Author: Mirrordance
Title: Exile
Summary: An elf is exiled as a suspect to his own brother's murder. A young king goes out into the Wild. Two warriors cross paths and embark on a common adventure as one seeks to escape his past and the other to reclaim it. How Aragorn and Legolas met.
* * *
PART 8
Brows furrowed, Strider rode alongside the soldier who held Legolas towards Rivendell. He did not quite know what to say, but he felt drawn to the solitary elf.
"What are they saying, Lesandro?" Strider inquired in a low voice. Elladan and Elrohir, who held point, glanced at him worriedly.
"Do you presume I owe you an explanation?" Legolas snapped, a beat after Strider decided he was not going to reply. The human felt as if they were back where they started, and the loss of a friend he thought he had gained gnawed at him.
"I presume nothing," replied Strider, "But do you not owe this explanation to yourself? To clear your name? Are you a murderer?"
"They say so, do they not?" retorted Legolas, "It must be true then."
"Is it?" pressed Strider.
"Lesandro was my brother," sighed Legolas, feeling the human would not back down without any sort of answer, "he died. It was my arrow to his heart. Now you know. Now leave me be."
* * *
"Did you not say your journey was uneventful?" Elladan asked, standing against Strider's room's doorway with his twin, trying to coax a smile from his troubled-- and troublesome!--brother.
"He said that?" murmured Elrohir, shaking his head in disapproval, "You should have known better."
Strider looked up at them from his place on the bed after unlacing his boots. Time seemed to have passed him by completely because he knew he started undressing quite awhile ago and was at present not even half of the way done. His mind was distracted, wearied by the remnants of his illness and burdened by the troubles of his heart. But he smiled a little for the sake of his brothers, though it did not—could not--reach his eyes.
The twins glanced at each other worriedly and stepped into the room. Strider watched them miserably, knowing he was now in for unwanted attention from his loving--albeit imposing—brothers.
It's just as well, Strider thought, resigned, I have my own questions to ask.
"The elf you met is Legolas," Elladan said, reading Strider's eyes easily, "The second of three sons of King Thranduil of Mirkwood. His older brother is Lesandro, the Realm's crown prince. Or at least he was, when he was alive. He was killed in an orc hunt, but it was an elvish arrow that found its way to his heart. None else was there but Legolas."
"An accident?" asked Strider.
"Well he certainly claimed it must have been," replied Elrohir, "but it is highly unlikely. You've just gone and met one of the greatest warriors of the elves, Estel. It could not have been an accident, given his skill. And it could not have been an accident, given what was at stake. He went and purchased for himself an entire kingdom at his beck and call, at the cost of a single arrow, the life of his brother and his own soul."
"How well did you know him?" Strider asked, unwilling to accept such a simplistic approach to the entire dire situation, "What you say cannot be. He is honorable and kind. I for one could not see him committing so heinous a crime."
"Not very well," admitted Elrohir, "We were more friends with Lesandro. Legolas was born a few years later, he did not grow up with us though we saw him once in awhile. Not very often, mind; Mirkwood was beginning to have greater problems with Dol Guldur and we saw less and less of its princes."
"Then you could be wrong!" Strider concluded triumphantly.
"But think about it, Estel," argued Elrohir, "How well do you now him?"
Elladan added insistently, before Strider could reply, "That is not all, Estel. Are you not wondering what he is doing, roaming around freely?"
"Exile?" Strider guessed.
"Escape," said Elrohir gravely, "And only the guilty flee."
"How did you come upon this dark elf anyway, Estel?" asked Elladan, "You do have a talent for finding trouble."
"He tried to steal my horse," Strider replied grudgingly, knowing it did not sound very good at all, so he added, "And he aided me when I was ill."
Elladan's brows furrowed, "He must be quite confused."
"These few hundred years of isolation must have addled his brain," agreed Elrohir.
Strider's eyes widened, "A few hundred years?"
"Indeed," Elrohir nodded, "Lesandro's murder was quite a long time ago. Legolas was arrested soon after. He attempted to escape before his trial began. And this is where it gets interesting."
"He was pursued by a band of soldiers," said Elladan, "And they brought back a corpse that they claimed was his."
"Ada is closeted in his study trying to control the situation," said Elrohir, "Do you understand the complications of the sudden appearance of this supposedly dead elf?"
Strider's brows furrowed, "Are you saying perhaps Legolas' escape—disguised by his 'death'—was engineered?"
"That is what Ada is considering," replied Elrohir, nodding, "And possibly arranged by none less than King Thranduil himself. Legolas always was the King's most beloved son, the one after his own heart. Lesandro had the mother's graciousness, but Legolas had the spirit of a King. He was the most beautiful of them, the most intelligent, the most skilled. Everyone always said he was meant to be the King and not his older brother. Perhaps he took it to heart and stole this kingdom he always felt should have been his."
"It is highly plausible that King Thranduil did not want to see his most loved son on trial for murder," said Elladan with a wince, "or worse, executed. It's been whispered since Legolas' 'death' that the King ordered the arranging of the escape, and staged the death to spare his son. Long have we heard of the legends of the exiled prince in hiding in the forests of his lost kingdom. And now here he is. Alive indeed."
"Ada does not know what to do with him," said Elrohir, "Would King Thranduil want his son back to face trial and almost certain death in Mirkwood? Or would King Thranduil want him set free, for us all to pretend nothing happened? Ada is composing a message to him right now, and has ordered the silence of our soldiers. This must be kept secret until we know for certain what the King of Mirkwood desires. He, after all, has the right to be made aware first."
"And where is Legolas?" asked Strider.
"Kept very much in secret," replied Elladan, "Down in the deepest of our dungeons."
* * *
"What are you doing here?" Legolas asked, irritable. He had sensed the human coming from his discreet, distinct footsteps as he turned a corner and appeared across the way from the dungeon's bars that separated them in more ways than one. The elf's brows furrowed, hating the sound of his own voice, his tone, for he could not understand himself at all. Earlier he had asked to be left alone, and when the human complied he was profoundly irritated at him. Pushed to the very bowels of Rivendell he counted on Strider to come and be a distraction, if not a comfort—certainly not!, he thought defensively—and now that he was here at last, Legolas was still rather irked at him. Perhaps he was just simply irked at the entire dire situation.
He sighed, defeated by himself. He was profoundly weary, and he ached from the beating he had taken during his arrest, on top of the ankle which was once again screaming for attention. He sat against the far wall of his dank cell, watching the play on the conflicted man's face.
"You do not look well," Strider said quietly.
"You, on the other hand," pointed out Legolas sourly, "look much better all changed."
"I should have come sooner," Strider winced, "I am sorry. But I do not quite know what to do with you."
"You should not have come at all, and I did not expect or want you to," Legolas lied, and it was such a painfully useless lie that he decided to change the subject and address the latter part of what Strider said, "Well. No one seems to."
Strider stepped as close to the bars as he could, as close to the elf as he could. He fell to a knee, leveling his eyes at Legolas.
"Was it an accident?" Strider asked him, not needing to expound on what 'it' was, for they both clearly knew 'it' was the killing of Lesandro.
"I do not owe you an explanation," Legolas tried to retort arrogantly, though his eyes were anguished, and his pain won over his pride as his voice escalated, "I never should have owed anyone any explanation! I did nothing! I loved my brother!"
"You owe this to yourself," Strider said as he had before, "Offer us the truth, Legolas. It might be best for you."
"Who cares of the truth?" snapped Legolas, "It has long been flowing from my mouth but it is all white noise to everyone else. Who cares of the truth against the appearance of truth? All anyone has to go by are Lesandro's body, my arrow to his heart and my word all screaming against them. I never had a chance!"
"Try me," dared Strider.
"I do not owe you—"
"But you do," said Strider, his voice rising as he finally decided that he was, indeed, very much entitled, "You do owe me an explanation because I find I will believe what you say, if you asked me to. And the rule is this: you cannot let down the people who believe in you, you are not entitled to do so."
"Your logic is distorted," said Legolas distastefully, though his heart pounded, anxious and hurting and suddenly madly hopeful that perhaps he was not as alone as he thought he was.
"Was it an accident?" Strider asked again.
Legolas held his gaze, icy blue eyes turbulent.
"At first I thought so," he said softly, "but it was not. It was not an accident. But it was also not my hand that claimed his life. It may have been my arrow, but it was someone else's hand."
Strider watched him, eyes intent, expectant. But Legolas said nothing else. And he did not need to. Strider heard enough to make up his mind on exactly what he had to do.
TO BE CONTINUED…