Lord of the Rings 1. Chapter 1

**Baudh ar Awarth [Judgement and Abandonment]**

With a resounding crack the blow rang through the quiet aftermath of battle's carnage, echoing in accusing reverberation against the surrounding sombre stones of the mountain. The warrior toppled down at the impact upon his jaw, realising in the blinding flash that accompanied the jolt of pain that the bone was broken. Before he could recover a rough hand gripped his arm tightly and yanked him up, unmindful of the battle-torn flesh and muscle below the crushing palm.

"You had the shot, why did you not take it?" The voice was barely intelligible in its wrath and the hand shook him brutally in concert with the last three harshly uttered words. The speaker waited for no response but again struck out, this time burying a leather gloved fist into the other's middle. The young elf's legs, barely under him from the first assault, gave way and he crumpled down, bent double and breathless while still the unrelenting hand grasped his injured arm.

"Worthless! Incompetent!" The voice seethed with disgusted disapprobation and the gloved hand flung the arm away. The warrior gasped in a breath and struggled up to his knees just in time to hear the enraged cry preceding the booted foot that caught him in the chest and tossed him back upon the ground. He desperately tried to scramble back from his antagonist as the unmistakable sound of a blade leaving its sheath met his ears.

"You are not fit to bear arms with us!" The furious words accompanied the whistle of steel through air.

The blade sliced across his chest and down leaving a scarlet gash diagonally from shoulder to hip and forcing a hoarse cry from the unfortunate elf. He was aware of hands snatching away the quiver from his back, the straps having been cut through by the assault. Another hand tore the bow still tightly gripped in his fist and again a boot found its way into his soft side.

With a groan he instinctively rolled and curled up to protect his abused and unprotected torso, unable to stop his body from trembling. He was aware of the others moving away then and more than one uttered a spiteful curse and spat upon him as they stepped over or around him.

He just lay there, ashamed and horrified, wishing the blade wound was mortal or that the battle still raged so that an arrow or sword might find him. It was over and won, however, and somehow he had been twisted inside out from skilled sniper to hapless kinslayer. The shot he missed had cost the immediate deaths of three in his own company and one from among their human allies.

In despairing self-recrimination he replayed the events over and over through his brain, unable to make the outcome change. He had been ordered into position among the jutting teeth of stone overhanging the canyon wall. From this vantage he had had free reign to choose his targets at will as the unwholesome goblins and wargs poured into the valley.

He knew exactly the number he slew by how often his quiver was refilled by the corpsman that was his constant shadow in battle and in life. Three times the swift pressure and soft scrape of new arrows had met his senses, and at least half of the last bundle was spent before the disastrous error. A quiver held seventy-five arrows, and three and a half times that number had found their targets with deadly precision from his hands and bow. How, then, had the most important target gotten past him?

It was the huge goblin king, Blog, terror of dwarves, men, and elves alike, who came within his sites. The creature's bodyguards deflected the barrage of swords, axes, knives, and arrows flung at them from the combined forces of the allies, and soldiers fell back before them. This encouraged the evil horde and they fought with rabid vigour, pressing the fighters further back into the blind canyon, smelling a massacre in the mingled blood of the three races.

A rapid series of whistled signals relayed the elf captain's plan to create a diversion to draw off the bodyguards and allow his prized sniper a clear shot. Five of the company leaped into action, joined by twice that number each from among the men and dwarves, and together they concentrated their attack upon the gruesome beasts, harrying them with small wounds and mocking taunts. The sniper shifted his position slightly, edging closer to the jagged rim, intent upon the battle, watching for the moment to fire.

The archer's bow was tautly drawn as he followed the movements of the goblin king lumbering along behind its guards, hacking stray warriors that crossed within its range with an almost casual style. He waited. The small knot of warriors at the feet of the beasts was taking a terrible beating. For every stab and slash that made it into the flesh of the disgusting creatures, it seemed that one of them fell. All the dwarves were down, and still the archer's opportunity didn't come; the monsters continued to shield their king against the onslaught.

The sniper felt a sharp surge of rage when one of his company staggered back with a cry and tripped, falling to be crushed under the weight of a goblin guard's feet. He wanted to destroy the bodyguards and get his people out of danger. He tried to stifle the powerful emotion, knowing he must not allow himself be distracted.

_There have been numerous chances to slay the goblin guards_, he thought. If he could take them down then he would have easy access to Blog without putting anymore of his people into the teeth of death. His captain's orders were clear, however; should he even consider disobeying them? His mark was Blog and if he was deterred from killing him due to focusing on other targets, what then? His company was counting on his skill and readiness.

_This is very different from hunting yrch in the Greenwood_, he thought grimly and shifted his position a bit as the figures on the field below progressed. There had not been war in his time and battle such as this was unknown to him before this day.

The goblin King was getting closer now. He waited.

Another slight shift took the elven sniper to the precipice. He wanted to make sure his movements would not be hindered. He wanted to ensure an unobstructed view of the goblin king. Or maybe he was nervous. So many were dying; should he have disregarded the orders and tried for the guards? His captain could not see the battlefield as he could; perhaps he was expected to take the initiative based on this advantage. He was aware of small stones and gravel escaping from their rest and plummeting to the battleground below.

Behind him his corpsman hissed something, alarmed, but he failed to catch it for suddenly the movements on the canyon floor realigned. The desperate tactic worked at last; the goblin guards were distracted for an instant and brought their shields and attention to the irritating cluster of fighters darting around their feet. The elf tensed and leaned out to take his shot, but something hurtled through the air into his line of sight.

_One of the eagle lords that were joined in the battle_? No, it was a stone falling from above, a veritable rain of boulders was pouring down and one struck his arm as he snapped his fingers, releasing the pent up energy of the bowstring. His balance faltered, his aim went wide, and the arrow only grazed the enraged creature.

It bellowed and swung its battle-axe into the knot of distracters and instantly decapitated two of the elven warriors. Another fell to her knees, run through with the filthy blade wielded by one of the bodyguards, and did not rise. The humans scrambled to find cover and regroup. One of them was caught by his leg and flung down against the stony ground, his skull shattered and his blood painting a growing red smear upon the rocks.

The archer had watched all this transpire in mere seconds from his rocky ledge above while still firing arrow after arrow upon the goblin king and its minions. He had needed to step back as a squall of arrows and more stones was concentrated on his position. With a sickening twist of his gut the sniper realised he had exposed his location to the enemy, some of which had swarmed over the ridge from higher up.

That was what his corpsman's warning had been: "Beware! You are seen!" Yet he had not been aware, had not seen the danger from above, had not heard the sound of the stones streaming through the air towards him. What had dulled his acute elven senses to such a degree? Why had he moved so far towards the edge? A slight shift forward, an unheeded warning, and four lives lost.

He continued to shoot, controlling the wave of nausea that threatened his skill and ignoring the burning pain in the torn shoulder and arm. The shafts, fletched in the green and gold of his company, studded the creature's armour but failed to penetrate the bony plates. The bodyguards once again used their shields to protect any weaknesses the armour might reveal to the sniper's keen elven eyes. His moment had passed.

At last, a huge bear crashed into the ranks of goblins and grasped the horrid king in its jaws, shaking and tearing it apart. The remaining elves, dwarves, men and eagles rallied to finish off the rest, routing them from the gory fields.

The price for the victory was dear. Of his own company of thirty-six archers only nine still stood and five more lay wounded. The six other companies of elven warriors probably fared no better. Of men and dwarves, who could even count the numbers of their losses, so littered was the battle plain with their dead?

He heard them then, his comrades, gathering their dead from among the bloodied remains in the canyon below, and their mournful song of passing wrenched his soul. A grief and guilt-ridden wail rose in the archer's chest but he desperately choked it back; only a ragged moan escaped him. He had spent the last 120 or so years training and fighting with these elves. He knew them, their families, their histories; they were his comrades and friends. He knew he could not face their loved ones and kinfolk knowing his carelessness was the cause of this horrendous destruction.

The sniper thought of his own family and the shame and stain he placed upon them now. _How will they be able to face this_? His father would not forgive him his loss of concentration and his inability to control an up-welling of anger and nerves. _Such weakness_! he berated himself mentally. His family would surely wish that he had never existed, and he knew they would never be able speak his name or talk of him again. His heart broke at the sorrow his mother would feel at his disgrace.

He knew of but one way to compensate for such loss and one punishment terrible enough to atone for his misdeeds. With bitter determination the fallen archer reached for his dagger, drawing it up from his boot and fisting it tightly. The next instant he plunged it into his chest, thrusting up between the ribs and through the lung towards his heart. He gasped at the pain and frantically drew breath, his body giving an involuntary spasm as though to pull away. On the edge of consciousness, he heard a shout and felt hands grasping for his wrist to stop the blade from reaching its goal, and then gratefully slipped from awareness.

"You should not have interfered. His way would have been more merciful." The elven corpsman that filled the young sniper's quiver quietly chastised the frantic human. The man glanced up in astonished disbelief as he tore cloth from the bloodied tunic and shoved it against the dagger wound. The corpsman turned to go, but the man reached out and tugged at his sleeve, leaving a ruddy stain behind.

"Wait. You can not just leave him. Take him back to be treated among your wounded."

The elf stared impassively at the wretched wreck on the ground before him. The sniper's lanky arms and legs were splayed out at ungainly angles, his head turned to the side as parted lips oozed blood and half-closed lids shielded glazed unseeing blue eyes. Long thick tresses of pale yellow lay upon his shoulder in disarray, the frayed ends dyed crimson. The man had pulled open the ripped tunic and the diagonal gash gaped against the pale flesh.

The corpsman watched the young elf's chest rise and fall with each strained and shallow breath. The man pulled a strip of cloth around him to tie down the makeshift bandage and the wounded elf moaned as the knot pulled tight to staunch the flow of blood. The corpsman shook his head.

"I will not take him. Treat him among your wounded, if you will, or leave him. One of your own is dead because of him, and more of ours. He gives himself an easy death, and I am enough his friend not to take it from him. The families of his victims, and many others of our people, would not be so kind." With that the elf turned and walked away and the man just stared after him, not certain what to do.

continued

NOTE: This chapter beta'd by Sarah AK.  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tadui Lu Thell - Caro Puig Gyrë [Second Time Resolved - Make Clean the Deaths]**

The sound of scattering small stones and clinking and squeaking armour arose as another man heaved himself up the steep pathway to the ledge.

"What is this, Bard? He is not one of ours; best hand him over to Thranduil's folk," the soldier said.

"They will not have him; he tried to kill himself," Bard replied, regarding the elves in the distance as they secured their dead and wounded onto horses. "They seem to be leaving. One of them claims he caused four other deaths." The other man's brows shot up in surprise as Bard gestured to the company of elves.

"But this is the archer that was trying to bring down Blog; his persistence drew its attention long enough for Beorn to break through and mangle the old monster. Do they not know?"

Bard shrugged in response. He had made the climb to this ledge with the express purpose of thanking the elven sniper for his help in bringing down the hated beast, as well as for felling over 200 of the lesser goblins and wargs. It had been his intent to honour this elf for his skill, only to find him in the act of destroying himself. Now his kin were leaving him to die in what was, according to one at least, an act of kindness.

All the other elves were mounted now and at an unspoken command they formed ranks and rode from the canyon. Not one looked back at their discarded comrade, and Bard could only shake his head in bewilderment.

"Come," Bard said, "help me get him down from here. If he lives we shall have to get the answers from him."

Together they struggled to carry the limp form down the rugged trail, trying not to cause the wounds to reopen. Once on the firmer and flatter ground of the valley, they put their burden down to catch their breath. A dishevelled and decrepit grey-beard caught site of them and began making his way across the battlefield, leaning heavily on his ornate and intricately carved staff that seemed taller than himself.

"That is the sniper; what has happened? There were no goblins on that cliff," the old man stated when he reached them. He stooped down and his face grew stern in lines of worry as he tentatively examined the elf.

"He did this to himself, Gandalf," Bard replied, indicating the bandaged chest wound. "I do not know about the rest."

"Maybe he fell and landed on his face," the other soldier suggested.

"First of all, elves do not just fall down," Gandalf snorted, shaking his head. "Second, even if that is how he broke his jaw it certainly does not account for that knife slash or the arm," he countered. "He is under some disgrace; the others of his company have left him," he continued as though to himself. Bard agreed and explained to the wizard what little he knew of the situation.

"I stayed his hand before the blade found his heart, so now he seems to be my responsibility. King Thranduil and his personal guard return to Laketown as we speak; perhaps he can do something about this." Gandalf looked up in alarm.

"I think we should wait to see if he survives before the Elvenking is apprised of the situation. Let us not heat things up just now as peace is at hand! Thranduil will not appreciate your interference in the laws and customs of his realm!"

Bard concurred and the archer was quietly placed in the care of the healers, who treated him as best they could but did not really expect him to survive.

The dagger's blade, while missing the heart, had done severe damage to one of the lungs and he had lost a great amount of blood. When the sniper was still breathing the next morning they were pleasantly surprised and decided he was stable enough to be removed to the infirmary in Laketown.

The elf hovered beneath consciousness all the next day and night, tossing and twitching as though in torment. He mumbled in elvish and sighed against the pain from time to time. In the mid-morning sunlight of the third day his eyes cleared and he awakened. Disoriented by the strange surroundings, the immortal turned his gaze about the quiet, clean, and airy room.

The windows stood open allowing the fresh breeze, light, and muffled voices to flow through. Realisation and memory burst upon him like a hammer's blow and he leaped from the bed, wincing in shock and doubling over. Grasping the bed to steady himself the warrior stared around wildly in despairing horror. He squeezed his eyes tight and shook his head vigourously.

_It must not be so. It cannot be so!_ his mind screamed silently and then opened his lips and screamed in earnest. The ear-splitting cry of desperate sorrow and agony brought every ambulatory human in the infirmary to his door and window where they froze, dumfounded.

The elf was breathing in noisy sobs, pulling open drawers and cabinets, spilling out the contents and crying out unintelligibly in Sindarin. He seemed not to notice the humans, or disregarded them if he did. At last he tugged open a cupboard and a pair of boots and a leather pack tumbled out. Calm resolve spilled out with them as the archer rummaged among his belongings, so thoughtfully carried from the battleground. A soft sigh of relief issued from his lips when he brought forth a slender and delicately deadly hunting knife from the bottom of the pack.

The humans watched entranced as this most uncommon patient sat back on his heals, head bowed low, amid the scattered clutter of bandages, herbs, medical instruments, and linens. They listened spellbound to the quiet beauty of the elvish words he spoke, uttered in reverent tones as would be a prayer. While the sound of the elven language was melodious beyond any mortal tongue, the timbre of his voice decried the depth of the immortal's grief and sorrowful remorse.

As the speech ended, his voice broke down into a shattering sob that shook his entire frame, and he fought a moment for control. At last he raised his head and tangled golden locks fell away to reveal tear-streaked cheeks and eyes that focused inward, oblivious to the humans' eyes upon him. Slowly the archer lifted his hands, palms turned upwards, upon which rested the gleaming knife.

As soon as the mithril blade glinted in the sunlight, one of the healers suddenly comprehended the scene unfolding and made a leap into the room. With a shout for assistance, he snatched the weapon and raced to the window, shoving it into the hands of a startled onlooker.

The elf reacted with another piercing scream and lunged for the window to retrieve his weapon, his release, and his salvation, cursing the humans in rage and anguish. The healer grabbed him but the sniper was healing rapidly and had regained enough strength to throw the man off. By then, more people had entered the room and with the help of two recuperating soldiers the healer forced the unstable silvan back onto the bed. Deciding to take no chances of a repeat performance, the healer had sturdy rope brought and bound him securely to the bed frame.

In the encampment of the Elven King an unnatural stillness constrained the air around the smoking embers of the dying fire.

The King's tent stood to one side while the bedding of his twenty-four personal guardsmen lay neatly rolled and positioned with military precision all about it. The banner bearing the beech leaf standard of the Woodland Realm drooped lifelessly in the stagnant air, and the King himself sat motionless before the pavilion, legs crossed beneath his severely straight-backed frame. His elite company of Sindar warriors sat or stood together in clumps of two or three, matching his stilled alertness, watching now and then towards the far end of Laketown, eyes glancing upon the low, white-washed building that housed the infirmary.

They waited.

A full account had been delivered by the fallen elf's captain; including the corpsman's report of the Human's interference in obstructing the dagger and deflecting death. All knew the disgraced archer was in the human healer's care, and the tension arising from this intervention with ancient and revered rites of warriors' honour shimmered through the atmosphere with a palpable hum.

All other tasks and duties suspended, the veteran soldiers yearned for their prized sniper's death with bitter and morbid intensity.

Collectively, silently twenty-four minds and souls willed his life to flee. This was a battlefield debt their archer owed to the comrades he had failed, whose immortal lives he had wasted. By custom such a debt must be paid with the blood of the culprit, upon that same day and upon that same plane of combat. The fallen warriors' deaths must be cleaned of the shame with which his errors had besmirched them. Given the interruption by the Human, an uncharacteristic extension had silently been granted by their King. If the debt was not satisfied then retribution would be required and Judgement pronounced.

They waited.

All day and through the night they tarried; ears, keener than an eagle's eyes were sharp, receiving the sounds of their comrade's unconscious torment. They rose en masse at the startled scream that issued from the cheery sun-blessed hospital when the unfortunate being awoke, all eyes intent upon the building as though they could penetrate the mud-brick walls and see the activity within. The elves could hear the quiet prayer distinctly and tensed in anticipation at its close. The resounding yell of despair and fury that followed seconds later swept through their ranks like wind upon grass and they cringed involuntarily, turning away almost as one.

The King and his two senior guards silently left the camp, crossing the distance separating it from the town quickly.

Gandalf and Bard were already halfway to the infirmary when the second cry broke from the tortured elf's throat and reached the room in time to see the two soldiers completing their task of immobilising the patient. They entered the room unnoticed as the warrior repeatedly made demands in his own tongue to be released and struggled mightily but futilely against the well-tied ropes. His initial efforts to evade confinement and the continued thrashing against the bondage re-opened the wounds and blood flowed freely onto the sheets below him. Then his eyes locked on the visage of the old wizard and his entire being seemed to calm.

"Mithrandir," he sighed in his soft Sindarin dialect. "Tell them to release me. Tell them to give me back my weapons." His voice pleaded calmly, certain now that the humans would be made to understand and all could be salvaged.

Gandalf took a breath and slowly let it out but made no move either to speak or untie the ropes. A sheen of panic flickered through the elf's eyes.

"You must do this! Mithrandir, you know me; you must remember me. I have to get free of here quickly!" The words edged in distress rose in pitch and volume.

"It is long since last I passed through the Woodland Realm; I am not sure if I do know you, or what it may mean to let you free. How is it you are apart from your people?" asked Gandalf.

The elf realised the wizard was no more inclined to help him than the Men were. Panic broke out in earnest then and he thrashed wildly against the bonds and howled piteously. Bard's eyes grew large and he jumped back a bit while Gandalf quickly tried to placate the frantic archer.

"You must stop this! Tell me what is going on! Why are you trying to die?" he demanded.

"Please! I must, I must!" The howling cries had reduced to rending sobs and unending tears and the elf seemed not to hear the wizard's words. Too exhausted to continue struggling against the restraints, wrists already raw from the exertion, his fingers curled and opened impulsively.

"Please let me go! I have to release them; their deaths are from me. I beg this of you, please!" The words poured forth over and over between the choking breaths of the clearly hysterical soldier.

Gandalf was alarmed, never before having witnessed such loss of composure in any of the First Born in all his time on Middle Earth. He leaned over the bedside and grasped the elf's shoulders, shaking him roughly in an attempt to focus his attention and break through the terror.

"Stop this! I cannot let you go if you plan to harm yourself! There are no others to release here. Why do you think yourself the cause of these deaths?" He spoke sternly, close to the pointed ear, and the effect was immediate as the injured warrior stilled.

_Is he truly ignorant of this?_ the sniper wondered and looked up at the Maia incredulously, not certain he had heard these words.

"Answer!" Gandalf shook him again more gently. "Tell me what is happening to you."

A slight shake of the head came and the desolate immortal's face displayed his realisation that Mithrandir did not understand at all.

"O sen, avbedim." [Of this, we do not speak], he whispered and turned his head away.

Gandalf let go and drew back with a deep scowl on his features.

"Who is he, then? He seems to know you at least," Bard queried, taking advantage of the lull in activity to demand a translation, which the wizard provided.

Gandalf scrutinised the elf, not sure what to do next. At least he was calm, but the panic had been replaced with a sense of complete withdrawal. The wizard did not want to turn the young warrior loose only to witness his suicide. On the other hand, as soon as Thranduil learned of the unsuccessful second attempt there was no telling how he would handle the continued interference of outsiders. _And, if this injured archer is who I think he is, the repercussions could be exceedingly worse than anything these humans are likely to imagine._ At least that much he had to know, he decided, before he could plan his next step. He leaned back over the elf.

"Are you then, as I suspect, Legolas, Thranduil's child?" he asked softly and heard Bard catch his breath in surprise.

The Man might not understand all the elvish words, but he knew the names of the royal First-born of Mirkwood well enough. He had never seen the prince before, but then realised that this elf was not dressed any differently than the other warriors. The Man might have encountered Mirkwoods' heir countless times when travelling within the borders of the forest.

"Nay, Mithrandir," the answer came crisp and expressionless from behind them. Maia, mortal, and silvan all startled as their eyes turned to the tall stony-faced elf in the doorway. "There are no children of my blood so named," the Elven King finished as he glared down upon the bound elf.

Thranduil walked into the room and approached the bed, and both Gandalf and Bard rapidly moved away to be closer to the door. They found the hallway blocked by two sturdy warriors, equally grim as their Lord.

"And you," the King was speaking, "there will be no retreat to Mandos for you. You failed and your failure now condemns our brethren, the victims of your careless incompetence, to the Wandering. How could you?

"They earned a warrior's death and their families deserve to know peace. You will live and face them and your punishment according to our laws. The rights of the battlefield you have forfeited and you are forbidden to seek your death by your own knife and will.

"You will return with us to be formally sentenced, but you have already been judged and cast out by your peers, who were with you to see your failure. I will confirm this Judgement now, before those assembled here." The voice was low, menacing, and filled with a depth of disgust and shame rarely heard from any elda's lips.

The stricken youth's eyes were riveted to his King in dread acceptance and cold terror, and his breath came in rapid panting gasps.

"I declare you abandoned and nameless, a kinslayer; no elven realm will grant you refuge. Neither shall you sail from the Grey Havens to Valinor, nor pass through death to Mandos' Halls. What family you spring from will know you no more. You are less than an Orc, for even as low as they are they would spurn you. Man pídiel, sen boe cared." [What has been said, this must be done.]

Thranduil finished his awful proclamation and left, but his two guardsmen immediately entered. They completely ignored Bard and Gandalf, who chose that moment to move over to the doorway out of the line of sight of the armed warriors.

They quickly cut the ropes, slicing into the already abused flesh of arms and ankles. They pulled their former comrade off the bed and out to the center of the small room, kicking the bed away to allow more space, and commenced to inflict a vicious beating with fists and boots, interspersed with shouted curses and acrimonious taunts.

Bard made to break into the grisly scene but Gandalf jerked him brusquely by the arm out through the door, vigourously and silently forbidding any further interference. The Elven King had spoken and the humans had no authority to override his decisions concerning his own people. Furthermore, his Royal Guard was still within the borders of the town, and twenty-four seasoned elven warriors could easily lay waste to the remaining able-bodied human soldiers. Once they were safely out of the building, the valiant defender of Dale demanded to know what the King had said, and stood speechless upon hearing the meaning of the words he had heard.

Thranduil's warriors emerged from the infirmary dragging the unconscious, battered prisoner, bound hand and foot. They ignored the horrified attention paid them by the mortals and on reaching their camp threw Legolas over the back of one of the horses, tying him down firmly like a piece of baggage. During the preceding events, the rest of the Royal Guard had set to breaking camp, and within minutes of their commanders' return all were mounted up.

In stoic and bitter silence the Elven King lead his company from the settlement in the direction of the Greenwood, uncharacteristically dismissing the business of the undivided fourteenth share of Thorin's Treasure.

No purchase of gold or silver could redeem the honourless victory the elves carried back with them to their homeland.

continued

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Namië [Judgement]**

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**  
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**Other Characters:**

Talagan [Harper]: Captain of Legolas' company; 1st to pas judgement in the field

Fearfaron [Spirit-hunter]: father of Annaldír

Annaldír [Gift of trees]: one of the beheaded lost warriors

Valtamar [Good fortune]: other beheaded lost warrior

Lindalcon [Song of the Sunray]: son of Valtamar

Andamaitë [Long-handed]: female lost warrior

Rochendil [Horse friend]: Andamaitë's mate; becomes Ailinyéro [pools of sorrow]

Maltahondo [Gold-hearted]: corpsman and friend to Legolas

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**Namië [Judgement]**

The five days ride back to Mirkwood across the withers of his horse had prevented the broken ribs from knitting and irritated the long gash across his chest. The stab wound felt as f the knife was still in it, jabbing him over and over with each connection of the animal's hooves with the ground. Legolas did not have the energy to cry out and awareness surfaced briefly and furtively so that the five days may have been five weeks to his weary mind.

He was jarred alert abruptly when his injured shoulder ground into the stony courtyard of Thranduil's stronghold. Bright light from a high sun illuminated a ring of solemn eldar all around him. He sensed the King was not there, and for that was grateful and relieved. The next instant he realised he was not only still bound tightly hand and foot, but lay stripped nude in public humiliation. Legolas quickly twisted around to conceal his nakedness and groaned as his injures protested the sudden movement. He sprawled on his side lightly panting and heard someone approaching from among the gathered elves.

A hand grasped him by the hair and yanked hard, and he scrambled to rise unsteadily to his knees. He allowed his eyes to scan the elves now and recognised them as the families of the lost warriors and the remainder of their company. It was his own captain, Talagan, who was holding him up with a fistful of hair. Legolas could not bear to see their shocked and stricken faces anymore and dropped his eyes to the earth before him.

A tall and willowy male elf walked forward from the group and stood looking down on him. He did not have anger in his face; instead, his eyes looked vacant and soulless. He slowly bent down and scooped up a handful of dirt and gravel then was still for a moment more gazing vacantly at the archer. Someone made a sound in their throat, as though to clear it of a cough and the elf seemed to come back to the present. He listlessly flung the loose debris in Legolas' face and began to speak.

"I am Fearfaron, known to you as father of Annaldír, called Ehtyaro, the Spearman, whose life you have wasted and whose rest you have thwarted. His mother, praise Elbereth, passed into the West years ago and is not here to witness this, but neither can she receive our child into Valinor and surely for this she grieves, even there. I must tend to this myself and bear it alone and cannot even contemplate allowing this sorrow to consume me until I know that Annaldír is freed from Wandering and honoured by Mandos." He sighed then and took a deep breath before continuing.

"I claim Warrior's Release from you and demand the full penalty of 24 years in servitude and exile. I will require you to serve me in my trade as talan builder and you will bear the scorn and recriminations of our people as they see fit to express it. For myself, I wish never to speak to you again, and when I am forced to look upon you I will not see you, until Annaldír tells me he has found the Way Straight and claims the glory rightfully his."

The elf finished this speech by drawing forward a dagger from his boot with one hand and grasping a handful of Legolas' hair with the other. With a rapid swipe he severed the silky threads and cast them down. This action seemed to drain away whatever resolve the elf had been relying on to see him through the event and as he returned to his place in the circle his shoulders slumped and the sheen in his hair visibly dulled.

Legolas did not dare lift his eyes to look upon him as silent tears coursed down his face, blurring the image of the small heap of golden tresses on the ground.

Moments passed, and a gracefully petite female approached him next, cheeks tearstained and eyes sorrow-glazed. At her side she led an elfling by the hand, a male child less than 40 years who was pale and looked bewildered. He clearly could not comprehend this situation and was in shock. His mother copied the previous action of Fearfaron and instructed her child to do the same, casting his own small handful of stony grit upon the guilty one, as she spoke for them both.

"Valtamar was my mate," she said and sobbed, squeezing the child's hand tight, "and father to Lindalcon. I claim Warrior's Release also and the full 24 years exile. You have stolen the life of my child's father; therefore, I claim for Lindalcon the life of your father's son. I demand from you the title and position of Prince of the Woodland Realm!"

A gasp arose from somewhere in the crowd and Legolas followed the sound to the aghast countenance of his friend and corpsman, Maltahondo. He quickly lowered his gaze again; he was no longer permitted to look upon his people as an equal.

The mother and child each cut away a section of his hair and added it to the pile before stepping back to resume their positions.

Before they had barely turned, a second male elf strode out from the group. Without so much as a word he drew back his fist and landed it against the archer's broken jaw, which made a strange grinding sound as Legolas tried to stifle a cry. With an incoherent growl the elf rained a stinging hail of dirt and stone against the disgraced archer's body and followed this with a kick to his ribs, still a dark purple from the beating inflicted by the King's guardsmen and the rough ride home.

Legolas coughed out air and blood from his lungs and would have fallen to the dirt if Talagan had not been holding securely to his hair.

"Andamaitë was my mate!" The enraged elf spat and then swiped at Legolas' face again, bloodying his nose. Having finally found his voice he shouted down numerous curses into the archer's ears. "You have stolen both of our lives and I would have you thrown into the most foul and fetid cell in the deepest depths of Thranduil's stronghold did the law allow it!" he thundered.

"As it does not, I demand, as have the others: the full 24-year term of punishment and Warrior's Release. As I suffer, so shall you, hecilo [outcast]. I demand your oath of celibacy for the entire term of sentence, and claim the right of chastisement whenever my suffering requires it!"

At this pronouncement Legolas flinched and a wave of disquiet passed through the collected elves. Such a demand had not to anyone's memory been made before, but was within the rights of the victim.

"Where once I was known to you by my right name, Rochendil, I will become for you Ailinyéro, pools of sorrow in which you will drown!" The renamed elf sliced his handful of hair close to Legolas' scalp and drew blood.

Talagan had to transfer his hold to the doomed sniper's shoulder as most of his once glorious mane now lay in the dirt in a tangled mass. Silently, each of the remaining members of the company came forward and also cut away a few strands of hair, adding it to the pile. Maltahondo came last, but a part of his cut he did not cast away, tucking it carefully into a pocket of his tunic.

Then Talagan pushed Legolas back to sit upon his heels and removed his hold when he was sure the elf, trembling violently from the weight of his disgrace, would not fall over. The captain stepped over to the collection of strands and knelt down and, drawing forth his flint, struck sparks and set it alight. The acrid odour of singed fur filled the courtyard as the golden tresses blazed up brightly and just as abruptly died away.

Legolas watched as the warm breeze blew through the flaky ashes and swept them away to mix with the dirt and debris of leaves, and it was over. Talagan cut him free of his bonds and placed a small bundle of clothes near his knees and walked away. Within minutes all the others silently departed and he was alone.

Legolas crouched down on his hands and knees, trying to get the pain in his body under control and the circulation back into his arms. He reached for the clothes and put them on, and somehow the feel of the rough, undyed cloth as he slipped it over his abused frame was worse than the shame of his nakedness or the feel of the wind on his shorn head.

A sharp pang stung Legolas' heart; he was not even allowed to wear the colours of the Woodland Realm, and this was more upsetting to him than losing his rank and title. He was a warrior and had never particularly cared for the obligations of state, but without his bow and quiver he did not really know who he was anymore.

He rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled away towards the wood; before sunset he had to be beyond the Enchanted River or face further penalty. Now that the judgement was over, he just wanted to be away from the unnaturally silent and empty courtyard.

He made for the trees.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Leithad-en-Maethyr [Release of the Warriors]**

Other Characters:

**Talagan** [Harper]: Captain of Legolas' company, 1st to pass judgement in the field

**Fearfaron** [Spirit-hunter]: father of Annaldír

**Annaldír **[Gift of trees]: one of the beheaded lost warriors

**Valtamar** [Good fortune]: other beheaded lost warrior

**Lindalcon** [Song of the Sun ray]: son of Valtomar

**Andamaitë** [Long-handed]: female lost warrior

**Rochendil** [Horse friend]: Andamaitë's mate; becomes **Ailinyéro** [pools of sorrow]

**Maltahondo** [Gold-hearted]: corpsman and friend to Legolas. He uses his Quenya name-form while Legolas goes by a Sindarin word for 'green leaf'. As a joke between friends, they reversed the naming styles to create nicknames for each other. Legolas calls his friend by the Sindarin word for 'golden':** Malthen** and Maltahondo calls Legolas by a Quenya word that means green, but in the sense of young and inexperienced: **Laiquassë**.

* * *

**Leithad-en-Maethyr [Release of the Warriors]**

Gandalf left Laketown the morning following Thranduil's unprecedented departure sans spoils of war, tailing his dusty wake as near as he dared without provoking a confrontation. He was absolutely certain the elves knew he was behind them and did not want to have to give an explanation as to his intentions to the tense and wary Elven King until his son's fate was decided.

The wizard had determined that death would not follow, given Thranduil's own words of condemnation of the archer, and hoped that he could find a way to mitigate whatever this judgement entailed. An unpleasant image of the dark underground warren of suffocatingly small cells in the dungeons of the Elven King's palace flashed through his brain. How long would a Wood Elf survive in such a place? Surely this would not be the archer's fate.

As a plausible excuse for appearing on the heels of catastrophe like a scavenger bird dogging a pack of wolves, he brought with him the Emeralds of Gelion as Thranduil's share of Thorin's Treasure. Thranduil would not be able to refuse that which he had called forth his army to take by force. This had been Bard's idea and Gandalf readily accepted it, assuring the man he would find Legolas and bring him back to the human settlement if the elf was indeed banished from his own people. In his heart, however, Gandalf was somewhat worried about the King's reaction upon seeing the gems; they were tainted now with the blood of so many warriors and the disgrace of his own child, and hardly seemed worthy of such sacrifice.

He need not have bothered with his concerns for upon admittance to the King's Halls he found the stronghold in near chaos. There was a great deal of traffic within the structure, as elves seemed to be moving around furniture, trunks, linens, and draperies as though an inventory was being taken. With dismay Gandalf realized these must be Legolas' belongings being packed away from sight.

The King's Council of Elders were harried and arguing hotly with one another about the future of the realm and the right of succession, and flailed parchments in the air or thumped the musty pages of ancient tomes to make their points. Gandalf was amazed that within the maelstrom of confusion Thranduil remained collected and still.

The Wood Elf King was not on his throne, but seated in an alcove off to the side that he used for more private audiences; often had he met with Mithrandir there and so it would be this day as he motioned for the wizard to join him. His gaze upon the Istari was wary and appraising but he said nothing, forcing Gandalf to state his manufactured purpose for such an untimely arrival. When the gems were presented, the Elven King merely reached out his hand for the elegant box containing the treasure and set it aside without bothering to open it, a grim smile on his lips.

"I thank you, Mithrandir, for taking such pains to protect the interests of the Greenwood," he said coldly. "And where do you go from here, to Imladris or to Lothlorien?" The bitterness in the King's words could not be denied.

"I am not a gossip monger, Thranduil, if that is what you are suggesting!" Gandalf pursed his lips and fidgeted slightly in his seat. His retort sounded somewhat unconvincing, because he did in fact plan to discuss the events with Celeborn as soon as he knew exactly what was going on. "I regret I had to be witness to these unfortunate scenes, but so I was. Do you expect me to act as though they did not occur?"

Then Thranduil's eyes flashed a bit and he leaned forward so that he was nose to nose with the Maia, but all he said was "Yes".

As he did not move Gandalf was forced back in his chair, pressing his spine against the woven willow supports. He cleared his throat and mentally scolded himself. He had not meant to get on Thranduil's bad side now, and suddenly had the uncomfortable impression that the King was playing him, manipulating him. He realized he would get no news of Legolas from his father and frowned.

"As it happens, I was planning on stopping in Lothlorien after escorting the Hobbit back to the Shire, but since Beorn has agreed to see to his safety I may go there directly, " he admitted.

"That is well and suits my purpose," Thranduil sat back with a sneering scowl upon his brow, "for you can carry with you documents Celeborn will need to see regarding certain changes in the succession to the Crown of the Greenwood," he said and called to his minister.

Gandalf blinked at these words; he had not yet considered this particular complication banishment of the King's only child would cause.

"As soon as the documents are prepared, give Mithrandir a copy. How much longer will all of this take?" Thranduil was addressing his minister.

"I believe it will all be official within a day or two. It is only the question of the previously arranged marriage that must still be settled. You will be allowed to accept him back after he has completed…"

The reply was stopped mid-sentence with an icy glare from the King that managed to project both a cold indifference and his fiery wrath, and the minister hurriedly fled back to the Council of Elders and their bickering.

"There you have it then, Mithrandir," Thranduil raised his eyebrows and a hand as he turned back to Gandalf, lightly shrugging as though to indicate the simplicity of the situation. "You can be on your way day after next and tell Celeborn and his Noldo wife all about it! I trust you remember the way to your old rooms?" His words were a mocking dismissal and Gandalf was only too happy to go.

As he passed out of the great hall the Istar observed a mother and child, surrounded by a veritable host of ministers and servants, being bustled down the corridors towards the throne room.

He decided to go down to the stables and try to glean some news. Of course, it was 'not to be spoken of', but the elves were distressed and the wizard was able to at least find out that Legolas was not in the dungeons and that someone looking carefully in the courtyard would be able to see which way he had gone. Sure enough, Gandalf found the trail and set out, finding it unnervingly easy to follow, something that should not have been possible given a Wood Elf's ability to move through the densest forest underbrush while leaving less of a track than a trout swimming through water.

The sun was low on the western horizon and the thick foliage brought twilight to the forest early and still the trail lead on. Gandalf at last recognized where its destination lay and knew it was not much further to the old campsite used by the guard at times. He heard them before he saw them; a harsh and unpleasantly wet coughing punctuated with high-pitched cries of pain and the voice of a female trying to sooth and comfort. When he broke through the clearing a moment later he could scarcely recognize the limp and gasping elf held in the healer's arms as she carefully wiped away the blood from his lips and the sweat from his forehead.

"I am glad you are here, old friend," she looked up at the wizard and smiled sadly as she spoke, "even though you should not be! We will need a fire tonight and he cannot breath easily if I let him lie flat."

Gandalf came and knelt beside them. He reached out a wizened hand and softly brushed it across the shorn uneven hair but Legolas was not conscious to feel the gentle caress. Even in the fading light the dark stains on the leaf-littered ground where the elf's blood was soaking down into the earth could be seen. Gandalf shook his head in dismay and silently got up and made the fire for them and then sat down with his back to a fallen log and took out his pipe. Just before he lit it, he paused, listening to the elf's rasping and labored breathing and thought better of it.

"I am not elf-kind; not even Thranduil can order me not to see who I choose when I choose! His ban does not extend to the Istari! And what of you, you are a Wood Elf after all and should not be here even more than I," he finally said, responding to the earlier comment.

"I am a healer, it is different" she shook her head as she answered. "Without care he will not survive this, and then there would be four lost ones instead of three."

Gandalf's grimace expressed what he thought of that as he reached over again and brushed the tips of his fingers against Legolas' scalp.

"What of this? Are not these other injuries enough?" he queried.

The healer glanced sideways at the wizard; this was coming close to breaching the oath of silence; such knowledge was not intended for outsiders. She sighed a little and seemed to give the briefest of shrugs before answering; Gandalf was not likely to tell the King where he got his information anyway.

"Symbolic," she stated flatly. "He is not permitted to wear warrior braids until the sentence is complete; neither shall he wear the colors of the Greenwood."

"And how long is this to be?"

"The full term allowed: 24 years per death."

Gandalf digested this bit of news and then questioned the healer closely regarding the details of the Judgement. He was not pleased and still had not gotten to the why of it all.

"I understand he needs to make amends, but what does 'chastisement' consist of if it is separate from the overall punishment," he said.

"It is just a fine way to speak of torture!" she cried harshly and her features contorted in disgust. "That Ailinyéro means to take out his sexual frustrations from losing the comforts of his mate's body by beating Legolas! It has not been done in centuries! There are only two restrictions upon this: no deadly weapons may be used and the beatings must not be severe enough to interfere with completing the Tasks of Release. Ailinyéro's rage at the loss of his mate is such that I expect to be seeing a lot of Legolas over the next years."

Gandalf's features registered shock. He had always found the Wood Elves to be light-hearted and fond of merry-making, willing to throw a feast at the slightest excuse. He would never have suspected such gruesome practices in the execution of their laws, nor so stringent a definition for kinslaying.

"Tell me of these deaths," he said suddenly. "Do you believe he truly killed these other elves by his own hand?"

"No one believes that, or he would be in the dungeons now there to remain until his death! But of the tragedy I can not say, for I was not one of the healers on the battlefield that day," she looked at him as though he had suddenly turned into a dull-witted dwarf. "In any case, he had to have caused the deaths by his own errors, something that could have been avoided or prevented. He wasted their immortality for nothing!" The last words came out vehemently.

"It hardly seems right or just to punish so severely what must have been accidental," Gandalf murmured. The healer made an exasperated sound with her teeth and tongue at this comment.

"It is our way! Accidental it may have been, but preventable none the less! He allowed himself to be seen and his great skill was made useless. What good is it to have the gift of elven reflexes if nerves or anger and fear dull them? You, as Maia, should understand the enormity of such pointless loss of immortal life!

"He had the opportunity to make all the deaths clean on the battlefield but bungled that as well. Now, not only are three of the First-born dead but there f'ar are trapped here instead of at rest with Mandos. This is no small misdemeanor, wizard; his crime is truly of the most heinous!" Gandalf remained silent and the healer seemed to calm a little.

"The Greenwood is not like the other elven realms," she continued. "We lose so many here to the evil vermin pouring forth from the caves of the mountains and the Necromancer's old domain; we can little afford to have our people diminished due to carelessness among ourselves as well."

Legolas shifted in discomfort as the healer's hold around his shoulders had tightened during her words, and he called out softly but incoherently. Their attention was diverted to tending to him for the next several minutes as Gandalf traded places with the healer so she could prepare and administer an elixir of some sort she withdrew from her pack nearby. That done, she stretched and took up her water skin, saying she would return momentarily, and vanished into the darkness.

Before Gandalf had much time to think through what he had been told he was startled by the sudden appearance of Maltahondo dropping down from the tree behind him. The warrior said nothing but came to him and held out his arms, demanding Legolas. Gandalf complied and Maltahondo settled down against the tree trunk with his friend cradled gently against his chest. He looked him over carefully, cautiously touching him here and there where the skin was unbruised, and seemed satisfied with the care he was receiving. He turned his face to look at Gandalf then, his chin lightly resting on the crown of Legolas' head.

"I was listening," he said matter-of-factly. "I can tell you about the battle if you want."

The wizard thought for a moment and nodded, listening as the corpsman relayed the events. This only served to disgust the wizard more, for in his mind there was no way Legolas could have held his aim steady when struck by a large boulder from above, and he said so.

"I agree, in part. I did not know the ridge had been overrun either, so I feel as much at fault; I was not able to give warning until it was already too late," the corpsman said.

"You need not to have." The voice that answered this was hoarse and whisper-soft and came from the disgraced archer. "I should not have moved out so close to the edge. They saw me then."

"I do not think you are supposed to be using up your strength to talk, Laiquassë," Maltahondo said kindly, kissing the top of his head, and smiled a little.

But Legolas did not smile back.

"Not supposed to be here, Malthen," he struggled to say, lightly poking his friend in the shoulder.

"I am here regardless; I had to talk to you." Maltahondo frowned and lifted his shoulders in a defiant shrug. "I wanted to make sure you do not despise me. I am truly sorry, Laiquassë; I should have warned you sooner, or at least I should not have allowed that human to interfere! I thought, somehow I could change things, talk to Talagan about my errors, too, lessen the punishment in some way. Truly, I had no wish to watch you die; I was weak," he was saying and this seemed to upset Legolas, who vehemently shook his head.

"You should not have needed to warn me at all! Do I have to tell you to bring extra arrows? Had I not stepped forward I would not have become their target! You have no error to speak of, and as to the human…" This was too much at once, however; he could not catch his breath and the coughing started again.

Maltahondo tilted Legolas' head up a bit and held him tightly as the eerie groans of pain followed. A small amount of dark blood seeped down from the corner of his mouth. Slowly the episode ended as Legolas again passed out.

Gandalf surveyed the two sadly.

"Malthen, is it?" he said "Tell me about the Warrior's Release and all this business about Wandering. I have been under the impression that no one's f'a can be bound here if it is free of darkness at the moment of death," he resumed the conversation determined to understand the whole mess Legolas had gotten himself into.

As he spoke the healer returned to the camp and gave a nod to the warrior as she sat down, passing him the water skin in case Legolas wakened again. Maltahondo returned his attention to the wizard.

"Only Legolas calls me that; it is a sort of nickname. I am Maltahondo; I have known Laiquass' his whole life. He is really more like a baby brother in ways," he said fondly, absently shifting his burden to a more comfortable position. "I came here with his mother when she was bonded to Thranduil. I was her personal guard since her childhood, and was honored to be the same for Legolas," he said.

Gandalf smiled somewhat coldly, considering it a strange sort of guardian that would apologize for not allowing his charge to die.

"As far as the Wandering goes, it is difficult to explain to outsiders. Our people, the Nandorin elves, the Green elves, and even the Sindarin elves have never been to Valinor. The Noldorin elves call us 'moriquendi', dark elves, and look down on us because we never dwelled in the light of the Two Trees or lived among the Valar. For us, these things are strange and unknown; only in death have any of our kind left here and none return to tell us where is the Way Straight.

"Until recently, none even sailed from the Havens, although that has become more common. We do not know the Valar as the others do, and I myself am suspicious of their intentions towards us. They left us here alone and do nothing to aid in our struggles against darkness brought to our beloved home by one of their own!"

The healer interrupted with a sharp intake of her breath, but Maltahondo barely glanced at her and continued. "Especially do we regard Mandos with trepidation, for the entrance to his Halls is said to be well guarded and only the most valorous of deeds can counter the loss of immortal life, Eru's gift to us."

"You believe the Valar will deny you entrance to Valinor or Mandos' Halls if death is caused by anything but a noble sacrifice," Gandalf stated and received a nod in confirmation from Maltahondo. "Legolas error in revealing his position resulted in the deaths of the warriors, and thus he is guilty of kinslaying. This stripped the warriors of their purpose in battle?" Gandalf really thought this was too much, especially considering the original goal of Thranduil's army when they encamped at the base of the Lonely Mountain. All this just for the chance to plunder the old dragon's horde.

"Not exactly," the corpsman responded. "It robbed them of the honor of the kill, which was the purpose of that skirmish against the goblin guards. They died with their purpose unfulfilled, so what have they to offer as recompense for the lives forsaken? How can they expect to find entrance into Mandos' Realm?" he continued quietly.

"And Legolas' suicide on the battlefield would have been enough to guarantee the three other warrior's passage?" Again a nod followed his words. "What about him; would his death have been clean enough?"

There was a distinct edge of caustic disapproval in these words that neither elf missed, but Maltahondo was prepared for this objection, having thought about it quite a lot lately.

"It would have been wasteful to lose Legolas," he agreed.

"Wasteful?!" Now the healer voiced her censure. "You find the lives of your three other comrades less worthy than your friends'! He is their bane, not the other way round!"

Maltahondo ignored this interjection.

"However, I would rather see him dead than suffer what he will now. The tasks he must complete must be significant enough to place in the balance against the others' deaths. Here in the Greenwood, such deeds involve spiders, orcs, wargs, and other troubles from Dol Guldur that we can scarcely keep at bay by fighting constantly and with combined effort. He will have to do these things alone, and he will eventually be killed for his efforts," he concluded gloomily.

"Or worse," the healer added ominously.

"Do not even think it!" The warrior hissed with a scowl and instinctively drew Legolas closer to him as he did indeed think about his Laiquassë being captured and ending up a prisoner in the Necromancer's old fortress. The things the orcs would do to elves were well known and never spoken of.

"A curse upon that human for interfering, and upon me for letting him!" the sorrowful corpsman suddenly exclaimed.

Legolas stirred in his arms. They had not noticed he had wakened and listened to the discussion.

"Nay!" he spoke softly. "It will not be that way, Malthen. I will complete the tasks." The eyes gazing up at Maltahondo were anything but confidant, however, and the corpsman sighed.

"Ai, Laiquassë! We both know this is unlikely. You must promise me to take the first opportunity for a clean death if it finds you! I cannot bear to think of you in further torment!"

Legolas grabbed Maltahondo's tunic tightly and nodded his promise.

Gandalf and the healer discreetly turned away from this private conversation between the brothers in heart, if not in blood.

"There is another reason I had to come; our company has been disbanded and we have all been reassigned. Talagan leads a troop now to the southern borders near Dol Guldur. He would allow no other from our company to join, save for me. I told him of my sense of responsibility; and, as the captain, he also feels at fault and questions his judgement in relying solely on your skill for the plan to work. He disregarded your lesser battle experience and thinks this contributed to the disaster. We leave tomorrow. In all probability, we will not see one another here again!"

"Do not do this! It is the worst patrol!" Legolas whispered, desperation seeping into his eyes. "Do not burden me with more deaths!" He yanked at his friend's clothing ineffectually.

Maltahondo squeezed his own eyes tightly shut and pressed his forehead to Legolas', slowly shaking his head.

"This much is not your burden," he whispered back, "and, if you do as I ask, we will see each other again in Mandos' Halls, along with our comrades. That is what I am counting on you to do: release them and join us!" Legolas was shaking terribly and Maltahondo wanted to calm him and be certain he would not try to claim fault for his and Talagan's decisions.

"As you care for me, you must not deny me the right to a clean death as well. I do feel responsible for you; there is no other way for me to see it. Have I not been charged with your welfare since your birth only to relinquish that trust now? I have discussed this with your mother and she does not oppose my choice, therefore, you need not speak against it! And Talagan is an honorable warrior and can decide for himself his own debts. I will have your word that you will not try to take these rights from us, do you understand?" He squeezed Legolas' shoulder slightly for emphasis and searched his face.

"I do not want you to go; I do not understand!" Legolas did not know how this could be anything but his fault.

He could not comprehend how the whole pattern of life in his green universe could have been so utterly destroyed by such a small thing, just one extra step, one moment of inattention. Now not only was he to endure punishment for his mistakes, but his closest friend as well. And Talagan, while not a friend in the same sense, had his utmost respect and was an old comrade of his father's, having served with him in the Last Alliance. For him to bear this burden was equally unacceptable. Legolas ground his teeth in frustrated anguish and instantly regretted it as all the nerves in his fractured jaw erupted with fiery pain from the unconscious action.

"Are you still a child, then, Legolas? This is the way of things now; wishing and railing against it changes nothing. You must accept and respect my choice, even as I have had to accept and be witness to your debasement. Do you think that I like it? Do you think I wish it to be happening?" Malthen's words were harsh and uncompromising, and Legolas could only stare in consternation as he gave a half turn of his head in negation. "Then, how many feä must you release, Legolas?" Maltahondo demanded and had to strain to hear the single word: "Three."

The corpsman nodded; but they both knew these were just words. They both knew that each felt responsible for the other, and for the lost warriors; no amount of argument could convince them differently.

"A clean death, then, for all of us," he concluded and Legolas nodded against his chest, too worn out to try to respond. Maltahondo knew he would have to leave soon but made no move yet to do so. "I will stay till you fall asleep, and I brought your pack and hunting knife."

Legolas could barely incline his head in acknowledgement; his bow, he knew, would have been burned in a private ceremony among the families as their loved ones' bodies were committed to flames as well.

They remained thus for some time, long after Maltahondo knew Legolas to be unconscious again. The healer stretched out to sleep certain that she would waken if needed. Gandalf returned from just outside the firelight's reach, although he knew both elves had been aware of his presence all along, shortly before dawn. As Maltahondo had done earlier, he silently held out his arms to take Legolas back.

The corpsman did not hesitate to give up his charge, having said what good-byes there were to say. He picked up Legolas hunting knife and quickly sliced away a long lock of his own burnished auburn hair, wordlessly handing it to the wizard, confidant that Gandalf understood to see that Legolas received it. With a last look at his friend he turned, pulled himself up into the trees, and was gone.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Rhovan Cuil Erin Tawar Sir [Wild Life on the Forest River]**

Dawn in the forest, realised through a quiet and watchful sense of expectation that somewhere on the invisible horizon Anor was rising again amid the passing remains of Isil's dark and starlit domain. Crimson were the low clouds huddled against the rim of the world, unseen under the canopy of the Greenwood, gathered as though to shield the shadows bound beneath its boughs.

A few beams of golden glory filtered down through the frosted and fractious air, insufficient to dry up the wisping mists arising from the earth, yet even this miniscule encouragement coaxed a sluggish response from the trees and the life they sheltered. The beeches' reactions were grudging and terse, brittley shifting branches garbed in chestnut-coloured foliage, longing to return to the seasonal slumber that announced the demise of summer in the northlands. A red autumn broke upon the forest and claimed its brief ascendancy.

The stillness of the chilly air enhanced the distinction of individual diurnal voices breaching the silence left by the more muted sounds of the night creatures now secreted away in dens and perches and snug burrows. With nesting over and chicks fledged, the exodus of the migrating species depleted the avian population of the woods. Gone was the spring-borne urgency of clamouring for the attentions of a mate and warning off potential rivals. The accompanying disharmonic morning chorus now yielded to the specific leider of the year-round residents.

Sparrows, flitting and pipping through the small growth of shrubs and brambles, chirruped individual notes at their telltale pitch and frequency, allowing little glimpses of stripes in brown and gold and black as they gathered sustenance. The sombre call of mourning doves drifted through the branches, the shadow-tinted birds unseen within the leaves. Determined rustling as four-toed grouse bustled through the leafy debris of the forest floor, going in clutches of ten or twelve, gave the impression of purposeful caution as first year chicks were herded along. Bobwhites and Whip-or-wills vied with each other for the most amusingly quizzical call, and a cardinal sent out but half its signature song as though expecting an answering throat to complete the stanza. A rapid scraping of bark on branch was the only response as a quoll slipped with fervent speed through the beeches, blatantly disregarding stealth for agile retreat from predation.

The trees creaked with disapproval, groaning like the bones of weary old men, under the passing weight of a sleek, black boa that leisurely pursued the hapless marsupial. A yellow reptilian tongue tasted the air, noting the place where its meal had left the trees, and the sinuous serpent slothfully uncoiled itself and slipped down to the ground. It was surprisingly rapid upon the land and secured its morning morsel with little effort, languorously returning to the canopy to digest it. The disturbance had momentarily overruled the waking forest fauna's prattle but quickly the small voices took up their dominance of the air streams again.

Higher in the canopy, a wedge-tailed eagle ducked and pivoted its head, appraising the boa carefully. Deciding that its size was too great for a single attack yet would surely provide well for the needs of the flock, it resolved to return with reinforcements later. It was too early for such effort and the boa was clearly settling down for the day.

The slightest lifting of the air ruffled the collar of feathers about regal bird's neck, and in a gesture of awakening common to most life it stretched, raising its noble head skyward and extending its mighty wings. With a final shake it settled, and the breathless air carried two feathers down to rest, caught upon the minutely splintered texture of the bark upon a lower branch. The peculiarly soft sound of the raptor sharpening its beak against the smooth-barked trunk sent vibrations down through the tree and finally, reluctantly, Legolas awakened.

First upon his eyes and mind crystallised the image of the feathers trapped just above his head drifting slightly, not from wind stirring but from the movements of the bird from which they had just disengaged. As he watched them, one finally loosed itself from the gentle grasp of the ancient beech and floated, swaying and twisting as though progressing down some unperceived stairway in the intangible air, and came to rest in the palm he up-stretched to receive it. His gaze travelled to the eagle, staring calmly down upon him.

"An le," [For you] the message was clear in the bright gleaming eye regarding him, and he smiled.

"An le," echoed the tree and released the second feather into his hands.

His soul warmed in the joy of the gifts and he examined the feathers carefully, using gentle fingertips to realign the teeth of the individual fronds and make the barred and spotted pattern whole again. One he would use to adorn his new bow, the other he would work into his hair in grateful acknowledgement of this kinship the Greenwood offered him. He was no longer a resident within a Thranduil's community within the forest; rather he was indigenous to the forest itself. This was a profound difference he only realised in this moment. His heart seemed to swell as the burden of banishment lifted; he belonged, more completely and to something somehow so much more substantial than his former citizenship among the Wood Elves.

He breathed in deeply the scent of winter, acrid and tangy, that tinged the autumn air. Rising to his feet in an elegantly fluid motion that took him all the way up onto his toes, he mimicked the eagle's stretch, extending his arms out and tipping his head up as he squeezed shut his eyes. Still smiling and holding the feathers, he balanced there, listening to the voices of the morning. Searching for the gabbling chuckle of the little spring-fed brook hidden from his eyes, he found it and noted the sounds of animals refreshing themselves in and around it. He exhaled and came down onto his heels, satisfied that no large predators were about, and shivered slightly. Winter was hurrying this year, or he seemed to be feeling the cold more now, or perhaps both. He shook his head and carefully put the feathers into has pack, then rubbed his arms with his palms to warm them.

Reaching down to his small collection of belongings, he lifted up a leather fur-lined short tunic and slipped the soft garment over his bare skin. The hairs tingled with remembered life of the wolf from which it had been taken some eight winters ago and the distant energy wrapped itself warmly around him. He donned also a great cloak of the same fur over his simple attire of soft quoll-skin leggings and the tunic.

Hefting his pack, his small bow and quiver, and his hunting knife to his back, Legolas began gliding through the trees towards the singing brook where he would wash himself and fill his water skin for the day. At the edge of the small spring-generated bog he paused, intently listening to the calling of the frogs in the reeds. He found them to be the most alert of sentinels with regards to anything involving water, and he had come to recognise the various signals they used to communicate danger. They seemed only to be complaining about the lack of bugs and the approach of the Dark Days when they would go into the mud to sleep, and Legolas relaxed.

He stripped off his garments in the branches and left behind all but his knife as he dropped silently to the squishy ground. Not a single droplet of water left the pond's surface as he slid into the cold waist-deep liquid, catching his breath a little at the sudden jolt the temperature change gave to his body. He waded over to the lip of the small depression where the water tumbled gently over into the sandy shallow bed of the stream. Carefully laying the knife on a flat stone on the bank, he tossed up a handhold of water into his eyes to chase away the last remnants of sleep. Bathing quickly, he completed the daily toilet by dunking his head completely under the small cascade, thoroughly wetting his hair and massaging away any evidence of leaf or twig that might have found its way there since the previous morn.

That done, he exited the water and quickly grabbing his knife fled back up to the branches and wrapped the wolf-pelt cloak around him, fur side to skin, to chase away the renewed chill. With a sigh he began to tend his hair, absentmindedly fingering small sections and rolling them between his palms, from his scalp to the very tips. He did this until all of his hair was more or less neatly controlled in a thick series of twisted locks that fell to his shoulders. This would be the twelfth winter of his exile, and his hair had grown quickly. Too proud to cut it back yet needing some way to confine it, this had been the only method he could think of. He had to admit, this style, if so such a raggy and matted head of locks could be called, was certainly faster and easier to manage than the intricate braids of his warrior's rank. Dressed again in the soft and warm leather garments, he prepared for his daily routine, his solitary morning patrol.

He frowned, distracted as he thought about this day. A dozen years was a short amount of time to elf kind, yet he had become acutely aware of each moon's passing since the critical day he had lost his identity and been encumbered with this other, shameful one. 'Egol, edledhron, ar noss-dagnir,' [Forsaken one, exiled elf, and kin-slayer] he thought bitterly, and remembered the battle again. A falling stone, a misspent arrow, and four lives lost.

This was the Edinor Ned Baudh [Anniversary Day of the Judgement] and the twelfth year held extra significance as a marker: one sixth of the sentence had past, apparently without any resolution for the lost warriors. He really had had no idea what to expect or what was expected of him. No one had bothered to suggest exactly what the Tess Leithadin [Tasks of Release] were or how he was to know if he was successful in completing them.

He distinctly remembered that the families had to make a formal declaration to the Council of Elders when they knew their loved one had entered Mandos' Halls. Legolas realised this knowledge would come to them in their dreamscapes, where this final communication between the lost ones and their kin would be heard, or rather felt. However, he was somewhat at a loss as to how he would learn of it, or if the families would even make such a declaration to the Council if they did know.

It had occurred to him that they probably would much prefer it if he simply died in the attempt to complete these tasks, and then they would not need to be troubled about any of it any longer.

The first few years of internal exile had been horrible. Whenever he had been required to return to the city to work alongside Fearfaron; the elves had steadfastly refused to acknowledge him in any way, averting their gazes and changing direction to avoid crossing his path. He had thought this was a good thing at first, for he had feared to face their insults and slurs. As time passed, he found the ostracism far worse; it was as though he was something so horrible that his people could not even bear to admit to his existence. Fearfaron was visibly pained by every word and look he had to extend to Legolas, and usually dismissed him before even a full day's labour was done.

Of course, this may also have been due to the fact that Legolas was hopelessly uncoordinated when it came to the working of wood with tools. Many were the careworn and frustrated sighs the talon-builder breathed as he was forced to redo nearly every part of a given construction he assigned to the archer. Finally, he relegated Legolas to fetching and carrying and only the most basic of shaping with hand tools. He had been able to teach the former warrior how to select usable pieces from among the fallen limbs, logs, and branches within the vast forest and considered that an achievement. He now only required Legolas to submit himself for duty on a monthly basis, having told the fallen warrior he considered it more important for him to work on the completion of the task for his son's release.

Each day Legolas spent in the city also meant a night enduring the torment of Ailinyéro and his chastisement. He shuddered, considering how this, too, had evolved over the elapsed time. Ailinyéro's preferred method of punishment was scourging; specifically watching Legolas do the scourging himself while Ailinyéro shouted all manner of foul curses and insults. If Legolas did not put enough effort into the self-inflicted whippings, Ailinyéro would smear a handful of coarse salt into the fresh lashes on the elf's back and sides. Sometimes, he did so no matter how hard Legolas applied the five-tongued whip.

After a few months, the elf had begun pleasuring himself as he watched, and Legolas had vomited at this sick fascination with inflicting pain. That had elicited a severe beating with a piece of chain, and the episodes had become progressively more grotesque thereafter. He shivered again, realising he would not be able to forgo entering into the city on this day, and dreaded to think what his tormenter had planned for him that night.

Legolas mentally shook himself to dispel the disturbing images and reached into his pack, drawing out the feathers he had just received. Carefully he threaded one into a slim side-lock near his face so that it fell to the line of his jaw and lightly brushed against him there. The second he inserted into the leather binding at the top of his bow, attaching it to a strip of leather he loosened and retied so that the feather fluttered freely as he moved the bow, resettling it over his shoulder.

The gifts of Tawar [Great Forest] and Thôr [Eagle] were not lightly granted and he reclaimed the new definition bestowed upon him with a warm surge of pride. Around his bizarre schedule of humiliation he had formulated a plan for completing the Tess Leithadin. Now, the importance of what he was doing was deepened by the addition of a new sense of responsibility.

Swiftly he climbed up into the high canopy, swaying with the sylvan swells as he looked out from his perch over the green sea. The Tasks, he considered, could be more than a way to find a clean death for himself, as Malthen had counselled all those years ago. Somewhere, within the dozen idhrinn [years] past, he had become more interested in the Greenwood and its life, and more disgusted with the growing darkness and boldness of the foul and evil things that blanketed and smothered the vibrancy of its natural splendour.

In his old life he had fought, as had all the warriors, for the defence of the Woodland Realm, for his people, and for his father, leaving Tawar to fend for itself. The neglect showed. How had Tawar become merely the background over which his life was painted, rather than the masterpiece upon which his small existence was as a tiny brush-stroke? Tawar had been here so long, far longer than any of the eldalie had lived. Surely, Yavanna herself had planted them here and, thinking this, he was overwhelmed with the sense of what the trees had borne witness to over the Ages.

For the first time, Legolas felt a sense of affiliation with the elusive Vala who seemed so distant, watching coldly as the lands suffered under the black will of the one never named. The next instant the link dissolved to be replaced with anger. How could she abandon Tawar so easily? Legolas decided he would stand against the Darkness infecting the Greenwood and threatening all that depended on it. His life would be about more than completing a sentence. If he was to die completing these Tasks, then let it be for more than the three lost warriors or his own redemption. He welcomed his new name and title: Tirn-en-Tawar. [The Watcher of the Great Wood]

With a smile, rare even in his previous role as prince, he descended again into the sturdier arms of the beeches, the highway of the elves, and moved noiselessly towards his first chore of the day. Having had no real notion of exactly what might constitute a Task of Release, he had opted for the obvious: to kill as many orcs as possible, decimate the spiders' lairs, and hunt down the ravaging packs of wargs. He had quickly realised the futility of one elf undertaking to achieve such goals. After all, how many of the creatures could he hope to kill? Even if he were able to kill every one of them in the Greenwood a fresh supply was ready at hand from the dark tower of Dol Guldur or from the Misty Mountains. Thus, he had to result to subterfuge, fire, and a large network of traps, for which he set himself as the bait.

For orcs, this was simple enough and not even too dangerous, he soon found to his surprise. It had taken a great deal of time, but he had dug a series of deep pits at various locations near the forest's borders and the thin strip of wasteland separating it from the mountains to the west. Even before he had finished this stage he had drawn the attention of several small bands of curious orcs. Perhaps it was the totality of his isolation that heightened his senses, or made him more attuned to the warnings of the living extensions of Tawar, great and small. Perhaps both were true. In any case, he found he always knew when they were nearing his position. Leaping up into the trees long before they came upon him and shooting them down as they inspected his work was truly almost effortless.

Of greater note, he had attracted the attention of the King's border patrols as well. Often he was aware of their presence, watching him from a distance but never approaching. He knew from signs the next day that they had inspected his efforts. He decided they were silently and covertly assisting him, not in the construction of the pits but in concentrating their vigilance in his vicinity to lessen the chances of orcs attacking him unhindered. He finally determined they did this because they had accepted his plans as a part of the Tasks, and had found a way to assist within the boundaries of the Law. They were warriors and wanted to know their brothers in arms were no longer Wandering.

Once completed, he had lined the sides and bottom of each pit with sharpened and fire-hardened pikes of wood. Later, after a few successful runs through the traps, he had replaced those with the knives and scimitars of the vile creatures he killed. Carefully he had woven over the openings a web of slender branches and over this replaced the turf and leafy litter of the forest floor. While the effect would never deceive an elf, the limited powers of observation of an orc were more than fooled.

It was not hard to entice the despicable vermin to give chase, all he had to do was show himself briefly and take off just above them through the branches. They could never resist the temptation of one lone elf in the trees, and thundered wildly and blindly wherever he led them. His speed had turned out to be a deficit to this particular sport, and he had to slow his pace so as not to lose them.

This proved to be the most dangerous aspect of the undertaking, for the need to let them keep him in their sites meant he was also within range of their arrows. Usually their aim was wide of the mark, but he had occasionally been hit. Once he had nearly been knocked from the trees to join them in the traps by the force of the arrow blow. At such times he had abandoned the kill and climbed high into the canopy to make good his escape.

For the most part, however, the orcs fell victim either to the pits themselves or his deadly aim as he picked them off efficiently from above. Those few that attempted to retreat, seeing their comrades fall, he chased and shot down quickly. Few ever escaped to tell the tale to the others that came to replace them. Slowly he had been able to drive them further and further to the south, until now none came north of the elf path. Yet he felt no advance had truly been made against them, and he had only succeeded in concentrating them in a different area.

Wargs could not be trapped thus, not could he hunt them alone. They had neither fear of nor blood lust for elves, unless driven by Orc handlers, and would merely avoid him if they learned of his presence. Their goals were more basic, seeking to hunt for sustenance, and always went in packs. For these he had to be content to lie in wait at watering holes and shoot them from the safety of the trees.

As with the Orcs, he despaired of any way to make a significant impact on their numbers. He could not get to them in their dens and destroy the young ones; these locations were too carefully hidden and guarded well. The hunting parties that issued forth in the night were small, ten at the most, yet more than one elf could kill; no matter how fast he could draw and shoot. They fled into the shadows at the first hit, separating to confuse his pursuit. He never got an entire pack on the hunt, and never got close to a den. The wargs multiplied in nearly inverse proportion to the numbers he killed.

The spiders were a much more difficult affair. He took far greater risks with them, for they worked in concord and with a greater and more malevolent intelligence than the orcs or even the wargs. They were immune to traps, being masters of constructing them, and were as at home in the heights as was he. They could feel him coming through the miniscule vibrations his hands and feet made as he passed through the canopy, and more than once had to fight his way desperately out of their webs and ambushes. He had summoned all of his intellect trying to devise some way to attack them with more than one or two arrows at a time, for even his speed was insufficient to elude them if he remained long enough to take more than two shots.

A summer thunderstorm had finally given him the answer. A gleaming streak of lightening had struck a tree infested with spiders' nests and in an instant the sticky ropes had blazed away in a pungent flare of golden heat. He watched in sorrow as the tree died from the shock of the lightening, not from fire for the flames had not neither time nor enough heat to survive the downpour.

He commenced to fire his arrows into the webs and nests alight with flame. It was a trick he could only use in the spring, when the trees were wet with rising sap and rains came daily in the afternoon. He had learned to concentrate on the egg sacs, and to heat the tips of his arrows to white rather than shoot them aflame. To do this he had to carry a small brazier and bellows with him, which was cumbersome in the branches. However, the method prevented igniting the whole tree containing the nests and having lost two he was determined never to cause another such casualty.

The first time he had set alight the egg sacks in a large nest of seven adults, the beasts had hunted him for three weeks in rage. All of those he had killed but two and thereafter he never slept in the same tree twice.

The spiders recognised him as their bane and were always watching and feeling the trees for his approach. He had learned to recognise their nasty snapping and clicking calls and they had one devoted just to him, and he was smugly pleased. He was sure the name they had for him was particularly disgusting. Despite the greater challenge involved, he had seen far greater success than with the orcs and wargs. By eliminating the egg sacs he removed the replacements before they could be born, and steadily the numbers of arachnids began to diminish.

Legolas slowed his advance and listened carefully as he neared the border along the wilderland near the Old Ford. He had recently come to a decision concerning the Tasks. After long and deliberate consideration, he had concluded that clearing the beasts from the northern borders of the Woodland Realm was a Task, and he had accomplished it alone, in accordance with the sentence. Maintaining the new status quo, however, was beyond his ability if he was to drive the creatures any further and get on with the other Tasks. He would need help, and had determined to make contact with Beorn, if possible, and ask his assistance.

He knew that the shape-shifter would not encroach on Thranduil's Realm in the capacity of a guardian or defender, but he would not, he hoped, be reluctant to make contact with the border patrols and pass along information. Likewise he would be willing to speak with the woodsmen in the central forest. Legolas had carefully made a map of all the trap locations and hoped that the patrol and the woodsmen would have the foresight to spend the effort needed to keep them up and utilise them effectively. He also had detailed instructions for the elven guard on igniting the spiders' lairs. This activity he would trust to no Man, and was certain that Beorn would give this information only to Thranduil's folk, cognisant of the grave danger Tawar would be under if not handled properly.

Hesitating in the shadowy protection of the forest, the fallen archer gazed out over moor and mead. The exact location of Beorn's enclave could not be seen, hidden in a bowl surrounded by a small growth of pencil pines. The meadow was bright and sunbeams lit the multiple colours of brown and gold adorning seeded grasses and shrubs heavily burdened with berries in crimson and purple. Legolas was uncomfortable this close to the open plains; little had he ventured without the cover of the trees and never alone on foot. The last time he had left Tawar had been a horrendous experience to say the least. It would be a blessing indeed to have one of Thranduil's horses for this part of the journey.

No sooner had the thought appeared than he became aware of movement far out on the plains; a party of Men, riders on horse, breached the horizon moving in the direction of the shape-shifter's domain. He sighed, it would not do to conduct his business among outsiders, and he had never had dealings with humans directly. About to turn away, a familiar silhouette caught his eye and as he watched the figure moved off from the group, turning his horse towards the forest and his position. He decided to wait for a bit in the eaves of the trees.

The sun had passed its zenith by the time the lone ride had drawn nearer to the Greenwood.

"Mithrandir," he voiced quietly from his seat midway up the myrtle tree a scant few hundred yards into the body of the forest proper.

The wizard stopped, not really startled so much as uncertain where to look to return the greeting, for Legolas was fully obscured within the foliage. He was scanning the trees carefully in the general direction of the sound when a small laugh guided him better and he finally caught sight of the former prince. The old wizard's eyes widened just slightly as he observed the altered appearance of the sylvan elf. Legolas looked fey and dangerous.

"What business do you have in the Woodland Realm that calls you from your travelling companions?" the elf continued.

"It seemed a good day to come by and see how Mirkwood fares in these times," the reply came with a turn of the lips more reminiscent of a frown than anything else. "Will you not come down and spare me a strained neck?" Legolas did climb lower so that he was only slightly above the rider's eye level, but remained in the trees peering into the Istar's care-worn face.

"Mirkwood! That is a horrible name to say here right in the Greenwood. Tawar hates the naming the Men use," the Wood Elf's tone was indignant.

Gandalf raised his brows slightly at the unusual reference to the forest. Tawar was not a term even the oldest descendants of the Green Elves of Ossiriand would still use as a formal title for the forest.

"It is sadly a more accurate word these days, Legolas, whether it suits the forest to hear it or not." The elf did not respond and looked away, absently patting the bark of the trunk at his back, almost, thought Gandalf, the way one might caress the neck of a nervous horse to calm it. "You must admit the woods are filled with more creatures of evil and shadow than even ten years ago," he continued. Still Legolas did not respond and Gandalf realised he had suddenly tensed and was listening no longer to his words.

"We should move deeper into the woods now, the patrol approaches," the elf finally said and began to climb through the branches rapidly.

"Wait. I should like to have the guard to guide me in, if you do not mind."

"Well I should not and I do mind. If you are here to see Thranduil, then go with the guard." Legolas called back and did not slow down.

Gandalf sighed and hurried after the retreating elf, not certain how the immortal had known he was not in the wood on official business. He finally caught up where Legolas waited for him and as the horse drew near the elf jumped lithely down onto its back behind the wizard.

"Let loose the reins, Mithrandir; he knows where to go," the elf said and only smiled when Gandalf looked sceptically back over his shoulder. He complied, however, and indeed the horse did not hesitate on its path, which to the wizard's eyes seemed not to exist at all.

They progressed this way in silence and Gandalf was uncomfortably aware of the intense scrutiny the elf was giving him from behind. The feral Elda's hands rested lightly on his waist and he seemed to be reading Gandalf's mood from this contact. The wizard shifted slightly.

"You are concerned to be with me?" the elf asked finally, but without rancour.

"I admit your personality is more intense than my memory informed me," Gandalf shrugged as he spoke. "You seem much changed."

"Well, you hardly knew me before, Mithrandir, so how can you judge that?" the elf asked with amusement and just a hint of sorrow in his words. "And since the last time you saw me I was half-dead I suppose any change must be an improvement."

"True. However, you comprehend my meaning, and that is not it," said Gandalf sternly.

The horse had moved into a small clearing where a clear, shallow stream crossed the small opening in the canopy and immediately dropped its head to the lush rarity of thick emerald blades. The afternoon sun glinted brightly on the tumbling water and green mossy banks and Legolas jumped down onto the springy terrain.

He sat next to the water and glanced back, waiting for the wizard to join him. He did not want to discuss any of these changes the wizard spoke of and had no intention of bringing up the Judgement. The significance of Mithrandir showing up on this exact day was not lost on his reasoning and he waited.

Gandalf dismounted and removed his saddlebag, then loosened the girth on the saddle and fondly slapped the animal's neck before joining the elf by the brook. With a weary grunt he folded himself onto the ground and dug his pipe out of his pack. As he filled and lit it, puffing briskly to set the flame, he critically surveyed Legolas again, taking in the roughly made garments and the uniquely twisted locks complete with a magnificent eagle's feather. The wizard instinctively reached out to touch it and the elf drew back quickly in alarm, then stilled and flushed at revealing his nervousness. Gandalf dropped his hand and decided not to comment, concentrating a few moments on blowing smoke rings, a trick that often distracted those who might find him intimidating. He waited until the elf's countenance resumed its normal hue before reinitiating the conversation.

"The changes in the forest, Legolas, this is something serious. I have heard reports from the woodsmen and from the beornings that the creatures are on the move, becoming concentrated in the central part of the Greenwood. You are pushing them from the north, and their masters drive them relentlessly from the south. The woodsmen are caught in the middle," he finally stated.

Legolas could not help but show his astonishment. He did not think anyone was aware of what he was doing except for a few of the elves in the border patrols.

"I did not know this. That is, everyone suspects that orcs are using Dol Guldur as some sort of fortress, but I was not certain they were anything but alone there. Who are these masters you speak of?" he spoke not of his own part in the situation and Gandalf of course noticed.

"It is difficult to be sure," he continued slowly and sent an appraising glance into the young elf's eyes. Seemingly satisfied, he shook his head a little and puffed a few times. "The consensus seems to be that they are Wraiths, servants of the Dark One, or even that foul emanation himself," he continued. "There has been much debate as late but little progress towards a solution to this threat."

Legolas sucked in his breath on hearing this. Mithrandir's tone transmitted his disapproval of the lack of action these deliberations had produced, and Legolas could only guess this was business of the White Council. That the wizard would choose to mention any of it to him was unexpected.

"It is sometimes useful to have the ear of an objective party, one unlikely to converse of such confidences among peers," the words sounded and felt as if in answer to the elf's thoughts and Legolas laughed brusquely.

"Yes, and finding an objective listener with no peers to communicate with is even better." He responded with just a soft edge of bitterness and a wry smile. "I would know what your counsel would be on dealing with such an enemy. I am committed to the protection of Tawar; this news is unacceptable to me."

"Wraiths are not of a substantial nature to slay with sword or bow; they cannot maintain a solid physical form as the Dark One can" Gandalf began, nodding thoughtfully in concurrence with the vehemence in the warrior's words. "And they are protected from the effects of my own spells, as far as I have been able to determine."

Legolas brows rose in amazement at this admission, but he said nothing and the wizard continued.

"They command through terror and wield a black power through their link to their Dark Master. I am convinced they are behind the rapid increase in both the numbers of orcs and the more consolidated attacks they make. Their bands and hordes strike with a greater finesse regarding vulnerable locations than the creatures themselves have ever had before," his words were not encouraging and Legolas felt his dismay.

"I do not understand; what are these Wraiths, exactly, and how is this link with the Dark One achieved?" the elf queried. Again Gandalf sent him that appraising look before answering.

"It is not wise to discuss this so openly; even here so deep in the forest I cannot be certain my movements are unknown, for we are on the very doorstep of Dol Guldur," he said. "However, I cannot hope to make any further progress without some clandestine assistance. To be successful, you will need to be as well informed as I can make you."

These words drew a startled utterance from Legolas' lips, but the wizard help up his hand and continued.

"The Wraiths are enslaved by the Dark One, and you should know at least of the Witch King of Angmar, though it is not he but others from among his eight companions. Once these were Men, but exist now only in the power of the Shadow, between death and life. Lured by their lust for power, they accepted the offer of rings of power from their subtle Master in the last Age. As long as the rings bind them, they cannot be struck down by weapon or wizardry."

"You speak of Nazgul," Legolas whispered; at last he understood what he would be dealing with. "For as such are they known here. How can we hope to make any mark against such foul abominations? What is it you think I can do?"

Gandalf smiled; pleased his assessment of the elf proved true; he had accepted his recruitment without hesitation once the shock had worn off.

"I am not exactly certain; I was hoping you might have some ideas of your own," he replied.

The elf straightened up to gaze at his companion incredulously. _Ideas of my own? If the wizard has none, how am I to find a solution?_ He shook his head, staring into the sun-speckled flow of the stream as he considered it. _Un-beings!_ He shuddered slightly. _Bound by Rings of Power, untouchable under the protection of the barrier between the Shadows and the Light._ He looked back at Gandalf and shook his head.

"How can I answer you? I am only a Wood Elf, Mithrandir; I would rid Tawar of this unwholesome disease, but know not how to combat such things," he finally replied in discouragement.

The wizard was not displeased, however, and only smiled.

"I did not say you would have these ideas immediately. Your rather ingenious methods have proved effective thus far. You have a knack for careful assessment and keen observation, and your unnatural solitude has forced some clever inspiration and inventiveness. These qualities I would have you bring to bear upon the source of the troubles you seek to dispel." he countered, and rose with a groan as he unbent his stiff knees.

"The light goes quickly now, and I intend to make use of my usual quarters in Thranduil's halls. Will you guide me there? I have no earthly idea where you have let my horse bring me," he said.

Legolas rose as well. With Gandalf's words, he remembered the original chore embarked upon in the morning, and reached into his pack for the documents he had prepared.

"Of course. I am required to be in the city before tinnu [dusk] today," he replied. "And if I might claim a favour in return, these are maps and instructions concerning those 'ingenious methods' you alluded to," he held out the parcel to the wizard. "I had planned to ask Beorn to get this information to the patrols and to the woodsmen, but perhaps you would be able to do so more quickly, as you are already here," he concluded and Gandalf nodded, accepting the documents without comment.

Legolas turned and spoke for the horse to come; standing back as Gandalf tightened the girth of the saddle again before mounting up. The wizard held out a hand to the elf that grasped it and sprang lightly behind him again, speaking softly to the horse of their destination as he did so. The Istar did not bother to take up the reins, trusting his companion's rapport with the animal to steer them most efficiently on their course.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	6. Chapter 6

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

**Naeg ar Anirad [Pain and Desire]**

They rode in silence considering their conversation as the hazy light within the forest slowly lost its golden undertone and became infused instead with the longer reaching beams of red and orange.

Legolas noticed the change in Tawar's voices long before the first evidence of elven habitation came into view and sighed just slightly. _Strange how the movements and sounds of my own people now seemed to encroach as an intrusion upon the life of the forest_.

He halted the horse with only a brief pressure from his knees just beyond Gandalf's sight of the main gates and jumped to the ground. He knew the guards' vision had already observed their approach and word of his arrival would soon spread to parties interested. He could not bring himself to say that he was forbidden to pass through those gates, even though he knew the wizard was aware of this anyway. And, he definitely did not want Mithrandir to witness his encounter with Ailinyéro.

"It would be better for you to continue and enter the city without me along," he said quietly, not meeting the wizard's eyes. Before the Gandalf could respond he melted into the comforting shadows of the canopy without even a tremor of leaves to mark his movements. He worked his way around to the rear of the fortress where a less impressive but more often used set of gates provided access for the coming and going of the guards and patrols.

Legolas landed without disturbing a single grain of sand upon the pathway before the postern of Thranduil's Hall. The tree from which he had dropped was a friend from days of old. Called 'The Sentinel', a name he had bestowed upon it when he was a child, he had spent many hours high in its branches overlooking the forest and his father's halls.

While not the oldest tree in the forest, it was still one of the grandfathers, soaring higher than any of the others growing this close to the mountain stronghold. If one climbed all the way to the top, a clear view could be seen to the East where the Lonely Mountain stood wreathed in clouds reminiscent of Smaug's hazy exhalations and Long Lake lay shining like a mithril mirror for Manwë's use. From its shelter Legolas had watched the activities of the guards and patrols, the various council members, visiting dignitaries from distant lands, spied on his parents arguing, and even just watched the regular folk of the Woodland Realm. He had always trusted and felt safe within the care of The Sentinel, and here he left his weapons, pack, and cloak for the night. He approached the gates.

The guard eyed him briefly and without emotion as the barrier was opened and he entered the stable-yard near the barracks. Small groups of soldiers milled about, their conversations ceasing and activities stilling as the disgraced archer walked past them. Several of them had turned and left the area as soon as he had arrived, but many remained. Legolas refused to bow his head or look down even though they would expect him to.

They knew why he was here; could not help but be aware of what was to take place this night, as Ailinyéro used a nearby storage room cut into the rock of the mountain wall as his place to exercise his rights. The warriors' acute sense of hearing made what went on inside clearly audible, even if they were to go into the barracks and shut the doors and windows. The air calmly carried to them all the unpleasant sounds of the curses, of leather striking flesh, his own cries of agony as the hours wore on. The other sounds, noises Ailinyéro made in his sick madness of passion, would be clearly audible as well.

Legolas could hear the soldiers, too. They meant for him to do so. The ten or twelve warriors that remained in the stable-yard took part in Ailinyéro's chastisement by betting on how long it would take him to strike his first blow and the hour when Legolas would no longer be able to keep silent under the torment. Now they added wagers on how long his tormenter could hold out before succumbing to his carnal desire and morbid pleasure. The final wager almost did make Legolas stop in his tracks as he visibly flinched while they laughed. They were betting on how long it would be before he joined Ailinyéro in his perversion.

In the shadows of the stable's eaves, Fearfaron listened and watched with growing disgust. He had been waiting all day for Legolas' appearance, intending to spend the entire day collecting new pieces of wood from a spot two leagues from the city.

A recent storm had felled an old tree, and in turn it had taken down two others in its path as it tumbled to its death. Such life, energy, and great age were not to be wasted to rot upon the forest floor, in the carpenter's opinion. Such falls were as gifts from the forest; a sign of trust between the elves and the beeches that no tree lost would go without the respectful and almost reverent collection and use of the wooden husk left by the ancient forest dweller's demise. Fearfaron found that Legolas understood this concept, better than many of the warriors seemed to do, and he looked forward to having the elf along to complete this task of honour: the funeral of the trees, as it was to his mind.

Now he would not be able to carry out the collection. Ailinyéro would claim his rights first, and Legolas would be in no condition to help at all after a few hours had passed within the storage alcove. He had known for some time that Ailinyéro's ideas of punishment were becoming more sexual. He believed that the elf had developed an obsession with the fallen archer and considered him as a slave. Fearfaron found this far more despicable than the errors the archer had committed, for those were not intentional and no malice was involved.

The talan-builder feared that Ailinyéro had lost some part of his sanity in his grief. Fearfaron knew not what to do about it, and had not intervened as yet, for the rules had not been breached as far as he understood them. After each chastisement, Legolas walked out of the storage room on his own feet the next day, although unsteadily at times, and returned to the forest.

The carpenter always waited there beside the stables throughout the night, just in case the elf did not emerge and a healer might need to be summoned. He almost wished this would be the case, for then he could officially make complaint against Ailinyéro and stop the brutal tortures, siting the rule against interfering with the completion of the Tasks of Release.

Fearfaron sighed, loudly enough that Legolas heard him and looked over. The archer felt his face grow hot and quickly averted his gaze; he did not want the carpenter to witness this. The collected soldiers noticed and snickered and scoffed at his discomfort, which made Fearfaron scowl even more. Ailinyéro chose that moment to make his appearance from the storage room, shaking a set of chains noisily as he moved forward. Fearfaron cleared his throat and the other elf looked over, annoyed.

"I have been waiting here all day; I need Legolas to accompany me to collect several pieces from the forest," he said calmly.

Legolas glanced in his direction again; he was aware Fearfaron had often been present when he came to Ailinyéro, but never before had the carpenter made his presence obvious. As Legolas looked at the older elf, it became apparent he was very angry. This was surprising, for Fearfaron never showed anything but sorrow and loneliness on his features.

"What is that to concern me?" Ailinyéro, too, seemed surprised, but amused more so. "You can come gather him up in the morning for that. I, too, have been waiting, and for far more than a day! It is your interference that prevents me from claiming my rights as I wish; your requirement of only monthly servitude is a disgrace to your son's memory," he sneered, and now Fearfaron's countenance coloured in rage.

"How do you dare speak of my son's dishonour, when what you do here defiles your own vows of bonding! Think you of Andamaitë's memory before you breathe any mention of my duty!" His voice was tight with barely repressed wrath, and everyone was stunned at this uncustomary display from the usually placid talan-builder.

Ailinyéro sent him a deadly glare but made no comment as he approached Legolas and held out the chains. The archer dutifully put his hands forward and his tormenter clamped down the manacles as he continued to stare Fearfaron down. The carpenter set his mouth in grim disapproval but said no more as Ailinyéro led Legolas away and shut the storage room door with a savage slam that made the wood shudder.

"Well, well," Ailinyéro said softly in his captive's ear. "Have you won over your victim's father? And just how did you manage to achieve that, Hecilo? [Outcast]" he continued, placing his hands firmly on Legolas' shoulders, squeezing to feel the sinewy tone of the muscle under the leather tunic.

Legolas held himself rigid, refusing to give his captor the satisfaction of knowing his discomfort this early into the torture. He said nothing.

Ailinyéro reached up and brushed through the warrior's hair, holding it back from his neck as he bent his head and breathed heavily against his skin, inhaling the fallen elf's scent.

"Have you shared our little games with him, Hecilo?" He resumed his mocking tone, smiling slightly as he saw the ligaments tighten and goose-flesh rise along Legolas' nape.

Legolas knew better than to make any response, for it only hastened and increased the pain if he expressed his disgust. Ailinyéro just laughed, relishing the non-vocal display of his captive's increasing dread. He pulled on the chains and led Legolas deeper into the cave where he had long ago set up the surroundings as he desired.

A single torch provided the only illumination, but in the small space it was amply sufficient. Only the farthest corners stood in black obscurity and the central area was clearly lit. Near the middle of the cramped room, two sturdy posts were deeply embedded into the ground. To these were bound two thick rings of cast iron, located halfway up the total height of the posts, and here Ailinyéro attached the chains. This forced Legolas to his knees and caused his arms to be pulled straight to either side, parallel to the floor. Ailinyéro could hear Legolas' breath quicken in anxious anticipation, and his own heart began racing in response.

Ailinyéro always started out like this in order to make the guilty one face his degradation: down on his knees in the dirt, completely at his mercy. Slowly he walked all the way around, circling his captive with satisfaction, and again laughed coldly. Despite his efforts to keep still, Legolas involuntarily shivered and Ailinyéro noticed.

"Ah!" he sighed loudly. "Eager to begin?" He reached out and grabbed Legolas jaw, forcing him to look up and meet his gaze. The archer tried hard to keep any hint of his loathing and trepidation form being visible but knew he had failed by the triumphant leer than graced Ailinyéro's lips. His eyes shifted and locked onto the feather worked into the long, twisted tresses and he reached for it, turning it in his fingertips, curious.

"Have you adorned yourself thus for my amusement and attention?" He queried and quickly ripped the ornament away and cast the proud feather down to the dirt. Now Legolas' eyes did blaze in fury, and this delighted Ailinyéro. He pulled back and struck the archer with the back of his hand across his cheek, and outside a mixture of cheers and complaints arose as the first of the wagers was decided.

Legolas cheek stung from the blow and his eyes fell on gift of Thôr. _Never mind,_ _it will still be there in the morning._ At least he hoped this would prove true as he berated himself for forgetting to remove the feather before entering the city. He had forgotten about it due to considering the dark musings of the wizard.

Ailinyéro unchained him and pulled him up to his feet by the arm.

"Helthio," [Strip] he commanded and stepped back to watch.

Legolas blushed crimson as he began to undo his tunic under the elf's lustful scrutiny. No matter how often this had occurred he could not separate his mind from these actions. Each time he was painfully aware of the other's growing arousal as one by one his garments were removed. At last he stood naked, hands at his sides and unconsciously clenched tightly.

Ailinyéro was flushed also, and again made a slow circle around his captive. Legolas could hear his own heart and Ailinyéro's breathing and his stomach began to twist as bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard as Ailinyéro once again stood in front of him, but the elf did not touch him. Instead he reached behind him and removed a short leather whip from the belt around his waist, unfurling the tongues from their resting-place wrapped around the braided handle. He swished it through the air close to Legolas' face and smiled as he recoiled slightly.

"You know what to do," was all he said as he held out the scourge.

Legolas took a deep breath to try to steady his hands before he lifted them, not wanting to show any weakness to his tormenter by having them shake or tremble. He took some small satisfaction in seeing his fingers close down around the handle sure and steady as he drew the whip from Ailinyéro's grasp.

The first strike was always the hardest; his body tensed in anticipation of the stinging pain. He had learned over the years not to hold back on the strength of the first blow. To do so only made Ailinyéro furious and caused him to replace the leather whip with a thin and vicious length of chain.

Legolas took a deep breath and held it as he snapped his wrist and sent the tongues of leather over his shoulder to bite deeply into the skin. He suppressed a gasp, squeezing his eyes shut and repeated the movement across the opposite shoulder. He tried to concentrate on his breathing so as not to hear Ailinyéro's. He tried to control the pounding of his own heart as if by doing so he could control the rampant desires of his captor. Both activities were futile.

Finally, after the twentieth strike, he could not catch his breath at all and his gasps were audible. Two more blows and a thin groan filled the still air, followed by more raucous cries of combined glee and disgust issuing from the stable-yard, announcing the winners and losers of the next bet.

"Salt!" a voice, cried out loudly from outside.

"Aye, too quiet by half in there!" another rejoined.

Legolas glanced at Ailinyéro fearfully, hoping he would not take this suggestion, and did not pause in the rhythm of his pain.

Ailinyéro's breathing was laboured; his eyes glazed slightly as his gaze travelled the length of Legolas' body. He took another turn around to survey the effect on the archer's back and sides. Remaining behind him, he observed with satisfaction how the archer's legs began shaking as the self-inflicted blows continued.

Ten more strikes and Legolas felt his knees buckle and he landed on them hard, catching himself with his hand as he fell forward and cried out. Ailinyéro snatched the whip from his grasp.

"Look at you; you are the most detestable thing I have ever seen! How can you go on living everyday, knowing you are a murderer? How dare you cry out at this puny punishment when you should be locked away in darkness forever?" He began yelling his taunts and curses, punctuating each sentence with a swift kick to the ribs or another sweep of the whip across the bleeding lashes.

Legolas knew he was not allowed to respond or try to avoid any of the hits, but the body has instincts beyond the command of the mind and he sought to get out of the way in spite of himself. He threw up an arm to deflect a kick and this enraged Ailinyéro further. His shouts became incoherent and he dragged the elf back to the post and chained him there, forcing him up to his knees again.

"You will submit to your punishment! How dare you try to defend yourself? What right do you have to be whole and unbroken? Your body heals and you live on; the same will never be for Andamaitë!" He screamed his words into Legolas ear and swatted his head with the handle of the whip. Then Ailinyéro turned away and strode to the back of the room where he remained for some minutes as he tried to regain control over himself. It would not do to have his captive lose consciousness so soon.

Legolas leaned his head against one of his arms and shuddered; he knew what this small break in the torture portended.

Ailinyéro returned slowly to stand in front of Legolas, and then he circled around him again, trailing his fingertips across the fresh lashes as he went. Legolas winced and gasped; the digits were coated in salt. His tormenter drew a ragged breath as his hands came around to front and dragged languidly across solid pectoral muscles and small maroon nipples.

Legolas pulled back and received a sharp blow from a fisted hand, while the other clamped down on one nipple hard at the same time. The force of the blow threw him back while he tried to come forward the instant the pressure on his sensitive flesh tightened and wrenched. He refused to cry out; it was not as bad as the whip.

Ailinyéro knew it hurt, he felt no need to hear any sound when the reactions of the body sang louder than any songbird. He bent low to take Legolas' mouth, grasping his jaw to hold him still when he tried to turn from the kiss, and roughly bit down on the lower lip, drawing blood. Legolas kept his teeth clenched tight, but Ailinyéro was having none of that and squeezed relentlessly into his mandibular joint, forcing the jaw open.

With a cry of outrage muffled by his captor's thick and repulsively hot tongue, Legolas thrashed against his bonds and tried to pull his head away. The other hand still held the tender nipple tightly and now twisted mercilessly and pulled forward more ardently as Legolas tried to pull back. At last the kiss broke and both were panting to regain breath. Ailinyéro sneered at the archer and spat in his face.

"You should not be so quick to turn from such favours, Hecilo," he hissed. "Who else has kissed you lately?" He held the jaw still but Legolas kept his eye averted. Ailinyéro answered himself: "No one. No one wants you now. Pretty thing, all alone!" He mocked as he let go his hold and returned his attention to kneading the bruised nubs of sensitive nerves on his chest.

"I have a new lover, did you know that? Not as comely as you, perhaps, but she at least is clean and decent. We please each other much." Ailinyéro worked his hands lower; kneeling down as he did so, stroking salt glazed fingers against tight abdominals and down over slender hips.

Legolas gritted his teeth and shut tight his eyes, trying to make his mind go elsewhere, but as always he failed. He felt every touch and heard every word. He held his breath as the hands groped and petted as if they owned him.

Ailinyéro fondled his limp penis and scrotum, laughing softly at the juxtaposition of the archer's determined constriction of every muscle in his body and the soft velvety laxness of his genitals.

"Do you not enjoy pleasure? Or is it you do not find males interesting sexually? No, that is not it. We both know that."

Legolas could not help opening his eyes at this remark, and gazed sidelong into his tormentor's.

Ailinyéro smiled smugly. "Oh yes, everyone has heard about your specific preference. Did you think that was a secret? Did you think no one knew why you ended up in the border patrol as an archer and not a captain?"

Legolas was breathing harder and Ailinyéro continued squeezing and playing with him.

"Andamaitë told me about it; your whole company knew. Why do you think you were in Talagan's company? Your father used their friendship to place you there while that poor soul you chose for a lover was sent off as a messenger to 'Lorien."

Legolas could not help listening; this was not a story he had ever had the complete truth about.

"Do you know what happened to him? I wonder what excuse he gave you for never returning; or did he bother to give any at all?" Ailinyéro looked into his eyes; he was well that Legolas did not know. "Your father told him, if he ever fucked you again, he would have him castrated!"

Legolas' eyes went wide at this and Ailinyéro laughed at his reaction.

"How your father must despise you," he commented viciously and was pleased to see the pained look that flashed through his captive's eyes. "He told Talagan you were a disappointment and a disgrace," he added, then he turned his gaze down with disapproval as he noticed the archer's lack of response to his touch. He sighed in mock distress and made one or two sucking noises with his teeth as he shook his head.

"This will not do; here I am trying to give you some comfort from your long and lonely isolation, and you can not seem to get motivated." His tone was demeaning and cruel in contrast to the soft and gentle caress of his fingers up and down Legolas backside. "But then I suppose you do not really need to be engorged to be taken, do you?" As he spoke these words Ailinyéro thrust two fingers abruptly into Legolas' anus.

He cried out sharply in pain and shock, arching away, and the movement carried him right against Ailinyéro's chest, who wrapped his arm tightly around Legolas' waist to hold him there, working his fingers roughly in and out as his captive struggled.

"Daro! [Stop]" Legolas gasped out hoarsely, but Ailinyéro only chortled softly into his ear.

"No, you do not want me to do that, really. Why, I am the best lover you will know for the rest of your sorry days, Hecilo! Do you know, I do not even think the Noldorin elves of Imladris would dirty themselves inside of you," he murmured in low tones seductively pitched in contradiction to the brutality of the statement. He gave a last depraved stab with his fingers and pulled them out, swiping them with disgust across the archer's chest. "Nor will I!"

He stood up and backed away a few paces to watch as Legolas laboured to catch his breath and relax his body, letting his arms take his weight for a few moments. Ailinyéro cocked his head slightly as though considering a problem.

"You still do not seem to be enjoying yourself at all, Hecilo," the mockery of false concern returned to his words. "Perhaps you are better at it than I. Yes, you should be able to manage quite well without any help. Here, you will need your hands free, will you not?" He smiled evilly and came forward, unlocking the manacles, then returned to his previous vantage. He watched as Legolas sat still, breathing deeply, staring back at him, unmoving.

Ailinyéro frowned and moved back to the far end of the room, returning with a low stool and something in his hand. He placed the stool where he had been standing and sat, stretching his legs out before him. He raised his brows in expectation, and still Legolas waited. He was not going to do what Ailinyéro was suggesting. Except that Ailinyéro was not merely suggesting, and grew impatient.

"Well, Hecilo, I suppose we do have the whole night but I have additional plans once this little exercise is through. Get started! What, do you not have a routine for this sort of thing? Is there someone you like to think about when you begin? Try touching yourself, that usually works quite well."

Legolas stared open-mouthed. This was a new level of torment. Watching Ailinyéro do this was obscene, doing this to himself under such close and sickening scrutiny was unbearable.

Ailinyéro glared at him with rising fury and absentmindedly tossed the object he was holding up into the air. It spun; shining in the torch light as it fell back into his hand. He repeated the motion and Legolas suddenly recognised that it was a dagger. A chill went through him as his gaze returned to Ailinyéro's menacing stare.

"Go on, I am waiting." Still Legolas remained motionless and in the next instant the other elf had leaped from his chair to land beside his captive.

He knelt there, one hand grasping Legolas genitals and the other pressing the knifepoint down against the soft flesh of the scrotum. "Or should I apply your father's remedy for such perversion as yours and geld you this night?"

Legolas had gone absolutely quiet, holding his breath and staring down in trepidation at the gleaming blade. With a grim sense of irony he recognised the dagger as his own, the one he had used on the battlefield to stab himself. How and where had this loathsome Elda come to have it? He lifted his eyes to Ailinyéro's again and swallowed.

"I will do as you say," he said dully and his heart sank at the victorious grin that spread across his tormenter's face.

Ailinyéro returned to his stool and before sitting removed his tunic and loosened his leggings, one hand already moving to free his hard erection. Legolas watched him casually stroking his penis with one hand while he turned the blade end over end with the other. Again Ailinyéro raised his brows in anticipation and Legolas awkwardly averted his eyes as he reached for his own member.

A few tentative caresses did nothing; all he could feel was shame and humiliation. He shut his eyes, trying to envision his former lover to no avail. He let his other hand drift up his body to his chest to stroke against his nipples, but they were sore and bruised, painful to his slightest touch; he winced, drawing breath sharply. He heard Ailinyéro sigh in satisfaction at this and his heart raced a little faster thinking of the dagger twisting in the elf's fingers in time to his deliberate pumping.

Ailinyéro held the knife, but Legolas was in control. Somehow this was quite unexpectedly erotic. He glanced back at Ailinyéro's hand, slowly moving up and down over his gorged and dark red cock. He was leaking drops of pre-ejaculate each time the foreskin was pulled back and the tip revealed.

Legolas fondled himself again, pulling slightly at his cock and rolling his testicles between his fingers. A deeper moan came from the other elf, and Legolas finally felt a response within himself at this sound. His groin muscles tightened and his penis twitched in his hand. He leaned back on his heels and braced himself with his arm behind him, spreading his knees wider to have better access.

Ailinyéro practically growled at this manoeuvre and his breath was harsh and rapid.

Legolas found himself growing hard and pumped more vigourously, listening to the sound of Ailinyéro's breathing and the movement of fabric against fabric as his arm shifted up and down. He matched his effort to this and Ailinyéro groaned in surprised delight.

Legolas stared at his tormentor through his lashes; lips parted and skin slowly suffusing with the hot flush of his rising pulse. He lifted his hips, thrusting up into his hand and watched Ailinyéro's pelvis twist in kind. Legolas repeated the spectacle; a guttural cry preceded his captor's orgasm and a stream of semen gushed over his hand. A loud roar of delight sounded from the stable-yard and a number of crude comments floated over the air, mostly concerning Ailinyéro's lack of stamina.

Legolas smirked and ceased his actions, but Ailinyéro quickly rose from his place and came to the archer's side, taking his erection in his hand and stroking rapidly. He leaned in to kiss Legolas, who turned away, and so he sucked the tip of his ear instead.

Legolas quickly realised his mistake and fought not to give in to the intoxicating sensation pulsing through him. He grabbed Ailinyéro's wrist to stop him and this too proved to be an error, as he was still bent backwards and the elf still held the dagger. He watched as the shining blade rested just at the base of his cock, which was still held firmly in Ailinyéro's grip. He glanced sideways at his tormentor and carefully released his hold, watching as the movement resumed and the knife remained poised and ready.

Rapidly the elf worked his captive's penis, sliding his thumb across the sensitive slit to capture the escaping fluid as the foreskin slipped back, lubricating each downward thrust and milking more on the return.

"Look how beautiful that is," Ailinyéro whispered and smiled as Legolas' pupils dilated in response and he thrust his hips forward in spite of himself. "Come on, then; let go, Hecilo. Let me see you fountain up," he continued and increased his pace, licking again at the sensitive ear as he breathed across it.

Legolas moaned deeply and thrust forward, coming hard into his captive's skilled hands as the thick fluid cascaded down to the floor. Another rowdy bellow sounded from outside and the stable-yard erupted with more gleeful remarks about the wantonness of the former prince and Ailinyéro's newest conquest. Legolas shut his eyes and felt as if he was dead inside.

This was the worst humiliation he had yet endured and he was still quivering in the aftermath of his orgasm. He suddenly felt nauseous as he realised what had happened. He had just allowed this elf that despised him to use him, and to bring forth from him the most intimate of feelings and sensations.

Legolas was not innocent by any means, but his partners had been few, and these encounters had been mutually enjoyed, freely, between equals. This horrific joint masturbation he had just experienced was based on subjugation and hatred. In disgust for himself at having felt pleasure so, he turned over and vomited loudly and wretchedly, eliciting more cheers and jeering comments from the warriors outside.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	7. Chapter 7

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

**Leithad-en-Maethor [Release of the Warrior]**

"Ai, Valar! You reek! What is the matter with you that you must always heave out your insides when we have our little sessions?" He kicked at the mess on the ground and managed to catch Legolas' knee in the process. "I would think you dislike me, if I did not know better," he crooned in mockingly flirtatious tones as he reconnected the chains to the posts.

Legolas groaned. _How many hours have I been here, how many more until dawn? Not enough, and still far too many,_ he thought in desolate anguish.

He shifted his head to see Ailinyéro, standing off to the side a bit. His captor seemed to be considering his options, but Legolas knew this was all a ruse; he had all his activities for the night carefully planned to the last detail. The torture had never progressed in this fashion before; never had Ailinyéro touched him except to strike him or kick him. He had never been violated like this before, and he began shaking uncontrollably as he worried what was to come next.

"Really, something must be done," Ailinyéro snorted and wrinkled his nose in distaste again. "This is totally unbearable in this small space. I know, let me just open up the door and allow some fresh air in for awhile," his words sounded jaunty and gleeful as he strode over to the door and flung it wide.

A chorus of mirth rose from outside and Legolas felt his heart clench; the warriors were being invited to watch. He could hear the sounds of jostling at the entrance as the winners of the earlier bets claimed what apparently had been the prize: a spot inside the small doorway. They added their own comments of disgust at the smell and called for Ailinyéro to make him clean it up, preferably by re-ingesting the regurgitated liquid. The elf seemed to consider the idea momentarily, but rejected it as he had more interesting plans for the next punishment.

He faced his prisoner again and made his customary circuit around him like a hungry predator closing in on its kill. With careless fingers he traced across Legolas' back, absently rubbing in some clots of crystalline salt still clinging to the wounds while lifting Legolas' chin to observe the reaction in his eyes as the pain jolted through him. Alinyéro made no effort to disguise the lust building anew as his captive suffered, and the archer's moan of anguish was joined by his low cry of lurid yearning.

The warriors were still and silent, rapt with anticipation, ogling what they had only heard through walls of stone before. Legolas could see them in his peripheral vision, for the room was furnished such that his position was aligned in profile to the door. _What kind of beings are they to sit and enjoy this? How could such cold-heartedness be found in elves?_ Legolas felt as though everything he had ever known to be true had suddenly been revealed as a farce. Here was presented an example of the twisted souls from which orcs might have been shaped.

Fearfaron had breathed a thankful prayer upon seeing the door to the storeroom burst open. It seemed that Ailinyéro was to end this episode of torment early. The carpenter had become alarmed to hear Legolas cry out in a voice of pained desperation for his captor to stop. Legolas never did so before. The moaning and wailing of the two elves as they spent their passion had made him cringe. Never had Legolas' been party to this revolting form of gratification before. He knew Legolas had suffered in the aftermath by the discordant hiccuping and choking of sickness emanating from within. Fearfaron had been on the verge of sending for a healer when the portal opened.

The sight of the warriors hustling forward with raucous cries and jokes immediately dispelled the illusion of mercy and the carpenter could not comprehend what was going on. He moved out from the shadows of the stables and carefully noted each of the elven warriors in the yard. He wanted to be sure he could identify them later if they sought to hide their involvement. They were crowded around the open door, and the lack of sounds from inside was if anything worse than the previous cacophony which had disturbed the night. Fearfaron had the distinct impression that whatever Ailinyéro had planned for the fallen archer went far beyond the limits of the right to chastisement. He took off quickly towards the barracks.

Ailinyéro tousled the archer's hair with one hand while playing with the dagger using the other, drawing it slowly back and forth against Legolas' neck at the collarbone. Returning to stand in front of Legolas, he dropped his hand back to his own body, fondling himself, as he quickly became hard again. He placed himself closer to his prisoner, smiling as Legolas stiffened and pulled back as far as the chains would allow.

A few laughs broke from the audience and Legolas shivered as a wave of panic washed through him. The dagger continued to caress the side of Legolas' neck but with slightly greater pressure, and Ailinyéro could feel the pulse transmitted through the metal to his hand each time the blade came to rest on the throbbing artery.

"You seem excited," he said in a hoarse whisper, "or terrified. Perhaps it is some of both? Surely, we have known each other long enough for this more intimate contact, Hecilo. I think you should demonstrate your dedication to your fallen comrades, to my Andamaitë; do you not agree? You may pleasure me; I grant you this delight," he murmured huskily, stilling the blade and drawing closer.

The carpenter hammered his fist on the door of the Watch Commander's office frantically, certain that urgency was called for. The elf answered his summons with irritation, barely listening as Fearfaron described what he had heard through the storeroom walls.

"It is nothing new, and whether I approve or not is immaterial. The Council has granted him the right. I can not over rule them," the commander stated with exasperation. He did not know why the abhorrent practice had to be carried out in his area. "You are here almost every time, Fearfaron. You know this is the way it always goes; there is nothing I can do to interfere with Ailinyéro." He had heard all about the chastisement and what Ailinyéro did, pleasuring himself while gloating in the fallen archer's pain. It was a monthly activity after all.

"I have been here and I have said and done nothing, for twelve years." The carpenter was not appeased and continued to argue. "Does that not indicate something to you, Commander?" he asked angrily. "This is different! It is a marker year, and whatever he is doing is not the usual routine. I believe the outcast is being forced to join Ailinyéro's sick pleasures. There is a whole crowd gathered around gawking. I do not believe the Law allows for such things."

"I know there are some few warriors engaged in a sort of subsidiary activity outside the room," the Commander frowned in conjunction with his words. "I will make it a point to reprimand them for this unwholesome gaming," he tried to placate the carpenter.

Fearfaron shook his head and started again, trying to convince the Commander to at least investigate. He felt the passing minutes as hours and hoped no further harm was accruing to Legolas in the interim. As the carpenter went on to describe the inclusion of the warriors beyond the usual wagering, the Commander became concerned. Sadistic behaviour was not something he chose to encourage among the guard. He beckoned two of his soldiers and led the way toward the stable-yard.

With the door wide, the activity within the storeroom was audible throughout the area long before the chamber could be seen.

Ailinyéro's breath was ragged and loud as the tip of his penis brushed against Legolas' lips and the archer turned his head away violently with a cry of disgust and anger. Ailinyéro allowed the dagger's blade to bite down just enough for its sharpness to be felt and a thin line of red to break through.

Legolas was desperate; he would not do this.

"Tyavo nin!" [Taste me!] Ailinyéro demanded. "Lavo ten, Hecilo!" [Lick it, Outcast!]

"Avon caro!" [I will not do it!] Legolas held his head away and shook it once, recoiling as his cheek brushed the elf's organ and Ailinyéro gasped. He felt the dagger press deeper and a spasm of fear lanced through him.

The Watch Commander, Fearfaron, and the two warriors had reached the stables as these words rang through the night clearly. They all stopped abruptly and exchanged stunned glances. The Commander signalled one of the two soldiers to go for the healer and to rouse the Council of the Elders and sprinted over the grounds to the open doorway, his two remaining companions in his wake.

He shoved the gaping warriors aside and clamped his hand down on Ailinyéro's shoulder, spinning him around. He took in the elf's exposed erection, which he was frantically attempting to conceal behind his leggings again, the dagger gleaming in the torch light, and Legolas, bound, naked, and bloody. The Commander's face coloured in outrage and he looked as though he might burst as he surveyed the sullen soldiers collected near the entrance.

"Out!" he shouted, his wrath echoing off the stone walls. The warriors obeyed instantly and Ailinyéro also attempted to break free from the soldier's grasp and escape.

"Not you," the Commander ground out between his clenched jaws. "Release him at once," he ordered. At this Ailinyéro, having readjusted his attire and covered himself, reclaimed some of his dignity and obstinately faced the Commander.

"This is not a matter over which you have any authority; it is a private concern and I am within the Law," he countered.

"Hah!" Fearfaron barked his contempt at Ailinyéro. "The Council has been sent for; we shall see how they judge your clear abuse of our Laws and your own vows. Are you not the one who demanded an oath of celibacy? Yet you are here forcing him into breaking it yourself. This is unconscionable!"

"You have no right to speak out against me! I will not hear any of your comments; you are too weak to adequately demand vengeance for your own son," responded Ailinyéro.

The Commander was disturbed by these words and shoved Ailinyéro away from him.  
"His is not a sentence designed for vengeance," he said sternly and Fearfaron nodded. "I demand that you undo these bonds at once; whatever you were here to do has been stopped."

Ailinyéro seemed to finally grasp that they were not going to leave him with his prisoner and tried to assume an air of nonchalance as though it meant nothing to him. He reached for the key in his pocket and tossed it down on the ground at the Commander's feet, daring his next move.

Before anything could occur, Fearfaron grabbed the key and quickly removed the manacles from Legolas.

The archer sat back on his heels for a moment and rubbed his arms and wrists. He kept his head bowed low, but was glaring up darkly at Ailinyéro from behind the thick cascade of locks that fell forward. He saw that Ailinyéro still held his dagger, and a scowl of frenzied ire covered his face. Legolas sprang from the floor, snatched the knife out of his tormentor's hand, and in the next second had it pressed sharply into his throat.

"I believe this is mine," he spoke in a voice draped with the bitterest hatred any of the elves present had ever heard before, and then he stepped back slowly and lowered the dagger, struggling to regain his composure.

Legolas darted a look at Fearfaron and stooped down to take up his clothing. He raced to the darkened corners of the room and hurriedly pulled on his leggings. Slipping the tunic on proved to be unwise and he sharply sucked in his breath as he stretched his arms to shrug into it.

Fearfaron and the Commander looked at each other but made no move to go towards Legolas, uncertain if he would allow them to help.

He came forward when he was decent and sat down on the stool to pull on his boots and spied the feather in the dust. He lunged forward and scooped it up, gingerly used his fingers to clean it off, realigning the fronds before working it carefully back into his hair.

All of this had transpired in silence save for the subdued cries of the archer's discomfort when his clothing moved against the painful lashes. He stood up and stared into Ailinyéro's face defiantly, and the elf tried to scoff at him. There was something chillingly frightening in the still concentration the archer maintained as he gazed at his former captor, however, and Ailinyéro found he could not maintain eye contact.

The Commander coughed discreetly. "Why don't we leave this room and wait outside. The Council has been summoned, and a healer as well," he said calmly, and Legolas gave a brief nod without meeting his gaze.

Fearfaron reached over and caught Legolas by the arm gently, and the archer was so surprised by this he did not have time to react before he was through the door. Then he glanced cautiously at the carpenter to gauge his state of mind, and found only the familiar expression of sorrow there.

"Thank-you," Legolas said humbly, but loud enough for everyone in the yard to hear. He felt keenly embarrassed that his situation was such open knowledge, but compared to what had been planned it was as nothing. He was truly grateful to Fearfaron and did not mind for them all to know it. Truthfully, within his gratitude to the carpenter was also carried his contempt for all the others that stood by and did nothing. He did not mind for them to understand that, either.

Fearfaron only nodded and stood next to Legolas with his arms crossed against his chest. He hoped the Council would hurry up for the archer's sake. The entire barracks was awakened by now and a much larger crowd had formed. If it went on like this much longer, everyone in the King's Halls would be up, including Thranduil. The carpenter was fairly certain Legolas would prefer this not come to pass.

Similar thoughts must have occurred to the Commander, because he began clearing the area and sending everyone not directly involved back to their quarters and talans. The soldiers caught in the storeroom stood to one side in a group and did not speak. Their dour countenances plainly indicated that they knew their punishment would be serious.

They stole hostile glares at Ailinyéro and Legolas; however, the archer was not cowed under their scrutiny and he let his eyes speak for him, telling them he would not forget them, ever. The smouldering fury in his quiescent stance was more terrifying than would have been a vocal display of insults and threats. There was no doubt in any of their minds that, should they encounter Legolas out in the forest beyond the boundaries of the Woodland Realm, they would be in serious peril.

At last the Council members, or at least the three involved in this area of Law and Custom, arrived and Fearfaron began his explanation. Ailinyéro attempted to interrupt but was summarily silenced. The Eldar elders did not like this particular aspect of the Law regarding kin-slaying and were only too glad to have an excuse to revoke Ailinyéro's right. Fearfaron stated that Ailinyéro was not using physical punishment alone and had forced his captive into an unwanted sexual act. He repeated what he had heard and described what he had seen in detail.

Legolas refused to speak or answer any questions concerning the matter, other than to confirm that Fearfaron spoke the truth, and this made the Councillors highly uncomfortable. He had no intention of detailing the humiliating things Ailinyéro had done to him. Legolas no longer had any faith in their laws, and felt they did not apply to him since he had been banished from the Woodland Realm. He did not believe there was any justice for him within the system that had already passed its harshest judgement and sentence upon him.

The Commander also gave evidence, and then turned to each of the twelve soldiers involved. Knowing their only chance for leniency lay in full disclosure, they also described the abuses perpetrated by Ailinyéro, while naturally attempting to downplay their own. The healer, who had arrived shortly after the Councillors, removed Legolas tunic and carefully catalogued every injury, verifying the presence of salt still encrusting the wounds and scratches left by the dagger along his neck. Legolas was grateful she did not insist on examining similar ones upon his genitalia.

Finally, the Councillors entered the storeroom and took note of the evidence there. They did not need the healer to identify either the pungent aroma of bile and stomach acids or the smoky scented remnants of semen and sweat. One of the elves leaned over and took up the scourge from where it had been cast aside. He grimaced in open distaste at the blood staining the weapon, both fresh from the recent actions and deeply ingrained in the leather from years of use. He openly glared at Ailinyéro.

Upon seeing the whip, Legolas boldly stepped up and held out his hand for it. The elves were somewhat taken aback for there was no precedent for such a thing. Unable to fathom a reason to refuse, however, they gave the archer what he wanted. Fearfaron looked questioningly at Legolas, but he refused to meet the carpenter's eyes.

With a last consultation together that took less than five minutes, the Council unanimously declared the right to chastisement had been abused, the oath of celibacy had been forcibly broken, and Ailinyéro stood accused of attempted rape. Such a crime was second only to kin slaying, since rape usually resulted in death for the victim. The idea that an elf could come this close to committing such an act was deeply disturbing to the Council members and they were determined to eliminate such a horrific element from their society. The sentence was life-long banishment from the Woodland realm. The shock on Ailinyéro's face was complete and he broke down in hysterical tears.

He had not considered his actions to be criminal, but on hearing others describe what he had done he suddenly saw what he had become, he pleaded. He begged mercy of the Council, explaining the depth of his grief was the cause of his madness. He agreed to leave the Woodland Realm and accept the judgement of the Valar in Valinor rather than to be exiled from his people and yet remain in Middle Earth.

The Council accepted his plea and Ailinyéro cast off his false name, desiring to take back his true one again. At this Legolas at last spoke, and demanded the request be denied. In all Ailinyéro's tearful begging he had not uttered one word of remorse to Legolas nor asked to be forgiven. The Council was concerned at this, but would not revoke the elf's true name permanently. He would resume his former identity after twelve years had passed. He was ordered to leave for the Grey-Havens in three days time.

The fate of the warriors would be left to the discretion of the Commander, and he quickly revoked each one's commission in the guard. They were to clear out of the barracks at once, never to serve again.

Legolas made no comment at this. His features showed no sign of his feelings regarding the verdict. He looked solemnly into the eyes of each of the Council members; and they grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny and left the stable-yard, herding Ailinyéro in front of them. He glanced at the Commander and the muttering knot of former soldiers but made no remark, either vocal or otherwise. He felt the warriors' punishment was just. Ailinyéro's fate was another matter.

In his heart Legolas felt betrayed and admonished himself for expecting anything different. No one had bothered to ask how the verdict would be enforced; was the guard going to escort Ailinyéro to the Havens? He could easily just leave and relocate in 'Lorien where no one knew his history. _What of Andamaitë? How is her Release to be confirmed without Ailinyéro?_ Legolas had stopped believing that Ailinyéro would ever admit to his mate's Release after the second month of torture. However, none of these wise Council members had even pretended to consider this.

With a sudden startled thought Legolas wondered if they secretly wished Ailinyéro had been able to complete the unspeakable act so that he would just die. It was the second time that day this sense of being wished dead filled him and he shuddered. Fearfaron noticed and sighed quietly, reaching out and taking him by the arm again.

"Come, there is no need to be here any longer. The healer instructed you to rest," the carpenter said as he led Legolas out of the stable-yard.

Legolas went along with him without resisting, not even thinking of where they were heading until the were beyond the great Hall and back in the city collected around it. Legolas suddenly halted and pulled back.

"My things," he said, pointing towards the compound.

Fearfaron nodded and turned him back around, still guiding him gently, and Legolas found it welcome and allowed it. The carpenter was the only one, other than Ailinyéro, who had touched him in twelve years. They reached the Sentinel and the carpenter let him go while he collected his belongings. As soon as he was back on the ground, he replaced his hand and led the archer back into the city. Legolas sent a tentative look in his guide's direction, but Fearfaron was watching the path, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. They continued in silence until reaching a well constructed but modest talan and Fearfaron indicated for Legolas to climb up.

Once inside, the carpenter took Legolas' arm again and led him onto one of the side platforms. No lamps were lit and only the sheen of the moon illuminated the simple room, revealing a rugged bed and a chest for personal items. A basin for water stood on a sturdy table near the tree's trunk, and gossamer netting was caught up in the low branches overhanging the platform. It was a small but comfortable looking sleeping chamber and the carpenter brought Legolas to the bed and sat him down, seating himself next to him, exhaling loudly.

It had become the most characteristic mannerism of the carpenter since his son's death, this intermittent release of sorrowful air from his body. It was as though he could not find a way to vent the atmosphere around him of his sadness, and it choked him.

"This was Annaldír's chamber, when he was an elfling. He lived in the barracks once he joined the guard, of course, but used to come home for holidays or just to get away for a time," he said.

Legolas dropped his head. The elf must feel appalled to have him in his own son's room, seated on his own son's bed. He got up to leave but the carpenter grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"No," he said calmly. "I have not asked you here to hold blame over you or to punish you in any way." He sighed again. "There are things you should be told. There are things I want to tell you about Annaldír. You need to rest and this is the best place for it. You have endured enough for one night. I think you should try to sleep now and we will speak in the morning." The carpenter patted his knee feebly and gave a sad half smile before getting up. "If you need anything, just call for me and I will come," he said softly as he rose.

Reaching up, he untied the netting and let it flow down to form a screen around the bed as Legolas pulled his feet up onto the mattress and rested his chin on his knees, watching. Fearfaron then, extending his arm slowly and carefully, briefly rested his hand on the top of the archer's head, and left the room.

Legolas was not sure what to make of what Fearfaron had said, but he was too tired to try to understand it just then. He yawned and leaned his bow and quiver next to the bed against the tree's trunk and slipped his hunting knife under the pillow. Sore and stiff even after the healer's treatment in the stable-yard, his back and shoulders burned as he slipped out of his tunic and pulled off his boots. With a soft sigh of his own he turned over on his stomach and laid his head on the pillow.

He had not slept on such a bed in twelve years. He inhaled the scent of the linens and with a slight skip of his heart realised he could still detect the distinct essence of Annaldír, infused into the bed after so many centuries of sleeping there. He could almost imagine that if he raised his head he would see Annaldír standing there in the room. He decided this was not a frightening feeling, and allowed himself to dissolve into sleep.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	8. Chapter 8

**Manadh an Annaldír [Final Bliss for Annaldír**]

He was standing balanced on the slimmest and youngest of branches at the very top of the Sentinel, watching over Tawar in the silence of minuial [dawn]. He always preferred minuial to tinnu [dusk]; something unusual among his people, but it was not something he could seem to do anything about, not even if he would choose to do so. Legolas was drawn to the sense of renewal the trees experienced with each morning's unveiling as they upturned branches and leaves to the life-giving warmth and light of Anar.

At times, he felt that he needed the trees as the trees required the daylight, for the sustenance of his very being, and he craved to be among them when they awakened. There was a certain anticipation and longing in this one moment, as a promise unfulfilled but expected, a hope unrealised but eminent. Neither Isil nor Anar held sway and only the most brilliant stars could look upon the earth and be acknowledged.

He felt the presence of Tawar strongly at dawn: the complex, sub-eternal timelessness; the long chain of life reaching back past all the ages to the first shaping of the earth under the hands of Yavanna and Aulë. He mused on this conundrum for Tawar was neither merely an extension of these Valar nor just a creation designed by them to serve their purpose. Tawar came from a greater source served also by the Valar, having taken form under Eru's perfect direction of the swelling melodies of the Ainur. Thinking this, Legolas was filled with sorrow to suddenly understand the sacrilege of the evil that sought to destroy his home.

Indeed, Tawar had been dissected and decimated into isolated islands of life: the forests of Greenwood, Fangorn, Lothlorien, and the remnant woods of the Old Forest, Ithilien, and Imladris. Each longed and mourned for the loss of the connection from root and leaf once unbroken throughout the regions of Middle Earth. Each grieved for the finality of the loss of the great forests of Doriath and Duinath in Beleriand. Even then, Tawar had been sundered and suffered the encroachment of evil into the earth, the first victim of the Shadow's jealous hand. Now only the winds and the waters carried the fëa [soul] of one segment of Tawar to another and taught the new saplings of the great heritage they bore.

Legolas found that he was crying and did not care. He suddenly realised he was also not alone in the Sentinel as movement to his left caused him to turn to see who intruded upon his meditation. The elf was familiar and yet not exactly as he should be and so it was a heartbeat or two before Legolas recognised that his companion was Annaldír.

His comrade smiled and moved closer as the wind picked up and they were tossed gently in the twisting rustle of the brown, gnarled arms of the Sentinel. Legolas could feel the breeze sting across his battered back, objectively aware that he had come away without tunic, boots or weapons. He tensed a little under the insistent burning, turning into the gust so that his hair whipped out behind him and brushed across Annaldír's face lightly. The elf laughed and grabbed up a handful of the twisted locks and tugged gently. Legolas smiled back over his shoulder, the joke understood: he was known to be very vain about the beauty and length of his golden mane.

Annaldír's grin faded as he let go the strands and reached out to lightly press fingers to the damage left by the scourging. Legolas was amazed that he could not feel the touch, having expected a sharp flash of discomfort. He wondered if he would encounter any sensation if he tried to grasp the hand that he could see upon his shoulder. Annaldír smiled and shook his head, shrugging with only his left shoulder, as he always had when bewildered but not really worried.

_You can understand me,_ thought Legolas, and felt the confirmation from his comrade's eyes. _Why are you here?_

Annaldír stared out over the tops of the trees that barely showed any green in the pre-dawn half-light. Legolas sensed his contentment and ease of mind and spirit as the wind blew through him. Annaldír fluttered like a collection of new leaves in a storm and was carried away as a swirl of golden mist.

"Legolas," he heard his name spoken just above a whisper and woke immediately. Pushing himself up onto his elbows in the unfamiliar surroundings, he looked towards the voice in confused panic, at the same time catching his breath at the surge of searing agony that flowed through his body.

"Lie still," the voice commanded. "You were dreaming." The figure standing over him in the shadowy starlit room brushed aside the gauze netting and sat on the edge of the bed, gently placing a hand on each biceps to ease him back down.

It was Fearfaron; Legolas finally made the connection and allowed himself to relax, turning his head on the pillow so he could look at the elf. His vision blurred abruptly and he was surprised to find the tears from his dream were real. Fearfaron reached over and brushed them away carefully, but said nothing. He remained unmoving there until he knew that Legolas was sleeping again.

It was many hours before Legolas woke, and Fearfaron allowed him to sleep knowing he needed the deep somnolence in order to heal properly. He looked in on him from time to time, but he neither stirred nor made a sound other than the steady drawing and exhaling of his breath. It was nearly midday when a low groan reached the carpenter's ears and he hurried to his son's chambers to find Legolas struggling stiffly to rise without causing himself any unnecessary discomfort. Fearfaron went to help him up, taking hold of his arm as he had the previous night, and Legolas folded his legs up under him on the bed and propped his elbows against his knees. It did not look very comfortable to the carpenter and this was confirmed as Legolas soon bent his head down into his hands.

"I may have something that will help, but it will burn at first when it is applied," Fearfaron offered and got up when Legolas nodded briefly. He returned with a small jar and made Legolas turn and hold onto the wooden headboard before he smoothed the clear viscous salve over his back and sides.

It stung intensely but quickly faded, and Legolas breathed more easily once it was done. He sat back up on the edge of the bed and smiled uncertainly and looked around at the room in the bright daylight, remembering the strange dream. He was not sure if he should mention it, although he had a vague memory of Fearfaron appearing in the night and waking him from the vision.

Instead, he reached for his tunic to get dressed and the carpenter took it from him and held it to make it easier. Before Legolas could move Fearfaron collected his boots and knelt on the floor to help him put them on. Legolas felt uncomfortable being waited on by the older elf but was afraid to refuse in case the carpenter would be offended.

Fearfaron smiled in secret amusement; Legolas' thoughts were clear in his eyes though he believed they were well concealed.

When the archer first joined his son's company, Annaldír had told him of the prince and described this characteristic. Once Fearfaron met him in fact and witnessed it himself, the tendency became a source of shared amusement between father and son. It was the characteristic he liked best about the archer, this complete inability to be false where another's feelings were concerned.

"Come, " he said, still smiling warmly as he rose and took Legolas by the arm and helped him to his feet. "You should eat something and then I think we should prepare for a few days out in the forest. We will not do any collecting today, but I feel the need to be among the trees and away from the city." Not waiting for a reply the carpenter led Legolas out to the main room and sat him down at a small table overlooking the busy pathways below.

Legolas noticed Fearfaron had his climbing ladder pulled up to indicate he was not to be bothered. They ate a light meal of fruit and clear water and then Fearfaron gathered up a pack that he had prepared some time earlier. Legolas went to retrieve his own things and single file they made their way down the ladder to the pathways of the city.

As before, the citizens of the Woodland Realm avoided Legolas, but this day could not help themselves from staring as the two passed by. News spread quickly among the eldar and most were aware of the events of the previous night. The mood Legolas sensed was a mixture of discomfort, pity and hostility. He had the unpleasant sensation that most of the residents blamed him for the ugly change in Ailinyéro's nature. They saw him as the author of the grief that had driven that elf to the brink of insanity.

Those that radiated pity viewed him as one dead or dying from the shock of the violation, and he wondered briefly if this would turn out to be truth. For all he knew, the empty feeling in his soul might be the beginnings of death. He had never known an elf that died from this cause as such a crime had never been committed in his memory. _But then,_ _perhaps I just choose not to think about it._ Certainly those few elves taken alive by orcs must die of such outrages against their bodies and souls, for none ever returned or were found alive.

The discomfiture wafting from averted eyes and abruptly turned heads no doubt arose from the elves' consideration and worry that the Darkness had engulfed their people and hope was failing if elves could commit such acts as kin slaying and rape.

The Wood Elves were in chaotic disarray; their comfortable protection under the trees no longer enough to shield them from the larger troubles stalking the free peoples of Middle Earth. In what amounted to moments reckoned against the immortals' life spans, their prince had fallen to the deepest sin of the Noldor, Thranduil's Kingdom had lost its heir, the guard was compromised by base blood lust, and an upstanding member of the citizenry banished for attempted rape.

_No wonder they wished me dead_, Legolas thought for the third time. It was his turn to sigh sadly and Fearfaron looked over with concern.

They had been walking in silence through the city, the carpenter leading, but he decided to slow a bit and fell into step next to the archer. Without a word he reached over and took Legolas' pack from him, noting that the archer was carrying it awkwardly at his elbow, unable to bear it as intended due to the painful injures of his back. He scrutinised the younger elf and also took the rolled wolf skin cloak, tucking it under his arm. That done he nodded in satisfaction and offered a slight smile.

"You have not healed fully and it will not do to tax your strength too much," he said. Legolas nodded. He swallowed with difficulty, finding his mouth and throat suddenly dry.

"I want to tell you," he began. "To thank you . . ." He wanted to express his gratitude to the carpenter for saving him from a horrible death, for surely Ailinyéro would not have stopped once the line had been crossed, and Legolas would have been brutally and repeatedly assaulted, probably by all the elves present that night. Somehow he could not make his voice co-operate and the words caught on the back of his tongue; he had to swallow several times to clear the rising tightness forming there. But, Fearfaron just held up his hand to silence him.

"No need to speak of it until you are ready. I am not awaiting the proper and polite responses. We will have plenty of time to discuss whatever you like. I, too, have much to say. We will just listen to the trees for a time though, if that is to your liking as well?" he said. Legolas inclined his head, agreeing, glad for the silence, and they continued on their way.

Having left the activity of the city, they were now up in the trees moving rapidly into the woods. They encountered the deep forest soon enough and after a couple of hours Fearfaron decided he would like to sit awhile, quietly noting the fine gleam of sweat on the archer's face. Though uncomplaining, he was obviously not feeling comfortable. The carpenter chose a solidly accommodating branch on an ancient myrtle and placed their gear securely in the crux of the trunk behind him. He sat and waited as Legolas slowly seated himself on a nearby branch, drawing his knees up so that he could rest against them, lowering his head wearily.

"That always annoyed Annaldír," he said abruptly and Legolas' face lifted in an instant, surprised by such words. Fearfaron gestured in the archer's direction. "That bad habit of yours; concealing fatigue because you think you have to be more than the other warriors. Annaldír said he thought you were overcompensating because you feared others would assume your status granted you special treatment."

Legolas felt his face getting warm and just stared, not knowing how to answer such a comment. He did not want to be disrespectful, either to his benefactor or the memory of Annaldír, and the carpenter chuckled to see the familiar expression of anxiety for others' feelings cross the elf's features.

"At first, Annaldír thought you were unduly proud and did not want to admit to any weakness, that you were determined to demonstrate that you were better than the others." He noted the clouded look that filled the archer's eyes and easily identified the mixture of anger and hurt.

"It did not take him long to decide that you only wanted to prove yourself to the company, to earn acceptance as a warrior rather than having it granted as a privilege of birth." Fearfaron was satisfied to see the negative emotions fall away even as the warrior's eyes did. "Annaldír liked you; more than that, he respected you," the carpenter continued quietly and Legolas flashed astonished eyes at him for a fraction of an instant before looking away. Those eyes were too bright and Fearfaron suspected Legolas was fighting to master tears, his head again bowed against his knees. He said no more to allow his companion time to recoup his self-control.

Legolas did not know if he would be able to endure this without completely losing himself in despair. Hearing these remarks from Annaldír's father was like being struck, pounded in the stomach so that he felt he was suffocating, unable to draw air into his lungs. If Ailinyéro held mastery of tormenting the body, Fearfaron was displaying an equal capacity for flaying his soul. How could he calmly sit and hear these words of praise and admiration his comrade had told of him, confirming that he had indeed killed a good friend to himself as well as the only son of Fearfaron.

It was unbearable; the guilt felt like a physical burden in his heart so that each beat resulted in considerable strain to the muscle. Surely the pumping was so much louder and slower now that the carpenter could hear it, too. How could he tell Fearfaron the depths of his sorrow? What difference did it make, even if he could adequately express this? The void in the carpenter's life could not be filled by such expressions and sentiments; and Legolas' dream seemed to confirm that Annaldír was not in Mandos' Halls. If the vision was true, the Lost Warrior was here in the Greenwood, with no intention of leaving it. He did not know what to do, to tell Fearfaron of this would only cause the elf more suffering yet surely it was his right to know.

Fearfaron had transferred his eyes up into the canopy to watch the soothing play of sunlight among the thinning auburn leaves as it danced among the shifting foliage and dappled the ground far below. He listened, pleased in the sounds of the forest and the welcome the trees held for them, knowing of their chore over the next few days to salvage the wood of the fallen beeches and clear the way for the new growth that would fill the void of their passing. He inhaled deeply, satisfied that he understood the necessity of the voids in the pattern of the energy that flowed through their wood. He found a consoling parallel in the emptiness left by his own son's death, for surely the trees were nearly as immortal as the eldar, dying only if struck down by violence.

He thought of the two other trees that had fallen because of the death of the ancient beech felled by the storm. That great tree had no more intention of destroying the others than Legolas had in his own failing on the battlefield. Of course, the tree could not prevent the strike of lightening from finding it. Fearfaron was not so sure, anymore, that Legolas could have prevented his discovery by the enemy. He was also unclear if even such a gifted archer as was Legolas had the speed required to recover to a new position, redraw, and shoot with accuracy after becoming a target himself.

He was a carpenter, not a warrior, and though his son spoke highly of Legolas' skill, it did not seem that he could be completely flawless. _And should anyone suffer condemnation for that,_ he wondered? No, and while he respected the Law, it was clearly out of place in this particular situation. The Judgement should be reserved for acts of cowardice or obvious neglect of duty, in his opinion.

As for the Wandering, Fearfaron had been dreaming of his son recently, and felt he had his answer for this as well. Yes, he had made up his mind to express his opinions to the Council formally and withdraw his complaint against Legolas. It was good, he felt, to know the right way to go and to act upon it. He glanced back at Legolas and sat forward, suddenly alarmed.

The archer was sitting rigidly still and yet waves of tremors were sweeping through his body. His hands, the right one lifting and falling against his temple in a strange patting motion that seemed unconscious, covered his head protectively. Fearfaron reached over and grasped the hand to stop it and Legolas raised guilt stricken eyes to him. The carpenter recalled his words and realised that what had been intended as reassurance had instead been heard as disparagement. It had not been his design to be cruel.

"No!" he snapped; shaking the fingers he gripped tightly as Legolas just stared vacantly at him. "Annaldír would not want this to be; does not want this to be," he continued sternly and Legolas at last seemed to hear this.

"I know; he will not go to Mandos' Halls. I am sorry!" His voice broke and he watched in trepidation to see what Fearfaron's response to this would be.

The carpenter looked at him in bewilderment; they were talking at cross-purposes, it seemed.

"Do you speak of your dream? I heard you say Annaldír's name last night," he probed carefully. Legolas looked as though he was well past his limit already, but Fearfaron had been eager to hear of this dream and could not restrain his query. Legolas was nodding his head.

"He is with Tawar; he intends not to leave Tawar until the world changes," he continued in a voice filled with sorrow. If Annaldír never went to the Halls of Waiting, he could not be reunited with his family in the future, nor could he ever be reborn. Fearfaron would never see him again; he was truly lost to him forever.

Now Fearfaron was completely confused and looked about him into the branches as though Annaldír might actually be nearby. Mentally he chided himself; the archer was obviously under extreme duress and not speaking with any sense. The carpenter pulled at his hand again as though to get him to come back to reality.

"Legolas, what does this mean? Can you tell me of the dream?" He asked as calmly as he could. He did not know how to manage this elf if he truly relinquished his sanity. He wished he had consulted the healer before taking Legolas back into the trees; he had thought it would be better for the elf to be away from the prying eyes and ears of the city.

Legolas took a deep breath and looked away from Fearfaron before answering. His other hand dropped from his head and slipped inside his tunic, rubbing gently at the old scar on his chest. He was hurting there for some reason.

"I was with Tawar at minuial," he began, "and then Annaldír was there also. He looked peaceful and laughed at my hair. He was sad about Ailinyéro, what he did. I asked him what he was doing there and he told me," here Legolas frowned and shook his head, "that is, it felt as though he was happy as he looked out into the trees. He was peaceful," he repeated inadequately and stared down at the branch between his feet.

Fearfaron was silent as he considered these words and watched Legolas intently. He felt a thrill run through him as he often did when a powerful storm was nearing the woods. The air around Legolas seemed charged.

"At the end," Legolas added softly, "he became as a mist of sunbeams carried on the wind."

Fearfaron inhaled loudly and twitched as these words were spoken. He stared at the hand he held tightly clasped in his own. It was as if he had for an instant shared the archer's impressions and seen this last moment of the dream as Annaldír shimmered and merged into the growing light of dawn.

The carpenter's heart was pounding in the intensity of this vision and he was overcome with the emotion his son had transmitted to the archer. It was indeed a deep sense of peace and contentment, and the carpenter suddenly found himself weeping loudly and squeezing the archer's fingers even harder, hoping for a renewal of that connection to Annaldír he had felt so briefly.

Legolas was exhausted; he felt as he often did when he had been running from spiders for days with no sleep. The connection with Fearfaron had been electrifying and frightened him, as he had never experienced anything like it before.

He did not know how to help the carpenter; it was as he had feared. The truth had propelled him deeper into despairing misery. Legolas could not look at him and see the turmoil the sounds of his sobbing lamentations suggested. He did not want to see the sorrow twisted features on the gentle elf's face.

It was so blatantly wrong for Fearfaron to be suffering in this way. Never, as far as Legolas knew, had he been anything but kind and friendly to all. Meeting him through Annaldír had been one of the most pleasant experiences associated with belonging to Talagan's company of archers, and Legolas hated to be the one to visit such utter despair into his life. Lacking any coherent idea as to how to offer comfort when he was himself the perpetrator of the pain, Legolas could only squeeze back on the hand gripping him so tightly.

"I am sorry," he whispered as Fearfaron's crying slowed and his breathing became more even. He felt the carpenter tug gently again at his hand but still resisted turning his eyes to meet him. He heard Fearfaron draw a deep breath and hold it a few seconds before exhaling it in a long sigh that sounded, somehow, as though it was escaping through lips no longer drawn down with melancholy. Legolas dared a swift glance towards the elf and was surprised to see a placid smile on his face.

Fearfaron yanked more insistently on Legolas' hand and maintained the pull, forcing him to adjust his place on the branch and move closer. The talan builder's grip slid up to its preferred resting-place on the archer's upper arm and stayed.

"Legolas, I do not know what that was, but I thank you for it!" The carpenter said with heartfelt appreciation, grinning broadly at the stunned expression turned towards him. "We have both encountered Annaldír in dreams. I suppose he has tried to reach us in whatever way each has that is most accessible. For you, this seems to involve the Greenwood. He has tried to express his happiness in a way you can comprehend it; through your connection to the trees!"

"Are you saying he is not with Tawar, really?" Legolas asked cautiously, not certain what Fearfaron meant.

Fearfaron did not fully understand what Legolas' concept of the Great Wood included but sensed it was more than just the confines of the Greenwood.

"I did not say that. I only mean that perhaps in your understanding such a connection or joining with…Tawar," he hesitated briefly over the word, " would represent a supremely happy state of being. Is that so?"

Legolas considered this and found it logical; he did feel that way and had ever since his awakening of the previous day. That gave him a shock; was it only yesterday he had taken on his new identity? Somehow it seemed it had been his for all his life. He returned his attention to Fearfaron.

"Then, your dreams of Annaldír do not show this same vision?" he asked.

"Yes and no," the elf responded. "In my dreams we are reunited as a family. We laugh and do silly things together for fun, as we did when Annaldír was a small elfling. It always ends with the three of us working to build a new talan, a new beginning in our new home. It is in a beautiful ancient tree and there is a clear stream through a bright meadow nearby. We are all content and no troubles cloud the day.

"I have taken these dreams to mean that Annaldír has found his way and is not Wandering. I have taken it to mean that we are not to be forever parted. These are the concepts that mean Manadh [final bliss] to me, and so Annaldír has used them to let me know he is happy. Do you see? It is the same vision of peace and contentment, just the surrounding images are different."

"What of Mandos' Halls?" Legolas dearly wanted to believe this was so, but doubts nagged at him still. "You did not see him there either. How can the reunion you envision take place if he is not there?" he asked, worried and perplexed. But Fearfaron merely waved his hand through the air as though this were a mere annoyance, less irritating than an insect to be swatted away.

"What of it; are there trees there?" he asked irreverently and Legolas raised his brows, surprised. This was almost like sacrilege but he did not want to correct the elder elf about this; he seemed happier with his new understanding. Fearfaron could not help laughing out loud as he observed Legolas' typical hesitation to call attention to another's' errors for fear of seeming insulting or rude.

"Do not be so concerned! Who has ever come back to say what Mandos Halls are? Perhaps it is your Tawar; perhaps it is my quiet treetop talan by a brook. Whatever it is, Annaldír is in the part of it that suits him and he is well!" he concluded firmly and gave Legolas' arm a soft squeeze.

Legolas wanted to believe this more than he had ever wanted anything. Yet, he was afraid to hope this could be true for fear of suffering greater distress when the ruse was found out. He feared Fearfaron's devastation would break the elf's heart if this explanation were learned to be false.

The carpenter could easily read these concerns in his companion's eyes and shook his head.

"Legolas, there is no need for distress. My heart is entirely healed in this moment; for your dream and your sharing it with me has confirmed what I hoped my own revealed. Annaldír is Released; I intend to make formal petition to the Council when we return," he concluded. At last he was rewarded with a slight smile from the archer's lips and allowed his own to grow in return.

Fearfaron sighed deeply, a long and quiet breath of pure joy and contentment, as though there was too much bliss inside his being and he must vent it or be consumed by it.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.

One of my favourite chapters in Feud. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Tur ar Torthad [Power and Control]**

Other Characters:

Ningloriel [Golden Water-lily Maid]: Legolas' mother, Queen of the Woodland Realm

Meril [Rose]: Lindalcon's mother, wife of Valtamar (one of the lost warriors)

Lindalcon [Song of the Sun Ray]: young usurper to the crown of the Woodland Realm, Valtamar & Meril's son

* * *

Tur ar Torthad [Power and Control]

Gandalf did not have the gift of extra perceptive hearing possessed by all the elven races of Middle Earth, nor did he require that aptitude to detect the voices drifting through the cool steady air of Thranduil's Halls.

The hour was late as he made his way around the huge cavern that served as the kitchen, scavenging for delectables in the cupboards and pantries to satisfy his needy hankering. This room was so deep it was completely underground, and the unending darkness was countered with three tremendous iron-wrought chandeliers suspended halfway down into the air space. The light was dim, however, for only the centre one of these was actually alight with a dozen gleaming tongues of oil-fed flames.

These, he knew from past experience, were perpetually lit, for otherwise the kitchen staff would have to bumble around in the pitch upon starting the morning menu. Doubtless, chaos would ensue and foodstuffs go wasted while toes and shins suffered stubbings and bumps in the caliginous mountain's bowels. He wondered peripherally if there was a specific serf assigned to tending these great lamps, some poor soul required to rise even earlier than the fire makers that lit the ovens each dawn. The dim illumination meant the Maia had to rely on his nose, and regretted there was not at least an increased ability to harness that sense among his kind.

He smelled something sweet with the distinct overprint of blueberries, his weakness, and he was determined to uncover the hidden pastry. In his craving-driven haste he accidentally overturned a container of dried beans. The clamourous clatter of the fracturing pottery canister and the rainfall pattering of the beans as they danced and skittered all across the smooth stony floor reverberated in the high-ceilinged cavern. He frowned and struck a sound with his tongue across his teeth but made no move to clean up the disaster. _They will just have to deal with it_, he silently fussed as his rummaging continued without success. His feet crunched noisily and slid about on the hard beans as he moved to another cabinet.

The voices were escalating in volume and venom, he noted, again.

Finally, his nose guided him true and he emerged from a dark corner with a pie pan and a fork, moving in ungainly balance-challenged miss-steps through the spilled beans towards the simple stairway.

The stairs curved upward from the back of the kitchen, cut into the rock and open to the airy cave. It was somewhat unnerving to watch the growing height as he progressed, and Gandalf leaned comfortingly against the smoothly sanded wall with his shoulder. This was of course the servants' stairway, the most efficient means of getting from one end of the great Hall to another. Using it one could easily traverse otherwise labyrinthine passages and flights meant to confuse any enemy that might somehow breach the Wood Elves' defences and storm the fortress.

The crazed maze also allowed for most of the chambers to front the outcropping mountain and permit life giving access to the open air through carved apertures and windows. From the external courtyard, it could be observed that the great mountain was honeycombed with these hand-delved caves far up into its discernible body. The unguarded balconies supported no railings or connecting ladders, and were thus securely inaccessible from the exterior.

He listened to the heated words wafting towards him, louder now as he neared the level of the private chambers of the monarchs. It was the same argument as the previous night, the same argument, with but a new barb, as every other night throughout the centuries, when the royal couple deigned to speak to one another at all.

"Úan! Úan morn ar um!" [Monster! Monster black and evil!] The female voice shrilled this debasement in tones of ragged rage. "You dare to demand this of me now, with my son suffering unto death?"

"Your son is dead!" A male voice in livid and scorching tones cut off the diatribe brutally and was followed by a strangled cry and a loud smashing of metal against stone. "Be resigned to it, and we may salvage this yet." His voice betrayed no interest in the thrown missile of uncertain design.

"You are a selfish, cruel demon! You have always despised him; I believe you have plotted this!" The female's words were becoming more hysterical by the moment.

"How would I not despise what is clearly not of my seed, Bronwepen Bereth!" [Faithless Queen] "It is you who have plotted this. Ever have you sought to embarrass my honour and adulterate my authority! You flaunted that bastard in my eyes."

"It is your eyes that lie and deceive you. He is no other's son but yours!" A bitter laugh broke into her cries, undoubtedly Thranduil's as he faced his queen and fought to harness his wrath.

"You have left no doubt as to your faithlessness to me and my realm, Ningloriel. Otherwise, how is it that, that . . . that raeg-onnant tad-dal [misbegotten two-legged animal] is the only child born during our union?" Thranduil thundered at his queen in fury.

"One prince should be enough for such a paltry Kingdom as Mirkwood. One child is all I will suffer to bear such a heartless husband as you! I have fulfilled my duty in this binding while you have not lived up to yours. Where is the glory of the Danwaith [Nandor elves] you promised to my father as barter for my body? Where is your Ring of Power, Thranduil?" Ningloriel gave wounds as deep as she received and was rewarded with an ear-splitting growl of furious rage from her husband.

"This is the richest of all the elven kingdoms, the most expansive of protected realms. This I have achieved without the false powers of the Dark One's rings. You speak of the Danwaith and the shame of the Noldor in one breath. My Sindarin heart would transform to broken stone if the taint of Celebrimbor's design found its way onto my hand. You are false and seek to divert attention from your fault."

"Rich!" The queen's voice scoffed in high-pitched derision. "Your avarice is not but a temptation to war and destruction. Your greed is the cause that stole from me my son! You guard your horde with more devotion than you do my people. You used the Danwaith for your own promotion. What kingdom had Oropher before the coming to the Greenwood? The Danwaith had no need for kings for all the long centuries past, and see how we suffer from them now. I cannot breath for the suffocation of the Shadow upon the woods."

"You speak of my father? The Danwaith were a sneaking cringing people, hiding from danger with no knowledge of fighting when my father came to the Greenwood. What were you but the daughter of a minor tauron [forester] before I made you my queen? In thanks you deny me offspring and withhold from joining with me while shamelessly fucking my enemy!" At these slurs Ningloriel's outraged shriek split the echoes gathering in the hallways and overpowered any further comment from the King.

"You! It is your own jealous and morbid lust that constructs these illusions. You have cuckolded yourself!" She countered. "What could make you think I would ever lie with you again, hearing these accusations against me? Bring forth your proofs to support your foul imagination."

"Proofs? Truly, do you want me to disclose them to your people, Ningloriel? I would do so; indeed, if you deny me an heir I will do so!" the Elven King stormed.

Gandalf shook his head sadly as he turned with the slowly winding stair. Always it went thus; Thranduil accused and Ningloriel denied. Given the volume of these discourses, Legolas could not have helped but overhear them over the years. The wizard wondered now how he had weathered these gales of hatred as a child, and he suddenly realised he had no memory of seeing Legolas in the great Hall, other than at official state functions, and briefly at meals. He was curious where the prince's hiding place had been in those days, glad he was not here now to witness the new wrinkle emerging in the frayed fabric of the royal couple's marriage bond.

The wizard knew the archer was suffering under terrible stresses even so. Thranduil might be correct in his prediction of the former prince's death, despite his departure from the previous night's assault under his own power. The Maia shook his head again, saddened by the dark life the fair archer had thus far endured.

His knees began to protest against the steady climb as he continued past lower corridors to the more elite rooms reserved for the royal family and their guests. It was with surprise that Gandalf's reverie was disrupted as he reached the last turning. There upon the stone steps sat the forlorn figure of a young elf, hands gripped tightly against his ears as the arguing streamed through the halls.

The elf-child was dressed in sleeping clothes and sat hunched over, barefooted, eyes squinched down in obvious discomfort. His hair flowed down around his body in a sleep-tangled mass of wavy brown locks. Gandalf's eyebrows arched as he surveyed the elf, recognising the newly made prince of the Woodland Realm, Lindalcon the Usurper. The wizard loudly cleared his throat to gain the young one's attention over the cacophonous din of blaring adult voices. Lindalcon raised his head and stared uncertainly at him.

"Whatever are you doing here, little prince?" Gandalf said, with just a hint of sarcasm attached to the last words. Lindalcon was young but no fool and caught the slight affront. He frowned.

"I am not his prince!" His tone indicated disgust. "I feel pity for Legolas to be related to them."

"Do you love your parents? Are they free of blemish?" was all Gandalf said, and the young elf's frown curled up into a sneer.

"He is a fool to love them. They both despise him," Lindalcon scoffed.

Gandalf was surprised at the child's insight, for indeed both of the royal parents wielded the existence of their son against each other like a weapon. _No doubt wounding Legolas the worst_, he thought grimly. Still, despise was too harsh a word. On some level, they did care for him, surely. He sighed.

"Let us not be caught up in their display, joining them. Come with me; I have absconded from the pantries with this pastry and should not eat it all myself," he offered generously, and Lindalcon, eyeing the pie, was happy to accept. He rose and followed Gandalf into the hallway as they cautiously stepped nearer to the chamber within which the heated argument still seethed.

"You no longer need me to provide you heirs, Thranduil. Your avarice has bought you a new one already. There is at hand another prince in Mirkwood; name him your heir!" Ningloriel screamed these words harshly.

"I will not hand over the crown to any not of my seed! You will agree to bear my heir; it is your duty to this land as queen and to me as my wife!" Thranduil yelled back.

"Oh, but I thought you considered me a faithless queen and kept mistress to the Lord of Imladris! If our first child is suspect to your eyes, how will you trust the next to be yours?" Ningloriel mocked.

Gandalf and Lindalcon hurried as quickly as they could down the passageway so as to gain the corridor that would lead them to the guest chambers where the wizard's customary suite of rooms was to be found. They were just outside the doorway to the royal chamber and the cutting slurs and taunts were even more brutal in the improved clarity proximity granted. As they sought to get past, unconsciously sidling close to the wall in unnecessary fear of being discovered, a figure emerged from the far end of the hall at the intersection they sought.

The slight form hurried forward and Lindalcon ran quickly into his mother's arms. She stroked down his hair and hugged him while looking over his shoulder to Gandalf. Together all three continued on their way under the barrage of hatred.

"And how would you do that, Thranduil? Will you lock me in a cell? You cannot force me to this course; I will have you stand for rape before the Council of Elders," Ningloriel threatened. "I will listen to no more; in the morning I leave for 'Lorien and my sister's house. There I shall remain until you reconsider your demands."

"You will not go to him; I forbid it, do you hear? I know he is in 'Lorien even now, do you think I am without informants in the Golden Wood? Go you there now with our Kingdom in chaos and I will, I will" Thranduil stuttered, searching for a suitable coercion to employ. Previously he had used Legolas, menacing his life with assignment to the Southern Borders. Now with his disgrace and probable death, Thranduil had lost his greatest means of controlling his wife.

Ningloriel's eyes gleamed knowing this.

"What, Thranduil? What more can you do to me? Legolas is gone!" She cried and it seemed that perhaps real tears tinged the final words. There was silence, and in spite of themselves the three hallway traipsers froze in place to hear the end to this soul searing battle.

"I will take a consort! I will take Meril as my consort and get another heir; my Halls will ring with the sound of children's voices!" The King finally shouted triumphantly. "In fact, I will petition the Council in the morning, if you should ride through the gates."

Ningloriel's gasp was audible and was followed by the sound of her footsteps; the quiet swish of satin slippers upon eleven feet gliding across a silken carpet. She was approaching the doorway.

"Do that, for I shall go not to 'Lorien, but to the Havens. I will leave my own petition with the Council, renouncing my bond to you and any claims upon the royal title. I will seek the shores of Valinor in the West. If I can find him, I will take my son with me," she said with determined fervour and flung wide the door.

She never paused in the hallway as she serenely stormed past the three eavesdroppers, golden blond tresses fanning out behind her and blue eyes glittering in resentment. She barely acknowledged Gandalf and completely ignored the two elves. Heavy footfalls sounded and the King stood just within the doorway, staring after her.

"Your son is dead!" he screamed at her retreating body, and glared at the hall's remaining occupants. The door to the royal chamber was thrown back upon its frame with a shuddering impact as Thranduil swore vilely.

Gandalf, Meril, and Lindalcon stood stunned and speechless for a moment in the sudden silence of the gloomy hallway. Then the youth uttered an enraged cry and made to go to Thranduil's door, intent upon claiming retribution for the slander against his mother. But Meril grabbed him tightly and clamped her hand over his mouth to quiet his protests as she and Gandalf dragged her son down the passage toward the wizard's chambers. In the struggle to restrain him, the pie pan was dropped and soon a sticky mess of trampled blue sweetness smeared the carpet and the three eavesdroppers' feet. Somehow, they managed to reach Gandalf's rooms without attracting the King's attention, and the Istar breathed a relieved sigh as he locked his door behind them. Lindalcon was fuming.

"Why did you stop me? You heard him; such words can not go unchallenged. How dare he suggest that! He acts as though you are just a thing to use for his benefit!" he yelled and Meril calmly allowed him to have his say. Her mild demeanour quickly brought him back to himself and he lowered his voce, apologising.

"It is all right, Lindalcon; I understand your anger. You must realise, however, that his words were spoken in his rage against the queen and meant to hurt her. He had no idea either of us was present to hear such a thing," she quietly admonished as she handed him a cloth to wipe the pie from his soles and passed one to the wizard as well. Lindalcon frowned and flopped down on the bed.

"Still, it was a terrible thing to say. What kind of elves are these, Nana, [Mama] that hold the bonds of love so trivial?" he asked in amazement and his mother smiled at her young son's innocence.

"They are rulers and have not the option to consider love. For them the obligation to the Kingdom is always their first and strongest bond. Matters of devotion do not often enter into such unions among them. To Thranduil, his duty to the Greenwood is more important than his personal need to be wanted and adored by his mate," she tried to explain, but Lindalcon looked incredulously at her.

"If that were so, then why is he so angry with his queen for having another lover?" he commented.

"Lindalcon! That is an ugly rumour to repeat about our queen. We do not know any of that is true. Jealousy such as his often has naught to do with love and everything to do with control, and fear of losing it." she scolded.

Lindalcon, with limited experience of adult relationships found this confusing and he did not understand what she meant. His only exposure to mated pairs were his own parents and those of his nearest friends. While he had witnessed quarrels and disagreements, never had such outpouring of hate as he had heard this night accompanied those misunderstandings.

"Nana, I do not want to live such a life. Please, can we not go home? Or we could move to Lorien to be near Adar's [Father's] family there. This is like some horrid nightmare," he murmured plaintively.

"Now, Lindalcon, such a life you will not be forced into, for it is true that Thranduil will name none but his own blood son as heir. You will have the freedom to choose whoever pleases you for a mate, and yet have the advantages of the rank and title of prince. Think of the benefit that will provide for your children," his mother's tone entreated, and Gandalf, listening silently all the while, had the feeling this was not the first time mother and son had been at odds over the abrupt changes in their life style. "You may even end up on the Council, in time," she added and Lindalcon scowled and rolled his eyes.

"But, Naneth [Mother] I have no wish to be stuck here in this stuffy cave. And those old eldar are boring with their endless arguing and petitions. You know I want to be a warrior, like Ada [Daddy] was. I am becoming very good with my bow!" he exclaimed. "Beside, Legolas is…was…a prince, and the King let him become a warrior and he is the heir. Or he was, anyway. Surely I can join the guard as well," he stated with determination, and again the wizard discerned that this was a running topic between them.

Meril remained silent, having her own ideas about Legolas' commission in the guard. Now that she had observed the royal parents' relationship firsthand, she suspected Thranduil had intended this more as a punishment to Ningloriel than a gesture of confidence and pride in his son's ability.

Having met the former prince several times through her husband's association with him, she had been struck by the fact that the position suited him so well. He had never behaved with anything but courtesy and respect, never using his rank to set himself ahead of others. She remembered how little he spoke of his family when they met, and indeed how little he spoke at all.

Always a jovial companion to Valtamar and a pleasure to receive as a guest in their home, he was ever ready with a clever story or a heartbreaking ballad to entertain them. Nor was he too haughty to grab a rag and help clean up when the parties ended. He never scorned to play with Lindalcon and seemed to genuinely enjoy coaching him once he was old enough to start learning to use a bow. She realised what a refuge the life of a warrior must have offered to the fallen prince.

Lindalcon sighed and the breath turned into a yawn. The hour was very late and he still required far more sleep than an adult as his final years of growing neared. Meril reached out and took her son's hands in hers and pulled him up.

"Come along, sleepy one," she said. "I am sure Master Gandalf will be wanting to rest in his own bed tonight, and yours awaits." Lindalcon started to protest but she gave him a look, and he knew it was fruitless to continue his arguments. He would have to try again in the morning. Gandalf smiled as he opened the door for them.

"Sleep well, Lindalcon; I am sorry about the pie. Perhaps we can coax the chef into preparing another tomorrow, and blame Thranduil for the mess," he said merrily and the youth smiled and nodded. Mother and son made their way down the darkened passage and Gandalf watched until he saw the doors to their suite safely shut.

The wizard had no intention of sleeping this night, however, and quietly made his way towards Thranduil's chambers. By all means he must dissuade the King from his hastily spoken threat. The last such had resulted in Legolas' joining the guard while his current lover had suddenly decided to move permanently to Lorien amid rumours of his being a spy. Gandalf suspected there might be truth to it, and believed as Meril did that the appointment had been intended as an affront to Ningloriel.

Gandalf dearly wanted to prevent the King's jealous power lust from forcing the Queen to actually leave for the Havens. He had decided he could have need of Legolas and had sensed something important about the elf he could not define, but he trusted his instincts. The wizard did not know how the fallen archer would react to this additional grief, especially occurring so close upon the atrocities of Ailinyéro's lechery, and did not want to risk losing him.

He noted Thranduil's door was open and peered in, quickly surveying the empty room. Frowning, he went in haste to the lower levels where the cavernous chambers were nearly at ground level and the more public rooms and offices could be found. Thranduil's private study opened directly from a corner of the throne room, and the wizard went to it at once. Again he was rewarded with failure and he cast about in his mind to decipher where he might find the King. In vain he searched the libraries and the Council chambers, the kitchens and the stables.

With dismay he realised the Elven King must be deep in his keep, among the many storage rooms that housed his sizeable horde of gold and precious stones and gems. Once there, none could approach him for he locked himself in and held the only key to the great ironwork gates that barred the corridor to the treasure vaults. Gandalf's scowl deepened; he was forced, as was Lindalcon, to wait for the new day to broach his arguments.

The faintest tinge of sunlight peering down through the treetops brought Gandalf's hopes to an end. Already assembled in the courtyard, Ningloriel and her impressive retinue made ready to depart. She evidently had supplies, belongings, and guards in tow for a long journey, and if she went to Lorien at all she would be stopping only to bid her family there farewell.

The wizard observed as her escort mounted and her personal guard assisted her onto her horse. With a start the Maia recognised this was Legolas' friend Maltahondo, and his brows creased in confusion. Surely this elf was serving in the Southern Patrols, or so had claimed to Legolas. The elf caught him looking and quickly averted his eyes, tending to the queen's horse and mounting his own. Without a sound or a glance back Ningloriel rode from the Woodland Realm and Thranduil was no where in sight.

The wizard had watched from the open balcony of his chambers, and turned to his right as a sound caught his attention. There, Meril and Lindalcon stood watching the scene as well, and as Gandalf gazed at Meril he recognised that the sound had been a single note of contemptuous laughter.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	10. Chapter 10

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

**Pelol [Fading]**

Legolas had dreamed again that night, but his visions held none of the comfort of communion with Tawar or his lost comrades.

He dreamed of being loved and of being made love to, and delighted in the caresses and attentions of his lover's hands and lips. As he reveled in the abandonment of deeply returned passion, the face of his beloved became clear and he gazed with joy into the eyes of Malthen as his corpsman penetrated his body, coaxing him into slow and mounting ecstasy. At the moment of his release, Legolas cried out his lover's name, yet even as his seed surged from him in glorious waves of rapture the face above him twisted into that of Ailinyéro, and his pleasure dissolved into horrendous pain. Malthen's words of endearing love were transmuted into the ugly curses of his tormenter: 'No one. No one wants you now. Not even the Noldor elves of Imladris would dirty themselves inside you!'

He awoke with a horrified shout and stared in bewildered terror at Fearfaron. The carpenter came to him at once, but Legolas shied away and covered his face with his hands, lost in a maelstrom of shame, fear, rage, and self-disgust. His embarrassment was acute as he recognized the scent of his own ejaculate and realized the dream had been grossly graphic for his companion as well. He looked down at his clothing, soiled with semen and sweat and felt the familiar waves of nausea accost his gut.

Legolas fought down the desire to be ill and struggled to his feet on the branch. He felt filthy and tainted and desperately wanted to throw off the sticky garments. Fearfaron was talking to him, trying to calm and reassure him, but he could not focus on the words. He drew a shaky breath and moved out into the trees, making for water, leaving behind weapons, boots, and pack. The carpenter grabbed these things and his own pack as well and followed Legolas quickly.

He caught up with him at last at the Forest River where they had been working the previous day. They had dragged the salvaged wood to the shallows at the river's edge, tying down the great trunks of the fallen trees to form a barge that would be carried into the King's stronghold by the current when the anchoring lines to shore were released.

Legolas was standing knee deep in the water, naked, scrubbing determinedly at his skin, his leather leggings and tunic discarded on the bank. He was rubbing so hard that some of the deeper lashes were pulling open and bleeding, and Fearfaron was alarmed to see that Legolas seemed to be unconsciously encouraging this. He was breathing in a hitched sort of dry sobbing, for no tears fell. He ignored the carpenter at first and then tried to move away from him when he plunged into the cold water to get him out. But Fearfaron was persistent and Legolas was emotionally drained, and at last he listlessly allowed himself to be led ashore and wrapped in the carpenter's cloak.

Legolas sat huddled dejectedly on the bank with all of his body hidden under the soft cloak save his head. He refused to look at his soiled clothes, much less touch them, and would not allow Fearfaron to remove the cloak to treat the bleeding lashes.

Fearfaron reached over and gently laid his hand on Legolas shoulder and continued to speak in comforting and reassuring tones, and gradually the archer calmed down somewhat. The carpenter gave him fresh leggings and Legolas drew them on though they were too large, belonging to Fearfaron who was much the taller of the two.

With his body partially covered, he allowed his benefactor to remove the cloak and clean up the wounds, applying more of the soothing salve he had used previously. That done, Legolas sat quietly staring out into the river while his eyes saw nothing of the scenery and Fearfaron stayed at his side. Thus they remained until the distant sound of many horses weighed down with provisions was carried to them on the breeze, and Legolas recognized the gaited footfalls of his mother's palfrey. He stood as the caravan came into view and watched as Ningloriel guided her mount out of the group and lightly leapt down, approaching him.

Fearfaron observed her expression of tense consternation as she took in her son's appearance. He also noted that she made no move to touch him, nor did Legolas seem to expect it. Wordlessly they turned in unison and moved side by side away from the others, out of earshot, and spoke together.

The queen's face was animated and her movements agitated as she punctuated her words with her hands and arms. Legolas hunched forward and rubbed one hand over his forehead while the other moved to wrap around his middle. He began shaking his head, and his responses seemed to aggravate his mother more. She paced around a few times and continued her arguments; her tone alternating between pleading and demanding. That much was conveyed to Fearfaron's ears even if the exact words could not be understood.

Legolas' posture radiated grief and remorse as he tried to placate his mother, yet remained firm in his refusal of whatever she had said to him. She said something that made him visibly wince and he ran a hand through his hair, turning his head away from her as he did. Her voice became more shrill and accusatory in tone and her son seemed to close in on himself as he vainly pleaded with her.

At last they fell silent and a moment passed, and then Legolas spoke to her briefly, a questioning and hesitant cast to his stance. The response caused everyone to jump, startled by the resounding slap as Ningloriel's palm connected with her son's cheek. His hand flew to cover the burning red mark and he stared at her with stricken eyes and begged her forgiveness, following after her as she strode back towards her entourage. When she gained her horse he stopped, staring in open-mouthed shock at Maltahondo as he provided the queen a leg up onto her mount.

The corpsman met his eyes for a second, and then Legolas flushed a dark scarlet and turned, racing into the trees. With a silent curse Fearfaron gathered up their things, remarking that for the second time Legolas had fled without his weapons. The carpenter could hear the large party departing, following the track along the river bank that would eventually cut through the woods to the Forest Road, as he followed Legolas' figure rapidly retreating into the forest.

High in the boughs of a strong oak with welcoming limbs Fearfaron regretted for at least the tenth time venturing alone into the woods with Legolas. Together they had constructed a temporary talan of rope and branch in this tree, an openwork webbing more like a hammock than a flet. Here they rested after laboring to salvage the felled hardwoods on the forest floor below.

They had needed to recuperate often; or rather Legolas had needed to. His health was not rebounding as quickly as someone of his age and vigor normally would. Fearfaron noted that the deepest lashes frequently pulled open as Legolas worked through the day, and he refused to stop working. At one point, Fearfaron had simply left, hoping that Legolas would cease his efforts and follow, but after an hour with no sign of him the carpenter returned to find him struggling to remove some limbs with a handsaw.

Fearfaron suspected grief was the culprit. The encounter with his mother, their first contact in twelve years and possibly their last for centuries or more, had left Legolas withdrawn and silent.

That had been ten days ago, not a pleasant time for either of them. Legolas had fled through the trees until his energy was spent, collapsing from physical and emotional exhaustion. Fearfaron came upon him crumbled up in the crook of a tree trunk near the high canopy, dry-eyed but shivering. And lost. His eyes had held the bewilderment, fear, and despondency of an elfling abandoned alone in the forest, for so he was at that moment.

He would not speak and Fearfaron was certain Legolas did not recognize him at first. He was apparently too worn out to make any protest when the carpenter wrapped him back up in the soft cloak and his arms in an effort to stop the shaking. He had followed Fearfaron willingly and urgently, as though suspicious that this contact would disappear from him also, back to their transitory talan. He frequently set his hand against the dark red palm-print left by Ningloriel as a look of helpless distress washed over his features. No words passed between them the rest of the day and finally Legolas had lapsed into an uneasy slumber a couple of hours after annûn. The nightmares had become a nightly ordeal since then.

Legolas was now thrashing against Fearfaron fiercely as the carpenter tried to restrain him. Given the desperation with which he fought the talan-builder's hold, he must be reliving the assault by Ailinyéro. Fearfaron could not get him to wake, the more he struggled the more Legolas seemed to become lost in the phantasm. Fearfaron feared that soon he would either have to release Legolas and watch him fall to the forest floor or hold on and cascade down with him. He did not wish to end up broken at the base of these trees, or to relinquish Legolas to such a fate.

The archer was making a wide range of cries and wails of despair and dread interspersed with incoherent shouts of rage. Twice he sank his teeth deeply into the soft forearms of his kindly captor and almost succeeded in kicking him away. Fearfaron was rapidly growing as desperate as was the archer.

At last he managed to wrap his legs around Legolas' knees to still his jerking limbs and encircled his waist with one arm, firmly grasping one wrist while pressing the other tightly against his body. They were now intertwined like lovers, the archer held securely against his chest with his forehead resting in the crook of the talan-builder's neck and shoulder, and Fearfaron felt Legolas tense and go still as his breathing deepened.

He sighed ardently and twisted against the carpenter, but it was not a movement seeking freedom. Legolas sought to pull himself closer and shifted his hips, thrusting against Fearfaron's groin with his own hard and needy member. The carpenter was stunned at first then realized the sudden altering in the elf's unconscious state was logical; Legolas felt safe with him and he was already experiencing a sexual dream. It wouldnot do, however, for this to continue. Valar only knew what level of humiliation Legolas would descend to if he woke in the aftermath of his passionate hallucination in Fearfaron's arms.

The carpenter gently untangled himself, hoping Legolas would not become alert until he was at least half an arm's length away. He moved a few branches over, yet near enough to keep an eye on the younger elf in case the unpleasant terrors returned. Fearfaron thought it would be good for Legolas to have a pleasingly sensual dream, experiencing a gratifying release, but feared the same end as on the previous nights, when the illusion of passion had transformed into ugliness and self-loathing without warning. He was at a loss as to how to prevent this short of waking Legolas, and was uncertain he would be successful given the difficulty he had had doing so thus far.

"Legolas!" he called softly.

Legolas grumbled under his breath in disappointed tones as the warmth and closeness retreated, and reached out for his lover in vain. "Malthen," he whispered and turned onto his back, flinching a little as the lashes stung in response to the friction. The carpenter sat back and watched grimly as Legolas' hands went fluttering over his body seeking to duplicate in reality the sensations his inner visions presented to him.

"Legolas! Awake!" he called again louder.

Legolas lay in the comforting darkness and allowed his body to come alive with the slow tortuous joy of his own caressing fingers, imagining the digits belonged to his lover, tracing lightly across his chest and neck. If only the slightly callused pads would be replaced with the sweetly hot and questing lips he longed for.

He could feel the strength and warmth of that expressive tongue sliding against his teeth, delicately glancing across his lower lip, pulling it carefully aside to taste the space between it and the row of strong incisors. His own tongue darted out and briefly danced across the lip's fullness and he whined plaintively, pleadingly, and breathed out another stifled groan.

His hands found their way down to his abdomen and kneaded the flat expanse of lean muscle there, tripping over the small fold of skin marking the site of the first wound he had ever received: the slicing of the umbilical at his birth. His hands delayed their travels under the soft woven fabric of his borrowed leggings, massaging his hardening penis from without as though to prolong the transient response of delight he ached to provoke with the self-wrought stimulation.

"Legolas! Alert! Legolas wake up now!" Fearfaron's urgent and vociferous call elicited the desired response; the archer abruptly sat up and looked about to discover the emergency. Fearfaron breathed a sigh of relief and stored the new, and obvious, insight away: Legolas was trained as a warrior, a cry of alarm would always rouse him.

Legolas shifted uncomfortably, hitching at the borrowed leggings and trying to see if Fearfaron noticed his aroused state without actually looking him in the eye.

The carpenter's forehead creased in irritated disapproval. He had no understanding of why this was so excruciatingly embarrassing to Legolas; his own son had been able to accept such reactions of the body as natural. Fearfaron had never allowed Annaldir to be ashamed of his sexuality and had always encouraged him to speak if he had concerns or ask if he was curious. There was nothing Annaldír was unable to discuss with his father, even after he was fully-grown and had a lifemate. It did not reflect well on Legolas' upbringing that he was so repressed about his own needs. Discretion among elves was of course paramount, but denial and guilt were not normal.

"It is not right," he said aloud and Legolas' head dropped and turned away. "You were only dreaming, Legolas, and it has probably been some time since you have had any kind of caring and satisfactory sexual contact. Your responses are to be expected. What is it that upsets you so when this occurs?"

Legolas could not stop the burning sensation that heralded the rapid infusion of blood to his face. How could he answer such questions? He wanted to believe his friend's speech was kind, yet he had started by saying his actions were not right. He remembered Ailinyéro's words; the whole company knew he desired males. Did this mean Fearfaron, through Annaldír, also knew this? Was he saying this was wrong? Was he reprimanding him about the dreams, as his mother had? She complained of his noise and lack of self-control, had insisted he move to new rooms far from her own chambers. He did not know how to stop them and had only been free of them when he had had a lover. Legolas was confused to say the least.

"Legolas, I fear you are suffering from grief," Fearfaron decided to change the subject as he watched Legolas withdraw further. "We must return to the city; I want you to see the healer about these wounds that do not heal. You do not speak unless it is imperative to do so; you eat only if I force you, and your sleep, if it can so be called, is disturbed by night terrors. This cannot be allowed to continue or you will die. Also, I want to make the petition to the Council and clear at least one of the burdens from you. Perhaps Gandalf is still there; would you like to speak with him?" Legolas sighed in response and shook his head.

"Perhaps that would be best, " he said quietly. Fearfaron looked at him carefully, aware now that often Legolas heard something entirely different than he had intended to say, and considered what he might be assenting to. No way to know for certain: best to return to the city, best to see the healer, best to speak to Gandalf, best to die? All were fair guesses.

"What? What would be best, Legolas?" he finally asked, but the archer would not reply. "Then, we return tomorrow at minuial," he finally said. Legolas gave a brief nod to this and shifted to try to get more comfortable. Fearfaron moved over closer so that he could touch him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder; rubbing just the slightest bit, knowing Legolas needed this essential contact. It seemed to Fearfaron, after observing the younger elf's own mother's failure to touch him that most of the physical contact Legolas had received from others had been non-existent, negative, or hurtful. Legolas clearly craved a gentle touch yet did not himself know how to initiate even this simplest of caring gestures: a hand upon the shoulder.

"When Annaldír's mother left for Valinor, he was devastated. He thought it was his fault because he had just joined the guard, and his mother had been opposed to the idea. He was not the reason, but she did not want him to know why she had to go. I was made to promise not to tell this secret to him," Fearfaron began talking; he could not bear the silence and hoped he could somehow get Legolas to open up to him about all that had occurred. Legolas turned his head towards him, interested in spite of himself, or perhaps because he was afraid to sleep and thus to dream.

"I broke this promise, but I am sure she understands why I had to do so. Annaldír was dying of grief and guilt, and nothing I said was of any use. He was taking terrible risks on his patrols and would not last long in any case," Fearfaron fell quiet as he remembered, and Legolas waited for the rest of this story. When none came, he finally spoke.

"Why did Annaldír think it was his fault?" he asked. Fearfaron smiled a tempered smile of bittersweet remembrance.

"They had argued constantly about Annaldír's warrior's commission. Cúroniel [Daughter of the Crescent Moon] once asked, in her anger and fear, how Annaldír would feel if she were to be the one leaving in the morning perhaps never to return. When she did leave several years later, he interpreted this as his punishment for refusing to resign his commission."

"It is my fault that Naneth left," Legolas said ruefully. "It is all because of that day at Erebor. My failure now has taken another away, from me and from all others that held her dear. It is because Meril and Lindalcon have become part of the household."

"I do not believe that is true. You should think more critically about this. If you had not made that error, would there be anything else that would cause your mother to leave here? It should not be too difficult to come up with the truth; you of all should know this," Fearfaron said. Legolas glanced at him searchingly; another painful topic to guess at how much Fearfaron knew. Fearfaron nodded reading his expression perfectly.

"Everyone in the city knows about the fights. Do you not think she might have become weary of it all? Would she have asked you to come with her if she held you responsible for these events?" These words touched exactly upon Legolas' thoughts and he shifted, propping himself up on his elbows to look at Fearfaron.

"What do the elves think about it? Does everyone know what he said to her, about me?" he finally asked in a barely breathed voice.

Fearfaron took his time answering, worried about the reaction Legolas would have to the local gossip. He decided the truth was the best; he had built a small foundation of trust with Legolas and did not want to have it torn down by trying to spare him what he most likely already suspected.

"There are two prominent views on the situation, opposing one another of course. Some believe, as does Thranduil, that you are not his son at all. They cite that you look nothing like him, favoring your mother, and anyone could be your father.

"They also say that Ningloriel spent her youth in Lorien and met Elrond there. He is always in and out of the Golden Wood as his wife is daughter to the Lord and Lady. It is no secret that Ningloriel's and Thranduil's bonding was by arrangement and neither has any love for the other. Gossips also state that your Conception Day is very close to a time when she had spent nearly an entire year in Lorien. These arguments you yourself must have heard from the King," he said and Legolas nodded.

"The other elves side with Ningloriel, saying she has family in Lorien and that is the reason she has visited there so much over the years. That, and Thranduil's unreasonable jealousy. They note that she has always been honorable and would be unlikely to break her marriage bond even for love. There is also the fact that she has been friends with Elrond's lifemate, Celebrian, since her childhood, and would not seek to do anything to hurt her friend.

"Also, Maltahondo has been at her side the entire time as her personal guard and has never mentioned any but the most formal of contacts with Elrond. The other facts are merely coincidences that Thranduil uses to build a false case against her." Fearfaron finished cautiously. "What did she say to you on the subject herself?" he asked, curiosity prompting his words before considering their possible impact.

Legolas slumped back down onto the netted talon and turned himself away from Fearfaron, curling up and wrapping his arms about his body protectively.

"She would not answer me in words," his muffled answer came as his left-hand stole up to touch the side of his face lightly.

Fearfaron caught his breath; that mystery was solved, and much worse an explanation than he had suspected. Since she was leaving, Legolas had dared to ask her what he had never had the courage to before. Fearfaron reached back over and once again placed a comforting palm against Legolas' shoulder and squeezed.

"It was not much of an answer, then," he said sympathetically and Legolas sighed a ragged breath. "I did not finish telling you about Annaldír's mother." Fearfaron continued, again hoping to draw Legolas' thoughts away from the painful encounter. "Cúroniel did not want him to know her secret; I do not know why she thought it would be troubling to him." He paused. Legolas glanced back over his shoulder questioningly and unfolded a little.

"She had been with child, but a spider's raid on the path near the central mountains left her with a small bite wound. It was poisoned of course, and while the healers were able to prevent her death, the child, a female, was not so fortunate. My beloved nearly died from the grief, and this is what spawned her unreasoning fear regarding Annaldír's commission. She thought she would lose him, too, and could not stand the idea. She was wasting away before my eyes, and I could not bear that, so I am the one that started to suggest she go West to Valinor.

"After some years Cúroniel was convinced and I took her to the Havens with Annaldír as our guide. He broke down on the way back and grew steadily worse each day, until I was at last forced to break my promise. He was so relieved to know he was not the cause that he almost did not think about his lost little sister. He later told me he thought his mother did not want him to be told for fear he would feel she loved the new child more than he, since she left him here to be near her. I think perhaps that is right." Fearfaron fell silent, remembering his family; all now far beyond his reach. Legolas reached up and laid his hand over Fearfaron's gently.

"I am sorry," he said. "You have lost them all now." He could not control the slight quaver in his words.

Fearfaron gazed at the strong slender fingers overlying his sturdy stubby ones and smiled slightly. Here he had intended his story to divert the archer's attention from his grief, and Legolas responded by once more shouldering total responsibility for the carpenter's fate.

"Nay, Legolas; they are not lost to me! I will be reunited with my family, and you have ensured this will be!"

Legolas did not respond and the two were silent for awhile. Fearfaron hoped the archer was not withdrawing further into his gloomy shell of black remorse and sorrow, and softly squeezed the elegant fingers, rubbing the tough calluses absently with his thumb.

"Fearfaron, am I dying of grief?" Legolas suddenly said and looked back anxiously at his friend.

"You will not die if you have a reason to be alive. You have many reasons, do you not?" he asked pointedly. "You cannot go off into your Tawar and leave all this mess for someone else to deal with. Annaldír was not the only warrior lost!" He felt Legolas wince under the sting of these comments, and wished he knew some other way to get him to focus on life rather than death. "I'm sorry, but I can not allow you to just give up!" he attempted to soften the outburst. "I would, however, have you healed of this grief and returned to sleep without dreams before you venture back out upon the Tasks," he concluded. Legolas was quiet, considering his words.

"How do I stop seeing it? How do I stop feeling it? The dreams are not just nightmares; it is my reality now." Legolas spoke with a halting voice in tones choked with pain and anger. Fearfaron had no idea what the right response might be, and he searched through his mind for some logical and useful advice he could give.

What came to mind would undoubtedly be a touchy subject for Legolas, given his repressed concept of sexuality and his unconscious references to his former corpsman. Annaldír had never spoken of Legolas' private life, so if there had been a sexual connection there Fearfaron knew nothing of it. On the other hand, if Maltahondo was Legolas' lover, the carpenter felt that he should be with Legolas now. Some time in a loving union would go far toward easing the evil thoughts from Legolas' mind and restore his confidence in his own worth. Fearfaron had heard Ailinyéro's cruel words and knew Legolas felt stained and unlovable. Fearfaron took a deep breath; not sure this was a subject to be broached just yet.

"Legolas, is Maltahondo your lover?" he asked directly and felt Legolas jolt in surprise as he tried to pull out from under Fearfaron's hand. The carpenter would not allow it, however, and instead came closer and lifted Legolas up into a seated position against him between his legs, one arm encircling each shoulder and clasped around Legolas' chest.

"Nay, be still, be still! There is no need to fear or to be ashamed of what I ask you, Legolas. You need to talk to someone; whatever you have learned about sex is sadly lacking in truth. If Malthen is your love, you need to be with him now; it may be the best way to counter the effects of Ailinyéro's abuse. Do you see?" he spoke soothingly and Legolas relaxed a little, allowing his head to drop back against Fearfaron's shoulder.

Legolas dearly wanted to be able to tell Fearfaron about his relationship to Malthen; he needed someone to trust who would not judge him and condemn his actions. He had questions that had never been answered because there had never been anyone he could ask. He could not very well ask Malthen, since they concerned him so directly. His mother hated the idea of him even having a sex life, while Thranduil was disgusted with him entirely. Fearfaron had protected him and cared for him, and he felt the carpenter might have the answers he sought, or at least would listen and be able to reassure him that he was not defiled forever by what had happened. It was now Legolas' turn to inhale a steadying breath before daring to speak.

"He was my first, but we have not been together now for many years, over 150. In fact, he ended it and gave me to a new lover just before I entered the guard, and never said why," he said quietly and sighed again.

Fearfaron considered carefully the next step. Legolas' feelings for Maltahondo must be strong if memories of their love returned during such a stressful time. In his opinion, it would help if Legolas recalled this first encounter while awake, so that the baseness of the assault could not intrude. Also, Legolas' way of phrasing the ending the affair was troubling; it seemed the feelings were predominantly one-sided on Legolas' part. Fearfaron could not reconcile the concept of giving someone to another with true feelings of devotion. Perhaps Legolas had long kept his concerns hidden, having no one to share this hurt with.

"Legolas, tell me about him. How did you become lovers; he is much senior to you. He is closer to my age, I believe. Did someone choose him for you?" he posed the query as straightforwardly as he could. Legolas was nodding.

"In a way, my mother chose him. I suppose I was rather spoiled and babied by Naneth [Mother] since I was her only child. My room was just by hers; they connected. Malthen's quarters were just outside mine, and connected to mine but not Naneth's. I was growing up but had not moved to my own rooms yet, even though I was adolescent." Legolas looked up to see if Fearfaron was clear on what he was trying to say, and the talan-builder nodded. "I began to have dreams, well, dreams of passion one might say." Fearfaron snorted in amusement.

"One might!" he concurred gleefully and Legolas scowled a little. "Never mind, go on!"

"One night I was, well, loud and woke Naneth. She came in to see what was the matter and there I was sprawled across my bed completely undone. I will never forget her horrified expression and how red her face became in seconds! She absolutely fled the room into Malthen's quarters and dragged him back into mine on her way out to hers. She shut her door quite firmly, I remember." Fearfaron was openly giggling as the images played through his imagination, and he could believe that Legolas had been equally as crimson faced as his poor mother! Legolas was silent for a few moments and the carpenter nudged him on the arm to continue.

"Malthen tried to be matter-of-fact about it at first and just said it was all normal and nothing a female could understand, so not to worry that Naneth was upset with me. He had gotten a cloth and some water in order clean me off. When he removed my sleeping trousers he was very clinical and talked calmly about what I might expect, as I was older now. Then he removed my shirt and I was naked, propped up on my elbows with one leg trailing off the mattress and the other spread across the covers, and Malthen seated there on the edge of the bed between them!"

Legolas shifted his legs slightly and moved his hands from their resting-place in his lap, but Fearfaron gently replaced one and softly caressed Legolas' arm at the same time. Legolas stiffened, watching as Fearfaron unlaced the leggings and encouraged him to stroke the rapidly swelling hardness eagerly protruding.

"It is alright, Legolas; this is something you need. You are safe here; I will let no harm come to you while you relive this. Be still; all is well," he said softly. "Continue your story; Malthen has you stripped on your bed," he coaxed. Legolas took over the languid caressing of his penis as Fearfaron held him.

"He just looked at me for a few minutes; it felt to me as though his gaze was a tangible experience and I could feel his eyes focus on every part of me. I became very warm suddenly. Then, he seemed to get his mind back on the task and reached over to dip the cloth in the water. He had to lean completely across my body to do this, because he had set the basin on the table near the head of the bed. He was practically lying atop me then and I remember my heart was racing. I could feel how hot his other hand was where it rested against my thigh; my skin was sweating underneath it.

"Our eyes met and he dropped the cloth, grabbing a handful of my hair and kissing me so deep I thought he would make me choke! He sucked my tongue and then used his to caress my lower lip. He would break the kiss and stare at my lips and then lunge at my mouth again! He had this way of darting just the tip of his tongue between my lips and grazing the edge of my teeth! While he did these wondrous things to my mouth, his hands were everywhere. The one in my hair migrated to my ear and he began caressing the edge and up to the point with long slow movements. If his mouth had not been clamped over mine I am sure my cries would have wakened the entire household.

"His other hand was roaming across my body, searching for every spot that made me writhe and cry out in need. He spent a long time caressing the inside of my thigh down and up, over and over, right up to my balls and on every upstroke he would drag his thumb against them just slightly." Legolas' hand demonstrated the technique and he moaned softly.

"I was panting so hard between the kisses I feared I would pass out. He seemed to understand and his lips began exploring my neck and shoulders. He sucked on a place just inside my collarbone that almost caused me to spill my seed then and there, but he would not let me come. Everytime he saw me close he would clamp down hard on my cock pinching me there remorselessly till I calmed down. I would beg him not to stop, but he did time and again. Then he would start over, sucking, kissing, touching everywhere." Legolas again demonstrated the action, effectively stopping his release, and Fearfaron frowned a bit.

"Somehow during all this he was taking his clothes off one-handed, and soon was naked. His cock was erect and dripping, broad of girth and dark red and I longed to touch him, to feel what he was like, but he would not allow it. Everytime my hands grazed against him or reached for him he would push them back against the mattress. If he had not needed two hands to continue his exploration, he would have restrained mine for the duration of his seduction I am certain.

"His lips and tongue worked their way down to my chest and when he fastened down on my nipple I started crying out his name over and over, imploring him and entreating him and I did not even really understand what for." Legolas other hand was teasing and tugging his erect and deeply scarlet nipples as he sighed and thrust forcefully up into his fist.

"He tormented me, sucking the tingling flesh into his mouth and flicking his tongue right at the tips over and over, then breaking the suction and gently biting them and blowing across the wet skin. I was so sensitive by then that the slightest pressure sent torrents of delight through me and I arched off the bed attempting to force him to retain contact with his mouth." Legolas had to stop speaking as his breath came in shallow gasps and he twisted, bending his head back. Fearfaron watched as Legolas' fist again clamped down on the base of his erection and squeezed tight. It took him a few moments to regain enough control to speak.

"He had to halt my release again and again and he made me plead with him to continue. Time seemed to be passing not at all and I thought a week might have gone by with Malthen holding me there on the edge of orgasm with no relief promised. I though I was going mad and could not really think coherently. I wanted only to feel, for his attentions far surpassed the bliss of any of the dreams I had experienced in the night." Legolas did not resume his massaging movements, letting his fingers loosely encircle his swollen and aching cock. They lazily drifted up the shaft and off, allowing the rigid organ to fall back against his stomach with a dull slap. The fingers moved away to trace a path up his abdomen.

"At last he moved lower and licked my navel gently, running his teeth gently across the fold and pulling it back, darting his tongue in and across, while his hands slipped under my rear and began squeezing my buttocks and massaging up around my hips." Legolas' finally returned his hand to gently fondle the tightly drawn sac at the broad root of his member.

"Until then he had not touched my cock unless he knew I was going to come. He made me sit up, or rather he propped me up on my elbows and drew my attention to his hands. He rubbed and massaged from my chest down to my abdomen, where he slipped one hand behind my cock and pushed it up. The other hand pulled down the foreskin." Legolas demonstration revealed a red and quivering tip capped with a bead of pearlescent pre-come, and he dragged through it with his thumb as he ran a long slow stroke downward. He was panting loudly and stroked several times, but then again stayed himself, allowing his breathing to ease before continuing. Fearfaron was beginning to worry; Legolas was so close yet seemed unable to allow himself to experience the pleasure he so desperately craved.

"He kissed the head so softly, then pushed his tongue down across the slit. I was lunging wildly trying to get my cock up into his mouth, but he stopped me again, squeezing down with one hand while slipping two fingers of the other into my mouth, bidding me suck. I did, pulling at his fingers so hard they must have been purple by the time I calmed and my release was forestalled again." Legolas words fell to a breathless whisper as he again exposed the tender head of his member and held it that way, staring at it and panting while his hands remained still. Fearfaron found this disturbing and covered Legolas' hand with his own, pumping for him, encouraging him to satisfy his passion.

Legolas resisted at first, but then gave in, mesmerized by the rhythmic motion of the two hands. He began pushing forward into each downward thrust and arched back his head again. He increased the tempo and groaned loudly, while his other hand tugged down his leggings and then searched out its insertion point. He cried out and squirmed when he breached his own anus and began massaging his prostate in time to his hand motions. Before long his breathing was transformed into a continuous stream of softly uttered sighs and moans.

Fearfaron felt him tense and with a loud cry and shudder Legolas came, pumping out a creamy stream of warm semen. Unexpectedly, Fearfaron's hand shifted to cup and gently squeeze Legolas' balls and he lurched and shouted as his orgasm intensified under the combination of internal, external, and visual stimuli.

He at last relaxed, every muscle falling limp and slack; all his desire spent. He was gulping in air and leaned back fully on Fearfaron, grateful for the encircling arm that had protectively held him throughout. The carpenter stretched out and retrieved his pack, dragging it closer and searching through for a cloth. He gently wiped Legolas clean and tied up the leggings once more as the archer's heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. Legolas smiled sheepishly and Fearfaron patted his arm approvingly. Legolas sighed.

"That is not how it was the first time, though," he said quietly, twisting his head around to see if he should continue. Fearfaron nodded.

"He had brought me to the brink again, and clamped down on me while giving me his fingers to suck. When I was relaxed he removed them and kissed me, and forced his first finger into me, working it in and out. I writhed against it at first until he found that deep spot of nerves and rubbed it lightly. It was better than the first kiss on my cock and I tried to push back so his finger would rub there again. He kept my mouth occupied with his tongue and forced in another finger, stretching me and penetrating deeper into me as I tried to spread my legs more and pressed back forcefully. Then he went back to my nipples and pumped his fingers into me at the same time, and I was begging again, desperately trying to drive his fingers deeper and arching my back to force the sensitive flesh back up into his mouth whenever he let it go. I so desperately wanted him to lick me, taste me, suck me, touch me, fuck me!

"Finally he could not hold himself back anymore and grabbed my legs, propping them up onto his shoulders. I had some idea of what he was going to do but had no experience. I was tense and so he kissed me sweetly, grabbing my cock in his fist, and he whispered in my ear 'Laiquassë, you are hard as iron!' Those were the only words he spoke the whole time. Then he dropped my penis and gripped my hips tightly and rammed his cock into me all at once, and I screamed from the pain and begged him to stop. My erection vanished in an instant and the surging waves of ecstasy were replaced with searing spikes of agony.

He did not stop; I do not think he could even hear me. I had never felt such suffering and was terrified because I felt like he was tearing me in two, but he did not notice. He was too far-gone to control himself and I was crying and desperately trying to get away, but with my legs so awkwardly placed I could not shift my weight to roll from under him. He was pounding into me and thankfully it did not take long for him to come, and the burning as his seed filled me was gut wrenching. He collapsed, falling over to his side and pulling himself out of me.

And then he noticed I was crying and he saw how frightened I was and he was mortified. He wept and begged forgiveness gathering me up and cradling me gently in his arms until I stilled to shuddering sobs amid tremors of pain. He cleaned me carefully and as gently as possible, but I was hurting so much it yet felt as though he was ripping me apart, and I cried again as he removed the blood and his seed from my legs. He held me against him and sang to me until I finally fell asleep, exhausted.

"The next day, Malthen was not there when I awoke, and I found myself hurting terribly when I sought to rise. I remained in my rooms and lay in bed most of the day. My mother did not say a word about the incident. Apparently she had not spent the night in her rooms, or she would surely have heard all that transpired. She had new rooms made ready for me, and Malthen transferred his quarters to one of those rooms. At tinnu, he came to help me transfer into my new surroundings, moving everything himself and carrying me to my new bed. When all was in order, he carefully checked me over and washed me again, and held me through the night. He was not able to make love to me again for weeks, I was so afraid of the pain."

Legolas completed this narration with a small sigh. He felt tired out and hoped Fearfaron would not want to talk anymore. He only wanted to sleep now, for the carpenter's plan had worked. Recounting his memory of Malthen had drained him and his orgasm had quenched the mounting demands of his body. He knew he could sleep without another nightmare. He shifted around and snuggled up comfortably against Fearfaron's shoulder and promptly dropped into a deep slumber.

Fearfaron was stunned. This was not the story he had expected to hear. He did not think this was the story Legolas had intended to tell. No wonder Legolas had been dreaming of Maltahondo; the recent violation had triggered the memory. He sensed Legolas falling asleep and decided to remain quiet. No wonder he had not died from Ailinyéro's assault. Fearfaron looked down at the fallen archer and shook his head, sad and angry both together.

Legolas did not even seem to understand that his trusted friend and protector had raped him.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	11. Chapter 11

_italics indicate thoughts_  
(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

**Idhren teriais, ar Yr eden. [Pondering difficulties, and a new course]**

The starlings' argumentative twittering drowned out the songs of all but the most voluble jays, mockingbirds, and occasional raven's rasp. The flock was congregated in the boughs of an elderly willow, its long verdant tendrils cascading down and dusting across the grassy bank by the Celebrant. The river's accompaniment was understated and melodious, softening the raucous chatter and drawing eye and ear to its liquid languidity.

A small twist in the water's course carried it over and around a small outcrop of granite, gleaming and glinting a sleek blackness speckled with adamantine flashes where Anar glanced upon individual crystals of muscovite and quartz. It was as though the river sought the rocks, desiring the added variation in her silvery interlude that the instrumental stones provided. It was a comfortable symbiosis: the granite could not sing without the caress of Celebrant, and the river's vocalisation was enlivened and given depth as the waters flowed over the contrasting planes the stones offered. Celebrant chortled and laughed, sighed and burbled, dancing across the rounded rocks.

Minuial was only just passed and the sky wore a coat of pale dappled blue amidst an invasion of grey-bottomed cumulous clouds marshalling in from the south west. The lightly cooling breeze admitted to the approaching equinox even in the eternal golden glow of Lothlorien's enchantment.

Seated within the natural elegance of the river meadow upon an array of silken throws and satin bolsters, Ningloriel, Queen of the Woodland Realm, awaited the arrival of her caller. Shrouded in regal impatience, she heard none of the Silver-load's morning melody, saw not the twinkling reflection of Anar upon the granite, disregarded the incessant chatter of the grackles, and swatted away in irritation the soft caress of a willow frond.

She was unaccustomed to being kept waiting and whenever she stayed in Lorien held unofficial court here at the river's edge. Her wealth and status assured her a gratifyingly large assembly of elves willing to acquiesce to her imperial demeanour, and if she was aware of the underlying mirthful condescension of the Lorien nobility she concealed it masterfully.

On Ningloriel's Edwen Aur [Second Day] in the Golden Wood, Galadriel was always the first caller; Ningloriel having paid her respects to the Lord and Lady on Minui Aur [First Day]. By Canthui Aur [Fourth Day], a regular attendance of friends and relatives would be established. By the sixth, Ningloriel would have received numerous invitations to call on these elves in kind. But Lefnui Aur [Fifth Day] of every week was exclusively reserved for only intimate friends, and for Ningloriel this day was permanently awarded to Elrond, Lord of Imladris. The Queen of the Woodland Realm also timed her visits to Lorien to coincide with his so that this opportunity to meet with him was not missed. Today was in fact Lefnui Aur and Elrond was very late.

Ningloriel rose gracefully and stalked to the water's edge, startling a pair of cranes fishing for their breakfast. They added their disgruntled flapping to the fullness of Celebrant's symphony as they exited hastily and relocated to shallows further downstream. The queen paced back to her silken throne and picked up a cushion, kneading it in an unconscious manner as her agitated energy spilled over into the environment. Maltahondo cleared his throat and she looked over to his unobtrusive position among the glade's encircling birches. She lifted her brows into delicately flawless arches of interrogation.

"Would you like for a message to be sent, my Queen?" he asked and she threw down the pillow in frustration.

"No message is ever required; this you know. What is your meaning?" she demanded.

"Only that much has altered in recent times. You may no longer be first on the Lord's agenda. Also, word of your decision to leave has disturbed many; your choice may not be as easy for those remaining here to accept," Maltahondo meant his words not so much as explanation for Elrond's tardiness but rather as a gentle reprimand to his queen. He felt she had not thoroughly considered the impact her immigration to the Blessed Realm would have on her subjects or her son.

"You would question my trueness, my loyalty? You cast doubt on my love for my only child?" she growled in her most imperious voice, yet Maltahondo remained calm and did not respond, waiting. The Queen clasped her hands together before her, a gesture indicative of supplication. "What would you have me do? You were there; he refused my requests and will not come with me. Yet I cannot stay, dishonoured in my own House while my husband beds that common Tawarwaith to get him new heirs." Her strident voice was anything but pleading and shattered the peaceful mood, silencing even the starlings' continuous bickering. Maltahondo set his lips together firmly and gazed back at his queen as only an old and trusted advisor may do to one of high blood and go unpunished.

"I would have you stay and care for your son; he needs it. Think on it carefully, Ningloriel, what his condition was that day. He is strong, but this may be too much when added to the ordeals of the last twelve years. Even mountains give way under such sudden shifts in their environment," he said calmly yet with urgency in his voice, truly concerned for Legolas well being.

More than any other elf, Legolas had always depended on the former corpsman. As a child, it was only Maltahondo the elfling sought out when troubled dreams, or scraped limbs, or loneliness invaded his world.

Though the most frequent topic of his parents' vicious arguing, neither seemed to find time to devote to their offspring's care and nurturing. As a youth, he trusted only his personal guard's opinion of his progress in perfecting his archery skills, and it was Maltahondo he had asked, in round about and tortuous wording, about his attraction to males. Even the brief tenure as the prince's lover had not removed the archer's genuine respect for the older elf, though Maltahondo had to admit he found this made it doubly difficult to escape from his own sense of guilt concerning the illicit affair.

The fact that Legolas never even complained or questioned why he had ended it, or why he had chosen the youth another lover, emphasised the unconditional trust Legolas had gifted to the warrior. Legolas would never believe that his Malthen would ever do anything intentional to harm him. Having betrayed this absolute trust for his own gratification, Maltahondo deeply regretted the outcome of his selfish satisfaction at the expense of the prince and wanted to become again the true and faithful guardian.

His first glimpse of the fallen archer in twelve years had been shocking in the extreme. Through his communication with the other patrols, Maltahondo had kept track of Legolas' activities and whereabouts, allowing himself to be cajoled into a false sense of ease concerning his fate. He had even let himself feel proud of the way Legolas had strived to complete the Tasks of Release.

He had also been lulled into an artificial belief that the reports detailing the monthly tortures were greatly exaggerated. Recalled from the southern patrol by Ningloriel's order and her stated determination to leave, Maltahondo had been in the city Caer-a-tadui [a twelve-night, two weeks] when the Edinor-en-Baudh [Anniversary Day of the Judgement] came, and learned of the sexual assault from the Watch Commander that had intervened.

Ningloriel still did not know of this; she had been embroiled within her own confrontation with Thranduil and Maltahondo had not had opportunity to relay the news, so rapid had been her preparations for exodus on the morn. Even so, Ningloriel had made no comment about her meeting with Legolas at the Forest River or her assessment of his health. Now, she sank back onto her cushioned throne and buried her face in her hands, shaking her head and rocking her body to and fro.

"I will never forgive Thranduil! Legolas is so changed; I know not my own child any longer. Alas, he is dying and his own father has condemned him to this fate," she wailed in stormy sorrow as tears filled her hands and slipped through the spaces between her fingers, falling to spot the silken covers below.

Maltahondo had to employ tremendous effort to check the all too familiar up-welling of anger that surged around his guilty heart. Always was it so for Ningloriel; Legolas fate was determined and she would make no effort to intervene, casting blame upon Thranduil and turning inward to ruminate and complain of the damage to her own soul instead. Maltahondo realised that Ningloriel would never face down the customs and traditions of her people, not even to prevent Legolas' death, preferring to wallow in self-pity for the sorrow and distress his plight had wrought upon her. Maltahondo thought he had never before witnessed such completely self centred behaviour or an elf so emotionally distanced from their child.

Maltahondo also now understood how he had allowed this attitude to color his own evaluation of Legolas worth, treating him as something causal to the fulfilment of the emotional and physical needs of others rather than as an individual with those same needs. From this knowledge did the guardsman's guilt blossom, for he knew that Legolas loved him and had gifted to him his body's innocence in trust of that love. And he had taken that gift and sullied it, returning him only pain and fear in the exchange. He had taken it, using as excuse what he chose to interpret as the invitation of Ningloriel, whom had brought him to Legolas that first night. Never mind that she had been his lover off and on for some years.

Later, when the regret was too much to bear when looking into Legolas trusting eyes, he had added abandonment to his crimes. In many ways, Maltahondo's failing in his obligation to protect his young charge was even greater than was his parents', for Legolas never seemed to expect anything other than neglect from them while Malthen was always there for him.

Great was his remorse upon thinking on this and he determined he would remain behind and try to undo some of this damage if by his will and action he might. His internal musings were disrupted by the just audible footfalls of another elf and he looked back at Ningloriel to see Elrond by her side, a hand already resting in a gesture of comfort upon her shoulder as she wept.

"Why would he not come? In Valinor, he would find peace and rest and I should not then be alone there," she railed. "Now he will fade and I know not if I can bear such grief! Why is he so stubborn? How can he disregard his own mother's feelings?"

"Perhaps he feels a certain sense of obligation and responsibility. Under the custom you have raised him by, no other interpretation can there be," Elrond answered her, and Ningloriel rose, turning and throwing her arms round his neck and leaning her head against his shoulder, sobbing.

"Elrond, I had begun to think you would not come to me. What can be done; counsel me. How might I persuade him? Or barring that, you must find a way to help him, for how can I leave otherwise?" she said.

Maltahondo silently retreated from the glade, glad to be able to remove himself from his queen for a time. He was resolved; he would see her safely to the Havens and then return to the Greenwood and search Legolas out. He now felt the passing hours keenly; worried that the journey's length would steal from him any opportunity to make Ningloriel's pronouncement of her son's doom false. Let Elrond placate the grieving mother; he would concentrate on saving the child. He glanced once more behind him as he passed among the ring of trees, observing Elrond gently rubbing the back of the Queen's neck as he spoke reassurances into her ear too softly spoken for him to hear.

"Ningloriel, it is not for me to do. The answer is for you to find him and help him through his ordeal. If you do not go, he need not have this added burden. Return to Mirkwood; tend to your son," he urged quietly, but she only sobbed louder against his tear drenched neck.

"This I cannot do! You know our law and custom forbid me to interfere with the Judgement once it is set. And is this the only reason you would bid me not to go, for Legolas' sake?" she whined plaintively and Elrond frowned in exasperation.

"Surely that is the most important reason to a grieving mother, and thus did I name it first. My feelings are immaterial when gauged against the loss of your son to fading," he softly rebuked her, but Ningloriel would hear this not.

'What of you, would you fade it I should go?" she demanded petulantly, lifting her head to gaze with her tear glazed eyes into his clear and solemn ones. He smiled gently and kissed the tip of her red and sniffly nose before answering.

"You know better. I have too many depending on me here; I cannot abandon my children or the people of Imladris."

"Glorfindel can take your place and remove this duty from you; or better one of your sons may do so. You could leave with me by week's end, Elrond," she insisted, but he shook his head.

"I must stay, and even were I to go Celebrian awaits me there as you know. Love there has never been between us but respect and friendship are not to be betrayed. She is my mate still, Ningloriel." His voice was firm and his words unyielding, spoken with the ready cadence of long practice and frequent utterance. Ningloriel pushed him back from her and strode to the river's edge, glowering down at the cheerfully singing water falling upon the gleeful rocks.

"You are as bad as Thranduil, thinking only of your lands and power. I believe you have wooed me solely as a spy against my own people. Your heart has never been engaged in our liaison," she spoke in wounded pride and hoped to hurt, yet Elrond remained calm.

"Believe as you will. I have given my reasons and I have asked you not to go. I do not beg nor will I seek to dissuade you from this course if it is what you truly need to do to survive. My feelings should be clear to you after so long a while, Ningloriel. Truly, I will mss you and grieve for you, but fade I must not," he stated, but she remained with her back to him in silence. "Besides, if I go with you how can I look to your son?" he added as he slowly approached, and reaching her turned her to him.

"You will see to him? He needs a healer; Maltahondo says he is in serious condition. When I saw him . . ." here she covered her face again as though to blind herself to the vivid image in her memory. Elrond drew her close to him, enfolding her in a comforting embrace. "He does not even look like my Legolas anymore; he is a wild and fey creature! Elrond, he was wounded; he had been beaten," she cried against his chest and he made soothing sounds as he patted her back.

"I will try to help him. You know there is little I can do unless he finds his way to Lorien. We must send Maltahondo to try to find him and bring him out," Elrond promised. Ningloriel pulled back again, shaking her head.

"Nay, I need Maltahondo to come with me. You will have to go for Legolas yourself; I will not go to Valinor alone," she responded, and Elrond stared at her, unknowingly harbouring nearly the identical opinion of the Queen as her guardsman had earlier.

The rest of that day Elrond remained with Ningloriel and tried to persuade her to send Maltahondo to search for Legolas. She remained adamant that her personal guard would accompany her to Valinor, however, and finally the lord of Imladris conceded defeat. He thought, all the same, that a private conversation with the warrior might prove more fruitful.

Elrond suspected that Maltahondo had been Ningloriel's lover for centuries, far longer than he himself had been her paramour. He also had suspicions that the guardsman was Legolas' true sire, despite Ningloriel's own belief that Elrond was the father. He rejected this completely, having been cautious of spilling his seed within her. He felt sure that Maltahondo could be convinced to take the fallen prince under his care and lead him back to Loren for healing if he required such treatment.

Elrond, free at last from his mandatory cosseting with the Queen of the Woodland Realm, made his way through the tailored and tended groves of mellyrn trees towards the talan of Orophin, guardsman of Lorien. Here he expected to locate his seneschal, Erestor, with whom he wished to discuss the situation at hand. With annûn [sunset] approaching, the Lorien elf's shift on patrol would be ending.

Erestor had formed a successful long-term arrangement between himself, Orophin, and Orophin's mate, Dambethnîn [My Answer]. Together they comprised a lustful troika of love pleasing and satisfactory to them all. None seemed to mind the long absences imposed upon Erestor by his obligations to Elrond's House and Imladris. Orophin and Dambethnîn had each other, and Erestor kept a string of younger elves to satisfy his carnal needs while at home.

He definitely preferred them much junior to his age, and took them as close upon their majority as he could get them. In fact, the citizens of Imladris, knowing his reputation, had a tendency to send away their young to Lorien to achieve this milestone untouched by the salacious hunger of the tall, lean, predatory Erestor. Orophin and Elrond met at the base of the tree within which his talan was perched.

"Suilad, Orophin," said Elrond. "I am afraid I must demand much of Erestor's time this night. I will return him to you as soon as I am able."

"Your timing is most irritating, Elrond," spoke Erestor from above before Orophin had chance to respond to the greeting. The Lord of Imladris merely waited, staring up into the noble branches of the ancient Mallorn. Erestor sighed in exaggerated dismay and turned to Dambethnîn standing beside him.

"Namarië, Penbara," [Fiery One] he said and wrapped his arms tightly about her and kissed her as though he would not see her again for a Great Year. She smiled within the kiss at her lover's pet name for her, sliding her fingers up through his locks of blue-black gleaming hair, pushing it behind his ears and caressing them erotically as she did so.

"Namarië to you, Penraun," [Deviant One] she murmured, calling him by his nickname within the triad. As soon as their embrace was sundered, Orophin, having climbed up to the talan, swept Erestor into a tight hug and indulged in a searingly passionate kiss as well.  
"Hurry back," he whispered as they parted and Erestor stole a last quick kiss.

"With all speed as I may, Penraeg," [Bent One] he responded, grinning lasciviously as he turned to descend down the rope to the ground where Elrond stood patiently waiting, trying not to snicker at the silliness of these elder elves' endearments for one another. When Erestor at last was striding along at his side towards his own talan, he raised his eyebrows in mock disapproval and shock.

"Really, Erestor, at your age one should conduct one's affairs with some pretence at dignity if such cannot be achieved in reality. After all, elves associate you with my House and realm!" he joked.

"In that case I should be seen as a perfect example of Imladrian morals. You have been keeping a lover all the years you have been mated. I, at least, make pretence at no such bonds," Erestor smiled as he replied; yet Elrond's levity vanished.

"My lifemate was not a choice of love and this you know well. Celebrian was not unhappy and would be at my side still if not for the torment she endured," Elrond answered hotly. Celebrian had had no illusions regarding their marriage bond, and both elves had retained lesser bonds with others beyond the one between them imposed by necessity of alliance. Yet each respected the other, shared their deep love for their offspring, and their sense of duty to the citizens of Imladris.

Erestor keenly felt the sting his words had inflicted and regretted his jest. Less than half of a Millennia had passed since Celebrian had left for the Undying Lands and Elrond dearly missed her counsel and her companionship. She had been even of temper, judicial in thought, and known for her inner vision and gift of reading hearts. She had been Elrond's most trusted advisor and a reliable friend who probably knew more about the elf Lord than even did he himself.

"Peace, Elrond, my words were not unkindly meant yet their sound was unduly harsh. Forgive my thoughtlessness," Erestor beseeched earnestly, but Elrond raised his hand in protest.

"Nay, I am overly sensitive on the subject; no forgiveness is required," he spoke. "It is partly about this that we must speak tonight."

"Ningloriel insists she will go?" Elrond nodded in response to the seneschal's question, stopping before the Mallorn wherein his home in Lorien rested. The way up was an elaborately carved wooden staircase winding around the broad trunk of the tree to the level of the first sturdy limbs. Here, a landing offered a welcoming vestibule and an open doorway into the interior, and Elrond gestured for his friend to precede him. Erestor entered in, marvelling as for the first time at the elegance of the elf Lord's talan.

So majestic were the mighty Mellyrn of the Golden Wood that many goodly homes could be built upon their limbs and harm the tree not the slightest. For most of the sylvan folk, two to three families shared a common tree, with a single stair leading up to individual landings and balconies for entry into each resident's home.

This stair wound centrally about the great girth of the trunk and so well groomed and tended were the towering plants that the spacing of the branches made the construction of level and spacious rooms an easy task. Such were trees that Fearfaron would love to build within, and did he ever come to see such he would likely leave the Greenwood for the opportunity to try his skill and apply his artistry to the fitting out of domiciles within living leaf and limb.

Among the noble elves in Lorien, a single Mallorn bore a single palatial dwelling; many tiered and with airy rooms for all purposes and enough left to spare for entertainment and the visiting of friends and family. It was expected that if an elf arrived in Lorien, their stay would not be brief, and many of the Imladris folk also kept a second home within the Realm between the Celebrant and the Nimrodel. Among these noble homes, none was greater than that of Elrond.

Upon the first landing, visitors entered into a bright and open veranda cleverly screened against insects with the finest and sheerest of silk netting. All around it the supports and beams were worked in carved relief depicting stylised waterfalls and flowing rivers in honour of the House's affiliation and devotion to Ulmo. Each columnar support of the roof was braced with wood shaped in the manner of a swan's wing in honour of the noble insignia of Eärendil. The furnishings on this grand porch were of comfortable and casual design, and invited one to be seated and rest while refreshment might be provided. Often Arwen hosted her friends' gatherings here and many such had Erestor attended.

He led the way to the inner stairway and ascended to the next level but continued on, knowing Elrond would not wish to meet in the more formal greeting rooms or the dining halls that level housed. The third also they passed by, being the level wherein Elrond's house servants dwelt. Upon the fourth level Erestor came to a massive wooden door, richly carved as the lower arcade was, and here he entered in. This level housed Elrond's personal study and a library, both spacious and inviting rooms, and richly furnished in chairs covered in tapestries upon which were woven scenes from the legends of the First and Second Ages.

Upon the windows were draperies that might be opened to allow the freshness of the forest air, or shut against storm and gale. So tightly woven was the silk fabric of these curtains that not but a faint mist of water might penetrate even in the most tempestuous of storms. Within the enchantment of Lorien, such severity of weather was not allowed at any rate, and so the home remained dry and comfortable all the year round.

There were yet four more levels within the abode, all of them comprised of sleeping chambers, with Elrond's own at topmost as it was the custom in Lorien that the more revered the person, the more near to the splendid views from the canopy their resting chambers be. Upon the fourth level, then, Erestor made his way into the familiar study and chose his usual seat.

This was a limb-cradling settee of bent willow wood upholstered with the best swans down and covered in the softest of deerskin leather. The dimensions were meant for two, but Erestor liked to sprawl out and stretch his lengthy legs, often draping one or the other over the arm of the furniture. Alternately, he would slouch deeply into the velvety leather and stretch forth his legs, propping his heels upon a matching footstool. This he chose to do this night. Elrond chose a chair; his favourite armchair covered in ocean blue stained leather worked in a wave-like scroll design all around the joins to its wooden frame. The wood of the chair was from a seasoned incense cedar, and if one remained seated for a few minutes the wondrous aroma of the wood filled the room, released by the heat of the body within it. Elrond removed his boots and rested his feet upon a low ottoman.

"Ningloriel," he said and grimaced around the syllables in disappointment as he did so. "Surprisingly, she is firmly resolved this time. It seems that the double blow of her son's disgrace and being supplanted by a royal consort is too much for her to endure. She feels she is now a parody of the noble queen she once was," he concluded and Erestor nodded.

"There is truth there, though it is strange. The wound to her pride cost her more than the wound to her heart," he commented and Elrond raised his brows questioning his meaning. "She was only too ready to be consoled and counselled by you after Legolas' Judgement and banishment. She did not even threaten to leave her Realm then, and sought only for a way to remove the stigma his dishonour brought upon her House. Now, she is to be permanently reprieved from ever having to bed Thranduil again, something she has been loathe to do for millennia; how old is the child? Yet she is too distraught to remain among her people. I would think she would welcome this consort to her household," the seneschal expounded. Elrond considered this.

"He is no longer a child, though young yet; I believe Legolas to be some centuries younger than Arwen. Nonetheless, she does not welcome the intrusion of this rival female. Ningloriel is a complex inu [female]. It is not Thranduil she is jealous to share, but the power of her position. She has been hoping all the time she has been mated to him to wrest control of the Woodland Realm from him. She expected me to do this and then hand over the governing of the lands to the Danwaith, herself to be specific.

"Yet, Thranduil is no one's fool and has held his power over the Wood Elves with great skill. He allowed the Council of Elders to remain as the overseers of the Law and Customs. He and his House handle defence and trade negotiations with the surrounding peoples. The Council thus has no reason to denounce Thranduil. He married one of their own, adheres to all their Laws and Customs, has trained an exemplary fighting force, kept the encroaching Darkness at bay, and added to the realm's wealth and status among the elven lands." Elrond mused. This was a problem they had discussed often in these very rooms, and Erestor nodded his understanding.

"She sees now how weakened her position is. With a consort approved by the Council, she can no longer play the role of the long-suffering martyr, victim of her King's jealous raging. It is likely that Thranduil will have evidence against her that will strengthen his case before the Council." He continued, but here Erestor stopped him.

"Why has he never used this evidence before, if he has it as you suggest? Surely, he has never demonstrated any love for the child Ningloriel gave him."

"Thranduil would not have it from his own mouth that he was thus cuckolded by his mated queen. He has his pride as well, I would think. He must have thought he could force her hand, using Legolas as leverage against her, threatening to reveal her faults before her people. They are both uncommonly stubborn individuals," he responded. Erestor considered this thoughtfully.

"Most of the Wood Elves believe Thranduil is not the father of Legolas anyway, do they not? Thranduil has been operating under a false sense of pride, if this is so," he interjected.

"Indeed! Thus it often is in such matters; the feuding couple remains in denial of the public knowledge their noisy and violent behaviour allows. Ningloriel firmly believes that none of her subjects have any suspicions that there is trouble within the royal House." At this Erestor snorted in contemptuous mirth. He found such open displays of private matters grossly distasteful.

"Nevertheless, Ningloriel has played into Thranduil's hands quite nicely," Erestor stated and met Elrond's gaze. "It would seem we all have so done." He added, and Elrond nodded his confirmation.

"Yes, in one move Thranduil deepens the xenophobia of the woodland folk, removes my principle spy, and disposes of any threat that Legolas will ever challenge him for the throne. He was always a better tactician than his father was. Had Thranduil been in command of his folk at the Last Alliance, history might be quite different."

"To say the least!" Erestor exclaimed. "Now he appears as the long-suffering victim, yet his loyalty to his people causes him to take another Danwaith as consort in order that a true heir be gotten. Oh, the Council must love him." His words dripped with disgust. Erestor hated to be bested in anything, especially by such as Thranduil, a common enough Sinda until his father invaded the lands of the Wood Elves and turned it into a kingdom. Lands too vast for such unenlightened elves as the House of Oropher represented to have control over, in his opinion. Elrond should rightly have the lands as a fief of Imladris, at the very least. "What will we do now; without Ningloriel we have no direct access to Othronnen Thranduil [Underground Stronghold of Thranduil]." Elrond sat back and remained silent for a time, his brows drawn together in frustration creases.

He had not handled Ningloriel well over the years and had over estimated her ability to glean the information he desired while underestimating Thranduil's responses to his wife's foolishness. In addition, the downfall of Legolas had proved to be a decided and unexpected gain for Thranduil. It crossed Elrond's mind to wonder if Thranduil might have engineered the entire fiasco. This sent a jolt of shock through the Lord of Imladris; he could not fathom such cold-heartedness. He sighed and rubbed his forehead; no closer to anything approaching a new plan than before the conversation began.

Seeing his Lord's distress, Erestor rose and went to a serving table placed conveniently in the alcove created by the ascending staircase. From it, he selected two carved crystal goblets and poured into them a rich and aromatic red wine. One goblet he handed to Elrond, and returned to his seat with his own.

"Perhaps we can turn things back to our favour again. Who is the new consort? Is it likely she will be as easy to seduce as Ningloriel?" Erestor ventured. Elrond sipped the glittering ruby liquid appreciatively as he thought on this, and finally rejected this idea. He had already mulled it over, and Erestor bringing it up sealed his judgement against it.

"Nothing I know of her indicates this would be possible. She is Danwaith, named Meril, daughter of a warrior named Thalacrist [Stalwart Sword], and is wife to one of the lost warriors that fell by Legolas fault in the Battle of the Five Armies. She has used some vague and ancient law of her people to claim Legolas' rights for her own son. Having secured her family's place within a royal House, I am doubtful she will do anything to jeopardise that position."

"I wonder what part she played in the young prince's downfall? Valar! Could any elf be so cold as to send their own mate to Mandos' Halls just to rank higher within a backwater realm like Mirkwood?" Erestor shivered at the idea, finding the savageness of the Wood Elves' dealings horrifying. Elrond, hearing this comment, began to place Meril in league with Thranduil in the scheme. This pair would make gruesome adversaries, willing to sacrifice mated husband and named son and heir to cause a shift in power in their favour. He decided to present the only alternative he had yet envisioned.

"Ningloriel expects me to salvage the son," he said, "and probably find some means to redeem her honour at the same time." His tone was flat and offered no hope for this to occur. Erestor was of equal disbelief.

"Is she beyond reason now as well as common sense?" he queried incredulously and Elrond shrugged.

"I know not her mind any longer. She has become less rational, certainly. In spite of what we say, she must feel both grief and guilt for her son. It is affecting her, surely." He said.

"You told her you would do this," Erestor intoned the words in mildly accusatory disapproval and again Elrond shrugged.

"She would not be satisfied otherwise, however unlikely my success would be in such an undertaking." Elrond was silent, thinking a moment. "Long has she held the hope in her heart that the child was conceived of our union, so great is her resentment of Thranduil." He remarked. Erestor hazarded a glance in his direction. This was the first that Elrond had openly mentioned this part of the intrigue.

"You believe it not, then?" he asked.

"I know it is not so!" The Lord of Imladris huffed vehemently, and Erestor shifted on the settee, looking elsewhere. To his mind, the idea was not so outlandish. The two had been lovers even before Elrond's bonding to Celebrian. Legolas conception day, given the guess at his age by Elrond, fell within a Great Year that Ningloriel stayed in Lorien, and the Queen was only in Lorien if Elrond was there also. Erestor cleared his throat.

"Nonetheless, it might be advantageous if he were your offspring." He stated and held his breath for the expected explosion of wrath. Elrond stared at him, saying nothing nor moving a muscle, for some minutes, and Erestor worried. At last Elrond sighed. He knew well what his seneschal really thought and decided to just let it go.

"How would such a thing be beneficial, Erestor; and speak plainly what you mean to say," he admonished sternly. Erestor drew a deep breath.

"You might gain his trust if you could convince him that this is true. This might give you the access you need to Othronnen Thranduil," he continued.

"Are you forgetting his status? He cannot even enter the city except on prescribed days and certainly has no right to the palace grounds now," Elrond replied.

"Yet, he probably knows more about the ins and outs of that cavernous place than even Thranduil himself. He grew up there; he is an only child. What else had he to do but go exploring? If there are alternate routes into the King's vaults, he would know of them." Erestor argued.

Elrond himself had thought this also, and indeed it was at the heart of the only strategy he had yet devised to correct the loss of Ningloriel's intelligence gathering. For this reason he had agreed to Ningloriel's pleas for her son. However, he had no wish to burden himself with parental concerns and responsibilities, much less the upset and turmoil this would create in his own family. He had previously decided on a different approach.

"There is merit in what you say, Erestor, and I have considered it also. However, I think Legolas need not believe himself of my blood to be courted into betrayal of Thranduil," Elrond responded with careful emphasis on the word courted, and Erestor sat up in surprise, a distinctly wolf-like gleam of predatory delight visible in his grey eyes.

"When do we leave to search for this fallen prince?" he asked eagerly and now Elrond smiled broadly as well.

"I would rather not go wandering within the boundaries of Mirkwood, Erestor. I plan to try and recruit an ally to bring the fallen prince here to me. On the morrow I will confer with Galadriel and Celeborn; I have little worry that they will object. We are all in accord over what is at stake here, and Gandalf has been unable to garner the information on his own. Celeborn will object; he did over the design to utilise Ningloriel. In the end, Galadriel will consult the mirror and the Lord will acquiesce to her fore knowledge."

"Who is this ally? There are none here trusted by Thranduil; his guards would surely deflect any uninvited search party away from their borders. Better for the two of us to sneak in alone and spy out the situation." Erestor said.

"The Queen's guardsman, Maltahondo. He is Danwaith, well known to the patrols and can come and go as he pleases within Mirkwood. I believe I can convince him to help Legolas," replied Elrond. "In fact, I plan to go from our meeting to seek him out." At this Erestor drained his cup and rose, returning it to the serving cart.

"In that case, I must request the end to the discussion. I can not allow Penbara and Penraeg to forgo the wild and unbridled ecstasy my skilful and creative lovemaking adds to their sedate and predictable mating," he chortled gleefully as he headed down the stairs, then halted. "Is it to be a secret that I may take this fallen prince in the near future?" he asked and Elrond burst into laughter.

"Yes! It is a secret and also highly unlikely that you will be the one sampling that particular delight. Go, get you back to your triad's tryst, Erestor, and I will seek you when all is prepared."

With that Erestor's face fell and he departed with a less buoyant gait. Elrond followed minutes later, leaving his comfortable quarters in search of Maltahondo.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	12. Chapter 12

_italics indicate thoughts_  
(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

**Echui na Ruth [Awakening to Anger]**

Fearfaron shifted his burden, weightless though it seemed to his shoulders, as he carefully maneuvered through the canopy towards the Wood Elves' city. Legolas was unconscious again, his breath faint and rapid amidst the unnatural warmth radiating from his skin and the faltering rhythm of his heart's tempo. Fearfaron gripped him round the waist as he limply sagged against his back, arms swaying with the motion of their progress and lanky legs gently butting the carpenter's shins with every movement he made. Fearfaron felt none of it, lost in worry that he had delayed too long and Legolas was already beyond the reach of the healer's skill. He could go no faster laden as he was and for fear of aggravating the archer's injuries, now gruesomely abscessing and poisoning his body, yet dearly did he wish for a swifter route.

Under normal conditions, they were no more than 2 days journey through the trees from his own talan. As it was, he would be lucky to reach the city in 3 days time. For this reason he made the decision to head for the cove and ride back upon the barge of wood, using the current to speed their journey. This meant he would have to pole the raft alone, a difficult task in itself, but more to the point he would have to tie Legolas down to prevent him from toppling into the cold waters if he woke in his delirium. While he hated to do this, he knew no other way to proceed, and so he arrived with his slight encumbrance at the river's edge where the barge was fastly secured.

Legolas remained insensible to all that transpired, lost in fevered dreams and given to incoherent mumbling as he tugged against the bonds securing his wrists and ankles to the wood logs. Fearfaron was grateful for that as he struggled to keep the heavy craft from grounding on sandbars or foundering in the shallows of the lazily meandering stream. Here, the Taur Sîr [Forest River] had no need for raging strength and churning waters, for the Luithad [Enchantment] of the Wood Elves seemed to make its mood dreamy and slumberous even as it promised sleep and forgetfulness of any who ventured into its current.

Yet the course was sure and steady as it wound its way towards the stronghold downstream, bearing its heavy freight along willingly. Fearfaron realized with joy that he had regained the time lost by his careful movements through the tree limbs as the sun set and the rising tips of the stronghold's cliffs could be seen peaking above the tree tops on the far bank ahead. Unable to navigate by night, the carpenter put in and secured the barge until dawn.

With gentle care Fearfaron tried to cleanse the infected gashes, more worried by Legolas' lack of response than he would have been by cries of pain. For too long the younger elf had remained lost in the ramblings of his febrile brain, unable to find his mental way up into the pathways even of the elven dreamscape.

Now, in the darkness of Gwain Ithil [the new moon], Fearfaron tried to rouse him, speaking softly and pouring the cooling liquid from his water skin over Legolas. He dared not use the water of Luithant Sîr [Enchanted River] for this would only enhance the unnatural stillness of his charge. No change occurred throughout the night and as soon as the first hint of morning appeared to dim the stars Fearfaron was back on the raft with Legolas securely constrained. By mid afternoon, the barge came in sight of the docks and bays of the stronghold where goods from Dale and the Iron Hills were unladed.

Fearfaron called out to two elves manning the gates there and they hurried forward to help secure the barge, familiar with this task of the craftsman before them, yet they refrained from stepping onto the raft, as they perceived the disgraced prince. Fearfaron sent them forth, one to summon the healer and have her meet him at his talan, the other in search of Mithrandir. With concerned glances one to another, the elves dashed away from the barge as the carpenter carried Legolas seemingly lifeless form onto shore.

He easily bore Legolas draped within his arms, limp limbs swaying in ungainly time to the older elf's steps, head lolled back and twisted golden locks trailing down in sweat-dampened and matted strands. His skin was colorless as though all the blood had drained away from his body, or his heart had ceased to propel it throughout his flesh. Indeed, the rumor quickly spread by the dock-wardens was that Edledhron [Exiled One] had perished, and thus all debts were paid and the Warrior's Release achieved.

Their progress through the courtyards took them near some of the private gardens of the Royal House, and the whispered comments of the household staff drew the attention of Lindalcon, practicing with his bow nearby. He gasped as the gossip reached his ears and he focused his eyes upon Legolas' inert form. Against the cries of his tutor, the young elfling dashed out to join Fearfaron, falling into step beside him and gazing up with worry.

Fearfaron looked at him and nodded briefly, giving his unspoken consent for the youngster to follow them into the city. Before they had gone far from the main gates, Mithrandir hurried to join them, huffing a bit as he exerted himself in his efforts to catch up. He gazed keenly at the unseeing eyes of the fallen archer but relaxed when his gnarled fingers pressed against Legolas' neck and revealed a stringy but insistent pulse. Lindalcon gazed from one to the other and finally returned his eyes to studying Legolas.

"Is he, is Legolas dead? " he asked cautiously, trying to keep the fear from his high youthful voice. Fearfaron shook his head and smiled grimly.

"He lies near enough to it that I would guess he can hear the voices of those that have passed beyond to the Halls of Waiting," he said seriously. "But he will survive; he has too much to live for," the carpenter spoke with determination. "He is very strong, Lindalcon, and the healer is awaiting us at my home. She will set this to right and he will heal up. Would you like to come?" Mithrandir cleared his throat to catch their attention before the elfling could respond.

"I am not so sure that is a good idea. Lindalcon, does your mother know where you are? Have you permission to leave the compound unattended?" he asked sternly, not certain how Meril or Thranduil would react to the elfling's disappearance and association with the disgraced prince. Mithrandir knew both the custom of the realm and the personal dislike of the King regarding Legolas. Knowing well how strong Thranduil's rages could be, the wizard had no wish to have it directed against either the young usurper or Legolas' champion.

Also, his growing suspicions concerning the exact circumstances surrounding Legolas' Judgement prevented him from saying too much in Lindalcon's presence, not wishing to alarm the youngster further concerning his father's death. Gandalf wanted to discuss his ideas with Fearfaron, and perhaps question Legolas himself if his health permitted. The young elfling tossed his brown curling locks and sniffed with pre-adolescent contempt.

"Why do they have to know about it anyway? This is a stupid Law! Legolas did not kill my father," he scoffed at the very concept. "I want to come along, maybe he will wake up and want someone to talk to," he continued, disregarding the obvious fact that Mithrandir and Fearfaron would be there.

Lindalcon considered himself to be Legolas' contemporary and assumed the archer would be as bored as he with the elder's droning talk on politics and gossip among the noble Houses. He wanted to tell Legolas about his progress in archery and gain his support in appealing to his mother regarding joining the guard when he came of age. Most of all, he just wanted to talk to him about his father.

No one would even speak of him, and his mother cried whenever he tried to get her to tell stories she knew of Valtamar's young days or listen as Lindalcon related a memory that warmed his aching soul. Legolas had always been willing to listen before, no matter what Lindalcon wanted to talk about, and he had never betrayed a confidence.

Fearfaron was nodding, allowing his gaze to linger on Legolas with a slight smile. He knew of Legolas' friendship with Valtamar's child, and thought it would be good for him to learn the young elf held no grudge.

"I think your tutor is plodding along a little distance behind us, being careful not to lose sight of you and still obey the custom to shun our friend here. That should prevent most of the blame from falling upon you," he said in conspiratorially pitched tones for Lindalcon's ears alone.

"This tutor will have to absorb most of the wrath of your mother and the King. And you are right, Lindalcon; Legolas did not cause Valtamar's death. That is a fate awaiting many a warrior called into battle or patrolling against the Orc hordes and all know this. If only those of us with greater years could also possess the greater wisdom. I will tell you that even if he is not to blame, Legolas has taken very seriously his obligation to his lost comrades. You may be the first to hear of it: Legolas has obtained the Release of my Annaldír." Fearfaron spoke up at this last sentence and let his words carry into the hearing range of the groups of curious elves lingering in the walkways as the trio paced past.

This revelation caused a stirring of confusion to ripple through the scattered citizens of the Greenwood and a rising hum of softly voiced exclamations to travel through the city and back into the courtyards of the stronghold itself. The rumor became confused; was the fallen archer dead? If so, then why would only one Warrior be released from Wandering? On the other hand, a counter report attested to Legolas being alive and if anything this produced even more consternation. For never had any Release been accomplished while noss-dagnir [kin-slayer] yet remained alive. In all the tales of their ancestors and the legends of their mythology, Warriors' Release was traditionally accomplished only by exchange: death for death.

The news captured the disgruntled tutor and stopped him where he stood, gaping around him for someone to share his surprise at this disclosure, until he realized he was alone and turned, hurrying back into the compound.

The Wood Elves drew a little closer to the wizard, the warrior's son, and the carpenter hoping to hear more of this story or catch a closer look at the insensible elf that had achieved this feat.

Lindalcon's eyes grew wide as he stared with lips parted in speechless amazement at Legolas. He reached out tentatively and took one of the archer's cold and lifeless hands in his own as he fought to forbid the tears to fall from his somber brown eyes.

"I… I am happy for you, Fearfaron," he began softly, using his other hand to carefully rub the icy fingers he clasped, trying to send some small semblance of warming friction into the digits. "Is that what this is from? Is this what he had to endure to gain the Release?"

Lindalcon was clearly not comfortable with this idea. He wanted his father to be at peace, and in spite of himself he was jealous and perhaps a little angry that it was Annaldír that Legolas had suffered so to save. Yet he liked Legolas and even looked up to him, and wished no further torment to befall him. In the young elf's confusion over his conflicted emotions, he could not restrain his weeping.

Fearfaron and Gandalf exchanged dour glances. Lindalcon presented as a precocious youngling, yet both elders knew this was often a mere façade the inexperienced produced to feel more comfortable when exposed to trying and troubling situations. Neither the wizard nor the carpenter wanted to destroy whatever innocence Lindalcon possessed by revealing what had been going on between Legolas and Ailinyéro.

"No, what you see has nothing to do with how Legolas gained Annaldír's Release. What you see, Lindalcon, is the result of a sickened mind, warped in its cruelty and selfishness. This is the work of Ailinyéro," Gandalf said quietly as the three approached the carpenter's talan. Fearfaron approved; if more were asked he would direct the elfling to query his mother. The healer was waiting there as well as another elf, a warrior. Lindalcon released Legolas' hand and raced to him, grasping the former corpsman's arms in warrior's greeting.

"Maltahondo! I saw you leaving with the Queen. Why are you here; is it because you have heard also? Annaldír is Released; Legolas did it," he said and stepped back to regard the tall warrior.

Maltahondo stared down at Lindalcon in surprise and then let his eyes travel between the wizard and the carpenter, questioning, before resting sadly on his former charge. As always, a strong wrenching spasm twisted his insides as guilt rose against his stern composure. He swallowed and attempted to smile at Lindalcon, achieving a crookedly weak semblance of the usually pleasing facial expression.

"Nay. This is news indeed. As you say, I left to escort the Queen to the Havens and have only just returned to the Greenwood. How is Legolas?" he said calmly. The healer stepped forward and made a rapid inspection, frowning and shaking her head.

"Barely breathing, but he may survive yet. Really, after the events of Edinor Baudh, I expected no more than what the gossip relayed to me and to have only the duty to declare the death official. Give him to me, Fearfaron, and go up first to prepare a place for the healing," she said crisply, taking charge of the scene at once as she received the wounded elf into her care. Legolas stirred slightly during the exchange to new arms and tried to lift his head, but succumbed again to the rampant infection and slid back into oblivion. With speed and efficiency, the healer set to work as soon as Legolas was laid upon the comfortable bed in Annaldír's rooms, and the other elves left her while Gandalf remained to lend what assistance he might.

Fearfaron settled Lindalcon in the common room beyond the sleeping chamber where he could observe yet remain beyond the ability to interfere or hinder the healer's activities. He refused to go down from the talan, insisting he would remain until Legolas woke and he was able to see this with his own eyes.

Fearfaron was happy with this, as he wanted Maltahondo to himself for a bit. He bade the warrior to descend with him and the former corpsman did so, disconcerted by the poorly disguised hostility on his old friend's features. The two were barely on the ground before Fearfaron spoke.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You were to leave for Valinor as well, were you not?" Maltahondo stepped back a pace and stared in amazement at the fiery tones of the usually serene carpenter.

"I am here to see to Legolas," he rejoined. "I had no intention to go to Valinor myself, and tried as best I might to convince Ningloriel to remain and come here herself." His voice was brusque, for he knew not what had angered Fearfaron.

"Legolas does not need you to 'see to him'. That you have done enough of! There are those here that will not allow further abuses to be perpetrated upon his soul and his body," Fearfaron seethed in hushed tones so as not to alert the traditionally quick and impressionable ears elflings possessed when their elders were arguing.

Maltahondo was taken aback; the carpenter's meaning could not be clearer: he was accusing the corpsman of these crimes.

"You sound as though you think I am the one that caused him to be there in the healer's care now. I am not, and have not seen him since the day by the river, as you well know. Speak your concerns plainly so that I may answer whatever your charges may be," he said in bold tones while his own heart misgave him; he did feel responsible for what had happened to Legolas. Yet, it was fear that tinged his words and seeped into his voice, for he had thought that his affair with the former prince was a secret. He would fall to disgrace and banishment if the truth were to become public. Fearfaron snorted his disdain.

"What you dread has come to pass; Legolas has at last confided in someone regarding your, your despoiling and defiling him. How could you do such a thing?" he tried to keep his voice down as his anger rose to dangerous heights and he took a step closer to the warrior.

Maltahondo's mouth fell agape and the color drained from his countenance at these words, and he again fell back from the carpenter's advance. His eyes darted up to the talan as a strangled sounding groan caught their attention.

"Be silent!" hissed Fearfaron. "I do not want him to hear your voice and know you are here. That he does not need right now." With these words Fearfaron leaped up, climbing the rope ladder into the dwelling, and peered through the doorway of his son's room.

Legolas was fighting against the painful draining of the abscesses yet still seemed more unconscious than not. Lindalcon was looking on in worry, pale and drawn, and the carpenter drew him away from the gory sight as the gashes were reopened to bleed freely.

"Perhaps this is not something you should watch so closely, pen-neth [young one]," he said as Lindalcon swallowed against the sour taste rising up in his throat. He had never seen wounds such as these, and even when his own father had occasionally been injured, he had seen only the cleanly wrapped white bandages on Valtamar's recovering body. The smell of Legolas' diseased blood was sickeningly sweet, as rotting flowers might be, and Lindalcon was glad to be lead down the rope ladder to the forest floor. The young elf drew several deep breaths as he fought off his disgust and fear.

"Oh, he is very sick, and he suffers so!" he cried in alarm when he could speak again. Fearfaron nodded and reached out to rest a comforting hand upon the youth's shoulder. As he did so he sent an angered glance to Maltahondo.

"Perhaps you should escort the young one back to the compound. No doubt his mother has been told he is here and will be sending the tutor to retrieve him or will arrive herself," he said. Even as the words left his lips the hurrying figures of two elves could be seen approaching from within the stronghold: Meril with the hapless tutor close at her heels. Lindalcon sighed dramatically and tossed his head again. Maltahondo grinned at the reaction and chuckled in spite of the tension surrounding the carpenter's home.

"Come now, Lindalcon, it is not so bad," he said. "You will be allowed to return when Legolas has regained consciousness."

"No!" the youth yelled unexpectedly as his mother hustled forward and opened her mouth to scold. She held her tongue in surprise and stopped abruptly a few paces away so that the tutor nearly ran into her backside, avoiding the embarrassment by skittering sideways at the last moment. "I want to stay! What if he wakes and no one is there but that healer? He should not be alone." The strength of the emotion in the young elf's voice was a surprise to him as well, but Fearfaron felt he had a fair idea of the cause. Lindalcon was simply projecting his own fears of being alone since his father's death and his mother's new involvement with Thranduil. Instinctively, Lindalcon had recognized a common ground between himself and Legolas that had nothing to do with archery. Meril smiled sadly; she also understood her child's fears.

"I know you wish to stay, but that cannot be. Legolas will not be alone here. Fearfaron will remain, and perhaps Maltahondo as well," she reassured her son, but he shook his head and folded his arms across his chest in defiance.

"That is not the same thing! I want to be here. He is terribly ill and the gashes, they are, they ooze and, and the smell is, is . . . What if he dies? Nana, just let me stay and I will stop pestering you about the commission in the guard," he struggled to impress upon his mother the seriousness of the situation, believing that if he left then he might lose his friend.

Fearfaron raised his brows at the elfling's offer and even Maltahondo could not hide his surprise.

Meril tisked and fidgeted about her son, pushing the hair back from his face and straightening the hem of his tunic as she fought against her better judgement. She did not want to seem to flaunt open disregard for the Law and Custom but she loved her son and worried over his reluctance to accept the changes in their lives. She knew he grieved for the loss of Legolas' friendship almost as much as he grieved for his father. Meril sighed in resignation while Lindalcon scowled in annoyance but held his peace.

"You cannot stay round the clock, but I will let you come to visit everyday. After your lessons are completed," she countered, recognizing what it cost her son to propose to forgo his unending pleas to join the patrols. Lindalcon gratefully agreed and Meril handed him off to the tutor, watching with concern as her son returned to the stronghold. Once he passed beyond earshot, she rounded on Fearfaron in fury.

"How could you allow him to be here and see such horrors?" she demanded, but Fearfaron was unruffled and gazed back blandly.

"It is not for me to interfere in how Lindalcon chooses to deal with his father's death. However, I think it was good for him to hear that Legolas is doing what he is required to do, and that he will be successful," he said quietly. "Lindalcon's compassion for Legolas is a credit to him and to the manner in which he was raised. His instincts are true; you have taught him well.

"As for the horror of the injuries, you are right. I had not thought carefully of what treatment would be needed. Lindalcon should not have seen that, and I am deeply sorry to have upset him," he continued. The mother glared at him and Maltahondo shifted uncomfortably in his spot behind the carpenter. Meril's glance turned to him and became even harder.

"I suppose you are also here to protect the interests of the kin-slayer?" she demanded, but Fearfaron would not allow that to go unchallenged.

"Legolas is no kin-slayer, and in your heart you know this," he said. "The fault must be shared among many, including Maltahondo, Talagan, and Thranduil himself," he continued.

Both elves gasped at this; it was not common for the Wood Elves to openly denounce the actions of their King, no matter what misgivings they might have privately. Even more unusual was it to challenge the Laws and Customs that had stood since the Elder Days when the Green Elves were driven back from Ossiriand across Ered Luin with great losses after the first battle against the evil of Morgoth.

"Further more, Legolas does not seem to have anyone else watching over his interests, as you call them, other than myself," he concluded and turned to climb back to the talan, leaving the two elves staring.

Meril shook her head slightly and glanced back up towards the talan as the muffled sounds of Legolas' struggle against his torment reached her. She heard Maltahondo sigh and transferred her regard back to his figure.

"I must concede he is right; I do not believe Legolas deserves to bear this Judgement alone. The fact that he has endured and accomplished one of the Tasks is a testament in itself to his strong spirit and true heart," he said.

Meril merely looked at him, saying nothing as she considered the harshness within the calmly spoken words of Fearfaron. She wondered how exactly Maltahondo was at fault, though she shared the carpenter's opinion of Talagan's and Thranduil's responsibility. The warrior spoke again, uncomfortable under her silent regard.

"If you would permit it, I will accompany you back to the compound. Fearfaron has made it clear he does not wish me to remain here, and no doubt you would prefer to check on Lindalcon's wellbeing," he said. "It was good of you to allow Lindalcon to visit," he added. Meril nodded and they turned to walk through the shaded paths of the Wood Elves' city towards Ennyn Daer [the Great Gates of the stronghold].

"I, too, share some of Fearfaron's opinions regarding Legolas. My occupancy within Thranduil's household has enlightened me as to the origins of the faults his son does possess. Why does our old friend so strongly reject your presence and name you as a betrayer?" she asked directly and was pleased to see that her query startled the usually composed warrior. But Maltahondo was quick to recover; he had no intention of his secret getting farther than the carpenter's knowledge.

"I have said so myself, perhaps he only now accepts this as he sees the degree to which Legolas suffers. I was certainly remiss in my duty to him on the battlefield that day. I should have been alert to the dangers of the ridge above us. Further, I should have prevented him from moving out onto the ledge in clear view to those below as well as above," he said the words with the ease of long practice; thus has he told himself, she thought. Meril nodded slowly.

"Perhaps, yet you feel so because you were more to him than just his corpsman," she spoke softly and watched from her sight's edges the elf's reaction. Maltahondo remained composed, however, and she was dissatisfied.

"True," he replied. "I was his personal guard since the day he was born, and failed him in that aspect on that battle field. Thus does Fearfaron rightly call me responsible for the deaths of the warriors. Had I done my duty to Legolas, he may have avoided the errors of that day." Meril noted that Maltahondo shied from using the term betrayer or kin-slayer to signify his lack of action.

There was more to it than this, she was certain of it. Meril prided herself on her ability to discern the truth or fiction held within the words of another, and her instincts told her the warrior was concealing a deeply held remorse and a great fear. The causes of such depth of response to her queries would be interesting to root out, yet she did not want the corpsman lingering around the stronghold long enough to achieve that end. She had her own theories regarding the corpsman's relationship to his Queen and his prince, and wanted no such reminders to sour Thranduil's mood further. The petition regarding her status as Royal Consort was still in debate before the Council, and Thranduil was already chaffing under their foot-dragging. They had reached Ennyn Daer [the Great Gates] and she stopped.

"Have you business with the King this day? Will you stay and dine within?" she offered courteously, knowing he would decline.

Maltahondo bowed briefly to the wife of his lost comrade, remembering Valtamar and Meril as they had been on the day of their joining, and felt saddened for how things had changed. Joyful, loving, and happy had been their union, and Lindalcon had deepened the love between them and their commitment to each other. This icy and calculating inu [female] was not the Meril that had befriended both him and Legolas when the archer suddenly joined her husband's company. Grief, he surmised, was a bitter brew to stomach and remain unaffected.

"I would enjoy your company and that of Lindalcon, for seldom do I have the chance to see any of my old friends now. Yet, I would prefer not to speak with Thranduil. While I may not be as outspoken as our formerly shy friend, Fearfaron, I also have misgivings about the King's part in the downfall of Legolas. I do have messages for him, having recently come from Lorien and the Havens; perhaps you would be willing to deliver them for me? I believe they are mainly from the Queen," he stated the last sentence rather pointedly. Two could play at this teasing with guilt. Meril smiled politely while feeling anything but friendly.

"Of course, I will be happy to give them into his own hands," she cooed with false gentility. "Will you be returning to the southern patrols?" she asked with a smile. Maltahondo stared at this coldness; she might as well have asked how soon he planned to die. He returned her wooden grin, however, and bowed again.

"Alas, I must. There is too much evil yet pouring from that accursed fortress of Dol Guldur. Our efforts there are all that holds the Enemy at bay," he replied and took his leave of her, returning in the direction of Fearfaron's talan. Meril watched him go, silently shredding the rolled parchments bearing Ningloriel's seal and releasing the fragments to join the detritus in the dusty courtyard below her feet. She entered into the Gates and went in search of her child.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	13. Chapter 13

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

**Edair, Ionath, Gwenyr [Fathers, Sons, Brothers]**

In Annaldír's room, Legolas strained against the weight of Gandalf as the wizard held him firmly pressed against the mattress. The elf cried out piteously as the healer scrubbed the rotted remains of flesh from the inflamed areas and used a rather caustic mixture of herbs and water to further burn away any remaining infection. He was vaguely aware of the hands and voices surrounding him and fought to retreat from increased perception of his painful state.

The healer wanted him awake, however, and relentlessly called and coaxed him to sensibility. He was at least able to co-operate when she attempted to force a potion past his lips, getting the desired response when she explained the fever would break sooner if he swallowed the vile-scented concoction. After that, they let him drift back towards the darkness yet kept him from fully becoming enveloped in it. Fearfaron watched with anxiety from the doorway, and turned back to the talan's opening as he heard the returning steps of Maltahondo. He hurried to meet the false-hearted warrior below.

"You cannot stay here. He will wake in a few hours and you must be gone," Fearfaron demanded before the warrior could utter a single word.

"I mean to stay and help him, if I am able. He is in peril you cannot know of," he retorted and regarded the carpenter gravely. Fearfaron was no one to pass judgement on him.

"Indeed? Well, the peril I do know of is sufficient to denounce you before the Council if you refuse to go," he whispered loudly. Maltahondo frowned at his former friend.

"You do not know the truth about this, Fearfaron. It is a private matter and it is over anyway. Why force Legolas to endure the public disclosure of such a sensitive subject?" he argued. At this Fearfaron was almost beside himself with anger, a state of emotions he had rarely had opportunity to experience in his long life.

"That is just the most preposterous statement I have ever heard! I know the truth of it, for Legolas himself told me. A private matter? I dare say that is what you have hoped for all this time, to spare yourself. Over, did you say? You can not be further from understanding how it is with Legolas if you can say that. As for public disclosure, he has already endured that experience in a like vein and I would gladly spare him whatever pain I might. You must go and not seek him out again. Allow him the opportunity to heal his heart as well as his body," he spoke heatedly as he gestured towards the rooms above him. Maltahondo tried to take this in, conflicted between defensive self-protection and remorseful repentance. He found himself unable to let go of either emotion when next he spoke.

"I too want him to be well and whole, Fearfaron, though you seem not to believe it. I do know the damage done; I can not undo it however much I may wish it. It was Ningloriel who gave him to me, and I could not resist although I tried," he began, but Fearfaron cut him off with an enraged shout.

"Silence! Do you think such words carry any worth except to your own ears? By the Valar, you would blame the mother? What did she do, hold him down for you, grab you by the penis and shove you in him? I cannot believe you have the gall to speak so!

"And what of her; you and she were lovers for centuries; did you do this out of revenge for her feelings for Elrond? And what of your relations with her; for all you know you may be his father." Fearfaron had to turn away for he found he wanted to strangle the warrior and the idea shocked him. After calming himself a moment he faced Maltahondo once more.

"And do not act as though you did this just once and then realised your transgressions. You used him for how long, Maltahondo, how long?" he demanded as the warrior flinched under the barrage. "Do you know that he still loves you? Do you know that he wonders what he did to cause you to give him away? Gave him away! I cannot even tell you how sickening it was to hear him speak those words."

Maltahondo remained silent and still, hearing the indictments that he had staved off for so long finally thrown in his face and he knew he had no defence. The weight of the guilt actually lessened as he endured the derogation of Fearfaron and was at last forced to admit his shame. His shoulders dropped and his proud demeanour vanished. The warrior no longer felt worthy of the death awaiting him in the southern patrols, and wondered if the Law allowed him to take his own life as recompense in such a situation.

The carpenter was breathing loudly and exerting such effort to bring himself back under control that he failed to hear Gandalf descending the rope ladder. The wizard observed the two a moment before speaking.

"I think it would be best to continue this discussion in a more secluded setting, for Legolas' sake at least," he said and Fearfaron jumped, turning swiftly to him. "Though the paths are empty, elven ears are notoriously acute and elven curiosity equally heightened," he added.

The warrior gazed about at the vacant city in alarm; had any heard Fearfaron's shouts?

"Yes, you are right Mithrandir. I do not know what has come upon me to behave so," Fearfaron said, but Gandalf smiled.

"Never mind, you need not apologise for speaking the truth, even if you were a little loud about it. Maltahondo, I believe you have true regret for what you have done, is this so?" the Istar asked. The warrior looked at him and nodded listlessly while Fearfaron glowered, unbelieving. "Come up, then, and we will discuss what is best to do. Let us try and remain cool-headed and choose what will best serve Legolas' future." The two elves followed the wizard into the talan and they seated themselves awkwardly while Gandalf paced slowly about the room. "We must take care; Legolas lies between sleep and waking while the fever still claims him. I know not how his mind will interpret what we say here," he said.

Fearfaron got up to check on Legolas again, leaning into the room and gazing down at the still form on the bed. Legolas lay on his stomach and his head was turned away, but his back looked cleaner and the lashes were sealing over with the normal dark brown of dried blood rather than seeping the puss filled ooze that had predominated earlier. His torso rose and fell in even intervals and the gleam of sweat was lessened. The healer looked up and smiled reassuringly.

"He is more comfortable now and the infection I have cleansed away. With enough rest and care I believe he will recover fully," she said and Fearfaron smiled his thanks.

"Do you think he can hear and understand what we are saying?" he asked worriedly. The healer shrugged.

"Who can know? It is possible, yet he still struggles against the fever. It may be that he can hear, but fails to comprehend what is being said. He drifts near but does not reach wakefulness, nor is he likely to for some time as the sickness works its way out of his system. Perhaps it will seem as a part of the delirium," she could offer no firmer reassurance and Fearfaron nodded, returning to his seat. He looked over at Maltahondo and frowned again.

"This is just not forgivable. Really, you must go. It is the only thing that can help Legolas at all. What would you say to him that could possibly mitigate what you have done?" he said in a strained yet quiet manner. Maltahondo shifted in his chair and kept his eyes down not certain if he was expected to respond. Gandalf nodded slowly and drew out his pipe, taking his time to fill and light it as he leaned against the trunk of the tree.

"I am curious as to what brought you back here," he said but continued without waiting for the warrior to answer. "And I would like to know if you are the father. What say you to the charge, Maltahondo?" The warrior's head snapped up at that and he shook it firmly to indicate his negation.

"No, that much is not true," he insisted. "Ningloriel assured me of this long ago, when Legolas was born." At this Fearfaron groaned.

"It is telling that you needed to ask, Maltahondo. This proves nothing and only adds more confusion. Obviously, you suspected your paternity or you would have needed no reassurance from her," he said irritably. Gandalf grunted his agreement but Maltahondo again shook his head.

"No, of this I may be certain: I am not his father. It is true that when he was born, I hoped it would be so. That is why I questioned her. Clearly, you know the Queen but little. It is not in her nature to bear the child of one so low in rank and power as I am. My family has served hers since they first arrived from Ossiriand, and have been pleased to do so, owing a life debt as it were from those days.

"Ningloriel always wanted more for her family, and sought an advantageous connection among the High Elves. Her father agreed this would strengthen the position of the Danwaith and chose for her Thranduil, for the Noldor were implicated in the curse of Feanor. This, she never forgave him for, and it was me she turned to when the despair overcame her.

"She meant to run away alone to be with her sister in 'Lorien. Of course I went with her, and thus did the pattern of her behaviour emerge. In me she confided her true desire to bond with the Lord of Imladris, as she considered the wisdom and skill of the Noldor greater than the Sindar, and she scorned the ineptitude and pride that had caused the decimation of the Sindar at the Last Alliance. Yet, that was not to be, as he had already made arrangements to wed Celebrian of 'Lorien and thus form a powerful alliance of his own," Maltahondo's words ended as he recalled these events.

"Her infatuation with Elrond did not prevent you from presuming to overstep your duties to her, your charge, did it?" Fearfaron spat. "It seems she is not the only one whose pattern of behaviour revealed itself! You have a propensity for taking sexual satisfaction from those entrusted to your guardianship in exchange for needed emotional support."

Maltahondo stood in anger and faced his old friend then. "No, it was not like that with her! I would have bonded with her, had my station been such to allow it. Believe what you will, but my motives towards Ningloriel are not base," he rationalised as Fearfaron also rose.

"Really? And then what of your rape of her child? Where does that act stand in your true devotion to Ningloriel?" he yelled. The warrior would have responded but Gandalf stepped between the two and cautioned them to be quiet.

"This will not do," he said and furrowed his bushy grey brows in a menacing scowl that he flashed at both the incensed elves. Maltahondo returned to his seat as Fearfaron glared sideways at him, taking a chair further from the warrior. "Now then," the Istar continued more graciously. "It seems Ningloriel is the only one who knows the true answer to this riddle. Do you know when the relationship with Elrond began?"

"Yes, I know they were lovers almost from the time they met and this precedes my own involvement with her," he chanced a glance at Fearfaron as though expecting another outburst. "For her, it was as close to love as she is capable of feeling. For him, I think not. He wishes to add the lands across the Misty Mountains to his holdings. And he has always had an unusual interest in Thranduil's treasure horde, an unlikely thing considering he has never shown a desire to accumulate like wealth," the warrior continued.

"They met through Celebrian, as a matter of fact, so we may assume the affair was as long-lived as the true bonding. A long time to remain with one you do not love when no obvious motive of alliance can be seen," the wizard mused. They were silent for a time and Fearfaron observed as the wily old wizard, drawing contemplatively on the stem of his pipe, pondered the information. It seemed to the carpenter that what had thus far been told served not Legolas in any tangible way, and rather he suspected the Maia was gathering news for his own purposes.

"What is to be done? None of this aids us in comforting Legolas through this mess. He asked her himself, and her response was anything but gentle. She alone knows and she is gone, and still Legolas must deal with it all while serving out this Judgement against him. What she may have wished in her heart may not be truth in reality, as her long-standing belief in Elrond's love for her attests. So I say again, Maltahondo; you may be his father. Then, this would make the injury you have done already that much more abominable. Did you not think on this before you committed such atrocities? How could you use him so, who never harmed you and trusted you with his life and soul?" Fearfaron was quickly becoming agitated and rose from his chair to loom over the warrior. Gandalf reached over and carefully drew the elf away, silencing him with a pointed dip of his head in the direction of the sleeping chamber.

"Peace! You are right; this does not help the fallen archer. Now, what did bring you to return here, Maltahondo?" Gandalf asked, again directing the topic to less volatile ground.

"And how do you plan to answer for your misdeeds?" Fearfaron added.

Maltahondo looked from one to the other miserably. How could he explain to them the cock-eyed reality one inhabited in the company of Ningloriel? All they said to him now sounded true and he was filled with disgust for what he was become. Yet, when with his Queen it had all been so easy to overlook and shrug away, considering his own feelings paramount.

He loved her, and had accepted whatever she chose to give him of her heart. That this had included Legolas had not seemed so scandalous at the time. After all, it was common for parents to choose an elfling's first, and Legolas had clearly wanted it. The idea of rape had never entered his thoughts; he had just been too rough and rather careless. He had made it up to him later; Legolas had revelled in his attentions and craved their love-making. And when the time came to end it Legolas had not complained, so it was easy to assume his heart had not been affected by the joining.

Maltahondo had salved his conscience with these lies, while assigning motives similar to Ningloriel's to Legolas; knowing nothing could be more false. Maltahondo remembered more clearly now the devastation on Legolas' face when he had announced that a new lover had been found for him; the confused but trusting acceptance as Maltahondo made his excuse of having merely been teaching the young one of the ways of love. Now he saw his actions through the eyes of Fearfaron and understood the rage the carpenter felt and he ground his teeth in frustration.

"I returned to warn him. While in Lorien I was approached by Lord Elrond. He said that he was acting out of fondness for the Queen and that he promised her to help her son. He bade me fetch Legolas back to Lorien to his care. This I do not trust, for I have long known he was using Ningloriel to seek information against Thranduil. He has tried many times to draw him into open conflict and thus take from him the Greenwood, but Thranduil has been wise enough to spend his rages at home. Thranduil has a repugnance of harming any elf, even Noldor, and will not raise sword against any elven realm, no matter the bad blood that arises," he stated.

Gandalf was clearly unimpressed with Thranduil's magnanimous restraint, thinking of the circumstances Legolas found himself in. Fearfaron was just as clearly amazed, but rather at Elrond's audacity, and turned to Gandalf for his comments only to see the Istar brooding in contempt.

"He seeks to turn Legolas against Thranduil because of the Judgement?" the carpenter wondered aloud, and Gandalf raised troubled eyes to his.

"Perhaps. I had hoped to talk to Legolas about the Judgement more closely, but this may be impossible until he is recovered. In any case, I would not think it a bad thing if he goes to Lorien and comes under the influence of Elrond. It is equally possible that he is Legolas' father, and would explain his interest in less mercenary terms," the wizard replied thoughtfully, but Fearfaron disagreed.

"No, he must not go to Lorien now. If Elrond is the father, he has shown only disregard for Legolas thus far. If he cared for the relationship as you suggest, he could long ago have sent word to him through Ningloriel to join him at Imladris. Once in his majority, Legolas was free to leave if he chose to do so. Given that he used the Queen for his own purposes, he is likely to do the same with her son. Legolas has only his Tawar and myself to depend on, and neither can reach him there. He is far too trusting, assuming the motives that drive his actions are the same for others," here the carpenter shot another scorching look at Maltahondo. "He cares not for power or possessions and does not understand jealousy or hatred at all. I do not think he would fare well among the Noldor." Fearfaron's prejudices could not be put aside, yet Gandalf could not deny the soundness of much he said.

"I agree with you, carpenter, though you may disregard my opinion. The Lord of Imladris is not inspired by kindness. At any rate, Legolas would never leave without completing the Tasks, for you are also right about the genuine quality of his motives. He will fulfil the obligations of the Judgement or die in the attempt," the warrior said and Gandalf stirred.

"Then that must be helped along. I have no intention of allowing him to die; I have seen something unusual in him and would have it develop further. I need him, and can lend him guidance in exchange," he murmured as Fearfaron arched a brow in his direction. {At last, the Istar reveals his true purpose, and it has nothing to do with Legolas' well-being for his own sake,} he thought angrily.

"He will not accept your help and your guidance would serve him in what way? You have not said anything about what you are doing here, Gandalf," he said and Gandalf calmly dumped out the blackened ashy remains of his pipe's bowl, casting it over the edges of the talan before answering the challenge.

"I do not claim to have only Legolas' interests foremost in my mind, yet you do not have any reason to distrust me, Fearfaron. Did you not send for me to come when you arrived? It seems that in spite of your protective nature, or more truly because of it, you seek to involve me in your foster son's future."

Fearfaron sat up straight and wondered at these words as Gandalf's eyes crinkled warmly to see his reaction. Yet, the carpenter found the concept neither foreign nor unpleasant and let it run a few times across his thoughts before replying. Maybe it was right to claim Legolas as his foster son and as he thought this he acknowledged that he had already done so, on the night of Edinor Baudh. With a flash of realisation he understood that subconsciously Legolas had accepted, and that this agreement was somehow linked to Annaldír's release. Fearfaron smiled to himself and focused again on the Istar's speech.

"You know that what Maltahondo states is so, and on considering it, I also agree; Legolas will not cease trying to complete these Tasks until he frees all the lost warriors or dies. I can be at his aid when neither of you can for no Law or Custom of the Wood Elves binds me. And, my council will indeed benefit him as I have reason to believe he intends to locate himself near Dol Guldur," the wizard continued and watched as Fearfaron's placid features contorted in alarm.

"Why would he do that? There is surely enough trouble near by to keep him busy for numerous years and to fulfil the completion of many Tasks," he complained. What cruelty was this to give him another son only to snatch the hope for his living long away?

"He has already expressed a desire to continue his efforts in a more substantial way. He thinks more now of his responsibility to Tawar than his obligations under the Judgement. He has become a bit disillusioned with the Laws and Customs," Gandalf replied and Fearfaron snorted at this understatement. The warrior shifted a bit and stood.

"I can also follow him there and perhaps be of aide," he began but immediately Fearfaron rose to contest him.

"Oh no, I think not! You will stay away from him; have you not done enough harm?" he fought to keep his tones low as he uttered these words.

"I was with him all the years we served in the guard together and never in all that time did I touch him in that way," the warrior argued. "You said yourself he still trusts and cares for me," he was again cut off by the carpenter's derisive sneer.

"No, I said he still loves you, Maltahondo. I do not believe you honourable enough to refrain from taking advantage of that fact, so far away from any eyes to observe you. It was your own reputation you sought to protect when you handed Legolas off to some other elf's use. You did not want word to get around within the guard of your crimes." Fearfaron stopped speaking as Gandalf caught his eye with an irritated and impatient scowl. Maltahondo said nothing to these charges and turned as though to go.

"Wait," spoke Gandalf. "Can you swear that there is no veracity in what has been said?" Maltahondo sighed despondently. He wanted to loudly protest that none of the condemnations were accurate, except that the last part of him that was ethical refused to allow it. He remained silent, head bowed, and waited for the Istar's decision. The wizard sighed with equal grief and turned away. "Then, I must side with Fearfaron. You will stay away from Legolas. What help you can give you must render from within the confines of your company. Should you disregard this request, I will back the carpenter's claims against you in Council," he said bluntly. A movement from the sleeping chamber surprised them as the healer leaned out the doorway.

"As will I," she growled with fervour before disappearing back within the room as quickly as she had come forth.

Fearfaron refrained from adding to what he had said already and stood as well, moving as though to escort the warrior down the rope ladder. Maltahondo accepted his dismissal and retreated from the talan, moving off towards Ennyn Telei [the Rear Gates] that opened into the barracks and stable-yard. He planned to ride back to Talagan's company the next morning, relieved that his secret sin was yet a mostly private concern, and determined to prove to himself that there was still something worthwhile within his character.

Afternoon's golden gleam dwindled into tinnu's shadowy softness as Fearfaron and the healer kept their vigil near Legolas. Gandalf made his excuses before the evening meal was missed and returned to the stronghold, promising to check back later.

With a strong sensation of déjà vu, Legolas breathed in deeply the fading scent of Fearfaron's son within the pillows and mattress of the comfortable bedding.

He was aware of the same dull aching across his back and shoulders and the same lightness of breath and dizzy spinning in his head as before on the night of Edinor Baudh. Was it still that same night? Somehow this seemed wrong and he struggled to order the fuzzy fragments of memory and regain a coherent timeline. He sought to lift his head and found it unbearably heavy. A sharp pounding started immediately in his temples and he groaned into the pillow as he let his head drop back quickly. Nearly instantly he felt hands gently gripping his biceps, even as he had before, and recognised the touch of the carpenter's roughened and callused fingers.

"Legolas? Are you awake?" the familiar voice spoke close to his ear and he nodded once against the pounding in his brain. "Then, you must be thirsty. But lie still, for you have been struggling long against this sickness. The healer has only left a few hours ago when she was convinced the fever was finally broken. Here, drink slowly," he said and helped Legolas raise his head to the water skin he held, this being easier to drink from in such a prone position.

Legolas found himself parched and would have gulped down the entire contents, but the carpenter restrained him and forced him to rest and breath between swallows. Slowly the liquid refreshed him and the headache began to subside a bit. Legolas managed a lopsided smile for his friend before shutting his eyes again and drifting back into much needed healing sleep.

Sunlight, softly muted through the filter of the last lingering leaves of the autumn-kissed beeches, played about the flowing net draperies surrounding the bed in which Legolas reposed. Exquisitely the gentle afternoon's illumination sang in the air as the cooling breezes blew their own calming notes throughout the talan. Both cautiously caressed the cruelly used body that held there so strong and bright a soul. High and sweet the clear tones of a sylvan voice joined the glory of the lengthening day and the soothing sounds eased Legolas into consciousness. He smiled to hear the sunbeam's song joined by the youthful exuberance of that very elf as Lindalcon recited a tune he remembered from his own lessons in geography of Middle Earth.

"Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui  
In the green fields of Lebennin!  
Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea  
The white lilies sway,  
And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin  
In the green fields of Lebennin,  
In the wind from the Sea!"1

Lindalcon crooned in dulcet timbre as he absentmindedly turned the pages of a thick tome filled with maps and verses for all the regions known from the First Age to the present. Legolas roused himself at last convinced this was not, after all, a dream and the young elf was actually seated next to him on the bed, legs crossed beneath him with the book upon his lap. Lindalcon felt his movement and ceased singing to peer into his face with concern. Legolas gazed back with a hazy smile through slumberous eyes. Lindalcon jumped up and ran to the doorway, a bright smile upon his countenance.

"He is awake, Fearfaron! Really, this time he is awake," he called out and then ran back and climbed back with exaggerated care to resume his place, cautious not to jostle the recovering elf even the smallest bit. "It is high time, too, Legolas. Every time I come here you just sleep the whole time, and then Nana sends for me to go home again. It has been three days thus," he spoke in exasperated cadence and Legolas smiled more. He shifted, trying to determine if he could raise himself up, only to find Fearfaron's arms quickly assisting him to roll carefully onto his side. Legolas propped himself up on one elbow with effort and gazed from one to the other.

"Well now," said Fearfaron happily. "Three days indeed it has been. It is good to see you clear eyed and cognisant."

"I thought you were dead; it was awful to see you like that, all white and limp," Lindalcon breathed out in distressful accents and reached over to touch Legolas' arm lightly.

"Sorry," Legolas' voice was dry and cracked and he frowned, trying to clear it in vain. Fearfaron went to the side table and poured out a cup of water and handed it to him, watching as he drained it in seconds and handed it back, eyes pleading for more. Fearfaron complied and sighed contentedly to hear the hurried gulping and slurping as Legolas again downed the contents. Lindalcon snickered.

"Nana would scold you for such noisy swallows. Lucky for you she is not here now," he giggled and then stopped abruptly as Legolas paled and all the peace left his eyes. Lindalcon dropped his smile and his eyes as he remembered that Legolas' own mother was gone. How could he be so stupid, he berated himself silently? But the next instant he felt a hand against his chin and a gentle pressure forcing him to lift his gaze. Legolas smiled a sad smile to reassure him and dropped his hand back to the bed.

"Have you been here every day?" he asked and was pleased his words sounded more like his normal voice. Lindalcon was nodding.

"I am allowed to come after lessons and stay until dinner-time. My tutor usually brings me back and forth." he replied.

"Speaking of dinner, you have been all this time without anything nourishing and I would like you to try and eat something. I'll be right back," Fearfaron left to prepare something light for the three of them and returned with a tray of sliced apples, sweet and golden as the sunlight. Legolas devoured four pieces before he noticed the other two were just watching and smiling at him. He grinned timorously and slowed down to give them an opportunity to help themselves. Lindalcon snickered again and Legolas raised his brows in inquiry. Lindalcon tossed his wavy tresses pack from his face.

"I was remembering that picnic we had two summers ago when it was my Edinor-ned-Nauthad [anniversary day of conception]. You ate so fast you choked and Ada had to pound on your back." The young elf watched as Legolas' face grew serious and sad again, and he knew his own looked similar, but somehow that felt comfortable at the same time. "I do not believe you killed him," Lindalcon blurted out and Legolas caught his breath.

"I did not mean to, Lindalcon, but I was careless. I am sorry," he whispered hoarsely, but the elfling refused the apology.

"No!" he countered. "I have seen the battle over and over, almost every night in dreams. It is the nasty Goblin King that killed Ada. He was very brave and he stepped in front of one of the Men to save him from the beast." The child was crying quietly and Legolas instinctively reached out and pulled him into a tight hug against his shoulder. "Why does no one ever tell the tale of the battle and sing about the brave deeds?" he wailed and Legolas looked helplessly over the elfling's shoulder to Fearfaron, who had no solace to offer. "It is as though everyone is afraid to speak about it; as though the fight was shameful and something to forget," Lindalcon went on through his broken sobs as he clung to Legolas. "My Ada never did any shameful thing," he cried and Legolas was angry to hear how the fallen warriors were ignored and forgotten so quickly by their people.

"You are right, and your father was very brave and fought well that day," Legolas said. "He did save that Man, and many others. Before he was struck down, he twice pushed back Andamaitë from danger. I saw this myself from above the battle plane. His efforts should indeed be sung on Edinor ned Dagor-od-Eriador [Anniversary Day of the Battle of Eriador]. We will never forget him." Fearfaron was nodding in agreement and reached out to soothingly rub the elfling's back as his shuddering sobs slowed.

"Aye, Lindalcon. We will have to remind the others of these things you say. Valtamar was my good friend, and I am proud my son was beside him at the end," he said, but at these words Legolas descended into despair again as he realised all this sorrow could have been avoided but for his own failings that day. His own tears began then and he leaned his head against Lindalcon's, whose sorrow spilled over anew as he felt and heard the archer's lament. Fearfaron sat on the bed and encircled them both in his arms and thus they remained until the sun's golden globe became a coppery orb and Lindalcon's tutor called him away.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	14. Chapter 14

_italics indicate thoughts_  
(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter un-Beta'd

**Tirn-en-Tawar [Watcher in the Great Wood]**

Other Characters:

Herdir [Master]: Elf scout from Lorien, spying around Dol Guldur

Rusciphant [Wise Old Fox]: same as above, Rusci for short

* * *

"Eru's arse! This place is the most foul!"

An irritated cry tinged with the overtones of pain sounded through the dismally dark forest. The disgruntled words followed the grunt and were in turn answered by a sniggering guffaw close at hand. The dark haired elf glared belligerently at his similarly crowned companion as he gingerly extracted a long, curved and gooey thorn from his thigh. "Oh, you find this amusing, mellon nîn [my friend]? If it becomes rancid I shall use you as my horse for the return home."

"It does look as though that plant is venomous. If it is unpleasant, dangerous, or smelly one is sure to find it in Mirkwood. Does it burn greatly, Rusci?" The other was more serious now, inspecting the spike cautiously and poking at the puncture in his comrade's leg.

"Ai! Stop, of course it burns! But it is just a plant, Herdir; I am sure its toxins are not enough to finish me," the injured one replied but made no objections when his companion slit open the cloth around the wound and inspected it more carefully. Herdir frowned a bit and searched his pack for a powdered general-purpose disinfecting and pain-killing herb he always carried. Finding it, he turned back to Rusciphant and pressed down on the swelling muscle, forcing a thin stream of watery looking blood to discharge. Rusci tensed a little from the stinging pain as Herdir washed out the wound with the contents of his water skin and then pressed some of the powder down into the cut.

"That should keep it fairly clean; although there is no telling how bad the poison is or how much of it is still in you," he said. "I better keep the thorn, in case you worsen. There is probably an antidote already, back at home."

"Wonderful!" Rusciphant flung out his sarcastic comment and resumed his progress through the tangled undergrowth. "Herdir, I think it is pointless to continue on this track; the path has not been used by anything bipedal in long years."

"I agree. Indeed, this stopped being any kind of pathway some hours ago. If the Orc band came this way it would be evident. However, the reports definitely pinpointed this region of Mirkwood as their staging area for the raids on the villages east of Lorien. We are less than a league from Dol Guldur." A faint rustling in the canopy above caught both elves' attention and they instantly stilled, scanning the high, camouflaged branches. Rusciphant drew in his breath sharply.

"There! Do you see?" he whispered, and Herdir nodded.

"Oh, my," he murmured breathlessly as his gaze concentrated on the drawn bow trained directly at them and the still form wielding it. They could just make out the Wood Elf among the leaves, dressed in very little more than ragged leather breeches that scarcely reached the knee, unshod and lacking even a tunic. Fierce were the piercing blue eyes that held theirs, adorning a youthful countenance with features noble and fair in spite of the unkempt poverty of his attire. A tumbled mass of golden hair drifted in the faint breeze, pulled back in twisted strands and bound with a leather cord to prevent entanglement in the bowstring. Both were dismayed for having missed the creature before he got the drop on them.

"Man caril sí?" Sin aldorlin; boe bado!" [What are you doing here? These are not your lands; you must go!] A quiet voice spoke and the elves had the eerie realisation that the entire forest around them had become silent at the sound. Rusciphant shifted, moving his weight off the injured leg and flashing a glance at Herdir.

"We are from Lorien, hunting a band of Orcs we got news of seven moons ago," he said in answer to the challenge.

"Within Tawar you are not free to hunt any beast, be it fey or fair," the archer responded and Rusciphant made a derisive snort.

"I had not heard that Orcs were now under the protection of the Wood Elves," he replied in disgust, instantly regretting the remark as the sound of air parting before the flight of an arrow was followed by the sight of the missile buried half way up its length in the dirt by his boot. In fact, he noticed with a mixture of admiration and uneasiness, the arrowhead had sliced through the tip of the boot while leaving his toes untouched, and he was anchored to the spot. The interlopers' eyes met in silent communication: there would be no getting beyond this creature's aim, especially if he stayed up in the trees. Herdir sighed in irritation.

"We apologise for both the trespass and the misspoken comment, archer. In the past, we have come into Mirkwood to route out such bands of Orcs that strayed too close to the Nimrodel or harassed the lands nearby. We have never been questioned by any of the Woodland King's guard when we met them." Herdir hoped to ease the tension while still pointing out that they knew the elf had only the authority of his weapons and did not represent the Elven King's wishes in any way. He was startled when bright laughter sparkled down upon them and the unusual elf relaxed and dropped his arm.

"I think it is obvious I answer not to the Woodland Realm's King," he said mirthfully. "And you are closer to Dol Guldur than I have ever seen any Lorien elves approach before, even when advancing a full sortie. And so I ask again: what are you doing here, so far from your own lands?" The two elves stared wordlessly, first at their captor and then at each other.

"We might ask you the same thing, then," Rusciphant countered for lack of a better idea and Herdir gazed at him in exasperation.

"And gladly would I answer you, though it must seem evident. I live here; Tawar is my home," he replied with amusement. He laughed again at their consternation, these elves were not used to being caught out unawares so. "Poor spies you make, for I have had you under my bow for three days. I did not know the Golden Wood was becoming lax in its standards for warriors." He gazed down from his perch smiling slightly, balanced gracefully on a slender branch, one leg drawn under him and the other casually swaying back and forth through the air. His bow he held in a seemingly careless grasp, an arrow between the fingers of the same hand, but in truth he was alert and even tense as he considered his unexpected guests.

"Three days! Oh that cannot be, you are being facetious now and boastful," Rusciphant retorted his pride prickling. The offhand demeanour of the Archer's posture remained but his voice dropped to low and menacing tones.

"That is a poor choice of words, considering your position," he said quietly and again there was the unpleasant sensation of stillness throughout the vicinity, as though even the wind ceased moving and streams halted their flow at his voice's understated command. Herdir felt his skin tingling as though the air might erupt in lightening sparks and he watched in nervous anticipation when the archer suddenly rose and rearmed his bow. He did not turn it upon them however and instead seemed to be concentrating on a distant point beyond them.

"Up!" he ordered abruptly and climbed higher as he glanced down at them. "Quickly, there is little time. A large troop approaches, and the Wraiths are with them." He waited no longer and was soon far ahead of them moving through the trees at an incredible rate. The two elves then heard the distant noise of many trampling feet, as the very ground seemed to protest against the passage of the vile creatures from Dol Guldur. Rusciphant snapped off the arrow's tail, pulled his boot free, and they rapidly ascended into the canopy. They started to move off in the direction of their former captor but could no longer discern his path.

"Now what? Have you any idea where he was leading us?" queried Rusciphant and Herdir shook his head, then his eyes grew wide as he beheld within his mind a clear image of the trail to take and their destination. He waited not to question this but set off in haste for the Orcs were now nearly within sight.

"Come on!" he called and led the way. Soon the cacophony of the horde's progress faded and he saw the haven to which they were being directed. A great circle of trees rising higher than the others and with branches intertwined far above the forest floor came into view. There the foliage was dense and dark and they sought the safety of a well-hidden talan nearly at the very top of the tallest tree. Their former captor was not there, however, and as they settled in the sounds of the Orc troop grew near again so that they dared not venture out to seek him.

For a time the beasts seemed to be aimlessly milling about in an ever widening circle, and then a triumphant shout was called and they tore away en masse. Before the elves could even think of leaving the security of the flet, a strong sense of doom and dread crept over them as though a foul breath were sampling their scent and craving to devour their very souls. In spite of themselves they cringed low against the wooden platform and covered their heads, remaining still in frozen terror until the sensation abated gradually. Cautiously, Herdir raised his head and glanced about as his heart's tempo returned to normal. As he sat back to survey their location Rusciphant came to his side.

"In Eru's name, what was that?" he said and Herdir grimaced.

"Unless I am mistaken, that was a Wraith. It does not seem to have cared that we were here, however," he replied and stood, walking to the edge of the talan. The woods were still and he could not hear the sounds of the Orcs.

"Perhaps it did not know we were here," Rusci ventured, but Herdir gave him an incredulous look.

"That is highly unlikely. It seemed to have a specific goal and would not be deterred. Our presence here is not a threat to it, and this place, though known, seems protected somehow," he responded.

"Ah yes," Rusci began. "Exactly how did you know about this place? And if you had knowledge of these protected flets then why have you been forcing me to sleep on the hard ground or in the branches of trees the last five nights?" Herdir was quiet, for he had no answer to give. The knowledge was not his own, of that he was certain, and it definitely was not Rusci's. That left only the wild elf they had encountered, and the implications were troubling. He took a breath before speaking and glanced back at his friend, who waited in patient if not gracious expectation for an answer.

"I did not know of it before the instant we heard the Orcs, nor can I explain to you how I came by the information. It seemed to me a clear image in my mind, and it did not waver until my feet felt the wooden floor supporting us now. I suspect it is connected to our fey Tawarwaith," he replied reflectively.

"And where has he gone, I wonder," Rusci mused and Herdir shrugged. "It must be him, of course, though he is like nothing I could ever have imagined. No elf I have ever seen looked so primitive. Hard to reconcile that figure in the trees with the Royal House of Oropher. I hope we may get a closer look," his words mellowed into a distinctly seductive and hungry rumble and Herdir sent him a sharp glare.

"I told you before; hands off," he snapped and Rusci shook his head in amusement.

"All right! But you must admit he has quite an effect on the libido. I have to confess I am very jealous he is communicating with you in this clandestine and uncommon manner rather than me," Herdir snorted his scepticism but said nothing as he considered the impression the Wood Elf had left in his mind, acknowledging that his interest was stirred in that regard as well.

"Yes, he is not what I expected either. I do hope he has found a similar safe spot to evade the Enemy." Rusciphant nodded his agreement and rose also, going to the edge of the flet and gazing around in each direction. They were high in the canopy and he could make out what appeared to be a sort of trail way through the branches leading away into the forest to his right. It seemed to him as if elven feet had lightly crossed there many times and the trees had attempted to align their limbs to make the passage easier. What it was that made this obvious he could not say, only that his senses told him this was so. He looked at Herdir for confirmation of this impression and the other elf nodded briefly. Rusci felt the skin on his neck prickling uncomfortably and he shook himself to rid him of the eerie sensation. Perhaps this sort of communication was nothing to envy after all.

"What now? Should we continue on or wait for him to seek us out again?" he asked.

"We are clearly being invited to proceed," Herdir replied, extending his hand toward the tree top trail. Rusci frowned.

"I do not like this; suppose it is some trick and we end up in the Orc's camp or happen upon that Wraith?" he whined but Herdir merely smirked at his discomfort.

"He could have done us in any time over the last three days had he desired to kill us off," he reminded his friend. "I think he trusts us and takes it for granted we will return the sentiment. We are all elves, after all, and likely the only ones in this part of Mirkwood. At the very least he is curious and has not figured us out yet."

"Yes, perhaps he is lonely," Rusci could not keep a suggestively hopeful quality from coating his words and Herdir rolled his eyes in irritation. Without further discussion he moved out into the branches following the path revealed to their inner eyes and Rusci followed. They were soon deeper into the claustrophobic forest.

The day wore on toward night and no further sign had the elves of their unusual quarry, nor of any dangers. The woods grew steamy and as the sun dipped below the horizon a misting rain began that furred their clothes with a fine gleam of water droplets as the moisture beaded up on their sturdy garments. The limbs grew slick and their progress slowed as Rusci's leg began to grow sore from the continued exertion. He cursed as his foot skidded off the branch he was on and he had to struggle to maintain his balance. Herdir reached out and grabbed hold of his arm to steady him and pull him over onto the branch he stood upon. The rain had become a torrent now and the elves were quickly becoming soaked to the skin. A low rumble flowed through the air as thunder sounded its distant voice.

In his inner vision, Herdir realised they were near another talan and glanced at Rusci; he nodded to indicate he was aware of it too. They scampered through the trees cautiously and climbed gratefully onto the wooden structure. To their joy they discovered the talan bore a partial roof near the tree's trunk and they hunkered down under it as the grey sheets of rain blurred the landscape all around them, reducing everything to shimmering shades of lowering shadow. They sat silently as the storm raged, digging into their packs for lembas to refresh their bodies.

As the night lengthened the rain abated, leaving behind an unbearably humid heat instead of the clean and refreshing breath of night the elves were accustomed to after an evening shower. Rusci removed his boots and weapons and stripped off his outer garments, laying the saturated clothing flat upon the platform. Herdir followed suit and soon the elves were slightly more comfortable. The shared insight into their surroundings departed abruptly and both elves started in surprise at the loss of this connection. They gazed at each other, concerned about what it could mean, and almost immediately found themselves unaccountably drowsy. Within minutes both had drifted into reverie.

A tumultuous pounding of feet and the raucous calls of commands in the Black Tongue stunned the elves into awareness late into the night. In alarm they drew back against the tree's trunk, realising a large troop of foul Orcs was swarming below them in the forest. No sensation of the demoralising dread spawned by the Wraiths reached them and for this they were grateful, as a pitched battle seemed to be taking place nearby. They could clearly hear the zing of elven arrows and the cries of the fell beasts when they met their targets. Occasionally they seemed to hear a fair voice taunting the Orcs and the ensuing rage drowned out the merry laughter. Finally they heard a great crashing of wood as though the very trees were being felled in the battle; and wails and cries of agony and wrath joined the sound. Soon, the twang of a bow followed by grunts of pain as death claimed its victims was the only sound, and even these grew lesser and at last died away. The silence of the forest was more complete than they had yet heard, and they could do nothing more than await the morning to understand what had happened and where the elves they had heard had come from or where they now were gone.

Dawn was only a dim brightening of the air under the heavy eaves of the massive trees in the southern reaches of Mirkwood. Thus Herdir and Rusciphant slept longer into the morning than was their wont. They quickly dressed and with unspoken agreement set out from the talan in the direction of the night's conflict, trusting to their skills in tracking to guide them as the peculiar inner connection to their environment had not returned. After less than half a league was traversed the terrain below them gave evidence of a large troupe of careless beasts having plunged through, slashing and uprooting the dense underbrush in their way. The wind shifted and the unmistakable sourness of death and decay reached them. They continued and soon came upon the location of the night's combat.

Rusciphant carefully scanned the earth below them. The gruesome scene of destruction was unlike anything he had witnessed before. The ground was deeply pitted and honeycombed with traps, and they were able to see that each of the open pits held one and occasionally two cold carcasses of orcs. Every one of them was impaled through the base of the skull or the neck with an arrow identical to the one the feral elf had used earlier. Numerous spikes set in the bottom and walls of the pits also pierced through the orcs' bodies. Rusciphant sounded a low whistle of amazed deference and shared a glance with Herdir. It was obvious that the elven army they had assumed to be at work in the darkness was in fact one lone daredevil: their elusive Tawarwaith.

"Building such defences must have taken a long time and keeping them cleared and set would be a huge undertaking in itself," he said in clearly impressed intonation. They finally cleared the scene of carnage, passing overhead the ten or so dead orcs that, having observed the fate of their comrades, had tried to escape. Each was cleanly felled with a single arrow. Rusciphant respected such economy, and thought the wild archer would probably return and remove all the arrows so as to recover and reuse the tips. They both also realised that the archer would have had to use some sort of a lure to cause the beasts to come right to this spot, and recalling the taunting words and laughter of the night, surmised that he had used himself. This they found disturbing for they would never take on a large band alone, even with traps.

"I count 24; that is admirable," said Rusciphant and meant it. Herdir nodded one moment and shook his head the next.

"Perhaps it is so in our home, but here it is of little consequence. What are 24 against hundreds more? No one can put an end to them piecemeal like this, even given all eternity to finish the task," his tone was dismayed and gave away the perplexed curiosity he felt. The two elves once more found each other's eyes.

"Still, you must admit the courage to try so is commendable," Rusci countered and Herdir did not argue against this.

"I thank-you, yet would I agree with your companion if destruction of the Orcs was my Task," the light and musical voice that reached them sounded bone weary and faint. It seemed to originate from high in the canopy and further away from the disgusting remains below, yet the precise location they could not perceive.

"Where are you?" Herdir called, but no answer came back. Rusciphant and Herdir scanned carefully for any glimpse of their wild elf to no avail, and at last had to move forward in the general direction of the words as they searched, concerned for the lack of response. With abrupt clarity, an image of the elf sprawled out senseless on a nearby flet briefly illuminated Herdir's mind, and he gasped in the intensity of the feeling of absolute exhaustion radiating through the image. "There!" he called and made his way quickly towards another cluster of mighty trees and climbed higher. The flet was broad and sheltered over with a living roof of leafy branches, and there upon the floor the feral elf lay still. Herdir scrambled up as Rusciphant followed yet both stopped short just over the lip of the platform, struck by the sight before them.

The prone elf was stretched out his full length, one lanky leg fully extended and the other bent at the knee. He lay partially on his side and mostly on his stomach, one arm stretched above his head as his hand still loosely clutched his bow and the other lay draped across his waist. His golden locks splayed out upon the floor behind him and his quiver was still strapped securely about him. His position was such that his back was facing them, and even in the dim midmorning Mirkwood light and the partial cover of the quiver, the ugly criss-crossing of numerous scars was visible. Rusciphant caught his breath.

"Elbereth!" he whispered, but Herdir said nothing as he cautiously approached their unconscious host. He carefully felt for the buckles of the leather harness securing the quiver and released it, drawing the straps out from under him with slow care. With a tentative hand he touched the disfigured flesh and his healer's fingers instinctively counted and dated the overlapping marks, as his eyes grew sorrowful. He then pressed fingers around the limp wrist draped across the elf's midsection and looked up to send Rusciphant a relieved glance. Rusci let out the breath he had been unaware he was holding and moved forward. Herdir gently turned the elf over onto his back to check for injuries and as his head rotated over both were shocked to see the eyelids drawn down. Quickly he inspected for wounds and found none that were apparent.

"I believe he is suffering mainly from exhaustion and probably hunger," Herdir said quietly. Rusciphant pursed his lips bitterly.

"And no wonder, to be out here alone fighting bands of Orcs single-handed," his words barked out in displeasure, although who he could direct his anger upon was uncertain. Herdir smiled at his friend's outrage; he hated the needless abuse of any fair thing, and this elf was both fair beyond measure and bold beyond compare. "He will recover then?" Rusciphant queried and Herdir nodded.

"It is best we allow him to sleep as much as he needs, as long as the danger remains distant. If he does not wake in a day's time then we will need to move him. The air will soon become unwholesome from the decomposing beasts down below. No doubt he did not plan to stay here; his body simply could not carry him further," he said contemplatively. His eyes had returned to studying the elf with a healer's appraisal and he noted with umbrage the number of ribs he could count without effort. His glance fell upon the faded scar upon his chest and he reached over to caress it, learning its history in the touch and recoiling as though burned. Rusciphant looked at him in alarm.

"What is it? Is there an injury there, internal and unseen?" he asked with concern and Herdir eyed him balefully.

"Aye, and a deep one at that," he said. "That wound was self-inflicted! Physically it has healed, but the soul still bleeds." Both elves returned their scrutiny to the sleeping patient with distress. The elf before them was suffering from grief and this at least helped explain the depth of his exhaustion.

They watched him quietly for a while, but as he did not move save for the steady rise and fall of his chest in breathing they relaxed somewhat and removed their weapons and packs. Rusciphant scooted over against the tree's trunk and fished in his pack, drawing out an apple. He tossed this to his friend and found another for himself and quietly munched his luncheon as he continued his observation of the sleeping elf.

"He must be very strong to survive the torments his flesh records," he said. "These Wood Elves are completely barbaric to allow such abuses," his words were laced with disgust and the archer twitched slightly as they were spoken. Both elves ceased chewing and watched, but no further movement occurred. Herdir swallowed and sent a cautioning glare to his friend.

"He may be sleeping, but he has incredibly acute senses. I suggest you guard your tongue," he admonished. Rusciphant nodded and allowed his eyes once more to sweep across the prone half-naked form before him. He sighed.

"Absolutely magnificent, even blemished so," he remarked, switching into Quenya. It was well known that Thranduil forbade the use of the High Tongue within his realm, as had his father before him. Herdir allowed himself an appraising ogle as well and nodded.

"The golden hair, much richer than any other I have seen before, surpasses even the lustre of the legendary Glorfindel," he agreed, responding in the High Tongue also. "But it is the eyes more so. When he looked upon me from those depths of blue they seemed to go on forever. Quite rare, that," he continued but Rusciphant dissented.

"Herdir, one cannot smell eyes or bury one's fingers in them. No, the hair is by far more tangible and thus more to my taste regardless the eye color," Herdir merely shrugged at his friend's opinion and took another bite from his fruit.

"Do you suppose all of his hair is that color?" Rusciphant pondered aloud and Herdir almost choked. At the same moment the feral elf opened his eyes, blinked once and sat up staring while Rusciphant slapped the back of Herdir as he coughed raggedly. As soon as his composure was re-established Herdir tried a weak smile and extended his hand.

"Hello! I did not expect you to wake so soon; you seemed beyond tiredness. I am Herdir, a healer, and this is Rusciphant a warrior," he said calmly in Sindarin again. The wild elf gazed at the hand before him and eventually extended his own to grasp it in warrior's fashion just below the elbow. To Rusciphant he did the same and then all sat silently regarding one another. Rusciphant cleared his throat.

"Who are you?" he said and the elf looked at him sharply.

"This you know; I am Legolas that some call Hecilo and others Tirn-en-Tawar," he said curtly and glared first at one then the other. At last the elf's eyes fell to the half consumed apples the others held and his stomach squeezed forth a loud complaining rumble. It was the scent of the fresh food that roused him. He blushed in embarrassment and frowned as he rubbed his stomach and the other elves smiled in merriment.

"We have more, do you like apples?" Rusciphant asked, pulling one from his pack and holding it out. Legolas looked from Rusciphant warily to the fruit hungrily and finally his appetite overcame his reservations and he took it, smiling slightly.

"Thank-you, I am famished. The Orcs have cut off one of my routes back into the Woodland Realm and the other we are battling over constantly. Hunting is poor this close to Dol Guldur as the Orcs have already killed off or driven away every living thing," he stopped and took a ravenous bite of the apple and sighed contentedly as he crunched the tangy fruit. In minutes it was consumed and he tossed the core away over the side of the talan. Herdir quickly offered another and it was almost as quickly gobbled down. Rusciphant offered his water skin but the elf sipped only a little before handing it back. He sighed contentedly again and stretched back down on the floor, rolling over again in the half-side, half-stomach position, his back to the other elves. Without a further word he drifted back into slumber and the two elves just looked at one another in surprise.

"That was unexpected," said Rusciphant. Herdir chuckled and resumed eating his own apple.

"Golden everywhere, without doubt," he said softly, resuming the conversation in Quenya. Rusciphant nodded, grinning.

"Can you not make up some healer's excuse to get him out of those ridiculous leggings? You did not check him thoroughly for wounds and should do so at once," he said with a giggle. Herdir snickered too.

"Aye, I will do that later, when you are not around," he teased and Rusciphant pouted.

"Well, you must at least tell me all afterwards. Did you see how he blushed? I would wager he gets flushed all over when he is aroused," he rejoined. Herdir was nodding; his lusting eyes intent upon Legolas.

"Oh yes," he whispered. "Flushed all over, his cock all rosy and rigid," he breathed and both elves shifted uncomfortably and groaned in unison, casting rueful glances at each other.

"That was an unfortunate topic of reflection to choose, Rusci," Herdir scolded. Legolas stirred and they fell silent as he propped himself up on his elbow and gazed back at them over his shoulder with irritation.

"Apparently you have been poorly brought up," he said haughtily. "Has no one informed you it is impolite to talk about someone in another language, especially when they are right in front of you?" The two elves stared with stricken faces as the archer regarded them coldly. "Say what insults you have directly and to my face, Noldor!" Herdir and Rusciphant exchanged troubled looks and Herdir drew a deep breath.

"I apologise. You are right, of course. We were not actually speaking insults as such; but we are strangers and the peoples of our respective lands are not on friendly terms. We did not want to reveal our true purpose to you," he said, telling as much of the truth as he dared, desperately hoping the elf before him did not understand the words they had spoken. Legolas held their eyes a few moments longer and then resumed his prone position with a displeased humph! Herdir and Rusciphant remained silent for a long time, uncertain anymore what the unusual elf before them could or could not hear, even when asleep.

Legolas lay very quiet and willed his heart to still and his respiration to remain normal. There was no way, of course, that these Noldor would know that while speaking the High Tongue was forbidden, understanding it was required, especially among those of noble blood. It afforded a certain advantage to the Woodland realm for the elves of Imladris and Lorien to assume that their communications in Quenya were unintelligible to Thranduil's folk.

He had stood it as long as he could, but the remarks were too personal. None should speak so about another, as though he was some, some mere trifle for them to explore and then discuss afterwards. How dare they talk about him so! They were the most odious elves he had encountered, with the possible exception of Ailinyéro, and the idea of them seeing him naked and aroused was positively repulsive.

Except that that was a lie. He was already aroused and wanted to just let them play with him awhile. In truth he had stopped their conversation to prevent the rising heat he felt from becoming obvious and giving away both his knowledge of their speech and his own desire for their attentions. Especially Herdir, with the gentle touch and kind eyes, broad shouldered and dark, his hands long-fingered and. .

Legolas stopped himself from continuing his mental reflection on Herdir's attributes lest he need to pull off his breeches himself and present his body for the healer's closer inspection.

Surely, it could not be so terribly wrong to want to feel something other than loneliness, could it? He had not been with another since before the Judgement, and that was now seventeen years past. Surely he could be forgiven one small indiscretion?

Even as he thought this, he knew he would not follow through and that they would not take the initiative after his admonishments earlier. And then they were Noldor, after all; their true purpose in the region was still obscure and they certainly did not intend to tell him. Everything about their words and actions bespoke deception, as when they claimed to be on a scouting mission from Lorien and not to know who he was. Every elven realm had been informed of his status to prevent him from escaping the Judgement; it was unlikely they would encounter another banished elf within the borders of the Woodland Realm. And they were clearly not Sylvan elves of Lorien, for they were dark and sleek and used assumed names in case they were discovered. Herdir just meant 'master' and Rusciphant was just 'wise old fox', hardly true names. Did they think him a fool also? He had determined days ago that they had to be spies from Imladris. No, he could not allow his baser drives to cast him so low as to become a plaything for these elves.

It was a very long and uncomfortable day for the three unlikely companions.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	15. Chapter 15

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Mael nuin Daedelu [Lust under the Canopy]**

Legolas rested only fitfully and never reached the abyssal reverie his body needed to ease his weariness. For five years now he had toiled against the blackness of Dol Guldur, and the constant effort to draw out the Wraiths yet remain alive had taken its toll. The Orcs were wiser and harder to trap here while the cover of the trees was diminished, for the foul emanations issuing from the fortress tainted the streams and infused the earth, poisoning the trees with its vileness. An ever-expanding circle of death was replacing the living wood in the immediate vicinity of the stronghold.

Some did not die, succumbing to the Shadow and becoming enemies of the Wood Elf in their midst. It had been a horrible realisation for Legolas the first time a living tree deliberately sundered one of its limbs in the hope of plunging him into the waiting clutches of a band of Orcs. There had been several such narrow escapes early on, but as Legolas' bond with Tawar grew stronger he was able to determine the trees that were already lost and avoid them.

His alacrity in assailing their minions had quickly garnered the Wraiths' attention and now they sent out their demon hordes intending to capture him alive and bring him to their dungeons. He was constantly harried and found they were slowly trying to cut him off from the central and northern regions of the Greenwood, attempting to prevent his escape back to the Woodland Realm. Legolas was unable to return as often as the Judgement required, and he had not seen Fearfaron in over two years.

He had determined to make the effort to out flank the Orcs that were steadily working to fence him in. Before getting far he had come upon the two unknown elves wandering around the most dangerous area in Middle Earth save only Mordor itself. He could not in good conscience stand by while the Nazgul took them prisoner, whatever their purpose might be. Thus Legolas lay still upon the talan floor, in the distracting company of the two elves, hovering near true repose yet never achieving it.

Herdir and Rusciphant were forced to remain on the talan and wait for Legolas to awake, for they had come far into unknown regions by aid and guidance of a strange source and knew they would become hopelessly lost if they attempted to move on their own. With the proximity of Dol Guldur and the high numbers of Orcs, such a move would mean certain death for them. Ithil was high and bright by the time Legolas at last gave up trying to sleep and stretched upon the talan, cracking several joints as he did so. He rolled to his feet and regarded his guests.

"I will lead you back to more familiar paths that will eventually get you nearer to the borders of Lorien. The territory here is replete with various sorts of traps and snares that would certainly harm or kill you should you come upon them unexpectedly," he said quietly and picked up his quiver and strapped it on as he did so, not certain he had ever removed it. Herdir rose and stepped closer to him.

"I am not in any hurry to leave. We are here to act as spies on Dol Guldur and cannot leave without attempting to complete this mission. I was hoping we could work together on this as the information would benefit all of us," he said, and Legolas smirked.

"Well you will have to forgive me for my lack of faith in your words, Herdir," he said, emphasising the false name. "I have my own work here in which you may not participate. As for your goals, I can not assist you for to do so would hinder mine. Besides, I have not the resources to protect you for any length of time. You must go." These words drew Rusciphant forward.

"We do not need your protection, hênellon. [male elf-child, little boy] In fact, you are the one in need of a healer's care," he snarled with irritation, but his words only elicited a half shrug from Legolas and a smile.

"I am well enough; Tawar looks after me when I am far from friends," he said serenely. Rusciphant raised his brows and an unmistakable expression of condescension clouded his features.

"Tawar! What rubbish! If there is any Woodland Spirit it cares not much for you. Look at the state you are in," he scoffed and instantly regretted his outspokenness as he found himself bowled over and flat upon his back with a very irate Wood Elf straddling his chest and holding a gleaming dagger to his throat.

"Do not speak to that of which you are ignorant. You owe your deceitful hides to Tawar here and now, for so were you led to safety through the woods amid the hordes of Orcs and the fetid evil of Wraiths. My state is my own concern and my own responsibility. I serve Tawar and not the other way round, pen-alhand! [idiot]" he shouted and then immediately stood up, backing away, and paced to the far end of the talan, breathing hard. He passed a hand across his brow and shook his head slightly and abruptly sat down upon the floor. Herdir roused himself from his surprise at the outburst and cautiously approached him, kneeling down close by but not daring to reach out. His healer's insight scanned Legolas critically and he had to admit he agreed somewhat with his comrade.

"I am sure your communion with Tawar is what kept us safe, and we are grateful, despite my friend's uncouth tongue. Yet, he also is not inaccurate in some of what he states. You are truly not well and were we in my homeland I would forbid you to do any work for many days. How long has it been since you last ate or slept well?" he asked calmly. Legolas was staring out into the canopy with unseeing eyes and did not respond for several minutes. At last he breathed a small sigh and glanced over at Herdir.

"We cannot remain here; they will fell all the trees in this area in revenge for the kill last night," he said, ignoring the healer's questions, and stood up slowly. Herdir frowned and rose also, as did Rusciphant. That elf smoothed down his garments a little shakily and kept his eyes on the feral elf and his lips wisely sealed. Legolas was staring out into the woods again, a deep sorrow in his eyes. "I have delayed too long; usually I have the traps cleared and ready before they come back, and that keeps them from harming the trees."

"It is a clever idea; certainly. As long as they know the traps are set they dare not draw near. No wonder these talans have a sense of protection about them," Herdir said as a way to draw the elf back into discussion. Legolas looked at him and gave him a brief smile, though filled with sadness.

"Nay, the protection you sense is from Tawar, not the traps," he said, allowing a hard look to slide over in Rusciphant's direction. "That is why the trees must not suffer for this," he added forcefully and moved out into the branches heading back toward the carnage of the pits. Herdir followed quickly and Rusciphant brought up the rear, but even in his reduced condition Legolas soon was nearly beyond their sight. Fortunately the distance was short and they found him again, though unexpectedly they spotted him on the ground. They followed him down and watched to learn what he was doing.

He had already pulled free every arrow he could reach from the stinking bodies and a large pile of the bloodied missiles lay at the foot of a tree. Legolas glanced at the two elves briefly as he laboured at his task, dragging the heavy carcass of one of the Orcs that had thought to escape him towards the maze of pits. Herdir noticed he seemed to be struggling with the disgusting burden and was already panting in his exertion.

"Beware the ground," he cautioned and they knew he was not warning them of the obvious. As Rusciphant carefully surveyed the forest floor, he noted several traps still intact, and to these the archer was straining to drag the disgusting remains, dropping them onto the woven coverings that quickly snapped, giving way under the dead weight.

"We will help, although why this is necessary is beyond me," Rusciphant said and shook his head as he grabbed the feet of another of the beasts from Legolas' hands and flung it into a hole. Together Herdir and Rusciphant continued the loathsome duty until all the bodies were collected within the pits.

Legolas took a moment to catch his breath and then moved to one of the overflowing traps, reaching into his quiver to withdraw a flint stone. Kneeling over, he showered the disgusting masses inside with sparks and soon the acrid aroma of burning flesh began to waft through the air, for he always lined the bottom of each pit with dry branches and twigs for kindling. Rusciphant at last comprehended the goal of the effort they were expending and grudgingly acknowledged its requisite nature. He gagged a bit in the billowing black smoke that momentarily engulfed him and staggered back as Legolas approached the next pit to repeat the procedure. Herdir found his own flint within his pack and copied the elf's example as did Rusciphant, and between the three of them all the bodies were quickly blazing darkly, the flames barely rising above the forest floor as great clouds of noisome ash and smog drifted up through the trees.

Legolas moved restlessly between the smouldering holes, slapping out any sparks that flew out into the surrounding underbrush with an evergreen bough he took from a tree nearby and carefully testing the heat on the tree's by pressing his palms against their bark. Herdir and Rusciphant soon began stamping out sparks and small spitfires as well. In between these activities, Legolas salvaged as many arrows as he could, cleaning and returning them to his quiver. He removed the heads from the rest, dumping them in, too. The rest of the night tediously passed as the despicable chore wore on. By dawn, the fires had almost consumed the bodies and festered near the bottom of the pits. Legolas seemed content to leave the glowing blades and simmering bones alone to burn themselves out. He scrambled into the nearest tree and climbed high up to the canopy, not even waiting to see if his two assistants followed.

Legolas proceeded carefully along the elusive treetop pathway and the two spies had no difficulty keeping apace with him this time. It may have been out of consideration for his followers' lesser ability in the trees, but Herdir doubted this as he shrewdly observed the feral elf. It seemed to be requiring vast stores of energy for each movement he forced from his overburdened body. He did not travel back towards the broad talan in which they had spent the previous day but instead seemed to be leading them ever deeper into the cloistering woods. Midday had again brought its pale illumination to the trees and still he continued on making no sound or even acknowledging that he knew the other elves shadowed him.

By afternoon Herdir noticed that the trees had changed in character, seeming brighter somehow. It took him a moment to realise that it was the sound of wild life moving about and birds singing that caused this distinction. Their guide was obviously leading them farther and farther from Dol Guldur. Without a clear view of the sky to note the position of the sun, Herdir could not tell if they were moving eastward towards Lorien, or northwards towards the central forest where the woodsmen dwelled. Rusciphant noted the change in their environment as well and called out suddenly.

"Daro! Where exactly are you taking us? We can not be found by Mirkwood's patrols, pen-rhovan [wild one]," he said suspiciously. Legolas halted and stood still for several moments as though trying to collect himself. Herdir noticed he was holding very tightly to the trunk of the tree he stood in, and could even hear his arduous breathing.

"Enough, Rusci," he said to his friend. "He cannot be found by the patrols either. Be silent for once and do not offend our guide further."

"It is no matter for concern," Legolas said without looking back at them. "We are nearly there anyway. There is a high talan just a few trees beyond that clearing, which was once a trap field. I planned to stop for a time there and decide which pathway is least perilous to take." He began moving forward again and the elves had no choice but to follow him. Their journey ended at last as the wild one climbed up onto the narrow flet and immediately stretched out upon the floor. He did not even bother to remove his weapons, and indeed kept his bow in hand as he rested his head against his arm and dropped into exhausted repose.

Rusciphant and Herdir joined him and noted he was already asleep with his eyes drawn shut again before they had even had time to remove their weapons. They seated themselves with care not to disturb him on the limited floor-space and rummaged in their packs for something to eat. They had not stopped the entire journey and had been on the move for hours, and both were near starving and parched with thirst. In spite of himself, Rusciphant was again impressed with their unusual guide's resilience.

"What now?" he asked, reverting to Quenya for secrecy. Herdir sighed, worry creasing his brow.

"We must not wake him. Leave the apples we have left for when he has fully rested, he needs them more than we do. Let us rely upon the lembas and try to get some rest as well. That was hard labour and a rapid pace he set for our march," Herdir replied in kind. He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper, in hopes not to disturb the fatigued elf this time. Rusciphant gazed at his friend with critical regard.

"Well, yes, but that is not what I meant. I was referring to our mission. Surely you remember the reason we came out to this Valar forsaken land? He does not seem likely to form an alliance with us willingly," he said somewhat sarcastically and Herdir gave him a warning look.

"Of course I remember. Do not be impertinent, Rusci. He has little reason to be willing. We underestimated his skills and his intelligence, quite obviously, and will need to reassess our tactics, that is all. We have foolishly treated this like a game or an elfling's adventure when it is clearly quite a serious business. It would have been wiser to be more truthful with him," he responded sharply.

"We cannot give him our real names, then all will be evident and we will never win him over."

"I did not suggest we do so; however, we will need to adopt names that are real, even if they are not our own. In addition, he knows we are not from Lorien, so we may as well own up to it. That you yourself already confirmed by your unbridled tongue today. Lorien elves are not in danger of capture should they encounter the Woodland King's patrols. Really, Rusciphant, one would think you had no experience with this sort of activity." Herdir chided his friend. Rusciphant was duly downcast with this chastisement and remained silent, consuming his lembas slowly. Herdir scowled to himself trying to come up with an alternate scenario that would be believable to their wild quarry.

Legolas slept, dreamlessly and deeply, as his endurance had reached its end and his body simply shut down. He slept with eyes shut and thus lost the benefit of visual perception, always active to alert the elves should sudden action be demanded or self-defence become necessary. His overtaxed brain refused to acknowledge the sounds around him and he lost the ability to detect a stealthy approach or a whispered plot. His weary muscles fell lax and he neglected to register the ever-present grip on his bow and it slipped from his fingers. Legolas slept while his unlikely companions reordered their strategy and devised a more plausible set of lies with which to confound him.

Ithil shone down from a waxing fatness just two days shy of full upon the elves crowded together on the narrow flet. Herdir had managed to secure the inner space close to the trunk and curled around it appreciatively, glad he had no need to worry about how near the edges were. The Noldor seldom spent much time in such treetop platforms, preferring solid structures of wood and stone set upon the sturdy ground. Legolas lay where he had dropped upon climbing up having moved not an inch, and indeed one foot dangled free beyond the edge of the platform. Rusciphant thus had to make do with the limited space left between the other edges and Legolas' slumbering form.

He lay facing the feral elf and used the placement to his advantage. Calmly he waited for Herdir to drop into reverie, and when he was certain that elf was deep within his dreamscape he turned his complete attention to Legolas. With slow and careful movements his fingers sought the confining clasps holding the quiver secure and loosed them. No movement or indeed any indication revealed that the archer was aware his weapons had been removed and placed aside beyond his reach. Rusciphant sidled slightly closer so that his face was only inches from the object of his desire, and he dipped a careful hand into the mane of golden locks, drawing it back from the fair face and revealing lips slightly parted and darkly red in the starlight.

Rusciphant inhaled as Legolas breathed out, capturing each exhalation as he lowered his own lips cautiously to brush against the alluring vermilion mouth before him. No reaction followed the brief contact, and so he dared to be more brazen, darting his tongue lightly between those supple lips to taste the warmth within. As the archer remained motionless, Rusciphant pressed his advantage, deeply caressing the insensible elf's tongue, and at last a reflexive response rewarded his efforts as Legolas' kissed back, seeking the Noldo's expressive tongue when it retreated. Rusciphant gasped lightly as he withdrew and Legolas' tongue flickered out and caressed his lower lip invitingly.

"Mmmm," the seductive murmur vibrated from Legolas' throat, punctuating the action and he shifted slightly, canting over more to his back than before.

Rusciphant leaned up and smoothed back the hair from Legolas' temple, exposing his ear, and licked along the outer rim, gently massaging the pointed tip with his mouth. Legolas sighed appreciatively and moved into the touch then turned his head aside to offer the other. Rusciphant's breath came in shorter draws and he carefully pushed Legolas all the way over onto his back, taking a moment to kiss along the length of the elegant neck before pulling back to survey his prize again.

Legolas' eyes were only half-lidded now and his lips remained parted; his face was warmly flushed and Rusciphant wished he could better see the spreading blush creeping over his body. He propped himself up on one elbow and traced along the archer's collarbone with one finger, winding his way down over the breastbone and then back up over the pectorals to slowly circle rapidly rising nipples. Rusciphant dared to lap one wet with his saliva and Legolas fretted in needy complaint when he leaned back to enjoy the sheen of Ithil's light on the delectable morsel lifting and falling with each breath Legolas took. Rusciphant moaned softly, yearningly, as he fought the impulse to nuzzle against the firm muscles and suckle the inviting flesh, for he did not want to completely wake his aroused sleeper.

"You are so exquisite," he whispered into a red-tipped ear as he swiped his tongue across it again. He retreated and was excited to see Legolas exhale a barely audible plaint as his hand trailed up across the still wet and erect tit.

"Oh," Rusciphant breathed as he watched the slender fingers coax the sensitive jutting teat to become even harder and darker. He could not resist and bent to taste and give suck to its companion as Legolas arched up and spread his legs, lifting one on bended knee so that his groin was accessible. Feeling the motion, Rusciphant pulled back again and watched with glittering eyes as Legolas' other hand burrowed under the rugged breeches and fondled his swelling sex hidden there. Rusciphant attempted unsuccessfully to unknot the cording holding the leather shut and gently tugged a little to see if he could draw the garment down. Legolas' weight prevented this and the leggings only shifted slightly as the feral elf continued to stroke himself, softly voicing his desire.

Rusciphant undid his own leggings quickly and withdrew his eagerly straining member. With his other hand he dipped into Legolas' breeches and coddled the tight sack, lifting the balls and gently manipulating them in his fingers. Legolas twitched and pushed his heel against the floor, flexing his hip as he groaned more loudly.

"Oh, you like that, pen-rhovan." Rusciphant moved his hand up and cautiously replaced Legolas' grasp with his own, shuddering as he enveloped the smooth and throbbing organ still hidden from his view. Unable to see with his eyes, he used his fingers and palm to explore the stiff extension, raising his brows in surprise as he felt the velvety hood of the foreskin slip back. He pumped both their cocks in unison; enthralled and excited, as the head of Legolas' penis became slick with his need.

An urgent cry sounded from Legolas' lips and Rusciphant transferred his attention back to the flawless face, inhaling sharply as he took in the open dark blue eyes dreamy and glazed in erotic fantasy, lips open and impossibly enticing. He wanted to get his swollen and aching cock into the warm and luscious mouth he had already sampled, to feel the mobile tongue lave his pulsing shaft, to be sucked to orgasm by those perfect red lips. The very thought of it brought him tantalisingly close and he stopped his movements, staying his hands and gazing lustfully at the dreaming elf, wondering if it was possible.

And strangely it was the abrupt cessation of stimulus that jarred Legolas awake. He blinked, focusing on the elf next to him, instantly aware of the unfamiliar hand wrapped around his eager erection. He raised his head and allowed his eyes to travel down, taking in the arm buried wrist-deep under his breeches and the burgeoning member of the Noldo boldly presented before him. For a second neither moved and then Legolas pushed back to sit up, unexpectedly pulling his cock against the firm grip encircling him and he shuddered at the sensation, involuntarily sending a lust-filled grunt into the night. Rusciphant let go at once and hurriedly started to do up his leggings as a cry of outrage erupted from Legolas and he jumped to his feet.

"You! What do you think you are doing? How dare you touch me?" he shouted and Herdir awoke at once in the commotion. Rusciphant was vainly attempting to look unconcerned, for Legolas looked as though he might launch himself at him any second.

"Peace, be calm! I was just helping you rid yourself of some of the tension afflicting you, nothing more. You seemed to appreciate my attentions," he soothed, standing and chortling a little, as his eyes travelled down to the archer's groin. But Legolas was incensed and was searching for his quiver to retrieve his dagger and put it to use.

"I will slice you to a nub! You will regret your attempt to have your pleasure at my expense!" he shrieked in his uncontrollable outrage and Herdir's eyes grew wide as he looked from one to the other.

"What is going on? Rusciphant, what have you done this time?" he bellowed and quickly positioned himself between the two. Rusciphant shook his head vehemently, darting his gaze to his friend briefly then back to Legolas who was reaching into his quiver.

"Stop him! He is serious, Herdir! He has a knife and means to maim me," he pointed but Herdir did not turn. With a murderous cry Legolas lunged to get around him and Herdir wheeled, catching the Wood Elf around the waist with one arm while the other deflected the dagger-hand. Throwing his whole weight upon Legolas, Herdir bore him down and with a shuddering crash they hit the floor.

"Release me! It is my due! He has no right to put his hands on me! Let me up at once!" he yelled in his fury but Herdir simply allowed himself to go limp, becoming a dead-weight on the smaller elf's chest. As Legolas fought the burden to no avail, Rusciphant stepped over and pried the dagger from his hand, standing hard upon his wrist to force the archer to relinquish his hold. Legolas cried out in frustration as he continued to writhe against Herdir and at last, out of breath, stilled.

Everyone was quiet a few moments as only the sound of Legolas' panting suspiration broke the enforced tranquility. Herdir filled his lungs to steady himself and looked down at the feral elf, arranging his features in as calm and non-threatening an expression as he could contrive.

"Legolas," he said very softly, but Legolas had his face turned away and his eyes squeezed shut. "I am sorry, truly. You are right, his behaviour is inexcusable, but I cannot permit you to do violence to my friend." Legolas eyes snapped open and he turned his blazing regard upon Herdir. With all of his disgust and outrage he spat into the elf's face.

"Bado Angband-na!" [Go to Hell!] He seethed through clenched teeth and Herdir sighed, wiping his cheek against his arm resignedly. He could hardly blame Legolas for his reaction; he would have done the same.

"I will not hold that against you, as your anger is understandable. I will let you up but you must accept that I cannot return your weapons until the situation is settled, alright?" he continued. Legolas was breathing hard, trying to contain his rage so that Herdir would get off him. He looked away again and did not respond, for he could only manage to think of more curses to utter. Herdir shifted and lifted his weight from the elf, kneeling and offering his hand to aid him. Legolas slapped it away and rolled to his feet, stalking to the farthest corner of the flet where he leaned against the tree with his back to the other elves. No one spoke and Herdir and Rusciphant awaited the feral elf's next move, for they could see the subtle rippling of his shoulders as his body shook, his wrath yet unabated.

At last he composed himself with a loud sigh and turned to confront them. His face was deadly pale and the dark stain of ire still upon his cheeks looked livid. He stared coldly from one to the other of them, and in spite of himself Rusciphant stepped back and dropped his head in shame, for there was more there than anger in the gleaming azure eyes. Legolas walked quietly back to them and stood with arms crossed before his chest, then slowly unfolded them and let them drop, tight fisted, to his sides. He waited, never letting his attention wander from Rusciphant, and finally that elf could stand the wordless recrimination no longer and faced him.

In a blur of movement Legolas' arms came up and he buried one fist into Rusciphant's stomach, landing a vicious jab to his jaw with the other. Rusciphant went down hard upon the talan and curled up with a grunt. Herdir immediately made as if to grab Legolas again, but he was already out of reach. He leaped out into the air, just snatching a slender limb in his fingertips, and pulled himself into the next tree near. Legolas climbed high and entangled himself in the topmost branches, clinging tightly as the tree swayed gently, providing the only comfort it could.

Herdir watched him a moment or two and then returned to his friend, kneeling next to him where he was gingerly rubbing the growing bruise on his jaw. They smiled ruefully at each other and Rusciphant shrugged.

"It was almost worth it," he quipped and sat up, adding, "He is all yours, mellon nîn," and laughed softly at Herdir's doubtful and half-hearted grin.

TBC  
A/N: 02/23/2008 This chapter marks the beginning of beta work by SarahAK, my second attempt to find a beta reader. The association worked well for more than a year before we parted ways. She was a great help with punctuation, grammar, and a good motivator.

Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	16. Chapter 16

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Dolen enath Utummen [Hidden name uncovered]**

It rained; mighty torrents of water streaming in curtains of stinging, icy needles pelted through the trees, drumming against the lush summer verdure, threatening to shred the leaves to tatters. Thunder was not heard nor did any lightening rift the dim half-light; no birds sang and on the forest floor no animal scurried. All were hiding sheltered deep in their burrows and nests from the mourning firmament that seemed to crouch down upon the earth, seemingly seeking merger with the Greenwood.

The great trees were motionless in the absence of wind, standing resolutely in the chilling onslaught, having had their fill of the sustaining fluid hours ago. Rivulets were forming and racing furtively among the roots on the ground, digging under them and threatening to scour out their shallow purchase within the saturated earth. With a shattering lament and a fulminating clash, an aged pine lost its footing and tumbled in agonisingly slow descent to splash in the slimy leaf-filled mud. In hopeless desperation, three smaller trees had tried to stay the demise of the elder one, and a sickening stentorian snap bore witness to the death of one as it broke in two under the strain.

Herdir and Rusciphant sat hunched in misery as their clothing hung, cloying and sodden, to their chilled bodies. All around them legions of droplets danced in the sliding pools collecting and scurrying across the talan floor, pouring in an ephemeral waterfall over the edges of the wooden platform. They did not bother to try speaking for the incessant droning of the falling deluge numbed their hearing and muffled their voices. Every now and then Herdir stole a glance towards Legolas, still cleaving to the top of a nearby tree, his head bowed low and his limbs insinuated within the slender boughs.

With the combined weight of the elf and the water, the limbs were bending down and seemed to be dropping lower every time Herdir looked. He wondered how long the tree could hold out before the branches fractured and Legolas fell from the dizzying height. He wondered why Legolas did not seem to notice the danger he was in. With a sudden inspiration, Herdir considered whether the elf had fallen asleep again and was as thoroughly senseless as previously. Herdir poked Rusciphant's arm to get his attention and then pointed to the Wood Elf. Rusci merely shrugged and Herdir frowned, rising and moving out to the edge of the talan as he did so.

"Legolas!" he called out, but no movement rewarded his effort. Herdir cupped his hands about his mouth to concentrate the sound and shouted louder. "Legolas!" Slowly the feral elf raised his head and Herdir could see him turn in his direction, but just as gradually he returned to his prior position. It seemed as though he rested his head against the wiry branches. Herdir was greatly concerned, for he did not know if he could reach the elf and was more convinced than ever that the tree must give way at any moment.

With a grim set to his jaw, he cautiously stepped out into the branches, sliding and slipping haphazardly upon the soaking bark, trying to find solid enough footing to carry him over to the next tree. His boots were not made for such activity however, having been designed for long marches across hard ground, and one foot slid completely off the limb and sent him flailing wildly as he grasped at the leafy branches, cursing loudly.

He managed to hold on and draw his leg back from the open air. He feared to move even an eyelash and worried the thundering vibrations emanating from his chest would be enough to shift him from the bough again. As his breathing calmed, he chanced a glance behind toward the flet where Rusci stood, tense and rigid, watching anxiously. Herdir lifted a hand in an attempt to reassure his comrade, and when next he looked out into the forest he was amazed to see Legolas rapidly advancing towards him.

"What are you doing?" Legolas shouted over the din of the rain when he reached him, grabbing his arm firmly and drawing him up onto a more stable perch. "Even Wood Elves do not travel the treetops in such storms! Come!" he commanded and led him forward without releasing the tight grip lest he slip again. Slow and cautious movements from branch to branch brought them to another talan just beyond the sight of and lower than the narrow flet upon which they had rested through the night. Legolas let go. Herdir noted that this talan looked more like the guard's posts seen throughout Lorien and Legolas nodded, reading his assessment.

"This is a far outpost of Greenwood's guard, but seldom do they journey so distant from the stronghold in these times. Thranduil has all but ceded control of these lands, and the woodsmen are ill equipped to defend them, being craftsmen and foresters rather than warriors. No doubt they assumed they would have the protection of the Woodland King when they settled their families here, but it is not so," his words dwindled away; they were the most he had ever spoken to the Noldo and Herdir was surprised at the honesty of the revelation. Not only were the words directly critical of the King, they also underscored Legolas' earlier statement that he was not one of Thranduil's subjects.

Legolas moved over to the trunk of the tree where a sturdy chest was built into the structure. He lifted the lid and withdrew a folded tarpaulin along with a winding of elven rope. Lying flat against the floor were two narrow rods, taller by at least a head than he, and he took these and set them into prepared slots on the floor. In minutes he had established a temporary roof against the downpour by connecting the tarpaulin to the rods and the tree's trunk. Next, he returned to the box and rummaged inside, pulling forth a heavy mat and a soft blanket and those he spread upon the dripping platform. He settled himself on the edge of the talan and dangled his legs free, ignoring the rain that drenched him and the shelter he had just constructed.

Herdir stood within the tent, grateful for the chance to escape the torrent, yet uncomfortable in his waterlogged garments. He could not suppress an irritated grimace, as he wondered why Legolas had not brought them here in the first place, but then he recalled the bone-weary elf's immediate collapse on reaching the high flet. No doubt he had been aiming for this spot, and simply could not continue further at the time. And after all, even a Wood Elf could not control the weather. Herdir plucked at his clinging tunic and smirked thinking of Rusci still huddled in the downpour. _No more than he deserves._ He stole a peek into the chest and pulled forth a second blanket and began to strip, casting aside the saturated cloth in a sodden heap.

Hearing the movements, Legolas turned back to see what was going on and caught sight of his guest just as the leggings were coming down. His eyes expanded but he did not look away quite fast enough and thus observed the full revelation of Herdir's sex hanging heavy against his thighs. Legolas gawked; the head of the organ was fully exposed and naked, no skin covered the succulent tip. Legolas blushed when he realised he had been staring too long and Herdir had noticed, and turned away to studiously glare at the rain plummeting down. Herdir smiled and wrapped himself in the warm blanket before settling in the middle of the sparse shelter.

"You can look now; I am decent," he said with amusement but Legolas only shifted awkwardly and did not look back. Herdir sighed. "You are so full of contradictions," he murmured in exasperation and Legolas dared a confused glance over his shoulder.

"What do you mean, I am not so!" he objected, though he was not exactly sure if the statement was an insult or not.

"Oh I disagree," replied Herdir. "I have never met a more erotic elf yet you are so painfully repressed. You should be celebrating your incredible allure."

Legolas looked away, uneasy with such a personal assessment. "I do not know what you mean," he mumbled.

"I mean that were you not hidden away in this wilderness you would have a constant stream of suitors seeking access to your considerable enticements." Herdir could not suppress a light laugh when Legolas looked back incredulously, frowning. "Really, Rusci's response to you was not surprising, and I am amazed you did not suspect it the moment you spoke to us." Legolas twisted around, anger crowding out his former hesitancy.

"You think it is meet for him to handle me so just because he feels his lust rising? If that is the behaviour I might expect in more civilised regions, then I am thankful my home is not so placed," he growled hotly and Herdir noticed again the rapid flash of something more than anger pass across his face. Was that sorrow or was that fear? Herdir experienced a vaguely constricting sensation around his heart.

"Nay! Understand, when first I woke I thought the sounds of shared passion had ended my rest, and remained quiet so as not to interrupt. I did not know you were unwilling," he protested. "He was wrong to take advantage of your exhausted state; never would I presume to do something so crude to satisfy my own desires," he tried to send all the reassurance he could through his words, but Legolas made no response.

He sat propped with his arms behind him slowly swinging his legs into the empty air below, his head lowered and his hair plastered in a sopping mass down his back. The rain caressed him, running in strings of water over his shoulders, flowing down his arms, twisting and turning around the muscles and sinews made strong by his years as a warrior and the hard labour spent towards the completion of the Tasks.

The water pattered heavily on his head, insinuating mellifluous fingers through the saturated hair to glide along the planes of his face. The streaming fluid traced the line of his jaw and dripped off his chin and danced along the bridge of his nose before leaving its tip in a strand of liquid beads that dropped with measured persistence. Glittering droplets collected on his long lashes until they could hold no more and they fell away sluggishly, as though reluctant to leave him. Herdir found it enchanting and imagined what it would be like to taste the water trailing down that faultless countenance.

"Legolas? Why do you not come under the shelter?" he asked finally and Legolas looked back, sweeping his vision over the swaddled figure before meeting his eyes cautiously. But Herdir controlled his expression and willed the desire he felt to remain hidden, and so Legolas saw only his even smile. He shrugged then and turned away again.

"The rain does not bother me; I live here and am used to it. In summer, the rains seldom cease for long," he replied and glanced back again.

"You must then be part otter to love to be wet and cold," Herdir joked.

"I am not cold," Legolas said, but at the same time he shivered without realising it. But Herdir did notice and remembered that the Wood Elf had eaten nothing since before the previous day. Yet he had worked as hard and traversed the same distance as had his unwanted guests. On top of this, Legolas was already malnourished and his desperately needed sleep had been stolen from him. Herdir suddenly decided that Legolas must be willing himself to stay awake, and it could only be for fear of being accosted again by his unwanted companion. Herdir cursed himself for his indifference and his stupidity in leaving his pack with the apples and lembas in it on the other talan.

Abruptly he got up and dragged his permeated tunic towards him, running his hands into the pockets to see if he had already eaten the way-bread that he usually stowed there. It was his habit to keep such a store handy to prevent having to remove his pack while on a long march. With a victorious flourish he drew out a small packet of the elven bread and was happy to see two pieces intact. Even one piece could sustain him for a full day's trek, and two would certainly go far towards restoring Legolas' strength.

"Legolas, I know you are hungry. Here is lembas, please take it," he called and held out the packet when Legolas looked over at him. Legolas did not hesitate for he was beyond ravenous and quickly accepted the offering, crawling closer to the shelter as he did so. The rain still reached him, however, and Herdir feared most of the nourishing food would dissolve and flow away to enrich the woods instead.

"Come under the shelter; the bread will crumble and do you no good in this downpour," he coaxed and Legolas heeding his warning recovered the bread in the waxy leaf wrapper after breaking off a small sample.

"Nay, I am too wet. I would only spoil the dry area by bringing the rain in with me," he declined, but Herdir was adamant.

"There is another blanket in the chest there. Do as I have done and throw off those wet things. You will be more comfortable when you are warm and dry," he advised him and Legolas glanced up severely, suspicious at once of his motives based on what he had said previously. Herdir understood and held up a hand, shaking his head.

"Worry not, I will not try to infringe upon you in any way, this I swear," he proclaimed and Legolas regarded him critically.

"What is your name?" he asked and Herdir was taken aback.

"What?" he stalled.

"Why should I trust anything you say when even the name you give is a lie," he expounded, and Herdir had to admit he had a valid point. Yet he hesitated, not certain if this was the wisest course to take. Once crossed, it was a boundary he could never reinstate. He ventured a look at Legolas, who sat in the streaming rain waiting, and his healer's insight drew to his attention numerous indications of the elf's urgent need for restorative rest. He sighed; he was a healer first, after all; this spying business was but a necessary departure from his ordinary routine.

"I am Erestor," he said flatly and observed the amazement that spread across the Wood Elf's features upon hearing this.

"Erestor! Of Imladris?" Legolas almost spat out his lembas as he said the words and the other elf nodded.

"I know of no other," came his dry reply.

"I know not if I believe you. Why would you be here? Why would the Lord of Imladris send you to spy the territory out? And who then is your companion, Gildor of the Havens?" he spoke in a rush of scepticism.

"Believe!" Erestor laughed. "I assure you it does not benefit me to reveal to you that two of Imladris' most respected citizens are lurking about Mirkwood. I have no reason to place myself in jeopardy by granting such knowledge to the son of our enemy. My companion is Berenaur [Brave flame], an advisor and assistant of which you may not have heard. You have yourself discovered he is less than trustworthy in certain situations," he said, his lies smoothly enfolded within truth.

Legolas was still staring wide-eyed and had even stopped chewing the bite of the lembas he held in his mouth.

"As to why I have been sent, that is simple. Elrond had hoped to use a member of Thranduil's own guard as a contact of sorts, but though he seemed in accord when we spoke he did not follow through. It has been five years since we initiated the contingence, and our informants lost track of him over two years ago. Elrond had to assume he reported our attempts to recruit him to Thranduil. No doubt the King will be overly cautious of every elf that comes and goes from the Woodland Realm from now on.

"Elrond had no choice but to attempt this mission using those he trusts, meaning Glorfindel and myself. That elf cannot be spared for he oversees the safety of our borders and is master at arms for our forces. I thus, unwisely perhaps, selected Berenaur to accompany me." As Erestor finished his speech Legolas swallowed the lembas and looked away, considering the import of the disclosure.

He had not expected to learn that one of Elrond's most trusted advisors was among his guests; he had merely assumed the two to be warriors in the Imladris guard. Their quest must be serious and dangerous to account for so high-placed a participant in the espionage. Also, Thranduil would indeed be wrathfully vigilant and interrogate anyone coming and going from his realm if his own guards had been compromised. He would expect Elrond to try and recruit someone else, less high placed perhaps, next time.

Only a few elves in the patrols were high enough in rank to journey singly beyond the realm to Lorien and Imladris, and all of these were longstanding and personal friends of Thranduil from the First Age. Such a betrayal was implausible, and indeed Legolas could understand why the initial attempt had failed. He was dying to know who the targeted accomplice had been and mentally ran through the list of warriors that were credible candidates. He was certain none of them would ever betray Thranduil.

Not everything had been told, of this he was certain, for there was a very practised air to the speech delivered, as though it had been decided in advance how much could be revealed if they were caught out. Yet, if any other than he had discovered them, they would be prisoners in Thranduil's dungeons right now. The idea that they were attempting to recruit him burst into his thoughts. He was the mission?

In a way it was logical, as he was already outcast and disowned. From their point of view, he would seem to have reason to hold a grudge against Thranduil. Still, it rankled that they believed him capable of treachery against his own people. And what could they hope to gain by it, if he were to fall so low as to aid them? He had no access to the realm any longer, and never had been privy to matters of state even before the Judgement. Something was going on here, and he was sure Erestor had no intention of revealing it to him. Legolas eyed his companion shrewdly and with no small amount of belligerence.

"I am no traitor!" he snapped in dark and threatening tones. "Your Lord Elrond is gravely mistaken if he thinks I would ever betray Tawar," he snarled as he let his anger grow. "He should have found out what kind of character I have before sending you on this fool's errand and risking your lives for such a hopeless endeavour."

Erestor blinked; Legolas had reached the correct conclusion more quickly than he would have thought him able, given the small amount of information he had divulged. He had expected some questions.

"The Lord of Imladris has indeed underestimated you; your assumption is correct. Elrond hopes to make you an ally," he said quietly. The two elves stared at each other in silence; Legolas surprised at the admission and Erestor paused in quiet admiration of the elf he was dealing with.

He let his gaze shift and he took in the Wood Elf as a whole again and was suddenly aware of a tingling of fear in the back of his mind. Legolas appeared to be slouched upon the floor in cold misery yet he was taut as a drawn bow. Even weaponless and exhausted he might be capable of sending his companion sailing over the edge of the talan to the ground far below if threatened. This elf was dangerous.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.

Note: The elvish is terrible in these chapters, but I am leaving it alone because some of it is really funny in translation :) Also, it's the first slash sex scene I'd ever written, or sex scene of any kind. Can't say I've really changed much; I tend to enjoy such things in royal purple hues.


	17. Chapter 17

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Nasto naith lîn born, tharn nedhnîn! [Thrust your red-hot, rigid penis inside me!]**

Erestor shifted uneasily and unobtrusively, he hoped, drawing closer to the pile of discarded clothing where a dagger lay attached to his belt. He castigated himself for yet again failing to appreciate the menace this wild elf presented. It would almost serve him right were he to come to harm from his lack of insight. He frantically tried to conjure a way to remedy the infraction, and settled for depending on honesty and his companion's honorable nature to forgive the slights his words had inflicted.

"Consider not that he thinks you capable of treasonous acts, but rather that you are of high enough caliber to hear out his goals and act such that both our peoples benefit." He spoke calmly and allowed the truth of his words to be heard, for in these there was no falseness.

Legolas listened and could not deny the sincerity he discerned. They were good words and complimentary to him rather than insulting or base. Yet he knew there was still more to it all. However, he deemed it reasonable for Erestor to withhold whatever he could; he was no traitor to his own either. Somehow he respected that and he decided that enough had been shared to trust him in lesser things if not in matters of state. Besides, if he feigned acceptance the spies would reveal their true plot sooner or later. He relaxed and broke off another bite of lembas. Seeing this, Erestor eased himself down from his highly agitated state, relieved he would not have to combat the Wood Elf.

"A truce, then, at least for now?" he asked and was completely overwhelmed by the bright and genuine smile that illuminated Legolas' features.

"Aye, a truce it shall be, Erestor of Imladris," he said and stuffed the last piece of lembas into his mouth.

"Excellent! Then come out of the rain, Legolas, before you drown in this deluge," the Noldo exhorted and motioned with his hands towards the dry blanket resting on the wooden chest.

Legolas swallowed and looked from the blanket to his soaked and uncomfortable breeches. In truth, when it rained like this he usually did take them off for they clung to him and chaffed unmercifully otherwise, even as they did now. And he could almost feel the softness of the blanket's woolen fabric against his skin. More than anything he wanted to rid himself of his meager clothes and bundle up on the floor and sleep. To do these things meant he would have to strip in front of this stranger, and he was loathe to do it. It did not feel like five years since the last time he had been forced to strip under another's scrutiny. He shuddered as the memory washed over him.

Mentally he tried to prepare himself. This was not a sordid demand, he was choosing to do so in order to gain some much-needed comfort from the weather. Besides, the other elf was already naked under the blanket he had snuggled into.

The other elf was already naked.

Legolas peered furtively at Erestor's enveloped form, remembering what was covered there, and began to feel warm. Erestor's body was magnificent; broad chested and well muscled, with a lean, flat belly. A line of short black strands marched down from his navel, culminating in a dark patch of thick and curling hair where his organ hung with its naked tip and promising weight. Legolas acknowledged that the warmth was definitely radiating from his groin and shifted in discomfort as he hardened. He had never completely rid himself of the yearning fullness since waking to find himself being stroked to near madness by Rusci, or rather, Berenaur. His penis twitched in the memory of that sensation and Legolas almost groaned but caught himself in time.

"Oh come!" Erestor teased. "There's nothing there I have not seen before. Keep your back to me if I make you so uneasy." Legolas considered that to be a good idea. The last thing he wanted was for Erestor of Imladris to see him fully erect in impassioned prurience.

Except that was false. He did want Erestor to see, and to want what he saw. He wondered if Erestor would get hard when he stripped; perhaps Erestor was already erect. The thought sent a thrill through his body as his cock swelled even tighter. He found he was having trouble keeping his breathing regular.

Finally he stood and unknotted the leather cording at his waist. This was more difficult with the lacing so saturated, but at last he had it loose. With a swift motion he bent and drew his legs out of the dripping garment and his cock bobbed forward with the activity, jutting forth from between his thighs and glistening in the raindrops that fell upon it.

Legolas heard Erestor's soft intake of breath and his own heart leaped as he reached over and retrieved the blanket, straightening just enough to allow an unrestricted view before quickly wrapping himself up. He ducked under the canvas shelter and settled cross-legged near the Noldo, yet not so close as to seem too eager. He chanced a brief peek at his companion and was rewarded with an expression of open desire, which Erestor did not attempt to disguise.

"You have made me a liar after all," he said seductively and Legolas met his smoldering eyes in anticipation, "for you are more fair than any I have seen before. Never have I beheld an elf so completely enthralling." His words were barely above a whisper and Legolas shivered as he held his gaze.

"Thelin le-geri, Legolas [I intend to have you, Legolas]," he said directly and Legolas stifled a gasp.

"Sui anirach; mabo nîn [As you desire; take me]," Legolas exhaled the words and moved closer, letting go his blanket to reach out for his lover.

Erestor met him and claimed his mouth in a fiery kiss as one hand caressed the smooth perfection of his cheek. The other hand wrapped around and slid beneath the limp and dripping hair to slither down his spine, his fingers flowing gently over the marred skin. Legolas moaned into the warmth of the embrace and darted his tongue into the inviting orifice, stroking the roof of Erestor's mouth and massaging his animated tongue.

Erestor returned the favor, exhaling contented sounds of rapture as he entwined their tongues and explored the sweetness of Legolas' lips, still tasting faintly of lembas and rainwater. Legolas' fingers were busy behind Erestor's neck, combing through the dark and shimmering locks, and he pressed closer to enjoy the full contact of their bodies and skin. Erestor's nipples were hard and Legolas could feel them against his chest. He moved against him, dragging his own nipples across the firm pectorals and they yowled together.

Legolas broke the kiss and moved to nip and suck along his lover's throat from the collarbone up to his earlobe, which he gently tugged on with his teeth. He nuzzled his nose up around the outer shell and softly licked the maroon stained point and Erestor sang out, reaching down to tweak the peaked nipple he sought. Legolas trilled a beseeching sigh and moved to the other ear. Erestor's other hand rubbed gently against Legolas back, just brushing the cleft of his firmly rounded arse. Legolas trembled.

Gently Erestor eased his lover back yet kept his fingers busy kneading Legolas' nipples.

"Let me see you," he whispered his demand and Legolas unfolded his legs and spread them, leaning back comfortably on his elbows, completely exposed and vulnerable. Erestor cupped his sack, gently lifting to better examine his bounty, and smiled: rosy and rigid indeed. Legolas watched, watched the fingers tugging his tit; watched the hand cradling his balls and thought he might go mad if something did not happen soon.

"Saes! More! Saes, Erestor, touch it!" he begged between shuddering gasps and Erestor growled as he knelt between his legs and swallowed him down.

Legolas shrilly screamed as he tried to pump up into the sucking torridity of his lover's mouth. Erestor held him as still as he could and worked him with his lips and tongue, swirling and teasing the head and laving down the svelte shaft. He dropped his hand to tickle the tightly carried balls and Legolas writhed wantonly like a feline in a patch of catnip, close to tears in his need. His passion rose in a searing crescendo and he tensed as Erestor sucked harder, sensing his orgasm building. Legolas arched up from the floor with a long explosive wail of ecstasy and erupted in tumultuous spurts down his lover's throat. Erestor gulped the viscous seed; voraciously sucking until the last drops of Legolas' semen was expelled. He fell back limp upon the blanket and lay panting in ragged breaths, smiling in the giddy aftermath of surging glory.

Erestor grinned, releasing the softened penis, and stretched out beside him, kissing the open lips and exhaling back to Legolas a hint of his own essence. Legolas shivered and rolled to press his still wet member against Erestor's hip and, draping a leg across his thighs, rocked lightly against him. Erestor enfolded him in his arms and relished the weight of the golden head upon his breast.

Erestor smirked as Legolas beamed dreamily.

"I think you have needed that for quite a while, pen-rhovan," he teased softly and Legolas giggled as he leaned up to kiss him.

"There is more I need," he whispered in sultry decadence, reaching down for his lover's erection as he did, languidly massaging the slightly pulsing rock-hard cock. "You have not had me yet."

Legolas quickened his tempo and kissed the hollow at the base of Erestor's throat. Erestor expressed his pleasure by reaching round to caress the nape of Legolas' neck and then again smoothing his palm down his lover's back. Legolas answered the sumptuous touch by blazing a tongue trail across Erestor's chest, ending in a steady lapping at his nipple. Erestor lurched up into the sensation in appreciation and would have crammed his cock vigorously into Legolas' talented grip but the archer's leg was there, heavy against his body. Erestor caressed the pleasing encumbrance, working his way around the inviting curve of the firm gluteus, allowing his fingers to slip underneath and brush the sensitive region between Legolas' anus and balls. Legolas called out Erestor's name and shoved his stiffening cock roughly against his pelvis.

Erestor let his finger tips circle the tautly puckered opening in Legolas' body as the archer continued to thrust against him in synchrony with his relentless attention to Erestor's cock, now a dark and ruddy red and exuding a steady drip of clear slickness.

The naked head fascinated Legolas. None of his previous lovers had ever been shorn thus, and he found the oral sensations the deficit produced immensely enjoyable. He trailed his lips across it, licking under the ridge and down into the slit, making soft plaintively thrumming murmurs deep in his throat while he tasted and sucked. Erestor pivoted up as much as he could to force more of his pulsing flesh into his lover's mouth, encouraging Legolas with keening sighs as his fingertips continued to dance against the boundary of the flexing entry.

Erestor pushed his finger into his lover.

"Hah!" Legolas shouted the syllable against Erestor's erection, stilling his movements momentarily. The digit shoved in, rapidly palpating the squeezing muscles, anticipating the ingression of the distended cock.

Then Erestor stilled also and began carefully probing his lover, feeling gently with healer's fingers, pushing further and exploring as far as his digit's length allowed. For as deep as he could penetrate, Erestor's finger encountered a series of irregular and coarse disfigurations upon the normally smooth lining of the tissue. As before, the history of the ill-healed hurts was revealed to his touch and he was shocked at the brutality Legolas had borne.

"Legolas?" he said softly and cautiously withdrew the finger. His hand lifted Legolas' chin and turned his head to meet his eyes. "You have, inside, you are scarred there," he tried to keep his voice calm as he struggled to get the words out, and watched as a fleeting shadow of fear flitted through his lover's eyes.

"Does it bother you? I know I will please you; I was once told it even increases the pleasure," he said as he dropped his eyes. "Please do not let this change anything," he whispered and hid his face against Erestor's broad chest. Erestor encircled him tightly in his arms and held him, stunned that this was what his lover feared.

"Nay, I only worry I may damage you more. I have come away without my pack and have nothing to ease the penetration. Legolas, you will tear; look at what I will put in you," he admonished and Legolas complied, eagerly grasping the thick and lengthy prominence awaiting its sheathing within him. He quivered with anticipation and pulled at it possessively.

"Aye, I see, and I do not care if you have to split me just get it into me. Now, Erestor!" he urgently cajoled, bending over to take the piece back into his mouth. He held it up with his hand, making sure Erestor could see his tongue darting out and around the lip of the head, determined to lift his lover's ardor beyond concerned protests.

He felt Erestor's guttural vocals more than heard them and pulled his mouth off him with a slurping pop as he broke the suction and allowed the heavy organ to drop back against his stomach. Legolas sat up and then crawled over Erestor, stopping fleetingly to pump his erection against Erestor's in flagrant lechery.

"Elbereth!" Erestor shouted and clutched at the buttocks rubbing his body, squeezing the muscular cheeks as he lifted questing lips to the archer's sensuous mouth. Legolas swept his tongue across his lover's palate, murmuring responsively into the taste.

But Legolas broke the kiss and scooted forward, bending low to drag his nipples over Erestor's mouth, which opened and bit at the brief yet delectable offerings. The wild elf wriggled into the nibbling caresses, pulling lightly against Erestor's gentle tugs, sending his urgent groans into his lover's ear as he licked it. Legolas finally snatched back the swelled tidbits, slithering off Erestor's chest, and waddled on his knees over to his destination, the wooden box. He rooted through it and Erestor had an excellent view of his firm arse, his balls just barely visible as he leaned over into the chest. Erestor could not restrain himself and got up behind Legolas and forced two fingers into him, working them deeply inside to find the prostate.

"Erestor!" Legolas screamed as the gland was jolted three times in rapid succession and he grabbed onto the edge of the chest and pushed back, splaying wide his knees invitingly, relishing the feel of the fingers fucking him. He let his forehead fall against his white-knuckled grasp on the trunk and Erestor pushed aside his golden hair and claimed the nape of his neck. He bit into the cream colored skin sharply enough to draw up a purple bruise, while his other hand gripped the wild elf's elegant organ and pumped it solidly, just once.

"Erestor!" the archer cried again. Then he lifted his head and unfurled one hand, triumphantly smiling as he showed his lover what his scavenging had yielded: a small container of sweet and slippery oil of athelas seed. Erestor grinned delightedly and pulled his fingers out, reaching for the bottle, but Legolas shook his head, concealing the bottle in his palm again and holding it jealously to his heart.

Eyes gleaming, Legolas pushed Erestor back so he was settled on his haunches beside him. Still on his knees, the fallen prince opened the bottle and coated his fingers thoroughly. Leaning over with one hand on the chest for support he slid two lubricated digits inside his body, giving Erestor a clear view of him plunging them incessantly against his pleasure point as he exhaled a carnal grunt with every jab. He leaned his head against his arm and his hair slid down, a soggy drapery wafting its dripping fringe against his protruding cock with each insertion.

Erestor leered slack jawed but then Legolas raised libidinous eyes to capture his and, muttering an oath, the Noldo pounced upon his lover, mounting him as he yanked the fingers free. He plowed his obdurate shaft up the waiting channel and stabbed impatiently against the resistant flesh, desperate to relieve his pent salacity.

Legolas howled with the impact as he was breached and slicing stringers of agony broke upon him, signaling the ripping of the muscle, followed by rippling swells of euphoria as the mixture of blood and oil eased the thickened immensity deeper.

"Ah! Valar! Legolas!" Erestor shouted out the continuous, lascivious mantra in accord with every impact of their flesh as they copulated.

Legolas had to brace his arms against the box as Erestor's potent lunges hammered him.

"More! Erestor!" Legolas shouted in his cupidity, lost in the avalanche of pain-laced ebullience as Erestor filled him beyond capacity.

He was aware of every inch of his lover's penis ravishing him and urgently sought to spread himself to allow greater access. He wanted to feel him deeper; to know the sensation of that naked head marking him, exceeding the extent of its previous onslaught each time the cock intruded. He needed to be seared by Erestor's heat, scorched by his inflamed passion, scarred by his insatiable craving.

Erestor grasped Legolas tightly around the waist and gripped the wooden box with his other hand, thrusting mercilessly, shoving in his cock as far as he could force it, nearly climbing up Legolas' back in his desperate need to embed himself in his lover's body. He could feel Legolas' penis bump against his arm every time he rammed into his rectum. With increasingly rapid and brutish impetus he drove against the constriction of Legolas' passage as the muscles encircled the invading organ in a tightening noose of relentless friction. Both elves were insensible to anything but their rutting need and the pounding of skin against skin as their delight rose to exalted ecstasy.

Legolas looked down between his arms and emptied his lungs in a tremendous holler of delirious abandon as he watched his penis shoot forth his second ejaculation across Erestor's arm and the side of the wooden chest. Erestor balanced on the pinnacle of his orgasm a moment more and then injected his semen deep into Legolas, a shuddering spasm rocking his entire body as his primitive outcry of gratification rumbled and reverberated through the rain-scissored air.

The elves collapsed onto the blankets.

tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.

Note: translate that title for yourself - it's hilarious. Also, the two chapters were one, but back when this all started I was posting the story on a Yahoo group and was running into problems with high word count, so anything over around 6000 words ended up being divided into smaller chunks, hence the shorter chapters here, too.


	18. Chapter 18

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Aniron isto; uciriel le ross? [I want to know; have you never seen the rain?]**

_Rain. Bloody vicious rain. Does it never end? Has every bloody drop of water in the Great Sea evaporated only to be precipitated right here over this dismal bloody forest?_

Erestor, formerly Rusciphant now re-christened Berenaur, squatted in unbearable discomfort in the unceasing sheets of liquid misery that poured over him, and contemplated his plight.

_Ah, but this is not a forest; no, this is a malignancy festering on the soul of Arda, a cyst of the Void welling up on Yavanna's visage, threatening to spew its poisonous and infectious evil in an ever widening, water borne epidemic! Of course it must rain half the bloody year in Mirkwood and broil in a sweltering inferno the rest of it! These are but the symptoms of the disease! Normal seasonal variations have no defence against the insidious sickness that is Mirkwood!_

He had already removed everything but his leggings, his clothing having swelled to twice its normal weight as the overabundant moisture was absorbed. His pack was drowning, veritably stewing in a soup of dissolved or waterlogged supplies. He was certain his maps and journal were ruined, no doubt reduced to a thoroughly congealed mass of sticky ink blotched fibres by now. The other pack was equally clammy and viscid. Medicinal herbs were rendered ineffective, their potency leached away into the forest's acidic soil. Bandaging was now merely a mass of pulpy cotton good only for sponging away dirt or blood and absolutely useless for binding wounds.

The Noldo's mental grousing halted as he thought he caught the sound of an animal's howl. Erestor poked his toe into the heap of garments and goods piled on the platform, uncovering his weapons, and reached for his hunting knife and sword, to be safe.

_Of course, _he resumed his internal dialogue, _it will no doubt be the case that Mirkwood Orcs love to hunt in the rain, prefer the slogging muddy tracks, aim their bows better in the grey half-dark of the cloud shrouded skies! I expect to hear them any moment now, only, oh yes, the bloody pounding rain damps out all the sounds for miles around! When they do arrive, my sodden arrows will fly off in wild arcs, unbalanced by the sorbed water in the fletching. That is, if the bow will even draw with its string so completely permeated!_

He dared not move from the high, narrow flet after observing his companion's near catastrophic misstep on the water-slicked boughs earlier. He would not be able to go in search of food as long as the storm persisted. Erestor's mood ran to acerbic sarcasm as the rain drummed upon his pate.

_When the lembas runs out I will starve while the rain graciously gives me plenty of water to prolong my demise! I will die in the Shadow's Lair, having fallen and fractured all of my bones while trying to descend to seek sustenance, for orcs will come upon me in my helplessness. No one will ever know what has become of me! Penbara and Penraeg will never even find my lovely body to hold a proper commemoration!_

_And for what purpose am I trapped in this Ulunn-infested [Monster], Nazgul-ravaged, Orc-plagued, Eru-condemned, and blighted land? Have I been lured by the anticipation of fornicating with a very forbidden and luscious bit of Nandorin arse? Enamoured by the romance of danger the Outcast Kin-slayer conjures in my brain? Tempted by the exotic allure of that primitive, savage, throwback Tawarwaith living here?_

Erestor sighed amid his mental haranguing. He had to admit that was all true. He was growing stiff just thinking about the blatantly tantalising elf. He repositioned himself and adjusted the drenched and clinging leather leggings.

He did not really believe this outcast elf could be of any service to Imladris; Elrond was mistaken this time. Just as he had been about the mother.

_Legolas certainly does favour his mother_; Erestor mused. _In fact, Elrond is probably interested not so much to recruit the fallen prince as to fuck him. With Ningloriel gone, there is a hole left in my Lord's life. Or rather, there is not a hole._

Erestor lightly and repetitively bounced the back of his head against the tree trunk as he sat, thoroughly bored, irritated, agitated, and frustrated.

_Why did I agree to the division of the spoils as Elrond dictated? Why must it be Elrond who debauches the Wood Elf? Why, oh why, have I doomed myself to unbearable longing and lusting for the creature and only the satisfaction of my own hand as I watch the Lord of Imladris spending himself deep inside the supple and sensual body of the young Tawarwaith? If I even get the opportunity to watch! Doubtful, after that little indiscretion earlier._

He had beheld the two elves among the trees as they cautiously moved away from his flet, surprised that Legolas had led his friend further into the woods. Yet, the rain was so opaque they might not be far away at all. In either case, they had soon vanished from his sight. That seemed hours ago but he could not tell; dawn could be fast approaching and he might never know it in this environment. However, he felt no concern for his comrade; he was armed while the aboriginal elf was not. No, Erestor envied him.

He recalled how easy it had been for Elrond to overcome the smaller elf. _No doubt that was due more to the depth of his fatigue and the length of his privation in this reeking, rotting land than any weakness of his nature._ Yes, he was an extraordinarily resistant creature, from what he had thus far observed. _What had that been like, _he wondered, _for my esteemed colleague?_ What had Elrond felt, lying in full-body contact with the half-dressed elf writhing underneath him? Legolas had still been aroused; Erestor was sure of it. He groaned in dismal discomfiture, shifting on the soaked wooden floor and displacing a handful of water that had pooled in his lap. He watched as the small wave crested across the slats and gushed over the edge, joining the rest of the flood far below.

_By Ulmo's balls, will this deluge never end?_

Another eerie cry filtered through the perpetual monotony of the rushing rain and Erestor sat up sharply. That had sounded distinctly like a name, his name. It came again, louder, and now he was sure of it. There, that was a different voice now, and a different name: Legolas, and Valar something or other. There was no mistaking it; those were the calls of the elves in the throes of their passionate coupling.

Erestor was furious and crawled to the edge of the flet, trying to peer through the watery barrier to learn where they were. The yelling was increasing in both volume and frequency, yet the raindrops seemed to be diffracting the sounds and sending false echoes from counter directions, and he still could not tell where to look. They had to be near in order to be heard above this din, yet he could make out nothing beyond indistinguishably wet, dun-coloured, and dripping leaves and branches. He cursed under his breath; those two were mating madly and he was not even able to catch so much as a distant and blurry glimpse. It was beyond unfair!

Legolas' long-drawn soulful shout of satisfaction as he emptied his testes and his lungs wafted through the liquefied air and lingered before drifting away, dissipating into the torrent, seeping into the very earth, then resurging throughout the woods, penetrating by slow diffusion the essence of the trees. The beech bearing Erestor's talan seemed to stretch, flexing its sturdy limbs and he stilled, forgetting his carping complaints as the entire environment luxuriated in the archer's long-desired release.

Elrond's resonating response boomed out moments later and was as languidly stolen away into the rain, and Erestor had a brief yet radiant image burst upon his mind of Legolas held close in comfort and contentment against the body of the Lord of Imladris. They lay together chest-to-chest, the young one's crown tucked under the legend's chin, their arms encircled ribs that held safe their hearts beating one rhythm together, their legs entwined at knees and ankles.

The scene was infused with and emitted a poignant sensation of the joy of the woods in the delight of their champion. Unbidden, a whisper as of new leaves rustling in a subtle breeze formed words within Erestor's mind: Dagnir-en-môr, Vín Maethor, Harthad-en-Taur, Legolas. [Bane of the Darkness, Our Warrior, Hope of the Forest, Greenleaf] The vision burned away in seconds leaving a sweet and smoky perfume within the air, reminiscent of some rare and fragile orchids that bloomed but once a century at the breaking of the dawn.

And as he was feeling this, for thought was too concrete a construction for the visual expressions of the Greenwood's soul, the rain ceased and the light brightened around him. It truly was dawn, and Erestor realised with amazement that he no longer felt burdened or downhearted, but instead was refreshed and rejuvenated, as though he had slept in the deepest comfort in his own bed in Imladris.

He turned automatically to his right and gazed into the trees, knowing now where they were and yet not in any great hurry to disturb them. He found himself smiling and cocked his head with a small laugh as he set about sorting and shaking out the clothing and the packs, adding the last few drops of the storm to the soil below.

He was pleased as his inventory progressed and he found most of the lembas still dry in its waxy packaging and the apples still crisp. His journal, too, had sustained little damage, having been wrapped inside a spare undershirt, while his maps he had wisely bound within an oiled cloth, as was his custom to do on any journey, and had never been in harm's way at all. Erestor's lips formed a wry smile as he recalled his own foolishness just a short time past.

He spread out all the clothing to dry, noting with interest a pair of soft black leggings and a contrasting tunic of a blue shade much like the color of Ningloriel's eyes. These he found within Elrond's pack, in addition to the Lord's own spare clothing, and were of a size too small for his stature. Erestor snorted; Elrond had not revealed he had brought gifts for the fallen prince.

The seneschal dumped out all the contents of the second pack and rifled through Elrond's personal items without conscience. He lifted a brow in incredulous wonder as he found two more presents. The first was a worthy souvenir; a magnificent and very ancient dagger made by Celebrimbor himself, marked with runes of power and potent spells upon the blade. The other was an ornament of mithril that appeared to be a ring made for no finger, for it had a peculiar clasp that opened out into a fine needle-like extension.

Erestor had once seen such worn by an elf maid through the very flesh of the most sensitive part of her ear's tip. He laughed aloud at the mental image of the feral elf wearing such a thing; Elrond would not be offering this trinket to that pen-rhovan, he sincerely hoped.

While he was thus occupied the forest had come to life, bustling with the sounds and colours of vibrant and vocal birds and small, scurrying four-footers. The call of a songbird right next to his cheek seized Erestor's attention and he turned from the mundane examination of the Elf Lord's version of love tokens. His abrupt movement startled the bright blue avian and it shot across to a neighbouring limb with two rapid snaps of its lapis wings and Erestor's eye travelled with it. He caught his breath as he gazed upon the woods.

Vision dazzling lances of golden sunlight pierced the canopy in a random array of slanting shards. The contrast between the shadowy leaf-shielded woods and the illuminated columns of Anar's glory was startling and underscored the sacred solemnity of the forest; both living sanctuary and ancient, venerable power at once, its roof adorned in living banners and buttressed with colonnaded radiance. Within the narrow aura of each luminous pillar, the colours of the elision trees shone forth in a palette of greens that ranged from the softest mossy sage to the most luxuriant aqua-tinged fir to the glossiest emerald of summer-leafed maples. Gone was the dull lead-grey monochrome of rain blown wooden husks, replaced with an indescribable diversity of bark and bole in chestnut browns, mellowed sienna hues, silvery greys mottled white, and gleaming near-ebony richness. The whole of Mirkwood glistened in its storm-recovered grandeur, transcending the encroachment of darkening evil and defying the accursed name used by Men.

Erestor felt transported beyond himself, his comprehension enlightened by the incarnate spirit woven within every root and sprig as the dancing pattern of ethereal splendour disclosed the hidden majesty of the forest. He realised this must be the Greenwood as it had looked in the First Age of Anar when it was still connected to Lothlorien and Fangorn. The jaded and cynical seneschal stood up and looked out with eyes somehow new and unspoiled despite long age, lost in entranced veneration. His soul swelled in joyous amazement and he felt he understood some small inkling of Legolas' communion with Tawar.

As suddenly as the transfiguration had occurred it diminished and departed. A remnant cloud of the night's storm passing somewhere overhead occluded the brilliant beams and he was once more in Mirkwood. Erestor drew in a deep and stabilising breath as he sought to ground himself; he had not felt awe since his elfling years.

With the lingering sensation of beatification upon him, he knelt to organise the contents of the packs, separating each item to allow as much air to circulate as possible and speed the drying process. Satisfied he had done all that was needed to restore their possessions to their former condition; Erestor drew out his comb and sat back again. Carefully he worked through the lush and lengthy onyx filaments, coaxing out the lustre and sheen he was so proud of until not a snag remained and the mane was dry, bound back again in a mithril clasp. He thought of how he might pass his time and instantly retrieved his journal, a slender quill, and his bottle of blue-black ink, for there was much he wanted to document of his recent adventures. He settled against the tree's trunk.

He recorded his memories and observations in neat and careful characters, each precisely the same size as the next, each line of text equidistant from those above and below it. His words were skilfully chosen yet allowed neither excessive nor unnecessary embellishment, yielding an account perhaps a little dry in comparison to the true experience. But Erestor had an artistic flair, and he often added quick drawings to illustrate his prose on the facing leaves of the leather bound account. His gifted hands imbued his pictures with much of the raw emotion the journey had thus far exacted.

He was sketching the trees around his flet, attempting to capture that sense of uplifted glory and strength that had stirred him so, when he heard the sound of feet upon the branches, and looked to his right. The Lord of Imladris was making slow but steady progress, barefooted, along the limbs still wet and hazardous to those unaccustomed to such pathways. Erestor capped his ink and closed the book, standing to meet his Lord with arms akimbo and a disgruntled expression upon his features.

"So! You recalled I still exist! Or, more likely, you got hungry and remembered where you left your pack. And what of the Wood Elf?" he spoke his reproachful greeting in Quenya, as they had agreed all their conversations must be, voicing high words for low thoughts.

Elrond stepped gratefully onto the flet, glancing down to the floor of the forest as he did so, and then faced his old friend. He took in the sodden leggings and the bootless feet, the immaculately coifed hair and scowling brow, and Elrond could not help but laugh.

"What a sight you are, Erestor! No one in Imladris would recognise you; you have gone native, my friend," he managed to state before laughing again.

"Then we are a pair," Erestor glared and looked the Elf Lord up and down. "You look the worse, for you have not even tended your hair. And at least I do not reek of certain bodily excretions," he said with icy hauteur. "Some of which are not your own, I might point out. Honestly, Elrond, with all the water that has assailed us, could you not find enough to wash up? I believe you are boasting, and it is not flattering to your character."

Elrond had the good graces to be dismayed if not to blush; he had really not thought about it and had not intended to offend his friend.

"Erestor, that is not true. I was in a hurry to return so we may speak before he wakes nothing more. Do not be angry; we agreed this way was best," he said.

Erestor was but minimally mollified. It was he after all who had been left alone in the rain while his Lord had enjoyed the pleasures of new flesh.

"Perhaps, but maybe not for my best. Have you any idea what it is like to hear your name shouted in impassioned ecstasy while being nowhere near the orator? The least you could have done was grant me the opportunity to observe the activity," he fumed.

Elrond smiled and placed a placating hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I am sorry for that, but it did work. He believes most of it, and what he doubts is not what I have said but what I have held back. As for the rest," Elrond shrugged, "I was not entirely in control of events. He is very demanding and will have things as he chooses. You are unlikely to be honoured with any visual stimulus; he does not like you."

Erestor raised his brows as he momentarily contemplated what sorts of things the wild elf might demand, but his complaints were not yet done.

"I have had time to think on this, Elrond, and it would have worked as well if he actually was with me rather than merely believing this to be so. Remind me again, logically, why the good of our realm depends on you being the one to bed the fallen prince?"

Here Elrond allowed himself a small knowing grin; there was an easy answer. Erestor liked to pretend to be a sexual dilettante; sampling his lovers briefly and laconically while returning nothing of his heart or mind, yet it was false. The seneschal preferred the young because of their willingness to allow him to talk out his frustrations and exasperations of daily life in the service of his Lord, as much as for the thrill of divesting them of their virginity. Erestor loved to gossip as a sort of after-sport to his lovemaking.

"It would be impossible for this to work if you became his lover simply because you would quickly loosen your tongue and unwittingly reveal our purpose here," Elrond said.

Erestor's eyes opened wide as his lips followed suit and he was struck dumb a moment, so great was his outrage.

"That is just preposterous! I cannot think why you would call me a betrayer. I would never do such a thing; not the vilest and most anguishing tortures could force me to turn against our realm!" he shouted, deeply wounded, and brushed away his Lord's hand from his shoulder.

"Nay, that is not what I think. It is not that you would betray our people but that you would come to trust that one," he said with a brief twist of his head in the direction from which he had come. "Indeed, I feel myself that I could tell him everything I suspect and he would assist us willingly. I almost did not follow through, Erestor. I almost gave him my true identity."

Erestor held the Elven Lord's gaze a moment then looked away, considering these words. It was disturbing to hear and he wondered what it was about the wild creature that could produce this affect on them, remembering the vivid mental scenes and emotions they had both experienced since encountering the Wood Elf. He worried suddenly that the creature knew all their thoughts and plans, then discarded that. If this was so, Legolas would either have killed them himself or allowed the Orcs to have them.

He exhaled a discontented breath and remained silent. Elrond had not truly answered his question at all, for his reasoning was faulty. Erestor enjoyed his open discourse with his partners, but this was only because they were of his own lands and people. He was not loose of tongue even when within the safe embrace of his Lorien lovers, and never did he discuss Elrond's concerns about the Woodland Realm, regardless of who he was with. His Lord knew this; the whole argument had merely been a distraction to turn the seneschal's mind away from the real issue at hand.

Erestor set his jaw as he gritted his teeth; the affront stung his dignity and he would force an honest admission from Elrond's lips. It was the price he would demand for both his wounded pride and his sacrifice of what had obviously been extremely pleasurable. He had played the part of the lecherous rogue perfectly, driving the overwrought Wood Elf straight into Elrond's embrace, and he would have that acknowledged, as well as the reason for it.

He waited and did not bother to look at Elrond, turning instead to put away his journal, quill, and ink. He heard Elrond's shift in position and watched as he moved over to the packs and extracted a wafer of lembas.

Elrond sat against the tree's bole and looked up to meet his confidant's gaze.

"I apologise, I did not mean to call into question your integrity. If I had no confidence in your honour I would not have you beside me," he said but Erestor's expression indicated it was not enough.

"All right!" Elrond threw his lembas down in vexation. "We both know it is true; I wanted things this way for personal reasons. I confess to you my hatred for Thranduil and his folk has not lessened in all this time since that horrendous day. And you were there to see it, too, Erestor. In trying to salvage the foolish pre-emptive attack the Sindar made before the gates of Mordor, Gil-Galad was lost. There, I have said it; does that please you? And, if I enjoyed it, what of that? I will enjoy it even more when I have cleaned him of my semen and his blood, and sent the cloth by messenger to Thranduil!"

Erestor stood aghast, for that was a level of coldness he had not imagined his old friend would know. He wondered if this was the nature of the evidence Thranduil had finally used against Ningloriel.

And he realised Elrond was right. It could never work with himself as the lover. This sort of joining was not one in which he would engage, indeed, such a coupling was for him unthinkable. He could not himself hold the young Wood Elf to account for events that occurred long before his birth. He could not retain both the ice of hatred and the fire of passion within his soul, together. While Erestor would have gladly used the feral elf's body for pleasure he never would do so for the sake of such bitter vengeance.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	19. Chapter 19

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Abross [After the Rain]**

Rather than offering a respite from the searing summer sun, the overarching limbs and branches of the forest prevented the rising heat of the muggy air from escaping into the bordering meadows. Below the canopy the wearing of the day caused the temperature to steadily climb and in turn coaxed more moisture out of the ground until the invisible gases became nearly tactile.

The thick and sweltering atmosphere was burdened and redolent with the dank fumes of waterlogged earth and decaying wood. Sultry scents emanated from exotic blooms caught amid the statuesque timbers and dangling down from creeping vines that swayed against the ground when a rare puff of a wind stirred the duff. Under the torrid hand of the sweating woods, living things slowed to sluggish subsistence and bare endurance during the simmering mid-summer's morn.

For the two Noldor interlopers within the steaming sauna it was becoming progressively uncomfortable to breathe the cloying air and the exertion this normally reflexive action required was draining. They were unused to the higher altitude, the excessive heat, the burdensome humidity, and the rugged conditions; preferring the domestication of the open yet protected lands beyond the Misty Mountains. It was obvious that Elrond and Erestor were more accustomed to being the hosts than the wayfarers and had not packed appropriately for the climate.

The two elves had spoken little since the argument at dawn and now were silently repacking their belongings in preparation to removing to the larger talan where their Sylvan companion still slept. Neither had bothered to put on boots or shirts or tunics, as the oppressive heat was hardly bearable even as scantily clothed as they were.

Elrond had self-consciously bathed with the drinking water and Erestor noted he carefully folded and sequestered this cloth within his pack separately, as though to use it later, and this served to underscore the cold brutality of his earlier words. At last all was ready and without comment they hefted their burdens and Legolas' weapons and set out upon the branchway.

Erestor knew the way as well, having been gifted with the vision of the location previously, yet out of deference he followed Elrond. As they came closer, he noted the tarpaulin stretched between the poles and the tree and could not help giving a sniff of indignation and an icy glare when Elrond glanced back. Elrond shook his head slightly and stepped down onto the platform carefully, not certain how deep the Tawarwaith reposed. He heard Erestor's step behind him and moved further onto the talan to allow him room, but the seneschal halted where he was as his senses registered the proof of the early morning's activities.

The musky odor of their coupling hung in the air, escaping into the close atmosphere from the blankets, remaining trapped under the tarpaulin by the lack of wind and the sticky heat. Legolas lay motionless and naked, stretched out in much the same pose he had adopted on the two previous occasions that Erestor had observed his rest. This upset Erestor for reasons he could not quite define. Legolas looked very fragile this way and it jarred with what he thought he knew about the feral elf. He was angry, or perhaps it was merely disappointment over having lost his opportunity to experience such a passionate encounter with the wild warrior.

He shook his head, disgusted with his own self-deceit, for he knew very well that had nothing to do with it at all. He had, in spite of his determination to scorn the lowly backwoods moriquendi, found much to admire in the Wood Elf. He had even found qualities worthy of respect, and did not like to think of such a one being used. Of course, he would have been willing to use him just a short time ago, and this added to his unease. It rankled even more to accept that his Lord, worthy of esteem for his own nobility, was the one who would bring the unsuspecting elf down. It was not the sort of behavior he tended to associate with Elrond.

Erestor sighed, for that too was false. He had known of the situation with Ningloriel right from the start, and had never felt much of a twinge knowing Elrond did not love her with the same intensity that she extended that emotion. Yet, Ningloriel had always understood who she was dealing with and had her own agenda. The true depth of her emotional involvement was limited by her own self-centered disposition. Her son did not even have an agenda that Erestor could determine.

And there was that, too; the very fact that he was Ningloriel's child made the seneschal's skin crawl a bit. It was indecent, somehow, to lie with the child of one's former lover. Not that Legolas was a child by any means, yet it did not set right in his mind. Ever hovering was the belief that the archer was very likely Elrond's child as well, and this made the lies about the Elf Lord's identity a breach of trust that could never be forgiven should it come to light. Unable to clarify his reasoning beyond these impressions, Erestor set his things aside near the wooden box as quietly as he could. He watched to see if the archer would stir, but he remained quiet and somehow this bothered him more.

Elrond was busy on the other side of the talan and did not appear to be paying any attention to his lover. Erestor realized he was going through Legolas' quiver, which had two or three internal pockets or divisions in which he separated various necessary items from his arrows. He watched a moment as flint and arrowheads were removed and set aside, followed by the dagger. He watched as a carefully folded and much worn piece of parchment was drawn forth. Elrond started to open the note but Erestor quickly stepped around the prone archer and snatched the paper away from his Lord, sending him a look of deepest disapproval as he refolded and replaced the letter.

"That is too much! He is unlikely to have any information we can use contained there," he hissed and returned then to his own things, ignoring the look of absolute astonishment on the Elven Lord's features.

"Do not pretend you are not curious. You would like to know who would write an outcast, banished elf a note such that he would keep it when all else he owns is of practical necessity," Elrond snapped in self-justification, but Erestor pursed his lips and glared through slitted eyes at his Lord and shook his head firmly.

"I am not curious. Even knowing him so little, I can assume it must be from his mother. If he was treasured within a lover's heart, would he be out here alone?" he scoffed and pointedly turned aside as he drew out his journal from his pack. Settling himself against the box and facing the archer's back, he began to sketch Legolas' recumbent form, keenly aware of the dusky scent of semen permeating the wood supporting him.

Elrond found his conscience reeling from that simple statement and his eyes fell upon the sleeping elf. Even in rest he was not at peace, and the heavy air was overlaid with a sensation of restlessness and agitation as though these emotions peeled off the Legolas' bare skin with every breath he exhaled. He watched the fallen warrior's eyes, wandering in dream, as feelings swirled through them, and Elrond nearly wished he would close them again so as to conceal the anguish they exposed. The Elf Lord looked back to his seneschal, but he was engaged in his drawing and did not bother to acknowledge his Lord's regard.

It was the perfect proportions of that body that drew the eye, Erestor thought as he rapidly captured the gentle S-shaped posture of the nude elf on paper. One arm stretched above his head cradled it, the other lay dangling over his side, fingertips barely resting against his navel, though this he could not confirm from his present vantage. One leg, bent at the knee towards his chest, prevented him from rolling over onto his stomach while the other rested in a more or less straight line with his spine.

For the first time, Erestor observed a braided lock of dark auburn hair twisted around that foot, clinging around the middle-toe, criss-crossing over the deceptively delicate arch, and finally wrapped twice about the slender ankle and tied off with a strand of leather lacing. He sketched it in detail, wondering whose hair was such a treasured memento. The position of the legs eased the sharp angles of the lean and muscular body, he noted, calling attention to the softer curves of the buttocks.

Erestor abruptly stopped his quill upon the parchment sheaf as he gazed there and observed the dried track of the blood that had run down to stain Legolas' leg and the blanket as well. He tightened his lips in an acrimonious scowl as he looked back over to find Elrond's eyes upon him. The two elves remained locked in a silent discourse, Erestor accusatory and Elrond apologetic, for several seconds before Erestor cursed under his breath and slammed shut the journal with a loud slap.

Legolas jumped; his head came up and he tried to roll up to his feet, but abruptly he stiffened and cried out. He lowered himself back down carefully and did not move as he tried to relax his body to ease the pain, dropping his head back onto his arm with a weary groan. Elrond went to his side and consolingly caressed his shoulders.

"Best not to move so suddenly, Legolas. I will get my medicinal pack and see what can be done, alright?" he said quietly and the suffering elf just nodded. It did not take Elrond long to find what he needed and he set to work as gently as he could.

With elaborate care he used the remaining contents of his waterskin to clean away the blood and semen, even as he had boasted that he would, and tucked the soiled cloth safely away.

This action was not lost to Erestor's notice, and he made a disgusted face and averted his gaze. But his eyes were drawn back in spite of himself by the sound of Legolas strenuously filling his lungs. He did not cry out but it was obvious he was in acute distress as his breathing was rapid and shallow and his hands were rigidly balled into the blankets beneath him.

Elrond did not speak, instead concentrating on being as thorough and quick as possible. He was somewhat concerned that the injuries did not seem to have closed over much during the intervening hours. He used a salve that would protect against infection while easing pain and soothed it liberally inside Legolas. Scrupulously examining the extent of the damage as he applied the medicine, Elrond seemed not to notice the increased tempo of his patient's pulse. Eventually Legolas gasped and sought to draw away as the fingers pressed in too deep for him to bear.

"Enough!" he rasped hoarsely, his throat constricted in his effort not to cry out in his discomfort, and Elrond cautiously withdrew his fingers. Legolas exhaled and slumped down, and only then did the Noldor understand how stringently tense he had held himself during the treatment.

He was drawing deep lung-fulls of air, face pressed against the woolen blanket and eyes screwed shut, trying to command his senses to accept the pain washing through him in virtually visible waves. After several minutes his respiration eased and Erestor got up and passed the waterskin to him. Legolas took it from him, startled, for he had not noticed the other elf at all. He pulled the blanket over himself self-consciously before he drank, and closed his eyes when he laid the canteen aside, not knowing where to look just yet. Erestor retrieved the container and retreated to his previous spot as Elrond resumed rubbing the younger elf's back. After some time, Legolas drifted into uneasy sleep, and Elrond dared a glance over his shoulder to Erestor.

The expression he saw there was anything but admiring and Elrond found it unpleasant to be the subject of such staunch disapproval. First he had willingly used an innocent for his own selfish motives, revealing himself to be vengeful and bitter, and now he must seem an appalling brute to his colleague. The Lord of Imladris was unused to being the object of disdain among his peers, and did not like it. He swallowed, realizing he had to set things right with his old friend if their efforts here were to yield any benefit. He could not bear the thought of Erestor believing he had deliberately harmed Legolas to spite his enemy.

"Berenaur," he whispered and his seneschal's eyes flashed a sneer of contempt.

"Yes, my Lord, what is it?" he murmured back caustically. He had already determined that he could not call Elrond by the name Erestor, and so had decided to address him only with the title of respect when Legolas was near, and he was no longer certain this tribute was deserved.

"It is not how it seems. He wanted things this way," Elrond tried to explain and Erestor's look of incredulity spoke for him. "I am serious; he would not be denied," Elrond continued, turning to face his friend as he crouched next to Legolas. "It is not the first time he has been taken thus; he is scarred deeply inside." The seneschal still looked doubtful, yet at least he was listening.

"Are you mad? No one could want to know such pain," Erestor whispered back.

"I would not lie about such a thing. He would not be refused and made his desires known quite insistently," Elrond continued. "He has known that pain often, from my estimation. In fact, upon considering it, I would have to say he has never known anything else."

The Lord of Imladris suddenly rose and went to sit down next to Erestor, staring at Legolas' inert body, for it was the first time he had allowed his healer's assessment of the internal damage to make itself utterly clear to him. The Noldor looked at one another, both encountering similar expressions of horrified dismay on the other's face.

"Why? What in the Name of Iluvatar does that mean?" Erestor could not contain his indignation and panic at such a statement. It was positively inconceivable for him to associate any sort of discomfort with sex and he found that the idea was vaguely frightening to him in addition to being disgusting. He knew the sexual tastes of some leaned towards the macabre, yet he was normally able to shield himself from ever really having to think about that sort of thing. He could not reconcile the two concepts within his mind: the exquisite sexual allure of Legolas and a craving for such wrenching agony.

Elrond was shaking his head slightly and allowed his eyes to rove over his lover's body slowly, remembering the frenzied lovemaking they had shared. It was a hard truth to face; he had enjoyed it, all of it. Legolas' pain had magnified his pleasure, allowing him to indulge his darkest urges without restraint.

"I do not know why or how, but that is what I sense when I touch him," the Elf Lord said quietly.

Erestor shivered involuntarily and shifted slightly so that he could sit facing Elrond, crossing his knees under him. This took him closer to Legolas and he reached out, unthinking, and lightly touched the golden locks arrayed upon the wooden deck. With Legolas' back to the Noldor, they failed to notice that his eyes sharpened in focus the instant his hair was touched. He kept all hint of his consciousness hidden and listened to what passed between his companions.

"This plan no longer seems so carefree, my Lord," Erestor said defying Elrond. "What may result from this?" But Elrond had considered the situation and was already able to rationalize his actions and his scheming.

"Nay, whatever has happened to him was none of our doing, my friend. He has been this way a long number of years, and I can assure you his life is not in jeopardy, though he is suffering under some long-held grief and the strain of exhaustion."

"Then all the more reason to abandon this course. We must find another way to achieve our objective." The seneschal gripped a handful of the twisted tresses within his fingers tightly as he spoke and Legolas tried desperately not to respond to the tug.

"My dear friend, you are beside yourself." Elrond was surprised and looked askance at his loyal countryman.

Erestor shifted uncomfortably and glanced back at the motionless elf next to him, noticing his hand was tangled in the shimmering yellow strands. He yanked his fingers back as though from a serpent's fangs and his features contorted as if from pain.

"What is he doing so close to Dol Guldur? Why does he offer himself as bait merely to trap and kill a few Orcs among hundreds? If he is banished, why then does he not leave this accursed place and settle elsewhere?" Erestor fumed.

The whole situation in which Legolas existed seemed bizarre to him, and he knew subconsciously that what disturbed him so was that death was lurking all around the Wood Elf. In a strange dance he could not comprehend, Legolas was both pursuing and repelling his demise. Erestor shivered again.

Elrond narrowed his eyes and glanced down at the subject of their discussion and said nothing, peering closely at the rise and fall of the archer's shoulders. Erestor followed his gaze and raised questioning brows at the Elf Lord upon noticing no change. Elrond glanced up and gave his seneschal a meaningful look, and resumed his scrutiny. Their silence stretched into minutes while Legolas hoped the conversation would resume.

He sensed the eyes upon him and sighed just slightly, realizing that he must have given himself away, though he could not think how. Possibly being a healer made his lover more astute in observing one's state of alertness. Legolas shifted, lifting up onto one elbow so he could glare over at Berenaur. He had not forgotten the humiliating things the Noldo had done to him. They regarded one another wordlessly for several seconds before Legolas spoke.

"Would you hand me the water, please?" he asked simply and Berenaur almost laughed to hear the mundane request, and smiled nervously as he complied. Legolas drank deeply but did not return the smile when he handed back the leather flacon. He then slowly began to draw himself into a more upright position, grimacing against the sharp twinges lancing through his lower body.

His lover instantly came to his side to assist and Legolas at first thought to push him away. He was too tired, however, and hurting with a throbbing persistence that only grew worse the more he moved about. Why should he not relent and take advantage of the other's presence? He allowed himself to be eased into a reclining position against his lover's chest, grabbing the blanket just in time to keep himself covered, and did not protest when strong arms encircled him to hold him there. He looked up to find the Elf Lord's concerned eyes studying him, and offered a half-hearted smile. Legolas relaxed as much as possible and settled himself such that the pain was no more than a dull aching. He returned his glowering eyes to Berenaur and let them stay there. At last the seneschal cleared his throat.

"I realize I owe you an apology. I am truly sorry to have allowed my base desires to get the better of me. Normally, I am not so lascivious," he said quickly and awkwardly but Legolas' features only grew darker.

"Are you saying I am to blame, then?" he demanded, half rising from his comfortable position, but Elrond held him tight.

"Nay! I do not mean that at all! I mean that I, well I normally do ask first and I . . ."

"So then you are saying I am not someone you need take the trouble to ask? I am just here for your gratification, whenever the mood strikes you?" Legolas cut in indignantly and again his lover had to hold him back to prevent him from moving.

"I mean nothing of the kind. Sweet Elbereth's tits! You put motives to my actions I never intended," the Noldo objected and threw his hands up in defeat. "Please, hear me!" he pleaded. "I beg your forgiveness, that is all I can do. I was wrong in every way and regret my actions more completely than you can know."

"You were touching my hair," Legolas growled, and Berenaur felt his face flush in confusion as he started to shake his head in dissent. This infuriated Legolas more and Elrond had to tighten his firm grasp around his shoulders to stay him. "Do not deny it! I felt it; that is what woke me just now. Ever as I try to sleep you put you hands upon my person."

"Peace, Legolas! He did not even realize he had laid a hand on your hair. I was watching him the whole time and I assure you this is so," Elrond attempted to soothe his lover and Legolas did ease back into a less tense configuration. His eyes continued to bore into Berenaur's with cold wrath, however, and the Noldo looked away, aware again of the deeper emotions there behind the cover of anger. He recognized them now: pain and fear and sorrow.

The silence was uncomfortably thick.

But Legolas did not have the energy or the will to continue to feed his anger, and he could see clearly that Berenaur was being truthful. He had also heard him arguing against whatever plot they were up to, as though from concern for him. There was something in the Noldo's eyes that reminded him of the way Malthen used to look at him sometimes. Legolas had always thought it an odd mixture: deep regret and honest admiration, and always the heat of desire. He decided to forgive him.

"I thought I told you before not to talk about me in foreign words," Legolas rebuked, directing this irritated comment to Elrond, and transferred the slicing gleam of his fiery gaze to the noble Lord's face. Elrond raised a single brow and stared back, but the Wood Elf was bold and refused to back down. Erestor enjoyed a loud chuckle as his Lord groaned and rolled his eyes skyward in exasperation.

"So you did. We owe you yet another apology. A thousand times we must beseech and plead mercy from you, O Lord of Rhovanion. And exactly how long were you lying there eavesdropping, pen-rhovan?" he demanded in mock irritation and his flippant humour served to break the tension beneath the canvas canopy. Legolas smirked a wry grin.

"Long enough to wonder if all the Noldor use the High Tongue for everyday speech, so often do I catch you at it," he countered. "Surely all your conversations cannot be secret ones." At this he felt his lover's body shaking with mirth and looked up again as the smooth laughs broke from his lips. "What is so funny, Erestor?" he asked.

For half a second the seneschal thought he was being addressed, before remembering their scheme. Of course, it was to Elrond the feral elf directed his question.

"I was thinking that we are well matched as guardians of our respective secrets, for while we two may converse in a foreign tongue, you converse only with trees," the Elf Lord replied.

"I have no secrets to hide for these are my lands, after all, and what can be unusual in wanting to cleanse them of the evil advancing from Dol Guldur," Legolas said and frowned at this comparison, looking from one to the other of them. After a few moments' consideration he spoke again. "If you must know, I am here at the request of Mithrandir; there is nothing secretive about it. I am trying to learn what I may about the Nazgul that are in residence in my woods," he said solemnly.

The Noldor's eyes met above the Wood Elf's head in amazement. Could it truly be so easy as this to discover what they sought?

"What have you learned? Do you know why they are here?" Berenaur spoke, breathless with expectation, for this was at the heart and soul of their own concerns. Legolas shook his head.

"I know not why they plague us. What I am trying to do is determine a way to be rid of them." This reply prompted another shared glance of obvious surprise and this time Elrond voiced his disbelief.

"It is impossible to be rid of them; they cannot be killed. Why would Mithrandir suggest such a thing to you? Have you broken some laws of the Istari in addition to those of your own people, that the wizard should want you dead as well?" He felt Legolas cringe at these words and regretted them instantly as his lover tried to pry his arms off him to get out of his embrace.

"Nay! You are wrong, none want me dead. What makes you say this?" he cried and wriggled out of Elrond's hold, momentarily losing his blanket and snatching it back up as he crawled away from the other elves, stopping only when the edge of the platform forestalled further retreat. He was breathing hard from the pain the effort cost and looked from one to the other, stricken and angry. "It is a lie! Why do you say this?" he demanded desperately and the Noldor exchanged worried yet bewildered looks.

"I think it was not meant so literally," Berenaur tried to alleviate some of the elf's obvious distress. "It is just that this is a dangerous place to call home," he said in what he hoped were consoling tones.

Legolas shot him a look the seneschal could not interpret beyond a deep sense of misery as he cast his eyes about the talan, searching. He found his objective and stretched out to retrieve his breeches, shucking them on under the blanket and yanking hard on the knot he pulled at the waist. With only a slightly stilted gait to betray the discomfort still assailing his body, he rose and strode over to where his weapons rested.

"Legolas," said Elrond, but received no response as the archer strapped down the quiver. Legolas' vision clouded in stormy wrath when he noted several items displaced from their former positions within it. Scooping back up the flint and dagger, he left the arrowheads lying there. His eyes slashed the air between them with seething rage as they finally met his lover's. He snatched up his bow.

"Wait." Elrond tried to be calm, keeping his voice low, but as before Legolas ignored him. In a single leap he was up above them and in minutes he was gone from the tree and darting away through the canopy without disturbing so much as a leaf in his passing.

A few moments elapsed while the Noldor registered the events and then Erestor shoved Elrond hard on the shoulder.

"What is the matter with you, sitting there?" he yelled. "Go! Follow him."

Elrond stared open mouthed at his friend then shut his jaws with an audible click as his molars connected. "It is not possible; there is no way to know where he has gone. Besides, he clearly is upset and wishes to be alone."

"Are you being deliberately slow and insensitive?" demanded Erestor. "He does not want to be alone, no matter how much he thinks he does. That remark cut right through him, now go fix things."

"What suddenly makes you an authority on what he wants?" Elrond demanded uncomfortably, but rose to his feet as he spoke, gazing out into the forest towards the direction of Legolas' flight. "I will never find him; he moves too fast and cannot be tracked."

"Nonsense; the trees will tell you where to go. He was right, they do watch over him and accept your connection to him."

This statement drew a bewildered expression onto the Elf Lord's features as he looked at his old friend. "How could you possibly know that?" he demanded.

"What difference does that make right now?" Erestor impatiently waved away the inquiry. "What are you stalling for? You made sure to be the one to have sex with him, now you will have to deal with the responsibility," he warned.

The seriousness of these words alarmed Elrond.

"What are you talking about, Erestor?" he almost shouted in frustration. "I am not bonded to him, for Elbereth's sake! Do not be so histrionic."

Erestor frowned and solemnly shook his head.

"Well, we will just see what his Tawar thinks about that," he intoned gravely and tossed Elrond his dagger.

They stared together another moment more before Elrond at last moved off into the branches, glancing back one last time at his old friend, an expression between disbelief and dread etched upon his countenance.

Erestor watched him go, breaking down into peals of soft laughter as soon as he determined he was beyond earshot. That, he thought, had been fitting revenge for his earlier mistreatment at the Elf Lord's hands.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.

Note: Well, Erestor obviously has a heart and a conscience after all, but really he should not have sent Elrond out after our wild elf :(


	20. Chapter 20

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Gwedh Saer [Bitter Bond]**

Tawar protected its own and, more than any other of its Elven inhabitants, Legolas belonged to Tawar.

The woods shared with him all the undercurrents of life and death within the constant ebb and surge of energy throughout Arda. He was aware of the great part in the Music of the Ainur the forests sang and accepted that he was a mere collection of notes within that flowing harmony. He could tell from subtle changes in tone and pitch when the mood shifted from life to survival, rejoicing to struggle. He recognised the shift in tempo that alerted him to dangers from the gathering Shadow in the south and east.

Thus, it was not remarkable that the Greenwood knew when Legolas was in distress or at ease. Such signals originated from contact with him, through the very soles of his feet and the palms of his hands, as he moved throughout the forest. Water he used to cleanse his hair and body returned to the streams and passed along a sense of his health to the earth and thus to the trees. Likewise wind and rain might bring even more ephemeral signs to the woods. All of this was as natural as breathing to Legolas.

A similar connection extended from the forests to the rest of the Sylvan folk, though in a reduced sense.

All the thriving life, flora and fauna, that comprised the extant woods of Middle Earth knew and loved the Wood Elves and celebrated their presence among them. Yet in the Third Age the elves had changed, abiding within them rather than belonging to them, residing in the woods but no longer vitally integral to the organic structure. Once they had been the voice for the heart and soul of Tawar, singing as no others could, praising the glorious majesty of the trees' essence and the rich diversity of life sheltered within its protecting embrace.

Now few elves spent the long hours lost in reverie and communion with Tawar they once had and fewer created were the songs of growing and life while the dirges of sorrow and strife accrued. In increasingly greater numbers the Wood Elves abandoned Tawar, forsaking their only home to go beyond the Great Sea into the West. And none of the other entities of the woods could go with them, not even the trees that were almost as ageless and certainly as wise.

For this reason the woods grieved and felt their time of sentience fading with the Quendi, for when all of the First Born withdrew then none would ever again know the spirit of Tawar or hear the Music of the forest. The woods had begged for a champion to be raised up among the elves to take on their cause, entreating Yavanna to heed their desperate desire for one that would cleave to them and drive back the Darkness that sought to sever the Wood Elves from Tawar forever. The trees had pleaded for this boon from the Vala ever since the Maia Sauron rose to power, but the voices of the Quendi cried out for their own deliverance apart from the woods, and now even the Silvan Elves accepted their fate of diminishing departure.

Still, Yavanna had great love for her creations, and had wrought them upon Middle Earth for all of the Children of Iluvatar, the First Born and the Second Born. Though she knew the mind of Tawar would be altered and only a variation of its voice would sing after the elves were but memories, she desired the woods to remain in the world during the Age of Men. The Vala answered the pleas of the trees and sent them one to be their own, a Tawarwaith true.

Tawar knew of him and exulted in his making even while Legolas was concealed in the body of his mother. With Manwë's breath sighing through their leafy limbs the forest whispered the thought of his name into Ningloriel's dreams until she believed it was her invention. As he grew, Legolas' intangible connection to bark and branch became more pronounced due to his parents' inability to draw him close to their hearts. With open animosity between them, what security could they offer to their child? The rest of his kind subtly held back from him wary of his royal status, the instability in his home-life, and the link developing with the most ancient life upon the lands. It was strange for an elf to be so set apart, as was Legolas. From his youngest years he belonged to the trees more than he would ever belong to the elves.

It never occurred to him that other Wood Elves did not share this deeper bond with the Greenwood until he was disgraced and banished. Utterly separated from his people, his sense of kinship to the trees had deepened and became a thoroughly conscious revelation.

As for the motives of other Elves, Men, or Dwarves, the forest could only judge these by Legolas' responses to them. Perhaps in Fangorn there were still trees that could be called to action and made to understand the complexities of strategy and manipulation on an individual by individual scale. In the Greenwood, no such entities existed. Tawar could not divulge what it could not comprehend, and plots and schemes of local political mien were too small to rise to its attention amid the overwhelming evil of Sauron.

Thus the Greenwood could sense the uneasiness within Legolas' heart regarding the Noldor interlopers, but perceived that he did not find any direct malice within them. As soon as it was clear they were under his protection, the trees assisted as best they could given the two elves' limited ability to respond to them.

When Legolas found comfort with them, then Greenwood delighted. When he recoiled from them in hurt and sorrow, the trees knew that the major part of these emotions derived from past injuries still unhealed in their champion's soul, and did not seek to hinder the Noldorin elves.

After leaving his companions upon the guard's old outpost, Legolas' wish for solitude was heeded; the trees did not extend a mental image to guide the Elf Lord to their Tawarwaith.

So, Legolas knew he could not be followed, for the Noldor were far too slow and unskilled among the branches to keep up with him and the trees would ensure he left no trail. His burst of anger and its accompanying adrenaline flux were short lived and did not carry him far, for the pain was too sharp both in his body and spirit. He merely doubled back after climbing higher into the canopy and returned to the narrow flet where the seneschal had spent the rain-scoured night.

Shaking in the aftermath of rage and exertion, Legolas removed his quiver and frantically searched through the compartments. He was beside himself to know that the elves had gone through his personal possessions. He had so few, and none could be of value to anyone save himself, yet they had rummaged through them anyway. He wondered darkly which one had been handling his things and then realised it did not matter since both had been present. Most likely each had satisfied their curiosity at the expense of his privacy. He breathed a relieved sigh as his fingers closed around the familiar texture of the parchment note and pulled it out.

Legolas settled with a rather uncomfortable shifting and bending of legs to a half-seated, half-reclining position supported by an elbow, and looked at the small square of paper in his hand. He had folded it such that it fit perfectly in the center of his palm and he could curl his fingers completely around it and hold it totally concealed. He did this now and tucked his fist snug against his chest as he rolled over onto his back and stared up into the foliage. He forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly for he was aching and light-headed, voraciously hungry and thirsty, yet felt nauseated at the same time. His thoughts whirled in a confusion of anger, guilt, and despair.

He should not have lain with Erestor of Imladris. How could he have let this happen? Legolas berated himself, cringing at the memory of his complete debasement. He had warned himself not to stoop to their carnal lust just two days ago. Had he not been prepared to mutilate that low-minded Berenaur last night for his unwelcome groping? How could he have cast aside what little dignity he still possessed to give himself over to a lying Noldo spy?

Legolas shuddered as he remembered the things he had done and allowed to be done to him. He had not been hurt so much since his last joining with Malthen; he had not been desired so completely since the seduction by Malthen, and, if he must be truthful to himself, he had so much desired to be hurt this way since Malthen's rejection.

_But I love Malthen; we love each other._

Their love made their savage coupling different. It was not just a base and brutal mating, for they shared a deep trust and connection of the soul, no matter the pain.

A memory of Malthen's eyes gleaming with licentious fervour took shape in his mind. He recognised with a jarring stab of anguish that it was identical to the expression on the Noldo's features when he had taken Legolas just hours ago. He scrunched his eyes shut, trying to force the two images from his thoughts, and moaned, rocking his body in his distress as he lay upon the talan.

_Malthen loved me; he loves me still._

Then why had he given him away?

Why had he left for Valinor instead of carrying out the pact they had made all those years ago on the night after the Judgement?

Malthen had left him and Legolas would soon be in the Halls of Waiting, alone. Malthen did not want them to be together beyond death; how could he when he had been so quick to part from Legolas in life? Legolas now wondered how he had ever believed differently.

_Malthen wants me to die. He even told me so: 'You must promise me to take the first opportunity for a clean death if it finds you.'_

A desperate cry of repudiation pooled in his soul and gushed from his lips as he shook his head against the wooden boards, rejecting the inevitable conclusion. But that phrase kept repeating through his brain until there was no other interpretation possible. Malthen wanted him dead, forever severed from him.

_Malthen does not love me; he never loved me at all._

What Legolas had just given to the Noldo spy was all the corpsman had ever wanted, and even that had soon become a bore. Once he allowed the idea to march through his consciousness, Legolas realised he must have known this for a long time, for he could not summon any arguments with which to counter the concept. It had the distinct weight of truth anchoring it firmly into his awareness, and now that he acknowledged it he could never pretend again that he did not both know and believe it.

His next thought was to wonder how long it would take to die from a broken heart, and why it must be such a horribly long, drawn-out process. So many years had passed since their affair ended.

His adoration of Malthen was an absolute in his life, and he could not remember a time he had not felt that way. He had just assumed the feelings were the same for his personal guard, though no such words had ever been spoken by either of them. His heart must have broken the very moment Malthen announced their affair was just a means of 'instruction in sexual relations' carried out under orders from his mother.

_Naneth; she wants me dead, as well. She told me so; the very last words she ever spoke: 'You are an utterly selfish child, caring more for those dead warriors than your own mother. Stay, then! You wish to die for them, then stay and die!' _

He loved Malthen; he loved his mother. Legolas loved them right now and would do anything to have either of them here this instant, yet neither of them loved him at all. Both of them had easily turned away and left him without a second thought.

_Why can I not just die, then? Why must it take so long?_

But he knew he would not die until the Tasks were done, no matter the agony it cost him to live. It hurt so terribly much more now that he had to accept the truth: they all wanted him dead. Just as the Noldo had said.

The Noldo Lord flickering through Legolas' troubled thoughts was at that moment hesitantly shuffling along the limbs of beeches and oaks in search of the wild elf. He moved slowly away from the old guard's outpost in the general direction his new lover had gone, yet was completely in the dark as to the actual trail. Under the lush density of the summer verdure, it did not take long to lose sight of the talan and his friend upon it. Soon, every tree to which he sent his questing eyes looked identical, and he realised he might quickly become lost in the canopy. He wondered in amazement that Legolas could steer any coherent course through such a maze of branches and leaves.

With a frustrated sigh Elrond twisted around and climbed higher, hoping the increased altitude would give him a clue as to which way to go. Without the sun as a marker, he had no idea what direction he had even come from, much less the one he was currently facing. He paused, hoping to feel the tingling sensation on his skin that would signal a return of the internal connection to the woods, but no image filled his mind. He hesitated, unwilling to turn back and concede defeat.

The woods sought to hide his lover away, keeping Legolas for itself alone. Elrond knew a dare when it was issued, whether plainly spoken or couched in clandestine silence, and had never backed down from one in all his long years. He frowned as he considered the circumstances from the Wood Elf's point of view.

Legolas had not been leading them in this direction without cause; it was very unlikely he would turn back or leave them at this stage. He was also tired and hungry. The wild elf had yet to eat anything more than two small apples and two pieces of lembas in over seven days' passing, if the days he had followed them unseen were counted. These had been his most substantial meals in many a week, Elrond suspected. He would be suffering dehydration, having only drunk a few mouthfuls of water. Beyond all this, Legolas was also hurt and moving even a little had obviously been painful to him. He could not have gone very far in such condition, Elrond reasoned. Where, then, could he be hiding, so close and yet invisible?

Elrond smiled; it was almost too obvious and he wondered why he had not figured this out immediately. Hah! That was Erestor's fault, confusing him with all that nonsense about Tawar watching over Legolas and granting some sort of permission to bed its pet. The Elf Lord re-evaluated his location and moved back into the branches, heading for the guard's outpost again.

Erestor looked up in surprise to see Elrond returning to the talan and stood to meet him, reaching out a hand to pull him from the branches as he stepped near.

"What happened? Where is he? You have scarcely been gone two hours," he demanded almost instantly.

Elrond held up a hand and sent his seneschal a chilling glower that demanded silence. The Lord of Imladris briskly went to his pack, checking inside to make sure he had the remaining apples and a few packages of lembas. He hoisted this over his shoulder and picked up the water-skin, shaking it to hear the comforting slosh of a one-third-full portion remaining. He gave a small self-satisfied smirk to his old friend and set off from the talan again, heading in the opposite direction from which he had just arrived.

Erestor could only watch in bewilderment at this turn of events, surmising that his Lord knew where their feral companion was. He sat back down with a sigh of boredom to wait.

With care to be quiet, Elrond worked his way back to the narrow flet where his instincts told him Legolas must be. Thus, without the help or consent of the trees, he spied the wild elf stretched out upon the platform as though asleep.

A soft and bereft sounding exhalation halted him a moment; Legolas was not resting. He sharpened his gaze and watched, and could see the elf trembling as he intermittently rocked himself back and forth against the floor. This seemed to him an extreme reaction to such a simple slight, and his healing senses awoke instantly as the despair and grief flowed out into the canopy from Legolas' body.

Elrond no longer wished to remain unknown, for he did not want Legolas to feel greater distress in learning he had been tracked so easily. In fact, the Elf Lord began to hum a tune as he progressed forward, as though wandering about in treetops was an everyday practice, and was rewarded with the uplifting of the archer's head in response.

"Legolas, I have been searching for you. Please, do not leave; I wish to speak with you," he said, lifting his hand in both greeting and entreaty as he called out.

Legolas stayed where he was, leaning up on his elbows to watch his lover approach, curious in spite of his anger to learn how he had been found. He let himself drop onto his back again when Elrond reached the flet, watching silently as the healer removed the pack and seated himself by Legolas' side. He allowed his eyes to meet the Noldo's for only seconds, closing them quickly and turning away when he felt the healer's probing scrutiny assessing him.

Elrond let his cognisance sweep across the elf's entire being in that few second's worth of eye contact and settled down to digest the impressions he had gleaned. He lowered his lashes and concentrated on what he was feeling from Legolas and unconsciously stiffened as he encountered a surge of recognition within his own soul.

"I did not expect my careless words to be so detrimental. You must know there is no truth in them?" the Elf Lord began softly and his speech yielded a horrific scowl of incredulous outrage from the fallen archer's upturned face.

"I cannot believe . . .You are a healer, yet you use the knowledge this gives you like a sword!" Legolas' words twisted off in a choked swallow at the end of this exclamation and shutting his eyes turned away quickly.

The depth of desolation this response expressed startled Elrond. He thought back on his impressions of the fallen prince and understood there was a kernel of verity in the accusation. Legolas believed himself the object of such dire wishes, and for valid reasons, and Elrond had needlessly emphasised the point.

"Will you accept my apology, Legolas? I had not the intention to be so cruel. I did not mean to do you such injury," he said sincerely, and referred not only to his hasty comments. Elrond reached out and gently grazed his fingers along Legolas' shoulder and slowly caressed down his arm and up again.

"I do not care! Please go back to your friend now." Legolas had great difficulty forming the sounds needed to convey this request as he struggled to subdue the shriek clamouring for release from his lungs.

But Elrond scarcely heard the words as his sensitive physician's touch gathered information from his lover. His brows drew down in consternation. The sense of familiarity deepened and he sighed, absently smoothing his hand over the archer's golden head. Legolas did not pull back from the touch but merely lay still as though he did not even feel it.

"When I was younger, though still older than you are now, I had the only one I have ever loved ripped from me," Elrond's voice was low and deep with restrained sorrow as he spoke and Legolas quailed on hearing the raw agony in those words. "How long have you been enduring this pain, Legolas? How has this happened to you? Was it one of the warriors lost in the Battle of Erebor?"

"No," Legolas whispered and did not open his eyes as he spoke. "I have had no one taken from me that way. He has only gone to Valinor; he is well."

Elrond continued to frown, for this statement sounded like truth yet was filled with more lamentation than such a temporary parting should create. Something more was amiss in this tale than just a separation. When meeting Legolas and observing the level of stress he was under and the signs of grief he had noted, Elrond had at first assumed it was due to his mother's departure and the isolation from his own kind. But Legolas' despondency cut deeper even than Elrond's own despair in losing his heart's desire to Mandos so long ago.

"What is it, then? If he is well, why is your soul shattered?" he asked softly and let his hand stroke back across the feral elf's brow, trying to coax the eyes to open up.

Legolas completely ignored the inquiry and kept his eyes sealed and his head turned aside.

Why was he asking all these questions? Did he really expect answers to something so personal? How could he even answer when he had only just come to understand all this moments ago? He clutched the note hidden in his hand closer to his body, as though the contact with the paper might steady him somehow. It did not work, only serving to remind him why he could not let go and end this horrendous agony.

Elrond saw the movement and noted how tense Legolas' hand was, pressed down securely against his breast in a fist so tight the whole arm trembled slightly. He stilled himself and again let his healing insight observe what his eyes and ears could not.

What did he know about this elf; surely there must be some useful knowledge he had picked up over the years through Ningloriel. This thought gave Elrond a jolt, for he could not recall anything Ningloriel had ever said about Legolas. And he knew what Thranduil thought since he had encouraged this rumour to spread himself. With crystalline lucidity he discerned how empty the fallen prince's life must have been as he grew up.

Elrond discovered that he had never thought of Legolas as real. He had been a concept to manipulate, a method used to twist the emotions of his lover and his enemy, and apparently had been little more than that to his own parents.

"I lost both my parents when I was just an elfling," the Elven Lord softly mused, as though thinking to himself. But I knew they loved me and still do, watching over my family and me from afar. This last he did not speak aloud. It occurred to him that it must be more painful to have one's parents near yet be unwelcome in their lives than to have lost them to Mandos or the Undying Lands.

Still, he sensed that this was not the only source for the utter desolation of Legolas' spirit. His ruminations were interrupted when Legolas stirred, turning towards him and staring with a haunted yet somehow concerned expression.

"What happened to them? How did you grow up; who took care of you?" he asked. The archer had recognised the dolorous tones of an elfling's bewildered dismay in the Elven Lord's remark. Knowing this sense of loss himself, Legolas hated to hear it in another's voice.

"It was war; what else?" Elrond answered, caught off-guard by the genuine feeling contained in the questions. "Those were times when Morgoth was still at large upon Arda. My brother and I were fostered to the care of those who had once been enemies of my House. In time, I grew to love my foster-father almost as much as my true one," he responded as his memories made him smile. He watched as Legolas' countenance faintly mirrored his.

"I am fostered, also," he said, surprised that they shared this status.

"Oh?" Elrond's brows lifted inquisitively; this was news indeed. "When were you fostered and by whom? I had not heard any Mirkwood nobility believed in those Noldorin customs."

"No, they do not," Legolas almost sneered, imagining this idea. No one in the Woodland Realm was willing to part with their own offspring and there was no need to bolster alliances between families. Their lives were too imperilled by Darkness to do anything but rely upon each other completely.

"It is just recently this occurred, and is quite unprecedented," he continued. He lifted his hand from his chest, sliding the note into his fingers to look at it with a disturbing display of warm melancholy before sighing and returning it to its hidden domain. "I am fostered to Fearfaron as replacement for his son, Annaldír. He was one of the lost warriors, but I have earned his Release."

Elrond waited but Legolas offered no further information on this intriguing statement. He appeared less distraught, however, so the Elf Lord decided to try and prompt more revelations.

"That is a letter from your foster-father?" he asked, motioning with elegant fingers towards the clenched fist, but Legolas only nodded. "You are his son's replacement?" another brief and silent nod gave assent.

Mentally the Noldo sighed, thinking that getting Legolas to talk was rather like convincing dwarves to share mithril: little profit for much work.

"You must treasure it dearly to keep the note out here in this wilderness." Another nod and a slight smile followed this, and now Elrond sighed audibly. "Will you not tell me what it says?" he demanded irritably.

Legolas looked over, surprised and apologetic. He had assumed his lover had already read the note.

Thinking of Fearfaron made him relax a bit and he shifted the small square of paper in his palm. Legolas did not have to unfold it to see the words for he had all the lines committed to memory. He opened his hand and pressed the battered parchment down against the old scar, which was throbbing again, and took a steadying breath before reciting.

"'Legolas,  
I do not approve of this venture Mithrandir would have you undertake. You know the southern regions are rife with danger, and you have responsibilities. I forbid you to die. It is your duty to me as your foster-father to protect my wounded soul. It is too late to change this for I already love you. You can not go off into your Tawar and leave me here to grieve for another child. I expect you home every six months, in one piece.  
With love, Fearfaron.'"

In the silence that followed these simple sentences Elrond found himself terribly moved not only by the sentiments of the brief missive but also by Legolas' willingness to share so personal a communication with him. Beyond that, the words suggested more mysteries than answers, but before he could decide on his next question, Legolas took control of the conversation.

"What happened to your love? How did you survive the loss?" he asked tentatively and Elrond could hear the desperation there. He understood; Legolas' grief was new and he was struggling to hold on, hoping for some advice that would sustain him.

"He died fighting in the Last Alliance. I stay because of a promise I made to him as his spirit fled. Otherwise I would have gone West long years ago, or more likely joined him in Mandos' Halls," his words were heavy with bitter gloom and thousands of years of draining misery and loneliness.

Legolas could not suppress a shudder of commiseration as this response was uttered. He looked at Elrond and was agonised as though struck by a physical blow to see how diminished his noble lover seemed at that moment.

He thrust aside his own troubles and sat up, reaching over and gathering the Elf Lord close into his arms so that his head rested against Legolas' shoulder. The younger elf gently caressed his lover's glossy hair and stroked his back in a soothing rhythm.

"I am sorry. I did not know your heart was broken, too," Legolas said quietly.

Every muscle in Elrond's body had become rigid the instant he felt Legolas wrap his arms around his shoulders, but the next second he found himself dissolving into the embrace, allowing himself to be held. He was stupefied by his own reaction as he burrowed his head into his lover's neck and encircled Legolas' waist in a fierce grasp that pulled them closer together.

Elrond could not recall the last time anyone had taken a moment to try and comfort him. He was the Lord of Imladris and was expected to be strong and supply for the needs of others while keeping his own concerns carefully shut away from observation. It would not do for personal matters to interfere with the welfare of his family or his people. They required a leader untouched by cares and worries of the heart.

Even Celebrian had been unwilling to share this tragedy that had kept him from ever being more than her friend. She had demanded that Elrond behave as though none of it had happened, as though he was not dead inside.

Ningloriel had simply removed herself from his vicinity at the first indication that she might be expected to recognise his needs and feelings. Elrond doubted if even Gil-Galad would have sympathised with what he had suffered through all these years.

But Legolas understood. Legolas saw his very soul and knew what torment was there. He did not turn away from it or expect him to cover it up. And Elrond did not question this; he simply laid his head upon his lover's shoulder and wept.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	21. Chapter 21

_italics indicate thoughts_  
(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Thang Helch [Cold Obsession]**

Legolas' frame jounced under the shearing sobs that convulsed his lover's shoulders, and tensed against the fingers clutching his sides so tightly that there would be bruises.

Those fingers, their sensitivity refined by the Noldo's healing gift, intimately expressed every mood and emotion within the Elf Lord's being, when he so chose. Legolas had learned more of his new lover through them than from all the words spoken since their meeting. Passionate fingers, they had stroked him with a gently seductive caress one moment and penetrated him with brutal violence the next. Demanding, those ten digits had drawn truth from his soul wherever they made contact with his skin, imparting the strength and self-assurance of their owner in return. From them he had felt the prurient lust, the conceit and condescension of long-held power, the Noldo Lord's simultaneous senses of curiosity and superiority over the cultural divergence between them. All of this lay harboured in his lover's mind, yet Legolas also believed he sensed genuine concern and compassionate sympathy with each touch from them.

And now, a terrible anger and abysmal despair escaped from beneath the pressure of the biting fingertips, and Legolas knew the origin of these sensations, recognising the same determinant within himself this very day for the first time.

Legolas said nothing, for what words could he possibly offer to compensate for such overwhelming loss and grief? He could do no more than provide a solid purchase to cling to as the swells of sorrow buffeted his distraught companion in the gloomy ocean of loneliness where he had been adrift for over a thousand years.

The archer shivered at this visualisation and felt ashamed to be so upset for his own woe, borne so short a time in comparison. He could scarcely comprehend what it might mean to carry on living with such an unbearable burden, and wondered at the magnitude of the promise that had required such sacrifice. His admiration for his lover expanded while he contemplated the strength of character keeping this covenant demanded.

Legolas squeezed tighter, nuzzling the noble elf's hair with nose and cheek, and began to sing an old song Malthen used to render to him when he was an elfling, either fearful or sad. It was a litany for Tawar, of all things, but it was what came to his mind and the canticle was at once uplifting and serene.

When the hymn was finished Legolas found that he had begun rocking gently in time to the melody. He continued to do so, and hummed the psalm through again in its entirety for he did not want to relinquish the sense of peace that had filled his spirit as the song had left his body. He noticed that his lover was calm also and the tears had ceased to flow, and the claw-like grasp upon his body relented.

Legolas felt the healer's hands reach up and brush across his shoulder blades and then run down the groove where his vertebrae divided him, coming to rest in relaxed comfort in the dip at the small of his back. Each inhaled and released a cleansing breath, together, and then leaned into one another, heads to shoulders, in sublime harmony.

"I am so sorry," Legolas breathed again into the Elf Lord's ear and felt him pull away just slightly.

"Sorry?" his lover's voice held a strained quality the younger elf despaired to hear, filled with morose portent, and he only nodded his assent against the Noldo's shoulder.

The transcendent moment thus faded and was abruptly brought to a close by the healer's sensile fingertips tripping with the subtlest impact up Legolas' spine and down again. The tickling sensation made him jump and crowd himself up against the healer, and they both gasped at the heat in the contact, Elrond in desire and Legolas in discomfort.

A sharp stab of pain shot up through his pelvis, the result of the sudden shift after too long a time seated awkwardly, legs bent to his side in an effort to prevent too much weight residing upon his rear. The Wood Elf shifted a bit and worked one leg round to bend the other way, granting a little relief.

Elrond slipped his hand down inside the back of the leather breeches and tenderly squeezed the soft curve of one cheek. Legolas leaned up to let the palm cup his fleshy muscle.

_So trusting,_ Elrond thought and drew his hand back out to run it through the golden tangles of the unruly mane. _Why?_

He could not help his reactions to this elf. The combination of his scent and the sound of his voice was overwhelming, and the sudden contact, chest to chest, was intoxicatingly erotic. Elrond was already nearly fully erect.

If only he had not spoken those words, all would be pleasing indeed. The healer dragged his fingernails against the marred skin, replaying the simple sentence in his mind, as Legolas wriggled under the stinging caress.

_He is sorry? This elf feels sorry, for me? Aye, sorry for me, enough to say it twice!_

He dug his fingers into the Wood Elf's sides and gritted his teeth, gratified when Legolas winced a little but did not pull away.

_Singing to me, as if I were a child. As though I needed the comfort of such maudlin words. He pities me, as if I were weak and in need of his concern._

Elrond felt a swell of rage engulf him, acutely aware of his absolute degradation in having been reduced to a shaking mass of wailing and tears. He had not cried in centuries, and yet had succumbed to whatever sorcery this wild elf possessed. How easily he had been manipulated! So readily he let his lust drive him to lay bare his soul to this, this hecilo.

In mild surprise he felt his desire fuelled by his acrimony, and Elrond's lips quested along the younger elf's jaw line, dabbing the tip of a red tongue against the skin, discovering the uneven ridge that reported an old break there. If anything, his spurt of anger made his gluttony for the taste of the disgraced prince stronger.

He rebuked himself even as his heart leaped to feel the lithe body sigh into his urgent tonguing.

_I need no charity from any elf, much less some young and nameless cast-off._

He could not believe it. He was the Lord of Imladris, descendent of nobles from three races, and the keeper of Vilya. His parents were the guardians of the last Silmaril. He had been Herald to the High King, and had witnessed the victory of the Last Alliance.

This primitive was but the bastard child of a backwoods Sylvan female and her house-servant. Not even spawned of noble blood, much less a son of kings, and he had the audacity to imagine he could present himself as equal and lend comfort through his pity.

The Noldo removed one hand from the Wood Elf's pliant back and snaked it up between their torsos, seeking the tender flesh of the nipple he could feel pressing against his own. His fingers closed on it tightly and he heard the exhaled cry and felt the feral elf fight the urge to pull back. Elrond pinched harder and twisted and this action resulted in a short cry of pain and an attempt to wrest the fingers away.

_Oh, that is better. True suffering is infinitely more rewarding than cold commiseration,_ Elrond thought and smiled, catching the archer's hand as it sought to interfere with his. _Let him demonstrate the depth of this lenity he feels compelled to express._

He raised the hand up and turned it over, guiding the wrist to his lips to lay there a soft kiss. The Elf Lord's eyes met his young lover's in ferocious voracity, and Legolas did not turn away.

It was not difficult to understand what the Noldo wanted, and Legolas obeyed, getting up on his knees and shifting to seat himself in his lover's lap. He controlled the ache accosting his insides, willing his pulse to slow and the constricting muscles to loosen, thoroughly kissing his love as he waited for the discomfort to subside.

He withdrew his hand from the healer's hold and wrapped his arms around the Elf Lord's neck, shoving away the lengthy black locks to claim a blushing ear tip with his lips. He sucked noisily and breathed gently on the inflamed cartilage. Responding to his partner's rapidly rising arousal, the feral elf blatantly flexed against the stiffening penis pressed against his groin.

Elrond groaned and pulled Legolas in closer, kissing down his neck to his shoulder where he paused and greedily bit the skin and made his lover blench.

"Ah, Legolas," the Elf Lord whispered and licked across the purpling spot. "So full of contradictions." A mocking lilt betrayed his mood, but the Wood Elf assigned the bitterness to the ancient hurt, never perceiving that the intent of his honest compassion had been so completely misconstrued.

So, Legolas did not bother to respond. He knew well what was expected and was happy to be able to drive the memory of the sorrow from his lover's heart, if only for a few moments. Such distractions he had often performed upon Malthen's body on his return from a trip to Lorien with Ningloriel.

That juxtaposition of past and present made his stomach squeeze for a second and he froze, but his Noldo lover smoothed sensual palms in seducing circles upon his back to counter the edgy twitch, and Legolas let the disturbing dj vu ease away.

Nimble fingers reached for the fastenings of Elrond's leggings and loosened them, while impatient, insatiable lips never ceased their persistent osculations of the Lord's flushed ear and slender neck. Legolas let his hand slip inside the opened flap of leather to discover the heat of the restrained flesh. He trailed his digits across the prominent vein and caressed the smooth softness of the skin where the cock was still bent over, confined at the thigh beneath the fabric. It was exhilarating to deny himself the sight of the swelling shaft and Legolas' heart rate doubled as he searched for the velvety point of the head. He was panting and only getting a few licks onto the ear near his mouth as his eyelids sunk low and he imagined what his fingers were seeking.

Elrond was blowing out a throaty growl with every searing breath, and grew even harder in anticipation of what his young lover would do. He let his teeth nibble around the shoulder bite; he wanted very much to tear into that spot again, but refrained. As the archer's hand teased him, he sent his own to investigate the abused nipple. He lightly stroked it with the back of his curved knuckles letting each ride over the damaged tissue.

Legolas gasped and rocked forward; his cock flexed in involuntary response to the stimulation. Resting his forehead against the Elf Lord's shoulder, he waited for the sharp needling discomfort to fade, relishing the flooding warmth filling his groin in a tingling track from his breast to his balls. His hand stopped exploring.

Elrond could feel the furrows of tension in the face pressed against him, could actually hear the racing pulse hammering through the slender torso under his hand, could feel the warmth of quickened breathing drifting into his ear, and smiled.

The young one was willing to suffer much to assuage his lover's grief, it seemed. In fact, the expanding fullness corresponding to his own testified to the wild elf's enjoyment. This was something Elrond had not personally encountered before, a partner who needed to endure physical distress in order to experience sexual ecstasy, and he felt himself reacting with heightened titillation.

_Where_, he wondered, _is Legolas' limit? What would it take to change the pleasure of pain into pure torment?_

He waited, just resting the back of his hand against the injured teat, until the younger elf relaxed again and resumed his attentions to the noble genitals still pinioned under the leggings. The Elf Lord hummed a satisfied response to the delicately massaging fingers pushing along his thigh, following the length of his imprisoned member. His lover tremulously touched the tapered tip, emitting a whispery exclamation of appreciation as he did.

This was the moment Elrond had anticipated, and he brought his desire to sample the creamy skin again to fruition, savagely sinking teeth into the reddened oval even as he overturned his hand and yanked mercilessly on the sore tit as though he would rip it off.

Legolas' cry of agony subsided into a compressed sob tinged with his awakened cupidity. He held his entire body so tautly that he trembled against his lover. Slowly his mind registered the sensation of a tongue languidly lapping and sucking up the beading blood where dull pangs emanated from his shoulder. He found that a palm had replaced the cruel pincers at his breast, covering his afflicted nipple so that only the very tip tapped against the warm healer's hand every time he exhaled. The pressure was just enough to send an exquisite twinge of terrible delight straight to his penis with every breath.

Legolas' next perception was of the wetness slowly coating his fingertips. He realised he was still fondling the slippery head and could no longer contain either his tremors of excitement or his need to see the unfamiliar contours of the shorn shaft again. With a swift movement he pulled free his hand and pushed the Elf Lord down. The Noldo's palm fell behind to cushion the descent, and he ceased imbibing of his young lover's wound as he leaned back. The fallen prince took advantage of the new position to slide himself off and the leggings down and Elrond lifted his hips from the floor to assist him.

With his legs stretched out, the Lord of Imladris watched as Legolas seated himself on his heels between them, shoving the thighs wider to sidle closer to the healer's inviting organ. Elrond made his weighty member twitch and thrilled to the sound of the archer's reactive sigh. He held his breath as Legolas reached for the proudly firm protrusion; not daring to move as the slender hand grabbed his cock and tested its impressive diameter approvingly.

Elrond's awareness tunnelled down to only the evocative fingers winding their way up and down his erection, his focus centred on the thumb dragging through the blunt and parted point, his interest locked on the Wood Elf's obvious fascination. He looked back sharply to his lover's face; Legolas had started to make a very soft cooing cry and his lips were practically dripping as his eyes remained fixed on his own hand slowly pumping down the healer's turgid shaft.

Elrond chuckled, eyes aglitter, and Legolas lifted up his gaze, dreamy and dazed in his longing.

"You like it, pen-rhovan?" Elrond's husky words inquired amusedly, and Legolas nodded, returning to his open admiration of what he was holding.

"None of my other lovers were like this," he said breathlessly. "How is it so, with no skin covering?" he could not help asking, and ringed the lip around the head with thumb and forefinger as he did.

_Lovers, plural. How many, I wonder? What a wanton little hellion he is!_ Elrond pondered, but aloud he answered mundanely: "It is removed at birth, the custom of my House. The mark that proclaims our unique heritage, and sets us apart from the kinslayers in our past and the lesser clans of our kindred."

Legolas glanced a smile up into his lover's eyes before diving low to devour the naked head on the engorged cock. Alternately sucking and lapping, darting the tip of his tongue down into the leaking slit and slathering the resultant mix of saliva and milt under the ridged lip, Legolas pleasured his lover.

Gratification sounded from Elrond's chest in an extended and rumbling roar of approbation. He braced himself on one arm and let the other carry his hand to the back of his lover's head, shoving roughly down upon the crown to force his erection deeper.

Elrond cried out with malicious gusto as Legolas choked around the shaft, his throat constricting and pushing against the intrusion, his arm reaching round to tear the hand away. But he could not hold his balance and his palm slapped resoundingly back upon the wooden deck and Elrond retained control.

Determined to satiate his impassioned resentment, the Noldo repeatedly jammed his rigid penis up into Legolas' resisting mouth even as the wild elf tried to push away.

"Relax yourself," the Elven Lord grunted between pants of salacious wrath. "Breathe and swallow, hecilo!" he managed to shout between ruthless thrusts.

Legolas grew frantic upon hearing this slur uttered in his lover's voice. He struggled to extricate himself, squirming against the constant force of Elrond's grip at the back of his skull, but realised he could not do so without using his teeth to harm the healer. The unfortunate elf had no wish to cause hurt when his desire was to give comfort, and so desperately sought to do as he was ordered, knowing the invasion would be easier to endure if he could.

It was not a new technique to him, but the Noldo was not giving him enough time to adjust and he was sure he must pass out if he did not draw air soon. He had to exert a concerted effort to quell the strengthening impulse to retch against the grossly corpulent obstruction in his oesophagus.

Elrond was fully aware of the difficulty Legolas was under and pumped even harder against the resisting muscles and straining tongue. He delighted in the exquisite friction of the spit-slick orifice, the distress of the writhing body under his restraining hand; the suppressed and swallowed, gagging whimpers issuing from his lover. It was more erotic than he could bear and he came quickly, ejaculating into the convulsing gullet.

"Valar!" he shouted to the Powers as he saw his semen seeping from the corners of the misused, maroon mouth.

He gave a final and vicious heave of his hips, eyes sparkling with sadistic exultation, as Legolas desperately tried to accept the warm, viscous extrusion and thwart the compulsion to disgorge his stomach's contents. With a long sigh of contentment Elrond at last released his hold.

Legolas gulped and coughed and scrambled to the edge of the talan, vomiting forcefully as he tried to suck in enough oxygen to calm his body. He sagged against the floor and let his head hang over a bit, just his cheek resting on the rough wooden boundary, and simply, gratefully breathed. As his head began to clear, he heard his lover's smug chuckle behind him.

Legolas shook as though his soul had been sliced with a blast of frigid winter's wind and shut his eyes against the stabbing chill. He felt as though he was back in the supply room with Ailinyéro, or rather that the loathsome elf was somehow here and had at last completed his grotesque assault.

He could not face the healer; he was not in command of himself. With desperate panic Legolas feared he was going to cry and struggled to forestall at least this embarrassment from betraying him. He could hear his own belaboured and ragged breathing and the pounding vibration of his heart and concentrated on these, blocking out the soft and musically mocking laughter from the other elf. His throat burned and suddenly contracted as acidic bile flowed up to fill his mouth and he was driven to cough the vile liquid out to the ground below. His lover was speaking, but his own strident heaving made it impossible to understand the words, and Legolas had to just ride out the misery, an all-too familiar reaction to the realisation of having allowed himself to be used.

When the fit was over, Legolas tried to fold his body up, rolling to his side and curling his lanky limbs to protectively surround the aching in his thorax. He did not understand how things could go so wrong so quickly or what he had done to provoke such a cruel response from his lover. Lover, could he even use this word to describe the other's relation to him now? Surely there was no love here, but he had thought there was understanding and acceptance at least. This felt more like vengeful hatred.

Did the healer not feel the real sympathy Legolas harboured towards him? Why was this Noldo not able to appreciate his lover's desire to ease his anguish? How was it that only Legolas' suffering appeared to allay that pain? This was too much like the sickening delight his old tormentor had indulged and Legolas did not see what he did to inspire such venomous animalism. It was as though some intrinsic quality he could neither identify nor change brought it out in everyone who came to know him.

_Too many questions that never receive answers,_ Legolas thought and fought to prevent a very small sob from giving away his troubled emotions.

The loudly reverberating thunk as the water-skin struck the wood at his back sent Legolas shying away in startled surprise. He pulled up and gazed from it to the healer, who was still speaking to him from within a grinning, self-satisfied smirk.

"No need to be so distraught, pen-rhovan," the Noldo was saying. "With more practice you will improve, I am certain. It was enjoyable nonetheless."

Legolas stared at him blankly. He felt hollow inside, and invisible. This elf could not see him, could not hear him, could not ever understand him. He quite suddenly wanted these Noldorin elves gone from his woods. And he wanted very much to go home.

Grasping the container with a burst of anger, Legolas rapidly swirled and spat a mouthful of water over the talan's side, wiping his chin with the back of his hand in disgust. With the sudden recognition of a tremendous thirst, he downed the remainder of the fluid and then threw the leather pouch back at Elrond, aiming for his face. But the Elf Lord's reflexes were swift and he snatched the empty bag out of the air easily, sniggering at Legolas' reaction.

"The day is nearly spent; we can safely travel only three hours now before the Orc patrols begin. We must hurry if we are to renew our supply of water before tinnu," Legolas said with grim determination and slowly rose to unsteady feet. He bent to pick up his quiver and reacted as the movement initiated a spasm of pain. Elrond noticed.

"You will not be able to travel for three hours without rest! We can wait to refill the water skins in the morning, let us return to the larger talan," he said the words as a command would be spoken and began gathering up his belongings.

"The nearest water is two hours from here; I will go there. Do as you wish," the wild elf replied coldly. Legolas returned the cherished letter, still concealed in his clenched fist, to its place in the quiver before strapping the implement down securely to him. He did not watch to see what the Noldo was doing as he moved into the branches.

"Ai, you are upset!" Elrond had to make haste to keep up. "If it is about the 'lack of experience' remark, I did not mean that unkindly; I was but joking with you, pen-rhovan." This dissembling was not rewarded with any discernible reaction from his retreating guide.

But Legolas' stomach lurched ominously upon registering this offhand dismissal of what had just happened. Surely, this healer knew his rage had nothing to do with the spiteful jeers, callous though they were. Legolas decided that he need not speak to this elf ever again.

He reached the old guard's talan and returned Erestor's inquiring expression with one of such glowering fury and turmoil that the seneschal recoiled a step. Legolas moved over to the pile of arrowheads left on the deck and, kneeling carefully, picked them up. He spoke softly as he did so, contradicting the meteoric demeanour of his countenance.

"Collect your possessions; we must go now."

"Why, what is wrong?" Erestor asked, looking form one to the other as Elrond stepped onto the flet. The Elf Lord shrugged and gave no further response, and seeing this Legolas scowled at the Noldor.

"What is wrong is that you are in a place you do not belong, ill-equipped to meet the dangers here," he snapped and strode over to heft one of the battle swords from its sheath. "These are useless in the trees, and I do not believe the two of you are enough to confront an Orc horde on foot." He was not about to speak of what had truly upset him.

"The two of us have faced worse, I assure you," Elrond's comrade-at-arms sniped back. This earned a sneering tilt of the Wood Elf's head accompanied by a dark laugh.

"Indeed? In that case get you down and go," he challenged with a wave of his arm towards the shut trap door. "The ladder is there in the box, help yourselves."

"Enough of this! We have no intention of leaving Mirkwood. Now, will you lead us to water or not?" Elrond's words exploded, an irritated eruption into the consolidating tension, and Legolas flashed him a brief gloat of victory over the matter of the water.

Legolas turned then and stared pointedly at the healer's companion until that elf became very red of face and worried for his fate. Erestor looked over to his Lord for guidance but he was glaring at the archer's back with derisive contempt. At last comprehension dawned; Legolas was not speaking to Elrond. The seneschal felt the urge to cry out the most vile oath he could summon up, but there was still the wild elf to contend with, standing there waiting for him to either concede or use the ladder, and so he bit back his choice reply.

"I am sure there is wisdom in your warnings, Legolas," Erestor began again in a more conciliatory timbre. "However, we must find a way to continue our mission regardless of the personal danger to ourselves. We are out of water; do you know which way to the nearest stream?" he concluded in the politest words he could muster.

Legolas listened in dismay. Of course the advisor would agree with his superior about remaining, even though he had argued against their scheme in private. However much they might disagree, they were friends and shared a common goal and similar views. With a sickened heart, he recalled the first conversation concerning him he had heard between the Noldorin elves. The advisor would soon know all the details of the experience the archer had just endured with the healer. A brief shadow of shamed horror passed through him as he glared at the lesser-ranked Noldo.

Erestor shifted in discomfort as Legolas continued to stare into his eyes, and wished he could not see the anguish there as the feral elf sought to determine the truth of the apology offered. He instinctively reached out but Legolas stepped back quickly beyond range and tore his gaze away.

"I will take you to refill your water supply, and to a safer region where there are several woodsmen's villages. Your mission here is at an end," he said with finality and did not wait for either of them to argue as he stepped out into the trees and moved off. He was travelling at less than his normal speed, but within minutes was gone and as usual no wake betrayed his passing.

"What have you done? You were supposed to calm him and apologise," Erestor scolded as he rounded on his friend. He had heard Elrond's clamourous shouts of satisfaction and had a fairly good idea of some of what had transpired. Why this would lead to such intense alienation of their feral companion was, however, unclear.

"He is overly sensitive. It is ridiculous; he does not recognise a capricious remark when it is spoken," said Elrond, defensive in response to the accusation. Many experiences of both despair and joy he had shared with his friend over the millennia, but his descent into blubbering weakness and the galling sourness left by the Wood Elf's pity he would never reveal. His retribution upon the banished prince, however, he was quite eager to divulge.

"Oh, I see. You have insulted him again," the seneschal eyed the Elven Lord in disbelief.

"It was not an insult. He tendered me fulfilment and I accepted. If he was a bit clumsy and could not accommodate all of me down his throat, how am I to blame for that? I merely told him his inexperience had not hindered my enjoyment too much," Elrond replied. He knew, of course, that fellatio was his comrade's preferred means of obtaining release and his most ardently held fantasy concerning the wild elf.

"He gave you oral sex and you," Erestor swallowed, hard, before he was able to continue, "and you, you mocked him?" The seneschal could scarcely breath as the mental image of Legolas' lips surrounding his friend's eagerly surging cock took control of his mind. "Did you," he took two breaths, "did you . . ."

"Oh yes, I did, deeply, forcefully. He almost lost consciousness," Elrond answered the unfinished question gleefully, seeing the difficulty his companion was having. Erestor's pallid countenance warned that he might himself faint, and the Elf Lord laughed complacently to see it. "Ah, Erestor, the look on your face! Do not be so disturbed. Why, I have simply returned the favour you extended to me; I have infuriated him so much that he may wish revenge upon me."

"And how is it beneficial to me for him to despise us both? Now the two of us will be the recipients of his disgust; it seems he was correct, the mission is in failure," Erestor countered. He felt betrayed to have gone through so much unpleasantness just so that Elrond could pursue a personal grudge.

"No, the main frame of our plan is not unhinged. In fact, it may be more likely to succeed now than previously. He will want to punish me, and you may indeed profit by his anger. Perhaps you can convince him that the best way to retaliate is to let you fill his wet, torrid, and overtly sensual mouth with your painfully deprived and long-neglected member."

For a moment the predatory wolf's gleam returned to Erestor's eyes as he gazed out into the trees with a thoughtfully calculating expression. The possibilities were certainly interesting. Then he shrewdly returned his regard to his friend. Elrond did not willingly share his lovers. In fact, as he remembered it, revealing their relationship to Thranduil had been a form of reprisal against Ningloriel for refusing to give up Maltahondo when Elrond demanded it.

"And what is it you expect in return for this boon, my Lord?" he asked cautiously. "While that is an appealing opportunity, I still do not see how it would stabilise out stratagem."

"What I want is nothing you should find too difficult. Simply talk to him afterwards; see if he will gossip with you a bit about Thranduil's treasure horde."

"Why should he talk to me? Being angry with you does not translate into confidence in me. He is unlikely to divulge anything of a personal nature now," the seneschal really saw no logic to this argument.

"He will talk if it seems to have no bearing on Thranduil's Kingdom, or this Tawar concept he worships," Elrond reasoned. "Everyone likes to talk about themselves; he does not appear to have had anyone in his life interested enough to allow it. Ask about the sort of things that you normally would when trying to get to know someone. You do want to get to know him, after all. Surely that is not too great a sacrifice for the pleasure you will experience."

"Oh, and Erestor, I assure you it will be beyond even your most graphic imaginings." Elrond smiled around these last, slippery words.

Erestor smiled back, yet uneasiness remained at the fringes of his thoughts. Somehow, none of this rang true. That one persistent fact was inescapable: the Lord of Imladris had never shared a lover that he could call to mind. The Elf Lord almost seemed to be challenging the feral elf, or testing the strength of his character, or trying to destroy him. Whichever was correct, he could not fathom what Elrond's real intentions might be.

Tbc

A/N: This is the song Legolas sang to Elrond. It is called "Morning Has Broken" and the lyrics were written by a woman named Eleanor Farjeon many years ago. The song became a popular folk ballad when set to music by Cat Stevens back in the late 70's. It is quite beautiful and worth the time to do a search on whatever music-sharing program you use to find it. I would share my own, but my computer just died.

The Sindarin translation is probably not very accurate; for that I apologise. A kind reader once offered to help me with such, but being rather an absent minded professor type I inadvertently deleted their email, and cannot remember who it was. So, the errors in it are just mine.

Aur breithiel, sui aur erui. [Morning has broken, like the first morning]

Mornaew pídiel, sui erui aew. [Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird]

Egleriad 'nin linnol, egleriad 'nin aur [Praise for the singing, praise for the morning]

Egleriad 'nin tuiol laeg uin Arda. [Praise for the springing fresh from the world]

Gli ryss eden danna, thann n'anor o menel [Sweet the rains new fall, sunlit from heaven]

Sui erui mîdh-lant erin thâr erui. [Like the first dewfall, on the first grass]

Egleriad 'nin gli-pathred erin sant limp [Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden]

Tuiant vi pathred-pân ir dîn tail pada. [Sprung in completeness where his feet pass]

Nín nâ I glawar, nín nâ I aur [Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning]

Onnen erin erlim Cuiviénen cenn telio. [Born of the one light, Eden saw play]

Eglario ah gellam, eglario pain oer. [Praise with elation, praise every morning]

Ad cared o Eru erin arad eden [God's recreation of the new day]

Aur breithiel, sui aur erui [Morning has broken, like the first morning]

Mornaew pídiel, sui erui aew. [Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird]

Egleriad 'nin linnol, egleriad 'nin aur [Praise for the singing, praise for the morning]

Egleriad 'nin tuiol laeg uin Arda. [Praise for the springing fresh from the world]  
[lyrics by Eleanor Farjeon, all rights reserved]  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.

Do we all hate Elrond now? It will be a very long time before he gets what he deserves for this.


	22. Chapter 22

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Cardh Delu [Fell Deed]**

There was a definite and palpable sensation of expectation in the atmosphere and a peculiar creeping feeling as though watchers were spying out every blink of an eye, each flutter of a stray strand of hair, every miniscule shift in posture. The sense that the attention was generated by something less than benevolent was similar to the recognition of an oily film clinging to one's hands: impossible to ignore and difficult to cleanse away.

The Noldorin Elves stared out into the formidably quiescent forest hoping for an indication of what the apprehensive silence portended, praying it was only Legolas observing them from some hidden high spot in the canopy, angry for their crude behaviour and conspiring secrecy.

Nothing moved.

With concentrated exactitude and frugal motions, the two elves collected up their goods and hefted their packs without further discussion. The noises generated by the simple exercise of making ready to depart sounded exaggerated and yet fell without echo, deadened by the close-aired weightiness of the wary woods.

Heeding the Wood Elf's advice, they strapped on their quivers and bows and belted daggers, securing the swords onto the rest of the baggage. This now included heavily overburdened rucksacks bulging with the clothing they had worn into Mirkwood, sans the leggings currently adorning them, boots tied onto the strapping, the extra changes of clothing, and what remained of the foodstuffs. Added to these cumbersome goods were the water skins, hanging limp and empty from their shoulders. So loaded down, they would never match Legolas' pace, even had they been skilled in tree-lore.

Both the Elven Lord and his advisor felt an intense anxiety connected with the prospect of leaving the relative safety of the wood and canvas shelter and resisted the opposing necessity to follow the wild elf. Was this some manifestation of Tawar or something decidedly more malignant? They shared their mutual consternation without speech, worried expressions passing between eyes that had witnessed too much evil to disregard such internal alarms. They hesitated at the edge of the platform, instinctively fearful to step into the trees.

Minutes passed; neither spoke. Each listened with strained intensity for the slightest vibrations in the air, their vision scouring the foliage scrupulously for any sign of agitation.

The nervously prescient air gradually refused to satisfy their lungs, subtly becoming permeated with a pungently vile stench of death and evil, decay and doom.

Erestor stepped away from the edge of the talan, dropping his pack automatically as his hand flew to his throat in dread. He heaved volubly, eyes wild and staring into Elrond's, as both fell to their knees in a panic of gagging coughs.

The air grew fouler. Fetid and dank, it swept over them like living umbra, becoming dark and slithery, more substantial and dangerous than a weapon of iron or a poison-tipped blade. Terror blossomed in their souls and they flopped onto the floor flat out, hugging the wooden deck as though the tree was about to uproot itself and cast them down to their destruction. Their thoughts distilled down to a single, repetitive rant of recognition and despair.

Nazgul, Ulairi, Ring-Wraiths.

It seemed as if eternity must have halted and their demise would be tortuously slow, but truly only seconds of reality elapsed during the Noldor's stuporous struggle to stay conscious. In a rushing gust of wind the trees about them erupted in a frenzy of thrashing branches and sparks seemed to be spawned by the cracking limbs. Surely, this was not possible. The confused elves watched the fleeting streaks of gleam darting through the air, and then one landed, rattling as it came to rest beside them. They were arrows, their points covered in a sticky solution that glinted in the shafts of sunlight piercing the canopy.

A terrible rumbling thunder reached their ears next, more visceral than any produced by rain storm or hail, and with it a tremendous disruption of the ground as the very earth rolled and billowed as a liquid on the boil. Petrified, the elves felt their shelter swaying and gripped the floorboards and each other in desperation.

In this instant, the tenuous shiver of electrically charged ozone marked the wrenching of their vision away from the contortion of the woodland. The image of their guide flashed across their minds, with the clear and insistent command: "Up! Higher!"

And then he was there, in the branches just above them. Reaching down, both his anger and his pain suppressed in reaction to the crisis, he grabbed for them, yelling for them to make haste. Erestor snatched his pack, rose, and grasped the outstretched arm. With a leap he was at Legolas' side. The archer leaned down again for Elrond and the healer took the beckoning hand, hoisting himself up with it straight from the floor to the branches. They wasted no time in ascending higher, the Wood Elf vehemently urging them to move faster.

"Leave the packs!" the wild elf shrieked as the earth convulsed again and they clung frenetically to the flailing treetops.

Legolas did not wait for the tremors to cease, but scrambled higher, shifting from the tree of the guard's talan. He slowed to arm his bow and loosed three arrows in a second's passing into the knot of morbidity that was the three emissaries of Mordor. A freakish scream as of some animal breathing its last rose in a thin whine and an obscene oath uttered in Westron found its way to the elves' hearing, and Legolas laughed.

Three Wraiths there were, mounted on mighty but brutish black steeds, and one of these horses had just been killed by the Tawarwaith's bow. The Greenwood's champion danced forward through the branches into the thickening rain of flickering arrows.

The Noldor had never gone so high, so nimbly or moved from branch to limb and tree to tree with such alacrity. They did not pause to consider where they were moving, but the brunt of the arrow assault herded them and seemed to be deriving from the direction Legolas had been leading them. They realised that they were being driven back towards Dol Guldur.

"Excrement of Melkor! Maggot-riddled carcasses of Trolls! Unliving, undead, uncrowned slaves!" Legolas' taunting insults rang out into the air as the cacophony of trampling feet, twanging bows, and shouting, garrulous voices raised in Black Speech swirled amid the suffocating breath of the Wraiths. And two of these now were astride a shared charger.

The Ulairi turned to answer their challenger.

The two Noldor, halted in their helter-skelter retreat by the scurrilous shouts, looked back and saw the feral elf engaging the host of Orcs, shooting with unerring aim into the loose formation of dark archers. He was pressing into the flow, striving to drive right through, and had dropped lower in the trees.

The enraged beasts funnelled towards him and he took off, dodging arrows and scurrying just high enough to use the foliage for cover. In a clever tactic, he had split the troop around the Wraiths. As Legolas pivoted and headed straight for the Masters of Dol Guldur, the fell demons suddenly found themselves caught in the crossfire of their own warriors, and a second tell-tale groan announced the loss of another of the tormented equines that bore them forth from their dark fortress.

Legolas' laughter was gleeful and light-hearted, as though he was enjoying a friendly shooting competition rather than battling what could not be defeated.

"What are you waiting for? Where are your rings, you witless cowards? Show me your sword hands and I will deliver you from your accursed non-existence!" Legolas' voice carried back to the Noldor elves and they were startled into action, comprehending that their wild companion intended to fight the Nazgul. Setting arrow to bow the Imladris nobles assailed the Orcish soldiers swarming around in the confused melee.

The Wraiths watched Legolas but did not advance, commanding instead for their army to return to order and surround him.

But Harthad-en-Taur was far too quick and his aim unsurpassed.

Had the earth not been writhing in jerking twitches like the body of a headless serpent, not a single Orc would have survived that foray and all three Wraiths would have walked the long leagues back to their dismal stronghold. That the peculiar disruption was of Sauron's evil making was evident. Yet, while the trembling substrate affected both parties in the conflict, the fear that confounded the enemy horde benefited the elves. Both the limited skill and tactical ability of the Orcs dramatically dwindled as their fright intensified.

The Noldor progressed steadily forward towards Legolas' position, pausing to aim and shoot then moving ahead before repeating the action. The connection between them and the archer through Tawar held and grew even clearer as the distance lessened. There was no need to speak to understand which branch the feral elf would leap to or where their Orc targets were shifting and moving next. The Noldor did not need to call out to let Legolas know where they were or how long it would take to reach him. All this, the three elves were aware of instantaneously, simultaneously.

Thus, Legolas knew when the seneschal was with him in the tree, directly behind and slightly above him. When the ground flexed itself again and the tree viciously bent under the combined weight of the two elves, the Wood Elf knew what would happen.

The snapping of the branch was almost after the fact, for Legolas was already moving into a new position, climbing lower even as Erestor plummeted down towards the throng of Sauron's skirmishing vermin. Before he could begin to fear impacting the ground, Legolas was under the seneschal's body and reaching to snatch him by his leggings. The Wood Elf's grip snagged an ankle and held despite the wrenching agony in his arm as he suspended the dive. It was enough to allow the Noldo's arms to grab onto another limb and halt his descent.

Elrond observed from one tree over, aiming and firing as best he could in the tumultuous twisting of trembling trees upon the quaking land. The Elf Lord watched as Legolas held onto his old friend a second more to be certain he was stable and had regained his footing. At a nod from the seneschal, the wild elf released his grasp and surged upwards. The healer saw the shimmering gleam of the haphazard missile that razed through the leaves and sliced a crimson ribbon across the elf's left shoulder.

The cry of pain that accompanied the wounding was more a shout of rage, and the Tawarwaith responded with a fury the Orcs knew well. Indeed, many screeched in tormented defeat. Unable to fight the Wood Elf, Arda, the trees, and the unknown elves all at once, some turned upon each other. Many more retreated in desperation, wanting only to gain the safety of their high-walled tower, despite the Wraiths ' silent command to hold. Most of these turn-tails were hewn down in minutes by their Masters of which two now were forced to walk among them upon the land.

The third Wraith sat upon his gruesome dark horse and gave his full attention to the fallen prince. The Tawarwaith was fully engaged in his task, killing Orcs in a hectic smear of deadly bolts until only one arrow remained. And then the elf turned his bow upon the Nazgul.

Legolas was not lost in a haze of blood lust, however, and stared with cold precision into the place where the unliving once-king had shadow-bound eyes beneath a hooded cloak. A grim smile curled the corners of the archer's lips as he adjusted his stance and took his mark: the center of the black mount's skull, that small whorl where the dulled fur in the broad equine forehead fanned out to insulate the beast's tortured body.

He drew back the bowstring and loosed his last missile, confident of his accuracy even with his blood streaming from the ugly gash across his shoulder.

At the last possible instant before the beast must die with Legolas' arrow in its brain, the Wraith uplifted its sword and in a sweeping arc of moving obfuscation the Morgul blade connected with the metal point. A shower of blinking scintillation and an excoriating squeal heralded the deflection of the dart and the poor horse lived.

But Legolas laughed, jubilant and victorious, pointing his bow with satisfaction into the emptiness of the obscured face, for he had forced the Nazgul into combat with him, and none of them had ever done this since his arrival in the southern regions. For a timeless second or two, the foul emanation of Melkor's ancient corruption had raised its sword hand in defence against the Tawarwaith and revealed the golden gleam of its empowering, enthralling ring.

"Get back to the safety of your black tower, filthy remnant of Numenor!" shouted the Tawarwaith in triumph. "When next we battle, it will not be as easy for you, for I will save two arrows and take your bloody ring!" This said, Legolas raced upward into the canopy out of arrow range and moved with great speed under the influence of the adrenaline and the euphoria of success. He knew the Noldor were following, still joined in the mental link with him, and so he did not hesitate.

He could not afford to, for there were still Orcs alive, though they were scattered and in chaotic retreat, and the torn flesh and muscle in his shoulder burned as only a poisoned wound would do. He had only a little time to counter the effects before succumbing to a horrifically painful death. Even worse, if he became disoriented and lost his place in the trees, he could fall into the beasts' disgusting claws and be taken for his last moments to the tortures of Dol Guldur.

Legolas fled through the highest limbs of the canopy seeking safety.

The Noldor were soon left behind to witness the end of the conflict. The Wraiths turned their wrath upon their own, slaughtering the remaining Orc warriors in retribution for failing to capture the feral elf. Then, in a grisly agglomeration of bloody blackness they departed, two upon the ground and the third mounted, in the direction the elves assumed would lead to their fortress.

Elrond and Erestor were amazed that their dread of the Ulairi had vanished as soon as the communication with Legolas had been established, and were grateful the terror no longer impeded them. They were so relieved to see the evil withdrawing that they halted their own retreat momentarily, exchanging huge grins of giddy delight.

"That was phenomenal! I have never known anything like it," Erestor remarked.

"Nor I!" Elrond admitted. "He is either completely mad or knows something about the Nazgul we do not," the Elven Lord shook his head in grudging admiration for the lowly outcast that had just saved their lives again, Erestor's life twice in less than a sun's round.

"Aye, I think perhaps he is demented, for he has run off in sore need of a healer's care, and you are the only healer for hundreds of leagues in any direction," the seneschal said mournfully. "I would have you save him, Elrond; he went to great trouble to ensure my continued existence."

"I would wish the same, but we have left the packs far back and I know not the way to the guard's talan from here. Can you tell the track we left?" Elrond asked.

Both elves scanned the forest all around them, but were dismayed to see that a great havoc of snapped branches and even wholly upturned trees littered the entire area they could perceive with elven sight. The tremors of the earth had done tremendous damage to the woods, and effectively erased their own small disturbances in the process.

"Nay; this is hopeless. We need to catch up with him and do whatever we can, and quickly. Mayhap you will find some healing plants as we go," Erestor spoke hopefully, but Elrond frowned and shook his head.

"In this place of dark evil, anything wholesome must long ago have perished," he said woefully.

With these sobering thoughts, they continued through the branches, counting on the mental guidance of the Wood Elf to lead them to him. They had not gone far before Erestor called a halt.

"My Lord, it is this way, surely," he said.

"Lead on, then," Elrond replied and looked over his shoulder at him, annoyed. He had suddenly lost the link with the trees and no longer knew the path they should take. "It seems I am not in the good graces of Tawar any longer."

"Or perhaps pen-rhovan is too weak to maintain the connection with both of us. We must hurry!" the seneschal warned as he moved forward more rapidly.

Erestor took the lead, and would have felt smug to be on Legolas' good side for a change had the circumstances not been as worrisome. They travelled in silence for nearly two hours and then Erestor called back in fear; he had lost the mental image as well.

"I can no longer tell his path. Elrond, has he re-established the image with you?" the seneschal did not care to hide the panic in his words or his dismay upon the Elf Lord's solemn denial.

The Noldo progressed hesitantly in the same direction for a while more. No sign of the feral elf was discernible. Presently, however, the sound of gently flowing water met their ears and they followed this until they reached a small clearing where a merry brook was playing.

The glen was formed by the loss of a mighty beech that must have been centuries old when it met its death. No fewer than four elves holding each other arm to arm would have been required to encircle its living girth. That its end was unnatural was attested to by the remains of the massive trunk rising from the earth; a grave marker for the old tree's untimely demise. The stump was the last reminder of the biting saws and axes of the foul creatures that had hacked away the noble creation's life.

The hollow was well tended, as a garden would be, for no new tree growth had sprung up by the water's edge there. Soft grass with wild flowers, trembling in the gentle wind of hummingbird's wings, covered the ground. A thick clustering of water lilies crowded a little shallow cove against the stream's lea side bank and thick mossy ferns grew all around the feet of the encircling trees. On the far side of the creek, the clearing gave way into a huge tangle of blackberry brambles that was laden with succulent fruit.

The Noldor shared appreciative glances and hurriedly descended into this picturesque scene, confident this was the correct end to their journey. They had no doubt this place was under the care of elvish hands, and the only elf in the vicinity was Legolas. A sound they both recognised brought them up sharp just in time as a dagger sliced through the wood of Elrond's bow, nicking it badly, embedding itself in the bark of a tree just behind him.

"I find it hard to believe you are any kind of warriors at all, for neither of you have the sense to examine your surroundings before leaping from cover," their feral friend's weary yet scornful words found their ears while disallowing their eyes to find his position. In vain they searched the branches above and around them. No lightly lilting laughter followed the warning, and the Noldor remained still where they stood.

Even as they watched, Legolas seemed to materialise before them, disengaging himself from his camouflaged location in the blackberry thicket. He went around, a bit unsteady in his step, and retrieved his dagger from the tree and on returning seated himself ungracefully upon the ancient stump.

His quiver and bow were gone and he held the dagger loosely in the fingers of his right hand. Streaked in a finely dendritic pattern of his own gory blood, so pale that the faint blue veins around his eyes and wrists stood out clearly, Legolas presented a cadaverous spectacle. He was attempting to slip the dagger into the leather cording that bound up his breeches and kept missing. The blade made a peculiar scraping noise as it dragged across the old leather. At first Legolas found it funny and was silently laughing as he repeatedly tried to secure the blade, but then he became frustrated and gave up. He sighed dramatically.

"Wrong hand, it is the right one, you see," he said. A small guffaw escaped through his nose and he held up the hand with the dagger as though this was all the explanation required.

"What?" Erestor said, alarmed by the loss of co-ordination and this muddled incoherent statement.

"Fill your water skins and take as many berries as you like, quickly now," Legolas said with imperious magnanimity and gestured towards the stream with the dirk. Suddenly his head drooped and he began to slide from his seat, catching himself in confusion before he completely lost his balance.

The two Noldor exchanged concerned glances and Erestor hurried over to the feral elf, taking hold of his uninjured arm carefully.

"You must let us take a look at this wound, Legolas. It may be poisoned," he said cautiously, watching to see if the dagger would be raised again.

"Of course it is poisoned! Stupid Noldo!" Legolas ridiculed his companion and laughed a little in his appealing, light-hearted way, smiling a lopsided sort of grin. "I have already taken care of it, silly elf," he added with just a hint of slurring to the ends of his words.

Now Erestor became fearful. What was the poison doing to the Wood Elf?

The dagger slipped from Legolas' fingers and landed with a muffled thump in the grass. He looked fixedly at it, as though trying to determine what it was doing there. "Oh, that is mine," he mumbled in slightly surprised tones, tugging feebly against Erestor's hold that he might retrieve the weapon.

The seneschal propped him back against the remnant trunk and waited to see if he could stay upright. He met the baffled blue eyes and smiled back reassuringly.

"I will get it, just stay still, " he said and stooped to take up the blade. Legolas was listing over again and Erestor caught him round the waist as he straightened up, slipping the dagger under his own belt. He resettled the younger elf and rested one hand on the whole shoulder to support him against the stump. "My Lord, will you see to it?" Erestor pleaded with Elrond. "There is some sort of, well, I do not know what it is spread over the injury."

Elrond strode over and visually inspected the wound. He could see that the long straight laceration had been cleaned, and was packed with a strange orange tinted spongy substance. He sniffed at it and his brows rose in surprise; it seemed to be a species of fungus commonly found growing on fallen trees and other dead and decaying wood.

"Can you not be quicker?" Legolas' voice was plaintively imploring. "We cannot stay on the ground, even here. Never have those bloody demons come this close to Aewendil's abode." He tried to rise and promptly toppled over against Erestor, who held him up easily.

"What should we do? I do not think he can stay conscious much longer," he said.

"Get up in the trees," Legolas replied and giggled as though drunk. "Silly Noldor," his words were scarcely intelligible, and both Imladrians scowled.

"Do as he says; can you climb and hold onto him at the same time? I will fill the water skins and follow you," said Elrond.

"I think so, if he does not struggle too much," replied Erestor, but as he was speaking the Wood Elf slumped in his arms, insensible.

Hefting Legolas up over one shoulder, the seneschal let his Lord give him a boost up to the first branches, and climbed cautiously upwards from there. Once he was higher in the tree he began looking for a talan or a flet, for certainly Legolas would not have led them to a place devoid of one. His efforts were rewarded, but the perch was very high and he had to take care in reaching it. Requiring three transfers into adjacent trees and a good deal of petulant cursing, the feat was finally accomplished. Once there he laid the sick elf down gently and waited as Elrond climbed up.

While Legolas was unconscious, the healer examined the injury closely and confirmed his identification of the fungus. With none of his own healing supplies at hand, he feared to remove the poultice and settled for cleaning away the remaining dry blood on the archer's body. No comfort could he give to Erestor, for he did not know what the poison was or whether the unusual treatment would have any healing effect. All he could be certain of was the regular heartbeat and the calm inhalations that usually indicated a healing repose.

While Elrond had been trying to ascertain the seriousness of Legolas' condition, Erestor had the foresight to gather up a large amount of berries before the sunlight completely faded, using his quiver as a basket. With the containers of cool, clear water from the brook and the delectable fruit, the Noldor satisfied their bodies' hunger. Ithil rose and the eventful day ended.

For that night and two days and another night in between them, Legolas was feverish and ill and seldom woke. When he did, he demanded water and drank copiously but partook of nothing more, complaining of heat and of pains in his back. He could not find a comfortable way to rest during these times and shifted uneasily. He propounded irrational allegations, in less than endearing language, that his companions had stolen his blankets. When he needed to relieve himself he accused the Noldor of trying to 'look' at him, and insisted they go all the way down to the ground before he would even try. The Noldor found all this aggravating, but did their best to appease him.

On the third rising of Ithil since the skirmish, Legolas awoke quietly and stretched his injured shoulder and arm, rotating it completely to alleviate the remaining stiffness. The two spies were sleeping and he did not wake them when he left the tree, climbing down into the glade to bathe. Shucking off the old breeches, he waded into the bracing water of the brook and delighted in getting thoroughly clean, for he had not been able to do so for many weeks. He washed away the desiccated, crumbling fungus from the wound and noted with satisfaction that it was closed and healing cleanly.

That done, Legolas climbed from the water on the opposite bank and headed for the blackberries. He had eaten so little recently that he was sure he would not leave anything for the woodland animals to enjoy. He ate at a leisurely pace, enjoying the sounds of the Greenwood's night voices he knew and loved, adding his own in a soft, contented trilling hum.

It did not take long to fill up, however, for Legolas' stomach had shrunk somewhat over the weeks, and he knew to over eat would only make him queasy. Instead, he went into the brambles and retrieved his bow and quiver. He did as Erestor had, quickly filling the implement with the plump berries, and then slipped the strap loosely over his good shoulder. He waded back across the stream, donned his breeches and climbed back to the flet.

Legolas set down his bow and crouched on his heals, carefully dumping out the berries from his quiver, making sure the loose arrow points did not fall and waken his companions with loud clattering. The archer looked over at the seneschal and then lifting his bow unceremoniously jabbed him with it in the stomach.

"Why did you do that?" The Noldo balked at the contact and sat up, edging away. "Do not tell me you have to 'go' and expect me to leave the talan," he squawked irritably.

"I already 'went' when I was down in the glen. And you were watching me bathe, and then you watched me eat berries. If I had not been behind the brambles, I am sure you would have watched me 'go', too," Legolas snarled.

"How did you know that?" Erestor demanded before thinking. It was just as well, for there was no use denying the truth; it would only serve to make the situation worse. He had fully enjoyed the vision of Legolas standing naked in the glade, illuminated by the moonlight, daintily plucking blackberries and popping them into his mouth.

By way of answer, Legolas leaned back and patted the trunk of the tree supporting their shelter. "Tawar," was all he said. It was not true, of course. He had simply noticed the change in the Noldo's breathing pattern and guessed the rest. _Let him think Tawar is watching his every move._ He thought, grinning complacently.

At this juncture Elrond, who had awakened as soon as the conversation had begun, propped himself up on his elbows to see what the commotion was about. He observed Legolas carefully before speaking.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked simply, but Legolas only glanced at him with disdain and refused to respond. The Elf Lord rolled his eyes and then rolled himself over to go back to sleep. "Let me know when you start behaving like an adult," he sneered. It was the wrong thing to say.

The feral elf stood and kicked the Noldo Lord, soundly, in the middle of his back. The Elf Lord exclaimed in surprise and pain at the unexpected assault and he found himself struggling to catch his breath. While Elrond was trying to recover, Legolas knelt, unsheathed the Elf Lord's own dagger, and calmly slipped it under the healer's chin.

"Oh, you still doubt what realm you are in and whom it is you treat with, I see," Legolas said quietly and nodded as though to himself, smiling slightly. "You are only alive now because I will it."

"I thought our protection was from Tawar, Wood Elf," Elrond rejoined, but as before his bold tone did not seem to irk his feral combatant, and drew from him that most pleasing laughter.

"It is all the same, is it not?" he said softly. "I am Tawar's champion, and to you an emissary from the Greenwood. Do you wish to change this relationship?" And it happened again, the uncanny deadening of all sound and motion within elven earshot upon Legolas' spoken words.

"Nay, Legolas; I am grateful for your guidance and protection," Erestor spoke up quickly. "I owe you a life debt twice over, at least, and it is more than I can ever repay. It was improper for me to spy on you, but it is extremely hard to resist such temptation," he said with what he hoped was sincerity and comedic emphasis on the sexual innuendo. He got up and laid his hand calmly on the fingers gripping the dagger, drawing it back a little. "Come, you are still recovering. Will you lie down and let this matter go for now?" He gave Legolas his best and most results-producing 'endearing scoundrel' expression.

This made Legolas smile and his warm laughter overwhelmed the seneschal so that he could not help smiling back. He tugged on the fingers and thus pulled Legolas and the dagger away from the Lord of Imladris.

Legolas turned to the Elf Lord. His glowing smile, divested of any hint of kindness, became coldly rebuking. In actuality he was angrier with himself for breaking his resolve not to engage in any further discourse with the healer.  
They stared bitterly at one another for some minutes, but it was never a contest; Elrond had to admit, to himself at least, that he truly was at this elf's mercy, whether the knife was against his throat or not.

With a sour grimace the Noldo looked away, shifting around as though trying to find a comfortable spot rather than squirming under the scrutiny of the angry Tawarwaith still in possession of a dagger.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	23. Chapter 23

_italics indicate thoughts_  
(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Iaun a Dambeth Um [Sanctuary and Sanction]**

Stretched out in complete relaxation, carefree and without the need for heightened senses to constantly rifle the air for sounds and smells that would signal alert, Legolas welcomed sanctuary. His ears could lend themselves to the jovial joking of the meandering brook and gentle Song of Living sung throughout Tawar. His nose could busy itself in the joy of identifying flowers and plants of tremendous variation, cataloguing the diversity in olfactory images. His bare skin could luxuriate in the sensation of pillowing mosses and tickling flower petals pressed under him where he reclined in the sheltered environs of the hallowed glen.

Sanctuary.

The concept encompassed the glade as a physical locality, a condition of favour within Tawar's expansive soul, and his present state of cogency. The feeling of security granted complete unconcern for any physical want; he could wallow in unadulterated mellow truancy, thinking not of Tasks, Orcs, Dol Guldur, or his ill-fate. Indeed, he let his mind revolve on nothing, watching only the illusory visions of pretty dreams flitting past his closed lids. The need for an arm to shelter the shuttered eyes because his face ached from squinching up under the strength of the glaring rays from a cloudless sky; this was sanctuary, too.

These were such anomalous sensations that Legolas would happily remain reclining in the glen for days on end just to come to know them better. He wanted to mark every reaction of his body: feel every curling blade of grass under his back, acknowledge every insect and bird that moved near him through the breeze. Three days after the battle, cleansed of the black poison, he blissfully pushed the memories away, content to allow Tawar to lull his senses into insouciant serenity, harking only to the pleasurably entrancing codas of the Song, rejoicing in the simplest of delights: sensuous summer air, sonorous water, and dulcet life. The Tawarwaith knew solace and succour.

He could remember well the last time he had known something similar, and it was fitting that it was in the same spot under virtually identical circumstances.

That day had been over two years ago and he had been sick from an injury, a black arrow piercing his calf. The flet had not been built yet and the gracious clearing was only a wild tangle of rotting wood covered in fungus and ferns, coarse underbrush, and scrubby young saplings. He had crawled into the brambles to hide while he tried to tend the wound, believing that he would die from the poison for he had been unable to remove the dart. He had lost consciousness fairly quickly and was thus unaware of the wizard's arrival.

Aiwendil never told the Wood Elf how he knew where he was. When and how the wizard had discovered that the properties of the fungus would counter the noxious venom on the orc arrow likewise remained a mystery. None of that had seemed important after he had recovered his senses and met the kindly Istar.

Radagast the Brown, not one of the more influential of the wizards, was unconcerned with the political subterfuge practised among the free peoples. He was dedicated to counteracting the injures and corruption of Melkor, and found little in the current Age that differed from the other two, when the various races were considered, and none seemed very helpful to his purpose. From his standpoint, all of them were still caught in the misconception, the same skewed impression of power that the vainglorious Vala had propounded. Few of them truly recognised what they were fighting about or against, and seldom made the distinction between power and control.

It saddened the mild tempered wizard, for he saw how the distorted thinking made them lowly dupes in a fruitless struggle to master what was in reality unmasterable. The three elven Rings of Power were his favourite example of this misguided interpretation. The rings held no magic of their own, and barely controlled even the smallest bit of the magnificent energy of the Making with which all of Middle Earth was infused. So scant was this control that the keepers of the rings had to keep them hidden, and the Realms they purported to protect were miniscule in comparison to the Elven Kingdoms of Doriath or Nargothrond, or of the Greenwood for that matter.

It amazed him that among the free peoples, especially the elves, there were so few that could comprehend this simple concept. Within the Music of the Ainur, a voice might choose to sing a different note and alter the melody slightly, but the Song itself was not disrupted and never silenced. In fact, each time such disturbances were introduced, a new melody was begun and the Music swelled again in even greater glory. It was a paradox that what was considered good and that which was deemed evil had as origin the same source and as such both were within the design of that one Omniscience. Then again, even most of the Ainur did not seem to understand this part of Iluvatar's Making.

Aiwendil's insights were aligned more with those of Legolas, centred on the greater connection between all the life of Arda and Eru, and thus the two were almost instantly friends. There was no need to explain what was important or what must be done; each knew instinctively that the other understood, and they worked in a closer harmony than Legolas, and possibly Radagast also, had ever known before. It had been difficult for Legolas to leave when he had healed and needed to get back to the Tasks.

Now, he lay beside the brook basking in the bright beams within the sanctuary he and the brown wizard had made together, awaiting his arrival. Aiwendil always knew when he was near, and Legolas fully expected him to appear at any moment.

The Wood Elf was alone, for the first time in a ten-day, and never would he have imagined that such an event would be a welcome one, given the long periods of isolation he had to endure. But the Noldor tried the limits of his lenience and their incessant bickering and unreasonable manners were more than even the most temperate of personalities could bear for any period longer than a few days. Perhaps in a larger community, where he would not have had to engage them on a nearly constant basis, Legolas would have found their company at least tolerable. Here, though he was in his own lands, he could not get free of them.

Legolas had argued with them all morning about the next course to take. He was determined for them to go while they were as adamant to remain. They had demanded to be taken back to retrieve their goods from the old guard's talan. Legolas had no intention of backtracking. They had objected to his remark that they had plenty of possessions in Imladris and could bear to leave the packs behind.

The healer had insisted he required his supply of medicinal plants and powders. The warrior had been appalled at the very notion of abandoning the valourous weapon that had served him in the Battle of Gondolin. Both Noldor thought it an indication of Legolas' obviously deficient breeding and upbringing for him to have pointed out that the worth of said blade had not availed the lost Kingdom of Turgon. At last he had had all he could stomach and sent them off, with guidance through Tawar, to get their precious things, and he revelled in the quiet peace their departure had granted.

"Tirno! How good to find you here," the soft words were so gently spoken that just to hear them felt like being drawn into the welcoming embrace of safe and loving arms. Legolas leapt to his feet and did squeeze the Istar warmly. His sorrows betrayed him and he held tighter than he had intended to the cushiony softness of the plump wizard's ample and comforting pecan-coloured robes. The strength of the outcast's distress was easily picked up by the sympathetic Maia, and he soothed Legolas within his protecting aura until he felt the elf's close grip relax.

"Aiwendil! I have been waiting, whatever delayed you so many days?" Legolas chided in good humour and the brown wizard chuckled, his happy countenance creasing at the eye's corners in deltaic fans of wrinkled skin. He stepped back, holding Legolas at arm's length to study him over, and did not like what he saw, though his smile only dimmed a little in revealing this.

"My friend, had I imagined you were in this state I would have come straight away. You are getting too expert at hiding your woes, Legolas," he replied and traced his finger along the bright pink of the new scar spanning the elf's left shoulder.

"That was not so bad, since I knew what to do," Legolas said and shrugged nonchalantly. "I was not in too much danger, only sick a couple of days."

Aiwendil gave a melancholic twist to his ever-present smile as he shook his head and let his hand travel down across ribs that were too sharply defined.

"You have been away too long. Cornered, I suppose? I have become aware of the Orcs' new pattern of patrols and determined you were the cause," he spoke with calm concern as his hazel eyes sought the depths of the deep blue elven pair. The new pain he found there disturbed him, fresh wounds on an unsalved soul that spoke of more than physical danger and deprivation.

Legolas willingly tolerated the wizard's scrutiny. For him, for Fearfaron, and at times for Mithrandir also Legolas would not look away, allowing his inner mind to be known. From these three, and only these three, he had always known compassion and friendship, and he trusted them. "Aye, they have cut off the main trail out of that tortured country. I have been trying to break through for nearly three months, and was only just successful, as you have noted," the Wood Elf confirmed, and sighed an exasperated breath before continuing. "And you will scarcely believe what I tell you now. I have found spies in the Greenwood, of elf-kind! They are from Imladris, and say they are seeking information on the Wraiths' activity in Dol Guldur."

"Manw's wind! Imladris, you say?" the old wizard's perplexity was well expressed in his wide-eyed visage, and the sight of the ancient countenance transformed by a childlike amazement almost made Legolas laugh. However, at that moment he sensed the Noldor returning and motioned with his hand towards the trees.

Radagast turned to see and his eyes fairly popped upon witnessing the emergence of the Lord of Imladris and his trusted seneschal from the branches. He whipped his startled face back to Legolas, lips agape, and beheld the wild elf's irritated yet unsuspicious expression. The Istar finally found the means to speak.

"Legolas, do you know who those elves are?" he asked, still in shock to find them there at all.

"Oh yes, though they lied at first, Erestor eventually told me and even admitted they were trying to recruit me to spy upon my own people," Legolas responded in equal amazement as the Noldor approached them. "So you have met them before?"

"Many times, but never in such unexpected circumstances," the wizard was actually scowling at the Noldor.

Legolas' response unwittingly played the Elf Lord's farce against the Istar's understanding; he believed the Wood Elf knew the true identities. Elrond and Erestor were well acquainted with Radagast as he was a member of the White Council and worked closely with Gandalf in the regions near the Gladden Fields. Indeed, his birds usually served as the most reliable messengers in troubled times.

The Imladrians halted a step or two back from the wizard and the Wood Elf and found each other's eyes. An exceptionally profound silence descended over the glade as the four of them stood, an awkward stand-off of sorts in progress as each weighed the situation.

The Elf Lord was quite dismayed to find the wizard there, though Legolas' remark about their nearness to the Istar's home had at least given him pause to consider this encounter highly probable. He remained resolutely undeterred, regretting that his little scheme would be ruined, but fully prepared to absorb the shock to Legolas when the truth was revealed. He almost smiled, but found the necessary muscles resisted being forced.

He and Erestor had argued about Legolas nearly the entire journey to retrieve the supplies, and some of his old friend's remarks were more than just. Perhaps Elrond's assumptions were incorrect. Was there not something uniquely appealing about the archer that he should appreciate rather than scorn? Mayhap he had been avenging his tarnished pride, both from Ningloriel's selfish abandonment and the Wood Elf's misplaced solicitude. Was he reacting to deeper feelings for the Danwaith Queen than he cared to acknowledge? Legolas did not deserve to be used.

The meagre attempt to present a pleasing demeanour failed utterly and Elrond met Radagast with an equivalently disgruntled frown.

Erestor was horrified at the predicament and could think of nothing about the next few moments that he would find congenial. Indeed, having witnessed both the fury and skill of the wild elf in battle, the seneschal was extremely relieved to have his sword at his side again. His hand found its way to the blade's hilt of its own accord as he earnestly hoped matters would not come to violence.

"What are you doing so far from Imladris?" the wizard asked almost the same question that Legolas had put before the Noldor. Radagast moved his eyes from Elrond to Erestor's hand upon the sword to Legolas and back, resting finally on the Elf Lord.

"It is as he has told you; I will not deny it," Elrond spoke with his naturally authoritative manner for he held the brown wizard in low regard, considering his usefulness minimal to the cause of Imladris. The Elf Lord did not answer to Mithrandir; he certainly owed no explanations to this lesser Istar.

"That is ridiculous! How would you come to think Legolas would aid you against his own?" Aiwendil spoke with amused condescension rather than anger, and neither Legolas nor the Noldor missed the derisive reprimand.

"We realise that now," the seneschal spoke up quickly, sharing a wary glance that encompassed his Lord, the Maia, and the Wood Elf. "However, we did not know him then. At the time we only knew he was outcast and banished from his people. It seemed he might be open to the affiliation," he posited feebly. "For my part, I regret the whole idea; all of it," the Noldo glared at his Lord. "Legolas has saved my life three times since I have been in Mirkwood, and has shown his character to be exemplary. I truly regret any deception I have been involved in here," he re-emphasised his apology, speaking directly to Legolas.

The Noldo sincerely meant his words and was not simply trying to alleviate the detriment to himself the revelation of their ruse would create. He had come to the conclusion that his actions were not redeemable even under the guise of defeating the power of Sauron. During the trek, his discussion with Elrond had yielded a compromise: he would remain silent about the lies if Elrond would agree for them to leave. His part in the little drama had already done a great deal of damage to the fallen archer and the injury that was about to be manifested upon the unsuspecting woodland warrior made the seneschal feel ill. Erestor found that he was ashamed of himself, and could not help thinking that Orophin and Dambethnn would feel the same.

"You would do well to recall where your allegiance lies." The Lord of Imladris sent his old friend a bitterly cold stare as he spoke this harsh rebuke. He would not have believed Erestor would betray him had he not just heard the words himself. Elrond seethed; the outcast had caused a serious rift between him and one of his dearest and oldest friends. He rescinded his decision to spare Legolas further torment.

Radagast allowed his inner senses to evaluate this exchange as he studied the Imladrians. Erestor's admissions were more than sufficient to convince the Istar that these two elves were responsible for whatever had befallen Legolas. He sensed a dark deception, but could not pick it out. Elrond was skilled in shielding his thoughts and the seneschal was only a bundle of rueful apprehensions. He immediately wished his order did not forbid using his powers upon any of the free peoples directly. They had hurt the Wood Elf, the malice clear but the manner of the injury and its reason obscure. The wizard had almost decided to defy the rule and force the truth from the Noldo Lord when Legolas' hand upon his arm calmed him.

"It does not matter now, Aiwendil," the disinherited prince sought to diffuse his friend's sudden anger. Unclear as to what the undertone of rage was about, he considered the emotion to be out of proportion to his own understanding of events. The wizard must be reading his reactions to the Noldor presence and was agitated by them for his sake.

For that matter, they were also over reacting, especially the advisor. He had expressed remorse before, yet this seemed more urgent, more intense. As far as Legolas was concerned, the seneschal was forgiven; his lecherous predisposition had not really done the archer any harm. He decided the Noldo must be worried about what his Lord might do to punish him for his disloyalty in the face of the wizard's mild challenge. "They are leaving, returning to their lands today."

"Nay, we are not going from here until we have learned what we came to learn," retorted Elrond hotly, his fiery eyes defying his compatriot to speak out again. Erestor uplifted hands and vision skyward in wearied defeat, murmuring several unwholesome expletives as he walked away.

"Aye, you shall go this day! The woodsmen's village I spoke of is only a few leagues Northeast of here; there I shall lead you and leave you." Legolas was so vexed by this endless contention that he was already shouting at the healer and advanced a pace towards him.

Radagast sensed the two elves had been trading similar words for many hours, and so intervened, literally putting his body between them. He would not grant the Noldo Lord further opportunity to manipulate his friend's emotions.

"I am glad you speak of the village, for that is the reason I was delayed. They have suffered from the heaving madness of the earth wrought by Sauron two days ago. No doubt you were caught in it as well, and that is a story you might wish to tell me later," he said as he drew the younger elf away from his antagonists. As he had anticipated, Legolas' thoughts were instantly diverted.

"What has happened? Are there many hurt?" the Wood Elf was distressed to hear of it for he took the well-being of the forest dwellers personally, feeling that Thranduil had abandoned them unjustly. He was fond of the humans there, and they helped pass messages to and from Fearfaron.

"Yes, sadly, there were many injuries. It was not the shaking so much as the damage from falling limbs and trees. Two cabins were crushed and four lives were lost that way. The worst of the harm came from the fire, though. The most severely burned have already expired but there are some still struggling to live. Two are children, Legolas," the old wizard was overcome with sorrow as he spoke these words, the image of these unfortunate souls stirring his heart.

Legolas was beside himself. The idea of children suffering was unbearable and he shuddered as the colour drained away from his cheeks. Wanting to ask but terrified to know, he recalled each of the little ones he knew. It could be any of them and he could not bear to learn which of these innocents endured such horrible torture. He pulled free from the wizard, clasping and twisting his hands together, paced two strides out, then returned and abruptly faced Elrond.

"You are a healer. Please, you must help them," his pleading voice was audibly afflicted, and the Elf Lord was taken aback.

"Of course I will help them," he reassured. As soon as he had heard of the humans' plight he had begun checking in his pack for the herbs he would need. Healing was his true calling; it surprised him that Legolas thought he had to beg for such assistance.

Legolas' relief was palpable and he even reached out and clasped the Elf Lord by the shoulder in gratitude, giving him a look filled with such appreciation that the Noldo became even more disturbed. What sort of character did this elf think he possessed?

Legolas turned back to Aiwendil and stated his intent to retrieve his weapons as he hurried up to the talan. It no longer mattered to him what the Noldo had done to him three days ago as long as he would try to save the lives of the children and their kin. Legolas could fend for himself; he was an elf. The humans were helpless against the Shadow of Sauron.

Erestor filled up the water skins, wondering at fate's hand in this. The Lord of Imladris was still secure in his false identity; Aiwendil, for whatever reason, did not seem to care to reveal the deception. But that did not matter to the seneschal. His conscience demanded that as soon as the immediate exigency was alleviated, he would explain it all to Legolas.

Within the passing of mere moments the four were prepared and left the dale to bring aid to the suffering Woodsmen and their families.

The evil's wretched doom was apparent long before the company of four reached the Woodsmen's homes. So great was the loss within the forest that the wild elf had to go to ground two leagues from the glade, unable to find a consistent path among the branches. The full light of the sun highlighted the grisly scene of overturned beeches, oaks, maples, firs, and all species of wooded life. A large part of the Greenwood in the surrounding area was nothing more than a mass of wasted wood, soon to succumb to rot and decay. But for the present, among the uprooted and blasted trees some were still alive, crying out their last songs of expiring existence, sundered from even the ability to share these final moments with Tawar.

Only Legolas could hear them now.

He walked in silence as he listened and his anger and sorrow radiated from him in surging swells of restless yet helpless energy and a steady flow of tears. Safe in the sanctuary by the blackberries and the brook, beyond the range of the worst tremors, he had been able to block from conscious thought the injury the Greenwood had endured. While he had enjoyed his peaceful contentment, the trees had been in their death throes. Reason told him there was nothing he could have done to prevent the destruction, but his heart was guilt-ridden nonetheless. He deliberately goaded the Shadow to reveal itself, and now the forest received sanction in his stead.

Impeded by the devastation, their journey took longer than a normal excursion of such a small distance should. The five leagues seemed like fifty, and the hours required to cross the paltry expanse chafed against the concerned travellers' desire to help the unfortunates.

It was nearly annn before the pathway outpost was reached. Beyond this marker, a great perimeter of stripped ground they crossed, twenty paces deep, devoid of any small trees and undergrowth. The Men had constructed a firebreak to prevent the spread of their disaster to the forest at large. The elves and the wizard stepped into the zone of tearful stoicism that the hamlet had become and simply stopped, overcome with the impact of the catastrophe.

The village was destroyed.

Many of the smaller huts had been shaken loose from their moorings, their bark shingled roofs askew and door-frames queerly bent. Two cabins had been completely crushed under the weight of fallen forest giants while three more stood with one side down or the roof partially collapsed from the burden of fallen limbs and younger trees. Six had burned; four reduced to nothing but ashes and blackened, stark stone chimney stacks. The rest were partially intact, and still in use by the beleaguered population. Of the original thirty or so dwellings, only twelve stood unaffected, and one of these had been commandeered to house the maimed and burned.

The humble abodes were built right into the forest proper without any of the elder trees having been cleared away first. The only alterations the humans had made involved removal of the underbrush and scrubby saplings, and occasionally trimming out dead wood before it could fall and harm anyone below. This careful husbandry had spared the bulk of the woods from the blaze, and only two trees would never recover from the scorching, these growing up against the remnants of the completely incinerated dwellings. The height of the scorched, blackened bark on the standing trees marked the dire fury of the conflagration.

Everywhere the litter of broken branches, huge logs, and discarded, charred furnishings blocked the narrow cobble-lined pathways. A bonfire was aflame under careful tending. The putrid odour issuing from it told of the loss of small domestic fowl and hunting hounds, no doubt penned up during the horrendous calamity and either suffocated or crushed. A second fire heated heavy cauldrons of water for use in cleansing the smoke and ash from clothes and possessions, bathing, and providing clean bandaging for the burn victims.

All the adults were engaged in the work of sawing up the fallen trees and stabilising the wobbly buildings. Children of all ages collected and hauled the lumber into piles, sorting it by size and type for later use. Many homes needed to be rebuilt, and basic furnishings replaced; none of the lost trees would go to waste. If it seemed macabre to use the very wood that had killed a loved one to rebuild the survivors' new homes, the inhabitants would never discuss it. So engrossed were the villagers in their salvage activities that they did not at first notice the silent entrance of the wizard and the elves.

Legolas recovered from his shock first, for he was desperately dreading to learn whom among his friends was dead. He stepped forward purposefully towards the makeshift house of healing, easily identified by the horrendous cries of torment issuing from its open doors.

Elrond moved forth after him, but Radagast placed a restraining hand upon his shoulder and held him back.

"No, we will wait," the wizard said and turned his attention back to the scene before him, keeping a hand on the Elf Lord's arm.

The Lord of Imladris graced the Istar with a bewildered expression and looked over to Erestor to share this silent perplexity. The seneschal, however, was watching Legolas.

Before the Wood Elf could reach the doorway, he was spotted by a young child who cried out and raced right for him.

"Tirno!" the little one piped in gleeful joy. Legolas was just as excited, dropping to his knees to catch the youngster that flung her small body into his embrace.

"Chloe! You are unharmed. Where is Amethyst?" he was saying as a second and identical little girl careened into his arms and smothered his face in kisses. Soon a small knot of little ones had nearly buried the archer and he was carefully counting heads and checking over each one. At last he stood up, sorrowfully meeting the eyes of the older children and adults that had joined the small huddle. "Where are Carnil and Cemendur?" he asked fearfully.

A tall young maiden with soot-stained auburn hair, her green eyes misted with despair, sobbed as she stepped forward, her hand clamped hard over her lips as she shook her head. Legolas reached out for her and soon she was crying raggedly as she tried to explain what had happened through her tears.

She was Llannadh, the oldest of the five siblings, and her broken story confirmed that both her baby brothers and her mother were among the burn victims still alive, but her father was not. The tale of this one family seemed to summarise the grim entirety of the devastation the humans had endured, and everyone fell silent as the elf and the girl wept quietly.

Gradually Llannadh gathered her composure and her sisters, loosening the little fingers that were entwined together, ensnaring Legolas around his waist with their arms, one twin on either side.

There was a shifting in the crowd and the people stood aside to allow the Village Elder to approach the Wood Elf. She was a wizened old matriarch, and no one knew exactly how many years she had lived.

Legolas remembered her from her childhood days, when he had come through once with Talagan's patrol. It had been a rare trip to the south for him, when a particularly massive influx of Orcs had threatened the border, then much further to the south, and extra patrols had been mustered.

He recalled a frightened pair of shining brown eyes staring at him from an ivory skinned cherubic face, a mass of curly brown locks, and a hound puppy whimpering in her arms because it was held too tightly. It had been a shock to him when first he met her again and had recognised those same brown eyes watching from the care-lined ivory visage of an old woman. He had wondered then if she would be able to remember him, for he had changed dramatically, too.

He stood before her and bowed with respect and then pressed his forehead to hers, each hand upon a fragile shoulder, as was the human custom in greeting the Elder, before straightening up again.

She tried to smile through her distress but could not speak. He need not have wondered if she recalled that day of her young years when the Wood Elves came to drive away the demons and make safe the land. She would never forget it and had recounted the story to her children and her grandchildren and even great-grandchildren time and again.

How terrified she had been of the fearsome elven warriors! She had frozen like a troll at dawn when she discovered one of them staring right at her through piercing blue eyes. He had gotten down from his horse and come straight to her, kneeling down in the dirt and looking from her to the whining puppy and back with such distress that she had abruptly held the dog out to him. The smile that had lit his eyes as he caught up the little hound had illuminated her soul as well, and she secretly believed she had lived beyond her years because of a blessing that smile had bestowed. He had not kept the pup, though, merely calmed it down and handed it back, admonishing her to always be gentle with the lesser creatures of Yavanna.

He had returned to them five years ago, and though she had been surprised to see an elf so poorly kept, she recognised Legolas as he did her, from the eyes. No questions did she ask for she knew he had reappeared to drive back the demons and make safe the land.

"I am sorry I was not here to help," he was apologising and she immediately pressed her gnarled fingers over his lips and fixed him with a look of gentle displeasure.

"You will not speak those words. You are here now, and if you could have been here before what could you have done?" she said sternly. It amazed her that although he far outnumbered her years she had surpassed him in experience and wisdom in many ways. She could tell he was blaming himself, like all youth that believed their simple presence would somehow avert disaster, and she patted his cheek affectionately, wiping away the tears from his eyes. "Who are these you have brought with you?" she asked.

"Aiwendil you know; the others are elves from Imladris. One is a healer," Legolas answered and looked back over towards Radagast and the Noldor. Only then did the wizard come forward, releasing his hold upon Elrond. They greeted the Elder, following Legolas' example, and she gratefully guided the healer into the dreadful gloom of the sick house. Legolas made to follow, but Erestor and Aiwendil held him back, forbidding him entry.

Tbc  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	24. Chapter 24

_italics indicate thoughts_

(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Sanwe-mitya [Introspection]**

(A/N: This chapter contains a tribute to my beta, Sarah AK. She is NOT a Mary Sue! Also mentioned are many of the faithful reviewers who have kept me going with their considerate feedback. No one is being Mary-Sue'd.)

It was not the interview Erestor had hoped for, this meeting with the brown wizard. What he wanted was the chance to speak privately with Legolas but the three elves and the Maia had only been with the humans a day and no opportunity had arisen. Instead he was waiting for the normally kindly Istar to join him at the village center. It had not been a suggestion or an invitation, Radagast had demanded the conference in uncharacteristically stringent words and Elrond had left the handling of it to his trusted advisor. The Elven Lord would not be at the little causerie; he was consumed with his duties as a healer. Legolas would likewise be absent, working somewhere in the village or perhaps rebuilding the traps that formed the primary defence against Orc raids, Erestor was uncertain which.

He supposed it was for the best. Had he managed to secure a private assignation with the wild elf, Erestor would have had a serious dilemma with which to contend; the temptation to initiate a coupling with Legolas was too great to overcome in spite of his honest intentions not to harm the fallen archer. He was certain he could win him; Legolas had seemed to respond favourably to him since arriving in the enchanted glade. Erestor chose to believe that it was his personal charm that had enabled him to diffuse the Wood Elf's hostility towards Elrond, rather than the effects of the poison and the fungus working through his body.

_A few kind words and a soft touch, that is what Legolas needs,_ he thought, and wondered if the wild elf had ever known either from a lover. He would gladly give them both to reap the harvest of pleasure from pen-rhovan's ripe, latent desires and to give Legolas an experience devoid of pain. He imagined what it would be like to touch that cock again, to taste the nectar at its tip, to explore that wondrous mouth with his, and then bury his shaft within it, wrapped in that exquisitely mobile tongue. In return for the realisation of these recurring fantasies, Erestor had decided to submit to Legolas, to be filled by him, a favour thus far reserved for Orophin alone.

"Erestor!" the strident voice shattered the Noldo's erotic imagery in tones of irritation suggesting it was not the first time Radagast had called out. The seneschal was alarmed to hear his own name so loudly spoken and looked about anxiously for any sign of Legolas' presence.

"He is not here," the brown wizard frowned around the words. "He is at the sick house visiting the children with their sister and cousin. The girl insisted on seeing her little brothers and Legolas refused to let her do so alone. I would speak with you regarding this game you and Elrond are playing. First, why does the sound of your name daunt you? Answer!" the mild tempered Istar suddenly seemed almost as menacing as Mithrandir and Erestor cowered back a bit under his scrutiny.

"Perhaps we could talk somewhere less exposed, Aiwendil. These are not matters for the general population to know," he stalled for time, undecided on how much he should reveal without first consulting Elrond.

Aiwendil did not bother to reply and merely strode off across the scorched and barren pathway towards the outermost edge of the compound where stood a small cottage with a newly thatched roof and a rebuilt lintel over the entrance. Inside was a single large room with a hard packed dirt floor and a huge central fireplace wide enough to accommodate three tree-sized logs gleaned from the debris of the catastrophe. There was no need for a fire this day, yet the wizard still led his guest to a small wooden bench next to the hearth and motioned for him to be seated. Radagast remained on his feet and glared silently down at the uneasy Noldo. Erestor squirmed in apprehensive discomfort and took a deep breath.

"I realise you have concerns, but what we are doing is necessary. Elrond needs to know the extent of Thranduil's involvement with the activities in Dol Guldur. He is certain Legolas may have knowledge of a way into the vaults unknown to anyone else," he said with less than confident intonation.

"Mithrandir is seeing to that. You know that he sent Legolas here, and for good reasons. Whatever is going on in Thranduil's plotting mind Legolas is not party to it and does not need to be caught up in such intrigues."

"I agree with you there. What I said before holds; I regret the deceits we have enacted against him."

"Then speak! What are these lies?"

"We have not given our true identities. Legolas believes Elrond to be me, and I am known to him as Berenaur, a lesser advisor."

"Why?" the Istar's single word held the kindling menace of a white-hot brand poised to sear into unprotected flesh.

"Given the situation between Elrond and his mother, it seemed unlikely he would have anything to do with us if he knew. We felt the need; that is, Elrond felt the need to establish an emotional bond with Legolas. Personally, I thought we might have used the whole paternity issue to our favour, but Elrond was against that."

This was not going well for Erestor. The plot sounded completely contrived when spoken aloud in the presence of an objective pair of ears. Or rather, when heard by a listener with the Wood Elf's care at heart. The advisor tried to bring his explanation back in concert with the need for information on Thranduil's plans.

"If he felt some kind of link to Elrond, then Legolas would be more likely to give us the knowledge we sought."

The Istar's eyes were nearly undetectable behind lowered brows and lash-lined slitted lids. He tried to digest what these words truly meant and did not like what his intuition warned. "Did you or Elrond tell him what you suspect?"

"No! That would not do at all. If he were to refuse to help us, then he would carry that notion back to Thranduil. This is what we must prevent at all costs!" Erestor exclaimed.

"That is a pity. You could simply have asked him and you would have gotten a straightforward reply. Legolas does not lie," the wizard said with no small amount of proud admiration. "Either he knows how to get in or not.

"And he would be right to tell Thranduil what Imladris has alleged before the White Council. Mithrandir has steadfastly argued to do so; the Woodland King has a right to know why his resources are so sorely pressed in defending his Realm. Just to state my own opinion again, I believe this conjecture of Elrond's most definitely represents a threat to Greenwood's population."

He continued.

"Exactly what is the nature of this emotional bond that Elrond felt so necessary to incur. And tell me, Erestor, exactly what sort of trust does one build from deceit?"

This remark caused the Noldo to cringe as he looked away from Radagast. Erestor simply could not keep it up any longer; the ruse was just too terribly selfish and had so little to do with the security of Imladris. He needed to cleanse himself of it if he ever wanted to meet the eyes of his mated lovers again.

The seneschal no longer remembered why he had thought this was such an appealing escapade, nor could he recall when he had allowed Elrond's personal feud with Thranduil to over rule his own convictions. Surely he had not always been so cold of heart. With an unpleasant sense of distaste Erestor realised he had never thought of the harm they might inflict upon Legolas as an important consideration.

"Aye, it is as you suggest. No true bond has been made on our part. We have been manipulating him. Emotionally. Sexually."

The room took on unnatural warmth that spread from the Istar in waves of increasing incalescence. The logs in the grate ignited and the thatch roof shrivelled in the shimmering air, leaving gaps in the coverage as the drying straw contracted. The earthen floor felt hot beneath the seneschal's bare feet and he unconsciously shifted them one against the other, his eyes never straying from the wizard's furious countenance. Erestor hoped the Maia would remember the oaths of his order and confine his wrath to inanimate objects.

It was a near thing, but Radagast held true to the vows he had taken before Manw and Varda. With a blistering, withering gaze at the Noldo before him and a sweep of his long robes upon the floor as he turned Aiwendil departed the cabin and headed out of the village, too angry to trust himself to face Elrond yet.

It was more than infuriating to find his friend being used in such a manner. Aiwendil was fairly sure that the seneschal was not intimately involved with Legolas, or the story would not have been so quickly told. No, it was only Elrond who had bedded the fallen prince. Aiwendil fumed in exasperatedly silent outrage. That the Elf Lord would choose this means to manoeuvre for supremacy in the power struggle with Thranduil went far beyond any of his previous behaviours. To think that Elrond, Lord of Imladris, would take as his lover not only his old antagonist's deposed heir, but also his former mistress' only child, and possibly his own offspring.

_For where Elrond is concerned, Legolas is all these things at once, and when he learns the truth he will be utterly shattered,_ the Istar thought.

And as Erestor nervously awaited the confrontation, Radagast deliberated the best course to take through the unpleasant mess the Elf Lord had created.

The welfare of the humans over rode the wizard's desire to confront the Noldo Lord. Elrond's skills were needed, and his strength as a restorer need not be curtailed as long as Legolas was kept from further carnal contact with the healer.

Aiwendil dreaded to reveal the truth to his young friend; somehow Legolas would have to be told, but Radagast did not want to be the bearer of the tidings. The Wood Elf was obviously already distressed over the encounter and now had the burden of the village's destruction on his shoulders and the unspeakable suffering of the little ones to bear. He hesitated, deciding to wait until the fate of the two boys was better understood.

The cries of the dying children filled the forest for a fourth of a league's circumference by humans' hearing and two leagues out according to elves' acuity. Save for the continuous echoes of the biting of axe on wood little else was audible in the cinder scented air. Day and night the poor souls screamed their terror and torment from their weakening bodies, interrupted by deadly tranquility when their consciousness mercifully fled.

The mother lying in the bed next to them begged for an end to their misery. She pleaded with the Elf Lord to kill them, for they were suffering and even should they recover, their lives would be spent in disfigured pain and disabled dependency. This doom she could not abide her sons to fulfil.

Elrond steadfastly refused to accede to the woman's demands, and she soon succumbed to her sorrow and her own painful injuries, perishing in the early light of daybreak on the fourth day. The family mourned anew and the Elder spoke words at the graveside, enjoining all to rally round the bereft children, now orphaned. They were but the latest added to this caste. In all, seven families lost one or both parents, leaving anywhere from only one babe to five young ones to fend for themselves. Llannadh and her siblings were fortunate to have an aunt in the village who adopted them at once.

The twin boys endured.

Elrond laboured to cure them, spending all his hours within the sick house, refusing to allow any other to tend the little ones' sickening wounds. Sharing the babes' status as a twin and his sons being Gemini also, he felt driven to return them to the embrace of the grieving sisters, hale if not whole. His empathy for these orphans surprised him; he refused to consider the possibility of their demise and fought this battle against death with greater vigour than any since the vile desecration of Celebrian.

He had succeeded then, due more to her own will and the natural resiliency of elf-kind, but even so she had been unable to bear the disfigurement of her soul. His determination to prevail with the little humans was bolstered by the aunt's and the oldest sister's attendance at the bedside whenever he allowed it. These little ones were closely knit within the hearts and souls of their family. Elrond simply refused to acknowledge that Celebrian, with three devoted children and adoring parents, had been as equally loved, as were these small boys.

They were scarcely two years old, and remarkable in their tenacious capacity to live. Llannadh had informed Elrond that they were special, born the very day that Legolas had initiated the first traps at the borders of the village, and as such represented the zeal of the people to hold fast to their lands and homes. In honour of the killing of twelve Orcs that had been terrorising the area, the father had asked for the Wood Elf to give the babes elvish names. The Elf Lord had wondered to learn of this, for Legolas had rendered their human names into the High Tongue.

Yet the little ones' injuries were horrendous, and infections were insuppressible. As soon as the healer had one under control, another wound festered and grew gangrenous. From Cemendur, an arm was taken; from Carnil, the right hand and left leg from the knee down. The fire was still eating them, consuming their flesh by inches, en echelon.

Outside the hut, Legolas hovered at the doorway the first few days. Neither Aiwendil nor Elrond felt it a good idea for him to see the invalids too often, for his attachment to the children was intense and his anguish over their pain and sickness proportionate. The Elder noted his overwrought manner also and bade the villagers attempt to keep him involved in the rebuilding activities. With the boys' despairing shrieks, even this was insufficient to distract him, and Aiwendil was forced to drastic means.

The Istar created a barrier of protection around the village and enlisted the wild elf's connection with Tawar to stabilise and enhance the magic. This required Legolas' surveillance of the boundary and regular physical contact with the trees through which the strength and energy for the barrier derived. With the destruction of so much of the Greenwood, the connection was as tenuous as mist in the morning and would never prevent an attack from the Wraiths. It was something akin to the Girdle of Melian, yet lesser in measure and potency, for Melian had drawn upon the essence of the elves themselves to construct her wall of obscurity while Aiwendil had but one elf and a handful of oaks and beeches. Still, its primary purpose was to supply a diversion, and for this it was ample.

A blur of days sped past until four week's worth had elapsed and were gone from all but memory, and Carnil expired in the darkness of Ithil's hours.

For the first time in his existence Erestor felt the fleeting hours of all mortals' brevity keenly. Without pausing to consider the futility of their actions the village folk rebuilt their lives from the devastation of the trembling earth, determined to do more than exist only to perish. What this actually meant to them escaped the elf's understanding.

_They flow like water, these humans, determined to push through what ever obstacle might appear, only to empty out into the ocean of Ea, the individual character of each life absorbed and lost in the anonymity of being. No matter what they do, it is always the same, and when they die there are others that take up the task, continuing the unending monotony. To what purpose?_

It required so much toil, so much effort, and yet when it was done there was only this small collection of people, nothing more. It was the same wherever Men were found; the size of the group varied, the grandeur of the structures and wealth of the culture changed but it was really all the same, iteration upon redundancy. Erestor could not hear the contribution these humans made to the Music and wondered if he was missing something important, something that darted away as quickly as the glimmering streak of a shooting star faded from view in the endless black of Ithil's night.

_Perhaps the mortals are not the musicians; perhaps they are the instruments. A harp, no matter whether lovely and finely wrought or simple and unadorned, was silent until the harpist plucked the strings and drew forth music from the voiceless shape. Any harp could be made to produce the songs by a skilled musician, and if damaged, a new one made to take its place._

Yet strangely it was also not exactly so. These humans had desperately hoped the burned children and mother would survive their terrible injuries and rejoin the community. The twins were not old enough to have made any contribution to the village yet, and her sister and the oldest child had already assumed the mother's responsibilities. Why should the whole town be praying so for the recovery of these few members, when survival could only mean spending the remainder of their lives in pain and disfigurement?

They were loved and held unexpected uniqueness hidden within their human uniformity; this much Erestor registered.

He sighed. Trying to discuss this with Aiwendil had been useless; the wizard had not been able to comprehend his dilemma. The humans simply were a part of the Making; no further explanation did the Istar require. The individual was to be prized, but in the end the singularity of each personal drama diminished within the greater task of perpetuating the collective body as an entity. Should one human's fate be to die sooner than late, the rest of the village would carry on with the endless drudgery of existence.

"It is the way of things," the old wizard had said calmly, as though this was the most understandable concept within all of Arda.

And though Erestor made two attempts to draw him out, Aiwendil refused to further discuss his plans for Elrond and Legolas. Erestor was not eager to press harder, being too grateful to see the Istar's anger abate somewhat, replaced by worried concern. The death of the child fell hard upon the archer, and the kindly wizard spent his time trying to ease Legolas' guilt rather than adding new hardships.

The seneschal shook his head, observing the people stir from slumber and begin the illimitable travail yet again. They woke with the sun and slept through Ithil's reign. The silent and motionless nights were most difficult for Erestor to bear, for no singing or even conversing among the people took place. No hunting parties were organised and no watches were set, for Legolas and Aiwendil patrolled the outskirts until the coming of dawn. This left Erestor with only the sick house as a destination. Often he took a turn monitoring the patients to allow Elrond a chance to leave the gruesome place and rest.

The two of them had made their peace. The long centuries of their friendship would not allow a permanent break in the relationship. Too much had they depended on one another and at times trusted their lives and the welfare of loved ones to the other's care. They shared a common goal of defending their homeland and people against the rising power of Darkness, and a quick discussion had been all that was required to return to their previous understanding.

Elrond knew of the wizard's awareness of his scheming, and did not hold Erestor to account for it anymore. The loss of Carnil weighed heavily on his heart, and his vision for this mission had become defunct, irrevocably dissipated by the renewal of sound judgement the sobering defeat initiated. He learned of the barrier and its diversionary purpose and felt a resurgence of conscience to have caused the Istar to separate the feral elf from him as much as from the bone-rattling screams of the injured.

His observation of Legolas' tireless efforts to repair all that had been destroyed turned his mind to the character of the Wood Elf, and he came to see that he was neither like Ningloriel nor Thranduil in his guileless compassion. The younger elf's evident sorrow over the death of the child was unnerving, for Elrond remembered that Legolas was already grieving. Even within his own shell of despair, the Wood Elf reached out to comfort the other siblings, and had three times brought food and drink to the healer when Elrond refused to leave the remaining child's bedside for even long enough to eat.

Elrond realised now the genuine depth of feeling Legolas had shared with him the day of the heaving earth, and the comfort he had sought to give while seeking none for his own unhappy emptiness. The heinousness of the Elf Lord's abuse of that sympathy and generosity was bitter to the palate, yet Elrond could not deny his culpability. In truth, he was now as much concerned with how to spare Legolas further harm, as was the Istar.

The Lord of Imladris began to regret that he could never reveal who he was without losing Legolas totally. Here indeed was an elf with rare qualities such as he had not found in millennia, characteristics worthy of respect and a nature deserving to be loved. In his spiteful desire to punish those who had hurt him, Elrond had lost the chance to determine if a true soul-bond was possible and had condemned to failure a relationship with someone who actually understood him.

But there was no way to repair this wrong. He and Erestor would leave as soon as the last patient's fate was accomplished and the seneschal would keep further disclosures unspoken. This was the plan as long as Aiwendil continued to withhold his counsel from the Wood Elf. That was a circumstance neither Noldo could predict, and while it was worrisome, they agreed to wait for him to approach Elrond concerning the situation, for the Elf Lord had not the energy to promote the debate.

Erestor had intended to keep his resolve to be honest with Legolas, despite his agreement with his Lord, but never could he find a moment when the Wood Elf was alone. Either he was working alongside the villagers cutting and clearing or building and mending, off somewhere with Radagast, hanging about the sick house waiting for Elrond to come out and give news, or entertaining the little children with stories and games. Most of the time he was flanked by the two young maidens, Llannadh and her cousin Sarah, who linked their arms through his and refused to let go. This day was no different from the last thirty or so the elves had thus far spent in the village.

The seneschal watched as the maidens dragged Legolas toward one of the small dwellings, each one using both her hands to trap one of his securely, laughing conspiratorially at his half-hearted protestations and lagging gait. They seemed to be expending extra effort to deflect both his and their own thoughts from the death of Carnil, just two days ago. However, since arriving in the village, Erestor had observed that virtually all Legolas' spare time was commandeered either by Radagast or these two.

The maids were drawn to him, and Legolas allowed their touch whenever they wished; however they wished, for as long as they wished. Their hands investigated the ropy locks of his hair, plaiting and unplaiting the dense, felted strands, combing them between their fingers, pulling them back from his face, fastening them with their own ties to be kept out of the way when he worked. They plied their fingertips to gently trace old scars and new, to artfully massage sore muscles at the end of the day.

_Such clever digits to entwine themselves intricately with his, leading him away to one spot or another where they would sit and talk for as long as he would listen._ Erestor sighed, envious of this exquisite opportunity neither girl seemed to appreciate for its more salacious enjoyments.

Despite their great liberty of access, it was precisely because they had nothing whatever to fear from him that the young ladies felt so comfortable. Legolas was like their brother; there was absolutely nothing sexual in the constant contact. Or rather, there was an essential sensuality to it that yet remained devoid of any somatic attraction between them. The young ladies were curious and Legolas enjoyed it, even seemed to need it. They could fully explore his masculinity without worry that he would want to do likewise concerning their femininity, while he could absorb the attention without arousal and without the expectation of relieving anyone else's hungers.

Still, there was more to this than inquisitive poking and prodding. Legolas was their protector; Sarah, especially, was pestered by an unwelcome suitor who did not understand when to quit. An undoubtedly painful arrow-grazed welt across the Man's backside made it clear that no harassment would be tolerated and that the maiden had the wild elf's particular favour.

Erestor smiled, picking up the females' voices uttering something about 'atrocious leggings' and 'intolerable dishabille', as the girls herded the Wood Elf inside the hut against Legolas' defence of at least two years good use left in the shabby much-mended garment.

In some ways their treatment was very motherly. If he was their brother, he was often their younger brother and they watched over him. Unless he was engrossed in wood-working, a skill the feral elf possessed that surprised Erestor, the other adults would find it just as difficult to be near the archer as did he. And, except for Aiwendil and the Elder, it was rare for any to be alone with him.

_Especially males._

Now that he considered it, perhaps these unlikely chaperones were working their maternal magic on him and that was why he could not get closer than two arm lengths from the wild warrior. Erestor grimaced; these young maids were incredibly astute for Legolas would not have told them of the things that had happened over the last few weeks. Perhaps the wizard had recruited their aid in keeping the Wood Elf separate from the healer and his advisor.

The Noldo decided to test his new insight, and followed the path along which the girls had led their pet. He knew Legolas would hear his approach and did not attempt any stealth; it was part of his new policy of forthright honesty towards the Tawarwaith. He could hear them talking quietly together, apparently discussing a means to join leather such that no irritating raised ridge of material would rub against sensitive skin while racing through treetops fighting Ring-wraiths.

"Berenaur approaches; give me those breeches back," the wild elf's frantic voice was edged in just enough panic to make the girls go silent. But for that, Erestor would have been thrilled to walk in and catch the elf struggling back into his clothes. Instead, the seneschal felt saddened to have elicited such an unnerved response. He stopped outside the open door way and lifted his hand to knock on the wood frame politely.

"I will send him on his way; do not worry," a loud whisper, voluble enough even for a human to overhear, halted Erestor's hand before it reached the post. The Noldo's knuckles landed two tentative taps and Sarah appeared in the darkened opening, hands on hips and eyes sternly disapproving. She stared at him as though he was a wayward elfling interrupting his elders in an important conference of some sort.

"Yes?" she asked tersely.

Erestor observed this door warden closely. She was slight of build and tall, with dark hair thick and luxurious in its sheen and length, reaching halfway down her back even though it was braided ornately in a single, heavy filigree of woven tresses. He had trouble telling for certain what color her eyes were, for they changed depending on the circumstances. Sometimes they were lively and the warm green irises bore bright flecks of light. Other times they were serious and forbidding, as they were now, and seemed to be almost golden.

Erestor was not sure how this mortally fragile female could present such a formidable presence, but he felt himself reduced to that wayward elfling under her questioning gaze. He tried a smile, the rogue-ish one that even worked on Legolas, but her demeanour did not alter.

"I wish to speak to Legolas," he finally said and she twisted her already set lips into an even more unwelcoming expression.

"Legolas is busy," she said without compunction and went back inside the hut.

Left on the stoop, Erestor heard the girls' impertinent giggles at his expense, but noted that Legolas had not joined in, so he did not retreat. He knocked again. More rudely expressive whispering from the females ensued and several irritated sighs issued from the building before both girls suddenly stepped into view.

"What do you want?" Llannadh asked crossly.

"I have told you we are occupied," added Sarah.

Erestor looked from one to the other, perplexed. There had to be a way to convince them to let him in, but he had no idea what that might be. They were intent on keeping Legolas to themselves, protecting him. He needed to over ride their authority and engage the feral elf directly.

"Please ask Legolas if he will speak to me. It does not have to be right now, and you can stay while we talk. It is important that I speak to him. Tell him it has to do with Erestor," the seneschal said, knowing Legolas could clearly hear him, hoping to pique his curiosity enough to grant an audience.

The archer stepped into the light, worry and distrust filling his open gaze.

"What is wrong, is there a change in Cemendur's condition? Are we allowed to see him yet?" he asked. Erestor noted that the girls protectively linked their arms around his waist.

"No, it has nothing to do with the child. His status is unchanged as far as I know."

"Then what is it about? Surely Erestor can speak for himself if he wishes," this terse retort from Sarah, who glared to add emphasis to her suspicion.

"It concerns the purpose of our mission here, young one, and that is something not to be discussed with children," the seneschal irritably replied. "I would speak with you, Legolas," he continued calmly. "Perhaps tomorrow during the midday break you would share the meal with me."

"I will do so, provided Aiwendil agrees. He has need of my help in maintaining the barrier and I may be away most of the day tomorrow. I have only stayed this long to have news of how Cemendur fares," the wild archer replied.

Erestor frowned as he exhaled a loud breath through his nose, noting the triumphant expression on Sarah's face and the seriously concerned one on Llannadh's. It was true, then. The wizard was determined to keep the truth from reaching Legolas through the Noldor's telling.

_Very well, I shall abide by the Maia's decision and reveal only the part concerning Thranduil and Sauron's Ring,_ Erestor thought. "Tomorrow at noon, then, the wizard allowing," he agreed to the conditions with a brief nod. "Will your two friends be there as well?"

The girls said yes but Legolas said no, all together, and then looked at each other in confusion for a moment. The wild elf shook his head.

"No," he repeated much to the girls' chagrin. "Berenaur is correct; such issues need not trouble you."

Sarah cast a narrow and searching glare in the Noldo's direction and Llannadh walked Legolas back inside without a word.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	25. Chapter 25

_italics indicate thoughts_  
(elvish translations in parentheses)

This chapter Beta'd by SarahAK

**Caro Nad Tir [Do the Right Thing] (apologies to Spike Lee)**

Elrond paced, relentlessly retracing a short track in the blighted earth before the sick house doorway. Erestor stood just to the left of the resultant path, regarding him with restive caution. He had decided to let Elrond know of his plans and the Lord of Imladris was not pleased with this spur of the moment resolve to inform Legolas of their real beliefs regarding the Wraiths' interest in Mirkwood.

The Elf Lord stopped abruptly in front of his old friend. He still could not believe the elf had arranged this little meeting with the intent to divulge such sensitive information.

"You are doing this for the purpose of garnering the Wood Elf's good graces? Erestor, this is foolish. We cannot risk having our conjectures find their way back to the Thranduil's ears. What madness is upon you? Whatever our wrongs here, the fate of all our lands and peoples is jeopardized and this is paramount compared to your contrition," the Noldo was red-faced in his fury and thudded his finger against his advisor's chest rather sharply.

"It has nothing to do with salvaging my character; we have both gone quite beyond the limits of forgiveness. It is the right thing to do; that is all and that should be enough. This is his home; he deserves to know. Should we not have trusted him from the start, as Aiwendil has said? Your own instincts were to reveal all to him the night you had such brutal coition; or so I was told in justification of being defamed as a loose-tongued quisling," the seneschal countered and stood fast to his principles.

The Lord of Imladris raised his brows in surprise at Erestor's apparent retention of ill feeling over that conversation between them and resumed his circuitous march without comment. He glanced up at the cloud shrouded white sky, dully lit by the obfuscated sun, to gauge how long before the noon meal was announced. As though in answer, a robust clanging called the midday halt to work and all the humans left their labors and retreated to their respective huts and cabins.

Elrond scowled at Erestor and stalked back inside the sick house briefly to issue final orders for the child's care to the aunt keeping vigil over the unconscious babe. Only recently had he allowed the doting woman to take part in the tending, and with a last cursory check of the pitiful creature's bandaged body, the Elf Lord returned to his friend and together they made their way to Aiwendil's cottage.

He could see Legolas already there, waiting, but there was no sign of the wizard. Elrond shook his head partly in admiration and partly in discontent; the wild elf looked a shambles. He kept himself clean, of course, but the hair was a mass of thick, densely felted strands and the breeches had seen too many years. The heavy locks were caught back from his face, tied with a leather string, and there was evidence of recent mending on the garment where a brighter, less worn patch of hide had been sewn on.

_The humans girls' work, undoubtedly. I must remember to give Legolas the clothing I brought,_ he thought.

Never had Elrond seen an elf this disheveled retain so compelling a manner and bearing. There was never any doubt, no matter the rough edges exposed to view, that here was an elf of presence. A discernable sense of authority enveloped him and added to the allure of his physical form, battered though it was. Even the marring was less noticeable than the lean and wiry compactness of his musculature wrought by the constant physical extremes to which he was subjected. The hardships gifted the Wood Elf neither weakness nor coldness; rather the severe predicament had brought to the fore an intensity of inner strength that was rare to behold, particularly in one who had not witnessed the atrocities of First and Second Ages.

_Without his quiver and bow and removed from his primal environment,_ the Elf Lord observed, _the austerity of his long deprivation is more evident, the old scars more visible, and the new one still stands out across his clavicle. An elf this young in relatively peaceful times should not have such marks upon him nor present the haunted look common to the surviving battle-weary warriors of the Last Alliance; indeed, the very look I have seen in my own eyes many a time._

"Erestor! I did not expect you to be here, how is Cemendur? Who is watching over him? What if you are needed there?" Legolas' words spilled out as he stepped forward to meet the Noldo Lord, who lifted his hands to halt the interrogation.

"Do not worry. The child is in the care of his aunt; she is skilled in what must be done and will send for me if she cannot manage," Elrond paused and reached out spontaneously to clasp the younger elf's shoulder. "How do you fare, Legolas?"

"I am well enough," the feral elf's bewildered look was edged in skepticism. After his last encounter with this Noldo Legolas was less inclined to believe him capable of any genuine feeling for his health and welfare. Still, there was that penetrating sensation of care within the grasp upon his arm, as real as the ground below his feet.

Elrond felt the muscles tense as the archer's body stiffened under his grip, and sadly dropped his arm to his side. The silence following their brief exchange was unpleasantly rich in unspoken regrets and withheld trust. All three turned with something akin to relief as Aiwendil approached from the general direction of the Elder's home.

"Well," the Istar surveyed them, "we are all here it seems. Berenaur," he spoke the name with careful emphasis, "this was your idea so perhaps you should begin this discussion."

All eyes fell upon the seneschal as he wormed a mite under the combined inspection. He had rather hoped Elrond would take over and do the explaining. Now that he had everyone's full attention, Erestor found himself reluctant to speak.

"I wished to ask for your assistance more directly, Legolas, by telling you what we believe to be the danger in Mirkwood," he began, and no one made a sound. "We have tried to understand the reason for the continued presence of the Wraiths in Dol Guldur. As you know, we drove away the Darkness that had harbored there before and "

"Thranduil's warriors drove the Necromancer out," Legolas cut in harshly. "Imladris had nothing to do with it."

"That is not entirely true. There was help from Lothlorien, and many of those that fought were from Imladris," the Elf Lord interjected.

"Be that as it may, the Greenwood bore the brunt of the assault and received the greatest numbers of casualties. The sum lot of external forces was minute in comparison," the Woodland denizen defended his peoples' contribution and sacrifice.

"Yes, yes; I did not mean to insinuate any failing or diminution of the efforts made by the Woodland Realm," Erestor hastened to regain control to prevent these two from escalating the disagreement and venting their more deeply held antagonisms. "The point is that the Wraiths have returned and continue to attack Thranduil's lands. Has anyone in the Kingdom ever addressed with you the possible reasons for this?" he asked the fallen prince.

"I have discussed it with Mithrandir. As I told him then I still believe, that the Wraiths carry out their Lord's desire to destroy elf-kind, and focus upon the Wood Elves because there is no Elven Ring to offer a magical resistance," Legolas replied. "The Ulairi mistakenly believe we present an easier target, yet they persist to no avail."

At this statement the Elf Lord laughed. "Nay, not to no avail! Look how far back Thranduil has withdrawn his borders. He has been run to ground and is desperate."

A crimson flush bloomed across the archer's countenance as he registered this insulting judgment.

"You are unwise to speak so, for you stand within the very Realm you denigrate. At a word, these humans would hand you over to Thranduil's patrols and you would be telling this tale to him instead of me. Too easily do you forget to whom your life belongs within these lands."

"We are subject to no one here. The Woodland King has abandoned the southern forest; thus, it is a free land for anyone strong enough to take and hold it."

"No one has that right! The Laiquendi have been here since before the First Age," Aiwendil countered before Legolas could retort. This was just the sort of petty squabbling the wizard despised.

"What good is that? The Masters of Dol Guldur do not recognize that claim and Thranduil is incapable of defending it," Elrond retorted.

"Then perhaps the other Realms should offer aide rather than threatening to invade," Radagast's calm words held a disquieting anger, which pleased Legolas.

"Thranduil is too proud to accept aid. He would rather sacrifice thousands of lives than admit he is insufficient to the task at hand." The Lord of Imladris ground out these words in tones reminiscent of chewing stones, all his old hurts and grudges coming to the surface.

"That is not true; he has struggled ceaselessly against the Shadow," in spite of his personal misgivings, Legolas felt compelled to back the Woodland King as a matter of personal honor. "Aid he might refuse, but an alliance he would entertain, and has done before."

"Oh, you cannot be serious," Elrond's mocking snort was brutally cold. "He did not honor the terms of the Last Alliance; he obeyed his father instead. Nor is that the only instance. Why did he not share his knowledge of the Orc host that had taken the Redhorn Pass? How many died in ambush there before Imladris drove the beasts out? How many were lost at Erebor? What was he there for? He sacrificed you, Legolas, for a share of a dragon's horde."

These charges were dreadful to hear and Legolas actually stepped back on unsure footing as the allegations assailed him, for he knew not what to answer. In the scandalized aphonia that followed the Elf Lord's outburst, he tried to collect his thoughts and formulate some response.

The difficulty lay in that he did not entirely disagree with his combatant's assessment of Thranduil's avaricious rule. Yet much of this was beyond his sphere of understanding, never having cared to engage in the affairs of state, and he felt ill equipped to explain the Woodland King's actions. The reference to his own disgrace was most troubling and caused an uneasy sinking in the pit of his gut, as if the weight of this denouncement bore the gravity of truth. At last he met the Noldo's eyes squarely.

"Of these matters, I know little," he began, "In the Last Alliance there was fault on both sides and Oropher did indeed refuse the High King's commands, but not for unjust reasons. Yet even if they were so, how can Thranduil be faulted for obeying his King and Father?

"At the time of the troubles in the Misty Mountains, I was stationed to the northern regions of the Greenwood and do not know if Thranduil was cognizant of the infestation of the divide. I have no knowledge of the Wood Elves using the High Pass except for messengers, and do not recall hearing of losses from among these. I only learned of the Orc hordes there after the news of the assault on Celebrian made its way to the north, months later. To this charge against the King I cannot answer, but I say to you that I will seek out the truth of it.

"As for Erebor, I have not considered my own circumstances in exactly this manner before, and am forbidden to discuss the situation even among my own people. Yet this will I say. However much you may ridicule the cause for being there, the reason for fighting was just. The free peoples of all Realms have benefited by the sacrifices made on that day. Not since the First Age has the destruction of so many foul and fiendish works of Melkor been achieved." Legolas completed his statement and waited for the Noldo to reply, but the Elven Lord only stared at the wild elf, speechless.

For these were well spoken words and the elf that uttered them stood before him nobly and accepted the responsibility for the grievances voiced. Instead of justifications and rationalizations, the Wood Elf had responded honorably and with appropriate respect for his people. Somehow, this ragged and outcast member of Thranduil's Realm had managed to convey a sense of dignity and decorum the best-trained diplomat in the court at Imladris would envy. Commensurate with this exemplary statesmanship was his desire to hold his people to high standards of integrity and learn what culpability their regent owned. It was not what Elrond had expected, and all his anger drained away as he continued to meet the steady gaze of the fallen prince.

"Well-said, Legolas," Aiwendil broke the silent regard between them, reaching out to physically turn the Wood Elf to face him. "Yet, these are not the concerns that confront us now. I believe the elves of Imladris suspect a more sinister reason for the Dark Lord's interest in Thranduil's Kingdom."

"That is so," Erestor rejoined the conversation before his Lord could reply. "We have come to suspect that the Ring of Sauron is hidden in Thranduil's vaults."

Legolas' jaw dropped. "What?" he could barely speak the word. "What are you saying? Aiwendil, what does he mean?" the archer turned to his friend in confusion, and then spun back to challenge Elrond. "Are you accusing Thranduil of, of, just what are you implying here?" he was shocked at the very idea that such a horrendous doom could be harbored within his own country, and feared what this portended.

"Peace, Legolas! No one is incriminating anyone," the seneschal began.

"We think that the Ring is there, but that Thranduil is unaware of it," Elrond said calmly and observed the mixture of relief and terror that swept through the wild elf's eyes. "The King has accumulated much wealth over the centuries, and all the lore we have concerning the One Ring indicates it was lost somewhere close at hand, near the River Gladden. It may easily have passed into his treasure horde unremarked, for it is simple in appearance and unadorned."

Legolas felt as if caught in some whirlwind with no sense of what direction he was being taken. This idea was too raw to assimilate fully; he kept repeating the seneschal's phrase over and over through his thoughts:

_Sauron's Ring is hidden in Thranduil's vaults?_

As his mind began to slowly recover from the numbing dread this concept encapsulated, Legolas began to see the reasoning behind the thesis. Thranduil did indeed have artifacts of numerous cultures from all over Middle Earth.

The Elf King was quite proud of his possessions and had an incredible propensity for unearthing the stories behind each antiquity. Thranduil could recite the histories of various battle swords, daggers, long bows and scimitars, explaining who had forged them and who had owned them, what wars they had been used in, how they had been passed from hand to hand and at last ended up in the vast caverns that housed his priceless collections.

As an elfling, Legolas had always been overjoyed when noble guests or foreign emissaries came to visit, for then he would listen as Thranduil regaled his visitors with exciting recounts of the deeds surrounding his treasures, spinning out the stories in elegant webs that ensnared the imagination and bound all attention to them until their completion. These were the only good memories the disgraced prince had of time spent with his Sire.

Countless were the jeweled ornaments of all diverse manufacture and purpose from distant Kingdoms, long since fallen ere the Second Age had ended, from Beleriand, Numenor, and even from Aman. Thranduil could trace each one through time and reveal the tale in exacting detail and vivid imagery. He had also riches from far lands to the south in Harad and to the northeast beyond the Sea of Rhun. Rings, amulets, coronas, circlets, chaplets and pendants were stored in excess, all bejeweled and wrought in the finest of precious metals from gold and silver to mithril.

And some of the items were minimal in design and spare of decoration, even as the Noldo Lord had described; Legolas had seen many such simple yet sumptuous things: chains, bracelets, and rings formed from mithril, silver, gold, and even cut from individual crystals of precious gemstones.

It was possible that the Ring of Sauron might have found its way into the huge keep, there to lie concealed for centuries within the vastness of the vault. If the ominous talisman was among the horde, then this did indeed explain the persistence of the Wraith's occupation of Dol Guldur and their unending harassment of the Wood Elves.

Even if the Ring was not in Thranduil's stronghold, the Dark Lord might suspect it to be even as did the Noldor. In order to verify his assertion, he would have to drive out or destroy the Wood Elves. Once emptied, the fortress could be readily plundered for whatever evil relicts might reside within it.

Legolas shuddered to imagine his people exiled, Tawar laid waste, and the creeping blackness of the Nazgûl rummaging through the emptied passageways and chambers of the great halls in the mountainside.

Elrond saw the ripple of horror and dread rifle through the feral elf's body and was moved. He reached out and ran his hand down Legolas' back in that long slow caress that the elf had responded to before. The archer did not pull back; instead he leaned into the touch as the Noldo repeated the gesture, leaving his palm at the base of Legolas' spine.

The Istar's brows crinkled inward as he watched this but he made no move to separate the two. He sensed no distress from his friend due to the contact; instead, the Wood Elf's fears seemed to subside as Elrond maintained the gentle lambency. Radagast glanced over to Erestor who was also watching with wary disapprobation.

The seneschal felt the wizard's eyes and met them, transmitting his belief that the inevitable joining of these two would lead to no good. He turned away, wrapping his arms about him as though caught in a sudden draft.

The two lovers did not remark these reactions, too engrossed in their own tactile communication to perceive their companions' body language. Elrond was thrilled to feel his young lover return some measure of the former trust he had previously granted, and Legolas was wrapped up in deciphering the message conveyed through those emotive fingers.

As before, his senses discerned the true compassion he had seen the healer display in caring for the injured humans, and he welcomed it.

A barely audible exhalation signaled the archer's dismay in incorporating the Noldor's disturbing concerns within his mind, this unwelcome complication of his convoluted existence, and he sent a small and rueful smile to the healer before turning his attention to the Istar.

"I assume that Mithrandir is aware of this theory as well?" he asked and Aiwendil nodded assent. "Right," the wild elf said crisply, not too pleased to have been left in the dark over such a serious matter. He had thought Gandalf trusted him and now felt somewhat befooled. "Then you are all wrong."

"Legolas, how can you dismiss this so summarily? There is good evidence to suggest we are correct," this from the Elf Lord as he removed his hand from its comforting emplacement.

"I do not dismiss it. It is an understandable assumption; the Wraith's continued attacks are well explained if the Ring is lost within Thranduil's treasures. I am simply saying it is an erroneous conclusion to make. Surely you can understand, this is not even the importunate point," he responded and all three of his companions looked at him in embrangled consternation. The fallen archer's sigh was louder this time. "Do you not see; it does not matter that the Ring is not there. As long as the Dark Lord suspects that it may be, my people are in grave peril."

"Yes, I understand this," the seneschal spoke up, "but how can you say for certain that this talisman is not in Thranduil's possession?"

"You would only ask this because you know so little of the Woodland King," Legolas sneered, not so much at the Noldo's ignorance, but at his own memories of the King's covetous nature. "He knows what is in his vaults and keeps, to the least Numenorean coin and the smallest sapphire gem. He can tell you every detail of the making and the uses for each item housed there. He comprehends more about those inanimate baubles than he does about any living being in his Realm." The bitterness of these words and the harshness of the tones in which they were spoken startled them all, and the healer again reached out and soothed his hand against the wild elf's spine.

"If the Ring of Sauron was in his possession, Thranduil would have been aware of it long ago," Legolas concluded.

_And he would have used it,_ he added to himself alone.

But his sorrow and shame were conveyed to his lover's understanding where their skin met, and the Elf Lord reacted, pulling the younger elf closer to him.

"Then, what can be done? The Woodland Realm cannot resist these incursions indefinitely," Aiwendil queried, as much to remove attention from Legolas as to invite discussion, for he immediately comprehended the archer's unspoken proof for the inaccuracy of the Noldor's conjectures.

"I do not know. We have believed the Ring to be here because the Ulairi are here, and because the Dark Lord abided in Dol Guldur so long, personally overseeing the invasion of Mirkwood," spoke the seneschal.

The next instant he, the Wood Elf, and the wizard received the surprise of their lives in the reply from the Lord of Imladris.

"Thranduil must be told."

Before any rejoinders could be made the three elves suddenly became alert turning simultaneously towards the path, and the healer disengaged himself from his lover's side. Elrond was already running back towards the sick house before Sarah even came into sight, crying out for him to hurry for the child had awakened and taken a turn for the worse.

Legolas at once set off after them, but as on the first day Aiwendil and Erestor stopped him, knowing Elrond would not approve for he would only become more upset and prove a distraction to the healer's concentration. The archer did not force the issue but stood stock-still staring in the direction his lover had gone.

"Tirno," the wizard said to get his attention. "Return to the glade; I will follow after I have seen to some matters with the Elder. Berenaur, accompany him to see that he goes. And try to get him to eat something," the Istar did not wait for any rebuttals or refusals, leaving them before the little hut as he walked back to the village center.

"I have no wish to leave until I know if Cemendur is alright," Legolas protested to the Noldo, who merely shrugged.

"Best not to argue overly much with wizards. My Lord will let us know the fate of the child, and remaining here will not change it one way or another. Lead the way, Legolas, for I could never find that glen again," he said.

Legolas moved forward, but not toward the perimeter of the town. He headed down the path to the sick house and Erestor quickly caught up with him and gently took hold of his arm to halt him. The archer stopped, and stood with arms crossed defiantly as the Noldo shook his head. "Nay," Erestor said quietly. "Aiwendil knows you well; would he ask this if he did not think it best? Obey, Pen-rhovan; it is for your own good and that of Cemendur."

The wild elf stared at the seneschal irritably a few moments, but reluctantly nodded acquiescence.

The Noldo visibly relaxed and smiled. "Come along; the wizard enjoined me to provide you with food, for we have talked past the noonday break. Let us retrieve my pack and then we may be off," and so saying he tugged Legolas down the walkway.

The preparations took little time and straightaway the two elves left the village, carrying not only the pack but Legolas' quiver and bow also.

The hike was arduous, as it had been when first they walked it, yet for Legolas at least there was no added strife from the death dirges of the ancient trees, for all the fallen had at last drained their departing energy into the earth from which it was initially drawn. Still, he did not wish to converse, for the memory of the terror and sorrow in the trees' final isolation was a burden he would carry all his days; one that few save Fearfaron and Aiwendil would understand.

The hazy half-light of tinnu filled the glade with its subtle glow as the elves entered and a soft rumbling preamble foretold the arrival of the storm that had weighted the skies all day while it advanced upon the forest. The moisture in the air was eagerly circulating around the lower atmosphere and the clouds seemed to be bulging as the droplets grew to fullness like ripening apples on an over-laden branch.

Every tree and shrub surrounding the glen seemed to host an entire flock of one sort of bird or another, all apparently awaiting the rain, and the rushes and lily pads on the banks and in the eddies of the brook were ringing with the cheery vocalizations of anxious amphibians. Exposed beneath the broiling heat of the season's sun, the sanctuary and its inhabitants welcomed the promise of the summer shower.

Legolas inhaled a delighted lung's worth of the cooler, watery air, threw back his head, and stretched up onto his toes with his arms reaching out to the heavens, feeling the effects of the protected glade at once and rejoicing to again be in its embrace. Almost instantly he allowed the cares and worries, the guilt and sorrow to be flushed from his body by the soft invasion of the gentle magic of the sanctuary. He smiled as he dropped back into a normal stance and looked over at the Noldo and then laughed merrily, for the seneschal had a woebegone expression plastered over his features as he surveyed the lowering clouds.

"Do not worry. This will not be a long drenching, only a fast swallow of liquid life; much needed by the forest dwellers here! You will not become water-logged tonight, this I promise," the Wood Elf said, but Erestor had his doubts and his looks revealed them.

"I think our ideas of what represents a quick cloudburst are probably vastly opposed," he muttered, but it was hard to be very disgruntled when Legolas was smiling at him that way, and he soon returned to more pleasant thoughts. "Is there perhaps a nice canvas awning for the flet, as you so generously provided for my colleague?" he inquired. "And warm woolen blankets to chase away the damp and chill?" _And a heated orifice in which to spend my passions?_, he added inaudibly.

"Nay, none of those things are here, but they will not be missed. There is adequate shelter for so small a storm there, within the brambles," the Wood Elf indicated the thorny blackberry tangle on the opposite side of the stream, and the seneschal's hopes sank.

"What, in those prickles? You cannot be serious, Pen-rhovan!" he exclaimed amid the feral elf's sparkling laughter.

"Yes, there. Here, it is not so bad; follow me," he said and waded into the brook.

Erestor had no choice but to follow as another round of thunder rolled through the air and a few fat droplets struck his head. Once on the other side, he realized his lower body was now thoroughly wet anyway and made an irritated tsking noise against the back of his teeth. Legolas seemed to have vanished, and the Noldo looked about in bewilderment.

He wandered around the edges of the brambles searching for something that remotely resembled an entrance without success. The rain began to fall faster and his head was soon as well-soaked as was his good temper. Soft laughter reached him from nearby, but where he could not determine.

"Down here, Berenaur," the archer's words drew his attention to the stream's bank, where a cleverly concealed archway had been woven among the thorny stalks from which Legolas' head was visible leaning out. Erestor dropped to his knees immediately to crawl through but the wild elf barred the way. "Pass me the pack first, for you will not fit through with it over your shoulders," he said. Erestor complied and at last he squeezed in through the narrow passageway to find himself inside a very cozy sort of burrow inside the shrubs.

It was not very high; sufficient to be able to comfortably sit upright if one was not too long in the torso, but the ceiling was tightly woven from the dead stems of the berry bushes themselves. The feral elf had removed all the previous season's growth and pruned and trimmed back the living woody vines to provide a fair sized room of sorts. The floor was covered in soft mosses, and was probably lovely to rest upon, Erestor imagined. Over and around this, the living thicket grew and the natural leaf cover provided an added layer of insulation. The little den was quite dry, effectively invisible from the outside, and in addition all the thorns had been carefully removed from the in-facing sides of the stems to prevent any accidental snags or scratches.

Legolas was seated cross-legged watching him with curious scrutiny to see what his reaction would be, and so the seneschal smiled to show his approval.

"You are right, this is a very tight little shelter and probably better than a canvas cover, for no water can blow in from the sides," he praised the clever, hidden home and settled himself with his knees drawn under him as he reached for the pack. The Noldo shifted a little in discomfort, however, as his wet clothing started to make him chill. "It would be better to have a way to get in dry, though," he said wistfully, and Legolas just shrugged.

"I do not have to worry about keeping wet things on when I am alone, or if Aiwendil is here. Take yours off if you would be more comfortable," he said nonchalantly, and the Noldo stared to see if this was some sort of trick or ruse.

_Yes, there is definitely a malicious gleam in those eyes; he means to repay me for that night on the flet._ The advisor's eyes widened as he recalled how angry Legolas had been and his intentions with the dagger. "Nay, that is alright; I am sure I will be warm enough," he murmured in what he hoped were conciliatory tones.

Legolas sniggered quietly as he reached for his quiver and fished around a moment until he had found his dagger. With a great flourish he drew it forth and set it on the floor next to him, smiling sweetly all the while.

Then he looked down at his own saturated garment and frowned as he cocked his head to one side, thoughtfully pondering his options. It was with great difficulty that he maintained a straight face as he suddenly wriggled out of the offending breeches and tossed them aside, returning to his cross-legged position. The wild elf caressed the blade of the knife as he did so and the seneschal gawked in shocked amazement, his eyes traveling from the dagger to Legolas' completely exposed nakedness and back, before finally meeting the sparkling blue gaze.

"I really see no reason for me to be uncomfortable in my own home," the Wood Elf said calmly and smiled.

"Oh," was all Erestor could manage, his eyes wandering over the wild elf's body before being drawn to the movement of the hand that complacently patted the dirk's haft.

Legolas had no intentions of harming his guest, but he honestly felt he was entitled to some satisfaction at the seneschal's expense. The Noldo would spend this night watching Legolas' intently, observing his every movement and shift in position, studying each nuance of his changing expressions, relishing every glimpse of his lithe body, but with an intensely unpleasant mixture of lubricity and trepidation.

"What did you bring to eat?" Legolas asked.

TBC  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words and original characters here are mine. No profit earned.


	26. Chapter 26

Gwain Gonathras [New Entanglements]

The sound of the soft summer shower was smoothly mellow and provided a dreamy, comforting blanket of toneless resonance. There was a quality of constancy to it that damped harsh and jarring noises, drove out fears, and coaxed stillness into the spirit of all beneath the falling water.

The normal nocturnal music of the Greenwood was transformed by the distinctly textured voice of the rain. Over and above the spattering of the droplets on the leaf-and-branch-thatched thicket the quiet shirring as the brook swallowed the drizzling liquid added a soothing drawl to the chorus of the frogs and the harmony of the songbirds. Occasionally a low and rolling rumble of tympanous thunder accented the more temperate percussion of the light, steady dowsing. The resulting sensation was a thoroughly relaxing and calming caress of nature upon the psyche; the type of fluid cadence that would render the two elves camped in the shelter into an easy state of complacent leisure.

Thus it should have been, yet the consequent mood was radically opposed to such peaceful serenity.

Erestor sat propped against the woven wall nearest the stream where its gurgling voice was loudest and his distance from Legolas greatest. As the clarity of the light decreased, at last giving way to storm burdened darkness, he had hoped for relief from the visual stimulus of the pale and naked flesh of the cross-legged elf.

Legolas had few comforts, but apparently enjoyed the glow of lamplight and had a small oil-filled lantern in the haven, which he lit and hung upon a natural hook formed by the nub of a broken stem at the ceiling. The small silver lamp dispensed ample luster within the snug enclosure and its light seemed drawn to coalesce about him, combining with his natural glow. The single flame flickered and flitted about in the draft as if it, too, was moved to excitement in his presence.

_Eru's arse! This is the most tantalizingly ridiculous situation I have ever been in!_ The Noldo complained internally as his eyes traveled again down to the hollow between the feral elf's folded knees where his relaxed genitals lay draped against the soft golden pubic curls. _I should like very much to arouse that lovely organ to fullness and tease it mercilessly until he is frenzied with desire! I should like to hear him beg for my touch and plead for release!_

A slight movement edged in bright sheen drew his eyes to the small and lethal blade under the Wood Elf's hand. Erestor transferred his gaze back to the elegant countenance and found Legolas' amused expression upon him. The wild archer's bright blue eyes shimmered in pleased self-satisfaction as he fought the laughter threatening to burst free from lips bent into a droll and merrily impudent smirk.

Erestor scowled and quickly looked away, but not before once more taking in the firmly muscled chest set with identical gems in garnet-hued points of seductive flesh that beckoned for the attentions of his tongue and teeth.

In an attempt to distract himself from the maddening proximity of the unclothed elf, the seneschal tried to concentrate fully on the cloudburst soaked sounds in the hallowed glen. He forced himself to count the seconds between thunderclaps and bright sheets of lightening, to identify the various species of frogs at the streamside by their songs, to catalog the birds' calls, and even estimated the weight of the individual droplets striking the leafy roof based upon the quality of the sound each contact emitted. It was not a very successful venture, for his eyes were persistently drawn back to make their perpetual scrutiny of his companion: groin to chest to dagger to eyes.

Legolas merely sat contentedly crunching the crisp apples he had brought along, occasionally stroking the blade with a decidedly seductive touch.

_He eats, and my hunger for him increases apace with every swallow!_ Erestor thought and shifted as though to pull back even further, only to meet the obstruction of the gnarled, twisted-stem walls. His actions drew a slight, constrained giggle from the archer, who scooted a degree closer in response to the retreat.

The advisor was beyond resistance to such an assault upon his defenses, never very strong in this area of self-control to begin with. Best motivations aside, he had desired to add an encounter with Legolas to his repertoire of erotic experiences even before he had seen him, and this bit of coquetry was clearly a challenge. He would play Pen-rhovan's game out and see if centuries of practice in the arts of seduction could earn him a change in the status quo.

Careful to conceal his new determination, Erestor resettled himself, relaxing his legs so his knees slipped apart and allowed access to the uncomfortable fullness between them. He grimaced awkwardly for the disgraced prince's benefit.

A delighted shiver gave vent to the gleeful enjoyment Legolas could no longer suppress as he registered the Noldo's escalating discomfort. Noting the increasing distension of his companion's leggings, he wondered how long it would be before Berenaur's hand stole down and tried to ease the tightening pressure.

The exiled archer absent-mindedly turned his dagger end over end against the ground, slipping it from blade to hilt silently through his fingers and sending out brief flashes of luminance as the lamplight reflected from the highly polished mithril edge. He watched with heightened anticipation and subconscious craving to see if his naked nearness could drive the seneschal to masturbation.

The rhythmic motion of the weapon made Erestor shudder involuntarily, thinking of the damage he might sustain if he was outmatched in this contention. A surge of fiery adrenaline raced through his body, fueling his desire to a more potent level, and instantly he recognized the connection between his magnified salacity and the very real danger his situation embodied. Another ripple of delicious yearning traveled down to his cock as he tried to imagine what his orgasm would be like this night.

It was suddenly clear that this sensation could be pushed even further by the threat of pain, and he began to understand how Legolas might have been trained to seek pleasure thus. Erestor surreptitiously scanned his antagonist and perceived the early indications of arousal: dilation of his pupils, the slowly rising rosiness in the ears, an oh-so-slight increase in suspiration through the fractionally opened mouth, and the first slight stirring in his quickening penis.

_He is completely attuned to my responses!_ The Noldo noted silently. _Power is his aphrodisiac and control drives his libido! I wonder if he is even aware of his own desire?_

The Imladrian mused upon this essential element to Legolas' nature: he coveted the excitement of being the cause for his partners' total surrender of all restraint, initiating their release with his latent sensuality and extravagant attentions. The fact that his attempts at control resulted in submitting his body to anguished acquisition was a prime example of the contradictions that defined his character.

Now that the advisor understood the emotional firestorm loosed in his adversary, he felt confident of success. It would not be the first time the seneschal had allowed his chosen quarry to be undermined by their need to feel the thrill of ascendancy during a sexual encounter.

The titillated advisor's fingers slipped down and tugged against damp and clinging leggings, pulling at the crotch in an attempt to adjust the material to a more comfortable orientation.

Legolas drew a sharp breath, held it a second, and when he exhaled found that his heart was beating a bit faster while corresponding warmth flooded his body. He lifted his eyes and found Berenaur intently peering at him with an expression both troubled and conflicted. The elder eldar was openly attracted yet also presented a deep sense of worry shaded in fear as his glance retraced its path over the wild elf's erotic form and rested on the shining weapon.

The recognition of the seneschal's apprehension spurred another increase in Legolas' pulse rate, and the heat suffusing his flesh became a concentrated burning growing between his thighs as his cock rapidly hardened in response. He sucked in and retained an audible lung-full of the cool rain-sweetened air as Berenaur slowly untied his leggings and slipped a hand inside to languidly caress the organ hidden beneath the confining fabric.

With practiced drama Erestor withdrew his stiffened penis and Legolas released a lengthy, whispery, breathy "Ohhhh" as his own rigid shaft saluted in anticipatory eagerness.

Erestor watched, dazzled and excited, as Legolas shifted around onto his knees, uncrossing and spreading his thighs as he tucked his heels up under his buttocks to display his overt arousal. A slow smile unfurling over his puckered scowl, the seneschal wrapped his hand around his own cock and began an unhurried, rhythmic stroking that seemed to mesmerize the fallen archer.

Legolas' fingers tightened their grip upon the dagger until his digits were colorless in their effort. His eyes followed the lazy stimulation the Noldo gave the swelled and glistening organ protruding from his opened garment. He saw that the advisor was also shorn of foreskin, the bulbous head beckoning to be tasted, and ran his soft pink tongue over dry lips.

Erestor caught his breath; Legolas was practically salivating.

The Imladrian's engorged penis was richly colored and darkly sanguine as he coaxed an obscenely large drop of creamy dew from the tip, catching it with the blunt heel of his thumb, smearing the unctuous substance over and around the prominent rim before it could slide down the length of his shaft unhindered.

A thrilled exclamation escaped the feral elf's open mouth and Legolas grasped his equally incarnadine and seeping extremity, holding the slender organ out from his body, and began a steady self-stimulation in accord with the Noldo's rhythm.

A sudden brilliant flash caught his attention, halting his fist in mid-pulse as his eyes lit upon the mithril weapon casting forth lamplight. With perfect clarity the images and sensations of all he had endured the last time the dagger had played its part in such a contest illuminated his mind. The similarity between this event and his experience during the chastisement shocked his senses and he released a disgusted shout, throwing the dirk away into the entwining stems of the shelter's walls.

Now it was Legolas who sought to put as much distance between the two of them as possible and would have fled save that the Imladrian was barring the exit. With a demoralized groan he turned his bare back to the seneschal and wrapped both arms around his body, drawing up his knees to make himself as compactly closed to view and touch as possible. To his dismay, he realized his erection was not abating, and he was trembling with a needy desire that made his viscera constrict in protest.

It was unthinkable that he had sought to recreate that horrific episode. And how was it he had cast himself in the role of provocateur? Could he be so corrupted that he needed the element of danger to become excited?

"No!" The archer did not even realize he voiced this shouted denial.

There was something degenerate in even the idea of arousing Berenaur under knifepoint, inciting him to pleasure himself while Legolas watched. With an inner writhing of repudiation, he recognized the same exhilaration he had known in bringing Ailinyéro to climax. Yes, and it was not just that; it was the glimpse of the fear and discomfort in the other's gaze that had initially stirred his lust. Legolas dismally ground his teeth against this truth; he felt he had become what he despised most.

This dramatic metamorphosis from lusty languishing to forlorn withdrawal perplexed and alarmed Erestor. He had been so pleased to see Legolas begin reciprocating his lascivious appetite, and now he knew not what to think. He could not understand what he had done to cause the abrupt transformation, nor what he should do to correct the situation and return it to its former path. The archer was profoundly distressed, and he feared to make matters worse by inadvertently taking the wrong reparative action. With grim stoicism the seneschal eased his resisting member back into his clothes and adjusted the ties loosely before cautiously inching forward toward his companion.

"Legolas? What is it? Have I done something more to upset you? I did not mean it, truly!" he began in the gentlest voice he could produce. In reply the golden mane shook violently and briefly as the wild elf signaled his negation.

Erestor frowned. His instinct told him to reach out but his experience with Legolas warned against the possibility of a resultant assault on his person should Pen-rhovan misread his intent. He glanced over toward the discarded dagger to judge whether Legolas could reach and use it. The weapon seemed beyond easy retrieval, yet he hesitated.

_Something about that blade triggered this, and I know next to nothing of his past to unravel the knot,_ his intuition warned.

Little experience had he with the sort of anguish which ruled Legolas' life, but the sound of a choked-back wail won him to instinct's side as he realized the fallen prince was weeping while trying hard to conceal it. The Noldo extended his arm, allowing his fingertips to smooth a short path across the marked shoulders as he tried to turn Legolas to him. The feral elf flinched away from the contact.

"Please, Legolas, tell me what is wrong. I swear I will not touch you in any improper way! I only sought to share pleasure with you; never again will I force my desires upon you!" This entreaty yielded an even more sorrowful sough from the grieving elf and as it faded from the shelter's close air all attempts to conceal the tears and swallowed hiccups became abruptly obsolete.

For Legolas froze completely still and soundless, even his jarring shudders ceased.

Erestor observed with dread as Legolas suddenly slumped over and curled up on his side on the soft mossy floor; the quiet remaining in the absence of his subdued and plaintive crying was more terrible to accept in its unknown significance. Legolas lay with eyes sealed so tightly shut that they were merely grooves against the contours of his face. He remained thus until Erestor, overcome with concern, reached over and shook him roughly.

"Legolas! You must believe me; there is nothing to fear from me!" the Noldo almost shouted so great was his agitation, and the action brought results for the archer opened his repentant and tear-bright orbs upon his guest.

"No! I am the one at fault; I should beg pardon of you!" the low, clear words fell like glassy shards, sharp and jagged, from the supple lips. And then the guilty gaze wavered and fell as the last of the salty droplets brimmed, flowing after their forerunners down his dampened cheeks.

The Noldo slid closer, gently gripped the outcast's rigidly protecting arm, and jostled him lightly. Legolas was unresponsive, neither resisting nor assisting the attempt to rally him, and so Erestor took matters further. He dragged Legolas into the center of the shelter where the space was ample and wordlessly laid down beside him, curling himself protectively around his back, encircling him with his arms, and throwing a leg over his knees to hold him tight. He pressed his lips against the silken shoulder and softly shushed into the elegant crimson tipped ear near his lips.

"You speak of the dagger?" he half-whispered and the mop of ropy strands jerked up and down for an instant in agreement. "I know you would not use the knife unless you felt yourself in peril. Indeed, I felt this was all a charade of sorts." Erestor pleadingly murmured this outright lie, for he had really worried whether the feral elf might be driven by his extreme experiences to wield the weapon against him.

With acute awareness of the body pressed so close, Legolas held himself stiff and unmoving as he attempted to regain control of his emotions and his scandalous carnal craving. He despised the fact that he welcomed the sensation of the Noldo's leggings, burgeoning with the full erection, hot against his rear. He was mortified for relishing the strength of the arms surrounding him and the warmth in the hands lightly rubbing across his crossed limbs. He was terribly ashamed to have succumbed to such a revolting sexual game and hated himself for enjoying it. It occurred to him that such depravity warranted punishment.

A brief image of the bloodstained scourge flashed through his mind accompanied by the simultaneous realization that it was here, in the glade, concealed in his quiver.

Legolas shook in revulsion and screwed up his eyes to ward away the vision and its inherent impressions of humiliating torment. _Even worse,_ he thought, _Berenaur believes himself the cause of my grotesque display._

More terribly unbearable still, an edgy strain of dread audibly tinged the Noldo's words and raised the fallen archer's debased urge higher. But there was no denying the comfort in the contact between them. Legolas found he did not want to end it, and feared he had lost the ability to moderate his desires. With another small shiver he pressed closer into the seneschal's encircling embrace. He longed to start over from the moment they had entered the sanctuary and erase the unsavory motives for his lascivious hunger.

Powerless to decipher the wordless signals from the suffering elf's innermost consciousness, Erestor sighed in his frustration and growing sense of ineptitude.

"Nay, Pen-rhovan, you are not at fault. From long before arriving here I have sought a means to have you; your response is nothing to feel guilty over for I have avidly worked to bring it about," Erestor consoled. It was not the best rationale but he hoped it would distract the distraught elf from his woes, even if it meant inciting the archer's anger yet again. The seneschal honestly did not feel he was prepared to hear the true story behind Legolas' collapse and hoped he would choose not to explain.

Gratefully Legolas accepted this attempt to deflect embarrassment over the breakdown, for he could not bear to give the details of his sentence and have this Noldo know his shame and degradation. In less compromising circumstances he might have been angered by the revelation that he was a predetermined sexual target for both the healer and his advisor. His current state of inflamed lechery, however, lent this concept a thrilling edge that quickly compounded his urgent yearning.

_Perhaps, if we both are willing to pretend the outburst never happened, then it can be as though the tainted dagger never entered the enchanted glade,_ he thought. The solid erection in caudal proximity, as persistently dense as his own, was certainly evidence that the seneschal did not wish their encounter to end, either.

Gradually Legolas' tension eased and his quiet stillness became less ominous while he listened to the calming syllables of Berenaur's reassurances whispered against his neck, and the seneschal rejoiced.

The subtle softening of the Wood Elf's posture was a tremendous relief, for he had come to fear the exiled warrior would give in to his terrible sorrow and simply withdraw into oblivion. Whatever this wound in his soul was, its severity was greater than Elrond's assessment had allowed, and Legolas' encounters with the Elf Lord and his advisor had managed to tear at the injury. While Erestor could not fully appreciate how the night's events had enhanced the damage, he understood it was all related to Legolas' unsatisfied lubricity. With the archer behaving more normally, Erestor hoped he would heed his cajoling coaxing, and relent to his seduction.

"Legolas, hearken to me. I know I have not treated you well since meeting you; this I wish to remedy. I would share pleasure with you, for you have known it too seldom and I am far from my bonded lovers," the seneschal accented his words with a slight push of his hips, insinuating his restrained cock tightly against the cleft of the compactly inviting arse.

Feeling the pressure of the Noldo's member so near his opening, Legolas' jolted out a startled gasp.

"You need it; you need my cock to fill you," Erestor's voice slipped into ripe and throaty tones as he continued to rub his covered, rigid length over the firm, naked muscles.

It was scarcely believable; he was completely wrapped around the slender frame, every part of him connected to the glorious nudity of the delectable elf, luxuriating in the sensation of his bare chest flush upon Legolas' complete nakedness. They were so close he could feel the wild elf's heart thumping hard as tremors ran like sinuous shoals across his skin. Legolas' body felt of suppressed power and overt vulnerability, a bizarre juxtaposition. Erestor inhaled the distinct marriage of the steamy, redolent forest and Legolas' musky pheromones. A headier and more intoxicatingly evocative aroma the Imladrian had never known before.

"I can see your ardent desire and the scent of your seed is already evident," he whispered and reached down to trace his fingers over Legolas' jutting shaft. The soft desperation of the sound this wrung from the wild elf was sordidly luscious.

The seneschal watched, enchanted, as the archer's penis seemed to follow his fingers, twitching in response to the ended erotic caress, and the pointed pink tip peeked out just beyond the foreskin's protection.

"Do we not both deserve this expression of our bodies and the comfort of an understanding soul to help us bear the burden of loneliness?" he asked and sucked in the tapered ear exposed for his delight. Legolas' entire body shimmied under the contact and he emitted a wavering sigh as Erestor added his own lusty grunt to their duet.

"I realize it is not the same, for I can leave here and return to them whenever I wish," he continued breathlessly between lengthy licks around the outer edge of the sensitized cartilage while superimposing his fist over Legolas' ruddy organ and squeezing gently.

"Berenaur!" the breathy whisper of the assumed name accompanied a healthy thrust of the fallen archer's hips and the Noldo exulted.

"Yet, I do not live in Lorien, where my loves reside, and too few are the opportunities I have to share passion with them. And the giver of that auburn token you wear about your ankle is not here, Legolas. Still, you need not endure this cruel sentence alone."

Legolas tensed up at this reference to his bitter heartache, but the hurt quickly dissolved under the intensity of the sensation created by Berenaur skillfully pumping his burning member in time to the persistent friction of the leather leggings as the Noldo's cock pushed against his rear.

"Mayhap for a short time we can both forget the pain of these separations and feel only the fire of our joining. Legolas, I want you and I can see you appreciate my attentions. What say you; shall we enjoy one another?" Erestor finished his whispered pleas with what was a foregone conclusion, for they were already reveling in the vital experience.

Legolas shifted, unfurling his rigidly contracted muscles and dropping his arms away from their protective envelopment around his chest. He was reassured by the seneschal's open and candid assessment of their mutual concupiscence. This attitude removed the burden of guilt from his desire and legitimized his needs. There was nothing to conceal for the worst of his nature had already been revealed and still the Noldo did not reject him. Instead, Berenaur had declared the very sentiments Legolas had felt for the healer and had hoped would be returned by him. Now the elf he had thought to be a sexual predator offered the comfort denied him by his chosen lover.

Legolas reached back over his shoulder to caress the glossy hair and massage the nape of the advisor's neck. He turned his head and sought the marvelously mobile mouth that had been stimulating his throat and ear, and the seneschal willing allowed his tongue access, sucking it in and eliciting a smothered peal of ecstasy in return.

As soon as the pectorals were uncovered Erestor's fingers found the tender ruby skin of a nipple and resolutely teased it, circling it in muted movement before gently pulling up on the hardening tit and then repeating the motions. Legolas' long low-pitched sigh of pleasure was released into Erestor's lungs and the seneschal smiled to receive it, breaking the kiss to watch the archer's ardent response to this fondling. Rolling slightly back, Erestor turned Legolas half over with him and gazed down upon the deeply tinted cinnabar nodes riding the cresting motion of the wild elf's rapid respiration.

"You are so soft there, Pen-rhovan, just there around the aureole!" the fingertip made its leisurely circuit and Legolas shuddered. "The only skin softer is here," he whispered as his other hand wormed its way under Legolas' ribs and down to the foreskin, gently pushing it back from the eagerly protruding penis.

Legolas' reaction was gratifying to see. He bent back against the older elf, pressing into the tickling touches as he tried to induce more substantial contact, panting heavily through lips minimally apart, eyes shut tight under wrinkled brow.

Erestor withdrew his fingers and a quietly disappointed wail followed as the eyelids flashed open and lust-hazed eyes locked with his own.

"Please!" Legolas sighed his entreaty across the miniscule space between their lips.

The Noldo claimed the accommodating orifice, sliding his tongue into the deepest recesses, thrusting into the back of the throat to gauge how the wild one might treat a larger intrusion. Erestor was delighted to feel the Wood Elf draw the slippery, eloquent muscle far down into his mouth, and his heart surged in anticipation of realizing his exquisite fantasy soon.

Legolas did not want to end the kiss, for the seneschal met his urgency with a commanding fervor that allowed him to melt into the embrace and simply respond. He was used to concentrating on bringing his partners to dizzying heights of delight and while he enjoyed that it also required a certain level of detachment from his own pleasure. Now he was the one lost, he realized vaguely, spiraling upward as Berenaur skillfully reduced him to solely somatic awareness until there was no energy left for worrying over old hurts or new consequences.

It was unbearably delicious, the feeling of the finger slowly circling his hardened nipples, first one and then the other. When the inevitable pressure on the fully sensitized tips came it was fast and free of any sharpness, and left him hungering for more when the digit returned to its track around the delicate skin at the base of the protruding buds. Each brush against the inflamed teats was accompanied by a swift soft flash of delight dancing through the pinnacle of his penis as the seneschal used the foreskin to massage the throbbing head, slipping it back and forth just once or twice and no more.

The kiss and the stimulation ended together, and Legolas opened disappointed eyes to find the Noldo staring at him with an expression of wonder. Erestor's fingertips soothed across his cheek and the thumb gently traced the curve of his lower lip. Legolas smiled warmly as he darted out a wet lick and extracted a gasp from the seneschal.

He moved, turning Legolas fully on his back. The seneschal braced himself above the slender body and sidled his hips against the archer, half covering his legs and lower body with his own. He lowered himself and took one impetuous nipple into his mouth, lapping his tongue across it as he sealed his lips around it. Legolas moaned, a low and fractious sound, and the Noldo felt fingers stroke his hair and apply light pressure to the back of his head as the feral elf silently asked for more. Erestor moved to the other nipple and another jolt of his subject's muscles attested to the barely restrained passion building in the younger elf.

The sucking stimulation ceased as the seneschal pulled back, and Legolas' fingers trailed away down his shoulders, coming to rest in a light grip upon his forearms. They stared silently at each other, and Erestor was now grateful for the playful light of the silver lamp that let him appreciate the vision of Legolas aroused, his twin erections glistening with saliva, labored breathing enticingly presenting then rescinding the exquisite flesh.

"Why do you stop?"

"What is the hurry?"

Erestor let his gaze travel over the result of his efforts and dipped his lips to savor the little fold of skin at the navel. He felt Legolas' contracted breath and allowed his tongue a short excursion across the rippling abdominals. His hand found its way to the tight sack below the neglected cock and cradled it carefully as Legolas exhaled another desperately lurid murmur of wanton need and tightened his grip on the Noldo's arms. The seneschal stopped again to gape at the golden prize he had finally won and breathed softly across the arcing erection as Legolas pumped his hips up into the empty air.

"Please!" the hoarse rasp was frantic with desire and the archer's hips shifted against the cushioned ground, yet Erestor would not give satisfaction. Legolas reached to provide his burning erection the encasing relief demanded but the Noldo grabbed his hand and refused to allow the contact.

"Allow me to direct the pace of our pleasure, Legolas, and I promise you will not regret the decision. There is not enough time in all eternity to properly savor the gift of this experience we share. Do you not agree?"

"Nay! Too much speech! Let me demonstrate the depth of my dissent," Legolas complained and tugged Berenaur's arms, drawing him back up his body to demand a thoroughly carnal kiss.

The teasingly tantalizing touch of their tongues, tip to tip, was enough to plunge Erestor into unbearably erogenous assent; words were a complete waste of effort in this particular endeavor.

TBC

NOTE: To Anon (aka) Chicken: Yes, I am insane. Here's some more chapters for you. Eventually, I might actually finish this. Thanks for the review :D


	27. Chapter 27

Onnad Pannen-bant [Fantasy Fulfilled]

Erestor needed air but resisted breaking the seal between their lips as the feral elf deftly and sensationally plumbed the bathyal reaches of his throat and drew forth a tumultuous surge of elevated passion from the abyss of his soul.

With the Noldo's ability to retort cut off, Legolas reached impatiently for the leggings, tugging them down as the seneschal's lightly amused laugh vibrated across his palate. Pen-rhovan withdrew his amorous lips and met the smiling gaze, gracing Berenaur with one of his own dazzling ones, feeling his heart leap to hear the soft intake of breath that accompanied his finger's grasp on the other's willing organ.

The seneschal eased over to lie beside Legolas, propping his head up on his elbow as he watched the slow stroking of his cock. He groaned raggedly as the fallen prince captured the effluence welling from the slit and used it to lubricate his hold while the force and pace of the pumping increased. Abruptly Erestor seized the arm and halted the movement, for he did not want to spend his essence so quickly when there was such sensual luxuriance to explore. Legolas raised questioning eyes to his and received a reassuring smile as the Noldo rolled atop him, burying his hand into the mass of heavy locks.

"Not yet," he whispered shakily. "Let the flame burn but a bit lower and our desires will warm us longer," his voice was gravelly with pent passion and of their own accord his fingers reached for and lingered upon the uplifted peaks of crimson adorning Pen-rhovan's pectoral muscles. Yet amid his amorous thralldom he still laughed softly at Legolas' disgruntled utterance when the touch released him. "Just like Penbara! Always so impatient to achieve fulfillment! And Penraeg is not much more disciplined. I have had hard work to retrain them in the ways of love!"

Legolas heard the depth of enamoration in these words and could see the longing and sorrow in the seneschal's eyes over his separation from these elves. He was eager to remove that sadness and wondered if he could provide satisfaction to someone accustomed to sex with two lovers at once. It was an incredibly exciting mental image, two elves working over the Noldo's body in a concerted effort to bring him to orgasm, and Legolas shivered.

"Who are you bound to, and what is it like with more than one elf?" he asked, for he really was intrigued, having never known anyone involved thus before.

Erestor smiled to hear the barely audible interrogative and shifted slightly, pulling Legolas close so they were more or less facing one another. "I do have a somewhat unusual arrangement, though it is not unheard of or unique by any means. Do none in Mirkwood share their soul with more than one elf?" he asked. Legolas shrugged in the loose embrace and rubbed his fingers across Erestor's arm as the seneschal slowly stroked his hands over the archer's torso.

"If so, I am not aware of it. And you must stop calling my home that; it is not appreciated by Tawar," he scolded mildly and smiled as he felt the Noldo tense up a bit for a second in frustration. "Tell me about this 'arrangement' of yours." He quivered as a casually massaging hand briefly contacted his nipples and then departed to smooth down his side and across his buttocks.

"I love and need them both, yet they were already bonded to each other when I met them. Fortunately, they feel the same way for me and have added me into their union. I miss them," Erestor sighed as he said it and pulled closer to the compliant elf in his arms, rocking his erection against Legolas' eager penis. The friction caused them both to cry out and they encouraged the heated connection, moving against one another, finding each other's mouths to indulge in an extended embrace of muffled moans and snatched breaths.

Once more Erestor broke the passionate entanglement and eased away just slightly to bank the coals of their simmering desire, aware of Legolas trying to force the sensation again. He held him back firmly, refusing to allow their erections to touch and Legolas hissed in frustration.

"What I miss most," the Noldo elaborated, "is the dual sensation of penetrating Penbara while Penraeg fills me. We have perfected our technique over time, and all reach our release simultaneously. There is no other experience like it, Legolas," he continued his explanation and slowly reached down to sample again the silken smoothness of the foreskin shielding the sensitive head of the archer's cock.

"Berenaur!" Legolas called the false name and pushed his hardness further into the seneschal's fingers.

"Have you ever done that?" Erestor whispered against a brightly reddened ear upturned towards him, and licked it for added measure as he squeezed lightly around the ardent column of firm flesh within his palm.

Legolas was not paying much attention to the seneschal's question and wriggled against both the erection shoved against his hip and the tightening grip encircling his cock.

"Have you, Legolas? Have you ever spent yourself deep inside another, filling him with your essence? Have you ever come within your lover's body?"

These words claimed Legolas' full attention as he ceased all movement and stared into the Noldo's eyes. Slowly he shook his head, his breath catching as he waited in silent and unbelieving expectation for what would happen next. Erestor, releasing the hold on his cock, framed the wild elf's face with his hands and kissed him gently, tasting his apple-sweetened lips. Ending the oral embrace he leaned his forehead against Legolas' brow.

"That is what I thought," he said and smiled. He loved being the first experience an elf had and to be the one to take Legolas' innocence in this aspect of sex was incredibly erotic. {_Legolas has never fucked anyone,_} he thought and his cock swelled all the more.

"I want you to penetrate me, Legolas! I need to feel you from inside, to know your release and retain your essence in my core!" he whispered into the trembling elf's ear and pulled him tight against his chest. He felt Legolas' urgently grind against him and responded with a forceful push of his own, claiming his mouth in another searing kiss as his hands roamed over the suppleness of Pen-rhovan's body.

But Legolas was worried and his tension was transmitted to his partner, who stopped and looked searchingly into his eyes.

"What is it? Do you not want this?" he asked softly, pulling back a little to better see his reaction.

"I do. It is just," Legolas faltered and looked away in confusion. "I have no wish to cause you pain," he said awkwardly and was surprised by the laughter that greeted this disclosure.

"Oh Legolas!" Erestor said, testing the girth of the wild elf's slim member, for he had misunderstood. "I assure you, you can do nothing that will give me anything but the most exalted ecstasy!"

But Legolas did not relax, as Erestor had assumed he would upon such reassurance, and he returned his searching gaze to the elf's face. Quite suddenly the seneschal recalled how all this had started and realized that for Legolas, penetration and pain and pleasure were all linked, one and the same. And he wished to spare the Imladrian that excruciation. Erestor was disturbed to comprehend the depth of this reprehensibly revolting conditioning; Legolas believed the tearing agony he experienced was the normal sensation accompanying the bliss of sexual intercourse.

"Nay, Legolas! It does not have to hurt, trust me!" Again cupping the younger elf's face in his hands he stroked a thumb against a florid cheekbone. "I do not understand about the pain you have known, but I can promise you will cause me no such suffering, only a slight discomfort at first. There will be no injuries to heal afterwards, alright?" he insisted.

Legolas wanted to believe this.

"What should I do?" he whispered self-consciously, expecting to hear more laughter.

But the seneschal was well acquainted with such instruction and found nothing jocular in the admission of ignorance. And the archer was not really asking what to do; he wanted to know what to do differently, to avoid causing any harm.

It was rare for an elf Legolas' age with a penchant for same sex coupling not to have known this experience before. This observation led Erestor to the conclusion that the fallen prince had been with no more than one or two lovers in all his life, and they had been not only selfish but also brutal, in his opinion.

"Do not worry, I will guide you. There is no need to fear." So saying Erestor held Legolas close and began again his slow stimulation of the sensitive ear tip. "All that is needed is appropriate preparation," he whispered and slid his tongue down the inviting skin of Legolas' neck, and the wild one reached up and brushed back the heavy ebony locks of his companion to mimic the action.

They became lost again in the casual unhurried adorations of lips and tongues, their hands roving in delighted abandon over succulent planes of willing flesh that responded in pleasing sensations of fiery impulses. Their cocks, pressed tightly up against each other, stirred in the brief movements of their lightly rocking bodies.

Erestor crammed his hand between them to grasp the hot and tumid organ poking him and Legolas followed suit, and each rolled back enough to enjoy the more direct manipulation. They were silent in this mutual excitation, except for the jagged rasping of their disrupted breaths, and stared into each other's eyes in sex-glazed wonder.

The seneschal had the advantage of longer years and greater experience and his fingers and palm seemed to know the exact pressure to use, the perfect pace to assume, the specific moment when Legolas' gut yearned for a direct sweep over the most sensitive tip. The Noldo used the added friction the foreskin provided to drive the sensations coursing through the feral elf to unbearable proportions of provocation until all he was aware of was his fevered organ sliding forcefully through the talented digits in a relentless rhythm building to ruin.

But Erestor watched carefully, maintaining his focus despite the incessant intensity of the sensations flowing from the point of his erection up through every inch of his body.

Legolas' eyes abruptly fluttered shut and he arched his back, sending an agonized groan of supplication into the night as his head tilted up and his hand tightened around the seneschal's member. In an instant the Noldo pressed hard upon the filling ducts and squeezed tight to halt the impending consummation of the younger elf's ejaculation, and Legolas shuddered, calling out the assumed name in desperate entreaty.

Legolas was ready.

Erestor held him until his tension subsided and he could breathe again, and then eased his hand slowly off the darkened organ. Legolas was panting loudly and met his eyes with blatant desire and questioning concern, and Erestor smoothed a hand over the disarrayed golden hair and smiled.

"Behind you, there, in my pack. You will find what we need now," he said and Legolas hurriedly turned over and grabbed for the rucksack, burrowing around ineffectively as he offered the seneschal an impressive view of his rear. Erestor could not help caressing a palm over the inviting mounds of firm muscle, and the archer pushed back against the supplication. Yet the distraction was enough that he rather forgot what he was doing and the Noldo chuckled softly.

"Give me that, Pen-rhovan, I know where to look," he said and took the heavy bag from his pupil as Legolas returned to the closeness that allowed his aching penis the intoxicating rub of the other's cock. Now it was the seneschal who became lost in sensation and had to physically remove himself from the contact lest he lose his tenuous command upon his body's responses.

"Patience!" he cried in wavering syllables, almost as though instructing himself, as he delved into the pack for the necessary lubricant. At last he felt the cool, smooth contours of the container he was seeking and drew forth the tall, slender rectangular glass three-quarters full of clear liquid.

Legolas looked at him expectantly, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, and held out his hand to receive the vial, but Erestor only smiled.

"Allow me to prepare you," he whispered lustily and opened the bottle to pour out a liberal palm-full that spilled out a little to drip with slippery chill upon Legolas' naked flank. The oil had a pleasing scent almost like sandalwood. The Noldo reached for the wild one's cock, overturning his palm and slathering the rich slickness all over the sensitized extremity.

"Berenaur!" Legolas whispered and leaned back to watch, shaking in his effort to hold still and not thrust forward into release. "That feels so good!"

Erestor took his time, slowly coating every centimeter of the rigid organ and raising Legolas to fiery frenzy in the process. His fingers pushed against the hooded head and palpated the velvety skin eagerly. Penraeg was thus. That small protective flap made for an indescribably intense sensation when it scraped across his prostate. He found his own breathing becoming too rapid and removed his hand from its enjoyable ministrations and met Legolas' avid expression.

"Now, Legolas!" he urged in throaty tones and rolled over, drawing his knees under him while cradling his chin in his crossed arms. The seneschal slid his thighs wider and wiggled a beckoning invitation to the stunned archer, who remained as he was, frozen for a second in open-mouthed enthrallment.

The tightly drawn orifice was clearly visible, pink and creased between the parted cheeks and compact musculature of the seasoned eldar. Legolas roused himself and scooted on his knees behind the elf, smoothing his hands over the broad back and down around the taut curves awaiting his mounting. He pushed aside the long fall of ebony tresses and carefully traced his fingers around a lengthy scar curving down from the elf's left shoulder, a trophy from the Fall of Gondolin or perhaps the Last Alliance. Legolas had never had this perspective before and found it overwhelmingly thrilling. He experimentally positioned his penis against the small ingress and gasped at the sensation pulsing through him at even this limited contact.

"Yes!" coaxed Erestor and bumped his awaiting anus against the stiff shaft, flexing the muscles in the ringed opening against the willing, virgin organ. Legolas' strangled cry was gratifying and he repeated the movement. "Just push, Pen-rhovan, and you will be inside. Do not worry, you are so slender and slippery I will feel not even the slightest discomfort," he encouraged impatiently.

Legolas' heart was pounding wildly. What if he did hurt Berenaur? What if he could not push inside without ripping the delicate skin he felt so close against him, invitingly expanding open over the slit in his distended cock?

It was unbearable, the desire to shove hard and fast. Instinct overwhelmed his concerns and he drove forcefully against the slight resistance with a low moan, watching fascinated as the blunt head slipped from sight.

The seneschal gave an answering grunt and returned the thrust, pushing more of the svelte shaft into his waiting cavity. "More, Legolas! Push harder; it is not deep enough!" he pleaded and this incited the wild elf to a rough shove as his hands grabbed onto his partner, one at the hip and the other on the shoulder. Abruptly Legolas felt his penis being drawn inexorably deeper and the sensation of complete contact over every bit of his flesh buried now in the depths of the Noldo raised him to unfamiliar exultation as he was swamped with the compelling need to pump against the hot, squeezing body. It felt as if he was the one possessed, immersed in the dizzying sensation of the omnipresent heat surrounding, entrapping, and engulfing him.

Legolas pulled back and was almost rendered insensible with bliss to see this part of his body moving so, and forced his full weight into his next lunge, garnering an ecstatic shout of pleasure from the seneschal. This startled and exhilarated him into another try, certain he had struck the right nook within the older elf's body, and he was rewarded with an eager cry and a backward rocking of the seneschal's arse that registered against his balls. A surge of sultry aphrodesia flooded him as he realized he was completed sheathed in the other's channel, and the disinherited prince stopped a moment, draping himself prone across Erestor's back as he peppered the shoulder blades below him with adoring kisses.

"Berenaur," he whispered the name he had been given to use almost reverently, and the sound of it combined with the gentle sensation of the moist lips went straight to the jaded advisor's heart and melted it completely.

In all his long years and his numerous conquests, he had never had such a response of impassioned gratitude. Erestor had never been taken so sweetly.

Legolas began moving again, bracing himself with his renewed hold on the experienced elda's shoulders as he pushed in and out within the cincture of delicious resistance. He increased his speed and groaned as the seneschal met his motion thrust for thrust and they established a steady pattern of withdrawal and reentry that propelled their impassioned desires into near madness.

Each penetration of the wild one's cock struck the Noldo's prostate, who worked to increase the contact of the furled foreskin that stroked this most sensitive center of his being mercilessly. Having found the right angle, Legolas never missed his target, accomplished archer that he was, and Erestor reveled in the inexperienced elf's raw technique. He could not contain either his shouts of ecstatic joy or his delirious bucking against the slim appendage claiming him.

"Oh!" Legolas cried as his motions quickened and his grip on the seneschal tightened. He could feel his cock swelling inside the wanton body he rode, increasing the friction with every slippery, pounding beat as their flesh connected. He could feel his semen coursing toward its outlet, carrying a burning tide of cataclysmic delight from every atom of his being to confluence at the inflamed tip, and he could scarcely contain his excitation.

"Berenaur!" each breath was now wistfully anguished under the strain of the impending release. "I am going to come!" the words sounded desperate in his disbelieving inability to comprehend that this was, in fact, happening.

Erestor felt the lithe body go completely tense and still for a split second before a final mighty heave and a glorious shout preceded the spurting infiltration of the wild elf's essence deeply within him.

Legolas gave two more exhausted and half-hearted pushes as his partner's contracting muscles milked the remaining fluid from his spent member, and he collapsed with a satisfied whimper against the strong back supporting him.

Erestor smiled to feel the limp body prostrate against him, the wild heart beating frantically fast and the sweat-dewed chest struggling to regain the necessary oxygen for normal activity. He felt the gentle caress of the lips again upon his back accompanied by a very soft cooing from the younger elf's throat and fairly glowed with the joy this simple combination of touch and voice stirred within him. The Noldo was torn between relishing the sensation of Legolas, still within him, plastering him with kisses and the desire to turn over and wrap this gentle soul up in his embrace. His protective instincts won and he eased himself from around the archer's relaxed penis, rolling to his back under the boneless elf.

Legolas at first grumbled disappointedly to have lost the intimate connection, but inhaled a gratified breath as strong arms closed around him and drew his head down to pillow against the advisor's chest. He shifted to lie more fully over the older elf and instantly became aware of the persistent hardness of Berenaur's turgid cock under his thigh. He pushed himself up to stare down in confused surprise.

"You have not " he began, but the pressure of the seneschal's fingertips covering his lips cut off his words.

"As I said before, what is the hurry? Allow me to savor this, Legolas, for it is the most engaging experience I have known in many a long year," he whispered and leaned up while pulling his pen-rhovan down into a slow and generous osculation, contemplating what this mouth could accomplish upon his willing flesh. Erestor ended their teasing tongue tag and firmly pressed the golden head down against his breast. He knew Legolas needed a few minutes to recover himself after such a forceful orgasm, and he wanted his partner at full strength for his own completion. He felt the fallen archer nuzzle against his erect nipple and smiled, registering the light tripping of Legolas' fingers over his side. Erestor's muscles spasmed as his ticklish spot was discovered.

"It was amazing for me, also," the Wood Elf said quietly and turned his eyes in a quick shy glance to the seneschal's face. It was positively endearing and Erestor hugged him warmly. Who would have suspected such romance from one so harshly used?

But Legolas was not content to have his cohort full with need while he was sated and spent, and with disarming casualness played his fingers in fleeting caresses over the heated skin he rested atop.

The pert bud of a hard nipple pressed against his cheek while its twin loomed in his line of sight, ruddy brown and proudly raised. With a shimmying movement Legolas sidled his mouth close enough to dart out a teasing lick against the excited morsel and Berenaur caught his breath under the contact with the warm wet tongue. That was enough encouragement for the archer, and he settled his lips firmly around one tit, sucking hard as his fingers pulled tauntingly on the other. The Noldo's impassioned squirming under his mouth was electrifying and Legolas felt his cock stir anew.

"You taste of woods I have not walked," Legolas murmured as he switched to the opposite bit of fleshy nerves and resumed his contented suckling with a growling moan.

Erestor knew not what to make of such a statement, but the constant stimulation of his nipples by the lapping tongue and the tugging, callused fingers was pleasing in excess, and he sighed as he pushed his erection against Legolas' overdraped thigh.

Legolas responded to the unspoken request and slipped his hand from the small erect nub to the more massive brick red one housed between the seneschal's legs. He ringed the slippery lip with his grasp and squeezed as he pulled, biting down playfully on the teat he refused to relinquish.

The response was immediate as Erestor lifted up his pelvis and shoved his full length through the tight grip, grousing in his desperate want. When his hips came to rest on the soft ground again he was trembling in anticipation of what the wild one had planned next. There was obviously nothing lacking in the fallen archer's expertise in this area of lovemaking. Erestor felt cool air drifting across his wetted chest and called out softly as the lovely mouth he so desired to taste of him left his breast.

Exploring slowly over the contours of the unfamiliar body, Legolas tested the tempting firmness of conditioned thews and sinews under the slightly salty skin. He let his lips trail delicately across the toned, tight abdomen and licked the sensitive tenderness under the ribs where Berenaur was ticklish; delighting in the expelled guffaw that followed. Smiling, he glanced back to be sure the touches were pleasing and was encouraged by the heightened venery of the dark eyes boring into his.

Legolas allowed his fingers to sensuously slip under the heavy sack perched securely below the straining penis he still held tightly motionless. He tentatively grazed a fingertip against the small stretch of ultra sensitive flesh between the balls and the anus, and encountered the oozing warmth of his own semen there. He watched Berenaur's involuntary chorea as he struggled to keep still and submit to whatever he had planned. The Tawarwaith smiled wider and allowed one strong pump to stroke down the indurate shaft, relishing the wheedlingly excited cry this elicited. Suddenly he relinquished his hold and straddled Berenaur, easing his own newly formed fullness against the Noldo's erection, leaning up to worry his lips into the black bounty of flowing hair in search of a scarlet tipped ear, and eagerly licked it just as he preferred himself.

"I know what you want," he whispered seductively and pulled back with a grinding gyration of his hips, forcing their erections together.

They gasped in unison and Erestor reached up to caress his hands over the bare skin, palming the softness overlying the wiry strength of the wild elf. It was unbearably suspenseful, letting him take command and watching mesmerized as the vermilion mouth went everywhere except to his yearning erection. Esculent lips claimed his as the inexorable rubbing of their penises continued under Legolas' rocking pelvis. Erestor growled down the inviting throat and forced his tongue as deep as he could send it, hoping his unsounded plea would be recognized.

Legolas smiled into the invasion, accepting the tongue and sucking it powerfully, knowing what this would signal to his companion. The seneschal's hands tightened upon him and his head lifted up as if to force more of the muscle into the warm wet orifice. At last the archer broke free and sidled back down the Noldo's body, locking his gaze upon the smoldering lust-filled expression regarding his every movement. When he was positioned just above the Imladrian penis Legolas froze an instant and then without using his hands at all swooped down to gather up the cock as the eager organ bobbed up on lifted hips to meet his open lips.

"Ai! Yes, Legolas!" Erestor shouted gratefully as the tongue bathed his rigid need and the mouth lowered closer and closer down to the very base of his shaft. The seneschal gasped as the wild elf began to suck voraciously, lifting and dropping his head over the burning cock and darting his agile tongue over and around the sensitive rim, pushing across the leaking slit to gather up the steady extrusion there.

The Noldo's hands transferred to the blonde mane and burrowed deep into the tangled mass, gently holding the animated skull, careful not to apply any pressure, though his desire to do so was incredibly hard to restrain. He watched as the tip of the red tongue darted out on the uplift and swirled around his girth, disappearing back behind the stretched ruby lips on the downthrust, and Erestor begged for more. In answer, Legolas swallowed against the intrusion and took him even deeper as the seneschal shouted incoherent encouragement.

Then Legolas broke the contact and shifted around to the Noldo's side, smiling at the seneschal's plaintive wail when his solid organ fell back against his belly. But he need not have worried for Pen-rhovan had simply decided to add another level of delight to the experience, and lifted two fingers up to the parted lips of the nearly delirious advisor. Confused but nonetheless willing, the seneschal complied and sucked in the digits eagerly as Legolas beamed his approval. When he was satisfied he pulled them free and grinning slyly resumed his devouring consumption of the Noldo's desire.

Erestor let this head fall back and closed his eyes as he groaned under the continuous stimulation in the talented throat of the wild elf. With a jarring pulse he felt himself breached and the archer's fingers were inside him, feeling for the sensitive prostate. It was incredible and he howled as the tender gland was lightly stroked in accord with the gulping attentions of the tongue laving his throbbing organ. Erestor knew he was near his climax and gazed in amazed admiration at his gifted attendant, reaching suddenly for the erection he could see nodding between the archer's thighs.

Legolas' eyes widened and he grunted around his mouthful, almost gagging as his rhythm and pace were interrupted by the unexpected stimulus. But he welcomed it and slid his knee to the side so Berenaur could reach him better. Their motions synchronized, Legolas' head moving in time to the seneschal's massaging hand, and then the Noldo squeezed hard and shouted loudly as his orgasm began, excreting a powerful stream of salty fluids down Legolas' sucking maw.

Erestor could not suppress the quick upthrust of his body as he came, pouring his seed in a steady torrent down Pen-rhovan's throat, and belatedly resumed stroking the wild elf's shaft as he felt the compulsive swallowing of Legolas drinking down his essence.

The younger elf let the softening organ slip from his lips as he erupted in a soft cry and a quick burst of thick creaminess over the seneschal's hand and side. Arm trembling from holding himself up during these exertions, overcome suddenly with weariness from the dual ejaculations, Legolas eased himself down, laying his head on Erestor's stomach and sighing. The scent of his own seed was strong but he did not care about that or the slight stickiness smearing against his shoulder where it leaned into the Noldo's side. He slipped his fingers from inside the panting elf below him and draped his arm over the seneschal's legs. He felt the gentle caress of a hand smoothing down his hair, and smiled happily when it came to rest upon his head. This was exactly what he had needed, for how long he could not even begin to guess.

They lay this way for some minutes as their hearts slowed and suspiration eased, and the soothing sound of the summer shower came back into their conscious knowledge. Neither wanted to disturb the absolutely satisfying closeness as they remained quietly contemplating how unlikely all the night's events had seemed just hours ago, and how right the union had proved to be.

Erestor stirred, tugging at Legolas' arm to draw him up closer.

"Come here, Pen-rhovan, where I can feel your heart beside mine," he said softly and Legolas scrambled into the waiting crook of his arms and returned his weary head to rest again upon the broad chest, enchanted by such a request.

No one had ever said such a thing to him before and he smiled against the warmth of the elf cradling him gently as he drifted toward welcome sleep.

Erestor felt him relaxing into slumber and made no move to keep him wakeful despite his own lack of sleepiness. He just wanted Legolas to relish every bit of their experience together, even the slow slipping into dreamless, carefree repose. He believed it was indeed the first time Legolas had ever known pleasure without the burden of agony, and feared that, once he returned to Imladris, the archer would never feel this way again.

TBC


	28. Chapter 28

** Trenared Balch** [Cruel Revelation]

Minuial had chased away the gentle rain from the sanctuary and bright glinting beams warmed the quiet shelter where Erestor rested with the exiled prince held close against him. He had slept little and awakened first, concerned to find Legolas still deep in slumber but also relieved that he was at peace enough to rest as much as he needed. He ran his hands cautiously over the slim figure recumbent at his side and fingered the messy locks of felted gold.

The Tawarwaith was truly amazing. He wondered if there was any way to convince him to leave the dark loneliness of his stark isolation and come to live in Lorien. Penbara and Penraeg could look after Pen-rhovan, and there he could see him often. _And share in his considerable carnal talents!_ he thought with a small leap of his heart.

Legolas must have felt the momentary surge in his companion's pulse and shifted as consciousness returned to him. He woke smiling, a rare experience since the Judgement began, and stretched against the firm body curled cozily against him, tightening his arms in a welcoming hug around the seneschal's shoulders.

"Aur Maer! [Good Morning]" he said as he beamed his dazzling welcome up into the Noldo's eyes.

"And to you, Pen-rhovan!" Erestor grinned back and dropped a quick kiss onto the golden crown followed by a rub of his cheek against the hair. They cleaved one to another, blissfully contented to remain in the comfort of such closeness.

"I thank you for last night," Legolas spoke these winsome words and exuded happiness when Berenaur gave him an answering squeeze.

"It is I who should be grateful, Legolas! It was remarkable; we are well matched," he replied and felt the wild elf shaking with silent laughter, nodding wordlessly against his chest.

"Perhaps we should try and see if it is repeatable," he suggested and took a taste of the nipple so invitingly near. The seneschal exclaimed appreciatively as his penis stirred at the stimulation. They shared gleaming smiles and then Legolas sat up, admiring the elf that had so fulfilled him. "Come! It looks to be bright without, and the stream sounds full from the evening's rain! I did promise you would stay warm and dry yet a swim I would welcome. We can generate plenty of warmth afterwards," he said with genuine joy as he pulled on the Noldo's hands.

Erestor readily agreed and they exited the shelter just as they were, plunging into the invigorating brook.

They played for awhile in glorious abandon, as elflings might do, splashing and grappling each other to bring about thorough dowsings below the surface, sweeping great curtains of fluid up into cascading arcs that rained back over them. Slowly the raucous play became more subdued as Erestor began washing Legolas free of the grime their pleasure had created, and the archer responded by working away at the sticky remainders of his semen upon the seneschal's skin. Their touches became softer yet more heated and soon questing lips sealed together as they became closely entwined in each other's embrace.

Lost in their rising passion, neither heard the silent approach of the Elf Lord as he entered the sanctuary.

His duties with the child had kept him several hours in the village, yet the concerns of the humans were misconstrued, for rather than suffering another setback the babe was improving. The healer had determined Cemendur was experiencing his first hunger pangs in weeks and was bawling for this lesser and more easily remedied cause. Elrond stayed and supervised with satisfaction as the child greedily slurped down the nourishing gruel made by his adoring aunt. He remained in the sick house until the boy was sleeping soundly, having checked over the injuries and rebandaged the stump of his tiny arm.

Once he was confident all was well, the Elf Lord left in search of Legolas. When an exhaustive investigation of the village proved fruitless, he located Radagast and learned of the two elves' departure, and marched out into the night.

Finding the way had been rather difficult for him under the moonless sky, and the light rain slowed his progress by slicking the detritus and duff of the forest floor. Yet Elrond actually felt easier of heart as he hiked. Revealing his suspicions regarding Thranduil and the One Ring to Legolas had been right. The archer's logical refutation had convinced him; the cursed relic was far from the reach of his adversary and the future was suddenly less dark. Indeed, even the constant rain was welcomed to cleanse the air of the lingering scent of ashes and death. He had been eager to reach the sanctuary and tell Legolas about the child's recovery, hopeful of another chance to restore the broken bond he had glimpsed so fleetingly.

Elrond could not believe what the glory of Anor revealed. His best friend and his young lover, so deeply submerged in luxuriant foreplay that the pair did not even realize they were no longer alone.

Legolas was caressing the tight contours of Erestor's buttocks while his other hand rigorously stroked the advisor's erection. The exiled archer moaned softly against his companion's lips as the seneschal held him close with an arm around the shoulders, insinuating several fingers of his right hand carefully into the wild one's arse.

Elrond glowered; every muscle constricted, and beheld the languidly sensual display unfolding. Clearly, Erestor was preparing to take Legolas, and while he was loath to witness this, the Lord of Imladris could not seem to avert his eyes from the tableau. Even as he watched his seneschal lifted Legolas up round the waist and waded to the bank, settling him there against the cushioning ferns and mosses.

With swift movements born of heightened desire the fallen prince lifted his opened legs onto Erestor's shoulders and the Noldo entered him with a thunderous cry, filling him completely with the first thrust. With every invasive impact of Erestor's cock into the wild elf, the slosh of the water swirling in eddies around the seneschal's legs competed with Legolas' excited pleas for more. The Noldo drove into him with increasing force and Pen-rhovan arched back, arms splayed out, his entire body lifted off the ground, seemingly balanced between the penis spearing him and the crown of his head pushed nearly backwards into the soft moist ground. He begged loudly for Berenaur to fuck him harder, deeper.

The seneschal complied and caught the slender stiffness of Legolas' cock, handling it expertly as the archer screamed in delight and came, the silver fountain of his seed shining under the brilliance of the morning sun. Erestor's orgasm followed immediately and he shouted, pounding his cock into the clenching sphincter with even greater vehemence for two prolonged lunges that stole their breaths away.

Legolas flopped against the bank with a satiated sigh and reached for Erestor, who carefully removed himself from the tight enclosure of the wild elf's body. He wrapped his arms around Pen-rhovan and lay down beside him on the bank, drawing him over to rest upon his breast.

The voyeur heard his old friend ask if Legolas was all right, if he had hurt him in any way, and could tell by Legolas' encircling embrace that the answer was only of joy and satisfaction without pain or discomfort. They held each other as their heavy breathing gradually subsided. Slowly their composure returned and the soft cadence of easy conversation began.

Elrond shuddered, recoiling from their casual intimacy, and quickly retreated from the glade. He told himself this was no more than he had instructed Erestor to do, but the obvious delight of the couple rankled. He told himself this meant nothing to him, Legolas was merely a diversion from his lack of physical intimacy, a means to a political end, and not someone he cared about.

But he had expected Legolas to rebuff the seneschal's wooing and had even felt slightly worried for Erestor's health when he had learned the two had left together. Legolas was supposed to choose a bond with him, not couple with the first lothario to cross his path!

He attempted to convince himself he was pleased to know the truth; Legolas was just like his mother. Ningloriel was completely selfish, maintaining a string of lovers, inconstant, faithless and incapable of sustaining a true bond. Fool he had been to seek any sort of union with the spawn of such a one!

Below his upwelling anger a sense of betrayal emerged. It seemed everyone Elrond had ever cared about had left him, and now the pattern reasserted itself.

Elrond halted his progress and wearily cast himself down upon the fallen and blasted trunk of an ancient oak. Why was he locked in this unceasing cycle of sorrow? How had he come to be so ruthlessly cursed by fate, and what injury had he done to earn such torment?

Even more infuriating, each loss had near its center Thranduil's presence. The toll of the names rang through the Elf Lord's mind: Gil-Galad, lost trying to salvage the remnants of Oropher's warriors, one of which had been Thranduil. Celebrian, lost because the Woodland King's xenophobia prevented news of the Orcs in the High Pass from reaching Imladris.

Yet even more than these, the loss of Ningloriel burned against his soul.

The image of the Danwaith Queen filled his mind as he recalled the moment of their meeting. He had been in Lorien for some years when she arrived to visit her sister. Knowing nothing of her and little of her people, Elrond considered the Wood Elves too simple to offer anything of substance to the splendor of Imladris.

But she had known of him, had searched him out, and boldly stated her intentions. Not waiting for her father to petition the match or for Elrond to perform the appropriate rituals of courting, she had ticked off the tally of the advantages their mating would produce, listing the beauty of their resulting offspring foremost! They had coupled that very night and the fiery joining had been incomparable, for she was both demanding and extravagant in her fulfillment.

The experience had overwhelmed him and Elrond fell under the Woodland inu's spell, instantly wishing that his negotiations with Galadriel had not been so close to summation. He had already secured Celebrian's betrothal and to renege would have been not only brutally crude but also would have earned him an enemy of far greater power than he cared to face.

Had Ningloriel only arrived a mere handful of months earlier! Elrond would have sought to ally with the Danwaith, stretching Imladris' borders across the Misty Mountains. If he had known of her sooner, Ningloriel would have provided him with an exciting and satisfying union, a vast realm of great potential, and revenge upon Oropher.

Instead, it was Thranduil who wedded the impetuously passionate Sylvan, securing the ongoing support of the forest folk and continuing the regency established by his sire.

The philandering had continued. Thus he had developed his scheme regarding her usefulness as an informant against her husband to account for their frequent rendezvous. Convincing Galadriel of this had been easier than he would have thought. Indeed, he spoke the lie so often he even persuaded himself, and Celebrian had behaved as though the affair did not exist. When little news of value resulted from Ningloriel's gossip, no one seemed to notice or care.

But she had changed. Or perhaps, he considered, he had just come to understand her. After the birth of Arwen she had begun speaking of her aversion to Thranduil's touch, bitterly bemoaning his insistence that she produce an heir. Even so, it had been several loa before Legolas arrived. The child's birth had heralded a complete break with her role as wife, and the concept of motherhood she seemed to regard as an affront. It was then that Elrond realized the truth; Ningloriel had expected him to refuse Celebrian the comforts of their marriage bed as a sign of his love for her. This was never openly discussed, but was aired through the Elf Lord's indignance over her kept pet guardsman.

She refused to relinquish Maltahondo. That bond she neither tried to hide nor justify. She needed him; that was the entirety of her argument. Whenever the issue arose, she brought up Celebrian. If he rationalized using the import of his alliance to Lorien, she resentfully reminded him he possessed an equal power in Vilya. A power, she always added, that might lift the strain of darkness from her lands and return her people to tranquility.

And in the end she had left him, choosing to take Maltahondo with her, and this too was influenced by Thranduil through his decision to take a consort and beget a new heir.

How it burned, the faulty, callous nature of her feeble affection for him! Elrond would never admit to himself that she had wounded him deeply when she left forever. He disregarded his original motives for their entanglement, underlain with desire for vengeance upon Thranduil and lust for her sex. Likewise, he refused to consider what drove him to profane possession of the ostracized prince, never acknowledging his obsession was constructed from the identical blueprints, only replacing Ningloriel with the son she had so readily abandoned.

_Legolas. So very like his mother: wildly passionate, beautiful to behold, entirely wanton, and completely selfish. Are all in Ningloriel's line so false of heart?_ he thought morosely.

Memory vividly accosted his thoughts, forcing the Elven Lord to relive the scandalous scene: Legolas' lithe body bent in lewd display as Erestor shoved his cock in and out relentlessly, the wild elf's desperate entreaties for deeper penetration, the sight of his exposed penis, crowded with the swollen sack, as the seneschal grabbed it, the ecstatic scream as Legolas' ejaculation pearled through the air.

Rage coursed through him and Elrond leaped up from the log. This offense would not go unanswered!

He returned to the village, recalling both of his promises to enlighten Thranduil. He would enjoy revealing Legolas' debauchery to the Woodland King. Let him know nothing in his House went untouched by Imladris, even as Thranduil's existence had hovered near all the losses the Noldo Lord had endured. And revealing the cause for the harassment by Dol Guldur would surely incite terror and havoc throughout Mirkwood. Perhaps the Nandorin Elves would no longer be so appreciative of their king's renowned wealth.

_Especially,_ he mused, _if the messenger learns the dire nature of the communication. Gossip will spread the words to every citizen in the Woodland Realm: their King is harboring the most destructively evil object in all of Middle Earth!_

While the Wood Elf and the Noldo enjoyed their gentle post-coital chat, the Lord of Imladris composed his scathingly derogatory missive and included the cloth soiled with Legolas' blood and his own essence.

As the messenger left the village, Elrond cared not that his action could seal Legolas' fate as a traitor to the Greenwood, naming him the lover of its Regent's greatest antagonist. Such betrayal would mean permanent banishment from his homeland and severance from Tawar forever.

Safe in the protection of the sanctuary, lost in the consummation of their delicious lechery, Legolas and Erestor remained ignorant of the intrusion.

Erestor cautiously removed his spent organ from the searing envelopment of the wild elf's body, terrified to look for fear of finding Legolas' blood coating him. If there were such evidence of his impassioned ferocity he would never forgive himself. Carefully he transferred the completely lax limbs from his shoulders, laying the long legs out upon the bank. Legolas' feet dipped into the cooling water and Erestor heard a light exhalation as he shifted, rippling the fluid around his ankles. It did not sound like an expression of discomfort and so the advisor dared to examine himself. Relief flooded him and guilt departed for no discernible scarlet stains covered his slackened genitalia.

"Are you alright, Legolas? Have I hurt you in any way?" he whispered as he climbed up onto the refreshingly springy grasses and scooped the weary woodland warrior into his secure embrace. Legolas turned in the hold and snuggled against the Noldo with another soft sigh, resting upon the comfortable firmness of the broad smooth chest. Erestor felt the rapid impression of velvety lips caress the skin overlying his heart and a strong surge of joy engulfed him.

"Nay, you have given me no pain, only great pleasure. I have never felt this way with anyone else," Legolas whispered shakily and squeezed tightly in hopes of transmitting the fullness of his gratitude through the contact.

This admission was deeply moving for the advisor to hear, for it was confirmation of his own suspicions, and this was truly saddening. A joining such as they had shared was what Legolas deserved, and he should never have been taught to accept anything less. He gently stroked the golden hair and caressed across the scarred shoulders, desiring to comfort his partner.

"It pleases me to know all is well," he said and leaned his cheek against the mound of unruly tresses tucked against him.

But Erestor understood now what Elrond had meant about Legolas' demands and the overwhelming force of the sexual enticement his perverted appetite for pain created. He had refused to let the seneschal return to the thicket for the oil and Erestor had used only the water from the stream for lubrication, and had not been gentle in taking him. It was difficult to admit that the sensation of his penis scraping against the jagged ridges of the marred muscle within the misused elf had been unbelievably stimulating. He had intended to be careful, allowing his invasive piercing to be deep and thorough but not jarring or injurious. Yet Legolas had begged for more and Erestor had been unable to resist his own urge to use every ounce of strength he could rally to fuck the feral elf nearly into oblivious stupor.

"Many have shared their first experience with me," he resumed, "and I have never hurt anyone even under such delicate conditions! Indeed, I am considered very adept and skillful in this regard. I could not abide the thought of you being the first to know pain from my lovemaking!"

"Worry not; your reputation is well earned and quite safe!" the archer said, and Erestor thought he detected a hint of mirth tinting these words.

"You think me boastful, Pen-rhovan, but I am actually being quite humble!" he scolded indignantly and was dismayed when Legolas laughed outright.

"Berenaur, if this is modesty do not ever speak of your real abilities or I will be unable to restrain my unbridled cupidity!" he said within his gleeful chuckling.

Erestor gave an ungracious snort but smiled to have made Legolas laugh; it was a good sound to hear.

"There are no deficits in your own proficiency for giving pleasure, either," he praised and Legolas wriggled closer into his embrace.

"Coming from one who has sampled so many elves and shares body and soul with two lovers at once that is high praise indeed," he joked softly, and now it was Berenaur who laughed lightly in response.

"Ah! I have not felt so relaxed since my last visit to Lorien! Legolas, you are as soothing to the spirit as you are to the flesh!"

"Why do you not resettle in the Golden Wood, then? Clearly you long to be with Penbara and Penraeg," Legolas commented, comfortable using the nicknames since he had earned one himself.

"I am bound to the Court of Imladris by my oath of allegiance to the High King." the seneschal said, exhaling a wistful breath. "It is a trying position yet I could not in good conscience leave when I am so needed. You would scarcely believe what goes on in the Last Homely House, and without my attention the whole of Imladris would end up in disarray," he said with exaggerated drama and was soon explaining, in precise detail, exactly what he meant by these words.

Peacefully content in Berenaur's arms, Legolas lay smiling as the advisor prattled on about the most mundane things that occurred in Imladris. He complained of this elf's rudeness and that diplomat's hauteur, expounded on the hardheadedness of the stable master, slandered Glorfindel terribly as a lazy lout, and even disparaged the chintzy portions of honeyed butter allotted at breakfast.

Legolas found the incessant chatter endearing; he had never heard anyone talk so much! Malthen had rarely spoken after sex; usually leaving Legolas right after their completion to sleep in his own quarters. Even during the time they served together in the patrols it was Legolas who did most of the talking between them. Maltahondo, he remembered now, had a predilection for lecturing and instructions rather than conversation.

His one other lover had enjoyed talking only if he could speak obscenely and publicly embarrass Legolas, boastfully and explicitly describing every sound Legolas emitted, from the gentlest sough to his most lasciviously pleading screams, for all that would listen. They had argued bitterly over it, yet Legolas did not want to admit he was unable to make the match chosen for him work. When his lover had left the Greenwood permanently Legolas had not been upset in the least.

These musings were too dark and dreary to accompany the cheerful gleam of Anor and the tranquil familiarity of the Noldo's protective embrace, he decided, and banished the memories from awareness to concentrate on the rambling discourse.

The seneschal was completing a tale involving a prized Numenorean vase and the Elf Lord's daughter. Apparently she had given it away on a whim to the mother of a young courtier from Lorien, and the ensuing chaos and attempts to retrieve the priceless item had fallen on the advisor to remedy. Berenaur laughed softly and sighed, squeezing Legolas again and rubbing his palms luxuriously over his naked back.

The touch became assessing as he fingered individual scars, worrying them. The seneschal's words did not resume and his body tensed under his companion's weight, as he seemed to withdraw into melancholy introspection.

Legolas looked up to find a concerned and worried expression regarding him, and instantly became unsettled. "What is it? What is wrong, Berenaur?" he asked and did not understand why these simple words made the Noldo wince as if pained.

Of course, it was only that one specific falsehood that grieved the older elf to hear: the name Berenaur. Erestor's conscience was mercilessly berating him for continuing this egregious deception upon the Wood Elf who deserved not such abuse. He drew a shaky breath and tried to steel his nerve for the task at hand.

"Legolas, I wish to speak seriously to you. What I say will be difficult to learn, and even now I hesitate to relay too much for fear of adding to the injurious treatment you have already sustained!" he began, and Legolas leaned up on his elbows to stare at him with dread.

He was not certain he cared to have this information if it meant absorbing fresh insults.

"What is this about?" he asked guardedly, and the Noldo could see the anxiety seeping into him, dislodging his former tranquility.

"It is about Erestor. Or, actually, it is more about Elrond of Imladris that I would speak," he ventured cautiously into the suspect terrain. "And myself, for I have been a willing participant."

Pen-rhovan's response betrayed his conflicted emotions. He sat up to have a clearer view of his partner's features and wrapped his arms about himself, curious about the Elven Lord's part in the plot but instinctively withdrawing from the predicted shock.

"What does he think about me?" he asked tentatively, not yet brave enough to ask what he truly wanted to know.

The question threw Erestor off-guard a bit, for he had not expected the note of hopeful expectation underscoring the fallen prince's words. This could be stickier than he had at first comprehended, and the advisor began to understand why Aiwendil had not been overly eager to reveal the truth to the forest champion.

"Ah," he said lamely and tried to gather and reorder his thoughts. "Well, I know he thinks you are courageous and resourceful, fair-minded and intelligent, and unjustly accursed by this awful Judgement!" he revealed honestly and observed Legolas' brows ride skyward in surprise.

"All that? He has never even met me; how can what you say be so?" he demanded.

Erestor realized his error; he had not quite thought this through. He would now have to either construct more lies or just come out with the brutal truth, neither choice desirable.

He looked at the unsuspecting elf's expectant expression and read there the hopeful neediness for some sort of positive confirmation of the things he had just heard. The seneschal understood with a constricting sensation around his heart that Legolas wanted to believe there was a wise and noble Lord somewhere out in the faraway reaches beyond the Misty Mountains that knew of and cared about him.

Legolas was seeking his father.

This was far worse than he had considered. He could not explain his own true name without revealing Elrond's. But the wild elf obviously believed what Erestor himself thought likely: that the Noldo Lord had begot him. To learn his own father had viciously bedded him, that was a concept too hideous to entertain. The seneschal shuddered, thinking how he would react to such a grotesque situation, and fearing how this would impact upon Legolas' grief-stricken mind.

"Hmmm, yes," he stammered, "Even so, he does know much about you. You may be isolated here, forbidden to discuss anything of your situation, but others are not. Not everyone is subject to the Custom and Law of the Woodland Realm," he stalled.

"Mithrandir!" the Wood Elf devised his own conclusion and smiled. "Has he told Elrond about me, then?"

Erestor blinked and managed a shaky half-smile in answer. It churned his gut, this en-miring quickmud of deceit, but he could not bear to destroy the wild elf's hopes so completely as the truth would surely do. It occurred to him, in light of the illusion the younger elf had been harboring all this time, that the reality of his relationship with Elrond might actually kill him.

_Better for him to remain in ignorance of the healer's true identity,_ he concluded and thus rejected his desire for full disclosure. Berenaur, it seemed, would remain a fictitious reality.

"Mithrandir, yes; I am sure he has spoken to Elrond about you. However, it is not so much this that I wanted to address." He said and attempted to steer the conversation toward a partial admission of the subterfuge perpetrated upon the outcast.

"I was not lying when I said earlier that my colleague and I had discussed how to go about getting you to grant us sexual favors. We thought you would be more open to revealing Thranduil's secrets if we courted you thus. My part in it all I completely regret, especially now after what we have shared."

Here Erestor reached out and gently stroked his fingers across Legolas' jaw and the archer allowed the caress to travel on around his throat and past his ear where the touch remained softly alight on the nape of the neck.

"However, I do not understand what my old friend is thinking regarding this. I do not want you to continue to have sex with the healer, Legolas; he does not consider how he harms you!" the seneschal finished all in a rush and waited apprehensively for Pen-rhovan's justified outrage.

To his amazement Legolas smiled hugely and flung himself back over the Noldo's body, settling himself securely back within his arms.

"You are worried about me!" he exhaled delightedly. "Do not; I have not given my heart to him and will not suffer much when he departs!"

Legolas was simply not in any frame of mind to generate anger. The Noldo had apologized so many times, and had already told Legolas this disturbingly erotic truth. It was somehow exciting to think of them discussing him so even prior to meeting him, desiring him before they even looked upon him. He found Berenaur's protective jealousy unexpectedly flattering, this was the first time Legolas had ever come between two elves.

Erestor was dumbfounded as he felt the delicate pressure of his companion's lips focus again on the spot over his very rapidly pounding heart, and squeezed back supposedly to reassure the feral elf but more to alleviate his own tension.

They remained silently contemplative as they re-established their previous comfort level, yet the seneschal could feel a slight restraint remaining in Legolas' limbs. After several minutes Pen-rhovan stirred and his fingers began absentmindedly twisting a lock of the Noldo's glossy raven-hued hair.

"Berenaur," he said and paused. "What else does Elrond say about me? I know about his relationship with my mother; you need not fear revealing a confidence in this respect," he cajoled. "Does Elrond consider me, does he think he is," Legolas struggled to get this question asked. Everytime he brought it up some appalling reply left him wounded; he was wary of repeating the experience.

"Legolas," the advisor frowned at the hesitant quality of his partner's speech knowing exactly what the Wood Elf wanted to say. "If you are asking whether Elrond believes himself to be your father, then I must answer no." He felt the tenseness dissolve away to be replaced by a palpable sensation of gloomy disappointment.

A great sigh escaped from Legolas and he lay limp and listless a long time, and Erestor could not think what to do other than to gently caress the troubled elf's shoulders. The silence stretched on as neither spoke, for the seneschal feared to make matters worse not knowing how the fallen prince was digesting this revelation. At last he felt another tremendous heave against his chest.

"Then, Elrond believes Thranduil is my father?" Legolas raised his head to look questioningly at Berenaur, as though he needed the confirmation to be able to accept this fact. The expression of revulsion in his eyes was clearly evident.

But about these matters Erestor did not see any need for lies and so he sought to mitigate that unpleasant reaction to the concept of the overbearing and avaricious Woodland King as a father.

"Nay! Elrond does not think that; indeed, few knowing the whole story would consider this true! The Lord of Imladris believes your mother's long relationship with her personal guardsman generated your conception!" he said.

The response this created was not what he had expected. Legolas shoved back and sat up from him, staring with the most horrendous expression of disbelieving shock and repugnance the Noldo had ever seen.

"What! Why would he say that? Malthen cannot be my father!" he wailed hysterically and reached for Erestor's shoulders, shaking him for emphasis.

The seneschal grasped his arms and tried to steady him, but Legolas was becoming more distraught by the second and began struggling to escape.

"It is a lie! It must be a lie! He would not do that to me!" Legolas was screaming these words in tones that could only pour from the rending trauma of a shattered soul and Erestor became terrified of what he had unwittingly done. He tried to wrap his arms tight around Pen-rhovan to hold him still.

"Legolas! What is it? Why is this such formidable news? Speak!" Erestor was beside himself to contain the wild elf's despair and calm him, for he had never intended to bring about the agony being experienced now. Legolas was far beyond the reach of such entreaties, however, and his rage and devastation boiled over as he assailed the Noldo with his fists and feet and broke free.

He sloshed across the water and disappeared into the shelter, Erestor close behind him, but when he encountered the seneschal on his way back out Legolas was dressed, armed, and had his dagger in hand. One murderous look was enough to send the Noldo backing quickly away.

In vain Erestor tried to convince him to stop and speak of the matter but Legolas merely allowed him a small glance into the depths of his tormented eyes and the seneschal was rendered paralyzed and wordless to see the despairing anguish there. Without another sound the Tawarwaith fled his violated sanctuary.

Erestor recovered himself and fairly dived into the brambles to retrieve his pack, intent on following the broken warrior and repairing the damage he had caused. Crawling inside the shelter on his hands and knees, he suddenly froze as his eyes fell upon the crushed and twisted mosses where they had enjoyed each other so fully through the night.

There upon the ground lay the braided souvenir of auburn tresses, severed from its long embrace of the wild elf's ankle.

TBC


	29. Chapter 29

**Mellyn Evyrn** [Fast Friends]

Tawar looked after its own, but in the spreading darkness of the living Shadow the besieged spirit of the Greenwood did not discern the approach of disaster in the form of the First Born from Rivendell.

So soon after the devastation of the trembling earth, the forest had not recovered its strength and the shifting emotions roiling from its champion whenever the Noldo were near further confused the ancient trees. The wizard, too, sent Tawar conflicting opinions of the Elf Lord and his advisor, at once infuriated yet tolerant of the son of Eärendil and the survivor of Gondolin.

While disjointed and virtually severed by the Misty Mountains, a faint connection between the Greenwood and the forested valleys of Imladris remained, and naught but good sentiments passed between them where the elves of either land were considered. Whatever the source of their friends' misgivings about the Deep Elves, the trees would never have looked to the West and the lands of Imladris as the origin of so injurious an element to Harthad-en-Taur. Surely, had the spirit of the Great Wood foreseen the harm their Tawarwaith would sustain from the Noldor's hands, it would never have guided them to him on that first day of their meeting.

But the forest failed its fair champion and did not prevent the damage his interaction with Elrond and Erestor generated within his heart and mind.

Legolas' new despair focused not on the interlopers but on one of his own, a Danwaith long trusted by the forest as a loyal defender of their Realm. The distress of the archer coursed through the woods from every leaf and twig he so much as brushed in passing, and the impotent rage of the weald's denizens manifested in an unholy cacophony of groaning and creaking as branch and stem ground against each other in futile fury. The whole of the Greenwood near him looked gale deranged and typhoon tossed; indeed, this was true though the conflagration was bound within the shredded shards of the wild elf's soul.

High in the obscurity of the densest foliage, Legolas relentlessly pressed a course through the branchways away from the safe sanctuary of his enchanted glen and back into the unprotected wastes between the region of the woodsmen's villages and the Old Forest Road. He moved with speed born of frenetic desperation to both escape from his own quintessence and reach the comfort of the protective embrace of the only elf he trusted anymore, Fearfaron. Determinedly he pushed on, forgetting the village and his human friends, the ailing child and the ageless Maia, the Elf Lord and his advisor. All else diminished while the staggering misery of guilt and rage that drove him increased.

Even if they had been Wood Elves raised under the forest's roof, Erestor and Elrond would never have been able to match the urgent momentum of Legolas' pace. By the time Erestor made his way back to the village, the archer was already six leagues away from the glade. As it was, the seneschal's mangled explanation of what had transpired appeared not to move his Lord, while Radagast actually broke his staff rather than his vows so great was his desire to avenge his friend. Aiwendil left the village without a word and the Noldor saw him no more for a time.

The Elven Lord remained cold and distant and shunned his longtime friend, refusing to hear Erestor's pleas and arguments for going after the suffering Wood Elf. Elrond icily reminded his advisor that they were not exactly free to travel to Mirkwood's stronghold, but encouraged him to attempt it should he desire a protracted confinement in Thranduil's dungeons. In fact, he had stated, perhaps such a fate would be fitting for one who turned on his own and thwarted plans designed to aid their people, for thus he judged Erestor's actions to date.

Still unenlightened regarding Elrond's firsthand knowledge of his intimacy with Legolas, Erestor became incensed. He berated his compatriot for his callousness in allowing Pen-rhovan to go from them in his present state of mind and challenged the unfairness of the accusations against his character. But in the end, helpless to find his way or to explain himself should he happen upon the patrols, the advisor gave up his hope for aiding Legolas. Yet he would not return to Imladris when Elrond prepared to leave, and stayed in the village hoping for the Brown Wizard to return with the Tawarwaith in tow.

Legolas traveled without rest three days, stopping on the fourth only for water when he felt close to collapse, for the grief his own good heart caused him increased by the hour, it seemed. Poised back in the treetops above the sluggish trickle that had eased his parched throat, the exhausted Wood Elf tried to summon the will to go forth.

His back stiffened, becoming rigid as a slicing stab of acute anguish flooded him right at the site of the old dagger wound. Legolas' hand flew to the throbbing scar and he pressed his fist against the tearing torment as a slight gasp escaped him. The spasm increased its intensity and he almost lost his balance on the branches, clasping tightly to the kindly tree with his free hand as he tried to will himself to be calm and ride out the attack.

_How often that blade has been my antagonist_, he thought, yet never would he part with it for it had been a gift from Malthen on his Coming of Age.

The pain had started the day Erestor had disclosed his real relationship to Malthen and the episodes were becoming more frequent. The old wound felt like it was ripping open again, seeking to complete its aborted task from all those years past. He had expected to find his hand covered with his blood the first time the wrenching paroxysm accosted him. The agony seemed to last longer each time as well, and he was now uncertain he would make it back to see Fearfaron. He had thought that such a bitter mixture of remorse and torment would be too much to bear and yet live, and wondered with every passing of Ithil's night how he had succeeded in surviving to another day.

But he knew what held him still to Middle Earth and it was not the obligations imposed by the Judgement nor even the strong desire to reach his foster father's sheltering care. Legolas found himself overcome with a turbulent flux of loathing and longing and felt for the second time in his life the wish to destroy another elf.

Images assailed him perpetually, replacing his peaceful communion with Tawar as he made his way through the forest heights. He saw himself with the dagger drawn, brutally attacking his old guardsman and former lover, reducing Malthen's chest to a bloody pulpy mass as lungs still trying to breathe forced bubbles through the streaming life-giving fluid. He jabbed and cleaved, tearing open the thorax and hacking through ribs, seeking for the heart of the vile offender. Yet when the warrior no longer breathed and the blood no longer gushed, the archer still could not find the victim's vital organ within the messy ruins of the body. And this only fueled his raving even more so that he came out of the hallucination declaiming and cursing against his beloved guardian and friend.

But he loved Malthen; thus the daydreamed slaughter left him even more immersed in self-disgust and fear for what he had become.

This gory visualization was profoundly disturbing and he could only address it subconsciously, aware on this internal level that he had not really been heading directly for Fearfaron. He was instead seeking a fight to get into that he would not get out of alive. In this way he would expend these fell emotions upon the Shadow and at last be freed from the torment of his revoltingly obscene desire for his own father.

Legolas could go no further and rested fitfully in the sheltering oak all the fourth day and through the dark night. Dawn brightened the forest around him on the fifth day and still he did not budge, suddenly uncertain what he was going to do if he ever reached Fearfaron. Instinct had set his feet upon this course, but now he wondered if he could speak of this shameful horror even to his foster father. As the day grew older he became aware of the distant sounds of horse's footfalls along the ground, and trained his hearing intently upon it.

By mid-afternoon the sources passed under his tree and he examined them carefully. One was well known to him and a surge of sour rancor filled his stomach: Mithrandir. The other he had never seen in his woods before, nor even one of his ilk.

This was a human; not a woodsman as dwelt under the eaves of Tawar nor a townsman that lived within Laketown upon Esgaroth. Neither was he one of the beornings found in the meadows serving the great changeling Bear. This was a warrior, a Man whose life was one of hardship and battle, whose closest friends were there with him below: the charger and the broadsword. Legolas had not met such a Man before, for the soldiers in the Battle of Erebor were farmers and merchants pushed to their task by desperate need rather than trained and seasoned swordsmen and archers.

He rode proudly yet fatigue burdened his broad shoulders for he stooped a little forward in the saddle. Around his stalwart form he wore a fair cloak, much stained with mire and muck yet so finely woven it must be of elven make. The cut of his garments was well made to his body and also of distinctly elvish design. Scarred by much exposure to hazard and havoc the tough leather jerkin protecting his torso still bore recognizable segments of the elegantly tooled runes of power originally adorning it. His boots were likewise of rich manufacture but mud-caked and gory. Being so high above, Legolas could see only a crown of dark shoulder length tresses that matched the color of the bay stallion the Man rode, and caught meager glimpses of chiseled features grim and haired as most Men's were.

He watched them.

They progressed steadily forward on horseback at a moderate pace, wary and silent for the most part. When they spoke it was generally to warn each other of a low branch or an upraised root barring the way. They were tense and guarded and often did their fingers look for reassurance at the hilts of their broadswords. Repeatedly they had been forced to deviate from the path and plunge into the wilds for several leagues. Thus had they come past the tree wherein the archer reposed, returning to the road after much struggle to locate it and hours of lost time. Gradually they became aware that the topography was rising and this distressed them exceedingly. The dour realization was inescapable, despite intentions to bypass them and make for Thranduil's stronghold they were being drawn towards the Central Mountains. Orcs were known to dwell in numbers there across the river from the boundaries of the Realm.

There were just these two, alone in the dense growth of the Greenwood, attempting to traverse its vast and cloying vegetation without escort. Mithrandir seemed to have a clear idea of the course required and this was a hidden way, a narrow and meandering footroad lacing through the great trees and marked by no sign visible to any but elf-kind. Those outside the Woodland Realm who were aware of it could be summed on one hand. Legolas had not known the wizard was counted among these and it was somewhat disturbing to see him leading this unknown human upon it.

Legolas silently shadowed them, slipping along through the canopy high above, and they never knew he was near. At first he had inwardly cursed to discover more intruders in his lands and had entertained the thought of continuing his journey away from the interlopers, almost hoping they would be found by Orcs and destroyed.

It seemed that lately the Greenwood had become a most popular place for careless wayfarers and tourists. He would never desert them, of course, for the essence of his nature forbade it. He felt it his obligation to protect all enemies of the Shadow within his own lands, and to vigilantly guard them. Being fools was not, after all, a crime deserving of death.

Even so, Legolas had no wish to speak with the wizard, for he could not be certain his anger could be restrained under the present circumstances and feared to learn what he felt was the truth: Mithrandir knew about Malthen.

The three continued on, the wizard and his comrade unaware that they had become a trio.

The Tawarwaith was exceedingly disturbed to see the deviations in the hidden pathway. This was not the work of Thranduil's patrols and the conclusion boded ill for both the travelers and the Realm. Only the trees themselves could alter an elf-made path, and to find confederates of the Evil One growing so close to the heart of the Greenwood bit deeply into Legolas' soul and fired him to outrage. He could feel the infiltration of the Shadow into his cherished trees, and was aware of the hatred beaming out to him from every turned hardwood in his vicinity. He was eager to follow this twisted trail to the lair of the foul creatures served by these unwholesome standing timbers. If he destroyed the Orcs, perhaps the trees could be salvaged, their spirits reunited with Tawar.

Nervous and uneasy the horses shied sideways at every leaf fall and rustling scuffle from small four-footers scurrying out of the way of the heavy hoofed beasts. A small brown wren flew up abruptly at nearly nose height to the larger bay stallion and he snorted, backing away and rearing just enough to embarrass himself for having been spooked by such a harmless creature. His hindquarters careened into the shoulder of the smaller golden-coated gelding and the steed wheeled to try and get out of the way, smashing his rider's leg against the boll of a beech in the process.

A cry of annoyed discomfort sounded as Gandalf tried to steady his mount. His efforts only succeeded in swinging the horse round backwards so now the gelding's haunches clashed with the bay's flank, and the stallion blew a warning through distended nostrils as his ears went back and bared teeth appeared below curled lips. There was a rapid blur of brown as the stallion extended his head and planted those incisors firmly if briefly in the offending rear.

With a terrified squeal the gelding leaped away and danced around as the wizard shouted and struggled to calm him. The other rider scolded his charger soundly and pulled him away to give room to his comrade's labor. After several minutes of trembling mincing twirls and worried backward glances into Gandalf's face the edgy equine finally relaxed enough for them to resume. The travelers let more space grow between the horses yet not so much that they were too far to be of aid to one another should the need arise.

_The horses have more sense than their masters_, Legolas smirked. _For at least they are aware of just how unpleasant things could get before they leave the forest. Idiots_!

But Mithrandir watched carefully to his right and left and suddenly halted his horse and the two remained very still. The bay stallion stopped as well as its owner turned back to see what was amiss.

Legolas peered down curiously as the little wren returned, hopping in brief flights from bush to tree and branch to twig, drawing closer to the gelding, careful not to startle the poor horse. At last the diminutive bird alit upon the Istar's shoulders and poured out a rapid stream of notes. The recitation was punctuated by the hasty snap of flapped wings and darting bobs of the tiny head as it sought to train a bright black eye upon the wizard's face.

"What is it, Gandalf?" the Man on the sorrel charger asked in undertones of misgiving. For a message to reach them through Aiwendil's friends, the information had to be dire and speed of its delivery essential. He urged his horse closer to the flighty gelding and leaned, weary with worry, against the pommel of his saddle, waiting while the bird continued its song of woe.

"Ill news. Aiwendil reports that my chief ally in this dreadful place has come to great harm. And was the communiqué not from the Brown Wizard never would I believe who perpetrated the injury! My young elven friend faces the dangers of Wraiths and Orcs daily yet not from among these did the wound originate. Elves from Imladris have done this thing!" The old wizard was clearly shocked, as was his comrade, who abruptly sat up. He seemed as dumbfounded as the Maia and shook his head.

"What has happened, and what elves from Imladris would harm another, even an elf from Mirkwood?" he queried as Gandalf's scowl deepened. In the canopy, Legolas nearly growled to hear this derogation of his people.

"The bird cannot give so much detail as that, Aragorn. Yet it can deliver the depth and extent of the harm, and this is severe. Aiwendil fears for the archer's life and bids me forgo our planned agenda to find him at all costs."

The Tawarwaith gave a terrific and fearsome shout as he descended from the tree and leaped onto the palomino behind Mithrandir. He snatched the wizard's staff up and cast it away, and in his left hand he held the dagger, though he did not hold the Maia at its point. With his right hand he grabbed the reins and trained fiery eyes upon the Human who was in the process of unsheathing his sword. The Man's action was arrested by the extraordinary fierceness of that gaze and he eased the blade back slowly into the scabbard. The jittery horse stood stock-still and trembling but obeyed the Wood Elf's command to hold.

"Well, I have saved you the effort it seems, Mithrandir!" Legolas said in a rather unpleasant and dangerous sounding pitch. "But I wonder, just what was that planned agenda you feel compelled to forego for my benefit?" he demanded.

"Legolas! What is this? Aiwendil is concerned about you, as am I!" the wizard said quietly but firmly. He could feel the tautness of every muscle in the feral elf's body pressed behind him and the edge of the blade was too close to his middle for comfort.

"Concern?" Legolas gave a short sarcastic sneer. "Had you any consideration for my welfare you would not have sent me to Dol Guldur! Speak no more of your false words to me!"

Aragorn watched this through wide eyes that appealed to the wizard for direction. Was the Maia in danger? Gandalf gave a brief shake of his head in answer. Legolas was not blind and the unspoken communication enraged him more.

"Oh, more secrets? You have a way of keeping things under that ridiculous hat of yours! What are you doing in my woods, wizard?" his low words reverberated through the suddenly deathly still forest and Gandalf shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.

"Nay, Legolas! We have no secret business here; we were on our way to Thranduil's stronghold for Aragorn to meet the King, at my suggestion! Aiwendil sent word of the trouble you were in and. . . "

"Trouble? Is that your euphemism for betrayal and cruel abuse? You knew all along! I trusted you, but you never said a word to me about it!" Legolas lowered his voice even more so that his words were little more than a hissed murmuring reminiscent of the warning rattle of a viper's tail before the strike.

"Nay!" Gandalf refuted the unexpected accusation. "I knew not of this! Believe me, Legolas, I would never willingly contribute to any scheme to harm you! What is it? What have they done?" he asked, alarmed.

And as if by the command of these words a savage salvo of wrenching excruciation assailed the wild elf and he gasped aloud, rearing back severely under the abrupt assault. With a tremendous effort Legolas disengaged from Mithrandir and scrambled inelegantly back up the tree to cling to the slender twigs of the topmost branches until the seizure passed, for he no longer believed his former friend.

The wizard and the human stared at each other in amazed dread and then scanned the branches above them in hopes to spot the archer, with no success.

"Gandalf, can you tell me what is going on here? I take it that is the elf you spoke of, but why does he think you are involved in some sort of subterfuge?" Aragorn asked softly, wary in case the fey, unstable creature returned.

"He thinks that because I usually am so engaged!" the wizard frowned at the Man from under his furred and furrowed brows. "He seems to be talking about several different events all at once, so it is hard to figure out what part he assigns to me."

"He is in pain," said the Human. "I do not think he has gone far from us. Call to him, for I fear your fellow wizard may be right and when next we find the elf he will be beyond our help."

Gandalf became more disturbed on hearing this, for Aragorn was trained in healing and his gift of insight was known to be great. Anxiously the wizard called out for Legolas, but only the uneasy grinding of the trees' branches croaking as they scraped against each other responded. The forest groaned against the distress of the feral elf while he endured the anguish in silence.

Then abruptly the rasping commotion ceased and the air became heavy and stagnant. A low keening wail issued from the highest reaches of the leafy roof and the two travelers looked up in vain to find the source of the unbearable cries.

Legolas knew not the effect his torment produced on the woods and the interlopers among them. His awareness internalized, sharply focusing on the abominable agony and the events that produced it. The pain and the succeeding vision of his barbaric revenge mixed with the overwhelming longing for his lover, clashing against the surfeited self-loathing that rose from the center of his gut. His lamenting dirge poured out into the solemn woods.

A great pulsing wave of heated air swept over them and yet not a single leaf stirred as the force of Tawar's apprehension for its champion registered through the blazing connection to the travelers' minds, and the location of the fallen prince was revealed.

Aragorn froze under the intensity and fearsome experience of this mental link to the soul of the Greenwood, observing with mouth agape and eyes round the frightful scene of the suffering Wood Elf clinging to the treetop. It was so vivid he seemed to be next to the elf in the branches and even reached out a hand to touch the battered shoulder before the image faded. With a cry he shook his head to clear it and looked around for Gandalf.

Mithrandir wasted no time in such awestruck wonder and guided his horse over to the designated oak. With a fluid sweep of his arms he shucked his long gray robe over his head and draped it over the saddle before him, revealing simple and brief undergarments covering his surprisingly unwasted physique. Gandalf tossed his beard back over his shoulder and reached up, hauling himself onto the nearest branch, and began climbing towards his friend. He arrived with atypical celerity, heaving a bit from the exertion, and cautiously tested the slender branch where the Tawarwaith still mourned, unaware of the wizard's presence. Gandalf frowned to see how small the twigs were at this height, and refused to turn his gaze down back along the path he had come.

_I must trust the tree to support me. The Wood wants me to help him, surely it will not let me fall in the effort to do so_. He reasoned internally and gingerly stepped onto the branch.

"Legolas!" he called softly and carefully placed his hand on the wild elf's arm. Legolas' head snapped up and he glared in fury at the old Maia through wretched and afflicted eyes.

"You!" he spoke through clenched teeth. "You kept it from me! You sent me out here and all the time you knew about the Elf Lord's plans!" he hissed.

"Elrond? Legolas, of what plans do you speak? What has happened!" the wizard was growing more disconcerted by the second, for there were many plans of the Lord of Imladris to which he was privy, yet his understanding recalled none that involved the outcast archer. The Elf Lord, however, was not bound to reveal everything to the White Council and very likely had numerous plots in play that none beyond the borders of Imladris ever learned about.

Legolas turned away for he put no faith in the Maia's apparent bewilderment. How could he trust him? He had not revealed the concerns of the other elven realms about the location of the One Ring. He had not told him that Imladris was seeking this dread talisman and had already tried to infiltrate the King's guard.

"You should have disclosed to me what Elrond thought about the Dark One's talisman. Even Aiwendil denied me the truth," the beleaguered elf realized suddenly and this sent another wave of pain into his body. He writhed against it futilely for several minutes as Gandalf tightened his grip.

"Legolas, you are suffering, what is this injury? Can you not tell me what has happened to you?" the Istar pleaded. "What I withheld from you I was bound to do, under the oaths of my order. This was decided among the White Council, and though both Aiwendil and I argued against it, Saruman sided with Galadriel. She does not trust Thranduil; this you know. With both Imladris and Lorien against him, the White Wizard felt compelled to allow their decision."

The agony subsided to needling throbbing stabs that bloomed with the rhythm of his heart and left Legolas more energy for his anger. He yanked his arm from Mithrandir's hold and shifted away onto another branch.

"Why should I tell you these things? It is too late to worry about the consequences of your omissions for they are already upon me!" he bitterly berated the wizard.

It was intolerable, listening to these excuses and rationalizations for keeping such important facts from the Woodland Realm. Why did he feel the need to protect all these outlanders when surely they cared not for his welfare? And Mithrandir abandoned him to endure the calumny of his own kind as well as the Dark forces in Dol Guldur! The healer's words came back to him; Mithrandir did desire him to perish, perhaps the whole of the wizard's order backed the despicable ploy!

"You are full of lies and deceit, all of you! Tell me, Mithrandir, did you know about my father as well? How could you let me learn of this from outsiders, elves from Imladris no less!" he hurled the words away as though the sound of them would wound and then suddenly sobbed as his love for Malthen overpowered him again. The piercing affliction returned and he groaned, sliding down to crouch upon the bended branch, leaning fully against the tree's trunk.

Now Gandalf comprehended the nature of the damage done, and his worry increased. The depth of the tribulation displayed left no doubt that somehow the disgraced prince had learned of the relations between his mother and her guardsman. The wizard felt his own ire rising on realizing these Noldor Elves had named the archer's father: his first love, his childhood friend and protector, Maltahondo. Mithrandir yearned to learn the identities of the Imladrian miscreants and demand justice before Elrond against those who had so severely and unnecessarily maltreated the woodland warrior.

And how could he answer Legolas' charges, for they were true. He had known this gossip and deliberately kept it hidden, no matter the sincerity of his intentions. Gandalf sighed with chagrined regret; he should never have encouraged Legolas to go alone to face such a fate.

"I knew; you are right and your animosity is just. I can offer no defense that would be acceptable to your ears, or even to mine. Legolas, I have wronged you so much I am surprised you did not send me back to Aman with an arrow!" he quietly confessed and the words drew the unmistakable sound of tear-disrupted breathing as the distraught elf absorbed this.

He had silently sworn he would cry no more; yet even though Legolas had fully expected these words from Mithrandir, he had simultaneously hoped for a sound refutation and convincing proof that his charges were unfounded. The wizard's denial would have allowed him to entertain the hope that Berenaur was the liar instead. Now he felt the last remaining supports of his old reality crumble away beneath him and he plunged in forlorn free-fall into the deeps of black and murky gloom.

"There is no definite proof that he is your father, Legolas. That is why nothing was said. I myself believe it not. My own assessment leads me to conclude that Thranduil is your sire, despite the quidnuncs who speak otherwise. And I know Maltahondo does not believe Ningloriel would allow him to create a child with her. His reasoning was not flawed; and other than your mother I would guess his information is most reliable!" Gandalf continued, hoping this would ease the burden enough for Legolas to survive this catastrophe, at least long enough to get him back to Fearfaron. The Istar hoped the carpenter's love could halt the progress of the wild elf's fading, for surely this was what he was witnessing here. With careful movements the wizard transferred to a nearer branch so he could reach Legolas, and the Wood Elf did not move away.

Legolas had no power left to fight with; his surge of crazed anger ebbed away and left behind unconstrained exhaustion like the stranded detritus of the ocean's contents revealed in the passing of retreating seas. This new world his existence occupied was simply too confusing and overwhelming, and there was no way to drive the misery from his soul. Legolas just wanted it to stop; the pain, the sorrow, the rage, and the love; all of it. He released a ragged breath and the tears ceased; they failed to relieve the anguish anyway, pouring ineffectually over searing sorrow so unendurable that death appealingly beckoned.

"Mithrandir, I need to go home," he whispered and let the Istar lift him up.

Tbc


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: Some have asked, so here is Feud in relation to the Books:

2941 - Battle of Erebor, Legolas' Judgement

2953 - Release of Annaldír

2956 - Aragorn meets Gandalf (Return of the King, Appendix B, JRR Tolkien)

2957 - Aragorn begins his years of errantry incognito (same as above)

2958 - Legolas baits the Nazgul, meets Elrond and Erestor, and meets Aragorn

**Gwain Erthad** [New Alliance]

Gandalf's instantaneous mutation from creaking and aged grandfather to agile and wily Ainu caught Aragorn unawares. It was rather like watching a sun-dappled bit of leafy ground suddenly stand up and reveal itself to be a spotted hind before darting away before his eyes. The Man barely had time to snatch up the reins of the tawny horse before it bolted, unsettled by the wizard using its back as a springboard for his ascent up the tree. He secured the leather leads to his own saddle before dismounting.

There was no need to tie his charger, for the horse was well trained and knew better than to stray an inch without its master's consent. The bay stallion looked disdainfully and threateningly at its skittish companion and the gelding turned a walleye to the sturdy war-horse. The stallion chose to ignore this lesser of its kind and returned full attention to the human.

Aragorn strode over and stood beneath the tree, staring up into the branches to see where the Maia had gone. Just visible, he could make out the pale color of bare skin amid the green cover so high in the canopy that the figures swayed along with the movement of the wind blown limbs. The low murmur of voices met his hearing but he could not tell what was being said. The elf's voice held much emotion, however, while the wizard's maintained an even and soothing tone. It was clear they were arguing and the Man wondered what it was all about, for the elf was more unhinged than any he had ever encountered, and he had known many over his time alive.

The forest seemed to be watching him and he felt distinctly uncomfortable, as though the trees would break him if he so much as imagined an unkindness with regard to the feral Sylvan. Aragorn was unable to stifle the urge to peer over his shoulders as his back keenly imagined the sensation of sharp weapons trained upon it. His mind was invaded by images of oak trees five times the height of a Man uplifting themselves to squash him into the ground while sword-like limbs pierced him through. He shook himself to ward off the uncanny threat. _I am here to help him; I have never harmed elf-kind or green life_, he projected this thought and forced his heart to remain calm. The uneasy feeling abated somewhat and he relaxed again.

Up above, the Istar's voice rose imploringly as the First Born chided him in sounds of such absolute despair that the Man cringed to hear them.

He sighed; this was likely to take some time. Whatever had been done to this former royal had likewise undermined his belief in the wizard's loyalty. _Then again_, he realized, _what do I know of this wizard that causes me to trust him? I met him but two years hence while that archer may have known him centuries_. It was usually difficult to hide one's true nature from an elf. Was the Istar a cunning deceiver, or was this forest warrior grieved past reason?

Casting about for a way to occupy himself and relieve his thoughts of such conundrums, the human spotted the discarded staff and the pointed hat and knelt to retrieve them. The hat he tossed back up onto the pommel of the wizard's saddle from whence it had been dislodged by the Maia's leap into the oak. The staff, however, he approached with a blend of caution and inquisitive interest. The seemingly simple wooden pike fairly hummed as he touched it and his palms tingled as they did when being shaken back into circulation after falling asleep. The implement seemed to be more a weapon than an aid to an elderly man and possessed a greater weight and density than any form of walking stick he had ever handled.

_The gnarled pole is as hefty as my broadsword_, he realized with surprise and a wry expression touched his features. What he knew about the Istar was limited indeed. With care he reseated the staff, tucking it through the leather loop designed to hold it securely to the Maia's saddle, and then turned to his own baggage. He gave a loving slap to the shoulder of his charger, who blew a satisfied reply against the Man's neck and nudged his muzzle against the small of his master's back.

Aragorn smiled. He was about to search through his pack to see what he might have by way of a small treat for his horse when a low and somber groan of terrible grief and pain breached the solemnity of the woods. With a glance back toward the treetop, his pleasant expression vanished and a frown of worry creased his features. He reached instead for his supply of herbs and a small hide-bound booklet of various recipes for healing ailments and easing discomfort.

There had been no visible blood, no sign of bandaging, and no evidence of recent physical wounding on the Elda's body. At least, that much of it as he had seen in the brief seconds he had watched the wild one fleeing back up into the safety of the canopy. Aragorn did not think he would be called on to treat the sort of lacerations and contusions he normally dressed for his comrades after battles. The nature of this injury was much more difficult to heal and far more likely to be mortal for one of the fair folk than any cut by blade or arrow's piercing. He had never before attempted to cure a broken spirit and was fearful he was not up to the task. Only once had he even known such procedures to succeed: the healing of Celebrian through Elrond's skillful hands.

Attentively he perused the pages of the book and at last settled on a mildly sedative combination of pleasantly scented herbs. If he could get Gandalf to administer the drink to the Wood Elf, deep sleep should follow for several hours, allowing him peace from whatever tortures invaded his mind and plagued his body. This might perhaps prolong life long enough to figure out how to complete the remedy.

Mixing the ingredients with water in a small flask, Aragorn added a few drops of Miruvor for good measure. He was still agitating the stoppered bottle when the rustling and rattling of complaining limbs forewarned the wizard's descent.

Gandalf gathered the ailing archer carefully into his hold and started to maneuver back through the branches, downward towards the forest floor. Legolas held on, arms round the wizard's neck, legs dangling, and shut his eyes.

Aragorn slipped the flask into the scabbard of his sword for easy retrieval and watched the Maia's descent curiously, his gaze taking in the limp creature draped over Gandalf's shoulder. He was eager for a good look at this unfortunate being, and anxious to learn what Imladris had to do with his harried state of mind. Vaulting onto his charger, the Man gathered up the reins of the golden gelding and guided the horse back under the forest giant, speaking soothingly to the animal to keep it calm as its master neared. Soon Gandalf was just a meter or two above them.

"Aragorn!" he called down, confident his comrade was close at hand though unable to see for Legolas obstructed his view. "Come and take him from me; I do not think I can get onto the horse; his legs are tripping me as it is!" he wheezed from his unsuccessful attempts to get astride the animal and waited for the human to move in place. Aragorn stood in his stirrups and reached up to take the Istar's burden.

As soon as he felt the unfamiliar hands grasp his waist, Legolas tightened his grip around Mithrandir and stared angrily down at this unknown person. He quickly landed a solid kick into the human's stomach and the hands left him as a loud 'oof!' sounded out into the air.

"Sweet Elbereth's Tits! Was that necessary?" the Man demanded curtly and neither traveler understood why this caused the elf to flinch so sharply against Gandalf's chest.

"Do not harm him, Legolas. I vouch for his worthiness, though I know my esteem has fallen much of late. I need to get down and cannot do it while holding you," the Maia spoke gently against his friend's ear.

Legolas considered his options and found he had not the strength to even make such an evaluation. The pain drained him; the tears depleted him. He simply felt wrung out, as though he had been swimming against the rapids of the Forest River where it churned through the Central Mountains and could no longer keep up the struggle. He nodded against the grey cloaked shoulder and was aware of the hands again, holding him a little less assuredly this time, as Mithrandir lowered him down to the human. Legolas let his arms slide from round the wizard's neck.

Aragorn received the unresponsive body carefully, drawing him down and seating him upon his horse's whithers. He was privileged to a brief flash of blue brilliance as the elven eyes met his for an instant before the feral elf turned away and leaned upon the stallion's neck, whispering something in the horse's ear that he could not make out. The heavy tangle of golden locks slipped forward over the elf's shoulders, mixing with the dark strands of the horse's hair. Aragorn stared in horrified fascination at the ugly pattern scarring the bare flesh beneath the utilitarian quiver of arrows.

As soon as Gandalf was dressed back in his robes and seated comfortably on his gelding, he turned to Aragorn and motioned for him to hand Legolas over. The archer allowed himself to be passed back to the Maia, settling in front of the wizard, and leaned back with a sigh into the encircling arms. Without a word he promptly fell completely lax, losing consciousness without the aid of the draught the human had concocted.

Aragorn looked on in surprise; that kick had been sound enough yet the elf was in a complete swoon, even his eyes shuttered down in defeat. His healing instincts were all afire as he surveyed the bizarre creature in Gandalf's care. This did not seem like an adversary worthy of the Masters of Dol Guldur.

"Valar! That is but an elfling starved not the brave warrior so skilled with the bow as you have indicated! Gandalf, I doubt your archer will live another ten-day!" he forewarned as his inner sight scanned the wild one carefully.

"We must not allow him to fade, Aragorn! It is good you are with me for your medicinal knowledge and your understanding of elvish ways will assist us in preventing his departure to Mandos.

"What I spoke to you about him is accurate, as you will come to see in time. Here is a worthy heart unlike any other, and a truer friend you will never have, could you win his trust!" the Istar admonished his comrade's scorn.

"I can not say what may help him. If his spirit is destroyed there is nothing that can repair such injury, and indeed he must be much depleted to fall so still so quickly! The drugs I had thought to use to induce rest I now fear to give lest he never wake from such a stupor!" Aragorn said. He decided to reserve further comment of the warrior's worth out of respect for the wizard's opinion.

The three set off once more on the thwarted path.

Tawar sought to prevent the travelers' further deviation into enemy terrain, but the body of evil infesting the area was strong, and grew greater with every step the horses took away from the elvish road. Little could the Greenwood do to protect the Tawarwaith when so many of its beeches, oaks, and myrtles had already fallen to shadow.

The day wore on until at last Aragorn decreed the dimming light under the forest eaves too slight for further travel. The elf had not stirred in all these hours of riding, his head bobbing sideways in time with the gait of the wizard's mount and now the human was worried Legolas would never awaken. He chose a likely campsite not far from a small running freshet spilling out of a spring-fed pond.

Taking the archer in his arms as the wizard dismounted, Aragorn then handed him back when Gandalf settled on the ground. The Man knelt to make a cursory inspection and removed the wild elf's weapons.

_This is the child of Ningloriel_, he thought and wondered if perhaps here was another foster brother, the blood offspring of Elrond. It was a topic he often sought to bury when he was with Elladan and Elrohir, for they argued it incessantly. Elrohir was convinced they had a baby brother that must be rescued from the clutches of the evil Thranduil and Elladan was appalled at the very idea of an illegitimate sibling. Arwen refused to discuss it at all, as had her mother, preferring to ignore the fact of her father's long association with the Woodland Queen.

Aragorn had always been the moderator of the twin's debates, keeping hidden his secret wish for this mysterious elf to come and diminish some of the attention he received as the youngest of the family. He remembered once, as a small child, seeing Ningloriel when in Lorien, but she had swept past him as though he did not exist. He had found her so beautiful then that he could never fault this hauteur. For long years after had fantasized that this glorious Queen would become his new mother and bring her infant elfling to dwell in Imladris, not realizing the 'child' was by then already several hundred years his senior. He smiled sadly, for long prior to his adulthood he had abandoned such notions, never thinking to actually see Legolas. Yet here was, broken and alone, outcast and forbidden to associate with even his own people.

For this was the infamous kinslayer, first to cause the deaths of elf-kind in over four millennia, a longer time than any kingdom of Man had yet continued. Many were the tales told in inns and alehouses of Erebor regarding the treacherous and fearsome traits of this Wood Elf. Aragorn appraised him; finding him beyond any description he had yet been told. Aboriginal and fey, certainly; dangerous and deadly he judged him as well. But was he cruel and cold, bloodthirsty and vicious as the stories depicted? Was this an evil being twisted to the will of the Dark One as many alleged? Seeing him defenseless and vulnerable, Aragorn could not believe any of the rumors.

Fingers touched the hairless chin and turned the elfin face towards him, and Aragorn could not help a small sigh departing from him, as the firelight played over the clean lines of the elegant features, for the beauty of his countenance was great. Like his mother, and yet there was something here she lacked. _And young, far younger than any other of the First Born I have met_, he realized and suddenly wished the eyes would open again so he could somehow restore the abused innocence he had briefly beheld within them early in the day.

The fingers moved into the strange texture of the long golden hair. Aragorn had never seen hair worn in this manner and wondered about it as he played with a lock absentmindedly. His gaze traveled with a healer's interest over the rest of the physical form, noting the lean and spartan flesh stretched firmly over the compactly muscled body. Not fit, exactly, for he was far too thin to be called that, but not consumed beyond repair of his health either, if his spirit could be rejuvenated.

His digits traced the fresh pink skin over the newly healed arrow cut only weeks old and Aragorn was surprised that this had left so bold a mark, for it seemed to his touch not to have been a very deep wound. With a frown and careful movements he turned Legolas on his side and explored the awful expanse of marring across his back. He looked up enquiringly at Gandalf.

"It is unusual for an elf to carry permanent scars from wounds, unless they are life-threatening, for healing is so rapid. What can you say of this?" he asked quietly.

"I do not know all of it, but it was allowed under the Laws of the Woodland Realm as part of the Judgement. The one responsible has since been banished, but not before the damage was already done," the wizard sighed, shaking his head. He had held his peace as Aragorn made his inspection, curious how he would react to this phantom come to life, this ever-present yet unseen interloper in his family's home, but trusted the Man's good judgement would guide him to the right conclusions about Legolas.

Aragorn's features contorted in disgust for such an appalling definition of justice. "If it was lawful to do it, why was the perpetrator expelled?" he asked and grew more horrified to hear the tale behind the chastisement and its culmination. This confirmed his earlier diagnosis. "So the real malady is grief, and all else springs from that," the human mused to himself and felt a greater respect for the wild elf's strength. Legolas had been bearing his guilty burden a very long time and was reaching the limit of his perseverance. He found he was profoundly saddened that the former prince would succumb to the turmoil that sought to steal his fëa.

Gently he turned the archer back over upon the Maia's lap and settled his head in the crook of Gandalf's arm. Aragorn softly slapped the insensible patient's cheek to rouse him, but not even an eyelash fluttered in response. He cautiously placed his palm over the old chest wound and this elicited a feeble moan and a virulent shudder from Legolas. With deep concern Aragorn's gaze met the wizard's. He removed his hand and rose, letting Gandalf see to the elf as he set about securing their position and picketing the horses.

The animals, he noted with satisfaction, displayed no greater fidgets than one would expect respectable beasts reared in Imladris to feel when wandering through such a pernicious land. This he took as a positive sign their area was clear of dangers. The human quickly collected enough dead wood to supply them through the night and lit a large bonfire, more to ward away prowling wargs and spiders than to provide for warmth in the stuffy jungle. These tasks complete he returned to his companions with a water flask.

"Should he stir, give him as much water as he will take but nothing more," he said. "I will go see what can be found in this dread place to serve as food."

"Is there nothing else to be done?" Mithrandir studied his human friend with anxious eyes, but Aragorn only shrugged.

"If you know any chants of power for such curing among your order, then say them," he said bluntly as he rose. Leaving the camp, he took to hunting for a time, reluctant to hurry for he feared he would discover the immortal lifeless on his return.

He had been gone some hours before suitable game crossed his path and even this was meager by his standards: four small grouse and a quoll. Little in the way of healthy herbs grew in the murky illumination under the canopy, and so a handful of edible fungus was the best he could provide to accompany the meat.

Stepping into the firelight Aragorn halted, for the elf was still senseless and Gandalf was bent over the prostrate form. The wizard was bathing Legolas' forehead with water to try and make him respond, and the Man detected the refreshing scent of king's foil in the fluid. The Maia was so intent upon his task that he did not hear the return of his friend.

"Aina Manwë, aina Varda, ilyar valainar Valar!

Á hortal Erukyemenya: I Iluisa, I Iluvala, Iluvatar.

Maquetin envinyatalië an sína Laiquendë,

Sína cundu aldion, sína taurë orato, I Tirno Taurion, Laiqualassë!

Áva lavil nwalmerya na taituva. Án antol indorya estel ar fëarya tuo.

Á envinyatal se! Á envinyatal se! Nucumna, maquetin sína.

Valar Valuvar.

[Holy Manwë, holy Varda, all divine Valar!]

[Speed my prayer to Eru, the all knowing, the all powerful, Iluvatar.]

[I ask healing for this Green Elf]

[This prince of the trees, this forest champion, the Watcher of the Great Wood, Legolas!]

[Do not allow his torment to be prolonged. Give his heart hope and his soul strength.]

[Heal him! Renew him! Humbled, I ask this.]

[The will of the Valar be done.]"

The wizard reverently murmured these words of a healing spell.

"Valar Valuvar," Aragorn added with a brisk nod of his head and laying down the night's meal approached the two eternal beings. "No change?" he queried and Gandalf shook his head dejectedly, despondent after having tried every incantation he could recall and some he invented on the spot with no response from his comatose friend.

"Perhaps there has been more improvement than is apparent," spoke the Man. Aragorn's eyes twinkled just a bit as he surveyed the sickly Elda, detecting what the Maia, lacking healing insight, could not. "Á cuiva, Legolas!" [Awake, Legolas!] He uttered the command softly but the elf heard him and stirred, shifting as though struggling against it. Seconds later doleful eyes gazed accusingly up at him and the confused warrior shoved himself up into a seated position.

"What are you two doing here, Mithrandir?" he asked, and glanced around their camp, frowning in bewilderment. "And if we must stop then at least let us get up into the trees for the night," he complained and a strange expression traversed his visage. "This is more of your underhanded manipulation! How did you bring me here, what magic have you done to me?" he suddenly shouted as he scrambled up onto his feet and scanned the area frantically for his displaced weapons.

"What? What are you talking about now?" the Istar sputtered in frustration. "Hours have passed as I toiled to restore you and yet your first words are more insults!" the wizard's eyes flashed in exasperation. "That is entirely rude! Surely someone in that dreadful catacomb you call a home must have tried to teach you proper manners! The words 'Thank you' occur to me!" he scolded, but this served only to irritate the over-stressed archer.

Legolas snatched up his quiver and bow, making for the nearest tree with a low growl of malcontent. "I have naught to thank you for, and that accursed place was never a home to me! Stay on the ground if you like; I will shoot as many Orcs as I have arrows in your defense from above, even though I have ample reason to leave you to be killed!" and so speaking he disappeared into the foliage.

Aragorn grinned; realizing that to Legolas it seemed he had merely napped a few minutes after their initial encounter rather than the hours he had been unconscious.

_The wizard must have been chanting unceasingly to bring about so thorough an erasure of the young one's earlier agony,_ Aragorn thought and was truly encouraged for the archer's recovery in light of this new development. The Man was softly laughing and turned back to the fire to prepare the meal, shaking his head at the perturbed expression the Istar turned to him.

"Do not blame him for his faulty memory, Old One!" he said. "The poor creature seems not to recall much of the day's earlier events so complete was his descent into oblivion! Whatever grudge is between you was never settled as far as his retrospection knows, and I fear you have displeased him further by your display of affronted sagacity!" he chuckled at the forlorn look that replaced the wizard's previous haughty one and resumed his culinary task.

Gandalf walked to the base of the tree and stared up into the darkness, unable to detect Legolas until a very lividly furious Wood Elf plummeted down beside him and stomped over to the fire.

"You called me a poor creature? Who are you to come here to my lands and belittle me?" he shouted as color rose rapidly up to his ears and he pointed at the Man's chest with his dagger. The human backed away a few steps and held up apologetic palms.

"Careful! Your recovery was forced and I suspect your wrath is using up whatever energy the wizard garnered for you with his magic!" he cautioned and this remark maddened Legolas even more.

"Ai! It is unbearable! I should have left you both to face the Orcs and find your deaths!" he was beside himself and turned to fling the dirk away so that it ploughed deeply into the dirt rather than into the human's heart. "What are you doing in my woods? Go back to whatever country you derive from and leave me in peace!" he railed and began pacing round the camp in agitation, for the human was correct; he had only a vague remembrance of how he came to be with these two. He recalled fully what had driven him into the tress, however, and a fresh wave of burning anguish assailed him. He crossed his arms round himself as he began shivering and could not stop, struggling to maintain his composure as the pain built to its crescendo. Abruptly he leaped back up into the trees and vanished from view, fearful to be on the ground with them in such a vulnerable state.

"Legolas," the wizard called and stared up into the blackness uselessly. "Please come down and I will explain what is going on." But no reply came back.

"There is nothing for it, Gandalf! You will simply have to go back up in the trees, apologize again, and coax him from cover," Aragorn quipped and settled near the fire, leaning against his pack. "You should do so now, while the blade is buried there in the ground," he encouraged. "What does he hold against you, anyway, wizard? Should I be mindful of your character in light of his reaction?" Aragorn added, only sarcastic in part, and turned to search through his luggage, taking out his clay pipe and filling it.

Mithrandir gave a grunt expressing his appreciation of this remark but refrained from encouraging further discussion.

Soon drifting smoke rings and the aroma of the tobacco caught the Maia's attention and he delved in his saddlebag for his own briar bowl. They smoked quietly together as the stew simmered and added its inviting odor to the musty surroundings.

"Will his mind clear?" Gandalf asked and was relieved to see the Man nod assent. The earlier confrontation had been horrible, and he truly wished the fallen prince spared the reliving of it, and had no desire to do so himself either.

A very quiet but nonetheless discernable gasp of misery reached them from above and frowning dismay met worried care as the two travelers exchanged glances. But the power of the wizard's spells held and the current distress was certainly far less severe than was the afternoon's.

"He will not come down?" the Man asked, curious. Gandalf shrugged. "Not even to eat?" Aragorn pressed and the wizard slowly shook his head as they both stared into the empty blackness of the thick canopy.

"He would not eat this kind of food anyway," said the Istar.

"Does not seem to eat very often."

"No, probably not, given the region he has been in for the last few years."

"Tell me," the human said and listened to the recount of Legolas' history, making appropriately shocked and indignant sounds over the significant events he had survived to date. Mithrandir did not reveal the intrigue regarding Legolas' true father however, for he did not wish to violate the wild elf's remaining confidence in his character. Besides, Aragorn no doubt had enough information on that from his side of the mountains.

The two remained quiet for a time, as Aragorn seemed to be assimilating the full import of the tragic tale.

"I believe that is a worthy and brave hearted warrior, hidden above us," the Man finally said, gazing shrewdly at his companion. "The stories I have heard are lies; this is not the Kinslayer of Mirkwood. Surely, this elf is the same called the Archer of Erebor in Bard's kingdom, that aided the destruction of Blog and thus made safe the roads and byways for leagues and leagues far from the borders of his own lands. Now he seeks to take on, singly, the most noisome of the Dark Lord's creations! A worthy ally and I hope I shall be able to count him as such."

Gandalf understood his intent and nodded sagely.

"Yet, you name one and the same being with these appellations. Difficult it must be to bear both titles: hero and outlaw. His strength of will is most uncommon even among the fair folk. We are fortunate he is with us, for the way leads us astray and Eru knows what awaits at trail's end!" he joined in the irregular style of apology.

They both knew elven hearing made all they spoke clear as spring water, and Gandalf understood the wild one's character. Legolas was not one to bear grudges or remain angry for very long in the face of sincere remorse. Also, many were the blessings of the Valar he had called down upon the Wood Elf; these must surely relieve some of his understandable mistrust. Mithrandir was convinced they had not encountered Legolas to no purpose.

High in the lightless canopy, the woodland warrior listened. His memory had returned and he knew he had accepted the wizard's previous apology and relented to his care willingly. _Mithrandir, trying to talk his way out of his falsehoods with pretty words!_ he thought with a quirky smirk. But Legolas noted how the wizard held his tongue and kept his ugly secret from his companion's knowledge. And the human, Aragorn the wizard called him, hoped to undo his insults with lavish praises. Still, the Man had not sought to harm him even when threatened at dagger point, and the Man's steady eyes had looked upon him kindly when he had awakened from the darkness. At least they wished these kind words to cancel the harsh ones so that a fresh start could be attempted, and the feral elf accepted this peace offering.

As the two travelers had hoped, the wild elf dropped down right beside them and crouched on the ground looking from one to the other seriously.

"All the more reason to get into these trees!" he joined the conversation at Gandalf's last point. "You are both open to easy attack and I do not think I have enough arrows if a full patrol of the monsters arrives!" he was almost pleading with them, for every instinct he possessed warned that the Orcs were already on the march toward the encampment.

"Your council is wise, Legolas, yet we cannot heed it," the Man said quietly. "We are not elves and in the upper reaches, where you would have us climb, the branches will not suffer our weight upon them for such a long period."

Legolas frowned; he had forgotten about this problem.

"We will set watches, confident that you are above keeping guard as well," the Istar added. "And perhaps we will have a peaceful night."

Legolas could not think of any plan better and remained silent, watching as the Man went to the stewpot and ladled out their miserly meal. He smiled at the Wood Elf but received no answering uplift of the firmly set lips in the fair one's face. Handing a bowl to Gandalf, he turned back to his new comrade.

"I am Aragorn, a Ranger," he said, extending his hand Man-style to his companion. "I have recently made acquaintance with our mutual friend here," he added with a nod to Gandalf.

"Legolas, Tirn-en-Tawar," came the reply as the slender hand gripped the sturdy one and pumped it once as he had seen the woodsmen do. "And I am not so sure one can call a wizard 'friend'. Definitions vary so from one kind to another," he smiled a little and let his gaze slip sideways as the Istar exclaimed in aggravation at this cut.

TBC


	31. Chapter 31

** Gwaedh O Gwend Uireb **[Bond of Eternal Friendship]

The bonfire greedily gulped the close, oppressive air and malingered hungrily over the taste of the aromatic branches buttressed against the lethal darkness and danger of the Greenwood's nocturnal predators. Stretching avidly towards the boundaries established for their short life, the flames tentatively touched the dry ground beyond these limits, tossing out bright sparks, testing the temperament of the surrounding forest floor to determine if anything there could be devoured as fuel and utilized to advance their escape.

The small flares were bold and the living incandescence darted and weaved cleverly, attempting to steal a greater share of sustenance from the trees and thus, secure its continued growth. Nonetheless, the sources of this tempting feast remained just beyond the range of the slavering jaws of red and orange heat. Wherever the fire chased after a tumbling leaf, it found the earth noncompliant, offering little more than crumbs of bark and tidbits of debris that were rapidly reduced to harmless ash, and so it could not advance beyond the carefully constructed barricade established before ever it burst into being.

The Wood Elf did not trust these flaming tongues, speaking their cheerfully crackling chatter and laughing in short loud pops, blowing soft sighs in blue jets, offering warm comfort and hot food while plotting to charge a heavy fine for the use of their potent energy and temporary docility. Legolas could not sit with ease and parley with such an inconstant and poorly controlled confederate, and wished he was in an area where the trees bore lofty flets. Then even his guests could ascend to safer rest so the fire would not be needed.

The three companions sat near the blaze in silence, the mortal and the wizard devouring their watery grouse stew while Legolas watched. The Man had offered to share the meagre repast, and he had declined as graciously as possible. Then Aragorn had searched his pack, disclosing a packet of lembas, and handed this to the elf. Legolas took it with thanks but only ate one piece, more curious than before. When he attempted to return the remainder, the mortal had insisted it be kept for future needs.

_Who is this human with such close ties to elf-kind that he carries waybread, and what elves granted so great a privilege to an echil [human]?_ Legolas wondered as he tucked the packet away in his quiver. When he returned his eyes to the human, he found Aragorn studying him.

"You are a Ranger, yet I believed the Rangers lived to the north and west of the Misty Mountains," he said to the Man.

"That is true."

"I have not heard of any elves in that region."

"Nor have I." Aragorn took up his pipe again and with exaggerated care filled and lit it, suppressing a smile as the slightest of sighs escaped from the exasperated Wood Elf.

"Then how did you come by elvish clothing, elf raised horses, and that sword was not forged in any human foundry either."

"I got them from elves, of course!" the Man said in tones clearly indicating surprise at Legolas' failure to comprehend the obvious. Truthfully, he was uncertain if it would be wise to admit his connection to Imladris, given the hurt that had come to Legolas from that Realm. He had no wish to return the elf to his previous state of turmoil and wished he had thought to confer with the wizard about this before waking the archer.

"Elves do not trade such goods with humans, to my knowledge." These words from the woodland warrior followed his much more audible sigh of irritation.

"No?"

"No!"

"Then perhaps they were gifts."

"Exactly, but what elves would give such gifts to a human, making him like to one of their own?"

"Why is it important to you? Are you saying humans are not deserving of such gifts?"

"I spoke not those words! Forgive me, I can see you do not wish to discuss it; I did not know it would be a sensitive topic," Legolas said and removed his gaze to Mithrandir. The Maia had settled back with his head resting on his pack, pointed hat pulled down so that his face was almost covered, and seemed to be, but was definitely not, sleeping. A fleeting glance back at the Man revealed no signs of offense, but Legolas was unwilling to attempt conversation again based on the first failure.

A loud pop grabbed their attention and Legolas startled as a bright shower of sparks erupted from an exploding sap-heavy bough of eucalyptus and dusted his shoulders, briefly inflicting smarting needles on bare skin before he brushed them away in irritation. A larger faggot, flung higher by the force, fell back through the air and settled upon his arm. With a curse he plucked it off, leaping up to create more distance between his person and the glowing embers.

Gandalf stirred to tend the unruly blaze, reordering the displaced tinder and shifting around the wayward branches, trying to tell if any green ones were still aflame in order to pull them out before the event repeated.

Legolas stood gazing at the small blister forming on his forearm and groaned aloud in dismay. His small brush with the cruel heat reminded him of the torment the humans in the woodsmen's village had endured.

"Cemendur," he whispered and began striding back and forth, furious with himself on realizing he had completely forgotten the suffering child in his own worries. Now he could think of nothing else.

"What was that?" the wizard asked, his regard drawn back to the Wood Elf, and he did not like the heightened agitation Legolas displayed, for it was not the archer's natural state to so behave. The manic burst of activity reminded him of the behavior exhibited earlier in the day, and that had preceded the advent of the elf's overborne rout towards the brink of bleak despondency.

The Man rose and approached to see what harm was done, receiving a bewildered and suspicious look from the elf for his trouble.

"Are you burnt?" he asked, for the wild elf had stopped moving and pressed a hand against his forearm. Aragorn reached out but Legolas backed further away. "I am trained in healing," the human offered as explanation for the Elda was staring at him as though his actions were completely inexplicable.

"What good is that? He is probably dead now, too," these worrisome words were barely audible and the mortal shifted his gaze to the wizard, and both turned to their companion apprehensively. "Alas! My mistakes claim more and more souls! I will never free them all!" Legolas was growing increasingly disconsolate by the second. "Why do these others have to suffer for my faults?" he demanded and sat back down, hunching over his updrawn legs as he glowered into the fire's heart.

"What is this about, Legolas? Who is dead?" Mithrandir asked in trepidation.

"I should never have gone to the Southern Regions!" the archer exclaimed angrily. "My activity there has exacted a terrible price from the woodsmen and Tawar!" Legolas' voice rose in volume as he glared at the Istar. "Children! Innocents, Mithrandir, burned to death! I know not how many trees lost to the shaking ground."

"How is it you are the cause of that?" the human asked, aghast.

Legolas shot him a look stricken with anguish, mistaking the Man's words for accusation. "I made the Wraiths come out from Dol Guldur and face me. They were not pleased, for many Orcs perished and yet I was not captured. They caused the ground to tremble, and this in turn felled several trees, and that caused a fire in one of the human's cabins, and before anyone could do anything the flames spread and viciously devoured many lives, human and green." This abbreviated account tumbled swiftly from his lips, pebbles and gravel hurrying before a landslide.

"That is not your doing, Legolas. The Dark Lord has long haunted and harassed that region; for far more numerous years than your recent interests there," the wizard stated firmly, but he could see that the wild elf was not hearing his words.

"There were two little babes scorched in the flames, twin brothers called Carnil and Cemendur," Legolas lowered his head in misery, ignoring Gandalf's remark, if even he heard it. "The father was crushed under the collapsing roof, but the mother lived for days while the fire slowly devoured her. Carnil lasted a month in horrible agony before succumbing to his injuries. Cemendur was still living when I left the village, but he had grown worse again. He is probably dead now, too," he repeated the muffled prediction and rocked himself dejectedly, swept up in the relentless avalanche of guilt and misery.

Aragorn stepped closer and knelt near; his heart wrenched in concert with the warrior's over this fresh sorrow heaped upon the First Born's burdened spirit. That Legolas loved these humans was openly revealed and the mortal wondered at it, for his dealings in Laketown had left an impression of vigilant allegiance between the Wood Elves and their human neighbors, but not friendship. This elf keenly experienced the loss and strife of the people in his Realm, and Aragorn knew not if the primeval atheling could shoulder the additional grief of their persecution.

The Man endeavored to summon words to refute Legolas' claim of responsibility, clearly a manifestation of his shattered soul. No one could be the cause of such events or possess the means of preventing them, nor would Legolas believe these things in a healthy state of being.

_The Maia's prayers were only a charade after all, relieving the burden of the pain but not touching the source of it, like a wound where the skin has regrown over the surface but inside the injury festers and spreads its poison through the body_, the Man thought and cautiously touched the distraught Elda's arm.

"Legolas, what Gandalf says is right. You are not responsible for the Dark Lord's actions," he reasoned.

"What would you know of it?" the fallen prince demanded, and got up again to resume his excited exercise. "You have no idea what doom dogs all that I care for! What if my failings have become as a weapon in the Dark One's hands? What if I have turned into one of his chief agents?" Legolas' own words terrified him and his appalled astonishment was mirrored in the Man's eyes. The archer retreated, shaking his head, not believing he had spoken these words aloud. "Ai, Elbereth! It is true!"

Aragorn rose also but did not know whether to stay or draw near. Every instinct in his being predicted that the wild elf was going to bolt, but as to preventing this his thoughts only suggested a running tackle. This he rejected, for he had no doubt that in any contest against the wary warrior he would be quickly dispatched, grief or no. He looked to Gandalf for guidance.

"There is no truth in what you speak," the Istar turned, a meek and meagre old man no longer, shed of his humble pilgrim's demeanor, and confronted the archer. For here was Olórin in their midst, mighty agent of the Ainur. His voice filled the clearing like a wind from the Western Sea, deeply commanding, flushing away all lesser airs in its path and raising the fire up high in a brilliance of ruby flame and gold-kissed cinders. The simply worded statement rang with the majesty of the Music and echoed in overtones of the puissance of Aman so that Aragorn was overawed and stepped back.

Yet Legolas did not heed him.

The forest champion turned to flee back up into the trees where he could suffer this new revelation unobserved, desperate to find a means to stop these dire catastrophes from accosting all he held dear. Legolas worried his mere proximity to the travelers would result in their demise, rather than granting them protection from the evils in his lands. And how could he ever return to Fearfaron now, bringing this harrowing condemnation to that peaceful talan? This Legolas could not bear to imagine, for so much harm had already befallen the carpenter from his association with the archer.

"Gandalf! Stop him!" Aragorn shouted, and joined the Maia in giving chase as Legolas darted out of the camp and disappeared from view.

Legolas made it just beyond the fire's illumination and vaguely heard the shout of warning from the Man to the Istar before the vehemence of the slashing penetration gutted his soul and brought him to his knees.

He found he could not even breathe, each attempt to inhale increased the degree of extremis tenfold, it seemed, and he curled over until his forehead was nearly touching the earth and his arms squeezed vise-like around his chest. His left hand began futilely searching for the hilt of the blade piercing his heart, so desperate to pull it out, yet there was no weapon there. Panicked, Legolas unfolded his form, a grotesque blossoming of raw torment, and thrashed upon the ground clawing at his old wound, each gasping heave commuted to a gargled and shuddering groan.

"Valar!" Aragorn froze for a second, horrified at this sight. Beside him Gandalf cried out the elf's name in dismay, hurrying past the human to kneel beside the suffering warrior.

Twisting against the affliction as if being slowly dismembered, Legolas struggled against the intangible adversary. A fresh attack swept through him and his heels flailed against the earth, quickly scoring a series of grooves deeply into the indurate soil. In his frenzy to reach the center of this searing torture he broke the buckles of his quiver's harness and tore the tips of his elegant fingers in the process. A scatter of obsidian points littered the soil beneath him and the sharp report of an arrow's shaft snapping accompanied the grueling conflict.

This was not pain; that was something he understood well. Pain was a warrior's friend, warning of the body's injuries and demanding attention for hurts and ills. He knew how to control pain, how to use pain. This was unlike anything he knew; it felt like being devoured, like being eaten alive.

Legolas screamed.

The Man quickly made an about face and raced for his pack and the supply of herbs he had brought with him. Grabbing up the water skin and a blazing brand Aragorn returned, squelching his shock and thrusting the end of the sturdy branch into the ground to secure the light close at hand. In the red glow of the torch's illumination, Aragorn could see the straps of the feral elf's quiver hanging loose from around him and bright streaks of blood across his chest where he had raked through his own flesh.

Quickly and carefully Aragorn mixed a combination of ingredients, grimacing as he tried to determine the patient's body mass, difficult even under the best conditions when dealing with elves. _If only Elrond were here_, he thought, knowing the potency of the remedy might go too far and send the elf into permanent insensibility, or conversely give barely any relief at all. He glanced up to find the wizard regarding him with somber eyes.

Mithrandir was attempting to restrain the archer's pain-racked convulsions, holding Legolas' hands away from his chest. As Aragorn watched, another spasm claimed the elf, heralded by the hideous sucking in of a jaggedly wheezing breath. The attack rigorously stretched every muscle in the slender body and nearly bent him in half as his back arched up off the ground. The quiver disgorged more of its contents, fletching and lembas captured in the disarrayed locks of gold.

Bound in the deepening sorrow's deadly embrace, Legolas held his lungs' capacity as long as possible before necessity demanded exhalation. The sound rushing from him then was unlike any expression of despair or torment either Aragorn or Gandalf had ever heard, for the process of grieving death had not been witnessed by any but the First Born.

"Do whatever you can, Aragorn, and soon, please," the Istar entreated.

The Man gave a resolute nod and drew closer, lifting Legolas' head from its unnatural angle of repose and raising the medication to his lips. The consummate terror in the elf's eyes as they connected with his nearly caused Aragorn to drop the vial, never having beheld such dread upon the features of one of the fair folk before. _This is no way for such a one to die_, he thought with anger and his determination to succeed in healing the archer was increased.

"This will ease the pain, drink," he enjoined gently and tried to send his patient a reassuring smile. Slowly he dripped the fluid into Legolas' mouth, drop by drop between haggard draws of his diaphragm, and watched for any sign of effect within the body. Finally the last of it was administered and still Aragorn continued to support the elf's neck, maintaining eye contact whenever the Elda found strength to open his, trying to impart a sense of the compassion he felt for the suffering being. Now all the two travelers could do was wait and attempt to console Legolas through the horrific discomfort they were forced to witness.

The liquid took an hour's passing to make itself known, a minute span of time that required an eternity's domain for its transit, an eon of seconds within which the vindictive and jealous grief so closely coveted the helpless soul. Then the contortions subtly eased and the length between them increased until at last Legolas was able to take more than three gasps in the intervening calm. His body relaxed during these sessations, but overwrought from the unnatural exercise, every limb trembled in the aftermath of the draining episodes. The rending groans wrung from his exhausted lungs subsided, replaced with labored breaths that deepened and slowed as the agony retreated.

Aragorn surveyed the progress of his medication with relief; silently sending a prayer of thanks to both the Star-Kindler for hearing his unuttered prayers and his foster-father for teaching him the ways of herb-lore. He looked up to see that Gandalf's shining eyes mimicked his and they shared guarded smiles.

"It is working!" Gandalf said.

Aragorn nodded and reached over to grip the old wizard's shoulder with reassuring firmness, for which one's benefit, his or Gandalf's, he could not determine. "Stay here with him. I will go make a comfortable spot by the fireside for his rest," he said, and left them there.

The preparations consisted of no more than combining both their bedrolls into one more yielding pallet and folding a blanket into a pillow to support the invalid's head. This done, Aragorn returned and helped Gandalf lift Legolas carefully, one at his shoulders and the other his feet, but they could not help but hurt him anyway for the pain was not centered at the location of a wound that could be thus avoided.

"Daro! Avo! [Stop! Do not!]" the archer pleaded piteously. The pain had only just relented and he wished never to move again. Why must they jerk him about so? Could they not just let him die peacefully? Their hands felt like wicks of flaming lamp oil laid upon his skin. Now that he longed for oblivion, the state remained cruelly elusive and he could not escape his fate.

The travelers soon had their charge stretched out on the bedding and tried to make him as quiescent as they could. Aragorn cautiously took the quiver off and set it aside, gently disentangling the arrows and plucking waybread crumbs from Legolas' hair. He adjusted the blanket to better cradle the archer's weary head.

Gandalf gathered up the heavy tresses and pulled them back to drape over the makeshift pillow rather than let Legolas lie upon his mane and feel too hot. This done, the wizard retrieved the small bowl of athelas water he had been using earlier and gently wiped down the wild elf's face and neck and cleansed away the bloody tracks upon his chest.

While he was busy, Aragorn went back into his satchel and retrieved a small jar of ointment. This had a cool and pleasing aroma reminiscent of cucumbers and mint, and he gingerly smoothed a small amount over the unpleasant fingernail gouges. Beyond these minor treatments there was little more the two companions could accomplish, and so upon completing them both moved back to give their patient room to rest.

The Istar rebuilt the campfire, mindful of any leftover sap-filled boughs, and then took up his pipe and settled again beside Legolas.

Aragorn returned to the scene of the distressing ordeal and gathered up the arrowheads and scattered bolts from the ground, retrieving also a folded bit of parchment and two feathers. Once back in the camp, he sat beside the elf and took up the quiver, replaced the wild archer's belongings, and examined the strapping to learn whether he could repair the closures.

Legolas watched their activity through half-closed eyes, grateful to be put down again yet too fatigued to speak his thanks. Now that they had moved aside, he found his eyes trained towards the merrily dancing firelight and shut them tight. With effort he turned his head away and was relieved to find his vision directed toward the human, who sent Legolas a smile that he knew was supposed to be heartening, and so he tried to return it. He took a shaky breath and shifted, wincing against a small jab near his heart, and spoke. But the words were too soft for the mortal's hearing and Aragorn immediately set aside his work to come closer and bend down. Legolas determinedly repeated his question.

"How long?"

Aragorn sat back, for this query unsettled him, though of course he should have expected such. He looked away from the elf, his steady gaze focused inward as he tried to decide how to respond. The Man felt he could not lie to Legolas, knowing that would only jeopardize the elf's trust in him, as yet a tenuous construction. Still, he did not wish to give a prognosis devoid of hope; he could not himself bear to comprehend that this unusual immortal must perish.

"Honestly, I do not know," he finally answered. "I have never attended an elf suffering from this sort of malady. It is not certain you will die; for while such injuries to the spirit are difficult to repair, it is not impossible." He met Legolas' eyes with what he hoped was optimism and confidence in the archer's reserves of strength and fortitude, both of which would be needed if recovery would become more than a façade wrought of wizard's spells and healer's elixirs.

"Yes, it can go either way, Legolas," Gandalf joined in and reached out to pat the warrior's shoulder compassionately, letting his palm rest there. "You have lasted this long and you need only proper care and rest to rebound from this latest woe. Once back with Fearfaron, you will recover speedily, even as you did before," his words resounded in what was surely that same compelling tone, the glory of the Ainur underscoring every syllable.

"I believe that also," said Aragorn and was surprised at the confident sound of his own voice.

Did he really think this; was healing possible or was he lying to himself now as well? He looked at Legolas again through his physician's perception and sat up straighter, puzzled, as he peered carefully at the resilient body recumbent on the bedroll pallet.

In the shadowed firelit camp a hazy light was visible coalescing around the site where the Maia's hand lay against the troubled Elda's skin, and seemed to suggest transference of fundamental energy was occurring from the Ainu to the elf. Aragorn looked up sharply into the wizard's eyes. This was unprecedented, as far as he knew. Gandalf, according to his own explanations to the Man, was breaking several restrictions of his order to assist Legolas in this manner.

Mithrandir met Aragorn's gaze defiantly, daring a challenge. He had come to a decision, and nothing would shake his confidence in its rightness. As he reasoned it, he had already interfered in Legolas' well being by sending him to Dol Guldur and by hiding information about Malthen. It was no more than just for the Istar to correct as much of the damage as possible, and what he was doing was little enough in any case. Gandalf did not know for certain if Legolas would be receptive to this source of renewal, or if the strength he wished to give the archer could really be incorporated into the immortal's soul.

All through the night the wizard kept contact with Legolas, a hand either upon his shoulder or softly caressing his forehead with the athelas soaked cloth. Mithrandir talked quietly to him, intermittently intoning the words of a blessing or a curing spell, imbuing the prayers with the revered authority of his kind. Thus the pain remained diminished but unconquered, and Aragorn did not have to repeat his treatment.

Mithrandir convinced the elf to drink water at regular intervals and then just at dawn coaxed him into swallowing a bite of lembas as well. Gradually the archer seemed to be acclimating to this more bearable level of discomfort and was regaining some small measure of his strength.

Aragorn was of two minds regarding this, for it was horrendous to even consider anyone having to make such an adaptation and yet this was precisely what was required of Legolas if they were to continue their journey. _And continue we must, for I have no doubt as to the reliability of the archer's warnings about Orc activity_. Perception among the Eldar was well documented, and that of Wood Elves was said to be doubly acute. Though the Central Mountains were yet several leagues away, he deemed it unwise to remain at their camp much past midday if they hoped to keep ahead of their enemies.

By midmorning the wild elf was sitting up cross-legged before the bonfire's remains. Though his head was bowed low Gandalf simply used this as means to feed more energy into Legolas' soul, massaging the back of the neck and across the shoulders vigorously as though to increase the circulation of this vital infusion throughout his being.

Pleased to see such improvement, Aragorn still feared that the recovery was progressing too slowly. At this rate it would be late in the afternoon before the three could mount the horses and move forward. He did not wish to use any further medicines if he did not need to, fearful of overdosing the slight and undernourished elf, but somehow needed to boost Legolas' responses. With sudden inspiration Aragorn turned to his pack and retrieved his small leather flask of Miruvor. This he opened and offered to Legolas, who looked at the Man with genuine regard before gratefully taking it.

"I thank you for your kindness and your aid, Aragorn," he said in the rasping remains of a voice the affliction's siege had spared for his use. "I am in your debt."

"As I said, I am trained in healing; no thanks are required nor anything owed," the mortal waved away the archer's solicitudes nonchalantly as though curing broken elves was a commonplace event. "But drink some of that, it is Miruvor and will do you good," he said encouragingly and smiled as Legolas took an extremely small sip.

The elf's face reflected pleasant surprise at the taste of the cordial and he tipped a large mouthful down his throat before handing it back to the human. Almost instantly he felt warm and contented, filled with a peculiarly peaceful exuberance.

"I am certain my own part in your recovery is quite minor," Aragorn added as he returned the flask to his pack and glanced appraisingly at Gandalf. He was definitely unprepared to meddle in the wizard's business, but was interested to know the Istar's motives with regard to the elf.

A contented murmur escaped Legolas' lips and he closed his eyes, leaning back into the wizard's touch. He sensed the flow of energy between them; it was almost like communion with Tawar, though not as overwhelming. Also, the current went only one way, through the Maia's hands into the archer's essence, whereas during his joining with the Great Wood his soul mingled with the forest's consciousness. This contact with Mithrandir was more like being replenished, he felt as a wilted plant might when absorbing nutrients and fluids during a gentle rainfall. Legolas was uncertain how such a gift could ever be returned, and vowed the Istar would have his eternal allegiance.

"That is a trait I value highly in you, Legolas," the wizard gently pulled the archer back into a tight hug, wrapping both arms around his chest and resting his bearded chin on the golden head. "You always seek to return more than you are given. I receive and accept your pledge gratefully." Mithrandir released him and resumed the brisk massage. Legolas smiled back over his shoulder at him, not surprised in the least that his old friend understood his intentions.

Aragorn, however, was completely confused and stared from one to the other, waiting for an explanation, but neither of his companions appeared prepared to enlighten him.

"Now who is engaging in secretive communications," he admonished, throwing a belligerent glance in the Istar's direction before moving to the pot boiling above the ruddy coals. He was preparing an herbal tea that should help with the strain riding was sure to place on the already weakened elf, and he poured this into an earthenware cup to cool.

"Peace, Aragorn; it is not so," Legolas said and sat forward, instinctively reaching out to clasp the Man's arm. "You, also, have my eternal fealty! Regardless of your courteous dismissal I will not forget my debt to you."

Aragorn was moved; he had done little to earn such gratitude and the wild elf's declaration was far too great a remittance for so small a service. "There is no debt, Legolas. A healer's gift is not a thing to be bartered. Yet a fool I would be to turn away from such an alliance; I gladly accept your oath also," Aragorn stated quietly and held the steaming mug out to his patient. "Let me live up to the title of healer and get your health stabilized before we break camp. Take all of this, it is a good brew for endurance."

"Aye, we need to move on from here," the archer agreed, taking the cup, and cautiously sniffed the steam wafting from it. "The Wraiths do not come as far north as the Central Mountains, but manage to make their orders known all the same. Their Orcs are expecting us."

"Yes, the Nazgul. What exactly did you mean when you said they were forced to face you? I do not recall that as part of my design in sending you south," Mithrandir said. He was worried about reigniting the wild elf's woes but felt Legolas' knowledge of the evil phantoms was important information for them, and for all of Middle Earth for that matter.

Legolas smiled, sensing this concern, and reached back to squeeze the Istar's hand where it kneaded his shoulder. He needed no words to make the wizard understand his reassurance that the topic would not undo his recovery. As his health improved the link with Mithrandir evolved and the two could now understand their respective thoughts and feelings when these directly involved the other. Legolas found this a great comfort, for every inkling the Maia generated concerning him resonated with both protective inclinations and approving admiration. He began his discourse.

"There are three of them, as you know, but normally only two at a time ever venture out together. Singly, any one of them may go forth, but if paired it is always the same two, while the third remains within the fortress and directs the others' actions.

"They were systematically isolating me from the Realm, severing all means of retreat and so I made a sudden and bold move to flee. That enticed the third one to join his brothers, and that is the one I forced into combat." The wild elf's demeanor reflected his pride in this accomplishment.

Legolas shifted away from the wizard so he could see them both without craning his neck back and forth and gazed upon his audience with glittering eyes, savoring the heralded roll of narrator in the telling of the tale. Needless to say, they listened in amazed silence as he recounted the details of the battle. He did not mention the presence of the Noldor, even as he had omitted them during the recount of the villagers' struggle for survival.

"Why, for all the wealth of Nargothrond, would you wish to make one of those demons draw sword against you? Are not the Orcs enough to contend with?" Aragorn exclaimed.

"Do you mean to say you can tell the loathsome things apart?" Gandalf asked in surprise.

"Of course I can distinguish between them. They were Men once, and still have very different personalities, enslaved though they are.

"The Chief, for so I call him, is always rather haughtily amused by what I am up to, and very certain he will have me in his dungeons to make answer. He bears a deep hatred for elf-kind that surpasses even what I sense from Orcs. What promoted this sentiment remains hidden, and perhaps he no longer remembers himself. It does seem to frustrate him that his Orcs are so powerless to bring me down, and when he comes forth to join the chase he returns alone, for in his wrath he destroys all the monsters I leave alive.

"The Lesser Evils, as I refer to the remaining pair, behave as if they were indeed once brothers; they seem to know each other's tactics and tend to stand together in battle as though to shield one another. It is sad, for probably long practice ingrained this noble behavior, and so perhaps once they were not evil, merely foolish or desperate, or both together.

"And as to why; how else will I destroy them if I cannot lure them into combat?" Legolas completed his explanations.

"They cannot be destroyed!" from Aragorn.

"That is not what I intended for you to get involved in, Legolas!" from Gandalf.

Legolas frowned at them each in turn. "It is said they cannot be destroyed by the hands of Men. Elf-kind is another matter. Elves have slain all manner of evil the Dark One has conjured, even Balrogs; why should these pitiful shadow slaves be different? And what else would you have me do, Mithrandir? I think it best just to dispense with them rather than sneak around trying to understand their plots."

The three were silent for a time as the archer's words were considered.

"There is logic in what you suggest," Aragorn answered, and silently marveled at hearing the dreaded Nazgul reduced to 'pitiful shadow slaves'. "I have heard this rumor also; but, does the description refer to 'man' as a race or to 'male' as a sex? If the latter, then you cannot succeed." He rose and carefully began extinguishing the remaining embers of the fire and collecting up the cooking gear. "But you have not drunk that tea, and I must insist. Let us have no more discussion until it is done, for we must ride hard all the remainder of Anor's hours if we wish to avoid a confrontation with the Orcs in those mountains ahead."

"We cannot escape that fight," Legolas replied seriously as he raised the cup and blew cautiously across the surface of the pale brown liquid within. "The path is designed to take us to them. We will have to kill them all," he added this so matter-of-factly that both his companions stopped what they were doing and stared first at him and then each other.

"That we surely cannot do," Aragorn said in astonishment. "There are but three of us here, unless you can send for the King's patrols using that, that, whatever that thing is going on through the trees and you. Three cannot prevail against a troop of a hundred Orcs."

"Even if this were possible, you are not in any condition for fighting just now," the Maia added. "We must find a means to slip past them."

Legolas sipped the tea and made a sour face as he calmly listened to their warnings. _They will be more trouble than help_, he considered, for they would be forced to fight on the ground, a serious disadvantage. It was obvious their experience with the demons consisted of occasional confrontations in the Mountain passes or small skirmishes close to the borders of Lorien, where they most likely had numbers on their side. Never had these travelers been hunted before. Legolas grimaced as he tried the potion again.

"Valar! This is vile stuff! Put some of the Miruvor in it, Aragorn, if you expect me to drink this Orc piss." He held the mug out and the human accepted it wordlessly.

"And the three of us have not any choice in this matter. They are instructed to capture me, as I told you before, and many of these trees are helping them. That 'thing' you refer to, Aragorn, is my bond with Tawar. And that will be of little help henceforth, for Shadow has claimed great sections of the Greenwood here, and I fear even more betrayal as we get closer to the mountains. For that reason alone I would engage these hideous monsters and drive them out."

Aragorn poured a small amount of the rejuvenating cordial into the tea and stirred in a bit of cinnamon as well before pressing the cup back into Legolas' hands.

"We are not in a position to make war on these beasts, Legolas. You will reclaim the trees, I am certain, but at a later time. Our objective must be to reach the King's stronghold without combat. You have already said you do not have enough arrows." he chided gently and pointed to the doctored concoction. "Drink."

"Aragorn is right; we must not get into a struggle against them, especially as they mean to take you alive," Gandalf joined in. "There must be some way to avoid this unhealthy enchantment placed upon the elf path."

Legolas obediently swallowed down the altered tea and wondered how much to explain about this situation to his comrades. The Istar and the Man seemed not to understand that he could readily escape this fight, using the upper reaches of the canopy where the roadway's meanderings from the real path could be noted and avoided. The travelers, however, were unable to use this method. The Shadow was manipulating them as bait, luring the Wood Elf to their side, knowing full well he would never abandon two allies against the Darkness to the clutches of the foul confederates of the Nazgul.

_Especially now_, he thought, _for I owe both of them too much to turn away. These two, at least, I will not allow my cursed doom to collect._

The feral elf was happy to play the deadly game. It would be easy to draw away most of the troop; enough, he hoped, so that the human and the Istar would be able to hold their own. Once divided victory was only a matter of time and energy, for his determination far outmatched that of the cowardly Orcs. They would flee in terrified disarray as soon as his fury was unleashed in battle. Weakened or not, Legolas intended to both spare the lives of the travelers and destroy the Orcs, and on no condition would he turn from this confrontation.

"Mithrandir, the path is fully corrupted and even if we turn back we will find our way barred except in the direction of the approaching horde. We are the pursued, not the predators. Either we kill them all or end up in Dol Guldur. This I will not allow," he patiently explained as though his friends were very dense of skull and slight of intellect.

"If it comes to that, I will see us all dead rather than suffer such a fate."

Legolas tossed the empty cup back to Aragorn and granted each of his companions full exposure to the adamantine gleam in his elven eyes, overbrimming with the fierce resolve to carry out this vow.

Tbc

NOTE: Thanks Anon Chicken :D Here's a little more.


	32. Chapter 32

**Buiad Úbara** [Unwilling Allegiance]

Through the soil stretched the veins and arteries of the forest, a tremendous network of conduits, varying in girth from the span of a warrior's calf to the macilency of the finest strand of elven hair. These unseen tendrils carried the flow of life that enabled the great trees to stand high among the living elements of Arda. Tawar breathed for Arda, shaded her, held fast the thin blanket of dirt that served as the skin of the earth and softened the contours of its rocky bone, and both provided for and protected the Children of Iluvatar, First and Second Born. The interlocking capillaries and vessels linked the green life in an unending system of nerves, a reticulum of the archeus, filaments of living consciousness not constrained by isolation into singular entities but rather comprising the mind of the most ancient, sage, and overlooked of all the creations of Yavanna.

Eru's Younger Children seldom even acknowledged the fact that these entities possessed life, and failed utterly to understand that there could be awareness in anything so unlike the form of Man. Even elf-kind had a tendency to relegate non-speaking beings to a lesser role, seeing the forest and the host of plants it housed as owning a more utilitarian sentience, part of the background, a comfortable structural support for their existence. It was much easier to think of this huge organism as merely a burgeoning flora created to supply their needs; a part of the Valar's Making of the World to fit it for the coming of the First Born. And so they taught themselves and their young to believe.

Few had the insight to even imagine another scenario; unable to contemplate that the Quendi had been awakened as much to protect the green essence with their voices and songs as to enjoy its bounty. Who among the First Born had considered it their task to ward off the destruction of the forests until the coming of Anor and Ithil, ensuring the continuation of Arda as fit for the advent of the Second Born as well? In fact, none among the Eldar were likely to consider the Ebennin [those born after the elves] as worthy to become the stewards of the earth, and could only look upon the changes their coming launched as something to fight against and prevent if possible, for as long as there was breath to breathe. Perhaps it is a trait of all oldest children everywhere to perceive themselves wiser by virtue of primacy, always the heir apparent rather than the herald.

If so, this was a characteristic not developed in Legolas, first-born of Ningloriel, or Tawar, first-created of Yavanna. Between these two was shared a common understanding of the necessary symbiosis of their respective kinds, and if anything Legolas tended to revere the forest's spirit and treated the human inhabitants as a part of Tawar. And so rare had such an outlook become that Tawar in turn cherished the Wood Elf, and spread knowledge of its champion's actions and well being through every fiber and thread of its rooted soul, from one end of the Greenwood to the other and beyond. Even into the heart of Thranduil's stronghold where stood the Sentinel.

It had become the practice of Fearfaron to spend the opening and closing hours of his days at the Sentinel, for there he would be first to encounter any messenger seeking entry into or departure from the stronghold's inner courtyard. The humans did not always make it to their destination, he knew, overtaken by spiders or Orcs along the way. He had no way to tell how many, or, indeed, whether any of his letters had reached Legolas, and had himself acquired but one from the fallen prince, and none since his last appearance in the Realm, over two years ago. He kept this hopeful vigil nonetheless, confident that sooner than late word of the wild warrior would return to him. Besides, he felt closer to his foster-child there, where Legolas had spent so many elfling hours in silent and peaceful contemplation of his world among the trees.

Lindalcon, too, was often at the knees of the grandfatherly beech at tinnu, for only then was he free to wander from his duties in the fortress. True to his word, he had relinquished his demand for appointment into the guard, and as such was not required to be long hours in the training grounds honing his skills with the bow. Instead, his mother had secured him an apprenticeship of sorts to one of the older Council Members, a distant relation through his father's people. There Lindalcon was set numerous tedious tasks designed, in his mind; to cause him to favor anarchy over governed rule.

To say the elfling despised the cavernous cut-stone chambers and artificial light of oil lamps would be to drastically misrepresent the depth of his disgust. Lindalcon positively suffered under the servitude, caught in a miasma of recording the Councilors' droning speeches and conducting unending research to support them, using texts so faded he occasionally made up the words just to speed his task along. He more than longed for the feel of fresh air, the smell of brown earth and green wood.

The comfortable companionship of the Sentinel and Fearfaron was his primary destination as soon as each day's session adjourned. There he could relax; glad to be once again near an elf who was not afraid to speak to him of his father. And in the presence of the aged tree he felt a kinship to Legolas, who had sheltered there through much of his youthful years.

Lindalcon had come to understand, in a smaller sense, what it must have been like for the former prince to live in the royal household. Not that the screaming arguments of Ningloriel and Thranduil were duplicated, quite the opposite. His mother ran her new accommodations with the same quiet calmness she had always exercised in their modest talan in the city. Indeed, her son was amazed at how easily she took up the task of ordering the daily affairs of the King's House, and how quickly the resident servants responded to her new authority. In fact, all were exceedingly grateful for her steadying influence on their King, and glad of the new air of peacefulness that permeated the mountain fortress.

All save Lindalcon the Usurper.

The adolescent seethed at every look the Woodland King directed toward his mother, despaired at every smile she returned, and raged against even the most fleeting of physical contacts between them. Lindalcon still could not comprehend how his own mother could so soon forget his father. How could she turn away from the love they had shared? How could this odious and temperamental Sindar King compare with the compassionate and loyal devotion his father had always given? Could his own mother truly feel the possession of wealthier housing and higher social station was worth the sundering of her eternal bond with Valtamar? If so, this could only mean her love for Valtamar had been false, and that was a truth he could not encompass, for it made his whole life a lie.

Meril and her son were seriously at odds over the matter, and no pleas she spoke could justify her betrayal to his satisfaction. Her reminders that nothing could now undo Valtamar's death, and that he would wish for them to find some manner of good from the catastrophe meant nothing to Lindalcon. Upon hearing this argument, the elfling asserted that, had his mother been the one to die, Valtamar would never have sought a replacement, and certainly would not have traded their family for a chance at prestige and power. Lindalcon could not believe his father would want his link to his family destroyed, no matter what might befall him.

The deciding blow had come when Thranduil had interrupted one such argument, admonishing the youth never to speak to Meril in so insolent and disrespectful a manner ever again, and drew her out of Lindalcon's room and away to his. Since that day, he had avoided them as much as possible, taking meals with the others apprenticed to the Councilors, or with Fearfaron, and slipping into his own rooms to sleep without bothering to let his mother know he had returned.

It had hurt him terribly the first time he returned late and she had not been there waiting for him, a mixture of anger and relief washing over her features.

The carpenter helped as he could, which was to say he listened to Lindalcon wail and rant against this terrible injustice against Valtamar. The youth could only remember, this was all of his father that remained, an idea frozen in the young one's mind of a doting parent and fierce protector, eternally courageous and true. Their family had been perfect, their life idyllic, their future secure in the boundless bond between his parents. Meril's new status threatened to utterly disperse the visions her son was so desperately clinging to as he struggled with his grief.

Fearfaron felt for the elfling, but knew there was no remedy for the anguish he was undergoing other than age and wisdom. Even with these inimitable teachers, he felt it would be all Lindalcon could do to master the most basic semblance of resignation and stoic acceptance. The carpenter found he was unable to encourage forgiveness and understanding, uncertain if he would be able to manage those himself, were he in a similar situation. Instead, he simply offered friendship, and this grew from their shared outrage over the rest of the population's ability to so quickly forget the Lost Warriors and from their common interest in the fallen archer.

They seldom spoke of their fears for Legolas' fate, which accrued as time continued and no word from him arrived by messenger. They had to be satisfied with the accounts of his activities from the woodsmen, and after a year the report came back that the wild elf had left the central forest to venture ever closer to Dol Guldur. Fearfaron and Lindalcon could not share their horror at what this might mean for their friend. Instead they reassured each other, constructing flimsy rationales for his long absence and pretending they were utterly sound.

While Fearfaron could not sense Tawar as Legolas now did, he yet was more attuned to the trees than many of his kith and kin in the Greenwood, it being his trade to handle wood and walk in the arms of the trees in the deeps of the forest all his days. There had been times during the last two years when he had become suddenly overwhelmed with worry and dread as he stood by the Sentinel, convinced that some dire danger was besetting his adopted son. Only twice had he felt anything of a positive nature from the ancient tree. Most of the time, the Sentinel just waited and watched, as had been its way for centuries out of time.

Four days after Legolas learned the truth about Malthen, then the old beech very nearly rended itself into kindling as the shock wave of the wild elf's grief and rage rolled through the Greenwood's nerves and reached the stronghold. Fearfaron had wept in despairing terror as he watched the frenzy of the hardwoods, writhing and scraping their limbs in outrage while not a wisp of a wind moved through the still summer air to account for the reaction. The carpenter had feared to touch the Sentinel, dreading he would learn that what he prayed against had come to pass: Legolas was dead.

The bizarre disturbance set the whole community on edge, and great was the audience in the Council's Chambers the following day as the Sylvan folk sought an explanation.

Now Thranduil was apprised of the curiously ominous windless thrashing of the forest and had seen for himself that the reports were true. He was not raised in the ways of the Woodland folk, however, and so he found nothing overly portentous in the event. He immediately suspected the Masters of Dol Guldur, for nothing as simple as an infestation of spiders or a stray band of Orcs would promote such an unprecedented reaction among the trees. The Sinda ruler had none of the superstitious nature he scorned in his subjects, and found no need to search for additional reasons for the Greenwood's distress. Prophecies and portents, he found, did not make the struggle any easier, and in his opinion created a tenancy among the Danwaith to hold back, to endure fate rather than strike out against the evil.

Throughout the long night, Thranduil heard the pleas and prayers of his subjects begging the Valar for protection for the Sylvan folk from the dread doom they feared must be approaching.

Unlike the carpenter, the King would be the last to ever suspect the explanation would involve his former heir. Unlike the citizens of his Realm, Thranduil did not associate with the woodsmen that sometimes came to trade goods, and thus he had heard nothing of the emergence of a protector of the humans in the southern regions, Tirno, a fighter of renown against Orcs and Wraiths alike.

Yet his subjects had heard these tales and through them knew their disgraced prince yet lived. A fair number wondered if he was somehow involved.

Following Annaldír's Release, the Wood Elves had begun to take notice of Legolas' activities with greater excitement. They began to question how it could be possible for one elf alone to accomplish these things, and had gone to the Council for answers. There had been plenty of lines of old script the elder Eldar were only too willing to ascribe to this new champion, and the Sylvan folk began to hope that their forest would be released from the spreading Shadow of evil.

It was expected of their King to attend this Council, Thranduil knew, rather than summoning the Councilors to his throne room as he normally did. An appearance within the confines of their power was required to assure the population of his proper respect for the Council's authority in interpreting the more philosophical and esoteric aspects of the Wood Elves' existence. He would have to suffer through the reading of possible prophecies that might be forewarned by the unusual agitation in their home. He sighed, aggrieved to have to endure the endless hours of arguing and debate, as one group after another ascribed either dire or beatific fortunes to the strange occurrence, brandishing scrolls and ragged old tomes alleged to back their cases.

He had already dispatched extra patrols to seek out and hastily report back regarding any corresponding movement of the Orcs outside his boundaries near the Central Mountains. This, he was certain, was behind the event, and nothing more. That was more than enough reason for the Greenwood's travail of creaking fury.

From his balcony Thranduil watched the steady influx of elves into the stronghold's inner courtyard as minuial approached. They clustered in restrained apprehension, waiting impatiently for the Council to convene its session. While there was no reason he knew of to demand it, as most of the Woodland folk preferred the evening twilight, the Council always convened as the first sunray broke over the horizon.

_Which none of them have ever seen, I would wager_, he mused.

The tension lifting off the gathered throng had quite spoiled his appetite for breakfast and marred his quiet indulgence in Meril's companionship before the day's duties began. They were seated together there as on any other day for the past five years. Thranduil sighed in irritation.

"You will need to tread lightly today, my King," the royal consort gently warned and reached across to squeeze her hand over Thranduil's where it rested upon the table between them.

"I have been dealing with such nonsense for centuries," the sharp edged words fell from his frowning lips as he stared at her and removed his hand. "Are you now presuming to teach me the ways of my court, Meril?"

The Danwaith inu was unperturbed by the caustic reprimand, however, and presented a serenely patient smile as she shook her head.

"I would have you heed the ways of my people, no more."

"That, also, I have done for time out of counting."

"In that case, perhaps you should spend a small amount of this day's allotment of time to listening. Or do you not consider your subjects' thoughts and impressions worthy of your acknowledgement?"

Rather than feeling wrath or rage for this outburst, Thranduil actually smiled appreciatively. Meril never spoke idly, and this was her way of telling him there was gossip in the city of which he should take note. She knew something. _Well, that is an understatement; she finds out every bit of dubious blethering passed from lip to ear in the Realm_. he thought. He expected her to enlighten him at the evening meal, and her request took on new layers of interest. She wanted him to hear what her people were saying now, how the gossip was changing in light of the previous day's activity.

"You will not attend?" he queried.

"Nay," she shook her head, "I have much to do this day, as summer draws closer to its ending. Soon I will have even less freedom, and so I mean to enjoy these warm waning days under Anor's rule."

Thranduil gave her a small smile and took her hand back within his own, carrying it to his lips to impress the slightest of caresses upon her fingertips. With a less frustrated mind the Woodland King rose and left the balcony, entering their shared suite to ready himself for the ensuing conclave.

These were not his old bachelor's chambers, kept during his years with Ningloriel. Neither were they Meril's previous accommodations, situated in the guest's quarters of the stronghold. Instead, the King had ordered the renovation of an entirely different part of his fortress, utilizing several rooms hitherto relegated to visiting dignitaries. This apartment comprised a voluminous cluster of high-ceilinged caverns, adjoined through a cleverly constructed series of archways linking room to room, from the outer receiving parlors to the inner circle of the couples' private grotto. These portals were artfully concealed in the foremost domains, limiting admission to the secluded boudoir to all but a select few servants.

The couple's suite opened out onto the balcony overlooking the magnificent walled gardens. In the midst of the drear of the half-lit woods, this was a brightly sun-drenched oasis of Anor's glory, and numerous plants grew here that could never survive the eternal shade of the canopy's cover. A winding stone stepway had been cut into the outer surface of the rock for convenient access, an unprecedented act, for previously such contrivances had been viewed as breeches of safety. But Meril disliked the long trek through the fortress required to reach her garden haven, and so Thranduil had ordered the work. Beyond the walled terrace, the gallery allowed a clear view of the stronghold's courtyard and gates.

The apartment had become a haven for him, something of a personal surprise, for his original intent had been to secure a place for his new mate and their offspring far from his own chambers. Those he scarcely frequented anymore, abandoning them almost totally after the first year of their cohabitation. For where Ningloriel had been derisive and argumentative, scathing in her disgusted recriminations whenever he attempted to touch her, Meril was willing and even adventurous in their amorous endeavors. And while Thranduil had enjoyed his share of lovers over the bitter centuries of his marriage to Ningloriel, those had never been other than outlets for carnal lust.

With Meril, there was something more.

Meril graced her station with a calm dignity the source of which had at first completely flummoxed Thranduil. She was, after all, just a common Danwaith, not born of any noble line or even of any prestigious family. Her people were all warriors, and while there was nothing but fierce courage reported about them, still this did not seem to account for the sense of authority with which she carried herself.

It had soon become apparent however, that her contentment lay in the prospect of becoming a mother again, and bearing the heirs to her people's lands. This she took to be an honorable fate, a way to lessen the desolation left by the loss of Valtamar. Her acceptance of her role had been virtually immediate, and seemingly the dissolution of her bond to her dead husband was not a troubling matter.

This made the King vaguely uneasy. Thranduil was positively pleased with her attitude regarding children but considered that perhaps there were areas of Law and Custom he should reinvestigate. He could not fathom how such disregard for so serious a matter as a marriage bond could be possible among one of the usually ritualistic and symbol plagued Danwaith.

While he thought on these things the King had dressed and left for the Council Chamber. As soon as he reached the main hallway, he was nearly run down by the speeding form of Lindalcon, hastening to his post. Thranduil snatched at the elfling's arm, but the youth was quick and evaded the grasp, acknowledging the encounter with scarcely more than a cursory glare over his shoulder.

"Slow down!" the King ordered, but Lindalcon ignored him and kept going. Furious at such insolence, Thranduil sped after him, and in less than five strides had caught up a fistful of the elfling's flying hair and yanked him back hard. This made Lindalcon cry out and he grabbed at the hand holding him thus, trying to pry himself loose. "Do not behave as though you neither saw nor heard me! When I speak to you, answer!" Thranduil growled.

"Let go! I have to get to the Council, leave me be!" Lindalcon shouted and turned to pound against Thranduil's arm with his fist.

"Stop at once! I will have a respectful apology from you, Usurper, or assign you a new post in the stables!"

"That would suit me well, I despise your stupid caves!" Lindalcon shouted and attempted to land a kick in a very sensitive area. This maneuver failed, for Thranduil easily stepped back, smirking as Lindalcon then overbalanced and nearly upended, remaining upright only because of Thranduil's grip of his tresses.

The King pulled him back to surer footing by his hair, causing another jarring snag, and Lindalcon screwed his eyes tight to keep the tears of humiliation from falling. Thranduil laughed.

"What, does that smart, elfling? Fortunate for you that your mother is a loving parent and convinced that old Elda to take you on, for you are far too flimsy and delicate to ever have lasted as a warrior. Why, I believe you are the first male in her line not to take up the bow, is not that so? How grateful your father must be to know he will never meet you in Mandos' Halls, if he ever gets there." he mocked.

That was too much for Lindalcon. With a sudden rush of enraged energy he pulled back and landed a solid hit bearing the full weight of his gangly adolescent form into the King's stomach. A loud hiss as all the air fled Thranduil's lungs sounded in accompaniment to his release of the elfling's hair as he bent awkwardly over to steady himself. Lindalcon took the opportunity to complete his previous foot action and was mightily pleased at the pained sound and low crouch this initiated from his adversary.

"Do not ever speak of my father! None of this would have happened if not for you! You sent him there to his death! You are the kinslayer, not Legolas!" the youth screamed into the disabled regent's ear.

While the attack had come as a complete surprise, Thranduil recovered quickly and before his assailant could flee he had hold of Lindalcon's slender neck with one hand and unsheathed a fine mithril dagger with the other. He pressed it close to the youth's ear and squeezed around the throat, a menacing gloat upon his features.

"That is treasonous talk, Usurper! Think carefully of Legolas' fate, for a similar one can be arranged for you. It is only for your mother's sake that I allow you here at all," he said with reptilian coldness, and laughed at the fear spreading through Lindalcon's eyes as he struggled to gain breath and clawed at the hand sealing his airway. Thranduil shoved him back with a disgusted curse, releasing him, and stood over the gasping elfling sprawled on the floor. "Now, I believe you have something you wish to say to me?"

Lindalcon massaged his sore neck carefully and gazed up with a mixture of dread and loathing at his regent. He felt his eyes filling and knew that even if he succeeded in preventing a spill he could not keep the tears from invading his voice, and how much pleasure that would give this vindictive charlatan of a stepfather. He swallowed and cleared his throat before trying.

"I apologize, my King, for my rude behavior," he spoke the wavering words and inwardly cringed to see the malignant triumph in the older elf's sneering smile.

"How simply done," he quipped, "Had you any sense under those locks that is what you would have done forthwith. Then, you would not have to be punished for being late, as well as for your unwarranted accusations." With that unpleasant promise of further torment, the King adjusted his clothing and sheathed his dagger. "Oh, and do not bother to go to your mother regarding this matter; I intend to inform her fully as soon as the session is adjourned." Thranduil casually stepped over the elfling, who scrabbled back against the wall to get out of the way, and strode off down the passageway.

Slowly Lindalcon righted himself, sniffing hard to prevent the further embarrassment tear tracks would lend to his appearance. Which was a shambles, he realized, as he tried to brush off the dusty dirt from his leggings and tunic, unable to reach the worst of it in back. _And my hair must look a horrendous tangle._he sighed and he tried to smooth it back in place, with little results. There was no time to go and repair his dishevelment; he had been late already before the unfortunate incident occurred. If only he had stayed at Fearfaron's talan through the night, as the carpenter had suggested, this would not have come to pass. There was nothing to be done, he would have to go to the Council just as he was and bear the curious and disapproving looks from his colleagues and his mentor.

With a heavy heart and an equally ponderous breath Lindalcon set off in the King's wake, no longer bothering to attempt a rapid arrival. He could not believe what he had just done, and feared what his punishment might entail. If the King held to his assertion of treason, he might even have to face several hours in one of the stronghold's black cells. Lindalcon shuddered in revulsion and terror; he had heard these dungeons existed but had never had the nerve to go exploring and seek them out. It was not knowledge he wished to confirm first hand.

He shook his head. Surely his mother would never allow that to happen. She would talk the King into clemency and spare her first-born that torture, at least. But he knew he would never be able to convince her of his justification for so behaving to his 'protector'. She considered his plight a great honour, and admonished him to show courtesy and gratitude for the many benefits being the King's stepson accorded him.

_And never does she believe me when I tell her of the coldly ruthless looks the King sends in my direction when she is not around. He plays the indulgent and long-suffering father figure everytime she is near, but turns on me completely the moment we are alone. How I despise him_! he thought. He groaned dejectedly as he imagined the hurt and anxious expression his mother's face would hold when the fact that he had not only been rude, but had actually struck the King was revealed. Not for the first time Lindalcon wondered how Legolas had ever survived the weight of Thranduil's hatred for so many years.

He had reached the Council chambers while fretting over these things, and could hear the quiet intonation of one of the Eldar reading from a scroll. It was the opening incantation, and he dared not walk in as it was being spoken. As soon as the invocation was completed, he slipped through the archway and attempted to unobtrusively edge his way over to his mentor, hugging the shadowed walls as he went. As he progressed, he gazed upon the crowded room and was amazed to see so many elves in audience, despite Fearfaron's prediction that this would be the case. Lindalcon was pleased to see the carpenter there as well, and sent a reassuring smile in answer to the worried brows raised in response to his rumpled attitude.

A hand snatching at his collar, attached to the person of his mentor, halted Lindalcon's motion and the irked Councilor frowned in distaste at the improper conduct and manner of his protégé. The old Elda said nothing, however, and released the elfling, motioning with his chin for Lindalcon to attend him. The Councilor pointed to a table holding an armload of scrolls and two great books, and with a sigh the apprentice took them up, attempting to order them according to the Elda's preferred hierarchy. Together they approached the dais whereupon the King was seated this day.

"My Lord King, it is with gratitude we greet your attendance. If I may begin by saying the concern you show for understanding all that befalls the Danwaith is heartening to our people," the ancient Elf stated formally. He had been alive and a member of this Council since before Oropher's time as King, and now he was simply called Iarwain, the oldest. Iarwain never failed to emphasize the distinction between the Sindar rulers and their Sylvan subjects.

"The King is always present for his people's needs," Thranduil returned the correct reply.

"As you say, my Lord," the Councilor bowed his head in respect. "Now I ask you to hear the thoughts of your subjects regarding the extreme distress of our Woods at yestermorn. Here are the words of Hûngalen [Green-heart], my forebear from the time before the rising of Ithil:" he held out his hand and Lindalcon plopped the required text upon his palm. Iarwain unrolled it with carefully exaggerated aplomb and began to read.

"'Heed the movements of the forest, for the trees know much that occurs in distant places and will share this knowledge with the Laiquendi.'

"And further, he speaks of additional vigilance:

"'Should the trees be disturbed for reasons not of nature, be sure the reason is truly not of nature, but of the Black One seeking to corrupt the lands.'" The old elf returned the scroll and kept his hand out, awaiting the next. As Lindalcon struggled to disentangle it from the stack, another Councilor stepped forward and raised his hand, palm outfacing, the manner in which a request to interrupt the speech was made. Thranduil acknowledged this demand, much to Iarwain's ire.

"With your indulgence, my Lord, I think these words are clearly understood and none will dispute that the signs of yesterday are not events of natural cause. Permit me to read to you this text of prophecy from the First Age:

"'In days of peace will come the stench of war's breath, and the Darkness will strive against the Tawarwaith.' Now, I say this reference is directly to our situation," he said and stepped back.

Thranduil scowled. Had not this thick-skulled Elda simply repeated the first Councilor's claims? Yet the room was filled with soft murmurs from the ordinary folk who were in attendance, and a sharper edge had somehow found its way into the atmosphere within the cavern.

"I see that this is so; and let me assure all here that I have already sent out troops to reconnoiter the movements of the Orc host befouling our Central Mountains. They will encroach no further, and my warriors will foil whatever evil plot they have devised," the King reassured, and received an unexpected response. A great uproar of disapproval arose among the Councilors and the common folk alike.

"You must call them back!"

"How could you do this without consulting us?"

"You dare interfere with the fates? You will drive the beasts straight towards Tirno!"

"He has crossed the prophecy!"

"Aye, we do not even know where Tirno is at this time!"

Now Thranduil's confusion doubled and his irritation deepened.

"Silence!" he shouted and rose up to command the elves' attention. With some grumbling they settled down again, and waited for their King's justification for his hasty action. "I know not why this disturbs you good folk; it is the principle purpose of my reign to protect the Greenwood and her inhabitants from those accursed creatures. Surely this is the way to heed such a prophecy," he said in exasperation.

"This text does not use the name 'Tawarwaith' to refer to the Sylvan folk in general, my King," spoke Lindalcon's mentor with patient albeit condescending tones. "The words indicate Tawar's champion. We believe this warrior has arisen among us and is now trying to stem the evil that threatens to awaken even the dark pits of Utumno."

Thranduil observed the way the elves signaled their agreement with Iarwain and their dismay that the King did not understand these things. He recalled now that the Councilors had already advanced this idea some years ago, and received assurances from him that no new military action would proceed beyond their borders without first knowing what was happening to the lone warrior in the southern regions. He had ignored it as more of their symbolic religious prattling, never considering the 'forest champion' to be an actual living elf from his Realm.

"Tawar's champion," he spoke the words with guarded care, though they were bitter on his lips. "Who is this warrior, and why does he persist in such endeavors singly, when the King would readily assist any who stand against the Darkness?" he demanded, and was again thrown into confusion, this time by the depth of the silence that filled the great chamber. New and deeper lines of frustration creased his forehead as he met the eyes of each of his six Counselors, yet none spoke. The expression on their faces, however, filled the King with foreboding. His heart tilted with a sense of having prophesied his own future in those simple words, and he feared to hear the answer to his query, already suspicious as to the truth.

A movement in the assembly drew Thranduil's eye and he watched as a tall and willowy elf came forward all the way to the dais. His eyes were gleaming in what appeared to be triumphant pride, and he could barely suppress the gleeful smile struggling to transform his sober countenance. The elf was familiar, and the King realized he was often hanging about by the courtyard gates, but he knew not what name he bore.

"My King, may a humble carpenter speak in this forum?" said Fearfaron, for it was he.

"Of course, all may say here what they feel needs to be heard. The more welcome will your speech be if you can remove your King's ignorance," said Thranduil carefully, feeling more and more like a rat in a trap. He had no choice now but to play this out, having set the course of the discussion himself.

"I will gladly answer your request, my Lord," came the spirit hunter's answer and he made a deep bow as apology for the disrespect of admitting the King's lack of knowledge to his face.

_Yes, perhaps just a bit too gladly_, thought Thranduil with displeasure, and silently swore to know all he could of this craftsmen before tinnu.

"Yet, I would ask you to say again, that all may understand your intentions. Do you mean that the Tawarwaith has your endorsement, and even may count on the aid of our archers in future?" Now he lifted his eyes and met Thranduil's and the two gazes warred for supremacy in the chilling brightness of their respective glares.

At last Thranduil inclined his head, never averting his sight from the carpenter's deceptively placid features. "I would support any who fight against the Darkness; this has always been the primary objective of my sovereignty. If this Tawarwaith is such a one, then he will have my backing," he said, and again his own words had the ring of doom to his ears, and he frowned, certain he would long regret his hastily misspoken thoughts. "Now, tell me of this champion."

Fearfaron inclined his head and smiled, and his gaze strayed to the side and found Lindalcon, who was decidedly delighted and could scarcely be still.

"The Tawarwaith is called by many names, Sire. To the humans inhabiting the central forest he is Tirno-en-Tawar, and so many call him Tirno. Others prefer just to say Tawarwaith, as is used in the old texts. Some there are that name him Hecilo, yet these are not his friends. I call him by his given name: Legolas."

In the silence that followed, Thranduil sat down again upon his chair and observed his subjects keenly. The fallen prince clearly had garnered a measure of support in the five years since the first Warrior's Release, a surprisingly hefty majority, in fact. It was a clever bit of manipulation, and the King was unable to determine who was behind it; that was more disturbing than the actual subterfuge. Somehow, he had been cornered into defying his own order of banishment. Not only that, he had publicly promised assistance to a creature he had hoped never to encounter or acknowledge ever again.

Even from Aman, Ningloriel's mocking laughter reached him.

Tbc

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	33. Chapter 33

**Dagor Minui: Auth dan Yngyl** [First Battle: Fight against the Spiders]

The Man and the Wizard did not know exactly what to make of their elven companion's unyielding demeanor. Legolas persisted in his counsel to head directly for the mountains and assault the demons head on. The two travelers refused to give up their strategy of attempting to keep to the longer route of the elf-made road. No amount of argument could prevail upon Legolas to abandon his intent to meet the challenge of the Dark Lord's minions, but Aragorn and Gandalf together overruled him.

Just before noon the trio set forth upon the pathway again, two hoping to discover a means of circumventing the danger and reaching the Wood Elves' stronghold unscathed; one morosely certain it would not be that simple. Riding single file, Mithrandir lead the way holding Legolas seated before him, an arm protectively wrapped around the wild elf's waist. Aragorn followed.

Legolas appreciated the opportunity to lean back and rest against the Maia, finding comfort in the old wizard's encircling grasp. The flow of vitality from Mithrandir had ceased, but the infusion retained its potency and rendered the forest warrior calm and clear-eyed, free of the gnawing guilt and rage that so recently had feasted on his broken spirit.

He was still amazed by the sense of genuine enjoyment the old wizard projected, a certainty that he felt fortunate to be a part of the archer's existence. It was just like the comfort of Fearfaron's solid grasp upon his arm, or Aiwendil's embracing smile. The terrors of the grieving affliction had made Legolas forget that there were at least these three beings in Arda who accepted him with absolute affirmation.

Having come to his decision concerning the confrontation he was certain awaited him, Legolas chose to use the brief respite from his turmoil to store up as much strength as he could. All around him the woods seemed as usual, an ever changing interplay of light and dark, a mixture of the gentle harmony of Tawar's Song and the more somber, fleeting notes of mortality's frail anthem, played out in the intricate two-step of life's dance among the unchanging weald. Yet he could feel that shift in tempo and the loss of balance as the Shadow grew bolder, proud in its defeat of the trees, and the archer longed to join the rencontre and restore the Greenwood's stability.

The trio had not traveled five leagues before the horses were once again hopelessly lost and the skillful gifts of the Ranger were outwitted, for no sign of the elf-track could he discover. Back-tracing led the horses into even greater confusion, and it seemed to Aragorn that the trees were rearranging themselves to thwart their return to the road.

"This is hopeless! Gandalf, can you not think of some counter spell for this situation?" the Man scowled with infuriation as he surveyed the ground around him. He had dismounted to examine the hoof-prints in the duff only to realize they were the ones their horses had made two days previously, the last time the pathway had disappeared. The evil enchantment had them going in circles whenever they attempted to head due northwest, cunningly forcing the horses to veer northeast instead.

"Nay! I fear any magic attempted here may be swallowed up and regurgitated in a much less healthy form. Legolas was correct in his assessment of the forest dwellers; more are now unsympathetic to our cause," the wizard replied. He pointedly ignored Aragorn's incredulous expression; it was his own business when he chose to disobey the Powers and when to hold true. Battling the evil infecting the trees, spell for spell as it were, was not his place. A sudden inspiration lit Gandalf's eyes and he nudged Legolas in the shoulder. "Legolas, climb up and take a look; you can guide us back to the path from above."

The wild elf turned to gaze at his old friend mirthlessly. No matter how often he told them, they refused to heed his words, and he was rather tired of it.

"Mithrandir, these trees will not allow it," he said, exasperated to have to explain this yet again. He expected Mithrandir to understand these things on an instinctive level, as Aiwendil did.

"There must be much good wood left; we are still nearly forty leagues from the mountains. Use your bond with Tawar to find the trees that favor you." Aragorn contradicted him irritably as he remounted his charger and guided the horse closer to the golden gelding. The elf and the Man stared at one another wordlessly for a few minutes while Legolas decided what answer to give to this objection.

Of course there were loyal beeches and true oaks, and all manner of other species steadfast in their resolve to combat their foes. Yet the forest's defenses seemed unable to halt the unnatural infiltration of shadowy energy that encroached over the woodland's spirit and dulled the ability to act in concert. It was as if the Dark Lord had devised a way to isolate the individual trees from Tawar's omnipresent consciousness, using the vast system of osmotic fibers and roots to spread the sickness through the region. While not enough of the poisonous force was present to kill the trees, it was at least enough to confuse and befuddle the stalwart woods. In its distress the Greenwood was actually pleading for the forest champion's help and retained little ability to be of any service or aid to Legolas.

"Why do you refuse to understand me?" the Tawarwaith demanded. How could he explain to this mortal that he was here for Tawar, and could not just ignore these pleas? His bond with Tawar was not a tool to be manipulated for the travelers' benefit, but rather a nearly sacred trust between the wild elf and his homeland. "Yes, there are kindly trees here, but theythey are alone, cut-off!" he struggled to make things clear to Aragorn. "It is expected of me to deliver them. The Greenwood cannot hold fast to the straight way designed by my people. I can go up into the branches and direct your horses back to the elf-path, but when we travel upon it then it will cease being the elf-path. You will find it does not lead us to the stronghold, but rather into an unpleasant trap."

"What trap?" asked Gandalf. "Does the forest speak of this?"

Legolas rubbed his tired eyes with his fingers and sighed. He had been dealing with the Orcs for so long it was second nature to him to reason out their strategy, and as their intelligence was limited it was generally the same thing every time. He did not need Tawar to tell him these things; his experience was more than sufficient.

"Nay," he said with strained patience. "It is merely what Orcs do, Mithrandir. They will try to corner us and then overwhelm us with superior numbers. They believe they will succeed as long as we are grounded." Legolas suspected that the monsters planned to use some of his own traps against them, based upon the direction they were being forced to follow, but these thoughts he did not divulge.

"That is what I fear, also! We have no way of overcoming such a threat unless we can see the twisting of the wrong path and get back to the right one," rejoined Aragorn. "Why do you resist this chance? Are you well, Legolas?" he looked his comrade over as he said this. The Wood Elf appeared much rejuvenated, yet this had seemed so before and been proved false. Refusing to at least try to escape seemed irrational to the Man, and he sought signs for the return of the depression that had preceded the excruciating spasms of the previous night.

The moment he saw the gentle concern in the human's eyes Legolas' aggravation dissolved away. They meant well; after all, Aragorn and Mithrandir desired to avoid the inevitable confrontation primarily to spare him any further harm. And had he not already pledged eternal devotion to the pair?

Yet he was torn in heart, for he could think of no way to aid the wizard and the Man without abandoning his beloved trees. How he longed to grant them relief by heading straight into the fight and ending it quickly, removing the source of the sickness! It was a hard choice, and an unfair one to demand from him, for he did not relish the thought of drawing these two friends into his battle, risking their lives. He would just have to try to find a way to turn the Orcs' trap upon its springers.

"Aye, I am just weary, that is all. I will guide you from the canopy," he said quietly and without any spoken words to order it, the palomino stepped to the tree Legolas wanted. He felt Gandalf give his shoulder a quick squeeze just before he stood upon the gelding's whithers and pulled himself up into the branches.

The forest vibrated in uncommon dissonance as the tension between those trees of the Greenwood loyal to Tawar and those that had abjured to the Masters of Dol Guldur warred one another. Once in immediate contact with them, the Wood Elf was caught in the discordance and could not help a growing sense of defeat as he watched the subtle, relentless coercion of the normally unswerving way of the elven foot-road. He could feel the strain of the forest's effort to close its enmeshed soul to the injurious umbra, and saw how this was the manner in which the Dark One achieved his goal; for, once cut off from the network of nerve-like nodes, the trees floundered in isolation. Legolas' only hope was that as he moved through the woods, the evil flux would follow, receding from the oaks and beeches, myrtles and pines behind him.

It was a slow process, leading the travelers, for he had to scout high above and then move ahead and guide them by voice to his new location, only to begin again. Twice he had to come completely down and go forward by horse to a different stand of trees in order to avoid the small groups of turncoats within his beloved woods. Several hours of this effort in addition to the resonance of his own spirit with the stressful endeavors of the disjoined trees began to wear upon him, and Legolas found the pain was more difficult to tolerate. He waited in the lofty heights for Aragorn and Mithrandir, considering how he might defy the fates and avoid the trap he felt closing round them. The sun was just setting beneath a violet and crimson streaked sky when he heard the horses under the boughs and climbed down lower, peering from just above head level into Aragorn's rugged features.

"We are nearing a rather nasty section of Greenwood now, where I have numerous enemies. I do not think we can avoid an attack," he said.

"Is there a part of the woods where you do not have an overabundance of foes? What variety are these, Legolas?" asked Gandalf, dreading the answer.

"I am sorry; for as long as you remain my companions, no area will be safe." Legolas could not suppress a flinch at the sting in the wizard's words, though they were not unkindly meant. "We can only go forward this way or turn about and drive towards the approaching Orcs. For my part, I would prefer to face the Orcs."

Aragorn and Gandalf shared a glance of confirming knowledge that each had observed his reaction and an unspoken decision was unanimously decreed between them. Aragorn guided his charger under the wild elf's supporting tree and waited there, extending a hand towards Legolas, a friendly smile upon his lips.

"Come down, Legolas, we have traveled enough for this day. Guide us to a suitable campsite, if you will," he said. "And tell us what sort of enemy is more loathsome than a troop of Orcs?"

Legolas accepted the proffered arm and swung from his perch to sit behind the human, grateful for the call to halt, yet sure no ease awaited their bivouac. He reached round and took the reins from the Man's hands, dropping them loosely against the charger's neck. The stallion set off at once as surely as if his master had spoken, and Aragorn looked back over his shoulder into the elf's serious eyes, waiting for his answer.

"For many years before going south, I hunted out the spiders' nurseries and destroyed many. Ungoliant's offspring are ever vigilant for my return. The spiders are far more intelligent than the Orcs, and they know I am near by the feel of my walking in the limbs. They will come from all the lairs in a seven-league radius for the chance to feed me to their young. It is not going to be a restful night," he explained solemnly, yet his tone indicated this to be a normal and unremarkable sort of experience.

Aragorn stared back unspeaking as he listened to this, disturbed at what sort of life the wild elf must lead. It was not a life at all, as he defined the concept. He turned back to gaze ahead and observe their progress, but he saw not the trail his horse was treading. Instead he became lost in introspection, considering the years since the Battle of Erebor and wondering how old Legolas was at the time. Like most of the Eldar, Aragorn found him to be both old and young. _But, in his case, the wrong sort of youth, and the worst kind of age_, he thought. It was all askew, an immortal constantly rubbing shoulders with death, like a child being given a wolf's den for a play yard.

He was jarred from his musing as the stallion broke from the cover of the trees into a large clearing; brightly lit with the last remnants of fading crimson from the west. In comparison to the continuous half-light under the forest's eaves the spot was bathed in brilliance, and yet unlike most breaks in the cover where the land reveled in worshipful adoration of Anor, the glory of the sun's warmth failed to touch this field.

"What is this place?" he asked with alarm, for the site had the feel of a graveyard to it. _Or a battleground_! he corrected himself.

"It is your camp, Aragorn," said Legolas as he lightly jumped down and waited for the others to do the same. He watched as his two friends surveyed the chosen spot with revulsion and turned to him, their shock evident upon their features.

"You are not wrong, your instincts are true; it is a foul place and under other circumstances I would never want you to come here. This was once a woodsmen's village, but all is devastation and woe now. The earth is defiled with the spilled blood of men, women, and innocent children, slain and eaten by the kin of the Orcs now pursuing us. Only sorrow grows in this soil these days, for the Greenwood will not reclaim the site, and so it will be for all time to come, I fear."

"Then why do you place us here, Legolas?" Gandalf demanded. He gazed with loathing at the bare and blighted land.

Abruptly the order of time shifted and he could see the gruesome scene under the starlight of a summer's eve: a great troop of Orcs swept upon the unprepared townsfolk, and the people were overwhelmed and subdued. The demons remained in the village, caring nothing for the grotesque tableau of decomposing bodies in various stages of dismemberment strewn throughout the settlement. Some of the humans they kept alive for weeks, bound and piled together in groaning heaps, wailing piteously as they starved slowly. These unfortunates had borne witness to the Orcs' voracious consumption of their friends and family members before becoming fodder themselves.

And Gandalf could see how it ended, as well: confusion and disarray erupted among the abominations of Melkor's pride as a torrent of arrows broke upon them where they glutted their gorges in their gruesome feast. Every one of them died within the hour, and the egregious, putrid flow of Orc blood mingled with that of their human victims' in the sanguine saturated soil. The few surviving villagers, six in all, were released and lead away from the disgusting and traumatizing display.

It was Legolas who was their savior, Gandalf saw, and in the instant of comprehension a short and bitter sound, a twisted inversion of laughter's lightness, shattered the mirage and returned the wizard to the present.

"Too late," was the outcast archer's sorrowful lament.

The Maia's eyes peered with worried concern upon the Tawarwaith's, for he realized the events had occurred exactly as he had envisioned, and indeed were the very sights his elven friend had recorded within eternal memory that horrendous day.

"You could not have done more," said Mithrandir gently.

The Wood Elf's ability to access the wizard's mind had apparently progressed so that he could initiate the contact much as he did with Tawar. This form of communication was not unheard of among the Eldar, but was still rare enough to be regarded as an almost frightening gift, even among elf-kind. _A result of the lengthy exchange of essentia on the previous night, no doubt. Legolas is a quick learner_, he thought, and caught the fleeting smile that graced his young friend's lips.

"I am sorry, but the two of you will have to use more words," Aragorn's grim chiding finally ended the abbreviated tete-a-tete. Legolas sighed and Gandalf smiled and offered an apologetic shrug to the Man.

"I have brought you here because it is the only defensible site in the region. We are not in a position to be choosy, much as I abhor this place," the fallen prince at last gave an answer to Gandalf's earlier inquiry.

"That does not make this more clear, Legolas!" exclaimed Aragorn. "How is a huge open clearing defensible by three lone warriors?"

"Two. Your foes will be at a disadvantage on the ground. The spiders prefer to pick off their victims from the cover of the leaves, using their silk to bind them.

"You must make and keep a strong fire through the night, for they fear it more than blade or arrow. Have a burning brand in hand even as the other wields your sword. They will not attack from only one side, but come upon you en masse, from several locations among the surrounding trees. You will need to be quick with the fire, for it is all that will sunder their threads if once they ensnare you!" Legolas instructed as he moved around the clearing gathering up the remains of the human's furnishings for the fire.

"Two? Where will you be?" demanded Gandalf.

"I cannot fight them this way; I need to be in the trees," he said, aiming a glance at his friend to judge the wizard's reaction to this half-truth.

A snuffling breath and a short stamp directed his attention to the animals. Legolas threw down his armload and went to the horses and spoke to them; the steeds immediately obeyed, leaving the clearing for a destination only the wild elf knew. He would not have the fine animals become the spider coven's next meal. Satisfied with their prompt response, he resumed his gathering.

The two travelers watched their companion in a sort of daze, trying to take in what was happening and understand how events had gone so far beyond their control. When had their friend undergone this transformation from crushed and immobilizing despair to determined and stubborn command?

"Unacceptable!" It was Aragorn, to the wild elf's amazement, which blurted this singular rebuttal. "We must not become separated."

Legolas watched him with mild surprise but made no reply, merely dumping his armload of kindling and fuel near the Man's feet. The exiled prince then removed his quiver and bow, withdrew his dagger from inside and slipped it under the leather tied round his waist, and held the weapons out toward the mortal.

"I will not need these," he spoke another lie, "but please do not let the spiders near them. They will spot them and wish to destroy the implements of so many of their future generation's destruction."

Aragorn just stood staring at him and so Legolas sighed and put the quiver and bow upon the ground beside the Man's pack.

"Do not leave the clearing, even when the battle is over. Stay by the fire in case any get away from me and come here, seeking their brethren. I am not sure how many members are in this particular colony, for I have not been near for several years, but they will not send all the adults anyway. Some will stay behind to protect the nests. We have an excellent chance of surviving, though it will not be an easy task by any means."

Legolas meant this speech to be reassuring, but could see by the dour expressions regarding him that his effort had failed miserably. He frowned, there was no time for more discussion, and he could not make them understand anyway. After the fight they would have all the knowledge they would ever need, but before hand no explanation would seem rational to those who had never encountered Ungoliant's bizarre mutations of Yavanna's design.

"Legolas, what are you planning to do? I think Aragorn is right, we should remain together to face this threat," Gandalf said and laid a restraining hand upon his friend's shoulder.

Through the physical connection the mental one was opened and the wizard received a flood of information on fighting the arachnids, too much to assimilate. He had no references with which to associate most of it. A visual of the most vulnerable points in the creatures' bodies was all he could manage to retain. Legolas' intent was clear enough, though; he would do things his way and no words would deter him. Mithrandir's hand fell away limply from the elf, but the wild archer grabbed it up again in both his own and clasped it tightly albeit briefly in encouragement.

"Do not get bitten!" Legolas said and raced away back into the trees before they could attempt to stop him.

Gandalf and Aragorn stared at one another in the descending darkness for a moment or two and then in silent accord set about creating a fire. As he carried more wood to the center of the barren glen, the Man considered what he had been told.

"Gandalf, neither of us have the reflexes of an elf, and not even the Lorien elves are as quick as the Wood Elves, it is said. And I would be willing to wager that among his own people Legolas is somewhat more resourceful than most, for he thrives amid the harrows of the Shadow where many have faltered," he said contemplatively. The wizard stopped his activity and turned to his companion.

"All that you say I would not contest. What is your meaning?"

"Legolas owns the ability to combat these things, but we have none. Without him here I fear we will be lost in a direct conflict. I think we need to take measures to even the odds a little. If the creatures fear fire, then we must use it more robustly than even our wild friend instructs. We must construct a flaming barricade to guard our backs, or we will be overwhelmed by these foes."

"Legolas would not approve of endangering the trees in that way, but I agree with you!"

The two shifted their focus, defining a broad expanse of earth as a suitable location for their firewall. Carefully they cleared away all inflammable debris between their fortifications and the forest beyond the bleak expanse of the blasted settlement's boundaries. It would not do to have their elven friend return only to find his homeland ablaze due to careless oversight.

They piled high the logs and planks, rafters and beams, broken bedsteads and chairs that had once comprised homes to happy families, raising the bulwark as high as they had means to do. It seemed fitting that the decimation of the human habitat would assist the travelers, as though the townsfolk long dead partook of the struggle, too. As the sky over head began to gleam with the lustrous mithril scintillation of Varda's gift to the First Born, they completed their task and lit the palisade up.

Another glance passed between the duo, and together they drew their swords, planted themselves firmly before the burning blockade, and waited.

From the position of the moon, both knew that three hours had passed from Ithil's reign with nothing but the crackling inferno to break the somber night's silence.

There was no prelude to the attack. Unlike four-footed beasts or the fearsome Orcs, the spiders were silent in their approach and as careful in the trees as an elf. Of a sudden the clearing was brimming with the huge bloated things, scrambling with alarming speed on their eight hairy hinged spindles of legs towards their prey.

Aragorn braced for the onslaught, gripping his blade with calm determination, remaining fixed to prevent being flanked and exposing his back to danger. Yet the creatures halted just beyond range of his sword arm and in the next instant a stream of fetid silk shot across the remaining distance and wrapped his ankle in a tightening knot.

The spider grasped the strand with its two front legs and yanked hard, jerking the Man from his feet. Aragorn shouted in anger as he was flung to the ground, and hacked at the sticky stinking string as the arachnid reeled him in. Their silk was sterner stuff than it looked and yielded not, and then the human recalled the Wood Elf's advice too late. He had not kept a flaming torch at hand.

With an enraged yodel Aragorn grabbed onto the silk and pulled with all his strength, and the foul beast was taken by surprise and toppled forward, its gruesome eyes shoved rudely into the dirt. The mortal took the opportunity and speared the grotesquely bulging body through; gagging at the release of vile fluids that poured out, surging from the breach.

The spider did not move again, and Aragorn scooted backwards as another streak of yellow-tinted spinning launched towards his chest. He reached the fire and snatched a branch from its base, searing away the clinging wrap even as the loathsome spinner began its relentless retrieval. Before the spider could sever the thread and shoot forth another, the Man replayed his initial maneuver and, snatching the disgusting extrusion, hauled the writhing enemy into his blade's eager bite.

But Legolas had not been recalcitrant in his warnings, for this species was eminently more astute than any Orc could ever be. The next bit of organic rope to reach him ensnared the Man's sword arm. Aragorn shoved the torch into the web-maker's hold even as a second and then a third cord attached to his shoulder and his thigh.

He was down again, and now two spiders held tight their twines as the third advanced upon him with rapidity he found alarming. Frantically he seared through the constraint upon his shoulder and swept his sword through the attacker's neck, severing the goggle-eyed head from the bulbous thorax. The malodorous juices of the fiendish monster spewed over him and he strained to suppress his rising gorge.

A hoarse shout from his right alerted Aragorn to Gandalf's plight, not much different from his own.

The wizard was swinging his fiery brand in the same two-fisted grasp that controlled his sword, and three spiders tried to snatch the old one's arms and legs with their hateful webs. Even as he fell, the Maia succeeded in chopping off two legs from one and burning the eyes of another in one upswept, arcing movement of controlled fury.

The disabled spider clicked its menacing fangs and lunged at the Istar's darting arm, hoping to inject its potent venom, but Gandalf kicked with his free leg, knocking yet another of the loathsome monstrosity's supports from under it. His sword and the torch finished the arachnid as its two companions sought to tug him into their clutches.

Shouting damnation and curses upon the diabolical arthropods looming in the dancing haze of the roaring firelight, Gandalf copied Aragorn's strategy and pulled back on the silk attached to his leg. The creature bared down and stood firm, bracing against the pressure, and the wizard singed the thread through, sending the spider rolling backwards in the release of tension on the line.

The third creature disengaged its own string and retreated slightly to try again, and Gandalf jumped to his feet and picked up the discarded length. With a snapping crack he whipped its free end up and caught the destabilized spider as it was trying to right itself, and the strong filament stuck tight. The wizard gave a satisfied yell as he yanked the flailing heap of legs and eyes toward him and sliced its segmented torso in two.

The retreating spider continued its rout, suddenly less bold as the noisome liquids that served as blood for its kind flowed so freely from the broken remains of its fellows. Two others, fleeing from Aragorn's wrathful advance joined it, and in mere minutes the battle was over.

The two travelers remained alert, expecting another assault, and gulped in lungfuls of the polluted air as their hearts thundered from the exertion and the flood of adrenaline released by the stress of the encounter. Gradually, they calmed and eased their vigilant stances, at last realizing the spiders were defeated. They exchanged weary looks filled with unbelieving relief and surveyed the carcasses littering the ground.

In all, they had felled seven of the ghoulish abominations, and they dragged the disgusting remains out away from their encampment, forming a ring of death to the front in accord with the barricade of flames at their backs. This done they at last turned to take stock of one another, and identical grins spread across the two companions' faces.

What a sight they were! Bits and pieces of spider's silk clung to them and their garments were befouled with a revolting mixture of dirt and arachnid blood and innards.

Gandalf's beard had suffered the worst in the fray, for a large swatch of the flowing gray-streaked hair had been caught in his torch's flame and burned away. His long soft robe was ripped at the hip where a thread had landed, and both arms bore abrasions from the steely grip of the arachnid's attempts to disable him.

Aragorn was not much better; bearing a long tear in his fine leggings and a terrible disfigurement of his elegant elven left boot at the ankle. His chest and shoulder had been protected from the silk by his jerkin, which proudly bore its new-earned scars. The Man's sword arm was sore, but not unusable, and so he counted himself fortunate indeed to have fared so well.

The two did not relax completely, however, lest the attack be but the initial advancement of the dire creatures. They stood back to back, swords drawn and ready, torches at hand, awaiting the night's end and the return of the Wood Elf.

Tbc


	34. Chapter 34

**Agar Mael** [Blood Lust]

Legolas hastened through the treetops, using all the speed he could manage and exerting as much strength as he dared to bolster his connection with Tawar as he moved from branch to branch amid the canopy. He desperately needed to know what direction the spiders would come from. _Where is the largest nest? How many are in it_? He needed to attract the adults' attention by heading straight for it and their precious egg cocoons, knowing this was the only way to deflect the main body of the colony from overwhelming his friends in the ruined clearing behind him.

He let the trees guide his flight, and was thankful the Greenwood was able to do so, given the black plague of shadowy poison slowly seeping through root and rhizome. Yet the Dark Lords were not expecting him to seek out a center of evil and no move was made to obscure the lair of the arachnids. He could feel the reciprocation of corruption in the trees housing the spiders; these blighted hardwoods stood out like glaring beacons of unadulterated hatred for all that Tawar represented. It would have been impossible not to discern these cancers in his forest, he realized, even if Tawar was totally incoherent and unreachable.

There was not enough time to prepare an adequate defense. He was still tired, though the sense of Mithrandir's quiddity was still strong in his soul. His whole being hurt, though that was the manageable aching he now recognized as a constant in his existence, and he had not the benefit of his archer's skill or the distance that would accord him from fangs and spinners. Those arrows, he knew, would be needed in the battle with the Orcs, and he would have no opportunity to stop and make more if he used them up against the loathsome arachnids. He would have to make contact with his foes, and he shuddered in revolted aversion to the idea of touching the disgusting abominations.

_ Not enough time! _

What could he possibly do to fend off the wretched beasts and keep them from killing him? Strange, had he not but hours ago desired such an impossible situation and thus an end to the unbearable debacle that was the remnant of his life? Now he needed to retain that vitality as long as was tenable to give his friends the chance to survive their inadvertent association with and assimilation into his macabre world. It was an irony he did not appreciate even slightly. He renewed his determined commitment to stay the Dark One from stealing these two from him, from Arda, convinced on a deeply instinctive level that their survival was paramount. With no realistic defense he decided to perpetrate an open frontal assault right into the heart of the arthropods' territory.

_My territory_.

He knew where the nest was now; Tawar sent him the precise location in a clear image. It was a massive conclave of draping nets and heavy sacs stuffed with the developing broods of Ungoliant's excremental offspring. How he longed to destroy them all! With a wild surge of anger and hate he changed course and raced for it, letting the branches carry his venomous resentment of the gruesome infestation to the colony's inhabitants.

_I am coming!_

At this instant he felt them, lurking in weighty vigilance among the branches below, and he smiled. They had no way of comprehending what was to befall them, for little certainty did he have himself.

_Fair enough, come and see if you can bind me then! I will not easily be made fodder for your young!_

He had no leeway to plan or plot, to build traps or kindle fire, and so he depended on just his raw energy and repugnance for the creatures. The beasts were used to him firing arrows from afar, sending their nests into flaming debris as the unborn young boiled into smoky remains and putrid odors. They expected him to flee to find a new position and launch more white heated darts upon them, not to grapple with them by sinew and blade.

_ Let them learn what it is like to have a Wood Elf upon them _!

Dagger in hand he silently hurtled down onto his first victim, landing on its black and grey mottled back and wrapping his long legs tightly around its bulbous body. He recognized the arthropod from a previous encounter some years before by the scarred remains of a visionless eye in a seared and empty socket. This one had tasted him long ago, sinking its snapping beak into his calf and injecting enough of its vile venom to sicken him for nearly a month of days. It craned its compounded glare upon him and tried to bring its filthy mouth into range of his shins. A sneer of feral ferocity graced the wild elf's features as he drove the blade through the join of the thorax and the head. No sound could the creature make as it went limp in the leaves, its own web holding it firm, and Legolas leaped off and up and flung himself upon his next target.

This one saw him and sent a stream of its silken essence toward the Tawarwaith, but the Elf was far faster than the beings realized, having never fought him at close range, and he was gone from the spot before the spun constraint landed. The spider snapped off the thread and turned to find him in its multi-faceted eyes, only to feel the dirk bite into its belly and slit it wide, emptying its vital organs into the dirt with a noisy, wet splatter.

The whole colony was aware of him now, and all but ten turned to give chase and surround the object of their dire abhorrence. Long silken streamers of web fibers sailed soundlessly across the open spaces, attempting to close him in, but Legolas predicted that and scrambled to move up and down, over and under the sticky extrusions, never trying to flee at all. The spiders were surprised by the new tactic, and paired up to work against him.

And the strategy cost them much, for the creatures could not get their webs to work to their advantage at this close range. They snared the branches and the tree trunks; they snagged each other's limbs and oculi, unwittingly creating a crossfire of the adhering threads.

The wild elf was like a phantom of air rather than a being of substance, moving just a hair's breadth to either side of their silky cage's clasp just before the emanations landed. While they thus entangled each other, Legolas wove among the spiders, slipping between the handicapped legs and blinded eyes to jab and stick them, rip and tear them, cleaving away their existence piece by piece.

The forest fought with their champion in the same manner as their devious counter parts to the south had worked against him. The arachnids found they spent as much time using their web to save themselves leg-snapping falls as they did trying to wrap Tirn-en-Tawar up, for the trees willingly allowed their branches to crack free from bark and bole to cast the spiders down.

Soon the creatures' overzealous reliance on their natural weaponry had created a massive stinking mess of both loosely fluttering and secured webs that worked to shield the Wood Elf, blocking any new spinnings' path as he scampered from limb to branch in the spaces between the strands.

His timing was exquisite, and even in his haze of hostile malevolence, Legolas exulted in the finesse of his reactions and the accuracy of the slightest flex of his wrist and blade. There was something gloriously primal in the release of his dark and dreadful desire to kill, a magnificence in the righteous flow of rage and anger flooding his soul at the thought of his friends' endangerment, and sublime surety in the sensation of the blade sliding through the rigidly resilient carapaces, spilling out the spiders' poisonous liquors to mix with the duff.

He relished it.

The brutal engagement sent him a renewed surge of vigor and strength, as though he was sucking it right out of his enemies' essential share of living energy, much as the spiders would have allowed their brood to siphon off his own vital juices had they captured their nemesis.

Unceasingly his blade stabbed and stuck them, slicing and decapitating, dismembering and blinding them. The forest warrior was cruel, hacking off spinners and then taunting the spiders to come for him, only to leap away from snapping fangs even as his clever immortal hand flicked the deadly mithril gleam behind the leering arachnids' eyes and snapped through their twiggy necks.

Legolas disregarded the hours passing as the struggle ensued, sparing no effort to consult the position of Ithil's face to learn that he had been killing for four hours now. He lost count of how many had fallen to his dagger's determined dance of destruction, and he heard the spiders give him new names. No longer merely Ungol Dagnir [Spider Bane], the identity he had held among them for all these years of exile, he increased in dread importance and manifested in their foul tube-shaped hearts an unbridled panic such as the species had not felt before this night.

A fell litany swept through them in their language of clicks and shrills, and entered back into the twisted trees, flowing thence through their unholy connection to the Dark Lords far to the south: Rûth-en-Arda, Feä Gurth, Ilfirin Coth, Eithad Balch [Wrath of Arda, Death Spirit, Undying Foe, Cruel Stab].

The spiders at last halted their unsuccessful attempts to corner their enemy and lapsed motionless around him. Though he was ringed with nine arachnids, he was not to be captured thus, and they chattered in apprehensive confusion. Even when they succeeded in gluing one of their strings to his flesh, he used his bitter blade and scraped it off, caring not to part with a layer or two of his hide to free himself. When a strand had caught his long tresses, he had not appeared to notice that the momentum of his motion caused the entangled clump to be ripped away still rooted to his scalp. He did not seem to feel pain, he displayed no fear, he did not give in to fatigue though the pace of their attacks was anything but apathetic. The spiders tried to reorder their evil-spawned thoughts.

Legolas balanced lightly on the slender limb, panting mightily with the effort the battle was costing him, yet refused to bow to the demands of his body for rest and for water. He looked at the many-eyed creatures and laughed to know their new names for him, briefly wondering in the back of his awareness how he had made the translation.

A new idea blazed like lightening across his brain and in his gluttony for gore he acted upon it, launching himself with a soul-stilling shriek upon the nearest beast at his left. He grabbed its front leg, covered with wiry hairs, and sliced it free, tumbling himself over in mid-air and then lashing out with the severed leg he held tight in his hand. The spiny hooks caught onto the webbing strands draped all round among the branches and he used the new anchor point to swing his body in a wide arc that allowed him to kick one spider away while hacking another free of its silk organ.

Legolas dropped the leg and plummeted down onto a third beast's back, replaying his initial attack, and viciously hewed it to pieces beneath him. With a sneering expletive he hoisted up and shoved the remains into the furious stream of web-silk streaming toward him, and used the snared body like a weighted pendulum, riding it away to a nearby branch even as two more spun fibers darted through the air.

He felt a thread sear his back, and with no hesitation slipped the dripping dagger into his own flesh and cut the strand away. He was no longer surprised that he barely felt the laceration; he had learned a thing or two about pain over the last few days. The warmth of the blood oozing down his spine he welcomed, having discovered the threads could not stick to the fluid.

The Tawarwaith chose another casualty and raced across the branches for it, darting through the holes in the matted mesh, but was disappointed to see the spider send a long stream of ropy silk into a neighboring tree and use it to escape. It kept up its retreat, casting and reeling lines from tree to tree, and the cowardly action spurred like behavior in its brethren. Within seconds the seven remaining arachnids were in demoralized retreat, fleeing as Legolas screamed curses at them and gave chase.

The feral immortal let them go after he had haunted their eight-heeled flight for an hour's length of Ithil's remaining regency, overjoyed to give them a small sense of what he had felt when pursued relentlessly by death's advocates for nights on end.

Legolas could not help his ecstatic grin and gave a victorious shout that followed after them. He cursed them in the names of Yavanna and Aulë, and demanded Oromë come and flush them out and finish the night's work, saying he had grown bored with them and wished to return to his friends' companionship. Long would his words be remembered, and the night be marked by their species as a catastrophic defeat, and for this Legolas rejoiced.

As he made his way back through the branches toward the clearing he could not suppress his exhilaration, and began singing into the approaching day as Anor crept near the east and paled the depths of inky night. Thus he returned to his companions, who heard him long before he leaped down from the trees.

Aragorn grinned hugely and sheathed his sword as he looked upon Gandalf's equally beaming countenance.

"It seems we have all been victors this time!" he said.

"I never doubted it!" Gandalf lied with high humour and the Man laughed at the falsehood, for they had both worried through the evening's last hours, yearning to know how their friend fared.

They listened now to his song of gloating fulfillment, which he seemed to be inventing as he went along, and called out the chorus to underscore the fair voice. But as soon as the elf landed on the ground and came to them, their words froze in the backs of their mouths and their eyes grew wide with horror.

Legolas was a ruinous mess of self-inflicted stabs and scrapes, required to keep free from his more numerous adversaries, and he was limping on a terribly swollen ankle that he scarcely seemed to feel. He was painted with an unholy coating of elven blood streaked through hideous splashes of slick spider slime. When he closed within arm's length, they actually drew back a step, for the fearsome light of his killing spree was still within his gleaming eyes, and it was a deeply troubling perversion of the normally wholesome brightness of his clear blue gaze. He stopped his chanting lyrics as he saw their timorous demeanor and looked in confusion from one to the other.

"Legolas!" said Gandalf, barely whispering the word.

"What has happened?" demanded the elf. "What is this expression of dread?" He swayed a bit, weary beyond his ability to grasp, for he was too drunk on the power of his butchering. Neither of the two travelers could bring themselves to answer, uncertain what they could say to him that would get through to his mind in his state of over elevated emotions. Legolas glanced down at his leg with a frown as a small twinge from it caught his attention, and then hobbled over to examine their own trophies of the night's sorties.

"Not a poor number for your first time against raug o tail-telyth [eight-footed demons]!" he praised them and kicked one of the rotting carcasses with delighted viciousness, laughing upon hearing the squishy crunching of the shattered soft-shelled beast. He turned back and scrutinized his friends' appearance and laughed again, a cutting sound edged in exhaustion.

"Oh, Mithrandir!" he cried out in distress and reached out to brush his fingers against the singed place in the Istar's beard. "You two look a bit bedraggled for your efforts. We must retrieve the horses and find some clean water to wash in, and no doubt you have extra clothing with you. It just amazes me how much stuff everyone drags about with them! Those Noldor were the worst for it I have ever seen. Do you know, Erestor had two spare sets of clothing with him?"

"Erestor!" Gandalf and Aragorn exclaimed together, but Legolas ignored them, drifting towards the remains of the firewall to examine it critically.

"Now this was surely a great risk to my home! How do you dare take such liberties in someone else's lands?" he scolded with a scowl. When his comrades made no answer he turned to look upon them again, still puzzled, and then stooped down to massage the ankle, burning much more hotly with stinging cramps than before. He straightened and motioned for the two to follow along. "Come on and we shall find the animals and see if we can convince them to carry such smelly and filthy riders as you."

He ambled unsteadily off and the Istar and the Man exchanged worried looks. They decided not to interfere with the Wood Elf until he lost the chilling ferocity that shone in his eyes, and trailed after him, each hefting a pack as they passed, and Aragorn took up the elf's weapons, which he had walked by without a second glance. That more than any other act indicated the unnatural diversion of his mind, for it had always been his first instinct to seek these tools and keep them close. The two travelers hoped he would walk off his excitement and return to the manner that they knew to be his true character.

It took better than an hour before the elf descended from his giddy heights of euphoric blood lust. The horses' refusal to let him near triggered his return from the grip of dark delight and forced him to cast out the recurring images of his lengthy battle. The beasts were obviously as terrified of him as they would be of the spiders, or indeed of any Orc, and that disturbed the elf mightily.

Legolas became quiet and sober, and succumbed to an encompassing gloom equal to the magnitude of his former exaltation. The burdens of his wounds began to cry for attention and at last the bone-draining weariness engulfed him completely. He sat down with a groan, folding his legs and gingerly cradling his injured ankle atop the opposite knee. When he leaned against the trunk of the oak his back flared up angrily as the bark pressed into the raw wounds from his own dagger. He had to hunch forward over his lap and bowed his head, suddenly ashamed to see what his friends' eyes must reflect of him.

He had always experienced heightened exhilaration during and just following a fight, even when in the patrols. This night's sense of grotesque enjoyment in the destruction he had wrought was a more potent thing, a feeling of a black craving that he had never known within himself before, fully sated and slaked. He could smell the mixture of his and the arachnids' blood all over him and suddenly felt overwhelmed with nausea. Fighting to suppress the gurgling upsurge of bitter gall, Legolas leaned over until his head nearly rested on his injured leg and gripped his midsection tightly.

Aragorn had been waiting for this and was already sorting through his supplies to mix up a remedy for the gut wrenching queasiness he was certain would follow. He had known Men to react this way, carried away in battle's blood letting only to feel fouled and inhuman once it was done. He had seen Elladan suffer the same, transformed by his desire to avenge his mother's assault, then as the carcasses cooled, crying out that she would never know him for the delight he found in such sport.

Unable to overpower the need to purge, Legolas hastily unfolded his limbs and crawled behind the tree as the vomiting commenced, and Gandalf went to help him, though there was little he could do when he got there. He had thought to rub the elf's shoulders and back, but the skin was still oozing blood from several raw patches and he dared not touch him.

There was little enough in their friend's stomach anyway, so the sickness was over quickly and he dragged himself back to his place by the tree. Cautiously Legolas raised his eyes to look at them, dreading to see their disgust and fear, yet he had to know if they truly despised him, and somehow he hoped they could forgive his new found flaw. He met first Mithrandir's age-old eyes and found there only worry and kindness, and relief flushed away the remains of the killing fever from his brain. When he looked at the Man, a warm smile of understanding graced the Ranger's rugged face, and he held out a cup with something wet in it.

"You will find this will help your insides settle down," he said encouragingly. "I have to make it for my brother every time he goes on an Orc raid." Aragorn spoke these words without thinking of their consequences, for he had kept back his relationship to Imladris, but the reference was too vague and meant nothing to Legolas. He took the medicine and swallowed it down without complaint. It was not unpleasant, peppermint being a principle component, and it did help ease the churning.

"Now then, I think the horses will know you again. Call to them, Legolas, for we do need fresh water to clean up those cuts," said Gandalf and helped the wild elf stand, for the ankle would not support him any longer. He did not even need to call them aloud, for the bay and the palomino were already ambling back towards their riders and merely blew out loudly through their velvet muzzles, protesting against the strong odors the three travelers emitted. Their friend was back to normal and they willing allowed the three to mount up.

As before, Legolas and the horses knew the course to tread and the Man and the Maia accepted the role of passengers. There was no trail of any kind that they could see and the towering boles stood in forbidding ranks, a maze of cramped closeness that had the animals zigzagging all around, it seemed to the elf's two friends. With the sun up the outpouring of light from Anor at least made the direction obvious as they progressed further east with every step. It would appear the enchantment was still in effect.

An hour's walk brought them to a low spot and the trees changed in species to cypress and hemlock, as these were happy to have their feet thoroughly wet, and they ringed the fen. The spongy ground disquieted the animals, though, and they refused to go on when tea-colored water oozed up around their hooves with each step.

"We will have to walk from here," Legolas sighed, "but it is for the best. Some of the mud can get quite a firm grip on one and I have not the energy to pull the horses out. There is a deep pool at the heart of the bog, but the way is tricky if you are not elf-kind. I am not sure how heavy a creature these step-stones of fern and mold will support. I know of no other water source near-by, however."

"Well I suppose if there is nothing else, we must try," said Aragorn with little enthusiasm.

"At least no Orcs can get through to the center," commented Gandalf, and he got down first in order to assist Legolas. The two hobbled forward with the Man behind.

"I would guess there is a reason you do not just use some sort of magic to dry up a nice solid bridge for us?" Aragorn complained. Gandalf muttered something under his breath and Legolas laughed, looking back at the Ranger in amusement.

"If he did as you say, he would ruin this place for the creatures that do like it this way and make it their home," he said. Aragorn bowed his head.

"Fair enough. I fail to see how a few less newts, frogs, and snakes would be a harmful thing, however."

"It would be more than that; the whole forest would change!" the elf exclaimed. "These trees only like this sort of spot, and some birds will only nest in those very trees, for here the supply of insects is high. Without those newts and frogs, maybe we would not be able to abide the flies and gnats so well, while the snakes keep the amphibians from overproducing."

"Oh come now, one bog drained would not make an end of the Greenwood, Legolas."

"I did not say it would end, I said it would change."

"Everything changes; it cannot be stopped."

At that comment the wizard and the elf both looked back at their friend with such solemn and sorrowful expressions that the Man caught his breath and suddenly felt a huge fool. Had he just been lecturing immortals on the nature of Arda? Between them these two had likely seen more in the way of alteration than was recorded in all the histories of human life to date.

They had made their way through splashing and sucking steps to the heart of the little depression, and a small black-water pool did indeed grace the site. The old cypress trees knelt right in the liquid, stretching out their long limbs across the water's surface; a plane so motionless it might have been solid, a huge mirror reflecting the moss draped branches and knobby gnarled knees jutting up among the rushes at the edges of the pool. It was so still and silent that it almost seemed a place apart, removed from the regular realm of the forest's noisy wildlife altogether. It was a calming kind of quietness, and the beauty of the place was undeniable.

Aragorn did not allow the enchantment of the serene environment to deter him long, however, for he was eager to get cleaned up and tend to the elf's injuries. He found a reasonably solid patch of land and set down his pack and Legolas' weapons and motioned for the wizard to bring him over. He cautiously lifted the elf's long hair to see the scrapes and Legolas winced as the pared patch of scalp was exposed. The Man and the Maia both wrinkled up their faces in sympathetic grimaces.

"This water will probably burn a bit, for it is filled with the fermenting decay from the leaves and ferns. Nonetheless, you need to get in it and remove all the dirt from the spiders, Legolas, or these gashes and gouges will not heal up well," Aragorn instructed. He returned to his pack to see how much of the soothing salve remained and looked up when the elf gasped as he resurfaced from his dive under the tannin saturated liquid.

Legolas stood up, howled at the pressure on the ankle, over balanced and splashed back under. He was soon joined in the pool as the wizard and the mortal both stripped off and plunged in as well. Neither seemed very pleased with the brash bite of the brown water and sluiced themselves off as quickly as they could. Legolas was already out and shivering on the bank when they hauled themselves to shore.

As he had predicted, each of his companions had extra clothing among their belongings and quickly redressed themselves. Legolas was not so lucky and had to put back on the tattered and much mended leggings, now begrimed with the stench of the spiders' remains. He watched as Aragorn approached with the small jar and recognized the scent with a suddenness that almost made him exclaim.

"What is that concoction, Aragorn? How did you get it, for I have been treated with it before," he asked, curious.

"My father makes it; he is a healer."

"Yet that explains nothing, unless you can tell me that elves now train Men to heal other elves."

"It works as well on Men, though it takes longer as does any remedy for my kind. And as for being trained in healing, I have found the elves at home more than happy to share such knowledge with me. I cannot speak for other humans or other Realms." As he talked he gently applied the cooling lotion and was gratified by the ease this gave his friend, and he could almost swear the growth of the new skin was visible.

But Aragorn sighed and looked over at Gandalf, for he felt he could no longer withhold the truth from Legolas. The wizard nodded his approval; they would have to get to the bottom of it and now was as good a time as any. He was especially interested to find out how the Wood Elf had met Erestor.

"Legolas, you asked before about this, and I would not answer because I did not want you to turn against me. It is because I am from Imladris, and the Brown wizard told us elves from there have harmed you," Aragorn said bluntly.

Legolas stared, incredulous, and found he could not generate any anger, only surprise and a peculiar emptiness. What the Imladrians had caused he did not want to start thinking about again, and hoped that if he concentrated on the irregularity of a human living in an elven realm he could just keep it from seeping back into his mind. It was impossible, however, for Imladris made him think of Elrond and that caused him to think of his father. He moaned despairingly and Gandalf came over immediately to his side.

"Legolas, you mentioned Erestor when you were just back from the fighting. Tell me what part he has played in all these troubles, for I will see him brought before Elrond to answer for it," he said.

"He is just a healer and a spy." Legolas shrugged listlessly; he could not really remember what Erestor had to do with it and did not want to. "He both helped and hurt. I cannot understand him at all! I know not what else he is involved in, or what Elrond actually intended him to do. They were attempting to turn me against my own; you know all about their thoughts on the Ring. Why they felt I would help them break into Thranduil's vaults I know not; except that they must think very lowly of me, indeed." These words were spoken with pained exasperation and then the elf fell silent.

But Aragorn and Gandalf looked at each other with confusion.

"Legolas, forgive me, I do not mean to contradict you. But Erestor of Imladris is not a healer," said Aragorn. "If they were spies, as you say, I suspect they lied about themselves, probably to impress you with their importance in hopes to sway you more easily. Describe this false-named elf, for I have lived in the Last Homely House nearly all my life and will likely recognize him."

Tbc.


	35. Chapter 35

**Thavron ah Aran **[Carpenter and King]

Alone in the room where the tumultuous session had met at dawn, the Woodland King walked silently around the chamber's boundaries, deep in thought and lost in the knowledge he had gained. It was a serious slip, this lack of comprehension for his dispossessed heir's growing popularity. Thranduil did not try to deny or rationalize the failure. Someone had found a flaw in the carefully crafted blueprint of his regency and was cleverly manipulating events to maximize the trouble this would cause. Within his mind wheeled a list of names, a handful of elves that might individually be merely irritants, burrs upon the hide, yet when subtly combined could represent a more serious threat to his dominion.

In general, it was easy to keep malcontents within the Realm under control. A stint guarding the southern borders quickly changed most elves' perspectives on the value of Thranduil's regency. These champions of a return to the days of unstructured self-governance immediately understood the need for a well-trained and highly disciplined army under a central authority. The cost for maintaining this force no longer seemed so high, and indeed these nay-sayers tended to become the most vocal in requesting for the warriors the best their King's wealth could afford.

The few who remained staunch in their disapproval usually had strong ties to kin in Lorien and were apt to contrast the two Realms' defensive capabilities; an unrealistic comparison at best. Maltahondo came to mind instantly, and his motives were the easiest to predict. Devoted to Ningloriel, the warrior had barely been able to control his urge to openly challenge Thranduil each and every time the couple's altercations flared. The Woodland King was certain it was only Ningloriel's demand that he refrain from open aggression that prevented this. With the Queen gone, Maltahondo would bear a monumental grudge and would have no need to restrain his desire for revenge. It was also well known that no one else in the Realm would have equal ability to influence the fallen prince. Thranduil knew Legolas idolized the guardsman and had since his elfling days.

_And now this carpenter joins the roster!_

Thranduil had already learned much of Fearfaron's background from Meril at their evening meal. It was surprising to note the changes showing forth in the formerly contented and complacent craftsman since the 12th year Edinor-en-Baudh [Anniversary of the Judgement]. Thranduil knew that he had withdrawn his complaint, claiming his son had been Released by Legolas. It was this testimony more than any other gossip or news from the woodsmen that had turned the Wood Elves in favour of the fallen prince. Now the carpenter had several Councilors, including Iarwain, eager to back the outcast and the King's own promise to assist the Tawarwaith! What Fearfaron planned to do with this power was completely beyond Thranduil's comprehension. Thus, he had summoned the carpenter to this very chamber at tinnu.

_How is it that I failed to observe the shift of opinion and the addition of new players into the game_?

Thranduil sighed and shook his head. He need not wonder, truly, for it was obvious what had held his interest of late. His preoccupation with his improved home-life had hindered his normal vigilance, and though a new heir was essential he should not have been lulled into such a complacent state of mind. It was just that he had not expected the domestic situation to be pleasurable in more than a physical sense, and barring the bitterness of Lindalcon, the Woodland King found his experiences with his consort to be thoroughly fulfilling.

Thranduil found himself hopelessly in love with Meril.

The son of Oropher was not of a nature given to lightheartedness or optimism, not since the end of the last Age. Although he made every effort to lessen the gloom for his subjects he had never been restored from the devastating loss of his father and kin. The profane marriage to Ningloriel had certainly not helped matters. Now that he was free of that encumbrance Thranduil rediscovered what it meant to smile for joy. In the intimate jubilation of their relationship he had pushed aside some of the more troubling situations accosting his Realm, and missed the emergence of this threat.

By his reckoning, it was not the disinherited archer who posed this menace. He had never noted anything even faintly resembling ambition in the unassuming warrior. Thranduil tried to recall some detail about Legolas that would indicate subterfuge or scheming, and nothing rose to the forefront of his mind. The only distinguishing characteristics of the outcast that presented to Thranduil's thought were of tireless dedication to mastery of the bow, a quiet and unobtrusive manner, distinctly aloof, completely bored by political matters.

_No, he is not the source of this dilemma, merely a tool, a dupe exploited for furthering the designs of other's acquisitive goals_.

The main competitors remained unchanged, this he did not doubt. Among the Eldar there remained only himself, Galadriel, and Elrond with even a remnant of the strength of the First and Second Ages. Cirdan he discounted, judging him more an emissary from Aman than a Lord among the Teleri. Of the three, Thranduil held the greatest lands and ruled the most populous Realm.

That Elrond had lusted for more than his wife Thranduil long had known, yet it was certainly Ningloriel who had drawn the Noldo's eye to the Greenwood. The Lord of Imladris had scorned the forest as wild and ragged, dark and oppressive until she informed him of the natural defenses of the woods and the innate ability of the Sylvan folk to manipulate these forces. In retrospect, Elrond must have noticed the courage and bravery of the Woodland elves as they played out their doomed part in the Last Alliance. The value of such an army at his command would not have escaped the Elven Lord's remark.

At what point in time the Noldo half-elf, as unofficial heir to Gil-Galad's ill-fated heritage, had decided he was the rightful leader of such an independent and long enduring people Thranduil could not guess. That Elrond wanted to annex the Greenwood to Imladris was blatant, having fathered an illegitimate child to secure a link to the Danwaith through Ningloriel.

_A bond I thought had been completely undermined!_

For the Peredhel, the matter was a deeply personal one, Thranduil knew. It was as though the High King's Herald desired nothing less than the absolute destruction of everything associated with Oropher's House. In some bizarrely warped fashion, the Noldo Lord had managed to twist Thranduil's loss of his brothers and father into an act of purposeful aggression upon Gil-Galad and Elrond's House.

Exactly how the sacrifice of more than two-thirds of Greenwood's immortal lives for the common cause of defeating Sauron translated as a directed attack upon Erendl's line, Thranduil had never been able to fathom. It was an irrational belief that spawned an inarticulate and virulent rage, and over time the Woodland King had come to feel the Peredhel must be under the subtle influence of Vilya.

_The Ring of Power wields the wearer, not the other way round_.

By association with Ningloriel, a host of spying trades-people, and various emissaries, Elrond learned much of what occurred inside Greenwood's borders. He constantly sought means to instigate confrontation between the Woodland Realm and Imladris. When the incursion of Orcs from Dol Guldur advanced too closely, forcing the Wood Elves to withdraw beyond the central region, Elrond accused Thranduil of disrupting trade routes and abandoning the human inhabitants.

_An absolute lie_!

Elrond implied that the Woodland King forced the migration of Orcs into the Misty Mountains where they accosted travelers. The Lord of Imladris just managed to suppress openly accusing Thranduil of complicity in Celebrian's assault.

_An unconscionable denigration made by a cousin to kinslayers_!

The Noldo held that Thranduil was either unwilling or unable to keep the Forest Road safe, thereby cutting off the folk of Dale and Erebor from the free lands to the west. Thranduil was aware that Elrond had discussed all this with Galadriel and had even brought these matters before the White Council, sessions to which he had not been invited to participate.

The Wood Elf King was incapable of determining which was more insulting: that Elrond considered him too dense to know about all this plotting or that he was deemed an ineffective leader, unfit to rule the Danwaith.

_And what of the reigning Queen of the Golden Wood, keeper of Nenya_?

Had Galadriel dared now to consider extending her borders as well? The Lady was not to be trusted, being part of the Noldo horde that invaded Alqualonde and massacred the Teleri dwelling there in peace. Oropher had counseled against any dealings with her, preferring to distance his people from Lorien as soon as she pushed Nenya past her knuckles. Yet, Thranduil had never found evidence that she looked north from Caras Galadon with avaricious designs.

It was his impression that the population of her lands was falling, more and more of the Sylvan folk departing for Valinor. What need could she have of more territory when she barely had troops enough to defend Lorien? Would she defy the peace between the free kingdoms and instigate this uprising? Was it that she did not wish Elrond to gain the Greenwood for himself and thus attain so sizable an influence in Middle Earth?

Or could the Lord of Imladris and the Lady of the Golden Wood be allies in such an undertaking? Would Maltahondo and Fearfaron cast their fate with Noldor elves, hoping to wrest the regency from Thranduil and place Legolas in his stead?

Thranduil drew his arched brows together in a forbidding scowl. That would be difficult to counteract; yet his instincts said this was not the case. Maltahondo might ally with Galadriel, but not Elrond, for he too had lost kin in the Last Alliance and would not look favorably on Imladris' Lord. And somehow Thranduil believed Fearfaron would trust neither of the High Elves.

_No, there are too many inconsistencies; the four are not collaborators_.

Still, the idea could not be discarded for the lust for power was an age-old vice among the Noldor, and even Thingol had fallen due to the same greed at the end. And now the Dark Lord returned his gaze to the forest as well.

_The Greenwood has become a much-coveted land of late_! _What does Sauron seek among the old trees?_ the Wood Elf King wondered, for he was not fool enough to believe that the vengeful Dark Maia would desire the overthrow of the Greenwood for the purpose of obtaining lands and slaves. Why was the Sindar's adopted home suddenly so much more than a grove of ancient trees peopled by Moriquendi? When had his lands gained this wider appreciation?

Thranduil had an uneasy feeling that none of the factors thus far considered addressed the true nature of what was happening in his woods. The Wood Elves' part was undefined, the only clear concept the King could grasp was that his subjects were being surreptitiously directed, the events taking place neatly fit the prophecies of the superstitious Sylvans too well. Yet what could the High Noldo elves know of such beliefs? And why would Sauron care to employ such subtlety when he clearly preferred brute force? An unseen hand was shifting the board and altering the available moves in the game. Something completely different was taking place.

_Even if I suspect my old Noldor foes are involved, I doubt even Galadriel can foresee the role these Danwaith may take! If I cannot guess the turn of their hearts, who else could predict what these forest folk will do next?_ he wondered. Yet even as he walked under the center of the room his eyes gave him the answer. It was all around him, ingrained in the halls of the stronghold he had built, part of the walls and floors themselves.

The Council Chamber was one of the largest and most luminous of all the formal rooms in his stronghold. The high vault of the cavern's ceiling was intricately buttressed with beams of oak and beech that fit into meticulously carved slots within the wall rock and the stone columns that carried the overburden of the mountainside. These gracefully curved, complexly interwoven beams formed a symmetrical array that supported the bare stone and allowed secure, accessible anchor points for the oil lamps.

The light was kept on two levels, to supply the huge room with illumination and to display the very ceiling, which was itself a work of great beauty. The stone layer into which the roof was cut was a dark rock of fine-grained yet vesicular texture within which had grown individual crystals of clear dog's-tooth calcite. Each section of the rock between the arms of the beams represented a portion of the sky and its scattering of stars, just as it had been when first looked upon by the Eldar. This replica had been creatively defined by selective removal of individual gems. When only the higher lamps were lit, the facetted stones captured and refracted the light, filling the cavern with an almost tangible mist of twilight. Thus, many stars lost even to elven sight at the creation of Anor and Ithil were preserved, and to be in this room one came closest to understanding the sense of wonder possessed by the Quendi upon first awakening.

Because it was also one of the most visited courts within the King's fortress, the degree of artistic effort expended to make the room representative of the Sylvan culture was more pronounced here. The rock hewn walls and columns were carved in relief and highly polished. The natural variation in the mineralogical composition lent a distinctive series of colored bands that repeated from floor to ceiling in shades of green, golden yellow, pale reds, darkest blacks and bronzes, and cleanly speckled whites. Within each band a frieze depicted an important myth, legend, or event in the history of the Eldar that had dwelt here since before the First Age. Here were images of Cuivinen and stories of the early encounters with Orom as well as the first infringements by Melkor's thwarting will.

Painstakingly exact were the likenesses of the elves depicted for these were faces named and known to the Wood Elves and close kin to many. Some had fallen in their dire struggles with Melkor and his minions, and though these tales of the brave and bold were not recorded in letters the deeds survived fully in song. Likewise the growth and bearing of individual trees was documented, and the importance of the Greenwood as a living witness of all that befell the Sylvan folk was clearly emphasized. Distinct beeches, oaks, myrtles and ashes were recognizable; one could walk out into the forest and meet the progeny of these old ones upon the pathways. Where trees had met death at evil's doing, the ground that had harbored them in life became hallowed.

The appearances of the Valar were given a bodily form like that of elf-kind yet with eerily featureless faces, save only Orom. Not even Yavanna and Aul had walked among the First Born of the Greenwood, and so the Sylvan folk knew not what countenance to give these beings. It was no wonder the Wood Elves rarely considered these Powers as a part of Arda, and definitely could not feel a bond unto them, sheltered and hidden in Valinor.

No inscriptions or text either painted or chiseled accompanied the figures. Any visiting the salon would be able to comprehend the complexity of the existence of the Danwaith, whether the guest was literate in Sindarin or not. Few that entered the room realized that the stronghold itself was a young structure, for the length of the history exhibited was vast in comparison to that of the other free peoples of Arda. Indeed, even among the Eldar, no other Realm could claim so long a tale to tell; for the settling of Greenwood occurred at the time of the Great Journey. Long had the Danwaith dwelled there even before Thingol became King in Doriath.

_It is a form of worship these Wood Elves maintain for their forest home. They would do, and have braved, anything to protect what is here, for it is the very substance of their existence. Thus will they behave in future, and such zeal can be pushed to extremes. Casting Legolas as this forest champion is a clever strategy, playing upon their faith in Tawar to generate unwavering loyalty for the fallen prince!_

Upon one section of the chamber the stone wall was sanded smooth with no sculpting work, and here was mounted an ancient map inked on the thick, yellowed skin of an elk, fully the width of an adult elf's arm span with both limbs extended. Thranduil's turn around the room had brought him here, and he stopped to examine the artifact.

Elegantly wrought and finely illustrated, in addition to the principle plan there were two insets showing information on the three divisions of Doriath, for the diagram was of Beleriand as it was of old. Within the margins of the drawing, near the enlargement of the forest of Neldoreth, a less artistic yet meticulous hand had augmented the map with another picture at a later time. The carefully detailed depiction was inscribed with personal remarks that named specific points of interest and identified the route and itinerary of a great journey, for the tale told of the Sindar retreat across Ered Luin at the end of the First Age. The writing was that of Oropher, and marked his point of origin in the far eastern corner of Neldoreth.

"Today I looked for the last time upon my birthplace. We will never return here, for Arda is corrupted and Neldoreth has foreseen her demise, drowned beneath a great flood of the Sea. We will settle among her brethren across the Mountains, where also are my kin of old." Thranduil read his father's words aloud and felt the presence and the strength of Oropher envelope him briefly, fading away even as the echoes of his speech diminished.

"It was because of Neldoreth that we welcomed your people here," the quiet voice spoke behind him and Thranduil turned to find the carpenter standing at his shoulder. "Iarwain said Greenwood was overjoyed to have Oropher return to his Sylvan brothers."

"Iarwain welcomed my father's army! He is longsighted enough to have held concern for his home's defenses even then!" Thranduil snapped. "Let us be clear, Fearfaron; this discussion is to remain free of the usual religious ranting I must endure from the Council! I wish to know who is involved in this plot to remake Legolas into a challenger to my authority, nothing more!"

"I do not know what you mean by that," the carpenter said and frowned. "Legolas has no such interest."

"That I do not doubt!" the King scoffed with a deprecating laugh. "He has never shown any propensity for leadership! However, many others do entertain that desire, and someone seeks to use him to this end. You are involved! Say now who else plays this game and no charges will you face!"

"I fear not your charges; bring them! Better to face such lies openly than to bear reprisals spawned of a silent and unwarranted hatred! Gladly will I face the Council rather than be sent away to be slaughtered in battle!"

"You speak treacherous words, carpenter!"

"Can you even stand to hear your own voice? You are the traitor! How did Annaldr earn such a terrible end; was he not loyal to your commands, even when they served only yourself? What did Legolas ever do to you to deserve this horrendous fate?"

"Your son was a warrior and knew his calling usually brings death! Annaldr's valour was his undoing; he volunteered to contest against the goblin guards! As for Legolas, you need not any reply from me; everyone in the Realm and beyond knows he is not of my blood!"

"How easily you dismiss honour and fealty! Annaldr's death served a cause I doubt you even comprehend! And the heritage carried in Legolas' blood was naught of his design! An innocent you had under your protection and all you cared for was your exalted pride!"

"Enough! I owe no explanations to you! You seek to divert the matter from yourself! Who is involved in this little uprising?" Thranduil thundered out his wrathful demand upon the mild woodland craftsman, but Fearfaron was unmoved.

If ever he had felt worry for this meeting, the carpenter knew no concerns for himself now. He need only recall the last time he had seen Legolas and how close the archer had come to death for his anger to be fired and any trepidation squelched. He stood before his king calmly, arms folded across his chest, and glared back with confident fortitude born of his just righteousness.

"You misunderstand what is happening. None here are trying to take your throne away from you, Thranduil! Nor will any of the Wood Elves suffer a foreign ruler unsanctioned by Tawar," he said quietly. "As for who is helping Legolas survive, that is no mystery. There are but three in all of Arda that care for his well being: Mithrandir, Aiwendil, and myself. The real intrigue lies in discerning who is trying to destroy him."

Thranduil regarded the carpenter silently, shocked by the familiar use of his given name from so humble a citizen. He mulled over the carpenter's bold demeanor and candid observations; the implication was inescapable: Fearfaron held no respect for his Lord. What knowledge had precipitated this blatant insubordination? Had Fearfaron merely guessed the truth or was there a more potent source of information willing to come forward and tell the tale? The Woodland King decided caution was required.

"It is the Law of your own people that has condemned him! Again I say to you, your words hint at treasonous charges against your King!"

"I will do more than hint, then!" Fearfaron snorted derisively, for now he knew his suppositions were correct: Thranduil had purposefully placed Legolas in the path of death. The carpenter daringly pressed his advantage. "In fact, I am confident that Talagan would add his own account of the actual events at Erebor!"

Thranduil narrowed his eyes as an unpleasant smile graced the cruelty of his cold countenance, and Fearfaron knew the stalwart captain was not the accomplice he sought.

"You betray your ignorance of Talagan! His family and mine are devoted to one another! He would never stomach a Noldo's bastard to sit in power over his kin! You should read the history of the Last Alliance and find out the names of those who were lost there!"

"And you should open your eyes! There is not a drop of Noldorin blood in Legolas' body! He is a Wood Elf! Even worse, it is your ignorance that has created this situation. Had you bothered to learn more about our 'religious ranting' you would have known there were other means to ensure your heir was indeed your own seed. There was never a hindrance to taking a consort other than your misplaced pride! This is not Beleriand, Thranduil, and we are not Sindar! It was not necessary to prove faithlessness; Ningloriel's refusal to lie with you was more than sufficient reason to seek another mate!"

The stunned expression flittering through the Sinda's eyes gave Fearfaron the satisfaction of scoring a cutting blow, but it was an empty victory unless he could move the King, by either fear or honest remorse, to rescind the Judgement and admit Legolas into the community.

"Who?" asked the King, unable to mouth more than this one thought. His mind whirled in a flurry of confusion, anger, and grudging admiration for Ningloriel. She had so easily learned to play his prejudices against him, maintaining her power and prestige by withholding this information! Thranduil would have chosen a willing consort before Legolas was out of infant's cloths had he known this option was open to him.

Fearfaron turned his eyes away for a moment in disgust. Was this all the selfish King could think of, which elf Ningloriel had bedded in his place? How could Tawar allow so arrogant and uncaring a ruler to lead them; one who scorned the very people he sought to govern, refusing even to understand their ways and beliefs. So many centuries among the Sylvan elves and yet Thranduil still held himself distinct and superior by virtue of his Sindarin heritage.

"I cannot answer you, Thranduil, for it is not my place to name names. I would not betray Legolas just to satisfy your curiosity; indeed I would not betray the Tawarwaith if my very life hung in the balance, for he is as dear to me as my own child. He does not deserve the fate you have dealt him!"

"It is not as I intended," Thranduil responded quietly as he returned his gaze to the map. The carpenter had given him much to think on, none of it pleasant. Most galling was the knowledge that he could have been spared immeasurable of misery with Ningloriel had he consulted the Council.

It did not occur to him that this same knowledge would have saved Legolas from an unendurable destiny.

He could clearly see now that his disdain of the Wood Elves had been avenged upon him. Oropher had chided him for his disregard of Sylvan ways, he remembered well, yet with two older brothers Thranduil had never expected to rule, and thus never tried to temper his contempt. He had been vocal in his criticism of his father's adherence to local customs and openly stated what changes he would make were the decisions his to enact. Once forced to take command, he had insulated himself from the Council, seeking only the advice of the remaining Sindar warriors as he tried to remake the Woodland Realm into something more reminiscent of Doriath.

And failed utterly.

Legolas became a living symbol of his inadequacy, and the idea had grown in Thranduil's mind that if he could remove this embarrassment he could reclaim the dignity he was due as King.

{_Even in this I have failed_.}

"No doubt you merely intended his death!" Fearfaron hissed, recalling Thranduil from his bitter musings.

"I say again, to you I owe no explanations. What proof can you bring of your allegations that your Council would hear?"

"No more than you can summon to back yours against me!" Fearfaron rejoined.

"So, we appear to be stalemated, carpenter!" the King sneered. "I will not lift the rule of your Laws; Legolas must complete his sentence. Yet neither will I break my spoken words, if he survives he shall have what aid my troops can give, and need not want for provision in future. The better to keep him under scrutiny and discover who is spinning this web of insurgency!"

It was not enough, but it was at least a concession and offered hope to Fearfaron. He gave the Sinda Lord a curt nod and turned to leave, but Thranduil's words stopped him.

"How can you be so certain the Noldo Lord is not his father?" he demanded. "Does Legolas know the truth; has he confided in you?"

"Legolas believes what your constant accusations of his mother taught him! For now, that is an easier lie for him to bear than the truth!" Fearfaron snarled over his shoulder, not even bothering to face the King as he resumed his retreat from the room.

As he passed from the chamber, Fearfaron saw one of the guards approaching, escorting a human from a village far to the south beyond the Gladden Fields. The man recognized him and hurried forward with relief clear upon his troubled features, for it was to Fearfaron he had asked to be taken, having found him not in the customary spot by the Sentinel. Every step closer to the stronghold of the King had raised the man's dread to a higher level, for he deemed the missive he carried to Thranduil would lead to reprisals upon his people for accepting the aid of Imladris.

"Be at ease!" the man spoke to quell the fear he knew the carpenter could not name. "He was alive when I left the village and I have a letter here from him. But strange elves have come to Greenwood seeking him, and Tirno is in trouble."

These words chilled Fearfaron's soul and he snatched the small folded parchment from the woodsman's outstretched hand just for the consolation of feeling the remnant of Legolas' touch upon it.

The carpenter thanked the elven guard and hastily led the distraught messenger away across the courtyard. A sense of eyes upon him called his vision back toward the stronghold where he beheld Thranduil's cold stare watching them depart. Whatever news Fearfaron learned the Woodland King would demand to have knowledge of as well, and would not flinch at interrogating the flustered human, forcefully if necessary. Fearfaron sighed; it would have been better for him to censor the information and deliver it himself, but this was now impossible. Thranduil would never let this mortal return to his home until full disclosure was made.

Fearfaron halted and turned the man about, resolutely leading him to the chamber of starlight.

Tbc.


	36. Chapter 36

**Gûr Gweriant** [Inner most feelings betrayed.]

'_Believe! I assure you it does not benefit me to reveal to you that two of Imladris' most respected citizens are lurking about Mirkwood! I have no reason to place myself in jeopardy by granting such knowledge to the son of our enemy!'_

Legolas recalled these words with the full realization of the actual events themselves. The sound of the rain, the feel of the cold water pouring over him endlessly, the marrow deep weariness and hunger threatening to subdue him, his unexpended rage and barely suppressed desire jolted to life by Berenaur's invasive, unwelcome groping. He could detect the smell of the wet earth mixed with the odor of exotic blooms, into which was woven the specific scent of Erestor's musky male allure.

_I should never have taken such an admission at face value_!

He could see Erestor wrapped loosely in the woolen blanket, allowing a glimpse of toned and supple pectorals, his long black hair pulled, wet and heavy, over his right shoulder. There was the stern arch of his brows, softened by mild amusement at Legolas' surprise and obvious awe in the presence of so renowned yet mysterious a legend. That dangerous glint in the Noldo's dark and bottomless eyes, so sharp and cunning and yet somehow admiring Legolas as they bore into his, demanding knowledge of the wild elf's soul. A slight upturn at the corners transformed his thin alizarin lips into an almost-smirk as he regarded Legolas. Those long and exquisite fingers so casually gripped the loose ends of the covering; healer's hands that would paradoxically cause the archer hurt and harm.

_He called me full of contradictions!_

Legolas instantly knew he could not give such a description without also allowing more of his true feelings to show through the words than he intended these two to comprehend. Mithrandir understood about the revelation regarding Malthen, and Legolas feared he had thought far enough into the matter to guess at the rest of the betrayal. The closeness of their bond since the night of his grieving made such perception that much more probable.

The Man, however, could have no such ability to gauge the situation. He hoped this was so; Aragorn's healing gift was strong for one not of elven blood, yet surely he could not read the hearts of those he touched, as Erestor had delved the Tawarwaith's.

_No, there is no doubt the Noldo is a physician_. Legolas thought, recalling how easily his hopes and fears had been discovered and turned against him, flung back upon him to inflict new strife, forcing him to acknowledge appalling doubts as facts. The healer had done this, he realized, whenever the archer had begun to feel at ease with the two spies.

That thought renewed Legolas' anger, for this was a severe perversion of such a gift.

"I assure you, Aragorn, that this elf is a healer, whatever his name is! Are there so many in Imladris that I need to detail his appearance?" the sharpness of these words sliced through the lethargic mere-fumed air with enough vehemence to cause the two travelers to exchange their concern across the fallen prince's head.

Aragorn, still crouching beside Legolas, reached out and lifted the swollen ankle to inspect it in an effort to distract his friend from the open distress this conversation was causing.

"How did you do this?" he asked quietly, gently palpating the bruises to make sure no breaks were hidden within. "The skin is seared, almost! Here is also a deep cut; I know not how you walked upon this foot!"

"Ai!" Legolas jerked under the pressure and tried to pull his leg away, but Aragorn held firmly to his calf and continued the examination. "I was caught by a silk web as I was jumping from one branch to another, and it ended my forward motion rather abruptly so that the full weight of my body was yanked to a halt in mid-flight. To free myself, it was necessary to shear it off my skin, thus the abrasion you see, and the puncture was incised because I had not the luxury of taking my time about it!"

Aragorn merely gave a non-committal grunt as this was said, reaching instead for his pack and a strip of linen bandaging to bind the ankle firmly.

"Legolas, please tell us of this healer from Imladris," Mithrandir's words were softly spoken but demanded an immediate response nonetheless.

The wizard did not think there was any use in prolonging the misery this retelling was certain to bring Legolas. He leaned over and squeezed the elf's shoulder supportively, and as before the physical contact invoked the internal merger. The mental image of the Lord of Imladris flashed across the Istar's awareness, the vision overlaid with all the wild elf's loneliness and longing, desire and despair, wrath and regret. Gandalf gasped and stared into Legolas' eyes with shock and dread, snatching back his fingers as if the flesh of the elf scalded him. And the archer turned away as he closed his eyes against the wizard's visible aversion.

"Oh, this is, that is just, it is unspeakable! How could he be this vindictive?" the wizard nearly roared as he attempted to fit the foul realization into some logical framework, stalking back and forth a few turns across the sucking muddy clearing.

"What is it, Gandalf?" Aragorn rose also, alarmed. "Who is it?"

"Ah! How can I speak the words?" the Maia was distraught, but not more so than Legolas, who was now fully cognizant of his former lover's true identity, for the open-ended communication allowed dual exchange of awareness.

The fallen prince sat still, eyes shut tight, absently fingering the wrapping on the injured ankle as the name swirled through his mind: _Elrond_. It was an empty acuity, devoid of any sensations, detached from all meaning, removed from his reality. Legolas found this vaguely interesting; his mind must be so scandalized that his heart had extinguished all emotions, hiding them away to prevent any reaction to this new addition to his calumnious existence.

His sensitive fingertips ran along the overlapped edges of the linen binding, revealing to his abstracted brain the comforting repetition of the pattern formed by the herringbone weave. The design faded and then he could no longer feel the cloth beneath his touch.

It seemed as though he was beyond his own being, outside of his vital flesh and bones, watching a cornered animal desperately scrambling to get away from a converging barrage of lethal arrow fire, aimed not to kill but to penetrate and incapacitate body and limbs. The creature resolved into a hazy caricature of himself, the attackers none other than his Noldor acquaintances. The futility of such flight lent the imagined scene a bizarre humour, a galling, gagging mirth caused by the frantic turning and scurrying of the hapless prey as the arrows continued to pierce and slice, for the foolish beast in its ignorance was at one and the same time running from the assault towards the very predators assailing him.

'_Legolas, do you know who those two elves are?_' Aiwendil's words drifted through the little play, underscoring the grotesquely mocking images.

A harsh blast of laughter broke from him as he watched the internal struggle. The sheer hilarity of the situation was all he could encompass.

_ 'It has been five years since we initiated the contingence, and our informants lost track of him over two years ago.' _ Elrond's explanation for his presence in the Greenwood replayed through Legolas' consciousness_. So, that was right after Naneth left for Valinor. He took time to plan out this escapade carefully._

He could imagine it, the great Noldo Lord plotting with his comrade, arguing over who would be first to taste the spoils of their victory, leaving the comfort and security of their own lands to hunt down and take possession of the last remaining shreds of Legolas' hope and innocence, immolating both in the mercurial heat of their carnal acts. It was astoundingly ridiculous that he had been the center of all Elrond's activities yet had not gained the sort of importance he had hoped to have in the noble Elda's life.

"Elrond! He hates me far more than Thranduil ever will." Legolas managed to speak, answering in Gandalf's stead, amazed with the recognition the words represented even as the sounds were formed and floated free into the still and rancid air.

"What did you say?" demanded Aragorn, turning to stare at the elf, who still struggled to contain the brash peals of laughter that kept sneaking out between his lips and past his nose.

Suddenly he stopped laughing and opened his eyes to look at Aragorn, and the next words from his mouth poured out the story of his encounters with the two Noldor elves, admitting his impassioned intimacy with both, for why bother to withhold what Mithrandir already knew? Legolas spared them only the explicit descriptions of the couplings, for he could not bring himself to admit to them his body's responsiveness to these seductions. It was enough to acknowledge that he had allowed these things to occur. He was completely debased and despoiled, better for the human to understand and thus decide if he should wish to continue his association with such depravity incarnate.

And in the speaking, the events became lacquered with the fine varnish of the Noldo Lord's deeply held abhorrence for him, so obvious now, so clearly evident in those terrible phrases and cruel caresses. It was as if the power of his own being left Legolas' body with the phrases, imbuing them with vitality and giving them form and substance. The memories took on life anew and the days he spent with the two Imladrians insinuated back into his universe, warped with the ugly veneer of his lack of intrinsic value in their world. Thus Legolas' own voice wounded him, and the full impact of the truth forced itself upon his mind, a rape of the soul far exceeding the brutality even Ailinyéro had conjured.

The Man sank down onto the spongy, peaty ground next to Legolas, unable to tear his eyes away from the feral elf's as this sordid tale unfolded, incapable of covering his ears to prevent the knowledge from becoming his own, powerless to stop his mind from generating graphic images to accompany the recitation. He simply could not reconcile these scenes with the concept he held to be Elrond of Imladris, his father in all ways but blood, kind and honourable counselor to everyone that sought him, generous and welcoming benefactor to any in need of shelter and respite from the woes of the darkening world.

Yet neither could Aragorn deny the ruthless honesty in the wild warrior's recount, so fraught with anguish, splintering the bright immortal spirit with every declaration. Aragorn glanced up to the wizard seeking some repudiation, some sense that this was not what his father had become, and failed to find it.

Gandalf looked old. It was not the physical representations of age, wrinkles and grayness, the washed out cast to skin and hair, that gave him his years this day, but the comprehension of the complete destruction of the fallen prince occurring even as he watched, impotent to stop it. When this day was done, the Legolas he knew would be no more, and he could see the fragments of the Tawarwaith's personality falling away with every syllable uttered like leaves from a dormant beech in autumn, only the stark, naked structure of the being left to survive the icy emptiness of winter's season to come.

Coupled to this loss was joined the simultaneous alteration of one the Maia had held in high regard. Never again could he look upon Elrond and see anything but the wreck he was accomplishing in this innocent's life, already so far from wholesome without his egregious interference. And what of Aragorn, for how could the Man come to terms with this aspect of his foster father's character when Gandalf, removed from bonds of affection and fealty, could not?

The Istar stood, a dim glimmer of the dynamic intensity he usually personified, considering how to treat the raw, calamitous wounds of the two in all of Arda he most dearly wished to protect, how to salvage something clean and good from the harrowing and repugnant mess. He could find nothing redeeming in this fate and silently cursed Vairë.

All was silent and Aragorn realized the elf had stopped speaking, all his words exhausted and the narrative completed. He turned back to gaze at Legolas. The mortal felt some action was expected from him, as a representative of the Peredhel House, yet paled at the idea of mouthing insufficient terms of apology and regret. Aragorn physically flinched at the tangible emptiness clothing the elf, a garment made too expertly to fit him, designed to expose all the weaknesses and vulnerabilities no one should ever have to reveal.

"Legolas, I know not what words to say; I believe your account is accurate and honest, yet I cannot bring myself to accept its conclusions," he began, shaking his bowed head.

"Well, it is not your choice to accept or deny. This is what I am," the Wood Elf responded acrimoniously, "so despicable a thing that I have lain in lust with my mother's lover; one who might even be my father, one I longed for centuries to claim me as his child!"

Both his friends experienced not for the first time Fearfaron's constant frustration: Legolas interpreted what he heard with an entirely unique set of personal definitions, all of them self-defeating.

"Do not say so!" Gandalf admonished as he knelt down next to them both. He reached again for Legolas; firmly resting his palm against his chest over the heart, knowing the elf could not doubt his sincerity if he felt it through an internal link to the wizard. "You did not know, or have any means to learn, who this Noldo truly is. The fault for these actions does not lie with you."

"Aye," added Aragorn quietly. "I meant only that my horror stems from this abominable abuse my father has done you, and I am loath to know these things, for I love him dearly."

_Ah, that is an unnecessary blow_! Legolas mentally cringed, as he comprehended Aragorn's admission.

The Man had been raised under the Elf Lord's care, had known his loving concern and thoughtful instruction. Elrond had shared the gift of healing with his human foster son and taught him the ways of elven lore, clothing him and feeding him, shielding him from harm through his young years, treating Aragorn with the same love undoubtedly granted to his blood offspring. A love Legolas had yearned for and been denied.

"I would have been satisfied with kind regard," he said aloud.

"You have more than that, Legolas! I have not changed in my opinion of your worth. I count you a most valorous friend," the Man protested, not privy to the interior rambling.

Gandalf knew the thoughts behind the statement, though, and encircled Legolas tightly, drawing him forcibly close. "Nay, it is not enough! Love you do deserve, and from many you have it, myself not the least of them, Legolas. Fearfaron holds you in his very center, right beside Annaldír and no less in importance; do not forget this."

"I wanted him to love me." This sentence reached decibels only scarcely within the auditory range of Legolas' friends, but they caught it none the less and knew he was not referring to the carpenter.

"When I was young," Aragorn sighed, "I often wished the same. I wanted him to bring you to live in our home."

This surprised the Wood Elf, that he had been known to the human, and it seemed odd to him for Aragorn to have been aware of his existence while he had never imagined the mortal's. His amazement must have been apparent for the Man offered a sad smile and continued.

"Yes, it is so. You were the subject of much gossip during my formative years, Legolas. My brothers and I argued for hours about what you might look like and how you would act. Elladan said Thranduil had named you his own and that was the end of it, but Elrohir was convinced you were a virtual prisoner in Mirkwood, treated more like an interloper than an heir."

From the agonized expression that passed across the wild elf's features, Aragorn discerned the younger twin's assessment had not been too far from the mark. He regretted the impromptu comment and floundered to soften the impact.

"Elrohir and I devised elaborate schemes to infiltrate the Woodland Realm's guard and spirit you away. He was quite convinced they would succeed, but Elladan would never let us act upon our wishes, threatening to tell Ad…to stop us."

Legolas could not help feeling warmly towards the human, who put aside his love and loyalty to his own father and accepted Legolas' words. The Wood Elf could sense that Aragorn closeted his disappointment and sorrow over the entire fiasco in order to attempt lightening the weight these events had deposited upon his friend's soul.

The mortal's frustration over inadvertently adding to the burden, despite his sympathetic intentions, was evident. Legolas gave Aragorn a faint smile that was more of the eyes than any facial expression. For it did help; somehow, to know that he had been of interest to someone in Imladris, and Legolas felt saddened for the hurt Elrohir would know when the Man retold this saga.

For his part, Gandalf was pleased with the distraction the Man's reflections offered Legolas. Obviously, life at Imladris had been an imaginary plane in the wild elf's dreamscapes for centuries, and he would be unable to resist having his curiosity satisfied. The wizard gave a strong comforting embrace and disengaged from Legolas, rising to gather up their belongings as the two talked.

"And the other Noldo?" Legolas needed to know, for he wanted to forgive Berenaur. He could see now that the advisor had desired to tell him everything, but could not manage it.

"That is Erestor; he has an infamous reputation for such - activities. He is one of only two my father would trust in such a plot. The other is Glorfindel of Gondolin, who would never be party to anything so base," said Aragorn and with an unpleasant jolt realized these were words he would formerly have used to describe Elrond's character.

Legolas slowly nodded. _Such a clever ploy; applying truth to clothe deception_.

They were all too fatigued from the physical strain of battle and the emotional turmoil of the unpleasant revelations to travel any further this day, but the wizard welcomed the limits of their physical forms. The fallen archer's raucous outburst of laughter earlier had been unsettling, for the situation was not comical in any manner. The Maia was convinced that lassitude was the only reason Legolas was yet so calm in the face of another treacherous infidelity against his encumbered spirit. It was a state he was sure would falter before very much time passed.

"Did he ever speak of me?" the elf was quietly inquiring, and Gandalf noted the refusal to utter the Elf Lord's name.

"Nay," was all Aragorn could say, and no more would he venture, for every thought he voiced served only to injure his friend more. Indeed, that single word fell as a weight of stone upon eggshells and Legolas withdrew inward, drawing up his knees and bowing his forehead against them.

"Legolas, this ground is damp and oozes. Is there any drier spot where we may set up camp and rest?" Mithrandir walked over to them, his arms full with packs, wet clothes and weapons, and looked down kindly at the elf.

Legolas lifted his head and stared at the Maia blankly. Mithrandir repeated his request with just the faintest of concern tinting both his tones and his smile. This time the archer nodded and hauled himself up, hopping a bit to steady his balance without placing too much weight on the injured ankle. His stilted lurching carried him a few paces closer to the pond and he gestured to a noble elder among the wood-clad folk of the fen, all its limbs hung with magnificent gray curtains of cloudy, ghostly moss.

"Here, there is a small talan up that hemlock, but a good ways high amid the branches. Give me those things; I will carry them up and you two may follow me. I am sure with care you both will manage well enough."

"I do not think so!" Aragorn rose also and quickly placed himself between the elf and the wizard, earning a deeply irritated scowl from the former.

"It is perfectly secure, as well as warm and dry. I built that flet myself!"

"No doubt it is a fine talan. I mean that you, who can barely stand, are not the one to be toting weapons and packs. Take your own things and we will see to ours."

"You are not skilled in this sort of climbing and the packs will hinder you. Better for me to drop something than for you to fall and break your back."

"I am not that incompetent, and Gandalf carried you down from a far greater height just hours ago. Lead, Legolas, and we will be right behind you," Aragorn said kindly and reached over to grip tightly around the elf's left arm, giving the simple words the underlying intent: his avowal to stand by the wild archer and face the aftermath of Elrond's acts against him.

Legolas gave a single nod and looked away, for he could not stare long into the mortal's genial visage without being overwhelmed by sorrow for what his life might have been. He limped his way to the tree and scrambled up with less grace and more heaviness in his limbs than was normal for one of the Eldar, and waited for them to join him. As they came within arm's length of the platform, he reached down to relieve them of their baggage and offer a hand up.

When all three were safely alite, he stood and made his way over to the little chest and pulled out a finely woven mat of river rushes and thin blankets as soft and light as silk but warm to the skin. A small wave of nausea moved through him and he sat down quickly, remembering the last time he had shared a talan with two companions, and he scurried to the edge to dispel the malignant rancor from him.

Before he could right himself and face his friends to explain, he found Mithrandir at his side, cautiously helping him sit up as Aragorn calmly handed over the water skin. They said nothing, and he was grateful, for he thought if they showed him pity he would lose all self-control and his mind would break.

Aragorn mixed another draught of the stomach cure and handed it over, but his face crinkled up in unrestrained revulsion as he did so. He covered his nose and mouth with his hand.

"I am sorry, Legolas, but now that we are up here and away from the odor of rot in the water below, the stench from the battle emitted by your clothes has become quite strong," he said apologetically. He was starting to feel the need to retch as well and grabbed the mug back from the elf, finishing the last of the tonic himself.

"Yes, it is bad," added Gandalf and affectionately patted the archer's knee as he observed the dismay clouding his eyes. The wizard took up one of the blankets, opening it out. "Wrap this round you and hand me those filthy things; I will hurry down and see what a scrub in the black water pond may accomplish."

Legolas rose unsteadily and backed away from him, stricken eyes trained upon the proffered covering, and turned to the tree's trunk, fully intent upon escape when Aragorn's firm grasp clamped round his wrist, determinedly pulling him back. The wild elf's rage swept through him in a flood of crimson from eartip to toes and he strained to rip his arm free, toppling the Man backward to the floor upon his rear.

Gandalf moved with a speed that belied his aged appearance and pinned the squirming elf to the tree trunk.

"Leave off!" the exiled prince finally shouted but Mithrandir did no such thing and remained calm, staring warily down upon his captive until he stilled, giving way to panting and violent tremors in the wake of his fleeting ire. Legolas gradually raised his eyes, feeling the Istar's upon him, and encountered there Mithrandir's generous empathy.

"I am sorry," Legolas mumbled, for he realized they did not comprehend the significance of this scenario and had only meant to make their stay in the close confines more tolerable. He allowed himself to slump into the wizard's arms, leaning his head against the soft, singed mass of the long grey beard and willed the Maia to have the understanding he could not speak of aloud.

"No apology needed, Legolas," Mithrandir pulled him tighter as he drew in a sharp breath, for the scenes were unbearable to witness even in the abbreviated form the archer condoned. He labored to control his emotions, determined for Legolas to comprehend that his disgust for Elrond was not a personal denigration of the wild warrior's character.

"Let us reverse roles then; I will have the blanket and you can wear my outer robe, at least until those leggings are clean and dried. Will that serve?" the Maia asked gently, satisfied when Legolas finally raised his head and nodded.

Aragorn watched with compassionate amusement from his spot on the floor as the two made their wardrobe exchange, and even chuckled a little to see the elf swamped in the thick flowing robe of the Istar. Yet Legolas did not smile, and when he lowered himself to the mat he stretched full out; in seconds his eyelids dropped down and he fell into uneasy repose.

Gandalf frowned and took up the leggings, leaving the blanket until his chore was finished. Clad in only his thin, thigh-length chemise and a simple loincloth, he descended through the branches. When he returned he draped the dripping breeches over a nearby branch, wrapped himself in the blanket, and took his seat next to Aragorn.

"What are we to do?" Aragorn queried. "I am torn between forcing him into a deeper sleep and fear that should I do so he would not wake again."

"I will yield to your skills in the matter, for I have no advice to offer. Aiwendil, perhaps, could confer with you on herb lore and make appropriate suggestions. As to the rest of it, I can see no other course than to bring this before the Council of the Wise. Elrond must be held accountable, even though you love him devotedly and I have up to now looked upon him with friendship," the wizard said.

Aragorn recoiled from this eventuality, for he dreaded to see his foster-father thus exposed in what he felt must be some form of grief-born insanity.

"I do not understand how no one suspected what was happening to him," he murmured dejectedly.

"Elrond is not a victim!" Gandalf said sharply. "These are choices he has made, Aragorn, not some unforeseen force manipulating him. Even if we may acknowledge the tragedies of his long life, none of those are in any way associated with Legolas. There is the one who has been unjustly punished and used!" The wizard pointed at the unconscious archer. The Maia wished he could make the truth easier for the Man, but was unwilling to allow Aragorn to excuse the Lord of Imladris.

"This is a hard fate, Gandalf!" the mortal cried. With potent clarity he suddenly envisioned the impact this disgrace would have upon Arwen, who idolized her father, refusing even to admit to knowledge of his long affair and Legolas' existence.

Gandalf grimaced appreciatively and reached for his pack. Removing his pipe and tobacco he filled the briar, offering the pouch to his comrade. Aragorn graciously accepted and delved into his belongings for his own bowl. A murmured word of command from Gandalf raised sufficient spark in both pipes to light them well, but Aragorn did not so much as blink at the wizard's highly selective use of his abilities.

Legolas shifted in his sleep, briefly opening his eyes and sounding a very unpleasant moan before curling up tightly and sealing his lids back down.

The human did not like this response and shook his head. "No, he must not dream just now, I think," he said and set aside his smoke to search for the sleep elixir he had concocted the night he had met the woodland warrior.

Going to Legolas side, he shook his shoulder carefully to wake him. "Legolas, wake up now, just for a moment," he called. He had to do this several times before the archer raised his groggy eyes to the Man's. "Legolas, drink this and you will rest easier for a time." The elf merely stared at him, disoriented in his half-conscious state, and so Aragorn repeated the statement.

Legolas' vision cleared and he glanced at the small bottle the human held out. He raised up on his elbow, reaching for it with eager hands. With a convulsive swallow he forced it all down and then thrust the vial back into Aragorn's hands, fighting the urge to cough the medicine back up.

"Thank you. If there is enough for yourselves, you might wish to use it, for I am through with this game. I am weary of manipulated paths and will bear no more treacherous infiltration of my home. No more! Tomorrow, we go to battle and finish it," he said with grim determination. He did not wait for discussion or arguments. Legolas turned his back to his friends and welcomed oblivion.

Tbc  
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	37. Chapter 37

**Na Falas** [At the Beach]

Anor had come to rest upon the lands of Middle Earth and all the air was transmuted, suffused with the radiant beams of Arien in the unclothed glory of her fire-formed soul, for only so could the glaring heat and searing brightness be accounted. Legolas could not bear to open his eyes, and even with them sealed tight against the relentless gleam he still beheld the scorching brilliance and threw his arm across his face to shield it from the blinding ferocity of the sun's essence. His wonder climbed with the ascending warmth spreading throughout his skin. Body and soul absorbed the omnipresent luminance bearing down upon his being, surrounding and engulfing him, invading his very lungs with each inhalation of the dazzling atmosphere while every expelled breath relinquished the much cooler ether of his own existence.

Beneath him the ground was soft and shifted as he moved, gliding across his legs and slipping through his fingers when he grabbed up a fistful of the loose, unconsolidated turf. He turned within it, rolling over onto his stomach to ease the unendurable lustre of the ubiquitous gloss. The sensation was luxurious; the earth wrapped round his naked form, dusting his flesh with a fine coat of iridescent grains and transmitting a glowing warmth like that of a down-stuffed cover toasted at hearth-side.

Legolas wriggled his toes down into the yielding, desiccated dirt and reveled in the feel of the tiny tingling caress the sand granted each time a muscle moved. He rested his cheek against the powdery grit and stretched, exalting in the vitality coursing through the nerves of every flexing cord and sinew. A deeply contented murmur worked its way out from his throat to mix with the crisp whispering of wind in the high brittle grasses that marked the boundary between the strandline and the headlands.

The air smelled bitter with an unknown tang that he could even taste on his lips; he licked them to savor its unique flavor.

Legolas smiled.

Never had he heard Manwe's voice sing with such unusual timbre or blow with such a vehement staccato, buffeting about his ears and tousling his hair, whipping the strands against his bare back, lifting up handfuls of the thick tresses as if the Wind Lord was running invisible fingers through it. This did not resemble the Song of the air under the canopy of the Greenwood where branch and leaf accompanied the ponderously understated hymn.

Indeed, he could not identify what these melodies were like other than a vague similarity to the shushing sighs made as the breath of the Vala moved across the open grasslands between the forest and Dale. Yet, that was a soft lush sound of green life full with water and sap, scented with the freshness of new rains captured in spring. This was a rasping, brittle rustling like the noise of a rigid arrow's flight as it razed the sky, only softer in volume and at the same time magnified by multitude.

There were layers within this Song, as with all the many harmonies of nature, but here a powerfully beating rhythm pounded in time with the subtle susurration of the skies, underscoring the undulating air and rumbling through the grainy ground beneath the feral elf. Legolas lay utterly still, listening. His pulse synchronized with it and he felt himself dissolving into the immensity of the sound, absorbed into the overwhelming intricacy of Arda's fullness stretched across all the Ages accomplished and those as yet obscured, undesigned, and undreamed of even to the comprehension of the Powers.

The Tawarwaith sank willingly into the hypnotic thrumming without fear or panic, for it was not so much a sense of losing himself in the unbounded flow of time as of finding his source, the nucleus of his soul. In this state of fluidity, his disembodied spirit drifted upon the surging rise and fall of the relentless tide. Then, he discerned a tugging upon his mind, a yearning expanding within his inner most core, urging him to fly swiftly to the course's culmination. Longing for this unseen point of origin, Legolas knew a painful desolation unlike anything he had ever experienced, surpassing even the gnawing hunger of his heart for Malthen.

It was a strange thing, to feel his tears of frustration swallowed by the searing sun-soaked air before they barely wetted his cheeks. Legolas wept in the certainty that he was barred from reaching Eldamar and the lands of Elendë, forbidden to seek the shores of Aman, held bound to his arduous reality of suffering and death by the Judgement.

A shadow fell across his silently sobbing shoulders and darkened the clarity of the caustic glare from the polished and gleaming skies. Legolas turned his face up into the umbra and opened his eyes at last, gazing upon the golden mounds of stable dunes capped with saber grass and tassels of flaxen sea oats flagging in the warm, dry wind. In a cleft between the hummocks of sand the curling crashes of foam-crowned waves heralded the horizonless expanse of the ocean, stretching in continuous mobility beyond even the long-sighted vision of the Eldar.

Legolas stared in awe upon the vastness of Aearon, the Great Sea.

An elf stood as the barricade between the archer and the limitless light. His countenance shrouded in black silhouette against the hazy azure expanse of Menel, he wore warrior's garb in the green and brown of Thranduil's Realm, but was armed for war no more. Chestnut waves of billowing hair arranged in the plaits earned by his senior rank and valorous reputation swirled across his face and drifted upon the blowing breath of the windy beach. He knelt and laid a hand upon his comrade's shoulder, tentatively, as though to see if he was made of substance or born of some trick of air and sun.

_Legolas? Why are you here; this should not be!_

The disgraced sniper sat up, startled, and shifted to put Anor on his right that he might see the Elda's features, for he knew the voice revealed within his thoughts.

"Valtamar?" Legolas squinted against the glare and raised his hand to shield his vision from the blinding glory of the surfside sun. He felt the hand drop away from his body as the elf stood. Legolas blinked, and in the second of time that required Valtamar was gone.

Soft laughter joined the whistling air darting across his eartips and Legolas strained to see through the punishing illumination. He rose to his knees and reached out to touch the creator of that gentle jubilance, grazing fingers against the solid strength of a well-toned thigh. He knew this elf.

_I have been seeking you everywhere, and you were here all the time. Foolish of me not to think of that. How I have longed for you, Laiquassë!_

Legolas caught his breath as Maltahondo moved out of the sun and presented himself before his former lover, naked and aroused, pulling at his full erection so that the cock dipped down, tempting the archer to tease and taste it. The guardian's other hand reached out to trace a delicate caress against the outcast's jaw, gently guiding the parted lips to envelop the bulging organ already wet from his casually sensual handling.

Eagerly the fallen prince sucked in the fullness of Malthen's vigorous potency and lapped and licked its length. Every nerve of his body awakened, singing with his desire to sample the familiar essence, inhale the heavy musk hidden in the thick auburn patch encircling the virile root, imbibe the vital fluids that would gush down his trachea. Legolas' cock filled and its tender tip tingled with a pulsing ache, craving the contact of his lover's adroit manipulation. He held his needy want in check and reached his arms around Malthen's waist to caress the healthy vigor of the broad back. His palms came to rest on the firm flesh of the compact arse and aggressively kneaded the warrior's clenching muscles.

Maltahondo settled his hands on either side of his lover's head and began pumping forcefully into the archer's throat.

Theirs was a rhythm Legolas knew well and he quickly responded by swallowing every other thrust as he moaned in the glorious agony of delaying his own ecstasy to pleasure his love this way. Malthen softly massaged the tips of his ears with his thumbs as he held Legolas' head still; it was maddeningly erotic and incited the archer to match the corpsman's pounding pace, thrusting his bowing penis into the empty air, searching in vain for any friction to ease the insistent itch.

He delighted in the growling grunts of the warrior's prelude to ejaculation and swabbed his tongue vigorously against the sensitive collection of nerves at the join of the head to the shaft. As Malthen pulled back for his final shove Legolas flicked the tip of his mobile muscle between the foreskin and the smooth, throbbing pinnacle, directly into the gaping slit. The echoing vibration of Maltahondo's gratified yell and the sensation of the hot semen streaming across his palate and down the back of his throat nearly brought the forest champion satisfaction, but Legolas restrained his body as he struggled to consume Malthen's pungent sperm.

Maltahondo pulled out of his lover's mouth and sat down, squatting on his heels to draw Legolas close and cradle his head against his shoulder. Malthen buried one hand into the golden mane and stroked the back of the archer's scalp, landing light kisses across the crown of his head, as the other hand sumptuously smoothed along the scarred back and down, coming to rest upon the cheek of the ripe, rounded rear. He transferred his fingers from the thick tresses to the refined linearity of the chin and tipped Legolas' face to claim the open, willing mouth, plunging his tongue against the archer's and lapping up the detectable remains of his ejaculate where it blended with his lover's saliva. He broke the kiss to whisper against the accelerated exhalations of sultry air escaping from Legolas' panting lips.

_Le aniron, tithenben nîn._ [I want you, my little one.]

"Avo deli nin sen!" [Do not call me this!]

Legolas shut out the screaming alarms sounding through his mind, warning of some flaw in this encounter, some fact he should recall. Instead, he concentrated on the heavenly sensations running through his flesh as the long-absent attentions of his first love progressed.

The hand enticingly cupping his arse crept lower and insinuated questing fingers down the divide toward the center of Legolas' burning ardor, and he shook as a wave of anticipation rolled through him. Eagerly he spread his thighs and transferred his weight, gripping onto Malthen's shoulders, inviting more than this tormenting tantalization. Legolas reclaimed his lover's mouth and issued a pleading sigh of compelling cupidity for Malthen to swallow, pressing his tongue in a slow wet caress across the roof of the guardsman's palate.

He inhaled sharply from the corpsman's lungs as two fingers pushed inside him and began subtly probing the constricting channel, expertly stroking against the internal source of his scintillating delight. Legolas broke the languid kiss to exhale a tremulous cry of desire that mimicked the sound of pained distress.

"Alfar! Pathro nin!" [Not enough! Fill me!]

_How badly do you want this, Laiquassë? Have you been neglected so long that you would beg?_

"Malthen!"

The wild warrior trembled as the corpsman nuzzled gently into the unruly golden locks and settled his lips around the inflamed tip of Legolas' elegantly crafted ear, running the edge of his tongue over it, lavishing the cartilage with lush attention. The fallen archer crooned his appreciation as he pushed back onto the insistent pressure of the fingers burrowing inside him. He tried in vain to thrust his cock against Malthen's belly, but the guardsman's knee held him back and Legolas wailed his disappointed groan over the smooth supple skin of the warrior's neck.

The scent of this flesh, for so long only a memory, was intoxicating, and Legolas could not fight the desire to taste it, dabbing his tongue over a spot just above his lover's clavicle, sucking the warm dermis into his lips to produce a dark red oval there.

_Ah, yes! Only your mother has pleased me better. Lie back, lie back Legolas._

Legolas stilled; a black fear encroached upon his delirious enjoyment as his memory assailed him with knowledge he longed to dispel. But Malthen dropped his hand from its tender grasp upon the archer's nape to fondle the foreskin wrapped round Legolas' protruding penis, wet with the transparent secretion of his rising lust.

The wild warrior sounded a forlorn shout as his hips pivoted to force more of his rigid flesh into those agile fingers. Legolas could not deny his incestuous desire.

Malthen pulled his fingers free and pressed his lover down into the sand, roughly shoving open the lean thighs to make room as Legolas grabbed his legs behind the knees and lifted them apart and out of the guardsman's way. The broad blunt brow of Maltahondo's resurgent organ bussed the archer's tightly sealed entry and Legolas wriggled his hips to increase and encourage the penetration, but Malthen held back. A richly sex-burnished chortle broke from the corpsman's lips as he watched his lover's fervent attempts to impale himself on the unyielding shaft.

_Say it! I want to hear it, Laiquassë! Beg!_

"Malthen, please!"

_Nay, not like that. Speak the words; tell your father what you need, Legolas; only then shall you have it._

Malthen flexed his hips so that the dripping tip of his engorged cock delicately stroked across his lover's sensitized anus, eliciting a strangled gasping breath and a sharp spasm of the archer's penis. The corpsman leaned in and kissed it with a slow wet lick and relished the exquisite affliction in the exiled prince's lowing, pining response. Maltahondo raised his eyes to meet those of his life-long charge and found them burning with unquenched desire and bright with liquid defeat. Malthen pressed hard against the eager body's entry and groaned in delight as Legolas' pleading expression turned fiery and wanton.

_Beg me, Laiquassë!_

"Saes! Caro si!" [Please! Do it now!]

The archer squeezed shut his eyes and tipped back his head, unable to look upon the victorious exaltation this plea would earn, unable to stop the spill of shamed tears as he relinquished completely the last shreds of his decency and begged for his father to fuck him.

"Adar, nasto nedhnin, saes! Saes, Ada, seron nîn, le aniron."  
[Father, thrust inside me, please! Please, Father, my love, I want you.]

And Malthen responded, drilling into the willing body with force enough to rip the tender flesh over the constricting ring of muscles, plunging all the way in until the root of his organ was coated with his lover's blood and there was no more of his heated flesh to embed. Then he pulled almost completely out; allowing the motion to smear the mix of sanguine gore and pre-ejaculate over his penis before ramming back inside with a hoarse shout that drowned out the archer's cry of biting bliss.

The corpsman thrilled to the violent shuddering of Legolas' frame as he hauled hard on his legs to open himself wider and ease the intrusion deeper. Malthen watched in enthralled ecstasy as his lover's head bent back further, exposing more of the graceful neck, and he nipped and sucked the proffered slenderness of the ivory throat of Ningloriel's misbegotten child.

Legolas struggled to accommodate the girth of the cock pounding him relentlessly; a glorious euphoria of delicious over-extension claimed him as his inner core remembered the brutal caress of his guardian's engorged extremity. Every breath became a yearning cry of unfulfilled craving as his passion mounted towards its zenith. His equally bulging member bounced in time with Malthen's vigorously thrusting impalement. Legolas longed to see his lover reach for it, wrap his long fingers around it, and pump his cock until he exploded.

But Malthen would not touch him there and his own hands could not be spared. He could feel the sudden surge of heat along the walls of his channel, as the guardsman's ducts filled with seed and Legolas knew they would not reach orgasm together.

The next instant Malthen bit down hard on his lover's shoulder and groaned as his rushing stream of semen jetted into the depths of the archer's cavity. A few more lusty lunges and he was done, withdrawing his spent member with a relaxed and languid sigh of complacency, and rolled back to sit beside the tense and trembling body of his lover. He laughed as Legolas let go of his legs and moaned, twisting to bring his hard, heavy penis against the guardsman's thigh, seeking to rub himself to culmination. But Malthen got up and stood over him, smiling in amusement.

"Malthen?"

_Not yet, Laiquassë. Do not be so impatient._

_Aye, he is far too willful in this respect._

A new shadow fell across the wild elf's recumbent form and the archer flinched as he recognized the voice accompanying this addition to the scene. Elrond knelt, naked in the sand, and traced the tip of his index finger down the outcast's sleek shaft as Legolas braced himself up on his elbows, staring in confusion at the Noldo's smirking expression.

"You!"

_What is that like, Legolas? Feeling your father's seed burn you?_ Elrond said and grabbed the stiff, salient sex and gave it a brisk yank that caused the fallen prince to collapse back into the sand with a howl. _You are hard as iron, Pen-rhovan! Perhaps your Ada did not fuck you long enough. Shall I try?_

The Elf Lord did not wait for an answer but lifted Legolas' shanks upon his shoulders and plowed inside, driving his indurate penis into the oozing slickness of blood and semen still draining from the archer's rectum.

"Daro! Baw!" Legolas cried; he did not want this.

_Shh! Peace, Laiquassë! Let him fuck you. Please us well and you will earn your release._ Malthen whispered as he stretched out next to Legolas and sucked up a dark and pointed nipple, rolling the other beneath his fingertips.

In spite of himself Legolas groaned in prurient delight under the application of his lover's tongue and touch in combination with the Elven Lord's robust sodomy. He could not avert his eyes from the Noldo's ravenous gleam of lustful hunger and a sensational current of pure exhilaration shot through him as he arched into the driving force of Elrond's cock. Legolas squirmed, trying to shift his position to bring the incessant friction over the right spot against his prostate, without success.

Legolas reached for his erection but Malthen snatched up his hand and pressed it around his own expanding flesh, biting into the tender swollen morsel of maroon skin with a growl. Legolas' shout of pain as he squeezed tight onto the hard handful elicited a reciprocating holler from the Elf Lord and the warrior.

Elrond leaned all of his weight upon Legolas as he hammered towards his climax, grunting with throaty vigor each time he withdrew and stuffed his cock back into the resistant confinement of muscle. He ignored his lover's gaze and instead watched the archer's slender steely penis rocking up with each invasion. The scrotum was pulled taut and snug up under the base of the florid column and the twin glands within looked uncomfortably full.

The Noldo's balls ached as he closed in towards a tremendous orgasm. Elrond dropped his palm to inflict a resounding, stinging slap upon the quivering bottom accepting his punishing infiltration and repeated the unkind caress in order to hear Legolas' mortified cry twice. The Lord of Imladris shouted loudly as he abruptly pulled out and allowed his spurting organ to shoot iridescent seed all over the outcast's genitals and abdomen.

_Valar!_ Maltahondo called out as he relinquished the bruised and bleeding tit he had been savoring to lap up the Noldo Lord's essence from his lover's stomach and balls. He ran his tongue in a long lick up Legolas' solid shaft, scooping up the salty extrusion as the wild warrior wailed in disconsolate abandon for more. Malthen's mouth embraced the slickened head at last and Legolas desperately tried to press his primed penis deeper past the firm lips.

_Nay, not yet! By Ulmo, you are so depraved! Can you not come without your own father's kiss upon your cock?_ The Noldo saw Legolas' ejaculation was imminent and swore, pinching down upon the ducts to halt the eruption.

"Please, Malthen! Let me come!"

Legolas sobbed and fell back again into the sand as Elrond removed his legs from their position upon his shoulders. Malthen was laughing lightly and returned to suckling on the misused nipple. The Elf Lord joined him and Legolas gasped as two tongues worked across the tingling nubs that suddenly seemed to be unbearably sensitive, rising hard and high. He looked down upon the contrast of ebony and auburn hair and as he watched they both pulled up sharply and bit down severely, drawing out his blood and an anguished scream.

The forest champion wept; they were cruel. Had he not just pleasured them both?

The Noldo's pincer-like pressure upon his aching penis slowly subsided as his body's urge diminished and the tide of his passion ebbed. As soon as he felt the healer's hands retreat Legolas reached down to accommodate his over-stimulated cock, but before he could begin both lovers snatched his hands away and pinioned them out to the side.

_Laiquassë, you are not done. I know you want to taste him. Look at it! You ache to feel that shaft shoved down your throat._

They flipped him over as Malthen said this and the guardsman gripped Legolas' jaw, holding his face scant inches from the Elf Lord's groin. Elrond was crouched before him, knees up and open, bracing himself with his arms behind him. His cock with its naked, scarlet tip was already proudly at rigid attention, awaiting the outcast to gulp it down. The Elven Lord made the organ twitch and the motion still held its erotic enthrallment for his young lover.

_Please him well and mayhap I will take you from the rear; we will fuck you to completion such as you have never known._ Malthen's promise floated through his thoughts, an enticing mental nudge that matched the physical sensation of the guardsman's hand fondling his balls.

Legolas did want to take Elrond's shorn, aroused sex into his mouth and savor the feel and the taste of the exotic Imladrian. Malthen's carefully compressing hand retreated from Legolas' testicles and settled on his backside with an encouraging push. His tears ceased. The wild warrior crawled forward on hands and knees and the healer parted his legs invitingly wider. Legolas hungrily devoured the turgid shaft with an impassioned rumbling growl of gluttonous exigency and worked with frenzied skill to extract the Noldo's pith.

Behind him, hands gripped Legolas' thighs as Malthen spread him, tilting up his pelvis to bring the torn entrance in line with his cock, unbalancing the archer and causing his nose to crash into the soft nest of black curls redolent with Elrond's odor. Legolas groaned around the massive cock insinuated into his esophagus and flexed his hips, trying to push his penis down into the warm, yielding sand. But Malthen held him positioned for his own pleasure, not the archer's, and Legolas' member found no purchase on the beach.

_Elbereth! That is good!_ the Lord of Imladris shouted. _Fuck him, Maltahondo! Hard!_ He pushed up from the ground to bury his burgeoning erection further into the talented depths of the wild elf's orifice.

The corpsman obeyed and forced himself inside the bloody channel with brutal impact, matching his pummeling coition to the Noldo's pivoting thrusts. Together they ravaged the outcast raw from front and rear and Legolas was utterly powerless to resist.

Nor did he wish for the punishing conjugation to cease. This was a level of exhilarated, tormented intensity he had never known before and he longed to finish the illicit intermezzo in concert with his two lovers, desperate to expel his semen at the same moment they loosed theirs.

Every thrust of Malthen's bruising cock shoved soundly into Legolas' prostate and each push of the Noldo's penis against his tongue forced the archer back upon the guardsman's rod, sending a flare of nerve-tingling shock to shiver across the very apex of Legolas' overlooked member. Behind the creased, narrow furrows of dark, curled lashes, his eyes beheld streaking trails of incandescent glory across his brain with every dual assault.

The sound of the two elves' elated roars and bellows testified to the building tension in their loins as the healer climbed towards his second ejaculation and Malthen rapidly ascended to his third, an extravagance of sexual abandon Legolas would not have thought possible. His euphoria escalated, knowing he was to be the cause of such gratification.

Legolas at last found the opportunity to engineer a successful climax and balanced on one arm in order to wrap his fingers around his sand-sheathed shaft and pump against the gritty grains. He hummed out his accumulating passion upon the Noldo's penis and felt it swell against his laving tongue. At the same time, he felt Malthen's grip tightening round his sides as the strength of his vehement pulsing doubled.

_Eru fuck me! You love it, Laiquassë! You are going to come with your father's cock up your arse, guzzling a Noldo's milt down your maw._, the corpsman unleashed this obscene curse as he rode his wild lover to the cusp of completion.

Legolas winced under the verbal assault, but they were all so close and he acutely needed this discharge. He breathed a deep breath in through his nose and held it as the first surge of his seminal fluid streamed up toward its outlet. At that moment the Noldo pulled out from the suction of the archer's lips and Malthen yanked his penis free from the flexing annulus of ripped tissue. Legolas was empty and the sudden loss seized his stomach in a squeeze of panic. He cried out to his love.

"Nay! Malthen, do not stop! Saes, Ada!"

But only silence replied.

He was already coming, however, and could no more halt the passionate torrent of his seed than he could have captured the infinite ocean in an earthen cup. Legolas thrust vigorously into his hand and voiced his explosive jubilation in an open-mouthed yowl of grateful relief.

_How pathetic, spilling into the sand, alone. Malthen has left you again and the Noldo will not spend himself inside you. Perhaps I can accommodate your want._

The voice uttering this scorn encrusted and disgusted retort froze the outcast's heart. Even as his semen flowed over his hand in a scorching flood of splendorous transport, Legolas looked behind him and screamed. Ailinyéro plunged the blade of a dagger into the fallen warrior's rectum, burying it up to the hilt. He withdrew the knife and repeated the attack, brutally slicing him open, stabbing deeper with every piercing thrust.

_No! Rochendil, stop this!_

A familiar voice, female, reached Legolas through the haze of relentless pain and boiling exuberance. He vaguely heard his tormentor's reply.

_Andamaitë!_

He collapsed face-first onto the beach.

Legolas felt hands reach under his arms and lift him up, away from the terrible viciousness of the merciless blade, and he was set down again carefully on his back under the blinding face of Anor. He tried to look upon his savior's features but the brightness was as obscuring as before. He shut his eyes against the sheen-halloed agony that broke upon his lacerated flesh like the endless surf crashing down on the shining shore. He could feel the last of his sperm oozing from him, bequeathing a lingering sense of exquisite elation even as the streaming warmth of his blood poured forth to stain the sand.

_Legolas? You must not be here. Awaken and return to your friends._

"Valtamar?" Legolas mumbled the name as his consciousness wavered, but when the shadow of the form loomed closer and allowed him to see he found his gaze locked upon the smoldering compassion of bottomless black orbs belonging to an entirely different being.

"Legolas! Please, awaken! Legolas!" Gandalf held the archer tightly trying to still the racking tremors and quiet the soul shattering shrieks bursting from his friend's lungs.

Legolas' eyes snapped open into reality and his screaming ceased in mid-shout. He stared up into the gleam of the wizard's eyes through the darkness of night under Greenwood's canopy at the black water fen. He registered the sensation of the wooden planks of the talan beneath him, the soft warmth of a blanket wrapped around his naked skin, and the pungent aroma of his excruciatingly erotic release. Sweat soaked and smelling of fear and desire, Legolas was still shaking as his chest heaved to draw in oxygen and purge away the urge to flee.

He acknowledged the strength of the Maia's protective embrace, and heard the insistent beating of the Istar's heart where his ear was pressed against Gandalf's chest, the sound so reminiscent of the unending rhythm of the ocean's respiration. A soft caress smoothed across his head and repeated as Mithrandir sought to calm the wild elf. Legolas whimpered softly and huddled closer, making himself small inside the Istar's encompassing arms.

_Mithrandir._ He dared not speak aloud, somehow convinced that if he did so the scenery would shift again and he would return to the blazing beach and the unholy coupling with Ailinyéro's knife. Legolas clutched compulsively at the blanket the two shared and entwined his fingers into the long silver hair cascading from Mithrandir's chin, desperate to remain in contact with the wizard. He felt his tears well and flood down his face, one by one, in a silent progression of both shameful sorrow for the acts he had so eagerly enjoined and gratitude for their ending.

_It was real! It was more than a dream!_

_I am not certain. Whatever has happened, you are safe, I am here._

The wizard encouraged Legolas to reach him through their mental bond and soothingly patted the windblown locks that smelled of an ocean the Wood Elf could not possibly have seen. Mithrandir was unsure if the sensation of scent was an actual residue of the salty air or a part of the inner vision he was sharing with his friend. The gruesome dreamscape was fully open to the Istar's awareness and he shuddered at what the guilt-ridden elf had endured.

_Andamaitë and Valtamar were truly there. I was on the shores of the Great Sea at the Crossing. They wait upon the beach for me to finish the Tasks and release them._

_Do not assume so. There are ways to manipulate such visions; how you dreamed of Aearon is troubling. Rest now, be calm; I will let no evil find you._

Mithrandir tightened his hold around Legolas as a violent trembling worked its way through the Tawarwaith. He caressed the archer's bowed head and let his other hand consolingly linger along the marred muscular back, kneading away the tension born of the nightmarish ordeal.

Legolas stirred and lifted his tear-streaked countenance to his wise friend's and found there the stirring fervor of protective outrage the wizard felt on his behalf. Expending a ragged sigh, he nestled his head back into the crook of Mithrandir's neck and let his tears soak the Istar's shoulder.

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	38. Chapter 38

**Bronwe Talt **[Falling Faith]

The fen in the heat of the afternoon sun was a close, sticky zone of fetid odors and stagnant, foul airs. No breeze stirred the long beards and misty veils of moss adorning the arms and bark of nearly every tree. What light found a wayward path through the over hanging foliage was frail, an unnourished, depleted radiance more reminiscent of the straggling illumination from a pitch-dipped torch than any bright caress of Anor's torrid splendor.

No jingling jabber of flowing water caught the ear; absolute stillness lay upon the obsidian glint of the sterile pond. Not even the feet of a water dancer frolicking across the membranous tension disturbed the unwavering fluid. Upon the sodden, sloppy shore, a solitary toad reposed, awaiting the infrequent buzz of an insect's wings, thus to snatch a bit of dinner from the draftless space. Birds seldom broke the overwhelming solitude, and when they did the calls spoke more of complaints against the season than of praises to Tawar.

High in the canopy upon the talan Legolas had built large enough for just himself to inhabit, the three travelers were hard pressed to find any comfort either. While they were friends, the closeness one allowed one's fellows was a clearly delineated region and except in specific circumstances did not promote bodily contact. The jumbled collection of packs and weapons heaped nearby did not improve the amenities, detracting from the meagre confines by almost the same degree as would another body. Thus, with the Wood Elf occupying the majority of the square footage, the Man and the wizard were huddled in unpleasant proximity up against the hemlock's mighty trunk.

Aragorn shifted, running his hand under the hair sticking to the back of his neck and across the sweaty skin beneath it. He was truly glad he had elected not to don his leather jerkin and boots, for that would only necessitate removing them again, effort too vital to expend in the unendurable humidity. He stole a glance at Gandalf, who long ago had thrown off the light blanket and was now futilely fanning his face, eyes shut, with the wispy end of his long whiskers. Just the sight of that wooly growth made the Ranger's cheeks feel scratchy under his much less lengthy beard. He sighed; a breath filled with the irritation of over-exhaustion, unable to find comfort under the burden of late summer's final stand against the relentless onslaught of autumn's equinox.

_Perhaps the elf's advice was prudent; I will never sleep in this mire without some strong herb to assist me!_

Yet sometime during the hazy hours he did stumble into fatigue-induced slumber, as though the weight of the water-laden air exceeded his strength and sapped his awareness. But while his body remained in lethargic stupour, his mind was anything but quiescent. Aragorn was plagued by disturbing images of Legolas and Elrond, locked in passionate encounters in a variety of settings throughout Imladris.

His father, pinning the younger elf against the wall in the corridor outside the library, pumping and grinning. Elrond, spreading the wild warrior wide on the floor of the Hall of Fire, while the rest of the household merely smiled and sang a ballad of Turgon and the glory that was Gondolin. The Lord of Imladris holding council, seated before his ministers and a host of emissaries from other lands, with his hand resting upon Legolas' blond head rising and falling between his legs.

Aragorn woke with a start and realized Gandalf had shaken him alert. The Maia was staring at him with concern.

"You were dreaming," he said quietly, "and it did not seem pleasant."

The mortal cocked a wry eyebrow at this understatement and dared a look at Legolas. He could not suppress a shudder of revulsion, left over from the seamy scenes his troubled heart had produced.

"I know not how to make this knowledge bearable!" he hissed with a shake of his head. "There are some things of which it is best to remain unaware!"

"Indeed," Gandalf snorted. "I am certain Legolas shares that sentiment just about now!"

Duly chastised, Aragorn revised his perspective and rediscovered his compassion for the fallen warrior. He rose and stretched as he gazed out into the trees. Anor was done for the day and, in the cavern-like claustrophobia of the mere, dusk was rapidly falling back before the dispiriting advance of Gwain Ithil's night.

"At least that tonic has spared him any untoward memories while he sleeps!" he said and resumed his seat with a kinder gaze upon the prostrate elf.

And while his words defined a true statement, the elixir did not prevent the creation of new and even more abhorrent events from being added to the outcast's surfeit of woe.

The first indication that the situation was deteriorating was no more than a whispered sigh breathed into the darkening air and a dreamy half-smile that briefly traversed the archer's fair features. These were hardly the indicators of stress Aragorn was trained to notice. The Man was initially so gratified to see signs of tranquil reverie that he failed to realize such physical manifestations should be impossible. Given the state of oblivion into which the elixir had supposedly submerged his friend, not so much as a twitch or a tic ought to materialize until midday on the morrow.

When the wild elf grew restless the human became apprehensive. As Legolas writhed free from the Istar's enveloping robes, Aragorn's temperature climbed several degrees and ushered in acute embarrassment. The talan was much too small to share with this suddenly and amazingly aroused Silvan warrior.

"Oh no," the wizard sighed in dismay. He remembered, too late, Fearfaron describing this sort of nightmare to the healer years ago. "Legolas, awaken!" Mithrandir leaned closer and grasped the archer's shoulder and shook him, but instantly jerked away when the wild elf moaned and turned his head, plastering a slithering tongue-stroke upon the Istar's fingers. "Legolas should not have been drugged!"

"The instructions I used gave no warning of a reaction like this!" the human defended his concoction.

Aragorn's eyes grew impossibly large and round at the sight of his friend's faintly glowing erection stretched so full, vertical, and straining for contact as the elf snuggled against the unyielding floor. Accompanied by the unparalleled urgency of Legolas' pleadingly complaining growls and mutters, the spectacle was nearly enough to send the mortal down to the inhospitable but equally unstimulating dampness of the peat bog below.

The fact that he did not retreat Aragorn later attributed to his gut reaction as a physician rather than his lewd, voyeuristic curiosity. Yet, all his instincts for healing failed him. Instead of feeling moved to interfere, the Man tried to put more distance between himself and his friend. He watched in stunned enthrallment as the fallen prince engaged in heated foreplay with his phantom lover.

The elf's hands patted and stroked every inch of his sex-charged body, smoothing across his chest where they came to rest on small pink buds. The long graceful fingers quickly twirled and tweaked the sensitive flesh into plump and ruddy tits, which Legolas offered with an unbearably erotic groan as he arched up off the floor. His right hand continued to tease and tempt, alternately rubbing his firmly muscled torso and next pinching and pulling his inflamed nipples, decadently inviting a lover's lick.

The other hand traveled in a sultry serpentine slide down the firm abdomen, shied away from the prominent arousal, briefly stopped to squeeze the twin glands, then diverted across the hip and lingered in a sensuous caress over his behind. When Legolas sighed a prurient plaint and slipped two of those elegant digits inside his anus, Aragorn's mouth dropped in shocked disbelief.

It soon became obvious to both the witnesses that while Legolas' ejaculation was imminent, his apparent reluctance to touch his own cock prevented the culmination of his painfully excited state. The illusion of ecstatic license was shattered as Legolas' vocalizations became intelligible and he called out Malthen's name in tones of frantic despair. A few gasping pants later; the exiled prince sent Aragorn's senses reeling as he begged in mortified salacity for his father to penetrate him. Even in the cloying blackness of the new moon, Legolas' tears gleamed brightly against his face.

Not knowing of the archer's love for his former guardian, the mortal assumed this impassioned exhortation was directed to the Lord of Imladris and that Malthen must be a lover's pet name. Elrond's foster son felt his stomach turn over and fought back the bitter bile.

"Legolas!" Gandalf shouted, trying to get the elf's attention, but could not bring himself to handle the gyrating form again, fearing to become the catalyst for the impending release.

If the Tawarwaith heard his voice, it was absorbed and perverted within his vivid hallucination and he could not respond.

He twisted himself over onto his stomach, assuming a submissive position Aragorn had never personally seen a male display. The wild elf raised up onto his knees, bowing his golden head against one arm and lifting his buttocks high. He slid his legs apart and flexed his pelvis, exposing his most vulnerable parts and offering himself for acquisition to his lover. With a brutishly hungry growl Legolas finally reached under his belly and grabbed his dripping cock, squeezing and pulling vehemently until he poured out his passionate well-spring of illicit desire upon the wooden floor.

And then the screaming began.

Within the span of two heartbeats, Gandalf at last reached out and gathered up the twitching elf, wrapping him tightly in the soft covers and commanding him forcefully to return to them and awaken.

Aragorn could only watch and wonder as the outcast regained his senses and folded himself up, hunkering onto the Istar's lap like an elfling. Had the situation not been so horribly grotesque, the sight of the long-legged full grown warrior clutching the wizard's beard for security would have been bizarrely amusing. But the Man found nothing worthy of laughter, for though his friend's shrieks had ceased the weeping continued, silent and unabated, and Legolas did not speak.

He assumed that the elf and wizard were communicating on the purely mental level developed between them. What the two shared he could not imagine. The carnal nature of the vivid mirage was all too obvious; the physical evidence pooled on the mat tainted the small flet's air with the dregs of Legolas' passion. Before he quite realized it, Aragorn found that he had inelegantly kicked the offensive padding over the side of the talan. He cast a glance over at the blond head cradled against the Istar's neck and could detect the violent trembling racking the archer's frame in silent testament to the trauma endured. The cause of the terrified and agonized cries was beyond any guess Aragorn could make.

_Given the players in this tragedy, I do not want to know!_

Legolas did not acknowledge the Man either by look or speech and the mortal thought it best not to initiate any discourse. He shuddered reflexively as the memory of the wild warrior's wanton exposition replayed in his mind. Aragorn understood the many varieties of sexual experiences a person might enjoy, but had never observed anything like the archer's demonstration. All the elves he knew were scrupulously discrete; public display of affection was not commonly accepted in Imladris. Mentally he remonstrated himself, for he knew Legolas had not willingly put on such a show.

The Man attempted to rationalize his distaste for what he had seen and allay the accompanying twinge of guilt accosting his heart. He had never been attracted to another male. He had not really thought much about such intimacy; having been far more curious about females and how to persuade them to accept that for which Legolas seemed compelled to beg. It was understandable that Aragorn would be disturbed and uncomfortable.

_How else might I feel, being forced to watch such vulgar actions! It is but a reaction, nothing more; I hold Legolas in the same regard as before_, but he knew these were half-truths at best.

He was trying, but it was going to be difficult to get past this latest revelation of his friend's personal life. It was not that the archer desired a male to bed him that was burdensome but that Legolas yielded himself to be used by someone who clearly had little concern for his heart. It did not help that the lover in question was Elrond.

_How could Legolas imagine that someone he had known but a handful of days could care for his well-being?_ The Man felt disgusted and angry at the elf for allowing himself to be debased. _Nay, for finding his pleasure in such depravation!_

It went so totally against everything Elrond had taught him about sexual intimacy, and the Man could not suppress his irrational acrimony toward Legolas for forcing him to acquire this knowledge.

The dark hours were impossible to track under the leafy ceiling, lacking Ithil's shifting light as a determinant. Aragorn thought it endless and found the absence of nocturnal wild life more upsetting than would be the shuffling and snuffling of night creatures. The whole bog seemed to be cringing under the Tawarwaith's pain.

Morning brought its fuzzy gleam into the little swamp and Aragorn reawakened, surprised he had fallen into dreamless sleep after the troubling demonstration he had attended. Immediately he looked to his friends and Gandalf greeted him with a weary and pinched smile. Legolas was not there. Aragorn lifted inquiring eyebrows to the wizard, who gave a sideways nod as he dropped his gaze towards the ground. The Man leaned over and spotted the elf near the pond, redressed in the tattered leggings, busily at work fletching arrows.

It occurred to Aragorn that the forest champion might find the source for his incubus lay within the potion given him to swallow and bear the Man a grudge.

_And would I not? Indeed, I would harbour resentment toward one that caused me to display my private soul thusly!_

He had no idea how to make amends for such a grievous reaction to the sleeping tonic. With grim determination Aragorn rose and moved out into the branches, descending to the mushy moss below.

"Aur Maer, Legolas!" the mortal called as he jumped the last meter or so and landed with a squelching squish into the peat. The wild elf looked at him guardedly but said nothing. The human cleared his throat. "I wish to beg your forgiveness! The medicine was supposed to prevent dreams, not …"

"I would rather not speak of this, Aragorn, ever!" Legolas interrupted in choked and bitter tones. "There is nothing for you to apologize for; this has… this is… it is nothing to do with you!" So saying he returned to his task and refused to look at his friend again, for his shame was acute.

In the minutes that followed, neither of them spoke and the humidity was not the only component to weight the bog's atmosphere. Legolas was unable to conquer the overwhelming fear of having lost Aragorn's respect, reducing their relationship to one of polite discourse and alienating courtesy. For his part, the mortal desperately wanted to find a topic of discussion that would not lead to unpleasant reminders of Imladris and the night's activity, for his own sake as much as his friend's.

"We must move on from here soon," Aragorn said, feeling this was as safe a subject as any. "Is the ankle improved enough for you to continue?"

"It will do. We cannot afford more time; you are right to speak of leaving. We must decide now on our course," Legolas replied vehemently, gratified to have something else to think about. He raised fierce eyes to his human comrade and found the healer's piercing appraisal sweeping over him.

"I would like to have another look," Aragorn began, and was nonplussed when the elf suddenly grew bright red and tore his gaze away. "Nay! I mean only…"

"I know what you mean and it is not necessary to check the injury again!" the archer hastily interjected. "It is time to accept that the current strategy is not working." Legolas drew a deep breath and glanced back at Aragorn, who fought the urge to look away. "Even if it had done before, the bonfire you needed to deter the spiders will have drawn anyone seeking our trail."

"I am willing to concede to your greater expertise in these matters, Legolas. What may we expect?" the Man rejoined, carefully choosing his words.

"We may expect to be relentlessly driven toward the Mountains! However, the Orcs have been instructed to capture, not to kill; that gives us the advantage."

Loud huffing and a muttered curse interrupted the discussion and both participants turned to watch the wizard complete his noisy retreat from the flet. The Man and the elf shared knowing smirks; their friend was not so frail and fragile as his complaints and grumbles suggested.

"That is an advantage for what reason? It would seem only to suggest they will work together and be more difficult to fight off!" Mithrandir joined the debate.

"The smaller groups will try to gain the esteem such a feat would garner them. They will not work together, each one wanting the sole acclaim and promotion a success would bring. But even more, they will try to be clever, and this is something that generally just makes them completely predictable," Legolas answered with a very unpleasant smile.

"This area is on the edges of the regions in which I have numerous traps. However, these work because I am able to flee from danger through the trees. What we must figure out is a way to utilize the pits without the two of you being killed in the process."

"Pits?" asked the Man, worry tainting his voice.

"Aye. I am the one who made the pitfalls, but will need to scout those nearby to make sure they are still being maintained. I gave this information both to the woodsmen and, via Gandalf, to the King's guard, but have no way to know if either group has bothered to keep them set and ready."

"You are leaving again?" demanded Gandalf sternly.

"For a few hours only. I will be back before nightfall."

"Nay; this time we all go," said Aragorn and braced for the wild prince's furious reply. To his surprise, Legolas remained calm but did not speak, waiting to hear the Man's argument. "It is wasted effort; why should we sit idle here and force you to make a return trip? Your ankle is healing, but too much strain will make the mending slower.

"And, should we encounter Orcs along the way, the three of us can do more damage than one alone. If we must battle our way to the stronghold, then the quicker we proceed the faster we will get through it. As before, you can guide us from the trees and prevent us from bungling into these traps."

"Very well," Legolas conceded but did not comment that the mortal's remarks were so similar to the points he had made previous to the battle with the spiders. _At least he learns quickly._ "Mithrandir, we need to keep the link between us open while I am up in the canopy. I can thus direct the two of you around the traps," he said quietly and started to load the new arrows into the quiver. Curious, Aragorn took one up and examined it carefully.

"These are poor arrows!" he blurted out in his surprise; he was accustomed to elves taking great care when making weapons of any kind, and the archers of Imladris were known to be the most demanding of perfection. "The wood is too green, and the shafts are not straight enough. Legolas, these will hit a distant target only by happenstance."

Legolas stood and coolly held out his hand for the missile, slipping it into his quiver as he met the human's concerned gaze.

"I will not be shooting at targets, Aragorn, but at Orcs. And they will not be distant."

They left the black water fen after this brief council. Several hours of travel had not convinced the Man and the Maia that the way was more than a blind blundering through the endless sameness of jungle overgrowth. The only indication that they were not still going round in circles was the steadily rising slope of the land and an increasingly devastating black dread engulfing their hearts. The forest seemed with every step to be more and more the Mirkwood of Mens' fables and less the Greenwood tended by vigilant Silvans.

The stallion and the gelding moved through the twisting track at a steady trot, maintaining an uneasy acquiescence to the Wood Elf's demand for progress. Upon their backs, the man and the wizard felt uncomfortably powerless, guided by Legolas' unspoken instruction to their mounts more than to the Istar. It was not a circumstance either one had previously experienced and demanded a level of trust in their feral friend that was generally granted only to those who had fought side by side for years.

The two travelers knew next to nothing of the archer's battle skills and had no understanding of combat in heavily forested terrain. Unfamiliarity with the claustrophobic lands, undetectable elven roads, and the lack of greater numbers spawned an instinctive fear of imminent attack from the untamed surroundings. The Darkness crept into them with the very air they breathed, poisoning their hopes and deadening their perception. It seemed an insurmountable host of Orcs calmly steered them, playing with them until such time as they chose to strike. How could three overcome such forces? The worry grew in their minds that the elf was leading them to their deaths.

With no warning, mental or vocal, Legolas swung down onto the back of Mithrandir's palomino and the wizard jumped in spite of himself. He did not need to look back over his shoulder to know his friend was displeased. Legolas had abruptly retreated from the Istar's awareness as the first doubt had entered in.

"Mithrandir, we have reached the area I spoke of. This is where we will take on the first assailants," he said and gave the Istar the mental image of the precise location of each pitfall. The extent of the delving was vast and in the trees above were several flets at various heights in the canopy, overlooking the altered ground.

"You are not going up to the flets, then?" asked Mithrandir.

"No," came the curt reply. "Traps require bait."

Mithrandir needed no internal link to comprehend this strategy and scrunched his brows together in response to the vivid image Legolas sent of a previous skirmish conducted in this way.

"That is foolishly dangerous!"

"Nay, not foolish for it has always worked. They cannot resist the urge to get their filthy hands on an elf, and I do make it seem as though they might succeed! Believe me, it is a method I have employed more times than I care to recount."

"Right. And what are we supposed to do?" demanded Aragorn, also grasping the gist of the plan. "We cannot get high enough into the trees to avoid them when they pour upon us, nor do we have arrows to shoot at them even if we man the flets!"

"You must do whatever you can do with that great sword of yours! You are a warrior, Man, and surely know how to kill!" Legolas replied caustically; their lack of confidence in him was upsetting.

"The horses must be set loose; for we will need them and I would not have them destroyed even if we did not. You two can find cover ample to conceal your location, can you not? Mithrandir knows where the pits are; you need to get within the field of holes and cut down any Orcs that do not tumble to their deaths.

"This first group is small; we should be able to kill them with no difficulty. Do not worry; I will reduce the troop to a manageable size for you! I have no sense of greater numbers awaiting to aid them; but then again not all the trees here are inclined to share information. If I am wrong, we will have to fight our way to the river.

"Should this be the case, Thranduil's patrols will likely be near enough to discover our difficulty and assist you. They are not permitted to aid me; however, those orders do not include you two. I can come up with no other ideas. Had we not met, how would you deal with this threat?"

"Peace, Legolas, we did not mean…" began Mithrandir.

"Nay! The Shadow has used you as a lure, and now I will turn the concept against itself! I have said I will not allow you to be taken by the doom that plagues me, and so it shall be. If you cannot trust to that at least rely upon your own abilities to fend for yourselves. Willingly you entered these lands, though I wish it were not so, and you must have been prepared for such troubles before crossing the borders!" He did not wait for any more talk and jumped down from the gelding's back; a quick sprint took him beyond the sight of his companions.

It stung, their failure to believe him capable to guard them. Legolas felt his throat tighten up as he tried to turn the sorrow into hard rage. Two voices warred within his mind, one stating that his depraved sexual desires had earned their disgust and consequently their mistrust, while the other reasoned that it was the subtle influence of the Shadow infecting their attitudes. He decided neither reason was inaccurate, but this did nothing to diminish the sense of isolation or its concurrent pain.

He vaulted into the arms of a large oak, rapidly scaled to the pinnacle, and pierced through the verdant crown to gaze upon the vastness of the forest. The Tawarwaith inhaled deeply and allowed the pain to flow back out of him as he blew the breath back upon the sky. He watched the newly unfurled leaves quiver under the passing of his grief weighted lung-full.

Up this high, Darkness did not exist. He was never disappointed in the effect of this sudden exposure to the open light and freely flowing wind on his spirit. Whether he encountered the glare of a searing sun, the bluster of a stormy, cloud-scudded sky, or the crisp clarity of frost filled atmosphere, he always reveled in the unchanging nature of his woods. From the roof of the Greenwood, he could see his green world stretching to meet the boundaries of the horizon, obliterating that tenuous delineation between empty space and solid ground.

He turned his vision north and saw the peaks of the Central Mountains riding upon the billowing foliage like islands adrift in the Great Sea. It took a second for him to receive the shock this introspection generated; Legolas had never been on the sea, had no means to visualize the concept of an island much less create such a comparison.

It was a frightening thing at first to recognize thoughts spawned by knowledge not of his own gathering. _Surely, this image came from Mithrandir's experience in his crossing from Aman,_ he reasoned. Legolas shook his head, wondering what else might be in it now that had not been there before, but put the curious concept aside and focused on the task at hand.

Not much effort was required to seek the counsel of Tawar, and he was able to dissolve deeper into the massive mind freely. He had come to understand that he was never really separated from this connection, and merely allowed more or less of his awareness to be absorbed into the great entity, depending on what was required. His desperation during the search for the spiders' lair had taught him well how to see the design of the Greenwood's natural strength. A terrible pattern of light and dark had flashed within his soul then and all the locations of the darkest pockets of gloom were revealed.

Legolas searched carefully now for the shifting smears of black emptiness stealing over the ground for at such points were found Orcs. From these the Great Wood barricaded itself, closing off the bright perfection of Eru's Making from such mobile infestations of evil, and soon Legolas' comprehension received news of the closest group.

They were moving with slow deliberateness, not yet on his scent, but drawing ever closer in a loosely defined arcuate formation. He smiled at their crude tactics; the semi-circular advance was supposed to make it easy for them to flank and surround a lesser force. It worked perhaps with humans, but never had this configuration succeeded when elven warriors were involved. Legolas wondered about that; had not the Masters of Dol Guldur taken note of this fact?

_Unless the creatures are incapable of learning any other way._

He thought, perhaps, it had more to do with the Wraith's utter contempt for the loathsome miscreants. There were no poorer fighters; not even close to the discipline of goblins, and the Nazgul could afford to spend them recklessly. _In this I thoroughly agree with the shadow-slaves!_ Legolas smirked at this idea and descended lower to intercept the battalion. It took little time moving through the branches to get close enough to alter their course.

Fewer than ten meters separated him from his quarry now, and the forest warrior listened to the raucous quarreling and heavy trampling of the beasts as they converged upon his position. He pulled his dagger from his quiver and made a quick shallow slice across his forearm. With vigour he rubbed the muscle to encourage the flow and soon spilled a thin line of precious drops down upon the leafy debris. Not bothering to bind up the wound, he darted through the lower hanging branches with much more clatter and motion than an elf, even a dying one, would ever make. As he moved, the knife cut bled, spreading a vivid smear across his arm, and dripped onto the branches and leaves as he passed.

Behind him, an excited shout arose from within the Orc host as his blood was discovered. In seconds the foul things were in eager pursuit and the Tawarwaith stilled to let them draw nearer. He shot three of the hastily made arrows into three of the monsters that passed beneath his perch and had already darted away before the bodies hit the ground. An answering hail of missiles and vulgar shouts of rage followed him.

Tbc


	39. Chapter 39

**Tadui Dagor: Maeth dan Yrch **[Second Battle: Fight against the Orcs]

Legolas paused in his game of chase long enough to snatch up an arrow as it sung through the air past his body, a necessary skill he had learned through long, unpleasant practice. With care he clutched it and darted up higher into the leaves, reverting to his natural stealth and agility so that he was four trees to the left of the current target of the Orcs' barrage of missiles. The Tawarwaith smirked; it was so easy to throw them off. The ferine fighter examined the arrow's metal tip cautiously, seeking any indications of poison residue on the point.

He had begun to worry about this after reflecting on his last encounter with Darkness on the day of the Heaving Earth. Those arrows had been subtly tainted, enough to kill him or, at least, to render him weak and vulnerable. Three tours of Ithil through the blackened night had been required to shake the ill-effects of the small wound he had received that day. With two earth-bound companions to consider, that was not the sort of injury the archer could afford to endure.

No toxins appeared to be coating the weapon and Legolas sneered as he ran his thumb against the metal barb. A small scarlet welt raised and opened, and he quickly licked away the welling fluid. He scorned the use of iron for arrows, though he would use that if need demanded it. Obsidian was far more durable and could be worked to an edge so sharp that it would slice a single elven hair into three transparent slivers. Attached to a straight shaft of ash or cedar, launched from his well-crafted bow, such a lethal vertex would puncture flesh and bone, leather and chain-mail, with equal ease.

Relieved that he would not need to worry about the lingering death of polluted blood, the Wood Elf moved quickly through the upper branches until he was beyond the circle of frustrated Orcs. The thought occurred to him that the Masters of Dol Guldur had changed their orders; he was to be brought down by any means possible, preferably dead.

_The Chief does not want me to get back home; if he cannot have me in his dungeons he would have me perish. Poison is too slow for his purpose now!_

Legolas did not take time to reflect on the situation, however, for it made no change in his plans. It was not information that he felt needed to be shared with his comrades, waiting in the pitfall zone ahead. He looked down at the milling, quarrelling Orcs, who had ceased loosing their arrows and were re-examining the last available traces of blood upon the ground. The Tawarwaith chuckled and made a loud rustling as he descended low enough to poke his head into view and smile at his assailants. A low whistle gave them his position and the wild elf sped away again, leading the angered beasts closer to the hidden traps and his companions' eager swords.

The bark of the bole was sleek and smooth, mottled charcoal and pale grey in colour so that in the subdued, filtered gleam that passed for sunlight under the canopy it appeared as unpolished or tarnished silver. The tree's body was broad and unmarred, no claw or hoof had scratched its wooden hide, nor falling branch or stray cast stone found a way to breach its pristine perfection. The great tree dominated the region, soaring high above the forest floor, surely the eldest denizen of this locality and among the oldest amid the plant life inhabiting the Greenwood.

It held its thick, robust limbs up and out nearly parallel to the ground, yet far from the reach of even the nimblest elf to grasp and swing from the earth to the heights. So vast was the spread of its leafy shade that no brush or bramble crowded up around the trunk, allowing anyone located near its tethered base a clear view throughout the vicinity. The girth of the majestic birch was more than ample to conceal one lone human from seeking eyes, easily two Men might hide behind its magnificent expanse, and here Aragorn waited with fidgety impatience for Orcs to slay.

Sword drawn and held tight within his two-fisted grip, the Man admired the ancient wood around him and gazed dizzyingly into the towering crown of the old ones clustered together in this place. He had not really noticed before how certain areas of the weald held such groups of these long-lived trees while other zones seemed crowded with more youthful, slender trunked individuals. There was a flet spanning the lowest limbs of his tree. Simply constructed and easily visible, the small platform was clearly not an outpost.

_One of the scaffolds Legolas built for shooting Orcs._ he realized as he scanned the neighboring trees and spotted more of the sturdy perches scattered about.

Aragorn shifted from foot to foot, relieving the tension in his calves, shrugged and rotated his shoulders, and turned his head side to side, cracking the joints of his spine and neck. He did not tolerate waiting very well, especially in the steamy heat of the late summer's day, and sighed in frustration. But he was a disciplined soldier and knew how to use his time, noting all the possible routes the enemy might employ when entering the scene, listening carefully to the sounds of the forest for changes in the normal pattern of the diurnal chatter.

With an abruptness that startled him, all the background noise of the woods ceased and it was thus the silence that alerted him of impending battle. Aragorn strained his ears to try and pick up any faint indication of the enemies' direction, and finding nothing threw himself down to the ground to press his head against the leafy bosom of the earth. He smiled and rose, rewarded for his effort by the knowledge that the horde was approaching with rapid strides from the east and south of his position, the bearing upon which Legolas had disappeared hours ago.

He need not have gone to such lengths, however, for shortly thereafter he could clearly hear the terrible beasts tearing their way with avid hostility through the trees. Their cries, grunts, and strange guttural speech, accompanied by the distinct sound of blade against wood and the cracking of branches still green with sap, became an eerily echoing cacophony that grew in volume and pitch as the pack neared. Before they burst into view, Aragorn noted the unmistakable twang of an elf-made bow and the disturbing sound of a fair voice ridiculing and taunting the vile creatures.

When the troop made its entrance, Aragorn braced for assault but held his position, as he had no desire to become the first victim of the traps. The elf flew through the trees ahead of them, just out of reach yet not so high that he was beyond the range of their weapons or their sight. The mortal had never seen one of the fair folk make so much clatter and clamour in motion as Legolas produced. It was an uncomfortable observation, for he had always been taught that the Wood Elves were fighters of stealth and subterfuge rather than strategy and shrewd cunning.

The wild warrior leaped upon the very flet above the mortal's head, smiled down at him for a second, and with blinding rapidity fired off three darts before tearing away again. The cries of death and outrage that followed left no doubt in the Man's mind that the misshapen arrows had burrowed deeply into Orcish flesh.

Then the huge herd was trampling in a thunder of crushing feet past him, never even catching the scent of the Man as he crouched behind the tree, ready to stand and fight. His vision followed their progress among the trees and noticed with alarm that the elf was now on the ground, just meters from the advancing throng, calmly firing arrow after arrow into the advancing host.

The Orcs were torn between answering with their bows or rushing forward with swords to carve him up, and seemed nearly evenly divided over the dilemma. Those that stopped and armed their bows created barriers the others had to get around, and some of their fellows were too impatient to pause in their charge and would hack at these archers even as they tried to target the Wood Elf. Legolas laughed in delight at these antics, a cold sound that chilled Aragorn's soul a bit.

"That is well, do my work for me! Come on, maggot fodder, I will use your rotting bodies to feed my trees! This day is the last you will look upon the fairness of my woods, and for the rest of your damned existence may your black spirits roil in the torment of the Void with your faithless master!"

This taunt from the Wood Elf enraged them and any pretense of order vanished at once. The creatures disregarded whatever knowledge of the traps they might possess and rushed headlong for the fallen prince. Legolas just smiled and continued to shoot them down.

Three traps were sprung at once in a sundering shuddering of branches and forlorn shrieks as the demons were pierced through, falling to their dooms. Panic ensued.

Legolas ceased firing to return to the branches above, climbing the trunk behind him with easy grace. He stood upon a flet and watched with satisfaction as the Orcs scattered and ran off, only to find the deadly holes opened beneath them no matter where they turned, for their adversary had learned their pattern of behavior well. As for the few that managed to evade the traps, those the forest champion felled before they left the scene, and as he had predicted every one of the monsters died within minutes.

Silence returned and with it the stinking reek of draining blood from opened bodies. Aragorn emerged from his hidden vantage point and surveyed the carnage. He undertook a quick count as he walked carefully among the carcasses and the pits, mindful of any not yet deployed. There were forty-two Orcs dead amid the trees, and he had not even had to raise his blade once. The Man had never felt so utterly inconsequential in all his days, and gazed up at the quiet archer above.

Legolas sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the wooden platform, swinging them lightly, and lifted his hand in acknowledgement. Before the mortal could speak, the elf rose and moved into the branches, joining the Man on the ground as the wizard emerged from cover as well.

"I told you it would work. However, this was not really a battle. There will be harder fighting with a real troop of them; too many for traps to do more than offer minor help." he said softly.

Mithrandir did not reply, only watched the outcast warrior cautiously. Legolas seemed curiously detached from the events. The Istar did not like the means his friend had chosen to draw the foul demons in, yet knew not what to say, fearing Legolas would hear only criticism and disapproval on a more personal level. He moved to touch the Tawarwaith hoping thus to convey his worry for the elf's safety; but, the archer quickly shied away.

Legolas gave him a furtive glance as he did so and then inspected the corpses upon the ground, calmly taking two nearly full quivers of arrows and slinging them over his shoulder. He continued to steal arrows from any corpse so armed that he could reach, packing the missiles into his own and the Orcish quivers. Examining and discarding several war bows, he finally found one that met his approval and slipped that over his head as well. He began dragging the remains into the empty traps and Aragorn moved to help him.

"I admit I am surprised this ploy succeeded. I was certain they would know of the pitfalls and find a way to circumvent them," he said and then pointed to the clotting slash across the wild elf's arm. "Allow me to treat that for you."

"Nay!" Legolas forced a laugh as he flexed his arm. "It is very shallow and will close quickly."

"Do you not fear poison?" Aragorn frowned thinking the elf distrusted his talents as a healer after the effects of the sleeping draught. "Even a slight wound from an Orcish weapon may be deadly!"

"Ah! I see; no, there is no need to worry about poison, Aragorn. I already tested their arrows for such vile deceits; there was none. In any case, this cut is not from any foul devise of those demons."

Aragorn stared in consternation a moment and turned to Gandalf to confirm what he believed he had been told. As the Istar nodded, the Man hissed out a strong expletive and looked at the elf in disbelief. "You cut your own flesh to lure them," he said, outraged that anyone would have to do such a thing, much less an immortal.

"Yes, they cannot resist," Legolas simply shrugged. "Here, these may be needed in the fight that awaits us." He handed over the plundered bow and a full quiver of arrows to the Man.

"I am not nearly as adept with such a weapon as I am with my sword, Legolas," Aragorn said in confusion as he accepted the offering and tested its draw. He raised his brows appreciatively; it was not the sort of quality one expected an Orc's weapon to possess. A second later realization dawned; the bow was of elven make, stolen from an archer killed in the constant conflict that defined the Wood Elves' existence.

"Earlier you remarked upon the lack of arrows to fight from the trees; now you have that option. You can shoot from horseback?"

"Aye, if need be. You speak as though you expect us to be in flight!"

"We are in flight, Aragorn!"

With that assertion Legolas resumed toting the carcasses into the traps and nodded gratefully when the Man rejoined the task. All the offal was quickly deposited below the forest floor, and the human wiped his brow as the elf searched a last time for anything serviceable to their cause. He scavenged two daggers and slipped them into his quiver with a wicked leer; killing the creatures with weapons of their own making always seemed so appropriate.

They had not time to fire the pits, which bothered Legolas. He knew it could not be helped and sighed dejectedly. The brief encounter had only darkened his mood for while he had now proved himself a capable warrior the tension between the travelers remained. He stole a fleeting look in Mithrandir's direction, finding the Istar's eyes regarding him with an expression of remorse that made Legolas' heart contract. Absentmindedly he massaged the ache, simultaneously longing for the wizard's comfort and dreading to resume the connection, reluctant to again feel the doubts Mithrandir could not repress; however valiantly he tried to conceal them.

Noisy movement amid the trees beyond the traps alerted Gandalf and Aragorn, both immediately drew swords and assumed a defensive stance. Legolas just waited calmly as the two horses emerged from the foliage beyond the pits and daintily picked their way with careful distaste around the malodorous graves of the gross abominations of Eru's design.

Legolas spoke softly to them in Sindarin words only they could hear and gently soothed the nervous gelding. The frightened palomino was not a war-horse, and the terror of the journey across the Shadowed terrain had become a visible lather of sweat upon its whithers and flanks, darkening the honey-coloured coat to a rich, shiny bronze. The horse snorted loudly through its velvet-skinned muzzle and rubbed its weary head against Legolas' shoulder. The Wood Elf instinctively leaned against the broad equine forehead, both receiving and lending comfort.

"It is no good waiting; that only allows more time for the Orcs to get closer," he finally said and looked to his friends.

"Nay, this will not do!" Mithrandir at last found his tongue. "Legolas, I must speak!" The Istar drew himself up as the archer faced him warily. "Well done, my friend, well done!" the wizard said from amid a face all crinkled up with lines of warm regard. "Accept my apology for doubting your oath to me. I plead ignorance and the influence from the creeping defilement of the Shadow upon these lands. We must be able to depend upon one another, and I do not wish to add to your burdens by allowing this distrust and dread to fester!"

"That is right," added Aragorn. "I also stand humbled. I have disbelieved you and disregarded your greater experience in this sort of fighting. These tactics bear no resemblance to riding within a company of well-armed elves or men, for which I am amply trained!"

Legolas' brows rose in surprise as he gazed from one to the other, for it was not what he had expected to hear. He did not draw back when Mithrandir came forward and gripped his shoulder firmly, staring hard into his eyes. The Maia was asking for the connection to be restored, and Legolas relented only to find himself swept into Mithrandir's embrace, his spirit awash in an outpouring of fond goodwill and his face crushed against the shaggy beard as the wily wizard chuckled joyfully.

"Here now, let him loose, Gandalf! I will not let that gash go untreated, no matter what you say, Legolas," Aragorn said and pried the two apart, beaming happily to find the tensions between them reduced and the unseemly events of the night if not forgotten then at least pushed aside. He lifted the wild elf's arm and, holding on, guided him over to the charger's side.

The Man quickly located what he needed in his pack and cleaned the cut, dressing it with more of the healing ointment that had proved so effective against the scrapes and slices from the spider battle. He glanced briefly at the bound ankle but thought better of bringing it up, considering any reference to their previous misunderstanding unwise. Besides, Legolas was clearly not hindered in his movements any longer.

"Thank you, that does feel much better now," Legolas said and flashed his brilliant smile upon them both. "Yet, this delay will be costly if we prolong it further!"

"Very well, Legolas. Will you ride or take to the trees?" asked Mithrandir as he approached and mounted his steed.

"I will ride for now, we require some semblance of speed to get ahead. There is a very large group moving in from the fringe of the Greenwood, dwellers of the caves in the Misty Mountains, they are. They seek to cut us off before we reach the river, planning to keep us occupied while the company from the mountains advances. That will be quite a large force, and I would rather not have to face them thus combined."

"Indeed!" Aragorn concurred as he pulled himself up onto his charger's back. "Lead the way, Tawarwaith!"

In silence the group rode forward again, if such an irregular course could so be called. The remainder of the day dwindled away with no further encounter with any enemy yet neither Legolas nor the horses relaxed. The palomino paced along in stiff-legged dread, trusting himself to the care of the elf who had protected him thus far, when all instincts would have the animal bolt for the wide meadows reaching down to the Anduin beyond the eaves of the darkening forest.

The golden gelding moved with its head high on an elegantly arched neck, nostrils flared, huffing noisily with every step as its hooves pounded out a relentless, mile-eating percussion against the leafy mould. With ears cocked, one trained back to catch the soft speech of the Elda and the other scanning side to side; he searched for any signals of danger. He was in the lead once more and summoned the confidence to maintain it from the unspoken reassurances of his immortal passenger.

The wild elf serenely sat astride its withers, in front of the wizard again. Legolas occasionally whispered praise to the compact equine, impressed with the strong heart and brave spirit of the smaller horse. He wondered briefly why the Noldor of Imladris had chosen to castrate the valiant steed, for such a determined and loyal bearing would do well to be encouraged in the bloodlines rather than diminished. The woodland warrior was momentarily overcome by sadness at the thought of this creature dying and leaving no progeny behind, but he quickly stifled such emotions for the gelding sensed his sorrow and faltered in its step.

"What is our friend called?" Legolas suddenly asked the wizard, the first words he had spoken to Mithrandir since the skirmish.

Mithrandir opened his mouth to speak and hesitated. The horse was named Pôdvallen [Goldfoot] but he did not wish to say this word; it would only make Legolas think of Malthen [Golden].

"You have noticed I have not used his name, I see," the wizard stalled, but his statement was true. Gandalf waited until the archer affirmed this, looking over his shoulder expectantly. "The stable master calls him Pen'irith [Shuddering One], but that is hardly fair!" he continued, and this also was no lie. "He has proven to be quite reliable, and what creature would not be skittish confronted with the overwhelming dread of Mirkwood?" Gandalf smiled inside and out, pleased to have kept the real name secret and thus spared his friend an unpleasant reflection.

"I agree," said Legolas, "and never could I call him that. He shall be Hûnchim [Steadfast Heart] as long as I have a mind with which to think of him." He patted the gelding's neck and smiled as the horse tossed its head proudly. The archer leaned sideways and gazed back amiably at the mortal. "And your steed? How is he called, Aragorn?"

"Maranwë [Destiny]," the Man grinned as the charger twitched back an ear at the sound of its name. "I have noticed the terrain has altered; we must be near the borders now for I have seen many signs of elven work among these trees."

"Aye, we will be upon the Road soon. We will not cross it yet, and this day is too far spent to make much further progress. There is an outpost a league ahead where we will stay the night," the elf replied with more of the ease he had formerly managed, but the silence returned as they continued their trek.

It was not his guilty shame and hurting heart that made the wild elf go quiet now, however. He had thought much on their reactions to him and decided that it was no more than he should have expected. He reproached himself for his self-pity; he should not have allowed his personal faults to sully the vow he had made to them. The pair's kindness and aid to him during the night of grieving incurred a debt that transcended the reduced esteem they now held for him, for which he had only his base desires to blame. Their apologies and spontaneous assertions of faith, despite all they now knew of his character, were beyond any good graces the archer had hoped to recoup.

His current reticence thus had more to do with their situation. He was becoming increasingly aware of the alarm throughout the trees due to the very large band of Orcs marching their way from the western most eaves of the forest. The travelers were now engaged in a desperate race to prevent the creatures from gaining enough ground to intercept them before they reached the Forest Road, though the Man and the Maia did not realize the nearness of the pursuit. Legolas kept this news to himself and pressed Hûnchim for a longer stride.

Night had drawn down darkness upon the forest over two hours hence before the Tawarwaith finally halted the gelding and stood upon his back to climb into the trees. Mithrandir watched as he scampered up until the leaves and the gloom obscured him from view. The wizard frowned, but before he could speak the Man verbalized his concerns for him.

"Legolas, we cannot see where you are going nor climb unaided through this pitch! Come back down!" Neither reply nor motion greeted his demand and the mortal muttered something rather unpleasant regarding impolite behavior as he guided Maranwë next to the palomino. He was about to leap down and attempt to scale the tree when a muffled whoosh sounded and he felt rather than saw something drop down from the branches and hang swaying in the momentum of its fall. His first thought was of spiders and his sword rang loudly as he drew it forth, but muted elven laughter halted his arm from further exercise.

"Do not cut through the ladder, Aragorn, or you will find it much more difficult to ascend to the talan!" Legolas cheerily warned as he landed softly on the ground next to the charger's nose. He reached up and grasped the end of a sturdy rope ladder and held it taut, inviting them to climb up.

Somewhat sheepishly, the Man sheathed his broadsword as he turned toward the wizard with a look of longsuffering resignation over the capricious ways of elven folk, realizing belatedly that Gandalf could see no more clearly in the dark than he, and would thus fail to appreciate the expression.

"You might have warned me!" Aragorn grumbled to Legolas, shouldering his pack, the bow, and the quiver. He grabbed the silky twine the elf held down and easily pulled himself up through the inky air to the platform, passing within a small trapdoor in the floorboards.

Once there, he hesitantly felt about, toes edging forward and hands before him, and discovered that Legolas had already set out the mats and blankets. In the dim drear, the Man could scarcely see and his eye was drawn to a faint gleam of wan moonlight on glass. A bottle and some cups waited on the closed lid of the wooden chest and as he reached for it, he heard Gandalf hauling his weight up through the floor. Aragorn leaned down to give him a hand but the gnarled staff appeared first and nearly caught the mortal a sharp rap upon the forehead. Aragorn dodged the blow and grasped the rod firmly, pulling the wizard up with it. Both waited by the opening, expecting the elf to appear next, but minutes passed and no golden head popped through the square of empty air.

"Pull up the ladder and shut that now," the Wood Elf's voice from behind and above them made both startle slightly and Mithrandir made an exasperated 'tisk' to accompany the scowl neither of his companions could see. He obeyed the elf, however, and then turned toward the direction from which the words had sounded, but still their friend did not join them. "You will be safe here; I will wake you before dawn," he said, and already they could tell he was no longer in the tree with them from the distant quality of the speech.

"Where are you going?" called Aragorn, concerned.

"Hunting," the answer came back through the cloying night.

The two travelers shared a simple meal of dried fruits, lembas, and wine; for the bottle was a fine vintage, no doubt left by Thranduil's guard to enjoy upon their return. Aragorn scowled as he set aside his empty cup; it felt wrong to enjoy such luxury when Legolas was abroad among the dangers of the Darkness, and he said so. Gandalf agreed, but there was no way for them to follow and assist their comrade.

In silence they waited for the elf to return, smoking pensively after the humble repast. Soon their weariness got the better of them and they stretched out to sleep. Secure though they were upon the heights of the outpost talan, the Man and the wizard slept lightly. At one point, both woke at once, staring at each other in alarm, uncertain what had prompted their alertness. Nothing unusual seemed to disrupt the peaceful night, and yet the uneasy feeling would not desist, and the pair only dozed fitfully thereafter.

A soft thump and a subtle clattering roused Aragorn some time later. He bolted up, staring through the darkness at the shadowy figure kneeling on the wooden floor, and exhaled a relieved breath as he recognized the lithe form of the Wood Elf.

It was not yet dawn, Legolas having returned as promised, and the Man yawned as he stretched, trying to figure out what the fallen warrior was doing. Nearby, Gandalf stirred as well. Gradually the mortal's eyes adjusted and he could observe more easily. Legolas was busy removing arrows from an Orcish quiver, filling his own with the black-fletched darts as he breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath. Aragorn's healing senses came alert; it took a great deal of activity to make one of the fair folk short of wind.

"Legolas?" he whispered and saw the archer's shadowed head tilt in his direction.

"Quickly, gather your things up! We must make haste, for the Orcs have not slept all night and are upon us!" the agitated reply softly reached his ears. "Use the ladder, hurry! The horses are below!" With these words he leaped over the side of the platform and made not even a rustle of leaves in his descent to the floor. Legolas was already mounted and impatiently waiting when the Maia and the Man joined him.

As soon as they were up, Legolas spoke softly to Hûnchim and the gelding leaped froward through the trees at a run. Maranwë sped after him, covetous of the lead, smelling the odor of battle on the elf and in the air. An hour's hard riding brought them into less densely treed forest and then suddenly they broke onto the broad, hard-packed dwarven road that transected the woods and formed the southern bounds of Thranduil's Realm. Legolas urged the palomino again, and the gallant little horse charged forward at a desperate gallop down the clear pathway.

Precariously perched on the gelding's rump, Gandalf clutched tightly to the wild elf's waist, leaning close to the warrior's shoulder as both bent low over Hûnchim's neck. The Maia heard a whistling whine sweep past his head and flinched from the unmistakable wind of an arrow's flight. Legolas cursed and shifted more upright, reaching for his bow and elbowing the Istar's chest as he snatched out an arrow and sent it flying. He fired thereafter in a continuously fluid motion, aiming into the trees lining the elven side of the roadway. Behind them, Gandalf could hear Aragorn releasing darts as well, and all around the sounds of barbaric grunts, shouts of enraged anguish, and groans of rapid death filled the ebbing night.

Abruptly, the sortie was over and the wild elf spoke once more to Hûnchim, sending the brave steed barreling into the brush and boles of Thranduil's borderlands. Maranwë made a great deal more disturbance, crashing his greater bulk through the undergrowth for there was no pathway here. Legolas let the golden gelding slow to a trot again, but did not allow a halt even though the horses were weary and alarmed. A soothing caress of the palomino's neck calmed the frightened beast somewhat, and this in turn eased the charger's senses.

"Are you whole?" Legolas worriedly asked and glanced back through the filtered dawn's light first at Mithrandir and then beyond him to Aragorn.

"Aye, no injuries," said the Man grimly as the wizard concurred. "Are you well? What is happening, Legolas? Is this the troop from the Misty Mountains?" He saw the Tawarwaith's head dart to the side and caught a flash of those brilliant blue eyes, alight with irritated exasperation, before the elf turned back to the terrain ahead of them.

"I am well enough!" _Healers!_ "Yes, these are the very beasts dogging us that I have feared would overtake our progress. All night I worked to reduce their number, yet more continue to join their ranks! I am not sure if they are all from beyond the Anduin or a mix of local and foreign vermin."

"He is injured, Aragorn, and even now bleeds. I am not certain where the wound is, but Hûnchim is quite disturbed by the smell of the flow!" Gandalf interjected and lowered his brows in defensive menace when Legolas turned betrayed eyes upon his.

"I am well enough!" Legolas repeated angrily. "You promised not to cast doubts on my ability, then trust that I know when I need to stop!"

"Nay, you will halt when we are safe, not when you require care!" countered Mithrandir.

"And how will you fight weakened by blood loss?" demanded Aragorn, trying to find a way to get Maranwë alongside the gelding, though the closeness of the trees did not allow it.

"There is no choice in this! One fights or dies, those are the only options available, and so I will fight. I am not so weakened that it will hamper our retreat, I assure you! Last night I bound up the injury; it will be fine until later. I will stop when we reach the river!"

"That is another thing, Legolas," the Man continued. "Why are we running for the river at all? Then we will be forced to halt and face whatever numbers converge upon us! Are you looking for the King's troops to be stationed there?" The mortal simply could not abide being ignorant of the plans for their struggle and had difficulty relinquishing control of such a dire situation, unable to get beyond the sense of the numbers approaching them. Knowing Legolas was injured certainly did nothing to inspire confidence in successfully beating such odds.

Legolas sighed quietly. _How does he think I have endured this long with as little skill as he credits to me?_ He thought of explaining to Aragorn that they yet had a small advantage granted by the forest itself, for the Orcs could not advance in a coherent force but had to run amid the boles and find their quarry piecemeal, a few at a time.

He felt he should not have to explain that his senses alerted him to the enemy's presence early enough to forestall any surprise attacks. Raised by elves, trained by elves, and having fought with elves, Aragorn should know these things even better than Mithrandir. If the three kept moving, they could hope to avoid being overwhelmed and boxed in, or separated from each other and individually surrounded. Instead of speaking any of these reproaches, Legolas merely answered the Man's question, for he heard the advance of seven of the beasts just to the right and ahead of them.

"At the river there are boats. The King's guard I have already seen, though I do not think they are aware of us yet; they are chasing the Orcs that are chasing us. They will force the Orcs to slow down, and that should be enough to aid us." As he spoke he stood upon the horse and pulled up into the trees, and the next instant he disappeared from sight. Minutes later the sound of his bow and the successful conclusion of the arrows' flights was confirmed by the surprised cries of the Orcs, which died never having set eyes upon their prey. Legolas returned to his friends and reseated himself on Hûnchim's shoulders.

Aragorn caught another fleeting glance from the feral fighter's eyes and grinned back, for there had been something in that look that conveyed a stronger reprimand than any words might express. The Man was reminded of Elrohir, who often sent such reproving glares at Elladan for continuously cautioning and advising the younger twin during battle, as though Elrohir had not noted exactly the same signs at precisely the same moment. The Man wasted no more thought on such reflections, however, for Legolas suddenly switched directions and picked up the pace of the palomino. In a few heartbeats they were set upon by a large number of Orcs, and Aragorn was certain Legolas had deliberately turned them into this throng.

Again the archer leaped to the trees and proceeded to inflict a rain of death into the foul army. He was not indiscriminate in his selection of targets, however, and sent every Orc bearing a bow to its death first. And that is when the creatures attempted to be clever and earned for themselves a most gruesome death.

The Orcs decided to concentrate on the little gelding, for the animal was clearly not trained for combat and knew no techniques for warding off danger and protecting its rider. Hûnchim wheeled and reared, darted and whirled this way and that, yet each movement seemed to bring him into closer proximity to the beasts.

Mithrandir brandished his broadsword and his staff and was able to keep them back for a time, but more of the demons turned to engage him and he could not guard every point at once. Aragorn was occupied with four combatants himself and could not break away in time to assist. Legolas was firing furiously from the trees but his supply of arrows was nearly spent and still the beasts converged upon the wizard.

At last the elf shot his last arrow and even as the Orc fell another beast instantly replaced it, and this one managed to reach the terrified gelding. Hûnchim's high-pitched whinny of pain and fear sliced through the half-lit morning as easily as the Orc's blade slipped between his ribs and into his lungs. The poor horse instinctively leaped away and was met by the blade of another Orc. The sword bit deeply into his shoulder and the horse staggered and collapsed with a heaving groan, pinning the Istar's leg beneath his bulk.

The enraged shout that preceded the Tawarwaith's descent from the trees was deafening and held all the promise of annihilation he intended for his adversaries, and for the briefest of instants they paused. It was hopeless, really, and they knew it. Every one of them would die, and not with a clean and simple arrow shot through the head.

The wild elf landed next to his fallen friends and wasted no time fulfilling this promise, and set upon the first Orc with dagger in hand. Ducking beneath its sweeping scimitar, he stabbed through its neck and snatched the long bade from its clutch as he shoved the bloody monster away. A quick leap to the side and a sharp upsweep of his arm brought the blade of the Orc's weapon cleanly through its gaping throat. Legolas turned from its body with its head in the other hand and this he swung by its greasy matted hair, using it to parry the sword of his next victim as his dagger darted into the breach created and sliced a gaping gash through the demon's abdomen.

Legolas took the sword from its twitching hand and used it to gut an Orc attempting to attack him from behind and snaked his dagger through the wrist of another advancing on the left. The elf took a small cut across his hip as that blade's edge thus dropped still clutched in the severed claws, but he barely felt it as he glared into the yellow eyes of the loathsome beast and then let the dagger put those out as well. He kicked the mutilated Orc into the path of another attempting to reach him, and both went down. Legolas quickly approached them and knelt.

The unharmed monster raged and snarled, trying to get from under his blinded comrade whose lifeblood was rapidly draining through the dismembered wrist. Legolas planted one hand firmly on the sword arm of the pinned one, rolled the disabled Orc away, and plunged his dagger viciously into his captive's chest, snapping ribs and sinews as he hacked his way to the creature's blackened, shriveled heart. This he yanked free and rose with it from the steaming carcass. Just as he lobbed it into the face of another opponent and followed that with one of the plundered Orcish daggers, he heard the arrival of reinforcements nearing their position.

This cleared his fury enough to see to Mithrandir, pushing and lifting the expired palomino off the wizard even as arrows began to pierce the animal's body and embed in the bark and ground around them.

Aragorn shouted to them, encouraging his friends as he maneuvered Maranwë closer. The war-horse proved his value and courage, flailing with hooves and teeth, leaping and kicking with unerring aim to catch ringing blows upon Orcish skulls that cracked under the impact of such force. The brave steed incurred a number of small wounds but let not the flow of his blood deter him from the fight. All the while the Man's sword bit into the necks and arms of the dastardly foes, and often the charger had to jump to clear his footing in the accumulating debris of bodies upon the earth.

Once his comrade was up and hacking his way through the oncoming Orcs to reach Aragorn, Legolas raced amid the hail of arrows straight into the soldiers, sword in one hand and dagger in the other. He reached his goal, an Orcish archer still fumbling to fit an arrow to shoot him down, and slit its throat as he buried the sword into the next nearest's stomach, leaving it there and taking up his bow as the Orc went down. He bent to take the creature's quiver and when he straightened was astonished to feel himself thrown back upon the ground. A sharp searing flare of pain erupted in his side and the feral fighter shouted in anger, for he knew he had taken an arrow.

Aragorn, with the wizard now perched behind him on the stallion, saw this and turned to give his comrade aid. Even as he battled to reach the elf, he watched as Legolas got to his knees and put the bow to use, clearing away the other archers first and then targeting the warriors converging upon the irresistible sight of one of the fair folk, wounded and bleeding and earth bound. The human did not need to instruct Maranwë to create a barrier between the downed warrior and the enemy and soon the horse was pivoting and kicking with powerful grace, lashing out at any Orc that tried to reach Legolas.

"Legolas!" shouted Mithrandir. "Get into the trees!" He was exasperated to see the Tawarwaith thrusting his dagger blade into the ground as though to clean it before continuing the fight.

"A moment, if you do not mind!" shouted back the elf, and as the wizard watched Legolas took a breath and held it, then carefully placed the point of his knife against the arrow's shaft and slid it down into the wound slowly. A minute later he gave a quick twist of his wrist and a rapid yank and drew back both the dagger and the arrow from his flesh. With a stifled gasp he swallowed back a cry of pain and hastily snapped off the point of the missile, tossing it into his quiver as he pressed hard over the gush of blood that poured from the aggravated injury. There was no time to waste, however, and with a quick swipe of his red-wetted hand against his leggings he rose and bolted for the nearest tree, making its cover in a flash of swaying golden tresses and a grunt of discomfort as his battered body protested the exertion.

Once Legolas was in the branches, the Orcs were doomed. With efficient accuracy he used their comrade's arrows to deliver them death, calling for his friends to turn west and work back towards the rising of the land. A rapid swish of a black flowing mane and dappled-grey haunches caught the feral Tawarwaith's eye and he rejoiced; the King's troops had caught up and were harrying the Orcs from the rear, preventing more of the demons reaching them from the south and east. Soon their arrows were singing through the morning, seeking silence in the hearts of the enemy.

And it was well for the three travelers that this assistance was at hand, for they were beset from the north with equal force as they strove to reach the shores of the Forest River. Already Legolas could hear the gurgling voice of the water surging through its channel. But they were yet too far for the Man's hearing to detect this sound when the noise of Black Speech and trampling feet, ringing steel and whistling arrows was so close at hand and demanded all his attention. In no time they were surrounded again, battling courageously as they fell back, Legolas shooting from the trees while Gandalf and the human struggled to stave off the onslaught from the charger's back.

Carrying two full-grown males was a great burden to Maranwë, and his speed and agility suffered under the stress. In addition, the proximity of one to the other hampered the movements of the fighters as they attempted to defend themselves against the enemy. Legolas saw this and became alarmed when the Man's sword arm took a glancing blow that drew out a bitter curse and a crimson stream from the Man. At almost the same instant Mithrandir hollered in agony as a sword found a way to his knee and left a gaping rend in his flesh that bared the bone, white amid the ruby flux. They were tiring, horse, mortal, and Maia, and that would seal their doom.

Legolas leaped down from the trees into the mass, for he was out of arrows again and still the beasts continued to advance. All of the caves of the highlands must have emptied to do battle with the Tawarwaith. He killed two Orcs quickly, one an archer, and snatched up its quiver as he threw one of the fiendish dirks he had scavenged from his earlier victory into the back of a huge beast charging towards Maranwë.

"Here, hideous and misshapen slaves of Melkor! Why do you waste your time with those two?" He fired off an arrow that embedded into an arm raised to strike the wizard. "I am the one you were ordered to kill! Look at you, worthless as shite, useless as vomit!" Two more arrows felled the first beast to turn toward him. "So close you are, your farts foul the airs and the stench from your lungs makes me want to heave, yet still you cannot catch one lone and wounded elf!" he shouted at them and by this time nearly every Orc in the vicinity responded to the challenge.

Legolas laughed, making the sound as light and lyrical as his fair voice could do, knowing his careless seeming demeanor would only enrage them even more. As the Orcs came for him, he rapidly shot them down, moving toward a likely oak as he did so. The creatures knew he was taking to the branches and tried desperately to prevent it, but his aim was fast and sure and none closed the gap in time to halt his ascent.

Once there, he stayed low and moved slowly, taunting them boldly to follow if they dared. Of course they could not resist, and if they hesitated he came out of the trees again and stood still a minute or two to present them with an easy target. In this way, Legolas was able to divert the majority of the Orcs from Mithrandir and Aragorn, and the numbers remaining to fight them were not more than the two could handle.

As he fought further and further from his friends, Legolas sent Mithrandir urgent orders to run for the river, and the wizard did not disregard these instructions. A few words to Aragorn made him understand the plan, and though they were now divided the three travelers made their way in accord toward the rocky banks that Legolas had given knowledge of to his friend. When at last the shore was reached, the Orcs became wild with fury and redoubled their efforts, seeing their prey on the brink of escape.

Had the King's troops not been dogging them so thoroughly, the beasts might at least have claimed the lives of the wizard or the Man, and perhaps the Wood Elf as well. As it was, Gandalf jumped down and hobbled for the spot where the canoe was beached upon the shingled shore. Aragorn leaped from his loyal steed's back and smacked the charger's rear, intending to send him to safety. But Maranwë would not desert them and made his body a bullwark. Legolas defended them from the trees as the boat slid into the stream.

The fighters splashed through the icy water and scrambled into the craft as Legolas dropped to the ground and retreated to the bank, firing as he proceeded, amid the cries of his friends and the outraged clamour of the disappointed Orcs still trying to get past his lethal skill.

With a final shot, the wild elf slipped his bow over his shoulders and ran through the shallows, aware that the valiant war-horse had again positioned himself between the retreating elf and the barrage of death. He dived into the liquid, slipping under the surface until he reached the canoe. Arrows and blades, from daggers to swords, hurtled towards the little kayak as the Orcs made their last attempts to kill, but only Maranwë did they take and none struck the weary travelers.

Legolas shot to the surface and Aragorn leaned over, hauling him in while Mithrandir held the boat steady, using his staff to anchor them. In dismay the three looked upon their four-legged comrade, stretched upon the bank as the grotesque horde plunged swords and fired arrows into the dying horse, spending their futile rage.

Finally they were away; the boat was caught by the current and whisked downstream, and the last the trio saw of the Orcs, the Greenwood's warriors had broken through the trees and were almost casually moving among the beasts, slaughtering them all.

The Forest River sequestered its true nature while rolling sedately past Othronnen Thranduil, as though in submission to the ruler that lodged there. Closer to the Central Mountains, it roared with its most powerful voice and writhed in vehement turbulence in futile defiance of its subjugation further down stream.

The river twisted through the narrow gorge cut solely of its own design, smoothed and shaped as slick as glass with the flailing tongue of its forceful liquid body. Foam and spray it cast up into the air around it from bank to bank, waves standing and flowing back up stream over the boulders and outcropping stones in its bed. With relish it delved potholes and loop ways using small stones and cobbles against the massive rocks, so that if ever it were laid bare the stony bottom would have the appearance of a gargantuan ants' nest exposed.

Here was no need for the Enchantment that marked its lower courses, for it had anger and wrath aplenty to claim the breath and life of any that wandered within its domain. Here was a stream not eager to submit to the counsel of Ulmo, or perhaps that was exactly what it did. Perhaps Ulmo, in his wisdom, left this river to its own mind, flowing dangerously wild from the modest peaks in the Greenwood's heart as a first defense for the Wood Elves' kingdom, preventing easy access from the southern and eastern borders.

In the small canoe, the three travelers rode the untamed courses with growing trepidation, Gandalf in the prow and Aragorn behind him with the prone elf in between. Aragorn was hindered in the use of his paddle, for his arm was still bleeding, weakened from the attack. Gandalf looked ready to pass out as he knelt upon his mangled knee and strained to help the Man with the other paddle. Legolas' wounds had opened again. The wild elf lay, soaked, gasping and shuddering, upon the floor of the boat, fighting to remain alert.

Now in the full, clear morning's light of the open sky over the river, the seriousness of the injuries could be seen. It was apparent that the feral elf had used the binding from his ankle to bandage up a deep puncture in his thigh, and the blood oozing from this was quickly mixing with the puddle of water shed from him in the bottom of the canoe. Aragorn could not tell whether both injuries were from arrows or not, nor could he halt his paddling to try and stop the bleeding. He silently sent a prayer to Varda to preserve them all and focused his attention on the grueling task of steering the kayak.

The speed of their progress increased as the river turned towards the dropping chasm. A standing wave tugged at the sleek, smooth skin of their elven made boat and its pointed prow dipped precariously down into a hole, spilling a massive wave of water up over the craft and dowsing Legolas as his head plunged briefly below the river's churning surface. The boat popped back up; leaping into the air at a strange angle as the natural buoyancy of the wood, its elongate shape, and the weight of the passengers prevented it from capsizing.

Legolas coughed and sputtered as he tried to draw breath but his noise could scarcely be heard against the crashing and grinding of the churning stream. The archer attempted to sit up; rocking the little boat precariously as the rapids spun it round.

"Legolas!" Aragorn yelled over the deafening thunder of the river's wrath, and the wild elf looked up at his friend. "Be still, stay down!" The Tawarwaith gave a quick nod and hunkered low again.

Gandalf had not time to try to call out a warning as the rapids played with the kayak as though it was less significant than the smallest pebble dragged within its raging power. Desperately the Maia attempted to paddle away from the obstructions barring the way, yet his efforts were virtually ineffectual.

The river cast the canoe up over a sharp toothed exposure of granite, scraping loudly against the hull and slicing a long gouge in the thinned bark, but the wood held. The torrent was relentless, grasping the boat and spinning it through the surging flow like a leaf through a drifting brook, sending the freezing water up from the rear as this time the back end tipped under. Aragorn was nearly thrown into the freezing fluid and Legolas gasped as the foaming whitewater coursed across his injuries, his cry echoed by Mithrandir's shout of anguish. The deafening crescendo of the raging river swallowed their raw-throated groans.

Aragorn could do nothing beyond fighting to keep from being washed into the crashing turmoil, and a glance at the wizard confirmed he was little better. The Istar was struggling to stay upright, dangerously leaning against the hull as he worked to compose himself and master the tearing agony shooting through his knee. Another jolt against a stone caused the Man to yell out, and his weakened arm could no longer fight the pull of the water. The paddle was torn from his hands and in dismay he watched as it preceded them downstream in the hurrying tumult of the cataract.

With a shuddering thud the canoe again struck the rocks that were attempting to shatter the craft. Gandalf fell forward at the impact with a muffled shout and his paddle joined its twin in the stream. Legolas was now motionless in unconscious oblivion, face down in the red-tinged water. The situation was desperate; if they lost the boat it meant their deaths.

Aragorn grabbed up the Istar's staff and shoved it against the boulders with all his remaining strength. With a loud report the stone bit another chunk of wood from the hull and spat the boat over the barrier as the current tugged it greedily out into the stream. Within minutes the flow calmed and the travelers sighed away their fears in exhausted relief. Aragorn turned the elf over and was relieved to find him still breathing; he pulled Legolas' head upon his knee to keep him above the flooded bottom.

Drenched and shivering against the cold of the water, the exertions of battling both Orcs and the river, and the pain of their injuries, the two travelers slumped against each other and drifted between consciousness and oblivion as the sedate stream eased them along towards the stronghold.

Tbc


	40. Chapter 40

**Trenared Teithannen **[Written Testimony]

_'Fearfaron,_

__

'I have not time for pleasantries and so I beg you to forgive the brusqueness of this correspondence. Know that as I write I am well, though weary with sorrow and burdened now with great fear for our forest. Too much has happened to tell all here, and I will be home soon at any rate. Yet, in these times it is wise to have a fail-safe, and thus I want you to have this news from me and act upon it should anything prevent my return to the stronghold.

'There are Noldor here, in this village, in our Greenwood. One Erestor of Imladris, no less, and his associate, Berenaur. They came specifically to make me a spy against my own, on instructions from their Lord, and you may wonder at my restraint in not abandoning them to the Wraiths, which fate would surely have found them had I not intervened.

'What value they would find in my limited knowledge of Thranduil's plans, I have not discovered. I suspect there is something more underlying all their subterfuge and hope to figure it out before I return. They are very curious about my understanding of the Wraiths and what the foul things are doing here.

'How I long for your counsel! I know not how to treat with them, particularly Erestor. He is a healer and has tried to help the villagers. A horrendous tragedy has befallen them due to the trouble I stirred up in these regions, and the two little babes I spoke of in my last letter have suffered. Alas, Carnil expired in Ithil's hours three days ago, though Erestor tried diligently to prevent it and continues to labor for Cemendur's recovery.

'Yet this Noldo has equal capacity for cruelty. How is it possible to spend such great effort to cure one after having worked comparably hard to wound another? I fear you will be disappointed in my foolishness, for I admit I did trust him, and thought I recognized a common dilemma between us, for which I sought and offered consolation. I will explain when I arrive, but if I fail to return do not think too harshly of my indiscretion, nor hold me away from your heart because of it. That I could not bear! In any case, I have paid heavily already.

'I have not time for more now, as a meeting has been arranged between the Noldo, Berenaur, and me, and Aiwendil is to be present as well. If able, I will write again before leaving for the stronghold and give you news of it. Otherwise, look for me in the Sentinel at Gwain Ithil.

_'Devotedly, your son,  
'Legolas, Tirn-en-Tawar.'_

In the starlit Council Chamber, Fearfaron read the letter through for the third time and dropped heavily down onto the step of the dais, unable to shake the feeling of overwhelming dread the words aroused within his mind.

The woodsman who had brought the messages was waiting out in the courtyard where the King had bid him stay. The carpenter and the Woodland ruler had returned together to the empty room, each bearing their respective deliveries, each learning the information in them as the other watched.

Fearfaron sighed, a habit that had returned to him since Legolas' departure for the Southern Regions of the Greenwood. He had never received the previous letter mentioned and knew nothing of these human children, but he could feel the sense of despair in the Tawarwaith's words claiming responsibility for the evil disorder disrupting the villager's lives. And he all too clearly understood the sort of trouble his foster-son was in; it tore his soul that Legolas worried these 'indiscretions' would change Fearfaron's feelings for him. He feared to know what manner of payment had been extracted from the wild elf for his errors.

Most worrisome of all, Gwain Ithil had already passed, several nights ago, with no sign of the archer's return. Fearfaron folded the parchment and kissed it, intending to store it away in the pocket of his tunic, when the Woodland King stepped forward and stayed his hand.

"I would like to read it, though I see from your expression that it holds ill words," he said seriously as he met the carpenter's troubled gaze. Thranduil's countenance was pale and tight around the corners of his lips and eyes, as though some unforeseen shock had just been revealed to him. He held in one hand an unrolled parchment, its seal broken, and in the other a small square of fabric, mottled with dark brown stains that bore the unmistakable odor of dried blood.

The more sour scent of semen just as easily identified the paler marks ingrained into the fabric.

Fearfaron's eyes grew wide in alarm as the smells reached him, for he was quite familiar with the particular aroma of each of Legolas' fluids. Only the blood belonged to the archer. The identity of the other male donor was unknown to Fearfaron, and the acrid blend of the effluvia made his stomach churn. The carpenter's vision fixed upon the dirty rag clutched in the King's clasp. He reached out his hand for it and at the same time extended the folded letter to Thranduil, and they made their exchange. Unasked, the King offered the small scroll as well, which Fearfaron dazedly accepted.

Balling the revolting cloth up in his palm, the carpenter opened out the parchment and ran his eyes over the gracefully meticulous handwriting, instantly struck by the contrast between the beauty of the script and the vulgar obscenities detailed. The vehemence of the hatred inked upon the page made him flinch, while the vile slurs aimed at his adopted child caused his hands to quake in silent wrath.

The identity of the other male was in fact the Noldo Lord, Elrond of Imladris, and Fearfaron was disturbed that an elf considered intelligent and wise could stoop to such base deceit and betrayal of another. And then boast of the deeds.

_'…even more wanton than his mother, I have never had a lover take such lascivious delight in the taste, the sensation of my cock upon his lips and tongue…'_

__

'…undoubtedly the best fuck I have ever known. Have you sampled the sweet syrup he secretes, Thranduil? He begged me to suck it…'

'…enjoys pain; I doubt there is any torment he would refuse if you promised to fuck him thoroughly…'

'…amazing vocal range; it was especially gratifying to feel him squeal around my penis while I came down his gagging throat…'

'…if you are the mentor who tutored him in pleasure, then I owe you a debt of gratitude. I was buried up to my balls in his arse the third day after meeting him…'

'…milked his tits raw…'

'…quite the whore, Maltahondo has had him, according to Erestor. Oh yes, Erestor took him a time or two…'

'…fucked him senseless; he lost consciousness with my cock plugging his ripped, bleeding hole…'

_'… take him in your throne room with a full audience so everyone may enjoy the sight of Hecilo spurting his glistening essence …'_

The entire page was filled with similar remarks, each extolling the delights of the fallen prince's flesh and describing his eager responses to various stimuli. Or rather, praising the wild elf's lust for degradation and punishment, describing graphically his reactions to various levels of torment. Every other line exhorted the Woodland King to partake of the outcast's carnal charms, each suggestion more obscene and demeaning than the one preceding it.

"Ah, Legolas!" Fearfaron groaned aloud. He stopped reading half way down the sheet and rolled the parchment back quickly for even the sight of the written words was offensive. "I should not have let you go! How did your life come to this?"

With a slight sigh the Wood Elf King lowered himself to the stone step next to the carpenter and handed back the letter from the Tawarwaith, reclaiming the rolled message of the Noldo Lord but declining to receive the soiled square of linen. He nodded toward it.

"It is his blood?"

"Aye."

Another sigh escaped Thranduil's lungs. Truthfully, he had no idea how to respond. It was shocking, to say the least, but he knew not what Elrond hoped to gain by revealing such depravity. He was naturally suspicious of anything from Imladris that appeared beneficial to him. This communication certainly gave him all the evidence he required to brand the dispossessed prince as a traitor and confederate of his staunchest enemy. Why would Elrond choose to provide such damning testimony? The King glanced at the distraught carpenter, who had silently begun to shed tears for his adopted child's humiliating defilement.

"Your reaction, and the forest champion's own words, would seem to corroborate the Noldo's claims."

Fearfaron only nodded and they remained silent for some minutes; the carpenter lost in his sorrow and the King struggling to comprehend the significance of the revelation in terms of the welfare of his regency.

It was illogical; why would Elrond wish to reveal his own depravity to his enemy? The Noldo Lord had bedded his own child. It was disgusting, but it did not touch the King personally, as had Elrond's involvement with Ningloriel. Thranduil had accepted Legolas' Noldo paternity prior to the child's birth. In fact, Elrond had made certain to remove all doubt.

Thranduil recalled another small, rolled scroll from the Noldo Lord that had arrived seven days before the nativity, offering congratulations on the new arrival. He would have dismissed such accurate knowledge of the due date as a product of spies had the Lord of Imladris not enclosed a silk scarf belonging to Ningloriel, stained with the residual smear of their intercourse. The Queen had returned to Thranduil from a long sojourn in Lorien almost a year to the day of this message's timing.

Legolas had heard the explosive, inaugural altercation between the couple before he inhaled his first breath.

But in those early days, Thranduil had never considered this would be the only child Ningloriel would bear. He had been confident of producing a son and so had allowed his pride and fear to rule his actions. He forgave the faithless Queen and kept the babe's heritage secret, announcing the birth of an heir. After all, each son would be an heir; he was free to name any of them as inheritor to the crown. Ningloriel's refusal to share his bed again was one of the defining defeats of Thranduil's sovereignty.

Yet none of this answered the question in his mind. Why would Elrond expect Thranduil to care that Ningloriel's bastard child was so flagrantly wanton?

_Like mother, like son._

"This makes no sense. What does he gain by this? He has known I was aware the child is his for more centuries than I care to count! Why would it matter to me if he takes perverse sexual pleasures with his own offspring?" he wondered aloud.

"Perhaps because Legolas is not his child."

"So you said before, but it matters not for he surely is not mine!"

"Truly, it does not matter, but you cannot be sure of that claim."

"Does not matter?" Thranduil mimicked. "How so? The Wood Elves have no assurance of continued leadership should I die. Why have the Danwaith cared so little? Not once has the Council exhorted me to take a consort and ensure the continuation of my line!"

"What concern is your bloodline to us? It is Ningloriel's ancestry that matters. Sylvan heritage is bestowed by the mother; none can dispute the parentage of the body that gives life to another."

Thranduil was speechless. The forest dwellers did not care who Legolas' father was! They would have accepted him even if the Noldo Lord sired him, as long as Ningloriel was the life-bearer. The Woodland King gave a short, soft laugh at his own expense, and wondered if his father had known this fact.

"Why did the Danwaith accept Oropher as their king; he was Sinda was he not, by virtue of both his parents' heritage?"

"His mother was a Sylvan, she was a Green Elf from Ossiriand. Did you not know this?"

"Nay, she was a Grey Elf from Doriath; from the southern part of Region."

"She may have dwelt in Region, but her people came from Ossiriand."

"I think I am aware of my grandmother's ancestry!"

"Perhaps not," Fearfaron shrugged, "since your culture did not teach you the importance of such knowledge. By your own admission, you have concentrated only on recognizing who your grandfather was."

Again Thranduil could not find adequate words with which to express his amazement at the opposing views under which the Woodland Realm had been operating. He was in his own stronghold disputing with a common Wood Elf regarding the heritage of his grandmother's people! He could not repress a loud snort of laughter over the incongruity of the scene.

But Fearfaron did not consider the situation amusing, for Legolas had suffered horribly due to this selfish elf's pride, ignorance, and bigotry. He saw no purpose to their discussion unless he could discover a way to lift the ban from the archer's shoulders, and this now seemed unlikely at best. As his ire rose so did he, lifting the foul evidence of Legolas' debauchery clenched within his fist.

"You dare sit and laugh about this? You are the cause of all of these atrocities!" he shook the tainted rag in Thranduil's face. "Each of the elves that abused Legolas has had your sanction to do so! Your loathing marks his entire existence! How could you hate a child?"

"What?" the question caught Thranduil by surprise and he stared at the softhearted carpenter's rage contorted features. "It was what he stood for that I hated."

"He is not a concept; he is a living being!" Fearfaron shouted in exasperated indignation. "And you are a fool! This Noldo Lord has been playing with you. The only way any of his actions make sense is if Legolas is really your son.

"If that is the truth, as Ningloriel swore, then Elrond has had the satisfaction of seeing you disown your own child after failing to effect his death in battle. This was still not enough; the Noldo wanted to personally crush him, for Legolas believes what you so vocally propounded: that Elrond fathered him. What do you think this will do to him?

"Yavanna forbid it; this will destroy him!

"Why does Elrond want this, Thranduil? What would cause him to enter your lands and risk his freedom? Just to despoil a single elf? Why does he hate you this much? These are the questions you should be asking! These are the questions I will demand you answer before the Council!"

Fearfaron completed this tirade and turned from the dais. He did not bother to wait for the King to reply for he truly felt there was nothing Thranduil could say that would benefit the wild elf. He stormed toward the open archway to leave but as before, Thranduil's words halted him.

"The evidence I hold will serve to condemn your archer!" the King bellowed as he rose and placed himself nose to nose with the defiant Wood Elf. "His own words admit he was more than willing to couple with my bitterest rival. Do you think the Council will believe he is still loyal to the Realm? You will merely expose more of his weak character thus. First his failure in battle dooms his comrades and now his immoral appetite grants a foreign ruler access to our lands. Do you believe the Council will place this corrupt hecilo on my throne? You are the fool, carpenter!"

Fearfaron glared at the Woodland King coldly, for he had never known any elf so wholly consumed by his own importance, so assured of the superiority of his personal worth. How little this Sinda understood, and even less did he care to learn, of the Danwaith. Thranduil was still utterly missing the point.

"As I told you before, Legolas cares not for the sort of power you cherish. Nor does the Council, for that matter. The 'Realm' of which you speak exists only in your mind, part of a world your father sought to leave behind when he emigrated here. Oropher understood us, even if he could not truly be one of us. But Legolas is ours, and none in the Greenwood would doubt his commitment to Tawar, whatever his failings in more personal matters may be."

"Perhaps, yet I wonder if the Danwaith will see it your way. You have convinced yourself that the majority of the population supports your view. Mayhap they will not see your forest champion, but instead envision a bitter elf willing to cast his lot with a foreign Lord in order to retaliate against his just punishment. Legolas is still a condemned kin-slayer by your own laws."

"That is due to the battlefield denouncement of Talagan, whom you have named a loyal confederate to the Sindar rather than a faithful warrior of the Greenwood! I think it is time to hear more of the events that occurred at Erebor. How many of the warriors in Talagan's company still live, Thranduil? Only the Sindar?"

Before the King could respond to this allegation, a shout from the courtyard and a great clamour of commotion caught their attention. Both hurried to the archway and watched as the postern was thrown open and a company of archers came thundering into the compound on horseback. In minutes the grounds were swarming with bloody, dusty warriors and their lathered, blowing mounts, milling in energetic exhaustion as the soldiers alit, shouting for water and aid, talking of their deeds all at once.

It was none other than Talagan's patrol from the South, and the Sinda veteran of the Last Alliance came last through the gate, reined in his steed amid the clutter of his battle weary troops, and dismounted. As he strode across the quadrant toward his King, he called orders for fresh horses, more arrows, additional warriors, and medical attention for the wounded. He halted three paces out from Thranduil and bowed from the waist, eyes drifting to Fearfaron with evaluative scrutiny. He gave the carpenter a brief nod of recognition.

"My Lord, I have news of Orc activity pressing upon us from both the South and the Central Mountains. An unusually large mustering of the foul fighters converged just beyond the borders across the river. We have just returned from the highlands, having pursued one band of the demons all the way from below the Forest Road near the Gladden Fields. They combined with fresh forces and thus amalgamated pressed on toward the river. Unknowingly, we drove them straight upon a lone band of travelers, already beset by yet a third company. These folk were thus driven under great duress and exigency to take to the boats above the second cataract. Even with the aid of my archers they barely made the launch."

Thranduil's brows drew down in a threatening frown; that the expected cause of the Greenwood's agitated thrashing was revealed as he predicted did nothing to lighten his rage at this unprecedented attack upon his Kingdom.

"Come inside, Talagan; I need your full report."

Together the Sindar warriors turned from the chaos of the courtyard and left Fearfaron standing in the archway of the Chamber of Starlight.

"Fearfaron!" the carpenter turned to see Lindalcon running toward him from the garden entrance to the stronghold. "What is happening?"

"Trouble, young usurper!" the woodsman intoned dramatically and both elves turned to regard him with alert apprehension.

"This we can see for ourselves, human! If you have other news then speak," chided the carpenter brusquely and the Man frowned in disapproval.

"You have no need to find fault with me, Fearfaron! I did not tell this to the King and am not sure I should repeat it to anyone. I do not trust the source of the information, and worry I may do some damage to Tirno in spreading such gossip."

That was certainly sufficient to grab the carpenter's complete attention. He took the Man by one arm and Lindalcon seized the other and hurriedly they escorted him out of the courtyard. Neither spoke until the three of them were safely sequestered in Fearfaron's talan.

"Now then, start again, my friend! Who gave you this hearsay; what has it to do with Legolas?" he demanded from the unsettled woodsman.

The Man did not fear the carpenter, for he had served as messenger for his village many years and had come to know the mild-mannered Wood Elf well. Only his concern for Tirno could move the complacent craftsman to such vehement words, and in this the Man was in complete accord. The mortal rapidly outlined the knowledge the Noldo had 'accidentally' allowed to get out regarding the Ring of Power and the locked vaults of Thranduil's hoard.

Lindalcon could not suppress a severe shudder at the idea of so deep a well of evil abiding this close at hand, and looked to Fearfaron for reassurance. To his surprise, the carpenter was grinning with unrepressed delight.

"Fearfaron? Whatever are you pleased about? All of the darkest powers on Middle Earth must have their eyes upon the Greenwood. No wonder we are under constant attack from Dol Guldur!" he said.

"I am sure what you say is true, Lindalcon," the carpenter nodded sagely, "but your were not there to hear the other news from this accursed Noldo Lord. He seeks to have Legolas defamed and permanently sundered from Tawar by naming him a collaborator. Thranduil is quite ready to agree and wishes to present that evidence to the Council. I believe this Man's testimony may just force him to withhold his presentation."

"Aulë's offal! Had we known this was their intention we would have run those foreign elves out forthwith. Tirno never said a word against them, but we knew there was trouble between them. The Elder and Aiwendil, and Tirno too, I reckon, allowed it to pass unmarked so that the healer would give us help for our injured. Deeply do I regret carrying that Noldo's lies here to the King! Not willingly would I harm our Tawarwaith." The poor human was beside himself with remorse upon realizing he had assisted in the underhanded scheme.

"Do not feel any guilt, for you have actually done Tirno a service. I believe the King may be moved to rescind his Judgement rather than have his Realm dissolve into the chaotic panic your revelation would engender. Come, we should return and seek another audience with our Sinda Lord."

The elves and the woodsman made their way back again to the starlit chamber and waited patiently in the alcove at the courtyard entrance for Thranduil and Talagan to reappear from their hasty strategizing.

The King never held such conferences in the Council Chamber, however, always retreating into the depths of the stronghold to his private study for such military matters. Thranduil used the small, private cavern for his most important debriefings. There was only one doorway granting access to the war room and within this stone-clad sanctum, none of his plots and plans could be overheard by those not intended to do so. It was a telling indicator of his confidence in the Woodland folk.

While Fearfaron and Lindalcon gleaned all they could from the woodsman, Thranduil listened with careful attention to his most trusted captain's speech.

"It became abundantly clear; the Orcs were hunting them down. They gave only cursory attention to my pursuit, spending what part of their rear guard they deemed least worthy, I suppose, during their flight.

"When the creatures joined the troop in the Central Mountains, then they turned and gave us a bit of a battle, but only enough to distract us from their true goal. Two-thirds of their numbers departed as we mowed down the rest, and again we gave chase. That is when we realized their objective.

"The three travelers were already surrounded by the time we arrived and still more of the loathsome devils streamed towards them. Mithrandir was one, with a human I know not, and the outcast completed the trine. It looked hopeless, but then the elf gutted one of the fiends, cut free its quiver of arrows, and took to the branches.

"He taunted them! Such vile curses have not passed such fair lips since Oropher charged Mordor! Very quickly a full third of them followed him apart, as he picked them off at leisure, and thus gave relief to his comrades and an opening for my warriors. All the while, the three were retreating toward the river.

"We covered their escape, but it was a near thing and they did not depart unscathed. How bad the injuries are I was not close enough to guess. It is not a good sign that they have not already docked, for the current should have brought them here more quickly than the forest trails the horses require.

"In any case, we need to mount a counter assault while the beasts are still trying to recover. Their failure to capture the travelers came as a tremendous defeat; they turned upon each other! In that confusion I left them and brought our warriors in. They were due a respite, and we accrued several casualties; no deaths, I am pleased to report."

Thranduil received this account in silence, and his stony countenance remained unmoved even upon hearing the unconcealed admiration for the banished Wood Elf in his compatriot's voice. However, at the mention of his father's name in conjunction with the exiled kin-slayer a brilliant spark of rage ignited a slow burning fury in the King's soul. Gradually the cold, soundless atmosphere in the small study warmed in the uncomfortable radiation of Thranduil's wrath. Talagan realized his error too late and braced for the inevitable reprisal.

"Why did you give aid to that bloody Tawarwaith?" The King's words were calmly spoken yet dripped with menace as he glared into his old friend's eyes. "You should have left well enough alone; all my troubles would have been alleviated without ever having to deal with the matter further!"

"Forgive me, my Lord, but the wizard was with him, and this unknown Man. I did not even realize who was involved until we had joined the battle and worked close enough to observe the Orcs' quarry."

"Yes. Mithrandir and a human soldier, of course those two were worth saving. No doubt they hold some great destiny which we must support," Thranduil mocked in sarcastic scorn. "Even so, could you not spare an arrow and end the misery of that depraved outcast?"

"Thranduil!" Talagan took a step back from his King in shock.

"What is the matter? Do you think yourself less guilty of his long-drawn death because it was not your hand that loosed that avalanche?"

The warrior was speechless to hear this accusation and its underlying suggestion. Talagan shook his head slightly, a stricken look marring his aristocratic features. It hurt him deeply; no Sinda of his lineage had ever sought to engineer the death of another elf.

"You worry needlessly, Talagan. After today's Council session, none here will care if the outcast perishes, and many will call for it! The creature is even worse than we ever imagined. See what baseness you have salvaged!" Thranduil hissed and held out the scroll from Elrond.

Talagan took it and with hesitant curiosity began to read. His face contorted with overt disgust and he hastily re-rolled the parchment, thrusting it back toward the King, having read no more than one paragraph and considering that to be too much. But he found the note suspect, even as had his King, and he scanned Thranduil's features to determine what might be the real intent in showing him the loathsome document.

"I think this is perhaps too convenient, my Lord. I suggest caution when divulging these …deeds."

Thranduil sighed with a rueful smile and nodded as he reached out and gripped his loyal comrade's shoulder tightly to reassure him.

"Forgive me, old friend, but things have gotten a bit murky of late, and I am ashamed to say I began to wonder if you were the one behind the unfortunate debacle at Erebor. I needed to judge your spontaneous reaction, so jaded have I become!

"I agree with you concerning this evidence; it is entirely out of character for the Peredhel to seek to aid my cause. I have had a most enlightening conversation with that carpenter, and have had new doubts cast upon the disgraced archer's parentage. Your comments regarding the battle support those ideas.

"The Lord of Imladris has scored a most impressively malicious and well designed blow."

Talagan stared in astonishment at Thranduil but asked no questions, for his commander immediately steered the conversation back to the impending sortie. The plans were quickly made, as Talagan had ample experience to adjudicate the proper means for achieving victory, and the two warriors left the study confident of a successful mission. They parted in the courtyard under the persistent gaze of the carpenter, the usurper, and the woodsman.

Thranduil eyed the trio warily, noting with irritation the gloating, complacent smirk that graced the humble elf's face; a mask of irate and impotent devastation just minutes ago. Meril's brat was too pleased for one who was under what amounted to house arrest for his outrageous behavior of the previous morning. _And breaking it, insolent whelp!_ The human glowered darkly as only Men could do, packing a lifetime of enmity into a few short seconds of wrathfully energetic orbs.

The King crossed the short distance between them and was about to order Lindalcon back inside and demand an accounting from the adults when for the second time that night a loud tumult erupted through the compound and distracted all interest to the rear of the stronghold.

One of the fortress' dockhands rushed forward, yelling for Fearfaron. The carpenter turned anxiously to meet the elf and Lindalcon followed him across the lamp-brightened quadrant. A rather large crowd of Talagan's warriors was assembled and created a turbulent murmuring of agitated concern. From the opposite side of the grounds the healer was also approaching, and Fearfaron was overcome with the most unpleasant sensation of dejavu he had ever experienced. She shared her own dismay with him silently and together they sprinted down the path, heading for the quay, with Lindalcon close on their heels.

Few steps had they need to run, however, for out of the half-lit background came the three travelers: wet, bedraggled, wounded and exhausted, but alive nonetheless. Between them Gandalf and Aragorn supported Legolas' halting limp as he favored his left leg whereupon a tight and bloody bandage slowed the seep of vital liquid. A second gash through his side had ceased to flow and all the warriors recognized the look of a hasty surgery required to remove an arrow on the battlefield.

"Hîl od Oropher!" [Heir of Oropher] a Sinda soldier quietly said.

"Mae Govannen, Tawarwaith!" the Sylvan elves' shout proudly claimed their own.

"Legolas!" cried Fearfaron, and at that call the wild elf's head at last snapped up.

As the carpenter reached for him, Legolas struggled to disengage from his friends' protective hold. With smiling concern the mortal and the Maia helped him transfer his weight to Fearfaron's able shoulders. Legolas wrapped his arms round the carpenter's neck and gratefully allowed the tall, willowy elf to lift him gingerly up off his feet. With his strength slowly ebbing, he smiled weakly and buried his face against his foster-father's neck with a contented sigh.

"Ada, Im tollen bar [Father, I have come home]," his whispered announcement was barely finished before his eyes slipped shut and he succumbed to his weariness, safe and secure in Fearfaron's embrace.

Tbc


	41. Chapter 41

**Aderthannen **[Reunited]

Legolas slept for an entire day and night, yet it was neither true sleep nor the deep repose of a healing trance. He scarcely drew breath, his eyes lay sheltered under lids gone thin and nearly blue as though bruised, a strange greyish sheen to the papery covers folded over the glassy orbs beneath. His jaw was slack, as was every other muscle of his body, and he was unresponsive even to treatment that ought to have ravaged him with torment. The pulse of his heart was sluggish and hesitant, reluctant to force the limited resources still in his veins through his body. He seemed more dead than living, so infrequent was his respiration and haphazard his circulation.

Fearfaron would not relinquish him once the wounds had been cleaned and dressed. The arrow wound was not serious, no vital organs having been punctured, but the leg injury was deep and resisted closing to such a degree that the healer had at last resorted to stitching. She used a strand of Legolas' hair to prevent his body from rejecting the unnatural knitting of the flesh. Realising the persistent coma was due to the combination of blood loss, sorrow, and the long years of deprivation the normally sturdy elf had weathered, she felt the best medicine was Fearfaron's presence.

The carpenter held him, allowing none to enter the room but the healer, and depended on Lindalcon to enforce the demand. While that might have seemed strange confidence in a youth just nearing his majority, the elfling proved more than competent. He cleverly employed the human who had brought Legolas in, a most imposing figure with his battle-gory garments, hastily bandaged wounds, and a mighty sword at his side.

The Man strode back and forth between the wizard's rooms and the Tawarwaith's doorway, before which Lindalcon had dragged two chairs and set them on either side of the forbidden portal. Here Aragorn and Lindalcon kept watch, trading stories of their times with Legolas. From him the young elf heard the telling of the battles Legolas had fought, Lindalcon listening in rapt attention, fascinated by the way the mortal's hand so often found its way to rest in perilous comfort upon the hilt of his elvish sword.

On the second day Legolas finally showed signs of reanimation and the carpenter rejoiced. His foster son yet was mostly unconscious, but became almost cognisant when the healer changed the bandaging on his thigh. With the awakening of his nervous system came the unfortunate escalation of discomfort, and Fearfaron was forced to rouse him enough to consume various restorative potions.

Long after Ithil's advent upon the night's horizon, the healer declared he had drifted closer to true healing repose. Legolas was during most of the next twelve hours completely unaware of his surroundings and remained hibernating in dreamless oblivion as his body tried to recover.

When he awoke the room was completely dark yet he was pleased to note the company of Fearfaron next to him on the bed, one hand wrapped comfortingly around his as the other carefully applied a cloth, dipped in water steeped with athelas, soothingly across his forehead. Legolas sighed and turned his head lazily toward his foster-father, gripping tightly to the carpenter's fingers as a vague sort of smile tried out his lips to see if they were amenable to such an expression.

"Fearfaron?" his voice was rather stringy and faint, but clear none the less.

"I am here, Legolas! You wake at last!"

"Has it been long?"

"Nay, I was just impatient."

"Fearfaron, I cannot see you; why is it so dark in here?"

Laughter followed this remark. "Legolas, you have your eyes closed! I do not think you are really awake yet. Sleep awhile more, I will watch over you."

And Legolas did.

When next he returned to consciousness, he knew he was fully alert for the ache from his wounds was quite insistent and commanded his acknowledgement. He drew a tight breath through clenched jaws when he shifted on the mattress and aggravated the injury of his leg. He stifled a groan and lay still after that, prying open his eyes a sliver to take a look at his surroundings.

He was not in Fearfaron's talon and the elf was no where in the room with him. With sudden apprehension Legolas recognised the chambers where he had been taken for his recovery. He shoved himself into a sitting position, grunting against the flash of stabbing pain through his side and the burning fire of tearing muscle in his leg, but determined to get up.

He was in one of the many guest suites in Thranduil's stronghold.

Before he could drag his peculiarly lethargic limbs to the edge of the bedding and attempt to stand, the healer rushed out of a side door, no doubt the bathing chamber for she was carrying a pitcher and a stack of folded cloths. These she set aside on the floor and stopped the archer from moving more, for already the bandage round his leg had a rapidly expanding crimson stain upon it.

"Nay! Mind what I say, Legolas, you are not ready to get out of this bed! Look, it is bleeding again already! Will you destroy the mending your body has managed thus far? You must lie back!" She leaned over and grabbed his shoulders round the back and gently but firmly half tugged, half pushed him until he was propped against the pillows at the head of the bed. She carefully lifted the injured leg and placed two more pillows beneath it, then proceeded to apply pressure to the bleeding wound.

The injured archer inhaled deeply and held the breath a few seconds; every muscle pulled taut under the sudden weight upon the damaged tissue, but did not cry out against the pain. He could tell there was no point in complaining to the healer, one glimpse of her firmly set jaw was sufficient indication that she considered him a difficult patient at best.

_No sympathy from that quarter!_

The decrease in blood flow helped reduce the insistence of the leg's flaring nerves and as the pain subsided his mind cleared; Legolas suddenly noticed his clothes were gone. At first he frantically tried to pull the covers over, but he was now mostly on top of them and it was hopeless. He sighed a long-suffering breath of resignation; she had probably seen him naked more often than anyone else anyway!

_Except Malthen._

A shudder and a groan passed through him and he dropped his head back wearily on the pillows behind him, squeezing his eyes tight. He resisted the urge to press against the growing ache in his chest. He did not want to think about it, not now.

But the healer knew there was more to be repaired than sword gouges and arrow punctures. She removed one hand from the bloody thigh and settled the red-slicked fingertips securely over the locus of the older, more serious injury and softly massaged it for him. She remained as silent as the tears that traced silvery tracks upon his skin, spilling from the corners of his eyes, hurrying past his temples to linger at the barricade of his ears before slipping down into the stuffing of the pillow.

It took a few minutes for the flows, both vascular and lachrymal, to subside completely and then she had to cleanse the area, restitch the pulled skin back together, and apply a fresh dressing. Crafting the new join caused sufficient elevation of discomfort to return Legolas' attention to the external gashes and away from the internal rends. Legolas found he had ripped the fabric of the bedcovers during the ordeal.

With the torn muscle once more sealed, the healer took up a clean cloth and dipped the corner in the pitcher. Using the dampened rag, she rapidly applied it to the old scar, removing all traces of her touch.

Only after the healer had completed these necessary tasks could she be troubled to locate a light blanket. With a flourish she snapped it open and draped it demurely over Legolas' nudity, one hand lightly smoothing the fabric across his stomach, a bare whisper of contact, and the other tucking it with extravagant care around his hips. She held his gaze as she did this, presenting her patient a slightly exaggerated intensity within both her touch and her expression.

Legolas was certain her eyes were much merrier than the solemn duties of her profession called for, and that this amusement was at his expense. She was only teasing, and he smirked, wishing he had the strength to give her a shove in the shoulder with his toe. He watched her gather the pitcher and the towels from the floor and carry them to a side table where she set them out next to a basin. It seemed strange activity for a healer, as though she expected guests to come in, dusty and weary, wishing to refresh themselves. While her back was turned he used the opportunity to wipe away the moisture from his cheeks.

"What is your name?" the archer suddenly asked.

"My name?" she turned to him in surprise; few of her charges ever really wanted to know for they were generally in too much distress to care.

"I just think that I should know what to call the person who handles me in such a brazen fashion!"

"Oh, I see!" she laughed brightly, which had been his intent, and approached the bedside where she sat, drawing one leg up onto the mattress while the other remained on the floor. "I am Gladhadithen [Little Laugh]. Thank you for asking, but I will be quite surprised if you recall it once you are well and strong again."

"I will not forget!" he insisted. He was reassured by her confidence that he would return to full health. "Will it be long?"

"Aye, I think so," she sighed as she nodded and reached up to squeeze his arm in encouragement. "Much depends on you. If you possess true desire to heal, I believe Fearfaron's care will make it so. The wizard seems as dedicated to your heart as he; and I sensed a deep connection between you when I touch there." Her hand drifted to let her fingers delicately follow the small outline of the soul-wound's scar.

She frowned slightly as the archer shuddered under this brief contact. Her curiosity had been aroused when she had first examined the old injury, and judged the state of his grieving far advanced. According to descriptions of such cases, he should have died of the malady some time ago.

"Legolas, this wound is worsened from the last time you were under my care, yet there are signs of attempts to strengthen you. How was this achieved? Was it Mithrandir?"

Legolas nodded and closed his eyes to shut out her penetrating gaze. These were things he did not wish to think about, to remember. He focused on his friends instead and changed the subject quickly.

"What has become of Fearfaron? Where is everyone else? Why have I been brought into the stronghold? Is Aragorn all right? Mithrandir had a very nasty leg wound also; how does he fare?"

"Peace! One question at a time!" Gladhadithen granted him the reprieve he so desired. She had no wish to disturb the small amount of repair the wizard had somehow affected, though she definitely had concerns regarding the methods he may have employed. She decided this was something she could discuss with Mithrandir and Fearfaron without involving Legolas in the conversation.

"You were brought here at my insistence! The Man said you had lost a great deal of blood, and a quick inspection of your nearly white gums confirmed this!

"The King could hardly protest in front of so many witnesses, for the arrival of the troops brought word of the battle. The news spread quickly and the courtyard was filled when you made your dramatic entrance! You are quite renowned among the warriors now!" She smiled lightly at the amazement this comment generated in his gaze. "In fact, Thranduil was very conciliatory and put all his resources at my disposal to aid you!"

If his countenance had held surprise before, Legolas was positively dumbfounded upon comprehending this remark.

"I can easily tell you of your friends," the physician continued. "The Man is healing rapidly for a mortal and sustained only minor flesh wounds. He has been up and about for two days and has come in to check on your progress when I allowed it. With Lindalcon, he guarded your door until last night, when Fearfaron convinced them that you would not be disturbed and sent him away for needed rest, and hopefully a thorough scrubbing and clean garments, also!

"I do not believe the human trusts my ability! Twice he has informed me that he was trained in healing by no less than Elrond Half-elven, as though that name carries any weight in these halls! The Man resides in the rooms next door, with Mithrandir." Gladhadithen noted the archer's abrupt loss of colour as she relayed this mention of the Man's connections, but made no comment.

"The wizard is as cantankerous and troublesome as always, and trying to direct his own treatment though he admits freely that he has absolutely no skills for healing whatsoever! Even the mortal has become irritated with the Istar's petulance over being bed-bound and refused to interfere when I forbade Mithrandir to get up. Despite my admonitions, I have twice caught him attempting to sneak out of his quarters, using his staff as a sort of crutch! Claimed he had urgent matters to attend and uttered that tired old threat about interfering in wizards' business!"

This description of his two friends' activities brought a small but genuine smile to the Tawarwaith's face, exactly what she had hoped, and Gladhadithen continued her recitation in a less humourous vein.

"Fearfaron has been here beside you every single moment until just minutes ago. He has not slept, guarding you diligently and jealously, and might I say with some measure of trepidation. He does not like that you are here, wishing to remove you from the stress of unpleasant memories, no doubt."

"Aye, I have little desire to be under Thranduil's scrutiny either! But where is Fearfaron, Gladhadithen? You have made me uneasy for him!"

"Nay, do not be alarmed! He was called away, it is true, but not for any reason that would be harmful to him! Much has happened in the years you have been away, and Fearfaron has many friends on the Council! Thranduil will not dare to raise his hand against him now!"

"Thranduil need never strike to deal the severest of blows! And I have no trust in the Counsellors!"

"Legolas, hear me! I know not what the meeting is about, but the King and three of the Counsellors requested his presence. He did not look fearful, and even seemed almost triumphant when he left with Lindalcon! I did not tell you this to upset you, but to give you hope and encourage you to stay now that you have returned. You have allies among your people now."

The archer relaxed considerably on learning that Lindalcon was with his foster father. Surely no one would act against Fearfaron in the presence of an innocent. As for her suggestion of acceptance among the Woodland folk, he retained his scepticism.

"Fearfaron told me to send for him as soon as you wakened, and I will do so, yet I would have your word that you will not try to get out of this bed again until that wound closes completely! Otherwise, I will just let Fearfaron return when he is done, and face his wrath for not fulfilling his request! Somehow, when I explain the circumstances, I doubt he would be angry with me!" She smiled pleasantly at him but left no room for rebuttals or resistance to her demands.

Legolas did not mind; he felt comforted by her concern and her assurances of his foster-father's safety. He would do anything she asked to have the carpenter back by his side.

"I will obey," he said with a half-smile.

Gladhadithen had no chance to reply for a sharp rap on the door interceded and she rose to admit the visitor. She exclaimed in annoyance when she met the wizard's bold stare and the sheepish gaze of the human behind him. It was upon Aragorn that she rested her disapproving glare.

"There was nothing I could do! He threatened to use his powers on me," he declaimed with an uplift of his shoulders and an imploring expression upon his countenance.

"Stand aside, now, good healer!" admonished Gandalf, "For I am feeling the strain upon this knee and I am sure the laceration will reopen if I do not take my weight off it soon."

"Mithrandir! Aragorn!" called Legolas, smiling, though he could not see them yet.

"Oh, by Nienna's tears, you are impossible," she grumbled and stood aside to let him hobble in on the staff and his healthy leg. "You, drag that chair over here and I will get the footstool," she ordered the Ranger, and Aragorn did as she instructed, assisting the Maia to sit as Gladhadithen cautiously lifted his leg and propped it up against the support.

"Ah, that is better! I thank you, Gladhadithen," Gandalf smiled warmly but she only scowled in return.

"Save your pleasantries, wizard, for I am not impressed! You have specifically disregarded my instructions for the third time. One would think you desired to remain a cripple," she scolded as she rose from checking the binding over the torn knee.

"Oh, beware, Mithrandir, she will try to put a guard on your door next time!" joked Legolas. "It is good to see you both." He smiled from one to the other; relieved his friends were safe, if not whole. He had kept his promise.

"Do not encourage him with levity, Legolas! I am the one who has been his keeper, thus she blames me when he misbehaves." whined Aragorn. He felt very light-hearted to see the beleaguered elf again. After the intensity of the last several days and their constant companionship, the separation had felt keen, and both he and Mithrandir had remarked on how odd it seemed to be parted from him.

"Nonsense, I need no attendant to watch over me like a babe," the Istar fussed. "I know when I am ready to move about or not."

"Never mind, it is useless for me to protest since you are already here," Gladhadithen stated. "I am going to leave you three and go see about a light meal for Legolas. I will send word to Fearfaron that all of you miscreants are once more collected in the same location, and I will return in one hour. After that, Legolas must be allowed to rest again," the healer lectured them sternly and moved toward the door.

"Under no circumstances is Legolas to try to get out of that bed! The leg wound tore open again just moments ago. If he needs to empty his bladder, find a pot." With that she left them, shutting the door as she exited the room with a final, warning glance at each one in turn.

"You have no idea how welcome is the sight of those bright eyes of yours, Legolas! It is a joy to find you awake and clear-minded," Gandalf breathed out and reached to take the elf's offered hand, eager to forge the inner link between them. "Neither Fearfaron nor the healer would let me in here."

"Aye, I am truly pleased to find you alert once more," Aragorn concurred. "Gladhadithen would only allow me in for a bare ten minutes. I doubt that she believed me when I explained that I am a healer and you had been under my care up to now," the Man complained as he carefully sat on the edge of the bed.

Aragorn pulled back the covers, revealing only the leg that was wounded, and critically eyed the bandage as if he could learn something about the progress of the mending just from that. Satisfied that Gladhadithen at least knew how to bind up a wound properly; he let the drape fall back against Legolas, yet still raised worried eyes to meet his friend's.

"That is far worse than you led us to believe out in the forest, Legolas," he reproved gently.

"What would you have had me do?" the warrior demanded. "There really was no time to stop and give it a chance to heal up, Aragorn."

"I know we were hard pressed, yet that you also withheld," Gandalf admonished. "Why did you not inform us how serious the situation had become? Surely, those Orcs were trying to destroy, not to capture."

Legolas glared from one to the other in exasperation. "It served no purpose to tell you; that would only encourage you to argue with me about how to deal with it. My goal was clear, I knew the best way to proceed, and that is all there is to it!"

"Mayhap your desire was not the same as ours, then," intoned the mortal with a knowing look at the wizard. "I have had time to think on this and discussed it with Gandalf. You could have easily made it back to the stronghold unscathed, is that not truth?"

"My objective was to get you safely here, to keep you from being destroyed. How different could your goal have been, Aragorn? Our options were limited; what more do you think I could have done?"

Legolas was frustrated. It mattered little what might have been possible; were they not here? They had already endured the conflict; there was no need to create more between the three of them.

"Would it not have been better for all to arrive unscathed?" Aragorn pressed on softly. "I fear you chose a path that put you in the most harm rather than the least."

Now the archer stared blankly at his human friend. Was he questioning Legolas' commitment to the oaths he had spoken? _He thinks I deliberately put them in danger in order to kill Orcs!_

"Nay!" the wizard almost jumped as these thoughts flared through his mind. "That is not it! Aragorn is chastising you for taking the vows too far. As am I. If you had explained some of these things to us, perhaps we could have devised another means to break away and spared you some injury."

"Nay, Gandalf, that is not it either," said Aragorn in aggravation. "I am trying to apologise for putting Legolas in such a dire situation. Had we listened to his counsel initially we would have made different choices. We inadvertently allowed time for the foreign Orcs to draw closer. That was the nature of the trap the Shadow hoped to spring.

"Had we honed in on the Central Mountains initially, we would have faced less formidable numbers. Once we passed beyond that decimated village, I think our fate was sealed and Legolas did all that could be done to lessen the severity of the battle we enjoined."

The Woodland warrior smiled in appreciation and nodded. "Although, I was quite happy to have the opportunity to dispatch so many of the disgusting beasts. During the night battle, the foreign ones succumbed to the traps easily."

"Then however did you end up getting pierced by a blade so deeply and in such a difficult location?" Aragorn was curious, for the injury had cut into a large vein. A human would have bled to death from such a wound.

"I was forced to use some trees no longer free of the Shadow." The Tawarwaith grimaced in sudden rage. That had been most alarming, the speed with which those Orcs had swept into the area, surrounding him. He had not expected it and had no time to go to ground and seek unblemished trees. "They are known to willingly sunder their branches and drop elves down in the midst of an Orc horde, and this time I could not avoid landing on one of the disgusting demons! Unfortunately, it attempted to dislodge me with its blade. That was a most unpleasant fight; the closest I have had with Orcs in a long time."

Before they could continue the discussion, the door opened and Fearfaron entered, eyes gleaming with happiness, and he went straight to the bed, virtually shoving Aragorn aside in his haste to climb up and gather Legolas close to him.

Neither elf spoke and Legolas allowed his foster father to carefully lift him as he slid next to him, cradling the injured warrior cautiously against his chest as strong arms formed a protective encirclement. Legolas released his hold on Mithrandir's hand and wrapped his arms loosely around Fearfaron's neck, resting his head on the carpenter's shoulder with a deep sigh of comfort and joy as he closed his eyes.

The man and the Maia smiled indulgently and Aragorn moved to Gandalf's side.

"I think you should return to your bed, Old One," he said and helped the wizard up.

"Yes, I doubt they will even realise we have left," chuckled Gandalf. "I am hungry; did that healer say something or other about food?"

With a grin the human opened the door and escorted the Istar from the chamber as Lindalcon came down the hall with a very large tray laden with food enough for five hungry elflings.

This he took into the wizard's room, taking up only what the healer had ordered for Legolas and a suitable portion for the carpenter, which he carried to the archer's chamber and set on a table. Not wanting to disturb the two elves, he suppressed his wish to speak with Legolas and quietly left to join the wizard and the Man, closing the door soundlessly in his wake.

"I have missed you; I have needed you!" Legolas tightened his hold on his foster father. "Fearfaron!" The archer took a deep breath to steady his trembling but it broke from his lungs as an anguished sob and he could not stop the misery from overwhelming him as he fought to speak of the horrible truth. "Malthen…" He could not say more; grief stifled his words.

The carpenter squeezed him fiercely, for he could not bear for Legolas to be so distraught. The mere mention of this hated elf's pet name made his bile rise. He tried to console Legolas by rubbing his back, but the tearing cries did not abate.

"What has he done? Tell me! Already I have much to hold him accountable for; his betrayal of your youthful trust is as black an act as any I have known among elf-kind!" he hissed venomously.

"Malthen and my mother," Legolas began again in choked and disjointed speech punctuated with his desperate attempts to draw air. How he longed for the instantaneous connection he was able to use with the wizard!

"Valar!" Fearfaron swore and gnashed his teeth, for these few words were more than sufficient. His adopted child's defeated voice supplied the rest of the narrative. "How have you come to this knowledge?" he demanded, still angry that anyone had dared reveal this ugly truth and its bitter possibility to one already so beset by despair and troubles.

"Erestor of Imladris. You knew?"

"That despicable coward!"

Legolas could not tell whether he meant Erestor or Malthen.

"Ah, Legolas! He confessed to me after I confronted him. That was right after Ningloriel left." He felt Legolas stir and helped him sit up a little so he could look into his eyes. The carpenter flinched to see he had just dealt the archer yet another blow.

"What? He did not go with her?"

"Nay! The selfish creature had some further designs upon you, which Mithrandir and I put a stop to at once. He is here, Legolas; he rode in with Talagan's troops, for it is they which came to your aid in battle."

Legolas writhed in the carpenter's arms as the first wave of agony hit him, spreading out from the old wound, and he howled against it. His thrashing did no good to the leg injury and Fearfaron clutched him tighter to still the flailing limbs.

"Nay! I thought he was in the Undying Lands! Why is he here? I want him gone! I want him dead! Oh, Fearfaron! I want him!"

"Peace, Legolas, you must lie quiet! The injury is bleeding again! Be still!" In vain did the carpenter struggle to hold him down. Fearfaron's alarm grew, as the wild elf's cries became harsher until his words were completely transformed into incoherent screams and the grieving took hold with new malignancy.

The door banged open and Aragorn sped to the bed, Lindalcon behind him. The young elf froze in horror at the sight of Legolas in the throes of such extreme duress, staring at the bloody red blotch rapidly soiling the covers.

"Go and fetch the healer!" snapped Aragorn and shoved the young elf out the door, nearly knocking over Gandalf who was laboriously struggling to reach the Wood Elf's side. The mortal wasted no time but grabbed Legolas' injured leg and pulled it tight as he climbed up on the bed and landed the weight of his bulk on the limb. He yanked the tangled blanket back and pressed the heel of his hand down against the pulsing flow.

Legolas tensed and drew a sharp breath, stiffening against the pressure and the pain, in an all too familiar prelude to the next attack of the malady. The spasm that rocked his frame was severe enough to give the mortal a jolt where he straddled the torn leg, but the scream in Legolas' lungs never left his throat. Mercifully, his body was far beyond any means to endure such horrendous agony. A great rush of air sped past his lips as his eyes rolled back and he became limp and lifeless in Fearfaron's embrace.

Tbc


	42. Chapter 42

**Thranduilion **[Son of Thranduil]

"Legolas!" Fearfaron yelled and shook him hard, desperate to force any type of response, even a return to the screaming. "Do not die! He is not worth this!"

"Calm yourself, he lives!" Aragorn snapped, trying to keep the bloody limb still against the carpenter's heedless jerking. "Just hold him steady; he will regain consciousness soon enough."

Fearfaron stared at him dumbstruck; he had not even noticed the Man come into the room. He turned his attention to the seeping wound and was gratified to see the flow was sluggish. The worried elf watched the human work, pleased to see his competent hands carefully removing the soaked bandaging in order to cleanse and rebind the jagged gash. The mortal obviously had cared for such injuries before.

"What happened? He was fine when we left you," Aragorn complained.

"I told him Malthen is here. Better to hear it from me than find out by meeting him in the courtyard; so I thought," Fearfaron's guilt imbued the simple words with morbid despair.

"Malthen? What do you mean, that cannot be so!" the Man was completely confused.

Movement at the doorway caught the carpenter's gaze before he answered and he watched Gandalf hobble into the room and over to the bed.

Their eyes connected and locked as the wizard lowered himself onto the mattress next to the unconscious archer. Without preamble the Istar placed one hand over the old wound on Legolas' chest and began a low, murmured incantation, flooding the weakened elf with a fine stream of his own immortal essence. Almost at once, the grief stricken warrior twitched and drew a deeper breath, exhaling a shaky sigh that was between acceptance and anguish.

"What are you doing?" Fearfaron demanded. He knew exactly what the wizard was attempting and did not like the idea at all. "You have no right to lay such a claim upon him!" he hissed dangerously as his hand darted over and snatched the Maia by the wrist. He yanked the wizard's hand away and pulled Legolas closer onto his lap when the fallen archer whimpered.

"Do not be a fool!" Gandalf growled. "I can help him; this was effective before and thus was he able to make it through the trials of battle to reach your side. I make no demands upon his spirit in this. Legolas owes nothing in return."

"So you say, yet it cannot be avoided!" the carpenter rejoined tightly, and then startled as the rest of the Istar's words settled into his perception. "What do you mean 'before'? Tell me you have not you done this to him, Mithrandir? Are you ignorant of what Legolas will do when he understands how you have managed to aid him?"

"He has already pledged his eternal allegiance to the wizard," said Aragorn softly. He had harboured his own misgivings about this very issue, and now that it was out in the open he felt no need to restrain his opinion. "The wizard shared with him thus for many hours when Legolas was overcome with the grieving during our journey."

"Ah! So it is true!" this reply originated from the doorway as Gladhadithen entered with Lindalcon at her side. She halted by the bedside and crossed her arms, glaring pointedly at the Istar.

"What is it?" queried Lindalcon, slipping between the wizard and the human to plant himself on the foot of the bed where he could see his strife-laden friend. He reached out and patted the archer's knee through the blanket. "What is happening to Legolas?"

"Mithrandir is infusing him with the elemental power of the Maiar," said Fearfaron. "The other known occurrence is the joining of Elwë and Melian."

"This is not the same thing at all!" countered Gandalf irritably. "I am only trying to strengthen him through this grieving malady, nothing more."

"Your intentions may be thus, yet I think Legolas has already established that the impact went much deeper. You communicate with him through mind and thought freely, something he does with others only via Tawar in times of great danger. It is to you he turned after that horrendous nightmare, and it is for you he took that arrow wound," Aragorn reminded his powerful friend.

"Valar! Whether you admit it or not you have stolen his right to choose a mate!" Fearfaron was angry.

"That, I believe, was taken from him long ago!" barked Gandalf.

"Are you saying Legolas is enchanted? Will he become bound to Mithrandir?" demanded Lindalcon in outrage.

"Nay!" shouted Gandalf. "Never would I claim him thus! Legolas is unhindered by this; no advantage would I take of one in so weakened a state, nor ever abuse his trust."

"Enough!" ordered the healer. "It is too late to change matters, Mithrandir; you have done this thing and the effects cannot not be altered now. Fearfaron, I know it is hard but you must allow the wizard to resume his efforts. Whether we like it or not, he has given Legolas a way to combat the grief. If we wish him to live, Mithrandir will be involved henceforth."

"That is a very high degree of approbation to give one whose fealty is unknown and unstated," came a solemn voice from the hallway. None of the room's occupants had noticed the Woodland King's approach. He entered the suite and surveyed them all, resting his eyes last upon the deathly figure draped across the carpenter's knees. The screams that had drawn him to this chamber were too horribly reminiscent of the death cries of Oropher at the Last Alliance. It was with a strange mixture of emotions that Thranduil regarded the outcast.

He was nearly convinced now that the elf before him was indeed his own progeny, and the guilt, sorrow, and shame this acknowledgement engendered was overwhelming. It galled him that he had been so easily and cleverly manipulated, even to despising his own child before it could be born.

_And what has that child become, to foster such urgency in this Istar?_

"What say you, wizard? For whom are you doing this most unprecedented and selfless action?" The subtle overtone of sarcasm was not lost on the gathered company.

"I am not involved in any of the petty disagreements you elves waste so much time maintaining!" Gandalf gruffly replied. "My interest is in Legolas himself. He is unlike any I have met since leaving Aman and, although I am uncertain as to exactly how, he will be of aid to me in the future. He will be important, not just here in the Greenwood."

"I do not like this! It was you who convinced him to leave for the Southern Regions. Now that I have seen him, it is obvious my worries for him were more than justified. He lies in this state because of the Noldor he encountered there. What other dangers will you set against him?" Fearfaron countered.

"You know of this?" Gandalf was flabbergasted.

"I do not really believe Gandalf means to put Legolas in harm's way," said Aragorn in the wizard's defence. "I, too, am concerned about the depth of the bond Legolas has formed, but I am confident the Istar would not misuse that gift.

"However, I have to add that this warrior placed himself in jeopardy in order to ensure that Gandalf and I made it here intact. Legolas could have fled through the trees out of range of the Orcs had we not been with him. More than once, he offered himself as lure to draw off the majority of the enemy and give us time to escape."

"Thus Talagan reported," concurred the King.

"I suspected as much," said Gladhadithen with a sigh and a sad shake of her head. "He will protect you foremost, no matter the cost to himself, Mithrandir."

"A nice body guard you have acquired, wizard!" Thranduil's bitter words rang out. "Such excellent timing! You choose to ensnare the one elf that is fast becoming a hero of legendary proportions within my lands. I consider that entirely too much influence for one supposedly unconcerned with the 'petty' objectives of my regency."

"Thranduil, I assure you I have no designs of interfering in your governance of these lands!" fumed the wizard. "I only want Legolas to live."

"I want that, too!" Lindalcon spoke up boldly. "I say let the wizard do what he can for Legolas. They can sort it all out later, once he is healed. What is the grief for; is it because of the Lost Warriors?"

"Nay, it is much more complicated," said Fearfaron wearily. Despite his concerns, he had to agree with the young elf. He wanted Legolas to survive, and if the wizard could pull him out of this slow, horrendous death then he must be allowed to continue. "Very well, Mithrandir; help him."

"Wait. Is it certain this is the only means to assist him? Might he not arise from this morbid sleep of his own will, in time?" the King spoke, his eyes once more settling on the insensible features of the wild warrior.

"I did not even think the wizard's gift would have any effect, to be honest with you," Gladhadithen shrugged as she passed her healer's eye over the prone figure in the carpenter's lap. "He is fighting as hard as he can, however he is so depleted I doubt he has the reserves to pull out of it alone."

The assembled occupants fell silent upon this prognosis and all waited for some sign from the King or the Maia that the cure might proceed.

"What assurance can you give me, Mithrandir, that you will not unduly influence Legolas against the interests of the Woodland Realm?" demanded Thranduil again, but at this Fearfaron became impatient.

"Nay, that is irrelevant! Never could anyone force Legolas to act against Tawar! What I want is your promise that you will not torment his heart any further than has already been done. And you will not take advantage of his early…" the carpenter caught himself when with a quick toss of his head Lindalcon cleared a stray wisp of hair from his face, "…early physical conditioning," Fearfaron finished elusively. He knew Mithrandir would certainly understand him while with any luck the young usurper would not.

Indeed, Gandalf was furious at this suggestion that he would use Legolas for sexual gratification, and only Lindalcon's perplexed countenance prevented the Istar from bellowing back his enraged protest at such a slur upon his character.

"Fearfaron, I have only the wish to reduce the pain Legolas endures," the wizard spoke through clenched jaws. "No other motive marks my willingness to strengthen him. How could I seek to harm one who has risked his life to salvage mine? I am appalled you would consider for even a second that I am capable of adding to the toll of woes exacted by Legolas' abusers."

Fearfaron held the wizard's fiery gaze a few seconds and then turned away with a brief shake of his head. In the end, there was no other choice to make; he would not defy the Maia's will nor reject Mithrandir's gift of life.

"What guarantee can I offer, Thranduil, that you will recognise?" the Istar turned to the Woodland King. "I can swear upon my oath to my Order, if you like, for by that vow am I forbidden to coerce any to my desire, even if my only ambition is to render good upon Arda, and thus are my actions guided."

"Well, some of the time," Aragorn could not help interjecting wryly, and shrugged when the Istar sent him a frown of such heated wrath as to boil tree sap.

"I will accept such a pledge, Mithrandir," Thranduil said, "and remind you that you have of your own free will bound yourself to the interests of the Greenwood through this association."

"Oh, now who seeks an unlooked-for spy, one that comes and goes among all the free peoples of Middle-earth, no less!" thundered Gandalf, rising from the bed and looking more Maia than old Man. "My bond with Legolas does not make me subject to your interests or your bidding!"

"Peace! Enough bickering, this solves nothing!" admonished the healer.

"Legolas will not be party to any political manoeuvring anyway, Thranduil," Fearfaron reminded him. "Please, Mithrandir, I find your intent to be honourable. If you can succeed in this cure, please do not delay any longer."

With this directive the wizard resumed his contact with the fallen prince and the air in the chamber immediately became animated, humming with the understated puissance contained in the Istar's voiced supplications to the Powers on Legolas' behalf. Gleaming as would a faint mist rising upon the river at dawn, a shimmering veil of charged ether surrounded them while Gandalf lent as much of his own life force as he could to Legolas.

No change seemed evident, yet everyone remained fixed where they were, hoping for a dramatic indication that the grieving was once more in remission. An attendant to the Royal Consort arrived at the chamber and after brief discourse with the King led away Thranduil and the healer. Worried for his mother, Lindalcon rose from the bed and followed them.

Aragorn watched the carpenter. The kindly elf had begun to weep silently as he held Legolas and gently smoothed his fingers across the ghostly pallor of the warrior's brow. Fearfaron spoke continuously and softly, his voice too quiet for the words to carry beyond Legolas' ears, interjecting faint kisses upon the crown of his foster-son's head. It was plain the older elf was torn over this situation, desiring Legolas have life and also retain the freedom to mold it, and Aragorn was moved by the carpenter's distress.

The Man transferred his vision to Gandalf. When they had met, Aragorn had been surprised to learn of the Istar's true nature, finding his disguise as an elderly human male bizarre. The Istar had cautiously explained about the possibility of attracting the First Born on too strong a level, should the true beauty of the Maiar be made visible through the physical form chosen to house their innate glory. By his own words, Gandalf had claimed his mission too dangerous and important to justify entanglement on such a personal level.

Yet Aragorn wondered if perhaps it was not the other way round. Mayhap it was the Istari who were drawn to the First Born, bright, exquisite Children of Iluvatar, examples of the Music beyond the knowledge of the Ainur. The distraction was apparently enough to cause the powerful beings to shift aside whatever duties their service to the Valar impinged.

The story of Melian and Elwë, known perhaps to no other Man, illustrated Aragorn's premise perfectly. Who had been spell bound in the woods of Doriath? Surely, the majestic Istar could have freed the Teleri elf from such enthralment, yet she did not. Whatever Melian's original cause might have been, she completely immersed herself in the concerns of her beloved's people.

The consequences of her choice for a mate were far reaching. What alterations of Elwë's character her presence made were debatable, yet upon his death so changed was she that she fled back over sea at once. Great was the suffering of the elves of Doriath upon her abandonment and the collapse of her protective magic.

With a heavy sigh Aragorn got up and moved to the basin, belatedly cleansing the sticky, drying blood from his hands. The more he considered it the more the human became convinced; Gandalf was the one enchanted. What that might bode for the dread purpose of the Istar, should Legolas not survive, the mortal could not imagine.

_I cannot say I entirely blame the King for his fears. It may be perilous to claim the wizard as a relative by law, no matter how removed Legolas is from the throne. _

The mortal's impressions of Thranduil were not altogether derogatory, though he found him rude and haughty. Not once had the Sinda Lord even acknowledged the Man's presence in his stronghold! Still, he had opened his home to the wounded travellers, even though the former prince was exiled and outcast. It could not have been easy to openly assist someone that had brought such dishonour to his people. Aragorn even suspected his bargaining with Mithrandir was induced by a strange sort of possessiveness towards the wild Wood Elf, a grudging pride that Legolas had somehow captured the Maia's sympathies.

_Who could not feel for the suffering that one endures_, he thought sadly.

And with this thought the Man returned to the cause of Legolas' terrible grief. There was so much of the puzzle missing that he dared not speculate on the identity of Malthen. It was apparent this was not merely a lover's nickname for his foster father; Malthen was a unique entity. That raised anew the nature of the nightmare the fallen archer had so grotesquely acted out. Nor had it escaped Aragorn's notice that Fearfaron was already aware of the Noldor's presence and impact upon Legolas. He found himself wishing for Lindalcon's return so that he could question the youth on some of these mysteries.

Hours passed, Aragorn lost count of how many. He was aware of the wizard's continuous chanting and the faint counterpoint of the carpenter's pleas for Legolas to rouse himself. The Man stirred the fire in the grate, wondering absently why no retainers or servants had arrived to check on such things, and added fuel.

_Not wood, the black rock that burns, used by the dwarves,_he noted with great surprise.

He settled before the hearth in a wondrously comfortable leather clad chair, the twin to the one he had dragged near the bed earlier, and leaned his head back against the cushioned support, closing his eyes to welcome sleep.

The candles' guttering near extinction met his gaze when he startled awake, uncertain at first what had garnered his notice, for the room was utterly still. The silence was complete for neither the wizard's prayers and spells nor the carpenter's imploring exhortations sounded through the space. A glance to his right showed the cause of his wakening. Lindalcon was stretched out on the settee; legs draped over one arm while his head was propped against the other. The youth had returned to check on his friend's condition and was fast asleep, cuddling something against him in his arms, and the Man smiled at this endearing example of innocence.

Aragorn looked to the bed and found the Maia had returned to the chair and was apparently sleeping sprawled out as though completely drained, his injured leg resting on the ottoman. Fearfaron sat with Legolas still over his lap, a glazed and glassy cast to his eyes as he protectively cradled his foster son.

Aragorn heaved himself from the chair and approached them. A quick inspection revealed no new aggravation to the invalid's injuries and a healthier caste to his fair features. His eyes were still shut, but at least his respiration was more regular and he did not outwardly show indications of severe discomfort. Legolas seemed to once more be slumbering in a healing torpor.

Satisfied, the Man returned to his warm spot by the fire and lounged back, resting his heels upon the grate where the coals smouldered in acrid fumes and iridescent glow. He returned to sleep almost as soon as his head dropped down upon the upholstered cushions.

A burning, sharp sensation of searing pain stabbed abruptly through Legolas' side as though an arrow pierced him there anew, and yet just as swiftly dulled down to a ponderously irritating throb. On the very farthest edges of awareness, he floundered against the thick and muffling cloak of oblivion to comprehend the intermittent discomfort and make some sense of the incongruous sound accompanying the jarring paroxysm.

It was laughter, clear and sweet, sounding high and ringing elegantly in the early morn, more akin to the sound of a songbird's warbling than a mirthful voice. The sound was accompanied by the slight pressure of something warm and fluttery dancing over his face, brushing at his eyelashes, of all things! He turned his head a little to get away from the strange nuisance.

The injury in his side flared up once more, and Legolas could not prevent a small flinch as he squirmed away from the hurt. His movement produced a sympathetic readjustment of the form against which he was closely held. He recognised Fearfaron's comforting clasp around his arm and the steady, calming cadence of his heart thrumming rhythmically against his back. The carpenter did not awaken however, only tightened his grip around his foster son's shoulders.

The laughter erupted again, and then the poking at his eyelid resumed, and Legolas impatiently brushed his hand up towards the offending irritant. Another high-pitched giggle broke free when his fingers connected with the intrusive, touching digits and next something pinched down on his nose, blocking his nostrils quite effectively.

"Bah!" the archer whispered as his mouth opened to take in air, and again the tinkling peals of merriment met his ears. He forced his eyes open a minuscule amount and found himself staring into a set of hazel-rimmed green depths filled with childish joy and curiosity. Legolas pried his lids up further and gazed fully at the dainty face regarding his, barely inches away. There was an elfling perched on his chest, a very small elfling, and he was finally able to pinpoint the source of the flashes of pain emanating from his side. Her tiny foot was lightly prodding him, as if he was a horse being urged to get moving.

Legolas stared in amazement, and suddenly felt the urge to laugh as he realised how silly he must look with this little one straddling him, the fingers of one hand firmly attached to his nose while with her other she duplicated the procedure on herself. He smiled and the child smiled back, letting go of both nasal protrusions, and calmly stuck one thumb in her mouth, hospitably offering her new friend the other. Legolas shook his head, still smiling in astonishment.

"Are you a dream, little one?" he whispered. Something about the babe's features struck a chord of recognition within him, but he could not bring to mind whose offspring he beheld.

The child gurgled out more laughter and clapped delightedly, shaking her head of curly nut-brown ringlets.

"Gwilith!" she piped out suddenly in her baby voice and put both her little palms against his cheeks, gently squeezing them to make a fish-face of the archer's features.

Legolas did laugh then, though it hurt his side to do it and the sound died away as a low moan.

The elfling stilled and assumed a pensive expression of deep concern. She turned about and slid down, landing on the floor silently, and trotted gracefully away as Legolas watched. Approaching the sitting area where Aragorn and Lindalcon were quite obviously in deep repose, the little one grabbed Lindalcon's hand and tugged at him urgently.

"Lind'on!" her bell-voice broke into his reverie and he stirred, smiling at her.

"What is it, Gwilwileth? I thought you were sleeping?" he whispered so as not to disturb the others. He reached down and pulled the child up and held her against his chest with every intention of returning to his rest, but the toddler was not co-operative.

She wriggled about in his arms relentlessly as he shushed and cajoled her to be still. Her insistent fussing the older elf ignored, paying no head to her pleas of indistinct babbling though her meaning was anything but vague. At last the child squeezed out of Lindalcon's grip by inelegantly biting down on his chin. The words he hissed were truly not meant for such young ears.

"What is it?" the wizard awoke in an instant, staring around for the source of the indignant curse the youth had uttered. Mithrandir instinctively reached out to grasp Legolas' hand, which he found already extended to meet his. Their interior connection was just as instantaneous.

"Lindalcon," Legolas called softly from the bed and instantly the youth bolted from his seat and grabbed up the elfling, hurrying to his friend's side.

"Did Gwilith disturb you?" the younger elf asked. Legolas just shook his head.

"You are awake! That is wonderful," spoke the carpenter gently, fully roused by the commotion as well. He smoothed back the tangled hair from Legolas' wan countenance, examining the tension in the fair features wrought by chronic duress. Their eyes met and Fearfaron carefully hugged the injured elf, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead, to which attentions Legolas grinned happily.

Fearfaron's gaze fell upon the Istar's hand wrapped securely around the fallen archer's; he sighed almost imperceptibly. How could he object, seeing his adopted child so improved and the anguish much diminished?

"I am sorry she woke you, Legolas, but I am also glad. I feared you would not, and everyone was asleep when I got back so that I could not ask how you fared," Lindalcon spoke in hushed tones, for the human was still asleep, and propped the infant up on his hip. The child stared wide-eyed at Legolas, thumb securely in her mouth as she grasped a lock of Lindalcon's hair between her fingers.

Seeing them together, Legolas had no doubt they were brother and sister, and the shock of this caused the archer's eyes to open hugely and his mouth to fall agape in a most undignified manner.

The elfling laughed at him around her thumb and pointed with the other chubby hand. "Lim [fish]," she cooed.

Hearing this, Legolas could not resist the desire to encourage more from the light-hearted elfling. He pursed his lips and his brows went up, causing another round of giggling to spill out of the impetuous elfling. Even Lindalcon could not suppress a small snicker. The wizard and the carpenter beamed in amused pleasure to see Legolas distracted from his trials.

"Nay, Gwilith! Legolas, this is Legolas. You can say it; I know you can," Lindalcon coaxed her, eyes darting from the child to his friend gleefully.

"Limlas [fishleaf]!" the child blurted and was overjoyed at the chuckle this earned from the injured elf and the snort that escaped her brother's nose. "Limlas, Limlas!" she repeated in her singsong voice, encouraged by their attention.

Gandalf could not suppress a deep belly laugh any longer and the rumbling guffaw rolled through the room, joined by Fearfaron's burst of giggling.

"Oh no, I believe that is rather final sounding, Legolas. I am sorry!" the youth lied as he smiled widely.

Legolas' grin was enormous as he reached out and cautiously patted the elfling's head while she yawned and snuggled into her brother's shoulder.

"Your sister? How old is she?" he asked softly, still amazed this could be so.

"Yes, she looks just like Nana, doesn't she?" Lindalcon said as he settled on the edge of the bed, adjusting the child onto his lap as he pulled himself carefully up. "She is almost two years old."

"Why did no one tell me when last I was here?" Legolas demanded, more than a little insulted not to have been let in on this startling event.

"I did not even know myself until Naneth was nearly due to deliver. You had already left by then." The younger elf answered.

"I wrote you about it," added Fearfaron. "Did you not receive the news?" Legolas shook his head silently.

"Nana and I had been at odds, and I have avoided both her and the King," Lindalcon continued. "She did not seek me out to tell me. That is mostly my fault because I was still angry that she joined with Thranduil." Lindalcon was clearly not finished feeling bitter over both the relationship and the child's creation being withheld from his knowledge.

The little one tensed under his change in tone and he relented at once, soothing her hair and kissing the soft downy strands until she relaxed and drifted back into reverie.

"I could not stay away from Gwilith, though, and she has brought Naneth and me closer. It is still not the same as before we came to the stronghold; I will not pretend Thranduil is part of my family. But Gwilith is my sister, and I am the only one Nana trusts to watch over her, other than herself," he stated proudly.

"She is beautiful!" Legolas said and his joyous smile flowed over the two. A supportive squeeze to his fingers drew his attention to the Istar, whose gleaming eyes yet burned with strong concern for how this would affect the forest champion. Legolas returned the pressure to reassure his benefactor, silently renewing his pledge to Mithrandir at the same time.

"Her name is Gwilwileth [butterfly], but she cannot say that so we have all taken to calling her Gwilith. I am Lind'on; Iarwain is Arwain; Fearfaron is just Faron, and now you are Limlas." Lindalcon hesitated; watching Legolas carefully as though trying to decide if he was fit enough to continue the conversation.

"There is more to tell," he said as his eyes travelled over the battle-weary body, down to the clasped hands, and returning to gaze with questioning concern into the archer's pain dulled orbs. "How are you, truly?"

"I am in some discomfort," Legolas' reply was barely whispered, and Lindalcon was startled by the admission. "But it is better than before, thanks to Mithrandir."

"What has happened to you? Why has Mithrandir intervened; is there really no other means to keep you alive?"

"Please, Lindalcon, do not ask me to speak of this!" Legolas groaned and turned away, huddling against Fearfaron and burying his face against the carpenter's shoulder.

"Ai! Do not bring these things up now, Lindalcon! There is time enough to discuss it all once Legolas has recovered," he scolded the younger elf.

"True, but what is it you are not revealing, Lindalcon? Is it so terrible?" Gandalf demanded.

"Nay, not bad so much as rather shocking. I know I was shocked, and I am not even really affected by it, at least not in the same way. I do not want to make Legolas relapse!"

"Valar, Lindalcon! Now I am worried! Tell me this dread knowledge at once!" Legolas propped himself up so he could stare the younger elf in the eye. "Do you know what he is hiding, Fearfaron?"

"I can guess. Whatever it is can wait until you are more rested, Legolas. You have been through enough stress as it is," the carpenter stated. "Lindalcon, I would rather you had waited until Legolas is more fully recovered to bring these tidings."

"I would have, but I just needed to tell someone, and he seems much better now."

"Lindalcon, if you do not tell me I will have to go and find out for myself! Obviously it is important or you would not have hesitated to speak. I insist; if this concerns me I have a right to know." Legolas stirred and made movements suspiciously similar to ones required to get out of bed, but Fearfaron held him firmly in place.

"Nay, be still! You are worse than that elfling there," scolded the carpenter. "Very well, Lindalcon, I suppose he will hear soon enough, if it is what I suspect."

"Alright. But you must promise not to let him be overcome by it!" This aside he directed to the Maia with a glare partially imploring and threatening at the same time.

"It is just that Naneth has been in labour all day and night, that is why I have charge of Gwilith now. She woke up in all the noise and bustle in Nana's room; the healer told me her crying was a distress to Naneth, so I took her with me. Just an hour or so ago my baby brother was born."

Legolas blinked, dumbly staring at his friend, trying to make the statement sensible to him. The words just did not seem to belong in the same reality where he existed.

Thranduil had a son, Lindalcon's brother, a true prince of the Woodland Realm.

Tbc


	43. Chapter 43

**Gwaedh o Gwenyr **[Bond of Brothers]

The rooms Thranduil had allotted to the Tawarwaith and his companions were not the most luxurious accommodations available for visitors and indeed were situated in the lower levels of the stronghold, nearly on the same plane as the servants' housing. Only the lesser staff and attendants of the King's guests drew assignment to such quarters in the bowels of the mountain.

In such rooms, no artfully fluted columns shored up the weight of the mountain, only simple, salvaged tree trunks carried the overburden. The floors were scarcely smoothed and the mats covering the rough surfaces were, while comely after the nature of all elvish crafts, woven with an eye toward durable utility rather than beauty. The caverns' walls bore none of the carved relief found in the higher rooms, nor even a finely sanded polish to uncover the hidden textures of the minerals within. Only a few tapestries broke the severity of the granite and gabbro, and of these the designs were more geometric than narrative or picturesque.

The depth of these honeycombed caves precluded any open balconies or even windows, and the caves were relegated to oil and candle light for illumination. While any number of lamps and candelabrum that one might desire could be brought into these humble lodgings, for the fair folk the tomblike quality of the delved catacombs could never be bright enough. In the sleeping chambers, one narrow channel was cut through the ceiling, meandering up through the dense, silent stone to breach the exterior walls and allow a vague shaft of natural light inside.

Wood Elves confined to such dreary spaces required the meagre connection to Anor and Ithil for sanity; beings that rarely closed their eyes tended to quickly become emotionally unfettered when deprived of the sense of sight, and candles and lanterns were not infallible sources of light. Other races would probably never notice the tenuous column of wavering brightness.

Beyond that, the air in the rooms needed to be freely exchanged and the minuscule vents served that purpose as well. However, the limited radiance was insufficient for green life and no amount of artificial light could provide for the growth of plants at such depths. For this reason most of the elves in the employ of Thranduil's household chose not to live within the stony palace. These folk arrived at Ithil's fading and left before tinnu.

Thus the cycle of Anor could be tracked even without the shifting spot of pale glimmer steadily tracking across the floor as Ariel guided her charge upon its monotonous trek. As soon as dawn broke, the kitchen staff arrived and began the daily task of feeding the ruling family, the counsellors and their aids, and the troops housed in the barracks.

The kitchens were but one level below the Tawarwaith's suite and one level above the forbidden vaults and dungeons of the stronghold. Due to the proximity of the rear stairway and the acoustics inherent in the vastness of the scullery, the noisy activity in these rooms was amplified and echoed through the chambers situated above. The fact that all the guestrooms had hearths that shared a common, excavated chimney with the great ovens and furnaces of the cookery accentuated the effect.

Preparing food enough for so vast a number was neither an easy chore nor one that could be accomplished quietly. The sounds of busy hands chopping and mixing, bowls and pots bouncing against one another and clanging in dull tones against the stone and wooden tables, voices calling instructions and questions as the elves worked with one another echoed through the lower rooms, rousing any who were not already astir.

These day-breaking sounds greeted Aragorn as he returned from sleep; stiff and achy due to the restricted position forced upon his lengthy frame by the armchair. He stretched to work the kinks out of his neck and shoulders as a loud clatter spilled from the general vicinity of the cold and ashy grate. Internally he groused against the clumsiness that generated such a disruptive clamour. The thought that the Wood Elves lacked the more graceful mien of the Noldor briefly traversed his mind, for never had he been so rudely roused in all his years in Imladris.

The lack of generosity in such petty derogation quickly settled upon him, however, as the minutes wore on and the household came alive with an entirely different kind of resonance. Soaring above the everyday tumult of chores, there arose a magnificent and joyful song of praise to Iluvatar. Though he dearly loved the beauty of elvish voices lifted in praise of Eru, and this was not an unpleasant means of chasing away sleepiness, Aragorn was just a little disgruntled to be kept wakeful by the soulful noise. With a complaining whine he wished the elves would cease their cheery singing and let him return to his rest, but the next instant he caught some of the words drifting through the air and came fully alert at once.

The Woodland folk were rejoicing over the birth of new life and a new heir, filling the rock-hewn domicile with the delightfully eerie harmonies of the mingled voices. They used the properties of the hollowed stone to create a resounding accompaniment; the very mountain became an instrument in their acapella symphony.

Aragorn was perplexed and gazed over at the bed where all the other occupants were gathered, silent in their own appreciation of the glorious chanting. Yet, the human sensed the underlying tension among his friends and realised everyone was focused on Legolas, who lay propped up against Fearfaron with his head bowed against the older elf's shoulder.

The carpenter was slowly stroking the wild elf's arm in a calming motion, whispering against his fair hair, but the mortal could not detect the words and doubted even Lindalcon would be able to discern them. That young elf was seated on the bedside, slowly rocking back and forth, protectively embracing a small elf child, but the babe seemed oblivious to the scene, lost in sleep. The wizard had a firm hold on the archer's fingers and stared intently upon his friend's features for any sign of distress.

Before Aragorn could ask what was going on and for whom the song was given, Legolas stirred and sat straighter, smiling at his foster father. The wild elf drew a deep breath and joined the hymn, adding his voice to the exquisite rendition of the ancient psalm of renewal and thanks.

The unsettled atmosphere in the room vanished, defused by the soothing strains of the wounded elf's fair voice, and soon everyone was smiling in happiness just to hear the clarity of dulcet tones arising from the open heart of their friend.

There was no doubt of the overwhelming delight in the Tawarwaith's soul and the genuine rejoicing flowing from his being. He was truly gladdened by the news of this latest arrival among his people, and was unashamed to let it be heard. Slowly, all other voices fell silent and left only the song of the forest champion ringing through the halls, filling the stronghold from the lowliest corner of the shadowed pantries to the loftiest and most elegant rooms of the royal suite.

Word swept swiftly among the forest folk that their Tawarwaith had blessed the newborn prince.

Amid the bolsters and pillows, blankets and quilts heaped upon the vast and comfortable down-filled bed, Meril and Thranduil lay cuddling their little son between them, awe-struck by the compelling beauty of the sound ascending through the tunnels and caverns, immersed in the joy of their union's fulfilment. They stared silently into each other's eyes, beyond the need for words, and simply shared the outpouring of love for the infant they had created between them.

The babe slept, curled up cosily in a silken bunting lined with rabbit's fur, encircled by his parents' arms and hearts. As all elven children, the beauty of his physical appearance exceeded the descriptive power of even the eldar. His immortal soul shone with splendour that could not yet be contained within his fair form, and he glowed with the virtues imparted by fresh hope and pure love.

Meril could not decide where to leave her eyes, transferring her gaze from her mate to her little one in a perpetual cycle of giddy fondness. She welcomed the song of her people, relishing their greeting and wholehearted acceptance of her offspring's nativity. With maternal reverence her fingertips stroked the cherubic cheek of her slumbering infant, allowing her spirit to swell in jubilation within the transcendent serenity of the omnipresent anthem filtering through the chamber.

The King's Consort easily recognised the soloist serenading her child; often had Legolas graced the gatherings of his friends with his vocal renderings. She was surprised and wondered how the outcast elf could find so much joy within his miserable existence to honour his replacement in such a manner. Meril glanced at her mate to find Thranduil pondering the same puzzle, a hint of sadness clouding the exuberance of proud fatherhood. That she would not allow; she almost let her irritation mar the perfection of this moment of familial communion.

The child stirred, hearing the glorious song surrounding his tiny being, and woke smiling with irrepressible delight, and all frustration instantly departed from his mother's thoughts as she beamed back into the babe's enormous eyes. Meril met Thranduil's equally grinning countenance and found her tongue at last.

"Man eneth annatha le ionlîn, meleth nîn? [What name will you give your son, my love?]" she softly whispered and leaned over to kiss her mate lightly.

Thranduil luxuriated in such attention, for Meril and their children together healed in him the raw, angry wounds inflicted by the misordained bonding to Ningloriel.

The fallen archer's gift of song reached the Sinda King and threatened to ruin his earliest moments with the new babe by animating the dormant roots of guilty remorse within the father's conscience. Thranduil could not completely close his heart away from the disturbing memories assailing him, compelling a comparison between this dawn's heralded event and the shameful arrival of Legolas into life so many years ago.

The Woodland Lord forced these recollections of his first union from his mind and concentrated on Meril's soft-spoken question. She had given Thranduil the choice to name their child; a great privilege, for traditionally among the Wood Elves the mother's naming came first and was that by which the elfling would most likely be known among his people. The father's naming came later, and was usually a more formal designation used only in rare circumstances1. With their newborn son, Meril was allowing him the decision for both.

Thranduil had yet to choose the name he would bestow upon Gwilwileth, for the words he most often thought of when confronted with his daughter described tumbling water in a small brook, Celon'lîr [Riversong], or the canticle of a tree filled with birds in the height of a spring rain, Echuiross [Early Spring Rain]. He could not decide between them.

For Legolas, he had never bothered to confer a patronymic. He had not even cared to ask what name Ningloriel had selected for her child, and could not recall ever using the designation when speaking to or about Legolas.

But he had centuries ago decided what name he would give to his son, the heir he had awaited so long, and now at last he could speak this aloud, and have the pleasure of knowing his beloved mate would confer this name for all to call their babe, too. Thranduil focused on this joyous realisation and returned Meril's tender sentiment.

"Hervess nîn [my wife], you honour me too much!" he breathed back these words as he pressed his lips against the softness of her chestnut tresses. "But I adore you for it all the more! Long have I known how to call my son; I wish the name to announce the strength of my heritage and the promise of our people's future. If you permit it, he will be called Taurant [Mighty Gift] for his birth is a priceless tribute from Iluvatar, a blessing upon the Woodland Realm."

Meril practically glowed with pride; this was a fine designation for her little prince, and she smiled her pleasure to Thranduil.

"I do permit it, hervenn nîn [my husband]! That is a name of power and will serve our son well in his life. Our people will rejoice to hear that their prince bears so bold an appellation."

Just then the song of the Tawarwaith drew to its close, and the royal infant breathed out a tiny yawn and shut his eyes tight to sleep as the lingering echoes of the hymn's refrains wavered in the waning glory of the outcast's fine voice. Overcome with weariness from the efforts of childbirth, Meril snuggled comfortably around her child and succumbed to reverie, secure in Thranduil's enveloping embrace of them both.

The Tawarwaith's voice tarried, reluctant to abandon the infant heir, and clung for long minutes in a softly mutated vibration of overtones for the little one's ears to absorb, though the song was completed and the singer spent. The gift was one the child might never recall yet with which he would likely be marked forever, even if he never met the fallen prince whose essence so freely filled the receding remnant of the exalted acclaim held within the notes. Taurant's heart would always know, whether his mind was conscious of it or not, that his first hours were transformed by the endowment of the wild warrior's devotion.

Fearfaron drew Legolas closer, cautiously shifting the battered body in his arms so the exhausted elf could rest more comfortably against him. The carpenter was overcome with a profound sense of amazement for what Legolas had done, and though he should have expected no less from the Tawarwaith, the fulfilment of this unselfish act was more moving than he could have imagined.

Fearfaron understood his adopted child's motives; Legolas would never want an innocent child's beginning moments marked by tension or sorrow. He wished only for the little one to know all the goodness there was to be found within the comforting guidance of his family. It mattered not to Legolas that these same comforts had been withheld from his own life, indeed that perspective served only to make his desire to spare this child such torment stronger and more emphatic.

As the sound ceased Legolas slumped against his protector in weariness, for much more had gone out of him into the song than just the breath of his lungs and the joy of his heart. Some part of his fortitude and will had filled the stanzas and verses, imbuing a kind of potent benediction upon the child, that the little one might have the love and kindness of both parents and the eternal blessings of the Valar, as was every elf's right. He had sent into the melody his own commitment to guard and secure the child's future. The song was Legolas' promise to return to the Wood Elf King's heir a land free of shadow and strife, where the glory of Tawar would become once more the centre of the Danwaiths' lives.

It was some time before anyone could find the will to speak, for even after the final reverberations of the hymn dissipated there was among the group a sense of respectful reverence, a desire bounded in not disturbing the air and disrupting the fragile peace that had enveloped the stronghold. The place had become almost sacred, and no one doubted that Legolas' gift had cleansed any taint of Darkness from everything within range of his song.

It required the innocence of a child to call them back from their lofty jubilation to the mundane requirements of daily existence.

"Lin'con, hungry Gwilith! Want honey-milk!" the toddler announced as she awoke in her brother's arms to the insistent demands of her growing body. She patted her brother on the top of the head and he in turn smiled at her.

Behind them the human laughed delightedly; it had been long since he had beheld such a young elfling for so many of the First Born feared to create new life in Arda, fleeing to Aman with what family they had left, propagating their lineage there, perhaps. The idea had greatly saddened Aragorn, and even as a youngster he had been aware that there were no playmates among the elven inhabitants close in development to himself. He stepped up to see this uncommon sight and smiled brightly into the elfling's curious eyes.

"Oh that sounds like a splendid idea, little one!" he said and reached out his hand towards her. "I would like some fruit, and perhaps a slice or two of sweet bread and honey myself!" To Aragorn's joy, Gwilith happily accepted his hand in her tiny grasp and laughed.

"Not elf!" she announced astutely.

"Nay, this is a Man, Gwilith," explained her brother patiently. "He is called Aragorn." Lindalcon could scarcely contain his anticipated laughter to hear what inglorious epithet she would bestow upon the mortal. Instead, she amazed them all and endeared her soul to the human forever.

"Aran [King]!" she cooed and with a mischievous twinkle in her gleaming green eyes pointed at the heir of Isildur.

"Hah!" Gandalf crowed. "They are false that remark upon the lack of wisdom among Wood Elves!" he commented as his gaze met Aragorn's in amusement above the young ones' heads.

"Do they so say among the other peoples of Middle-earth?" complained Lindalcon indignantly, regarding Aragorn with critical scrutiny. He had found much to like about the Man, but failed to see anything lordly in his rough appearance, knowing not his true heritage.

"Never mind! They who speak so are ignorant of the truth, yet mayhap one day this myth will vanish along with other prejudice wrought by the marring of Arda," Aragorn replied, though neither was he ready to reveal his identity to these elves. "But I was not jesting; hunger besets me and the scent arising from the bakery tempts my palate! What say you, Lindalcon? Gwilith and I require sustenance; will you lead us to the pantries?" He was eager to get Lindalcon away where he could question him about all that had happened in the night.

"Aye," the youth replied and leaned over carefully towards Legolas, who remained quiet and motionless in his foster father's care. Lindalcon pressed his forehead against his friend's temple and then lightly kissed him there, bringing a faint smile to the Tawarwaith, though his eyes were shut. "What about you, Legolas? What can I bring that you will eat?"

"I do not feel hunger, but I thank you for asking," he said without turning to look at his friend.

This did not satisfy Fearfaron, however, and he frowned. He did not want to do anything to hinder Legolas' healing, yet he could not help but believe that the wild elf would improve if he took even a small amount of nourishment. Beyond the injuries of battle and the sorrow of his beleaguered soul, his foster child was clearly suffering from starvation.

"Lindalcon, bring back a mug of warmed honey-milk for Legolas. That should rest easily in his stomach and lend him strength to recover," he ordered as he carded his fingers through Legolas' messy locks. The drink was principally composed of mare's milk and royal jelly from the hives of honeybees, and was both fortifying and sweetly appealing to the young. Fearfaron knew from experience Legolas would consume this with relish.

Lindalcon nodded and rose from the bed, shifting Gwilith to his hip once more, and was almost to the door before he remembered his manners.

"Oh! Mithrandir, what shall I bring you?" he said with some embarrassment, and was pleased to find the Istar regarding him kindly despite the oversight.

"Worry not; I believe there is much left on the platters you brought in yesterday. I will retire to my own chambers and settle my appetite. Might I suggest the three of you return there and allow Legolas some much deserved rest?"

"A commendable counsel, Old One; we will adhere to it," Aragorn answered for them. He approached the bed and reached over to lay his hand upon the Woodland warrior's shoulder, squeezing firmly. "Rest well, my friend, and we will come to speak with you later."

Legolas gave a slight nod of his head and smiled at his companion's concern. He watched as Aragorn assisted the wizard to rise, but there was no need for words of parting with Mithrandir and a simple meeting of eyes conveyed all that was required between them.

The Istar had cautiously withdrawn from the elf's mind as the song had concluded, sensing Legolas' need for solitude after so profound an outpouring of his feä. Or rather, the forest champion's desire for the comfort of the carpenter's protective love in substitution for that which he would never know from his true parents. Gandalf meant all he had spoken the previous day regarding his assistance to the fallen prince. He wanted to ensure Legolas that he would always respect the privacy of the archer's individual will and never force the contact between them beyond Legolas' need or desire for it.

In mere moments the other visitors were gone, leaving the two elves alone once more.

"Legolas, do you know how proud I am of the gift you have given the newborn child?" Fearfaron could wait no longer to express this heartfelt reaction, and was gratified by the soft, contented sigh that left his son's lips. Legolas did not answer but lightly increased the strength of his arms' hold where they wrapped round the carpenter's chest. "Can you sleep now? You are exhausted and we will talk more later."

"Nay," Legolas whispered. "I am weary but do not wish to sleep. I am all twisted up inside, Fearfaron! I am gladdened by the arrival of the new babe, yet I feel that I need to scream, or flee to solitude among the trees, or…"

"You desire to be loved; it is not unusual to want such a thing, Legolas. You need what every other elf requires, what the infant will be given in abundance. Your turmoil arises from the failure to procure this simplest of necessities.

"I wish there were some way to remedy the privation you have endured! I confess, Legolas; before you joined Annaldír's patrol I never considered your existence one way or another. Our paths never crossed in those days; like the rest of the Woodland folk, I assumed you were being taken care of properly," the carpenter's regret thickly coated his words as he held his son closer.

"You cannot feel any blame for that!" Legolas looked up at him sharply. "There is no way anyone could have known the truth."

"It is good to hear you so speak," Fearfaron sighed. "For these are words you must learn to say unto your own heart when such misgivings assail you."

Legolas shifted, uncomfortable in his body and his soul. He stretched out so that his head rested in his foster father's lap and he could look up into the carpenter's eyes as he spoke. The archer desperately needed to have someone explain this so that he could subdue the sorrow threatening to overpower the fading joyousness created when singing for the infant prince. More than anything, he needed to understand why he was incapable of generating warm emotions among his own.

_Why is someone else's father closer to me than any kin of blood and bone?_

"It is not surprising you have difficulty believing those words and cannot yet apply them to yourself," Fearfaron patiently continued. "As an elfling, trying to comprehend why such a basic requirement for happiness was denied, you concluded you were the cause of the failings in the adults surrounding you. It is the way of a child's mind, Legolas."

He glanced down at the serious countenance regarding him and quailed in dread. How far could he dare to push this conversation? Fearfaron felt time pressing upon him, for the menace of the Noldo Lord's missive hung above Legolas' fate like a spider prepared to ensnare its prey. Should Thranduil present the letter to the Council before the carpenter could stop him, or worse yet, allow Legolas to read it, Fearfaron was unsure the embattled archer would be able to recover.

"But, Fearfaron, it is not a childish summation," Legolas argued. "Things truly are this way! I have never been able to make them care for me." He swallowed very hard and waited, tense and fearful, for he so wanted this elf to logically contradict these words and make him disbelieve them.

"Nay, that is not true," the wise craftsmen understood clearly what Legolas required. "Your mother has always loved you! It is no fault of yours if she cannot behave with more maternal devotion. Think and remember! Tell me the first thing she used to do upon returning from Lothlorien." Fearfaron already knew what this action was, for it was one of the rare personal references Legolas had ever made to Annaldír, who in turn had shared it with his father.

"She would go to my rooms, and there wait until I turned up, no matter the time it took. Once, she had to wait two days, and was furious!" Legolas recalled with a faint smile.

Fearfaron smiled back and patted his son's shoulder. It was such a small thing, so little to offer someone suffering so much. He had nothing more to add; it would be a lie to suggest that Thranduil felt any kind sentiments for Legolas. He dared not bring up Malthen's betrayal, for instinctively he knew it was Legolas' realisation that the guardsman felt no love for his charge that had pushed the fallen prince beyond his limits of endurance. It pierced the gentle elf's soul to see how eagerly his adopted child snatched up the flimsy example of Ningloriel's affection and gathered it into his spirit. And it was not enough, of this he was sure, to hold together the shattered shards of the wild elf's soul when the treachery of the Noldor was revealed. The carpenter was close to panic.

_I cannot do this! I will not be the one to inflict this punishment!_

"For all your time, Legolas, the entirety of your life, you have placed the flaw that prevented others from bestowing affections upon you within yourself. Yet you are not responsible for the actions of every other living thing. Ningloriel's character was set long before you were conceived, likewise for your father." Fearfaron surreptitiously slipped this referral into his speech, and felt Legolas start in surprise upon hearing it.

"Who Thranduil is now cannot be separated from the losses he endured at the end of the last Age. If for some reason he leaves Meril's chambers and renounces his newborn child, is that innocent babe guilty of any wrong to Thranduil?" the carpenter asked gently, and watched in satisfaction as Legolas emphatically shook his head in negation. "Can you see now that it is illogical for you to take the blame for your parents' behaviour when you were innocent?" The older elf concluded, and the archer gave the briefest nod, gaping at his substitute father from wide and fearful eyes before replying.

"Fearfaron, I would give almost anything to believe that new babe is my brother as well as Lindalcon's," he whispered, responding to the oblique message of hope. "Yet Malthen and Naneth…"

"Legolas! Do not say anything more! I should have spoken to you about this years ago, and I hope you will forgive me for failing. I do believe you are Thranduil's son, as did Ningloriel. Mithrandir also is convinced of this, and when confronted Maltahondo gave sound reasoning for his insistence that he could not be your father. Whatever he may be, I do not consider him so low as to bed his own child."

Fearfaron felt Legolas flinch and then the archer's grip upon his hand increased so tightly the circulation of blood to his fingers was nearly non-existent. He scrutinised the injured elf closely, looking for any indications of the terrible agony heralded by thoughts of the former guardsman, but Legolas was only staring at him with searing intensity, breathing in rapid audible gasps.

The carpenter sighed and leaned down to kiss his foster son's brow. He knew he had to tell Legolas the rest now or he would lose his resolve. Fearfaron returned the steely grasp and met the Tawarwaith's eyes resolutely.

"There is also solid evidence that Elrond knew this to be the case, Legolas. There has been some communication between the Noldo Lord and Thranduil concerning you. From what is contained within, and my thoughts about it, I am sure Thranduil has come to the conclusion that he is your father. So you see, not only do you have a baby brother, but a little sister as well." Ending on this positive note, the carpenter hoped Legolas would focus on his relationship with Thranduil's offspring, and ignore the ominous exchange of information from the Noldo Lord to the Woodland King.

Legolas' gaze turned inward as he considered what he had been told. He felt the tightness around his heart lessen considerably and allowed himself a deep breath as he relaxed his hold on Fearfaron's fingers. It was easy to discern that his foster father accepted the Sinda King as Legolas' sire. The sincerity in his voice, his eyes, even the touch of their skin palm to palm attested to the carpenter's assurance that this was an absolute fact. The comfort Fearfaron's belief graced him was as water upon parched lips; how long Legolas had needed to hear this, and from a source that he trusted completely.

Still, a small rankling doubt remained. _Why did Naneth not answer me if this is the truth?_

Through his connection with Mithrandir, the argument relating Malthen's position on his possible paternity was known fully to the wild warrior. Indeed, the Istar's comprehension that the former corpsman had not knowingly seduced his own child was all that had enabled Legolas to weather the first attack of the grieving malady. The wizard's opinion was thus reinforced by Fearfaron's assertions.

Yet it was a strange thing to find that both his foster father and his venerable benefactor held such loathing and disgust for Elrond, for Legolas had not spoken of the situation to the carpenter. It could not be denied, the sense of revulsion Mithrandir bore was mirrored in the overtones of Fearfaron's brief mention of the Lord of Imladris. Whatever messages had passed between the two rulers, it was clear to Legolas that Fearfaron had either seen them or knew what they contained. That the news must be dire was certain; a cold chill ran through the archer's frame and he shuddered.

A short knock at the door and the entry of Lindalcon prevented Legolas from questioning the carpenter about this, for the younger elf brought in the requested drink. Fearfaron made his adopted son sit up and swallow it all down. As soon as the mug was empty Legolas frowned and stared resentfully at his young friend.

"He put something in this!" he said in frustration, suddenly feeling rather groggy.

"Nay, it was Gladhadithen. I told her I would not lie if you noticed, but she convinced me you need the rest, Legolas." Lindalcon smiled and sat down on the bed, reaching out to wrap the fallen warrior up in his arms. "I am sorry, please do not stay angry about it. I only agreed to do it because I love you. I do not want you to slip away again!"

Legolas blinked, trying to concentrate on what Lindalcon was saying through the haze creeping over his senses, but found that all he wanted to do was lay his head against the younger elf's shoulder and sleep.

Lindalcon felt Legolas go limp and grinned at Fearfaron. Together they settled their charge under the covers and tucked him in.

The carpenter watched Legolas sleep and it was all he could do to keep from gathering the recovering warrior up into his arms again. It was difficult to reconcile the tales of the fearless Tawarwaith's recent battles with the diminished figure supine on the mattress. It scarcely seemed real and he feared if he looked away but a moment Legolas would be gone. Just seeing the wild elf's respiration lift and lower the leanly muscled ribs was like a mesmerising talisman swaying in a conjurer's fingers and Fearfaron could not tear his eyes away. Did he delude himself, or was each breath drawn easier, each exhale less a fretful complaint and more a regular exchange of the lung's airs?

No tension marred Legolas' fair countenance and his body was as limp and boneless as a coil of elven rope. Even his lips fell slightly open, childlike, as his head rested upon the softness of the pillows. He had turned on his side, assuming his normal posture in repose, yet his wrist did not rest in its accustomed place upon his waist, for the injury there was too tender to bear even so slight a contact. The archer had his hands tucked under the pillow, elfling fashion, and the carpenter smiled as he cautiously smoothed back the unruly tresses.

_Would that he were but Lindalcon's age, before all this transpired! Then could I see to his future properly._

The soft-hearted craftsman silently took the Powers to task for keeping him from Legolas until all the damage was done and he could only seek some means to halt further injury. Yet, deep in his soul he knew this was a false charge, for he had raised Annaldír with love and care, and still lost him. With determined fortitude he shoved such a morbid thought from his mind. If he failed to believe that Legolas could have some semblance of normalcy in his life to come, how would he ever convince the archer?

_Indeed, Annaldír recovered from his grief; I have recovered from mine. This hope I must share with Legolas!_

As Fearfaron considered things, he had only a day or two to act before the King would descend from the euphoric heights of proud fatherhood and leave his new-born son's side to give thought once more to the problem of his rejected child. The carpenter hoped the arrival of an uncontested heir might soften the Sinda's loathing for Legolas, but that was far too improbable to be depended upon. He needed to confer with the three counsellors who oversaw adherence to the Law and Customs and determine a way to forestall any charges of treasonous activity Thranduil hoped to level against the outcast.

Yet, the gentle elf could not bear to leave Legolas alone. As the hours passed and the day grew toward the brighter dappled dim of noon, he virtually willed the woodland warrior a peaceful respite, neither speaking nor singing, not even making much movement that might result in any disturbance.

_Long overdue is this abeyance of the archer's Tasks, and may it be a lengthy one, that he may regain all he has lost and recover fully! Valar willing, let an end to this injustice be found and this truly lost warrior be released from his torments!_Fearfaron prayed fervently.

Too long had the forest champion been parted from him, and to have the Tawarwaith returned alive only due to drastic action by the wizard was a relief bearing a bitter aftertaste. Fearfaron sighed and allowed his fingers to trail across his adopted child's cheek with feather-light contact. Legolas' eyes were still closed; a disturbingly persistent status for his foster son, and the carpenter wondered when was the last time true reverie had graced this elf's mind.

"Fearfaron? Will he be truly well someday? It is so unnatural to see him sleep like that!" Lindalcon had likewise kept wordless vigil through the morning and now voiced the carpenter's very thoughts. With tender hands the young elf readjusted the pillow under his friend's wounded leg, but Legolas did not stir.

"I pray it will be so, Lindalcon. Legolas is very strong and it is indisputable that Mithrandir has helped him. We must ensure he is never left alone so that any changes may be noted at once. I will not have him sink back into that state of torture that claimed him yesterday nor tormented by night terrors."

"Aye! I will help guard him," the youth offered. "And I am sure Aragorn will, also. He is nearly as fond of Legolas as I, though he has known him but days. Perhaps it is the way of mortals, for there is so little time for all the friendships they will ever have."

"That is an astute observation for one so young," remarked the subject of the elf's words. Aragorn stood just inside the doorway watching the scene. "However, it is solely Legolas' noble spirit and forthright bravery that has won my admiration. Seldom do I choose a friend so quickly."

"You are as quiet as an elf, human!" Lindalcon noted in amazement, for he had not discerned the Man's approach.

"That is because I was raised among the Firstborn."

"And because you have removed those hard-soled boots," retorted Fearfaron, pointing to the stockinged feet of their mortal friend.

"Perhaps!" Aragorn chuckled. "My purpose was not to sneak up on you however, I merely needed to ease the discomfort that comes from wearing such gear for days on end. Mithrandir sent me hither; he wishes to speak with you and asked me to watch over our injured friend until your return."

"That is well; I have matters to discuss with him also. Please do not leave Legolas alone, come for me should you both be called away," Fearfaron admonished and, when this was agreed, bent to give his adopted child a quick kiss on his forehead before rising and leaving the room. He had almost shut the door when a sudden thought halted him on the threshold. "Not that I truly expect him to arrive, but do not allow Thranduil in here without me!"

"Worry not! I will not let him near Legolas," said Lindalcon fiercely and Fearfaron nodded.

Once the door had shut, Aragorn eased into the leather armchair and raised his feet upon the ottoman. He sighed contentedly and watched as Lindalcon climbed onto the bed and took Fearfaron's place next to the sleeping patient. The young elf even continued the steady stroke of fingers through the wild elf's hair in which the carpenter's hands had been engaged.

"I wish I had asked Gladhadithen how long he should sleep," Lindalcon said with a slight frown. "I know not when to make him wake if he fails to do so on his own. It has been nearly six hours now!"

Aragorn instantly became concerned, for he was unaware that the healer had added a sleeping draught to Legolas' drink. Lindalcon had returned his little sister to their mother's room before fetching the carpenter's request, and the mortal had already made his way back to Mithrandir by then.

"Do you mean to say the healer drugged him?" he asked in alarm. He had no wish to witness another of the warrior's depraved nightmares, nor for the young one to behold such a sight.

"Aye, he would not be sleeping so well otherwise," answered Lindalcon. He gazed at Aragorn appraisingly, observing his new friend's worried countenance. "You know about the dreams, then," he stated, for the look on the Man's face was much as Fearfaron's appeared after one of Legolas' visions of darkness.

"I had the unfortunate experience of causing one!" the human exclaimed. "And it was brought on by this very thing. Legolas should not be given anything to force his rest." The mortal's eyes widened. "You have seen him… his reactions?" Aragorn could not quite bring himself to name the act and his shocked disgust was evident.

"I have," the young elf tossed back his chestnut waves indignantly. "Tell me you did not look at him thus! Legolas can not help what he dreams, nor whom he loves. The healer says it is because of all the stress associated with his lover leaving him and the tortures of Ailinyéro's chastisement.

"How could you hurt him so? Do you not think it is difficult enough for him to endure such torments without bearing that scornful reprisal in your eyes?" he fumed, angry at this mortal's demeanour. "I thought you were his friend!"

"Peace! I am his friend! I was just surprised that you would understand such matters; I did not mean to imply anything wrong on Legolas' part." Aragorn said as much to convince himself as the glaring elf tensely drawn and ready to spring upon him at any moment. The Man could not help being thoroughly scandalised that the adults had let this youth witness the archer's graphic sexual re-enactments. "How do you know of the chastisement?"

"Everyone knows," Lindalcon shrugged. "I once heard the tortures with my own ears, for my rooms overlook the barracks courtyard. That night when Ailinyéro was sent away, I was awakened by the commotion and saw Fearfaron bring him out of there. I did not understand then what those elves did to him in that room, but I do now."

"How old are you?" the human demanded.

"Old enough!" retorted Lindalcon hotly. "I will have my Coll O Gweth [Mantle of Maturity -Coming of Age] in three more years. I was behind in development but I am all caught up again now. Gladhadithen says it was due to grieving over Adar's death. Naneth worried I was going to fade, but Legolas turned that around. I knew after Annaldír's Release that Legolas would never forget my father or abandon him to eternal Wandering. He is the only one, besides Fearfaron, who does not behave as though Valtamar never existed.

"And there is Gwilith! I could never leave my little sister, and now I am a big brother, too." A brilliant light shown in Lindalcon's warm brown eyes as his love for his siblings filled his soul and brimmed upon the moistly gleaming gaze.

"I am sorry," the Man said. He had not asked much about this young one's life, and suddenly perceived how difficult his position must be within Thranduil's household. "Still, I am not accustomed to children observing the acts that Legolas imagines in his slumber, and I do not agree with it!"

"What are you talking about?" Now Lindalcon's face contorted in confused repugnance. "There are no 'acts' to watch! When the dreaming begins, we wake Legolas up and try to calm him down without embarrassing him overly much, nothing more.

"And I am hardly a child; I have been told of the body's functions and reactions! Indeed, I think I understand it all better than Legolas does. I have experienced such dreams myself, as I am sure you have, without the unpleasant terrors that render Legolas' fantasies into horrific nightmares."

"Alright! Say no more; again I meant no offence to you or to Legolas," Aragorn said and held up a hand to halt Lindalcon's increasingly personal explanations. What he had seen drastically differed from what Aragorn had observed and for that the mortal was relieved.

"He should never sleep by himself, for even without drugs such urges will intrude into his rest." Lindalcon was staring at his friend sadly, still gently stroking the golden head of hair. "I hate to think of the years he has spent alone, enduring those fearsome experiences without assistance or comfort, unable to wake until the end.

"Why can he not just take a different lover, if that is what he needs? Fearfaron says it is not as simple as that, yet surely we could find someone for him," Lindalcon stated the obvious solution, not accepting just how unlikely such an outcome was.

_Now does his lack of years show through!_thought Aragorn with a grim smile and a solemn shake of his head.

"Fearfaron is right; Legolas is under the most dire Judgement known to elf-kind. Who would seek to join with such an individual? Even in the best of conditions there is no guarantee that every elf will be blessed with love. Legolas would have to be more than the heart and soul of such a lover. And even if this spirit-bride could be found, perhaps Legolas' heart is already claimed."

Lindalcon was quiet as he considered this. He had heard tales of unrequited lovers withering away in grief but refused to believe this was what ailed his friend. He shook his head emphatically and scowled at the Man.

"Nay! If he truly lost the one he loved, Legolas would already have faded. There has been too much happening to him; no matter how great his endurance, he could not have withstood all of this with a heart already broken," he reasoned.

Aragorn raised his brows, clearly surprised by this statement from one so young, and found there to be some logic in it. Had he not himself been amazed at the length of years Legolas had borne his grief alone in the wilds? Yet, what was the explanation for the elf's state if not some unbeatable sorrow?

"Then what, Lindalcon? For here he lies, surely broken in spirit if ever an elf was!" the mortal softly queried. He had some vague hope that this child would know the answer, something so unbelievably simple that the adults, in their haste to assign complexity to any quandary not immediately solvable, had overlooked.

"I do not know! He believes that he is in love and yet alone! Legolas does not think anyone loves him. Why can he not see that he is no longer shunned? To Fearfaron he is as a second son; he is like an older brother to me, Aiwendil saved his life once, and Mithrandir has done everything but bind his very soul to Legolas! All of us love him!" Lindalcon was frustrated and struggled to hold back tears.

"Aye, Lindalcon, he does not doubt any of what you have spoken! But you know that this is not the same as being in love with someone. If he loves and has given over his heart, then that being holds his life hostage. This is what has happened to Legolas. This is what Malthen has done to him," Aragorn concluded as gently as he could.

"Malthen?" the young elf's eyes narrowed; this was news indeed! "He loves Malthen, but he is not in love with him! You have to be mistaken."

"Nay, I am not; that is the name he cries during his dreams. Surely you have witnessed that." Aragorn was alarmed at Lindalcon's response, for he never considered the youth might not be aware of this. If he had seen the nightmares, he must have heard this name fall from Legolas' lips.

Too late, Aragorn considered that the young elf had exaggerated exactly how much of Legolas' distressing illusions he had observed. With dismay the Man realised Lindalcon had more than likely repeated things he had overheard between the healer and the carpenter, without ever actually being present during one of the episodes. He sighed.

"Why is this so unlikely? You know of this elf?"

"Of course I know him! He served with Legolas and my father. He was Legolas' personal guard from the time he was born."

The two stared at one another in the silence that followed, simultaneously realising the depth of such a betrayal, watching the comprehension slowly taking shape within each other's minds.

1. This is opposite of how Tolkien says things are among the Noldor, but since the Wood Elves in my story trace their lineage maternally, I decided the mother's name would therefore be the more important one. See Morgoth's Ring, pp 214-217.

Tbc


	44. Chapter 44

**Gûr o Iarwain **[The Counsel of Iarwain]

In the wizard's chambers next door, Fearfaron approached Gandalf with thinly disguised resentment, ignoring the compassionate smile the Istar brought forth just for him. The carpenter could not dispel the fear that this servant of the Valar would care little for the archer's predicament beyond some utilitarian consideration. To these beings, how could Legolas seem important in his own right? Their whims were generated by factors originating far to the West and owing little to the daily struggles faced by the Wood Elves. What Fearfaron wanted from the Maia he thought unlikely to have granted: the simple truth.

"Welcome, friend carpenter! Please, lay aside your harsh judgements until you have heard me out," Gandalf said calmly. He was comfortably ensconced before the blazing hearth in an exquisitely luxurious armchair identical to those in Legolas' suite, swaddled in a warm fur.

Fearfaron approached but did not take the corresponding chair on the other side of the grate. Now that he was here, he was uncertain how to begin.

"Mithrandir, I truly do thank you for your aid to Legolas. I hope you can understand my concerns regarding the impact of this extraordinary method of healing."

Gandalf nodded slowly, though really he did not perceive why these elves were so agitated. Legolas would not be changed in any significant manner.

"I can only assure you again that I will always respect Legolas' integrity and never seek to override his free will. He is not enslaved, enchanted, or enthralled."

The Istar had insisted on lighting logs gleaned from the kitchen ovens' fuel, refusing to bear the acrid stench emitted when the black coal burned. They regarded one another amid the cheery comforting crackle of the wood fire, a jealously protective warning sharpening the mild Wood Elf's visage while a boldly possessive challenge marked the wizard's amiable smile. In the awkward pause a brisk rap upon the door was a welcomed distraction and Gandalf called for the visitor to enter. When Iarwain strode purposefully into the room Fearfaron was startled.

"Mae govannen, Counsellor! Your arrival is an unexpected boon, for I had hoped to speak with you soon. Please, be comfortable," the carpenter said politely and stepped aside with a bow.

The ancient one smiled shrewdly at the carpenter but did not take the offered chair. Instead he made his way over to the wizard and stood glaring down at him.

"Gossip has disseminated the news of your connection to the outcast, Mithrandir, and I have come to learn the truth of it!" he intoned dramatically.

"I fail to see what all the fuss is about!" Gandalf snapped. If his knee was not aching badly he would have stood and faced down the ancient Elda.

"Of course you do not comprehend the difficulties you have introduced. You are not an elf! Our Tawarwaith must be allowed to develop according to the will of Tawar; you are an outside influence he does not need!" the elders' voice rose in volume with every phrase that passed his lips. "You will only confuse his mind with all the issues of opposing peoples throughout Middle-earth. Legolas needs to concentrate only on what to do for his people and Tawar. You are interfering in matters you know nothing about."

"Iarwain, please! Let us not begin with a shouting match," the wizard entreated. "Be seated here and the three of us will discuss the situation more calmly."

"Aye, Eldest Counsellor, there is much that has happened which must be made known to you. I am afraid it is not the wizard who brought external influences across our Tirno's path. Legolas is in very real peril, even within these walls of rock, for Thranduil holds evidence that may force his expulsion from the Greenwood and Tawar forever."

The old elf at last took his seat and indicated for Fearfaron to join them. The carpenter settled himself on the settee, desperately hoping he was doing the right thing.

"Before you speak," the Counsellor began, "let me tell you what transpired after you left the Council chamber yesterday.

"When Thranduil called you forth I knew there was trouble. This is the very topic he introduced; though he did not bring any threats of further reprisals upon the outcast. He wished to goad the Council into re-examining the events at Erebor, and stated he thinks there is an unwholesome element among our people seeking to unseat our King, using Legolas as the catalyst for such events.

"I am sure he intended to have your input on this, for he said you have insight into dealings between the Lord of Imladris and the fallen archer! Had you not returned to Legolas' bedside, you would have been asked to reveal this to the Council then."

"Indeed, this is true!" To say Fearfaron was furious to hear these remarks would be too mild. "And yet there is information I have that the King would not wish revealed, and I would hold it as insurance against Legolas' well-being," the carpenter honestly remarked.

"I will not press you too far, then, until I have convinced you that my intent is not to harm Legolas," the elder decided to allow Fearfaron at least some of his secrets for now.

"I was surprised by your statement yesterday regarding the Noldor," Gandalf interjected. "To learn that the King also comprehends this intrusion further astounds me! How did you come to know of this?"

"There was a letter from Legolas. He told me of it himself and bade me act upon it if he was unable. I consider he is not in any condition to contest with Thranduil right now, nor to face questioning from the Council. I have the note with me," he produced the document Legolas had penned and submitted it to Iarwain's perusal.

The elder read it quickly and frowned, handing it on to Gandalf when the wizard's hand reached out. Fearfaron remained quiet, his features inscrutable, until Mithrandir returned the document to him.

"I must tell you he has learned the truth, Fearfaron," the Istar softly said. "During the trip here, it became obvious to Aragorn that these were false names, for he was raised in Imladris and knows Erestor well. I must add to your disgust with me by admitting that it was the connection established between us which gave the elf full knowledge of exactly with whom he had been interacting."

"But there must be something more," Iarwain said before the carpenter could answer. "This is not evidence that would force us to punish him, yet clearly this is your concern. He did not know who the elves were, and had already sent his information ahead to aid his people. I see no cause for alarm regarding this note."

"There is another letter, which was sent to the King." Fearfaron drew and released a characteristically melancholy breath before continuing. He knew no other way to lessen the impact of this evidence than to make it known himself and attempt to sway the elder's heart against such slanders. "It is from Elrond of Imladris. The words in it are quite derogatory to Legolas. Thranduil believes these statements will sway the Council to action and turn the people against him."

"I do not think this is possible, Fearfaron. Come now, when have the Woodland folk been influenced by what the Noldor think or do? If anything, this foreign Lord's deceitful actions will cause our people to rally round the Tawarwaith!" Iarwain reassured Legolas' protector kindly.

Since the day Fearfaron had announced the Release of his son, the elder had grown to appreciate the humble craftsman's quiet integrity and common sense approach to problems. He had begun manoeuvring to have him named to the Council.

"There is something yet you have not revealed, which you did not want to say in front of Thranduil, for surely you would not have held your tongue if this matter had been raised yesterday."

Yet still Fearfaron hesitated, for it felt strange and somehow ominous to request the same thing that Thranduil had hoped to bring about, though their reasons differed as fish from fowl.

"I, too, believe it is time to investigate what actually happened at Erebor. Talagan's company is near and Maltahondo is among them. He was with Legolas on the ridge. I propose we retain the troops here until the remaining survivors of that unit can be summoned. Talagan and his warriors will return soon from their pursuit of the Orcs that invaded the Realm, and the rest of his former company can be recalled from their respective patrols. I am convinced the errors Legolas made were unavoidable rather than careless.

"I ask you, Iarwain, what elf amongst our people has found benefit from these dread events?" The carpenter prodded gently, hoping in one sense that he was imagining the connection, and that the elder would not come to the same conclusion which had at last found a home in his own thoughts. Yet no other result was logical, as abhorrent as the idea was.

"Ah!" this exclamation from Gandalf drew both elves attention to him. "This is the line of reasoning I have also been following, Fearfaron. Indeed, this will be a difficult topic to bring before the King, especially now. I fear this will not help endear Legolas to the Woodland Lord."

"It is the only way to lift the Judgement!" hissed the carpenter. "He has suffered enough for things he never caused. He has even accepted the responsibility and has surely done enough brave deeds to free every warrior ever Lost since the First Age."

Iarwain's brow furrowed as he considered the carpenter's and the wizard's words carefully, and after a few minutes he raised astonished and disbelieving eyes to his countryman. He found there that what had occurred to him was indeed what Fearfaron was suggesting, and the counsellor's face fell with aggrieved defeat.

"Oh, if this is true, it is unconscionable! The plotting of such acts! What punishment could we exact for so devious a scheme?" he railed in distress. "This would rend out peoples' very soul, to acknowledge such betrayal is possible against one's own!"

"I agree the treachery is beyond anything I would have thought any elf capable of conceiving, yet I do not think Legolas would demand any retribution. As for me, I want only for this dread decree to be lifted from him; surely he has been punished enough even before the Judgement."

Iarwain was nodding his head slowly, staring into the dancing orange flames within the fireplace.

"I wish it were possible to spare the Woodland folk more distress, yet such is not our fate. How can we hope to combat what we fear to face, whether that be invasion from foreign realms or the decay of our spirits under the influence of this ever-growing Shadow?" he finally spoke in a voice wearied with the long Ages of his steadfast watch over his peoples' lives.

"I will petition the full Council for an investigation of the events at Erebor. I do not think it is possible to prevent calling Legolas forth to be questioned, particularly if Thranduil raises his claims of consorting with an adversary."

"Why is it considered treason when Thranduil and Elrond are not engaged in any open aggression against one another's lands?" demanded Gandalf irritably. "Surely this is just a case of some personal grudge match, hardly a matter of state!"

"Indeed, ridiculous as the claims may seem to you, it is possible these Noldor do desire to displace Thranduil and have corrupted Legolas to this end. If Elrond wishes to destroy Thranduil's legacy, what better way to go about it? It is not inconceivable to me that Legolas might wish to return some of his pain upon those who abandoned him to so cruel a fate," said Iarwain.

"And if I can imagine it, who considers the Tawarwaith true, then others not as convinced will be quite able to do so. The forest Darkens daily, folk want to be able to blame someone and desire to believe the remedy is as easy as doling out punishments. They hope by removing those tarnished elements from our Woods that all will return to normal.

"Our own laws condemned Legolas and he accepted the Judgement. This will have to be done publicly, for the truth will be unbelievable and unacceptable otherwise. No doubt must remain regarding either his actions at Erebor or his motives for the future."

The Istar scowled fiercely and sent the carpenter an accusing glare. He did not see that any of this would be good for Legolas in his current physical and mental state.

_And he fears my impact upon the fallen archer!_

"Ai! I know it must be, yet I did not wish him to face all this again! At least we must wait until he is stronger," Fearfaron groaned. This had not gone exactly as he had hoped, pushing Legolas into a public forum to be questioned by the Council and accused by Thranduil. He had thought Iarwain and the elders would investigate the situation privately and only bring to light evidence that would counteract the Judgement. He truly had no desire to have the guilty ones exposed or punished.

_What have I done?_

Next door, Legolas shifted in his sleep and his frame tightened as tension swept through his body in a worrisome shudder. Instantly Lindalcon leaned down until his mouth was right next to Legolas' ear and gripped his shoulder tightly.

"Legolas! Legolas, you must wake up now; I need you to awaken!" the young elf called sharply as he jostled his friend. "Now, Legolas, you are needed! Where is your bow, archer, do you not heed the alarm?"

The wounded elf's eyes snapped open and he stared at Aragorn in perplexed confusion for a few seconds before he realised there was someone beside him on the bed. With a complaining groan he lifted his head and glanced back at Lindalcon, who was grinning.

Aragorn shook his head in bemusement. No wonder the youth had never seen the full extent of the nightmares; he had obviously been taught what signs might herald such an event and how to force the Woodland warrior from unconsciousness. While there was no way he could have possessed such knowledge, the human regretted thoroughly not being able to use this tactic that night in the black water fen.

The mortal healer let his inner eye scan Legolas thoroughly, resulting in a pleased and astounded countenance. Just as on the morning before the spider battle, the wild archer's recuperation was speedily progressing.

_Now if we can prevent any further confrontations for a time, mayhap I will find this elf to be formidable indeed when not impeded by injury and illness._

"Sorry, just wanted to make sure you were not slipping too far away this time," Lindalcon said and gave the archer another gentle shove on the shoulder.

Legolas let his head drop back onto the pillow with a sigh. He felt Lindalcon lightly pat him on the back and smiled a little before succumbing to a tremendous yawn. He knew why his friend had really awakened him and shifted uncomfortably as the sensation slowly receded and his arousal diminished, once more sensible of his nudity beneath the blanket.

"Lindalcon, I need clothes. What happened to my leggings?" he said quietly. He wanted to get out of the bed and into the bathing room to relieve himself. Under no circumstances was he going to do so naked and in front of his friends.

"Clothes? Is that what you call those rags you were clad in when you got here?" the younger elf laughed.

"Legolas, we sent those tattered leggings to be burned with the refuse! Surely you know there was no way to salvage them," said Aragorn. "The spider guts and orc gore were completely ingrained, and your own blood thoroughly saturated the material."

"Then I must borrow something. Lindalcon, let me have a pair of your leggings," the archer pleaded and looked over his shoulder to gauge his friend's reaction.

"Well, I promised I would not do that."

"What? Who asked such a promise of you and why?"

"I think you know it was Fearfaron! He said that keeping you bare is one sure way to stop you from getting out of bed too soon."

Aragorn could not suppress a small snicker of amusement and earned a searing glare from the Tawarwaith.

"Alright, then you will find me something to wear!" Legolas pointed at the Man as he pushed up from the mattress onto his elbow.

"Do not drag me into this! I am but a guest here and know nothing of where spare garments, if such even exist, are kept!"

"That is not a problem. I have plenty of clothes at home in Fearfaron's talan. You will go and get them!" the former prince demanded.

"I am not going anywhere until Fearfaron comes back. We both promised to keep watch over you until his return," Aragorn was laughing through his words at this imperious command from the naked elf.

"Fine, I want to see Fearfaron! He will not treat me this way, even if my own friends show such disrespect and contempt for my comfort," he mourned pitifully.

"I am immune to such paltry attempts to instil guilt into my heart, Legolas!" Lindalcon snorted and pushed Legolas' head down onto the pillow playfully. "You know it is for your own good that Fearfaron does this. Have you forgotten the last time we had you home and you almost fell when climbing down from the talan?"

The archer flushed in embarrassment as the mortal failed to stifle a loud bark of merriment, for it was unheard of for a Wood Elf to fall from a tree, much less a sturdy elf-made ladder. Immediately he pulled the pillow from behind his head, swatting Lindalcon with it feebly.

"I cannot believe you told that!" he railed and swung the cushion again as Lindalcon ducked, laughing gleefully. "So much for brotherly support and protection," Legolas grinned wickedly. "I do not suppose you have mentioned to Aragorn that you still sleep with a babe's…" Lindalcon's hand clamped over the wild elf's mouth and shut out the words instantly, and Legolas promptly bit his fingers.

The younger elf's loud yelp of pain and Aragorn's hoots of laughter drew the carpenter, the counsellor, and the wizard from their conference. They hurried to the Tawarwaith's rooms and stood in the doorway gazing in amused consternation from one to the other of the rough-housers.

Legolas was smiling as Lindalcon hastily replaced the abused pillow back in its proper place behind the invalid's head and helped the archer turn onto his back. Aragorn rose and graciously smoothed out the rumpled coverlet. They managed to look up rather contritely at their frowning visitors.

Lindalcon and Legolas snickered when all three of the venerable elders decided to level their displeased countenances upon the Man.

"What? Lindalcon started it!" Aragorn cried in exasperation before any one could speak.

Tbc


	45. Chapter 45

**Tôl Bar Crebain an Idh **[The Crows Come Home to Roost.]

Legolas leaned against Fearfaron, one arm encircling the older elf's abdomen, fingers digging somewhat painfully into his waist, and the other wrapped around his shoulders. Out of bed for the first time in three days, the archer was garbed in a long, soft bathing robe of spun silk lined in finely woven wool, dyed emerald green, while the outside was a pristine white purer than winter's first snows. The loose garment was held closed with a wide braided belt of matching green silk, and was carelessly tied just enough to keep the covering from slipping off. Legolas panted with every hopping step forward, left leg carefully angled at the knee to keep his foot clear of any jarring contact with the rough stone floor that might aggravate the stitched wound.

Because the wrap belonged to the carpenter, it was too long for the smaller elf and Fearfaron held it up, slippery fabric bunched together in one fist, to prevent Legolas from stumbling on the dragging hem. While assisting his foster son awkwardly across the room, Fearfaron had to be cautious of where he gripped onto the woodland warrior, for the tear in his side was just healing up and could not be disturbed. There was also a much shallower laceration on Legolas' hip, making a solid handhold even more difficult. Yet somehow he managed to support the wounded elf without allowing Legolas to bear any weight upon the torn thigh muscles.

Even so, the journey of these few steps between the bedside and the bathing room was strenuous for the archer and harrowing for Fearfaron. He would have preferred to keep his foster son down for at least another full day, but Legolas steadfastly refused to empty his bladder in a chamber pot, even when Fearfaron had sent everyone else from the suite. No reason for such obstinacy would the former prince give.

The carpenter sighed in resignation; he really could not see what difference it made whether the commode was in one room or another, but Legolas had remained adamant in his demands. Fearfaron supposed he should be pleased to note his adopted son's irritable mood, for it was a good indicator of returning health. If he was able to give so much effort to complaining, Legolas must be in far less pain and feeling much stronger. Fearfaron knew Legolas despised being confined, and hated even more requiring help with these most basic of the body's functions.

"Slowly, Legolas, there is no need to hurry! I fear you will fall or exhaust yourself!"

"There is a very good reason to be quick!"

"That would not be the case if you would comply with Gladhadithen's instructions and allow an appropriate receptacle to be brought in here!"

"Nay! I would not be so pressured to rapidity had you lent me this robe earlier! If I come to harm it is your fault, Fearfaron, for keeping me captive and unclothed!"

"Hush, I will not let you come to harm! Just rest a moment here against the bureau; we are almost there."

"Ada, I cannot!" Legolas snapped and continued his shuffling hop-step towards the doorway, regarding the threshold of the unremarkable room with a feeling of grim determination usually reserved for far more desperate situations. Never had so humble a destination proved so challenging a goal to achieve!

At last they entered the room and Legolas was finally able to tend to nature's demands satisfactorily, though having Fearfaron support his weight during the procedure was humiliating. He let his foster father help him over to the bath and seat him on the broad, sanded rim of the wooden tub to catch his breath. Fearfaron held him carefully until he was certain Legolas was stable, braced up on his arms, and not stressing the injuries.

"Wait a moment; I have clothing for you. You may as well have it since you refuse to be reasonable and remain in bed," the carpenter fussed as he turned and walked back into the bedroom.

He returned to find Legolas breathing more normally but with head bowed and eyes shut, a distinct pallor to his features that bespoke a profound fatigue. Under the gleam of the single oil lantern, a filmy sheen of sweat shown, coating his face and neck. His arms were trembling just slightly from the effort to bear his weight and keep him upright, absorbing any pressure that might disturb his injured side and leg, and looked as though they might fail in the endeavour any moment.

Fearfaron hurried over and sat down next to him, quickly reaching an arm around Legolas' shoulders so that he would not have to hold himself up any longer. The relieved gasp that left the younger elf's lungs as he sagged against the carpenter was ample proof that ambulatory activity would have to be restricted for some days still. Fearfaron refrained from scolding, however, and just held on to Legolas firmly. After a few minutes, Legolas lifted his head and met his foster father's compassionate gaze with a weary smile.

"I will try not to worry you; I will stay in bed except for this," he promised.

"Good!" Fearfaron grinned and taking up a washcloth from the tub used the opportunity to wipe away the clammy perspiration from Legolas' face. Then he held up the clothing he had brought for Legolas' inspection.

The trousers were loosely made for sleeping, woven from raw silk, and constructed with a wrap front so that they were easily opened to attend the body's needs. The open fly overlapped, with one panel in front of the other, and long ties attached to each. On the left side of the trousers, in the waistband, a slit had been cut and finished to accommodate the tie end of the inner flap. This belt then passed around the waist at the back to be knotted to the outer fly's corresponding sash on the right.

A soft tunic of the identical material was tailored in the same manner, made to wrap in the front and knot at the side. The sleeves were long and wide, slightly flared at the wrists, and attached to a dropped shoulder for loose fitting comfort. Both pieces were lined with soft lightweight wool material that added warmth, for the caverns remained cool year round, and prevented any seams from irritating the skin. The garments were died a deep yellow colour and were cheerful and bright.

Legolas was careful to smile and nod approval, for he knew that his foster father had gone to some trouble to have these things made. The silk was not cheap to purchase and even more costly to have dyed, woven into cloth, and turned into finished garments. The wool was also expensive, as the elves did not keep livestock of their own and had to trade with the woodsmen or the Men of Dale for the fleece. He realised Fearfaron must have bartered for this service, for he was not one to charge much for his carpentry skills and could not afford these things otherwise. The outcast prince had no wish to seem ungrateful or critical of this gift.

In reality, however, Legolas thought the clothes far too similar to something a child would have to wear. Only an elfling too young to be able to get dressed without help would be garbed in such apparel. He distinctly remembered having outfits just like this when he was so small he could barely walk and was barred from stairways. In spite of his good intentions, Legolas' stoic smile slip-shifted into a darkling scowl as he viewed the garish hue of sunny gold with distaste.

_How can he expect me to put these on?_

"I know you are displeased now," Fearfaron could not help a small laugh at the doleful expression that quickly won dominance over the forced, polite smile on the archer's countenance. "Yet in very little time you will come to appreciate why I had the clothes made like this! Come on, I will help you get into them."

_Indeed, it is no mystery! He has found a clever way to keep my confined; I would not be seen in such nightdress or this ridiculous colour!_

Reluctantly, the Tawarwaith accepted the aid and the covering, for it was either that or remain swathed in the over-sized robe that kept slipping open and revealing too much. In the forest, he had experienced no embarrassment from being so scantily clad, for he was always, barring recent events, alone. Here in the heart of the Woodland folks' city, Legolas felt his lack of appropriate apparel acutely and was reminded forcefully that he was not allowed to don the Greenwood's signature combination of sienna and sage shaded cloth.

In no time he was dressed and gripped Fearfaron's shoulder to pull himself upright once more. The craftsman would not permit this, however, and lifted Legolas easily into his arms, careful not to press the injured side against him.

"Nay, do not even say one word of complaint, Legolas! You have had enough exercise, and I refuse to allow anymore argument. I compromised on your demand for privacy in order to relieve yourself, now you must do the same with my request that you rest abed for the remainder of the day."

"I am not arguing, complaining, or demanding!" Legolas replied as he leaned his brow against Fearfaron's head. Now that the clothes were on, he found great comfort in the sensation of the material against his skin, a tangible reminder that he was cared for and loved. He was also pleased at the warmth the clothing provided; for in his weakened state he felt the change in temperature between the outside and the underground rooms keenly. He had been chilled without even realising it. But for the tint of the material, he could be quite satisfied with his new garments.

He complied wordlessly as Fearfaron settled him propped up upon the pillows with the covers over his lap and other than a murmured 'thank you' continued the silence, for he could tell there was something bothering his foster father.

Fearfaron sighed and glanced quickly at Legolas, climbing up and again seating himself next to the archer, back against the headboard. He reached around Legolas' shoulders and gently pulled him closer so that he could rest his chin on the younger elf's head and sighed in contentment to feel the fuzzy locks nestled into the crook of his neck as Legolas relaxed against him. Still the carpenter remained quiet, uncertain exactly how to bring up more ill news.

Legolas stifled a slightly irked sough.

"Please just tell me."

"I fear that you will be angry over this, and that I am the cause of it," the gentle craftsman began. "You know I would never do or say anything that would bring you harm, yet unwittingly I have done so!"

"I will not be angry with you; I understand you mean only to help. What is it?" Edgy impatience marred the carefully chosen words of the Tawarwaith.

"I have met with Iarwain, and have shown him the letter you sent to me from the woodsmen's village. He is outraged at the interference from the Noldor interlopers, and is aware of who the elves are. The Council will draft a claim against Imladris for this cause."

"What? Nay, I do not want any of that known! I will never see them again, and the wrongs need not be addressed! What good can come of this, for the acts cannot be undone, and I would not have this be public, Fearfaron!" Legolas was shocked; it was not what he had been expecting at all. "Why did you do this?" he wailed in misery as he pulled back to search his foster father's eyes for the answer.

And then confusion invaded his thoughts, for how could Iarwain comprehend what elves he had encountered, for at the time he had written to Fearfaron, Legolas himself did not have that knowledge. Cold dread joined the bewilderment. "Fearfaron?"

"Please try to understand, Legolas, I had no choice in the matter! Your letter was not the only one sent here with the woodsman. Remember the communication I spoke of between Elrond and Thranduil; it arrived the same day and reveals all. Thranduil plans to use the document to discredit you before the Council and our people. He is feeling threatened by the growing regard the Woodland folk hold for you, especially among his troops."

With concern Fearfaron observed the archer's crestfallen features as the doubt gave way to an expression of betrayal and hurt that was unbearable even to look upon, for Fearfaron was uncertain whether he was the perpetrator of this reaction or the Noldo Lord. The carpenter tugged Legolas back into his embrace and held him tightly.

"Forgive me for bringing this upon you; it was never my intent to increase your distress," he implored.

"Nay, it is not of your doing and you need not plead for pardon."

Legolas' mind struggled to encompass all the woe that had been conveyed in these few simple words. That Thranduil still treated his existence as a personal affront was nothing unexpected, yet going to such extremes to eradicate the banished warrior from the King's reality was a surprise. The idea of Thranduil viewing Legolas as an opponent was a disturbing twist the archer had never considered possible.

However, it was the revelation of Elrond's rejuvenated hostility that shook the wild warrior's fragile composure. What motive could the renowned healer and veteran of the Last Alliance have for bringing greater shame upon an elf already outcast and shunned by his own people? How could the degradation the Noldo had already dealt him not have been sufficient? And from what stemmed this craving to humiliate him? Legolas wondered when the Elf Lord would have chosen to reveal his real identity, had the archer not fled from the enchanted glade.

"Elrond did this? Does he tell why? We had put some of the rancour between us aside before we parted, or so I believed. What does this letter say, Fearfaron?"

"It is not complimentary, so I can only assume the attempt at settling your differences was false on his part, as were all his interactions with you. I have never read anything like it before, and hope never to again. It is not the sort of document one expects a noble ancient to commit to record, for it is more telling of his character's deficiencies than yours.

"As to why, that is equally despicable. Legolas, Elrond knows you are Thranduil's own child. From what Thranduil indicated, it was Elrond who first cast doubts upon your parentage, and with a method even I would be hard put to ignore! Suffice it to say this is not the first time he has sent so timely a message to the King.

"He has done this as a means to destroy Thranduil's peace of mind. He was ever the target, and you have been the Elf Lord's weapon of choice. Elrond did not care that he would ruin you while he pursued his malicious game. He stole from you the life you were born to live and removed any chance of belonging to a loving family. And he wanted to make it clear to Thranduil exactly how well he had achieved his goal. His obsession with this vendetta must be consuming his soul. This letter is so vindictive!

"I will not repeat any of it to you; these are not words you need to hear. If I can prevent it, I will keep Thranduil from offering the communication for public perusal. However, there is no way to stop the grievance from being formally presented to Imladris, and possibly to Lothlorien and Mithlond as well."

Hearing this Legolas groaned and shook his head against Fearfaron's shoulder in futile denial.

"The Council will not allow so blatant an attempt to compromise our borders go unchallenged. I will do all I can to keep the focus on the intention of the Elf Lord to make you turn against your own people while leaving the methods he employed out.

"Iarwain is sympathetic, and understands Thranduil's motives in this. He will assist me in any way possible to keep that letter from being read into public record or being incorporated into the demand for an accounting from Elrond for his actions.

"But I will not lie or mislead you. If Thranduil wishes it, he can make this known at any time, for he is in possession of the missive. Also, once the complaint is delivered, there is no way of perceiving how Elrond will respond to it. He may choose to defend himself by attacking your character and debasing your nature, even as he has done in this letter." Fearfaron felt Legolas cringe at these words and soothingly stroked his hand against the beleaguered elf's shoulder in commiseration.

"Ai! Fearfaron, I never thought my actions would lead to such harsh reprisals! I should never have allowed this to happen!"

"Legolas, you are not to blame yourself for these things. It is not wrong to feel such attractions or to act on them. For long years have you been alone, even before you were removed from contact with any of your kind. It is natural that upon encountering elves you would be drawn to them and seek solace from them, if such was offered. I am fairly confident in saying you were not the one to initiate sex, correct?" Fearfaron sighed as he felt the brief movement of Legolas' head assenting to this statement.

"You are not bound to anyone, Legolas, despite what you feel regarding Maltahondo. You and he are not mated one to the other. His intentions we shall deal with separately," the carpenter felt the shiver that coursed through Legolas' body and hurried past the dangerous topic.

"That these elves were deceitful was not possible for you to understand, for they planned only to use you from the outset. That idea is so completely foreign it would never enter your thoughts, Legolas, I am happy to say, and yet your own honest outlook has been twisted into a weapon against you now! This Iarwain saw plainly, and Mithrandir also attested to the same, explaining how Aragorn was the bearer of these unpleasant tidings.

"And I must say that I feel Elrond should be made to face the consequences for his base manipulations of an innocent heart. Never have you done anything to cause him to despise you so, and in fact I believe you held him in some regard. It is well he is not of our people, or I would already have driven him into exile for his actions, if only to prevent myself from committing him to Mandos Halls!"

As Fearfaron finished this lecture, Legolas felt his own anger growing to match his foster father's. The reasoning the carpenter supplied to account for the Lord of Imladris' bitter hatred toward him added to the sense of non-existence Legolas had experienced with Elrond. Memories flooded his psyche and in vain he tried to push them away, but the image of their last coupling presented itself in vivid detail such that Legolas' stomach wrenched uncomfortably in response.

He had wanted to give and receive pleasure and consolation, nothing more, yet in some way Elrond had deemed this desire an affront.

_Because he viewed me as he would a common prostitute among Men. I was to satisfy his purpose; my needs were irrelevant!_

Legolas could not understand then what he had done that was so repugnant, so offensive as to generate the intensity of the Noldo's subsequent cruelty. In fact, he had done nothing to warrant such treatment. Comprehending this did nothing to alleviate the intensity of the tainted shame attached to their intercourse. Elrond's mocking laughter and sarcastic, cutting words rang through his mind.

_'No need to be so distraught, pen-rhovan, with more practice you will improve, I am certain! It was enjoyable nonetheless.'_

The conclusion was as inescapable now as it had been then: Elrond had enjoyed hurting and humiliating him just for the pleasure of being able to indulge such baseness uncontested, and he had undoubtedly hoped to repeat the experience if possible.

It seemed he had found a way to do so, even far removed from the wild elf in the secluded haven of Imladris. And in the Hidden Vale, introspection of a differen sort was simultaneaously underway.

The surface of the object was smooth and cold to the touch, only a few pits, scratches, or flaws marred the body of the satiny material, and he ran his thumb against it, feeling the tacky coat of oils left on the glassy stuff by his skin. The slick polish bore testimony to hours of smoothing friction by work of careful hands employing running water and the finest grit.

Tentatively, the tip of his index finger probed closer to the edge, transmitting the information gleaned from this sensitive investigation to his inner vision. He could clearly replicate the image in perfect detail; a regular pattern of delicate scallops all along the tapered sides thinned the dense mass into a razored outline. The meticulously deadly sharpness culminated in an apex so diminished it must be but the size of a pollen grain. He ghosted his touch across it delicately, scarcely feeling the impression, not desiring to prick his skin and spill blood.

He held to the article in secrecy, fondling its utilitarian beauty obscured from observant eyes, hidden even from his own view in the dark confines of a pocket.

"…harvest of apples is even more abundant than last season! I took the liberty of distributing the excess to the human villages across the river near the East Road…"

Elrond was vaguely aware of the allocution taking place, but it hardly seemed worthy of his full consideration when he held so fascinating an artefact. He tested the dimensions of the stone point by compressing it between thumb and forefinger. The width was barely more than a sliver, no thicker than a sheaf of parchments stacked together, and he marvelled at the material's ability to mask its durability within so gracefully slender a form.

_Like its maker._

He followed the edge down the opposite leg of the arrowhead's angle, absently counting the scallops and wondering if the number of depressions was significant in some way, adding to the efficiency of the flight of the missile or increasing its ability to cut through flesh and bone.

_An archer would know such things; I am no archer._

It had never occurred to him before to question the practical reasons for design; the making of arrows was a skill for his lesser citizens. He had no idea who among the elves of Imladris was responsible for the task or even where the material to make them originated. How did one acquire the knowledge for making a blade from stone? Were his archers still using stone to tip the shafts of their feathered bolts?

_Surely not, they must cast them from molten metallic alloys, even as sword blades are created. The Noldor have not used stone implements since before the First Age._

And yet Elrond had to admit it; he did not truly know, merely assuming Imladris' archers armed their arrows with metal points. The warriors' quivers were kept filled, that was all the information he had ever cared to have.

"…a small group from Lorien, making for the Havens. They are a single family, fifteen in number, having lost three in the passes…"

The Lord of Imladris sighed and frowned as he sent a glance in the direction of the speaker of these words. The remarks were but a sample of a seemingly endless recitation of everything that had transpired since he was last at home, down to the most mundane of details. Elrond shifted in his chair and drummed lightly with his fingers against the exquisite whorls and burls of the wood's grain exposed through the gleaming sheen of the lacquered tabletop. He turned his insight back to contemplating the primitive device of death deep in the pocket of his robe.

His hand flipped the arrowhead over, for the hundredth time at least, to examine the other face of the weapon. He counted the scalloped indents at the bladed rim, identical to the previous number on the reverse, as he already knew. He felt along the gently convex bottom, the place where the point would be joined to the sturdy, slender wooden body of the projectile. Here the bulk of the stone on both sides had been worked, not to achieve lethal sharpness but to fit it snugly into a ready shaft.

_It is shaped like a leaf, how appropriate!_

Elrond wondered if the configuration of his souvenir was a common shape or one specific to the Woodland Realm, or perhaps unique to Legolas. None of this had occurred to him when he had selected the relic from among the handful spilled from the outcast's quiver while he lay, naked and slumbering, after the rains in Mirkwood that day. The Elf Lord had chosen the point hastily, picking this one solely for the beauty of the stone's peculiarly mottled green and black pattern.

He had never been interested enough before to consider what designs the individual barbs might take, merely acknowledging the steep triangular pinnacle gracing the weapons. In the end, what one saw upon viewing an armed archer was a quiver filled with notched, fletched shafts. The tips were only visible for mere seconds when a warrior aimed and launched the arrow into the air.

But now, he found that he very much would like the answers to all of these questions. Elrond longed to possess the thoughts passing through Legolas' mind when he had chosen this bit of rock and made this arrowhead. Why could the stone not give up these secrets to his healer's touch?

"…have been required to quarantine the mortal merchants until we can determine what illness this may be. While none have died of it, two Men's villages have fallen prey already…"

The ceaseless resume of activity at the Last Homely House continued. Elrond grunted a noncommittal response and then promptly drove the words from his attention again. One day was very much like another in Imladris, after all, and he had left his home in capable hands.

The Noldo Lord let go the arrowhead and fumbled around in the pocket of his velvet vestments, fingers seeking, heart lurching when they failed to clasp the item he sought. Elrond unconsciously sighed, his pulse relaxing back into its normal rhythm, as soon as his digits' recognised the soft, felted lock of hair coiled in the corner of the garment's concealed pouch. He traced around the spiralling knot he had carefully constructed from the heavy strand, absorbing the remainder of the wild elf's essence infused into the hair.

If he breathed very slowly and deeply, he could catch a faint whiff of the fallen archer's intoxicating aroma at the height of his passion. Elrond drew in a long breath and held it as his eyes dropped shut of their own volition. An image of Legolas surged to the forefront of his mind; the feral elf appeared as he had on that first day in the forest, staring down upon them with bow armed and drawn, that odd mixture of youthful curiosity and jaded distrust shining in the unsounded fathoms of those pools of radiant blue.

"…then the entire goat herd burst into flame and went raging about the paddock. It took every elf in the barracks to extinguish the ensuing blaze, and I had no choice but to instruct my archers to kill the poor beasts mercifully! I suspect some malicious Maia attached to the service of the Dark Lord was responsible."

Silence. The voice had ceased chattering, quite suddenly. What had the elf said just now? Elrond's eyes opened into a narrowed glare as he exhaled a prolonged, silent sigh. His brow creased into an array of furrows that usually signalled his rising wrath and was matched by the deep down-turning of his stern lips. He raised a most daunting scowl to the speaker.

"What did you say, Glorfindel?" he demanded. "I am not in the mood for your unremarkable attempts at humour! Just continue with your bloody report!"

"Forgive me, my Lord, I just needed to reassure myself that you were listening, as it has been over an hour and you have made no reply to anything I have said thus far!" If the venerable Vanya warrior was surprised to hear this discourteous remark from his Lord, he did not show it. He stood at the other side of the broad table, arms crossed against his chest, gazing down upon Elrond with a rather bemused expression tinged with the smallest taint of worry. Rarely was the Lord of Imladris so distracted.

"I assure you I am getting every detail!" Elrond retorted. "Perhaps you have mistaken my complete confidence in your ability to manage these trivialities for disinterest!"

"Nay, I mistake nothing!" Glorfindel snorted. "It is hardly my doing that Erestor is not here to attend to these matters! If you wish me to deal with all this without informing you of the incidents occurring in your Realm during your unexpected absence, please say so! I have twice the work load and half the assistance to complete it!"

"My journey was hardly unexpected, Glorfindel, as you were informed two weeks before I set forth!"

"Oh, aye, yet you never arrived at your proposed destination! Your sons are out searching for you even now! Where did you go, Elrond, and what has become of Erestor?" The Balrog slayer leaned down and slapped his ample palm against the solid wood with a jarring thump.

Elrond rose from the table and met his noble retainer's stare in fury as Glorfindel stood tall and straight. Whatever his first life's glory may have been, Glorfindel was bound in service to the Peredhel's house in this one.

"You forget yourself, my friend," hissed the Noldo Lord. "I owe you no accounting of my activities! As for Erestor, he must be in Lorien by now safely tucked away between his two loves in their cosy Guardsman's talan!"

The two glowered at one another for several seconds and simultaneously broke away, each taking a step or two to create a calming distance between them within the close confines of the Elf Lord's study.

Elrond rubbed his temples as though his head pained him, when truly he was only irritated due to lack of sleep. Little rest had he achieved since his abrupt departure from the woodsman's village. He had but to drift off for a moment to find his memory assailing him with the unpleasantly stimulating events he had witnessed in the wild elf's sanctuary. When he managed to force these reflections from his mind, he found his thoughts invaded by erotic fantasies of the golden archer offering the Noldo Lord his wanton charms.

Added to this disturbing drain on his resources, his reappearance had been anything but unobtrusive. Upon arriving home the previous day Elrond had discovered that his careful plans to spare his children worry had not been as punctiliously constructed as they might have been. He should have considered that a chance message addressed to him from Arwen, currently residing with the Lord and Lady in Lothlorien, would arrive in his absence. Elrond had chosen suitable destinations with which to conjure his lies, inventing false needs to journey from Imladris. To Glorfindel and his sons he had spoken of meetings with Galadriel; meanwhile informing Arwen that he would be away from home for a month or more conferring with Cirdan at the Havens.

His daughter was nearly as annoyingly precise and painstaking as Celebrian had been, dating the outside of the sealed missive so that the intended recipient would know how long had been the delay between the sending and the delivery. Elrond had never asked Celebrian what the purpose of this comparison might be, suspecting it had something to do with ensuring the messengers went about their tasks without side trips to brothels and gaming houses. The date on Arwen's note made it obvious he was not in Lorien as he had indicated, for an uneventful trip would have placed him in the Golden Wood two weeks prior to her letter's departure.

It was Elladan who had found the sealed scroll amid the accumulating stacks of correspondence on his father's desk and raised the alarm that the Lord of Imladris and his faithful seneschal had gone missing. Elrond mentally winced; it was also Elladan who had first discovered that his mother had never made it to Lorien, all those years ago. Causing his son to relive this dread despair had not been Elrond's intent.

The note had not even been of any importance, merely a reminder of Erestor's Conception Day celebration to be held on the autumnal equinox in Lorien. Prudent to a fault, Arwen had already mentioned this months ago, and used the written method as a failsafe lest he forget she had done so! That such ridiculous redundancy could be the cause of his sons' alarmed concern and possible harm at the hands of Orcs was unbearable!

Silently the Noldo cursed Legolas and Ningloriel, and the entire pedigree of Thranduil's long lineage.

And then there were the horses. He and Erestor had been on horseback when they set out and the animals had not returned on their own. This they would have done if capable of movement, even should their masters be lost, so this produced a mixed signal of both ominous and hopeful mien. Elrond could imagine his sons arguing about that point; Elladan taking the alarmist view that both elves and horses had perished, Elrohir the more positive approach that riders and steeds were alive and merely delayed for some benign reason. The horses had been safely cared for in Beorn's secluded valley during the unwholesome adventure, from whence Elrond had retrieved his own trusted mount on his way home.

Elladan and Elrohir had left almost at once to track down their father and his kinsman. That had been a week hence.

All of this Glorfindel had explained upon his Lord's arrival in the courtyard at tinnu of the previous day, demanding answers in scalding tones of relieved distress covered over with fiery rage.

Elrond sighed.

"Glorfindel, I cannot reveal more to you. My plans went awry, nothing more. The fact that Elladan and Elrohir assumed the worst is horrible enough for me to bear; their fate is what concerns me right now. If they come to harm searching for me, I will never forgive myself!" the Elf Lord quietly spoke his greatest fear.

_Yet it is not they that I turn my thoughts upon! Indeed, I have envisioned the face and form of only the outcast since leaving the woodsmen's village!_

The Balrog slayer turned back to observe his Lord carefully and caught the forlorn expression of guilty remorse transform into one of barely controlled fury. The renowned loremaster and former Herald to the High King must have noted this for he turned slightly away as though attempting to compose his countenance. Glorfindel raised perplexed brows; in response to this scrutiny, the Lord of Imladris was fidgeting! One hand was buried deep in his pocket aimlessly toying with something; the other pushed listlessly through a stack of parchment scrolls on the corner of the table. Elrond did not seek to meet his Master-at-Arms' eyes.

Glorfindel frowned, that also was an uncommon event.

_What is he hiding?_

The reborn warrior had already done the calculations and knew the twins should be scouring the feet of the Misty Mountains on their way to Caradhras. He had sent a rider after them at first light hoping they would be taking their time and investigating every possible cave where Orcs might be lurking. Knowing the sons of Elrond, the veteran of Gondolin expected there would be significantly lesser numbers of the beasts once the brothers completed their traverse of the divide. If his rider did not overtake them, the pair would reach Lorien in three more days assuming everything went smoothly through the High Pass.

He only hoped Erestor was indeed there and could give Elladan and Elrohir reassurance of their father's planned return home, stopping them from a laborious and painstaking hunt through the wilderlands surrounding the Gladden Fields and Mirkwood. Such a venture would carry them too close to the Dark Lord's fortress of Dol Guldur for Glorfindel's liking. Elrond, he knew, had already worked all this out as well.

So Elrond must have realised that the timing of the arrival of Arwen's message, the twins' departure from Rivendell, and his sudden reappearance was also noteworthy. Had Elrond returned through the High Pass, he would have met his sons upon their way. The Lord of Imladris must have travelled an entirely different direction, never having been even remotely near Lothlorien.

_Where could he have gone that he would not report the journey?_

Not to Rohan or Isengard, for again the way would cross the path of Elladan and Elrohir on the return. Besides, even in the unlikely event that Elrond had some clandestine dealings with the horse lords, or an undisclosed meeting with Saruman, he would have told Glorfindel. In all the long Ages of their friendship, the Balrog slayer had been party to every political manoeuvre his Lord had undertaken.

West towards the Havens or to the Shire could not have been his goal, for neither destination would require subterfuge and deceit. Elrond would surely not venture south to Gondor with only Erestor at his side. Such a diplomatic mission would require the counsel and company of Mithrandir at the very least and certainly demand the strength of Glorfindel's warriors, for the concerns of Men were often at odds these days with the interests of elf-kind. Or so, at least, the Steward of Gondor deemed them.

No, whatever Elrond had been up to was removed from the business of overseeing the welfare of Imladris, separate from the trying conundrum of the rising veil of Darkness emerging from the region of Mordor.

That could only mean concerns of a purely personal nature, and pointed to the Woodland Realm to the east.

_This must be connected with the flight of Ningloriel to Valinor_, Glorfindel reasoned.

If he had been in Mirkwood, Elrond would have travelled north along the Anduin, crossing the Great River at the Ford in order to scale the narrow gap connecting to the Old Forest Road and thus to the safety of the eastern borders of Rivendell. This was a more dangerous way to conquer the Misty Mountains due to the infestation of excessive numbers of goblins and Orcs, yet it was the only logical solution. For whatever reason, Elrond had been in Thranduil's Realm for nearly two months and had returned without Erestor.

_What were you doing there, so far from the borders of fair Imladris? We have no allies to our east!_

Glorfindel's unasked question hung heavily in the air between them. He hoped Elrond was not lying about the seneschal being safe in Lothlorien. He would learn soon enough; Elladan and Elrohir would send back news as soon as they reached the Golden Wood. Until then, he knew Elrond's worry for his sons would increase daily, as would the guilt for sending them into possible peril.

Glorfindel sighed.

"They will return in good health, Elrond. They are seasoned warriors and the very scent of them sends the Orcs running in terror! Although, they will be very disgruntled when they do return!" he tried to send his old friend a reassuring smile. It was hard to endure the bitter tang coating his throat that Elrond's lack of faith in him generated, however, and he could not keep the gleam of cold umbrage from his gaze.

"Aye, I am certain you are right, Glorfindel. I will have to suffer their ire meekly, I fear, for no more than I have told you will I say to them!" Elrond hoped this admission might soothe his trusted comrade's injured pride. Elrond lifted his vision in time to see the genuine surprise upon his friend's features before they smoothed into polite acceptance.

Moving from behind the table, Elrond paced across the room to a tall shelf lined with books and scrolls. Just to give his eyes something to do he let the fingers of his left-hand drift along the spines and trace out the runes and letters there. The other remained concealed. Of their own accord his hand moved from book to book and touched upon the titles displayed, spelling out the fallen archer's name from among the components therein. Elrond cursed again as he realised this, a hissed whisper that passed his lips before he could halt the sound. His oblique vision discerned the hasty movement of Glorfindel's startle.

The Balrog slayer was stunned by this behaviour from the Elven Lord. Elrond was never so preoccupied, never at less than full command of his emotions, at least in the Vanya's record of memory. Glorfindel watched as Elrond jerked his hand away from the texts and strode back to the table, resuming the ruse of examining the documents now strewn across the surface in untidy disarray. Elrond's other hand was still hidden, occupied in its own activity within the flowing robe's concealment.

Perturbed, the warrior pressed his lips together in a grim, disconsolate line. What events could be so unnerving as to bring about the loss of the venerable loremaster's coolly controlled demeanour? Not since the death of Gil-Galad had Elrond been so disturbed in spirit, so unaccountably abstracted one moment and futilely angry the next. Glorfindel watched the Noldo's hand twitch within the folds of the fabric. No doubt the restless fingers mimicked the erratic meandering of the elf's thoughts. The hidden hand's activity was as a nagging strike upon the Vanya's irritated nerves, and suddenly he could stand it no longer.

"By the will of the Valar, what have you got in your pocket?" he barked out this demand more harshly than intended and was about to retract his forceful request when he witnessed something he had never thought to see, even if given a third lifetime of observation.

Elrond of Imladris had a definite bloom of crimson climbing to his ears and a look of panic in his eyes. The Lord of Imladris was blushing.

Tbc


	46. Chapter 46

_italics indicate thoughts_ | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

**Lond o Rîn** [Path of Remembrance]

Now in his youth Legolas had despised the cloistering darkness of the deeper rooms in the Wood Elf King's stronghold and remembered still, long past his majority, the clutching terror that surrounded his heart when he stood upon the landing and faced the thick black obscurity at the bottom of the innermost stairway. He knew there was nought at the steps' ending but a great vestibule containing three portals, two of which led to the keeps wherein the King's treasures lay, and the other sank to the abiding gloom of the subterranean dungeons. All of them were secured with barred iron gates and devices known only to Thranduil.

Designed by dwarves from the Blue Mountains no less, it was rumoured that as the metal tumblers and cylinders of the locks had been cast the Sinda Lord had infused the molten material with magic and sorcery, so that even should another come into possession of the keys, never could the bolts be sprung by any hand but his. Indeed, many believed that the nameless dread engulfing the soul upon reaching the forbidden chambers was likewise a product of their King's bewitchment, for even true-tried warriors Ages old could not stifle the desire to flee from the vestibule when required to descend there.

Such occasions, though rare, were imbedded in the lore of the Woodland folk, for any time Thranduil added to the hoard he selected from among his trusted Sindar to carry the stash into the vaults. These venerable and courageous archers and cavaliers, all veterans of the Last Alliance, returned from the depths with knees knocking and eyes expanded as though they had encountered Melkor himself.

Legolas doubted not these tales, for he had proof of the verity of such claims. As a youngling he had been confined to the stronghold for an offence against the King, a not uncommon event if he chanced upon the Sinda ruler when Ningloriel was away in Lorien. This particular episode, however, remained rigidly entrenched in Legolas' memory like no other.

Maltahondo resumed his guardianship of the Woodland Queen whenever she left the Greenwood, and by this time Legolas, being 35 years of age, was considered old enough to pass the day without constant supervision. His schedule of activities was such that various lessons and tedious duties succinctly regulated his time to consume the entirety of Anor's passage.

What his mother and her lover knew not was that the elves designated to oversee this rigorous program had no inclination to do so, and made few complaints when Legolas promptly abandoned certain obligations and took to the forest, bow in hand and quiver filled. Everyone understood that Thranduil would neither notice nor care that the elfling was not about, and that it was far preferable, for Legolas' sake and theirs, that he not cross paths with the King.

For his part, Legolas deplored to spend time with Thranduil's staff, and even more hated to be among the warriors in the barracks courtyard. Quite early he had learned that the Sindar elves and the Wood Elves regarded him with vastly different evaluations, and their opinions were not shielded from his observant insight.

The Sylvan folk gazed upon Legolas with an unsettling mixture of pity and fear. They all knew Ningloriel was charged with infidelity to the vows of her marriage bond, and most considered her son a worrisome hybrid, welcome due to her lineage yet problematic for the possibility of his Noldo heritage. Adding the unwholesome element of kinslayers into their breed was not viewed favourably, yet the Wood Elves could not look upon the small golden-haired child and deny him as their own, and thus pitied him the lack of cohesion in his family.

Condescending charity was not an emotion Legolas favoured, either to give or to receive.

The fear he spawned had nothing to do with the possibility of Noldo traits showing themselves in his nature, for none such were apparent. Nay, the unease sprang from the uncanny maturity of the youth, Legolas' knack of discovering, upon meeting the eyes in even the most casual of glances, what one thought to be hidden in the heart. His ability to be almost totally self-sufficient and his affinity for speaking with the trees rather than the elves added to the mystique.

Almost as soon as his legs would hold him up, it was noted that Legolas preferred solitude and would turn from a conversation as soon as it was politely possible to do so. It did not occur to many that this was rather a conditioned response, for the elfling merely reacted to the discomfort his presence seemed to bring to others, and removed himself as was expected of him.

From the Sindar elves, few though they were in number and mingled in bonding to the Sylvans, Legolas experienced an entirely different combination of emotions. Always there was contempt, for the idea of his bastard status while still the named heir galled them. Too bitter had been the defeat at the gates of Mordor, and from the warriors' perspective too avoidable. None of the Sindar soldiers projected any sense of acceptance towards the elfling, and a few openly mocked the child, provided Ningloriel's absence, knowing no censure would result.

And yet these folk also responded with a certain wariness in their demeanour, for there was an aura of eccentricity about Legolas that was attributed to the influence of Elrond's mixed blood, and thus dubious. Noldo, Adan, Maia, Sylvan, among this hodgepodge of strains which would predominate in the elfling's character? None of these stalwart warriors considered the courage and fortitude required of the solitary youth just to traverse the barracks courtyard amid the distrustful and contumely disregard that clogged the very air he breathed.

And it was during one such trek that he committed an infraction of sufficient magnitude to warrant punishment, and came under notice of the King. Legolas was used to the looks of scorn and the occasional insult thrown his way and never reacted except to hurry his pace, but on this day one particular Sinda warrior found his indifference irritating enough to follow the elfling. When a harsh hand grasped his shoulder and halted his progress, Legolas turned and kicked the offending soldier in an attempt to free himself. If he also likened the elf to the foetid waste of Orcs and the vile serum that passed from spiders, perhaps that was not so unwarranted either.

Yet the young archer quickly learned this was a mistake, for he was but half grown and the veteran warrior far more skilled, strengthened by centuries of hard training and exacting discipline. The beating Legolas received for his impertinence left him injured less in body than in pride, for Rochendil used the sturdy shaft of one of the elfling's own arrows as a switch, inflicting a stinging censure upon the young one's backside. Even upon shoving Legolas down in the dusty yard, the horse tamer was not appeased and snatched up and broke the small bow the elfling had made for himself. Legolas actually flinched when the loud and sickening crack sounded, staring in hatred at the booted foot planted firmly upon the slender severed wood.

If nothing else, Legolas was heedful of lessons taught with such intensity, and remained still, burying his ire under his pain even as he was forced to apologise and abase himself, begging pardon for his impudence, until the warrior finally ordered him to go.

Truly, that would have been the end of it, had the stubborn youth not desired to ease his wounded ego and send an unignorable message to the Sindar among the troops, and the horse master in particular. Distorting the directive to leave and get on about his chores, Legolas took himself to the armoury, that in itself a violation for he was not allowed in the place, and therein located Rochendil's gear. His intent had been to repay the Sinda's cruelty and render his bow useless by destroying the string nocks, splintering the wooden ends beyond repair.

Upon entering the room and viewing the impressive array of finely crafted implements, Legolas found he had no desire to destroy the careful work of the Sylvan bowyers. He decided, instead, to replace his bow from among this collection, only until he could make another, and retreated into the forest with his prize.

It was his choice of weapons that brought Legolas to the attention of Thranduil. The elfling selected the best bow, one not even the King himself would carry, for it stood in a place of high honour, set apart from the rest in a rack alone. While there was no inscription or monument telling so, all knew this was the war bow of Oropher, the very one carried with him to his death before the gates of Mordor at the Last Alliance.

For the remainder of Anor's hours Legolas was completely content, revelling in practice with such a fine devise, marvelling at the effort required to draw the formidable relic. It was not long before his shoulders ached and his breath left him in huffing rasps, and his arms seemed composed more of gelatinous flab than muscle. Even so, he persisted in his determined efforts to master the mighty bow, hidden in a small clearing he had discovered and adapted for training far from the mockery of the Sindar, far from the knowledge of any within the stronghold.

Tinnu's winking welcome followed the diminished light at the end of day, and then did Legolas' heart begin to sink in concert with the drop of Anor beyond the rim of the land. No longer could he ignore the nagging remonstrance of his conscience, nor the growing dread of the reprisals his rebellious act would engender. Surely by now, someone had noticed both the missing artefact and his simultaneous absence and joined the two.

Several hours more Legolas fretted, fearing to return and face the wrath that must of a certainty wait. Desperately he attempted to concoct both a scheme for replacing the fabled bow to its simple shrine of reverent respect unnoticed and an accompanying alibi that would shield him from blame. No one had seen him enter or leave the armoury, or he would have been stopped at once. His efforts to improve his archery skills with Oropher's weapon likewise remained hidden from the other elves. Yet, had he not desired them all to understand who had taken the deceptively elegant arc of destruction belonging to the former King?

At last his defiance won out. For too long had the youth held back his hurt and anger without redress, and rashly he thought his retaliatory misappropriation a fitting vindication. Bold of mien while quaking in his soul, Legolas retraced his path through the branches and silently entered the stronghold through the gardens. He was quickly discovered, as an alert for his arrival was in force, and escorted before Thranduil.

Now Legolas was never allowed within the Chamber of Sovereignty, for he was to the Sinda Lord but a constant reminder that the Realm was on the brink of transferring beyond the claims of Oropher's line should misfortune befall Thranduil. Yet here he was led to stand before the throne, left by his guards three steps from the dais in an empty spot surrounded by the assembled Council and those captains of the King's guard present in the stronghold that night.

Still not of full stature, Legolas could not stand eye to eye with his sovereign Lord and was forced to look up into the enraged countenance of the King. Upon viewing the thinly checked fury within Thranduil's murky hazel eyes, Legolas' heart lurched, missing a beat and sinking low before making a tremendous leap to compensate for the pause, and sent his blood racing through his veins. Despite the heightened rhythm of his pulse, the young archer felt an icy chill creep upon his flesh.

No words were spoken, no accusations made, for none were required when Legolas stood before the convocation with the cherished weapon still in his grasp. For several seconds, Thranduil held the gaze of his wife's shameful progeny with disgust before dropping his attention to the bow.

The silence within the chamber was more potent than a stream of reproachful diatribes, and held a tangible promise of impending doom.

Legolas took a shaky breath and fought the urge to run, yet could not suppress the tremor that ran through him under the scathing scrutiny. When Thranduil's focus centred on the weapon, an audible breath escaped the elfling and his grip round the wood tightened. Wordlessly, he extended his arms and held out the weapon on his open palms, dropping his head to stare at the floor. He felt the bow snatched from him and lowered his arms, again struggling to master the instinct to flee. Cautiously he lifted his eyes to observe Thranduil inspecting the masterpiece of deadly artistry, after which the King tendered the bow into the care of his most trusted captain to be restored to its rightful place.

Thranduil's coldly glittering glare met his detested heir's once more, and a motion of his hand brought two guards forward to the elfling's sides. In calm detachment the King watched as they forcefully removed the struggling offender's tunic and stepped back to their places amid the crowd. The Sinda monarch observed with satisfaction that this had effectively removed the last remnants of rebellious bravado from the elf's eyes, and Legolas stood trembling with his arms wrapped around his bare chest.

Thranduil turned to retrieve an object from where it had been leaning unnoticed against the throne, and revealed a long thin willow branch, which he flexed to demonstrate its green resilience.

Even as the switch bent in the Woodland ruler's hands, Legolas stiffened in dread; he was to be caned. Never had he endured such punishment before and fervently regretted his foolish impetuosity. His heart was hammering as the King moved around behind him and Legolas quailed upon realising he was not even to know how many strikes he would be favoured to receive.

The first blow landed with an explosion of searing agony across his shoulders, followed by nine more in rapid succession, leaving Legolas gasping for air on his hands and knees, not even cognisant of having lost his footing for the intensity of the pain. To his shame, he realised he was crying and loudly at that. Before he could recover his dignity he felt the guards next to him, hauling him up by his arms and dragging him out of the room. Using their support, Legolas managed to get his feet under him and then yanked free, bolting through the doorway and down the halls for his rooms.

No one hindered his passage.

The public drubbing was not the totality of his punishment, however. One of his tutors arrived later to inform Legolas that he was forbidden to leave the caverns for his beloved trees for a ten-day and assigned to work in the scullery for the duration of the term. For one attuned to the freedom of the high canopy and the companionship of the Greenwood, such confinement was torture scarcely bearable.

His tenure among the kitchen staff was likewise an eternity of torment, for he was only under foot and in the way. While Legolas was adept among the high branchways and advanced in archery, he was completely at a loss when confronted with the harried routines associated with feeding the household. The hapless elfling found himself the frequent recipient of rebukes and scoldings as he unintentionally disrupted the fluid operation of the domestic employees. Upon the sixth day, when he had just dropped and broken a fourth carafe of wine, the chief cook angrily cuffed him on the side of the head and ordered him from the cookery.

Barred even from seeking refuge in the Sentinel, Legolas fled across the tremendous room in angry despair, feeling the sting of tears again as he raced to the stairs. However, upon reaching the first landing he realised someone was headed down, and he turned away to hide his embarrassment, heading instead deeper into the mountain's bowels. Vaguely he heard the calls from the elf who had been descending the stairs, but paid no mind to the warnings, and found himself in the antechamber of the three gates, staring into the impenetrable gloom, palsied with fright, unable to tear his gaze from the consuming black void.

Immediately the elfling's thoughts were invaded with whispering voices threatening to usurp his soul's place and confiscate his body, banishing for eternity the immortal spark of his being to the caliginous heart of the stony mountain if he did not leave at once. Nothing more than escape did Legolas desire, yet the gloom was impenetrable, for the stairway made a turning and the light of the floor above was obscured. Even had this not been the case, the murmuring venom of the unsounded words confused and disoriented the youth.

In vain did Legolas cover his ears and shut his eyes, for the darkness had a formless presence he could neither ignore nor dislodge from his mind, and before too many minutes passed he was crouched on the floor against the wall, screaming to be left in peace, begging to be spared such a fate.

The healer had been called to fetch him out, and bravely did she do so alone with but one torch and whatever soothing words she could summon to calm the terrified youth. After this, the household staff unanimously decided that as long as all held their tongues and Legolas refrained from further larcenous behaviour, it would benefit everyone if the elfling were set free again.

Nevertheless, several nights passed before Legolas could rest without reliving the harrowing ordeal.

Standing beneath the thin shaft of feeble illumination that wormed through the stronghold's massive rock to filter into the humble suite, the Tawarwaith felt strongly his separation from the trees and the fortifying light of the stars, of Ithil and Anor, and recalled that day. He had been in the cave of the three doors less than an hour, yet it had certainly felt like all eternity was passing as his sanity was slowly devoured by the nameless foe. He wondered now what manner of unhoused feär Thranduil had there entrapped, and how he kept them bound. Even after so long a lapse in years, Legolas could not prevent a shudder from travelling through his limbs.

He had been confined in the stronghold nearly a ten-day and was beginning to feel the deprivation keenly. With grim resignation, he fully accepted that if he undertook the actions he had in mind, he might be spending considerably more than a few minutes in the lowest levels of the caverns as a prisoner within the lightless cells.

_Therein will I die, if once I am enclosed._, he shivered again and frowned.

On the morrow he would at last be allowed to leave these dismal rooms and return to his home with Fearfaron. This he anticipated with eager joy, for he could not heal completely under the current conditions and his health would be much improved when he could once more breathe the open air. Yet there was that which he desired to do before leaving, for Legolas knew not when he might again have the opportunity to move about within the mountain fortress freely.

The carpenter had been hovering around him like a hummingbird over a cup of nectar, fearing, Legolas assumed, a confrontation between the King and his cast-off heir. No one entered his quarters save his trusted friends, and one or more of them was always with him day and night. Yet no appearance did Thranduil make, and whatever plans he had were in abeyance as he fawned over his newborn and his bond-mate.

The entire Realm was on holiday and no business was being conducted, other than the perpetual watch on the border, as announcements of the new heir's arrival went out among the free peoples. The news was travelling not only to Lorien, Imladris, and Mithlond but also to Dale, the Iron Mountains, indeed all of Erebor, and among the woodsmen's villages within the forest. If the Wood Elves' King could have his way, word of Taurant's birth would be carried even unto Isengard and as far south as Gondor.

Still, within the stone fortress a steady tension was building, and Legolas could not help but believe this was due to his presence in conjunction with Taurant's. He had no wish to bring such distress to the first days of the newborn's life, which were crucial to the infant's awakening sense of security within his new environment, and this was the first thing Legolas desired to act upon. He wanted to re-establish the peaceful harmony that had enveloped the cavernous structure on the morning of the child's birth, and was strongly compelled to do so in person.

Legolas was consumed with the idea of seeing the infant prince for he felt he might never again be given the chance once he returned to the Greenwood and his surveillance of Dol Guldur. Having decided to accept Fearfaron and Mithrandir's judgement, Legolas was now convinced this was his own brother, and felt a fierce loyalty and love for the tiny being. He simply could not bear to leave without even satisfying himself as to who the infant favoured.

_Will it be apparent we are blood kin, as it is with Gwilith and Lindalcon?_

This was not a desire he had shared with his foster father, knowing full well he would be discouraged from such a course and put under an even more vigilant guard by his small circle of well-meaning friends. Likewise he carefully guarded his hopeful schemes from Mithrandir's discovery, driving these ponderings from his mind and distancing himself from the wizard when they were in the same room, as now. Yet Lindalcon he hoped to sway to his aid, and awaited the young elf's return from taking Gwilith for her playtime in the gardens.

"You are lost in thought, Legolas, and have ignored us for some time. Are you well?" Mithrandir's voice gently intruded into the archer's ruminations and drew him back to the occupants of the room. The wizard's words flowed over and into him, suffusing him with warm comfort much as a mulled wine heated aching joints on a wintry day. Legolas smiled and turned this engaging expression upon the Maia.

"I am well," he affirmed and allowed his friend to reach an arm around his shoulders and draw him from the faint beam of light. Together they hobbled toward the sitting area, leaning one against the other such that each put little pressure on injured limbs. There the carpenter and the Man were seated in the armchairs, bent over a board game before the blue-flamed fire.

Fearfaron lifted his eyes and watched as they took the settee side by side, his glance shifting between them with a slight uneasiness Legolas could not fathom. He had directly asked what the trouble was, and the carpenter had been evasive and changed the subject. Legolas had also demanded for Mithrandir to reveal what was between the two of them, but the Istar had been uninformative and taciturn. Even Aragorn refused to speak of the matter, and directed the archer back to the other two. Somehow the trio found it difficult to explain the degree to which the wild elf's spirit had been encumbered, perhaps because it was fate's cruel paradox that he had never been loved while his heart had long been compromised. For such a bruised soul to bear an additional, unlooked for burden, light though the Istar's attachment was, seemed onerous to Legolas' comrades.

_It is maddening! These are my friends, yet somehow I have brought dissension between them, for if not then they would freely explain the situation._, he thought.

_Nay, it is not of your doing, Legolas! Your father and I disagree on some methods of treatment for you, nothing more!_, the Maia reassured, receiving this frustrated bloom of introspection as the pair dropped upon the small sofa.

_What methods? I am the one recovering; should I not have a say in this?_

_I refer to what is past; we were forced to act quickly when you were unconscious. Fearfaron is still uneasy regarding your full recovery; that is all. Worry no more over it!_

Legolas made an irritated sucking noise against his teeth, dissatisfied with this response. It would have been better not to reveal his concerns; he really had to learn how to govern such mental outbursts more carefully.

"You will develop that skill with time!" the wizard said, having caught this as well, and laughed softly as he filled and lit his pipe.

His comment drew the attention of the game players, who raised their eyes simultaneously with nearly identical scowls of aggravation.

"I find that completely rude," Aragorn said with affected drama.

"Aye, if you must speak in that manner together, at least keep it fully to yourselves!" added Fearfaron, but his perturbed tone was not a ruse.

Legolas felt his cheeks grow hot and scooted away from any contact with Mithrandir, though physical connection was no longer needed for the link to be opened between them. He crossed his arms in front of his body and leaned against the sofa's padded arm dejectedly, refusing to look at the three. He did not like being the subject of this undisclosed contest of wills, especially when Mithrandir could shield his own thoughts whenever he wished.

Lindalcon chose that opportune moment to enter the room, Gwilith in tow. Legolas at once brightened up and slipped down onto the floor as the toddler approached, tugging impatiently on her older brother's hand.

"Limlas, play!" she commanded gleefully and hopped on light toe steps up to the Tawarwaith, stopping with caution before colliding with the recovering elf. Her delicate embrace, so careful to avoid the hidden injuries, was heart-warming and Legolas swept her up gladly onto his lap. His leg barely hurt now and his side pained him not at all, and he refused to waste anymore hours sulking about when he had such an endearing elfling waiting to be entertained.

"Yes, we three will play, and these grumpy old ones must leave, agreed?" Legolas smiled and looked to Lindalcon for support.

"I will stay, Fearfaron; you and Mithrandir must have all manner of preparations to make for Legolas' homecoming tomorrow. Aragorn, you should help them, since Mithrandir is still healing up." Lindalcon replied as he flashed the archer a glance, brows lifted in surprise, but more than willing to comply if it made Legolas happy.

Legolas beamed back approvingly and nodded to indicate this was acceptable to him. He returned his attention to Gwilith, who was tugging on his hair and trying to untangle the unruly locks.

"Limlas, fix it," she commanded and handed over a small silk ribbon that had just moments before adorned her chestnut strands. Unable to succeed in her attempt to rectify the warrior's dishevelled hair, she decided to demand the same attention for herself and shook her head briskly to ensure there was something to fix.

"You have become quite the tyrant since our arrival here, Legolas," complained the Man good-naturedly.

Legolas grinned, took the ribbon, and turned the child round, deftly combing through her tresses with his fingers and humming softly. He began a small braid, working the bright red adornment into the design, and Gwilith was surprisingly still.

Aragorn really did not mind at all a chance to get out of the claustrophobic caves, accustomed as he was to the open and airy halls of Imladris, and had a few concerns of his own he wished to address. Ever since the enlightening conversation with Lindalcon, the mortal had been reflecting on how best to handle the Malthen situation.

"Now you have got Lindalcon ordering me about as well! Once you are completely healed, I will have to remind you of your manners!" He rose from the leather armchair and stretched as Legolas directed a mocking smirk his way.

"And I am not that old, ion edwen [second son]!" glared Fearfaron. Truthfully, he was extremely suspicious of this sudden dismissal, and decided he would make some excuse to send the Man and the Maia off while shadowing every move of the trio of mischief-makers. "But I do have things to do to make ready. If Mithrandir is being thrown out as well, I suppose I shall not protest. Be certain to stay put; I want to learn of no mishaps in my absence."

Mithrandir coughed on his pipe at this and sent the carpenter a coolly disapproving grumble of nondescript complaints in an obscure Vanyarin dialect no longer spoken on Middle-earth.

The wizard could not believe Fearfaron and Aragorn actually planned to leave the Wood Elf unguarded! He was certain Legolas was plotting something, else he would not have remained so far from contact all morning, fearing to give away his ideas.

_Agonise not about the quarrels, Legolas; Fearfaron is only concerned for you and I will attempt to set his mind at ease._, he communicated this reassurance wordlessly.

_Please do; let me have this afternoon free of the wearisome bickering and backbiting between you two!_ Legolas sent his mental reply and completed the grooming of his little sister's hair, turning her in the direction of the bathing room where a silvered glass was mounted atop a small table.

"Go have a look, little one," he coaxed and she skipped away in delight.

Upon receiving the archer's caustic request Mithrandir was deeply chagrined, for he had not known Legolas felt the dissension so strongly. He made a silent promise to heal the rift and rose awkwardly to his feet, using his staff once more as a crutch.

Aragorn hurried to the door to open it, forcing the carpenter to assist the wizard in his stilted progress across the room. To his credit, Fearfaron was gracious in his offer of help and Mithrandir accepted with equanimity.

"We will see you back at the evening meal, then?" queried Lindalcon, and three assenting voices confirmed the arrangements before the door was once more shut. The three young elves were alone. "Alright, Legolas, tell me what is going on!"

"That is what I was going to ask you! However, I think we are wondering about different things."

Gwilith raced back to her brothers, holding a half-filled bottle of bath soap in her tiny hands.

"Bubbles, Limlas! Come make bubbles," she pleaded and for emphasis pulled on his bright yellow tunic sleeve.

"Nay, Gwilith, not right now," he said, taking the glass container away. "Go and get that book there." Turning to Lindalcon as the elfling scurried in the indicated direction, Legolas put on his most winning expression. What he hoped for Lindalcon to do would not be easy. "I need you to help me with something."

"Hah! You mean you plan on disobeying Fearfaron and wish me to create some sort of alibi or diversion!"

"That is true, yet it is not Fearfaron I need you to divert. I am going to see Taurant and I want you to make sure Meril and Thranduil are out of the way."

"What? Are you mad? They have not left their chambers since the birth! Legolas, it is too soon; neither of them are ready to bring the babe out for public display! You will be caught and I know not what they will do to you! Or to me!"

"Lindalcon, I am not the public, I am Taurant's brother, as are you! I cannot wait for their permission, as it will never be granted, and I leave the stronghold on the morrow! Have you seen him yet?" By this time Gwilith had retrieved the requested picture book but stood silently, watching her brothers argue.

"Of course, I spend one or two hours with him in the nursery each evening while Nana and the King dine together."

"And the babe's room adjoins the royal couple's bedchamber yet is separate?"

"Aye, but, Legolas, this is…"

"Is there a door, a solid one? Does the balcony connect?"

"Yes, Legolas, for Naneth will not have Taurant closed off from light and air yet there is a wood-carved door dividing the nursery from the sleeping room. But you know this is impossible!"

"Why, is it not natural for me to wish to meet Taurant? I must make it possible, Lindalcon."

"Legolas sad, Lind'on," Gwilith's musical voice was overlain with worry and she carefully slipped her small arms around the outcast's neck for comfort. Legolas quickly hugged her back to reassure the child that all was well, sending the young usurper a pleading look over the top of her head.

It did not pass unnoticed by either that their little sister had used Legolas' true name, clearly and correctly, for the first time.

"Ai, ah!" Lindalcon threw up his hands and then sank down to the floor beside them. "I cannot fight you both at once! Legolas, I wish you to see Taurant also, but how can I do what you ask? They dine together on the balcony in their chambers! Naneth gets up at the slightest indication of Taurant's distress and comes to check on how he fares! Even if I can cause her to disregard the babe for the duration of the meal, you will never be able to climb all those stairs unaided!"

Legolas smiled brightly and shifted Gwilith to sit on his unharmed knee, taking the book from her hands and opening it as he did so.

"So Thranduil does not come in the room when you are there?"

"Only to tell me to go."

"That is well, I plan to be in the room only while you are there and will leave before he finishes the meal. Trust me, I will make the ascent and there is a way for me to slip in unnoticed if only you will make sure there is some sort of distraction happening in the courtyard garden below. Make it a nice distraction, Lindalcon; something to welcome the new prince into the world."

"Legolas, I do not know what that might be. They will be suspicious and we will get caught! If Thranduil goes into one of his rages, he may do you harm! Indeed, he may punish us both!"

"Nay, Lindalcon, they will suspect nothing. Music and singing should work. Surely there is nothing unexpected in your desire to honour your new brother with such a performance!"

"Roch, Limlas! Say roch!" Gwilith patted the page whereupon the image of a prancing white horse was drawn.

"Aye, Gwilith, that is a horse," Legolas smiled. "Have you seen a real horse?"

"Ada and me rode Raugelu [Pale Blue Demon]," she said with a nod. Legolas tried not to laugh, fairly certain the poor creature was not really so named, suddenly grateful he was merely a Fish Leaf.

At his sister's response Lindalcon completely forgot what he was preparing to say to Legolas, for it was the most complete and correct statement she had ever spoken, and he stared in disbelief. Legolas grinned smugly.

"You should not talk to her as if she is still a baby. You are not a baby any more, are you Gwilwileth?" he said to the child. The elfling gazed at him with wide and serious eyes as she slowly shook her head.

"Gwilith big now. Tauron [forester] little." The child's eyes sparkled as her brothers' laughter indicated their delight at this new nickname for the babe and her countenance opened into a beatific smile, which she turned upon Lindalcon. "Limlas and Gwilith show Tauron book!"

Lindalcon groaned and picked his sister up. How did so small a being have such tremendous capacity to influence his will?

"Aye, Gwilith, you and Legolas may show Taurant the book tonight."

When both of his siblings gave excited shouts of joy and simultaneously engulfed him in a breath-stealing squeeze, Lindalcon almost felt happy about the trouble he was certain this excursion would create.

Tbc


	47. Chapter 47

_italics indicate thoughts_ | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

**Min Gannen, Min Dolen **[One Caught, One Concealed]

"Eru's Arse!"

The foul curse was uttered in exasperated umbrage as the speaker landed with an undignified thump into the leafy mould of the forest floor. This was the third time in as many days that Erestor had found himself sprawled face first in the duff. It was as though the very roots were mobile, purposefully emerging from the soil to tug at his toes and ensnare his feet.

A loud report, reminiscent of a stout, wooden pike striking flesh covered bone, for such indeed it was, rang out followed immediately by a shrill shout of misery.

"Do not blaspheme!" retorted a sternly bellowing voice. "If you cannot see the way to tread, that is not the fault of any but yourself, and your inferior breeding, perhaps."

"Inferior!" the victim of this assault rubbed his head appraisingly and discovered an unpleasantly large and painful knot arising there. "You dare to speak such insults to me, a survivor of Gondolin? Much nobility marks my lineage culminating in courageous sacrifice in the defence of Turgon's city. My own father perished there at the King's side!"

"Well then, what would he say of your recent actions, Erestor of Imladris? Have you even considered the shame you bring to his feä in the Halls of Waiting?" intoned Radagast as he stretched out his hand to aid the seneschal's return to his feet.

Erestor immediately found his skin burning in both anger and shame upon considering this terrible consequence of his thoughtless manoeuvrings and abuses against the wild Wood Elf.

"Peace, Aiwendil; you are right. I am unworthy of Adar's regard and he may choose to deny his own son whenever we may meet. How bitter is the result of this escapade!" he moaned.

Aiwendil was not moved to compassion and merely glared with even greater fury upon the Noldo Lord. The Istar cared not a whit for Erestor's loss of status and respect. He had only agreed to lead the Imladrian into the Woodland Realm's stronghold in order to see him punished for his exploitation of Legolas' isolated and lonely existence.

The Brown Wizard disregarded that the devastating revelation Erestor had introduced had been offered to alleviate the archer's sorrows. Even if adding to Legolas' troubles had been unintentional, the Tawarwaith should not have learned from this outsider how his so dearly loved and admired guardsman had cruelly used him.

The gentle Maia also knew some of this rage was directed upon the Noldo to shield his own guilty conscience. If Radagast had taken up the responsibility and informed Legolas about Malthen's relationship with Ningloriel perhaps the Istar would not be worrying whether the wild elf was now alive or dead.

"I do not think you will be allowed into Mandos' domain, Erestor. Your feä will roam until the end of Arda, houseless and alone, shunned and feared by those you love. Orophin and Dambethnîn will not wish to have you reborn into their lives, I assure you!" he continued brutally and was pleased to see the elf wince.

Erestor did not reply to this, for his mouth had gone dry as his heart began pounding out his apprehensive acceptance that Radagast's predictions would be proved true. The concept of the Halls of Waiting bespoke a loss of immortal life by violence or fading in grief. In the current direction of their travels, the first option was not unlikely should Thranduil accuse him of espionage. If his bond mates were to disown him for being part of so despicable an endeavour then the second outcome awaited the seneschal.

A core of dreadful panic formed within Erestor's soul and his stomach contracted around the sudden sick sensation arising there. He had been trying desperately not to think about his lovers' reactions to these circumstances, with little success, and the wizard's words were as oil on fire.

_They will be shocked, disgusted. They will call me 'Noldo' in icy contempt, never to be their Pen-raun again!_

The Galadhrim pair knew Erestor was often in and out of bed with a variety of young elves, but this they tolerated with a rather amused attitude of understanding acquiescence. He spent years at a time away from them, and Orophin and Dambethnîn did not begrudge him whatever ease he required for his lonely days. As long as his activity did not infringe upon the well-being of another's heart, the bonded couple was unconcerned.

_I cannot expect them to condone this. They will look upon me as though I am someone they do not know, for my actions have been so dishonourably vile. How will they reconcile such crimes with the irrepressible rake they eagerly enveloped within their glorious bond?_ Erestor inwardly cringed upon imagining their cold, scandalised expressions within formerly loving eyes.

His trepidation to face them had prompted the seneschal's determination to right as much of the wrong he had perpetrated as possible. At least then he could beg forgiveness and hope for an eventual dispensation and merciful absolution. Thus, after five days of arguing and beseeching, on the same day that Legolas first encountered Aragorn and Mithrandir, the Noldo had finally convinced the Istar to guide him through the forest to Thranduil's stronghold. There Erestor intended to plead the cause of the disgraced prince and entreat the King for aid to search for him, irregardless of any reprisals he might face for his unwarranted presence within the Greenwood.

To his credit, small though it might be upon the ledger's tally of red marks, Erestor focused on these aspects of the dilemma only because he could not bear to consider that his thoughtless self-indulgence and heedless words had robbed Middle-earth of the unique magnificence that was Legolas. If he found that the archer had perished from having his heart rended so utterly by the seneschal's comments, Erestor knew he, too, would despair.

None of this could he bring himself to speak, and so relied upon his usual attitude of cocky impudence to get him through the plodding days in the Maia's company, a flimsy shield against the unrestrained antipathy roiling off the wizard's person in waves of engulfing heat.

Not to mention the flocks of assorted jays, grackles, ravens, and even a solitary eagle that periodically swooped over him, diving low to snatch at his hair or peck his scalp, frequently defecating on him in the process, all aware of the interloper's egregious acts by virtue of Aiwendil's communion with bird-kind.

And everytime an expletive or an oath passed Erestor's lips, the Maia's sturdy new staff connected with his body most ungently.  
Aiwendil, being wise in the ways of the forest, often journeyed through the woods using the byways of the elves. He spent his days paying calls upon the human inhabitants of the central regions of Greenwood, attempting to heal the trees overcome with darkness, and searching for Sauron's Ring. In fact, so much of his time was occupied with the latter task that he was known more for his periodic occupation in and around Sír Ninglor [River Gladden] than his true lodgings of Rhosgobel beside the Anduin.

Yet rare were his visits to the Wood Elves' city and he had been within Thranduil's stronghold but once or twice. Nonetheless he was as determined as Erestor to succeed in their venture and hoped to be able to find Fearfaron and gain at least his assistance, for the wizard knew no help would come from the King.

Of the movements of the Orcs from Dol Guldur, more knowledge had the Istar than any other, save Legolas, and his avian allies had kept him well versed in the steady movement of the monsters towards the Mirkwood Mountains. Thus Radagast had chosen to travel across the open lowlands in the valley of the Great River. Along this path, they encountered no beasts of evil from Melkor's making and met no travellers upon the way. Only when reaching the Ford and the Old Forest Road did the wizard at last remark signs of other feet heading for the woods.

Here the earth was trampled and churned, the grass crushed and impacted down into the soil by the weight of a great host that had made for the eaves of the Greenwood with all speed. Grimly the two acknowledged these foreboding indications, for this could only be the trail of Orcs marching out of the Misty Mountains and into the Woodland Realm. These were fresh tracks and showed travel in only one direction.

The pair moved on quickly, having no desire to encounter this army on its return journey.

Neither Radagast nor Erestor expressed their fears, which ranged from concern for the safe passage of Elrond, who must surely have used this route on his return to Imladris, to apprehension over the fate of the Tawarwaith, the probable target of this unexpected invasion, alone and in the grave grip of grieving's throes.

The Maia and the Noldo had continued further upstream before turning finally towards the darkly looming trees, entering at the Forest Gate where the Elf Path would lead them quickest to Thranduil's city. Once under the canopy, Greenwood at once recognised the identity of the trespasser, naming him Pen Togel Pelleth [One Bringing Fading] and did not spare him either upturned roots or the occasional falling limb. Erestor was collecting a wide assortment of bruises and scrapes and by the second day among the trees was limping along painfully behind the Maia.

It was thus that on this the third day he failed to avoid the latest reprisal of the forest and received another allotment of Aiwendil's corporal and verbal scolding.

In silence they proceeded once the seneschal was upright, and after an hour's passing the wizard abruptly halted and leaned upon his cane. Erestor looked at him in apprehensive bewilderment.

"What are we stopping for?" he demanded, making sure he was beyond the reach of the smooth beech-wood wizard's weapon. Erestor found the coolly sneering look Aiwendil trained upon him most unsettling. He knew, despite his complaints, that, had he so chosen, the Maia could easily have exacted a severe retribution on Legolas' behalf, and thus the Noldo considered himself fortunate up to this point. He had no desire to spend his eternal life locked into some inanimate form: a tree, a rock or a cloud of dust even, and eyed the Istar cautiously.

Perhaps the intensity of this scrutiny is what dampened his normally elevated senses, or more likely it was the higher degree of stealth endemic to the Wood Elves. In any case, Erestor discovered with amazement that he and the wizard were surrounded by a rather large contingent of Sylvan warriors, all of them in the trees save two, each with bow armed and aimed in careful accuracy upon the Imladrian. Erestor instinctively laid his hand upon his side, searching for the hilt of his sword, only to recall that he had taken to carrying it strapped down on his pack at Legolas' urging. He cursed silently as he saw the leader of these woodland fighters, one of the two upon the path, smirking at this fruitless groping.

"Greetings, Aiwendil of the Gladden Glen! What brings you forth into our lands, and with such malodorous chattel?" the elf said good-naturedly.

At this Erestor looked as though he might protest, but the captain's brooding lieutenant narrowed a frightful glare upon him, pulling even greater tension upon his ready bow, and the seneschal closed his mouth.

"Ah, Talagan, is it not?" answered the wizard, and the Elven captain inclined his head in assent. "I have come seeking news of the Tawarwaith, for he fled my care at the encouragement of this miscreant invader upon the Greenwood."

"That is enlightening," said Talagan. "For we have just completed a sweep of the region, cleansing the lands of the foulness of Dol Guldur. We came upon Tirno with two companions, Mithrandir and a human, engaged in a most pressing battle with the combined forces of Orcs from the Central and Misty Mountains. The trio survived and are presently in recovery at the stronghold."

"Thank Eru! You have set my heart at ease, Talagan. Take us hence, I would see Legolas with my own eyes and speak with Gandalf," said Aiwendil with evident relief, and next to him Erestor also audibly exhaled a prayer of thanks to the Valar.

"I will guide you willingly, wizard, but as for your companion I have yet to decide. Who is this?"

The Sinda warrior knew exactly who stood before him, but could not resist the opportunity to belittle the noble Elf Lord. Talagan took a leisurely stroll completely around the tense Noldo, looking him up and down, marking his dishevelled appearance and filth covered hair and garments with derisive glee. He waved his hand in front of his nose as if clearing away an abominable stench.

Erestor realised he must look a deplorable sight, but straightened his spine and shoulders as he boldly met the warrior's mocking gaze.

"I am not so unkempt, Talagan of Neldoreth, that you do not recognise me. It is I, Erestor of Imladris, who stands before you."

"Oh yes, Erestor, I remember you! By your insolent tone I surmise it is your memory that has lapsed! Have you driven from your guilty heart the hour that you and your kin brought upon mine a slaughter of irrevocable torment? My wife and son lie now in the Dead Marshes; never could I even bring their bodies home to rest!" At the close of this speech a discontented and outraged murmuring arose from the branches above as several more warriors voiced similar complaints relating to the Last Alliance.

The noiseless flight of a single arrow silenced everyone as it soared from the trees and plowed into the hard packed trail at the Noldo's feet.

"Enough!" called out Radagast and uplifted his arms, staff in hand. A strong surge of radiant heat poured up into the heights and the warriors shifted their positions as the fiery might of the Ainu rolled past. "I will see justice done, but not here on the pathways. Take us to Thranduil!"

Talagan nodded his head in agreement. He recalled glimpsing Erestor's name among the toll of degrading phrases etched upon the message sent from Elrond, and his King's words replayed through his mind. The Noldo Lord had turned the Wood Elf King against his own flesh and blood, then intensified that injury by visiting his destructive seductions upon the disinherited prince, and only after this debasement did Elrond reveal his ruse to Thranduil. These were offences as despicable as kinslaying, in Talagan's opinion, and Erestor had participated fully.

Yet the later actions of intrusion upon both the Greenwood and its champion could never have proceeded without the Judgement as a backdrop.

The veteran of the Last Alliance had often relived the aftermath of the Battle of Erebor and his dreams were populated with scenes of his vicious recriminations and harsh battlefield condemnation of Legolas. In the long days that followed, the worthy captain grieved for this as much as he regretted the death of Andamaitë, a distant cousin through his mother's lineage. It had taken only the passing of the initial wrath born of the heavy losses his company had endured to realise he had been rash in his judgement of the archer.

_Nay, not merely rash and heedless. I allowed myself to seek a focus for my fury and divert my mind from the truth. I was the one at fault that day._

Too late Talagan had attempted to amend his report to Thranduil, taking the responsibility for devising that diversionary tactic with so little supportive forces to assist. Nor should he have left but one sniper to cover the Goblin. And how had he failed to note the emergence of foes along the ridge? As the company's captain, he had argued, he was ultimately the one who must bear the consequences for the ill-made plans and their horrendous outcome. In vain did he try to convince the King to withhold the Judgement. His subsequent guilty shame had caused Talagan to all but abandon the city for the harrowing duty of the Southern Patrol. Over the years, it had been his troop that had surreptitiously defended Legolas in his work to create the Orc traps.

Looking upon the Noldo interloper who had sought to find advantage from the disgrace of another, Talagan allowed his disgust to show forth. As for the other implications of the letter, the Sinda was not prepared to address such issues, but found it difficult to attribute any verity to the accusations. Legolas had never displayed lascivious behaviour and indeed the Sinda warrior could not recall the archer ever pairing up with anyone, excepting that one indiscreet messenger. Indeed, it was Talagan who, having been regaled with the lover's explicit stories, had encouraged the foul-mouthed elf to leave before he found himself reassigned to a more active role within the guards.

Recalled to the present by the Imladrian advisor's fidgeting, Talagan glanced up into the trees and quickly whistled a series of commands to his troop. Silently they melted into the cover and vanished, save for two who dropped down beside Erestor and seized him by the arms.

"Bind him!" ordered the Sinda, and his subordinates complied, securing Erestor's hands behind him and his ankles together.

"This is not necessary! Peacefully I will go with you! Aiwendil, explain to them that I asked you to bring me here," the seneschal pleaded as he struggled against the ropes, but Radagast ignored him, walking away with Talagan a short distance. Erestor watched in consternation as the two quietly conversed, glancing occasionally in his direction, and then saw the captain's lieutenant leading horses onto the path.

The warriors guarding him hefted Erestor up and slung him ungently over one of the animal's whithers. Talagan himself mounted this horse and laughed smugly as the Noldo craned his head backward in an effort to look the Sinda in the eye.

"I repeat, this is unnecessary, Talagan! I will make no effort to escape!" the seneschal tried once more to convince the warrior of his earnestness and thus gain the dignity of riding into the Stronghold of the Woodland King, rather than be toted in like so much baggage, or a hunting trophy.

The captain, however, had a rather faraway expression on his features, recalling another time he had carried a burden in such a manner into the Stronghold, and regretting the cause of that grisly scene. He felt no sympathy for the Noldo whatsoever, and merely gave the signal for departure. With Aiwendil mounted behind his lieutenant, Talagan and his comrades made for the mountain fortress.

These events unfolded beneath the rustling of summer-dried leaves on the swaying branches of the oaks and beeches, the Greenwood now nearly silent as the rowdy ruckus of nesting birds and fledging chicks was done and the scurrying scavenging of four-footers to harvest nuts and fruits for winter's dearth accomplished. While Erestor attempted to dissuade his captors from treating him so shamefully, the current recipients of the King's hospitality were engaged in an intricately evasive side-stepping ballet. The sextet divided, differentiating by maturity into dually equal groups, and while the more youthful trio worked in accord the other triad desegregated again by race, and the individuals sought to evade the company of the rest without alerting anyone to this intent.

It was at best an ungraceful attempt, and none of the three adults involved managed to master the steps.

Upon leaving the Tawarwaith's quarters, Fearfaron at once sought to shake off the other two. He was certain he could not keep an eye on the young ones effectively if his comrades remained at his side, for only the carpenter, being elf-kind, would be quiet enough to follow without drawing notice. He claimed to have remembered an appointment with the tailor to retrieve the remainder of the new garments he had ordered for Legolas. While this was actually true, Fearfaron had no plans to leave the Stronghold or his adopted son. The clothing could wait another day, for then Legolas would be safely ensconced in Annaldír's old room in his comfortable talan on the edge of the city.

Mithrandir stared at the elf that had just uttered this bald, misspoken half-truth and lifted both his bristling brows in open disbelief. Usually an effective method, his stern silence did not goad the humble craftsman into admitting his true agenda. Mithrandir frowned. The wizard decided the best way to stop Legolas' plans was to be with him, and he also needed to learn more about how the recent infusion of energy might be affecting the wild elf. This could not be done with the Man and the carpenter present. Gandalf thus claimed that he could not truly get around in the city very comfortably as his wounded leg still pained him and he planned to retire to his rooms next door and rest for a time. He had to catch up on a great deal of correspondence and then wash and trim his beard.

The scepticism with which the mortal greeted these statements was just short of open derision as he gawked from the elf to the Maia in turn, fists firmly planted on his hips as he surveyed them with an incredulous scowl. Mithrandir had already trudged down to the kitchens and back at least twice, and the carpenter was unlikely to care about when he picked up the laundry. And yet, Aragorn did not challenge them openly, for he too had plans that he knew would be aborted if the wizard and the elf understood them. Instead Aragorn gruffly reported that he had some personal matters to attend to, though he was acquainted with no one in the Woodland Realm, other than these two and the young elves inside, such that he could not possibly have anything of a personal nature that would require his attention!

The three stood awkwardly outside the heavy oaken door to the wild elf's rooms in the torch lit hallway poised to move out to their respective destinations, each awaiting the others' retreat first.

Two minutes passed, the seconds flowing with all the speed of glacial ice, and none of them budged.

Gandalf cleared his throat.

Fearfaron sighed heavily.

Aragorn cursed through gritted teeth. "Valar! This is nonsense!"

"True," agreed Gandalf. "Each of us wants to remain with the young ones. We know Legolas is once more following some dangerous course, else he would not have bid us all three to go."

"Aye, but what must be done? We cannot simply follow him everywhere; he will think we treat him like a child!" added Fearfaron. "It was my intent to shadow his movements in secrecy, yet this I cannot achieve with the two of you along!"

"I doubt he would be unaware of your attempt even if we left you to it," Aragorn disagreed. "Legolas has keener senses than any I have ever met!"

"Aye, and an agenda we cannot guess, or rather one I fear to learn!" the carpenter hissed.

"We must confront him then!" growled the wizard and grasping the door's handle shoved it open. The three stared into the chambers in surprise and then hastened within. Quickly and silently they searched through every corner in vain. The Tawarwaith's suite was empty.

In this Erestor had guessed correctly all those years ago: Legolas indeed knew the cavernous stronghold better than its delvers, and every means of vacating it. Each room in the fortress had an alternate outlet that lead to a clever series of channels designed to guide the occupants safely from the fortress. He had located the concealed hatchway marking his room's bolthole the previous day while Mithrandir was dozing before the fire.

The hidden escape route was less a series of tunnels than a network of narrow chutes, wide enough for single file movement on hands and knees. Like the dendritic tributaries of a mighty river system, the cut passages wound sinuously through the stone from level to level, connecting the various chambers to the broader artery of the servants' steps. But the tunnels also provided an ultimate exit from the stronghold apart from that utilitarian means of navigation throughout the structure.

Upon reaching the level of the forest floor, the cramped crawlway proceeded straight and true to an insignificant looking cave that opened upon a small sheltered cove on the banks of the Forest River, just upstream from the docks. Within that unremarkable den were supplies and provisions, weapons and maps, and sturdy kayaks were stacked there should they be needed in the event of the fortress falling to enemy occupation.

Not toward this egress did Legolas lead his friend and sibling, however, but instead branched away from the main tunnel into an even narrower rock-walled tube. So steep was the incline in this route that the walls and floor of the stony passage were worked to provide smoothed hand and foot holds within easy reach.

The trio proceeded in silence with Legolas leading, bearing a small silver lantern to grant them light in the close coldness of the entombing rock. Lindalcon followed, carrying Gwilith, who stared wide eyed with thumb in mouth and the picture book clutched to her heart, at the dancing shadows and adamantine flashes of lamplight on muscovite. Before long the two older elves were panting from the exertion, each relegated to but one arm to assist in the ascent, but their journey was short and presently Legolas set his lamp upon the floor of a small room above his head and hauled himself up. Reaching back for Gwilith, he took her from her brother's arms and set her down next to him, then assisted Lindalcon in joining them. They took a moment to steady their breathing.

"Well done!" said Legolas at last. His side was throbbing and his leg felt practically aflame, but he was never one to let such pains hinder him, especially since he was certain the wounds were sufficiently healed over to prevent them tearing open again.

"Now, there is the connection to the back stairs," he said, pointing to another opening in the stone surface. "Go take Gwilith to your Naneth and follow the rest of the day's schedule as you normally would. I will make my way by this more covert means to the nursery rooms and meet you there at the evening meal. Do not forget about the diversion, Lindalcon."

"Alright, but I still fear for the results this will bring," said the younger elf as he collected up his sister and half-crouched, half-crawled toward the gaping black hole.

"Limlas, come with Gwilith!" the frightened child's frantic cry rebounded loudly from the stony walls, dancing heavily among the shifting shadows cast by Legolas' lamp. She did not like the way her brother's heart was pounding so ferociously within his chest as he moved into the tangible darkness of the tunnel.

"Ai! How could I be so thoughtless!" replied Legolas. "It will be well, Gwilith. Here, take the lantern, Lindalcon. The little one cannot bear such absence of light."

But Gwilith was gripped with an inexpressible terror, for within her childish mind had sprung the thought that once she could no longer see her new big brother; Legolas would cease to exist. She tried to grab for him when he held out the lamp, but Lindalcon held her tight and she could not reach.

"Legolas!" she whimpered in despair and both her brothers heard her distress.

"Hush, Gwilith, there is nothing to fear. We are going to show Taurant the book, remember?" the Tawarwaith coaxed her with a gentle smile. "I am going this way now, but we will meet later."

"Aye, the quicker we go the faster we will all be out of this nasty place," added Lindalcon with feeling.

Gwilith looked from one to the other and returned her thumb to her mouth, not completely convinced but unable to explain herself better. She gave a small sigh and kept her tearful eyes upon the archer.

Lindalcon lifted the lantern, illuminating a silent expression of gratitude for his friend, for he was not eager to face such total blindness himself, but allowed Legolas to see his worry also. How would he fare in such conditions, in a duct even more confining?

"All will be well," the wild warrior reassured, placing a comforting hand on the younger elf's shoulder with a slight squeeze and a pat, a small grin upon his features as the lamplight drew sparkles from his gleaming eyes. He had been in worse places.

They parted then, and Legolas waited until the faint gleam of the silver lantern faded into obscurity and the darkness took on a depth and consistency he had experienced only once before. He inhaled deeply and groped forward, returning to the shaft that was barely wide enough for even his slender form to fit within without touching upon the sides.

The slope was gentle at first, yet he knew there were at least three more levels to climb before he would be near the Royal Apartment. He had a clear vision of where he was heading; having spent some time figuring out exactly what rooms the suite comprised, and he kept this interior diagram foremost in his mind, seeing it with a keener sharpness now that the stimulus of sight was revoked.

With little to do but sit and think, he had used the days of confinement to recall the general layout of these interlocking conduits. Though the arrangements of the quarters had been slightly altered, the rooms themselves were in no different places than they had ever been. One simply could not fill a hole in stone, healing over the rock as though no delving had occurred. So all he needed to understand was what the new chamber assignments were for the household. Through innocuously deceptive questioning of both Gladhadithen and Lindalcon, Legolas had managed to map out the location of the nursery and a probable course for reaching his destination.

He had not asked directly, for he wished them to be able to truthfully insist that neither had divulged this information, should any questioning follow and reprisals ensue.

The narrow tube began its incline, starting a steep ascent through the persistent darkness and Legolas was once more forced to use the grips cut into the stone, pulling himself hand over hand as though the exiguous gutter was a twisting ladder of monumental proportions.

In the blindness of the unending pitch and impenetrable shadow, the archer's hearing seemed acutely intense, and he could discern the rasping of grit slipping beneath his fingers and toes as he made contact with each groove. The ricochet of minute fragments of rock, dislodged by his progress, was inordinately exaggerated, seeming as loud as egg-sized stones bouncing down the passageway below him to strike the landing with sharp finality. Legolas knew the distance was not great and he would not be injured seriously by a fall, yet the noise was still unsettling.

He heard his own breathing, steady yet laboured, weighted more than it should be by the burden of over-exertion and stress upon a body not fully healed. The sound made an eerie echo all around him, so that soon it seemed as though he had at least two more elves in his wake and followed behind another. Thinking this reminded him of the spirits in the treasure chambers, and his heart began a more insistent staccato.

Now the increased tempo of this vital organ fairly thundered in his ears, and a minuscule bud of panic sought to bloom within his soul as the racing pulse thumped ever louder, mixing with the harshly resounding heaving of his lungs. Legolas halted in the compressed space and sought to calm his mood. He could not allow the stygian air to claim his reason and disorient him, for he could not afford to lose his way. No matter his resolve and his bold reassurances to Lindalcon, the wild warrior knew he could not last long within the tenebrous confinement, yet refused to dissolve his plans.

In vain he tried to bring back to his inner sight the mental map of the interwoven tunnels. Instead, images of darkly shifting shapes, formless yet coherent in their malignancy, loomed through his perception. It was like the crawling terror spawned by the Wraiths, or the sinking in his gut just as he sensed a spider about to strike. Legolas shook his head, hoping to dislodge the feeling of engulfing evil, for logic told him no one was in this conduit with him.

He attempted to link with Tawar, seeking a stabilising centre point for his confused impressions, but there was not even a desiccated root with which to connect and hundreds of feet of impenetrable rock blocked the joining. An empty space yawned in his soul in the absence of this communion, unbearable and terrifying. It seemed he might never know the Greenwood's consciousness again, and his sprouting anxiety grew rapidly into robust foreboding.

_I have entered into my own tomb! I will perish like a tree uprooted, for so do I also need the sustaining strength of Tawar's union! The mountain seeks to consume me; my feä will join the bereft souls in the chamber of the three doors!_

The Tawarwaith forced his brain to work, compelling his reason to exert itself and refute such nonsense, chiding his foolishness even as he quailed against the tide of abandonment and isolation flooding through his being. The tube had a beginning and an ending, a destination that served his needs. He was not a prisoner here; he was escaping from one. Merely an arm's span or two in any direction, though it be through solid stone, were rooms and hallways, caverns and alcoves wherein his friends and the household at large were going about their day.

_Lindalcon is putting himself at grave risk to aid me in this; I cannot fail here!_

He found he was trembling and sternly took himself in hand, demanding his legs to push him up, commanding his fingers to grope for the next slot in the rough-hewn rock. His breath now was a wind of determined exhalations as he sought to vent the over abundance of nervous adrenaline pumping through his veins. He counted each groove his fingers grasped and found this provided a distraction for his mind and slowed the racing pace of his vivid imagination. Legolas closed his eyes and sought again to recreate the inner vision of the map of the tunnels, visualising his current position and estimating the distance remaining to the next level. Even as he did so, his hand abruptly flailed into open space as he searched for the next handle, and with a great sigh of relief he pushed up onto the small, level landing.

For a moment he rested, drawing in long slow breaths as his heart returned to a less tumultuous rhythm and his terror subsided. Only two more levels remained and he would be done with this repulsive journey. Now he must take care and choose the correct passageway, or he would find himself upon the servants' steps and be forced to retrace his movements into the oppressive gloom. Legolas was not certain, should he break into light in the wrong place, if he would have the stomach to return to the eternal eclipse.

Reaching forth into the void as he crawled forward on the tiny platform, Legolas' hand brushed a smooth spot on the rock wall, and this brought him to a halt. None of the surfaces in such a place should be polished, for no one travelled such paths in leisure or by choice, and never would the finish be observed. He let his fingers delicately inspect the area, sending the sensations to his mind so that he formed an image there even in the lightless murk.

There were runes carved into the stone, strange in form and unfamiliar to his comprehension. Over and over he traced the incised marks, unable to decipher the meaning there, and in a flash he realised these were dwarven in nature.

At once he found the discovery reassuring, for somehow he had forgotten that living beings had made these burrowings. He had begun to feel that he was truly in the bowels of a huge monster, slowly being digested, reduced to merely a source of nourishment for some foul and evil presence.

Dwarves he knew not, and though he had seen them at the Battle of Erebor and upon the Forest Road journeying to destinations he had never bothered to be curious about, he had not once spoken with any. He was aware of the incarceration of a small contingent of the children of Aulë that had strayed from this common course through the forest several years before, but Legolas had not been in the Sylvan's city then, away on patrol to the north of the stronghold.

Now he wondered about this stalwart race of beings, composed by the love of Yavanna's husband of the stuff of the world, given the spark of the living Music as an afterthought of Iluvatar.

_Is this mark the name of one of the workers Thranduil hired? Perhaps it is a sign, directions for navigation._

Somehow contemplating the author of the untranslatable writing steadied the woodland archer. The conduits were not designed to confuse and plague the inhabitants, keeping them hopelessly lost until hysteria and irrational terrors subdued them. These shafts and ducts were safeguards against annihilation at the Enemy's hands.

The dwarves had taken care to make the tunnels safe and true, and he no longer felt that the mountain in which they were cut was malevolent. Instead he sensed the remnant presence of the stout and sturdy miners at their work, completely at home beneath the overwhelming immensity of the granitic core of the fortress, and the ease with which the dwarves negotiated the labyrinth bolstered Legolas' faith in his own ability to do likewise.

With renewed determination to reach his goal and a resurgence of his strong desire to behold the newborn prince, the Tawarwaith resumed his taxing climb with unflagging diligence.

Tbc


	48. Chapter 48

_italics indicate thoughts_ | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

**Legolas thêl amarth o noss tîn **[Legolas Resolves his Family's Fate]

Kneeling on the rough stone floor just behind the hide covered entrance to the Prince's nursery, Legolas breathed long and slow, measuring his respiration to calm and quiet his exhaustion and his nerves. He rested his cheek against the cool solidity of the abrasive texture, marvelling that the rock's temperature felt soothing against his skin. Legolas was more overtaxed than he had realised, so absorbed had his attention been upon the gruelling task of moving toward this one spot. Awkwardly he stretched his injured leg out in the cramped space, exasperated that he could not quite extend the limb fully and relieve the insistent throbbing in his thigh. The exacting demands of the climb through the tunnels had strained the knitting tissues and his body was not shy of complaining about it. He sat with his sore limb bent to the side and leaned his shoulder upon the stone for support.

The darkness had retreated, dispelled by the faint illumination leaking from the chamber beyond, and after the total blindness of the narrow conduits the dim shimmering was as uplifting to the Tawarwaith as the first streaks of Anor's rays breaking over the great expanse of the Greenwood's canopy viewed from the heights of the Sentinel at dawn. Legolas inhaled a long lungful and puffed it back out, not quite silently, from his open mouth to dampen the dispassionate walls with a fine film of his body's moisture. Tentatively he reached out and trailed his fingertips down the thick leather curtain blocking both his view of the room and discovery by the occupants within. At the pressure, the covering flattened against a densely smooth object.

_A cabinet of some sort, even as the wardrobe in my quarters guards the entrance to the escape chutes there_, he reasoned. The furniture would be easy to shift, but doing so was unnecessary as the cupboard undoubtedly was constructed with a false back that neatly slid open to allow access to the hidden exit. Legolas wondered who had been the carpenter, for Fearfaron obviously knew nothing of these clever contrivances, else he would have taken measures to secure the one in Legolas' suite.

_His father, perhaps_, the archer thought, and was aggrieved by the sudden realisation that he did not know who this elf was or where he might be, or even if he yet lived or waited amid the many feär in Mandos' abode. _My adopted father deserves more attention from me than this omission admits! I will learn of Fearfaron's life before I return to the Tasks._

Beyond the bolthole, Thranduil and Meril were speaking together. He could hear them, and for some reason this was a circumstance Legolas had not envisioned when constructing his plans for meeting baby Taurant. The new parents were engrossed in their talk, obviously content in the presence of each other and their newborn, exchanging thoughts and emotions that would only be revealed by two who were completely assured of the bond of love and loyalty they shared.

Legolas listened to a conversation unlike any he had ever heard in all his lifetime. He curled up on the small landing, knees folded and an ear pressed against the tough deerskin boundary, shamelessly straining to catch every syllable, every nuance of tone and timbre between the royal couple.

"Beloved, the joy you have brought to my heart nearly erases the scars wrought there by the loss of my parents and my brothers," whispered the King.

"As your love has vanquished my own grief, dearest one!" the woodland inu [female elf] replied gently. "My sorrow knows a purpose in this creation of life between us. Taurant is the nearest thing to perfection I have ever seen, is he not?"

"Such a question! Of course he is perfect. He represents the melding of all that is best in both our peoples. His life will be marked by greatness; I could sense it the moment he was conceived."

"You may be slightly biased in that assessment, yet I find myself in agreement."

"We must raise him with the understanding of both halves of his heritage, Beloved. I will undertake to teach him the ways of the Sindar, and you may initiate his instruction in Sylvan custom. Together we will raise this child in wisdom and strength."

"Let us consider the education of both our little ones, Thranduil, for Gwilith grows more precocious by the hour."

This observation coaxed a light and sparkling laugh from the Sinda Lord, and in the humble alcove Legolas was shocked, for he had never heard the King generate such a sound.

"Aye, you are right there. She has a fine mind, not unlike her Naneth. Did you hear what she has decided to call our stablemaster?"

"Thîrheidad? [Face of Purpose]"

"The same. From the first day I took her riding with me, he has been Thûlhaer. [Bitter Breath] Even the warriors are naming him thus now!"

Both elves burst into merry peals of bright giggling at this unfortunately appropriate misnomer and could not contain their mirth for several minutes. Mixed within their joyous outburst Legolas could just catch the gurgling glee of an infant's laughter and his heart contracted in sorrow despite the jovial mood within. It occurred to him to wonder if he had ever uttered such a delighted chortling when a babe, for surely he had never joined in such harmonious interaction with his parents. He tried hard to recall impressions from his earliest days, and was thoroughly flabbergasted when his mind completely refused to bring the memories forth.

_It cannot have been so bleak! Naneth loved me then, even if there was no affection between her and Thranduil. It is just too long ago for the images to have remained._, he reasoned, but this did not ease the uncomfortable tightness encircling his chest.

"Look how clever he is! Taurant understands our joke," cooed Meril, and this earned a boisterous guffaw from her husband.

"He shares our merriment, but cannot begin to know of what we speak, Beloved."

"That is what you used to say of Gwilwileth."

"Aye, but even she did not comprehend the complexity involved in word-play when but days old! We are safe to say what we please in Taurant's presence for some months yet, I would deem."

"Perhaps. What then of Gwilith? I will have less time than before, yet I do not wish for her training to be handed off to an aid, though that elf be chosen by myself with the utmost care. She is not yet even three years and needs our strength, too."

"True, yet I am here also. We need not trust to any other for a time. Let me take on the little one; she will lighten my mood when I must be away from you."

"Thranduil, what will you do with an active child in your council rooms? I will not have our daughter subjected to gruesome reports of the activities of Orcs or for her first understanding of our home to be of the Shadow threatening us."

"Calm yourself, Meril," the Sinda soothed his wife. "I would not have it thus either. Nay, there is still Lindalcon to depend upon as well. When I must meet with my warriors or discuss the encroaching Darkness, her brother will safeguard her at play in the gardens. I need but arrange my schedule to accommodate time with her."

"Indeed, that you must, for I will not be shorted on your company either. Taurant and I will still need the bulk of your strength in the days ahead. Let the Council do their duty and assume the tedium of administration for a time. You may be called upon for the important meetings and left in peace otherwise! So shall I tell Iarwain!"

"Then so shall it be done, O Queen of the Woodland Realm." Thranduil was smiling around his words and the two shared a silent moment that was yet not totally quiet as the unmistakable sounds of lips caressing and hearts sighing in the slow and languorous enjoyment of the sensation filled the chamber's airspace and filtered into the tiny portal's vestibule.

Legolas clenched his hands and drew his head away from the covering instantly. The euphony of their shared elation ignited a spark of angry denial in the Tawarwaith's heart. This was not a proclamation Ningloriel's replacement deserved. Thranduil's mate she was in truth, yet the fallen archer could not bear to think of any but his mother as Greenwood's Queen. Nor was the romantic friction the couple were engaged in an activity he wished to witness, even removed from the sight of it as he was.

_Why could it not have been Ningloriel that Thranduil adored and my parents there beyond the blocked door, delighting in each other?_

Loyal to a fault, Legolas refused to admit that his mother deserved part of the blame for the antagonism between his mismatched progenitors, though his heart knew it well enough. And the concept of Thranduil as a loving father helping with the raising of his offspring galled the former prince. To this day, the King had not once touched Legolas nor spoken his name.

Too easily now did these memories arise unbidden into his thoughts. The shifting scenes flashed through Legolas' mind chaotically, mere minutes marking years rolling on like a river's perpetual flux, and his mental mirror revealed him to be a babe or a toddler one moment and a youth the next. Legolas regretted his desire to relive his infancy and early childhood; yet once begun the images flooded his mind and overtook his body, instigating a surging swell of somatic responses.

The woodland warrior shook his head to halt the unwholesome replay of his growing years. These were not the thoughts he wished to entertain on the threshold of meeting his infant brother and he refused to succumb again to the lure of lingering preoccupation with circumstances which had never been under his control in the first place and clearly could not be changed now. With a jolt Legolas realised his heart was racing and his ribs were aching from the nervously shallow breathing his distress generated. It was the same old sensation of dread and self-loathing he experienced whenever he had to be near Thranduil.

_No wonder there is tension here; it springs from me!_ He was surprised that the source of discomfort was the ingrained conditioning begun in his infancy, for he had automatically attributed his worries to current events. _I am a child no more, nor have I been for many long years. Worse than Thranduil have I endured!_ he admonished himself soundly and drew a steadying inhalation in the close confinement, holding the air a few seconds before releasing it. _I must not bring discord to the little one, or it would mar forever Taurant's thoughts of me._ The struggle to master his childhood reflexes became easier as his notice was drawn again to the occupants of the nursery room.

The infant prince was fussing over the loss of attention suffered due to his parents' incipient spooning and cuddling. The Wood Elf King snickered and then the sputtering, wet sibilance of lips against a ticklish tummy preceded a bright bubble of bliss bursting through the air as the babe laughed as loud as his lungs' capacity permitted. Meril joined in the gentle horseplay and soon the air resounded with their admixed laughter, punctuated by the noisy razzing.

In spite of himself, Legolas chuckled too as he vividly imagined this scene and clearly acknowledged his brother's delight. As soon as the softly melodic giggle left his throat he clamped a hand over his mouth and stared wide-eyed at the dimly outlined entrance. His heart rate surged anew as he waited for the inevitable thudding of the King's boots across the floor.

Taurant became silent all at once and in response his parents did likewise. For nearly a full minute the chambers were quiescent, and then the infant let out an irritated wail nearly as voluble as his previous peels of joy and gregarious whoops. The abrupt change in mood spurred the adults to action, yet no one approached the hidden hatchway, for though the inadvertent laugh had seemed loud and resounding to Legolas, the happy couple had been too engrossed in their play to notice the vocal accompaniment to their private hilarity.

"Ah! He is hungry and wet, I wager," spoke Thranduil sagely.

"Very well, since you cannot feed him, you may make him dry," retorted his mate with a light laugh.

The child continued to whimper and cry as movement within the room was documented by the sounds of the creaking bed when the father rose to care for his son. Thranduil murmured soothingly while his concentration was tendered to the task at hand. That Meril had arisen also was evident from the new location from which her words emanated, joined by the almost soundless pressure of wooden rockers upon a plush fur rug.

"Here let me take him now," her voice was gentle and sweetly maternal, the way Legolas remembered her speaking to Lindalcon when he had first met Valtamar's family so many years ago. Soon the new child ceased his crying and as she nursed the babe Meril filled the comfortable peace with a lullaby all Wood Elves must have heard in their infancy.

And though this was not his Naneth, nor was he held in the warm security of loving arms, still the song comforted Legolas and he relaxed again within the stony cocoon, relieved to remain undiscovered. The Tawarwaith needed the respite after the strain dealt his body by the lengthy toil to climb the tunnels. The unnerving realisation of the hollow drear of his earliest days in comparison to Taurant's perinatal experiences was draining in its own way. He allowed his mind to be lulled into reverie, content to pretend the lullaby was for him, too.

Legolas did not care to mark the passing of time as he rested in harmony with his little brother. It might have been hours or days; such minutia was irrelevant. This was the first experience of true reverie he had enjoyed since before encountering the Noldor and he intended to claim the soothing state of being as long as possible. He could do nothing until Lindalcon arrived and the couple left for their repast on the balcony anyway. He let his wandering feä roam the mountain's bowels, hoping to merge with the timeless and unconditional acceptance of Tawar. As before, no means of breaching the inviolability of the rock presented itself, and yet Legolas did find one source of comfort open to his errant spirit.

Momentarily stunned by the unexplained sense of the wild elf's presence near him, it took Mithrandir a few seconds to comprehend what was going on. Once he determined that he was encountering the archer in reverie, the wizard encouraged fusion between them, and welcomed Legolas' dream-walking soul into his own. Gandalf was intrigued to say the least.

He tried to send his thoughts to the archer, but met a firm barrier against communication. He was unable to ask anything of Legolas, for the warrior was not open to him in that way, nor could Mithrandir determine where, in physical terms, his friend was resting for the same reason. The wizard found that he was not required for advice or counsel, the Tawarwaith merely needed a protected place to confront his reality.

Gandalf found himself a witness to this elven state of mind in a manner few even among elf-kind were privy to observe. Every thought, feeling, and memory that passed through Legolas' brain for the next hours was shared entirely with Mithrandir. The Maia was quite touched by the trust the wild elf placed in him to permit this.

Engrossed in their search for the Tawarwaith, the carpenter and the mortal noticed the abrupt change in the wizard and waited for an explanation of his dazed and abruptly silent demeanour. Yet Gandalf found he did not want to explain to his comrades what was going on, feeling too much would be read into such a communion in light of the arguments against his previous aid to the archer. So he merely explained away his amazement by saying Legolas had contacted him and the warrior was safe. Fearfaron was far from satisfied with this response but all his questions were pointless, for truly Gandalf knew nothing of Legolas' plans.

Safely immersed within the encompassing and compassionate spirit of the Istar, Legolas could evaluate his situation more calmly. While pleased and grateful for the wizard's welcome, he still sealed himself away from Mithrandir's highly active intellect, for the distinction between the Maia's spirit and that of the forest was striking.

Endlessly expansive, joining to Tawar granted the incongruous perspective of enveloping distance, allowing Legolas to see his existence as he might view the Greenwood from the canopy. Confluence with the Istar's mind, however, would be more like cataloguing the number and shape of individual leaves on every tree, assigning a reason for each specific variation discovered. The Maia's consciousness was aflame with dazzlingly complex, often distractingly contradictory systems of thought and fraught with the futile energetics of managing details.

The primary enlightenment Legolas achieved during this union was the separation between his soul and Taurant's. Perhaps this might seem an obvious distinction, yet the former prince had fallen into the trap of likening the little elf prince to himself, and then became disturbed by the vast inconsistencies between their situations. The time of introspection also granted him the opportunity to assess the interconnection between his past and the current reality he inhabited.

What had been before had nothing to do with what was occurring now, and yet none of this could have come to fruition had the events he so regretted never taken place.

Ningloriel would still be here, spending her days between Elrond and Maltahondo, Greenwood and Lorien, a bright but seldom seen presence in her son's world. Legolas missed her, but all of his lifetime he had yearned for her loving care even without understanding what it was his heart required. She was gone from him, yet had she ever been with him fully? Nay, and if she had remained, so would he continue to endure that longing.

Elrond and Malthen. The father he wished to love bedded him instead and the lover who bedded him turned into the father he was seeking to love. Here the wild elf's courage failed him and he could not look upon these injuries and find peace in their rendering. Too much pain was concentrated within these wounds to accept them as necessary. Legolas' panicking subconscious shied away from these two embodiments of his tormented self-hatred, turning his contemplative eye toward the centre point of his new existence: the carpenter.

Fearfaron would be only a friendly acquaintance, quietly going on with his simple life in the talan shared with Annaldír, had nothing changed. As strange as it seemed, Legolas was actually closer to Annaldír's soul now than he had ever been when the warrior was living. And the vast chasm in his life that Fearfaron now bridged was an incomprehensible void to the archer, and he could not bear to realise the depth of the emptiness he had accepted as his lot prior to the sorrow that had drawn them together. The Tawarwaith would remain fatherless but for the sacrifice of Annaldír in battle that day and the humble carpenter's outrage against the injustice of the chastisement twelve years later.

Lindalcon would be training for the guards, eager to follow his father's example, had Valtamar survived. Legolas counted the young elf more than a friend, through Gwilith and Taurant the two were now really brothers, and the archer felt pride to be accepted as such by the unwilling usurper. Even when everyone else refused to honour his father's bravery, Lindalcon did not become bitter nor rescind his avowment of Legolas' innocence. The youth's personal sacrifice of a warrior's calling, traded for the privilege to associate with the outcast archer, was in itself enough to bind Legolas' loyalty to him. But as much as Legolas valued this friendship, he would willingly relinquish it to secure an end to the suffering and grief Lindalcon experienced.

As for Meril, she would not be the King's consort, nor would Gwilith and Taurant exist had he succeeded in his duty and made his shot at the Goblin King.

Could he balance the feär his actions affected, good result against ill-fate, the Release of one and the births of two against three immortal deaths?

_Nay, for the measure is still weighted in Darkness' favour, and I have yet to confound its intent. Those three warriors were not the only lives ruined._

In his heart the Tawarwaith could not reconcile the deficits his actions prompted. Not even for the return of the lives of Valtamar and Andamaitë would he bid the Valar to rescind the creation of his brother and sister. Yet the joy of these new souls was not sufficient to set free the spirits of his comrades, who even now awaited his actions to Release them, together upon the shores of the Great Sea beneath the brutal sun.

And what of Thranduil, the father he did not choose who chose not to love his first-born, who shunned and denied his own blood out of petty jealousy and personal pride? That coldly hostile Elda was not the same elf as the one within the nursery now, three meters distant from Legolas. This was Thranduil as he should have been, before sorrow and grief, bitterness and anger tainted his feä and blinded his insight.

The Sinda noble was transformed through his love for Meril and his overflowing delight in the generation of his second and third children. That the King held dearer than his own life Legolas' brother and sister the archer doubted not. He could hear it in his voice, compellingly borne within even the humblest of syllables referencing his son and daughter.

_How can Gwilith and Taurant not love him in turn? It is right that they should do so. How will they love him still should the truth of Erebor come to light?_

Legolas beseeched an answer from Tawar, for the quandary was tearing his heart, but Tawar could not hear him. When the Council convened, the outcome would strike a wound upon the King from which he would be unlikely to recover. It was inevitable that what impacted the parent would not spare the children. No wish had the outcast to visit the despair of his own experiences upon these little ones. His love for them was equal to their parents' devotion.

Indeed, he found he could not even uphold a grudge against the cruelly distant husband of Ningloriel when that elf was no longer present. Neither could he condemn the inu who usurped his Naneth's place among their people, for this was the same elf that nurtured Gwilith and Taurant. With the power to destroy the unity within their fragile family, could Legolas rob his siblings of that which he had been denied?

_Nay, that shall not be so. Even though it be deemed their fate by Manwë and Iluvatar, yet will I strive against it!_

The decision made, Legolas returned from reverie content with the calm resolve that filled his mind. His purpose was clearer now than he had ever known it, and he found his wretched rancour towards his estranged father removed.

At this moment Lindalcon entered with Gwilith and the child squealed with delight to see her baby brother. The awakening infant prince promptly responded to her piercing welcome with a startled outcry that resolved into a series of affronted shrieks. Lindalcon's scolding could be heard beneath the cajoling of the King of the Woodland Realm entreating his little son to shush, which opposed the indignant if barely intelligible protests of Gwilith to her gwador beleg [big brother], as Meril tried to soothe them all.

Legolas grinned and did not worry about his light laughter drawing attention from the elves embroiled in the domestic pandemonium within. Gradually the infant settled and Gwilith became less agitated, and more coherent converse was possible.

"Nana, Gwilith hold Tauron!" the toddler demanded.

"Nay, Gwilith, you are too little!" her brother cautioned.

"I am not! Tauron little!" the haughty retort drew her father's indulgent laughter.

"Yes, Gwilwileth, you are much bigger than Taurant. What is this you are calling your baby brother?" the King demanded lightly, yet he was not entirely content with such a commonplace designation for his prince and heir.

"Tauron! Me and Limlas show Tauron the book!" the childishly petulant voice explained impatiently and inspired a sudden gasp from the concealed outcast.

"Limlas?" this was Meril's voice.

"Aye, just another of her pet names, Nana. I promised her we would share the picture book with Taurant this eve," Lindalcon smoothly covered the young one's slip. He hurried on with his planned speech. "I hope you are both feeling quite hungry tonight, for there is a special dinner prepared and waiting, with all your favourites, Nana! And to honour Mereth od Estol Arad [the naming day ceremony] tomorrow, I have asked for a concert below the balcony, so that as you dine you may judge if my choices for this event are appropriate."

_Clever! I had not realised it was already time for the naming to take place. Taurant has been among us a ten-day already._Legolas approved of Lindalcon's excuse for the serenade.

"Why, that is thoughtful of you, dearest," Meril murmured in words that sounded slightly damp with joyous pride.

"Indeed! Thank-you, Lindalcon," Thranduil added, but only silence met his remark.

Lindalcon did not attempt either to acknowledge the false gratitude of the King or the discomfort his refusal to reply generated. Taurant fussed and the mood quickly shifted again.

"Very well, my little one, you may go to your older brother now! Here, Lindalcon, he misses you!" Meril said and passed the newborn over. The babe settled contentedly amid the soft cooing of Valtamar's son, and Legolas grinned to hear such gentle gibberish from his young friend.

"Lind'on! Lind'on, let me hold Tauron!" this demand from Gwilwileth was met with warmly sounded laughter from her parents.

"Alright! Here, sit on the sofa next to me and I will help you," Lindalcon at last conceded to her strident pleas.

"You have things well in hand, Lindalcon, and so we will go to enjoy this special feast you have arranged," said Meril, voice brimming with happiness as she observed the tableau of her three offspring upon the comfortable settee.

Here was the realisation of her long held desire to quell once and for all the bitter thorns of despair and grief that had pierced her soul and threatened her existence. For Lindalcon's sake she had exerted her will to bring all this about, for she could not bear to leave him orphaned or suffer him to fade along with her. Now both of them were firmly attached here with these children, and their family was healed. If Meril chose to ignore the discord between her new mate and her oldest child, perhaps it was because she knew of no remedy that would not cause her first-born further pain, and for this a mother may be forgiven.

The unobtrusive steps marking the retreat of the royal couple sounded as loud as hoof beats on stone to Legolas, who could scarcely breathe in his anticipation of at last joining his siblings in the room beyond.

He waited.

Faintly wafting over the breeze from the courtyard garden, the pleasing strains of a quartet lifted in song accompanied by harp and lyre entered the stronghold, and signalled the arrival of the King and Queen upon their balcony. Amid this soft serenading, Gwilith's imitation of her mother's crooning cadences for Taurant was quite endearing, and Legolas could endure the separation no longer.

With impatient fingers he lifted away the deerskin hide and searched for the grip on the cupboard's backing that would allow him access to his family. Footsteps alerted him to Lindalcon's approach and in seconds the bright light of the chamber streamed into the dreary alcove, momentarily blinding the Tawarwaith as he struggled through the cramped opening on hands and knees. He felt Lindalcon's hand grip his arm to help him up and then he was through.

With a couple of blinks his vision adjusted once more to the normal light level and he beheld his baby brother for the first time, nestled contentedly in the crook of Lindalcon's arm, gazing serenely right at the wild archer as if he had quite expected to find him there.

Wordlessly Lindalcon transferred the infant to his brother, his smile nearly matching the exuberantly broad grin gracing Legolas' features as he took the tiny bundle up.

Legolas sighed in relief, for Taurant was not a bit afraid to find himself in strange arms. The two studied one another intently, each apparently committing the face and form of the other to permanent memory, recognising the blood bond between them as feä met feä for the first time.

Tbc.


	49. Chapter 49

_italics indicate thoughts_ | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

**Legolas and Meril**

Thranduil's first-born scrutinised the newborn's features thoroughly, searching for some outward sign of the internal connection he sensed, in vain. True, the babe was so young it might be difficult to determine exactly what his adult appearance would come to be, yet it was already plain that there would be little resemblance to the former heir. This child was as much an image of the Woodland King as Legolas was a mirror of the previous Queen.

Bright and intelligent, Taurant's eyes were green and fathomless as the unreadable depths of the sea, rimmed in gold and flecked as if Ariel had dipped her hands into the searing sun and shaken away the excess drops of light upon the little elf. His thatch of golden hair was not the colour of windblown wheat bleached white under Anor's glare, as was Legolas', but rather the rich hue of honey harvested late from the hive, the very shade of his sire's long locks. The shape and set of his rose tinted lips already bespoke the firm resolve for which his father was renowned. Even his cherubic chin bore a hint of the headstrong resilience it would surely come to profess as he aged, marking him as Thranduil's own and Oropher's grandchild.

Legolas was disappointed. None would ever see the link between either of his siblings and himself, and so the rumours would go on concerning his paternity. Why he had thought there would be some indication of his relationship to the babe he could not now imagine, for his appearance was so strikingly similar to Ningloriel's, to whom this infant had no connection of any kind. Taurant looked Sindarin through and through, for no resemblance to Meril could be discerned either. No wonder Thranduil was so overjoyed; the heritage of his heir was indisputable.

Lindalcon gently tugged on his friend's arm and guided him to the small sofa where Gwilith was patiently waiting. As soon as her big brother was seated she snuggled against the Tawarwaith and smiled up into his joyous countenance. Valtamar's son stepped back to better appreciate the sight of the three siblings, overwhelmed by the absolute contentment gracing the beleaguered warrior's eyes as Legolas gazed first upon the babe and then to his little sister in turn. It was difficult for Lindalcon to reconcile the pyjama clad elf before him with the diminished and suffering soul he had been watching over for the last two weeks, for Legolas looked totally at ease in this domestic attitude.

At last the archer lifted his face in Lindalcon's direction and bestowed a look of such staggering gratitude that the younger elf could not hold back and joined the trio, throwing his arms around Legolas gleefully.

"I can never thank you properly for this, Lindalcon," Legolas whispered, unwillingly breaking the silence, concerned he would break into tears if he tried too many words. Lindalcon squeezed tightly in response, apparently unable to master speech yet either.

Gwilith was not so handicapped.

"Limlas, now show Tauron the book!" she decreed and flourished the tattered volume of pictures she had held to so firmly during the terrifying journey through the tunnels. The child was unable to express how relieved her heart felt to find Legolas here with her again. Gwilith only knew that the three of them belonged together in the same way that she and Taurant belonged to Lindalcon. And while she could not make any sense of the sorrow surrounding her grown-up brother, she instinctively felt his soul's rejuvenation in response to the bond being forged between them all.

Legolas took the book with a smile and shifted Taurant so he could see, though he knew well enough the infant could make nothing of the images. This was for Gwilith, after all.

_And for me._

He paged slowly through the book as Gwilith proudly announced the name of each animal and plant displayed, looking alternately to Legolas and Lindalcon for confirmation as she uttered the syllables carefully so as to instruct her baby brother correctly. The older two were highly amused by her insistent accuracy, given her enjoyment of substituting memes so freely when the ideas concerned proper given names. Perhaps it was not so unusual, though, for surely she would want Taurant to grasp the cleverness of her little game once he grew a bit.

But Taurant was only days old and more attuned to his body's responses than anything else. Having been dressed in dry cloths and fed to satisfaction, and now held in the warm comfort of his oldest brother's embrace, the babe was soon drifting into sleep. He exhaled a soft sighing yawn that forced his delicate lips into a perfect oval as his gleaming eyes hid behind thickly lashed lids squinched shut in the effort of the involuntary action.

Legolas turned him to rest more comfortably, soft velvet cheek against his shoulder, and was close to rapture to find that the infant had grabbed up a fistful of his ungainly locks and with the same hand planted a chubby thumb into the softly sucking mouth. The archer carefully leaned his cheek against the downy strands of baby hair, smiling to feel his brother's heart pattering against his own so strongly. He glanced at Gwilith, who had stopped her recitation and was staring at the two.

"It is alright, Gwilith, Taurant saw most of the pictures. You can show him the rest when he wakens," said Legolas softly.

"Shhh!" the Woodland princess shushed him indignantly with a severe scowl upon her dainty face such that both her older brothers had to struggle to refrain from bursting into laughter at such a display of affronted wrath upon so angelic a countenance. "Tauron sleeping now, Legolas, do not wake him up! You be very quiet and I say the rest. Next time, you say pictures," she commanded, unmindful that her voice was as new to her baby brother as Legolas' and would be just as likely to disturb the infant's sleep.

More to the point, Meril's sharp ears would easily detect the presence of an unexpected speaker and bring her inside forthwith to confront whoever dared intrude upon her family's privacy, and so Legolas thought it wise to accede to Gwilith's request.

Legolas wrapped his free arm around Gwilith and drew her closer, realising there might never be another opportunity such as this, desperately hoping his siblings would remember their brief moment of familial unity. As Gwilith spoke, he hugged them both, carefully but tightly, fighting back his sorrow at having to leave them soon. He wanted them to recall their big brother with happiness, knowing he loved them fully and would never part from them under normal conditions.

_They must not think I abandoned them!_

Legolas suddenly became horrified that this would be so, for in fact he must return to the Tasks. He would be forced to forsake them. With abrupt clarity he registered the dismay this would cause, for a child could neither be told of such things as the Judgement he faced nor be fed lies. Elflings were especially gifted in comprehending the distinction between falsehood and verity; no explanation would allay the undertone of disgrace colouring his departure. Even as he had fled from the woodsmen's village without a good-bye to Cemendur and his sisters, Legolas would go from the city and his sibling's lives. He switched his pleading gaze to Lindalcon.

The younger elf understood somehow and patted the wild elf's shoulder for reassurance. His smile conveyed his promise to remind these little ones of their warrior brother, for he knew what it was to have a loved one forgotten and would never allow such a grief to befall his brother and sister.

Gwilith had become silent once more as she felt Legolas' tension and she stared into his worried eyes with compassionate distress. She quickly plopped the book upon his lap and scrambled up on her knees in order to reach his face. Thereupon she planted a quick succession of kisses, covering as much of his visage as she could with her tangibly damp adoration, arms worming their way through his hair and past the slumbering babe's head to clasp around his neck. Drawing back to observe whether her usual remedy for her Ada's troubled spirits worked on her brother, the child was rewarded instead with the gleaming sparkle of tears pooling in the Tawarwaith's orbs.

"Legolas, you say pictures now. I say them next time," she whispered into his ear, thinking in her child's mind that this was what her big brother wanted and having denied him she had caused his sadness.

Legolas smiled and blinked back the threatening flow, unable to stop a couple of determined drops from making their way free of his lashes. His baby sister did not allow the proof of his distress to travel far, however, and whisked them away with two delicate swipes of her gentle fingers. For added measure, she repeated her initial contact with Legolas, pressing her palms against his cheeks to force his mouth into a ridiculous pout, which she then kissed with a delighted laugh.

"Say pictures, Limlas!"

"Nay, you say them. I will listen and remember. It is well, Gwilwileth," Legolas whispered back.

"Aye, finish the book, Gwilith. Legolas cannot stay long and he wants to hear you name all the pictures perfectly!" Lindalcon added to distract the child from her oldest brother's despondency. Sure enough, the order from Gwilith's second oldest brother drew a petulant frown to her lips and a defiant shake of her chestnut locks.

"Lind'on, be quiet! Me and Limlas share the book!" she retorted, drawing a snicker from the Tawarwaith. There was no doubt who ruled the household of the Woodland King.

Before Gwilith could resume her recitation, however, there was a muffled call from the courtyard below and the music of the quartet ceased abruptly. Another shout from the guard at the postern preceded the noisy and typically dramatic arrival of Talagan's troop from their successful campaign upon the Orcs of the Misty Mountains. The cargo they had acquired raised an astonished hubbub among the occupants of the barracks' grounds and, true to the inquisitive nature of the Sylvan folk, a large crowd gathered and talk began at once concerning the unexpected prisoner.

Thranduil leaped to his feet, knocking over a pitcher of water in his haste, and strode to the edge of the balcony to stare in disbelieving amazement at the chaotic scene below.

_My eyes must be bewitched for surely that cannot be Erestor of Imladris trussed up like a common thieving poacher from Laketown!_

A smug grin caressed the Woodland King's lips. This was an unexpected boon; here was the final proof of the conspiracy he envisioned, for what possible excuse could Elrond's most trusted advisor have for being at large within the Greenwood without the shield of a diplomatic errand?

_Unless Elrond has demoted the seneschal to messenger!_

Radagast the Brown was dismounting and Talagan, grabbing his unwanted guest by the back of the leggings, gave a laborious heave and shoved him head first over the charger's shoulders into the dust of the well-trampled yard. Laughter greeted the outraged cry of pain, both for his injury and his pride, that issued from the Noldo Lord as his face met the hard packed earth.

"Enough!" intoned the Maia and moved over to assist Erestor, who was trying to right himself to at least a sitting position as blood streamed from his bruised and swelling nose. The seldom seen Istar noticed the couple on the balcony above and met the King's glittering gaze. "Thranduil, come down please." Aiwendil asked politely but left no room for argument; a wizard of any colour outranked an elf, even though he be Ingwë himself.

The Woodland King raised imperious brows and sent a furious frown in Radagast's direction at the peremptory command but turned to Meril to make his apologies nonetheless. He found his mate had risen also and stood with arms crossed and a definite glare of displeasure marring her comely features as she gazed upon her husband's captain.

"Go then, make no requital for this, Hervenn nîn; Talagan shall bear the burden for removing you from my side so soon upon my maternity's completion," she growled quietly yet loud enough for the soldier to hear her. It mattered not to the heir's mother that the Sinda warrior had not been present to know the nativity had been accomplished.

Talagan grimaced to note her displeasure, for Meril's influence over Thranduil was paramount, and he could expect the King to initiate some sort of discipline, even though they had been comrades in arms since the Last Alliance and friends from their childhood days. Talagan wondered that the value he held had diminished so quickly after the second wife moved into the stronghold, despite all his long years of service for his Lord and King.

Wordlessly Meril presented her cheek for the fleeting impression of Thranduil's lips and smoothed her hand against his shoulders as he turned and headed down the rock-hewn stairway to the garden below. Her attention followed his progress as he strode beneath the bobbing heads of her favourite, the sunflowers, and passed through the wrought iron gate to the courtyard.

Then, with silence only a Wood Elf could achieve, the Royal Consort traversed the balcony to its adjoining archway with Taurant's nursery.

The sudden cessation of the harmonious strains from the gifted elven singers had alerted that cosy chamber's occupants to the calamitous disruption of their cautiously constructed conniving. Lindalcon jumped with as much alacrity as had his stepfather; he pulled insistently on the archer's arm to force him up as well. Gwilith saw Lindalcon's frenetic attempts to steer Legolas back toward the frightful tunnels and placed herself on the opposite side of the fallen archer, shoving against his legs with all her might. She did not want her Fish Leaf to disappear into that darkness again.

"Hurry!" Lindalcon hissed in a barely audible whisper, "Gwilith, stop that!" Yet neither elf obeyed him, and the Tawarwaith seemed to be resisting the attempt to eject him from the room as much as the little princess was. Lindalcon ceased shoving and opened his arms to accept his infant brother, assuming this was the reason, but Legolas stood firm while an unaccountably stubborn expression of denial overtook his features. Lindalcon's mouth gaped and his eyes widened in alarm at this turn of events, but before he could speak further he heard the step of his Naneth upon the threshold to the open porch.

"Nana!" Gwilith sang out in delight and danced over to grasp her mother's fingers, tugging to coax her further into the room from the spot upon which she had frozen. "Limlas is here; we show Tauron the book!" she exclaimed with gleeful pride and pulled more insistently when her Nana remained still. The elfling's merry smile dimmed when she tilted her cheerful features upward to examine her mother's expression and found her rigid and angry, eyes locked upon the sight of Taurant asleep in the arms of the kinslayer.

"So I see, darling." Meril found her voice at last as she stared upon the fallen prince cradling her little son protectively against his chest. _Protectively!_ She had to make a great effort to banish the wary belligerence from her voice and manner as she met her daughter's concerned eyes and smiled warmly. Meril would not allow the seamy side of the Wood Elves' world to taint her child at so young an age. There was no need for Gwilwileth to be told why this elf was unwelcome.

"Naneth, I can explain this," her first-born began, and wished instantly he had remained silent when her livid gaze of restrained rage turned upon him fully. Lindalcon flinched and stepped back, remorsefully dropping his head to avoid having to look upon her unspoken accusations. This would not be soon forgiven.

"Nay, Lindalcon. Take Gwilwileth to her rooms for she has missed her tea and must be hungry. I will make all the explanations required," spoke Legolas boldly before the irate inu could express her wrath against her oldest child.

"Oh yes, Lind'on! Gwilith so starved! You kept tea away!" The little one returned to her pattern of baby-speech in response to the obvious strain in the atmosphere. She understood Naneth was angry with Lindalcon and hoped the reason was this oversight. The elfling only wanted everyone to be happy again and smiled at Lindalcon endearingly as she darted to his side to clasp his hand in hers.

Lindalcon glanced quickly at his mother, noting her brief nod of assent, and then once more looked to Legolas. The Tawarwaith met his eyes with a calmly reassuring smile as he softly stroked the silky strands adorning Taurant's crown, and in an instant the young usurper's anxiety vanished. He found that he was not sorry at all for what he had done. He was quite proud, in fact, and squared his shoulders before he faced Meril again.

"It was right, Naneth," he said firmly and then made his retreat.

Just before the brother and sister reached the door, Gwilwileth snatched her hand free and flew back to Legolas' side, wrapping her chubby arms around his knees and hugging hard as she bent her head back to make sure he was smiling.

Indeed he was, and Legolas crouched down to encircle his little sister in a final embrace, resting his brow upon the top of her head before settling a sound kiss there. When he pulled back he discovered the child beaming happily and he returned the exuberant grin.

"Thank you Gwilwileth; you said the pictures perfectly. Go and have your tea now." He released her reluctantly and stood.

"You say them next time, Legolas!" she rejoined and skipped back to Lindalcon's side, pleased to have restored the status quo as she exited the room with the carefree jubilation of innocence.

As soon as the door shut Legolas strode to Meril and handed over the babe.

"I would speak with you, Meril," he began before she could utter a sound. "Tuck Taurant in and let us speak softly, for what we discuss should not become the little one's burden, ever."

Meril was struck dumb by the events she had just witnessed and could only stare in undisguised shock as she mechanically reached out and collected her infant up in her arms. Vision fixed upon the wild elf, her perception recorded the incongruous impression of both menace and tenderness emanating from his person. Somehow Legolas had managed not only to meet and befriend her daughter but had clearly established a strong bond with all three of her offspring.

_I was wrong to allow Lindalcon this friendship, for it has generated this unseemly connection! Gwilwileth must not be marked by his ill-fate, and Taurant need never know he had a predecessor._, she mused, cautiously regarding the recovering warrior. Perhaps Thranduil's assessment of his potential as an adversary was not exaggerated.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded coldly, pacing across the room and back as the infant stirred in her rigid grasp.

"As I said; we must speak together for there is much I would say to you," Legolas replied. Though mild in timbre and tone his voice remained as steady and strong as the trees he held so dear, his words clothed with the power of Tawar even as green leaves draped the branches of the canopy in summer.

This was not the soft-spoken, unassuming archer she remembered from her days as Valtamar's mate. Meril faced the Tawarwaith, wild and primitive, barely withholding a deep rage she quailed to have revealed. Somehow the fact that he held this anger in abeyance did not quiet her uneasiness. Abruptly she strode to the cradle and did as he had bid her, trying to assemble some remnant of the calm authority her role as the mother of the Woodland Realm's new prince granted. As soon as she faced Legolas again she realised her promotion would not impress the forest's champion.

Yet, she would not concede so quickly. Folklore's precedent or not, Legolas was still noss-dagnir, accursed off-shoot of an illicit affair, abandoned child of the faithless Queen and Meril felt she should show the outcast his proper place. She lifted her chin and folded her arms against her bosom hiding her trepidation with what she hoped presented as cold contempt for the condemned perpetrator of her first husband's demise.

"You speak with assurance you have no right to assume!" she began. "I have neither need nor desire to hold discourse with such as you."

"Then Thranduil has not revealed to you his plans?"

"Nothing does the King withhold from me. Our union is not such as you observed between him and your mother."

"Truly? You are both fortunate and blessed. Yet, I would not have thought you so eager to have Erebor brought up again." Legolas retorted with sharp and icy ire. _How dare she speak of my mother!_ He had the supreme satisfaction of seeing the King's consort startle and turn an unnaturally pale shade as this statement met her ears. "So, he has failed to enlighten you," he gloated without even trying to mask a sneering smirk.

"I do not believe you! Thranduil has no intention of reopening such a grievous hurt upon our Realm."

"No need have I to be false. Such an investigation can do no further harm to me, yet would I forestall it. I am not as ignorant of all that transpired as some would imagine, Meril, yet for the sake of my brother and sister I would rather none of this come to light."

"What?" she spat indignantly to cover the impact of that sentence and sought a place to sit before her strength failed her. Lightly she lowered herself to the rocker, never taking her narrowed and hostile eyes from the wild archer's penetrating glare. "I do not understand you!" she prevaricated.

"Aye, you do. Yet your guilt prevents you from owning your responsibility. However, I am not the one you should worry over; there are several others who suspect the same. Indeed, it is through Mithrandir that my comprehension of this mess was clarified. Fearfaron determined the truth independently, but he has not kept the ideas to himself and has shared with Iarwain."

"What?" she sputtered feebly and her hand found its way to her face to pass shakily across her suddenly parched lips. Eyes locked upon the elf's before her, the belligerent attitude shaping Meril's expression transformed into an outlook of unabashed dread under the blaze of righteous vehemence highlighting the archer's fair face.

And then Legolas pitied her, for he could see she did not understand his motivation and could only sense her world about to devolve into a more bitter sorrow than that which she had already endured. He sighed lightly and his steely gaze softened as he held up a hand and shook his head.

"I am not the one you need to fear," he restated. "That is my brother sleeping there, and Gwilwileth is my sister. For them do I act; even as you wish to safeguard their hearts so do I," he said as he pointed to the cradle.

Instead of inspiring confidence in his faithfulness, she viewed his compassion as weakness, and surmised the whole scene was no more than a bluff. He was playing upon her instincts as a mother, trying to stir her heart with false claims of filial devotion toward her young. This idea enraged her.

_It is all a ruse, he knows nothing for certainty and neither does the wizard or the counsellor!_

Fearfaron she cared not a whit about, for everyone knew he was besotted with the fallen prince. With a renewed sense of control Meril snidely sent him a brittle smile of dogmatic disdain.

"Unwarranted confidence or rather foolish pretence brands your speech! Whatever you imagine in that depraved mind of yours is no concern of mine or of the Council's. And I am sure of your relationship to my offspring, child of Ningloriel, for it is non-existent! I am one of the few who knew of your guardsman's coupling with the faithless Queen."

Meril flaunted her gift for gathering gossip and winnowing out the germ of truth from which it sprang. She flung out this rebuke with deceptive carelessness emphasising her indifference with a toss of her bronze-hued hair. She was pleased to see the confirmation of her deduction in the flash of pain that shook the wild elf's frame as he unconsciously wrapped his arms around his body as though a sudden blast of winter's breath had found its way within the stronghold. Yet, she did not understand the true cause of the archer's distress, and learned all too quickly that he was not ashamed of his mother's behaviour.

"That is twice now you have let reference to my mother pass your lips with less than kindly intent," he uttered in low tones as he raised his fiery gaze once more to her smug complacent one. "I will not hear another," he warned and heard her gasp as her soul responded to this command. "I say again, for myself no worse can conditions be, for I am already banished and outcast. My siblings, however," he emphasised the relationship, "have much to lose! If you love them, as I know that you must, then cease your sniping jibes and hear me."

"I hear you! Why should you seek to halt the investigation, for you have much to gain if you can convince the Council of your innocence! What trickery are you about, hecilo? There is nought you would speak that I need know of," her words were bold yet her voice trembled and the potency of their impact waned under the stern appraisal of the Tawarwaith. Meril drew in another audible breath and darted her eyes towards the balcony, desperation overcoming her artificial pretension once more. "Go from here, or I shall scream for Thranduil!"

"Would you so terrorise your child?" demanded Legolas incredulously. "Taurant and Gwilwileth must not be forced to live under such a weight of shame that forebodes to crush them! Are you truly willing to chance their future well-being rather than trade words with me, whom you have wronged?"

"Wronged you? How can you accuse me, when it is Valtamar whose life was wasted and Lindalcon who suffered that loss, not you! I am the one that should be angry and you have no right…"

"Silence!" Legolas took a step towards her; fists clenched and face flushed though his voice was pitched low. "I have every right and will hear no more of your threats. Do not dare use your children as your shield! Know that I consider Lindalcon as much my brother as Taurant and I will protect him! Do you understand, Meril? I would have him forever ignorant of the truth of Erebor."

"What is it that you want, hecilo?" she whispered harshly, fear shining in her emerald green eyes.

"No outcast am I! The Council's Laws have not the power to sunder me from Tawar!" he hissed back as he leaned over her. "If you cannot speak my mother-name, then use the woodsmen's christening: Tirn-en-Tawar!"

"What do you want?" she could scarcely contain her wail and had to cover her mouth to keep from waking the infant so near at hand.

Legolas drew a steadying breath and backed away. He had not set out to frighten her yet her words had angered him more than he would have liked and triggered this outburst. He reminded himself that Meril was cornered and fighting with any means at her disposal to get free of him, and might in another moment of panic rouse Taurant or even shout for her husband. Somehow he had to make her calm down and understand him.

"I want you to stop Thranduil from holding this investigation. If it goes forward, everyone will have to be questioned, Meril, everyone," he said more gently and gazed at her with all the compassion he could muster. "Whatever happened then means nothing. What matters is the future of these young ones, Lindalcon included! Do you not agree?" he pressed hoping to uncover that strong maternal instinct he had seen evidence of so often in the past, and had heard in her voice just hours ago. He watched her intently as her thoughts churned, mentally writhing between relenting to trust him and stubbornly protecting her singular interests.

"Thranduil truly loves me. We are right together!" she said with frantic insistence. "Our children are innocent and do not deserve to be harmed by a past they had no part in."

"And so it must remain, then, this union you have forged," said the wild elf gently and nodded to encourage her to continue.

"He would not believe any lies spoken against me!"

"Nay, he would not. But the truth, that is another matter. He would not be able to deny what he knew in his heart to be true. I for one do not wish him to have the opportunity to learn what that entails."

"How would he be taught such knowledge, Tawarwaith? Your words would never sway him, nor does he hold much regard for Maltahondo. Talagan already tried to have you cleared and Thranduil heeded him not!"

"The words will not be his to heed or deny. It is the Council that will hear these things, and they who will instruct your husband." Legolas sighed and sat down on the settee facing her, relieved that she was rational enough to reason out the situation. "The hearing will be public, all will be allowed to attend. Lindalcon, as Iarwain's page, will be there. Every warrior that was present at Erebor will be questioned."

Deep silence weighted the air in the room as the gravity of the fallen prince's declarations eclipsed the Meril's radiant vision of her children's carefree future. She considered carefully the archer's words and recalled each of her first husband's comrades.

"Nay, not every warrior!" her eyes gleamed in triumph and her hard-heartedness reasserted itself. "Some are dead, and one has gone to the West."

Legolas frowned, for he knew not how to make Meril view the situation objectively. What she said was true, but he had already come to understand that none of the warriors had been unmarked by the battle, and all of them must have their memories and dreams haunted by the replay of the dreadful day, even as were his. What Fearfaron had surmised and Mithrandir suspected, surely some among the company's remaining soldiers had reasoned out as well.

A cavalry of archers and spear-casters knew each other, depended upon one another's skill and loyalty, understood and counteracted individual's weaknesses to strengthen and maintain the unity and integrity of the company. Centuries of daily sparring, patrolling, fighting, and surviving shaped these groups into a form of colonial symbiosis unparalleled in other facets of Sylvan culture. Everyone in Talagan's troop knew who were the broken threads within the sturdy cloth of their interwoven lives, and not even Legolas would place himself in this category. The warriors knew: the tragedy of Erebor was not a product of the Tawarwaith's flaws.

His opportunity for rebuttal was non-existent, however, for he discerned the all too recognisable footfalls of the Woodland King crossing into the outer sitting rooms and parlours of the royal suite. The disowned heir was not ready to confront his estranged sire and he rose from the sofa quickly. With a last glance upon the slumbering infant, Legolas made his escape, hastening through the open archway to the balcony and down the steps to the garden below.

Tbc


	50. Chapter 50

_italics indicate thoughts_ | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter Beta'd by Sarah AK

A/N: For the story of Eluréd and Elurín, see The Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien, pp 282-284

**The Sons of Elrond**

Now stood the sons of Elrond upon the howling heights of the Redhorn Pass gazing out over the living schema of all Rhovanion below, marching out for leagues and leagues to a Northern horizon hidden behind the obfuscation of the Greenwood's dense curtain of wood and leaves. The elevation of the treacherous thoroughfare rendered all but the wild forest in reduced proportions.

There flowed Anduin, diminished to a sleek ribbon of shimmering gleam flung down against the variegated mantle of verdure garbing the lowlands, olive and tan, the customary colours of meadowed fields. At the fingertips of Hithaeglir where the stony-souled shoulders of the mountains were gently rounded into soft hills clad in life-giving loam, crowded in the crux of the Great River and the Nimrodel, clung the isolated weald of Mellyrn Taur [Mallorn Forest]. From this vantage, the Golden Wood looked less the realm of eternal elven dream that was Lorien and more a disenfranchised legion, still a proud and fearsome army, forced back and amputated from the body of its defences until, no further retreat possible, the enchanted woods held what little glory remained in Arda against the onslaught of a darkening future.

Directly across the thin strip of the river's flood plain spiked the black spire of Dol Guldur, an obscene protrusion of Sauron's handiwork amid the majestic might of Yavanna's oaks and beeches, aligned with eerie precision to sight the approach to the High Pass. Identical eyes of dauntless sable gazed upon the vile tower yet faltered not, though surely the sense of malevolent appraisal returned upon the Imladrian Lords was not imagined.

Elladan and Elrohir did not fear the minions of Melkor's apprentice; they hunted them with predatory persistence.

Neither did the brothers, standing side by side firm upon the snow cloaked stone, quail under the vicious temper of Caradhras. Drift crystals spun through the sharp clarity of the thinned air, defining the shape of the wind that swirled in gusts and shoved against the twins in shearing down-drafts designed to loose them from the slender slickness of the granitic path. Clasped about their shoulders, fur-lined capes whipped out and around them, alternately furling and uncurling upon their knees, hugging close upon them before fanning away to snap and twitch in muffled, repudiating insolence at the breath of Redhorn.

Shoulder to shoulder, proud and bold, tall in the manner of Tuor their forebear, Elrohir and Elladan stood battle ready and armed for combat. Mithril mail protected their hearts and their hungering broadswords, too long starved for the taste of Orc, were belted at their hips, Elladan's to his left and Elrohir's upon the right.

Now like unto their masters were these weapons. Even as the brothers were born of the same seed so were these blades forged of the same metal. Imbued with equal amounts of strength and power, blessed with perfection in beauty and cogency, aglow with the light of Aman yet harbouring an unquenchable thirst for squelching the essence of the Enemy, the twin swords were unmatched upon Middle-earth except in their opposing symmetries. Once whetted, their appetites forever craved the scent of death, yearned for the sticky flow of darkness spilling from black wounds, sought the absorption of minuscule metallic components released from the scurrilous fountain upon their steely edges to settle deep within hearts never sated.

Orthoron [Conqueror] was Elladan's blade while Elrohir's sword was Daengeredir [Corpse Maker] and together they decreed retribution and dealt vengeance upon the Shadow's soldiers.

Sable were their eyes and sable was their hair, and if black was the colour of captured light then truly the brilliance of Illuin and Ormal [Lamps of Aulë] must have been caught within the glossy tresses, so richly resplendent was the sheen of vigour upon these lengthy strands. Bound back with impeccable precision, the locks lay heavily down the brothers' spines, three thick plaits preventing grappling with the gusty hands of the mountain while two long tendrils on either side, wrapped tight in tri-coloured ribbons of sea-blue, foam-white, and ruddy earthen red, framed faces fair and set in grim ferocity.

In countenance and body were these two the mirror of each other, as was renowned among all elf-kind for the rarity of the occurrence. Yet Elladan and Elrohir favoured not their sire nor was their appearance similar to the looks of Celebrian their mother. It was said that the triple heritage of three races gave them a unique beauty and regal dignity not beheld upon Arda since Dior met his doom rather than surrender the Nauglamír to the sons of Feanaro.

Great was the weight of that cursed history upon the sons of Elrond, for the ancestor's of one branch in their noble lineage had slain the kin of their forebears within the other, all for lust of the remnant of living light of the Two Trees enslaved forever within the Silmarils. And the curse was not through with the bloodline of Finwë, for the darkness had stolen away the gentle brightness of Celebrian such that no longer could the burden of life upon Arda be borne and she had departed for Aman. Upon the day she sailed had the brothers made their choice; they must in the end go over sea or forever be parted from her.

Yet, not before the vile seep of Sauron's insalubrity was cleansed from the lands, not until their insatiable swords had incised away all the pestilential infestations of Melkor's blighted progeny.

There within plain view of their sharp sight sprouted the beacon of evil from whence the Dark One broadcast his foul desolation over the lands, and from there had come the poison that had robbed Elladan and Elrohir of their mother. How many others of elf-kind had met a similar end, or a worse one? What beleaguered souls from among the woodland folk remained imprisoned there in the fuliginous vacuum of the turret's dungeons? Were those piteous eldar, tortured and twisted, maligned and marred, the source for the unending succession of generation after generation of loathsome Orcs that plagued all the peopled lands?

Such were the thoughts of Elrohir and his heart ached to know these ponderings. Beside him Elladan shuddered in horror of this image wrought in his brother's brain, for what one twin knew in his mind the other understood simultaneously, and what the other experienced in spirit his counterpart's soul felt in equal fullness. So complete was the link between the two that seldom did words pass spoken between them. Physically they mimicked this interior communion such that never was one seen without the other close at hand and the gemini moved through life with unison of purpose and predestined ardour to accomplish the will of Eru and undo the corruption of Arda.

With precipitous synchrony the brothers turned from contemplation of the compelling citadel and began their descent to the Dimril Dale and the borders of Lorien. Behind them on the path their mounts needed no orders to follow and stepped forward after their masters with footfalls as silent upon the snowy carpet as the tread of the brothers' elven boots.

Solid, strong, intelligent, and beautiful, the horses were worthy of the First Born who had trained them up from spindle legged colts into mature warriors in their own rights. Their coats gleamed in the wan sunlight, richly brown in mahogany tones except for the broad equine foreheads, each of which was starred with a single round dot of pure white hair. No gear or tack adorned them, but upon their sturdy legs were bound mithril gaiters, for the brothers would not suffer the stallions to be lamed in battle, Orcs being notorious for attacking horses' limbs to unseat the rider.

The present steeds represented the descendants of the twins' first war horses, long dead for nearly an Age; their lineage documented one hundred and twelve generations back along the stallions' male bloodlines, according to the custom of the Noldor. Elladan's mount was Nirmë [Act of Will] and Elrohir's charger was Namië [Judgement] and the brave beasts were as eager as their masters to meet the Orc hordes of Dol Guldur in combat.

Elrohir felt strongly the pull to confront the putrid powers sequestered in the Dark Fortress, and Elladan's hand moved to rest upon his brother's shoulder, drawing him back to the immediate task. Always was it thus, Elrohir sought to hasten the completion of their mission while Elladan supplied the rational caution their perilous life's work demanded.

More than the tower called to the younger twin, for long had his thoughts hovered near the wild lands and the savage eldar dwelling hidden in xenophobic seclusion beyond the forbidding gloom of the forest's eaves. Elrohir was first alerted to these folk when he had been but an elfling under a mild punishment for a not too minor offence.

Against Elladan's protests, he had released the contented, domestic livestock of the Last Homely House from their well-kept pens into the freedom of the open fields and orchards of Imladris, where the cattle had done much damage to neighbours' crops and homesteads. After securing the animals and apologising to every elf affected by the liberation of Yavanna's lesser creations, he had been ordered to clean and catalogue a long neglected stack of old scrolls and obscure books.

The real punishment, however, had been his separation from Elladan, who had not been included in the consequent reprisals for the ill-conceived return of the lowly beasts to their natural state nor allowed to succour his brother through the dreary chore.

Elrohir had read more than he had worked, and had found an account of the attack upon Menegroth by Celegorm and his brothers. Of all the terrible deeds documented against the Noldor, the abandonment of the twin sons of Dior made the strongest impact upon the impressionable youth. Too close to his father's history, and thus his own, was this sad legend and ever after Elrohir's heart wandered after the fate of Elurín and Eluréd.

Even when full-grown and a seasoned warrior, the youngest of Elrond's sons sought out any hint or rumour relating to the time after the fall of the Sindarin Realm in Beleriand. Only Elladan knew the true extent of this obsession, and was perpetually redirecting his twin away from the interior of Thranduil's Realm for Elrohir had convinced himself that their great-uncles would be found among the Danwaith, or if not at least knowledge of them might be discovered.

The ongoing attention Elrond had bestowed upon the Greenwood, or rather upon one particular citizen thereof, only served to fuel the intensity of his son's curiosity by giving him another possible relative to seek out: the child of Ningloriel.

Elladan no longer attempted to deter or forestall his brother's mental quandary over these elusive and ambiguous kinfolk. Such an activity would be as futile as Elrohir's efforts to know the truth. Moreover, there was nothing illogical or far-fetched about the younger twin's reasoning and in fact Elladan agreed with his brother's deductions.

If the accounts of the history-makers were true, then Elurín and Eluréd had been seized and dragged away from the cooling bodies of their parents even before the life-blood had ceased to gush from the mortal wounds. Inspired by rage for the death of Celegorm, his trusted servant, a female warrior reputed to be the Noldo's paramour, commanded the action and lead the small group away into the heart of the forest beyond the former bounds of Melian's protection. There in the deep wilds were the young ones left, overwrought in grief and terror, to starve or to fade or to become fodder for wolves.

Now Elrohir had often pointed out that these woods, while appearing to the Noldor rugged and inhabited only by beasts and birds, were in fact home to scattered groups of Green Elves. Surely these eldar must have seen all that transpired and would never have left two elflings defenceless and alone, especially knowing the identity of the pair, as they must, for long years had Dior dwelt in Ossiriand and there his two sons were born. Nay, the Sylvan elves would have gathered up the orphans and escorted them over Ered Luin to be adopted among the Danwaith of the Greenwood, there to abandon not their life and breath but only the names that marked them as the heirs of Thingol, for word spread that Maedhros was diligently searching for the twins.

It was a great tale, and Elrohir believed it wholly, and in his own heart Elladan also hoped for this to be the completion of the history of the sons of Dior. Yet there was no remedy for the mystery, for the lands in which the search would take them were forbidden, by their father as well as the Woodland King.

Faster than an eye can blink the entirety of Elrohir's lament against the cruelty of fate and the obdurance of destiny flowered and was collected instantly within Elladan's consciousness where he matched the melancholy rage of his brother with equally vehement passion against the darkness overshadowing their family. Within Elladan's spirit arose the summation of their calling and the hope of freedom their work promised and this image of noble sacrifice flowed back into his brother's psyche to soothe the bitter emptiness in both their souls. It comforted them to address the unchangeable doom of the Silmaril's protectors in this way.

Halfway down the steep incline the brothers halted and gazed upon the southernmost borders of Greenwood, for a figure on horseback emerged into view, racing with all speed the steed could command toward the safety of Mellyrn Taur. The rider, an elf dressed in the colours of Thranduil's warriors, urged the weary animal on and drew farther into the brown, desiccated plains dividing the enchanted realm from the looming blackness of Mirkwood. Now his pursuers could be discerned as well: Warg Riders, three in number, howling obscenities and brandishing short stubby sabres encrusted with gore and rust.

Too far away to be of aid, Elladan and Elrohir froze, tensely transfixed, and witnessed the deadly race. From above the rate of progress appeared sluggish and slow, yet the twins knew the horse was running with every ounce of endurance its muscles could supply. Keen eyes allowed them to note the sweat-lathered flanks and flaring nostrils of the steed and the calm demeanour of the Sylvan upon its back. Together they judged the skill and speed of messenger and mount sufficient and relaxed as the elf drew ever closer to the eaves of Lorien.

The Wargs seemed tireless, driven by fear or demonic magic, and ran with jaws slavering and fangs revealed, hungry and mad with it. The equestrian paid no attention to the shouted threats or the low gurgling growls of the beasts on his charger's heels. With determined insistence he made for the Anduin, and steadily increased the distance between them. The river was reached and the horse plunged into the current while the Orcs halted abruptly amid a thick cascade of arrow fire from among the tree-lined banks of the opposite shore.

Elrohir and Elladan smiled gloating grins to one another and continued their journey eagerly; anxious to hear what news the Woodland courier bore to the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood.

Not as fortunate was the Greenwood's rider sent to bear the King's tidings of triumphant joy in the birth of the new Woodland prince to Imladris. This messenger only made the trip alive due to the loyalty and intelligence of the courageous charger, for the hapless elf ran afoul of the remnant of the defeated legion from the Misty Mountains returning to the stinking holes that served as abodes for the vile servants of Sauron. Upon discovering the elda the Orcs gave chase and, unlike their counterparts in the southern regions, these beastly creations were armed with bows; one unleashed an arrow that anchored into the rider's thigh.

Nearly unseated, the Sylvan warrior could only pray the barb was untainted as she quickly armed and aimed her weapon, releasing whatever served as souls for Orcs from the three persistent enemies crowding the Dwarven Road. On the opposite slopes of the Mountains far from the limit of the Sinda Lord's holdings, the messenger wrapped her fingers through the mare's mane where it streamed from the horse's neck and leaned in anguished distress upon the steed's heaving shoulders. It would be a near thing, making the ford of the Bruinen before her strength gave out, and she drove her fleet-footed companion on. She dared not halt to tend the wound, for should she pull it forth and it was poisoned, then the increased flow of blood would move the venom more quickly through her veins.

The war-horse was of the sturdy stalwart breed raised among the trees, not as tall of limb or as broad in breadth as their cousins adapted to the plains of Rohan or those powerful chargers trained for combat within the walls of Minas Tirith. The Woodland equines mimicked Eru's fair Children of the Greenwood. Slight of frame and compactly muscled, the Sylvan's mount was agile and swift, made for slipping through the bolls and bracken with alacrity and stealth, and her coat of glossy fur was splattered and dappled white upon brown in imitation of patches of sunlight that crossed the forest floor upon Anor's trek through the heaven's each day.

Indeed, the sun had set twice before the ford was reached, and by the dawn of the second morn the rider had lost consciousness and lay draped upon the horse's neck. Then did the mare's step quicken yet retained the unrivalled balance and soothing gait that somehow looked more a dance of elegant display than the desperate run for help which in truth it was. Under the faint gleam of Ithil's slender sickle in the closing hours of the second night's passing, the charger scented water and the unmistakable essence of horses bearing elf kind. As the advent of Anor's return lit a band of brightness below the departing black and diamond glimmer, three sentries rode forth from the banks beyond the river and waded into the stream to guide the mare across.

The riders and their horses were all known one to another, for this Sylvan was the assigned courier to the court of Imladris. Friendship there was between these soldiers, nurtured by the common ground of shared experience and long travail against the deepening darkness accosting both sides of the dividing range of jagged peaks. Once safe within the domain of Elrond's protection, the warriors gently lifted the wounded messenger from her steed to rest in the arms of the fastest among the three and straightaway he sped for the Last Homely House and the healers there.

But the arrow point was dipped in toxins and so, ere Anor set a third time, far from the comfort of homeland and kin, fell the only elven casualty of Legolas' battle against the Orcs.

Of such events the Lord of Imladris must be advised, and so Glorfindel knew, yet he hesitated to take the news to his esteemed colleague. Elrond's manner had been strange of late.

Short of patience and quick to temper, the son of Eärendil spent less than half his usual time with his council, delegating the cares of state to Lindir and Gildor Inglorion. Little did he sleep, even by the standards of elf-kind, and long hours he spent roaming the manicured grounds of his peaceful haven, yet no ease could his troubled mind and worried heart obtain within the sheltered valley. As now, his attention strayed to remembrance of the month's worth of days spent among the towering trees of the Woodland Realm in the company of the feral son of his former lover.

_Was it but one cycle of Ithil's waxing?_

Legolas had become a constant presence in his thoughts and a burning torment to his body as his loins longed for lunging completion within the constricting channel between the lean and lanky shanks of the wild elf.

_How can it have been only once?_

As on other days since his return, Elrond's restless mind directed his steps to paths that would ensure his isolation from the rest of the household. He stood upon the cliff overlooking the falls where the Bruinen dived down into the hidden haven. Here the roar of the turbulent cascade emulated the torrent of emotions flooding his soul and the virulent flush of the western sky afire with the passing of Anor mocked the heated, florid hardness within his groin. Not since Gil-Galad had Elrond known a need so insatiable.

It was his father's uncle, heir of the noble line of Fingolfin, who initiated Elrond into the illicit delights of carnal coupling with his own sex. The affair with Ereinion had been his first and only such relationship until the taking of the wild archer. More than mere physical attraction had drawn him to the High King and Elrond's heart had been compromised; the fabled warrior had been the herald's first love.

The damage done to the younger son of Elwing upon the destruction of Gil-Galad was nearly lethal. Only a deathbed vow to stay and complete the route of Sauron's evil held Elrond's feä bound to hroa and both to Middle-earth. That, and Vilya. Duty, obligation, and honour became the scaffold upon which the Lord of Imladris maintained a semblance of the majesty and might of the eldar in the First and Second Ages in his hidden haven in the hollow between the natural protection of the Loud Water and the mist mantled mountains. The vale still sang with elven voices, but its master's no longer joined the song.

And love he knew never again except as the gleam of pride for his offspring and the comfort of comradeship with their mother.

Thus the noble Lore Master, revered healer, Keeper of Vilya, and esteemed member of the Council of the Wise was stunned to discover the stirring in his stymied heart that accompanied the stimulation of his libido whenever his imagination was overtaken by the image of the fallen archer. What to do about it he could not determine, and a blinding panic attended every episode of daydreaming which featured the Sylvan outcast.

_Legolas!_

Elrond's reason swayed to extremes, on the one tilt decreeing an exorcism of the robust hallucinations and a return to the sober-minded stability for which the Noldo Lord was known. Yet in its next contraction his heart surged boldly, demanding its right to know the fullness of love's promise hinted at in the person of the Woodland warrior. For Legolas had offered Elrond something not even Gil-Galad had supplied: compassionate acceptance.

Neither did it escape the Imladrian's excited comprehension that Legolas would submit willingly, completely, and beg to be taken if denied this subjugation.

That the High King had been fair beyond measure among the members of the House of Finwë was indisputable and the orphan of the Mariner and his elven wife had been easily smitten and enthralled by the magnetic appeal of the powerful ruler. But the coupling of the pair had never resulted in anything less than Elrond's surrender to the Noldo King's zealous penetration. However, during their passionate liaison, no complaints had the herald against the delights their joining brought him.

But the Last Alliance was broken when Isildur sealed his fate and that of all the free peoples, dooming his line and suffering death under the ring-bound might of the very enemy he had felled. Too many were sacrificed to secure this galling defeat within the glory of victory, Gil-Galad among the brightest and most valorous of the Star Children killed that day. When the burying and the burning were done then did Elrond find his desire, for male or female, had died as well, and the needs of the flesh faded to dormancy in the bitter gloom of his sorrow and grief.

Later, when the newness of the tragic loss and the sharpness of his agony had dulled, friends and kin gently reminded the leader of Lindon's refugees of the importance of continuing the lineage of his forebears, and Elrond had half-heartedly agreed to an alliance by marriage. Upon that scene of impending matrimony broke the maelstrom that was the fiery feä of Ningloriel, flaunting her beauty and her profligate lust to rekindle the flame of lascivious craving in the neglected hroa of the new Noldo Lord.

Astounding was the contrast between the two females, for Celebrian was refined without hauteur and noble beyond the need of outward signs, coolly calm no matter the situation, assured of her place and her future. Where Celebrian was imbued with gentle strength, an elegant hind darting through the well-worn paths of the world she commanded, Ningloriel was a tigress, stalking with eyes burning in ravenous hunger for any means to secure another morsel of power and prestige. Celebrian negotiated and compromised, Ningloriel devoured what she desired.

That both had traded any meaningful commitment for the sake of kindred and homeland was a similarity of circumstance that would have kept them friends for life had the situation developed differently.

Yet the elven ladies, as radically different as were their personalities, exhibited startling accord in their attitudes surrounding sexual resources. Access to their carnal charms was a gift, a precious privilege to be savoured and nurtured. If Elrond failed to appreciate and properly attend to each one's distinct demands, the concession would be revoked, for there were many others who would not be loath to acquiesce to the ladies' needs.

Until Legolas, none of this had seemed burdensome nor had anything specific been found wanting in the physical aspects of Elrond's union with either of the females sharing his life. He had enjoyed their bodies and they his, each finding release and satisfaction for their cupidity that never touched upon their souls. None of them invested an ounce of emotional attachment in the other nor harboured any illusions of being so cherished.

_Legolas, wanton and wild, beautiful and powerful, compassionate and giving. Strange, within the one are blended the qualities that singly each of the other three possessed._

Vastly different was the archer's training concerning sexual gratification, for he was conditioned to seek completion only after enduring lengthy torment of spirit and body, held on the brink of escalating ecstasy by the application of pain, compelled to submit to whatever humiliation his partner desired to secure his own pleasure. And this Legolas required, nay demanded, to a degree Elrond had never observed firsthand before. The fallen archer deemed it normal and right to find release in this manner, and so strong was the desire to be possessed that Legolas would allow any cruelty, every punishment.

_And if he is misused or abused in receipt of such pleasures then such is his due when he has chosen to partake in the act._

Legolas granted access to his body not as a gift to be cherished but as a treasure to be plundered and despoiled solely for the exhilarating sensation of power and control such degradation granted, both to himself and his partner.

Before encountering this perspective of sexual depravity, Elrond would never have considered himself amenable to such practices. Certainly he had never wanted to hurt Celebrian, and while the desire to take Gil-Galad had definitely manifested itself in dream and fantasy, never would he have thought to accomplish this through force. Ningloriel, however, was a case apart. Often had the Lord of Imladris imagined wringing her erotically slender, elegant throat while in the throes of their passion, achieving his ejaculation at the instant the light of her mind fled from her flashing blue eyes.

He hated her for that, for making him a killer even if only within his imagination. He despised her for refusing to do without Maltahondo, for making it impossible to do without her insistent and lusty sex, for leaving him so easily while he still yearned for her body.

And so Elrond felt that he had a certain right to claim Legolas for his own. It was his due for all the long years of self-denial and deprivation he had endured, for bearing the demands of family, duty, and honour at the expense of his own fulfilment, for tolerating the cruelty of Ningloriel's self-centred outlook and selfish retreat from the wreck of her marriage.

_I will have Legolas, his body and his heart, and both I will break utterly just for the pleasure such destruction will garner!_

With a bone-jolting shiver Elrond roused himself from such vile introspection, horrified both to have entertained such black desires and to yet remain aroused in the aftermath of this demented meditation. He shouted his fury over his inability to control this obscene obsession, a stream of curses against the Valar and Eru and Legolas poured into the deafening clamour of the river pounding the rocks below even as his hands hurriedly unveiled his intransigent cock and began pumping it brutally. He leaned back upon the boulders amid the spray of the cataract's descent and reached into the pocket of his opened robes to retrieve the stolen memento from his initial acquisition of the feral warrior.

Elrond wrapped the long, ropy lock around his penis, gasping at the sensation of Legolas' hair upon his sensitive flesh, and began pulling and squeezing again, pivoting and rocking his pelvis, shoving his cock through the tightening grip. He closed his eyes and imagined the roughly wound strand passing over his shaft was the scarred interior of the younger elf, and thrust harder. He envisioned the archer on his back beneath him, long limbs hooked over the Noldo's shoulders, writhing against the pain of being torn by Elrond's excessive girth drilling deeper with every heave.

Lost in the fantasy, Elrond heard Legolas pleading for more. He felt him struggling to push back, hands scuffing frantically upon the shalely ground to secure support and allow an increase in the depth of the bruising impalement. The wild elf spurted his essence shouting Elrond's name, while the Elf Lord's heavy testicles rubbed against the archer's yielding arse each time he forced his swelling member back inside the vice-like confinement. This phantom sensation raised a savage shout from his gut as Elrond spent himself violently, waves of euphoric elation washing through nerve and sinew as the strongly scented fountain of warm semen issued forth and oozed over his clenching fist.

Pulse hammering and breath ragged, bathed more in sweat than the mist of the waterfall, Elrond's delight rapidly diminished as his penis deflated, and in disgust he cursed Legolas' existence once more, flinging his hand through the air to rid his fingers of the sticky evidence of his futile attraction. This was as close as he would ever get to fucking the wild elf again, and Elrond was overcome simultaneously with rage for the deprivation and self-loathing for succumbing to so base an inclination.

Yet as he knelt by the streaming water to cleanse himself he took care to rinse away the smear of seed from the keepsake he harboured and returned it to its secure confinement within his robes once more.

The Lord of Imladris found his feet and straightened up, adjusting his clothing back to resume his usual appearance of refined dignity and turned to leave. He found the pathway blocked by the presence of his Master at Arms. The expression upon the Vanyarin warrior's features turned Elrond's countenance crimson with unbearable shame; Glorfindel had witnessed his unseemly act of masturbation.

Tbc


	51. Chapter 51

Summary: Erestor faces the Woodland King.

A/N: I have made the construction of the Dwarven Road a pre-First Age event, though that is not mentioned in Tolkien's writing. The contention this caused between the two races is not meant to be offensive to any Dwarf fans, for I am one myself, but merely a way to explain the bad feeling Tolkien tells us grew between them.

Also, not much is written in Tolkien's published works regarding Erestor's origins. Please allow the liberties taken here by recalling that this is a fanfic, and an AU one at that. There is no indication that Erestor was ever at Gondolin, or any translation given for his name that I have run across. I completely contrived the meaning from the following words: Erui=alone (Er), estë=rest (est), oré=inner heart (or), reasoning that a distraught and rather dramatic young elf might do the same under the unbearable grief and guilt I have mired him in!

**Amarth od Erestor [Erestor's Fate]**

An event like this was a rare thing.

Scant was the number of visitors invited within the protecting seclusion of the Greenwood's innumerable trees; even among elf-kind few that did not permanently dwell there ventured into the eternal dusky dim under the branches. Was that a welcoming gesture, those reaching limbs clad in stiff, unyielding bark of brown? Or were the woody-fingered plants, arms outspread in a defensive stance of open-handed leaves, in fact grasping to detain and devour the unsuspecting guest?

Of those that wandered therein, whether by chance of fate or by bold proclamation to discover what was unseen and reveal the place to all, seldom returned any to home and hearth.

Other than wild creatures and things with no voices, what manner of life could abide the oppressive proximity of the unending ranks of Yavanna's legions? The very air meant to supply breath instead stifled and gagged the lungs. The wind was barred entry and the stagnant exhales of loam and leaf held in thrall, denied escape by the vertical barriers of the trunks and the awning of thick verdure overhead.

Rich earth spread upon the rolling lands exuded the heady, organic aroma of fertility, yet the essential nutrients were jealously gathered and hoarded under the clutching, rooted toes of the towering trees. No agriculture could flourish there, even if the darkness was dispelled by felling the trees.

Bright and warming sunlight, as equally beneficial for raising hope and happiness among more mobile beings as for infusing the woods with substance, was seldom seen. Anor was allowed only the occasional peek amid small gaps between the leaves.

Precious water, the syrup of vitality for all life mighty and meek, flowed either sluggish and sleepily, spilling into bogs when blocked by treefall or dammed by muskrats, creating an atmosphere too wet to inhale, or thrashed through cataracts and chasms, treacherous to challenge, impossible to tame.

Greenwood was not a gentle garden of idylls and roses.

Truly, only a people seeking to disappear from the knowledge of the world at large would choose to shelter in such a land, insinuating their lives into the impervious, unalterable resilience of the forest. Long before the rising of Ithil had even been imagined among the Valar, centuries over centuries prior to the first dawn of Anor, ere Melkor had succumbed to the will of his contemporaries and the chains of imprisonment, even before then had the reluctant Nandor of the Teleri abandoned their brethren on the march to the sea, stepped among the bolls and roots and simply gone no further, for they were home.

Already great in number, the elves increased and made the woodlands sing with joy, and sorrows did not seek them there, for a time.

For other peoples in other lands, the forest was an obstacle, demanding a lengthy delay on any journey west where every stop gave evil opportunity to strike. The sturdy race of Aulë emerged from the depths of their cavernous halls to explore and establish new holdings in peaks they could glimpse from afar. The trek to the Iron Mountains from the Misty Mountains took them all the way around the forbidding ranks of Greenwood's oaks and beeches, laurels and myrtles. Once colonies had become established and trade between Durin's folk proceeded, the woods were an ever present blockade, though if they could but cross through then many leagues would be deducted from the total distance travelled, and the time in transit lessened considerably.

The Dwarves cut their road right into the heart of the woods, hacking down oaks centuries old and beeches not much less ancient, and all species of trees that stood upon the track they had surveyed. No intent had they to bring harm to any being, yet they did not perceive the trees as sentient nor understand the concept of Tawar. No permission did they ask, for to whom would they send a delegate to negotiate such a venture? The talk of Wood Elves was already fraught with myth and legend, for had any actually seen these Nandor? Quickly the children of Aulë received their education and many of the mountain miners met their end under arrow fire from unseen foes.

Three times were the Dwarves' engineers wiped out and their corpses burned upon the defilement of the cleared gash of land before emissaries sought to approach the elusive inhabitants and arrange a proper treaty. Was it any wonder, having paid their passage with the blood of their kin, that the mountain folk were loath to bargain further and bitter in agreeing to the tolls demanded?

And why should the forest folk, witnessing the blatant desecration of their beloved Tawar, deign to negotiate with the perpetrators of such sacrilege? Even had the Dwarves asked first, what need had Wood Elves for a road they would never use?

Indeed, the diplomacy failed and the bargaining stalemated, as neither party was willing to soften their demands. The Dwarves would have their by-way; the Wood Elves wished it not.

The sons of Aulë then forced the co-operation of the Children of Eru, and the means employed to do so left an irreparable rift between the two peoples. They had threatened to set the forest ablaze if the elves would not allow the construction to resume, and the First Born had scoffed at this until a series of brush fires arose in too many places simultaneously to be of natural cause. To end the fires, the Woodland folk were forced out of the cover of the leafy limbs. As the elves had worked to control and eliminate the threat, the Naugrim had attacked, killing exactly the number of Sylvans in one sortie of swaying axes as Dwarves had previously been slain by the hidden archers.

The grief for the loss of their kin and the outrage for the lack of respect for both green and immortal life threatened to transform the formerly complacent elves into a rampaging throng bent on the destruction of every Dwarf breathing air. Yet they comprehended that they could not do both, protect their lands and avenge their dead, and that to do the latter required abandoning the former as consequence.

For their part, Durin's people felt the matter settled, death for death setting the two races back in balance one with the other, the debt of blood repaid.

Grudgingly the Wood Elves resumed negotiations and accord was reached. The road was completed and thereafter the tramp of booted Dwarven feet upon the hard-packed earth resounded through the trees.

Besides their stoic nature, fierce battle-axes, and goods of gems and metalworking, the Dwarves carried news back and forth upon this highway. Through them the Sylvan elves heard word of the kingdom of Doriath in Beleriand, and likewise the Sindar learned the struggle of the Nandor against the spreading evil of Melkor from the north.

Desiring the prosperous security ensured by Melian's Girdle, Denethor used the route to lead away a fair sum of the Wood Elves, collecting also scattered bands of Avari as he crossed through Eriador and at last over Ered Luin, to dwell in Ossiriand nie their sundered kin.

The road brought back the remnant of these folk after the Battle of Amon Ereb, yet without the son of Lenwë to guide them. Thereafter, the traffic of Laiquendi and Sindarin refugees increased to a steady trickle, becoming a flood of flight as Oropher led his people to dwell once more amid the mighty shelter of the Greenwood before the Second Age concluded.

Yet, long before that day, in the third portion of the First Age, a smaller group of Green Elves had journeyed east upon the road, and with them brought for the first time prisoners of elf-kind bound for judgement: Noldor involved in the sack of Menegroth.

Thus, two Ages separating the events notwithstanding, the Wood Elves poured out from their talans to see the eerie repetition and mark the recalcitrant stain of bloodlust in the Deep Elves' feär.

The courtyard of Thranduil's stronghold was mired in elves as virtually the whole population jammed the open space to catch a glimpse of the Noldo Lord and behold their King's incisive inquisition of the interloper. What the Imladrian elf had done was unknown to the populace, yet they intuitively associated his timely arrival with recent events and the great disturbance among the trees.

The good folk held back, granting a healthy distance between the Brown Wizard and themselves, not wishing to invite his attention individually, for the tension surrounding the Istar and the Noldo was filled with Aiwendil's anger. In the overwhelming silence, everyone could discern the elf's soft murmur of thanks as the Maia unbound his ankles and wrists, assisting him to rise.

Thranduil emerged from the gardens and strode across the grounds with assured and commanding steps, neither hastening to the wizard's call nor lagging back to establish dominance. This was his own fortress, no question of his authority had room to arise and no need had he for any outward show of that supremacy. As he walked in soundless progress his senses catalogued the numberless host around him lining the perimeter of the yard, clogging the pathways both on land and amid the over-arching branches of the encircling trees.

Here and there, dotting the collected masses like cedars among firs, stood an elf a bit taller, shoulders a mite broader, gazing upon the King through eyes that had opened first upon other trees in vanished lands. The remnant of the Sindar was but a scattering of garnets in a vein of green stone.

_My people are all but extinct!_

The realisation was a substantial blow and Thranduil nearly stumbled as he looked more carefully upon the grove of faces. He could no longer tell who among the later generations were hybrids born of mixed heritage and which were purely Sylvan. The next instant the concept achieved full fruition, as he comprehended that his own offspring were among this new breed of mingled blood, Sindarin no longer.

His momentary hesitation was largely unremarked, however, due to a great commotion erupting among the crowd near the exit from the scullery as two figures shoved through the masses, dispersing elves with chaotic thrusts right and left as they moved.

"Erestor!" the human called out excitedly, for it was he and Gandalf that approached.

"Estel!" the Noldo turned in disbelieving astonishment and rushed forward to meet the Man as he emerged from the throng. Never would he have imagined that the mortal mentioned by Talagan would be Elrond's foster-son. "How have you come to be here?"

The two embraced and Erestor laughed until he pulled back and beheld the look of accusation and disappointment haunting his dear friend's eyes. The seneschal dropped his gaze in shame for it was abundantly clear that Aragorn, whom he had helped to raise and tutored in statecraft as well as swordsmanship, knew everything.

"Erestor," the Man said again, more quietly, the dull tones of defeat sounding through the syllables. Aragorn had held onto a faint hope that somehow it would all be proved untrue, some grotesque misunderstanding of immense proportions, that some rational means of explaining his father's actions would be revealed, but any chance of that fell away as he observed the guilty admission within the Noldo's eyes.

Mithrandir joined them and the two wizards moved apart a space, sharing whatever news they would without the need for speech as two sets of sparkling black orbs traded the light of knowledge. Aiwendil's expression turned appraising and even somewhat disapproving as Gandalf's took on a stubborn defiance. The Brown wizard gave an imperceptible shake of his head as his Grey brother minutely shrugged.

By this time Thranduil had reached Talagan's side and all attention fixed upon the Woodland King. The Sinda Lord waited and watched as the seneschal from Imladris disengaged from his human friend, a circumstance the Woodland ruler found distinctly unpleasant, for Mithrandir had neglected to inform him of the Man's connections to Rivendell. With awakened interest the King scrutinised the mortal more carefully, and chided himself for not paying closer attention. The signs that this was not a mere woodsman or town-dweller were obvious. He gave a small sniff of amusement, for the Man was bold and returned his stare with calm regard.

Erestor took a deep breath as he stepped away from his small knot of friends. Covered in dirt from crown to soles, his dishevelled clothing smeared with droppings and his own blood, the hero of Gondolin made a deep bow from the waist with all the dignity his renowned history engendered, left hand upon his heart.

"My Lord Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, I beg pardon for my trespass within your lands, uninvited and unannounced. Yet grave is the cause that brought me hence, and I hold disturbing information that must be made known to you! Let Aiwendil, esteemed Istar of the wild lands, vouch for my voluntary surrender to your guard!"

Now Thranduil had expected some form of protest for the obviously rough treatment the noble elf had endured, and these words were not the ones he had thought to hear.

_Not for nothing does Erestor of Imladris bear a reputation for cunning statesmanship!_ the King reminded himself grimly, for he noted the effect this brief speech produced upon his subjects.

An agitated murmur flowed through the assembly as the regal manner of the intruder was remarked and his gracious disclaimer and entreaty discussed from lip to ear throughout the gathered population.

"I do so attest! By his own request was I leading this elf to your fortress, that he might speak with the Lord of the Woodland folk," averred Radagast.

Thranduil was no fool and had little desire to repeat his mistake made at the Council of the Thrashing Trees. No concessions would he speak here in the forum of public observation.

Beside him, Talagan was dismayed by Erestor's bold proclamation and unspoken accusation of his handling by the King's warriors. The captain hissed a foul curse and moved to land a kick designed to put the Noldo on his knees, but Thranduil's hand upon his arm and the icy glare upon his features forestalled the assault.

"Erestor of Imladris, I have already learned of your presence among my lands and the reasons for it. Still, I will hear your claims and receive this information in your own voice, the better to judge the quality of the intelligence presented me thus far," spoke the Woodland King.

Now it was the seneschal's turn to be surprised and he looked to Mithrandir for explanation. The glint in the Maia's eyes was unpleasant to behold and the Noldo turned from him as Thranduil resumed his speech.

"Talagan, escort our guest to my study, please. Mithrandir, Aiwendil, I would be honoured if you would accompany us there and bear witness to the events."

"As you wish," Gandalf inclined his head in assent. "And if I may suggest, allow the human to join us, for he has knowledge of Imladris more intimate than mine, being the adopted son of Elrond, Lord of the sheltered valley."

Upon this utterance the murmuring elevated in volume to the pitch of excited chatter as the Wood Elves jostled and pushed one another to have a better look at this anomaly of a Man. All knew the story of the battle of the Tawarwaith against the Glamhoth and the part the human had played. Here was a conundrum indeed! Their forest champion had fought side by side with and had risked life and limb to preserve this mortal. That alone was enough to make the Man legendary, yet now his status was disclosed and they beheld more than just a confederate of the Noldo Lord but Elrond's own foster-child!

For his part, Aragorn was not so certain this was a wise move. What if the Woodland King kept both the seneschal and himself hostage and demanded retribution from Elrond? He had no desire to become acquainted with the decor of the dungeons beneath the stronghold and sent the wizard a perplexed expression.

"Indeed! I would be glad of your insight, human, for no doubt your knowledge will be of great value. Forgive me if your name has escaped my notice ere now…" the King prompted, no less amazed than his subjects.

"It is I who have been remiss, my Lord, in providing a formal explanation. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, called Estel among the elves of Imladris. I thank you for the hospitality you have granted to strangers amid your lands," said the Man, bowing in perfect imitation of his old tutor.

Thranduil scanned the human's face keenly, certain his ears had detected a sarcastic undertone to the polite words, but no hint of disrespect or umbrage graced the mortal's visage.

"You are most welcome, Aragorn," the small group began moving toward the main entrance to the King's halls as he preceded them, a slight gesture of his hand inviting their accompaniment. "Allow my seneschal to change your accommodations to better reflect the noble House you represent."

"You are indeed gracious, my Lord, yet if you will grant it, I prefer to remain close to Legolas, my war-brother."

Such a remark was but a thinly cloaked reprimand, for it exposed to all that while their King had fulfilled his promise of aid to Tirno, he had not been generous in the allocation of his resources. Aragorn had learned of Thranduil's forced commitment from Lindalcon and had been displeased to see how slight was the Sinda Lord's concern for their comfort. While it was not wise to bait a warrior as fierce as Thranduil who had lost so much at the breaking of the Last Alliance, the Man could not quite help himself, knowing the torments the outcast elf had suffered while the King remained insulated in his luxury.

However, if Aragorn's statement was an affront, the King permitted no indication of it to be displayed before his people. Instead he smiled indulgently at the Man as they closed the distance to the Chamber of Starlight.

"That is well. If the healer proclaims the Tawarwaith strong enough to be moved, then new rooms can be arranged for all," he said amiably, but Aragorn's words had done little to endear him to the King.

As the group entered the Council Chamber, both Imladrians exhaled gasps of dazzled appreciation, for it was already tinnu under the eaves and the lamps of the cavern were lit, filling the air with the dancing glimmer of flickering light gleaming among the embedded crystals in the blackened rock of the ceiling. They halted and stared up in wonder at a sky neither had ever beheld, familiar yet completely different as recognisable patterns amid the stars gave way and merged into new constellations with names unknown to them. There was no time for further inspection of the spectacle, however, for the captain urged them to continue with a rough shove upon each of their shoulders.

Aragorn spared the Sinda warrior a forbidding scowl before he moved again, but Talagan just chuckled mirthlessly.

From an archway deep within the chamber's bounds came a bustling clutch of robed elders, hurrying forward behind Iarwain to meet the King's entourage. Like everyone else, they had gone out to see the activity in the courtyard, and had scurried inside through a side door in order to intercept the group. The ancient Eldar stopped before Thranduil and eyed him warily.

"What is happening here, my Lord?" he said quietly, casting his glance in Erestor's direction.

"A visitor, Iarwain! Erestor brings important news from the outlanders, and we will speak within my study. Rest assured, if the matter impinges upon the spirits of our people you will be informed and your wise counsel sought at once." Thranduil barely kept the sneer from his tone as he spoke.

"As you say, my Lord. The Council will await word of these proceedings." Iarwain frowned upon the haughty Sinda Lord but stepped back out of the path to allow their progress to continue.

Aragorn and the wizards had followed this brief exchange with interest, but Erestor's attention had been drawn to the carvings on the stone pillars. In awe he stared at the huge frieze before him, for they had stopped before a section which depicted the Final Battle of the Last Alliance before the gates of Mordor.

In perfect detail, every Sinda and Sylvan elf lost in the war was rendered as he or she had appeared on their last day of life upon Arda. Oropher was easy to distinguish, for he had been known to Erestor, and likewise his sons' identities were clear. Yet it was not among these the Noldo's eyes remained. His regard had frozen upon two warriors among the host of nameless Wood Elves, for they were twins, identical one to another, and bore an uncanny resemblance to his own beloved charges, Elladan and Elrohir. He was given no chance to question this unlikely coincidence, however, for their group was moving forward again and quickly left the starlit chamber.

Their progress was not disturbed further, continuing until the study was reached and all entered into the windowless cavern. With disturbingly loud finality the heavy oaken door was shut and bolted, and the King moved to stand behind a tremendous desk of laurel wood. He smiled a frost-fringed grin and motioned for them all to sit, for there were many comfortable chairs ringing the sturdy table.

"Talagan, see to the fire and fetch our guests some fitting refreshment," Thranduil ordered and did not care if his old comrade was angered to be addressed like a servant. With no knowledge of the strenuous journey made by Erestor, the King assumed his colleague and life-long friend had perpetrated all the injuries visible upon the Noldo's person.

Too often had Talagan's zeal for exacting penance from those he deemed threats to his Lord brought about complications Thranduil was forced to contest. And now, when the King should be closeted with his infant and his mate, he must be here, unravelling yet another of the captain's debacles.

Once everyone had a goblet of the King's finest vintage in hand and the blaze was springing up cheerily in the grate, Thranduil shared his chilly grimace with his guests again.

"Now, Erestor of Imladris, tell me what Elrond Peredhel has been up to in my woods."

The seneschal stared into his goblet, watching the liquid swirl, casting violet hued flashes upon his features from lamplight reflecting on the fluid's surface as he twisted the stem between his fingers. Over the course of his journey he had taken careful thought as to what he would say to the Wood Elves' King, but that was before he knew Pen-rhovan was safe if not sound. It had been easy to know the right thing to do, for he wished to retrieve the distraught archer and bring him out of the Greenwood to be healed by the golden magic of Lorien. He had been positive he would be able to convince the Sinda Lord that it would serve everyone's interests to lift the part of the Judgement preventing Legolas from seeking refuge among the other elven Realms.

Now the situation was not so simple, for the wild elf was among his own and apparently being cared for somewhere within this very mountain fortress. What right had Erestor to make any claim that Lorien would suit better, even if he felt it to be true? Such a statement would no doubt be taken as an insult upon the Greenwood and its King.

Further, he was now on less firm moral ground concerning his disregard of Elrond's trust in him and his duty to Imladris. With Legolas no longer endangered, how could he justify betraying his countrymen and revealing the plots of his Lord, however much he may disapprove of the actions? Erestor was equally to blame, afterall, and it seemed dishonourable to indict the son of Eärendil when he was not present to defend his actions.

_Dishonourable! A fitting word to describe my deeds to date! Whence comes this newfound devotion to noble sacrifice?_ the seneschal brooded. But he already knew; it had arisen at the rebuke of Aiwendil and the recollection of the fall of Gondolin.

For centuries uncounted Erestor had borne the chafing sting of these memories and felt the thorn of bitter anger against his father pressed deep within his hidden heart. Then a youthful Noldo warrior barely past his majority, he had been ordered to leave Damand's [Long Hammer: Erestor's father] side and safeguard the retreat of Tuor and Idril along with their child and as many of the innocents as could be salvaged from the ravaging of Morgoth's fire drakes and Balrogs. As the second born child, it was not Erestor's right to claim a place by Damand and fight for the King; to his elder sister was that privilege awarded. The last he had seen of them the entire palace of Turgon had been engulfed in flame, and only his sworn word given as the last token of respect he could make to his sire allowed Erestor to turn and leave them there to burn.

That, and absolute terror.

_Valour did not serve me then, and to my kin it rendered death as a reward for their adherence to its demanding creed!_ he reflected, and recalled that from that time forward he had considered the term substantially inadequate considering the price paid for possessing the quality. On that day had he made the name Erestor [Alone Rests the Inner Heart], and he wondered now if any other than himself remembered that he had once been Sigiland [Long Knife].

As his long life continued he had seen so many immortal souls offered upon the altar of this elusive concept that it sickened him, and never was Arda made a better place for the loss of these elves. In fact, the cause of honour robbed the First Born of their greatest and wisest time and again, while this relentless entropy fed the twisted purpose of the Dark Lord.

Yet, Erestor had already begun his re-evaluation of this virtue's worth before setting forth with Aiwendil, and had come to accept a new definition of honour within the character of the Tawarwaith. Somehow, Legolas had managed to reverse the usual process, dredging up courage and fortitude out of disgrace and degradation, wringing greater power from his low caste than he had ever exercised as the Greenwood's prince, choosing to redefine himself in terms of the lands that cherished him rather than the elves who disowned him. Legolas had no intention of relinquishing his life to retain his honour, for that had been stripped from him. Rather, the former prince lived honourably in order to achieve a very personal victory against the Shadow threatening his homeland.

This stood in stark contrast to the esteemed Lord of Imladris, who had done just the opposite: using his influence, prestige, and exemplary reputation to achieve the destruction of an unsuspecting innocent and score a low blow against the Sinda King.

Erestor felt his bile rise, disgusted with himself for being party to it all, willingly, while acknowledging that he, too, had been used. He was really quite angry with Elrond Peredhel, and suddenly it did not seem so traitorous to betray his machinations.

As his silent ruminations stretched into minutes with no indication that he would reply to Thranduil, the two Istari shared concerned gazes and Aragorn loudly cleared his throat to try and get his mentor's attention. The seneschal raised his eyes from the shimmering wine and regarded each individual with calm detachment he did not truly feel in his heart. He exhaled audibly and set the goblet down upon the table as he rose and faced the King.

"Forgive my reticence, Lord Thranduil," he began, "it is not always easy to look upon one's own failings without seeking a means to cover them over or assign them elsewhere.

"I would simply say that you have been deeply wronged and the Lord of my lands has attempted a blatant espionage to gain knowledge of your fortress. Elrond hoped to use Legolas as a source for this information, but I am pleased to report the venture was unsuccessful."

Thranduil gave a rude snort at this pronouncement, but Erestor ignored it and continued.

"As for myself, I wish I could claim no association with the plot, but to do so would be a lie. I am mortified to have to admit to you my full complicity, even in the damage wrought upon the Tawarwaith…"

The seneschal's speech was interrupted by the abrupt rise of Thranduil, livid in outrage, an impatient gesture of his hand underscoring his wrath.

"Enough! None of that is news to me, Noldo spy! You stand here and mouth these half-truths, thinking I am too dull to comprehend the real design behind this undertaking?

"I will have your full confession: Imladris seeks to provoke an uprising among my lands using this, this forest champion to rally my people against their King! Admit your Lord's avarice, Erestor! He seeks control of the Greenwood through manipulation of that depraved bastard he got with my former Queen!"

All eyes stared in disbelief at Thranduil as this shouted accusation reverberated within the confines of the small study. Talagan frowned, confused, for he had been under the impression his Lord now believed the outcast was truly his offspring. Likewise, Mithrandir found the outburst suspicious for according to Fearfaron Thranduil accepted his paternity. Aragorn and Radagast, while in the dark on that notion, nonetheless found the crude recrimination reprehensible.

Erestor winced at the reference to the likely parentage of the wild archer, for he still believed this himself and his guilt assailed him mercilessly. He had suspected this from the start, and had done nothing to stop Elrond from the sexual debasement of the feral warrior. Indeed, he had aided his Lord and done the same himself, playing the fallen elf's exhaustion and loneliness against him to take what he desired.

But ruling the Woodland Realm had never been a part of their scheme.

"I assure you, Thranduil, Elrond has no intention of extending his boundaries across the mountains!" chided Mithrandir.

"You wish to assure me?" scoffed Thranduil and directed a venomous glare upon the wizard. "Perhaps you are not in possession of all the facts just yet, Mithrandir. And how quickly you have forgotten your bond to my lands and Realm."

So speaking the King bent to unlock a drawer in the desk and rummaged about a moment before drawing forth a small rolled parchment. This he brandished in the air and then slapped it down on the table right in front of Erestor.

"Pick it up; tell me whose hand wrote that letter. Read it aloud to your colleagues," he said with vindictive glee. "For let me be the one to offer assurances to all of you, those words will be made known to every elven Realm upon Arda."

Thranduil sat again to enjoy the expression of horror that quickly began to cloud the seneschal's eyes, as Mithrandir rubbed his hand across his brow and Radagast got up to see for himself what the Sinda Lord had produced. Aragorn sought to rise also, and hurriedly Gandalf grabbed his arm to stop him, but this only fuelled the human's curiosity more and he pulled away to take a place on Erestor's left. Before the Man had done more than acknowledge the hand of his foster-father, a groan left the advisor's throat and he dropped back upon his seat in disbelief.

Without thinking, Erestor let Radagast take the scroll from his hand, and the Brown wizard opened it out as Aragorn crowded forward to peruse the document with him.

An inarticulate cry, a mixed outpouring of disgust and anguish fled the mortals' lips and he forcibly grabbed the paper from the Istar's fingers, shaking his head in futile denial. Soon his entire frame was racked with quaking as revulsion and dismay ran through his body in rippling contractions against the poison introduced by this unforeseen glimpse into the dark black pit that occupied the place where Elrond's heart belonged. With a sob he regained his chair, cast away the vile evidence, and covered his face in his hands.

"Ah, Valar!" he whispered as he wept, "Ada!"

"Please," the seneschal's voice was barely audible. "Tell me that Legolas has not read this."

Thranduil was astounded at the reactions his revelation of Elrond's baseness produced. His aim had indeed been Erestor, but never would he have imagined the Noldo's first response would be to inquire after the disinherited prince.

And the human was so overwrought that the King wondered if mortals could succumb to grief, feä rending from hroa to flee the obvious agony Elrond's foul descriptions had generated in the Man. As he watched, Mithrandir sought to comfort the mortal son of the mighty Elf Lord, but Aragorn refused to be consoled.

"Nay, the time has not proved propitious to inform him of his lover's true feelings concerning his worth," replied the King at length, "but I am sure that will change in the near future."

Erestor's relief was thus tempered with dread as he regarded Thranduil with repudiation.

"It serves no purpose to make him learn this!" intoned Aiwendil angrily. "Why punish him, for he is the one Elrond has sought to injure. Are you so eager to join the Noldo Lord's disgrace?"

"I am in no danger of that!" hissed Thranduil. "The sovereignty of my Realm has been compromised and the outcast made that possible. He put himself in this position. What are your thoughts, Mithrandir? Do you think Elrond should be spared his just condemnation in order to protect your bond-mate?"

The King's mocking tone drew Aragorn's sorrow-bowed head up and sent Erestor to his feet, backing quickly towards the sealed doorway as both Olórin and Aiwendil stood and filled the room with their majestic presence. Even Talagan receded from his usual spot at the King's shoulder in fear of the insulted Maiar.

"Be careful, son of Oropher!" growled Radagast and banged his staff upon the stone floor with a clash that shook the room, "for if your words are true you must prepare to welcome the ire of the Ainur!"

"You have exceeded the boundary of your status," Olórín added. "Perhaps a new leader for the Greenwood is not an outrageous concept."

In spite of his distress, Aragorn admired the Sinda's mettle, for he rose and faced the challenge boldly, daring the wizards to act against him, though a brief tremor ran through his arms as he pressed his palms upon the surface of the desk.

"You would defy the Valar you serve to interfere in what should to you be a paltry concern?" he said derisively. "Somehow I do not think so! I wonder if the Powers would sanction your bullying and threats against the rightful ruler of the Woodland Realm? I seem to recall you are sworn against such interference.

"What I may choose to do with this written testimony to Elrond's treachery is my own concern and no other's. How I deal with that degenerate perversion brought forth by Ningloriel is not for you to decide, Mithrandir, even if you have linked your essence with his. Rather than raising his esteem in my eyes, your entanglement has only served to debase the respect you formerly enjoyed.

"Both of them will be exposed; let the free peoples understand the deceits the noble house of Eärendil has committed!"

"Nay!" A horrendous cry issued from Aragorn's lungs and he leaped up, his red-rimmed eyes awash in tears now gleaming with unchecked fury as he snatched up the discarded parchment and leaned over the teak-scented wood of the forest Lord's desk.

"I am not foresworn!" He waved the scroll under the King's nose and then with defiant determination he ripped it in two and then in twain again, never letting his gaze falter from Thranduil's.

"Echil úmaer gwaur! Coth firin! [Unfit, dirty human! Mortal enemy!]" thundered Talagan at this brazen disrespect from the Man and his sword sang as he unsheathed its length and lunged forward.

Aragorn let the remains of the paper flutter from his hands as he spun to meet the challenge, kicking his chair into the captain's path and drawing forth his broadsword to counter the warrior's advance. The collision of the blades unleashed a disharmonious, unholy screech of metallic friction as the pealing toll of combat rang through the room.

"Baw! Far! [Do not! Enough!]" shouted Thranduil. "Daro, Talagan!" He side-stepped to dodge his captain's sword as it swept an arc through the air scant millimetres before his face and landed with a resounding crack upon the previously pristine polish of the finely crafted table.

As the soldier realised his error his attention diverted momentarily to his King and only elven reflexes saved him from a grievous wound to his side as Aragorn pressed forward.

The mortal let his fury fuel his muscles, knowing full well he could not win against this seasoned veteran yet compelled to continue, venting his anger and hurt upon the Sinda. He parried a powerful blow that sent him reeling back and stumbled, catching himself on the arm of a chair as he vaguely registered Erestor jumping out of the way of the spilling flames of an oil lamp shattered upon the rock hewn floor.

"Estel, this is madness!" shouted the seneschal as he tore off his tunic and used it to stifle the burning puddle. "Stop before we are all killed!"

Yet neither fighter heeded the orders and the confined space lent their duel no leeway for caution regarding the other occupants. The furniture was brutally abused as first Erestor and then Aiwendil were forced to use the elegant seating to fend off the sweep of the human's blade as he forced the captain back toward the hearth.

The next instant both warriors cried out in pain and threw their weapons down upon the stone, holding their hands away from them and staring upon their scalded, blistering palms. On the floor, lying amid the discarded scraps of paper, the blades were aglow as though newly pulled from the fires of forging. Then in a bright flare of yellow flame the fragments of Elrond's corrosive correspondence ignited, disintegrating into a plume of smoky ash.

All eyes turned to Gandalf.

"There now, perhaps we can all manage to be a bit more reasonable and polite," he said dryly. The Istar bent to right his dislodged armchair, pushing the horsehair stuffing back down where it was protruding from the deep slice Talagan's sword had bitten through the soft, supple leather. He sat down with casual nonchalance, as though nothing untoward had taken place.

Breathing hard under the exertion of the conflict and the searing of his hands, Aragorn could not help but break into a triumphant grin and a jovial chuckle. He leaned over and clapped the wizard soundly on the shoulder despite the burning sting across his fingers. He removed the broken-legged remains of his chair to the corner where the firewood was stacked, dragging another to take its place.

"Well done," he said to Gandalf, retrieving his cooling sword gingerly from the floor. He met Talagan's eyes as the elf also bent to reclaim his weapon, and the two froze a second. "And to you as well," the Man stated with a grim smile.

"Aye, worthy is your skill, for a Man," the captain graciously conceded. He refrained from meeting Thranduil's furious glare as he sheathed his sword and returned to the corner at his Lord's back.

With relieved sighs and a scraping of wood upon rock, Radagast and Erestor also calmed down and resumed their seats before the King's deeply scarred desk.

Only Thranduil kept to his feet, for he was anything but amused by this outburst and the manner in which it ceased. The situation had quickly escalated beyond his control and this he found unacceptable. The human had defied him, Talagan had ruined his study and nearly beheaded him, and the wizard had destroyed the tangible proof of Elrond's perfidious actions. His gaze fell upon Erestor and the light of triumph returned to his countenance.

_The seneschal shall bear witness against his Lord! By his own admission, he was party to all that transpired between Elrond and the outcast._

"Indeed, Mithrandir, your words are wise even if your actions are without precedent. All of this must be brought to light, but in an acceptable manner and within the proper forum.

"In two days time my Council is set to convene regarding the events of Erebor. As I have said, I believe the cause for the tragedies that day involves certain parties interested in creating havoc within my Realm.

"By his own hand, Elrond incriminated himself. Despite your attempts to eliminate this evidence, wizard, too many have already beheld it to deny its existence. And even were that not so, here is Erestor, acclaimed advisor and life-long colleague of Gil-Galad's Herald, who has already confirmed the truth of my claims. I shall of course require your candid repetition of these facts to my Counsellors, Erestor."

The dismayed glances the four friends shared restored the King's good humour; his hand was once more firmly wrapped around the throat of Elrond's reputation, ready to throttle the vital gleam from the Noldo's elevated esteem.

"Well, that is an unusual demonstration of reasonable and polite behaviour," mumbled Aragorn sardonically as he scowled up at the King.

"Indeed, you speak truthfully, for rather than consign you to my dungeons and the torments of the eternal darkness there, I am graciously offering you both the opportunity to explain your homeland's invasive, covert activities upon mine," snapped Thranduil.

Abruptly his discourse stopped as his whole frame tensed, his eyes flashing as his countenance blanched and then flooded with colour. He fairly leaped over the table and, unbolting the door, threw it back upon its hinges and raced from the study.

Meril had not the ability to far-speak, nor did she require the gift to call her mate to her side. Thranduil had keenly felt her alarmed distress for their newborn and drew his dagger as he took the stairs in threes and fours to reach his infant son.

Tbc


	52. Chapter 52

**Dregad Trihant [Flight Through the Garden]**

His heart was racing again even as his feet flew soundlessly down the incised stone steps in the steep rock wall of the mountain fortress, pumping four beats at least for every tread his bare toes touched. Legolas expected to feel the pounding vibrations of Thranduil's boots crossing the floor of the open balcony and listened with elevated trepidation, hoping to make the ground before this occurred, anticipating the heavy weight of an angry father's grasping hand upon his shoulder any moment. Knowing the depth of Thranduil's love and pride in his newborn only made the inevitability of pursuing the intruder more certain, thus when the sound did not come Legolas grew even more fearful for the fate the King might seek to apportion out for so serious an infraction.

He trained his sensitive hearing upon the garden below. Had there been time for guards to be alerted? Were they waiting for him there?

_Surely not, unless Thranduil knew what I was about, and that could not be._, Legolas tried to reason logically with himself but found he was tensed as if about to step weaponless into an encampment of Orcs.

Legolas leaped the last few meters to the pathway and ignored the piercing intensity of agony lancing through his injured limb upon impacting the earth, speeding away with perhaps a bit less than his usual agility. He knew this garden well and hoped that Thranduil was as averse to roaming its sheltered by-ways now as he had been all the years that the fallen archer had dwelt within the stronghold. For one familiar with the terrain, here was ample space to elude capture and find an obscured entrance back into the fortress or out into the courtyard, and other than Ningloriel no one was more certain of the landscape's layout than he.

Ignoring the delicate perfume of honeysuckle mixed with rose attar, Legolas did not pause to appreciate the changing collections of flora within the wide tract of open land encircling the fortress. Remaining well back from the sandstone masonry protecting the haven from the bustle and dust of the barracks and stables, Legolas sought the interior of the manicured groves and artificial glades. He headed straight for the maze, a cleverly constructed topiary emblem of his mother's name, formed by carefully training a tall hedge of evergreen yew, and darted between the concealing boughs.

At the exit he did not slow to gape at the bedded blossoms dappling the luxuriant green carpet starred with pale blue periwinkle like constellations in a moonless night. Did anyone save him recall that the careful placement of these beds did actually represent the position of the stars on the day of his mother's conception? The realisation that there was no similar commemoration of his own creation stung more than his healing thigh.

His swift passage did not prevent him from wondering at the hours Ningloriel must have spent coaxing the unyielding earth into nourishing the incredible variety of plant life around him. Strolling through the paradise she had created was like journeying to foreign realms, for she had imported and transplanted all manner of exotic flora, replicating the natural environment in which the species thrived as closely as possible. As an elfling, Legolas had adored this place, and it was within the security of the enclosed stone walls of Ningloriel's utopia that he had first learned of and yearned to see other realms and distant lands beyond the Greenwood's trees.

He had no time to sample these memories now, yet that did not disallow the flash of comparison between the centuries of care tendered to the plants and the same centuries of indifference to his own nurturing.

He crossed a bamboo bridge that seemed to float centimetres above the gurgling surface of a narrow brook, remembering how his curiosity for understanding what held it up cost him a drenching in the cold water. He had been so small then, but had dived in to discover that the slender, hollow reeds were supported by finely spun hithlain threads from which the bridge was suspended at either end.

The flow itself was formed by diverting a portion of the stronghold's water supply through a hidden sluice amid a wild tangle of blueberry stalks. It was impossible to see the small aqueduct without knowing where to look, but Legolas was well aware of it and veered towards the outlet, following to its origin in the body of the mountainside.

The grounds declined along the mountain such that this part of the garden was terraced and dropped below the level of the main gate by the stronghold's courtyard. Here there was a small grotto delved by the welling waters beneath the stone and the little spring had formed a deep silver pool from which the household drew the day's requirements for cooking and bathing and washing up. The rear of the small cave had a stepway that led within to the scullery and thus to the kitchens. And on these steps Legolas at last halted and sat down, for he was out of breath and far sorer than he would have liked, and he was fairly certain he had averted capture at least for the moment.

He breathed and listened to his thumping heart as it slowly calmed and wondered at his uneventful traverse of the gardens, for he had been certain that Meril would divulge his visit and his accusing words to her husband.

_At least she will not speak of Lindalcon's part, and he will have only her displeasure to endure rather than the severity of a thrashing or a stint in some black pit underground._

Legolas shivered just to think of it, but he had decided even before enlisting the younger elf's help that he would not allow Thranduil to imprison Lindalcon should his part in the adventure be found out. Dark demons or no, he would go in the dungeons to free Lindalcon if required.

_As yet it may be, if Gwilith talks of this to the King!_ he suddenly realised and abruptly stood up, yearning to know what Thranduil was doing and assure himself that his younger brother was not in any danger.

Just before he was to dash back into the stronghold and find Lindalcon reason asserted itself and he regained his composure. Meril would never allow her husband to lock away her child in a cell, regardless of how much she loved Thranduil. Legolas drew a deep lungful and sat back down, finding himself a little shaky and terribly tired.

But a minute had he been seated when footfalls alerted him to an elf's approach, though these did not mimic the hastening thunder of searching guards or the furious staccato of Thranduil's wrath. Instead, the barely discernible patter spoke of feet clothed in thin leather slippers and indeed they brought in a female water-bearer, stone jar balanced upon the crown of her head. She froze upon the landing with an expression of nervous disbelief rounding her golden eyes to impossible dimensions. Legolas looked over his shoulder to meet her astonished gaze and exhaled a weary sigh.

"Nenvylliel [water-bearer maiden], go and find Fearfaron, tell him I am here," he said quietly as he rose and reached for the huge jug. Silently she relinquished it and watched as he descended to fill it then carried the brimming burden back and lifted it up for her. She stooped a bit to aid in placing it more securely and then straightened and turned to regain the inner caves, leaping up the steps as though she bore no weight upon her neck at all.

Legolas ascended to the small triangular turning in the stairs and sat again, stretching his aching leg out and down the three steps below it. He reclined on his elbows to take the pressure off his side and let the back of his head drop to the stone behind him between his hunched shoulders. He shut his eyes rather than stare at the disconcerting image of the inverted passageway and listened to the activity of the staff in the chambers above.

A lot of loud whispering and scurrying around attested to the water-maiden's rapid dissemination of her news, but this disruption in the night's tasks was more overtly proclaimed by the eventual silence that descended over the generally talkative folk of the stronghold's staff.

Footsteps again, a double set this time, very faint, excruciatingly hesitant, and punctuated by an audibly whispered "Bado bo! [Go on!]", made Legolas smile slightly as the chosen emissary of the curious descended ever so slowly. He waited and did not open his eyes.

Four steps above his head the elf stopped, and then the sound of earthenware utensils gently contacting the stone as they were set down met his hearing, followed by an energetic rustle of fabric as the visitor retreated.

_But not too far!_ Legolas thought and his grin grew larger. He raised his lids a minuscule portion in time to see a small chestnut crowned upside down head peer around the turning of the stairs, enough for the elfling's eyes to see the Tawarwaith, and then pull back again with another resounding murmur to his comrade: " Úrinc ho!" [He does not move!]

Legolas chuckled and turned on his good side, still propping his body up on his elbow, and righted his vision to see there upon the step a mug next to a plate with two generous slices of honey-coated yeast bread. He pulled himself up beside this offering and leaned against the stone wall, for as everywhere in the stronghold this utilitarian stairway was but little more than a wide rounded chute with footholds.

The smell of the syrup-saturated bread made him realise he was very hungry, having skipped luncheon and dinner, and he consumed the simple repast in haste, gulping down the mug's contents before registering that it was not water but wine he had been given. Legolas gave an appreciative exhale and lifted the mug and his gaze up toward the top of the stairs, where the elfling's face retracted immediately behind the barrier of the curved stone.

"Hannad!" [Thanks!] he called softly and wiggled the cup in the air. "Ananta, alfar! Adpartho, saes!" [But yet, not enough! Refill, please!] A flurry of hushed arguing followed this command.

"Man cerim?" [What do we do?]

"Adpathram, hand'wathren!" [We refill it, dim-wit!]

"Bedich ten toltho!" [You go fetch it!]

"Nay, bedin medui!" [No, I went last time!]

"Grogach!" [You are terrified!]

"Aye!"

"Úveren!" [Coward!]

"Avbedo sen, Cemendur!" [Do not say this, Cemendur!]

"Baw!" the Tawarwaith's quietly distinct rebuke interrupted them. "My thirst is not so great as to warrant such discord between brothers!" He rose and climbed the stairs to confront them, for the utterance of that name struck a chord in his heart and he wanted very much to see these two more clearly. The elflings, however, could not bear the idea of facing the forest champion, yellow pyjamas notwithstanding, and with dismayed gasps bolted up the stairs and out of reach.

"Ai! Watch where you are going, young imps!" a familiar voice scolded the retreating elves and soon the carpenter was at the top of the steps to greet Legolas as he emerged from the dark stairwell, cup and dish in hand. He bent awkwardly to set them on the floor and then gave an apologetic smile as he straightened, waiting for his foster-father's reaction.

Fearfaron did not know if he wanted to hug Legolas or cuff him soundly for causing so much worry among his friends, but of course it was not really a debate and he swept his adopted son into his relieved arms and pressed him against his chest tightly.

"Please do not do that again! I feared for you! Have you no concern for a father's heart?" he admonished quietly, gently caressing the head of golden hair leaning upon his shoulder.

"I am sorry, Ada, but I had to see Taurant," Legolas said, knowing this would only make Fearfaron's concerns grow, yet he had no wish to hide the truth now that it was done. He felt the Spirit-hunter stiffen and simultaneously push him out at arms' length, searching his eyes, and the archer let him see for himself how important this event had been.

Fearfaron sighed and drew Legolas close again, resting his chin on the crown of the warrior's head as he rubbed his back consolingly. He was relieved the wild elf no longer worried he was the product of his mother's dalliance with Malthen, but the ferocity with which the archer claimed his new siblings was almost as extreme as his grief had been. Once more his love for another would result in harm to himself, if he continued in this manner, yet the carpenter was not sure how to change this.

It would be pointless to harangue the Tawarwaith for his rash behaviour, for what had transpired could not be changed, and Fearfaron understood that even were this possible to achieve Legolas would never allow it. Whatever the price demanded, he would count it as nothing compared to the opportunity of seeing the child.

"I have no idea what will happen now; Meril found me out. I tried to talk to her, but I do not know what impact my words may have." Legolas said calmly but gripped his father's waist tighter as he spoke.

"Valar! I have a fairly concrete notion of what will result, and it is not good! On top of that, Talagan returned with Aiwendil and the Noldo Lord from Imladris. Thranduil is treating him like a guest and Aragorn and Mithrandir are with them now also. The King is not likely to be in good humour and Meril will tell him of your folly!"

"What Noldo Lord?" asked Legolas, terrified and shocked into rigid tension, dreading to know which one of the pair would be so bold as to follow him into the heart of the Woodland Realm.

"It is Erestor." Fearfaron felt Legolas relax and shift and he released him, taking the archer's arm in hand, but Legolas would not meet his eyes.

"I must leave here," he said very quietly. "I want to go to our talan now, please? I do not wish to have to see him."

"That plan I do approve! I do not think it can cause harm to leave now since we would have gone in the morning anyway."

He did not add that before minuial there might be orders to prevent them from doing so, given Legolas' impetuous trespass upon the nursery of the newborn prince. He led his adopted son away, noting with concern that the archer was favouring the injured leg again and unconsciously let his arm wrap around his sore side. And still he would not face him. These were not things to address here in the pantries, however, unless Fearfaron wanted the entire Woodland Realm to know within the hour what they discussed.

They ascended to ground level via the servants' stairs amid the kitchen elves' silent gawking and rapidly averted eyes and Fearfaron hastened their pace to the more formal and thus less populated halls. His goal was to reach the Council Chamber and the open archways there, thus avoiding crossing the barracks and the possibility of encountering Malthen.

Yet they did not succeed in their departure for the passage was quite suddenly blocked as Talagan ran from a room just ahead and on their right, sword drawn, following his King's footsteps to aid if he might. He halted as he nearly skewered the carpenter and Legolas responded by shoving Fearfaron behind him and scowling up at his old captain. The two warriors glared in silence for half a heart beat.

"I am sure you did not mean to threaten an unarmed citizen of the Greenwood!" snapped the Tawarwaith.

"And I am equally certain that whatever is going on to cause Thranduil to bolt from an important meeting, dagger in hand, has something to do with you!" countered Talagan and allowed the point of his sword to tap his prized sniper's breastbone lightly.

"I am not responsible for his behaviour!" shouted Legolas, though he had a fairly good idea of what had prompted Thranduil's action, and swept the blade away, neither feeling nor caring about the narrow gash the sharp steel bit into his palm.

"Nay, Legolas!" cried Fearfaron and pulled back on the archer's arm strongly, fearful as the dark trickle of scarlet dripped to the floor.

"Enough of this!" Aiwendil stepped out from the doorway. "What fool put a sword at your side yet did not teach you when to wield it?" this insult was followed by a sudden burst of energy as he cracked the gnarled bulbous end of his tall beech-wood staff into the back of Talagan's skull. The veteran warrior toppled over without a sound as his sword made a clanging crash, loudly echoing as the metal impacted the polished granite floor.

Legolas stared with mouth agape as Aragorn hurried over and knelt at the captain's side, feeling his neck for a pulse. Mithrandir left the study and ambled over to Radagast, an amused twinkle in his dark eyes as he arched his bushy brows in mock censure of his fellow Istar's loss of control.

Aiwendil ignored the teasing; he had borne no love for Talagan before, knowing his part in the Judgement, and this day's events only exacerbated his dislike. Mild of mien the Bird-lover might be, but it had been a long journey and he had as yet been offered nothing but a cup of wine. Thanks to the captain's short temper, most of that was now all over his long walnut coloured robes rather than soothingly warming him from inside out.

Behind them Erestor stood in the doorway and held his breath to learn if the warrior lived, suddenly much more appreciative of the Brown wizard's restraint in the use of that stout pike over the last few days.

"He has a concussion, I am certain, but I do not think any permanent damage will result. He will awaken with a most unpleasant headache!" Aragorn said without too much sympathy as he glanced up at Legolas and stood. "I daresay he spoke something akin to the truth, though," he added with a tone of disparagement to the wild archer. "The whole day we have been searching for your whereabouts!"

Legolas did not answer, nor did he really hear the Man's complaint, for his eyes had found those of Erestor and while he wanted to say something he simply could not find adequate words that were fit to speak. It was all too mixed up to sort into any coherent phrases.

He was absolutely enraged at the Noldo for hiding the truth and aiding Elrond, furious for being lied to and used, outraged to have been handled and groped, fucked and sucked. Ashamed that this elf knew every inch of him, inside and out, humiliated to have so readily allowed it, and utterly mortified that everyone present was aware of all these private things. Yet he could not deny that he had encouraged and enjoyed it, had even felt a deep sense of gratitude for the tenderness and acceptance Berenaur had shown him. How was he to reconcile guilt with joy, indignant wrath with humiliated shame?

How would he ever be able to call this elf Erestor?

"Forgive me, Pen-rhovan!" whispered the seneschal and turned away from those azure irises that served as mirrors of his besmirched character and low repute. It was so much worse than he had thought, for he had debated whether Legolas would attack him on the spot or collapse from the torment of his shattered soul, but had not envisioned this stunned and empty expression upon the wild elf's face. It did not look as though there was any spirit at all in those eyes, and Erestor, who had seen fading before, could not bear to observe evidence of it here.

The archer could not really recall how the awful confrontation ended, for he was lost in the daze of his conflicted heart, reliving the experiences he shared with the Noldor, trying to find a way to make it a reality he might endure without wanting both to kill and to die. He only realised that Fearfaron had steered him away when the carpenter shut the door to the humble quarters the King had granted them and was guiding him to the bed. With a shudder he returned from his despairing fugue and looked about in frustrated confusion.

"I thought we were leaving here!" he wailed and in a near panic tried to get back to the door, but Fearfaron held him firm and pulled him into a tight embrace again.

"Nay, Legolas, we cannot go now. You did not notice, but the clamour aroused the household and several warriors were called. They were only reluctant to lay hands on us due to the presence of the wizards and the direction of Iarwain.

"Try to understand, Talagan is their captain, and you alone have reason to bear him a grudge. They believe you are responsible for his injury, despite Aiwendil's claims to the contrary! Until the warrior wakes and names his attacker, we are all to remain!"

Legolas stopped struggling and sighed in exhausted capitulation. Of course they would think him responsible, and Fearfaron would never leave without him, nor Aragorn or the wizards, and he supposed Bere- Erestor was really under house arrest despite the pretence of hospitality. Thus they all must stay within this suffocating cloister until the Council convened. He let himself be helped under the covers and as before Fearfaron climbed up beside him and gathered him to rest against his heart.

"Tell me what happened," said Legolas.

"Ah! It was a sight I am sure! Three guards, swords drawn and ready, ran in from one side of the fortress while the counsellors arrived from the other! I know not who gave the alarm. No doubt everyone's meal was interrupted and soon the hall was absolutely packed!

"Aragorn cursed something quite vile, in Dwarvish I think, and unsheathed his broadsword also, blocking them from reaching us. Then Erestor dashed inside the study and I thought he was off to hide himself in safety, but he raced back out, armed with a most impressive sabre of his own, and shouted 'An Damand ar Gondolin!' [For Damand and Gondolin!] as he took his place beside the Man!

"That cleared out all the lookers-on quite effectively!

"Aiwendil tried to calm everyone down and explain, for Iarwain and his associates were shouting at the warriors to put up their weapons, who were yelling back that they would do so only when the Imladrians did. Mithrandir made no move at all, but kept his eye on you the whole time. He was as worried over your lack of responsiveness as I was!

"Gladhadithen made her usual timely entrance and instructed the guards to carry Talagan to the healing house and for me to put you to bed. She ordered Erestor to go bathe, Aragorn to find him rooms, and the counsellors she shooed back to their dusty chambers to finish their dinner! The wizards she commanded to find food and drink for you, for she pronounced you in shock and exhausted.

"And as always, everyone obeyed her without question or argument! It is difficult to disrespect the wishes of someone who has saved your life or that of a loved one!"

Legolas relaxed as his adopted father retold the events, and agreed with his explanation of the healer's gift for getting her way. With spider venom and Orcs' poisoned weapons as never ending threats, she had probably treated everyone in the Greenwood at one time or other.

He vaguely remembered the scenes detailed for him, but as though he had watched from some distance rather than caught in the centre of the turmoil. He smiled a little, not because he found the description amusing but because this was not what he had wanted to know.

"I meant, what happened during this important meeting from which the King fled?"

Fearfaron was silent a moment and then the two shared a small grin at the misunderstanding.

"Well now, as to that, I have no knowledge! I was not invited and felt it best to keep searching for you!"

A knock on the door preceded the entrance of Radagast and Gandalf, staffs tucked awkwardly under their arms creating a stilted hesitance in their movements. The former bore a tall pitcher and a tray of mugs and the latter carried in a platter heaped with an assortment of bread and fruit.

Fearfaron got up to help, clearing everything from the bedside table and placing the food there as Mithrandir took both sturdy canes and leaned them carefully against the wall in the corner.

Aiwendil just set his burdens upon the floor and leaned over to embrace Legolas and beg his forgiveness for not intervening, for failing to decipher the subterfuge of the elves' false identities, for trusting Erestor to keep him safe.

Legolas was too drained to feel any more anger this day and merely nodded his acceptance of these explanations, face pressed down into the soft woollen cloth of the Maia's nut coloured robes.

Fearfaron reclaimed his place and firmly disengaged the Tawarwaith from the Brown wizard. If the Istar found this an affront it was not apparent and he sat at the foot of the bed perched on the edge of the mattress. Gandalf took the armchair still situated by the bedside and helped himself to a plum from the plate.

"Where were you?" he demanded sternly but quietly, sending his most daunting scowl from under severely creased and puckered grey brows.

Legolas snorted at that, for Mithrandir had not the power to frighten him when the wild elf knew his heart so well, and shared an unimpressed smirk with his foster-father. Fearfaron's serious countenance returned him to a more sober disposition at once, however.

"Aye, he has done something very foolish and how we will get him out of this one I know not!" the carpenter answered the wizard as Legolas uttered a cry of disbelief.

"Nay, not foolish!" he protested vehemently.

Before the story could be told the door was thrown back and Lindalcon burst in, out of breath and wild-eyed, and slammed the heavy oaken barrier behind him so hard he winced from the shock to his ears while Fearfaron and Legolas covered theirs.

"Naneth has betrayed us!" he warned as he threw the bolt. "The Council will convene at dawn and Legolas is charged with attempting to harm the babe as well as striking down Talagan while trying to escape!"

And then he could not hold back the anguish wrought of Meril's deceit and rushed to fling himself into Legolas' accepting arms as his grief poured out in tears and noisy sobs.

Tbc


	53. Chapter 53

A/N: Originally, this consisted of three chapters, due entirely to inability to get it to post anywhere in full. Here it is as it was intended to be, for all of this happens at once on the same day. My apologies to readers forced to read it in parts when it initially posted elsewhere.

**Govadel o Erebor [Council of Erebor]**

Not since the Herald of the High King had called for the aid of the Danwaith at the Last Alliance of Elves and Men had so many of the Greenwood's elusive, unobtrusive inhabitants collected at the locus of their Council's authority. Long before Thranduil had built his fortress here, Orod Im'elaidh [the Mountain Amid the Trees], brother to Orod Ereb on the plains of Erebor [the Lonely Mountain], had served as the meeting place for the Elders among the forest people. At the feet of the green-skirted peak, the shy Sylvans met whenever troubles befell them.

Whether the trials were as simple to correct as a dispute over where a neighbour might locate a talan or as unfathomable as the Dark origin of Orcs, the forest children had come to regard this site as their seat of wisdom and the centrepoint of their community.

They came now to learn the fate of their champion, for word of the new accusations had raved through the branches like a gale of warning before a storm, not in any agitation of the trees but rather a rush of voices passing the scandalous news from flet to talan. If the claims were true then their Tawarwaith was false and what hope could remain if the defender of the forest could be the bane of their prince? Should the opposite come to light, then what of the heart of their King?

Dissension among the people was widespread for some recalled that until they accepted a King no Wood Elf had gone to war since Denethor and his folk perished in the First Age. Others contended that without the Sindar's wealth no forces could be equipped to hold back the swelling cyst of the Shadow's purulence from the East. Whatever the outcome, the Sylvan folk hoped the Elders would reveal this dissonant chord in the Music of their woodwind world as the counterpoint to a theme of such magnificence that all of Arda, and Eru himself, would turn in wonder to hear the voice of Tawar.

Excepting warriors bound for patrol every Wood Elf was present within the city at dawn's arrival and a great number of them were pressed inside the Council Chamber. So closely were they fitted that dignity and modesty were summarily shoved to the backside of awareness as neighbours stood fronts against backs, shoulders rubbing, and the slightest shift displaced elbows into ribs, heels upon toes, and swaying locks against cheek and chin. Only a small semicircle of open space remained ringing the dais where the relevant parties were collected before the Woodland King.

The heat generated from too many bodies in contact with one another added to the unbearably, albeit predictable, sweltering temperature of the humid air everyone was attempting to breathe. Had the room not been open to the courtyard beyond, more than a few eldar would have eventually succumbed to a dwindling supply of oxygen and lost consciousness.

The breezeless atmosphere did little to ease the discomfort of the remainder of the Woodland folk crammed in the surroundings outside the formal hall. The dense earth of the outer courtyard, compacted by centuries of the weightless tread of elven feet, was obscured beneath hundreds of those very feet. The limbs of the surrounding trees were bent with the burden of Eru's Children, sturdy talans threatened to give way, the pathways and the branchways were unpassable, the barracks grounds and the stableyard, all were clogged with the citizenry. Only Ningloriel's walled garden and the Sentinel escaped occupation.

Yet despite this uncountable multitude the forest was utterly quiet.

The invocation was spoken, two in fact. One by Iarwain, traditional and known by rote to all who regularly attended these enclaves, and another by Mithrandir that no one could recall ever having heard before this day. And that was true for there were none among them, neither Sindar, Noldor, or Sylvan, who had ever been to Tirion and listened to the Litany of Iluvatar sung from Mindon Eldalië at tindómë. As Gandalf prayed the timeless praises Aiwendil droned a most unsettling chant no one could interpret in tones so deep the vibrations were felt across the skin and in the core of the soul rather than heard within the inner ear.

As the final overtone of this mysterious and foreboding sound died away, the Istari simultaneously thudded the blunt bases of their staffs severely upon the bare stone floor and the hollowed mountain rang with a clear, subterranean echo like the toll of a tremendous bell sounding somewhere in the depths. Silence followed, so complete that the beating of hearts was audible to sensitive elven ears, and all attention fixed upon the Ainur.

Majestic, transcendent, imposing and wise; these humble servants of the Valar were among the mighty upon Arda and thus were they revealed in this moment. To the Wood Elves, who had never seen the Powers, the two appeared glorious and omnipotent.

No longer was Radagast merely a simple charmer of birds clad in rough homespun garb. Instead Aiwendil stood before them transfigured, his mild eye now keen and hawkish, his gnarled fingers as talons sharp and fell, his kindly face bold and cunning as any raptor in flight.

The Grey Wanderer was vanished and in his place they beheld Olórin the disciple of Irmo, a dream-spirit clothed in glowing incalescence instead of drab and misty robes. His hair and beard fell about him like a flow of molten antimony yet to cool, his dark eyes seemed to draw the souls of those that dared gaze therein, and from his hands a fiery haze of his vital essence spilled and coalesced around his shimmering form.

Long tendrils of this visible ether stretched forth searchingly into the room, broke free into curls of glitter and spun away to seek the Tawarwaith, to be assimilated immediately upon touching him.

Then, gusting through the open arches, a sudden draught swirled about the high domed cavern, extinguished the flaming lamps and caught up a sheaf of parchments, dancing them in a whirlwind round the disconcerted elves. A few murmured anxious whispers to each other and one spoke aloud the name Sulimo in dread.

Out over the floodplain of the Anduin, the disk of the sun separated from the cold, dark line at the join of earth and air and hung exposed above the rim of Arda, freely shedding her warm, irradiant splendour.

Through a breach in the canopy and into the Chamber of Starlight shot a single slender shaft of rich golden gleam. Arien's finger paused momentarily to point out the Tawarwaith, bathing his simple suede garments in a glow of creamy orange light, passing through his unruly hair until the heavy strands glinted in gilded glory, illuminating the pale skin of his fair visage with a faintly roseate glow.

Then the narrow beam of radiance tapped into a prismatic crystal of calcite and divided, exiting as a truly iridescent rainbow. Anor painted the room in a spectrum of hues seldom seen in nature, so vibrant were the colours, stealing gasps of delight and awe from the assembly before vanishing behind the shadow of the clouds and the leaf-fingered hands of the trees.

Thus was the Council of Erebor begun.

The King presided from his customary place upon the dais. Less than a throne but more than a chair, the seat was crafted of golden oak and carved with the names of all his ancestors, both on his paternal and his maternal sides. The seasoned wood also displayed runes marking spells of power and drafting a future in a scatter of stars adorning the seat's back, the bearings of the constellations at Thranduil's birth.

More than the positions held by the stars visible now, these configurations included the gifts of Varda none could see behind the bright glare of Anor, even in the dark of Ithil's absence in the blackest corner of night's hours. But Thranduil was not impressed with such signs and divinations, and had never cared to ask about the predictions in the patterns.

Yet even the sceptical Sinda Lord could not ignore the dominant presence of the Ainur and the sanction of the Valar they brought to this forum.

Though these were his lands and he the only elven King left on Arda, Thranduil appeared before the gathered folk not in formal state attire but the gear of a warrior prepared to defend his homeland. Chestnut brown were the leggings he wore and his tunic was emerald green, sleeveless over a silk shirt cast in blue as pale as frost, the colours of the Woodland Realm.

Tall leather boots encased his long legs up to the thigh and a jerkin protected his vital organs; the armour much scarred and abused over uncounted sorties against the enemies of his House, both in Beleriand and the Greenwood. About his waist was belted the blade of Dior, a relic for which he had traded with Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, relinquishing much wealth to possess the weapon. Unlike Oropher, Thranduil was a swordsman and scorned the quiver and bow, and other than the deadly antique carried only a curved dagger sheathed where his right hand might easily find it.

No crown adorned his head and his long locks were bound back in the manner of the Sindar rather than the Sylvan elves, gathered in two perfectly equivalent four-part braids that fell over his shoulders and down his back. He did not need finery to proclaim his noble heritage and despite his love for jewels none adorned his person.

The King of the Wood Elves adjusted his posture with regal restraint and gazed upon the crowd, noting where each of the key participants in the day's proceedings was situated, and let his vision linger first upon his illustrious guests.

In an alcove between two pillars were Aragorn and Erestor of Imladris, standing with their backs to the King as they watched and waited upon the Istari's next move. Occasionally one would lean near the other and quietly mumble something in Quenya that they undoubtedly imagined no one here would understand, other than the wizards. They were dressed simply in the rugged clothes they had worn into the realm, though the garments were now clean and neat. Each carried their swords at their sides and rested a hand casually upon the hilt, and the Man had also a leather jerkin with battle scars enough to rival the King's.

Erestor's lengthy ink-black tresses were tamed in Noldor style; two long tendrils on either side of his serious face were wrapped, from cheekbone to an inch above their ends, in the tri-coloured ribbons of Imladris. Upon his back three braids lay thick and heavy against his spine, each tied off with a single ribbon: one of sea-green, one of clear white, and one of darkened red, leaving a thick two-inch tassel below. Though his was so much shorter, resting just below his shoulders, Aragorn's hair was worn exactly the same.

The seneschal's head turned ever to his left. As a father watching over elflings at play in the forest so his attention hovered there. _Or a lover jealously minding his conquest._ Thranduil tracked the line of his sight to the source of this interest and tensed just slightly when the flash of the Tawarwaith's eyes met his for a half second, and the King withdrew from the icy blue rage.

On the opposite side of the room and between equally substantial pillars, Talagan and his lieutenant flanked, but did not touch, the accused. The King allowed his vision to loiter on his captain briefly and then beyond this stalwart presence. Behind him and packed all the way back against the inner walls were the remainder of the archer's company from Erebor, and indeed all the warriors in the city were jammed along this side of the chamber, and Maltahondo was among them.

_'Maltahondo has had him, too.'_ Elrond's words ran through Thranduil's mind as he raked the guardsman over, wondering if this was true or another of the Noldo's lies. The warrior did not know he was being observed for his regard was focused elsewhere, and the Sinda Lord flicked his glance upon the object of this scrutiny and let it stay, for the fallen archer was once more the centre of contemplation. _Truth, then!_

Legolas was aware the guardsman was there; how could he not be? Yet the outcast refused to turn his gaze over his shoulder no matter how strong the sense of the warrior's eyes running over him grew. Instead Legolas kept his sights turned to Fearfaron and Lindalcon where they stood with the Counsellors near the centre of the room, for neither could he bear to look ahead and meet the guilt-laden stare of Erestor.

The clothing Fearfaron had ordered for his foster-son was simply designed but well made, and the kindly craftsman had been surprised when the tailor had volunteered a more expensive fabric and then refused to accept payment. His reasons centred on his daughter's tale of the Battle against the Orcs, for she was a warrior under Talagan's command and also a devotee of Tawar, and fervently believed Legolas was chosen to release the Greenwood from Shadow.

Thus Legolas faced his fate in soft woollen leggings tinted as black as the Noldo's hair and a short, sleeveless tunic of undyed buckskin. Beneath was a fine linen shirt in blue almost the colour of his eyes, collarless and uncuffed with long sleeves that flared slightly at the wrist. Upon his feet he wore soft leather shoes instead of boots and a black leather belt closed the tunic about his slender waist. As the accused, he was not allowed his weapons.

Legolas had put these garments on with great relief, for he had dreaded to attend the solemn trial in the yellow silk sleeping clothes. He had fought his unruly tangle of a mane into reasonably respectable confinement, gathering up the handfuls of the twisted locks that hung about his face and securing them back with a leather tie. Within a prominent side-lock draped against his chest the eagle's feather proclaimed him a warrior of the wilds, a member of a community these tamer folk could but faintly glimpse.

It was somehow an odd juxtaposition, the comely clothes of elvish design upon the primitive Tawarwaith, a savage incongruously clothed in silk. Thranduil's eyes narrowed as he scanned his disinherited prince. The sense of uneasiness he felt gazing at the figure before him was more than the result of tangled tresses decorated in eagle's plumage. Even if he were arrayed as every other warrior here, hair braided back in traditional format, denuded of the single feather, even then this elf would still stand out among the others, for it was what moved in the depths of his soul that set him apart.

_He does not look like an outcast._ Instead the elf looked as though he had somehow traded in a lesser title and minor office for greater nobility and a place amid heroes and legends. _Something more than the carpenter has adopted him._ He held himself with understated dignity and an intensity of purpose that was at least as uncompromising as Thranduil's.

The Tawarwaith's dilated cobalt eyes pivoted to challenge his examiner; the feä within this resilient and resourceful elda, looking aeons ancient instead of scarcely an Age upon Arda, stared deeply into the King's. Legolas did not avert his gaze from Thranduil; indeed he seemed to be trying to force the Woodland Lord to acknowledge him.

A soft nondescript sort of snort gave the King the excuse he craved to break the defiant, and somehow strangely pleading, glare as he shifted his frowning countenance to the Councillors and found the eldest Elder regarding him with sardonic mirth. Iarwain had noticed with some amusement that it was Thranduil who could not endure the Tawarwaith's scrutiny, rather than the indicted being cowed by the might of the King.

Iarwain stood before the Sinda ruler, first in the ranks of his councillors, imbued with all the status granted by over ten thousand loa of walking the branchways of the Greenwood. He was dressed in elegance by the standards of the Sylvan folk, with formal robes of thick jacquard satin the colour of birch leaves in autumn. A long linen surplice of snowy white was draped about his shoulders and upon this was embroidered a scene depicting his legendary encounter with Oromë at Cuiviénen.

Directly at the Elder's back the remaining five Councillors clustered, dressed less ornately but no less formally than their revered colleague. Upon each of these waited their respective apprentices, excited to be part of such auspicious proceedings while trying not to betray it. Behind and to Iarwain's left were the Istari while Fearfaron and Lindalcon stood upon his right.

The youthful face of Valtamar's son was pale and haggard, and painful to behold was the incongruous mixture of despairing grief upon features yet so fresh with the innocence of childhood. His brown eyes shown no more with the clear brilliance of wonder and delight in all the world offered but held instead a mature awareness of the marring of what was meant to be good and the thwarting of that which began straight and true. His Coll o Gweth [Coming of Age] might be three years hence by counting, but he had shed the last of his nescience in the early hours of the previous night.

After leaving the nursery with Gwilith, it had required levels of self-control he had not known he possessed to concentrate his attention on his little sister while his heart was wild with worry for Legolas' well-being during the confrontation with Meril. Lindalcon served the child tea and cleaned it up, and when the bath was filled supervised her toilette and washed her hair for her.

Gwilith had recently discovered, upon inquisitive scrutiny of Taurant while Naneth was bathing him, that her body was not the same, and learned that she was inu [female] and Taurant was anu [male]. She had decided to ask Lindalcon for details about the specifics of his physique. Upon realising this caused her big brother some discomfort, she naturally expanded her interrogation with an unending series of 'why's' and a whole roster of elves she wanted categorised by appendages or lack thereof, and the ensuing discussion of gender distracted him for a time.

Then it was bedtime and Gwilith was verily inconsolable that neither Ada nor Nana came to tuck her in, and so settled for Lindalcon, demanding an extra story, three renditions of the Tengwar song, and a peek out the balcony to make sure Ithil was there watching over her home. At last the elfling's eyes sought the inner planes of gentle reverie, which Lindalcon knew were as yet filled only with memories of her waking hours, for but recently had Gwilith reached the age where her eyes remained open during rest.

With the child asleep he could bear the suspense no longer and decided to use Legolas' method of moving unseen through the stronghold, easily discovering the entrance to his sister's escape chute beneath a cabinet in the bathing room. Legolas' silver lantern in hand, Lindalcon lowered himself into the cramped conduit and edged cautiously along the narrow tube. He came to a connecting tunnel and instantly saw the signs of recent use in the clean track swept through the fine coat of rock dust on the surface, and followed this trail. As he had hoped, the passage brought him to the tiny alcove outside the nursery where the wild archer had awaited his chance to meet the infant prince.

Lindalcon settled himself in the exact same spot and pressed his ear against the heavy leather curtain to learn what was passing within the room. However, it was not the voice of the archer that conversed with his mother, for Legolas had fled the chamber some time ago. Instead, the son of Valtamar overheard the King and his consort discussing the day's events and the repercussions these would cause.

So distraught she had sounded, her words distorted by tears and choked with quiet sobs, and her husband's soothing consolation had underscored every sentence uttered. The sincerity of her grief and fear was appalling in the context of the fabrications she spun, weaving a lace-work curtain of half-truths and insinuations that Thranduil readily filled in with his own prejudiced ideas which she chose not to correct. Lindalcon listened to his mother's manipulations and felt sick.

He heard her suggest that Legolas had coerced him into co-operating, holding his father's feä as if hostage from Release should the youth refuse. Lindalcon cringed upon hearing her assert that the fallen archer had named her the instigator of the very crimes for which he had been judged responsible. He listened to her say that the outcast had threatened a dire future for Gwilith and Taurant if the investigation of Erebor was not halted. He quailed to hear the despairing pleading in her tone as she begged Thranduil to stop the Council from digging deeper.

Lindalcon could discern the verity of her speech, and if he could do so through the muffling drape of the deerskin hide then even more compelling must Thranduil find her woe. But in his heart Lindalcon felt the echo of fraud, perceiving that most of what she recited was removed from its correct context and the actual intent of the phrases thus skewed to serve her purpose. The King could not share this intuition, however, for his eyes had not beheld the Tawarwaith's overflowing joy as he had cradled the infant heir against his shoulder.

Thranduil heard only that the kinslayer had threatened the life of his children, and his rage was such that Meril had been required to reverse their roles, calming him ere their newborn son awoke frightened and confused. The persistence of his mother's requests to let the past remain forgotten stunned Lindalcon and by this he was almost convinced that she desired just the opposite, but for the desperate note of panic furled within her trembling pleas. And Thranduil responded by declaring that he had means to rid them of the outcast forever and begged that she trust him to secure their offsprings' future happiness and security.

How she had railed against this and cajoled her mate to leave her and their babes free of entanglement in these affairs! She had no desire to appear before the Council and accuse the kinslayer to his face; she could not bear to leave her infant in the care of others so soon upon his birth. In horror Lindalcon heard the King assuage her doubts by stating he would call her first-born child to reveal what had been done and give evidence against the forest champion. The youth's tattered confidence in his mother's benevolence dissolved when she assented to this plan. Now he must choose to support either his Naneth or his sworn brother, and this was a bitter choice he could not reconcile, and he knew this was her punishment upon him.

Unable to bear more, Lindalcon had scooted back down the tube and into his sister's rooms, flying from her chambers and down the back stairs to find Legolas. There in the secure embrace of the Tawarwaith's arms he had vented his sorrow and confusion, anger and despair, until exhaustion had claimed him and consciousness fled. He had awakened curled up in the archer's lap, who in turn was supported by Fearfaron, with the comforting sound of the warrior's fair voice crooning an old song from the days of endless starlight before the silver disc of Ithil had first shown forth.

The wizards were still there also and long hours had they all debated on how to forestall the doom of daybreak, to no conclusion. Legolas wanted no change in the status quo and was adamant that only harm could come to his siblings should the Council probe too deeply. Lindalcon was appalled, insisting his father would want the truth to come out and for Legolas to be cleared. Fearfaron agreed and Aiwendil was undecided, but Mithrandir dissented, siding with the archer.

The only bright note the Maiar could add to the developments was the assurance that with the destruction of Elrond's letter the population at large would never learn of its contents. Of the slurs in this diatribe Lindalcon had not been informed and the archer was relieved for that fact as well.

Finally, Mithrandir had broken the stalemate, saying that often the desire to protect those one loved by shielding them from truth resulted in far more serious consequences and a breaking of trust that was at best difficult to repair.

After a silence during which the Istar and the Tawarwaith conversed in mental accord, Legolas had kissed the crown of his brother's head and murmured that he loved him, and wished no harm upon him. What followed was an account of Erebor the youth rejected and in his wrath struck out against Legolas and spoke words so foul he wondered later how the archer did not eject him from the room. But Legolas did not, and wept bitterly instead, holding the younger elf and repeating that he was sorry, that he loved him, until the anger gave way to grief unlike anything Lindalcon would have thought possible to endure.

And after all of this was past the decisions came so easily, and seemed logical and right. Lindalcon made his choice for Valtamar and for Legolas, for Taurant and Gwilwileth, and while the forest champion agreed to all that was discussed regarding the morning's trial, his younger brother felt there was yet something held back. Too much heartbreak had he already suffered to enquire farther, however, and Lindalcon was relieved to be given the mundane task of fetching garments for Legolas, Fearfaron, and himself.

So now he stood facing the King with all of the Sylvan folk about to witness his part in it, and he did not permit himself to be bowed by the weight of the truth he hoped to reveal. Often his eyes sought Legolas' and he drew strength from the encouraging trust and confidence found therein, and from the undeniable sense of Valtamar's presence. Lindalcon had not felt so close to his father even in the soldier's life, and decided this had to do with the passing of his adolescence and the marks of grief his soul must surely bear, as starkly indelible as any wound upon the body earned in battle would be. The knowledge that the Lost Warrior approved of his courage filled Lindalcon with pride and resolve.

"My Lord Thranduil, it is with gratitude we greet your attendance. The concern you show for understanding all that befalls the Danwaith is heartening to our people," Iarwain stated formally.

"The King is always present for his people's needs," replied the Sinda Lord.

"Of course," the tone of the ancient counsellor's concurrence left no question as to his lack of faith in his Lord's assurance. "At your request we are gathered, so let your charges be stated clearly that all may understand the cause of your apprehension."

"Our Realm has been trespassed, our heir has been threatened, and the captain of our guard assaulted within the halls of this very stronghold," Thranduil announced and was pleased by the excited murmuring this provoked among the crowd. "In light of these invasions and treacheries, I have come to understand that these events originated with the disgraceful waste of immortal life at the Battle of Erebor. And at the heart of all these disturbances and crimes stands the exiled kinslayer, the child of Ningloriel!" The King rose and pointed dramatically at Legolas.

But the archer did not flinch and indeed stood forth boldly as the rustling whispers of the assembly instantly died away.

"I declaim these charges; they are false!"

"So noted!" called out the Councillor of Records as he moved to stand beside Iarwain. "What say you to Erebor?"

"What of it? Erebor is past and Judgement have I accepted; there let the matter rest."

"Nay! The matter cannot rest! There is at work an unwholesome element seeking to weaken our people and interfere in our lands. Shall the sovereignty of a free realm be thus disregarded?" demanded Thranduil loudly.

"Let us put aside Erebor for now and examine these recent actions," interrupted Iarwain.

"So noted!" intoned the Councillor of Record before the King could object. "What witnesses can speak of these events? Any with knowledge are bound by honour to make themselves known and reveal the truth as they have seen it."

"I gainsay the second charge for I was with my baby brother during the time of this alleged threat!" Lindalcon called out clearly and sent his brother an encouraging smile as Iarwain squeezed his shoulder in approval.

"I can refute the first accusation and will explain the charge of invasion!" shouted Erestor.

"I have knowledge of this trespass also. As for the third charge, I am the culprit who committed this assault," spoke Radagast amid astonished exclamations and gasps from the common folk.

"Aye, 'twas the wizard that struck me down," said Talagan dispassionately meeting his King's furious and perplexed glare.

The captain was not chagrined to so embarrass his old friend, for Thranduil had acted solely at the behest of his consort in the haze of irrational rage over the perceived threat to his child. Talagan felt his loyal service and complete dedication had been disregarded, he had a tormenting ache at the base of his skull, and was sure to face censure for his lapse of caution in the hallway. All in all, he was not disposed to support his liege at the moment. Talagan's lifelong comrade had failed to consult him and not only was the veteran insulted by this oversight, he considered it irresponsible behaviour on Thranduil's part.

"I witnessed Radagast's brief moment of temper, but must assert that he reacted to the carpenter's near impalement upon the captain's blade," added Gandalf.

"I was there, too, and swear Legolas bore no weapon, and was himself threatened at the point of Talagan's sword," Aragorn joined his voice to the growing volume of testimony and sent the Tawarwaith a small smile. "Hold up your left hand, Legolas, and show the cut of the blade you swept from its place against your heart."

Legolas obeyed and loud, disgruntled, cacophonous babbling accompanied the display of the long brown scab across the warrior's upraised palm. Thranduil sat back down in his chair, a most unpleasant sense of dejavu overwhelming his thoughts as the Danwaith rallied to their champion's cause.

"Tirno did no wrong here!"

"Aye, the claim is false!"

"The promise is violated!"

"Charge Talagan! Or Aiwendil if you dare!"

These cries burst from among the throng and a chaotic wave of movement surged through the mass as though they might engulf the dais and everyone before it. The Councillors grew concerned, and the apprentices ceased their note taking on the testimony rapidly pouring from so many individuals. Erestor edged closer to Mithrandir, tugging Aragorn along with him, judging that the safest place to be should the situation devolve into catastrophe. Aiwendil banged his staff repeatedly on the floor to quiet things down without result.

"Peace! There is no fault here on anyone's part!" Legolas spoke with the compellingly quiet demeanour that brought the whole of Greenwood to a standstill, and the grumbling ceased immediately for the Wood Elves wished to hear his words.

"Talagan sought to aid the King and his only error was being over-eager to defend our home and our prince. Aiwendil reacted for he thought Fearfaron and I were in danger, but it was not so. Were I fending off an attack by this warrior, there would be more to show than a meagre scratch."

In the silence that followed the Councillors conferred briefly and then Iarwain gave their verdict.

"We concur and strike the third accusation null. Inasmuch as Tirno will not lay blame upon the captain, no censure will be given."

The gathered folk greeted the decision with a unified acclaim of approval and a jovial exchange of relief. They knew it must be false! Their Tirno would not strike down the captain unprovoked! Had they not but recently come from battling Orcs together? How came any to believe such a ridiculous claim?

Talagan blinked, not certain what had just happened, and glanced at Legolas, who returned his blank look with a half-smile and a nod.

Thranduil remained unmoving, watching the players with hooded eyes, hearing the approbation of the people, feeling the furtive looks of mistrust cast upon him from among the Sylvan folk, and his anger grew hotter. Great was the struggle within the King's troubled mind to remain calm in the searing blaze of his rising wrath when the third charge was invalidated.

At the same time, reason cautioned and instinct warned that perhaps none of the events of the previous eve were as they appeared upon the surface. As easily as the clean, shallow waters of the garden brook revealed the darting silver slivers of minnows flashing by, Thranduil beheld the improbability of the supposed altercation between the former heir and the captain of the guards. Talagan would never have been subdued so easily by a direct attack.

And it hardly seemed logical that the fallen archer would try to assassinate the infant prince while surrounded by the host of the King's warriors. _But never was reason a motivator for spiteful hate, and the disgraced elf no doubt believes he has much cause to despise me._ Thranduil could imagine this list of grievances. Ningloriel's child was cursed, born in shame that had only increased over the dismal and loveless years of his childhood, unwanted and fatherless, his life marked with the stigma of his mother's infidelity.

_He does not appear to feel this burden now!_ Thranduil let his inner eye assess the wild elf as a whole and the feeling of uneasiness returned. This was not the same elf he had cast out of his Kingdom and Thranduil was confounded by the chameleon shift from denigration to distinction, from unassuming archer to dangerous rival for the lordship of the Greenwood. The way the entire community stilled to hear him speak had not gone unremarked by the King. Even Talagan had become caught in the mood. _So clever, refusing to assign blame to my captain! How noble their champion appears!_

And though he was infuriated to admit it to himself, the Sinda Lord had been impressed as well, just as he had been affected upon hearing the recount of the lone warrior's heroic struggle to win through to the stronghold and safeguard his friends against impossible odds. Those were acts worthy of respect and, barring the depravity revealed by the Lord of Imladris, Thranduil would be proud to claim such an elf as a war-brother.

_Or a son._

Yet, what purpose had the outcast to see the prince if not for malicious ends? No benevolent cause could Thranduil conjure for the disgraced elf to enter the nursery of his replacement. The memory of the Tawarwaith's song for the newborn heir nudged against the King's soul. None of it made any sense in his mind, the ideas clashed. _Why would he care about my son other than as a means to exact vengeance upon me?_ The noble Tawarwaith blessing the newborn could not also be the bitter remnant of his first wife's hatred bent on revenge.

_It is a ruse; like Sauron in the Second Age, he dons this fair demeanour to hide the assassin's blade from innocent and gullible eyes!_

This was the only conclusion he could accept, for Thranduil knew his Beloved had felt real fear, both for herself and her children, and Meril had spoken words holding the resonance of truth within their syllables; cried tears of salty sorrow for the troubles within her household. And it was this that he could not ignore, for Thranduil had felt the same stab of terror within his own heart. Just as she had imagined a bleak and woe-stricken fate for Taurant and Gwilwileth, so the King could see their dreadful destiny unfolding should the outcast escape the Judgement.

And this he would fain prevent. Thranduil stood again.

"Yet my son's nursery was violated and his well-being threatened by this Hecilo!" he thundered and once more pointed at his cast-off child. "Lindalcon was there and will attest that this is true. I care not for these lesser charges, let us have an answer for that, and then finish with this disgrace among elf-kind. Did Sylvan Law and Custom allow it, I would send this nascent Orc to the Void!"

Legolas flinched to hear this insult and the Wood Elves were shocked into silence as they stared at the outraged father, but Valtamar's son was ready to answer and moved away from Iarwain to stand beside his brother.

"Aye, I was there, and none of that is true! This was no coercion or forced entry, for I agreed to let Legolas in to meet Taurant. Neither was there any danger, unless you count the reading of books harmful. The prince and heir slept in sweet repose the whole time his brother held him, safe and protected next to his heart." The younger elf made sure to emphasise the relationship of the former to the current heir, and wrapped his arm around Legolas' waist as the warrior squeezed him back.

The choice of words was not lost on Thranduil and he inhaled and blew back out a slow breath to contain his ire, covering the pair under his frigidly expressionless regard. Despite the firm tone of the youth's speech, the King could practically smell the fear oozing from Lindalcon's pores. _And what might he fear should his testimony fail to please the outcast?_ Thranduil's disgust for the fallen elf manifested as an incoherently eloquent grunt of dissatisfaction and nostrils crinkled as if in protest of some detestable stench.

"You speak so out of despair for your father's feä" the King addressed Lindalcon. "I have already heard from your Naneth how that elf you shield verily holds your Adar within a cloud of confusion, unable to see any clear way beyond the bounds of this world."

"Nay!" both the younger elves denied together as the assembly gasped at the King's statement.

Thranduil gave a dry chuckle with no mirth in it.

"Indeed? Lindalcon, you need not do this. Only that one's death can free your Adar, do you not see how he has deceived you?" the Sinda Lord's words were filled with soft compassion; a wiser outlook offering the perspective of greater maturity and experience to the too trusting naivety of youth.

The crowd's whisperings hissed with anxious distress.

"In this you speak falsely, Lord!" this pronouncement issued from Fearfaron and everyone's attention bounced to him where he stood glaring, arms crossed before him, calmly assessing his King. "Although your interpretation of the Judgement's conditions is correct.

"My son was freed by the actions of the Tawarwaith, not by his death. This in itself speaks of the invalidity of the Judgement, for were it right then Legolas must relinquish his own feä to satisfy the losses of those wronged.

"Have you all forgotten the strange way his life was twice spared, once on the battle plain and again in the Men's town? And these many years Legolas has been under the shadow of death more times than even a veteran warrior of the First Age. Still, he survives and continues to harass the Wraiths and the Orcs that plague us. How is it he has been salvaged if it is his doom to die for his comrades?"

"Well that is no great mystery," snarled Thranduil. "It is not difficult for a coward to remain among the living!"

"This elf may be under our severest punishment, but craven he is not," said Talagan.

The Sinda warrior found that he could not stand by and merely let this insult be put forth. His conscience regaled him over his actions at Erebor, and even if the Judgement was right, he did not believe Legolas would slay an innocent babe with his own hand. And he had seen the elf fight; foolishly fearless more accurately described his battle tactics.

"Aye! I have seen him charge a troop of Orcs with but a dagger." Hearing their captain speak up, a good number of the warriors reinforced his remark.

"He put his body between his friends and death, more than once."

"He taunted the foul things, lured them away when his comrades were in peril."

"Taunts death, more like!"

"And bears the scars to prove it! No spineless knave would ever be so marred," called Gladhadithen from her place amid the ranks of the soldiers.

"Indeed," said the Spirit Hunter sadly as his eyes fell upon his adopted son. "Dares fate and begs death, yet lives! It is because the Judgement cannot justly fall on him. Our beliefs are clear; a true kinslayer cannot escape the righteous exercise of Eru's will. Thus has it ever been according to our history."

"That is so," acknowledged the Councillor of Record, as though only at this moment had he noted this idea.

A rumble of agitated concurrence from the audience underscored the point.

"We have no proof of your son's fate," countered Thranduil with empty audacity, his features a most unpleasant mask of livid embarrassment, for even he could hear the hollowness of this claim. The defection of Talagan and the warriors was a serious blow to his authority. The King needed a way to shift support back in his favour, to make these elves see the corruption the outcast inflicted upon them, upon him. Thranduil clenched his fists in frustration for the loss of the letter from Elrond.

"Why would I pretend such?" demanded Fearfaron incredulous, and the people seconded his rejection of the challenge. Like autumn leaves blown by Manwë's breath the rustling scatter of jumbled phrases swirled round in the noisy timbre of avowal.

"Assuredly, the craftsman has no motive to attest his son's Release if it were not done," added Iarwain.

"Unless the relationship between the outcast and the kind-hearted carpenter is not as platonic as they pretend. Perhaps Fearfaron's infatuation has allowed him to be misled regarding Annaldír's salvation."

"That is an outrageous lie!" hollered the Spirit Hunter, more enraged than he had felt since the night of the Twelfth Year Anniversary. He advanced to the very step of the dais.

"You dare speak such foul thoughts?" Legolas seethed through bared teeth and Lindalcon had to hold him tight to forestall an assault on the King. "He is my father in all ways but blood!"

Thranduil ignored the carpenter and turned his infuriated countenance upon the Tawarwaith.

"Nearness in kinship has not stopped you from bedding others that might be your sire by blood and seed; why should you have scruples for this fabricated link that binds you to Fearfaron?" He spat these hateful words directly to the former heir, his first since the Day of the Judgement.

Legolas released every molecule of air in his lungs and all the colour drained from his face as he stared in open-mouthed horror of this pronouncement, anchored to the spot, eyes locked with the Sinda's triumphantly gloating green gaze. He had thought the King would not present this derogation so soon or in this context and was unprepared to counter it. Fearfaron and the wizards had asserted that the Council could be convinced these indiscretions were a purely personal matter with no bearing on the charges. Legolas had needed to believe them.

Five heartbeats later his eyes slid shut and down dropped his head in ignominy. His whispered "I did not know," was heard by none but Lindalcon, whose soul bled to behold his brother so shamed in public.

The son of Valtamar knew no remedy for such a thing and could merely hold onto Legolas tighter, lest they both succumb to the desire to bolt from the room. _It cannot be true, can it?_ Relieved that Legolas' face was turned away, Lindalcon could not find a way to look at his friend just yet; for he was uncertain anymore what he would see. The image of the world he accepted shattered once again revealing something wholly unseemly and twisted between the cracks. Lindalcon's eyes jumped to scan the Noldo Lord and found his answer there in the pained and remorseful expression in the elf's features. _True, then._ Lindalcon's gaze turned pleadingly upon the carpenter.

"That is a vile slander," growled Fearfaron.

"It is the truth," countered Thranduil smugly and bent his unfeeling eyes upon the distraught foster-father.

The Wood Elves were frozen in breathless anticipation for the details of this illicit union to be divulged, silently regarding the outcast with a foul mixture of hunger and disgust. They all knew who the suspected father was, and the presence of the Noldo elf suddenly became more interesting. If one was here, might not another succeed in infiltrating their forest world, especially with help from the wild archer? A hundred sets of eyes scanned the outcast's body noting now the length and shape of the tapered tips of his delicate ears, the suppleness of strong shoulders in contrast with slender hips and narrow feet, the fair features and his natural grace as he clasped so close to the younger elf.

"Then it is worse for being heartlessly cruel!" Mithrandir's furious umbrage threatened to erupt as he pointed his staff at the King and was only prevented from spilling elven blood when Radagast intervened, pushing aside the sorcerer's weapon with cautious pressure and a compelling frown.

"It is false, though therein may be a speck of truth," the Brown wizard said firmly.

"Aye, and now who speaks without proofs? Your words serve only to deceive!" added Erestor with heated indignation, for he knew the King was hoping to divert notice from Lindalcon's testimony.

Thranduil turned to grin at his unexpected guest, giving a chilling replication of a serpent's cold disdain, then laughed as an eyebrow raised in mocking salute.

"Do you require proof, Lord Erestor?" The question hung unanswered as Thranduil turned to include his subjects in the conversation, addressing the crowd directly. "The kin-slayer dares not deny it for our esteemed visitor shall confirm my words!" the King's out-flung arm directed everyone's eyes to Elrond's advisor.

The seneschal shifted uneasily under the weight of this scrutiny and chanced a glimpse at the fallen prince. A flare of fury ignited through his soul to see Pen-rhovan so discredited and bowed under this opprobrium and he sought to join Lindalcon at Legolas' side.

Aragorn held him firm, shaking his head with a silent warning clear in his wise brown eyes, for he knew they were outlanders and Thranduil would gladly turn their words of support into more fuel for his vindictive vendetta against the wild elf.

The previous night they had convened their own war-council in the room next door to Legolas', planning a strategy for the day's events. A visit from Aiwendil had made plain that both Mithrandir and Fearfaron thought it better for Erestor not to press Legolas for an audience just yet, thus the two had no chance to confer with their friend. The Brown wizard informed them of Legolas' visit to Taurant and its result, and of Lindalcon's news.

Without a means to prevent the King from demanding Erestor's statement, the seneschal had decided that in comparison to other wrongs he had committed lying was rather inconsequential and he would deny everything. Aragorn had cautioned that Legolas was unlikely to do the same, and this contradiction would only make the situation more confused. After hours of circuitous argument and no resolution, the Imladrians had determined the best way to help Legolas would be to refrain from volunteering any information, and to support whatever tactic he undertook.

It was with stinging self-reproach that Erestor realised he had played into the King's plotting and once more wounded Pen-rhovan with his wayward tongue. He feared to speak out again.

"Hah! How deafening is the chorus of rebuttal!" Thranduil stood facing the crowd and spread wide his arms in a gesture enveloping all who would offer defence of the outcast. "Look, good folk, how the Shadow perverts the wise and worthy to Its purpose." Now his voice lost its fiery fury and took on the august magnanimity of a learned tutor instructing his pupils.

"There is Mithrandir, high among his order, yet enthralled and tied, soul-bound to the outcast. Here stands Fearfaron, an upright citizen, ready to excuse the kinslayer responsible for his child's demise. And look upon Erestor, a noble warrior, veteran of Gondolin, who has left his own lands to come to seek out Hecilo

"If this is not evidence of the evil at work in our Realm, then what may be? How is that one misbegotten elf suddenly so renowned and deserving of such attentions, especially under the Judgement and exile imposed upon him by our Laws? What exactly has he given in return for such regard?

"Should not these astute and faithful individuals instead be reviled by the very idea of such an elf? Some Dark power invests him with this appeal he holds!

"Who else here would like to be formally counted an associate of this criminal? Please come forward, let everyone be acknowledged!"

Now this speech was dripping with gallingly unctuous tones so that even the most bland of these statements seemed a description of some lascivious act about to be performed in their very midst. Thranduil relished the openly repulsed and furtively fearful expressions covering the faces of most of his people as they cast their eyes upon the group in the centre of the Chamber.

What manner of power could bind a wizard's soul? Have any heard of such a thing? Mithrandir never took much notice of our woods before.

Has the carpenter been deceived, overcome with whatever powers of allure this wayward warrior possesses? Does Annaldír still wander?

He is too attractive, more so even than his mother! It seems unnatural for so many to be drawn to this one elf.

What is this Noldor Lord doing in the Greenwood?

Look how he bows his head in shame; he has bedded the Noldo that bred him! Mayhap he has lain with the others as well!

He has enthralled the young one, too, and holds the souls of the dead at bay. This is of the Dark Lord's doing!

The low murmurs hummed and bubbled like a foul brew of some noxious swill about to over boil, rippling away through the arches, across the courtyard and among the trees. The tide of opinion receded from the accused as rapidly as it had eddied round him just moments ago.

Lindalcon could not believe how fickle was this assembly of elves, for he could easily comprehend that the King was generating this crude diversion to turn their thoughts from the false claims of threatening the prince. None but he had heard the fallen archer's admission and explanation to the ugly defamation of his morals. They could not see the tremors running through Legolas each time a new slur reached his perception. Abruptly Lindalcon moved his hands and covered both his brother's ears to muffle the callous comments, tilting the humiliated elf's face up, forcing Legolas to meet his eyes.

The younger elf's heart suddenly lurched; when had he grown taller than Legolas? It hurt, for some reason, to realise this, as though Legolas was somehow frozen at some earlier point in time while Lindalcon had gone forward and surpassed him.

"Do not hear them! I do not care about Thranduil's sordid innuendo! I do not care if it is true!" he said, sombre brown eyes boring far into the wounded soul behind the bright blue ones, and with firm assurance he shook Legolas a little in his grasp to underscore this fervent declaration. Then he released his brother and encircled Legolas' shoulders anew and faced the people.

"You should not listen to these confused notions that conflict one against the other!" he called out. "This is all meant to distract the Council from nullifying the charge of conspiring to harm Taurant. I will swear that my baby brother was never in any danger from the Tawarwaith. If my word is suspect, then ask my sister for she was there as well and knows not the concept of a lie."

"Nay!" this appalled cry came simultaneously from both the enraged father and the child's protective oldest brother, and both those elves startled upon realising this inexplicable fact, eyes joining in a fleeting glance of blistering bewilderment.

Aragorn had observed these proceedings as Erestor fairly fought against his hold like an ungentled stallion tethered on a lead. With Lindalcon's courageous words the Man's heart was moved and he no longer wanted to stand apart, an outsider. Thranduil had thrown down a dare and Isildur's heir was eager to take it up. The mortal met Erestor's equally clear-eyed countenance, gave a brief nod, and both moved to stand with Legolas, each placing a hand on his shoulder firmly.

"I am glad to be counted here as a friend of Legolas of the Greenwood," said the human. "Without his safeguard through the forest, I would long ago have perished in battle against the Glamhoth. It is not I who have pledged myself to your Tawarwaith, but the other way round. This eternal protection Legolas gifted to me in return for some small bit of healing I was able to grant him in the wilds, nothing more. Let the malice of the King's insinuations be revealed, for in those harsh slanders can be found the workings of the Shadow!"

"As for me, I owe your champion my life at least three times over," said Erestor. "Though a stranger with no cause to be within his woods, Legolas protected me from the Wraiths of Dol Guldur and led me and my colleague to safety among the woodsmen's villages. As to our purpose in your lands, I shall speak to it in regards to the first charge in due time.

"Beyond that, I am here to set to right a grievous hurt I have caused, if by any means I may," the seneschal from Imladris asserted, compressing the Tawarwaith's arm warmly as he spoke. "If there is Darkness in the Greenwood, then Legolas is Its bane not its source! Could the Light of the Silmarils be reborn in living flesh, his would be the form of that incarnation!"

These words brought Legolas' head up quickly to gape for the second time that morn at the speaker; this time stunned by such high praise and he searched the face of the Noldo Lord for any indication of dissembling or exaggeration. He found only the gentle roguish grin of Berenaur, dampened by the tearful gleam of the sorrow and remorse his dark eyes sought to convey. Legolas let a tenuous smile hover round his soul.

"Pretty words for your precious paramour!" scoffed the King and enjoyed the scarlet flush that suffused the outcast's face.

"Let them speak! You invited the testimony of those who would call themselves Tirno's associates; therefore, allow everyone so inclined to state their minds," snapped Iarwain irritably.

"So noted!" added the Councillor of Record with a complacent smile.

"Well said!" agreed Aiwendil. "I am Legolas' friend and have been since he began his assault upon Dol Guldur. Of all the eldar I have met, this one I most admire, and that includes those sundered from you long ago that dwell in the Farthest West. My regard has naught to do with how he looks, what name he bears, or whom he beds. Legolas has earned my respect and won my friendship because he cares to make right the marring of his world."

The elves shared their buzzing wonder. How could the might and knowledge of the Istari be beguiled? Should they not trust the judgement of all these diverse people that bore goodwill for their champion? Had not good come of Tirno's works rather than ill? How could he be an agent of the Dark One while so fearlessly warring against the cohorts and creations of evil?

"Like Fearfaron and Lindalcon, I am more than a friend to the Tawarwaith," Mithrandir added, moving up to take his place next to the carpenter. "We are his family, and by the bonds of such a relationship do we conduct ourselves; aiding and supporting one another as needed, trusting and depending upon the constancy of this 'fabricated link' forged by necessity, fired in the heat of battle, and tempered by the icy grip of despair. And thus united, it is ill-advised to oppose us!

"And let me be very blunt, Thranduil," Gandalf concluded in coldly clipped words edged in restrained resentment. "I am not bound to Legolas' soul, nor he to mine. I have aided his survival and I will neither apologise nor explain myself to you. Perhaps we could get back to the actual charges now, if this smoke has been cleared out."

"Indeed!" Iarwain jumped in as Thranduil opened his mouth to retort. "The day we decide an elf's guilt based on mistaken choices in bed partners, then we shall all have sentences to fulfil."

This blatant reference to the King's own erroneous first selection for a mate was not missed by the forest folk, and a scatter of smirky guffaws escaped containment as Thranduil sealed his lips into a thin dark line.

"So noted!" sang the Record Maker, not even trying to hide his widening smile of amusement at the Sinda's expense.

"Enough of this!" Thranduil shouted and turned to glare at Legolas anew. The Council was behaving as if the whole purpose of this meeting was a joke, and he would not permit it. "You were in my son's room and you did tell Meril that all of her children would suffer unless I halted the investigation of Erebor! Do you still deny it?"

Instantly the lighter mood fled and silence filled in around the diminishing echoes of the King's ringing challenge.

"I was there, but never to do Taurant harm. And one may warn of danger without being the source of it," Legolas responded clearly and calmly, determined to convince the King, or at least the Council.

"It was a threat not a warning! Taurant's birth makes it impossible for you to regain your former place, even if you escape the death promised by your Judgement. Admit your guilt as you owned your faults at Erebor! You went to end his life and you used his brother and sister to gain the opportunity. But for Meril's sudden appearance you would have achieved your goal." Thranduil strode to the edge of the dais looking down on the outcast, scarcely able to contain his desire to attack the one that dared attempt so fiendish a plot.

"It is a lie! Never would I hurt him, nothing could make me bring even the slightest disharmony into the lives of my siblings!" Legolas tried unsuccessfully to shake free of his friends' tightening hold on his arms and shoulders.

"They are not your siblings!"

"They are! I claim them; I love them! You are the one pushing them towards heartache and misery! I tell you now I will not allow it!"

"You dare such a low subterfuge, accusing a father of wishing to hurt his own? By Eru, the dungeons shall have use before this day is through!" The King was shaking from his rage and indeed his restraint was noteworthy for truly he believed his children had been a hair's breadth from their doom at the hands of his first wife's child.

Legolas shuddered at this pronouncement, for the anger Thranduil displayed left no doubt as to the likelihood of that outcome, and he was very grateful for the strength of his friends' supportive presence around him.

"Nay! Nay, you must not do that!" shouted Lindalcon, desperately seeking the eyes of the Councillors. "I tell you I was there and no greater gentleness could be shown that babe unless it was Naneth herself holding him!"

"Tell us exactly what transpired, Lindalcon; how did all this come about?" said one of the other Councillors quietly.

"You cannot listen to his testimony! He practically worships the fallen prince and would say anything to defend him!" yelled Thranduil in fury.

"Lindalcon is neither stupid nor a child nor known for a liar. Thusfar you have not accused him of wishing harm to Taurant. Therefore I do not believe he would knowingly welcome a murderer into the infant's nursery," countered the Elder.

"Aye, not knowingly," Thranduil repeated. "Yet I say again, he is blinded by his esteem for the outcast."

"What is that you say?" asked Mithrandir, puzzled.

"What?" demanded the King, irritated.

"I thought you just announced that Lindalcon offers this testimony out of fear, forced to back the outcast because his father's feä is at stake. Yet now you say he reveres the Tawarwaith. I wish to understand how both these scenarios may be possible," the wizard said testily.

Thranduil coldly assessed the wily Istar, furious to have fallen into a trap of his own making once more. Already the buzzing displeasure of the peoples' agreement hinted it would be difficult to repair the damage attending this disclosure.

"I think Mithrandir's question is wise," said Iarwain, nodding as he regarded the Maia with thoughtful eyes. "It is clear to me that the second statement is correct; Lindalcon does hold the Tawarwaith in high regard, mayhap even love."

"Aye, he is my brother!" declared the youth and smiled to say so.

"Oh, truly? Well that is a coupling I would not have guessed!" sneered Thranduil cruelly.

"Ai! Do not dare speak of her whom you drove from our lands!" Legolas shouted.

"My father's honour you cannot impugn! He was true to my Naneth and died in sacrifice to his comrades!" Lindalcon shrieked in fury and now both the elves had to be restrained by Radagast and the Imladrians.

"Too much of these scurrilous outbursts have we been forced to attend!" thundered Mithrandir. "Two questions are before the Council now: is it possible for a convicted kinslayer to hinder the souls of the dead, and would Lindalcon lie to protect his sworn brother? Surely there has been enough said to decide on these issues."

"I concur," said Iarwain.

"So noted," the Councillor of Record formalised the closing of testimony and the six Elders drew together to quietly confer. There seemed to be some amount of dissension among them, but which question roused the discourse none could tell.

With a huge sigh the Sinda Lord paced away to the end of the platform and back before practically throwing his body down upon the chair in his agitated displeasure. He could sense the Elders wished to dismiss the second charge and was over come with incredulous and smouldering wrath. _How can my people choose that kinslayer instead of their unblemished prince and heir?_

"We are decided," announced Iarwain and everyone strained to see and hear the verdict. Thranduil rose and advanced again to the rim of the step and Legolas' friends clustered closely around him.

"We do not believe any elf can hold an unhoused feä bound unless that soul in life owed some debt to such an individual. Now, Valtamar was not under any obligation of honour to the Tawarwaith at the time of his demise, thus it is not possible for his spirit to be hindered."

A hushed wave of relief passed through the people, for among them matters dealing with unhoused spirits were fraught with fear and much superstition. Over the Ages, great was the accumulation of the Sylvans' feär still loose upon Arda. Some believed as Thranduil, that such spirits could be caught and forced to dark purposes. Indeed, some thought the spark of life found in Orcs was stolen from such houseless souls.

"Further, we find no reason to name Lindalcon a liar. Why would he choose to support his sworn brother against the best interests of his blood-kin? His actions may be termed ill-advised, yet such is the impetuous nature of youth. We find no cause to disallow his testimony of the events."

"So noted!" intoned the Elder of the Records as the Sylvan folk relaxed into pleased murmuring of approval. To them also Lindalcon's words had held the note of honesty.

The small group of elves, the Man and the wizards in the centre of the room offered joyful congratulatory hugs and nudges and shoulder squeezes to the Tawarwaith as he and Lindalcon embraced. Those two pulled back to make eye contact and Legolas leaned his forehead upon his young friend's.

"I thank you and I swear your father will be Released if any action of mine can do it," Legolas said quietly, yet no elven ears would miss the words.

"This I know," answered Lindalcon. "Yet it is not your Task to accomplish. Ada would have the real cause of his sacrifice understood."

"If I may continue?" interrupted the eldest Elder, and both younger elves sheepishly fell silent.

"Inasmuch as Lindalcon is the only witness to the events within the nursery, the Council finds that Tirno is not at fault. Admittedly his actions were unwise, for he should have sought the permission of the mother before entering, yet we find the sharing of picture books benign. Thus, the second charge is null and no censure do we pronounce."

Again the Sylvan elves ratified the Council's decision with a resonating refrain of glad expression, all eyes smiling to see the ecstatic relief shared between the small group ringing their Tawarwaith.

Passed from friend to friend for more well-wishing, Legolas even allowed a brief hug from Erestor before settling in the comfortable encirclement of Fearfaron's arms, just happy to lean his head upon the strong shoulders of the tall, willowy Spirit Hunter.

And for the second time that day Thranduil tasted the bitter bile of his people's betrayal and felt the terrifying sensation of his power disintegrating as fast as rain evaporating from sun warmed stone.

There now remained but one of the King's charges and Iarwain sighed with a smile of secret satisfaction as he contemplated the results thus far. His people were happy, their Tawarwaith was proved true, and Thranduil was in a most diminished position at the moment. He planned to keep matters in that status if at all possible, and the only one that might be able to prevent this was Legolas himself. If the wild elf did some foolishly noble thing, publicly forgiving Thranduil as he had Talagan, then popular opinion was likely to sway once more to favour the irate ruler.

The ancient eldar surveyed the son of Oropher and the forest champion.

_How different they are! Oropher would have appreciated this Legolas. Stubborn, but loyal. Devoted to a fault, self-sacrificing and sometimes rash._ he thought, for he had never doubted Ningloriel's assertions of Legolas' paternity. Iarwain wondered if Thranduil had ever noticed how similar in character the outcast was to the family patriarch. _Unlikely._ It occurred to the Sylvan elder that it might have been difficult for Thranduil to have such an elf around him, with a spirit so like his father's housed in a form that resplendently mirrored Ningloriel.

Thranduil sat glaring into the knot of elves comprising the Tawarwaith and his cobbled together family, utterly dumbfounded. His denial and disbelief were apparent in the slight glaze of disorientation clouding his murky eyes, the slumping posture of his stately form slouched within the seat's support, the complete stillness of his face and frame.

He had never considered the charge of attempted kin-slaying would be dismissed. With the fact accomplished, however, he found he was not truly surprised, given the undeniable impact of the outcast's vehement declaration of familial love for the infant prince and his sister. The benediction of the Tawarwaith's song echoed Thranduil's imagined rendering of the disgraced archer cradling Taurant in the crook of his arm while the other hand flipped the pages of a picture book.

_It is a long road from errors in battle to destroying innocent life wilfully._ That the outcast had not traversed that path was obvious and it seemed ridiculous now to have thought otherwise. It astounded him to realise that just moments ago he had been certain of edledhron's [the exile's] guilt. _Meril's fear is genuine yet so is this elf's protective concern. 'To warn of danger without being its cause.'_ Perhaps, given the history, his mate's assumption of harmful intent was understandable. _But inaccurate._

Slowly the Sinda's vision sharpened and his sight tracked across the features of the wild elf. The muscles around Thranduil's eyes contracted, drawing lines of concentration around the refined curves of brows and lids.

As Iarwain watched, the outcast stirred, for he must have felt the intensity of that inspection, and bravely met the King's regard with a countenance free of gloating or reprisal. Though wary and defiant, the guarded gaze of the Tawarwaith bore a tinge of compassion, a suggestion that, with even the smallest encouragement from the King, the forest champion would issue one of those soul-stopping proclamations and pardon the Sinda Lord for ever accusing him so basely.

Iarwain moved quickly to forestall just that eventuality while the fallen prince lingered in the euphoric release of tension following the acquittal and before the bewildered King deciphered the Tawarwaith's message.

"It pleases my heart to know this is the truth, for I have come to regard the works of Tirno as valuable to our lands," the ancient Elder said and obtained everyone's attention. "Yet one charge remains and must be addressed!

"Considering the presence of foreigners within our very borders, I am eager to understand the means by which that was accomplished and the purpose for such an incursion. The validity of the first charge none may deny as the evidence is here in our midst today." His eyes drifted to his fellow councillor as these words left his lips.

"Two witnesses have come forth regarding the trespass; are there any others who would be heard?" called out the Councillor of Record, and a shuffling in the crowd commenced.

"Here now, aye!" a muffled voice called from somewhere outside and an uncomfortable shifting and scuffling succeeded the yell as the speaker tried to get past. The Wood Elves grumbled and complained to be so rudely shoved when they had no place to go.

"Who speaks?" commanded Iarwain, craning his neck to see the cause of the disturbance. Indeed, everyone gathered before the dais turned to follow his gaze and learn the identity of the new witness.

"Me!" came the disgruntled reply. A minute more of squeezing and twisting amid indignant and scandalised eldar heralded the advance of a rumpled, red-faced Man dressed in the practical manner of a forester, for it was the messenger from the woodsmen's village.

"What do you want here?" demanded the King. "These proceedings are closed to all but the citizens of the Realm. If there is aught that impacts your folk, our scribes will inform you."

"He is a citizen!" retorted Legolas hotly and again his friends had need to restrain him. While he could find no will to defend his own honour, for those under his patronage he would face down any unjust word.

"I thank you, atheling," smiled the human with a warm glance to his forest prince. The bold mortal then bowed low before the Wood Elves' King. "My Lord, I want to add the names of my village's people, and those of our neighbouring settlements also, to that list of folk who deem it a privilege to be called Tirno's friends."

There were many exclamations of pleased surprise at this gesture and Thranduil really could not find anything with which to counter the goodwill of the Man's sentiments. He glared coldly at the mortal's open devotion to the disgraced prince.

_Not so complete has the banishment been! Exiled from elven realms, the outcast makes a duchy among the Followers' settlements._

"Very well, human, your choice for your people shall be marked. And now if we may proceed to the charge…" Iarwain replied and was peremptorily cut off by Legolas' advance to the mortal, a huge smile gracing his fair features, his hand out thrust in the customary greeting among Men.

"I am so glad you are here," spoke Legolas.

The worthy woodsman grasped and pumped the elf's slender fingers twice before pulling hard and grappling the Tawarwaith in a suffocating bear hug, laughing heartily. They separated and the Man's face split into a delighted grin as he appraised the wild elf critically.

"Well then, Tirno, you look a mite better than when last I set sights on you! Our lasses would be well pleased, I warrant that," he said, and his mild tease was enjoyed by the elves as their champion could not hide the embarrassment the comment wrought.

"I thank you for bringing my letter to Fearfaron," the Tawarwaith continued, deciding not to encourage the human's humour. "How fares Cemendur? How much have Chloe and Amethyst grown? Is the Elder well? And what news of Llanadh and Sarah? I must beg forgiveness for leaving as I did, it was wrong of me!"

He would have continued in this vein for some time but the mortal overwhelmed his exuberant babbling with jovial laughter as he shook his head.

"Nay, atheling, none of that talk! The Elder understood I am certain, and Fearfaron explained the situation when I got here. Be at peace over Cemendur; he was bawling to have his belly filled when I left and keeps his aunt up nights with his stomach's demands rather than his hurts, I reckon.

"Now how can the wee ones be grown when you've not been gone but a two-month? We're humans, not weeds, young tree lord! When you return, the gals will still be too little to fight over who gets to be your bride."

More soft laughter filled the room at this gentle joking and the Tawarwaith's pink response. Not a single countenance was bereft of a cheery grin.

Save Thranduil, who watched with cautiously curious interest. Despite his displeasure at having forgotten about this mortal in the excitement over his son's birth, he wanted to understand the depth of this Man's dedication to the outcast. At the disastrous Council of the Thrashing Trees, the King had been regaled with tales of the forest champion's deeds on behalf of the mortal squatters within his borders, and he pondered whether the disgraced archer was equipping these woodsmen with weapons and training them in warrior's ways.

It was not that he felt such forces could ever pose a threat to his rule, but that such troops might prove as useful to him as they would be to the Tawarwaith.

_A single outcast elf against hundreds of Orcs must fall eventually either to death or a fate far worse. One First Born directing an army of mortals, doomed to die anyway, might just crack the impervious walls of Dol Guldur._ Thranduil decided it was time to remind the woodsman who was the ruler in the Greenwood, and rose to his feet.

"These are formal proceedings, human, but we would be grateful to hear your words if they bear upon the truth. We must learn the source and extent of the plot against our lands."

"Aye, aye, that we must! And if one so humble may speak up here I was also a witness to the foreign elves' actions," he said, eyeing Erestor with distaste. "These two Noldor dwelt in our village a time and though they helped in some ways, I have since found out there was treachery afoot."

"Is that so?" queried Thranduil silkily. "Please enlighten us to all that transpired. Tell us, how came those elves among your people? Is it not true that this elf here, the accused, brought them into your settlement?" demanded Thranduil.

As simply as that the relaxed mood returned to its sombre, serious disposition.

"Accused? Our Tirno? Our atheling?" the human feigned shocked disbelief though of course he had heard of the impending charges the same as everyone else within the city. He shook his head gravely and reached out to wrap an arm over the archer's shoulders and draw him close.

"Nay, Lord, that is a gross error," he said earnestly and met the Woodland King's eye with his honest, steady stare.

"Well said!" seconded Aragorn vehemently and sent a smile filled with approbation to the simple forester. As the only two mortals present, he could not help feeling a sense of kinship with the Man, though in truth the woodsman was more distant in kind from Isildur's heir than ever Aragorn was from the eldar.

The messenger acknowledged this with a respectful nod.

"These are our ways, Man, and you should not be so bold in challenging customs among the First Born!" countered Thranduil, ignoring Aragorn. "Do you fear to offer your testimony now? Is what you know so injurious to your disgraced benefactor? And if you would claim citizenship among these borders, then your 'atheling' as you term him, sleeps above in his mother's arms. Our Realm does have an heir, but this elf is not he."

"It is not the same thing, citizenship within the Woodland Realm and citizenship within Tawar!" snapped Legolas.

Fearfaron could not suppress a satisfied smile to see the frustrated look upon Thranduil's features. The King was about to receive an education on the duality of the Greenwood's culture, a dip into the spiritual substructure to their society he found so unsavoury. And his tutor was not one the mighty Sinda noble was likely to appreciate.

Lindalcon shared the joke with the carpenter; the two trading amused gazes as the younger elf moved to stand with his brother at the human's side. Indeed, it was safe to say few in the room's centre misunderstood Legolas' views of the forest's governing except Thranduil. Iarwain looked positively delighted while the wizards watched with glittering eyes. Murmuring amid the population told their instinctive comprehension of what their champion meant, and agreement for his place among them.

The Imladrians only felt concern for their friend should he raise the King's ire farther, however, for both knew what must be divulged soon.

"Nay, I do not worry to explain it to you, Lord," the Man said with benevolent kindness, diverting the King's hostile eyes from the outcast. "It is as Tirno declares. Here within the borders of the Northern Forest is the Kingdom of the Wood Elves and this mountain is the fortress and symbol of the great strength of the One gifted to His Eldest Children.

"Yon babe, your prince, is heir to this Realm! We may be simple mortals, yet we understand this well enough and will pay due respect to him, when he comes into his own, even as we regard you now and bowed to Oropher before."

"Aye, but on the opposite side of the Central Mountains, there the strength of our warriors' arms no longer reaches." Legolas took up the lesson. "Yet beyond that boundary the forest still exists, and there is the Lordship of Tawar besieged. Once we were allies and defended Tawar. Now we can scarcely keep this small corner of Greenwood free of the Darkness!" The wild elf's impassioned words tugged upon the hearts of the Sylvan's for many remembered well the days of which their champion spoke.

Aragorn and Erestor, however, were completely confused and looked to Mithrandir and Aiwendil, then to Legolas, and last at Thranduil. Who were these confederates? Was he referring to Lothlorien or the Men of Dale? At least they had the satisfaction of observing similar bewilderment upon the King's countenance.

"Hold, of what alliance do you speak, Tirno?" he said, and the intake of breaths throughout the assembly upon hearing this use of the familiar term for the wild elf was almost but not quite undetectable. Thranduil frowned at his mistake and was about to correct himself when he sensed a definite upwelling of approval from among the throng. He hesitated.

"I do not speak of any treaty or union among armies, as you must be thinking," Legolas took advantage of the momentary lapse and continued patiently. "Tawar is…" he found this a difficult concept to put in words, so much was it a part of his soul. He could no more explain how his heart kept beating, yet knew well that it did so.

"The Greenwood, its trees, its creatures, its elves and its Men, all of this is Tawar. The air of it, that is Manwë's suspiration, and the water flowing across the lands like the lifeblood pounding throughout my body, Ulmo's gift, all are Tawar.

"And long were the days when none of these elements could be seen to conflict or work at cross purposes. It has not been so for numerous years, even prior to my birth. The Wood Elves have ceased to be Tawar's voice, though still we dwell here, abiding in Greenwood.

"Without a voice, how can the strength of the forest's feä be made known to Arda? When the trees are silenced, the Valar hear not Tawar's song, whether it be of hope and joy or sorrow and pleading! Thus does the Darkness enter in and force strange and terrible anthems from the harmony of the Music." Legolas himself became quiet, for he could see by the confused and somewhat incredulous expression on the King's features that he was not making this clear at all.

"Are you saying the Wood Elves are responsible for the Shadow's advance over the Greenwood?" demanded Thranduil angrily. "If so you are wrong to suggest that! Nay, more than erroneous, such words are verily treasonous. Without my warriors, the Wraiths would be residing here in this mountain fortress and not hiding in their pestilential tower."

"Nay, that is no betrayal," corrected Mithrandir. "Legolas does not speak against you but against the circumstances of our times. You wish to know the truth concerning what is happening in your Realm, then listen, Thranduil, and mayhap we will learn what motivates the forest champion's activities."

"In some ways, I do assign responsibility to elf-kind," Legolas continued carefully. "We did not bring the Darkness here, but neither have we been able to eradicate it! When first the eldar came under the eaves, was not a sort of pact made then between the Children of the Stars and the Greenwood? The forest protects us and gives us life, were we not agreeing to do the same in turn? The Sylvan people have broken this covenant and abandoned the rest of Tawar!

"We are sundered from the bulk of the woods, no longer sending our soldiers to aid the woodsmen. We do not patrol the Dwarven Road and the Orcs multiply in the Central Mountains, while the spiders' venom grows more virulent and resists our healer's remedies!

"How long has it been since any travelled here from among Beorn's folk or from Rohan? Less and less do merchants from Lake Town brave the pathways we created through the trees to reach our city. Of journeys to Lorien, these grow ever rarer and even messengers seldom reach their destination intact.

"Indeed, are you aware that the elf-made byways are being twisted and rearranged to lead the unsuspecting directly into the lairs of the foul Orcs? You could not know, for no longer do the warriors safeguard the way!"

"Yet what would you have me do?" shouted the King. "We are fewer in numbers than before the Last Alliance and cannot allow the might of our warriors to be stretched out too thinly. Our first responsibility must be to safeguard our own, our families and our homes."

"Are these others not our own, also? Thus is accomplished the work of the Shadow, when the First Born forget their stewardship over these lands and withdraw the protection we alone can give!" Legolas shouted back.

"Here now, Tirno, that is a bit too harsh," it was the woodsman, interrupting the elves to smother the growing heat of their interchange. "None of that was where I was heading with my little explanation to the King. I only wanted him to see that he rules here while within the wider reaches of Tawar another may shepherd. I but wished to make plain that whatever elf may be heir to this Realm, you will always be our atheling."

In soundless wonder Legolas stared at the Man, for he had not foreseen this at all, nor did he consider himself their leader.

"Oh," he said awkwardly and chanced a rather befuddled glance at Fearfaron, who was grinning hugely at his son's discomfort over this avowal of confidence and trust.

"So, the outcast would still claim his former title after all," seethed Thranduil. "That I do name treason!"

"If that is traitorous then so is this very Council," fumed Iarwain. "May I remind you, Lord Thranduil, that it is Kingship which is new here. When Oropher came among us with his army, he might have tried to subdue our people with force, yet he did not even though confrontations did arise and blood was shed."

"This history lesson I need not!" barked Thranduil, red of face and so tense his furled fists looked as though the very bones of his hands must split through the skin. In these woods and among its foolish people, Thranduil had spilled some of that blood himself.

"It was agreed the Council would remain in authority over the issues of the spirit, and these include our part in the song of our forest," the Elder continued as though he did not notice the affect his remarks produced, "while your father would grant us the benefit of his military might and diplomatic acumen. We knew even in those days the Tawarwaith would arise among us, and instead of posing a threat to your dominion he would strengthen it, whatever title he might bear, even if it were an opprobrious one. If you have lamed your own charger, blame not the worthy stallion."

"Aye, he is our Tawarwaith," the Man summed up with a nod of his head and the Sylvan elves murmured their concurrence.

The King paced back and forth on the dais before the assembly, visibly disturbed and beyond anger, for the mention of the early days amid the Greenwood wrenched unpleasant memories to the fore of his thoughts.

The events played out before his eyes as though it was but yesterday that the trek from Beleriand was completed. His party had been stopped as they came under the trees for their group was separated from the main body of the Sinda host. An elf had given birth on the journey and had need of a slower pace. The youngest son of Oropher and a small contingent of warriors provided the family's escort and protection. The Wood Elves were armed and requested Thranduil give answer for their trespass.

It had just been a misunderstanding. He had spoken too hastily, too harshly, and ordered the archers to put down their weapons, believing his father had already encountered these Sylvans and arranged safe passage. Thranduil had become angry when they refused, insisting his party halt until they could get news to their elders. As he urged his horse to continue forward in defiance of their demands, one of the archers released a warning shot. It embedded in the trunk of a tree behind his head, but to his warriors it must have seemed he was doomed. One of his spearmen loosed his long lance into the leaves and brought down the Wood Elf, dead.

Of course this spawned retaliatory arrow fire and the Sinda soldier fell instantly. The whole situation spun out of control. The Sindar learned the skill of the Sylvan archers and the advantage of the branches, for in seconds Thranduil had lost three worthy fighters, including a cousin by blood. The son of Oropher took an arrow through his shoulder and skewered the leg of the elf that dared wound him, using the spear yanked from the body of the first casualty to do it.

He had never thought to see an elf kill another elf. He had never imagined he would try to do so himself and the event sickened him, emotionally and physically.

The same effect could be seen to take hold of the Sylvan eldar, for they also ceased warring and simply disappeared among the leaves, not even taking the body of their dead comrade away, an unholy keening dirge flowing from their souls as they left.

Thranduil did not know then that the surviving Sylvan warriors had taken their own lives. It was long centuries before this information was learned, and by that time his hatred for the Wood Elves had solidified in his embittered soul. They were kin-slayers, that which he most despised. Even worse, they had shown him that this capability lay dormant within himself.

And buried deep in a shielded fortress in his inner heart was the knowledge that the Sindar had made the first kill, and that he had caused this.

"Then, it will please you to understand that our King has pledged his assistance to the Tawarwaith in his undertakings to rid the Greenwood of the Shadow's grasp," Iarwain filled in the growing void in order to prevent Thranduil from exploding, for the restless Sinda certainly looked on the verge of some terrible outburst.

Hearing this, Thranduil turned his chilling disgust upon the eldest councillor. Plainly enough he could see this elf was attempting to goad him into losing control and further disgracing himself. _He seeks to make me appear incompetent. Is he trying to capture his old place as the forest's leader? I should have thought to find the conspiracy involved Iarwain the friend of Oromë!_

He could comprehend that the Elder had no need to seek the help of Elrond in this scheme. So blinded was Thranduil by his wrath towards the half-elf that any action against the Realm would rapidly be tied to the Elf Lord in some way. The King began to perceive how easy to predict his actions were, how simple it was to manipulate his thoughts. Unbidden, an image of Meril flooded his brain, but he swept it away impatiently.

_What then of Elrond, for he is mixed in some how._

Still Iarwain would not be able to engineer the events at Erebor singly. Affairs of state were handled exclusively by the Sindar. There were no Sylvan captains, only warriors, archers, spear bearers and swordsmen. The Council did not even have a say in whether or no their Realm would go to war.

_Iarwain is an opportunist! This rift is his chance to weaken the throne and wrest control of the Woodlands from Oropher's line._

While this reasoning did not help explain the Peredhel's activities or the connection to Erebor, it did underscore Thranduil's initial impression of his discarded heir. The outcast was merely a tool in skilful hands, a chisel employed by a devious artist to sculpt a new fate for the Woodland elves.

_Nay, not a tool but a weapon designed for one target alone. In my disgust for Ningloriel's progeny I am even more predictable and easily riled to rage._ Recognising this fuelled the King to indignant wrath and he decided that a weapon could be wielded by whatever hand took it up.

"So I did pronounce!" he stated loudly and abruptly stepped down from the dais. During his silent brooding the room had begun humming with excited, subdued arguing over the mood of the King, and his sudden action made everyone hush as all eyes riveted upon the Sinda Lord.

In two long strides he was standing right in front of Legolas, staring hard into the surprised and edgy countenance of the wild elf. Thranduil stood a head taller and his more substantial frame obscured the accused from the rest of the gathered elves, wizards, and Men in the centre of the chamber. He was so close he could see the flecks of gold within the blue irises, which shrank away to narrow rims of navy blue as the pupils dilated in response to this threat.

His actions had been too swift for any to intervene. As he had moved forward the nervous woodsman had retreated to Aragorn's side and only Lindalcon remained by Legolas to lend support. The younger elf was nearly trembling as he gripped tightly to the wild elf's arm and Thranduil watched the outcast attempt to calm his sworn brother with an answering squeeze to his hand.

"How can I fulfil that oath when you place yourself with outlanders and give them aid? What happened, Tawarwaith? How came you under the influence of those Noldor? What made you trust them?" The King's quietly uttered questions were such a startling contrast to the menace presented by his physical proximity that it was far more effective than shouted threats would have been.

Legolas opened his mouth and shut it; stunned and unable at first to make any thoughts come forward in a coherent pattern that could actually be expressed. He swallowed and blinked under the stern and searching gaze upon him, exasperated that Thranduil could still reduce him to internal quaking like some callow elfling. He shifted his head to try and find Fearfaron's eyes.

"Speak," demanded the King, but his voice was calm, for he had noted that the fallen archer sought out the carpenter and not Iarwain.

"I will answer!" replied Erestor, very afraid that Thranduil was prepared to do some physical harm to Legolas. He stepped up and reached for the wild prince, pulling him back from under the Sinda Lord's very breath while his hand found its place on the hilt of his sword.

At the same time, Legolas pushed Lindalcon away towards Fearfaron, and Valtamar's son did not need more encouragement to remove himself from the confrontation. He found a spot next to Aiwendil, and the two exchanged their worry for their friend in grim glances.

"Lies and deceit, these are the methods we used to gain his trust. But understand this, Legolas was never an accomplice to our plots."

"Erestor of Imladris, why should I hear you or believe any words you say?" answered Thranduil, but he had not removed his eyes from Legolas and willed the fallen archer to meet his stare. "If he is not your cohort, what have you made this journey to salvage?" Thranduil could hear Legolas' disturbed breathing in the soundless pause that followed these words. _Does he fear the Noldo will reply with a lover's declaration?_

"Friendship," responded Erestor with sombre remorse and sorrow in his tones.

Then the Tawarwaith's gaze did flicker away in pained dismay to dart over the Noldo's face before finding the floor and then returning to bravely stare back at the Woodland ruler. With the briefest lift of his left brow Thranduil acknowledged both the strength that required and the distress the wild elf tried, but failed, to disguise as anger.

"I do not think you have shown such regard to any citizen of these lands," remarked the King sardonically. "Nor have you explained why you are here, why you practised this deceit."

"I know something of it!" called out the woodsman.

"So you have said," interjected Iarwain. "Please tell us what occurred." He did not like this change in Thranduil's behaviour. The Council was his domain.

"Yes, human, give us your evidence!" commanded the King loudly but never turned from the forest champion.

"Our village was attacked by the Dark Lord in a curse of heaving ground and falling trees!" the woodsman's words tumbled out in fluid rush of anxious syllables. "Many were injured and Tirno brought the Noldor in, for one was a healer. And the healer went about by the name Erestor, which I heard you call this one here, while he was known to us as Berenaur. So Tirno called them and Radagast too, and we thought nothing about it.

"We were grateful for the help, until it was made clear those two had harmed our atheling somehow," added the woodsman with another disparaging look at the advisor. "Aiwendil and the Elder had everyone running round keeping sure Tirno was not ever alone with either of them."

"Indeed!" Thranduil at last relinquished Legolas from his compelling glare and turned a most unpleasant scowl upon the Brown wizard. "You certainly were aware of who they were yet you did nothing. You kept their secret! Why did you not send word to me of this invasive element in my Realm?"

"I am not your subject," warned the Istar. "Even so, had your lands been under any threat from the Imladrians, I would have done. My concern was for Legolas and the suffering humans. Admittedly, I failed my friend. Long will I regret it! Yet despite their subterfuge and his own reduced state, Elrond could not make Legolas speak against his own.

"Many were the charges the Noldo Lord laid upon your name, Thranduil, yet Tirno would not allow a single one to pass unchallenged. They assumed those identities, realising he would have acted differently were it clear he beheld the Lord of Imladris and his right hand. Their efforts were for nought; no ally did they win."

"Used!" said Thranduil to Legolas, the single word packed with scornful pity. "By this I take it to mean you would not have bedded them had you comprehended that one was, according to your understanding, your own father."

A spasm ran over the wild elf's frame and involuntarily he shook his head as if to displace the ugly image from its well-seated niche in his reality.

"Enough!" thundered Mithrandir, advancing to confront the King. Thranduil ignored him and held the Tawarwaith's gaze.

"You aided them; they exploited you. Would you have been more ready to become Elrond's spy had he approached you honestly? If he had not sought to possess your body, might he have been able to gain your heart?"

He could see that those words hurt, for the fallen warrior physically winced and grew as pale as the mist rising over the river at dawn.

But as Thranduil watched Legolas shed the clinging calumny of his defilement and the dynamic force of the Forest Spirit gained dominance in his soul. His countenance took on an expression the King found unsettling in its familiarity. With a jaw tightening surge of obstinate temerity the Tawarwaith drew his lips into a firmly compressed line and directed a fiery glance upon the wizard that halted him in mid-step. Simultaneously everything in the whole forest stopped. Thranduil found that even he was holding his breath. The blue rage returned to the wild elf's eyes and they refocused on the Wood Elves' Lord.

"I would never betray Tawar regardless of who holds my heart, and no enemy of my Greenwood could ever do so!" his statement was clear and none hearing it would doubt the verity of those words.

A small smile upended the corners of Thranduil's lips as he regained his respiration and nodded slightly. Likewise, the assembly relaxed and a low murmur rippled through the room.

"Nasan [It is so]," he said quietly and returned to his place upon the dais.

"I withdraw the charge of treason from the Tawarwaith. Let our history show that even under severe duress the outcast held true. The fault lies elsewhere," with these words Thranduil let his icy glare travel from the face of Erestor to that of the eldest Elder, there to remain.

"So noted!" intoned the Councillor of Record, and thus was the final charge voided.

Tbc


End file.
