Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies – not mine, no money, just for fun. First LOTR fic and I'm far from an expert on the subject matter so please be kind.

Special thanks to Sarah who is hands down the kindest and most patient beta ever!

And thanks so much too to those of you who are reading and special thanks to those who take the time to review – your support gets me right back at the keyboard again tapping away. Thank you!!!

CHAPTER 21

A Child's Smile

Sounds could be heard outside of the room, a strange combination of cooing and scolding that came closer and closer. A thin, stooped, darkly-clad woman appeared in the doorway carrying a madly squirming bundle in her arms. "We'll just see about this young miss," the woman was saying, as she stepped into the room, seemingly unaware that it was occupied, so intent was she on her charge. The bundle appeared to be a small child, a girl, Legolas managed to deduce, although all he could see was a blur of cream and blue and gold as her head tossed madly to and fro as if she might dislodge the woman in the manner of a dog shaking off water after his bath.

"You're supposed to be asleep right now, you know," the woman continued her lecture, although in tones so soft and sweet that the little girl could hardly have felt rebuked as evidenced by a complete lack of change in her behaviour. "You are wilful and mischievous, little one." The old woman's words brought a smile to Legolas' lips. On many occasions, he had been called such by his own mother and in tones just as full of exasperation and loving patience laced with humour.

The child paid absolutely no attention to the woman (her nurse?) and instead, pushed herself backwards until her body was at a right angle to the woman's and for a brief moment, Legolas felt sure they would both topple over. The woman was not as frail as she seemed, however and managed to wrap a firm arm around the still twisting and turning child, dragging her back to safety. "Did I say spoiled and stubborn?" she added, chuckling, a smile breaking across her wrinkled face. "You are also spoiled and stubborn! To think, you are but one year old. Whatever will your mother do with you?"

Nursemaid and child had continued to advance into the room, the woman still so completely caught up in her feigned scolding and her efforts to keep the child from leaping from her arms that she had not realized where she was or who else was in the room with her. She suddenly became aware of her surroundings and stopped at once, noting Legolas propped up on the bed, a terrified look springing to her eyes. The child too stilled, taking note of the sudden silence, and tilted her head back to observe the woman, before following her line of sight to where Legolas rested on the bed. Legolas found himself looking into the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen and positively the most beautiful face in all of Middle Earth.

"Oh sir!" the woman cried, taking a step back. "I am so very sorry. I was told I might find the Lady Éowyn here, or Linea's father. I do apologize!"

One of the healers who had left the room briefly to obtain fresh water, scurried in behind the old nurse and immediately began to urge her out again. The child however, had other ideas. She began to screech so loudly that Legolas thought his head might explode, a sound that made the horror of the ringwraith's howl rate a very distant second in comparison. The babe reached out her arms toward the bed and began to babble incoherently, and yet what she wanted was perfectly understandable.

He was willing to do anything to stop that incessant wailing. "Please, it's alright," he entreated. Amazingly, that was all it took. As if she sensed her victory, the child hushed. Her eyes however, locked on Legolas' and he was certain if the nurse should try to back away again, the screaming would begin anew. While the healer hovered nervously in the background, the woman, quite reluctantly, stepped forward with the child. The little girl reached down toward Legolas, without any of the hesitation he thought he should be seeing in one so young when faced with a stranger. He reached his arms up, surprised at the strength that he was able to muster. The child fell easily into them.

She was soft and warm and as light as a feather. He sat her on the bed beside him, holding her unnecessarily with one hand; she made no attempt to move or do anything other than to watch him with those amazingly blue eyes. She was enchanting, her hair, her face, he would have described everything about her in terms of perfection. While he observed her, she observed him just as carefully. There was something about her, something that he could not quite put into words, something familiar…of course, this was Faramir's and Éowyn's child…of course she should seem familiar…

Legolas heard a sudden intake of breath and forced his eyes from the steady gaze of the little girl to find that the nurse had come to stand at the end of the bed. "What is it?" he asked. Her eyes and mouth were wide open. "What is wrong?" Legolas glanced hurriedly back to the child to see if there were something amiss, but she seemed fine and in fact she raised one delicate eyebrow as if to express her own confusion. Then she smiled at him, a smile that drove all sense of suffering or exhaustion or sorrow from him. It was a radiant smile, full of golden light, like sunshine and warmth brushing across him. The woman and healer both faded into the background, as did his own suffering, forgotten completely as he contemplated how something as simple as a child's smile could hold such power.

"Thank you Alia, I will take care of Linea from here," a firm voice broke the spell. He looked up to find Éowyn waving the nurse from the room. "Go and have some dinner, I'm sure you've earned it," she said as she moved further into the room toward the bed and the little girl. Linea burrowed against Legolas' side tighter and tighter as her mother approached, her tiny hands clawing at the bedclothes, as if she might hide herself there and save herself from those out stretched arms.

"Come, Linea; you must let Prince Legolas rest," Éowyn commanded as she came to stand at the side of the bed, but the golden curls tossed to and fro vigorously as she clung desperately to Legolas' side. Legolas himself felt an inexplicable panic at the thought of the child leaving him, somehow her warmth and closeness were giving him strength, a moment of respite from the agony that had been all he had known for what seemed a very long time now.

"No, please, let her stay for just a moment," he said, biting his lip as soon as the words had escaped. He had no place asking Éowyn this; the child should by rights be in bed.

Éowyn paused, her arms stretched out before her. Amazingly, she seemed to be considering his request. With a deep breath followed by a sigh, she pulled her arms back and wrapped them about her waist, shivering slightly, surprisingly so since the room felt like a furnace to Legolas. Perhaps he disturbed her, they had never been much at ease in each other's presence on the very few occasions when they had been in each other's presence. "She is a beautiful child, milady," he said, searching for a common ground, something that might ease the tension between them and make her feel comfortable enough to stay for just a moment. He smiled as he once again regarded the precious bundle pressed up against his side, the little girl now watching both adults warily, her eyes swivelling back and forth, from one to the other. "She looks just like you." Éowyn made no comment and instead, stood back a little, carefully examining her child, as if for the first time.

"No," she said at last, "no, I think not. I think she looks exactly like her father." Legolas frowned, deepening his own critical sweep. He could see nothing of Faramir in the child, although perhaps her personality was her gift from her father. Often when you knew someone well enough, it became difficult to separate persona from appearance. But given his brief exposure to the child's rather impressive tantrum a few moments ago, he could not see calm, collected Faramir anywhere in that part of her either.

"Alas, I cannot see it myself milady, but she is your child and you would surely know," he said looking up at the woman still standing stiffly a few steps from the bed, almost as if she were afraid to come any closer. He gave her a weak smile, and shrugged sheepishly.

"No," Éowyn repeated, resolutely, "she looks like her father." She stood silently watching them, deep in thought, as the minutes passed, until Legolas began to feel most uncomfortable. He would have been inclined to fidget if the small child at his side, (what was she again, one?), had not been so very still, putting any fidgeting he might do to shame.

At last, Éowyn stepped carefully back to the bedside and took the seat that had been pulled up next to it. He was struck by how tired she looked. There were dark shadows under her eyes like bruises and tension lined her forehead and drew her mouth into a tight line. Before he could comment or express concern she reached a hand to the little girl's head and began to caress the soft curls. "Everyone says how incredibly beautiful she is," she said, her lips drawing into a strained smile as she ran her hand gently and lovingly down the side of the child's head, smoothing the hair behind her ear. "Everyone says how golden her hair is, how blue her eyes, how perfect her features. There can be no doubt of it. She looks exactly like her father."

The little girl blinked up from where she lay tucked beside him. She reached a tiny hand up to him and touched his ear. It was a delicate touch, curious, searching and it drew his attention to the child's own ear, the one Éowyn had just uncovered from beneath the mass of golden curls. It was a delicate ear, delicate like the child's touch, delicate and fragile, like fine porcelain. He reached his own hand down, mirroring the little girl's movement and touched a finger to it, marvelling at its small size and perfect structure, perfect down to the tiny point that was forming at the top.

Like her father. She looks like her father! He gasped as understanding ripped through him and he snatched his hand back. Like her father? Her father had most assuredly been an Elf. An Elf! He would have jumped up from the bed and fled to the other side of the room if he had the strength, but instead he tore his eyes from that perfect little ear to face the child's mother.

"Her father was an Elf?" he said, in a strangled voice. Éowyn said nothing, but that in itself was an affirmation. Of course he had been. He closed his eyes against a wave of nausea that coursed through him. Not now, he thought fighting back the bile that rose in his throat. He snapped his eyes back open and tried to focus on the little one at his side, forcing his breaths to come evenly. At last he regained control of his body and was able, once more to face Éowyn. She was watching him warily. This revelation had not been planned, he was certain. He took a deep breath, trying to form his thoughts.

"Why…did you not tell me?" he whispered.

"I only just found out myself."

Her words erased any last doubt he might have had. It had been absurd to think anything else, how many Elven lovers might she have had a chance to take in those final months of the war anyway? He felt a wave of emotion so strong it wiped away every vestige of nausea and suffering in his body, filling him instead with panic, terror and a desperate desire to flee again, only not to the side of the room this time, but as far away from this place as he could get. But he felt the little girl's gaze upon him and when he turned, he found her observing him solemnly, appraising him, as if she were trying to decide if he deserved to be what he was. He forced down his fear, and with every bit of strength he had left, schooled his expression and met her gaze, observing her just as carefully. She was so tiny and exquisite, just like a little doll. He could not imagine that he had had anything whatsoever to do with creating this perfect creature tucked against his side. Any fear that might have remained was vanquished by wonder and amazement.

All at once Linea's eye-lids became heavy and began to droop closed. With a contented sigh she nestled against his pillow, turned slightly towards him, placing a small hand against his chest and fell instantly asleep. Whatever she had been trying to decide about him had apparently been settled. She deemed him trustworthy enough at least that she would take her respite at his side. He pulled his attention back to the child's mother, his head swimming from exhaustion and emotion.

"What have I done?" He whispered, as much to himself as to her. He could feel the panic rise in him again. "I thought that we would never survive that night." He glanced away from her then, remembering the despair he had been feeling that night as he had climbed the wall to her balcony. He had just come from an encounter with Aragorn during which he had behaved badly. "I had lost all hope," he said, some of the ache the memory carried creeping into his voice. "I should not have acted as I did, but, I was not myself…I am sorry. If I had only known - "

"What? What would you have done differently, if you had known?"

What would he have done? What could he have done? Eomer, already suspicious of him, would have killed him on the spot, if he had ever found out what had transpired between Legolas and his sister, no more need to worry about orcs or wargs or Saruman or Sauron. His own father would have exiled him to some tree in the murkiest part of Mirkwood. An Elf sleeping with a human! A Prince treating the niece of a mighty King like some common taproom whore! But what they would have said and done to him wouldn't have mattered. He would have done what he ought to have done; he would have owned up to his responsibility. And in doing so, he would have had the one thing he wanted more than anything on this earth, as well.

"I would have never left you to face this alone…" He began, but his words trailed off as he remembered who she was, what she was. She most definitely had not been alone.

"Then you would have been saddled with a wife you did not love," she said shortly, her voice cold and without emotion. He closed his eyes, feeling the nausea wash through him again. Only it wasn't nausea, though it clenched his stomach and made his heart beat fast. Sorrow. That was what he felt. Intense, overwhelming sorrow. Sorrow so strong, so painful, it made him long for the nausea to return, something, anything to wipe out this fresh, new agony. He felt a soft touch on his arm and forced his eyes open to find her staring at him, curiously.

"You said you did not care - not even a little - that day in the garden, when I asked. I am glad you do not spend years of your life with someone that you do not care for. And I would not have wanted to spend my life with someone who did not care for me."

Legolas blinked at her dumbly. He couldn't answer, wouldn't speak what he knew was in his heart. It would accomplish nothing for her to know the truth that even now begged to be spoken out loud, for the world to know how he felt. It would only cause more misery and would amount to nothing, save misery for him; embarrassment for her. What did it matter how he felt? She was married to another man, a man that she loved - he had been able to see the truth of that from the first time he saw them together. And what exactly did he feel? What would he say to her anyway, if things had been different, if she had come to him and told him that she was going to have a child, his child? Had he loved her? Or had he only wanted her, wanted something that was pure and untouched? At that moment, in Helm's Deep, he had never felt so far removed from those qualities. Everything in his life at that moment had seemed so dirty and skewed, his belief in himself, in their quest, even his trust in Aragorn.

Aragorn. He had followed the man faithfully many times in his long life. He would have gladly followed him to the ends of the earth - to his own death - and would never have regretted it for a moment. And he had never once resented the respect and awe that the man generated by his mere presence. Never once until… He hadn't realized it at the time; he had never experienced the feeling before. What had an Elf to be jealous of? And to be jealous of a mortal? Absurd. But now, the events of the last few months had made him understand once and for all that that was exactly what he had felt back then. He had been jealous of Aragorn and that one moment of jealousy had seemed to open a floodgate of jealousy within him. Nay, not the moment, but the reason for it: Éowyn.

He had set eyes on her that first time in Edoras and knew immediately, without a doubt that he could love her. The strength of her character shown in her eyes and her beauty rivaled that of Elven standards. He had never felt any feeling like it in all of his long life; it had been as if a lightening bolt had seared his chest and his heart had never been the same since. To this day he was afraid to put a name to what he felt; as if saying what he felt would diminish it or lay it open to the light, to be examined by his own inner council and potentially rejected for being a groundless childish crush, a passing fancy. No one could feel something so strong so quickly and with so little basis.

Fear held his tongue. That, and the fact that Éowyn had merely glanced at him that first meeting, pausing only long enough to gasp at his race, as did most of her kind. Almost at once her eyes had continued their trek stopping at last with Aragorn, and remaining riveted there. That was the first time Legolas had felt this odd feeling that seemed now to flood his veins on a regular basis. He had wanted something he could not have; wanted it desperately with an almost obsessive desire.

"I cannot explain it to you," she had said that night he had climbed unwittingly into her bedchamber. "I only know that there is no one else here who would do." But he knew that wasn't true. Aragorn was the one she truly wanted; the man had claimed her heart without so much as a word. She would only have asked him because Aragorn had refused her. Even as desire washed over him and through him at her request, jealousy had made him angry that he had been chosen as a last resort and the anger flushed some of the desire from his veins and allowed him to maintain a weak hold on his senses. He was an Elf, a prince, not an animal, to be ruled by urges and physical needs, wants and desires! He rejected any notion that there could have been something more to his feeling. And so, he had sought to talk her out of it, to force her to release him from his promise; this could not truly be what she wanted and she would hate him for it afterwards if he did as she requested. But she had come close to him that night, the back of her fingers caressing his cheek. She had slipped her hand to his waist and pulled closer so that he could feel her breath upon his lips, the soft curves of her body pressing against him in all of the right places.

He opened his mouth to tell her all of the reasons why this should not happen but before he could utter a word, her lips sought out his and the warm invitation they offered clouded his senses, banishing all sane thought from his head. He had professed his love for her in his heart the first moment he had laid eyes upon her, what difference did it make that she asked him to profess it with his body? She took his hand - his lips still captured by hers - and led him into her bedchamber. He went without protest. He went, knowing that this might very well be his last night upon this earth and he wanted nothing more than to spend at least part of it in her arms.

Did it matter that she did not care for him in return? Yes it did, he realized afterwards. It mattered greatly. She had left his side that night and they had never stood together again except for him to bow over her hand during the few occasions of court they had been to together and that trip they had all made to Edoras to lay Theoden King to rest. He had stayed far away from her during their journey together; it had become devastatingly clear that she and Faramir were attracted to one another. The two were rarely apart from each other and he could see plainly the love Éowyn felt for Faramir in her eyes. The sight of the two of them together, smiling at each other, touching each other, tore at his heart; a heart already weakened by the many battles fought, friends lost, the long months without rest and a new enemy that sucked the strength from his body and his soul, an enemy that he knew in the end would best him.

When the couple announced their betrothal, that had been the final blow. At the first possible moment he had fled with Gimli to spend the months that followed travelling Middle Earth, making sure their path never ventured near Minas Tirith, leaving behind any chance of being near her. Love or not, the emotions that she had stirred in him had the power to drive him to distraction; whether it was his feeling for her or the sea longing or perhaps a deadly combination of the two. As long as he stayed active and at a distance, he had managed to maintain a slim hold on his sanity. Until he could no longer hold back Gimli. Until he thought that he might actually have mastered his heart. When Gimli had asked that they pay a visit to Aragorn for perhaps the thousandth time, he had at last given in. Yet the closer they had come to this place, the closer he had come to her, the more he had begun to lose all control. The sea longing, too, had found his weakness easy prey and had used every opportunity to take him over. He had no means to fight it and there were times when he had no desire to fight it either. Lost in that purgatory he was - for a while at least - free from the pain in his heart.

They had arrived in Minas Tirith only to discover that Faramir and Éowyn were in Ithilien, much to Legolas' relief. And Aragorn had given him a job, an important job. He thought he could master himself and even improve, he felt himself growing stronger…until Faramir and Éowyn had arrived. The jealousy he had felt for Aragorn at Helm's deep had been quite easily transferred to Faramir at Edoras and was now compounded by the fact that not only did the man have the woman Legolas loved, but he also held the confidence and support of the Elf's closest friend. Legolas had blamed Faramir when suspicion pointed his way, fuelled partly by that strong feeling, but he hoped that his suspicion had not been ruled solely by jealousy alone; if Éowyn had told Faramir about their encounter, what better reason for the man to hate Elves? And surely Faramir must know about Linea, an even better reason still for his actions.

His hand strayed to Linea's golden head. The little girl was now in a deep sleep; pressed against his side as if she hadn't a care in the world and that was the one place she was supposed to be right now. He smiled as he brushed soft curls from her ears and touched a finger ever so gently to the tiny pearl-like point. An ache as real as a wound rose up in his heart. Aragorn would not know this feeling any time soon, to hold his child close to his side and it was Legolas' fault. With a heavy sigh he raised his head to face Éowyn wondering what emotion played across her features.

"You said you did not care, not even a little," she repeated the words he had spoken to her in the garden several days before. She had surprised him there as he worked. Although she had been at the palace for over a week, he had managed to avoid her. But this time, she had sought him out. Had he cared for her, she had asked. Had he cared at all? Her question had shocked him. Why did it matter to her? She was married to a man, a wonderful man from what everyone said, despite his own suspicions. What did it matter what he had thought of her all of those months before on a night that neither of them thought they would live through?

Maybe it had something to do with the child, he thought, brushing the tiny fingers curled against his side. He had given her an answer then that was ambiguous. He had not expected her to ever address him so and in his surprise had given a response that was the truth if one knew how to find it. It was the unspoken words that had harmed him then and like the charred remains of a forest after a fire, he had felt his insides crumble to dust. He had felt lost then, lost and empty. He had climbed a tree to escape and to give himself a moment alone, only his despair had weakened him once more and allowed his sickness to claim him.

He hadn't been able to say what he should have said to her that day - an unequivocal answer to her question - but he should say it now. He should stop being the spoiled and selfish youngest prince they all expected him to be. It was enough that he had destroyed Aragorn's happiness. He had no right to tell this woman the truth; what purpose would it serve? He opened his mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by the sound of quick, heavy steps in the hall. The door was flung open and Aragorn stood at the threshold.