Fractured Light

Fractured Light

The Scent of Honeysuckle

Legolas was no stranger to pain and indeed the sensation had been increasing steadily over the course of recent days, but today the persistent ache that awakened him was different. It was the kind of throbbing, caustic stab that kept time with his pulse; a regular, measured advance and retreat of sharpness that told him his heart was no longer struggling to push blood through his veins. Today it was cleansing, a healing pain as opposed to that which portends death. He welcomed the familiar, nagging discomfort felt in the body when wounds were on the mend.

Gone was the heat and the unbearable sense of weight bearing down upon his chest, inhibiting his every breath. Gone was the hideous impression of a vicious snake buried beneath his lungs, pushing against his muscles and bones, writhing its way up, pressing against the skin so that it must surely burst through and tear him open. All that remained of the killing pain was a parching thirst as of ashen sand upon his tongue. Banished were the vague and fearsome visions of death and darkness and abandonment. Legolas shuddered, turning his thoughts away from that, focusing his senses outward now that his assessment of his health was satisfied.

He was clean now, too; the smell of his blood absent while the light touch of soft silk graced his skin. If he wasn't hurting so much he would stretch in the luxuriant delight of the soft mattress and downy pillows, wriggle his toes under the cool, crisp sheets, and turn on his side to burrow into the pocket of warmth created by his own body. He knew better than that and refrained, instead holding still while extending the invisible tentacles of awareness into the space beyond the bed.

The room was enclosed but filled with air and light, though he knew it must be aduial by the distinctive chirping call of swifts snatching food on the wing. He could not be in the palace yet neither was he amid the trees. The calming circulation of the natural breeze moved gently through the space and brought the sweet scent of honeysuckle inside. It was perplexing; there was a hearth with a fire supplying the commonplace sounds of all domesticated conflagrations, crackling and murmuring benignly, like hunting dogs whose barks and growls no longer menaced but served.

He heard voices nearby and yet removed, not in the room but not far beyond it. Quiet but distinct, these were masterful voices, their owners undoubtedly the owners of the place where he rested. One was deep and thoughtful, a lordly voice, the sonorous tones rich and filled with wisdom; the other was sharper, shorter, calculating: an assassin's voice. Strength, confidence, friendship, and power resonated within every syllable traded between them and suffused the air. The speakers were male; they were elves; and instinct insisted they were discussing him. Legolas stilled himself to listen.

"…denied any knowledge of the cause of his brother's despair and argued most assiduously for the right to visit Legolas ere departing," the assassin droned. "His Royal Highness even posited dire political ramifications should he be denied access to his brother, saying your orders exceeded the bounds of a healer's duty. He hinted broadly that keeping Legolas here against the wishes of his kin borders on captivity."

"Did he?" the lord replied with a snort of derisive scorn. "I suppose he would have us believe Thranduil will consider his youngest child my hostage."

"Something very like. I was not displeased to see him leave."

"I, too, hoped he would go at once. His presence endangers Legolas. Knowing the message is already in flight, he hopes to arrive home before my full report is delivered into Thranduil's hands. Faelon did not go forth without an escort?"

"No, though I strongly doubt the woodland folk would accost him. What Rammas might wish to do and what the rest of the Greenwood contingent will permit are two very different undertakings."

Rammas! Gone?

The idea blazed through his brain and momentarily deafened his acute ears. His heart gave a horrendous, tearing leap against his ribs, so hard it felt the muscle would collapse, and he knew then it must be so. Rammas was no longer here and now that the notion was before him, Legolas realised it was not physical anguish that had wakened him but this rending sense of loss. Vehemently reason rejected the truth but denial could not hold against the onslaught of despair. Rammas would not leave him here in this unknown place with folk who were not of their kin, yet exactly that had he done.

Acceptance immediately generated a wave of relief which inundated Legolas' aching soul, yet right in its billowing wake trailed guilty remorse so intense it was like the pain of a fresh wound. It was impossible to draw breath and his hands reached for his throat. Fingertips brushed the neat, pristine wrappings covering the ugly gashes he knew were there and memory returned.

In the span of a few frantic heartbeats he relived it all: his begging, Rammas' rejection, their heated argument, cold cruel words condemning him, his desperate flight across the plains in the night, the scramble to throw off his pursuers, sending his horse one way while he went another, diving into the thicket, panic as his vambraces fought removal, relief over the bright glint of moonlight on metal and the sudden, icy bite of the steel blade, calm acceptance as the thick, red torrent flowed from his body and painted the ground with a dark, wet stain.

Now he was in this unknown place, Mandos denied him. He forced his eyes open and stared at the bandaging, furious and bewildered, for who had found him and carried him here was a complete blank. He hadn't strength to keep his arms up and they dropped heavily against his chest, thumping rudely against the wretched gash across his belly. He exhaled a low groan and dragged his limbs to his sides, labouring for breath. His next mental image was a hazy one of a healer who brought agony in his touch and comfort in his words. Anger blazed through his heart with this thought, for what solace could he ever know save that of death and oblivion?

The voices drifted into awareness again and he recognised that healer's distinctive tone; in spite of his anger, he listened. The normal, regular intonation of ordinary conversation was surreal juxtaposed beside his suffocating misery and it was enough to make him wish to laugh, save his heart would not permit it.

"Rammas may just meet his father on the way, if I know anything of Thranduil."

"Do you?"

"Enough to believe he will not allow his youngest child to fade in a foreign land with only strangers to comfort him. He would ride three horses to collapse in order to get here as fast as Gwaihir flies, watch and see."

Ada! I need you here!

Yet what could he do or say should he come? What could Legolas say to him; how even to meet the pain in those suffering eyes? Legolas knew he could never face him and own the anguish he had caused. Twice he had refused to confide in him despite his father's persistence, yet what other alternative was there? He could never reveal the ugly secret. Rammas was right, he was twisted and perverse to hope to continue the affair. It was no bond of love and devotion but one of base lust and coarse need. Rammas did not feel its pull any longer; why did he?

Yet he would have us both: her in honour and glory, me in shame and disgust. And still I love him; I cannot help but need him. Nay, these are things Ada must never know.

The memory of Thranduil's frustration and sorrow assaulted Legolas with fresh remorse and now was there affliction sufficient to call forth bitter tears. To see his father on his knees, pleading for answers, promising anything and everything, begging forgiveness for neglect spawned by grief, this had been the breaking point and Legolas wept at the horror of it. How could he live knowing he had inflicted his burden upon his Adar, for surely he would fade this time? How could everyone expect him to just sail away to paradise carrying his Ada's death in his soul? Would not the Valar condemn him for such an unforgivable crime, to say nothing of the sin of becoming his brother's lover? Better to die now and plead mercy of Námo. At least he would see his father there.

Nay, he must not come here!

He must have uttered some groan or cry for the faraway murmur of voices abruptly stopped and he felt the presence of other folk round his bed. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and found his sight filled with a visage cast in compelling planes of wisdom, power, and deep compassion. Long black tresses framed the face, pooling on Legolas' shoulder with a whisper of sound and feathery pressure. The grey eyes were familiar and the depth of knowledge within them keen, their expression one of anxious concern mixed with hope. It was the healer and at first Legolas recoiled, his body instinctively fearing the pain it recalled, but then a calming hand settled on his shoulder and the lordly voice surrounded him.

"Be at peace, Legolas, for you are safe here. You are in Imladris, young one, under my care, for you are injured and ill with grief. Have you any memory of seeing me earlier?"

Legolas' face must have expressed his incredulity to be asked this for the second elf, the assassin, loosed an appreciative chuckle.

"I would lay odds he remembers that encounter, Elrond," Erestor remarked, not without sympathy, and leaned over his kinsman's shoulder, smiling when the patient's eyes located him. "I am called Erestor; welcome to Imladris, Legolas."

Legolas gaped at him, confused by the change in tone from brusque sarcasm to warm sincerity when this perilous elf spoke his name. Faint and disjointed auditory memories sounded through his mind, the voice of this assassin, this Erestor, talking quietly of love. Love for him? It was bewildering and suddenly Legolas found his overwhelming dread and despair lessened. He could breathe and did so, inhaling deeply as his sight returned to the healer.

It was at that moment he remembered the name Erestor had spoken and his eyes popped wide. The great legend returned his gaze with combined approval, satisfaction, and welcome. Somehow, someway this renowned descendant of the three kindreds knew him and was glad to have him here in fabled Imladris. Lately, Legolas had come to believe his very existence was a hindrance and a burden to everyone. He wished he had strength to express his gratitude.

It must have shown in his eyes for the lordly countenance immediately broke into a wide grin and the voice spoke, a soothing, mellow timbre to the simple elegance of the formal words.

"Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion, Ernil o Gladgalen Dhaer. Elrond, Hîr od Imladris, le suila. (Well met, Legolas son of Thranduil, Prince of Greenwood the Great. Elrond, Lord of Imladris, greets you.) Ai! Do not speak, young one; rest and be at peace." Elrond was glad to see the remarkable eyes unclouded and perceptive, pleased as the rain of silent tears diminished and dried up.

He perched on the edge of the bed and carefully wiped away the damp tracks of fresh sorrow. He had expected to see it yet found the sensation of the salty flux against his skin distressing, for Legolas had no strength to shield his heart and soul or even to deny such contact. He was vulnerable and defenceless in the company of strangers. Elrond slipped his arm beneath Legolas' neck and raised his head so that he could drink from the cup Erestor was thoughtful enough to provide. The Lord of Imladris shared a subdued smile with his seneschal; they were both thinking of Gilion's description of the vibrant blue irises peering at them in open awe over the rim of the glass.

Legolas guzzled the cool water, frantic for more as soon as it was gone and silently imploring a second helping. He was answered immediately and gulped so quickly he inhaled a mouthful and started to gag. The cup was removed and his back gently rubbed as he sputtered and coughed and caught his breath, strangled moans joining the unwholesome mix of sounds as the old wound protested with brutal intensity. The experience was exhausting and his eyes closed as he found himself fighting for air. He clung to the sturdy arm supporting him.

Gradually the pain diminished to a hot and hollow throbbing and the burning in his lungs stopped. Competent hands propped him against the pillows and then a cold chill ran through him. He blinked his eyes open and shivered. His distress had raised a fine film of perspiration and fresh air ghosted over his bare chest as the healer opened his night-shirt to make sure he was not bleeding again.

It was humiliating; he was completely helpless and could do nothing but submit to whatever indignities his treatment might demand. Of course he'd been stripped and inspected and washed and treated and bandaged, all with clinical precision for necessity's sake, but it was still demeaning. These were not the healers of his father's House, people he knew well and who had known him since his birth. All at once he hated Rammas for leaving him to endure the compassion of strangers. The soft fabric envelop him once more and he heaved a deep breath, not realising until then how rigidly he'd held himself under the simple exam.

"Excellent," Elrond's said. "The dressing will need to be changed before Ithil sets, but the injury remains dry and emits no heat." He pressed his fingers to Legolas' throat to check his pulse and watched lines of aggravation and weariness furrow the prince's brow. It was not hard to guess the source of either sensation and he smiled kindly, though Legolas would not open his eyes.

"Do not be downcast. Your vigour will return, but too much of your blood was spilled and it will take your body a little while to replenish it. This is especially true given the wound you already had, which was infected, and the abuses you have borne," he said quietly. Another sigh passed Legolas' lips and then Elrond was treated to an aggrieved blue stare.

He smiled in spite of that morose expression, or perhaps to counter it, and smoothed away the few strands of golden hair that had come free in the fit of coughing. He was not certain, but the texture of the hair seemed less rough than before and Elrond could not quite resist another swift pass through the soft flaxen locks. Long lashes drifted shut as Legolas drew and released an easier breath and subtly, unconsciously turned into the touch. Elrond felt his heart freeze and feared to move; indeed, he feared to breathe so wondrous was the sensation against his palm.

Beside the bed, Erestor cleared his throat and met his kinsman's look of flustered self-reprisal with perceptive compassion. Elrond snatched back his hand and Legolas' startled, uncomprehending. He shifted in discomfort and at once Elrond moved to assist him. Erestor suppressed a sigh. It was so simple to divine his kinsman's thoughts: as the principal healer over this ellon, it wouldn't do to fall under the spell of his ailing patient. Erestor understood the bond developing on Legolas' part was inevitable and necessary for his survival, but that was not what inspired the seneschal's pathos. It was the attraction of the noble Lord for the lesser Prince that moved him.

"Perhaps you should see if he can stomach the broth," Erestor suggested, tone soft with understanding, his expression open and encouraging.

If permission from him would alter his kinsman's determination to reject such a match, Erestor was pleased to grant it, but this would never be enough to break the lore-master's self-imposed constraints. Elrond had not taken a lover since things between them had cooled, and that was a pity for no one deserved the comfort and love of a companion so much as the selfless son of Eärendil. He planted a consoling hand upon his kinsman's shoulder and squeezed lightly.

"Stay; I will retrieve it." He did so and then made his excuses. "I must have Glorfindel's report on the trouble in Dunnland and then prepare the agenda for the traders' council two days hence. I'll send Forn'waew to gather the refuse of our meal, shall I? Say, in two hours?"

"Aye, that will be fine, Erestor," Elrond replied but his old friend was already striding from the bedroom, glancing behind with a thoroughly inappropriate leer that was disturbingly provocative. Elrond set the earthenware mug on the small table by the bed and faced his patient. Legolas' eyes were trained on the door through which the seneschal had just exited, a bewildered expression wrinkling his brow. So he had seen it, too. Elrond frowned; what the heart-broken ellon did not need was another hopeless romantic attachment.

"Pay him no mind, Legolas; Erestor enjoys teasing me. We are distant cousins but were raised together. He is a dear friend and closer than a brother in many ways." That proved to be an unpleasant reference for Legolas; his stricken and wounded eyes whipped back to Elrond's for a second or two and then sealed shut as he turned his face away. "Aiya! I won't exhort you not to mourn, but I intend to impose strict limits on the degree to which you may indulge your grief."

"Indulge?" Legolas rasped. He could not have heard correctly. "It isn't a choice."

As expected, his unlikely command distracted Legolas and the sorrowful eyes, bright with new tears as yet unfallen, focused on Elrond with sharp censure. He gave a solemn nod and assumed his most sage and lordly expression.

"Yes, there is choice. Rammas is not dead, Legolas, and neither are you. I know that right now it feels as though you are dead to him, but it is not so. He still loves you dearly and in time this terrible rift between you will heal. How long the division remains is up to you." Legolas' mouth popped open in indignant disbelief but Elrond did not pause. "This is not something you can yet believe so you will have to trust to my greater knowledge and experience in such matters. My goal is to acquaint you with the power you have over your own fate and teach you to exercise it effectively."

Elrond let that sink in and watched as incredulous wonder filled the prince's eyes. Being dependent upon Rammas since the age of ten summers, how could he ever have conceived such a thought? Now the learned healer plunged into the dark depths of the matter. He had considered long how to handle the illicit affair and decided that pretence did not serve Legolas, who had been trained to keep his heart's dearest feelings secret. Nay, the situation called for an open and direct exposure of the truth.

"You are not the first ellon to fall in love with his brother, nor will you be the only one ever to survive the breaking of such a forbidden bond." Elrond paused and watched shock and fear transform Legolas' comely face. He smiled kindly and then set about raising his charge to a more upright position as though the conversation was the most commonplace imaginable.

"Worry not; your privacy will be respected, young one, and Rammas did not betray you. He would not, for to do so he must own his crimes and that he is not ready to do." Elrond watched golden brows arch high and nodded seriously. "I am a healer; the marks told me all I need to know." Gently he let his hand touch upon the bruised throat and Legolas gasped.

"Was my doing," Legolas insisted, stricken to know he had somehow let this shameful horror get out. Had he spoken while in the grip of fever?

"No." Elrond negated the prince's guilty thoughts. "The other attempts you must claim but in all my experience I have never known of any person capable of throttling himself with his own two hands. Let us leave that for now; I have no wish for you to suffer more than you already have done. Yet neither will I abet the secrecy you crave for such does not promote healing. I know what happened; you know what happened. Together we will find means to overcome it." With that Elrond took up the broad, round mug and the spoon. "Now then, before any healing of the heart can begin, your physical health must be restored. I want you to try and consume at least half this bowl of soup."

Legolas was utterly stunned and obediently opened his mouth as the brimming spoon neared, swallowing the mouthful as the Elven Lord's words rang through his heart. It was disorienting and frightening; he'd never heard anyone speak aloud such atrocities. He certainly could not and Rammas had not liked to talk about what was between them even before that horrible fight. Yet it was his fault and not Rammas'; the mighty Lord did not understand for he had not been there to see it, to hear the awful things Legolas said, the ugly threats he'd made.

At the same time, he could not help feeling heartened by what the learned lore-master had said. Elrond was a name and a personage that garnered only respect, admiration, even awe among elf-kind of every realm on Arda. Even mortal folk sought his advise and aid. If such a wise, intelligent ellon believed there was hope then Legolas was eager to adopt that opinion.

Hope quickly evolved into certainty. He and Rammas would be reunited; had this legendary Lord among elves not ordained it? Aye, and the darkest of the brothers' deeds Elrond treated as any other condition with which a healer might be presented. Legolas submitted to being fed without protest, his fractured psyche feeding on the great healer's pronouncements, lost in an almost euphoric daydream of days to come when Rammas would put aside his atrocious bride and beg him to resume their life together. He managed a shy smile between swallows, eyes gleaming with gratitude.

Elrond knew his determined course of treatment was sound, but did feel a rather severe twinge of conscience over that smile. He kept his misgivings hidden, knowing that his young patient's hearing was selective and had recorded only what best meshed with his broken heart's dearest wishes. The reference to breaking the brothers' unnatural bond had passed by without impact; Legolas imagined that he and Rammas' would remain a couple.

He was forestalling fading by allowing Legolas to nurture this false hope, yes, but with the prince's physical health also compromised, Elrond had no other viable option. He needed time to rebuild Legolas' strength before forcing him to see the truth. The moment of realisation and acceptance, when it came, would be neither easy nor free of danger. There was no guarantee he would survive it and no certainty, should he live, that his soul would not darken in bitterness and self-pity.

Both fates Elrond had witnessed in trying to restore the fractured light of a shattered soul. There was no denying such hurts were nearly impervious to magic or to medicine. Grief was deadly and fading a slow and excruciating end. He did not wonder over Legolas' efforts to secure another means to die. Indeed, Elrond's success rate in mending ruptured hearts was as dismal as any other healer's. Only once had he prevented death and while that made him the only healer ever to do so, he could not count it a success. Just once, the case personal, the circumstances tragic, the result unbearable enough to plunge him and all his family into despair.

Not all his store of knowledge and wisdom, nor the glory of the Ring of Air, nor the fullness of his abiding love had prevented Celebrian from falling to the diminishing doom of a darkened spirit. Her acidic words and furious hatred devastated him; she blamed him for condemning her to a shameful existence, eternity endured under the pall of a blighted soul and tainted light.

She renounced him; even worse she renounced her children, her parents, and her very self. As soon as her ship raised sail, she turned and cast her wedding band over the rails and into the harbour, cursing Elrond with such vile words that elves fled from the quay and Galadriel broke down in hysterical tears.

Losing her was the very worst experience of all his long life and he had still not fully recovered, though so much time had since past into history, nor had his sons.

While these thoughts ran through his mind, Elrond had been carefully spooning the rich brown broth into the quiet ellon's mouth, noting subconsciously his efforts to obey and finish at least half. Unexpectedly, a bandaged arm lifted to block the next spoonful and Elrond returned to the present with a start. He found solemn blue eyes studying him intently and blinked, offering a faint-hearted smile. He meant to apologise for his distraction but could not make the word stake form, uncomfortable under the penetrating stare.

There was something unexpected in the youthful blue eyes and it perplexed him. He sought to define it; what could this elf know of him? At that he inhaled sharply for it was recognition and empathy he saw in those troubled depths. Elrond was both shocked and dismayed for he had not meant to burden Legolas with his own sorrow. He had to break from those eyes! Before he could gather his wits, the young prince spoke.

"I am sorry for your loss," he said simply, the words faint in volume but replete with sincere and kindly commiseration.

Several seconds of silence passed by as Elrond gaped dumbly, unable to fully encompass what had just happened.

"Thank you." By supreme effort he finally managed the brief reply, finding his throat suddenly tight and his eyes burning with tears of his own.

Stunned by the impact of this suffering elf's insight, he rose quickly, carrying away the nearly empty mug. Needing to collect himself, he tidied up the mess in the sitting room left by his and Erestor's meal. That done, he returned to the bedside to discover Legolas' eyes were closed, the patient submerged deep in a healing slumber once more, and Elrond carefully eased him into a more comfortable position on the bed. After that, he sat down and could only stare at this most unusual and perceptive young warrior.

"Great is the strength of your spirit," he murmured, "and I begin to see how Rammas was drawn to possess it."

TBC

The Names:

RAMMAS: Wall

TALAGAN: Harper

MUINDORADAR: Uncle (brother-father)


FORN'WAEW: North Wind

SAMMAR: Neighbour

GILION: Star Son

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.