Breaking Away

By Deidamea

Disclaimer: Though my fantasies tell me otherwise, all the character's, places, etc. are Tolkien's.


Chapter I

Legolas walked lightly down the hall, his feet never making the slightest of sound against the hard stone floor. At first glance, an onlooker would think him weaponless, but any who knew the elf would not be so easily fooled. His cloak moved in sync with every step, allowing the tiniest glimpse of two gleaming daggers strapped to his belt. No doubt some were also concealed in his boots and under his leather wrist-guards.

However, his back was bare of the usual bow and quiver. Even the twin blades were missing.

The elven prince seemed deeply taken by his thoughts. His brow was drawn, a slight shadow burning in the depths of his startling bright blue eyes. Something was bothering him. It looked as though nothing could reach him.

Something did. And it was thoroughly unsettling for the collected, poised warrior.

Her voice still flowed like a haunting melody in his mind. So gentle and soft, like a song in a sleepy child's ear. A lullaby. Yet the words had felt like torture on her lips, the rises and falls like red-hot steel sizzling against her skin. Such a pained combination of darkness and light, two traits only she was capable of weaving so perfectly together.

Legolas passed the bowing royal guards with a slight nod of acknowledgement, intent on getting to his rooms as swiftly as possible. It had been days since the decency of a warm bath had been offered to him, and he was not about to let it escape him, no matter what thoughts raked his mind.

He felt filthy. Not only from dirt, grime and blood; his soul yearned to be cleaned. Many dark things he had witnessed that he only wished would wash away with the water.

Starting with the recent death of the King's son.

He hadn't known him, but his passing wounded the elf prince to an unbelievable degree. His grief was almost as strong as the one he felt for Boromir's death. Some would wonder at such an unexpected reaction, but Legolas was not used to death, be it close or far from him. The ones he had seen as of yet were of some dear to his heart. However, the time for grieving had not been allowed, and no proper rites could be performed for either the Man, or Gandalf, who was thankfully back.

But standing there, in a pool of pure, unhindered sorrow, where the main purpose of the ceremony was to honour the dead son of a King, had struck him harder than he was prepared for. The pain he felt emanating from all these people had overwhelmed the elf and cracked the walls of his heart. Never had he had to witness the torture of those left behind, of families, friends and followers.

And he sincerely hoped the experience would not be repeated any time soon.

The naked despair on Lady Éowyn's face had torn at his soul, blood gushing from the open wound and mixing with her own. Singing a lament, she had gazed up from the body laid at her feet, straight into the elven prince's lost eyes. She had seemed to draw strength enough from him to stand through the rest of the funeral, though he did not know what she had seen that could ignite such courage as she had shown.

Legolas froze as he walked past a door. From inside came the same voice that had haunted him all day long. Yet, sorrow was not anymore shadowing its edges. It was only rising and falling softly, and casting an entirely different spell over him.

His eyes caught the guilty door, barely opened by a crack. Just enough to tease him with wisps of light and sound.

The elf was unable to control his feet as they led him to stand by the door. He unconsciously leaned forward, resting his head on the frame, a palm flat against the wood, hesitating.

The song softened, and finally came to an end. Legolas, however, heard the rustling of clothes and light footsteps that could only belong to a woman. As his keen ears caught every sound to the tiniest, a scene forged itself behind his closed lids. A child's voice, all mumbles and slurs. A gentle, motherly tone. Bare feet against stone. Silk against linen. A muffled protest. A bed creaking. The gentle brush of lips to skin. Whispers of tenderness.

And then, nothing. Silence.

Legolas' nails bit into the wood as he tried to pick this stillness apart. Breaths reached his ears. Short breaths. A child was sleeping, small lungs compensating in speed what they could not in width. He could catch a rapid heartbeat too. Even in rest, the child was afraid. No matter how much comfort she was given, nothing would sooth her mind until the arms of her mother were tight around her frail form again.

Tearing his attention away from the little girl, he made out another breathing sound, this one much slower and controlled.

It was her.

He needed no more to recognise the White Lady of Rohan.

Overall, she sounded no different than a thousand other maidens. That was if you had not the ears and sensitive aura of an elf. Legolas could tell her apart by the slightly harsh way air rushed in and out of her lungs, as if she needed to remind herself how to breathe. The rhythm of her heart was different also. It sounded strained, hammering in the confinements of a too tight chest.

The elf stumbled back when the silence was suddenly broken and cautious footsteps came in his direction.

Looking wildly around, he felt the beginnings of panic gnaw at his mind. The hall was bare, and no crook appeared large enough to house him.

He did not stop to wonder at how very unlike him this behaviour was. His eyes caught sight of a darkened space up the way he came, shadowed by a stone pillar. Beyond it was a very narrow window, and the elf swiftly hid behind the column, just as the door opened. There was dark green velvet curtain sheltering part of the opening, and he prayed his light hair wouldn't stand out against it.

She stepped out.

She was still wearing that same black dress. But what really got his attention was that her strictly braided hair was now unbound, the golden circlet and candle light revealing bright gems nestled in her long locks. They sparkled with every move she made, sensually flowing down to her hips.

The elf drew in a sharp breath at the sight she made, immediately regretting such a rash action when her head snapped in his general direction. He held it in, feeling his chest constrict with the effort. Yet his eyes remained transfixed by her, refusing to look away, despite the fair amount of chances that she might see them glittering in the dark.

oooOooo

Éowyn tried to pierce the shadows down the hall, but all stood still and calm. She sighed. Probably just a figment of her imagination again. There was no one there.

Casting one last look over her shoulder at the sleeping Freda, she hurried down the hall, away from the lingering shadows and the way they made her skin crawl. Her mind was saying there was nothing, but she couldn't get rid of the overwhelming sense of being watched, read, detailed, calculated.

And she hated it.

Éowyn turned the corner and felt the pressure lessen on the back of her neck. She looked behind once more, but there was nothing to see.

oooOooo

Legolas let his air out when she disappeared around the corner, ignoring the sharp tug of his heart which told him to follow her.

No. He had seen the discomfort in her eyes when she had looked his way. He did not want to frighten her.

He walked up to where she had last stood and took a peek through the still ajar door. The room was not dark as Éowyn had left a few candles lighted for the sake of the child

The elf silently walked in, forgetting all about his very much desired bath, and stopped by the child's bed. He couldn't help but smile tenderly at the way this little being looked in such a large bed. The sheets were already tangled in wild knots around her agitated sleeping form, straw coloured hair sprawled wildly around her head. She slept on her stomach, one arm tucked safely under her while the other hung limply from the edge of the bed. The elf had no doubt she would soon be sideways in it, if not upside down. He grinned at the adorable child.

Not knowing what urged him to do so, he kneeled by the bed and laid his head beside her pillow, so that he was facing her decidedly stubborn frown. Chuckling quietly, he pushed the tingling hair culprits from under her scrunched nose and the wrinkles smoothed out instantly.

Legolas was at peace. The human child, Freda he thought was her name, had a wonderfully innocent aura that washed away a good part of his worries, helping to diminish the tension in his ever alert limbs.

He allowed his eyes to drift shut for the first time in months. Oh, he had slept a few times over the journey, but always had he remained sharp and ready to spring. Elven sleep was but only a physical rest. The mind stayed up and about, though it usually swept through dreamland. The elf had not permitted himself to dream since the beginning of the quest.

And here, he felt like he could.

Sighing, he looked to the child, knowing he could not fall asleep here. Not only would he make his friends worry as to his whereabouts, but the poor girl would most likely not be thrilled if she might wake up to stare straight into his glazed over eyes.

But he was reluctant in leaving the peace her purity gave him. So instead, he sat himself in the chair not far, and kept his eyes on her, watching her sleep.

Maybe he might even keep her nightmares away, he thought wistfully.