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.
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PART 11
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Mirkwood
A few hundred years past, in the 2800's
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Lesandro is dead.
It was not possible. And yet he stank of the slain elf's blood. He drowned in the sticky redness as much as he drowned in the memories of the brother he had loved so dearly.
He was a lot like mother, he recalled, And now gone before his time as well.
He heard the rustling of his father's robes as the King entered his room. Thranduil hesitantly stood by the doorframes, saying nothing, just watching his son with an unreadable expression in his eyes. The younger elf was standing by his window, his dull gaze fixed upon the skies. Thranduil prayed he would never see that emptiness in the oft spirited elf ever again, that disappointment in the world, that raw and bare anger closeted in layers of despair. And yet, here the two of them were again. Years ago it had been due to the death of his wife, and now the death of his eldest son.
~Legolas,~ he said, taking a tentative step forward, effortlessly bringing the power of a monarch in his voice, ~Bless your heart, child, but you have the blood of Kings in you and you should not despair. You will be King, now. Your people take their strength from you. You have to be the strongest of them all.~
~I am no King,~ said Legolas after a long moment, though some fire lit in his angry eyes, ~I was never meant to be. Who would do this to Lesandro? He was only ever kind.~
~I cannot pretend to understand,~ admitted Thranduil, ~but I promise you we will get to the bottom of this.~
~But he is already gone,~ Legolas said, seething, ~I do not understand any of this.~
Thranduil's brows furrowed. He was about to understand less. ~Legolas. The arrow you drew from Lesandro's heart. It was not an Orc's.~
~It was of Elvish make, I know,~ said Legolas.
~How well do you keep track of your own?~ Thranduil asked cautiously.
Legolas' eyes widened. ~What are you saying?~ he voice sinking low, even as his anger flared.
~The make of it is exactly as yours,~ said Thranduil, ~made by the Realm's greatest craftsmen, carried only by the noblest of lines and the greatest of soldiers. It came from the same stock as those that you had taken with you on your hunt this morning.~
Legolas' entire body shook with his rage, his disbelief at what was being said, at his fear at all that it meant. ~Ada… You know… you know I would not. Not for any treasure, not for a kingdom… not even to save my own life. I could not harm a hair on his head. I love him so…~
~I know, Legolas,~ said Thranduil, ~I know. But perhaps… perhaps an accident. You should not fear to say so if it was, my son, I know you loved him, we all do. But we must know--~
~It was no accident of mine,~ said Legolas, reigning in his courted royal temper, reigning in his aggravated grief, ~You have seen me at work. It may have been my arrow, ada, but not my hand. Not my hand! Your doubt… in your eyes… ~ the situation was rendering him wordless, helpless, confused. He blinked at his anguished tears, blurring his sight, ~Your eyes… your doubt…~
Thranduil's own gaze turned turbulent, and his hands ached to soothe his son's hurting. But he was also a King, and there were things that he needed to know. Up and down the Realm whispers of murder was already spreading, and though he personally knew that Legolas would not kill his own brother, he was a leader long enough to know he was also his people's greatest servant. Justice must be served. And all roads were headed this way, back to his son, who had all the motives, had all the means and the skills and the evidence piled all atop of him.
Legolas looked away from his father, out his window where he watched the Mirkwood elves scurry about down below. Some would glance up, meet his eyes and look away.
Their eyes, he thought, sad and angry, Their doubt.
He held back his tears. For the second time in his life his heart ached as if it would literally break and kill him, and he shook and shuddered, trying to contain it. His body cried for the release of all the things he kept within, and he wondered how one could survive through so much suffering. He was going to explode with it. He was going to burst and vanish and perish with it.
He felt his father's hand upon his shoulder. It was warm, and comforting. But not comforting enough. He stared at the people below, dully. His people. With their eyes and their doubt. He was certainly no King of theirs. And he was no Prince either. He was their Demon, their stray Orc, who killed his own brother and was now reaping all that he had left behind. He wanted to yell and scream at them that he was innocent. He wanted to tear their staring, judging eyes out. But he also wanted to remain himself; he did not want to be all the things they said he was.
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The days progressed slowly, and he endured their staring eyes and their distrust without complaint, only with quiet hurting and the seeds of self-doubt.
How well do you keep track of your own?
Perhaps it was an accident.
You should not fear to say so if it was.
Over and over, the morning of the orc hunt replayed itself in his turbulent mind, as if by mere repetition answers would suddenly make themselves known. But such maddening recurrences lent fire to his dreams and anguished imagination, melding his fears with reality, distorting his recollections, shattering his trust in himself.
Perhaps it was an accident, he began to think, the blood of his brother still seemingly fresh on his hands, and he recalled its scent distinctly, and it only seemed more acute the more he thought perhaps all this was truly his fault. And the more he thought so, the more did the staring, doubting eyes of his peoples burn through him, through to the deepest parts of himself.
It's my fault.
They all know it.
Lesandro is dead and I killed him.
Legolas immersed himself in his work, fervently devoting himself to the protection of their borders, trying to distract himself, trying to make up for all his faults. He's heard it whispered that he perhaps really had lost his mind, the blood-lusting murderous prince, who thought he could buy a kingdom by slaying his brother, but could not live with the consequences. He is mad. He is beyond help…
Maybe they are right.
He stayed still long enough for the funeral, which was attended by representatives from Lothlorien and Rivendell. Friends of Lesandro came, looking grave and angry, the twins of Lord Elrond of Rivendell among them. They stood still and quiet, and would look at him once in awhile, taking in his haggard form and thinking, the rumors do not seem at all far from the truth. He lost his mind. He did it…
Maybe they are right.
He knew his father did all that could be done to keep what would logically follow a murder from happening. But they arrested him one evening and took him to a cell. He followed them wordlessly, resigned to his fate. What investigation could be done had already been done. And all signs pointed his way.
TO BE CONTINUED…