Tinder for the Flames

by Lindir's Ghost

Now into Part II: Following the disastrous events of Amon Hen, a desperate Aragorn unwillingly sends a badly wounded Legolas, with Gimli at his side, to Edoras in an effort to save him. But there are venomous snakes writhing in the tall grasses of Rohan, and Edoras might not prove to offer the salvation the ranger seeks. AU, non slash.

11. Chapter Eleven: The Eldar Son

Okay, as some of you may have noticed, I don't normally put A/Ns in my chapters, but here, it's necessary. Please, please don't hate me for the lateness in this post. Trust me, if life would have allowed me to put it up earlier, I would have done! There will never be a point where I abandon this story. Never. It's taken too much of my time for me to do that! Plus it's my brain-baby, and I couldn't abandon my baby...

Thank you to all of you who reviewed before and (hopefully) continue to do so. Your reviews are my payment; please don't make me poor!

I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's super-duper long (unintentional, but impossible to break up. Sorry about that), and entirely centred on one character. I won't say who, because you will all learn soon enough.

If you enjoy it (and I hope you do), I have done my job. If you hate it, terribly sorry. Either way, TELL ME!

Ghost

-((-))-

Chapter Eleven: The Elder Brother and the Eldar Son – Part Two

The Eldar Son

Dead weight piled on him, swiping his feet from under him, crushing his body in a cruel embrace and making him insignificant beside its own power, a feather caught on the tide. Terror made his fingers constrict so tightly about the bow his nails bit into his palms, desperate to not die completely alone-

Feathers do not need bows. The wood was torn from his weakened grip and lost to him. The blackness laughed when he finally screamed his fear, mocking his pain and forcing its cold hand into his mouth. Now-empty fingers ripped themselves trying to find some kind of hold, but the solid surfaces they glanced over showed no pity; he would belong to the river soon. It was no business of the land to show compassion.

There was nothing he could do, slipping with frightening speed, no control, no help, no hope, no –

He hit the river. Freezing knives pierced every inch of him and motion changed with such violence it felt as though his body was nearly ripped in two. He tried to fight it, to gain some form of control as he was flung without compassion through the void, but all his struggles were futile efforts. No air,

NO AIR!

So much pain, the ice claws of ravenous water tearing at the sword wound in his side, loving the blood and carrying it away from him in lost plumes. No up, no down. Careening down the water coarse just the same as everything else swept away. Alive? So?

Either a jolt of guilt, or a glimmer of poor humour made the water throw him up, lifting his head enough for air to reach a panicked hand of aid to him. He choked on its loving kindness, even as the silt-laden water rammed itself down his throat and tried to force the snatched breath out.

Enough!

Under again. Taking liberties! His back slammed into something, hard, the vicious strike bursting the stolen air from his stressed lungs. So unforgiving. The lack of mercy held by the river for its plaything was all too clear as his body hurtled through it, the ill-tempered water trying to break his body against any obstacle it could find to fling him against. How desperately he wanted it all to be over, for the world to become right and solid again, for the pain to stop. If he could just let go, if his head would only strike something that little bit too hard...

If only.

His constricted chest burned with the need to live, the bitter agony of the body's feral instinct to fight death tooth and nail running him through unbearable torment. That same piece of his nature would not allow his jaw to open his mouth and inhale water as his mind commanded, seemingly ashamed that he could consider such a thing. Life was for preserving, and his body refused to let him forget that fact. No matter how much it hurt.

-(())-

ERYN GALEN, JANUARY OF THE YEAR 3434 OF THE SECOND AGE

He asked her to push herself, to excel beyond all boundaries previously set by her own achievements and those of her ancestors before her. And she did exactly as he requested, driving herself with terrific speed through the ever deepening snow. He did not need to tell her how to navigate the trunks, her quick hooves negotiating the obstructing structures with ease. Powerful muscles bunched, clearing the sorry mass of a long-fallen tree with the brilliant confidence and agility her breeding gave her...

Only, it wasn't quite enough.

Legolas caught an occasional glimpse of his brother's stallion. But that's all he was able to attain: the snatched views of the copper tail streaming high in spirit. Baerahir's heckling laughter mocked his efforts to catch him, relishing not only the competition, but the fact that he had already outright won before they even mounted. Celos was a horse so fleet of foot he was unmatched in the entire of their grandfather's stables. Legolas' smaller mare, Celu, was Celos' little sister by their mother. She was a fast horse in her own right, but no match for Celos.

For the brothers riding them, the differences between their horses mattered little to their competition: they still raced each other whenever the opportunity presented itself for them to slip away from court ... an occurrence that was becoming increasingly rare.

Celu broke through the wall of the clearing, tossing her head at the sudden change of dense trees to open space. Snow plumed at her abrupt stop at her rider's command, pitting the otherwise perfect surface with gleaming white projectiles.

"You took your time."

At Legolas' left, Baerahir was leaning casually against Celos' shoulder, taller against his horse with the animal's legs half disappeared in white while his master stood with barely an imprint on the surface. A long hand idly toyed with the stallion's ear. Celos was clearly enjoying the attention, his head lowering and eyelids drooping in his relaxed state, looking every bit a horse that had never run in his life.

Legolas' brow peaked at his brother's jibe. "That's because we were defending your back from the three trolls tailing you," he told him haughtily. "You should really learn to be more careful."

"Really? That's interesting, considering trolls cannot travel in daylight."

"Try telling them that," Legolas returned, never one to cede defeat. "Besides," he added, casting the pregnant sky an analytical glance, "it could well be night, the clouds make it so dark." The younger of the two brothers swung himself with a graceful lack of effort from his horse's back and offered her a light pat of thanks. "Really, Baerahir, you should learn to watch your own back; I won't always be there to do it for you."

Baerahir snorted, admiring his brother's gall. But he wondered what he really would do without his younger brother. It was odd ... Legolas was no older now than a very mature adan, and Baerahir's own years passed well beyond a millennium. He was a mere crystal in an ice field, a breath in a lifetime, yet Baerahir could not envision life without him. He was at once an irritant, a burden, and a treasure. For an elf newly of age, he carried himself with the reputed pride of their family, knowing there was much he had to live up to and straining to do so. The youngest of the House of Oropher shadowed his older sibling with more tenacity than a begging hound. Baerahir loved him dearly, and he wished with all his heart that his shadow would always be there.

Except, Baerahir knew they could not remain in this world they had set up, where Legolas could call on his brother in his times of need, or indeed where he himself could find distraction in the forbidden teachings of weapon skills. Legolas knew of the threat, of course he did ... but with a child's naivety, he strove to ignore it, as though such an action could push it away until it left his family and his people alone. But the spreading disease had caught up with them now with the coming of Gil-galad's eagle, and Baerahir had elected to leave the gathering of his warriors to his second so they might come to their clearing. One last time…

His musings neglected to notice the practice staves being drawn. The short weapons clacked in challenge, distracting the peace with the promise of something more interesting. Baerahir sighed and shook his head at his little brother as he stood before him with the lengths of wood primed, feet carefully spaced atop the snow. "Legolas, you know Haru does not approve of you sparring."

"That I do," replied the other. "But it's a little late for repentance, isn't it? Besides," he continued, his voice tinged with a sly tone his brother did not trust. "I know how much you love to."

"I hardly think that's fair."

"Whoever said anything about fair? Exploit your foe's weaknesses," Legolas said with an impish grin, tapping the staves together enticingly. "You taught me that."

Baerahir chuckled despite his reservations, shaking his head to himself. He brought his dark blond hair back from his face into a leather strip and drew his twin knives with an artful flourish. "I should be more selective in what I teach you in future," he said, walking with mock resignation into Legolas' chosen combat ring, "seeing as you're none too picky about using your education against me."

Legolas flashed him a brilliant smile, adjusting his grip a little in a determined show of readiness. "Never allow yourself to be weakened by emotional blackmail: another lesson of yours."

His well-versed brother was perfectly right: he had taught Legolas that. Their sessions in this clearing had become something of a frequent occurrence over recent years, Baerahir inadvertently becoming Legolas' other weapons trainer. His official tutoring under the weapons master, Sorlil, was a formality, teaching only the basics of sword combat to a student not destined to wield a weapon in a combat arena. Even though Legolas showed a frankly stunning aptitude for the bow - astoundingly good for even one of their people – his place as the second son would ever be the council chambers.

While Legolas and Baerahir were in themselves very alike, their official lives could not be any more different. Baerahir served under their father in the tradition of their family: the only son of the king commanded the army, and his eldest son captained under him. Any other children were to be given over to the running of the lands. Legolas, a mere two years after his coming of age, was at a level now where he was expected to attend trade negotiations as a competent representative of their people's interests.

Legolas did not enjoy his designated work.

Of course he applied himself to his duties as he was bid, but there was a seed of reluctance, an unwillingness that was all too apparent to Baerahir. That much was confirmed to him when he witnessed the resignation those clever blue eyes tried to shield as Legolas greeted the men of Dale to their kingdom on one of the rare occasions when Baerahir was home. His exchange of pleasantries had been impeccable, his gentle smile warm and accepting, but his eyes betrayed him. You are most welcome, they had seemed to whisper, but I want no part in your efforts here.

The brothers had been riding to this secluded spot for years, finding peace with each other away from the careful diplomacy of court life: here, they were free to do as they wished, and it was here that Baerahir's plan could take place without anyone knowing...

Suggesting the ride to his sibling following the departure of the Dale representatives after days of arduous negotiating locked in the council chambers, Legolas - as his brother expected him to be - was more than willing to go. Baerahir was particularly delighted in Legolas' shock when he handed him the aged practice staves he had managed to spirit away from the armoury. The younger elf had not quite believed what he was being given the opportunity to do: Oropher did not wish for his younger grandson to partake in a serious fighting education ... after all, his chosen path was the council, and councillors did not need to wield weapons any sharper than their tongues.

Legolas, of course, was well aware of this, and though he wanted to properly learn, their grandsire's word was enough to put him off secret lessons. But once Baerahir had got beyond Legolas' initial reluctance and convinced the younger elf to take up the staves, he found that he possessed a real ability, adopting a natural stance without prompt, clear blue eyes assessing distances and anticipating any hidden threats his partner might be harbouring.

As good as Legolas initially promised to be, to Baerahir, it was like seeing a bird with its wings clipped. He had to set about correcting Sorlil's theatrical teachings, growing frustrated when his brother could not block his advances well enough as he struggled to remember his education under the swift barrage of attacks. "You're fighting for your life, not prancing in a play," he had said as he tried to force Legolas to truly defend himself. "Trust your instincts, don't fret over remembering positions. Hesitate, and you're dead."

Teaching his brother to disregard his instruction required more time than Baerahir ever anticipated, but, once Legolas learned to let go and indeed trust to his instincts, he proved to be more than capable, moving with a cat-like swiftness that was fast becoming skill. His bird-like lightness and keen eye both leant themselves to a deadly prowess previously never witnessed. Trade negotiations, in Baerahir's opinion, were a waste of his abilities.

That had been three years ago.

And now, in the snap of winter's cold, he planned to teach him a lesson. I've created some kind of daemon. "You'll regret turning this against me, hên."

"Really? I doubt it!" Legolas scoffed archly ... but his eyes narrowed, the jibe having the desired effect: Legolas loathed anyone calling him a child, even in jest. If Legolas was anything, he was easily teased. It brought out the proud and impulsive side of his nature, the element of him that needed to prove itself, and that was the part of him that was best to fight; his guard was always at its lowest point when he was annoyed, making him more vulnerable and easier to teach.

Baerahir sprang.

Two elves fighting each other, even in practice, was something quite awesome to behold. Neither of them held anything back, attacking, parrying, and trying to throw each other off balance whenever possible. The speed and strength they employed against each other was truly remarkable, like a pair of fighting wildcats. Baerahir fought with real blades, and it was testament to his ability with them that he had not drawn blood on his brother once.

Parry, attack, attack, dodge.

Twelve hundred years of pure combat experience met with just three years of secretive tutoring, a mere leaf in a forest of trees ... yet the leaf won. Catching a stave on the inside of Baerahir's forearm and giving a quick jolt of the wrist, Legolas twisted his brother's arm with enough applied pressure to force the strong fingers to relinquish their weapon. Before Baerahir could bring his remaining knife round to defend himself, Legolas thrust the other stave inside his brother's attack and rested the smooth wood quite surely against Baerahir's neck. Both stood frozen as the landscape surrounding them, breathing the sharp air in equal surprise.

"You've been practicing," Baerahir finally managed, a grin on his face. His grey eyes flicked between the wood at his throat and Legolas' blue stare. Legolas' own shock at what he had achieved made him look for all the world as though he had just been gifted a troll for a pet. He shook his head at the statement, panting shallow puffs into the icy air. "No," he breathed, "just with you."

Baerahir's grin morphed into a true and proud smile as he disengaged himself. "Then really, Legolas, you are truly gifted." He offered his brother a respectful bow, and it amused him to see Legolas' cheeks colour in embarrassment. But that tinge of humbleness melted faster than ice in a furnace, as Legolas' face split with a grin so wide it threatened to crack the earth beneath them.

"I just beat you." His voice brimmed with sudden boyish pride, and he laughed, not caring that his brother threw him a disapproving glare at his inflating head, the sound sharp and clean in the snow-thick air. "I just beat Baerahir Thranduilion!"

"Gloating is not befitting of a prince, Legolas."

Legolas nearly jumped out of his skin at the addition of the new voice, pinning the speaker - a fair rider mounted on a light-boned black horse - in his sights at the edge of their clearing. He looked quite comfortable, as though he had been there forever, a fine cloak and finer honey hair lining his shoulders and a small smile angling his mouth.

Baerahir's lips twitched into their own grin, crooked and knowing. He merely raised his voice in greeting, apparently completely unfazed by the sudden appearance. "Mae govannen, Daerahil."

"How long have you been here?" Legolas demanded, more than a little horrified to see their family friend in their secret place and witnessing their illegal activities. When his question enticed only a chime of laughter from the elf lord, Legolas snapped his attention back to his brother. "How long has he been here?"

"Long enough," Baerahir informed him, sheathing his blades and turning a stern eye on his brother. "A win against an opponent is a hollow victory if you get slaughtered afterwards: always be aware of your surroundings, Legolas." He gave his brother a consoling pat on the shoulder as his exuberance visibly wilted. With a somewhat wolfish grin, he added: "You should learn to watch your own back; I won't always be there to do it for you."

Perhaps there was something in the way he said it. Perhaps it was a mere trick of the light ... but Baerahir could have sworn he witnessed a pulse of fear wave through Legolas' clear dark eyes. Before he had time to question it, Legolas tore his focus away from Baerahir and fixed his attention to Daerahil, evidently taking care to keep his eyes from his brother's face.

"But how did you know we were here?"

Daerahil scoffed lightly. "Come now, Legolas, don't be so naive: everyone from the stable hands to the king knows this is where you both go when you disappear."

Baerahir fixed his younger brother - who was still reeling in disbelief - with a pitying and affectionate look, before giving Daerahil his full attention. "Am I right in thinking you are not here just to watch us spar?"

"You are indeed." Daerahil nudged his horse into the open. Legolas allowed himself a better look at their father's friend. The normally cheerful smile was lacking, replaced by a sombre line, his eyes missing their normal light of mirth. But it was the way he looked at Baerahir that set Legolas' hair on end with deeper unease.

Noting the openly worried look on the younger elf's countenance, Daerahil offered him what he evidently hoped was a reassuring smile. But the fact that Daerahil needed to force it, that the expression did not sit comfortably on his face nor reach out to his eyes, made Legolas' heightened sense of foreboding prickle with fear.

"I need both of you to accompany me back home, as fast as we can ride."

Legolas had never ridden at such great speed with such a heavy feeling of trepidation. The threat of punishment he recalled from his childhood following his more mischievous endeavours failed to amount to the level of anxiety he felt at that point. Daerahil told them nothing of what was going on, swerving his words to never directly answer the younger prince's questions... But Legolas was plagued by the notion that he was the only one of their company in the dark, that Baerahir was already well aware of why they had been summoned so. His brother's demeanour was entirely too quiet and uncharacteristically grim, asking no questions of their father's friend and offering his brother no explanation as they galloped their horses in a tight formation through the trees, heedless of the whirling torrents of ever-thickening snowfall.

Their horses had barely come to a slowing walk in the courtyard when the stable hands rushed to meet with them, taking command of the animals and waiting patiently for their riders to dismount. Legolas was used to tending his horse following a ride, and found himself somewhat reluctant to leave Celu to the ministrations of another. Only when Daerahil gave an impatient hiss as he stood waiting in the furling snow did Legolas grudgingly leave his horse for the warmth of indoors and the jaws of whatever fate had laid out for them…

The brightly light corridors of their home and grandfather's seat of power had never seemed so oppressively tight to Legolas, nor had they ever made him feel so utterly powerless, as Daerahil's footfalls sounded against the walls in a rhythmic beat of condemning urgency, leading them with haste to the fine oak door of their grandfather's study. The elf lord entered without knocking, stepping lightly aside to allow the two princes admittance.

This was Oropher's version of their clearing. When the king disappeared, he was almost always to be found in his study … not that any would consider disturbing him there. It was a large room, more library than study, as it wasn't possible to determine of what the walls were actually made, there were that many tomes and scrolls cluttering the shelves, spanning from ceiling to carpeted floor and filling the room with the heavy scent of aging parchment and ancient oak. Oropher had two desks: one small table at the far end where he liked to do the majority of his paperwork, and a much larger table closer to the centre that normally housed a great map of Eryn Galen and surrounding lands, plotting the positions of outposts and sentries, as well as close allies and less friendly neighbours... For all its size and purpose, it was rare that any other than the King himself, or their father, Thranduil, occupied it.

But when the silent and obedient sentinel of heavy oak panels parted in greeting, the sight that met Legolas' eyes was like nothing he had ever seen. There were select few times when he had been allowed into this room during his lifetime, and almost always they had been occasions when he was in some form of trouble or other when their father was away. Now that he was of age, such occurrences were somewhat rarer, but the room still held that level of gravitas for him, pungent as the pipe smoke the men of Long Lake insisted on clouding about their heads.

Now, the air was practically tar thick with bristling power, as his eyes encountered not only their grandfather and father beside him, but elves of note from other lands, and even a very small cluster of men. Oropher himself did not acknowledge their sudden appearance, too engaged in discussions with the foreign elf next to him. Thranduil, however, raised his eyes to his sons from the proceeds of the central table, an admonishing tint of where have you been? You should have been here hours ago to their grey light.

Legolas mirrored Baerahir's response, dipping his golden head in acceptance and apology. He eyed the rest of the assembly when their father's attention was drawn back to the table. There were many he recognised from their own council chambers, but there were others he did not know, and some he had encountered only once in his life ... and whose sudden appearance set his blood to fearful fire. The last time he had seen Elrond of Imladris and Amdír, king of Lórinand, they had sat in council with Eryn Galen's high powers in deep and serious talk of marching to war in the east. To Legolas, they were not allies in a time of great strife, but heralds of death. Their appearance and the size of the gathering could mean only one thing.

All four of them crowded the table, discussing points on an altogether different map to the one that normally occupied the space, where Elrond placed different coloured pebbles, talking with too much animation for Legolas' liking of army positions and command postings...

"...Gil-galad plans to amass your key forces here-" a small red stone was set down on its own, terribly alone in the vast sea of parchment "-in support of Elendil's northern flank. If your archers-"

"I have told him before, Elrond, and I've told you: I will not cede command of my people to Gil-galad." Oropher's tone carried a pitch of warning, the slight edge to his voice recognisable to those who knew him as something to be heeded. "They go under my authority, or not at all."

Elrond blinked. Some thought of argument clearly passed over his brown eyes, but he evidently thought better of voicing it; he knew Oropher well, and that knowledge armed him with the wisdom to not challenge his convictions. The host Oropher had amassed to march on Mordor was incredibly vast: to have such a resource pulled for the sake of Gil-galad's need for total command would be a foolhardy mistake. "As you wish it. You can discuss your plans with him when our forces combine."

Oropher nodded to himself in agreement, eyes trailing the map one last time, drinking in the details of a land he had never seen, yet was so detrimental to his people and decisions. "We've been preparing for so long," he muttered to himself. A hand quietly lifted the little red pebble, turning it deftly through his fingers. "And now it is time."

This is it, this is truly it. The skin of Legolas' neck and arms tingled unpleasantly. He drew a breath and held it, feeling the fear more keenly than ever before. He clenched his fists in an effort to maintain his composure and quash the rising anguish twisting his heart.

A light frown played over Thranduil's brow. His head angled ever so slightly as he gazed down on the map his father so intensely perused, as though he listened for something slight and distant. His grey eyes raised and pinned their attention momentarily on his son, and Legolas could not help but return the gaze with the conviction of his near-overpowering emotions. Pity for his youngest child swelled in their light, but there was a silent order there too, a command to Legolas to hold fast against what was to come.

Don't go, Ada. Please.

But Thranduil looked away at the young elf's silent plea for him not to go, unable to see the pain in the dark blue eyes and stay strong against it himself.

"How long before we are ready to march, Thranduil?"

Thranduil visibly pulled himself back into place, though none of the others knew what had occurred between father and son. He straightened, as though the action could quell the parent in him and bring forth the commander. His eyes carefully avoided the section of the room Legolas occupied. "I dispatched riders on the arrival of Gil-galad's eagle yesterday. They will convene with us at the Fields on the morrow."

An odd light filtered into Oropher's eyes at the news. He nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied by his son's rapid response and content that everything was ready, that they were finally going to march on the enemy and put things back to rights...

"And what of your wardens, Baerahir? Are they prepared?"

Baerahir? The use of the name was like a bucket of ice water tipped into his gut. No... Not you too.

"They are, my King. We merely await your word."

Legolas' stomach twisted with a hit of nausea so strong he thought he might pass out with it. He had lost his family in the space of a moment. The room remained oblivious to him, the distant waves of serious conversation washing over and beyond him as he stood stock still, trapped in his own personal miasmal cloud of fear and horror. It felt like he was balancing on the edge of a great precipice, caught in a state of cruel limbo between falling over the brink now or later. Whatever way he attempted to view it, there was only one eventuality...

"...I believe Legolas more than capable of governing in our absence."

The use of his name pulled him harshly back into the room. Ah yes: governing. He recalled as from a distant dream the meeting of three years ago when his part had been discussed in the council. When the march on Mordor came to pass, Legolas would remain as ... what had they called it? Defender of the realm. Legolas had acquiesced, seeing it with the foolish hope that such a condition would never be enforced on him, that this talk of war was rumour and little else. Even through the years of preparation, he had still chosen to ignore it. Yet here it was, crouching over him like a thief in the night, blade at his throat and spiriting away everything he held dear.

Oblivious to his misgivings, many of the faces surrounding his grandfather illustrated clear acceptance of the decision ... but Legolas caught the fleeting glance between two elves of the council, Thidol and his friend Onrin, evidently the fruit of many a conspiratorial conversation. Their objection was clear, and, sure enough: "To Prince Legolas, my King?" Thidol queried carefully. "Would we not be better under the guidance of someone more, ah ... experienced?"

"Legolas is well schooled, and more than capable."

"He is, Sire, I agree whole heartedly that for his young years, he has demonstrated excellent trade skills, but the running of the kingdom? His levels of experience-"

"Whatever support the Prince requires of the council is to be given, Thidol," said Daerahil assertively, stepping lightly forward to Legolas' elbow, like a protective wolf seeing off scavengers plaguing a young pup. "And whatever guidance he needs, he can gain from me." His normally warm honey eyes glittered with ice as they narrowed at his council rival. Neither of them had ever held any particular fondness for each other. "Am I experienced enough for you?"

Thidol bowed his head graciously, his face remaining carefully impassive, wisely backing down from argument with so many representatives from other states present. But his conflict with Daerahil was clearly not over, and that was what Legolas loathed about the council, the internal politics. But more so, he couldn't stomach the idea of sitting idly in the chambers discussing trade routes with the dowdy old men of Dale while his grandfather, father, and brother fought for their lives, and before he even fully realised himself, the words were pushing beyond his weakened defences and announcing his intentions to the room: "I'm coming with you. I'm coming to fight."

The room silenced. Too many pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him, apparently shocked to find that the younger prince of Eryn Galen was in possession of a voice. He didn't allow it to faze him, standing straight, backed by his own solid conviction and keeping his own gaze firmly on his grandfather. Baerahir had taught him to fight, had he not? Didn't Baerahir state earlier that he was gifted with knives?

Oropher blinked at him, his storming eyes clearly irritated by the daring interruption. "No."

"But Haru-"

"I have said no, Legolas. You will adhere to the duties I lay out for you without question."

Anyone older and wiser would have backed down from that steel glare and submitted to the clear command. But Legolas was newly of age, old enough to feel the burning commitment of love to his family, and old enough think himself willing – and ready – to potentially pay dearly for it. For Legolas, there was no other course of action open to him other than to go with them. To his eyes, the fact that he was young did not factor into the situation, and he refused to allow himself to be so rejected, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his grandfather in challenge of his decision and stubbornly ignoring the minute shake of warning of his father's head. "I can fight," he asserted brazenly. "I can hold my own."

Oropher's eyes flashed at the open defiance, the short nub of his patience rubbed to nothing. "Can you, now?" He did not shout. Such a reaction was unnecessary under the cold calm of his scorn. "I think not, Legolas. Do not speak of it again."

Perhaps it was his desperation that made him so foolhardy; whatever it was, for the first time in his life, Legolas refused to accept his grandfather's decree as the end. "Baerahir has taught me knifecraft," he pushed hurriedly. "Let me join with his-"

"ENOUGH!" Oropher's eruption of temper shook the room almost as hard as his slamming fist made Elrond's pebbles leap away from their careful placements. "You may have come of age, Legolas, but you confuse your childish naivety for courage, and I will not have you using war as a vehicle to test your foolish pride," he spat. "You will stay in Eryn Galen as I command! Now leave. I will suffer your impertinence no longer."

Legolas fell into silence, the dark rose hint high on his cheekbones indicating his own anger all too fluidly. His feet defiantly stayed where they were, even as Oropher gave him a searing glare of warning that he had seen little of his temper yet. A hand firmly cupped his elbow and gave an asking tug. When Legolas refused its gentle request, the owner of the hand whispered in his ear: "Come out now, Legolas, and retain what little grace with him you have left."

He blinked. Some small and distant part of him heard the wisdom in the advice he was being given. Legolas gave a formal bow, the action stiff and jarred, and followed Daerahil from the room, feeling the stares on his retreating neck like a coward's shame. Even when the solid oak blocked them off from the proceedings within and those pursuing eyes, Daerahil took him well away from his grandfather's study to his own rooms. The chamber wasn't well lit, a lonely sconce on the far wall and weak fire idling in the fireplace giving the only illumination, casting them both into deep shadow. As soon as the door sealed them in, Daerahil turned to his young charge. It surprised Legolas to see disappointment in the tensed set of the other elf's expression. "You've just declared to those in the council who doubt you that your heart is not in your task. How can you expect them to follow you now?"

"That doesn't bother me, Daerahil," Legolas returned sharply. "What bothers me is that I might never see my family again!" He began to pace, finding staying still impossible in his heightened state of frustration, his footfalls heavy on the stone flags. "What if something happens to one of them? I can fight, I can be there-"

"One opponent."

"What?"

"You can fight one opponent." Despite himself, the corner of Daerahil's mouth twitched. "I have little experience of war, I have to admit, but I am reasonably sure there is normally more than one of the enemy in attendance during a battle."

The stab at humour was not appreciated. "Don't patronise me. Please."

"I'm sorry, Legolas, but I managed to surprise you earlier. Or had you forgotten that?"

Legolas flinched at the reminder of his mistake. "That was an error on my part. I've learned from it." He finally ceased his pacing, coming to a stand a little distance from his father's friend and his own confidant.

"Enough to survive endless fighting?" Daerahil pressed mercilessly. "Enough to keep a sword from your back at all times and defend your front, and watch your grandfather, father and brother at the same time, as you say is your intent? I was on a horse, Legolas, and might I assure you, he was making no effort at stealth."

"What do you want me to do?" Legolas snapped. "Do you expect me to watch them go and stay here complacently in the council, while they fight for their lives in lands hundreds of leagues from home?"

"That is exactly what I expect you to do!" Daerahil bit back, his patience wearing thin. "I expect you to do exactly as everyone else is forced to do! You are not the only one in the kingdom who will have to endure not knowing, Legolas. Find a way to live with the fact, and move beyond it."

The young elf chewed his cheek at Daerahil's blunt summary. He was right, of course he was, but that did not make it any easier for him to stomach. If he stayed, if he idled away the war sat mired in paperwork and discussions, the inaction would surely drive him mad. "I can ... I can..."

"You can what?"

"I can be there!"

"But don't you realise?" Daerahil demanded in exasperation. "There is a reason you can't go, Legolas, and it has nothing to do with age, or your fighting capabilities." When the prince merely blinked, arms stubbornly folded over his chest and jaw clenched, Daerahil heaved a weighted sigh. "If all four of you go to war and the worst happens," he said levelly, "Eryn Galen is left without a ruler. You must stay and protect your family's line and command."

Legolas paled. "But I'm not as strong as Haru or Ada." Panicked light caught in his blue eyes faster than dry tinder to a candle. "Daerahil. I cannot be king!"

The elf lord shook his head with a grave, sad sympathy. Legolas was right: he did not carry the natural strong characteristics of a ruler, like his grandfather and father. While the work he did with the council was done well, there was a lack of instinct behind it, more a running of training than the application of feeling. Yes, he was young yet, and inexperience made him all the more vulnerable to his sense of inadequacy, but it had been clear for a long time now that he did not possess that level of innate shrewd skill that came as second nature to his elders. Were he allowed to follow his heart into the field in which he possessed such blatant talent, Legolas could be a great warrior, and potentially an even greater military leader.

But Legolas had been born the second son. Fate did not care for gifts or willingness, and so it had placed him into a position he did not fit. He accepted it, and following so many years of careful coaching, Legolas had always thought he knew what his role in palace life entailed ... but war with Mordor had ripped the covers away, showing him what truly lay beneath, and what he saw frightened him. To Daerahil, it was a sad, sad waste. "I am sorry, Legolas, so, so sorry, but you might not have a choice."

-(())-

Hours after the feverish activity leading to the departure of Oropher and the first element of his great host, the ensuing silence that sheathed the palace seemed choking.

Now, a spread of papers awaited his attention, neatly compiled into heaps of importance. The piles of matters requiring his immediate address was, naturally, the highest. Staring at it and willing it to go away, he discovered, did little to diminish the workload. This was his life now. You'd better get used to it.

Legolas reached out to the closest paper, dragging it across his cluttered desk to his reluctant attention, reading the title twice before the topic was able to penetrate into his unwilling understanding:

RIGHTS OF PASSAGE BY QUARTER THROUGH MEANS OF TAXABLE GOODS ALLOWANCE

"I have absolutely no idea what that means." Legolas blinked at the paper, trying to absorb what the title was trying to tell him. He tried – in vain – not to be too fazed by the massive size of the parchment in comparison to the diminutive characters neatly passing left to right across its face. How completely you've misplaced your trust, Haru.

No matter how many times his dark blue eyes passed over the document, or tried to focus on each individual word to make the whole sentence make sense to him, no level of concentration could force the words to materialise from meaningless marks to anything even remotely resembling understanding in his head. He would never forget standing in the shrouding snow beside their mother, positioned at the front of the sombre crowd as the freshly appointed leader of their lands, even if it was – hopefully – only temporary. The robes made for him to fit with his new role sat heavily on his shoulders, weighing him down in swathes of material and new authority. The earthen hues of his grandfather's house had stood stark against the white, his own newly-designed insignia adorning his chest in the form of a small badge: a young buck, standing still with its small-antlered head bowed. How fitting, he had thought with open acrimony.

His grandfather was wrong about him, completely and utterly wrong. Before he could stop himself, his own bitterness asked if Oropher could possibly know him at all to think his only concern was proving himself. I wish only to protect those whom I love... Or was that what Oropher was really saying? That Legolas' lack of experience meant he did not understand what it was he wanted to put himself into? Whether his grandfather liked it or not, they were his family, and he had a duty to keep them safe. They wanted him to run the kingdom, to keep the seat of power warm for their return. "That is your role, Legolas: do it well." Or was he saying he had no right to defend what was his, because he was young, because he was unpractised? Legolas pulled his hands over his face, trying to loosen the hold this distorting fog held over him...

He reached a decision.

The chair scraped the stone flags with an agonised rasping cry when he pushed back from the desk and turned his back on the heaped documents. The strangling trap of flowing robes that marked his new authority hindered his natural grace as he fled his rooms, wrapping around his legs and trying to stop him reaching Baerahir's chambers. It was his greatest pleasure to drag the choking material over his head and abandon it in a lonely and shapeless mess on his brother's floor. The spare jerkin and leggings he foraged from the depths of the chest fitted him well enough, the heady scent of cedar radiating from the light cloth and suede giving him a refreshed lease of life. He felt freer now, a hunting cat released, and it gave him extra fire, a flare of courage and determination when he adorned his own back with Baerahir's spare knives and less favoured bow and quiver.

Now he could really move, he made quick work of the hallways, light and silent, little more than a shadow. There was no-one about to witness his stealthy escape; the hour was late, and most were to their chambers, unwilling to face the other occupants of the palace following the departure of so many loved ones. Despite the absence of the others, his heart caught in his chest at every new and concealing angle in the passages, and he negotiated all of them only after listening carefully.

The route he chose was longer than he could have done, as he carefully diverted his course away from their mother's bower; Emmonara had suffered enough stress that day without her having to endure this too. Legolas inwardly cringed at the thought of what he was about to do to her, recalling the image of her burning tears earlier and wishing there was something he could do to assuage her grief. Now, he was preparing to add to it.

The cold of the night reached sharply into his lungs as he slipped out into the courtyard, but it couldn't touch him, the slight imprints of evidence his feet made swallowed conspiringly by the descending flakes. Ssshh, go, GO!

Celu whinnied to his shadow as he ghosted into the stables, but it was not Celu his urgency needed. Celos flicked his ears at Legolas' approach, curious and a little wary as Legolas entered his stall -

"What are you doing, Legolas?"

The already-knowing query lanced a sudden spike of fear through him. Legolas did not lift his eyes to the speaker, the all too familiar voice spurring him to greater speed with the panic it inspired. His long hands lighted on the stallion's back only as a paltry offering of warning before he brought himself up in a single leap. Celos started under the contact of the unfamiliar rider, muscles bound tight in anticipation of something different, and it took the slightest whisper of touch from Legolas' legs for the stallion to leap the rope barrier keeping him in and charge the stable door at full gallop.

Daerahil only just moved out of the way in time, his intention to stop the tack-free horse flung completely asunder by the speed of the prince's departure. He ran out into the courtyard himself, panic flaring though his body at what his young charge was doing. "LEGOLAS!"

But the horse was already gone, swallowed whole by the night, the deep, dead silence of snowfall the only response he received.

-(())-

There were no tracks for him to follow, all evidence of the passage of Oropher's host already dusted out by the marring snow. That did not bother him: he knew where he could find them anyway. Speed was his only concern. Legolas asked for it in earnest from his stolen horse, and Celos gladly provided, stretching his legs out and covering the distance with clean and unparalleled ability. Legolas tried not to think on what he was leaving behind. No matter how hard he tried, though, he could not forget the clear panic in Daerahil's cry as it chased him out of the courtyard, and he strained all the harder to block the image of his mother's distress when she would discover his decision.

Horse and rider did not stop through the night, though Legolas had to make Celos do bouts of walking and steady trotting for fear of exhausting him … his need was urgent, but not urgent enough to ruin his brother's horse, or any other for that matter. The waxy light of dawn pulling at the edges of darkness coincided with their final break from the trees into the open world. The land dipped away from them into a vast flood plain - the Gladden Fields - with the strong clean spine of smooth white of the frozen Anduin snaking across its core. And there, traversing the Fields in ordered blocks, was the total of Oropher's army. In the distance, he could see the Eryn Galen banner catching the new light at the very head of the procession, the proud white hart fittingly leading the way to war.

Legolas spurred Celos down into the vale with renewed drive, the electric buzz firing through his veins filling his muscles with an almost nervous energy…

Elves turned their disciplined heads in surprise as he cantered past them. The ripple of disquiet his appearance caused did not go unnoticed by him, but he didn't care, eyes ghosting over the ranks in an effort to find his brother. Worry began to edge at him as he passed row after row of soldiers, drawing ever closer to the head of the column where the royal insignia snapped and billowed in winter's icy breath, unhindered out here by trees. He needed to keep as great a distance as possible between himself and that emblem…

So caught in worrying over who marched under the flag was he that he cantered past the small procession of warriors clad in the same earthen greens and browns he himself had thieved. Celos reared against his rider's sudden instruction to stop and turn. The band of warriors marched towards him, preparing to pass and casting only cursorily glances his way. And there in their lead, dark blond hair bound back in warrior braids, was the one he sought-

"Baerahir!"

His brother's head whipped round at the hail. "Legolas – what are you doing here?" His stunned expression quickly heightened to panic. "What's happened? Is Naneth alright? What's happened?"

Legolas shook his head hastily, upsetting his brother being the last thing he wished to do. "Nothing, she's fine, they're all fine." He pushed Celos round again, walking him along the marching line so he could maintain conversation with his brother.

Baerahir's ageless face creased in a confused frown, the elder brother privately wondering if his sanity were slipping and if his much younger sibling really was riding his horse beside the march. "Then what are you doing here?" But then Baerahir really looked at his younger brother for the first time, taking in his clothing, the thieved knives and bow at his back, his sweating and tack-free horse. His face darkened, not liking what he saw at all. "What are you doing here, Legolas?"

"Is that not obvious?" the younger elf asked haughtily. "I'm coming with you."

A coldness crossed Baerahir's eyes, so intense it shamed the frozen landscape around them. He turned his gaze forward, his carriage becoming as ridged as his tone. "Get back home, Legolas. Right now."

"I'm not going home. I've made my choice."

Baerahir shook his head stiffly, keeping his stare straight into the back of the elf in the band before him; the hard intensity of his eyes was so severe it was surprising the soldier did not feel them searing the back of his neck. "It doesn't matter what choice you think you've made; it was made for you, and it was for you to stay at home."

Legolas felt the first flickering of his own anger at his brother's open dismissal of him. "I am tired of being told what I can and cannot do. I am of age, Baerahir-"

"So you keep saying, Legolas, but you seem to forget what 'being of age' entails," Baerahir said waspishly. Then: "I never believed you could be so selfish."

Had Baerahir struck him, Legolas would have felt less pain. His heart seemed to pause, as though trying to discern if what his ears had heard was correct. He was hardly aware of Celos' movements beneath him, too consumed by the damaging words of the one he loved most. Betrayal and hurt scored their marks across his resolve with terrible precision. Unfortunately, it was anger that rose under the guise of mending the wounds, and with far too much zeal…

"Selfish? I am bound with chains of authority that I have no chance of mastering, with the back-biting and sniping of the council for support, while you all disappear to war, and you say I am selfish?"

The heavy impact to his chest threw him from Celos' back into the snow and the stallion squealed and bolted in fright. Baerahir came so fast out of his line Legolas had no recollection of his movement. The freezing embrace of the deep snow numbed his body through the light jerkin and leggings, but there was no way he could get up with Baerahir weighing down on his chest and pinning his shoulders, caring little for any discomfort felt at the bulk of weaponry gouging into Legolas' back. "Do you not understand?" Baerahir hissed, his eyes glowing with a rage Legolas had never before witnessed in him. "There is no choice here, Legolas! There is duty, and I would sooner acknowledge an orc as a brother than have my own blood deny his responsibilities and abandon his people!"

Legolas bucked under Baerahir's weight, throwing his brother's balance enough to disengage himself and get to his feet. "Don't you understand?" Legolas shot back, surprising Baerahir when his voice resounded with hurt and sadness so strong it heavily contrasted with the light arrogance of earlier, his youthful blue eyes brightening with fierce pain. "I'm not interested in proving myself to you, or Haru, or even myself. I don't want to go to war, Baerahir, the idea of it terrifies me!" He diverted his eyes to the progressing march, no longer able to look his brother directly in the face. "But the idea of never seeing you again is more frightening to me than any measure of torment or death Sauron could impose on me. I would take him on alone if it meant you were safe."

Nothing save heavy puffs of frozen air existed between them in a stretch of silence. All Baerahir could do was stare at the younger elf he had so harshly wronged. His assertion that his brother was a bloody-minded fool had been flipped on its back: yes, Legolas was headstrong, proud, and more than a little arrogant … but Baerahir could see now that he was loving, and incredibly loyal, and he felt a sharp sense of shame at his own short-sightedness. Thranduil had been displeased at Legolas' behaviour in the council, but not nearly as irked as Oropher, who had been quite vocal on the fact, and Baerahir had to admit to himself that he had shared their sentiment. All three of them had completely misread his motives. It felt like the darkest betrayal now that he had doubted his brother so.

"Legolas…"

But Legolas was not finished. "I am nothing without you." He shook his head, angered tears burning his pinched cheeks as they made their escape. They made him look so very young, and Legolas evidently realised that fact as he wiped them away furiously, as though the truth of their existence disgusted him. But he still pulled his eyes back to his brother as he quietly demanded: "Who else is going to keep the trolls from your back out there, Baerahir?"

Baerahir's heart restricted until he feared it would tear itself. "But you can't, Legolas. No – listen," he urged, as his brother's head shook in disbelief and he started to back away. Baerahir crossed the short distance between them that had become so far, grasping Legolas by the shoulders and stopping his retreat from the cold truth. "Don't you see? There are no choices. Not for us. This is what it means to be us, Legolas; we are bound by blood to our people, and nothing can ever be allowed to surmount that, nothing… Not even each other."

Legolas licked his lips and kept his eyes beyond his brother, his breath marking the air between them with shallow stops of cloud. "I understand," he uttered. The evident heartache in Legolas' eyes as the young elf came to terms with the real implications of their birth showed Baerahir too clearly that they were not just words given as a hollow gesture. "I understand." He tried for a wavering smile at his brother, but could do little to restrain the choking sob from rendered it broken.

Baerahir pulled Legolas tightly to him. The contact was not enough, it could never be enough, the fact that this could too easily be their final time together more than either of them could stand to think of. But that impeding sense of duty was reinforced too soon for either of them by an awkward cough from behind…

"Sir … is everything well?" came a lieutenant's cautious query.

Baerahir sighed into his brother's shoulder, suppressing the pain in his throat. "I am begging you," he whispered thickly in Legolas' ear, holding on to him for as long as he could, "do not follow us; you might hold no fear of what Sauron could do to you, but I do." With that, he kissed his brother's brow, and left to join his lieutenant's side. There was nothing more he could stand to say to Legolas now-

"Promise me you'll come back!" Legolas shouted through the veil of thickening snowfall at Baerahir's retreating back. When he received no reply, a knife of desperation struck through his tone. "Baerahir! Promise me!"

Baerahir halted, letting himself look over his shoulder one last time. Him brother stared brokenly after him, at once part of and separate to the thickening landscape surrounding him and terribly alone. What he was doing felt so keenly like abandonment he could barely stand it … but he could not face making a promise of that magnitude, knowing where he was going, what he was going to face. A prickle of fear traced his spine and peaked in a shudder before he could control it. "I can't do that for you, Legolas. I'm so sorry, but I just can't."

-(())-

Over three years later…

"This has been going on for years. Are you saying to me that I, right now, have to give you a solution?"

"We seek justice from you, that is all." He was old, the speaker, sat in his best robes in the council chambers and enjoying the king's wine stock, taking a sip after every contribution to the discussion. Alcohol was not permitted in the meetings, but the man had managed to slip it in without his elven hosts noticing before the cup made its bold appearance on the bench. While it angered Legolas to see him so brazenly flout their rule, Daerahil discreetly bid him let the matter rest, and so the cup remained, the aging farmer drinking and looking Legolas directly in the eye whenever he did so.

His mind itched with restlessness. Legolas reviewed the documents before him on the matter with a heavy eye. This argument was older than he was. It concerned boarder infringement at the western boundary of Oropher's kingdom, not by marauding raiders, but farmers, insistent that the lands did in fact belong to them, and not to Oropher, and that their born right to the earth was being impeded by the elves, who – in their eyes – did not use the land and had no right to it anyway. The fact was, by the sheer nature of men and their fleeting lives, their memories were more prone to the corruption of time than those of elves ... some of whom could actually be called upon as first-hand witnesses to ownership, considering that they were actually there six centuries ago when the boarder was originally drawn and the land signed over by their lord. But the Adan's charter of ownership had long ago disappeared and passed into little more than myth to those who opposed its original quality. The copy the elves retained was not good enough for them … the men never said it out loud, but the entire Eryn Galen council knew they thought it a forgery. Tensions were running a little higher than such a matter should ever merit.

Legolas leaned back in his chair and gave the cluster of delegates an exasperated look. "But I have seen the original charter, signed by your lord of that time. I have seen the map. The boundaries are clearly marked." He shook his head to himself, glancing over the documents before him once more. The results of past negotiations were stated soundly in front of him; his cynical side suggested they were only here because they knew the king was away, that the young and naïve second grandson was in charge. They had never met with him ... young, certainly. Naive? Perhaps. But Legolas knew well when he was being worked, and he had absolutely no intention of being twisted to the whims of humans. "I confess, I am having difficulty seeing where your problem lies with the land plans." He fixed his dark stare on the representatives, unblinking and penetrating. A shiver of discomfort visibly ran over a couple of the younger ones. "The land is very clearly ours. I think the issue here is with the taxes the king imposes on you, not the land itself."

They weren't the most diplomatic words he had ever uttered. Daerahil visibly cringed beside him at the shrewd tactlessness of his words and the ensuing eruption of outraged shouts from the younger delegates. The words "thieves" and "impertinent dolt" were thrown into the room with the haphazard absence of care affiliated with lack of understanding and false justification. Legolas allowed them to vent their frustrations and his own people to try and quell their frayed pride. This quibbling argument was more than he could handle today. He didn't know what it was, but the sense of restlessness that had settled on him like hot ash would not give him peace. The council chambers were suffocating, the bickering of the men and careful words of the elves piling on his over-sensitive mood in a heavy blanket of meaninglessness-

The heavy oak chamber door rebounded on itself as it flung open. Surprised silence conquered the bickering at the intrusion of the elven guard, his light and unhampering garb indicating him as coming from one of the sentry patrols. He was completely unfazed by the fact of his interruption, wide and excited eyes seeking Legolas out amongst the crowd and addressing only him with a simple: "They have returned!"

Legolas felt his stomach drop. His chair nearly toppled when he leapt to his feet, dragging his council robes over his head and abandoning them in favour of the freer shirt and leggings underneath. Before any measure of decorum could be imposed on him, he was flying out the door with only a paltry word of apology to the delegates and running beside the guard for the courtyard, heart in his mouth and a feeling of heady nervousness twisting at his gut. The two of them burst through the palace doors and through the courtyard, paying little heed to the succession of other similarly excited elves in their wake.

Legolas ran flat out, haring through the gates and out onto the forest road, taking the sudden openness with a free acceleration. His sudden speed was more than even the guard was able to match, but he cared little for the difficulties of the others, homing in on the distant disjointed sound of many, many feet passed to him by the welcoming urging of the trees. He propelled himself round a sharp twist in the road that navigated an ancient cluster of beech trees – and halted.

They were little more than a third of the original force he had witnessed crossing the frozen vale of the Anduin three years prior. So few of them … and so many clearly injured, too many pairs carrying litters with their more severely wounded companions cradled in their canvas hold. There was no bright energy of purpose to their walk as there had been so long ago, just a resigned thankfulness to finally be beneath the great iridescent greens and coppers of their beech home. The initial shock of their depleted numbers was too much for his stunned eyes to take in at first, and Legolas found himself looking again, hoping that what he saw was a mere trick of the new spring haze throwing his perception … but with a hook of sadness he realised that his eyes were terribly accurate.

With a spear of dread, he turned his attention to the head of the procession, knowing who should be there and at once desperate to see and frantic to stay away…

Thranduil, his father, headed the procession, framed on either side by heralds maintaining the limply hanging elevation of Eryn Galen's colours. His right arm was tightly bound to his chest and he moved with a slightly staggering gait, the armour he had originally departed in gone in favour of a jerkin under which his torso appeared thicker than it should. To Legolas, it looked like the heralds should be carrying his father, not the banners.

But what really made Legolas' heart thunder for release was the fact that Thranduil silently headed their army as the lone authority. No Oropher, no Baerahir. Some desperate element of him clamoured that they had to be injured, carried in litters like the others, just concealed from his view by the ranks … but the rest of him, the part that felt the tears breaking on his cheeks, knew what the real and terrible truth had to be.

When the head of the procession drew level with the still figure at the roadside, Thranduil broke free of his army, walking with deliberate care to stand at his son's front. He said nothing, because he knew of no way to voice the shattering truth of what had happened. The haunted emptiness in his eyes suggested he struggled to cope with what he had seen. He didn't know how to tell his youngest child that he was now his only child.

"Ada…" Legolas' voice cracked on the word. "Ada, please…"

Thranduil swallowed, diverting his gaze from his son's fracturing heart, and presented him with a long bundle Legolas had failed to notice him carrying, wrapped carefully in a grey cloak. Legolas stared at it, frozen. He didn't want it. He knew what lay within those folds. If he held them, if they were made his…

His arms held themselves out without his command to numbly accept what his soul feared to acknowledge, and the long and narrow package found its way into his possession, eliciting a gentle muffled greeting of steel against steel as the too familiar weight settled against him. Dark blooms marked the material as he sank into the road's dusty embrace and wept, grasping the knives in their cloak tightly to his chest.

-(())-

Nearly three thousand years later, Between.

He knew he lived. Some part of him, detached and so very far away, told him that air laboured through his lungs yet. It knew the thready struggles of his heartbeat chasing the blood through his veins, blood that did not entirely stay within the confines of flesh. It was a harsh form of existence, but it knew life. He couldn't regard that element of himself with any degree of love or want. Out there, there could only be pain. He didn't want that. The pitiful remnants of his life-force would not endure without him, but he shied from it, frightened by the damage the body had sustained and not wanting to be affiliated with such broken pain.

And yet … something made him stay, catching on his resolve like a hook. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how determined he was to simply let go and leave, he could not bring himself to do so. But there was no way he could alleviate the sensation. No… Not without going back. I don't want to go back…

It continued to cry for his attention, struggling to remain without him but rapidly failing, drowning in its own crippled efforts.

He turned an ear to its echoing sorrow…

Let it fail.

He listened to the instruction, and took heed of the simple wisdom. It should be so easy to leave it to its own devices … it was just a body, after all, just a vehicle for the carriage of his soul, and his soul did not wish to stay with something so badly damaged. After all, why should he? What was there that could possibly tie him to the mess his physical form had become? He felt saddened at turning his back, but he turned it all the same.

I don't want to go back.

The protesting whisper edged through him like a lance at his betrayal, too weak to be a shout, but strong enough to be heard. Oddly, it did not press his own need to live on him, but a sworn promise he had made on his own blood many, many years ago.

There was a memory there, deep and unmoving and piercing, almost as old as he was. Funny he had not thought of it before… What it was exactly, he could not be sure. It was important, so, so important, something only he could tend to, because that was the oath he had taken.

He took a hesitant step the other way.

Out there, you can only hurt. You don't deserve that. Stay.

I want to stay…

Then do so. Stay here, and be safe. They are waiting for you.

Regret burned him, the first infliction of pain since arriving. He wanted to see them again. So badly…

I can't. I swore.

Children swear. Warriors make their own decisions.

From the other way, they called to him. Long, sorrowful cries that resounded with loving sadness that he had come to this, finding himself in a place he was never meant to be. But bound to the sadness was happiness; they could be together again, all of them, united in a place none of them should ever have come to, but united all the same. Longing so strong it near enough tore him apart tried to pull him to them … but he could not ignore that pitiful, crying element of his being, stranded in a wounded thing so far away.

He could not ignore the promise made to blood spilled, and the desperate need of Hope itself, because he was bound by a duty stronger than death.

-(())-

Awareness sank through his consciousness like a rock in quicksand. The clamour of his body redoubling its efforts at survival blocked him off from the outside world; blood burned along its course, rushing past his ears in roaring bursts. But with the stronger pumping of his heart came true fire, pain so total it obliterated any memory of what it was to be without it. His chest shuddered with his first panicked breath-

Legolas' reflexes hurled him over from his prone position without care for the excruciating pain the action caused him and disgorged the contents of his gut, water and mud, stone and blood. The forced contraction of his muscles made his entire body scream, each individual agony amplified thousand fold as the spasms struck again and again until there was nothing left in him. Even after that, his reflexes were not done with him as he choked up mucky water from the pits of his lungs, tears of forced effort and pain cleaning through the dirt and blood marring his cheeks.

When it eventually passed, there was nothing he could do save lie still, his face pressed numbly into the stone as he concentrated on slowly collecting his senses together. He was drenched to the bone and very cold, so much so his body juddered with it, but he couldn't muster the strength to do anything about it. He could not remember a time when he had felt such perishing and numbing cold. Dimly, he realised his feet were being pulled at and hauled them closer to the rest of him, piecing the sensation and the sound of fast water together and recalling a river from his recent past … a strong, angry river. And everything gushed back to him, so forceful it felt like he was drowning again, only this time in memories… Their flight through the forest; the attack of the Ulaer; his fight with them on the scree slope, when he lost-

At the remembrance he became more keenly aware of the damage to his side. Without wanting to, he could smell his own blood, hanging in a repulsive heavy metallic shroud around him. He knew the complete agony of his severed flesh running up his side, and the broken grate of the ribs that had stopped the sword from outright killing him. He tried to get up then in a thoughtless bid to escape the pain, pushing his right palm into his bed of stones-

But a knife of white hot agony sliced a piercing scream from him. He collapsed back into the mud, face screwed tight against the sudden brutish hurt of his broken shoulder blade, his throbbing teeth clenched so tightly they would surely crack and fingers clawing into the silt and stone, sharp bursts of hissing breath mixed with barely suppressed cries.

There was nothing he could do save ride out the pain, fighting to retain his thready hold on consciousness. He had to leave, he couldn't stay; if he stayed, the Valar knew what would find him. But despair tugged at his already threadbare resolve … to leave would mean he needed to find his feet, and he simply didn't think he was able to do it.

You had a choice, some small part of him chided. For the first time in your life, you had a choice, and you chose this. Make something of it!

Legolas gingerly flexed his left hand, testing its grip, revolving the wrist. When no pain came, he moved up his arm until he reached his shoulder, giving it an experimental roll. It hurt, but not enough for a break, and he put the pain down to bruising … his right shoulder had clearly taken the main brunt of whatever it was he had collided with.

Pushing himself upright resulted in an extraordinary amount of pain for him anyway. The stress the movement exerted on his side was almost more than he could take, and it took several attempts and much self-berating to force himself onto his seat. He never realised until that point exactly how many muscles were involved, and something so simple as making himself sit up was suddenly the hardest thing he could possibly undertake. He managed to pull his legs underneath himself, but actually getting to his feet was too much for him at that point. Legolas practically collapsed into the boulder beside him, his splitting head made giddy by the change in orientation. He simply breathed for a time, shallow pants that moved his chest as little as possible.

One eye cracked open, and then the other, and both winced together at the scoring light filtering between his lashes. But, frustrated with his ever mounting catalogue of hurts, Legolas would not allow his eyes to fail him, and he forced them to open fully. The world was a blurred grey mess for a time, but his vision gradually eased into its usual perfection.

The landscape to his left was a mass of hulking boulders under the dawn sky, strewn across an otherwise flat base of rock slabs, buckling awkwardly together like a child's badly completed puzzle. An edge of dark forest fended the rock away, standing as a silent sentinel not twenty feet from him. To his right, his attempted killer, the river, surged over itself furiously as though vexed it had not succeeded in taking him. Legolas carefully twisted his head round to acknowledge the thunder behind him. His knew his condition was poor at best, but looking at the steps of water, he was stunned that he had emerged at all; how he had not been caught in the current at the bottom of the falls, he had no idea. A shudder ran through his back with more than just cold.

He had been putting it off, but he needed to see. He had to show himself how bad it was, even though there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Legolas shifted carefully, stretching out his left leg until it hurt too much to push it further, and leaned back into the boulder's unforgiving hardness, and steeled himself:

His entire side was dark and wet. The gaping cut through jerkin and shirt acted as a heavily stained access point. Legolas made himself peel back the sodden cloth to allow for a better view, and had to fight down the hit of fresh nausea at what greeted him…

Everything was a mess of fresh blood emerging from a deep and lengthy gash, gaping at him like some crude attempt at a mouth in his side. At the very top, the sharp edge of his lowest rib was just visible inside… Just seeing it made the pain blaze all the more. But there was another pain he felt, more keenly even than his physical hurts: the quiver at his back was too light. The loss of arrows he accepted, and he remembered too clearly the moment when the bow had been ripped from his desperate grasp … but he knew without needing to reach behind himself that his knives were gone. The remaining elements of his brother that he had left, and they were gone. The moment of realisation was more painful to him than anything any sword could inflict.

His good hand pressed into the wound as he rocked himself, bringing his right knee up and biting down on it in an attempt to dispel both the pain and the tears of utter despair tracking his face.

Translations: hên – child

Ada – Father

Haru – Grandfather

adan – men