Chapter 7 - Broken Laughter

**
Laer

August 3 III 3017

The deep feeling of Festival has run dark and dry. Sometimes, what I have lost strikes me to the heart and I cannot stand the thought of a sister named Vellesta. I shall not forgive her for this; I cannot forgive for this. No doubt, she is just as angry as I am, though I do not understand her obsession with that damn silver chain. She did not even notice it's disappearance for over a month!

I see Amethys and her lords and ladies dancing in the gardens and know what I am missing. It was never this bad, this ache in my heart, this loneliness of my soul. It was never this deep for I had never tasted it's sweet fruit before, never known it's loving grace. And now, I have tasted the poison of acceptance and come to know the bitter feeling of loneliness and contempt. I am ruined. At times, late at night when the bright lights of Festival no longer haunt my dreams, I fear I have lost a sister. The fear then overcomes the pain and I know that I have lost something for sure; and then I wake on the morn and see the accursed Vella skulking in the shadows and the hate is renewed once more. We have not spoken in a word in over two weeks and if all goes well, we shall not speak words for a another two moons.

Fine by me.

Ever since her confrontation with Amethys, Vella has been quiet if angry. The cursed sister who has ruined me; I will never be married for sure, I shall lead the life of a spinster, dark and angry, bitter like Vellesta.

May Valinor rescue me as my tomes often do not anymore.

Even great battles long fought no longer grasp my imagination and make it take flight. That is how bad it has become.

Until then,

Avaranthe

**

Dinners had become dark, solemn affairs. Taken in the great hall, Delanthor forced his two daughters together for this time of day in the meager hopes that they would resolve whatever had caused the rift to grow between the two. Around them, the tittering chatter of the elves rose like a soft blanket; a comforting glow to the achingly cold silence that always settled between Ava and Vella, causing even Delanthor, the seasoned warrior, to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

The high-ranking elflord had not been able to worm from Vella what her outrage had been about, nor had he been able to coax from Ava an explanation. It seemed that a great wall had grown up between the sisters and neither was willing to scale it's heights to meet in the middle. Vella stared out past her father's head, as if something just past his ear was the most interesting thing in the world; her green eyes were solidly blank, her jaws clenched together in a stiff informal frown. She looked something like a statue, frozen in time and space, untouchable. Ava, on the other hand, stared down at her plate of food and barely even glanced up, as if afraid that whatever would meet her eyes would deal a painful death. She shifted every two seconds and muttered phrases in response to questions. Her blue eyes were hooded and dark but painfully honest and readable.

"Pass the rolls." Vella said shortly, speaking directly to her father though the rolls sat right in front of the younger elf. Ava stared at her plate while Delanthor sighed inwardly.

"Pass the rolls." He intoned, addressing his younger daughter, who, begrudgingly, handed him the basket-which he passed on to Vellesta.

Stop this nonsense! Delanthor wanted to shout, for he could hardly stand it himself anymore. It had gone on too long, and worse was the fact that he had to deal with it. Normally, his daughter's fights took up their own time and ran dry long before he ever gave thought to them; this fight, if one could call it that, seemed more of a detachment than anything else and it tore the lord's heart to see the remnants of his family falling apart.

"Are you to join the festivities this night, Ava?" Delanthor asked, an attempt at sullen conversation. With a swift glance of hate directed at Vella, Ava shook her head swiftly.

"I am to grow old alone, bereft of comfort and friendship." Her icy gaze spoke what was really in her mind. Delanthor regretted having brought up Festival.

"Friendships, hah!." Vella muttered scathingly. Inside, Vella ached from loss. The pain of the elves is long-lived and terrible, and though weeks had passed since the loss of her beloved heirloom passed down from her Mother, Vella felt it as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

"There are many in this world who go without friendship; they are the ones who are withered already." Ava retorted, careful to speak only to her Father.

"And there are some who would lick behind the trail of those they'd consider 'friends'"

"And still those whose bitterness infects all they come near." Ava's eyes flashed. "God forbid all of Mirkwood be infected."

Delanthor marveled at how his daughters could be so cruel to each other and yet not even be speaking.

"An outcast, that's what I will be." Ava laughed, a short caustic sigh more than a laugh. "Perhaps it runs in this family."

With a clatter loud enough to turn several heads in their direction, Vella, for the first time in weeks, looked straight at her younger sister. Her eyes, a deep dark emerald, were terrible to behold.

"Do not speak about this family." She said softly, her voice deadly and empty of emotion. "For you speak in ignorance."

Then, in a mass of dark hair and clatter, Vella was gone, her light steps already receding out the door deep into the forests of Mirkwood.

Out in the clear night air, Vella seethed with anger. Running through the dark trees, she let the cool wind wash over her like a settling balm; a coolant to her anger. Ava had no right! No right at all, to speak as she did. What did she know? What did she feel? Nothing, absolutely nothing at all. Avaranthe had been too young to know their Mother, too young to know the grief that had surrounded their quarters for years, too young to see the changes that had happened; such small changes, until the day Vellesta had awakened to find a different world and become a different person. No longer was her mischief based on joy, her play in laughter-she now trailed ladies to be cruel, told stories to frighten and made heartless terrible jokes to bring others to tears. Bitter and caustic, she may be, but it was not of her own will.

Reaching a familiar tree, she scrambled up its branches and perched up in a nook near the top. Above her, the night sky stretched higher than the deepest sea and up there, Vella felt invincible.

She must've fallen asleep for she was later awakened by the sound of horses and shouting. The night was darker than before and Vella guessed it to be near midnight. The air was cool, the sort of summer air that signaled a change in seasons to occur; an approaching of autumn winds. As Vella awakened from the deep abyss of slumber, an instant and overwhelming fear assailed her from all sides. It gripped her heart and made her bowels clench with panic. Instantly alighting to her feet, she cursed the long gowns that hindered her movement, and scrambled higher into the trees.

Peering deep into the night air, Vellesta Rivermoon reached deep into her core and felt the Forest at its heart; the flora in her blood. A distant shriek tore through the air, a sound that made Vella shiver and quake with fear. Vella had never scared easily, even the stories told by wayward travelers of monsters and orcs had done little to her as a child except, perhaps, extort a slight amused smirk. But the unearthly scream elicited an involuntary jump from the frozen elf-maid, and Vella instantly longed to be back in the safe, if boring, havens of the Palace and her own chambers.

She took off on a run towards the distant, flickering Palace, still alight with Festival; only, the music seemed to have dimmed since her departure, the lights having taken on a dull, sickly glow. Oh god, Vella thought, her heart in her throat, Oh god. She knew, as she tore through the woods-the anger she'd felt so acutely diminished to a haphazard thought- that something terrible had happened. As soon as she scrambled up the precipice leading in through one of the side doors, Vella felt her heart drop three beats and she stopped as suddenly as she'd taken off. The crowd that had congregated in the Front Hallway, suddenly so gaudily decorated in glowing lanterns, buzzed and murmured as one by injured one, the Company that had journeyed out to slay a simple band of orcs not two months ago, was brought in on stretchers, reeking of blood and death.

Legolas! Vella's first thought went to her prince. She pushed her way through the throngs of elven nobles, having to turn and find another path more than once as each strained to catch a glimpse of their Prince. The Ranger seemed the only one capable of walking, and even he had to be supported on two sides by elven scouts. In all the hustle and bustle of guards and scouts and nobles everywhere, Vella tried to find her Prince; a deep dread burrowed itself into the pit of her stomach, making her fear something she dared not mention lest it become true.

"What has happened?" She inquired, constantly trying to fight her way to the front. "What is going on!?"

Some cast her dirty looks-the ones once been the butt of her darker side. Others merely shrugged. Vella felt ready to burst from frustration and dread. Her mouth felt dry and her body weak, a cold sweat had broken out onto her forehead.

"What is going on!?" She seethed, frustrated beyond words.

"They say it was orcs, that there were too many and our archers could not fend them off." A voice quipped beside her. Vella turned, relieved to find a source of information finally. To her consternation, it was no other than Amethys, smiling smugly back at her.

Without a word, Vella turned back to fighting the crowd. Another stretcher passed by, but she couldn't tell if it was Legolas or not for each was accompanied by a throng of guards and sentries.

"Looking for your beloved prince?" Amethys' voice broke into her mind once more. Vella turned, her glare dark and icy. When Amethys saw that she wasn't going to get much of an answer, she laughed. For a short instant, Vella thought she might slap the snobby spoiled brat. Instead, she only glared-so darkly that even Amethys was silenced.

"Don't you laugh, Amethys, it is not a time for laughter."

Amethys paled, her violet eyes dimming. Without another word, she disappeared back into her crowds. Vella watched her go, shaking with anger and dread. Something akin to grief washed over her. Why am I feeling like this? She berated herself; Legolas is fine, he is probably awaiting me already. Stupid, stupid, stupid....silly girl.

For hours, Vella paced up and down the Great Hall. Each time another piece of gossip reached her ears, she jumped for joy or nearly cried with despair. Each rumor severed another string attached to her heart, making her emotions jump wildly between brilliant joy and wild despair. Give me my prince, she begged Fate, give me my best friend. In her mind, she promised everything that she had and more; she promised to be good and kind, truthful and docile: the perfect lady. Just give me Legolas, she begged. Inside, she was a wreck, a nervous basket case. Outside, her demeanor was so calm to be almost cold.

She doesn't even care! The court whispered, their own faces flushed with worry for their Prince. Look at that Vellesta Rivermoon, she hardly bats an eye in the face of losing our Liege!

The lanterns that surrounded the Great Hall swung limply, casting bright shadows as the sun began to climb and reach it's zenith. The festivities that had shone through the Palace were dimmed, everything covered by a somber blanket of worry and darkness. As the sun rose to a new day, not a single elf shouted greeting to it's rising brilliance. Not a single elf laughed, not a child sighed with contentment. As the sun rose, a small elf appeared out of a side door, his hands clasping a small bag. The entire court hushed, turning in reverence to this small elf that held the entire kingdom in thrall.

"He is alive." The physician to the Prince announced. "He is alive."

The Court erupted into buzzing and murmurs, some ladies going so far as to faint right into the arms of their husband-or the nearest suitor. With a sigh, Vella felt her heart leap, then surge. Legolas, alive! Alive and, if not well, at least recuperating! At a time she would normally be awakening, Vella climbed the stairs to her chambers and fell into bed, exhausted. Sleep came swiftly, a dark void of nothingness that she welcomed all too much.

~

For the next few days, entrance to the Prince's chambers was prohibited to all but King Thranduil. To Vella's consternation, they wouldn't even allow her admittance.

"But he's expecting me!" She half-shouted, wanting to throw herself down to the ground and throw a tantrum then and there. The guard, a strangely dark elf with deep amber eyes, only shook his head. Vella had been back each day, and each day, the response had been the same. The elf-maid was beginning to wonder if Legolas had really barred her from seeing him. The thought made her weak with despair and also fiery with anger; the little twit! How dare he! And after all the things she'd done for him! No less the time she'd had her arm broken in two places after falling from a high tree when he'd made her retrieve his arrows for him!

"At least tell Prince Legolas I have been by." She wheedled, turning once more to the guard. The guard, by the name of Pinesly, studied the girl before him; deciding that he wasn't going to get rid of her any other way, he nodded curtly, then stood back to attention. Knowing that that was the best she'd get, Vella swallowed her cattish comments and turned on her tail.

Festival was wrapping up. Laer was coming to a close and already, the season was changing rapidly. Lavas came early this year, the crispness already in the air; the smell of sweet decay and coming snow prominent in the forest. After the shocking return of their injured prince, most elven nobles had felt little incline to return to the festivities that had gripped them only days before. It seemed....unfair, to laugh when their Prince lay on the brink of death and sons lay buried deep underground. And so, with as little ceremony as possible, Festival drew to a close and Lavas, the changing season, was upon Mirkwood.

It was the chill of the season that made the elf-maid shiver as she climbed the trees just outside the room that held the injured Prince. The night was dark, the moon hidden behind shrouded clouds of deep silver and grey. After having come to the decision that she'd never see Legolas if she went the proper way, Vella decided to take matters into her own hands. And so, she now sat directly outside his window, perched high in the trees, while she debated her next course of action.

She could knock. Of course, that demanded a certain amount of luck; i.e. if someone happened to be in the room, she'd be discovered and punished severely. She could always just sit up in that damn tree and wait until Legolas had the notion to open his window. However, she didn't like that idea much at all. So finally, she just opened the window (she'd learned long ago that locks were merely an inconvenience) and stepped into the dark chambers.

The room was dark; Vellesta hadn't been in Legolas' private chambers for years, not since younger days when they'd played fantastic games of dragons and fairies. A bout of nostalgia hit the elf as she glanced around, remembering long days past. The Prince's private chambers were actually quite unadorned. Though Legolas himself loved beauty, as did all elves, his own sleeping quarters were extremely simple and plain. It consisted of a desk, cluttered with parchment and ink, a basin in the corner and a large bed upon which lay the Prince's sleeping form. He looked so peaceful lying there, his grey eyes dark in the moonless night. She had not the heart to disturb his slumber. Instead, she made her way over to his desk, rifling through his papers and documents. Some where official messages, stamped with the royal seal of Mirkwood, others were simply drawings and, to Vella's amusement, pieces and parts of poetry that Legolas had been writing.

..."and upon thy lips, the sun doth shine,

a moonlit glow, the taste of perfection."

Vella smiled, wondering to whom these love poems were addressed. She imagined a beautiful princess of some faraway land (perhaps even a human!?!) worthy of her prince's love. She would be more than beautiful, Vella decided, more than a pretty face. She would be brave, because she knew how Legolas loved to tell of his journeys and if this princess was timid, then she would not like his tales for sure. She would also be funny, for Vella knew that Legolas loved to laugh, that Legolas lived through his laughter. Beautiful, funny and brave; Vella smiled at the thought. Shuffling through more documents, she found another snippet of a poem.

"Glistening full; who but thine heart can bear my soul?

Who can hear my cry and feel my pain,

to bear my love, as burdens shall go-"

Suddenly, she felt a sharp prick against her neck and the cold metal of a dagger grazing her cheek. Startled, she dropped the parchment she'd been reading.

"And for what do I owe this?" His voice had changed, Vella mused. Tinged with sadness, it was deeper, more solid. For a moment, she feared that it was more than just his voice that had changed. Vella stayed still for a moment, then whirled around and-using a trick the prince himself had taught her-twisted the sword out of his hands. Now, it was Vella that maintained the upper hand, the short dagger pointing back at the Prince.

"You locked me out." She said archly, irritated for a moment that she'd actually had to sneak in through a window to see him. Legolas smiled thinly, his eyes tired and dark. He looked bad, she decided, not bad, exactly, just tired. Exhausted, really. His long hair was tied back with a cord and even in the dimness, she could see it's lackluster glow. Deep circles marred his pretty eyes and there was a sadness to him, an aura that trailed him.

"I've been...tired." He replied. Vella dropped the dagger onto the desk with a dull thud, suddenly sad. For the first time in a long time, she questioned her actions and wondered if she shouldn't have come barging in. What had she been expecting, she wondered, her gallant prince ready to make jokes and laugh? Legolas awaiting her with open arms, ready to go play at shooting arrows? How stupid, she thought, he must think I'm a silly little girl. Turning, she headed for the window.

"I'll leave you to rest." She said shortly, pushing the window upon.

"Hey! Hey.." He caught up to her, grasping her arm. "Wait."

"You need to rest; I..." She paused. It was the closest she'd ever come to an apology. A real apology.

"I am rested." Legolas laughed thinly, a sound that carried none of it's usually carefree demeanor. "I think I rest too much, perhaps that is my problem." Seeing that she was still about to go, Legolas dropped his arm. "Please, Vell?"

He looked so lost, so sad and grieved. For a moment, Vellesta had to resist the urge to run and hide. She didn't know if she was strong enough to be there, to hold him up when he fell down.

She shut the window.

They sat on the bed, side by side, as Legolas lay his head on her shoulder. It was such a comfortable pose, familiar. When the prince had been younger, he'd often been bullied by his various ruffian cousins. They'd taunt him, then hit him-knowing full well that the noble little prince had too much pride to tell on them. The times it'd get really bad, Legolas would often limp back to his rooms and then wait for Vella to find him. Then, as he cried, she'd hold him and tell wonderful stories (the opposite of the ones she'd tell the ladies at courts), special stories saved especially for him, which would take the tears away.

This time, however, she had no stories. More correctly, she had no stories that would be able to take the grief out of his heart. The silence was killing and balming, enveloping and choking, suffocating and coaxing. Legolas grasped her hand, shaking with silent held-back sobs. Vella wrapped one arm around her Prince, and bit her lip. She'd never before seen him this bad; this pained. Prince Legolas wasn't an unseasoned warrior, nor was he weak-of-heart or timid. Vellesta knew that whatever brought him to shuddering tears was terrible indeed, and a part of her longed to face such evil and protect him from it forever.

"Can you tell me what happened?" She asked softly, bending lower so that their noses nearly touched. Legolas looked into her green pools and felt himself being sucked in and lost; vanishing into a dark pit where his misery and pain disappeared. How could he tell her that he'd been a coward? How could he tell her that he'd run, leaving behind two of his own? How could he tell her his shameful deeds when he was always the one telling brave and glorious stories of heroic deeds and valor? How could he be so hypocritical?

The truth was that the Nazgul, those unearthly foes they'd encountered in the dark forests of Mirkwood, had struck a deep fear into the Prince's heart. A fear so deep and so dark that he'd run when they'd been confronted by six of their number. They'd all run, and each of those that had survived bore with him the pain of that fear. Legolas could see it, the guilt, in the eyes of each of the warriors. From Vaolin, the proud archer, to the human ranger, Aragorn. They walked the halls with haunted eyes, their physical wounds healed; their emotional wounds still fresh and pulsing with agony. And now he could be healed by the one that he loved, he could be comforted and healed; he was alive. Alive when Felowin and Quirathus were not. Comforted when Felowin and Quirathus faced the dark doors of death, abandoned; the forests mourning the unnatural death of their own.

With a strangled cry, Legolas tore himself away from Vella as if he bore the plague.

"Do not come near me!" He cried, his countenance contorted with pain and guilt. "You do not understand!"

Vella studied him, her outer cool hiding the inner turmoil she felt; Legolas saw the pain in her eyes, he felt the pain in her heart. The 'hell-bringer' they called her, never knowing that the only hellish part of her was her heart. Her terrible, loving, giving heart that took the pain from him and made him feel the joy and good in life; he did not deserve her, not at that moment when the guilt ran over him like waves of the ocean.

"You could not understand." He said, standing away from her. He gripped his fists to his sides, fighting back the tears that he dared not shed.

"Make me understand." Vella insisted, her eyes wide. When have I never understood you, my dear dear Legolas? She asked herself, over and over, wondering if she'd done something wrong.

"You cannot."

Fury rose within her heart, fury from the pain and the hurt. Her jaw clenched and she looked away. Her eyes were brilliant, and just being near her made his own pain ease; he did not deserve her there and yet he could not bear to see her go.

"I'm....." He trailed off. "I'm sorry, Vell."

"Why are you sorry?" She said, more caustically than she meant perhaps. Legolas sighed, falling into an armchair.

"Vella..." He groaned, not in the mood to handle her caustic and snide remarks. She rolled her eyes and, with her arms folded righteously across her chest, stared out the window with a bored/annoyed expression.

"Vell..." He said meaningfully, the anguish in his heart subsiding in the face of her irritation. "Vella, come on."

"What?!" She snapped. "I don't understand, remember?"

Legolas sighed, a part of him relieved in the face of something so domestic and so....real. It made his nightmares deep in those forests seem distant; did she do this to him? Did she do this on purpose, this feeling that washed over him, did she mean to make his heart grow light and his smile come back?

"Vell.." He glanced around, knowing that to gain her back would take humility, courage and most of all, humor. He saw the piece of parchment she'd been reading upon his bureau, and then blushed. His poems....he knew she'd disapprove, and with a sweep of his hand, he raised his voice.

"Glistening full; who but thine heart can bear my soul? Who can hear my cry and feel my pain, to bear my love, as burdens shall go. Upon cold roads, a star shines warmth...." He spoke dramatically, his arms sweeping wide circles. He knew he was being a fool, he knew he was being absolutely ludicrous, and yet he knew that with each word he spoke, a little piece of his heart returned to him.

Vella turned slightly, glaring at the Prince who was reciting poetry in these dark hours.

Legolas fell to his knees, inching closer to the bristling Vella.

"...this star my star, in the great broad sky.."

He reached her and bowed,

"My deliverer, great bearred of pains." He threw the parchment away, the words coming from his heart. "Shall she forgive me, or shall I walk in darkness the rest of my days, my star to have darkened the night."

Vella regarded her, one eyebrow arched in an unreadable expression. Then, as if coming to a decision, she offered her hand. Legolas smiled slightly, his first real smile since his return. With the grace and care of a carver, he took her hand and placed upon it, a gentle kiss.

"My lady." He said, his smile bleak and beautiful all at once. You have taken away the pain and replaced it, if only for this few hours, with a lightness and a joy reminiscent of childhood, Legolas thought. Perhaps she meant to do that, perhaps she had no knowledge of her own power; but Legolas rose so that they were nearly face to face and he wrapped his arms around her and felt all his pain evaporate.

"Thank-you, Vella." He whispered.

She remained frozen for just a moment, still hurt that he refused to tell her what happened, then relaxed and let herself be enveloped in his pain and love.

"Will you be okay?" She asked, pulling away from him. Legolas studied her,

"I'm okay right now."

Her smile took away his pain; Legolas had not realized that he'd dreamt of that smile, the smile of his green-eyed muse. He had never realized that the poems he'd written, on parchment as well as in his head, were for her. Everything for her.

"Tell me a story Vell." He asked. He lay on the bed, his head on her lap, while she gazed out the window, her slender fingers playing with the silken strands of his golden hair. It was the most innocent gesture in the world; Vella thought of the thousands of stories she'd told him, stories of brave deeds, of courageous acts, of valor and honor. Yet somehow, none seemed fitting for her beleaguered Prince.

"I shall tell you a story...of love." She spoke softly, her voice a lullaby on its own. "There was once a princess...."

The Prince of Mirkwood closed his eyes and for just those hours, he did not have to feel the pain in his heart.

And as Vella spoke soft, healing words, she prayed. Prayed with a fervor to Fate, those cruel and fickle masters of the future. May there be peace, Vella prayed. Peace for Mirkwood, peace for Middle-Earth and most of all, peace for my Prince.