Chapter Four: History

Legolas passed the cloth over the blade again. The white metal blazed as the sun glinted in it as he tilted it in the new light. Now that the blizzard had finally subsided, the sun beat down on them fiercely, reflecting in the snow.

He levelled the knife with his face and held it there. Eyes so blue they rivalled the sky on a cloudless day stared back at him intently. Not the slightest fleck of green or brown was to be seen in them. They were – apparently – just like his mothers' had been. Everyone in the Court said so, even his father.

Legolas missed his mother. Sometimes he just wanted to see her, to know that she still loved him as much as he still loved her. When he was young, Legolas had always wanted dearly to show his Naneth new skills that he had learned. But he could not. The best he could do was visit her grave and account the information in words rather than actions. It was not the same. It still pained him to think of the tragedy that he and his father shared.

He cupped the blade in his hand to inspect the hilt. Bone, creamy-white with fine gold filigree laid into it in delicate wisps and tendrils. Not originally his, but his brother, Baerahir's. Legolas scrutinised his face critically, trying to find bits of his brother in his countenance. It was not there, so far as he was able to see. Baerahir – the elder of the pair – had always been said to look like the King, and Legolas like the Queen. Save his jaw and nose – though that had been broken a few times – those were from his father.

King Thranduil the Great had been thrown into kingship when the war between the First Alliance and Sauron had taken place. His father, Oropher, had been slain by the Black Lord himself. And so had Baerahir. Three went to fight, one came back.

Thranduil took the crown with a grieving heart and a struggling wife. As much as they tried to focus upon their one remaining child, the Queen's despair had driven her to desperation and madness – and her death.

Thus it was that Legolas had grown as an only child, motherless. He was of the last to be born of his race, thanks to the arising darkness over the years which no Elven couple wished to risk exposing children to. He had passed through his years with a small yet highly-valued set of friends – the dearest of whom had also died.

Now Legolas had Aragorn, the best friend he had ever had. The human was so close to an Elf that Legolas had to remind himself that the Ranger was not of the Firstborn. And that Aragorn was fated to follow the path of all mortals.

No-one I hold dear ever stays...

'Elf?'

Legolas started, visibly jumping at the Dwarf's coarse voice, and he spun round to see Gimli standing at his shoulder – was that concern on his face?

Gimli analysed the others' face intently, wondering if the Elf knew of the tears that made his eyes shine like they were doing. He looked so unhappy.

'The storm's gone,' he observed unnecessarily.

Legolas cleared his throat, averting his eyes to his knife again. 'Yes. Yes, it has.' He tested the edge of the blade with his thumb.

'Those knives are important to you, aren't they?'

The archer paused in what he did before replying: 'They are sacred to me.'

'A gift?'

'From my brother-'

'-I never knew you've got a brother!'

'I haven't. Not any more...'

The Elf rose from his seat – somewhat stiffly – and made his way down the wall of snow. To Legolas, that was the clearest sign anyone could give indicating that they desired solitude. But Gimli did not seem to read the sign very well and followed his much taller companion, practically walking on Legolas' heels.

'Have you a plan, Elf?'

'Yes.'

Gimli waited for a continuation of the response. However, when he got none, he probed: 'And that is ... what, exactly?'

'To leave.' Legolas checked himself before he said you behind.

He tried unrelentingly to conceal his limp, but the task was becoming increasingly difficult. There was an ever-present throbbing ache through his knee that prevented him from sleeping when at rest, and it was growing in its intensity. When he used it, however, the throb became a knife in his leg, constantly stabbing. It was sapping away at his agility and ability to walk. He called the Dwarf a liability. In truth, the liability was himself.

As though he had read the archer's thoughts, Gimli queried: 'Have you even looked at your leg?'

'Yes,' Legolas instantly lied. He kept telling himself that the reason he had failed to examine it was due to the fact that they had no supplies. But in truth, the reason was because he dreaded what he would find.

'And?' Gimli prompted.

'It is bruised, nothing more.' Legolas picked up his pace in a futile effort to make the Dwarf leave him be – but all that achieved was his knee flaring in angry agony. He ignored it, however, penning the pain sensation in his head and leaving it there.

Gimli – upon the realisation that he had left his helmet and Legolas' jerkin – darted back to collect them, shooting back with a speed that greatly annoyed the Elf, though exactly why he was unable to say.