Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

Cheysuli: Don't worry. Elrohir is a very good swimmer. (

Golden Rose: You'll find out what the deal with Legolas's brother is in this chapter (if you read it). He might hate Legolas, he might not. As for why his parents fight, why do any parents fight? It was just supposed to be an average sort of thing, you know, two people don't always get along. Thanks for dissing the haters, and the story will continue right about **scroll down!!**

Salak: I totally agreed: let us write what we want, and don't bug us just because your sucks. As for killing, torturing, and maiming, well, nothing too bad for the sake of Middle Earth--it takes all nine members to get the ring to Mordor, I believe. Do I ever take too long to update?

Analorien: Elrohir won't be sad for too long--just a little melodramatic! And I always continue when someone asks. Right, own up--so if that flamer is reading this right now, own up, you wanker! Sorry about that. . .

Poetic Muse: Yeah, angst fics are great for depressions. Much better than the possible alternatives, such as masochism and suicide. As for listening to what the flamers tell me, I listen to the voices in my head more often! Aw, I didn't mean to make anyone cry. The thing with the blood was inspired by a scene in the movie "Trainspotting" entitled "the Worst Toilet in Scotland".

Artemisa: Glad you like it! I rather like those three as well, so I write a lot about them.

Anya-Ring of Sarcasm: Legolas and Gimli slash? Sick and perverted! Wrong, oh so wrong!! You are right though, that's probably what the flamers write! Anyway, to see more of this story you need only to scroll down. . .

Smeagol: I think you missed the entire purpose of this story. It is not a sweatshirt advertisement!!! And must you be so mean to Arwen? Some people don't like to be teased cough-leeches-cough.

CocoBeans: Analogies are just one tool of writing. Which my English teacher was probably stressing the day I wrote that chapter. Anyway, glad they helped you understand.

Starfleet Hobbit: Hey, let's sell tickets for shoving flamers into the Dead Marshes! That'd be fun. . .

Karate elf: Thank you, and thanks for taking the time to review. And flamers are hell-scum.

Lady-Daine: It's sort of seeing things, but it was supposed to be the images their minds created, how they saw themselves and others around them. Having friends who do things like that, it does hurt, but when you know they won't do it again, that's when it pays off--because you know you've made a difference. Only four days until the movie, but I get to see it tomorrow. . .

Basil: Another grammar addict! I find grammatical incorrection very annoying, and thus try to avoid it myself--unless using it to make a sentence stand out more. I read the books, saw the movie (many times), but I thought Legolas was the sort of guy who had to come from somewhere. I mean to say, look at how hard it is to crush his spirit. No one with a simple past, and no hard scars (mentally, emotionally, and maybe physically) is like that. At least, that's what I thought. He and Elrohir are supposed to be about eleven in this story, so he has a long way to go before the Council, though that is a good idea, and yes it is pre- Fellowship. I guess I hid it a little too well, but the problem, that causes Legolas to act this way, is explained more in this chapter. Thank you for your help!

Tamara: Thanks! And once again, you'll see.

Kit Cloudkicker: Have you ever considered punctuation?

Lady of the Forest: Suicide is actually not as bad as it's cracked up to be. If someone is that miserable, you have to realize, living is a complete terror for them. They don't want to do it any longer. Many people spend years in such misery, and it's terrible. But thanks, and sorry for my weird little speech-thing.

Sirithiliel: What bothers me most about flamers is that they are so. . .so unaccepting. It sort of frightens me, like, hey, this is the world I was born into and these are the people in it, and they are so terrible. Sounds pretty dumb, right? Sometimes I wish I could just hate them like everyone else--but then, wouldn't hat be on the same level as them?

Kura: Thanks! Oh, and sorry about that mistake--I'm British, and. . .well, what people say about Brits speaking Spanish is pretty much true about me.

Soulsearcher: The thing with the lake was actually inspired by a scene in the film 'Trainspotting'--but thanks! They printed it in the IHP Newsletter, and a boy didn't quite understand what fanfiction was--he asked me if that was written by Tolkien! It was pretty wicked awesome. I am British! 'Course I like British words! I'll say "panties" every so often, and "breeches" or "jeans" on occasion, but mostly, it's knickers and trousers all the way! Wow, that sounded weird. Hehe, I can do the accent-- I'm pretty good with accents. If you've seen 'Finding Nemo', remember the shark? My sister is always asking me to imitate him ("Fish are friends, not food"). Before that it was Pippin ("What about second breakfast?"), and before that Anne in 'The Others'. . .I'm glad to hear that, because everything I write from Elrohir's perspective is guesswork--you know why: I'm Legolas. Great hearing from you, as always!

Faer: Thanks!

LegyLuva: Thanks! Ah, sorry about the mistake.

Lily: Thanks! (wow, I say that a lot) Thanks for the blue skies and ESPECIALLY for the happy faces--I'm starting high school in a few months, so. . .yeah. . .just slight nerves there.

*****

Legolas quivered. A puff of black smoke went up from his candle. Without his dagger, he had only the candles. At first he had watched them to get away from his parents' shouts, which his heart accused him of causing, and now he watched them to forget. He no longer wanted to think of Elrohir, of little Arwen, of his brother Naithon, of his parents, or even of Mirkwood. He wanted it to go away, for all his problems to evaporate with a puff of smoke--black like the candle smoke.

"Legolas!" There was a knock at his door. "Please let me in." The voice was polite, but firm. Elrohir was determined to enter.

"Is it important? I was just going to sleep--"

"No you weren't! You are wide-awake, I know you are. And yes, it is very important." Legolas heard Elrohir's tone and knew that he had no intention of budging until he was let in. With a sigh, Legolas crossed the room and unlocked the door. Elrohir waited until the door was a hair's breadth open, then shoved it open the rest of the way. He walked in with such authority that Legolas wondered if this was the same boy he had left crying on the stairs not an hour before. "We have to talk."

"I do not think there is anything to discuss--"

"You lie," said Elrohir firmly and calmly. Elrohir and Legolas were still hardly out of childhood, and these two small words from Elrohir's mouth sounded like those of an Elf of many centuries. His authority had not left him at all. Legolas silenced himself, closing his jaw so quickly it cracked. Elrohir stood like a statue. "I know, Legolas. I know that there was no wild cat, and Ada knows it, too."

"Elrohir, my friend, you doubt my word?" asked Legolas in an oily voice. With a sinking feeling he realized that he was speaking as Naithon used to, when telling Legolas outrageous stories that would get the younger boy into trouble or hurt, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Tell the truth, for I would tell it to you and I mean you no ill will. I want to help you. Masochism is a terrible thing, Legolas, and I don't want you to have that life!"

Legolas was touched by the words. He nearly told Elrohir everything, tears pending. 'No,' he thought, blinking back tears. "I will not have this in my home," Legolas announced, heading angrily for the door. Elrohir was faster and had anticipated the move, and slammed the door shut before Legolas could reach it.

"You will not run from this conversation a third time. Stand there, like an elf of honour, and speak to me, and hear what I will say. I saw the dagger, Elrohir. I saw it in your blood."

"I had the dagger, but only in case it was needed to fend off--" Legolas tried to explain.

"Lie to me not! Or, if this is true, then face your enemy," challenged Elrohir. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the dagger. Horror passed over Legolas's face. His hands shook. One hand raised, reaching out for the dagger, but Legolas drew his hand back. He couldn't take it, he would hurt himself even more with it. If Elrohir kept it--and make Elrohir face his choice? Would he sink so low as to bring upon his friend the evils that he had brought upon himself? Again the hand extended, drew back, extended and drew back. "I saw the bandages on your desk. You could have bound your own wound. You could have called for help."

"I never would hurt myself," Legolas said, keeping his and Elrohir's gaze even. Yet his eyes slid to the knife again.

"You cannot take it, can you? You have no heart that would let you. But it is all right, Legolas. You made a mistake--one little mistake. That can be recovered. You can earn back the trust you have chosen to forfeit. You can fix your reputation. And the first step is to own up." Elrohir's words rang true in Legolas's ears, yet they also rang with a falsity. Elrohir thought it had just been that once.

"All right. I did it. I cut my muscle. I'm sorry," Legolas admitted in complete lies, save the sorry. He did regret it, for it had gone so far as to affect his friends and family. Elrohir knew this at once to be untrue, and he called it.

"Legolas," he said slowly, in a low voice, "take off your tunic."

"What?" Legolas was surprised. Elrohir could not really mean to check over Legolas's body for scars. "You do not trust me, Elrohir?" The oil again.

"No, Legolas. At this moment I do not." It hurt Elrohir to say this, but it was true. "Come, if you have nothing to hide, you ought to have no fear. Just let me see for myself that you have no scars, no healing slash-marks." Elrohir's voice held no oil. It was like a slimy voice, only clean. It was slick with honesty and compassion. Legolas, with shaking fingers, curled up the bottom of his tunic to show the smooth, unruptured skin on his belly. Then the let the tunic fall over his stomach again.

"Are you satisfied?" he demanded angrily. Elrohir would not succumb to anger.

"No, Legolas," he said again. "No, prince of Mirkwood. No, mellon-nin. I will not be satisfied whilst you lie to me, whilst you hurt. Can you not see? You may feel that no one cares, Legolas, but open your eyes! I care! Arwen cares! Ada cares! Your parents care! Naithon cares!" He had had enough. He had nearly yelled in anger and exasperation. His chest heaved. "No, Legolas. You think too much of others to ever hurt yourself so, because you know it would hurt them that care for you." Turning, he began to open the door, hoping this volley of lies, this dying tactic, would work.

Legolas's head reeled. He had what he wanted. Elrohir was off his back about it. Then why did he feel so awful? Why was he so let down with his behaviour? "E-Elrohir?" he hardly whispered, more breathed the name, but Elven ears are keen. Elrohir froze. Legolas didn't know where to go from there. Carefully and slowly, he peeled off his outer tunic.

Beneath the heavy yellow covering, Legolas wore only a white under-tunic, sleeveless. He felt as if his soul was naked standing before Elrohir with his cuts exposed. The tunic rumpled to the floor, and it stayed there. Legolas did not move. His face contorted as he held back sobs. Wet tears finally ran free down his face, and he was ashamed of them. Legolas's face burned. He closed his eyes, and wanted to shake all over. What would Elrohir think? Would he hate him? Would he scorn him? What if Elrond found out, and did not let Elrohir speak to Legolas anymore?

Elrohir turned slowly, afraid of what he would see. Now it was he who wanted to run and hide his head under a pillow as Arwen did, but Elrohir would not. Arwen was a child, and Elrohir was not allowed that luxury any longer. His eyes fell to Legolas's right arm, so marked as a cat's scratching post. Some were scars already, fading to the color of the boy's skin. Others were red as welts, covered in soft pink flesh. Still others were rough, as sand, and in the process of healing. Elrohir lightly reached out and lifted Legolas's arm. It was as lifting a rag.

Suddenly Legolas's sobs broke. His tears were streaming, as the ford of Bruinen when a rainstorm raised its waters. The Elf prince sobbed freely and wildly. It was then that Elrohir realized he, too, was crying. Legolas fell to Elrohir for support. Elrohir caught his friend, and slowly lowered both of them to the ground. His own legs shook so badly he feared to fall. For long hours the two stayed in each other's arms, tears flowing freely and with no shame.

"Why?" Elrohir whispered. "Why, Legolas?"

"It just hurt so much to know what I had done," answered Legolas through tears.

"What could you have possibly done that was this bad?" Elrohir cared about his friend, more than almost anything else, but at that moment all he wanted was to be away, to know that this was just some terrible nightmare. Yet he forced himself to stay centered and focused, and to let Legolas speak, if he would.

"You do not want to know," Legolas said, sensing Elrohir's reluctance.

"Legolas, listen to me," Elrohir said, his tears stopped and his authority regained. He held Legolas at an arm's length, and looked right into his eyes. "I am your friend. No matter how much it hurts, I am here for you. Sometimes things happen, and they hurt us real bad. And at times like those, we have to know that a true friend wants to draw back but does not, because you matter more. You can tell me whatever you want to, Legolas, and you can leave anything hidden."

Legolas didn't believe it. He searched Elrohir's face for some sign of falsity. No signs were forthcoming. Legolas again collapsed into his friend's arms. Elrohir held him until his tears had run their course. "My parents," Legolas sniffed, "they fight. They yell and scream, bad words and hurtful words. I thought at first that it was just a sick joke, but then Naithon--he told me that it wasn't. It is all my fault, Elrohir, do you not see?"

"Oh, Legolas," he breathed in disbelief.

"You hate me already."

"No. No, that is not true. Naithon needs someone to blame, Legolas! Can you not see? He hurts, just as you do, and this is his way of facing it. You did nothing wrong! You are without blame, Legolas."

"I. . .what?" he stared at his friend, unable to believe it. All those years he had believed he was a demon, all the times he called himself a curse--those years were lies. And for the first time in a long time, Legolas felt free.

*****

"Can you do this on your own, Legolas?" Elrohir asked. Legolas knew his friend was only concerned for him, and his mental stability.

"I have to. You are the best friend an Elf could have, Elrohir, but if I cannot stand on my own," he paused, unintentionally drawing dramatic affect into his voice, "I will fall."

"Tell me how it goes, then. Best of luck."

"Thank you, Elrohir. Not just for the luck, but for everything. For knowing what I was doing, for not letting me shut you out."

"All in a day's work," Elrohir joked. "Go on, no more putting it off," he admonished with a playful shove. Legolas turned and walked slowly from Elrohir. Elrohir watched for only a moment longer, proud of his friend, then turned himself and strode off.

Legolas swallowed, nervous. What would his father say? What if Legolas lost his courage? What if--what if--"What if I took all day standing here asking what if?" he pondered aloud, then he knocked on the door. "It is me, Legolas!" He called out. "May I come in?"

Thranduil rubbed his eyes. Mirkwood was in a difficult situation, politically, and this was stressful for the Elven King. However, Legolas never asked for anything but a moment's time, which Thranduil could spare. Of his two sons, Thranduil favoured Legolas, although he tried not to let it show, for Legolas was calm and thoughtful, almost without the capabilities of malicious thought. He called to Legolas to come in, wondering what the boy had to say.

"I. . ." Legolas choked out the first syllable, then lost his tongue. How could he say it? 'I love to see my own blood?' 'I habitually open my flesh?' He could not form the words to explain it. Instead, he rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm. A shocked expression crossed Thranduil's face. How could Legolas have done something like that? Legolas, who had always been the quiet, happy one. Surely if something had been wrong, Legolas would have spoken up, not hurt himself. So if Legolas did not do this to himself. . .In Thranduil's mind, he had already asked who it was that had done this. And that was the undoing of much of Elrohir's hard work.

"Elrohir--" Legolas began, but he did not get past that name. A look of anger now crossed Thranduil's face, and Legolas understood something. The king of Mirkwood could not believe that his children, his bloodline, or anyone else in his family was so corrupt. He would place blame where blame was due--or where he saw blame due. "No," he tried to shout, but his mouth was so dry it was only a shadow of a whisper. He fought hard to bring saliva into his mouth, to free his tongue from its place, glued to the roof of his mouth. "No, I did this!"

No one heard the boy's cry.

*****

TBC