Chapter 4: The Sacrifice of a Half

"Please, my Prince. Reconsider."

Legolas gave Gwaedhel a small sad smile. "You know as well as I do that there is no other way."

He turned to the woman on the bed. Her lips were cracked and bled from the heat she had been giving off earlier. Her sweat was a thick film over her skin, now a pasty color as though all vitality had been drained from her leaving only a dry and broken husk. He did not know how long she still had but it could not be that long. If she was an elf he might have said she still had at least a day but she was not. He had no experience in seeing a human whose fëa was in similar peril. He doubted anyone in their realm did. Even Gwaedhel, ancient though she was even for an elf, was at a loss.

Gwaedhel reached out and cupped his face with her hand. The firm pressure she applied with it forced him to turn back and squarely face her. Her mouth was set in a grim line as she scrutinized him. She did not speak until she was sure she had his full attention.

"Know this then, Your Highness. The pain that you will face will be unlike any other for there is no pain worse than the rending of a soul. There shall be no peace for you ever again. Not here nor even in the Undying Lands. For when she dies, mortal as she is that she will eventually, that part of your soul will die with her. Nor can you enter into a bond with any other. Your soul will no longer be whole enough for any union, be it with elf or man. And Mandos, even he, may not be so inclined to welcome you into his halls. And even then you wish it?"

Legolas breathed deeply and nodded. "Yes, I do."

Gwaedhel sighed. She released her hold on his face and let her hands settle on her lap. "I see I cannot dissuade you." A wry smile touched the corner of her lips. "You are as stubborn as you were the day you were born. Back then we had to practically coax you out of your mother's womb."

Legolas quirked an eyebrow upwards. Although he desired to hear more he knew it was neither the time nor the place.

"It would be best to perform the procedure in the healing ward where there would be fewer prying eyes and wagging tongues. My father would not look kindly at this plan."

That was, of course, putting it mildly. Legolas knew that if word ever got out to him no one would be safe. Gwaedhel, her apprentices, and any other soul who might be in any way involved would never live to see another day. The same thought must have crossed Gwaedhel's mind for she grimly nodded back. Behind her, her apprentices were swiftly sweeping up into their arms all their herbs and tools. Their eyes, although partly hidden in the fan of their yellow hair, were wide and bright with concern. Though neither could be older than five centuries, they had no doubt heard enough about his father's legendary ire to know the implications of what they were about to embark upon.

Legolas stood up and approached the sickbed. In much the same way that he had earlier, he lifted the woman lying down and tucked her into his arms, her head carefully propped against his shoulder. Like this the coldness that had settled into her seeped into his bones. He swallowed a lump in his throat. He hoped he was not too late.

The return to the healing ward passed without much incident. Evidently his father's orders had filtered down even to the elves manning the entrance to the dungeons. The two pairs of eyes that watched their progress with obvious distaste nonetheless kept their arms firmly at their sides, letting them go without any hindrance.

When they arrived Gwaedhel ushered them past the rows of neatly made beds and the gauzy white curtains that partitioned them. Her feet made no sound as she led them deeper into the ward. She took them through an ornately carved set of wooden doors at the far end of the common room and into a softly lit corridor. Her voice when she spoke barely rose above a whisper. "The private rooms are best for this sort of thing."

She chose the furthest of the five rooms. Here the branches that trailed through the ward's ceiling emanated from its source, a thick dark trunk that abutted its southwest corner and against which the bed's wooden headboard had been leaned against. Legolas gently laid the woman in his arms down amidst the pillows. Like this, she was dwarfed by her surroundings, her smaller body lost in the much larger bed that had been made for elves and not men.

Gwaedhel motioned Legolas to remove his tunic. "You will need to lie above her and press your own flesh against hers, heart against heart, limb against limb, for this to be successful. And no matter how great the pain do not move by even a hair's breadth from your position. To break apart and then stitch two souls together is no easy task and even the slightest movement can destroy the delicate balance."

Legolas pulled the long green tunic up over his head without a word and handed his divested garment to one of the two apprentices. He clambered onto the bed and slowly lowered himself down, aligning his body into perfect synchronicity with the woman's below him. Heart against heart. Limb against limb. With her faces mere inches from his he felt her breath ghosting against his cheeks. Her pert nose brushed against the tip of his while his long blond hair slipped down the sides of their faces like a curtain hiding this oddly intimate moment from sight.

It was not long after that he felt a pair of warm hands on his back, palms down. The slight calluses at the fingertips spoke to a lifetime of herb lore. From where Gwaedhel's hands rested he felt a tingle radiate, like a tuning fork that vibrated through him. And so it began. He grit his teeth. Do not move, no matter what. Legolas closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow down. He felt his heartbeat thrum in time with the beats pulsing against his skin.

The pain that bloomed in his chest was sudden and sharp.

It was a lance that pierced through his insides and like an egg being cracked in two he felt the fissures it created fracturing every bone and sinew. His heart began to hammer even as he felt it being squeezed. It was as though a hand had grasped it in their fist and slowly, agonizingly, began to crush it. His stomach churned. A roaring sound filled his ears and drowned all others. His body wanted nothing more to do than to curl up into a ball. He resisted the urge. Coppery blood filled his mouth from where he bit the insides of his cheek. He would not shout. He would not move. This was still nothing. He knew. This was just the beginning. Still, in a small corner of his mind he wondered if death might be less painful.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. Time had lost all meaning. Finally the blinding pain stopped. What was left was worse.

Although Legolas knew his body remained whole the entirety of his left side felt like a gaping cavity. It felt as though it had been gouged out where it had previously been, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. It was a yawning emptiness such as he had never felt before.

Eru have mercy! If he had to live like this for long he would undoubtedly go mad.

His body began to burn, the heat bubbling up in searing waves as he was cooked from the inside out. At the same time, icy needles tore at the edges of his soul, the jagged ends of where the half of it had been ripped out throbbed like a festering wound.

Legolas pressed his forehead against the woman's beneath him. The icy coldness of her forehead was a balm to his enflamed skin. Sweat dripped down his shoulder blades and onto their joined bodies, her chest bandages now soaked with more than just her blood.

This must be what she felt. The impossible heat, the excruciating pain. It was no wonder that she had gripped her head and screamed.

The hands on his back began to trace patterns, elvish runes mixed with symbols he did not recognize. He tried to concentrate on the words that he understood.

Ëala. Spirit. Sercë. Blood. Axo. Bone. Yanwë. Joining.

It was a mantra, words repeated over and over. And with each repetition he felt a calmness trickle in, like sand slowly filling the hole one grain at a time. He felt his breathing start to even out. The fever that racked his body and the coldness that had overtaken hers began to dissipate. Legolas opened his eyes and gazed down. Beneath him, her pallid skin had begun to return to the vibrancy he had first observed by the river in a time that seemed like eons ago. The scent of death that had permeated it began to recede. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt her blood pulse through his veins.

Legolas blinked.

Wait. Her blood through his veins? How could that be? And yet the sensation persisted. No, not just persisted, strengthened.

It felt as though he was at once himself and her. That the end of the one and the beginning of the other had blurred into nonexistence. He felt the pressure and weight of his body on hers. He sensed the way the callouses on his fingers chaffed her skin where he had gripped her. He bore the same wounds, breathed the same air.

And, with her closed eyes, saw an odd ruinous room with its two strangely clad occupants.

The men, as mismatched as could possibly be in terms of both appearance and temperament, hovered in the space beside her. The shorter heavyset man gripped his short yellow hair with both his hands as though he intended to tear it off. His heavily scarred face was twisted in anguish. The other dark-haired gangly gentleman was kneeling down, face grave with concentration, his forefinger curled around the wrist of the woman on the bed. No, not just any woman. It was his own wrist. Or rather her wrist. His woman - the one he knew should be beneath his body in the healing ward and not in this strange room with its caged sun dangling from a ceiling that could collapse at any minute.

With a growl the blond grabbed the other man's shoulders and spun him around. "Do something Klein! We're losing her."

Klein glared, his body rigid. "What do you think I've been doing? I've given her what drugs I had. It should help to stabilize her condition. There isn't much else I can do at this point." He sighed. "I know you are worried Gregor but we need to let this play out. There's no other choice."

Gregor scowled but he backed down. Deep circles ringed his eyes and his hands trembled as they fell to his sides. "I don't like this Klein. It feels as though we may never get her back. That she will be lost forever in some cock-up illusionary world. Alec deserves better than that."

Klein massaged his temples. "I know it sounds paradoxical but the pentobarbital should put her in a deeper coma which in turn should protect her brain functions and give her the means to eventually pull through this."

"And in the meanwhile she will be dragged deeper into that place?"

The sadness in Klein's face made Legolas' heart ache. "Yes."

The two men continued to talk but, as though someone had stuffed his ears with cloth or had thrown him deep under water, Legolas ceased to hear their voices. Nor could he make sense of the words their lips uttered. Only now did he realize that while he had understood the earlier exchange the words themselves had been foreign, just as that woman had uttered while on the banks of the Forest River. Were these her people then? He did not know what to make of what they'd talked of. Illusionary world? Did they mean Middle Earth? And was the woman's name Alec?

He opened his mouth to call out. He need not have bothered. One second he was staring at the crumbling walls of that place and the next he was looking at the long lashes on her face, the hoarse voice of Gwaedhel barking orders above him.

"Adabeth, Duirreth, help His Highness to stand."

From the gaps in his now lank hair, he saw her two apprentices approach. They placed their hands beneath his arms and with a surprising strength lifted him off the woman beneath him. They maneuvered such that as he attempted to work his arms and legs they could support him. It was good that they did. His body nearly collapsed with his first step. So deep was the exhaustion that gripped his entire body.

Legolas slumped against a nearby wooden chair. Gwaedhel silently handed him a steaming cup of herbal tea. The scent of chamomile and lavender simmered from the warm liquid. She looked haggard. Her face bore new lines, one around the edges of her mouth and the other at her temple. A wisp of white hair snaked its way down the side of her face. He had no doubt that he looked no better. He certainly did not feel like it.

"I assume that it was a success?"

Gwaedhel nodded and with a tilt of her head pointed to the bed. "See for yourself."

She lay in the middle of the bed, the gentle rise and fall of her chest spoke of simple sleep. He felt relieved. He rubbed his chest. A dull throb had replaced the sharp pains that had assailed his body earlier, even the desolation and the odd sensations he'd experienced after. He knew without a doubt that he was back in his own skin, his own blood, and his own mind. Still, there was a sense of connection, of oneness, that linked him to the raven-haired woman before him.

"So you already feel it." Gweadhel placed a hand on his shoulder. "It is only to be expected. After all you now share your soul with hers. That part of you that lives within her will always call to you."

Legolas felt her studying him. No doubt she, like every healer he had ever met, was cataloguing his current state, her mind alert to every nuance that spoke of the harrowing ordeal he had just been through. He sipped the liquid in his hands, felt the heat soothe his throat and invigorate his body. It was some minutes before she broke the silence.

"Do you regret it?"

There was honest curiosity in her voice. He shook his head. He looked up. The concern in her eyes shone through bright and clear as day. He smiled. He did not hesitate.

"No, never."

She opened her eyes to find a tall white tree-lined ceiling above her and a soft bed beneath her. She could not recall ever having seen this place. The last memory she had she was by the river and there was this strange man with pointed ears staring in horror at her as she fell.

With a gasp she pushed herself up only to find her senses reeling. "Fuck." She didn't know if she wanted to vomit first or scream at whoever was playing bongos in her head.

A gentle hand pushed her by the shoulders back down to bed. She twisted her head to find that man seated at the edge of it. There couldn't be so many men who had the same angular yet youthful face, deep-set blue eyes, sharp dark brows, and long fair hair. She tried to pull out of his grasp and edge away but either she was so weak, he that strong, or both that he was having none of it. He eased her head back onto the pillows, the sleeves of his deep blue tunic trailing across her nose, making her sneeze.

"Where am I? What have you done to me?" She glared at him. Her voice sounded like sandpaper.

"You are safe. You are in Mirkwood in the Royal Palace. This is the healing ward. You were badly injured and I brought you here to be healed. You have been a patient here for a few days now."

She scrunched her brows. If she recalled correctly she couldn't understand a single word this blond man had said before and now she suddenly could? From beside her she heard him chuckle.

"Yes, it is a curious side effect of your...procedure...this sudden ability to understand each other's language."

He tucked her under a heavy white blanket. "It is best to rest. You are not yet fully healed."

She wanted to laugh outright. That felt like a tall order. There were so many questions that crowded in her mind. Where should she start? Questions like why the fuck did he look like he hadn't slept in days? Or what kind of procedure did they put her through? Or what the heck is Mirkwood and what royal palace?

Or, more importantly, what the heck was her name?

He stood up, careful not to disturb her arrangement on the mattress. With one hand he smoothed the small wrinkles on the linen where he'd sat. When he turned to face her, the smile he offered was wide although tinged with the same deep weariness that seemed to now hang over him.

"I'd like to introduce myself again. My name is Legolas Greenleaf. This is my home. And it is yours as well for as long as you desire, Alec."

She started. Alec? Was that her name? How did he know?

He placed a hand over hers. "Yes, I believe that is your name." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Sedh. I promise that no harm shall befall you."

She scoffed but her body had its own will. Her eyelids felt heavy. She knew she could not hold out for long. Her consciousness was slowly shutting down. She tried to keep her eyes focused on him even as they were dragged under by her exhaustion. He did not leave. He continued to hold her hand, his thumb tracing a soothing circular pattern on her skin. Her last image was of him staring far off, his blue eyes heavy with thought. He spoke what seemed to be a continuation of his earlier words, his voice so soft she barely heard it.

"Not now. Not ever."

Notes:
Eru (Sindarin) - God
Fëa (Sindarin) - soul
Ëala (Quenya) - spirit
Sercë (Quenya) - blood
Axo (Quenya) - bone
Yanwë (Quenya) - joining
Sedh (Sindarin) - Rest