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 98: The Stars Are Veiled
Golden halls of Meduseld, Edoras, March 7th 3019
Under the veil of a starless night, the figure stood still, his silhouette sharp against the rugged horizon of the snow-capped mountains. The landscape seemed vast and desolate, the frosted peaks gleaming faintly under the dim glow of the moonlight, a pale guardian of the darkened skies. He wore a cloak of deep forest green, its fabric heavy and lined to shield him from the biting chill of the winds that whispered across the plains.
The hood cast a shadow over his face, but the faint illumination revealed a serene yet solemn countenance. His profile was striking, sharp and elegant like a finely crafted sculpture. The soft curve of his lips and the slight tilt of his chin spoke of both youth and wisdom—features shaped not by age but by centuries of experience. His eyes, though concealed in the darkness, seemed to hold a light of their own, a glimmer of unspoken thoughts and deep contemplation.
Pinned at the clasp of his cloak was a brooch, simple yet regal, bearing the design of a single leaf. It was a mark of his kin, given to the Fellowship, he wore it with pride as he was part of it. Yet, tonight, his gaze was distant, as though searching for something beyond the bounds of mortal sight. His stillness carried an unspoken weight, a burden he bore in silence.
Behind him stretched the barren expanse of a winter plain, cold and lifeless, and ahead, the mountains rose like an impenetrable fortress, a reminder of the journey yet to come. The sky, once filled with shimmering stars, now lay veiled by clouds thick with a foreboding presence. The air was heavy, the silence pressing, save for the faint howl of the wind.
As he stood there, unmoving, the faintest whisper escaped his lips—a whisper not only of what had been lost but also of what had been found. Memories, promises, and emotions long buried stirred within him, delicate threads of the past weaving into the present. They lingered like fragile secrets, hidden away for fear that one misstep, one wrong decision, could unravel everything. These were not merely promises—they were vows born of deep yearning and fragile hope, laced with the bittersweet ache of dreams left unspoken.
They spoke of loss and renewal, of wounds that time had yet to mend, and of fleeting moments where light had broken through the shadows. And though the road ahead was treacherous, a path riddled with trials that would demand every ounce of his strength and resolve, he allowed himself this fleeting moment beneath the solemn gaze of the mountains. Here, beneath the veil of night, he could hold the weight of those promises close, if only for a breath, before facing the storm that awaited.
Somewhere in the shadows of the night, he thought he felt a presence, something unseen but near. His hand instinctively brushed the hilt of the blade at his side, a silent gesture of readiness, though his heart whispered that no danger lingered here. And still, he lingered, as if tethered to this moment by the weight of his own thoughts. The stars were veiled, yet he stood firm, a lone sentinel beneath the heavens, resolute against the tide of fate that surged ever closer.
A figure emerged, his stride deliberate yet unhurried. Aragorn's presence carried with it the quiet strength of a leader who bore the weight of the world without complaint. The dim moonlight touched the contours of his face, revealing a rugged handsomeness marked by years of hardship and resolve. His dark hair, windswept and unkempt, framed his weathered features, and his sharp, piercing eyes seemed to drink in the night as though searching for its secrets.
He paused on the stone path, his silhouette framed against the vast expanse of the barren plains beyond. The wind tugged at his worn cloak, its edges fraying like the banner of a king in exile. Aragorn's gaze shifted, his eyes falling upon the lone figure standing at the edge of the overlook. For a moment, he lingered, his expression unreadable—a mixture of thoughtfulness and unspoken concern. He moved closer, his boots crunching softly against the stone, each step purposeful, yet carrying the easy grace of a ranger who had walked countless miles through treacherous lands.
As he reached the edge of the shelter, he stopped again, his voice low but steady, cutting through the quiet like a steady flame in the cold night. "You should rest," he said, the words simple but layered with understanding. His tone carried no command, only the gentle weight of someone who had long shouldered his own burdens and knew the toll they took.
The two stood in silence for a moment, the stars veiled above them and the cold wind brushing past, carrying whispers of the coming storm. Though they were still, there was an unspoken connection in their shared resolve—a recognition of the trials ahead and the fragile hope that bound them to this moment of quiet before the tempest.
The elf's gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, as though it whispered to him truths he did not wish to hear. "There is no rest here" he whispered and he knew there was rest —not for his body, and certainly not for his heart. He spoke no details of his torment, but the weight of it was etched into every line of his still form. Night after night, the same nightmares plagued him—the guilt, the grief, the haunting echoes of what he had done and what he could not undo. Yet now, even in the waking hours, there was no solace. Instead, a new burden had taken root, one that demanded his vigilance and his restraint.
He called it Xena. Others might have named it Love. For some, it was a thing without a name, only a meaning too profound to be captured in words. Whatever it was, it filled him with equal parts yearning and dread—a fragile, dangerous thread he dared not pull. There, in the stillness of the night, with Aragorn standing silently by his side, he allowed himself one fleeting wish: that none of this had ever come to pass. It would be better, he thought, for her sake and for his own.
But even as he clung to that wish, a shiver ran through him, not born of the night's chill but of something unseen. A presence stirred, faint and intangible, brushing against the edges of his awareness. Instinct guiding him as his sharp eyes scanned the darkness. He did not speak of it, not yet, but he knew Aragorn felt it too. They were no longer alone.
The air around them grew heavy, as though the night itself were holding its breath. The stillness, once peaceful, shifted into something more tense—alive with an unspoken warning. The soft wind that had carried the faint whispers of the plains now felt laden, its icy touch brushing against their skin like a cold hand. Legolas straightened, his keen eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. His sharp senses, honed through centuries, caught what mortal eyes could not—a faint ripple in the fabric of the darkness.
It was not something he could see directly, but rather something he felt, an unnatural weight pressing on the edges of his perception. "The stars are veiled. Something stirs in the East. A sleepless malice. The eye of the enemy is moving." Legolas whispered.
His sharp gaze followed Legolas's, though he saw nothing. Yet, he felt it too—the presence. It was not the kind of danger that announced itself boldly; it was subtle, insidious, like a shadow slipping silently into the room. His breath slowed, controlled, as though bracing for what might come. There was no sound save the faint rustling of the wind over the plains and the whisper of Aragorn's cloak as he moved closer to his companion. "What is it?" he asked softly, his voice steady but low, meant only for the elf's ears.
Legolas did not answer immediately. His gaze remained locked on the distant horizon, his body tense and poised like a drawn bowstring. He tilted his head slightly, listening, sensing. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it carried the weight of certainty. "We are not alone. He is here."
They moved swiftly, their steps nearly soundless against the stone floor of the Golden Hall's exterior passageway. Whatever had stirred in the darkness was no idle threat, and they had no time to linger. The weight of unease followed them, clinging to their thoughts as they reached the doors and pushed them open with quiet urgency.
Inside, the hall was dimly lit, the faint glow of the hearth casting long shadows against the golden wood. The warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, but neither of them paused to take solace in it. The air here was thick with something else—something wrong. The guests' chamber, where their companions were meant to be resting, seemed too quiet. It was an unnatural stillness, the kind that raised the hair on the back of Aragorn's neck.
As they entered, their eyes fell on the small figure of Pippin lying prone on ground, his face pale and his breath shallow. In the faint light of the chamber, Aragorn caught the glint of something rolling across the floor—a dark, gleaming orb, its surface smooth yet pulsing faintly with an inner light. The Palantír. His heart sank. In that instant, he understood the peril that had found its way inside these walls.
Legolas's sharp intake of breath mirrored his own alarm as Aragorn moved quickly, his long strides closing the distance to the cursed object. He reached out, his fingers brushing its cold surface as he picked it up, and a wave of dizzying power surged through him. For a brief moment, his vision darkened, his mind teetering on the edge of a vast, malevolent presence. His knees threatened to give way, but before he could succumb, Legolas appeared at his side, his movements swift and sure.
"Aragorn!" Gandalf's voice cut through the haze like a blade, steady and commanding. The wizard snatched the orb from Aragorn's trembling hands, wrapping it swiftly in the folds of his cloak. The light within the Palantír dimmed as Gandalf held it, his sharp eyes narrowing with a mixture of frustration and concern. "You should not have touched it," he muttered, though his tone lacked reproach. He knew well the gravity of the moment and the toll it had taken on Aragorn.
Meanwhile, Xena had moved to Pippin's side, her warrior instincts driving her to assess the young hobbit's condition. She knelt beside him, her hands hovering uncertainly over his trembling form. The normally fierce and unyielding warrior appeared momentarily unsure, her expression softening as she whispered, "What trickery is this?" Her voice was low, tinged with frustration and concern. Though she had faced countless foes and countless dangers, this was a kind of darkness she did not yet understand.
Gandalf approached, his focus shifting from the Palantír to Pippin. "Let me see him," the wizard said gently, his voice carrying the weight of wisdom and authority. Xena moved aside reluctantly, watching as Gandalf placed his hand on Pippin's forehead. The hobbit stirred faintly, his face contorted as though trapped in the throes of some terrible vision. Gandalf's brow furrowed deeply, his expression grim as he worked to ease the lingering effects of the orb's touch.
"What did you see, Peregrin Took?" Gandalf's voice was soft but insistent, coaxing Pippin back to awareness. The hobbit's eyes fluttered open, wide and filled with fear. His lips moved, but the words were barely audible at first—a stammering whisper of shadow and flame, of a great eye wreathed in fire. "It was him," Pippin finally choked out, his voice trembling. "The Eye. He saw me… and I saw him."
The room seemed to grow colder at his words, the weight of what had transpired settling over them all. Gandalf's face darkened, the lines of age and worry etched more deeply into his features. "Fool of a Took," he muttered, though his tone was more sorrowful than angry. He turned his piercing gaze on the rest of them, his voice grave. "We must move carefully now. Sauron's gaze is upon us. He knows."
As Gandalf's words settled into the silence, Xena glanced from the hobbit to the wizard, her jaw tightening. Though she did not fully understand the nature of this enemy, she understood enough to know that the stakes had just risen. Legolas, who had remained silent until now, stepped closer, his voice low and steady as he spoke. "We felt it outside," he said, his eyes meeting Gandalf's. "A presence… watching. It lingers still."
Gandalf nodded grimly, his grip on the Palantír tightening as if to shield them from its corrupting influence. "It is no coincidence," he said. "The Enemy's shadow stretches far, and he is not blind to our movements. We must tread carefully from here, for he will not rest until we are broken."
The room fell into an uneasy quiet once more, save for the crackling of the fire. Outside, the night pressed against the walls of the Golden Hall, dark and watchful, as though waiting for its chance to strike.
The first light of dawn crept through the windows of Meduseld, casting golden streaks across the cold stone floor, but the tension in the hall had not eased. The night had passed too quickly for some, and there was little time for rest. The companions gathered in the guest quarters, hastily donning their gear. Xena pulled her armor from its place, now polished and clean, and strapped on only the essentials and boots, leaving the heavier pieces for another time. The urgency in the air demanded swiftness, not preparation.
By the time she returned to the main hall, the others had already gathered near the throne where Théoden sat, his expression stern. Gandalf stood at the center of the room, his presence commanding, while Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli stood nearby. The conversation was already underway speaking of what Pippin had seen.
"Sauron will move against Gondor," Gandalf said, his voice heavy. "His forces are already on the march. The question is whether we can move quickly enough to aid them."
Théoden's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward in his seat, his voice firm. "No aid came to us when we called for it. Gondor did not answer. Why should we ride to their defense now?"
The room fell silent for a moment, Théoden's words hanging heavy in the air. Xena stepped forward, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. She paused, gathering her thoughts, and then spoke, her voice clear and steady. "Gondor faces more than you know, my lord. Sauron's allies are not only gathering in Mordor. He has forces in Harad and Umbar as well, and they are preparing for war."
Gandalf turned his sharp gaze to her. "What do you know of this, Xena?" he asked, his tone curious but edged with urgency.
She met his eyes, her expression resolute. "Khafir al-Rahûn," she began. "He holds the title of Shadow Warlord of Harad. And trust me, he earns that title. He commands a legion of Haradrim warriors—soldiers who are not only skilled in desert warfare but are masters of cavalry and the mûmakil. His army is no ragtag force; each of his warriors is handpicked through trials that leave most dead or broken. If Khafir has pledged his strength to Sauron, then Gondor is facing a force it is not prepared for."
Legolas, standing quietly at the edge of the room, turned his gaze to Xena. For a moment, his expression slipped, the unreadable mask he often wore giving way to something more vulnerable—something that betrayed concern. Xena caught the flicker in his eyes before continuing. "And Khafir is not alone. Others are gathering as well. Their only weakness is that they fight amongst themselves, vying for dominance. But even divided, they are formidable."
Gimli let out a low growl, his thick arms crossed over his chest. "If Khafir is but one of Sauron's allies, then the power he has gathered is greater than we imagined."
Xena nodded. "It is. And their infighting is the only thing preventing an even greater threat. But don't mistake that for weakness. When the time comes, they will unite under Sauron's banner. Gondor cannot stand against them alone."
Gandalf's face darkened as he processed her words. He turned to Théoden. "Rohan must be ready to ride. Gondor needs your aid now more than ever."
Théoden frowned, reluctant. "We will answer when Gondor calls—if the beacons are lit."
Gandalf nodded but did not push further. Instead, he turned to Aragorn, his expression softening yet filled with meaning. "You must come to Minas Tirith," Gandalf said, his voice cryptic but firm. "Not by the road we take, but by another path. Follow the river. Look to the black ships."
Aragorn's brow furrowed, but he nodded, understanding that Gandalf's words carried more than they seemed.
Finally, Gandalf turned to the others. "I will ride for Minas Tirith. Pippin will come with me. Rohan must be ready when the beacons are lit."
The decision was made. As Gandalf and Pippin prepared to leave, the companions exchanged glances, the weight of what lay ahead settling heavily upon them. The storm was gathering, and they would each play their part in the battles to come. But for now, the shadow of Sauron loomed, and the clock was ticking.
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when Gandalf left, Pippin riding with him toward Gondor. The air within the Golden Hall felt heavier in his absence, as if his departure marked the beginning of something far greater than any of them could yet comprehend. Théoden had made no move to ready Rohan's riders, his reluctance still rooted in the bitterness of a kingdom abandoned in its hour of need.
For now, all they could do was wait.
Aragorn and Gimli took the first watch outside the hall, settling near the steps that led down to the plains. The faint scent of pipe smoke wafted through the air as they shared a pouch of Longbottom Leaf, the soft glow of their pipes offering a fragile light in the encroaching darkness. Their conversation was sparse, the weight of their thoughts too great for many words.
Inside, the tension between Xena and Legolas had not eased. They moved in the same space, but it was as if an invisible wall stood between them, one neither seemed ready to break. Since Helms Deep, their pride had clashed repeatedly, their arguments born of frustration and unspoken fears. Yet, something unspoken lingered now—questions left unanswered and emotions too raw to confront directly.
As they walked toward the guest chambers, Legolas finally broke the silence. His voice was steady, though he fought to keep the edge of irritation from surfacing. "You said it took trials to join Khafir's forces. Trials that brought many to the brink of death." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "How did you manage to pass them? You are no Haradrim."
Xena slowed her stride, her lips curling into a faint, ironic smile. "You forget I spent years in Harad. The people there knew me—or rather, they thought they did. To them, I was Zahrya of Azrath." Her tone carried a hint of amusement, but the weight of the revelation was not lost on Legolas. "An innkeeper recognized the pendant I wore and remembered my name. The rest... well, the rest was easier than it should have been."
Legolas stopped abruptly, his hand reaching out instinctively to grab her arm and pull her to face him. His expression, usually calm and unreadable, burned with something deeper—anger, frustration, and worry all tangled together. "Easy?" he repeated, his voice sharp. "Joining the forces of a warlord known for his brutality and cunning—easy? You call that easy?" His grip on her arm tightened slightly, his piercing gaze locking with hers.
Xena blinked, startled by his reaction, though her pride flared at the challenge in his tone. She pulled her arm free with a deliberate motion, her voice cool. "Perhaps 'easy' was the wrong word, but I did what needed to be done."
Legolas exhaled sharply, his anger tempered by the weight of her words. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as if bracing himself for what she might say next. "Tell me the rest," he said, his tone softer now, though his frustration still lingered. "If I am to understand, tell me everything."
Xena hesitated, then gave a small nod, climbing onto the low wall beside him. Her gaze turned outward, toward the vast plains beyond the hall, as she began to recount her journey. She spoke of leaving Rivendell, of how she discovered Legolas had sent Elros and others to shadow her movements and aid her if needed. She described her arrival in Umbar, where she sought out Malik.
Legolas's posture shifted when she mentioned Malik's name, recognition flickering in his eyes. "We met him on our way to Rivendell," he said quietly.
Xena nodded. "The same. He wasn't much help, but he led me to others—Scarface, Rafiq, Halid, and Azar. Together, we faced the trials Khafir demanded for entry into his forces. Each trial was more brutal than the last." She paused, her voice faltering slightly. "Halid didn't survive."
Legolas listened in silence, his anger fading as concern took its place. The more she spoke, the more he realized how much she had endured—not just for her own purposes, but for reasons tied to him and his people. She described the innkeeper, Malhazan, who had offered her aid, and the harrowing challenges she faced to gain Khafir's trust. Her words painted a vivid picture, each detail cutting deeper into his own guilt and worry.
As the hours passed, their conversation deepened. Xena told him everything—the dangers she had faced, the alliances she had forged, and the sacrifices she had made. In return, Legolas found himself opening up, sharing stories of his own journey with the Fellowship: the loss of Gandalf in Moria, the trials of the Fellowship's breaking, and the growing weight of their quest. It was the longest they had spoken without arguing, a fragile truce forged in mutual understanding.
When Xena finally leapt down from the wall, the sun was dipping low once more, painting the horizon in shades of gold and crimson. "We should take watch for the beacons," she said, her tone practical. "Aragorn and Gimli could use a break."
She turned to leave, but Legolas reached out, his hand catching her arm once more. This time, his grip was not demanding but firm, as though grounding himself in her presence. "Wait," he said, his voice quieter now. "There's something else I need to ask."
Xena turned to face him, her brows furrowing slightly. "What is it?"
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to the ground before rising to meet hers. "The lashes on your back," he said, his voice laced with a mixture of anger and concern. "Who gave them to you? And why?"
Xena stiffened, her expression briefly guarded before she sighed. "Scarface and Rafiq wanted to leave. Scarface was afraid. Rafiq wanted to take Halid's body home. The price for their freedom was ten lashes." She met his gaze evenly, her voice steady. "It was a simple deal. It had nothing to do with Khafir or Alakar, and nothing to do with you."
Before she could finish, Legolas's hand tightened on her arm, and he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her in an embrace so sudden it left her speechless. His chin rested lightly against her head, and his hold was strong yet gentle, as though anchoring them both in the moment.
"You are reckless," he murmured, his voice low but filled with emotion. "You would fight the whole world if it came to that, and I believe you could. But, for my sake, promise me you will not do so alone."
At first, Xena remained still, caught off guard by the warmth of his embrace. But slowly, she softened, her arms lifting to wrap around his waist. They held each other in silence, the tension between them melting away in the quiet understanding of what they had endured—and what they meant to each other. They stayed that way longer than either expected, finding in the other a rare moment of solace amidst the storm that loomed ahead.
((Upcoming Chapter Ninety-Nine))
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