Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
LXXIV: Between Hatred and Heart
Woodland Realm, 3019 TA, May 13th
In the depths of her torment, Xena found herself ensnared in a relentless night, untouched by the passage of time or the grace of the sun. Thunderous roars from the heavens, accompanied by flashes of lightning, jolted her very soul, as though seeking to awaken her heart from its ensnared slumber. She felt as though she was engulfed in an impenetrable shroud of darkness, a prisoner within her own mind.
Whispers, insidious and unrelenting, wound their way through her thoughts, speaking of a dire obligation laid upon her – to bring harm to the Prince of Mirkwood. These voices, cunning and cruel, sowed the seeds of animosity, claiming that her heart harbored hatred for him, yet they offered no justification, no reasoning for such enmity.
During the initial days of this ordeal, Xena's spirit rebelled against the notion. She clung to the truth within her, aware that these accusations were baseless. But as the days stretched on, her resolve waned under the unceasing assault. Her mind and heart, wearied by the relentless siege, began to falter, to accept these falsehoods as reality.
To resist the hatred meant to endure excruciating pain; to recognize the deception only deepened the confusion that clouded her mind. The spell, she realized, was not crafted for humans. Its magic was overwhelming, its power too formidable to be contested or controlled. In this struggle against unseen sorcery, Xena found herself facing an adversary unlike any she had known – a battle not of swords and shields, but of will and mind.
Intriguingly, the door to Xena's chamber remained unlocked, yet she harbored no desire to flee. She was acutely aware that her quarters were situated opposite Legolas', a fact Thranduil often subtly reminded her of. Each dawn, as the first light kissed the treetops of Mirkwood, the Elvenking would visit her. His presence was both a comfort and a reminder of her situation. He would spend time speaking with her, casually mentioning Legolas' presence in his own room. Thranduil, astute and observant, had discerned that she was listening, grasping the essence of his words.
Following their conversations, Thranduil would often sing an Elvish lullaby, traditionally meant for children under enchantment. It was a tender gesture, reflecting his hope that somehow, the human warrior might navigate her way through the darkness of the curse. His faith in Xena's resilience was evident; she had demonstrated her strength and valor to him. In an uncharacteristically bold move, he had even allowed her to keep her weapons in her room, a decision not taken lightly, especially with Legolas' recent return heightening the risk of confrontation.
To add to the intricate dance of trust and caution, Thranduil had instructed Taurile to speak outside Xena's chamber about Legolas' return. The outcome of this maneuver was uncertain, but inaction was not an option for the Elvenking. He had his reasons to believe that Xena, even in her cursed state, would not harm Legolas, especially not in his sleep. Thranduil's actions were a calculated risk, a gamble on the innate goodness he perceived within the human warrior, even amidst the shadows of enchantment.
Lûl a nin, cûr a lind, (Sleep my child, heart so fair,)
Geven síla, brennil, veleth. (Stars are shining, lady, there.)
Echuiannen i laiss a linnon, (I'll wake the leaves and sing,)
A elen siluva lyenna. (To see your smile once again.)
In moments of turmoil, when confusion clouded her thoughts, Xena found a fragment of solace in the echoes of the Elvish lullaby. The words, though foreign to her understanding, carried a melody that soothed the restless storms within her soul. On this particular night, the gentle strains of the lullaby stirred her from slumber, a momentary respite in her ongoing battle against the curse.
Seated upon her bed in the dimly lit chamber, Xena was clad in simple white robes, a stark contrast to her usual armor. The garment was of Elvish make, flowing and ethereal, almost luminescent in the low light. The fabric, soft to the touch, draped over her form with an elegance that belied its simplicity. The robe was fastened at the waist with a slender girdle, its ends embroidered with delicate silver thread, shimmering faintly as if mimicking the starlight of Elven realms. The neckline was modest, edged with a fine, almost translucent lace that traced patterns reminiscent of the leaves and boughs of Mirkwood's ancient trees.
Her hair, usually bound in the practicality of battle, now fell loosely around her shoulders, its dark tresses contrasting with the purity of her attire. In this attire, Xena seemed a figure not just of strength and battle-hardened resolve, but also of a serene, almost ethereal grace, a warrior momentarily unburdened by the weight of armor and conflict.
The healers of Mirkwood attended to her daily, their administrations a blend of herbs and ancient Elven remedies, yet none seemed to alleviate the curse's grip. As she sat there, the remnants of the lullaby lingering in the air, a brief tranquility settled upon her – a fleeting peace in the midst of an unending storm.
The storm outside painted the night sky in sepia tones, casting a foreboding shadow over the silver-black canvas of the heavens. It was as though the very elements were aware that their tumultuous dance would resonate in Xena's mind for ages to come. She felt ensnared within herself, a prisoner in her own mind, watching helplessly as her body moved of its own accord, driven by the curse that had consumed her. The hatred it instilled was absolute, transforming her gaze into one reminiscent of her darkest days, when she was feared as the Destroyer of Nations.
Barefoot, she moved with an eerie grace, tiptoeing across the cold stone floor to retrieve her sword. It felt natural in her grasp, a familiar weight and balance that promised efficiency in the grim task the curse compelled her to undertake. Silently, she approached the door of her chamber, noting the absence of guards or attendants – not that their presence would have deterred her cursed mission.
Without a sound, Xena opened the door and slipped into Legolas' chamber. The details of his room, the intricate carvings, and elegant Elven décor, were lost to her cursed mind, which saw only the path to its target. She was driven by a baseless hatred, an enmity she could not understand yet could not resist.
Legolas, unaware of the danger that now lurked in his room, lay on his bed. Having bathed earlier, he was clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist, his usually well-kept appearance undone by weariness. His silver-blond hair, usually tied back in the manner of his people, now lay loose, cascading over his shoulders and back. The curse had drained him, leaving his heart heavy and his body exhausted. Only moments before, he had found a brief respite from the pain, and now he lay in a vulnerable state, unaware of the impending threat.
In a swift, almost spectral motion, Xena advanced. Though the curse had ensnared her mind, it had not dulled her warrior's instincts. Her movements were fluid and precise, a testament to her ingrained skills as a fighter. With a nimble leap, she ascended onto Legolas' bed, her actions swift yet eerily silent. In a seamless, continuous motion, she positioned herself atop him, her presence an ominous shadow in the dimly lit room.
Seizing Legolas by his long hair with one hand, Xena pulled with such force that their bodies entwined in a twisted dance. Legolas, abruptly roused from sleep, found himself lying on his back, Xena perched upon his stomach. Her grip was unyielding, her other hand brandishing the blade, its cold edge resting precariously against his neck.
The rustle of Xena's white robe contrasted with the tense silence of the room, the fabric billowing slightly as she moved, creating a ghostly aura around her. The air was thick with the tension of the moment, the only sounds being their shallow breaths and the soft rustling of fabric.
Legolas' eyes, dark like polished silver under the moonlight, met Xena's with an intense, yet confused gaze. His expression, clouded with bewilderment, bore no trace of fear for his own life. Instead, his eyes conveyed a mixture of surprise and a sense of betrayal at finding her – a comrade, a friend – in such a menacing posture.
Xena's appearance was haunting, her face pallid and her eyes hollow, clearly under the malevolent grip of the enchantment. Yet, even in this possessed state, there was something pained, something conflicted in the way she held herself. Legolas, despite the blade at his throat and the precariousness of his situation, stared back at her with an unspoken plea for recognition, for the warrior he knew to emerge from the depths of the curse that had claimed her.
In the dim light of the chamber, their gazes locked in a prolonged, silent exchange. Legolas, with a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes, silently urged Xena to find the strength within herself, to overcome the malevolent grip of the curse. Yet she remained motionless, the tip of her blade delicately tracing his skin, drawing a slender line of blood, but not plunging deeper. Her gaze was dark and distant, a mirror to a soul ensnared by darkness, yet there was a tremor of conflict within those depths.
As the moments stretched, Legolas realized he could wait no longer for Xena to break free from the spell's hold. With a swift motion, he seized her wrist, the one entangled in his hair, and with a gentle yet firm tug, he freed his silken locks. Simultaneously, his other hand moved with the grace and speed of an Elven warrior, striking her sword hand and sending the weapon clattering away.
In one fluid movement, Legolas used his legs to deftly unseat Xena from her position atop him. He executed a controlled yet powerful twist of his body, a maneuver honed through years of combat training. His action was not just a defensive reflex but also a calculated effort to avoid harming her. Xena was propelled across the room by the force of his movement, her white robe billowing around her like the wings of a startled swan.
The room was filled with the rustle of fabric and the soft thud of Xena's landing, a stark contrast to the tense silence that had preceded it. Legolas, now sitting up on his bed, watched Xena with a mixture of concern and wariness. The air was thick with unspoken questions and the palpable tension of a confrontation narrowly avoided.
In this moment, the room became a tableau of conflict and camaraderie, a dance of two warriors caught in a struggle far beyond the physical realm. The tension in the room was tangible, a silent testament to the curse that had brought them to this precipice, and the bond that still, tenuously, held them back from the brink.
Xena, with a slow, deliberate movement, pushed herself into a sitting position. Her hand instinctively reached for her sword, which lay discarded nearby. Her gaze never wavered from Legolas, who was adjusting the towel around his waist, an attempt to maintain some semblance of modesty. A faint smirk played across Xena's lips, not born of amusement but of the cursed resolve within her. She cared little for Legolas' state of dress; her sole intent was to act upon the hatred the curse had woven into her being, a hatred without reason or cause.
Legolas, though torn by his own inner turmoil and the shadows of his curse, was resolute in his decision not to harm Xena. Yet, he was equally determined to defend himself. Drawing his own knives, he prepared to face her renewed attack. The irony of the situation was not lost on him – the prospect of facing death at the hands of a loved one, and by a blade that had once belonged to his mother.
The ensuing battle was a tempest of clashing steel and swift movements. Xena, driven by the spell's influence, launched a relentless assault, her every strike precise and potent. Legolas, in response, moved with the fluid grace of an Elven prince, his defense a dance of agility and skill. His movements were a blend of evasion and deflection, aiming to disarm rather than injure.
Their duel carried them throughout the room, a whirlwind that left a trail of disarray in its wake. Tapestries trembled on the walls, and the sparse furniture was pushed aside or overturned in the heat of their confrontation.
The sound of steel rang out in the chamber, punctuated by the occasional thud of a body against the wall or floor. Both warriors bore the marks of the skirmish – shallow cuts and bruises that were a testament to their prowess and the intensity of their struggle.
Xena's attacks, though ferocious, were met with Legolas' skillful parries. His blades flashed in the dim light, a silver blur aimed at deflecting rather than wounding. Each move he made was calculated, seeking an opening to disarm her without causing serious harm.
The fight was not just a physical clash but also a battle of wills – Xena's cursed aggression against Legolas' desperate defense, a tragic ballet of two souls ensnared in curses beyond their control. As the struggle continued, the room around them bore witness to the chaos of a conflict that was as much internal as it was physical.
Their battle, relentless and evenly matched, continued with neither gaining the upper hand. Both Legolas and Xena, wearied by the curses that plagued them, found their strength waning as the fight progressed. In a fleeting moment, when an opening presented itself, Legolas seized the opportunity. With a deft maneuver, he reversed his knife, using the hilt to deliver a stunning blow near Xena's head, rendering her unconscious.
Her sword clattered to the ground as she began to fall, but Legolas, ever the protector, caught her in his arms before she could hit the floor. Gently, he placed his knives on the edge of his desk, then carefully lifted Xena in his arms. He carried her to his bed, which lay disheveled from their skirmish, and tenderly arranged her on it, taking a moment to smooth out the bedding before covering her with a blanket.
Standing beside the bed, Legolas sighed deeply, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and concern. He brushed her disheveled hair from her face with a gentle touch, his gaze lingering on her peaceful expression. In that quiet moment, his heart was heavy with the burden of their shared fate, the endless cycle of darkness and pain they were both ensnared in. If it were within his power, he would bear any curse, endure any suffering, if only to free her from its grasp.
After a prolonged period of contemplative silence, Legolas collected Xena's sword and placed it carefully beside her, ensuring it was within reach yet posed no immediate threat. He then set about tidying the chaos their duel had wrought, retrieving his own blades and restoring order to the room.
Once the immediate aftermath of their encounter was addressed, Legolas adorned himself in his long robes, garments befitting an Elf of Mirkwood. The robes were dark, adorned with intricate designs that spoke of the forest's deep shadows and whispering leaves, a reflection of his heritage and the realm he called home. In this attire, he stood as a figure both regal and somber, a prince of a realm shadowed by curses and secrets yet unwavering in his resolve.
Legolas approached Xena once more, his hand tenderly caressing her face as he whispered ancient Elvish blessings. His words, soft and melodic, carried a hope that they might grant her some respite, a momentary relief from the curse's grip. He yearned to speak to her, to explain all that lay heavy on his heart, but such a conversation seemed a distant possibility.
With a heavy heart, Legolas retreated from her side and found solace in his armchair, positioned where he could watch over Xena. He settled into the chair, his body weary and his heart burdened with the renewed ache of his own curse. Resigned to endure another bout of pain, he closed his eyes, his breaths becoming quicker and interspersed with sharp gasps as the curse's grip tightened.
Exhaustion and pain eventually overtook him, lulling him into a fitful sleep. He made no effort to secure himself against Xena; if she awoke and chose to end his life, so be it.
As dawn approached, Xena stirred from her slumber, the first sensation she registered being an overwhelming surge of hate. The emotion was intense yet strangely familiar. Without hesitation, she reached for her sword, rising to stand before Legolas, the blade aimed directly at his heart. She remained motionless, gazing at the Elf, a silent struggle raging within her as she fought to break free from the curse's influence.
Legolas' eyes fluttered open at the sensation of her sword's cold tip tracing his robe, yet not piercing the fabric. His gaze, clouded with weariness, met hers, filled with confusion. He had expected her to strike, to give in to the hate the curse fostered. Yet there she stood, not attacking, merely observing him. In his eyes, questions lingered – was she toying with him? What was the meaning of this hesitation? It was a contradiction to the relentless animosity he had anticipated, a perplexing deviation from the narrative dictated by the curse.
"You are weary," Xena's voice cut through the silence, colder and more detached than her usual tone. Yet, the mere fact that she spoke caught Legolas' full attention.
He nodded, his expression still etched with confusion, yet he decided to engage her in conversation. "Do you wish to kill me?" he inquired, hoping to find a way to reach through to her true self.
The word 'kill' seemed to unsettle her, a flicker of confusion passing over her features. "No, kill, I will harm you!" she declared, her words causing Legolas to sit up straighter in his chair, his gaze fixed on her in bewilderment.
"Harm me?" Legolas echoed, his response quick and laced with a slight urgency. "You realize that using your sword to pierce my heart would indeed kill me?"
A strange, almost terrifying laugh escaped Xena, a sound so uncharacteristic of her. "I will not cut or pierce any part of you, prince," she replied, her voice still carrying that chilling detachment.
Legolas, more perplexed than ever, pursued the conversation. "Then why all this, Xena?" he asked, his mind racing with questions. He remembered the intensity of the hatred she had shown, the relentless pursuit to end his life. What had changed? What was happening now that stayed her hand, that altered the course of her actions under the curse? The situation seemed to defy the logic of the spell that had bound her, creating a new layer of mystery in the already complex web of their fates.
Xena's gaze remained fixed on Legolas, her sword still exerting a gentle pressure against his chest. Legolas, however, did not recoil; he held his ground, his steadfastness capturing her attention. Abruptly, she withdrew her sword, the curse's influence still evident in her hate-filled eyes. Though ensnared in its dark cloud, the curse had underestimated the strength and complexity of Xena's character.
"I hate you," she declared, her voice loud and resolute, sending a pang of sorrow through Legolas' heart. "To see you suffer would bring me joy, but killing you... there is no pleasure in that!" she stated, a twisted smirk playing on her lips.
Legolas rose to his feet, his head slightly tilted as he absorbed her words. "Then what is it that you desire?" he inquired, seeking clarity amidst the turmoil of her cursed state.
"I wish to see you in pain, for it to quell my hatred," she explained, her intense gaze fixed on him.
"You are then free to observe," Legolas responded with a somber tone. "Each day, I endure my own torment, a personal affliction. Will that suffice, or do you seek more evidence of my suffering? For I can assure you, the pain is profound, especially with you here, yet so far removed from who you truly are."
Xena paused, taking a moment to scrutinize him, her eyes studying his visage and the agony within. "Indeed, you are in agony, in endless pain. You should never know peace," she remarked, noting how Legolas had drawn nearer, his eyes locked onto hers, a silent plea for understanding shining through the pain.
"I seek not peace," Legolas uttered, his voice strained under the resurgence of his own curse, a series of sharp pains assaulting his heart. Yet he persisted, grasping Xena's arm gently to draw her closer. He could see in her eyes the wild, untamed look of a creature caught in the throes of the curse. "And perhaps in my confusion, you may find your way to freedom."
Xena's head tilted slightly, her expression one of bewilderment at his words. She was about to respond when Legolas acted impulsively, pressing his lips to hers in a sudden, unexpected kiss. At first, she was motionless, taken aback by the warmth of his lips against hers. But then, a memory stirred within her – not of Legolas, but of the act of kissing itself. She had known passionate kisses, even amidst hatred. A smirk crossed her face, and she responded by wrapping her arms around him. It was not an embrace of affection, but a means to draw him nearer, deepening the kiss.
Legolas, his mind clouded by pain and the surreal nature of the moment, felt his resolve waver. The human, cursed as she was, was kissing him back fervently, her actions driven by a mix of hate and a strange, twisted enjoyment. Despite the hatred that fuelled her, there was an undeniable intensity to their kiss, a complexity of emotions that defied the simplicity of the curse.
Her emotions were still steeped in animosity, her intent to cause harm unmistakable. Yet, in this moment, she seemed to be deriving a perverse pleasure from their contact, using him to satisfy her twisted desires under the spell's influence. Legolas, caught in the paradox of pain and the unexpected passion of their kiss, found himself in a tumult of conflicting emotions, his heart aching both from the curse and the complexity of the situation unfolding before him.
Legolas found himself utterly bewildered, not so much by his own impulsive act of kissing Xena, but by her unexpected response. He had always assumed that under the spell's influence, she would be purely dangerous, a threat devoid of any semblance of her true self. Yet her actions were paradoxically perilous yet measured, a combination that defied his expectations. Today's events had unfolded in a manner he could not have anticipated, and he resolved to ponder over this development come the morrow.
The kiss eventually broke, and Xena, smirking, stepped back from a visibly exhausted Legolas, who slumped into the armchair. "I believe I have won this round," she declared, a hint of triumph in her voice. She then proceeded to collect her sword and made her way towards the door, intent on returning to her chamber.
Legolas, still reeling from their exchange, called out to her. "What of your intentions to kill me?" he inquired, seeking clarity on their precarious situation. "Should I expect your return?"
"Every night, I shall come to torment you," she assured him, her words carrying the cold certainty of the curse, before taking her leave.
Left alone, Legolas touched his lips, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and questions. The encounter had blurred the lines between the curse's influence and genuine emotion, leaving him to wonder at the reality of their interaction. This question lingered in his thoughts, unresolved and puzzling, until sleep once again claimed him, drawing him into a restless slumber.
((Upcoming Chapter Seventy-Four))
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