Voices In The Dark

Title: Voices In The Dark

A/N: By this point you should know the drill...
Read as you like, Review as you will.
All are Tolkien's, but with my little twist.
Love those elves! Happiness is!
The Wind!

Thanks to Linauri for betaing! Oh, and Lin? I promised that you would take over this story should something happen to me. ‘kay? ;-)

Several people mentioned that I should post this story on other sites as well as this. Since I don’t know a thing about creating websites, I am keeping it updated on my livejournal site, (www.livejournal.com/users/nikkiling2) and I might try for Library of Moria when this is finished.

Oh, and an enormous thank you to all my wonderful reviewers. Your comments truly brighten my day, and mean more than you can ever know. Your interest and confidence in my little writing adventure is amazing. Thank you!
Now, on to the show!
______________________________________________________


Chapter Eighteen: One Long Day: Morning Meeting II.


Elrond opened his study door to find Legolas standing there looking extremely nervous under his benevolent gaze. Glorfindel waited just behind him, appearing both eager and pleased with himself. Something had happened, that much he could tell.

“Come inside,” Elrond gestured, stepping back to allow the elves through. He couldn’t help but notice the brief glance the younger elf threw at the taller Elda, and Glorfindel’s reassuring smile in response. There was definitely some sort of bond growing between the two, and Elrond was glad to see it. If they could just get the Mirkwood elf to trust them, it would make their task infinitely easier.

The two came inside, Glorfindel shutting the door behind him. At the sound of the door closing Legolas looked back, the look on his features mimicking that that of a wild creature watching the doors of a cage close around him. One hand gripped the sleeve of his tunic in agitation as he turned away from the door.

His eyes darted around the comfortable room, taking in the various chairs sitting about invitingly, an unlit stone fireplace carved to look like the bole of a tree, the heavy desk piled with parchment, ink and quills. The sight of the large desk caused a degree of fear to rise, his mind recalling the various gut-wrenching nightmares, and he quickly looked away towards the open balcony that held a resplendent view of the Misty Mountains rising in the distance. He couldn’t help but think of his home just beyond those tall peaks, and the relative safety of the deep forests there. It seemed as if his problems had only worsened during his short stay in Imladris. His heart ached to return home; to sit amongst the quiet, unquestioning trees once more and know peace. And yet, he wondered, had he ever truly known peace?

Elrond moved to sit in one of the chairs, watching the quiet elf stare longingly out towards the distant mountains. It seemed obvious his mind was directed towards home. Hoping to put Legolas at ease, he chose a chair near the hearth instead of seating himself at the desk. He had caught the glimpse of unease as Legolas’ eyes momentarily settled upon the large piece of furniture, and he hoped to eventually uncover the reasoning behind this and other matters. But first he needed to set the younger elf at ease.

Glorfindel chose another chair nearby, close enough to offer support should it be needed, yet far enough to give the others space.

Legolas looked over at Elrond, then Glorfindel, both of whom waited patiently for him to reveal himself. He felt as if his tongue was stuck, nervousness blocking any words from forming, unsure of what to say or how to start. The usual fears circled his mind like a flock of malevolent vultures, slowly picking away at his confidence. He would rather face an entire pack of orcs alone than continue with this. How would Lord Elrond react upon seeing the scars? Certainly Glorfindel had assured him there was no evil in their existence, yet he had admitted himself as to being no healer. What if Elrond saw something different?

Elrond could sense the growing unease, the tension becoming nearly palpable. He was glad Glorfindel told him of the burn scars beforehand, yet was fascinated on how such an injury could garner such fear. He glanced quickly over at Glorfindel, who waited expectantly, offering silent reassurance to the uncomfortable elf.

“You need not worry,” Elrond finally spoke, keeping his voice calm and easy. “Whatever is said here will not leave this room, this I promise you. None shall disturb us.”

Legolas nodded once, seeming to gather his reserve, then moved to perch upon the edge of a high-backed chair across from where Elrond sat. Once more he seemed to hesitate, but a quick glance over at the golden-haired Elda appeared to bolster his courage, and he finally spoke.

“Glorfindel told me you might be able to help. I have this…injury, which has never completely healed as it should.” He paused uncertainly.

“May I see?” Elrond asked, leaning forwards slightly.

Legolas nodded, and taking a deep breath, lifted the loose sleeve of his tunic, holding his arm out so that Elrond might look. The dark haired elf rose slowly from his chair and advanced towards the MIrkwood prince, careful to keep his steps unhurried and precise. Upon reaching Legolas he knelt down beside him, noting the dark, leathery scars that marred the top side of his right arm and extended upwards beneath the sleeve. If he hadn’t already known their cause, he would have thought the scars were much more recent in origin. It wasn’t that they looked fresh, but that they should have healed more than what he was seeing. He knew of one possible reason why an injury would refuse to heal properly, as it was something he had dealt with personally in form of his own wife after her attack. The state of the body often reflected the state of the mind, and in this case, it appeared as if the mind was in a great deal of distress.

Elrond reached out with his hands, but paused before he made contact with the injured limb and looked up. Legolas was staring at him with twilight eyes filled with expectation and fear.

“May I?” Elrond asked. After a moment’s hesitation Legolas nodded curtly in permission.

With gentle fingers he touched the flesh, loosely holding the limb as he inspected the injury. He couldn’t help but notice how tense the arm was held, as if Legolas wished nothing more than to snatch it back from the healer’s grasp.

“Is there any pain?” he asked, slowly turning the arm over. The tension suddenly increased as the smooth underside was revealed, with a different sort of scar evident to Elrond’s practiced eye. He glanced sharply up at his patient, whose eyes now shone with a different sort of uneasiness.

“I don’t know how that happened,” Legolas quickly explained, which in a sense was the truth. He couldn’t remember the actual deed, though he knew who did. He had forgotten about that particular injury, and longed to be withdrawn from the Imladrian Lord’s scrutiny. He didn’t like being touched, even though the healer’s hands were gentle and cool on his arm.

Elrond looked to Glorfindel, who nodded imperceptibly. He believed the younger elf’s account, yet he also believed there was more to it than what was being told. Elrond turned back to his patient, releasing the arm as he did so. Immediately Legolas pulled it back towards his body, relief evident in his face.

“How extensive are the burns?” Elrond asked, sitting back on his heels. He already knew from what Glorfindel told him earlier, but he wished to hear it from the elf’s own lips.

Legolas motioned with his other hand. “My arm, shoulder, back, thigh, mostly this side of my body.”

Elrond nodded, his fingers tapping thoughtfully on his thigh. “Would you consent to removing your tunic? I should like to see more of the scarring if that is permissible?”

Legolas took a deep breath and rose from his seat, his gaze concentrated on the open balcony on the other side of the room. He wouldn’t run, but the knowledge that the option was there reassured him slightly as he unlaced the tunic and pulled it over his head, baring his upper body for scrutiny. It was fortunate his attention was fixed upon his course of freedom, for he missed Elrond’s look of shock and sympathy. Slowly the healer stood, moving to where he could get a better view of the damage.

He ran clinical fingers over the ridges along Legolas’ back, noting the flexibility and suppleness of the damaged flesh. Care had been taken to keep the scars from contracting, although it was also evident that as flexible as the elf was, there were patches of rigidity to be found. Had he trusted others with his problem, he might have surely found others to help in his care.

“What do you use on this?” Elrond asked, careful to keep his voice detached.

“Lóthúr oil infused with cadhum root and heartsorrel.” He replied stiffly.

It was getting worse. Feeling those hands on his back he couldn’t help but remember the dream. It was if his body remembered things his mind was not aware of, and the simple touch of the healer slowly transformed into another, more invasive caress. He was slowly coming to acknowledge the fact that things had happened of which he had no inkling, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling in the least.


He tried to stand straight and proud like the warrior he was supposed to be, yet inside he was trembling with fear and it showed in his white knuckles as he clenched his hands into tight fists around the tunic he still held. His breathing quickened and finally he closed his eyes against the touch as he felt something inside loosen and shift. The intense fear was being transmitted to the others, and Mórehua wanted out to deal with it. The spirit shoved him away with brutal force, leaving him to watch the ensuing battle from a passive position.

“No more,” Mórehua growled, twisting around and backing away, eyes flashing darkly. His hands moved to search his body for it’s usually weaponry, and he scowled banefully upon finding none.

“I will not have you poking and prodding our body,” he spat, then extended both his arms outwards. “Are you happy now? Does this meet with approval? The corruption is plain to see.”

Elrond watched, both fascinated and disturbed. This was surely not the same elf he had just examined. It appeared to be Legolas, yet the sudden change in personality indicated something else; someone else. There also seemed to be a slight physical change; the twilight eyes were now dark with malice, the already angular features appeared sharper, the shadows more pronounced. He moved with a deadly grace, volatile and ready to attack at the least provocation.

Elrond looked toward Glorfindel with the idea that he might have some sort of explanation or knowledge of who this creature was. Glorfindel watched the elf with a slightly shocked, yet unsurprised look, informing the healer that he did indeed know something. Sensing Elrond’s gaze he turned his head and looked
towards the darker elf.

“I believe this to be who attacked Elrohir,” Glorfindel told him, appearing thoughtful.


“Aye, and we apologized for that,” Mórehua snarled, his features twisting as if the act of contrition were a bitter thing. “As we were bid. Elrohir should still learn to keep his hands to himself.”

“Who are you?” Elrond asked, intrigued. Was it some sort of possession, or something else? Mixed with what little he knew, the something else seemed more likely. He had heard of the long ago Ruscour incident from other healers, and while never actually having met one like him, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was a similar case.

“A guardian,” came the reply, “and much more apt than he who was here formally, I might add.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Too many,” he replied, sounding displeased.

Glorfindel sighed from where he still sat. It seemed they would never get a straight answer from any of the spirits, although this one seemed a good deal older than the last one he encountered; most definitely male, and enraged.

“What are you called?” Glorfindel asked.

“Mórehua.”

“What are you guarding against?”

“Any who would cause us harm,” Morehua glared, as though wishing nothing more than to rip Glorfindel to pieces at that moment. The blonde Elda stood his ground however, trusting in Legolas and Elanor at least to hold him back for now.

“Are there any in particular?” he asked.

Mórehua looked suspicious. “He is not here. What do you wish of me?”

“Only to help,” Elrond interjected calmly.

“You will do nothing,” Mórehua growled.

“How do you know?” Elrond asked, genuinely curious as to what this
spirit expected them to do.

“Because I know.”

Elrond allowed a brief look of frustration to cross his features before settling back to a look of calm contemplation. “Did you ask for help before, and not receive it?”

“Perhaps.” Mórehua began to pace briskly, feeling trapped. He did not like questions, only action. It was making him uneasy. He wanted to fight something, to solve the problem by killing something, or someone. This was not where he belonged, and felt a mistake had been made.

He suddenly stopped in his agitated movements “I am leaving now,” he stated, and a brief shudder seemed to work its way through the elf’s body.

The features shifted slightly, the eyes performing their usual dance of colors. But instead of retuning to their former state, eyes of gold-flecked teal shone back at Elrond, filled with a strange sense of age and awareness. The features had lost their sharply angular cast, now appearing more relaxed and careworn. The entire body seemed to straighten; the defiant posture disappearing into one of calm maturity. Yet there was also a strong sense of sorrow lurking within the depths of those eyes, and the spirit suddenly seemed muted, as if too much weight had settled over it.

Elrond gave a start as he realized he was now gazing upon an elf who was dying, slowly fading from some sort of inner grief that assailed the spirit. The signs hadn’t been evident before, yet with this shift it was now clearly apparent. He ran his finger along his lower lip as he contemplated the reasons for this strange incident, but the obvious answers seemed too odd to consider.

“I apologize for Mórehua’s rudeness,” the new elf said calmly, his voice softly articulate, gentle but firm. He pulled the tunic back over his head, then moved to sit back in the discarded chair, his gait smooth and unpretentious.

“I am called Ravan,” and he bowed slightly, hand to his heart in respect to both the elves in the room before taking his seat.

“What are you?” Seemed the most logical question, and Elrond asked, hoping for a more clearly given answer than he had previously received. He moved to sit as well, still watching the other elf carefully.

Ravan smiled softly. “I believe Glorfindel had it correct when he spoke to Legolas of Ruscour.” He looked towards the blonde Elda, who appeared slightly surprised.

“You were listening?”

“I hear most everything being said. Not all, mind you, but enough. Elanor is quite fond of you.”

Glorfindel couldn’t help but smile. “I have noticed.”

“Legolas has grown to like you as well, although has always been wary of trusting others, and may not admit it,” Ravan continued, then turned back towards Elrond.

“You asked what we are. Long ago something occurred, forcing our spirit split into many parts. I am but one of many. The others don’t realize how this works, or refuse to acknowledge that we were once one, and believe they are each of their own being. I know otherwise.”

“And how did you come to discover this?” Elrond asked curiously.

“You are not the only elves to have heard of Atta-iníta. It took me some time to accept who I am, but I understand it now.”

Elrond nodded. “How many of you are there?”

“You have met Mórehua, Legolas, and of course little Elanor. You have also unknowingly spoken to Aenos. Mórehua has a brother called Fánehua. And there is Oiolaire.”

“So there are seven of you altogether?” Elrond asked, eyebrows raised in wonder. Ruscour had only two personalities and it had proven too much for him in the end. That Legolas had survived this long with so many, and all without discovery… It was difficult to comprehend.

“More or less. Seven dominates in any case.”

“So there are others.”

Ravan didn’t comment, merely staring at the black-haired elf with sage eyes.

Glorfindel stood and moved to stand next to Elrond. “Mórehua called himself a guardian, and seemed to speak of Legolas as being the same. Whom do they guard against?”

Ravan looked slightly uncomfortable, his eyes shifting away momentarily before focusing back on the older elf. “Mórehua guards against any who would cause us harm. Legolas is the shield that keeps the others at bay.”

“You speak in riddles.”

Ravan sighed. “You must understand. We have spoken to none about this for fear of reprisal, or worse.” He swept a hand through his hair. “We are running out of time, which is why I speak to you now.”

“You are fading,” Elrond stated the obvious.

“Yes,” Ravan replied, leaning his head back against the back of the chair. “I have been for some time now.”

Glorfindel shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understand. Elanor and Legolas seemed healthy enough. If you are all the same spirit, how can you fade and the others not?”

“We are all derived from the same spirit, but we are not the same. Legolas and Elanor do not know what I know.”

Elrond tilted his head slightly in thought. “I assume one of you must be the original spirit, but would hazard a guess that it is not you, given your knowledge, or Mórehua, given his temperament. Who then is he?”

Raven smiled again, pleased with the astuteness of the healer sitting before him. “That would be Legolas, but not the Legolas you know. There are two who go by that name. As was mentioned, your Legolas is merely a shield. We all exist to protect the core spirit. That is our fundamental purpose.”

“Who is this other Legolas?” Glorfindel asked, struggling to assimilate all this new information. “Have we met him?”

“No, you have not. No one has for many years now. He is hiding, safe, sleeping. You most likely wouldn’t recognize him, for he is very young.”

“I assume our Legolas does not know this,” Elrond considered, pulling this together with what he already knew. While confusing, it all made a certain sense.

“Again you are correct, at least until now. Legolas has been listening to this conversation, and is becoming agitated over the facts I have presented to you. I can not force him away as I once could. As I fade my strength is diminishing. We have all become more conscious of each other as of late, which has its advantages and disadvantages.”

Elrond nodded, and then asked the question that had been plaguing him the longest. “What I truly wish to know is what caused this division of spirit in the first place.”

Ravan immediately rose from the chair, eyes sweeping once more across the room. “I am afraid I am tired. Perhaps tomorrow we shall continue this. I believe I have given the others enough to think about.”

“Why will you not tell us who did this to you?” Elrond asked, his voice gently pleading.

Ravan stared at him silently for several long moments. The silence grew until he finally spoke, his voice sounding strangely hushed. “Most of us know, or at least have our ideas, but the full extent is still being revealed. Once the knowledge comes out, we will all fade. I am tired, and admittedly eager for a final death that I may finally join the rest of our spirit already waiting for us. The others are not ready however, so I must still protect them. The words will wait.”

Then Ravan seemed slump forward slightly. Legolas caught the chair before Glorfindel could step over and help, steadying himself before straightening once more. His twilight eyes were wide with fear, but it wasn’t the same outward dread as before. It was a terror formed of the knowledge that everything you assumed about yourself had changed, and not necessarily for the better.

“It’s not true,” he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. “Ravan lies.”

His arms moved to hug his body in a protective gesture while his mind spun with unwanted information. This was just as bad as the dreams. Glancing up, he saw the other two elves watching him with concerned expressions. Their troubled regard only served to agitate him further, and he stepped backwards.

“I am not mad,” he stated, glad to hear his own voice was steadier than his nerves. “I am not merely a piece of another. I am real!”

Elrond rose from his chair. “Of course you are real. As are the others.” He took a step forwards, while Glorfindel stayed where he was. “You have nothing to fear. We only wish to help you.”

Legolas shook his head, hearing the words yet not listening to them. He needed to run, to get away. Logic told him that there was nowhere he could go to escape, yet he still had to try. He needed time alone to think.

He eyed the others warily, while mentally he judged the distance to the door versus an escape through the balcony. He didn’t wish to have the others attempt to stop him from leaving, and Glorfindel partially blocked the way to the door, so the balcony it was. Before either could react he bolted, leaping deftly towards the stone balustrade. The other two watched in surprise as he climbed over and down an adjacent trellis, leaving them alone in the room.

Glorfindel turned to follow, but Elrond held him back. “Let him be. He needs time to himself.”

“Yet what if he decides to do something…unreasonable?” Visions of finding the distraught woodelf with slashed wrists, much the same as Ruscour had been found, swam through his vision.

“I don’t believe he will kill himself, if that is what you fear. Ravan will make sure of that.”

Glorfindel looked at his friend “You seem certain.”

Elrond turned his gaze back to the balcony. “Not certain; only a feeling.”

Glorfindel nodded. His friend was usually quite correct in his ‘feelings’.


“So who do you believe was the catalyst?” he asked, already having his suspicions even with what little he knew.

“I hesitate to accuse any without absolute proof,” Elrond said, lips twisting into a frown. “Yet from what I’ve seen and heard, Master Saeldis seems a likely guess.”

Glorfindel sighed, and then moved towards one of the vacated chairs. He sat heavily, dropping his head in his hands. Elrond followed, resting his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Are you certain getting so close to Legolas is such a good idea?” Elrond asked, finally commenting on the bond he had noticed building between the two. While the sentiment was admirable, he still feared for the safety and well-being of both elves.

“Elrond, he needs me,” Glorfindel expounded. “You have seen the scars he carries, and we have seen how the ones on the outside are merely a shadow of what he carries inside. He needs someone to trust him, and someone to trust in turn. Someone to convince him that he doesn’t carry the dark taint that he’s been led to believe has corrupted his soul. I have seen darkness. I have been to Mandos’ Halls, and returned. I do not fear him.”

Elrond nodded, his gaze turning back towards the balcony while his fingers began tapping at the back of the chair in a familiar pattern of thought.

“What are you thinking?” Glorfindel asked, his own mind too busy to take offense at the moving fingers.

“What must the inside of his mind look like?” Elrond mused. “I should speak with my sons. With help from the gifts they inherited from their grandmother, I may be able to see inside.”

Elrond caught Glrofindel’s look of disapproval, and chuckled. “Not merely for curiosities sake, I assure you, although I will admit to being quite interested in what I might find.” He frowned once more. “I need to find a way to join the spirits together again, without all of them fading. Despite Ravan’s council, he must have some small hope that I can help, else why would he speak to us?”

Glorfindel nodded, and after a moments pause, spoke again. “What I do not understand is how King Thranduil did not know this was happening to his own son? He should have seen something.”

“The weight of rulership has been heavy upon the Mirkwood King in the last century,” Elrond said gravely. “His attentions have been drawn away from the home to the concerns of his people.”

“Yet someone must have seen something. His mother? His siblings?”

“Not necessarily. We know Legolas tends to be very solitary in nature. And what reason had any to suspect, particularly when Legolas himself had no memory of what was happening?”

“Another question then,” Glorfindel looked up with a solemn expression on his usually pleasant features. “Do you think it possible that Legolas is not the only one afflicted? We know Saeldis taught Thranduil’s other children as well.”

Elrond’s grey eyes grew wide. “I had not considered the possibility. His attentions seemed solely fixed upon the second born, yet Saeldis had influence over Telpeur as well. That is assuming Saeldis is indeed the abuser.”

He strode briskly towards his desk, his jaw set. “I must send a message to Thranduil. He needs to know what has occurred.”

“Then I shall leave you to your work,” Glorfindel said, rising from his seat. He exited the room, leaving Elrond to compose the difficult missive in peace.



Review Responses:

Yanic: LOL! Thank you. I’m really enjoying Elanor myself. She’s such a sweetie. The quintessential child in all of us! Or at least in me… (grin)

Ertia: Well, Elanor didn’t show up in this chapter, but I hope it was still as satisfying. Ravan holds a piece of my heart as well, and is modeled after someone special to me. I’m really glad you’re enjoying this little monster of mine so far. Thank you!

Crookis: Thank you! And thanks for your suggestions. Legolas In Chains was one of the first sites I read, but you’re right about the updates thing. Library of Moria was actually what led me here, so I think posting there would be apt. I did look up the freewebs thingie, but with my knowledge of computers, even that seemed a bit daunting. Using an LJ account seemed the easiest option for now.

Eep: Yeah, elections were a bit hairy, weren’t they? I watched Gothika instead. Not quite as scary. (grin)
You’re favorite chapter? Wow, I have a high mark to reach. Thank you, and I’m glad you enjoyed Elanor and Glorfindel’s conversation as much as I.

Zed: That’s another fascinating aspect of this disorder. The personalities can be of all genders, ages, and races. Some can be one-dimensional personalities, while others are fully developed entities. And indeed, it seems they can be older than the original person. In Truddi Chase’s case (she’s probably my favorite), one personality was an Irishman named Ean who speaks with a heavy brogue. When commenting on his age, the Gatekeeper says, “You are old. I feel you, a thousand years multiplied, by every leaf on every tree.” Fascinating! The possibilities are endless, particularly if you take a more metaphysical view, and consider the idea that such ancient personalities might be some sort of reincarnated spirit that is intent on helping the victim. Whoa. I wonder if anyone has done any studies on the metaphysical and possibly religious aspects of DID? I’ll have to look into it.
Thanks for your posting suggestions. I’d love to try OEAM, but I’m not sure it would qualify. (I think this story skirts the edges of some of their restrictions, particularly regarding minors, but I’ll have to write them and see.)