Author notes: Oh my! I was so excited to have gotten reviews at all. Thank you, to all the very nice people who wrote me a line. And to answer Jan, I changed that line on the English translation, and I would change it in elvish if I knew how to change the verb correctly G. So, anyway, thank you for reading. This chapter might be a bit weird, but don't give up on me yet.

My previous lines remain the same: English is my second language so I apologize for grammar or spelling mistakes, the elvish is how I believe it to be (most likely mistaken) and PLEASE R&R! I love to think that someone read my story :)

The song is from Tolkien, not mine. Thoughts are between //

Master in Deceiving
By Yours Truly

They had crossed the Nimrodel River on this day, and the exhaustion they felt had been washed away with its pure water. They emerged from the other side much more refreshed, yet the flow of the river had done nothing for their grief. It was so, that just as the night before, Legolas had climbed a nearby tree, unnoticed, and let the group eat without him. Just one tear had been shed on this night on behalf of his guilt; yet Legolas, if anything, felt worse than the night before.

After the fellowship had their dinner, the Elf slowly descended from his place in the tree, determined not to show his disquiet. Countless years as royalty had showed him one thing, and that was how to hide his feelings from prying eyes. Had his father, Thranduil of Mirkwood, seen him now, he would have been proud.

The fellowship glanced at him when he returned, and Legolas straightened up his posture, tossing out a simple lie about patrolling the perimeter. They believed it, and a companiable silence befell the group as each member let themselves get lost in their own thoughts. Legolas, however, could not find peace of mind, and the sudden stillness was not comfortable to his situation. He longed to tell someone of his thoughts, to explain to them what had transpired in the dark pits of Moria; however much he tried, he could not quench his need to talk. Nevertheless, he knew all too well that there was nobody willing to listen to the confessions of a fellon.

Ashamed, Legolas had even accepted since their last conversation, that he was no longer worthy of asking Aragorn for guidance. His friend. He had been his friend, at least, but now the Elf was sure Aragorn despised him. Left with no one to come to, Legolas remained quiet for endless minutes, his insides twisting into knots with tension.

He desperately needed a distraction.

So he chose, at last, to sit with his travelling companions, breaking the silence by telling stories of Lothlórien. The lore of his people was rich and Legolas was well-educated in its tales, making it easy for the prince to distract everyone from dark thoughts. Everyone, that was, except himself.

Then Frodo had seemed to hear the beautiful voice of the river, and Legolas was quick to grab onto the tale, deciding on a whim to sing the story to them. Outside, he seemed to have regained his cheerful self, and it was easy for most of them to forget the events of the day before as if they had been unreal. Surely, Legolas was well, for outwardly he was smiling as he let his voice lull his companions' troubled minds. Inside, the Elf felt nothing like the happy façade that had slid onto his face.

His father would be so proud…

An Elven-maid there was of old,
a shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows;
a loght was on her hair
as sun upon the golden boughs
In Lórien the fair.

The sweet elven voice sang with confidence, and the whole nature around them seemed to get closer and listen. The trees' leaves stopped their rustling movements, while the river appeared to have slowed its rhythm to let the voice be heard.

Her hair was long, her limbs were white,
and fair she was and free;
and in the wind she went as light
as leaf of linden-tree.

Beside the falls of Nimrodel,
by water clear and cool,
Her voice as falling silver fell
into the shining pool.

The hobbits' eyes had turned dreamy, for the sweet voice painted the story with such candence they could almost see the face of the woman Legolas sang of. Even Gimli had stopped his mocking muttering of "damned elf and his songs" when the fair one raised his voice a tone with the next lines.

Where now she wanders none can tell,
in sunlight or in shade,
for lost of yore was Nimrodel
and in the mountains strayed.

Neither Boromir, nor Aragorn, not any other noted the mask set upon the beautiful face, and none seemed to remember what they had been so worried about just the day before, as the song lightly continued.

The elven-ship in haven grey
beneath the mountain-lee
Awaited her for many a day
beside the roaring sea.

A wind by night in Northern lands
Arose, and loud it cried,
and drove the ship from elven-strands
across the streaming tide.

Legolas himself barely realized the words he sang. His eyes were closed, and to anyone it seemed as if he was merely visualizing the song of his people. What he was truly visualizing, however, was extremely different.

----
"You cannot pass!" Gandalf cried with all the power of the ancient Istari in his voice. "I am a servant of the Secret Flame, wielder of the flame of Anor! The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Undun! Go back to the shadow!"
----

When dawn came dim the land was lost,
the mountains sinking grey
beyond the heaving waves that tossed
their plumes of blinding spray.

Amroth beheld the fading shore
now low beyond the swell,
and cursed the faithless ship that bore
him far from Nimrodel.

----
"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" Gandalf screamed, plunging his staff into the rock beneath him. With a tremble, the earth gave away and the Balrog fell into the darkness below. Breathing heavily, Gandalf turned back to them. It was over. Legolas let his breath out at long last, carefully looking at his friend's drawn face as he made to return towards the fellowship. But Gandalf had looked away too soon. One fiery tongue of the demon's whip trailed up out of the abyss and took a hold of Mithrandir, suddenly and violently pulling him towards the depths. Gandalf snatched desperately for the rock, clinging to the edge for precious seconds in which Legolas did nothing. Nothing. With white fingers, Gandalf cried, "Fly, you fools!" and was all too rapidly gone.

Legolas had been there, watching, frozen on his spot. Unable to do anything as Mithrandir fell.
----

There was not a single sign of grief in the mask the Prince of Mirkwood wore for his friends. All they saw was the deep concentration on his face, as if he had some trouble remembering all the words to his song.

Of old he was an Elven-king,
A lord of tree and glen,
when golden were the boughs in spring
in fair Lothlórien.

From helm to sea they saw him leap,
as arrow from the string,
and dive into water deep,
as mew upon the wing.

//Dive into the water, that is one thing. A willing sacrifice. Being dragged into the fire, murdered by that vile creature…that is another thing all-together, is it not? Moria wanted the prince, not the wizard. Yet the prince was a coward and Moria took the brave one, the wise one. Moria took the important one.//

The wind was in his flowing hair,
the foam about him shone;
afar they saw him strong and fair
go riding like a swan.

But from the West has come no word,
and on the Hither Shore
No tidings Elven-folk have heard
Of Amroth evermore.

Finally his voice faltered. Images of his fallen friend became too overwhelming, and still his voice was the only sign he gave of his turmoil. The mask, learned through the years, was still firmly in place.

"I cannot sing anymore," he announced, his tone once again normal. "That is but part, for I have forgotten much. It is long and sad, for it tells how sorrow came upon Lothlórien, Lórien of the Blossom, when the Dwarves awakened evil in the mountains."

//They'll believe that.// Legolas thought desperately.

And they believed.