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Feud	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 27149 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 124
- 125
Na Bar ned Talan Nedhlant (At Home in the Talan in the Clearing)

Legolas shivered, so cold his teeth and bones ached, frigid though the room was hot and the water nearly scalding. Liquid fire ran down his back and stung, sharp needles and pins dancing down his spine, drilling in and out like a thousand biting insects with daggers for snouts. He tensed, eyes wide and unseeing, and a grating cry burst forth that did not register above the pain. Then the water and the jabbing quills lost their searing edge and he sagged against Berenaur, sucking in ragged gulps of air. The soft press of lips against his exposed ear and a whispered word soothed him; he closed his eyes again and tried to control the shaking, but pyretic chills continued to race over his body.

He shifted, adjusting to pull closer to the comforting warmth of the seneschal's broad, bare chest, cheek against a shoulder, one hand dangling limp at his side, the other clasped tight to Berenaur's hand. It was impossible to get closer; they knelt in a copper tub, water lapping at their knees as Berenaur carefully bathed him. Another cascade of steaming water ran down his shoulders and he caught his breath, stiffened under the eruption of red-hot prickles that drove the cold from his mind for a few instants. He did not know which sensation was worse.

"Berenaur," he moaned. "Ai! Berenaur."

"Sîdh, (Peace) I'm sorry. We're almost done. Gladhadithen says the hot water stimulates the new skin, increases circulation, and should help with the chilling cold you feel." Erestor answered clinically, remorse in his voice as he extracted his hand from the crushing grip to hug the suffering ellon. He felt the sigh of resignation more than heard it and his chest compressed in a painful spasm.

The seneschal's minor discomfort was insignificant compared to what Legolas endured under the regimen designed to heal him. That treatment was as nothing against the horrors that made the cure necessary, but it caused pain nonetheless and generated a corresponding, agonising grief that had plagued Erestor since his mate's captivity. His distress doubled knowing his actions, however requisite, added to Legolas' misery. Reluctantly, he held him away a little, just enough to reach between them, and resumed the bath at a quicker pace, hastily wiping under each arm and down the torso. He dipped the sponge anew and passed it between trembling legs. The Tawarwaith's next gasp was audible.

"Gohenach nin, Pen-Rhovan." (Forgive me)

"Nay, alnad díheno," (nothing to forgive) Legolas groaned, jolted by the soft, sudden sensation of the frothy sponge against his scrotum and perineum. He shook all the more, aware for the first time how enjoyable this experience would be under normal circumstances, wondering if anything in his life would ever fit that description. Was it so much to ask, to simply live? "Aniron cuio; aniron mín cuil." (I want to live; I want our life.)

"You will; we will claim it together." Erestor smiled and gently pulled him close again, murmuring in his ear. "Almost done, Pen-Rhovan." Then he carefully washed shoulders, back, buttocks and the crevice dividing them. Every muscle in the Tawarwaith's body went rigid and he sighed. "Sîdh; I would spare you any hurt."

Legolas gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, not because the touch was harsh but exactly the opposite. Almost every hideous torture behind the White Door began this way, seducing him with softness, luring him into aroused participation. He snatched Berenaur's hand to hold, squeezing too hard but unable to prevent it, and ran his thumb over the golden band, his grandfather's bonding band, secured there on Berenaur's finger just where he had placed it. It was the only reassurance he had that this was no illusion.

This is Berenaur; this is real. It is happening now.

Only Berenaur had never been in either prison with him and Legolas was terrified that somehow his efforts to shield this one, vital piece of his soul would be breached at last. That he could not endure. Almost everyone else of substance in his life had become a player in that ghastly pageant of delight and degradation. Suddenly he raised their clasped hands and kissed the ring, examining the fingers he knew so well, careful, strong, gentle fingers that had never hurt him, and the fear evaporated. He exhaled a thin and wispy sigh. "Avach harno nin aluir," (You will never hurt me) he murmured and let their hands fall back beside them, but did not let go.

"Nay, never, Pen-Rhovan, never," Erestor rejoined quietly, emphatically, and cinched his free arm tighter round the trembling frame propped against him, held on hard, held on with aching heart and constricted throat. Legolas made a small, complaining whimper and he relented, apologising again for irritating tender skin stretched thin over newly-healed wounds, and resumed laving the hot water over the archer's quaking body. Despite all efforts to the contrary, the Tawarwaith still trembled.

It was the deep of winter, but the talan in the clearing was barricaded from the elements by no less than three layers of silk, even the branches overhead snugly draped with the tightly woven cloth, an extravagance unknown among the people of the city and even beyond the norm for the lavish furnishings in the King's private rooms. It was rumoured Thranduil had stripped every chamber in the stronghold, save his children's nursery, of tapestries, curtains, and hangings; even his own bed now stood barren, its canopy and quilts removed to provide a means to insulate the Tawarwaith's abode.

Here the uppermost flet, the sleeping platform, was transformed into a brightly coloured cocoon kept hot as an oven by two braziers which burned night and day unending. A large vat of water was kept filled and hung from a tripod above one of the stoves; gyres of steam lifted from it and bathed the space in opaque and misty air. The burners themselves were situated a half-metre from the edges as custom and safety demanded, a fine mesh of metal suspended above to hinder sparks and burning ash from igniting the curtains or the branches.

In the centre nearest the sturdy trunk, the elaborate bonding hammock, hung up without a fuss by the Twins, Aragorn, and Fearfaron, held a thick feather-stuffed mattress and an abundance of downy duvets, pillows, furs, wool blankets, silken sheets, and soft bolsters. Legolas had worked it all into a deep, comfortable nest in which he lay curled and covered most of the time. He had not reacted to the fact of the bed being there, did not seem to recall that he and Berenaur had not completed this traditional task together, and simply accepted it with silent gratitude. He did not leave it often, still too weak to manage navigating up and down the platforms, the healing wounds too tender to permit such pressure and stress. Nor did he wish to leave it, for here he was safe. This bed, this room, this talan in the clearing, these had never been settings used during the term of his soul's tenancy in hell.

Legolas ground his teeth, the grating sound underscored with a low note of plaintive distress, shifting as though to evade what he could not escape, longing for the bath to be done, yearning for the soft warm nest and Berenaur curled round him. "Ringe," (Cold) he complained. "Get me out, please."

"Aye, soon." Erestor hastily lathered the shorn scalp and washed the bristly new hair, knowing it upset Legolas to be reminded of his lost mane, his degradation by the Wraith. The soap ran down and made a frothy film upon the water; Erestor dropped the sponge and carefully lifted the weary face from his shoulder. Blue eyes blinked and stared at him, a questioning plea within them. The seneschal offered his gentlest rogue's grin and kissed the pale lips. "All finished, Melethen. Ready?"

Legolas nodded and struggled to straighten up and support his own weight, eager to leave the cooling water, clasping the rim of the tub in his free hand, and his vision fell upon the scarred finger where his bonding ring had been. It was not there, the false one he had been forced to wear, but sometimes he felt it still. His face contorted in revulsion and he shut his eyes; a violent shudder racking his frame so that Berenaur had to steady him.

"It's all right, Pen-Rhovan; it's gone, destroyed, nevermore to enslave you. I'll give you a new ring as soon as Gladhadithen says it is safe to do so," promised Erestor, saddened by Legolas' reaction to the sight of newly regenerated flesh on the healing index finger.

Everything reminded him of his ordeal, even signs of progress, and the seneschal wondered if there was enough time left in Arda to ever banish the memories of his captivity. He forced the morbid thought from his mind and offered another smile. "Let me lift you out; I know you're cold." Legolas said nothing but let go Berenaur's hand and circled his neck with both arms. Erestor held him securely and stood, easily raising the Tawarwaith up and over the rim, and set his feet on the floor. "Come, it's just a few steps to the bench," he coaxed.

"Nay, nay, can't," Legolas grumbled, leaning against Berenaur wearily as though he'd already walked a thousand leagues. The broken bone was still restrained within splints that held the knitting ends fast and he was forbidden to put weight upon it. Diminished by the lengthy convalescence, his sound leg trembled with the effort to hold him upright and he trained imploring eyes upon Berenaur, but while the seneschal was sympathetic, he was intractable on this point. Gladhadithen had ordered her patient to begin moving again; the muscles were wasting.

"You can, Legolas; you did it yesterday and I'll help. It will be warmer by the brazier. Come, it's just a few steps," Erestor encouraged, recalling how adamant Legolas once would have been in his refusal for aid. A heavy sigh announced capitulation and they lurched slowly to a small bench pulled close to the radiant stove, Legolas clutching to him desperately and panting with the effort. He almost tripped on a wrinkle in the rug, but they made it and all but collapsed upon the seat. The Tawarwaith folded up atop his knees, arms crossed tight over his heart, huffing noisily, quivering as goose-flesh rose all over his wet body.

"Well done, Beloved, well done," Erestor praised quietly. The seneschal reached for a robe and helped Legolas into it before donning his own, then grabbed a towel and began vigourously rubbing the spiky, wet hair. It did not take long to dry and he tossed the damp cloth away, framed the haggard face between his hands and again pressed a quick kiss to wan and wintery lips.

"So cold," whispered Legolas.

"I need to rebind the splints and then I'll warm you." Erestor did so quickly, finding fresh, dry wood and gauze readily to hand in a basket beneath the seat. Chore completed, he straddled the bench, shifted Legolas into the same orientation and drew him against his chest securely, kissed the soft, silky new hair. Retrieving a brush meant for babe's from the basket, he began working it lightly through the slowly rejuvenating locks. There were no tangles to comb out but the grooming soothed Legolas. Truly, it calmed them both and Erestor felt his mate relax against him; the incessant quaking lessened a bit.

He began to sing soft and low, rocking Legolas with the rhythm of the melody. It was the same song he'd sung in the baths after their bonding: Erestor's soul song, his recount of the lengthy years of isolation his heart had endured, longing for a partner, his exultation over the love he'd found at long last, his unbounded gratitude, his promise to cherish and preserve the gift of their union.

Legolas listened, losing himself in the flowing notes, Berenaur's love a vibrant current of vitality, warm and limitless; his heart a safe shelter now and always, promising a jubilant future to be shared. He felt his mind slip away from the memory of the Wraith's false bond, the humiliation of the pits, and the infinite confinement of his soul behind the White Door. The bitter and biting chills left him and he inhaled a deep and easy breath, tension seeping out of him as the air left his lungs and the steamy heat of the talan seeped in.

Unconsciously, he began to sing as well, his own soul-song a separate motif yet compatible with Berenaur's, sprung from the same hope that somehow hope was not false and fate would find some minute corner of his life to furnish with joy. For all the grief and pain Legolas had known, the Music of his inner heart was not mired in misery but rose clear and bright and full of promise, burgeoning with astonished delight and unbridled optimism, gratitude, and contentment. Instantly, a sense of familiarity overwhelmed him and Legolas' voice faltered as he gazed in confusion upon the cosy, colourful cocoon awash in hazy mist. How could that be, for this was all new, this place, this home? Then he remembered and all his joy evaporated, snow upon embers, and he cried aloud, body and soul contorting in the sharp stab of agony that speared his heart.

"Legolas? Nay, nay Beloved!" Alarmed, Erestor held him fast and tried to soothe his mate, uncomprehending the cause for this sudden attack of the chronic grieving sickness that had afflicted the Wood Elf so long.

"Lindalcon!"

"Ai, Legolas, be at peace, be at peace!" Erestor exhorted, helpless and frustrated in his desire to vanquish this internal torment. What could he say? That bold, brash young ellon, the very author of their union, their happiness, had perished in unspeakable violence, and the hand that wrought this end was clasped tight in his even now. "Legolas, beloved Pen-Rhovan, be at peace."

His words were more for himself, for the truth disturbed and worried him. Could Legolas come to terms with what he had done? Erestor could not guess and Legolas could not answer, gripped in the rending jaws of guilt and sorrow. He convulsed in rigid spasms and thrashed, legs kicking out toward the stove; eyes and mouth opened wide but there was no breath for the scream the attack demanded. Erestor dragged him from the bench for fear the brazier would be toppled over and set the talan afire, laid him flat on the floor and immobilised the broken leg. "Aragorn!" he shouted, panic stricken for the Tawarwaith did not seem able to draw air. "Faerfaron!"

Aid was already on the way, but it was neither the Dúnedan nor the carpenter. Elladan levered himself up the platforms rapidly and was beside the beleaguered couple at once, bringing with him the small vial of elixir Aragorn had found so effective for Legolas' grieving when first they'd met. The healers had employed it often in recent days. The elder twin wasted no time, uncorking the bottle and forcing the contents past the archer's clenched jaws. Together, he and Erestor held him still as the potion worked, fighting the seizure's powerful contractions.

"Easy, muindor dithen, breathe, breathe," he crooned and the calm strength of his voice, the speaking of this kindly endearment, drew the afflicted eyes to his. Legolas sucked in a tremendous and noisy lungful of air and coughed out a grinding groan, but kept his sight locked with Elladan's, wary but curious. Elladan made a short nod and presented a melancholy smile. "I am here truly, my brother and I; this is no mirage." He turned to Erestor. "What triggered it this time?"

"What always triggers it," snapped Erestor. "Lindalcon's death." The fit was passing and he released his hold on the archer's twitching legs to restore a modicum of modesty to his mate, pulling the fabric of the loose robe over him. He didn't like it, having Legolas on open display, the evidence of all the atrocities done to him bared for any who wished to gawk and stare. It didn't matter that this was Elladan who had rescued him and seen everything; it made it worse. He took up the Tawarwaith's limp hand between both of his. "Better now, Pen-Rhovan?" His question received only a weary nod and the wild elf's eyes remained fixed on Elladan.

"Let the past be, penneth, for none can change it. Lindalcon's fate was not yours to design, though you played your part." Elladan intoned.

"I killed him," Legolas mourned, the broken syllables hard to discern through tears and remnant convulsions. "He was with us when last we were like this; he will never be again."

"Nae, Legolas," Erestor whispered quietly, uncertain what the wild elf was talking about, thinking he must be alluding to the morning they left the bonding talan. In seconds his thoughts journeyed through that day: stolen clothes, an assault with snowballs, the proud, eager joy in Lindalcon's eyes as he watched Legolas during the party.

"What do you mean, muindor dithen?" Elladan pressed, knowing nothing of those events. "Are you talking about the time of bondage? Was Lindalcon there?" He understood acutely the staggering guilt Legolas must be feeling and likewise knew to draw it out into the open. In the dark and secret places of the hidden heart, that's where such sensations wrought their damage, inflicting wounds to the psyche that were nigh untreatable. Madness resulted and he had endured that lapse into derangement himself. Without Elrohir, he doubted he would have survived it. He set a firm hand on the pale cheek, not quite a slap but near enough. "Speak!"

The command in his voice and the sudden sensation of the heavy palm made Legolas jump and catch his breath, eyes scanning the grim and serious face confronting him. It was not an angry or accusing expression and he wondered at the compassion and real comprehension visible in the warrior's troubled grey eyes. "You know."

"I do," Elladan confirmed and nodded agreement. He moved his hand to the Tawarwaith's shoulder, gently pulling the damp robe up over the bared skin. It was so hard to look at the ravaged body, so hard not to.

"Let me get him into bed," Erestor said, uneasy over this conversation and vaguely jealous that it was Elladan to whom Legolas responded.

"Nay, let him speak, Erestor, he has need to do it. Trust me, mellon vrûn," Elladan reassured, easily reading his kinsman's discomfort and its cause. "This is not a cure you can affect."

"You are wrong. I am the only one who can heal him. I did so before," snarled Erestor and caught Legolas up, prepared to rise.

"When we were bound, Berenaur and I, afterward I showed Lindalcon my happy heart, my deepest joy, for he was its agent and I could not think of any other way to thank him," Legolas suddenly stated. He clutched at his mate's hair and their eyes met. "When we were in the baths and you sang to me; I let him see."

"Yes? That is well, Legolas, that was good and right." Erestor smiled sadly. "He was worried, you know, that I would not be able to craft a true bond to you, that I would just use you."

"He loved me," Legolas rasped as tears welled up.

Erestor wiped them away carefully then tended his own eyes. "You loved him, too, as did I."

"I killed him."

"Aye, you killed him," Elladan interjected seriously. "This cannot be changed, but neither can that moment you shared with him be changed. You gave him a glimpse of the vital, intrinsic value contained within his existence, his being. Few of us ever see that."

"I gave him death."

"An honourable, clean death. Have you not yearned for the same innumerable times?"

'A clean death, then, for all of us.' Legolas uttered an inarticulate protest and flinched, hand half lifting to ward off such a vile parallel between present and past, tore his sight from the noble countenance regarding him, and burrowed into Berenaur's neck. "Berenaur."

"I am here, Legolas."

"I fear him," he whispered softly and shivered.

"What?" Erestor pried the hidden face from his shoulder, tried to see what expression filled his mate's eyes, but they were shut tight. "Who do you fear?"

"What if his soul did not escape?" Legolas sought his mate's ring hand and entwined their fingers, rubbed his thumb over the solid band on Berenaur's index finger. "I don't know where he is."

"He is in Mandos," insisted Elladan.

"So I thought, yet he was with me there, behind the White Door."

"What about the White Door?" asked Erestor, a cold chill rattling his heart. This was the first time Legolas had spoken those words while conscious and rational, but not the first time he had uttered them. Screamed them, screamed in desperate horror. He hugged Legolas to him, wishing his arms could become a barricade against this sorrow, kissed the worried brow.

"That was not real," Elladan explained calmly, emphatically. "I have dreamt such things also: the dead returning to castigate and blame me for the death I delivered. It is your own heart's grief that paints such ugly scenes, Legolas."

"He was not there?"

"Nay, I tell you he is in Mandos."

For a long moment the two warrior's vision fused, each sharing the memories of the grotesque, obscene necessity the other had encountered, the scent of elvish blood, the sight of it, the rent bodies and the harrowed, terrified faces trained upon them in that instant when life gave way in a violent, vermillion flood. Legolas saw what Elladan had done and instantly realised it was not the same thing at all, for he had killed in the heat of battle to free a comrade being devoured or dismembered alive, or poisoned, or already captured, but never had he destroyed someone beloved. Legolas shut his eyes and heaved a heavy breath.

"You do not know," he mumbled.

Elladan did not contradict him, for the sights he'd seen left him bereft of words, lost in a sea of such agony he refused to comprehend it. He lowered his head and gently squeezed the shoulder under his fingers, rose to his feet and turned away. "Get him into bed; stay near him, Erestor, stay near." And keep anything sharp far from his reach.

Elladan retreated to the lower chambers, shaken, and descended to the snow clad clearing, his mind confounded with desolate despair. He had not understood, though he had seen it with his own eyes, how far from the reach of light and love the wild elf had been taken. Legolas had permitted him a glimpse behind that door he was always raving about in his dreams, and Lindalcon had been there. Elladan had never considered that any living soul could be immured in such an unholy abyss of torment and not perish. He took himself into the silent, sleeping woods and wandered long, finding his thoughts carried him down to the sluggish, ice-bound flow of the Enchanted River.

"So, the time has come," Thranduil sat in his war room behind the mighty teak-wood desk cluttered as it generally was with charts and reports and various inventories describing the goods of the realm and the contents of the armoury and the numbers of warriors housed in the barracks. An elegant and lethal dagger, poised as a weight to keep a particularly thick stack of parchments stable, occupied a prominent place on the surface, its bejewelled handle alight with a cool, green sheen. The blade pointed outward while the grip was angled to make taking it up in an instant effortless. The blade was aimed in accusing precision at one seat in particular and its occupant; there also the King's piercing stare remained and studied his prisoner: Elrond of Imladris.

"Indeed, muindor, now let us settle this dispute and find a way to ally our separate realms against the darkness so fast approaching," spoke Celeborn the Wise, eager to deflect the King's just wrath enough to prevent a permanent breach between Greenwood and Rivendell.

"Alliance?" Thranduil scoffed and spared his noble cousin a grim and sneering scowl. "Here sits one who has plotted to destroy my world and you speak of clasping hands with him?"

"It has not been showed that he sought to undermine Greenwood or her people," Celeborn insisted, knowing well how weak an argument it was. The proof would not be difficult to produce.

Behind him, Haldir shifted his weight impatiently from one foot to the other and exhaled the faintest snort of protest. In this he and his Lord disagreed and their words had become heated at times, for he could not justify pardoning Elrond while Celeborn claimed that it must be done. Across the room, in his customary place at Thranduil's shoulder, Talagan met his eyes with equivalent disgust and Haldir frowned. It did not feel right to be in agreement with the policies of the Woodland Realm instead of his own.

Elrond said nothing, his face downcast and his eyes trained on the rug beneath his feet, hands clasped together loosely in his lap.

"We will hear the truth from his own mouth," stated Thranduil. "He will not refuse to speak." It was a challenge spoken directly to his adversary and elicited only a listless shake of the Noldorin Lord's head.

"What purpose does it serve to hear admissions of guilt?" asked Celeborn. "You have decided upon his culpability no matter what he may say or reasons he may present."

Now Thranduil looked in cool and censorious amazement upon his cousin. "You will take his part? This is for the sake of your grandchildren, I suppose."

"Nay," Celeborn denied, "I take the part of reason and practicality. The time of elf-kind draws ever nearer to its end and those few of us left here must combine our strengths if we are to survive the trials to come. What has been done to Legolas cannot be undone, but…"

"Who dares say it cannot be undone?" Thranduil's voice reverberated in the small room and he half rose, pressing his palms against the surface of the desk to lean forward toward his kinsman. The assorted maps and charts crackled under the pressure.

Celeborn held up his hand and frowned. "Peace! You know I meant no slight upon him or upon the skill of those involved in effecting his cure. I refer to the inevitable impact these dire events must have on anyone. If it is possible to heal and remain sane without sailing to Aman, I doubt not that Legolas is the one to achieve it, for great is his strength of character and his love for Greenwood."

"His Tawar," mumbled Elrond faintly.

"What of it?" snapped Talagan abruptly. "Is it anymore foolish to believe in a Spirit inherent among this ancient forest than to pray to unseen Valar who cower behind their magic shields in a hidden realm?"

"Enough!" Thranduil silenced his oldest friend brusquely. "This is not to the point."

"Truly said," intoned Celeborn. "Speak, then, of the redress your son's abasement demands of Imladris."

"That will be determined during the trial," said Thranduil. "This conference is solely to define the course of that hearing and decide what need not be revealed publicly."

"Surely there is no need for another lengthy proceeding in the Chamber of Starlight? What good does that serve?" Celeborn argued. "Here we may analyse the pertinent facts and the degree to which they have injured Greenwood. Here we may negotiate the terms of expiating these errors."

"It is Legolas who has been injured," Haldir said quietly, unable to hold his tongue. His Lord turned to stare at him, but he did not retract his words and Celeborn capitulated with a gentle smile.

"Speak your heart, Haldir; no reproofs will arise from me now or ever," he said.

"My thanks, Hiren," Haldir covered his heart with his hand and bowed his head. "I do feel strongly about this. Between these two powerful rulers, Legolas was caught and nearly ripped asunder beneath the violence of their feud. Yet, I deem the Lord of Imladris bears the greater part of the burden for causing that unbearable situation, for he undertook to interfere in the child's life in the most negative way possible, even before he was born. Thranduil's reaction to the deception was beyond regrettable, but more understandable. It would have been better to put the child and his mother aside; such hatred and contempt were spewed upon that innocent that Legolas became irrevocably warped."

"What say you?" thundered Thranduil, coming full to his feet and almost reaching for the dagger. "Out!" he shouted and flung his pointing finger at the door. "You have neither right nor reason to presume to stand in judgement of me!"

"I do not judge you," countered Haldir boldly and stood firm, for he did not fear the Sindarin monarch. Celeborn made to rise in his defence but he set a firm hand upon his Lord's shoulder to forestall it. "Such is not my place, indeed. These are my opinions only, though many others of your people may share them, should you care to ask. If you are truly so great a person as legend pretends, then set aside pride and seek real correction of the circumstances that have marred your elder son's life. That is what I would see take place. Let Greenwood shed some of the Darkness imposed upon her from afar."

For a lengthy moment Thranduil glared at the imposing March Warden, the ellon's disdainful and imperious stare, devoid of fear, lacking the false and mincing words many reckoned diplomacy, and thought him like unto his own manner. He could not but admire the forthright honesty and audacity of the Galadhrim warrior and did not wonder that his folk were akin to the Sindar if only remotely. Here was a person he would gladly have as an ally and he laughed, the tension disappearing as he held forth his hand. "Well said, Haldir O Lorien! If ever the day comes that you would desire a change of scene, you are welcome here at my side in Greenwood. I am pleased my eldest child has so staunch a friend."

Haldir moved closer and took his arm readily and their clasp sealed an understanding between them. "You honour me," murmured the March Warden. "I would be greatly pleased to become Legolas' friend in truth." A glance at Celeborn as he stepped back revealed the Lord of Lorien's approval and admiration for the result of his speech.

"What can be done to alleviate such an evil? What difference can it make, for him, to recompense Greenwood and her King? Legolas will remain twisted forever more, even should everyone in this room, nay, this entire nation, wish differently." These morose, monotone words issued from Elrond, whose face remained down-turned, his shoulders drooping and his spirit numb. It was almost as though he had not spoken, so still he sat, defeated and defenceless in his misery.

Thranduil resumed his seat and his study of the Noldorin reprobate in his keeping. "So, you have an opinion, too. I am not surprised it includes a lack of any accounting for your misdeeds. My wish is to have you stand before the people of Greenwood and admit your wrongs, Peredhel. What have you to say to that course?"

Elrond stirred at the ugly pejorative and lifted lacklustre eyes to his foe, blinking as he took in the comely visage, the strong spirit peering out from the emerald eyes. Or 'spirits', more likely. An involuntary frisson passed through him and he shook his head to dispel the notion. "I will do as you deem best, Aran Thranduil. I did not come here to dispute the charges but to answer them fully."

He meant it, finally heeding the warning of Glorfindel and the rebukes of his friends and his sons. Even so, he had no hope that any action of his could suffice to either redeem himself or aid Legolas. No less motivating was the memory of the scenes the Spirits forced him to witness, images gleaned from the Tawarwaith's mind when once they had inhabited him. This knowledge only reinforced his belief that Legolas was beyond salvation, at least on this side of the Sundering Sea.

His shoulders twitched again, overcome with revulsion, returning his sight to the floor, uneasy with what he saw behind Thranduil's eyes. It made his flesh creep, this notion of souls infecting bodies, carrying the remnants of one life into another's, spreading them like disease from person to person. He could never be free of Legolas' reality now; those events were part of his mental framework and would henceforth colour all his thoughts, directly and indirectly, consciously and unconsciously.Disease of the fëa, more harmful to elf-kind than any sickness propagated among men is to the Second-born.

"Properly spoken," commented Celeborn, addressing his fallen law-son, but Elrond would not meet his eyes and he frowned. The Lord of Imladris was behaving peculiarly to say the least, and he turned to his kinsman. "Consider carefully what we have all said: does this need for punishment, for public disgrace and dishonour, for absolution in this manner, does this aid Legolas or compound the harm already done?"

Hearing these remarks in his law-father's voice, Elrond winced and instinctively averted his face. He could not look upon this noble person, this esteemed and ancient ellon and acknowledge the disappointment and disgust embodied there. "I do not want to add to his injuries," he mumbled and flicked a glance up at Thranduil. The King was watching him avidly, enjoying his mortification in the presence of Celeborn.

"Nor do I," stated the King and leaned back, the gloating gaze instantly purged, and drummed his fingers amid the mass of papers. He peered over his shoulder at Talagan. "Would it be worse for him to know Elrond is on trial or worse thinking his enemy was not subjected to the same travail as he?"

Talagan grimaced, shrugging, a strangely apologetic expression. "I feel it is no more detrimental to have his debasement at this person's hands reiterated than it was to admit to it himself before all his people."

"That was necessary," insisted the King. "Folk were ready to assign the blame to him, accusing him of a base and profligate character lacking compunction even against incest."

"Ai Valar," sighed Haldir, shaking his head. He had learned all about this but it still astounded him that these people could permit such bizarre views and barbaric customs to flourish. He met the King's eye with staunch disapprobation.

"You have more you would say?" asked Thranduil, liking this March Warden more and more. His lips twitched against a burgeoning smile. "Speak. Being fully as powerful as the legends claim, I have no fear to hear your honest evaluation and amend any flaw it may reveal to me."

Then Haldir laughed in spite of himself, for he saw how pompous and arrogant his manner was. "Truly, I think you have found means to work that correction without my aid, but I cannot deny the ways of the sylvan folk of Greenwood seem primitive at best and are repugnant to me."

"You might not be so repulsed if you dwelled here a coronar," retorted Talagan. "Try living in a constant state of war and see how long your lofty laws and customs remain intact. Try living without the protection of the Lady's magic and…"

"Nay, Talagan, do not defend Greenwood's citizens thus," exhorted Celeborn, "for they do not need it. We are not here to point fingers or to present ourselves as perfect. Forgive your counterpart's natural aversion, for he has been adapted to different ways and manners. No offence was meant."

"That is so," said Haldir, but he bowed in apology anyway, "yet it was not perhaps polite to speak so plainly."

"Polite indeed," growled Talagan. "The Tawarwaith has suffered and we all must bear a share of it, myself more than most. Even so, he is Greenwood's and Greenwood's people will affect his recovery and plead his forgiveness, exalt him, pledge fealty and undying gratitude to him."

Celeborn and Haldir stared at the warrior in unhidden, incredulous disdain. Among all those who had dealt the afflicted prince injustice, few had held so clear a choice of actions as Talagan. His words and brutal rejection on the field of battle influenced Thranduil's decision to invoke Judgement. But for that, would any have dared implicate the lone archer for those deaths? Talagan alone seemed to be exempt from an accounting and they were not pleased with that notion no matter how genuine his support was now.

"I will not comment on Greenwood's citizens and their changes of heart, nor yours," said Celeborn, "beyond admitting that if you were mine to command, Talagan, I would banish you forthwith." He ignored the warrior's sharp gasp and crimson face, turning to his kinsman once more. "Why have you not, Thranduil? Here is a soldier who betrayed one of the best archers Greenwood has and your own flesh and blood to boot."

"Perhaps your suggestion holds merit, yet that discussion will have to wait until another day." The King turned and silently dismissed his old friend. It cannot be denied that Talagan left with dread in his heart, for the powerful friend he'd known so long seemed much changed of late. Thranduil continued as soon as the door shut: "This conference is not really about Legolas and that is where you two err. It is about the Half-Elf who seduced my wife, poisoned her against me, turned me against my own son by convincing evidence that he was not mine at all, encouraged Ningloriel to leave me, invaded my lands with dubious intent, and then made every effort to destroy Legolas."

"Nay, nay this is not so!" Elrond finally cried out in his own defence, but monarch and Lord both gazed at him with open scorn.

"Is it not?" asked Celeborn. "I confess, never would I have given merit to any of the complaints Thranduil has made concerning you and your interference in his life. It did not seem plausible based on what I knew of you, Elrond. Yet here you sit. Can you elaborate on any of it? What turned you on this destructive path?"

Elrond gaped at him dumbly, sight travelling to Thranduil to behold his complacent smirk. He found his thoughts completely scattered and his tongue thick, unresponsive, and tasting of bile. He swallowed and wiped his hand against his brow, discovered sweat there and stared at his oily fingers mutely.

"You must answer," said Celeborn softly, the words girded in righteous resolution to see the harm undone, Greenwood salvaged, Thranduil's rule upheld, and Legolas restored to the place in his father's House that was his by right. If he could come to occupy a place in the King's heart and soul, so much the better. Yet withal that should come to pass, he would have Elrond redeemed, too, for he was the Keeper of the most powerful of the Three and his realm stood at the gateway to the west.

"Indeed, an explanation is the least you owe me," growled Thranduil.

"It was not planned out as you state it," Elrond began, unable to hold the King's gaze and finding his boots an easier place to rest his eyes. "It did not start out that way at all, and Ningloriel came after me. I never seduced her."

"Oh, that is too fine a distinction," scoffed Haldir.

"Haldir is right," nodded Thranduil, watching the deposed Lord worry the pockets of his tunic. "What difference does it make who initiated the affair? Whatever happened between you need not have gone further than that. Why attack the child she bore me?"

Elrond dropped his head into his hands, fingers reaching up to cover his ears, and he groaned aloud. "I will speak, but I want my sons. Must I endure this trial without any to take my part? There is naught I can say that will make my actions and the events they propagated acceptable, but let me not undergo this interrogation without the comfort of my kin near me."

"Comfort?" Thranduil sneered. "You do not know where your sons are right now?"

Now Elrond's head came up, for he did know, and he met his adversary's cold glare with a cringing heart.

"I know," he whispered hoarsely. "Aye, they have forsaken me, renounced me, and rightly so."

"If it is right, then why can you not explain yourself without them?" demanded Thranduil, his tone contemptuous. Elrond straightened in his chair and met the cold fury in the King's glare, seeing genuine bewilderment there, too. Thranduil really did not understand why any of this had come to pass, complacent in his ignorance and isolation. Elrond inhaled a long breath and as he let it out looked upon his hand where once he had worn the Ring of Air. It was no matter of convenience that made him bear it on the index finger where his bonding band should have been. He had thought of it, since first receiving it, from the moment he first slipped it over the knuckle, as his bonding band to Gil-Galad. Celebrian had questioned him about it just once, early in their marriage, her calm eyes showing a hint of hurt to see her ring had not supplanted this other, her voice just betraying a tremble of emotion. The excuse he gave told her all, though he'd said nothing of relevance or even of rationality.

He had no wish to disclose any of this to Thranduil or Celeborn, and certainly not in front of Haldir, an ellon beneath him in both lineage and station. He shifted uneasily, seeing that this is exactly what the King would have. He sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily.

"My sons are good-hearted and want more than anything to aid the healing of Legolas, for through me they feel the burden of all his wounds as though they had a hand in inflicting them. They would restore the honour and esteem of their House. Even more do they desire to include Legolas in their concept of family, though no blood do they share with him. It is a bond of a different sort they feel; a debt binds them, though it was not incurred by them. I will answer, yet I ask that I speak these things only to you and to Celeborn."

"Well, that is a start," sighed Celeborn, wondering over his old friend's resistance to claim his wrongs openly and explain himself. Like Thranduil, he believed that was essential if these two realms were ever to be on friendly terms again. He signed Haldir to leave and the March Warden departed, but not without a sneering snort of scornful disrespect.

"He thinks you craven," observed Thranduil, "and he is likely correct. If you cannot admit these things before him, how will you do so before the gathered populace of Greenwood? I am thinking this is all just a way to delay the inevitable, and hence I deem we should save additional questions for the trial. These are legitimate charges against you, Peredhel, and must be addressed. Perhaps the informality of this setting prevents you from comprehending the dire nature of your situation. Mithrandir and Aiwendil will officiate as in the previous tribunals."

"Thranduil, what purpose does it serve to hold this hearing?" Celeborn opposed his kinsman. "As I said before, we here in this room can come to an understanding and determine the best way for Elrond to make amends. What would you have? Is it payment in goods and gold you seek? Should he remain here in Greenwood in some capacity of service for a time?"

Hearing this, Elrond squirmed in anxious dismay, for he did not want to be held prisoner in this place any longer than had already passed. As long as he was in the stronghold, he was subject to the will of the ghosts of Thranduil's brothers. He had learned his lesson and amended his views; staying here could not increase the depth of his remorse. In addition to this, he was torn over whether it was best to meet with Legolas and express his remorse or not, deferring this decision to others as he felt his motives too convoluted to trust.

The King noticed his captive's silent discontent and smiled. "It would not please you to remain here, would it, Peredhel? I admit it; I've no wish to have you about longer than it takes to thoroughly reveal your dissipation and achieve your complete humiliation, but that it disturbs you so much is most enticing. Even so, Legolas would not be comfortable with it. Yet, his recovery is slow and he need not be made aware that you are here."

"What duty would you have him perform?" Celeborn inquired. He did not really believe his kinsman would keep the Lord of Imladris as his prisoner, deeming he only hoped to frighten Elrond. If so, it was working.

"Duty?" Thranduil leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, evaluating the ellon before him. "Greenwood always has need of skilled warriors to defend her. Yet, the Peredhel is a swordsman, if I am not mistaken. Such ability is of little use here where we must use stealth and cunning to pursue and defeat our foes." He paused as though in thought and a cold gleam lit his eyes. "I have received reports of a series of traps our Tawarwaith devised in defence of our holdings in the central and southern regions of the woods. Perhaps Elrond could be employed maintaining and manning them, even as Legolas did."

"You decree my death if you demand this," Elrond said and lifted a defiant chin.

"Yet my warriors see to it even now, even after this bloody battle has been fought and won. Why should you not risk your life as they do? Why should your punishment for destroying Legolas' life be any different than the sentence he was required to carry out?" As he spoke, Thranduil's heart filled with anger, thinking on the deprivation and constant danger Legolas had faced through all the long years of his exile, realising how that came to be reality, and blaming Elrond for it. He rose abruptly and slammed his fists on the parchment littering the desk and shoved them roughly aside, a bellow of outrage echoing in the small chamber. He leaned forward and pointed at Elrond. "You took something precious from me, Peredhel, as surely as if you came here and spirited him away in the dark!"

Celeborn rose, too, and moved to get between Thranduil and the Lord of Imladris, hastening to calm his kinsman. "Your wrath is just, muindor, yet what good can more violence serve? It will not make Legolas well and whole again. You cannot give him back his innocence."

"And why not?" demanded Elrond of the King, suddenly unable to hold his tongue. "You have an enchantment here that would wipe away all that has passed in his life. He would awaken from that watery sleep with his soul rid of the tragedies he has seen, done, and borne." His outburst stifled Thranduil's fury as candle snuffed out by the wind and the silence that followed was taut with the conflicted opinions yanking the four elves' consciences to and fro.

Then Thranduil sat heavily in his chair and passed his hand over his eyes, waiting as the others took their seats. After a time, he spoke: "I do not deny I have considered that cure, but you do not know the nature of this enchantment. It is no gentle thing, Peredhel. The longer submerged, the greater the peril, and not from drowning. It is not a mild deterrent meant to discourage unwanted visitors, but a curse designed to reduce a person to madness and despair such that he would rather die than live in the void the water creates. It is among the punishments I have considered for you. Can you imagine awakening one day with the sensation that your soul has been dissolved?"

Elrond stared in revulsion and shook his head. "I have only heard rumours…"

"They are nothing compared to the truth," intoned Thranduil. "We cannot subject him to that, though I have debated with myself whether small doses might ease his distress somewhat. The healer is against it."

"I do not understand why you don't simply take him to Mithlond and send him over sea," rejoined Elrond, for as a healer he knew how unlikely a true cure was.

"He would not go," said Celeborn sadly.

"Not even if Erestor insists?"

"No, not even then," Thranduil denied. "Yet, he is strong and resilient. He has lived this long beyond all hope and expectation. I believe he lives for his brother and sister, his devotion to Tawar, and Greenwood herself."

"You discount the bond with Erestor?" queried Celeborn.

"Nay, but even if he did not have Erestor he would struggle to live. I doubt he would win that battle were the seneschal not bound to him," opined Thranduil. He breathed an exasperated sough and his green eyes pierced Elrond. "That makes this conundrum even more maddening, for had you not come here covertly and brought your kinsman with you, Legolas would not have found the love he so desperately needs to survive. For this cause I know he would just want you to go away and bother him no more, in his memories or in his life.

"For this cause, I, too, would have you go from here. The sight of you is repugnant, the thought of you infuriating. Even so, I will not let you go, Elrond Peredhel, though I want it dearly and Legolas would wish it." The King stood and glared down upon his prisoner. "You will stand before the Council of Greenwood and admit your wrongs before all assembled therein. Your punishment shall be ratified by that Council, but I will be the one to announce it to you, for I stand for the abused ellon your hatred chose to victimise. Until that day, you will be confined to the dungeons beneath these halls."

With this speech completed, Thranduil pushed past Celeborn, ignoring his protestations, and summoned Talagan, who stood ready just outside the door. With him were the same two sturdy warriors who had taken Elrond into custody on his arrival in the realm, and they took him at the arms and raised him from the chair. They led him away without trouble or fuss, for Elrond had expected nothing less. He resigned himself to death.

"Lindalcon!" he cried aloud and bounded from the bed, arm reaching out into empty air, eyes trained not upon the fair face of his deceased brother but upon Elrohir's astonished countenance. Instantly, the damaged leg buckled and the next noise extracted from the Tawarwaith was a howl of agony. He collapsed, expecting to feel the bright, sharp explosion of nerves protesting his impact upon the floor boards, glad for the blank oblivion that must follow, but his fall was interrupted.

"Ai! I have you, Legolas," Elrohir reassured, hoisting the frail figure into his arms and settling him back in the mass of pillows and blankets lining the hammock.

"Daro, nay," Legolas moaned, protesting the hands that shifted him about and bundled cushions and coverlets round him, pushing them away though he knew they were not meant to hurt and also that it was impossible for them to avoid that outcome, no matter how careful, how gentle the touch.

"All right, be at peace." Elrohir straightened, smiling kindly upon the anguished eyes peering at him uneasily. "Do you thirst?" A slight nod of assent caused him to pour water from a carafe nearby and he was glad to see Legolas gulp it down without fighting his efforts to assist. The water was laced with potent herbs to dull the pain and worked rapidly, the patient melting into a lax heap amid the pillows. Blue eyes blinked at him sluggishly. "I will just get my chair and we will have a little visit now," Elrohir said and turned to drag the footstool close, sat upon it and crossed a knee over a thigh, clasped his hands atop it, and offered another smile. "It is good to see you conscious. Do you know me, Legolas?"

"Elrohir." The word was a but whisper.

"Aye, but how do you know this? Few can distinguish me from my brother."

Legolas gazed upon this legendary warrior, incredulous. Did this person really intend to hold conversation with him? He wished only to retreat into the black void where there was no agony, no memory, and no spectres gathered to ravage him in malicious glee. "Where is Berenaur?"

"Do not be alarmed; he is on the lower platform, sleeping as only one drugged heavily will sleep. Gladhadithen decided it was necessary, for he has weakened himself by refusing food and rest to care for you."

"He is ill?" Legolas struggled to sit up, eyes filled with the enormity of his need to get to his mate. His kindly minder prevented all his efforts quite easily. "Let me go to him!" He managed to infuse the demand with some of his former power as Greenwood's Protector, but Elrohir was not moved.

"Nay, listen to me now. He is not ill but he grieves and this is not something to take lightly. Hard as it is for me to say it, I must tell you that your need for him and his need to heal you is retarding his recovery. That can only result in your recuperation being delayed even more, at best. At the worst, well, we can all imagine it and thus I will not give these fears life with the breath of my voice. I know you would not have him fall into decline even to aid you, Legolas, and Gladhadithen knows it even better than I. Be at peace, then, and let him sleep until the morrow."

"He will be all right?"

"He will. Erestor is strong and his love for you a redeeming faculty that he has long needed to repair his damaged soul." Elrohir smiled at the worried countenance regarding him. "I never thought he would be anything other than the clever, carefree rogue I have known all my life, yet my mother often mourned the emptiness she sensed within him. I think I begin to understand what she meant, for once he was a wily and cunning hunter, a formidable opponent, my father's closest companion and his right hand, and my mentor, but alone, always, despite the much exaggerated number of his conquests. Now Erestor has become wise and brave, caring and compassionate, and so obviously in love that he is like a different person entirely. You have given his life purpose and meaning, Legolas."

Legolas had no words to offer in response but could not deny the warmth these proofs of the bond he shared with Berenaur gave. The knowledge that it was apparent to all, when he had feared the bond destroyed by the Wraith, soothed him and he closed his eyes, loosing a quiet sigh that was his beloved's name.

Elrohir cleared his throat and the blue eyes peered at him in curiosity, but before he could begin his speech, one which he had agonised about all these many days, Legolas spoke:

"Why are you here?"

"Why?" Elrohir was taken aback and felt his cheeks grow warm, for he'd assumed that much to be understood. Now he must speak the hated words. "I am here because of my father. My brother and I are here representing both Imladris and our House in this dreadful mess. Elrond has been deposed; we are the Lords of Imladris now."

"Ah." Legolas wished he had not asked, having forgot that Elrond was meant to come here; he did not want to think about Elrond or his careful, caustic healer's touch. He shifted in his nest, tension gathering in his limbs and anguish in his heart. "Don't want to see him," he whispered in plaintive tones laced with real revulsion and fear. "Thought he was there, not here."

"Be calm, you need never look upon him if you so choose," assured Elrohir, leaning forward to try and help the languishing ellon. "We could not leave him behind for the charges demanded his appearance before Thranduil's court. To refuse would add greater insult to those already tendered."

"Nay, the doors, the White Doors," Legolas cried, twitching anxiously. "Is it here? Are we there? Why do you torment me; I do not know you!"

He was fast becoming irrational and Elrohir regretted the effect of his words, but he was not lacking in determination and believed he knew how to break through the Wood Elf's debilitating confusion. "Listen to me, Legolas, listen!" He exhorted and set a hand upon the quivery shoulder. This raised a loud gasp of fear and fury and he was brusquely shoved away. "All right, I will not touch you, only listen to me now, muindor dithen." To his dismay, this well-meant familiarity elicited a wail of such hopeless desperation that Elrohir's blood ran cold. He saw that Legolas intended to drag himself from the nest and flee, and fearing he would do himself harm grasped his arms and held him down. "Nay, you must not try to rise; you will aggravate your injuries. Be still and hear me!"

"Ai, you…you…not you! Not here! This is home; it cannot be there!"

"Nay, Legolas! This is home and here you are safe. You are!" He shook him faintly and the terrified eyes opened and locked with his, such misery in them that Elrohir almost lost heart. "I am not a phantom player in those horrors you have known; you are no longer captive," he spoke quietly in the sudden silence. He had anticipated this might result and was prepared to dispel the fog enveloping Legolas' clouded mind, having guessed the one thing that would never enter into the tortures devised to break this battered warrior. Soft and clear, his voice filed the talan with song, a simple tune from his childhood that his mother was wont to sing, a merry little melody used to teach him the letters and their names, their sounds, and the meanings within them. He hoped Legolas' naneth, also a sylvan, would have used this same song during that brief time of innocence allotted to her child.

The plan worked and to his absolute relief Legolas began to sing along and they finished two rounds together, ending with Elrohir smiling, Legolas sighing as the terror evaporated from his heart. The younger Twin let go and resettled him in the nest before resuming his seat. "So," remarked Elrohir proudly, "now you have the means to test reality, yes? There was no singing in that bleak place; I know."

"No song," Legolas murmured, unexpected tears filling his eyes and running over. "Even I could not sing there." Instinctively, he reached out for Elrohir's hand and clutched it tight, heaving in a deep breath that left him calmer, amazed at the strength and comfort transmitted through the firm grip.

"It is over. You have all of time to sing now." He dragged his stool a little closer,still holding tight to the slender fingers, pleased by the strength evident in those lethal digits.

"All of time," whispered Legolas and felt cold. He wanted Berenaur. Elrohir went on speaking.

"I cannot begin to tell you how often you have been in my thoughts, all the fantasies I indulged of meeting you. For a very long time, I hoped you would come to live in Imladris and I would have a little brother to badger and bedevil even as my twin harasses me." Elrohir swept his long, loose tresses behind him, chuckling over the astonishment visible in the Wood Elf's eyes. "Aye, we knew about you." As he watched, a tremor overtook the ailing ellon and Legolas shut his eyes, withdrew, shrinking into the mounded bedding with a weary plea, a half-spoken gasp of negation and alarm. Elrohir became serious at once.

"Nay, be at peace, I am not here to cause you distress. I will stop if you wish it. My hope was only to have you realise you have long been loved, though from a great distance and by folk you never imagined. I am deeply mortified by the things my father did, Legolas. I cannot undo them, but I can offer you true friendship, true kinship such as I, and Elladan too, have felt for you all these long years."

"Kinship," Legolas sighed; he thought that was not a thing to decline lightly and faced his benefactor. "It was you that came for me there."

"Aye, Elladan and I, Aragorn, Haldir, all of the woodsmen in the village south of the Forest Road, uncounted numbers of your people; we came for you, Legolas."

"Thranduil?"

"Oh!" Elrohir was surprised by this query and his discomfort showed, answering for him, so he sought to apologise for the absent father. "There was fire and an incursion along the Elf Path. He was needed there, for none but he can command that element so well, and his kinsman went with him also."

"Lord Celeborn."

"That is right; he is here, too, and waits only for you to grow stronger before presenting himself. The trees have told him all about you, Tawarwaith."

"Yes? Then we will heal this Greenwood," Legolas mumbled, feeling tired and heavy. The effort to hold this conversation was exhausting him. His eyelids drooped.

"Yes, that I do believe," smiled Elrohir, watching as sleep crept upon Legolas, for it was real sleep and he meant to insure it was not disrupted by horrific memories. "We will be friends, you and I, and despite his rough manner even Elladan will win your trust. Be at peace and sleep, mellon." So promising, Elrohir again gave voice to song, choosing a bright, easy tune for a burdened heart to hear, a jubilant laud to ethuil. Simultaneously, he subtly tugged upon the net upholding the voluminous bedding, setting it to swaying.

"Friends," The Tawarwaith echoed, the word a prayer of supplication and thanksgiving, and lapsed into slumber almost instantly.

******

It was a strange place to be and Legolas wondered what had brought him here, for he avoided the stronghold at all costs. Indeed, the last time he was here he'd been carried in unconscious, so near to death he'd heard Námo call his name. He stood in the lengthy corridor and an involuntary shudder worked through his muscles and made his skin crawl; the memories he'd stored of this place were none of them fair, and they were many. He hugged his arms tight round his body to forestall another shiver and looked first one way then the other; not a soul breathed by and the place exuded an atmosphere of yawning desolation. He was in the centre of the passage at the top of the servant's stairs; the way he'd preferred as a child for never would Thranduil venture that path.

All the doors were closed; the broad corridor stretching out in either direction dimly lighted and smelling faintly of decay, as though he'd come upon a ruin long abandoned by its inhabitants, preserved with all the accoutrements of daily life intact. The tapestries seemed a little tattered; the paintings darkened by smudges of soot from torch light, the carpets worn and faded down the middle where too many feet had passed. The passage stood empty, forsaken, crammed with reflections of lives once lived, peopled with fragmented and fleeting recollections, devoid even of ghosts.

This was a place Legolas knew well and the signs of desertion were unsettling, for here was the one part of the fortress that had felt safe, his home for his earliest years before he learned to escape into the garden maze and from there to the trees. It was the level dedicated to his mother's rooms and at the uttermost end of the hall was his own suite, the chambers that adjoined Malthen's. That door both repulsed and beckoned him. Unbidden, a swift series of graphically obscene images flew by, Malthen's handsome features made ugly in his lust, his voice contorted and jarring like the discordant cries of warring jays and grackles, his words cruel. Legolas shut his eyes, refused to look, banished the hurtful scenes. Had he really believed that was love? An answer would demand a closer scrutiny and he had no wish for one. He knew the answer anyway.

Opening his eyes again, he stared down the carpeted tunnel the opposite way, glancing on the portals one by one: there the entrance to the study with its massive shelves for scrolls and books, its long table with the tall, round wooden stool where he took lessons. There on his right hand were the plain pine planks sealing the music room; the harps would be shrouded, the flutes closed up in their leather cases, all hibernating through an endless winter of silent centuries and that made him sad, for besides his bow these were the instruments he enjoyed most. Two small rooms faced him across the hall, space solely for storage where Ningloriel kept various furnishings with which she had grown bored. Finally, at the gallery's terminus, his mother's chambers, whose rock hewn walls were softened by tapestries and works of art created by Ningloriel's hands over the long years of her residence here. Had she hated it as much as he?

Nay, she loved her apartment, her domain. She loved this place and the gardens where she toiled over her exotic plants and blossoms.

Legolas smiled then, for there were one or two good memories after all and he would claim them. He strode toward that ornately carved oaken barrier, intent upon visiting her rooms, thinking maybe she would be there and they could sit together for a time as once they had. It was her wish, nay, her demand, that he report to her after every tour of duty in the forest so that she might satisfy herself that he was whole and healthy. How she fussed over him then! His favourite foods were cooked and served; he donned clothes she'd had made for him while in Lorien; she played the harp and he sang for her. He knew this was as much to spite Thranduil as it was to indulge her fleeting maternal urges, but Legolas did not care. He'd enjoyed those few hours and treasured them now all the more for they were all he knew of gentleness then. Did she think on him sometimes, far away ensconced amid the splendours of the Undying Lands?

She loved me dearly, in her own manner, and has not forgot me now. I should have gone with her and sailed.

I am glad you did not.

The voice brought Legolas to a dead stop and he remained fixed there, terrified to turn and look, for it was a voice he recognised. Perhaps if he remained still and silent, the spectre would go away, spare him this time. He shut his eyes tight, unaware that he was shaking visibly, and prayed to every Vala he could call to mind to let this trial pass. He would go to Malthen's rooms and endure the thrilling torments initiated there; he would go to the vaults and suffer the Spirits to seize his body; he would return to the Masters of Dol Guldur and permit the atrocities that so pleased the Wraiths.

Anything but this, I beg!

What do you fear? There is no harm I would visit upon you, Muindoren. Indeed, I have come to ease your burdened heart.

A long, low wail escaped the Tawarwaith's soul and his legs refused to support him; he found himself on his knees. Tears blurred his view of the hallway, but through the salty flux he locked his sight on the door marking its end. On the other side he would be safe, safe in Ningloriel's sitting room; she would not let anyone abuse him in her very presence. He began crawling toward it, but seemed to make no progress, the distance amplified and the corridor stretched, the heavy, oak door diminished. At the same time, his muscles lost their strength and he could not move. Sobbing, head low and eyes sealed, he listened for the faint press of ghostly elvish feet. There was no sound, there never was, but just as every time before Lindalcon was beside him, a gentle hand soothing his back. It always started thus, gently, softly, kindly and Legolas' heart froze in dread.

Please, I am sorry, beyond sorrow for grief consumes me; do not do this. Anything else, any torture, any punishment you demand but this.

The hand comforting him stopped abruptly and settled on his shoulder, squeezed softly. Legolas? Look at me. The voice was distressed, confused.

Nay! Go from me or kill me, but touch me not!

Kill you? Nay, Legolas. Touch you not? Does my touch give you pain?

Again Legolas groaned, a sound of pure despair and resignation. So be it. Do as you will; I have earned your wrath and submit to your just desire for vengeance. He waited in quaking anticipation, expecting the scene to evolve into something horrifyingly familiar and wept to think he would be raped in his mother's rooms, but nothing happened. The hand on his shoulder squeezed again.

Please look at me, Legolas. I do not know what you have endured but have feared the worst. I see it is so, yet what I can imagine must be only a faint shadow of the truth. I am not here do reap revenge or punish you. I visit you to beg forgiveness for the horrors my rash actions wrought upon you in those foul caves.

Legolas' heart stumbled and he let out a harsh gasp. Forgiveness? Yours was the life taken, Lindalcon, by my hand. It should have been me bleeding to death in the dark.

Nay, you know that is not what you mean, for then I would have become that vile thing's mate. Even if death was yours by right, robbing you was my fate all along. I was designed solely for the purpose of taking your place, first as Greenwood's heir and then as Adaren's saviour. The first was not of my own choosing, but the second I claimed willingly to satisfy my own conscience. I took up that destiny knowing it ultimately contained only bitterness and death.

I have seen what my end was meant to be for I witnessed the utter destruction and desecration of Rochendil, his very soul dismembered, ingested by Orcs. That would have been little better than being bound to Nazgul for all eternity. Your dagger was as tender as new grass by comparison and my excruciation was brief, being but the fleeting fright of knowing these things would happen to me. Yours seems unending and I would not be part of that. Please, look upon me and see that there is no thirst for vengeance in my fëa.

Yet Legolas could not make himself do it and kept his lids squeezed tight against this new manifestation of his adopted brother. Never had the voice been so kind and caring, so filled with true compassion and genuine remorse. This was so much like the ellon Lindalcon would have become under the growing mantle of maturity time would weave him had he lived. In contrast, the other apparitions had only sported the young warrior's physical presence, the thing inside hideous and demented, its words and actions vicious, cold, and cunning. It was a new level of cruelty and Legolas shrank away from the phantom, shuffling ineffectually closer to the wall.

I am not here to hurt you. Please, I have been trying to reach you for uncounted time, but your mind has been locked away. Yet you have not perished; therefore, I deem there must be hope for your spirit to be healed. Your Noldorin Lord has remained beside you, a true heart and faithful mate. You live for him.

Aye.

Legolas despaired anew; was this new tactic meant to deprive him of that last shred of hope? Anger flared at last.

You must not! You cannot bring him here into this madness!

I have no such power to command your mind that way. Beyond that, I would not again jeopardise that one source of comfort granted you. Remember? You were so angry with me then! I tell you, never have I known such joy as to feel your arms encircle me with forgiveness. Will you not consent to a second reprieve, Muindor?

Legolas crouched low, huddled in still and silent doubt, ready for the true nature of the phantom to be revealed, surprised to find he was tensed as though to fight, amused at his instinctive need to try, no matter how futile, to escape the slow maceration of the soul inflicted by his own mind and the unholy designs of Shadow's servants. Yet, none of the previous manifestations of Lindalcon had conversed with him this way. None of them knew about Berenaur's dunking in the Enchanted River, for he had sealed off that part of himself. He struggled to suppress the hope rising in his heart, knowing full well how much more devastating the sexual assault would be if he gave in to it.

Put aside your hurt for just a small moment, Legolas, just one small moment. I am really here, though this be only a dream to you. It is no different that the visitation by Analdir. Come, there is nothing to fear from looking upon me. I must gain your pardon, please.

The phantom voice pleaded with nearly desperate remorse; the ephemeral hand squeezed harder and shook him a bit. In the end, it was too tempting and he could not resist the desire to look upon this lost brother once more. Legolas' eyes opened and he turned them upon the spectre, expecting to see the unsightly wound gaping wide and weeping crimson, but the vision was clean. Lindalcon sat beside him, the scene changed so that they were at the top of the stairs overlooking the immense cavern that housed the kitchens. The spirit-body shimmered with undulating light, softly insubstantial but whole, as innocent and unsullied as on the day he had met Legolas at the entrance to the maze of the bonding talan. He was smiling and laughed, his hand sweeping out to indicate their location.

Here is a place where we both have sat and contemplated the tempers of Thranduil and his chosen Queens. What children we were!

Is it you, Lindalcon, really? Legolas blinked and drew a long breath, tentatively raised a hand to the chestnut locks. There was no sensation when he touched them and he quickly drew back. Yet he was glad for it as proof that this was not taking place behind the White Door. The fair image smiled sadly and shook his head, reached out and caressed the Tawarwaith's shorn head, leaving no impression.

So much pain is in you! Be at peace now, for it is really me, Legolas. I have no wish to hurt your mate, Muindoren, nor you. I have only the need to hear your words of expiation, for I am denied Mandos until they are given; such is the decree of Námo.

Námo? You are denied the Halls? What manner of law is this that endangers the soul unhoused? I do not understand.

Truly, you do not! Lindalcon's eyes were bright with both mirth and love and he hugged Legolas to him, though neither could feel the contact. Legolas, it is my own need to hear your words absolve me that makes it so. The Vala cannot give entry to those whose hearts are still bound in anguish to what remains here. I am Wandering but I am not unprotected. You saw to that, remember? You released me from the abomination of bondage and despoilment amid the Wraiths and Orcs, taking this martyrdom upon yourself, trading your life for not only mine, but my father's also, one last effort to complete those Tasks unjustly imposed. Now release my soul from the guilt of bringing that choice upon you and I shall truly be free.

Then you are freed, Muindoren, for no resentment is in me. You did only what you deemed must be done to aid your Adar. Legolas assured, finally convinced this was no trick, eager to ease his brother's soul.

Likewise, you did the only thing for me you could do. Be at peace, Muindoren. Do not carry my death with you nor count it among the debts you believe you must pay. The vision began to fade and Lindalcon raised his hand in farewell. Gather the love that surrounds you and heal; we will meet yet once more in Greenwood and then never again until you sail, Muindoren.

Oh! Nay, do not go from me now, Lindalcon. Legolas reached or him but the spectre dissolved even as his fingers grazed upon it. Lindalcon was gone.

Legolas opened his eyes, free of the heart-racing recollections of remnant panic that generally accompanied each return from oblivion, and realised he had actually been sleeping. The dream of Lindalcon replayed and he felt a fragile smile spread over his features; that had been no dream at all. Exultant with relief over his communion with his adopted brother, Legolas wished he had strength to arise and dance for joy. For the first time since leaving the talan to go after Lindalcon, he felt at peace over the conclusion of his mission to save Valtamar's son.

I did save him. We three, Fael'ur, Valtamar, and I, saved him.

The realisation made him warm and dulled the perpetual throbbing wrench of his healing wounds. His spirit filled with serenity and his eyes stung with tears of joy, recalling Lindalcon's final words. He hallowed them and set them in a place of honour within his heart and returned to the present to find his sight trained upon a person he did not know. It startled him, but long and brutal conditioning had trained him to stillness. He peered covertly, lids half shut, and marked a noble presence, an understated elegance about the elf.

The ellon sat hunched forward in a low chair beside the brazier, hands loosely clasped between his knees, face half tuned away in profile, long, blonde mane loose about his shoulders, the colour pale as Ithil touched by a hint of Arien's gold on Autumn's first dawn. Unaware he was being observed, his countenance was unguarded and there was about his expression the strain of grievous trials, a cast as of woe long endured and as yet unrelenting about his posture. That he was reliving whatever caused this sorrow was evident and a bright sheen glinted in his eyes, which stared into the glowing embers, seeing them not.

Whence comes this apparition? Yet, Legolas recognised the furnishings of his sleeping flet in the talan in the clearing and knew this was neither dream nor hallucination. The silk curtains were drawn tight and the ellon wore a cloak draped over his shoulders against the wintry weather, though it was thrown open, and his high, fur-lined boots were cast off to dry beside the flames. An empty goblet rested on the floor beside a platter on which the debris of a late repast was scattered. He remained lost in thought, his vision turned inward as the loosely laced fingers tightened and twisted slightly. Intrigued by the notion of someone in Greenwood he could not place, the Tawarwaith wondered if this might be one of the Galadhrim.

Perhaps Lord Celeborn himself.

The notion gave him a sharp thrill; he had heard much rumour of the great Lord and his reasons for being in Greenwood. That such a noble person could be his father's kinsman seemed absurd. Legolas felt another surge of his pulse; he was also kin to the Lord of Lorien. What cause could the wise ruler have to be here in this flet keeping watch over an ailing warrior? Yet, someone had mentioned Celeborn would come to meet him.

Elrohir, his grandson.

The encounter with the younger Twin gave credence to his guess and he wondered if he should make his presence known. Yet the grief that clothed the august visitor demanded respect and Legolas held still and kept silent vigil with him, giving himself up to attentive scrutiny, hoping to see how they might be similar, a sign of their kinship all might remark.

He was powerfully made and undoubtedly full-blooded Sindar, tall and long in the shanks, broad and majestic in frame and build. He sat as one unaccustomed to ease, a soldier for whom comforts had often been absent, and his clasped hands, elegant though they were, could only be a swordsman's. His garb was simple but well made and of fine materials, a hunter's habit rather than a uniform, yet the absence of the scabbard and hilt was keenly noticeable. A warrior come home after many years of war and strife would look the same, Legolas thought, and his fair face was taut with the effort to contain the great sorrow that threatened to overmaster him. It was as though he brought battle with him wherever he went, sword in hand or no, and was in constant internal conflict.

How many comrades had he seen perish? What kinfolk, what beloved companions had been riven from his life to create so daunting a cloud of silent, suffocating lamentation? So it must be and here was a person whose existence had spanned Ages of dire hardships. The wars of Beleriand, the kin-slayings, the bitter siege of Barad Dur at the Last Alliance, all these combined must be included in this ellon's history. Verily, here was one who could understand the tragedies of the Tawarwaith's ill-fated life. Legolas felt a surge of pity and compassion for him, wishing he could invite him to speak of this loss, yet feared anything he might say would only tend to marginalise the real agony incurred by such struggle, such enduring fortitude. For there was no hint of despair or capitulation in the set of his firm mouth. The forces shaping his world could try as they might; dignified, determined, defiant, he would continue. He would continue.

Legolas stared as though spellbound, sharing the agony filling the golden aura, admiring the undefeated courage presented here, barely daring to breathe for fear of disturbing his exalted guest. Suddenly, the ellon sighed deeply and sat back, ran fingers through his hair and hastily caught it behind him in a loose knot. His introspection completed, his features sharpened into a familiar mask of aloof arrogance as they turned upon the archer, and the mysterious warrior turned into Thranduil.

TBC
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Feud

Na Bar ned Talan Nedhlant (At Home in the Talan in the Clearing)