1: Nothing that you recognise belongs to me. Original characters and plot, however, are mine.
2: THIS IS A SLASH STORY. M/M. It says so in the summary. It says so in earlier chapters. If you don't like slash, then it's probably best that you don't read it.
3: Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing, especially Emily ;)
***
After his conversation with Aragorn, King Thranduil was so incensed that he dared not go to Legolas. He did not want his anger to find an outlet at his beloved son, but he knew it would if he heard any more of Aragorn's poison spill from his son's lips. The thought that it might not be a spell had entered Thranduil's mind on a few occasions. He had dismissed it, though. He told himself that he had refused the idea of Legolas willingly being in Aragorn's company because it was so preposterous.
No woodland elf would be comfortable in the presence of Isildur's heir and certainly none would willingly leave Mirkwood to follow him. Thranduil had worked hard for many years to secure his realm, to keep his people safe. His anger would have been great had any elf been bewitched by the heir of Isildur. That it was his own son only served to add mockery to the original injury.
Among the woods of his kingdom, Thranduil walked alone and listened to the music of the trees. They were restless and disturbed, their song a lilting, swirling lament that perfectly matched the turmoil in Thranduil's immortal soul. He pondered the impossible once more. He wondered how he would feel if it were to emerge that Legolas had indeed followed Aragorn under his own volition. Before, he had been so certain that this could not have been the case. Now though, having heard the son of men speak, he began to wonder, to doubt his own judgement, to explore the possibilities. If, if, if.
Certainly, the man did not outwardly appear as thoroughly corrupt as all heirs of Isildur were renowned to be. His look and his manner were ungentle, but in the way of the men of Rohan or Gondor or the North, not of a ruffian or a wild man. He was certainly not uneducated; his speech had proven that much. But then, Thranduil reflected, Elrond of Rivendell took pride in the knowledge that all of his children shared and if he had truly accepted the heir of Isildur as one of his own then he would have treated him as an equal.
That thought alone was enough to unsettle Thranduil and he turned from the place where he stood and paced back towards his quarters. But no. They were contaminated now. Aragorn had been there and had attempted to weave webs of deceit with his melodious, somehow utterly rational words. Rational, yes. Or at least, they seemed that way when the listener heard them for the first time. But then, rethinking them later, Thranduil had realised the poison in the tone, the absolute malice that was carefully melded to the supposed respect.
Thranduil shook his head as though to rid himself of an annoying, buzzing insect. In a sense, he supposed he was. Its name was doubt and he wanted it as far away from his mind as possible. It would not do to let it cloud what he had learned in his long years.
+++
Aragorn had paced the length and breadth of the cell he had been locked into countless times. He had felt for weak places in the stones and the bars and found none. Finally, frustrated, he sank onto the stone bench that ran around the room his long legs crossed in front of him. He could not clear his mind of the anger he felt although he knew he must if he was to plan an escape or be able to negotiate his way out of the situation.
He was certain of only two things. One was the rage singing in his veins and in his soul at the utter injustice of his current circumstances. The other was that as soon as he was free, he would leave the Woodland Realm and never return. That thought caused him some sadness. It was without a doubt the most beautiful and intriguing area of Middle Earth that he had seen in all his years of wandering. The trees in themselves were miraculous. Utterly beautiful and of so many differing types that it made his head ache with the desire to see them all. And yet, in the midst of such beauty, there was, as is so often and so tragically the case, a deep sense of sadness and loss.
Although he would not voice his opinion for fear of exacerbating Thranduil's wrath, Aragorn believed that the loss came from more than the futile deaths of so many fine warriors that his own ancestor had caused. He believed that some part of it came from the loss of contact with the rest of Middle Earth. The cultures of the world were so varied and mystical that they intrigued and scared even the most hearty of travellers. To have all of that shut out, to have the option of travel and conversation and trade with the peoples of the world, seemed an equally tragic loss to Aragorn.
He was pulled sharply from his reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching the cell. Immediately, Aragorn sprang to his feet and leaned against the door.
"Release me," he commanded. The footsteps slowed briefly and Aragorn rapped on the door, tearing the skin on his knuckles. "Release me!" he repeated, louder this time. The footsteps stilled completely for a moment and hope surged in Aragorn's heart. It flickered and died when the footsteps began again, hesitantly at first and then gaining momentum as they faded into the distance.
Flinging himself down onto the bench again, Aragorn ran his thumb over the scraped knuckles of his hand, feeling the sting of scratched flesh and closing his eyes, trying to empty his mind enough to formulate a plan.
+++
The second, less vocal healer had slipped from the room at some point to inform the King that Legolas was not in any immediate physical danger. He was alone with Mercia now and the blind elf was stroking his hand as they talked ceaselessly of irrelevancies and minor details of their lives.
They spoke at first of archery and even without his sight, Mercia could tell that the Prince's eyes were glowing as he talked about his first passion. He described the freedom he felt when he practised, the desire to feel something as pure as that which an arrowhead must feel when it flew through the air, its only mission to reach its target. Mercia smiled his sweet, grave smile and laughed with the Prince at tales of his childhood, at the trouble he had been in when he ran off one night, barely fifty years old, still a child in elven terms. He had been found later the next day, sitting high in a tree.
Although Mercia did not say so, he remembered the incident very well. It had been he who had found Legolas in the tree. Many of the king's most trusted allies and closest friends had been searching long hours for the wayward Prince and it was Mercia who had spied the lean, fair form perched on a high branch. Smiling softly, Mercia had climbed the tree and been sitting on the same branch as Legolas, swinging his legs idly before the Prince realised he was even there. For a moment, Legolas had scowled imperiously at Mercia, annoyed that someone had invaded his privacy. Mercia simply stared back coolly. Finally, Legolas had lost the grave look of superiority on his face and smiled openly at Mercia. Together, they had climbed down from the tree and on their way back, concocted a story to explain Legolas' absence.
From that moment on, Mercia had felt a deep love for the prince, an urge to protect him that had not diminished with the loss of his vision. That was the reason that he had been called for on Legolas and Thranduil's return to Mirkwood. The King knew that Mercia would not rest until he found what was ailing the prince.
"So, my Lord," Mercia sighed. "You are lying to me."
"No!" Legolas protested. "I promised I would tell you the truth and I have done so."
The distress in Legolas' tone was obvious and to Mercia's ears, alert and attuned to falsehood, it was genuine. Sighing again, Mercia took Legolas' hand with unnerving accuracy, stroking the soft skin.
"Maybe you have told me what you know of the truth," Mercia suggested, tilting his head to one side and closing his blank, beautiful eyes for a brief moment.
"Aragorn placed no spell upon me," Legolas said flatly for what seemed to him like the thousandth time.
"Indeed," Mercia nodded, his tone and expression utterly inscrutable.
"You believe me?" Legolas asked, joy bubbling in his heart at the idea of someone finally believing his words.
"I think I do," Mercia said. "But I am troubled. There is much in your mind, my Pince. Much that nobody, not even you yourself, is yet aware of. I believe that I need to speak with this Aragorn, son of Arathorn. A change has come over you since you met him and I would know what has caused it, be it witchcraft or...any other spell." Mercia stood and walked towards the door.
"Mercia?" Legolas called, perturbed by his sudden departure. "What 'other spell' do you speak of?"
"I do not know yet," Mercia admitted. "That is what I hope to learn."
***
tbc
2: THIS IS A SLASH STORY. M/M. It says so in the summary. It says so in earlier chapters. If you don't like slash, then it's probably best that you don't read it.
3: Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing, especially Emily ;)
***
After his conversation with Aragorn, King Thranduil was so incensed that he dared not go to Legolas. He did not want his anger to find an outlet at his beloved son, but he knew it would if he heard any more of Aragorn's poison spill from his son's lips. The thought that it might not be a spell had entered Thranduil's mind on a few occasions. He had dismissed it, though. He told himself that he had refused the idea of Legolas willingly being in Aragorn's company because it was so preposterous.
No woodland elf would be comfortable in the presence of Isildur's heir and certainly none would willingly leave Mirkwood to follow him. Thranduil had worked hard for many years to secure his realm, to keep his people safe. His anger would have been great had any elf been bewitched by the heir of Isildur. That it was his own son only served to add mockery to the original injury.
Among the woods of his kingdom, Thranduil walked alone and listened to the music of the trees. They were restless and disturbed, their song a lilting, swirling lament that perfectly matched the turmoil in Thranduil's immortal soul. He pondered the impossible once more. He wondered how he would feel if it were to emerge that Legolas had indeed followed Aragorn under his own volition. Before, he had been so certain that this could not have been the case. Now though, having heard the son of men speak, he began to wonder, to doubt his own judgement, to explore the possibilities. If, if, if.
Certainly, the man did not outwardly appear as thoroughly corrupt as all heirs of Isildur were renowned to be. His look and his manner were ungentle, but in the way of the men of Rohan or Gondor or the North, not of a ruffian or a wild man. He was certainly not uneducated; his speech had proven that much. But then, Thranduil reflected, Elrond of Rivendell took pride in the knowledge that all of his children shared and if he had truly accepted the heir of Isildur as one of his own then he would have treated him as an equal.
That thought alone was enough to unsettle Thranduil and he turned from the place where he stood and paced back towards his quarters. But no. They were contaminated now. Aragorn had been there and had attempted to weave webs of deceit with his melodious, somehow utterly rational words. Rational, yes. Or at least, they seemed that way when the listener heard them for the first time. But then, rethinking them later, Thranduil had realised the poison in the tone, the absolute malice that was carefully melded to the supposed respect.
Thranduil shook his head as though to rid himself of an annoying, buzzing insect. In a sense, he supposed he was. Its name was doubt and he wanted it as far away from his mind as possible. It would not do to let it cloud what he had learned in his long years.
+++
Aragorn had paced the length and breadth of the cell he had been locked into countless times. He had felt for weak places in the stones and the bars and found none. Finally, frustrated, he sank onto the stone bench that ran around the room his long legs crossed in front of him. He could not clear his mind of the anger he felt although he knew he must if he was to plan an escape or be able to negotiate his way out of the situation.
He was certain of only two things. One was the rage singing in his veins and in his soul at the utter injustice of his current circumstances. The other was that as soon as he was free, he would leave the Woodland Realm and never return. That thought caused him some sadness. It was without a doubt the most beautiful and intriguing area of Middle Earth that he had seen in all his years of wandering. The trees in themselves were miraculous. Utterly beautiful and of so many differing types that it made his head ache with the desire to see them all. And yet, in the midst of such beauty, there was, as is so often and so tragically the case, a deep sense of sadness and loss.
Although he would not voice his opinion for fear of exacerbating Thranduil's wrath, Aragorn believed that the loss came from more than the futile deaths of so many fine warriors that his own ancestor had caused. He believed that some part of it came from the loss of contact with the rest of Middle Earth. The cultures of the world were so varied and mystical that they intrigued and scared even the most hearty of travellers. To have all of that shut out, to have the option of travel and conversation and trade with the peoples of the world, seemed an equally tragic loss to Aragorn.
He was pulled sharply from his reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching the cell. Immediately, Aragorn sprang to his feet and leaned against the door.
"Release me," he commanded. The footsteps slowed briefly and Aragorn rapped on the door, tearing the skin on his knuckles. "Release me!" he repeated, louder this time. The footsteps stilled completely for a moment and hope surged in Aragorn's heart. It flickered and died when the footsteps began again, hesitantly at first and then gaining momentum as they faded into the distance.
Flinging himself down onto the bench again, Aragorn ran his thumb over the scraped knuckles of his hand, feeling the sting of scratched flesh and closing his eyes, trying to empty his mind enough to formulate a plan.
+++
The second, less vocal healer had slipped from the room at some point to inform the King that Legolas was not in any immediate physical danger. He was alone with Mercia now and the blind elf was stroking his hand as they talked ceaselessly of irrelevancies and minor details of their lives.
They spoke at first of archery and even without his sight, Mercia could tell that the Prince's eyes were glowing as he talked about his first passion. He described the freedom he felt when he practised, the desire to feel something as pure as that which an arrowhead must feel when it flew through the air, its only mission to reach its target. Mercia smiled his sweet, grave smile and laughed with the Prince at tales of his childhood, at the trouble he had been in when he ran off one night, barely fifty years old, still a child in elven terms. He had been found later the next day, sitting high in a tree.
Although Mercia did not say so, he remembered the incident very well. It had been he who had found Legolas in the tree. Many of the king's most trusted allies and closest friends had been searching long hours for the wayward Prince and it was Mercia who had spied the lean, fair form perched on a high branch. Smiling softly, Mercia had climbed the tree and been sitting on the same branch as Legolas, swinging his legs idly before the Prince realised he was even there. For a moment, Legolas had scowled imperiously at Mercia, annoyed that someone had invaded his privacy. Mercia simply stared back coolly. Finally, Legolas had lost the grave look of superiority on his face and smiled openly at Mercia. Together, they had climbed down from the tree and on their way back, concocted a story to explain Legolas' absence.
From that moment on, Mercia had felt a deep love for the prince, an urge to protect him that had not diminished with the loss of his vision. That was the reason that he had been called for on Legolas and Thranduil's return to Mirkwood. The King knew that Mercia would not rest until he found what was ailing the prince.
"So, my Lord," Mercia sighed. "You are lying to me."
"No!" Legolas protested. "I promised I would tell you the truth and I have done so."
The distress in Legolas' tone was obvious and to Mercia's ears, alert and attuned to falsehood, it was genuine. Sighing again, Mercia took Legolas' hand with unnerving accuracy, stroking the soft skin.
"Maybe you have told me what you know of the truth," Mercia suggested, tilting his head to one side and closing his blank, beautiful eyes for a brief moment.
"Aragorn placed no spell upon me," Legolas said flatly for what seemed to him like the thousandth time.
"Indeed," Mercia nodded, his tone and expression utterly inscrutable.
"You believe me?" Legolas asked, joy bubbling in his heart at the idea of someone finally believing his words.
"I think I do," Mercia said. "But I am troubled. There is much in your mind, my Pince. Much that nobody, not even you yourself, is yet aware of. I believe that I need to speak with this Aragorn, son of Arathorn. A change has come over you since you met him and I would know what has caused it, be it witchcraft or...any other spell." Mercia stood and walked towards the door.
"Mercia?" Legolas called, perturbed by his sudden departure. "What 'other spell' do you speak of?"
"I do not know yet," Mercia admitted. "That is what I hope to learn."
***
tbc