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'Labyrinth of Lies'

Disclaimer: Not mine. Pity.

Rating: T

Warnings: The usual.

Notes: Well, here we are. The sequel to 'Shatterpoint'. It's highly recommended that you read this story first. It will probably be pretty tricky to read this one if you haven't. Go on: it's only 13 chapters.

I am dedicating this chapter to StrangertotheWorld and to sylphxpression, both of whom bugged me relentlessly to write this promptly! Thank you for your gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) nagging! Definitely what I needed. :-)

Enjoy!

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Lord Elrond Peredhil was seated at his elaborately decorated desk, face was a deceitful mask of calm beneath which a river of emotion raged. He sat perfectly still, not a single

nerve twitching or an eye blinking. A slip of parchment rested in his long fingers, containing the source of the emotional extremes Elrond currently contained.

A shadow fell over his contemplative form. Still, he did not stir, though he sensed the identity of the intruder immediately and knew it to be his kin.

"Father?"

The younger. Elrond, though quite conscious of the other's presence and greeting, deigned not to reply and remained silent and tranquil.

Elrohir, sensing his father's trance-like state and deeming caution the appropriate path, reverently approached the desk until he was just a few inches from Elrond's shoulder. The elder elf could easily see his son in his peripheral vision. Elrohir offered a few more seconds on non-speech before again attempting to break the silence.

"Father?" he asked, more softly, and in a tone implying his intentions to comply should Elrond request solitude.

Now Elrond did choose to acknowledge his son.

He turned slightly, his partial exposure offering adequate attention to the younger being seeking it.

"Elrohir."

He spoke gravely, but not unkindly.

Elrohir paused, looking as though he was choosing his words carefully.

"I came to seek your opinion on a simple matter of pears or apples on the new set of dishes set to be ordered shortly," Elrohir began respectfully, and slowly. "However, now that I have seen you it seems apparent that the present is not the appropriate time for such trivialities. May I ask what troubles you?"

For a long moment, Elrond did not reply. Elrohir might have wondered if his father had even heard him, but he knew that Elrond always thought things through before deciding on an answer.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Neither."

Elrohir's brow crinkled with confusion

He desires neither fruit, or he does not want any fruit and there is nothing disturbing him?

"I beg pardon, Father? Neither?"

Elrond turned more fully to his son, though his face remained cast downward. A small smile alighted upon his face.

"We shall have cherries."

Oh. It was the fruit. But…cherries make him…sick…why…?

"Cherries? But Father, I thought you hated—"

"They are Estel's favorite."

Elrond's mind was definitely somewhere else. He did not appear quite 'all there' to Elrohir.

The younger elf cleared his throat uncomfortably and shifted from foot to foot.

"Pardon for saying so, but…well…Estel has not been home in years and it is unlikely that his opinion is strong on a matter involving our stoneware—"

"No, Elrohir." Elrond looked all the way up at his son, and a wide, genuine smile grew on his face. He stood, placed his hands on Elrohir's shoulders, and tilted his head downward so it rested on Elrohir's. The latter just remained still, not really sure what his father was doing but supposing there must be a reason.

"Oh, Elrohir." Elrond squeezed his son's shoulders and threw his head back in a gust of hearty laughter, thoroughly startling Elrohir.

"Father?" the elf asked uncertainly, eyeing the Peredhil with a mixture of 'I believe you are insane' and 'perhaps it was the wine'. "Is everything quite all right?"

"Oh, better, my son," Elrond murmured, relieved smile never leaving his face. He looked Elrohir in the eye, and the latter observed the keen sparkle in his father's eyes, one that had not been seen in a long while, not since…

"Father?" he asked, barely daring to hope.

"Yes, Elrohir, finally…Estel is coming home!"

-

Legolas, King of Mirkwood, stood with a snarl, crumpled the parchment into a thick ball and hurled it against the wall with all his might, followed shortly by an inkwell. The guard standing outside did not flinch as the door was flung open, ricocheting off the wall and back into place again.

"Aráto!" the young king snarled. He did not cease his stalking entry towards his strategy room as the head of guards materialized apparently out of thin air and quite calmly achieved and maintained the brisk pace of the other elf, minus the cold fury.

"Your Majesty?" he acknowledged quietly. They reached their destination room, which contained tables upon which charts and other strategic means lay. Legolas did not deign to reply until they had entered and shut the door. At this point he whirled on his heel and shouted in Aráto's face, more furious than Aráto had seen him in a while. And that was saying something, as Legolas was frequently in sour moods and was generally prone to fly into rages at the drop of a hat as of late.

"The bastard human survived!"

Charts and maps flew off the table in a whoosh of parchment as Legolas swept them off, taking little care not to trod on them as he knocked whole tables over in his rage.

"Sire," Aráto said a little loudly. He stood rigid, eyes narrowed and hands clasped behind his back to avoid seeming disrespectful. But really, King Legolas was acting like a spoiled child. Aráto dared not say it, though.

Legolas finally calmed down.

He stood in a corner of the room surveying his chaos with little emotion.

"He survived the fall," he repeated quite calmly to Aráto's questioning look. "The two-faced, lying murderer of my father did not die. Who? Who could survive? None but the Dunedán." He spat the title as a curse. "Of course. He lives. He who slew Mirkwood's king is alive and free to dominate and destroy as he pleases."

He leaned on one of the heavy tables, shoulders hunched in thought, eyes dark with anger. A wicked, scheming look appeared on his face.

"It matters not," he said shortly. His voice grew dangerously light, almost nonchalant, though of course it could not be so.

"This human shall deem his birth a mistake in the end," he declared. He straightened. The cold look returned to his eyes and posture.

"My scouts send word that he journeys to Imladris," Legolas said with almost a sneer. His eyes rested lightly on Aráto and the guard was saddened to see the cold cruelty now residing in them.

"You will send a message to Lord Elrond," he ordered, cold exactness punctuating every syllable. "Aragorn, claimed Elrondion, shall retain no sanctuary within Imladris on pains of war."

Aráto's eyebrows nearly rose. "War, Sire? Surely you exaggerate, the threat of war is very dire and grave and ought not be made lightly—"

"And if," Legolas continued, voice rising to drown out Aráto's protests. "If Aragorn chooses to set foot within Imladris, Lord Elrond is to immediately place him under arrest and hand him over into my custody for crimes against the Crown of Mirkwood."

He glared coolly at Aráto, daring him to disagree, the sparks practically flying from his eyes.

"Lord Elrond claims his relation to the human is as a son," Aráto said carefully, neutrally. "I am not quite so sure he will so readily give him up—"

"Elven law clearly states that if a crime has been committed against an elf, the other elven domains are legally and morally obligated to hold that being prisoner until such a time where the homeland of the offensive party can contain him. Furthermore, they are forbidden from providing sanctuary and risk open war should they choose to do so." Legolas's eyes were pools of melted metal, looking cool yet extremely heated and dangerous.

"Lord Elrond is a wise and ancient elf," Legolas said coolly. "I am quite certain he will see my point of view."

The young elf king glared evenly and held up a firm hand as Aráto made to intervene.

"Send the message at once," Legolas ordered coldly, before turning his back on the guard and striding out of the roon.

-

Aragorn lay on his back, absolutely still. A warm blanket covered him as a fire flickered feebly in a corner of the room. His stomach was full and settled. A contented, tired sigh escaped his lips, barely audible. A tiny smile alighted upon his lips.

Though on the outside he looked calm and refreshed—and at the moment, he was—his heart was still aching from the gut-wrenching pain and confusion he felt over what had recently happened.

Why did Legolas believe himself betrayed? Aragorn had done nothing but search relentlessly. And surely the elf-prince could not actually believe the Dunedán had slewn his father. This was absolutely unbelievable; almost even ridiculous. And yet the cold, stony rage in the elf's eyes as he drew a knife to the throat of the Ranger told Aragorn everything he needed to know: reasonable or not, Legolas hated his guts and it was in Aragorn's best interest to steer clear of him for a while.

But of course, Aragorn could not leave him alone forever. Being the irritatingly persistent friend that he was, he could not simply allow their friendship to be decimated because of what Aragorn deemed a misunderstanding. Aragorn would leave him be to mourn his father for a time, then go to pay his respects to the late king and try to restore their friendship and work out the misunderstanding.

At the time, however, Aragorn hurt. His heart was weary. After all, the death of King Thranduil had shaken him to the core. And now Legolas shunned him. In the most bizarre turn of events, he had lost an elf he had highly respected, and had lost his closest friend. This could only be healed through time.

Time, and, perhaps, a very good healer.

The small smile grew bigger and a little flurry of excitement shot up into his stomach.

There was only one place he could possibly hope to find peace now, and that was where he was headed.

Rivendell.

The place where his family, a clan of elves called Peredhil, resided. A tranquil place, where perhaps Lord Elrond, whom he called Father, could offer hope and healing.

It was the one place he knew that no matter what, he would always be loved and welcomed back with open arms. His family would bring no judgement, only love and help.

It had been years, and he couldn't wait to go back.

He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the warm fingers of sleep drifting over him.

A long hiatus in Rivendell, with my father and brothers….this is precisely what I need right now. Wonderful…

It was his last thought before he fell solidly asleep.

If only he could have known what the future really had in store for him, and that his visions of peaceful waterfalls and games with his brothers were lies.

But Aragorn slept on.

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Yeeeesh, short, I know. Sorry. The next chapters will be longer. Please review, my little friendlies!

TRS

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