The War of Light and Shadow
By Freddie23
OIOIOIOI
Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien created.
A/N: Thank you to all of you who have reviewed and, of course, to all you silent readers out there. I hope you like this new chapter.
OIOIOIOIOIOI
Chapter 60 – Denethor, Steward of Gondor
His destination was easy to find even though he didn't really know what he was looking for. It was bathed in torchlight. Guards, all fully armed and standing strictly to attention, stood at the doorway. A dead giveaway. They straightened further when they registered Legolas' approach for the Elf made no attempt to conceal his coming.
As he strode boldly up to the door, the guards, young men who looked decidedly nervous that a confrontation might be upcoming, drew their swords from their sheaths.
Legolas came to a halt just before them. He could probably force his way through; he had centuries experience on them. But he went for diplomacy instead. He'd shed enough blood in his life. To harm innocents just doing their sworn duty in protection of their land was not in his nature.
"I must speak with your Steward," Legolas announced formally.
Uncertainly, the two men glanced at one another. Of course they had heard the rumours of the Elf come amongst the Men of Osgiliath and although neither had ever actually seen him before, that this was said Elf was unmistakeable. Fear and curiosity warred within them and for a moment they simply stared at him – long blonde hair, tall, clear blue eyes, slightly pointed ears. He allowed their scrutiny.
Eventually, one of the guards answered bravely, "Lord Denethor commanded he was not to be disturbed this night."
"It is important I see him. Tonight."
"I'm not sure." The man looked again to his companion on sentry duty but the young man merely shrugged.
"Go inside and tell him that Prince Legolas wishes to speak with him about King Aragorn," Legolas commanded, using his most powerful stern voice and dropping both impressive titles in the hope they might sway the guards. Certainly, he knew it would awaken Denethor sufficiently.
It may have been out of practise, his diplomatic side, but it worked well enough on the two gormless guards. They shared another look with each other and then the man who had been doing all the speaking returned his gaze to Legolas and nodded once. As he went up to the door, the young man looked decidedly nervous, of what lay inside now rather than of the late night visitor. Denethor apparently did not like being disturbed in the middle of the night. He glanced over his shoulder at Legolas as if hoping that the Elf might have changed his convictions and left them in peace.
Legolas, however, stood there expectantly, waiting. He would not leave until he'd had an audience with the Steward of Gondor, that much he made perfectly clear to the guardsmen.
So, the young guard rapped on the door and entered without waiting for the invitation.
A moment later, Legolas heard yelling from inside. Denethor was not happy at the disturbance. Legolas wondered if he had been sleeping inside. If so, then leaving the lamps and fires burning was a terrible waste of resources, the Elf mused although he had to confess at not being overly surprised. Denethor did not exactly seem to him to be a sensible man. A bottle smashed against one of the walls, followed by yet more shouting from inside. Hurried footsteps sounded across the creaking floorboards and then the guard returned hurriedly out of the door, looking decidedly ill at ease.
"The Steward will see you," he nevertheless announced with all the dignity he could muster while also sending Legolas a 'rather-you-than-me' look. He stood back off to one side so that the Elf could pass through the door and into the old tavern Denethor used as his base and home.
Legolas was not afraid of angry words or flying bottles, so he stepped past the two guards without hesitation and through the doorway.
Fires burned both in the entrance hall and the adjoining room where the Steward sat at the end of the long, battered conference table Legolas had last seen crowded with the elderly men of the Council of Gondor. On top of the table candles burned brightly, lighting the room. The Steward, it seemed, had been asleep for he wore a creased white shirt, loose trousers, no shoes and a hastily thrown on black robe. Legolas felt a prick of satisfaction that he had at least disturbed Denethor's peace this night.
"You…" Denethor pointed one gnarled finger in Legolas' direction; the other hand occupied holding a half-empty bottle of wine. He got to his feet rather unsteadily, glaring at Legolas with dark eyes, watery in the candlelight. Apparently, his sleep had been induced by alcohol and he had gone straight back to the pastime upon being woken. "It is gone midnight."
"Long gone," confirmed Legolas, staring unblinkingly at the Steward. Crossing his arms over his chest, the Elf said sternly, "You are drunk."
Denethor looked down in an affronted manner at his bottle clutched in his hand. "I am not."
"So, this is what stands between the true king and the throne."
The Steward plonked the bottle down on the table, splashing a little of the red liquid upon the wood, then fell back into his chair. He laughed drunkenly, hands lying flat on the table in front of him.
"Your king will never sit on my throne."
"He is your king too. And you forget, Steward, that you have no authority to deny the return of the true king of Gondor."
Spluttering out a laugh, the Steward demanded, "Is that a threat?"
"It is not my place to threaten you, my Lord."
Again pointing his finger in a jabbing motion towards the Elf, Denethor accusingly said, "And yet here you are in the middle of the night trying to intimidate a vulnerable old man. Well, you will not frighten me with your words, Elf."
"You are a fool. Look at what you have done to your people." The Steward glowered at him darkly. "You have all but destroyed your kingdom. Lead your people to ruin. And now you refuse to return to them their only hope."
It was said calmly but he could tell that Denethor was rattled by the words. The old man nevertheless stared steadily at him, apparently hoping to intimidate him in the same manner he'd intimidated people all his life. He couldn't possibly have known that such intimidation would never work on Legolas. After sitting in council with the fearsome King Thranduil and his court, facing the drunken Steward posed little threat or problem to the exiled Prince of Mirkwood.
"What," Denethor growled in a low voice slightly slurred by the wine, "would you know about it?"
"Much more than you," answered Legolas simply, moving with slow movements around the table, edging closer to the Steward. He had no plans for violence against the old man but he had learned long ago the power of his blue stare upon other beings and he wanted Denethor to feel the full force of it. Even in the orange candlelight and against the drunkard of a Steward he felt confident that it held significant sway.
Denethor sat back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. To Legolas' mild irritation, the man looked remarkably at ease. No doubt that had much to do with the large amount of alcohol in his system emboldening him but it still irked Legolas somewhat.
"That boy will never replace the Stewardship."
"He has the right to claim the throne from you."
"He is a child! A clueless, idiot child!"
"Mind your words, Steward!"
The man snorted in laughter, his fingers twitching toward the thick bottle on the table. Legolas guessed that this was not the first time Denethor had spent the night drowning his sorrows in the company of vintage wine from the city's probably dwindling stores.
"You're a protective one, aren't you?"
"I have to be. Many have tried to do harm to the king. And you have not been particularly welcoming to either of us so far."
"Can you blame me?" the Steward asked in a voice that could almost have passed for good-natured had they been speaking of anything else. He leaned forward, supported by his forearms on the table and finally gave in to temptation. After taking a long swig from the bottle, Denethor put the wine back down and looked up at Legolas. "You are here to usurp me."
If it was a threat then it was a pretty poor one. By now, the man's words were obviously slurred, he swayed where he sat and it took three attempts to get the word 'usurp' out correctly. Legolas wondered whether the people of Gondor ever saw this flawed side of their leader or whether he drank only in secret.
"I am trying to do what is best."
"Aragorn on my throne."
"On his throne. If you were to help…"
"This is my kingdom!"
Legolas startled when the Steward's hand came pounding down onto the thick wood, making the candles and bottles jump slightly. Still, the Elf maintained his calm. "You are a Steward, a keeper of the throne only. Upon the true king's return you are obliged to step aside. Do what is best for your kingdom and your people."
"No!"
It seemed that all semblance of diplomacy had passed now and if the hot-headed Steward was not going to be calm about this then neither, Legolas decided, was he.
"Are you really so damned selfish that you would lead your own people into ruin!" yelled the Elf in a rare spate of anger unleashed. The anger must also have sparked boldly in his eyes and looked impressively fearsome as Denethor physically recoiled in the confines of his chair, shock written plain to see on his craggy, weathered face and his mouth snapped shut sharply, wine-stained lips sealed.
Legolas couldn't help but feel rather pleased with himself. Sure, he had always had a similar impact on his young ward, able to scare him into obedience when necessary. But he had been uncertain about his anger's effect on the far more worldly Steward.
For a long moment, Denethor's eyes, looking almost black in the firelight, stared wide and unblinking at the bold Elf stood before him. Unable to speak, he tried to form an argument in his mind, something scathing but rational.
When he found his alcohol-doused mind lacking, he settled for brutish yelling again instead.
"Are you insane?!" he bellowed, leaping up so violently that the chair toppled backwards, landing with a crash on the floor behind him.
Legolas winced. That must have alerted every guard in the vicinity.
"Who do you think you are? You think you can come in here and speak to me in this way? You!" He walked right up to the Elf, swaying drunkenly on the spot, and poked his finger to Legolas' chest. "You are nothing!" he spat." Get out of my sight and then get out of my city!"
This time, he physically shoved Legolas. The impact of the man's gnarled hands against his chest had very little force, barely moving the Elf.
Legolas' hands immediately shot out, taking the man's thin wrists and gripping hard.
"Mistake, old man." He did not take kindly to being manhandled by anyone, least of all the ignorant Steward. Even as he pushed Denethor away, he knew he'd made a mistake of his own. The man was old, unstable, not at all steady on his feet due to age and the alcohol he had ingested that night, and the shove sent him stumbling backwards where he fell awkwardly against the table, crashing against the edge and falling to the floor in a bumbling, heavy mess.
The crash, combined with the earlier yelling, had attracted the attention of the guards, just as Legolas had suspected it would. They burst dramatically through the door now.
Their reaction was completely justified in Legolas' humble opinion. Upon seeing the Elf standing over their Lord, who was on the floor, looking stunned and breathless in the wake of the attack, the guards leapt into action to defend their lord.
Rushing forward, they immediately grabbed Legolas' arms to restrain him. Legolas made no attempt at struggling as he was held. He didn't want to hurt these Men, not when things were so uncertain between Aragorn and Gondor's misguided people. Aragorn would not thank him for making things worse.
Pulling Legolas back, the guards headed towards the door with their restrained prisoner.
But Denethor called them back, ordering them to wait. He stumbled inelegantly to his feet, refusing the help of the guards, glowering at Legolas as he went.
The old man's next move almost impressed the Elf. He moved forward quickly, quicker than the Elf would have expected from an elderly, inebriated Human, raised his balled fist and hit Legolas square in the face. Denethor may no longer have been a fighting man but he must have had some training behind him because the blow was precise and had a surprising amount of force behind it. Certainly, it knocked Legolas back enough that he had to rely on the guards to keep him on his feet.
Tasting blood from a split lip, Legolas regained his balance and slowly raised his head to look at the man who this night had surpassed at least one of his expectations.
"No one has ever stood up to you before, have they?" slurred the Steward bitterly. Anger sparked in his dark eyes but there was a smile – or a sneer, Legolas decided – playing across his lips. He was proud. He had enjoyed his moment of domination over the younger-looking Elf.
Perhaps the echo of memory of that enjoyment was what fuelled his subsequent anger. Stretching out his fingers of his aching right hand, Denethor formed a fist again and landed another blow.
Only when Legolas' eyes met his again did Denethor speak. "You think you always get your own way. That you can come to my realm and take whatever you want." Each sentence, each accusation, he punctuated with another thump aimed somewhere at the Elf. "Bring your false king here to remove me from power gifted to me by the Creators themselves." He grabbed Legolas by the shirt, pulling him in close, so close that the Elf could clearly smell the bitter reek of stale alcohol. "You think me a fool. But you are wrong. You underestimate me, Elf."
The two uncertain guards steadied Legolas when Denethor shoved him backwards again.
Legolas spat out blood, wincing. Old he may have been but Denethor still had some strength in him and this one-sided fight was fast taking it out of him.
With his mouth now clear for a retort, Legolas said, "No, Denethor. You are wrong. Aragorn is the one true king. He deserves the throne. Not you."
"Do you think that if you say it enough times then it will become true?" the man mocked.
"I am already convinced. And you are a fool if you think my convictions wavering, old man."
Wild again, Denethor screamed at him, "This is my kingdom! These are my people!"
"And what have you done for them Steward? Banished them forever from their city, got them cowering in the shadows whilst the Shadow of Mordor reigns in the lands of Men. And this, once the most powerful kingdom of Men on Arda!"
"Before my time, maybe," Denethor scoffed and Legolas was relieved that they had reverted back to dialogue and ditched the one-sided fighting. "It is my father's decisions that led us here, not mine."
"Then help me rectify it," urged Legolas, unashamed by his tone of pleading. Whatever it took, he was prepared to do. For Aragorn. "Help me put it right. Think; the combined might of Men finally unified under one banner. Your king needs you Steward."
The words had worked on Kinnale when they had encountered the Rangers on Amon Sul and again in Edoras on Eomer so Legolas had high hopes too for Denethor. But the Steward, it seemed, could not be so easily manipulated.
"My king?!" he bellowed in another fit of anger. "My king?! I have no king! Rule of Gondor is mine and no other's!" He wagged his finger before Legolas' face. A threat. "And you would do well to remember that." Laughter then bubbled from him, bordering on hysterical. The Steward, Legolas realised with a start as he looked into darkened eyes, was frightened. But of what? That his rule was under threat? Or was it a confrontation with the Shadow he hid from that he feared? This man who was supposed to be an unmoveable leader, a pillar of his city, strong and unbending, was, in Legolas' eyes, nothing but a frightened little boy taking the easy way out.
Pride, for himself and his heritage rather than that of his kingdom, kept him bound to the White City. In that twisted mind, Denethor believed that so long as the white stone of the city was visible from Osgiliath through the haze of the Shadow then it was a victory for the Stewardship. Long ago he could have left, led his people away to safety to another land. A defeat, yes, but at least they would have lived.
Instead, Denethor remained in limbo. Too proud to leave. Too scared to mount an attack on the dark keepers of his taken city. And he held his people in this self-imposed purgatory as well, putting them between the Shadow and himself through his own fear. Even his own son. Terrified of the monsters encamped within the city, he hid behind his soldiers, his Council, never having to face what lurked in the White City.
The weaknesses of Men once more making themselves known.
That was why Denethor hated Arathorn so much. He was a threat. Denethor knew, for Aragorn had laid it out quite clearly for him when they had first been brought before the Council that first time, that Aragorn would not be a passive king. An attack on the invaders of the City would be launched and the balance of tentative peace would be upset. Maybe, Denethor was even afraid that a sword may be thrust into his own hand.
Legolas had just moments ago thought Denethor foolish but now he understood. He was not a fool. He was a coward.
"Oh," Legolas laughed somewhat humourlessly at this revelation. "You poor, sad old man."
"What did you call me?"
Was that fear renewed Legolas saw in dark eyes? Did Denethor fear that maybe he might be exposed for what he really was? Was that the reason for all the guards, the redundant Council, the liquor?
"You heard me," Legolas pushed, knowing that a coward was a dangerous thing indeed, especially one with as much to lose as Denethor had. "You are a sad old man, too much of a coward to do what you know to be right." Denethor's eyes widened in horror at the accusation, flickering briefly to the two men holding the Elf. He was obviously torn between sparing his embarrassment and sending them away or keeping them for safety's sake. Being a coward, his choice was predictable to Legolas. He did not dismiss them. "I pity you, Steward. To be so afraid that you spend all your life in exile, hiding in some battered, squalid old town knowing all the time that the end is just around the corner. And bringing your people, brave and strong as they once were, down to your low level. Are you ashamed, Steward?"
"Shut up," Denethor said softly, his voice lacking any force.
"Are you embarrassed to have been brought so low? Or do you not care? Is this the ideal for you? Hiding? Is that how you want to end? Cowering in some hovel surrounded by slain soldiers, by dead family, until the Shadow encompasses all and you are finally free of your purgatory?"
"Shut up!" Louder this time, voice trembling.
"But what then? What happens when the Shadow comes, Steward? Do you think they will spare you? Will you surrender to them to save your own neck? Or offer your own people in exchange for your survival? Would you serve him, the Dark Lord?"
"Silence!"
"Do you think your death will come quickly? Or will you linger in fear and self-loathing for years under the yoke of the Darkness? Is that a price you can stand, Steward?" shouted Legolas, bold and unrelenting in his efforts now that he had found the weak link in Denethor's armour. "Is it? Steward! Denethor! Coward!"
That did it.
"Shut up!" the man screamed almost hysterically. His face was a picture of fury. Tears streamed down rugged cheeks; frustration and anger overflowing. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"
This time, the man launched himself bodily at Legolas, slamming into him full-force, taking them both down to the floor before the guards stood on either side of the Elf had a chance to react. They stood dumbly, shoved aside by the attack. Made strong by his fury, Denethor rained down blows on Legolas. And Legolas made no attempt to retaliate. He took his punishment in silence, having expected such an explosion from the Steward eventually. His two guards had stepped further away, torn between not getting in the path of their Lord's will and putting an end to this hurt being inflicted upon their prisoner.
"What? Father!"
Suddenly, the enraged Steward was dragged, swearing and struggling, off of his victim. Looking up, Legolas blinked to find Faramir pushing his father up against the opposite wall in order to restrain him. Even drunk and partially restrained, the Steward was quite a handful. So much so that Jecha, who had appeared in the doorway just seconds after the Gondorian man, strode across the room to assist.
"What did you do?" demanded the incredulous voice of Eomer of the Elf.
Legolas took the Rohan man's hand, shooting him an irritated look and heaved himself to his feet. No serious injuries had been sustained in the attack but it still hurt, the blows he had sustained.
"Legolas?"
"You! Fetch the physician!" Faramir shouted to one of the stunned guards in the room.
By now, he'd managed to subdue his father for silence had fallen in the chamber. But Denethor had sunk to the floor and was leaning listlessly, glassy-eyed against the wall. Perhaps it was shock, Legolas mused. His words had not been kind but they had undoubtedly held a resonance of truth, one that the old Steward had long denied even to himself.
Abandoning Legolas, Eomer joined his fellow Men at the side of the Steward although there was little he could do.
Meanwhile, Legolas simply watched. He found himself suddenly filled with unexpected remorse. Yes, he'd meant to hurt the Steward but only to shock him into understanding. That his actions might have such an adverse effect had never crossed his mind.
Moments later, a healer of Gondor entered, followed by two more and they instantly went about fussing over the Steward. Legolas could not see through all the bodies in the room what was going on or hear what was being said. So he just stood and waited, leaning against the wall to steady himself. None approached him to ask if he was well even though he was beaten and must have looked almost as much of a fright as Denethor himself. He did not want the attention though. Better to wait on the side-lines, wait for the outcome.
Eventually, the Steward was carried from the room after being persuaded to lie on a stretcher for his own comfort. Faramir was at his side, looking deeply concerned. People dispersed rapidly after their Lord's departure. Still, not one man of Gondor paid Legolas any heed, not even the guards. It seemed that he was not being blamed for the attack.
Finally only Legolas, Eomer and Jecha remained standing in the well-lit tavern. The atmosphere was thick with tension. It only broke when Eomer uttered a soft, disbelieving chuckle. Running his hand over his short beard, he shoved his left hand in his pocket, bowed his head and took slow but long paces to traverse the length of the room. Jecha remained characteristically still and silent although his eyes were fixed unflinchingly upon Legolas, accusation shining in their depths.
For once, Legolas decided that it was he who must break the silence. Rare an occurrence as it was; he pictured in his head Aragorn's inevitable reaction to his decision and forced back a smile.
"I…"
He did not get any further though. Eomer's hand shot out of his pocket to stab the air in a sign calling for silence. And just to be certain that he was understood, he snapped loudly, "Shut up," an echo of Denethor's earlier shouts, although in control rather than wild.
The man was angry so Legolas concluded that obedience was the most prudent in that moment. So, he dipped his head and settled for listening to Eomer pace the room.
Quite expectedly, the man's sense of calm did not last overly long.
"What were you thinking?!" Eomer exploded in anger no longer containable.
Finally raising his head, Legolas looked the Rohan commander directly in the eyes, a clear gesture of openness and honesty and said calmly, "I only came to talk to him."
"Talk to him?!" Clearly Legolas' calm had not rubbed off on the hot-headed man as he'd hoped it would. "Talk?!"
"Yes. I believed I could reason with him."
"Oh, I see," Eomer nodded, mockingly, then jabbed his accusing finger at the Elf again. "And when that failed you sought to beat some sense into him?"
At this, Legolas had to protest vehemently, "He attacked me!"
"He's an old man, Legolas."
"I'm aware, Eomer. I did nothing to hurt him."
"No? Then why did he have to be carried from the room on a stretcher?"
"Maybe because he's drunk!"
"So that makes it acceptable, does it? It's all right to attack an elderly, unarmed man so long as he's thoroughly inebriated?"
"Will you listen to me! I did not attack him. He attacked me!"
"Really? I'm supposed to believe that?!"
"Believe what you will; it's the truth."
"Did…Did you even think, Legolas, what this could do to our cause? This will come back through you to harm Aragorn! You could just have lost us a great ally."
"What part of 'I did nothing' can you not comprehend?" shouted Legolas, moving closer to Eomer so that they were almost touching. Before the man could form a bitter reply, Legolas carried on, "Take a look, Eomer. Do you really believe that Denethor – old, cowardly, drunk Denethor – could have done this," he pointed to his bloody, bruised face, "had I chosen to fight back? For all my faults in your eyes, Eomer, can you really accuse me of being a lesser fighter than the Steward of Gondor?!"
Through Eomer's silence Legolas knew that his point had finally hit home. However, the man did not stand down and so Legolas too remained at the ready. After all, he had felt the power of Eomer's fists once before. He had no intention of being the passive party in a fight twice in the same night.
After looking from tense face to tense face a couple of times, Jecha, who'd stood in silence during the entire confrontation, finally stepped in before things could progress further than merely flying accusations.
Coming to stand in between them, he laid one hand on each chest to halt before any physical confrontation that might be on the horizon.
"Enough now," he said in his most commanding tone, being sure to force the words out carefully so that through his thick accent they were not misunderstood – not that he worried too much about such a thing, he was perfectly capable of tearing the two warriors apart if the need called for it. Both looked at him, noted the dark glint in his exposed eyes, recognised that this man could very easily physically overpower them if need be and that he would not hesitate in doing so. For all his quiet nature, Jecha had proven himself a deadly creature and not one to be crossed.
Legolas, however, remained determined that Eomer would be the first to move away. And Eomer, it seemed, was equally determined not to be the loser of this particular stand-off.
"Stop it! Both of you!" Jecha snapped irritably, giving both of them a slight push away so they were forced to step backwards. He was tired of playing referee in this fight.
"Fine." Eomer turned his back on the other two and moved away to stare broodingly into the fire.
"Now, it doesn't matter who started it or how it began but what happened this night cannot possibly have helped our cause. Someone will have to speak with the Steward and his son when things have calmed down a little more." Jecha looked at each of them in turn but Eomer refused to turn around and Legolas moved his smouldering gaze away to the candlelit window. With a weary sigh and a shake of his head, Jecha concluded, "I suppose I will take on that task myself." No reply. Having to force calm at being caught in the middle of this childish dispute when there were so many more important things to worry about, Jecha continued coolly, "And someone must inform the King."
At this, Legolas did react, just as Jecha had known he would.
"Aragorn!"
"He must know of this occurrence."
"I will do it."
"Perhaps, under the circumstances, it would be better coming from Eomer."
"I just said that I would do it," interrupted Legolas sharply.
"Tonight?"
As if he could see the young king standing just beyond the thick wooden door, Legolas stared across the room with a strange look of sadness upon his shadowed face.
When he spoke again, it was achingly soft. "No. Tonight I shall let him rest. Tomorrow I will explain all." Two sceptical expressions greeted him when he turned back around. He insisted though, "I will."
"We believe you," calmed Jecha with a sharp nod, although his tone reminded Legolas of the one his father had used with him when he was just a small Elfling and he had just told a blatant lie before the King. Scepticism.
Eomer, naturally, was rather less diplomatic in his approach and let out a doubtful snort. It wasn't like he owed it to the Elf to cover the truth with kind fantasies. Let him feel bad about himself this once.
Rather than defend himself against this wordless accusation of distrust, Legolas turned curtly on the spot and strode from the room, once more letting the darkness swallow him up. No one was about. It was still full night; dawn was at least a couple of hours away. He still had time to think. Legolas continued on through the streets. Even though the city was eerily silent, Legolas' feet made no sound upon the cracked stones that made up the paths amongst now mostly abandoned houses.
People in Osgiliath banded together. Congregating in the centre of the city provided a feeling of security and the very real advantage of safety in numbers. So most of the houses on the outskirts of what had once been the residential area of Osgiliath sat dark, long since empty because of the threat of the Shadow. Only the Steward's makeshift residence had been thoroughly bathed in light. The townspeople had no such luxury.
Despite the darkness of the populated area, Legolas felt freer the further away from the people he got. He moved quickly although had no particular destination in mind. That desperate need to be moving had been nagging at him for a while now, joining with the pain in his heart to at times make the pressure on his chest almost unbearable. It felt good to be alone with his thoughts.
Never had Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, so loved and protected ensconced within his green kingdom beyond the mountains, ever imagined that he would find himself restricted within the confining world of a city of Men.
What had he come to?
That dark day, robbed of his home and family, he had been certain that death would be his fate. Not this. And surely, he wondered idly, he deserved no less for his sins.
To Be Continued…