Six weeks earlier.
Fatigue had slathered on Isobel's muscles as she ran through the halls, the ache from their recent battle still heavy on her wiry limbs; as thick and as sludgy as butter. Quickly she pushed aside any morsel of self-sympathy, doing her darnedest to ignore the feelings that sought to sap her remaining strength whilst she kept up with the retreating forms of the fellowship.
They had just departed Balin's tomb and all the horrors it had entailed. Gore, death and that untenable chase for survival that had fear surging like adrenaline through their veins, something unnamed ran along side them as they ran now. Along with it came that inevitable drag of hopelessness that tugged urgently upon weary limbs like a ball and chain. Some carried it more than others. And none more so than the small hobbit with the curly brown hair beside her; the one whose burden was quite literally dangling around his neck, a perpetual noose that only time and stoicism might have a hope of loosening.
And as high-pitched shrieks broke on their ears from above whatever sorrow Isobel might have felt for herself caved to an unquenchable thirst to do what she must to protect her friends. Pain, torment and death, in that moment she knew that she would gladly trade it all away on a beggar's hands and knees if it afforded Legolas, Aragorn and the others but another minute on this good, green earth. No cost was too great for the one who had already paid this due a thousand time over.
Their journey so far had been arduous. Weeks and weeks of traipsing through the wilderness had clearly taken it's toll on their little rabble of freedom fighters. Caradhras had been bad enough, what with disappearing waist-deep beneath a frigid mush that had seeped like gloom on their bones. And now this. Endless days of blinding darkness followed by a harrowing and blood-thirsty fight for their lives.
But it hadn't all been doom and gloom. Much of the journey had in fact, been wonderfully freeing for the young woman who carried had repugnance on her shoulder like an unwelcome puppet for so long. Even now much of the fellowship remained ignorant to her true nature. And for that she was eternally grateful.
For those outside of the elf, the ranger and the wizard, Isobel was little more than a pretty face; one whom, if you asked Boromir, would have been better suited to staying home to practice her needlework. And while that sentiment should have annoyed the young woman who had spent many years alone fighting for survival in a dark and lonely world, confusingly it didn't. Instead she found the notion humorous; as if his ignorance were endearing rather than offensive.
Oh, if only he'd known the truth about her!
Despite weeks traversing the landscape together only when it had come to that fight with the watcher on the outskirts of Moria had Boromir finally begun to see Isobel as more than just a shiny trinket. The boldness and skilfulness with which she'd engaged in battle had done wonders to garner his respect. So much so that they'd spent much of the last few days comparing sparring strategies with the others. The Gondorian, of course, had flirted with her shamelessly, much to the irritation of a certain blonde elf who had watched from the wrathful shadows.
Isobel couldn't suppress her cringe when another shrill cry broke upon her eardrums from above. And again when she made the mistake of looking up only to see the ceiling above writhing with what appeared to be an immeasurable number of goblins headed their way. A tiny gasp lowered her jaw, one that was quickly swallowed by the unending darkness and furious scurries echoing all around them. She tried her best to stifle the sound with a hand to her mouth. And mercifully, it had gone unnoticed by all except the elf's extraordinary hearing. Legolas gave her quick smile of sympathy as his hand found the small of her back, soothing the sweaty flesh with a quick swipe of a thumb that was equally as compassionate as it was encouraging.
Ahead, Gandalf led the charge through the vast caverns, the bright light of his staff the only embodiment of hope nearby, however meagre that was. Given the blanket of gloom that had swallowed them whole, Isobel had no idea where they were running to. Only that goblins were closing in around them at an alarming rate. Every step forward seemed to bring their vile stench closer and closer. So close that Isobel swore she could almost feel them breathing down her neck.
Again she couldn't help but cringe, unnerved by the finality of the sensation that was more imagined that it was apparent. Unbidden, a rippling ran down her spine, inadvertently causing the stranglehold on the hilt of her knives to tighten. Determination felt reinvigorating in her grip and she dragged her gaze forth to the endless fog of darkness, waiting with bated breath for the moment it would all come to a head.
A quick glance backward and a few sharp words from the wizard up front was all it took to break her fortitude. And her feet near stuttered to a halt with shock, causing a firm body to collide with her flank.
"We might be needing some of those 'special powers' of yours soon enough, my dear. Be at the ready!"
A pair of warm hands immediately enveloped her hips, the hilt of something hard digging into the bones below her waist as she was driven into action by the grip of the elf. Isobel's feet reanimated well before her mind could – still wedged beneath an untenable amount of terror at the prospect of revealing herself to those that did not know. But Legolas held her steady, his long fingers grounding her frame with the soothing touch of tenderness, if not urgency.
The fellowship were grinding to a halt but a moment later when their escape path seemed to bottleneck to a narrow tunnel. Goblins were swarming towards the rocky cut-out like flies on rotting meat, hellbent on cutting off their prey's means of escape before it was too late.
Without warning she was shoved forward from behind to the forefront of their rabble. (Isobel would thank Aragorn for that later.) And suddenly she was netted beneath a bright light and a penetrating grey stare that was as hard as it was irresistible.
"For those that do not know, Isobel is a witch. And a very formidable one at that," Gandalf announced loudly and without preamble. And whatever romantic notion of going down in blazing glory for those that she loved died instantly in the back of her throat, seizing instead as a thick lump of horror that no longer had anything to do with the enemy amassing nearby.
She was trembling when she turned a pair of dilated pupils upon the others, terrified by the prospect of seeing the disgust etched on their faces but helplessly pulled forth by masochistic inquisitiveness nonetheless. Predictably, Legolas and Aragorn were eyeing her with an unbridled amount of pride burning in their gazes. But this was nowhere near enough to counter the filthy glare amassing on Boromir's face. Nor was it enough to erase the scar of Gimli's ugly scowl when she met his dark eyes.
No, it was only when her gaze landed upon a pair of soft brown ones, so unquestionably underwritten by the terror of innocence that her wretched heart steeled in her chest.
"Isobel?" Frodo queried quietly, his chest still laboured from their flight. There was no hesitation in the hobbit's hazel eyes; just a fickle curiosity as pure as it was searching.
There was no cost too great …
Blue hardened to stone and she spun on her forefoot without another thought, the knives she'd been holding clattering to the ground as she splayed her fingers southerly. The fellowship could only gasp, some in wonder and some not, as immediately the young woman's hands ignited with a violent purple glow.
Goblins continued to pour in around them in unfathomable numbers, drawing ever closer to the circle of interlopers that had been foolish enough to trespass on their hive.
"Now?" Isobel asked. Her voice was a little high on the last syllable owing to the uncertainty beginning to surround them.
"Hold!" the wizard commanded, elevating the shaft of his staff just a little higher when he roughly dragged a nearby hobbit behind him.
Bodies pressed in closer against Isobel's flank, jostling her shoulders and her concentration for but a moment. Worryingly, the glow around her palms flickered like a failing light bulb momentarily. But she quickly reigned it in, drawing within a slow breath to contain the frightening level of power that was rallying in the centre of her chest. Something feral and untamed was itching to be unleashed. She could feel it escalating, like a volcano on the verge of explosion. And for one second she couldn't help the spear of regret that flickered through her gaze.
Still goblins waged around them, their snarling faces drawing ever nearer as they clanged their swords together in warning.
"Now?" she tried again. Her own feet had stuttered back of their own accord, inadvertently creating a seal with the shoulders of the ranger next to her; the man whose muscles were as coiled with intent as a cat's where he held before him a sword that shimmered brightly in the low light.
"Hold!"
More and more green figures spilled in around them and soon the fellowship were completely surrounded by a sea of disfigured faces whose hearts and minds were so evidently rife with evil intent.
"Mithrandir?!" Isobel called urgently, warring hard with the instinct to recoil further where it slackened her jaw.
"NOW!"
With a quick step forward she was whirling. Pale hands lurched quickly upward before thrusting to the ground with incredible speed, leaving her to land in a crouch. And carried with the motion as if yanked from an invisible cloud bed itself was the bright violet spark of lightning; enormous raging bolts of electricity that struck the ground in the midst of the goblins before them with such unparalleled force that the rocks beneath their feet shuddered in protest. Instantly the vast masses of their enemy was obliterated as if they never were. And the fellowship was surging forth with incredulity on their tongues, capitalising on the surreal moment that had rendered escape a possibility.
The one thing neither of them had accounted for when Isobel had ripped the forces of nature from the invisible fabric of the earth was that it had been a very long time since the mines of Moria had been a haven for such things. The expulsion of the very old and very raw form of magic had inadvertently awoken something ancient that been slumbering inside for many millennia.
And with that, the cost had been repaid. And a great cost at that.
Isobel couldn't speak by the time they stumbled out into the daylight, the burden of guilt far too heavy for her weary frame to shoulder. She staggered away from the fellowship as soon as they'd broken free from the awful stench of death to collapse upon a pair of grazed knees. Ragged brown hair strewed about her face when she buried it in her hands, far too ashamed by her actions to meet the eyes of the others. But equally far too encumbered to cry. She could do little but clutch her skin tightly, fingernails clawing into the flesh along her brow as if to dig deep into the brain that had facilitated it all.
Legolas was crouched behind her in moments, enveloping her in tight embrace and a sweet scent that played upon her wretched mind like a mouse dangled before a ravenous cat. There was little to say. But he murmured to her in the serene lilt of elvish nonetheless, hoping to appease some of the penitence that was now shuddering through her tear-less frame.
Suffice to say, their trip to Lothlorien was a sullen one at that. The grief of Moria clung like the last of winter's chill, dampening their spirits with a dense cloud of moroseness that settled all around them like the fog they awoke to on early morn. Ashamed, Isobel lingered near the rear as they walked, the soft crown of her head the only part visible from a bowed head.
But as it turned out in the end none of the fellowship had actually blamed Isobel for Gandalf's demise, despite her having cast the intention that had drawn the balrog forth from it's fiery bed. To her complete disbelief, from that day onward the hobbits held her with a kind of reserved wonder. Having not been privy to the childhood fairy tales the humans regaled of hero/heroine versus evil, in their mind she were not a nightmare envisaged but an enchantress reminiscent of the recently departed maia.
And owing to the influence of the magical realm of Lothlorien into which they then entered, whose queen was a sorceress no less, even Gimli's solid heart of scorn was soon won over.
Only Boromir had remained suspicious of Isobel after that, choosing instead to keep her at arms length as if she were indeed the befouled creature he now assumed her to be. Through their time at Caras Galadhon he made a point of leaving the vicinity every time she drew near. And once, in a fitful rage, had even accused her of being a demon whore from Mordor sent to sabotage their quest. Despite the humiliation, somewhere in a closeted part of her mind Isobel supposed it was lucky the other members of the fellowship thought highly enough of her to disregard such outlandish accusations.
Because as it turned out sticks and stones could indeed break her bones.
But the cold shoulder hurt just as much.
oOOOo
Isobel did not wish to attend. This was evident in the troubled gaze that reflected back at her. Idly, she toyed with a lock of long, chestnut hair that fallen forward over her shoulder as turmoil played in her mind. Who was this stranger starting back at her? When she looked in the mirror now, all she saw were empty blue eyes that hid a storm of pain and regret.
She sighed, running a tired hand over her face, trying to rub away the images that continued to scourge her; images of soft smiles and bristled beards that rubbed against her skin in exactly the wrong ways. But it was futile and before long guilt had flood to the forefront of her mind, laced as thickly with self-loathing as the taste of Eomer's lips that had fused to her memory like a second skin.
Want. Need. Love. The last one caught in her her oesophagus and she choked, gagging back the sob that burned acidly behind her tongue.
Legolas.
Unbidden the blonde elf's image flashed through her mind's eye and suddenly it wasn't Eomer's lips that had been branded to her own, but an entirely different pair. A softer, intensely passionate pair that kissed her with the fierce ache of a lover avowed. And it set Isobel's fractured heart bursting with all the feelings it harboured but could never acknowledge aloud. Just as starkly some deeper level of masochism forced the image of the elf prince's tongue slipping into her mouth to the forefront of her vision and she jerked in response, jarring violently against the hands that had been prying the tangles from her long-neglected hair.
"Be still, child!" Gamhild admonished. The sharpness of the rebuke inadvertently tore the brush harsher against her scalp and Isobel winced, feeling the knotted strands cry out in protest where they snagged on her skin.
Despite her reticence for tonight, obligation and a sense of propriety had forced the reluctant young woman into obedience. As someone of noble heritage and a warrior who had fought in Helm's Deep, duty had chained her to attendance to the event she had no enthusiasm for. Really, she already had been doing exactly that, following orders, as she'd allowed a maid, the only maid who would agree to attend to her, to prepare her for tonight's gathering. However reluctantly that might have been.
For an hour she'd listened numbly as Gamhild had soaked the afternoon's grime from her skin, rubbed creams and ointment into her cheeks until they no longer appeared on the brink of death and draped her in a rich velvet gown of midnight blue. As it turned out, Isobel had healed her near-death husband on the plains outside Helms Deep. Drily, she surmised that Gamhild had only agreed to attend to her in the first place out of a sense of reciprocal obligation, for no other had dared to entertain the young woman. And that sentiment did nothing to bolster Isobel's rapidly declining self-worth that by now, felt as ungainly and immovable as an anvil.
In the haze of a distracted mind, she only vaguely heard the the older woman's coos of appreciation when Gamhild stepped back to admire her handiwork. And while truthfully Isobel couldn't have cared what she looked like, when she lifted her gaze to eye the reflection of the woman in the mirror she had to admit the old maid had done a fine job. Gone was the pallor of grey, the illness that had lingered on her skin since that afternoon. Instead a subtle apricot blush had been swept across her cheekbones it's wake. Her lips were no longer chapped and unworshipped but a shiny rose red. And her eyes held a higher, more inquisitive look to them, owing to the copious amounts of ointments that had been slathered all around. Wryly, the young witch had to admit that she almost looked approachable.
Isobel felt the crease of an obligatory smile lift the corner of her eyes and she was reaching out to clasp the older woman's hands in gratitude without another thought. Only for Gamhild to lurch before they could touch, a look of pure horror dropping on her aged jaw. The maid's dark brown eyes glowered unabashedly at the pale fingers extended towards her own – the embodiment of Isobel's power – as if the brunette were cradling death itself in that smooth-skinned palm and it were something far crueller than just friendship she was offering.
And then Gamhild was gone, wordlessly fleeing the room in great haste for someone of her age, leaving behind a beautiful young woman whose spine had caved over the burden of a secret far to heinous to accept.
The repugnance was unbearable and as Isobel stared at the woman in the mirror she barely recognised, melancholy thoughts again dragged her towards the events of the afternoon; to the kiss and all it should have embodied but hadn't. Once, that had been something she had searched for. If she was being honest with herself, part of the reason why she had protested so much was because she still wanted it. But with another. Desperately, so. For in the deepest closet of Isobel's heart, firmly under lock and key, lay a fierce and overarching desire to belong to someone; to feel a love so deep and all-consuming that it permeated every aspect of her body, mind and soul. This secret, the need to find complete acceptance in the warmth of a lover's embrace, burned within her every second of every day so much so that it was with shame that she looked upon the love found by others with pained jealousy.
But for herself, this was not a reality that Isobel felt she could hope for. Not even with the elf prince she adored. She was an outsider, a genetic blip, and the things that she could do, the true things that she could do, were not cause for celebration. Under the macabre blanket of this burden, Isobel did not believe there was any who would willingly accept her so intimately.
In a moment of weakness one final thought sparked through from the uncontrollability; one final fragmentation as cruel as it was categorical.
Eomer would never have kissed her if he had known the true extent of her abilities.
Overwhelming remorse suddenly gleamed through her heart and the young woman doubled over further, overwritten by a tightness around her chest that seemed akin to pure panic. Nails dredged uselessly against the flesh through her gown, leaving long red strips between her breasts but doing little to appease the tight fibres of agony that had banded around her heart. It was hard to imagine anyone drowning on dry land but for Isobel, that's exactly what it felt like. Drowning, suffocating beneath the echoes of stolen fantasies that by rights were owed to someone far better.
Mercifully, it was over as quickly as it began, leaving a young woman gasping and clinging to the edge of an old timber bureau in search of some semblance of fortitude to band a wounded soul back together.
Tonight she would fulfil her obligation for as long as necessary. And then she would retreat to the gloom where she could lick her wounds in solitude again.
oOOOo
Legolas shifted, tugging uncomfortably at the neck of his shirt that should have felt as comfortable as a second skin as the hall filled around him.
Despite decades of practice assimilating with humans, it did not surprise him to find that he still found discomfort in the presence of so many. Troop after troop was piling in around them, flooding the low lit room with an almost claustrophobic atmosphere that had the elf prince feeling strangled.
Almost unconsciously, he took a step closer to Aragorn, his body fulfilling the desire of comforting familiarity where his stubborn mind refused to acknowledge it. Amused, the younger man noticed, a small playful smile gracing his lips at the prince's obvious reticence.
"Av-'osto," (Do not be afraid) The latter murmured softly in elvish.
But this only garnered a grimace of outrage from the fair being, whose pride rebelled fiercely at the meek-minded suggestion that he might be experiencing something so trite as fear from a social situation. And this in turn, devolved into a snickering from his human compatriot who derived nothing but mirth from teasing his far-too-serious elven companion. Soon the ranger was quite literally ribbing Legolas, nudging the elf's rigid frame over and over and earning himself yet another deep glower of disgust that was not taken seriously at all. But as always, the ranger's amusement was infectious, and having known one another for many long decades, before long the elf prince too could not suppress the laughter tugging at the corner of his lips, despite his better instincts.
And yet despite the disarming nature of the humour that had the elf prince settling back with more ease, Legolas had yet to see Isobel. And that had his senses fluttering with renewed anxiety. As time trickled by, the blonde elf found himself fixated upon the entrance, possessed by a single-minded focus that had him consumed by thoughts of her arrival. It was more than just the appearance of another friendly face that had him fidgeting so. He craved the security of the young woman's presence; he needed it in ways he couldn't always fathom.
But tonight was a night he needed her more than any other.
Tonight he burned for her.
oOOOo
Automatically Isobel followed the troop of men filing in through the ornate wooden doors. The rough stones scraped beneath her feet, unbeknownst to her fractured mind, still ensnared in her earlier turmoil. Nor did it register the echoes of excitement that reverberated around the timber walls of the hallway, beating around her haggard frame like the chatter of colony of bats, about to embark on their nightly foray.
She should have felt elated – this was a celebration, after all! Surviving what they had just endured was miraculous. And in the honour of remembrance for those that had given their lives, they owed so much for tonight. But equally that word was increasingly beginning to feel foreign to the young woman who found herself day by day sinking lower into the depths of despair. Honour held no place for one as tainted as she. And as she passed beneath the archway into the illuminated chamber to face an endless sea of individuals who paid her no mind, this was increasingly apparent.
She tried hard to shake the grief from her shoulders when she scanned around the room for familiar faces. And by the time her gaze caught Aragorn's, who stood near the front with Legolas, Isobel could only hope that her face was awash with the impassiveness she'd intended.
Like her, they had both cleaned up well. Aragorn's perpetual travesty of dark hair had been washed and combed. He had been clothed in a simple red shirt and black velvet vest. The elf beside him, despite the hesitation on his fair face, was handsome in a delicately embroidered shirt of silver.
Without a moment's pause Aragorn fixed Isobel with a glorious smile as soon as they locked eyes, waving her over with enough joviality for the three of them combined. And she found herself stumbling blindly forth through the bodies as if tugged by some magnetic pull that swayed her limbs where her anchored heart remained lagging behind.
Legolas, having not yet seen her, could only follow the direction of his friend's gaze to light upon the most exquisite creature he'd ever laid eyes upon. Though Isobel's beauty had never escaped his notice, tonight she shone with such radiance that the elf prince found himself uncharacteristically paralysed. Her dark hair swept across her shoulders in delicate curls, capturing the warmth of the lanterns in amber hues. She wore a fitted dress of deep blue that hugged her slim frame, the colour perfectly offsetting the warmth of her skin in a palette of peaches and cream. Impossibly, her eyes gleamed with an even more intricate pattern of sapphire shades. Though they held something tonight, a flicker of a shadow that Legolas, who hadn't seen her since earlier that day, couldn't quite rationalise. Instantly he felt the smile fade from his own face.
With an amused snort at the elf's reaction, Aragorn drew Legolas' attention back to the present as the young woman navigated through the press of bodies to join them. Here she was met with warm arms and a gentle kiss on her cheek.
"You are so beautiful," Aragorn said, his dark eyes shining with sincerity in the dim light as he took her in. After a moment he released her and stepped back to allow his elven companion to embrace her also.
Isobel tried to return their radiant grins but she found herself faltering when recent memories lurched to the forefront of her mind. Kisses, touches, warmth and affection, all those things she ached for that she could never have rushed forth like starving seagulls on a newly discarded meal. And all of it, every damned feeling and the hopelessness that accompanied was amplified by the presence of a singular blonde elf.
Without even meaning to sorrow creased between her brow as the encumbered young woman drank in the unfathomably handsome features of the elf she loved with as much reverence as an addict yearning for their next hit. She was feeble to resist, the call of belonging far too much for her wasted heart to war against. Legolas was everything she'd ever fantasised about in the darkness of her dreams; a fiercely passionate soul who adored her for who she was, magic, flaws and all. She could only dream of the romantic bliss possession by such a lover might weave. Not to mention the home they could create together in his kingdom where she might finally find the peace and the acceptance her weary soul had craved for the longest time.
"Ma den?" (What is it?) Legolas asked tightly, his voice falling to concern when he noted the young woman's strained expression. The warmth of his hands still held her waist while he scanned her face, unbeknownst to the young woman still struggling to see through her melancholy fog.
Idly, her gaze shifted to Eomer who stood beside the king, her soft lips parting slightly when she took in the appearance of the rugged marshal. She hardly recognised him without the chain mail and seriousness that normally adorned his face. Tonight, he looked relaxed and comfortable as he laughed freely with the nearby Rohirrim. Effortlessly handsome, she would have said in any other audience, swallowing hard the surge of want that again bubbled to the surface from the pit of her stomach.
That feeling could have been yours, she reminded herself cruelly. Affection. Adoration. Eomer had offered it to you freely just this afternoon.
And while he ultimately wasn't the one her heart yearned for, for one moment of weakness she allowed herself to indulge in a vision of the life that almost could have been happy. Almost. All it would have taken would have been a few well placed lies.
But it wasn't in Isobel's nature to be untruthful, not even to herself. And so she had shunned the advance, only to be welcomed back by the arms of the gloom she knew far too intimately.
"Avo drasto," (Do not worry) she heard herself murmur, before tearing her gaze away.
It was hard for her to ignore the feeling of Legolas' hands on her hips. However affectionately he held her she couldn't help but liken the touch to shackles; those that so determinedly chainedher emaciated heart behind bars of longing, never to obtain.
With a furtive shiver, the young woman wrapped her arms around herself, trying in vain to stave of the chill that accompanied.
"Man agórer achin?" (What happened?) Legolas pressed stubbornly, unnerved by the demeanour of his friend that saw her close off.
Abruptly something seemed to implode inside Isobel and she was swivelling quickly to face him with the barest hint of moisture shining in her eyes.
"Gar nin," (Hold me) she begged in a whisper, suddenly seeming more broken that the elf had ever seen her before she was collapsing into his embrace.
The shock registered far swifter than the touch of the young woman's limbs around his neck, so much so that it took half a second for the elf's stunted heart to stutter back to life. Once it did he too was quick to wrap his arms around her waist, cradling her slight frame to his in a bruising embrace. The position was an intimate one. One that was so rare for the pair to share but equally so natural that it sat comfortably upon the elf's muscles. Legolas could feel the proximity of Isobel's lips to his skin when she let out a shaky exhale that ruffled the flaxen hairs near the base of his skull. Quiet though it was, he failed to miss the sound that was almost a sob and immediately his own heart began thumping in it's bony cage like an erratic wildebeest.
Unconsciously he drew the young woman tighter to his chest, indulging in a selfish moment to inhale the sweet scent of her hair that was only barely masked by the shifting of her weight in his arms. But equally there was something so distinctly disquieting about the closeness that had the elf furiously trying to combat the notion that this moment were far less about comfort and far more about saying 'goodbye.'
"Isobel?" he begged urgently.
He could feel the warble of uncertainty in his own speech, as earnest as a small child but as desperate as a glow worm scrabbling to hold on to the last fragile threads of silken intimacy with it's most treasured possession. Legolas couldn't begin to fathom why the young woman was withdrawing from him. Only that she was and that it stung like swallowing shards of broken glass. It made him feel frantic. It made him feel helpless; akin to needles piercing their way through the layers of his stomach to eviscerate what little remained.
Somewhere in the haze of grief Isobel's tongue had unloosed itself from where it had fused to the roof of her mouth. And before she could stop herself a confession was gurgling along her throat, owing to the pain she sensed in her companion's tense demeanour.
"I – "
Fortunately, they were interrupted before something Isobel might regret could slide from her tongue. And the pair jerked apart as if they'd never been.
Soon the king had given his tribute and pints of mead had been pressed in to their hands. And then the sounds of celebration erupted around them like an explosion. Shortly after the air was a thick fog of smoke punctuated by the acrid scent of ale. For his part, Aragorn had already taken it in his stride. Grinning widely, he had already been lost in the thrall of joyousness, having been swallowed by the masses a while ago.
Only Legolas and Isobel remained where they stood, their newfound stiffness juxtaposed with the joviality of those around them. For her part, she was consumed by her earlier melancholy; he, by concern for her and the lingering sting of truthfulness that had only just narrowly evaded him. Together they stood in silence, uncomfortably sipping their mead.
Much to Legolas' chagrin, it wasn't long before the polite attempts of the Rohirrim to engage the beautiful woman next to him became emboldened as the copious amounts of alcohol quickly erased all traces of the reticence they once held towards her. Increasingly, Legolas found himself separated from his companion as more and more men pushed in to make a pass. To his disgust, hands were suddenly everywhere; sweeping hair behind her ear, rubbing the small of her back, or worse still, slipping lower. Irritated, the elf fought the urge to violently fend them off. But he knew that causing a scene would only distress his already encumbered friend further. Instead, he reclined himself against a nearby oak barrel and settled for fixing anyone who met his gaze with a glare so withering it could freeze a mountain troll.
For her part, the evening was quickly becoming far too much. Isobel had known long before stepping into the hall tonight that the combination of battle-weariness and far too much mead only could lead to an overwhelming need to dominate; not only dominate one another but also anything they perceived as 'untouchable'. She was theenigma in their rabble. The pariah. The powerful witch whose singular possession might solidify one soldier's superiority over another. Just the concept of it made her feel ill. And combined with the contradictory behaviour that had suddenly seen 'the unworthy' thrust into the midst of a throng of very horny men, she was very quickly suffocating beneath thick clouts of anxiety.
Propriety be damned, stranger's hands were touching her everywhere. Hands gripped the curve of her waist tightly to drag her attentions away from the forefront. When she was no longer looking flagrant fingertips took the opportunity to ghost the swell of her breasts, caressing the softness that wasn't theirs to claim through the fabric of her dress. And when all else failed to garner the beautiful woman's affections around the sheer number of suitors attempting to woo her, some particularly verbose individuals found that a simple pinch of the soft flesh of her rear was enough to garner a modicum of the attention they craved.
Ale permeated the air around the young woman, as intoxicatingly overwhelming as it was nauseating and before long she was withering beneath an oppressive feeling akin to panic.
Abruptly, she made her excuses, deftly pushing aside the wandering hands before slipping out a side door and in to the dark night in search of the isolation she was accustomed to.
Concerned, Legolas had tried to follow as she left. But his path had been blocked by an inebriated dwarf with an unswerving challenge for a drinking game. It was only with stubborn refusal that the dwarf finally desisted, moving on to the next worthy opponent with a shrug.
Irritated, Legolas squeezed through the crowds to the place he'd last seen Isobel as quickly as he could. He was deftly navigating between two groups of particularly vigorous revellers when he felt a hand clamp on to his shoulder. Spinning quickly, he was met with the cool eyes of Eomer.
"Have you seen Isobel?" the latter drawled through a pair of blurry eyes and slurred speech. "I wish to speak with her."
Disdain clouded the elf's features.
"No," he scowled as he yanked himself free, before stalking away.
Legolas burst through the side door with the gasp of one erupting from beneath the surface of a particularly suffocating pool. Having held on til his last dying breath immediately he felt the tension began to seep from his shoulders, chased away by the serenity of the cool night air that washed over him. Despite his abstinence from the ale, his head had begun to buzz with the cacophony of chaotic stimulation from the celebration. The brightness of the lights, the shrillness of the shrieks and the humdrum of the general revelry had all been a bit too much for the enhanced senses of the elf. Not to mention the putrid stench of the alcohol that singed his sensitive nostrils like a candle held beneath his nose. For the fair creature born of the light who felt far more at home in a forest on a clear night than he did surrounded by excitement, it had all tasted far too vulgar.
Mercifully, the air was clear tonight, the stars bright and the moon near whole where it sidled out from beneath a particularly dense patch of clouds. Peace was upon the breeze, a harmony carried by the wind that swirled around to tease his long hair out from behind his shoulders. Legolas' heart had only just begun to slow it's thumping by the time he registered a quiet voice amongst the serenity; the only notable sound amongst the unspoiled.
Isobel sat in the distance with her back to him, her legs dangling over the flagstones as she stared across the plains of Edoras. Her long, dark hair danced gently in the wind, capturing the moon's light as it twirled. But it was the sound of her singing that had the elf prince's heart immediately stilling in his chest, tugged southward by the stoniness of her voice. Sweet and humble, it carried with the rustle of the trees, breaking upon the elf's eardrums with such melodic mournfulness that whatever notion of harmony instantly fizzled away.
He was silent when he moved to sit beside her and the strength of her voice failed, rippling out as the preoccupation that had gripped her caved to wariness. Instantly she stiffened and immediately Legolas felt guilty for the intrusion that suddenly seemed as obtuse as it was unwanted. Though he could not for the life of him explain why.
Quietly they sat beside one another, silent for the longest while, both keenly aware of the discomfort that had somehow sidled between them and their friendship. Neither could pinpoint how it had got there. Only that it was a barrier, an impenetrable wall as it were, that had been erected some time between that morning and the present moment. It sat awkwardly between them. Obtrusively foreign, like a lone black sheep amongst a see of pristine white.
The tension was maddening for the elf prince so unused feeling out of control that he was powerless to stop himself when he reached over capture Isobel's small hand in his own. His long fingers gently stroked the softness of the her skin as his eyes roved over the despair on her face, searching for some sign of the young woman he'd come to adore. Never had Legolas seen Isobel this despondent before and it hurt him in a way that was strangely reciprocal.
"You lied to me," he finally said, unable to keep the hurt from his voice.
At the soft words, regret stabbed sharply through Isobel once more, another blade adding to the daggers that already pierced her wounded heart. She hadn't meant to upset him. But the bitter lump that had formed seized around her throat, stealing her voice and any words she might have offered in comfort. The silence stretched painfully between them as she continued to stare wordlessly into the distance.
"Please, Isobel. There have never been any secrets between us. Tell me what torments you," he urged, squeezing her fingers gently and begging her with eyes far too gone to bear any form of the composure the he had once prided himself on.
But for the first time in their long years together Isobel found herself unable to meet his stare. Her gaze fell to her lap where she only now recognised the way their fingers had entwined, so naturally like vines from composite plants drawn to one another under the warmth of a self-capitulating sun. Legolas' touch was searing where it stroked her icy skin and for a moment it felt all too much for the one perpetually imprisoned behind bars of bitterness and unending longing. She could hear the hurt in the elf prince's voice when he spoke. It crackled in her ears as agonising as static from a broken radio. And she was struck by how remiss that felt, evil even, that a creature as pure as he should ever be forced to endure such a hardship at her behest.
Swallowing hard, the young woman murmured the only thing that would come forth from a throat lanced to the brim with fractured shards of glass; an offering, as meagre as it was without context.
"Eomer kissed me."
Legolas stilled as he felt the breath leave his lungs, wounded by the sentiment he hadn't been expecting. The cool night air suddenly felt biting as it swirled around the heaviness laden between them.
"But I couldn't do it," she whispered brokenly, finally lifting her chin to face him. There were tears shining in her eyes, distress etched in every feature of her beautiful face.
"Why?" The burning question tumbled out from lips still too afraid to draw breath.
Legolas was staring at her so intently that Isobel felt the intensity of it sear straight through her chest, igniting her withered heart with feelings she'd long denied herself. His cerulean eyes had pulled together in consternation, ensnaring her senses as she raked her gaze over his unfathomable handsomeness. Irrationally in that moment, the young woman felt the tiniest flicker of hope light within her chest; the warmth of a single candle buried somewhere beneath an entire cavern of frozen wasteland. And as meagre as that was when set against half a lifetime of rejection, it was something irrefutable that did not wish to be extinguished.
"Look at me, Legolas! Look at what I am! You know the things I can do; the things I have done. They all hate me! They're all afraid of me!" she cried.
Earnestness was oozing from every pore on her face, breaking upon the elf's own skin like waves eroding the shore. He could only watch, stricken, when she blinked, tears sliding from her lashes to trail ragged paths down her ivory skin. Almost unconsciously Legolas raised his hand to cup her cheek and something pulled between them; a tether that saw their eyes lock, irrespective of the young woman's urge to shy away.
"Enough!" When he spoke, Legolas' voice was soft but commanding. "I will not hear you speak in this manner anymore. You are not evil! I do see you, Isobel. Better than anyone, I know. I have seen you do some truly remarkable things, things that defy explanation but can only be described as extraordinary. I believe that you hold within you a power so deep and so true and that one day you will realise the strength of that power. Everyday I am in awe of your strength and your beauty. I know doubt troubles you. But know that I am and will always be here with you. Hold yourself high for you are more radiant than those who cower before your shadow. I vow to do everything in my power to ensure you never wilt before lesser men again!"
Dismayed, the elf could only watch as further drops trailed crystal paths down her cheeks as what was once silent distress became heart wrenching sobs. Legolas felt a twinge of guilt stab through him, alarmed by the notion that his well meaning words had the opposite effect than intended.
Isobel couldn't help the moment Legolas' earnestness pierced her straight through the centre, just as she couldn't help it when what was left of her heart shattered into a million pieces, all but obliterated by the sudden cold chill of unrequited yearning that saw the hot molecules in her chest splinter upon impact. He was too good for her; too kind, too pure and far to adoring to be anything other than a fictitious. The reality that was her love for Legolas was impossible to rationalise any other way. And it broke her. Far more gratuitously than anything had before.
"But there's something else, isn't there?" Legolas said softly, realisation finally dawning in his eyes.
"Isobel?" he repeated with more insistence.
A kind of morbid intrigue blinded the elf's vision and without another thought he was closing the distance between them, leaning so close to her face to better snare her fearful gaze with his own. The hand still curved around her jaw almost magnetically pulled the young woman closer with the motion, the elf's fingers pressing so gently into the angular bone as if reeling in a particularly elusive catch with a fisherman's hook straight through the gut. Enamoured, Isobel swayed forth like a drunkard aching for their next sip, her soft, blue eyes closing automatically and her rosy lips parting when the side of the elf princes' nose ghosted her own. She was trembling in his grasp, she knew. Just as he could feel the erratic nature of her pulse bounding beneath his fingertips where they lay on her skin.
Flighty. Nervous. Wild. Every nerve along Isobel's frame seemed to be thrumming with the urge to lean forward and claim his lips with her own; to finally satisfy the addiction that had seen her on the brink of mania for the loneliest time. With a quiet exhale the elf's sweet breath caressed her skin and she was greedily swallowing it down with as much maddening compulsion as a half-starved wolf being taunted by a free meal meant for someone else.
Before she could think better of it the confession she'd been clinging to bubble forth, smashing straight through the shards that had wedged in her throat to lilt from a frigid tongue far too encumbered to enunciate properly.
"I – "
"There you two are!"
The annoyingly familiar drawl sliced straight through the tension as it's owner, eyes glazed with alcohol and ignorance, forced himself to sit between the two of them. Casually, Merry threw an arm around his companions, squeezing them affectionately. Legolas, irate at the turn of events, tried to salvage the moment by recapturing Isobel's gaze. But her face was a mask, all traces of the vulnerability and the truth he'd seen in her a heartbeat ago had already flitted away.
"What are you doing out here? You're missing all the fun!" Merry chirped cheerfully, puffing the stale stench of ale straight into Legolas' unamused face.
Oblivious to the moment he'd broken Merry continued, standing up and snatching Isobel's arm as if to emphasise his next word words.
"Come on, then!" he said yanking her back towards the hall.
And Isobel, fresh out of resilience, allowed herself to be led away.