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 94: Silent Reunion, Unyielding Resolve

Helm's Deep, March 5th 3019

The centuries had stretched long and unrelenting, each one a silent testament to his failure. Legolas bore his guilt as if it were a cloak, woven from the threads of sorrow and shame. The memories of his mother's death did not simply haunt him; they consumed him. Each night, his dreams returned him to that fateful moment—the flicker of recognition in her eyes, the fractured plea for forgiveness, and the hollow stillness that followed.

His nightmares, cruel and vivid, were not the quiet torment of an elf who had known loss but the raging punishment of a soul convinced of its culpability. They came unbidden, inescapable reminders that he lived while she did not. Yet, in his painful existence, Legolas had forged something resembling balance. His days were devoted to purpose: a prince no longer, he had embraced a life defined by service, his bow and blade instruments of atonement.

But even balance bore its weight. His nights were the domain of his guilt, and though he rose each morning to face the world, there was no reprieve. His life had become a paradox—a warrior who stood unyielding in battle, yet whose spirit carried the fragility of glass.

The journey to Rivendell had begun to shift something within him, though he scarcely dared to acknowledge it. His nightmares persisted, but they were joined now by something unfamiliar: irritation, even curiosity. He had met Xena, the warrior from another world, and her presence had disrupted his carefully maintained equilibrium. At first, it had grated against him—a sharp edge carving into his stoic facade. She challenged him in ways that no one else dared, her defiance striking chords of pride and irritation.

And yet, amidst their clashes, he found himself inexplicably drawn to her. She embodied a ferocity that mirrored his own but tempered it with a humanity that he had long thought lost to him. Slowly, begrudgingly, he began to see her not as an opponent but as a mirror—a reflection of his struggles, his pride, and his guilt.

So now, what once was, and what he thought he knew, began to shift. Xena had brought with her challenges unlike any he had faced before—challenges that stirred something long buried within him. Feelings he had forsaken centuries ago, believing them neither meant for him nor deserved, began to surface. They came in fleeting moments of unexpected joy, piercing the heavy veil of guilt that had blanketed his heart for so long. Yet even as he felt the warmth of those emotions, he convinced himself they were a trespass. Happiness, he told himself, was not his to claim.

At first, he didn't see it. His pride and his guilt wove too thick a shroud around his heart for him to notice the subtle shifts. Xena's presence, though maddeningly persistent, was something he dismissed as an irritation. When the realization crept upon him that his feelings toward her were changing, he named it friendship and nothing more. Friendship was a safe harbor, a title that allowed him to stay close to her without acknowledging the fire kindling within him. He ignored the rising flame, the one that threatened to consume the fragile calmness he had painstakingly built.

But the flame burned nonetheless. It seared him in quiet moments, in the way she laughed, the sharp wit she wielded like a blade, and the compassion she offered so freely. He refused to admit its existence. If the world remained as it was, perhaps he could have endured—he could have continued as he always had, carrying the weight of his guilt without giving in to these new, dangerous feelings.

Then the nightmares began to change. What he thought were the same tormenting dreams that had plagued him for centuries took on a new, insidious edge. The familiar guilt and sorrow were joined by something darker, something feeding on him in ways he did not yet comprehend. It was Xena who noticed the shift, her perceptiveness cutting through his denial. To him, it was just another punishment, another burden to bear in silence. But she sought help where he would not, and under the guidance of Elrond and Gandalf, the shadow that leeched his strength was quelled—temporarily.

In the months that followed, though the dark presence was subdued, it left something behind, an ember that refused to be extinguished. That ember grew in the quiet of his solitude, fed by the memories of her presence. Feelings unfamiliar to his elven nature, raw and human in their intensity, began to stir. Were they truly his own? Or had his years with Aragorn and the Rangers of the North changed him in ways he had not realized? He fought against them, clawed for control, telling himself he was not allowed such indulgences. Happiness was not for him.

And yet, the heart obeys no rules. Against his will, it seemed to have found its way to her.

When Xena rode away, leaving him behind, he clung to the hope that her absence would free him. It should have been enough to let him retreat back into the shadows where he belonged. But her departure only deepened the void within him. He pretended not to notice, burying himself in duty and routine, but her absence was undeniable. It was not that he couldn't live without her—he was immortal, after all. He had endured centuries of loss and solitude. But the thought of never seeing her again stirred a pain deeper than the nightmares of his guilt.

It was a pain he did not understand. He could face the torment of his mother's death, bear the weight of his failings, and carry the burden of his people's expectations. But the emptiness she left behind—the quiet ache in his chest—that was something he could not reconcile. In the stillness of his nights, when all else was silent, the truth whispered to him, relentless and unyielding: she had changed him in ways he could neither fight nor ignore.

What made all of this more unsettling was the inexplicable connection he could feel, fleeting yet undeniable. Thoughts that seemed not his own would drift into his mind, whispers of emotions and sensations that belonged to someone else—hers. They were faint at first, so faint he could dismiss them as echoes of his own longing. But recently, they had grown stronger. Pain, fear, even moments of despair—he felt them as if they were his own, yet he knew they were not.

And now, standing on the walls of Helm's Deep as the storm of battle brewed, the sense of her presence struck him like a physical force. He could feel her near, as though the space between them had folded in on itself. It was impossible—absurd, even—but the sensation was relentless. Her pain reverberated within him, stirring something primal and urgent in his heart.

Legolas was a child of tradition, bound by the unyielding codes of his people. He understood what such a connection meant—what his heart urged him to acknowledge. But this could not be. Not now. Not with the life he had chosen, nor the shadow he carried with him. Such bonds were not for him, not for one burdened by guilt and driven by duty.

Yet the truth remained, no matter how fervently he tried to deny it. He missed her. He missed the quiet moments they had shared, where silence spoke volumes. He missed the sharp edge of their arguments and the way she had a knack for unraveling his carefully guarded composure. Everything about her lingered in his thoughts like a melody he could not forget.

Now, here in Helm's Deep, with the enemy only moments away and the tension of war hanging heavy in the air, he felt her with a startling clarity. The sensation was overwhelming, as though she was close—too close. His mind rebelled against the notion. It was impossible. She couldn't be here, not at Helm's Deep, not so far from where she had last gone. And yet, the feeling persisted, defying all logic.

He stood apart from the others, his boots firmly planted on the cold stone of the wall as he stared into the encroaching darkness. His argument with Aragorn had left him troubled, not just because of the words exchanged but because of the storm raging within him. The rising emotions, the fire that refused to be extinguished, and the haunting thought that she might truly be near—all of it churned inside him, leaving him grappling for clarity.

He told himself not to despair. There was no room for it, not here, not now. But the emotions rising within him burned with a ferocity that left him shaken. His fingers tightened around the bow, knuckles whitening with the strain against the pale moonlight, trying to root himself in the present. Still, the feeling of her nearness refused to fade.

Could it be real? Or was it some cruel twist of his own mind, conjured by the longing he refused to name? Legolas closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to focus. Yet, the truth lingered, unrelenting. If it was real—if she was truly near—then the thought of meeting her again unraveled him in ways he could scarcely admit, even to himself. How would he react? What would he say? The months apart had been both a salve and a torment, time that he had spent trying to bury the rising emotions his heart refused to surrender. He had built walls—tall and impenetrable—to shield himself from the pull she had on him. Yet even now, he felt the cracks forming as if her nearness alone could undo all he had worked so hard to fortify.

But before he could allow his thoughts to spiral further, he reminded himself of his priorities. First, he needed to set things right with Aragorn. The despair he had felt earlier had nothing to do with his friend, yet he had allowed it to cloud their interaction. Aragorn deserved better. Legolas resolved to apologize, though it gnawed at his pride to admit his fault.

Then there was the matter of Helm's Deep itself and the looming threat of the Uruk-hai. The battle did not frighten him—far from it. He would be fighting alongside Aragorn and Gimli, and their presence alone was a source of strength. For a brief moment, he paused, reflecting on the strange and unexpected journey that had brought him here.

He was still the prideful, aloof elf who had once looked upon other races with skepticism, even disdain. Yet now, he stood shoulder to shoulder with them, bound by purpose and friendship. Aragorn's steadfast resolve and Gimli's unyielding courage had shown him that true strength came not from heritage but from the heart. In their company, he had found camaraderie he never thought possible. And he was grateful—grateful for their trust, their friendship, and the shared purpose that united them against the darkness threatening Middle-earth.

The battle did not scare him. He would fight for them, for this bond they had forged, and for the hope of a world free from Sauron's shadow.

Legolas straightened, resolve hardening within him. He would find Aragorn and make amends. But as he turned, the air shifted around him. The faint sensation that had been nagging at the edges of his awareness grew sharper. He felt it now, unmistakable—the distinct sensation of being watched. His sharp ears caught the subtle intake of breath, the quiet rhythm of someone drawing closer.

He froze, his hand instinctively holding on his bow as he scanned the shadows. A figure emerged, stepping slowly and deliberately into the dim light of the fortress walls.

Each step echoed faintly, deliberate and measured. The figure's movements were cloaked in silence, but their presence was palpable, a weight pressing against his senses. Dressed in a long, dark cloak with the hood drawn low, they concealed their features entirely. Yet there was something familiar about the way they moved, something that tugged at the edge of his memory.

The figure stopped a few paces away, lingering just out of reach. Though their face remained hidden, there was an unspoken challenge in their stance—a presence that demanded recognition.

Legolas narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening on the grip of his bow "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice low and firm, though his heart thundered in his chest.

The figure tilted their head slightly, as if considering him, and then took another step closer. It was not the threat of their approach that held him rigid but the overwhelming sense of familiarity. His breath caught as his mind scrambled to piece together what his heart already knew.

And then, the figure's voice cut through the silence—soft, unmistakable, and achingly familiar.

"Is this how you greet an old friend?"

The words struck him like a thunderclap, shattering every defense he had so carefully constructed. It was her.

Silence stretched between them, longer than either had anticipated, heavier than either could bear. It wasn't simply that Legolas was at a loss for words—Xena was, too. For once, the formidable warrior found herself without the resolve to break the stillness. It wasn't because of walls she had built or a desire to keep him at arm's length. No, she knew exactly what she had done the night she rode away from Rivendell. She had left with purpose, certain it would be the last time their paths crossed.

That was why she had written the letter. A letter she knew he hadn't yet received.

That was the problem.

She understood him—his grief, his guilt, the life he had chosen to lead. She respected that. She had seen the weight he bore and the way it shaped his every step. But her heart did not care for logic or propriety. It defied her resolve. Somewhere along the way, this elf, burdened with centuries of pain and duty, had become something more than a friend. A trusted friend, yes, but beyond that, something she didn't dare name.

Xena had realized this truth the day she left Rivendell, the same day she had decided to do whatever it took to ease the torment that plagued him. She had sought answers, followed leads, and pieced together fragments of the shadow that haunted him. The search had brought her to one grim conclusion: Alakar. The name alone carried the promise of malice, and Xena knew that if they survived the war ahead, her next task would be to find him and end this nightmare.

But all of that felt distant now, overshadowed by the immediacy of the moment. She had come to Helm's Deep armed with information, pieces of a puzzle that she knew she needed to share with Legolas. There was no time for hesitation or awkwardness. Yet, as she stood before him, the words refused to come.

It wasn't fear that held her back. She could tell Aragorn anything with ease, had already shared much of what she had learned with him. But with Legolas, it was different. The weight of what they had endured together, the bond they shared, and the things they had never spoken aloud—all of it pressed against her, thickening the silence.

And then there was him, standing just as frozen as she. The careful stillness in his posture betrayed nothing, but she could see the tension in his eyes. She could feel it, too—not as vividly as he could feel her emotions, but enough to know that he was wrestling with his own storm of thoughts.

Legolas's piercing gaze burned into her, his questions hanging unspoken in the air between them. Xena opened her mouth to speak but closed it again just as quickly. They had been through too much to falter like this. Yet here they were, trapped in a moment where neither could find the right words.

For all their shared strength, for all the battles they had faced and survived, this—this quiet, awkward standoff—was a challenge neither of them seemed equipped to overcome. The moment shifted, as both Legolas and Xena instinctively fell back on what they knew best: their pride. It was their armor, the place where they could bury the vulnerability that neither was ready to confront. Pride gave them the strength to speak—not with honesty, but with irritation that masked the unspoken truths.

Legolas broke the silence first, his words sharp and unyielding, though they carried an edge of something deeper. "You left," he said, his Sindarin accent cutting through the quiet while speaking the common tongue. "Without a word, without a message. Did you think I would not notice? Did you think it would not matter?"

He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed instead on the cloudy night sky. The distant plains stretched before them, still absent the telltale signs of the approaching Uruk-hai. Yet his posture betrayed none of the unease he felt. He stood tall, his shoulders squared, his chest lifted in the rigid posture of elven nobility. When he finally turned toward her, his expression was carefully schooled into cold indifference, a shield against the turmoil raging inside him.

Xena met his gaze, unflinching. The look he wore now was one she had seen before—the mask of the proud prince, distant and untouchable, the same face he had worn when they first met. It was as if the months between then and now had vanished. She could try to lie, to deflect his accusations with clever words, but that would only deepen the chasm between them. Or she could be honest. Careful, yes—but honest.

She chose the latter.

"I left," Xena said, her voice steady, though her heart raced. "I thought it was what you wanted. What you needed."

"What I needed?" Legolas's voice rose, his irritation slipping through the cracks in his composure. "You presume to know my needs? You think abandoning Rivendell without so much as a goodbye was for my benefit?" He stepped closer, his blue eyes narrowing as they bored into hers.

Xena didn't back away. She folded her arms, her posture every bit as defiant as his. "I wasn't abandoning anything. I had work to do—work for you. For your sake."

"For my sake?" His voice dipped, quieter now but no less biting. "I did not ask you to meddle in my affairs. Whatever you think you were doing, Xena, you had no right to make such a decision without speaking to me first."

"And what would you have said if I had?" she countered. "Would you have let me go? Or would you have stopped me, told me it wasn't my place?"

Legolas faltered for the briefest of moments, but the lapse was quickly masked. "You assume much, but you understand little," he said, his tone growing colder.

Xena's eyes softened, though her voice remained firm. "I understand more than you think, Legolas. I understand the weight you carry. I understand the darkness that follows you, that keeps you awake at night."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't respond. But then he said, quietly, "It is not your burden to bear."

"No," Xena agreed. "But that doesn't mean I won't try to help." She sighed, lowering her arms and letting her gaze drift to the horizon. "I left because I thought it was the only way to find answers. And I found some. Alakar is behind your nightmares—your torment. I know that now. And I swear to you, I will find him and end this."

Legolas's shoulders sagged, just slightly, at the mention of Alakar. The name brought a flicker of recognition and dread to his expression. He looked away, his voice barely above a whisper. "You should not have done this for me."

"For you?" Xena stepped closer, her voice growing softer but no less intense. "I didn't just do this for you. I did it because I couldn't stand the thought of you suffering any longer. Because…" She hesitated, her throat tightening. "Because you're more than just a friend to me, Legolas. You matter."

Her words hung in the air, a confession veiled in simplicity but heavy with meaning.

Legolas turned to her, his expression unguarded for the first time since she arrived. The cold mask was gone, replaced by something raw and uncertain. "Xena…" he began, but whatever words he might have said faltered on his tongue.

Before either could speak again, a horn echoed through the air, piercing the quiet and sending shivers down their spines. The enemy was approaching. The time for words had ended—for now.

"Later," Xena said, her voice firm. "We'll finish this later."

Legolas nodded, his expression hardening as he turned toward the rising commotion. "If we survive the night."

"Then let's make sure we do."

Without another word, they moved side by side, stepping into the chaos that awaited them. There was still so much left unsaid between them—words that Xena wasn't sure she could find, truths that Legolas likely wasn't ready to hear. She hadn't told him everything about her journey, and a part of her wondered if she ever would. Not because she wanted to deceive him, but because she knew how he would react. The weight of her decisions would only add to the burdens he already carried.

But that was a problem for another time. What mattered now was the battle ahead—and the fact that, at least for this moment, they were facing it together.

Descending the stone stairs of Helm's Deep, the sound of their boots against the cold stone mingled with the distant hum of preparation. Soldiers moved with urgency, strapping on armor, sharpening swords, and steadying shields as the storm of war loomed ever closer.

Legolas walked with his usual elven grace, though his thoughts were far from steady. He had one apology he needed to make. Aragorn deserved more than the terse words exchanged earlier, and Legolas intended to set things right.

Xena, for her part, had her own matters to address. She needed to find Gimli, though she braced herself for the dwarf's inevitable scowling. She hadn't exactly left on the best terms, and she could already hear his grumbling about 'wandering off without a word.' Still, she knew Gimli well enough to trust that his irritation would fade quickly, replaced by his usual good-natured ribbing.

The two split off as they entered the armory. Legolas sought out Aragorn near the racks of swords, while Xena found Gimli inspecting axes with his usual critical eye.

"Back already, lass?" Gimli rumbled, not bothering to look up as he ran a hand along the edge of a blade. "Did you decide you missed us too much, or did you just run out of ale on your little adventure?"

Xena crossed her arms, leaning against a nearby pillar. "Miss you? Not likely. But you, Gimli, I figured someone ought to check on. Can't have you sulking around without me to keep you in line."

The dwarf finally glanced up, his eyes narrowing beneath his thick brows. "Hmph. You've got some nerve, showing up here as if nothing's happened. You left without a word!"

"And I'm back," Xena said with a small shrug. "So let's call it even."

Gimli grumbled under his breath but didn't press the matter further. The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at his beard. "You're lucky I'm a forgiving sort."

Meanwhile, Legolas approached Aragorn, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant. The ranger, busy adjusting his sword belt, glanced up as the elf drew near.

"We have trusted you this far and you have not led us astray. Forgive me. I was wrong to despair."Legolas began, his voice low but steady.

"Ú-moe edamed, Legolas." (There is nothing to forgive, Legolas.) Aragorn interrupted, offering a faint smile.

But Legolas shook his head. "No, my friend. You do not. I let my frustrations cloud my words. It was unfair to you, and for that, I apologize."

Aragorn clasped a hand on the elf's shoulder, his expression warm. "You owe me no apology. We are all burdened by this fight, Legolas. What matters now is that we stand together."

Before either could say more, the low, resonant call of a horn echoed through the air, silencing the murmurs and clamor of the armory. It wasn't the horn of the orcs, harsh and grating. This sound was different—clear, purposeful, and filled with a strange, familiar hope.

Legolas tilted his head, his keen ears attuned to the sound. "This is not an orc horn," he said, his voice calm but certain.

They hurried to the battlements, joined by Xena and Gimli as the horn sounded again. The unmistakable shimmer of elven armor glinted in the distance, a silver tide moving through the darkened hills. At their head was Haldir, his proud bearing unmistakable, leading a host of Lothlórien elves sent to aid in the defense of Helm's Deep.

((Upcoming Chapter Ninety-Five))

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