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)

ActIII

Return of the Queen

Chapter 110: Feast of Peace, Echoes of the Hunt

Minas Tirith, 3019 TA, May 1st

The grand hall of Minas Tirith reverberated with joy. The rhythmic stomping of boots against stone and jubilant shouts filled the air as Gondorians celebrated their newfound peace. Tables creaked under the weight of roasted meats, vibrant fruits, and barrels of ale. The light from hundreds of torches danced against the marble walls, creating an atmosphere that felt almost dreamlike. Yet amid the revelry, pockets of quiet companionship formed among the heroes of the War of the Ring.

Xena sat at one of the long tables, the warrior's sharp gaze softened slightly as she observed the festivities. She had indulged in a feast worthy of her storied appetite—steaks seasoned to perfection and cheese that melted on the tongue. Beside her, Gimli tackled a roasted pheasant with the ferocity of a dwarf who believed no celebration was complete without overindulgence.

"By my beard, I swear Minas Tirith knows how to throw a feast!" Gimli exclaimed between bites. "Better fare than any elf could muster, eh?"

Xena chuckled lightly. "Careful, Gimli. Someone might hear and take offense."

Gimli snorted. "Let them! I'll say it to that pointy-eared princeling's face."

As if summoned by the mention, Aragorn approached, his regal bearing somehow at ease among the camaraderie. He carried no crown tonight, but the weight of his kingship was ever-present. The crowd instinctively parted for him, offering bows and toasts as he passed. When he reached their table, Aragorn greeted them with a broad smile.

"Gimli, Xena," he said warmly, pulling out a chair and sitting with a grace that belied his warrior's past. "I see the two of you are making the most of this feast."

"Indeed, we are!" Gimli replied, raising his goblet. "Care to join us, my king?"

Aragorn waved off the title with a laugh. "Save the formalities for the court, Gimli. Tonight, we are simply friends celebrating victory."

As Aragorn settled in, his expression turned contemplative. "Xena, tell me—did you happen to collect any of the famed mushrooms of Ithilien during your journey?"

Xena's brow furrowed, caught off guard by the question. "Mushrooms of Ithilien? No, Aragorn, I've seen no such thing."

"Pity," Aragorn replied, his face a mask of seriousness that barely concealed the glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "I had hoped for a taste of their legendary flavor."

Gimli, catching on, leaned forward with mock suspicion. "Xena, you didn't hold out on us, did you?"

"Absolutely not!" Xena exclaimed, shaking her head vehemently. "Aragorn, you know full well I didn't travel to Ithilien. My mission was to bring back Arwen!"

A moment of silence passed before Aragorn's somber mask cracked, giving way to laughter. Gimli joined in, his booming chuckles echoing through the hall. Xena, realizing she'd been played, groaned and leaned back in her chair.

"You're worse than bards spinning riddles," she muttered, though the corners of her mouth betrayed a smile.

Aragorn sobered slightly, his tone shifting to one of genuine appreciation. "In all seriousness, Xena, thank you for not letting Legolas undertake that journey alone. He may not show it, but I know how much he values your presence."

The mention of Legolas brought a flicker of concern to Xena's eyes. Aragorn noticed and pressed further.

"Something troubles him," he said, his voice quiet enough that only Xena and Gimli could hear. "I may not possess Arwen's foresight, but I know my friend. He's been haunted."

Xena hesitated. The weight of Legolas's torment was not hers to reveal, yet Aragorn's sincerity made her pause. She glanced at Gimli, who had set his goblet down, his jovial expression replaced with one of quiet solidarity.

"He's struggling," Xena admitted, her voice low. "Something from his past is haunting him, and it seems to have grown worse."

Aragorn's expression darkened. "Does he speak of it to you?"

"Not directly," Xena replied. "But I've seen the signs. Nightmares that steal his rest, a shadow over his spirit. I'll seek the counsel of Elrond and Gandalf, hoping they might shed light on what plagues him."

"Do you think it's tied to Sauron's lingering influence?" Gimli asked, his tone unusually grave.

"Perhaps," Xena said. "Or perhaps it's something else, something rooted in the Woodland Realm."

Aragorn leaned forward, his gaze sharp with determination. He could sense that Legolas's actions and quiet demeanor concealed a deeper turmoil, a shadow that weighed heavily on his friend's soul. The gravity of the matter was undeniable—whatever haunted Legolas was no fleeting concern but a wound etched into his spirit, one that demanded understanding and resolution. "Whatever it is, know that you are not alone in helping him. Legolas is as much a brother to me as he is a prince of Mirkwood. If there's anything I can do, you have but to ask."

Xena nodded, the weight of her responsibilities momentarily eased by Aragorn's words. Gimli, ever the pragmatic one, raised his goblet again.

"Well, whatever ghosts haunt us, let them wait until morning," he declared. "Tonight, we drink to victory, to friendship, and to the hard battles yet to come."

The three clinked their cups together, the sound of metal ringing out amidst the laughter and music of Minas Tirith. For a brief moment, the burdens of the past and the uncertainties of the future faded, leaving only the warmth of camaraderie and the hope for brighter days ahead.

In a corner of the great hall, where the light from the torches softened into a golden glow, Legolas stood apart from the revelry. A goblet of ale rested in his hand, untouched, as his gaze wandered across the room without focus. His thoughts spiraled inward, heavy with memories and doubts he dared not share. He had learned too well from his father how to construct walls around his pain, yet such barriers felt unnatural to him. He was not Thranduil, nor did he wish to be, but failure had a way of reshaping even the noblest of hearts. Now, burdened by pride and guilt, he wrestled with what he had unwittingly created.

Arwen had noticed his isolation long before he noticed her presence. She approached silently, her gown gliding like moonlight over stone, and stood by his side. For a while, she simply observed, allowing him the space to acknowledge her. Her gaze followed his, lingering on the figure of Xena, who was deep in conversation with Aragorn and Gimli across the room. She studied his expression—subtle, but not unreadable to someone who had known him as long as she had.

When Legolas finally turned, his gaze met hers, and Arwen saw the burden that shadowed his spirit. The worry in his eyes spoke of something far deeper than the surface conflicts that had plagued their company. She had seen hints of this change since their departure from Rivendell, but now it stood starkly before her, undeniable and raw. She did not need foresight to know that whatever weighed on Legolas had roots both in the past and the events of recent days.

Her voice was warm and gentle, like the first light of dawn breaking over the mountains. "What troubles you, Legolas? Your silence speaks louder than words, and your distance feels heavier than the walls of this hall. Is it her?" She gestured subtly toward Xena. "Or is it something deeper, something you fear to share?"

Legolas hesitated, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he turned his gaze away, his jaw tightening. The elf-prince who had once been so steady now seemed fragile, his silence laden with guilt that even he could no longer conceal. When he finally looked back at Arwen, it was there, clear and unmasked.

Arwen's breath caught as understanding dawned. "No..." she whispered, her tone laced with disbelief. "Legolas, tell me it is not what I think."

He closed his eyes, the faintest tremor passing through him. "I did not intend for this to happen," he said at last, his voice low and tinged with anguish. "But my intent matters little now."

"You've bound her," Arwen said softly, though the weight of her words struck like thunder. "And she does not even know."

He nodded faintly, unable to meet her gaze. "It was not by choice," he admitted. "Nor was it meant to be. But the bond... it is there, and I fear what it might bring. Not only for her but for myself."

Arwen stepped closer, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder. Her touch was not judgmental but filled with the compassion of a friend who had shared both his joys and sorrows over centuries. "You should have told her, Legolas. You still must. This is not a burden you can carry alone."

Legolas leaned back against the wall, his strength faltering for the first time. "How can I?" he murmured. "To bind her to my darkness without her knowledge—it is unforgivable. She deserves more than what I can offer. And yet, to speak of it... to force this truth upon her when so much already weighs on her heart—it feels like cruelty."

Arwen tilted her head, her voice taking on the patient wisdom that so often defined her. "What is cruel is leaving her in ignorance, allowing her to navigate a path she does not even know she walks. You did not create this bond out of malice, Legolas, but you cannot deny it exists. She has the right to know. What happens after... that will be for both of you to decide."

Legolas drew a shaky breath, his hands tightening around the goblet as if to anchor himself. "And what of the shadow that haunts me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "It grows stronger, Arwen. I feel it feeding on my fears, on my guilt. It waits, patient and insidious, for the moment I falter."

Arwen's brows furrowed in concern. She glanced toward the crowd, searching for Gandalf or her father. "You must let others help you," she said firmly. "Even you, Legolas, cannot carry this alone. Have you spoken to Elrond? To Gandalf? They would understand. They could guide you."

He shook his head, the weariness in his posture deepening. "I have tried, but the shadow is cunning. It hides itself even from the Wise. And as for her... our quarrels make it easier to pretend I am whole. But the truth... I fear it would drive her further away."

Arwen's gaze softened, and she placed her other hand over his. "Legolas, you have faced the darkness before and emerged stronger. But this time, you must not face it alone. Speak to her. Speak to those who can help you. You owe yourself—and her—that much."

For a long moment, he said nothing, the storm in his eyes mirroring the inner battle he fought. Then, finally, he nodded, though his reluctance was still palpable. "You are right, as always," he said, managing the faintest shadow of a smile. "I only hope it is not too late."

Arwen returned his smile, though her heart remained heavy with worry. "It is never too late to seek the light, Legolas. And you are not as alone as you believe."

With that, she left his side, glancing once more at the crowd as if to silently summon help. Legolas remained where he was, the weight on his shoulders no lighter but his path slightly clearer. For now, he would hold onto the hope that even in the deepest shadows, there remained the possibility of redemption.

The celebration continued unabated, a swirl of laughter, music, and clinking goblets filling the grand hall of Minas Tirith. The feast showed no signs of waning, yet in the shadows, an undercurrent of unease lingered. At one side of the hall, Arwen had found her father, Elrond, and soon Gandalf and Aragorn had joined the quiet conversation. Their voices were low but filled with purpose as they discussed Legolas's plight.

Elrond, his wisdom tempered by centuries of experience, nodded gravely. "Whatever protections we placed against Alakar's curse, or the shadow that clings to him, have grown weak. The darkness is finding ways to seep through."

Gandalf's eyes narrowed, his deep voice carrying the weight of his concern. "This is no ordinary affliction. Alakar's craft is insidious, designed to exploit not just the body but the spirit. Legolas's resilience has held it at bay thus far, but even the strongest can falter."

Aragorn glanced toward where Legolas had been moments before, his worry apparent. "If his defenses fall, the shadow will consume him. He has carried this burden far too long."

Meanwhile, Xena stood apart, her eyes sharp as they flicked from the small gathering to where Legolas leaned against the wall. She had noticed the conversation between Arwen and Legolas earlier, though its content was a mystery to her. What was not a mystery, however, was Legolas's growing weariness. She had watched him closely, noting how his normally vibrant features had paled and how his movements had grown sluggish, his posture burdened by an invisible weight.

But more than her keen observation, she felt it. Whatever haunted Legolas had brushed against her senses, a cold, invasive presence that left her uneasy. Her instincts sharpened; something was wrong, and the small group speaking with Elrond only confirmed it.

Xena made her decision. Enough was enough.

She stood abruptly, the scrape of her chair against the stone floor drawing a few curious glances. She ignored them and strode purposefully toward the foolish elf who seemed intent on pretending nothing was amiss. As she approached, Legolas straightened slightly, his weary gaze locking onto hers.

"What are you doing, Xena?" he asked softly, though his voice betrayed a fragility that made her heart clench.

Without answering, she slipped an arm around his waist, pulling his weight against her with a surprising gentleness. He stiffened for a moment, his pride evidently stung, but the resistance faded almost immediately. That, more than anything, worried her. Legolas didn't fight her or argue as she expected; instead, he leaned into her support without protest.

"You're coming with me," Xena said firmly, her tone leaving no room for debate.

"Where?" he murmured, though his steps followed hers without hesitation.

"Somewhere you can stop pretending you're fine," she shot back, her eyes flashing with determination. She didn't glance at him, but she could feel his gaze burning into her.

Legolas's hand hovered uncertainly at her shoulder before resting lightly against her. His exhaustion overrode his pride, and for once, he let himself rely on someone else. Yet even as the shadow clawed at his mind, he found his voice, faint but insistent.

"Xena... we need to talk," he said, his words faltering as he struggled to hold onto clarity. "There is something I haven't told you... something you deserve to know."

Xena stopped abruptly and turned to face him, her expression a mix of exasperation and concern. "Not now, mushroom prince," she said, her voice sharp but not unkind. "First, we deal with whatever is tearing you apart. Then, we'll figure out the rest."

Her words were blunt, but there was a flicker of something deeper in her tone—an emotion she couldn't quite name, or perhaps one she refused to admit. She didn't know the nature of the bond she felt with Legolas, but she couldn't deny it was there. It confused her, angered her even, but all that could wait. Right now, his survival mattered more than anything else.

Legolas said nothing, his silence both an acceptance of her words and a surrender to the care she offered. Together, they left the hall, weaving through the revelers unnoticed by all but one. Across the room, Gandalf's sharp eyes followed them briefly before returning to the discussion. He nodded subtly, as if approving of the warrior princess's intervention.

As Xena led Legolas through the corridors of Minas Tirith, her mind raced. She didn't know exactly what Elrond and Gandalf could do to restore the barriers that had once protected him, but she would find a way to ensure they acted swiftly. Alakar's shadow had taken enough from the world already, and she would not allow it to claim Legolas. Not now. Not ever.

((Upcoming Chapter One-Hundred-Eleven))

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