The Price of Pride

Elvish translations

Meldir – friend (male) hir nín – my lord
Caun-neth – young prince Melethron – lover (male)
Irmamin – my desire


Chapter 9

The situation that greeted me upon my return to Mirkwood was grave. My father, though willing to trade with Rivendell and Lorien, was too proud to ask for aid defending our borders. We fought for every inch of ground, but we could not stop the encroaching darkness. For fifty years, we fought. I watched as Elves I had known since birth succumbed to orc poison or faded when the loss of loved ones was more than they could bear. I dreamed often of Arwen during those dark times, praying that she was safe, untouched by the Shadow, and that I would live to see her again. The thought of her was all that kept me sane some nights, when it seemed no hope remained. I would force my mind into the half-sleep where I was only just aware of the world around me, but with my mind still mine to control, and I would return to Imladris, reliving the precious days I had spent with my beloved. I would awake, if not refreshed, then at least restored enough to face whatever the next day brought.

The winter of the fiftieth year after my departure from Imladris was particularly harsh. The weather was colder and wetter than usual, making it more difficult to patrol the woods.

It was on one especially miserable night, still early in winter, that disaster struck my patrol. The temperature hovered at freezing; the rain that fell seemed more like needles of ice than like water. We could barely see beyond the Elf in front of us. How the Orcs sensed us, I do not know, but arrows came out of the darkness. They were not well aimed. Indeed, most of the first volley missed their targets, but one embedded itself deeply in my thigh. The pain was intense. I grabbed the shaft and pulled it from my flesh, smelling the tip to check for poison. An acrid smell reached my nose. It was poisoned. I shoutedersders to my second-in-command as I bound my leg. I had to get to the healers as quickly as possible if I was to survive the poison.

The two Elves closest to me guarded my back as I headed for home. They were the only two of my patrol to survive the night.

The fever from the poison kept me unconscious for two weeks, much longer than it had affected anyone who had survived. When I finally awoke, I was as weak as a newborn, barely able to move. Spring came before I was able to leave my bed for more than a few hours.

Not satisfied with the rate of my recovery, the healers decided to send me to Rivendell as soon as I was strong enough, and the weather clear enough, for me to travel.

Strangely enough, news of my impending trip seemed to help my recovery, though only a little. By the time the roads were passable, I had just enough strength to make the journey, albeit more slowly than I normally would have.

My father’s healers had included a lengthy missive to Elrond, which I delivered, along with myself, into his care. Elrond installed me in the Houses of Healing and began trying to heal me. Elladan and Elrohir were often at my bedside, trying to keep me entertained since Elrond had confined me to my rooms. Glorfindel and Erestor came as well, indulging my desire to know every detail of Arwen’s life since my departure, but she, the person whose presence I desired most, did not come.

I forced myself to wait three days before breaking down and asking the twins were Arwen was, for Erestor and Glorfindel had not told me that. Elladan told me she had gone to Lorien with Celebrian to visit Galadriel and Celeborn. My recovery, which had sped up since hearing I was coming to Imladris, stopped altogether. I lost my appetite and quickly lost the weight I had gained in the weeks before my trip. The wound, though closed, remained red and painful. I could move about, but I tired more and more quickly each day. Elrond tried all manner of poultices and potions, all to no avail. He was considering surgery, to see if any of the arrowhead remained in my leg, which would explain the lack of healing, when Arwen came home.

I was asleep when she came in, my usual state as my body tried to heal, but the sound of her voice roused me from my dreams. I fought against waking, because I had dreamed of her so many times, only to find it a figment of my fevered imagination, that I did not want to face the disappointment again. The voice begging me to wake would not leave me alone, though, so I reluctantly opened my eyes to find Arwen sitting at my bedside.

Even awake, I was sure I was still dreaming. I would not have thought it possible, but she had grown more beautiful in the time we had been apart. At her majority, she had been on the cusp of maturity, no longer Elfling, but not the ripe she-Elf who now sat before me. If I had desired her then, my feelings multiplied tenfold.

“What have you done to yourself, meldir?” she chided me gently, seeing my eyes open.

I tried to answer, but no words came out. She handed me a glass of water to ease my dry throat. I reached for her hand when I returned the glass to her, holding on to her as to a lifeline.

“You have returned,” I said.

“As you can see,” she answered. “Now, tell me what happened.”

To my great surprise, I did. I poured out the whole story to her, telling her of the attack, the wound, the terrifying journey home, hoping we would escape the Orcs and make it to the healers in time. I spoke to her, as I had to no one else, of my grief at finding my friends, my brothers-in-arms, dead when I finally awoke, of my guilt at having survived. “I feel so helpless,” I admitted. “I hate being sick, I hate being dependent on others. I hate being confined. I feel like I am a prisoner, and even the beauty of the surroundings cannot ease my despair. Why do I not heal?” I cried finally.

Arwen held me through my grief, my anger, my frustration, my despair. “I do not have answanswers to any of your questions,” she said, “but if the answer to your healing is in Arda, Ada will find it. There is no better healer outside of Valinor.”

I knew she was right, but I dreaded the form the healing might take. “He talks of cutting my leg open again, to find the cause. I am a warrior, Arwen. That is all I know. What will I do if I cannot fight again?”

“Do not despair, Legolas,” she counseled me. “You do not know if it will come to that, but even if it does, there will always be a place for you. You will just have to find it.”

Arwen said nothing to me in those hours by my side that others had not already said, but her words brought me a comfort that the others had not. It was as if I feared her rejection should I be disabled. Now I knew that she would remain my friend no matter the outcome. She kept me company almost constantly, holding my hand, reading to me, singing with me when I had the strength, to me when I did not. She encouraged me to eat, alternately cajoling and ordering, whichever worked best given my mood at the time.

Elrond continued to search his books for other avenues besides surgery. It had taken so long for me to recover from the first wound, he explained, that he hesitated to inflict a second one if it could be avoided. He did not come to check on me every day. My condition was stable, if not improving, and between Arwen and the twins, he would have known if my condition worsened.

Arwen had been home four days when Elrond came to check on me. He had to chase Arwen from the room before examining my leg.

“I have seen wounds before, and Legolas as well,” she told him tartly in a bid to stay at my side.

“Out,” had been Elrond’s only response. I was glad in a way that he had insisted. Arwen was right in both her statements, but I did not really want her to see my wound. I had been so proud of my body, of my unblemished skin. It seemed profane, somehow, to show her my imperfection now, though she scolded me later when I admitted as much.

When she had closed the door behind her, I lifted the hem of the loose robe I was wearing, leggings being painful still against the scar. Much to my surprise, and to Elrond’s, the scar appeared less inflamed.

“What has happened?” Elrond wondered aloud.

“I do not know, hir nín,” I told him. “I have felt stronger the last few days. Arwen has all but forcedd dod down my throat.”

“Yet you were eating well enough in Mirkwood and did not heal,” Elrond mused. “If this improvement continues, we will not need to take more drastic measures. Continue to rest, caun-neth. We will see what happens.”

“Could I at least sit in the gardens from time to time?” I requested. “I grow tired of these walls.”

“As long as you continue to recover. If it stops or if you grow worse, you will have to limit your forays again.”

I agreed to his conditions, eager for any opportunity to leave that room. I rose as he left, and Arwen came rushing back in, clearly perturbed at having been excluded.

“Well?” she demanded.

I was so thrilled by my impending freedom that I pulled her into my arms and kissed her before I even realized what I was doing. It was not a particularly passionate kiss, more one of celebration, of anticipation of some freedom.

“It is healing,” I told her breathlessly when our lips parted.

“That is good news,” she agreed. Then, to my surprise, she kissed me, the kind of kiss I had dreamed of during those terrible nights in the woof hof home.

“Arwen?” I asked, when she drew back.

She smiled at me, a mysterious, feminine smile that I had not seen on her face before. “I am glad you are healing.”

“I am not healed yet,” I told her.

“But you will be, melethron,” she insisted, that smile still on her face.

“Are you asking me to be your lover again?” I did not want to misunderstand.

“Unless you have met someone else while you have been away.”

“There is no one else,” I assured her. Nor will there ever be, I thought, but I did not say those words aloud. I had lost the right to say any such words when I had agreed to participate in her Cuivië.

“Nor for me,” she replied.

“Irmamin,” I whispered, kissing her again with more passion. Then, I laughed ruefully. “However much I desire you, I have not the strength to follow through.”

“Then we will sit together and talk and do what you can.”

“Your father has given me permission to sit in the gardens as long as I continue to improve.”

“Then let us go there now. The roses are blooming.”

I followed Arwen into the gardens and spent the afternoon with her, first sitting on a bench, then lying together propped against the roots of a tree.

That became the pattern of our days together. I rapidly gained back the weight I had lost since my injury, and less than three weeks after Arwen’s return, the scar was nothing but a white line on my thigh, the pain gone completely.

Elrond continued to observe my recovery, only interfering when he felt I was pushing myself too fast. The day after we found the scar healed, Elrond summoned me to his study. I arrived at the appointed time, a little nervous as I did not know the reason for my summons. He motioned for me to be seated.

“It appears we have a problem,” Elrond told me. “Or rather you have a problem.”