Author's note: Thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter (even if I could not reply to you because they were not signed or had PM disabled). It means a lot to know people still remember and look forward to this story.

No beta (well, Cheekybeak read this in 2016 but she cannot be held responsible for anything I have done to it sense so); all mistakes are mine.

Part III:

Chapter Fifteen

Legolas was sitting at his table, leant over the papers on which he had been doodling, and sipping on a large mug of chilled medicine. Anaron had brought it to him earlier that morning when he had come to check on him and take inventory for Lostariel's report. The inventory was not pleasant and required a lot of prodding and peering, much description of sensations and identification of the points of specific pains, after which there were interminable periods of sitting patiently while Anaron made notes and sketched on his papers. Anaron's energy had been so soothing, however, that Legolas had hardly cared about any of it, and—since he had slept off the last of the sedatives—his mind felt more awake than it had in days. He had even brought himself to ask Anaron some nagging questions he harbored about his own health.

The night before, Ithildim and Saida had stayed with him well into the morning, such that he slept so assuredly even without the sedative that he barely noticed when they slipped out to take care of their own duties at sunrise. And while he was still sore, he was not so tired, and he was in a markedly better mood, which Anaron had said was to be expected (though he did warn him it might be fickle as his mind continued to repair itself). Still, Piniriel had been by after Anaron left, and Legolas was certain his mood had been improved enough that he had almost goaded her into speech at one point, hands on her hips and mouth open as if to protest before she slammed it shut quickly, flopped on her back, and scowled.

He knew from his own experience as a child that it was rude—and usually infuriating for the child—to laugh when they struggled to express themselves, but the way she had balled her shift at her waist, scrunched her nose in her round cheeks, and then stomped her foot before refusing to speak… It had almost been too much for his brotherly facade.

But now he was alone again in the quiet of his room. The note Ithildim had pinned under a morning dose of medicines explained that he and Saida were off to "do things," but that Ithildim would be back in a few hours, before noon. Their patrol's rotation had been conveniently and indefinitely suspended so Lostariel could attend to the matter of Legolas' mother (burdening the Western patrol with their territory, but little else could be done for that) and also because—according to rumors Saida brought from the training grounds—the King was organizing an escort for Gwaerain to the Havens, so a well-rested patrol might become necessary.

As it was, Legolas had been waiting for Ithildim to arrive for quite a long time, and his friend still had not come. He hoped he would soon, because Lumornon was sure to be by, as well, by midafternoon, and it would comfort him to have Ithildim alongside as they discussed whatever it was the Board had decided apparently required him to tell his side of the story. The more time that passed, the more Legolas realized that—beneath the obvious hurt and horror—he had very mixed feelings about the entire situation, and the confusion sometimes tugged at his temples and ushered on a headache if he considered it for too long.

His nose twitched as he thought and he bit his lip, but he shook off the building tension in his shoulders before they could seize and cramp. Anaron had told him that morning that this was one of the only times in his life he expected Legolas to be dismayed by the strength of those muscles. The spasm, he had said, were from bruising that had, unfortunately, caused knotting that had, in turn, caused cramping, and—because his shoulders were so developed from archery—those cramps pulled hard enough to tug at the strained muscle that ran the right side of his neck—that one often injured when turning one's head, leaning back, jerking away from something or someone far too quickly, Anaron had clarified—and thus making the recovery from the strain slower than it ought to be…

Though he was in a better mood, Legolas did wonder bitterly what the Board could possibly want to hear from him, for it had become quite evident from his conversation with Anaron that the healer had read the words of his body like an extremely detailed book. He would be very surprised, therefore, if his father's councilors did not already have a fairly good picture of what had occurred, physically at least.

He shook his head minutely to center himself, and he looked back down at the table.

There, he observed the drawing he had rendered in his distraction, a cozy nest in the massive roots of a large tree Lumornon had taken he and Ithildim and Saida to for camping as children—it was one of his favorite places. He took one more sip from the mug—savoring the comforting notes of nutty elm and sweet mallow, sharp peppermint, for they were certainly preferred to the bitter willow he was scheduled for morning, noon, and night—and then put it down and cleared his throat. He reached for the charcoal stick he had abandoned beside the stacked books of Felavel's that Lumornon had brought him, and then he leaned back over the paper with care, adding hatching to the shadows he had not yet finished.

He allowed his mind to relax as he worked, such that he was far away when he heard the catch of the handle at the door behind him, and he was slow to notice the difference in the energy actually there compared to the energy he had expected, awaiting Ithildim.

He raised his head from its slight inclination toward his work and sat, stiff—he had not locked the door after Anaron left, for he had expected Ithildim to be there shortly, and there was a guard in the family's halls, whose anchor point was the door of his parents' quarters... There was no logical reason, therefore, to believe his mother could be in the room behind him, but he could not at all deny it, for there was a lifting of the air about him like a delicately stirred breeze and—

He was frozen and could not move.

He could not even see her yet, but he did not want to ask her to go, vulnerable as he was in this room; here, where other refusals had recently gone so ill for him.

He had been stupid not to lock the door. Distracted. Had let his mood undermine his safety.

Legolas swallowed and pushed hair out of his face. He finally turned slowly toward her, vaguely aware of the scent of the charcoal he had accidentally brushed across his cheek…

And there she was, his mother—standing still and small in the doorway—and it was the first time he had seen her since he fainted under her hands four days before. His heart caught in his throat and—despite his best efforts at focusing himself—the room spun. He felt his face flush and then chill and he heard his blood beat in his throat, and the suddenly increased circulation made the rawness tingle in rhythm with his speeding heart.

She spoke: "Legolas, I am so sorry."

And then she was quietly closing the door quietly behind her as she looked at him.

Legolas did not move and he could not speak. He did not understand how this was happening. His drawing stick fell to the table from suddenly limp fingers, a muffled clatter, and he stared at his mother and sat stiff and absolutely still as she moved toward him.

Her hair was braided tightly from her face toward the back of her head, where it fell in messed curls out of sight; she wore a pale blue dress that danced about her calves, and no shoes at all, but brown woolen socks; she had the same dark sweater wrapped around her and clutched in her hands as she had those days before when she had hurt him.

He could not even look away.

"Legolas, I have truly lost myself, emlineg, my little one," and she was in front of him and kneeling and he could not breathe and he felt a cough building in his throat; he willed himself to draw steadier breaths as he stared at the face that looked so much like his own. "I have lost myself, but seeing you now, I am steadied. You told me those weeks ago, to remember why I am here, why I love each of you."

Upon hearing the sentiment he had tried to use to reason with her turned back at him, the spell was broken. Legolas turned slightly away from his mother's enchanting gaze and took the cool mug into his hands. He lifted the soothing tincture to his lips with shaking hands and gulped a few sips painfully. He sat it back down and wiped a hand across his mouth; he tucked his hands between his legs on the wood of the chair seat before looking back up at his mother.

"Let me do your hair, emlineg," she said, encouraged that he had met her gaze; her eyes were kind and imploring, and Legolas found he still could not say no. "I am so sorry, Legolas. Let me show you I regret it, though it could never be enough. Where is your comb?"

Legolas cleared his throat and shifted minutely away from her, pressing further into the chair's heavy back as he spoke.

"It is with my patrol things; the cupboard, as always."

He looked away from her and to the ground and his cheeks burned and his eyes stung. He coughed quietly and covered his mouth with a balled hand.

Gwaerain touched his cheek as she stood and, at that, Legolas jumped; bursts of white momentarily edged his vision and his whole body flushed.

He heard her swirl across the room and pull open his cupboard, rummaging behind his tunics for the contents of his pack—there was a clank of the beeswax tin and the clatter of his whetstone, and then she was back to him with his comb and a leather tie.

His mother touched his shoulder to turn him around, so his back was to her and his body halfway facing the door, one leg pulled up under him and tucked beneath his bare thigh and the other straddling the chair—the heel of his foot arched from the ground, ready to spring onto the ball to lurch away with speed, if necessary.

Gwaerain ran fingers through his hair and one hand brushed at the bruising behind his ear, and he shivered. He had not been paying much attention to his hair recently and—like hers—it required some degree of tending or it would knit itself together, so he was not surprised to feel her hands drop immediately to the base of his skull, where she began to unknot and mildly pull at the matting under-curls.

He stared at his thighs and the hem of his nightshirt as she worked, and, despite the tugging, he did not flinch or move or react at all, but just waited and wished for Ithildim to finally arrive.

Legolas had willed his breathing to even, had closed his eyes in that silent and willful meditation Lostariel had always told him would one day serve, and had tried to drift away somewhere else in his mind when he finally heard the door open behind him. He had never pulled himself back from mental wandering as quickly as he did then, for Ithildim's shout of joyful greeting died on his lips faster than Legolas could even turn. He moved his head slightly to peer over his shoulder to Ithildim, who stood on the doorsill with hands pressed together uselessly and jaw slack in shock. Legolas widened his eyes and raised his brows, paired with a subtle clinching of his jaw, and then Ithildim was away and out of the room like a whirlwind, likely seeking someone with more authority than themselves.

"What was that?" his mother asked calmly, and she was now using the comb to separate strands of hair from the sides of his face, Legolas realized, long done with the knots at the base of his neck. But still the comb caught at a tangle as she spoke, and he stiffened.

"Just Ithildim," he told her.

"Ah, Ithildim!" Gwaerain said and Legolas could feel her smile behind him, and he was confused—so confused by her—even he was not this confusing. "I am glad you have such friends as he, Legolas. I have always loved Ithildim and the way he makes your soul sing."

Legolas swallowed and nodded in response, and Gwaerain's hand came up to the other side of his head to press against his hair and temple.

"Hold still, emlineg," she reprimanded gently. "You have always wanted to fly before you were ready. Do you remember when you first helped me make a crown for your father and I, for the winter feast?"

Legolas began to nod again but then whispered "Yes" instead. How could he forget that? Forget all those times of gentle tenacity he had shared with his mother as he grew, all the things he had learned from her, the memories roiling around him vibrantly, fighting against this new person he had seen her become. These moments of her history and loveliness cut through sometimes with clarity, and they left him even more adrift.

"And you wanted a circlet, too. Do you remember?"

"Yes," Legolas whispered. Again, how could he forget?

Gwaerain began to deliberately braid the remaining hair down his back—over over over, pull, over over over, pull.

"You were so eager, but you could not make the woody vine stop from popping from your head, so that the ivy fell over your eyes and your hair was like a bird's nest after a windstorm."

Legolas' chest was clenched and anxious and ready to run, but in spite of that physiological response, he felt himself almost smile. He bit his lip.

"I remember," he said.

"I had to help your father prepare and then ready myself, too, so I called for Felavel to rebraid your hair, and I am told Galion held you still while she plaited it over the vines, so you could not pull it out."

"Yes," Legolas whispered in affirmation. He remembered it vividly now.

"And when she brought you to the Hall for the celebration, Legolas, you were dressed in green and cream and looked like the winter woods embodied, come to life in a single child," she whispered this and her hands stopped for a moment in their work, before starting up a little more quickly. "You and Felavel… You are my little wood-elves, emlineg. Full of the song of the forest and the scent of the moss, of the chase and the hunt and the tending of all things wild…"

She trailed off and tugged a final time at Legolas' hair before beginning to wrap the leather tie around the end. She tied it off in a knot and caught the leftover ends up in a bow, tucking the pieces into the underside of his braid.

"You are both the me I wish I was; how I wish I had stayed, especially you. I am ill now, my son," Gwaerain said, and she pushed at him gently to turn him around, hands lingering on his shoulders. "And there is a longing that cannot be helped."

Legolas could not look her in the eyes, so he stared instead at the tip of one of her ears, caught under a strand of dark hair. Braided back too quickly from her temple, it must have stuck there.

"Can you forgive me this, emlineg? The change, and what I have done?"

Legolas looked at her then, sharply, and saw the depth of pain in her hazel eyes, but his chest was cold again and he felt the new panic he had caught from her fill his chest so that he could not breathe and felt that he could not even see—

He heard the door open behind her but he did not move. He felt himself shaking his head side to side, as if he were watching himself from far away, and he saw his mother's shoulders fall forward as if collapsing in on herself, as if her very will diminished and consumed her.

But there were several people in the room around him now and Legolas gasped and then coughed as he felt his mother pulled away—he saw Galion and Aergwen take Gwaerain by the shoulders and lift her to her feet, and the suddenly missing impression of her hands on his arms filled up cold, like ice water creeping into a hoof print on a bank when a hart bounded across an icing stream.

"I would not forgive me either, I do not think," he heard her mutter like a whisper—far away, as a call on patrol, distorted in a wind blowing the wrong direction, stealing the meaning away, elsewhere.

He felt more than heard the door shut and the lack of his mother's energy in the room jolted him back; he looked up to see Ithildim in front of him, speaking and talking and moving his lips. Legolas found his hands pressed between Ithildim's, and then he was being pulled to his feet.

"Legolas," Ithildim was saying when he could finally hear again. "Listen to me, you fool. Come on, now, come with me. To your bed."

Legolas rose and Ithildim tugged at him and he propelled like a directionless skiff toward the mattress, bumping against its edge and then settling onto it crosslegged. He heard Ithildim open the door to his cupboard and then close it, and then there was the weight of Ithildim on his mattress when he sat on it and pulled his legs up, too, so they were knee-to-knee.

"Put these on, Legolas," Ithildim said, and Legolas felt the coolness of silk fabric against his neck and between his fingers before he realized what Ithildim had pushed against him. "You will feel better fully clothed. You have been too long in your nightclothes"

Legolas looked at the trousers in his hands and shook them out. He stretched out his legs and slipped one foot in and then the other, and he wriggled them under his thighs and buttocks and buttoned them at the top.

"There," Ithildim said, and he pulled Legolas' nightshirt back down and patted him a little too sharply on the cheek.

Legolas looked up abruptly, and Ithildim sighed in relief to see the warm and sparkling comprehension coming back to his friend's eyes, so they were more like sun-warmed slate than frosted stone—rimmed though they were, still, and red—and Legolas shook his head and rubbed at his nose.

"I am here," Legolas murmured, and Ithildim brushed a hand across Legolas' face, drawing it back before it ghosted over the marks on his throat.

He withdrew his hand and smiled, and when Legolas smiled back, he grinned more impishly.

"That is good," Ithildim said, and Legolas tilted his head to the side for an explanation. "I like you here. You were already difficult enough to control in the field and if you have lost the ability to listen then no one is going to want you there at all, and I would mourn the loss of companionship. …Though not the songs or impulsivity and jokes, I think," he added quickly with a wink.

"My jokes!" Legolas protested, and then coughed, and Ithildim crawled immediately from the bed for the marshmallow root tincture and brought it back to him.

"You know, this is quite strong," Ithildim said, sniffing it before handing it to Legolas, who cleared his throat and then raised it to his lips, taking several deep draughts. "Stronger than the brandy in the barracks, to be sure. Perhaps my father just wants to keep you a little inebriated, my friend."

Legolas handed the mug back to Ithildim—who did not fail to notice the small but steady shaking of Legolas' hands as he did so—and Legolas looked away as Ithildim bent low to place the mug on the floor.

"I will hardly complain," Legolas finally said, once Ithildim had sat up. "Though… It may have been kinder to just keep on with the hemlock."

"It is not good for you over time," Ithildim replied, and he frowned a little at the implications of Legolas' comment. He took up one of Legolas' hands in his own. "And he could not keep giving it to you because of your breathing, first, and then—now—sedatives would bother your concussion—"

"I know all that," Legolas said tersely, and pulled himself away from Ithildim, but then looked up with sorrowful eyes and apologized immediately: "I am so sorry. That was rude. I do not know—"

"It is all right," Ithildim said, sincerely, and he shrugged.

There was a moment of silence before he spoke again.

"Lostariel, Legolas," he said. "You will have to speak to Lostariel soon, to tell her what happened, officially. Your mother's transgression… It is being assessed as a crime, you know."

"I had gathered," Legolas said, and he flipped over one of his hands and ran a long finger along the creases from palm to webbing; he traced the few dark veins he could see up the length of each finger, the crisscross spiderweb almost invisibly spanning his palm, and then the thicker, raised ones at his wrist; he followed them back up his fingers before continuing. "But I do not want to talk to Lostariel about this. I do not understand why it is necessary. I just want to heal, and go back to the woods."

"I know, Legolas." A beat. "But it is not that simple."

Legolas looked up at him and, for a moment, he almost looked frantic, but then he swallowed and calmed himself and clasped his hands in his lap as he leaned forward.

"Ithildim, the thing is—" Legolas said quietly, and he coughed and tilted his head down and away from him for a moment. "Sorry. I meant, the thing is is that I am not exactly sure it was entirely her fault."

"Legolas—" Ithildim began to reprimand.

"No," Legolas hurriedly assured, and he waved the hand that had been tracing his veins dismissively. "I mean, I do not think she is in control of herself anymore."

"I know you think that," Ithildim said flatly.

"So, I do not want her reprimanded for it. I want her to have help."

"I know you want that," said Ithildim, and he peered at Legolas, lowering his head a little so he could look up into Legolas' face, could intercept his dropped eyes. "But that is not your choice, and neither is it mine. It is the law as it stands under your father and mother's very own province." He paused for another moment and touched his friend's chin gently. "And Saida has been eavesdropping, Legolas, so we know that this is, regrettably, imminently upon us."

Legolas sighed and rubbed at an eye, and Ithildim saw him blink quickly before finally allowing Ithildim to catch his eyes again.

"Would you like to come out for lunch with me?" Ithildim asked instead, for he unfortunately sensed that was as far as they would get on the topic that morning, given the likely lengthy conversation with Lumornon that loomed before them.

"Yes," Legolas answered. "But I do not want to see anyone right now. I cannot—I will not see anyone from our unit yet."

"All right," Ithildim said patiently. "I can bring some food from the kitchens for us. My mother made sweetbreads this afternoon."

"Please," Legolas said, and his eyes were almost sparkling again. "But I cannot eat bread right now. Can you—"

"Yes, of course," Ithildim said, and he silently reprimanded himself for forgetting his father's words.

Ithildim stood and grasped Legolas at the shoulder as he went to the door. He stopped with his fingers on the handle, though, and turned around.

"Lock this, please," Ithildim said, and Legolas nodded silently. "Latch it when I go, Legolas; I am deadly serious. I will knock three times in two's like a siskin when I return, so you will know it is me and can let me in."

Legolas nodded and Ithildim shut the door behind him. He stood still in the hallway until he heard the grind of metal against metal inside the lock, and he knew Legolas had latched himself inside.

Ithildim ran a hand over his face and shook out his hands, before regaining his composure and walking purposefully out of the family's wing, around the corner and out, then around a corner and out again, and then down the stairs until he reached the kitchens. There, he found his mother near the back ovens, leaning against a counter and considering a pile of winterberries as if they were a riddle.

Orodiel looked up when she felt her son arrive, and at the look on his face she gasped. Orodiel opened her arms, and Ithildim melted into them, and she kissed his temple. Then she took him by the arm to their distant cousin Lauchon, a cook, who scooped him two bowls of beet and cabbage soup and handed them over with a soft smile.

Orodiel also gave Ithildim a tray to slip under the bowls, as well as an unopened can of applesauce and one slice of bread. She led him quietly back to the door before she spoke:

"When the time is right, Ithildim, and you want it, tell Legolas he is welcome to come stay with us, for a while." She put a hand on his cheek gently. "And remember, child, that this is not your fault—you cannot protect everyone, nor control another's actions or decisions."

Ithildim nodded curtly and his mother tapped him gently on his back, propelling him out and away from the kitchens.

He was back to Legolas' door and rapping out the rhythm of the bird's call in a matter of minutes.

He entered with a sigh and Legolas chuckled at his disgruntlement, and he smiled to see a sliver of his friend's usual, blithe attitude confront him. Legolas winked at him and Ithildim rolled his eyes as he laid out the food on the floor, and then he poured them each a glass of water.

Legolas sank into the floor and Ithildim sat down across from him, and Legolas tapped the spoon on the edge of his bowl several times before dipping it in. He was pleased to see Legolas actually eating again, for the second day in a row. Ithildim soaked the bread in his own soup and broke it up with his spoon; it cut through the sopping bread and clanked against the ceramic.

As he chopped, his mind was busy, and—though he did not tell Legolas— his anger was growing, for he was trying very hard to decide just who should be confronted for the negligence that precipitated this most recent harm done his friend.

Ithildim glanced up from his unnecessarily thorough mashing of bread to see Legolas tugging out the thong at the end of his braid, running fingers through it, and shaking it all out wordlessly. He tossed aside the tie, twisted his hair in a loose knot at his shoulder, and then picked up the spoon again with stiller hands and—Ithildim hoped, perhaps—a quieter mind.

Ithildim lifted his spoon, too.

They ate very slowly, and in silence.

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