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)


Act III

A Place Called Home

Chapter 131: The Fire Beneath the Calm

Forests of Ithilien, 3019 TA, September 13th

The journey back to Gondor proved longer than anticipated, the winding paths and lingering fatigue stretching the days. Upon reaching Ithilien, their progress slowed further. Faramir, as the newly appointed Prince of Ithilien, had matters to address with the southern rangers. The meeting was a crucial step in his plans to organize and rebuild the region, ensuring its stability and preparing it to become a haven of renewal for Gondor.

During their stay, the group made camp in the heart of Ithilien's verdant woods. The days passed quietly, with Faramir occupied by discussions and planning, while Gimli busied himself inspecting their gear and grumbling about the wear and tear of the road. Legolas, however, found solace in the forest itself.

He spent hours wandering the shaded paths, his footsteps light and silent as he explored the vibrant life that thrived in Ithilien. The towering trees, the clear streams, and the gentle rustling of leaves created a sanctuary unlike any he had known since his time in Mirkwood. These days among Ithilien's forests became moments of quiet reflection for Legolas, each step through its lush greenery awakening in him a growing sense of connection and peace.

The forests of Ithilien stretched endlessly before him, their verdant canopy whispering softly in the breeze. Shafts of golden sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns onto the forest floor, where wildflowers and ferns thrived in the shade. The air was alive, carrying the faint scent of blooming lavender and the crisp freshness of pine. Legolas walked slowly, his footsteps silent against the moss-covered ground, his bow resting lightly at his side.

Here, in the green embrace of Ithilien, the weight of the past weeks began to lift. The harsh sun of Harad, the endless sands, the unyielding winds—all of it seemed like a distant memory, softened by the gentle hum of life around him. Ithilien was a land reborn, a place where nature had reclaimed its dominion after years of shadow. It was not just the beauty of the forest that spoke to him, but the harmony within it—the quiet coexistence of every tree, every stream, every bird that sang in the branches above.

Legolas paused by a small brook, its clear water tumbling over smooth stones, and knelt to drink. The coolness of the water refreshed him, but it was the sound that stilled his heart—the rhythmic babble of the stream, soothing in its simplicity. He let himself linger there, watching as a pair of birds flitted from branch to branch, their song rising in joyous harmony.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The forest enveloped him, its stillness resonating within his soul. It was a peace he had not realized he craved, a stillness he had not allowed himself to feel in years. He had grown used to the chaos of war, to the unending march of duty and danger. But here, in Ithilien, there was no looming threat, no shadowed corners or whispered fears. The world felt… whole.

This was the kind of peace he had thought he might only find in Valinor, the faraway Undying Lands that called to his kin. Yet here it was, in the lands of Middle-earth, in the woods of Ithilien, as vibrant and alive as the forests of his youth.

As he walked deeper into the trees, Legolas found himself thinking of what it meant to belong to a place. Mirkwood had been his home, but it had always been a place of darkness, its beauty marred by the ever-encroaching Shadow. Even now, with the Dark Lord defeated, his home bore the scars of centuries of war and decay. He loved it still, for it was a part of him, but Mirkwood could never offer the kind of renewal that Ithilien promised.

Ithilien was different. It was a land of healing, of rebirth. Walking its paths, he felt a sense of possibility he had not allowed himself to consider before. He could imagine returning here—not as a fleeting visitor, but as something more. He could see himself tending these woods, watching them grow and flourish, and finding joy in their quiet transformations.

The thought was unfamiliar at first, almost startling. He had spent so long wandering, so long tethered to the duty of aiding others, that the idea of rooting himself somewhere felt foreign. Yet as he brushed his fingers against the bark of a young tree, feeling its strength and vitality, the idea began to take shape. Ithilien could be more than just a resting place—it could be a home.

He stopped at a clearing where wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze, their colors vivid against the green. Sitting on a fallen log, Legolas allowed himself to reflect fully. He thought of Aragorn and the task of rebuilding Gondor, of Faramir's vision for Ithilien, and of Gimli, who would undoubtedly find a way to bring his dwarven influence to bear even in these woods. And then he thought of Xena—her sharp wit, her unwavering strength, and the quiet understanding they shared.

The vision of Ithilien as a home grew clearer. He could imagine her walking beside him here, her laughter mingling with the songs of the birds, her presence grounding him in a way he had never known he needed.

For the first time in centuries, Legolas allowed himself to hope for something more than duty. He allowed himself to dream of a life where he could find peace—not only in the forests but in the company of those he cared for most.

Standing, he turned his gaze upward, watching the leaves sway gently in the breeze. Ithilien had been a refuge for so many during dark times, and now, it called to him. He did not know what the future held or where his journey would lead next, but in his heart, a seed had been planted. This was a place he would return to.

The days spent in the woods of Ithilien passed quietly at first. The group had pitched their camp near a gentle stream, the soft murmur of water a constant backdrop to their rest. Xena found herself unusually still in those days, not restless but contemplative. She had felt the bond with Legolas more keenly here, as if Ithilien itself amplified the connection between them. Through him, she sensed the forest's quiet whispers, the way the trees seemed to call out to him, offering solace and a sense of belonging.

Legolas had spoken little of it, but she didn't need words to understand. Ithilien was becoming more than just another destination to him. She could feel it in the way he moved through the woods, his steps unhurried, his gaze soft as he took in the vibrant life around him. For someone like Legolas, who had lived through centuries of war and shadow, Ithilien was a place of hope—a place to build something new.

And though she didn't share the same connection to the forest, Xena couldn't deny that the thought of belonging, of having a place to call home, stirred something in her. It wasn't the trees or the peace that drew her—it was the stubborn, infuriating elf she had grown to love. That, and the quiet need she had long ignored: the need to stop running, to stop fighting. To finally find rest.

But those thoughts were just that—thoughts. Hopes she dared not voice, even to herself. She was not someone who found peace easily, and she had lived her life balancing on the edge of danger and death. The lives she had taken, the blood on her hands—those debts still weighed heavily on her, a burden she carried silently. Redemption was a road she doubted she would ever truly walk.

For the first few days, the tranquility of Ithilien was bearable. She spent long hours walking the forest paths with Legolas, their conversations light but meaningful, their silence companionable. She even found herself watching Faramir with quiet admiration as he worked tirelessly to meet with the southern rangers, laying the foundation for his vision of Ithilien as a land of renewal. And Gimli, though less vocal than usual, seemed content enough, occupying himself with the task of sharpening his axe and grumbling good-naturedly about the lack of dwarven architecture in the woods.

But as the days stretched on, Xena began to feel an itch beneath her skin—a restlessness she couldn't quite shake. At first, it was subtle. She found herself tapping her fingers against the hilt of her sword, her eyes darting toward the horizon as if expecting trouble. She chalked it up to the unusual calm, the lack of action. After all, she was used to movement, to danger lurking around every corner. Peace had never been her natural state.

By the fourth day, her irritation had begun to bubble to the surface. It was small things at first—a sharp word here, a tighter grip on her sword there. She caught herself pacing the perimeter of the camp more often than necessary, her eyes scanning the woods for threats she knew wouldn't come.

On the fifth day, as the group sat around the fire after supper, Gimli made a comment about the "suspicious calm" of the forest, his tone light but tinged with his usual humor.

"Too quiet, if you ask me," he said, poking at the fire with a stick. "Makes a dwarf uneasy, all this peace and stillness. It's unnatural."

Xena, seated across from him, gave a sharp laugh that caught everyone's attention. "Finally, something we agree on," she said, her tone sharper than she intended. "This calm is enough to drive anyone mad."

Gimli raised a bushy brow. "I wasn't serious, lass. A bit of quiet doesn't hurt."

"Doesn't hurt you, maybe," Xena shot back, her words coming faster now. "You don't feel it, do you? The way the air is too still, the way nothing moves out there. It's unnatural."

Legolas, who had been silent, looked at her then, his keen eyes narrowing slightly. "Ithilien is alive, Xena," he said gently. "The stillness you feel is not emptiness. It is peace."

"Peace," Xena echoed bitterly, shaking her head. "You all talk about peace like it's something to worship. But peace isn't real. It's just… a pause. A moment before the next storm."

Faramir frowned, his calm demeanor faltering. "Do you truly believe that? Peace is not the absence of storms, Xena. It's what we build in between them."

Xena rose abruptly, her movements sharp and restless. "Maybe you're right," she said, her voice quieter now but no less tense. "But it doesn't feel that way to me. Not here. Not now."

She stalked off into the woods without another word, leaving the others in uneasy silence. Legolas watched her go, his expression thoughtful but tinged with concern. "Something is troubling her," he said finally. "This place should offer her rest, but instead, it unsettles her."

Gimli grunted, folding his arms. "She's a fighter, elf. Sitting still doesn't suit her."

"No," Legolas agreed quietly, his gaze lingering on the path she had taken. "It doesn't. But this is something deeper."

The night had passed uneasily for Legolas. Though his keen senses caught every rustle of the leaves and the soft hoots of owls in the forest, his thoughts remained fixed on Xena. He had felt her growing irritation over the past days—not just through observation, but through their bond. It burned at the edge of his consciousness, her fire alive and constant, her emotions raw and loud. Usually, her stubborn will was a steady presence, but this… this was different. It wasn't just frustration or boredom. Something deeper was gnawing at her, and she was keeping it from him.

By morning, he had made his decision. Leaving his bow behind, he secured his knives and strode toward where she sat by the dying embers of the campfire. Xena was sharpening her sword, her movements methodical but tense, the scrape of the whetstone against the blade sharp and precise. She sensed him before she saw him, her eyes lowering to his boots as he stopped in front of her.

When she lifted her gaze to meet his, her expression was unreadable, but her sharp blue eyes locked onto his. There was a pause, heavy with unspoken words, before Legolas finally broke the silence.

"Take your sword and follow me," he said, his voice calm but firm.

Xena's brow arched, and her lips parted to argue, but Legolas turned on his heel and walked away without waiting for her reply. Irritation flared in her chest, and she rose, grabbing her sword and stalking after him.

They moved through the forest in silence, the tension between them thick and unyielding. Xena's jaw tightened as she watched the deliberate way Legolas led her, his posture resolute, his movements purposeful. By the time they reached a clearing—a wide, open space surrounded by trees—her patience was wearing thin.

Legolas stopped and turned to face her. His expression was serious, his usual composure unshaken, but there was something in his gaze that was sharper than usual. He unsheathed his knives, holding them loosely in his hands, their polished blades gleaming in the sunlight.

"Fight me," he said simply.

Xena blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"You heard me," Legolas replied, his tone even. "If you won't tell me what's troubling you, then fight me. If this irritation is clawing at you so fiercely, let it out."

Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. "You think sparring with you is going to fix anything?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "But if you're so unwilling to speak, perhaps you'll show me instead."

Xena stared at him for a long moment, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. At first, she thought he was merely trying to distract her, to pull her out of her mood. But there was no playfulness in his eyes. Legolas was serious. He meant to challenge her—not just physically, but emotionally.

"Fine," she said, unsheathing her sword. "If this is what you want, then you'll get it."

Legolas inclined his head slightly. "Good."

They began circling each other, their movements slow and deliberate. At first, the sparring was measured, their strikes calculated and restrained. Xena moved with precision, her sword cutting through the air in clean arcs, while Legolas parried with the grace of centuries of practice. But as the minutes passed, the duel escalated.

Xena's strikes grew faster, harder, her irritation fueling her movements. Legolas met her with equal intensity, his twin knives moving like extensions of his arms, their edges glinting dangerously.

"You're holding back," Xena growled, her voice sharp as her blade.

"And you're not fighting like yourself," Legolas countered, deflecting her attack and stepping closer. "What are you running from?"

Her eyes narrowed, and she swung again, the clash of metal echoing through the clearing. "I'm not running."

"No?" Legolas stepped back, his movements calm but unrelenting. "Then why won't you say what's truly on your mind?"

She gritted her teeth, her strikes becoming more aggressive. Legolas matched her, pushing her harder, his blows calculated but forceful. The sparring shifted into something more, their emotions bleeding into every strike and counter. Sweat dripped from their brows, but neither backed down.

By the time an hour had passed, Faramir and Gimli had appeared at the edge of the clearing, drawn by the sounds of the fierce battle. They watched in silence, their concern growing as the duel showed no signs of stopping.

"Are they trying to kill each other?" Gimli muttered, his hand resting uneasily on the haft of his axe.

"Not yet," Faramir replied, though his brow furrowed. "But they're not far from it."

In the clearing, Xena and Legolas both bore minor cuts, their breathing heavy but steady. Legolas stepped forward again, his strikes pushing Xena back. His voice cut through the tension like his blades. "You're angry, Xena. But this isn't about Ithilien. It's not about peace, or boredom. What is it?"

Xena didn't answer, her strikes growing wilder, more desperate. Legolas countered with precision, forcing her back until she stumbled slightly, the edge of his blade catching her sleeve.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice rising. "Say what's burning inside you!"

Finally, he cornered her, his knives crossing against her neck in a controlled but decisive move. Xena's chest heaved, her sword lowered, and for a moment, there was only the sound of their labored breathing.

"I'm pregnant!" she snapped, the words bursting out of her like a dam breaking. "That's what's burning inside me, Legolas. I'm pregnant."

The clearing fell silent.

Legolas's hands fell away, his knives dropping to the ground as he took a step back. His usually steady composure faltered, his expression a mixture of shock and something deeper—an emotion he couldn't yet name.

Xena lowered her sword, her shoulders still tense as she glared at him. "And you can't fix it with a sparring match," she added, her voice quieter but no less sharp.

She walked past him, muttering under her breath, "And for the record, I won."

Legolas didn't move, his mind still processing the revelation. Gimli and Faramir exchanged wide-eyed looks as Xena passed them, still fuming, and disappeared into the woods.

Gimli finally broke the silence. "Well," he said, scratching his beard. "That explains a lot."

Faramir nodded slowly. "Indeed."

But Legolas remained frozen, his knives forgotten on the ground, his thoughts racing as he tried to make sense of the truth that had just been laid bare.

((Upcoming Chapter One-Hundred-Thirdy-Two))

Thank you for taking the time to read this! Feel free to Review - Follow - Favorite!