Legolas
I am in the Greenwood.
Sun shines through the leaves creating dappled patterns on the grass below as I run, it's soft green tickling my feet. It is not the well ordered neatness of my Father's palace within the compound . . . No. It is the wild mixture of grass, flowers, leaves, found in my mother's village. We have not visited for so long and I wonder how I got here?
My Grandfather—mother's father—laughs in front of me. I did not notice him at first. He has his arms out wide to embrace me as I run towards him, and I can hear Mother calling to him behind me . . . Mother.
I spin around to see her, to catch a glimpse, for it has been so long . . .
And she is gone.
She is gone, the grass, the trees, my Grandfather, all of them vanish in the mist.
Instead I am left blinking in the light.
And my head hurts.
There is a ceiling above me and it is not my own. For a moment I struggle to identify it. Where am I? It is not the leafy canopy of Ithilien, nor the solid stone of Father's palace. It is not the intricate beauty of Imladris. As the shapes solidify above me it brings with it memories; and they are bad ones.
Pain, confusion, a heavy weight of suffocation, fighting to breathe. . . Terror. These are the healing halls of Minas Tirith where I woke after they dug me from beneath the walls; after Aragorn brought me back.
My chest feels very much as it did then, a fiery band of pain with every breath but the world makes more sense. The frightening chaos I woke to then is not here.
At least I can think.
But it is a sluggish thought, as if I fight my way through fog. How did I get here?
I remember arguing with Eldarion, walking to the stables, spending the day with the horses. It was a beautiful evening as I walked back. The streets were quiet and the breeze carried stories from Ithilien. It must have blown in from there. It told me tales of the trees, my people . . . I imagined I even felt Maewen and it distracted me. It has been so long since I last saw her. Suddenly she filled my senses like a whirlwind of smell . . . Sight . . . Sound.
I am no longer the best at maintaining my focus. My accident—that wall of stone that buried me—and my ragged, uncontrolled return from the inbetween; that place between worlds, with Aragorn, left my fea shattered into a thousand pieces. Though Gimli patiently helped me put it back together . . . Piece by piece . . . Still it is not as it once was and my concentration—which was never the best if I am honest—is sometimes a fragile, elusive thing.
But I was on the streets of Minas Tirith; Aragorn's city, not out in the wilds and so when that hint of Maewen reached me upon the breeze I let it go—my focus—I let it go to dive into those sights, that sound, and imagine I was with her, because with that smell of her on the breeze it felt as if I could actually touch her. I was with her, not here in this city of stone.
And so when I felt that hint of aggressive misintent behind me I was too slow. I do not know how many of them there were—I do know there were less of them left standing by the time they had subdued me than there were when they started. They knocked me to the ground almost before I had dragged myself clear of Maewen and Ithilien, a crowd of them pushing me down while ropes were lashed to my wrists, ropes that cut and burned deep into my fragile soul. Yet I still had my legs and I used them. A kick can do as much damage as a punch.
I am such a fool. Aragorn and Daegal both warned me the streets here were not as safe as they should be and I did not listen. I should have been on my guard, ever alert, for when I am I can hear a twig break a mile away. Instead I let my attention wander so badly I did not even discern danger until it was too late. I know my weaknesses now. Why did I not guard my safety better?
My wrists burn still, as if they remind me of my folly, a searing pain that cuts deeply.
And my head hurts.
Add to that the band of pain around my chest and it would be fair to say I feel terrible. I may know why I am here but I do not remember how.
I turn my head, discovering too late that to do so causes the room to spin and the pounding inside it to intensify. Beside me is a chair, and sound asleep in that chair is Aragorn. He looks as terrible as I feel.
I should leave him to doze. He looks exhausted and the light is bright . . . It is broad daylight . . . For him to sleep now must mean he has had precious little beforehand. But the ghosts of my memories flit like ice cold chills across my mind and I do not want to be alone. I know it is selfish but cautiously I reach a finger to touch his hand as it dangles near me.
If I did not feel so appalling I would laugh at the speed he leaps to attention, staring at me as if he had discovered a cave troll in his palace.
"Do I look that bad?" I ask him.
But he does not laugh and agree with me as I expect.
"You are awake!" He says it as if it is a miracle, something completely unexpected.
"Was it likely I would not be?"
It is not until he looks at me with concern that I realise he has not understood me at all.
Ever since my accident words are not my friends. I can no longer write them . . . Not really. At first it was a jumble of runes only that emerged on the page when I tried. Now at least I can manage short, barely legible sentences with effort. Erynion does much of my writing for me. It is a hard thing to accept.
And spoken words too desert me on occasion, whenever I am anxious, distressed or excited. I reach for them and they are not there . . . Empty spaces float into my mind instead. The common language—that which I learnt most recently—disappears altogether at times and even my Sindarin becomes disjointed. My mother's language though never leaves me. By the look on Aragorn's face it must be in that I have spoken for he does not know it, and when I search now for the words in Sindarin I cannot find them. It frightens me.
"I cannot find the words," I tell him and he frowns as he draws his seat closer to me.
"I cannot understand you." He says quietly, "Sindarin, Legolas please."
But where there once was Sindarin, that most familiar of languages, now there is nothing. I can understand his. It infuriates me I cannot reply!
"Where is Arwen?" It is an enormous effort to put that sentance together and I am not even sure I achieved anything or if he simply recognises her name. She is who I need. She will understand me.
"Of course," he rises to his feet then, patting my hand gently, and turns to leave me, "I will fetch her."
But I do not wish to be left alone; not with the ghosts of those men drifting through my mind.
"Wait!" I cry after him, "Do not go, Aragorn!"
Whether my words are the correct ones or if it is only because he hears the beginnings of panic in my voice I do not know, but he stops.
"I only go to send someone for her," He says gently. "I will not leave the room, Legolas."
And I swallow that panic down. It is foolish in any case. I am in the Healing halls. What is there to worry me here? I close my eyes to shut out the stone around me which suddenly feels suffocating. Do not be so ridiculous. I tell myself, It was a few angry men, that is all. It was nothing. It was not worth this.
I know Aragorn has returned when I feel his hand cool upon my forehead.
"How is your head?" He asks me. "Does it pain you?"
"Bad." It is one word only but I hope it is the right one.
"I understand that," he chuckles softly, "and I am not surprised. I will get you something for it."
It is a relief to hear that. Anything that eases this cacophony of pain inside my head will be a blessing.
It is bitter, the concoction he brings me and I cannot help but twist up my face at the taste of it.
"I know you hate it," He lectures me, as he always does. "Drink it anyway. Do not make me hold you down." He has had to do that once before and briefly I let my mind wander back there, all those years ago; he and Gimli at the Hornburg. I seem so young then as I think back on it. A version of myself I hardly recognise, ill and terrified.
Aragorn sits at my head now and he sighs as he takes the empty glass from me while I wait for the medicine to have its effect and slowly unwind the ribbons of pain which surround me.
"I have written to your father and tried to allay his concerns." No wonder the sigh was a heavy one. "I hope I have managed to prevent him marching upon the city."
My Father will not march upon this city, though he will be furious and no small part of that fury will be directed at my idiocy. I hope Aragorn is joking and knows that. I would tell him but it all seems to complicated. I do not have the energy to spend searching for the right words. It is easier just to lie back and let him talk to me.
"I have sent word to Elrohir too," he continues, "whereever he may be . . . I sent it to Eomer and I hope he can locate him."
Oh Elrohir. How I wish he was here—he could translate for me after a fashion since he learns some of my dialect whenever we visit the Greenwood—but more than that I wish for the tranquility he brings me. Though likely he will be angry with me too.
"Heaven help me when he arrives," Aragorn is saying. "He will most likely string me from the nearest parapet."
I cannot help but laugh at that, despite myself, even though it sends shards of pain shooting through my chest, a spluttering breathless laugh.
"You and me both," I tell him. "He will probably go easy on you. You know he has always had a soft spot for you."
But Aragorn only leans back in his chair as he runs a hand through his hair. I know that gesture—I have seen it often—It means he is frustrated and angry. Now that I think on it I can feel it—sharp spikes of anger across his fea. I imagine, once he is sure I am on the mend and no longer in pain I will be on the end of a tongue lashing about his disappointment in me. I do not look forward to it but I do not blame him. An attack on the Lord of Ithilien, son of the Elvenking, in his city is a political nightmare, I know that. And it is due to my foolishness.
"I wish you would not be so stubborn in your refusal to teach me your language, Legolas," he says. "It would be easier now if I understood you."
It is Arwen who saves me from answering that. The door swings back and she sweeps in, lighting the room with her smile.
"Little One!" She is at my side in an instant. For the life of me I do not know why she calls me that, yet she often does. I know I am much younger than her but I was a grown warrior when I first met her.
"You have decided to rejoin us," she smiles.
"I did not know I had a choice."
She laughs at that, light and joyful.
"How do you feel?" she asks and it is a relief to not have to struggle to find the words I want with her. She knows my mother tongue, even though she speaks it with that strange Lothlorien accent.
"Terrible," I tell her, "although Aragorn has given me that bitter medicine he loves so much. Moving is not advisable I have found. And now he tells me he has called Elrohir so I depress myself imagining his displeasure in my foolishness . . . And I have lost my words," I confess, "I cannot think of them. There is blackness in my mind where Sindarin should be."
She brushes her hand across my forehead and it is a soft gentle peacefulness she fills me with.
"You have had this before. It will return, Legolas. What do you expect when you split your head apart so dramatically!"
"I do not remember splitting my head." I lift a hand of my own to my forehead then feeling the trail of neat stitches there. Aragorn's work no doubt. I do not remember this injury at all.
"And as for Elrohir," Arwen is saying, "he will fuss over you like a mother hen. You know that."
Aragorn watches us as we speak, eyes moving from one to the other and she lifts hers to meet his gaze now.
"He struggles to find the words to speak to you." She says. "Sindarin eludes him."
"That much is obvious." His voice is tight . . . Tense . . .Unhappy.
"And he cannot remember the injury to the head." Arwen continues, "But I am sure the language will return quickly. It has before."
"Tell him I know he is angry with me," I say to her. "I do not blame him. I am angry with myself."
"Angry with you?" She looks down at me in surprise. "Why do you say that?"
"I can feel it. Can you not?" I have no doubt she can.
"He is not angry with you. Far from it, I promise you . . . Angry with the world we must live in, but not you." She reaches across and lays a hand upon Aragorn's arm, not as gently as I would expect.
"Guard your feelings, Estel," she says, and there is an edge to her voice as she says it, "for they will be misinterpreted. You are an open book to us . . . to Legolas. As expert as you are at hiding, still he sees your heart. You are amongst elves remember."
And he frowns at her in return. What goes on between them? There is a most disconcerting undercurrent that confuses me.
"If you do not like my heart, do not look there." He says. It is uncharacteristically blunt and she flinches. But still Arwen is nothing if not strong.
"It is Legolas who looks, not I. Do you wish him to think this anger you carry is for him?"
He is startled by that.
"I am not angry at you." He lifts a hand to touch my cheek and turn my head towards him. "I promise, Legolas, not you. I cannot believe this has happened in my city. It horrifies me . . . And this is on me. I am king. I carry the weight of this, not you. It is my city, my men, my son."
"Our son," Arwen says beside me. "Our son who is just a boy. Who bought Legolas back safely on his own."
"Our son who has been more than a boy for some time!" Aragorn retaliates. "You said so yourself, Arwen when you tried to get me to agree to him spending time with the Dúnedain. Our son who has undermined me with my people and lent support to a man who stands for everything I do not. Our son who is the reason these men felt able to attack our friend, simply because he is Elven, like you."
"Everyone makes mistakes, Estel."
"He is not everyone. He is the future King. He can not afford to make mistakes such as this and not learn from them. I cannot protect him in this and I will not. It is up to Faramir now."
Eldarion.
I had forgotten about him, but it is Eldarion they argue over. The men who had me tied and bound were certain he supported them. I remember that. Do not worry about the Prince, he has our backs, they told that snake of a Lord, the one Aragorn so despises.
And in the split second, that moment Eldarion walked around the corner, I believed it.
It devastated me; the thought that boy, who I have loved since babyhood. The boy I played in mud-puddles with, who rode behind me, who I taught to climb and shoot, would be here to watch me receive a beating . . . And support it. It broke my heart. Surely we had not fallen that far he and I?
But then I saw his face. The others did not—the men behind me—their eyes were only on the angry Lord in front of me, but I saw him . . . And he was terrified.
He looked so young, confused, horrified, just a boy. Aragorn and Gimli always tell me I am too soft on Eldarion, that he is grown even though it does not seem like it to me. They say I do not understand his mortal aging but I wonder now, thinking about that frightened boy who met my eyes, if I am right and they are wrong.
And I knew then he still loved me. He did not plan this, he did not want it, he did not know what to do about it.
How I got from there to here I do not know. Eldarion was outnumbered, no match for those men, inexperienced. What happened? Suddenly I am afraid for him.
"Where is Eldarion?"
I cut across Aragorn and Arwen's bickering in panic.
"Where is he?"
Surely if they are both here with me he is alright.
And mercifully they cease their arguing to look at me,
"Do not worry. He is well." Arwen strokes my arm gently. "He is in the library as we speak."
"Learning a lesson." Aragorn cuts in.
"A lesson he has already learnt!" Arwen cries and it begins again.
"A lesson he needs to be seen to be learning, somewhere out of the way where he can do no more damage!"
I do not want this. It makes me feel ill, this endless jagged tension between the two of them. I want Elrohir, to stride in, fix them with a glare and stop them in their tracks. I want Gimli, gruff and stern; not afraid to lecture them both into submission. I want Maewen, who would shoot daggers at Aragorn with her eyes and deposit the two of them outside my door.
I want my father, who would clear the room with one flick of an eyelid.
But none of them are here.
I thought I did not want to be alone but now it seems preferable to this.
"Stop it!" I cry, and I do not care if Aragorn cannot understand me. "I do not want this."
"I am sorry, Legolas," Arwen is instantly contrite and I imagine Aragorn is as well but I no longer care.
"I am tired." I turn my back to both of them. I close my eyes to block them out. I try not to feel the tension swirling around me. "Leave me alone to sleep. Go and do what you need to do. Go and talk to your son, instead of talking about him in front of me. Go away."
My wrists burn, the stone suffocates me, my memories chill me, and it is all worse on my own . . .
but still . . . I want them gone.