Lord of the Rings 1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer and Authors' Note: 

Okay, this is a first for us. Ellbee and I have written together before, but not in a while, and always in the "Mummy" category. This is our first foray into LOTR-fic. 

The only thing we really can claim in this story is the character Isobel. Yes, yes, a Mary Sue, some might say, but those who know our writing know we strive to make them believable. Everything else is owned by Professor Tolkien, of course. Our story takes place in a sort of mixture of the book-universe and the movie-universe. For example, the Council at Rivendell includes more men from Gondor than just Boromir, like the movie. But after the Fellowship is formed, they linger in Rivendell for a number of months while waiting for reports from scouts and the like, like in the book. The best of both worlds, we thought.

Chapter One

She rose slowly to the surface of wakefulness, at first only aware of the softness of her bed. Warm and comfortable for the first time in what seemed like ages, at first she could only burrow down more deeply into the bedclothes. But soon enough, memory flooded back – the terror, the fire, the harsh clang of swords, the screams. Her eyes flew open.   
  
This was not her bedroom. Where was she? Was she a captive? As her eyes roamed over the room where she lay, she could only think that this was a beautiful prison. Her bed was in the middle of a small but airy room, with richly carved furniture of some pale wood she did not recognize. As she sat up to look around her more, she saw a tray piled high with food, sitting on a small table near the bed. The food was still steaming; someone must have just brought it, but she had heard nothing. She was quite alone.   
  
It took only a moment for her to decide, or rather, for her stomach to decide, what to do next. She threw off the blankets and eased out of bed. Her legs shook a little beneath her, and it was a few moments before she was certain that her knees were not going to buckle. How long had she been in bed? Muscles protested as she carefully made her way to the laden tray. 

The food was delicious. It had only taken a couple of bites to remind her of how hungry she was, and she had to stop herself from shoveling it all in like a barbarian. Once she had eaten her fill, she gained the courage to explore her surroundings a little more. She was surprised to find a trunk with women's clothes inside, lovely clothes that looked like they would fit her perfectly.   
  
They did. Dressed, fed and rested, she felt stronger, and courageous enough to approach the window. There where no bars to keep her in, but the room looked out onto a hillside covered with trees, their leaves turning golden and just beginning to fall. On a path below she could see two women carrying baskets of flowers. Their steps were light, and they sang as they pattered along the pathway. She gazed in wonder as the song reached her ears. Elves. They were elves. How had she come to the elves?   
  
Most of her fear leaving her, she went to the door and cautiously tried the handle. The door was not locked, and she peeked out onto a long hallway. There was nobody there. With a deep breath, she left her room. She should at least find her hosts and thank them.   
  
Many hallways later, she was hopelessly lost. She had gone up and down several wide stairways, and had heard elvish voices, but had seen nobody to speak to. And she had passed many doors, but she was not quite brave enough to open them. Frustrated, she gave a little stomp of her foot and made a petulant sound.   
  
"Hello? Who's there?"   
  
She spun around at the sound of the voice, to see a small man looking out one of the doors.   
  
"Ah, Isobel, isn't it? Nice to see you up at last. How are you feeling? Better, I hope?"   
  
For a moment she could only gape, open-mouthed. How did he know her name? She had never seen him before in her life. Despite her confusion, her manners took over. "Much better, thank you," she said, giving him a small curtsey. 

  
As she approached him, she could see that he was very small, standing only as high as her chest. And he was very old; his face was lined and his hair was white, but he was rosy cheeked and merry, and he held a long pipe. "How do you do. I am Bilbo Baggins," he said with a small, slightly arthritic bow. 

He was a hobbit, she suddenly realized. She had never come face to face with one before; she thought they kept to themselves in their own land. How had this one come to be with the elves, so far from home?

But then again, one could ask her the very same question. 

  
"Come in, come in, my dear, it's quite all right. Have you eaten?" When she nodded, he continued. "Of course you have. They keep a very good table, the elves do. Very generous. You came in with the men, I think, didn't you? I must say, they weren't quite sure that you would pull through. Been having adventures, so it seems."   
  
She remembered more now. The woods at night, how cold everything had been. Walking along the long road, every muscle in her body screaming in pain with each step she took. Her feet had hurt especially; she hadn't even had time to put on shoes before she'd fled. And the men who had found her; she remembered them dimly, like an almost-forgotten dream. They were on their way to somewhere important, some sort of Council…

With a start, she noticed the elderly hobbit was staring at her, waiting for a response. Silence seemed rude, so she only said, "Yes, I came in with the men." She hoped he would not ask any more, she did not feel quite up to talking about…everything. Not yet.   
  
Luckily, he did not take offense. "Yes, I see." Suddenly serious, he looked at her with pity in his eyes. "It's a dark time," he murmured, almost to himself. 

She turned away, and would have gone, but her eye fell on a largish book lying open on a cluttered table. She approached it slowly, her curiosity piqued.  
  
"Ah, yes. That's mine. I'm writing my own adventure, you see. It isn't finished yet, I'm afraid. I mean to, but there is always something else that seems to call my attention. Like walking, and eating, and singing, and watching. A wonderful place, Rivendell is."   
  
Isobel caught her breath and turned to him, her eyes wide. "Rivendell?" she breathed. She had heard of Rivendell, the hidden city of the Elves, but had always considered it a myth. And yet, here she was.   
  
"Oh, yes, it's real," he said, seeming to read her mind. "You'll be safe here, my dear." Her eyes widened, and she wondered just how much he _did_ know about her.  
  
He noticed that she still had her hand on the book. "Oh," he said, "I don't suppose you'd like to read it, would you? I'd love to get your opinion. It's quite exciting, though I say it myself."   
  
He seemed so eager that all she could do was consent with a smile. And then he kindly showed her through the labyrinth of hallways and finally outdoors, to a quiet seat overlooking a courtyard. He chattered in a friendly manner the whole time, and of this she was glad, for it spared her from having to talk much, or explain anything. He installed her carefully on the bench, and left her, saying something about preparing for a meeting.   
  
The day was cool, a crisp day in early autumn. She was glad she had put on a shawl when a breeze stole through the trees, making their golden-yellow leaves rustle. Settled on the warm stone bench, she let the book lay unopened in her lap while she took in her surroundings.   
  
Rivendell. The land of the elves. She would never in her life have imagined that she would be somewhere like this. It looked almost unreal, a bedtime story come to life. Elvish architecture was open and sweeping, all graceful curves and light and air. She was almost dizzy in taking in all the color and light of this place.   
  
The sun was warm on her shoulders, and she let the shawl slip a little as she opened the volume carefully to the title page. _There and Back Again. A Hobbit's Tale by Bilbo Baggins._ The writing was neat and careful, with a bit of a flourish, rather like Mr. Baggins himself. A smile touched her lips as she turned the page and began to read.   
  
A little while and several pages later, the sound of hoof beats drew her attention. Her heart thudded up into her throat, and she looked up, startled. But all seemed well; it was a party of elves riding through the front gates. They were probably here for the Council as well, the same one that her saviors, the men of Gondor, had come to attend. She watched them ride in, amazed by their graceful movements. She had never seen anyone sit a horse so well, or so naturally, as an elf. Afternoon sunlight glanced off them, shining on buckles and sword hilts, sweeping through the pale blond hair of one as he dismounted in one smooth movement. No, they were not the enemy. She took a few deep breaths and willed her panic to dissipate, then she bent her head once more over her book.   
  
***  
  
Legolas breathed in deeply and let his breath out in a sigh as he rode into the city. He had been here many times before, but never on such urgent and deadly business. Relief flooded through him – relief that he and his elves had ridden through the dangerous mountain passes with no injuries, relief that the wise would soon consult on the evil that had been spreading through the world. But mostly it was the relief that came simply from being here in Rivendell. No matter the state of the world outside this valley, the power of Elrond and the other first-born who dwelt here could be felt. Cares and fears slowly faded as he dismounted and looked around him.   
  
That was when he saw her. She immediately drew his attention, a daughter of men among so many elves. Of course, he had known that men were called to this Council as well, but it was foolishness indeed to bring a woman on a dangerous journey through the wilderness.   
  
He looked more closely at her. She was very different from Elvish women. Some of his men said that human women were all fat and ugly, but he had his own reasons for disagreeing. Her hair was a rich brown coiled neatly on her neck, her skin darker, rosier than the pale skin of elves, her body more generously curved. Though her head was bent over a book, her face and her form pleased his eye. His curiosity at her being there at all drew him toward her, he desired to speak to her. Leaving his horse in the care of one of the grooms, he ran lightly up the stairs to where she sat with her book. She did not look up, did not hear him. He stopped in front of her, noticing the very moment she felt his presence. And in the next moment, she would look up. Her eyes would be a soft brown, flecked with bits of black and gold. He did not wonder how he knew this, and when she lifted her head, he was not at all surprised to find he was right.

**** 

  
She was running a finger over one of the detailed and painstakingly drawn maps in the book when a shadow fell across her page. She nearly gasped aloud when she looked up, into the clear blue eyes of an elf, the same one she had seen riding in the gate. He gazed at her for a moment, and she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. He seemed to realize that he was making her blush, and turned his eyes to her book.   
  
"Ah," he said, his voice soft and rich, "That is a grand tale you are reading."   
  
"This?" she answered in surprise. "Do you know this story? But…the little man who gave me the book, he said he wrote it. Why, it isn't even finished yet."   
  
A smile curled his lips. "All the finest tales are unfinished. But I do know this story. We are in the midst of it even now." He bowed slightly. "I am Legolas, of Mirkwood."   
  
She held out her hand. "My name is Isobel," she said. She did not elaborate any further. Where would she say she was from, in any case? Her home was no more.

He took her hand and bowed over it. His hand was warm in hers, and she liked the way it felt. "A pleasure," he said. He cocked his head a little to one side, considering her. "And what does a daughter of men do here in Rivendell? Do you attend the Council?"

She nearly laughed at that notion. Why would he ever think that? "No," she said with a small shake of her head. "The men of Gondor brought me here." As she looked into those clear blue eyes, something made her want to explain herself. For some reason, she knew that she could tell this elf everything. "My home was--"

  
Her words were drowned out by the single peal of a bell, pure and clear. Both their heads turned in the direction of the sound.  
  
"The Council." Legolas's voice was quiet, all trace of smiles gone. He turned back to her, apology in his eyes. "I must go," he said, releasing her hand.

"Of course," she replied with a nod, letting her hand fall back into her lap. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and he smiled, and then was gone. 

Isobel watched him jog across the courtyard and down a small flight of stairs, moving as effortlessly as a cat. Contentment warmed her on the inside, as surely as the sun warmed her shoulders. It had been wonderful to see him again.

Again? Her brow furrowed. Her home had been on the northern outskirts of Gondor, and she had never seen an elf in her life. Yet talking to Legolas, she had had the odd sense of being at home. He more than likely reminded her of someone from her youth. With a small shake of her head, she returned to her book, falling easily back into Mr. Baggins' adventure.

****

Although their meeting in the courtyard was brief, Isobel remained on Legolas's mind through the night and into the next morning. Shortly after the Council had recessed, he had spoken to one of Elrond's attendants, who told him more about the human woman in their midst. She had indeed been brought into Rivendell by the men of Gondor, wrapped in one of their cloaks and quite unconscious. They had found her in the road, shoeless and clad only in a torn linen shift. They had been able to learn from her only her name, and that her homestead had been attacked in the dead of night by orc marauders. She had fled the destruction, and had apparently wandered for days, seeking shelter. Since they could not very well leave her there, she had been brought with them to Rivendell. She was not seriously hurt, but was exhausted, nearly starved, and had required rest. Yesterday was the first day she had regained consciousness. His heart had twisted a little in sympathy at her plight.

The next morning, he was not surprised to see her in the courtyard again, sitting on the same bench. Her dress was different, but otherwise she did not look as though she had moved from the time of their previous meeting. As he mounted the steps to the courtyard, she turned her head and smiled at his approach. She did not look surprised to see him.

"Good morning," she said when he drew near. His eyes widened a touch. She spoke Elvish! He felt a wide smile break out across his face.

"Good morning," he replied in the same language. "I hope you are feeling well today. Would..." His voice trailed off as her face fell a little.

"I'm sorry," she said with a small nervous laugh. "I'm afraid that I deceived you. That's the full extent of my Elvish." Her cheeks pinked a little as she ducked her head to study her slippers. "And that is only because the old hobbit gentleman taught me the words this morning."

To her relief, he simply smiled and said, "Ah, that must be the same Bilbo Baggins whose book you read."  
  
She slid over on the bench just a little, a silent invitation for him to sit beside her, and invitation he instantly accepted. "Yes, he's been very kind to me, but I'm afraid I'm..." She fell silent. Looking at him, now so near, she was caught once again by his eyes, so startlingly blue, so young and yet so old, and so gentle, that she completely lost the thread of her thought. With a start she remembered herself, but it was too late to do anything but blush.  
  
His smile only broadened. "I am glad to see you looking so well, better even than yesterday. You look stronger, and your cheeks are much rosier."  
  
Isobel could not suppress a laugh, and found she did not want to. It had been too long since she had had anything to laugh about. "Are you teasing me?" she asked boldly.  
  
"Of course not," he said gallantly. At least he did not recoil at her familiarity. "In fact," he continued, "you look so well that I wonder if you would not like to walk a little."  
  
"Oh, yes, I'd like that very much." She did not ask how he knew she had been unwell. He gestured for a servant to take her book back to Bilbo, and led her down a wide set of stairs into a wooded area. She had not ventured so far before, but the ground was level and smooth, and covered with a carpet of gold leaves. The air was fresh and crisp, and she began to feel glad to be alive.  
  
They walked in silence for some time, a silence that was strangely comfortable. All trace of nervousness melted away as they fell into step together; she felt as if she were sharing a walk with an old friend.  
  
His voice broke the stillness. "Why do you sigh?" he asked.  
  
"It seems so strange. My husband would have liked to see this. He always intended to travel." She had not meant to tell him that, but for some reason the words spilled out before she could stop them.  
  
He seemed to understand. "But he did not?"  
  
She shook her head with a sad smile. "No. He always put it off. 'After the harvest,' he would say, or 'Perhaps in the spring.' And then he caught a fever, and he died within a week." She ran her hand along the leaves of some evergreen bushes, not meeting his eyes.  
  
"I am sorry. And yet your grief does not seem new."  
  
"He died a little over three years ago. We had not been married long, so I did not know him well. But I was fond of him."  
  
"You married him, and yet you did not know him. This is very strange to me."  
  
"My family arranged it," she said. She should have felt irritation at his question, but she knew it was simply curiosity that prompted it, not judgment. "It was a very good match for me. Even after he died, I had a manor, a farm, an income. That is...until..."  
  
He said nothing, waiting for her to continue. Soon enough she did. "They came in the night. We had no warning." Her voice was very low, and it shook a little. "I would have been killed, if Bart had not roused me; he nearly threw me out the window. I don't even know if he's alive. I hid in the woods and watched the house burn. But then they started hunting through the trees, and I ran, and ran, and…"  
  
Turning away from him, she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. It was over now, and she would not break down. He said nothing, but she could feel him very close to her, his presence comforting. In a minute or two she regained her composure, and turned to find him looking toward the south.  
  
"These are dark times," he said, unconsciously echoing Bilbo's words. He looked down at her with a gentle smile. "But this place will heal you, and lessen your pain, if you let it. It has always done that for me. I wish I too could linger here, but I must go soon."  
  
It was as if a cloud had passed over the sun, and she was silent for a moment. "So, are you going home, now that the Council is over?" she asked in a small voice.  
  
"No, my path lies southward. You may have heard about our journey. I saw you last night; you have become friends with the hobbits. They are very...talkative creatures."  
  
"Oh, yes, indeed they are." Had he been watching her? The thought warmed her. "They told me all about the 'secret council' and the adventure they will be going on. But they made it sound like a lark, a day trip."  
  
"It is no lark, I am afraid. We must go to Mordor, to destroy a great evil."  
  
His matter-of-factness dismayed her. She had spent some time the night before talking with two of the hobbits, Merry and Pippin, or rather, they had spent time talking with her, as they did more of it than she. They had been quite carefree about the whole business, and she half suspected they had made it all up. But now a fist clutched at her heart.  
  
"It sounds like suicide," she said with horror. "Why would they make you… that is…all of you… do this thing?"  
  
"No one 'makes' us go," he said calmly. "It is a great honor to be chosen."  
  
She stopped dead in her tracks, making him turn to face her. "What! Are you mad?" Her voice rose angrily, a little desperately. "You asked to be chosen? Why would you do such a thing, don't you know what will happen to you? It's insanity, you mustn't do this!" He only looked at her, his eyes wide.  
  
Her hand flew to her mouth, as if she could take back the words she had just said. "I'm so sorry," she breathed. Embarrassed, she looked down to the ground, studying her shoes. "I don't know why I said that. It's none of my business, of course. Please forgive me." 

For a moment he said nothing, and it was a few moments before she could look up again to face him. She was afraid of what she would see; she feared she had annoyed him, and had managed to lose a friend almost as soon as she had found one. But he did not look annoyed or angry at her outburst. Those blue eyes were as soft as ever, and regarded her only with concern. 

"There is nothing to forgive," he said quietly. "You have been through a terrible ordeal, and have lost many who were close to you." He reached for her hand, holding it between both of his in a gesture of comfort. "And you have every reason to fear the future. You yourself have seen the changes that have come over this land. If we do not do this, if Sauron is not stopped, the whole of Middle-Earth will fall. There is no one who is not afraid." 

She blinked away tears as he looped a lock of her hair behind her ear, letting his hand fall back onto hers again. "But you are not afraid," she said. His hands on hers were warm, his grip firm but gentle. He practically radiated calm, and she felt herself soothed by it. 

He shook his head, giving her a small smile. "Do not be too certain of that," he said. "Perhaps I am simply better at hiding it." 

He guided her hand to his arm, and by unspoken agreement he began leading her back to the great hall. She was glad for it, actually, as she had grown weary, both from the exercise and the emotion. She stole a glance or two at him as they walked back, and one time he turned his head, catching her eyes with his. A small smile passed between them, and Isobel felt cheered.


	2. Two

Chapter Two

Days became weeks, and passed languidly, although the leisure was tightened by the tension of the growing war in Middle Earth. Isobel learned soon enough about the Fellowship, a group of nine companions, Legolas and her hobbit friends among them, and the great task they faced. Scouts had been sent out to distant parts of Middle-Earth, and now all waited for their return, gathering reports on the coming darkness before the nine set out.

Isobel found her strength growing daily, and was able to go for more walks now, exploring the very pretty woods and paths of Rivendell. Sometimes she shared these walks with Legolas, when the business of the upcoming journey did not require his attention. More often, however, she found herself in the company of her new friends, the hobbits, especially Merry and Pippin. She found she had much more in common with the hobbits than with the elves. The elves were kind and hospitable, but she felt herself very much an outsider. The men who brought her were all very grand and powerful, and huddled together in conferences almost constantly. No, she could not turn to them for friendship.

But, she did need to turn to them for information. Late one morning, Isobel finally worked up the courage to approach Boromir, the leader of the group of men who had rescued her. He clearly was a leader of some importance, and she learned from him that he was the son of the steward of Gondor, and was another who had been chosen to comprise the Fellowship. Such a grand task made her own fate feel small and unimportant, but she somehow managed the courage to ask what would become of her. Her home had been destroyed, and she had no family and nowhere to go. She was correct in thinking that they had given no thought to her situation; Boromir seemed almost not to recognize her. He spoke kindly enough, however, and assured her that Elrond had offered her his hospitality as long as she chose to stay. And if she wished to go to Minas Tirith, she could make the journey back with the rest of the men of Gondor. She thanked him for his kindness, and left him to his own thoughts. She would have to sort her own thoughts later. Never had she been without a home before, and she felt very alone.

She also felt very hungry, and the sun, now rising well in the sky, reminded her that she had missed breakfast. She decided to find something to eat, which she had learned was a very easy task. To find food, all one had to do was seek out hobbits, and food would never be far behind.

Indeed, it was not long before she had eaten her fill, and Merry and Pippin insisted that she eat more.

"Come on, have another one."  
  
"Oh, no," Isobel said with a laugh. "I couldn't possibly..."  
  
"Course you can!" Merry said, his tone brooking no refusal. He pressed the cake into her hand, rendering it slightly squashed, but still edible. "This one's got nuts in it, you haven't tried that one yet."  
  
"I'm not hungry anymore," she said. "Really. I've had plenty to eat."  
  
Both hobbits waved off that concept as utter nonsense. "Don't be silly," Pippin said. "You have to keep up your strength. It'll be ages till it's time to eat again."  
  
Isobel looked at him incredulously. "But suppertime will be in a couple of hours."  
  
"Exactly!" He looked nearly horrified at the idea of spending such a long time away from the table.  
  
"And that one's got nuts in it," Merry said again, indicating the cake he had forced on her.  
  
"No, no, I really couldn't..."  
  
"Pardon me, gentlemen." The smooth voice cut through the lighthearted argument between the laughing woman and her two hobbit caretakers. All three turned to see Legolas regarding the three of them, his face impassive. "I am sorry to interrupt, but Lord Elrond wishes to speak to the lady. I must beg to take her away from you for a short while."  
  
Merry and Pippin jumped up, mutterings of "Of course, of course" filling the air. Isobel slowly got to her feet, brushing off her hands and straightening her skirt. Her face felt suddenly very red from all the laughing she had been doing, and her hair was probably a mess. Not to mention her hands; that nut-filled cake had been rather sticky. Perfect for   
meeting with Lord Elrond, whose hospitality she had been enjoying all this time. She sighed, gave up on her appearance, and followed Legolas out of the hall.  
  
Once outside, he slowed down enough for her to fall into step with him. "What does he want with me?" Isobel shook the last of the cake crumbs off of her skirt as she asked her question. He did not answer at first, and when she looked up, he was regarding her a little curiously.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Who?" Isobel repeated, a little indignantly. "Why, Lord Elrond, of course! You said you had been sent to bring me to him."  
  
"I did, didn't I?" His lips curved up in a hint of a smile as he looked innocently up into the afternoon sky.  
  
Her eyes widened as she looked at him. "You made it up?"  
  
He looked at her then, his blue eyes bright with mischief, like a little boy. His small smile became a grin, and Isobel burst into giggles.  
  
"You looked rather....put-upon by the halflings," he said in explanation. "And so I decided to rescue you."  
  
She had to laugh for another few moments before she had composed herself enough to speak. "Well, I do appreciate it," she finally said. "If I had one more bite forced on me, I'm afraid I would have exploded."  
  
He raised an eyebrow. "You seemed to be keeping up with them rather well."  
  
She twitched her skirt to the side, revealing a deep pocket. It was almost completely full. Now Legolas was the one to laugh.  
  
"Come," he said. "I know what we can do with this."  
  
Within moments, they had come to the banks of what looked like a lagoon. At one end was a low waterfall that fed the pond. Isobel went immediately to kneel at the water's edge, dipping her hands in the clear water and rinsing off the residual stickiness. Before long, she noticed the ducks that populated this small body of water, along with a couple of swans. Drawing bits of uneaten cakes and buns from her pocket, she started using them to lure the birds nearer.

As soon as they saw they was food to be had, the birds in the water began gliding over to Isobel, most of them bold enough to waddle up the bank to take the food from her fingers. Legolas laughed to see her so merry, giggling and talking to the ducks as if they were children.  
  
"No need to push, there's plenty for everyone...For you, and you, and one for you...Why, you greedy thing, you bit me!...Enough, enough! That's all there is....Shoo! Go on now." She looked like a goose girl with a recalcitrant flock, and with another laugh Legolas came to her rescue, helping to shoo the birds back into the water. He gestured her to a bench, nestled under a tree so charmingly as to look as if it had grown out of the ground, and not been made. When she had seated herself, he dropped gracefully to the ground at her feet. It felt right and natural to sit together so, his head by her knee, both of them looking out toward  
the water.  
  
They fell into a friendly silence as they watched the ducks paddling around on the water, and it was several minutes before Isobel realized that her attention was not on the scene before them, but on the elf who sat so near. She could only watch in fascination as her hand moved from where it lay in her lap, as if she had no control over it. Slowly she slipped her fingertips under a lock of his hair just behind his ear, lifting it and letting it run through her fingers like water. It looked like fine spun gold in the sunlight, and felt like silk, just as she knew it would. He did not draw back; in fact, he did not seem surprised at all. Instead he reached up and captured her hand with his own, turning his head slightly to brush his  
lips along the backs of her fingers. Then he laid her hand back on her knee and turned his face once more toward the pool. No words were spoken, and only the mad pounding of her heart told her that something had indeed passed between them.


	3. Three

Chapter Three

For a while, Isobel awoke almost every morning with a feeling of trepidation. Would this be the day that the scouts would return, and the Fellowship would set off? But as time went on, she woke up a little less anxious every day, until the fear was gone completely, and she only awoke looking forward to another day in Rivendell. 

The days for the most part were cooler now. Isobel found herself wearing her shawl more and more often, and pulling it close when the breeze picked up. She liked the afternoons best, when the sun was high and warm, and she and old Mr. Baggins, as she thought of him, would often sit together in the courtyard. It never took much effort to start him talking, and he always told the most amazing stories. Listening to his tales of adventure, Isobel felt like a wide-eyed child, a feeling she had not had in some years. Merry and Pippin still explored the surrounding forest, but usually without Isobel now that the weather had cooled. And sometimes old Mr. Baggins was accompanied by his nephew, a rather somber-looking young hobbit who did not talk as much as the others. Too often, Isobel thought that she could detect a hint of fear in his eyes, even when he was smiling at something. He seemed very preoccupied, but she wasn't sure that she would be welcome to ask him about it.

But all told, Rivendell suited her quite nicely as a temporary home. She had never in her life met so many people, and of so many different races. It seemed like every day she met someone new: elves and hobbits, dwarves and men. It was hard to feel like a stranger when so many were obviously strangers themselves.

And of course, there was Legolas. She could feel her cheeks heat up when she thought of him, and she knew that she blushed as well. Everything felt so different when he was around. Even a simple walk through the woods had new meaning when it was just the two of them. She could feel him focus on her, as though his gaze were tangible, and there were times that it made her shiver. But she didn't feel nervous, like a silly girl with a crush. Instead, she simply felt at peace. It was completely unexplainable, but somehow things just felt right when she was at his side. As though everything in the world was where it should be.

****

Legolas personally had little in the way of preparations to make for the journey, and so he was much at leisure. Whether he meant to or not, he found himself spending many hours with Isobel. And when he could not be with her, he thought about her. At first he thought it was merely because he felt a great pity for her. She was not altogether easy here at first, that he could tell. A refugee, she had called herself, dependent on the charity of strangers. An uncomfortable position. It would have been easy enough for her to fall into despair and hopelessness, with no home, no family - nothing left that had ever held any value to her. But Rivendell was a place that did away with distress and discomfort, and if Isobel had nothing else, she had a spirit above despondency. That, and her good breeding. She had a smile, a curtsey, a pleasant word for all. Even the dwarves - and Legolas could well understand anyone not getting along with the surly dwarves. But he had overheard the dwarf Gimli speaking to Bilbo about her. "Nice child," he had gruffed. "Very good manners."  
  
And a definite friendship was forming between Isobel and the hobbits. How many times had he watched her, delighted, as Merry and Pippin recounted some tale, or played some silly game, and sent her into peals of helpless laughter, until she had to catch her breath, and wipe the tears from her eyes? Even better was when she was with him, walking or talking, and had reason to laugh. The joy on her face was enough to warm a colder heart than his.  
  
Her eyes, he had noticed them the first day he met her, how it felt so familiar to look into those eyes. But when had he begun to notice the way her hair, pulled back so modestly, seemed to glow with red lights when the sun danced through it? The way her lips curved up in a sort of half-smile as they would walk along in companionable silence, as if she were humming a secret melody? The way she blushed when she caught him watching her? He had thought it was not possible, but by the time he realized what a danger she was to his heart, it was too late. 

****

The evenings turned cool, and many nights Isobel found herself in the chair closest to the fire. She never planned for that, but Merry and Pippin continued in their role as her self-appointed caregivers, settling her into the softest chair and fetching whichever book she said would suit her fancy. On one such evening, she met Aragorn's eyes across the sitting room and they shared a quiet smile; he had traveled a long way with the hobbits, and he appeared to now be gently amused by the attention they paid her. But soon enough, her little valets left her to seek their own amusement, and with a low chuckle, she opened her book to read, seeing that Aragorn had already done the same. For a long while, the only sound in the room was the soft crackle of the fire, punctuated by the occasional rustle of a turning page.

She did not hear the door open, only noticed the change in temperature as a cool breeze whispered across her face. She glanced up, and her cheeks heated up with pleasure: it was Legolas. His eyes found her immediately, and he smiled; she felt her face heat up more as her smile echoed his. But then he turned from her, looking to Aragorn, he spoke a few words in Elvish. Aragorn lowered his book into his lap and answered; the words of their dialogue washed over Isobel like the breeze that had heralded the elf's arrival. 

A little stung, she blinked quickly and returned to her book. She couldn't understand a word of what was spoken, of course, and she was reminded very suddenly and very thoroughly that she did not belong here. No matter how comfortable a chair was or how often an elflord might smile at her, she was very much a stranger in Rivendell. A wave of homesickness struck her, made even more melancholy by the knowledge that she no longer had a home to call her own. She drew a deep breath, concentrating on keeping it from shuddering and betraying her emotion.

"What do you think you are doing?"

Legolas' voice startled her out of her reverie. She glanced up in surprise to see him standing directly in front of her, speaking to her in her language now. Swallowing her earlier sadness, she schooled her features into a more neutral expression and raised one eyebrow.

"I believe I am reading a book. You've heard of them, I imagine?"

"I have." His blue eyes were bright in the firelight, and shone with merriment. A small smile played at his mouth, and he shook his head. "But on a night like this, it is inexcusable. Come on--" He plucked the book from her hands, his smile widening at her startled gasp as he firmly closed it and placed it on the table next to her. "A moon such as this should not be missed." He extended a hand to her in invitation, but his voice was more of a gentle command. A glance across the room showed her that Aragorn's eyes were cast down onto his book again, innocently reading.

She slid her hand into his with a slightly sly smile. "A terrible crime, indeed," she said. He tucked her hand securely into the crook of his arm, scooping up her shawl from the back of her chair. With one more smile down at her, he led her out of the parlor and into the cool evening.

The breeze was soft, but not terribly cold; truth be told, she had found her spot by the fire to be a little too warm, but she would have sooner roasted to death than admit it to the hobbits who had settled her there. So now she enjoyed the slight chill of the autumn evening, and the company of the elflord at her side. He led her easily through the darkness, their feet crunching softly through the fallen leaves in their path. Not many words were spoken between the two of them; that curiously comfortable silence had once again enveloped them, and she realized that she was smiling for no good reason at all.

"I see no moon," she finally said. Indeed, the night was dark; the path he led them on wound through a forest, and the sky was completely blotted out by overhanging branches.

His chuckle floated out of the darkness, little more than a slightly altered sigh. "Patience," was all he said. And sure enough, as they rounded a bend in the path, they suddenly entered a clearing that was bathed in light. Isobel's gaze turned toward the sky with a gasp. Releasing Legolas's arm, she stepped away, her head tilted up to gaze at the moon, which hung full and heavy above their heads. Everything around them was cast in an ethereal, silvery glow. This must be some kind of elvish magic, she thought as she turned in a slow circle. She had never known the moon to have this sort of effect on her surroundings.

She turned around once more to see Legolas watching her, a small smile on his face, and an expression in his eyes that she couldn't quite read. "It's beautiful," she said. Her voice was pitched low, not wanting to disrupt the beauty of this place.

He nodded, his own eyes turning up to the sky. "It is," he answered. In the moonlight, his hair looked pure white, almost glowing where it lay against his tunic. She stepped toward him, her hand rising of its own accord, reaching for him. Her fingers were a hair's breadth away from him before she stopped herself, almost horrified. She was going to do it again, she realized. She had fully intended to take a lock of that silken hair between her fingers, like she had a few days ago by the waterfall. Neither of them had mentioned the incident since it had happened, and Isobel had thought it best to leave it forgotten. What had caused her to do it again?

But before she could react, he caught her hand in his, his grip warm and comforting. And just as he had before, he lifted her hand to his mouth, gently grazing his lips across the backs of her fingers. Isobel's eyes flew wide, a gasp shaking her body. The last time, he had been facing away from her, and the touch of his lips had been brief. This time his gaze locked with hers, and he was more thorough; his mouth slowly and carefully caressed each digit. His blue eyes were incandescent, burning her more fiercely than any fire ever could.

She opened her mouth to speak, but she had no voice. Instead, she found herself swaying forward, moving even closer to him. He dropped her hand, both of his coming up to frame her face. He touched her forehead, his fingertips trailing along her hairline, following it down past her temples and onto her cheeks. He traced her cheekbones, finding her jawline and finally her chin. His touch was light, barely a whisper on her skin, but no other touch had ever left a trail of fire such as this. 

Her breath shuddered, her eyelids were nearly too heavy to keep open. She let them sag closed when his thumbs brushed over her lips. His hands moved down, cupping her face, and she felt the warmth of his breath against her mouth the moment before his lips brushed against hers. He was as thorough with her mouth as he had been with her fingers, caressing, exploring. He did not pull her roughly against him or wind his arms around her; he simply cradled her head gently in his hands as kissed her, as if he were worshipping a delicate object.

Just when Isobel's blood began to simmer, when she wanted him to pull her closer or kiss her harder, he ended it. He pulled back slowly, almost reluctantly, planting small, punctuating nips on her mouth as he straightened up again. His eyes still burned with that touch of blue fire, but his manner was as composed as ever. Isobel felt shattered in comparison, all breathless gasps and trembling hands.

Legolas let his hands linger for a few moments, letting his fingers study the curve of her cheek, the slope of her forehead. Finally, he reached for her hand again, bringing it up to kiss the back of it. A small shiver ran through her body at the touch of his lips, and for a moment, she felt his body tense.

"The night grows cold," he said, releasing her. "You feel it more than I. I should take you indoors now." His voice sounded hesitant, but Isobel could tell in his tone that his mind was made up, and no arguments from her could change it. Their evening together was over.

They were quiet again as they walked back to the hall where she stayed, but the silence had a different quality this time. Isobel felt nervous, a little uncertain. Something about the way he moved now, and the way he avoided looking at her, made her think that he regretted the kiss they had just shared. She was sorry for that, for she did not regret it, and nothing anyone could say or do would make her feel otherwise. Being kissed by him felt natural, it felt right; in his arms in the moonlight, she had felt like she was home for the first time in a long while.

At the door to her room he left her; he touched her cheek with his fingertips for a long moment as he bade her good night.

"Sleep well," he said quietly. His eyes looking down at her were as warm as ever, but there was a hint of a question in his eyes too. An uncertainty she could not understand. With a small smile and a duck of her head, she opened the door and slipped into her room. He was right; the hour was growing late, and she needed her rest. She hoped her dreams on this night would be pleasant, and filled with moonlight and kisses.

  
They were quite the opposite.

****

After leaving Isobel at her door, Legolas walked for a long time under the heavy moon, his mind troubled. No, not troubled. Confused. It was not a feeling he had very often, so it was difficult to get used to. Before he realized it, he had come to the waterfall, where he and Isobel had stopped a few days ago. The first time she had touched his hair, running her fingers through it. The first time his mind had begun to tumble. 

Her touch had been gentle, but sure, as though she had made such a gesture a thousand times before. And as for himself, he had felt the same; her caress had felt right, and catching her hand to kiss it had felt like a natural and correct thing to do. At the time he had thought nothing of it, even though they were relative strangers to one another, and not given to exchanging such intimacies. 

But there were so many other things, and they all now connected to one another in his head, leading to the confusion he now felt. In the past days and weeks, there had been many small moments that he could swear he had experienced before. The way that Isobel tilted her head when he asked her a question had seemed intimately familiar to him. Her laughter when a duck nipped at her fingers to get the bread she held for it. Her soft brown eyes, which he knew before he ever saw them. But when he had touched her face in the moonlight, when he had kissed her, everything became clear. He had touched her before, kissed her before. But she had been different. Her hair had been darker, she had been younger, her skin nearly as pale as his. She had whispered words to him in Elvish as his mouth had claimed hers. 

And this had all happened a long time ago. Nearly five hundred years, by his reckoning. 

It was nonsense, he knew. Humans didn't live that long. Their lifespan went by in the blink of an eye to the elfkind. It had been a very long time since he had thought of her, at least two or three hundred years since he had spoken her name. But tonight, looking up at the moon, he did so. 

"Lily..."


	4. Four

Chapter Four

A/N: Oh yeah, we own the character of Lily, too.

__

She opened her eyes on a small brook, laughing and sparkling in the afternoon sun. Immediately she sat up. She must have fallen asleep, and the sun was already sliding into the west. She snatched up her basket and headed into the woods, hurrying a little, for she had promised to be out of the woods before the sun went down.  
  
Many who did not know this forest thought it was dark and fearsome, but she had never been afraid here. At this point, near the home of her father, the trees were not so thick; and she took care not to go too far south, beyond the realm of the elves.  
  
So she ran into the woods heedlessly, blindly, fearing nothing. As she looked for her favorite berry bushes she hummed a little tune, an Elvish tune, that seemed to fit well with the music of the breeze through the trees. That must have been why she did not realize that the trees had gone silent. As her song trailed off, she become conscious that all the normal sounds of the woodland creatures had stopped, and the forest seemed suddenly expectant, and strangely threatening.  
  
Her task all but forgotten, she let her basket dangle as she stepped warily through the pathless forest. And then a sound did come to her; a harsh sound. A gruff, ugly laugh.  
  
Compelled by a rash curiosity, she crept closer to the sound until she could peek around the trunk of a large tree. In a small clearing under the trees, she saw men. But not the men of her own village. These were the fierce barbarians from the north, whom she had been warned about since her childhood. They were large and powerfully built, their furs thrown off in the mild afternoon sun, a dirty scraggly growth covered their heads and jowls, and they looked altogether wicked. She had to hurry back to warn her village.  
  
But before she could turn to fly, a large hand clamped down painfully on her shoulder, ripping a scream from her throat. "What have we here?" a rough voice sounded very close to her ear. She flinched away from his grasp, dropping her basket and tearing through the trees. And now there were other voices, calling out, "Stop her!" "Catch her!" "Kill her, before she warns the others!" The thud of many feet followed her as she ran, and hands and branches clutched at her gown. Too frightened to do more than run blindly wherever there was an opening in the trees, she was soon out of her reckoning. Her heartbeat sounded in her ears, she was dizzy and out of breath, but she did not dare stop.  
  
She was abruptly brought of short by a sharp yank on her hair. Spinning around, she came face to face with one of the barbarians, his eyes dull and black, a snarl twisting his lips. With another shriek, she pushed at him as he raised a knife. But she had not realized how close she had come to the stream, now at the bottom of a steep ravine, and pushing herself away unbalanced her. For a long moment she hovered on the edge of the cliff, her arms flailing wildly, feeling herself slipping, falling -  
  
Isobel's eyes flew open - to see the carved wood of her canopy outlined in the pale moonlight. It was several minutes before she could catch her breath and quiet her terrified panting. She heard the sound of the crickets, and a night bird spoke, and somewhere in the distance a soft voice sang. She was in Elrond's house, and it was only a dream, she thought with relief. Only a dream.

But every time she closed her eyes it happened again: the fear, the running, the falling. Finally she sat up in bed, her head turned to the window, waiting for the morning sun to pink the sky and rise over the trees. She would sleep no more that night.

****

Legolas emerged from the forest, surprised to find that morning had dawned. He walked the outer perimeter of Rivendell, nodding to the elves who guarded the way. His heart felt divided in two. He wanted to see Isobel, talk to her. He felt himself pulled to her as he had since the day they had met. But he resisted that pull; he needed to quiet his racing mind, make sense of an impossible situation before he could face her again. Soon enough, he would have to speak of it to her, and he hoped that he could make her understand, when he was not entirely sure that he understood it himself.

So he walked alone for a long time that morning, avoiding the lagoon and the waterfall with its placid, overfed ducks. He avoided the courtyard where she liked to spend many of her days. He kept close to the trees, staying out of sight of the great hall, not wishing to speak to Isobel quite yet.

Not until he was sure who she really was.

****

After what had happened the night before, the way he had almost imperceptibly distanced himself from her after he had kissed her, Isobel told herself she would not see Legolas the next morning. And so she did her best to brush off her disappointment when he did not appear. After all, it was no more than she expected. And if she thought she would see him after she settled herself in a sunny spot with a book, she waited in vain. Old Mr. Baggins came and sat with her for a little while, and Merry and Pippin stopped by her bench several times, to bring her treats. But otherwise, she was alone.

Finally, with a sigh at her own foolishness, she gave up all hope. He must feel the error of that kiss very deeply. But perhaps in time they could reclaim a little of the friendship that had begun to grow. 

The sun was warm, and she lifted her face to it, letting her eyes slide closed. She had had very little rest last night, and she could feel sleep creep up around the edges of her mind.

"The day is still young. Are you that tired already?"  
  
Isobel's eyes sprang open and she jumped a little at the voice behind her. She turned her head to see Legolas not far from her bench. She tried to smile at him, but uncertainly made her mouth waver a little. 

When he caught sight of her face, his brows came together in a small frown. "Forgive me," he said. "You are tired. Did you not sleep well?"  
  
Was it that obvious, she wondered, pressing a hand to one cheek. She could feel herself blushing again. His voice brought back the memory of his mouth on hers, soft and unhurried. Involuntarily, her gaze lingered for a moment on his mouth, and she had to force herself to think on other things. "No," she finally said. "I am afraid I did not sleep well at all. I had nightmares all night, and I'm not sure that I slept more than an hour or two altogether."  
  
"Nightmares?" Concern washed over his features, and he moved to sit down beside her, sharing her bench the way he always did. Isobel's heart lightened; perhaps she had imagined the tension from last night. After all, he was here beside her, the same as ever, was he not? She had been mistaken; everything between them was fine.  
  
"Yes," she said. She shook her head, looking down with a smile. "Foolish, really. You would think that I would have dreamed of fire, or of my home under attack. But instead I was in some secluded wood, nowhere I had ever seen before. Doesn't that seem odd?"  
  
Legolas shrugged in a way that was charmingly noncommittal. "Perhaps not. You are spending a lot of time amongst trees of late. Tell me what you dreamed."  
  
Isobel let her breath out in a long sigh, looking idly around the courtyard. "It doesn't sound like very much in the daylight, I suppose. But I was in the wood, as I said. Not myself of course; here I was some silly young thing wandering where I shouldn't. And suddenly there were these men, these nasty looking barbarian types, and they started to chase me. And I ran and ran, until I thought I could run no more, and still I could hear them, shouting and cursing and chasing me. And then one of them-"  


"Grasped at your hair," he said quietly, finishing her thought.  
  
Startled, she turned to face him, to find him looking away, looking, it seemed, very far away. "Y-y-yes. He did." She spoke more slowly now, her heart chilling at the mood that had come over him. "He had a knife, and I pushed at him, but then, I-"  
  
"Slipped, at the edge of a deep cliff." He looked straight at her now, but the expression on his face was completely unreadable.

Her look turned into a stare. "Yes." Her voice was barely a whisper. "But how… how did you…" Her words died as he suddenly stood, and she could do nothing but watch as he walked away from her, as calmly as though they had been discussing the weather. She breathed his name, wanting to call him back, needing to know what was behind his odd behavior. 

But then she closed her eyes, ignoring the sting where tears threatened, and set her jaw firmly. She was too old for this; she was no simpering virgin, clamoring for the attention of a handsome man. The kiss under the moonlight had been a mistake after all; she could see that now. Giving in to their attraction to one another had ruined the friendship they had enjoyed. She grieved for that friendship now as his figure retreated in the distance, away from the great hall and into the trees. 

With a sigh Isobel rose up, turning toward the great hall and her room. The day was young, as he had said, and the sun was warm, but inside she felt very cold. Perhaps the warmth of a fire would set her to rights.

****

It was too soon to approach her. He should have known better. But the morning sun had glinted off her hair in the courtyard; his keen eyesight could see it from his place at the edge of the forest. As he had approached, almost involuntarily, he focused on her lips, tinged a rose-pink, curving in a secret smile as she tilted her head up to enjoy the sunshine. He could no more stay away from her than keep the autumn leaves from falling from the trees. 

But then Legolas had listened to Isobel recount her dream, and felt the confusion of the night before come back a hundredfold. He knew immediately the story that she recounted, and words had slipped from his mouth before he could check them. His mind reeling from the mental ambush, all he could do was stand and leave her. His sharp hearing picked up the sound of his name breathed from her lips. She was confused now too, and saddened. He could feel it in her, as surely as he felt the beating of his own heart. But he could do nothing for her yet. Not until he could determine how to explain it all to her.

Because for Legolas, this was no dream. It was memory.  
  
_The elves of Mirkwood had been aware of the men even before they entered the forest, for the birds and beasts, not to mention their own scouts, kept a sharp watch over their realm. For two days Legolas and his warriors had followed them. The barbarians went warily at first, setting a watch whenever they stopped to rest, and sending runners out ahead. The men looked carefully around as they traveled, but elves move silently when they wish, and they were all but invisible in the bushes and undergrowth and high overhead in the trees. After a time, the men grew more relaxed, seeing no sign of any other life. They even laughed at themselves, for believing the rumor of the elves that protected this forest. Legolas laughed as well, silently and without mirth. These men would learn soon enough what was rumor and what was truth.  
  
The men traveled nearly straight south at first, but slowly began to veer toward the east, toward the settlements of men on the outskirts of the forest. There had been long feuds and wars between the barbarians of the north and the men of this area, and from what Legolas and his spies could glean, this was a raiding party sent to destroy the villages nearest the forest. If those villages were gone, the barbarians would have a clearer road, outside the threat of the forest, to make their way south. Many elves did not concern themselves with men, and they would have let the men pass as long as they did no hurt to the forest. But there was trade, and friendship of a sort, between the elves of Mirkwood and the nearby men, and Legolas's father, and now Legolas himself, had always felt rather paternal toward these men. And so he determined to stop this threat toward **his** men, as he thought of them.  
  
His intention had been to wait until dusk, when there was still light enough for good shooting, but his elves would be no more than flitting ghosts in the gathering gloom to the men. But this plan, as many do, went awry. Perhaps his spies had been too intent on watching the Northmen to bring him word of the woman wandering in the woods, for the first he knew of it was the scream that rang out through the stillness. Quickly racing up a tree, he watched as a woman ran terrified through the forest, closely pursued by several of the men. High overhead he followed, leaping nimbly from branch to branch, from tree to tree like a squirrel. He gave a whistle that was the signal to attack, while he himself kept up with the girl and her pursuers. Soon most of the men chasing the girl had stopped to join the fighting, or died with Elven arrows in their hearts. _

  
But one still pursued her. He either did not hear or took no heed of the shouts and screams as the elves began firing at the men. As they neared the steep drop off that lead to the stream, Legolas managed to get ahead of pursued and pursuer, balancing easily on a branch overlooking the cliff. He saw the man cruelly grab at the woman's long black hair, heard her terrified shriek. As the man raised his knife, he leaned back slightly, just enough to give Legolas a clear shot. The next instant, the man was dead, an arrow in his throat, and Legolas leapt down, spinning in mid-air, catching the woman about the waist just before she fell. He held her anchored to him for a heartbeat, then quickly scooped her up and tucked her into an opening in the hole of a large tree nearby. "Stay here," he ordered her in the common tongue, and then he was off to join the battle. None of these men would leave Mirkwood alive.  



	5. five

Chapter Five

__

He let himself gloat slightly as he finished off the man before him, losing his precious focus for an instant. Luckily, he felt the change in the air currents and spun around and back swiftly; the sword that could have taken off his head glanced off his upper arm. Without conscious thought, he flipped his knife, gutting his attacker. Yanking the blade free, pivoting on the balls of his feet, he cut another throat with one smooth movement. Another man came at him with his sword raised. Then his eyes met Legolas's for a split second. Something he saw there must have stolen his courage, for he turned abruptly to flee. He did not get far.  
  
Legolas looked around in grim satisfaction. This threat erased, he gave the orders for his elves to dispose of the bodies. Wiping his blades clean on the furs on one of the fallen men, he peered toward the stream in the distance. He had still one more task.  
  
He approached quietly, not wanting to frighten her. She was still there, crouched as small as she could make herself in the crack of the tree trunk, her hands covering her eyes. At least she had stayed where he put her, and appeared unharmed. He knelt beside her, saying nothing, watching as she felt his presence. For a moment she didn't move, except to tremble, but soon she cautiously peeked out between two of her fingers. He gave her a small smile of encouragement. The tension slowly melted away from her body, and two tears rolled out of her large brown eyes.  
  
"Are you hurt?" he asked her.  
  
She shook her head. "I owe you my life," she whispered. To his surprise, she spoke fluent Elvish.  
  
"You owe me nothing," he answered, wiping a tear from her cheek gently with his thumb, "Except to tell me where you live, so that I may deliver you safely back to your people."  
  
Her home was not far away; Legolas was surprised to learn that she was one of the woodfolk that his elven brethren felt so protective of, for he had never seen her before. Her name was Lily, and her voice was soft and low. She ducked her head a little as he spoke to her, and her ink-dark hair fell across her face like a curtain. But there was something about her demeanor, the way she carried herself, that told him that she was not always this shy. Indeed, the terror of the afternoon seemed to fade from her heart as she walked with him through the forest, and she became more merry and bold. She did become slightly unhappy when they passed his elves clearing away the bodies of the dead, though he tried his best to shield her from the sight. But soon enough, the mood lifted, and her good humor returned. She must be very young, he reflected, to throw off the horror of near-death so easily.  
  
Her family reacted to her return with the expected emotion. Surprise at seeing her arrive with an elflord was quickly replaced with concern for her welfare, and an intense scolding from her father for not paying better heed to her surroundings. Legolas remembered her father, to his surprise, but it had been long since he had seen him. He had been a very young man the last time Legolas was in this village; now Hale was well into middle age, with many children. There was no mother to greet her, but Lily was overrun with younger siblings: sisters who fell silent at the sight of him and his arsenal of weapons, and a tiny boy who wanted to hold his bow. With a smile, Legolas complied with the child's request, turning his attention back to the father. Lily's father spoke to him in fluent Elvish. Living in the shadow of Mirkwood, and having dealings with the elves, it was only natural that these   
people would speak his language. Still, it was an accomplishment, and his paternal feeling for these men grew. He explained the details of the attack to her father, leaving out the gorier details for the sake of the little ones. But it was not necessary to detail how many men he had killed that day to convey the message that the Northmen were making their way down here, and these woods may not always be safe.  
  
"But my people will do all I can to protect you," he said, a smile touching his face as he turned to look at the young woman once more. She ducked her head again, but not before he could see the trace of a pleased smile. Hale gave many thanks, and turned to go, to warn the village guards, when Lily ran to him and whispered in his ear urgently. He turned back to Legolas.  
  
"My daughter is concerned for your wound," he said, gesturing to the slash on Legolas's arm. "Will you allow her to dress it for you?"  
  
Legolas began to protest, to say that it was nothing, when Lily herself stepped forward. "Please let me do this," she said. "It is the very least I can do, after you have saved my life." She looked so eager, that he thought to himself that it would be very surly and ill bred of him to refuse this kindness. If the loveliness of her eyes and her smile influenced him at all, he refused to admit it to himself.

She had led him to the kitchen of the manor, and cleaned and bandaged his flesh wound, sitting very close, and being so charmingly worried that she would hurt him. He found himself captivated by the scent of her hair, her laughing voice, but most of all her soft brown eyes, flecked with bits of black and gold. _ He had been genuinely sorry to go when at last he had no more excuse for staying.  
  
And so it had begun. She was so unlike the aloof and quiet Elf-women. Every emotion she felt was instantly displayed on her face; the scent of a flower made her smile, the rain on her face made her laugh, a sad song brought a tear. It was true that she was well loved and well indulged by her family, and used to having her own way. But if she were a trifle self-centered of selfish, she was never unkind. Looking back, he was amazed at how quickly curiosity had turned to friendship. And friendship to love._

Legolas shook his head ruefully. While he had pondered the past, the afternoon had turned to twilight, and the sun had begun to set over the trees. His thoughts turned to Isobel. He had treated her very badly, and she had been left alone nearly all day. His mind suddenly clear, he knew he had to see her. 

He had to look into her eyes again, to make sure that they really were Lily's eyes. Now that he understood, he had to find a way to make her understand who she truly was. Or who she had been.

But he had left her alone too long. She was not eating an evening meal in the great hall, nor was she passing time with the hobbits. He had just turned toward the library when he saw her leave it, sighing heavily as she walked toward her room. He hurried after her. After spending nearly the entire day away from her, it was now imperative that he see her before she retired for the night.

***  


The rest of the day passed slowly, and the evening seemed to crawl at an even more snail-like pace. Isobel did not realize how used she had become to spending so much of her time with Legolas until he no longer wished to spend time with her. Before, so much of her time had been filled with laughter, and the promise of pleasant company. Now a gloom had descended around her heart, and she did not know what to do to break through that gloom. 

She spent a little time in front of the fire in the library with her book, but that held no charms for her tonight. The memory of the night before was too fresh, when he had interrupted her reading with a moonlit walk.  
  
She closed the book with a little slam, tossing it to the table beside her chair. Aragorn looked up at her with a raised eyebrow, and she gave him a wan smile.  
  
"I think I should probably retire early," she said. "My mind isn't really on reading." He was courteous enough to stand and give her a little bow as she exited the room, something that always made her blush. She wasn't used to such niceties. She heaved a long sigh as she started down the long hallway to her room. There was probably no point in getting used to those niceties, either. Soon enough her time in Rivendell would end, and she would go back to the world of men, probably to be married off to someone else with a suitable farm. She shouldn't despair over such a fate; it was more than she was owed, and she was of course grateful for everything that everyone had done for her.  
  
But she despaired anyway. She reflected on clear blue eyes smiling down at her, soft blond hair like silk in her fingers, a subtle but ready smile and sense of humor that coaxed laughter from her with no effort at all. She was amazed at how much she missed him. She had known him for only a few weeks, and it had been but a day since their time together had ended. Yet she had been married; death had taken from her the man she had shared her body and her life with, yet she had never felt a heartache such as the one she carried now. She felt like she was missing something that she had never really had, which made the feeling all the more melancholy.  
  
As she went to open the door to her bedchamber, a hand closed over hers on the doorknob. She had time to do little more than gasp as she was spun around. "Legolas?" She breathed his name as she looked up at him. The lamps in the hallway were dim, and she could just barely make out his form.

  
She repeated his name, a little more concerned now. He didn't say a word, he simply looked down at her, his expression confused, as if he had never seen her before and didn't know what he was doing there. He still held on to her hand, and Isobel began to feel alarmed. She was just about to pull her hand away when he released it. But he stepped closer, and his hands moved up to grip her shoulders. Before she could make a sound his mouth closed over hers.  
  
If her first instinct had been to protest, it was completely washed away in the feeling of his mouth on hers. But this was not like the soft, sweet kiss they had shared in the moonlight. His hands were steel bands around her arms; he almost lifted her off the floor, at the same time pressing her against the door with the pressure of his body. And he did not sip delicately at her as he had last night. He was demanding, almost fierce; he parted her lips with his own, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, taking her, tasting her, bringing her blood to an instant boil. 

The kiss ended as suddenly as it began, leaving her gasping. Still he held her shoulders, his grip tighter than it had ever been. "Forgive me," he said, "That was-"  
  
Her heart stopped for a moment, and was suddenly very heavy in her chest. "A mistake?" She was surprised at the bitterness in her voice.  
  
"No!" Legolas spoke quickly, and then hesitated. "I do not know," he said, a little more slowly. She wriggled a little in his grasp, but he did not let her go. His eyes searched his face. "But is it possible," he said almost to himself. "Can it be? Do you feel...anything?"  
  
"Do I feel anything?" Now she succeeded in breaking free, and took a step away from him. "How dare you? I could ask you the same question!" She backed away another step, not storming away from him, but definitely conveying her displeasure. " I don't understand you at all anymore. Since the day we met, you've been nothing but kind and complimentary to me, and I was so grateful for that. You made me feel so much better about...about everything. But then last night..." To her dismay, she found herself blushing like a foolish maiden, embarrassed to speak of the kiss they had shared. She had to draw a deep breath before she could continue. "Today you hardly spoke to me. The one time that you did, you were there for no time at all before you simply got up and walked away."  
  
He closed his eyes for a moment, nodding. "I know. That was wrong of me. I would explain myself to you, if you will allow it."  
  
Isobel gave a long sigh. Part of her wanted to just go, walk away from all of this. Soon enough he would be leaving; there was no reason to let herself become attached to him. But her heart whispered, more loudly than her head, that it was too late. "Very well." She opened the door to her room, gesturing for him to follow her inside. After a moment's hesitation, he did so.  
  
Her lamps had already been lit, and she had to choke back a gasp when she saw him in full light. He looked perplexed, and something haunted his eyes. He walked steadily closer to her, his blue eyes bright, and Isobel's heart began to pound harder. Was he going to kiss her a third time? Was that how he was going to explain himself?

But he stopped just in front of her, studying her face for a moment that seemed to last for hours. "What do you know of the elfkind?" His voice was low.  
  
She shook her head a fraction. "I had never seen one of your kind before I came here," she said. "I know nothing."  
  
He nodded slowly. "Our ways are very different from yours, and it may be difficult for you to understand. But although we live for hundreds of your lifetimes, we give our hearts but once."  
  
Isobel felt numb. This had all meant nothing, that was what he was trying to explain to her now. She was nothing to him. A keen sense of disappointment swept through her, although she knew that this was all for the best. She tried to nod in understanding, but she wasn't sure if her head actually moved. "I see," she said.  
  
"Do you?" His eyes lit up in eagerness, and she fleetingly wondered if they were talking about the same thing. 

"Of course," she said, breaking their eye contact and walking away from him. Perhaps distance would lessen the heartache at this point. She wrapped her arms around her midsection and looked out into the night. One "wall" of her room, in Elvish fashion, was completely open; only sheer curtains, currently tied back, shielded her from the night air. She stared hard at the moon, trying to drive away the sting in her eyes that heralded tears. "Of course I do," she said again, her voice rougher. "I'm not a child; you don't need to shield me from the truth. If there is someone else, have the decency to tell me."

  
"There was," he said, almost too quietly for her to hear. "But now..."

She closed her eyes and nodded, gulping back tears. "And now you cannot ..." she stopped, suddenly afraid to say the word. Taking a breath, she hurried on. "You cannot love anyone else."

  
He was silent for a moment, until she could stand it no longer, and turned to face him again. To her surprise, he was looking at her as if he had never seen her before, his brow furrowed. "I thought I could not. And yet...But you, you have been married before. Your husband," he said. "You loved him." It was a statement, but his voice made it a question.

  
"My husband?" She looked at him incredulously. "Is that what this is about?" He held her gaze for a few moments, but did not respond. Isobel sighed a long sigh. "Guy was a kind man. He took very good care of me, and I was certainly fond of him." Wrapping herself up in memories she had nearly forgotten, she turned to look out at the night again. "Sometimes I even thought I loved him, when he made me laugh, or did something especially kind for me. But I didn't. I realize now that I never did." Her heart pounded harder, working its way up to her throat. She knew what she had to say to him now, and it frightened her. Would he laugh, would he walk away from her again, like he had earlier in the day? Those prospects terrified her, but the truth needed to be told. Even if she never saw him again, he needed to know. "I know that I have never felt the way that I feel now. I have never felt so much like I... belonged," she finished, despairing at her word choice but not able to think of a better one.

  
She heard his boots behind her, although he moved almost silently. His hand on her shoulder turned her around, but somehow she found herself unable to meet his eyes. "Here, you mean?" he asked. "In Rivendell?" His hand moved from her shoulder to her chin, tilting her face up to his and capturing her eyes.  
  
"No," she whispered, fear almost stealing her voice completely. "With you."

He sighed and lifted a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, a gesture at once familiar and intimate. "I too feel this. "  
  
Laying a hand lightly on his chest, she looked up at him. "These ghosts from the past, do they have so much power? Could we not let them go?"  
  
Nodding, he answered slowly, "Perhaps you are right. We have been given this chance, should we throw it away?" His gaze was like a caress as he smiled gently at her. "I would not do that."

  
She swayed a little on her feet, and his arms slid around her waist. He captured her mouth once again, softly this time, and he murmured words as he kissed her, Elvish words she could not understand. His breath filled her mouth, his voice filled her head, and the world spun around them. They only shared a few kisses that night, but when he left her room everything felt new, and they both found themselves looking forward to the morning.


	6. Six The R Rated Chapter

Chapter Six

The new day seemed to herald a new beginning in Isobel's heart, and when she saw Legolas that morning, she realized that he felt the same way. There was a different look in his eyes when he greeted her in the courtyard; the hesitation and uncertainty was gone, and there was nothing but contentment.

"I cannot apologize enough times for my actions yesterday," he said, running the backs of his fingers down her cheek, bringing a smile to her face. "This is the face I want to see you wear: smiling up at me."

Isobel ducked her head, suddenly a little shy, and Legolas chuckled. "And blushing, of course," he added. "You would not be Isobel if your face did not pink all over at least once a day."

She tried to huff at him, but in truth she was practically grinning, and it was not a very convincing expression of displeasure. "Now I know that you are teasing me," she said.

"Perhaps a little," he conceded, bending to brush his lips against hers. She caught her breath at the touch of his mouth, but the kiss was brief, they barely touched.

"Now come," he said with a smile, tucking her hand in the crook of his bent arm. "What shall we do today?"

Looking back, Isobel couldn't be certain how they spent the day, or who they spent it with. All she was really aware of was Legolas, always nearby. Moments alone were stolen for quick furtive kisses, and when they were not alone, he was close, his hand on the small of her back or sitting a hair's breadth away from her on a bench while they chatted with others. But conversation wasn't important; she couldn't remember a word of what was spoken that day. No, the night drowned out the importance of anything that happened that day.

As the afternoon wore on, a breeze picked up, bringing a chill with it. So on their way to dinner, at Isobel's request, they detoured past her room so she could pick up her shawl. The evening promised to be cold, and she didn't want to be without it. 

The lamps had already been lit for the evening, and Isobel's shawl lay folded on the trunk that contained the rest of her borrowed gowns. She scooped it up and laid it over her arm, turning back to Legolas with a smile. "Ready…?"

But he was not in the doorway, where she had left him. To her surprise, he had followed her into her room, and was standing just behind her. She jumped a little in surprise, then let out a small laugh. "Are you ready?" she asked again.

He stepped a little closer to her, raising his hand to loop a lock of hair behind her ear. "Yes," he said, his voice low. "I am." Her blood started to simmer at the tone in his voice. She turned her head toward his hand, brushing a kiss on his fingers.

He raised his other hand to her face, trailing his fingers down her cheek, stepping closer to her, close enough so that she could feel the heat from his body. Turning her eyes back to his face, she was caught by his gaze, deep and unwavering, as he tilted her head up and very deliberately lowered his head, lightly brushing his lips along hers, as he had done all day. But now he did not stop, he just continued to sip at her mouth.

She smiled at this, her lips curving around his small kisses, expecting at any moment he would draw back and escort her to dinner. But he did not stop, the kisses just went on and on, while his fingertips rested on the curve of her jaw, barely grazing her skin. A small shudder ran through her. All day she had remained passive, letting him kiss her. But now she started to respond. Her hands moved up to rest lightly at his waist while she moved in a little closer, kissing him back.

She felt his breathing change, and she could not hold back an answering sigh of satisfaction. His fingers found their way into her hair, mussing it, but she could not bring herself to care. She tasted his breath, and she shivered as his tongue flicked out, teasing the corner of her mouth. Her hands clutched at the fabric of his tunic, and she swayed a little on her feet.

His hands moved to the back of her head, his fingers firmly entwined in her hair, and he held her head steady while he continued his slow assault. A tiny sound escaped from her throat. She did not know where this was leading, but she was starting to think she might not need that shawl. An image of their bodies entwined in love flashed through her mind, and her senses began to reel. His tongue darted out again, just barely tasting her lips, and she let her mouth open, inviting him in.

He slid his tongue past her lips and he was lost in the sensation of their wet tongues dancing together. He could feel her heart pounding - or was that his? He slipped one arm around her shoulders, his other hand trailed down to rest lightly at the small of her back. With a sigh, he pulled his mouth away, looking at her searchingly. Letting her head fall back against his arm, she returned his gaze.

Her hand reached up to touch his face. Her fingers moved slowly, gliding across the planes of his face, down to his jaw. He echoed her touch, cupping her cheek in his hand. Was this truly what she wanted?

With a small shake of her head, she stretched up on her toes and took his mouth again, softly but firmly, curling her hand around the back of his head, her fingers threading into his hair. He responded to her kiss with the ghost of a moan, pressing back eagerly against her mouth, and they began to explore and taste.

Although the room was warm, he could feel her shiver as she kissed him back fervently. Her hands on his shirt became a little more insistent, tugging on the fabric. For a brief moment he mirrored her passion, before pulling away from her gently. She looked at him, confused. "But," she began, "I thought-"

His laid his fingers on her lips, hushing her, then caught her hands between both of his. Bringing them up, he kissed the palms of her hands, one after the other. "I would not hurry this," he said, his voice low. He peeled back the sleeve of her gown, pressing his mouth to the inside of her wrist in a gesture more intimate that any she had ever known. His movements were unhurried, even lazy, but when their eyes met, she could see the passion that burned in his.

Her breath caught in her lungs as realization dawned. Her shawl, which had been in the crook of her arm all this time, slipped to the floor. She could do nothing but stand there, frozen, as his mouth worked slowly on her inner wrist, caressing her pulse. She felt the tip of his tongue trace the lines of her veins, and she managed to suck in a breath as the room began to spin. Her other hand reached out to touch him, she stroked his hair, his cheek, his throat, anything her questing fingers could reach. It took everything within her to let him continue at this maddening pace, when her nerves were screaming at her to shed her clothing, and his.

He stood up again, his eyes fastened on her. He touched her shoulders, his fingers tracing the neckline of her gown, whispering over her skin. Her breath came faster as he pressed gently on her, turning her to face away from him. She bowed her head, waiting for him to untie the lace at the top of her gown; her body ached to be rid of the garment, she yearned to feel his hands on her skin.

But his hands touched her hair, and it wasn't until the third pin came out that she realized what he was doing. Slowly, he took down her hair, loose strands and locks falling with every pin that was drawn out. He did not pull at her hair or urge it down, he simply allowed gravity to do the work while he slid the pins out one by one. Soon her hair was free, tumbling in loose waves down her back, and then his hands came up again, his fingers slowly combing through the locks.

She could not contain the moan the spilled out of her mouth, and when his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her into him, it was all she could do not to simply collapse. Her breath nearly stopped when he gently pushed her hair over her shoulder, and she felt his mouth on the back of her neck. He moved slowly around her, his lips still on her skin, his fingers playing over her back. His lips left a trail of fire on her skin, and she let her head fall back as he tasted her throat. And all the time his fingers moved over her body, gently, lovingly. He traced the swell of her bosom, sliding his fingers along the top of her gown until he reached her shoulder. Ever so slowly he pushed down the fabric, baring her shoulder, while he ran his tongue along her collarbone. With a gasp of awareness she clutched at his shoulders desperately; his arm tightened around her waist, holding her up, and he moaned into her skin while she trembled helplessly in his arms, waves of pleasure washing over her.

She pulled her head up slowly, not even sure if she had the strength to hold it up. He raised his head at the same time, and his eyes seemed larger somehow, burning with an inner fire. "Please," she breathed. "This will surely kill me."

A slow smile spread across his face while his hands continued to explore her. One hand moved in slow, soothing circles on her back, while the other traced her bare shoulder. "I know of no one who has died this way," he murmured, and his words made her laugh breathlessly. "Look..." He nodded toward the window, and she followed his gaze to the outdoors, where the sunset turned the trees into orange and yellow fire. "The night is only now beginning. There are many hours yet." He bent again to her, his lips on her throat, her collarbone, her neckline, drawing another moan from her. Then she took a deep breath and, taking his head between her hands, pulled his mouth from her skin. There was a question in his eyes that was answered as she stepped into him, her lips brushing against his jaw, beginning a quest of their own.

She kissed a slow path from the corner of his mouth across to his ear, then along the line of his jaw, down to his neck. His skin was smooth under her lips, and warm; she could feel the change in his breathing as she explored his throat with kisses and gentle bites. His hands came up to tangle in her hair, holding her to him, and he leaned his head back, baring even more of his neck to her hungry mouth. She felt him moan, a vibration against her lips, and her heart burned to know she could give him this pleasure.

More confident, she used her tongue on him now, tasting the warmth of his skin, the slight tinge of salt. A deeper sigh escaped him as her mouth traveled up his throat to his jaw, then across to his ear. She took her time exploring the outer shell of his ear, exploring the difference in its Elven shape. His breathing deepened, quickened; his exhales began to take on a slightly ragged edge, and his hands moved restlessly across her back, finally pulling her closer into him. For the first time she was really aware of his body: of its warmth and its lean strength. She had never felt so safe, or so alive.

She smiled to herself as she nibbled on his ear. He had always loved this. But she knew what would drive him mad. Her lips unerringly found their way to that spot just behind his ear, kissing and nuzzling his warm skin. A thought flitted into her head; for a brief moment she wondered how she had known. But then his arms tightened around her, and a genuine moan spilled out of his mouth, and all thought flew away. She could feel his fingers now at the top of her gown, working at the laces that held her gown up.

Her heart thrilled, feeling a sense of victory as the bodice of her gown loosened. Using the tip of her tongue to draw little circles behind his ear, she then pursed her lips and blew gently across the flesh, delighting in the shudder that passed through him as a result. His hands briefly gave up on her gown, to rest on her shoulders just at the base of her neck, kneading at her flesh, plunging into her hair, holding her to him. She grinned inwardly as she let her hands drift down, searching for his belt. It was off in moments, the buckle pinging off the stone floor before he even realized it. The slightly wicked grin now manifested on her face as her hands reached up again, but this time sliding under his tunic, searching for his skin.

She stroked slowly up his back, relishing the feel of him, and smiling at the way he sighed into her hair. And when he shifted his weight, holding her even closer, she could feel the muscles move under his warm, smooth skin. With his fingers in her hair, he pried her mouth away from his neck. Their eyes met; the look in his was almost alarming, primitive and passionate. But his hands moved slowly and steadily as they slid back to the tie of her gown. She could only hold on to him, trembling a little, as she felt her dress slip from her shoulders.

The night air was cold against her upper back, but her skin was prickling with heat. Her gown slipped from her shoulders and partially down her arms, leaving her shoulders and collarbone bared but her breasts covered.She couldn't move,she simply stood and watched his eyes while he looked at her. His gaze was almost tangible as he took in the small part of her body that he had uncovered. She let her eyes sink closed as his hands floated over her shoulders. She could feel his fingers, long and slender, drift gently across her skin, exploring places he had not yet touched, and she sucked in a breath as his hands moved lower, tracing the upper swells of her breasts just under the gown.

Once again she felt his mouth on hers, soft and gentle, his tongue dipping in very briefly to taste her. Then he began with maddening little kisses to work his way down, over her bottom lip, down her chin, stopping at her neck for a while, then kissing a trail along her breastbone. He nuzzled the valley between her breasts, not pulling or tugging on her clothes, just holding her and letting his lips softly explore.Her head fell back, and she plunged her fingers into his hair, holding him to her. 

The only hint she had was his arms tightening around her waist; she gasped out loud as he lifted her off her feet. She had had no idea he was so strong, but after the first shock, she knew he would not let her fall, and she burst into a breathless laugh. He tilted his head up then, and a smile spread slowly across his face at her joy. She looked down at him with a helpless grin, exulting in the feeling of weightlessness as he held her aloft. After a few moments he pivoted, walking a few steps across the room, and she clung to his shoulders in surprise. Soon enough, he lowered her to the floor again, and she felt the edge of her bed bump against the backs of her legs. Just that innocent touch, and the knowledge of what was going to happen on that bed, sent another shiver through her body. She raised her head, the smile fading from her face as she read the desire in his. Yet he still did not remove her dress, it hung loosely on her. 

But she could do something about that. Her eyes still trained on his, she very deliberately slipped her hands from her shoulders, dropping her arms to her sides. No longer impeded, the gown slid down her body to the floor. Now clad only in her short linen shift, she stepped out of the pile of fabric that had covered her, moving in even closer to him. She heard his breath catch in his throat, his eyes going darker as he looked at her. Catching his hands in hers, she brought them up to rest on her waist. His skin felt warm against hers through the thin linen as she covered his hands with her own. "You don't mind if I hurry things just a little, do you?" she asked, one eyebrow arching just a little. 

Legolas answered with a raised eyebrow of his own, and said, "Are you in such a hurry then?" But he clutched at the fabric of her shift, pulling her closer. And then their mouths met once again, urgent, eager. When they parted to breathe he rested his forehead against hers, opening and closing his hands on her waist convulsively, and he had to fight for mastery. Her eyes were fastened on his face as she lifted her hands to work the clasp at the top of his tunic free, and a secret smile touched her lips as he let his eyes slide closed.

The clasp opened under her fingers, and he sighed at the touch of her fingers on his skin. Nothing could induce him to pull away from her this time. She slid her hands to either side of the garment's loosened neckline, separating it as far as it would go, exposing his collarbone and a few inches of his chest. A low sound of pleasure escaped from her mouth as she leaned into him, tracing his collarbone with her tongue as he had done to her, drawing a moan from deep in his chest. Encouraged, she explored further, her lips moving down slowly until fabric stopped their progress.

Her mouth was hot on his skin, and he found himself raking his fingers through her hair with a new urgency, but he did not want to hurry her. Her hands slipped down to toy with the hem of his tunic for a moment before she pulled it slowly up and over his head, and he raised his arms to help her. By the time she had tossed the garment to the floor, he had decided she had been out of his arms for long enough. He pulled her close for a kiss, but she allowed only a brush of her lips, then sank to her knees before him. Placing her hands on one of his boots, she looked up at him with a sly smile.

There was something about this gesture that undid him, yet he found he could not move. Their eyes stayed locked on one another, and after a few moments she tightened her grip, and he was able to draw his foot out of the boot she held. He balanced easily while she helped him off with the other boot the same way. But he could not stand not touching her; he reached down to skim one hand across her cheek, and then to twirl a lock of her chestnut-colored hair around his fingers. He wanted her to stand up so he could take her in his arms again, but she stayed where she was, leisurely running her hands up the backs of his calves and kneading the muscles there. Her hands were magic on him; he marveled in her touch. But still she did not rise to her feet, and he wondered if he would have the patience to wait her out.

Not ready yet to move from her place before him, she ran her hands up and down the firm, lean muscles of his thighs, her hands soon rising of their own accord up his hips to rest at the fastening to his pants. His desire for her was more than evident, even through the fabric of his trousers. But she hesitated, not out of fear or nervousness, but to draw this moment out. She was beginning to understand his wish to prolong this, and she was beginning to take a little satisfaction in teasing him, wanting to ensure that his need matched her own.

And perhaps she was uncertain. She realized now that a little thrill of apprehension also rippled through her. She had not lain with a man in a long time, not since her husband had passed. She certainly remembered how to go about things, that wasn't the problem. But now that she was in front of him like this, she was all too aware of the astounding physique of the elves. Doubtless their women were just as flawless, and she suddenly felt very short, freckled, and dumpy. The uncertainty combined inside of her with the teasing feeling, resulting in her staying frozen on her knees in front of him, her fingers just barely hooked on the inside of the waistband of his trousers, waiting for him to make the next move.

He did. Grasping her upper arms, he pulled her to her feet. He cupped her face in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes. "Are you frightened?" he asked gently. "I would not force myself on you. But tell me now if you wish to go no further, for your touch burns me, and my blood boils." 

His words stole her breath, and her skin tingled. She opened her mouth to answer him, but instead she thrust her hands into his hair, pulling him close and claiming his mouth as he had claimed hers so many times before. His arms locked around her, and she exulted in the feeling of his smooth skin surrounding her. They fed each other with their moans as their kisses grew increasingly deeper and more frantic, their bodies separated only by her thin linen garment and the trousers he still wore.

She groaned into his mouth when she felt his hand on her shift, clutching at the fabric, dragging it up her body. She pulled away from him to allow him to lift it over her head, but when she would have pressed her body to his, he stopped her with his hands on her shoulders, holding her arms length away from him. The night air was cool, but she felt flushed with heat. She sighed and closed her eyes, letting his gaze wash over her. 

"Open your eyes."

She had no choice but to follow his quiet command, and her eyes fluttered open to see his, large and luminous and dark blue. Without asking, she realized what he wanted: for her to see him looking at her.

Heat raced up her back as his eyes swept the length of her body, and she was visibly shaking by the time his eyes met hers again. With agonizing slowness, his fingers drifted across her shoulder, following the slope of her collarbone and down, tracing the path her breastbone revealed. A small whimper escaped her as he began to explore her skin with one hand, while the other stayed on her shoulder, holding her where he could look at her.

She stood panting and dizzy as he stroked her body, never taking her eyes off his. He trailed his hand down, following the curve of her breast, then gently cupping it in his hand and running his thumb over her nipple with the lightest whisper of a caress. He then meandered down her abdomen with a light touch that should have tickled, but instead set her on fire. His hand crept lower, stroking her belly, circling her navel. She ached for more, and felt a tinge of disappointment when his fingers retraced their path up her body. With his hands on her shoulders once again, he stepped closer until he could take her mouth. They both shuddered as skin touched skin, and she found the fastening of his pants, fumbling just a little because her fingers were trembling so. And then there was nothing between them.

The sensation of smooth skin on smooth skin was electrifying, and for long moments all they did was hold one another, mouths fastened together, hands stroking lightly. Then he tore his mouth from hers, bending slightly to taste her throat, and she gasped for breath, clutching at his shoulders and swaying on her feet. He supported her with his arms as he bent her body backward, his mouth moving down her throat and further down, teasing her heated flesh with the tip of his tongue. The room spun, and her whole world grew dizzy. 

"Please…" She was barely able to move her head from side to side, trying to clear the incoherence that fogged her brain. But every caress of his mouth on her skin only made it worse, and her speech turned into wordless whimpers. All she could do was clutch his shoulders with weak hands and surrender to him.

But he could sense her weakness. Smoothly, one hand traced down her spine, lingering for a moment in the small of her back, then continuing down over her buttocks and the tops of her thighs. Before she realized it, he had bent further, scooping her up in his arms and lifting her completely off the ground. It felt like she was floating, completely weightless, the feeling only intensified when she felt the soft pillows of her bed at her back. She looked up to see him bent over her, his blond hair spilling around them, and she raised her hands to cup his face.

"Please," she said again, "please, take me now."  
  
It was his turn to look sly, and a smile curled his mouth. "No," he whispered as his mouth touched hers. "Not yet."

He shifted his body to lie beside her, propping himself up on one arm, the better to look at her. He looked at her long, until she was trembling again and mad for him to touch her. She closed her eyes when his fingers touched her face, tracing the line of her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, down her throat. And then he began a thorough journey of discovery. His breath was hot on her skin, his mouth soft, his hands played over her in a caress like a breeze. From her neck he worked his way down to her breasts, learning the shape of her, teasing her nipples with his tongue, then suckling deeply, making her arch her back in pleasure. Sucking on her fingers, nibbling on her stomach, softly stroking the undersides of her breasts, he left no part of her body untouched, and by the time he had crawled down her body and laid a hand on the curls between her legs, she was nearly delirious. His breath and then his tongue and his fingers assaulted her, tasting, exploring.  
  
The first intimate touch of his tongue nearly sent her off the bed; only his hands on her hips kept her anchored to reality. Her hands started out clutching the bedclothes, twisting the sheets tighter and tighter in her fists. But soon they drifted downward, to stroke through his hair, then to hold on to him tightly, holding his head to her body. Her moans of pleasure escalated into breathless pleading, then finally loud cries as her body took its pleasure. He continued to hold her down while she fought to move her hips against him. His mouth worked steadily on her, his tongue darting and teasing, finally returning to taste her thoroughly. Her body stiffened, her head pressed down into the pillows, and a feral cry escaped from her throat as her body quivered helplessly under him. But he did not stop; her head thrashed back forth, she pleaded for him, her hands pulling at his shoulders, yet he still continued to bring her more and more pleasure. She began to wonder if she would die from this after all.

Her heart was racing, she was panting and lightheaded when he finally released her, placing a soft kiss on her thigh and crawling back up her body to lay beside her. When she was able to open her eyes, the room seemed to spin around and around, a sensation she found she quite enjoyed. She gasped as the lamps on the walls suddenly flared up and went out, one after another, leaving the room bathed only in the moonlight the streamed in through the open window.

Bringing her eyes to focus on him, she was astonished at her body's response. Far from being sated, she found that she needed even more from him. She reached up to slip her hand behind his neck, pulling him down to kiss him. The taste of her body was on his lips, and she kissed him eagerly, hungrily. "Now," she whispered against his mouth, "is it my turn?"

He laid back willingly against the pillows, and for many moments all she could do was drink in the sight of him. The moon was still heavy and full, and filled the room with a silvery glow. She was captivated by the sight of his body as he lay before her, his pale skin almost luminous, his hair like white silk. Finally she could stand it no longer, she had to touch him, and she reached out to him with shaking hands. He looked like a statue made of chiseled marble, but his skin where she touched him with her hands and her mouth was so warm, so alive.

And so she began her own journey, a little tentative at first, but she soon grew bolder. Guided by his moans and his hands, she explored him more thoroughly than she ever had any male, amazed at the feel of hard muscle under smooth skin. A feeling of power, almost completely foreign to her, filled her; to know that she was the cause of his ragged breathing, his rapidly beating heart, his sighs of pleasure, was intoxicating. 

Legolas closed his eyes, letting his mind wrap around the sensations coursing through his body, letting them fill him, but still maintaining his control. That control, he realized, was rapidly failing. If she had been hesitant at first, uncertain of her own skills, she was ready and eager to do anything he asked of her. Her hot little mouth, her gentle hands, her soft hair brushing over his skin could easily drive him mad. She grew more sure of herself; she knew she was pleasing him, he could see it in her eyes when she looked at him. But she could have no idea of the depth of his pleasure, or how much effort it required to hold himself in check. 

Still he wanted more, and she slid her soft body down his in response to the slight pressure of his hands on her head and shoulders. He watched with a pounding heart as she explored him with her eyes and her fingers. The first touch of her tongue on him was a bolt of lightning through his body, stealing his breath away completely. She sucked the tip of him into her mouth, then more, and his breath came back in a rush; it was long that he lay still, letting her do what she would, unable to stop her, trapped in a storm of bliss, his control hanging by a thread. When he was able to look at her, he saw such a look in her eyes, part shy, part minx, that it tore a breathless laugh of joy from him. Plunging his fingers into her hair, he coaxed her mouth away, though she seemed none too willing to leave her task. But he was once again master of himself, and he needed nothing more at this moment than to be lost inside her.

He had determined to make this last as long as possible; when he had taken her in his arms that evening, he had wanted to show her Elvish lovemaking: slow and gentle, sweet and unhurried. But her impatience, it seemed, was contagious; he wanted her, and nothing would stop him from having her now. Her mouth was hot against his, and he found himself pulling her closer and closer, wanting more of that heat, wanting to absorb her into his very skin. He rolled them gently until she reclined on the bed and he hovered over her. She was restless, pulling at him with hands weakened with passion, and he was more than happy to comply. He fed her kisses as his hands swept down her body, enjoying her heat, her softness, her curves. She eagerly parted her legs beneath him, bringing her hips to his in invitation, and he could wait no longer. 

He watched her face as he pushed into her, thrilling to see her eyes close in ecstasy. The same ecstasy overtook him as well, and he sighed along with her when their bodies were one. For long moments he did not move within her, he simply let the bliss of being joined to her envelop him, dropping his head to hers to taste her mouth again. Very slowly, he began to move against her, bringing more pleasure to them both.

But she gasped against his lips, calling his name, and his eyes snapped open. There was something different in her voice, in the way she said his name. He looked down into her eyes, to see her staring up at him in wonder. Her hands came from behind his back to touch his face; her fingers trembled as they skimmed across his cheekbones.

"Legolas," she said again, her voice trembling as much as her hands. "We are one, my love," she whispered. His mind reeled as he realized she was speaking his language. Isobel sounded completely unlike herself. She sounded like…

__

No.

"Isobel…" He rasped out her name, and a shiver went up his back. He removed her hands from his face and held them tightly, twining their fingers together in a firm grip.

She was lost in a fog, she felt as if she were falling, falling endlessly. From far away, she heard her name. "Isobel," he called. "Isobel." Over and over he repeated her name, a pleading note in his voice, until at last she felt the veil lift from her eyes, and she realized where she was. She was lying on a soft feather bed, and Legolas loomed over her, concern written on his face. The pleasure that ran through her was almost overwhelming, but she managed a smile, and lifted her hand to his face. 

"I thought I had died," she said breathlessly.

He tightened his hands on hers, and kissed her desperately. "But you came back," he whispered into her hair. "Oh, Isobel…"

Isobel thought she had never been so warm; he covered her with warmth, filled her body with warmth. The pleasure was unbearable, and she hoped it would never end. It was a knife stabbing through her, it was a soft blanket surrounding her, it saturated her body and her mind. Hands and lips caressed as their bodies found their rhythm. Sometimes they rocked together with agonizing slowness; at times, he pinned her down with his fingers threaded through hers and plunged into her with a fiery abandon. She gave herself to him completely, welcoming his heat, his passion, his need, and matching it with her own. He whispered into her skin, into her mouth, words that set her trembling even though she did not understand them. They melted together, the pressure slowly but steadily building until at long last the dam burst, and she cried out wordlessly, her body shattered. 

While her body still convulsed around him he slid his fingers into her tangled hair, and thrust inside her so deeply it tore another breathless cry from her. He went very still, frighteningly still. She watched his face as his eyes grew wider and wider and saw the very moment the rapture crashed into him, and a white-hot flame flared where their bodies joined. Then his entire body shuddered, and he collapsed on top of her with a long, low moan.

She answered his moan with her own, welcoming the weight of him. For a time all she could do was let her eyes flit randomly over the ceiling of her room, seeing nothing, while her body floated back to earth. Legolas lay with his head on her breast, and she could tell when his heart began to slow, and he was able to breathe again. She sighed and combed her fingers languidly through his hair, and turned her head, to see the pink-tinged horizon that heralded the coming of dawn. A small smile drifted across her face at the sight, then she turned her head back again as he moved, pulling them both down into the blankets.

"Rest, love." He brushed a kiss across her temple, and Isobel's smile widened in satisfaction. Wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, his heart beating next to her ear, she let herself slide into a dream.


	7. Seven

Chapter Seven

  
_"Lily, look."  
  
She shook off her doze and sat up, her eyes following the line of his finger. At first she saw nothing, but after a moment or two she could just make out two pairs of eyes in a thicket near them, watching intently. She held her breath, trying not to scare the small creatures away. But then she felt his teeth nipping at her earlobe, and she let out a noise, half sigh, half giggle, and the eyes were gone as the rabbits scampered off into the forest.  
  
"Oh, now see what you have done," she said with mock annoyance. In truth his breath on her face was giving her far too much pleasure to leave any room for irritation. "You have made me scare them away."  
  
"It matters not," he said with a small chuckle. "We have no need of an audience." He traced the curve of her ear with his tongue, coaxing another sigh from her._  
  
  
Mmmmm.  
  
  
The dream and the waking blended so well that Isobel did not know where one ended and the other began. All she knew was that she woke to the most delicious sensation of warm breath and soft lips on her ear, first sampling the soft skin of her earlobe, then working their way upward, nipping as they went. She wriggled a little and then had a long, luxurious stretch.  
  
She felt his arm around her waist tighten a fraction as he continued to explore her ear. With his tongue he traced a soft line around the inner shell of her ear. Trying not to shiver, she held herself very still, not quite sure she was awake yet, and not wanting the dream to end. But something about the way his leg slid along hers felt wonderfully real, and she allowed her eyes to open.  
  
"I hope there were no nightmares while you slept," Legolas whispered. She swiveled her head to look at him, giving him a lazy smile. It was strange. Last night she would have said that the silver-blue glow of the moon, making him appear ethereal and luminous, suited him best. But now with the afternoon sunlight turning his skin and hair to gold, she thought that he could not possibly look any more magnificent than he did at this moment. Even if his hair was a bit tousled.  
  
Turning to burrow into him, she smiled against his neck. "Nooooo," she made the word a soft moan, "no nightmares. I don't remember exactly what I dreamed, but I do remember it was lovely." She lifted her face to gaze into his eyes. "And I think you were in it."  
  
He gave a clear laugh, and brushed a stray lock of her hair away from her face. "I am exceedingly happy to hear it," he said, just before his lips found hers.

****

Eventually and by some unspoken mutual agreement, they emerged from her bed to face the new day. First they stopped at the long table where baskets of bread and jugs of cold water were left out for those who felt hungry. Neither of them did, but they scooped up some bread to bring to their favorite ducks. When they emerged into the courtyard, Isobel was surprised to see the sun so high in the sky: could it be that late already? Then she smiled, thinking of how she had spent the past few hours. Yes, time had flown, and she didn't regret it a bit. She stole a glance at Legolas, and the smile in his eyes made her cheeks flush and her own smile widen. No, he did not regret it either.

The pounding of hoofbeats drew their attention and they both turned toward the gate, which they could see from this distance. Legolas unconsciously urged her behind him, and she rested both her hands on his back, peering around him a little fearfully. He went still when he saw who had just come to Rivendell.

"A scout," he said, the whisper as soft as a spring breeze, yet breathing the chill of winter. "The first to return." He turned to look at her, and her face paled when she realized what his words meant.

"The rest are on their way," she said quietly. "And soon you will have to go. The Ring. The quest."

He nodded. "My time in Rivendell is nearly over." He drew her close and she turned her head, pressing her cheek to his chest as he stroked her hair. 

She tightened her arms around him in a desperate embrace. "I don't want you to go," she whispered harshly. She closed her eyes tightly against the tears she felt forming. She did not want to waste what time they had left. There was time enough to cry later. When he had gone.

"I know," he said. She felt him place a kiss on the top of her head, and she sighed. His lips returned to kiss her hair again, then she raised her head to him and he brushed his lips on her forehead. Impatient, she stretched to her toes to lessen the difference between them, letting her mouth meet his. It was not a hard kiss of desperation, but a soft enjoyment of one another. His hands moved to cradle her face as he took control of the kiss; his thumbs brushed her jaw, and his fingers curved around the outer shell of her ears, making her forget for a time her despair. After a few seconds of this, she pulled away, giggling.

"That tickles!" 

He grinned at her scold and shrugged a little. "I cannot help it," he said. "Ears such as yours are delectable, they need to be explored."

"I would say the same of yours," she teased back, reaching up to trace his pointed elven ear with the tip of her forefinger. 

He moved back with a small laugh; clearly he was ticklish there too. He caught her hands in his and pulled her close. "I cannot help it," he said. "Human ears are so strange to me. And when I'm this close to them, I cannot resist…" He stopped talking then, moving his head to nibble on her earlobe and work his way up her ear. She giggled and squirmed in his arms, but he only held her tighter, laughing softly into her ear. "Come now, humor me," he said. "It is rare that I have such an opportunity. It's been far too long since the last time I was able to…" His voice trailed off, and his brow furrowed a touch, as if he had lost the desire to finish the sentence he had begun.

Isobel stilled in his arms, raising her head to look him in the eye. "You are thinking of her, aren't you?" Her chest tightened a little as she said the words. "The woman you loved before." 

He nodded, taking a deep breath. "Her name was Lily," he said. He watched her eyes carefully, as though waiting for a reaction.

She stepped back, out of his arms, and he did not pull her back or protest. "Lily," she repeated. "Is that name supposed to mean something to me? I don't care what her name was. I thought we had agreed to let our ghosts go; I was to let go of the memory of my husband, and you were to stop thinking about Lily. Why can you not do that? I don't understand." She walked away from him then, her hands shaking a little. "It's not as though I look anything like her. She was a young, slight little thing, all dark hair and pale skin. Why would you...?" Her voice broke off in stunned confusion. How had she known? Suddenly her dream from this morning leapt to her mind. Lily. That was what he had called her. And the nightmare…

She turned slowly to face him again. "The dream," she said, her voice trembling. "She was the girl in my dream, wasn't she? In the woods, running from those men..."

He had started nodding before she had finished asking her question. "You dreamed of the day we met." 

But instead of making things clearer, this revelation only confused Isobel further. "But why?" she asked. "Why would I dream of her?" 

Now it was his turn to look surprised. "You truly do not know?" He stood then, walking to her to cup her face in his hands. "Do you not see? You share her soul, Isobel. She was reborn in you." 

"What?" She would have laughed at the absurd notion, if not for the serious look on his face. "No," she finally said. "That's impossible." But even as she spoke, her mind tumbled over the past few weeks, the past few years of her life. The love she had never felt for Guy, no matter how kind he was to her. The feeling of security, of home, she had experienced the first time she looked into Legolas's eyes. She had thought of how wonderful it had been to see him again--_again_-- after the first time they had met. Her fingers running through his hair, a touch she remembered, even though she had never done it before. 

He seemed not to notice her confusion. "This is a gift," he said, his eyes luminous with joy. "I told you that elves love but once, and it is the truth. I gave my heart to Lily, hundreds of years ago. We were bound to one another. And after she was gone, I had resigned myself to live out the ages without knowing love again. And then I rode into Rivendell, and I saw your face." Still cupping her face in his hands, his thumbs stroked her cheeks. "Saw your eyes," he whispered. "The same eyes I last saw centuries ago. I didn't understand it at first, but soon enough I realized that I had been given another chance. It is nothing short of a miracle." 

But Isobel's eyes clouded up in pain, and she wrenched herself from his touch. "So that is what I am to you?" she said, her face set tightly. "A vessel? A way for you to relive your past, with the woman you love?" Her breathing rapid, she shook her head and backed away from him one step, and then another. "No. Never again. I am not Lily. I am Isobel." 

"I know that." His eyes were wide. "Of course you are. I--" 

"No!" She shrieked the word, leaping away from his outstretched hand. "Do not touch me," she whispered, her eyes filling up with tears. "I will not simply be a body so you can make love to her." In a whirl of skirts and shawl, she fled the courtyard, leaving him alone.

Isobel could barely see through tear-clouded eyes as she ran down the path. She stubbed her toes twice on the stairs hurrying up them, and trod on her skirt so hard that she nearly tore it. She took great gulps of air while she struggled with the doorknob, throwing herself into her bedchamber and slamming the door behind her. The first sight that greeted her was her bed, the sheets and blankets rumpled, two pillows that had obviously been well-used. 

Just as she had been. Bile rose in the back of her throat at this thought. Unable to look at the bed, she closed her eyes tight and sank to the floor, her back pressed against the door. Now the tears fell: tears of outrage, of heart-breaking sorrow. How had she let this happen? How had she let her heart be opened, so fully and so completely, only to find herself in a situation like this? 

After a few minutes of indulging her emotions she raised her head, swiping at her tear-stained cheeks. She made her way slowly to her bed, as if it were a live thing that would attack her if she got too close. Grasping the blankets, she yanked them up, in a crude semblance of making up the bed. It disturbed the look of tumbled serenity, and for this she was darkly glad. 

Taking up one of the pillows, she crossed to the window, blinking back the remains of her tears. She stared out into the afternoon, taking little interest in the way the sunlight dappled the grass, and how it shone brightly through the branches of the trees, now nearly devoid of leaves. At this moment she was heartily sick of the beauty of this place, and wanted nothing more than to be far, far away from Rivendell. If she were back in the world of men, perhaps she could find a way to forget his face.  
  
She dropped her gaze from the sky to the world below, and gasped. As if summoned by her thoughts, he was there-standing just beyond the hill, within the shade of the trees, staring straight up at her window. At her. Even from such a distance his gaze was tangible, and for a long moment she felt pinned by it. With an effort she was able to tear her eyes from his, bowing her head to bury it in the pillow she clutched in her arms. It smelled like sunlight, like love. Like him. 

She practically recoiled from its offer of comfort, lifting her head again. When she looked back out her window, a small cry of dismay fell from her lips. 

  
He was gone.  
  
He was coming to her. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. She shook her head, trying to deny the certainty she knew in her heart. He was on his way to her room. She couldn't be here when he arrived; she wasn't ready to see him. She didn't know if she ever would be.  
  
Dropping the pillow, she ran to the door. She pulled it open, but stopped short on the threshold.   
  
It was too late.   
  
He stood before her, his hand outstretched to turn the doorknob. For a startled moment they did nothing, both frozen in surprise. The next instant they crashed together, and for the briefest moment their lips were joined in a violent kiss full of fire and longing. Then they tore themselves apart, and Isobel could only stare, panting and dizzy, as he entered the room.  
  
He closed the door and stood against it, blocking her exit. She knew without asking that he would not let her pass, so she did not even try.  
  
"Isobel." He took a step toward her, his arms outstretched.  
  
"No!" she cried, backing up. "You cannot kiss this away."  
  
She whirled and leaned against the bedpost for support, trying to put some sort of distance, some barrier between them. Perhaps if she did not look at him she could begin to quiet her pounding heart and think straight.  
  
His sigh was audible. "I wish you could understand," he said quietly.  
  
"Oh, I understand," she said." I understand you loved someone else, and now you think she lives again in me." She cast a glance over her shoulder at him. "Is that not so?"  
  
He spread his hands, then dropped them, a gesture of defeat. "Yes."  
  
"What was she like?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Her. Lily. The woman that you used to love. Did she look like me?"  
  
"No, not at all." It seemed he answered almost against his will. "It is as you said. Her skin was very pale, her hair was dark."  
  
"And I suppose she was beautiful."  
  
"Yes, very," he said with no enthusiasm.  
  
"Did she act as I do, speak as I do?"  
  
"No, she was very unlike you in disposition."  
  
She turned to face him again, nearly wailing in frustration, "But then, how can you see her in me? How can you love me, if I am so different from this beautiful and charming woman?"

"Those are not the things that matter," he said, his voice rising just a little in agitation. "It is your soul, who you are inside. There is a piece of her in you, can you not see that?"

"What piece?" Isobel cried. "What soul? I don't understand any of this. I cannot simply be someone else for you to love. I don't know anything about her. I don't know how to be--"

"That is not want I want," he said. "I--"

"Then what do you want? You can love only once, and you love her. Now you say that I _am_ her, somehow. But I am not her, am I?" Her voice by now had raised to nearly a shout, signaling the approach of hysteria. "There must be something. Tell me! You said my eyes. What else? My voice, the way I talk? Laugh? What is it?"  
  
"Enough!" his voice was hoarse. "Stop this! It does not matter! She was different than you, and yet the same. Lily, I know I have not explained this well, I hardly understand myself, but if only you could try to see..."  
  
"I am trying to understand! All I have done since you dropped this on my head is try to…" Her voice trailed off and she whirled to stare at him for a moment before she said in a stunned voice, "What--what did you call me?"  
  
He did not answer, but the consternation on his face showed he was fully aware of the enormity of his error.  
  
She shook her head helplessly, like a marionette. "It is true, then. She is the one you love. Not I."  
  
"No." He looked stricken. "How can you think this?"  
  
"How can I think anything else? You do not want me. I am nothing to you. You look at me, and see her. You use me, and think of her." She shut her eyes tight, trying vainly to erase the memories of the past days and weeks, of last night. Grief and jealousy and anger all fought for mastery inside her, and her voice rose a little frantically. "Did I please you, at least? Even though I was not your long-lost love, was I close enough that you could get what you wanted? One last tumble before you go off to your heroic death?"  
  
He froze, and in an instant Isobel could see every muscle in his body tense at the words she spit across the room to him. His eyes narrowed and he stalked toward her, his hands balled into fists, his face a mask of bitterness and pain. Isobel shrank back against the bedpost, but his hand, when it fell, only gripped the post above her head. She could see the tension in his arm, and had a brief, mad fear that he would snap the wood into pieces. He brought his face very close to hers.  
  
"Does love mean nothing to you? So little that you throw it away on a - a whim? On one misspoken word?" His voice was low, little more than a whisper, but it was sharp and angry, a tone she never thought to hear from him. It felt like a slap in the face and she could only gape at him as his eyes, so near, held her trapped. "You told me in this very room that you belonged with me. Are all human women so changeable, so inconstant? Or is it only you? For many lives of men I have loved you; never has my love grown dim, even when you were completely lost to me. And now once again you turn away from me. Faithless, faithless woman!"  
  
Pushing himself away from her, he backed up a step or two. His expression was suddenly blank, showing nothing, and was somehow more frightening than the obvious anger from a moment before. Then he turned on his heel and left her, shutting the door behind him.

For a long time she could only stand where he had left her, shaking and miserable, her hands clasped to her mouth. All she could see was his face, so furious and bitter, all she could hear was the echo of his sharp words. The room was beginning to grow dark; the sun was setting. It was this time yesterday that they had come here to get her shawl, and had never left. The thought made her so downcast that she sat down weakly on the side of the bed and gave herself over to helpless tears once again.  
  
But nobody can cry forever, and after a time her sobs turned to hiccups and sighs. She wiped her tired eyes on her skirt and tried to gather her wits. She had no desire to eat, and a positive dread of seeing anyone. Perhaps she should just go to bed. Perhaps sleep would clear her head, and tomorrow she could decide where she would go, and what she would do.  
  
Mechanically she changed into her nightdress, and lit the small lamp on the dressing table. Brushing out her hair, she stared dully at her own reflection, searching for some sign of this woman that she had been. The woman that Legolas had loved. Her mind fought against the idea that she was once someone else, but there were so many things crashing in on her: the dreams, the memories, the way she had felt pushed aside during that moment when they… She shook her head, blinking against the sting behind her eyes. Truly, she was tired of tears. 

  
No, try as she might, she could see nothing of this Lily. All she saw was Isobel, her skin blotchy, her eyes red from crying, her brow furrowed by a headache. With a sigh she dropped the brush onto the table and blew out the lamp. There was no ignoring the scent of their love-making on her bed, so she accepted it, embraced it, and allowed herself a few more bitter tears into her pillow. At long last she fell asleep with words like "faithless" and "inconstant" pounding in her head.

****

He had lost.  
  
For a long time he wandered under the moon, his mind able to grasp only this one thought. The feel of the tree bark under his fingers, the glow of the moon, the smell of the night, all these things that he loved held no more charm for him. He felt empty, more so even than he had the first time he had lost her.  
  
He sighed, and uselessly wished the words and actions of this day undone. His anger had drained away almost immediately, leaving only an aching unhappiness. The image of Isobel's face, horrified, frightened, rose up in his mind. He had looked into those eyes countless times, and this was the first time he had ever seen such fear in them. Fear of him.  
  
He had let anger override sense, judgment, even love. And he had to laugh bitterly, for he had been angry more at himself, for his foolish mistake, than at her. He had had time to puzzle out all of this, while she had had the idea thrust upon her, almost against her will. It was little wonder she could not comprehend or accept it. She deserved his compassion and understanding; she did not deserve harsh, angry words.  
  
Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure Lily's image to his mind. He smiled unconsciously as he remembered looking into her soft brown eyes, but when he mentally backed away, it was always Isobel's face he saw. Lily was lovely, it was true, and sweet and charming, but she was also heedless and spoiled, though it had been long before he would admit it to himself. So different from any woman he had ever known, it was this very difference that had drawn him to her. She had been very young when he met her, but even after she had grown older, she was so used to having her own way, so indulged and protected, first by her father, and then by Legolas himself, that she never had to face any hardship or responsibility. She seemed to him always fresh and innocent, and he preferred it so. Isobel he had met when she was older; she had already known obligation and grief, and more horror than any woman should. She was dutiful and sensible, amiable and gentle, and altogether delightful.  
  
And now she was lost to him, and there was no one but himself to blame.  
  
Over and over he replayed the events from this day in his mind, torturing himself with the thoughts of what he could have done differently. But after a time, a question came to his mind, like a spear through the pain. Why? Why had he been given this chance? He told himself that the why did not matter, she was gone now beyond hope. And yet the question presented itself to be answered, again and again. Why?  
  
Why had this miracle been visited on him? It was true that he knew his duty, and tried to do no harm to any creature who did not deserve it. But he would not fool himself; he was no paragon of virtue. Nothing he had ever done made him worthy of this gift, this second chance. Or--  
  
A last chance?  
  
He furrowed his brow, staring with unseeing eyes into the night. This idea assailed him so suddenly that it nearly took his breath. Was that it? Was this quest doomed to fail?  
  
Stopping where he was, he sat down on the ground to think through this notion. His mind rebelled completely at first. They could not fail; the consequences were too dire to even contemplate failure. And yet, it seemed a hopeless enough task. In truth, a more motley group of would-be heroes could hardly be assembled. What had Isobel called it? Suicide?  
  
And maybe it was, he thought with dawning comprehension. No, he could not accept the thought that this mission would fail. It could not and it would not.  
  
But perhaps he would.  
  
Legolas had never been one to brood over death, though he had of course seen it. This was a world full of perils, and the immortality of his people was no protection against sword or arrow or fierce creatures. And though he had faced many dangers he had always won through relatively unscathed. It could be that this had given him an arrogant sense of invulnerability.  
  
But this was a day for loss. He had lost his love, once again. And now he had lost his arrogance. He felt no lack of purpose, for his faith in their cause was a strong as ever, and he had no intention of failing his comrades, or thwarting their battle through lack of spirit.  
  
But nothing could be clearer to him; this journey was to be his last.


	8. Eight

Chapter Eight

__

Lily sat motionless at the creek's edge, her eyes fixed on the surface of the water. It did not make a very good mirror, but in truth she did not like what she saw there, and would not like to see it any clearer. She could not believe that in all this time, in all these years, that she had not even considered that this day would come. But it had crept up on her anyway, as silently and stealthily as any woodland creature.  
  
She heard her name being called, his voice floating through the trees as he neared, and she lifted her head, blinking back the tears that had suddenly misted her vision. She took a deep breath and reached down to stir the water with her fingers, disturbing the surface and rendering her reflection blurred and indistinct. Then she waited, hoping she had the strength for what had to come next.  
  
Far too soon he was there, the face and the form she had loved for so many years. Despite her pain, she was able to smile up at him, her heart thrilling the way it always did when she first beheld him.  
  
"There you are, Lily," he said. "Did you not hear me call for you? I have been--" His voice died in his throat when he saw her face, and she closed her eyes. He had always been so adept at reading her emotions, and she had always been so terrible at hiding them. She heard the rustle of him kneeling beside her. "What is the matter, love?"  
  
How was she to tell him? Her mind cast around helplessly for the right words, the right way to explain it all. "Time," she finally answered, opening her eyes to look into his. He deserved that, if nothing else.  
  
His brow furrowed. "Time? I do not understand."  
  
"I know." She bowed her head again, letting her hair fall in front of her face the way she always did when she was upset. Seized by inspiration, she took a lock of hair between her fingers. "Do you remember how dark my hair was?"  
  
His smile was gentle. "It is dark still. What do you mean?"  
  
She shook her head, frustration rising now, replacing the despair. "But it was not always like this. Once it was all so dark, like a raven's wing, like night. Now the color fades, in some places it is gray completely. I no longer look the way I did when you first knew me."  
  
"And what does that matter? You are still the one I love." Kneeling turned to sitting, and his smile was still gentle. Lily felt a fire of frustration kindle within her in reaction to his obliviousness. He reached for her then, his hand stroking her cheek, and for a few moments she leaned into his touch, willing it to calm her turbulent mind. But then she felt his thumb, moving in a caress across her cheekbone and toward her temple, and in a moment she realized exactly what he was doing: tracing the lines that had formed around her eyes. The lines that time had put there.  
  
She wrenched herself away from him, scrambling backward and struggling to her feet. "Stop that!"  
  
He looked up at her now, his face awash in confusion. "Stop what?"  
  
Lily gritted her teeth to choke down a scream; she was equal parts angry and heartbroken at this moment. "This! All of this." She shook her head, the anger draining away, replaced by pure sorrow. "All of this," she repeated. "Legolas, we were foolish, binding ourselves to one another this way. It can never be."  
  
He blinked, his head shaking from side to side in confused negation. "Of course it can be. It is right now. We belong to one another; we are bound."  
  
"But for how much longer?"  
  
"I do not understand," he said. "There is no limit to this. We belong to one another, and that is all there is. It does not end."  
  
Lily sighed. "That would be all very well if we were both elves. But I am not, Legolas. You know that. I grow old before your eyes, and soon enough I will be dead. But you remain the same." A sad smile touched her face then as memory struck her. "You look as you ever have, as you did the day you rescued me, and hid me within a tree. And when I am nothing but dust, you will look the same."  
  
"No." The word tore from his throat, and Lily squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. His voice was raw, and clearly he had considered none of this before. Perhaps it was better this way. Newly determined, she opened her eyes again, to find him on his feet before her.  
  
"Yes," she said. "An old woman such as I is no worthy match for an Elvish prince. So I let you go." Blinded by her tears, she did her best to speak through them. "Never seek me out again, Legolas. I release you from your vow. You are no longer bound to me."  
  
She blinked hard, and in her clearing vision saw his face, so stunned that he looked as though she had shot him through with one of his arrows. She took a deep breath; it was done, then. She turned to walk away...  
  
Isobel gasped as her eyes opened onto darkness, her heart twisting as the dream floated away. Understanding settled on her chest like a leaden weight, threatening to suffocate her. The pain she had seen on his face in her dream was the same pain she had seen yesterday. So this was the reason for his anger, his bitterness. She could well understand it now. 

She looked up into the dark and saw black. A complete, inky blackness that gradually gave way to a less dense darkness, a deep gray with deeper shadows. Then to a paler gray on gray, that made everything look colorless. The shadows slowly retreated, as the growing light finally revealed the white plaster and pale wood of her ceiling. Isobel watched the ceiling slowly lighten, letting the tears run down her cheeks and into her hair.

Her room filled with early morning light, she finally sat up in bed, her breath coming in small hiccups until she had calmed her tears. She understood now, but did that really help matters? Now her mind was filled with the angry words they had exchanged the day before, the look of utter contempt he had given her before he had stalked out of her room. It was enough to make her want to give over to tears again, and it took a strong force of will to keep them at bay.

Suddenly impatient, she pushed her blankets aside and scrambled out of bed. Rather than go to the trouble of changing out of her nightgown, she shoved her feet into a pair of light shoes by her door and threw a long, heavy cloak around her shoulders as she hurried down the hallway. There was no time; she had to find him now. The crisp, cold air of early morning took her breath away, its iciness filling her lungs. But she only paused for a moment before plunging down the steps. The stone was cold on her feet through the thin slippers, but she paid it no heed as she dashed across the empty courtyard. She had an idea of where he had gone, and she hoped that she was right.

***

When the night sky began almost imperceptibly to lighten, Legolas finally took note of his surroundings. The lagoon with the ducks. Of course. This is where he and Isobel had most often found themselves on their walks together. With a sigh, he felt in a pocket for the bread they had brought yesterday, but never offered. Yes, there it was, a trifle dried out but still good. He watched without appreciation as the sun slowly turned the world from gray to green and gold and blue, while tearing off pieces of bread and hurling each bit as if it were a dart. But the fat ducks cared nothing for his mood; they paddled eagerly about dipping their beaks into the water to eat.  
  
The bread was nearly gone, and he would have to leave this place soon, before the memories became too oppressive. He drew back his arm to throw the last piece when he stopped his movement mid-throw, feeling her presence behind him. He turned his head to see her wrapped in a long cloak, and regarding him quizzically.  
  
"What are you doing?" she asked him.  
  
"I am-" he followed through with the last bit of bread, managing this time to actually hit one of the creatures, "feeding the ducks."  
  
Isobel did not answer; instead she picked her way carefully over the frost-covered ground and sat beside him, pulling the cloak about her closely. For a few moments they both sat looking out at the water, saying nothing.  
  
"She sent you away."

He glanced at her, and seemed to read understanding in her face. For a long moment he made no answer, he only looked out over the water, as if he were looking far back into time, into memory. Painful memory. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "Lily was very lovely. But, I fear, she was a little… vain." He spoke with a sort of affectionate forbearance. "She was more worried about the effects of time on her face than about her own mortality. Elves change very little through the years, and she thought that I could not love her if she grew older. She could not believe that, in my eyes, she could lose nothing.

"I always knew," he continued, "that she would be taken from me one day, though I tried not to think about it. But I never expected that she would simply throw our love away. I wanted to keep her with me always, to make every moment last an eternity. If I had had her by me every moment of her life, it would not have been enough. But still, it would have been better than to never have loved her at all."

Isobel gulped and nodded, dashing the tears from her eyes, tears that were immediately replaced by fresh ones. "I understand," she said. She drew a slightly shuddering breath and went on in a small voice, "You loved her so much. And you say we are different, she and I. Then how can it be that you can love me too?"

"You are different, yes. But so am I different now than I was then. If you had lived her life, you might have been just such a woman as she was." He turned toward her, catching her chin in his hand, speaking earnestly. "You are more than your name, or the color of your hair," he ran a gentle hand over her sleep-tangled hair, "or the place of your birth. There was a light inside Lily; that same light burns inside you. Can you not believe this?"

She sniffed, nodding her head against his hand. "I am beginning to believe. But I cannot help but wonder what part is me and what is her. I fear you will always look for her in me. The other night, when we…" She blushed a little and looked down, but his hand gently forced her chin back up. "When… when you shared my bed…well, I felt her there, inside me. I know you saw it."

"Yes." He leaned forward, and she did not resist when he took her face between his hands, kissing away her tears. "But I called for you, do you not remember? It was Isobel I wanted. It _is_ Isobel I want. It is Isobel I love."

She closed her eyes then, letting the tears spill out, and for long moments they sat wrapped in each other's arms; sweet kisses spoke apologies for sharp words, caressing hands bestowed forgiveness. 

When her tears began to lessen, and she could speak again, Isobel lifted her eyes to his face. "Lily had a point, you know," she said. "I will grow old and wrinkled and gray."

He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "And do you love only what is young and new? So why would you think this of me?"

"Oh, do not think I have not heard of all your grand Elvish stories," she answered a little petulantly. "Usually they involve the hero catching sight of an unbelievably beautiful maiden dancing in a forest, and falling in love at the very sight of her. Very rarely does he find himself in love with a widow who has seen nearly thirty winters."

He threw back his head and laughed out loud at this, bringing a pout to her face, which he immediately attempted to kiss away. "These are only songs," he insisted, "songs and tales to be told by the fire. All the maidens are unbearably beautiful, and all the heroes brave beyond measure. They cannot tell a true story of love. The story of the hero walking and talking with the maid, learning all her little ways, seeing her soft eyes and sweet smiles, day after day, until they are a part of his heart and as needful to him as air and water. These are the things that cannot fade. No bard could capture that tale."

"Oh," she sighed, unable to make any answer. 

Suddenly a tremor ran through her, and her teeth chattered together. Her hands flew to her mouth and she made a noise, part laugh and part sob. He made a small sound of protest, pulling her close. He pressed her head to his shoulder and let his hands roam over her back in soothing circles. 

She clung to him in return, shaking a little but not crying. It took a few moments for Legolas to realize she was shivering. He held her away from him a little and looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that morning. The long cloak she wore covered only her thin nightdress, and her soft shoes had long been soaked through by the melting frost on the grass.

"You are close to freezing," he said, concern now clouding his eyes.

She started to shake her head, but gave up when the movement made her teeth chatter again. "Finding you was more important than dressing for the weather."

He smiled. "You have gone quite mad. Come…" He rose to his feet, reaching down a hand in offering. With a small smile, she placed her hand in his, letting him help her up, but he did not stop there; before she knew what was happening he had scooped her up into his arms, cradling her close to him.

Her protest was little more than a squeak. "What are you doing?" She grabbed onto his shoulders a little frantically, but his hold was secure; he would not drop her.

His chuckle in her hair was low, and sent a small shiver across the back of her neck. "Taking you inside to warm you up," he said. His steps took them away from the lagoon and toward the great hall and her room. "I trust you have no objection to this?"

Laughter bubbled out of her as she relaxed in his arms. "Would it matter if I did?"

Legolas's smile became a grin. "Not at all."

Luckily for Isobel's dignity they met nobody on their way back, and she even began to enjoy the ride, catching her breath excitedly as he ran swiftly up the stairs. Once in her room, he laid her gently on her bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She would have protested if he had tried to leave her, but instead he lay down on her bed, on top of the blankets, curling his arms around her to warm her.  
  
Isobel smiled and closed her eyes, turning on her side to face him, letting the warmth of her bed and his body seep through her. For a long while neither of them spoke, and she could feel sleep creeping up on her, even as his hands and his lips caressed her face.  
  
When his hands went still, she opened her eyes, wondering if he had fallen asleep as well. But he was looking at her with sorrow in his eyes, and he had one hand on her pillow.  
  
"I can feel the tears you shed here," he said quietly. "The tears I made you shed. I can never forgive myself for what I said-"  
  
She laid her fingertips on his mouth. "Hush. It no longer matters. I understand now why you said the things you did. Why you were so angry." She fell silent for a moment, thinking.  
  
"She loved you," she finally said. "More than anything. I could feel it." She pressed a hand to her chest, as if she were in pain. "I could feel her sadness when she told you to go. She didn't want to do it; it was killing her send you away. But she thought she was doing what had to be done." She shook her head. "Perhaps she was trying to spare you the pain of seeing her die." She reached for him, her fingers skimming across the back of his hand to entwine through his.

He shook his head slightly. "If that was her goal, she did not achieve it. I stayed close all the rest of her life, watching her, hoping to see some sign that she had changed her mind. But she did not. We never spoke again."  
  
He held her hand tightly; his eyes looked haunted as the memories still held sway over him. "I felt so empty," he said, his voice hollow. "I had never expected to feel that kind of pain, not from her." He shook his head. "I became angry. Despair turned to rage inside of me, and I was unkind to her."  
  
Isobel's breath froze in her lungs. She remembered now, the pain she had felt upon waking this morning. It had been more than just the heartache of Lily letting go of the one she loved. "What happened?"  
  
He shook his head. "We were bound to one another, and she had just released me of my vow. I did not want to be released; I had known what the vow meant when I had made it, and I was prepared to honor it for eternity. I knew then that she wanted me to be gracious. She wanted me to respond in kind, to release her as well, to live our lives as two, not as one." His grip tightened on her hand. "But I could not. I could not make my tongue form those words. I could not throw away our love as easily as she had. So I told her no."  
  
Was it the words he said that stirred something inside her? Or perhaps it was the way he gripped her hand, tightly, desperately, as if he would never let go. She heard his voice; but it came not from him, but from inside her head, like a weak echo. _"No!" he said. "I do not release you! We are bound, we two, by a vow not to be broken. You belong with me. You will always belong with me."  
_  
Her mouth dropped open, and she could tell by the stunned look on his face that he knew what had happened, that he also remembered. "You did not release her," she breathed. He abruptly let go of her hand as if the touch of her skin pained him, and rose from her bed, turning toward the window.  
  
She threw off the covers and leapt up, but when he turned back to her, the stricken look on his face stopped her in her tracks. "I have done this?" he said in bewilderment, his eyes horrified. "I doomed her, to be born again and again, always bound to me."  
  
"But never finding you," Isobel said. "Until now."  
  
"No," he said in useless denial.  
  
"I do not understand you," she cried. "Yesterday this was a miracle, and today you speak of doom. How can this be?"  
  
"Do you not see?" he asked her, his voice anguished. "I thought this came from outside of me, some sort of gift. I told myself I deserved no such chance-" he gave a humorless snort of laughter "-but who among us can believe he does not deserve whatever good things life gives him. But now-"  
  
"Now it is still the same---"  
  
"No! It is not the same. This is a result of my own rage, my own wounded pride. It is too grave a responsibility. To hold your life in my hands…no, it is too much power."  
  
She sat down on the side of the bed, trying to sort out her thoughts. "But is that not what lovers do?" she asked. "If I were your kind, would you not hold my life, my heart, in your hands, for all time? Is this so different?"  
  
He made no answer, he only looked at her, his brows drawn together, his eyes distraught. "I do not know," he finally answered. "I hardly know what to think. You seem to accept this well of a sudden. A vast change." He sounded almost accusing.  
  
He was right, she realized. Their attitudes from yesterday were completely reversed. She cast around in her head, unable to find the words that could break through his self-reproach. "Yes, well, perhaps there is only so much mystery in this," she finally said in frustration. "Only enough to befuddle one of us at a time."  
  
"You are making this a farce," he scolded, but some of the haunted look had left his eyes.  
  
"Better a farce than a tragedy," she said.  
  
And then she was up, facing him but not quite touching him. "Listen to me," she said plaintively. "You think this is some sort of punishment for her…for me." She paused to search for the right way to explain something she had only the flimsiest grip on herself. Isobel closed her eyes, feeling Lily's heartache; she knew how hard it had been for Lily to let him go; even through the dream, she could feel the tearing of her heart as she sent him away. "I believe that if she had not loved you so, she would not have looked for you all this time. She-I would not have found you."  
  
Still he made no answer, and she went on, afraid of saying too much, and not enough. "But this is no doom. It is as you said. It is a gift. We made a vow not to be broken. That is what you said. Do you not see? Now we can always be together, for even when I die, we can find each other again."  
  
He gazed at her as if he had never seen her before and brought one hand to her face, brushing his fingertips tentatively over her cheek.  
  
"We made a vow, not to be broken," she repeated, her voice hardly more than a whisper. "Do you now wish that vow unmade?"  
  
With a wordless sound he pulled her into his arms, his hands roaming eagerly over her hair, her face, her back; it seemed he wanted to consume her, make her a part of himself. She let a tear or two slip out of her eyes, then leaned forward to wipe her cheek on his tunic. A shiver escaped her.  
  
His arms tightened around her, and he said, "I am truly a lout. I wallow in my own pain and self-pity, while you stand before me shivering with cold."  
  
Her hands on his chest, she looked up at him and smiled through her tears. "Then warm me."

His smile chased away all remnants of gloom and despair, and he took her hands to lead her back to the bed. "Gladly, my lady."

*****

Winter began to bite in earnest, and Legolas and Isobel were nearly always together, knowing that the scouts were making their way back, and his journey would begin very soon. Long, dreamy nights were spent in each other's arms. Days were spent by the roaring fires in Elrond's house, for it was too cold to walk much. Often they found themselves in the library, alone, for the most part, Isobel with an ever-present book open on her lap. At times they sat in comfortable silence; other times they spoke in low tones, keeping their thoughts and words only on the present, fearing to delve too deeply into what the future might bring.  
  
Aragorn was less and less at leisure, but one night found him taking a moment to relax, and speak with Legolas, no doubt about the mission they were to share. Isobel sat quietly in the chair nearest the fire, letting their conversation flow over her. She no longer felt left out, and she was pleased to find she could even understand a word here and there. But she kept her eyes trained on her book, a small smile playing around her lips.

  
Soon Aragorn stood to leave, giving her a polite bow and a good night. For a while she and Legolas sat in silence, and nobody disturbed their serenity. She felt his eyes on her, and looked up to find him regarding her with a peaceful smile, his cheek propped on his hand. But she did not feel peaceful. Truth to tell, she felt rather wicked. Stealing a glance at the door, she tossed aside her book and crossed the room to stand in front of him.

  
He smiled up at her, but before he could say anything she hiked up her skirts and crawled onto his lap, straddling him. He sighed, and his hands curled around her waist, his body responding instantly, thrilling to her heat. His smile widened, and he opened his mouth to suggest that they retire. But Isobel had other ideas, it appeared, and his words went unsaid.  
  
Wasting no time, she reached between them, her fingers busy unfastening things and moving fabric aside. He made to protest, but then she slid slowly onto him, impaling herself, and his protests were forgotten. Her head fell back and she moaned deeply. Unconsciously his hands tightened around her waist, pressing her down onto him, and his lips began to search for hers.  
  
"I think that this may be... unwise," he breathed into her mouth, making an effort to keep his voice level. 

"Do you?" she asked him huskily, gently rocking her body against him. "And yet, you have made no move to stop me."  
  
"I...I find I do not wish you to stop."  
  
"But this is madness, is that what you are thinking? What if someone were to come in?" she teased him.  
  
He gave a strained laugh. "That is indeed what I was thinking. But I would not oppose my lady's wishes."  
  
"Ah, you humor me. You are all politeness." This last word trailed off as she lifted herself nearly off him, then drove her body back down, drawing ragged moans from both of them. "Perhaps you are right," she said when she caught her breath. "Perhaps we should be quick about it."  
  
But her movements were slow and languid as she shifted on his lap, her hands   
tangled in his hair. He held himself motionless, trying to remain calm, enjoying the feel of her fingers, her breath, her warm body.  
  
Suddenly a thought seemed to come to her, and she was still for a moment, biting her lip uncertainly. "That is, if you...elves, I mean... Well, do you have to have all night long? How quick can you be?"  
  
Without warning he anchored her tightly to him, and the next moment found her on her back on the floor, gasping for breath as he buried himself deeply inside her. He gave her a wicked grin. "I can be as quick as you like."  
  
In spite of his words, he was anything but quick in his actions, sliding slowly out of her and back in, closing his eyes, the better to sense every inch of her body as it engulfed him. He found himself trying as always to draw this out as long as possible. But Isobel, it seemed, was in no mood for languid love-making. She stroked his face softly until he looked at her, and she gave him a deceptively innocent look, all wide-eyes and parted lips, so he had no hint, no chance to steel himself. Then she did something, something inside her, clutching him with her body, shifting her hips under him, and he was very nearly undone in an instant. His breath stopped, and he dug at the floor with his fingernails. 

She released him, and he closed his eyes for a moment, grasping at his self-control.  
  
Her quiet laugh brought him back from the brink, and he gazed down at her. "Do you know you are driving me mad?"  
  
"I am certainly trying," she whispered. She made a little false pout as he took control once again, then gasped and arched against him when he drove himself firmly into her.  
  
He watched her face, spellbound, as he loved her. Her eyes were half-closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips cherry-red, she had to make an effort to breathe. He found her simply amazing. He had no idea what sorts of things men required of their women in the bedchamber, but it was true that she did things to him that no elf-woman ever had. But love between elves was almost always languorous, unhurried, lasting sometimes for days on end. Human women seemed extraordinarily passionate in comparison. He himself had taught Lily of love, and she had proven herself a very apt and eager pupil; she was the first to show him how hot blooded a woman could be. But Isobel...now that she had learned his body, what pleased him, Isobel could make him light-headed with the merest brush of her fingertips, and it required all his will power to not be consumed by her fire. 

  
This was exactly what she wanted, it seemed. He was more than willing to give her quick lovemaking if she liked, or a little rough play. But she demanded more. She seemed determined to make him abandon all pretense of control. Her tongue flicked in and out of his mouth, and she fed him delicious moans, making him drunk with desire.  
  
He was hanging by his fingertips, he knew, though he still had a tenuous hold on his self-control. But her fever was almost overwhelming; encased in her body, so warm, so slick, as tight as a fist, he was in a fiery paradise. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, her soft, pleading cries were intoxicating, but still he held on.  
  
Then she did something he did not expect. She lifted her head, her lips searching under his collar, kissing her way over his skin until she found that sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder. She nipped and licked at him, sending a shiver down his spine. And then without warning she bit him, bit down hard, and the rush of pleasure and pain was so sharp and so startling, that he let go, and fell. With his last rational thought, he slid his hand between her head and the floor.  
  
And then there was nothing but mad thrusting, fingers digging into flesh, animal sounds, bodies burning with a sweet, agonizing heat. Far too soon he could feel the pleasure filling his mind; he could only hope he was taking her with him, because he was powerless to stop this. He threw his head back with a strangled cry, heedless of all but the fire flooding his body, blinding, intense, unbearable. It took his breath and stopped his heart, like a small death.  
  
When he could see and think again, he lifted himself up a little, so the full weight of his body would not rest on her. His head still hung heavy on her breast, and he fought to draw breath. Her whimpering sighs and the weakening spasms of her body told him that she had taken her pleasure as well, and for this he was glad. 

For several minutes neither of them were able to move; they could only gasp,   
and let the fog of pleasure drift away. But soon the reality of their situation seemed to dawn, and Legolas rolled himself off her with a groan, adjusting his clothing and sitting up. She gave a smug, self-satisfied smile, and let her fingers drift lightly through his hair as he gently smoothed her dress down. Then he helped her to sit up, pulling her into his arms, her back against his chest.  
  
For a long time no words were said; they simply enjoyed the warmth of the fire and one another's arms. But finally he spoke.  
  
"I would have you stay here. After I go."  
  
Isobel's brow furrowed, but her eyes stayed focused on the dancing flames. "You would?"  
  
He nodded, a slight movement against her head. "Here you will be safe. If you go to Gondor, you will be too close to danger."  
  
"But that is where I belong," she said softly. "My place is not here, among the elves. My place is in the world of men, where I have always lived. I will be fine."  
  
His arms tightened around her. "Your place is with me," he corrected, a touch of finality creeping into his voice.  
  
"Ah." She nodded, considering. "So I should go with you, do you think? Into Mordor? That does not sound like the safest solution." She had to grin at his slightly exasperated sigh, which ruffled a few locks of her hair. Quickly she spoke again, before he had a chance. "So you will come for me here, then?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
She turned her head to look up at him. "After you have completed your task. You will come back here, and so you wish for me to stay?"  
  
He went still for a moment, the shift in his body so subtle that she almost didn't feel it. "That is not why I wish it," he said. "You must be where you will be the safest. And that is here."  
  
"But..." she did not want to say it, but something compelled her. "But, if you fail, I will not be safe anywhere."  
  
"We will not fail," he said quietly. She swiveled her head again to look him in the eye, wondering if he could possibly feel as confident as he sounded. He continued, "Even so, Gondor is a dangerous place to be."  
  
Relaxing into him, she sighed and rubbed her head against his chest. For a long moment she did not answer, as she chose her words. Seeking out his hand, she threaded her fingers through his, and finally said, "I would not have you add worry for me to all your other worries. I will be safe."

***

The last scout returned, and the day that Isobel had dreaded in her heart had finally arrived. The larger picture of Middle-Earth's condition had been established, and the nine companions were as prepared as they could be. But thankfully, her last day with Legolas was peaceful. There were no tears, no regret that their time together had run out. Every sense, it seemed, was attuned to him, memorizing every detail, every nuance, to take out later and cherish as memory.  
  
Legolas did the same. But the task was easy for him; in such a short time she had become a part of his very being, he could not imagine forgetting the sound of her voice or the touch of her hand. So this last day together was without the desperation of an imminent parting, but instead was passed as all the others, in quiet conversation and loving caresses.  


Their last day and night together was spent in Isobel's room, a warm fire burning in the little fireplace. Legolas had taught her a few Elvish words, teasing her about her hopeless accent, but soon they fell into that easy silence, with him sitting at her feet, his head near her knee.  
  
"I used to watch you, watching me." Her voice broke the stillness. And yet, it was not Isobel's voice. For this voice was faint, and breathy with age. He glanced over, to see that the hands that lay in her lap were fragile and pale, the skin nearly transparent. He looked up in wonder at her face. Lily's face, just as he remembered her, shortly before she died. Her long black hair showed much white, her face was lined and knowing. But the sadness, the weariness that he remembered were gone, and there was a quiet joy in her soft brown eyes.  
  
"Oh, yes, I saw you," she went on. "I wanted so much to call to you, to bring you back. But I was not strong enough. Can you forgive me?"  
  
Wordlessly, he lifted her hand, so thin and frail, and kissed her fingertips. As he laid his head in her lap, he felt her fingers threading through his hair. "I have been looking for you for so long," she whispered, almost too softly to hear.  
  
"I am here. You have found me," he whispered back, as he kissed her hand, once again smooth and youthful.  
  
"Yes," Isobel said serenely.

***

The day the Fellowship left Rivendell dawned crisp and clear. The nine companions stood in a rough semi-circle at the gates of the Elvish city as Lord Elrond addressed them one last time. The elves were there too; nearly every one of Rivendell's inhabitants had gathered in the courtyard, or looked out of doorways and windows to see them off.

Among the throng of elves were two whose presence stood out: an elderly hobbit who sat on a stone bench, a warm shawl around his shoulders, and a human woman who stood beside him, her brown hair glinting with hints of red in the early morning sunlight. Isobel's eyes were fastened on Legolas as he attended to Elrond's words; her heart swelled with pride in the role he played at saving them all, and with melancholy at the knowledge that they were now parted.

Just once before the Fellowship departed, his head lifted a fraction, and his eyes unerringly found hers. His lips curved, and her eyes filled with tears she did not want to shed. Somehow, she found it within her to smile back, and with a small nod of his head, he was gone, through the gates of Rivendell and into the world. 

Isobel breathed deeply of the cold morning air, letting it clear her head and chase away her tears. She stood still, watching the procession as it wound its way into the distance, the forms dwindling until they were barely visible. After a few more minutes, Old Mr. Baggins patted her hand. "Well, that's that, then," he said, suddenly sounding very tired. Isobel helped him to his feet and he slowly walked back inside to his room.

But Isobel couldn't go inside. Not yet. She lifted her head again, her eyes barely able to see the dots on the horizon that were the nine.

***

At the crest of a hill, something made Legolas turn around one last time. It was foolishness in the extreme; they had already traveled some distance from Rivendell, she would no longer be able to see them. She will have already gone inside. Their lives were now on very different paths.

But still he turned around. And he was startled to see her. His keen elvish sight found her immediately: still standing in the courtyard, by the bench where they had spent so much time together. Where they had first met. Her arms were wrapped around herself, probably for warmth. A secret smile touched his lips; he allowed his heart to think on her for a few more moments before he turned once more, focusing himself to the quest at hand.

The next time they crested a hill, he looked again, but they were too far away to see Rivendell. He had already looked his last upon her. But she was staying in Rivendell; she would be safe.

***

Morning became afternoon. A man of Gondor, one of Boromir's lieutenants, touched her elbow. "My lady," he said softly. "We depart for Minas Tirith within the hour. Will you come?"

For a moment she was quiet, and finally she nodded. "Yes," she said. "I will come."

She had lost sight of Legolas long ago. But still she had stood, watching, keeping him within her heart. Now, with a deep breath, she turned to go inside. Her heart, she realized, was not heavy with the loss of a love. For time would pass, and they would be together once more. It might be a matter of some years; when Legolas held her in his arms again she might have a different face, a different name, and would have to fall in love with him all over again.

But he would find her. Of that she had no doubt. Her soul would find his, and they would be together once more.

The End.


	9. Epilogue

Authors' Note: We received several reviews that expressed confusion at the end of this story. Well, we wouldn't want it to be said that we cannot heed constructive criticism, so we wrote this. You might call it an epilogue...or maybe a prologue to what will come?

Isobel wriggled uneasily, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last. She was no horsewoman, but what could she do? This was bound to be a long, uncomfortable trip, she knew that much. The plan was to take the long way, approaching Minas Tirith from the west and south. This would add some weeks to the journey, but it was decided that this would be a safer road.  At times she almost wished she had stayed in Rivendell, and she thought back on the comfortable chairs and warm fires of Elrond's house with something very like regret, but that did not make the enduring of this journey any easier.  
  
Thinking about him made it easier, though, and she had much time for thinking. Sometimes the memory of a kiss or a caress felt so real that it made her skin tingle. At these times she indulged her fantasy, and let herself believe that he was thinking of her too. She would gaze vacantly at the horizon, seeing not the slowly changing landscape, but his face.  
  
And the truth was, she did not really regret leaving Rivendell, in spite of its comforts. The elves were gracious hosts, beautiful to look at and listen to, and very wise and superior. A little too superior, perhaps. For though they had lived long and seen much, she had also heard many of them talk of leaving. Now that things in this world were getting dark and dangerous, many of them were traveling west, to sail away. She knew enough elvish now to pick up this much, and a small, defiant voice inside her whispered, "cowards."  
  
Oh, she did not fool herself; if she had such an option open to her, she could not say that she would refuse to run far from impending war. But she wrapped herself in the self-righteousness of one who has no choice, and reflected on the actions of one who did have a choice.

  
For Legolas could have run as well, he could take the ship with others of his kind, and live in what was, apparently, a sort of paradise. But he did not. He did not flee the gathering darkness, but marched boldly into it, and her heart swelled with pride, and love.  
  
And despair.  
  
He had always sounded so supremely confident when he assured her they would not fail, so that she could not help but believe him, at least when he was by her side to reassure her. But he had always been so very, very careful to avoid saying what she most wanted to hear - that he would come back to her. If he thought he would come back, why would he not say so, with the same arrogant assurance that he said the quest would not fail? Because he did not expect to come back. He had never said so, but she had felt his tension whenever she tried to speak of the future, she had watched him look into the distance as if he saw his own doom. She had heard him whispering to her in the dead of night, when he thought she was asleep. He was telling her goodbye.

And truth be told, she had done much the same thing.  Not lied to him; she had never spoken a falsehood, but nor had she been entirely honest.  Just as he had never specifically said that he did not expect to return to her, she had never told him that she would stay in Rivendell.  She had simply told him that she would be safe; to tell him any more would simply add worry where there was worry enough.  Legolas had many more important matters to occupy his mind than where she spent her time.  And despite his assurances to the contrary, Isobel knew that she would be better off among her own people.  Among men.  But she felt her misdirection to be unimportant; she had kept her word, after all.  She would remain safe.

  
As safe as anyone could be these days. Isobel had no concept of massive battles and huge armies; all she knew of the darkness was what she herself had seen. Her entire household washed away in an unstoppable tide of hate and death. How could anyone withstand that? Elves spoke of battles of old when evil was defeated, of great alliances between the peoples. But the elves were leaving. There would be no more alliances.  
  
As the journey wore on, she grew used to the discomforts, and used to the despair. This was the right decision. She smiled, remembering what now seemed like naiveté in her voice as she teased him, saying she should come with him. It had not taken her long to decide that this was not such a joke after all. He believed that he was going to his own death. And when darkness covered the earth, she would know that he was dead, and that the quest had failed. Should she wait, in the deceptive security of Rivendell? No, it would simply delay the inevitable. Better to make a quick end, to be one of the first to fall, rather than linger, waiting, knowing.

And would her death be the end of the lingering?  Sometimes she awoke in the night with those thoughts, so choked with fear that she could not draw breath.  Would his death release her from her vow at last, or would her soul be reborn, again and again, searching fruitlessly for the one that would never come for her?  
  
But to think on these fears for too long was folly. And so she shifted uncomfortably on her horse, and tried to turn her mind away from the darkness, tried to concentrate on the memories. Of blue eyes glittering with amusement, of gentle smiles, and strong arms around her. She hugged the memories close, for that was all she had left.


End file.
