Betaed by the wonderful Ruiniel; thank you my friend for still helping me with all these words!

Thank you for the reviews and the new follows. Thank you to all who are still following this.

I've been told that maybe I should warrant a warning for depictions of suffering in this chapter... so brace yourself; it is going to be tough.

Leave the Fallen

Her own words struck her. As if it had not been her who had spoken them. She tried not to imagine what they meant, what soon might happen. There was fear, intense and horrid because she did not know what to do. She was unable to answer. She had said it; she had not seen any man survive this before, yet he was no man he was an elf - but did that mean Legolas could defeat this, or would it only prolong his agony?

For now, she kept him breathing, but she knew her hands could not cease moving, and she also knew that soon - very soon - it would not be enough. The poison would slip from the reach of the salve, penetrate deeper, take its cruel course.

She was only buying him time. But for what? Time to suffer?

Beside her was Estel, the boy who had accepted her in his home years ago, who had offered her honeycakes and warmth, who had beckoned her out of her loneliness with his open acceptance. The boy was now a man, the one carrying the weight of the future on his shoulders. And he was afraid — terrified! — of losing his dearest friend on the way to his destiny. He was fixating her with his gaze, accusing and sharp, like silver spikes, boring into her. And he insisted, "Time for what, Mîaddar! Tell me! Do something!"

The walls around them pressed in hard, cold and lifeless. She had the sensation that they moved closer, unrelenting. The stone wanted to crush her. She could not breathe. Cold sweat covered her skin, and Mîaddar shivered violently in the heavy dampness. Her hands on Legolas' hot clammy skin were ice-cold. She felt him burn, burn away beneath. The sickening feeling creeping up her arms, spreading within her body, paralyzed her. And there was a voice, calling out the same words again and again; 'You are failing!... fail… fail… fail…' multiplying like an echo inside her head that would not fade but increased in volume. It became deafening in her ears, and her head pounded with it painfully. Mîaddar realized she had known this voice for long, it had accompanied her; a constant dread, a shadow ghosting over her since the beginning of her journey north. She had kept it at bay, muted it to silence, but now it could no longer be contained. She was failing!

The moisture in her eyes clouded her vision; she stared through it, blinking. She saw Legolas' hands pressed against the cold stone, his fingers trying to get a grip, scratching the hard surface. She heard the raw grating, tearing in her ears, and his back arched away from the ground. Through the deafening echo in her head, broke the urging voice of the girl, assessing the alarming frequency of the pulse. A voice, too young, and yet so persistent. While Mîaddar was old and weary and feverish. She stared down at him, took in his pale convulsing form, his quivering lips now parted in a silent cry. - He was not breathing.

Mîaddar realized her hands were on her ears, frantic and desperate. But she heard it, right in front of her; Aragorn's sharp, furious outburst.

"Damn it, Mîaddar! How can you give up!?"

She stared at his hands now on the pale skin, still raw and dusty from the scouting, but firm and secure like the healer he was as he took over while she failed to go on.

"Mîaddar! It cannot be! There must be a way! Help me! Damn, Mîaddar!"

There could be a way, perhaps... but she did not know. She had never done it. And if she failed… she would kill him instantly with her own hands. The voice drove her mad, mad with the fear of failure, drumming in echoes through her, resounding tenfold, banging between the stone of the burg.

She was doomed to fail.

What had she stayed for, long ago…? For the illusion that she could change something, change the course of things? How presumptuous of her! What had she been thinking! - He was a warrior and warriors died. - How could she think that she could make a difference? Who was she to believe this of herself?... She was a failure! The voice was screaming it. And there were more voices, adding to it, multiplying, shouting from all sides, making it worse.

She wanted it all to cease.

"There might be a way..." Mîaddar suddenly whispered, barely hearable to human ears. Nausea washed over her at the thought of it. She stumbled towards the stone wall, wanting to get away. But the voice inside her would not cease, and she heard over it Gimli, the dwarf, call to his friend in a voice swollen with anguish, "Legolas? Legolas, lad! — Be strong lad!" Her stomach churned painfully.

And then the dwarf's scream reached her, harsh and condemning, "By Aulë's rocks! You dratted sprite, do something!"

On her knees, leaning her forehead heavily against the stone wall she retched painfully. Her stomach emptied itself of its meager contents. The nausea was unbearable and the painful spasms continued, though there was nothing left to expel.

"Mithrandir… Where is Mithrandir!" she called out, her voice weak and trembling. Searching for an anchor like one drowning.

"Mithrandir is not here! We need you! Now Mîaddar! Do something!" Aragorn's distress and fury brought her back to her senses.

She felt a firm, gentle hand clasping her shoulder. Holding her for a moment, preventing her from being washed away by the tide. She turned to look directly into Éowyn's eyes. Bright, steady Éowyn, full of hope and dreams. The woman squeezed her shoulder, reassuring her with a strong voice. She was young, but it did not matter, she knew how to fight. "I have seen you heal so many, save so many lives..." It was true, she had seen it all during their time spent working together.

But this was different! So different! She did not understand! She did not know!

It was him, the one she had dreamed of… she had yearned… she had hoped... she had — ... desired!… and who, maybe, ultimately might have prevented her from sailing…?

She had wished never to feel so intensely ever again. Because it consumed her, it was pure agony. Like a blade thrust into her heart, again and again and then twisting, around and around, the barbs shredding it. He was a warrior. And warriors died!

Never had Éowyn seen the elleth in such a state. So often had she come for support in times of need and destruction. Éowyn knew her, always pouring her healing care, working with resolute calmness. Many lives had she saved with her hands, and yet, many had slipped away under the same devoted care. Compassion and sadness she had seen in those dark eyes. Though never, in the most extreme situation, had the woman seen her lose control.

But this was different; she knew it; she felt it because she was her friend. "Switch off your feelings, Mîaddar! There is time for them later. Do not give in now! Focus on the task. You said healing is like battle. He is fighting, look at him! You said it yourself; he won't just slip away as those humans have. Fight with him, Mîaddar! You can make it! I do believe in you!"

Something in the elleth's gaze seemed to shift, sobered, and she suddenly looked almost surprised. Her eyes glittered strangely. "You, believe what you say, you truly do…" she frowned as she whispered, "and… you know!"

Éowyn was almost baffled at the strong and immediate effect of her words. Was this all the elleth had needed, the support of a friend? "We are all with you, Mîaddar!" She squeezed the elleth's shoulder and nodded to her. Mîaddar took a deep, steadying breath. The fever sent a tremor through her, and Éowyn held her faster as they took the few steps back together.

The elleth went down on her knees at the side of the elf, now strangely steady though her limbs looked oddly stiff, Éowyn noticed. Her firm words, spoken in a hoarse, low voice, were directed at Aragorn, who was helping his dearest friend breathe, with the expert touches of the healer he was, and with the love and care of a brother. The dwarf held the slender hand gripped in his own as if he was the hold on his lifeline. The elf breathed again, but every breath was a struggle. Mîaddar was speaking in the elvish tongue, so none apart from the ranger understood what she said. Éowyn stood close to her brother just behind the elleth, and she observed, as they all did, in heavy suspense, waiting for the effect of those incomprehensible words. Aragorn's eyes widened and his gaze became dark like the stone surrounding them. Éowyn saw the muscles in his jaw steeling. He reached into his boot, and brought out his dagger, while Mîaddar unsheathed her own blade from her belt. Her gaze was hard and impenetrable.

The elleth gave clipped orders, "Go, Layrun. Hold the blades into the fire. Make haste!" and she sent Godliss to fetch hot water and clean linens, buckets and soap. Éomer followed to help the woman, and Éowyn felt proud of her brother, who never shied to give support in any task, no matter how high of rank he was.

When they returned, there was a strange, expectant silence. The elleth then spoke, not bothering to clear her throat from the grating raucousness, "I have never done this..." she paused, and Éowyn saw a faint shudder ripping through her frame before she went on, "… but the only way I see for the antivenom to reach and eliminate the poison effectively, is through the way it originally entered."

Of course, they had suspected her intent, when they had seen the daggers in her hand. Nevertheless, her words seemed to shock the ones present. There were swallows and eyes briefly shut and sighs that hitched like gasps. And Éowyn felt her brother's grip imperceptibly tighten around her arm.

The elleth's demeanour was remarkable, Éowyn thought, she seemed to have turned any emotion off. And Éowyn was glad for it because she knew it would be the only way for the elleth to stand through this.

They all kept a grave silence. But Gimli stared in blank consternation, gasping for words, "You are not going to... how can you?... you won't...!"

As he somehow caught himself he growled, "So much about the gentle healing touches of elves! What kind of creature are you!? What you are up to is like the blow of a goblin!"

Aragorn gave him a firm look, shaking his head and frowning at him in an attempt to restrain the dwarf's accusations, trying to cut off the enraged outburst.

Mîaddar shot the smaller being a sharp, piercing glare, that meant to shut off any further comment. "Watch your tongue, dwarf!" she snapped. "If I knew not that your biting words come from a loving heart, I would not hesitate to use this blade to silence you! My heart already bleeds and your words dig even deeper!"

Her voice sliced sharp like wetted steel, but the last words were so strained with anguish, that Gimli seemed to regret his over rushed outburst. Éowyn watched him as he swallowed meekly and lowered his gaze to the ground, muttering something about the strange ways of pointy-ears. Éowyn was deeply shaken, as she felt for the elleth, and in that same moment, she saw that her friend's gaze had sought her. Éowyn nodded briefly, to assure that she was still behind her. And then Mîaddar began her instructions in a bland neutral voice, the way it is expected of one of her profession, "I need Éomer, to hold him down at the shoulders. Gimli, you brace him around his ribs, Éowyn you pin down his hips, and Godliss, the legs, he will kick out mercilessly and must be restrained. I will work together with Estel - and Layrun; be at the ready to offer assistance. We need him completely still. Any movement could be fatal; the cut will go close to the heart. Be prepared to struggle. He might develop unfathomable strength," she warned.

They all obeyed wordlessly, taking up their positions, and as she went down to her knees, Éowyn shuddered at the near translucence of the elf's pale skin observed from such closeness.

"Wait—" Gimli interrupted, "Can you not at least give him something against the pain, something to dull his senses?" he pleaded.

"I cannot!" Mîaddar murmured. "Anything potent enough to give him relief would further depress his breathing and slow his heartbeat. Basically, it would suppress the ability of his body to fight the venom, and shut down what has kept him alive until now. I would longtime have spared him the pain if I could." These words to the dwarf so matter-of-factly were no more clipped and aggressive, although they bore an untouchable finality.

Gimli lowered his head in defeat, and Éowyn could see his welling tears as he cradled the elf's hand.

Legolas' mind reeled. Leave the fallen!

There was pain, crushing agony, his muscles cramping and twitching uncontrollably. And always the air; not enough, too thin, straining his lungs and his senses. At least the men had gone, she had chased them away - again.

She had spoken to him, in a deep, raw melody, of earth, of wood, water and wind, of leaves, warm in the morning sun. She had coaxed the air into his lungs, kept it pumping through his body, rushing in his blood. But then he had lost sight of her black eyes. He had lost the touch of her hands on him. She had left him with the women. Their hands helped, they tried, but it was not the same, their voices held not the earthy music. They rose and pitched, mirroring his own panic. The fierce young Lady, a warrior in her heart, he had seen it in her eyes; bold, but not a healer. And a boy's mother, overwhelmed with gratitude and care. And this girl, slight and tender, barely out of childhood, yet strangely steady; a healer, but not elven - human, unfamiliar, too young. - Their faces above him, came clearly into focus in his wild agony and then flickered and were lost in the muddle of torment.

But then, before Legolas gave up his senses, Aragorn was suddenly there, his silver eyes like a beacon in the storm, his hands strong and steady. But there were shouts, an argument, heated voices, beloved and familiar, and confusing, Gimli's stubborn gruffness, and the dwarf's callous thick palm gripping his hand tight. And then there was a gust of wind, a thin ray of sun brushing him, fine slender hands, strangely strong, rich like dew on a freshly born leaf. And then, black eyes - terrorized - disappeared again. But Aragorn stayed. His hands were warm and gave at least the slightest relief. But he shouted and cursed and was desperate, utterly uncharacteristic, unsettling the elf.

They were all around him. He was causing way too much trouble! They were supposed to focus their efforts on the quest. No delays! He was not important! The Hobbits trying the impossible were important. He had sworn to protect them. Until he could, until he was able. Now he was way too much of a burden; heaving, choking, dying.

Leave the fallen.

"Leave the fallen! Retreat!" The superior bellowed the command in urgency.

~.~.~

Legolas had been young then. And in another realm, he might still have been in the middle of his training, in safety, far from the battlefield. But growing up in a wood where danger and darkness loomed behind every trunk, under any shadow, had forced elflings to grow into warriors too early.

The orcs had grown bolder. They had come close to his home. They differed from the usual vile creatures; larger, smarter, and they fought with strategy.

How dare they come so close to his father's halls?

The elves had moved out, they had been hunting the monsters in parts of the wood where the trees had been muted to silence. From above in the leafed canopy, they had let arrows rain, and they had dropped silently from the branches, felling their enemies. But it had been a trap, a deception. The number of beasts had increased. Like ants, they crept out between the trunks, covered the forest ground. The elves had not expected a sheer mass like this. They had fought to their limits. - Many orcs had fallen. Too many elves had fallen.

The orcs had unexpectedly overwhelmed them in number. They had been well prepared; they had planned it! - They usually never planned!

"Leave the fallen! Retreat!"

But Legolas saw his friend covered in blood, lying on the soil, helpless. Leithon, his childhood friend, his companion in arms. Legolas heard the shrieking of the orcs approaching, horrible in his sensitive ears.

The wounded elf stared, fervently shaking his head as he saw him faltering. "Go!" he urged. "Flee!" his broken voice came, heartbreakingly determined.

He had not fallen too far. Only some trunks away. The orcs were nearing, snarling and eager to pour over him. He was near enough, near to perform the mercy killing, to spare him a cruel death at the hands of their enemy! But he could not. He was certainly near enough to reach him! He would disregard the repeated order of retreat, aware of what they both would face if he failed. But he could make it!

He ran. So close he was…

A whizzing sound cut the air. He got knocked down by the impact. Violent pain slashed into his side.

'Get up, run! He is close!'

That certainty gave him the necessary power to heave himself up and stumble forward, to lift the wounded elf from the ground and carry him. Away, away from the beasts!

'Run! Retreat! Run!'

... with a precious burden in his arms.

'Run! Reach your companions! Save him!'

He ran until he could no more. He carefully lowered the precious burden to the ground, close to relative safety, and then he collapsed; a raw bolt protruding from his side.

He heard muddled, hurried voices. He was jolted up into strong arms, and pain jarred his side and tore through his body.

He had disrespected a direct order. It had happened before. They had scolded him therefore about the danger he had put himself into, about the risk he had brought upon his company.

~.~.~

But this was different, they should go on! Leave him behind. He was not important.

They had sent him, because he was loyal, because he was formidable, and he would fight, he would fight to the end. But now no more.

'Leave the fallen!'

~.~.~

The bolt had felt like a burning pole striking his body. He had been set afire, his blood like flames charging through his veins, searing. And then he remembered nothing again.

He woke in the healing wards, his father beside him, the healers looking over him, working frantically. Damp cloth had been placed on his brow, neck, and limbs. He was barely conscious. He saw everything through a haze of flames. His body was on fire. Burning alive.

He had disrespected a direct order. He had done it before, and would do it again. The pain he would take. He would suffer it. - Even death. Death would be relief.

Legolas remembered his father's eyes. The image of them engraved in his mind forever - pooling blue eyes, transparent with tears, deprived of all hardness and severity, wide with fear and filled with a grief so deep he could drown in it. Oh, he could never forget those eyes!

His body was burning - the pain he could take. He would suffer it - but not the pain in his King's eyes.

Day after day his Adar hovered over him, never left his side. And every time he miserably opened his eyes, he saw the pain in the eyes of the Elvenking.

He had disrespected a direct order. He would do it again. - His friend might live.

He wished he could die, escape the flames consuming him...

But what would his death do to his father...? - It would eat him, tear him apart, burn him alive. Torture him to his end, and the wood and all that was dear to him might fall around him.

... He would endure. He would fight for his life. - For Thranduil, his father, the Elvenking!

He could take any pain. - But not the pain in his father's eyes.

~.~.~

'Leave the fallen.'

They should go ahead, leave him behind with the elleth. - She was still there. She would stay. She was fighting her own battle, with her own, crumbling self.

Leave the fallen...

But how could Legolas demand of his friends that what he would ignore himself?

He could die. It would be easier. They should leave him with her, to die under the touch of her caring hands. Let him slip away from the pain, with his last breath. He would feel just those slender hands after the last breath has left. A drop of water on a shivering green leaf, warmed by the first ray of sun after a storm and caressed by a slight gush of wind; his last sensation. And then the world would turn black. - He would welcome death.

But he could not endure the grief of his friends.

Gimli staring with glittering tears, in despair and unbelief, holding his hand, ready to shatter.

He feared what his death would do to Aragorn; misplaced guilt would consume him... He saw it in his eyes. Bright silver now darkened, any spark dulled with grief, the creases on his brow set deep. He could take the pain, but he could not take the pain in Aragorn's eyes. - He would fight for his life, he would endure as much as was in his power. And he would do it again; take the blade aimed at his friend, his brother.

Legolas wanted to tell them; he could take the pain! He had seen the blades, they had gleamed before his eyes, sharp, clear and merciless. They should go ahead with whatever was to be done. He would take the pain. But he could not speak.

And then they assailed him. Their weights on him crushed him into the hard stone. White pain exploded. His body jerked at the further injury that was inflicted on it, uncontrollable agony tore him apart as cold, hard steel slowly cut through his skin, drove down to his heart. His mouth parted to release a terrible cry, his eyes snapped wide open with horror. The faces and arms over him, melted into one blur. He tried to make out Aragorn's eyes, Gimli's eyes, Mîaddar's eyes, to get comfort, to get an anchor to hold on to, but as soon as he found the eyes he loved and that were now wet with tears, he lost them again in his blurred, chafing misery.

He would fight for his life! He would endure. For Aragorn, for Gimli, for his father... for Mîaddar. But was his body strong enough to survive?

"Hold him steady!" Mîaddar cried.

Éowyn used all her slight weight. She had thrown herself over the elf, but it would never have been enough, had they not all struggled together, combining their strength to restrain the savagely powerful body who fought to arch and buck.

Her vision blurred at the cruelty of it. But through the mist she saw Aragorn, the man who had carried them through the battle on this fortress, the one who had refused to give up and had brought them to victory, as bitter as it had been, but victory it remained indeed because Rohan still lived. She had admired him and more; she had felt for him, had felt with him.

He worked with the elleth, hand in hand. Urgent were their movements but controlled, as if they had worked together for long, in practice and understanding. They fought together for the one they loved. Their hearts in their throats, but their minds set with their healers' resolve. Éowyn observed him, the man who would be king. His eyes were grave and age-old, like Mîaddar's at that moment. And he spoke in Sindarin to Legolas. The man and the elleth uttered both low, lilting words in a calming tone.

When she was nearly at the end of her forces, at the end of what she could bear, both physically and emotionally, the elf stilled. Her first thought was that they had lost him, but then she felt and saw his faintly shaking muscles. Shock had taken him, Layrun expressed it. A treacherous self-preservation mechanism of the body. But still, Éowyn felt some relief. Aragorn and Mîaddar still worked, and the girl was there with them, assisting with firm, expert hands, and monitoring the elf's vitals.

Éowyn remembered his heart-shredding screams, the thundering beats of his heart that wreaked him. The maiden had felt the thrumming under her, where she was holding him, and it had mingled with her own increasing beats. She had seen his eyes, sightless with panic. Now tears streaked his face. And his eyes had turned to endless depths of age and war and suffering. It was pure anguish.

The mother of the boy, behind her, was weeping. And Legolas' eyes shuttered.

There were linens soaked in blood, carelessly scattered all around them and herb-infused, steaming hot water, and they still worked and monitored, and spoke curt words between them with voices forcefully hushed by emotions.

The stillness of the elf after the struggle weighed heavy. The tension of uncertainty lay thick in the air. Time carried on sluggishly.

But then Éowyn saw how Aragorn's and Mîaddar's eyes met, and they held their gazes for a while. Aragorn's tense shoulders slightly slumped with the release of a sigh as he lowered his eyes. His features looked weary but strangely bright as a tear of relief rolled down his strong cheek. Mîaddar's sigh followed right after; it was more like a sob, and Éowyn saw how she attempted to control the increasing tremor in her limbs.

The wound was closed; a deceptively slight cut, now sewn with a few stitches.

Éowyn felt a hot surge of energy. She was proud of the elleth who had fought her battle. Éowyn had stayed with her through this. But now it was her turn. She would gather the courage to defy them all and ride to battle; for Rohan, for her people, for Middle-earth. Her part was still to come, it had just begun. She was not made for this; to wait and endure the warriors' agonies after they returned injured. She was made to fight with a sword in her hand, steel clashing against steel with cries of battle.

Mîaddar stared at her own hands; the shade of amber appeared to her a stark contrast on the white skin. Those long, slim hands seemed strangely detached from her as they worked close to the solid, callous hands of the man opposite her. The rise and fall of the pale, bruised chest under them had slowly taken its own rhythm, still supported by those hands' movements, but without demanding much pressure. Despite the unfathomable, shocking torture, he had endured what no man had survived before.

Estel blinked between tears, threw his head back watching the sky, in gratitude, in relief, then returned his gaze on the quiet, pale form, now breathing regularly, and his tears fell. And he looked at the sky again, then at his friend's face.

"I would have failed, Legolas, if you had left me, all would be lost. I cannot do it without you!" And he lowered his head and wept.

Something close to a wonder... Not once, but twice in her lifetime!

Estel quickly wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of one hand, and was calm and secure once more before her, breathing deeply and evenly, his eyes glittering silvery with love and care. And Gimli blinked back tears of relief; earth-brown eyes shining, short hardy fingers fondly patting the archer's strong, slim hand laid in his own, a deep sigh moving his sturdy shoulders.

The tension fell off her, crumbling away into pieces. Relief spread within her, but with it, Mîaddar suddenly felt strangely insubstantial - light and transparent - as if she was not there, should not be there. Her whole body shivered. Her mind whirled in confusion as if solving and diffusing in the air. Her hands trembled like leaves in the breeze, and she retrieved them, leaving Estel's strong, soothing ones to do their work alone. The man glanced up at her, questioning, but he was calm and anchored as he did so.

She was in the wrong place. Legolas' friends were close. He was in good hands. She could not stay any longer. She wished to, but she simply could not. She touched the back of Estel's hands on the elf's chest. They were warm. She briefly shut her eyes and gave him a nod. Blinking, with tears glittering, she rose, wavering slightly. Estel watched her. Mîaddar did not know if in understanding or merely in acceptance of her action, and then he ignored her, redirecting his entire care and attention upon Legolas.

As she stood unsteadily, dizziness claimed her. Black spots danced in her vision and she heard her own blood rushing in her ears. She was breathing heavily to regain control, standing on the same spot for some instants. A gentle hand came resting on her shoulder, wanting to steady her. She knew it was Éowyn's, but Mîaddar did not look her way.

As if in a surreal, detached world, she observed Estel and Gimli kneeling at Legolas' side, his face now peaceful and features even, his eyes closed, elegant and strong the high cheekbones, dark the long lashes on the pale skin, impossibly beautiful.

He would be fine. He was where he belonged; close to his friends. With that knowledge, she slipped away from Éowyn's hold, ran away, without looking back, down the stony ways of the Hornburg - and she bumped straight into the white robe of the wizard, who stopped her fleeing.

"Whereto so hastily, penneth-nìn?" his quiet, deep voice inquired.

Mîaddar took a step back, stunned, and froze to the spot. She wanted to run on, but she could not. She glanced at the wizard blinking unbelievingly, anger and despair suddenly bubbling up in her.

"Mithrandir! Where were you, when you were most desperately needed?" she pressed out in a shaking, choked voice.

She could no longer hold back her tears. They flew down her cheeks in warm rivulets. They blurred her vision and her frame shook under sobs of anguish. "We almost lost him!"

The Maia stepped close, and Mîaddar grabbed his white robe to steady herself. Before she could crumble to her knees, he wrapped his arms around her shaking frame and held her close while the emotions wreaked through her. "You almost lost him, but you did not, am I right?"

She did not answer.

He allowed her to weep until her sobs eased down, and then the wizard spoke in the same, warm voice like before. "Tell me, what should I have done that you did not do? - Sometimes healing comes along with pain and fear. It is not to me to interfere when it is taking its course."

Why did he always have to speak in riddles? This time Mîaddar was not in the condition to guess the meaning, even less to understand. She was furious. What had he known? Had he allowed her to go through this struggle willingly? She would never know the reason for his behaviour, what knowledge he possessed… and often she doubted that he did really even know himself. Though, his voice and the sound of the words somehow calmed her. She loosened from his embrace and looked into the friendly old face before she took a deep, shuddering sigh and ran again.

She ran and ran, and did not rest. Caladdolen picked her up somewhere between the hills as she was stumbling, exhausted, through the grass of the mark. The horse whinnied her welcome and brought her to the willow who stood alone and forlorn but never abandoned by the small creek who gurgled happily its clear melody, springing and gushing over the tree's roots and the moss-covered stones.

Mîaddar slid from the mare, her face heated and pulsing, wet with hot tears. Caladdolen gently nudged her and Mîaddar stepped through the rich curtain of slim twigs and leaves, reaching out with her arms, touching, tangling herself in them, feeling their embrace. The tree sang and wept and breathed with happiness. "I am here, I have returned…" Mîaddar hummed to her from her heart, and she apologised for how she had left. But the tree did not resent her and tangled her even more intensely into her foliage as if she knew the elleth needed the closeness.

The sun as it sank plunged the sky in crimson light and Mîaddar stayed under the safety of the tree peering out between the leaves and staring at the beauty of dusk and then she shivered and shuddered at the images the intense colour evoked.

She stayed a whole night and day under the willow, cradled and protected and grateful for it, humming, and crying and feeling emotions she could not express nor truly grasp. Mîaddar washed her flushed skin and her clothes in the fresh stream and smiled delightedly as it sprang and gurgled around her in quiet laughter.

This time as she parted from the willow and its clear creek, she did it properly, singing, joining their melody. She laughed as Caladdolen snorted into the harmony, impatiently shaking her mighty head before Mîaddar mounted her and they rode on.

But then, as she left her new haven amidst the endless grass, the events of the last days rolled over her as if she had just left that burg in the rocks. She chased along the hills, haunted and restless, and when Caladdolen finally reached the great, ancient forest in a stretched gallop, Mîaddar wasn't sure whether or not the forest had called her. She garnered more of a feeling of surprise at her sudden, hasty appearance. But it mattered not. The trees welcomed her once more, and that was all she needed and cared about.

Legolas had been overwhelmed by the consuming sharpness, jolting into him with ferocious savagery. But then he could remember no more, as if his fëa had fled his body for a while, retreating from the unbearable assault. And as he slowly became aware of his body again, he sensed the pain. It was still there, but it was now bearable. It was nothing unknown in his long years of battle. The tearing spasms had lessened. His breathing still came ragged and strained, but at least it came on its own.

He had seen Mîaddar over him and had felt delicate hands supporting his breathing motions. And then suddenly his chest had lost the feeling of those comforting hands. Her face and her frame had disappeared.

He saw waves as he closed his eyes and a black horse with a slender figure on it, swiftly galloping over the water, weightless and almost unreal - until it disappeared. A bird cried as it circled in the sky. It was a gull. - His heart ached.

And then, he felt strong, warm hands, that eased the constriction in his heart. He blinked into the sky. - The bird he saw then, was not a gull. It was an eagle, strong and majestic as it sailed the skies. And the warm hands supporting his breathing were Aragorn's.

Gimli was at his side. "Do not dare scare me off like this again, lad! I'll make you pay for this strike in points. You will not get away unscathed! I promise you this." But his emotions caused the intended gruffness in his voice to break and shake. Legolas was too exhausted to properly react to the challenge, but with what strength he could muster he gathered a fond, naughty sparkle in his eyes, flashing it up at the dwarf with a faint smile.

His friends were there. They had never left him. And whatever was to come, they would face it together.

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