It was all shadow and whimpers of anguish.
Legolas ran hard, surpassing the speed of those behind him. He cleared corners without knowing why he had chosen to follow the corridor after the next. He thought he was following his ears— that was, at first, his method— but as he soon realized, there was something deterring him. His hearing became obscured, and part of his conscious thought was absent. It was something he had never felt before, and he was hearing Niélawen in all four directions.
But he wouldn't stop.
"Where is she?" he exclaimed aloud as he ran, much to himself as to the others. His memory of every path to access every hall was diminished. He suddenly did not know his way around his own home. Finally he halted, looking around him hopelessly and feeling very weary of mind all of a sudden as he came to a stop. "What is this nonsense?" he muttered furiously. Every wall he looked upon had the likeness of those he had already passed through.
"We have been through here already, Highness!" one of his followers cried aloud.
Legolas breathed, clenching his fists in a pulsating action. He could only shut his eyes in thought. And that moment one mere component of his logic struck within him a thought. "This must be a hoax. I do not know what force is deterring us from reaching her, but I know we have not yet passed through this hall. I can feel we're close to her." They had to be. He walked forward, holding great composure that had the others wondering aloud.
And so at first he went alone, for the others were too filled with uncertainty and doubt in him to follow in his lead— it appeared to them that he was merely wasting valuable time. Legolas closed his eyes as he went, walking like a blind man, though guided by another sight or sense that was not offered by his eyes or ears. He followed the long path of the corridor, and as his heart grew more troubled as he proceeded every step was a release from some invisible force inside his head. He began to run as he looked ahead to what he knew for certain was his last corner, the cries and breaths of anguish growing ever closer as he went.
She lay at the doorway entrance of her room, her body frail and her knees closed to a tight, protective knot. Her dress, in few places, was torn by struggle at the bottom seams. She saw him there, rushing to her and cupping her face in his hands, but she was still very distant in mind. Her cheeks were flushed though the rest of her was deathly white, and her entire body was dampened in a cold sweat.
As he knelt beside her, she grasped his arm with an unstable hand and desperately pulled him close. Her eyes went dark and were empty, and she drew tears as she began to cry in fear of something she stared at ahead. As Legolas met the line of her gaze, he found that there was nothing to be seen, and his worry only amplified.
The scattered companies met at their adjoining corners and slowly moved for a closer look, looming over the terrified young woman suddenly aged in deathly fear, and the desperate Elf that fondly held her in his arms, pleading with her to speak. She opened her mouth, but the only words that came out were frantic declarations in a language he could not understand, nor did anyone else there know.
"Niélawen! Niélawen, stop!" He cradled her and attempted to pull her eyes from whatever it was that she looked upon with such terror, but he gave in to her strength in fear of hurting her. "Come on, Néla. Please." He pressed his forehead to her temple, feeling her pulse radiating against his skin, and he murmured over her cries, "Sedho… sedho." [lie at ease]
He then turned to the others wrathfully, feeling strong, irate emotions overpowering him from distress. None of them would help— they were all afraid. "Go away, there is nothing to see!" He stood and beckoned them away forcefully, yet he still felt a strong urge to lash out and coerce them away violently with all the strength his fury would allow. Celahir stepped at the front of the line and more gently did the deed for him. As Legolas regained his bearings he slid his arms beneath Niélawen and carefully lifted her trembling body through the doorway of her room where he laid her on her canopy bed with the quilt of off-white satin and green beech-tree embroidery. He laid his large palm on her damp forehead, and a frigid sensation ran through his fingers. He helped her beneath the covers and pulled them close to her chin, wrapping them closely against the outer walls of her head as best as he could. He then closed the door, and left the candles and torches burning brightly before he laid himself down beside her with his head against hers and his arms around her quaking body beneath the thick layers of blankets. And he sang to her— The Lay of Nimrodel, and the same melody that had soothed her from a chill, death-like state on the night he found her in the heartland of Mirkwood. Her sleep, for a while, was peaceful.
Legolas was motivated awake. The room had grown dark— nearly every candle and torch had dwindled to a weak flicker— if any light at all still lingered upon their wicks. Instinctively he guessed the morning was young by the new standards of winter's light. The same hand that had awoken him moments before shook him again gently. He peered up and Niélawen watched him from the comfortable nook in his shoulder.
"Light the room," she whispered.
He drew himself up from the warmth of the bed and reached for a small torch lit by a small remainder of flame, and made his way to relight the burned out candles. As he passed across the room, she sat up abruptly.
"Wait."
He looked at her and froze, peering around him curiously. His long golden hair shimmered in the light of the torch, and the red glow flickered upon his face as his eyes scanned the area around him.
Niélawen's eyes, too, shifted in the darkness. "Do you see it?" she asked softly.
He sighed, for by her composure he knew there could be no severe danger— only a feeling— and he shook his head to her. "No. I see nothing."
Niélawen emerged from the blankets with more courage as light burned livelier in the room. Legolas did not set all the candles aflame; only a few, for he still wanted to preserve some darkness to encourage sleep for them both. He then returned to her bed and sat beside her.
"They never leave," she said unhappily, wrapping her arms around her body as she felt colder outside the quilt. The long sleeves of her dress were thick, but a chill still lingered in her blood. "Nor does She."
"Who?"
"I cannot tell you that. Not yet." She looked at him with some anxiety. "They want me back, Legolas."
"What did you hear?" he asked carefully, knowing the things she witnessed with her eyes were of a topic already dismissed. "Tell me what was there that none of us could sense."
"Words," she whispered. "Just words. They dealt to me a fate of death and suffering, and of evil. I was the perpetrator of it all, and a very significant part of these horrible things." She laid herself down upon her pillow and stared at the roof. "Will you show me a map of the realm East of the Anduin tomorrow morning?" He agreed to that, and they both settled into sleep.
Dawn set in quickly, and Legolas had slept little after the awakening in the darkness. He left in silence upon the first hint of light, and giving her a fond kiss upon her forehead he departed her room without a sound.
The end of the corridor in which Niélawen's room was situated was inactive in an early stillness. He walked slowly up the elevated hall, grief lying heavily on his shoulders, and as he lifted his head he found the shadow of an individual lingering at the corner far ahead. Oronar's burly figure leaned against the wall, his grey eyes watching him intently as he proceeded. He glanced down the hall to where Niélawen's door stood, smirking with both interest and detest, and vanished around the same corner he had come without a word spoken.
Legolas stepped beneath a hazy grey sky, overwhelmed by a cool gust of wind against his face. The grass, as he walked, was brittle beneath his boots, and a white, shimmering dust coated the cowering grassland; evidence of a frost that had chilled the woodlands overnight. He walked further out into the frigid wind, dressed still in his shirt from the previous evening. He was, of course, untouched by the cold, just as his kin were standing amongst their homes under the dreary winter sky, unaffected by the chill. He moved to the neat, earthly dwellings close to the forest's edge, where his people wandered in peace amongst the trees or walked with numerous companions in the open.
And there was an unhappy silence about him that he had only deeply recognized at that particular time. Laughter of the young ones, he recalled sadly, had ceased some years ago. Everything was beginning to change— never were the comings of winter so desolate and bitter in Rhovanion. Grey skies year round hung over the lands more often than naught, and because his people, in numbers now of growing few, were slowly departing with the kin of the West, the land was becoming empty with time. He felt the dread of misfortune soon to come to all the earth.
He missed the children and what Mirkwood once was. When the days beneath the forests of the land were once dark and perilous, it was always about survival, never just living. Everyone was growing weary, and the Havens were becoming an escape to many of those whose time did not yet have to be over. Alliances were starting to fail, and hope was dwindling. The Elves were losing that hope— how could the other inhabitants of the world see it, too, then? Indeed, the passing time would formulate great changes in the world, and likely a great rift in the stability of humanity. He wondered if he would find the courage to stand against the troubles that would threat Middle Earth, and fight for a world he was destined to leave behind when his time was near.
Legolas climbed a strong ladder of wood and silver rope, rising the expanse of the great beech tree that dwelled Celaeglin and Celahir. He scanned around him as he climbed, watching as the number of tree dwellings steadily increased as he ascended. Mirkwood's forest was not nearly as exquisite as the radiant land of Lothlorien, but it reflected a grandness of its own. Every dwelling had it's own unique architecture— some had winding stairways from the ground instead of ladders— but they all had pale meadow-oak exteriors, and were private, cozy, and beautiful in their own art. The beech trees, too, grew immense in size and strength— but once again hardly near to the extent of Lorien's woods. He reached the half-point of the tree where a sturdy platform was at the last step of the ladder, and from there was a winding flight of stairs, beneath it a small, simple building— Celahir's own laboratory as well as Celaeglin's own armory. Legolas proceeded up the steps, and reached the top of the beech tree and the interior of the dwelling.
"Lovely, winter is upon us," Celaeglin declared flatly, greeting his young Lord. He was particularly fond of horses, and because much of his own skill training was based on his cavalry expertise, harsher weather meant a lesser resistance for the horses. "How is the young one faring?"
"Making up for what sleep she missed." He slumped himself down on a velvet sack that seeped into every crevice of his body— the brothers called it a "chair," in whatever form of craft it aimed to be. "Where is Celahir?"
"Investigating. Many of his plants and formulas have gone missing, so of course he is still on his outrageous search that, pathetically enough, began at daybreak. " Celaeglin offered him a drink. Legolas declined. "You're tired, I see."
Legolas buried his forehead in one of his hands, and muttered, "If only you knew. I cannot stop… thinking. About her… about all of this."
"I could try to understand, if you'll let me." Celaeglin plummeted into his own "chair," drink in hand— most likely wine, but Legolas could not note the content. "I could help."
Legolas exhaled, and for a time there was silence but for the whistling of the chill wind outside the windows. "She's drifting from me."
"Where is there for her to go?"
"Literally?" Legolas looked up at him grimly. "East, most likely. Though she will not tell me. 'Not yet,' she says."
Celaeglin murmured in his glass, shaking his head. "She is not leaving, then."
"You cannot be sure of that."
"She is an honest woman. Compassion runs through her blood and though she is skilled at hiding it, she cares for others more than her own self. An indecisive person such as her is frightened for the pain she may cause to others if her decision is wrongly made. She is not hiding from you. She is burdened with the heavy weight of uncertainty and confusion, just as you are." He leaned in curiously. "You have not seen it, then?"
Legolas observed him inquiringly. "Seen what?"
"She loves you."
He peered around him, arching a brow and showing he was clearly hesitant about the statement. "And I care about her the same …"
"Legolas!" Celaeglin exclaimed in an exasperated manner. Legolas was taken aback, and the offense in his eyes was priceless. "Believe me, you are not foolish enough to miss what point I make now."
Legolas stared at him long beneath his undone flaxen hair. He settled more into his seat, slumped rather uncomfortably and seated with his legs— the only support for balance in the uneven sack-chair— wide apart carelessly, and he appeared very weary. He stared ahead blankly, and he began to fidget with his hands. He did know— he just hoped Celaeglin wouldn't make it apparent to them both.
Celaeglin gave him a stern and suggestive stare, frowning with some disappointment. "You're afraid."
"Quit putting words into my mouth," Legolas replied sharply. "What reason do I have to be afraid?"
Celaeglin opened his mouth to proceed, but withdrew reluctantly. He remained silent in what he hoped went noticed as a sign of defeat, because he felt he could say no more. Legolas groped the sack and hauled himself to his feet and approached his departure down the stairway.
"Perhaps," Celaeglin spoke up softly, "time is running out. I only offer guidance to what I see as forthcoming. I could help further if only you will realize the truth for yourself."
Legolas paused at the stairs. At his feet, soft, snowy down drifted in a light amount from the grey skies above, guided by a faint breeze. "And I would say you are right," he murmured, and descended down the tree.
Maneuvering around trees and dwellings, he strode briskly and fiercely to the entry he once passed through, not knowing why he felt so… frantic. His heart pounded within his chest like he was on a desperate chase, worn of all breath deep in his lungs, and losing the ability to mentally comprehend anything in his way.
And there she was before him when he thought he could go no further. Blissfully radiant she seemed beneath the colorless sky, like a ruby upon worn stone, face lifted into the air with her eyes closed as she found appreciation in such a dim, unbefitting place for rest. But her hair, though it dangled in voluptuous waves, fell against her back darker at the roots than the platinum shine he was used to. She was also, oddly enough, dressed to fight— clad in Elvish-crafted boots of light weight, pale snug trousers on her legs, close-knit shirts of countless layers sheathing her body , and dark auburn vambraces upon her forearms.
"What are you doing?"
She appeared undaunted in her moment of peace, but for her unceasing ability to take into acknowledgement all that she heard. "My hair, I can tell you have noticed, appears dark to you. Pretend it's the light so I do not have to explain."
His brows furrowed in distortion. Her words were too randomly chosen for him to grasp a meaning.
"How do I know that…?" She veered around, and the radiant laughter in her smile he knew from years of her benevolent presence puzzled him further. Her eyes stared through him with such knowledge and grown wisdom since the passing evening that he was suddenly both intrigued and intimidated by her leer. "You think strange things, Legolas."
He shook his head dismissively, putting aside insignificant matters accumulating in his mind. "We need to talk."
At last he noticed the bow and quiver she had kept so well concealed in her right hand. "We will talk later. At the moment, I'm feeling far too strong to tolerate the weak state trying to overcome me."
"That sounds familiar," he said quietly, approaching her with careful consideration.
She smirked. "I think it's time now to show you what I am capable of."
"You aren't well enough."
"But I have never felt this good!" And she surprised him next as she threw down her bow and her quiver carelessly, and removed a layer of her garments. She opened her arms suggestively before him. "What do you wish to see?"
"Sparring is not a performance. No combat is."
She drew her hair back fiercely. "Today— here— it is. Unless you want to see all that I can accomplish in a challenge of 'first-blood.'"
His sapphire eyes went wide, and his forehead was knit severely. He couldn't tell if she was being earnest or not. "Niélawen, you speak like a fool."
She removed every other upper-garment layer until she was down to a single, snug broadcloth shirt with sleeves cropped half way— it provided too little warmth for her, he feared.
Legolas was still. "And you are dressed like one, too."
"I'm boiling inside with this alone." She grit her teeth, clenching and unclenching her fists intensely.
He looked her over long and hard. There wasn't a sign of weakness or skepticism on her; her certainty was startling. She wanted to fight. She wanted to fight him. She wanted to show him all she could do, and part of him was concerned for her. He veered around sharply to a long chest against the sloped side of the Hall. They stood upon the sparring grounds, suitably enough, and he opened the chest to a neat arrangement of heavy and lightweight weaponry. He drew two weighty swords from within it and tossed one to her hilt first.
A single sheet of her confidence was suddenly stripped as it fell onto the ground before her. She gazed upon the blade, second-guessing herself and suddenly what she was trying to accomplish by the behavior she couldn't seem to control.
He ran his hands lightly along his razor-sharp blade, trying to daunt her with his own self-assurance—he certainly did not want to fight. The edge left a white mark upon his palm, having almost broken the surface of his tough skin. "They are sharpened after every use; or every four days without."
"Wait," she exclaimed. He watched her firm arms tighten up anxiously. "I can't."
"I think you can."
Niélawen bent over and picked up the sword, and she held her weapon before her in both hands, light but steady on her feet.
Legolas swung his sword and charged at her promptly and gracefully. She blocked at the last minute. He smirked suggestively, but she was not treating it as a game yet and was still alarmed. He struck a second time— she parried from him once and then her blade absorbed the force of his second blow. He pressed his blade down hard against hers, aiming for a deep inspection of her eyes.
They gleamed with fear.
Any foe thrived on such a reflection of frailty, but his incentive was merely to teach her a lesson. There were strange things affecting her mind— he wanted to start by tracing some of them, and eliminating them altogether. If fighting is what she wanted, fighting was what he would give her, but clearly a piece of her good sense was lost because she was, after all, accepting an Elven warrior as her opponent.
He struck again, following it with yet another blow. Each swing became stronger, quicker, and in harder to reach places. She continued to block each patient strike, and as soon as her confidence was raised he decided the standards, too, needed to be raised.
He whirled the heavy steel in a spinning arc, and their swords clashed loudly as he drove against her with but a small bit of his strength. So far she was holding up the defense, and he wanted to see her attack him, instead. He accepted the possibility that she simply needed and wanted to vent her fury— as senseless as it was.
But she was earnest and quick, and the defense she maintained was well controlled and not looking to be easily faltered. Finally she held her weapon in a more flexible fashion— one-handed— as Legolas did. Then she surprised him and quickened her movements even more.
Snow fluttered around them as they beat against the cold wind in a series of supremely graceful movements. They looked like masters of the same art. The clash of steel became so loud and so strong that small crowds had lingered somewhere in the near distance, keeping far enough from the sparring match. Some murmured amongst themselves, watching the pace accelerate and the movements become complex and struggled— as though it was a fight to the death.
Neither gave in, and their endurance provoked one another further. Sparks sprang from the edges of the steel. Their movements were becoming too fierce and rapid to stay controlled for long— or so it was in Niélawen's case.
Legolas swiped upward, close to her throat, but deliberately held back to swing low. Seemingly stronger, he knocked the sword from her hands upwards and out to the side. He held his blade at her heart, and he gave a half-smirk.
Niélawen cocked her head sideways. Something shone in her face then— fortitude, and a new found self-assurance. She stepped forward against the point of the blade, its cold steel slowly piercing into her warm flesh and the fabric of her shirt. "Are you ready?" she whispered, mischief in her eyes.
"For…?"
She snatched his forearm in a speed that rivaled that of light itself. He never saw it coming. With a firm grasp she pushed his sword bearing arm into the air and her fist connected with his ribs. As Legolas stumbled back in surprise, regaining a rapid loss of breath and receiving a sharp pain within his bones, Niélawen darted to the weaponry chest, and there she drew from its depths not one, but two swords. Legolas growled between his teeth as he watched her advance on him with persisting patience.
"What have I been missing all these years?" she chimed with a grin.
"This is not going too far?" Legolas had to inquire carefully. He wasn't sure he liked the intensity in her eyes.
"Nay, Legolas. Because now I know I can do everything! We can't end this now." She whirled the blades simultaneously in her two hands, and stepped lively in his direction. She swung the blade borne in her right hand, her left wielding hand following just as swiftly. Legolas was forced to block the two blades at once— her movements were so brief and harmonious with the rest of her actions that every two strikes was a single hit against him.
Niélawen would not let down her attack, and Legolas briefly relied on parrying every hit he could. The spar was beginning to enrage him. Her blade swiped close to his head, but he ducked, and veered away swiftly. He lifted his sword for an attack in behind, and she deflected his blade with one of her own without looking back. She then took the sword in her left hand and began her most well coordinated attack. Sparks flew as she hit with her left, moving her feet to obtain strength in the right, striking again with the opposite arm. The rotation had Legolas moving with more speed than her, but all in defense.
It was becoming too much.
He leapt back, bringing a valuable three feet between them, and watched as she lifted her two weapons, swung them around her, and came down at his head.
Bystanders gasped and cried aloud, looking away in noting that Legolas previously held a very vulnerable position. As they turned back in alarm, they watched the Elf as he held off her two swords with a strong fortification of his single blade, held flat along its side. Both of his palms held a section of the sword, be it the hilt or the razor-sharp blade itself. She came down on him strong, and he felt her push all her weight into the weapon.
He was not in the least bit taken by her immense strength, but he let go of some resistance and allowed her to move into him.
"Too far," he muttered through his teeth.
As he peered into her unusually darkened green eyes with intensity, his own eyes suddenly seemed to enthrall her. No person around them could tell why, or how he did it, but for a mere three seconds her attention was on him and only him. Her distraction provided a great benefit to him.
Legolas hurled his knee into her abdomen; an action he even felt was too far done, but was a course of action that was felt was needed. As Niélawen leapt back in pain she lost the strength weighing down through her swords and with one lift of his own, Legolas knocked them from her hands and they spun in unison into the air, landing heavily in the frozen grass behind him. He let his own weapon fall from his grasp as Niélawen looked up at him breathlessly.
"That is it," he demanded loudly. "No more."
"Why not?"
"You fight as though you are aiming to kill."
"That is always the aim in fighting."
He stepped forward. "A real warrior's aim never begins as an endeavor to kill. Real fighters only deter, and kill to defeat only if it is of dire importance."
"Some things I see little importance in." She clenched her teeth together. "And then some things I can't help."
He stopped abruptly, seeing the familiar darkness lingering in her eyes. And he realized immediately she was ready for the kill. "You promised this would not happen."
Niélawen leapt at him with a fierce cry. He let himself fall without resisting, but as they plummeted to the ground as a pair he grasped her arms and threw her over and above him, and he stood immediately. She got to her feet in quick timing, and she sprang forward with solid fists to his face and body, and he repelled each one with the strong front of his forearm, feeling his blood flow halt in his veins in the areas of impact.
Her blows were consecutive until he caught a flying fist, and shoved her backwards. As she regained balance she came back at him with a soaring kick that he was forced to dodge.
But as he ducked and side-stepped, her opposite foot stomped firmly into his chest, and he lost steady stance, falling back upon the cold, hard ground. Niélawen landed on top of him, crushing him with inhumanly strength in her thighs and actually causing him great pain.
By this time those who had stayed to watch were now frantically searching for help. The remaining did not know whether to step in and assist, or wait on the sidelines powerlessly.
Legolas grabbed her by the wrists to transfer her attention and strength to her upper body, and she released him from her constriction. He folded his legs against his chest and she was hurled back by his kick. She backward-somersaulted the same time he flipped onto his feet, and they stood motionless for a mere glitch in time.
She was watching him closely, monitoring his breaths. There was madness in her eyes— she had passed the brink of control. He knew he could take her for a longer duration. He was stronger, and less vulnerable to weariness. He would never tire, but what he did not know was how long he could endure the match without hurting her in his defense.
Niélawen started into a run towards him, and she aimed low. As she attacked him, she ducked and kicked her legs strategically and swung faster fists than ever before—each time he managed to block. He was afraid of hurting her, but the empathy was far too inane for the situation and in consideration of the likely chances of injury she could inflict on him if the conflict got any more heated up.
But suddenly she was wrestling with him, and they were making circles around each other, until she ran again— right passed him, and towards the line of trees ahead.
Everyone watched uneasily as she sprinted in wide strides directly in the line of a single oak tree of average size. She reached it head on, but did something they did not expect.
Fiercely and powerfully, she stepped off the tree, leaping from its bark and rebounding towards him. Shattered splinters of the trunk scattered in the air from the impact. Niélawen suddenly flew back with such shocking motion and speed that Legolas had not the wits to think about parrying. Her foot landed squarely against his chest, and he was knocked to the ground with her on top, momentarily winded and astonished.
He grabbed her aggressively and pushed her to the ground so that he lay on top, pinning her down. She struggled endlessly, and they rolled stubbornly along the cold ground.
Legolas was, at last, the one to settle her down, laying over her and fastening his legs around hers to secure her flailing feet in the best possible way. He pressed his body against hers, slamming her into the solid earth, until she gave in and stopped struggling. She shut her eyes and grit her teeth, squirming a few times beneath his body before letting go altogether. From around the bend came guards in a sure number, and they pushed through the small crowd to where their Prince lay.
Legolas looked up abruptly as they marched toward him, arrows drawn and bows strung, weapons all aimed at Niélawen's head. His blood went cold, and he gaped at them while comprehending what was happening. He looked down at Niélawen, who was glancing up at the distant tips of many arrows directed her way with sudden fear and confusion in her eyes.
It had gone too far, and he had only one choice to make unless he was to let her be arrested. He drew forth a hearty laugh; low at first, but it steadily rose over the deathly silence around them. It was the only quick solution he could manage to find at the moment. The archers lowered their bows, exchanging puzzled looks. Niélawen looked at him sharply, staring dumbfounded as he issued forth a great laugh. But she noted its deceit.
She grinned sheepishly from beneath him, and it was enough.
The archers let their bows fall in frustration, and they murmured to each other angrily. They turned on the bystanders who had frantically summoned them, glaring silent vengeance. They stood aside and waited amongst themselves, letting their overwhelming anxiety settle. Many who had watched earlier slowly departed, save for those who remained to argue shamelessly with the sentinels.
Legolas steadily let his laughter dwindle and rested his face against her cheek as though exhausted by their playful exchange. "Look now at what you've done. I will not help you again," he whispered to her.
She nodded with regret in her eyes.
"They came to defend me. They would have killed you, even without my consent."
Her lower lip quivered, and she nodded her understanding. "I'm sorry," she pleaded with her voice choked painfully in lament
Legolas lifted his head so that they were looking at each other. The coldness had left its mark upon her cherry-tinted cheeks, and he stroked the side of her face fondly in meaning, and he did not have to do much more than that to show his forgiveness.
Moments passed, and still they lied— whether it was due to their awkward position or the growing stillness that ensued their gazes upon each other. The deepness in each other's eyes grew bit by bit, and Niélawen's hands slowly slid up from the ground and she held them around his firm body, coaxing herself to not draw her fingers beneath his loose shirt. Legolas steadied his weight upon her, and their closeness was greater than had ever been shared. He bowed his head slowly until their noses touched, and as he aimed to reach her lips, they nuzzled affectionately, until their lips only brushed slightly against each other, but unfortunately went no further.
"Legolas!"
Legolas' head was rapidly lifted into the air in the direction of the voice, and he caught Celahir pushing through the guards.
"Celaeglin told me you stopped by—" He studied them curiously, and the sentinels, as well, that were arguing with those bystanders trying to convince the guards of the misunderstanding. "What happened here?"
Legolas cleared his throat uncomfortably, and climbed to his feet. "Nothing." He looked upon Niélawen for a duration longer than what could have been counted as brief, nearly smirking in delight of their act, and strode off with Celahir.
Niélawen peered after them as they vanished, her heart still spinning circles in her chest. She brushed herself off and walked in the opposite direction of the archers, timidly glancing over her shoulder at the strong company as she passed around the hillside, hoping they would stay distracted until she was out of sight.
She pulled her hair back from her face, as some of it had come undone in the wrestle, and she blew out a heavy breath of air. She rubbed her irritated eyes while she began to quicken her pace, keeping hidden a broad smile playing on her lips.
Suddenly she felt she was being watched, and her body grew tense. She pulled her hands away from her eyes, and gazed ahead with agitation as she familiarized the tall, hardy shape of the last person she ever wanted to face on her own.
Oronar did not, at first, recognize her as he went along, but his blue eyes suddenly lit up with an unpleasant light when he did. Niélawen looked ahead as the distance closed in, and as he passed at her left side, all her senses shut down in apprehension.
She was nearly out of his reach when suddenly his large hand came upon her abdomen, a second hand wrapping around her waist. She halted as he whirled her around to face him, and he leered over her with some discomforting attention. She turned away uneasily.
"My morning has just improved," he whispered to her with a low voice. "You're wandering alone— even after the stir that's shaken everyone up around here?"
Niélawen pursed her lips. Her heart began to race again; no longer out of passion or adrenaline, but out of fear instead.
"Oh yes…that's right," he murmured. "You're a woman bound to your honesty. You never speak unless it's the truth. Would that mean that you have something to hide from me?"
She lifted her chin indignantly and spoke nothing to him. She could not meet his eyes— there was something she absolutely loathed in them, and unfortunately the truth was that he would certainly be well featured without them. Oronar's hand dragged up her stomach, and his light, warm touch through the material sent shivers through her body. He pressed his palm below her breast and he pushed her against the high slope. Trapped between the grassy wall and his powerful body, she shut her eyes and breathed sharply. He dragged his index finger up the center of her chest, and drew circles along her collarbone and as low as the high points of her breasts.
"Stop," she demanded firmly, finding the courage to meet him eye to eye. There was an urge within her to hit him— hard— but she knew consequences. In his case, they would not be just in the least. She could get away with such a thing against Legolas— as they had obviously just done— but not with him. The realization angered her even more.
He half-smirked. "I have a complaint concerning the state of this situation. An interesting course of action I see you have taken as the years have passed— I've monitored you since the beginning." He shifted against her. "One so beautiful as you can lure anyone she wants. Even royalty."
Her jaw line sharpened. "What are you talking about?" she muttered.
"Certainly, he was the first to have found you all those years ago. Hence, he gets your bed— but what for the rest of us?" He chuckled.
"Get off of me." She squirmed fiercely beneath him.
He pinned her wrists against the slope. "You have no class to live in the House of Thranduil. You have never belonged here." He grabbed at her hair with implication, undoing it from the bunch atop her head. Her darkened curls dangled over her shoulders. "You are not flaxen haired as you try to disguise, and you are altogether no where near to the fashion of the people you call family. You try to be something you're not, but you have not fooled me." He grasped her jaw in his hand, squeezing it between his fingers. "You are nothing but a whore from the stinklands of the East. The only reason you are still here is the result of a mere bet. All out of pure glory of who's right and who's wrong. He sleeps with you, and what may seem like closeness is just competition…" He grinned derisively. "And the pleasure that comes with it."
"Get off!" she screamed, and she threw him to the ground. Her intention was to run, but from his place below Oronar snatched her ankle and she came crashing to the ground.
He crawled on top of her, holding her down by her throat with his strong force. "I can appreciate you for all that you are good for." He slipped his hand under her shirt and squeezed her breast with ailing intent in his eyes.
Niélawen cried aloud furiously, and all the strength she might have lost earlier due to weariness returned with thrice the power. She slammed her fist into the side of his face, prying his body from atop hers and shoving him to the ground, and as she climbed to her feet she clasped his throat and dragged him as she drew herself up— a task that looked virtually effortless. Her blood boiled to an unimaginable degree, and her anger and force upon him only grew. Her fingers dug into the pale flesh of his neck, and he grabbed at her hands in alarm
He paused his struggle and chuckled breathlessly. "You think you can hurt me?"
She hurled him to the ground and looked down upon him without an ounce of pity. "I can kill you." She landed a sharp kick into his side and kneeled over him.
She could break his neck. She could— there was suddenly nothing she wanted more.
She planted her fist into his face uncountable times, and blood began to stream from his nose and mouth. Her knuckles throbbed and were coated with his blood. Oronar's hands frantically groped the back of her shirt, steadily weakening as her right hand came around his throat and constricted so powerfully that she was close to crushing his esophagus.
But she was pulled away suddenly, and thrown to the ground. Five archers stared down at her, all hands holding her to the earth. They grasped her by the wrists, and a strong fist landed in her stomach to ensure she would stop moving. The last thing she saw was a closed hand coming towards her face, and then everything went dark.