I cant believe how many of you are reading this story. *Bows* Thankyouthankyouthankyou. I hope this means you are enjoying it! Thanks also to those of you who have reviewed, followed or favourited so far. It's muchly appreciated. :)

ILV - *takes cookies and coffee* gosh! that has to be the shortest review from you ever! *Nearly chokes on cookie* Hope that isn't a bad sign. Thanks for the lovely review for the poems too. I'm glad you like them.

*Sends Legolas to DaHybridQueen* - can you talk some sense into him, he's not listening to me!?

To the anonymous reviewer - I'm so glad you're enjoying it. To hear you say it pulls you in makes me hope that I'm getting something right! :)

So... on we go. Please R+R. *Hits 'publish' and runs to hide*

Chapter 22

Thwock! Thwock! Thwock!

The world has narrowed to a single point within a target. All else is forgotten as the young archer becomes one with his favoured weapon, blotting out all sense of time and space with the bow he has borrowed from the armoury, grief and cares swept away in a tide of fast flowing wood and feathers. Reaching back to his quiver again questing fingers finally encounter emptiness and he begins the long walk to retrieve his arrows from the centre spot they have flown to with pin point accuracy.

His mind begins to wander once more with the movement of his feet and he finds himself thinking of the elf who first taught him to hold a bow. How excited he was on that day. He can remember as if it were yesterday the feel of the smooth wood against his palm, the sharpness of the string against yet uncalloused fingers, the powerful pull against arm and shoulder of an unfamiliar weight, all so strange and uncomfortable, painful even, yet filling his heart with joy as he finally began the journey to fulfil his youthful dream to become the best archer in his fathers realm.

He smiles softly to himself as he reaches out to snag the first arrow from the well used target he has now reached, then freezes, his fingers closed around the shaft as his mind pictures his old mentor as he was then, standing behind him, guiding his arms into position for the first time, talking him through the process carefully, before finally letting him release the arrow from its temporary home then joining in with joyous amazement as they watch it fly straight and true to its intended target.

That had been a glorious day and although not all of the arrows shot had been so surely sent Legolas had later basked in the praise from the elder when his achievements were discussed with his father over their evening meal. He can see them now as if they were there, his father and Lhosson, one seated beside him under the star spotted canopy the other opposite, toasting the elflings success with glasses of deep burgundy wine, fair faces flushed with joy and vitality their silvery laughter ringing through the air. The happiness in his heart out weighing the burning ache in his overused muscles.

With a despondent sigh he returns to reality and feels a sharp stab of pain strike through his heart at the realisation that this scene will never again be played. The elf he held second in his heart only to his father will never again join them to feast under the trees, never again send his laughter to mingle with theirs, sing, dance or make merry with them and with this his hands fall limply to his sides, his bow falls neglected at his feet and he bows his head in grief. Grief for the sundered elf, grief for his father and grief for the life he knows he can never regain.

It is in this apparently dejected stance that Estel finds his elven friend. He has made his way to the archery fields with the hope that Legolas would be indulging in the routine of practice to help distract his mind from the recent tragedy. Heart heavy, yet optimistic he approaches the young prince, intent on delivering the good news of the impending arrivals and bends to retrieve the abandoned bow from the grass. Holding it in one, youthful hand he nervously reaches out with the other to gently touch a forlorn shoulder and is startled when, in a move faster than blinking, the elf in front of him turns to grasp his extended wrist tightly with one forceful, deceptively slender hand of his own, whilst a glinting blade is held to his throat with the other.

Eyes change from sky blue to darkest indigo as they fix onto his own and he can feel the anger emanating from the elfs slight frame. For the first time in their long friendship he feels afraid of this being, and understands how intimidatingly deadly the warrior can be. He feels the hold on his wrist increase and begins to wonder if the bones will shatter under the crushing pressure, an involuntary groan issues from between now gritted teeth and his heart begins to race maddeningly within his chest as the knife is drawn slowly across fear sensitized skin. Then, as suddenly as it began, the hand releases its grip and the sharpness at his throat disappears, he stumbles slightly in relief. A nightmare stretching into forever has passed within a brief moment of time and he realises just how close he may have come to losing his life.

"Legolas…" The name is breathed out, part question, part accusation as he struggles to regain composure, feeling the need to speak yet unsure quite what to say.

"Estel." In contrast his own name sounds harsh on the air as the young prince snaps it out, his usually musical, fluid tones now clipped and frosty. " You should know better than to sneak up behind an armed elf, adan!"

The young man initially stiffens at the harsh words, then a smile tugs weakly at the corners of his mouth and he utters a short nervous laugh, wishing to believe that his friend is teasing him yet unsure if this is truly the case.

"You should not let down your guard enough to allow it to happen, elf."

The attempt at the usual, bantering mocking tone is not quite right to his own ears yet he is astounded by the reaction it produces. Normally they would both be breaking out in mirthful teasing at this point, each trying to convince the other they had got the upper hand but there is no joy to be found in the face suddenly thrust into his own.

"You try to mock me, human!"

Estel finds his heartbeat has once more begun to speed erratically as eyes, cold as a winters sky laden with snow, bore into him, stripping away all his years, until he feels as lost as a child in the wilderness. Features, once fair and glowing with light have become hard, with sharp angles casting shadows onto pale skin.

" I asked you once," a voice, unrecognisable in its harshness, issues from a mouth twisted in disgust. "To leave me alone." A pause in which there is no movement or sound, even the very air around them seems frozen in time, then. " I tell you now for the last time," the elf continues, drawing out the last three words as if in a threat. "Leave Me. Alone." Each word is kept separate from the last in emphasis before the final sentence is uttered with deadly coldness and Estels heart finally stops beating briefly before being ripped from his chest. "Or face the consequences!"

The elf slowly brings his knife up in a graceful arc, just nicking the skin on the humans left ear lobe enough to cause a small,bright red, bead of blood to well up, then re-sheathes it at his belt, snatches his bow from nerveless fingers, turns and stalks off the practice field and into the cover of the trees.

The young man feels his legs turn to jelly and, as they become unable to sustain his weight, he sinks slowly to the ground, disbelief painted on features that suddenly appear lost and almost childlike once more. His mind reels, trying to take in what just happened and make some sense out of it but all he can visualise are two icy, almost black orbs that are tearing into his heart and turning it to ash.

As he uses all of his will power to walk away silver tears begin to trace tracks down the young archers pallid cheeks. He knows it had to be done, but has never found anything so hard in the undertaking before. He longs to turn around, rush back to the young man, embrace him and tell him he didn't mean it, it was all just another prank, then laugh with joyous abandon, teasing his friend over the look on his face as he was taken in again. Yet he can not. This time it must feel real. He must not let his taint rub off on his truest friend, on any of his friends.

He cannot allow them to be marred by association to a kinslayer, for that is what he is, it is for the best. Estel will eventually come to forget that they were ever close, unlike elves mans memories fade over time, other friends will come to take his place and in the fullness of time he may even create a family of his own and there will be nothing to stand in his way, to despoil his name or that of his children. Legolas is unsure of what else may happen but he knows this is the least he can do to ensure the young mans future happiness.

.

Reaching a tall elm tree, he leans into its sturdy trunk, placing his forehead against the rough bark and breathing in its rich, woody scent deeply.

"Ai, Valar, but it is so hard."

The tree gently dips a bough as if wishing to stroke the anguished elf and bring some comfort to a heart close to breaking as tears drip onto the ground covering waiting roots.

"Tirith or huin, Elbereth, watch over him Elbereth, keep him safe."

With this plea Legolas raises his head to gaze upwards towards the sky as if searching to find the one for whom it is meant, willing the prayer to be heard, and thereby easing the ache he feels deep within himself for the hurt he has caused, both knowingly and unknowingly. Taking in another deep breath he finally manages to stem the flow of tears and begins to listen to the trees talk of visitors entering the last homely house.

This is it. He knows his presence will soon be required and must prepare himself for what lies ahead, he can afford no more time to grief or might have beens, the past is over, the future is still in flux, the present is what must now be endured.

Drawing upon the last of his resolve he wipes determined eyes on his sleeves, rearranges his features into an emotionless mask and begins the walk back to Elronds house keeping his head held high, all he has left now is his pride and he clutches at this like a drowning man in a storm tossed sea does to a flimsy raft.