notes: Oh my gosh you guys, I'm sorry. I should have posted this on Thursday. But Real Life is something of a bitch. Anyway... It was posited to me that I should up the rating of this fic due to the graphic nature of the descriptions of injury/death in the last chapter. I'm pretty sure that's as bad as it'll be? Like, if there's more to that degree or worse, I'll definitely up the rating. But as it stands right now, do you guys think I should up it? It seemed pretty tame to me tbh...but I also know that my perception of those things is highly skewed due to...Reasons. Which is why I'm asking y'all. Just let me know what you think! Mostly though, I hope you enjoy this (albeit pretty short) chapter!


Chapter 12

The fifteenth day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age.

When Legolas awoke again, it was still dark. He groaned and rolled over onto his side, reaching out to fumble against Lord Elrond's chest. His jerkin was soaked through and crusted with ice; the temperature seemed to have dropped—or Lord Elrond himself was colder than he should have been. Frowning, Legolas felt his own hair, and though it was damp and chilled, there was no ice.

Sitting up carefully and with another groan, Legolas felt along Lord Elrond's body, feeling the ice gathered in the crevices of his clothes, among the strands of his hair, on his skin. Feeling it made Legolas, already chilled to the bone, shiver—and wonder. What could have caused this? Lord Elrond should be warmer than the surrounding air, not colder.

I have to get a fire going, Legolas thought. I have to get him warm—get this ice melted off of him.

Scooping handfuls of leaves into a pile, Legolas reached into his belt purse—blessedly still attached to his belt, and still fastened—and pulled out flint. Fumbling in the darkness, Legolas lifted Hadhafang, then struck a spark using the metal blade against his flint. Sparks flew, and a few settled on the damp leaves—sizzled, then failed. Cursing to himself, Legolas tried again—and again, and again. Each time the sparks died out before they could catch alight.

Digging beneath the wet leaf litter for something drier, Legolas pulled up a fistful of old pine needles. They were mostly dry, though not completely; he hoped they would work. Once more he struck the flint against the blade. Sparks fell among the needles—and caught. Legolas quickly grabbed one leaf and fed it to the rapidly diminishing fire, small and weak as it rushed through the needles, then a second. The leaves curled and crumbled, gone almost before he had lit them—but still he fed the fire leaf after leaf, until he had a tiny blaze going. It would fail within moments, unless he was to get something sturdier on it—but he had a flame going.

Now that he had some light, it was easier for Legolas to stand and hurry his hobbling way around the nearby trees, searching for bark and green branches low to the ground. It was still difficult to see—the fire was measly and small and failing rapidly, casting barely enough light to throw off shadows—but it was enough.

Legolas returned just as the fire began to flicker out, bark in one hand and a few small branches in his injured other. He fed these to the flames as well. Holding his breath, Legolas waited for them to catch light—and they did. He breathed a sigh of relief, added another scoop of leaves onto the brightening blaze, and then rose unsteadily again to collect more tinder.

Half an hour later, Legolas had a respectable fire going. He had cleared away the leaf-litter in a circle around the flames, leaving only bare earth as a bulwark against the fire spreading, and had collected a small pile of dead wood to use for fuel. Lord Elrond lay a mere pace away from the blaze, the ice glistening in the firelight—but not melting.

What do I do now? Legolas wondered. His thoughts were sluggish and slow, not wanting to tumble in any one direction; rather, they spiraled nearly out of control in every which way, tumbling here and there without rhyme or reason, drifting to one topic then darting to another, finding one solution before forgetting it in lieu of another.

I have to get him out of his wet clothes, Legolas thought at last as his mind, numb and exhausted and nearly overwhelmed by pain, finally defaulted into instinct and long-held training. Wet clothes leech warmth away from the body, and take longer to dry.

It took nearly a quarter of an exhausting hour. Lord Elrond was significantly larger than Legolas, both taller and broader in shoulder and hip, and it took nearly all of Legolas's failing strength to hoist the Half-Elf up enough to draw off his jerkin, tunic, undershirt, and breeches. His underclothes Legolas left on, though his boots and socks Legola removed and added to the pile of clothes laid out by the fire.

The wounds that were revealed by his disappearing clothes were disturbing. Cuts and gashes littered his skin, which was purple and blue and black from bruising. More worrying, however, was the broken arm, the crooked roll to his right hip, and a long, thin stab wound halfway down his side. The blade that had caused it had sheared off against the bone, but when Legolas felt it, he thought he could feel a sliver of metal embedded between two ribs.

Legolas considered trying to dig out the piece of metal—but he had no tools with which to do so, and his only experience with medicine was that training given to every young Huntsman. He knew how to bandage and stitch a wound, how to clean it, and how to keep it from getting infected—but anything more complicated than that he had always been instructed to leave to the healers.

If only I was the one so badly injured, Legolas thought. If only our positions were reversed…

At last, the ice began to melt—from the clothes, if not from Lord Elrond's skin.

"My lord?" Legolas asked, when at last his task was complete and the ice was still not melting. He knelt by Lord Elrond's side, one hand on the Elf lord's cold shoulder. He shook it gently with his good hand, his injured arm hanging by his side. "My lord, please—wake up. I need you to tell me what is wrong so I might fix it."

Lord Elrond did not stir.

"My lord," Legolas begged, "please… I need you to tell me what to do."

Nothing happened.

Legolas lowered his head to Lord Elrond's shoulder, defeated. What did he do now? Was there some way for him to wake the Elf lord? Was there some way for him to determine what was keeping him unconscious—what was causing the ice to form along his brow and over his skin?

A memory came to him: Elladan and Elrohir speaking of how their father had called an Elf back from the brink of death by touching the Elf maiden's fëa with his own, using that as a bridge to bring her back to her own body from the gates of Mandos's halls.

Lord Elrond was a gifted healer, though—and more than that, part Maia. Was Legolas capable of doing the same thing, though he was neither Maia nor healer?

He could only try.

Closing his eyes, Legolas breathed in, out, then in again, calming his heart and pulse. They eased into a steady, rhythmic beat, pounding loud in Legolas's ears in time with each inhale, each exhale.

What now? he wondered. How do I go about calling for his fëa?

Lord Elrond? Legolas called silently, feeling foolish. Lord Elrond, can you hear me?

No answer came.

Breathing in and out again, Legolas calmed his heart further still, until it was beating only once every few seconds. Then he listened—listened, listened, listened. He listened for Lord Elrond's breath, shallow and rushed between his ice-rimmed lips; he listened for Lord Elrond's heartbeat, shuddering in his ribs; he listened for Lord Elrond's fëa, crackling and alive beneath his skin and in his blood.

There came to Legolas a faint whispering, as of a thin, snaking voice murmuring insidious words into his ear. They were in a language that Legolas did not know and could not understand—a language that made his skin crawl and his bones shiver.

Then, very suddenly, the voice changed, growing louder and more distinct—and the words too changed, morphing into the flowing Sindarin of Legolas's native tongue.

You will die, the voice said, hissing each vowel, spitting each consonant. I will drag you down unto the depths of black despair, and you will cede your fëa to me. This is inescapable; this battle you fight is unwinnable. You will be mine, mine, mine…

Legolas retched, only just turning his head to keep from throwing up on Lord Elrond. Bile splattered to the ground, the taste bitter in his mouth. Something in that voice had been so full of malice, so full of hatred, so full of disease and despair and desire—so full of pure, unadulterated evil—that Legolas's entire being shuddered and revolted.

"Lord Elrond," Legolas said aloud, then again, silently, Lord Elrond. Lord Elrond, can you hear me?

The voice reappeared. This time, however, it was looking at him.

And who are you? it asked. Then it sneered. Little Greenleaf—little prince. As if you can take from me my captive.

You cannot have him, Legolas said on a whim, and he clutched Lord Elrond's shoulder with bruising fingers.

Oh, but little Greenleaf, the voice whispered, oily and snake-like and so, so, so vindictive and proud, I already do.

Lord Elrond shivered—then convulsed. His back arched, his knees bent, and his bare toes dug into the sodden ground. Mud clung to his hair as he shoved his head into the earth, smeared across his hands and wrists as he clutched at it with trembling fingers. He opened his mouth—and for a second no sound came out.

Then he screamed.

"My lord!" Legolas exclaimed, rising to his knees and bending low over Lord Elrond. He gripped Lord Elrond's hand and kept his broken arm still, even as he convulsed again, thrashing and flailing against Legolas's hold. "My lord," Legolas pleaded. "Fight. Fight this voice—this thing, whatever it is."

Lord Elrond continued to scream.

His eyes fluttered, and hope surged in Legolas's breast.

They opened—and for a second, Legolas thought that all would be well. Then Lord Elrond's eyes fastened on him, and Legolas saw no recognition, no understanding—saw nothing but wild, painful fear.

Then Lord Elrond's eyes rolled back into his head and he slumped back to the ground, still and silent once more.


end notes: So what did y'all think? And what do you think about the rating? Let me know!

Oh, and because it's Saturday (and I tend to get overwhelmingly better feedback on the weekends), let's say 10 reviews and I'll post the next chapter. Otherwise it'll be...*counts* Tuesday? And I promise I'll actually upload it on time this time.