Title: In the Chains of Honor Author: Tanesa Etaleshya, Author’s Email: tanesa_etaleshya@hotmail.com Rating: R to NC 17 just to be safe Pairings: Legolas/Glorfindel (eventually), Legolas/Thranduil, Legolas/ Elrohir/Elladan (eventually), Legolas/Aragorn (also eventually), Legolas/others. Warnings: Rape, incest, NCS, violence, slavery, BDSM, angst, mpreg later (of course-where would the fun be without all this? So if you object to the abuse of any elf please do not read or do not get angry with me if you do not heed this warning) Dark and violent. Summary: Legolas mourns in the elven waking dream world, lamenting the loss of a love that gave him the reason to live and reliving precious memories and nightmares alike as he languishes in the dark thinking over the chances he had had and could have had if not sacrificed for the sake of honor and duty. Disclaimer: I do not own these lovely characters, although I wish I did. I only play with them, although if it were at all possible, I would love to get Legolas for Christmas, and Glorfindel or Haldir too. I make nothing from this but the joy of someone enjoying my labors as much as I have enjoyed those of others. Hail to Tolkien for his imagination! Authors Notes: This is my first attempt at writing fan fiction, so please keep this in mind as you continue. Constructive criticism will be much appreciated. I suppose you could consider this AU, but it begins long before The Hobbit or FoTR chronologically, although the story does not begin there, and once I reach the timeline encompassed in the books, I will follow that general timeline, though I may add in an episode or two, and change a few. The ending I foresee is AU, but not so far apart from ‘cannon’ as some stories I have read. In my story (and I know this is most likely a wide departure from Tolkien) Legolas is born in the year 3435 of the Second Age, the year after the Battle of Dagorlad and the Last Alliance when the One Ring was taken by Isiludur, which makes his age from conception 3,026 at the time of the Council of Elrond, 146 years older than Elrohir and Elladan if, as I consider it, elven pregnancies last at least a year. Enjoy! By the way: ~xxx~ denotes thoughts, *~*~*~*~*~* denotes flashback and the return, and *~*~* represents a shorter time change. Part 1: In the Dark, two beginnings… Chapter 1 Fourth Age He could no longer cry. He no longer had the strength, hardly enough to breathe. He felt dry, windswept, bereft without that one expression he was still allowed when on his own. The darkness pressed in on him as if palpable and heavy. The air was fetid and dank with old, rank odors ingrained into the stone he could not see, but could feel enclosing him. It had been long since he had been able to produce a tear, and had devolved into dry despair, parched of any method to release the grief ever-blooming and immortally young in his chest. He struggled to a half-seated position against the cold of the wall from where he had lain on the floor. He could not even sing to himself, to bring comfort to his aching, wretched soul, for that had been stolen from him much like the tears he so longed to shed. ~Too many tears I have already shed in this tiny cell, too many. Enough to fill a stream I should think. But what does that matter? What does any of this matter? He is out there, and is safe and protected, Elrond would see to that. And of the other? How old would the child be now? This is worth the price I pay. I chose this. I chose to wear these chains, to bear the weight of honor, to carry its chains every upon my body, my soul. It was my choice. ~ He would not know, just like he would not have known how long he had been here in this cold, too many winters left him cold and frozen, too many summers passed and he felt no warmth so far buried beneath the stone mountain. He could remember still; everything was clear as fresh spring water in his mind, every memory enshrined and haloed, precious to him, for memories were all he had left to guide him through the dark days and years he spent with only the darkness as his company, the darkness, the monotonous seeping drip of water, and the cold stone walls surrounding him. He smiled to himself as he started the reel of memories again from the beginning almost, the beginning that mattered most to him, not his true beginning, for those were not sweet memories to ease his dreams and his loneliness. He thought back to his days spent on the borders of Mirkwood, his home, meaning the borders were his home; the city in which he had been born and raised did not have the distinction of being called ‘home’ in his mind. He much preferred being out amongst the trees, alone most of the time, or with his companions in the Guards. They patrolled the borders, fighting to push back the increasing darkness encroaching on the woods that had once been called Greenwood by all, and now was referred to callously as Mirkwood, Taur e-Ndaedelos, or Forest of Great Fear, for the evil creeping inexorably into the trees and towards the very heart of the forest. He and two others were watching the elven path as it entered the woods, for a Noldor elf scout had been met here this morning, a sight which hinted at more Noldor to come, Noldor who were not so welcome in this wood as once they may have been, at least not since the Last Alliance and its woe-begotten war against Sauron the Deceiver. *~*~*~*~*~* Third Age 2163 He was patient, waiting. The three of them did not speak, just sat in a companionable silence and waited, appearing relaxed and at ease, but any who knew them would know they were anything but relaxed, indeed, would rather say they were ready to attack once a target presented itself. The sun was bright here on the edge of the wood and he enjoyed the feel of it caressing his skin as he sat perched in the tree watching the forest and the valley outside between the trees and the pass high above them. His companion on his right spoke suddenly, but softly, “I think they have met with some misfortune, your Highness, or they would have come by now. The scouts should have reached their company and returned by now.” “Perhaps,” he spoke softly, thinking. He heard a rustle amongst the trees, uneasy shifting of leaf and the occasional branch and he stopped moving, even breathing as he listened to the anxiety the trees passed on to him. He pressed his hand against the weathered trunk of the beech in which he perched and felt its warning. He motioned quickly to the other two and dropped from the tree with the infinite grace that spoke of his long association with said behavior, gave out a series of low whistles to alert the others positioned along the border and he darted out of the trees, moving silently and swiftly through the scattered trees and patches of grassy clearings, making his way toward the river without looking back to see if the others had followed him, as he knew they had. He could not hear them, even with his elven hearing, but he knew they were there, could sense them following and he trusted them, and they would follow their Prince to their deaths if need be. He followed the tracks of the elf scouts back to where he had returned surely and quickly. They could not have been far behind. Surely they would not send a scout so far ahead. The party was supposed to have arrived early this day, a planned visit from Elrond, Lord of Imladris, to Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, though not a visit either party would particularly rush into or find pleasure in, however necessary it was on occasion. It was not long before he found the scout, or what was left of his horse and a few scraps of his clothing and armor. He could smell elf blood amongst the orc bodies left to rot where they lay with arrows protruding from their barrel chests. He walked around the small scene, looking for signs that the elf might have escaped, but found little, until he shifted an orc as he followed a set of tracks too light to have been made by orc boots, though heavier than would seem probable for an elf. He followed the tracks into the trees again, a copse darkly shaded even in the midday sun, the cool of it soothed him without effort, but he remained focused, wary of his surroundings and keeping an arrow notched in his long bow, much like the elves that followed him and were stretched out to either side of him, some kneeling to make sure the orc at his or her feet lay truly dead before continuing on. The tracks he followed for some minutes, until he found a place where the grass was turned down and bent where the elf had fallen or stumbled, the coppery sweet scent of elf blood was light on the grass, but not so old as to have faded away into the forest scents. He started again, the tracks growing heavier and more erratic as he pushed onwards. He followed across another open space and another, finally crossing into another copse of trees, where he was promptly called to halt by an unsure and tired voice off to his left. He quickly spotted the source, but he did not move, “I am friend to you, elf of Imladris, friend at least that we share a common foe if not for our shared race. I know you are injured, for I have followed your trail. I have with me a healer who can tend to your wounds if you would but allow it.” He called softly into the trees, directing his voice to where he knew the injured elf had probably collapsed. “Come then in peace.” He strode forward, nodding for one silver-haired elf to accompany him, and another at his left and the rest took position around the small area as Guards. He found the elf sitting up against an ancient tree, his face pale beyond the overly fair complexion of their kind, and his breathing troubled and erratic. He stood before the wounded elf and nodded to him, “You fought well, friend, seven dead, and two incapacitated. Where is the elf I sent to you?” “I need no compliments from a whelp of Mirkwood.” The wounded elf shot back, wincing as the silver-haired healer cut the elf’s tunic and shirt open with a long knife and gently prodded at the wound in his side and the arrow protruding from the elf’s pale, heaving chest. “He went on to Lord Elrond to warn them. He is uninjured.” He felt the anger build up in him at the words of disrespect, but after a moment of fire burning brightly in his eyes, he let it pass, glad to hear Silinde was well as far as he yet knew. He allowed the anger to burn itself out in his eyes, but never further did it boil than there. He maintained his carefully controlled dignity. He did not move one step, nor had he changed his expression since finding the elf, and continued on in his neutral tone, “I meant no ill will in my words, only admiration for bravery well- earned.” The elf said nothing; this sylvan elf was not behaving as he had expected the elves of Mirkwood would, arrogant and proud to a fault. This elf seemed different, not apologizing for words said in disrespect, for only truth could be heard in the golden elf’s words as he spoke the second time, yet he did not back down, or introduce himself. “I and my party of Guards were awaiting the arrival of Lord Elrond and his entourage,” he began again in a neutral tone of voice, steady and true, “Know you how far behind you they are? I have seen evidence of many more orcs than those that attacked you, and I am loath to allow Lord Elrond to fall on the doorstep of Mirkwood.” Loyalty and concern for Elrond and his duty to the ancient elf won out over distrust between Rivendell and Mirkwood elves and he spoke, “I am Lindir of Imladris. I was only hours ahead of the Lord of Imladris. They had crossed the river two days past when I left them early this morning.” He stepped forward at last, right hand to his chest in greeting of welcome as he bowed his head slightly to the Imladrian elf as he spoke, “I am Legolas of Mirkwood, and I and my Guards shall track back to where your party should be, and help if need arises, and if not, then we shall act as escort. Rest here, he will stay with you, and I will leave five more to stand guard you as you are taken to Mirkwood. We will follow with the remainder of your party. You will find rest in the halls of King Thranduil by nightfall I should hope.” With that he left without a sound, disappearing as fast as smoke in the wind, followed by all but five of his Guards, backtracking the trail left by the elf now grown faint, and increasingly so, as they quickly traversed the ground. It was not long indeed before the sounds of battle could be heard, and the elves of Mirkwood, led by Legolas, picked up their speed while Legolas himself sped forward ahead of them to survey the situation and make quick plans. He whistled low to communicate, then followed with several more short bursts of different pitch. The elves spread out into position and moved quickly forward through the low brush and scant trees, unheard by either the elves or orcs absorbed in battle. With a short shout, Legolas alerted the Imladrian elves of their presence as friends, and with a volley of well-aimed arrows, engaged themselves in the battle. The parties of elves were easily outnumbered by the fell beasts, but that did not mean that all was lost. He fought hard, occasionally whistling commands to elves to close ranks or to shift focus to help another elf hard pressed. He noticed only one tall blond elf who stood out easily among the Imladrian elves, but was too occupied to take any more than mere notice of the fluid grace of the undeniably ancient elf. In one short glance he noticed the strong build and flowing lines of the elf’s body and his aquiline face, high cheekbones and flawlessly luminescent skin. He saw the glint of steel and sunlight in the azure eyes that darted his way for a second of time during which the Sindar’s heart stilled then beat at a renewed, frenzied pace. He did not look away until he saw the blond elf move protectively in front of the dark-haired elf he knew to be the Lord of Imladris. Glorfindel, then. They were the focus of the attack at present, and were quickly being outnumbered. Legolas looked around for a retreat, and found none. He whistled and the Mirkwood elves turned and darted through the orcs to close ranks around the Imladrian elves who were tiring from their long fight. The Mirkwood elves held their positions until the others could regroup and the circle held against the odds. A pang of sadness pierced his heart, as if his heart had been pricked when his second-in-command, and friend, fell from an arrow thick and dark, reeking with the rancid smell of poison so that, even if the shot had not killed the elf outright, he would not last long. He could do nothing for the fallen elf as yet; the press was still too dire. They held out, a steadily growing pile of orc carcasses outlined the circle of elves, a few of their own number, of Mirkwood and Rivendell scattered amongst the dying orcs until another elf had the chance to pull the fallen elf into the center of the circle. Legolas bent, finally free enough for a moment, to pull the fallen elf back from where he lay. He had not yet passed to Mandos, and he grasped Legolas’ hand for a moment as the Prince’s eyes relayed the silent apology as his words spoke of a quick journey, even then the elf’s eyes lost their luster and faded as the spark of life left them. Legolas once again took up his position in the circle, only to find that the blond haired elf lord Glorfindel was now on his left, a gash bleeding on his side, skimming over his ribs where there was a gap in his light armor. The Lord of Imladris was now to his right and still he fought with the might and strength of one long-accustomed to battle, as were both the elven lords now beside him. He felt honored to stand and fight beside these two legends. Soon, his mind gave no heed to any thoughts but of the orc in front of him, and the elves to either side of him and behind him. He kept his eyes on all at once, and it was with detachment that he heard the elf lord to his left let out a sharp breath of air when he found an orc arrow in his shoulder. Legolas could smell the rancid odor again, and this time he could not just let it happen, not again. He took a moment to break away from the thinner numbers of their attackers. He shouted to the Mirkwood elf now on his left to close the distance, and he pulled Glorfindel backwards, but the elf lord was fighting him. He had broken off the shaft of the arrow and was shouting at him that he could still fight. It mattered not to the elf that the arrow was poisoned; only that Elrond was still there. The Sindar prince was pushed sharply out of the way and the elf lord stepped over him as if he were nothing, striding back to his lord’s side, but he did not make it before he was pulled around by one shoulder and found a fist in his face. He stepped back unsteadily, right into the arms of the Lord of Imladris. The Lord looked up at him, concern for his blond on his face. Legolas spoke to hide the shame of having just struck another elf, “Poison. Two of my own have already succumbed. The poison they use at Dol Guldur is strong, my Lord, and must be dealt with quickly”. He reached for the small pouch at his waist, taking only the time to kill an orc who broke through the circle behind the elven lords, before handing Lord Elrond the pouch and took position back in the circle. Even as he did, a column of orcs charged the circle, breaking it to his right. Orcs swarmed them, even though their numbers were dwindling. Lord Elrond looked up just as the Prince turned; he met Legolas’ eyes, asking the Mirkwood elf to let him work on his friend. The Prince nodded silently, taking position as guard over the two of them so the legendary healer could work. He stood from his task, holding Glorfindel to his side against a tree. It was not long before he was pressed hard, Elrond again at his side as Glorfindel was left leaning against the tree, still holding his sword but slightly dazed, his vision clouded from the pain and drive of the poison in his veins. The Prince watched the battle, watched the movements of the orcs, their positions, and whistled orders to counteract their assaults. It was within the careful air of detachment that he stepped to the side in front of Glorfindel as an orc fired another arrow, one that would have killed the blond elf lord had it met its mark. As it was, Legolas felt the stabbing agony in his side when another orc’s well-timed or lucky swing distracted him when he sought to block the arrow, hindering his breathing with the pain of it. He pushed it to the back of my mind, but he slowed and the next orc slashed his arm. Glorfindel had his bow again, pulling arrows from the prince’s quiver and firing in rapid succession, fighting back the pain and poison. The prince could not feel or smell the poison about himself, and thought himself safe for the moment, though dread began to build up in his mind, dread not over the battle, but for two important reasons, the fallen elves would be his responsibility, his failures had led to their deaths, and he was wounded, the Crown Prince of Mirkwood’s defenses had been breached. He threw himself into renewed attack, the arrow broken off quickly. No one had noticed, not even Glorfindel, that he had missed deflecting the arrow. He hid the evidence of it by shifting his tunic slightly over the shaft protruding from his chest as he pushed himself further into the orcs. It was while he was still in his detached fury that the remaining orcs heard the sound of a horn blown and broke off their attack to retreat. Legolas gave the order for pursuit, and quickly took up the chase, ignoring the pain building inside him, preferring to feel the air move across his cheeks, in his hair, the scent of orc blood filling his senses as he pursued and killed with his bow now. They returned minutes later. “None yet live, my Lords,” he bowed lightly to Lord Elrond and Glorfindel, who was not sitting, his face pale with a soft sheen of sweat glistening in the afternoon light. He stopped breathing for the briefest of moments as he looked at the elder elf-lord again. He could neither believe what he was seeing, nor what he felt flutter in his chest, like butterflies batting their wings against his empty ribcage, his stomach suddenly became light and he found a smile willing its way to his lips. He strangled the smile as he stepped forward lightly, the wound in his side forgotten. “My Lords, your scout is with some of my men on his way into Greenwood. We should not remain. It is not far to the elven path into the Greenwood.” “Is he injured?” “Yes, but I believe he will be well with time.” “Forgive me, my Lords, I must prepare the wounded,” Legolas broke his entranced eyes from the blond elf-lord and moved away. Elrond led three other dark-haired elves, moving from elf to elf doing what he could for those he could help while the prince readied the horses of the Rivendell elves and started to put the wounded on horseback. They were moving in no time, two elves on most horses, all wounded, one less wounded holding a more seriously wounded elf in the saddle. The prince ran on ahead to the next copse of trees to scout ahead, but took the time instead to secure the arrow shaft protruding from his side before running on, then back a few moments later. *~*~* To be continued…. Author’s Note- Please have patience, I am getting to the good stuff, but it will take a while, maybe another chapter or two! Enjoy! Feedback will be, and is, appreciated! This is not betaed, so if anyone is interested in reading it first, please let me know. I would enjoy any ideas you may have to make the story better! Part 1 In the Darkness Two Beginnings Chapter 2 *~*~* They arrived at the Gates of the city near morning, the sun just beginning to give color to the eastern horizon, if he could but see it through the thick canopy of trees. He gently lowered the wounded elf with whom he had ridden. Legolas then dropped from the horse with grace well-maintained, biting back the pain racing through his side with every breath and accentuated with his sudden stop after the downward motion of dismounting. He stood, for all intents and purposes waiting for Elrond to follow him as elves from within the Palace surrounded them to take the wounded and the fallen from the horses, and while this was true, he was also procrastinating as long as he could if for no other reason than to be able to walk without revealing too much. He avoided the gazes of the other Mirkwood elves as they led the horses away, carried the wounded, and led those others to the comforts they could find within the halls of the keep, elves that, seeing the blood and the number of Guards of Mirkwood that were carried back, could not look at the Prince with anything but disappointment. He tried to push the reality of their gazes from his mind. Legolas had heard many speaking in low tones of how they wished for a bath and a soft place to rest after so long on the road, often speaking to those injured in order to bring some solace to their minds to ease the pain and discomfort of travel. Lord Elrond, had been no different, moving from elf to elf doing what he could whether that elf be of Mirkwood or Imladris. A healer of renown he was, and Legolas could see in the elder elf not only the sternness of the Lord, but the caring, tender touch of the healer. Legolas shied away from him, fearing discovery too soon, before he had a chance to speak in private with the elven lord. He had, instead, stood post beside the horse bearing the wounded Balrog-slayer in the protective arms of another Imladrin elf. The Mirkwood archer had taken this position as much out of respect as out of curiosity and the desire to be near to the illustrious and captivating blond-haired elven lord. He had scarcely been able to hide his interest; his gazes frequently overlong and daring discovery as they rode through the dim light penetrating the forest canopy. Yet, even though he feared the reprisals that would be his if Lord Elrond espied him, or even one of the others, he could not break the habit that had been born in but hours. His eyes were drawn to his golden, silky hair drawn back in a single plait, his sky-blue eyes now lidded in healing sleep, his strong and aquiline jaw and the pale luster of his skin still apparent through the poison-induced pallor and the fine sheen of sweat making him appear jewel-like. Even as he had stood in the court outside the Keep, his eyes had followed the progress of that lustrous elf as he was carried into the shadows, disappearing before him. Lord Elrond had started to follow, but his steps were stayed by Thranduil’s messenger, a young elf with dark hair and darker eyes, an elf who had already informed his Prince that he, too, was summoned to the King’s study, and would, necessarily, lead their guest forthwith. And so it was that Lord Elrond of Imladris, without a word, followed the comely blond elf quickly through the halls until they reached an ornate door inlaid with gems and precious stones in intricate design. The elven archer-prince knocked, drawing himself up as the voice inside bade him enter. Legolas pushed the doors open, then stepped back with a slight bow and head lowered in respect as he announced the Lord of Imladris and allowed the Lord to step inside past him. He took his position up at the door, remaining outside of the doors as he closed them, but he stopped when he heard the King speak, “Nay, Legolas, I would have an accounting of events this day. I am told there were wounded, and three fallen from ours alone. In here, now.” The voice boomed. Once inside, the doors secured shut, Legolas stood rigidly before his king, once he had knelt in respect. He was careful to keep his eyes unfocused at a point beyond the King, staring hard in a single direction but at nothing. Elrond noted the behavior with apprehension; the two elves looked remarkably similar. This elf, Legolas, who had never introduced himself, must be the son of the King, and to be so austere and reserved was not in the nature of Oropher’s line thus far. He remarked to himself how similar in appearance this younger elf was to the Golden King of Greenwood, and how different. They had the same golden blond hair, the same basic shade of azure blue eyes, although, the eyes of the younger elf had neither the steely coldness the elder’s possessed, nor the grim determination, or the rigid poise of the King. They were roughly the same height, tall and lean, archers in the tradition for which this wood was known. He studied the King, his derisive, contemptuous expression, as he stared at his son. Elrond returned from his musings to discover that the King was speaking and he turned his attention from the one to the other. The elf flinched minutely each time a word issued from the lips of his father, and now was no exception, “The Lord has arrived safely, but in no part thanks to your *remarkable* efforts!” The King’s voice dripped with sarcasm, the young elf looked as if made of long-petrified stone, untouchable by sheer weight of experience. He no longer flinched, but seemed resigned almost. “The *efforts* that have earned us the continued usage of the name by which this darkening wood it now known! If not for those supposed efforts, the wood might have been brightened by now, if this is any indication of your *efforts*!” Thranduil raged, his voice tight, thinly pressed, facing the verandah and the lovely gardens without as he spoke, his voice and words in direct opposition to the peaceful repose to be seen outside. The King rose to his feet, turned to face the archer-prince, and roared “Three dead! How could you fail so?!” The King stepped forward swiftly; Elrond did not see the hand fly before it was too late to interfere, and he heard the sharp exhale as the young elf staggered back two steps before he controlled himself, and the King rounded on him again, backhanding him cruelly, “You will face what you must, in three days time. You will appear before the Forest itself to hear the fate you will face as a result of this failure. You could not live up to the honor that was yours by birth if even you *did* try. You are a disgrace to my name, and that of my father! Out! Out of my sight!” He yelled, roughly shoving the younger elf to the door as if the elf was not moving fast enough. Even walking as quickly as his legs could carry him, fast in elves, he remained dignified, reserved. Elrond felt an immense wave of disgust rush through him as he saw the King strike the young elf who had come to his rescue with no thought for self, and had stepped in front of Glorfindel without regard for his own life. The archer had thought Elrond did not notice, but not much had he not seen about the young elf who so intrigued him. He had seen the elf take the arrow, and dismissed the injury as slight, in light of the fact that the elf continued not only to fight, but to pursue their attackers and help the injured onto horses once they had been seen to as well as they could be. The injured elf-lord, Glorfindel, had not missed much either, even in his weakened state. Indeed, as Elrond had held his friend on the horse before him, he had known the elf-lord’s gaze had remained on the golden elf much of the time, the Golden Prince of Mirkwood as he was known in Lórien and by those in Imladris fortunate to have seen his visage shine with the very light of the sun. He knew his friend well enough to know when Glorfindel’s interest was piqued and how persistent the elf lord could be. He had smiled to himself silently at the prospect of that particular pursuit, but that flush of entertainment had faded rapidly in the face of this King’s anger, a King whose arrogance and anger were legendary. The King had deliberately humiliated the young elf, an elf who was obviously his own son. He thought to himself of what else this King was capable. As for why the young elf did not raise his voice in his own defense, he did not know. The elf had fought and led well as far as he was concerned, and why these honorable actions should earn him the wrath of his king and father Elrond could not understand, nor did he particularly want to. Incensed he was, and he had to bite back his tongue and restrain his anger lest he destroy the tentative, budding peace between them and add kindling to the still-smoldering fire kept burning by the anger between them from the days following the Last Alliance. Elrond cleared his throat softly, pretending to turn from the window to his left as the King seemed to remember he was there for the first time. “Welcome, Elrond. I fear I must apologize for the failure of…my son.” He almost had to choke out the last two words, even more difficult than forcing out the apology itself. “It should not have happened if he had been paying attention to his duties.” “Thranduil,” he nodded out of respect, “I find no fault in the actions of your son. He fought well, bravely and he and his men were well trained. Your treatment of him I find to be ill-conceived.” Elrond found he could not hold his tongue in check, having heard the utter contempt with which Thranduil had spoken the words ‘my son.’ “I will thank you for your opinions to remain your own concerning that which is *mine*, Elrond,” the rebuttal was icy and stiff as Thranduil controlled his anger well, the stern, strict self-control for which Oropher had not been noted marked his son in great measure. He kept his voice level; his well-known temper held down and dampened, his dignity paramount. “I merely report what your informants have not, Thranduil. I meant no disrespect. He protected Glorfindel with no thought for his own life when he was wounded, and for that I have nothing but respect for him and his men. They fought well, and gave their lives for ours.” He maintained the façade of his own imperturbability while he could, drawing on his patience heavily, and doing so by keeping his eyes averted to the pleasantness of the gardens outside rather than the sumptuous wealth inside, and especially away did he keep his gaze from the elf King standing to his right. “Is it not true that you lost five and seven more were wounded?” Thranduil turned, and was walking back to his desk, his long blond hair shimmering in the light as if of spun gold as Elrond turned to face him finally. The King’s eyes, when he turned finally to face Elrond, were bright and gleaming like pools of bright sky locked in sapphires; but they were set in a face so strong as to have been chiseled from white marble so pale and perfect as to steal the breath from any who looked upon his visage. Elrond could see the same radiant beauty in the King’s son, but inflamed and brightened with youth and freedom from his father’s faults, but also he had perceived the fetters the son bore in his father’s thrall. The son was wondrous, and the father was hard as steel. He withheld the shiver as those eyes locked to his own icy grey eyes and there they held. Thranduil did not back down, and Elrond would not either. But he spoke first, “Aye, five and three. All those who stand beside me understand the possibilities we face daily in these changing times. Though immortal we are, mortal we all may become in the face of the darkness rising again. They knew the risks when they took up their swords and bows in defense of Imladris. I am grieved to see their loss, for all were close allies and friends, but I do not lament overmuch, for their sacrifices were great and should not be looked upon as failures, either theirs or that of another. They gave their lives willingly, as would I and as would your son if it were necessary.” “I am afraid we here have a different view, not so callous as that of your people; we value all life and its loss. Their ‘glorious’ aid did not, by your own admission, do justice to you, your position and the respect your and yours were owed as guests to this realm, and my son’s lack of competence has again brought shame to his land, and further death to those under his lamentable command, exacerbated this time as he has allowed his failures to bring death to those who would be guests.” The golden King smoothed his dark green robes embroidered with gold as he sat in a great heavy chair before the balcony and the light that set fire to his hair, inviting Elrond to join him, pouring wine in a goblet for the both of them. “This is an internal matter; the elves of the wood will meet three days hence and your lost will be avenged as well as ours, old friend. It is near unforgivable to allow the deaths of welcome guests in this wood, Elrond. It will be decided three days hence. Please sit, we have much to discuss.” *~*~* To be continued… Author’s Note- Please have patience, I am still getting around to the good stuff, maybe another chapter! Enjoy! Feedback will be, and is, appreciated! Chapter 3 *~*~* It was nearing the midday meal when Elrond adjourned to rest and check on his wounded elves, having left them to the care of the Mirkwood healers. He was frustrated to the utmost with the stubborn, ever-resilient elf-king, and elf with whom he had long butted heads with over numerous issues. He was muttering to himself as he forced himself to smile as he preceded Thranduil out of the austere room and nodded to the King when a servant bowed and led the way to the rooms he would be given during his stay in Greenwood. The rooms were magnificent, walls painted with murals of trees, vines, flowers reminiscent of what Greenwood had once looked like before the darkness had crept under the canopy of the trees, and the paintings had probably been there long before the creeping of darkness amongst the trees, before the subjects of the murals had become memories. The room was brightly lit with candles on the far wall, the balcony opened out over a courtyard free of the dark density of the trees, and was, consequently, full of sunlight and all manner of plants and flowers glowing after the dimness of the hallways he had walked following the elf directed to the task. The bed was large and comfortable by the looks of it, heavy dark wood carved to look as if covered in vines. Pale green coverings matched the pillows in the other various pieces of furniture all matching the bed’s design, a desk, several chairs, a table, dressers and even a small bookcase with a few old volumes sitting forlornly on the shelf. He did not think those texts had seen much use over the years, as Thranduil’s Keep was not frequented by any elves outside of Greenwood often He allowed the pleasant fragrances of the plants growing below to fill his senses and restore some inner calm and balance after his rising frustration with the King. It had not helped his ability to tolerate the King’s arrogance to see at the outset how he treated his own kin, the only Prince and heir of Mirkwood, a son he should value and hold high. Elrond admitted that he knew little of or about the prince, and he knew little more about the King, and he also would readily have admitted that he was a bit jaded in his opinions due to his close relationships with all three of his precious children. Thinking on how he honored his own children, what they meant to both him and Celebrían, he nearly choked on the anger as it loomed heavy and dark from deep within his chest all over again. He thought of that elf, how his golden hair had shone in the sunlight, his eyes hard and firm as the ice in winter, yet possessing an inner fire that seemed hot compared to Thranduil’s glacial gaze. He swallowed back the bile of fury, breathing in hard the fresh, clean air from the open verandah, his hands gripping the railing until his knuckles showed white and his fingers tired, allowing the rage to pass into the calm resilience for which he was known. He had asked as to the whereabouts of the elves who had accompanied him, and had, on the way back from the discouraging meeting, visited those wounded and those well who sat beside their comrades. He had only to see to his oldest and ‘wisest’ friend, a friend with whom he would sit to spend his afternoon in order not to dwell upon that which he could neither change nor influence if this day had been any indication. He had been informed that the other elven lord’s rooms adjoined his own rich rooms adorned in murals and thick rugs woven in intricate designs. So, filled with the gentle scent of fresh air from the forest and garden, calmed by the heady aromas of the flowers blooming in bright bursts of ironic color, he was satisfied that he had regained enough composure to see to his friend. He stepped out into the hallway empty but for two elves standing at the ready to grant any request made of them by their guests, and made his way the few short steps to the next ornately carved door, knocked and slid inside soundlessly in case the elder elf had found rest. The healer that had seen to him was sitting at his side still, another elf at the table apparently cleaning the healer’s tools, glancing at Elrond with a curt nod, then at the fire in the hearth and the kettle hanging above the flames. The healer stood and bowed lightly to him as he made his way to the bedside. Glorfindel appeared to be sleeping well, his color still pale and troubling, but improving. He leaned over and pulled the cloth bandage away to inspect the wound and was well-pleased that, between the healer’s efforts and the herbs Legolas had given him during the battle, the blackness of the skin around the wound had lessened, as well as the redness of infection. He smiled at the healer as he settled on the edge of the bed, “I am thankful for your efforts.” “My Lord Elrond, I am honored to be of service.” “I am honored as well, for your skills and knowledge here in the Greenwood are impressive, that even the Guards know of herbs and the treatment of poisoned wounds.” “It is but necessary here, my Lord. Often enough there is not time to save those who could be, and sacrifices must be made, no matter how painful to make, my Lord.” The healer straightened his green and black robes on his shoulders as he spoke, looking at the blond elf lord to avoid the eyes of the raven-haired lord. “I know. Three of Mirkwood lost their lives today, and five of my own.” “Eight passed? I had not heard.” The healer whispered, his color paled considerably, shifting back and forth on his feet slightly even as he stood more rigidly upright, as if to counter the revealing movement of his feet. “Terrible loss and a terrible waste may yet be known.” He shook his head ignoring the question in the elf-lord’s eyes. Elrond, by now, knew no answers would be given by this elf or any other, would only mutter the same ‘we must wait for the decision of the King’ that the elf who had shown him to his rooms had when he had asked. “Aye. And the other wounded? How do they fare?” “They are being seen to by my colleagues, my Lord. I have been assured none was as gravely wounded as Lord Glorfindel. They will recover given time,” the elf shifted his robes again, playing for a mere second with the broach on the collar sparkling with a single ruby inlaid in gold worked into the form of a leaf, “If you will excuse me, my Lord. I will check on him later to change the poultice. My assistant will remain if you so wish his aid.” “It is not needed, but thank you. I will sit with him a while.” “The herbs he will require to heal and counteract the poison are on the table, prepared; hot water on the hearth, the tea must be given to him twice more before the evening meal. My Lord,” and with those parting words and a polite bow from each, they withdrew leaving the room in silence broken only by the crackling of the flames and the song of birds in the trees outside mixed sporadically with the soft elven voices drifting up from below. A meal was brought to him and he ate what he could before he settled down to await Glorfindel’s return to consciousness. He allowed himself to sink into the thick pillows in the chair he pulled up beside the bed, pale green like his own, and found himself giving into the exhaustion now weighing his limbs down, making him feel as if he were, indeed, sinking further, and further into the soft comfort enveloping him. He forced himself up after a time, looked at the sky, and paced back and forth to avoid the sleep tempting him. He wanted to stay awake to give Glorfindel the tea he would need to give his friend before too long. He was just settling back down into the chair, giving in halfway to the irresistible call of the chair, after first removing the soft pillows, when a light knock could be heard on the door to his right, not the door to the main hallway. He stood to his feet as the elf entered after his stiff and stilted ‘enter’. He was surprised to see the blond elf-son of the King standing in the open doorway, his hair lit to look like spun gold in the light slanting through the room from the balcony, despite the bloody, red streaks staining its perfection, and corresponding red flecks and marks on his pale visage. He looked worse than Glorfindel. His eyes were hard, but pained. His skin was pale, too pale, his lips nearly colorless. He was standing as straight as he had since Elrond had met him, his body not allowed to acknowledge the obvious discomfort he was in. He had not changed his clothes. He smelled of orc blood most of all, but Elrond distinctly caught the light, sweet scent of elf blood emanating from the younger elf. He noted the bloodied slash in the arm of the elf’s tunic, and another in his side and concluded these were the reasons for the scent of injury about the elf. His clothes were a mess, blood-spattered and dirty, but none of this detracted from the elegance and graceful dignity the elf exuded with his every breath. He knew even then the reason his friend’s eyes had been drawn to the elf even in the heat of battle, in ignorance and defiance to the pain racing through him as he, himself, had treated the elven lord’s wound and administered the herbal antidote to the poison. Elrond was quite taken aback with the sight. The spell was broken when the elf spoke, “My Lord,” he bowed stiffly, his breath catching in his throat as he did so, “May I impose upon you?” He stood with his hands behind his back as he had before his father, but this time he was looking at Elrond, and the dark elf was mesmerized by those eyes, haunting and fiery at the same time. The younger elf shifted on his feet at the lack of response, bowed again quickly, “I apologize, my Lord. I should not have come when you are concerned over your loss with my responsibility so near to hand and mind,” he glanced to where the blond elder lay asleep, then looked back and continued, his tone apologetic and soft, “I will trouble you no longer.” He started to back away through the door, his face downcast and paling further if Elrond was not mistaken. “Wait, my Prince! Forgive my tired mind but I was caught in other thoughts. I can see you are in some pain, so come. Your presence does not trouble me so much as you must believe. I found no fault in your actions.” He beckoned the elf to enter, and the elf did so with a slight hesitation. Elrond stepped back to the table and the herbs, leaned back on the hard surface, and studied the elf prince before him. Does he ever relax from this stiff formality? He thought as the elf continued to stand with his hands crossed behind his back severely. “What is it you need of me?” “Forgive my lack of manners in failing to introduce myself, my Lord. There is no excuse for my behavior earlier.” “That is not what you came here for.” “Indeed, my Lord. I came because I have none other to turn to in a matter of some… in a matter of health.” The elf managed to spit out the last. “I am a Healer, yes.” He stepped forward, eyes searching the elf before him, noting the elf’s breathing, his movements ever so slight as he breathed and moved to face the fire for a moment. He could see nothing wrong, no evidence of injury other than the two deep cuts…except- there! A slight favoring of his left side, a slight hitching in his breathing! The elf was injured and had not sought treatment all this day! “Why have you not sought treatment for the wound in your side, pen-neth?” He asked in a tone of soft reproach, a tone he was well-accustomed to using when addressing his troublesome twin sons. Legolas’ reaction, if there had been one, was imperceptible. “None here should treat my wounds, my Lord.” He replied softly as if not understanding the reason for the question. There was something going on here, and he wanted to know what it was that the son of the King would be refused treatment for a wound received defending guests of the realm. “It would be easier for all if I died.” “A healer should treat any and all who come and seek aid,” he started towards his own rooms, “Follow me.” “Wait, my Lord. I cannot be seen to take treatment from you either, my Lord. I requested these rooms for you; this door is to your chamber directly from this room. If you will allow me, my Lord.” He followed the blond elf to the door through which he had entered. As he ruffled through the packs that had been brought up for him, he asked the obvious, “What nonsense is this that none will see to your wound, Legolas?” “Nonsense? You refer to the honor of my elves, and my own honor, the honor of Mirkwood itself as nonsense?” Legolas was growing angry, but kept his face serene. The fire in his eyes had swelled in intensity. “None may know that I, too, was injured. I am responsible for the lives of eight lost elven lives, my Lord; would you impugn their honor as well?” “I said nothing of honor, Prince. I am not accustomed to the ways of your people, Legolas, and I am misunderstanding due to this lack of insight; I meant no disrespect.” He found the pack and set it down on the table, “Wait here,” then darted back to get the hot water from Glorfindel’s room and a basin from the washstand at the rear of the room. “Can you remove your tunic, or do you need my help?” “I am able.” Legolas pulled the tunic over his head; he had loosened the strings while Elrond had been fussing with his bag and the water he now poured into the basin, mixing herbs into the water to steep. The elf’s silken shirt beneath the tunic had been a delicate green, now marred with several cuts stained red and one much larger stain on his left side. He unfastened the clasps quickly, then dropped the shirt over the back of a chair as Elrond drew in his breath in stunned silence. He darted forward to examine the wound, unable even to notice the awesome beauty of the blond for the arrow shaft protruding less than an inch from the skin over his ribs. “The arrow has not gone through you, but is near enough that it should not be pulled back lest more damage be done. Legolas, if none else could treat you, you should have sought me out long ago, found any excuse to get me from your father’s company!” “I could not, my Lord.” “I will need help to treat this. Do not worry; it will be one of my own elves, if you will allow it?” At the nod he received, Elrond headed for the door, motioning for the blond elf to lie down. He asked for one of the elves in the hallway to bring another elf back with him and then turned back to find the Prince still standing. “Lie down, Legolas.” “May I lie on the table and not the bed, my Lord?” Thinking that the elf simply wished for no evidence to be left on the sheets, he nodded and brought fresh towels the healer had left for Glorfindel. The elf-prince bore through the ordeal calmly even though the bleeding in his lung increased once the arrow was removed and he coughed up frothy blood for several minutes before Elrond’s skilled fingers slowed the bleeding. The elf refused to drink the soporific Elrond made giving the reason that he was expected at the evening meal and could not miss it. Elrond shook his head both at himself and the Imladrian elf helping him tend the Prince, muttering that at the backwardness of the Mirkwood elves having reached a new level in his mind. Legolas bristled slightly, but was too exhausted to say much else before he slipped into a light sleep. The afternoon passed slowly. He moved Legolas from the table to Glorfindel’s room, laying him in front of the fire on a soft rug while he gave the sleepy elf lord the tea. Legolas lay there for some time in silence until Elrond joined him, the other Imladrian elf sitting beside the bed in his place. “Legolas, you must rest. Do not force yourself beyond your limits. I would recommend you not attend the evening meal.” “I have no choice, my Lord. If I do not attend, they will know I am wounded as well.” “And what harm is there in that knowledge? Is it not honorable to be wounded in the service of one’s land?” “Perhaps this is how you look at it, but we here see it in a different light,” Legolas finally tore his gaze away from the gentle movement of the flames to face him. Elrond saw a flicker of fear pass through his eyes and was then replaced by the stony façade he had stared at all day long in the figure of his father. So alike, yet so different. He mused. “Here, I am responsible for the elves under my command, and they for me. If it were known that they allowed me to receive injury, they would need to share my disgrace, my Lord. You cannot ask me to do this for I will not.” “Disgrace?” He blurted out; the earlier anger and frustration coming back to him like a half-forgotten illness. “Your father said the same this morning. What disgrace? You fought well and defeated the enemy. There can be no disgrace in that?” “In victory there may be disgrace, my Lord. The disgrace most anathema to us is the loss of elven life, or of life of any sort other than that of the enemies we face, my Lord. Eight elves died, three died under my command and five of Imladris because I did not think to come in time. To be counted among the dead is honored; to be counted among the injured is not honorable when one is in command; and to bear the responsibility for both is disgrace. Those elves died because I did not lead well enough, guest, and resident alike. Their blood is on my hands. You may take absolution for your loss once the King has spoken his decision in three days, my Lord. It is my fault they lie dead while I yet breathe. In this there is disgrace, my Lord, a disgrace for which I will face the Sentence of the King.” “You could not have saved those of mine who died before you came! You are a fool to think you are responsible for what fate brings to even the Firstborn. They knew that their faithful service to my House and our lands could bring death to the deathless, and still they pledged their lives! Do not take responsibility for their lost lives, Legolas. And of yours? They fought well and you led well. Long have I known war, and many times have I fought or led, and I found no fault in your actions or your leadership.” “It is not your decision to decide if I am guilty of these crimes. By our Law I am, and I will serve as the King determines I shall, to restore the honor of my land, my Guards, and my self,” he had struck a raw nerve in the young elf, who now pushed himself up onto his elbows in his anger. He then rolled onto his side, coughed raggedly for some minutes, blood flecking the towel he held to his mouth, waited until the tremors in his body and chest subsided, then stood to his feet without a semblance of awkwardness, only a trace of pain as another cough caused him to lean forward into the wall. “Down, Legolas. You should not be up.” “Nay, my Lord. I will return to my rooms, there I will rest until I am summoned. If you will excuse me, my Lord.” The elf turned and walked, now unsteadily towards the door, forgetting that he had not received the elder’s dismissal in his pain and defensive anger. He caught himself from falling with the back of a chair before Elrond relented and took his arm, wrapping his around the younger elf’s back and then he helped him back to his rooms, tightening the bandage around his chest after helping him into the bed. He looked around at the Prince’s rooms as he turned to leave, “I will return to help you dress, please do not try on your own. I will come and we may walk together, young Prince. The secret is safe for I will do nothing to disgrace you or your men further. I am in your realm and by your Laws and customs will I abide while here. But know that I am not well-pleased at this foolishness, no disrespect to those who fell or you. Rest.” He then took note of the sparse simplicity of the room compared to those he and Glorfindel were given. The walls were plain stone, cold and uninviting. The floors had no rugs to keep the feet warm but one small, intricately woven rug beside the bed. Two pillowless, uncomfortable looking chairs sat in a corner to either side of a small unadorned table. There was a balcony, but a quarter or less of what his room sported. The bed was just as plain as the rest of the room, and all unadorned, spartan and uncomfortable. The most colorful things in the room were the lovely sky blue coverings on the bed, silky and smooth to the touch, finely woven and embroidered along the edges in fine forms of green leaves and small white flowers, and the elf himself. He could not help but look back at the Prince as he turned in the doorway. At rest, the elf’s stern resolve seemed to fade to reveal the serene beauty of the Golden Prince, for that was the way he looked lying there, every bit of his visage living up to the legendary Golden Prince, as this elf was called outside this wood by those few who had seen him or heard the tale of his beauty. Indeed, well known was Legolas, First Prince of Mirkwood outside this realm, though as near as Elrond could tell the young elf had never been outside the borders of this wood for long. Thranduil was both a jealous King and a controlling father by all accounts. No, Legolas was obviously kept on what could be termed a short leash. As he walked the short distance between their rooms, Elrond’s mind turned back to the quiescent elf prince, the vision of him having been ingrained in his memory. The blue of the cloth around him set off his pale marble skin and his golden hair bathed in the light. All the pain and austerity washed away in slumber. He was magnificent, beautiful. No wonder Glorfindel had not dared to look away. He had seen what the Lord of Imladris had not seen until this moment. Raw beauty mixed with strength, unyielding honor blended with loveliness. He shook his head softly and pulled the door shut behind him, taking his place at his side once more, his thoughts whirling around all that had happened, all he had seen and heard. The afternoon had long passed into evening when he stirred once more, his thoughts no less troubled, however more sedate they had become. *~*~* To Be Continued… Author’s Note- Please have patience, I am still getting around to the good stuff, maybe another chapter! Enjoy! Feedback will be, and is, appreciated!