Ack, sorry this has taken so long to post. Real life is catching up with me, which I think is really inconsiderate of it. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you all brighten my days so much.
None of the established characters belong to me. There are a couple of original characters that do but other than that, I'm just borrowing them for a bit of fun.
Chapter 8.
As soon as Mercia had finished speaking with Estel and had parted company with the elves guarding the human's cell, he hastened to Legolas' quarters and knocked on the door. The prince called softly for him to enter and Mercia walked inside. Legolas hurried to his side, abandoning his restless pacing of the room.
"How...?" Legolas began, entirely forgetting his manners in his desperation for news. "Forgive me," he said, "you seem weary. Come, sit with me and tell me all that you can." Gently, he guided Mercia to the bed and sat down at his side, holding the blind elf's hand anxiously.
"I am indeed exhausted," Mercia admitted. "You two children have the most horrible effect on your elders and betters, you know," he pointed out teasingly.
In spite of his anxiety and eagerness for news of Estel, Legolas laughed softly and for a relaxed moment, joined Mercia in his gentle teasing. "I am not a child any longer, Mercia. I am no longer an infant who loses himself in the branches of trees and is too proud to leave his nest when he is called."
Mercia laughed, but the sound of mirth faded into a wistful smile that made his face look graver and older than Legolas had seen it before.
"Ah, Legolas," he sighed. "Indeed, you have grown much and changed almost beyond recognition." For a moment, there was silence, and Mercia was lost in his thoughts. He roused himself and smiled at Legolas warmly. "He is well," Mercia said finally. "He is furiously angry, but he is well. He has not been harmed and he will not be unless your father exercises the justice of his land and Estel is found guilty."
"But he is not!" Legolas insisted passionately.
"I believe you," Mercia said quietly, wearily and Legolas felt a pang of guilt for his vehemence. Mercia was responsible for none of this.
"You do?"
"I believe both of you," Mercia continued. "I believe that he placed no spell on you. But Legolas, you must understand, you have changed since you met him. Nay, do not protest until you have heard me speak. The change is deep inside you, so deep that it seems to have been there forever, lying dormant, just waiting for the right trigger to awaken it."
"I do not understand," Legolas said.
"Neither do I," Mercia admitted. "I must leave you now. I must think and see whether time will lift the veils from my mind."
"Farewell," Legolas said, walking with Mercia to the door. As the door shut behind the blind elf, Legolas felt the confusion return to him, the nerve-wracking loss of control that had haunted him since the knowledge of Estel's lineage had first been revealed. The Prince was alone with only his thoughts for company.
For a time, Mercia walked alone in the woods, his feet sure and steady upon the ground. The singing of the trees came softly and gently into his mind, unobtrusively soothing his tangled thoughts. Sometimes, Mercia found himself desperately needing this environment. Usually, he had the control over his mind that came naturally to all elves, but in times of stress or confusion, this ability dissipated and it was then that Elves needed their homeland the most. They needed the surroundings of nature and of beauty to organise their own minds.
Mercia thought long and deeply as he walked, recalling every word of his conversations with Legolas, King Thranduil and Estel. Mercia was unsure when the man became Estel in his mind rather than bearing the cursed name of Aragorn, although he had a suspicion that it was when he heard the man's soft tones speaking admiringly of Legolas. It felt alien to Mercia to have come to trust the man so swiftly. He believed that some of the trust had originated from Estel's discretion in refusing to speak of what had occurred between himself and Legolas when the Prince had come across him in the wild.
Mercia knew what had happened. He had known from the moment he took Legolas' hand that something had occurred between them and it had only taken the scantest study of Legolas' mind and educated conjecture to establish exactly what had taken place. All he needed to know now was why. It did not confuse him that Legolas' kiss had been bestowed upon another male. The Elves held none of the prejudices that were so fiercely guarded in the Kingdoms of men. The only thing that plagued Mercia's mind was why the kiss had been bestowed upon this particular man. There were very few elves who would have done so, no matter that Estel proved, after only a brief time, to be far from the monster the legend of his bloodline portrayed him as. In spite of this, many elves would have reacted with fear to the man, and none would have gone so close as to be able to kiss him.
Mercia wondered if Legolas had recognised something within the man that he knew lived inside of himself also. He thought again about all that he knew of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and all that Legolas had said to him on the subject of the man. He came to wonder if maybe the youngest Prince of Mirkwood was wiser than all of his elders. Rather than judging Estel by what he knew of his heritage, he had judged him by what he knew of him as a man, a person, an individual. Legolas had not seen the heir to a cursed throne, but a noble and brave warrior, a man willing to lay down his life for someone he did not know.
Mercia roused himself from his thoughts with an effort. He knew that he should have reported to the King immediately after he had spoken with Estel, but his mind had been in such turmoil that he had not dared to present himself to Thranduil, lest he allowed some information to pass his lips that would be better kept private. Mercia was startled to find that he was contemplating lying to his King. He had never done so before and wondered why the relationship between Estel and Legolas made him willing to cross so many previously unexplored boundaries. As happened every day of his long life, his thoughts turned to Hanfrith, wondering what he would have advised Mercia to do had he been alive today. The thought was pointless, of course. Had Hanfrith been alive, Mercia would have his sight and he would be a warrior, not a healer.
In his mind, Mercia could see Hanfrith still, the hair like deepest night and the eyes of pale blue. Before meeting Hanfrith, Mercia had not known that a colour that light could burn. Somehow, in Hanfrith's ice blue eyes, a fire had burned. An indomitable, unquenchable flame of passion and love. Indomitable until...until that foul day, that day that would live forever in Mercia's memory, a torturous day of heartache and agony. Mercia remembered finding Hanfrith's body, cold and still in the grass, the fire in his eyes extinguished at last. The grief of that day had been so strong that Mercia thought he too, would die. He did not fear his death. Indeed, he had welcomed it. He had embraced the idea of it and gone forth alone, unarmed save for a bow and a sword, to exact a lover's final revenge. He had strayed far from Mirkwood and had fought with Orcs and Wolves and all manner of foul beasts. Those days, or they might have been years, were a blur in Mercia's memory, a blur of dark nights and black blood, shining in the moonlight. A blur of agony, when his death was held at bay only by his anger, his determination to avenge Hanfrith. Mercia had been nestled in the branches of a tree, shooting arrow after arrow into a pack of Orcs that were screaming with wild anger at the death of their beastly fellows. Then, one of the largest Orcs had caught sight of him, Mercia's pale skin gleaming like ivory in the moonlight. Mercia was dragged from the tree but managed to escape the claws of the Orc who held him, but not before those claws had raked a vicious line across his eyes. Mercia had fought bitterly, believing that his faltering sight was due to blood running into his eyes. When all the Orcs lay dead about him and he had washed his face and weapons in a nearby stream, he realised the truth. With his sight gone, Mercia's anger abandoned him too. It seemed to leave him all at once, a gaping empty hole inside him the only evidence that it had ever existed at all. For a time, the emptiness was filled with sorrow so deep that Mercia began to fade. In the wilderness, he walked alone, heedless of where his footsteps would lead. Some deep instinct untouched by sorrow lead him towards Mirkwood. Within sight of the eaves of the forest, Mercia fell to the ground and felt darkness take him, his only thought one of heartbroken content. He had walked far, and killed many of those who had taken Hanfrith from him, as well as many of their foul kin. And now he would die; die and see Hanfrith once more, Hanfrith who had shone brighter than the sun.
But he had not died. He had been found and for many weeks had lain listless and pale, in the care of the finest healers of the land. For him, there was no longer any pride in having slain so many Orcs. The mission he had given himself had had, at its end, his own death. His own death would, he had calmly reasoned, be the only way to ease the screaming sorrow inside his soul. There was no way to live with that kind of mental anguish inside him. He had failed in his mission, and he had damned himself to a life of grief.
Then, at the behest of King Thranduil, Lord Elrond had come to Mirkwood to try and heal Mercia, who was alive and yet still so pale, as one who walks the fine line between life and death, one who leans towards death and it's numbing embrace. The Lord of Rivendell had sat with Mercia and laid his cool hands upon the elf's brow, soothing and calming the grief that raged inside him. Then, rather than attempt to heal Mercia in any manner that he had used before, Elrond spoke instead of his wife, and her torture at the hands of wild Orcs, at the grief that had consumed him and almost claimed his life.
"You must find something to live for, Mercia, my friend," Elrond said gravely. "It would truly be a crime to allow yourself to die now, when there is so much in the world to be done."
Mercia had found something to live for. At first, it hardly seemed sufficient and his mind was ever filled with memories of Hanfrith's dead face, tied in tauntingly with memories of his soft skin and his laughter. As years had gone on, Hanfrith's memory had not faded, but had seemed to lose some of the razor sharp edges that had so cut Mercia previously. Mercia had been able to live, and to work as a healer. He knew that never again would he love another being as he had loved Hanfrith.
Idly, pointlessly, he wished that Hanfrith was here still. For all the wisdom and kindness that others perceived in Mercia, he had seen wisdom ten times greater in Hanfrith. When they patrolled the borders of Mirkwood together, Hanfrith had shown more mercy, more pity, more pure, elemental goodness, than Mercia had ever witnessed in another living soul. Mercia felt sure that with Hanfrith by his side, he would have been able to give some genuine help to Estel and Legolas, to free the man and settle the elf's troubled mind. When Hanfrith had been alive, he had loved Mercia without reservation and his love had shone. Mercia himself had absorbed the light of Hanfrith's love and it had grown within him until he too had shone as Hanfrith had shone, blessed with the love of such a pure being.
Hanfrith would know what to do for the best and the moment he knew it, Mercia would have known it also. He had known that Hanfrith was in danger and he had felt the moment of his death like a blow to the chest. The connection between the two of them had flourished naturally and immediately and had been nurtured by years of love and devotion. If Hanfrith was alive, he would be able to see the problem and the solution in the same moment, and he would see their true identities.
Mercia sat for a while at the base of a tree, lost in the memories of a lover who was long dead, but who would never fade, a lover for whom Mercia would have disobeyed his king in an instant. A lover...
Before the thought had fully formed in Mercia's mind, he was already running, flying along the path back towards Legolas' quarters. This time, he did not bother to knock and Legolas started at the unusual occurrence of anybody entering his chamber without express permission. When he saw that it was Mercia, Legolas stood and went to him at once, feeling almost sick with worry.
"Legolas," Mercia demanded, closing the door behind himself and leaning against it, half of his consciousness focused outside, listening intently for footsteps or voices, "how do you feel when you think of Estel?"
Although Legolas had thought of little other than the man in the hours since their meeting, he had not taken the time to consider the feelings that the thoughts brought to the surface. Now, he took the time to consider the question and to think about the truth of the answer he gave.
"I feel," he began and then paused for a moment. "I feel a multitude of things. I feel anger at the way he has been treated. I feel respect for the man he is. And I feel... I feel a tension in my breast that springs from some groundless well of anxiety and excitement, awkwardness and tenderness."
"Legolas. Do you love him?" Mercia asked.
"I do not even know the man!" Legolas laughed. "To speak of love is ridiculous."
"Love is often ridiculous," Mercia said calmly. "And do not think, my prince, that I have not realised you have evaded the question. As for not knowing him, this is perfectly true. You do not know him at all, and yet you feel that you have known him for many lives of men. Am I correct?"
"How can you assume to know what I feel?" Legolas demanded, his tone one of royal indignance that he could not remember hearing from his own mouth before.
"My lord," Mercia said stiffly, "if I have been impertinent, forgive me." He turned to leave.
"Nay, Mercia, stay," Legolas implored him. "It is not you that should apologise. I do indeed feel a kinship to Estel, as though I had grown up in his presence. I had not known of or acknowledged the feeling until mere seconds ago and to hear it voiced so eloquently by another startled and perturbed me. Please, stay. Stay, and tell me why you can see so clearly into my heart, clearer even than I am able to see."
"I have been in love, Legolas," Mercia said. "And I felt then as you feel now. It struck me quickly and with more force than anything I have known."
"What happened?" Legolas asked, utterly enthralled.
"He died," Mercia said softly, coming to sit beside Legolas on the bed. "He was killed by Orcs and the grief was almost the end of me. Legolas, he was a marvel. I would have walked through fire for him; I would have walked into the very torture chambers of Barad Dûr and given myself up to the Dark Lord if he had asked it of me."
Legolas could not contain a shudder at the mention of Sauron's realm.
"You know that I kissed Estel," Legolas realised, turning his face away from Mercia, trying to hide the flush that was partly from shame and partly from the heat the memory brought to his mind.
"I do," Mercia agreed. "I knew very soon after we first talked and you must know that I do not judge you for it at all. After all, the greatest love of my lifetime was male. But it made me fiercely curious, this kiss, and I knew that I had to learn the reasons behind it."
"Must there be a reason?" Legolas asked. "Can I not simply be judged a fool and have the matter left alone?"
"I fear not," Mercia smiled sadly. "Legolas, your father will not rest until he sees Estel punished. Between us, we must persuade him that he is innocent."
"Us?" Legolas asked. "We? You truly believe us?"
"How could I not?" Mercia asked, reaching one hand towards Legolas' face, his fingertips grazing the prince's cheek. "I can sense no lie in either one of you."
Legolas took hold of Mercia's hand and raised it to his own forehead before kissing the knuckles softly, showing his respect.
"Thank you," he said softly.
"Do not thank me until you know for sure whether I have been able to help you," Mercia warned him.
"Your belief is help enough for now," Legolas assured the healer.
"I must report to your father," Mercia said reluctantly. "Already I have delayed too long." He stood and walked to the door where he paused, not turning to look at Legolas. "Do you intend to attempt to release him?" Mercia asked softly.
Legolas' head snapped around towards Mercia but he could read nothing from the set of the healer's back.
"I do not..." Legolas started and then closed his mouth when he realised simultaneously that he had no idea what he had intended to say and that the question did not require an answer in any case.
"Do not speak," Mercia implored him. "If you have a plan, I do not wish to know of it. This betrayal of your father does not sit easily with me, Legolas, and I want no more part in it than I already have. Tonight," he said softly, "you and I will be walking silently under the trees for many hours. We will not speak; we will be trying to find a cure for your behaviour. If you are not there...my eyes will not tell me so."
"Mercia," Legolas began, but he was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Legolas sat silently, his mind whirling with all that he had learnt of Mercia and of himself. His confusion was like some wild thing inside him, spinning and pacing a cage that was far too small to contain it safely. He could do nothing but sit for a long time and then with a conscious act of will, he forced his confusion down, acknowledging its presence but determined not to be ruled by it alone.
Do you intend to attempt to release him?
Legolas thought, purely out of curiosity, he told himself, of what little he knew of the dungeons of Mirkwood. There would certainly be at least two elves on guard at any given time.
Do you intend to attempt to?
The real question, Legolas supposed, was not how many guards were on duty, but whether or not they would let him pass, and if they would not, how he would go about distracting them well enough to release Estel.
Do you intend?
In reality, he knew the idea was foolhardy. The elves guarding Estel were bound to know the story of the supposed spell and the power in the man's voice. Nothing would make them leave their post and nothing would make them let Legolas pass, no matter how imperiously he demanded it.
Do you?
Legolas' face hardened.
Of course I do. How could I not?
tbc
None of the established characters belong to me. There are a couple of original characters that do but other than that, I'm just borrowing them for a bit of fun.
Chapter 8.
As soon as Mercia had finished speaking with Estel and had parted company with the elves guarding the human's cell, he hastened to Legolas' quarters and knocked on the door. The prince called softly for him to enter and Mercia walked inside. Legolas hurried to his side, abandoning his restless pacing of the room.
"How...?" Legolas began, entirely forgetting his manners in his desperation for news. "Forgive me," he said, "you seem weary. Come, sit with me and tell me all that you can." Gently, he guided Mercia to the bed and sat down at his side, holding the blind elf's hand anxiously.
"I am indeed exhausted," Mercia admitted. "You two children have the most horrible effect on your elders and betters, you know," he pointed out teasingly.
In spite of his anxiety and eagerness for news of Estel, Legolas laughed softly and for a relaxed moment, joined Mercia in his gentle teasing. "I am not a child any longer, Mercia. I am no longer an infant who loses himself in the branches of trees and is too proud to leave his nest when he is called."
Mercia laughed, but the sound of mirth faded into a wistful smile that made his face look graver and older than Legolas had seen it before.
"Ah, Legolas," he sighed. "Indeed, you have grown much and changed almost beyond recognition." For a moment, there was silence, and Mercia was lost in his thoughts. He roused himself and smiled at Legolas warmly. "He is well," Mercia said finally. "He is furiously angry, but he is well. He has not been harmed and he will not be unless your father exercises the justice of his land and Estel is found guilty."
"But he is not!" Legolas insisted passionately.
"I believe you," Mercia said quietly, wearily and Legolas felt a pang of guilt for his vehemence. Mercia was responsible for none of this.
"You do?"
"I believe both of you," Mercia continued. "I believe that he placed no spell on you. But Legolas, you must understand, you have changed since you met him. Nay, do not protest until you have heard me speak. The change is deep inside you, so deep that it seems to have been there forever, lying dormant, just waiting for the right trigger to awaken it."
"I do not understand," Legolas said.
"Neither do I," Mercia admitted. "I must leave you now. I must think and see whether time will lift the veils from my mind."
"Farewell," Legolas said, walking with Mercia to the door. As the door shut behind the blind elf, Legolas felt the confusion return to him, the nerve-wracking loss of control that had haunted him since the knowledge of Estel's lineage had first been revealed. The Prince was alone with only his thoughts for company.
For a time, Mercia walked alone in the woods, his feet sure and steady upon the ground. The singing of the trees came softly and gently into his mind, unobtrusively soothing his tangled thoughts. Sometimes, Mercia found himself desperately needing this environment. Usually, he had the control over his mind that came naturally to all elves, but in times of stress or confusion, this ability dissipated and it was then that Elves needed their homeland the most. They needed the surroundings of nature and of beauty to organise their own minds.
Mercia thought long and deeply as he walked, recalling every word of his conversations with Legolas, King Thranduil and Estel. Mercia was unsure when the man became Estel in his mind rather than bearing the cursed name of Aragorn, although he had a suspicion that it was when he heard the man's soft tones speaking admiringly of Legolas. It felt alien to Mercia to have come to trust the man so swiftly. He believed that some of the trust had originated from Estel's discretion in refusing to speak of what had occurred between himself and Legolas when the Prince had come across him in the wild.
Mercia knew what had happened. He had known from the moment he took Legolas' hand that something had occurred between them and it had only taken the scantest study of Legolas' mind and educated conjecture to establish exactly what had taken place. All he needed to know now was why. It did not confuse him that Legolas' kiss had been bestowed upon another male. The Elves held none of the prejudices that were so fiercely guarded in the Kingdoms of men. The only thing that plagued Mercia's mind was why the kiss had been bestowed upon this particular man. There were very few elves who would have done so, no matter that Estel proved, after only a brief time, to be far from the monster the legend of his bloodline portrayed him as. In spite of this, many elves would have reacted with fear to the man, and none would have gone so close as to be able to kiss him.
Mercia wondered if Legolas had recognised something within the man that he knew lived inside of himself also. He thought again about all that he knew of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and all that Legolas had said to him on the subject of the man. He came to wonder if maybe the youngest Prince of Mirkwood was wiser than all of his elders. Rather than judging Estel by what he knew of his heritage, he had judged him by what he knew of him as a man, a person, an individual. Legolas had not seen the heir to a cursed throne, but a noble and brave warrior, a man willing to lay down his life for someone he did not know.
Mercia roused himself from his thoughts with an effort. He knew that he should have reported to the King immediately after he had spoken with Estel, but his mind had been in such turmoil that he had not dared to present himself to Thranduil, lest he allowed some information to pass his lips that would be better kept private. Mercia was startled to find that he was contemplating lying to his King. He had never done so before and wondered why the relationship between Estel and Legolas made him willing to cross so many previously unexplored boundaries. As happened every day of his long life, his thoughts turned to Hanfrith, wondering what he would have advised Mercia to do had he been alive today. The thought was pointless, of course. Had Hanfrith been alive, Mercia would have his sight and he would be a warrior, not a healer.
In his mind, Mercia could see Hanfrith still, the hair like deepest night and the eyes of pale blue. Before meeting Hanfrith, Mercia had not known that a colour that light could burn. Somehow, in Hanfrith's ice blue eyes, a fire had burned. An indomitable, unquenchable flame of passion and love. Indomitable until...until that foul day, that day that would live forever in Mercia's memory, a torturous day of heartache and agony. Mercia remembered finding Hanfrith's body, cold and still in the grass, the fire in his eyes extinguished at last. The grief of that day had been so strong that Mercia thought he too, would die. He did not fear his death. Indeed, he had welcomed it. He had embraced the idea of it and gone forth alone, unarmed save for a bow and a sword, to exact a lover's final revenge. He had strayed far from Mirkwood and had fought with Orcs and Wolves and all manner of foul beasts. Those days, or they might have been years, were a blur in Mercia's memory, a blur of dark nights and black blood, shining in the moonlight. A blur of agony, when his death was held at bay only by his anger, his determination to avenge Hanfrith. Mercia had been nestled in the branches of a tree, shooting arrow after arrow into a pack of Orcs that were screaming with wild anger at the death of their beastly fellows. Then, one of the largest Orcs had caught sight of him, Mercia's pale skin gleaming like ivory in the moonlight. Mercia was dragged from the tree but managed to escape the claws of the Orc who held him, but not before those claws had raked a vicious line across his eyes. Mercia had fought bitterly, believing that his faltering sight was due to blood running into his eyes. When all the Orcs lay dead about him and he had washed his face and weapons in a nearby stream, he realised the truth. With his sight gone, Mercia's anger abandoned him too. It seemed to leave him all at once, a gaping empty hole inside him the only evidence that it had ever existed at all. For a time, the emptiness was filled with sorrow so deep that Mercia began to fade. In the wilderness, he walked alone, heedless of where his footsteps would lead. Some deep instinct untouched by sorrow lead him towards Mirkwood. Within sight of the eaves of the forest, Mercia fell to the ground and felt darkness take him, his only thought one of heartbroken content. He had walked far, and killed many of those who had taken Hanfrith from him, as well as many of their foul kin. And now he would die; die and see Hanfrith once more, Hanfrith who had shone brighter than the sun.
But he had not died. He had been found and for many weeks had lain listless and pale, in the care of the finest healers of the land. For him, there was no longer any pride in having slain so many Orcs. The mission he had given himself had had, at its end, his own death. His own death would, he had calmly reasoned, be the only way to ease the screaming sorrow inside his soul. There was no way to live with that kind of mental anguish inside him. He had failed in his mission, and he had damned himself to a life of grief.
Then, at the behest of King Thranduil, Lord Elrond had come to Mirkwood to try and heal Mercia, who was alive and yet still so pale, as one who walks the fine line between life and death, one who leans towards death and it's numbing embrace. The Lord of Rivendell had sat with Mercia and laid his cool hands upon the elf's brow, soothing and calming the grief that raged inside him. Then, rather than attempt to heal Mercia in any manner that he had used before, Elrond spoke instead of his wife, and her torture at the hands of wild Orcs, at the grief that had consumed him and almost claimed his life.
"You must find something to live for, Mercia, my friend," Elrond said gravely. "It would truly be a crime to allow yourself to die now, when there is so much in the world to be done."
Mercia had found something to live for. At first, it hardly seemed sufficient and his mind was ever filled with memories of Hanfrith's dead face, tied in tauntingly with memories of his soft skin and his laughter. As years had gone on, Hanfrith's memory had not faded, but had seemed to lose some of the razor sharp edges that had so cut Mercia previously. Mercia had been able to live, and to work as a healer. He knew that never again would he love another being as he had loved Hanfrith.
Idly, pointlessly, he wished that Hanfrith was here still. For all the wisdom and kindness that others perceived in Mercia, he had seen wisdom ten times greater in Hanfrith. When they patrolled the borders of Mirkwood together, Hanfrith had shown more mercy, more pity, more pure, elemental goodness, than Mercia had ever witnessed in another living soul. Mercia felt sure that with Hanfrith by his side, he would have been able to give some genuine help to Estel and Legolas, to free the man and settle the elf's troubled mind. When Hanfrith had been alive, he had loved Mercia without reservation and his love had shone. Mercia himself had absorbed the light of Hanfrith's love and it had grown within him until he too had shone as Hanfrith had shone, blessed with the love of such a pure being.
Hanfrith would know what to do for the best and the moment he knew it, Mercia would have known it also. He had known that Hanfrith was in danger and he had felt the moment of his death like a blow to the chest. The connection between the two of them had flourished naturally and immediately and had been nurtured by years of love and devotion. If Hanfrith was alive, he would be able to see the problem and the solution in the same moment, and he would see their true identities.
Mercia sat for a while at the base of a tree, lost in the memories of a lover who was long dead, but who would never fade, a lover for whom Mercia would have disobeyed his king in an instant. A lover...
Before the thought had fully formed in Mercia's mind, he was already running, flying along the path back towards Legolas' quarters. This time, he did not bother to knock and Legolas started at the unusual occurrence of anybody entering his chamber without express permission. When he saw that it was Mercia, Legolas stood and went to him at once, feeling almost sick with worry.
"Legolas," Mercia demanded, closing the door behind himself and leaning against it, half of his consciousness focused outside, listening intently for footsteps or voices, "how do you feel when you think of Estel?"
Although Legolas had thought of little other than the man in the hours since their meeting, he had not taken the time to consider the feelings that the thoughts brought to the surface. Now, he took the time to consider the question and to think about the truth of the answer he gave.
"I feel," he began and then paused for a moment. "I feel a multitude of things. I feel anger at the way he has been treated. I feel respect for the man he is. And I feel... I feel a tension in my breast that springs from some groundless well of anxiety and excitement, awkwardness and tenderness."
"Legolas. Do you love him?" Mercia asked.
"I do not even know the man!" Legolas laughed. "To speak of love is ridiculous."
"Love is often ridiculous," Mercia said calmly. "And do not think, my prince, that I have not realised you have evaded the question. As for not knowing him, this is perfectly true. You do not know him at all, and yet you feel that you have known him for many lives of men. Am I correct?"
"How can you assume to know what I feel?" Legolas demanded, his tone one of royal indignance that he could not remember hearing from his own mouth before.
"My lord," Mercia said stiffly, "if I have been impertinent, forgive me." He turned to leave.
"Nay, Mercia, stay," Legolas implored him. "It is not you that should apologise. I do indeed feel a kinship to Estel, as though I had grown up in his presence. I had not known of or acknowledged the feeling until mere seconds ago and to hear it voiced so eloquently by another startled and perturbed me. Please, stay. Stay, and tell me why you can see so clearly into my heart, clearer even than I am able to see."
"I have been in love, Legolas," Mercia said. "And I felt then as you feel now. It struck me quickly and with more force than anything I have known."
"What happened?" Legolas asked, utterly enthralled.
"He died," Mercia said softly, coming to sit beside Legolas on the bed. "He was killed by Orcs and the grief was almost the end of me. Legolas, he was a marvel. I would have walked through fire for him; I would have walked into the very torture chambers of Barad Dûr and given myself up to the Dark Lord if he had asked it of me."
Legolas could not contain a shudder at the mention of Sauron's realm.
"You know that I kissed Estel," Legolas realised, turning his face away from Mercia, trying to hide the flush that was partly from shame and partly from the heat the memory brought to his mind.
"I do," Mercia agreed. "I knew very soon after we first talked and you must know that I do not judge you for it at all. After all, the greatest love of my lifetime was male. But it made me fiercely curious, this kiss, and I knew that I had to learn the reasons behind it."
"Must there be a reason?" Legolas asked. "Can I not simply be judged a fool and have the matter left alone?"
"I fear not," Mercia smiled sadly. "Legolas, your father will not rest until he sees Estel punished. Between us, we must persuade him that he is innocent."
"Us?" Legolas asked. "We? You truly believe us?"
"How could I not?" Mercia asked, reaching one hand towards Legolas' face, his fingertips grazing the prince's cheek. "I can sense no lie in either one of you."
Legolas took hold of Mercia's hand and raised it to his own forehead before kissing the knuckles softly, showing his respect.
"Thank you," he said softly.
"Do not thank me until you know for sure whether I have been able to help you," Mercia warned him.
"Your belief is help enough for now," Legolas assured the healer.
"I must report to your father," Mercia said reluctantly. "Already I have delayed too long." He stood and walked to the door where he paused, not turning to look at Legolas. "Do you intend to attempt to release him?" Mercia asked softly.
Legolas' head snapped around towards Mercia but he could read nothing from the set of the healer's back.
"I do not..." Legolas started and then closed his mouth when he realised simultaneously that he had no idea what he had intended to say and that the question did not require an answer in any case.
"Do not speak," Mercia implored him. "If you have a plan, I do not wish to know of it. This betrayal of your father does not sit easily with me, Legolas, and I want no more part in it than I already have. Tonight," he said softly, "you and I will be walking silently under the trees for many hours. We will not speak; we will be trying to find a cure for your behaviour. If you are not there...my eyes will not tell me so."
"Mercia," Legolas began, but he was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Legolas sat silently, his mind whirling with all that he had learnt of Mercia and of himself. His confusion was like some wild thing inside him, spinning and pacing a cage that was far too small to contain it safely. He could do nothing but sit for a long time and then with a conscious act of will, he forced his confusion down, acknowledging its presence but determined not to be ruled by it alone.
Do you intend to attempt to release him?
Legolas thought, purely out of curiosity, he told himself, of what little he knew of the dungeons of Mirkwood. There would certainly be at least two elves on guard at any given time.
Do you intend to attempt to?
The real question, Legolas supposed, was not how many guards were on duty, but whether or not they would let him pass, and if they would not, how he would go about distracting them well enough to release Estel.
Do you intend?
In reality, he knew the idea was foolhardy. The elves guarding Estel were bound to know the story of the supposed spell and the power in the man's voice. Nothing would make them leave their post and nothing would make them let Legolas pass, no matter how imperiously he demanded it.
Do you?
Legolas' face hardened.
Of course I do. How could I not?
tbc