A/N: Yes, yes, I know, late again. This whovian obsession is turning into a possession, I'm really sorry. Plus, this chapter I've written and thought through about 10 times, I had no idea how to write it while keeping it to fit in with the story. From now on, my chapters will be a little shorter, about 2 and a half thousand words. It's just so that my capacity of interest can stretch far enough to write a chapter a week. Read on...

Disclaimed

Starcrossed
The Coil is Sprung

Of all the horrendous noises in the world, none could compare to the agony of a scream; it was a scream that caused Théoden King to freeze mid-step. He slowly met Gamling's alarmed gaze, before both men spun abruptly on their heels and bolted back the way they'd came. Others had also turned in horror towards the direction of the noise, stopping to all gape together towards it. The king and his second in charge were forced to push through frozen gapers to reach the source, and what they eventually saw shocked them to the bone.

On the stone floor, writhing, twisting and screaming in utter agony, was the only elf in Rohan: Legolas Thranduillion. His fair face was contorted into a grimace, his limbs flying uncontrollably, jerking and shuddering as his mouth twisted into an agonized cry.

Théoden's eyes immediately scaled the elf's body for an injury, anything previously hidden, but found none. Legolas was in pain, and yet nothing showed to cause it…

He glanced around, seeing with distain that everyone seemed only to be staring, their fish gapes fixated on the thrashing archer. The only ones who seemed to be able to do anything were his niece and the dwarf. Éowyn was attempting in vain to hold down Legolas' bucking shoulders, whilst Gimli Gloin's son had thrown his entire weight over the kicking legs, attempting to still them and earning a fair few knocks in the process.

Théoden snapped out of his reverie, rushing forward with Gamling to the struggling duo and crouching to aid his niece with the elf's upper body. Legolas continued to writhe, his face plastered with a grimace and his wrenching cries of agony unending. Théoden was almost thrown off as he bucked with such force that the spectators gasped in fright. Gimli surrendered Legolas' legs to Gamling, who resorted to lying over them, and moved swiftly to Legolas' head, seizing his delirious face in calloused hands.

"What is it, lad???" He cried at the top of his lungs, his voice a bellow over the elf's yells, "Speak to me! I'm here!"

For a singly, short, sweet moment the elf stilled, his screams lapsing into gasps and pants, his cobalt fixated on Gimli's.

Théoden had never seen such fear in any eyes.

All that filled them were turmoil and desperation; it almost broke Théoden's resolve.

But then the moment was over, and Legolas screamed out again, his back arching cruelly from the ground.

"Gimli!" Came Éowyn's panicked yell, her wide eyes set on something.

They followed her gaze down to the elf's green jerkin, and finally found the source of his pain. There, on the green material, was dotted the red splatters of blood, originating from Legolas' side and increasing with every passing second. Gimli appeared torn, his muddy brown eyes staring sightlessly at the blood before, to everyone's surprise, he'd drawn his arm back and brought his fist smartly around the elf's temple. For a second Legolas seemed dazed, his eyes unfocused, before they rolled back into his head and he sagged down limply onto the floor.

There was silence.

They each stared down at Legolas' motionless form, shocked and immobile. None of them, not even seasoned warriors such as Théoden and Gimli, had ever experienced such a thing. And Théoden had once seen a man have his legs cut clean off.

"A stretcher." Théoden was the first to speak, his voice quiet and shaking, "Somebody fetch a stretcher… now!"

Their king's orders brought the gapers back into reality, and so they flustered, many returning to their posts while two others scoured for a stretcher. Slowly, the four stood whilst never taking their eyes from the unconscious elf.

"Has this happened before, Master Dwarf?" Gamling enquired quietly.

"Never, in the time I've known him, has he ever completely lost control such as this." Gimli replied, his murmur soft as he gazed sadly down at his close friend.

"And the wound?"

"The wound is an old one." Gimli's words shocked Théoden, and he whipped his head to face the dwarf, "I thought it had long since healed."

Théoden frowned, looking back down at the elf.

Legolas was certainly pale, that much was blatant, but he had thought that all elves were as such, and that it would be rude of him to enquire. It was now that he realised Legolas was not just pale, but ashen. His face was gaunt, with dark circles ringing his eyes and hollowed cheeks. He seemed so much frailer than he'd done merely minutes before. Théoden had seen Legolas fight with the skill and agility of ten men; it shocked him to think that all the while the archer had been in such ill health.

For the first time since their arrival, the king began to study the dwarf carefully. Gimli stood motionless, his grieving gaze never deterring from the elf and hands loosely curled around his axe. If not for the fiery beard and thick helm, both of which covered the most part of his face, Théoden would have thought the dwarf was close to losing control. Whether out of grief for his friend's condition or anger for those who caused him pain, Théoden was not sure. However, one thing was for certain; Gimli was almost as shocked as they were.

"My lord…"

Théoden turned, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinised the proffered stretcher; something little more than a colourless threadbare cloth tied firmly and securely between two, thick wooden poles. He sighed heavily; it would have to do.

Gimli watched passively as Gamling and a, somewhat nervous, soldier lifted the elf's lax body carefully onto it. Legolas stirred, his skin pallid, fists clenched and eyes scrunched firmly tight as he continued to battle with pain even in unconsciousness.

Théoden forced his eyes away as Gamling and the soldier bent and took hold of the wooden poles, bearing Legolas with uncanny ease. How light was an elf? He passed a hand over his weary eyes before turning and leading them passed the small crowd of people. Gimli, trudging at the stretcher's side with Legolas' bow, tightened his grip on his axe, glaring each person down and making sure no one looked for too long at the elf.

"What're you lookin' at?" He growled gruffly, "Haven't you got some work to be doing?"

Thankfully the hallways were near empty, and no questions were asked as they scaled each winding corridor towards their location. Théoden threw open the doors, striding forward into a dim room containing three beds and little else; the room he'd intended for the three hunters to have, though now it would house two rather than three. Éowyn lit the torches, lighting the room as the men set Legolas carefully down onto the bed.

Gimli's face was unreadable as Gamling and the soldier promptly left closing the doors behind him. Théoden lingered for an awkward moment before finally speaking.

"I shall send for a healer." He murmured quietly, meeting Gimli's gaze.

The dwarf nodded his thanks before sitting down beside the bed, calmly watching over his friend. The king took one last look at the elf before turning and sweeping silently from the room.

-

-

Gimli watched painstakingly as both Éowyn and the healer worked over Legolas. They'd removed the unconscious elf's jerkin and tunic, revealing his chest and the snaking gash on his side, split to bleed afresh. Gimli was quick to realise that it was indeed the very same wound from Moria, resurfacing grim memories anew. As a dwarf, he was well trained and experienced in keeping his emotions in check, but the sight of his leonine elven friend rendered immobile was enough to release a barrage of worry.

He could never forget the eyes; pale eyes that held far too much emotion for any soul, mortal and immortal alike. He'd never thought of immortality much, and even when he had it had only be envy the elves' eternal gift.

Only now did he realise how wrong he'd been. The immortals were fair and grateful, yes, but riddled with a hidden hurt. He'd always mistaken the reclusive nature and secrecy of the elves as snobbery, but now he knew it was not that. Not that at all.

They were merely distancing themselves from the short-lived, protecting themselves and others from grief. If a man was to befriend an elf, laugh with him, hunt with him, and even cry with him, was the end not inevitable? The man would whither and fade like the petals of a rose, while the elf would remain fair, strong and eternally youthful.

Was that not a burden on the elf? The closer the link, the stronger it was, the harder it broke.

The healer and Éowyn left, leaving him with his and the fitful elf, burrowed deep beneath blankets and covers. Gimli almost told them it was no use, that elves could not feel the cold, but upon noticing Legolas shiver, kept his mouth shut. He sighed heavily and slumped with his head in his hands. This was bad, very bad.

It had always been said that the eyes never lie, and what he'd seen in the elf's eyes was like looking into the chasm of truth itself.

Oh, he knew how very wrong he was. Immortality was a curse.

-

-

"How is he?" Théoden son of Thengel stood at the foot of the bed, looking enquiringly at his niece as she busied herself.

"The wound has been stitched, but…" Éowyn sighed, folding a thin blanket as she looked up at him, "we have no clue as to his ailment. As Gimli said, the wound is an old one."

Théoden nodded thoughtfully, studying the figure on the bed before him. Legolas had yet to wake, even with the noises and speech going on about him. As the night passed he had become increasingly feverish, his skin shining brightly with sweat and breath emitted in short ragged gasps. Éowyn took the cloth from his forehead, soaking it again in water before replacing it.

The elf took no acknowledgement of her administrations or presence; his eyes squeezed tightly shut and face screwed up in pain. He turned his face sideways into the pillow, gasping garbles of elvish.

Théoden frowned, wishing he knew what the words meant. Though what actually scared him most was not the translation, but the way in which the language was spoken; such desperation and grief. The elf was pleading.

"It would do good to know what he says," Éowyn's voice broke his thoughts, as if reading his mind, "but none know the language of the elves. Except…"

She trailed off sadly, gazing down at the floor. Théoden sighed, striding towards her and folding her in his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head as he rubbed her back.

"These evil days shall pass, Éowyn." He murmured softly, holding her tight, "You shall not always know darkness and death."

She sighed against his shoulder, before pulling from the hug and smiling softly up at him. He smiled back, sharing the sweet moment with his sister daughter before it was broken by another gasp from the elf.

"Estel!"

Théoden knew no elvish, but the tone and urgency in which it was said was obvious. It wasn't merely a word, but a name; surely so?

"Was that a name of sort?" He asked softly, frowning as Éowyn merely seemed mystified.

"I know not." She replied, looking thoughtful as she gazed at Legolas, "though… I have heard him use it when speaking to Lord… Aragorn."

There was silent as the truth dawned on them both, and both gazed at the fitful elf with renewed sadness. Éowyn moved closer to Legolas' side, feeling his flushed cheek with a hand. She trailed her fingers softly along the small bruise, just beginning to blossom on his temple: a reminder of the measures they'd needed to go to the day before.

"Where is Lord Gimli?" Théoden asked after a moment.

"I managed to persuade him to eat in the hall." She replied quietly, reaching over the elf to untangle his long fingers from the bed sheets.

"Then I presume that he has been here for-" Théoden broke off abruptly, blinking vigorously. Had he seen correctly? Were his eyes fooling him?

As Éowyn had leaned over the elf, she had cast a shadow across his face and… the king was sure that, just for a moment, the elf's face had relaxed, albeit a little.

"Uncle?" Éowyn was looking up at him in confusion, her fair features pulled into a frown of puzzlement.

Théoden didn't answer as he strode to the elf side, hesitantly reaching out towards him. Slowly, he placed his hand over Legolas' eyes and covered them completely; the reaction was immediate, and his suspicions were confirmed. The archer's face relaxed almost completely, his grimace smoothing out and eyes relaxing somewhat. The king frowned, pulling his hand back again. Instantly, the elf's face contorted back, his eyes squeezed tightly shut once again, as if fending themselves from something…

Théoden straightened, turning back to his niece as she watched curiously.

"Éowyn, dim the lights."

I will try. Seriously, I will!