Disclaimer: As I always, I don't own it.

Author's note: Well, it took this chapter long to be out. It's a bit disorderly, but be it so. :o)))

Faerlas: Hugs, as always. :o))

Neniel Sildurien: It may be too late to say it, but after heaving read your review I began to think that my plotline is too dull and simple. :o))) Pity that it was too late to change anything.

Elven Script: The "Post soon"- thing failed, but I hope you'll forgive me. Will you? Thanks for wonderful reviews. :o))

Chapter 15.

The Lord and The Lady.

He saw this place in the weird dreams, which had been pursuing him since he had appeared in this realm. A cave of fire, where even stones were red-hot. The ocean of liquid flame in the precipice below his feet. And a narrow ledge, on the rim of which a lone figure was standing. Yet this time it didn't belong to Gwirith.

The stranger smiled again, but as soon as the corners of his lips sank back, the lines of his face quivered and began to change.

The touch of mortality melted away from it, and his hair flashed with goldish tint, leaving no memory of their former raven-black. His features sharpened and got regally-refined, their perfection and purity almost unimpaired by the rough white scar on the right cheek.

In a time not enough to make a breath Legolas appeared face to face with himself.

"Forgive the unworthy disguise, my brother," the twin casually touched his skinned over injury, "I was curious on your part, but didn't want to spoil your pleasure of surprise."

Legolas was silent. For some reason the change didn't astonish him. He had seen and borne too much to be astonished.

So that's what would have expected him, if he had yielded to the charms of the Ring. Hard and smirking lips, imperious manner, and the shimmer of vicious calmness in the eyes, which no longer seemed elven.

The being that knew his own value. The sparkling blade of an old, vile and blood-lusting sword.

"You won't say anything?"

What could he say? Though… There was one suspicion he needed to be assured of.

"Where's Gwirith?"

"Is that all?" the Dark Lord raised his brows with a foul grin, "Is that the only question you want to ask?"

Legolas nodded, not honouring him with a single word. If the betrayer wanted his fear or deference, he was mistaken. After all, who fears of himself? Who shuns his own mirror reflection?

The scarred one shrugged his shoulders, wrapped in black and silver.

"Gwirith!" called he in an undertone, "Show yourself, my lady. He will find everything out sooner or later, so why not now?"

Shadows on the walls flinched. Legolas didn't need to turn his head to tell, whose breathing had suddenly become audible behind his back. He had heard this sound before – in the dark room of the inn, when a dying maiden was huddled in his arms, begging him to let her go. In the halls of Moria, when his lips were salty with the blood, which he had kissed away from her sore skin. Gwirith, Gwirith, Gwirith…

The girl slipped by him, so close that her sleeve brushed against his shoulder.

She didn't raise her eyes off the ground, and her bosom was heavily heaving under the vest, which was shabby and threadbare as compared to the royal outfit of the elf, to whom she was slowly strolling. Her thin fingers lay into his hand – limp, as if deprived of every single bone, she let him draw her against his chest. Like a puppet. A broken puppet.

With a murderous certainty Legolas felt that she knew his glance was riveted to her, as she threw back her head to look in the face of her lover. She knew, and she still let the sneering mouth taste her pale lips and linger, deepening the kiss, while the watcher was cringing in bitter realization of what was happening before him.

"Look at him," purred the Dark Lord against the smooth skin of his lady, "Look at my past. He's suffering now. Why? Because he was stupid enough to believe that I would ever lose your sight. Even he wouldn't have…"

Two wells of exhaustion and pain met the eyes of the prisoner.

"I'm sorry, Legolas," her voice was ghostly, "I'm truly sorry."

"Are you, indeed?" muttered Legolas hoarsely, for the air refused to pass through his shrunk throat. Her eyes dashed to the ground, and she quickly averted her face, allowing the flowing hair to hide the look of anguish which had crossed her features.

"You swore with your heart-blood…" reminded he, just to be able to say something. A low sullen chuckle escaped her chest.

"What is one more broken oath? I once betrayed the light for the sake of love," her indifferent and caressing hand came up to stroke the ripped cheek of the one, whose arms were still clasped around her waist, "It brought me nothing but pain. But I have my dignity. I won't be a double traitor. His side I am at, and his side I'll hold. By any means."

She said it so simply, that Legolas realized there was nothing to fight for. There had never been.

"Is it so easy to prove your loyalty at the expense of someone's life?" seethed he quietly. He knew it was hopeless to reproach her, but the bitterness didn't let him restrain the reproof. Gwirith clenched her teeth, her face turning harsh and stony.

"You tell me. Didn't you do it yourself?" darted she, and the mockery in her tone for a second overshadowed the guilty notes.

"True," agreed the elf, "But is it you to amerce me?"

What did he want to obtain, offering her the questions which probably had no answers? She wouldn't feel any shame, so why was he waiting for at least one tear of regret to haze this cruel deliberateness in her glance? But she didn't cry. The only feeling that he managed to awake in her was anger, she hastened to vent on him.

"I'd amerce you for having trusted me, while I had been doing everything to warn you," threw she contemptuously.

"To warn me?" Legolas was indignant, "To warn? You knew it from the very beginning. You lured me out of my world! You brought me here! I wonder if it entertained you to play her ghost. The same place, the same dress, the same blood on you chin… You didn't miss anything, did you?"

Her nostrils widened – Legolas could see the remonstrance boil up in her heart, ready to be spilt. If she only retorted. If she only showed he mattered something to her… But, to his disappointment, she took a hold of herself.

"I want to leave," muttered she to the Dark Lord, straining herself and pushing aside his hands, "You promised…"

"You won't tell him he is wrong?" wondered the latter with mild and obviously feigned surprise. Gwirith arched a brow, a scorn written in her glittering eyes.

"He's not," stated she huskily. Calmly.

"But I won't allow you to be slandered…" objected he - however sounding more caustic than concerned.

"You can do anything you want now," uttered the girl derisively, "Without me. My mission is over. From now on I won't participate in whatever there is to come…"

Her heels screeched, as she sharply whipped round and with a resolute pace moved past the prisoner toward the opening. The Dark Lord grimaced with slight annoyance, but forbore from detaining her.

Yet not all the elves in the cave were as indifferently resigned. She only had to come close enough.

It took Legolas a single lunge. The next moment Gwirith was writhing in his grip, her arm twisted behind her back.

"You will stay," hissed he into her ear, "Until I hear the whole story."

The Dark Lord stepped forward, as his countenance changed in a flash-like manner. Anger flowed through the mantle of ironical composure, making his lofty face almost ugly.

"Let her go," enunciated he dangerously, pointing at the elf's fingers, clutched around the wrist of Gwirith, "Take your hands away from her."

"Jealous?" smirked Legolas, having recalled the phrase, dropped by Gwirith in her conversation with Archaldir. The upper lip of his rival jerked up in a malicious sneer.

"Of you? Of a feeble, foolish, commonplace worm? Of a shilly-shally child, who missed the chance of his life? You could have loved the charming woman, and what did you do? You could have ruled the world, and what did you leave yourself with?"

"With peace and my friends!"

"Will you stop this scoffing!" howled Gwirith suddenly, causing both elves break off and stare at her with the perplexity of face-to-face fighters, who had unexpectedly been assaulted by a common opponent. With fairly inhuman strength the girl wrested her hand out of the clutch, and furiously went at Legolas.

"No - I didn't play your Gwirith! Yes – I had no idea he had managed to bring you here, and was surprised to see you in Rivendell! Yes – when I came back there for you, I was aware of my task already. And no – I didn't want it to happen. I simply had no choice. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Each "yes" or "no" was followed by a violent step in his direction, forcing him to recede, so that by the end of her speech his was practically plastered against the wall.

"I want to hear why," pleaded he quietly, "Why, Gwirith?"

The blush on her cheek-bones was fading… She ran her shaking palms over her face… Dropped them down, making a deep sigh. And all of a sudden smiled – sadly and condescendingly.

"Why?" echoed she with infinite softness, "Because I cared for him. I always had. Anything else was irrelevant. Including you."

Defeated, he lowered his head. There was no pain – the pain would have seemed sweet in comparison with hopeless, mind-draining misery, her words had brought him.

He didn't find the will-power to jerk away from her touch, when her fingertips gingerly brushed against his chin. They were tender, so tender, that he faint-heartedly closed his eyes, for a moment allowing his bleeding soul forget everything but the feeling of her soft caress. He needed that. An instance, just an instance of persuading himself that that was a gesture of love, not of scorn.

"I'm sorry," repeated Gwirith again, taking away her hand, "I did everything I could to save you from this. But I probably was not fated to."

"I find it hard to believe you," breathed out Legolas, still unwilling to give up his momentary weakness.

Her lips flinched, forming a bitter curve.

"Don't trouble yourself," advised she in half-whisper, "Soon it will be of no importance."

"Forsooth," the voice of the Dark Lord cut in the oppressive pause, "You should be proud, my brother. You will get the power, you would have never obtained, if you hadn't appeared here. Pity that you won't know about it."

"I wouldn't accept any power, coming from you," said Legolas coldly.

"You didn't understand, my friend. The power will be mine. All I need is your body," corrected his twin cool-bloodedly, "Unfortunately, this place is useless for accomplishing my plans. It had been useless long before I got the Ring. I had almost despaired of success, when it imparted to me the knowledge about the existence of your world. But to get there I had to appear in a shell of one of its inhabitants. And I believe the shell I found is perfect."

"But wasn't it impossible to deliver me here?" inquired Legolas with contemptuous distrust, "I didn't steal strangers' bodies."

"You touched the ghost of this world. My spirit," chuckled the Dark Lord smugly, "I simply created the illusion you couldn't refuse to pursue."

Exasperated as he was, Legolas couldn't but admit the flawlessness of the reasoning, thought it was most unflattering for him. Imagine him having risen like a fish to bait… That probably wasn't hard for his enemy to render the image of Gwirith, considering their intimacy. Besides, he wasn't the first to use such tricks for shady purposes.

"I once committed a foolish mistake having tried to share this might with father," continued the Ring-owner, his brow slightly darkening at the remembrance, "I should have known he had resigned the danger and humiliation of allying with mortals. As most of our people had. I've trapped myself, having failed to take their obstinacy into account. That's why I was forced to resort to violence. In your world I'll be wiser. After all, there's no hurry, when you are immortal."

"Nobody will listen to you," responded Legolas with firm confidence. His twin gave a scornful sniff.

"I don't say they will listen to me. They will listen to you. Consider – everyone who was loyal to the will of Valars, left long ago. But there are those who linger. Indecisive minds. Loners. Waywards. Beneficial ears for what you, Legolas, the noble-blooded fighter against the darkness, will tell them. You are one of those out of suspicion."

"I can't imagine what a vile soul could have given birth to your idea," uttered the elf distinctly. The thought that he might serve the instrument of destruction of everything and everyone he cared for was abominable. And he himself had caused it with his criminal naivety…

"He cannot imagine! Peer into yourself, Legolas. Have you never been vexed by the fading grandeur of our race? Have you never regretted that you, not the last of the elves, fell to running errands to each handful of imperfect creatures that managed to gain a more or less respectful position? Men, dwarves, hobbits. Riffraff! Look deeper inside your heart, and dare swear that I calumniate you."

Involuntary colour showed on Legolas's face, as he tried to object, but instantly realized that there was nothing to say against it. Yes, there had been moments – moments of rare, disgraceful, thoroughly concealed doubts, when his notable heredity, aggravated with the pride and arrogant haughtiness, streaming in his veins with the blood of his father, made itself felt. There had been moments, when he wanted to rebel. It was useless to deny them. All the elves suffered the same fate.

But he had never thought that, given the opportunity, he was able to go that far. Was he indeed so self-assertive? So merciless?

"Why didn't you capture me at once?" asked he, having chosen to avoid further debates on the disturbing subject.

"I was interested in getting your body as scatheless as it was possible. If I had send orcs or nazguls, you would have fought them. Got injured or killed. I couldn't risk."

"That's why you sent Gwirith…" said Legolas slowly. He was ready to kill himself for the boundless stupidity. For all that time the fact that the almighty Ring-owner hadn't found better force to catch him, had served him an argument in favour of Gwirith. He had never given himself the trouble of thinking over some other possibility, like existence of a certain motive on the part of his enemy. The Dark Lord was right, granting him with the stamp of foolish childness. He had deserved it.

"Was I mistaken?" his twin smiled with unbearable conceit, "Though once she almost failed me. I understood it when she led you to Moria."

"You are not saying that she really dared go against you and save me, are you?" He had to know that the question was hopeless. Otherwise Gwirith would have never returned to lead him away from the elves.

"I wonder if you need her defiled or idolized," the Dark Lord screwed up his eyes, evidently making fun of the unlucky rival, "She just wanted you to be dead before you became my guest, so that her conscience was clear. Unfortunately for her, Archaldir had always been inclined to muse too much, and that allowed you to survive. Were you disappointed, my love?" asked he, shifting his attention to Gwirith.

She didn't answer, still like a sculpture of ice… Something elusive had crept into her despairing stare. She seemed to be examining a thing that none of them saw, a thing that caught her completely. The sound of the Dark Lord's voice stirred her a little, but the cloud of some heavy reflections, which had drooped around her, had evidently devoured the sense of the offered question.

"I'll stay," muttered she at last, the comment being queerly out-of-place for someone, who used to be so conscious of spoken words, like she. The black sovereign granted her with a strange glance, which was also left unnoticed.

"Anyway," continued he, having torn away from scrutinizing the pensive wrinkle on the girl's forehead,
"She was right. Soon it will be of no importance. Farewell, my brother."

The Ring had hungrily flared on his finger, and the contours of his body thawed in the sizzling hot air.

The next moment Legolas felt his legs sink under him, as a dead, stark hand squeezed his heart. The cave went dark before him… His mind got filled with dim images. Shreds of a strange, stormy, someone else's life, distantly similar to his past…

Gwirith, standing on the snowy bridge in Rivendell, laughing and careless… The Fellowship, lagging among freezing grey hills – his friends, each weapon-laden and exhausted, but cheering up the others with half-sincere jokes… Dead faces, motionless bodies, arrows and swords, and blood… Marshes. Dark passages. The lake of fire. The girl, shedding bitter and desperate tears in his arms…

And, outshining it all – sparkling and alluring… Mighty and irresistible… The trophy of pure power. The Ring of Sauron.

His Ring.

Legolas moaned, still catching at the body, which no longer belonged to him. Dreadful spirits were gathering around him, staring at him with their empty eye-sockets… Hailing him like their newly-found fellow.

And he had nearly gave up – he had nearly let them whirl him into their deadly circle, when they suddenly uttered a manifold groan and scattered away, shunning the creature, which was noiselessly making its way towards him.

A warm hand lay on his forehead, spreading a welcome heat over his numb skin. The creature leaned in, its features still indistinct through the pane of such recent agony, and a kiss, radiant with the shine of life, woke the elf up from the grave slumber.

"Gwirith…," wheezed out he, too weak to touch her hands as she buried them in his loose hair, gently stroking away his shiver, "What…"

"What are you doing!"

The girl didn't bat an eye, when the fierce roar shook the cave vault.

"Not letting you kill yourself," replied she calmly, turning to the point of the ledge, from where the sound had come, "Isn't it clear?"

The silhouette of the Dark Lord loomed at the background of raving flame, rapidly getting clearer, as if someone was filling a mould with molten iron.

He was terrifying. Distorted lines of his face blurred, as though he was unable to give them their proper shape. Elven features changed into human and back – the sweat on his forehead spoke about the strenuous efforts it cost him to hold this appearance from getting unraveled.

"Gwirith, you disappoint me," snarled he, and it startled Legolas how orcish his voice was, "I had borne your strange attachment to him, but that passes all the bounds."

"Oh?" responded Gwirith evenly, "And what will you do?"

The edges of a black cloak angrily swept against the ground, when the blistering being – for in that moment no one would dare call him elf or man – swiftly slid towards her, the space flaring and shriveling around him.

"I knew it. I knew that you'd betray me for him. Or did you think I wouldn't get all those blatant hints you gave him? Shun my aid while you can," mocked he maliciously, "I'm an utter curse, Legolas I want to die. Please, let me go… I want you to evaluate your chances soberly, and choose with your eyes open… If you could only see how poor and stupid it was…"

"You are right," agreed Gwirith with eases, "That was stupid. I should have known that I won't manage to keep you and him at once. I thought that you were what I needed. Now I see that I was mistaken. And you were, too, when you chose me to bring him here."

She sent a sad smile to Legolas, and he had to lower his eyes, not able to stand her bitterly soft look. But what he saw on the ground made him immediately toss his head again, and the words of warning were ready to escape his mouth…

Gwirith was standing on a barely noticeable, slowly widening crack, which had stretched itself across the whole ledge. Having intercepted his glance, she guardedly shook her head, beckoning him to be silent. She knew…

There was something about the way her lashes fell on her cheeks that froze him alive, leaving him horrified at the evil premonition. She had the air of the one, going to the doom.

"You know," she didn't look at Legolas anymore, addressing only to his twin. "For all these years I kept seeing you the way you had been when I had first met you. I persuaded myself that you remain the same elf I had fallen in love with…You shouldn't have shown him to me, meleth nin, for the difference appeared to be too sticking. Look at yourself. Even your face is not yours anymore."

Her speech was flowing smoothly and easily, but it seemed to hurt the Dark Lord more than if she were storming or abusing him.

"My face? Is that why you stopped loving me?" his hand shot up, covering the scar on an instantly paled cheek. Gwirith uttered a small sound of protest, reaching out to take his palm off the injury and press it to her face.

"I never stopped loving you. And I never will. But no one will ever make me love this mockery of what you are. I'm tired of loving the Ring!"

Slightly trembling, the black sovereign let his fingers slid through her hair. His brows knit, as if he was trying hard to recall something forgotten.

"Legolas," whispered Gwirith suppliantly, and tears swell in her eyes, as he started at the sound of his own name, "Legolas, come back to me. Come back. I cannot bear it – I don't want to… Look what it had done to you, my life! I beg you – for the sake of my love… of your love, if you still love me – come back…"

The time slackened its strides. Minutes were endlessly long.

And when another century passed, and it was beginning to seem that the world had stopped forever, the Dark Lord suddenly let out a shaky sigh.

In a fleeting instant malice streamed out of him, leaving him lost and empty. He blinked, as though the dull light of the cave was too bright for his night-accustomed vision. His eyes lingered on Gwirith, and all of a sudden he sharply drew in the air, his confusion turning into blank terror…

"Eru, what have I done…" breathed out he, brusquely embracing the sobbing girl.

Her weeping became only louder, as if all the unshed tears of the past finally broke the weir of indifferent archness, which had been protecting her from the pain and grief.

"I'm sorry," the elf was rocking her like she was an ill child – his voice was constrained with regret and self-hatred, "Gwirith, I'm so sorry…I love you."

"I love you," echoed she through the tears, cupping his dismayed face.

And neither Arda, nor the Undying lands had ever witnessed the passion and tenderness, with which they lips met.

Like a spell-bound, Legolas was watching Gwirith twine her arms around his twin, never severing the bliss they shared… bring her slender body closer to his rising and falling chest, … and heavily stamp her foot against the rock of the ledge.

The crack yawned, the stone no more able to resist destruction.

There was nothing he could do when the flinders of the ledge came down, depriving the couple of its solid support.

In a blink of an eye he remained the only breathing being in the cursed cave.

I hope I didn't let anything out…

Yours, Adamanta.