Voices In The Dark

Title: Voices In The Dark
A/N: By this point you should know the drill...
As always, reviews are greatly appreciated and coveted. Happiness is...!


A/N: Apologies for any confusion found in this chapter. It was intentional, I assure. (smile) I'm trying for the 'mass of chaotic voices' look. (grin)

Chapter Twelve: Arguments of Consciousness


Legolas walked swiftly to his rooms, seeking to retrieve a set of clean clothing before retreating to one of the private baths. His mind was only half aware of his path through the long halls to his rooms as an overwhelming sensation of being two places at once suffused his thoughts. It wasn't until he firmly closed his door behind him that the dam broke and all the voices cried out for attention.

Stumbling into an empty corner he sank down and began to curl up on himself, knees drawing up to his chest, head lowering to his knees. He felt exhausted, but it was more than just a bodily sensation. His mind was a chaotic mess, with a pressure headache pounding deep within its depths and the constant murmur of voices fighting to make themselves heard. They seemed both louder and more insistent than they had been in memory, with his own mind merely a shadow in the dark.

*What just happened out there?*

*He touched us! You know I do not like it when we are touched!*

*But you might have hurt him!*

The voices ran over each other, and he felt as if he was being sucked down into the swirling eddies of a great river. No matter how hard he fought, he couldn't quite reach the surface; only see glimpses of it through the shifting chaos.

*And what if he hurt us?* The voice sounded cold and uncaring, yet one could tell that perhaps he cared too much. *It is my duty to protect. Perhaps next time he'll stay away.*

*I do not like this.*

*Me either,* A small voice agreed. It was Elanor, one of the few he could put a name to, or ever really tried. Naming things made them more real, gave them a life of their own. In his denial of the spirits he refused to acknowledge their names but for Elanor, who had been named since his childhood. Yet he was coming to the realization that it was doing no good to deny them in such a way, for they existed whether he willed it or not.

*Did you see Him?* another cold voice sounded, this one with a slightly brusquer tone than the other.

*Who? Who did you see?*

*I saw Him.*

*I didn't.*

*He was walking down the path.*

*Why did you not you try to hurt Him?*

*Yes, attack Him, not Elrohir. I like Elrohir. And Glorfindel.*

*You like everyone,* was the disgusted reply, and obviously a source of much contention between the two.

*No I don't! I don't like Him very much.*

*Well, next time I shall kill Him. I won't be held back again.*

*Can you kill Him?*

*I'm scared! What if you fail? What if He hurts us again?*

*Who?*

*Him!*

*Well, of course He'll hurt us.* The words were spoken with a haughty arrogance. *It is only what we deserve.*


*Why?*

*Because we are evil. I have seen the scars. We are turning into an orc.*

*No! I don't understand! Go away, all of you! Please, just go away!*

*We cannot go away.*

*See? That just proves we are evil. We should not all be here.*

*Oh, do be quiet. We're not evil.*

*Yes we are.*

*Why?*

*Because He says so.*

*I don't like Him.*

*Perhaps I should just kill this body and be done with it.*

*No! You can't!*

*You cannot hurt us!*

*That's enough. NO MORE!*

Legolas struggled with the mass chaos, trying to pull his mind back from the mire and into reality. The arguing was driving him mad, as was the momentary loss of self that came with the barrage. It took time to pull himself out, and before it was over he felt more exhausted than he had before he stepped into his rooms, if such was possible. It seemed to him they were becoming stronger, the voices clearer, and their intentions more fully known. He had no doubts as the identity of the one they had referred to as merely 'Him', and dreaded the time when a full confrontation finally came.

Eventually the myriad of voices retreated into the back of his mind until he could once more effectively ignore them for the time being. He tentatively rose from his crouched position, unclenching fists which had left deep crescent-shaped furrows his palms, and walked to his wardrobe, stumbling only slightly along the way. He picked out another long sleeved shirt, dark grey tunic, and pale beige breeches, as well as a small vial he kept handy in one of the drawers. Then he took a deep settling breath, and when he felt he could finally emerge without raising suspicions, he left the room.

He made it into one of the bathhouses, carefully sliding the door shut behind him. His limbs kept trembling uncontrollably, a reflection of his still precarious state of mind. Once he set his fresh clothes on a waiting bench, he began removing the garments soiled by dust and sweat, a sign of his heavy exertions on the practice field, even if he could barely remember half of it. Occasionally flashes would come of him of sparing with the other fighters, but mostly it was seen as if through the eyes of another. Never before had he felt so out of control, and feared that as the other spirits gained strength, his own would diminish. The thought of fading in such a way was a terrifying one. He was frightened that he would cease to exist while his body carried on under the direction of the others, and none would know he had disappeared.

He pulled off his dark green tunic, followed by his long sleeved shirt. Next he loosened his long, golden tresses with nimble fingers, absently noting the unfamiliar and complex design of the plait with dwindling patience. Lastly he unwound the gauze covering his lower right arm, exposing the healing wounds so recently inflicted. At least those marks seemed to mend themselves fairly swiftly. All that remained was a long, thin, red line tracing down the smooth flesh of the underside of his arm. If he hadn't reopened it the other morning, there would probably be even less to see.

The occasional tremor still coursing though his body, he dropped the gauze on top of the rest of the soiled clothes and entered the heated waters of the waiting pool. Slowly he settled onto one of the submerged stone chairs carved into the sides of the steaming pool and began washing the dirt from his body using a piece of harsh herb-encrusted soap waiting beside the water. Even when all the visible dust and sweat was removed, he kept scrubbing, his mind still insisting there was more to be found. It wasn't until the healthy part of his skin turned bright pink from the harsh abuse that he felt secure enough to stop and rise from the still hot waters.

He grabbed a soft, white towel from a waiting wooden rack and began to carefully dry himself before settling on the bench next to his clean garments. From within the folded bundle he pulled out the small vial. It was filled with an herb infused oil, a mixture he had long since learned to make for himself least arouse suspicion from his father's healers. He opened the bottle, relaxing slightly as the spicy scent drifted to his sensitive nose.

With careful movements he poured a small amount onto his hands, and then, beginning with his right thigh, began kneading it into the scarred flesh.

When the scarring had first become apparent in the months after the fire he had felt the tough tissue tightening his limbs, making even simple movements difficult. The oil helped to keep the skin supple, making it possible for him to move effectively as if no disfigurement had occurred. Only a small area in the center of his back did the scar tissue remain tight due to the difficulty in his ability to effectively reach the spot. It was particularly noticeable when he used the bow; the drawing of the string stretching the muscles across his back and pulling the scar tissue forcefully. Yet he persevered. No one must know of his curse, or even suspect, or he feared they might do him harm.

As his hands worked their way up his leg, he recalled the healers words; how lucky he was to have been rescued, how lucky to only have one side of his body burned, how lucky to have healed so well.

*I should have died in there.*

*That was the point.*

So immersed was he in his work that he didn't noticed the figure that had entered the quiet room until it was too late.


Review Responses

Thalionwen: What a great review! Okay, I just spent the last week trying to figure out 'obvious'. Hmm...what would be obvious... ah well. My friends say I do ironic quite well. (grin)

MorierBlackleaf: Well, honestly, while I know how one is technically supposed to be treated for DID, I'm still uncertain how it's going to work in this case. I've never been very good at healing broken characters. I usually stop before I can get there. But don't worry, I'll put Legolas back together as good as new when I'm finished, one way or another! And any questions I'll be more than happy to answer. Or attempt to anyway.

Karen: Thank you! Closer and closer...(grin)

louise_oblique : Thank you for another lovely review!

Crookis: Horny?! Oh dear. Appreciative... interested... a touch prurient perhaps...but horny? Never! (smile)