Title: Wherever the Surge May Sweep

Author: Partheon

Rating: PG-13 – for violence, adult themes, darkness, blood, and overall angstiness.

Warnings: very AU and fairly dark. And, for those who don't know, I make no promises for a happy ending. While I am not a slash writer, there are some unrequited slash issues if you really, really, really squint.

Summary: In a much darker Middle-earth than the one we know, the lines between good and evil are blurred as Legolas and Estel are taken down a very different path.

Disclaimer: I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

Chapter Three: The First Steps

The distance is nothing; it is only the first step that costs.
----------Madame Marie Anne du Deffand

Midday sun touched the wooden houses and vendor's carts and a heavy shimmer The baby squalled when the midday sun of the third day began to brightly tinge his face pink. Tiny, pudgy legs kicked out at Legolas's chest and rolling cheeks squished fatly against the open mouth and nose. He wanted milk – wanted the comfort of a warm cradle and a heated room. And Legolas had neither. The milk was gone – the bottle and skin hanging dryly behind him.

Frayed and weary, Legolas had cooed and rocked and begged the babe as the horse plodded onward. Soft strands of hair slid smoothly against his fingers as he rubbed his hand over the small head and wrapped the blanket tighter around the flailing body.

He noticed absently the quietness of the land around him – a hot, dry, quiet that seeped up to the blue sky and across to the shimmering horizon. The quietness – save for the child wailing in his arms. Even the clopping of the horse was quiet; muffled by dry puffs of dirt.

"We are far away," he said, ridiculously happy when the sobs faded into wet hiccups. "We have no one but each other." He watched wetness seep from the gray eyes and wiped it away with his forefinger. "I promise I will protect you."

Then he raised his eyes – peering through the bright, dusty air – and saw the thick black walls of Archet.

"That," he said to the babe, arm tightening just a little. "That will be our home. Our home until your destiny comes to us."

The babe snuffled wetly against his palm, eyes drooping – fast asleep by the time Legolas rode through the tall, heavy gates that opened up into Archet.

The city, he knew, was one of the last remnants of the great kingdom Rhudaur. He could remember a time before the darkness of Greenwood when these plains were teeming with people and commerce ran heavily along the Old Forest Road. However, that was a long time ago. After the return of the Darkness, the people of Rhudar had been driven to seek shelter in the mightier cities of the South. Now, all that remained of Rhudar was Fleen and the out skirting villages of Archet, Staddle, and Combe.

Emotions – tumbling and indiscernible – deeply welled in Legolas's middle. He could feel the eyes of mortals resting oppressively upon him. He wanted to tell them to stop staring – but why should they? His kind had not ventured from the safety of their secluded havens for many long years now. They had every right to stare – to gawk – to point.

"I need a place to stay," he told the burly militia man that halted him in the middle of the road. "Please – I have money. And my," he stopped, looking down at the peacefully quiet face. "My son. My son needs food and a dry bed. I do not want to cause any trouble," he continued as two wide men joined the first.

Brawny muscles flexed before Legolas's face – a show of misplaced strength. Legolas wondered mildly if the man knew his thick, sinewy neck could be snapped with a flick of the elf's wrists.

"Elves don' come here of'en," the man said. "Are you running?"

"No one is pursuing," Legolas replied evenly. Dust clouded across the door front of a dirty building and a pathetically skinny child was tumbling into the street – dirty face grinning merrily. Legolas wondered if Estel would ever look so ragged.

The men moved from in front of his horse, posturing with harshly defined jaws in an attempt to cause fear – but Legolas did not even notice. There was just a deep sense of relief that he would not need to fight yet.

"There's an inn," one tonelessly offered to Legolas's mild surprise. "Follow the road an' you'll see it. Called Bartmelou's Inn." And the three men faded seamlessly into the dirty, uncouth background – outlines of grime and gritty determination.

Legolas breathed, the dust cloaking the back of his throat and stinging on the insides of his teeth. "Thank you," he said – though he did not know if they heard or cared. "Soon you can rest," he murmured in his native tongue to the child. The thick flanks of the horse surged beneath his calves as the beast moved forward down the street "Soon we will be home."

A serene tenderness swept over Legolas as he watched the child's face scrunch in a gigantic yawn. There was a warm spot on his chest where the small child tried to burrow closer. A tiny bit of sweat glowed wetly across the tiny forehead as Estel once again slipped into sleep.

He was a beautiful child, Legolas though for not the first time. There was the best of Arathorn in him – and the best of Gilraen in him. Perhaps the combination would be enough to keep on the road of righteousness for the years to come.

But the thought left as the worn sign declaring Bartmelou's Inn and Pub swung overhead. Faded letters were painted in an ugly red across deep furrows and scorch marks.

Doubt settled in Legolas's lungs and he contemplated moving – contemplated not staying in this dirty town. The prince – the king – the royal blood in him rebelled at the though of staying here – even for a short time. Nothing could make him live in or visit such absolute squalor.

Then Estel murmured, rosebud mouth opening and closing as if sucking a bottle, and the answer came. Estel was hungry. And Legolas suddenly did not care that he could see every speck of dirt imbedded into the thin, wobbly walls. The uncomfortable tingles at the thought of touching something like this faded. He drew a breath – filling his lungs and gathering the fortitude that had held him steady through thousands of years – and waked inside as he left his horse tied to the slim rail just outside the door.

Bright sunlight chased Legolas in but then departed as the door swung shut, leaving the elf in the dim, sputtering light of the inn. The tremendous urge to plug his nose intensified to painful proportions as he moved into the room.

Unwashed mortals squeezed against each other, gaping mouths working as they chewed their food. Legolas watched – and vowed to always keep Estel clean and his manners impeccable

He was strangely glad for the lighting however. No one paid him a second glance as he walked the several feet to the stained bar. He grimaced again when the dirtied bar rubbed dirt onto his clothes. "I am looking for the owner," he said as loudly as he dared. "I wish to stay in a room."

A large potbelly swung towards him, forcing Legolas to take a quick step back. Red flushed cheeks filled Legolas's sight and a jovial, balding man hurried forward to grasp Legolas's cringing hand. Legolas's only thought for several moments was the lack of flushed cheeks among the elves. "I am the owner. Barmelou's my name. A room you say? Well, sir you are in luck because today we have one room available for the low price of two gold pieces. Free dinner at night – I make that. And my wife makes breakfast in the morning."

"Actually," Legolas cut in, smoothing one finger over the delicate, soft ear of the child. "I was hoping for some milk. For my son. He is hungry." The dull, smoky air burned Legolas's tongue and he swallowed. "Please – I have money. I can pay whatever it costs – for the room and for the milk."

The fat cheeks softened, jiggling as the man sighed. "Your son, you say? Well, I think I can scrounge something up for the young one." He bustled through the bar, deep voice shouting above the din.

Legolas sagged, drooping against the nearest wall. "You will get food soon," he soothed the infant. "Just wait a little longer."

The gray eyes blinked tiredly and the tiny mouth opened once in a yawn before sliding shut again. Small legs kicked in the swaddling blanket and the beginnings of a whimper escaped him.

"Shhh," Legolas bounced the child slightly. "Just wait a little longer and you will get food. Just a little longer."

He looked up to see Bartmelou cutting a wide swath through the crowd as he back towards him. A bottle filled with milk was in one hand.

"This do?" he asked, shuffling the warm bottle into one of Legolas's open hands. "Had the wife heat it up so it should be about right."

Legolas wrapped his hand around the smooth glass, feeling the permeated warmth. "Yes, thank you." He shifted the baby and tried to dig into his pouch for a few coins.

"Don't bother about that now. You'll pay tomorrow with the room. Now, let me get you a key." He reached deep into his apron pocket and produced a large brass key. "Last room in the hallway upstairs."

Legolas nodded his thanks and jerked his chin in the direction of the door. "My horse…"

"I'll have a boy take care of it. You just go on and take care of that boy of yours. Pretty small, ain't he?"

"Four days old," Legolas murmured as he slowly walked away. "Thank you."

Bartmelou was a man whose girth more than made up for his small stature. His shiny, bald head and crooked teeth were often displayed in his wide smile. His face seemed to consist of huge brown eyes and even larger ears. A quick wit, a loud laugh, and an open heart – not to mention an incredible gift for weaving the finest of tales in all of the land – made Bartmelou almost as popular as his inn.

So it was of no surprise to anyone when they learned that the two newest acquisitions to their town – an elf and an infant – were staying in one of his inn's rooms. According to the people who knew – namely Bartmelou's sharp-tongued wife – they were staying there until the old house on the outskirts of town the elf had bought from Bartmelou was repaired.

That night, Bartmelou's pub at the front of the inn was more crowded than usual as people craned their necks desperately to get a glimpse of the wondrous creature that was now in their town. And he seemed that he was intending to live here as well. Imagine that!

Bartmelou was very proud that he had been the first – and only person – to talk to the elf. He bustled to and fro amongst the tables, sharing his experiences with a great deal of his own commentary.

He was a true elf, Bartmelou would whisper. Tall with hair the color of the sun. Piercing blue eyes – and they were a blue that could not be described by mortal means, the innkeeper would hasten to add – set in a face that seemed to be crafted by the most delicate of porcelain. And – the aging shop owner would add – the elf glowed, like some fairy; a light seemed to fill the air around him. Not just any regular light, but a pure, sweet light that made you feel all fuzzy inside when you looked at it.

Yes, the elf bought the house, he would say. And, yes, he seems to be taking up residence here. But, no, he did not know why the elf was not in the regular elvish settlements. However, he would say then, old Bartmelou has a suspicion to share with you… And he would go on to weave a fantastic tale of murder, intrigue, and forbidden love – all surrounding the beautiful elf and wee babe the elf carried so protectively against his chest.

From that first tale he told, a whole strew of legends came into being in the following days and weeks. The elf – people whispered – was a prince of an elven realm who fell in love with a mortal woman. His father had disapproved of the union and had banished both of them to the wilds. The mortal woman had become pregnant and had died giving birth to a son. Overcome by grief, the elf had buried her body and had then ridden away to make a new life for him and his son.

Bartmelou would wink as he finished his tale and move onto the next table, offer another glass of ale – for a price, of course – and weave his magic tale.

The next morning, Bartmelou and his two grown daughters were busy scrubbing the ale-stained tables with rough brushes while Bartmelou's wife made some breakfast for the few who would venture to the pub at that time in the morning. A couple of single men sat at the dark corner tables and an old man who was staying at The inn sat near the blazing fire.

When Legolas came down the stairs with Estel cradled in his arms, all did their best to study him without actually looking at him. The blond elf had washed the dust from his face and combed out his hair until the golden strands fairly glimmered in the musty sunlight. His movements were no longer slow and weary from his travels and his steps were filled with the casual grace of a dancer. Bartmelou's oldest daughter dropped the cup she had been holding and the younger one clutched at the table and did an exaggerated impression of fainting.

Legolas noticed none of these things and glided across the mostly vacant room to the counter. "Do you have milk?" he asked Bartmelou's wife softly. "For the child. I – I ran out."

She was a large woman with wrinkles folded around her green eyes. Brown hair had thick streaks of silver that framed her wide face. Her hands were large with ragged knuckles and hardened fingers. Thin lips and a hawk nose added to the domineering expression that she normally wore. But when the woman's weathered eyes rested on the soft features of the sleeping child as he rested against the elf's chest, a smile cracked the stony exterior of her face. "I will warm some up right away."

A relieved look crossed Legolas's face that reached all the way up to make his blue eyes glow. "Thank you. Of course I can pay. How much…?"

"Do not worry. He is a beautiful child." Her eyes dropped to the child again and one hand moved slightly as if she wished to stroke that dark hair that fell so adorably across the infant's pale forehead. But she just smiled again and bustled off to the back of the kitchen.

Under the guise of making sure his guest was happy, Bartmelou hurried up with a large grin on his face and one hand outstretched. "Good morning. Good morning. I trust you slept well?"

Legolas took the dirty hand and did not look at the grime surrounding the fingernails. "I did. You have a fine establishment."

Bartmelou made a pooing motion with his hands but his chest puffed with obvious pride. "I assure you we do make sure our guests are well looked after. I trust you will be staying here until the house is finished?"

"That was my intention. You said it could be fixed within the week." The elf moved towards a nearby table and lowered himself into the wooden seat. "Is there many repairs to be done?"

Uninvited, Bart plopped himself in the chair across from the elf and sprawled his stumpy legs out underneath the table. "Nah. Just a few little places to be patched up on the ceiling and a couple windows to be redone. The furnishings are all in tip-top shape. You won't be disappointed, Master…uh…"

"Greenleaf," Legolas supplied, his gaze focused on the slumbering infant. "No, I hope I will not be."

"Beautiful house, it is. Belonged to my grandmother – may Eru rest her beloved soul – and when she died she left it to me. Obviously, I live here at the inn so that house has sat empty for many a year. Right fine bargain you got, Master Greenleaf." He looked up when his wife came from the kitchen carrying the bottle of milk. "Ah, and here's breakfast for the wee one."

Legolas took the bottle with a nod of his head. "Thank you," he murmured and looked up at the woman from underneath his dark lashes.

She fluttered for a moment and her cheeks reddened. "You're welcome," she replied at last and there was a choked quality to her voice. Then she hurried away, wiping her hands on her apron.

Bartmelou contented himself to sit and watch quietly as the elf began to feed the child. Finally, when the silence was too much for a man of his great verbal skills, he began to talk. "So…" he drew the word out but Legolas did not look up from the child, "is the wee one yours?"

The blue eyes were almost gray with emotion when they darted up to look at Bartmelou. Legolas hesitated, his arm tightening a little bit around the child. "He is… in a manner of speaking, yes, he is mine." Then he fell into silence and turned his full attention on the child.

Bartmelou hummed quietly and stroked his chin with two stubby fingers, remembering the tale he had woven the night before. "Not married, were you?" he asked when he thought a sufficient amount of silence had passed.

A long silence followed the question and Bartemlou was about to lean forwards and ask again when the low, dulcet tones of the elf answered.

"No." The child had emptied the bottle of milk and Legolas set it on the table with a soft thunk. "I must go. Give your wife my gratitude." He stood and gave Bartmelou a solemn smile.

The innkeeper stood up, as well, slightly desperate to keep the elf in his inn. "Where will you go? I assure you, everything you may have need of can be found right here at my inn."

Legolas quirked a dark, elegant eyebrow at the human before his face relaxed into the normal, serene expression of the elves. "I have need of a small job that I may work at a few hours."

The thin mouth scrunched in thought and Bartmelou rubbed his chin. Could he let the elf – the talk of the town – go to another's establishment? He imagined everyone crowding around the elf's boss, asking questions and ignoring poor Bartmelou. That could not be allowed to happen.

"I have a stable," he said quickly, moving around the table. "I take in all the unbroken horses from as far away as Rohan and train 'em to be saddle ridden before selling them to the good citizens of this town and many others." His large brown eyes narrowed slightly. "The elves, I hear, are fabulous with horses and I have need of an extra hand. Does the job suit your liking?"

Deep blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes widened in surprise and Legolas glanced down at the child. "May I bring the child with me? I do not want to leave him alone."

Bartmelou imagined nights of storytelling and many glasses of ale his customers would consume and nodded vigorously. "Of course, of course. My wife loves children and since ours are all grown, she'd be more than happy to care for your wee one." He waddled over to the elegant elf and threw his arm around the slender shoulders – even though he had to stand on his tiptoes to do it. A huge smile split his face, stretching from ear to ear, and revealing his crooked teeth. "Let's go discuss your pay."

The house was built with stone. Smaller stones were held together by thick tar in some parts of the walls and in others, thick slabs were set against one another. There was a wooden arbor hanging over a thick, oak door that only squeaked a little when Legolas pushed it open.

With four rooms, the house was not overly large but Legolas thought it perfect for an elf and a young human child to inhabit. One room, he decided, would be Estel's when the young human got older. For now, Estel would sleep in the cradle Legolas had purchased from Archet's carpenter that was placed next to Legolas's own bed.

Legolas laid Estel down in the cradle and stepped back to survey the small room. One window opened up towards the West and Legolas could see the beginning pinks of the sunset covering the paisley blue sky.

He brushed a hand over Estel's small back and felt the fluttering heartbeat. When he was sure the young human was deeply lost in slumber, Legolas pulled back and walked into the room that would be their kitchen and eating area.

A single wooden table sat in the middle of the room with two chairs on either side. Against the far wall, a fireplace was crafted out of large, smooth stones that glowed with polish. Next to that, was a shelf – tiled with smooth green stones. Above it, wooden cabinets were fastened to the wall and – according to Bartmelou – Legolas knew would find eating utensils.

Archet was a good place to settle, Legolas decided wearily. Close enough to Rivendell for protection – if it came down to that – and off the beaten road enough so that casual hunters would never find them.

Saruman would search for Aragorn, he knew. If the wizard did not believe the claims by Elrond that the child had been stillborn – which Legolas knew would happen with the wizard's gift of sight – then the evil Maia would hunt throughout all of Middle-earth for the heir of Isildur and attempt to poison Aragorn's mind to wickedness as he had done with Arathorn's.

Legolas would not allow that to happen. Yes, he had failed with Arathorn. But now he had learned from his mistakes and he would not make them again. Aragorn would grow to be strong and true and pure. Aragorn would be the savior of the land and Legolas would sacrifice his life to see it done.

His fingers felt the graininess of the table and he sank down into one of the chairs, eyes dully staring out the window at the greenish-yellow grass that stretched from his house to the line of trees.

Four days. Four days had gone by since Legolas had… He folded his arms on the table and lowered his forehead to rest on them, taking a deep breath through his mouth. Spots flashed before his eyes as he dug them deep into his forearms – he could not see Arathorn's face that way.

Sleep had been elusive these last days. Images of Arathorn's rage-twisted face blended with the face that Legolas knew so well. He would see the gray eyes – sparkling like silver dust in the sunlight – the wide smile that caused crinkled dimples to appear around the jaw line and eyes, and dark hair, long and wild in the wind. And, then, just as quickly the living, laughing face would be replaced with the half-lidded gaze and slack mouth – so innocent and beautiful in death.

The pads of his fingers dug into the grainy wood and Legolas bit his lip. How could he have failed? Had he been too cocky? How could he have not seen the darkness that reached for his young friend with a voracious appetite?

Now, as he looked back at the last years he had spent with Arathorn, Legolas could remember incidents that should have given him some warning as to what the final outcome would be.

He remembered flashes of irrational anger that were always quickly apologized for. Times flashed before the elf's eyes when Arathorn had asserted his position as leader – a need to dominate and to assert his control. He recalled the lust Arathorn had for opulence and beauty – the desires that were never satiated. And he remembered the fear echoing through his heart the first time their mental bond had been blocked by the darkness.

But there had been the good times too. There had been the times Arathorn had gone out of his way to help someone in need – times when Legolas had been amazed at the quickness of his mind and the extent of his battle skills. Arathorn's eyes when he gazed upon his wife until the wickedness had robbed even that.

Legolas's shoulders shook and gasps escaped his lips – but he did not cry nor did he make a sound. Dry sobs wracked his entire body as the sun continued to set behind the western hills. At last, he fell into a fitful sleep and he dreamed of Arathorn's smile and laugh – of Aragorn growing up to be a strong young man.

The night was cold and the silvery moonlight that managed to peek through the clouds reflected off of the few inches of snow that had fallen in the past week. A bitter wind swept over the clearing that contained Legolas's house and the river swirled darkly by. Clouds blanketed the sky and as the night progressed, a hint of snow began to waft down to the earth.

In Legolas's house, a fire was burning furiously in the hearth, casting an orange glow about the room and reflecting off of the tightly shut windows. A large black pot hung over the fire and water was close to boiling inside.

Legolas sat on his bed, holding the five-month-old child swaddled in soft blankets close to his chest. His face was paler than usual and his hands were trembling just a little as he slowly rocked Estel, crooning wordlessly. In contrast to his normally perfect hair, the blond locks were tangled and the braids were mussed. The dark blue in his eyes had turned to a grayish blue that swam with uncertainty and fear.

It had started a few days prior when Estel had come down with a runny nose and a slight fever. Legolas had been around humans too much to be overly concerned and had made sure Estel had gotten lots of rest and fluids, assuming the little illness would go away on its own. Things had been going well and Estel had even seemed to be getting a little better. Until tonight, that is.

Estel had developed a slight cough early in the evening and by the midnight hour, he had been wheezing with every breath as harsh coughs had made his tiny ribcage strain upwards. He had begun crying as the pain in his lungs became worse – which of course just aggravated his coughing.

Not as gifted as Lord Elrond in healing, Legolas did have some amount of natural ability that had been cultivated in lessons through out the years. While he was by no means endowed with great healing powers, Legolas could heal small injuries as well as mend some larger ones.

Now, as he gently rocked Estel on the bed, Legolas poured as much of himself into the tiny body as he could. He urged the closing air passageways to open and let fresh oxygen into struggling lungs. The blond elf willed the lungs to inflate again and again with air. And he eased the pain Estel was experiencing with every breath the child drew inwards.

As time when on, however, Legolas was becoming increasingly unsure how much of an effect his efforts were having on the child. Estel's lips were turning a light shade of purple and the normally rosy cheeks turned to a sickly pale color that served to tie Legolas's stomach in several knots. Each set of hacks left the infant weaker than before as tears streamed down the scrunched up face.

The coughing eased for a moment and Estel lay limply in Legolas's arms, crying softly.

Legolas murmured soothingly and danced his fingers over the sore throat, expending some healing energy to ease the pain he found there. "Come, little one," he whispered as he stood to his feet. "The water has probably boiled by now."

His steps were silent and quick as he crossed the dark room and stopped before the boiling pot. After a breath of hesitation, he laid Estel down on the table and used metal tongs to scoop the steaming sheets from the water.

The closet door was only a few steps away and Legolas opened the door with is free hand and pulled out the clothing that had been stored there. Once the closet was empty, the elf carefully hung the sheet across the vacant rack.

Firelight turned his fair skin into the color of burnish gold as he strode back across to the table and took the baby Estel into his arms, comforting the plaintive cries with his mellow singing voice. Closing the closet door, he slid down the wall so he was leaning against the back of the closet with Estel pulled to his chest.

Inside the closet, the air was thick with steam as the boiling water clinging to the sheet evaporated into the still air. There was no light in the enclosed area. But after a few blinks, Legolas could see clearly the reddened face of Estel and the small mouth gaping open as tiny breaths were drawn into the tortured lungs.

Evaporated water clung to Legolas's face in tiny droplets and rolled down his face, making him uncomfortably feel like he was sweating. Now and then, he had to free one hand from rocking Estel to brush the moisture from his eyes.

The night dragged on, punctuated by Estel's wheezing coughs. When the steamed sheet began to cool and dry, Legolas would replace it with a fresh one and place the old one back into the cauldron.

Often, the elf would begin singing in his clear tenor some of the songs that had been sung to him starting when he was a child as small and as young as Estel was now – thousands and thousands of years ago. The soft music – combined with the moisture of the air around them – seemed to comfort the infant and the pitiful cries would calm slightly as the child was able to draw more oxygen into his lungs.

Finally – as sunlight began to filter through the clouds in the east and the falling snow began to fade away – Estel's breathing eased enough for Legolas to feel comfortable leaving the closet. Still gently singing, Legolas stood and slipped from the closet and sat in front of the fire with a heavy sigh.

Estel's harsh sobs faded into hiccupping tremors and silent tears as the gray morning came to light up the house. Estel snuggled into Legolas's chest and took deep, slow breaths as peace and sleep finally came to the tired mind.

When Estel was fully asleep – his breathing deep and even – Legolas retreated to the bedroom and lay down upon his own bed with Estel curled up in his arms. The emotional and physical exhaustion soon swept over him and Legolas lapsed into a deep reverie that lasted well into the next day.

Outside, the cold wind howled across the plain and snow drifts built against the trees. Animals retreated deep into their dens and the birds took to the barns of the townspeople. But in Legolas's house, the atmosphere was warm and comforting as Legolas and Estel slept on.

To be continued…

Preview of the next chapter:

Kneeling quickly, Legolas felt for the first man's pulse. When he found a weak, erratic one, the elf placed his hand on either side of the man's head and snapped the thick neck with a flick of his wrists.