Laeriel passed slowly down the corridor, her soft footfalls echoing off the hewn stone walls, their small alcoves occupied by ebony and ivory statues of the gods and goddesses, all standing coldly, staring at her with their empty, hollow gazes, their smooth skin, gentle folds, all so perfect in the golden glow of the dim candlelight from the cornices hung on the wall. She passed a few tapestries and her steps landed noiselessly, but still, the pounding of her heart, the pulsing of her blood, the throbbing of the night enveloped her in a deafening silence. Still, the statues stared, keeping their elegant poses, their stony gazes fixed on her. Suddenly, Laeriel was aware of her particularly ungainly stride, the single lock of flaxen hair that fell over her pointed ear, her shifting gaze of softest blue. The statues scorned her, called to her, told her how she would never reach their perfection, told her how her craftsman had been so lacking in the art.
As she passed a massive, wooden doorway set into the corridor, something shattered. Laeriel jumped and clasped the amphora of water she carried tighter against her chest, gripping the cloth tightly in her hand. She quickened her pace and looked forward, down the corridor, away from the disdaining figures in the alcoves and their empty gazes. Finally, she stepped out of the hallway, out of the dancing glimmers of gold and shadows, and into the room of Prince Laiqualassë.
"There ya're, Laeriel, if't pleases. Ya being a healer, you would be careful not ta slip with yah tongue or yah hands fer fear a life not be claimed by the halls of Mandos, but ya could hurry yah feet," said Bonna, the plump nurse that stood beside the royal's bed. Laeriel nodded shakily and took a deep breath, placing the pitcher and cloth on the table beside the bed. "I'll leave ya to't. Ta'care, dearie."
She kissed her young apprentice's forehead and left the room, closing the door with a hush. Laeriel watched after her, then finally, when she could will herself to do it, looked to Legolas. His skin was flushed. She gently touched his cheek and recoiled at the clammy coolness that met her fingertips. He stirred, moaning softly and writhing in his sheets, dampened by his fevered sweat. Laeriel sat on the bed and reached to the table, tipping the amphora, a cascade falling into the basin, glimmering liquid crystals of water. The prince called out something unintelligible, his hand traveling up the spindle of a bedpost, twisting around it slowly, smoothly, serpentine. He convulsed, winding his hand up farther and cried out again, begging now, passionately. Laeriel tenderly pried his hand off the smooth mahogany and took the bowl into her lap, sprinkling a pinch of herbs into the mixture. She dipped the cloth in it and slowly brought it to his cheek, gently pressing it to his skin. The prince held still, gasping for breath, his eyes closed painfully tight. Laeriel watched his face intently. Legolas panted for breath and slowly put his hand over hers, as she clasped the cloth tighter. Shuddering, the prince ran his hand up her arm, cupping her shoulder in his grasp, and then gently, softly slipping it up her neck. Laeriel leaned into his touch slightly and closed her eyes as his hand held her cheek, his fingers tracing the corner of her lips. He stared up at her with eyes clasped more than before, his breath ragged and strained.
"Shh…" Laeriel whispered into his now searching fingers. The prince felt her face, tracing her bones, seeking something although she knew not what. His search became more fevered and he began to call out into the stifling air. The sweat on his brow increased with the words on his lips. Laeriel dipped the cloth again, gently pulling away from Legolas' touch, slipping the sheets down, cleansing his chest of the small, crystalline beads of perspiration. He called out again, tossing his head back. The healer watched him as his hands grasped the headboard tightly, his knuckles white with strength exerted. The words spilled from his lips, an ancient, spellbinding language to Laeriel's ears. He fell back into whisper, but soon rose into shouts again, a cadence, a chant of passion and anger – the language of halfdreams. The prince convulsed again and fell back onto the bed, his shoulders bucking in anguish, gripping the sheets tightly, trembling helplessly. The fit had passed. He lay panting.
"Shh…" Laeriel said again, running the cloth over his stomach gently. Legolas relaxed, but still his eyes did not open. He whispered something softly as though it were an exhaled breath, but instantly choked.
"Sornë …" he begged, gasping. The prince's hand traveled up one of Laeriel's arms, feeling every inch of her skin desperately. She shuddered, writhing as his grip tightened, leaving her other hand to clutch the cloth on his stomach. "Sornë, fair Sornë…closer, I beg you…envinyata amin, heal me…as you once did. Do not leave me now, not again…please…mercy, angayassë…" Laeriel pulled away, wetting the cloth again. She watched his face, the fair features strained in pain and frustration, not knowing how to answer his pleas. Who had this Sornë been to the prince? A healer of his long ago? A lover? Perhaps both?
"Please…do not heal my body again…heal my heart, as you once promised me. Come back to me, Sornë. Let me feel you…" Legolas' hand slid up the nape of Laeriel's neck, holding the back of her head, cradling it tenderly. He looked up at her with tightly closed eyes, painting the picture of this woman, this Sornë's face over Laeriel's. "Tell me what you once did, I beg you…heal me as you once did, let me feel you…"
"Prince Laiqualassë …" Laeriel said, searching for the words to put herself at ease and his dreams to death. He brought up his other hand to gently cup her chin in his palm, putting a finger to her lips. Her hand on his chest became a fist, the warm healing water running out of the cloth and across his stomach – small, luminous rivulets that glowed dimly in the candlelight.
"Deny me not as you once did, Sornë," the prince whispered softly, tracing Laeriel's lips with his thumb. "Deny not what you did to me, what you told me…do not tell me lies. Words mean nothing anymore, not between you and me. Just hold me, touch me…as you once did…" Legolas shifted on the bed, propping himself up on one of his elbows, and eyes still closed, he slowly, gently pressed his lips to hers. Laeriel gasped softly and taken by surprise, she submitted easily. Legolas moved his hand down to the nape of her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair and deepening the kiss. Coming to her senses, Laeriel pulled away. The prince's hand lingeringly slipped from her neck, falling onto the sheets, as their lips parted. "Please…do not deny me, not this time…not like before…" She eased out of his embrace. Legolas laid back into his pillows, moaning softly. His hips bucked and his head tilted back, a moan escaping his lips, as another fit came on.
"Shh…" Laeriel said softly, stroking his chest soothingly. At her touch, he calmed, his features lightening slightly. Laeriel found herself no longer unable to ignore his spellbinding pleads. The prince extended his hand slowly, offering it to her at first, then when she did not take it in return, slipping it behind her head and pulling her in close. She rested her hand on his stomach as he began to whisper against her lips.
"Please…" he said softly. "Not as before when you left me with wounds on my heart…please, Sornë. Your touch comforts me. I need you now…do not abandon me again. You said it was wrong, that you had to leave…but you see your mistake now. You see that you wound me worse than any sword by denying me now…"
Laeriel wanted so badly to be this Sornë, to have Legolas' love, to know what it felt like to give into the elfin prince. She wanted to feel him kiss her, hold her, touch her and know that she would heal him of any pains no matter what the price.
"If I…let you," Laeriel whispered, "…if I was with you again…would you heal?"
"Yes," Legolas replied. "Yes, please, Sornë …I beg you, envinyata amin…heal what you left me with before." Laeriel slowly brought her hand to his cheek and held it softly, momentarily, then pulled away, blushing. Legolas caught her hand quickly and held it to his cheek, closing his eyes tighter, savouring the touch of her skin against his.
"But Legolas," Laeriel protested softly. "I am ashamed…you are a prince, I am a commoner, here but to serve you…"
"Then serve me," he whispered, pulling her into another deep kiss. Laeriel let him this time, returning it slowly, meekly. As he released her, she gasped softly. "You hurt me once…unbearably much. Repay me that I might rest in peace. Give me back all of those years of lonely nights and tear-met mornings. That is how you may heal me now…let my spirit fly."
Laeriel was his healer, only his healer. This thought haunted her mind as she got over him, gently putting her cool hands on the nape of his damp neck. Legolas moaned at the touch of her soft skin and tilted his head upwards, meeting her lips.
As she released him from her kiss, Laeriel whispered, "Tell me how I once served you, prince. Tell me what you missed most…"
"How your touch chased the halfdreams away…your gentle touch," he replied. The healer leaned down, breathing in deeply, becoming intoxicated by his scent, and began kissing his chest gently, intermingling soft, fervent bites. Legolas moaned pitifully and begged once again, in the falling and rising cadence of a madman, but although he was still helpless, no longer were his cries out of surrender, but out of passion as he held close once again his gentle healer. "I desired you so badly for so many years and to touch you now is…"
"…heaven," Laeriel whispered. She continued to kiss down his porcelain chest, softly radiant in the dim candlelight.
"Heaven," Legolas repeated. "Please, Sornë, sweet Sornë …give wings to my heart as you gave to yours, give to me the wind that once swept me out of pain's reach, the wind that delivered you. Let me soar, Sornë…to the shadow lands, to you. Envinyata amin, heal me…heal my heart…let me be with you…"
"Be with me, my prince…" Laeriel whispered softly against his skin.
As Legolas' final screams of ecstasy faded from the thick night air, Laeriel parted her body from the prince's, bestowing a last kiss on his lips. His fever had broken as their sweat had mingled on his body, only a few remaining drops on his brow left to mar his near luminescent skin. The healer softly kissed these from him.
"Fly, let your heart fly, Laiqualassë …" Laeriel whispered softly, gazing one more time upon his peacefully sleeping form before she left. Once in her room with her door shut tight behind her and her secrets, the healer fell fast asleep.
"Quick, Laeriel!" a voice whispered desperately in her ear, two hands grasping her shoulders tightly. She started awake and stared wide-eyed at the other servant standing above her. "They're looking for you! You must leave!"
"Looking for me? Why should I not go to them, answer their call?" Laeriel asked sleepily.
"Seeking you to take you to the towers!" the servant cried, her lips telling hurriedly those damning words.
"To the towers?" Laeriel's senses flooded back to her as slumber melted away with her face's colour.
"Prince Laiqualassë, he was found dead in his chamber," she answered. "Wings cut into his chest, his lifeblood spilled upon his yet warm body. With this knife! Wicked Sornë's knife!" The servant blanched as she produced a small blade from her belt, pressing it tightly into Laeriel's hand. The healer glanced down at the weapon.
"Sornë?" she whispered softly, that uttered name that she had heard so passionately cried from those soft lips that were now quieted, now chilled for eternity.
"Sornë, the wicked healer! She did nearly kill the prince while she his caretaker. The traitor killed herself in the tower with her knife, this knife. Two wings cut upon her chest had stained her skin crimson with her lying blood. You were called here to keep her stead, and now, the prince has been found dead, and you last in his room. Conspiracy is the word whispered in the corridors."
"…shall I run?" Laeriel asked, her voice soft, weak.
"Perhaps there is no reason…" the servant said softly. "You cannot escape." Laeriel looked up to the young girl. The terror that had flooded her mind now ebbed. Her features were softer now, her eyes calm, her lips taught and not trembling, but the smile that she had left the prince with the night before was gone. "They will find you, no matter where you hide..."
"Not if I fly," Laeriel whispered resolutely.
With that, she brought the cursed blade, Sornë's knife, to her chest. Her finger traced the path before the blade, which her other hand held, carving a crude wing into her skin, painfully drawn deeper and deeper into her flesh and bone. She gasped and nearly dropped the knife as the blood rushed out from the wound and down her body, pooling where she knelt. The servant that had stood still as a statue, watching in horror, shrieked and fled the room, running heedlessly down the corridor.
Laeriel could hear the young girl's screams echoing off the hewn stone walls, their small alcoves occupied by those ebony and ivory statues of the gods and goddesses, all standing coldly, staring at her with their empty, hollow gazes, as they had looked at her before, and Laeriel knew that they would watch her body pass them once more, but that they had heard her footfalls for the final time. She heard the young girl's cries fade, as she felt her own life fade, her blood spreading wider across the floor, reaching farther through every crack in the stone floor, pooling in every worn place. Laeriel raised the blade again and poised her finger to trace the next path to death across her skin.
A single white dove was swept along the sky by currents of the breeze, its wings tilting with the steady rush. Its body cast an infinitesimal shadow that danced across Ulmo's glittering waves, then across Valinor's jeweled shores, where the glimmer of the gold could not be masked by that shadow that passed over it, that shadow that had crossed into the land that had never seen a shadow, that had never known a doubt, that had never been tainted by darkness. Telperion, the tree of the eve of time, of the autumn of life, stood, its leaves flashing silver in the gentle breeze that carried the bird towards it in a lazy spiral, until the dove alighted gently on one of the tree's branches. Two others looked down on it from an upper branch, then cooed softly and fluffed their feathers, so that the gentle breeze might touch their small bodies. The new arrival fluffed its own down around itself and closed its eyes slowly, finally – to feel the healing winds that swept the immortal lands.