Equinoxium: Chapter 33
by Lisette
Legalese: See Chapter 1 for disclaimers and ratings.
Wincing as her back cracked painfully, Buffy slowly straightened beneath the warm winter sun and cast her eyes about a scene from a war movie - one in which there were no victors or losers, just blood, death, and the gripping defeat of so many lost lives. There weren't enough rooms in the Houses of Healing to accommodate the many wounded that had been brought up from the blood-stained Pelennor Fields below. There weren't even enough beds or benches in all of Minas Tirith, it seemed, and soon those who had carried the survivors upon wooden planks, horses, and their own bent backs were forced to leave the injured men lying upon the stone road of the sixth circle - a stone road that was quickly becoming slick with running blood. Except in this world, the cries of the wounded and dying, and the blood that stained her fingers and clothes were no fantasy. This was real, and in this world, real men were dying all around her.
For hour upon hour Buffy had worked tirelessly with the other soldiers down in the Pelennor Fields, continually turning over crumpled bodies to search for those who yet lived - but with each passing hour the number of survivors slowly dwindled until none now remained. Buffy looked down upon the groaning face of a stranger. The man's cheeks and forehead were streaked with dirt and blood, and he clutched one stained hand against a gaping wound that ebbed a crimson wash with every stuttered beat of his heart.
This one wouldn't make it. Buffy was no doctor, but as a slayer it was impossible to not recognize the signs of one who had lost far too much blood to survive to see another day. This man had gone without aid too long down upon the Pelennor Fields, hidden amongst the bodies of friends and neighbors, and the healers, all too few when surrounded by so many wounded, would be helpless to save him.
Buffy was no stranger to losses. Sometimes, no matter how hard she fought, she was still too late to save one person - a stranger, a friend... a lover. Over the years she had lost many people - those whose faces were a blur amongst many, and others whose every laugh line and dimple were forever etched in her memory. Yet never had she witnessed so many losses on such a grand scale.
"Buffy."
Startled, Buffy turned from the wounded man to find Legolas standing beside her, his impossibly beautiful features crafted into a picture of concern as one hand rested gently upon her shoulder. Frozen by his heavy gaze, Buffy swallowed painfully as she felt the weight of the ages press upon her. In this city of Men, with the cries of the dying echoing off of stone streets to rebound back upon them in a booming mockery of life, mortality encompassed them in her smothering blanket. Yet before her Legolas stood as though a single eternal light against the darkness of death. His pale features, smudged with dirt and crusted with dried blood from a cut that had seeped wet tears, were still smooth and unlined - youthful in every unblemished curve. His shoulders were straight and unburdened with weariness, his clothing wrinkled and torn around his lean form - and yet ever did he project the image of a tall oak, bending before the wind and yet never breaking before the storm. He was a vision of beauty and strength, and one that was at odds with the horror that surrounded them.
Shaking her head to clear her mind, Buffy turned from the elf to look back upon the wounded man she had carried from the battlefield, only to find that in her inattention his movements had stilled and his pain-filled eyes had become glassy and unseeing. "Is this what war is like?" she asked, her voice soft as she opened her senses to a world filled with pain and suffering in which no one was sheltered from the darkness that would always thrive in the shadows.
"It is," Legolas returned as his hand fell away, his ageless gaze becoming hazed as he looked upon the devastation.
"Too many people died here," Buffy whispered as she wrapped her arms around her waist, feeling the weight of her sword upon her back and the press of her dagger against her heated skin - all reminders of the futility of the battle they had fought.
"And many more will join their brothers before the end has come," Legolas murmured with a saddened nod. "Such is the way of war," he explained with a helpless shrug.
"War sucks," she concluded, forcing a weak smile in return as she lifted one hand to grasp the stone that throbbed against her skin, only to have her fingers captured within Legolas' tight grip as the elf's other hand seized the lapel of her leather jacket and pulled it to the side, baring her shoulder to the morning light.
"You bleed," he murmured, his voice a low warning, and with that simple proclamation all other thoughts fled Buffy's mind as her body turned cold.
Without thought, she quickly pulled away, tearing her hand free from Legolas' and pressing it against a long, jagged gash that had been taken in battle, unnoticed until now, but which predictably began to throb as she felt the warm fluid seep between her pale, clenched fingers. Horrified by the sight of that which was responsible for this war, she became transfixed by the crimson drops that slowly dripped free to trail a bloody line down her dusty skin to gather at the edges of her halter. Nauseated, she felt her head begin to spin as her blood was bared to the cold winter light.
The irony was too cruel, and turning, Buffy made to run from this madness when Legolas' firm grip twisted her until she was once again standing before him. Terrified that she would see the disgust that had to be shining in his eyes, revulsion at that which her blood had created and for the pain that she had inflicted upon him, Buffy nevertheless forced herself to meet his unblinking stare - and found herself floundering when she found naught but sadness mirrored in his bright blue orbs.
"Mellon-nin, you cannot run from that which is a part of you," he murmured as he slowly lifted one hand until it lay atop her own, his fingers twining with hers above the wound that stained their skin with blood. Smiling gently, he pulled his hand away and nodded to his blood-stained palm. "I do not fear this, and neither should you," he admonished as his lips lifted in a small smile. "None of what transpired here today was your doing."
"You are wrong."
Startled, Buffy and Legolas turned to find that unwittingly their conversation had drawn an audience - an audience that was comprised of the hurting, angry, and wounded soldiers that had fallen in the fight that her blood had created. Recoiling from the accusing words, Buffy looked from one dark face to another before her eyes fell upon a familiar stranger. Frowning, she struggled to place the older man as he rose from the side of a severely wounded soldier that he had carried up from the fields. His face was ragged, with dark rings under his eyes and black stubble on his cheeks, and though one arm hung limp at his side, bloody and useless, he still stood tall and carried himself with all of the pride of a Gondorian soldier. No - a palace guard, Buffy corrected herself as she noted the difference in uniforms.
With a sudden start, Buffy recognized the man, her mind flashing back to the two guards that had taken her from Legolas' bloody side in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, to what was to be her prison. She hadn't seen that man since that time, just a few days past, and yet she remembered well his harsh grip and unforgiving eyes - eyes that were once more fixed upon her with malice and hatred. This man knew of the role that she had played in this rise in darkness, and if the people of Minas Tirith were still left ignorant of her part, all too soon that ignorance would be stolen by this guard.
"This is all your fault," he hissed as he took a menacing step forward, the other soldiers rising as they were able to form a tightening circle around her and Legolas. "Your blood has the power to take life away," he roared over the quieting crowds, his words ringing over the stone streets and carrying into the lower circles. "Yet it also has the power to heal," he added, his tone darkening as he looked to Legolas with sharp eyes. "Who are you to decide who deserves such a gift? Who are you to deny healing to any of these men who have died to destroy the very creatures that your blood has created?" he demanded as he moved closer until he towered over Buffy's petite frame - but this time Buffy wasn't backing off.
"Stand down!" Legolas ordered as he tried to move between Buffy and the angry man as the slayer angrily jutted her chin up at the tall soldier.
"Is this what you want?" she demanded as she pulled her hand away from her bared shoulder, her skin slick with crimson stains. "It's blood. Blood!" she hissed, her voice rising as she turned in a quick circle, her eyes piercing the growing crowd. "This is what you spill, people. Not what you drink!"
"He drank it," the guard coolly cut in as he jerked his head toward Legolas, ending Buffy's retort before it had fully formed on her lips.
What could she say to that?
Stunned, Buffy quickly realized that there was nothing she could say. She had given her blood to Legolas, and though he took it unwillingly, it was her blood that had saved his life.
This time.
Confused, Buffy found herself backing away until she bumped against another man, only to find herself shoved forward as the crowd of wounded soldiers became a mob. In a matter of seconds she once more lost her identity as a person, and in its place she became a thing - a tool to be wielded against the darkly cloaked figure of Death. Cries for her blood began to fall from those that were hurting, the honorable men of Gondor falling prey to the belief that in it lay their salvation.
Numbed by this realization, Buffy began to lose touch with reality as she felt Legolas' strong arms wrap around her slender frame, holding her protectively against him as the angry circle tightened around them with the slow closing of a noose. For three months she had suffered as someone else's property - a fate, she had decided, that was worse than death itself, as proven by her increasingly desperate attempts to take her own life - and here in this city of men that Aragorn had proclaimed as her home, her identity had once more been taken and her role reduced to that of cattle to feed whatever whim or desire took those that were to be her people.
"Aragorn! Faramir! Enni!" Legolas called out as the men began to press about them, the elf desperately calling for his friends' aid as he reached for one long-handled knife. "Stand back!" he ordered with all of the authority of his lineage. "I do not wish to harm you-"
"No, we can't hurt them," Buffy whispered dazedly from within the protection of Legolas' arms. "I can't hurt humans," she murmured as she closed her eyes and burrowed her head against his chest, fervently wishing for the cries to stop. "I can't hurt them," she repeated, desperately falling back upon one of the rules that she had lived by for so many years.
"No, you'll heal us," a low voice whispered, a hot breath tickling over her ear as Buffy felt several strong arms wrap around her waist and seize her arms in pincer-like grips, tearing her from Legolas' safe embrace.
"No! Stop it!" Buffy ground out as she opened her eyes to a dizzying display of too many faces twirling around her as she was pulled this way and that. Far away she heard Aragorn and Faramir's voices lifted as they tried to restore order to their troops, Legolas' curses as he struggled with the men who were dragging him back, and even the voices of Gimli and the twins as they attempted to fight through the mob that had assembled. But all were too far away and Buffy was alone, overwhelmed by the press of heavy male bodies as her coat was ripped from her shoulders and as she was pressed to the ground.
She was the slayer and yet she was helpless in this. Grunting as her back was slammed against the bitter cold stone of the road beneath her, Buffy tried to twist beneath the rough hands - but strength was of no use to her here as the crush tightened, metal shod feet slamming against her head and body, the scents of blood and sweat clogging her nose as questing hands tore at her flailing limbs. The panic was consuming her and desperately Buffy fought to remind herself that these were men that surrounded her, and not the orcs that had held her captive for so long. But all too soon everything began to blur into one, and her restraint began to lessen as she fought harder against those that held her down.
But it was a battle that she was destined to lose.
Before Buffy could comprehend what was happening, she felt the agony of cold metal driving into her side, piercing skin and tissue before being torn free and releasing a hot torrent of blood in its wake. Screaming out in agony, her body bucked and tensed beneath the burning pain as she felt warm lips press unseen against the wound that bled freely, hungrily drinking that which was never meant to be consumed.
It was the violation of body and soul that she had promised herself she would never let happen again.
Time stopped and Buffy ceased her struggles and fell limp beneath her captors' hands. Her breath was locked within her and the rest of the world melted away - the cries of her friends and unwitting enemies becoming silent to her ears as she awaited the one cry that would spell the end. For time uncounted she waited in silence, the grief for everything that was and everything that would be welling within her as a single tear dripped from beneath her tightly closed eyes.
And then it came.
The scream of agony was horrendous - a cry of such profound pain that it was driven up from the depths of the man's tortured soul as that same soul was rent to pieces. This was the penance for drinking that which was never made to be consumed and with that one piercing cry Buffy felt another part of her soul wither and die.
Instantly the rest of the clamoring voices fell silent as the crush slowly eased, the mob dissolving into the hurting and confused faces of the valiant men of Gondor that had fought to keep their families safe. Alone Buffy lay on that cold ground, her blood ebbing from the stab wound to her side as someone's legs knocked against her knees in fierce convulsions as her poison worked its way through his system. His screams never waned in intensity, a keening cadence that raked her from head to toe as she slowly opened her eyes to see the cloudless blue sky shining in a cheerful, sunny vision above.
"Buffy!"
Blinking slowly, Buffy watched as Legolas' frantic face replaced the blue sky. She felt strong arms slip under her shoulders, lifting her up and forward until she was pressed once more against his lean frame. Even now the stone worked its magic upon her as it gave her the strength to stand on shaken legs, her hand absently pressing against her injured side as she buried her face into the folds of Legolas' tunic, breathing in his familiar scent as she felt his arms hold her against him. He smelled of wind and rain and forest and brook.
"Aragorn, what-"
"Help me hold him down!"
"What should we-"
Silence.
Breath rattling through weary lips, Buffy slowly turned her head. Aragorn and Faramir knelt on the stone road beside them, the limp body of a man lying between them with the crowd of soldiers standing frozen in a loose circle about their king and steward. The man lay on his back, with his limbs strewn in a wide arc around his heavy frame - a blood-stained knife lying inches from his open fingers. His face, much paler than before, was locked in a grimace of agony, his eyes drawn wide with red starbursts marring the white around his unseeing gray-eyed gaze. His black stubble was now speckled with red - a deep red that stained his lips and flecked his pale skin.
"He's dead," Aragorn stated, his voice flat as he looked from the dead man to where Buffy huddled within Legolas' embrace. Shaking his head, he met her eyes only briefly before he looked to where she clutched her hand against her wounded side. He pushed himself from the ground with a heavy sigh and slowly turned to look at his men with saddened eyes. "Now do you see?" he asked, his voice resonating with power and wisdom. "This is what happens when you take that which should not be taken!" he thundered before his anger dissolved with a downturn of weary shoulders. "We are mortal, my friends," he continued, his voice softening as the men turned their eyes from their king in shame, "and this is the gift that Ilvatar has given us, though bitter it may seem. We were not meant to have our hurts fixed and our lives prolonged in this manner. We are not elven-born and are not meant to live forever. When Ilvatar decides that it is our time, it is our time. It is not for us to change."
Naught but silence met the king's words, a silence that was broken only by the soft groans of the severely wounded that were oblivious to the tension that filled the sixth circle.
"My apologies, my lord, but Ioreth is in desperate need of your aid."
Turning at the sound of the familiar voice, Buffy watched as owyn, enormous in her advanced state of pregnancy, slowly moved beside her husband, one hand resting on the blood-stained gown that covered her wide girth.
"Of course," Aragorn acknowledged with a stony look at the silent crowd, "for there is little time and much for everyone to do," he continued as the crowd began to break at the king's pointed words.
"Buffy, are you well?"
Attention snapping back towards the White Lady, Buffy forced a brittle smile as she clutched her hand more tightly over the throbbing wound to her side. "I'll be fine - mostly skin," she assured her friend as Aragorn stepped beside the pregnant woman, his calloused hand pulling Buffy's arm away as he inspected the stab wound with a quick eye. The blade had indeed pierced the outer edge of her side, sinking deep through flesh but tearing no muscle.
"It does not look critical," he assessed as Buffy resisted the urge to shy away from his touch - a touch that felt little different from the unwelcome ones of the men that had attacked her but moments before. Features tightening at the thought, Buffy forced herself to remain where she was, locked between Legolas' comforting presence and Aragorn's cool touch.
"Legolas, would you escort Buffy back to her chambers and ensure that someone sees to the injury?" the king continued, his eyes sliding past her narrowed eyes as Buffy struggled against her fraying temper. So much had happened in so little time that she didn't know whether she should be angry at what had just happened or horrified by the part she had played in yet another unnecessary death - not to mention that Mirdan's death still weighed upon her, the loss of her friends, and her role in this strange world. In the end she figured that she was entitled to a little of both.
"Of course," the elf responded, his arm tightening around her waist as though he sensed her growing ire. "Send word if you have need of me," he added before forcibly turning her, his strong grip propelling them both towards the tunnel that led to the seventh circle of the city, pausing only to reclaim Buffy's rumpled duster.
Scowling openly now, Buffy looked back just in time to catch owyn's sympathetic eye before the woman became swallowed in the chaos.
"Listen, I'm really okay," Buffy insisted as she jerked on the ornate handle to her bedroom door and shoved the heavy wood aside, moving into the room with quick, powerful strides. "This isn't anything-"
"Perhaps not," Legolas allowed with a small, patient smile as he lingered at the open doorway. "Nevertheless, I shall send someone in to assist you once you have had sufficient time to refresh yourself," the elf promised before pulling the door shut with a soft snick behind him.
"Whatever," Buffy grumbled as she turned back to survey a bed chamber that had obviously been straightened in her absence with a warm fire lit in the fireplace that kept the winter cold at bay. Mr. Gordo now lay propped in a pool of bright sunshine against the mountain of pillows that adorned her large bed, her new pajamas neatly folded at the foot, while the assortment of other gifts were stacked carefully on the beautifully carved dresser.
Sighing in defeat, Buffy dropped her leather duster in a crumpled, dirty heap on the floor at her feet before shuffling towards the large canopied bed. "Hey Mr. Gordo," she greeted softly as she reached for the fluffy pink pig, her hand freezing mid-air when she noticed the grime that stained her narrow fingers. Frowning, Buffy turned from the bed and moved towards the large windows, her hand lifted before her as she inspected the stains beneath the bright, wintry sun.
Dirt and blood caked her fingers, lining the edges of her fingernails and filling the cracks of her skin. Much of it was dry and stiff - itchy layers that cracked and peeled as she curled her hand into a fist - while other parts still glistened in the bright light. Frown deepening, Buffy turned from the windows, her eyes searching the room until they fell upon the open doorway to the bathroom that adjoined the large chamber. Moving swiftly, she stepped into the small room, her eyes darting over the tub that was filled to the brim with steaming water, over the different sweetly smelling jars that were scattered on the ledge nearby, and landing on the floor-to-ceiling mirror that stood innocently to one side.
Her reflection stared back at her - face pale, wisps of tangled, dirty hair fallen loose from her simple twist and framing her pointed features, green eyes large and unnaturally bright with dark rings beneath, clothing stained, and slender limbs dashed with liberal amounts of blood and grime. Hypnotized by her reflection, Buffy slowly stepped closer to the tall mirror as she lifted one hand and pulled the stick from her hair, allowing the long blonde masses to slip free to cascade over her shoulders in a shimmering wave.
Her hair was longer now. Longer than she had kept it in Sunnydale.
Eyes slipping down to the dirty leather halter that she wore, Buffy watched her reflection as her small fingers slipped beneath the lower hem and slowly eased the tight fabric over smooth expanses of pale skin. Gingerly she worked the top over her small breasts and eased it over her wounded shoulder, hissing at the stinging pain, before dropping it on the cold marble floor. Next her fingers went to the lacings of her boots, nimble hands making short work of the tight knots as she methodically toed off each shoe before reaching for the hem of her pants, stripping before the mirror until she stood naked before the spotless glass.
Buffy scrutinized her reflection in the mirror - a reflection that looked as strange to her as that of another person. While always petite in stature, she was skinnier than before, her knees and shoulders more pointed and her angles more severe. Even her breasts looked smaller - much of the fat having disappeared over the months that she had been Vashnak's captive. Her skin was pale - her beautiful golden tan having faded long ago - and blood and dark bruising liberally covered her narrow frame. Reaching up, Buffy gently poked at her tender shoulder before fingering the wound to her side. Both injuries, while still painful, were already beginning to mend at a speed even greater than what her slayer healing allowed.
Buffy's eyes lifted once more, taking in Battered-Buffy in all of her naked glory, before her gaze finally rested upon the blood-red stone that stood stark against her pale flesh. Gently she lifted the small pendant in one hand, her eyes tracking over every small curve and crevice as she marveled at that which she held. She was powerful because of this stone. Strong. And yet why did she feel so very weak at this moment?
Turning away from the mirror, Buffy silently moved to the claw-foot tub, each foot slipping beneath the water with only the barest of ripples to mark her passage as she lowered herself into the deep, scalding water. Hissing as her skin prickled and burned against the heat, Buffy leaned back until her head rested against the marble edge.
The answer to her question was simple, really. Willow's gift had restored her strength - at what cost was still to be seen - but it was powerless to restore the confidence that had slowly crumbled during her months in Middle-earth. Or perhaps even long before that. She had been emotionally strong once. Self-assured. But now? Now she could play the part that was given her and paste on the brave face, but the shields that she had always erected had become corroded and too many hurts had slipped past them to slice into her heart and soul.
Mirdan.
Legolas.
The soldier.
Giles, Xander, Angel and Spike.
Dawn, Willow and everyone else.
Her mother.
Everything that had happened, no matter if it was five minutes or three years in the past, was still too much for her to bear. There was so much to worry about that Buffy found herself getting overwhelmed just trying to decide which she should worry about first. Should she think about all that she had left behind in Sunnydale? Or how about the man that she just killed in front of the Houses of Healing? Or Mirdan? Wait - didn't the upcoming and absolutely hopeless battle deserve some of her attention? Or how about the fact that after what happened in the courtyard, this place couldn't be her home anymore than Sunnydale? Which one deserved more of her attention?
Groaning softly, Buffy closed her eyes and slid beneath the steaming water, floating in the deep darkness. Bad things were happening all around her and the future looked dismal - but she had faced this many times before. Why were things so different now? Why was she so overwhelmed that she couldn't even enjoy a bath without nearly falling to pieces?
Releasing her breath in a rush of small bubbles, Buffy quickly sat up, roughly swiping the water from her eyes before seizing the nearest bottle of pretty smelling stuff and upturning it in the palm of her hand. The quiet was making her nuts and Buffy found herself desperately craving the MP3 player that was sitting in the other room. She would even listen to some miscellaneous boy band if it provided something to center herself - something to distract her from the memories and thoughts that moved in endless circles about her head.
Scowling at the purplish ooze, Buffy worked the substance into her long hair before moving on to the filth that caked her body from head to toe, scrubbing away the darkness until her skin began to glow a raw pink color. In minutes she rid herself of every reminder of the battle she had just fought, her hair tangled and dripping down her back as she stood from the dirty water and stepped gingerly onto the marbled floor.
Hand snagging a thick, strange looking towel, Buffy wrapped it loosely around her painfully thin form and padded back into her bedroom. It had to be getting late in the morning and the dark of the coming night would be swift to follow. With darkness came battle and in her current frame of mind, Buffy knew that she wouldn't last five minutes, let alone make it through another night of fierce fighting.
Stopping beside her bed, Buffy dropped her towel into a crumpled heap at her feet as she reached forward and snatched up her new flannel pajama pants. She just needed to re-find her equilibrium and she'd be fine, she reasoned to herself as she hastily stepped into the overlarge pants that pooled around her ankles, her fingers quickly pulling the drawstring tight around her small waist. She just needed to-
"Buffy-"
Yelping, Buffy quickly snatched her matching tank top and pressed it against her chest. Spinning around she found none other than the Queen of Gondor sitting regally in a chair by the large windows. "Arwen!" Buffy gasped, her face burning as she realized the full implication of just whom she had dropped her towel for. "What are you doing here?" she hissed as she turned around and hastily pulled the shirt over her dripping head of hair.
"Did not Legolas say that he would be sending someone to see to your wounds?" the queen returned with a smile that was lined with laughter, her dark eyes sparkling as she gracefully stood and waved at the medical supplies that rested on the table beside her.
"Well yeah, but you could have knocked," Buffy grumbled as she pulled at the cotton material that was now sticking uncomfortably to her skin, the thin fabric soaked through in many places by the water that continued to drip from her long hair.
Laughing, Arwen stepped forward and took Buffy's hand in hers. "Nearly ten years have I lived in this city of men, yet even now I find myself marveling at the modesty of your race," she explained, her voice a musical lilt as she led the small slayer to the table and gently pushed her into a cushioned seat. "The Firstborn are not so uncomfortable with the bodies that Ilvatar has gifted to us. But surely you would have learned this during the weeks that you traveled with Legolas and my brothers?"
Flushing at the thought of a group of hot, naked male elves wandering the wilds on horseback, Buffy quickly shook her head. "No, can't say I did," she mumbled as she forcibly tried to get her hormones in check. Riding with the guys had been bad enough, but to have their hotness rubbed in her face? That would have been just cruel. How wrong was it when even Thoron was hotter than the Johnny Depps of her world? "So, uh... you're a healer?" Buffy asked, desperately trying to change the subject as Arwen lifted the hem of Buffy's shirt to inspect the healing wound.
"Not a healer by trade," Arwen dismissed as she turned from the stab wound to inspect the red line that used to be a nasty gash upon Buffy's shoulder. "But one is not the daughter of the most skilled healer in all of Middle-earth without learning a few things," the she-elf continued as she turned from the gash and back to the stab wound with a small frown. "How strange," she murmured as she ran her pale fingers over the injury. "These wounds have nearly knitted themselves closed."
"Yeah - all a part of the slayer deal," Buffy quickly explained as she pulled down the hem of her shirt and scooted from the plush chair, feeling the heat of Willow's stone burn against her skin.
"Is it?" Arwen returned, her voice mild and her face impassive as she looked questioningly down to the stone that hung around Buffy's neck.
Resisting the urge to stuff the pendant beneath the top of her low cut tank, Buffy merely nodded stiffly. "Yes, it is," she affirmed as she returned to the bathroom long enough to retrieve a long, beautifully wrought comb that was fashioned from a pearly bone. Earlier she had admired the amazing craftsmanship, but now she took no note of its beauty as she tried her best to avoid Arwen's sharp elven gaze.
While Buffy and owyn had been given the chance to form the tenuous base of a new friendship, the queen was still a stranger to the slayer, and Buffy found herself reminded of this fact as she yanked the comb through the tangled masses of her long, dripping hair. Arwen was beautiful in a way that went beyond simple words and the cracked vision of Hollywood starlets. She was grace and light - ethereal and untouchable - with the type of gentle demeanor that placed her high on a pedestal that was never meant to be touched, let alone even approached by the likes of the slayer. Buffy, in contrast, was darkness and shadows. She had dwelled in the blackest places of mankind for so many years that whatever purity she had been gifted had been squandered in the deep shadows long ago.
Scowling at the dismal thought, Buffy viciously attacked her matted hair. "What I wouldn't give for a little bit of conditioner," she grumbled, wincing as the strong teeth tore through a particularly stubborn knot. Frowning, she dipped her head forward and pulled harder on the comb's handle, willing the teeth to either work through the mess or just pull it all out - when she felt long, gentle fingers ease her hold and relinquish the comb into another's sure grip.
"While I know not of this thing for which you long, I do know from experience that brute strength is not required in this battle," Arwen spoke from behind her as the tall she-elf began to gently work the comb through the tangled mess. "When it comes to battles of this nature, true strength is delicate," she advised as her nimble fingers eased the comb through snarls and knots, smoothing the flyaway wisps into straight, even lines.
Buffy relinquished all control with a soft sigh and allowed her eyes to slip closed, one hand lifting to gently grip the burning stone at her neck in her small fist. Slowly she felt her embarrassment at being so helped begin to ebb as she became lulled by Arwen's slow, methodical movements. Her thoughts wandered to earlier, happier times when she was nothing more than someone's daughter - a child who would stand before her mother as the tangles were worked from her baby-soft hair. Those had been simple times. Wonderful times.
"There is a tale," Arwen murmured, her voice a soft whisper that encased Buffy in her warm breath, "told amongst my people of a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature to be found on these shores."
Smiling, Buffy began to rock on heavy feet as all of her previous worries melted away before the queen's lilting voice.
"From the moment it leaves the nest the bird spends its life searching for one tree - a tree of thorns, tall and lean with long branches of sharp spires. The bird does not rest until it has found one, and then singing amongst the savage branches it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. Dying, it rises above its own agony to sing more sweetly than either the lark or the nightingale."
Buffy slowly stilled as Arwen continued to gently work her fingers through her wet tresses, as though oblivious to the dark turn her story had taken.
"One song in which the bird's life is the price," Arwen continued, unperturbed by Buffy's growing unease, "but all of Arda stills to listen and Ilvatar smiles, for the best is only bought at the cost of great pain."
For a brief moment silence reigned as Buffy swallowed the lump in her throat. "Oh," she muttered as Arwen's hands finally fell still, releasing her hold on Buffy's head as the slayer took an uncertain step forward and turned to meet the queen's gray-eyed gaze. "And that would be the moral of the story, I take it?" she asked as she raised a hand to her hair to find the snarled mess replaced by smooth, glistening strands. Without waiting for the queen to respond, Buffy quickly plowed ahead. "'Cause as far as stories go, not the most cheerful tale," she began.
"It is a bitter lesson," Arwen cut in with one of the small, enigmatic smiles that her race seemed so fond of, "but one that all will learn before their end has come. Frodo learned it well when he ventured to Mount Doom to destroy the Ring of Power," she intoned as she turned and moved to the tall windows that looked out upon the winter-swept gardens below. "I, too, learned this lesson when I pledged myself to a mortal, and thereby forsook my family for all eternity," she admitted as Buffy silently moved to the she-elf's side, the slayer's eyes shifting until she could meet the queen's gaze through the sun-fused glass.
"I don't know what to say," Buffy admitted, thinking back to the night that she had spent camped on the borders of Lothlrien and the sadness that she had seen laid bare in Elladan and Elrohir's eyes - eyes that were so similar to those of their sister.
"There is nothing to be said, for bitter was the parting between my father and I, and great is the pain that still aches within my breast. And yet..." Arwen hesitated with a small, sad smile, "and yet such was the great cost for the love that I share with my husband - the love that I will follow to a mortal grave."
"Because the best can only be bought at the cost of great pain," Buffy finished for the elf, revisiting the wisdom that the queen had wanted to impart. Smiling ruefully, Buffy turned away from the reflection of the she-elf's piercing gaze as her thoughts turned inward. If this was a life lesson, it was one that Buffy had already learned many times over as the slayer. Great things always had a price, and as she had learned early on, someone's life was usually the heavy toll: Jesse, Kendra, Miss Calendar... Faith, Riley, Tara... Dawn, Willow, Xander, Giles - even her mother had been a victim of someone else's greatness in some form or another. So many nameless, faceless girls that had died alone. Even Buffy herself had already purchased a measure of greatness when she sacrificed herself to save the world two years ago.
All of these sacrifices - all of these costs had been great simply in their level of pain inflicted. The only question that remained was, after everything she had already given for this cause, what more could she possibly have left to give? What more did they want of her? They couldn't take her friends - they had already done that when they banished her to this world. They couldn't take her family - that died with her mother. They couldn't even take her life because after dying twice already, what pain was there in that? Thus the question remained: what other toll was needed in order to achieve the best that this world deserved?
Buffy felt another headache coming on as her thoughts started to crowd her, desperately demanding her attention. "This sucks," she grumbled as she rubbed a shaking hand against her temple, wanting nothing more than the surety that she had always found in Sunnydale. But her days in Sunnydale were long over, and there wasn't enough time in this new world to reclaim the equilibrium that had been stolen.
"Forgive me," Arwen stated, her melodious voice cutting through Buffy's garbled thoughts. "Legolas has sent me here to see to your well-being and here I keep you from your rest."
"I'm not tired," Buffy sighed as Arwen gently gripped her arm and led the petite slayer to the massive, canopied bed. Yet even as the words fell from her lips, Buffy smothered a yawn as she felt her mind begin to haze from a tiredness that caused her limbs to seem leaden and old. For a moment she fought the sleep that was desperate to claim her, her foggy eyes sweeping suspiciously over the she-elf that was busy tucking her impossibly heavy arms beneath the soft comforter. Yet even that desire soon faded as Buffy welcomed the release that sleep brought - relief from her memories, from her thoughts, and most importantly, relief from the worries that had threatened to smother her beneath their heavy press. In minutes she released her hold on the conscious world and allowed herself to slip away into dreams.
Closing the door quietly behind her, Arwen turned from the slayer's chambers with a handful of her long skirts gathered in one hand and a saddened expression on her timeless face. There was nothing more that she could do for the young woman upon whom so much had rested for so long, and her heart felt heavy for the great burden that was shouldered by one of so few years. In a way, Buffy reminded the queen of her husband in the first days of their meeting. He, too, had been a child of man, so very young in body and old in soul, with the knowledge of his destiny resting fresh upon his mind. To both Estel and Buffy, their destinies had seemed unfair and both longed to return to the innocence that had been shattered by Fate's call - and yet her husband had shed Estel, same as he had shed Thorongil, Strider, and Aragorn when Elessar was needed, and deep in her heart the queen knew that Buffy, too, would shoulder her burden, slip free of the restraints of the past, and step forward to accept whatever role she was yet meant to take in a time that had become so uncertain.
"Arwen."
Startled from her thoughts, Arwen smiled at the fair-haired elf that ate the distance between them with long, graceful strides. "Legolas," she returned as the elven prince stilled at her side, his blue eyed gaze sliding past her own to the room she had just left behind. "She sleeps," the queen supplied, answering his unspoken question.
"Truly?" Legolas returned as he arched a brow in disbelief, his eyes once more slipping to the closed doorway as though he expected the petite slayer to come sneaking out at any moment.
"What else would you expect?" she asked, her lips twisting in amusement.
"From Buffy? Protests, arguments, and physical force if necessary," he returned as he took a hesitant step towards the door. "She is not one to be put down so easily, even if it is to claim the rest that her body so badly needs."
Laughing gently, Arwen linked her arm with his and forcibly turned the slender elf from the slayer's door. "Strong she may be, but she is still mortal and thus sleeps as does a mortal who has battled long into the night," she stated firmly as she forced the prince to fall into step beside her. At his soft sigh of acceptance, she quirked a questioning brow at the younger elf, noting for the first time the prince's own haggard appearance. "And you would do well to follow her example, mellon-nin," she added with a small frown as her sharp gaze tracked over his blood-stained, rumpled clothing and the dirt and blood that smeared his proud face.
"Perhaps," the elf conceded with a tired nod, "and yet there is still much to discuss." Slowly shaking his head, he pressed a weary hand against his pinched brow. "I still have not learned the details of her miraculous recovery, though I sense a darkness in the amulet that she wears around her neck. And yet the gem could only have come from her friends, and if she has spoken true, the last thing her friends would wish would be to add further injury to one so loved."
"An enigma to be sure," Arwen conceded as she stilled her steps, her hand light on his arm as she gently turned her old friend so that her piercing gaze could clearly read that which was hidden in his eyes. "And yet there is more you are not saying," she murmured.
Legolas slowly tilted his head forward, his long tresses slipping free to form a curtain around his troubled features. "I worry for her," he admitted with a soft sigh as he lifted his chin to look past her and to the world that was revealed beyond the windowed hall. The sun still shone bright and clear upon the cold winter day - a false image that offered hope and joy to a world that was without. "With this new attack upon her, never will she be welcome in Minas Tirith."
"Nay, she will always be welcome in this city of Men," Arwen quickly argued as she tugged on his hand, trying in vain to reclaim his wandering eyes. "Estel knows the truth of what happened before the Houses of Healing. We are her friends, and we lay no blame at her feet for the tragedy that occurred earlier this morn."
At her earnest words, Legolas turned to the Evenstar with saddened eyes. "But how could I have expected you to understand?" he murmured as he raised a hand to gently brush away a dark lock of hair that gathered at her pale brow. "These are your people now, and they love you as their own," he whispered with a careworn smile. "You are no longer seen as elf-kind to the men of this country, and instead you have finally become their queen. But I... even I still feel their eyes upon me as I walk their streets," Legolas admitted with a heavy sigh. "A new enemy has been revealed to these people - an enemy that wears the fair faces of our kin. And the same now holds true for Buffy, for ever will they see her as that which brought about their destruction. This place is ruined for her now. She has no place amongst men," he finished, the truth of his words ringing in the empty corridor.
"And you would give her a place amongst elven-kind?" Arwen evenly returned, her eyes narrowing upon her friend. "Legolas, our people are leaving these shores," she reminded him with a deep sadness that thrummed between both prince and queen - a sadness that throbbed with the aching reminder of the many goodbyes that they had both given to family and friends who had already taken ship to the Undying Lands. "This is no longer the time of our people. What more could Elves offer that Men cannot?" she questioned, hating the pain that she brought to his eyes as he struggled for an answer that neither possessed.
"I..." Legolas began, words failing him as he held Arwen's knowing gaze. "We-" he began again, only to breathe a silent breath of relief as the familiar fall of heavy feet caused both elves to turn as Aragorn hurried towards them, his long cloak flapping wildly behind him.
"Arwen!" he called out, his eyes bright in a face that was covered in dark shadows and long stubble.
"What is wrong, my husband?" Arwen demanded as she turned from Legolas and hurried towards the approaching man. "Is everything aright with-"
"owyn has need of you," Aragorn interrupted as Legolas moved closer to his two friends, the tall elf easily reading the anxiety that creased the king's proud brow.
"owyn?" Arwen repeated, her brow tightening in confusion. "What-"
"Her labor pains have begun," the king returned with a curt nod towards the steward's chambers.
Eyes growing wide, Legolas stood in stunned silence as Arwen gripped her husband's hand before quickly hurrying away, leaving the elf and man in a thickening silence. This child would be Faramir and owyn's fifth, and yet every birth carried much uncertainty for both the health of mother and child, no matter how many times the mother had gone down this path. It was a twisting fear that always colored the joyous culmination of nine months of waiting, and that the White Lady of Ithilien would finally go into labor at this hour, of all hours, could only be an act of Iluvatar himself.
"Should you not be there yourself?" Legolas questioned, finally breaking the stiff silence as he and Aragorn fell into comfortable step together. "Or at the Houses of Healing? Surely the healing touch of the king should still be required."
"Aye, and I still would be were it not for owyn and Ioreth," Aragorn admitted with a wry smile that did little to hide the weariness that caused dark lines to form beneath his clear gaze. "The White Lady requested that Arwen take my place in this endeavor, and if there is one thing that I have learned over the years, it is to never argue with a woman who is trapped in the throes of labor," he explained with a forced grin. "And as for the Houses of Healing, its mistress is fierce and she all but ordered me to find my bed before the battle ahead."
Eyes narrowing, Legolas glanced sideways at his oldest mortal friend. "Then you will take Faramir's place in battle," he hazarded, watching as the man's lips tightened into the grimmest of smiles.
"Faramir belongs with his family now, and not on a battlefield. His country will suffer without him this night," he offered with a small shrug. "Besides, if this night is truly to be our last, it is only right that he should spend it at owyn's side."
Momentarily frozen by this small admission of the grim odds that they faced, Legolas fought the instinctive urge to reassure his friend with false hopes. Their victory in the War of the Rings had been secured when the odds had been seemingly insurmountable, but that was when the fate of the world had rested in the hands of one small hobbit and the friend that refused to allow his master to fail. This night there were no brave hobbits and there was no sure victory that could be gained by the destruction of one ring. This night nothing was certain save a battle that they were simply incapable of winning.
Smiling sadly, Legolas stilled his steps and turned towards his friend. "It will be good to fight at your side once more, mellon-nin, for it has been far too long," he stated as he reached out and gripped the man's shoulder, his serious expression cracking beneath an impish grin. "Besides, I am taxed as it is trying to keep track of Buffy and Gimli. Add your brothers to the equation and it is nigh on impossible."
Weakly returning the elf's smile, Aragorn clasped his other shoulder. "We are all brothers in this, my friend, and I would rather not fight at anyone's side but yours," he admitted before quickly pulling Legolas close in a tight, brotherly hug. "Till the end," he whispered, his hot breath raking over Legolas' dirty cheek.
For a moment, Legolas remained locked in this familiar embrace, a sudden tightness filling his throat as something cold throbbed against the edges of his awareness. "Till the end," he automatically returned, his words soft and muted - sounding a world away. Yet if Aragorn noticed his friend's hesitance, he never showed it as he released the elf with a soft smile before heading towards his own chambers. Alone, Legolas stood in the silent corridor and watched until his friend disappeared from sight.
"Till the end."