Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
Author's Note:
Warning: Concepts contained in this chapter include a mortal - elf conflict. ^_^ Enjoy!
Chapter XXV: Healing Touch of the Woodland Elf
Outskirt of Rhovanion - Mirkwood, 2041 TA, June 7
Xena's return to consciousness was a gradual emergence from a deep abyss of darkness. As her senses began to stir, the vivid memory of blinding brightness in the depths of Mirkwood lingered in her mind. It was as if a being of light had approached her in those final moments of consciousness, a luminous figure stepping closer just as the world slipped away beneath the weight of her injuries.
In those fleeting seconds of awareness, before the rest of her body awoke to the reality of her situation, Xena felt an unfamiliar sense of warmth and comfort enveloping her. This gentle embrace of light and softness was alien to her experiences in Middle-earth so far, a stark contrast to the cold, harsh elements she had faced during her journey in this land.
As consciousness seeped further into her being, pain began to make its presence known. It started as a mere whisper, then grew into a steady, burning throb. The wound on her back, a reminder of the peril she had faced, seemed to pulsate with every heartbeat. Her entire back felt stiff and achy, a testament to the severity of her injury and the strain of her flight through the woods.
Lying on her stomach, Xena's face was partially buried in what felt like fluffy covers and blankets. The material was unlike anything she had encountered in her nearly a year of roaming Middle-earth. It was soft, almost ethereal in quality, suggesting a craftsmanship far beyond the ordinary. Her mind, still foggy from the ordeal, wondered briefly about the origin of such exquisite fabric.
As Xena's eyes fluttered open, she found herself in a dimly lit space. The cave, for it could be nothing else, was marked by a sense of peace and seclusion, a sanctuary hidden from the outside world. The air was filled with a faint, earthy aroma, mingling with the subtle scent of healing herbs.
Her warrior instincts, though dulled by her condition, still nudged at her consciousness. She tried to recall the events that led her here, but the memories were fragmented, obscured by pain and exhaustion. Had she been captured? Rescued? The uncertainty gnawed at her, even as she tried to focus on her immediate surroundings.
The first to greet her was the scent of summer rain mingling with the earth, a refreshing aroma that seemed to penetrate deep into her being. It was accompanied by the subtle fragrance of mint, intertwining with the damp earthiness in a way that evoked a sense of familiarity, yet distant, like a half-forgotten dream lingering at the edge of her memory.
Her head throbbed dully, a relentless reminder of both her injury and the significant blood loss she had suffered. It felt as if her skull was encased in a tight band, each heartbeat reverberating with an ache that echoed through her mind. Xena's lips were dry and chapped, each movement sending a tiny ripple of discomfort across her face. Her throat, aching, yearned for the relief of cool water.
With a sense of determination that had always defined her, Xena decided it was time to assess her situation. Ignoring the protests of her body, she made a calculated effort to roll onto her right side. She chose this side instinctively, knowing it was her dominant side and hoping it would bear the shift in weight more comfortably than the left. A sharp gasp escaped her as pain flared along her back, a stark reminder of the severity of her injury.
Now with a better view of her surroundings, Xena realized she was indeed in a cave, just as she had suspected. The cave's walls were an intriguing blend of dark wood and stone, mirroring the deep, shadowed hues of the trees that dominated Mirkwood. It created a sense of continuity with the forest outside as if the cave was an extension of the woodland itself.
The ground beneath her was a natural tapestry of old leaves and rocks, adding to the rustic, undisturbed charm of the place. Despite the cave's raw, earthy nature, there was an undeniable warmth to it, a stark contrast to the ominous aura that Mirkwood often exuded.
Light filtered in from somewhere further within the cave, suggesting an exit or an opening that led to the outside. This light infused the space with a surprisingly homely feel, softening the harshness of the cave's interior. It was a welcome reprieve from the eerie, oppressive atmosphere of the forest outside.
As Xena lay there, taking in her surroundings, her mind raced with questions and possibilities. How had she ended up in this cave? Who had brought her here, and why? The cave, with its unique blend of forest elements and comforting warmth, was a puzzle in itself, a small haven in the heart of the dark woods of Mirkwood. It was clear that she was no longer in immediate danger, but the mystery of her current situation was yet to be unraveled.
As Xena's awareness expanded, she noticed the peculiar comfort of the rock that served as her bed. It was surprisingly warm and soft, a stark contrast to its stern appearance. This unexpected comfort was due to the plethora of covers and blankets piled beneath her. Such care and attention to comfort led her to one undeniable conclusion: she had not fallen into the clutches of orcs or any evil creatures of the dark. Had she been their captive, she would have found herself in a far less hospitable environment, likely wrapped in leaves and prepared for a grim fate, or worse, already dead. No, the creatures of darkness would not have bothered to save her, meticulously strip her of her armor, and tend to her wounds.
A wave of bewilderment washed over Xena as she considered one of her last, somewhat disconcerting thoughts: 'I was stripped.' The realization hit her with an unsettling force. She was indeed naked under the layers of warmth, clad only in a black garment covering her lower body. White bandages were wrapped around her chest, seemingly more focused on covering her injury than providing modesty.
Whoever had tended to her had taken great care in cleaning her wounds and ensuring her comfort, a level of attention that was both perplexing and disarming. This part of Mirkwood was the last place she had expected to find rescue, yet here she was, evidently saved by an unknown benefactor. Her initial assumption had been that the Mirkwood elves, whom she had been fleeing, were responsible for her current state. However, the notion of being healed and sheltered by them seemed unlikely; had it been them, she would likely have awoken in a cell, not in a cave.
The possibility that someone from Mirkwood might have intervened, bandaging her wounds before potentially delivering her to the Elvenking, momentarily took hold in her mind. This line of thought suggested she could still be in danger, a realization that prompted her to search for her weapons instinctively.
To her surprise, both her chakram and sword were resting nearby, within arm's reach. 'No,' she thought, reassessing her earlier assumptions. If her rescuer had been one of the Elvenking's guards, they would surely have confiscated her sword, a weapon of considerable significance and threat. The fact that her arms were left untouched suggested a different narrative, one that veered away from the likelihood of an elven capture.
The presence of her weapons, coupled with the care shown in her treatment, painted a picture of a rescuer who was not only sympathetic but also trusting. This realization only deepened the mystery of her savior's identity. Who in Mirkwood, a land known for its guarded and sometimes inscrutable inhabitants, would go to such lengths to aid her? And why?
These questions swirled in Xena's mind as she lay there, grappling with the implications of her situation. The cave, with its unique blend of comfort and rustic charm, was a far cry from the cold, calculating treatment she might have expected from her enemies. Whoever had brought her here had done so with a purpose that remained elusive, leaving Xena in a state of wary curiosity about the intentions behind her unexpected salvation.
The rhythmic sound of steady breathing gently infiltrated Xena's awareness, drawing her attention away from her own discomfort. With a concerted effort, she turned her head towards the source of the sound. At the cave entrance sat a figure, silhouetted against the flickering light of a fire. The dancing flames cast a warm glow throughout the cave, explaining the source of the heat that had comforted her in her unconscious state. It wasn't just the blankets that had kept her warm; someone had thoughtfully maintained a fire, ensuring the cave's interior was hospitable.
Taking a deeper breath, Xena felt the dryness of her cracked lips and the sting as she licked them. Resolute, she decided it was time to rise, driven by a thirst that was more than physical. She needed water, certainly, but she also needed to assess the full extent of the damage inflicted by Thranduil's strike. More importantly, she needed to understand who had found her in such a vulnerable state, whether this was a stroke of luck or a prelude to a more complicated scenario.
With a grimace of pain and effort, Xena shifted into a sitting position, the covers still draped around her. The movement sent a jolt of pain through her back, eliciting an involuntary moan. It felt as if the stitches holding her wound together were straining against the motion. The sudden shift also brought a wave of dizziness and nausea, a stark reminder of her weakened state.
'Stitches?' The thought lingered in her mind, adding another layer of mystery to her situation. Stitches of such precision and care were not common, especially in the harsh wilderness of Middle-earth. It required a skilled hand, perhaps even an elven hand. The realization that her rescuer might possess such skill was both reassuring and unsettling. It suggested that her savior was no ordinary inhabitant of the forest but someone with significant knowledge of healing and wound care.
Xena's gaze returned to the figure by the entrance. The fire's glow outlined the form, revealing the unmistakable silhouette of an elf. The realization dawned on her slowly – could this be the same 'pointy-eared treehugger' she had so vehemently sought to evade? If so, what did this mean for her situation? Was she now in the hands of a potential enemy or an unexpected ally?
Despite her warrior's instincts urging caution, Xena couldn't help but feel a flicker of gratitude towards her mysterious benefactor. Whoever they were, they had not only saved her life but had also tended to her with a level of care that was rare in these dark times. However, this did not diminish her need for answers, nor did it alleviate her concern about her current vulnerability.
As she sat there, wrapped in the covers, her mind a whirlpool of questions and possibilities, Xena knew she had to tread carefully. Her situation was precarious, and any misstep could mean the difference between life and death. She needed to find out who had brought her to this cave and what their intentions were. But first, she needed to gather her strength and confront the challenges that lay ahead. The answers she sought were close at hand, within the shadows of the Mirkwood cave.
"Astanë," (Stop,) echoed a voice, rich and ethereal, slicing through the silence of the cave with its otherworldly timbre. Xena, despite not understanding the language, recognized it as Elvish, its melodic quality unmistakable. "Stay there!" the voice added, this time in the Common Tongue, its deep resonance lingering in the air.
Xena's reaction was instantaneous. Her muscles tensed, and she halted her movement, her warrior instincts surging to the forefront. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a drum of war, a rhythm born of adrenaline and caution. She slowly turned her head towards the source of the voice, her eyes scanning the cave entrance with the precision of a seasoned warrior.
The figure who stepped from the shadows into the flickering light of the fire bore the unmistakable grace of an elf. His movements were fluid, almost ethereal, betraying a natural elegance that no human could possess. He was the epitome of the elven kind she had come to recognize in Middle-earth - graceful, yet distinctly otherworldly.
Clad in a cloak with the hood drawn up, the elf's face was partially obscured, but Xena could make out the contours of his sharp, well-defined features. His hair, a shade of ash silver reminiscent of Thranduil's, cascaded loosely around his shoulders, strands occasionally drifting across his face in the light of the fire. The subtle play of light and shadow only added to his enigmatic presence.
Xena's gaze locked onto his eyes - dark, deep, and piercing. They held a cold, indifferent stare that seemed to look right through her, yet there was a flicker of something else, a hint of curiosity perhaps, beneath the icy exterior. His entire demeanor radiated a sense of otherworldliness, a being who belonged more to the realm of ancient woods and whispered legends than to the mundane world.
As she observed him, Xena's mind raced with questions. Why had this elf rescued her? His presence here, in the heart of Mirkwood, suggested he was a Woodland Elf, yet his actions contradicted what she had come to expect from the denizens of this forest. Could this be an act of mere compassion, or was there a deeper, more strategic motive behind his decision to aid her?
Her training had always taught her to be cautious, to view the unknown and the unexpected with a healthy dose of skepticism. Yet here she was, vulnerable and in the care of one whom she might have considered an enemy under different circumstances. Was this an unlikely alliance forged by circumstance, or was she merely a pawn in a larger game being played by the elves of Mirkwood?
Despite the whirlwind of confusion and suspicion, Xena couldn't shake off a grudging sense of gratitude. This elf, whoever he was, had saved her life. For now, that had to count for something. But she remained on guard, her instincts telling her that the story of her mysterious savior was far from complete.
"Who are you?" The elf's deep voice resonated through the cave, its tone cold yet silken, sliding over Xena's skin with an unsettling smoothness. His speech carried the faintest hint of an accent, lilting at the edges, barely noticeable but unmistakably elvish. Xena strained to decipher any hint of his thoughts or emotions behind that composed facade, but his expression remained unreadable, a blank canvas that both intrigued and frustrated her.
"No, who are you?" Xena countered, her voice carrying a surprising strength for someone so severely wounded. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, never left his face. "Why did you save me?" she demanded, seeking to understand the motive behind a Woodland Elf's unlikely aid.
The elf's face, a study in stoic calm, showed no reaction to her questions. He moved closer, each step measured and graceful as if he were contemplating her words and weighing his response. The air in the cave seemed to still be around them, charged with an unspoken tension.
Xena's mind raced as she watched him approach. Her training as a warrior had honed her ability to read her opponents, to anticipate their moves and intentions. Yet, this elf, with his serene composure and enigmatic presence, was an enigma. She wondered if his aid was a mere act of kindness or part of a larger, more complex scheme. His proximity did not intimidate her; instead, it fueled her resolve to uncover the truth. She needed answers, not only to quell her own suspicions but also to plan her next course of action. In the world of Middle-earth, where alliances and enmities were as shifting as the winds, understanding one's benefactor was as crucial as understanding one's enemy.
The elf stood before Xena, his hands crossed contemplatively, observing her with an intensity that belied his outward calm. Now that he was closer, Xena could discern more details about him. His ears, a defining characteristic of his kind, were discreetly concealed, but his piercing dark blue eyes and the flawless, pale complexion of his skin were unmistakably elvish. He was undoubtedly one of the Eldar, and from his appearance and attire, she surmised he was from Mirkwood. His clothing resembled leather armor, practical and durable, befitting a warrior or hunter. The color scheme of browns and greens was consistent with the Woodland elves' preference, blending seamlessly with the forest environment.
His height was more apparent up close. He towered over her, his long limbs lending him a slender appearance, yet his broad shoulders and well-developed upper body indicated the strength of an experienced archer. Xena, well-acquainted with warriors of various kinds, recognized the danger this elf potentially represented. His stance and build suggested not only skill but also a formidable presence in combat.
However, fear was not an emotion Xena often entertained. Her own weapons lay within reach, a reassurance in case the situation took an unexpected turn. Yet, she doubted it would come to that. Why would he have saved her only to attack her now? It didn't make sense. But then again, his demeanor wasn't exactly welcoming. There was a closed-off, almost aloof air about him that didn't invite conversation.
Resting against the rocky bed, still covered by the blankets to preserve her modesty, Xena waited for him to break the silence. His unreadable expression was a challenge, a puzzle she was determined to solve. In the world of diplomacy and intrigue, she had navigated many times before, understanding one's rescuer was as crucial as understanding an enemy.
Her mind worked rapidly, considering various scenarios and motives, but always returning to the central question: why was this Woodland elf, with his stern demeanor and warrior's poise, the one who had saved her? She held her gaze steady, meeting his eyes with a mix of curiosity and the unyielding spirit of a seasoned warrior, waiting for him to reveal his intentions.
"You may call me Legolas," he finally spoke, his voice a soft whisper that seemed to echo the very essence of the forest around them. "No one travels so deep into this forsaken part of Mirkwood by choice. If I had not aided you, it is unlikely your people would have."
"My people?" Xena, momentarily distracted from her scrutiny, fixed her gaze on him. She kept her expression neutral, not revealing her awareness of his elven heritage.
"Yes," Legolas's eyes briefly traced the contours of her form, wrapped in the blankets, before returning to meet her stare. "The race of Men," he clarified, his tone hinting at a distance.
"So, you are an elf," Xena replied, maintaining her gaze, a mix of caution and curiosity in her eyes.
"Yes, indeed," Legolas responded, his expression still as unreadable as the depths of the forest.
"A Woodland Elf, then?" she probed further, the term coming to her as if carried on a wind from a distant memory.
His eyes narrowed slightly at her question, a subtle change in his otherwise stoic demeanor. Xena noted the faint twitch of his fingers where they rested on his bicep, the only sign of any internal reaction.
"I am a Woodland Elf, yes," he confirmed slowly, his gaze methodically scanning her face as if searching for something within her expression. "Have you encountered one of my kin recently?"
Xena hesitated, sensing a flicker of curiosity in his question. Yet, his expression remained unchanging, a stoic mask that gave nothing away. She recalled a description from Gloin about the Woodland folk, words that now echoed in her mind: 'Surely arrogant, prideful, and cold like winter's ice.' Communicating with this elf, she realized, might prove more challenging than she had anticipated.
"Yeah, I've crossed paths with one of your kin, someone just as chilly and distant as you." she finally admitted, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of irony. The memory of her encounter and subsequent injury at the hands of Thranduil, the Elvenking, was still fresh. Her eyes held his, a silent challenge in their depths, as she prepared to navigate this delicate conversation with Legolas, a Woodland Elf whose motives were still as enigmatic as the forest he called home.
" So, tell me, are all those wooden elves cut from the same icy cloth?" she added while her eyes were piercing his with the same demeanor of a warrior.
Legolas found himself momentarily taken aback by Xena's fiery response. He was accustomed to a certain deference from those around him, especially in the presence of his title as a prince of Mirkwood. The only exceptions he had encountered were those of his own kind, such as the children of Elrond, who would speak with him openly, without the weight of his status coloring their words. Yet, here was this mortal woman, meeting his gaze unflinchingly, her words devoid of the deference he was used to.
It struck him that had this encounter occurred a few months earlier within the walls of his father's Halls, her boldness might have landed her in the dungeons. In those halls, his word was law, and his inquiries were met with immediate answers. Legolas paused, reflecting on his own thoughts. Even though he was now distant from his father's realm, some remnants of his privileged upbringing lingered, occasionally surfacing in moments like these.
He had saved this human, this mortal woman, from certain death. In his mind, he had imagined a different scenario upon her awakening: surprise at being rescued by an elf, gratitude, perhaps even a touch of awe or admiration. This was often the reaction he received from maidens, elvish or otherwise, who were saved by his hand. They would be charmed, and thankful, their demeanor softened in his heroic presence.
But Xena was different.
She was fully aware of his elven nature and his role in her rescue, yet her demeanor remained unchanged. Skeptical of his intentions, unswayed by his otherworldly attributes, her attitude was markedly different from what he was accustomed to. For a fleeting moment, Legolas found himself feeling almost ridiculous. He had never actively sought admiration or charm; it was something that had always been given, a byproduct of his elven allure and princely status.
And here she was, this mortal woman, neither intimidated nor beguiled by him. A human who dared to play the role of a warrior in the perilous depths of Middle-earth, seemingly unafraid to antagonize a race far more powerful than her own. Her defiance, her lack of awe, presented a challenge that Legolas had seldom encountered.
It was an intriguing paradox for the elven prince. Xena's indifference to his charm and status as an elf stirred a curiosity within him. Her resilience, her willingness to stand equal in conversation, despite her vulnerable state, spoke of strength and a spirit that was rare, even among the bravest of warriors he had known. As he regarded her, a new sense of respect began to form, mixed with an ever-growing curiosity about this enigmatic human who had unexpectedly entered his life.
Legolas relaxed his arms, letting them fall to his sides, a subtle shift in his stance that reflected a change in his internal contemplation. He found himself momentarily disregarding Xena's words, words that under different circumstances might have elicited a more comforting response from him. But these were not ordinary times, and Legolas was burdened with concerns far greater than the norm. The presence of this mortal woman, although a distraction, did not alleviate the weight of the darkness that lurked within and around him. His mission, and his duties in these treacherous times, were of a grave nature.
He considered Xena's situation. If his suspicions were correct, she was fleeing from the guards of his own realm, and her wound was unmistakably inflicted by an elven blade. She was in a precarious position, dangerously close to the boundaries of his father's domain, yet evidently determined to avoid capture. In a way, Legolas mused, her predicament was of her own making. She had ventured into these dangerous lands and had somehow crossed paths with his kin in a manner that left her wounded and vulnerable. It was not his responsibility to save her from the consequences of her own actions.
Yet, Legolas found himself unable to simply turn away and leave her to her fate. His gaze drifted to her sword, the weapon that had piqued his curiosity and held his attention. Despite his outwardly cold and indifferent demeanor, a myriad of questions churned in his mind. The sword's craftsmanship, its presence with this mortal woman, all these elements hinted at a story he was yet to unravel.
Xena's unwelcoming attitude, and her skepticism towards his intentions, complicated matters. Had she been more receptive, perhaps he could have approached her differently, with more openness. He recognized, not without some internal resistance, that his own pride and arrogance were at play. There was a time, not long ago, when such behavior would have seemed natural, even expected, from him as a prince. But now, in the solitude of his self-imposed exile, he found himself more aware of these traits, questioning them in ways he had not before.
This moment of introspection was unusual for Legolas. He had always been confident and assured in his role as a prince of the Woodland Realm. Yet, encountering Xena, this human warrior who neither feared nor fawned over him, stirred something within him. A realization that there was much beyond the borders of his familiar world, experiences and perspectives that could challenge and perhaps even change him. As he stood there, considering his next words, he knew that this encounter with Xena might hold more significance than he had initially thought.
Legolas, after a moment's contemplation, turned away from Xena, stepping towards his belongings. He began rummaging through his items, his movements deliberate and controlled. "You have yet to answer my question. Who are you?" he asked again, his voice devoid of its previous coldness, yet retaining its firmness.
"Xena," she replied, deciding it was only fair to reciprocate after he had shared his name. She watched him, her gaze steady as he sifted through his belongings, his back still turned to her.
Legolas paused, repeating her name softly, almost experimentally. "Xena," he murmured, the foreign name taking on a unique intonation as it passed through his elvish accent. It sounded almost melodic, yet unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the names he was accustomed to in his realm.
"Why were you traveling alone in Mirkwood?" Legolas continued, his voice betraying a hint of genuine curiosity. "What happened?" He glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes indicating her injury.
Xena, cautious in her response, considered how much to reveal. The elf before her was still largely a mystery, his intentions unclear. "I was merely passing through," she began cautiously, "I had... a disagreement with one of your kin, as you might have gussed." She was careful not to divulge the full extent of her encounter with Thranduil, the Elvenking. Revealing that information could potentially complicate her situation further. "That's the gist of it," she concluded, maintaining eye contact.
Legolas turned to face her fully, holding an item he had retrieved from his belongings. He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that seemed to express both contemplation and a touch of skepticism. "A mortal who attempts to reason with a Woodland elf through conflict," he mused aloud, his tone implying a mix of incredulity and caution. "You should understand, you cannot hope to best my kin in combat, nor the dark creatures that roam this part of the forest."
Xena sensed an underlying warning in his words, a reminder of the dangers inherent in Mirkwood and the folly of underestimating the elves. Legolas's observations, though not entirely accurate about the nature of her encounter, were a testament to the pride and confidence of his people. Despite his aid, it was evident that Legolas still viewed her, a mortal, through a lens of elvish superiority. His remarks, while not entirely confrontational, hinted at the complex dynamics between their two races. Xena, ever the strategist, remained guarded in her responses, aware that much remained unsaid in their exchange.
Xena raised an eyebrow at Legolas's words, his arrogance striking a distinct contrast to the Elves of Rivendell she recalled, who, despite their pride, did not exude such blatant condescension. She was no stranger to pride herself, confident in her own combat prowess, but never would she belittle another warrior's abilities with such disdain.
"I have faced them before," she retorted, adjusting the covers draped over her. She could feel a slight warmth building under the blankets, but she was cautious not to lower them too much. "Orcs and spiders," she added, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips. "Everyone has their strengths. I happen to enjoy a challenging fight."
Legolas responded, his voice carrying the weight of his many years. "There are greater battles to be fought, more dangerous foes to confront," he said. "A mortal should be wary of such preferences."
Xena noticed a brief flicker of annoyance in his expression, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. He moved closer, placing a woolen grey robe beside her on the bed. His demeanor suggested he was not in a rush, seemingly content with the pace of their conversation. Given her severe injury, Legolas knew she was not in any condition to leave, ensuring that there would be time for more discussion.
Curious, Xena ran her fingers over the soft fabric of the robe, lifting it to examine its length. She tilted her head, puzzled. Why would he offer her a robe, especially when her own clothes might be in her bags?
"I thought you might prefer to cover yourself more adequately, should you choose to move," Legolas stated dryly, his tone implying a desire to avoid any unnecessary exposure of her skin, only aiding her due to her injury.
Xena bristled slightly at his remark. "I have my own attire in my bags," she replied, her voice tinged with a hint of irritation. She was almost tempted to toss the robe back at him. The quality of the garment was undoubtedly fine, but the idea of lying here, clad only in a robe while essentially naked underneath did not sit well with her.
This exchange highlighted the cultural divide between them - his elven sensibilities clashing with her human pragmatism. Legolas, for all his otherworldly grace and prowess, seemed to struggle with the more practical, earthy aspects of mortal life, a fact that Xena found both amusing and frustrating. As she considered her next move, she was keenly aware of the delicate balance of their interaction.
"Are you always so obstinate and reckless, human?" Legolas queried, his tone laced with a controlled annoyance. "Your wound is still healing; it requires time. The bandages need changing, and Athelas must be applied regularly. In the best case, you avoid infection and your stitches hold. In the worst, you perish. Wearing the robe would allow easier access for treatment," he explained, his gaze fixed intently on her. "Or, ideally, you wear nothing, but that, I understand, could be uncomfortable for you."
Xena bristled at his words. Legolas's reasoning was sound, and the robe would indeed be practical under the circumstances. But it was the way he spoke to her as if she were an ignorant child, his concealed arrogance seeping through his advice. Was he attempting to belittle her or shame her for something that was not within her control?
Despite the frustration his attitude evoked, Xena was also acutely aware of her own capabilities, including those of persuasion and influence. She was not one to be easily intimidated or overshadowed in any interaction, even with an elf as enigmatic as Legolas.
"I suppose the robe will do," she conceded, a hint of defiance in her tone. In a bold move, she let the covers slip from her shoulders, revealing more of herself as she reached for the robe.
Legolas blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he quickly composed himself. In a gesture of modesty, he turned his back to her, giving her space to dress. He had, of course, seen her unclothed while tending to her wound, but the casualness with which she exposed herself and donned the robe was unexpected.
Xena, unfazed by his presence, slipped into the robe with an ease that spoke of her confidence. She was not one to be easily embarrassed or cowed, even in the presence of an elf. Her boldness, and her unorthodox approach to the situation, left Legolas with more questions about this unusual human.
Realizing it was time to give her some space, Legolas stepped away, intending to allow her to rest. He needed to reflect on this encounter, to understand this defiant and intriguing woman who seemed to defy the norms of human behavior he was accustomed to. For now, he chose to withdraw, to avoid further conflict and to ponder the enigma that was Xena.
With limited options due to her injury, Xena resigned herself to lying back down, gingerly shifting to her side to avoid any pressure on the wounded area. Her mind, despite the increasing ache of her injury, was alive with thoughts. The encounter with Legolas, the Woodland Elf, had left her with much to ponder. She had interacted with elves before and even engaged in combat alongside one, but this close, personal interaction was a new experience.
She wondered if her current state – the dizziness from her injury and her depleted strength – was influencing her perceptions, offering her a different perspective on the elves. The warnings and threats she had heard from the dwarves about the Woodland Elves of Mirkwood were now playing out in her own experience. Yet, she also recognized the uniqueness of this situation; being in such close quarters with an elf was not an everyday occurrence.
Her mind circled back to her recent confrontation with the Elvenking, a decision she now questioned. Of all the battles she could have chosen, that particular one seemed increasingly like a misstep. And now, she found herself in the care of his son, the prince of Mirkwood, though she was not yet aware of Legolas's true identity. If she had known who he was, her reaction might have been vastly different – possibly even to the point of fleeing, despite her injury.
The irony of her situation was not lost on Xena. Rescued by the son of the very elf she had opposed, she was now reliant on his aid for survival. The thought was almost enough to make her want to escape, to distance herself from the tangled web of events she had found herself caught in. But her injury, and her physical limitations, made such thoughts futile.
As she lay there, her thoughts swirling with reflections on her encounter with Legolas and the implications of her current situation, sleep began to claim her. She drifted off, trying to push aside the pain of her wound and the discomfort it brought. Her last conscious thoughts were a mix of concern, curiosity, and a faint sense of irony at the twists of fate that had led her to this moment.
Time seemed to stretch and warp as Xena rested, her mind adrift in a haze of pain and exhaustion. It could have been half a day or perhaps longer when Legolas reappeared. He entered quietly, carrying a bowl filled with warm stew, its aroma mingled with the scent of healing herbs. Alongside it, he had a flask of water, both of which he placed carefully on a stable part of the rocky surface near her, away from the covers and close to where her weapons lay.
As he reached out to gently awaken her, his touch was a bit firmer than intended, startling Xena from her slumber. A few sharp gasps escaped her as she abruptly sat up, wincing visibly. The sudden movement sent a jolt of pain through her back, and she could feel, with a sinking sensation, that at least one, if not two, of her stitches had given way. She bit back a curse, catching a glimpse of Legolas gesturing towards the bowl and water before he turned to leave.
However, he paused, seemingly hesitant to take another step. Xena, still grappling with the fresh wave of pain, observed him from behind. His posture had altered slightly from their previous interaction; while he still exuded a certain cool detachment, there was a subtle shift in his demeanor. His hands hung loosely at his sides, and the outline of his figure was more relaxed than before.
His long, silver hair, usually bound or braided, now flowed freely down his back, giving him a more unguarded appearance. He had shed his outer coat and hood, revealing a simpler attire beneath – a silver tunic with long sleeves that draped over his leggings. The sight of him, less armored and more approachable, left an imprint on Xena's mind.
For a moment, she contemplated the elf, a blend of curiosity and a newfound awareness stirring within her. The image of his unburdened figure, so different from the guarded, elfish facade he had presented earlier, intrigued her. It hinted at a complexity in Legolas that she hadn't considered before – a glimpse of the individual beneath the aloof exterior.
As he stood there, momentarily frozen in his exit, Xena realized that there might be more to this Woodland Elf than she had initially assumed. His actions – bringing her food, caring for her injury – suggested a depth of character that contradicted his outward coldness. It was an enigma, much like the rest of her experiences in Mirkwood, and it piqued her interest despite her current predicament.
Legolas turned back to Xena, his voice low and calm, like a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. "It's a blend of stew and herbs," he informed her, his words echoing softly in the stillness of the cave. "I cannot promise it will work miracles, but it should help alleviate some pain."
With that, he stepped back, allowing her the space to eat in solitude. Despite his initial irritation and confusion with Xena, Legolas found himself genuinely concerned about her injury. Her reaction to him might have been unconventional compared to most humans he had encountered, but there was no denying her remarkable resilience. Yet, he was acutely aware of the severity and potential danger of her wound.
After finishing his own meal elsewhere, Legolas returned to find that Xena had consumed her stew and water. To his surprise, she was attempting to stand. Swiftly, he approached, placing fresh athelas, clean bandages, and warm water in a bowl beside her before facing her directly.
"Have you lost your senses? Where do you think you are going?" Legolas asked, a note of urgency in his voice as he towered next to her, extending a hand to steady her. "You are in no condition to move; it has been mere hours since the bleeding was under control."
Xena met his gaze, her expression a mix of determination and acknowledgment of her vulnerability. "I know," she said, her tone firm yet edged with frustration. "I'm not trying to harm myself. I understand the seriousness of my injury!"
"Then what is your intent?" Legolas pressed, his brows furrowed in concern and curiosity. "If there is something you require, inform me, and I shall provide it."
Her sudden attempt to rise, despite the obvious risk to her healing, perplexed Legolas. He stood ready to assist, yet he was keen to understand the reasoning behind her actions. Xena, for her part, seemed caught between her inherent independence and the current limitations imposed by her injury. The dynamic between them, a blend of Legolas's protective instincts and Xena's stubborn self-reliance was a delicate dance of mutual but cautious assistance.
Xena's reply was tinged with a hint of exasperation. "You can't bring me what I need!" she asserted, shifting uncomfortably as she tried to adjust her position. Her movements were reminiscent of a child in urgent need, highlighting the naturalness of her request despite the unusual circumstances. She hesitated for a moment, glancing towards the cave entrance, then looked away, clearly wrestling with how to phrase her needs without sounding absurd.
But in that moment, her earlier annoyance with Legolas – his arrogance and pride – seemed to fade into the background. She faced him squarely, her expression devoid of any embarrassment. "I need to... use the restroom," she stated plainly and audibly. "I've been on the run from elves, got injured, and haven't stopped... I don't even know how many days it's been since I last had the chance."
Legolas stood there, momentarily taken aback. In his five hundred years, filled with travel, patrols, and living in close quarters with both male and female elves, he had never quite faced a situation like this. "You need to... relieve yourself?" he echoed, his voice mirroring Xena's incredulity. The realization that the human warrior, injured and in recovery, would have such basic needs struck him as both obvious and unexpectedly challenging.
Xena caught a muttered curse from Legolas, distinctly in Sindarin. She could tell it was no mild expletive, given the utter surprise and bewilderment that crossed his usually composed face. For a brief moment, his expression was a mix of disbelief and confusion, as if questioning his decision to save this unpredictable human.
Legolas finally exhaled a resigned sigh, turning to face Xena. With care to avoid her wound, he placed an arm around her lower back. "Let us never speak of this again," he murmured, an odd, almost comical resignation in his voice. In a swift, fluid motion, he gently lifted her, carrying her in a bridal style. His expression had shifted to one of faint denial as if he were still processing the surreal nature of the task at hand.
For Xena, this moment was a stark reminder of her vulnerability, yet also a testament to the unexpected layers of the woodland elf who had saved her. Legolas, for all his stoicism and regality, was now faced with a situation that transcended the boundaries of typical elven encounters. As he carried her, the absurdity and humanity of the situation seemed to momentarily bridge the gap between their two very different worlds.
Xena made a slight attempt to adjust her position, but a stern look from Legolas urged her to stay still. He carried her outside the cave to a secluded area surrounded by a scattering of smaller trees and a bed of leaves. Gently setting her down, he gestured for her to proceed with her needs, then stepped back, giving her some semblance of privacy. Despite the distance, his keen elven hearing, a trait he couldn't just switch off, made him acutely aware of her actions.
The walk back to the cave was enveloped in an unspoken agreement of silence. Both seemed equally affected by the awkwardness of the situation. Xena, relieved yet deeply conscious of the incident, was more reflective on the recent events. Legolas, meanwhile, seemed to calm down from the initial shock, his thoughts returning to her earlier admission of being pursued by the Mirkwood elves. He wondered if her urgent request had been a clever ploy to glean information from her.
Upon re-entering the cave, Legolas carefully set Xena down, assisting her to a seated position. She looked down at her bare feet, lost in her thoughts and evidently unsure how to react to the unconventional assistance she had just received.
Legolas, maintaining his usual air of detachment, went to prepare warm water in a bowl. He sat down next to her, his gaze meeting hers. Xena turned to face him, her head tilting inquisitively, as if questioning why he had seated himself beside her with the bowl and cloth in hand. Noticing her perplexed look, Legolas cleared his throat and gestured towards her wound. "I need to attend to it," he stated, his voice slightly strained, reflecting an unfamiliar discomfort with the situation.
Xena's eyes widened in realization, and with a resigned sigh, she turned her back to him. She untied the robe and carefully let it fall, exposing her back for treatment while keeping her front concealed from his view. The dynamics of their interaction had shifted; what had been a straightforward task of wound care now carried an added layer of self-consciousness for both of them.
Legolas, for his part, focused on the task at hand, trying to maintain professional detachment as he treated her injury. The experience was a stark reminder of the complexities and vulnerabilities of mortals, something he was not often confronted with in his elven existence. As he applied the athelas and changed the bandages, he found himself grappling with a mix of empathy and respect for the resilient human warrior before him.
Legolas approached the task at hand with a singular focus, pushing aside any lingering awkwardness from their earlier encounter. He needed to clean Xena's wound, apply fresh athelas, and rebandage it meticulously. His movements were methodically slow and exquisitely graceful, the hallmark of his elven heritage. He carefully unwound the soiled bandages, stained with blood, and prepared a cloth with warm water and soap.
The cave was silent, save for the soft sounds of Legolas's ministrations. He worked diligently, his hands gently gliding over the injury, displaying a finesse that seemed almost supernatural. Xena, who was accustomed to the rougher touch of battlefield medics, found herself unexpectedly captivated by the elf's delicate handling. The pain from her wound seemed to recede under his touch, prompting her to bite her lip to suppress any involuntary reactions.
The 'restroom incident' now seemed trivial compared to the current situation. Here she was, under the careful hands of an elf, experiencing a touch that was unlike anything she had known. A sudden tremble passed through her body under his gentle care, and instinctively, her hand reached out to halt his movements. "It's enough," she whispered softly, feeling his confused gaze upon her.
"Do not move," Legolas commanded, his voice firm and authoritative, leaving no room for negotiation. His words bore the weight of his years and the natural command of his elven lineage. Xena complied, staying still as he completed the cleaning, applied the athelas, and wrapped her wound in fresh bandages. Once finished, he stepped back, busying himself with tidying up the used materials.
Maintaining a respectful distance from Xena, Legolas kept his gaze averted. The proximity during the wound care had been a necessary intrusion, but not one he sought to prolong. Xena, for her part, slowly donned the robe again, now acutely aware of the scent of mint and summer rain that seemed to emanate from Legolas. This realization added another layer to the already complex dynamic between them.
After slipping into the robe, she retreated under the covers, seeking a semblance of privacy and normalcy after the intimate encounter. The mingling scents and the memory of his touch lingered with her, a reminder of the unusual and unexpected bond that was forming between the human warrior and the elven prince.
As Legolas prepared to depart, a muffled query emerged from beneath the covers where Xena lay. "Swiftwind?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern. "My horse, have you found her?"
Legolas, facing away from her, allowed a faint smile to touch his lips – a small, private gesture unseen by Xena. The name 'Swiftwind' seemed to resonate with him. "Swiftwind," he echoed softly, appreciating the name. "An aging companion for such daring escapades, but rest assured, she is well. Shee's outside, alongside my horse."
Hearing this, Xena released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The relief in her exhale was palpable, even to Legolas's keen ears. With Swiftwind safe, a weight lifted off her shoulders, allowing her a moment of peace amid her tumultuous circumstances.
After ensuring Xena was settled and her concerns about Swiftwind addressed, Legolas quietly exited the area. He took a moment to tidy up, ensuring everything was in order, before turning his attention to the fire. As the darkness of the cave deepened with the approaching night, he stoked the flames, ensuring a steady glow that filled the space with a comforting warmth.
Seated next to the fire, Legolas found himself lost in thought. The day's events had unfolded in ways he could not have predicted, each interaction with Xena revealing new facets of her character and resilience. As an elf, he was accustomed to the long stretches of solitary contemplation, but this time, his thoughts were occupied by the human warrior who had unexpectedly entered his life. The fire crackled softly in the background, its flickering light casting dancing shadows across the cave walls, mirroring the intricate dance of thoughts and emotions playing through Legolas's mind.
Legolas, seated beside the fire, braced himself for a night akin to many others he had endured – a solitary vigil accompanied by the specters of his own nightmares. He methodically placed a few more sticks onto the fire, his gaze wandering towards the foreboding expanse of the forest that seemed to hold them in a sinister embrace. The night was drawing in, bringing with it the familiar shadows that often heralded the onset of his troubled dreams. Just as the darkness began to seep into his thoughts, stirring the edges of his mind with the beginnings of nightmarish visions, he was unexpectedly interrupted.
"Was Mirkwood always like this?" The question came softly from Xena, her voice muffled beneath the covers. She lay still, eyes closed, yet evidently attuned to his presence by the fire. The weight of the surrounding silence seemed to press upon them both, a silence she perhaps thought he would maintain.
Legolas was momentarily surprised by her inquiry, but he responded, his voice initially a mere whisper, then growing into a melodious cadence, reminiscent of the night's song. "Nay," he began, his words carrying the weight of memories long past. "There was a time when this forest thrived with life. The trees would speak, and nature..." He paused, his thoughts wandering back to the days when Greenwood the Great was untouched by darkness, a haven of peace and beauty.
As Legolas continued, weaving the tale of how Greenwood became Mirkwood, Xena found herself drifting into sleep, lulled by the elf's narrative. The haunting beauty of Mirkwood's past, as described by Legolas, painted a vivid picture in her mind, contrasting sharply with the dark, oppressive forest she had encountered.
That night, Legolas's nightmares did not visit him. The act of sharing the forest's history, its transformation from a place of wonder to a realm overshadowed by darkness, seemed to provide a respite from his own inner demons. For Xena, his storytelling offered a momentary escape from her pain and the uncertainty of her situation.
As they both succumbed to sleep, the future remained uncertain. What the next day would bring, neither could predict. But for this night, in the heart of Mirkwood, they found a shared moment of peace amidst the shadows.
((Upcoming Chapter Twenty-Six))
Thank you for taking the time to read this! Feel free to Review - Follow - Favorite!
Once more, thank you, everyone, for your reviews and the response this story has garnered. I continue to be pleasantly surprised. I will make an effort to reply to your reviews occasionally. I hope you found today's chapters enjoyable. They were the longest I've ever written, totaling around 10,000 words, and while I could write more, I believe that would be a bit overwhelming. ^_^
To zirkejespi: Lazy days are a necessary part of life, after all! ^_^ Thank you, for showing up to read this story as well!
To AudoUnique: Glad to have you on this journey, AudoUnique! Sometimes, surprises in the plot are what make it all the more indeed! The North Rangers bring a whole new layer of excitement to the tale. Legolas and Thranduil do have that extra spark, don't they? Love and loyalty can indeed be quite complex, and we're thrilled you're amazed by the story's developments! Love and loyalty can indeed be quite complex, and we're thrilled you're amazed by the story's developments!
Legolas and Xena meeting for the first time is definitely something to look forward to! Their dynamic will add a special touch to the story. And I believe today's chapter was one we all waited. AudoUnique, Thank you for your kind words! We're thrilled to hear you find the story unique, and we promise to keep the excitement going.
To Phantom Bard: Phantom Bard! Thanks for your insightful comment on Chapter 14. Indeed, Gimli's character arc is taking a fascinating turn, and the budding friendship with Xena adds a unique dynamic. Elrond's future interaction with Gimli promises to be a highlight, especially with Gloin's absence in the mix. The anticipation is building, and we can't wait to see how it all unfolds. Also, You're absolutely right; Xena's quest within a quest adds layers of depth to the story. And as for the legendary sword's identity, we're keeping our lips sealed too.
Spooky chapters, Phantom Bard, add that extra thrill, and Legolas's journey is definitely getting more complex. We're glad you enjoyed the lullaby verses! Huge cliffhangers keep us on the edge of our seats, don't they?
It's great that you're playing catchup; binge-reading can be such a treat! Phantom Bard, beautifully captured the complexity of Thranduil and Elenyathra's characters and the consequences of their actions. It's a testament to your storytelling prowess. And yes, you're right, their struggles are what make the story so compelling. The treasure caves indeed bring a classic adventure vibe! We're delighted you're enjoying Xena's exploration and her discovery of the sword.
To W-5:Thank you for your kind words! Your support means a lot.
To 20554712: Thranduil's character is definitely multifaceted, and it's wonderful to see you believe in him as a parent. We'll do our best to portray him in a positive light.
To Frostbinder: Thank you so much for your enthusiasm, Frostbinder! We're thrilled that you're enjoying the blend of movies and books in the tale. The mystery is deepening, and we're just as curious as you to see where it leads!
To Guest: I am so glad you stumbled upon the story and that you're loving it! Your enthusiasm is infectious, and can't wait to share more with you in the next parts.