Master

A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long. Real-life catched up and I had to work hard on my thesis. As always 'this' indicates thoughts and "this" speech.

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He was floating in . . . something… on something..

'White.... yes...,' he decided.... it had to be fog... 'or maybe little cotton clouds?' Argh...what did it matter anyway? Why did it matter?

Ah yes... right... he remembered.... a notion more important than the clouds somehow encompassed his thoughts, kept him separate from his body. He had to try breaking free!!! Break free of this prison of foggy confusion.

Just as suddenly as he had realized where he was and what was wrong, an idle though caught his attention. 'Could one bounce on these cottony clouds?

'No! Focus you idiot!' Legolas reprimanded himself.

He tried to claw his way through that white.... thing... uhm... wall... but every time he created a hole, it closed again. Like trying to plough a gap in the river Anduin, his efforts were in vain.

Deciding that he hated cotton and feeling highly frustrated, he sank back into his mind to await the moment when the fog would be lifting off of his senses... setting his thoughts free

...

The very same moment that he stopped trying, the fog began to dissolve to be replaced by a warm red haze that constantly changed its hues. Specks of auburn mixed with warm orange and yellow tones, like the setting sun reflected on a rippling pond.

Bathing in the soft red glow, he was content, for it felt like a soothing balm to his wounded soul.

But a voice penetrated his sanctuary. "Wake up little prince... it is time!"

"Mhmm... go away…," he answered. The moment these words had left his lips his eyes shot open...

... and here he had the explanation for that red haze in which he had so contently bathed.

Bright morning sun filtered through leaves and trees, creating shifting patterns on every surface they touched. Legolas felt them tingling the skin of his face, tickling and teasing his lids closed again. And there it was once more, that warm, ever shifting curtain. He sighed. But then his mind kicked in again.

"I..."

Legolas startled at the sound and opened his eyes.

'Did I make that noise?', he thought bewildered.

A hand - his hand - found its way to his face, stroking delicate yet masculine sculpted lips, tracing their contours with barely a brush of his fingers, trying to re-acquaint himself with their feel.

"I can speak…," he whispered, his voice rough from lack of use.

The room echoed with a hearty laugh. "I know... I never doubted it, little princeling."

Disbelievingly Legolas stared up at the Elf lord, whose presence finally registered with him again. His next action happened without conscious thought, and the Lord of Imladris found his lap full of sobbing Mirkwood elf.

He could not control his emotions, did not understand them, was not able explain them. He simply felt. They were as a great wave that bore down upon him with a force that stole his breath and his ability to think.

Legolas gasped.

White foam burned like glittering stars on its crown, and spray fell like a curtain of silver rain. A portray of his ambivalent feelings. Hate and gratefulness. Sadness and incredible joy. A maelstrom of emotion…that tried to drag him under … left him in desperate need of an anchor… the one constant left in his life: Elrond!

Stroking the head pressed under his chin, Elrond smirked. 'Well... that went better than expected...'

“Shh… all is well… little one…” he soothed the troubled spirit and its shaking shell. “Shh…”

Legolas felt embarrassed at his tears - he, once a great warrior prince - crying in the arms of a supposed enemy, broken. But he could not stop them from falling, they burned their way straight from his soul to his eyes.

As tears flowed from Legolas’ eyes, so did the strength from his body, excitement was replaced by a deep sense of weariness. A mist rose to cover the cerulean twin pools that were his eyes, as he found his way to elven dreams.

Elrond smiled to himself. A smile showing deep satisfaction. Yes! he was quite happy. The way the prince had reacted indicated that he had chosen the right way…had analysed the proceedings of this young mind correctly…

But there was another reason he felt so giddy, wasn’t there? It had felt good to hold the young elf in his arms… felt good to stroke that gold spun hair… felt good to be the centre his world… thought it might have been only a moment or two…

The Elf-lord played absentmindedly with the gold band on his right forefinger… moving it around on his finger…

His hands tensed… began to shake in agitation. ‚NO!‘

Balling his hands into fists, Elrond stood up. Abruptly.

They could not be! Must not be! These feelings…

Elrond breathed deeply. Glancing at the One Ring on his finger, he shook his head at himself.

No… *it* was right…

Oh, he knew quite well where these thoughts had came from… nevertheless. He could not feel… did not feel… needed not feel anything. He possessed. And Legolas was one of his treasures.

Looking one last time to the sleeping figure on his bed, Elrond turned and left. Closing and locking the door behind him he looked at the man next to him.

“Halath!”

“Yes, my Lord Elrond?”

“Guard this door and put a guard beneath the balcony of my chamber,” Elrond ordered, his voice harsh and demanding in the aftermath of his emotional battle.

“Yes my Lord!”

Elrond turned to leave.

“My Lord?”

“What is, Halath? It better be something important!” Elrond’s voice held a warning.

The human bowed his head to pacify the agitated Elf-lord. “A message has arrived -” he paused, “from Mirkwood.”

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TBC