Warning: The first bit of this chapter includes mentions of self-harm/suicide, so please give this a pass if it sounds triggery!

Chapter 6: Of Beginnings and Ends

Slowly, the shadows began to drain from the corners of the dimly lit room. They pooled before him, swirling and stretching until a tongue of darkness reared out of the gloom. It was little more than a ragged, translucent tear in the air, so faint it almost seemed to disappear when he turned his head, but for the second time in eighty-two years, the Ringwraith's shadow rose before him.

Resting his cheek against the back of a hand, Legolas regarded it quietly. His grey gaze was clear and bottomless, like the forest pools that lay at the roots of the great trees of his homeland, holding reflections of the world gone by.

"Yes," he said, his voice barely rising above the patter of rain. "I thought I might be able to see you again."

Of course, the shadow taunted, swaying sinuously against the far wall. Now you walk the line between the living and the dead, sun-prince.

There was a queer light in Legolas' eyes. It might even have been the bright gleam of tears, and it was gone in the next blink.

What a fool you are, elfling, the shadow sneered. You ruined yourself for your people, and still they do not love you! Gone for the winter, and already they are losing heart. Once, you were the Woodland Realm's finest archer, her proudest son. You walked the paths known only to wild things, your footsteps heard only by the rain and the wind. And now?

"Now I go to the Halls of Mandos," Legolas said quietly. "Whilst you languish on in the world of wraiths, a king of men reduced to a mere hunting dog. So, tell me, of the two of us, who is the more pitiful one?"

Like a distant roll of thunder, a low cackling reverberated through his mind, rising and falling like the tide, until at last the harsh, dissonant sounds of the shadow-creature's laughter seemed to burrow deep beneath his skin, into every corner of his consciousness.

Suddenly seized by a burst of wilfulness, Legolas clenched his jaw tight and refused to cough. Fresh blood seeped from the corner of his mouth and trailed blossoming crimson stains across his humble grey robes.

The shadow watched with relish. Few can command the Bruinen, my little prince, it said suddenly.

Breathing laboredly, Legolas managed a faint chuckle. "If so, I am not amongst their number."

Oh, no, little leaf, the shadow purred. I saw the ice that day hold fast for you.

"Then it took pity on a dying cripple," Legolas said, unmoved. "I confess I was surprised it did not shatter under your burdensome weight."

You lie! The shadow's familiar, cloying voice was shrill with triumphant glee. How much you have lost! Tell me, elfling, of all elves born to Middle-Earth since the last age, you heard Ilúvatar's song clearest of all, did you not?

"And what would you know of Ilúvatar's song?" Legolas pointed out mildly. There was disdain in the proud arch of his eyebrows, and defiance in the tilt of his golden head, but his hands, which had been resting neatly in his lap, trembled.

The shadow writhed with renewed mirth. What does it feel like to struggle to do so much as tread unmarked over freshly fallen snow, when what others struggled with always came so easily to you? You should have come with me when I first called, all those years ago. Oh, Laiqualassë…

Slowly, Legolas curled a hand against his breastbone. "Do not use that name."

… Laiqualassë, you once burned with all the brilliance of the midday sun!

For a heartbeat, Legolas' gaze grew hazy, as if straying into the intervening years between then and now. Swelling, the shadow-creature grew to loom over Legolas' thin figure, an ocean wave poised to fall.

Come with me to the wraith-world, it crooned, and you will suffer no longer. Great and powerful is my lord, he who granted me eternal life and terrible power. He can return to you what you have lost, and more besides.

At length, the soft strains of Legolas' laughter filled the air.

"And what are his gifts worth to the Eldar, the firstborn Children of Ilúvatar?" Legolas said mildly. He was smiling faintly, but the contempt in his eyes mirrored the savage insolence of the storm outside. "When what Sauron can give me is only a corrupt mimicry of that which I already have?"

A sudden flash of lightning forked through the sky, its harsh light momentarily stripping back the shadows that hid Legolas' ashen face. He looked no more substantial than the mist outside his window, fragile enough to be scattered to the four corners of the world by the wind alone, but the glance he cast up at the sky was almost dismissive. There was a deep rumble of thunder, low and menacing, and the veil fell again.

And what have you left? the shadow hissed. How much you have lost, sun-prince!

"Yes, so you have been saying for the past eighty-two years."

Eighty-two years… the shadow hissed. For eighty-two years, to protect your feä, that precious, noble heart of yours, you fed me your hroä. And to what end? Soon, elfling, you will have nothing left to give. Your body will wither and your spirit will sicken, and one day when you can no longer tell what is real and what is not, I will call and you will answer…

With a light shake of his head, Legolas rose to his feet. Even ill as he was, Legolas crossed the flagstones as silently as if he were merely a skylark who had stolen in through the unlatched windows.

There was a letter lying on his desk, penned in his fluid, court-trained hand.

Too wild, his tutors had once complained of his penmanship, as Legolas stood before his father and shuffled his feet. Like an unfettered stallion! Completely unbefitting a prince of the Sindar!

Thranduil had laughed.

Oh, he is no Sindarin prince. There was pride in Thranduil's handsome features, and those regal blue eyes, which so often flashed with the lightning-sharp caprice of a monarch, were warm as he looked upon his son. He is a child of the forest. There is a touch of the forest in him, as with all wild things.

And then he had swept Legolas into his arms and tickled him until Legolas was breathless with laughter.

Legolas skimmed his fingers over the letter. As he traced the slender Tengwar characters, his face softened with a light that belonged to mist-mantled mornings spent practicing archery by the River Running, and the airy halls of his childhood, wreathed in vines and blossoms of stone.

A stolen moment, it was there and gone, and then the quiet, measured calm that he so often bore settled over his features again like a mask. Inside his head, the shadow-creature was still speaking, but its voice seemed to come from very far away, like the flow of water deep underground, muddled and indistinct.

A long white knife lay beside the letter. Lethal and elegant, subtle patterning wove along its keen blade, like the branching streams of the River Running, or the slender tendrils of a vine. Legolas rested a light hand on its bone-white hilt. At his touch, the harsh gleam of steel seemed to take on a warmer, almost docile cast.

"I lied, Elladan," Legolas murmured. A smile stole across his face, daylily-brief and just as breathtakingly bright, and yet as it faded there was no beauty in it, only a desolate loneliness.

"I don't want to die."

Then, without hesitation, his hand tightened around the hilt and he plunged the knife towards his own heart.

Stop!

The shadow-creature's frenzied wail split his head—the knife fell—and in the same breath his door shuddered with urgent rapping.

"Legolas! News from the Greenwood!"

Something feral darted through Legolas' eyes. For a heartbeat, it seemed as though he might pretend not to have heard, but at last his face twisted with anguish; he stilled.

Blood trickled down his hand; the blade had already bitten hungrily into his flesh.

"Legolas?" Elladan's strained voice rose above the storm, "Legolas, come quickly! It's your father."

"Be careful, Legolas," Elladan called, running after Legolas as the latter hurried down the stairs to Elrond's study, steely-eyed and wan, "You'll hurt yourself!"

Abruptly, Legolas stopped at the edge of a staircase landing, one hand braced against the wall, panting. Elladan reached him just as the last of his resolve gave way. Bonelessly, Legolas slid down the wall.

Elladan seized him around the waist, holding him up. "Legolas!"

But Legolas' unfocused gaze slipped away from him. In a moment of complete, all-consuming terror, Elladan thought he saw in Legolas' grey eyes the distant white shores of the utmost west.

Elladan buried his face in Legolas' golden hair. "Oh, tithen las, you cannot lose yourself," he whispered. Gritting his teeth, Elladan pushed on, "Your people have need of you. I have need of you!"

In his arms, Legolas trembled. Wordlessly, he raised his head, looking at Elladan with an expression so full of childlike bewilderment that Elladan's own vision blurred with tears.

"Let's go," Elladan said hoarsely. Bending slightly, he made to sweep an arm beneath Legolas' knees, but shrinking back, Legolas shook his head stubbornly. Elladan watched helplessly as Legolas stumbled away from him, and after almost falling twice, struggled upright.

"Will he live?" was the first question Legolas asked Elrond.

Elrond was standing behind his desk, still examining the missive they had received from Galion, the butler of the woodland king. He glanced up, his keen eyes sweeping over Legolas. If anything, his eyebrows knitted together more tightly.

"The warg did not sever the main artery in his leg," Elrond said heavily, "but Thranduil's condition is very dire, Legolas. He has spent the last few days drifting in and out of delirium."

Elladan looked anxiously at Legolas, but the younger elf only tightened his jaw. The lines of his face were hard, cold almost to the point of cruelty. "And what of Lord Thalon, General of the Army?"

"The sudden orc offensive took them by surprise," Elrond said. "In defending your father, Lord Thalon was wounded by three arrows and struck down. He fell into a gorge, and has not yet been found."

"Took them by surprise?" Legolas said, his lips curving in a bitter smile. "How many orcs are on the march?"

"Sixty thousand," Elladan said. More than all the elves that lingered here still. Tightly, Legolas shut his eyes.

Elladan watched him bleakly. He knew precisely how long it had been since a force of such size had pressed north from Dol Guldur. Eighty-two years ago, the dark armies had oozed forth with Khamûl the Ringwraith at their head, and Legolas Thranduilion had ridden to meet them.

The time of the elves was past. They were fading, and still the Nameless Enemy advanced, a poisoned spring without end.

Eru above, he does not deserve this. None of them do. If this is your mercy, then I stand before you and shudder.

"My lord," Legolas said, his voice low and clear. "I leave at dawn for the Woodland Realm."

"Oh, Legolas," Elrond said sadly, and Elladan heard his father's unspoken words. Legolas was so ill—and yet Elladan knew that in this decision, his illness was immaterial. With Thranduil gravely wounded, Legolas was regent. As regent, and as Legolas, he would return to his people, even if he had to drag himself back to the Greenwood on his hands and knees.

"My father is waiting for me," Legolas said simply. Already, he was shedding the infirm for the precise, military bearing of the prince, his posture as upright as that of a young pine. Against all reason, Elladan allowed himself to hope.

He thought his father might protest, but Elrond cast Legolas a long, considering look, and in the end all he said was, "Glorfindel has tarried in Mithlond for long enough, wouldn't you agree?"

"You are gracious, my lord," Legolas said quietly, inclining his head. "The Woodland Realm shall be grateful for Lord Glorfindel's wisdom and valour."

He turned to the great map of Arda that occupied one entire wall of the study. "Lord Calemír will have assumed the position of General of the Army in Thalon's absence. He has managed to hold the orcs at the Narrows of the Forest?"

"Yes, but Galion writes that they cannot maintain their position for long," Elladan said. He tapped the map. "Thalon's son, Mallos, is pulling back to set up an ambush here, two miles north of the Narrows."

"Mallos has the makings of a great commander," Legolas said, but he looked troubled.

"What is wrong?"

"He is young and rash," Legolas said. "And the streams here are too easily cut off. I fear that his lack of experience will allow the enemy to encircle him, and if they do, his battalion will die of thirst, not at the hands of any orcs."

As he sifted through battle stratagems, Legolas seemed to leave the Morghul-poison behind. Once again, he became the elf who could race the wind and strike a dragonfly's wing at a hundred paces, who had watched over his homeland for centuries on end and spoke the tongue of the Bruinen; the Greenwood's most brilliant star.

Thranduil had raised his son well. In the place of that sweet, headstrong elfling stood an incisive warrior-prince, mellow as warm jade. But as he gazed upon Legolas' small face, pinched with weariness, Elrond wished with all his heart that Legolas could have remained that sweet, headstrong elfling, reckless and bright and fearless, for all the centuries to come.

"… vastly outnumbered," Elladan was saying. "Do you have a plan?"

"Some ideas," Legolas murmured, absently trailing his fingers across the map.

Elladan considered this. "I would feel much better if you stopped looking like particularly corporeal wraith," he decided. "If you die before we win, you'll kill us all."

Legolas blinked. "Elladan?"

"If I find myself in the Halls of Mandos, I'll tell your mother you once used her favorite hair pin as a toothpick for your warhorse," Elladan warned. Briskly, he turned to Elrond and fell to one knee, clasping a hand to his heart. "My lord, I beg leave to accompany Legolas Thranduilion to Greenwood the Great."

Stunned, Legolas stared at him. A small, fond smile flickered over his lips, fleeting and immeasurably warm.

"No," Elrond's voice was cool and detached. "You may not go."

And Elladan, gentle, sweet Elladan, shook his head, his eyes flashing with dark mutiny. "My lord—"

"Elladan Elrondion," Elrond said, in a quiet tone that brooked no argument. "Attend me."

Biting back the words on his tongue, Elladan bowed, "Yes, my lord."

"Elrond Eärendilion, by the grace of Eru Ilúvatar, of Imladris and Beleriand of old, have made and created and by these decrees do make and create Elladan Elrondion acting Lord of Imladris."

Elladan grew rigid with shock. But his was an immemorial line of kings, and something of the ancient wisdom of his sires touched him then—understanding came to his eyes; he did not speak. Instead of bowing under the weight of the responsibility he now bore, his shoulders straightened, and when Elrond passed to him the Great Seal of Imladris, Elladan met his father's gaze unwaveringly.

"Legolas, how many warriors do you need?" Elrond said.

"Only fifteen, my lord. We ride light and fast," was the calm, certain answer.

"Elladan Elrondion, arm and furnish fifteen warriors with enough provisions for the journey. Send an eagle to Glorfindel, and another to Elrohir. They are to gather their warriors and make haste to Greenwood the Great. They will ride with Legolas Thranduilion to war."

"Yes, my lord." Pressing a hand to his heart, Elladan said solemnly, "On Elrohir's behalf, I thank you."

Elrohir, who, behind that careless rakishness, asked only for a chance to protect those he loved.

The young Lord of Rivendell rose, his stiff formality falling away, "And you, father?"

"I ride for Thranduil's halls tonight," Elrond said, and some of the impetuous, daring light that had attended him when he had stood at the gates of Barad-dûr, at Gil-Galad's side, returned to him then. "Once, I promised his queen that I would keep an eye that stubborn, hot-tempered fool she married. For two millennia I have honoured that promise, I would not let Thranduil make a liar of me now."

"Go," he said to the two young elves. "Much lies before you."

As Elladan vanished out the door, Elrond called after Legolas, "A word, please."

The prince turned, his eyes questioning.

"Ai, little one," Elrond sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, he looked every one of his six thousand and six hundred years. "What have you done to yourself?"

With the delicacy of one treading on thin ice, Legolas said, "My lord, I do not understand."

"I can smell the blood, Legolas," Elrond said tepidly. "You hide it beneath the scent of athelas, but you forget that I am not my son."

With that, Elrond dropped his gaze and went to the great chest of drawers standing quietly in the corner of the room. Wild creatures hid their pain fiercely, and Legolas was no different. Forcibly pulling away the hand he clutched to his wound was itself a different kind of torment, and Elrond did not press further.

Oaken, almost as tall as Elrond himself, the chest of drawers brimmed with a veritable army of glass jars, each filled with herbs, painstakingly dried and carefully sorted. Dropping a few sprigs of yarrow into an awaiting mortar, Elrond began to grind them into a paste.

"You do not have the strength to cross the High Pass, Legolas," Elrond said, as he intently assembled a poultice.

Legolas' voice was soft, a mere wisp of smoke. "I know."

"What will you do?"

"I have something it wants. I intend to make a deal."

Elrond looked up sharply, the pestle in his hand forgotten.

"I must go, my lord." Legolas was gazing steadily at him. "I know that my people are strong, that we have many capable commanders, that Lord Glorfindel is wiser than I could ever hope to be, that perhaps, at this very moment, reinforcements march north from Lothlórien. Even so, I must return. Can you understand, my lord?"

Setting down the pestle, Elrond neatly wiped his hands free of herb scraps and stepped out from behind his desk. A flash of trepidation crossed Legolas' face. In that heartbeat, he became an elfling again, afraid of another scolding and so impossibly young.

Slowly, gently, Elrond lifted a hand and tucked a wisp of Legolas' soft, golden hair behind his ear. Bright as wintersweet, it was, even now, still proudly bound back in the braids of an archer.

"But this…" Elrond's voice carried the weight of the ages. "You are hollow on the inside, tithen las. Even if you succeed, your hroä will not be able to endure for long."

A frayed rope, suddenly snapped taut, can only break.

"One month," Legolas said with sudden ferocity, and Elrond thought of a fiery little fox cloaked in woodland shadows. "I need only one month."

"In exchange for your life, and more besides?"

"Considering how tattered I am in body and in spirit, I think I may have the better end of the deal," Legolas said, faint mischief flitting through his eyes.

"Legolas!"

"My lord!" Legolas said, smiling brightly at him. "For nine hundred years I have walked these lands. I have no right to be greedy for more."

And why not, my child? Elrond thought, and in his mind's eye he again saw nine figures, walking the shoulders of Caradhras. A king, a white tree upon his breast. Green woods, grey ships, and amid it all, the lithe figure of an elf garbed in green and brown.

Like ghostly flames, the images flickered and danced and vanished again, and not for the first time, Elrond was seized by a sudden, uncharacteristic rush of bitterness. Why show him in all its vivid glory this lost future? To make the pain at having forsaken it all the sharper?

"You are certain?" Elrond said evenly, careful to keep the grief from his voice.

"I am."

I am. Millenia ago, his brother Elros had chosen to accept the Gift of Men, and Elrond had asked him the same question. Elros had replied with that same quiet, unyielding resolve in his voice, and it was his laughing ghost Elrond saw as he touched a hand to Legolas' brow and said, "Go well, Laiqualassë of the Greenwood. May your arrows find their mark, and the stars forever shine upon your face."

Closing his eyes, Elrond bowed his head and rested his forehead against Legolas' own. He held him close, as he had once done when a curious little elfling had strayed into Imladris all those centuries ago, set down roots, and never quite left.

Elrond could see him now, balancing easily on the limb of a great oak, chattering excitedly to a captivated audience of squirrels. The Lord of Imladris had been on his way to a council meeting that day, but still he had slowed to watch. Legolas had waved happily down at him, grey eyes alive with laughter.

Lord Elrond, Lord Elrond! Look at me! Look what I can do!

"Dear one," he murmured. "I wish you the very best."

Even before he left Elrond's study, Legolas felt the tears well up inside him, an unruly river that threatened to leap its banks. Hurriedly, he all but fled down the corridor, clutching the little leaf bundle that held Elrond's poultice, nodding curtly to the elves who passed him with soft murmurs of "Your Highness". They stung his ears.

By the time he wove his way to a forgotten alcove, his vision was blurring. Finally alone, Legolas sank to the floor, shivering. Unable to bear the mounting pressure behind his breastbone any longer, he hunched over, falling to rasping coughs that quickly gave way to noisy, ugly sobs.

Hugging his knees, Legolas cried. Tears tumbled down his cheeks, a broken string of pearls, until at last cold sweat stuck strands of golden hair to his temples and his nose was so stuffy he could barely breathe.

Taking a deep breath, Legolas drew a hand back. With all his strength, he slapped himself across the cheek. First the right, then the left.

His face burned white-hot, his hand throbbed, but finally the tears slowed to a trickle, and unsteadily, Legolas climbed to his feet.

Slowly, he started back the way he had come.

At dawn, a young lord waited under the vine-adorned arch of Imladris' Eastern gate. Face turned to the wind, he stood as still as if he were hewn from the valley-stones of the very cliffs that watched over him. A circlet of stars rested upon his brow, the silver bright against his dark hair. The Ñoldorin of the valley waited with him, their fair faces dimmed.

By degrees, the pebbles underfoot began to leap with the thunder of pounding hooves, and then the riders swept into view. A company of Ñoldorin warriors, they bore sword and shield, the graceful lines of their chainmail glinting in the early morning light. His people, stern and arrogant, noble and valiant, riding to war.

At their head led Legolas Thranduilion, astride his white stallion. Faensul was a tall, prideful creature, a powerful destrier whose muscles rippled with each long, flowing stride, but Legolas rode without a bridle. A longbow slung across his back, clad again in green and brown, the prince of the woodland realm guided his horse by light touch alone. Gone was the dulled gaze, the tremulous frailty, as though the cruelty of the Morghul blade had been but a dream, made feeble upon waking.

Even as a small, glad cry of disbelief escaped him, Elladan felt a spark of fear. How had Legolas managed this?

A fleck of cinnabar-red marked the centre of Legolas' brow, like a lick of flame, vivid as the sun. Save for the mithril-veined vambraces glinting at his wrists, he wore no armour. Both horse and master moved like water, and as they flashed past, a murmur of approval rose from the watching Ñoldor.

"Show-off," Elladan muttered in fond disgust, and then he was running after Legolas, the circlet of stars forgotten.

"Good-bye, tithen las!" the young Lord of Imladris shouted, oblivious to the dirt that splattered across his cheek from the riders' passage. "Come back safe, or I'll cut down every single one of your precious trees! Come back safe, all of you, do you hear me?"

The riders did not slow, did not stop. Lifting a hand to him, Legolas streaked through the Eastern gate, an arrow finally let fly, his grey eyes alight with a wild, proud audacity that Elladan hadn't seen the whole winter long.

"Legolas!"

A small blur barrelled out of the crowd. Estel, who had immediately abandoned his lessons and a nonplussed Erestor upon hearing that Legolas was leaving, had only just reached the Eastern gate.

Instinctively, Elladan reached out to stop him, caught himself, and silently lowered his hand.

Panting, Estel ran past the gate, but warhorses are far swifter than little boys, and before he even managed to catch sight of the lead rider, he was left far behind. Changing tack, Estel scrambled up a boulder by the side of the valley path and stood upon it, waving wildly.

As the gathered Ñoldorin began to drift away, like mist dissipating in the face of the rising sun, Estel rose to his tiptoes, still waving frantically.

He will look back, Estel thought, and when he looks back, he will see me, right here, waiting for him!

He was still there when the fire in the sky yielded at last to endless blue.

Legolas had not looked back.

Author's Note:

(I think I've given up trying to estimate how many chapters this story will run for, because Legolas and co. seem determined to prove me wrong!)

Translations:

Feä: Soul, that which is born of the Secret Fire of Ilúvatar

Hroä: Body, that which is crafted from Arda

Laiqualassë: Translation of Legolas in Quenya, the formal elven-tongue reserved for writing and scholarly pursuits