Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
~ XXVII: Shapeless Concerns ~
Outskirt of Rhovanion - Mirkwood, 2041 TA, June 9
Xena reclined beneath the blankets, her thoughts a tempestuous sea churning with memories of her arduous journey, the fraught encounter with Thranduil, and her unforeseen deliverance at the hands of Legolas. Despite her customary fortitude and resilience, a reluctant appreciation for the elf stirred within her. His treatment of her wounds was delivered with a gentleness and precision unanticipated from a warrior of his renowned stature.
Indeed, Legolas often appeared aloof and detached, his demeanor a blend of obstinate pride and a chilling aloofness. There were moments when his frigid haughtiness tempted her to unleash her warrior's wrath upon his impeccably composed visage. Yet, as the sun set and the shadows of the night grew long, she could not deny the debt of gratitude she owed him. He had not only saved her life but had also tended to her with a meticulous concern for her well-being. Whatever flaws he might possess, his actions had proven honorable and lifesaving.
In the muted light of the cave, Legolas often sat near the entrance, his gaze occasionally flickering over the flickering flames of the fire he tended with methodical care. Xena surmised that he was ever watchful for the approach of orcs or other malevolent creatures of the dark. There he remained, a silent sentinel lost in his own contemplations. She sensed that he, too, was grappling with inner demons and that engaging in conversation was not a pursuit either of them found particularly appealing at this juncture.
Their shared silence was not uncomfortable but rather a mutual acknowledgment of the weight of their thoughts and the unspoken understanding between two warriors, each battling their own shadows. As the firelight danced across the cave walls, casting an ethereal glow, they both dwelled in their private reveries, united by circumstance and a newfound, albeit tentative, comradeship in the heart of Mirkwood.
A day or two had passed since Xena found herself under the care of Legolas, who had been diligent in his visits, primarily to provide sustenance, and fresh water, and attend to her wound. During these brief encounters, Xena couldn't help but notice his occasional, lingering glances at her sword. He never spoke of it, maintaining his characteristic elven reserve, but his interest was palpable. Xena harbored a suspicion that the sword intrigued him, much like it had piqued the curiosity of the Elvenking, leading to her current predicament. Yet, in her characteristic stubbornness, she was loath to acknowledge her own growing curiosity about the weapon's allure to the elves.
The sword, after all, had been the catalyst for her violent encounter with the Elvenking, resulting in her debilitating injury. Now, she found herself in the exasperating position of relying on Legolas for even the most basic of needs. He had assisted her outside the cave on several occasions, a necessity she found deeply irksome. Xena, fiercely independent by nature, struggled with this dependence, often attempting to push the reality of her situation to the back of her mind.
One night, she awoke abruptly to find the cave plunged into total darkness, the fire having died out. The forest beyond seemed more sinister than ever, its shadows and stillness sending a shiver of unease through her. Propping herself up, she sensed she was alone. Although Legolas often moved with stealth that made his presence barely perceptible, she attributed her failure to detect him to her weakened state.
Wrapped in the robe provided by Legolas, Xena felt a surge of annoyance. The reality of her situation was inescapable – a severe injury, precarious stitches, and reliance on simple herbal remedies meant a prolonged stay in this cave, in the company of an enigmatic elf. The thought of being confined for weeks in this secluded place, dependent on Legolas's aid, was galling to her warrior spirit. She sat there in the dark, a mix of frustration, restlessness, and a begrudging acceptance of her circumstances battling within her.
"I have had enough," Xena murmured under her breath, a resolute whisper in the darkness. It was time to assert her independence, to reclaim some measure of control over her situation. The oppressive atmosphere of Mirkwood seemed to seep into her very bones, underscoring the forest's ominous reputation. With a determined effort, she pushed herself upright, ignoring the sharp pain that signaled the tearing of a stitch or two. It was a discomfort she decided she could attend to shortly.
Approaching the cave's entrance, she found Legolas absent. The nearby presence of the horses was the only sign of life in the stillness of the night. The fire, not entirely extinguished, flickered weakly. Xena located some additional wood nearby and, with painstaking movements, managed to stoke the flames back to life. This effort, however, came at a cost – two more stitches gave way under the strain.
Her gaze then swept the surrounding area, searching through the enveloping darkness. Eventually, her eyes settled on an iron bar, left by Legolas for tending the fire. It was of perfect size and weight for what she had in mind. Ensuring she was alone, she thrust the bar into the fire, waiting for it to heat up sufficiently.
Carefully, Xena loosened her robe and unwound the bandages from her wound, casting irritated glances over her shoulder. The task was awkward, reaching the entirety of the wound proving to be a challenge. She resolved to repeat the process as necessary. Once the iron bar was adequately heated, she used the discarded bandages to remove it from the fire. The handle was warm, but she could manage to hold it securely with the bandages as a barrier.
Her actions were deliberate, fueled by a mix of desperation and the warrior's instinct to survive. At that moment, Xena embodied the very essence of resilience, a lone figure in the dark cave, tending to her wound with the only tools at her disposal. It was a testament to her strength, a strength that would see her through the darkness of Mirkwood and beyond.
With a grim determination, Xena eyed the metal bar, now glowing a menacing reddish hue in the fire's embrace. It radiated a heat that spoke of searing pain, but it was a pain she was prepared to endure. Her plan was clear – cauterize the wound to stem the bleeding. This method, crude as it was, would allow her greater mobility without the constant threat of reopening her injury. However, she was well aware of the risks, the foremost being infection, and the slower healing process.
Gritting her teeth, she reached for a sturdy stick lying nearby and clenched it between her teeth as a makeshift bite block. Positioning herself, she tried to reach behind her back, maneuvering the red-hot iron to align with the upper portion of her wound. The task was challenging; her movements caused fresh bleeding and further tearing of her stitches. Determination overrode the surge of pain as she sought the precise spot to apply the searing iron.
Eyes closed and arms poised, Xena braced herself for the agonizing moment of cauterization. But, in the instant before she could act, the world halted. She opened her eyes to find Legolas standing beside her, his right hand firmly gripping hers, preventing her from lowering the burning bar to her wound.
For the first time, Xena saw a flicker of emotion on Legolas's usually impassive face. His expression was a mixture of shock and repulsion, his eyes wide with bewildered disbelief. The sight of the warrior about to inflict such a harsh treatment upon herself seemed to have momentarily shattered his stoic demeanor.
Legolas, with a swift and controlled movement, removed the heated metal bar from Xena's grasp. He placed it safely near the fire, ensuring it posed no danger to them. His intense gaze then fixed on her, and in it, Xena saw a fury she hadn't witnessed before. It was a look she imagined he reserved for his most formidable enemies, the orcs he hunted. Yet, mingled with his anger was an unmistakable trace of revulsion at what she had been about to do to herself.
Muttering a curse in his elvish tongue, Legolas's words were incomprehensible to Xena, but the tone conveyed his deep displeasure. "Are you akin to an orc?" he demanded, his voice strained with incredulity, the veins on his neck standing out. "To burn your own flesh, have you lost all reason?"
Xena, reacting instinctively, jerked her hand free from his grip and hastily pulled the robe back over her shoulders. His words and the intensity of his reaction momentarily made her feel reprimanded, almost childlike in her defiance. "I am not inclined to sit idly by," she retorted, her voice tinged with both annoyance and a hint of pain. "I am not the waiting type. Clearly. I'm more the 'getting fixed fast."
The wound throbbed painfully, fresh blood seeping from the reopened stitches. Now, on top of her physical discomfort, she found herself contending with an irate elf. "Had I succeeded, the wound would have stopped bleeding. The healing would take longer, but the constant threat of the stitches tearing would have been eliminated," she explained, her tone a mix of justification and frustration.
Retreating to her makeshift bed on the rock, Xena avoided Legolas's gaze. The tension between them was palpable, a clash of two strong-willed individuals, each with their own methods of dealing with adversity. Legolas, for his part, seemed to struggle with the concept of such a drastic measure for self-care, while Xena grappled with her enforced dependence and the limitations imposed by her injury.
"Elbereth, grant me patience," Legolas murmured under his breath, a plea to the revered Elven deity for composure. Xena, despite her discomfort, couldn't help but overhear. Legolas stepped forward, his expression a mask of regained calm, though his eyes still held a flicker of frustration. This was the sort of impulsive behavior he had come to expect from humans and dwarves – acts driven by impatience, often resulting in more harm than good.
After a brief pause, where he seemed to gather his thoughts, Legolas began rummaging through his belongings. Xena, observing him, noted the familiar items – warm water, athelas leaves, and clean bandages. It was clear he was preparing to tend to her wound again.
"Turn around and remove your robe," Legolas instructed, his tone leaving no room for debate. His usual detachment was back, accompanied by an undercurrent of urgency.
As he began the delicate task of wound care, Xena could sense his annoyance through the subtle changes in his breathing. The broken stitches were evidence of her ill-advised attempt at self-healing, and now Legolas faced the task of re-stitching the wound, this time with her conscious and aware. In his mind, he chastised her actions as 'foolish', yet his hands worked with meticulous care.
Despite his evident irritation, Legolas's touch remained gentle and precise. Even in his displeasure, he showed no inclination to cause her additional discomfort. The cleaning of the wound was unavoidably painful, but his careful handling mitigated the worst of it.
As he worked, Xena felt his fingers brush the back of her head. Instinctively, she began to turn, only to be met with another firm command from Legolas to remain still. Without her realizing, he had taken a few strands of her hair. The action seemed almost reflexive, a part of his elven practices in healing, but it left Xena feeling a mix of curiosity and slight intrusion.
Xena's astonishment at Legolas's unanticipated action turned swiftly to indignation. Her warrior instincts took over, her hand instinctively reaching for her weapon, even as she struggled to comprehend why he had taken strands of her hair. "Do you have a death wish?" she demanded sharply, her voice edged with both surprise and challenge.
Legolas, noticing her instinctive reaction, remained unfazed and calm. "I require strands of your hair for the stitches," he explained quietly, a gentle cadence in his voice. "Your own hair will be recognized by your body, reducing the risk of infection." He paused, holding back from pointing out that the need for this unconventional method was a result of her previous actions.
The logic behind Legolas's method dawned on Xena. Using one's hair for stitches was a delicate procedure, requiring skill and precision, and it explained why her previous stitches had failed. Realizing the care and expertise Legolas was employing, she stilled her defensive reflex and allowed him to continue.
As he worked, weaving her hair into the wound with deft fingers, Legolas seemed mildly impressed by her lack of dramatic response. "Hair stitches are more prone to breaking but can help the wound heal with minimal scarring," he commented, a hint of reluctance in his voice as he acknowledged his continued assistance despite her earlier recklessness. "It is unwise to inflict further harm upon oneself, and it is unfortunate for any warrior, maiden or not, to bear such scars."
Xena, taken aback by his concern over her scarring, chose not to dwell on the implications of his remark. "I have many scars," she responded once he finished stitching and began applying the athelas paste. As he carefully bandaged her wound, she continued, "They are part of the toll we pay as warriors."
Xena's response to Legolas's words was a blend of irritation and resignation. While she understood his perspective as a warrior, his assertion that self-inflicted harm was akin to orcish behavior stung her pride. In her world, survival often necessitated drastic measures, and she was no stranger to making tough decisions. Yet, Legolas's admonition, delivered with a firmness that brooked no argument, left her feeling constrained, a sensation she found particularly galling.
As he meticulously collected the medical supplies, his final words echoed in her ears. "Keep in mind, I do not care what price you have chosen to pay. You can pay it, whenever you are again on your own. As long as you are under my care, acts like the previous are forbidden." The directive, clear and uncompromising, struck her as both overbearing and protective. It was an odd mix, coming from the elf.
Pulling her robe up, Xena tilted her head, pondering his words. 'Forbidden,' the term lingered in her mind, chafing against her independent nature. The very idea of being told what she could or could not do, especially regarding her own body, was infuriating. Yet, in her current state, she was acutely aware of her limitations and dependence on Legolas for aid.
Muttering under her breath, a mix of annoyance and frustration with herself, she retreated back under the covers. She conceded this round to the elf, acknowledging that in her present condition, defiance was futile. But she made a silent vow that once she recovered, they would revisit this discussion. For now, she was bound by necessity to abide by his rules, but the warrior in her bristled at the thought of restraint. The fire of her spirit remained undimmed, even as she lay in the dim light of the cave, plotting her return to independence.
The night in Mirkwood, ever a tapestry of shadows and whispers, stretched on, punctuated only by the occasional distant howl of a warg and the gentle crackling of the fire. Legolas, seated near the entrance of the cave, found himself enveloped in contemplation. His gaze, lost in the dance of the flames, reflected the turmoil of his thoughts. The arrival of Xena,a mortal different from his own elven experiences, had added an unexpected dimension to his life. It was on a night much like this, where the boundaries between the ordinary and the arcane seemed to blur, that their paths had crossed.
Legolas's mind replayed the evening's events, particularly the harrowing moment he had intervened to prevent Xena from harming herself. The decision to patrol the area surrounding the cave – a routine he had established thrice daily to ensure their safety – had never felt more crucial.
As he patrolled, the sight of the fire intensifying at the cave's entrance sparked a surge of concern. Legolas had raced through the trees, his heart pounding with apprehension, fearing some misfortune had befallen Xena. The scene he had stumbled upon – Xena, poised to cauterize her own wound with heated metal – was etched into his memory with startling clarity. The image of her, vulnerable yet resolute, ready to inflict pain upon herself to avoid further harm, haunted him.
It was a stark reminder of the contrasts between their worlds. In Legolas's eyes, such extreme measures were alien and disturbing, yet he recognized in Xena a kindred spirit of survival and resilience. The elf prince, accustomed to the healing arts of his people, was confronted with the raw, unvarnished reality of a mortal's will to endure.
Legolas, steeped in the traditions and ways of the elves, found the behavior of humans perplexing. His interactions with them had been fleeting, their lives but brief candles in the wind compared to the ageless existence of his kind. The presence of Xena, a mortal and a woman at that, was akin to navigating uncharted waters. To him, she was an enigma wrapped in the mystery of an entirely different culture.
Her actions thus far painted a picture of recklessness or incredible bravery, perhaps both. Wounded by an elven blade, she had somehow managed to survive in the perilous depths of Mirkwood, alone and grievously injured. The array of her weaponry, some unusual and some strikingly familiar, only added layers to the puzzle she represented. Xena, by all accounts, seemed to be a harbinger of complications that Legolas felt ill-prepared to handle.
Yet, the idea of abandoning her to her fate, while momentarily tempting in his frustration, was not a course he could conscionably follow. To leave her to fend for herself, especially after witnessing her drastic attempt at self-treatment, was unthinkable to him. Despite his initial inclination to let her deal with her own predicaments, his sense of duty and innate compassion prevailed. For now, he resigned himself to the role of her reluctant guardian, silently hoping that her impetuous nature would not lead them both into further peril.
In his eyes, her actions bordered on the foolhardy, a trait he had come to associate with the short-lived races. To Legolas, the ways of mortals often seemed rash and ill-considered, lacking the foresight and deliberation characteristic of elven kind. He chose to view Xena through this lens – as a representation of the impulsive nature of humans, a perspective shaped by his own long-lived and measured existence among the elves.
((Upcoming Chapter Twenty-Eight))
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