Equinoxium: Chapter 24
by Lisette
Legalese: See Chapter 1 for disclaimers and ratings. Also, kudos to "Maid in Manhattan" for a great quote.
The world was bathed in light and warmth - a warmth that had melted the night's lingering frost hours ago, leaving the narrow stone walkway dry and unlined by winter's touch. With slow but determined steps, Buffy made her way down the twisting walk, tall trees and high bushes lining the stone path while their bare branches filtered the afternoon sun. Six days had come and gone since she had first awakened in the Houses of Healing, and with each new dawn Buffy felt her former strength and vitality begin its slow return.
Its very, very slow return.
While it was true that she was no longer ailing in bed, unable to even feed herself, neither was she recuperated enough to do anything too strenuous for too long - including standing. Back in the Houses of Healing, she had become a bit of a marvel to the many different Healers that were constantly hovering beside her bed and seeing to her fading injuries. To them, her recovery was nothing short of miraculous, but to Buffy, it seemed as though she would never get back to her full strength.
Perhaps she had taken her slayer healing for granted over the past seven years, but to her, six days seemed as an eternity spent in what, for all intents and purposes, was undeniably the Middle-earth equivalent of a hospital. Under normal circumstances, bruises should have been faded and gone within hours, strength returned in days, and her damaged wrist, of all things, should not still be so tender, nor should it still bear the angry red line that marked the wound that had been healed and then reopened again and again on a daily basis for however long she had been prisoner. The healing was slow, ridiculous, and so frustrating that upon waking this morning to find yet another healer in her room, waiting to prod her limbs and caution her to walk only down the narrow hall which housed her newest prison, Buffy had decided that enough was enough.
After six days of nothing to do but watch the people around her, Buffy had come to know the healers' schedules intimately, and after lunch she took the first opportunity she saw and staged her escape... or more accurately, stumbled with limited grace for the nearest exit, which had somehow ended her in... a forest with a walkway. Not that she was complaining.
Buffy drew her borrowed cloak tighter around her small shoulders, wishing for the hundredth time that she had taken the five extra minutes to change into her familiar leathers. But no, when the opportunity had arrived, those five minutes had seemed unbearable and so the slayer had fearlessly bolted, desperate to feel the wind on her face and the open air around her. Admittedly, the open air had felt great for the first few minutes or so, but after that the extremely long white dressing gown and too big slippers weren't exactly made for a winter stroll in the cultivated woods she now roamed, and the cloak that she had swiped from a hook by the door wasn't the warmest piece of material she had ever seen. Then again, at least she was free.
It was almost funny, for Buffy didn't think that she had ever been claustrophobic when growing up. Small rooms had never inspired panic and fear, or thoughts of the walls closing in, but all of that was different now. She was different now. She could probably blame it on waking up to find herself buried six feet under the ground in her own casket a few years back, yet whatever the cause, six days in the white-washed room were five days too many. Though thanks to Legolas and his friends, at least in this new prison she hadn't been forced to endure that time alone. In the past week, owyn seemed to have made it her personal mission to stop and visit at least once every afternoon - sometimes even dragging her husband, Faramir, along. Buffy had also had the opportunity to finally put a name to the beautiful Elven woman that she vaguely remembered seeing in Edoras during her first visit with madness - Arwen, Aragorn's wife and Queen of Gondor.
Smiling softly, Buffy quickly shook her head. At least she was making a point of being at her worst in front of the best company - company that didn't seem to enjoy kicking a girl when she was down. The queen, for example, was always the perfect picture of beauty, grace, and quiet strength - and yet Buffy had seen hints of Elladan and Elrohir's humor in their sister - a humor that was thankfully tempered by an extremely gentle nature and one that didn't seem to delight in tormenting the slayer with her extreme social gaffs. Kings and Queens? Princes and Princesses? Lords and Ladies? How about a simple girl from LA who spent the last seven years fighting the bad stuff in a small town in Southern California? She had frequented Tiffany's when she was a young, bubbly teenager during her time in Los Angeles, if for no other reason than to dream of the White Knight that was bound to sweep her off her feet with glittering diamonds and beautiful promises, but that was about as high-class as she got. And those dreams... those dreams were from a different lifetime. Right now she'd just settle for a life that wouldn't mean hurting anyone else. Was that too much to ask?
Faltering slightly at this thought, Buffy pressed her hand against the rough bark of a nearby tree, her aching limbs starting to shake beneath the strain of carrying her weight for so long. Her muscles hadn't atrophied too badly from her enforced bed rest, or so Aragorn had assured in much different terms, but rather it was the blood loss that was making her so terribly weak. And according to Aragorn, King of all Men, and Ioreth, Head Healer from Hell, that meant lots of food, rest, and awful tasting drinks. Oh joy.
Rolling her eyes, Buffy stubbornly pushed off from the tree and continued her half walk, half stagger down the stone path. While she felt as though she had been walking for ages, she couldn't have been gone for that long, and Buffy fully intended to enjoy the outdoors while she could - even if it meant coming back with numb cheeks and frozen fingers.
Buffy had also had the chance to meet her first dwarf in the form of Gimli, son of Gloin - much to Legolas' apparent dismay, for the short warrior seemed to delight in telling the slayer every possible embarrassing story about the 'Elf' that he could think of. Yet what was more amusing than watching Legolas turn red to the tips of his pointed ears was the way that the two friends bickered and fought - almost as if they were trying to hide their friendship beneath their many jibes and taunts. In a way, the duo reminded her of Xander and Cordelia back in high school... only without the frequent trips to the broom closet. No, Legolas and Gimli's friendship was very much platonic, and yet it obviously went very deep - as did the bond between all of those that Legolas called friend.
Friend.
Buffy felt her awkward steps begin to falter as she thought of that innocent word. She had lost so many dear friends when she was sent to Middle-earth, and yet over the course of her travels in this strange world, she had begun to believe that perhaps she had made a few more to help ease the loss. But now she wasn't so certain. Legolas' friendship had remained unchanged, that was true, but she hadn't seen Elladan and Elrohir since the night that she had been set free. They had gone away, and the loss of their friendship hurt more than she was willing to admit.
"Buffy!"
Gasping raggedly, the slayer stumbled back a pace, nearly tripping over the long hem of her dress as she lifted a trembling hand to her chest, wincing at the painful fluttering that echoed against the base of her hand. "Legolas!" she wheezed as her aching lungs struggled to find the breath that she had lost in her surprise, her wide eyes locked upon the slender figure that had fallen gracefully from the trees onto the stone path before her.
"Buffy, I have been looking all over for you!" Legolas chastised as he waved his hand back in the direction that he had traveled. "The entire Houses of Healing is in an uproar," he continued as he turned his eyes to the thick vegetation that surrounded them, his gaze suddenly becoming thoughtful. "Have you been in the Gardens all this time?"
"Gardens? I... I thought I was in a forest," Buffy murmured distractedly as her heart hammered painfully against her breast, her features becoming ashen.
"A forest?" Legolas laughed, his expression softening as he lovingly patted one slender tree. "Nay, this is no forest - and yet that is beside the point," he corrected. "You should be thankful that Ioreth summoned me before sending for Aragorn," he admonished as he turned back towards the small blonde, just as she began to sway on her feet. Reaching forward, he gently gripped a small shoulder in each hand as he quickly guided her towards a nearby bench that was masterfully hidden amongst the tangled plants and trees. Carefully, he eased the small slayer down, his eyes worriedly searching her own. "Are you well?" he asked, his voice softening as Buffy continued to hold a trembling hand against her heaving chest.
For a moment, Buffy could only nod faintly at his question as she worked to get her breathing back under control, desperately fighting the lightheadedness that had almost sent her into a swoon, of all things. Frowning at the mortifying thought, Buffy forcibly slowed her breathing, relying upon the relaxation techniques that Giles had taught her long ago. Slayers didn't faint... well, unless they were suffering from demon poisoning where they could hear everyone's thoughts, of course. "Sorry," she muttered with a small, wry smile, the strange pains in her chest slowly fading into small tingles as she absently rubbed her left shoulder. "Didn't I warn you about sneaking up on a slayer?"
"Yes, though I fear this time you were in more danger from the surprise than I," Legolas murmured as he slowly released her shoulders. "What are you doing out here? You are not yet strong enough-"
"I was thinking," Buffy cut in, her eyes narrowing briefly upon the fair-haired elf before she stubbornly turned away. She needed no reminder of how weak her body was. The quivering of her exhausted muscles and the way that her hand shook as she brushed back an errant strand of long blonde hair were both reminders enough.
"And you could not do so in the Houses of Healing?"
"Could you?" Buffy returned, her eyes darting to his. While she could never claim to be an expert in Elves, over two weeks spent in their exclusive company had taught her quite a few things about their nature - and about Legolas' in particular.
"Slayers weren't built for captivity."
"Neither were elves."
Buffy turned away as she despondently looked at the sparse vegetation that stubbornly refused to die even though the chill of winter was full upon the lands. At least, she imagined that it was now winter. To be honest, she was more than a little disoriented, for when she had last been in the outside world, the trees had been full and crowned with leaves of the most vivid reds and oranges that she had ever seen. Now many of the trees were empty and barren, with only a scattering of dried, withered foliage upon their tallest branches.
"At first, time just seemed to crawl in that room," Buffy murmured as she resolutely kept her eyes fixed on the narrow stone walkway. The bench was situated on a bend in the path, and none of the trail before or after was visible to her searching eyes as her thoughts drifted to the chamber in Tol Brandir that had been her home for so long. "But then it all began to blur together," she continued with a soft sigh as she looked down to her small hands, cradled in her lap - her skin looking even more pale and ghastly when held against the stark white of the dressing gown she wore. "The only constants were the tiredness, the weakness, and the pain... but my thoughts wouldn't rest."
"I am sorry that I could not come sooner," Legolas whispered as his eyes slipped from her down-turned features to the wrist that she subconsciously began to massage.
"Wasn't your fault," Buffy murmured, shrugging away his apology. "How long was I gone?" she asked as she lifted her eyes to his, her gaze probing his own. "owyn keeps glossing over the details and won't give me a straight answer."
"Fifty-two days," Legolas returned without pause or hesitation, his features softening at such an innocent question, and yet one which showed how truly lost Buffy had been.
Yet upon hearing his answer, Buffy didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Fifty-two days? Fifty-two days! Fifty-two was such a large number, and yet she was almost surprised that it hadn't been longer. She felt as though she had been absent for years, a prisoner of that hellish world that was filled with a tedious monotony that was sometimes worse than the pain and uncertainty. Fifty-two days. That was... "Nearly two months," Buffy murmured with a slow shake of her head as she looked down upon her cradled hands, her fingers absently fingering the tender scar that still marked her right wrist. "Two months..." she continued as a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "To look on the bright side, at least it was only two months that I lost this time around. Last time I missed out on five months of my life - which may not seem like a lot to you," she added as she nodded at the elf beside her, "but to a twenty-year old, it's a lifetime."
"And now? How old are you?" Legolas asked, his eyes searching her own.
"Twenty-two - I turn twenty-three in January... although, I'm not really sure when that is here," Buffy admitted with a small frown. "My birthday is usually during the coldest, hardest part of winter... well, at least as cold as it gets in California," she amended with a wry smile.
"Then the time of your begetting must be after the winter solstice," Legolas surmised, sharing in her smile, "which is mid-way between the fall and spring equinox. We have yet some-" he continued, only to have his words falter as Buffy's pale features immediately became tinged with pink as she turned her eyes away - eyes that, for the briefest moment, once more filled with that same loathing that he had glimpsed when he had first seen her wounded wrist back in Tol Brandir. "Buffy-"
"How can you even look at me now?" the slayer interrupted as she resolutely turned away from the fair-haired elf, her heart twisting at the reminder of all that had come and gone. She knew now of Legolas' dreams and the ties between the equinox and the balance that she had been sent to create. "I brought this evil to your world," she murmured, anger beginning to stir her heart as she glared down upon the narrow red scar that marred her pale skin. "They called me their queen... how can you-"
"Did you intend for any of this to happen?" Legolas cut in, his words causing Buffy to turn to him, her eyes flashing angrily. "Did you willingly offer your blood to the orcs that had taken you?"
"Of course not!" Buffy snapped as she furiously wrapped her thin cloak tighter around her small frame.
"Therein you have your answer," the elf returned with his usual equanimity. "Buffy, what we do does not define who we are. What defines us is how we rise after falling. I will not fault you for something you had no control over, for that would be like faulting the sun for rising and blotting out the light of the stars."
Snorting at his analogy, Buffy quirked a fine brow at her companion. "Or like faulting an elf for thinking he's so wise?"
"But all elves are wise," Legolas corrected with a smug smile. "You should not listen to the prattling of lesser beings - dwarves, for example. They are merely jealous of the gifts that Iluvatar has blessed upon my race," he explained as he stood from the bench and extended a long, slender hand towards the small blonde. "Now come. We should return before Ioreth truly does send for the king's guards."
Grimacing at the reminder, Buffy reluctantly accepted Legolas' proffered help as she forced her trembling legs to hold her. "That woman is worse than a jailer," she muttered as she smoothed down her long dressing gown before grabbing a handful of the coarse material and hoisting up the yards of heavy fabric to prevent her from tripping over the long ends. "And seeing where I just spent the last few months, that's saying a lot."
Laughing softly, Legolas gently gripped Buffy's elbow, adding a bit more support to her short stride. "Faramir and owyn have both been patients in the Houses of Healing and have said much the same," he assured with a smile.
Feeling her smile begin to dim, Buffy slowly nodded her head. "Your friends are all very nice," she murmured, thinking that while polite on the surface, only owyn and Gimli seemed able to accept her for who she was. For the others, it was obvious that it was more difficult to look past the fact that her blood was responsible for making their world that much darker, and they carried an unease that they tried to bury beneath warm smiles and kind words. Yet what saddened her more was the complete absence of the two elves that she had come to know and respect during their travels south. Elladan and Elrohir had been a constant source of amusement that always served to distract her from what she had been forced to leave behind - from all that she had lost by coming to this world. But she hadn't even seen the twins since their brief encounter in Tol Brandir, and in a way, Buffy was beginning to fear that this avoidance would last forever.
Shaking away her dismal thoughts, Buffy forced a bright smile. "They're everything that you said they were."
"They are more," Legolas corrected with a small, fond smile as he paused upon the stone walk, one hand slipping inside his tunic to withdraw the small, single sheet of glossy paper that he had carefully kept safe for the many days of Buffy's absence. "I believe you forgot this back in Edoras," he stated as he gently offered the find to the petite slayer beside him.
"Forgot what?" Buffy returned as her eyes lifted to the elf's hand, only to watch as her treasured photograph, the one that she had feared lost forever, slipped from Legolas' fingers and slowly floated to the ground before them. "Legolas, what-" she began, ignoring her body's protests as she hurriedly reached for the falling picture, only to freeze as her frazzled senses began to warn her of another's presence far too late.
Green eyes lifting, Buffy watched as someone else dropped from the thick branches in a swirl of green to land effortlessly before them, much in the same way that Legolas had, only minutes before. Startled, Buffy stood frozen on the stone walkway, her disbelieving eyes riveted upon the tall, dark-haired elf that casually brandished his long, gleaming sword before him.
"I told you we would meet again," Vashnak stated by way of greeting as Buffy found herself roughly pushed behind Legolas, the fair-haired elf placing himself between her and the point of Vashnak's sword.
"How did you get here?" Legolas demanded, one arm stretched behind him, holding Buffy against his back as she began to struggle against her shielded position, even as his other hand automatically strayed to a quiver and twin knives that weren't there. Weapons were forbidden in the Houses of Healing, and even if they hadn't, it would have been an ill sign of trust to carry weapons this far within the protected walls of Aragorn's city. The Houses of Healing were located within the sixth circle of Minas Tirith, meaning that an intruder would have to pass through six guarded gates to reach the sheltered gardens - six gates that would have been impossible to bypass, even for an elf. Yet despite the sheer impossibility of the situation, it didn't change the fact that the dark elf was standing before him, a small smile lifting the corners of his thin lips. "How-" Legolas began again, only to falter as his sharp sight finally noted the long green cloak that Vashnak wore - the long green cloak that bore the crest of the elvish colony of Ithilien... the crest of his people.
"I come bearing an urgent message from Ithilien, my Lord," Vashnak replied with a mocking sweep of his sword as he tossed a small object that tumbled through the air before skittering across the smooth stone, finally rolling to a stop at Legolas' booted feet.
Eyes automatically following the object's descent, Legolas recognized the scroll for what it was long before it reached its final position - and yet it took him far longer than that for his mind to process the dried crimson stains that marked the fine parchment. Crimson stains that could be nothing else but the dried blood of whomever's cloak Vashnak now wore. The dried blood of an elf.
As Legolas blanched in dawning understanding and horror, Vashnak's smile grew, his dark orbs dancing at the crushing grief that filled the gaze of the fair-haired elf. "You know," Vashnak mused, "it is rumored amongst my kind that Elves can be killed by their grief." For a moment, he paused as Legolas' empty eyes slowly lifted to meet with his own before turning away. "I never believed it until now," he admitted as the fair-haired elf mechanically held the struggling slayer behind him. "Tell me, did you know an elf by the name of Forod? Or how about Tathren?" he continued as he took another slow step closer, taking enjoyment in the pain that each new name brought to the elf's solemn face. "She was a very pretty she-elf, all pale and golden. That is, until we let our orc brethren have her for their fun," he amended with a wicked smile as Buffy's struggles and protests became more agitated.
"And then there was Mirdan," Vashnak sighed as everything became deathly still, the blond-elf's eyes snapping to meet his own as Buffy finally fell silent - as though Mirdan's name had drawn the very energy from her fights and protests. "Yes, I thought you would recognize that name," he murmured as he picked at the cloak that he wore. "Were you close?" he asked as he met Legolas' fiery gaze. "I certainly hope so, because we saved him for last. He met his end only after he had been forced to watch his friends meet theirs," he whispered as Buffy's soft cry of dismay finally broke the tense silence, her knees buckling as she buried her face in the back of Legolas' suede tunic.
Yet even as the anger and grief burned within Legolas' taut form, the elven prince said nothing as he silently supported Buffy's slight weight against his back. Forod was an elf that he had known only briefly - a friend of the twins' that had long dwelled within Elrond's sanctuary in the Last Homely House in Imladris. Tathren was from an older generation - a venerated warrior that had served long under Haldir and the marchwarden's brothers in Lothlrien. And Mirdan... Gasping raggedly, Legolas doggedly refused to allow the grief to take him, ignoring its promise of numbing his pained senses.
"He pleaded for the she-elf and begged for her to remain unspoiled," Vashnak continued, digging the knife deeper with the truths of what had passed. "And then he tried to bargain his life for your own," he added as he nodded towards Legolas' stricken face. "Though what value he thought his life might contain was lost on my over-eager brethren, for when they finished with the she-elf, they continued their fun with him."
"Enough!" Legolas snapped, his grief swiftly transforming into a barely controlled rage.
Eyeing the quivering elf, Vashnak took one last moment to savor the grief and anger that he had carefully cultivated before swiftly changing tracks. "You know, it is quite amazing how fearful and suspicious the citizens of Gondor are of an elf," he commented, a cruel smile lifting his lips.
"You are no elf," Legolas hissed as his eyes narrowed upon the mockery that stood so casually before him.
"But I am," Vashnak returned, his dark eyes burning. "I am an elf, long descended from the loins of your kin. Her blood," he continued as he nodded towards the small white hand that clutched the side of Legolas' suede tunic, "has merely restored the gifts of which Melkor had robbed us."
"Your heart is black-"
"Yet it bleeds red," Vashnak interrupted as a second dark-haired elf dropped from the tree branches, landing lightly behind Legolas. "Not that you will ever know," he added as the second elf, Guol, pulled the weakened slayer from Legolas' back and twisted her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her thin waist and pinning her arms to her side as he bodily lifted her against him.
Time slowed as Legolas turned at the sound of Buffy's surprised gasp, his eyes briefly meeting with her own as his senses screamed their warnings to him. In that brief flash, Legolas felt his world narrow as he sensed Vashnak's movement behind him, the archer's lithe body moving accordingly as he pivoted on his heel and gracefully spun out of the way of the sword's downward arc. Yet this wasn't a battle with a lumbering orc. This time Legolas faced an elf - a fact that he was quickly reminded of as his movements weren't quite fast enough to avoid a burning line of fire that stretched from shoulder to elbow.
Hissing from the unexpected pain, Legolas felt his warm blood soak the arm of his tunic as time resumed its blinding pace, his hand clamping against the wound as he ducked the next thrust that had been aimed at his heart, the blade singing as it cut the air with lethal velocity. Straightening, the fair-haired elf quickly darted back, putting more distance between himself and Vashnak as his eyes scoured the garden floor for any sort of weapon to aid him in this fight. The voices of the trees were crying out to him, vying against the rushing of his blood in his ears as they directed his gaze to a withered bush a few feet to his right. Backpedaling to avoid another sharp jab, ignoring the pain of a new line of fire that branded his lean body, Legolas listened to their aid as his eyes lit upon a thick, gnarled branch that poked from beneath the bush. Without pause, Legolas vaulted towards the makeshift weapon, his hand wrapping around the sturdy wood as the rest of the trees' warnings finally became clear.
Three names had been given. Forod, Tathren, and Mirdan had fallen. Vashnak wore the cloak of one fallen elf, and the dark-elf that held Buffy wore another, which meant that one yet remained.
There was a third, Legolas realized in a moment of blinding clarity as the final elf materialized out of the shadowed wood, his sword cleaving towards Legolas' extended hand and forcing the archer into a hasty retreat - weaponless still.
"Damnit, let me go!" Buffy hissed as she kicked and writhed in Guol's arms, alternately cursing her weakened body and the dark elf that held her as Legolas struggled against Vashnak and Dergu. The fight was horribly uneven, the two elves paired against one who was unarmed, and with each hit more red blood splashed across the stone pathway as the three danced, twirled and spun with unparalleled grace and deadly precision. Though Buffy didn't know it, such a fight hadn't been seen since the Dark Days, when the sons of Fanor slaughtered their kin in order to reclaim the lost Silmarils and fulfill their bloody oath. In all of the countless centuries and millenniums and ages since that time, not once had an elf raised a blade against another in an act of violence - until now. And her blood had made it all possible.
Anger coursing through her weakened body, Buffy ignored her trembling, aching limbs; she ignored the rapid hammering of her heart and the tingling rush of blood through her veins; she ignored the way her lungs laboriously struggled for each breath as she felt her anger turn into the raw fire of a slayer's wrath. She had been helpless for two months now; she'd be damned if she'd be helpless again, no matter what her ailing body had to say about the matter.
With a feral snarl, Buffy bent over the long arms that held her aloft and viciously sank her teeth into the exposed, soft flesh of a bared wrist. This was the desperate act of a slayer who had been pushed too far as blunt teeth tore through skin and muscle, causing a flood of warm, coppery blood to fill her mouth. Gagging on the foul taste, Buffy heard her captor cry out, his arms loosening as she slid from his grasp, her weakened legs betraying her as they buckled beneath her weight and tumbled her to the hard ground, her shoulder rocking against Guol's legs as the dark-elf cursed in the Black Tongue.
Yet even as her numbed mind noted her jarred shoulder, Buffy was already pushing past the pain as her hand slipped up Guol's leg, sliding under his tunic until her questing fingers found the leather hilt that she had been searching for. It was a small dagger, the blade unadorned and the hilt plain, yet Buffy knew that dagger as well as she knew the Rohirrim blade she had carried for so many weeks. Perhaps better. She had been watching her captors for two months now. Two months of observations - one of which was the fact that Guol never went anywhere without this dagger that was secreted beneath his tunic - a dagger that Buffy had glimpsed only on rare occasions, and yet the dagger that she had been fantasizing about ever since the first moment she had laid eyes upon it. The dagger that had teased and tormented her with promises of release from the hell that she endured, and yet it that had always been just out of her leadened arm's reach.
Until now.
With trembling fingers, Buffy yanked the secreted weapon from its sheath, the hilt fitting into her closed fist as she arced her arm back and then drove it forward with all of the waning strength that she possessed. With a strangled, inarticulate cry she felt the sharpened tip cut through material and cloth before finding and piercing flesh, lodging deep within the dark-elf's belly as the creature's knees buckled, his body falling back as she tumbled forward. With a dry thud, his back smacked against the stone pathway, Buffy's chin rebounding off of his thigh with a sickening crack - and yet not once did she relinquish her hold on the only weapon that her hand had held in two months.
Ignoring her body's throbbing protests, Buffy scrambled forward, her trembling hands wrapping around the dagger as she pulled it free, the blade sliding out of flesh with a soft sucking noise that vied against the gurgle of blood as it poured from the grisly wound. Then, with the briefest of glances at the elf's wide, pain-glazed eyes, Buffy drove the knife forward once more, the rest of the world falling away as the blade plunged into flesh, coating her hands with the wet, crimson wash.
Over and over again she pulled the knife free, only to plunge it down in a stuttering rhythm, her own ragged breathing keeping time to the downward thrusts. It didn't even matter when the elf's chest stopped moving or when his body stopped twitching - not even when the blood stopped gushing from the wounds, no longer pushed by the elf's beating heart. The only thing that mattered was that she was helpless no longer and that one of her tormentors finally lay at her mercy. Though this time there was no mercy. The dark-elves had never shown her mercy in all of the time that she was their captive, and she would show none in return.
Buffy could have continued stabbing the dagger into the mutilated chest until all of her strength was spent, her body tumbling to adorn the deathbed that had been created by her own hand, but Dergu's cry of surprise finally broke through her jumbled thoughts, reminding her of the battle that was still being waged behind her.
Breath catching in her throat, Buffy left the blood-stained knife lodged in the dead elf's massacred chest as she turned back to the deserted stone walk, just in time to witness one tree's revenge against one of the orcs that wore an Elvish face. With wide eyes, Buffy watched as Dergu plummeted from a high branch that had betrayed him, his body twisting mid-air before smashing against a thick branch, the dry sound of breaking bone echoing in the clearing as his lifeless body crashed against the stone walk, his head tilted at an odd angle.
Turning away from the broken body, Buffy lifted her eyes higher, desperately searching for the golden-haired elf as she instinctively understood that Legolas had taken the battle into the trees in hopes of evening the fight. Yet she needn't have searched too hard for within moments of Dergu's fall, Legolas himself swung from the branches of a nearby tree, his tunic splattered with blood, the drops falling like crimson raindrops from the many cuts and gashes that adorned his lithe body.
Swiftly falling into a crouch beside the dark-elf's body, the archer's pale hands reached for Dergu's fallen sword, his strong fingers wrapping around the hilt as his eyes lifted to lock with Buffy's only briefly. Yet that one moment proved to be his undoing. Vashnak dropped from the tree's branches, his weight crashing against Legolas as the dark-elf shoved a small dagger into the archer's unprotected side.
"Legolas!" Buffy screamed as the elf-prince stiffened, his blue eyes growing wide as they remained locked with her own. They were two orbs of startling blue that conveyed so much surprise; surprise at having been caught, surprise at having been bested, and surprise at being forced into this unwilling end.
With a quiet whimper, Buffy watched as Vashnak twisted the blade in the other elf's side, furthering the damage before pulling the dagger free to release a small crimson flood to wash Dergu's still body below. As Vashnak stepped back, the fair-haired elf somehow clambered to his feet, his features ashen and tightened in agony as he turned to meet his opponent one last time, Dergu's sword limply held in one trembling, blood-soaked hand.
With sickening nonchalance, Vashnak grinned at the bloody elf as he threw the dagger aside and once more lifted his sword, his free hand waving the elf forward. It was a sick game, one that Legolas could never win, and one that caused Buffy's eyes to flood with tears as the fair-haired elf valiantly struggled forward, one hand holding tight against the blood that fell in torrents from the gaping wound in his side even as the other shakily brandished the sword. Smirking, Vashnak acknowledged this move with a small nod of approval before easily knocking the blade to the side, the sword clattering against the stone walk with a ring of finality that could not be dismissed. The end had come with a sickening certainty - and yet that knowledge did nothing to prevent the half-sob, half-scream that was ripped from Buffy's throat as Vashnak drove forward with his sword, impaling Legolas through the abdomen and pushing him back until the sword was lodged into the large tree behind the elf - skewering him alive.
Everything became still for one brief moment as Legolas' pain-glazed eyes looked down upon the still quivering blade that emerged from the widening red stain that darkened his green tunic. But then that moment was over as Vashnak turned from Legolas with a derisive sneer, his dark eyes slipping over the carnage until they locked upon Buffy's unmoving form - and then he started forward.
Gasping raggedly, Buffy felt her paralysis broken as she turned and dove back upon Guol's mutilated form, her wet, bloody hands slipping over the abandoned dagger's hilt as she strove for the weapon. She didn't know whether she reached for the knife to use it upon Vashnak or herself. All she knew was that she couldn't go with him. She couldn't go back to that. She wouldn't go back to that.
With a desperate sob, Buffy fumbled for the slippery hilt as she felt Vashnak's claw-like hands dig into her shoulders, roughly pulling her back from the body and her only weapon. Instinctively she found herself striking out against any part of the dark-elf that she could reach, her weakened blows bouncing off of his arms and shoulders as she thrashed in his punishing grip. Gone was the grace and cunning of the slayer and in their place were the awkward, frightened movements of a young woman who couldn't take anymore. Even the ability to form coherent thoughts and phrases were gone as Buffy heard a pitiful keening escape from her lips as she twisted against him, her plaintive mewing vying against his frustrated curses. Curses that fell silent as a group of five Gondorian soldiers appeared around the bend in the stone pathway that led to the Houses of Healing, their swords drawn as their wide eyes looked upon the carnage that decorated the normally peaceful garden floor.
For a moment Buffy remained frozen in Vashnak's arms, her eyes locked upon the familiar black livery that was decorated with the stitching of the White Tree of Gondor. Buffy realized that Ioreth must have really dispatched the Citadel's guards in the search for her missing patient - guards that had heard her screams and the sounds of the fight. Guards that were, no doubt, just a small contingent of those that were now heading to this very spot.
A thought that Vashnak seemed to share as she felt his arms tighten around her for the briefest of moments as his lips brushed against her ear. "I will be back for you," he promised before shoving her forward, her legs failing her as she tumbled off of the stone walk and against a narrow tree, her hands wrapping around the rough bark.
Gasping, Buffy sagged against the sturdy wood, her eyes briefly following Vashnak as he disappeared into the trees, all but one of the five guards quickly giving chase. Dazed, Buffy looked to the uncertain man, his grim countenance shattered as he looked bewilderingly between her blood-soaked figure, the two dead elves that littered the garden grounds, and the unmistakable form of the Lord of Ithilien from where he was pinned against a tree with naught but a bloody sword to hold him aloft.
Suddenly a shout from one of his companions broke the man from his uncertainty as his head snapped in the direction the others had disappeared. "I am sorry, Lady," he stammered as he cast one quick, despairing look at Legolas' bloody form. "I have no skills to aid in this and there is naught I can do for you now, but fear not, for the king is coming!" he called before leaving her alone with the thickening silence. The thickening silence that was shattered by a wet, pained wheeze to her right.
"Legolas," Buffy gasped as she was reminded of the dear friend that she had all but forgotten in her overwhelming panic to escape Vashnak. Pushing away from her support, the small slayer staggered the short distance to the tree that unwillingly continued to hold the fair-haired elf aloft, the gray bark stained with the blood of an immortal as Legolas' trembling legs caused him to sag ever lower. Yet with each inch that he sank towards the ground, the sword that still pinned the elf against the tree only cut further from his abdomen and into his chest, widening the grisly wound and doing more damage to a body that already couldn't take anymore - a fact that Buffy knew only too well.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the tears streaming down her face as the slayer did the only thing she could, her shaking hands wrapping around the sword's hilt as she used the very last reserves of her waning strength to pull the sword free. Instantly she found her scream mixing with Legolas' as she dropped the sword beside her, her hands moving out to catch the fair-haired elf as he slid towards the ground. Yet his weight, no matter how slight, was far too much for her to bear as her knees promptly buckled, sending her crashing to the ground beneath him.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," Buffy gasped as she crawled out from beneath Legolas' body, her hands gently pillowing his head upon the ground, his tangled blond tresses spread beneath him. "Oh God, I'm so sorry!" she rasped as she lifted her shaking hands and pressed them against the large hole that marred his chest, the tears streaming down her face as she saw the blood that still poured from the wound in his side. There was blood everywhere. So much blood. How could there be this much blood and still more flow free?
"Legolas! Legolas, please hold on!" she begged as she futilely tried to staunch the crimson torrent, feeling the wetness soak through her white dress and paste it against her body. Tears streaming down her face, Buffy tilted her head back, her blonde hair trailing around her shoulders as she turned her eyes to the uncaring heavens. "Somebody help me!" she screamed, her voice cracking as she turned back to the only friend that had stood by her in this world. "Legolas, just please hold on. We just... we just need to get a doctor," she stammered as her eyes finally lifted from the grisly wound to meet his wide blue eyes - eyes that were glazed with pain, and yet far too alert as they unerringly met her watery gaze.
"N-no healer... c-c-can heal such a wound," he gasped, his breath wheezing between bloodied lips. Lips that spoke the truth, no matter how much she didn't want to admit to it.
Buffy had been a slayer for seven years, and unfortunately, that meant that she had seen many mortal wounds. Legolas had two such wounds - wounds that not even the best doctor back home could have healed, and certainly wounds that no healer in this world stood a chance of making right.
Though, if the hands of a healer would not work in this... perhaps there was something else that might.
"Why does this so surprise you? Has your blood never healed another?"
"The blood of a slayer... it... it heals," Buffy murmured, unconsciously repeating her words to Vashnak from so many months before as she looked down upon the angry red scar that was smeared with wet blood. "It heals," she repeated as she turned from the red, puckered line to the elf that lay dying before her - and in that moment, a decision was made as Buffy reached for the sword that she had dropped. "I'm sorry," she whispered as she slid her healing wrist over the upturned blade, reopening the old wound before quickly bringing the freely bleeding wrist towards Legolas' ashen face.
Despite the agony that the elf had to be in, it still only took him the briefest of moments to understand Buffy's intentions as his blue eyes grew even wider, his features blanching as he resolutely turned his face away. And in that moment, Buffy felt whatever was left of her heart slowly crumble. Elladan and Elrohir had seen what her blood was capable of firsthand, and the twins had turned from her. She had lost their friendship and that understanding hurt more than she could ever admit. The twins feared her - feared what her blood was capable of doing. Everyone feared her blood, and it was like she had been infected by AIDS back when the world had still been so ignorant of the disease. They didn't want her poison to spread and somehow infect themselves with whatever had been capable of changing a dark creature into something even worse... yet Legolas had never seemed to share in that fear. He had looked past the blood and seen the soul that was hurting from the rejection, the fear, the pain, and the uncertainty. And he hadn't cared.
Until now, and that realization was somehow worse than anything else that she had suffered.
"No, no no no," Buffy stammered, her voice catching in a sob as she caught the elf's face and forced him to hold still, easily reading the fear that shone in his blue eyes. "I'm sorry, but I have to try," she gasped as she pressed her bleeding wrist against Legolas' lips, quickly massaging her bloody forearm as the blood began to flood the elf's mouth. And in that moment, as the dying elf began to choke and gag as he panicked, trying in vain to spit up the blood that began to coat his throat, Buffy reached a whole new level of self-loathing. It was bad enough to think of an orc drinking her blood, but to force it upon a creature that was more beautiful, pure, and perfect than anything else in this world? "I'm so sorry," she repeated, dimly realizing that the phrase was becoming a mantra as, eventually, Legolas had no choice but to swallow some of the blood that he tried to deny entrance with everything in his being, his throat moving convulsively to clear his blocked airway and fill his starving lungs. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, everything else disappearing as she held her bleeding wrist to his parted lips.
With a strangled cry that was part disbelief and other part overwhelming grief, Gimli took in the blood-bathed scene in mere moments before he found himself rushing forward, a blinding wave of anger clouding his vision. When word had reached him and Aragorn of Buffy's disappearance from the Houses of Healing, they had come straight away to help in the search for the missing young woman. Yet never in all of Gimli's worst nightmares had the dwarf ever expected to find this... this perversion of the Elf's trust and kindness. They had heard the screams and the clashing of blades, and the two dead elves spoke of whatever battle had taken place, but to round a corner on the garden's path to find the girl the Elf had befriended forcing her poison down Legolas' throat... it was unthinkable.
Powerful chest heaving with each gasping breath, Gimli found himself beside the slayer before she had time to take note of his presence. Not that he gave her time, for with one swipe with his meaty arm he sent the young woman tumbling away from his friend. Nostrils flaring, the dwarf felt himself quivering with rage as he began stalking towards her - only to have his steps falter as Aragorn finally gained the bend behind him.
For a moment, the king stood frozen upon the stone walk, his disbelieving gray eyes sweeping over the carnage that was strewn over this once-peaceful garden, a small contingent of royal guards flanking him to either side. At first he found his gaze resting upon a dark-haired elf that bore the crest of the colony of Ithilien upon his cloak, his head turned in a way that was never meant to be and his fair features frozen in surprise. Next the king's searching gaze found the unmoving body of another elf - an elf whose chest was so mutilated that it looked as though a warg had set upon him, the elf's shredded tunic nearly indistinguishable from the matted gore that covered his torn body. And yet from there the king had no choice but to turn to the most horrific picture of them all.
With slow, staggering steps Aragorn moved closer to the third elf that lay crumpled beside an ancient tree that towered over the stone walk - a tree that could have very well been older than the immortal life that it sheltered beneath its sweeping boughs. Yet while the other two elves of Ithilien had been strangers to the ranger-turned-king, this last was as a brother to him. Aragorn knew the pale, crimson-stained features as well as he knew his own. He knew the strength of those long limbs that were strewn haphazardly over the tree's sprawling roots. He knew the grace of this elf's movements. But most of all, he knew the heart of this elf - the heart that was so attuned with his own that the owner had sworn to never forsake these shores until Aragorn himself had chosen to part from this world, no matter the cost to the elf's torn soul.
This soul was never meant to depart before his own.
"Legolas," Aragorn gasped, the dear name slipping unnoticed from his lips as he dropped to his knees beside his old friend, his gray eyes sweeping over a body that was taut with pain and covered in blood. "Legolas, no," he stammered as his eyes looked upon a face that was pallid, the elf's large blue eyes hidden beneath a down sweep of thick, black lashes.
"A-Aragorn?" Legolas wheezed as his eyes opened, desperately searching for his friend as he tried to shift on the blood-soaked ground.
"No, Legolas, hodo - lie still," Aragorn countered, fear pulling the breath from his lungs as his gaze locked upon the two grisly wounds that poured Legolas' blood upon a forest floor that was already drenched with crimson. Hurriedly he pushed his hands over the gaping wounds - one covering each ragged opening that throbbed with hurt and robbed Legolas of a life that was meant to last an eternity. Never before had Aragorn seen his friend so grievously wounded. Never before had he seen the Elf laid low by sickness or injury. Such a thing was never meant for one of the Firstborn - was never meant for this elf, and to see it now shook Aragorn to the core. His hands were the hands of a healer, and yet there was naught even a king of Men could do against a foe such as this.
"Please, my friend, dartho ah nin. -bronion cuil aredh. Do not go yet. Deri an min," he pleaded, his voice a broken mockery of its usual strong cadence as he switched unconsciously from Westron to Sindarin and then back again. "Please, stay with me. I cannot endure life without you. Do not go yet. Please, wait for us," he repeated as his strong hands began to shake beneath the warm blood that thrummed against his trembling fingers. Blood that was everywhere: pooled beneath Legolas' lithe form, soaking into Aragorn's fine robes, and even coating the elf's trembling lips-
Coating the elf's lips...
Eyes growing wide, Aragorn felt his breath catch in his throat as his head snapped to the right. There stood Gimli, the dwarf frozen upon the path, his small eyes locked upon the Elf. Yet beside the dwarf... beside the dwarf sat Buffy, her white gown stained with blood and clinging to her petite frame while a single hand was held against a cheek that burned with a vivid red hand print. The young woman looked dazed, and yet it was the wounded wrist which coursed blood in small, slow rivulets down her slender arm that held his gaze. And in that moment, Aragorn felt his already unstable world collapse even further beneath this betrayal, his eyes once more returning to lips that were not stained with blood, but rather with a crimson poison that even now began to work its dark magic upon his dearest friend.
Lithe muscles growing taut in an already agonized frame, Legolas' slender back arched as fire raced through his veins, his voice lifting in a scream that broke the still air with its piercing quality. Instantly Gimli was by his side as he and Aragorn struggled to hold the archer still, the elf's body locked and his back arched with a pain that neither could comprehend. Never before had either heard their stoic friend cry out in pain in all of the many years of their friendship, and to hear it now, to this painful extent was worse than any physical wound that could have possibly been inflicted upon their own mortal bodies.
"Send for Ioreth - and someone find Elladan and Elrohir!" Aragorn bellowed as he turned to his stunned guards that had remained frozen on the path's bend, a few men breaking away at their king's command. "And take her away!" he added as he turned to where Buffy remained frozen upon the ground a few feet away, his harsh words causing her to draw back.
Instantly two guards strode forward, their rough hands wrapping around each arm as they hoisted Buffy between them, her quiet sobs muffled beneath Legolas' ragged breaths and unearthly screams of pain.
"And someone see to her wrist before she bleeds to death!" the king added in disgust, his eyes flickering to pierce her with his angry gaze only briefly before Legolas' scream once more shattered the tranquil woods.
Nodding at their liege, the two guards began dragging their prisoner away, their heavy feet shuffling over the blood-stained walk as the wind suddenly picked up and began moaning through the bare branches. With swift bursts it rustled blood stained cloth, pulled and tangled dark hair, and gently lifted a small photograph and carried it away with one strong gust. Stained with blood and torn from heavy feet, the picture featured seven smiling people from a different lifetime who remained oblivious to the immortal blood that had been shed and the lives that had been ruined that day. It was a token of the past, and the wind knew this as it carried the treasured relic far away from the elf that had been betrayed by the smiling blonde that stood amongst her family and friends, even as it whistled its fury to the world as the dying elf continued to scream his agony to the trees that so loved him.