The Simple Way of Poison

See Part 00 for Disclaimer and Notes


[A/N: For the uninitiated...
Part 01: The Beginning is Half the Whole - Varda grows disappointed with Manwë for his blindingly generous disposition, and becomes increasingly upset with his relationships with his brother, Melkor and friend, Ulmo. She leaves him in the heat of a lovers' quarrel.]


The Simple Way of Poison by black fungi
Part 02A: The Prompting of Desire


"Screaming like lambs to slaughter! Squealing like filthy pigs! Why, you would hear nary a peep out of our kind given the situation such as this!" His loud guffaws an odd and chilling contrast to the apparent wretchedness around him and as he swung his axe high above his head, more screams followed. "Mind you, not that a Dwarf like me is complaining! It makes the deal a whole lot sweeter! Would you not agree, Elf?" he asked, the ease at which he chatted would give an appearance of normal conversations over a warm meal and cold ale between two old friends, had they not been thick in battle.


A fair head turned to meet the speaker, mocked horror etched on the pale, handsome face. "*Sweeter*? Ai, Master Dwarf! Your unique inclinations and may I add, your increasingly doubtful state of mind are truly beyond the wisps of my simple understanding," he rejoined, flashing the Dwarf a quick grin to soothe what hurt his teasing may bring. Another disturbance in the air warned his Elven senses of an impending threat and the Elf turned again in time to strike his attacker with a swift blow to the head. A splatter of dark, foul liquid hit his already ruined tunic and he could not help but pulled a face in disgust. What he would give now for a hot bath! "That's 23! Yours?"


A loud harrumph was the Dwarf's only reply. Two massive swings of his axe and he beheaded another of his opponents, then pausing to brush away an annoying trickle of sweat at the side of his face. He had barely lifted a sleeved arm to do so when an Orc jumped at him with a long knife, and this Dwarf did what any Dwarf would to return the courtesy before shouting,"21!"


The Elf's answering laughter was pleasantly comforting as it was irritating. "Now *that* is sweet."


None too pleased being bested by a woodland Elf, the Dwarf fought harder, renewed vigor surged within his self. The trusty battleaxe he wielded was his company in past battles for the last century, and its sharpened end landed true on those unfortunate to have crossed its path. More fell screaming, he noted in satisfaction, bringing up the count to 26. When he trusted himself to speak without ire directed to the annoying Elf (or to take offence on the many Elf's jibing remarks and let it color his speech), he yelled, "Perhaps I was too hasty to word it such, Elf! I am but a Dwarf and what would a rough, uncivilized *Dwarf* know of pretty words, eh? Do you fault me for not possessing as smooth a tongue as yours?"


One moment he was standing and the next he was flat on the ground, pined by a dead weight, the wind knocked out of him with a loud "Oof!". Blinking once, twice to clear his vision, he looked up and a grinning Elf greeted his sight. A grinning Elf whose maddeningly gorgeous body was deliciously pressed atop of his, he groaned inwardly.


As much as the Dwarf wished to remain longer basked in the sensuousness of the position that he unexpectedly found himself in, it was hardly appropriate for the Elf to engage in childish pranks... //Or the Dwarf in one of his morbid fantasy of a bound and ravished Elf. Ai, Elbereth, wouldst Thou be so cruel?!// He meant to yell again, to chastise the Elf of the apparent stupidity that only *Elves* would partake in such dangerous times, only to have the Elf pressed soft lips onto his and in that opportune moment, slipped a tongue in, delving deep into the warm cavern of his mouth.


The kiss had probably lasted no more than ten seconds, but it was the longest ten seconds in his entire life and he would have no objection if it lasted perhaps another ten. "Elf?" His confusion was clear in his eyes as it was in the trembling of his voice.


The said Elf rolled them away from a falling sword, shocking the Dwarf but a little that the Elf could still function with all his alertness while his own sorry excuse for brains were still warped around the heated kiss they shared not seconds ago. Leaning in closer to his ear, the Elf pitched his voice so the Dwarf may hear, "And now that you have *had* my tongue, dear Gimli, what say you?"


His light, warm breath tickled the fine hairs on his sensitive ear, sending soft fluttering that was in his chest to pool straight in his groin. Before he could lay his smaller hands on the Elf, he flitted away from his reach, the light merriment in those cerulean eyes too quickly replaced by a cold hardness that he thought he must have imagined it all. //He did not truly kiss me, did he?// he questioned, trying to calm his erratically beating heart as he studied his friend.


With agility and quick reflexes that surpassed all but his race, the Elf parried and sunk his dagger into the enemy, then cut sideways. Death came swiftly for he had aimed for the soft tissues at its thick neck, cleanly severing an artery; The Orc probably would not even know how its last breath was seized. //The lucky bastard,// son of Glóin thought grimly.


Merciful Death; that was what they had called him.


The Elf would not tolerate anyone suffer wounds that he made, even as the Dwarf dared say if there was *anything* that crawled out from the rotten, smelly pits of Mordor or Isengard that deserved pain... No, these beasts did not deserved mercy. They were at war where Luck and Skill played chances on their survival and Death an unavoidable consequence should the former decide to inconveniently run out. //And one does not stupidly gamble on Luck being merciful and all that rubbish,// he grunted reprovingly at the Elf. Mercy did not have any place here, not in the Dwarf's heart, not after he had seen the shocking massacre of his kin in Khazad-dûm.


Mercy had no place, not when revenge burned fierce in his heart.


Yet for the woodland creature, the passing of one is a sacred moment that begs delicate respect. The Elf had decided that should his be the hand that dealt Death out, he made certain that it was quick and painless. And quick, aye that he was. In a flurry of motions, too fast to be caught by a Man's imperfect sight, he threw back his attackers with an impressive display of skill with Elven daggers. It was almost poetic about the way he moved, like an elaborately choreographed dance more suited for the dainty woodland nymphs, or was it a trait shared by all Elves? The Dwarf's gaze passed over to one of the Silvan Elf-warriors of Lórien - Haldir, he was named if memory served him well - and mentally remarked on their similarities as his greedy eyes roved back and forth between the two.


The two Elf-warriors fought with fluid ease, their hits never missing their targets. Cold killers at work, both of them yet he observed that they moved to kill only when showed no other option. It was very frustrating really how they waited for the first strike before drawing theirs as if wanting their enemies to have a change of heart and mind, and turn back (which in the Dwarf's honest opinion was an utterly wishful thinking, considering these unspeakable creatures hadn't a heart or mind in the first place). They waited, those precious few seconds that would mean their life or death, leaving themselves dangerously at times open to counterattack, which he feared they may not have time to parry for sake of these foolish Elvish games of mercy, compassion and second chances.


Still their Elven heritage (//and the most damnable luck of an Elf,// the Dwarf sniggered) had given them many advantages of anticipating the lumbering moves of Orcs and Uruk-Hai, and had done them great service in this mindless war. Cutting their numbers down was mere child's play, and the Dwarf was fascinated and awed by the skills, strengths and cunnings that these two Elves had unfailingly demonstrated time after time.


As if sensed being watched, Haldir wheeled suddenly, the tightening of skin around the eyes showed his irritation when the identity of his watcher revealed. He fixed him an icy look for the briefest second; a silent challenge issued. He thought it was far from flattery, being openly gaped at by one ill-mannered Dwarf, no less and he took great insult for his blatant scrutiny. Unnerved by the Elf's piercing stare, the Lock-bearer averted his gaze, feeling more than a little flushed and naked under those searching eyes, but the break was short, and it was not a moment too soon that his eyes traveled reluctantly back to the marchwarden.


And who could blame him? Haldir, as all Elves were, was a sight to behold even in his indignation at being looked over like a piece of prime meat. There was something about him, about them, about these sinfully, beautiful creatures, that radiated an aura of otherworldliness and charm, so appealing one could dare say to rest your eyes on a face so fair was to have them feast upon a dream you would not wish to be awaken from. And so it was perplexing and it felt somewhat wrong to see them taking arms and killing as if it was the most natural thing, screwing the seeming perfection of Elves that encompassed all that is pure, good and innocent.


Elves did not belong here, certainly not in this war and nor was there ever need for them to bother with filth, pain and misery brought by the Dark Lord, Sauron and his One Ring... Middle-Earth had long ceased to be their concern when the Land of the Valar was promised to them, and unlike the others, the Firstborn had a choice to flee from this madness. Yet they chose to stay and fight, not to lay claim on the land and definitely not out of fear for the survival of their race but rather for theirs - the Dwarves and the Men, of whom they shared no real affection for the former and only pained mistrust for the latter's betrayal at the Siege of Barad-dûr.


And never had the Dwarf felt more humbled then by their selfless act.


Turning away from the captain of the Galadhrim, he stole to look again at his friend who had captured his head, his heart, and his soul. There had to be an explanation: how one so beautiful, could be so deadly, and this one Elf was even more terrible in his beauty.


The slender figure hunched before a fallen Uruk who had taken a thrust and a cut of his dagger at the shoulder earlier. His head was bent low, soft, golden locks obscuring most part of his face and a disturbing stance cloaked him in an air that unmistakably gave the impression of regret and weary resignation. Shrugging his shoulders as if shaking off an unseen burden, he straightened himself and whipped his head upwards just in time to catch sight of an arrow, whizzing not two feet in his direction. Evading its deadly point, he extended his weapon and subtly knocked the arrow's tail so that it flew past, striking an Orc (whom he sensed had crept up from behind him) in the belly. It fell immediately to the ground, screaming and writhing, and then a sudden flash of a blade silenced its cries forever.


Wiping the blood off the dagger on his sleeve, his deadened eyes calmly took in another's hurried advances, coldly calculating. He waited until it reached him before he stepped to the side, redirecting its raised arm that was gripping a sword with minimal effort. A hook to the jaw followed by a quick, hard shove and it sailed through the air and then finally surrendered to gravity, body twisting. It did not move again.


The Dwarf stared, wondering in amazement how the deceptively frail creature could muster such brute strength. Respect grew for this Elf-friend and aye, worry too. He worried for his friend whose face, he noted, was oddly pinched and his color paler than the Dwarf would deem healthy. A furious screech sounded from his left and the Elf spun to meet his new and (typically) incompetent attacker, judging how the fight barely lasted a minute. Almost immediately, without a moment rest, another decided to chance Death, which the grim Elf obliged with an equally grim smile.


Despite the grime and filth that covered him, the Elf glowed in full splendor worthy of an Elven prince and it would seem also that their enemies were themselves not unaffected by this Elf's outward attraction. They drew to him, drawing him into many fights, one after another, and many of the braver and more intelligent of Rohan's Men had read this peculiar pattern. Flanking his sides, the Rohirrim distracted most of the enemies while the Elf handled the few that slipped past. Their enemies' behavior put a deep frown on the Dwarf's weathered face, his worry mounting.


All the while the Dwarf was busy with his thoughts, the Elf prince had kept one eye on his comrade who was still lying on the ground where he had last left him. A look of amusement (and something bordering on exasperation) spread over that pale face as he realized the Dwarf needed to be shaken out of his dangerous musing. He skipped to his friend, and with a loud dramatic sigh, he managed a bow before the sprawled figure, whilst a dagger had quietly glided out of his hand to impale itself into an Uruk behind the Dwarf. "I would thank you if you could move yourself away from that spot, Master Dwarf and put that axe of yours to better use!" The voice was unusually hard and sharp, but the sweetest of smiles playing on those kissable lips had somewhat dulled its edges and the Dwarf felt warm, heady feelings for the Elf returning.


How could he possibly compare bleeding these fell creatures to sweetness? //Sweetness was... Sweetness was but a moment ago, when I had his lips locked on mine. Sweeter was the agony of feeling the hard contours of that lithe body...// he groaned as the pleasant unpleasantness began to fill his trousers.


It was trickier now to keep up the pretense of friendship and brotherly love, especially now he knew that his friend had suspected there was more to the pats on the back that turned to soothing strokes and touches that lingered too long on uncovered flesh. The Elf did not call on him on his actions at first though; merely moving politely away which was often enough for the Dwarf to snap up from his stupor and stop whatever it was he had been doing.


Oh, but "his" Elf was such a tease.


While any initiation on his part to lead their relationship further was gently rebuffed, he had discovered that the cool Elf was gradually adjusting to the idea that the Dwarf's interest may lie beyond the boundaries of friendship, and cautiously he began warming up to him like a child taking its first tentative steps. So far it had been nothing overtly sexual, confined only to intimate teasing and shy, innocent touches that shamelessly brought an incredible heat to the Dwarf's aching groin. He particularly loved the nights when the Elf would seek his company and rest his fair head on his shoulder, pouring him his thoughts and slowly drowning him in his soothing voice and the delicious warmth of his body. Together they would spend those nights, talking till each floated into the realms of dreams and the chilling winds a perfect excuse for the relaxed proximity. Come mornings, the couple would disentangled themselves from their compromising position in silence - neither was inclined to dwell on it openly for reasons of their own.


The Dwarf was content to let his friend set the pace though at times, it would seem the Elf was trying the patience of Manwë himself. Still he held back, wanting more from his exquisite tormentor than a quick tumble and he dared not risk their friendship for one mindless night of lust.


If the rest of the Fellowship had noticed the subtle changes in their “arrangement”, they did not remark on it and he was thankful for he could not guess what his Elf would make of it if pushed too soon to Love... //and loving a *Dwarf*,// he sighed almost defeated. And if rumors of King Thranduil's over-bearing rule where the youngest prince was concerned were to be believed, his Elf was *not* yet taken... All the more that he should be treading his ground with care.


But then something happened one day that almost unraveled his work and his patience, he howled, would have been for naught.


Ever since their last night in Lothlórien, the Elf had not been himself and it had not gone undetected to the Dwarf how the Elf had shied away from him, from the company... from Aragorn. While his friend did not reveal anything that would implicate the future King of Gondor, he suspected that something dreadful had trespassed between the two and unmade their easy friendship. And if the skittishness in his friend's behavior that screamed suspiciously like fear whenever Aragorn moved closer in his personal space was anything to go by, he would guess the fault to be latter's.


It was almost painful to see the Elf literally cringed from his touch whereas before the innocent comforts from a true friend was welcomed. But a truer friend did not back down. The Dwarf in his single-mindedness vowed to bring his old friend back and bring him back he did. He worked hard, concentrating his energies and time on him and ignoring the building fury in his heart to seek vengeance and lash out on those who dared to harm his Elf. Armed with memories of his cheery laughter and pictures of his smile in his head, the Dwarf began rebuilding his friend, and though the smiles now was not as bright or the laughter as heartening as they were before, the Elf was at least smiling and the sweet sweetness that was decidedly him began to shine through again.


//Like it is showing now,// he thought dreamily, smiling a silly smile at the figure who was running just 30 feet over to fight at Haldir's side and then he sighed for what would have been the umpteenth time today. Shaking his head, he focused his mind back to the foray and scrambled to his feet, barely escaping a scimitar-like sword that was lunged towards him. "Nay, not sweeter..." he whispered harshly as he countered the attack with an overhead swing of his axe which split the Orc's head in two. He stood back, smug and admiring his latest handiwork, not realizing the foolishness of his behavior.


"Duck!" one of the Men of Rohan suddenly cried in warning, the Dwarf's *only* warning before a spear flew past just inches above his head and into another monstrous Uruk behind him.


//That was twice I was caught unaware!// the Dwarf growled heatedly, dreading that the kiss had seriously affected his mind than he dared begin to guess. The slow realization of his vulnerability (and his glaring stupidity) shook him to the core. Turning to *properly* greet his fallen assailant, his eyes blazed with hatred at they took in the sneaky bastard's bloody form. He yanked the said spear with more force than necessary, ripping the torn flesh and proceeded to cruelly stab it again and again, venting his anger. How dare it tried to kill him! How dare it!


Halfway through the third strike, a slender hand closed around his own and carefully pried the weapon off his fingers. The Dwarf looked up so fast he almost gave himself a whiplash, foul curses were at the tip of his tongue, ready to lambaste the fool who dared to come between his fury, but when their eyes met, his anger melted away into shame.


The Elf seemed rather upset, a tinge of sadness swirling in the icy, blue abyss, and the Dwarf felt sickened that he had helped put it there. With his head bent, he muttered a grudging word of thanks and another in apology for his outburst to which the Elf replied, "Speak louder, Master Dwarf! Alas, I fear your need for *sweetness* makes my hearing now much impaired!"


//There it is again... in his voice. A dangerous mix of desperation and hopelessness... Does the Elf not think we will get out of this alive?// the Dwarf quirked a brow at the warrior's subtle show of pessimism and he decided that he hated it. Taking on a lighter tone to dispel the worry that had settled uncomfortably in his heart, he threw back his words, "Not sweeter, my good Elf! Satisfying! Aye, it makes the deal a whole lot more *satisfying*!"


//Satisfying?!// the Elf wondered incredulously at the poor choice of words and it took all of him not to flinch in fear when he spied the same mad gleam shining in those eyes that had overtaken his friend not a moment ago. There had been no *satisfaction* for this Elf. He could not help but feel a measure of regret and pity as his sharp blades cut through his enemies. They had been Elves once, their lost kin, he was told; of his people, of his blood but corrupted by the hands of Morgorth. Often he chewed over the thought that if given the chance, would they have turned their backs on Sauron and returned to the Light? He tried to catch their eyes during their fights, something to tell him that there was still hope, even just a glimmer of it... there was only blankness.


So he killed and kept on killing. But he killed today because he knew he had to, for the sake of Middle-Earth, for the sake of all those he held so dear in his heart.


They killed because they knew nothing else.


The Dwarf killed because it *satisfied* his thirst for revenge and he deserved *that* satisfaction to say the least.


He did not know which was more disturbing: the fact that the Dwarf had a valid reason to kill or that Sauron's puppets could be held blameless for the killings or that the Elf was reasoning his own need to kill at all. That last thought brought bile burning at the back of his throat, and he swallowed quickly before he embarrassed himself in front of the Dwarf who was still chatting away, not noticing his momentary lapse.


"--But sweeter? Ah, to be back in the Mines and all of the treasures it bears, now *that* is sweet!" He leaned forward and hissed conspiratorially, "Once this War is over, Elf, I bid you to my home and share with you a Dwarf's hospitality!"


"And what would that entails?" he asked carefully, flicking a glance at his friend. He pulled out his dagger that was buried deep in Uruk's flesh and with a tremendous heave, flung the dead weight onto the ground, barely missing a breath.


"Why, whatever your heart desires!" the Dwarf hooted, then winked as he cleaved his enemy in two with a mighty blow. "Perhaps the youngest prince of Mirkwood shares his father's love for all things bright and shiny?"


The fair archer erupted into a violent fit of laughter that drew from the Dwarf his own – he knew then he had said the right thing to keep his Elf away from one of his dour moods. "Keep your pretty baubles, Friend Gimli!" the Elf shouted to make his voice heard over blood-curdling screams and clashes of swords and daggers. "I have no need of it nor do I wish for it. My heart is not ruled by greed."


And then it struck.


No sooner the words escaped from his lips, he lurched forward, a sudden pain exploded sharply in his head, threatening to split his skull. Confused images assailed his thoughts and they rained like fat drops of molten lava, scorching his mind.


//Not again!// he gritted his teeth, trying to keep down the familiar wave of nausea and fight back the bout of dizziness.


He had had them for most of his entire immortal life, suffered them in his troubled dreams, of ethereal creatures of white light. And every morning after, he would wake up with most unpleasant headaches that left him physically ill, weak and confined to his bed for a week. Mirkwood's healers were befuddled by his ailment (for Elves never succumb to any known illness), contributing it to stress over the Queen's sudden demise and brewed for him many a sleeping draught whenever they had taken too much toil on his already weakened body.


He lost of count on the number of the times he was drugged, poked and prodded, and still the terrors continued that by the time he reached his majority, he was but a shell of an Elf. He could not remember a time then when he was entirely lucid, when strange and frightening visions did not wrack his soul, stealing through his thoughts like thieves. The visions he indistinctly understood were a promise to an end. To what end though, he could not be certain nor he wished to find out. He knew only that it called for him and his surrender. Yet to surrender to fates unknown, to take that leap of faith was even more frightening ever more so for a mere Elfling, and so he had resisted its pull, his feeble efforts putting further strain upon his weary body and mind. And each time he awoken from the terrors of his dreams was a hard battle won.


The strangeness of his malady had also made him unusually sensitive to the healing rays of Anor. Cursed to walk in darkness else suffer terrible burns, he made for the deeper, darker bowels of Mirkwood palace. It was a difficult choice – a lesser of two Evils it seemed – for he was mortally terrified of the dark and enclosed places, but he chose to brave this fear over pain which he had little control. His first night away from Arien, the first of many more endless nights, had lent even blacker dreams as if to punish him for the impudence of his choice and there was not a dream thereafter he had awoken from in panicked screams. He swore he would have lost his sanity had it not been the strength and unwavering support of his beloved family, and it was a long, trying time before he mastered his fears.


When he discovered Ithil's beams did not affect him as much as Anor's rays, he took to walking in the nights and venturing further from his chosen prison that was his home. The feel of wind in his hair and the sweet smell of grass were like soothing balm to his tortured soul, and the soft whisperings from old Trees comforted his troubled mind with words of hope and love. He stayed awake all nights, entranced by the beauty and peace that surrounded him until the break of dawn. He stayed, acting out his defiance as he only knew how, against Eru and the Valar whom in his mind sought to break him. He stayed until his fair skin was blistering red and he almost fainted by the cruel lashes of pain, and only then he returned to his room, embraced by the suffocating shadows again.


Over the years, his eyes had grown accustomed to darkness and without the healing light, the pallor on his sickly skin more pronounced. Coupled with a poor appetite, fitful sleep and fear that clawed at him, his body slowly wasted away. He had no need to look himself in the mirror, loathing at what he had become. Shame that a prince should be in such pitiful form and shame had driven him at last to lock himself away in the darkest wing of the palace, shunning all company except that of his father's and brothers'.


They had tried means to draw him out, as they knew how their little one's heart bled from ever making such a choice – he had even stopped his nightly walks, afraid that other Elves would look at him in disgust at his appearance. But he was a stubborn Elfling then as he was a stubborn Elf now. One could say that stubbornness was a trait that predominantly manifested itself in the princes and kings of Mirkwood; His own stubborn father had taken residence to the smaller quarter beside his, and stubbornly remained vigil by his side the nights when the dreams became unbearable and no potion could keep them at bay.


//Ai, Ada ...// Between the four brothers, he resembled closest to Nana in appearance and manners, and his brothers held no grudges that their father favored him most for King Thranduil was all fair and wise and he loved all his children. It hurt him knowing how his ailment had caused his poor father much sorrow. [A/N: Ada - father, Nana - mother]


Whenever the Elvenking visited his room, the prince put on his most cheerful smile that was not all pretense and tolerated his somewhat annoying codlings because he understood his father's fear and love for him. Each evening, Thranduil would try to pull away from his office, leaving the less important work to his advisors or deciding on a whim that he could attend to his work on the morrow and then rush to son. Sometimes he arrived just after Prince Tathar finished his tutoring of his youngest brother, but most times he clocked his arrival just when dinner was to be served so he could nudge a bit more food into the painfully thin body. The nights between father and son, when he was in better health, was mostly spent in laughter either while being brutally beaten by his impish son at chess or relating about their days. Seldom do they talk about the troubles of Mirkwood and the threats from Dol Guldur, and the prince though secretly informed by his brothers, would only venture his opinions and suggestions aloud when asked pointedly.


His life alternated between his studies, family visits and fevered dreams, and as he slowly began to accept the harsh realities of his predicament, he grew surprisingly content on what little life had to offer him. At first it sparked a bit of a worry in his family, his father especially who had thought that he had lost all will to live. In his panic, he had instructed his elder brothers that the youth was never to be left alone and that they would take turns checking on him every half hour, fearing that he would do harm to himself if left to this imaginary depression.


It took him a long while to convince his Ada that he was not depressed (though at times succumbed to moments of broodings) and that he had everything that he could have *possible* within his reach. He knew that his father still regard him suspiciously for it was not the life the Elvenking had envisioned for the prince, but whatever life that breathe in him now, he knew of his father's vow to make it his happiest and they had let him know that he was always loved.


Winter made way for spring, summer and autumn, and for the next six hundred years, the youngest prince of Mirkwood, Legolas, became a forgotten memory to its people. But it was not until one fateful morning when everything changed.


His memories failed him on the details, which he found it quite peculiar and disturbing for it would only seem proper that such a momentous point in his life would surely be permanently imprinted in his mind. He remembered only on his begetting day, after he had woken up from his first restful sleep, he saw a friendly face that he had since then named him his most trusting friend, Lord Erestor of Rivendell, and then the dreams haunted him no more.


He had found life again and ever since then he had been making up for all the time lost. Recovery had been agonizingly slow - his wasted muscles refused to work for him, he tired easily and his eyes hurt in the brightness of day - but every day he grew stronger and two years passed before Legolas could finally walk unaided and flit from tree to tree gracefully as Elves are wont to do.


His family was delighted with his progress though they still treated him like spun glass, fiercely protecting him from everyone and even himself if needed be. There had been one too many quarrels in the royal household about Legolas joining his brothers off to borders of Dol Guldur – it had taken almost two hundred years before they finally relented – of which he lost rather miserably. Although the youngest son had trained hard in the art of warfare and his skill with the bow and arrows unmatched, in their eyes he was still their little one and despite his years, he was very much an innocent, not unlike an Elfling – reading from a text on the bonds of love and pains of betrayal, as compared to experiencing it are two very different things.


The years of isolation made him a stranger in his father's realm and that his mind and thoughts were molded differently from those of his age did not make it easier for him to befriend the others. To cover his own shortcomings and nurse his bruised pride, he had again chosen to limit his interactions (the over-protective father had fully supported his decision and jealously guarded him from the more *sexually liberal* Elves who had taken fancy on his beautiful son) until Prince Tathar put his foot down. When his good health was wholly regained, the eldest prince had suggested that formal functions be held in Legolas's honor to reintroduce him back to the society. It was then he discovered that besides his distaste for politicking – for which he was gladdened that as the youngest, he would not bother himself too much with cruel mind games - loud noises hurt his sensitive ears (he had the keenest hearing) and he had developed an unhealthy fear of crowds. Still he was happier than he was last and he was not left wanting; there was little the over-indulgent Elvenking could deny his son.


For a while, the dream was blissfully forgotten and no one dared to speak of it for fear of taboo, but some things were not meant to be forgotten and when it first suddenly reared its ugly head again, Legolas was helpless to control the spasms of terror that shot in his heart.


Of late these dreams visited him more often than he would like and he felt a known fear crept up at him whenever he lay down to rest. He had some misgivings about continuing the journey since they fled from the mines of Moria, but he had given little thought, brushing off the nightmares as stress over Gandalf's fall into darkness. He did not think that his illness would return and now that it had made itself properly known to him in Lothlórien (though thank the Valar, he suffered not the burns from Arien), he would not wish to compromise the success of the Fellowship with his malady.


With a heavy heart, he had at last consulted Gandalf at Fangorn Forest of his old sleeping troubles and he was half expecting the wizard to chide him for withholding such grave information and then send him back humiliated to Mirkwood. Instead Gandalf took him to his side and slipped a small bottle in his hand that contained curiously a familiar potion. "Your ada wishes you would not have need to use it," he remembered the Wizard say, reminding him of its potency and its unpleasant side effects. And Legolas did not forget nor did he consume it, for the last thing the proud prince wished was to be laughed at as to why the renowned archer from Mirkwood could not possibly shoot an arrow straight.


The dreams after all only occurred in his Elven sleep, he reasoned; he had taken care to move his bedding far away lest his muffled screams reached unwelcome ears and it had been an easy game of avoidance. Today however he learnt an entirely new and a fatal rule: the dreams had finally chosen to manifest during his waking hours... //and at the most inopportune hour at that,// the Elf grimaced at his luck. //The Valar and their trickery...//


He gasped again as more memories of his dreams came again unbidden and he dropped weakly to the ground. His sight was lost to him for a moment and he felt the irrational panic overtook him; he wondered if a blasted Orc had finally gotten the better of an Elf and had struck him down until... A pair of soft, brown eyes stared into his, only inches off his face, came to view. "Sweet Vadar, you *are* ugly!" Legolas could only exclaimed, a welcomed relief heard plainly in his voice.


"Oh, you are such a daisy yourself," the Dwarf replied dryly as he looked over the prince who was covered in mud and Orc's blood. "And you are no nosegay either", he added and crinkled his nose in exaggerated disgust to prove his point which earned him a playful swat at his head. Laughing, he hauled Legolas onto his feet roughly, at the same time carelessly and easily deflecting a blow of an Uruk's spear with his axe. The unnatural pallor on his friend's face worried him, but after assuring himself that he was no worse for wear, he growled, "Stupid, *stupid* Elf, don't you dare die on me!" His words though harsh belied a tinge of concern and brotherly affection.


Scowling, Legolas batted the Dwarf's hand away when it moved to feel at his forehead. "Oh, I would not dare, Dwarf, not until you give me leave..." He swayed unsteadily on his feet, gratefully leaning against the smaller but sturdier frame of his friend for support until he could regain his bearings and then rejoined the battle.


There was little talk afterwards except for the occasional yelling of death count for Legolas was again lost in his own memories and Gimli his growing concern over the Elf who was rapidly taking on an odd shade of green. The fact that Gimli even bothered to yell at all was because he feared whatever that had happened earlier had compromised the Elf's attention and there had been far too many near misses for Legolas with their Enemies' blades for his liking. //And I like my Elf in one piece!// he pointed out.


"39!" Gimli cried, rousing the Elf again from his blackened thoughts. And by the Valar, he was right! The stupid Elf was looking at his blades then back at his attacker, his brows knitted fiercely in confusion. //He's probably wondering why he hasn't finished the blasted creature off quickly!// the Dwarf smirked when in a predictable fashion, the now sobered Elf made a sudden crisscross slash with his daggers and severed the Uruk's head from its shoulders.


But Legolas did not stop there. Leaping to his far right, he eyed a fallen bow, picked it up and wrenched four bloodied arrows from dead bodies. He turned the cocked feathers upwards away from the bow, drew the string back and then quickly and gently released his hold; loosing all arrows at once and all four flew, each one met their intended targets with deadly accuracy.


The pompous prince of a Sindarian Elf did not bother to turn and see.


"40!" Legolas yelled back, a haughty grin carved upon his face. Mischief twinkled in those deep azure eyes and the fey beauty could not help but gleefully teased, "You. Are. Slipping. Dwarf."


TBC


[A/N: I thought there was something wrong in the final count. I have nothing against Dwarves and certainly not Master Gimli, but I would think an Elf of his years and experience, especially when so closed to Dol Guldur, would have projected superior skills at wiping out Orcs and such. So at least now in my fic, the good Elf has a perfectly good excuse... I mean reason. Shoot. :)]


TEASER:
The Simple Way of Poison
Part 02B: The Prompting of Desire


His dark eyes misted over as he struggled to understand this foreign force and the reason behind its unexpected coming - it would not do to have a mighty player so late into the game, especially one whom the Istar could not decide which side it was playing for. Yet his attempt proved fruitless and all he had to show for his troubles was a massive headache and an annoying need to dirty his pristine floor with his vomit.


Dropping heavily into his seat, he brought a shaking hand to his temples and willed the ache to go away. Whoever or whatever it was, there was little doubt that its powers rivaled even that of the Lord of Mordor and no Ring in Middle-Earth would contain power to match it. His other free digits stroked his palantír absentmindedly as his cunning mind processed another new revelation - it did not feel anything of a malicious kind. No, it was not evil, he could sense it... and yet it did not give any indication that it was all good either. Like a newborn babe, it was, ready to be molded and fitted in anyway the Master chooses.


//And who shall be its Master?//


Laughing quietly, Saruman steepled his fingers together and plotted even as Isengard fell into the hands of the Ents.