Feud

Thanks: to all the readers and especially to Sarah for her beta work. Any remaining errors are only mine!

Chapter 48: Gwaedh o Gwenyr [Bond of Brothers]

The rooms Thranduil had allotted to the Tawarwaith and his companions were not the most luxurious accommodations available for visitors and indeed were situated in the lower levels of the stronghold, nearly on the same plane as the servants' housing. Only the lesser staff and attendants of the King's guests drew assignment to such quarters in the bowels of the mountain.

In such rooms, no artfully fluted columns shored up the weight of the mountain, only simple, salvaged tree trunks carried the overburden. The floors were scarcely smoothed and the mats covering the rough surfaces were, while comely after the nature of all elvish crafts, woven with an eye toward durable utility rather than beauty. The caverns' walls bore none of the carved relief found in the higher rooms, nor even a finely sanded polish to uncover the hidden textures of the minerals within. Only a few tapestries broke the severity of the granite and gabbro, and of these the designs were more geometric than narrative or picturesque.

The depth of these honeycombed caves precluded any open balconies or even windows, and the cavere rre relegated to oil and candle light for illumination. While any number of lamps and candelabrum that one might desire could be brought into these humble lodgings, for the fair folk the tomblike quality of the delved catacombs could never be bright enough. In the sleeping chambers, one narrow channel was cut through the ceiling, meandering up through the dense, silent stone to breach the exterior walls and allow a vague shaft of natural light inside.

Wood Elves confined to such dreary spaces required the meagre connection to Anor and Ithil for sanity; beings that rarely closed their eyes tended to quickly become emotionally unfettered when deprived of the sense of sight, and candles and lanterns were not infallible sources of light. Other races would probably never notice the tenuous column of wavering brightness.

Beyond that, the air in the rooms needed to be freely exchanged and the minuscule vents served that purpose as well. However, the limited radiance was insufficient for green life and no amount of artificial light could provide for the growth of plants at such depths. For this reason most of the elves in the employ of Thranduil's household chose not to live within the stony palace. These folk arrived at Ithil's fading and left before tinnu.

Thus the cycle of Anor could be tracked even without the shifting spot of pale glimmer steadily tracking across the floor as Ariel guided her charge upon itsotonotonous trek. As soon as dawn broke, the kitchen staff arrived and began the daily task of feeding the ruling family, the counsellors and their aids, and the troops housed in the barracks.

The kitchens were but one level below the Tawarwaith's suite and one level above the forbidden vaults and dungeons of the stronghold. Due to the proximity of the rear stairway and the acoustics inherent in the vastness of the scullery, the noisy activity in these rooms was amplified and echoed through the chambers situated above. The fact that all the guestrooms had hearths that shared a cn, en, excavated chimney with the great ovens and furnaces of the cookery accentuated the effect.

Preparing food enough for so vast a number was neither an easy chore nor one that could be accomplished quietly. The sounds of busy hands chopping and mixing, bowls and pots bouncing against one another and clanging in dull tones against the stone and wooden tables,ces ces calling instructions and questions as the elves worked with one another echoed through the lower rooms, rousing any who were not already astir.

These day-breaking sounds greeted Aragorn as he returned from sleep; stiff and achy due to the restricted position forced upon his lengthy frame by the armchair. He stretched to work the kinks out of his neck and shoulders as a loud clatter spilled from the general vicinity of the cold and ashy grate. Internally he groused against the clumsiness that generated such a disruptive clamour. The thought that the Wood Elves lacked the more graceful mien of the Noldor briefly traversed his mind, for never had he been so rudely roused in all his years in Imladris.

The lack of generosity in such petty derogation quickly settled upon him, however, as the minutes wore on and the household came alive with an entirely different kind of resonance. Soaring above the everyday tumult of chores, there arose a magnificent and joyful song of praise to Iluvatar. Though he dearly loved the beauty of elvish voices lifted in praise of Eru, and this was not an unpleasant means of chasing away sleepiness, Aragorn was just a little disgruntled to be kept wakeful by the soulful noise. With a complaining whine he wished the elves would cease their cheery singing and let him return to his rest, but the next instant he caught some of the words drifting through tir air and came fully alert at once.

The Woodland folk were rejoicing over the birth of new life and a new heir, filling the rock-hewn domicile with the delightfully eerie harmonies of the mingled voices. They used the properties of the hollowed stone reatreate a resounding accompaniment; the very mountain became an instrument in their acapella symphony.

Aragorn was perplexed and gazed over at the bed where all the other occupants were gathered, silent in their own appreciation of the glorious chanting. Yet, the human sensed the underlying tension among his friends and realised everyone was focused on Legolas, who lay propped up against Fearfaron with his head bowed against the older elf's shoulder.

The carpenter was slowly stroking the wild elf\rm irm in a calming motion, whispering against his fair hair, but the mortal could not detect the words and doubted even Lindalcon would be able to discern them. That young elf was seated on the bedside, slowly rocking back and forth, protectively embracing a small elf child, but the babe seemed oblivious to the scene, lost in sleep. The wizard had a firm hold on the archer's fingers and stared intently upon his friend's features for any sign of distress.

Before Aragorn could ask what was going on and for whom the song was n, Ln, Legolas stirred and sat straighter, smiling at his foster father. The wild elf drew a deep breath and joined the hymn, adding his voice to the exquisite rendition of the ancient psalm of renewal and thanks.

The unsettled atmosphere in the room vanished, defused by the soothing strains of the wounded elf's fair voice, and soon everyone was smiling in happiness just to hear the clarity of dulcet tones arising from the open heart of their friend.

There was no doubt of the overwhelming delight in the Tawarwaith's soul and the genuine rejoicing flowing from his being. He was truly gladdened by the news of this latest arrival among his people, and was unashamed to let it be heard. Slowly, all other voices fell silent and left only the song of the forest champion ringing through the halls, filling the stronghold from the lowliest corner of the shadowed pantries to the loftiest and most elegant rooms of the royal suite.

Word swept swiftly among the forest folk that their Tawarwaith had blessed the newborn prince.

Amid the bolsters and pillows, blankets and quilts heaped upon the vast and comfortable down-filled bed, Meril and Thranduil lay cuddling their little son between them, awe-struck by the compelling beauty of the sound ascending through the tunnels and caverns, immersed in the joy of their union's fulfilment. They stared silently into each other's eyes, beyond the need for words, and simply shared the outpouring of love for the infant they had created between them.

The babe slept, curled up cosily in a silken bunting lined with rabbit's fur, encircled by his parents' arms and hearts. As all elven children, the beauty of his physical appearance exceeded the descriptive power of even the eldar. His immortal soul shone with splendour that could not yet be contained within his fair form, and he glowed with the virtues imparted by fresh hope and pure love.

Meril could not decide where to leave her eyes, transferring her gaze from her mate to her little one in a perpetual cycle of giddy fondness. She welcomed the song of her people, relishing their greeting and wholehearted acceptance of her offspring's nativity. With maternal reverence her fingertips stroked the cherubic cheek of her slumbering infant, allowing her spirit to swell in jubilation within the transcendent serenity of the omnipresent anthem filtering through the chamber.

The King's Consort easily recognised the soloist serenading her child; often had Legolas graced the gatherings of his friends with his vocal renderings. She was surprised and wondered how the outcast elf could find so much joy within his miserable existence to honour his replacement in such a manner. Meril glanced at her mate to find Thranduil pondering the same puzzle, a hint of sadness clouding the exuberance of proud fatherhood. That she would not allow; she almost let her irritation mar the perfection of this moment of familial communion.

The child stirred, hearing the glorious song surrounding his tiny being, and woke smiling with irrepressible delight, and all frustration instantly departed from his mother's thoughts as she beamed back into the babe's enormous eyes. Meril met Thranduil's equally grinning countenance and found her tongue at last.

"Man eneth annatha le ionlîn, meleth nîn? [What name will you give your son, my love?]" she softly whispered and leaned over to kiss her mate lightly.

Thranduil luxuriated in such attention, for Meril and their children together healed in him the raw, angry wounds inflicted by the misordained bonding to Ningloriel.

The fallen archer's gift of song reached the Sinda King and threatened to ruin his earliest moments with the new babe by animating the dormant roots of guilty remorse within the father's conscience. Thranduil could not completely close his heart away from the disturbing memories assailing him, compelling a comparison between this dawn's heralded event and the shameful arrival of Legolas into life so many years ago.

The Woodland Lord forced these recollections of his first union from his mind and concentrated on Meril's soft-spoken question. She had given Thranduil the choice to name their child; a great privilege, for traditionally among the Wood Elves the mother's naming came first and was that by which the elfling would most likely be known among his people. The father's naming came later, and was usually a more formal designation used only in rare circumstances. With their newborn son, Meril was allowing him the decision for both.

Thranduil had yet to choose the name he would bestow upon Gwilwileth, for the words he most often thought of when confronted with his daughter described tumbling water in a small brook, Celon'lîr [Riversong], or the canticle of a tree filled with birds in the height of a spring rain, Echuiross [Early Spring Rain]. He could not decide between them.

For Legolas, he had never bothered to confer a patronymic. He had not even cared to ask what name Ningloriel had selected for her child, and could not recall ever using the designation when speaking to or about Legolas.

But he had centuries ago decided what name he would give to his son, the heir he had awaited so long, and now at last he could speak this aloud, and have the pleasure of knowing his beloved mate would confer this name for all to call their babe, too. Thranduil focused on this joyous realisation and returned Meril's tender sentiment.

"Hervess nîn [my wife], you honour me too much!" he breathed back these words as he pressed his lips against the softness of her chestnut tresses. "But I adore you for it all the more! Long have I known how to call my son; I wish the name to announce the strength of my heritage and the promise of our people's future! If you permit it, he will be called Taurant [Mighty Gift] for his birth is a priceless tribute from Iluvatar, a blessing upon the Woodland Realm."

Meril practically glowed with pride; this was a fine designation for her little prince, and she smiled her pleasure to Thranduil.

"I do permit it, hervenn nîn [my husband]! That is a name of power and will serve our son well in his life! Our people will rejoice to hear that their prince bears so bold an appellation."

Just then the song of the Tawarwaith drew to its close, and the royal infant breathed out a tiny yawn and shut his eyes tight to sleep as the lingering echoes of the hymn's refrains wavered in the waning glory of the outcast's fine voice. Overcome with weariness from the efforts of childbirth, Meril snuggled comfortably around her child and succumbed to reverie, secure in Thranduil's enveloping embrace of them both.

The Tawarwaith's voice lingered, reluctant to abandon the infant heir, and clung for long minutes in a softly mutated vibration of overtones for the little one's ears to absorb, though the song was completed and the singer spent. The gift was one the child might never recall yet with which he would likely be marked forever, even if he never met the fallen prince whose essence so freely filled the receding remnant of the exalted acclaim held within the notes. Taurant's heart would always know, whether his mind was conscious of it or not, that his first hours were transformed by the endowment of the wild warrior's devotion.

Fearfaron drew Legolas closer, cautiously shifting the battered body in his arms so the exhausted elf could rest more comfortably against him. The carpenter was overcome with a profound sense of amazement for what Legolas had done, and though he should have expected no less from the Tawarwaith, the fulfilment of this unselfish act was more moving than he could have imagined.

Fearfaron understood his adopted child's motives; Legolas would never want an innocent child's beginning moments marked by tension or sorrow. He wished only for the little one to know all the goodness there was to be found within the comforting guidance of his family. It mattered not to Legolas that these same comforts had been withheld from his own life, indeed that perspective served only to make his desire to spare this child such torment stronger and more emphatic.

As the sound ceased Legolas slumped against his protector in weariness, for much more had gone out of him into the song than just the breath of his lungs and the joy of his heart. Some part of his fortitude and will had filled the stanzas and verses, imbuing a kind of potent benediction upon the child, that the little one might have the love and kindness of both parents and the eternal blessings of the Valar, as was every elf's right. He had sent into the melody his own commitment to guard and secure the child's future. The song was Legolas' promise to return to the Wood Elf King's heir a land free of shadow and strife, where the glory of Tawar would become once more the centre of the Danwaiths' lives.

It was some time before anyone could find the will to speak, for even after the final reverberations of the hymn dissipated there was among the group a sense of respectful reverence, a desire bounded in not disturbing the air and disrupting the fragile peace that had enveloped the stronghold. The place had become almost sacred, and no one doubted that Legolas' gift had cleansed any taint of Darkness from everything within range of his song.

It required the innocence of a child to call them back from their lofty jubilation to the mundane requirements of daily existence.

"Lin'con, hungry Gwilith! Want honey-milk!" the toddler announced as she awoke in her brother's arms to the insistent demands of her growing body. She patted her brother on the top of the head and he in turn smiled at her.

Behind them the human laughed delightedly; it had been long since he had beheld such a young elfling for so many of the First Born feared to create new life in Arda, fleeing to Aman with what family they had left, propagating their lineage there, perhaps. The idea had greatly saddened Aragorn, and even as a youngster he had been aware that there were no playmates among the elven inhabitants close in development to himself. He stepped up to see this uncommon sight and smiled brightly into the elfling's curious eyes.

"Oh that sounds like a splendid idea, little one!" he said and reached out his hand towards her. "I would like some fruit, and perhaps a slice or two of sweet bread and honey myself!" To Aragorn's joy, Gwilith happily accepted his hand in her tiny grasp and laughed.

"Not elf!" she announced astutely.

"Nay, this is a Man, Gwilith," explained her brother patiently. "He is called Aragorn." Lindalcon could scarcely contain his anticipated laughter to hear what inglorious epithet she would bestow upon the mortal. Instead, she amazed them all and endeared her soul to the human forever.

"Aran [King]!" she cooed and with a mischievous twinkle in her gleaming green eyes pointed at the heir of Isildur.

"Hah!" Gandalf crowed. "They are false that remark upon the lack of wisdom among Wood Elves!" he commented as his gaze met Aragorn's in amusement above the young ones' heads.

"Do they so say among the other peoples of Middle-earth?" complained Lindalcon indignantly, regarding Aragorn with critical scrutiny. He had found much to like about the Man, but failed to see anything lordly in his rough appearance, knowing not his true heritage.

"Never mind! They who speak so are ignorant of the truth, yet mayhap one day this myth will vanish along with other prejudice wrought by the marring of Arda," Aragorn replied, though neither was he ready to reveal his identity to these elves. "But I was not jesting; hunger besets me and the scent arising from the bakery tempts my palate! What say you, Lindalcon? Gwilith and I require sustenance; will you lead us to the pantries?" He was eager to get Lindalcon away where he could question him about all that had happened in the night.

"Aye," the youth replied and leaned over carefully towards Legolas, who remained quiet and motionless in his foster father's care. Lindalcon pressed his forehead against his friend's temple and then lightly kissed him there, bringing a faint smile to the Tawarwaith, though his eyes were shut. "What about you, Legolas? What can I bring that you will eat?"

"I do not feel hunger, but I thank you for asking," he said without turning to look at his friend.

This did not satisfy Fearfaron, however, and he frowned. He did not want to do anything to hinder Legolas' healing, yet he could not help but believe that the wild elf would improve if he took even a small amount of nourishment. Beyond the injuries of battle and the sorrow of his beleaguered soul, his foster child was clearly suffering from starvation.

"Lindalcon, bring back a mug of warmed honey-milk for Legolas. That should rest easily in his stomach and lend him strength to recover," he ordered as he carded his fingers through Legolas' messy locks. The drink was principally composed of mare's milk and royal jelly from the hives of honeybees, and was both fortifying and sweetly appealing to the young. Fearfaron knew from experience Legolas would consume this with relish.

Lindalcon nodded and rose from the bed, shifting Gwilith to his hip once more, and was almost to the door before he remembered his manners.

"Oh! Mithrandir, what shall I bring you?" he said with some embarrassment, and was pleased to find the Istar regarding him kindly despite the oversight.

"Worry not; I believe there is much left on the platters you brought in yesterday. I will retire to my own chambers and settle my appetite! Might I suggest the three of you return there and allow Legolas some much deserved rest?"

"A commendable counsel, Old One; we will adhere to it!" Aragorn answered for them. He approached the bed and reached over to lay his hand upon the Woodland warrior's shoulder, squeezing firmly. "Rest well, my friend, and we will come to speak with you later!"

Legolas gave a slight nod of his head and smiled at his companion's concern. He watched as Aragorn assisted the wizard to rise, but there was no need for words of parting with Mithrandir and a simple meeting of eyes conveyed all that was required between them.

The Istar had cautiously withdrawn from the elf's mind as the song had concluded, sensing Legolas' need for solitude after so profound an outpouring of his feä. Or rather, the forest champion's desire for the comfort of the carpenter's protective love in substitution for that which he would never know from his true parents. Gandalf meant all he had spoken the previous day regarding his assistance to the fallen prince. He wanted to ensure Legolas that he would always respect the privacy of the archer's individual will and never force the contact between them beyond Legolas' need or desire for it.

In mere moments the other visitors were gone, leaving the two elves alone once more.

"Legolas, do you know how proud I am of the gift you have given the newborn child?" Fearfaron could wait no longer to express this heartfelt reaction, and was gratified by the soft, contented sigh that left his son's lips. Legolas did not answer but lightly increased the strength of his arms' hold where they wrapped round the carpenter's chest. "Can you sleep now? You are exhausted and we will talk more later."

"Nay," Legolas whispered. "I am weary but do not wish to sleep. I am all twisted up inside, Fearfaron! I am gladdened by the arrival of the new babe, yet I feel that I need to scream, or flee to solitude among the trees, or…"

"You desire to be loved; it is not unusual to want such a thing, Legolas! You need what every other elf requires, what the infant will be given in abundance. Your turmoil arises from the failure to procure this simplest of necessities.

"I wish there were some way to remedy the privation you have endured! I confess, Legolas; before you joined Annaldír's patrol I never considered your existence one way or another. Our paths never crossed in those days; like the rest of the Woodland folk, I assumed you were being taken care of properly," the carpenter's regret thickly coated his words as he held his son closer.

"You cannot feel any blame for that!" Legolas looked up at him sharply. "There is no way anyone could have known the truth!"

"It is good to hear you so speak," Fearfaron sighed. "For these are words you must learn to say unto your own heart when such misgivings assail you!"

Legolas shifted, uncomfortable in his body and his soul. He stretched out so that his head rested in his foster father's lap and he could look up into the carpenter's eyes as he spoke. The archer desperately needed to have someone explain this so that he could subdue the sorrow threatening to overpower the fading joyousness created when singing for the infant prince. More than anything, he needed to understand why he was incapable of generating warm emotions among his own.

{Why is someone else's father closer to me than any kin of blood and bone?}

"It is not surprising you have difficulty believing those words and cannot yet apply them to yourself," Fearfaron patiently continued. "As an elfling, trying to comprehend why such a basic requirement for happiness waniednied, you concluded you were the cause of the failings in the adults surrounding you. It is the way of a child's mind, Legolas."

He glanced down at the serious countenance regarding him and quailed in dread. How far could he dare to push this conversation? Fearfaron felt time pressing upon him, for the menace of the Noldo Lord's missive hung above Legolas' fate like a spider prepared to ensnare its prey. Should Thranduil present the letter to the Council before the carpenter could stop him, or worse yet, allow Legolas to read it, Fearfaron was unsure the embattled archer would be able to recover.

"But, Fearfaron, it is not a childish summation!" Legolas argued. "Things truly are this way! I have never been able to make them care for me!" He swallowed very hard and waited, tense and fearful, for he so wanted this elf to logically contradict these words and make him disbelieve them.

"Nay, that is not true!" the wise craftsmen understood clearly what Legolas required. "Your mother has always loved you! It is no fault of yours if she cannot behave with more maternal devotion! Think and remember! Tell me the first thing she used to do upon returning from Lothlorien!" Fearfaron already knew what this action was, for it was one of the rare personal references Legolas had ever made to Annaldír, who in turn had shared it with his father.

"She would go to my rooms, and there wait until I turned up, no matter the time it took! Once, she had to wait two days, and was furious!" Legolas recalled with a faint smile.

Fearfaron smiled back and patted his son's shoulder. It was such a small thing, so little to offer someone suffering so much. He had nothing more to add; it would be a lie to suggest that Thranduil felt any kind sentiments for Legolas. He dared not bring up Malthen's betrayal, for instinctively he knew it was Legolas' realisation that the guardsman felt no love for his charge that had pushed the fallen prince beyond his limits of endurance. It pierced the gentle elf's soul to see how eagerly his adopted child snatched up the flimsy example of Ningloriel's affection and gathered it into his spirit. And it was not enough, of this he was sure, to hold together the shattered shards of the wild elf's soul when the treachery of the Noldor was revealed. The carpenter was close to panic.

{I cannot do this! I will not be the one to inflict this punishment!}

"For all your time, Legolas, the entirety of your life, you have placed the flaw that prevented others from bestowing affections upon you within yourself! Yet you are not responsible for the actions of every other living thing. Ningloriel's character was set long before you were conceived, likewise for your father." Fearfaron surreptitiously slipped this referral into his speech, and felt Legolas start in surprise upon hearing it.

"Who Thranduil is now cannot be separated from the losses he endured at the end of the last Age! If for some reason he leaves Meril's chambers and renounces his newborn child, is that innocent babe guilty of any wrong to Thranduil?" the carpenter asked gently, and watched in satisfaction as Legolas emphatically shook his head in negation. "Can you see now that it is illogical for you to take the blame for your parents' behaviour when you were innocent?" The older elf concluded, and the archer gave the briefest nod, gaping at his substitute father from wide and fearful eyes before replying.

"Fearfaron, I would give almost anything to believe that new babe is my brother as well as Lindalcon's!" he whispered, responding to the oblique message of hope. "Yet Malthen and Naneth…"

"Legolaso noo not say anything more! I should have spoken to you about this years ago, and I hope you will forgive me for failing! I do believe you are Thranduil's son, as did Ningloriel. Mithrandir also is convinced of this, and when confronted Maltahondo gave sound reasoning for his insistence that he could not be your father. Whatever he may be, I do not consider him so low as to bed his own child!"

Fearfaron felt Legolas flinch and then the archer's grip upon his hand increased so tightly the circulation of blood to his fingers was nearly non-existent. He scrutinised the injured elf closely, looking for any indications of the terrible agony heralded by thoughts of the former guardsman, but Legolas was only staring at him with searing intensity, breathing in rapid audible gasps.

The carpenter sighed and leaned down to kiss his foster son's brow. He knew he had to tell Legolas the rest now or he would lose his resolve. Fearfaron returned the steely grasp and met the Tawarwaith's eyes resolutely.

"There is also solid evidence that Elrond knew this to be the case, Legolas. There has been some communication between the Noldo Lord and Thranduil concerning you. From what is contained within, and my thoughts about it, I am sure Thranduil has come to the conclusion that he is your father. So you see, not only do you have a baby brother, but a little sister as well!" Ending on this positive note, the carpenter hoped Legolas would focus on his relationship with Thranduil's offspring, and ignore the ominous exchange of information from thedo Ldo Lord to the Woodland King.

Legolas' gaze turned inward as he considered what he had been told. He felt the tightness around his heart lessen considerably and allowed himself a deep breath as he relaxed his hold on Fearfaron's fingers. It was easy to discern that his foster father accepted the Sinda King as Legolas' sire. The sincerity in his voice, his eyes, even the touch of their skin palm to palm attested to the carpenter's assurance that this was an absolute fact. The comfort Fearfaron's belief graced him was as water upon parched lips, how long Legolas had needed to hear this, and from a source that he trusted completely!

Still, a small rankling doubt remained. {Why did Naneth not answer me if this is the truth?}

Through his connection with Mithrandir, the argument relating Malthen's position on his possible paternity was known fully to the wild warrior. Indeed, the Istar's comprehension that the former corpsman had not knowingly seduced his own child was all that had enabled Legolas to weather the first attack of the grieving malady. The wizard's opinion was thus reinforced by Fearfaron's assertions.

Yet it was a strange thing to find that both his foster father and his venerable benefactor held such loathing and disgust for Elrond, for Legolas had not spoken of the situation to the carpenter. It could not be denied, the sense of revulsion Mithrandir bore was mirrored in the overtones of Fearfaron's brief mention of the Lord of Imladris. Whatever messages had passed between the two rulers, it was clear to Legolas that Fearfaron had either seen them or knew what they contained. That the news must be dire was certain; a cold chill ran through the archer's frame and he shuddered.

A short knock at the door and the entry of Lindalcon prevented Legolas from questioning the carpenter about this, for the younger elf brought in the requested drink. Fearfaron made his adopted son sit up and swallow it all down. As soon as the mug was empty Legolas frowned and stared resentfully at his young friend.

"He put something in this!" he said in frustration, suddenly feeling rather groggy.

"Nay, it was Gladhadithen. I told her I would not lie if you noticed, but she convinced me you need the rest, Legolas!" Lindalcon smiled and sat down on the bed, reaching out to wrap the fallen warrior up in his arms. "I am sorry, please do not stay angry about it! I only agreed to do it because I love you! I do not want you to slip away again!"

Legolas blinked, trying to concentrate on what Lindalcon was saying through the haze creeping over his senses, but found that all he wanted to do was lay his head against the younger elf's shoulder and sleep.

Lindalcon felt Legolas go limp and grinned at Fearfaron. Together they settled their charge under the covers and tucked him in.

Tbc