Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess
Author's Note:
This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)
ActII
Rise to War
Chapter 97: When Pride Meets Silence
Golden halls of Meduseld, Edoras, March 6th 3019
As the sun dipped behind the rugged peaks of the White Mountains, casting its final golden rays, the thatched roof of Meduseld glowed, appearing as a beacon of regal splendor atop the hill of Edoras. Meduseld, known as the Golden Hall, stood as a proud symbol of Rohirrim's culture and strength. Its roof, shimmering like a gilded crown, and its pillars, intricately carved with the tales of the Horse-lords, spoke of a rich history and valorous deeds.
The people of Rohan, relieved to have survived recent perils, were in a flurry of activity as they sought their kin and homes. The air was filled with a mix of relief and the disorderly sounds of men and horses; everyone participated, from the humblest citizen to the king himself. The evening was spent purging the dirt and fatigue of battle, resting deeply, and preparing for the solemn joy of toasting the fallen on the morrow. The guests, who recently returned with the King from Isengard, were shown to the guest chambers to refresh themselves.
Aragorn ascended the wide steps into the hall, following Éowyn, who had hurried ahead with the survivors to prepare their accommodations. As they entered, they were greeted by the sight of the grand double doors, adorned with carvings of horses galloping across open fields. Inside, the vastness of the hall stretched impressively, with rows of tables and benches set for feasts and gatherings. At the center stood the throne of the king, a regal and simple design set upon a dais, commanding the attention of all who entered.
Legolas, Gimli, Xena, and the two hobbits followed behind Aragorn in quiet reflection, each lost in their thoughts, the recent battle weighing heavily on their minds. Gandalf had stayed behind to confer with the King and Éomer, leaving the group to their silence and the solace of the guest quarters.
The splendor of Meduseld was more than just its throne room; it served as a sanctuary for its people and honored guests. Along the western wing, the guest quarters offered comfort and warmth, decorated with tapestries that depicted Rohan's valiant history and landscapes. Each room, furnished with thick furs and crafted with care, extended the Rohirrim's renowned hospitality.
Nearby, the luxurious bathing chambers provided an unexpected respite in this rugged land. The king's private quarters, located to the north, ensured privacy and closeness to the hall's heart, while the southern part of the hall held essential spaces like cellars and pantries, ready for any need—be it feast or siege. Even the strategically placed latrines reflected the Rohirrim's practical and thoughtful construction.
Éowyn opened the wooden door to the guest quarters of Meduseld, her manner courteous yet solemn. The room, modest in its comforts, was imbued with the spirit of the Rohirrim. Sunlight streamed through high, narrow windows, casting golden rays that danced upon the ancient wooden beams and pillars carved with intertwining knots and motifs of horses. The scent of old wood and the faint aroma of beeswax candles filled the air, creating a tranquil atmosphere.
Addressing the group with a respectful nod, Éowyn's gaze lingered briefly on Aragorn, her voice soft yet clear. "You may find rest here. The baths are adjacent to these quarters, towards the eastern side, providing privacy for all, including our female guests," she explained, nodding towards Xena and the other women in the group.
As they entered the quarters, the walls spoke of Rohan's heritage—tales of battles and the enduring bond between the Horse-lords and their steeds. The quarters themselves were furnished simply with straw pallets and thick rugs on the stone floor, each accompanied by layers of blankets and fur pelts.
"Clean linens, towels, and soap will be brought shortly," Éowyn informed them before excusing herself to allow them privacy and rest.
The guests began to settle in, removing their cloaks, boots, and weapons. Their gear was neatly arranged: swords against the walls, boots by the beds, and cloaks folded into makeshift pillows. Despite the room's simplicity, it offered a comforting respite from the harshness of the outside world.
The space, though large, was shared, with some needing to make do with the floor. Legolas chose a corner behind a larger bed designated for Gandalf, setting down his bow, quivers, and knives, signaling a desire for solitude even in sleep—a habit unchanged even among companions.
Nearby, Gimli organized his belongings on a spread of blankets provided by Éowyn and the women of Edoras. He showed no discomfort with the prospect of sleeping on the ground. Xena, positioning her weapons beside her chosen spot, began to unburden herself of her armor, preparing for a much-needed bath.
Though the room buzzed with the quiet sounds of settling in, an undercurrent of tension lingered with Legolas. The elf sat at the edge of his corner, visibly preoccupied not by the past battle but by the delayed conversation with Xena. His usually composed demeanor was tinged with impatience and a flicker of irritation—emotions stirred not just by unanswered questions but by deeper, internal conflicts.
Xena, only a few paces away, chatted casually with Gimli. Their conversation was light, skirting any profound topics. Legolas, overhearing but not participating, found his irritation mounting. The elf's typically cool facade was marred by an unusual edge of anger, a clear sign of the turmoil brewing within as he awaited a moment to confront Xena with his concerns and questions.
As the long shadows of dusk began to drape over the halls of Meduseld, Aragorn was meticulously arranging his belongings along the bed chamber he shared with his companions. His movements, deliberate and thoughtful, contrasted sharply with the palpable tension emanating from Legolas. The elf's demeanor had undergone a noticeable shift; his usual calmness replaced by a brooding silence that had captured Aragorn's attention. Aware of his friend's troubled state, Aragorn approached Legolas, intent on offering some solace.
Speaking in Sindarin, to ensure their conversation remained private amidst the mixed company of their group, Aragorn's voice was low and steady. "What burdens you, Legolas? If it is peace you seek, perhaps it is time to address the turmoil within, rather than avoid it," he suggested gently, his keen eyes searching Legolas' face for signs of the inner conflict he had come to recognize.
The calming influence of Aragorn's presence did soothe Legolas somewhat, but the elf's gaze flickered involuntarily towards Xena, signaling the root of his unrest. Turning back to Aragorn, Legolas's voice carried a mix of frustration and resignation. "It is Xena," he admitted, his words tinged with a bitterness unusual for him. "Her departure from Rivendell was without farewell, yet it is not the absence of words that angers me, but her reckless plunge into perils she scarcely understands—all in a misguided attempt to aid me."
Aragorn listened intently, his expression one of understanding and empathy. The man had faced his own heartache with Arwen's decision to leave Middle-earth, a choice driven by love yet fraught with sorrow. "I know the pain of letting go, Legolas. It is a burden we bear for loving deeply. Arwen's departure pains me, yet to bind her here, to a fate of grief, would be a greater cruelty. She must be with her kin," Aragorn spoke softly, his voice heavy with the weight of his own unresolved sorrow.
Though Aragorn's situation paralleled Legolas's in some ways, he recognized the unique aspects of Legolas's turmoil—the elf's pride and his deep-seated fears of inadequacy and loss. "You must speak with her, Legolas. Understand her journey, her choices. It is not in hiding from these truths that we find peace, but in confronting them."
Legolas considered Aragorn's counsel, the wisdom in his words clear, yet difficult to accept. "And you, Aragorn, have you found peace in your choices?" he asked, his tone more inquisitive than challenging.
Aragorn's response was reflective, his gaze distant as he recalled his moments with Arwen. "It is a peace mingled with longing, my friend. I love her, profoundly so, from the moment I first beheld her. That love has defined me, shaped my path. It is a commitment that transcends the pain of separation."
Encouraged by Aragorn's openness, Legolas nodded slowly, resolving to seek a similar clarity with Xena. "I will speak with her," he affirmed, though his voice carried a hint of the anxiety he felt about the forthcoming conversation.
Their discussion was interrupted as Xena approached, having overheard fragments of their Sindarin exchange. Her presence was assertive, her gaze direct. Addressing Legolas with a firmness that matched her stride, she declared, "We will talk after we have both had time to refresh and change." Without waiting for a response, she turned and headed towards the bathing chambers.
Legolas watched her leave, her determined steps echoing softly in the vast chamber. As she disappeared, a mix of apprehension and resolve settled over him. The forthcoming conversation loomed large, promising either a resolution or a deepening of the rift between them. For now, he could only wait, pondering the words he would choose to bridge the distance that had grown between them.
The baths of Meduseld, though modest in scale compared to the opulent spas of Gondorian palaces, held an understated charm that resonated deeply with those lucky enough to immerse themselves in its waters. Large wooden tubs, robust and inviting, were strategically placed throughout the chamber, filled with water that was heated by firestones—a clever use of the mountain's natural resources.
These waters, infused with herbs such as lavender and mint, filled the air with soothing aromas, designed to relax the muscles and calm the spirits of weary travelers. The gentle light that filtered through small, high-set windows combined with the flickering of candle flames along the walls bathed the room in a soft, serene glow, transforming the space into a haven of calmness.
Xena, like her companions, took her time in the baths, appreciating the simple luxury of the warm water cleansing away the grime and blood of travel and battle. As she submerged herself, she watched with a detached fascination as the water around her swirled with the dirt of the road and the darker stains of conflict, turning from clear to a murky red and black. Her armor and travel-worn clothes had been taken away with the others, to be cleaned and returned the following morning.
After her bath, Xena wrapped herself in a towel, patting down her long hair but choosing to let it air dry, draping softly around her shoulders and down her back. She slipped into a long gown provided by Éowyn, which, while simple, echoed the sturdiness and elegance of Rohan's culture. The gown was cut in a flowing style that flattered her strong frame, dyed in deep greens and browns that spoke of the earth and forest. The fabric was soft yet durable, suitable for a warrior of her stature, with intricate embroidery at the hems that subtly hinted at Rohiric designs—spirals and horse motifs subtly woven into the border. Soft slippers of supple leather completed her attire, comfortable yet fitting for the rustic elegance of the Golden Hall.
Stepping out of the bathing chamber, her mind was already turning towards the conversation she anticipated with Legolas. Knowing both their proud and stubborn natures, she preferred to have this discussion in the privacy of the outdoors, away from the potential eavesdroppers within the walls of Meduseld.
She was just adjusting her cloak, preparing to seek out Legolas, when the elf himself entered the room. Legolas' attire was a testament to his heritage—his tunic was of a soft silver-gray, the fine fabric catching the light and shimmering with a subtle luster reminiscent of moonlight on water. The garment was tailored perfectly to his form, the high collar embroidered with delicate leaf patterns that might have been inspired by the trees of Lothlórien, lending him an air of ethereal nobility.
His long sleeves flowed down to his wrists, ending in finely crafted cuffs that held just a hint of formality. Over his tunic, he wore a dark, sleeveless surcoat that brushed his hips, woven through with threads of green that seemed to echo the deep woods of his home. His belt was slender, its buckle crafted with an elegance that was both simple and profound, perhaps a piece handed down through his family.
With his hair still damp and unbraided, framing his face in loose waves, Legolas carried a softer expression than usual, the weariness washed away by the warm waters. He moved to retrieve his own cloak from near Gandalf's bedding, and upon turning, his eyes met Xena's. Without a word, an unspoken agreement passed between them—they would take their conversation outside.
Pulling their hoods up against the chill of the evening, they walked together through the throne room, their steps silent and measured. The grandeur of the hall gave way to the quiet solitude of the outdoors. As they stepped into the cool night air, the only sounds were the distant calls of night birds and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. They found a secluded spot near the outer walls of Meduseld, a place where the shadows were deep and the stars peeked through the moving clouds, setting the stage for a conversation that promised to be as intense as it was necessary.
Under the vast, starlit sky that draped over the ancient walls of Edoras, Xena, and Legolas found themselves alone, their figures casting long shadows on the ground. The evening air was cool and carried the faint scent of wildflowers mixed with the earthiness of damp stone. They walked in silence, their steps echoing softly as they moved away from the Golden Hall, each lost in their own turbulent thoughts.
Xena, the Warrior Princess, her armor exchanged for a simple yet elegant gown bestowed by Éowyn, felt the weight of her recent adventures press heavily upon her. Her journey had been perilous, filled with trials that tested her strength and cunning to their limits. She had ventured into darkness for Legolas, driven by a fierce loyalty and an unspoken affection that had grown between them during their time together. Yet, she knew the path she had chosen would bring conflict, perhaps even a rift, between them.
Legolas, clad in a tunic that shimmered faintly under the moonlight, mirrored her troubled expression. His thoughts were a whirlwind of emotions—relief at seeing Xena safe, intertwined with irritation and a deep-seated anger. He had grappled with his feelings in her absence, the silence left by her sudden departure allowing his fears and insecurities to fester. She had ventured into dangers unknown to him, a gesture that stirred a mix of admiration and fury within him.
"Did you find what you sought?" Legolas's voice finally broke the silence, low yet sharp, like the edge of a blade unsheathed. His arms remained crossed, his entire posture taut, radiating the controlled fury he had mastered over centuries.
"Legolas..." Xena began softly, her voice almost a whisper. "I did." She had told him as much already—that she had returned with answers about the shadow that had begun to hunt him more fiercely of late.
He pushed off the wall, the flicker of firelight catching the storm rising in his eyes. "And what exactly did you find that warranted leaving without a word? Without so much as letting me stop you?" His voice hardened with frustration, though beneath it lay a deeper truth—anger not only at her, but at himself for allowing her to go.
"Answers," Xena shot back, her tone sharp, biting. "Answers that needed finding. And don't you dare act like you didn't know I was going?"
His jaw tightened. He had known—felt her departure in the depths of his being. But his pride had silenced him, telling him it was for the best. Still, the knowledge that she had risked her life for this—without him—stoked a fire he couldn't extinguish. "I allowed nothing. You made your choice."
"That's right, I did." Her words cut through the tension between them. "Because I knew you wouldn't want me to. And yet, here I am—standing before you with truths you've ignored your entire life."
His composure cracked. He took a step forward, his voice rising. "Ignored?" he repeated, incredulous. "You think I've ignored this? You think I haven't spent centuries haunted by it? Do not presume to understand—"
"I do understand!" Xena's voice flared, interrupting him. "I understand more than you think. I know the guilt and grief you carry—it's etched into every part of you. But what's been hunting you lately? That's not guilt. It's something darker, feeding on you. And in Rivendell, when you faltered... you crossed a line, Legolas. You were too weary to face it, and you didn't want to admit it."
His anger boiled over, his voice sharp and unforgiving. "You had no right to do this for me! Do you think your recklessness justifies anything?"
He turned away, gripping the railing tightly, his knuckles white. His silence was a wall, impenetrable, yet Xena pressed on. She took a step forward, her voice quieter but firm. "I went because I knew something was wrong—something beyond you. And I was right."
Her words caught his attention. He glanced over his shoulder, his expression stormy but tinged with curiosity. She continued, her tone steady. "I told Aragorn some of it. But you needed to hear it all. Alakar is behind this. Long before your mother's capture, his hand was in it. And he's still trying to break you."
Legolas clenched his fists, his pride warring with the truth she spoke. "You speak as if this curse is yours to bear. It is not. It's mine—mine alone. For centuries, no one has interfered. Not Aragorn. Not anyone. And yet here you are, claiming answers to things you barely understand."
"And that pride," Xena snapped, her voice trembling with emotion, "is exactly why you'll never break free of it. You let guilt and stubbornness rule you, even when someone is trying to help you."
He spun to face her, his eyes blazing like a storm. "And you let your arrogance drive you to places you had no business being, risking your life for something you could never hope to grasp! What did you face, Xena? What did you risk yourself for?"
Xena took a steadying breath, her tone shifting to something calmer but no less resolute. "I went to Umbar. I infiltrated the forces of Khafir, who is close to Alakar, closer than anyone else alive. I fought men who wanted me dead, endured betrayals, and faced dangers you can't imagine. But I did it because someone had to. And what I found, Legolas, is that Alakar has been behind your torment for far longer than you realize."
He faltered, her words striking a chord deeper than any accusation could. "You shouldn't have come back," he said finally, his voice quieter but colder. "You should have stayed away."
Xena's expression hardened. "And that's where we'll never agree. I didn't come back for your approval. I came back because this fight isn't over. And whether you accept it or not, I'm not walking away."
The air between them was charged, their emotions raw and unguarded. Legolas stared at her, his anger mingling with something unspoken—fear. Fear of losing her, not to Alakar, but to her own determination to fight battles that could destroy her. Yet he couldn't say it, wouldn't admit it.
Xena's voice softened, but her resolve did not. "When you're ready to face this curse for what it truly is, I'll be here. Until then, stew in your pride. But don't expect me to stand by and let this darkness devour you."
She turned to leave, her heart heavy but her mind resolute. If he wouldn't fight for himself, she would. With or without him.
Legolas watched her go, his pride and anger a storm within him. But beneath it, her words lingered, a truth he couldn't ignore. For the first time in centuries, his certainty began to crack, and with it, the weight of everything he'd tried to shoulder alone.
The truths Legolas grappled with were deeply troubling, made more so by Xena's inability to fully grasp the profound depth of his past wounds. She did not understand how he had lost his mother—how she had fallen while trying to rescue him. This, to him, was the ultimate anguish. Fighting side by side was one thing, but for Xena to take such risks on her own, to potentially sacrifice herself as his mother had, stirred a terror within him that he could scarcely admit.
The prospect of losing Xena in a similar manner was unimaginable. It was a reality he had not disclosed to her, how crucial she had become to his very being. The pain of such a loss would transcend mere bitterness and guilt; it would utterly devastate him, perhaps even to the point of collapse. This fear—of seeing her fall on his behalf—was a burden he bore silently, a profound dread cloaked beneath layers of princely stoicism and warrior resolve.
Legolas stood gazing at the expansive sky beyond the wall, his heart burdened with a realization he had scarcely allowed himself to acknowledge—how deeply important Xena had become to him, transcending mere friendship to something far more profound. Yet here he was, concealing his true feelings, pushing her away. Was it merely pride driving him, or were his fears genuinely overwhelming?
He knew, of course, of Xena's strength, her capability to fight and endure—perhaps even beyond what he had seen, but certainly enough to understand her true mettle. And he had lied when he said she had no right; in truth, she had every right. But to admit this was to open the door to acknowledging everything else as well.
So now, fueled by anger and letting his pride take the lead, he bought himself time—time to continue, if only a little longer, along the path that lay before them all. The war was not yet over, and everyone, including Xena, was committed to fighting for something greater. Yet here she was, in a moment of quiet, stirring emotions and frustrations he thought he had long buried.
He drew a long, steady breath before stepping back inside, the chill of the evening air giving way to the warmth of the Golden Hall. Night had fallen, and the feast was well underway—a gathering to honor the fallen and drown the lingering shadows of war in shared drink and laughter. Shedding his cloak, he took a few moments to braid his hair into the familiar elven styles of his kin, then left it neatly in the guest room before heading to the lively celebration.
The hall was filled to capacity, even with faces unfamiliar to him among the Golden Hall's regular inhabitants. King Théoden stood at the center of attention, his voice carrying over the crowd as his niece, Éowyn, presented him with the Cup of Kings. He spoke of the bravery of those who had perished defending Helm's Deep and hailed the valor of the people of Rohan. His words stirred the hearts of the assembled, including Aragorn, who listened solemnly as Théoden honored the sacrifices that had secured their victory over Saruman's forces.
Xena had already joined the gathering. She, too, had left her cloak in the guest room, now clad in the gown Éowyn had offered her. Her hair, dry and unbound, framed her face in a way that softened her usual intensity. As Legolas entered, he spotted her deep in conversation with Gimli, the dwarf gesturing animatedly as they spoke. For a moment, he assumed they discussed her exploits, but as he drew closer, he realized the subject was far more mundane.
Gimli was recounting the tale of Éowyn's stew—a culinary endeavor the Shieldmaiden had poured effort into but that had left much to be desired. The dwarf described it with exaggerated grimaces, explaining how even Aragorn had managed only a few polite bites before setting his bowl aside. Only Legolas, with characteristic elven grace, had successfully avoided sampling it altogether.
Xena smirked knowingly, offering the observation that perhaps Éowyn's talents lay better with her blade and in the saddle than in the kitchen. With a hint of pride, she remarked that while she excelled at cooking fish, she might not fare much better with stew. Gimli chuckled, but Xena's playful grin turned defiant as she added, "Of course, that's hardly a concern—I have many skills." She finished with a mischievous gleam in her eye, suggesting they find a way to make Legolas try the stew someday.
As Legolas joined Aragorn, the ranger's perceptive glance caught his friend's unease. Placing a firm hand on Legolas's shoulder, Aragorn leaned closer, speaking softly in Elvish. "Let it rest for now," he urged. "You are both angry and uncertain. Time will clear the fog, but this bitterness will bring neither of you nor anyone else peace. Mend it when you are ready, for the sake of all."
Legolas nodded faintly, his gaze lingering on Xena as she laughed at something Gimli said. The shadows of doubt lingered in his heart, but for tonight, the hall's light and laughter softened their edges.
Aragorn stood in quiet conversation with Gandalf, their voices hushed but grave as they discussed Frodo's journey. "Do you think they've reached Mordor's borders safely?" Aragorn asked, his concern etched deeply into his features. Gandalf, ever enigmatic, offered only tempered reassurance. "If they keep to the plan and trust their instincts, they may yet evade the Enemy's gaze. But even then, the road ahead will demand all the strength they possess."
Nearby, Legolas had slipped away from the weight of their discussion. Seeking a lighter atmosphere, he joined Gimli, who was already engaged in one of Éomer's enthusiastic explanations of a drinking game involving ale. Legolas observed with mild amusement, silently skeptical. The notion of a contest based on human ale—a brew unlikely to affect his elven constitution—seemed almost juvenile. Still, he played along with an air of aloofness.
"It's a drinking game," Legolas remarked dryly as Éomer grinned, pouring the first round.
Xena, observing next by, shook her head with an incredulous smile. For all their stoicism in battle, these warriors seemed to embrace frivolity when it suited them. Though she took a cup of ale herself, she decided against joining the game, content to remain an onlooker for the moment.
As the rounds began, the atmosphere lightened, drawing laughter and camaraderie. Éomer leaned toward Xena, engaging her in conversation. "Your fighting style is... unconventional," he noted his tone equal parts curiosity and grudging admiration. "I'll admit, I've rarely seen a woman wield a blade with such ferocity. Still, I'd rather not see women harmed if it can be avoided."
Xena arched a brow, her tone sharpening. "And yet you see no issue sending your men to the front lines, risking their lives?"
"It's not the same," Éomer replied firmly. "A man chooses the battlefield. A woman—"
"A woman also chooses," Xena interrupted, her voice steely. "Your sister, for example. Éowyn carries herself like one who belongs on the frontlines, not tucked away in a golden cage."
Éomer's jaw tightened, though he nodded reluctantly. "You're not wrong. She's capable, more so than most men I've seen. But that doesn't mean I want her exposed to such horrors."
Xena rolled her eyes, finding the conversation increasingly tiresome. Her gaze flicked to Legolas, who had been listening. Though he didn't join in, she caught the subtle furrow of his brow, suggesting he understood Éomer's perspective—perhaps too well. It echoed the protectiveness that had shadowed his own thoughts earlier.
The drinking game, meanwhile, reached its climax as Gimli slumped against the table, defeated. "Game over," Legolas declared smugly, standing unshaken and poised while most of the participants moved to a neighboring table to continue. Xena stepped forward, helping the groggy dwarf to a seat before turning her attention to Legolas.
"So..." she said with a faint smirk, approaching him with deliberate confidence. Her tone was laced with challenge, but there was an edge beneath it—not playful, but pointed, her pride meeting his in a silent clash. "Care to continue?"
Legolas's brow arched, his competitive spirit stirred despite himself. "You wish to compete?" he asked, his voice calm yet tinged with intrigue.
Xena shrugged, pouring herself another cup. "Unless the great elf prince is afraid."
His lips curved into a faint smile, equal parts amusement and defiance. "It would take far more than ale to unsteady me," he replied, lifting his own cup.
And so, the contest began anew, cups exchanged and emptied with increasing speed. It was no longer a simple game, but a battle of wills—each unwilling to back down. Around them, the hall continued its revelry, but for Xena and Legolas, the moment belonged entirely to their unspoken challenge. Neither would yield easily, their pride and stubbornness burning as fiercely as any blade in combat.
The atmosphere around the table had shifted, the lightheartedness of the drinking game fading into a silent, palpable tension. Xena and Legolas sat across from each other, cups of ale lined before them like weapons on a battlefield. Their earlier argument lingered between them, unspoken but heavy, fueling the competitive fire in their eyes.
Legolas, ever composed, lifted his cup with deliberate ease, his sharp gaze locked onto Xena. "It seems you're determined to prove something," he remarked, his voice calm but edged with challenge.
"Only that I can hold my own," Xena retorted, tipping back her cup with defiance. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer to concede now."
He smirked faintly, setting his empty cup down with a quiet click. "Concede? Hardly. But I should warn you—human ale does little more than quench my thirst."
Xena waved a dismissive hand, her pride stoking the fire in her chest. "We'll see about that, Elf," she said, reaching for another cup. If she felt the faint swirl of dizziness creeping in, she ignored it. This wasn't about logic or limits. It was about proving herself—proving to him—that she wouldn't back down.
The game continued, cups drained in rapid succession. Around them, the laughter and chatter of the hall blurred into background noise, the world narrowing to the unyielding line of their gazes. Xena's fingers tightened around her cup, the heat of her pride battling the growing haze of the ale. Legolas, meanwhile, remained maddeningly unruffled, his every movement graceful and deliberate.
"You think you're better than me, don't you?" Xena challenged, her voice lower now, words slightly slurred but no less sharp. "Because you're an elf. Because you've had centuries to perfect that icy calm of yours."
Legolas tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Better?" he repeated. "No. But I know when a battle is unwinnable."
Her eyes narrowed. "If that's your way of saying I should quit, don't bother."
"It's not," he said evenly, lifting another cup. "But it might be wise to remember your limits."
The words hit harder than she expected, her pride flaring in response. "I don't need your wisdom," she snapped, draining another cup. "And I don't need your pity."
Legolas leaned forward slightly, his calm mask slipping just enough to reveal a spark of irritation. "You mistake concern for pity, Xena. Or perhaps you simply cannot tell the difference."
Her jaw tightened, the dizzying warmth of the ale clouding her focus but not her resolve. "You don't know me well enough to be concerned," she said coldly, reaching for another cup.
"And yet," he replied, his voice soft but pointed, "I am."
The admission hung in the air between them, heavy and charged. Xena faltered, her hand hovering over her next drink. For a moment, something in his gaze softened—a flicker of vulnerability that mirrored her own. She could feel the weight of her anger waver, the walls she'd built around herself trembling under the strain of her own pride.
But then she shook her head, forcing a laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Don't try to distract me," she said, lifting her cup again. "You won't win that easily."
Legolas sighed softly, his composure returning as he set his cup down untouched. "This is not a victory worth winning, Xena," he said, his voice steady but tinged with something unspoken. "But if you insist…"
As she drank again, the dizziness hit her full force, and she swayed slightly, her hand gripping the table for support. The room seemed to tilt, the noise of the hall swirling around her in a chaotic blur. Legolas reached out instinctively, steadying her with a firm but gentle hand.
"Enough," he said, his tone firm. "This is foolish."
She blinked up at him, her vision swimming but her pride still refusing to surrender. "I'm fine," she muttered, though the slur in her words betrayed her.
"No," he said quietly, his gaze holding hers with unyielding intensity. "You're not."
For a moment, neither spoke. The tension that had driven them to this point lingered, but beneath it was something else—a fragile, unspoken understanding. Xena's anger ebbed slightly, the haze of the ale making her thoughts muddled but her emotions raw. Legolas, ever composed, seemed to be holding himself back, as if uncertain whether to push further or let her find her own way through the storm.
"You're impossible," she muttered, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. "Always so calm. Always so... perfect."
"And you," he replied softly, "are reckless. Stubborn. And far more formidable than you realize."
The words caught her off guard, cutting through the haze in a way she hadn't expected. For a moment, she saw something in his eyes—a flicker of something unguarded, something real. It made her chest tighten, her pride faltering under the weight of her own emotions.
But neither spoke of it, the moment slipping away as the noise of the hall returned to focus. Xena closed her eyes briefly, letting the dizziness pass, and when she opened them, Legolas was still there, steady as ever.
"Fine," she muttered, leaning forward with a faint smirk. "You win. This time."
Legolas's lips twitched into a faint smile, but his gaze remained steady. "Perhaps," he said quietly. And for the first time that evening, Xena didn't argue. He sighed as he found some calmness perhaps it was from the ale, or cause time had passed from the last argument. He did not mind arguing with her, if anyone she had proven to be able to handle those arguments and win them.
The warmth of the hall had begun to wane as Xena's weariness finally overtook her. The ale, slow but steady in its work, clouded her head and made her steps unsteady. Legolas, ever watchful despite their earlier tension, moved swiftly to her side. His hands, cool and steady, caught her just as her balance faltered, preventing her from slumping over the chair.
"Careful," he murmured, his voice low and soft, though there was a faint edge of concern beneath it.
Xena leaned into him instinctively, her weight pressing against his frame. She didn't think—there was no need to. Even in their moments of strife, trust in him was unshakable. There was comfort in the strength of his arms, in the quiet way he bore her without question.
Legolas glanced over to Gimli, ensuring the dwarf was settled and resting before gently guiding Xena out of the hall. Her steps were sluggish, more of her weight on him than she likely realized. He moved slowly, carefully, mindful of her unsteady footing. She followed, though it was less her own doing and more his. The lively chatter and music of the celebration faded behind them as they reached the guest chambers.
Once inside, Legolas hesitated only briefly before sweeping her into his arms. The sudden motion drew a soft gasp from her lips, her surprise flickering in her hazy gaze. He carried her to the blanket she had laid out earlier near Gimli and lowered her gently, his every movement deliberate and careful.
As Xena sank into the makeshift bed, her head turned to the side, and her breathing began to steady. Legolas pulled another blanket from the nearby chest, draping it over her. But before he moved away, his hand lingered near her cheek, brushing against her skin. A quiet tenderness passed over him, unbidden and unexpected, as his fingers traced down to the curve of her neck.
There, the edge of her garment shifted slightly, revealing a hint of what lay beneath. His fingers faltered as his eyes caught sight of faint scars—lashes healed but still present, etched into her skin like shadows of old battles. His mind flashed back to their earlier argument, to her brief mention of being beaten. At the time, he'd dismissed it, anger clouding his ability to probe deeper. Now, the weight of her words struck him like a blade.
Carefully, almost reverently, he adjusted the fabric further, revealing more of her back. The sight that greeted him made his chest tighten painfully. Scars crisscrossed her skin, pale against her tanned complexion, each one a story untold. These weren't the marks of simple skirmishes but the evidence of brutal, deliberate harm.
His fingers clenched against the fabric of her blanket, anger rising within him—not at her, but at the choices that had led her to endure such torment. And at himself, for not knowing. For not seeing the depth of her pain. In his relentless search for answers to his own haunting past, had he overlooked hers entirely? It felt as though he had failed her, and that thought cut deeper than any weapon.
"Foolish," he whispered under his breath, his voice trembling with restrained emotion. "How foolish you are to bear this alone."
He let the fabric fall back into place, smoothing it gently over her shoulder. For a long moment, he lingered, his gaze softening as it rested on her. She deserved better than this—a life of constant battle, a body marked by pain. He could face any darkness, any foe, to protect her. But this? This silent suffering was something he could not fight for her. And it frustrated him to his core.
With a deep breath, he straightened, stepping back and letting his hand fall to his side. He couldn't stay. Not with the storm of emotions swirling within him. He needed clarity, and the confined walls of the guest chamber offered none. He took a lingering glance at her, his eyes tracing the peaceful contours of her face now softened by sleep. With a quiet sigh, Legolas turned away, his steps deliberate and measured.
He reached for his cloak, the fabric cool beneath his fingers, and draped it over his shoulders. Pulling the clasp secure, he let the familiar weight settle around him—a comfort as much as a barrier. Silently, he turned and left the room, his footsteps light as they carried him into the cool night air.
Outside, the stars shimmered above, their distant light casting a faint glow over Edoras. Legolas inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. The weight of his anger and sorrow pressed heavily on his chest. He closed his eyes, hoping the calmness of the night would ease the turmoil within him, and perhaps bring some wisdom to guide him. He needed it—for her, and for himself.
((Upcoming Chapter Ninety-Eight))
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