We ride at speed when we leave the city. Legolas throws all his anger into our journey and it is a struggle to keep up with him. But it does not last. Elessar is right, he is a gifted healer. Legolas' reserves soon fail him and tiredness gains control.
I do not say anything. I simply watch. He will not welcome my interference, in fact he will punish me for it with the sharpness of his tongue. He has not yet burnt off his rage with Elessar and it could so easily spill itself over me. I see the slouch in his posture, the shoulders slumping, the weariness edging its way across him but I do nothing.
When he begins to sway in his seat I contemplate intervening but even then I decide against it. The worst that can happen is he falls and injures himself but the road is a busy one and help would be readily available. If he is so stubborn as to let that happen I think I will let him.
Our pace slows steadily and darkness creeps upon us but still I watch and still I wait. We are almost at a crawl when finally he gives in and call a halt.
"Here is a good place to camp I think," he calls to me.
He is right, it is a fine place where the forest reaches to the edge of the road and we can easily hide ourselves amongst the trees. He has been looking for this for the last hour at least.
I say nothing. I simply bring my horse to halt and dismount, keeping my eyes upon him as I do. So I see the sag in his knees as his feet hit the ground, and the extra few seconds he takes to lean against the horse and gather his strength before he turns to look at me. I don't mention it but I see it, and he knows I do.
I wait for him to ignore it, to pretend all is well and stride away but he does not. He must be exhausted. Instead he holds my eyes and shrugs,
"I am tired."
"I know you are." Did he really think I did not? It is a game we begin to play then, neither of us speaking of how unwell he is and yet both of us knowing it—and knowing the other knows it.
"See to the horses, Legolas," I say, "I will do the rest." The horses are easy work, that he can take his time with and when he acquiesces without a fight I know he truly must be feeling dreadful. There is not even the slightest hint of rebellion to try and prove he is well.
He does not appear until I have our camp well organised and the fire burning, and then he sits under the trees. It is not long before his eyes are glazed with sleep. This fatigue that clings to him bothers me. I remember Elessar's words about strange poison, I do not doubt him for I saw evidence of poison myself when I first treated his wound. But I feel there is more to this than that.
I worry it is grief that drags him down. Centuries of undealt with grief stretching back possibly even to Laerion. It frightens me. It feels as if he is sinking and I am the only one who can save him.
Eventually the smell of Arwen's food cooking on the fire rouses him and he lifts his head.
"Where did you get that?" He raises an eyebrow at me in surprise.
"Arwen."
He leans forward and puts his head in his hands.
"I must apologise to her. I was rude and discourteous." I am relieved he recognises that at least.
"You were." I pass him the meat and bread I have prepared him.
"You are not meant to make me feel worse!" He is quite indignant. Did he expect me to tell him everything was alright?
"I am meant to be honest with you. If I do not tell you your shortcomings then who else will?" I smile to show I am not angry...at least I do not think I am.
"I seem to have no shortage of people telling me my shortcomings lately."
"You have no shortage of people who care for you, you mean." I am not about to let him feel sorry for himself tonight.
"Arwen—she has too much of Galadriel about her—sometimes she forgets herself and I find her inside my mind. We have spoken of it before. I presume she gives Aragorn at least a semblance of privacy but—when it is something between he and I—It can feel as if she is listening in." I understand his justification and I can see it happening but it doesnt excuse his words.
"You spoke too harshly." I say sternly and he nods.
"My anger got the better of me." He sighs and puts aside his half eaten meal.
"Eat it Legolas." I say with a frown, for he needs to eat to regain the strength he has lost.
"I am not hungry." I do not doubt it but I do not wish to spend tomorrow dragging him across Gondor either.
"Eat it anyway." I throw him a mischievous look. I will use humour to get his compliance since disapproval is unlikely to.
"I will think you do not like my cooking. Perhaps you wish Erynion was here?" Erynion is a master cook. We never go hungry when he is in charge of the food.
It works and he smiles, I am so pleased to see that smile.
"I have the only person I want here," he says, but he picks up the meat and eats it regardless.
"I like her." I say then and I laugh at his surprised response.
"Who?"
"Arwen. I did not expect to like her, but I do. She is more silvan than I thought she would be."
"She is not silvan at all but she has spent many years in Lothlorien. She understands us. I knew you would like her if you gave her a chance."
His words to Faramir float through my mind unbidden, 'I have never said anything I did not mean' I have to ask, even though I am afraid of the answer.
"You meant it when you said you were sick of me?"
He looks up at me sharply,
"I have never said that!"
"In Ithilien you did, and you told Faramir though you may regret things you always mean them. Is it true?"
"I said I was sick of your reluctance to know my friends, your refusal to be a part of that side of my life. I did not mean I was sick of you." He sighs heavily then.
"Is it not one and the same Legolas?" That is how it seems to me.
"No," He is becoming agitated now and I wonder if I should stop this conversation.
"I want you to know them. It is your attitude that tires me, not you. I will never be sick of you. It is as if you do not wish to be part of my life. You reject me. You want me to be who you remember me as, not who I really am!"
He drops his head and rubs at his face in frustration before he continues,
"Sometimes I wonder if you only love a memory. You do not love the real Legolas any more."
I am stunned into silence. Is he right? I had no idea I made him feel that way. There is a long pause before I speak as I catch my breath.
"I do love you Legolas. I love you as you are." But my hesitation—the drawn out silence— makes my words sound somewhat less sincere. I want to make things better for him, to fix the wrong I have done him, to prove I have changed...am determined to change.
"We can go back...tomorrow we can go back to Minas Tirith."
"No." He rejects that idea flatly.
"Let me write to Elessar. This is my fault, if I had not refused to meet them, if I had not pressurised you to say nothing, this would not be happening. Let me fix this."
"You cannot fix it. It is about more than that. I should be able to keep things private without him questioning my love for him."
"He does not question that Legolas."
"He does." Legolas is so stubbornly determined to be hurt over this. It is obvious us speaking about it will only make matters worse. I try a different tack.
"Will you let me write to your Father?"
He hesitates and for a second I think he will say yes, I think he will actually accept the help he needs but that would be too easy.
"No, I do not need my father. I can do this on my own."
He is his own worst enemy and it is so frustrating.
He pulls his legs up to his chest then and wraps his arms around them. Huddled there he looks so miserable, so unhappy and I yearn to lift the cloud of depression off him. I want to make that light I love so much return to his eyes.
And so I stand and walk around the fire to sit beside him. We are shoulder to shoulder and I pull him down against me so his head rests upon my chest, I wrap my arms around him and I am gratified to feel him relax within them. All is silent for a while so when he speaks I am surprised.
"I am sorry."
I wonder what he apologises for. Dragging me out here into the cold and dark? Placing me in the midst of the turmoil with his friend? His unhappiness itself?
Eventually he tells me.
"You are my love first and in all things, not my subject. I was wrong to suggest otherwise. I should not have ordered you to follow. I was just so angry...I do not understand my own thoughts any more. I do not know why I did that."
So he apologises for his condesention, his placing himself above me. I knew his anger was the cause of that but it is not easy being in the firing line.
"I did not need an order to follow you. I would have anyway." I say quietly.
"Because you love me...or because it was your duty?"
I wonder why he asks that now...this has not been a problem between us for centuries.
It was in the beginning.
At the start of us Legolas could not accept I loved him for himself, not simply because he was my Prince. For we all love him, every one of us. He was our shining jewel. A gift to our people with his joy and light, even before we lost Laerion. Every elf in the Greenwood loved him, they still love him.
And so when I spoke of my love, when I did things for him, he would turn it aside, belittle it and himself, assume I did so only because he was the Prince, because I had to. So long it took me to convince him it was Legolas the wild silvan I loved, that it was a true deep love, not the worship of a god from afar. Why has this insecurity raised its ugly head again?
I think carefully on my answer because I think this is important.
"Both, I think, Legolas."
"How can it be both?"
"Because the lines between my Love and my Prince are sometimes blurred. You know this. I do have a duty to you...but I also love you and that is why I am here. Even were you not my Prince I would be here."
He leans further into my embrace then.
"Tell me a story of home," he says. "Of the Greenwood. I am homesick."
We used to do this on patrol in the South, when the darkness seeped into our souls, we would tell stories of home, of good times, to remind ourselves what we were fighting for. It saddens me to think he has so much sorrow that in this place of relative peace and safety he needs this to lift him.
And so I tell him a story. I speak of a time with our people, a celebration when we laughed and danced under the stars. I speak of myself, young, excited, giddy with wine, watching from the sidelines. Of how a warrior approached me. He was lithe, graceful, oh so beautiful, all of our eyes were upon him and he lit the very clearing with the loveliness of his spirit, his golden hair, his glow. And he asked me to dance. Me...Maewen! He took my hand and led me out into the crowds and we danced as if we were made for each other, no-one could take their eyes off us. And at the end of the night when he kissed me, there amongst the trees, under the stars, I thought my heart would explode. That it would burst right out of me.
"I was so nervous."
He makes me jump for I had thought he had fallen asleep during my tale.
"Nervous?"
"When I approached you that night. I was terrified!" He laughs then. "Erynion made me do it. I was sure you would refuse me but he was sick of listening to me pining for you. Bemoaning the fact you never looked at me. 'Go make her look at you then!' he said."
"I always looked at you!" I cry, "I spent my life daydreaming about you, it got me in so much trouble for inattention. I just made sure you never saw me looking!"
"I wish I had known that. It would have saved me a lot of misery." I hear the laughter in his voice and it makes me glad. Perhaps I have lifted the shadow just a little bit.
"I never knew.." I say, "I never knew you felt that way."
"You have no idea, Maewen. No idea how much I love you, have always loved you."
His words are thick with the beginnings of sleep and when he falls silent after that I think he begins to wander on the dream paths. I hope his dreams are pleasant ones of laughter and light and love.
It should make me happy to hear his declaration of love, normally it would, normally it would make my soul sing. But not tonight, tonight I am filled with a dread, an apprehension, a creeping uncertainty and I do not know why.
He loves me. He loves me with all his heart. I do not know what is wrong.