Chapter six: Life At Least

Another fruitless week passed them by in this autumnal Lothlorien, although it somehow seemed to Legolas, that it had not been as adverse as it had once been. He was greeted kindly for the most part, and the sour expressions and distrustful glares seemed to be fading or perhaps transforming into something – less hostile, more inquisitive.

It was a hazy, unusually warm morning for the time of year, and Legolas felt the need for solitude before the hustle and bustle of the day began. He was restless, and his dreams had been plagued with strange symbolisms he had yet to understand; Llyn, Mithrandir, Gildor and Galdithion had paraded before his mind's eye, yet what he was trying to tell himself, as yet, remained a mystery. There had, however, been one scene that had glued itself stubbornly to his conscious mind, one that had him sitting in contemplative silence, until the trees nudged him - he had company. Yet they were mischievous, these mellryn, and would not say who, albeit Legolas was sure they knew his identity, and he smiled indulgently, for they seemed to be testing him, playing games with their new lord.

The air around him shifted a little, and the ground, trees and wind seemed to hum just a little louder, pulse a little stronger, dimming the noise in his ear and setting the fine hairs of his body on end – magic, there was magic in the air.

Indeed he had been right, and a few, scant minutes later, Legolas lay against Mithrandir's grey-clad shoulder beneath a birch, his extraordinarily long hair spilling over the tattered grey robes of the Maia, and a blade of grass dancing merrily between his plush lips. They simply sat together in silent greeting, enjoying the moment and the physical contact of close friends long parted.

Their relationship had developed into something that was now, difficult to describe. It was not the relationship of father and son and yet it shared some of those traits. Neither was it a brotherly affection, for there was just a little more beneath the surface…

"Mithrandir," said Legolas softly.

"Um…," replied the pensive wizard.

"I dreamt of you last night," confessed the somewhat hesitant elf.

"Did you now? I wonder what feats of bravery I was performing…"

"Not feats, but you were not in this body," he began, and Mithrandir was instantly wary, sitting up a little and forcing Legolas to support himself where he sat.

"You were – stunning. Tall and lithe, your skin smooth and radiant, your hair the colour of mahogany and your eyes, a blue so deep in brought to mind the sky at twilight," he finished, watching the wizard for the confirmation he sought.

"I wonder, then, why you would dream such a thing, and why you believe the one you dreamt of, was me," said Mithrandir, apparently unwilling to discuss it, yet Legolas' curiosity had not been sated, and so he continued.

"I rather thought - that it was you in your true form, Mithrandir, you as you are in Valinor," he trailed off, his eyes searching deeply into the wizard's sparkling blue orbs, eyes so alive and youthful they did not match the gnarled body they went with.

Mithrandir simply met the Forest Lord's gaze, his own eyes searching the face of his young friend.

"Perhaps you will see for yourself someday, should you venture to those shores," he answered.

Legolas simply held the weighty gaze, and smiled a little. He knew the Maia did not inhabit their true forms, it was something he had found out in the most surprising of ways just months before during his pilgrimage to Aiwendil. Yet it was hard to imagine the wizard in any other form than the one he currently appeared in – it was a trick of the eye, one devised to create harmony and instant empathy, tools Legolas knew were paramount to Mithrandir's purpose on Middle-earth.

His thoughts abruptly ended, and he suddenly sat rigid, feeling that familiar warm tingling in his eyes that forewarned him of change. Sure enough, Mithrandir was looking at him questioningly now. The Forest Lord could only smile back at him though, timidly at first, and then so wide he broke out into delighted laughter as his mind finally processed the information it was avidly offered.

"Mithrandir, friends approach!" he said.

"Friends, you say?"

"Friend, for in truth, there is only one," he added wryly with an amused glance at a gnarled mellryn.

"That would be my travelling companion, one that knows you well," said the wizard, somewhat ironically.

Legolas smiled in genuine joy and affection as Gildor strolled towards him. He rose and met his friend and part-time lover half-way, opening his own arms to the offered embrace and falling into eager chatter, under the shrewd, avid gaze of the Maia.

…

Gildor awoke to a heavy, grey sky that promised abundant rain – how appropriate, he thought, that the weather should so illustrate his own, dour mood.

It was not a passing emotion, though, for he had been this way for months now, wondering if staying in Middle-earth served any purpose other than to wallow in his own sense of guilt and embarrassment. He could no longer say, for Gildor Inglorion, half-brother to Galadriel, had lost his way.

He could no longer defend his people, for the lands of Eriador had become dangerous. After months of debates amongst his people, they had decided ask Elrond Peredhel for asylum. They would not, however, forsake those lands that had harboured them for so long, lands they had helped the Rangers to protect. They would continue to patrol them, but should it be conceded, they would do so under the command and therefore safety, of the Imladrian army.

Yet upon his arrival in the Hidden Valley, it had been Elrohir who had greeted him, explaining that his father was attending what had come to be known as the Lorien Summit. Mithrandir had suggested they travel together, something Gildor was grateful for; he would not wait what could potentially be months, before gaining Elrond's approval of his plans. They did not have that long. Attacks by orcs and wild men were becoming commonplace, and strange occurrences were being reported by the rangers in the area – stories of strange beings and men from exotic lands.

On his arrival in the Golden Wood, he had been welcomed as he always had been – with grudging acceptance and cold denial. It was, once more, time for that nauseating, half-acceptance of his kinship with Galadriel; Gildor the half-brother, bastard son of Finrod.

It was not that he minded being ignored as the son of such a great one – it was the embarrassment that his presence caused that weighed him down, frayed his nerves. It was this that had kept him from civilization for so long, wandering around the lands of Eriador with his faithful followers that would not question, that offered him only loyal service and brotherly affection. Only there, with them, was he ever happy.

He sighed as he sat before the mirror in his room, tying the sides of his hair back and clipping it at the crown of his head. Quick, easy and practical. It suited him, he thought, no matter they thought him plain – uninteresting, for what did it matter? He no longer had a people to represent, no partner to impress. This journey was merely one that would tie loose ends for Gildor; assure the safety of his people, serve Elrond until Gildor felt the urge to sail, if, he could ever decide. The trip would also serve to sever any tenuous ties he still felt with Galadriel and Glorfindel. Perhaps, he mused, only then would he be able to envisage himself there, in Elvenhome, at peace with himself at last – forgiven – at last. And yet he doubted it. For some reason he could not fathom, he simply could not sail – the feeling of work undone slipping into his mind every time he contemplated the mere possibility.

A swift wrap on his shutter revealed a bushy grey beard and an impertinent glare – Mithrandir.

"Well, Inglorion. Did you sleep well, at last?" inquired the wizard as he invited himself into the talan, his eyes immediately straying to the herbal tea steaming over the hearth.

"Nay, I did not – and you had best not call me that here, Wizard."

"Oh? How so? Cowed are you, by their banter and their stares?"

"NO, I am not cowed, Mithrandir – simply tired of it," he corrected, his voice dropping slowly into silence.

Mithrandir's expression softened, and Gildor knew he understood the wherefore of it. Indeed the wizard was one of the very few people he could speak plainly to. They knew each other well and he was sincerely fond of the maia, for he did not judge – and that in itself was more than enough to endear this bitter lord to gruff wizard.

"Is it not early for you to be vertical, Gandalf? I rather fancied you would wallow in bed after our long trek," said Gildor, as was his way, biting, caustic, almost – insulting if you did not know him well.

"Ah, there will be time enough for that. Yet I wanted to take private council with you and a few others before today's session. Both you and I need input on the state of things if we are to help in this endeavor."

"We? And what is it you think I can do, Gandalf. You know the impact I have on others – why would they listen to me? Why would I want them to? Besides, this is not my cause; it was never my intention to participate in this summit – this you know."

"Trust me, Gildor. There are things you have not considered, things you have resigned yourself to suffering…"

A knock at the door interrupted Gandalf's attempt to draw Gildor into the debate. Glorfindel, Legolas and Elrond, followed by Llyn and Elladan filed into the room. Galdithion was the last to enter, nodding to Doronhal, who now took up his pace outside the door.

Gildor's talan was small, and the furniture somewhat Spartan – not at all fitting for a Lord it seemed to those that now set about perching themselves upon the furniture, for there were only two chairs to be had. Gildor greeted them with a simple nod, except that his eyes lingered on Glorfindel a little longer than protocol dictated. He could not help it, for to simply look upon his ex-lover eased his aching soul – lifted that unbearable cold weight from his chest.

What continued was a quick and efficient summary of their negotiations so far, mainly from Elrond, with a few timely interventions from Llyniel. Mithrandir asked many questions, yet Gildor remained silent – in fact he wished they would just all go away and leave him to his business – all except Glorfindel, and perhaps Legolas. He would not mind their company, yet it was not precisely politics he would talk to them about, he mused.

He realized with a start, that they had finished, and that Elrond stood before him, his grey eyes dancing over Gildor's face.

"Will you walk with me, Gildor?"

"Of course, Elrond," he said levelly, wondering what on Middle Earth Elrond wanted to discuss. As it so happened, it was the perfect opportunity to do what he had come here for. Better than good, he thought, for it seemed he would be able to get away from this place sooner than he had expected.

Yet no sooner had he thought it, and that heavy, sinking feeling assailed him once more. He was simply baffled by himself. He wanted Elrond's help for his people and he wanted to be far away from Lothlorien – yet when the opportunity presented itself, it felt – wrong.

They came to sit on a bank in a shady corner, and once sure they were alone, Elrond turned to Gildor and searched his grey eyes once more.

"You are tired, I can tell," he began, waiting for Gildor to return his gaze, and when he did, Elrond startled a little, at what, Gildor could not say.

"What else do you see, Elrond? For your eyes tell me you are surprised – yet perhaps you should not be. I can no longer protect the folk of Eriador and my people need the shelter only your realm can offer them. 'Tis why I have travelled here, to ask asylum of you, for my people and myself."

"What has happened that is so dire that you seek asylum, Gildor?" asked Elrond, his brow deeply furrowed, "I had no idea that things had taken such a turn for the worse. True we have trained our efforts in other areas, thinking Eriador safe under the rangers and your own men, yet what you say is – troublesome indeed," he said, genuine worry etching the strong lines of his face.

"You could not have known, Elrond, for these events are recent – it is almost as if… they search for something, or someone. I have seen a pattern to it, Elrond, one I will be happy to trace out with Glorfindel once we are back home."

"Of course, Gildor. You and your people will be made most welcome – for as long as you wish it," he said, watching the lord's face for his reaction. Yet it was not what he had expected.

"You do not seem happy to have achieved your objective – for long have you travelled and well you have stated your case, and yet… you are still as tired, still as troubled, there is no relief in your eyes, Gildor."

"And why would there be? Think where this leaves me, Elrond, What it makes me: homeless, and useless."

"Yet you will not sail, will you? He asked rhetorically.

"Sail where? To the place I left in rebellion, exiled for my disobedience?"

"You were forgiven, we all were."

"But that does not change the facts, Elrond. I did what I did and now – for shame, I cannot sail."

"And so, how will you extricate yourself from this unending circle?"

"Perhaps I cannot – perhaps that is the price I pay."

"I do not think that is your fate, Gildor, for I see you in a different light, one you may be surprised to hear."

Gildor said nothing, but his face showed his interest had been piqued.

"What better way to atone for what you feel was an offence, than to pay service to the Valar?" he said, casually, almost, waiting for the inevitable reply.

Indeed, Gildor snorted. "So if I sing the praises of the Valar for a few years, I will feel better and sail?"

"No, that is not what I mean. Hear me, Gildor. In this our endeavor to place Legolas upon the throne of Elvendom, we strive to carry out the plans of the Valar – it is they that have shown us the way. Legolas must bring us all together in order to bring down Mairon, restore the king of men upon his throne in the West. By helping us in this, Gildor, you help to implement the plans of the Valar – you serve them – you … atone, for your sins," he finished softly, watching Gildor's face as it changed from defeat, to anger, and then finally, to – interest.

"Speak," he said briskly.

"First, we place Legolas where he needs to be, and then my friend – we fight. You serve penance for the crimes you believe you committed, and you earn your place in Elvenhome, regain your pride, not that you ever lost it. Is that not a good plan, my friend?"

After a few moments of pensive silence, Gildor responded, yet his tone was no longer flat and monotonous, but soft, and tentative.

"I have oftentime wondered if my reticence to sail is more than the need for atonement, Elrond. I know it is a part of it – my own feelings of – inadequacy. Yet there is something more, something I cannot fathom – as if I have not yet fulfilled my purpose, for all the years I have roamed this land," he said, almost to himself now.

"Could it be this, Gildor? This thing I ask of you, to follow Legolas, help us in this task? Could this be what you are meant to be a part of?" asked Elrond.

"I do not know, Elrond, I simply do not know. But come, tell me why are you so interested in my participation when you know full well I hold no sway over Galadriel, quite the contrary!"

"I do not deny that, Gildor. 'Tis true that Galadriel has never openly accepted you as kin, yet neither of you have ever really tried… and then, I rather think that your conundrum is… the same as hers," said Elrond meaningfully. I believe you two are of like mind, and if Galadriel can come to see things as you do, for the same reasons, this may well tip the balance in our favour."

Another snort told Elrond that Gildor was, at the best, skeptical.

"Think on it, my friend, and come to council. Listen and judge for yourself, and then perhaps we can talk again."

Gildor held Elrond's eyes for moment, before nodding slowly and standing. "Come then, take me to this council. I cannot promise you anything, Elrond, only that I will think on your proposal."

"And that is enough for me," smiled the healer. However, he would be placing no bets on Gildor's decisions, for Elrond's triumph was tentative, at the least, and promising at the most.

…..

Arwen sat through the entire council session, but that did not mean she was not listening. She was, of course, and closely, but more than this, she watched, and analyzed, for there was much going on beneath the polished surface of experience.

Llyniel had confessed her feelings for Legolas more than a week ago, and yet as far as she knew, nothing had come of it. As she watched Legolas, she knew that he would broach the subject, and soon by the looks of things, for every so often, his eyes would stray to the only female councilor in the room and his face would turn pensive and calculating. Glorfindel's attention moved between Legolas and Llyniel, yet his expression was not pensive at all, but impatient almost. It was then, that Arwen realized there was a plan in motion, one Glorfindel was unsure Legolas would accede to; yes, she was sure of it.

Gildor was another interesting object of study. He listened yet, most uncharacteristically, did not intervene once. True the Lorien councilors looked upon him with a hint of disdain upon their faces, even her grandmother – Gildor's sister. It was times like this, that Arwen saw no kinship between herself and her grandmother. This ability to ignore her own brother was simply, incomprehensible to her - of a hard coldness and lack of emotion that she could not identify herself with – did not want to. She had never spoken of Gildor with her grandmother, true, yet she rather thought that the subject was taboo, that Galadriel would not speak of it. The words Arwen had spoken to Llyn not long ago, came back to her now … 'and yet you must…'. Galadriel needed to solve this embarrassing problem, but how? And who could possibly bring about such a feat?

….

Lunch found Legolas, Glorfindel and Llyniel seated together at the high table, together with Galadriel, Celeborn, Elrond, and Gildor. Enquiries were made as to Mithrandir's whereabouts, to which Legolas simply commented that he was 'out and about', earning himself a disbelieving arch of an eyebrow from Galadriel which Legolas just caught from the corner of his eye.

It made him wonder, for he had oftentimes pondered on the nature of her relationship with Mithrandir. Why, he could not say, but there was a certain sensation they provoked in him when they were together, a nearness – an empathy that transcended that of simply good friends. His treacherous eyes turned then to Celeborn, and he wondered if the Sindarin lord suspected anything, or did he know, and simply accept their relationship?

Turning his attention back to the excellent meat pie that had been served for lunch, he became increasingly aware of Glorfindel's furtive glances. Oh, he knew the wherefore of them, for he had been waiting to talk to Llyn about their 'plan' for some days now, and yet he had taken his regal time to talk to her for he was still ironing out the details in his own mind. He would not play with her sentiments – everything had to be crystal clear, for the three of them.

Perhaps the time had come, then, he realized, for he had no doubts any more, however much it pained him, and so once the meal was finished, he turned his head subtly in Glorfindel's direction, the slightest of nods telling him that he acknowledged the unanswered questions and the barely concealed impatience.

"If you will excuse us, my Lady, my Lords," he said, rising slowly and taking Llyniel's hand in his. She took it instinctively and curtsied to the Lords before allowing herself to be steered away under the curious stares of their companions.

Gildor bent to speak into Glorfindel's ear, a faint smirk on his otherwise hard expression. "Will you not be joining them, then?" he asked in a tone that left Glorfindel in no doubt as to what he had imagined - wanted.

"I will, indeed, be joining them. Though I would see you later, if you like," he conceded.

Gildor's face turned sour before he returned to his dessert, unsure of whether Glorfindel had meant to hurt him the way he just had…

…

The door shut behind them and Llyniel jumped visibly, betraying her heightened state of nervousness and anxiety, watching as Legolas walked slowly over to the window and sat on the seat below it, leaning back and resting one foot on the bench below him.

"Join me?" he said softly as he held out one hand.

Walking to him, she sat at his foot, a little stiffly, waiting for the inevitable conversation that would seal her fate, one way or the other.

"I have thought much on our conversation, Llyn – both in contemplative silence, and with Glorfindel – I thought you should know…" he began, his eyes lingering upon her own. She had known, of course, that this was the reason they had left the table early – yet Legolas seemed sad and that did not bode well for what he would say to her. Yet she held her silence, hoping against all hope that she was wrong…

"You know, I wonder at why you would tell me of your feelings, Llyn, after all these years. You know that my heart is given… 'tis not like you – not unless there was some reason for it – something you feel can be gained…" he stressed, his eyes now boring into her own and making her uncomfortable.

He knew her too well, for her head bowed in unwarranted shame. Now, he would force her to tell him what she thought could be a solution – he was astute.

"Legolas, I… I thought long and hard on this, for I did not wish to hurt you, never you," she stressed, her brow furrowing in distress.

"And yet – Llyn – you are a politician – tell me."

She watched him as he sat forward, waiting for her to speak. She remembered her father advising her to tell Legolas of her feelings, but not to discuss the political issues with him, and yet Legolas had anticipated her tactic, and was now throwing it back at her, forcing her to take the initiative.

"I thought, I thought that I could fill that space that your lord father obliges you to fill – a consort to bear children for the future king…" There, she had said it, and her embarrassment was complete. She wanted to squirm and scream and run away from him and his penetrating eyes.

They turned from hard stones of emerald to soft spring leaves and a warm palm covered her wet cheek, a rough thumb stroking it delicately.

"I needed to hear it, Llyn, needed to hear from your own lips what it is you are prepared to sacrifice – and yet I am unsure you realize just what it is you would condemn yourself to…"

"Legolas – I do know – for if you have spent the last two weeks pondering my confession, I have spent a lifetime understanding what it is I will sacrifice – what I already do, every day," she finally whispered, watching his face as she began her tale, and she became Lady Llyniel, advisor to the court of the Greenwood.

Standing now, as if reciting in Thranduil's court, she stated her case; detached, cool reasoning replaced the strong emotions broiling beneath the surface.

"A king needs a consort to bear his children, for that is what his subjects will expect of him, and you are no exception. The female you take as consort will be a secondary mate in this case, for your soulmate is already chosen, it is Glofindel that would sit at your side, should you take up the mantle of kingship – she will be partially bound to you and you to her, legitimate in the eyes of the Valar…" she said, as she turned to face Legolas, who now stood behind her.

"And what of the 'female' that bears him legitimate offspring? Is she to have no other purpose than to rear children? What of her feelings and her dreams?"

"She accepts the nearness, the affection, the smallest measure of love he gives to her, for were she not his consort, she would have none of those things – and so what would be worse? That your dreams do not come true entirely, or that you simply have no dreams to tell of?"

His eyes sparkled and he looked away, his jaw clenching, his distress evident.

"Legolas, can you give me your affection? Your passion? Protection should I need it? Make me a part of your life – respect me as a friend and lover? As the mother of your children?"

Moving slowly towards her once more, he took a lock of her hair and looked upon her sadly.

"Is this enough for you? Can you truly live a lifetime without finding the one that would give you his heart, and his soul – do you renounce such a treasured thing?"

"I can – I already have…" she whispered, battling with her own tears that pricked at her eyes. "A lifetime without you is torture, but a lifetime beside you, without your heart, is life at least…"

She watched through the haze of her tears as he looked down, a single tear dropping to the floor. 'Damn him,' she thought once more 'damn Glorfindel to the void for taking his heart'.

"I will not concede to this unless there is some other reason to take you as consort; I will not take you with the sole purpose of child-bearing," he whispered fiercely. "Be my Chief Advisor, Llyn, help me in this task, should it ever begin. Guide me with your wisdom, as your father has ever done with my lord father. This is what Glorfindel and I would have. Your position must be unquestionable; your worth evident. The reasons why you are consort must transcend the boundaries of jealousy, or mockery. If I am to take your happiness, I would at least give you your self-esteem, your place in this world."

"I agree," she whispered numbly, for she was so shocked with the outcome of the conversation. She had braced herself for the worst, and now that the solution had been found – one that surpassed all her expectations – she simply felt, overwhelmed.

"I will write to my father, and Lord Aradan. Should they give their consent, I will ask you to be my consort, and my Chief Advisor. This is the measure of what I can give to you now, sweet Llyn," he said softly, and then he guided her into his arms, kissing the top of his head, as if sealing her fate, and then he left her alone, in search of the trees and Glorfindel.

….

Gildor was old, and he was tired, a weak and shriveled shadow of what he had once been. He only ever felt alive in battle, or when he was with Glorfindel and Legolas. Life grinded on him, slowly wittling away his self-esteem, his enthusiasm. He needed relief, he needed comfort. His eyes suddenly filled with tears, for he had just confessed his own need, albeit solely to himself. He had succumbed to his own suffering and a wave of unbearable self-pity slammed into his chest so that it caved and Gildor cried silent tears of regret – for himself and for what he had always been – the bastard son of a beloved king, and then for what he had become, a burnt shell that served no purpose, yet unable to retire, for the feeling of work undone would not let him rest.

The sun had set not minutes ago and the sky had turned an intense blue. It was strangely quiet, he thought – and a tingling came to his stomach and his chest felt crushed. It was as if he had been bereaved, he thought, but who had died? He had no beloved to lose… What was this feeling of strangeness? Of anticipation? He swiped at his tears in irritation.

A disturbance drew his attention to Galadriel, who walked slowly towards him until she stood over his kneeling form, looking down upon him as she had always done. He returned her gaze boldy, recognizing all too well the likeness they shared. She understood it seemed, for she slowly knelt down beside him and stared into the distance.

"Do you feel it? Gildor? Do you feel the shift?"

"Shift?" he asked, somewhat baffled. "I feel something, yet what it is I cannot say."

Her head turned to him and she regarded him once more – 'calculating' thought Gildor. She was considering, turning something over in her mind. 'So alike' he thought again. The straight nose, the thin lips, the piercing eyes and the pride, the thrice-damned pride of the Noldor.' And just as he began to wonder at what she would be like as a sister, he remembered her public rejection of him, her refusal to acknowledge him as the blood of Finrod, and all thoughts of kinship fled him once more.

"I am not so cold, Gildor," she whispered.

"Are you not? For it would seem that way to me, my Lady," said Gildor somewhat flatly. She was in his mind, he realized, and he lacked the skill to rid himself of her probing.

"You too, would hide from me?" she asked, "what is it, that you would hide from me?"

"'Tis not what I wish to hide, it is the unfair balance – why should you look when I cannot? Surely you must earn the trust and respect of the one you wish to probe? Surely you have no right to access the feelings and thoughts of others that have not acquiesced … or is it you think you do have that right, as princess of the Noldor…?"

However, he could not press his point, for none other than Legolas had emerged from the trees into the glade where half-brother and half-sister knelt shoulder to shoulder. Indeed the Forest Lord seemed surprised – 'strange', thought Gildor, for one as perceptive as he.

"Forgive me," he said from afar, to which Galadriel answered quickly, uncharacteristically so.

"Come, Legolas, join us if you will."

His brow furrowed, for just like Gildor, he seemed not to understand why she would wish for his presence in what was clearly a private moment.

He sunk down before them, briefly looking at each one before looking down. He seemed sad, realized Gildor.

"'Tis a strange night, this night. For the shift is here, between the three of us…" murmured Galadriel, her thoughts turned inwards, it seemed.

Gildor frowned in puzzlement, but Legolas showed no such bafflement – only resignation. He knew something, felt something too, and Gildor suddenly felt at an acute disadvantage.

"What is this shift you speak of?"

It was Legolas, who answered him. "Things that will change this night, things that are necessary for our future success, Gildor. This night is a marker, a beacon, a milestone in our journey towards destiny, yet do not ask me why," he said, turning to Galadriel, who met his gaze coolly.

"And your heart, Forest Lord?" asked Galadriel as her hand moved to his chest and touched him briefly.

He breathed deeply, a little raggedly, and Gildor was intrigued, for he had thought Legolas and Glorfindel's relationship a given thing – surely nothing had happened, he wondered to himself, his own heart accelerating at the idea.

"My heart is whole, and yet it breaks for one who would sacrifice so much, for so little," he trailed off hoarsely.

"She loves you. The simple brush of a hand against yours is no small thing, Legolas, 'tis everything. She will be a good consort to you, and an excellent advisor…"

She, she? Llyniel! realized Gildor, they spoke of Llyniel becoming Legolas' consort – and what of Glorfindel?

Too late he realized he had spoken the words and Legolas' strange green eyes rested plainly upon his own. "Glorfindel continues to rest in my soul – that will never change, my friend."

Gildor looked down, berating himself for acting so brashly. "Forgive me, Legolas, truly."

"I do. I know what he meant to you, what he still does…"

Gildor suddenly felt beaten, and the drowning feeling was back. He had always held a small modicum of hope, yet tonight, for some reason, that had been severed – completely and irremediably, and he bowed his head for the weight of it.

"He was all I had left here – without him, there is nothing. No purpose, no love, no reason to stay…"

"There are many reasons for staying, Gildor," began Legolas under the avid gaze of Galadriel, who listened closely.

"Follow me, Lord Gildor. Follow us on this path to Mairon and his destruction. Be a part of we - priviledged – few. Fight with me and return victorious – and worthy, in your own mind…"

Gildor stared wide-eyed at Legolas. How had he known!

"I am no Lord, my Lord…"

"How so, Inglorion? Thus do you belittle your father's name? Your own inheritance? Listen to me, Gildor, and listen well. You are the son of Finarfin, great king of the Noldor, valiant and true, fierce and loyal – thus was your father. Your grandfather Finwë, High King of the Noldor, noble leader of a loyal people who broke a nation, their religion even, but for an iota of vengeance on those that left them bereft."

Gildor stared on in wide-eyed shock at the words that tumbled from Legolas' mouth, as if he had lived all those moments himself.

"Their blood courses through your veins, Gildor Inglorion – Finarfinion – prince, of the Noldor. The name of your mother changes this not, and so thus I will treat with you, my Lord," he finished, his gaze meaningful and determined, until after a few moments, his eyes glinted and a faint smile graced his lovely lips.

Gildor's considerable self-control wavered for a moment as he looked to the floor, collecting himself – for he felt strangely exhilarated of a sudden. As if years of shame and indecision had suddenly been lifted from his strong shoulders.

"Lord Gildor, you are not alone," he continued, "for even should you not count your friends, there is one with whom your kinship is unquestionable…" he trailed off, his eyes wandering to Galadriel daringly.

"Some would say you are wrong, Forest Lord. Some say we are not kin at all…" countered the Lady.

"Galadriel – what does that matter – if you know they are wrong?"

She breathed deeply, and Gildor was truly surprised at how Legolas had turned the tables on her – glad, even that he had, and it was now his turn to watch, and analyze.

"Galadriel, what does it matter? – why do you not stand firm and claim him as kin?"

"It would not be acceptable…"

"Acceptable to who? To no one of consequence, and yet to us your friends and your allies, I have seen no opposition at all. If only – if only I could show you, Galadriel, show you his worth without the layers of protocol, of ethics, of belief and custom, of pride… and if I could," he added as an afterthought, "would you look – into my mind and see for yourself?"

"You would let me in – after all this time – to show me the worth of my brother? Yet you would not do so in order for me to see yours?" she asked incredulously, and suddenly, Legolas became more credible to Gildor's mind – he respected what Legolas had obviously been doing – gaining the respect she owed him with his own merits.

"I would look yes – and yet in doing so, I would see a part of you, too," she said, her eyes now searching his, for ever had he refused this one, simple act.

"Then so be it," he said.

Gildor clung to the conversation by a thread, piecing together the issues that had separated his half-sister and the future king of Elvendom, yet one simple loss of concentration and he would lose it, for it was convoluted, and then – what had Legolas meant when he, Gildor, had something to do with this – issue?

Yet there was no more time to ponder the point, for Legolas was shedding his boots, and his tunic, even his shirt and Gildor had to train his treacherous voice to muffle the cry of lustful delight that wracked his own body. He saw then, the impressive scar upon his side. He had heard of the terrible events in the Greenwood and Legolas' grievous injury, but he had never imagined such … damage.

Next, the forest Lord untied his bountiful hair, and Gildor watched, mesmerized as it tumbled around his shoulders heavily, the tips resting on the floor beside his knees and obscuring the marred flesh from sight. A light breeze enveloped the half-naked lord, teasing his locks and lifting his head so that he looked up, and opened his blazing green eyes to the heavens.

Looking first to Gildor, he spoke in a plain, flat tone. "Do you dare to look, Inglorion?"

"I dare it," he said, bewitched almost, for the green eyes shone from the inside and glowed outwards – it was hypnotic – it was magic.

Turning then to Galadriel, Legolas spoke once more.

"Fulfill your desire then, and look into my mind, princess of the Noldor…" he said, as the Lady took the proffered hand.

And thus they knelt on either side of the Forest Lord. Gildor's eyes itched and prickled and he resisted the urge to rub them. He tried to focus on the tree line before him, but his eyes were suddenly not his own, the trees becoming fuzzy of a sudden, and lights that he knew not to be there, suddenly appeared from the corner of his eyes. He tensed and his breathing accelerated, and only a squeeze from Legolas' hand managed to ground him just a little, to stay the panic that was beginning to take hold.

He was being pushed into a place that was coming into existence before his very eyes. There was light, and there was love, and suddenly, all his woes, his self-pity, and his pride, fell into insignificance, and Gildor, prince of the Noldor, cried for the beauty of it.