Chapter 4: Of Faith and Duty
Elrohir hurried down the stairs, as if, by quickening his footsteps, he could leave the memory of Legolas' sad, wan face in the moonlight behind him. With a strangled howl of mingled irritation and self-disgust, Elrohir stopped short and slammed a fist against the wall. The stones were cool and unfeeling beneath his fingers, damp with the mist of the waterfalls churning below his feet.
"He is safe," Elrohir whispered to himself. "Father and Elladan are tending to him now."
In his mind's eye, Imladris grew alive with the colours of summer. He ran after Estel, who danced ahead, chasing a kite. Estel's laughter filled the air, bright like a robin's song, but when the boy glanced back, it was his mother's tired, silver eyes staring sadly at him out of the Estel's small face.
"No," Elrohir said, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. "Legolas saved him."
Estel was safe, so why were his hands still shaking? Why did he still see empty grey eyes, lit only by the ghostly green light at the bottom of a frozen river? Clenching his teeth, Elrohir forced the image away. A slender figure took its place, as hazy as if viewed through a dusty windowpane, so frail it seemed like the next gust of wind would carry it away.
"I saved him," Elrohir whispered hoarsely to the figure. "This time, I wasn't too late."
Leaning his forehead against the wall, Elrohir closed his eyes, listening only to the sound of blood thundering through his ears. Gradually, as his tumultuous, treacherous imagination burned itself to ashes, his heartbeat slowed. Wearily, he straightened. He could breathe again.
The faint, harsh cry of an eagle rose above the sound of rushing water. Elrohir lifted his head. The cry came again, more agitated this time.
Bemused, Elrohir paused, listening. Hadn't there been an eagle in Legolas' room?
His eyes narrowed. Whirling around, he vaulted up the stairs with blurring speed and threw the heavy oaken door open.
"Manwë above," he whispered, suddenly lightheaded.
Legolas lay sprawled in a tangle of fabric and parchment, unmoving even as an eagle plucked furiously at his collar. His face was bloodless, and deep purple bruises marred the hollows beneath tightly closed eyes. With the gentle mischief and the incorrigible stubbornness of Legolas' waking self absent, Elrohir finally saw Legolas as he was - deeply and utterly exhausted.
He lunged across the room in a single leap. Under the eagle's watchful golden gaze, Elrohir set two fingers beneath Legolas' jaw. As he silently counted the seconds between each beat of the elfling's thready, stuttering pulse, a familiar wave of nausea rose in his throat.
Had he done this? He had known what had happened on the river would take a toll, had seen Legolas standing silently before the balcony, shoulders bowed by some great weight, his figure small against the vastness of the night behind him. Elrohir had wavered, had almost turned back, but in the end, he had stepped over that threshold anyway. And Legolas, who had borne his fury with such quiet restraint, his eyes had looked so tired, had he seen…?
"Shut up," Elrohir growled, breathing raggedly as he bent over Legolas, examining him for wounds with a practiced, efficient hand. He could feel every bone beneath those loose, grey robes. A chill ran through him, and suddenly Elrohir realised why Legolas - who typically donned light, practical tunics that enabled him to move through the trees with ease - had taken to wearing the flowing robes favoured by the Ñoldor.
And yet - he could find no glaring wound that would account for Legolas' pallor, which not even the moonlight could fully mask. This was beyond him. Elrohir swore, cursing Legolas and in particular his absurd predilection for high places. Why in Elbereth's name had he chosen this room, squirrelled away on a pavilion above one of Imladris' tallest waterfalls? Even if he shouted for aid, the nearest guards would be hard-pressed to hear his voice.
Grimly, Elrohir slipped an arm around Legolas' shoulders and another underneath his knees, Ignoring the eagle's squawk of protest, Elrohir lifted Legolas into his arms.
"Elladan?" Legolas said, his voice barely louder than the rasp of falling leaves.
Elrohir glanced down. Legolas' eyelashes trembled like butterfly's wings, and with difficulty, he focused cloudy eyes on Elrohir. His brow wrinkled in confusion. It was only a heartbeat before Legolas' gaze scattered again, like snow in the wind, but Elrohir thought he saw sorrow darken those turbid grey depths, and it cut into him with the cold keenness of a knife.
"Oh," Legolas breathed. Then with surprising firmness, he said, "Set me down."
"A fool's words," Elrohir growled, starting down the stairs as quickly as he dared, careful not to jar Legolas.
"Elrohir." Legolas' voice was pleading. He clutched at Elrohir's collar with thin, shaking fingers, knuckles white with effort. "They… cannot see."
"And I cannot leave you alone, you idiot, do you want to die?" Elrohir said. In his hurry, he had taken a shortcut, and now they were in a fairly deserted section of the House, high above a courtyard on its northeastern side. The glow of the candlelit courtyard warmed the walls through an open window along the corridor, and Elrohir opened his mouth to call out for guards.
"Elrohir," Legolas bit out, his face tightening with pain. "If you call out, I really will die."
"Shut up!" Elrohir's face twisted in the beginnings of a snarl. "You…"
"Elrohir!" Legolas said, despair leaking out around the edges of his words. With a sudden grimace, he jerked forwards, breaking into wet, rattling coughs. Pressing a trembling hand to his chest, Legolas tipped his head back with an effort, gazing at Elrohir with bleak, glassy eyes. Transfixed with horror, Elrohir stared at the bloodstains spreading across the front of his robes.
"Please," Legolas whispered. Blood reddened his lips, but still his grip on Elrohir's collar did not relax.
The moonlight dimmed, blurring, and again, Elrohir was five hundred years ago, kneeling in the darkness deep underground. Glistening arcs of putrid orc-blood splattered across the cave walls and across his face; the slender, limp figure in his arms was not Legolas, it was his mother. Again, he was completely, utterly helpless.
"Fine," Elrohir breathed, his gaze drifting to the far wall and beyond. "Wait here. I will fetch my father."
Sinking to his knees, Elrohir gently set Legolas down, helping him lean carefully against the wall.
"Don't fall asleep," Elrohir said sharply. "You will suffocate on your own blood before anyone finds you."
Legolas' eyes slid closed. "I wouldn't dare," he said, but his voice was already fading. Elrohir's features twisted in a crude approximation of a smile, and then he was vaulting out of the window.
He ran lightly over Imladris' rooftops and ducked into a narrow corridor. As Elrohir rounded the corner, he ran straight into Elrond and Elladan, who were rushing towards Legolas' rooms.
"Father," Elrohir said. His voice sounded faraway, even to himself.
Elrond's eyes were dark with shifting, forbidding shadows, but he nodded at Elrohir, and in that instant, the Lord of Imladris' sharp, serrated gaze softened.
"Take me to him," Elrond said.
Without another word, Elrohir turned, and as he did so, Elladan caught his hand in a fierce, unyielding clasp.
"I tried…" Elrohir managed, suddenly blinking back tears.
"I know," his twin whispered.
Legolas awoke in a glade darkened by the shadows of sickened trees. Drawing one hand to his chest, Legolas coughed, his breath riming the grass before him with a fine layer of frost. His bones felt like lead. Dazedly, he tried to recall what it was like to run the forest paths of his ancestors, light as a swallow, but the memory was as distant as if it had belonged to someone else.
His gaze wandered up the twisted trunks of surrounding trees. Oak. There were twelve oak trees ringing this glade, and suddenly Legolas gasped from the sharpness of the pain that lanced through his heart. It did not come from the Morghul blade.
Twelve. Elves had awoken in groups of twelve by the Cuiviénen - twelve was the base number, their sacred number. Twelve oak trees stood watch over the grave of the last queen of Greenwood the Great. He knew this place.
Legolas closed his eyes. Then, gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up, fingers damp with mulch and decaying things. His long hair drifted behind him in a phantom breeze, tangled and coming free of his archer's braids. He wore ragged robes, so thinned by wear and grime that even the stag of Oropher embroidered upon his wide sleeves appeared to lower its proud head. But when at last he knelt, shivering like a leaf in the breeze, at the foot of his mother's tomb, he held himself as if he were clad in the finest damask.
"Mother," he murmured, and bowed low.
A dark shadow bloomed into being by his side. Darkened, despoiled, you have the audacity to appear here?
"Mother," he said, as if he had not heard. "Your son has come to see you." Back straight, chin held high, he rose shakily to his feet. Pressing his right hand to his heart, Legolas knelt again, beginning an ancient ritual of respect and remembrance.
The shadow sounded amused. What use is this thin facsimile of honour, elfling?
The fury of the Morghul blade slammed into him with the strength of an ocean wave, and he was sent sprawling against the elven queen's burial mound. The cloying scent of rot filled his lungs; a thousand slimy legs scuttled over his fingers. Each breath felt like swallowing glass, but still Legolas shoved himself violently upright. He was so faint the ground was no more solid than the sky above.
Ten more times he clasped his hand to his heart and knelt, and ten more times the Morghul blade struck him down. Legolas curled in on himself, cradling frozen hands against his throbbing chest.
Sleep, little one, the shadow purred. Here, by your mother's side.
Tears clouded his eyes. The shadow melded into the darkened boughs of the trees, and the mocking laughter of the Ringwraith he had duelled eighty-two years ago echoed through the glade.
Let go, elf-prince, it hissed. You are losing. You have already lost.
"Perhaps," Legolas whispered. "But not here."
He had failed to protect his mother whilst she lived, but he would not worry her footsteps as she walked the Halls of Mandos. She would not see him like this, a spectre of the youth she had left behind, Greenwood's most brilliant star.
Exhaling slowly, Legolas pressed one hand to the damp earth and pushed. His head spun from the effort, his vision darkened, and he slumped back to the ground. Panting, without waiting for the world to steady, he tried again. In his mouth, the scent of decay was joined by something sharp and metallic, and the tide of nausea that rose in its wake threatened to pull him under again. Swaying, barely clinging onto consciousness, he struggled to his feet.
He pressed numb fingers against his heart a twelfth time and sank to his knees. Blood trickled down his chin, and dripped quietly onto his long sleeves. A water clock, marking the only passage of time that mattered here. He was too spent to even cough, yet the stag of Oropher on his ragged robes seemed to stand straighter.
"Not here," Legolas repeated. Clods of earth clung to his hair, and his tattered robes hung awkwardly from his thin frame, but his voice was firm with the quiet, commanding tones of a king.
He closed his eyes. "Not yet."
Hoarsely, he began to sing. "Sí vanwa ná, rómello vanwa, Valimar…"
The Ringwraith screeched, and the shadows deepened, leaving the woods to stretch towards him.
His voice flickered like candlelight, the words barely audible even in his own mind. "Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar."
"Nai elyë hiruva," Legolas murmured. "Namárië!*"
Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar!
Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar.
When he finally woke, it was dawn. Dutifully ignoring the headache that whispered dully behind his temples, Legolas blinked blearily in the slanting rays of morning sun. Slowly, the familiar outline of the ceiling came into focus, and he was tracing the silvery stucco leaves that crept across its arching length when a very loud and pompous screech came from behind his left ear. With a gasp, Legolas lurched upright. He moved too quickly, and his headache protested with a vengeance, swatting him back down.
"You're still here?" he murmured, smiling up at the tufty, upside-down head of the messenger eagle who had almost scared him back to the Halls of Mandos.
The eagle looked very proud of himself.
"Ah," Elladan's mild voice filled the room, sounding distinctly predatory. "Back so soon from visiting Námo? Off with you."
Rounding the bed with alarming speed, Elladan shooed the eagle out the window and began peering at Legolas' eyeballs and pulling at his tongue with more force than Legolas felt was strictly necessary.
"What does this tell you about the state of my health?" Legolas said in a muffled voice as Elladan prodded at his chin.
"Nothing," Elladan said gravely. "Does this hurt?"
With undue enthusiasm, Elladan yanked at Legolas' cheeks until the latter resembled a chipmunk. He sat back and watched with a satisfied air as Legolas rubbed his sore face, wincing.
"Good," Elladan said, his voice bright. Legolas blinked owlishly up at him. "You are not dead."
Legolas nodded, looking reassured. With an exasperated snort, Elladan turned away and began to pour tea. Steam coiled into the air, hiding his eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was expressionless. "I do not know what bargain you struck with my father. He has said nothing to me, but even so, I can tell. You do not have much time left."
"I know," Legolas said, quietly watching the play of light over the frostbitten windowsill.
With a sigh, Elladan slipped an arm around Legolas' shoulders and helped him sit up. With a soft whisper of thanks, Legolas leaned back against his pillows and took the proffered tea, cradling the cup in a futile attempt to warm his hands.
"It doesn't bother you," Elladan said, his voice calm and cutting.
"No," Legolas murmured, meeting Elladan's gaze evenly. "Not any longer."
His voice was calm, like the glassy surface of a pond, devoid of any ripples, as if they were discussing the outcome of a chess match, or the brewing of elderflower wine. Elladan frowned faintly, and there was sorrow there, coloured with anger and something broaching resignation. Perhaps Elladan himself did not notice, but Legolas saw and pretended not to see.
"What news from my realm?" Legolas said, dropping his gaze to the green depths of his tea cup.
Elladan's voice grew solemn. "Your father successfully routed the assault," Elladan pressed his hand to his heart, "the one that took Lady Rilithil's life. An eagle brought us news last night. The King led the charge himself, on that ridiculous moose of his."
"It is a stag," Legolas said, glancing up, and the bright, true smile that tugged at his lips took Elladan's breath away. Like the winter sun, peeking out from behind the clouds.
"We are told that after an initial retreat of ten miles, the King executed a series of deft manoeuvres and reclaimed the lost territory. Undistracted by news of the fact that you are… exceedingly unwell."
Elladan's tone hardened with the abruptness of a darting dragonfly. "That is why you manipulated Elrohir into keeping your illness a secret, isn't it?"
A moment's silence. Legolas gently turned his cup of tea in his hands. "Yes."
"You know what haunts him still, and so you used your life against him," Elladan said coolly. He sat down at the edge of Legolas' bed, and for a moment his gaze was as keen and discerning as his father's. "What an opportune moment you chose to vomit blood."
"I have wronged him," Legolas' voice was tepid. "So, does the secret remain a secret still?"
"Don't worry," Elladan laughed mirthlessly. "No one saw you as we found you. Father told the court that you overstrained yourself whilst rescuing Estel. As few enough elves can do so much as convince a bud to flower, no one will question it."
"Hannon le," Legolas murmured, with a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. His eyes - they were the clear depths of a lake frozen over, the only hint of brightness in an otherwise bloodless face. Like still-smouldering cinders, a reminder of a once irradiant fire that had since burned itself away.
"I have never met anyone who behaves so cruelly to those who love them," Elladan said in a low voice. "But do not pretend, my little prince. You are cruellest of all to yourself."
With that, Elladan reached out and pulled Legolas into his arms. Legolas stiffened briefly, blinking away his surprise.
"Why?" Elladan whispered, clutching Legolas tightly to him. "Why? It's not fair. Do you know what they say about you?"
Legolas looked up at him expectantly.
"They say you've run away, that you abandon your country and your people on the brink of a great battle, and are cowering behind Imladris' walls, too afraid to return," Elladan's gaze was scorching, his voice tightening with rage. "You've given your heart's blood to your nation, and this is what you get in return?"
With a soft sigh, Legolas' shoulders bowed almost imperceptibly, and finally, he dropped his head wearily against Elladan's chest.
"I am not angry," Legolas said. "They speak the truth. Elladan, fetch me a quill and some parchment, please. I must write to my father."
"You will do no such thing," Elladan regarded him with disbelief. "You must rest, tithen las."
"Why?" For once, Legolas' voice lost its quiet composure and grew blunt. "I am not going to get better, Elladan, and the war will not wait."
Elladan's eyes flashed dangerously, but after a brief pause, he rose to his feet and went to find parchment.
Legolas wrote slowly, pausing every few words to gather his strength, as if afraid his father would read his illness in the weakness of his strokes. But beneath his pale, gaunt hands, the plans for a pincer movement began to take shape. Legolas was fully conscious of Thranduil's aptitude for military stratagems, but even so, he applied himself to the letter with single-minded focus.
No matter how skilled a commander Thranduil was, Legolas would still do his best to keep his father safe.
Elladan did not disturb him. He watched silently, and ached to see those brilliant grey eyes so marred and dull.
"Why can't Father heal you?" Elladan said, his voice muted with anguish, as Legolas set his quill down.
Legolas did not look up. When he spoke, his tone was as detached as if they were discussing a stranger.
"Morghul blades are sentient things, Elladan. Eighty-two years ago, after the raid on Dol Guldur, Rilithil found me senseless, with a long gash down my chest, and the the rest of my battalion dead. I had been stabbed by a Ringwraith, and a fragment of its blade hid itself beneath my breastbone. The Greenwood's healers thought it an ordinary wound and treated it as such.
"I had my suspicions, but by the time I was able to pull myself away from the battlefield and see Lord Elrond, the shard had already woven itself deep into my flesh. He cannot remove it without killing me."
"Eighty-two years…" Elladan whispered, horrified. "You've been resisting the shadow of a Ringwraith for eighty-two years?"
"I do not recommend it," Legolas said, a little of his old impishness sneaking into his tone. "Now, come here," he called warmly to the messenger eagle perched on his windowsill. It regarded him with one suspicious golden eye and slurped down the rest of the mouse-tail dangling from its beak.
"Fly swiftly, my friend," Legolas murmured, as he fastened the letter to the eagle's leg.
Elladan studied him silently, and seemed to understand something, because he only shook his head and began to neatly gather up the abandoned quill, parchment, and ink.
When Elladan left, Legolas was still staring after the eagle, even though it had long since vanished entirely from view.
His gaze was distant and wistful. Like an arrow, it vaulted over Imladris' endless waterfalls, speeding straight and true towards the great beech trees of the east.
Author's Note:
These are lines from Galadriel's lament in Lórien, because Tolkien's elven poems are real-life magic. The translation has been included in the fic.
Thank you so much to all who stuck by for so long, and I'm very sorry for taking so long between uploads. On the bright side, this fic should be concluded in 1-2 more chapters. :D