For the disclaimer see the previous chapters. Have you prepared for the surprise already? Well, then read on… :o)

Chapter nine.

Legolas, the…

The days were measured in strides, and the nights breathed with crisp chill, stealing in clothes and sinking its icy fangs into shriveling skin. Each time Legolas woke up, his lips ached as if the warmth of his blood wasn't enough to melt the rime, left by the cruel kisses of the dawn. Gwirith's braid was undone again, and he almost envied her, for her luxuriant hair was much better protection from cold than his sleek and now dirty tresses. Her hands slowly lost their tan and then paled like bleached rose-petals.

It was out of the question to make the smallest fire – they had to be content with clinkingly-crystal starlight or tepid rays of the sullen sun. Even the rocks, which had grown up in slanting walls around them, froze through and seemed eager to split at a careless touch or sound.

Gwirith shied away from him with firm insistence, bordering with a strange desperation. She hadn't said much before but in comparison with perfect muteness she demonstrated now the elf began to think that he had already enjoyed the peak of her garrulity. She always held herself a step or two ahead and never came closer than that. The flask or the dinner-bowl, had it been in his hands, had to be put down on the ground before she condescended to accept it. She didn't reject him pronouncedly – oh, no, she was far too subtle for it, - but Legolas still felt like a leprous, disgusting to touch. Had he deserved that for the way he took care about her while someone else would have left her dying of that fever in favour of saving his own life?

But she wanted to die… Was she able to revenge him for not having let her?

He strived to know which of her ravings she remembered. There were no doubts that the reasons of her determination in drawing such an impassable line between them lay there, in the hopeless confrontation of their wills that night. She could have thought he only cared for her because she was his last way to get home. But if she was indifferent to him, why would it hurt her? And he wasn't so self-assertive as to believe that she would suddenly change her mind and accept him. Besides, he probably couldn't count at anything but the place of her Legolas. To agree to being loved because the really loved one looked his ringer? Because he had the same eyes, the same name, the same touch? To be kissed and to die of angst and jealousy at knowing that it was not him she caressed?

To be kissed! The elf mocked at himself, watching her face turn stony each time he stroke her eye. She wouldn't come close enough even to hit him. What was that she said about the Gwirith of his? I doubt she could have been attracted to you now.

And yet once he opened his eyes to find himself safely covered with her cloak.

She was sitting at a distance of those cursed several steps away from him, her arms folded around her knees, which he had already marked as her favourite pose. The wind was carefully stirring her hair, as though wanting to plait itself into the wavy bronze-shot locks.

She was crying.

Silent, bitter tears were dimly glimpsing on her motionless face and falling down, soaking into her clothes. She didn't make a single effort to wipe them away and just blinked, whenever her eyes got overfilled with stinging moisture. That was probably due to the shroud of weeping that the girl failed to notice his wakeful state.

He had to get up and soothe her. He had to…

But when she casually glanced in his direction, something forced Legolas to pretend that he was still asleep.

Through the loosely shut eye-lashes he saw Gwirith press her palms against her face, sigh and then suddenly and swiftly stand up to creep up to him.

Guardedly, soundlessly she sank to her knees beside him, and Legolas understood that his precaution was not groundless. His heart unexpectedly set to throb with such a mad frenzy that he feared she would hear it and expose his sham. Calm down… He wittingly exerted himself and then relaxed all the muscles, ordering his breath to even out and trying to persuade his conscious that he was lying in his own bed, with only one wish – to be swallowed by a deep placid sleep.

"Legolas…"

He gave no answer, his whole being concentrated on her rustling voice. Cold fingertips slid against his forehead…

"Legolas," this time she sounded a little louder, but the elf remained mute and unresponsive. A hand ghosted over his chest, smoothing out the cloak. Even through the several layers of fabric Legolas felt that it was icy, but the chill was unusually welcome, as it cooled the fever of tension, which had settled down in his bosom, like a tight clod.

"I hope you are what you seem to be," whispered Gwirith, bending away yet not leaving his side, "I… I'll tell you a story," she let out a small shaky chuckle, full of self-sneer and sadness, "Funny… To tell a story when one is already asleep… Anyway… Once upon a time…"

She trailed off, uttering a hoarse groan…

"It's hard to begin," muttered she desperately, "Eru, let you be sleeping and deaf to my tale."

What was he doing? It was obvious that she was torturing herself, and would proceed unless he threw away his deceit. He could feign to be woken up by her voice. He didn't want to hear whatever she was going to say if it made her suffer. Still he faint-heartedly lingered, not daring open his eyes and cursing his cowardice.

"Once upon a time there lived a Silly girl," she paused, but instantly went on, detached and tensely-nonchalant, "There lived a Silly girl, who loved nothing but her books. And there was one book she loved most – the beautiful story about the land, full of generous elves and courageous men, fighting to save their home and their people from the evil. The story about the war and the victory, won neither by Elves nor by Men, but by a little Halfling, who had destroyed the Evil lord's only hope – his precious Ring of Power. The Silly girl slept with this book, woke up with it, reread it over and over and prayed to find herself there, in this world of her dreams, and live among those whom she deified. Nobody can say what happened but once she really appeared there. In her book. In the very beginning of it… God, she was so happy…"

God? The word was unfamiliar to Legolas. Unlike the story. He had already been told it, though not like this. It was the same explanation his Gwirith had given to her appearance in Rivendell. It was what had doomed him to his endless remorse.

"The Silly girl fancied she was sent there on purpose. She was silly, like I said. Yet she managed to infect the others with her folly and to beat her way through into the Fellowship. And so instead of nine there were ten of them – The Crownless King, The Proud Warrior, The Wise Wizard, The Brave Dwarf, The Ring Bearer and three of his best friends… The Noble Prince," Gwirith stumbled, as if something prevented her from speaking, "and the girl. They left Rivendell and headed for Mordor to throw the Ring into Orodruin, thus unyoking all races from the slavery of fear. The Silly girl knew how it must happen. She watched. She promised herself not to interfere lest she should spoil something. And she kept her word up to the moment when she remembered the Proud Warrior to give up his soul in the fight with the Ring's charms, and fall, causing the splitting of the Fellowship. That's when she broke. She couldn't wait and let the one she had been sharing meal and conversation with, the one whom she had not once entrusted her life in battles, die so awfully, no matter if his death was meant to redeem his weakness. It seemed inhuman to her. It was inhuman. So, when on the fateful day the Proud Warrior made a step after The Ring Bearer, the Silly girl barred his way and asked if he minded to have a walk with her. Sure, he minded, but the Silly girl could be persuasive if she chose to. Especially… Especially when she knew she had a certain power over the Proud Warrior. One might say that she almost bribed him, though she understood very well, that when the time to pay would come, she would have nothing to give him, for all she had promised had already belonged to another one. But then she didn't even hope this another need it…"

There was a moment of silence, and she chuckled, but her chuckle was short and quaky.

"When the orcs attacked, everyone was prepared, and the assault was repulsed. The Fellowship was preserved in its unity. But there was no former concord in it. The Proud Warrior remained aloof, the others grew hostile towards him, and only the Silly girl left it all unnoticed, because there was the Noble Prince. She was happy again, too happy to pay attention to anything else. She mindlessly refused to deal with her doing. And one day the darkness got an upper hand over the Proud Warrior again, and they … and we woke up to find Frodo and Sam murdered and the Ring stolen…"

Long had the elf forgotten to pretend sleeping, and there was no need in it, for Gwirith spoke steadily, making no more stops, faltering not a single time, appearing to have fallen into a trance. His blood was freezing in his veins, as the story developed before him, coming down like an avalanche. Everything she had gone through. Astonishment, fear, realization, guilt, sorrow, pain, regret, exasperation … indifference. Bitterness. Sneer.

Boromir was chased by Aragorn and Legolas, but it was only Legolas who returned to them with the Ring. Aragorn perished in the battle on their way back, transfixed with a baleful orc's blade. As the journey went on, the Fellowship diminished, as if it had been accompanied by the Death itself, thieving a new victim each time they were forced to halt. After Aragorn came Gimli, then Merry and Pippin. And meanwhile Kingdoms were falling as easily as mortal warriors. King Théoden remained in the clutches of madness, and Rohan didn't overcome the invasion of Uruk-hai. There were no more allies to support Gondor – and Gondor was razed to the ground by the wave of the black scum. The world was tumbling down…

"But we were going ahead," the cool voice broke into husky undertone, "There were only two of us to have reached Mordor. Two wretched, gaunt beings, dragging each other on and on… The Silly Girl… and the Noble Prince. Nobody to save anymore. Only vengeance made them move – all-consuming desire to revenge. And…"

Gwirith suddenly sobbed, losing the air of aloofness, which scared him so much by the unnatural serenity it imparted to her horrible tale.

"It was my fault. It was all my fault," repeated she in an ardent, desperate whisper, "I destroyed it all. He was with me, all that time, kissing me and soothing me, me – the murderer! I loved him… Eru knows I did. I could tear out my heart and throw it into that hellhole of a mountain for him. His arms were bliss… I forgot everything…"

She leaned to him, vehemently, impetuously, scalding his face with her fervent breath, caring no more if her was asleep or not.

"You have no idea, how it hurts me to see you. You are too much like him. Your hair smells of wind, your voice sounds like a song in the crystal morning… And I want to hurt you and to kiss you. I hate you…"

Her lips were moving so close to his burning mouth, that he felt their soft surface brush against it. Her tears were falling on his skin, as his heart seemed to shrink and slip somewhere down at each drop, because it was followed by a stroke of her trembling hand, trying to wipe it away. And then, before the echo of her last words melted in the brittle air, she was already kissing him, merging the splinters of their jaded souls into one. Almost physical agony of anguish ripped him open, releasing all he had been racked with – intolerable longing, murderous jealosy, bleeding love, fear and despair. There was not a shadow of tenderness in his reciprocate kiss – Gwirith quietly cried out, starting back and bringing her hand to her mouth, but he didn't let her escape, springing up to get possession of her lips again, in a slow and apologetic manner. He had caressed her until she gave up and answered, her gentle surrender intoxicating him more than the kiss itself.

"I love you," altered she faintly, her forehead against his, her eyes closed. She protested neither when Legolas brought her to his chest, nor when he buried his face in her hair, inhaling barely perceptible, yet ravishing smell. And his pain was gradually allayed by it, leaving a vague memory of itself in spiny pangs, which seemed delightful now, when their ancestor sank in oblivion.

All of a sudden Gwirith broke loose from his grip and jumped back to her feet, as if he was a venomous serpent.

"No," uttered she with the fright in her hazel stare, "It's wrong. I was wrong."

"Gwirith," the elf tried to approach her, longing to efface that threatening look of grave determination from her colour-depleted face, but his endeavor failed, when she darted away from him, pressing her back against the plumb rock, "I heard what you said. I know that you will try to lie to me now, and I won't believe you."

"No more lies there will be, Legolas," she slowly shook her head, watching him with fathomless dismay, "For I have said all my lies before. I do not love you, or rather it's not you I love. You might think that you love me, but thus you'll deceive yourself, and you must feel it no worse than I feel my mistake now. You won't touch me anymore. Forgive me."

"I can't!" exclaimed Legolas, grieved by her resistance. But as soon as he ventured to step up to her, she swiftly moved away, so that his extended hand met the emptiness, "Gwirith," pleaded he, following her like a lost man follows the last ray of light in the wild thicket, "Gwirith, don't repel me. You are unjust."

The girl stopped short, clenching her teeth with indignation.

"What do you want from me?" hissed she harshly, "I saved your life, I'm risking my own, I'm leading you home, I hide you and feed you, and bear your misplaced principles and remarks on my behaviour. What else do you need?"

"I need you," cried Legolas in hopelessness. It suddenly felt like nothing but her ever existed – nothing but this figure of a furious fallen nymph, sharp as a lightning – nothing but her and his desire to win her love.

"You need the one you killed," snapped back the nymph, leaving him speechless, but unsubdued.

They stood in stillness, broken only by their breathing, uneven and heavy.

"Let me kiss you again," asked he quietly, "Let me kiss you, and let me be the one you kiss back. And if you say you don't want me, there will be no other touch I offend you with."

She didn't say anything, her eyes fixed on the ground… She didn't say anything, and all he had to do was to lean closer, discarding his pride for a mindless attempt to prove her that what they felt was not a delusion, that she could trust him, like he was ready to trust her…

A giant shadow slid down, deafening Legolas with a vile shrill, in which one could hear thousands of cries and moans, poured together to beget a soul-freezing war-cry of death. Five scaly claws closed round the waist of Gwirith, and a black hand, bound with dangerously sparkling steel jerked her up the titanic body of the winged monster, the same moment as his own shoulders appeared in innumerable ugly clutches of orcs, dragging him back from her.

The coaly wings almost scratched against the walls of the rocky passage. There came a sharp scream, cut short, when the rider swiped the girl, the metal thorns of his glove crushing her cheek-bone. Her limp body hung across the saddle, while her hair began slowly getting drenched in blood.

The nazgul shot up - in an instance they were already no more than a glimpse of horror between the crimson dawn clouds.

Legolas was growling in helpless rage, trying to throw off the attackers, who were whistling and scoffing at his mad struggle.

"A pretty elf," rattled one of the orcs, taking out a long rusty knife and running its tip against the elf's throat, so that the ties of the cloak came apart, "Lost his pretty girl."

The group burst out croaking with mockingly-sympathetic laughter. The blade came lower, leaving a deep bleeding line on Legolas's chest.

"Let us help him forget this. Put out his eyes, drink his blood – and he will think of nothing but pleading us to finish him… Will you?"

Legolas jerked forward, nearly wrenching his bones out of the joints. But there were too many of them to grasp him, and he hadn't managed even to touch his dagger. The laughter became thundering – somebody spit at him, the stinky liquid landing on his cheek.

"Don't worry," the orc bared his green, widely spaced teeth, "We shall kill you. In the end…"

The joke must have seemed funny to him, because he threw back his misshaped head, roaring in a fit of twisted joy.

The next moment he choke, his eyes growing large and unbelieving. The sniggering around died down. The orc gave several lurches, like a tower, bereaved of its foundation, and heavily tumbled down at the feet of the elf…

…an arrow jutting out of his crooked mouth.

His fellows squealed, scattering in all directions only to fall under the flow of new arrows, which appeared to come from the stones themselves, as there was no one else to show up on the slaughter-field. In a blink of an eye everything was over for the pawns of the dark side. Nobody survived.

A dozen of svelte shadows melted out of the grey clefts, splitting the rocks around him. They glided noiselessly, as though their feet were not touching the ground… Legolas made a deep breath of relief and joy at seeing their light stalk. There were no creatures, matching the elves in their grace – even at the minutes of the most furious combat. He was among his kins.

"Mae govannen," greeted he his saviors, bringing his hand to his heart and smiling. But no one responded to his salute. As soundlessly and solemnly the figures surrounded him. And their circle suddenly bristled up with the stings of arrows, dancing on the bent bows.

"Long have I waited for this meeting," the voice was deep and dreary. Two of the warriors stepped aside to let in a tall, stately elf with a fatigued face. His once goldish hair was now mithril-like, and his eyes lost their cerulean tint, getting silvery, but Legolas still recognized him.

"Archaldir!" exclaimed he, dashing to the arrival. Archaldir, his father's closest friend! Archaldir, who had given him his first bow and watched the flight of his first arrow! Archaldir, whom he didn't hope to see alive again... Could it mean that the elves of the Mirkwood had managed to save themselves somehow? And his father…

Yet instead of welcoming his former pupil, Archaldir swiftly drew out a poniard and put if forward so quickly that Legolas had to stop lest it should pierce his chest there and then.

"Adar nin," whispered the elf in a disappointed tone, "what does it mean? It's me."

"I see it, hen nin," answered his father's friend, and his endearment sounded ruefully and contemptuously, "But I'm not afraid of you. I'm tired of being afraid of you. Though it seems that even your servants," his poniard pointed at the dead orcs, "are not too respectful with you now."

Legolas knit his brows in complete bewilderment. Afraid of him? His servants? It was as through everyone was insane in this world… Meanwhile the blade slowly returned to his bosom, resting exactly there where moments ago was sliding the orc's knife.

"It's strange that you are so defenseless," said Archaldir almost bitterly, "I assume it has betrayed you. Hasn't it? Though it doesn't matter now. Prepare to meet your death, hen nin, for if it is possible to kill you with a simple weapon, I will never allow anyone but myself to do it, however painful it might be."

"Why?" Legolas's lips were dry, "What have I done to you?"

A vehement spark glinted in the silvery eyes.

"What have you done to me? What have you done to us! What have you done to this land, you, the disgrace of our people? I loved you as my own son!"

The blade was trembling, and Legolas felt it penetrate deeper and deeper into his resisting flesh. Blood was streaming down his torso…

"Adar nin!" implored he, catching at the wrist of Archaldir, but knowing that he would probably have to yield. There was no way to disarm his friend and not to hurt him.

"Don't you dear pronounce it!" exploded Archaldir with rage. Legolas sensed the dagger scratch against his rib, "I don't know what powers brought us together now and why you appear to be so weak, but I swear that from now on you won't harm any of those who inhabit Arda. I'll free them from your black will, Legolas, the Ring-bearer! Legolas, the Parricide! Legolas, the Dark Lord!"

A/n Here it is, just as I promised. :o) Reviews are very-very-very welcome. Please-please-please. I've already bought a flak-jacket.

"Adar nin" – "my father", "hen nin" – "my child". Somehow these addresses seemed suitable to me.

Adamanta.