hold you like I held you now - close enough to hear your every sigh, every whisper that escapes your lips. Night after night I raised my eyes to the stars, hoping that somehow my silent prayer went not unheeded by the grace of the Valar.

It had not. They had granted my wish... and shattered my soul at the same time. As I looked on you, I could only wonder - was it all worth it?

Soon I had made it inside the Hornburg, and down to the sheltered caverns where the women and children of Rohan took cover. Little paid me any interest, to my utmost relief, for they too were far gone in their own fears - of the safety of their husbands in the bitter fate of battle, of their sons, compelled despite their innocent youth to wield a weapon and defend their kin. Of how the war would come to an end - an answer none were any wiser to give. Not even you, Estel, and your persistence to unveil that answer brought you nigh to your own death.

At last I found the lady Éowyn, and she came to my side at once. Worried and shocked she was at the sight of you lying motionless in my arms, mirroring my own feelings, but she immediately led me to a corner, where I laid you among the thick blankets set aside to tend to the wounded.

"You're wounded, Master Elf," she pointed out, motioning at the bleeding gash where the Uruk-Hai had struck me.

"Nay," I answered firmly, although the sting of the wound was growing every second. My voice quieted. "Please - take care of him first."

I felt utterly useless as I could only stand and watch Éowyn attend to you, seeming so small and fragile covered by my own cloak. What could I have done, when I myself I could not heal? Betrayed, wounded.

Broken.

How terribly fortunate you are, Estel, to have a woman's hands to nurse you, because, try as I may, that would do naught for me.

"What happened?" Éowyn asked, trying and failing to mask her fear, and rendering me speechless for the second time in as many minutes.

The sorrow in my face could probably speak more than words too painful to articulate, and that was all I could reply with. Wordless, I forced myself to tear my gaze away from the question in Éowyn's eyes, back to the insistent call of the battle outside, the battle which I still had a chance to win. The wall may have been breached, as many things have been, but what more had I to lose? For this fight in here I had clearly lost.

* * *

The battle for Helm's Deep is over - the battle for Middle-Earth is about to begin.

The battle was over. Already the rebuilding of the Deep had begun - the people of Rohan had come out from the caves, in tearful reunions with their family. Now it was only us - myself, Gimli, Gandalf, King Théoden, and Éomer, ready to take the next step. Gandalf's words echoed in my ears, strong and true, but it was no more than a shadow in a dream. When I awoke, I only realized one thing - that Gimli still sat behind me, but Aragorn rode not by my side.

Curse you, Estel. You're a fool, do you know that?

You knew of the perils we were about to face. Three hundred inexperienced men, against ten thousand orcs, shielded in iron and breaking like a furious stream upon charred wood! Yet my fears you left unheard. I could only wish you could see yourself, Aragorn. Look at you - have you any joy now, having triumphed over this battle that left you unable to enjoy its glory, short though it is? Are you happy, then? You surprise me with the wergild you are prepared to pay - one who is still fated for so many greater things. Now you barely remember what more you are still bound to do, much less who is willing to walk that destined path with you.

It would be a pure lie to say that you have not angered me. Because you have - every single time you chose to risk your mortal life without heed of what you might leave behind. For believing in hope even when it is as elusive as a grain of sand washed away by the Sea.

You were the person to look up to from the very beginning, and I hated you for that. Fool, betrayer, traitor...

King.

But true, they say there is a fine line between hate... and something more. It is that knife I walk on every day, and it hurts, Estel, not knowing when one slip can cause me to fall on the blade. Yet I did not - not when there was the Ring to destroy and a war to fight. And when I heard you say those words...

[Who are you?]

... It was only a matter of time. Everyone grieved when they found out what had happened to you, Estel, even Gandalf. There was none left we could do save to wait for your recovery, rare and distant the chance may be, but the pull of Middle-Earth's fortune proved too strong to ignore and we had no choice but to go on without you. Yet... your name means hope in my kindred tongue, does it not? I had lost mine.

A gust of wind drifted from the East, and, without the cloak I had given away, I shivered, not only because of the chill in the air, but the chill from whence it came.

Traces of crimson still lingered on my fingers - some dark and coppery as of orc blood, some trickling like tears as of the blood of the Elvish... some of Aragorn's, when I carried him into the safety of the keep. When I held up my hand, the streaks of red stood out boldly like sparks of lightning against a sky of Sea, a scar that could not be slain, only disguised by the mask of tears.

So I let it. A single tear found its way down my cheek before I wiped it away.

I now knew what I had to do.

"Your silence surprises me, Legolas," Gimli's comment bore upon my reverie.

I could only smile grimly, thankful that Gimli sat behind me and my face was hidden from his. "As well as you do, friend Gimli. So, what now of your skill to ride?"

A proud tilt of his bearded chin. "Growing better each day."

"Then, if so -" with one graceful, nimble gesture I swung myself off the back of the horse, leaving the dwarf perched alone and stunned. Yet now I could feel little remorse for leaving my dear friend and deserting the rest for my own purposes. Selfish? Nay, never. Selfish men knew what they wanted, and pursued it for their own fulfillment, knowing who they were and where they were going. Not I; the knife that I had spent treading on for many days had won at last.

Call me not selfish, Aragorn, but it is unthinkable, existing and knowing that I'm naught but some other stranger for you.

A final pat for Gimli, on his arm that now clutched the reins of the horse. He was a precious friend and deserved one better than I.

I smiled at the face I knew I would not see for a long, long time. "You need me not any longer."

* * *