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

Wherever the Surge May Sweep

By Jame K.

Chapter Eighteen: Still, My Soul!

All is not well.
I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come!
Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
– William Shakespeare

Despite the icy, clenching hold seizing his insides, Legolas appeared to be remarkably serene as he rode through the gates of the elven settlement. Flickering pain disturbed the calmness of his eyes momentarily when he glimpsed a certain balcony, laboring under a multitude of bright green vines – his room; but the pain was swept away and locked into a tight chest, deep within his mind. He glanced down at his right side, moving the fringes of his cloak surreptitiously to cover the flecks of crimson dyeing his inner garments and hasty bandages.

He dismounted his horse at the steps leading up to the arching pillars and doors of the Last Homely House. Dappled sunlight danced across the white flowers, hanging horn-like from towering trellises; their scent wafted down to Legolas with the breeze. Memories – warm memories of days and seasons of healing and laughter – came with the rolling tide of scents and Legolas sighed as his muscles loosened, tendons slowly easing into a liquid comfort, even as the pain in his side worsened with his long breaths.

"Your majesty." A grave elf with elegant gray robes and an unsmiling mouth tilted his head to Legolas, hands fluttering about his waist in an eagerness to do something. "Allow me to take your horse. Lord Elrond is awaiting your presence in the study. Would you like me to call a guide?"

"No – I still know the way." He turned his head, smiling – though his lips felt strained as he pulled them out of a pained grimace. Then, his eyes widened and he stepped backward, forgetting his wound momentarily. "Long has it been since dwarves and men walked freely within the gates of Rivendell," he breathed, eyes darting between the stout, bearded dwarf and the more lanky figure of the man.

The elf nodded gravely, hands tucking about the reins of the horse. "Dark times have swept the whole land, my king. Lord Elrond has summoned all races together for this council." He bowed his head again before taking his leave with Legolas's horse.

Impulse flooded the elf's mind momentarily and he briefly considered chasing after the dwarf and the man, talking to them, and learning about them. What an exciting adventure that would be! Legolas had not spoken to the dwarves since his childhood – before the fall of the Northern Kingdom – before the dealings between elves and dwarves had become strained and unfriendly.

He sighed, restraining the urge as he walked up the gray steps in the direction of Lord Elrond's study. The toils of labor must come before Legolas could even think to amuse himself in another fashion; he would meet with the elf-lord and then retreat to his own chambers (or wherever Lord Elrond would be kind enough to grant him a bed) to treat his own wounds once more. Legolas did not think that the injury was especially grave – he had dealt with worse many a time – but a strange weariness had seized him since the four orcs had ambushed him two nights before.

Another pained grimace came to his lips and he pressed one white hand to the wound, feeling the slight bit of unnatural heat. Yes, meeting with Lord Elrond and then new bandages and a healing slumber before he could allow himself to chase after these two strange creatures inhabiting Imladris.

But, he did allow himself one glance behind, chuckling to himself as he imagined what his father would say if he realized his son wished to spend time with a dwarf and a man. A dwarf!

Legolas chuckled again as he handed his weapons to the lovely elf just inside the foyer of Elrond's home. Even despite his injury, a strange lightness seized him as he viewed the yet unblemished beauty of Imladris. The darkness seemed so far away – so weak and insignificant – here in this gorgeous, bright place.

He felt his joyous mood dimming, however, as he stepped carefully through the richly furnished hallways. Light spilled passed ornate curtains and flowers seemed to bloom happily on the sill of every window – but Legolas noticed none of the finery. His eyes darkened, his mouth drooped downwards, and his natural luminescence dimming to a faint glimmer. A tiny tremble seized his hands and he tucked them against his sides, feeling his wound pull and tear with every drawn breath.

And then, the study door was before him – large, ominous, and dark. But, despite the sickening sense of foreboding that rose up along the back of his throat, Legolas found himself strangely comforted by the brass handle and solid wood.

He remembered – Legolas breathed, hand touching the carved wood and tracing over the curved brass – he remembered only vaguely the days after Greenwood's destruction and the days before his father's funeral.

He had been laid in a soft bed, silky cushions beneath his head and warm, heavy covers against his chest. He had drifted and mumbled, scented herbs waving beneath his nose and thick medicines being poured passed his numb lips, as he called for his father. The time after that – when he had awoken from his dreams and faced a reality that did not include his father or his country – Elrond had been in his mentor, the soft hand that had forced him to eat when food was abhorrent, the tender voice that had told him that he did not really want to die, and the gentle arms that had held him close while he sobbed. How had his path parted so drastically from the half elf's path?

Tears almost came – they lingered dreadfully, stinging the backs of his eyes and drying his tongue and throat – but he entered the study dry eyed after a short knock. "Lord Elrond," he greeted when he saw the stately figure at the desk.

The half elf stood, hands braced on the dark wood of the desk and bowed his head slightly. "Your majesty." The tone was chill and the magic warmness of Rivendell slipped away into the huge sky.

Trembles seized his lips but Legolas forced a smile though the motion felt ugly and twisted. He wanted forgiveness – he wanted to be accepted into the warmth of a home once more – he wanted someone to teach him again. The pain in his side grew and throbbed, encompassing his thoughts; and all he wanted was for the older elf to soothe the continuous ache away. But, the old bitterness clung to the vestiges of a worn heart; the memories of a silvery vial of liquid and an attempt to silence the bright light that was Estel. So, when his mouth moved, tongue scraping against smooth teeth, all that came out was, "I am Legolas, my lord."

Ever so slightly, the severity of Elrond's face eased into something gentler – more welcoming, perhaps? "Please, take a seat, Legolas. It has been long since we heard your voice or seen your face in these halls. It has been quieter here – and much less thrilling."

"Thrilling?" Legolas asked, sitting on the edge of his chair, hands resting lightly on his knees. The familiar banter soothed his parched mind – just as the sight of Elrond sent alarm zinging through his mind.

"Yes. I am afraid the twins are much less creative in their schemes since your departure. I suppose it gives me cause to wonder just how much you really were a part of their little escapades." Lord Elrond was smiling openly, eyes faintly pleading for Legolas to accept the tentative truce he was extending.

Legolas smiled, tight-lipped – more to keep pained groans from spilling outwards than to appear passive before the scrutinizing gaze. "You could have hardly punished a king," he murmured, mouth barely moving with the words. His gaze turned to the window, the blue sky and bright flowers.

Elrond's laugh was tinny. "I suppose not. I wondered…" he sat forward, hands flat on the desk and face wide and earnest, "how Estel was? He must be a young man now – an adult by mortal standards."

"Yes, he is a man." Fondness laced Legolas's tone but his eyes were cold and wary. "He is an apt fighter – an enemy would have a difficult time setting hold to him now. I have seen to that." Too many memories, he wanted to say. Too many lies, deceits, and plans lay glaring in between him and the older elf. Too many. One hand crept unnoticed to his side and he pressed against the layers of cloth, feeling the wetness blossoming across his clothes.

Elrond did not move, frozen by the vaguely accusatory words. He cleared his throat, hands coming up to adjust a piece of his robe before he turned his head to the window, face utterly still.

Legolas knew that Elrond did not see the chasm between them – he could not see. Doubt, darkness and despair (and perhaps a bit of foolish hope that Legolas would forgo the ridiculous notion of raising Estel as his own) had clouded his vision and his soul. He could not see the wrongness lingering in the air between them just as he could not see the truth of Estel – the nearness, the realness of Hope. But it was not his fault.

Elrond's smile was pleasant as he faced Legolas again. "Tell me of your adventures with the rangers. I am afraid that I had to dissuade the twins from riding out to join you many times. They thought the whole thing to be much like an adventure in one of the old tales and they were quite eager to come upon it."

The pain of a knife wound to the belly came to Legolas again and one of his white hands rose to touch the smooth, unblemished skin, remembering. A sharp pang in his side reminded of him his latest acquired wound. "It is not adventure," he said at last. "The death of immortals or mortals will never be an adventure."

He stood abruptly as he felt warm blood touch the top of his thighs, tracing down the contours of his leg. "I need to rest," he said, slightly surprised when his voice faltered on the simple words.

"Of course." Concern was in Elrond's eyes now and Legolas turned away. "Your old rooms are prepared for you. You… do not seem yourself."

"I am – fine." Legolas's mouth curved in a breathless, forced smile. "Fine." He stepped toward the door, hand pressed to his side. A strange choking sensation rose up in his throat and he leaned forward, hacking in his hand.

Elrond's hands touched his hot face. "Legolas, what is wrong?"

Legolas batted the hands away, standing and breathing. He opened his mouth to reassert that he was fine but a moan broke passed his lips instead and he toppled into Elrond's strong arms.

White-yellow sunlight pooled across the brownish green foothills of the misty mountains. Billowy clouds surrounded the taller hills and filtered the sunlight, hiding the bright sky from view. Some places, the clouds divided and light streamed down to create a haze of brightness in otherwise dim landscape. In one of these puddles of light, a tall figure in gray – a figure Estel immediately recognized Gandalf – and a small child-like creature stood together.

The tiny fellow besides Gandalf was twitching nervously, wringing his hands and fairly burying his face in the wizard's long robes. At the approach of the ragged men, his Adam's apple bobbed and he muttered, "Oh, dear," to himself continually.

Halbarad stepped forward and bowed his head. "Gandalf. We have come with all haste at your bidding."

"Good – good. I do thank you for your promptness." The wizard glanced over the group and Estel could almost sense it when the wizard's eyes came to rest directly upon him.

Straightening his shoulders just a little, Estel stepped up to the pair and inclined his upper body respectfully. "Mae govenann, Mithrandir." He wondered, as he titled his had to look the ancient wizard directly in the eye, if his steady hand, resting upon the hilt of his sword, made him appear more grown up and mature.

Gandalf's smile was wide and benevolent as he looked down at the slightly dirty man, scarcely looking at Estel's hand or sword. "Estel," he greeted, "I did not expect you to be a part of this little expedition – I was thinking that Legolas would be the one to come and lead the party."

Estel swallowed and hid the harsh sting the comment brought as he removed his hand from the hilt. "Legolas is attending a council at Rivendell."

"Is he now?" Gandalf stroked his chin, eyes thoughtful – but Estel thought he detected a darker undercurrent in the solemn tone.

"Yes." Estel stumbled over his tongue for a moment, hands rubbing against the sides of his legs. "Halbarad thought I was an appropriate choice to represent him on this mission." But he did not have the nerve to meet the wizard's all-knowing gaze.

"Hmm."

Halbarad stepped forward and rested a comforting had on Estel's shoulder. "He has a good sword arm and Legolas has trained him ceaselessly on archery. He is an excellent fighter and he has a stout heart."

Gandalf nodded again. "I have no doubt." But the corners of his mouth turned downward despite his words.

Estel could feel the deep blue eyes resting upon his bowed head and his face twisted in a wince as if he had just eaten a particularly sour fruit. He took a deep breath. Legolas had always taught that humility worked where bravado did not. "You, of course," he said, "have the final say on who participates in such an important possession. If you would feel it would be better for me to return to the Gladden River while the rest of the men go onward, I will bow to your wisdom."

For the space of a breath, Estel was afraid that Gandalf would do just that as the wizard's eyes slowly perused the men standing behind Estel.

"No – I think you will do." Gandalf's expression was vaguely amused as he studied Estel. "Legolas trusts you and I do believe that this expedition will prove your mentor's trust." He leaned close, his beard brushing Estel's shoulder and his breath tickling his ear. "Do not give him cause to be disappointed in you."

Estel opened his mouth to assert that he would never betray Legolas – never – but Gandalf had stepped back and was gesturing to the nervous creature beside him, tiny hands deep within the pockets of his miniature, scarlet overcoat.

"This," he laid a hand on the trembling shoulder, "is Mr. Bilbo Baggins, one of the Shire folk – do you know of them?"

Halbarad nodded his head. "A little. Although I must say that I have never seen one with my own eyes."

"I know them only from Legolas' stories." And Estel had supposed the halflings to be mere myths, exaggerations of truth. Awe made him step forward, coming to stand directly before the curly-headed figure. "Master Baggins," he intoned gravely, tipping his head. "Any friend of Gandalf's is a friend of mine."

Dimples formed deep grooves in the hobbit's apple cheeks and he proffered one elegantly tiny hand which Estel took carefully his much larger and dirtier paw. "Oh, oh, I assure you. The pleasure is mine. My goodness." His eyes were wide and round. "So many big-folk. I do declare there has not been this many since before my old gaffer was a wee one and that was some many years ago I assure you, Master…" he trailed off, still smiling, and looked expectantly up at Estel.

"Estel."

"Yes, Master Estel. The honor is all mine." The hobbit ground to a halt and looked up at Gandalf. "I am afraid I have gotten myself into a wee spot of trouble and Gandalf assures me that you are just the folks to take care of it."

The wizard nodded. "Bilbo has come into possession of a certain object of great importance. Halbarad, I told you some of the news."

Eyes darkening, the older ranger nodded. "It is confirmed then?"

Bilbo shrank into a huddled ball against Gandalf's side as the wizard nodded gravely. "It has been confirmed."

He dreamed of pain – of Estel crying out in agony, blood on his face. He dreamed of betrayal – Estel glaring at him, accusing bitterly.

"You lied to me," the young man screamed as he stood next to Saruman. "You are no longer my friend." The ring glittered on his finger. "I will make you suffer for what have you done."

In the dream, Legolas wondered could make him hurt more than receiving the hatred of his child. He twisted his hands, reaching, pleading for Estel tojust understand. But the young man just shook his head and left.

Then Legolas was standing in a long plain and Estel was there, face twisted and hands trembling as they clenched in agony. "Legolas," he cried, "Legolas, please." Blood rolled down his back and dripped through his teeth. "Legolas!"

And Legolas could do nothing, the dreamscape holding him back as he attempted to take the young man's shaking hands, to take the pain.

He twisted and awoke, panting as he pressed his head to his pillow. The gilded ceiling of Rivendell drifted above and Legolas felt the tension drain as he knew it was just a dream – not the gift of Lórien, just a dream. He swallowed once, blew out a breath and forced himself to ease back against the soft bed.

Elladan was there – just in the corner of Legolas's vision. His hands were folded neatly in front of him. He was speaking to Erestor about the plans for the meal that night just outside of the door of the healing wing; but he had eyes for Legolas only. The conversation would end soon, Legolas knew, and the twin would cross to stand in front of the bed that Legolas had been confined to after he had collapsed in the study.

A faint grimace touched the young king's face as he remembered the scene he had created with his wound. He had awoken moments after falling into Elrond's arms, highly embarrassed and highly conscious of the blood dribbling from his side to the floor of the study. He had tried to move away but Elrond's hands had caught him just under his arm pits, holding him to his chest.

"Why did you not tell me you were injured?" Elrond had hissed, his hands touching the blood. "I would not have kept you in the study. You should be in the healer's wing resting."

"Not bad." Legolas had looked down at his side and grimaced. "Small wound. Got it a few days ago – should be healed by now."

"Even more reason to be concerned." And Elrond had scooped the protesting king into his arms, carrying him from the study and to the healing wings. By the time the sun had set, the wound had been proclaimed poisoned, the antidote had been administered, and the king had been given a sleeping draught for the night.

The next morning, Legolas had awoken, bleary eyed and slightly muddled, to find himself tucked into this wide bed with fresh bandages wrapped around his torso and a bowl of warm food sitting beside him.

A small noise drew Legolas from his musings and he raised his eyes to see Elladan moving into the room to stand silently beside the bed, hands tucked behind his back as he observed the pale, blond elf.

Legolas looked up from the white sheets and wished he could claim tiredness or pain to forestall this conversation. But the sorrow radiating from the older elf held his tongue. "My friend," he greeted mildly, eyes darting away for a brief moment. "You are… taller," he finished lamely and patted the soft bed beside him.

The dark haired elf touched Legolas's shoulder as he sat on the healer's bed. "I am glad to see you well. When you fled from Lothlorien, you did not seem… and then there was no news of you or the boy for months. I did not know if you were alive or dead. And then you come here, and I learn that you collapse in Ada's study within minutes of your arrival. A knife wound to your side – you are luck the poison was not serious or you could be dead now. You are still pale." He reached out one hand, fingers skimming along Legolas's cheek before they withdrew.

"I am alive." Legolas' smile faded and he ducked his head. "I should have sent word to you before now. I am sorry for worrying you, my friend. I have not been a proper companion to you these last years."

When Elladan did not immediately answer the soft words, strain touched Legolas's eyes and he leaned back against the covers, turning his face away. A steady ache flowed through Legolas's muscles – had another friend been lost in the name of the will of Ilúvatar, in the name of Destiny? Was he destined to be alone on this hard path?

But the other elf caught him about the shoulders, squeezing the softness of the nightgown against his skin. "There is nothing to forgive, mellon nin. Nothing. You followed the will of the Valar – and I cannot fault you for that."

The soft cloth of Elladan's robe brushed against Legolas's forehead and he fisted his hands against his thighs, bitter scents of herbs assaulting his senses as he inhaled deeply against his friend's shoulder. "Thank you."

Elladan sat back and gently lowered Legolas back to the pillows, smiling just a little. "Elrohir and I… we have spoken of following the rangers with you. Father manages well here in Imladris; and we long to sharpen our swords against the hordes of darkness once more. Perhaps, when you leave again…"

"You should stay here." Legolas took a deep breath and plunged ahead before the flash of hurt in Elladan's eyes could stop him. "Soon, our races will band together and I will return with Estel. You should be here – with your father."

"But we want…"

"Your fate is laid before your eyes, my friend, even now you know where your destiny is to remain. Your heart is stayed on the beauty of this place – I do not believe you would be fully content any where else, save Valinor." Legolas's hand went to his stomach again, shivering as he felt the cold ache where freezing metal had once pierced his flesh – the wound of a Nazgúl would never fully heal.

Another shiver wracked his long gingers as a gray cloud seemed to pass before the green eyes of the dark-haired elf. Elladan's mouth compressed and his fingers dug painfully into Legolas's wrists. "There are some things more beautiful than even Imladris. I should be with you – to protect you." he hissed. Then his grip loosened and his gaze drifted beyond Legolas. "The festivities are tonight," he intoned, "you will not want to miss them."

Legolas shook his head, drawing his hands close to his waist and clutching the soft blankets around his sides. "No – it has been long since I have attended an elven feast. My wound is all but healed, only a twinge remains."

"All the best of foods, all the best of wines," Elladan grimaced and his eyes roamed back to Legolas's face. "I will see you tonight, then? I am sure there are other things that need your attention now." His robes swished about his knees as he beat a hasty retreat towards the vacant door of the healing rooms.

"Yes." Legolas murmured before he had fully vanished. "There are many things to be done." And he watched his friend go with saddened eyes.

"I assure you that I was quite the sedentary hobbit until Gandalf came along. We, hobbits, are quite content to stay in our own shire and live out our lives in our own little hovel. Quite a stir was caused when Gandalf first arrived. Small folks are generally distrustful of you big folk." Bilbo paused for a breath as he struggled over some rocks, clinging tightly to Estel's helping hand as they walked among the rangers towards the far off place of Rivendell. "Thank you."

Estel smiled and nodded, his eyes drifting from the curly head of the hobbit to the rich greens broken only by white rocks surrounding them and the brilliant sky above them, stretching from horizon to horizon.

"Never been out of the Shire until now," Bilbo continued, tiny hands flapping in the spring air. "And now, here I am, traveling with big folks and a wizard to heaven knows where. Quite the stir, I assure you. Say," his little round eyes grew even rounder. "Do you think I could meet the elves in this place? I have always wanted to meet one of those. Have you ever met one?"

"I was raised by one." Estel glanced down at the eager face and was mildly amused at the way the sun made funny shadows on the white forehead, glistening through the floppy, brown curls. He wondered if all the halflings were quite as curious and talkative as this one was. "But I can not speak for the rest of their kind."

"Why ever not?"

"Legolas – the elf I was raised by – did not talk much of his life with them and the dealings that I have had with other elves have not always been pleasant." A familiar anxiety rose up in his heart as he thought of Legolas in Rivendell without him. He made himself focus on the rich, crisp air burning through his lungs and the bright sun causing his eyes to water.

Bilbo's face was turned innocently upward, light brown curls tumbling about his round face. "And why did an elf raise you?"

"My mother died when I was very young." Estel's brow furrowed slightly, eyes clouding at the lack of memories of the one who bore him. "I really do not know – Legolas does not speak of those times and when I asked, he grew sad. Eventually," he shrugged a little, "I stopped asking. It does not matter much. Legolas has given me love and a good life. I cannot wish for more."

Bilbo nodded. "My own gaffer died when I was a wee lad. Dreadful boating accident – only have the tiniest bits of memory about him now – mostly of him telling stories." He sighed with only a hint of melancholy. "There's nothing like a hobbit who can spin a good tale."

Estel's charcoal lashes covered his gray eyes briefly at his own memory. "Legolas was like that – he had lived for ages. I suppose I do not really know how long he walked this earth before I was born – but his stories…" Estel smiled to himself. "He spoke of Gondor, before the line of Kings faded from Middle-earth; of the elves, before the ring bearers were forced to keep their rings in secrecy."

"Us, Shire-folk, speak often of when days were peaceful. Some of the old folk still swear by the return of the king." Bilbo chuckled as his short legs carried him up the ridge of yet another grassy hill.

The words played against a chord deep within Estel's being, resonating through his lungs and heart; and the world darkened before him. "The king will not come. The line is weak – useless. His descendants are like him; it is good that they died out many years ago."

But Bilbo did notice the bitterness twisting the words. He nodded merrily. "Oh, perhaps not. But, it is a catchy phrase. Almost like a song. Shire-folk are very fond of the occasional song – limerick – ballad. It matters not to us as long is there a merry beat to which we can stomp our feet." With a glad cry, he began to sing of bright campfires and blue rivers – all the things lovely in the world.

The breeze touched Estel's face, the hot skin of his neck. He blinked and the world began to brighten before his eyes as Bilbo's song rose around him. It was not the delicate beauty of Legolas' songs – immortal love and endless courage; but it was the rich hardiness and the crude, unfinished matter that lined nature – a raw loveliness that permeated the very air that Estel breathed.

Dirt covered rangers grinned and joked among themselves, feeling the brightness of the day rather than the shadow of tomorrow. They jabbed each other's sides and pointed to the sky. Have you never seen such a clear sky? Remarkable.

Estel smiled and wished they could travel faster – wished Rivendell was not another four day march ahead – so he could share with Legolas the joy of being alive.

To be continued.