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 Twenty-Five: I See Fire and I See Rain

I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again

– James Taylor

In the coolness of the wee morning hours, Estel awoke in his bed. Silvery gray light bleached the color of his skin and emphasized the sweat on his upper lip – the tiny trembles running down his arms. The coverlet fell about his waist as he sat up, peering out the window as if he could see the source of his discomfort. The sun was beginning to rise, he noted dully, as his emotions roiled within him. Mountains were turning pink – the sky was lightening – mist was rolling through the valley. But…

Something had awoken him – something had turned his insides to water and had thrown his mind into chaos. He shivered, pressing his palms together. "Arwen?" he said into the dim, not turning his face.

She turned in the bed, reaching up, grasping his upper arm; he marveled at the ability of the elves to awake of their dreams within a moment. "Why are you distressed?" she murmured. "Has something…"

The niggling sensation turned into swamping emptiness and pain. He reeled, hands pin-wheeling as he tried to grasp the tendrils of a dream that was now gone. He gasped thickly, head drooping to his chest as the color was leeched from his body.

When Arwen spoke again – a whispered inquiry of his name as she sat up in the bed – he turned, his gray eyes reflecting the color of a stormy day in his dense panic. "I cannot feel him. I cannot…"

He stared at her as the incomprehension faded from her face to be replaced by serene worry – and he hated the look of resigned compassion coloring her deep blue eyes. "Legolas," she murmured.

The sound of Legolas's name turned his emotions inside out. The primal need to do something overcame the fear and clenched his fists tightly about the sheets. "He is on the scouting party," he said. "He will not return for three days." Estel reached inside, stretching to that place Legolas normally resided – and returning empty and cold and very alone. He mentally screamed across the bond, begging Legolas to hear him and answer, but there was no response forthcoming.

He looked to Arwen and felt unreasonable bitterness that she could be so calm when Legolas was dea… gone. Estel could feel himself trembling, could hear the deep, fast beating of his heart in his ears, could taste the bile rising in the back of his throat. He felt energized and desolate all at once. He wondered if it would be more acceptable to sob or to flee – to rage or to weep.

Finally, he threw back the coverlet and leapt from the bed, hands fluttering frantically at his waist as he paced across the room and began to dress. Legolas was fine. The mantra echoed in his mind and did nothing to convince him. Something had happened to fill the bond with mist and shadow – Legolas was not dead. He would ride out and take the path the scouting party had – he would find Legolas – and he would apologize for all his silence these last days – Legolas would be fine.

The knock at the door caused him to breathe deeply as his heart raced ahead, jumping to conclusions before his mind ceased its gibbering. He looked at Arwen, wanting answers – had she seen something in her dreams last night? Anything that might prepare him for what lay on the other side of that door?

At last, he moved, muscles creaking as if he were an old man. He placed his hand on the door, observing the minute scars and weathered spots on his fingers, and pulled it open. When the door was half open, he belatedly realized he had no shirt on and wondered if he could close the door and put one on.

That would be, he thought, an acceptable delaying tactic.

But then the door was open and Glorfindel was standing there with wide, sorrowful eyes, mouth grim. There was no retreat from the inevitable.

"Good morning," Estel said, clinging to normalcy with both hands. "It is early for you to be…" Normalcy faded as his eyes dropped to see Legolas's white knives held in the warrior's strong hands. He made a valiant effort. "Legolas forgot his knives? That is – unusual." Tears colored his eyes a darker gray and he reached out with a shaking hand. "I will look out for them until he returns. He is very particular, you know, about the handling of his knives. He is fastidious in many ways and his knives are no…"

"Estel," Glorfindel said and Estel's valiant effort faded into nothingness. Estel looked at him and saw the regret – and how much his effort to deny and prolong the inevitable was hurting the other elf.

He sighed, wiping his hands over his face, and tried to accept. "He is gone then," Estel said and felt like a little boy – but the hem of Legolas's tunic was not there for him to cling to. The little boy began to tremble, seeking with both hands the familiar presence, crying out when it could not be found. "I awoke this morning and the bond was… wrong." The truth was painful to the back of his mouth and he rallied himself, blinking fiercely to dry the strange water clinging like a thick film to the tops of his eyes. "He is injured then, yes? Legolas told me that deep unconsciousness can cause a strange feeling in the bond."

Dimly, Estel noted that Glorfindel was trying to speak to him, eyes pleading with him tonot make this harder than it has to be but he was not feeling merciful. "Which healing wing is he in?" he asked, taking the knives against his chest and beginning to step around Glorfindel. "He taught me much of the healing arts so I can help…"

"Estel, Legolas was taken."

He stopped, leaning against the door frame, feeling the cool morning air on his chest. The word choice… those words were not… expected. Those words left room for hope – left room for something besides death. He felt angry at Glorfindel for fanning the hope within. "Taken," he murmured, suddenly eager to strip bare this charade of happy endings. "To the Halls of Mandos?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "Perhaps – but more immediately, he was captured by some foe during the night. Elladan has returned alone – I found him by the gates. He lapsed into unconsciousness and did not say more than that Legolas was taken by the enemy soon after dark fell."

He heard the words – and his heart leapt within, hope roaring through his veins, sparking in his ears. He heard the noise of many waters – until he retreated back into the darkness of his own soul. Sanity wavered on the brink and if Estel hoped once more – and then lost once more, his mind would fall. He could not, he would not give into hope. Legolas was… taken.

Vaguely, Estel watched as Arwen came near, taking his hand in hers. "You must be strong, Estel," she said, sounding very wise. Then she turned from him. "Elladan – my brother? He is well, then?"

"He is exhausted and heartsick – but he is well." Glorfindel's face was tragic in its depth – emotions threadbare after thousands of years of use. But Estel was grateful that the elf's chin was steady as he stepped aside to allow Estel and Arwen to pass by. It did something to calm his humanly frazzled nerves. "Lord Elrond is with him now and I was sent to retrieve both of you – and bring you the news."

Estel's mind thrummed loudly – he imagined he could hear the faint buzzing, the turning of wheels, the clopping of gears. There was something soft against his palm Arwen's hand but he did not notice.

Where have I gone? he wondered. I was here – and now I am not. He had been so strong before – so strong. He had denied the truth with an upheld chin and a faithful heart. Now he felt inanimate – broken – lost – crushed – any other word his mind could conjure. Legolas always said that he had a good wonderful imagination.

He was walking – walls were passing – but he was not conscious. I have gone, he decided dreamily, to where I was when I rested on the Gladden Fields. Legolas was there, a river running past. I caught a fish and Legolas cooked it. He told me that if I was to catch and kill an animal, I was to always make sure to use every part of it for the nourishment of myself, others and the earth.

When they have killed you, Legolas, will they eat you? Will they use you to nourish their bodies – and then revitalize the earth? He shuddered, imagining Legolas's long limbs being torn, roasted over a fire, and consumed by orcs – the ashes scattering in the breeze and growing with the flowers.

When he came back to himself, a blanket was draped over his bare shoulders and he sat in the healing wings, staring out the window.

Elrond was there, white hands fluttering at the level of Estel's eyes as the elf discussed quietly with Glorfindel. Arwen was there, sitting beside Estel and gently rubbing his shoulder even while her gaze drifted continually to the white figure of Elladan, lying very still and wax like on the bed.

"My brother," she said, with some difficulty, "loved Legolas."

"The trick," Estel said wryly but there was no hint of unkindness in his tone, "was not loving him. His personality was very… effusive. One could not help but befriend him." He smiled tightly, lips drawn close his teeth, and then grew pensive. "There was no reason to dislike him – so love was a natural, albeit unexpected, conclusion to any friendship with him."

"No," she said gently. "Elladan loved Legolas – since they were both small. If Legolas would have permitted, I believe they would have been mated."

Estel stared, silent and agape, for several moments and then something twisted within him. "Legolas had no interest in romantic entanglements," Estel said hotly. Legolas loved Estel – and only Estel. Every iota of feeling within him balked at the though of Legolas giving any of that love (even in the romantic sense) to someone else. He seethed even while part of his mind called his jealousy unreasonable. "Legolas was…" mine.

Arwen blinked owlishly. "Peace, Estel." She seemed hurt.

He turned his face away, cradling his skull in both hands. Vaguely, the knowledge of his paradigm shift in character came to him – and then faded. "I am sorry. I am just so… lost – without him." He cleared his throat and bowed his head. If Legolas would love Elladan – and Elladan would make Legolas happy, Estel knew he would be happy as well. Legolas deserved to be loved deeply and completely – why did his heart rebel at the insinuation of Legolas's love being turned toward another? "I have never truly been separated from him. I am what he has made me."

"Every child is separated from their father through the course of time."

Estel jerked, body tensing as if drawn tight on a bow. "He is not my father." And I am not worthy to be his child. He turned his face away, drawing his hands tightly against his stomach.

Arwen spoke again, voice tender, but it flowed over his head. He was a rock at the bottom of a stream and the world flowed over his head, blurry and indiscernible fragments of color. Her small cool hand felt uncanny on his shoulder and he shrugged it away, toppling to lean against the wall.

"I am tired," he said and closed his eyes, though he could not hear his own voice. "I am tired." Tight muscles loosened and he was in his bed at Archet – Legolas was drawing the covers against his chin. There was no worry or pain…

His mind settled against the bond, mental fingers curled around the warmth and head resting on the softness of Legolas's memory. He was again the rock in the stream – the world may have been blurry, but he was immovable and untouched.

He was… alone.

Legolas, in an effort to be pragmatic and emotionally aloof from his predicament, imagined he would be killed within moments after leaving Elladan in the silent, dark woods and did not allow himself to consider any alternative to his execution or think a moment beyond that seemingly inevitable event.

He imagined Saruman would stand above him while he would be made to kneel on the ground. A sword would be brought over his head, barely glinting in the upper corner of his vision. He would hear the slight whistling as the sword fell – and then nothing, just the ache of unfulfilled destiny as his head was taken clean from his body. In preparation for the event – the moment where his mind would vanish from this realm – he had subtly closed the bond with Estel. He could sense the link lingering in the nether regions of his mind – but there was no warmth, no love, none of the things that he had come associate so strongly with Estel's young mind.

It would be, he had imagined, a great relief to be able to lean on Estel's presence through the last moments of his earthly journey. But the damage of feeling his death in such an abrupt, unplanned for matter was not something Legolas would lay upon Estel's already troubled mind. When death came, he planned, the bond would be tightly shut and Estel would feel only a faint echo of Legolas's death – he would not be destroyed or traumatized – he would well.

But when the trees vanished into the early morning mist behind and the mountain range loomed blackly ahead, Legolas realized the pragmatism he had forced himself into was nothing more than a farce. A chill blanketed the sputtering flame in his chest. He would not die in the woods and that, perhaps, frightened him even more. Death was never to be longed for; but if that conclusion seemed undoubtedly impending no matter the circumstances preceding, was not the tenable position to wish for a pain-free death rather than the agonizing one?

"Our path is leading us to Isengard," Saruman said, lungs rumbling heavily against Legolas's upper back. "Bid farewell to your forests, son of the woods, your eyes will not dwell on the trees again."

Words did not come and Legolas searched for numbness in the frenetic activity of his mind. Damp air surrounded him and cooled his mouth, tiny bits of dew against his cheeks. He wondered if he would ever feel the early morning dew and see the sparrow flitting passed. He wondered – and then stopped and returned to just being pragmatic.

Silver gray tendrils of mist began to dissipate as the altitude increased and the cloud was left behind at the very base of the mountain, lingering like a great blanket over the earth. The sunlight burned, stripping the dew from Legolas's cheeks and clearing his eyes. Warmth loosened his joints and he found the strength to enjoy what he was sure were the last few moments of sun he would enjoy on the corporeal, earthly plane.

What a bright world.

He stared into the sun and did not close his eyes. "When our bargain was struck," he said at last, head tipped to see the misty valley below, "I did not imagine the sun would again touch my face." His tongue felt heavy even as his tone grew wry. "Your generosity truly surpasses all reports."

"Rumors of my penury were greatly exaggerated. Enjoy the warmth on your face, my king, for soon only the flicker of a few scarce candles will light your face." Saruman's tone conjured up the memories of the final siege against Greenwood – the tales of the elven prisoners of war taken to Dol Goldur by the Witchking and tortured to death with the help of Saruman. He remembered the elves on the most dangerous of missions taking tiny vials of poison in their pockets so they would not be made to withstand the tortures. He remembered the days when a quiet, peaceful, relatively painless death was all that anyone could ever hope for.

The carefully shuttered box of Legolas's deepest fears began to seep putrid fluid that poisoned his thoughts with absolute panic. Dank, small spaces with no light or warmth – all that is good and healthy being forever stolen from him. The sepulchral dread weighted his limbs – but he lifted his face to the sun and did not think of it.

Estel would be well – and the thought alone lifted the fear from his limbs and caused his heart to thrum with joy. Arwen, Glorfindel, Elladan – they would all care for his child. The darkness would never touch the young man's silver eyes. Evil would never sallow his cheeks. The Ring would be destroyed and Estel would fulfill the prophecy. The cadence of time would not cease for the lack of an elf.

Legolas had taught Estel – he had raised him. His actions would never be lost from the history of time, but perhaps it was now time for the torch to pass on – the banner to be handed over – the quest to given into another's hands.

And, with the sun was on his face and with the mist draped landscape of Middle-earth panning beneath, he could imagine that this was his destiny. Perhaps the end of his story came now. He had dreamed of the coronation – of the dark haired young man receiving the crown of Gondor. But he had never seen himself with Estel subsequently to those events. Perhaps, the Valar would allow him to be there in spirit once his corporeal body had faded.

Destiny existed beyond this earthly plane. Legolas would allow himself to exist only as a dandelion on the breeze – a fleck of seaweed in a storm – and whatever the fates had in store, he would bend himself to.

But, then, when his gaze drifted upward and he considered himself – when he looked passed the constraints of fates and destinies, he saw the bone deep ache of a father who would never see his child again. He would never see Estel grow a day older or smile or laugh – or anything ever again.

They do not know where the second-born travel after death.

Nothing is certain.

He was, Legolas reminded himself, doing this for Estel. Estel would live now – Estel would be strong now – Estel would be king now. And that was, in the end, the only thing that mattered.

The sun soaked into his skin and he stored the memory of the brightness near the memory of Estel's face. He did not allow himself to ponder the pain his physical body could withstand before death came. He did not draw in his mind a coffin made for one that was still alive. He lingered only in a place of serenity with Estel, the sun, and the fulfillment of the fates.

"Did you dream of Legolas?"

Elladan felt woozy, head lolling on the pillow. Estel's face loomed close and he could count the tiny, scruffy hairs on the very human chin. He dreamed of wetness across his face – of Legolas laughing as the skies showered him with life. The image faded and he forgot. "What…"

"Arwen tells me you love him." Elladan's vision was filled with bearded cheeks and white teeth. He could see the tongue forming the individual letters. "Do you dream of Legolas when you sleep?"

Legolas… His sleep had been dark, warm and comforting. He wanted to tell Estel that the Eldar do not dream arbitrarily – Lórien gifted them with dreams and they wander their mind in peace until then. But he felt so shaky – he could not think…

He and Legolas had been in the woods. Legolas had been so beautiful. They had talked of Estel. And, then.

Memories crushed his mind and he jolted on the bed, hands pressing firmly at his sides. The sheet was thick and confining – the mattress was sucking him down – he turned in the bed, reaching for Estel. "Legolas," he gasped. "He was taken." Glorfindel had to be there… Glorfindel had to go into the woods, perhaps Saruman had already discarded Legolas's body after the (his mind trembled) execution. A proper funeral was needed – Legolas would not be left in the woods as carrion. "Glorfindel?" he breathed, struggling to see over the young man's shoulder.

Firm hands burned his shoulders like hot wax as Estel lifted him halfway from the bed. "Where is Legolas?" he cried and Elladan was shocked at the choked, tortured sound Estel made right after the words. Was he crying? "Please, tell me."

The dark wood and the blinding light shadowed Elladan's eyes – he could hear the steady footsteps of Saruman and the deep, ugly voice calling out to Legolas. "Saruman," he said lowly. "Saruman. He took him. I was held in place by some foul magic." He remembered the dreaded helplessness as Legolas was taken from him. "Held in place," he said again.

The door banged and Elladan's trembles began anew. But Glorfindel was there, standing in the doorway with his ada close behind – and there was Arwen – he needed to tell them. "We must go to the woods," he murmured excitedly. His thoughts were jumbled and he felt incoherent – but there was a desperate need to speak, to explain. "They took him from me and I could not stop them. I must take care of him now – even though he will not know it is I who performs the deeds. I must wash his body and lay him on his pier…" The words tumbled away as Estel's silvery eyes appeared before him.

Protect, Legolas had said. Legolas had told him to protect Estel and to tell him…

"Tell him of my great love for him and the pride I feel whenever I see him." Legolas's hand seemed to burn on his wrist, branding him once more as the soothing, steady voice of the departed elf flitted through his waking mind. He touched the spot, remembering the comforting weight and heat of Legolas's fingers, and found the air growing thin around him.

His ada was there then as he began to gasp, gently taking his shoulders and lowering him to the bed. His forehead was cold and his brain was hot – he could not seem to breathe. The gentle hands soothed his forehead and Elladan felt the emptiness of his heart and mind. But, Estel…

The young man was being pulled from the bed by Arwen and Elladan reflected that they were beautiful together. Dark hair meshed together against brown and white skin – mortal and immortal. He was fighting Arwen's grip, eyes locked on Elladan's chest, and chin trembling in a desperate need to know.

Was this love?

"Estel," Elladan called and felt the palsy flood his arm as he reached for the child of Legolas. His arm wavered in the air, fingers dangling from his weak palm. "Estel." He needed to tell Estel. Legolas's blue eyes warmed his soul. He would care for Estel now. He had promised – all of his love…

Estel's rough, calloused hand squeezed his own, stilling the trembling, as Elrond moved aside. "Elladan," he murmured and his voice seemed so gentle now. He came close to the bed, resting Elladan's arm on the mattress, stroking the whitened knuckles. "Elladan, please, tell me of Legolas. Our bond is tightly closed and I cannot..." Estel's words blurred together and he sagged closer to Elladan's face – the elf could see tears filming across the eyes – gray water sparkling as the sun touched it.

His head felt airy and Elladan's mouth was drying as he sucked desperately for enough air to quell the dizziness. "Estel," he whispered, stretching his neck so his mouth was near the boy's cheek. "Legolas loves you and whenever… whenever he sees you, he is so proud of… of you." His vision seemed to gray and he clutched at human's hands tighter. His heart throbbed – he must fulfill his duty – he must erase the lines of fear and doubt from Estel's face. "He will be with you when you dream."

"He is dead?" The lips of the human tightened and Elladan frowned. The pain seeped from Estel's heart into his own. No! He had to take that pain – not give it.

"Saruman took him into the woods. There was a bargain and Legolas accepted," he said but he was not sure that they understood him – the words sounded so garbled to his own ears. Thoughts were smearing together in his mind and he could not find the breath to repeat his words. He was just so exhausted. Estel looked so lost and Elladan felt as if he had failed.

He clumsily withdrew his hand from Estel's and patted his shoulder. "I will take care of you," and the words were slurred as his tongue slowly numbed inside of his mouth. "I promised." Was Legolas dead? He thought so. When Legolas was carried away on Saruman's horse, there had seemed to be no other viable outcome that Elladan could foresee. But, something inside of him protested against such a despondent outlook – something inside dared him to hope…

Ada was there again, tucking him against the pillows and touching his wrist where Legolas had placed his hand in the night. Elladan knew his pulse was throbbing. "Rest now," Elrond said and Elladan could barely hear the words. His ada's eyes shone with seriousness and concern though, and Elladan began to fear for himself. He could not understand this weakness coiling through his muscles and slowing the thumping of his heart – perhaps if he rested for just awhile…

Estel moved away and Elladan closed his eyes. Why did they all seem so serious? He gasped again and his heart seemed to throb faster. Elladan thought he heard rain – but it was just the blood rushing in his ears. Estel's first question came back to him, drifting through the mayhem of half-formed thoughts.

"I dream of rain," he slurred as the imaginary droplets beat upon his face – Legolas's upturned face was streaked with water as he laughed. "Legolas loved the rain." And then he fell asleep once more.

To be continued.

Author's Note: There's only going to be one more full chapter and then an epilogue and then one chapter of author's notes. I hope you all have enjoyed so far!