(Yes, I've again picked up the threads of this story after its long long abandonment, but be forewarned, it could be very slow going.)


Chapter 11


Elladan opened his eyes, feeling rivulets of water run across his face. He blinked into the raining sky and rolled to his side, abruptly breathing in the mist from the river.

The Imladris river.

The River Bruinen.

He was at the Edge of the Wild—the ford crossing into his home. Sinking his elbow into the soil of the bank, he let his head tip forward, as if preparing to receive benediction. Momentarily unconcerned with how he'd arrived, he shook for a second, clinging to the sounds of life in the atmosphere, then swiped the water from his face and filled his lungs with relief.

Elrohir! he thought next, curling his knee inward and jerking upright.

"I am here," said Elrohir calmly, dropping next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. "The horses too. They arrived before we did."

Elladan scanned his brother's face, sweeping his gaze down his body to take in his injuries, seeing blood but no life threats. He glanced beyond him to where their mounts pawed at the riverbank. Across the ford, he could see riders from the Guard scrambling down to meet them. "Imladris," he said, barely a whisper.

Feeling the need to check, he tore his eyes away from the blessed sight and looked over his shoulder.

The forest behind them was quiet.

Elrohir tightened the grip on his shoulder slightly. "We are no longer being pursued, but I fear from this conflict we have only gained a temporary reprieve. We should seize it while we can. Ada will be worrying for us. Aragorn and Legolas too."

With Elrohir's help, Elladan stood from the mud, nodding his head as rain slid down his neck. "Let us go."


Gently, Elrond locked a hand beneath Legolas's head and with Gandalf's help, tilted him onto his side to reach the remaining reopened wounds on his back and shoulder. He paused as he cleaned away the dried smears of blood, contemplating the pattern of the cuts—the way they crossed, one arching over the other. Crescents. The shape he'd seen on the medallion in the stable before he'd tossed it into the blacksmith's fire—the same symbol reportedly seen on the additional medallions located within the borders of his realm before being destroyed by the Guard.

Pressing carefully on each wound in turn, Elrond frowned at their fresh appearance. It was as if Legolas had received the injuries only hours ago instead of days or weeks… or months. He could no longer guess how long they'd been there. The bruises and scrapes across the young elf's body also — they were all newly discolored and changed in hue.

With the echo of Legolas's scream resounding in his memory, Elrond shook his head, trying to make sense of these pieces, trying to add them to things that still felt so improbable.

"What magic of the dark brings this here?" he whispered, glancing at Gandalf, whose own serious expression reflected back the same question. Had they truly brought Legolas out of Mirkwood, only to have the evil pursue him?

"My Lord?" The reverie was broken by the voice of a guard stepping into the entryway, feet light and strong on the warm stone floor. "Your sons have crossed the river. They are on approach."

Keeping his hands steady on Legolas's shoulder, Elrond traded quick looks with Gandalf and Haldir, then turned his head to face the messenger. "Are they well?"

"Well enough," the guard stated, but he glanced around the room, as though taking account for whether Elrond had space for them, or whether another room ought to be prepared or additional healers called for.

Elrond turned his head again, seeking the wizard.

"I shall go out to meet them," agreed Gandalf before he could be asked. "We will join you shortly. Come," he said to the guard.

In the soft tapping of their departing steps, Elrond gazed down over Legolas's back and through the window, feeling the breath of anxiety lessen its touch against his skin. Outside, rain continued to fall steadily, but the atmosphere was settling. The Imladris Guard was vigilantly watching the borders, wary for another breach, and his sons were returning. With Haldir's news from Lórien, perhaps they'd gain answers before the threat could rise again.

Putting all the power of healing within him into the task before him, Elrond concentrated on dressing the wounds of his charge.

Taking Gandalf's position, Haldir drew near, keeping himself stoically still, not touching the divan. He was watching the process steadily, though his eyes revealed the fear that remained within him as he glimpsed his kinsman.

After a few moments, Elrond spoke. "Haldir," he said, gesturing him closer. "You must hold this bandage steady while I place the wrap to maintain it."

Haldir stared at him, glancing to the wounds on Legolas's shoulder. "My Lord," he began to protest—stiffly, respectfully.

"Haldir," Elrond interrupted, "whatever this attack intended to accomplish, the introduction of doubt was among its weapons. Doubt that should not separate the kinsmen of the woodland realms." He lowered his voice. "By some twisted magic it corrupted that connection. We must not give into it. And to be certain whatever poisoned the air has left us…" he let the statement hang there, waiting.

Closing his eyes, Haldir nodded. Tentatively, he flexed his hand and placed it cautiously over the bandage, watching for the reaction on Legolas's face.

The young elf twitched. His eyebrows drew inward and he rocked his head.

"No," said Elrond gently, stopping Haldir when he otherwise might have removed his hand. "What do you sense?"

Focusing, Haldir nodded, a look of relief flooding his eyes. "He wakes. His pain is diminished. The dreams release him."

"And me," spoke Aragorn groggily from behind them. "They release me also." Wearily, he was shifting up from his prone position, dropping his legs off the side of the divan he'd been placed on, and leaning his back against the wall. He had a hand pressed to his chest, and an expression on his face, as though surprised by the ease of moving air in and out of his lungs.

"Young Aragorn of the Dúnedain," greeted Haldir formally, sounding further relieved.

Under Elrond's hands, Legolas blinked, a swirl of recognition highlighting the contrasts in his eyes. He reached a loose hand up, folding it over Elrond's wrist, halting the wrap of the bandage around his shoulder as he said very softly, "Aragorn? Son of Arathorn?"

"Yes," confirmed Elrond simply. "Yes."


tbc