Chapter Eight

When Legolas woke again, he was almost fey. His mind instinctively pulled him away from the blackness that threatened to enfold him in it's desperate intensity. He blocked it out, turned to the joy, he was here, in Eomer's bed. The pillows carried that scent of leather and horses he always associated with the man. Eomer was nearby, that made him happy. He relaxed into the soft covers, trying to ignore the pain in his body. There was a twinkle in his eye as he addressed his nurse.

"Malwyn?" he asked, "where's Eomer King?" She wiped her hands on her skirts and looked at him, saw the smile, the light in the pale eyes.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Eomer King has gone to attend a few things that desperately needed his attention." She deliberately did not tell him that riders had arrived from Halma in Fangorn. Something in his mood caught her, and she smiled. "Shall I get you cleaned up, Lord Prince, in anticipation of his return?"

He tried to stretch, winced. "I would love a bath," he said, forming the words carefully around the stinging in his cheek. "If I'm to be allowed one. And to wash out my hair."

She controlled her face but he saw the slight flicker of dismay in her her dark eyes. "What is it?" he asked, reaching up to feel his head. Bandages covered it, and for the first time he wondered why.

"Oh, my lad," she said softly. "You've lost your hair."

Eomer had warned her, but she was not prepared for the reaction. Anger filled his face, twisting the stitches on his cheek, fury in his eyes. He pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring the slicing pain in his back.

"How?" he snarled, in a low and menacing voice. Malwyn crossed to the bed, sat beside him, ignoring the anger.

"It was gone when Eomer found you, my lad. You're scalp's got cuts, as if you'd been roughly shaved."

He lost her voice in the mists that filled his mind, that other, terrifying voice, laughing in it's cruelty...

"What will you give me for him, elf?" it demanded.

"Anything! My life, take it!" he pleaded, desperate for Gimli's release. The smoke swirled around him, black and foul.

That horrible laugh, the screams of the dwarf, pushed past all his limits by the pain. "I want more. Will you give your pride, your honour? Will you give your hair?"

"Take it!" he'd screamed as he'd bowed his head. In the end it had only bought Gimli a few more moments of torment...

Malwyn was beside him on the bed, her strong and capable arms around him. He realized he was shrieking into her shoulder as she held him. She stroked him gently, murmuring soothingly to him. Hroth had pulled himself onto the bed and forced his head under the elf's arm, trying to comfort him.

"Wherever you are, my lad, that's over. Come on back now. That's finished. Come back."

He grabbed her voice, followed it out of the nightmare forest, the screams. He sobbed softly, tried to wipe his face, the splints on his arm getting tangled in the sheets. His mind brought a wall up, cutting off the smoke, the pain, in blessed forgetfulness. She held him for a few moments more, and he calmed down, listening to the soft tones, the beat of her heart under the cotton dress.

"There, now, my lad," she told him softly, wiping his face with her kerchief, patting gently around the bruises. "Much as I'd love to let you soak in the tub, Offa doesn't want the splints off the leg for a while yet. He's worried about the knee. But I can give you the best bed bath this side of Gondor." She pushed the dog back off the bed, where he crawled underneath, unwilling to move even across the room.

Legolas found that her continual chatter was a blessing. It kept him from falling back into memory, hearing the screams, the scent of burning hair and flesh... He embraced the pain in his body. He pulled the sensations to him, using them to block out the worse pain in his mind and heart.

She gave him a good wash, cleaning and salving the half formed scabs he'd ripped open again. Then she gently removed the bandaging and bathed his head tenderly. Tears fell steadily as the elf felt the water on his scalp, mournfully remembering the white-gold cascade he'd treasured. Whatever had been done, it was thorough, there was not even a strand left. Just scab and stubble covered the head.

"Now, then," Malwyn said, finishing, and tossing the old bandages and towels into a willow basket, "I think we should let the air at this. It's going to help the healing."

He looked at her in revulsion. "But, then, 'Mer will see..." he broke off. Malwyn worried about the wounded look in the eyes.

"Eomer cares more about what's in your head." she said, crisply. "You don't think it's going to matter to him, do you?"

"It matters to me!" he hissed, anger flashing and replacing the shame in the blue eyes. "You don't understand."

"Then you can explain it to me," she said, calmly, pulling a robe out of the press. "While you sit up for a bit in the chair and drink one of Offa's brews."

"Not more sleep!" he protested. She helped him into a sitting position, and wrapped him in one of Eomer's robes. It was much to baggy for him, but she got him into it, and with a strength that surprised him, helped him move the short distance to the chair. She tucked the robe and another blanket around him, and brought him the cup. Hroth sat beside him, resting his head on Legolas' lap. He lay his injured arm absently on the big neck.

"Now, Lord Prince," she said, real interest in her eyes. "You tell me about the hair while I fix the bed."

He sipped at the cup, grateful that it wasn't as heavily drugged as the others had been.

"I've never cut my hair," he began, then his voice caught. He turned his head, certain he'd heard the dwarf scream. Hroth whimpered, and he scratched the dog's ear.

"Why not?" Malwyn asked, noticing the twitch, continuing her work, as if they were discussing the weather.

"It takes such a long time to grow," he went on, looking at her, holding on to the explanation. "Usually it's not long enough to do anything with until one becomes an adult."

She nodded at him, encouraging him to keep talking. "Children don't wear elaborate hairstyles, then?" she asked.

"No, they wear braids, but they're small, close to the head, all over. The longer the hair is, the more attractive it is, to other elves, to ourselves. So the braiding, the arranging, is done to accentuate how long the hair is." he unconsciously reached up to feel the end of his own braid, realized it wasn't there, let his hand fall back to Hroth's neck.

"Does it get in the way?" Malwyn asked, changing the sheets with an alarming rapidity.

"Sometimes. But it's worth it. It's not just vanity. It's a symbol of personal power, honour. It tells others that you're an adult, that you're responsible for yourself, that you're," his voice faltered, "desirable. Now, I'm ugly, I'm shamed, I'm reduced to the status of a child again."

Tucking in the remainder of the heavy blankets, Malwyn moved the basket of used linen and sat down on the side of the bed. She reached out to touch the elf's hand, silently urging him to finish his drink. He did, ignoring the tears that fell into it.

"Ours is a different culture. Hair is not important here. There is no shame. And as for being a child, well, my lad, if you start to act like one, you'll find yourself in the kitchens with me or in the creche with the others." He snorted, spilling a few drops on the soft robe. She smiled at him.

"As for desirability, well, all I can tell you there, is the most attractive man I ever knew had but one eye, missing teeth, and a limp."

He looked up at her, to see if she was jesting with him. The smile in her eyes was distant, as if she were remembering some happy moment.

"It was a long time ago, and I was young and impressionable, but I've had a fondness for rough looking men ever since." He laughed out loud at that. She took the now empty cup from him, stood and went to the hearth.

"I've got some stew here, so you're going to eat, and then back to bed with you, my lad. Eomer King will have a few choice words for me if he finds I've been wearying you with tales of my wicked youth."

"What was he like, you're one eyed man?" Legolas asked, gratefully interested in anything that blocked out the sounds in his head. She served him deftly, and set down a bowl on the floor for the dog. Hroth ate greedily as she sat in the other chair, nursing a cup of wine.

"Harad?" she asked. He looked a bit surprised, but his mouth was full. For some reason he'd expected another name. Why was that? He tried to remember, but something stopped him. He chewed the soft stew carefully, while she continued.

"He was the first warm breath of spring across the meadows, the thunder of hoof beats when the herds pass. He was the way the wine makes your head spin and the dance takes your feet."

Legolas swallowed. "You're a poet!" he accused her.

"We're a poetic people." she shrugged. "He was a good man, a loving man. He set me afire. I miss him, sometimes."

"What happened?" the elf asked, taking another spoonful.

Her eyes grew distant. "He died. A fever." she raised her cup in unconscious salute and sipped, then continued. "I thought I'd never want to live again, but life had other plans for me. So I sang for him, then went on to the next challenge."

Legolas finished his stew and she put the bowl and spoon on the tray, ready for the girl to take away with the laundry. Legolas felt himself beginning to grow sleepy again, and fought it.

"How long till I can stay awake for more than a few moments?" he asked her, feeling the pain receding, the fogginess of the draught taking over.

"It's been the best part of an hour, my lad." she told him, helping him back into the bed.

"Doesn't feel that long," he said, petulantly. "Malwyn? What about Eotha?" he stumbled over the unfamiliar name, the pronunciation pulling at his cheek, making him twitch.

"Where did you get that name?" she asked, calmly, smoothing the blankets around him.

"Don't remember exactly. Something about you and him and until the end. He wasn't your one eyed man?"

"No, my lad. Eotha was a good man as well, but something altogether different."

"Tell me?" he asked. He could still smell smoke.

"It's a long story, my lad, and you need to go to sleep."

"Shan't" the elf said, "unless you tell me."

She gauged he would be asleep in moments, so she decided to indulge him. He'd be asleep before she got to the parts she wouldn't tell him, wouldn't tell anyone.

"Eotha was a warrior, a fighter from the beginning. We knew each other as children. He always had to ride faster, farther than anyone else. Even Theoden King. Well, Theoden wasn't king then, of course, being just a little older than we were ourselves. But Eotha always threw himself into everything with all he had. He was intense."

"Like 'Mer," the elf said softly, losing himself in the story.

"Yes," she said with a smile, "like Eomer. And he was good looking, too, if a little pretty for my taste." Legolas let out a very un-elf like snicker at that.

"Had both eyes," he said. She chalked that up to the medicines.

"Yes, my lad." she told him, gently stroking the shaved head. "Both eyes, all his teeth. Bit of a come down for a lass like me." the elf snickered again. "But he was good to me, and he loved me as intensely as he did everything else."

The blue eyes were closed now, the breathing slowing. "He made me laugh, he could sing well, he made me happy. And I loved him. I loved his enthusiasm, his passions. It was very good." She noted the relaxation of the muscles in the face.

"How did you lose him?" the elf asked, groggily. Sleep was claiming him again.

"In battle, my lad." A battle I 'm afraid you're about to face, she thought, continuing to stoke the shaved head.