When they returned from the afternoon patrol, having seen nothing of concern save icicles of considerable size, Elrond was waiting for them on the steps of the House.
"Legolas," he called pleasantly, as soon as the prince was in earshot. "I would like to see you in my study, please."
Elrohir looked at Legolas with an expression somewhere between pity and glee. The latter nodded and made to ride towards the stables.
"Now," Elrond said, slightly less pleasantly.
Legolas gave his horse a gentle pat and dismounted. Immediately, elven guards stepped towards him, forming a loose, faintly threatening ring.
Elrohir was staring at him, awestruck. "Are you being arrested?"
Legolas sighed, and handed his reins over to the nearest guard.
"Faensul likes a few dandelions with his hay," he said.
When Elrond entered his study, just a few steps behind Legolas, he found the elven prince perched on the windowsill, turning the Great Seal of Imladris over and over in his hands with polite boredom.
Though he recalled leaving it in a locked box, in a locked cabinet hidden behind a very heavy marble statue of Eärendil the Mariner, Elrond payed no heed to the Great Seal currently being tossed around like a stick of firewood.
"How much worse has it gotten?"
Legolas stilled, but tilted his head like he did not completely understand the question.
Elrond's gaze sharpened. "Tell me now, Legolas. How many times this winter?"
There was a pause, and then Legolas spoke in a soft voice as nebulous as morning mist. "Eight, including this morning, my lord."
Elrond drew in a harsh breath. "You should have come sooner."
"Sooner?" There was an odd note in Legolas' voice.
"My lord, over the last autumn alone we were pushed fifty miles north from Dol Guldur. Orcs and spiders overrun our borders, and my people - my people are displaced and killed."
His words were hushed with grief. "Tell me, my lord, how could I have come?"
Elrond regarded him sorrowfully. The Greenwood's defences rested on the slender shoulders of its last warrior-prince, and for the most part, Legolas bore it well. But his face was unusually pale even for an elf. And those grey eyes, even now calm and clear, like the mirror-still surface of a lake, they were not the eyes of a child.
"You have little choice, Legolas," Elrond said quietly. "You must take care of yourself, for your father and the people you have sworn to protect. For the remainder of your stay, you are not to leave the grounds of Imladris, and you will see me every evening."
His laughter was weary. "Why bother, my lord, when the most you can grant me is another century or two?"
"With the way you are carrying on now, I should be surprised to see you live to next spring." Elrond's voice hardened, turning dangerous. "Remember, Legolas, I keep your secret to safeguard your realm, not so you can pave a path to your grave."
The Great Seal clattered onto his writing table with a dull crash that rang of frustration, but Elrond could taste triumph on his tongue.
"Then you will need this to write to King Thranduil, my lord. Tell him that his son is - and will be - safe and sound," Legolas said, his voice soft and polite. Having apparently lost interest in the conversation, he began to trace the outline of acorns into the condensation on the windows.
As Elrond began to crumble dried athelas leaves into a waiting bowl of hot water, Legolas pressed numb fingers to his breastbone. He was so cold, his exhales left no mark in the wintry air.
Somewhere deep inside, as if objecting to the scent of athelas, the lingering phantom of a Morgul-blade flared with frigid abandon.
"Your turn," Elrohir nudged his queen forward and leaned back. Legolas was sitting across from him. The prince had his head propped up with one hand, and was regarding the chessboard with apparent consternation, eyebrows faintly furrowed.
"I have you now, you scoundrel." Elrohir revelled. Though Legolas had many talents, chess was not one of them. Elrohir knew this, but the knowledge never made the victory any less sweet.
Legolas blinked. "Oh." He reached out, moving his knight almost carelessly, and Elrohir immediately returned to staring at the chessboard with narrowed eyes.
"You cannot deceive me with such an obvious gambit, elfling," he muttered.
Legolas smiled indulgently and hid a yawn. Athelas, for all the good Elrond claimed it did, never failed to stir the beast residing beneath his breastbone into a murderous fury, and it wore him down to the bone. He had fallen asleep thrice since the beginning of the match, and Elrohir had not noticed once.
Outside, snowflakes danced through the sky with careless abandon, flecking the night with silvery white. Hazy rings of lantern light, made ephemeral by the snowfall, flickered in and out of sight in the valley below.
It was a beautiful sight, but Legolas wished they were seated just a little further from the windows. Elven architecture often reflected the elven disdain for all mortal beings who feared the cold, and the windows in Elrohir's rooms, while beautiful with their swooping, organic arches, did little to counter the northern wind.
He could only hope that the biting draught was enough to sweep away any remnants of the scent of athelas.
Elrohir had his fingers steepled, still immersed in the game of chess, but Legolas' gaze drifted expectantly to the door. They heard the light patter of ungainly footsteps long before Estel burst into the room, in a whirlwind of glee at having finally escaped Gilraen's watchful eye.
"Elrohir," he sang, running to them.
Without looking up from the chessboard, Elrohir reached out and hauled the boy onto his lap by the scruff of his neck.
"Elrohir, do try not to break him." Elladan said, entering in the wake of Estel's excitement.
"I can take care of children!" Elrohir said, trying for indignation and ending up sounding vaguely threatening.
As if just to contradict him, Estel let out a healthy sneeze. As Legolas prodded a rook into the warpath of Elrohir's queen, Estel wiggled his way onto the arm of the chaise-lounge, staring at Legolas with owlishly big eyes.
"You aren't Haldir," he said, sounding faintly betrayed.
"And you are not Elros Peredhil," said Legolas, as he watched Elrohir raze his troops to the ground.
"Who are you then?"
Legolas was smiling faintly. "Who do you think I am?"
"Oh, Elu," muttered Elladan. He crossed the room and latched the windows more firmly. "Legolas, will you cease taunting him?"
"Legolas…" Estel said, his tone wondering.
"Yes, Legolas," Elrohir leaned back with an air of satisfaction. Before him, the disemboweled remains of what was once a chess match were strewn across the table. "Estel, I present to you Legolas Thranduilion, a lying scoundrel, a terrible chess player, and the last elven prince west of the sea."
Estes hopped off Elrohir's armchair and drifted closer to Legolas, studying him with a mixture of poorly-concealed awe and curiosity. Legolas tipped his head to one side, and seemed to forget Estel's presence. He reached out for an ancient scroll with one languid hand.
Then with a suddenness that took Elladan's breath away, Legolas' head snapped up, pupils narrowing like those of a cat's, until his eyes were almost solid grey. The warmth there drained away, replaced by a frigid serenity reminiscent of the snow-capped peaks of the Hithaeglir.
The heir of Númenor held Legolas' gaze for a full ten seconds before dropping his eyes. Legolas seemed pleased; a lopsided smile of approval spread across his features.
"Oh, you old warg," Elrohir marvelled. "That was one of the most - "
He caught Elladan's disapproving glower.
" - unnecessary things you have ever done!" Elrohir finished meekly.
Legolas ignored the pair and stretched a hand out to Estel. The boy looked at it with faint wariness that was mingled with awe, and Legolas laughed, eyes dancing.
"You are Estel, I gather?" he said, gently. "It is a pleasure to meet you. Tell me, Estel. If I were to sneak out from a conference with Lord Elrond, how would I go about doing it?"
Estel did not even hesitate. "You don't. If you try, you'll be caught and made to eat nettle soup." His little face scrunched up in disgust. "Nettle soup is not nice."
Legolas nodded gravely. "What about trying to sneak away from a meeting with Lord Erestor?"
Elladan and Elrohir watched with complete bemusement as Estel took Legolas' hand. He began chattering to Legolas about important matters, like 'secret passageways', 'chicken liver', and 'snowball fights', and in return the crown prince of Greenwood the Great listened to Estel with more attentiveness than he usually displayed at councils of war.
Estel was fascinated by Legolas' hair - "it looks like elanor!" - and Legolas let Estel poke and prod at his head with patient magnanimity. Then, seized by some sudden desire for death, Estel giggled and yanked, coming away with a handful of golden hair.
Elrohir's eyebrows inched upwards. When Legolas did not immediately pin Estel to the wall with a hunting knife, Elrohir's eyebrows disappeared into his hair.
Legolas only blinked away the tears in his eyes, and the saccharine smile that spread across his face made the hair on the back of Elladan's neck stand up.
Grinning widely, Estel threw his handful of liquid gold into the air, ignorant of his impending doom.
Legolas opened his eyes to a morning softened by the mist of rumbling waterfalls. It was a pleasant, companionable thunder that filled his mind and allowed his own thoughts to meander unheeded, catching at nothing and dissipating with the play of scattered rainbows over frostbitten rock.
He caught a sunbeam in his hand, turning it over and over with childlike fascination. The movement dislodged some of the snow that had settled overnight on his shoulders and it billowed around him like powdered sugar. He eyed it contemplatively, and shook his head like a wet cat, sending another swirl of snowflakes wafting into the air.
"Having fun?"
Legolas coughed and narrowed his eyes at the frost glimmering on his cloak.
"You stayed out here the entire night, didn't you?" Elladan's voice echoed up from below him, filling with affectionate exasperation. "Would you mind coming down before you slip off and fall to your humiliating death?"
Legolas rose to his feet. He stood upon a spar of rock where the waterfall forked, but he did not seem overly bothered by the slick sandstone beneath his feet, or the remarkably long drop from his perch to where Elladan was waiting, at the foot of the waterfall.
He stood with his weight shifted forwards, like a bird about to take flight. Looking at him was like looking through a thin sheet of rice-paper, held up against a winter sun, and Elladan tried his best to keep the worry out of his gaze.
Then in a flurry of green and gold, Legolas leapt into a nearby pine tree, moving with all the lithe self-assurance of a mountain lion, and Elladan found that he could breathe again.
When Legolas finally dropped to the ground, Elladan was waiting for him with a flask of hot tea. Legolas took it from him delicately, as if the heat of the flask pained him, and Elladan pretended not to see.
"Your father wrote," he said.
"I know." Legolas was looking at the tea with distaste. It would appear as though Elrond had found a way to steep athelas leaves.
"He asks that you return as soon as the High Pass thaws," Elladan continued, quietly. "What are you going to do?"
The look Legolas flashed him was sharp and assessing. "I will say that Imladris has been encountering some trouble by way of orcs, and that he will understand the delay."
Elladan's brows furrowed. "Would that be wise?"
Legolas looked at him, almost faintly amused, and then held out an expectant hand. "Give me your bow."
Elladan's longbow was made of yew, sleek and unassuming, and the insignia of Imladris twining around its limbs were the only mark of vanity upon it. Blinking away his bemusement, Elladan strung the bow with a practiced hand and passed it to Legolas.
It was a beautiful thing to watch Legolas draw.
He raised the bow and drew the bowstring to his cheek in one fluid motion, like running water, flowing along a course traced over hundreds of years. But Elladan saw his arms tremble with effort as he pulled the bow, smaller and lighter than the bows of the Galadhrim or even Legolas' own, to full draw, and his heart sank.
A thousand years ago, Elladan had stopped to watch a visiting prince surreptitiously shoot down apples. The elfling, barely waist-high, had struggled to counter the draw weight of the bow he had purloined from Elrohir, but even then Elladan had seen in his little face the makings of a great archer.
Now, Legolas lowered the bow, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips, the ghost of an elfling in his eyes.
"An archer who cannot draw," Legolas said, dispassionately. "Do you still think I should return with all haste?"
"Legolas," Elladan whispered.
Legolas' voice sharpened almost imperceptibly. "Do not pity me. How much do you know?"
He gazed into Legolas' cool grey eyes, the self-awareness glimmering there, and found lying useless.
"Eighty-two years ago, we received news that you were stabbed in the chest in a raid on Dol Guldur. The messenger said that you recovered quickly, and that there was nothing to worry about. But afterwards you came to Imladris almost every year if you were able to. Almost every winter."
Elladan spoke haltingly. "Your realm borders darkness - I know what others think, but you do not come for leisure. Something happened that winter, eighty-two years ago, and you are still paying the price."
There was a pause.
"Well done," Legolas said, simply.
Elladan bit back his surprise at this straightforward admission. "Is that - is that all?"
"Is there more?" Legolas' eyes were bright and guileless.
Elladan fought to swallow the frustration gnawing at the back of his throat and switched angles of attack with the suddenness of a hawk pivoting in midair.
"Your father and your people cannot continue to be kept in the dark. What happens when the Greenwood realises that it has been under the protection of a prince who cannot even protect himself?"
But Legolas only stared at him blankly, as if he were asking for directions to Valinor.
"Elladan, surely two clever people need not trouble themselves with stupid questions."
Without waiting for Elladan's response, Legolas threw the bow back at him and turned towards the Last Homely House.
"Coming?" Legolas called, his voice already growing distant.
Elladan clenched his fists and glared at the snowy ground.
He knew, of course, why Legolas' mysterious illness was shrouded from public knowledge. For the morale of his people, for the sanity of his father, and for fear that the enemy would capitalise on this weakness, Legolas had shouldered a mounting burden in silence for the past century.
Dull rage settled in him, smouldering like a hot coal.
For all his cunning mischief and infuriating calm, Legolas stood on shifting sand, and still he was trying to hold Dol Guldur at bay.
Who did he think he was?
The wind swept the sound of muffled coughing towards him. Elladan closed his eyes almost petulantly, and remained unmoving. Then he shook his head irritably and hurried off after Legolas.
"One day," Elladan muttered, "everyone will realise their beloved warrior-prince is the biggest idiot in all of Arda."
His only answer was the howling of the wind, who seemed to be laughing at them both.