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: All I can say is a very loud, very repeated ‘I’m sorry!’ then get down on my knees and beg. I realized the other day that it had been over two months since my last update. Please don’t kill me and don’t stop reading, I enjoy it, but have not had much time for it as I have been working desperately to get a publishable paper finished, polished and ready, and the fire of my inspiration for said paper had diminished greatly, so it was a good deal harder to force my brain to churn it out. In addition, I tend to be fairly obsessive. I cannot do anything for fun when I feel like I should be doing work; someone out there must know how I feel? Pleading for forgiveness, I gift you with a new, industrial length chapter whilst I pray that the muses again visit me and do so more regularly. I hope it is worth your continued attention. I am so glad to hear from reviewers- I would love to continue hearing from you as your input is much appreciated!

By the way- Italics denotes thoughts, *~*~*~*~*~* denotes flashback and the return, and *~*~* represents a shorter time change.

Part 2: Shades of the Past and Promise of the Present
Chapter 8
Third Age 2163

Legolas was given chores in the hidden gardens, clearing snow from paths and overburdened shrubs, then working beside Erestor in the library, and any job that needed to be done around the hidden vale, no matter how menial or despised the work should prove to be. No task brought a word of complaint or disdain from the Sinda, especially not the tasks allotted to him come spring, clearing land in patches amongst the trees and valleys in the area, sowing seeds and nurturing them, tending- all work Legolas did not mind overmuch, seeing as he could speak with, commune with the life he tended and the great trees around him.

Through this connection, this communion the sadness of dispossession and the sorrow of his separation from his beloved wood was mollified in his heart. He would go about his duties with alacrity and with vigor born of his innate sense of honor and with joy in his heart for this opportunity to be outside among the trees, new-growing plants, the birds twittering in the trees and swooping through the air around him. It was through this charge that he discovered the glade to which he grew most closely associated, the glade to which he turned for comfort and aid. Surrounded by both the long-lived and sturdy grandfather evergreens and the more vibrant, fiery oak and maple, linden and willow, and a few of his mother’s favorites, the paper white birch standing elegantly over a small brook tumbling down a rocky hill with a burbling voice. The tall pines and fir swayed in the breezes, their refreshing scent filling the air while the tiny brook filled it with moisture and the happy sound of water spilling over long-aged rounded stones stained with patchy green tufts of moss swaying as the water flowed through them. The trees were grand and open hearted to the displaced Sinda and sought to comfort him. Their sweet soft-whispered songs drifted into his dreams as he lay in repose when release from his tasks, a quiet calm flowing through him, pulsating with the life all around him. Oft he sat thus in the evening, or even the early morn, singing softly to himself and to the trees, to the creatures great and small scattered about him and he felt his place in the world keenly. He felt as one part of a whole, and he felt some sense of contentment here, long from his homeland and far from the duty that would ever call him back.

*~*~*

It had begun almost the very day after Legolas was once again on his feet. It had been slow enough in progressing, at first it was simply Glorfindel often going out of his way to speak to Legolas, other times it had just been his presence beside the fallen Elf in the Hall after dinner when Legolas was implored by Master Elrond to join them in song. At those times, when Legolas needed silence, the Elda seemed willing enough to simply sit in peace at his side, oft diverting the attentions of others from the taciturn Sinda whose mind was clearly elsewhere though his body was there in the Hall of Fire, his senses listening to the swell of conversation around him, yet unmindful of its content but for the few snippets that caught his interest. For this guarded companionship Legolas was intensely grateful; the pressure of conversation lifted from his shoulders was a great relief to him, especially since Glorfindel at those times guarded his reticence with a peaceful, calm demeanor, distracting those others, including Elrond, from engaging Legolas, or trying to, who were under the impression that he, being a guest or, at the least, a recent arrival in Imladris, should be ‘entertained’ or engaged in order to insure his sense of welcome. Elrond and Glorfindel knew differently; they did not believe there could be much done to bring a sense of welcome or contentment to the introverted Sinda; they knew quite the opposite- he could only bring it himself and that the fallen Elf usually demonstrated it as he did his other emotions- in silence.

It had fallen to Erestor to give the Sinda his tasks, and he had been hard put to think of them at all, now that winter had fallen, the valley was shrouded in icy quietude and most outdoor activities had been suspended for the solemn months, and these duties were perhaps more to the fallen archer’s liking, for it would be a fool indeed that did not see the Sinda spend every free moment outside, in the snow and ice, or in the rain even, his face upturned and his hair wet, a slightly more joyous fire glinting in his eye when he was found thus. And oft it was Lady Celebrían herself who chanced upon him most often the long nights of that first winter the Sinda spent in the protected vale. She, too, enjoyed the night, the quiet peaceful solitude to be found with the moon and stars hanging overhead and the song of the heavens swelling in her heart. It was at times such as these in the early night that she felt most at home here, when she felt a connection with the world around her and when she missed Lórien less, for she knew many voices would be upraised in song upon sight of the same moon, the same stars. It was for this reason that Legolas, she supposed, found such solace in the nights as well, and many nights they sat together in mostly silent reverence, their minds turned outwards, their senses filled with life, the sounds of the world around them, and other times they sang together, her sweet voice to his slightly lower, each echoing the words of the eternal song in careful consideration and feeling its meaning deep within their breasts as they sat. Sometimes they spoke, and it was these times that Elrond turned back to their rooms and left his wife with the Sinda, for he knew she would be much better at bringing comfort and ease than would he, and so he, once hearing their voices, forsook his nightly walks with his lady wife and waited for her to return to him, patient and understanding to know that Legolas needed her words far more than he.

As for the Sinda in relation to his ‘servitude’, more than one long, and heated discussion had passed between Erestor and the fallen archer, the former as he found various tasks to keep the fallen prince occupied, but rapidly grew tired of the continualness of telling the Sindar what to do when the elf finished everything he had been told to do. And the latter elf wasted no time and kept an economy in his actions that brooked no wasted effort or time. Graceful he was in every movement, so much so that it was not only he that took note, but as he watched the fallen elf, he saw others’ gazes lingering overlong upon him. Legolas was to wash horsed, dishes and clothes as well as scrub floors, clean rooms, and all manner of chores once Elrond and Erestor both grew tiredly exasperated at the persistence of the younger elf, at his willingness to do anything asked of him, and until late in the day, often finishing his tasks late at night, long after the rest of the household had retired. When Elrond or Erestor confronted him and asked him to rest, he either nodded his assent and said ‘yes, my lord’ or he would evade the confrontation and nod, ‘as soon as I am finished here, my Lord.’ And with his tone and his fierce determination, and some meager knowledge of his personality, they knew it was worthless to protest further, only let the fallen elf do as he would, to shrug off how the elf pushed himself. Elrond once jokingly told Legolas “You will put all these others out of their duties if you continue on as you are, with such speed and diligence as to shame the bee for its industriousness. You are a wonder, Legolas. You learn quickly and you do not allow mistakes to flaw your work no matter how lowly it is. I praise you for this- but please, slow down before you wear yourself back into ill health, and do not seek so ardently to replace all the fine elves who make this household possible, for how will it function when you are no longer here?” He tried to put a smile alongside the gentle criticism, and pushed forward in placing a fatherly hand upon his shoulder, but when he felt the archer cringe at the touch, he removed it after squeezing it lightly.

Legolas bowed his head respectfully and accepted his lord’s soft admonishment.

The next morning he reported to the seneschal after finishing his tasks of the morning in tending to Elrond’s needs alone. It is then that his services are passed around- laundry, dishes, cleaning and sharpening weapons, arrow-making as Mirkwood is well-known for this and he is able to make a few acquaintances here when they ask him politely and nervously to teach them how it is done in his home. It lightened Celebrían’s and Elrond’s hearts to see Legolas sitting in the square on some days, a group of Elven warriors gathered around him as they watched him deftly craft arrows, set fletchings and attach the heads, nock-points and at last, stain the wood and add his name just under the fletchings. Time and time again they watched, asking questions and learning from him how to make bow arrow and bow eventually. Legolas was ever patient, a thoughtful and well-versed teacher, and one who earned the respect of no few of the warriors of Imladris through these demonstrations. Soon, there were many who would gather once or twice a month in the square to get instruction as they made their own, setting carving knife to pieces of wood, and Legolas would move amongst them, and often Celebrían could see the golden Elda standing nearby, watching with reserved pride as the archer saw Legolas received well enough at least.

There had been some, like Erestor, who found it difficult to accept the Sinda, fallen prince though he was, into Imladris. Some dared accuse him of spying, and others of his disloyalty and dishonor. Legolas bore it all with sturdy self-restraint, and maintained that in relations with all bar one, and one he could not avoid. Mostly the days passed by uneventfully, Legolas bore the insults and snide remarks with seeming ease, apparently quite accustomed to such treatment even in his home forests, but there were several who defended him when he would not, and they were influential, the Lords Elrond and Glorfindel, Celebrian, Lindir, and a few others whom he had impressed.

One day, towards the final last icy breaths of the third winter to sweep down through the valley with relentless cold days since Legolas arrived in the hallowed vale, Erestor set things off on the wrong foot once again by giving voice to his all-too-obvious feelings about Legolas’ father without enough due thought, automatically believing the faults of the father and grandfather must lay on the son and grandson. Already angry was he at something else, his normally placid, evenly fair face beset by some ignominious thought, as tidings had come that were not for good, but for ill. So affected was he, that even he, who thought so bitterly and lowly of the Sindarin King, did not believe the wrongs that had been borne by Legolas.

It had taken intervention on Elrond’s part to instill in his dark-maned advisor the need to tread carefully around the golden Sinda. The first day Legolas had been able to begin his duties, Elrond had told Erestor to watch his words, but the stubbornly resentful and oft- fiery-tempered Elf had berated the Sindar for some minor thing and had then followed those harsh words with comments on the ‘disloyalty’ he believed Oropher had shown Gil-galad in the battle on the Dagorlad when Sauron was defeated at such great cost. The sable-haired Noldo had in no uncertain words intimated that the characteristic in question was undoubtedly a characteristic exhibited in the nature of the Sindar themselves. Legolas’ indubitable and heated ire had been raised at this, and contrary to his usually restrained manner, he had been deeply angered by the slanderous words and had erupted, his face livid, fists clenched, shoulders high and straight as he stood tall, his eyes cold and flickering with a dark, dangerous fire as he stood his ground before the sable-haired counselor, “We are not disloyal! We followed our Lord and King, and his will.”

“And look where it got your people! What did it get us?” Erestor bit back, leaning casually back in his chair, his eyes triumphant for having broken Legolas’ reserved decorum, his fingernails clicking on the shiny polished surface of the table, his legs crossed and his arm outstretched along the back of the couch.

“That was not the issue, my Lord, our disloyalty was,” Legolas brooked no deviation from the topic at hand, his voice cold, his lips drawn tight to white lines as he continued, “We were loyal to our King.”

“But not to the High King!” Erestor snapped.

“What would you have us do? Forsake our Lord for the Noldor King who with his kin came to these shores in disgrace and bearing into exile a curse laid upon them by the Valar themselves? Would you have us forsake our lands to bow before a foreign King in lieu of our own whose age was greater than those who sought to lead him? Oropher- and Thranduil- Kings were walking these lands long before your kin came, and Elu Thingol and his kin before them, yet the Noldor sought lordship over us when the need came? We were loyal to our King, our lands, our homes and our friends and kin. How could you name us traitors to your King when we followed our own?” Legolas finished, his shoulders as rigid as they had been through each carefully spoken word, his voice even if not overly loud compared to his customary composure as one of forthright determination, utter confidence and an irate sense of belittlement. His hands were behind his back, his fingers as rigid as his shoulders as he stood at attention. His gaze was fierce, fiery even as the silver-blue glittered darkly, the green flecks glinting with almost a menacing light.

At the shouting emanating from the normally placid library, Elrond and Glorfindel among others had come with the fleetness of Elves and had pulled the recently risen Erestor back before he could respond with more than the “Impudent Sinda!” that he spat at Legolas while he thought for the words to counter those of the fallen prince.

“Erestor!” Elrond shouted, “Calm yourself! Enough of this!” Elrond fumed, slamming the thick tome he had been bringing back to the library down on the table, pacing back and forth slowly as he fought for words, “What has come over you two?” he flicked his eyes to the rigid golden Sinda, “Neither have you have let a single opportunity pass without sparring! I had thought you,” looking at Legolas, “could pass the winter by working with Erestor, but I see I was mistaken. And you, Erestor, there is no excuse for this behavior! It is you who choose to start these arguments.” The Peredhel lord stopped, leaned on his hands on the smooth, dark wooded table, then waited for some time before speaking again, but Legolas interrupted before he could.

The Sinda stepped forward, knelt before Elrond gracefully, his hand over his heart, “Forgive me, my Lord.” He waited for Elrond to turn before saying more, the swish of his robes brushing against the hanging tips of his hair shining in the sun streaming through open doorway, the breeze stirring his hair, “I had no right to speak against Lord Erestor; I should have held my peace. What may I do to ease your anger, my Lord?”

Elrond stepped back, knelt down and touched the Sinda’s shoulder, “Raise, Legolas,” he intoned. “Not your fault alone is it, and I ask naught of you but that you stop this bickering.”

“It will be so, my Lord,” Legolas promised solemnly, rising and backing away, coming to rest upon his knees before Erestor, his heart thudding angrily in his chest with anger still simmering, but he swallowed it down, very much aware of the heavy gaze of not only Master Elrond, but also the golden Elda and the lovely Lady of Imladris. And so it was that he made a gracious apology to the raven-haired Noldor advisor, and swiftly done it was before he turned to face Elrond again, and upon seeing the Peredhel’s slight nod, he bowed lightly and left to the silence of the room.

Once he was gone, Glorfindel stepped forward, his face hard and set, “Elrond! It was not his fault and you know it!”

“Was it not his fault as well as that of Erestor?” Elrond answered, his brow rising in question.

“You heard not what was said, Elrond,” Glorfindel hissed.

Elrond turned on Erestor, who was remarkably silent and appeared almost as if he gracefully and reservedly sought to escape, “Then, pray, tell us what you said, Erestor.”

The counselor had no choice but to comply with his Lord, and once the short explanation was done, Glorfindel was even angrier that Legolas had had to apologize and Erestor had not had the decency to do the same, “How dare you!” he hissed again, this time at his friend, “You insulted everything he holds dear!”

“Dear? He would hold his father so dear especially with what you say that Elf did to him?” Erestor stood up to face the Elda, “He would think so dearly of those who cast him away as if chaff, who ground him down and made him see no worth in himself but to die in place of another? Little hope is there in those Elves, or in him that I see if he believes this… these lies.”

Glorfindel did not try to stop his own tongue, “He does not believe in lies, Erestor- he believes in hope!” He stood toe to toe with the advisor, Elrond keeping his silence, Lady Celebrían at his side then, both watching with concealed smiles at the defensiveness of the Elda. “Did you try to prove yourself to your father, Erestor? I did, as long ago as that has been, but I still remember his words of praise, his smiles when I made him proud, he and my mother. Legolas has never had that, yet he wants it more than anything, as would you, as did you I am sure.” Glorfindel backed away, breathing hard when he saw the color fade in Erestor’s wise face as some realization hit him. When he had cooled off, Glorfindel continued, “How would you have expected him to react, Erestor? You knew you would anger him, that your words were meant to insult and demean him, his race, and his line. Would you truly have expected him to roll over as a well-trained animal to say that you were right, that his people should have bowed down to Gil-galad, a foreign king instead of their own? A king who had led them for many long years, and one older perhaps than Gil-galad himself? Would you have him or his people turned against their king in dark times when they needed him most? Would you have bowed to Oropher if the roles had been reversed?” With those last, softly spoken words, Glorfindel had finished, his anger spent as he saw his point had come across as the guilt and thoughtfulness was now reflected in the advisor’s stone-grey and solemn eyes as he sank back onto the couch, his own righteous anger fully deflated.

Glorfindel walked past Elrond and Celebrían slowly, then slipped between those others who had gathered at the raised voices between the Sinda and the Noldo, as well as those between Glorfindel and Erestor. Elrond followed him with his eyes as the Elda followed in the direction Legolas had gone, his pace stiff and determined. The Peredhel stood, absently fingering the tome he had dropped angrily whilst his lady-wife slid over to the couch and sat beside the advisor, her touch soft and comforting, her voice soothing and gentle, “No love do you bear his Sindarin kin, but you must remember they feel little love for him. I have spoken to him sometimes when I find him in the gardens seeking the soft comfort of the moon. His heart is heavy with grief, Erestor; it weighs upon his very soul as one of Glorfindel’s age. He has… lost his home more than once over, in losing his family, in the darkening of Greenwood and in his exile here. He… he has little pride in himself, only honor and duty. Please, say no more to him as you did this day, he has very little and I would that you not take what he does have from him. Would you have followed a king who had bowed to another when his homeland is faltering and falling, would you have wished a king who had been cowed to lead his people through trying times as now they face in his homeland? Some things happen thought we will they not, and yet there is some hidden purpose we may not see at first. Many died that day for his grandsire’s folly, but it made their people stronger, more resilient to have its heroes, its king strong and hale and independent. If their way has crafted others such as Legolas, with hearts as golden and warm, and minds as strong and brave, then Mirkwood is indeed blessed, as long as they are not as beset as he.”

Erestor sighed as he leaned forward, his hands cradling his face, “Aiya, what Glorfindel must think of me!”

She chuckled then, as did Elrond, who spoke, “He will forgive, Erestor, just as he had forgiven you the many times the two of you have fought long ere this day and as he will all the many days hereafter as you have forgiven him.” Elrond sat slowly, handing his advisor a glass of crisp, blush-red wine, one already given to his Lady. “Your friendship is long and sure, where that between us and Legolas is new and fresh, untested and unsure. He seeks more than any of us to craft that trust between them.” He said absently as his eyes again lingered upon the doorway both had disappeared before.

“There is more to it than that, my Lord,” Celebrían whispered playfully, “and I think you know it well enough.”

He shrugged, sipping at the wine, “what it may come to, I know not. I sense many things from the Sinda archer, wayward glimpses of future and of past, a jumble of images I cannot yet place. We will see, I suppose, but for now, I would that Legolas find some joy whilst he is with us, for I do sense there has been little in the way of joy in his life in Mirkwood.”

“I will trouble him no longer,” Erestor pledged softly, then continued on a second thought, “He gave me an apology I did not deserve; he had honor enough to be the one to give it. He shall have his as well.” Erestor paused then, a thought occurring to him, “Why did he apologize to me? Why when he knew it to be my fault?”

“It is the truth of his situation, old friend.” Elrond spoke sadly, “He is no more than a cur to his father, and to many of the others in Mirkwood. It is why he refuses to meet our eyes, refuses to address us by name and refuses any longer to sit at table with us. He has long been taught certain rules of respect, and to these he holds with rigid honor. In his eyes, he had no right to speak against you.”

“Woe on Thranduil that he could do this to his son! And you expect me to accept Thranduil?” Erestor questioned bitterly.

“I ask no such thing, only that you respect Legolas as he respects you. Say nothing to disparage his heritage, his sire or his people. There are some Glorfindel tells me that still hold him dear, one was among the party that saw us to the river, Silinde was his name, I believe. It is odd…” Elrond trailed off, his brows furrowed in concentration, “but I feel something about him I cannot place, a connection, a tie between him and…something I cannot place. I only want him to find happiness here, Erestor, not more strife. I would perhaps wish it that he not return to Mirkwood, but remain with us, if for no better reason than to protect him, though…”

She finished before he could, “You do not believe his honor and his sense of duty will allow him to remain. And…” she added thoughtfully, twirling the slightly red liquid left in her glass, “I do not believe he will remain here; his home calls him back, and he is too honorable to turn his back to his faltering wood, the besieged Elves within.” She turned her bright eyes to her mate first then Erestor, “But I also feel that he will find an answer to some of his sorrows here, in the form of a blonde, blue-eyed Elf whose own sorrows weigh him down so often. They have much in common, and each can understand the other perhaps more clearly than any other can. Glorfindel knows what he is about, and Legolas often speaks of him, watches him when he believes he is not seen.” She smiled then, warmly, almost wickedly on so pure a face, sipping the last of the wine, setting the glass down with a flourish, “And I am not above playing matchmaker if the time is right and they do nothing.”

*~*~*
Elrond had wisely taken a path of slow caution in his dealings with the inscrutable Sindarin archer, and for many months he had not spoken to the archer in naught but banal and insipid conversation, prying never deep into the shadows of the past lingering at the edges of the Wood Elf’s encompassing blue eyes. But, when the third winter of his residence seemed nigh on over, Elrond’s long- patient curiosity could be held in abeyance no longer and he had asked the archer to sit with him one night in his study once the archer had finished with the small tasks the Elven Lord had asked of him, “Sit with me, Legolas, if you would?” He gestured to the wrought-iron benches set out on the open balcony, cleared of the light covering of heavy, wet snow. The air was crisp and cold, though it was easily perceptible that the grasp of winter was failing. Still, their breath steamed in the stirring dusk, the sun painting the peaks and the vale itself in a myriad of warm hues as if taunting winter with its promises of the coming warmth.
They sat for a time, riveted to the sun’s setting below the distant horizon, even through the intervening lands it was. Still, Elrond nearly forgot what his purpose had been in his sudden longing for the West, his thoughts turned to those shores with a dim pull, a sense of time hung about his shoulders. He shrugged physically, throwing off the sensations, the thoughts as if shrugging the thick snow from his shoulders, and drawing the cautious gaze of the fallen Sinda, “My Lord?” he asked, “Does something trouble you?”

Elrond shook his head grimly, his brows knit as he looked briefly into those blue-green depths so familiar and yet always so new, “Nothing,” he whispered noncommittally.

“I feel it, my Lord,” the Sinda’s voice was calm, assured, “I feel the weight settling upon the land, on Middle-earth itself, just as I see the weight settle upon your shoulders.” Legolas sat unmoving, as if waiting to see how his words would be accepted, his fingers tracing the scrolled and looped designs of the bench.

“It does,” Elrond looked at him sharply, deeply, as if trying to penetrate the archer’s very skin in search of the truth of the archer always seeming to dance just out of his reach, “Perceptive you are, young one.”

“It comes with living in the shadows, always growing, spreading, turning the world to ash and darkness around us,” Legolas turned pointedly towards the south east, his gaze hard, “The very earth oft trembles in fear of what will come, of the days we shall see.”

“What else do you see, Legolas?”

The Sinda turned sharply, “I see nothing but what is before me. I hear the song around me change; I feel the disquiet, the unease, the… fear. Can you not feel it in the very air you breath?”

Elrond could barely stifle the gasp escaping his lungs as the archer’s piercing eyes fell upon his own in an uncharacteristic show of equality, and that gaze was both deep and terrifying, for Elrond could see plainly that of which Legolas spoke. The air turned ever colder around him as he gazed into those oceanic depths, saw memories of darkness as the prince had; the floodgates were open for but a moment and Elrond had to force himself to breathe again as Legolas turned away. The Elven Lord sank back against the bench, loosened his fingers which he found to have been painfully wrapped around the scrollwork at his sides, trying to work his way through the sheer weight of feeling he had had through that moment of connection. He shuddered then, and shook it off again, or tried to, but the sensation refused to loose its grasp on his mind, his heart for it felt so familiar though he knew it could not be. He had not met this Elf before that day just outside of Mirkwood; he had not met this Elf and yet he felt as if he had. His mind told him Legolas was not old, yet his eyes seemed to tell a different tale- they were heavy, weighted as Glorfindel’s gaze could be when memory dark and grim assailed him.
It took some minutes before lucidity returned to the Elven Lord’s thoughts and Legolas spoke again, “What do you see, my Lord, when you turn your inner eye upon my home? Do you see it fall or do you give me hope of a victory well-earned and expensively bought?”

“Foresight is a gift, but it is not one granted with clarity or with precision. Often there are many threads that may be woven together to make be what will be and I cannot see all. I see instead the Elf before me now, strong and hale, honorable and noble and I know without the aid of foresight that Mirkwood will not fall should there be more of your like under those darkened eaves, for I know that no matter how dark and how long the shadows grow, the bright light of your spirits will forever defy the Shadow and hold back darkness, and power such as this so valiantly wielded can never be truly defeated.”

“Thank you, you give me hope for my home, for those I have left behind.”

“You will return to them, Legolas, and they will still be there, the Valar guide them and the stars shine upon them,” he assured the Sinda, one hand on his knee, “And you will be there for them when they have need, my foresight tells me this much.”
Another long silence passed between them, during which time heavy, fat snowflakes began to drift down from the clouds that had quickly settled over them for the night. “Tell me, my Prince”-

Elrond began, but was cut off when Legolas uncharacteristically interrupted him with a quiet voice, his eyes downcast before he almost reluctantly turned to face the balcony, the breeze coming from the gorge stirred through his shimmering hair, the snow glistening upon his fair face, “Long have I been set as guard upon the edges of the Wood we yet held, set to watch the power of the ever-growing dark, and before even this, when the need was slight.” He reached out and gripped the balcony railing as he leaned forward, closing his eyes to focus on the scent of the water, the cleanness of the air, the freedom it carried.

Elrond noticed once again the calluses upon his long fingers, the cuts that had been so frequent to have become hard scars upon his skin from the continual use of his bow and of the twin knives he preferred. He wore no gloves to protect his hands, nor did any Mirkwood Elf as a matter of pride and show of strength and endurance. Elrond knew this Elf had not lived the life of royalty; he could see that in the hardness of his eyes, his humility, the tensile strength the Sinda radiated as he stood there now that he had fully healed. The set of his shoulders spoke of a strength not broadcast, but he had to ask no matter what he had already observed, “But are you not a Prince?”

It was with a whisper that Legolas responded, his eyes still closed to the light around him, but no longer in contemplation of the scents upon the breeze, but to shut out some vision stirring restlessly behind his eyes, as if closing his eyes tight would stifle the sight behind them, “In blood alone do I have that distinction. Never will I be called ‘prince’ nor will I ever take the throne. The King of Mirkwood has his heir, and I am not him, nor was I ever.”

“Why is it not you, Legolas? I saw him. He was but a child still; you are the eldest son of Thranduil.”

“I… was not the… eldest son of Thranduil,” Legolas muttered, turning his face once again into the breeze, “I had a brother, my Lord.”

“My sympathies, Legolas, I… know what it is like to lose a brother,” Elrond stood to join the Sinda, stood near enough to him that he could sense the Elf’s distress. He saw the slight tremble in those broad, archery wrought shoulders, the way he gripped the railing in a white-knuckled grip, and the laden sorrow in the fallen archer’s fair voice as he spoke into the stiff, cold breeze flowing down from the white- shrouded peaks high above. “The loss fades with time, but the ache never leaves. Such is the price we pay for immortality, to have long lives and longer memories. I miss him still as if it was but a year past since he chose the path of Mankind despite my pleas. I still feel as if half of myself has gone on with him whither he went.”

Legolas knew the words were spoken in truth and in genuine compassion, and he said nothing, but neither did he move away. He accepted Elrond’s commiseration mutely, for he knew Elrond’s grief was far closer to his own than the Noldorin Lord knew. Like Elrond, Legolas had lost the other half of his soul, his brother, his twin. He stood solemnly in the quickening snow, each mired in their own thoughts of grief and both unwilling yet to step aside and withdraw from the pain. Both felt that they had need to give their grief its due, letting it wash over and through them out of respect for those they had lost.

For some time they stood thus, refreshed by the early evening chill, one after spending the day in his study and the other after a day spent in the kitchens. Elrond remained silent for some time as they watched the stars came to life above in the breaks in the great, puffy grey clouds, their light waxing with the moon’s unseen passage through the lengthening of night, but he did not wish to remain silent, and so he began again to ask the question he had sought to ask at the outset yet from a different tack did he do it, “Legolas, will you tell me why it is you seem to be fading yet you seem at the same time well? I have seen the light in your eyes and how it is dimmed yet does not grow weaker, why still you heal but slowly. I know well this sickness among our kind, and I see it in you yet it does not worsen. You need not tell me the cause, but the Healer in me desires to know how you have stymied the grief.”

Legolas dipped his head again, turned around to lean on the balcony, his hands gripping the railing again in a white-knuckled grip, “It is nothing you may reproduce, Master Elrond,” Legolas could not face the Noldo with his piercing gray gaze for fear of the admission of disgrace that would be written in his own eyes should Elrond glimpse them. He had a chance to make a new life, an opportunity for change of fortune here, and he did not wish to ruin his prospects among the Elves of Imladris and he did not want the true knowledge of his dishonor to follow him here so doggedly as it had done until this day, “My brother died. It happened soon after Greenwood began to be called ‘Mirkwood’ when he was attacked. I was the leader of his Guard. I grieved for him as he was all I had, the only one who could stand for me, the only one with enough sway to do so despite the King’s wishes. He was my brother, my friend, and I lost him. He was the Shining Star of Greenwood, its Golden Prince. The light of the forest dimmed further the day he passed into the Halls; I wanted to follow him and would have but for the oath he asked me to swear. And so I remained, but I had not the will to continue life under the wrath of the King which from that day on was everlasting in its fervor. The Wood, however, had lost one of its champions, its Star, and it did not wish to lose me as well. It called to me. It gave me a portion of its strength in order to survive and a bond was formed. The darkness I feel keenly, just as the Wood itself does. I will live as long as the Wood exists, for my life is tied to it as it tied its life to mine.”

Elrond stifled again the gasp at this admission of both grief and of the wonder Legolas had accomplished, so fully tied he had become to the world around him that he drew his strength from it and had drawn enough to buoy his soul from the mire of grief which could so easily suck down an Elf, “He blames you then.”

“Aye, for it was I who guarded him that day, and I who carried him back,” the archer whispered, patently studying his hands, fisted before him on the railing, his golden blonde hair sweeping out back and forth behind him as the wind picked up strength, the snow painting a sheen upon the tresses that caught Elrond’s attention and held it.

“Yet you did not deal the blow,” he stated, “why do you believe yourself worthy of blame?”

“Because I failed him, my Lord.” Legolas stated defiantly, then “It should have been me to die that day, not he! It should have been me! I found it in me to step in front of Glorfindel and so many others when they had need, yet the moment when my duty counted most, that moment- I did not do it. I failed! And he…he left me alone.”

“So, you seek to rectify this failure by protecting all others you can, stepping in front of Glorfindel and countless others, throwing yourself into battles in hopes that you may join him without breaking your oath to him?” Elrond asked softly, gently, striving to put no hint of deprecation into his staid and steady voice, only understanding. “You are a selfless being, Legolas, and your love runs deep. If only my own brother had been as you, then I would not understand your grief and I wish still that I did not even all these many years later. Your brother, Legolas, seems to have been an honorable and true Elf to garner such devotion from you. I wish as we all do, that some things had not been as they became, but would he have wished you to shoulder the burden alone?” Elrond asked plainly, turning to face the fallen Sinda, a placid and calm expression upon his face as he awaited an answer.

Legolas shifted from one foot to the other, refusing to turn, sliding his hands over the stone banister, his eyes downcast and seemingly deep in thought, his voice cutting through the breeze as he answered at last, “What is your meaning, my Lord?”

“Why did you not dispute the charges laid against you? You could not have known we were attacked, nor could you have prevented it unless you have a gift of foresight strong enough to send images easily decipherable. It is not so for me, though I bear this gift. Your leadership was not to blame; flawless it was, your technique perfection and your aim true, your directions most apt. Why is it that Thranduil blames you? How could he hold you responsible when you could not have known? And moreover, why would he react so when it was Noldor who died? He has no love for our kind. Why did you not stand for yourself or another among your men do it for you?”

“Little liking does his Majesty King Thranduil have for your kind, even less does he have for me.”

To the finality of this statement, Elrond simply raised his legendary eyebrow in silent imploration for Legolas to elaborate, however, when it was not forthcoming, he spoke, “How can a father have so little love for his son?”

“You heard him, my Lord; he wished I was not his son.”

Legolas breathed deeply, closed his eyes for a moment before turning at last to set the bright lights of his eyes upon the Peredhel set to address the second question, “The truth of it does not matter, my Lord. They were my Guards, and yours were under my protection. If they fell it was under my command. To deny and dispute the allegations would be to place the blame on those who fell as well as those who did not. I would not dishonor those who gave their lives by lessening their worth in this manner. I stand for my Guards, or I did. They carry my honor and I theirs. This is how it is among my kind, Master Elrond.”

Elrond nodded sedately, “Well spoken, and done with respect I admire. You are a wonder, Legolas, come, let us join Celebrían for her nightly song, will you sing with her as I have often heard you sing?” He changed the subject, his curiosity assuaged enough for this night, and conscious of how little the archer wished to continue upon this track of thought. So, instead, he led the fallen Sinda down to the frost-encrusted gardens, his lady-wife already seated and strumming her lyre with light fingers.

Later that night, their hearts lightened with song and the spirit of the night, Elrond asks one more question that had long lingered in his troubled thoughts, “May I ask you a question, Legolas?”

Legolas nodded in acquiescence and halted his movement.

“I am…hesitant to ask, but I wanted to know where you were for those three days before the Decree of the King, the three days following that first day in the Wood.” Elrond almost cringed and immediately regretted giving voice to his concerned curiosity when he watched Legolas visibly stiffen, and his eyes dropped to the frost- painted ground, his shoulders straightened to the same rigid pose he had maintained in Mirkwood before his King. Yet even then, Elrond’s curiosity is heightened at the same time, to see such a reaction from the Sinda who possessed a control unknown in all but the eldest of Elves.

Something was very wrong to elicit such a reaction; the sudden sadness and anguish, shame in the Sinda’s eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his fists clenched before they disappeared behind his back. “I had…other duties…to attend to, my Lord,” Legolas braced himself, controlled his expression and veiled his eyes once more before meeting those grey eyes of the Peredhel lord, “If you will excuse me, my Lord?”

At Elrond’s perfunctory if not perplexed nod of ascent, Legolas turned on his heel and strode through the gardens, heading not to the small warmth of his room, but to the comforting arms of the aged willow now bared of all leaf. Though its great life slumbered through the winter, its awareness was not so far sunk into its reverie that it could not aid the Sinda as it did that night and many other before and since. Rather, it opened its arms figuratively to the beleaguered and fallen archer and held him in gnarled arms as the memories brought erupting to the surface with Elrond’s questions throughout the night scalded him and left him quaking in loathing and in despair.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Fall T.A. 2163

Legolas had led the Noldor Elves back to the Elven City deep under the eaves and far to the north and east of the great forest once known as the Greenwood. They had traversed the Elven path with little difficulty and few interventions and yet this remarkable luck seemed only to cause their passage to go ever more swiftly. A passage Legolas would that he not make at all, but he knew he would, knew he would have to for his own innate sense of honor would allow him no leave. When they had come to the gates and with a touch Legolas had opened the ponderous doors, he quickly presented the Noldor to the Elves waiting on the steps, Elves who would lead them to the King.

It had been a blessed relief to him that the King had become ensconced in discussions with Master Elrond, and so he made his way to his room and sat before the empty hearth until he had heard the Peredhel return to his suite next to Legolas’ room. After some time, when the Sinda healer had left, he had sought out Elrond for the aid he knew he needed, a swelling of thanks in his chest that he would not have to seek out those who would castigate him yet again for his maladroit clumsiness.

He had attended the dinner that night given in honor of the Noldor, and he had sat amongst those higher than he, for it was the King’s will, and he, as in all other things, had no choice but to do as he was bid. It had been after the feast was over and the Noldor had repaired to their respective quarters that Legolas’ recurring nightmare had begun again. As expected of him, he had appeared at his quarters in the palace and had made the necessary preparations and had waited thereafter for the King to appear with no company save the steady, hurried thudding of his heart in his chest and the throbbing agony of his chest. Yet all that would seem as nothing but trifling inconveniences in comparison to the following three days up to his appearance before the Council and the King.

Careful the King had been not to mark him above the waist of his leggings apart from bruises that could either heal quickly or be accounted for by the battle. He did not know the visiting Lord had treated his despised progeny and would therefore have known that the bruises had to be new, but still there was the council to consider and the bruises would be seen. Nor did he realize Legolas was injured until he divested him of his clothes, saw the bandages and assumed the wound or wounds to be minor. He did not bother to investigate: he did not care. All he cared about was his rapidly swelling arousal and the naked body before him, spread and waiting humiliatingly on all fours as he had been bid remain, as if waiting eagerly to be split and filled with merciless abandon. And this he did, eliciting the hollow, broken cries of the fallen archer with none to hear him through the thick walls and the tight gag tied about the younger Sinda’s face.

Once the King had spent himself, he stepped back, callously kicked the kneeling Sinda as he went to retrieve the belt hanging in the wardrobe behind the door, flicking it ominously as he returned to where the fallen prince struggled to remain on hands and knees, his arms and legs shaking with the effort it took. Legolas heard the snap of the leather, the swoosh of the belt through the air; he hung his head between his aching shoulders and waited for the first blow to fall, his father’s voice cutting through the haze of pain and fatigue threatening to send him into black oblivion, that voice speaking words he wished he could not hear. Words of derision, scorn and denigation flowed from Thranduil’s lips, words so hateful and vile spilling from one whose visage was said to rival the beauty of any Sinda. His golden locks had been hastily bound back, his high cheek bones bore none of the gentleness of his son’s but were still remarkable for their evenness and their loveliness. His skin was softly radiant, his eyes dark, deep blue and depthless, now darkened to nearly black with angered wrath. His hand brought the belt down again and again on the fallen prince’s bare behind, the back of his legs, thigh and worst of all, his feet, until ugly red welts peppered his fair skin, then grew as the onslaught continued.

Legolas fought to stymie the sobs building in his chest as the pain and humiliation built up within him as it always did. He constantly berated himself in time with his father’s words for he despised his own weakness, that he could not stoically bear his father’s vilification and disparagement with equanimity. He shut his eyes tightly against the stinging pain as one blow landed harder than those before, a yelp escaping his lips before he could wrench them closed again, breathing deeply in and out, in and out, concentrating on the pain rather than on the act to focus his determination and to prepare himself for what would come next, a thought that ran through his mind even as the illustrious King dropped the thick leather belt and went to the wardrobe once more, “You will not be sitting for days, I should think,” the King growled wickedly amused as he trailed his fingers across the younger Sinda’s taut, red and swollen behind before slapping him. “On the floor at the end of the bed,” he ordered coldly, watching as Legolas, as gracefully as he could manage, stood and clambered over beside the low, pallet and took the same position he had had on the floor. “Bind yourself, little one.”

Thranduil tossed a small metal object about the size of Legolas’ fist and half again. Legolas shuddered at the sight of it, knowing the King wished him to wear it and dreading no other tool his sire used more than this. Pear shaped it was and made of old, well-worn metal bands with small metal spikes. Legolas set down the ropes again and took up the heavy object, slipping the widest end between his lips as he fought back the need to gag on the metallic scent, the scent of his own blood. Days sometimes had he been forced to wear this when he had spoken out of turn or unwisely where his King had heard. Apt punishment it was for such a misdeed, Legolas thought dryly as he slid the foul thing inside his mouth once the previous gag had been removed. It was adjustable, its metal bands expanding when the handle was twisted. The handle he held with one hand while he bit down tentatively on the pear, twisting the screw and widening the metal bands slightly before he turned to the King, bowed his head in respect and closed his eyes. He shivered at the taste of it; he remembered it too well. He tried to move it to a more comfortable position, but, as always, he gave up knowing there was none. He worked his tongue around it helplessly, knowing he could not remove it once the device was in place. He waited then, for he knew this was one implement the King would not allow Legolas to adjust, too much pleasure did the King derive from this simple pleasure, of forcibly silencing his unwanted curse of a child.

It was a symbolic act for Thranduil to screw the device in and force the metal bands to expand, filling the archer’s mouth and stretching his jaw painfully wide until he heard the Elf’s pitiful mewl of pain, the tears blurring in his wide, frightened eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought both himself and the King. He finally wrenched his head away when he could take no more, his hands going to his face without thought, reaching for the screw that would release the pear if even a little. He could taste his own blood as the metal spines dug into his soft flesh, wounds made worse for his struggles.

Several quick blows with the belt and Legolas had calmed enough to get back up on shaky knees, his jaw already aching and blood dripped slowly down his chin. Legolas pushed his hair over his shoulder to bare his back, slipped his hands into the bindings he had tucked under the bed before he had left to meet Lord Elrond, then bowed his head in readiness, his knees widespread, hands gripping the ropes tightly. He swallowed thickly as he heard Thranduil approach, his steps soft and light while his arm was swift and heavy as he dealt the first blow, “Up, stand up! Bend down, your forehead to the footboard!” He punctuated the words with several blows with the belt. Though Legolas complied swiftly, Thranduil went back to the cabinet and returned a moment later, his steps quick as he used his momentum in the first ringing blow. Legolas cried out around the gag with the sudden explosion of stinging pain as the three-tailed flogger Legolas knew only too well sliced across his bare behind.

Thranduil did not bother to tell Legolas how many lashes he would be given, nor did he ever. He whipped Legolas until his anger had abated or until his arms tired usually, giving Legolas as many stripes as he wished. It was not for Legolas to know. He dealt the next blow, the next and the next, each parallel to the one before from his lower back and down the backs of his thighs, one after the other until he had reached a total of seven. Then he paused, dealt another three quick, fierce blows and pulled his robe open again, freeing his straining arousal, fisting himself ferociously as he advanced on the bound archer. The penetration was abrupt and painful, forcing Legolas into the bed with the vigor of this initial thrusts. Thankfully for Legolas, Thranduil spent himself quickly and released the archer, watching disdainfully as he crumpled to the floor.

Thranduil tossed his hair back over his shoulders and ambled over to the bedside table, poured water in the basin and went about washing himself with short, thorough strokes before tossing the cloth to the archer, “Clean yourself up.” He hissed as he strode by Legolas to the wardrobe, pulling on his discarded robes and picking up his crown of leaves now browns and reds with the colors of fall. “You will wear the pear until I remove it.” With a flourish of swishing robes Thranduil was gone, the door shut and his tread retreating.

Legolas shrugged out of the bonds, wearing his wrists raw, pushed himself to his feet to throw the locks on both doors. He scooted backwards along the cold floor towards the bed, shaking with emotion. He closed his eyes tightly against the shameful agony of it, to be taken by one’s own sire and to do so willingly, like a trained dog begging for its master’s smallest reward no matter how cruel he could be and then, to be whipped and beaten and left mute, silenced and alone. Once it was done, he had collapsed onto the floor, his arms wrapped around his chest, but silently and without tears he lay there for he knew the King might return, and he would not show tears or weakness before his King.

The King returned daily, beating and taking him over and over again whenever time would permit, for the King had known even then the sentence he would hand down, and knew therefore that these were the last days he would have the archer’s abilities available to him, and he made good use of them and the archer himself. He took the pear out only once each day for Legolas to accompany his quards, then would replace it when the archer returned. Too ashamed, exhausted and sore was Legolas to rise, but rise he did to meet the guards, to face whatever they would bring him as well, but none did take up the King’s anger and brandish it against the fallen Sinda. None had the heart to strike their comrade, even if that one was Anwath, Legolas. Instead, he was turned over to those who held him dear and with them he found care and soothing rest only to face his King yet again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Elrond had seen how defensive and self-conscious Legolas had grown and did not want to press him further, for too far at the outset and he might never know the truth, or to gain friendship with the Sinda. Too little trust there was between them still, too little for the archer to reveal anything to him. They were of different kindred, he a Peredhel and Legolas of the Sindar, but they were not altogether sundered in blood, for Elrond’s mother was Elfwing, granddaughter of Beren One-Hand and Lúthien daughter of Thingol and Melian, and therefore had Sindar blood as well as that of the Noldor. Elrond knew little of Legolas’ parentage except that he was a son of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood son of Oropher. He knew nothing of Legolas’ mother or his grandmother. Nevertheless, Elrond had been counted among the Noldor by his choice of association, and there was little love lost between the Sindar and the Noldor since the time of the Last Alliance, a time when Oropher was lost along with many of the Sindar and Green-elves of Greenwood because Oropher would not listen to the High King, Gil-galad, and had chosen to make his stand prematurely- a desperate and foolish attempt at honor and respect to prove once and for all the Sindar were just as honorable and high as those who had seen the Light of the Two Trees and had dwelt in the Blessed Realm.

Yet even in his anger, his disappointment, Elrond could understand some of what had driven the Woodland King, too long had Oropher been slighted by the haughty arrogance of the Noldor, and the victim of the Doom the Noldor had brought with them. Too long and they been made out to be the lesser of the Elven kindreds for their dalliance on Middle Earth when it was due to their love and respect, their bond to the land upon which they were born that held them there. That, and the duty due their first King, Elwë who tarried and grew lost in the light of Melián, a Maia, with whom he chose to stay. His kin and friends, loyal to him, stayed behind as well. And for this loyalty they were relegated secondary to the Noldor, who were guilty of the slaying of the kin of the Sindar, the Teleri.

Elrond could see the fruits of the long-living distrust in Legolas, for he could see it deeply inculcated in the Sinda, the sentiments of anger and mistrust had too long been without refute, just as he saw it in his own advisor who was less willing even than the archer to open one’s mind and perceptions past what has long been held truth. The warrior of Goldonlin was something else in entirety, for some reason his trust seemed won already in Legolas. And no wonder it was, for Glorfindel was neither of the Noldor, nor of the Teleri or Sindar. He was of the Vanyar, one of the few of that kindred to have come from the Blessed Realm. Moreover, the trust shared between the Sinda and the Vanya seemed intrinsic; they were drawn to each other, like moths to a flame and with just as much peril did he feel their actions lay upon them.

Glorfindel, come spring, started asking Legolas to take walks with him in the evenings when he ‘chanced’ upon the fallen Sinda strolling through the gardens or near the aged old and twisted weeping willow at the far end of the House to the North. Glorfindel found his feet directing him increasingly away from the Hall of Fire or Elrond’s study after dinner finished as had been custom for so long the years seemed uncountable. Instead, he found his feet taking him outside, and in search of the Sinda, his heart almost fluttering in his chest at the thought of Legolas’ soft, lovely voice hanging hauntingly through the trees. It was this evocative song the Elda followed as he left the expansive gardens around the house and so often found the Wood Elf perched in one tree or another, most often a grand old weeping willow or one of the two majestic oaks at its sides near where one of the streams cascading down the rocky cliffs had sedated to a gentle burbling rush. Most often, he asked to join the Wood Elf, but sometimes, Glorfindel felt no need to disturb his song and he would find some comfortable spot nearby where Legolas could not hear him, nor would he sense his presence. He could not have known that his presence was not unknown to the Sinda, the canniness of the Wood Elves was not to be underestimated.

Legolas, when he felt the Elda nearby, would not cease his song, but would falter if even a moment as his lips tightened into a smile, a warmth bubbling up in his chest, his heart pounding to know that the golden Lord was listening, sitting with his face to the moonlit and starlit sky, his eyes closed and his soul open to the lyrical resonances, the words flowing from his lips. And he kept the words coming, the words and the song flowed from the wellspring of warmth within his chest, from the comfort the Elda’s presence brought him, the pride that someone wanted to listen, wanted to speak to him, wanted to be with him and had sought him out. Legolas sat up straighter against the tree’s gnarled trunk and leaned his head back, his face to the stars as he sang for Glorfindel.

One night, when Legolas had finished with his duties, Glorfindel had stalked off to bring the hesitant Sinda back from the weeping willow to the Hall of Fire since it was the first day of spring and a celebration had begun. He offered the Sinda the seat upon which he himself sat, the chair wide enough for just two. Glorfindel had brought glasses of wine and had laid back into the cushioned chair with an apparent lack of dignity whilst Legolas had sat rather stiffly for a time. Yet the Elda did not give up on his self-appointed task, and he plied the archer with warm sweet wines, and gentle conversation. It had been stilted at first, but after a few glasses, Legolas had turned in the seat to face the Elda and a tentative smile graced his fine features, much to the delight of the Elda, “So, it seems if I wish to see that smile more often, that I must ply you with strong wine and song.” He chuckled at the flicker of indignation passing through Legolas’ blue-green eyes.

But the indignation was in contradistinction to the smile still upon his bow-shaped lips, and he laughed in his own turn, raising the glass to the light, squinting at it appraisingly with one fine dark eyebrow raised, and when he spoke his voice was questioning, curious, “Strong? My Lord, you must be mistaken,” he feigned choking, “’Tis not strong, my Lord, compared to the vintages of my home.”

“Then ‘tis my company that has brought out that smile and banished the sadness from your eyes,” Glorfindel suddenly sat up and moved closer to the Sinda, a lopsided smile plastered on his face at the flustered, surprised expression upon the Wood Elf’s face, then the Elda suddenly reached out and laid his hand atop that of Legolas. The tingling shock of their contact sang up his arm, but he did not pull away. His heart raced in his chest; he was sure Legolas could hear it.

But Legolas was concentrating on only his own thundering heart, his rapid breathing and the sensation of the Elda’s hand on top of his own. When Legolas refused to look up from his lap, and almost shivered, Glorfindel pulled back, chagrined, “Forgive me, Legolas. I should not have…” he was uncomfortable now, “May I get you some more wine?” He finally said, standing swiftly, his eyes looking anywhere but at the Sinda.

“It is I who should beg forgiveness, my Lord,” Legolas, too, stood, setting the glass down beside the chair, “I… thank you, for the evening… It has been very… pleasant,” he stuttered it out, eyes on the wall far behind Glorfindel as he stepped toward the Elda, his hands shaking along with his voice as he stubbornly forced himself to tough Glorfindel’s sleeved arm, “I… did, my Lord, I am… I apologize for my behavior if I have offended.”

Glorfindel took a step forward as well, laying his hand over Legolas’ and squeezing it lightly, “Nay, no offense did you make, rather it is I who should apologize.” His face lit up in a radiant smile when Legolas did not pull his hand away again, so he turned slightly so his back was towards the others, and none could see his hands or his face but for Legolas. He then took Legolas’ calloused, bow-roughened hand in his own and raised it to his lips, kissing the knuckles lightly, his keen eyes watching the blush suffusing the archer’s finely boned face, the color stunning as Legolas, in his shock, met Glorfindel’s weighty gaze and held it for a moment before Glorfindel stepped away one step, bowed his head, cocked an eyebrow glancing toward the doorway, “Would you care to walk with me beneath the stars this fine first night of a new spring?”

Legolas nodded mutely, bent to pick up his glass when Glorfindel motioned towards it whilst he darted in amongst the others and returned with another bottle, a mischievous smile on his fair face, “I am afraid Elrond may be searching for this in a few moments. It appears to be the last brought up this night; I am afraid we have gone and put an early end to their night, I think.”

“My Lord!” Legolas hissed softly, delighted at the Elda’s hand on his shoulder propelling him forward at a quick step.

“Come, come, the night is still young and it is their own fault if they drank too much or planned too poorly!” Once they were at the grand doors, Glorfindel hesitated, a remarkable feeling niggling at his thoughts as his hands laid on the ancient, engraved wood. He turned to look over his shoulder at the golden Sinda, his skin glowing softly, his cheeks still rosy red with a staining of blush; Glorfindel remembered his voice suddenly, a longing, sorrowful song yet one filled with such joy that his heart could not scarce decide if he should have wept or shouted. It was then that the sensation became most distinct, when he saw the Wood Elf’s eyes dart towards him and the smile playing at his fine lips. Glorfindel turned back towards the door, closed his eyes for a brief moment as clarity came to him. He pushed the door open, turned and offered his hand to the Sinda, and together they walked out into the embrace of the stars, taking the first steps in something that Glorfindel felt plainly to be both as old and as new as each star in the sky, ancient in existence and new born each night, and something that would be as durable. A new chapter in his long life was begun, and its prelude rang vibrantly in his venerable, wizened heart. The stars sung in their hearts that night as they strolled, engaged in conversation and sipping at the wine Glorfindel had nicked. Once the wine was finished and the pair had eventually made their way to the old willow, both sitting haphazardly but comfortably in its great embrace, Legolas raised his voice once more and Glorfindel sat enraptured as the stars spun above them as the night slipped into dawn.

*~*~*
Responses:
I do hope there are still people out there reading this! I hate this chapter, just so you know. I had the hardest time putting it together to where I felt it made any sense at all. I don’t even know if it does now, but I hope it makes some sense at least. I hope the next chapter is better. More angst coming up- since happiness can only last so long or the story just is not as fun to either read or to write, elf-angst is more exciting, don’t you think?
Nikkiling- I am so glad you enjoy this story and I hope you are still interested since I have been so long in posting. Thank you so much for your praise! I have promised a happy ending, and I will hold to that, I swear!
Calenharn Elflover- I am glad to see you are still reading this! Maybe the culprit responsible for Legolas’ blindness is the ‘Rotten rat bastard’ Thranduil as you so aptly put it, or someone… else? Stay tuned! I promise- happy ending will come…eventually, after all, I have dragged the luscious Legolas out to play, I can’t return him without some mud first, can I? No, really, happy ending is coming. I admit, I toyed with the idea of a sad ending, but the more I thought about it and the fics I read that did not end well, well let’s just say for the most part I was unfulfilled, so I swore to myself not to make the same mistake. I hope you enjoy this, even though I know it is not my best work, as if any of it is, really. However, there are some happy times in Legolas’ future, but the angst must rear its ugly head again.
Lady Drea: I am not worthy! I am not worthy! (From some movie, I think and badly repeated I must admit, I know, but hey!) Thank you!! I liked the last chapter probably the best out of them all too. This one pales in comparison, I think, but I tried to bring in less description and more of the interpersonal relations to use a clichéd phrase. I am not so good at this, I will be the first to admit, to relationships, not to using clichés though I do. We’ll come back to the Fourth Age in maybe the next chapter, but hold onto your red boa it will be a bit of a ride, I should hope! I am sorry not to satisfy your curiosity yet, but it will come, I promise. All will be explained in time. I won’t forget this tale. I have spent a lot (way too much) time thinking about it and I have quite a bit of it written in bits and pieces when they don’t get away from me. But reviewers like you set the fire beneath me and give me inspiration to write. I love to hear from you! Thank you!
-Your wicked-minded, muse-bereft (lately), and very thankfully appreciative, lowly fanfic writer, Kiril.

Anon of (2004-12-15)- You said: I just discovered this story and I'm impressed. Poor Legolas suffers unrelentingly and your readers are suffering right along with him. I'm sure I missed something as I'm a little confused by Legolas' past. Is Legolas of Mirkwood also Legolas of Gondolin then (for the purposes of this story)? If so it makes for a very intriguing bit of history.
Although this probably won't be addressed in the story, I can't help but hope that Thranduil will eventually realize the depth of his self-delusion about Legolas. Perhaps he will not be able to escape into self serving motivations/justifications when confronted with the Valar who must surely know how false Thranduil has been. May the Valar extend their Grace to Legolas one day.
I hope you will return to this story, I'm enthralled!
My Response: Thank you for your interest. I hope I have not lost you!
You’re supposed to be a little confused thus far. I am planning to reveal his past in bits and pieces, not all in one fell swoop as I think that would not be very likely given their personalities and the reclusiveness of this Legolas. For your information, Legolas of Mirkwood and Legolas of Gondolin are not supposed to be the same person according to cannon, since that earlier Legolas sailed after the fall of Gondolin and went to the Lonely Isle. You’ll just have to stay tuned to find out what my take is on that particular question for this story. Maybe Thranduil will realize his mistake, maybe not, I have not decided if he will play a role in the denouement or if he stays as he had been. I hope you enjoy though it’s been forever since I have posted anything.
Mitzi- So soorrry no Christmas present, perhaps a belated New Year’s present??? Don’t worry, Legolas will get the good with the bad at some point, and I hope some of the good is to be found beginning in this chapter. Thranduil may, or he may not get his just deserts, that is not decided yet. I won’t let poor Legolas suffer throughout eternity, however. I could not, simply could not do that to my Legolas! Wait, let me check, nope, sorry, wrote the wrong pronoun- he’s not mine since he still wasn’t under the tree. Thanks for your review!