Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
Chapter XXIV: A Mortal's Strife
Outskirt of Rhovanion - Mirkwood, 2041 TA, June 5
In the midst of the grandeur and intricacies of the court, Legolas often found himself ensnared, much like a butterfly trapped in a spider's web. The Queen, his mother, was a fixture of these elaborate gatherings, her closest friends all members of the court. To Legolas, it felt as if she had thrown him into a den of hungry wolves. This perception hadn't changed since he was a child, for the courtiers remained as ravenous as ever.
His mother, skilled in the art of navigating the complex web of courtly politics, would often wander off, leaving Legolas to fend for himself. It was in these moments that he came to appreciate the occasional intervention of his father, Thranduil, who rescued him from the jaws of the political beasts.
The courtiers and royalty were perpetually engrossed in matters of politics and affairs that Legolas, as an elf, found challenging to grasp. He had grown into an elfin adult, yearning to distance himself from the tangled webs of intrigue that the court perpetually spun. His mother, however, believed in preparing him for a life of diplomacy and high-level political games. She endeavored to instill in him the skills needed to forge alliances and provide aid to those in need.
In time, even after his mother had passed away, Legolas became adept at discerning the intricate machinations unfolding before him, as well as those concealed in the shadows. He had grown clever enough to decipher the intricate dance of politics and diplomacy that the court demanded. Yet, it did not mean that he had grown to enjoy this particular game.
As he gazed upon the court, Legolas couldn't help but ponder the intricate threads that bound him to this world of intrigue and diplomacy, a world he had learned to navigate but never truly embraced.
Legolas, a woodland elf at heart, felt most at home beneath the emerald canopy of the forest. There, he could inhale the untamed fragrance of nature, bask in the open air, and engage in the exhilarating dance of battle rather than lurking in the shadows. Yet, within the confines of the court, even the nobles, knowingly or unknowingly, made allowances and adaptations for the King's son. It was, after all, a matter of birthright.
He often pondered if his mother, a true-blooded Silvan elf, might have altered the perception of him in the eyes of the court. However, it seemed that, to the world, he remained a Sindar elf, bound by the legacy of his father. Even his mother, once a Silvan elf, had been transformed into something else entirely upon her ascent to the throne. Whether it was right or wrong, Legolas refrained from passing judgment. Yet, on occasion, he yearned for the simplicity of being seen as nothing more than a woodland elf, free from the weight of his princely title.
The mantle of a prince clung to him like ivy to a mighty oak, a role he could not easily shed, even when he shared moments with Tauriel. Though they had their moments of disagreements, especially during patrols along the borders, Tauriel had a knack for occasionally setting aside the formalities and simply treating Legolas as Legolas. Back in his youth, during those rare visits to Rivendell, neither of Elrond's children regarded him as the Prince. They welcomed him as a member of their extended family, with Legolas occupying the role of the youngest and, quite often, the target of their playful pranks.
Elrond, however, had a knack for showing up when trouble arose, even though he never hesitated to lay some blame squarely on Legolas for leading his children into their escapades. The Elf-Lord's approach differed from that of his father, Thranduil, who, when Legolas' mother was still alive, would often treat him more like a son than a prince.
Then, a few months ago, something extraordinary occurred. Thranduil, for the first time, decided to release whatever bonds had confined Legolas to his Halls, granting him newfound freedom. Since that day, Legolas had not received any word from his father, nor could he sense his presence. It was as if a veil had fallen between them. However, the connection with his mother remained strong. Ever since that fateful day on the old forest road, Legolas had felt her presence beside him, a comforting encroaching darkness that seemed to be creeping into his existence.
In the midst of a perplexing conundrum, Legolas found himself ensnared in a riddle without answers, a quest without a clear path. His mother's disappearance weighed heavily on his heart, and he scoured the land for any trace, any hint that might lead him to her. Yet, the clues remained elusive, and the mission felt like an aimless wandering through shadowed realms.
Each time he ventured too close to the ominous borders of Mirkwood, he could feel the palpable darkness lurking, threatening to consume him. However, the closer he rode to the forest's outer reaches, the more the shroud of darkness began to dissipate. And if he dared to journey a little further, it would vanish entirely.
Legolas couldn't deny the allure of that newfound freedom, escaping the suffocating darkness that clung to him. But how could he forget what he had witnessed? He grappled with the dilemma of whether to return to Mirkwood and seek his father's aid. Still, Thranduil carried his own burdens of darkness, and this was Legolas's personal quest. Uncertainty clouded his mind as he wondered if he would ever find the answers he sought.
As long as he could endure the depths of the shadows without losing himself entirely, he resolved to remain in pursuit of his elusive goal. Yet, the encounters and mysteries that crossed his path were far from what he had anticipated, leaving him yearning for simpler days. It was a path that turned him into an eternal seeker.
Far to the east, within the recesses of Mirkwood, as the forest guided him toward the wild expanses of Rhovanion, a sinister transformation was unfolding. Not only orcs and spiders, but other creatures as well, found themselves ensnared by a different kind of darkness, one that pledged allegiance to a sinister master.
It was on the cusp of summer when Legolas stumbled upon something both eerie and perplexing within the depths of the forest. It all began innocently enough, with the discovery of a child beneath the sheltering branches of an ancient tree, lost in the midst of play. The child's voice wafted through the air, singing an elvish lullaby, different from Legolas's own but undeniably of elvish origin. Intrigued, Legolas approached, dismounting his horse, and inquired if the child was lost.
As Legolas drew nearer, the child turned away, continuing to sing, words laden with an eerie and sorrowful undertone. "In the shadowed glen where moonlight gleams, Beneath the ancient, twisted beams, The woodland elves in sorrow weep, Their dreams now lost in secrets deep."
Legolas watched and listened, the lyrics of the lullaby sounding slightly amiss, but he reasoned that every mother might craft her unique lullaby for her child. Attempting to gain the child's attention, Legolas called out, but the child persisted, singing, "Hush, my child, don't make a sound, For in this eerie, haunted ground, The spirits stir and specters creep, As darkness falls and nightmares seep."
A sense of unease began to creep over Legolas as he scanned the surroundings. Suddenly, the child vanished from sight, yet the eerie lullaby continued, now devoid of the child's voice, replaced by a ghostly and unsettling sound. "Beware the eyes that gleam like coal, In midnight's shroud, they'll steal your soul, But fear not, my dear, for I am near, To shield you from all that you fear."
Legolas strained to locate the source of the haunting melody, feeling an unsettling chill in the air. The lullaby persisted, its eerie refrain echoing through the shadows. "Close your eyes, let dreams take flight, Beyond this eerie, haunted night, For in your dreams, you'll safely sleep, While the woodland elves their vigil keep."
Drawn deeper into the forest's depths, Legolas pressed onward, his determination overriding the eerie atmosphere. The voice of the lullaby grew stronger, resonating with haunting clarity. "May dawn's first light brings sweet release, And fill your heart with tranquil peace, But remember well this elvish rhyme, To guard your dreams in the darkest time."
Finally, Legolas discovered the origin of the haunting song. There, in a shadowed hollow, lay a female figure, once an elf, now reduced to a mere skeletal form. It was clear she had endured a fate beyond comprehension, calling out to a child long lost. Legolas tried to reach out to her, to offer solace, but it was futile. The mother was gone, leaving behind only her lifeless remains.
The truth began to dawn on Legolas. This wretched creature had used her own child as a bargaining chip, offering the innocent to orcs or other dark entities in a desperate attempt to save herself. Her actions had sealed her doom, transforming her into a living corpse, forever imprisoned in darkness. Legolas shuddered, fearing that his father, too, might eventually succumb to a similar fate, for the darkness within him was an ever-present shadow.
In the face of such darkness, Thranduil remained resolute and unyielding, a master at navigating the shadowed depths that shrouded Mirkwood. But for Legolas, it was a different story. He was only beginning to unravel the complexities of the darkness that enveloped him. He had once believed that the darkness that clung to him in Mirkwood mirrored what his father experienced. Now, he understood that darkness came in various shades, and this maiden had been shattered by her own personal torment.
There was little he could do to offer solace to the forlorn figure before him, save to guide her to a swifter end, hoping that she might find her way out of the abyss and not meet the same fate as his mother. A heavy sigh escaped him, and he found himself burying his face in his hands, slowly coming to terms with the grim reality that had befallen Mirkwood.
The part of the forest teeming with menacing creatures and the encroaching threat of an unseen enemy had been known to Legolas for centuries. The gradual withering of the once-vibrant woodland had also not escaped his notice. Yet, it was only now that he began to grasp the full extent of the tragedy that had befallen Mirkwood. Many, including his own kin, were swallowed by the relentless darkness, their villages vanishing into oblivion. In the protective embrace of his father's halls, the true extent of the encroaching darkness had remained hidden from the eyes of the elves, their ignorance a stark contrast to the grim reality outside.
Taurial's words now rang true to his ears, she had threatened the Elvenking once, telling him that he could not see what was happening to his realm. But Legolas knew that His father was fully aware, he was connected with nature and his homeland. Stone and wood, all would bow to his will and surely inform him of what was happening. It was Legolas who did not know.
The lament of the dying trees weighed heavily upon Legolas, their silent cries a poignant reminder of his powerlessness. The connection he once shared with the ancient forest was severed, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Even when allowed to roam beyond the confines of the Elven halls, he felt ensnared within an invisible barrier. It was only now that he comprehended the profound truth in his father's words, that true freedom remained elusive.
As he surveyed the desolation that had befallen Mirkwood, a wave of sorrow washed over him. The forest, once teeming with life and vibrancy, now lay in ruins. Legolas couldn't help but wish, if only for a fleeting moment, that he had remained unaware of the grief and despair that had settled over this forsaken part of the woodland.
Aware of his limitations, Legolas realized that there was little he could do to reverse the devastation that had consumed this once-thriving region. Even if he were to summon his father and muster the full might of their army, it would be a futile endeavor. The darkness had already claimed too much.
Yet, a glimmer of hope flickered within him, a spark for the lost souls who remained trapped in this ominous realm. He thought of his mother's words, the notion of a curse that had gripped this land. The question that plagued him was where to begin, how to unravel the threads of this malevolent enchantment that held Mirkwood in its thrall.
Legolas traversed the forest's depths. His steps were silent, his eyes ever watchful for signs of the encroaching darkness that plagued his homeland. Arodil, his faithful steed, remained ever at his side, a constant companion in these treacherous woods. The horse, sensing the urgency of their quest, shared in the restless spirit of his master.
Legolas had charted the forest, marking out havens amidst the wild. Some lay beneath the sprawling roots of ancient trees, their trunks so vast they formed caverns of wood and shadow. Yet, his primary refuge was a secluded cave, carefully scouted and cleansed of malevolent dwellers. Here, he stowed his spare gear and provisions, a strategic reserve for times of need.
Each day brought its share of skirmishes — encounters with orcs and giant spiders were not uncommon. However, these were but fleeting distractions for Legolas, mere ripples in the vast, dark sea that was Mirkwood. His skill with bow and blade made short work of these foes, and they scarcely troubled his seasoned warrior's heart.
Yet, it was not the external threats that weighed most heavily upon him. It was the shadow of a more personal nature, the darkness of a memory — the haunting remembrance of his mother. This unseen specter lurked ever at the edges of his mind, a constant reminder of loss and unspoken pain.
One evening, as twilight melded with the night, Legolas stood beneath a great oak, its branches weaving a tapestry of darkness and starlight above. His thoughts were interrupted by a rustling in the underbrush, a sound out of place in the nocturnal symphony of the forest. Nocking an arrow to his bow, he moved with elven grace towards the disturbance.
There, in a small clearing, he found a figure collapsed upon the ground — a warrior, her armor dulled by the journey, a dark wound spreading across her back. Legolas lowered his weapon, recognizing that the injury was not made by an orc blade. The cut was deep and clean.
In the veiled depths of Mirkwood, Xena, the Warrior Princess, fled with desperate haste. Her flight from Thranduil and his elves was marked by a relentless pace, driven by the urgent need to escape and the dire necessity to tend to her grievous wound. The injury, a dire legacy of her confrontation with the Elvenking, was more than physical; it was a wound that touched the very essence of her being.
Her breaths were ragged, each gasped a battle against the pain that threatened to overwhelm her. The forest around her seemed to whisper of her intrusion, its shadows stretching out as if to ensnare her. Yet, she pressed on, driven by a resolve as unyielding as the mountains of her homeland. The wound, dealt with by the finely crafted elven blade, was deep and unrelenting, its edges glowing faintly with an eerie light.
Swiftwind, her loyal steed and companion, trod the dark paths of Mirkwood with unease. The elves' connection to these parts of the forest had waned, the once vibrant woods now a shadow of their former selves. In his efforts to aid Xena, Swiftwind delved deeper into the forsaken reaches of the forest.
However, as the journey wore on, Xena's strength ebbed away, drained by the unceasing loss of blood. Finally, her endurance shattered. She fell from Swiftwind, collapsing onto the cold, unforgiving ground. Her attire, torn both by Thranduil's strike and the relentless passage through the forest's undergrowth, was soaked with blood. In this state of utter vulnerability, Xena lay unconscious, exposed to the lurking dangers of the dark forest. The situation was dire, her life hanging by a thread, with only the faintest hope of rescue in these treacherous woods.
Deep within the shadowed embrace of Mirkwood, Legolas, son of Thranduil and prince of the Woodland Realm, wandered lost in thought. His gaze, ever sharp and searching, swept across the darkened woods of his homeland. Unbeknownst to him, a tale of strife and survival was unfolding within the borders of his father's realm — a wounded warrior, a stranger to these lands, struggled for life amidst the ancient trees.
Legolas pondered the creeping darkness that had begun to afflict Mirkwood, a growing shadow that threatened to extinguish the forest's once vibrant spirit. The encroaching gloom weighed heavily on his heart, a constant reminder of the challenges his people faced.
As he moved through the forest, a sudden disturbance pierced his contemplation. His elven senses, attuned to the slightest whisper of the wood, detected an unusual presence. A faint rustling of leaves, a soft groan of pain — something, or someone, was in distress. With the grace of his kin, Legolas swiftly drew his bow and advanced towards the source of the noise, ready to confront whatever danger might lurk in the shadows.
Beneath the boughs of an ancient oak, he discovered the cause of the disturbance. There lay a figure, clad in the garb of a warrior, her armor tarnished with the dark hue of blood. Her features, though marred by the agony of her wounds, bore the unmistakable visage of a human. Legolas lowered his bow, realizing that the intruder was not an orc or enemy, but a wounded maiden in dire need.
He approached the fallen figure cautiously. The horse, Swiftwind, sensing a stranger near its master, grew restless. Legolas, with the gentleness characteristic of his people, extended his hand towards the steed, uttering soothing elven words. His gesture calmed Swiftwind, conveying a promise of no harm.
Turning his attention to the wounded warrior, Legolas carefully pulled back the fabric covering her injury. His keen elven eyes quickly assessed the wound. "Nai hant vornie nîn naugrim." (This was not wrought by the hand of an orc,) he murmured in Sindarin, noting the precision of the cut."Achared a glân dann, faro gwên." (A deep and clean wound, free of poison.) His heart sank as he recognized the familiar craftsmanship of an elven blade.
With a mixture of surprise and confusion, Legolas gently turned the warrior to face him. She was not of elven kind, but a human woman. A flicker of frustration crossed his face. It was clear she had fled deep into Mirkwood, likely pursued by his father's guards. He withheld his judgment, recognizing that now was not the time for harsh words. She was gravely injured, and he could not leave her to the mercy of the forest.
Calling softly to his own horse, Arodil, Legolas carefully lifted the warrior. Her weapons, a sword, and a chakram, clattered to the ground. He gathered them swiftly, securing both the warrior and her arms upon Arodil. With a gesture, he beckoned Swiftwind to follow.
Legolas knew his destination: a hidden cave where he kept his supplies. It was the only place nearby equipped for treating such a grave injury. As they moved through the forest, Legolas reflected on his skills. He was no healer, but his long years guarding Mirkwood's borders had taught him how to manage injuries. Basic wound care was common knowledge among the elven warriors, yet he was unaccustomed to dealing with wounds so severe. Still, he knew what must be done.
As they journeyed, the forest around them whispered and watched, the ancient trees bearing silent witness to this unlikely alliance between elf and human, united by circumstance and a shared need to survive the perils of Mirkwood.
As the forest of Mirkwood gave way to the hidden sanctuary of Legolas' cave, the urgency of their journey became even more apparent. Legolas, with a swift yet careful pace, hastened to the cave, knowing well that time was of the essence for the gravely wounded human in his care. His brows were furrowed in concentration, a silent testament to his concern.
Upon reaching the cave, Legolas gently lowered the unconscious woman from Arodil's back. His movements were deliberate and gentle, his elven grace evident even in such a dire situation. He carried her inside, to a space marked by a large, flat rock — a makeshift bed in this time of need.
With a sense of purpose, Legolas cleared the area, preparing to tend to the warrior's wounds. He positioned her carefully on her stomach, mindful of the injury on her back. In situations fraught with peril, Legolas's training took over, his actions guided by necessity rather than contemplation of right or wrong.
Drawing one of his long, slender knives, he carefully cut away the remnants of her clothing. Her vest, tunic, and pants were swiftly removed, leaving her in her undergarments, exposing the wound for treatment. His expression, one of focused determination, betrayed no discomfort at the intimacy of the act. His sole concern was for her well-being.
Legolas then turned to his supplies, gathering clean water, white cloths, athelas leaves known for their healing properties, a needle, and other essentials for treating the wound. He worked meticulously, cleaning the wound with a steady hand. Under his breath, he muttered elvish incantations, almost curses, as he struggled to stem the bleeding. His face was etched with frustration and concern, the usually calm lines of his visage drawn tight with the gravity of the task.
The process was painstaking, taking longer than Legolas had anticipated. The wound, inflicted by an elven blade, was deep and treacherous. He applied bandages, tightly but carefully, ensuring not to cause further harm. His fingers worked with a skill born of centuries, weaving healing and hope with each bandage.
Legolas, with a practiced hand, tended to the warrior's grievous wound. He carefully prepared a paste from athelas, a healing herb renowned among his people for its restorative properties. Applying the paste along the length of the wound, he ensured it was even spread from the nape of her neck down to the lower reaches of her back. The injury was severe, a testament to both the skill of the attacker and the resilience of the wounded.
His expression, usually serene, now bore a trace of disbelief. Rarely had he seen such a strike, one that could only be delivered by an elf of great mastery. And rarer still was the sight of a human, particularly a woman, who could endure such a wound and yet escape. While he admired her evident skill and survival instinct, a part of him couldn't help but view her actions as foolhardy. To venture alone into Mirkwood and possibly provoke an encounter with its elven inhabitants was a dangerous gamble.
Having done all he could to treat her injuries, Legolas covered her with his own blankets, providing what comfort he could. The outcome was uncertain. She might survive, bolstered by the healing properties of athelas and her own tenacity. Or she might succumb to her injuries, another life claimed prematurely by the perils of the forest.
Stepping outside the cave, Legolas donned his hood, a cloak of thought enveloping him. He approached Swiftwind, the warrior's horse, and carefully brought her belongings inside the cave. He spoke softly to the horse, offering words of reassurance in his melodic elven tongue. The horses, now settled near the cave's entrance where water and forage were available, seemed to understand his intent, their agitation eased by his presence.
In the quiet of the forest, under the watchful eyes of ancient trees, Legolas gathered the fallen warrior's weapons, his keen elven eyes fell upon her chakram and sword. The chakram, a circular weapon unlike any he had seen before, sparked his curiosity. Its unique design and substantial weight were remarkable, especially for a human to wield. Yet, it was the sword that truly captured his attention and stirred a deep sense of astonishment within him.
Upon closer inspection, Legolas recognized the craftsmanship. The sword bore a striking resemblance to one his father, Thranduil, possessed. More startling was the name etched upon the blade — "Elentáriennor," a title befitting an elven queen. Memories of his mother's sword flooded his mind; this was unmistakably similar. His expression, usually composed, now mirrored his inner turmoil — a blend of confusion and wary suspicion. The presence of such a weapon with this human, in the heart of Mirkwood, raised questions and concerns about her true nature.
With a heavy sigh, Legolas decided against any immediate action. He placed the weapons beside the unconscious woman, resolving to seek answers when the time was right. His face, a canvas of mixed emotions, reflected the complexity of the situation.
Hours later, Legolas returned to check on the warrior. She remained unresponsive, her complexion alarmingly pale. He proceeded with a healer's care, cleaning the wound once more. With a gentle touch, he took a few strands of her hair and began to stitch the cut carefully, minimizing the damage as best he could. Afterward, he applied a fresh layer of athelas paste.
He then turned to more immediate needs, offering her water and a concoction of healing herbs. Her feverish state persisted, a silent battle raging within her. Legolas did all he could, placing an additional blanket beneath her and covering her with more to ensure her warmth and comfort. His movements were methodical and precise, each action a testament to his dedication to her well-being.
Stepping back, Legolas allowed her the rest she desperately needed. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, a mix of concern and deep thought evident in his eyes. Legolas sat near the entrance, his gaze lost in the dense foliage of Mirkwood. The responsibility of the wounded human weighed on him, amidst the whispering echoes of the forest, he stood watchful, a silent guardian over a stranger whose arrival had brought more questions than answers to the heart of Mirkwood.
((Upcoming Chapter Twenty-Five))
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