In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past

In the Chains of Honor: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present

Tanesa Etaleshya

My Email: tanesa_etaleshya@hotmail.com
Rating: NC 17
Summary: They are on the very doorsteps of Imladris and a new life for Legolas, but will he find happiness in Rivendell? Or will the dense shadows of his past dim any hope he has for the future?

Author’s Notes: It looks like it will be some time between chapters, as I don’t have much time to write these days, but I will do my best, if anyone is still out there reading this dark drivel I have dreamt up in my twisted imagination. Sorry this has been so long in coming, but I had to pry it out of my brain and then I went on a much-needed vacation, and in the backwoods of Wyoming there is no internet connection, or power for that matter. Anyway, please enjoy, and, if you have the time or impetus, please review, I love to hear from readers like all writers do. I apologize if I sounded too harsh in my response to criticism last time as I had no intention of coming across as harsh at all. I have read many of the stories on this site and others and many of them differ much more from cannon than I have, so I was taken aback a little. uldnuldn’t resist having a Legolas much older than is commonly assumed and the temptation presented to me in the Fall ofdolidolin was too much for my addled brain to resist. Again, I apologize, and I hope I still have a few readers out there willing to put up with me and my toxic imagination.
By the way- Italics denotes thoughts, *~*~*~*~*~* denotes flashback and the return, and *~*~* represents a shorter time change.


*~*~*~*~Part 2~*~*~*~*

Part 2: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present
Chapter 6
Third Age 2163

*~*~*
The remainder of the journey to Imladris was uneventful and quick, albeit wet and bitterly cold. theitheir haste, they pressed on relentlessly through snow and rain, in order that the wounded elves may find respite and healing rest and so Legolas could also find some peace separated from the pain he had felt for so long.

It was with abashed awe that Legolas saw at last the hidden Vale containing the Elven realm of Imladris and its Last Homely House east of the sea off in the near distance before him. The Elven haven was nestled amongst the craggy, prestigious mountains, amidst the endless mists of crystalline waterfalls and shoulder to shoulder walked its inhabitants with both trees of great age and those shorter lived. It was a wonder to the Wood Elf, so accustomed to the darkened eaves of Mirkwood, where only dappled-dim sunlight ever penetrated the dense canopy and the strengthening shadows of Dol Guldur. Where even the eldest of the trees seemed young to some of those he saw here, for there were great trunks more than his arms’ width wide stood regally along the rocky outcroppings beside the Elven path.

Imladris itself, to the wood Elf, was enough to bring about a halt in thought as he gazed upon it from afar, where he sat astride Glorfindel’s grey horse, the Elda’s arm around his waist. It was enough to stifle the breath in his chest as he forgot to breathe; he even nearly forgot his pain and the cold sending wracking shivers down his stiff frame. He heard the song of the trees and the unending crescendo of falling water as if it was the song of Eru in the beginning of the world, all softened and muffled with the falling snow. He watched the few birds left in the vale flit from tree to tree, trilling and singing in greeting as the party passed down the pathway into the vale. Legolas gazed at the buildings, so artfully crafted asto ato appear as natural as the falls and the trees themselves; the curving lines and delicate designs appeared to have had their roots in nature itself, and formed but an extension of it in stone as old as the world itself. It was an atmosphere of comfortable warmth tempered by a sense of powerful reserve, filled with an echoing harmony of life and of nature in duet. It was, at once, a home andotenotent symbol of the enduring art of the Elves. He could not take in enough to satisfy the desire to see it all, to drink in the nectar of beauty around him.

It was with a chuckle that Glorfindel gently pulled the wead, cd, cold Sinda back against his chest, “You will have time to see it all, my Prince,” he fell quiet for some time as Legolas relaxed, breathing in deeply of the snow-scented air, then Glorfindel spoke again, “but I am glad you like it and I hope you spend your years here in joy no matter the cause that brings you.”

Legolas was speechless, and preferred to say nothing to what he considered the kindest words spoken to him in some time, and with a seemingly effortless, well-meaning intent. The aim of the words was made all the more compelling for the sense of warmth that permeated the protected vale, the embrace of the trees to his embattled consciousness, and the strong, warm arms about him. So potent, in fact, that the words sparked in Legolas the desire to let slip by the reverential term by which he had been addressed, no matter that it was inappropriate when said in reference to himself.

Still the archer shuddered in the cold once the fire of his amazement had faded, if only slightly, and the elixir of intense interest had waned; his clothes were frozen against his skin, his long braided hair frozen in place crackling with movement as he turned to look around him. He could feel Glorfindel’s stiffly frozen leggings against his own. He could hear the dry scraping of the Elven lord’s frozen cloak against their legs where the Elda had wrapped it as tightly as he could about the both of them. The sound of the horse’s huffing breath accompanied the steamy pulse of mist out into the chill air. Legolas watched as each Elf looked on intently into the vale that lay before them, a mixture of expressions upon the stoic faces that he could see, from masked longing to the cold reserve of Elvish demeanor. He could hear Glorfindel’s breath quicken as they neared, and the Golden Lord nudged his horse to speed up just enough to pacify his desire to be home and warm, or so Legolas imagined. He would not ever have thought that the increase in speed, no matter how slight, had been instigated for his, Legolas’ benefit, not that of the Elda’s desire to be home. Still, even with his misconstrued understanding, he paid attention to every detail around him, from the swish of a horse’s tail to the soft tintinnabulation of metal upon metal in tack and weaponry. He could hear the soft crunch of horse shoes in the snow and the frozen ground, the glassy crackle of broken ice, the occasional slump of snow from an overburdened branch, the huffing of the horses around him, yet no sound came from any of the Elves, for they were reverently silent, as if mimicking the world around them in wonder and thankfulness that winter had come and had not been over harsh during the journey.

The cold had been seeping ever further into Legolas over the last days, yet nothing could deter his fascination with the land about him. Beneath the placid silence, he, with his Elven hearing, could hear the rushing of water beneath the ice as a dull roar tempered by the sedate embrace of the low-hanging clouds which seemed to dampen all sound. Even Glorfindel’s voice had been hushed, as if he feared to make any more sound than was necessary, not wanting to disturb the peaceful tranquility of the place.

He felt again the aches in his body, the throbbing pain lessened with the cold, but still ever-present in his mind. He had tried not to move often or swiftly, but the continual movement of the horse had made those attempts almost worthless. He knew he could not stand; his leg had grown increasingly stiff and the infection had grown worse over that last few days, a sign that the blade had, indeed, been poisoned, yet had not been strong enough to bring him down. His thigh was swollen, pressing against his frozen leggings until the cloth had frozen to the bandages that had grown soaked with melting snow, and freezing rain, both of which had they traveled through. His shoulder ached, but it seemed almost tolerable compared to the stabbing pain racing through his side with every clodding step of the horse, however careful the horse had been. Each step brought him both further into Imladris, as well as a movement of muscle in his chest, and the pain that went with that movement. His breathing had become worse over the last day; his chest tighter. And now it had worsened until he was nearly panting. It was then that the horse slid on a patch of ice and Glorfindel had to hold him tight against his broad chest so that the Sinda would not fall. A gasp escaped his thin-pressed lips as the horse finally caught its balance, expertly aided by the Elf-lord who leaned with Legolas at the right moments. Yet the pain left Legolas reeling and barely able to retain his tenuous grip on consciousness. Swirling dimness pressed in upon his sight and his heart thudded in his chest, his stomach roiled with the fight, and he won, but only by a thin margin. He slumped back against Glorfindel’s chest more heavily, drained from the exertions, but found his fight was not over, as weakness took the place of pain.

Legolas fought to remain alert, forced the dark spots invading his vision to retreat by devoting all of his attention to his breathing, in, out, in and out, in and out. He pressed his left hand against his side as if to ward off the pain, but found it useless. His movement alerted Glorfindel to his discomfort, and the Elda spoke, his words soft and comforting, “It is not much longer, Legolas,” he pulled Legolas back against him again gently, his breath warm against the crown of the Sinda’s head, “You are having trouble breathing?”

“Yes,” Legolas almost wheezed, pushing back into the warmth of the Elda without thought as he fought to remain conscious.

Glorfindel took one more deep breath of the earthy scent of the Wood-Elf then turned to face Elrond riding just behind him, letting Legolas loose a little that he should cause him no additional discomfort as he twisted in the saddle, “Elrond, his breathing worsens.”

Elrond nodded, but nothing more could be done until they were actually in the house, since the trail along the ridge was far too narrow for two to ride abreast, and there was no room to stop. The land fell off sharply on the left, sweeping down steeply into the gorge beneath Imladris, the waters even in winter swift and sure, thundering over rocks and boulders encrusted within the frothy ice and water. He let his eyes drift over this land of which he was accounted lord, and again he was taken by its peaceful beauty and its stern violence, a duet played out in nature with every passing breath. He held himself higher as he espied Elves moving out into the courtyard just inside the stone-wrought gates to the city. He followed quietly behind the now-increased pace of the others, glad to be home and away from the darkness of Mirkwood and the frigid dangers of the Wildlands between the realms, and glhat hat the dishonored Sinda prince was now in their company, released for a time from the dreadful shadows in his life under the eaves of the former Greenwood of which the perceptive Noldo could surmise well.

Legolas, still forcing himself to hold exhaustion and weakness aside by concentrating his attentions outside of himself, looked down the steep slope studded with rocky outcroppings and copses of trees, mainly fir and spruce, trees not often found in Mirkwood away from the higher elevations of the Mountains of Mirkwood, now quickly being lost to menace. He traced with his eyes, which he fought to keep open under heavy lids, the tracks of deer and other animals down the hill taking short cuts from the Elvish path down to the waters below. His eyes caught movement and a red fox stood out against the thin layer of white snow. It had stopped to watch for but a moment before it darted away and out of sight. Legolas then let his eyes drift lower, to the chasm far below the path. The rivers were fed even in winter from springs high up in the mountains, providing the vale with a source of fresh water all year long, then, in spring, the rivers would surge and flow much higher with the torrent fueled by runoff of melting snow. He could see the high water level where the plants and shrubs dared not grow, staying several paces above the water’s present level.

Legolas shook himself to awareness upon the sound of voices around him, the step of feet and hooves crunching ice and snow against pavement stones and he realized he had slipped in his concentration to find himself passing through the sturdy gates. He looked around him at the graceful buildings amongst which they now rode, stone-made yet seeming to be as part of the mountain and the trees as the tellain of Mirkwood. Intricate designs graced each structure; the tender care of the Elves played out in stone. Truly a Noldorin place, he thought, to be so well crafted, and yet so lovely. It bore none of the ruggedness of the Woodland Palace, nor any of its bulk. Quite the opposite, light these buildings seemed, part of the world around them, unobtrusive and through them the Noldor, in their efforts, sought to add something to the world in which they lived.

He was shaken again from his musings when Glorfindel nudged his horse into a stop and handed the reigns to another. Legolas immediately dropped his eyes to the icy ground and its thin white covering, unable to look at those around him, unwanting was he of presuming any semblance of equality with them, even those who tended the horses, for he was a servant here, nothing more.

Even then, he soon found himself greeted by a few Elves, to whom Lord Glorfindel and Master Elrond introduced him, and suddenly the comfort of the place was swamped in the numbers of Elves around them, few though they may have seemed to others, around him they felt immense in number. For one who had found refuge and solace in lonely solitude the few who had come to greet the returned party was great indeed.

Welcoming for the most part they were, most drawn by curiosity to see the reclusive Sinda King’s son. Come to the courtyard they had when word had come from the spies set out on the paths and in the trees that they had with them an unfamiliar Elf of golden hair dressed in grim colors and unable to ride unaided.

Legolas felt keenly their eyes on him, heard their voices like a clamor in his head. Glorfindel had carefully handed him down to a waiting dark-haired Elf swathed in a burgundy cloak of fine make and cut. Even as Legolas noticed this, and the aquiline nose and jaw of the Elf, his stern yet soft brown eyes and his thin-pressed lips, he flinched at the hands of the Elf upon him. He was unaccustomed to being touched, but the Elf did not notice, or thought little of it as he placed Legolas on the ground, letting his feet lower slowly. Legolas sought to pull away, but the dark Elf held him gently, though unobtrusively so that it would at least appear that he was standing on his own.

The wounded archer felt another shiver ripple through his body, stiffening every joint and muscle and it hurt. He drew in his breath quickly, kept his eyes lowered to the ground as Elves pressed in about him. Legolas quailed from their presence, deprived as he was of Glorfindel’s steadying hands, so unacquainted was he to such numbers around him and the one holding him. His mouth had gone dry, parched a more apt description, and he could barely breathe. He felt as if they were hemming him in and pressing in upon him, their attention being focused so pointedly upon him. At best, in Mirkwood, he had been the focus of only a few, most not wanting to either draw attention to the archer or to themselves by acknowledging the fallen prince. So he had been treated with caution. He had been relegated to the far outskirts of Mirkwood society, most of his time spent defending their realm and not amongst the courtiers and Elves of the city of stone beneath the trees.

The archer had lived a mostly introverted life and the effects of it Glorfindel saw now in stark relief, laid bare by his apparent nervousness, his inability to speak even as he should have been able despite his pained breathing. The Wood-Elf, with his darting eyes seeking some safe place to reside and finding none besides his feet, was still was unwilling to show such fear and diminutivity before these Elves. So at a loss was the golden-haired archer that he could not respond even after he heard clearly a remark from one dark-haired Noldor in deep purple robes, his long bark-brown hair braided simply yet elegantly, his shirt finely cut, that the Sinda must have forgotten his tongue, or had lost it in the shadow of Mirkwood. He had almost reluctantly, Glorfindel observed, raised his eyes to look upon the Elf, and had promptly dropped his gaze again.

Legolas found he was not avoided here, but sought, and he felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest. The beauty of the secluded vale was lost to him with the faces around him, the searching eyes. The song of the trees, the call of the water lost to the sound of rustling cloth, hushed voices and the soft step of elves on the snow-covered flagstones of the courtyard. He could say nothing, but Glorfindel came to his aid as he appeared at the archer’s side, slipping an arm around the Sinda’s slim waist protectively, “Let him be, Erestor! He is unwell and tired from our long journey as are we all!” He said to the purple-robed Elf approaching rapidly to his left who had spoken with derisive mirth aboue Sie Sinda having lost his tongue, then he turned to Legolas, slid his arm upward to rest under Legolas’ arms so that he could take some of the weight off the Wood Elf’s wounded leg, “Pay no heed to Erestor; wise he is, and a master of lore, but he holds some grudge against the Sindar since his youth. He will come to like you as much as he has Lindir of the Green- elves, but it will take time. Come, let Elrond tend you then you may rest.”

Erestor quickly had had a room prepared for the fallen Prince of Mirkwood when the watchers had informed him of the prince’s arrival with Elrond. He chose a room befitting Legolas had he been a guest rather than in servitude to the Lord of Imladris, but the Golden Lord, having seen the Elves waiting in the shadows of the halls leading to the guest rooms, had put him in his own room, his desire to protect and care for the Sinda over-shadowing all other concerns. For he was puzzled with his own reactions, his own feelings; the feelings were new to him and unexpected, made all the more real to him then as he felt Legolas lean into him away from the other, almost clinging to him. He had realized then just how far he had come with the disgraced Elf of Mirkwood’s royal House in such little time, for Legolas trusted him. Still, he knew so little of this golden prince. However, the draw to the archer felt the same as it had since the day they had left the Woodland Realm, fir first day he had had the opportunity to be near the Elf. And so he justified his decision that while he needed constant tending Legolas would remain in his rooms, safe and under careful watch. .

Legolas, however, knew naught of it for many days as he lay in a healing rest that not even an earthquake could have broken. He had faded quickly once his feet had been set beneath him and he had had to fight to keep his leg from buckling, the stiffness in his body. The fight to breathe had nearly crippled him as well. In his weakness, he had lost the fight for consciousness at last and Glorfindel had gathered him up in his arms and had carried him in to rooms he found warmed by the fire in the hearth burning brightly. For once, he had been, albeit briefly, glad of it.

Legolas remained abed and at rest, fighting the injuries he had sustained both in Mirkwood and on the journey to Imladrislronlrond sat with him, as did Glorfindel, each taking turns at the watch, for he oft had dreams that plagued him with tremors, and struggles. It was odd for the two elder Elves to watch; Legolas’ blue-green eyes were open in Elven slumber, yet he appeared as inalert and oblivious as mortals when they sleep, for he heard nothing and sensed neither their presence nor their motions and the accompanying noises.
*~*~*

Elrohir and Elladan, having arrived the day after their father, were intrigued by this strange beauty their father had spoken so little of, and of whom Glorfindel was strangely attentive and tight-lipped as well. The twins, however, refused to be put off and remained nearby asking questions to which they received no answers. Frustrated, they gave up for now, preferring to hunt orc in the wild and in the snow than to remain in the Last Homely House in misery brought about by curiosity.

*~*~*

Legolas woke on his third day in Imladris, though this he could not have then known, and remained awake for longer than a few stolen minutes to be greeted by the sight of a room he could only have imagined being in. Frescoes adorned the ceiling as he stared up; vining carvings climbed the posts of the bed and the headboard towering above him. An intricately carved limin of vines and interlaced lines shadowed the entrance to a large balcony railed with the same pattern of interwoven lines. Fine silken coverings warmed him and clothed him from the moist cold in the air spawned by the many waterfalls surrounding the vale of Imladris. He could taste the sweet water in the air, the fresh scent of tree and wood and of rock. He stared out at the grandeur of Imladris from the bed for an hour before he forced himself first to sit, then to swing his legs out from under the coverings to place his feet on the cool stone flooring. He took several deep breaths of the clean, refreshing air before he pushed himself to his feet, pleasantly surprised at the fact that he managed somehow to remain standing despite the onrush of dizziness and lack of balance, the pain lancing through his thigh, his back, and his side. He felt the sharp stinging pain build in his leg as he put his weight down gradually, but managed to keep to his feet long enough to take three lurching steps toward that balcony, so drawn was he to see the mythic beauty of this land again, this time in the clarity of full light. For its beauty was second only supposedly to that of Lothlórien itself.

He made it to stand under the open archway, admiring the intricately carved design, before he could go no further for the lack of energy and depth of pain suddenly pulling him to the ground. He fought it. He fought to stand and not to fall to the floor in an undignified heap, his fingers clinging to the pattern carved into the wall, but, in the end, he failed in this as he had failed in so much more. He leaned against the woodwork and slid to the ground, drained of any energy he might have once had. He remained there, legs splayed awkwardly before him, reveling in the feel of this protected valley its sacred breath filling his lungs with a sense of serenity for which he now longed.

Glorfindel found him there not long after. He pked ked at first, seeing the Elf no longer in the bed, then was flooded with a sense of relief when he found him sleeping fitfully near the balcony. He carefully picked the archer up and returned him to the bed, trying not to disturb him to wakefulness.

Legolas, howeverd red recovered well enough and was too much of a warrior and patrolman not to wake at the motion or the noise of movement prior even to that. He stirred and found himself in the arms of the luminescent and ancient Elf- lord much to his ongoing dismay. He blushed, a deep warmth infusing his cool face, and cursed himself in the same breath.

The blond Elda had brought food and tea, which the Sinda ate and drank without words. He lay in the bed again where Glorfindel had placed him, his legs carefully placed once more upon cushions, his arms folded gently over the thin pillows separating his arms from his belly and broken ribs and his head propped up with pillows. And sleep came tly tly upon him, this time free of dreams, for he felt safe, in Imladris, away from his King, with the Lord of the Golden Flower, the last almost considered the greatest of all reasons.

*~*~*

He woke again after the sun had long since set. The moon’s incandescent light flowed into the open room as if borne upon the mist from the waterfalls, and the flickering of firelight dancing over the frescoes, the bedposts. He could feel the soft warmth from the fire in the air about him, but still he felt cold. He looked around him; found the small fire in an ornately decorated hearth, the patterns the same as in the rest of the room and its furniture. He saw then the blanket that was left over the arm of the chair to the left of the bed, crumpled and wrinkled, then the cup sitting on the bedside table with the still-slightly-steaming liquid within, and he knew that he had not been alone, but another had sat there to watch over him, and a comforting feeling tinged the edges of his awareness with that realization. He ped ted the thought away from his mind, wanting to believe that these Elves would care for him, but not able to allow himself that luxury. He settled his head back down into the soft pillow, trying to soak up the warmth of the cloth, to breathe in the scent of the air in this room. He knew it was familiar to ha maa masculine scent, and one that he could not seem to place, mingled as it had become with his own.

He instantly felt out of place, intruding, and guilty. He had seen the evidence of another, mementoes left up the lintel above the fire, small figurines and a delicately wrought golden flower. He had also not failed to notice the clothes in the wardrobe with its door slightly ajar, nor the cluttered desk to his left against the wall, parchments laid out as if left in the midst of a perusal. This was another’s room and he had occupied it for these days, how long have I been here? He sat up slowly, stiffly, biting on his lower lip as the dull pain in his chest intensified. Once upright, he centered himself, focused on his breathing as he shifted his resistant body, pushing back the sheets to look upon the damage and how he was healing. He remembered waking more than once before, and he remembered he had made it to the verandah once, but he did not remember such pain then. They must have given me something to dull the pain. He could only remember the pain as having been distant and mild at the time. He bit down and shifted his legs to the side of the bed in stages. An irrepressible shiver went through him as his bare feet settled down on the cool floor.

He studied his surroundings once more as he sat there waiting for the dizziness to subside and the strength of his discomfort diminish. He noted the simple furnishings, simple but rich, elegant in the simplicity of their design, yet still seeming ornate to the eyes of the wood Elf. Each piece carved from the same dark wood, heavy but far from what could be considered ornate. Even the cushions within the chairs were elegantly plain, of deep reds and greens embroidered simply with small golden-yellow flowers.

He took note of the weapons carefully arrayed on the far wall beside the doorway. A long bow of a dark, red wood inlaid painstakingly with runes and sparingly intricate designs hung on the wall beside a quiver similarly marked with gold beads on leather, a rayed sun with a ruby at its heart glinting with fiery refraction. He drew in his breath at the supreme beauty of the pair, then looked at the sword beside it, a sword that stole the very breath from his lungs as it gleamed in the mingling firelight and moonlight, seeming to draw the light to it as if nothing unnatural. A sword he had seen before, both in recent times and in the depths of his own past. Yet never had he seen them so close though he had yearned to be near enough to them and the one who bore them.

He pushed himself to his feet, however unsteadily. He forced the flashing pain from his mind as he limped awkwardly over to the weapons reverently hung on the wall, but still seeming as if constantly ready for use, within easy reach of the door and well-kept. He ran his fingers over the inscriptions on the blade, knowing the runes to be the language of old, words nearly lost to history, even with the long memories of the Elves. He stood there rooted to the spot, his eyes drawn to the name engraved on the ancient blade crafted with all the power and knowledge of the Elves so that no matter the age of the blade, unmarred it would remain. He ran his fingers over the hilt up to the pommel so graceful and without much adornment save the rayed sun whose core was another, larger, ruby gleaming brightly with the firelight it seemed both to consume and reflect. He dared not take the sword down in his intense reverence; ‘Glorfindel of Gondolin’ had been engraved in the sword. He turned to the bow, well used and well worn where fingers had held it over the years. He touched the wood and felt its memories, of the tree of which it had once been a part before it had given itself to the making of this weapon.

He shuddered at the implications of these weapons here. He was in the room of Glorfindel himself, the Balrog Slayer, the Elda he had saved that day outside the forest of Greenwood, the Elf he had seen long ago, but from whom he had carefully maintained a distance from which they did not interact. But they had interacted once long ago, and it had had dark consequences and had led to the grief of the loss of one much beloved in a time when grief itself was rampant. Legolas shuddered at the flood of memory that cascaded over him then, and he almost swooned with itsush,ush, the smell of burning wood and flesh, the screams of the dying and the tormented, the cries of the beasts of Melkor, the shouting of Elves, the clang of blade against blade, the soul-shattering cries of a grieving land. Stunned, he stood there, glimpses of the past as real to him now as they had been then.

It was some time before a shiver brought him back to the present, to Imladris. He stepped back at the sound of approaching footsteps, two pairs slowing as they neared this room. Unwilling to be seen touching the weapons of this ancient warrior of such renown, he stepped back again, hurriedly as they neared to the doorway, but found himself falling as his weakened leg gave out. He cried out in pain, unable to bite it back as he fell atop his wounded leg, twisting it, his weight falling upon it as he sought to catch himself with an arm racing with the screaming pain in his shoulder. He collapsed on his back, his eyes pushed shut as he fought to keep the rushing darkness at bay. He heard neither the approaching Elves slide to a stop at his sides, nor their voices as they spoke to him. He felt himself straightened gently, the motion elongated in order to minimize the pain.

It was several long moments before he had control again, a control forced by sheer will and practice. He breathed deeply for several more moments to stabilize his command over himself. Once confident he could manage, he opened his eyes to see the legendary Lord moving towards him, then sinking to sit on his heels gracefully. Legolas started to get up, began to push himself onto his less injured side, but a restraining hand found its way to his chest, with a soft force that would brook no dispute and the golden-haired Elda spoke with a slightly reproachful tone as one would speak to a child who had committed some minor for an amusing infraction, “Lie still, young one, you should not have risen, yet you persist to push yourself much too hard and much too fast for your own good.”

Acquiescent to the order in those words, Legolas lay back down on the floor; the azure-eyed Elda did not remove his hand immediately however. Legolas felt a tingle where the Elf’s hand’s warmth penetrated the thin cloth of theht sht shirt he had been dressed in. He sensed the concern of the Lord through that lingering touch, the unwillingness to break it off mingled with the knowledge that he should as the Elven Lord began to withdraw but decided against it. Legolas felt then a connection with the golden-haired Elf that he could not explain and he felt a welcome, a protectiveness about the Elf for which the archer was both stunned and tense. A rush of fear threaded itself through the exhilaration of the touch, that he would want the touch to continue and fear it at the same time. The archer concentrated on his breathing as he forced himself to break the eye contact he had had with the Elda, eyes that had emitted a deep sense of age, a playful smile, and… something else, something that caused the fear and exhilaration to renew their raging battle in his mind.

The roaring of his thoughts was interrupted when he looked to his right and found the Lord of Imladris settling down to his knees on the flagstones, “My Lord,” he stuttered, unbelievingly that the Elf would lower himself so for him, “please, do not mind me. I am well.” He waved the Lord to rise.

One sharply raised fine eyebrow and a wry, telling smile stopped any further protestations, “No, Legolas. You are not well, and you will not be well if you do not stop pushing yourself as you do. You must remain abed until I give you leave to rise, and thereafter you must follow my instructions, do you understand?” He sounded remarkably displeased as Legolas hurriedly nodded and voiced a hasty ‘yes my Lord.’ “You have reopened the wound on your thigh, and of your shoulder I know not yet. Please, lie still.”

The Sinda closed his eyes as Elrond worked on his thigh. The Wood-Elf forced the pain into a void he had developed through careful and frequent practice. He slid himself into the void of feeling in which he could see, hear and remain aware, but was unable to feel his body. Once inside, he opened his eyes as the blonde Elda on his left assisted his friend, both concentrating on their endeavor.

He protested when they lifted him back into the bed, “Please, my Lord, let me not remain here, forcing you out of your own room. Give me leave to stay in a store room if there be no spare rooms.”

“Think naught of it, Legolas. Here you will remain, near to hand that we may both keep our eyes on you,” Glorfindel spoke almost tenderly, settling into the comfortable chair near the verandah, a thick book in hand as the Elven Lord of Imladris helped Legolas hold his head high enough to drink the warm, bitter tea Legolas remembered from before.

To Elrond, Glorfindel then spoke, “I will stay here to see that the little leaf does not try to fly in the wind once more.” He smiled warmly, his eyes dancing, but warily observing the reaction of the Wood-Elf, and when he saw the apprehension in those green-flecked eyes, he added hastily, but softly, “I meant no disrespect, Legolas, only to lighten your spirit.”

*~*~*

It was bright daylight when next he woke to the pain in his thigh as the dark-haired Elf Lord cleaned and rebandaged the wound. His hands were gentle, as were his eyes when he met Legolas’ gaze. To his amazement, the Elven master of this realm remained seated on the side of the bed, intently looking at him, motioning to his ancient friend, sitting once again, or still as thse mse may be, in the cushioned chair near the verandah, to join him. The fair-haired elf stood and joined the Master of Imladris, sitting opposite him, both facing the younger elf.

It was Elrond who spoke first, drawing the Wood-Elf’s gaze from the general direction of his own feet to dark, stormy grey eyes, piercing in their regard of him, but somehow softened with an evident degree of concern. Legolas took this opportunity to study him momentarily. His long, raven-dark hair was braided in a fashion Legolas had not seen before, two long locks knotted rather than braided hung to the sides of his regal face, while the top of his hair was drawn back in an intricate braid not even slightly reminiscent of the braids marking an Elven warrior in Mirkwood, such as those worn by the Elf-lord on his right. “You heal slowly, Legolas, as do all elves so mired in grief that their eternal light fades.”

His bluntness struck the archer with enough force for him to meet the grey eyes of the elder Elf once again. Legolas stopped breathing for but a moment as he kept his features carefully neutral to hide any emotion. He could not disguise the momentarily uncontrollable surprise evident in his eyes, however. He shrugged and shifted his eyes back to the general direction of his feet as if Master Elrond had said nothing of import.

“Does your life mean that little to you?” The eyebrow was steadily rising again.

“My life is of no consequence, my Lord,” he whispered, straining the desperation from his voice.

The words hung in the air, heavy. The two elder Elves sat in silence, their eyes meeting over the still figure between them, silent words darting between them by mere facial expressions and shifts in their eyes. So long they had been friends and advisors that there need not be words between them.

The raven-haired lord could see the streak of pain run through his friend’s bright blue eyes, darkening their light for a moment before it was gone again. Glorfindel held his eyes for another long moment before he turned his attention to the younger elf, “Why say this, young one?”

Legolas shrugged again, remained in quiet contemplation of the sheets thinking of the affective title granted him, then uncomfortably shifted his vision to the side, past the Elf-lord to the bright sunlight and trees outside.

“Why do you grieve, tell us so that we may help you?” Glorfindel let down his careful control on his voice to show an intense concern, even as he slipped his hand atop that of the young elf, although the sheets separated their skin. Even with so limited a contact, he could feel the effects of the contact as the warmth of the young Elf’s heart and the coldness of his soul invaded Glorfindel’s very flesh with a tingled rush up his arm and into his chest. He could not stifle the sharp intake of breath at the contact and realization; his reaction and that of Legolas simultaneous as the archer withdrew his hand. This Elf is the future to me. He is the one for whom I have so long searched, the one for whom part of my second life will be lived. I can feel him! I can feel both his pain, that which he will show me, and his love for life. I can feel his soul as I have felt no other. He stared hard at his long-time friend as the dark-haired Elf realized what was going on; saw the startled affirmation in his eyes at what he had foreseen. “Please trust us, Legolas, tell us what causes your grief.”

Legolas visibly cringed, and was unable to hide it from the astute lords watching him intently. He shrank back into the bed, shifting the thin sheets over him in an effort to occupy his mind, the disgrace of admission when he had a chance to start anew with these elves. They need not know if they but leave me be. It took some time for Legolas to formulate a suitable reply through the haze and tumult of his thoughts but his voice was soft but strong when at last he was able to speak, “I am sorry to cause you worry, my Lords, and I thank you for your concern. There was no untruth to my words apart from their tense; I will be well,” he spoke brusquely, shifting uncomfortably under the twin stern gazes, then looked up defiantly, his eyes clouded and hidden at great cost, “I have need of nothing. I have been fading for some time, my Lords.”

“Legolas?” Elrond’s voice rose slightly, Glorfindel could hear the miniscule strains of worry and annoyance intermingled, “I want to know more than this, little one. Perhaps I may be able to help you.”

“I have been fading since my brother died nearly eleven hundred years ago, but I can fade no further than I have this day,” Legolas remained staring blankly out at the beauty of Imladris, unwilling to continue for the choking agony rising in his throat.

They waited for him to continue, unable to find anything to say to break the long silence hanging over the room darkly, but he spoke no more and when he closed his eyes resolutely and turned his head away further from the two waiting Elves, it appeared very clear he had no intention of explaining his cryptic answer.

Elrond, tired of waiting for the Elf to respond, realized that they had pushed the fallen Sinda too far. For the golden Elf did not know them well enough to either trust or confide in them and, he realized, Legolas maver ver allow himself the leeway to foster said trust. They had not the right to pry for details. Also, this was not something easily brought to the forefront of an Elf’s mind, as grief was strong enough to drive an Elf to forsake their life. He turned to his golden friend as Legolas turned his mind inward, seeking the release that sleep often did not bring if Elrond could presume from the cries, the tortured dreams plaguing the Sinda’s healing rest, and he motioned for the blonde Elda to halt pursuit of the answers they wanted.

The pair sat down in the nearby balcony, immune to the chill winter’s air, watching the still-exhausted Wood-Elf. It was with heavy hearts that the two elder Elves kept watch over him, as if to guard his sleep. They had not missed the carving into his hip when they had tended him before, and had pondered over the cruelty of it, to be so marked.

“Why does he not fade?” Glorfindel asked in a hushed voice, confused by the listlessness of the archer and his slow healing in contradistinction to the strength of will he had seen glowing in the green-flecked blue oceans he could not seem to drive from his mind.

His comrade looked up at the face of his friend and ally and replied, “I have no answers for you. There is some strength in him, but he is like tempered clay, very breakable, yet possessing some inner strength we have yet to understand.”

Legolas slowly drifted off into sleep as the two Elves continued to discuss something he could not quite understand and did not want to; the heavy pull of the herbs he had drunk pulled him into the oblivion of a healing sleep. The last conscious thought he had had was that he had raised the ire of the Lord of Imladris already. But that too fell away into the semi-comfort of repose.

*~*~*
To be continued…