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Greenleaf & Imladris 5 - Sorrow's First Dawning	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 3868 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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
- 1-Part 1
- 2-Part 2
- 3-Part 3
- 4-Part 4
- 5-Part 5
- 6-Part 6
- 7-Part 7
- 4
- 5
- 6
Part V

When night fell and Legolas did not appear in the dining hall for the evening meal, Elrohir took it upon himself to fetch him.

He walked into Legolas’ chamber and stopped in some surprise. The prince sat slumped in the armchair in the far corner of the room, apparently fast asleep. He had not changed out of his travel-stained clothing, had not even bothered to shed his tunic, belt or boots. Elrohir approached him with some concerrn.

“Legolas?“ he softly said, shaking the archer gently. “Wake up. ‘Tis time for dinner.”

But Legolas did not respond. Elrohir straightened up, wondering how to rouse his friend. Just then, the prince stirred and let out a pained moan. Elrohir quickly bent over him once more.

“Wake up, Calenlass,” he urged a little more loudly. “You are having a bad dream, I think.”

Elrohir frowned as the archer continued to moan, the sounds becoming a little more worrisome. “Legolas? Legolas, wake up.” He shook the prince a little more firmly. “Come on, ernilen”—my prince—“you are scaring me.”

Without warning, the archer’s arm lashed out at him. The sharp blow to his temple was enough to send him staggering backwards. Elrohir shook his head groggily. Elbereth! I did not see that coming!

A glint of metal caught his attention. He barely managed to dodge the arcing slice of Legolas’ sigil. He gaped in shock at the Elf-prince.

Legolas had risen from the chair and now stalked him with homicidal intent. His eyes were oddly blank but his face bore the determined scowl Elrohir had seen countless times before.

So he looks when he hunts scoundrels and the like, the twin realized with a thrill of apprehension. He thinks I’m one of them!

His supposition was abruptly confirmed when Legolas lunged at him, his dagger leveled at a deadly angle. Again he managed to evade the blow. Just barely. But he was not sanguine about his chances of continuing to do so indefinitely. Legolas was a Wood-elf with skill second to none in the use of knives. The prince did not let up in his assault, gave the darkling Elf no time to catch his breath or pause in his evasions of the flashing blade.

“Legolas!” Elrohir cried out desperately as the blade came within a hair’s breath of slicing his cheek open. “Gwador, ‘tis me, Elrohir!”

His frantic pleas were to no avail. The prince was lost in whatever waking nightmare drove him in this relentless pursuit of his imagined foe. And he was tireless. The demons that possessed him provided him with a vast reservoir of extra strength and energy.

Legolas suddenly scooped up a heavy figurine from the study table and hurled it at the twin. Elrohir leapt out of the way and the weighty object crashed jarringly against the wall behind him. But in dodging it, he was briefly distracted and that momentary inattention cost him. He yelped as Legolas neatly slashed his left arm just below the shoulder. Bleeding profusely from the wound, he was slow to react to the archer’s next move.

He hissed in pain as he was brutally slammed against the wall. Legolas rammed his forearm up against his throat, nearly crushing his windpipe. Clawing desperately at the prince’s arm, he saw, through the corner of his eye, the knife curving downwards. He barely managed to grab Legolas’ wrist, keeping the blade just inches from his vulnerable neck.

“L-Legolas, s-stop!” he choked.

The pressure on his throat was unforgiving. He dizzily wondered what would kill him first, suffocation or the knife’s lethal bite. His vision began to tunnel from lack of air. His strength started to ebb. He felt the tip of the blade pierce his flesh.

Salvation came in the forms of Elladan and Glorfindel as they burst into the room followed by Elrond, Erestor, Celebrían and Arwen. The first two Elves wasted no time gawking at the horrifying spectacle before them but rushed the struggling pair. With a concerted effort, they pried Legolas from his intended prey.

Elrohir sank to his knees, coughing violently and raggedly gulping down much-needed air. He was dimly aware of his parents hovering over him, Elrond examining his bruised throat and Celebrían looking over his bleeding arm.

Elladan and Glorfindel were shocked at the Elven prince’s strength. Legolas twisted wildly in their hands, nearly breaking away from them at one point. They could not let go of his arms in order to take away his weapon.

“Disarm him!” Glorfindel yelled to Erestor.

The steward swiftly obeyed and attempted to pry Legolas’s fingers from his knife. But the prince had a death grip on his weapon that defied Erestor’s best efforts. “I will have to break his fingers!” he exclaimed in frustration.

“Nay!” Elrohir staggered to his feet, throwing off his mother’s restraining hand. “Hold him!” he said hoarsely.

When Glorfindel and Elladan had redoubled their grip on the prince, the younger twin swung a clenched fist at Legolas’ jaw. The blow was not so hard as to render the archer completely unconscious but it was enough to *literally* knock sense into him.

Legolas fell back, blinked confusedly for several seconds at the Elf-knight, then slumped into his captors’ arms. The knife clattered to the floor. They lifted him and bore him to his bed.

Celebrían summoned a white-faced Arwen. “I need bandages and medicaments, iell”—daughter—she told her as she eyed Elrohir’s bleeding arm. “Hurry now!”

“And I had better make a sleeping draught for Legolas,” Elrond decided. “I had hoped we would never have to resort to that but…”

As her husband exited the room, Celebrían commenced cleaning Elrohir’s wound. Arwen soon returned with the necessary medical supplies and mother and daughter set to work tending the younger twin’s injuries.

Meanwhile, Elladan, Glorfindel and Erestor stripped the prince of his tunic, belt and boots, carefully searching for any concealed weapons. Like many seasoned warriors, Legolas oft hid an extra knife or two on his person. Erestor had already located a thin, long-bladed sigil, or knife, in his right boot.

After finishing their task, the women rose and left the room with Glorfindel and Erestor. By unspoken agreement, the twins remained with the prince.

It was not long before Legolas twitched then groaned as he slowly emerged from the half conscious state Elrohir’s punch had sent him into. He opened his eyes and beheld Elladan watching him worriedly.

“What...?” he muttered. He raised a hand to his jaw, wondering why it ached. After a few more moments, he finally recognized the interiors of his bedchamber. He frowned in perplexity. “How did I get back here?” he mumbled. “And what happened to that bandit?”

Elladan sighed and squeezed his shoulder. “You were in your room all along.” He hesitated. “And ‘twas no bandit you were grappling with.”

Legolas’ eyes narrowed in confusion. “Then who—?” He noticed Elladan had flicked his eyes to something behind him. He turned his head, suddenly aware of another presence. His eyes widened in shock.

Elrohir was a sorry sight. The mark on his temple had darkened to a black and blue smudge, the colors matching the multiple bruises on his pale throat. The cut on his neck had already closed but his collar was red with telltale bloodstains. His left sleeve had been torn off just below the shoulder and his arm was bound. Blood also stained what remained of the sleeve and the left side of his shirt.

Horror filled Legolas’ eyes. “How—?” He swallowed painfully. “Did I...?” Elrohir bit his lip and nodded. The prince moaned and abruptly sat up. He moved to get of the bed. “I must go!” he cried.

Two pairs of strong hands held him in place. “Where do you think you’re going?” Elladan demanded.

“I am a menace to you all,” Legolas choked. “I cannot stay here.”

“Lie down, Legolas,” Elrohir said firmly. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“But, Elrohir, I nearly killed you!” Legolas protested.

“I can take care of myself,” the younger twin grimly answered, resolved never to tell the prince just how close he had indeed come to ending his life.

“But what if it had been your mother or Arwen I attacked?” Legolas pointed out hoarsely.

“They were never in any danger,” Elrond replied as he entered the room, bearing a goblet. “They knew enough never to be alone with you.”

Legolas gaped at the Lord of Rivendell. “You-you know about…?” His voice trailed off at the knowing light in the loremaster’s eyes

“Of course, pen neth”—young one—Elrond nodded. “A healer of any worth always learns as much about his patients as is possible. Your father told us everything that happened in the wake of your mother’s death.”

Legolas dropped his head shamefacedly. “Yet you took me in, knowing what I had become.”

“You have not become anything,” Elrohir reproved him gently. “You will be healed of this, Legolas."

“But you must let us help you,” Elladan added.

“My sons are correct,” Elrond agreed. “You should heed them. Here, drink this,” he said, handing over the goblet. “It will help you sleep tonight.”

Legolas took the goblet and drank the contents. But he kept his eyes cast down, shriveled by his shame and guilt. He could not even look at Elrohir whose battered appearance he could thank the woodland prince for. The darkling Elf instinctively discerned what he was thinking, so close had they become as their friendship progressed and deepened.

“Do not blame yourself for this, Calenlass,” he murmured gently. “You were not yourself.”

“But I hurt you,” Legolas choked, his voice thick with self-loathing. “This should never have happened.”

“Yet I would go through it again if it would help you mend,” the twin said fiercely. “I would see you healed, Legolas, I would have you whole.”

Legolas stared at him, moved by the other’s loyalty and selflessness. He nodded dumbly.

“Good. Let us hear no more about you leaving,” Elrohir smiled tenderly.

“I-I am so s-sorry,” Legolas stammeringly whispered.

“There is no need to apologize for I know you would never hurt me knowingly,” the twin responded. “Now, lie down and get some rest. Mandos knows you need it.”

Legolas found he could not protest. The sleeping draught was already taking hold of him, lulling him into a soothing state of nothingness.

“Lord Elrond?” he managed to mumble before sleep overcame him. “Please forgive me.”

“As my son said, there is nothing to forgive,” Elrond replied softly. “Be at peace.”

When Legolas was fast asleep the Elves convened outside his room where Celebrían and Arwen joined them.

“He must not be left alone tonight,” Elrond gravely stated. “He must not feel forsaken because of what has happened.”

Elrohir snorted. “As if I would ever let that happen,” he said. “I will stay with him.”

“As will I,” Elladan added.

Arwen chimed in: “And I.”

Celebrían raised an eyebrow at her daughter’s offer. Her face turned anxious. “I do not think that is wise, iellen”—my daughter—she objected. “What if he turns violent again?”

Arwen’s expression turned mulish, a look so reminiscent of her brothers at their most stubborn that Elrond had to smile. “Legolas is my friend, too, Nana”—Mama—she pointed out. “If he sees that we are determined to stand by him, he will heal all the faster.”

Celebrían turned imploring eyes to her husband but Elrond could only shake his head and say: “I fear I have to agree with Arwen, mellen.”—my dear. “Legolas’ recovery hinges as much on our acceptance of him as it does on his ability to stop blaming himself for Ithilwen’s death.”

With a resigned sigh, Celebrían nodded her acquiescence and the three young Elves prepared themselves for a night of guardianship over the woodland prince.
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Greenleaf & Imladris 5 - Sorrow's First Dawning