To a stranger entering the orange-lit room of Legolas, they would assume him to be daydreaming. The complete opposite was transpiring. Staring at the warm flames that licked the stone walls of the fireplace in his room, Legolas grasped at the thoughts that swirled through his mind without direction. And although he tried to keep the most obvious of them all from taking a forefront place in his mind, he could not prevent the inevitable replay of his brother's murder. His right fist clenched and flexed, over and over as the what-ifs filtered in between the real.

But even through the thick haze of disturbing truths, his keen ears picked up the sound of silent footsteps approaching his room door. He quickly stood and reached for the clean white shirt that lay on his bed. Struggling slightly to place his left arm through the hole, he nonetheless accomplished his goal and just in time as a soft rapping announced itself. Without waiting for an answer, the thick oak door opened with a creak, and Legolas faced his stepmother.

Gingerly, the blond-haired Faerla stepped into the warm surroundings. She stood several feet away from him; shoulders arched proudly, hands clasped in front of her demurely. She regarded him with a kind, if somewhat unsure smile.

"How fares your wound?" Her voice was tinged with the regal Lothlorien accent, deep and melodic.

Legolas shrugged and winced as his shoulder protested the slight movement. "It will heal quickly."

Faerla stepped closer, gesturing her hand towards the injured shoulder. "May I?"

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment, then acceded to her. Her fingers gently probed the area, so lightly he could barely feel her. She came round to the front, her brows creasing as she inspected the entry wound, but smiling with reassurance.

"The surgeon is quite skilled. It should heal with little or no scarring."

Legolas nodded, rubbing his shoulder absently and turning from her.

"But there are other scars that will not heal so quickly I fear." She said quietly.

Legolas lifted his head, tilting it to the right. He sighed loudly for an Elf, the exhausted noise carrying itself to Faerla's ears. The looming grey of dense clouds carrying bellies full of water decided at that moment to open upon the Kingdom. The moment so perfectly coincided with his emotions that he was wary the hard knot in his throat would surely burst and he would be left weeping like a child in front of his stepmother. But he successfully fought the urge back into hiding.

If she had any inclination of his present state, she either ignored it or failed to notice it in the first place. Instead, she glided towards the open doors leading to the balcony and closed them, drawing the airy curtains shut. She was once again directly in front of him and he could not avoid her piercing blue eyes. Not entirely unlike his, he realized suddenly.

"Legolas, you are weary."

Legolas shook his head back and forth, his eyes staring downcast. But it only furthered her assumptions.

"You must rest. You will tire – "

Legolas turned from her again. "I cannot rest when our Kingdom is threatened by Orcs. Not when more lives might be lost."

"You could not fight today, perhaps not even tomorrow without doing more harm to yourself. Save your strength until –"

"Until what?" He spun around to glare at her with stormy eyes. "The Orcs are knocking politely on our door?"

She took a refreshing breath and composed herself. "I meant no harm. I am concerned for your welfare. I can see your frustration."

"No, you cannot."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know that this grief has you-"

He placed his hand on top of hers, and for a moment her heart swelled with hope, but was sorely crushed when he merely drew her hand away from his body and dropped it unceremoniously. "You cannot possibly know. What do you know of us? Of this family? You of the Golden Wood who lowers herself to the dark gloom of our threatened home? What could you possibly know?"

His words stung as a slap to the face and she was at a loss for an answer to his angry words. She stammered before he cut her off again.

"You cannot know. You are not a mother."

She stood unsure of herself, but quickly walked from the room and from her seething stepson. She closed the door quietly behind her, and once she was safe from his words and his glare, she brought a hand to her lips, attempting to stifle the sob that was working its way to the surface. But Faerla did not give in to this weakness. She gasped for one breath, then steeled her body into its former composure that had been forgotten under Legolas' barrage. Faerla left the hallway hurriedly and did not look back.

Secretly, he regretted his words. He saw her reaction but could stop the stem of words that streamed from his mouth. They were indeed meant for someone, but not her. Still, he could not bring himself to approach her. The relationship between the King's new wife and stepson were hardly complementary to each other. But now Legolas feared that he may have ruined any chance of at least an amicable understanding.

He sighed again, this time in frustration with himself. Lowering himself to the bed, he placed his head in his hands and wished for all the world that his life had not taken the turn that it did this day.

He heard the door creak open again, but did not feel the need to even raise his head out of courtesy to whoever the new intruder was.

"I had heard rumors of a strained camaraderie between the new Queen and youngest Prince, but I truly did not believe them."

The voice was low, gruff, tinged with the years of wisdom, knowledge, and tiresome duties. But it brought with it a much-needed comfort that he could not find elsewhere in Erydben's absence.

Legolas was surprised and relieved, but still could not find the strength to greet the Istari properly. "Hello Gandalf."

Gandalf sat beside the lithe Prince on the bed, groaning quietly as his body adjusted to the comfort of the rest off his feet. "Of course I didn't believe them. Not for a second. How could they be true? Legolas was the sensible Prince, not the hot-headed Eliathas who so took like his father. No, Legolas would be entirely accepting of this situation and welcome a good Elf-maiden like Faerla into his life. Maybe not as a substitute for his mother, of course not. But as a trusted friend."

"I am sorry to disappoint you old friend."

Gandalf's bristly eyebrows lifted. "Disappointed? No, no, no." He drew out the 'no's' with a mumble perfected by years of smoking pipe weed. "But surprised, very."

"I could have used your counsel earlier."

Gandalf harrumphed. "I would have been here earlier, had I been informed of Mirkwood's troubles."

Legolas shrugged, wincing as he had not yet learned his lesson the first time he tried the movement. Gandalf noticed, but did not comment. He already knew what had transpired in the woods earlier that day, and he also knew that Legolas did not require a reminder of it. "Then my father has not requested your presence here?"

Now it was Gandalf's turn to shrug. "It was suggested by other parties that I accompany a young mortal on his first journey to Mirkwood."

Legolas looked at Gandalf. "Elrond?" To this Gandalf nodded.

"Alas, the young Aragorn and his brothers left before I was aware they had. The trek through the paths of Mirkwood are not kind to old bones."

Legolas smirked, the first half-smile for the day. "I hardly think that trails such as Mirkwood's could slow a determined Wizard such as yourself."

Gandalf chuckled lightly. "In this you are true young Prince. But I can see in your face that time and events have caught up with you. I leave you now, and as your father is absent I fear that I must assume the regrettable role." He smiled kindly at Legolas, who wearily returned his look. "Rest. That's not a diplomatic request."

Legolas did not smile, but his eyes warmly regarded the Wizard's retreating form. Gandalf need not have ordered him; Legolas was asleep as soon as his head graced the pillow.