Chapter 26: "Don't Ever Leave Me"

Author's note: At long last, we are finally nearing the end of Part 1 in this series of three books. Though we are still a few chapters off, more comments might help push me to the end faster. Thank you for reading for as long as you have! You have no idea how much it means to me. This is still a fun writing exercise, even after these few years of working on it. In spite of my health issues, it has kept me pushing forward with my other writing ventures. But enough said. Happy reading!

At the root of it, Legolas knew his pain.

It wasn't really from the tattoo of a dragon coiling across his back amid long scars from the Terkmar whips. It didn't come from the old ache in his ribs where his ada had broken them with his boot during a dragon rage. It didn't come from his upset stomach that soured him in the evenings from drinking poison from the soldiers meant for his ada.

As he made his way over the rain-dashed cobbles, hands touched his shoulders, his hair, arms wrapped around him, lips pressed against his forehead. He was stopped at least a dozen times for tearful hellos, while others shouted out to him "I missed you." He pushed his way through more than a handful of drunkenly happy, singing elves that traveled in migrating mobs through the brisk late-winter air, hands lifting to blue skies as the clouds of a rainstorm pulled apart.

Though it was all for him, it didn't feel right. It was a celebration of the six-year-old him, but that little elfling died a long time ago somewhere on the road to this strange new place.

Alone.

That was his pain. But after losing so many loved ones, even himself, could anything else be expected of him?

He made his way through these elves, so happy to see him and then move on with their families to thank the Valar for bringing him back, leaving him alone to face the celebrations by himself.

Just like Nana and Oroduil. Just like Rugon and Pelorian.

Just like Ada after that first punch to the face.

Just like the twins, who were nowhere to be found in this kingdom-wide drinking, dining and dancing.

Just like Mala.

But not Sard. Sard had followed him into the sand dunes of Terkmar and even farther east into the snowy plains to yank him back from the clutches of an emperor who called him Dragon Soldier….

With that reminder, he pushed on to the barracks, a place he was both excited to see again and also scared. Everything else had changed so much, he didn't want that to have changed too.

As he turned a rowdy corner, he saw the barracks were as humble as he remembered. From the outside, it looked like a square loaf of bread, cracked and aged as if the chef had left it to cool in the windowsill for too long. A simple wooden door stood as the only entrance to the fortified facility, which was much larger on the inside than it appeared.

Legolas pulled it open, its brass handle cool.

Inside was the long hallway he remembered running down. This morning, it was packed, but it smelled the same. He was first hit with the overwhelming odor of polished leather, bleached stone floors, and used steel.

"The prince is home, the prince is home, thank the Valar we're one and whole," soldiers in the hall sang and stomped to some tune they created, pints sloshing and ale splashing on the slick floor.

Legolas watched and wanted to smile, but was gripped with a sudden fear. These soldiers had adored him to the point of nearly killing him, but had known him for more than just something the dragon had come to see.

What would they think of him now?

He touched his human-short hair and then the tip of the dragon tattoo that crawled across the back of his neck. It showed, no matter how much he pulled on his collar.

With head ducked in shame, he was more intent now to find Sard without being noticed by these elves he had so loved. He took a shuddering breath and trudged into the hollering fray.

"Tithen pen!" A pair of enormous hands grabbed him from under the arms, yanking him into the air and onto a mountainous set of shoulders.

In a flair of panic, Legolas locked his ankles around the neck and dug his thumbs into the eyes. The giant fell screaming to his knees and hands released him. He rolled away, springing to his feet with fists in front of him, heart racing as he tried to control his frantic gasps of fear. No dragon rage rose to calm him, to strengthen him, and in its absence he felt weak.

The hall quieted.

Legolas heard more ale hit the floor, but otherwise no one moved.

He breathed, listening to that scared sound in his ears through his bared teeth, tears so close his eyes burned.

He braced for the whips, tears sticking to his eyelashes, blurring his vision.

Frustrated, he wiped the back of a fist over his eyes to clear them, tears coming fast now.

The elf that had lifted him raised his head, blond hair falling away from a face. . . .

It couldn't be.

It wasn't.

No.

"Rugon?" His voice was so small, he hated it.

Smokey grey eyes drank in the sight of him, but darkened with something mixed with worry, grief, and maybe even love?

"My little friend," Rugon whispered, his voice so familiar, so gentle, it hurt.

Legolas shook his head, short hair whipping and sticking to the cold sweat on his face. The tears came hot and fast now. He had lost his mind. Rugon had died protecting him from flaming arrows, shielding him with his own body as the windows shattered under the barrage and his bedroom lit in fire.

Legolas turned away because he couldn't stand to look at this hallucination, but was met with a wall of staring soldiers. The looks on their faces, every one so familiar, were the same as Rugon's.

Heart racing, unable to meet their eyes in his shame, he tried to force his way through the wall of uniforms to find Sard, but another pair of hands caught him.

A willowy elf knelt, green eyes catching his. Legolas couldn't stop of the sob and he backed away from Pelorian, the sniper who he believed had died under the arrows of the dragon cult in the street. . . .

At the sound of his cry, Pelorian began to weep and suddenly his world focused to one solemn, calming face.

Sard.

Thin lips frowned at him, not out of concern or despair like the others, but in acceptance. In that net of safety, Legolas fell. Sard held him in strong arms, the smell of steel and leather sharp in his nose. The comforting feel of knife handles hidden in pockets against his cheek helped ease his unsteady gasps.

Legolas reached out and dug fingers into his black magician uniform, holding on for dear life.

For the first time since seeing him again, Legolas felt Sard relax, as if clutching onto him like this was all he needed, as if it was all he had to say.

"The Valar sent Rugon and Pelorian back to us," one soldier in the crowd said, filling the silence, awe in every syllable. "It's a reward, my prince. A reward for your return. Even the gods are celebrating that you're home safe by bringing back your two favorite friends. Your love of us has rewarded us all."

And with that, a dozen prayers went up, the singing started again, the ale sloshed, while others stood and watched him hug Sard, hid in the last place he felt safe.

But he just felt a pit grow in his stomach. The Valar hadn't ever helped him. Only Sard had.

And in his arms, he finally didn't feel so alone, so he just held on. He could sense Rugon and Pelorian nearby, waiting and worried, but couldn't look at them. He just buried his face into Sard's chest and closed his eyes. It was all he could bear and he never wanted to look up ever again.

O

Sard carried Legolas back to the palace.

The little prince hadn't raised those eyes, hadn't released his hold, and Sard didn't mind. Since seeing him chained in that tent to the Terkmar emperor all those months ago, this was the first time the tiny elfling had shown him that he was still . . . him. It was the first glimmer that the elfling they had all known was still alive, buried beneath so much fear, scars, and a tattoo Sard would always hate, one that would always pain him.

Legolas was still there, beneath it all.

So he held him back just as tightly, holding onto him for dear life.

"Sard, what have we missed?" Pelorian kept up to his right, dark hair swinging around his face as he tried to get a better look at the elfling. "How old is he now? How long have I been . . . well."

Sard stared ahead, doors to the palace open for the festivities of today. Foolish, especially after everything.

"Why don't you speak, old friend?" Rugon was a welcome weight to his left, keeping up with steady strides.

Since entering the crowd at hearing their names outside his room, he could only listen as soldiers tried to reason why the dead walked alive among them again. Of course all the favorite theories and now stone-cold belief was that the Valar rewarded the kingdom and Legolas with raising the dead, showing the elves their love for an even more beloved prince. If anything, it elevated Legolas to something more than he was and Sard had a feeling it was the last thing the elfling needed. Already in his short life he had endured being idolized and revered for his beauty to the point of nearly destroying his life, so what would this do to him next?

"Why isn't he speaking to us?" Pelorian turned to Rugon now, angry as the sniper had often been.

Sard was suspicious of them both. They seemed like his old friends, but he didn't trust anything the witch touched. A necromancer was evil. Everything one touched had the tendency to go the same way. The thought made him hold Legolas even tighter.

He ignored the two of them, finally nearing the royal living quarters.

Outside of his room, Sard knelt to set Legolas down.

Legolas looked at him with the huge silver eyes, red from crying so much. White lashes still held dewy tears.

"For you, my prince," a messenger elf greeted, grinning from ear to ear as he handed Legolas a letter.

Legolas took it, shaken from whatever reverie he had been lost in, and opened the letter without hesitation.

Sard sat back on his heels, studying the series of emotions on the elfling's small face. What started as the hint of a smile faded to pain, more tears, and then nothing. Just like that, he was gone again to this hard shell of an elf, one Sard was afraid to know.

Legolas dropped the letter, shut off from the world once again. He turned around and wandered in the other direction, a sad contrast to such happy celebration all around him.

Pelorian and Rugon shared a scared look and followed.

Content that they would keep him safe, at least at this early point in their unholy resurrection, Sard lifted the letter and stood.

Legolas,

I won't be coming back to Mirkwood. We've heard at Rivendell that you are there again, though Lord Elrond and the twins are still looking for you. I'm glad you're alive, but I am staying where I am now. My parents are meeting me here.

I wish you well, but please don't visit me. I never want to see you again, so let me stay where I am. You aren't the same. I don't know you and I don't want to.

You scare me.

Please let me go.

Mala

Sard put the letter in the doorframe of Legolas' room and pressed his forehead against the stone wall next to it. Foolish little she-elf. But could she be blamed?

Two broken elflings.

And Sard had no words to comfort them.

He turned and the world held still. There in the crowd stood a beautiful elf with cotton-white hair, tall and built like a warrior, clinging to a red cloak that sat motionless across her shoulders. Cool green eyes pierced him, a tiny smile lifting her face.

It looked like Mala . . . but much older.

He blinked and she disappeared.

Valar. What was that?

O