10 –ACCIDENT
The ground was damp and pungent with the scent of fresh rain while Flynn and her elven companion made short work of breakfasting. There was a dry wind in the air and Legolas muttered quietly to himself as he loaded the horses. Flynn watched with interest but said nothing, and shortly they began the ride. Their direction turned more westerly, approaching the great river Anduin, now watching the land open up in dry yellow plains of grass and scattered rock monoliths. Bare hills sprouted tussocks of wind-battered needle grass, and the sight of a tree grew rare.
They rode in silence, a northerly wind loud and persistent in their ears. The landscape was raw and prohibiting; the horses stumbled occasionally, the hills massed together, and conversation seemed out of place. They had gone far beyond the borders of the forest, beyond the safety of the elven outpost. The only realm they could reach now was Lothlórien, and the ageing woods within. There was no shelter but these low hills, in the crooks in their bases or beneath the jutting rocks. They were unprotected, and Legolas was ever watchful. Lórien and its outer lands were no longer hostile, but its inhabitants were leaving, taking the ships to the West, their Lady long since gone, their Lord otherwise occupied with the rebuilding of southern Mirkwood. There was scarcely the population now to protect the outer borders, and travellers ventured outside of the woods forewarned. The Elf was tense.
Flynn followed closely behind him though there was no chance of him disappearing out of sight on these bald fields. The hooves of the horses crunched crescents into the grass that the wind would sweep clean, and for miles Flynn would gaze awestruck at the open rolling hills that hinted at not a trace of another living soul. She trotted up beside Legolas and said, "We have not seen a single person in days."
Legolas seemed to have been under the blanket of great concentration and now it had been broken. He blinked. "You expected a village, a city?"
"No, but I do not know much of these parts," Flynn answered. She could not express that she was used to a land swarming with people, a land of forests enclosed by fences. "Remember, I am not from here, I came from –"
"Far away, yes, I remember Ellos saying so." He squinted into the distance and Flynn followed his line of sight. She could see nothing but more of the same landscape.
"Do you see something?" she asked quickly.
He looked back to her, "On the horizon, a break in the line of hills."
"What does that mean?"
"We have almost reached the cliffs near the borders of Lórien. Beyond them you will see Lothlórien wood, but first we must reach the top."
Flynn bit her lip. "How do we climb cliffs with horses?"
"With difficulty. It has never been a trouble for me, but here we are, three more than I am accustomed to." His gaze shifted back to the horizon. "I will find us a safe way down." He rode on.
- - - - -
Later they reached a point where Flynn, too, could discern the shape of a long elevation that peeled across the horizon, so wide that it became apparent there was no going around it. She glanced sidelong at Legolas. His brow was knitted as though puzzling out the geography. She broke his train of thought. "How far from Lothlórien are we?"
The Elf scratched Rhaia's neck softly. "We should reach the woods before nightfall tomorrow."
Flynn nodded and looked ahead. She had no idea of her intentions once she arrived in the golden wood, unable to see beyond the time when Legolas and the healer would return to East Lórien for the horse. Flynn expected Lothlórien wood to be unwelcoming and exclusive, with good reason for its being feared by Man and Dwarf alike. But Tolkien had written of how it had declined after its higher days, after Galadriel went into the West, and Flynn could not yet know just how much it should have changed. The great elven realms would all fade away in time, she knew, and such knowledge threw a shadow over her heart. The land's beauty was fading, and here she had arrived at its end. Flynn chewed her lower lip thoughtfully.
Legolas happened to glance at her at that moment – if elves ever just 'happened' to do anything – and his expression turned to interest. "Something troubles you," he commented.
Flynn shook from her reverie. "Hmm?"
The Elf grazed his lower lip with his thumb, "You withdraw just here," he said, demonstrating, "when you are ill at ease." He twisted his fingers back into Rhaia's reins.
"Do I?"
"You do." He smiled.
Flynn shrugged, "I did not notice. But I am not troubled," she lied. Legolas nodded. "Actually," she said, "we do have one trouble – those cliffs, see?"
They had come to the edge of a long embankment that sloped gently down through thick grass then began to run flat at the foot of the cliffs before charging back up towards the sky. These were not great mountains, but the sloping castle of jagged rock made for no less of a daunting prospect.
Low-laying trees sprouted from all angles up the incline, attaching their roots desperately to the hard ground, daring to stand vertical if only for a few feet. Along the peaks of the ridge the earth turned to grey stone, rising sharply up before appearing to flatten out like vast tables. Off to the left, at the very base of the incline, was the origin of what looked like a path, suggested by a line of neatly placed stones. It snaked up and up, around rocky crags, over flat respites, and all the way to the height of the ridge, where it indicated a pass through the peaks. A fissure in the rock, just a few feet wide, was the only door to the other side.
Flynn sighed. "The view must be splendid from up there."
A gust of wind blew a faraway whistle through the gap in the ridge.
"Happily you will get to see its magnificence for yourself," Legolas said.
Then it was time to go on; onward and upward, and hopefully over. Legolas moved ahead first, and when they reached the beginning of the stone-marked path, Legolas sprung lightly from his horse. Flynn, less gracefully, gathered her skirts about her legs and clambered with some difficulty from Isilyn's back, landing heavily on the ground, a sharp pain shooting through her heels. She winced. Legolas looked on. "It probably takes practise," Flynn said.
"It surely helps if you are an Elf," Legolas smirked.
Flynn swatted at him with a limp hand and then took Isilyn by the reins, gesturing up the hill. "Lead the way," she said. Legolas watched her momentarily before moving ahead.
The ascent was mostly trouble-free on foot. Patches where the rocks came loose proved hazardous for the horses, but Legolas was superbly calming. Flynn was simply thankful for two arms and opposable thumbs. Soon they stood at the topmost point in the path on a ledge of rock big enough for the four. It marked the entrance to the pass through the ridge. Warm wind breezed through the fissure and teased Legolas's hair, which leapt about in gusts. He leaned a few inches into the gap, his face tense with thought. He looked at Flynn. "You will go through first," he said. "Then I will pass the horses through. There is enough room on the other side for us. You must make sure they are safe."
Flynn nodded and stepped past him, his faint woodsy scent catching her as she passed. She turned towards the light at the other side and picked her way over the uneven stone floor. Steadying herself with her palms against the rough contours of the walls, she shortly found herself craning her neck out of the western opening. The air here was strangely more still but for the gust about the passage opening. Flynn stepped cautiously onto a tremendous ledge, inching forward slowly. At first she glanced upon the area about her feet; another tableau of stone roughly carved into the ridge. The edge off to her left broke away to a smaller ledge, which led in turn to a narrow path that headed underneath and zigzagged down the mountain.
Then she saw the view. The breath caught in her throat. A landscape of green rolled out flat and endless before her, cloven in a snaking line by the Great River, the Anduin, shining like yellow glass in the afternoon sun sinking orange in the distance. The land beyond was dotted by the shadowy masses of trees. Flat plains escalated into undulating, tree-patched hills, and in the far distance the shadows seemed to condense into one immense, dark shape of a grand wood that stood proud and silent. Lothlórien.
Flynn leaned back against the rock face rising up behind her and pursed her lips into a slow whistle of awe. Moments later, a responding whistle jerked her attention back towards the rock pass. She leaned around and peered down the passage. Legolas's head appeared at the other end, positioned just so that the sunset glowed over his crown in a golden orange halo. He smiled proudly and it seemed to Flynn as though she truly beheld the face of a prince. She could not help grinning back girlishly.
"Breathtaking, is it not?" Legolas called.
Flynn nodded, feeling an odd sense of calm, unsure if her eyes could behold more beauty this day. She remained transfixed as Legolas disappeared from the entrance for a moment then returned, a rein entwined in his fingers. He called to Rhaia, and Flynn heard the sound of hooves going tentatively over uneven rock. Flynn moved away from the passage, back to the ledge and the view, as Legolas sent Rhaia through. She heard him call to Isilyn, and another set of staccato footsteps joined in. Though it was but a few metres to reach this side, the horses were fearful and apprehensive, and slow.
Flynn squatted and hugged her knees, sighing appreciatively as the sun sliding down the sky cast long, amber shadows over the land. She stifled a yawn, pressing her mouth into her shoulder, and noticed, for what felt like the millionth time, how badly she needed to bathe. Grimacing she wondered how offensive the unwashed-traveller scent was turning out, especially to an Elf from whom dirt seemed to deflect in fear. Flynn shook herself, then stood in anticipation of Rhaia's appearance, and made a mental note to jump in the River Anduin as soon as she was within distance. But as she stood, two things happened.
The first; Rhaia, the proud steed of elves, reached the ledge on the northern side of the pass. At once the horse caught sight of the view, a terrible dizzying height, and suddenly reared up on hind legs, shrieking in horror, hoofs scuffling at the uneven rock and nostrils flaring, snorting hot air. Her legs shook under her immense weight, her eyes like black saucers, terrified as she bellowed and balked and made such a clamour as to awaken the dead.
The second; Flynn turned to greet Rhaia just as the horse reeled up towards the sky in so sudden a movement that her massive, heaving chest teetering upon limbs that would crash down at any second, and the eruption of sound from her bared teeth shocked Flynn so abruptly that instinct pushed her backwards. But there was nowhere for her feet to go; her feet hit thin air, her toes barely balancing on the rock. Flynn teetered momentarily on the edge of the cliff. Then she fell.
Her scream was so piercing it sliced through the wind. The orange and white light of the sunset filled her vision and velocity roared in her ears like thunder – and then it stopped abruptly. Her scream was ripped away, all the breath knocked from her body as she slammed heavily on to the rocky path below. An intense crack of pain shot up her right arm, a crushing of the wrist twisted under her body as she landed. Her head was craned awkwardly over a rock and black spots obscured her vision, her consciousness swimming.
These hurts registered momentarily, for she had only a second of respite before her momentum on impact sent her tumbling again. Off the path and beyond she fell, her legs sliding first over its edge, swinging down a sharp decline, a rock face that angled like a dam wall. Her body and gravity waged a battle, gravity's strength certain, fate rising up to meet her as quickly as the ground below would if she did not hold on. Pitching all her strength she clung to the tough sprigs of grass at the path's edge before she could fall away completely. Pain shot through her injured wrist and her grip loosened and slipped, and sharply she jolted inches downward. Rocks scraped at her skin and with great effort she clung to one jutting rock. It cut into her palm, and tears sprung to her eyes.
Flynn craned her neck and heard the animal's shrieking die down, and a second later a shower of gravel sprinkled her as Legolas's feet scuffled to the rock ledge high above. His head appeared at the edge, and his darkening eyes widened threefold seeing her battered body lying precariously against the steep rock face. Flynn's eyes welled with tears as she looked up at him, and she tried to speak but it came out as a pitiful choking sound. In an instant he was on his feet.
Legolas threw his bow down and sprinted across the ledge and down where it dropped to the path, and down the rocks he sprung easily, negotiating crags with effortless speed. He followed the path as it ran beneath the rock ledge and stopped at the place where Flynn had first landed. Legolas dropped to his knees and leaned out. Flynn's hand was only a foot or so below, but just beyond reach without risking them both tumbling down the cliff. The only solution was to flatten himself to the ground, and swiftly he was down, sliding forward, reaching over the edge for Flynn's hand.
"Take my hands!" Legolas urged.
"I do not have the strength," she cried weakly. One arm lay limply by her side. "My arm – it is useless!"
For a moment Legolas's face turned from fear to compassion. He held Flynn's distressed eyes in his, their sadness almost admitting defeat. Her left hand's grip weakened; she slipped a little. Legolas snapped back into action and he grunted in effort, reaching as far as he could over the rock face. He made a grab for her arm, fingers wrapping around her wrist, warm blood slipping between his fingers. Steeling himself against the ground he made an almighty heave and wrenched Flynn upwards by just one arm. She shrieked in pain and slid over rocks, making fresh work of her lacerated skin, strangling a gasp.
"Your legs," Legolas called, flexed to breaking point. "Push with your legs!"
The sound of his voice sent a pulse of adrenaline through her and Flynn threw her right arm upwards; it slammed against the wall and Legolas grabbed it without thought and vice-gripped her arm. Now braced by his strength, Flynn could fight. She took a heaving breath and contracted, pushing her knees against the wall. Legolas pulled hard, fighting gravity, Flynn's legs slipping and scrambling and gaining on the wall. Her head and shoulders crested the path above, and Legolas thrust himself under Flynn's arms, reaching down and wrapping his arms around her waist.
"When I count to three," he heaved, "Push one last time."
Flynn nodded, grunts of effort and pain issuing forth, and Legolas braced himself against the rock face. Quickly he counted to three, and with a last effort, Flynn shoved her legs against the wall, levering herself upwards as Legolas squeezed her hard and groaned as he rolled backwards and dug his knees into the ground. He levered his body up and grabbed fistfuls of Flynn's clothes as she came over the edge, and arching backwards he finally fell back gasping, a bruised, fragile body in his arms.
The air was still. Legolas relaxed his hold on Flynn and gazed at the sky above. Flynn panted, her head on his shoulder, feet still dangling just over the accursed edge. Her breathing turned slowly into quiet choking sobs; she was in no state of recovery. Legolas squeezed her in a comforting embrace, cradling the back of her head in his hand. He stroked her ruffled hair slowly as she shuddered. Legolas wriggled carefully into a sitting position, pulling Flynn gently with him. She tucked her legs under her body and sat, hunched, cowering against his chest, unaware of a scratch along her jaw bleeding on to him. The Elf gently folded her into his body, and holding her garishly reddened wrist in one hand he pressed it to his chest. There was a perturbed stare upon his face as his warm breath washed over the limp hand he clutched below his chin. In a moment he pressed Flynn's palm to his face, sighing with distress. Flynn whimpered still, little tear blots moistening the collar of his tunic.
Legolas was silent. There was nothing they could do but keep safe and ride hard until they reached Lórien. Above them, the horses whinnied. Dusk had settled.
- - - - -
Legolas carried her back up the cliff after her fall and quickly put Flynn upon his own horse to keep her safe. He took both animals by the reins and led them gingerly and slowly down. The best way down was not, in fact, by launching over the cliff edge the way Flynn had done. There was an easy path that snaked back and forth on a gentle decline until it reached the bottom. The horses were calm, but that did not change what had already happened.
Once on flat ground Legolas trickled a little of their drinking water on Flynn's arm to wash the blood away. He produced a sheath of thick fabric from his provisions and tightly wrapped it around her forearm, stemming the bleeding and holding it somewhat rigid. He removed the belt from his waist and wrapped it around her arm and over her shoulder in a makeshift sling. She moaned softly, floating in and out of awareness. The bleeding had stopped but the bone was damaged and they needed a healer soon. He mounted his horse quickly and sat behind Flynn, wrapping one arm around her limp body and setting off on a gallop as smooth as the well-trained Rhaia could afford, and Isilyn followed with a short whistle.
The flight to Lórien was hazy and full of red pain. They stopped only to eat and for short rests for the horses, as Legolas, running on adrenaline and a bite or two of lembas, seemed to have eschewed his need for food or for rest, and Flynn's stomach roiled at the thought of eating. The pain took over everything. She had battered herself plenty of times as a child, falling out of trees and tripping over toys, but those were bee-stings compared to this, and now she knew that her generation surely took the presence of nearby hospitals and existence of strong painkillers for granted. No pain had ever been this invasive.
Flynn remembered little of their crossing the river on a ferry manned by the elves; she hung limp against Legolas, her eyes fluttering, and she thought she beheld eddies in the swift flowing water, and smelled the clean, cold river. She smiled wanly, drifting into a dream of warm baths and the smell of clean linen. Legolas squeezed her close.
They reached Lórien at dusk the next day. Flynn was conscious for a short while earlier in the day, bobbing uncomfortably atop the horse as the grass washed by in a smudge of green. There was no sound but the thudding drums of eight metal-shod feet as she rested her head against his shoulder, drawing comfort from the scent of the Elf, the smell of wood smoke and greenness; a scent which would be forever imprinted on her brain as a portent of safety and protection and being truly looked out for. Legolas hardly breathed, keeping Flynn tightly pressed to him as she slept, or lolled limply atop the horse in a manner akin to sleeping but which was more a state of traumatised unconscious. She did not dream again.
- - - - -
Lórien wood began distinctly. Tough, yellow grasses had given way to a lush green variety hours ago on the plains, and now the short carpet of emerald was cut sharply by the edge of the wood, which stretched out north and south as far as could be seen. Legolas slowed the horses and stepped softly into the trees. Flynn did not stir. The wood was cold and silent. He expected Lórien guards to greet him shortly. But he pressed on, further and further into the wood, and still nobody arrived. Where were the Lothlórien elves? Had so many really disappeared? He came across the Celebrant stream, stopping for a moment to mourn a time long gone, when he had first beheld the little river as he entered these woods with an entirely different purpose. But back then the elves had been present, tracking his motley Fellowship for days.
Here, now, there was no sign of life, and now that dusk had fallen even the birds were silent. The horses crossed the water hesitantly. They drew a little closer to Caras Galadhon, the center of all activity in Lórien, and Legolas moved slowly now in a bid not to startle any elves who may be wandering around. Surely the elf maidens still took their leisure time around the perimeter; surely there were still sentry guards?
And then suddenly a figure stepped out from the shadow of a mallorn tree, an arrow drawn, and Legolas inhaled sharply and started to react, but halted, realising that with Flynn in his arms he could not even draw his bow. But the figure lowered his weapon upon recognizing Legolas's face. "Legolas!" the guard Elf exclaimed.
Legolas knew that face; relief flooded him. "Thienving!" he cried. Suddenly it was clear why he had not felt the presence of a fell foe; this Elf was a very old friend indeed.
Thienving approached with a smile, but his face fell when he regarded the slumped figure Legolas gripped tightly. Before Thienving could ask, Legolas explained, "My companion is wounded; we seek Cilien, the healer. Does she reside here still?"
"Of course; but you should know that, surely?" Thienving responded. Legolas was in too much of a hurry to discuss, and his face said as much. Thienving said, "I will take you to her," and hurried to the lone horse standing idly behind Legolas, mounting her and setting off. Legolas followed.
Thienving lead them beyond the main city, which Legolas barely gave a glance to, until they reached the base of a huge mallorn tree ringed in vines and encircled by a carved wooden staircase. Thienving called up and in a moment the healer was swiftly descending, a blur of white and gold. She reached the bottom of the staircase and beheld the Elf Prince, and a look of recognition and deep emotion crossed her face, and Legolas felt the beating of his heart fall away, never expecting to be so caught out by her after all this time. But his focus shifted as Thienving hurried to help them off the horse and up to the healer's talan. High in the trees, they lay Flynn on a bed dressed in cream-coloured blankets and helped manoeuvre her into a half-prone position.
Legolas watched with anxiety as the healer inspected Flynn's wrist, awash in black bruises, and determined it badly sprained, but not broken. She worked quickly, encasing Flynn's arm in thick gauze before securing it. The healer fastened a proper sling over Flynn's arm to replace the makeshift version fixed by Legolas. She took a bottle of amber-coloured liquid and gently dripped it into Flynn's mouth. The action seemed to sober Flynn and for a moment she appeared conscious, registering Legolas kneeling by her, holding her hand. Flynn drank from the vial offered by the healer who sat by her side. The mixture was in truth more parts alcohol than secret herbal remedy and it helped her to drop off to sleep properly, and erased much of the pain.
The healer finally sat down near Flynn on a long divan. Legolas moved to the edge of the talan closest to the tree and sat on a bench there. His tense frame refused to relax. They stared at each other. Who had changed the most in all these years?
"Your friend will fare well, I do think, after some weeks of rest," Cilien said at last.
Legolas nodded, feeling pulled to watch over Flynn, but his eyes kept straying back to the Elf who sat calmly, her warmth closer to him than it had been in centuries. "Will she awaken soon?" he asked.
"I hope for it," Cilien answered. "She should not be in much pain now, and I will make sure she is comfortable." The healer's voice was measured and calming, just as Legolas remembered. She held his eyes, and he knew she was curious. Legolas knew she would ache to know why he had stayed away from her for so long.
Legolas answered her unasked question. "I came here seeking you, Cilien, before Flynn – for that is her name – was hurt. We thought, in truth, that you dwelt nearer to Cerin Amroth, but we discovered on the way that you reside here now. We ran across a strange Elf; Orindië was his name."
"No, I do not expect you would know how long I have been here, having never sought me out in all this time," she said in a measured monotone, and slowly ran one slender hand under her hair, shaking it slowly over her shoulder. "Orindië, you say?" A tiny smile threatened at her lips. "He is a good friend."
Legolas watched her a moment. "There is a valuable horse taken very ill at the outpost near to Dol Guldur, and if you would, Lord Celeborn would very much appreciate your help, as soon as you would come," he informed her.
Cilien nodded. "Of course I shall help. But I must watch over your... friend for a night, at the least. She can remain here, of course; I will leave her with enough pain remedy to see her through the weeks of healing, but how much time can your horse spare?"
"Little, I believe. We are three days away and have spent more already."
The healer thought for a moment, her pale hair framing her face. "We must leave tomorrow, then. I will have my things packed for me and we shall set off in the morning."
Legolas nodded and sat back, and relaxed slightly as Flynn lay quietly and did not stir. The murmuring and moaning had ceased now and she seemed to slumber peacefully rather than drift unwittingly in and out of consciousness as she had done for days.
Cilien still stared at him in a way he had more than a few times found unnerving. She finally said, "It is unfortunate you have not been able to visit us here more often."
Legolas smiled a knowing smile. "Do you not mean: to visit you?"
Cilien looked away under the guise of monitoring Flynn.
"But we have not remained friends such as we once were," Legolas said. "Think on all the water passed under our bridge, as these mortals sometimes say."
Cilien smiled wanly, clearly not thinking of the water under the bridge so much as her own heart. "You used to enjoy yourself with me, back in the time when Eryn Lasgalen was still our beloved Mirkwood," she commented, standing and moving to the rows upon rows of glass shelving that lined the far side of the talan. Cilien's dwelling was immense and multi-tiered, mostly taken up by shelves full of hand-blown glass bottles filed with potions, remedies and tinctures of different colours and textures. There were some raised beds like plush divans, and a bulbous cauldron. The healer took up a mortar and pestle and slowly mashed the contents.
"I did, it is true," Legolas replied. "But I grow restless these years."
"I understand, Legolas." She sighed lightly. "It is simply a shame we have lost each other."
"I know this," he said, his heart and head flooding now with memories, too many of them bitter. "There is a reason you and I are not the companions we once were, and I do believe it is these same differences that separate us as friends as well. We decided – you remember? – that it is just not... meant to be."
"I did not say it was," she replied stiffly. "But it is a shame to lose someone close." Cilien put down the mortar and pestle and crossed to Flynn, placing a palm on her forehead. The bell sleeves of her white dress floated about as she moved and her hem swished across the platform. Legolas remembered this Elf well, from a time in his past long before the War of the Ring, long before he had ventured impossibly far beyond the confines of his father's realm, back when he was a different person, in a different Age.
Cilien was older than him, and was unbelievably ambitious when they were younger, and she had more than succeeded in attaining these things she wanted in her life. She was a great healer, well-known throughout the lands, but she was not loved for anything more than her abilities; she was neither kind of heart nor fair of temperament. She could be bullish and overly headstrong, and even selfish, which seemed incongruous for a person in her position. Legolas blamed his youth for seeing any spark of hope in this maiden as a potential mate. They had connected for a while, hundreds of years previous, but their passion for one another became, gradually over time, obviously weaker against the stark differences in their personalities; Legolas's fluid lifestyle and adaptable way only frustrated the stubborn Cilien. But still, he was reminded, she remained one of the most visually stunning elves he had known.
Legolas was staring at Cilien as she felt the heat of Flynn's forehead, and his eyes shifted to Flynn's peaceful face. Here, strangely, was a beautiful and shapely face to rival Cilien's sharp features. There was comely warmth to Flynn, a welcoming feeling, as though they had been friends long ago, separated by time and distance, and were only now just being re-acquainted. It did not seem to him as though they had known each other but a little while. Such relief he felt to watch her face and see her brow no longer contorted in pain. In this diffuse light, wrapped in elegant elven blankets, peaceful slumber across her countenance, she looked so fair. He shook himself mentally when Cilien's eyes darted to his face and her brow rose reprovingly. Yes, he must have looked as if in a fine and fanciful reverie. A reverie that could come to no good.
Cilien went about her dwelling, mixing liquids here and grinding herbs there, and Legolas watched Flynn and the healer in turn, saying nothing, and soon Cilien asked Legolas to leave, saying she needed to give Flynn a rudimentary bath. Flynn was filthy by elven standards, despite Legolas's best efforts to keep her clean on their journey from the cliffs. There was only so much of her he could clean without being intrusive, careful though he was.
Legolas nodded at Cilien and left quietly. Wandering the forest, he thought on his travelling companion and her state of health, not observing how grey the wood had grown and how melancholy it felt since his last visit here, on that fateful trip nearly a hundred and twenty years previous. Legolas wondered what such pain felt like to Flynn. He knew his own brand of pain, his battle injuries, his distress – but what was it like for a Mortal, for this Mortal? Did she fear injury the way elves did? For battle injury was one of the very few ways the otherwise immortal elves could die, and for that reason, choosing to participate in battle was a heavy step for an Elf to take, to risk injury when they valued life so greatly, though they were brave and valiant and strong fighters.
So did mortals take these risks lightly, knowing injury and death were unavoidable aspects of mortal life? And why did they not die of heartbreak? Legolas wished to ask her sometime, if he ever got the chance. The Elf was fortunate to have never been heartbroken, close as he had come. Ceasing contact with Cilien had been a great pain to him, yes, but did they really have hold on each other's hearts? He thought not; perhaps that was why they now both still lived, and thrived no less.
Legolas wondered suddenly if Flynn had ever been heartbroken – she appeared to be of an age where most mortals had usually suffered it. Somehow they could suffer through it and live, and it had always shocked him that this was even possible. How did they go on when their heart was rent, useless? There was so much he had yet to know about this mysterious woman and her race. As much as he liked mortals, he certainly did not fully understand them.
Legolas met with his old friend, Thienving of Mirkwood, strolling in the direction of the great city Caras Galadhon, and they walked and talked and remembered old days, before they went on to Thienving's talan where Legolas ate his first real meal in days and sat cross-legged on the floor, welcoming the chance to relax and reminisce with his friend. Later Cilien joined them, and the three chatted as old friends for a long while into the night. But often Legolas's thoughts turned to Flynn and to wondering if she would fare well, and what her fate may be, and he did not sleep that night, even in the manner of the elves.