Legolas awoke in the early hours of the morning, before first light. He shifted gently away from Boromir, who slept peacefully, and touched his jaw with the back of his hand. He smiled to see him looking so restful.
But his own thoughts were in turmoil. He should have felt the burden lift, having reconciled himself to his husband, but in truth his fear over his son plagued him still. Though he could believe, when Boromir held him in his strong arms, that nothing and nobody could hurt them, afterwards he thought again of how Anarion might one day fall prey to the cruel blood in his veins. Again and again this thought resurfaced, waking him in the dead of night, as it had done ever since the day of his son's birth. And now, with the gift of the Red Eye from a mysterious stranger, the creeping dread in his heart grew ever stronger.
Silently, as only an elf could, he rose and wrapped his body in a fine silken robe. Boromir did not stir as he crept out of their room and took a walk down the dark corridors. Whenever he woke and could not find sleep again, he would walk like this around their quarters, and later return once he was calmed. Like a luminous spectre, he floated along in the darkness, and finally he reached a small room which looked out onto his gardens and his forest. He often stood here at the window, staring at the world outside while the dawn broke. But tonight, he left the curtains drawn, and sat down in the dim light.
Free to dwell on the nightmares that haunted him, Legolas sighed and buried his head in his hands. He sat like this for a long while, barely moving. When he looked up at last, his eyes were dry of tears, but there was a desolation in his face which spoke of what he now endured.
"I can do nothing now," he murmured to himself. "It is no longer in my hands." With a deep breath, he stood up.
He was about to leave when he thought he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, which startled him. Turning around, he saw that the covers on a table had been hastily put back, and that something glinted beneath them. The strange gleam, as of something watching him, attracted his attention. He went towards it without thinking, like a puppet pulled on a string, and pulled back the heavy cloth.
Beneath it was a solid black sphere, its surface shining dully in the light. It was dark and heavy, but within its heart there seemed to be a glow or flame, swirling with hidden colours and shapes.
"A Palantir," breathed Legolas. "I have not seen one for many years."
He did not cover it and walk away. Something deep within the Seeing Stone beckoned to him, teased him, begged him to look longer and further into its black depths. His mind locked into the very centre of the Palantir, and slowly, tentatively, his hands reached out to touch it. If his mind had not been so fevered, if his spirit had not been so tried these past days, he might have stopped himself and reconsidered. But it was too late. He grasped the Palantir.
At once, it was as if the black stone had become a globe of the world, and he had been pulled remorsely within it. Everywhere was dark and huge and empty, but for the countless whisperings around him. He turned and looked up and down fretfully but could see nothing, only hear the voices talking to him, but they all spoke together and blurred into one, and he could not understand what they told him.
Then, it was as if he soared in the sky and saw the land spread out far below him. The image cleared and sharpened, like he was falling down towards the ground. A light suddenly flamed out and the merged voices were blown apart by the sound of screams and cries. To his horror, Legolas saw before him the image of a huge ravine that stretched into infinite darkness. And deep within it, clutching to the sheer cliff-face, was Boromir, his beloved Boromir, bitterly wounded and crying for help. He was weak and bloodied, and so far had he to climb that he would never find the strength to reach safety. Legolas tried to open his mouth and speak, but no sound came out. He was transfixed. Boromir, with pain and anguish in his face, turned and cried:
"No! Please don't shoot!"
And now Legolas saw that a figure stood on the other edge of the ravine, a tall figure with a long bow held taut and an arrow aimed direct at his struggling husband. The elf was breathless with terror, to see Boromir so helpless in the line of fire, for surely the arrow would send him plunging to his death below.
He will kill him! he thought desperately. There is no escape!
And he pleaded in his heart that something would happen, that someone would save him, but it was not so. The image grew brighter and painfully sharp, and he could see the fear in Boromir's face, and then he saw the archer bend his arm and loose his arrow with a savage strength, and he screamed as he finally beheld the archer's face and the steely determination of his eyes.
The image went dark and he found himself back in the room. The Palantir was cold and dull. But his breath did not slow, and he could think of nothing else that night. For he recognised the face of the archer, though it had changed and matured - the face of his husband's murderer, the face that had looked so terrifying in its resolve. It had been none other than the face of his own son.
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