Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: The Touch of Sight (#813)
Author: LAXgirl
Chapters: 10
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: After a near-fatal accident puts Legolas into a coma for 5 years, he then awakens to find he has gained a terrible gift -or curse- that lets him see things from the past or future of anyone he touches.  Things no living person should have to see...
Published: 14 Apr 2004
Updated: 15 Jul 2004
Warnings: 
Type: Drama
Characters: Legolas


Chapter 1 - Sleep of Death

Greetings and Salutations. I am the incorrigible and self-proclaimed flightiness-prone author, LAXgirl! This is not my first LOTR story, but yet another fic I’ve started when I should be working on my other two I still have floating around out there in some writing process limbo. But I couldn’t help it! I got this idea and I had to get it down in print. I’m pretty much just testing this idea out to see if I should continue with it or not, so if you actually clicked on this to read, tell me what ya think! Some of you may notice this as a shameless spin-off of Steven King’s “the Dead Zone,” but I thought it would be such a cool idea if I took Johnny Smith’s experience and transposed it over our favorite blond haired elf. No previous knowledge of the story is necessary. In fact, it’s probably better if you don’t have any at all. It’ll give you a better aura of suspense. But even if you have read it, there will be other major plot twists in this that will set this totally apart from Steven King’s. I promise. Just bear with me. It’s better than it may sound. 

Disclaimer: All characters of LOTR are property of Tolkien and are not mine, nor are they being used for profit in this story. The main idea and inspiration for the experiences used in this story were devised and created by Steven King, the reigning king of horror and suspense. If you want to read the original works of either of these amazing authors that helped spawn this unlikely hybrid, than go out and read them! 

Ok, enough of this! To the story!

******

The Third Age
August 22, 1421 (Shire Reckoning)

 
It was early morning. Though the sun had already begun its ascent up into the pale, hazy blue sky, a thin layer of ghostly mist still clung to the land, slinking across the ground in thin tendrils as if trying to somehow escape the warm rays of sunlight by hiding in the ever receding shadows of the night. A peaceful quiet still rested over the city of Minas Tirith. Though many of the city’s inhabitants had no doubt awoken, or were in the process of doing so, and preparing themselves for the day’s work ahead, the calm stillness of lingering dreams from recently shed slumber still hung in the air.
 
Though the morning sun seemed to herald the coming of yet another peaceful day, an ominous twinge of something dark hovering just on the horizon seemed to taint the sweet morning air. But no one would recognize this strange unease until much later, when no longer could anyone heed the whispered warnings of the dawn’s golden light of the terrible accident that was to soon occur. 

In the courtyard of the city’s mighty Citadel near the base of the Tower of Ecthelion, a small group of people stood, preparing to see off one of their companions. 

“Legolas, I wish we did not have to see you go so soon,” Aragorn, King Elessar of Gondor, said as he clasped his friend’s arm in a strong but friendly grip, “It seems like you only just came here to Minas Tirith to visit, and here you are leaving again.” 


Legolas smiled warmly. “I would stay longer, Aragorn, but I fear there is important business that needs my seeing to back in Ithilien,” he said. “Do not fear. I will be back and burdening you again with my presence much sooner than you may think. That is a promise,” the blond-haired archer joked in half-hearted mock-seriousness. 

“At least you’re finally beginning to realize what I’ve been saying all along,” rumbled a deep and gruffled voice off to Legolas’ left, “Any elf’s presence is a burden even to the strongest of forbearance after a time.”

 The fair elf prince looked to the one whose voice had been issued and smiled fondly. “Ah, Gimli,” he sighed in mock exasperation, “You will just never understand. An elf’s presence may be trying after a time, but it is nothing in comparison to that of a dwarf’s. If you still harbor doubts, ask anyone else here for their own opinions, because they would all readily agree that they would prefer the company of an elf over that of a dwarf.”

 “Ai! Leave the rest of us out of these personal squabbles of yours,” Aragorn exclaimed to general friendly laughter of those around him. 

Standing beside Aragorn, Faramir, the King of Gondor’s Steward, smiled, warmed by the familiar banter of the three long time friends. Like the others, he also had dared to venture out into the chilly morning air to see the prince of Mirkwood back off to his elven colony in Ithilien. “I think I must agree with my king,” he said, “I fear many of those present would prove too bias in opinion for your own tastes, Gimli.”

 “He speaks truly!” cried a fair voice from off to Legolas’ side. Standing near Legolas’ white stallion, Arod, were the identical twin elf-lords Elladan and Elrohir. 

“I fear you are outnumbered, Master Dwarf,” Elladan added to his brother’s comment. “We could never outrightly vote against ourselves or our own sister.” 

“Oh, enough of this nonsense,” the musical voice of the Queen of Gondor admonished lightly from where she stood beside her husband in a flowing gown of pale blue. “This is not a fair fight for our friend Gimli to win. But if it will be of any help to you, Master Dwarf, I offer my vote in your favor for the company of a dwarf,” she said, her smile warm and radiant in the early morning light that spilled into the large courtyard from the east. 

“Thank you, my Lady,” Gimli bowed graciously to the beautiful queen. “If one such as the Lady Evenstar can find the worth in the company of a dwarf, then there is still hope for your race yet...” he added out of the side of his mouth to the Mirkwood prince standing not far from him. A round of friendly laughter rose up from the group before slowly dying away into the misty morning air. 
“Ai, I wish I could prolong my departure more, but I fear I must be off,” Legolas finally said with obvious reluctance to leave the company of his friends just yet, “I had hoped to reach the other side of Emyn Arnen sometime before dark, so I must be going.”

 “May Elbereth watch over you,” Arwen blessed as she stepped forward and planted a chaste kiss on the side of Legolas’ cheek in a sign of sisterly affection. 

Aragorn nodded in understanding. “Safe travels, my friend,” he said, stepping forward and again clasping his friend’s arm at the elbow in the elfish equivalent of a handshake. Legolas returned the gesture and nodded with a smile. The archer then met each of his other friend’s gazes in silent farewell as he slowly swept his bright blue eyes around to encompass the entire group of people that had gathered there to see him off. Finally coming to Gimli, the prince held the dwarf’s gaze for a few moments longer than what he had done with the others, silently sharing a final last-minute farewell with his closest friend. 

But as Gimli held the elf’s piercing gaze with his own, a strange feeling suddenly came over the dwarf, like a stirring of foreboding dread deep in the pit of his stomach. Legolas’ eyes stared back into his. But they no longer felt like they belonged to Legolas. It was as if they had become somebody else’s; strange and foreign. The inner circles of Legolas’ irises seemed to darken, clouding to the dark, navy blue color of the sky right before the coming of a violent thunderstorm. Gimli suddenly felt put on guard and tense. It was as if he could physically feel the elf’s gaze burrowing down deep into him, ripping down through flesh and blood down to his very soul. 

He was suddenly frightened of the elf. Frightened of the strange and alien power hiding behind the cerulean depths he had once known to be those of his friend. Frightened of what he thought the elf could see; all the dark little secrets and thoughts of his soul. 

The rush of blood pounded in the dwarf’s ears. He could feel gooseflesh begin to rise up over his skin in small hilly patches. A sensation of grave unease and foreboding unlike anything he had ever felt before overtook him. 

Behind Legolas, Arod was beginning to prance nervously in place, eager for his master to hurry so that they might be underway. Wickering his impatience, the mighty white war horse pawed the ground restlessly and gave a shrill whinny that seemed to slice the quiet morning air like a knife.

Just as suddenly and as powerfully as he had been ensnared by the elf’s gaze, the dwarf was then broken free of its hold as Legolas shifted his eyes away from him to look at his horse. Gimli let out a shaking breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding. 

“All right. All right. Easy there, Arod,” Legolas soothed as he affectionately petted the fidgety mount’s neck, unaware of any effect he had just had over his friend, “We’ll be off in a minute.” Picking his horse’s trailing reigns from off the ground, the elf deftly slung his silver bow over his shoulder and nimbly leapt up onto the stallion’s back. 
“Don’t get into any trouble,” Elladan warned sarcastically as he handed a small bundle of packed rations up to Legolas from beside the prince’s anxious mount.

 “Or do anything we wouldn’t,” Elrohir joined in as he gave the mounted elf’s knee a friendly cuff. 

“That doesn’t leave me much not to do then,” Legolas observed mockingly much to the affronted cries of indignant protest from the twin sons of Elrond. Smiling brightly and not giving the two brothers time to think of a comeback, the young prince of Ithilien spurred his mount into a trot, making towards the open gateway of the courtyard. “I shall see you all soon,” the elf called back over his shoulder as he neared the stone archway that would lead him out of the Citadel and into the city beyond and then out to the rolling country beyond the cramped and busy streets of Minas Tirith.

But just as the elf was about to pass under the thick stone keystone of the Citadel’s gateway, another strange feeling came over Gimli. One that seemed to scream at him to say something else to Legolas. He suddenly felt with a frighteningly strong certainty that if he did not say whatever it was he felt he needed to say now, he never would. As if he somehow knew that this was going to be the very last time he was going to be able to speak to his friend for a very long time. 

“Legolas!” he shouted, jogging several paces from the rest of the group across the stone courtyard after the retreating elf. 

Just beyond the gateway, Legolas heard his friend’s shout and reigned Arod back around in a tight circle so that he faced back into the courtyard and Gimli. “What?” he called back, his hair flowing out over his proud shoulders like a curtain of frost-colored straw set ablaze in the early morning sunlight that had somehow managed to find some crack of space between the tall buildings of the tightly erected city to shine down into the streets through. 

Suddenly aware of how foolish he was acting, Gimli coughed in embarrassment and called back guardedly, “Just... Just be careful, elf.”

 There was but the smallest breath of pause between the two before Legolas finally smiled and raised his hand to the dwarf in a final sign of parting. If only he knew how long their parting was going to truly last or just how poignant Gimli’s words would come to be. But with no knowledge to warn him of the coming future, the prince clucked his tongue and wheeled Arod back around to speed into the winding streets of Minas Tirith beyond. 

Standing the quiet emptiness that always follows in the wake of a departed friend or loved-one that is not expected to be seen again for some time, Gimli quietly stared in the direction his friend had just disappeared. 

“What was that all about?” Elladan questioned as he and the others walked up behind the statue-like dwarf to stand beside him in the center of the wide courtyard. 
For a moment, Gimli did not answer, too lost his own pondery of why he had just felt so compelled to chase after his friend. “I do not know,” he answered truthfully after a time, “But it’s not like the elf couldn’t heed that bit of advice ever now and then,” he added hastily in a vain attempt to turn the others’ attentions away his recent actions of unjustified concern, “He’s always getting himself into trouble.” 

“Legolas is a skilled warrior. He can take of himself. He’ll be fine,” Aragorn said dismissingly as he offered an arm to his wife to escort her back inside the palace. “Ithilien is only a two days’ ride from Gondor and the roads have never been safer to travel on. There have been no reports of any Orc or bandit attacks within a twenty mile radius of the city for the past eighteen months. I am sure Legolas will reach Ithilien perfectly fine.” 

“Bah! You’re probably right,” Gimli then agreed with a grunt, again feeling stupid for his unwarranted fears as he and the others turned to head back into the White Tower. “I’m sure Legolas will be fine. As you said, I myself have found him on more than one occasion more than capable of looking after himself.” 

And so the small group broke up and disbursed to pursue whatever activities they had planned for the day, unaware that Gimli’ fears would not only prove warranted, but also almost prophetic. Nor were they aware that none of them would hear Legolas’ voice again for almost five years.

****** 
(Almost three hours after Legolas’ departure from Minas Tirith)
 
Almost immediately after seeing his friend off, Aragorn had found himself deeply entrenched in a seemingly endless onslaught of politics and concerns of state. Situated in his private audience chambers, Aragorn was currently enduring a particularly long proposal from one of his councilors about possible improvements that could be made on parts of the city’s sewage system.

Bored out of his mind, and desperate to the point of tears for a distraction – any distraction! – Aragorn almost leapt out of his chair with joy when a sudden rapping at his chamber’s door sounded. 

“Enter,” he called, too elated at the moment for the welcome distraction to notice the disheartened look spreading across his councilor’s face at the untimely interruption of his presentation. 

Opening the door and striding purposefully inside, Faramir approached the king’s massive desk which (only several hours into the day) already lay buried under half a mountain of parchments and papers. 

“What is it, Faramir,” Aragorn asked as his Steward finally came to a stop in front of his desk. 

“A messenger just arrived, my Lord – an elf from Eryn Lasgalen. He carried with him a message from King Thranduil addressed to Legolas,” the Steward answered showing the scroll that had just been delivered into his hands by a distinctly travel-worn elf from the distant elven realm in the far north. 

“Legolas just left this morning,” Aragorn said – his words not really meant to act as imparted unknown information to his Steward since Faramir was already well aware of Legolas’ departure from Gondor that morning since he had been there, but more to express a gnawing uncertainty as to what best to do with the scroll since Legolas was no longer present to receive it himself. 

“That is what I told the messenger, but he was adamant that it was important that Legolas receive it soon.”

Sighing, Aragorn leaned back in his chair. “If it is that important, then I suppose it would be quickest if we sent out a rider after Legolas now to try and catch up with him before he gets to Ithilien.”

“As it so happens, Elladan and Elrohir were present when the messenger arrived and have already offered their services for such a task if that was what you ultimately chose to do with the message,” Faramir said. 

“So be it,” Aragorn consented, “They are two of our fastest riders and would catch up to Legolas before any of our other messengers could.” The issue now resolved, Aragorn sat there for a long moment, silently looking at Faramir as if expecting (or perhaps silently pleading?) for Faramir to say something else that would somehow prolong his visit.

Glancing in the direction of the councilor he had interrupted when he had entered, Faramir was slightly amused to find the man patiently standing on the side of the room, obviously waiting for the king’s Steward to leave so that he might continue on with whatever business of state he was currently holding with the king. 

“I can see that you are busy,” Faramir smiled slyly at Aragorn, “I will leave so that you may get back to business.” And with that, the Steward turned and swiftly made his way back towards the open door of the room, a small smirk beginning to pull at the corner of his mouth as he felt what was sure to be a scathing glare boring into his back from Aragorn’s eyes. 

And then with a resolute and seemingly undisputable click of the heavy oak door being shut behind his retreating Steward, Aragorn again found himself alone with his persistent councilor. 

Cringing inwardly, the man slowly turned to look at his advisor, silently praying that the other man would grant him some form of mercy and just be done with this political nonsense. But it seemed Fate was not about to grant the king any form of leniency that day.

 “As I was saying, my Lord, the sewer system in the western section of the city...” 

******
(Four hours after his departure from Minas Tirith)
 Legolas had been riding for several hours now and had just passed the last of Gondor’s cultivated fields and farms in favor of the wild forests and hilly country of northern Ithilien with mountains that seemed to rise up from the ground like slumbering giants of stone in the distance. 

Emyn Arnen – one of Ithilien’s largest bordering mountain ranges – loomed like a towering wall of solid rock in front of the elf. The road that led towards the forested realm of Ithilien itself did not swerve off to wrap around the base of the large mountain like many other mountain roads might have done. Rather, it snaked through the surrounding forests at the base of Emyn Arnen towards a small gorge on the western side of the mountain that cleaved a relatively smooth path between two rocky cliffs of the imposing tower of stone. Many times during the year the path could not be used because of snow, and those traveling on the road would have to veer off to take the longer track around the base of the mountain. Luckily though, Legolas thought to himself, with it being the middle of August there would be little chance of the way being blocked by snow. How fortunate for me. Otherwise I would have had to of taken the long way around and spent an extra day or more on the road.

As the elf unwittingly rode ever closer to Emyn Arnen and his ultimate doom, Arod began to strain against the checked control of his master’s hold of the reigns, eager to have a freer head so that he could gallop a bit on the open road. Feeling his mount wishing to break out of their slow but steady trot, Legolas readily slackened his hold on the horse’s reigns to give the white stallion more head to run with, eager himself to feel the wind in his hair after spending so much time in the tightly packed, claustrophobia-inducing city of Minas Tirith. 

“I bet you want to stretch your legs out a bit after being cooped up those stables so long, don’t you?” he whispered into the horse’s ears in elvish as he bent down low over the animal’s long neck. A low whinny was all that answered him. “All right then. Let’s go. Ha!” With that, the white stallion shot forward, it’s long mane and tail streaming out in the wind behind it as it galloped down the road at full speeds.

Wind whipped past Legolas’ face as he and Arod flew down the road like a blurry streak of white and green. Trees whirled by in a dizzying kaleidoscope of greens and browns. As the horse and rider quickly sped ever closer to the towering mountain, the looming shadow of Emyn Arnen seemed to hungrily reach out across the land towards its unsuspecting prey and swallow them both in a shadowy veil of darkness.

The land around them slowly began to climb in slope as the elf neared the base of the mountain. The trees growing along the side of the road steadily began to thin away as the land became more hilly and rocky in composition. The closer the elf rode towards Emyn Arnen, the less and less suitable the loose soil of sloping mountain side proved able to sustain larger trees like those growing in the thick forest growing along the base of the towering hill of rock. Noticing the change in topography, Legolas slowly drew Arod back into a slow trot. He did not want the horse to strain itself over the hilly terrain when there was still half a day’s ride left before they could make camp and rest for the night. 

Arod snorted in irritation, but immediately quieted at the soothing pat Legolas gave the spirited stallion on the side of the neck.

They were nearing the gorge; a twenty foot wide split of land running between two steeply sloping cliffs of craggy outcrops of shale and stone. 

By now the forest had thinned out only to a few straggly trees that sprouted out of the stony soil every now and again along the roadside. The landscape was quickly turning rocky and increasingly steep on either side of the road as Legolas neared the gorge. The path itself remained relatively smooth and clear of any sizable rocks or pebbles that could prove harmful to Arod’s hoofed feet. Near the mouth of the gorge though, large rocks and piles of smaller stones littered the side of the path, attesting to numerous small-scale rockslides that had occurred sometime recently in the past, but had been cleared off to the side to keep the pass open for other travelers.

Slowing his mount to a halt just before the wide mouth of the ravine, Legolas warily eyed the pass he was about to go through. The path was clear of any debris all the way through to the other side of the gorge about a hundred feet ahead. The archer’s sharp elven eyes slowly turned to scan either side of the surrounding cliffs. 

Though he could not explain it, he suddenly felt vaguely uneasy with the whole scene. Something felt wrong. The ravine was deathly still and quiet – like a grave, Legolas would years later look back and say as he grimly remembered the feel of the ominous tension that seemed to hang so heavily in the air that fateful morning. He could see no visible sign of danger or anything else that should have given him cause for alarm, but still the nagging feeling persisted. He had traveled that particular route countless times before over the course his many travels between Ithilien and Gondor, and not once had he ever felt so uneasy about passing through the mountain gorge as much as he did at that exact moment. He could not place it, but still the feathery tingle of danger ran along his spine down to the small of his back. 

So strange and persistent this sensation was, the elf was almost ready to turn around and take the long way around the mountain – regardless of the extra day’s travel it would cost him. But just as he was about to turn Arod around to go back the way they had just come, he suddenly realized how foolish he was being. There was nothing wrong with pass, he had said so himself. He had transversed it numerous times before with no incident. Why should there be one now? Plus he could not afford the extra day of travel; he was needed back in the colony. He would have to brave the pass, no matter what kind of unwarranted apprehensions he had. 

It was a decision Legolas would later come to regret. 

The elf motioned Arod forward with a soft nudge in the white stallion’s sides. The horse moved forward willingly, but with much less enthusiasm than what it had first displayed at the beginning of their journey, as if he could sense his master’s hesitation to enter the gorge. 

Legolas sat tense and straight upon his mount as Arod started into the wide gulch. His eyes scanned from side to side up either rocky cliff face, as if expecting at any second a sudden trap to be sprung from out behind one of the numerous outcroppings of rocks. Trying to ignore his feelings of unease, Legolas motioned Arod faster, eager to be out of the ravine and back into open space again. 

They were now perhaps thirty feet into the gorge. Nothing had yet happened. Legolas began to feel the wary tension in his body slowly begin to relax as Arod continued to happily canter through the mountain pass. Laughing inwardly at himself for his moment of irrational fear, the elf let his stiffened body relax and fall into rhythm with the gait of his horse. 

The fall of Arod’s hoofbeats echoed loudly against the sides of the gorge down the length of the path until it sounded as if an entire army of dwarves were there in the ravine with Legolas, busily pounding away at their anvils with giant steel hammers. Again becoming impatient to break free into a faster pace, the white war horse began to pull at the reigns. 

“No, Arod,” Legolas reprimanded, keeping a steady check on the fidgety creature. “Not yet.”

If the white war horse the elven prince had inherited as a gift from Eomer, the then-future King of the Mark, was anything, he was stubborn (just like his master, Aragorn would playfully remark on occasion) and prone to throw temper tantrums when he did not quite get his way. Snorting indignantly at his master’s refusal, the horse stamped at the ground angrily which sent a resounding echo of unintelligible noise up against the sides of the rocky canyon. 

“Arod, no. Be quiet,” Legolas pleaded, feeling the strange sensation of unease creep up back the length of his spine again like the sticky warm breath of a stranger on the back of his neck. He had spent several hundred centuries training as a warrior and had accompanied many war parties up into the mountains for training missions over that time. He knew from personal experience what effects noise could have on a landscape of unstable snow or rock, such as the one he stood in. 

“Arod, no! Steady!” he cried in elvish desperately. This particular stretch of land was notoriously known for its freak landslides.

Not to be deterred by his master’s pleas, the horse refused to quiet and instead let out a shrill scream. It’s echo slammed against the walls of the steep gorge like the sound of cannon fire. 

“Arod! Be qui–” 

But the elf never had the chance to finish his sentence as the sickening sound of shifting rocks and the soft patter of pebbles clattering down on the right-hand side of the pass caught the elf’s sharply tuned ears and began to fill the air in a steadily rising tempo of dissonance and chaos. 

Looking upwards, Legolas could literally see the hillside beginning to crumble and give way under its own weight. Starting almost fifty feet up the rocky slope, a building wave of rocks and stony debris rolled down the hillside like a giant tidal wave of stone towards the horse and rider standing almost directly below its intended path of destruction. 

Oh, no... They needed to get out of there! Or they were going to be buried alive! 

Hurriedly casting his eyes down either length of the mountain pass, Legolas quickly assessed that they were closer to the northen end of the gorge – the side they had entered in on. The opening was perhaps forty feet away and the rocks were coming down fast. It was a distance, but they had to make it!

 Not wasting a moment’s pause, Legolas abruptly wheeled his frightened horse around in a tight circle and spurred Arod sharply in the ribs towards their only hope of salvation. The horse was immediately speeding down the path, flying over the ground as the first wave of smaller rocks and loose gravel hit the ground and spilled out over the path. For a moment, Legolas feared Arod’s feet would become caught in the loose, shifting debris as it spilled out over the ground and pooled around the animal’s moving feet like water. By some miracle the horse managed to keep its footing, and continued to desperately wade through the ever shifting terrain of stone towards the promised light of safety shining in at the end of the collapsing pass. 

Legolas desperately clung to the back of the horse, tucking himself into a tiny ball atop the charging war horse. The end of the pass was so close! Maybe twenty feet! Just a little farther... They had to make it... They had to!

 Time seemed to slow, and the short distance left between himself and salvation suddenly seemed to stretch out into eternity. He was suddenly aware of every distinct noise and sound around him. He could suddenly feel with a precision sense of touch every exact pin prick of pain as a hail of sharp stone chips rained down over his face and body. The deafening roar of several thousand tons of falling rock beginning to crash down around him filled the air. 

Almost there... Almost there... 

They were so close. He could almost feel the kiss of the warm morning sunlight on his skin. 
The elf could feel a shower of larger stones beating down on his back as the tumbling wall of rock crashed down around them. They were almost there. Arod was perhaps within fifteen feet of escaping the crumbling gorge. But as the horse tried to flounder the last few feet to salvation through the shin-deep quicksand of dirt, gravel and stones, the main wall of crumbled hillside slammed down onto the path. Like a wave of stone, the landslide spilled out across the path and washed over the fleeing horse with the fluidity of water up to the animal’s shoulders. 

Legolas felt the force of the rockslide slam into Arod’s left side like a battering ram. The sheer force of the hit alone almost vaulted the elf from off the animal’s back. A frightened scream of terror escaped the horse before it was quickly drowned out by the deafening roar of crashing rocks as another wave of stone surged over the animal’s head in an avalanche of dirt and rock. Legolas suddenly knew they were lost. There was no way to escape now. The end of the gorge stood tauntingly close before them, only half a dozen paces away. 

He felt Arod swept out from under him as another wave of rock and dirt slammed against him, violently throwing him free from the half-buried animal’s back. During those last few, seemingly endless, seconds of eternity in which the elf weightlessly flew through the air like a tossed rag doll, Legolas looked back over his shoulder towards the wall of stone bearing down on him just in time to a see a massive stone careening straight towards his head. 

It flew towards him tauntingly slow, as if relishing the numbed expression of shock played out across the doomed elf’s face. As the stone swept closer, Legolas suddenly had the impression of a dark, yawning mouth, hungrily rushing towards him to swallow him in a lightless tomb of black nothingness. There was an explosion of pain on the left side of Legolas head as the merciless stone smashed against his skull. And then, there was nothing...

****** 

“Did you hear that, Elladan?” 

Elrohir’s older brother did not answer immediately as he listened to a strange, low rumbling like a long roll of thunder on the horizon die away into the distance. An empty silence stung the two elves’ ears the sound faded away from hearing. 

For the past several hours they had ridden south from Minas Tirith in the direction of the elven colony of Ithilien in hopes of catching up to Legolas and deliver to him an important message from his father. Though the two had ridden as hard as they could, they still had yet to meet up with the elusive prince. The two brothers were now perhaps five or six miles from the base of Emyn Arnen. The towering mountain of stone loomed up close in the distance over a sea of lush green forest.

 “What do you think that was?” Elrohir again implored as his dapple grey horse pawed the ground restlessly, wanting to be off again. 

“This part of the mountains is known for sudden landslides,” Elladan replied quietly, casting his ancient grey eyes in the direction of the nearby mountain, “A hillside somewhere on the mountain must have shifted. It was probably nothing. Come. Let’s be off. We’re not getting any closer to catching up to Legolas by just standing here.”

 With that, the two brothers spurred their horses back into full gallop and flew down the road, making straight for the mountain pass where their friend lay in a thick pool of his own blood, lost in a deathlike state of dreamless unconsciousness that would last for the next five years. 

******

 “The pass is blocked!” Elrohir cried as he and his brother drew closer to the mouth of the rubble-choked mountain path in front of them. 

Slowly drawing their mounts to a halt, the twins stopped some several paces in front of the destroyed pass. The road that had once ran between the two mountainsides had all but disappeared. They could only stare in shocked disbelief at the twelve foot high mountain of rubble blocking the whole right side of the gorge. Dirt and rocks of all imaginable sizes spilled out from between the two cliff sides and fanned out in front of the gorge’s mouth in a large arch of strewn debris. 

A small, narrow path on the far left side of the gorge remained, somehow having survived the monestrous landslide that had devoured almost the entire mountain pass. Barely wide enough for a full grown adult to squeeze through, it ran only several paces deep between the huge pile of rubble on the right and the opposite hillside of stone on the left. A thin haze of shifting dust still hung in the air over the demolished roadway. 

“This happened recently,” Elladan remarked ominously as he swung down from his horse’s back to investigate. His brother was close to follow. Slowly, the two elves approached the demolished mouth of the gorge, reverently surveying the damage wrought by the power of shifting land and rock. 

Bending down, Elrohir delicately picked a small stone from off the massive pile of rubble and held it in his hands almost speculatively. The rock felt heavy, cold and deceivingly dangerous to him as it sat so innocently there in the palm of his hand. As he stood straight beside his brother again, he asked hesitantly, “Do you think Legolas made it through to the other side before this happened?”

Elladan looked to his brother with a small stirring of worry in the pit of his heart. “I don’t know,” he answered. “He might have. Or it might have happened before he got here and forced him to take the longer trail around the mountain. Either way he’s still ahead of us. If he did make it to the other side before this landslide happened, then he has almost an entire day’s lead on us; we’ll never catch us to him before he reaches Ithilien. 

Sighing deeply in frustration, Elladan said, “Either way we’re going to have to take the long way. I don’t think we can get the horses over this. But if Legolas also had to take the alternate route, we may still be able to catch up to him and save ourselves a trip all the way to Ithilien. Come. Let us hurry. We still may be able to catch him.” Turning from the blocked pass, Elladan began to walk back towards the waiting horses. 

Giving one last look down at the stone he still held in his hand, Elrohir then carelessly tossed it aside back onto the pile of rubble beside him. Landing, the stone bounced noisily against another rock and then began to tumble down the side of the rocky heap. The sudden motion immediately triggered a chain reaction of collapse as the rock pile’s delicate equilibrium of many weights and balances was disturbed, causing a small landslide of gravel to cascade down that section of debris. A small shower of stones followed as the whole section of loose rocks shifted and slid down to the ground.

 Elrohir was about to turn and follow after his brother when a speck of gold suddenly caught his eyes from beneath the pile of recently disturbed dust and debris he had just created. Curious, he decided to take a closer look. Walking closer, he noticed several other strands of gold tangled between the rocks and stones littering the uneven ground. For a moment he could not tell what it was. But as he knelt down beside the small pile of gravel and dirt to examine it, he suddenly knew with a sickening certainty what it was. It was hair. Blond hair.

Elrohir’s stomach immediately twisted in his gut. “Elladan!” he screamed over his shoulder. He began to dig feverishly, ignoring the scrapes and scratches on his hands as he viciously clawed his way through the loose dirt and gravel. 

“What? What is it?” Elrohir heard his brother call from somewhere behind him, but he did not pause to answer. He just kept digging. But then, his hands froze. There, covering the edges of several rocks he had just shifted aside was a sticky red substance. Blood...

Elrohir’s heart thundered in his chest. Pushing aside his fears, he began to frantically dig again. By now, Elladan had also seen the blood covered stones and had joined in on his brother’s frantic search. As the two dug and threw great handfuls of dirt and stone to the side, the rocks began to come away completely soaked and dripping with blood. 

“By the Valar...” Elladan swore under his breath as he and his brother continued to shift through the bloody debris, “Where is he?!” Finally, as Elrohir desperately plunged his hands back into the bloody gravel in search of his friend once again, he felt his hands come in contact with a large, limp mass.

“I’ve found him!” he cried as he latched onto the soft, sticky mass. Pulling back, Elrohir extricated the limp, broken body of his friend Legolas from the mass of dirt and debris. 

“Oh, gods...” Elladan murmured as he helped his brother stretch Legolas’ body out on his back over the stony ground so they could examine him, then knelt on either side of the unconscious prince. The elf’s whole face was covered under a thick layer of sticky red blood. The twin brothers could barely recognize their long time friend under all the blood. Legolas’ eyes rested open in two narrow slits, staring blankly up at the sky above. No sign of life stirred in the half-hidden sapphire orbs of his eyes. 

Breathing hard to keep back his panic, Elrohir leaned down over his friend’s body and pressed his ear to the other elf’s chest. He could hear a heartbeat, faint and weak. He could feel the shallow rise of Legolas chest as the unconscious elf’s lungs reflexively continued to draw air into them.

“He’s still breathing,” the younger twin said as he leaned back on his heels, only a fraction of the raging panic in his heart beginning to subside at the dispelment of his worst fear. “Help me,” he said to his brother as he tore a long strip of cloth off from the bottom of his tunic and mopped it across Legolas’ red stained face, “We have to find where he’s bleeding and stop it.” Both elves were well versed in the art of healing, having been taught by their father Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and deftly took to the task. Working together, the two brothers quickly cleaned away as much of the blood from Legolas’ face as they could. 

“He’s taken a severe blow to the side of the head,” Elladan then suddenly gagged as he finally found the source of Legolas’ bleeding. The wound in question physically made the trained elven healer want to vomit. The whole side of Legolas’ head was like a gapping hole.  His once golden hair was matted thick with blood-caked dirt and other matter Elladan did not want to try to name. He thought he could actually see... 

No. Don’t think that. He told himself sharply to keep from becoming sick as he made himself look away from the carnage of his friend’s head.

Elrohir looked equally repulsed by what he saw as he leaned across Legolas’ body to examine the prince’s injury himself. “Oh, Elbereth...” he breathed, his stomach turning in revulsion at what he saw. Trying to keep himself composed but finding it difficult to keep the bile from rising in the back of his throat, the younger elf quickly ripped another long strip of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it around Legolas’ head like a bandana and tied it off tightly over the prince’s injury to keep a constant pressure over the grisly head wound.

 “We have to get him back to Minas Tirith,” Elrohir said urgently as he looked to his brother for assistance in lifting the archer’s limp body. 

“Elrohir, I’m afraid to move him,” Elladan said in a small voice of numbed panic as his eyes scanned over the prince’s dirt-caked body. “I can tell both of his legs are broken – possibly both in multiple places. The whole left side of his rib cage is crushed. And his head... I just don’t know if we can move him like this...” 

“We have to,” Elrohir countered, “He’ll die if we do nothing. He can’t stay here or he’ll bleed to death.” Elladan nodded in grim understanding. Together, the two brothers tried to as gently as they could pick Legolas’ broken body from off the ground. 

When they reached the horses, Elladan took the full weight of the Mirkwood prince into his arms as his brother swung up onto his horse’s back before then handing the lifeless body up to the other elf. Elrohir gently settled Legolas on the horse in front of him and clasped the limp body to him with a strong arm across Legolas’ chest. The elf’s bloodied head rolled lifelessly back against the younger twin’s shoulder. 

“Hold on, Legolas,” he whispered softly as his brother swung up onto his own horse. Spurring their horses into the fastest gallop they dared use with the seriously injured prince in tow, the two brothers sped back in the direction of Minas Tirith. 

******

“Aragorn!” Faramir cried as he burst through the door of the king’s private audience chambers. 

Looking up from his papers, the retired ranger felt a twinge of dread enter his stomach at the sight of his Steward’s face. Faramir’s face was pale and drawn taut with barely controlled panic. 

“What is it, Faramir?” Aragorn demanded, beginning to rise out of his chair in alarm. 
“Elladan and Elrohir have just returned. They’ve brought Legolas back with them...” the usually calm and collected Steward tried to explain, “Aragorn, it’s bad. There was a rockslide in one of the mountain passes. They need your help as a healer. Legolas is badly injured.”

No other words were needed to persuade the king as Aragorn was already halfway out the door. 

“Where have they taken him?” he cried over his shoulder as he and Faramir raced out into the stone corridor of the Hall of Kings beyond.

 “To the House of Healing,” Faramir answered, chasing after his king as the man sped down towards the front courtyard of the palace. 

******
(Later that night)

In one of the House of Healing’s many rooms, a heavy stillness hung in the air like a thick pall. The sky outside was beginning to darken as the last few rays of the sun began to slip below the horizon in the west. Several candles had been lit around the perimeter of the sparsely decorated room, spreading a low flickering light. But while the warm glow of candlelight drove back the shadows of the lengthening night, it could not drive back the shadows of worry and fear from the hearts those sitting there in the room, desperately praying for some small sign of life from their seriously injured friend. 

Legolas lay unconscious and deathly still beneath the sterile white sheets of the only bed in the room. His face and body had been washed clean of all the dirt and blood that had caked his entire body in a thick layer of grime, and dressed in a clean nightshirt. Dark, ugly bruises marred the entire surface of his body and face, standing out obtrusively against the pale alabaster of his skin in angry purple blotches. The elf’s numerous broken bones had been carefully set and splinted, and his countless cuts and scrapes cleaned and bandaged. 

If these had been all the injuries the elven prince has sustained from the rockslide that had nearly ended his life, the numerous healers that had assisted Elladan, Elrohir, and Aragorn in treating their seriously injured friend when he had first arrived into their care might have already given Legolas an optimistic prognosis for a full recovery. But these were not all the archer’s wounds, or the worst. Nor were any of the healers assigned to watch over the House’s elven charge about to make any preempted forecasts to the prince’s recovery when so much uncertainty still hung over the elf’s fate. 

Legolas’ head lay tightly swaddled in a long white bandage that had been wound around his skull several times. Several small patches of dried blood marred the pristine white surface of the gauzy bandage just above the delicate point of Legolas’ left ear, but no new spottage of red had appeared. It had taken almost two hours for Elladan, Elrohir and Aragorn to control the bleeding from the elf’s seriously deep and extensive head wound, and then another hour to stop it completely. It had been a complete and utter miracle that Legolas hadn’t bled to death. 
But although Legolas now seemed stable and past his most critical period, he had yet to awaken. 


This worried all of Legolas’ friends who had come to hold vigil at the injured prince’s bedside, but none more than the dwarf Gimli. In the course of those first few hours in which Aragorn and his two elven foster-brothers had feverishly fought to save Legolas’ life, word of the prince’s accident had spread through almost half the entire city. Unfortunately, one of the first to hear of Legolas’ accident second-hand before Aragorn could spare the few moments needed to dispatch a messenger to him had been Gimli, who had subsequently then stormed the House of Healing as if laying siege on a fortified enemy stronghold. Aragorn had had to order Faramir to take Gimli from the room so that he, Elrohir and Elladan could tend to Legolas without the dwarf’s constant presence there at Legolas’ side while they rushed to save his life. 

“How much longer until he wakes?” the dwarf demanded impatiently from where he now sat in a chair close to his friend’s bedside. Unmasked concern tainted his deep, baritone voice, though no one there was about to comment to him about it. 

“Gimli, he has taken a very severe blow to the head,” Elrohir tried to explain patiently, “It is a miracle he even survived the trauma. He will need time to recover.”

Gimli shook his head in agitation. “But he does not move or moan in his sleep, even though it is obvious he should be in a great deal of pain,” he said, looking down into the deathly still face of his unconscious friend. Legolas’ eyes rested partially open, the empty sapphire orbs staring blankly up towards the ceiling. “If it was not for the sight of breath still being drawn into his chest, I would think Legolas dead. This is a strange and unnatural sleep that has claimed him. Never before have I seen him so unresponsive to any of our calls. What is wrong with him?”

Leaning forward in his chair beside Gimli, Aragorn let out a long and weary sigh. Thin care lines creased the corners of the man’s face around his pale grey eyes from the many hours just spent frantically trying to repair the damage done to his friend’s body from half a mountainside collapsing down onto him. The whole front of Aragorn’s shirt was smeared with dark streaks of drying blood and dirt. “He’s fallen into a coma,” the retired ranger answered in a toneless voice that sounded just as hollow and weary as the man looked. 

“What?” the dwarf stammered, only now beginning to realize just how serious Legolas’ injuries were. 

“His brain is in shock,” Elrohir tried to explain as gently as he could, “It is trying to recover from what has happened to it. It may take some time before Legolas regains consciousness.” 

“How much time?” Faramir asked from where he stood behind Aragorn. Throughout the whole afternoon in which Legolas’ life had hung by a thin thread of hope, Aragorn’s faithful Steward had remained there in the House of Healing, offering whatever help he could to the healers as they rushed about trying to save the elven prince, and then comforting Gimli when the room had finally become too crowded for the dwarf to remain by Legolas’ side any longer without getting in the way and had been sent outside to wait. 

“He could wake up tomorrow, next week, or three month from now,” another fair elven voice answered as Elrohir’s identical twin brother stepped up beside Legolas’ bedside and into the conversation, “It is impossible to say. The damage Legolas sustained was very extensive. It is also possible that he may never regain consciousness...” 

“Don’t say that!” Aragorn cried, as if his foster-brother’s words had just dealt him a physical blow across the face. 

“I have to, Aragorn,” Elladan countered, “You know what I say is true. I have never seen anyone receive a head wound as severe as the one Legolas has and yet still somehow survive! Even if Legolas does somehow wake up, he may never be the same person we knew.” If only the elf knew how true his words would years later prove to be. 

“Is there anything else you can do for him?” Gimli asked, lifting his eyes up hopefully towards the dark-haired elf standing on the opposite side of the bed across from him. 

“I am sorry, Master Dwarf, but there is little more we can do for Legolas now,” Elladan shook his head sadly as he looked down at his comatose friend’s placid features half-hidden beneath the thick white bandage covering his head. “All we can really do now is wait...”
 
It wouldn’t be until many years later that the full extent of the elf’s injury was finally known; when Legolas would finally awaken from out of his five year long sleep and have his life turned completely upside down by a single, simple touch that would later lead him down onto a dark and frightening path of knowledge and foresight that he would come to wish he had never explored.

******

To Be Continued...

****** 

Like it? Hate it? Either way, criticism is welcome and highly appreciated. 

‘Till next time...


Chapter 2 - Waiting in Hope

The Third Age
September 12, 1421 

“He isn’t showing any signs of improvement,” Elrohir muttered disheartedly as he stood straight from over Legolas’ bedside. No different then when he had first been brought into the House of Healing, the elven prince lay unmoving and totally unresponsive to the world around him, lost in a deep, dreamless sleep. Nothing stirred beneath the thin slits of his eyes as they continued to lifelessly stare upwards through a thick tangle of dark eyelashes into nothing. Elrohir shook his head in helpless frustration. “His cuts and broken bones are healing, but still he does not show any signs of regaining consciousness.”

“Is there nothing else you healers can do?” Gimli demanded almost accusingly from the foot of Legolas’ bed as he watched Elrohir abandon his examination of the comatose prince. “For almost three weeks now he had lain here in this death-like sleep and still you healers cannot find a way of waking him. How much longer can he possibly stay like this? There must be something else you can do!” Frantic helplessness tainted the dwarf’s deep, baritone voice. 

Aragorn stood beside his elven foster-brother near Legolas’ bedside. The man’s once proud shoulders sagged forward with exhaustion and waning hope as he stared down at Legolas’ placid face with weary grey eyes. Dark circles of fatigue ringed his eyes and aged his face in a shadow of growing despair. “Gimli, there’s nothing else we can do,” he said in a low voice of admitted failure, “Legolas’ injury is beyond our power to heal. There is nothing more we can do for him except to wait and hope that he awakens on his own...” Much like his bearded companion, Aragorn felt completely helpless, and he hated it. It was veritable torture for the man and dwarf to have to sit there day after day by their friend’s bedside, unable to do anything more than helplessly wait and pray for some change in the elf’s condition. 

During those first few days in which the elven prince had laid there lost in his world of dark unconsciousness, the two had been unmovable from Legolas’ side. Not even when Arwen and Eowyn had rushed to the House of Healing after hearing of Legolas’ accident to join Aragorn, Gimli, and the elven twins in their silent vigil at Legolas’ bedside were the two able to be convinced to seek rest while the others continued to watch over the injured prince. In their hearts, they still held onto the belief that Legolas would soon awaken out of his coma. But that had been almost three weeks ago, and hope was beginning to slowly dim as each day was met with no change from the comatose elf. 

Standing by himself off to one side of the room, Elladan stood thoughtfully gazing out one of the room’s many small windows, passively listening to the conversation going on behind him as he looked out over the sprawling white city beyond. “Perhaps we should send for father...” he said in a low voice that nevertheless seemed to ring out like a shout in the still silence that had followed in the wake of Aragorn’s admission of helplessness. The dark haired elf slowly turned around to face the others in the room. A glimmer of renewed hope shined in his ancient grey eyes. “Maybe father will know what to do,” he said with mounting excitement and conviction, “He is the most knowledgeable healer in all of Middle-earth. Surely he would know how to help Legolas!” 

“Yes! Oh gods, why didn’t I think of that!” Aragorn exclaimed, his haggard expression of despair and helplessness shattering with a surge of renewed hope. He knew it was a dangerous thing to believe Elrond would actually know how to free Legolas from his dark prison of unconsciousness, but it was the only hope he had to hold onto, and he was not about to let it go. “Quickly. We must send a messenger to Rivendell as soon as we can. If Elrond can help Legolas in any way, the faster he gets here the better.” Aragorn was about to turn towards the door to summon a messenger when he was abruptly stopped by the sound of Elrohir’s voice calling after him from Legolas’ beside. 

“It might also be wise to send a messenger to Legolas’ father, Aragorn,” the elf called softly. The man slowly turned and looked back at his elven foster-brother. Elrohir met Aragorn’s gaze and held it for a long moment of silence, a storm of unspoken fears swirling in his ancient grey eyes. “We cannot wait for Legolas to wake up on his own any longer, Aragorn,” he said in a low voice of painful realism, “Thranduil must be told of what happened to his son. We must accept the fact that if father cannot help him, Legolas might never wake up. We cannot keep this from Thranduil any longer.”
At first Aragorn did not respond and only stared back at Elrohir in tense silence. But as his eyes shifted onto the still, blond form of his friend laying motionless in the large bed on the other side of the room, the man finally gave a small, barely perceptible nod of grim agreement. “Father will know what to do,” he said in a low voice, as if trying to subconsciously convince not only his brother or anyone else there but himself that there was still reason to hold onto hope, “He has to...” With that, he then turned and disappeared out the door. 

******
October 5, 1421

“Father!” Aragorn cried as he quickly stood from his chair and rushed towards the tall, dark-haired elf entering the room. Unmistakable relief stormed his haggard features at the long-awaited appearance of the ancient elf-lord and healer. 

“Aragorn, I came as soon as I got your message,” Elrond said, meeting his foster-son half way across the room. The regal elf-lord’s travel clothes were dusty and caked with dirt, it obvious that Elrond had gone straight to the House of Healing upon his arrival to the imperial city of Minas Tirith, and had not yet taken the time to change or rest from his two week long journey from the northern elf kingdom of Imladris to Gondor. “Has there been any change since you sent for me?” he asked, not wasting time with any superficial preamble as he glanced over Aragorn’s shoulder towards the large bed that lay draped in shadows on the other side of the room. He already had a sinking suspicion of what his answer would be. 

“No,” the man answered, confirming Elrond’s unspoken fears. As if his foster-father’s sudden appearance after so many weeks of hopeless waiting had finally given cause to open the proverbial floodgates to all of Aragorn’s pent-up and brutally tried emotions, the man’s facade of calm aplomb seemed to literally crumble away before Elrond’s eyes. Aragorn suddenly looked old and tired to Elrond, wearied by despair and abandoned hope. “He’s been like this for over six weeks now,” he said in an hollow, tired voice, “Elladan, Elrohir, and I have tried everything we could, but Legolas still won’t wake. It’s like he died, but his body still lives on like some empty shell.” Aragorn glanced back over his shoulder towards the still blond figure laying in the large bed on the other side of the room with unshed tears of helplessness beginning to shine in his eyes. “Please,” he begged, looking back at the one who, as a child and even as a grown man, he had come to believe could solve almost anything, “Can you help him?” 

Elrond looked at Aragorn for a long moment of hesitant silence. He felt himself torn by what to say. In his heart, he truly wanted to give Aragorn all the reassurances and guarantees he knew the man so desperately yearned to hear. But he knew to do such a selfish thing would only fill his mortal foster-son with false hopes and empty promises he knew he had no right to give. From the minute he had first read Aragorn’s urgent message telling him of Legolas’ accident and condition, the ancient healer had had grave doubts about his ability to do anything for the comatose prince. 

The state of deep unconsciousness in which Legolas had fallen was not something that could just be so easily broken with some magical concoction Aragorn expected him to pull out of his pocket. The brain and its functions were almost a complete mystery to healers, even to one as skilled as himself. But despite his personal doubts, Elrond was not about to dash whatever frail hope Aragorn might still have been holding on to. “Let me examine Legolas first, and then I’ll see if I can do anything for him,” he said, trying to sound confident in his equanimity. 

Side-stepping his foster-son, the elf-lord slowly approached Legolas’ bed. The first thing he noticed as he neared was the unsettling stillness of the elven prince. The blond archer lay perfectly still amongst the sterile white sheets of the large infirmary bed. His eyes rested partially open in two narrow slits as if he were caught in some elven sleep. But Elrond knew the dark unconsciousness that had claimed the younger elf went much deeper than that. 

One of Legolas’ hands had been gently folded up over his chest while the other lay lifelessly at his side. Faded, greenish bruises spotted Legolas’ exposed skin, standing out against the pale alabaster of his skin as the last visible testaments to the violent abuse the archer’s body had suffered. A thick green blanket covered the lower half of his body to ward off the drafty chill of coming winter that had already begun to penetrate the thick stone walls of the House of Healing. The unconscious elf’s head lay tightly wrapped in a long white bandage. His long golden locks lay splayed out across the pillow beneath his head, loose and unbraided. 

“Where is everyone?” Elrond asked absently as he sat on the edge of Legolas’ bed beside the lifeless prince, “I had almost expected to find half of Minas Tirith here at Legolas’ bedside when I arrived.”

Aragorn slowly came to stand on the other side of Legolas’ bed across from his father. “Elrohir and Elladan no longer stay in the House of Healing,” he answered softly as he watched Elrond gently fold back the blanket from over Legolas’ body and begin his slow, methodical examination of the unconscious elf, “They have done everything they can for Legolas and now only come to check on him sometimes in the evenings. Arwen sometimes comes with them, but she is often too bust to find any other time to leave the palace. And Gimli is attending to matters with the some of the other dwarves in the city today. He has spent much of his time at Legolas’ side since the accident, but lately has been too preoccupied with trying to finish reconstruction on one of the eastern gates of the city before first snowfall of the season to stay with Legolas for more than a few hours a day.” 

Elrond listened quietly to his son then nodded sadly. It was as he already feared and suspected but knew Aragorn was still too stubborn to acknowledge or accept: the others had begun to lose hope of Legolas ever regaining consciousness. “And what about you, Aragorn?” he then asked, “It has been almost two months since Legolas’ accident and still no change. I can tell you still have yet to truly leave Legolas’ side. Why do you stay here when you know there is nothing else you can do? Surely your presence would be better spent in the Hall of Kings where I know you are still needed as king...”

“I stay here because I have not yet given up hope for Legolas,” Aragorn snapped defensively, anger rising in his tone, “I still believe he will wake from this. I know it may seem to you that I am neglecting my duties as king, but I refuse to leave my friend here alone. What if he should suddenly wake? I do not want Legolas to wake up disoriented and confused with no one here with him. I only stay with Legolas until I am sure someone else is here to watch over him. Faramir is looking after concerns of state in my absence, but no matter what you may think, I have not abandoned my country or responsibilities.”

For a moment, Elrond said nothing, too stunned by the man’s violent reaction to his words to speak. “I am sorry, Aragorn, I meant you no offense,” he finally managed to say, “I am only concerned for you. I can tell you are taking Legolas’ condition very hard. I am just worried that you are beginning to exhaust yourself by constantly staying here with Legolas waiting for some change that might never happen.”

Aragorn stood perfectly still, stiffly staring at his father with hard, steel-grey eyes as if ready to challenge the elf to a duel for insulting his honor. But then, with a long weary sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of Aragorn’s soul, the man dropped his eyes and seemed to literally droop before Elrond’s eyes. Contained in that single, empty sigh was all the helpless frustration and waning hope of a man unable to do anything to help his friend. “I- I am sorry,” he said as he brought a slightly trembling hand up to his forehead, “I don’t know what came over me. I had no right to speak to you like that. Please forgive me.” Hanging his head, Aragorn dropped into a nearby chair that had been positioned close to Legolas’ bedside and held his head tiredly in his hand as if suddenly overcome with exhaustion. 

“It’s alright, Aragorn,” Elrond said softly, “I understand how you must feel right now.” The man gave no answer and just continued to sit with his head in his hand, his face hidden from the elf’s worried gaze by a thick curtain of dark hair. Elrond wanted to say something else to his foster-son to comfort him or at least give him some kind of hope to hold onto, but did not. He knew there was nothing he could say that would not sound hollow and empty to the man’s ears. A gulf of uncomfortable silence formed between the two.

Unable to do anything for his son, Elrond turned his attention back onto the unconscious prince laying beside him. Working in silence, the ancient healer deftly ran his hands along Legolas’ rib cage and limbs. “The broken bones you said Legolas sustained seem to have healed properly,” he said in a low professional voice. Leaning down over Legolas’ body, Elrond gently peeled back one of the elf’s eyelids and stared into the empty blue orb. No reaction came. “His pupils are unresponsive,” the elf murmured with a small stirring of dismay in his heart. He had not really expected anything else, but this did not bode well for the comatose elf. Either Legolas had fallen into such a deep unconsciousness that his body had fallen into some kind of state of hibernation, or there was the most probable chance of brain damage. Or worst yet, it was a combination of both. 

Swallowing his misgivings, Elrond looked to Aragorn. “Help me, Aragorn. I need to see his head.” 

For a moment, the man did not seem to hear Elrond’s request, but then finally broke out of his melancholic state of silence and moved to the aid of his father. “What do you want me to do?” he asked softly. 


“Just lift his shoulders up and support him in an upright position so I can unwrap the dressings.”

Doing so, Aragorn gently cradled the lifeless body of his friend up off the pillows as Elrond began to unwind the long white bandage from around Legolas’ head. Finally unwinding the last fold, Elrond motioned for Aragorn to lower Legolas back down onto the bed. 

“Oh, gods...” Elrond breathed in horrified revulsion as he leaned back down over Legolas’ body and finally saw the full extent of the prince’s injury for himself. Aragorn said nothing, but turned his eyes away from the grisly wound that even after two months still made him sick to look at. 

The wound had almost completely healed by now, but it was still a revolting sight to behold. A wide, twisted knot of pinkish scar tissue had formed over the impacted area of Legolas’ skull. All of the elf’s proud, golden hair that had once been there was missing, brutally torn from his skull along with that section of scalp by the merciless stone that had sent him spiraling out into a dark world of unconsciousness.

Although Elrond had seen many grisly wounds over his countless years as a healer, he could not help but be momentarily taken aback by the devastation wrought on the younger elf’s head. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and gently probed at the inflicted area, stretching out his healing powers that were able to be amplified and focused by the elven ring Vilya. After a few moments, the elf finally leaned back and sighed deeply. 

Aragorn looked at him expectantly. “Well? Can you help him?” he demanded, “Is there anything you can do?”

“I am sorry, Aragorn,” the elf said, unable to meet his son’s eyes. Sorrow shined in his ancient grey eyes. “There is nothing I can do. Legolas’ injury is beyond my power to heal. I have only ever seen one other case like this before in all my long years, and that person only lived for several days after the accident before finally passing on.” An anguished look of despair and shattered hope fell over the man’s already wearied face like a dark shadow. “I am sorry, Aragorn, I truly am. I wish I could do more for him, but I honestly do not understand how Legolas even survived this. It is a miracle he still lives!”

“What miracle is it if he is just to lie here like this for the rest of his life, trapped in this deathlike state to only slowly wither away to nothing?” Aragorn shot back bitterly, “Legolas would not have wanted to live like this.” 

“Aragorn, there is still hope,” Elrond tried to reason, “Legolas might yet awaken on his own. His brain is still in shock. We must give him the time he needs to recover.”

“That is much of what Elrohir and Elladan have already said. But what if he ever does wake up? Will he suffer any permanent damage?” Aragorn asked, finally voicing the gnawing worry that had been festering in his head since he had first seen the grisly wound inflicted upon his friend’s head. 


Elrond sighed deeply. “I do not know. The head injury Legolas sustained was very severe. We cannot assess the extent of any brain damage he might have sustained until he wakes...” Aragorn slowly turned away from his father and sat back down in the lone chair positioned next to Legolas’ bed. He again seemed to take on the persona of a tired old man, wearied by the world and all its cruel injustice. A heavy, stagnant silence filled the air.

“Have you sent word of this to Thranduil yet?” the elf-lord finally asked, his sonorous voice laden with suppressed grief.

“Yes. We sent a messenger to Mirkwood the same time we did to you in Rivendell,” Aragorn replied softly in an empty voice. 

Elrond nodded grimly. “Then he should be arriving here within the next week or so...” He could not even begin to imagine what heartache Legolas’ condition would cause his father.

******
October 17, 1421

Fallen leaves blew across the empty stone courtyard of the House of Healing as the chilly breath of coming winter rustled through the dead remains of the once green leaves. In the street beyond, the clatter of horses on cobblestones could be heard, rapidly approaching the quiet house of rest and healing. 

Riding into the House of Healing’s courtyard, a large company of mounted elves entered. Banners of green and gold rose up from amongst their ranks and snapped in the chilly breeze above their heads. At the head of the long column of riders rode the impressive figure of the group’s lord and master, King Thranduil of Mirkwood.

The elf in question barely even reigned his horse to a halt before leaping off the moving animal’s back to the ground. Thranduil’s usually calm and stoic features were a jumbled confusion of emotions, all some varying form of apprehension and dread. Dirt and mud caked the hems of the regal elf’s riding clothes, testifying to the countless miles transversed from the distant forest realm of Mirkwood to the imperial city of Minas Tirith. 

Without so much as a parting glance at his men, the elven king turned and all but ran for the House of Healing’s doors. Charging inside the darkened building, Thranduil found himself standing in a large entrance hall. On either side of him along the length of the grand hallway stood several stone staircases, all leading up to different wings of the huge building. Multiple smaller hallways also branched off from the main chamber, creating a complex maze of twisting corridors to the elven king’s eyes. Looking around in bewilderment, Thranduil suddenly realized he had never been inside the House of Healing before and had no idea where the one he searched for could be. 

A small cry of dismay escaped the elven king’s lips. But before his confusion or distress could escalate to panic, a calm, familiar voice called out from behind him. “Thranduil!” 

Spinning around, the elven monarch choked back a gasp of surprise. “Lord Elrond!” he exclaimed as he watched the darker haired elf appear from out of one of the smaller hallways leading off the main entrance hall and walk towards him, “What are you doing here?” he asked, confused as to why the Lord of Imladris was to be found so far away from his home in Rivendell.

A small flicker of despair seemed to pass over the elf-lord’s ageless face. “I received a message several weeks ago from my foster-son, Aragorn, asking me to come here to Minas Tirith and lend my healing skills to the young prince Legolas,” he answered softly, closely watching the other elf’s face for reaction. 

As if suddenly remembering his mission, Thranduil felt his heart gripped by renewed urgency. “My son... Please, where is he? Is he still here?” the proud elf questioned, gripping Elrond’s shoulder desperately, “Is he alright? Were you able to help him? Has he woken yet?”

Elrond felt his heart break in two at the sight of desperate hope shining in Thranduil’s eyes. Never before had he seen the proud and stoic king reduced to such helplessness and panic. Obviously, the weeks of complete uncertainty concerning the fate of his youngest son spent since hearing of Legolas’ accident and traveling to the distant city of Minas Tirith had done nothing for the elven king’s equanimity. But he could not fault Thranduil for this. He could not even begin to imagine how he himself would have handled it if it had been Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, or even Aragorn in such an accident. 

“Peace, Thranduil,” he said calmly, quieting the other elf’s barrage of questions. “No, I am sorry. I was unable to do anything for Legolas. He still remains locked in his coma. If you wish, I will lead you to his room, but I must warn you that it may be difficult to see him as he is though he carries no more visible signs of the accident on his body except for a bandage around his head. I feel I must also strongly advise you now as one father to another to not lift it to inspect the wound...”

Thranduil eyed Elrond for a long moment of speculative silence, trying to gauge the meaning and depth of the other elf’s warning. Finally with a resolute shake of his head the golden-haired elf said, “Please, just take me to my son.”

***

For whatever terrible scenario Thranduil’s ramped imagination had concocted to try and mentally prepare himself for what he might see when he finally saw his son, the sight he beheld when Elrond swung open the large wooden door to his youngest son’s room was nothing like he had expected. Though it was now over two months since Legolas’ accident was said to have occurred, Thranduil had still for some reason in the back of his mind expected to find his son’s slender body covered in bloody cuts and bruises and his fair face twisted in pain. 

But instead of the horrifying scene Thranduil had expected, he instead found his son laying in what seemed to be peaceful sleep. Golden sunlight streamed in from the many windows lining the far side of the room, spilling over the unconscious prince’s motionless form and illuminating the pale blond hair laying fanned out over the pillow beneath Legolas’ head into what looked like a golden halo of light. 

Thranduil slowly approached Legolas’ bedside, suddenly reluctant to see the lifeless shell of his youngest son. As he neared, he immediately noted the large white bandage Elrond had warned him about tightly wrapped around his son’s head. 

Finally reaching the side of Legolas’ bed, Thranduil then stood there, dumbly staring down at the motionless body of his son. The young elf looked no different than the last time Thranduil had seen him, except for the inevitable weight loss of his already slender frame. Empty sapphire eyes stared lifelessly up into nothing between the narrowed slits of his eyelids, unaware that his father had finally arrived to be with him. He could not place it, but he thought it was the disturbing stillness of his son that so greatly troubled him about the whole scene. 

“Here, Thranduil, sit down,” Elrond directed gently as he pulled a wooden chair up to Legolas’ bedside and motioned for the elven king to sit in it. Thranduil wordlessly sat back in the proffered chair, unable to take his eyes off his son’s placid face.

“Is he always this still?” he asked as he gingerly took one of his son’s lifeless hands into his own and held it as though it were a fragile piece of glass.

“Yes,” Elrond answered softly, “Because of this, we’ve ordered that Legolas’ muscles be massaged and stretched everyday to try and prevent deterioration. It is hoped that since he is one of the Firstborn that his muscles will not deteriorate as quickly as those of a mortal’s, but we are taking no chances.” 

Thranduil nodded dumbly, feeling dazed and overwhelmed as if everything was only now beginning to hit him now that he finally saw his comatose son with his own two eyes. “What are his chances of waking after this long a time?” he hesitantly asked. 

The dark haired elf-lord sighed deeply. “I cannot say. It is still possible that Legolas might still wake from under this spell, but I cannot give you any estimate as to when that may be. His head injury was very extensive and severe.”

“But there is still hope?” Thranduil asked, turning slightly in his seat to look at the elf-lord out of the corner of his eye. A pleading look now shined in the elven king’s eyes, as if begging for reassurance from Elrond much like Aragorn had done several weeks before.

Elrond remained silent for several long moments. “There is always hope,” he stated non-committingly, refusing to give the young elf’s father any false hopes when he knew the truth of Legolas’ chances for recovery. 

Thranduil did not seem to catch the hesitant tone of Elrond’s reply, and instead nodded quietly to himself. “Then I shall stay here in Minas Tirith until he wakes,” he said softly, as if trying to reassure his comatose son that he was not about to leave him. 

Elrond shook his head sadly. He had already seen this coming but had hoped Thranduil would have see the futileness of such actions and just accepted the stinging reality of Legolas’ fate. But no matter what he felt, he knew deep down if it had been one of his own children in question, he never would have given up hope so easily either. It was just that in holding out for such a frail hope, he knew it would only cause Thranduil more pain in the end when he would finally have to accept fate and move on with life, much like the rest of Legolas’ friends had already had to do. 

“Is it safe to hold him?” Thranduil’s voice suddenly broke Elrond from out of his thoughts.

The stoic king’s request slightly surprised Elrond. “It could do no harm. His broken bones are now completely healed. I would just warn you to be careful with his head,” the ancient elf-lord cautioned. 

Nodding, Thranduil moved to sit on the edge of Legolas’ bed. Being wary of his son’s bandaged head, the elven king gently gathered Legolas’ limp body into his arms and settled him in his lap up against his chest. He gently tucked his youngest child’s head up under his chin, and sighed into the thick mane of golden hair. 

Elrond immediately saw this as his cue to leave and let the grieving father have a moment alone with his son. “I will be nearby, Thranduil, if you should need anything,” he said before making his way towards the door and softly closing it behind him. 

Finally left alone with his son, Thranduil leaned down and softly whispered into the unconscious elf’s ear, “Come back to me, Little One. I know you can hear me somewhere in there. You are stronger than this. You can overcome this. Just come back to me...” But Thranduil did not know that it would be almost five more years to the day until his youngest son would finally rouse from out of the darkness and return to his family and friends. 

******

To Be Continued...

******

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Chapter 3 - Chronicle of Years

Is anyone out there even reading this?  Hello?  Anyone?  Yes?  No?

Well, if that's the case then this might just be "Touch of Sight"'s last update here...  

Hopfully everyone (anyone?) that's reading this will like the latest chapter...



******

The Third Age
1421
 
Despite Thranduil’s arrival to the white city of Minas Tirith, no miraculous change came to the youngest prince of Mirkwood. Legolas remained lost in his dreamless sleep, unaware of the passage of time as it continued to slip around him like the flow of water over a rock. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned to months, with nothing to separate them from the last but the occasional visit of one of Legolas’ friends to his bedside. 

Golden leaves of fall soon fell away in announcement of the coming snows of winter. The days slowly began to shorten. And as the temperatures continued to fall more and more with each passing day, so did hopes for the unconscious elf’s recovery. During that time, an official mandate was made by Aragorn ordering that the collapsed mountain pass of Emyn Arnen was to remain forever blocked and never cleared or reopened for any traffic or travel. 

Thranduil continued to stay with his son, always whispering encouragements and pleas to the young elf to wake and return to him. But for all of Thranduil’s efforts, his words fell on deaf ears as Legolas continued to sleep on, unaware of his father’s growing despair.

In early December of that year Gimli, son of Gloin, announced that he was preparing to return to his home in the Glittering Caves of neighboring Rohan within the week. Though he yearned to stay at his unconscious friend’s side longer and wait for a miracle, he knew he could no longer delay his departure. He had already spent more time in Minas Tirith than he had originally planned because of Legolas’ accident and was now desperately needed back in the Glittering Caves. Life continued to move on regardless of personal tragedy and grief, work always existed that needed to be done. And so, early one morning before the sun had even risen over the distant rim of the horizon and Thranduil still rested in his appointed guestroom in the Hall of Kings, the dwarf slipped unnoticed into the infirmary room of his comatose friend for a final visit. He stayed only for a time, silently holding the elf’s lifeless hand in his own before then finally getting up to leave the white city of Gondor with nothing left behind to mark his departure except a lingering note of sadness in the air.

Winter came and snow fell over the city like a blanket of powderized diamonds. Icy wind rattled loudly at the windows of Legolas’ small room in the House of Healing, but still he would not wake. Hope continued to ever wan and Aragorn began to go less and less often to visit his friend. 

New Years came that year with little reason for celebration. Some of those to journey to the mighty city of Minas Tirith for the holiday season were Gimli and Éomer, Lord of the Mark. But although the many close friends were gathered together in the grand halls of the Hall of Kings to enjoy the festive season, a certain pall seemed to hang over their merrymaking – the memory of their missing elven companion always a lingering presence in the back of their minds.

Two weeks after celebrations had ushered in a new age with the year 1422, rule of the elven colony of Ithilien was officially passed on to Legolas’ second in command – an older elf named Thalion who had once served as a field commander for Thranduil in Mirkwood’s army for several centuries before ultimately following the king’s youngest son to the wilds of Ithilien to help establish the small elven community. It was a solemn day that day. For in passing command of Legolas’ position to another, it felt as if they were somehow betraying Legolas and declaring him dead, as if he was never expected to return. But the colony and its elves were leaderless and could no longer wait for their Lord to wake and return to them.

The days continued to shortened even more until sunlight seemed like only a distant memory of warm summer days long past. And in the lengthening darkness, the elven prince slept on. 

Thranduil continued to faithfully sit by his son’s bedside for several hours a day, watching as servants and nurses came everyday to bathe the unconscious elf and change the soiled sheets and linens of the bed. And as he continued to sit there day after day, watching his son be changed and cared for like a tiny baby and have liquid food poured down his throat to provide nourishment to his slowly thinning body, he began to find himself at times almost wishing Legolas had just perished in the landslide that had put him in such a wretched state of helplessness. 

The first time he caught himself thinking such horrid thoughts, the elven king had physically felt sick to his stomach. He actually caught himself wishing his son had died! How could anyone possible wish for such a thing?! But then again, was not this hopeless state of being Legolas had fallen into almost a fate worst than death? 

It was then that Thranduil began to wonder how much longer he could bear to sit there and watch his son slowly wither away before his eyes. How much longer could he sit there and wait for Legolas to wake? But the most ominous question of them all: did he still believe his son would ever return to him? 

******
The Fourth Age
March 27, 1422

 “I will send word to you immediately if there is any change,” Elrond said as he clasped Thranduil’s arm at the elbow as a sign of parting. Behind the two elf-lords in the wide courtyard of the House of Healing stood Thranduil’s escort of mounted guards, all dressed in Mirkwood colors and patiently waiting for their king to depart. 

“Thank you,” the elven king answered, returning the gesture solemnly, “I would stay longer, but I have been away from Mirkwood for too long. I left my oldest son to rule in my stead, but I fear what issues might have arisen in the time I have been gone. I will try and return as soon as I can.” 

Elrond nodded. “I understand. Legolas will be well tended to in the meantime. The daily massages seem to be keeping his muscles limber for the time being. I will see to it personally that it is continued and that his body is stretched out daily to try and prevent muscle deterioration.”
 Thranduil looked at Elrond with an expression of surprise. “Will you not be returning to Rivendell soon? You have been away from your own kingdom far longer than I have. Are you not needed there?”
 
“No,” the dark-haired elf answered with a distant look of sorrow on his ageless face. “Many elves are leaving these shores and sailing to the Undying Lands. Imladris is a dying nation. More and more of my people leave every day. I am sure you have heard that the Lady Galadriel diminished into the West sometime late last September.” 

“Yes. I heard that Mithrandir was also said to have left with her,” Thranduil said.

 “The two Hobbits, Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, also went,” Elrond said. A soft expression of whimsical longing then seemed to enter the elf lord’s ancient grey eyes – eyes that had seen too much death, destruction and sorrow throughout the many long years of his immortal life. “Do you know the Lady Galadriel asked me to accompany her and the others in their final voyage across the sea?” he then asked in a soft, almost pained voice. 

Thranduil stood silent, captivated by this bit of news. He had honestly heard little of the Lady and Gandalf’s plans to depart from Middle-earth until many months after the fact. And he had been even less aware that Lord Elrond had actually been asked to accompany them. “Why did you not go with them?” he asked curiously. 

Elrond seemed to revert into himself for a moment and stare out into the distance. Then with a long, weary sigh he said, “I seriously considered it. My wife Celebrian sailed to the Undying Lands almost five hundred years ago. But although I desperately long to be reunited with her, my children still live here. I cannot leave here just yet. Though we are divided, my family is here in Middle-earth. I wish to see my first grandchild born, and watch Aragorn and Arwen bring peace and prosperity back to this land. And I need to know that there is still hope for the race of Men after our kind leave these shores.”

 Thranduil stood for a moment of silence, quietly studying the other elf. As he stared into Elrond’s ageless face, he suddenly began to feel a deep connection of understanding form between himself and the Lord of Imladris. They had both lost so much in this world. They had both lost their wives and a child – whether it had been to love and its consequence of inevitable mortality, or to tragedy and a cruel death-like sleep. They were more similar than either had ever before realized, and with that Thranduil suddenly felt as if an invisible bond had formed between them. Although he and Elrond had never really been considered friends or even close allies, he now felt as if he had someone who could understand his pain. How strange (and morbidly ironic) it was that it had taken a tragedy such as Legolas’ accident for the two elf-lords to finally set aside their differences and see eye to eye. 

With a timid smile, Thranduil again clasped Elrond’s arm at the elbow. “Nemarie.” 

“Nemarie.”

With that, Thranduil then turned and walked out into the pale, cold morning sunlight that was weakly shining down into the open courtyard through the slatey grey clouds of the overcast March sky above. Mounting his horse, the elven king signaled to his men to depart. As the line of elves slowly began to file out the gate into the snow-dusted streets of Minas Tirith beyond, Thranduil paused and looked back over his shoulder towards the House of Healing and its tall stone walls. 

Somewhere in that building lay his youngest son. For a moment, Thranduil could not bring himself to leave. What if Legolas was waking up right now? What if he was slowly stirring and struggling to find his way back to the light and needed his father to help guide him back? 

But Thranduil knew Legolas was not. No matter how hard he wished for it to be different, he knew his son still lay lost in his coma, trapped in an empty void of dark nothingness. And so with a laden heart, the elven king turned his mount and exited the House of Healing’s gate.

Legolas had now lain in his coma for eight long months.
 
******

Spring came to the lands of Gondor. With the melting of the cold winter snows came the sprouting buds of new growth and life. To the winter wearied eyes of the people of Gondor, the return of green and the multiple hues of blossoming flowers were like a welcome balm to the senses after so many months of cold, barren nothingness and snow. And as the trees began to blossom and sing their songs of regrowth, the elven prince slept on.

Towards the end of April, the dwarf, Gimli, again returned to the city of Minas Tirith. He did not stay long – only two weeks or so – before departing once again for the Glittering Caves of Aglarond. He spent only a little of that time inside of the House of Healing, sitting by Legolas’ bedside who still refused to acknowledge the dwarf’s or anyone else’s presence.

Spring slowly melted into summer and still no change came to the blond archer. It was in early July that a problem arose in the House of Healing concerning a lack of space in the congested building. As the only large-scale establishment for medical treatment in the entire city of Minas Tirith, the House of Healing was often unable to room the numerous patients it saw on a daily basis, and had to send many of its less severe cases away to recover in their own homes after initial treatment. When news of this problem finally reached the ears of king Elessar, Aragorn immediately gave orders that Legolas was to be moved to his old guestroom in the Hall of Kings where he could still be tended to by the palace’s own staff, and at the same time free up one of the House of Healing’s rooms now that there was really nothing else the healers there could do for the comatose elf.

September saw the return of the elven king of Mirkwood to the borders of Gondor, whose journey there to his son’s side would soon become a yearly ritual to him for the next four years of Legolas’ coma. Thranduil stayed for less than a month, unable to bear the sight of his youngest child lost in his unnatural state of sleep and left before the deepening of fall. 

1422 passed and still no change came to the elven prince. 

In June of the following year it was announced that Eowyn was with child and that she and her husband, Faramir, were expecting the birth of their first child sometime that coming winter. 
Thranduil again visited that September and again left after only a short time in the white city. By now almost all hope had been lost of him ever seeing his son awake again. 

******
December 4, 1423

It was the dead of night. The moon hung high in the obsidian sky overhead. Icy winds whipped through the empty streets of the lower west end of Minas Tirith between the third and fourth gates of the city. Snow that dusted the ground from a snowstorm that had hit the city earlier that day became kicked up from the ground by the driving winds and swirled madly around in the air in mini cyclones.

Walking alone down the deserted street with her head bent down to the biting wind, was a young woman. She walked hunched forward, hugging a heavy winter cloak around her slender frame as she desperately tried to keep the bitter cold from invading her already frozen body. Dirty blond hair whipped in the air behind her as she continued to trudge headlong into the driving winter wind. 

Her name was Elien, a pretty, but by no means beautiful, girl whose slightly homely looks actually gave her a certain type of appeal to some of those that looked upon her with such eyes. She worked as a bar maid in one of the local taverns in that section of the city, serving pints of ale to men as they came in from their daily labors to enjoy a bit of warmth and drink before heading home for the night. It was not a glamorous job, but it put food on the table and there were far worst jobs in which she could be employed.

Normally, she would have worked serving drinks and clearing tables until the very early hours of the morning when most of the tavern’s patrons had by that time either gone back home to their beds to sleep off their drunken stupors of the night, or had been thrown out into the street by the tavern’s owner. But tonight there had been little business. The bitter cold had kept away most of the bar’s usual clientele. Because of the lack of business, the tavern’s owner had sent Elien home early.

So here she was, slowly trudging home through the same cold and ice that had driven away her customers. Her shoulders shook with barely controlled shivers. She pulled the tattered winter clock closer around herself, but it did little to dispel the icy chill of the night that seemed to blow right through her. 

Too preoccupied with thoughts of a nice roaring fire waiting for her back in the small, rented room she shared with an old widowed woman who was old enough to be her grandmother, Elien did not hear the sound of heavy footsteps on cobblestones somewhere down the street behind her. She continued on unawares for another block or so before a sudden gale of icy wind suddenly blasted her in the face and sent her hair flying into her eyes. Momentarily blinded, Elien struggled to push her thick mane of hair out of her face, and in the process accidently dropped a small parcel of goods she had bought earlier that evening before going to work on the ground. Several things slipped out a tear that had formed in the bottom corner of the package and scattered across the snowy ground. Crying out in dismay and helpless frustration, the young girl dropped to her knees to collect her fallen things.

As she hurried to jam the things back in the now torn bag before they were ruined by the dirty snow and ice of the street, the crunch of heavy footsteps behind her began to quicken before then suddenly stopping almost right over her crouched form. 

“Are you alright, miss?”

Elien startled and whipped around in surprise. There standing almost right beside her was a man. 

He stood a slight distance away from where she knelt in the snow as if timid of encroaching on her personal space.

It took her a moment to regain her bearings from the surprise of the man’s sudden appearance. “Yes. Thank you. I’m fine,” she said, “I just managed to drop my things, that’s all.”

“Oh, here, let me help you with those,” he said as he knelt beside her and began to collect her scattered goods. 

“Oh, thank you, but you don’t have to do that,” Elien stuttered, slightly taken aback by the man’s gentlemanly actions. Never before had anyone ever went to her aid quite like this before. Most of the men she usually found herself surrounded by were low-life drunks or some other unsavory type like that. But this one seemed genuinely different and somehow... noble in his bearings. 

“It’s no problem,” he assured with a small smile as he handed her things back to her and helped her put them back inside her bag. “It’s my pleasure. Do you live around here?” he then asked, quite innocently. 


“Just around the way,” the girl answered with a motioning gesture down the street before even realizing what she had done, so mesmerized by the man’s charm she was. 

“Then please let me assist you in carrying your things back for you.” And before Elien could protest, the man stood and began walking in the direction Elien had indicated her house stood, her package protectively tucked under his arm. 

Hurrying to catch up, the young woman stuttered, “Oh good sir, you really do not need to trouble yourself like this. I can make it home by myself.” 

“I am sure you can, but it is dangerous for a woman as beautiful as yourself to be walking the streets alone this late at night,” he said, his tone debonair and sincere.

Elien blushed furiously at his comment, and subconsciously ran a hand through her wind swept hair. No one had ever called her beautiful before, let alone a man as gentlemanly and good-looking as this one that had insisted on helping carry her things back home for her. 

The two walked down the snowy street for several moments of silence before the man spoke again. “Tell me, did you get off work early tonight?” he asked, “I have seen you walking back to your house before, but usually much later at night.”

Elien paused a moment, slightly taken aback by his question. How did he know she had just come from work? “Yes. There was very little business tonight because of the cold. I work at –”

“The local tavern beside the bakery near the third gate – the Golden Goblet, I believe it is called,” the man cut off abruptly and finished. 

“Yes...” Elien replied, starting to become slightly uncomfortable with this unknown man. 

“I also have seen you buying your groceries at the market stalls near there. I first saw you there some weeks ago – on a Saturday I believe it was, the day before that first big snowfall. The moment I saw you I was quite taken by you... When I found out where you worked, I could not help but stop there at least once a day in the evenings when you were working. Do you know you look very beautiful in candle light when you are hurrying about filling orders?” he asked innocently, his tone as calm and debonair as it had been when he had first dropped to his knees to help Elien collect her fallen goods.

By now, the young girl was quite frightened. Was this man following her? Had he been watching her as she went about her daily business and work? Trying to act calm, Elien quickly tried to think of a way to get away from this strange man. “Oh, good sir, my house is within a block of here now. I think I can make it the rest of the way. You do not need to trouble yourself at my expense any longer,” she said hurriedly, trying to sound sincere and convincing as she held out her hands for the package the man still held securely under his arm. 

“There is no trouble,” he countered, brushing off her unspoken request for her package, “I assure you...”

Now becoming quite panicked, Elien abruptly stopped, causing the man to also halt beside her. 

“Sir, I would really just like my package,” she said in a slightly wavering voice of false courage. “I do not need your help anymore. I can make it the rest of the way home by myself,” she added in her sternest voice. She then held up her hand, expecting the man to obediently hand her things back to her.

But the man did not. For several long moments of tense, uncomfortable silence, he just stood there, staring back at the girl. Elien imagined she saw something of surprise and perhaps hurt hiding behind the man’s expression, and for a moment almost felt sorry for being so mean and callous to this good-hearted Samaritan that had stopped to help her – no matter his suspicious knowledge of her daily activities and life. 

But before she could feel regretful for what she had done, the “good-hearted Samaritan’s” face suddenly grew hard and wrathful, his once handsome features transforming into something ugly and frightening. “What is the matter? Am I not good enough to carry your things?” he spat, throwing her package violently to the ground, breaking the bag open and scattering its contents across the snowy ground. Elien jumped back in fear and surprise. “Was I not kind to offer you my services and walk you home?” he snarled as he began to advance on the frightened young woman, his eyes and posture screaming violence. “Was I not noble to see that you were safely seen back to your home? Wasn’t I?!” 

Elien had begun to slowly back away from the enraged man. Her eyes frantically darted around, desperately seeking some form of help. But the street was deserted. No other sign of life existed in the shadowy street except for herself and the approaching man. 

“Please... I am sorry... I did not mean...” she stuttered, frightenedly.

“Shut up!” the man roared, still advancing towards the terrified girl like a predator stalking its prey. Elien winced in fear. She hurriedly-back peddled away from the man, trying to escape his approach. Her back suddenly collided with the solid brick wall of one of the buildings lining the deserted street. She stood there, helplessly pinned between the wall and her advancing attacker. 

Seeing this as his moment to attack, the man lunged at the girl. Elien cried out in terror and tried to dodge around him. The man had already anticipated such a desperate escape and quickly caught the fleeing girl around the waist with his arm. Elien screamed out, crying for help. “Help! Please! Anyone, help!” she cried out loudly as she struggled against her attacker’s hold. Her terrified screams bounced off the surrounding buildings and down the empty street before fading into the distance. But there was no one there to hear her cries. 

“Be quiet!” the man snarled as he began to drag the kicking, fighting girl down into a small dark alley off to the side where the girl had decided to stop and demand her package back from the man. 

“Help! Please! Anyone! Help!”

“I said shut up!”

The two were quickly swallowed by the dark shadows of the alley and disappeared from sight. From out of the darkness drifted the muffled sounds of grunts and struggling. Then, shattering the still calmness of the wintery night came the strangled, blood-curdling scream of a young woman. As it faded from the air, the deep silence of the night slowly resettling over the sleeping city like a heavy blanket. Several snowflakes slowly drifted down from the sky into the now still and silent street, as if frozen tears from heaven. 

The girl’s body was found sometime the next morning by a passing citizen on his way to work, laying cold and dead under a thin sheet of newly fallen snow near the entrance of a small, decrepit alley. She was found brutally strangled and raped, her clothes half torn from her frozen body that had been shamelessly left behind by her murderer like a piece of trash sprawled out over the ground. But her desecration had not ended there. Her face had also been brutally maimed, so much so that the body could not be identified until many days later when a widowed old woman came to report to the authorities the disappearance of a young girl she rented a room with not more than two blocks away from where the grisly murder had taken place.

The authorities immediately took actions to find the culprit of such a heinous crime, but had no clues on which to launch an investigation and had to abandon the case. The murder sent something of a stir through the city, but was quickly forgotten within the week. The authorities marked it as an unsolved case, hoping that it was would be the one and only of such atrocious murders in the city of Minas Tirith. But Elien was not to be the last and only death of her murderer’s savage killing spree. Nor would it be until many years later that Elien’s murderer was finally brought to justice. 

******

Winter deepened and in the dark, early morning hours of February 3rd, 1424, while Legolas still slept locked in his dreamless black oblivion, Eowyn gave birth to a healthy baby boy. The child was named Theomir in honor of both his mother and father’s lines, and was instantly proclaimed a beautiful meld of both his parents.

Time continued on and life fell back into its daily rhythm.

Gimli now rarely came to the city of Minas Tirith any more, and when he did it was only on official business by request of King Elessar. In the past, when Legolas had still been there to offer the dwarf a good round of verbal sparring, Gimli had been known to stay in the white city for several months at a time until the time came when either he or his elven companion had to be called back to their respective homes. But no longer. Those days were in the past and he could no longer find any real reason to return to the city except to offer his skills in the rebuilding of Minas Tirith that was still going on even several years after the War of the Ring. He still had many friends like Aragorn there in the white city, yes, but Aragorn was often too busy seeing to his country’s affairs to really just go off and have a good time like Gimli and Legolas had been known to do. And as Gimli had soon come to realize, no one else could quite fill that now empty spot in his life like the lighthearted elf once had. 

Aragorn now rarely went to see Legolas. There were always concerns of state to preoccupy him and not enough hope to compel him to go to his unconscious friend anymore. Legolas had become nothing more than a living, painful memory to him. The Lady Arwen, however, was known to still go once a week and sit by the comatose elf’s side. During her stays she would often softly talk to him about the latest news and going-ons of their friends, of the antics and rapid growth of Eowyn and Faramir’s new baby, and whatever other inconsequential things happened to cross her mind that day. She always whispered to Legolas of everyone’s continued hopes for his recovery, but in truth there was no more hope.

Later that April, the body of another young woman was found. Her body was discovered in the back of a small, deserted alley near the third gate of the city. Like the first brutal murder that had happened almost two months prior, the girl was found strangled and violated, her face horribly maimed. The authorities were immediately concerned if they had an emerging serial killer on their hands because of the similar circumstances and execution of both murders. But they had no leads to go on except the mutilated bodies of the two girl whose bodies could tell no tales they could hear or read, and had to leave the case unsolved. 

Thranduil again visited his comatose son that September. By now Legolas had been unconscious for over three years. Looking down at the pitiful shell of the once strong and vital young elf, Thranduil could not help but once again wish Legolas would just pass on and rest in peace so he and all those others left behind could finally mourn his passing and move on with their lives. He felt revolted by the thought, but even as he tried to push it from his mind, it still lingered there in the back of his head like a bad odor. He left shortly after arriving. 

Another year passed and the became 1425. Seasons came and went and still Legolas slept. 

In July of that year, there was yet another murder, this time committed somewhere between the fourth and fifth gates of the city. It was exactly like the other two. There was a stir of public concern, but the authorities quickly subdued it with assurances and promises of a heightened number of guards placed on street patrol at night. But despite attempts, the murders were no where near being stopped. 

******
September 5, 1425

The leaves on the trees had begun to turn, slowly changing to vibrant hues of orange, red, and yellow. September came that year with early frost and biting winds. Winter would soon be upon the city of Minas Tirith.

Sitting alone in the heavy stillness of the large guestroom Legolas had used to call his own when visiting his friends in the white capitol of Gondor, Thranduil sat beside his son’s bedside, sadly staring down at the younger elf’s still face. This was now his fifth time visiting his comatose son since the terrible accident had trapped Legolas in his death-like sleep over four years ago. 

Thranduil no longer really knew why he continued to go there to his son’s bedside. He could not do anything for his comatose son and had already given up all hope of seeing his awake again. Yet still he came. In a way, his yearly visits to Legolas’ bedside had taken on the same role as a person visiting the grave site of a deceased loved one; a way of honoring the memory of the one gone, and keeping that person alive in one’s heart. 

But unlike those that could mourn and remember those passed, Thranduil could not. For Legolas was not truly gone, but rather trapped in some sort of dreamless limbo between the living and the dead. 

Thranduil barely even recognized his son anymore. Despite all attempts to stall the inevitable onset of muscle deterioration, Legolas’ body had begun to wither with disuse. Because of his shortening muscles and ligaments, Legolas had begun to slowly curl in on himself. Through the long years of his coma, he had also lost an incredible amount of weight, making his once slender and graceful body painfully thin and gangly. Legolas’ hair had begun to grow back at the site of his traumatic head wound, but it had come back almost pure white in color. 

As Thranduil continued to woodenly stare down at the small unmoving form, the elven king tried to convince himself that this haggard form laying there in the bed before him was really his son. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. This was not his son. It couldn’t be! Legolas was strong and beautiful, not this wretched creature now masquerading as his son.

The elven king could feel angry tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t fair! What had Legolas ever done to deserve this? Nothing! Yet it seemed the Valar had seen it fit to punish his son for sins he did not commit. 

For a moment, the stoic king thought he was about to lose his resolve and weep for the injustice and hopelessness of his son’s plight. But before he could, Thranduil was startled out of his thoughts by the soft creaking of the door to Legolas’ room being opened and the soft rustle of cloth over the floorboards behind him. Turning in his seat, the elf looked back over his shoulder to see who it was that had come to join him. “Lord Elrond,” he greeted with no real emotion in his voice. 

“Lord Thranduil,” the darker elf returned with a polite but solemn nod of his head, “I hope I did not intrude on you. If you wish, I can come back at a later time,” he offered, seeing the distraught look lingering on the other elf’s ageless face. 

“No. No, not at all,” Thranduil said, quickly wiping a hand across his watery eyes and forcing the waver out of his voice, “I could actually use some company right now. No one else ever comes in here except servants to check on Legolas.”


Elrond nodded and slowly came around to sit opposite Thranduil on the other side of Legolas’ bed. 

“I just don’t know what to do anymore, Elrond,” Thranduil sighed tiredly as the other elf took his seat across from him, “I want to stay here with Legolas, but I just can’t bare to see him like this anymore. I am so tired of coming all this way to Gondor to only find my son no different than the last time I saw him, and see his body slowly withering away. I just don’t know how much longer I can take this...”

Elrond shifted slightly in his seat. “That was actually what I came here to talk to you about...” he said his voice low and calm as if he had long ago worked out in his head what he wanted to say. Thranduil immediately felt something inside him stiffen and tense as if in warning. There was something ominous in the other elf’s tone and demeanor he did not like.

“It has now been over four years since Legolas’ accident and he still shows no signs of regaining consciousness,” Elrond continued, “After so long a time, it is almost certain Legolas will not wake up again...” he said, trailing off uncomfortably. The elf-lord then noticeably paused, as if reluctant to continue and say what he had actually come there to say. 

“There is a potion I can make...” he finally said in a low, quiet voice, “I can release Legolas from this dark prison he is trapped in. It would not be painful, Thranduil. Legolas would feel nothing. He would only... slip away. It would be quick and very peaceful...”

Thranduil sat for a moment of shocked silence, unable to find words to respond. “You- you are suggesting that I kill my own son” he choked incredulously, unable to believe what he thought Elrond had actually just said, “You- you want me to murder my own child?!” he cried.

“Thranduil, I am only offering this to you as an option – whether it be now or later. Legolas is getting no better,” Elrond tried to reason, “I despise such thoughts too, but if this was one of my own children in question, I would not want to see them slowly waste away like this. Legolas is immortal. He could stay like this for decades – or forever! – until he finally just fades away. I know that you still hold onto hope of him recovering, but I believe we must start to take into consideration what Legolas would have wanted. Would he have wanted to live like this? Being force fed and cared for like this day after day?”

Elrond’s words bit deep. Thranduil felt physically sick to his stomach with the notion of this decision Elrond had now presented him with. He wished he still did have hope like Elrond so believed, but he honestly did not. He had lost hope long ago. He had even had his own moments of selfish thoughts where he had considered such methods of freeing his son from his dark prison of unconsciousness, and in turn also free himself from this stagnant state of mourning he was in – grieving for the loss of his son, but unable to bury him and properly mourn his son’s passing so he could have a sense of closure and move on with his life. But it had also been his own selfish desire to latch on to the fading shell of his son that had kept him from ever considering such actions with much seriousness for any length of time. 


But what was he to do now? Elrond’s words carried more truth to them than he wished to admit. Legolas would not have wanted to live like this. But could he actually euthanize his own son? Would he be able to live with himself after such a thing?

“I am sorry, Thranduil,” Elrond said regretfully as he quietly rose from his chair and stood, “I hate to put such a burden on you, but I believe it is an issue that we must begin to address. I will do nothing without your consent. He is your son and so I leave the decision to you. I understand if you do not want to do anything at the present time, but just know that my offer stands.” 

The ancient healer then came round the bed and placed a comforting hand on Thranduil’s shoulder. “I require no immediate answer,” he said before then turning and moving towards the door, “There is no hurry...” With that, the dark haired elf softly shut the door behind him, leaving Thranduil alone in the room with only his comatose son and the suffocating weight of his decision bearing down on his heart. 

For several long moments, Thranduil just sat there, trying to comprehend everything that had just happened in the span of only a few short minutes. Finally, with no words spoken, Thranduil sat on the edge of Legolas’ bed and swiftly pulled his son’s body up into his arms much like he had done all those years ago when he had first seen Legolas laying there limp and lifeless in the House of Healing.

And with no care for pride or pretense to hamper his emotions, the stoic king began to bitterly weep into Legolas’ golden hair, mourning for both his son and himself, and the terrible decision he knew he would at some point have to make.

******
 Thranduil left only several days after his talk with Lord Elrond. He told no one of Elrond’s offer, nor did the ancient healer. It had been a secret proposal made only to Legolas’ father. Elrond never spoke of his offer again, but Thranduil knew it was always there to be accepted if he ever did chose to free his son from the wretched prison of his own unconsciousness. But he could not bring himself to do such a thing just yet. Something deep inside him told him wait. For what he did not know, for there was no more hope of Legolas ever recovering, but he decided to heed his instincts nevertheless.

Later that November, the murder of another young girl took place, rising the death toll of the unknown murderer and rapist to four. Panic began to rise among the citizens of Minas Tirith. No one felt the streets of the city were safe anymore. But still the authorities could not find any leads or clues.

April, however, brought news of happiness and joy as Eowyn and Faramir announced the impending birth of their second child.

Thranduil did not journey to Gondor later that September. No one payed much notice to the elven king’s abstinence of his yearly visit to Minas Tirith except Lord Elrond. Only he really knew why Thranduil had not gone to his son’s side. He did not want to see Legolas again out of fear of finally succumbing to the grief and pain of seeing his son in such a state and finally asking Elrond to administer the fatal drink that would free his son from his wretched, half-life existence.

September passed uneventfully, but with the coming of October came the promise of something unforseen to occur; something both miraculous and terrifying. For it had now been five years since Legolas’ accident, and the dark chains binding the elven prince to his black unconsciousness were slowly beginning to fade. The time was now near for Legolas to stir and awaken from out of his deep sleep and return to the living world. And there discover his new and frightening powers where a single touch would deliver to him the terrible gift of second sight...

******

To Be Continued...

******

Like it?  Hate it?  Couldn't care less?  Tell me!


Chapter 4 - Lifting of Darkness

Ouch.  Who was the person that gave me a one star rating?  Is it really that bad?  lol... ok ok  whatever you think.  I'm always open to constructive criticism.

Oh, well, hope you like the latest chapter because a certain blonde haired elf is finally going to be making one hell of a grand reenterance!

 


******

Empty darkness. That’s all there was, or at least all there seemed to be. An endless sea of black nothingness seemed to stretch out into eternity all around him. It was not a cold, desolate, or frightening place, just still and very peaceful. There was no up, down, right, or left. Just the sensation of suspended weightlessness. 

There was no way to tell the passage of time, but he felt like he had been there a long time. He felt himself stirring, waking. He tried to move but found himself unable to. He relinquished his struggles for a moment and fell back, trying to recover his bearings. 

What was going on? Where was he? How did he get here? Why couldn’t he move?

He tried to stretch out his senses to discover the answers to these mysteries, but the darkness refused to yield any answers. He lay there for a moment trying to decide what to do. But before he could, there, in the distance came a dim light. As he watched in fascination, the light began to grow and move towards him. 

It was gray and hazy, like a dense fog. As it began to encircle him, he felt a stir of apprehension and fear. What was this? What was happening? At first, he tried to recoil away from the light, frightened by the strangeness of it all. But as it continued to close in around him, he felt a familiar presence nearby, hiding somewhere beyond the fog. He paused. He knew this presence. 
Who it was he could not say, but it felt familiar and safe. 

Calmed by this mysterious person’s presence, he let himself relax. The fog continued to deepen and close in around him. He suddenly felt himself floating upwards towards the light, but he was no longer afraid. This felt right. He had been in the darkness too long. And he was ready to go back to the light. 

******
The Fourth Age
October 18, 1426

Fall had once again descended upon the city of Minas Tirith. The noticeable chill of coming winter was in the air as was the whispered promise of something unforseen to occur. The trees had blossomed into beautiful plumes of deep reds, oranges, and yellows. Every so often a leaf would fall away from its stem and lazily drift to the ground, adding itself to the collection of fallen leaves already blanketing the ground. The sky overhead was bright and clear, small cotton puff clouds dotting the tranquil blue backdrop.

Even in the Hall of Kings, the calm peacefulness of the afternoon was evident. Its darkened hallways and corridors lay quiet and still. Walking down the western wing of the palace strode the dwarf Gimli. He walked with purposeful strides, knowing exactly where he was heading. On either side of him along the hallway were doors to numerous guestrooms reserved for close friends and relatives of the royal family whenever they were visiting the white city of Gondor. 
Gimli was well acquainted with this section of the palace. He had stayed there numerous times during the years in which he had still been known to frequent the city of Minas Tirith on a regular basis. But even though it had been over a year since his last visit to the white city, he still knew his way around the large and complex palace as if it were only yesterday. 

Actually the only reason Gimli was even in the country of Gondor at that time was to oversee the construction of a new library being added onto the Hall of Kings, by request of King Elessar. Otherwise it would have been very safe to say he would have been found back in his mines of Aglarond. He rarely ever came to Minas Tirith anymore. It wasn’t that he didn’t like coming to the white city and seeing his friends. It was just that there were too many painful memories there. Ever since that terrible rockslide that took Legolas away from them and locked him away in a dreamless black prison of unconsciousness over five years ago, Gimli could not walk down a street or go into a local tavern without somehow being reminded of the lighthearted elf. So after a while – as time dragged on and it became increasingly clear that Legolas was not going to wake from his coma – he just stopped coming at all.

But Aragorn had been insistent on wanting the dwarf there to oversee construction of his new library and also see his old friend again, so Gimli had reluctantly agreed. His return to Minas Tirith had actually not been as bad as he had first expected it to be. He supposed the pain of his missing friend was finally fading. The memory of Legolas’ cheerful smile and laugh was slowly dimming and starting to blur around the corners in his mind’s eye. The thought of all those things he never had had the chance to tell the elf before his untimely accident was still a source of lingering regret for the dwarf, but it no longer felt sent a stab of pain and sorrow through his heart. It was a sad thing to admit, but only natural after so long a time of hopeless waiting and prayer. He just hoped he wasn’t starting to forget.

And it was that fear that had actually brought him to this section of the palace. He was afraid of forgetting. He was afraid of forgetting Legolas and all they had shared together after the forming of their unlikely friendship. Though he knew he would never actually forget that kindhearted elf he befriended so many years ago, there was still that tiny inkling of fear in the back of his mind. 
And it was that fear that had actually driven him to accept Aragorn’s request to come back to Minas Tirith, and drove him now down this hallway. He needed to see his friend and be reminded... lest he forget.

He walked for several more moments of silent reflection before a sudden shout behind him abruptly startled him out of his reverie. “Master Dwarf!”

Gimli stopped and turned around. Down the hallway, coming towards him, were the twin sons of Lord Elrond. Elladan and Elrohir were dressed in identical autumn robes of deep, russet red, their dark haired braided away from their faces and flowing down their back like dark waterfalls. 

Damn them, Gimli grumbled to himself. He hated it when Elrond’s twin sons dressed exactly alike. He could barely tell them apart as it was, but when they dressed alike like this it was all but impossible. He hated it when they could use his name so freely in conversation with him with no reservations while he himself struggled not to use names so he wouldn’t look daft by accidentally calling one brother by the other’s name. Sometimes he couldn’t help but think the two elves did that on purpose just to see how confused and befuddled they could make people – especially him.

“Gimli!” called one of the dark haired elves happily as the two of them in unison came to a stop in front of the dwarf, “It has been a long time since we last saw you here in Minas Tirith! When did you arrive?” 

“Just this morning,” he replied as he surreptitiously eyed the two elves for any markings or distinguishing characteristics that could help tell them apart. He couldn’t see any.

“How long will you be staying with us, Gimli?” asked the other elf with an innocent smile, deliberately emphasizing the dwarf’s name as if an invitation – or bait – to reciprocate the gesture. 

“Not long,” Gimli answered, still secretly analyzing the brothers, “Probably no more than a few weeks.”

“That is a shame,” remarked the first elf as he looked to his twin with a mischievous smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, “We had hoped you would be planning on staying with us a little longer. We hardly ever see you these days, Gimli,” he said, again putting extra emphasis on the dwarf’s name.

The dwarf pursed his lips together tightly and narrowed his eyes. So these impish elveswere trying to get him to slip up and use their names. “A dwarf is always busy, unlike you elves who like to spend your days sitting in trees,” he retorted. 

“Now that’s not a fair statement, Gimli,” said the other brother, raising his hands up in front of his chest as if trying to fend off insult. “We elves happen to work just as hard as any dwarf. We just prefer not wear the dirt of our toils on our bodies as proof of our day’s labors,” he said, proudly displaying his pristine clean hands to Gimli as he gave a quick but deliberate glance down at the dwarf’s own dirt-creased nails and hands.

But instead of biting on the elf’s baited comment, Gimli instead let a victorious smile spread across his bearded face. “It would seem not, Master Elladan,” he agreed, smiling broadly, “But perhaps you and your brother, Elrohir, just do not understand the feeling of dirt on your hands at the end of the day and knowing you accomplished something.”

The elf in question seemed taken by surprise and looked at the dwarf with a certain type of amazement for seeing through their joke. Gimli smiled wider. He remembered sometime long ago Aragorn once mentioning to him over a glass of wine how his older foster-brother Elladan was fond of wearing a ring on his right hand, unlike his twin who did not partake in donning jewelry. Aragorn had then even admitted to Gimli how at times that was the only way he himself could tell his foster-brothers apart. Now it seemed Aragorn’s little inside information had finally proven useful. For there on the right ring finger of the elf standing before him sat a gold ring with a small red stone set into its band while the other twin wore nothing on his hands.

Elladan looked to his brother in bewilderment, still confused by how Gimli had managed to see through their game. Elrohir gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, indicating his own mystification. The two then looked back at the dwarf, as if silently asking him to explain how he had managed such a thing. But the dwarf only smiled back with a smug smirk of triumph.

Shaking his head, the younger twin smiled and bowed his head graciously in defeat to the victorious miner. “So tell us, Master Dwarf,” he then said, moving on to slightly more serious things, “Where are you going today? Any place we can accompany you?”

Gimli’s smile slowly faded. “Actually I was on my way to visit Legolas...” he said, trailing off slightly.

The twin brothers’ smiles also slipped from their faces. “Oh,” Elladan murmured, looking down at the floor uncomfortably, “We did not know...”

“Would you still like some company?” Elrohir offered hesitantly, all signs of previous mirth gone from his fair voice, “We would be happy to sit there with you for a while if you wish.”

“Thank you, but I think I will go by myself,” Gimli declined, “I haven’t seen him for so long, I think I just want a moment alone with him...” 

“Of course. Of course,” Elrohir said, his voice low and laced with old but lingering heartache at the mention of their comatose friend, “We will be nearby if you decide differently or need anything. Just call.” With that he and his brother turned and continued down the hallway, heading back towards their own apartments.

Gimli stood for a minute, his resolve to visit his comatose friend slowly dissolving as he watched the elven brothers disappear down the hall. He truly did want a moment by himself with Legolas, but he was nervous to see him alone. The last time he had seen Legolas, the elf had been only a withered shadow of his former self – the strong and beautiful warrior Gimli had once known. And that had been over a year ago. How much more had Legolas’ body deteriorated since then? He did not really want to find out.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Gimli swallowed his misgivings and hardened himself to the task at hand. He would not be kept from his friend’s bedside because of fear. Only a coward would turn back now. Resolving himself to his decision, the dwarf turned and slowly continued down the hall towards the room where he knew Legolas was roomed.

Coming to the door of Legolas’ old guestroom, Gimli hesitated. Did he really want to do this? Did he really want to see Legolas’ thin, wasted body curled up on itself beneath the sheets like some wretched creature? Did he really want to see his friend’s cold, vacant eyes lifelessly staring up towards the ceiling through narrowed eyelids, and know there was nothing he could do to break the elf out of his trance?

He didn’t. He really didn’t. That was one of the reasons he had stopped coming to Minas Tirith – so he could escape those horrible images. But he had to see his friend. He could not help but think how if the situation had been reversed, and it was himself laying there in that bed beyond that door, Legolas would not have turned away from such a simple task as sitting by his friend’s bedside for even just a few minutes. 

So with a deep, calming breath, Gimli slowly turned the handle to Legolas’ room and pushed the door open. He stood there in the doorway for several moments, letting his eyes adjust to the slightly brighter lighting of the room and take in the room’s interior. 

It was exactly as Legolas had left it. Even after all this time it looked exactly the same way it did that fateful day Legolas left to return to his elven colony all those years ago. Gimli could not help but feel a momentary stab of nostalgia through his heart. He and Legolas had spent that night before Legolas’ accident playing cards in this room, happily enjoying each other’s company with no idea of the horrible event that would soon separate them.

Gimli slowly turned his eyes toward the large bed sitting on the far left side of the room. For a minute, he almost thought it was empty. But as he continued to stare, he was able to make out the thin, motionless form of a body laying beneath the sheets of the bed – only a tiny mound in a sea of bedding.

The dwarf took a hesitant step into the room and slowly approached the bed. On the far side of the bed was a chair positioned next to Legolas’ bedside. Gimli quietly sat back in it, and looked down at his sleeping friend.

Legolas looked no different than the last time he had seen him – except perhaps a little thinner if that was even possible. His body was barely even noticeable beneath the thick covers of the bed he was so thin. High, once finely sculpted cheekbones now protruded from the elf’s face almost obtrusively as if he had been starved for a long period of time, which in a way was not far from the truth despite the force feedings administered to him twice a day by servants assigned to watch over the comatose prince.

The elf lay motionless with his long, withered arms folded up over his stomach. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was barely even perceptible to the dwarf’s watching eyes. Legolas’ long, unbraided hair flowed out over the pillow beneath his head like thick waves of golden silk. Shorter locks of pure white streaked the left side of the elf’s long golden mane near the site of the traumatic head wound he received there over five years ago. Vacant blue eyes stared up towards the ceiling through thin, narrowed eyelids, much like Gimli had already expected.

Gimli slouched forward in his seat and hung his head with a weary sigh. Oh, Legolas... He thought he had moved past the pain. But it seemed he had not. He could feel that partially healed wound deep inside his heart rip open again and weep at the sight of his friend’s miserable state. 

Perhaps if the dwarf had not been so consumed by thoughts of pity and sorrow, he might have noticed a sharpened glint of actual awareness spark somewhere deep inside the unconscious elf’s liquid blue eyes.

Gimli’s eyes slowly scanned the elf’s body. He was so still. How could he just lay here so still? He could still remember how Legolas used to fight in battle, his arms and legs moving in swift, quick movements of complete balance and grace so fast he could barely follow with his eyes. Was this really the same elf? It all seemed so long ago he could no longer tell.

His eyes slowly traveled back up to Legolas’ face. He looked so peaceful, lost in his dreamless black nightscape of unconsciousness. Gimli felt his throat constrict with an unbidden rush of emotions. Gods, how much he missed that elf. His smile. His laughter. His witty comebacks that always proved useful for a good round of verbal sparring. But most of all he missed his presence and company. The elf had always had such a way of spreading light wherever he went.

Gimli sighed. If Legolas ever did wake up, the first thing he would tell that elf was how much he and his friendship had meant to him and how badly he had missed him over the years. 

Laying across his chest, the tip of one of Legolas’ fingers gave a small twitch, as if jolted by a tiny electric shock.

But almost all hope of Legolas ever waking up again was gone. It had been over five years since the accident and Legolas still lay here lost in this coma. 

Gimli’s eyes slowly drifted to the elf’s head. He could no longer see the traumatic head wound that had put his friend into such a deep, death-like sleep, but he could still see its lasting effects. Legolas’ hair had grown back over the twisted scar on the side of his head, but it had come back completely white. Gimli shook his head. Out of all the devastation wrought on the elf, this was what bothered him the most. Legolas had always been so proud of his hair. Gimli had always joked Legolas about how much time and effort he had always put into braiding his hair and keeping it so clean and immaculate. But now it just made his heart ache.

Another barely perceptible twitch came from the comatose elf’s finger. 

It was so unfair. Gimli didn’t know what was worse; Legolas’ white streaked hair or the horrible scar he knew lay underneath. Both seemed like such a horrible crime to be inflicted on such a gentle and noble creature. Without really knowing why, Gimli suddenly had the urge to just touch those snowy white strands. Perhaps he just needed to know they were truly real and not just some cheap trick.

He slowly reached out a hand and plucked a small lock of white hair from the rest of Legolas’ golden mane laying on the pillow. He held it for a moment between his fingers. It was impossibly soft and fine, even softer than the rest of the elf’s hair. Gimli could feel the sting of tears beginning to well up in the corners of his eyes. But just as he was about to drop the elf’s hair and lean back in his chair, something startling happened.

Legolas reached up and grabbed his wrist.

Gimli cried out in surprise and instinctively tried to wretch his hand out of Legolas’ grasp, but the elf’s fingers only tightened. 

Legolas’ eyes shot open. His back arched up over the bed as if jolted back to life. “The rocks! Landslide!” he cried out blindly, his bright blue eyes suddenly wide and full of life. His body violently twisted under the sheets as if trying to run away from something. “The rocks! The rocks! No! Help!” he screamed, still holding onto the dwarf’s hand as if for dear life. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, glazed with disoriented fear and confusion. “Help! Please!”

Gimli sat frozen in complete shock. He could feel Legolas’ fingers weakly wrapped around his wrist and see the elf’s painfully thin body convulsing beneath the covers of the bed, but the scene still did not seem to fully register in his frozen mind.

Legolas’ cries and thrashes slowly died away as he started to become more aware of his surroundings. Breathing hard, the elf’s eyes darted around wildly, disoriented and confused. “The rocks... The rocks... Landslide...” he stammered deliriously, looking about the room as if expecting to see a towering wall of dirt and rock bearing down on him.

Using the elf’s momentary distraction, Gimli finally wretched his hand free from the elf’s slackened grasp. Legolas’ eyes immediately alighted on the dwarf sitting in the chair beside him. Legolas looked at Gimli for a long moment of silence. “Gimli?” he rasped in a weak, sandpapery voice. 

Gimli stared at the elf openly, his mind frozen in disbelief. He tried to move his mouth to speak, but could not find the power to form any words.

“Wh– what happened?” Legolas demanded in a frail voice as he looked around the room in bewilderment, “How did I get here?” Getting no response from the speechless dwarf, he tried to push himself up onto his elbows, but immediately collapsed back down into the pillows, his arms too weak to support him. Startled, the elf again tried to push himself up, but was again met with failure. Becoming frightened by his lack of ability to sit up, Legolas looked to Gimli. “What happened? Why can’t I move?” he demanded, his dry, raspy voice cracking in panic.


Just at that moment there came the sound of running feet from the darkened hallway beyond the door of Legolas’ room. Brought running by Gimli’s cry and panicked shouts, the twin sons of Lord Elrond burst into the room. “Gimli!” Elrohir shouted worriedly as he quickly scanned the room and spotted the dwarf near the side of Legolas’ bed. “What happened? What’s wro...” he trailed off abruptly as he was met by a pair of frightened blue eyes staring back at him from the confines of the large bed. Beside the younger twin came a startled gasp as Elladan also saw the blond prince laying awake against the pillows.

“What happened to me?” Legolas cried, turning his attention from Gimli to the stunned elves in the doorway, “Why can’t I move?”

“Legolas...” Elrohir whispered, staring at the awakened elf with an expression of complete disbelief.

“Oh my gods...” Elladan murmured beside his brother. 

“Why won’t you answer me?!” the blond prince cried in rising panic, “Why can’t I move?!”

As if breaking out of their trance at once, the twin brothers rushed Legolas’ bedside. “By Eru’s grace... How did this happen?” Elladan cried as he reached the elf’s bed and leaned down over the archer, his hands automatically reaching out to touch Legolas’ face as if unable to believe such a miracle could have happened without first touching the elf to confirm what he saw was actually true.

“Legolas? Legolas, oh thank the Valar!” Elrohir cried, also converging on the bewildered elf and reaching out to touch him too.

Legolas laid there in confusion as the two brothers rushed towards him and leaned down over him, reaching out to touch and pet him as if they had not seen him for a long time. He was about to open his mouth and demand for answers again when the brothers’ hands finally came into contact with his skin; gently brushing against his cheeks and forehead, softly squeezing his shoulder and upper arm.

A rush of emotions suddenly flooded his senses. Like a lightening bolt they shot through his brain to the back of his skull. Gasping in surprise, the elf’s head snapped back against the pillows. A strangled cry broke from his lips as he stiffened and began to weakly writhe under the brothers’ touch. A storm of emotions flooded his mind, overwhelming him. They flashed in his eyes like a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors; reds, blues, yellows, greens, happiness, shock, amazement, disbelief, fear, purples, pinks, and orange. They all whirled through his head like a spinning vortex, dizzying and drowning his senses. All he could see or feel was this assault of emotions invading his mind.

“What is it? What’s happening to him?!” Gimli demanded as he was finally broken out of his trance by the sound of Legolas’ cries and violent thrashes. The dwarf jumped to his feet and was immediately there by the convulsing elf’s side. “What’s going on?!” he cried helplessly as he grasped the elf’s flailing hand in his own, trying to offer comfort. 

The intensity of Legolas cries only magnified at the dwarf’s touch as a new barrage of emotions was added to the colorful assault attacking his mind. His wide blue eyes stared up at the ceiling clouded and distant as if he were looking at something a thousand miles away. 

“He’s having a seizure,” Elrohir called out over Legolas’ cries as he and his brother tried to pin the thrashing elf down to the bed, “The shock of waking out of his coma must have done something to him.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Gimli demanded, holding Legolas’ thin, wasted arm down on the bedcover. Panic laced his voice. Was he going to lose the elf again only right after he just miraculously returned to them?

“We need father’s help!” Elladan cried, almost laying across the bucking elf to keep him from convulsing off the bed.

Looking over his shoulder, Elrohir glanced back towards the open door of the room. Standing there in the doorway were several servants that had been drawn there by the sound of Legolas’ shouts and struggling. They stood dumbly staring into the room and the thrashing elf on the bed, their faces slack with awed disbelief.

“One of you!” Elrohir cried out loudly as he fought to keep one of Legolas’ fists from punching him in the face, “Go and fetch King Elessar and our father, Lord Elrond. Tell them Legolas has woken. Go, now! Hurry!” 

A young servant girl immediately broke away from the amassed group of onlookers and hurried away to fulfill the lord’s command. Turning back to his friend, Elrohir desperately tried to sooth the struggling elf. “Legolas, it’s alright. Just hold on. It’s going to be alright. Please, just hold on...”

But Legolas did not hear him. All he could see were the colors.

******

“Aragorn, I know you hate formal banquets and political appearances, but I think this would be a very good way to form some better foreign relations between Gondor and the southern tribes of Rohan,” Elrond said as he eyed his foster-son with wise, ancient grey eyes, “It could be very advantageous in securing future trade agreements with the southern Rohirrum,” he added, “They are known to possess a large resource of iron ore which you know we are always in need of.”

“Father, I am well aware of these things,” Aragorn grumbled miserably from where he sat behind his desk which lay half-buried under a mountain of parchments and loose paper. “I just do not see why I have to get dressed up like some overgrown peacock and strut myself in front of my peers in such a fashion. It is pointless! Why can’t we government officials just sit down and discuss what needs to be discussed and leave all this superficial pompery out?” he cried in frustration, throwing his arms up into the air for effect.

“Aragorn, I completely agree with you, but this is just the way it has been done since the beginning of Aman,” Elrond said calmly. Ever since coming to Minas Tirith and taking up permanent residence there in the Hall of Kings, the elf-lord had become something of an informal advisor to the king of Gondor. “I am sure the leaders of the southern tribes feel just the same about such political appearances as you do. But you must still follow protocol.” 

The man groaned miserably. “Do I really have to?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes.” Another groan sounded. “Aragorn, do I have to remind you of your responsibility to your country...” Elrond threatened half-heartedly, knowing this little game he and his foster-son sometimes played to help ease the day’s tension of running an entire country.

“No! No, please! Anything but one of your responsibility speeches!” Aragorn cried, drawing a smug smile from the elf. “Fine. I will attend this banquet for the southern Rohirrum but I refuse to host another such events for at least the next several months...”

Elrond chose to ignore the last part of Aragorn’s acceptance. “Good. Then I shall send orders to the servants to prepare for the banquet in two months time– ”

“My lords!” came a breathless cry as the door to Aragorn’s study suddenly flew open and banged against the wall.

Elrond and Aragorn whipped around in their chairs. Standing there in the doorway was a young servant girl, desperately panting for air.

“What is it? What happened?” Aragorn demanded, beginning to rise from his seat. 

“My lords...” the girl struggled to say between heaving gasps of air from just running the entire length of the palace from the living quarters to Aragorn’s private study, “The prince Legolas...” 

Aragorn immediately froze, his face becoming a stony mask before then slowly melting into an expression of despair. “Oh gods...” he murmured softly, turning his face away and looking to the floor, “I knew this day would come...” He dropped back into his chair and hung his head down his chest. 

“Aragorn...” Elrond began as he stood from his own chair and came round the side of Aragorn’s desk to stand behind the man. “We always knew this might happen,” he tried to consol as he placed a hand on his foster-son’s shoulder.

The man sat for a moment of silence, staring down at the floor with slowly tearing eyes. “The city shall be cast into mourning for one year,” he finally said, rising his eyes to meet those of the girl he thought had just come to tell him the elven prince had passed away in his sleep, “He shall be given a royal funeral, all rights and honors bestowed.” 

“No, my lord!” the girl cried, “The prince has woken! Lord Elrohir and Elladan have just sent me asking for immediate assistance!”

Elrond and Aragorn’s heads both snapped up and stared at the girl in shock. “He woke up?” the man demanded incredulously, thinking he had somehow misheard her. 

“Yes, my lord, just now. But he struggles and thrashes wildly. The two lords are trying to calm him but they need help. Please, you must hurry!”

Without another word, Aragorn was up and out of his chair and sprinting for the door at full speed. Following close behind him ran his foster-father, Lord Elrond, and the young servant girl.

******
To Be Continued...
******


Like it?  Hate it?  Tell me!!


Chapter 5 - A Simple Touch

Well here's the second part of Legolas' awakening.  Hope everyone likes it.


******

“Oh, it feels so good to be outside in the fresh air again,” Eowyn sighed appreciatively to her companion as a brisk but pleasant fall breeze blew past them and rustled some of the fallen leaves laying strewn across the garden walkway. 

“I am sure it does,” Arwen, the Queen of Gondor, replied with a friendly smile, “I know you have spent most of the last few weeks in bed.” The two ladies were currently strolling through the palace gardens, admiring the fall changes in the trees. They walked at a leisurely pace, with no hurry to go or be anywhere but just enjoy the present. As the two continued along they happened upon a stone bench sitting alongside the pathway that weaved through the gardens near a roofed walkway running along the length of the palace that stood not far from where the path winded.

“Do you mind if we sit for a moment?” Eowyn asked, gesturing towards the stone bench. “I just do not have the stamina I once had,” she joked lightly.

“Of course. Carrying such a burden must become tiring after a time,” Arwen said as they both sat down on the garden bench. 

Eowyn laughed lightly and gently rubbed the seven months’ pregnant swell of her belly. “Oh, it is not so much of a burden when you know that in less than two months you will have another child to love.”

Arwen smiled. Like Eowyn, the elven lady loved children and was eagerly anticipating the addition of yet another young member to the palace household. She could only look on in anticipation for when she and Aragorn would create their own little life together and bring it into the world. “Is Faramir excited?” she asked curiously.

“Oh yes,” the White Lady of Rohan answered, “He only says he hopes for a daughter. Theomir is such a little hellion at the age of only two and a half that Faramir does not know if he can handle two rambunctious boys born so close together.” The two ladies laughed heartily, reveling in the woes of men and child-rearing.

As the two ladies continued to converse with each other, they caught the sound of talking behind them. They turned back and saw two female servants talking to each other on the open, roofed walkway of the palace several paces away. They spoke to each other in hushed, hurried voices as if exchanging urgent news. The one doing most of the talking talked animatedly, using flamboyant gestures to punctuate her speech. The other looked on wide-eyed and stunned, her mouth open in disbelief.

The two ladies quieted and pretended to admire the vibrant leaves of the changing trees as they secretly listened to the exchange going on behind them.

“...I heard that the whole third floor near the royal guestrooms is in an uproar.” the first servant woman said excitedly, pulling the other closer as if to whisper a secret. 

“What is it? What’s going on?” the other one asked curiously.

“The king’s friend – the elven prince Legolas. The one that’s been in a coma the last several years. He’s just woken!” 

“You jest!”

“No! It’s true. Frida who works in the kitchens just told me that Erien, some servant girl that works on the forth floor, said that he just woke up and is now having some kind of attack! She was sent to summon King Elessar and Lord Elrond for help. The twin elf-lords and the dwarf are trying to control him but he fights as if possessed! The whole palace is in an uproar!”

The two servants continued to talk between themselves, but Arwen and Eowyn heard no more of what was said. For by then they had already leapt to their feet and were racing down the garden pathway back towards the entrance that would lead them back inside the palace.

******
“It’s going to be alright, Legolas. I promise... It’s going to be alright...” Elrohir tried to reassure over the sound of Legolas’ cries as the elf continued to thrash on the bed beneath the restraining grips of his friends. Continuing to keep Legolas’ arm pinned down to the mattress with one hand, Elrohir reached out with his other and began petting matted blond hair away from his friend’s face, desperately trying to calm the writhing elf. Legolas only cried out louder and violently tossed his head back against the pillow as if trying to escape the brother’s touch. “It’s going to be alright, Legolas... It’s going to be alright...” Elrohir babbled frightenedly, trying to keep back his rising panic. 

What was wrong with Legolas?! What was happening to him? Why was he screaming and thrashing about like this? 

But Elrohir didn’t know. Neither did his brother who was trying to keep Legolas’ legs pinned down to the bed. The brothers’ eyes met for a brief moment of time as they fought to kept the elf subdued. Panic and fear shined in both their ancient grey depths. Never before had either of them ever seen anyone seized by such a sudden and violent fit such as this. Was Legolas dying or suffering from some kind of adverse effect from coming out of his coma? 

“What’s wrong with him?!” Gimli’s deep, baritone voice rang out over Legolas’ shouts as he fought to keep Legolas’ left arm and shoulder pinned to the mattress. For as thin and wasted Legolas had become over the years, he fought against his friends with amazing strength. But it was still nothing like the strength he had once possessed before the accident. If Legolas had been in top condition at that moment, it was doubtful even all three of them would have been able to have kept the bucking elf down. 

“Where’s father?!” Elladan shouted frantically as one of Legolas’ legs broke out of his grasp and blindly kicked outwards, almost striking the elf in the chin. 

“I don’t know! Just hold him down!” Elrohir shouted back. 

Just at that moment, there came a loud voice from beyond the wall of wide-eyed servants blocking the doorway. “What’s going on here? What’s all this shouting? Make room!”

Elrohir, Elladan, and Gimli looked up towards the door, all praying that it was Aragorn or Elrond who had finally arrived. But instead of the retired ranger or elf-lord, pushing his way through the crowd of servants was the king’s Steward, Faramir.

“What’s going on in here? What’s happening?” he demanded as he finally broke through the crowd and into the room. His eyes were immediately drawn to the wild flurry of movement coming from large bed of Legolas’ old guestroom where the two elves and dwarf were desperately struggling to hold someone down. “What’s going on? Who is that?” Faramir demanded. But just as the words left his mouth, the man gasped as realization hit him like a battering ram in the gut.

He was in Legolas’ room... 

Long blond hair whipped through the air near the headboard of the bed as the person continued to madly thrash against the brothers and dwarf. Unintelligible cries of a familiar voice filled the air – a voice he had not heard for the past five years. “Le– Legolas?!” Faramir stammered in shock as he dumbly stared down at the bucking form of his friend who only yesterday had laid there so still and quiet he could have been mistaken as dead.

“He just woke up!” Elladan called out to him, “But he’s having some type of seizure! Please! Go find our father or Aragorn! We need their help!”

For a moment, Faramir could not find the power to move. His mind felt frozen. All he could do was stare in shock at the awakened elf thrashing on the bed.


“Faramir!” Elladan cried, startling the man out of his trance.

“Right. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he called back as he started to turn towards the door. But he did not have to go far. For just at that moment came the most welcome sight in all the world to those fighting to keep Legolas on the bed: both Aragorn and Lord Elrond pushing their way through the crowd of servants into the room.

“Let me through! Let me through!” Aragorn’s cried, desperately wadding through the mass of on-lookers blocking the door. “Legolas! Where is he?”

Bursting into the room, the man froze where he stood as he was met by the sight of the thin, withered form of his friend violently twisted and fighting on the bed and heard the elf’s strangled cries piercing the air. The servant girl that had gotten him had said Legolas had woken up and was fighting against Elrohir and Elladan, but that still did not prepare him for what he actually saw.

Elrond soon broke through the crowd himself and came to a halt beside his mortal foster-son. But while Aragorn stood paralyzed in shock, the ancient elf-lord swept his eyes over the scene, quickly analyzing everything he saw. 

Legolas was beginning to weaken. Though it seemed his sudden fit had lent him a burst of unforseen strength, it was quickly draining his wasted body of energy as he continued to struggle against the twins and Gimli. He had begun to only weakly writhe beneath his restrainers’ grips, his thrashes beginning to slowly peter out. Legolas’ cries had become nothing more than weak, keening wails as he tossed his head back against the pillows as if trying to escape Elrohir’s touch who was still trying to calm the struggling elf. Helpless tears streaked down his cheeks from wide-shot, bright blue eyes.

“Release him!” Elrond cried, realizing what was going on, “Let him go! Now!” Elrohir, Elladan, and Gimli all looked back at Elrond as if he had gone quite mad, but immediately followed his orders and released their hold on the thrashing elf. 

Like a string pulled so taut that it snapped, the colors and storm of emotions attacking Legolas’ mind abruptly disappeared at the sudden severance of physical contact. The elf fell limply back against the pillows, gasping for air. Dazed with shock, he weakly rolled onto his side and curled into a protective ball with one arm thrown up over his face as if trying to hide from anything else that might try and harm him. 

A heavy silence filled the room as everyone there stood in a palpable air of shock. The only audible sound to be heard was the shuddering gasps of air from the small blond form curled up in a ball on the bed. The elf lay with his back to the door and everyone there except for Gimli who stood several paces away from the bedside, staring at the awakened prince in open amazement as if he still could not believe what he saw.

The first to break out of his trance was Aragorn. “Legolas...” he whispered in disbelief as he began to make a rush for the elf’s bedside. But before the man could get even two steps, he was abruptly stopped by Elrond catching him across the chest with a strong arm.

“No, Aragorn,” the elf-lord reprimanded gently as he pulled the man back, “Let me see to him first. He is still in shock from waking up. We do not want to cause him anymore undue trauma. We need to take this slowly.” Aragorn looked torn. Anxious grey eyes darted between his foster-father and the huddled form of his friend on the other side of the room. It was obvious Aragorn desperately wanted to go to his friend who he had not seen awake for the past five years, but with a reluctant nod, the man stepped back, allowing his foster-father access to the bed.

Elrond slowly approached the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress, facing Legolas’ back. “Legolas?” he called gently, leaning over towards the huddled body, “Legolas, can you hear me?” There came no response from the blond archer, but Elrond thought he saw the tense muscles in the elf’s shoulders relax a little at the sound of his voice. “Legolas, it’s alright. You’re safe now. It’s alright. No one is going to hurt you,” he spoke softly as if trying to calm a frightened young colt. He slowly reached out a hand towards Legolas’ back. He felt the elf immediately tense at the gentle touch of his fingers but then slowly relax again as nothing happened. “It’s alright... You’re safe now...” he continued, beginning to rub soothing circles into the younger elf’s back, trying to relax away the tension.

He gradually felt Legolas relax under his touch. Finally after a few moments, Legolas let his arm drop away from over his face. Reassured by this small action, Elrond gently whispered into the other elf’s ear, “Legolas, can you look at me?” Again, he received no answer, but he saw Legolas slowly uncurl from around himself and try to push himself up onto his elbows. Unfortunately though, the elf did not seem able to manage that small movement and miserably flopped back down onto his side.

“Help... I– I can’t...” came a low, raspy plea.

Elrond gently snaked an arm beneath the blond elf’s boney shoulder and helped roll Legolas back onto his back. As Legolas came over into the elf-lord’s arms and back into his nest of pillows, he dazedly looked about the room. His breathing was still slightly ragged and uneven from his previous fit, but he now seemed much calmer. Legolas lay for a moment trying to regain his bearings. He felt unnaturally tired and drained of energy. His eyes lethargically scanned the faces of all his friends staring back at him from around the perimeter of the bed.

“What happened?” he finally rasped after a moment, blinking blurry eyes into focus. “Why can’t I move?”

Not giving an immediate answer, Elrond looked back over his shoulder and gave Faramir a quick but deliberate nod towards the open door of the room where at least a dozen servants still stood staring inside at the newly awakened prince. Faramir immediately caught the elf’s unspoken meaning and turned towards the door. “Don’t you people have work to do?” he barked, startling the servants out of their trance with his authoritative voice, “Go! Be gone! You’ve done enough standing there in the door.” As the group of on-lookers broke up and hurried back to whatever tasks they had been doing before Legolas’ sudden awakening, Faramir quickly strode forward and shut the door to Legolas’ room.

“What happened to me?” Legolas again implored as he looked up at Elrond sitting beside him on the bed, “Why can’t I move? I can’t feel my legs. No one will tell me.”

Elrond seemed to weigh his answer for a long moment before finally answering. “You cannot move because your muscles have atrophied,” he said softly.

Legolas blinked in surprise. “What? How– how could that have happened?” he demanded, feeling a rush of panic surge through his veins. He weakly brought his arms up in front of his face. “What happened to me?” he cried as he surveyed the wasted, rail-thin remains of his arms. By now, his emaciated body had begun to shake with building panic.  All he could do was stare at his arms – arms he no longer recognized as his own. “What happened to me?!”

“Legolas, calm down. It’s alright. Just calm down and breathe,” Elrond tried to soothe in a low, calm voice. 

“Calm down?!” Legolas cried incredulously, “How can I calm down?! What happened to me?! Why can’t I move?! Why did my muscles atrophy?!” Blinded by panic and disbelief, he once again tried to push himself up and sit on his own power. 

Seeing what Legolas was trying to do, Elrond gently tried to restrain him. “No, Legolas. Just relax.”

“No! I need to sit. I have to sit up,” the elf cried stubbornly, still trying to force his wasted muscles into pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Please! I just need to sit up!”

Elrond noted the frightened tone lacing Legolas’ voice and slipped an arm behind under the elven prince’s back. “It’s alright, Legolas. It’s ok,” he whispered softly as he helped lift the almost weightless elf up into a sitting position against the headboard and pillows of the bed.

Legolas’ vision wheeled out of focus as he came perpendicular to the bed. Blood pounded in his ears. He suddenly felt light headed and extremely dizzy from the sudden shifting of position for laying there on his back for so long (though he yet did not know how long a time that actually was). He felt his stomach clench in protest, and for a moment he thought he was about to be sick. 

One of Elrond’s sons seemed to see this and immediately handed Elrond a metal basin that had been sitting there on a night stand near Legolas’ bed. The ancient healer held it up under the young prince’s mouth for several minutes until Legolas finally felt his stomach’s begin to relax and shook his head in negation to the unneeded bowl. As Elrond handed Elrohir back the unused basin, Legolas fell back against the headboard, breathing hard to calm his rapidly beating heart and his still slightly unsettled stomach. 


A thin sheet of sweat had begun to form on the archer’s brow. Blinking back the hazy ring of darkness tunneling the edges of his vision, Legolas looked back at Elrond. “What happened? Why did my muscles atrophy?” he again asked, his voice weak and very soft.

Elrond again hesitated. “What do you remember?” he instead asked. 

Legolas’ eyes slowly looked up towards the ceiling as he searched his memory. “I was riding back to Ithilien...” he said softly, his eyes narrowed in fierce concentration, “We were riding through the mountain pass of Emyn Arnen... Arod wouldn’t be quiet in the gorge...” he continued, when a sudden spark of remembrance flashed in his eyes. “There was a rock slide. We tried to get out but the rocks were coming down too fast...” Legolas trailed off and sharply looked up at Elrond. “What happened? Where’s Arod? Did he make it out?” he demanded, fear and concern lacing his voice. 

“I am sorry, Legolas,” the elf-lord said solemnly, “Arod was killed.”

A stricken look crossed over the elf’s face. “No...” he moaned as he shook his head in denial and turned his face away from Elrond. “No...”

“I’m sorry, Legolas. I really am...” he said, putting a comforting hand on the elf’s painfully thin shoulder. Legolas sat for awhile, quietly reflecting on the white stallion he had lost. Unlike men who saw the horses they rode as nothing more than beasts of burden, elves viewed their horses as friends and companions. Finally, after a moment, the blond elf lifted his head and looked back at Elrond with sorrow laden eyes. “What else do you remember, Legolas?” Elrond asked gently.

It took a minute for Legolas to find his voice again to speak. “Not much,” he answered softly, “All I remember is Arod becoming caught in the landslide and then seeing a rock coming towards me...” As he trailed off again, Legolas subconsciously raised a hand to the left side of his head – right to the spot where a patch of pure white hair streaked his golden mane. He paused as he felt his fingers burrow down through the silky white strands to the scalp below and felt a soft, raised section of old scar tissue. A startled look flew across his face. He then looked back down at his wasted arms and began turning them over back and forth, as if searching for something. “What happened?” he demanded sharply as he turned frightened blue eyes back up at Elrond, “Why don’t I have any cuts or bruises? Shouldn’t I have suffered some kind of injury if I was caught in such a large rockslide?”

Elrond gave a quick glance over his shoulder towards Aragorn and his twin sons standing together in a group near the foot of Legolas’ bed, and shared an uncomfortable, knowing glance with them for a brief moment of time. Turning back to Legolas, the ancient elf-lord held the archer’s gaze for a long moment of silence before finally speaking. 

“You have been in a coma, Legolas...”

“What...?” Legolas stammered, thinking he had somehow misheard Elrond. 


“You sustained a very extensive head wound,” Elrond explained, “It is a miracle you are awake, let alone alive. If Elladan and Elrohir had not gone after you to deliver a message, you could have very well died in that mountain pass before anyone ever found you.”

“You were bleeding very heavily,” Elrohir’s voice piped up from the foot of Legolas’ bed, “We almost lost you several times before we were finally able to stop the bleeding.”

Elladan nodded beside his brother. “We had to use a heated piece of metal to cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding,” he added, testifying to just what extreme measures they had had to take to save the younger elf’s life.

Legolas stared down at the bedcovers, lost in a storm of a thousand different thoughts. Everything they were saying to him seemed so distant and unreal. “H– how long?” he finally found the voice to ask in a small, dazed tone, “How long have I been unconscious?”

There was no answer from any of his friends.

“How long?” he demanded, rising his tone insistently as he looked back up at those standing around him and stared at them expectantly. 

The elven twins shifted uncomfortably under Legolas’ gaze, but said nothing. Aragorn stared down at the floor, as if lost in thought or unwilling to meet the elf’s eyes. Faramir, likewise, did not seem able to look directly at the elf. Elrond remained stoically quiet, his face and eyes relenting no answers to the young elven prince. Gimli seemed the only one able to meet Legolas’ eyes, but he held the elf’s gaze solemnly as if what he refused to say was too painful for him to speak.

“How long?” Legolas again demanded, starting to become frightened by his friends’ lack of response. 

“Legolas, I think you should try and rest now,” Elrond said from beside him, “You have been through much in the last few minutes. You need to regain your strength.”

“No!” Legolas cried panickedly, “Why won’t you tell me? How long was I out?!”

“Legolas, please. You are in very weak state right now. You need to try and rest,” Elrond persisted calmly, “We will answer your questions later, but right now you need to try and rest.”

“Why won’t you tell me now?!” Legolas cried, sweeping his eyes across his friends’s faces, desperately imploring answers. “How long have I been unconscious?!”

“Legolas– ” Elrond began but was abruptly cut off as the door to Legolas’ room suddenly burst open.

“Where is he? Is he awake?” Rushing into the room in a flurry of long dark hair and flowing red gown came Aragorn’s wife, the Queen of Gondor, Arwen, and behind her the White Lady of Rohan, Eowyn, both their faces a twisted confusion of urgency and anxiety. “Where is he? Did he actually wake up?” Arwen called out, looking about hurriedly.

The two ladies came to an abrupt halt upon seeing the others already crowding the room, and immediately turned their attention onto the large bed occupying the far left side of Legolas’ room. Staring back at them from the confines of the bed was a pair of frightened, sapphire blue eyes. Both women froze, openly staring at the blond elven prince laying awake against the headboard of the bed.

“Legolas...” Arwen whispered in disbelief. Any other words she might have spoken at that moment seemed frozen in her mind or caught deep inside her throat. For a long moment of silence the two women and elven prince just stared at each other.

Legolas was almost ready to turn his attention back to Elrond and demand for more answers when his eyes happened to fall on the protruding bulge of the Lady Eowyn’s seven months’ pregnant belly. For a moment, the entire world seemed to come to a grinding halt around the elf as he stared in complete disbelief, unable to comprehend what he actually saw.

“How long have I been asleep?!” he cried, sharply turning back on Elrond and weakly grabbing hold of the elf-lord’s shoulder in unrestrained panic, “How long?!”

“Legolas, please...”

“How long?!” 

Elrond paused. The younger elf’s face was a raging storm of panic. He never thought he had ever seen Legolas look so terrified. A tense, heavy silence filled the room as Elrond looked back into Legolas’ frightened blue eyes. There was no way to delay the inevitability of telling him the truth any longer...

“Five years,” he finally said, “You’ve been asleep for five years.”

Legolas sat for a long moment of silence, frozen in shock. Though Elrond’s words madly swirled around in his head, he still could not seem to make them register. “Fh– five years?” he repeated numbly.

“The date is October 18th, 1426 of the Fourth Age,” Elrond continued, “You have been in a coma for the last five years...” Legolas paled and seemed to become physically nauseated.

“Five years? Five years?” he repeated in shock, starting to hyperventilate as the full meaning of those words slowly began to sink in. “How could I have been asleep that long?” he cried in a small, frightened voice. He shakingly brought his hands back up in front of his face and looked down at the emaciated remains of his arms. “Oh gods! How could I have been asleep that long?!” he cried, shaking his head in denial. He slowly looked back up and scanned the face of all his friends standing around him, as if desperately pleading them to somehow make what Elrond just said not true and end this terrible nightmare. But they could not, and only stared back at Legolas, the painful truth shining in their eyes.

“Five years...?” he whined in a small, frightened voice as if still trying to make himself believe the words, “Five years?” By now, he had begun breathing very hard to control the raging panic and disbelief that was quickly building up inside him. His painfully thin chest heaved with the effort. Tears of denial stung his eyes.

“Legolas, it’s alright. It’s ok,” Elrond tried to sooth as he reached out to calm the shaking elf, “We can rehabilitate your muscles. With intense physical therapy I have total confidence you will walk again.”

But Legolas did not seem to hear him. “Five years?” he moaned pitifully. Shaking his head in denial, the elf hung his head down his chest and hid his face behind a thick curtain of blond and white-streaked hair. His gaunt shoulders shook with building sobs.

“Legolas, it’s alright. It’s alright,” Elrond continued to soothe, rubbing the elf’s trembling back in attempt to halt the racking sobs. As he continued to comfort the sobbing prince, Elrond looked back over his shoulder to his two sons. “Elladan,” he said softly, “Would you go and make an herbal tea for me – an infusion of apple grass and worm root.” Elladan seemed slightly taken aback by his father’s request but finally nodded and quickly left the room to make the requested tea.

“Legolas, your friends are with you. We will help you through this,” Aragorn said, taking a step closer to Legolas’ bedside. Though some small part of his mind still could not believe his friend was actually awake, the immediate joy of such a miracle seemed to override that lingering disbelief and lent him the strength to break out of his shocked state and offer comfort to his distressed friend. “I will do everything in my power to help restore you back to your former self.” General nods of agreement came from the others standing around Legolas’ bedside. 

Legolas seemed to take some consolation in his friends’ heartfelt eagerness to help him and slowly began to regain control of himself. “Thank you,” he finally whispered after a time, his dry raspy voice barely even audible to those around him. But to all those around him, though Legolas now seemed calmed of his initial shock, they could not help but notice the soft, laden note of despair tainting the elf’s frail voice.

“Now none of this!” came a gruff order as Gimli finally broke out of his stony silence and took a step closer to Legolas’ bedside. “I refuse to hear you speak with such despair in your voice, elf,” he said sternly, “Do not worry. I’m sure Lord Elrond and Aragorn will have you trapezing through the trees again like some overgrown squirrel in no time.”

Legolas could not help but smile and stifle a small chuckle at his friend despite the tears still shining in his eyes. Despite the dwarf’s attempts to keep up his stern facade, he could not keep the smile pulling at the corners of his own mouth from spreading across his face. Gods how much he had missed that elf’s laugh...

“Thank you, Gimli,” Legolas said with a small, heartfelt smile still lingering on his gaunt face.

“Think nothing of it. It’s just good to finally have you back,” Gimli replied with no shame in his voice for actually speaking his heart. With no real thought to what he was doing, the dwarf reached out and gently placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, overwhelmed with joy for finally having his friend back.

But what happened next happened so fast it took everybody there by surprise.

As Gimli’s hand came in contact with Legolas’ shoulder, a lightening bolt of searing white light suddenly shot through the elf’s brain – just like it had when Elrohir and Elladan had first touched him earlier. Legolas gasped loudly. His body stiffened and snapped back against the headboard of the bed. With no conscious thought guiding his actions, he reached up and tightly grabbed hold of the dwarf’s hand, pinning it there against his shoulder. The elf’s body spasmed down against the pillows. His face twisted to the side, his eyes wide and staring blankly into the distance. His free hand clawed at the bed sheet, clenching it tightly between his fingers.

“No! It’s happening again!” Elrohir cried as he tried to push his way to Legolas’ side.

“What is?” Aragorn demanded.

“This! Legolas is having another attack like he did when he first woke up!”

“Just stay back!” Elrond commanded, halting both his son and Aragorn’s advance as they both began to move to the aid of their friend. “Gimli, let go of him,” he ordered.

“I can’t!” the dwarf cried as he tried to wrestle his hand out of the seizing elf’s grasp. The frail fingers wrapped around his wrist felt like clamps of iron. How the elf’s emaciated body possessed that much strength, the dwarf had no idea.

Another jolt of white lightening shot through Legolas’ skull, elicting a strangled cry from his lips as the power of the blast threw his head back against the pillows. The light blinded him. It consumed his mind. But then, all of a sudden, unlike the first time such a thing had happened, he could now see...

A cave...

“A cave...” he whispered, staring up at the ceiling. His thrashes had died away, leaving him laying very still and rigid on his back.

It was dark. He could barely see anything around him. He stretched out his arms to try and getting a bearing of where he was and felt the damp rugged surface of cold stone walls on either side of him. He was in a narrow tunnel. Though he could not see, he could almost feel the weight of a thousand tons of rocks pressing down around him.

In the distance, he suddenly heard the low murmur of voices. Piqued with curiosity, he began to move towards them, his feet slowly shuffling forward in the darkness and his hands running along the walls on either side of him as he walked blindly ahead. Finally, in the distance he saw a dim glow of light. As he neared, the voices began to grow louder. 

He finally reached the end of the tunnel and found himself at the entrance of a large stone antechamber. Columns of glittering stone jutted up from the floor and down from the ceiling. The entire chamber was approximately a hundred and fifty feet across and just as long. Flickering torches stationed around the perimeter of the room illuminated the cavern in a warm, glowing light. He suddenly knew where he was. These were the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, though he did not recognize this particular section of the cavern network.

He again picked up on the sound of murmured voices coming from the far side of the room. He again began to move towards them. As he neared, he saw a large group of people working near the far end of the chamber. Picks and spades sliced through the air where the movements were immediately followed by a low clang of metal striking rock. There were perhaps twenty or so of these stout little miners. The chorus of their collective work echoed loudly through the stone chamber and rang in his ears. Their backs were turned to him but he knew who they were. Dwarves...

“Hello?” he called out, trying to gain their attention. But none of them seemed to acknowledge his presence. “Hello?” he tried again but was again ignored. He suddenly realized they couldn’t see or hear him.

Confused, he looked around in bewilderment. How did he get here? Why couldn’t they hear him? He looked back on the mining dwarves. They only continued to hack and chip away at the thick wall of stone. His eyes slowly scanned the row of dwarves. He happened to notice what looked like a somewhat younger looking dwarf working off by himself on the far left side of the line. He slowly walked towards him. 

He came to a stop behind the young dwarf and watched as he continued to swing his axe again and again at the stone wall. As he watched, he came to notice a small crack running up from the ground on the wall near where the young dwarf was working. The dwarf continued to mine at the wall. And as he watched, he saw the crack begin to widen and with every consecutive blow snake a few inches higher up the wall.

He felt his heart stop in his chest. He remembered someone once telling him something about this. Who exactly that had been he couldn’t remember. The person’s name seemed at the tip of his tongue, but whenever he tried to grasp it, it fled from memory. But he remembered what that person had said. He could hear it in the back of his head like a recording: 

‘When a stress fracture or crack begins to form near the ground of where a person is mining, it is one of the first signs of a potential cave-in. It means there is an unstable wall of support there and that if it is mined any more, the wall could collapse under its own weight and cave-in...’

“No! Stop!” he cried, reaching out to halt the dwarf’s next swing. But his hands met nothing but air and seemed to literally pass right through the dwarf’s arm, as if he were a ghost. “No! Stop now! Don’t!” he shouted desperately, again trying to reach out and grab the dwarf’s hand.

But he could not stop him and the dwarf’s axe once again connected with the wall with a loud, resounding clang. For a moment, it seemed as if nothing happened. But as he stood there, his heart still racing in dread, he saw the crack at the base of the wall split apart further and suddenly race up the length of the wall. Long fissures began to branch off from the main crack and spread out across of the wall’s face. The low groan of distressed rock began to fill the air.

“Run! Get out of here!” he screamed, trying to pull the dwarf away from the cracking wall, but only watched helplessly as his hands passed right through the dwarf’s body like smoke, “Run!” But the dwarf seemed paralyzed with fear as he continued to stand there and watch the wall slowly crack and crumble before him. “Run! Go! Now!” But the dwarf still did not seem to hear his desperate pleas.

A low rumble had begun to fill the room. He could feel the ground beneath his feet begin to tremble and shake. Startled cries were rising up from the other dwarves. “Run! Run!!” he cried, turning his attention desperately to the others. Large chunks of rock were beginning to fall to the ground. The whole cavern was now quaking. Several of the torches lighting the room had fallen over and were knocked out, dousing the chamber in semi-darkness. 

The dwarves were beginning to run for the other side of the chamber where the narrow tunnel leading out of the room stood. He could barely see them anymore. All he could hear was the thunder of rocks falling down all around him. Somewhere through the darkness he could hear the dwarves calling out to one another...

 “What’s happening to him?” Gimli demanded as he watched his friend toss his head back and forth over the pillows. Legolas’ legs weakly kicked at the bed, as if he were trying to run from something. The elf moaned and twisted over the bed sheets. His eyes were wide and clouded as he stared up at the ceiling as if seeing everything and nothing at all. “What’s wrong with him?!” the dwarf cried, desperately looking at Elrond sitting on the other side of the seizing elf.

Despite his training and thousands of years of experience as a healer, Elrond seemed just as startled and mystified by the elf’s sudden fit. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “It might be the cause of some brain damage he sustained from the accident, but I don’t know.” A small note of panic had crept into the elf-lord’s normally calm and composed voice, rising the fear and anxiety of everybody else there.

“Father, what should we do?” Aragorn cried anxiously, coming around the foot of Legolas’ bed to be on the same side of the bed as Gimli and get a better viewpoint of his seizing friend.


Elrond shook his head. “I don’t know. Just try and hold his legs down.”

But before the man could do so, Legolas suddenly began to speak. “Baruk dul! Nathrig orn ga drim!” Startled, Aragorn jumped back from Legolas’ bedside. “Kladrug drumir!”

Gimli gasped softly, his ruddy face visibly paling.

“What is that?” Faramir demanded from the foot of Legolas’ bed where he stood protectively holding his frightened wife as they both helplessly watched Legolas convulse and spasm before them on the bed.

“It’s Khuzdal...” Gimli whispered in shock, staring down at his friend’s face in disbelief. 

“What’s that?” Eowyn asked.

“It’s the dwarfish language...” Aragorn replied, almost struck speechless by the elf’s sudden speaking of tongues.

“But how would Legolas know the dwarfish language?” Arwen asked frightenedly, “Are not Dwarves very protective and secretive of their language?”

“They are...” Elrohir affirmed, stunned by his friend’s unknown ability to speak dwarfish. 

“Did you ever teach Legolas your language, Gimli?” Elrond demanded, looking at the dwarf intensely with his deep grey eyes.

“No,” Gimli whispered, almost too stunned to speak, “I– I offered to teach it to him once, but I never got a chance to before the accident. He knows a few words, but nothing like this!”

Legolas suddenly arched up over the bed. “Daglathir! Brom khuzlin dum ar drugar!” he cried, his eyes blindly staring up at the ceiling.

“What’s he saying?” Elrohir inquired as the young prince fell back down onto the mattress.

“I don’t know. Be quiet for a moment,” Gimli ordered, edging closer to the elf’s side. Legolas lay against the pillows heaving for breath. His fingers still painfully gripped the dwarf’s hand, almost crushing it in his powerful grasp. 

“Thoren krith drain mur...” he whispered softer now, as if his attack was beginning to weaken its hold on him. He weakly tossed his head back against the pillow. “Naranir...” he whispered, “Naranir...” 

Gimli sat for a moment of complete silence.

“What’s he saying, Gimli?” Elrohir again prompted impatiently. 

“Seventeen,” the dwarf answered numbly, “The number seventeen...”

“What does that mean?” Arwen asked as she looked to her husband in confusion. Aragorn could only shake his head in ignorance. 

“Naranir...” Legolas continued to whisper as he limply fell back and lay against the bed, “Naranir...” His breathing was beginning to slowly steady. His grip on Gimli’s hand had slackened, but he still did not let go. As if coming out of a trance, the elf blinked and slowly turned his head towards the dwarf sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. “Gimli,” he called weakly in a frail, raspy voice.

“I’m here, Legolas,” he answered, squeezing the archer’s hand reassuringly, “It’s alright now. You’re safe– ”

“There was a cave-in...” Legolas interrupted as he stared back up at the dwarf, weakly blinking his eyes as if completely drained of energy and desperately fighting to keep them focused and awake.

A startled silence fell over the room as everyone there froze at the elf’s words. “What?” Gimli stammered in confusion.

“The Glittering Caves...” Legolas said softly, “In the western section of the network... There was a cave-in... A large cavern... There were dwarves working... There was a crack in the wall and it collapsed...”

“How do you know that?” Gimli demanded in shock.

“What’s he talking about?” Aragorn questioned, seeing Gimli reaction to Legolas’ words.

“We thought there weren’t any large-scale caverns in the western part of the Caves, but we just discovered one a month or so back,” Gimli answered, “They just started mining on it right before I left. But how could Legolas have known about that?”

“Gimli, there are people trapped in there...” Legolas whispered softly, tightening his grip on the dwarf’s hand desperately, “You have to save them... I tried to tell them to get out, but they couldn’t hear me...”

Everyone there exchanged concerned, surreptitious glances with one another. Gimli however seemed too stunned to take his eyes away from the elf. It was then that he noticed the elf’s eyes staring into his own. The inner circles of Legolas’ irises had darkened to a deep indigo blue – so dark Gimli almost thought them black. The elf seemed to stare into him, piercing through flesh, bone, and blood all the way to Gimli’s soul. They were no longer eyes he remembered as his friend’s. They were something different and frightening, as if he knew the elf was seeing inside his soul.

The dwarf was suddenly frightened and scared. This was not his friend. This was not Legolas. But it was then that he remembered he had seen this look in Legolas’ eyes before; on the day of Legolas’ accident, in the courtyard of the Hall of Kings right before the elf left for Ithilien. He remembered how the elf had seemed to look right through him. As if he could actually see inside him.

“Please, Gimli,” Legolas begged weakly, “You have to hurry. They’re trapped. I saw it. The cave-in... Please, you have to hurry!”

“Easy there, Legolas,” Elrond soothed, gently petting the matted blond hair away from the younger elf’s clammy face, “It’s alright. It was all an hallucination from the shock of waking up. It’s alright.”

“No!” Legolas cried stubbornly, “I saw it! I was there! There was a cave-in! You must believe me! I saw it!” 

It was at that moment that Elladan returned. In his hand he held a small mug of dark, steaming liquid. He seemed momentarily taken aback by the charged tension he sensed hanging in the air over everyone and looked to his father unsuredly. 

“Here, Elladan,” Elrond called, motioning for his son to come closer with the herbal tea he had just returned from preparing.

Ignoring Elrond, Legolas continued to focus his attention on Gimli. “Please, you must believe me, Gimli,” he begged, “I saw it. It was like I was actually there. You have to believe me! There were at least two dozen dwarfs. One of them was younger, hardly past his coming of age. I swear!” Gimli seemed struck by Legolas’ last statement.

“A younger dwarf?” he repeated hesitantly.

“Yes! He was the one that actually caused the collapse! He didn’t see the crack forming at the base of the wall!” Legolas exclaimed, thinking he had finally somehow gotten through to his friend, “Please, you must believe me!”

But before Gimli could respond or say anything else, Elrond finally spoke up. “That is enough,” he declared as he took the cup of tea from Elladan and turned back to the distressed elf. “Legolas, you must rest now. You have been through too much too soon. Here, drink this,” he directed as he held the rim of the cup to Legolas’ lips and tipped it back into the elf’s mouth before Legolas could make any form of refusal. The prince instinctively swallowed, choking slightly at the bitter taste of the drink. He tried to pull away but could not because of Elrond’s hand firmly holding his head in place at the base of his neck as he continued to drain the cup into the elf’s mouth. Finally though, after a moment, Legolas became resistant and violently shook his head. Choking on the last mouthful of liquid Elrond managed to pour into his mouth, the elf reached up and pushed the still half filled cup away from his mouth.

“I don’t want any of your tea!” he cried angrily, “Why won’t you people listen to me? You have to hurry and send word to the Glittering Caves! There has been a cave-in! There are people trapped down there!”

“Legolas, it was an hallucination,” Elrond asserted gently, “The Glittering Caves are almost a week’s journey away on horseback. There is no way you could know such a thing actually happened there.”

“No! I saw it! I was there!” Legolas protested vehemently, “I saw it happen!”

But the elf-lord still seemed unconvinced. “Legolas, just lie back and relax,” he coaxed soothingly as he began to gently push the elf back down into his nest of pillows. “Just relax...”

“No. I was there,” Legolas still tried to defend himself even as Elrond forced him flat onto his back. “I saw it...” He was about to try and plead his case more when he was suddenly overcome by an intense wave of drowsiness. He felt his eyelids suddenly grow heavy and his head go fuzzy and light. 

“What did you give me?” he demanded in a slurred voice as his head sluggishly lolled back into the pillows.

“Just something to help you sleep,” Elrond answered as he reached down towards Legolas’ feet and pulled a blanket back up over the elf’s frail body.

Legolas desperately fought to resist the seductive urge to just let himself sink back into Elrond’s conjured darkness, but he quickly found himself losing. “I’ve been asleep for five years...” he whispered softly in a dying voice as his eyes began to drift shut against his will, “Don’t you think I’ve slept long enough...?”

“Everything will look clearer in the morning when you wake up,” the elven healer whispered reassuringly, “I promise.” But Legolas did not hear the last of what he said, for he had already slipped away into unconsciousness.

A still silence filled the air as everyone there stood trying to comprehend everything that had just happened. Legolas lay still and quiet in a sea of rumbled bedding, just like he had for the past five years. Had they really just seen him awake and talking, or had it all be some kind of dream?

“By the Valar...” Aragorn whispered as he brought a slightly trembling hand up to his mouth and stared down at his sleeping friend with wide, bewildered eyes. No one else spoke, still too stunned to think of anything appropriate to say in the wake of what they had just witnessed.

With no warning, Gimli suddenly jumped to his feet and was quickly moving towards the door.

“Gimli, where are you going?” Faramir called after the fleeing dwarf.

“I– I need to send a message to the Glittering Caves...” he said, his usually deep and baritone voice now trembling and shaken, “I have to make sure...”

He was almost to the door when a figure suddenly materialized out of the darkened hallway. “Gimli!” it called breathlessly as it came to a halt in the doorway. Everyone there immediately recognized the newcomer as Kim, one of Gimli’s fellow dwarfs who had helped aid in the reconstruction of Minas Tirith after the War of the Ring and was considered something like Gimli’s second in command. The dwarf’s face was a mixture of panic and distress.

“What is it?” Gimli demanded, feeling a new stir of apprehension in his heart.

“We just received an urgent message from the Glittering Caves...” he said hurriedly, “There has been a cave-in in the western section of the tunnel network – in the new cavern we just discovered...”

A pin could have been heard dropping in the utter silence that fell over the room like a lead weight. For a moment, it seemed as if everyone’s heart just stopped dead in their chests.

“There were heavy casualties,” Kim went on, “Several were trapped in a small pocket of debris, but rescuers were unable to reach them before the air supply ran out and they suffocated.”

Gimli looked physically sick, his face a ghostly shade of white.

“How many?” he somehow managed to ask in a numbed voice, not really wanting to know the answer.

“Seventeen. All toll, seventeen are dead...”

******

Did you like it? Hate it? You know you want to drop a review or rate this...  Go on.  Give in to your impulses...

Before I go, I just wanted to point out some interesting info that I found out about Khuzdul while I was researching for the dwarfish language part of this chapter. Basically, I made up all the dwarfish words and phrases I used here. Tolkien never really went in-depth with creating an actual vocabulary for the dwarfish language like he did for Elvish and other such languages, and only really just constructed a basic framework for it.

The background info on it however was real (though I’m not quite sure how accurate a statement that is seeing as how dwarfish is a made up language...). Anyway! Tolkien explained that Khuzdul was a very difficult language to learn and that Dwarves were very protective and secretive of it. Even if someone was willing to try and learn their language they would more often than not refuse to teach it. The fact that I had Gimli actually offer to teach Legolas Khuzdul works to signify just how strong a bond and friendship they shared. I just thought that was something I should include. After all, Legolas took Gimli with him to Valinor in the books, so it seems only proper that Gimli should somehow show Legolas such a gesture of friendship himself. Well, that’s about it! 

‘Till next time!


Chapter 6 - Fear and Doubt

The first thing Legolas noticed as he felt himself return to consciousness was the bright light surrounding him. He groggily blinked his eyes open and into focus. Golden morning sunlight was streaming in through the bank of windows that lined the side of the room to his left. The warm light washed over the bed and his body, making him feel very peaceful and content.

For a moment, he did not try to remember how he had gotten there. He felt so comfortable that he did not want to move and ruin the moment. But as he lay there, memories of the previous day came flooding back to him. 

Elrond had said he had been in a coma for the last five years. His muscles were withered and practically useless from laying there unused for so long. He remembered his friends rushing in and how they had looked at him, disbelief and surprise written across their faces. He remembered Gimli being there and then there being a bright flash of light...

Legolas shook himself out of his thoughts. It all seemed so distant and strange, he didn’t want to try and remember it all just yet.

He slowly looked around and was startled to see almost all his friends sitting there in a circle around his bed. They all looked tired and extremely worn out, as if they had spent the entire night awake holding vigil there at his bedside. Gimli sat close to the bed on his left, slouched forward in his chair and staring at the floor with a distance, unreadable look in his eyes. Aragorn stood at the foot of the bed, leaning back against the footboard with his back to Legolas. Elrohir and Elladan sat in chairs beside their foster-brother. Arwen also sat with them, worriedly looking up at her husband. He thought he saw Elrond lurking somewhere beyond Aragorn on the other side of the room but was unsure. Faramir and Eowyn had also taken up posts beside Legolas’ bed. None of them seemed to have noticed the elf now laying awake in the bed. Legolas was somehow slightly amused by this. 


He slowly turned his head to his right where the Lady Eowyn sat staring down into her lap tiredly. His eyes were again drawn to the round bulge of the shieldmaiden’s stomach. He lay for several moments of silence, trying to make his mind comprehend the undeniable, visible proof of the time he had lain there asleep.

“When are you expecting?” he asked softly. 

The lady visible jumped in her seat and looked back at the blond prince laying awake against the pillows of the bed. Everyone else there also looked startled by the elf’s sudden awakening and looked up at him in surprise.

Legolas ignored the others and patiently waited for Eowyn to recover from her initial shock and regain her voice. “In about two months,” she finally managed to reply after a time.

“Will this be your first?” he asked curiously. 

“No, our second,” she replied. She tried to pretend she did not see the look of momentary surprise and then succeeding shadow of despair pass of the elf’s face. “We already have a son, Theomir. He’s almost three years old now.”

Legolas desperately tried to quell the storm of depression welling up inside him from showing. Gods... How much had he missed while unconscious? “I am sure he is beautiful,” he said with a small, forced smile, trying to appear as if he was taking in all this new information in stride, “Perhaps sometime soon you might bring him around for me to see. I would greatly love to meet him.” But try as the elf might, he could not keep a soft note of bitterness from creeping into his voice.

Eowyn felt her heart ache at the sight of her friend’s despair. She could not even begin to imagine how painful of a thing it was to wake up and suddenly find everything around you changed so dramatically. “We shall have to do that,” she tried to smile reassuringly, “I am sure he would love to meet you.”

Legolas nodded and smiled back wanly, but seemed to find no actual comfort Eowyn’s promise. All he could do was wonder how much the rest of his friends and everything else he had ever known and loved had changed.

It was then that the elf-lord, Elrond, appeared at Legolas’ bedside and leaned down over the younger elf. “How do you feel, Legolas?” he asked as he gently laid a hand across Legolas’ forehead as if feeling for a fever.

“Thirsty,” he admitted softly in a raspy voice. “And perhaps still a little bit numb from shock...” he then added to himself almost as an after thought.
Elrond glanced over at the nightstand standing on the other side of Legolas’ bed and a pitcher of water sitting on it. Aragorn immediately caught the elf’s unspoken request and moved forward to pour a glass for his disabled friend. As his foster-son did this, the elf-lord slide a hand beneath Legolas’ shoulders and helped rise him up into a sitting position against the pillows. 

“Here,” he directed as he took the filled cup from Aragorn and held it to Legolas’ chapped lips. The elf immediately began to down the offered water, desperate to quench the burning dryness in his throat. “Easy there, Legolas,” Elrond admonished lightly as he continued to hold the glass for the parched elf. Finally, the glass was drained and Legolas leaned back against the headboard, his thirst successfully sated.

Elrond handed the emptied glass back to Aragorn and then looked back at the blond archer. At first, the elf-lord seemed at a loss for words as he stared at the younger elf. Finally, he seemed to just settle on straight-out asking the burning question that had been plaguing all their minds since the prince’s startling awakening the day before. “Legolas, what happened yesterday?” he asked, “How did you know there was a cave-in in the Glittering Caves?”

Legolas seemed to ponder this for a moment as the events of the previous day slowly came back to him piece by piece, as if he were trying to remember a dream. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly after a moment, shaking his head in ignorance, “I remember Gimli touching me and then there being this bright flash in my mind. And then... I don’t know, I just... saw it happen...” he trailed off helplessly. 

He saw his friends around him shift nervously in their seats and share concerned, surreptitious glances with one another. A disturbing sense of foreboding suddenly washed over Legolas. He looked to his left where Gimli still sat silently staring down at the floor. “Gimli,” he called in a low, frightened voice, “What happened?”

The dwarf slowly raised his head and looked back at his friend. For several long moments of empty silence, he just sat there, staring back at the elf with dark, unreadable eyes. “You were right,” he finally said in a voice so low it could have been a whisper. “You were right. It happened just like you said it did.”

Legolas looked stunned. “But... how?” he stammered, as if suddenly realizing the magnitude of what he had done. “How could I have known such a thing?” he wondered out-loud as he looked down at the bedcovers in bewilderment. When he had first come out of his trance and tried to tell Gimli what he had seen, all he had been able to think about were those dwarves being buried alive under several dozen tons of falling rock. At the time, he had not even given a second thought to the implications of what he was doing or the impossibility what he had actually seen.

“Legolas, did you ever learn Khuzdul?” Elrond then asked with no warning. 

“What?” Legolas said, his brows furrowing in confusion, “No. How would I know Khuzdul? Why do you ask such a thing?”
Those standing around him all shared guarded, unreadable glances with one another again. 
“What?” the elf demanded. He was starting to hate how his friends seemed to continually be keeping something from him. “What?” he demanded again impatiently, scanning his friends’ faces for answers.

“Legolas, do you know that you were speaking in tongues while you were having this... vision so to speak?” Elrond finally spoke up and said, “More specifically Khuzdul.”

“What!” Legolas exclaimed in surprise. “How could I do that? I’ve never learned the dwarfish language.”

“That’s what Gimli already told us, but you were speaking it quite fluently,” the older elf said, looking at Legolas with something of a mixture between amazement and analytical skepticism, “Are you sure Gimli never taught you any?” 

“No,” Legolas answered, shaking his head vehemently in negation, “I do not even remember talking.” He looked around at his friends, a small stir of fear beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. “What did I say?”

Everyone’s attention immediately shifted to the silent dwarf sitting near Legolas’ bedside.

At first, it seemed as if Gimli was either not going to offer a translation or had not even realized he had entered the conversation. But then, with no introduction or preamble, he began to speak. “‘Help. The ceiling’s collapsing. We can’t get out,’” he said softly, in a distant voice as he slowly looked up from the ground and at Legolas. “And then you began to repeat the number seventeen over and over again...” he added, shaking his head numbly as if still unable to believe such an event had actually taken place. He did not offer an explanation when Legolas looked at him inquiringly as to the odd number he was said to have repeated. “I did not even realize what you had said until afterwards when Kim came to tell me of a message he just received saying there had been a cave-in in the Glittering Caves...”

“Wait... Are you saying that I predicted that cave-in?” Legolas stammered in disbelief.

“No,” Elrond broke in, shaking his head, “The Glittering Caves are over a week away. There is no possible way a message could have reached Minas Tirith in that short a time for you to have actually predicted it. It would almost seem that you rather... saw into the past,” he said, noticeably hesitating at his choice of words.

Legolas looked between Elrond and Gimli questioningly. “What are you trying to say...?”

“That you are clairvoyant!” Elrohir exclaimed almost excitedly from the foot of Legolas bed, “Gimli touched you and you were somehow able to actually see into the past!”

“What?” Legolas choked, his gaunt face visibly paling at the implications of such a claim.
“No. No. That is not what we are saying, Legolas,” Elrond hurriedly broke in and soothed before panic could take hold of the fragile prince. The elf-lord immediately sent Elrohir a menacing glare out of the corner of his eye for his youngest son’s inappropriate and ill-timed out-burst. Elrohir sank down into his seat, cringing under his father’s baleful gaze. “No, Legolas. I am reluctant to actually believe what we all thought happened,” he continued as he looked back at the blond prince.

“What are you talking about, father?” Aragorn exclaimed in disbelief, “We were all here and saw what happened. How could you not believe what you saw?”

“Aragorn, I am merely suggesting that there is a plausible explanation for what happened,” Elrond said firmly. “Is it not possible, Legolas,” he said, turning his attention back once again to the frightened elf, “that you might have subconsciously known of the cavern because of Gimli once telling you about it while he was visiting you while you were still in your coma? Just because you were sleeping does not mean that some small part of you might not still have been aware of what was going on and being said around you.” Elrond then quietly leaned back and stared at Legolas expectantly, as if waiting for him to agree that such a logical deduction was the only possible explanation for such a ludicrous and improbable thing like clairvoyancy. 

“I– I...” Legolas floundered helplessly. Such reasoning did make some sense to him. After all, Elves always remained somewhat aware of their surroundings when they slept, unlike humans who practically sealed themselves away from the rest of the world when they laid down to rest. But Legolas had to wonder if such an explanation was actually applicable in his situation. For he had not just been merely sleeping, but rather lost in a deep coma that had lasted over five years! And it had all seemed so real... Such a vision did not just seem like the product of some implied subliminal message, as Elrond so suggested it to be. “I... I don’t...” he stuttered, not knowing what to say.

Luckily though, Gimli seemed to finally break out of his trace to come to the aid of his friend. “No. That’s not possible,” he said, “This is the first time I have been to Minas Tirith in over a year, and we found the cavern little less than a month ago. There is no possible way Legolas could have known it existed.”

“True, Master Dwarf,” Elrond agreed, “But is it not possible that you might have unknowingly spoken of it to someone in the hallway before coming into Legolas’ room where he could have overheard you?” he persisted relentlessly.

“No,” Elladan interrupted from the foot of Legolas’ bed, “Elrohir and I were the last ones to meet Gimli before he came into Legolas’ room, and he said nothing of the Glittering Caves, let alone was anywhere near enough for Legolas to have overheard the conversation.”

“And what about NÁin?” Gimli then pointed out, looking at the elf-lord expectantly as if waiting to see what kind of explanation Elrond would have to try and explain that, “How did Legolas know about him?”
“Who?” Legolas interrupted before Elrond could reply. His eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. He knew many of the dwarves Gimli worked and associated with, but he did not recognize this particular dwarf’s name. 

Gimli slowly looked at the blond haired elf. His eyes grew distant and sorrowful as he held Legolas’ gaze for several long seconds of silence. “He was the younger dwarf you said you saw in your vision...” he finally said in a low voice laden with grief. “He was the son of a close friend of mine. He just had his coming of age right before I left for Minas Tirith and was finally old enough to officially join a mining crew...” Gimli trailed off slightly and abruptly shifted his eyes away from Legolas. “I was the one that assigned him to work in that cavern that collapsed...” he said softly as a watery shine came into his eyes, “The message I received yesterday said they found his body somewhere near the back of the cavern where the cave-in was suppose to have started.”

“Oh gods...” Legolas murmured as he brought a shaking hand to the side of his head and stared down at the bedcover in horrified shock.

“Gimli, my heart goes out to you and the family of this boy, but Legolas never actually gave a description or name of who he thought he saw,” Elrond said, “All he said was that he saw a younger dwarf. That could have meant almost anyone. It’s too general of a description to carry so much weight in arguing the authenticity of Legolas’ vision.”

“Then what about the death toll?” Gimli shot back angrily, “Out of all the numbers Legolas could have said, how did he know the exact number of those killed?”

Elrond seemed to momentarily run out of any plausible explanations he could have offered to explain such a phenomenon, but the sight of his set jaw and the sharpened glint of his eyes clearly said he was no where near admitting defeat just yet.

“Father, why can you not just accept the possibility that Legolas might have the gift of second-sight?” Arwen questioned from beside her husband.

“I am just reluctant to believe that such a phenomenon could have actually occurred without first analyzing every other possible explanation,” he retorted defensively.

“But there are many elves who are known to possess second-sight,” Elrohir said, “What about Grandmother? She possessed unimaginable powers of foresight.”

Elrond shook his head stubbornly. “It is true that Galadriel had the ability of foresight, but her powers were greatly influenced by the magic of her elven ring of power, and she also used a mirror to see her visions through. Legolas here, on the other hand, has possession of no known magical powers and used no such instrument of divination to channel his vision.”

“Is it not possible” Faramir spoke up timidly, “that Legolas perhaps possessed latent powers of foresight all along, and that his accident and head injury just awakened them?” 

Elrond seemed to consider this for a moment. A thoughtful silence fell over the room as everyone there digested this new hypothesis. “That is possible...” Elrond admitted softly to himself as he scrutinized the blond haired elf beside him skeptically.

While the others had continued to argue about him as if he was not even there, Legolas had fallen into himself. He didn’t care about second-sight or trying to prove the authenticity of his vision. All he could think of was that young dwarf, the one he had seen practically die right in front of him while he had stood there, helpless to do anything to stop it from happening. And now that face that would haunt him forever had a name. NÁin.

He had seen it. He had seen that dwarf die as if he had actually been there. He had seen that wall begin to crack, and had felt the floor begin to shake and felt the terror well up inside him as rocks began to fall from the ceiling. He had seen it. And now his friends say he had actually predicted the number of casualties.

“Gods, what’s happening to me?” he moaned frightenedly, dragging his hands though his hair in distress. He didn’t want this power. He didn’t want this responsibility. He didn’t want to see innocent people die right in front of him and there be nothing for him to do to stop it. This power of second-sight was not a gift, it was a curse.

“Legolas, we will figure this out. If you do possess second-sight, we will help you through this,” Elrond tried to soothe as he reached out a hand and placed it on the trembling elf’s thin, boney shoulder in a gesture of comfort. But Legolas felt no true sympathy come from the ancient elf-lord. Through that touch he felt a twinge of lingering skepticism and doubt form in the back of his mind, as if Elrond’s own disbelief had actually transferred over into his own brain by that simple, careless touch.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I saw it happen,” he said softly without raising his eyes from the bedcover to look at Elrond. “I know deep down you still don’t believe I actually saw that cave-in...”

Elrond slowly drew his hand away from Legolas’ shoulder and looked at the elf cautiously as if he were analyzing a potentially dangerous animal. “That is not true, Legolas,” he protested in a guarded, wary voice, “Like Faramir said, there is always the possibility your vision was the result of latent powers of foresight brought to life by your accident and coma.”

“I know you don’t believe me,” Legolas repeated firmly, somehow hurt by the knowledge that Elrond did not actually believe him. “I can feel it inside you. I know.” He slowly looked up at Elrond and stared straight into his eyes, knowing the truth that lay hidden deep within the elf-lord’s heart.

As Elrond stared back into the elf’s sapphire blue eyes, he suddenly felt as if Legolas was staring into him, staring into his soul. That he could actually see the truth that lay hidden deep inside him. As he watched, the inner circles of Legolas’ eyes seemed to darken and become sharp like blades of obsidian blue. Without a word, Elrond slowly got to his feet and took an unconscious step backwards away from Legolas’ bed as if suddenly afraid of the frail elf sitting there against the headboard.

Left to only observe this silent exchange, the others looked on in bewilderment. A tense silence filled the room, stinging their ears.

Then, as if coming out of a trance, Legolas suddenly blinked and seemed to return to himself. He sat there for a moment, as if confused by what just happened. As he shakingly raised a hand to the left side of his head where a streak of pure white hair originated from, he looked around at his friends, searching for an explanation. 

But he received no answers, only stares from all those he held dear to him. And as he looked questioningly around at his friends, he was suddenly struck with realization – one that was even more painful and startling than awakening to find he had been in a coma for the last five years. 

For in his friends’ eyes shined emotion so plain and clear he did not have to touch any of them to identify it. And it was in that one moment of painful realization, Legolas realized that his friends were actually frightened of him and his strange new powers.

******

To Be Continued...

******

Like it? Hate it? Either way tell me. I accept and welcome all forms of criticism and response.


Chapter 7 - Hurt and Healing

“Damn it!” Legolas screamed in frustration as he slammed his fists down against the mattress. Angry tears stung the corners of his eyes as he sat for a moment, breathing hard to catch his breath. Holding back a sob, the elf again rose his hands to the side of his head and grabbed hold of a section of pulled-back forelocks. 

Right. Left. Over. Under. Right. Left. Over. Under.

He tried to make his fingers remember the familiar motions, but they felt clumsy and awkward in carrying out the desired task. Cursing under his breath, Legolas continued to try and weave the familiar pattern of warrior braids into his hair. But despite his keen elven memory of the old, daily routine which he once could have done with his eyes shut, he could not seem to make his fingers find the rhythm that had once let his fingers practically fly through the silky strands of golden hair.

He had somehow managed to run a small braid from the corner of his left temple back across the side of his head, but it lay against his skull loose and disheveled – like that of a young child’s first attempt at styling his own hair without the aid of any adult. Strands of wayward hair messily poked up out of the weaves of Legolas’ braid where he had had to momentarily abandon his work when the weight of his arms had become too much for his wasted muscles to hold up any longer without taking a short reprieve.

It had taken nearly eight attempts to finally finish off the braid on his left side. And now it seemed as if his right side was not about to make his life any easier either. (He did not even want to think about trying to do the main braid that was to hang down his back just yet.) His arms and shoulders ached from trying to keep his arms up over his head to weave the small, intricate braids. His arms felt like hundred pound weights. His wasted muscles stung and burned with the effort of trying to keep them aloft for so long. Legolas grit his teeth against the pain, but despite his stubbornness and determination he could not seem to stop his arms from slowly sagging back down to his sides.
As the pain became too much for his to stand anymore once again, Legolas let his arms fall back down to the mattress. He wanted to cry in frustration. He had only managed to braid about an inch or two of hair. The rest of the uncompleted braid hung down the side of his face like a frayed and tattered rope. Legolas tried to raise his arms to take up the motion again before the strands of braided hair could unravel, but they were just too heavy.

A flood of emotions welled up inside him; all some varying form of self-pity and disgust. It had been almost a week since he had woken out of his coma. Elladan and Elrohir – his ‘torturers’ as he now so affectionately liked to call them – had begun work to rehabilitate his withered muscles. It was starting to become increasing clear to Legolas that there was a long and painful road ahead of him before he would be able to walk again. His legs seemed to have suffered the most from his five year’s slumber. Both had withered away to only wasted, rail-thin remains. His left leg was the worst. The muscles and ligaments had deteriorated so much that it had begun to curl up beneath him. Even with the twins’ help, he could not yet fully extend it or put any real weight on either of his legs. 

He could feel tears building up in his eyes again, threatening to overflow his defenses. He felt so helpless. He couldn’t even braid his own hair! Let alone get up to relieve himself without the aid of someone else.

But that was not it. Oh no! Far from it! Not only was he incapable of caring for himself, but his friends were now afraid of him. Oh, they faithfully came to see him everyday to offer him encouragement and support as Elrohir and Elladan continued to work everyday with him to help rebuild his muscles, but there was a certain wariness surrounding them that he could sense like a palpable aura of suspicion and fear. He could see it in their eyes, that look that said they saw him as something like a dangerous animal that could potentially attack them if they were not careful. Though they tried to hide it, he knew they always did everything they could to avoid touching him. After his last encounters with Gimli and Elrond, he could not really blame them, but it still hurt him deep inside to know that some of the closest people in his life were actually afraid of him. 

He had not had any other visions like the one he had had with Gimli. But during his sessions with Elladan and Elrohir he had experienced several momentary flash of emotions, or seen some kind of fragmented thought or image in his head as if one of the twins’ thoughts or feelings had actually transferred over into his mind whenever they helped him through his rehabilitory exercises. He had once even known several seconds before it actually happened that Elrohir was going to accidentally knock over a glass of water sitting on the nightstand of his bed. He never mentioned what he saw or felt, but he somehow knew the twins were aware of what was being exchanged between them whenever they touched him. 

He pounded his fists into the mattress angrily. It was so unfair! What did he ever do to deserve this? It had been over five years since his accident, but to him it felt like only yesterday he had been the strong, able-bodied warrior prince of Mirkwood. Not this pitiful invalid and freak of nature he had become.
Trying to hold back his emotions, Legolas reached up and grabbed hold of half-finished braid dangling by his ear. He was not going to admit defeat! He didn’t care if it took him all day, he was going to wear his hair in braids! It was the last thing he had left to connect him to that distant past before his accident. Breathing hard as he worked, the elf struggled to weave his hair into the familiar pattern of warrior braids. 

Legolas was so focused on what he was doing, he did not hear the door to his room softly creak open. Filing into the room one after another came the twin sons of Elrond. As they were most often known to do, the two brothers were identically dressed in robes of russet red. In the youngest twin’s hands, Elrohir carried a wooden tray laden with a small pot of tea, a bowl of steaming broth, some sliced fruit, and several small breakfast pastries. 

“Good morning, Legolas!” Elladan called out merrily, walking straight for the elven prince’s bed with his brother following close behind him. He was rewarded with only a miserable scowl from Legolas as the elf gave a frustrated cry and dropped his arms back down to his sides.

“I can’t braid my hair!” Legolas cried out angrily, totally ignoring the other’s friendly greeting. Frustrated tears brimmed along the bottoms of his eyes. Balling his hands into fists, the elven prince shouted through gritted teeth, “I’ve been trying all morning but I can’t do it! I just can’t do it!” By now, the terribly thin elf had begun to shake with building emotions, a hollow sob escaping his throat as a helpless tear streaked down his cheek.

“Legolas, it’s alright. It’s ok,” Elrohir tried to consol as he quickly set the tray he was carrying aside on the mattress near the foot of Legolas’ bed and moved to the shaking elf’s side. “It’s alright. It’s alright,” he whispered soothingly as he sat down beside Legolas and put a reassuring arm around the other elf’s shoulder. “It’s alright...” 

“No. Don’t touch me,” Legolas hissed as he quickly shrugged Elrohir’s arm from around him, “You know I don’t like being touched ever since the accident.”

“Legolas, don’t start with this again,” Elladan sighed in exasperation, “You’re going to have to let us touch you eventually if you ever want us to help you rehabilitate your body.”

“Elladan’s right,” his twin agreed, “We can help you, but only if you let us.”

“Here, let us help you with your hair,” Elladan said as he sat on the other side of Legolas’ bed. Using his fingers like a comb, the elf gently ran them through the small, disheveled braid running along the left side of Legolas’ head, quickly destroying in only a matter of seconds what had taken Legolas almost half an hour to create.

Legolas said nothing, but dejectedly sat there in silence as the two brothers began to section off his hair into three different parts and then begin to deftly plait his hair into the familiar pattern of elven warrior braids.

“If you need help like this again, just ask us, Legolas,” Elrohir said from behind him as he began to weave the main braid that would hang down the length of Legolas’ back, “We don’t mind...”


“I don’t want to have to ask for help,” Legolas whispered bitterly as Elrohir completed the back braid and moved on to do the smaller one that would run along the right side of Legolas’ head. 

“We understand that,” Elrohir replied, “But right now there is not much you can do without some kind of assistance.” Elrohir’s words bit deep and Legolas tried to ignore the sting of wounded pride welling up inside him at the blatantly voiced fact. “There!” the younger twin then finally announced in a false voice of cheerfulness as he dropped the finished braid down onto Legolas’ shoulder, “All done!”

“Here, Legolas,” Elladan said as he handed the prince a small hand mirror that had been lying on a nearby nightstand. “See, we’re not that bad at braiding hair,” he tried to joke and lighten the other elf’s mood.

Legolas said nothing and just quietly stared down into proffered mirror. His silvery reflection stared back up at him – a face he no longer recognized as his own. His cheeks were sunken and unhealthily pale in complection. Skeletal cheekbones protruded from his face beneath pronounced eyebrow ridges, giving him an emaciated, half-starved appearance.

Though his hair was finally pulled back into the familiar style of warrior braids which he had worn since his coming of age over two millennia ago, he did not feel any better like he thought he might. For woven throughout the delicate braid Elladan had braided along the left side of his head were several streaks of pure white hair, the stark reminder of how he had come to be in such a wretched state of helplessness. Suddenly feeling even more depressed than he had before the twins had come in, Legolas wordlessly handed the hand mirror back to Elladan. 

“Come on now,” Elrohir said blithely, noticing the despondent look forming on Legolas’ face and trying to redirect his friend’s attention, “We’ve brought you some breakfast, so eat up before it gets cold.”

“I’m not hungry,” Legolas said simply, turning his face away from the two brothers.

“Legolas, you’re too thin to not be eating,” Elladan said as he reached down towards the foot of Legolas’ bed and lifted the laden breakfast tray up into the elven prince’s lap, “You need to regain your strength. That is one of the reasons you’re having so much trouble with your physical therapy. You’re too weak, you have no strength. One of the first things you need to do is get your energy back.”

“I know what I have to do!” Legolas snapped angrily, “I do not need you reminding me of how helpless I am. Just leave me alone.” Elrohir and Elladan both looked at Legolas startled.

“Legolas– ” Elladan began.
“No!” Legolas cut off sharply, “Don’t say anything else! I don’t want any more of your empty reassurances or advice telling me what I need to do to get better. Just go away and leave me alone.”

“Legolas, you still have your physical therapy with us today,” Elrohir pointed out.

“I don’t care. Just leave me alone,” the elf murmured dispiritedly as he pushed the breakfast tray out of his lap and lay down on his side with his back to Elrohir.

Elrohir frowned at Legolas’ childish actions. “Legolas–”

“Just leave me alone.” 

Elrohir and Elladan shared a helpless look with each other. “Fine,” Elrohir said as he stood from Legolas bed, “We’ll leave the tray in case you change your mind about breakfast later on.” He got no response from the elf’s turned back. Elrohir shared another quick glance with Elladan who had followed his brother’s example and had also stood to leave. He wanted to say something else to Legolas to break him out of this melancholic mood he was in, but could not think of anything appropriate to say. Sighing in deep frustration, Elrohir turned towards the door. “I hope you feel better,” was all he said before finally slipped out of the room, leaving the elf alone with his despair.

As Legolas heard the soft snick of the door close behind the retreating twins, he felt whatever emotional restraint that had been holding him together suddenly shatter like a dropped piece of glass somewhere deep inside him. Sobbing helplessly, the elf burrowed his face into the pillows and began to weep bitterly, letting all his self-pity and despair consume him. And so began the first – but not last – of Legolas’ dark depressions. 

******

“Eowyn, please. We really think this would be a good way to break Legolas out of this depression he’s in,” Elladan begged.

The White Lady looked torn with indecision. “It’s not that I don’t want to help Legolas, but do you really think it wise to do such a thing when he’s still in such a despondent mood?”

“Eowyn, this is the only thing we can think of that might have a positive impact on him,” Elrohir said, desperately trying to convince the lady to listen to their proposition. “He’s not getting any better. He’s refused to let us work with him for two days now, and he’s not eating which he can barely afford to do. Gimli is the only one Legolas seems to let near him for any extended period of time, but even then, Gimli isn’t able to get Legolas to snap out of this depression he’s in. We have to break him out of this funk before this gets any more serious.” 

Eowyn did not respond at first and seemed to become lost in worrisome thought. “Please,” Elrohir begged, turning his attention now to Eowyn’s husband, Faramir, who had sat through the entirety of the elven twins’ proposed solution to Legolas’ depression in thoughtful silence, “We don’t know what else to do...”


Faramir looked up at his wife. “It could really do no harm,” he said, “You know how Legolas used to be. I agree with Elladan and Elrohir. This may be just what Legolas needs right now.”

Eowyn began to nervously pace, her face twisted with some unreadable emotion. “Like I said, it is not that I do not want to help Legolas, but...” She trailed off helplessly as she abruptly stopped her pacing in front of one of the windows lining the side of the room and looked out over the city beyond. She stood for several moments of tense silence. “It’s just...” she started again as she tried to put her gnawing concerns into words, “It’s just that... What about these psychic powers he seems to suddenly possess?” She turned back around to face her husband with unmasked fear shining in her pale blue eyes. 

“I will not try to fool myself or you by saying that I know or understand what has happened to our friend because of his accident, but I feel that it is something dark and unnatural. He scares me, though I still cannot help but see him as our dear friend. I do not know if I believe he truly sees what he thinks he does. Lord Elrond’s explanation of how Legolas could have known of what happened in the Glittering Caves just makes too much sense to me to ignore. But even if these powers of his are not real, I fear them and the implications of supernatural forces they bring. And I do not want to endanger anyone just because we were too rash to take some kind of preliminary precaution with him. Legolas has changed... I just do not know if it is safe to risk what Elladan and Elrohir propose. What if something should happen like what happened with Gimli? I just do not know if this is such a good idea...” By now, Eowyn’s fear had begun to surface in a bright shine of frightened tears in her eyes.

“Eowyn...” Faramir said, quickly getting to his feet and striding over to his wife. The Steward gently wrapped her in his embrace and held her to his chest. “I know how you must feel, but nothing bad will happen. I promise. We’ll be there the entire time. Nothing will happen.”

The woman only clung to her husband, desperately trying to make herself believe his reassuring words. “Legolas needs our help right now,” Faramir whispered softly into her ear, “Like Elrohir and Elladan said, we might be the only ones that can help him. We owe it to him as our friend to help...”

“Alright,” Eowyn finally said in reluctant submission after a long moment as she looked back up at the elven twins who stood anxiously waiting for her answer on the other side of the room, “Alright. We’ll do it.”

******

There came a soft rapping at Legolas’ door which Legolas at first chose to ignore, vainly hoping that whoever it was would just go away and leave him in peace if he didn’t answer. Another, more insistent, knock sounded. Legolas sighed and looked up at the closed door from where he sat in his bed.

“Who is it?” he called out with a clear note of annoyance in his voice. 

He didn’t want to see anyone right now. Hadn’t he made that clear by now? He didn’t want to have to deal with any visiting friends. He was tired of seeing that tell-tale shine of apprehension in their eyes whenever they came to see him, that fear and suspicion that practically screamed at him from behind their facades of smiling, friendly faces. The only one who did not seem truly frightened of him was Gimli. But even so, he did not feel like entertaining his bearded friend with his company right now.

There came no actual reply from the other side of the door, but it slowly swung open at the sound of his voice. Striding inside came the elven twins Elrohir and Elladan.

“Hello, Legolas,” Elrohir chirped merrily, ignoring the disheartened frown that was spreading across his friend’s face.

“I don’t want any company right now,” Legolas said quite bluntly, “And I don’t feel like doing any of your “exercises” either, so you and Elladan can just save yourselves the trouble of trying to get me out of this bed and leave.”

“Good,” Elladan said, throwing Legolas off by his answer, “Because we didn’t come here to work on physical therapy today. You have a visitor that wants to meet you.”

“I told you I don’t want any comp...” Legolas began but then trailed off abruptly as Elrohir turned and motioned Eowyn and her husband, Faramir, into the room. But they were not the real reason Legolas was so startled into trailing off like he had. For sitting there in the crook of Faramir’s arm with his little arms thrown around his father’s neck was a small, sandy-haired child with big blue eyes. He stared back at Legolas curiously in the innocent way only a young child could do.

Legolas sat with his mouth hanging slightly open in surprise as he watched Faramir stride forward and gently set the child down on the edge of the mattress near the foot of his bed. “We promised we’d bring our son around to meet you one of these days,” Faramir said with a small shrug, as if that was the only reason Legolas needed to know as to why there was a young child suddenly sitting on the edge of his bed. 

Legolas gave one last bewildered glance up at Faramir as the man backed away from the bed to stand beside his wife before then looking back down at the small child who sat analyzing him with large, inquisitive eyes. For a long moment of silence, the elf and child just stared at each other, as if waiting to see which would say something first. 

“Hello there, little one,” Legolas finally greeted with a soft, gentle smile.

“Hi,” the child replied, eyeing the blonde-haired stranger before him suspiciously.
“You must be Theomir,” Legolas said as he leaned down closer to the child, “I’m a friend of your mother and father. My name’s Legolas.” The young boy regarded the elf hesitantly for a long moment before glancing up at his parents as if looking to see if it was alright for him to converse with this strange person talking to him. Eowyn gave a small, reassuring smile to her son which seemed like all the permission Theomir needed to break out of his shy shell.

“Are you an elf like Elro’ir and Eldan?” he asked curiously.

Legolas could not help but stifle a laugh at the small child’s attempt at pronouncing the twins’ names. “Don’t laugh, Legolas,” Elladan warned in feigned seriousness from the foot of his bed, “We’ve tried to teach him how to say our names correctly, but I’m afraid we’ve been forever dubbed Elro’ir and Eldan.”

“Oh, I think I like these pronunciations much better than the original ones, Eldan,” Legolas mocked light-heartedly much to his own amusement as he was rewarded with icy glares from the twins. “And yes, I am an elf,” he said, turning his attention back to Theomir in answer to the child’s question.

Theomir stared at Legolas skeptically as if still not sure whether to believe him or not. “Here,” Legolas said as he held his arms out to the small child invitingly, “Do you want to come sit in my lap?” The little boy again seemed hesitant and gave a quick glance up at his parents as if seeking permission.

“It’s alright, Theomir,” Eowyn said, again giving her son a wan smile. Truth be told, she honestly did not like the idea of her son being so close to Legolas any more than she would have liked letting him go out to play in the streets of Minas Tirith after what she had seen happen between Legolas, Gimli, and Elrond little over a week ago. But her husband seemed confident in trusting Legolas with their son, so she decided to bite her tongue for the time being and give Legolas the benefit of the doubt. Everything seemed to be going even fine. Legolas’ first encounter with Theomir was going even better than what any of them had originally planned. But there was still that lingering note of fear festering somewhere in the back of her mind. 

“Won’t I hurt you?” Theomir asked, eyeing the terribly thin elf skeptically.

Legolas chuckled lightly at the child’s question. “No, little one, you won’t hurt me. I assure you.” Theomir seemed to consider this for a moment before finally getting to his knees and crawling over to Legolas. With a small tumble, the child flopped down into the prince’s waiting arms and squirmed around in his lap a bit before finally finding a comfortable spot up against the elf’s chest.

The others in the room could hardly help but smile as they watched Legolas look down at the small child in his lap with a look of undisputable love in his eyes. Elrohir and Elladan shared a triumphant glance. It was working. They had hoped that Legolas’ affection for children would (at least momentarily) break him out of this foul mood that had claimed him. And it seemed to actually be working!

“So tell me, how old are you?” Legolas asked as he shifted the child into a more comfortable position in his lap so that he could talk with him directly.

“Two and a half,” Theomir stated proudly.

“Wow! Really?” Legolas exclaimed, indulging the child with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Uh huh. I’m this many,” he replied, holding up a tiny fist with three upturned fingers.

Legolas’ eyebrows knotted together in confusion. “But you just said you were two, not three,” he pointed out gently, showing the difference between the two numbers on his own hand. 

“I know,” the child replied defensively, “But you can’t show two and a half on your fingers. So I showed three. My birthday’s in February. I’ll be three then.”

“Oh, alright,” Legolas smiled broadly. “That makes perfect sense then,” he said, humoring the child with just agreeing to his line of reasoning. He was rewarded with a satisfied smile from the boy.

“How old are you?” Theomir then questioned, turning a set of clear blue eyes which he had inherited from his mother up at Legolas.

“A lot older than you, little one. A lot older...” the elf chuckled. 

Theomir seemed slightly disappointed with Legolas’ answer, but did not press for an elaboration. Scanning the elf’s face, the child’s eyes happened to fall on the white streaked braid lining the left side of Legolas’ head. “What happened to your hair?” he asked innocently, “Why’s it two colors?”

A palpable tension filled the room as everyone watching the elf and child visibly tensed, not knowing what Legolas’ reaction to such a question would be.

Legolas’ smile noticeably slipped several notches at Theomir’s inquiry, but he managed to keep something of a forced smile on his face for the child’s sake. “I was in an accident,” he said, “I got a really bad bump on my head, and have been asleep for the last five years.”

“You must have been really tired,” Theomir noted with an almost grown-up seriousness. 

“Yes. I suppose I must have...” Legolas chuckled despite himself as he felt his heart swell with endearment for this child and his innocent, simplistic views of the world. An audible sigh of relief could almost have been heard coming from the other onlookers in the room.

“I think it’s pretty,” Theomir then unexpectedly said as he reached a tiny hand up and fingered the delicate, white-streaked braid in Legolas’ hair. The elf seemed momentarily taken aback by the child’s comment.


“Really?” he asked, his eyes widening in surprise.

The boy nodded. “Uh huh. It looks like someone put paint in your hair.”

This time Legolas really did laugh. The clear, musical notes filled the air like the gentle sound of wind chimes in the breeze. To the ears of everyone watching, the sweet sound of Legolas’ laugh was like the cool taste of water to the tongue of a man dying of thirst. It was only then they realized how much they had missed that simple yet somehow otherworldly sound. And it was also in that moment they came to realize this was the first time any of them had seen Legolas really happy or truly smile since his awakening. 

“Well, thank you, little one,” the elf laughed heartily, “I’m glad it meets your approval.” A sudden change seemed to come over the elf. His skin no longer seemed so unhealthily pale, as if his natural elven glow was slowly returning to him. His eyes seemed somehow brighter and more full of life, no longer empty and devoid of happiness as they once were. He seemed more like the old Legolas they all knew and remembered.

Theomir, meanwhile, seemed utterly entranced by the blonde-haired elf’s laughter. Thrilled that he had done or said something that had earned such laughter from an adult, the child giggled happily as Legolas hugged him closer to his chest. 

“If you like my hair so much, then perhaps we should put some paint in your hair,” the elf then laughed as he playfully tugged at a small tuft of the child’s sandy-colored hair, “How do you like that idea?”

“No!” Theomir squealed, laughing crazily at the elf’s threat. 

“Are you sure? I think it would look very nice on you...” Legolas continued to tease.

“No!” the child cried, putting his hands protectively up over his head. He then impishly smiled back up the elf as if daring Legolas to try and paint his hair now.

Laughing in defeat, Legolas relinquished his torment of the young boy. “Alright. You win,” he smiled, “But if you ever decide you do want white paint in your hair, just come and see your uncle Legolas.” 

Holding the young child in his lap up against his chest, Legolas suddenly realized how content and at peace with the world he felt. Everyone else in the room seemed to have disappeared except for him and the boy. He suddenly knew with a deep-seeded certainty that he honestly loved this small child. This child had not judged him, or shown him any kind of fear. He possessed that simple but rare gift that only young children were blessed with: the ability to just love and trust unconditionally without reason or restraint.

He sat for several moments of silence just hugging the child to him, feeling the warm press of the tiny body against his chest and knowing there was no fear of him to be found there. But as he sat there, he suddenly felt a small twinge in the back of his head, like an itch in the back of his mind that he could not reach.
 
“Did you lose something recently, Theomir?” he asked softly, staring ahead with a distant look in his eyes. Theomir seemed confused by the elf’s question and looked at him inquisitively. “Did you accidentally lose something of someone else’s?” he rephrased.

The child thought on this for a moment. “I lost my mama’s necklace,” he said, “She was mad at me. It was her favorite. She didn’t like me playing with it, but it was really pretty,” the child explained in a small, plaintive voice as if he was still upset about losing his mother’s necklace and having her mad at him, “I don’t remember where I put it.”

Legolas smiled down at the small boy gently. “Do you think your mother would still be mad at you if you found it?” he asked. The boy looked up at the elven prince with big blue eyes, eager to know how he could regain his mother’s forgiveness. “I think you should try looking behind the toy chest in your room,” Legolas leaned down and whispered into the boy’s ear just loud enough for the others in the room to overhear. As he said this, he gave a quick glance over at Eowyn standing not far from his bedside and flashed her a small, knowing smile. “I think you might find it there,” he said as he turned his attention back to Theomir and smiled at the child.

The little boy just smiled back up at Legolas, still too young to understand the full magnitude and meaning of the elf’s unexpected revelation. A quiet tension hung in the air around them as everyone observing the elf and child shared guarded, wary glances with each other.

“Well, Legolas, it was very nice seeing you again, but I fear we must be going,” Eowyn then suddenly spoke up and said. Her voice noticeable trembled despite her attempts to sound calm and cheerful. “It is almost time for Theomir’s nap.” 

“But I’m not sleepy!” the child in question whined in protest.

“Now none of that, Theo,” Eowyn reprimanded sternly. A note of desperateness to get out of that room tainted her voice. “I am sure Legolas also wants to rest, so we will not stay and bother him any longer.” 

“It is quite alright,” Legolas assured, “I have been resting the entire morning.”

“Even so,” Eowyn replied in repressed panic, “Theomir must still take his nap.” She quickly looked to her husband. “Faramir, will you get Theomir for me?” And with no more delay and leaving room for no argument, the White Lady of Rohan quickly strode towards the open door of Legolas’ room as fast as the cumbersome girth of her pregnant belly would allow. At the threshold she then stopped and looked back at her husband and son expectantly, waiting for them to follow.

Faramir stared after his wife in bewilderment for several seconds before looking back at Legolas with an almost apologetic look. He shrugged helplessly. “Well, it was very nice seeing you so much like yourself again,” Faramir said as he strode forward and gently lifted his son out of the elf’s lap. “Say goodbye to Legolas, Theo,” he said as he sat his son in the crook of his arm up against his chest.

“Bye, Leg’lass,” the child called, waving a tiny hand at the elf.

Legolas felt his heart instantly melt at the sound of his own mispronounced name. “Goodbye, Theomir. Will you come visit me again?” he asked hopefully with a wide smile spread across his face.

“I am sure we can arrange that...” Faramir smiled, overjoyed with finally seeing his friend acting more like the old Legolas he remembered and missed for the last five years. 

Legolas could only smile back. “Thank you,” he whispered. Faramir nodded and then turned with his son towards the door where his wife still stood anxiously hovering in the doorway.

“Bye, Leg’lass!” Theomir called again, still waving his little hand furiously in the air over his father’s shoulder as Faramir carried him out of the door and into the darkened hallway beyond. 

The elf sat for several long moments of silence, basking in the warm afterglow of his first encounter with the small child. A warm smile still lingered on his face. 

“Cute kid, isn’t he?” Elladan said quite innocently with a very suspicious grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he took a seat beside Legolas on the side of the bed.

 “You planned that whole thing, didn’t you?” Legolas stated more than asked with the barest hint of accusation in his voice. 

“What else were we suppose to do?” Elrohir said with a helpless shrug as he sat down on the other side of Legolas’ bed opposite his brother, “Wood-elves of Mirkwood are notoriously known for their thick-headedness and stubbornness to listen to reason.”

“Let alone the youngest prince of all wood-elves!” Elladan added with a small laugh.

Legolas did his best to look offended by the brother’ playful comments, but could not seem to keep his own playfulness from showing in response to their baited jab. “Well, I do have a reputation to uphold, you know...” he said, turning his nose up in mock-conceitedness. The twin were delighted by the prince’s sudden desire to joke – a thing they had not yet seen him do until now – and shared another triumphant glance. 

The brothers’ silent exchange failed to escape the prince’s keen gaze. “I suppose you want to start working on my physical therapy again now, don’t you?” he said knowingly.

“Only if you want to,” Elrohir answered simply.
 
Legolas leaned his head back against the headboard of his bed and looked up at the ceiling for a long moment of contemplative silence. A deep sigh of resignation escaped his lips before he finally answered. “Sure. Why not?” he said, looking back up at the twins as he began to throw the covers back from off his legs, “It’s not like I have anything else to do right now...”

Elrohir and Elladan exchanged truly excited and victorious grins. It had worked... 

“So what do my two torturers have planned for me today?” Legolas asked as Elladan helped him move over to the side of the bed and ease his bare feet down to the floor. 

“We were thinking about maybe a short walk to the other side of the room then back, and then maybe some strength resistance exercises. How does that sound?” Elrohir asked as he came round to the same side of the bed as his brother and Legolas.

“Sounds like an absolutely wonderful idea,” Legolas agreed sarcastically. Positioning themselves on either side of the elven prince, the two brother each slid an arm beneath Legolas’ and gently lifted him up to stand. Legolas wobbled dangerously on the weak supports of his withered legs and would have collapsed if it had not been for Elrohir and Elladan standing there beside him to help steady and support his frail body. Accepting the offered strength of his two friends, Legolas slowly took a shaking step forward. “You know,” he mused to himself as the brothers moved alongside him, “Maybe after this I could take a walk out on the balcony and sit outside for a while. I’m so tired of being trapped indoors all day in that bed. I swear I’ll go crazy if I don’t feel some actually sunlight and wind on my face.”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” Elrohir agreed, casting his brother another grin. This was the real Legolas talking. The elf they all remembered and loved. Legolas was finally truly back. 

*******

“Eowyn!” Faramir called as he hurried to catch up with his wife. “What happened back there?” he demanded, falling into stride beside her with his son still safely seated on his arm, “Why did you run out of there like that?”

“You promised...” was all she said in a low, almost accusing voice between clenched teeth as she continued to storm down the hallway back towards their apartments, “You promised...” Frightened, angry tears filled her eyes. 

“What did I promise?” Faramir asked in confusion.

“That nothing would happen!” she exclaimed shrilly, “You promised me nothing would happen with Legolas! That we would be there and nothing would happen!”
“And nothing did!” Faramir protested, “I mean, I don’t know how he knew about your necklace, but it was nothing like what happened with Gimli.”


“I don’t care,” Eowyn said, shaking her head as she sharply turned down the corridor that would lead them to back the apartments that were specifically reserved for the Steward’s family. “I don’t want Legolas to see Theomir again,” she then said, “I don’t want our son anywhere near him.”

“Eowyn!” Faramir exclaimed in shock, “How can you say that? This is our friend we’re talking about! Didn’t you see how happy seeing Theo made him? Legolas would never hurt Theomir!”

“That was the old Legolas,” Eowyn said firmly, “He’s changed since then. Ever since he woke up out of his coma he has been seeing these... these things that no one can explain! He is delusional and mentally unstable! He thinks he has some kind of psychic ability, but what it really is is just some kind of brain injury. You saw how he acted when he touched Gimli that first time. He could hurt someone! I do not want my son anywhere near him!”

“Theomir is my son too,” Faramir shot back heatedly, “And I trust Legolas with him. He would never harm our son!”

“You would risk your own son’s life with that elf after everything you’ve seen?!” Eowyn cried incredulously.

“I am risking nothing!” he exclaimed in absolute disbelief at what he was hearing coming out of his wife’s mouth. “Legolas would never harm a child!”

“Legolas is delusional!” Eowyn cried, her eyes beginning to water in anger and fear, “What he sees are hallucinations! I saw what happened to him after his accident! I saw his head and so did you! Gods, half of his skull was crushed in! How can you stand there and tell me he survived that without suffering some kind of ill effect?”

“What about the Glittering Caves?” Faramir shot back as he shifted his son to his other arm without even falling a step behind his wife, “Not even Lord Elrond can completely explain how Legolas could have known all those details about the cave-in when he didn’t even know the place existed!”

“Some things in this world are harder to believe than fiction,” Eowyn snapped.

“Then how can you not believe Legolas might actually have the gift of second-sight?” Faramir exclaimed as the small family finally came within sight of the doors to their private living quarters. “I have seen far more unbelievable things happen in the course of my life. Plus Legolas is one of the Firstborn! Elves possess some powers and abilities that us mortals cannot even begin to comprehend! It is not impossible!”
“No. Only improbable and highly unlikely,” his wife replied venomously as she grabbed the handle to their rooms and violently swung the door inward, “Even Elrond was frightened by Legolas, and he is one of the most powerful elves I have ever met,” she said, storming inside.

“Then should that not tell you that Legolas might possess something that even Elrond cannot explain?” Faramir called after his wife as he quickly followed her inside and shut the door behind him.

“Faramir, it was only coincidence that Legolas woke up just before Kim arrived to tell Gimli about the Glittering Caves, and only chance that he happened to somehow know about that cave. The rest was only by sheer luck of the guess.”

Faramir stood frozen in shock. “Eowyn... I cannot believe that even after everything you have seen and heard, you still do not believe even in the slightest bit that what happened to Legolas could not possibly be real.”

“That is because I only believe in things I can see with my own two eyes,” Eowyn replied icily, “And I am not the only one that thinks that way either...”

“Then how did he know about your necklace going missing?” Faramir inquired.

Eowyn paused, coming to a halt in the middle of the main living area of their apartment. She stood for a long moment of silence staring down into the cold fireplace of the room, lost in deep thought. “Such a thing was not kept secret. I know I told Arwen when she asked me about it when she did not see me wearing it one day. She could have easily told Aragorn or anyone else, who could have then told Legolas,” she said, turning back around towards her husband, “He could have easily heard from someone else.” She stood with her shoulders squared to her husband as if daring him to try and dispute that. But Faramir could now see a hint of doubt clouding her eyes.

The two stared at each other for a long moment of silence, the same thought racing through their heads. Not saying a word, Eowyn suddenly broke eye contact and swiftly disappeared through the door that led to Theomir’s playroom. Still holding his son, Faramir quickly follow.

As he entered the room, he found his wife on the other side of the room, sitting on the lid of Theomir’s toy chest which she had already managed to pull away from the wall several inches.
She sat hunched forward, dumbly staring down at her hand where something bright and shiny lay in the palm of her hand. Her other hand covered mouth as if to muffle an impending cry of disbelief. Even from the other side of the room, Faramir knew what lay in the palm of his wife’s hand. He could tell by the frightened look of disbelief in her eyes.

“My gods...” Eowyn murmured in a low, frightened voice. “He was right...,” she whispered under her breath, confirming Faramir’s belief.

Faramir knew he should have been somewhat surprised if not even a little bit disturbed by the accuracy of Legolas’ prediction of the missing necklace’s location, but he wasn’t. He just wasn’t. After witnessing the foretelling of the accident in the Glittering Caves, there had never been any real doubt of the authenticity of Legolas’ abilities in the Steward’s mind. Call him gullible or easily persuaded, but he had believed it right then and there. And now he was quite sure his wife was also a believer.

“Faramir, how did he know?” she questioned in a shaking, frightened voice as she finally broke her eyes away from the necklace sitting in the palm of her hand and looked up at her husband. “How did he know?”

Faramir gently sat Theomir down on the carpet where several toys lay scattered across the floor to distract the child’s attention, and moved to his shaking wife’s side. “I don’t know, Eo,” he said softly, using his pet name for his wife as he wrapped her in his embrace. “I just don’t know. But whatever it is, I know it’s real...”

Eowyn’s slender form was now trembling in his arms. She buried her face into her husband’s shoulder as a hitched and frightened sob escaped her lips. “My gods... But how can he know?” she whispered, looking back down at the gold, diamond set necklace she had inherited from her mother after the Lady’s death many years ago.

As she continued to stare down at her mother’s necklace which the elven prince of Mirkwood had in a very strange and frightening way returned to her, Eowyn suddenly remembered the look in Legolas’ eyes when he had glanced up at her for the brief moment of time after first asking about the missing necklace. They had looked dark and somehow sharp, like the blade of a sharpened sword – as if she could actually feel him looking deep inside her. 

And with a sudden surety, she knew Legolas’ powers were real, and that he truly could see everything he said he did.

******

To Be Continued...

******

I would really appreciate any kind of thoughts on what you think of this.  Rate or review!  Your pick!  Thanks a bunch!


Chapter 8 - Forgiveness and Friendship

In the days following Theomir’s visit, it was like a complete change came over Legolas. His appetite returned, and his bouts of self-pity and depression lessened. That was not to say he was once again the same carefree elf he was before his accident; for there were just too many things to keep Legolas from pretending nothing ever happened.

For one thing, he still could not walk on his own. But unlike before, Legolas was now fully committed to his own recovery. It now seemed as though nothing short of Death itself was going to keep him from overcoming his disabilities. During his exercises, he would push himself almost to the point of collapse, and then be so tired after his sessions with Elrohir and Elladan that he would almost immediately fall into an exhausted sleep for several hours. He tried to eat whatever he could to help regain his strength, but he still remained painfully thin and weak. His rehabilitation continued to progress slowly, but steadily. 

One of the hardest things Legolas had to adjust to was the five year gap that now separated him from everything he once knew and everything that now was. It was usually during conversations with Gimli or another one of his friends that something was said that would suddenly remind him of how much he had missed during his five years in a coma: a mention of a person in the palace or city who he had never met before, but who his friends seemed to have known now for several years; a light-hearted memory of some old prank one of the twin had pulled at the Summer Festival two years ago; news from the Hobbits in the Shire; marriages, births, deaths… All of it made Legolas feel as if something had been stolen from him. As if he had missed out on a very essential part of not only his own life, but also the lives of all his friends.

It was usually soon after one of these moments that Legolas would find himself falling into another depression that would last somewhere between several hours or several days until something managed to pull him out of it again. None of them were ever as severe as the first one that claimed him, but they were noticeable to those near to him.
It was not really his own lost years he mourned for during these bouts of depression; for he was immortal and the span of five years was nothing more than a drop of water in an ocean of time to him. No, to him five years was nothing. But in the lives of his mortal friends, five years was a very long time. And he was always somehow reminded of those precious years lost. Whether it be a single grey strand of hair streaking Gimli’s beard, or several hair-fine wrinkles creasing the corners of Aragorn’s mouth which he knew he had never seen before his accident, Legolas was always reminded of how much time he had lost with them. 

How many more stories could he have shared with Aragorn in that time? How many more jokes could he and Gimli have exchanged? Those had always been simple things he had taken for granted before his accident, but what he now saw as cherished moments worth more than all the riches of Middle-earth. It was like he could actually feel the passage of time slipping around him now like sand through an hourglass, slowly counting down the days until the enviable touch of mortality would finally steal those dear to him away.

He tried not to think such morbid thoughts when he knew so many years still lay ahead of him and all his friends, but Legolas still could not help feel as if some irreplaceable part of his like had been brutally stolen from him. 

But the tragedy of his loss was nothing in comparison to the horror of his gain. For it seemed as if in compensation of his injuries, Fate had decided to bestow him with a terrible gift. A gift he did not want, and a destiny he still did not know he had to fulfill. 

******


“You cheated!”

“I did not! Just because you were too preoccupied planning your own move and didn’t have any foresight to look ahead and see what my next move might be, do not accuse me of any foul play.”
Gimli scowled, and stared down at the chessboard sitting between himself and Legolas as if the pieces themselves were to blame for his defeat to the elven prince. “Foresight my axe…” he grumbled under his breath as his eyes swept over the board one last time, as if trying to see if he had missed something that would somehow invalidate the elf’s win. But he could find nothing, and his king remained undeniably captured by Legolas’ white knight. 

“Bah!” he finally grunted as he threw his hands up in defeat and leaned back in his chair, “I don‘t know how, but I still say you cheated. You probably used those powers of yours to somehow see what my next move would be, and knew everything I was going to do before I even did it.”

“I did not!” Legolas cried, feigning a look of affronted pride, “I would never cheat. Besides…” he added with a sly grin, “I don’t need to cheat against you. Like I’ve said numerous times in the past and just proven once again: a dwarf can never outsmart an elf in a game of strategy and wit.” Gimli glared at Legolas, earning himself another smug grin from the elf.
“Game of wit, eh?” he grunted. “Well, it may not be for a dwarf to waste his time always “strategizing” which piece should go on which square next like some elves he knows instead of just taking his turn, but it certainly does not take much wit for such a dwarf to put one gloating, overconfident elf back into his place with one quick chop of the axe…”

“Ah! Now see, that’s your problem, Gimli,” Legolas sighed as if in exasperation, “Always too rash to use that brain of yours the Valar actually deemed fit to gift you with. You know, it’s that dwarfish impatience of yours that always loses you your games.”

“Just keep it up, elf…” Gimli growled threateningly, “Or otherwise after I’m done with you, not even Elrond will be able to put you back together again.”

“Is that a threat, Master Dwarf?” Legolas inquired, cocking an eyebrow at the dwarf mockingly.
Gimli harrumphed loudly. “Don’t think that just because you’re a little incapacitated right now that I won’t give you what’s coming to you.”

The smile that had been gracing Legolas’ face up until that point slowly slipped from his face. “Incapacitated?” he repeated softly. The sound of the elf’s spirits dropping like a sack of bricks was almost audible to the dwarf sitting across from him. Trying to keep his voice light, Legolas forced a wan smile and said, “Just give me a couple months… and then we’ll see who puts who into his proper place.”

Gimli immediately saw his error and mentally kicked himself. He knew he had just crossed the fine line of their friendly banter and truly struck a nerve with his friend. He wanted to kick himself for his stupidity. Legolas was still highly sensitive about his inability to move and walk around on his own. “Oh, Legolas… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…”

“No. No, it’s alright,” Legolas assured, quickly waving off Gimli’s comment as though nothing was wrong even though it was painfully obvious the dwarf’s words had hurt him deep.

Despite Legolas’ assurances, Gimli felt absolutely terrible. He was about to try and apologize again for his careless words, but before he could, Legolas abruptly turned his face away from him and focused his attention on the palace gardens that lay sprawled out beneath the third floor balcony they sat on. 

Since Gondor was currently enjoying a particularly rare Indian Summer and the weather was still so nice even though it was nearing the end of October, the two had decided to sit out on the balcony of Legolas’ room for awhile and play a game of chess. A dark green blanket lay draped over Legolas’ legs and lap. In spite of the weather still being warm despite the late season, the elf seemed to have lost some of his elven endurance for cold during the long years of his coma and needed something extra to prevent him from taking a chill. It nevertheless was a small concession for him to accept for Elrond and the twins to let him out of the balcony to enjoy weather. And it had been a perfect afternoon all the way up until now.

“Legolas, I really am sorry…” 


The elven prince looked back at him. “Gimli, I said it was alright,” he said sharply, immediately halting any more apologizes the dwarf might have tried to make. An uncomfortable silence formed between the two as Legolas once again turned his attention back onto the fall-goldened trees in the garden below.

Gimli heaved a frustrated sigh. Great. He just touched off another one of Legolas’ moods. He hated seeing his friend like this, but there was little he could do. Almost anything set Legolas off. He could hardly say anything without somehow causing a disheartened look to spread across the elf’s face. It was frustrating and he knew it would be a long time before Legolas returned to his old self - if ever… But he refused to give up on his friend. He had spent too many years mourning his missing friend while the elf had slept in his coma for Gimli to just abandon him now. He wasn’t going to give up on Legolas. He was going to help him through this. He wasn’t going to leave him again like he had all those years ago…

“So how’s your physical therapy coming?” he asked, hoping to somehow redirect the elf’s attention. “From what I’ve heard from the twins, you’ve been making a lot of progress,” he added enthusiastically. 

Legolas looked back up at him. “I’m starting to be able to put more weight on my legs, but I still can’t really stand or walk on my own,” he answered softly, “My left leg is still bad. Elrond looked at it and said I will probably have a limp for awhile after I get back on my feet. Maybe even permanently, he doesn’t know… The muscles have deteriorated too much to know if I’ll be able to make a full recovery. But that’s still too far in the future to worry about right now… Right now, I just want to be able to walk on my own without the assistance of someone else there to hold me up.”

Gimli frowned slightly. He didn’t like that note of despair tainting the elf’s voice. “Come on, elf,” he said, “I bet anything you’ll be back on your feet and walking around before you even know it. In fact…” he smirked, trailing off enigmatically as he stood from his chair, “I have a gift for you…” 

With no other words spoken, Gimli turned and walked through the open doors that led back into Legolas’ room. Piqued with curiosity, Legolas stared after the retreating dwarf‘s back. After a few minutes, the dwarf finally returned, carrying a long, narrow bundle that was almost as long as he was tall. He sat back down in his seat, offering Legolas no explanation when the elf looked at him inquisitively. A sly smirk spread across the dwarf’s face as he slid the chessboard they had been using aside on the table and laid the wrapped package down in front of Legolas.

“Go on. Open it,” he directed, leaning back in his chair with a wide grin.

“What is it?” Legolas inquired, eyeing the package suspiciously.
Gimli made a feigned look of annoyance at the elf. “You’re just going to have to open it to find out, now aren‘t you?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. Legolas actually did his friend the favor of throwing the dwarf a half-hearted scowl. Gimli smiled wider. “You better hurry up and open it, elf, or I might just decide to take it back,” he threatened.

The elven prince shot Gimli one last inquisitive glance before finally looking down at the mysterious bundle in front of him. He slowly reached out and began to untie the cords that held the dark blue cloth wrapped around Gimli’s present in place. As he pulled the final tie away and lifted back the fold of cloth, Legolas’ eyebrows knotted together in surprise. 

“A cane?” he said, lifting a long, black walking stick out of it’s wrapping. He looked up at Gimli inquiringly. 

“I thought you might be able to use it to help you get back up on your feet,” Gimli explained. A satisfied smile spread across his face as he watched Legolas curiously begin to inspect his gift.

“It’s beautiful,” the elf said as his eyes slowly scanned the present. And it was. The cane was over three feet long and made of finely polished ebony. But that was not what truly caught Legolas’ eye. For topping the cane was a silver metal ball that served as its head; its surface was carved in the delicate design of twisting leaves and vines. The design was so detailed and precise that Legolas almost believed the crafted foliage real. He slowly ran his hand along the smooth shaft of the cane and gently fingered the silver handle. 

As he did so, he felt a small twinge in the back of his mind. His eyes grew distant. And like a sudden spark of knowledge, he knew. 

“You made this for me yourself, didn’t you?” It was not a question more than it was a statement of fact.

Gimli nodded proudly.

Legolas looked speechless. “Oh, Gimli… Thank you. I don’t really know what to say…” he stuttered as he looked down at his gift with wondrous eyes, greatly touched by the dwarf‘s gesture of friendship.

“Just say that you’ll stop moping around and use this to help you get back to normal.”

“Normal?” Legolas laughed incredulously, looking up at his friend, “After everything that’s happened, I hardly think normal is an option for me anymore…” He looked back down at his new cane and began to turn it over in his hands, admiring its craftsmanship. “And for your information…” he added as he set its end on the ground beside his chair and tapped it several times as if testing it out, “Elves do not mope…”

Gimli smiled. This was more like the old Legolas he knew… But the first thing the elf said still bothered him, and his smile slowly slipped from his face.

“You still having visions?” he asked, already knowing the answer. He had seen the way Legolas’ eyes had become unfocused and distant after first picking up the cane and then inquiring who its maker was, as if he had actually known it was him all along.

Legolas slowly laid his cane across his lap and looked up with a sigh. “Yes,” he said simply, disarmed into honesty by his friend’s calm, unjudging tone. He had come to trust Gimli as the only person he could really talk to about his strange and unknown powers.

“Ai, Gimli… If you only knew what it’s like,” Legolas moaned as he subconsciously rose a hand to the left side of his head and gently touched the raised section of scar tissue laying there beneath a patch of downy white hair. “It’s like flashes in my mind - images of things I can’t explain seeing. When I touched you that first time and saw the accident in the Glittering Caves, it was like I was actually there. I swear I could actually see and feel everything that was going on around me. I haven’t had any visions as powerful as that first one since, but I’m afraid of such a thing happening again. I’m afraid of what I might see…”

“At first I thought I could only sense things from people, but it’s like everything I touch can potentially cause a vision or give me some kind of sensation. A person, a book, a cup, this cane-” he said, lifting the walking stick in his lap up for emphasis, “-It doesn’t matter. I see things. I see them in my head. Sometimes it’s like I’ll touch something and then just know. Whether it be something in the past or something several moments in the future, I just know.”

“Have you tried controlling these visions?” Gimli asked curiously.

“I have, but I can’t,” the elf sighed, shaking his head tiredly, “They come sporadically with seemingly no real reason or purpose. I’m starting to get used to them, but it’s still all so strange. I can’t control my visions, but I’ve actually starting to learn how to manage them so that they are not just a barrage of random images, but more like watching a specific moment of time play out in my head.”

Legolas sighed deeply then and turned his head to look out over the gardens again. “Gimli, I’m so confused…” he whispered softly under his breath, “I don’t understand these powers. I don’t know why I have them. It just doesn’t make any sense. I don’t understand why the Valar cursed me with these powers after everything I‘ve lost because of that accident five years ago. I know I may sound childish and whiny, but I can‘t help feel as if I‘m being punished for something.”

“Perhaps they gave you these powers because they have some greater purpose planned for you…” Gimli knew how empty a consolation that had to sound to someone who had suffered so much, but it was the only thing he could think of to say to give any sort of reason or purpose to the horrible accident that stole his friend from him so many years ago and then returned to him, now changed and possessed with strange, frightening powers. 

Legolas snorted. “Funny… I never would have never pegged you as being the philosophical type…” Gimli saw a wan smile pull at the corner of Legolas’ lips at the playful jab, but it quickly faded away as Legolas became serious once again. “Gimli, I don’t understand these powers. I’m so tired of these visions. I’m so tired of people looking at me as if I’ll attack them if they get too close. You should have seen Eowyn the other day when she and Faramir brought Theomir to see me. It was like she was afraid I’d actually hurt her if she stayed any longer…”

“Yes, I heard about the incident with the missing necklace from Aragorn. Apparently the Lady Eowyn was very distraught over you finding it the way you did, and told Lady Arwen all about it,” Gimli nodded thoughtfully. 

“You see!” Legolas cried, “Even my friends think me a freak of nature!”

“They do not,” the dwarf reprimanded sternly, “Don’t you ever think that. They care for you and want to see you get better. It’s just that they’re still a little unsure about your new… abilities…”

“But you do not see the look in their eyes… the fear,” Legolas whispered bitterly, “They are afraid of me. I can tell. Or if they don’t shy away from me in fear, they look at me as if I’m crazy.”

Gimli’s expression softened at the sound of bitterness lacing the elf’s voice. “Well, I’m your friend,” he said softly, “And I’m not afraid of you or think you’re crazy. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

Legolas slowly raised his eyes and looked into Gimli’s. He stared into the dwarf’s dark brown eyes for several long heartbeats of silence, his eyes unsure and imploring the truth of Gimli’s words. But he saw no trace of deception or untruth in his friend’s eyes, only honesty and love. 

With a timid smile, Legolas broke eye contact and looked back down at the cane laying across his lap. “Thank you, Gimli,” he said softly, “I sometimes forget how much the opinion of a dwarf is really worth.” He slowly looked back up at his friend. “I don’t know what I would have done if it wasn’t for you standing by me through all of this,” he then added in a quiet voice.

Gimli tried to hide the small blush that rushed to his ruddy cheeks at such a heart-felt confession, and turned his face to the side. “Aww… There you go getting all sentimental on me again,” he gruffed in the toughest voice he could manage, “It’s just like an elf to get all teary-eyed over something that’s only meant as an encouragement, and make something more out of it than it really is.”

Legolas smiled fondly at his friend. “Maybe so, Master Dwarf, but at least an elf known how to show his emotions instead of hiding them behind a faÇade of stone like most dwarves.”
“It’s worked well for us so far, and I don’t intend on being the first dwarf to change my ways now,” Gimli coughed, still feigning emotional indifference.

“Pity…” the elf sniffed in disappointment, “I had hoped that after so many years even without my guidance someone would have taught you the value of expressing your feelings.”
“Humph,” the dwarf snorted. “Well, I guess that just means you have your work cut out for you to teach me these values you speak of…”
Legolas smiled deeper. “I suppose I do then. For I have had the misfortune of experiencing the renowned stubbornness of dwarves first-hand on numerous occasions already.”

Gimli said nothing in reply, but let a satisfied grin spread across his bearded face. Yes, it would take some time for Legolas to get used to these new power he had, but there was hope for the elf. And he was determined to see it done.

The two were about ready to reset the board for another game of chess so that Gimli may try and regain his pride from his previous defeat, but before they could an unexpected visitor stepped out onto the balcony from Legolas’ room. 

“Aragorn,” Legolas called out as he looked back over his shoulder and saw his friend standing there in the doorway, “Come join us. We were just about to have another game of chess. Maybe with you here to oversee the match, there won’t be any way for Gimli to dispute my win when I beat him again.”

“We’ll see about that, elf,” the dwarf grumbled under his breath as he began resetting his pieces into place on his side of the board.

“I would,” the man replied, noticeably shifting his weight from one foot to the other almost nervously, “But I was actually wondering if I might have a moment alone to speak with you, Legolas.”

The dwarf and elf both looked up at Aragorn. There was something in their friend’s voice that immediately told them something was wrong and troubling Aragorn. Legolas glanced over at the dwarf. “Would you excuse us for a minute, Gimli?”

“Of course. I’ll be inside waiting,” he said as he got up from his chair and walked back towards the open door to Legolas’ room. As he walked past Aragorn, the dwarf cast a concerned glance up at the man’s face before moving past and into Legolas’ room.

As Gimli disappeared from sight, Legolas looked back up at Aragorn who was still standing uncertainly in the doorway. “Come, Aragorn. Sit down,” he directed, motioning to the seat Gimli had just vacated. 

The man nodded wordlessly and strode forward to take the proffered seat across from Legolas on the other side of the small table that had been set out on the balcony for the elf and dwarf’s use. For a long moment of uncomfortable silence, the man and elf just sat there, quietly staring at each other. It was obvious Aragorn had something very important he had to say, but could not seem to find the words to say it.

Finally he spoke. “That’s a beautiful cane,” he said, looking down at the object in the elf’s lap, “Who gave it to you?”

“Gimli did,” the elf answered, looking once again down at the dwarf’s gift, “He made it for me himself.”


“Ah, yes. I remember Gimli saying he was working on something special for you, but refused to tell any of us what it was,” Aragorn nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, it was a very thoughtful gift,” Legolas agreed, “It should prove very useful once I get back on my feet.” Despite his pride of his new cane, Legolas knew Aragorn had not come to talk to him about the dwarf’s gift. There was something troubling Aragorn; he could see it in his eyes. “So what was it you wished to speak to me about?” he asked as he set his cane aside and propped it against the balcony railing.

The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat and subconsciously dropped his eyes to the ground, as if unable to look into the elf’s eyes. This only worried Legolas more about his friend’s odd behavior. “What is it, Aragorn?” he pressed worriedly, “What’s wrong?” He had never seen the man act like this before and it was honestly starting to worry him.

Aragorn took a deep breath as if trying to muster the courage to speak. He continued to stare down at the ground as if it was the only thing he could do to keep the tears that were slowly starting to form in his eyes from falling. The elf sat in shock, unable to understand what was causing his friend so much distress. “Aragorn-”

“I’m sorry,” the man finally blurted out, “I am so sorry. I never meant to do it…”

“Do what?” the elven prince demanded in confusion.

“Leave you,” Aragorn replied, slowly raising watery eyes up to finally look at the elf. “I had to apologize and confess for what I did. After your accident, I believed you were going to regain consciousness at any time. So I stayed with you to be there when you woke up. But after a couple months, I started to lose hope of ever seeing you awake again and stopped going to see you. I couldn’t make myself sit there and see you like that and know there was nothing I could do for you. Then after the first couple years, I started to almost make myself believe you were never going to wake up again so that I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about not staying there with you like a truer friend would have done. I left you and tried to forget that you still lived. You lay here in this room - in this same building as I! - for almost four years and I came to see you no more than half as many times. I am a terrible friend and beg you for your forgiveness…”

Legolas sat speechless, unable to find the words to answer such an unforeseen and heart-wrenching confession like the one he just heard. “Aragorn…” he stammered,” Why did you only come to talk to me about this now? Why not before?”

Aragorn turned his face away in shame. “Because each day I see you looking more and more like the friend I abandoned all those years ago. Because you are no longer some lifeless body I can fool myself into thinking is not the person I’ve known and loved as my friend and brother for half my life.”

“Aragorn,” Legolas said softly as he leaned across the table and lightly touched his friend’s arm. “I was in a coma for five years. Five years! I cannot fault you for giving up hope after such a time. I know I would have too. It would be foolish and selfish of me to have expected you to have stayed by my bedside for so many years.” He could see he was starting to reach his friend, for the man timidly lifted his head up off his chest a bit to finally look the elf in the eyes. “You had greater responsibilities to see to than just me,” Legolas continued, determined to make the man hear his words, “You had a country depending on you for your leadership and guidance. You could have never rightfully abandoned your duty and responsibilities because of me.”
Despite the lingering, unshed tears still shining in his eyes, Aragorn stifled a small laugh. “You have no idea how much you just sounded like my father…” he said, shaking his head at the irony of such a thought. 

“Then Elrond is an even wiser elf than I ever imagined,” Legolas replied. “Besides, if I had woken to find that you had stayed by my side for five years I would have personally cuffed you over the head.”

Turning his head to the side, Aragorn tried to hide the unbidden smile that sprang onto his face at the elf’s implied threat of physical violence behind a curtain of dark brown hair. Legolas was almost ready to believe he had finally succeeded in dissuading his friend‘s feelings of guilt, but before he could, the smile that had been gracing the king’s face slowly melted away again into an expression of haunted guilt. 

“Perhaps…” he murmured softly to himself, “Perhaps I couldn’t have abandoned my country, but that still doesn’t excuse my neglect of you,” he said, looking back up into Legolas’ eyes. “I did not come to see you even when Arwen found time to come, if only to sit by your side and hold your hand. I had lost so much hope of ever seeing you awake again that I tried to convince myself you had really died in that accident and all that lived on was just an empty shell. I gave up hope even when others did not. I failed you as a friend. I abandoned you when you needed me the most. And then after you woke up and had that strange vision of the Glittering Caves, I abandoned you once again by not standing by your side and helping you cope with these new powers you seem to possess. I have not been a good friend and can no longer live with my guilt.” Aragorn desperately stared into Legolas’ eyes. “Please…” he begged in a low voice of anguished guilt, “Can you ever forgive me?”

Legolas sat for a long moment of silence pondering the man’s request before finally answering. 

“No.”

Aragorn looked as if he had just been slapped across the face. “No…?” he repeated numbly, as if unable to comprehend the word. 

“No,” Legolas repeated firmly, “Because there is nothing to forgive.” Aragorn looked at the elven prince in surprise. 
“What?” he stammered.

“There is nothing for me to forgive,” Legolas repeated. He slowly leaned across the table again and stared into his friend’s eyes deeply. “Aragorn, you had your own life to live instead of hopelessly waiting for me to wake up. You say I needed you while I was in my coma, but I don’t even remember the presence of anyone who did come to sit by me. So how were you needed if I wouldn’t have even remembered you there?” Aragorn looked ready to argue this, but was quickly cut off. “No, Aragorn. I was in a coma for five years, and your presence by my side wouldn’t have changed anything. What I do need though is you by me now. I need my friends now more than ever before. You have nothing to feel guilty about. But if your conscious still troubles you because of thoughts and false illusions of blame or guilt, then do your penance by standing by me now, even if you do not believe in these powers I have.”

Aragorn considered the elf deeply for a long moment. “I believe in you, Legolas,” he said softly after a time, “Even if I cannot understand these powers of second-sight, I will not leave you to face them alone. I won’t abandon you again.”

“Then we have come to an understanding,” Legolas said, smiling gently at his friend, “And there is nothing for you to feel guilty about any more.”

Aragorn seemed to finally accept this and nodded gratefully to the blond haired elf. It suddenly felt as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in many days, he finally felt free and at peace with himself and the world.

Legolas could almost see the visible weight of guilt lift from over his friend like a heavy mist. “Well,” the elf then exclaimed happily, clapping his hands together as a sign of closure on the matter, “Now that that’s out of the way, what say you we call our neglected friend back. I still have to beat him again and prove once and for all that a dwarf can never out win an elf.”

Aragorn laughed heartily at this, feeling for the first time since Legolas’ awakening that he truly had his old friend back: the same stubborn elf that even when going through possibly the most difficult and depressing time of his life, he refused to let any of his friends feel guilty or the least bit disheartened by his own condition. This truly was the Legolas he remembered.

“I’ll go get Gimli then,” Aragorn said, standing up from his seat with a wide grin now brightening his once guilt-ridden face.

Legolas looked up at his friend. “I assume you’ll stay and join us?” he asked hopefully. 

“Of course,” the man smiled, “Who else but the king of Gondor would be brave or foolish enough to dare mediate a chess match between a dwarf and elf when the stakes are so high? I do not want to see a fight break out between you two just when you are starting to make such progress with your physical therapy.”

“What are you talking about?” Legolas cried as if in insult, “If such a brawl ever broke out, it wouldn’t be me taking the abuse, but Gimli who would be in need of the twin’s help to learn how to walk again!”


Aragorn shook his head, chucking under his breath. “You know, it’s things like this that make me sometimes wonder how you two haven’t killed each other yet,” he laughed as he stepped around the small table standing between him and Legolas back towards the open doors of the balcony. As he came up beside his friend, the man paused and laid a hand on Legolas’ bony shoulder. “Thank you,” he softly whispered into the elf’s pointed ear, “You don’t know how good it is to finally have you back…” And with nothing else said, Aragorn then turned and walked back in the direction of Legolas’ room to retrieve their bearded companion. 

But Legolas did not hear what Aragon said. He sat stiffly frozen in his seat, blankly staring ahead into the distance as his friend disappeared from sight back into the palace behind him. If Aragorn had waited but a moment longer, he would have seen Legolas’ eyes suddenly darken, as if an ominous storm cloud had passed over them.

Releasing a shuddering breath of air he hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding, Legolas shook himself out of his trance. Breathing hard to keep himself calm, the elf whipped around in his seat and stared in the direct Aragorn had just disappeared, desperately trying to comprehend what he had just seen in a brilliant flash of white in his mind at Aragorn‘s touch. A single silver tear slowly rolled down his cheek in silent horror of what he had just seen. 

He had seen Aragorn and a group of other men standing in a circle in the middle of a decrepit, trash-strewn alley located somewhere probably in the lower levels of the city. They stood staring down at something laying on the ground at their feet.

It was a body. The body of a young woman laying face down in the slimy filth of the alley. Her clothes had been violently torn and ripped away from her body. Her skirt lat hitched up over her waist, revealing the cold dead flesh of her legs below. Blood pooled over the ground beneath her head - or what was left of it. He could see no discernable features of a face within the bloody mess that lay twisted to the side under a tangled mess of raven black hair that did little to hide the mutilation of her face.

He could not see the dark outlines of violent fingers imprinted into the soft flesh of her neck, but he knew she had been brutally strangled and raped. And although he tried to push the horribly image of the girl’s cold, desecrated body from his mind, Legolas knew that this was not the first of such murders to have occurred in the white city. Nor was it the last.

******

To Be Continued…

******
Like it? Hate it? Tell me! I like to hear what you think either way!

Well, that sub plot I started all the way back in chapter three or something like that is finally starting to come back into play. But more on that later… Well, guess who’s finally going to be arriving next chapter. Any guesses? Yes? No? Well, here’s a few hints: he’s tall, he’s blond, he’s somebody’s father, and he’s going to be in for quite a bit of angst when he finally sees his son who he hasn’t seen awake in over five years. Still no guesses? Aw, what am I going to do with you people?

‘Till next time!


Chapter 9 - A Father's Joy And Despair

Hey, thought I was dead, didn't you?  Well, I'm not.  Just beng really lazy about updating new chapters...  I guess I was kinda discouraged there for awhile about feedback.   Thanks to those people that reviewed the last chapter.  I really appreciate that.  Well, anyway, big things happening this chapter.  Hope you like.  As I do believe I promised last chapter, a certain tall, blonde haired elf who hasn't seen his son is years is finally going to be showing up.  

Enjoy!



******

“Legolas, be careful. Don’t overexert yourself,” Elladan cautioned, keeping a firm grip on Legolas’ arm.

“I’m fine. I got this,” the elven prince said, totally ignoring the other’s obvious concern for him as he shakingly staggered forward on the thin supports of his legs. The twins moved alongside him, flanking either side. Between them, the two brothers helped support the Legolas’ frail body up by his armpits, his arms thrown over both their shoulders.

Over the many weeks of rehabilitation since waking out of his coma, Legolas had begun to regain more use of his legs. With each passing day he became stronger and more confident in his returning abilities. But despite all the time and effort spent thus far, he still had yet to walk on his own fully unaided. 

He slowly stepped a shaking foot out and gingerly shifted his weight onto it before than following that one with the other. Moving in a limping, hobbled stumble, the prince continued his advance, his eyes determinately locked on the other side of the room. His legs stung and burned, but he played little attention to the pain. He was going to make it.

He hardly even noticed the brothers helping him anymore. All he could do was focus on the other side of the room – his intended target standing a taunting mere fifteen feet away. Nothing was going to keep him from reaching it. Nothing. 

Strands of long blonde hair that had loosened themselves from Legolas’ braids sometime during the last hour of physical therapy with the twins hung down around his face, damp and stringy with perspiration. Sweat beaded along his forehead and rolled down his face. His breathing was labored, coming in short gasping rasps. His lungs burned with the effort of forcing his withered leg muscles to support and carry his body across the room. His legs burned. They hurt. He could feel tears of pain beginning to build in the corners of his eyes from the fiery agony screaming up and down every fiber and sinew of his legs. But he grit his teeth against the pain and willed himself to ignore it. 

He couldn’t give up. Not now. Not when he was so close to reaching his goal. He had almost transversed the entire length of his room. He had never managed to make it this far before. 

Staggering one foot in front of the other while still leaning on the offered support of his friends, Legolas continued to totter his way to victory. He still depending on the twins to help steady and support his body to walk, but he had begun to find himself having to rely on them less and less each day. 

He was now within almost ten feet of reaching the other side of the room.

In his anxiousness to reach his goal, Legolas quickened his pace. He lurched forward, pushing more effort into his already screaming leg muscles. But as Legolas began to shift his weight from his left foot up onto his right to take another step, Legolas felt his legs finally succumb to overexertion and suddenly crumble out from under him. An involuntary cry and pain rang out as he stumbled forward. He tried to catch himself but his legs were nothing more than limp dead weights beneath him now. He felt himself begin to fall and saw the ground begin to rush up to meet him.

But he did not fall far; for Elrohir and Elladan immediately felt Legolas’ legs give out beneath him and easily caught the collapsing elf. Legolas cried out in pain again as the twins quickly righted him and supported his now completely limp body between them. 

A whistled hiss of pain escaped the elf’s tightly clenched teeth. He weakly kicked against the ground, desperately trying to get his legs back up under him to stand. But his legs throbbed mercilessly and refused to support his weight any longer. “Ahh!” Legolas screamed in agony as his legs once again collapsed out from under him like a pair of wet noodles despite his determination to press on. 

“Alright. That’s enough,” Elrohir finally announced as he reached out and wrapped an arm around Legolas’ waist to keep the exhausted elf from sagging down between him and his brother. “You’ve done enough for today.”

“No. No, I can do more,” Legolas panted weakly, still stubbornly trying to right himself and stand on his own power.

“No, you can’t,” Elladan said, seeing the undeniable exhaustion written across the other elf’s gaunt face. “Come on. Let’s sit down for awhile and rest,” he suggested as he and his brother hauled the almost completely limp prince towards a nearby chair they had positioned there for just such a purpose.

Gently easing Legolas back into the chair, Elrohir and Elladan slid the prince’s arms from off around their shoulders. Despite his attempts to hide his fatigue, Legolas immediately fell back into the chair panting weakly, his eyes closing in exhaustion as he tried to recover his strength. 

“Legolas, you’re pushing yourself too hard again,” Elladan sighed as he gently pet back some of the stray hair from his friend’s face, “You have to stop doing this. Pushing yourself to the limit like this isn’t going to get you up and walking on your own any faster – you’re only hurting yourself.”

“But I almost did it,” Legolas whispered softly with something of a small smile creasing his exhausted face as he slowly cracked open a pair of heavy eyelids and looked up at his friends, “I almost walked the entire room. Didn’t you see? I almost did it.”

“Yes, we saw. You did very well,” Elrohir praised as he stepped forward with a damp rag he had gotten from a nearby table and patted it across Legolas’ sweaty forehead. “You are making progress.” Legolas smiled tiredly as he leaned his head back against the back of the chair and let Elrohir gently sponge his face and neck with the cool cloth. The damp rag felt good on his overheated skin. As he sat trying to recover his strength from the strenuous ordeal of crossing the large guestroom, Legolas could feel his previously ignored exhaustion begin to seep down into his bones like a lead weight. 

When Elrohir finally finished and set the cloth aside, Legolas willed himself to ignore his weariness and sit up straighter in his chair. “Have you noticed I don’t have to lean on you as much anymore?” he asked softly in a tired voice as he looked up at the two with a victorious smile beginning to pull at his lips despite his obvious fatigue. 

“Yes we have,” Elladan smiled, indulging his friend with enthusiasm. He knew how much of a victory just walking across the room meant to Legolas who still sometimes struggled to remember he had been in a coma for the last five years and was no longer capable of some of the tasks he had been able to do before his accident – like just walking on his own. “Like Elrohir said, you’re making a lot of progress, “I can see you getting better every day.”

Legolas smiled again, tiredly letting his head loll back against the chair. “At this rate, I’ll be walking on my own in a few days,” he said with a wistful look of anticipation in his eyes.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here!” Elrohir cried, holding his hands up in front of his chest, “I know you’re starting to be able to support more of your weight by yourself, Legolas, but you’re still nowhere near being able to walk on your own just yet. Your legs still aren’t strong enough.”

Legolas seemed to ignore Elrohir and just closed his eyes, feeling his exhaustion weighting down on his consciousness more and more with each passing minute. He wished he didn’t always feel so tired after his sessions with the twins, but he was determined to walk on his own again without the aid of anyone else. And if that meant pushing himself to the breaking point, than that was what he was willing to do. 

“Legolas, I’m serious,” Elrohir persisted, mistaking his friend’s exhaustion for a careless dismal of his concern for his welfare. “Look at you. You’re about to pass out from exhaustion – and that was even with our help. I know you hate having to depend on others to help you, but it’s just too early for you to be thinking about walking on your own. Your legs aren’t strong enough for that just yet.” Legolas said nothing in reply and as he continued to lean back in his chair, slowly drifting off into unconsciousness. Slightly worried by Legolas’ lack of response, Elrohir took a tentative step closer to the elven prince. “Legolas, are you listening to me?”

“Yes. I’m listening,” came a tired reply, the blonde archer still not opening his eyes. “I’m just a little tired that’s all.”

The younger Imladris prince sighed and leaned down over his painfully thin friend. “Legolas,” he said softly as he smoothed back several wayward strands of hair from the other elf’s face, “You’re more than just tired. You’re exhausted.”

“Stop mothering me,” Legolas snorted in feigned annoyance. “And what have I told you about touching me,” he added as he swatted Elrohir’s hand away from his face.

Elrohir rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Will you please just promise me that you won’t try to walk on your own without Elladan, me, or someone else here? I don’t want to see you hurt yourself.”

Legolas slowly cracked open a pair of heavy eyelids and looked up at Elrohir with a steady gaze. “Why are you so worried about me all of a sudden? I thought it was your job to want to see me get better and be able to walk around on my own again.”

“I do want to see you get better, but I worry because I know you,” Elrohir replied bluntly, “I know the first chance you get you’re going to try and see how far you can make it on your own power without anyone helping you.”

“I’m not going to hurt myself,” Legolas retorted sharply, starting to become slightly irritated with the other’s alluded doubts to his returning abilities to walk. Elrohir however still seemed unconvinced. “Oh, fine!” Legolas huffed in exasperation, “I promise I won’t hurt myself by trying to walk on my own without you or someone else here to supervise me like some kind of nurse. There. Are you happy now?” he snorted snappily. 

“Quite,” Elrohir replied with a satisfied smile. He could tell Legolas was starting to get cranky and short- tempered because of his tiredness, but Elrohir still could not help but find himself finding some kind of subtle amusement out of the other’s situation. Before Legolas’ accident, Legolas had never let himself be seen as anything other than the calm, cool-headed warrior prince of Mirkwood. So it was than a rare opportunity indeed for Elrohir to be able to get a playful rise out of his friend and know that Legolas was still as every bit vulnerable and real as any other living being. Finally deciding he should take some pity on his friend’s miserable state of exhaustion, Elrohir decided to trust in Legolas’ assurances of not trying to walk on his own and let the issue rest for the time being. 

“Come on,” he said as he took a step closer to the side of Legolas’ chair. Slipping a hand beneath the prince’s arm, Elrohir motioned for his brother to do the same on Legolas’ other side, and together the two gently helped raise the other elf out of the chair back towards the large bed sitting on the other side of the room. 

Legolas, by now, was too exhausted to try and aid in his journey back across the room or put up any form of protest to his ungracious mode of transport, and merely let himself be half-dragged, half-carried by the twins back towards his waiting bed. As the three slowly made their way back across Legolas’ room towards the large, comfortable looking bed, Elladan casually glanced over at his blonde charge.

“Aragorn wanted me to ask you, Legolas, if you would be willing to try and come down to the great hall tonight to dine with the royal family. We would have to help carry you down there of course, but father says you seem to be strong enough to join the rest of us for dinner.”

Legolas looked over at his friend in momentary surprise and then building excitement. Even though it had been over a month since his awakening, he still had yet to actually leave his apartments except to go out on the balcony. He had tried to hide his growing agitation from the others, but he was starting to feel restless and anxious like a caged animal from being so confined to his rooms for so long. All of his meals up until now had been delivered to him, and he only ever saw his friends when they themselves came to visit him. The prospect of finally being able to leave his room and join all his friends for evening meal was nothing short of a god-send to his ears.

“Yes!” Legolas cried without even a moment’s hesitation, “Yes, of course! I’ve been wanting to get out of this room for so long I thought I was about to go crazy!”

Elrohir and Elladan both smiled, unable to hide their mirth at seeing their friend get so excited just over dinner. “Good,” Elrohir nodded as they began to come up alongside Legolas’ bed, “Everyone’s been looking forward to you joining us again.”

For a moment, it seemed as if all of Legolas’ previous exhaustion had been altogether forgotten in anticipation of the coming evening. The brother’s could hardly help but smile at the look of utter excitement spreading across Legolas’ wearied face. He reminded them of an elfling on his birthday. But as the twins helped ease Legolas’ weary body back down into the comfortable sheets of his bed, it was like all of Legolas’ fatigue came rushing back to him like a tidal wave of exhaustion. Tiredly, he collapsed back into his nest of pillows. He lay completely still, his eyes closed, trying to regain his strength. 

“Do you want me to give your legs a massage, Legolas?” Elladan asked as he stood straight from over the elf’s bed, “It will help keep them from becoming stiff from exercise.”

“No,” Legolas replied with a shake of his head, “I told you I don’t like being touched.”

Elladan nodded in understanding. Ever since coming out of his coma and discovering his new abilities, Legolas avoided any kind of unnecessary touch like the plague. He visibly shied away from anyone that made even the smallest sign of trying to touch him – even if it was by one of his closest friends. He allowed Elrohir and Elladan to touch him, but only in the context of his physical therapy. It was often frustrating and almost always disheartening to see Legolas cringe away from his friends as if he were afraid they would actually hurt him. Aragorn and Gimli had taken this new change in their friend the hardest. They continued to faithfully stand by their friend and visit him everyday, but the hurt in their eyes whenever the elven prince shied away from them was painfully obvious to anyone that looked. 

Quietly stepping forward, Elladan pulled a blanket over his friend’s thin form. “We’ll come get you later on tonight when it’s time to go down,” he said. 

“Alright,” Legolas replied softly, his eyes starting to slowly drift shut and grow distant with impending unconsciousness. 

“Get some rest,” Elrohir advised as he began to turn for the door with his brother close beside him to let the prince rest in peace, “I’m almost certain Aragorn is planning on making tonight something of a celebration and welcoming back feast for you.”

“Sounds wonderful,” came a faint, whispery reply from the barely visible figure of their friend laying under a small mound of bedding in the large bed. The brothers said nothing in response and only turned for the door. They could tell Legolas was already drifting off into deep sleep to recuperate from the strenuous ordeal of his physical therapy and would probably sleep until late that afternoon. 

And so, with a soft, barely audible click, the two brothers closed the door to Legolas’ room behind them, leaving the prince to find rest and rejuvenation in the peaceful dreamscapes of elven sleep.

******

Amroth stood at his post on the first gate of Minas Tirith looking out over the grassy plains of the Pelannor Fields beyond. It was only an hour or so into his watch, but he could already tell today was going to be boring like most any other day he was assigned to stand guard over one of the gates of the city. 

The young man sighed loudly out of boredom. When he had first joined the White Guards as a youth of eighteen only several months before, he had dreamed of exciting adventures and great battles like those in the stories his father – another White Guard before him – used to tell him as a little boy. Little has he known that being in the king’s service was sometimes nothing more than a glorified watchman’s position.

Amroth glanced down at the small but steady stream of people passing through the mighty stone portal of the gateway below. It’s towering doors of steel and mithril stood open to the flow of traffic, allowing complete access both in or out of the white city. Once not too long ago those doors would have been the first opposing defense of the city, strong enough to withstand the assault of battering rams and sieging armies. 

But not anymore. For after so many years of senseless bloodshed and war, Gondor had finally won itself an era of peace, and the city’s once grand and impregnable gates now really only served as a lasting reminder to those passing through it of all the past hardships and battles fought for the protection of the city.

Amroth sighed again. It wasn’t that he didn’t like peace as much as any of his fellow men, but that did not mean he didn’t wish for a little excitement now and again. Anything to break the monotony of his duties: standing watch, seeing to the flow of traffic trough the gates, and occasionally checking the paperwork and documents of merchants coming into the city to seel or trade goods. Other than that, that was about as much excitement as Amroth usually saw in any given day of regular duty.

Despite his boredom though, Amroth continued to faithfully man his post. The one thing he couldn’t complain about was the view. From his perch atop the parapet of the outer wall of the city, the young guard could almost see the entire Pelannor Fields spread out before him in one huge, sweeping panoramic view. 

Following with his eyes the straight line of the paved roadway that ran towards the east, Amroth could see fair Osgiliath peacefully laying on either side of the Anduin in the distance. Branching off from that main roadway between the two sister cities halfway out across the Pelannor Fields was another intersecting road that ran perpendicular to Minas Tirith from north to south. 

It was as Amroth was silently taking in the quiet beauty of the rolling landscape that he happened to notice in the distance a small group of riders rapidly approaching the city from the north. He was instantly seized with curiosity. Though the group was still several miles or more out on the open plains, Amroth could tell they were riding at frighteningly fast speeds – faster than any other rider he had ever seen. Already since spotting them, the small company of riders had transversed probably a mile in less than a few minutes.

As the mysterious company of riders continued to draw ever closer to the towering white gates of the city, Amroth could begin to make out features of the unknown riders. 

There were no more than six of them. From their proximity now Amroth could see they wore no visible sign of armor or chain mail, but rather were dressed in clothes of varying shades of green and brown. Several banners of green and gold all bearing the stylized design of a leaf intertwined with vines snapped in the air above their head as the company flew across the plains at breakneck speeds. 

The group was now within only moments of reaching the gate and showing no signs of slowing. 

Suddenly feeling apprehensive of these unknown riders, Amroth turned and sped towards a set of stone stairs that would lead him down to the streets below. He flew down the stairs, his plates of armor clinking together noisily all the way down.

As he finally reached the bottom, a loud, authoritative voice rang out behind him. “Amroth!” it roared, “What do you think you’re doing abandoning your post?”

The young man quickly turned around and saw his captain stalking towards him. By the look chiseled into the older man’s face, it was obvious he was not happy with his newest guard’s actions.

“Sir!” Amroth cried, rushing towards him, “There is a company of riders rapidly approaching the gates. They do not appear to be merchants and do not show signs of slowing. They only carry green banners of identification.”

The older man paused and considered this. This sounded like some kind of group of visiting dignitaries, but he had not been given any notification from the palace to expect any such arrivals. Just as a precaution they should probably investigate the matter. After all, he was in charge of security of the gates and was not about to let any suspicious people into his city – especially if they were approaching as recklessly as Amroth said and were offering no form of identification.

“You two!” the commander barked at two nearby guards, “Come with me. You too, Amroth,” he said pushing his way towards the open gate of the city. Amroth hurried to follow as the two other guards and his commander hurried to stand in a line just inside the gates. The small company was now clattering up the stone roadway towards the gates. Now at ground level with the group of riders quickly bearing down on them, Amroth suddenly wished he was still standing up on the parapet, out of the way of action.

As the group drew nearer, the young man was startled to see that these mysterious riders were no men but rather elves! Manes of long silken hair flowed out over their shoulders and flew in the wind behind them. He could now see they used no form of bit or tack on their horses. But they did not seem to need it, for the riders masterfully sat astride their mounts, using only gentle touches to direct the animals.

Amroth was suddenly overcome with a mixture of awe, fear, and curiosity. He had never seen elves up close before and it was an awesome sight to behold the approaching company. 

It was then he noticed the elf that seemed to be leading the company and his breath almost caught in his throat. The elf in question was a sight the young guard of Gondor had never seen before. He had long golden hair like most of the others elves in the group, but it was the physical aura of power Amroth sensed radiating off the elf and the look of utter determination brewing in the being’s ancient eyes that made the young man suddenly want to slink away and hide in intimidation.

For a moment, it seemed as if the company of riders were not going to stop and were just going to run over the small line of guards standing in their path. People milling in the gateway quickly scattered or jumped to the side to get out of the way of the coming horses. For a moment, Amroth thought he was about to crushed by the charging horses. But finally, at the very last moment, just as Amroth was about to send up a final prayer to the Valar, the lead rider pulled his charging white mount back and came to a skittering stop just on the threshold of the massive gates only several feet in front of the guards. The other elves in his company also came to a stop behind their lord, their horses neighing and prancing under the gate’s archway in protest to the abrupt halt.

“Let me pass!” the blonde-haired elf demanded. His ancient blue eyes flashed threateningly at the line of opposing guards as his mount nervously pranced beneath him. Amroth was sure that if the elf had been speaking directly at him, he would have surely cowered away in fear and just let him pass. Luckily though his commander did not seem so intimidated by the mysterious elf and stepped forward to address him.

“We cannot until we know what business you have in the white city,” he said evenly, earning himself a scathing glare from the elf that probably would have ignited him in flames if it were physically possible.

“My business is my own,” the elf snarled, immediately focusing his wrath on the lone guard brave enough to address him.

“Why were you approaching our city with such haste?” the guard inquired persistently, seemingly unaffected by the other’s intimidating aura. 

“I have business in the Hall of Kings,” he ground out between gritted teeth, “Now move!” he screamed, urging his horse forward so that he was towering directly over the man. Still the man did not back down.

For a minute, Amroth almost thought the elf was going to brandish his sword and end his captain’s life. For several long breathless heartbeats of tense silence, the two just stared at each other. Finally though, as if accepting the elf’s explanation, the man made a small side-step and moved to the side. “You may pass,” was all he said in reply. He then turned and motioned for Amroth and the other two guards to do the same. 

Amroth blinked in surprise. He was just going to let this elf into the city without a better explanation? Not too reluctantly though, the young guard followed orders and hastily stepped out of the elf’s way. 

Only wasting a final parting glare at the commander, the elven leader quickly spurred his horse into a full gallop into the streets beyond. As the party of elves disappear from sight into the winding streets in direction of the Citadel high above, Amroth looked over at his captain. 

“Sir!” he cried in incredulous astonishment, “You’re just letting them go?” 

“Bite your tongue, soldier,” the older man snapped. Amroth immediately complied. “You don’t know who that just was, do you?” the captain then asked as he turned to look the younger guard right in the eyes. Amroth shook his head dumbly. “That was King Thranduil of Mirkwood,” the older man explained, watching the boy’s face closely for dawning comprehension. 

“Thranduil?!” Amroth squeaked in surprise, instantly placing the name, “Father of one of the Nine Walkers?!”

“Ugh huh,” Amroth’s captain grunted in affirmation, “I immediately recognized him as he was riding up the roadway. It would probably be wise if you also learn to recognize such important people before rising the alarm like that again,” he then added with something of reproach in his voice for the young recruit. Amroth hung his head in shame. 

Thranduil. Father of Legolas, one of the Nine Walkers that had accompanied King Elessar on his quest to destroy the One Ring several years ago during the War of the Ring. He had heard these stories ever since he was a boy. How could he be so stupid? Why hadn’t he recognized him? Elves had become almost permanent fixtures in the white city ever since the end of the war almost eight years before. Surely he should have seen Thranduil before. After all, his son was one of the king’s closest friends. 

“Take heart,” his captain then said in a slightly softer voice, as if deciding to take pity on the poor boy’s innocent mistake. “Just be glad you made it out of this with your life. Few ever survive an encounter like that with King Thranduil of Mirkwood,” he then added with a bit of wry humor. 

Amroth swallowed hard, remembering the fire burning in the elf’s eyes when they had stood before him, blocking his way into the city. He knew his captain was only joking, but somehow he didn’t think it was really that far from the truth.

“What are you still standing here for?” his captain suddenly barked in his ear, startling the young man out of his trance. Amroth visibly jumped. “Get back to your post!” the older guard ordered, pointing up towards the empty parapet above the gate. 

“Yessir,” Amroth stammered as he rushed to do as he told. As he ran back up the set of stone stairs leading back to his post on the wall, Amroth suddenly decided that his little encounter with the infamous king of Mirkwood had given him more than enough excitement for one day.

******

Thranduil hardly even reigned his horse to a stop before leaping off its back as he and his escort of soldiers clattered into the Hall of Kings’ front courtyard. Not wasting a moment, the elven king turned and all but ran for the doors of the Citadel, totally ignoring curious glances from several servants and guards that had been going about their business in the courtyard when he had first rode in. No one made a move to stop him though. Something shining in the elf’s ancient eyes told them that anyone that even tried to get in his way would somehow probably end up in the House of Healing.

Bursting into the Hall of Kings, Thranduil immediately began to rush for a large center staircase that led up to the upper levels of the palace. He was only half way across the large entryway when a voice suddenly called out to him from behind. “Thranduil!”

Thranduil barely even paused to spare a glance over his shoulder as Elrond appeared out of an adjacent hallway to the main one he stood in. It took all his will power to actually stop and turn back around to address his fellow lord. “Elrond, I just received a message from you saying that my son has woken out of his coma. Is it true?” he cried in barely contained emotions, his usually proud and even voice cracking in urgency as he spoke. His face was a jumbled confusion of emotions: panic, apprehension, desperation, worry, anxiety, and others that Elrond could not immediately identify or name. 

Elrond nodded with a smile. Though he and Thranduil had never been good friends, the sight of the proud elven lord’s anguish over the many long years of Legolas’ coma had made his heart ache with sympathy for him. And now to finally to be able to give Thranduil the news he had been wanting to give for so many years of waiting made Elrond feel proud and almost somehow responsible for such a miracle taking place. “Yes. It’s true. He came out of his– ” 

But he got no further than that. For at that first little word of affirmation, Thranduil abruptly turned and ran – yes ran!– for the nearby staircase, not waiting to hear anything else Elrond might have said. The darker-haired elf lord stared after Thranduil in momentary surprise.

“Thranduil, wait!” he called as he took off after the other elf. “Wait! There is something you have to know about Legolas before you see him!” he called, racing after the distraught father up the stairs. But Thranduil seemed to ignore the other elf’s calls and just continued to literally fly up the stairs with Elrond following in hot pursuit.

Elrond managed to keep up with Thranduil for most of the uphill chase, but as the two finally reached the third floor where the royal guestrooms and living quarters were, Thranduil suddenly put on an extra burst of unforeseen speed and pulled ahead.

Through the darkened hallways of the grand palace Thranduil ran, his eyes and heart determinately locked on reaching a single doorway standing just at the end of the hall. He could hear Elrond following somewhere close behind him down the hall, but he did not slow in the slightest to let him catch up. He couldn’t. Not now. Not when his son was so close! Elrond had said he had finally woken up! He had to see Legolas. He had to see him first to believe it was actually true.

Finally reaching the door, Thranduil grabbed the handle and twisted it open with a swift jerk of the wrist. Using his own weight like a battering ram, Thranduil slammed himself against the door and spilled into the well-lit room beyond, stumbling a bit as he struggled to regain his balance. Looking around hurriedly and still panting slightly from his run through the palace, Thranduil’s eyes immediately alighted on the large bed of his youngest son’s room, desperately searching out the one he sought.

What he saw made his heart stop dead in his chest.

 Legolas lay motionless on his back beneath a thick blanket. His hair was fanned out over the pillow beneath him head. Vacant blue eyes stared up at the ceiling through the narrowed slits of his eyelids. 

A chocked sob escaped Thranduil’s constricted throat as he took a staggering half-step backwards away from the horrible scene he beheld.

No... 

It was the same... Nothing had changed! It was exactly the same! 

At that moment, Elrond finally managed to catch up with Thranduil and came to a halt in the doorway behind him, panting slightly to catch his breath. 

No! No no no!!! The tiny voice inside Thranduil’s head began to scream louder and faster until it was all Thranduil could hear as he continued to stare in silent horror at the scene of his youngest son – laying there before him just as still and lifeless as he had for the past five years. No no no nononononono!

“Why did you lie to me?!” Thranduil screamed as he wheeled around on Elrond suddenly. It was like whatever emotional string buried deep down inside him that had helped hold him together through all the long years of Legolas’ coma had finally snapped. “Why did you lie to me?!” Tears of such rage and helplessness began to fill the elven king’s eyes, Elrond at first could not find the words to respond.

“Thranduil– ”

“Why did you lie to me?!” Thranduil cut off sharply, too hysterical to listen to what Elrond was trying to say. His clenched fists were beginning to start to shake at his sides. “You told me he woke up! Why– ”

“Father?” 

Thranduil wheeled around in surprise. There, laying propped up on his elbows and looking up at his father in bewildered confusion from the confines of his bed was the king’s youngest son, Legolas. Only moments before he had been suddenly startled awake out of a deep sleep by loud shouts coming from the door to his room.

For a moment, father and son just stared at each other, neither knowing what to say. “Legolas...” Thranduil whispered in teary disbelief. With no concern for the one standing in the door watching him or giving his son any kind of warning, Thranduil swept forward and sat on the edge of Legolas’ bed, swiftly wrapping his arms around Legolas’ frail body and crushing the startled elf to his chest. “Legolas... Legolas, oh by the Valar, Legolas!” he cried, chanting his son’s name into the elf’s thick mane of gold and white-streaked hair. “I thought I was never going to see you awake again,” he sobbed into Legolas’ hair as he began to unconsciously rock his son back in forth in his arms.

Legolas was altogether startled by his father’s unnatural display of emotions and sat there in utter bewilderment as Thranduil swooped down to wrap him in his embrace. In his warped reference of time, the last time he had seen his father was only three seasons ago. Legolas was so surprised by Thranduil’s actions that he only finally realized what was going on when the air was suddenly knocked out of his lungs by the force of his father’s crushing embrace. Legolas immediately tensed and tried to pull away from Thranduil.

“Father! Father, please!” Legolas’ muffled cries sounded against Thranduil’s chest. He began to struggle as Thranduil tightly pin him up against his chest. “No, father, please! You shouldn’t– ” He desperately tried to pull away from his father, expecting at any minute to see a sudden flash of light in his head. But Thranduil only clutched Legolas tighter. “Father please,” Legolas begged helplessly, “Please, I’m alright. I’m fine. Please, just let me go.” 

But Thranduil did not lessen his hold or even seem to hear his son’s desperate pleas. He did nothing to stop Legolas’ string of feeble protests and only hugged him closer, as if trying to actually coax out more of his son’s plaintive cries. He felt almost desperate to hear his child’s voice. He had waited five long years to hear Legolas’ voice again, and now to finally hear it was nothing short of music to his ears.

Realizing he was helpless to get his father to release him, Legolas finally relinquished his struggles. He stiffly sat there in defeat as Thranduil continued to rock him back and forth in his arms, softly whispering into his ear. He sat and waited in fearful silence, expecting at any moment to see a brilliant flash of light explode in his mind from Thranduil’s touch. 

But no flash or vision ever came.

Realizing he was not going to experience one of his visions, Legolas slowly felt himself begin to relax and then actually melt into his father’s embrace as Thranduil continued to gently rock him back and forth and stroke his head. It was in that moment as Thranduil sat hugging his son to him that Legolas suddenly realized how much he had been starved for touch up until that point. Until that moment, he had shunned any and all forms of physical contact with others. He was constantly afraid of what he might see if he allowed anyone to touch him. And he was afraid of seeing that look of fear in the eyes of everyone around him because of his new powers again. But now to be held and comforted like this with no fear or reserve suddenly made Legolas only crave more of Thranduil’s touch, and nestled deeper into his father’s embrace.

As Thranduil felt his son’s rigid body finally relax in his arms and then actually lean into the embrace, the elven king felt a choked sob escape past his defenses. My son... Thranduil felt his throat constrict with a rush of unbidden emotions. His child... How long he had waited and prayed for this to happen – to have his son awake again. Rocking his son back and forth, Thranduil felt another hollow sob escape his lips. Several tears slowly rolled down his cheeks and into Legolas’ hair where his cheek gently rested atop his son’s head.

Gods... He had given up all hope of ever seeing his son awake again. He had actually wished at one point that Legolas had died in that accident. He had almost been ready to ask Elrond to release his son... Oh gods, he had honestly almost did it! He had almost killed his son!

Legolas... Legolas...

He had almost killed his son – his own child!

“Legolas... Legolas...” he sobbed into his son’s hair, holding the young elf to him as if afraid to let him go, or trying to somehow apologize for giving up hope of him ever returning and entertaining such dark thoughts of ending his son’s suffering. Oh, my son, I’m so sorry... He had wanted his son dead. He had actually wished Legolas had died! What kind of father wished that on their child?

And now to have his son in his arms once again – speaking, talking... awake! – Thranduil suddenly realized just how far his thoughts had strayed during those dark years of Legolas’ coma. He felt a fresh sting of tears building in his eyes. How could he ever look at Legolas now without somehow remembering how he had almost given into despair and extinguished that small, lingering light of life without giving it time to return to him? Oh Legolas, Legolas, Legolas, I’m so sorry...

Thranduil did not know how long he sat there holding his son, but after awhile he finally felt some semblance of control return to him. Gently releasing Legolas and holding him away at arm’s length to look at him fully, Thranduil suddenly realized he couldn’t remember what he had wanted to say to him. Over the years, he had spent countless hours going over in his head what he would say to Legolas if he ever woke up. But now that he actually was, Thranduil suddenly felt as if his mind had gone completely blank. With a deep, steadying breath, the elven king looked down into his son’s bright, sapphire blue eyes – eyes that were no longer dead and empty, but now alive and full of life as they stared up into his. He could feel a small, trembling smile slowly begin to spread across his still tear-dampened face at the sight.

“Legolas, my son...” he said softly in a slightly trembling voice as he forced himself to find his voice and wiped away the drying tears from his face, “How do you fare...?”

******

It had taken several hours to finally pull Thranduil away from his son, but Elrond had finally managed to get the elven king out of the room and alone with the excuse that Legolas still needed to rest. After initial pleasantries, father and son had spent most of their reunion talking. Thranduil had spent most of the time recounting to Legolas all the news and happenings of his family back in Mirkwood over the past five years. Legolas on the other hand had remained mostly vague and ambiguous on details concerning the details of his awakening and his new powers, and had limited his own part of the conversation to his progressing physical therapy. He did not want to have to tell his father about his new abilities so soon after just seeing him again for the first time in several years, and chose to remain quiet and let his father do most of the talking which Thranduil did not seem to notice. 

Elrond had remained in the room during that time despite several “delicate” hints from Thranduil for him to leave. Like Legolas, Elrond also had lingering concerns of Thranduil inadvertently discovering Legolas’ new abilities without first being warned of them. Such a thing could potentially prove disastrous. It was only by shear luck that nothing had happened when Thranduil had first rushed into Legolas’ room and hugged him. Now, however, with Legolas once again peacefully resting and Thranduil’s initial anxiety over his son’s welfare staved, it was time to talk to the elven king and inform him of his son’s condition.

“Thranduil, come, sit down,” Elrond directed as he motioned to a nearby chair positioned beside the one he himself comfortably sat back in. The two elf lords were currently in Elrond’s private study which Elrond had led Thranduil to after finally convincing him to leave and let Legolas rest in peace once again. What he needed to discuss with Thranduil was something personal and not something to be overheard by others, and the sanctuary of his personal study would provide just the sort of privacy the two elves needed. 

Thranduil glanced over at the plush, velvet covered chair Elrond motioned to and hesitantly shook his head. “I really shouldn’t be here...” he said as he longingly looked back over his shoulder towards the closed door to Elrond’s study, “I should be with my son. I don’t like leaving him alone like this so soon after finally seeing him awake again. I should be there with him...”

“He’ll be fine, Thranduil,” Elrond assured, “His body is still very weak from his coma, and his physical therapy with my sons consumes a great deal of his energy. He needs to rest regularly like this to keep his strength up. I assure you he’ll be fine for the next couple minutes so that you and I can talk.”

“Talk about what?” Thranduil demanded, feeling a sudden stir of apprehension in the pit of his stomach from underlying tone of gravity he detected in the Imladris elf’s voice. “Is something wrong with my son?”

Elrond noticeably hesitated. “Why don’t you come and sit down so we can speak face to face instead of me talking to you from across the room,” he instead said.

Thranduil immediately crossed the room and sat down in the proffered seat across from Elrond. “What? What is wrong with Legolas?” the elven king demanded, a hint of fear now lacing his sonorous voice. A shine of panic had begun to show in his eyes.

Elrond gave a small inward sigh of and slowly leaned forward in his chair to look the other elf lord straight in the eyes. He really didn’t want to have to tell Thranduil about Legolas’ current condition so soon after Thranduil just saw his son awake for the first time in years, but Thranduil had to know. The sooner the better. Thranduil had to be told about his son. 

Elrond slowly took a deep, calming breath to harden himself to the task at hand. Thranduil was now sitting on the edge of his seat, anxiously looking at Elrond with a mixture of dread and apprehension in his eyes. Elrond heaved another sigh. “Legolas seems to be suffering some adverse after-effects of his coma,” he finally said in a low voice.

The fear and anxiety that had been slowly building in Thranduil quickly came rushing to the surface. “What? What is wrong with him?” the elf lord demanded, fear immediately gripping his heart.

“Legolas seems to have suffered some brain damage from the accident,” Elrond explained calmly.

Thranduil seemed slightly taken aback by this. “Brain damage?” he repeated slowly, his eyebrows furrowing together slightly in confusion and dread. “But Legolas seemed to be perfectly fine when I was talking with him earlier. He did not seem to be suffering from any noticeable brain damage.”

“I know that, Thranduil,” Elrond said quickly, trying to find a different way of explaining it to Thranduil, “But that’s not really what I’m talking about. Legolas does not seem to be suffering any type of memory loss or speech impediments from the injury, but his sensory perception seems to have been radically altered because of the trauma he sustained.” Thranduil again seemed confused by what Elrond was trying to tell him. “Legolas’ head injury has altered the way his brain functions, and seems to have awakened abilities in him we never knew he possessed up until now,” Elrond explained slowly, watching Thranduil’s face for reaction.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the darker-haired elf. “What kind of abilities?”

“Abilities of second-sight,” Elrond replied softly.

At first, Elrond’s answer did not seem to earn any sort of reaction from the elven king. Thranduil just sat there, blankly staring at Elrond with an unreadable look on his face. Finally after a long moment, Thranduil broke out of his silence. “Second-sight?” he snorted incredulously, suddenly reverting from his anxious, worrying father self to his better known persona of proud, cantankerous king. “Are you honestly serious?” he scoffed skeptically, “My son may be many things, but he has never been an elf gifted with powers of second-sight.”

“I think you might want to listen to me on this, Thranduil,” Elrond persisted, “He has already shown on several different occasions now powers of clairvoyancy. I have personally seen one such instance with my very own eyes. I was also skeptical at first of such a thing being possible, but after seeing his eyes...” Elrond paused for a moment, trailing off. He then slowly heaved a deep sigh, unable to find the right words that could accurately describe the awesome, mysterious power he had seen radiating out from the depths of Legolas eyes that day after the prince’s awakening. “Thranduil, there is no way for me to make you believe me, but what I have seen is real. Of that, I no longer harbor any doubts.”

Thranduil sat for a long moment of silence, seeming to regard Elrond seriously for the first time. He had never known the Lord of Imladris to lie to anyone and to see such conviction shining in his ancient grey eyes made Thranduil begin to wonder if Elrond really wasn’t telling him the truth.

“Legolas’ visions seem to be restricted to physical touch,” Elrond went on to say now that he knew he had the other elf’s full attention, “He seems to be able to perceive things from the past or future of whoever he touches – some of his visions being quite violent. I honestly have never heard of any such power quite like his before in all my long years of healing or in any of the books and texts I have researched concerning elven foresight and long-term comas. I know it sounds impossible, but this is the only explanation there is to explain what is happening to Legolas and how he knows some of the things he does.”

Thranduil sat for several long moments of silence digesting Elrond’s words. He looked torn by indecision of whether to believe Elrond or not and lingering skepticism. He desperately wanted to not believe Elrond, but something deep inside him told him what the elf lord said was true. He had sensed it when he had first held his son in his arms. He had seen it in Legolas’ eyes when they had sat talking to one another for the past few hours – a sort of parental instinct deep inside that told him not all was right with his child. He had known even then of the strange change in his son, though he had desperately tried to ignore it. He so wanted to believe Legolas had woken out of his coma without any permanent injury or damage, but he knew deep down in his heart that he hadn’t.

Shaking his head in what looked like either helpless acceptance or stubborn denial of what Elrond was telling him, Thranduil turned his face away from the dark haired elf. “Gods...” he moans under his breath as he brought a slightly trembling hand up to his face and held his head in his hand. A shine of unshed tears began to form in his ancient grey eyes as he stared blankly down at the floor, his proud face slowly twisting in helpless anger and grief. “For five long years now my son has laid here in a coma with no hope of him ever waking up again. And now, when the Valar finally answer my prayers and return my youngest child to me, you sit here and tell me that he is possessed with strange and unnatural powers? Ai! Why does Eru torment me like this? What have I done to offend him? Why must my son suffer so much?”

“I do not know,” Elrond answered softly as he reached out and placed a comforting hand on Thranduil’s forearm. The elf lord felt his heart once again ache with pity for the anguished father before him. He could not even begin to imagine what it was like for Thranduil to wait so many hopeless years to see his son awake again and then only arrive to find his child so inconceivably changed and damaged. “I cannot tell you why Legolas was caught in that landslide or why he was made to sleep for so many years in that coma, but I believe these powers of second-sight were given to him for a reason. What that reason or purpose may be, I cannot say. But after what I have seen him do, I honestly believe that there is some higher power at work here.”

“Are you somehow implying that my son was meant to be in that accident – that he was fated to almost die that day and then lay here in a coma for five years?” Thranduil snapped heatedly, directing his feelings of misplaced helplessness and despair onto the other elf lord.

Elrond chose to ignore Thranduil’s unjustified indignation towards him and just stared into the elven king’s eyes with a steady, unwavering gaze. “I think, Thranduil, you will come to agree with me in good time. Legolas’ powers are uncomparable to anything else I have ever seen before. He has done things that not even the Lady Galadriel is capable of. He was given these powers for a reason. And I believe that all too soon, you will also come to see that...”

****** 

To Be Continued...

******

Like it? Hate it? Couldn’t care less either way? Whichever the case, let me know because I love hearing what you think of my stuff! 

‘Till next time!


Chapter 10 - At the Golden Goblet

December 14, 1426

It was the dead of night. The sky was clear with the stars shined brightly in the inky black firmament overhead with nothing to hide or dim their soft silvery light. The moon hung high in the midnight sky outside, casting long pale shafts of moonlight in through the windows of Legolas’ bedroom. 

The light spilled into the room, illuminating the dark interior in a dim silver-blue glow. On the far left side of the room however, stood a small pocket of shadows where the soft glow of moonlight could not reach. Radiating out from the dark recesses of the shadows shined two sapphire blue orbs that seemed to glow with their very own inner light. They stared ahead into the room, seeming to pierce the darkness like two blades of sharpened steel.

Sitting alone in the dark shadows of the room, the elven prince Legolas sat leaning back against the headboard of his bed. His skinny form was barely even a ghostly outline behind the inky veil of darkness shrouding that far side of the room where he sat. To any looking upon him at that moment, he would have seemed like a sulking wraith wreathed in shadows, the clear blue light of his eyes the only things able to pierce through the oppressive gloom that surrounded him.

The elf stared ahead with a distant look in his eyes, as if deeply lost in thought. Though the night had long since waned and turned into the early morning hours of a new day, sleep still did not come to the elven prince. While the rest of the palace slept all around him in peaceful slumber, Legolas sat awake in bed, unable to make his mind quiet and drift off into sleep.

Though he could find no real reason for it, he felt restless. Thoughts kept spinning through his head, refusing to give him any respite or rest.

It had now been almost two months since his awakening. The golden months of autumn had finally given way to the chilling cold of winter. Snow now lay heavily over the city of Minas Tirith and shimmered like a blanket of powderized diamonds in the moonlight. Icy wind rattled at the windows of Legolas’ room, as if the chilly zephyrs softly rapped at the glass demanding entrance into the elven prince’s bedroom.

For over a month now, Legolas had been confined to his rooms because of the dropping temperatures. Though he could now join his friends for meals in the Great Hall with the aid of Elrohir and Elladan, he still had yet to actually leave the confines of the palace or walk on his own without the aid of someone else. Despite the Indian Summer Gondor had enjoyed all the way up until the middle of that November, it seemed as if Winter had decided to compensate for its delayed arrival by besieging the southern country with gales of bitting wind and icy blizzards. 

The winter storms had finally abated its attack on the white city several days before, but Legolas could not take the momentary respite in weather to go outside onto his balcony to overlook the snow covered gardens or escape the suffocating confines of his rooms. It was now just too cold for him to go outside. Even though Legolas had desperately tried on several different occasions now to convince Elrond and the twins to let him go outside, even if only for a few minutes, they always refused. It seemed his elven endurance had greatly suffered from the long years of his coma. His withered body was now more susceptible to seasonal changes in temperature than he ever was before his accident when he could have spent hours outside in the snow without ever taking notice of the chill.

And it was this inability to escape the stone walls of the Hall of Kings that Legolas partially blamed for his restlessness. Never in all his long years of life had he ever been confined indoors for so long. He felt like he was slowly being driven mad with cabin fever.

But that was not the only thing the elven prince knew was bothering him and robbing him of his sleep.

It had now been several weeks since Thranduil’s arrival to the city of Minas Tirith. Although Legolas had initially found his father’s presence there with him encouraging and supportive, he now couldn’t help but feel that Thranduil was starting to hover over him like a mother hen. Several times now during his sessions of physical therapy with the twins, Thranduil had yelled at Elrohir and Elladan for being careless or accused them of causing his son pain whenever Legolas accidentally stumbled or momentarily lost his balance. Thranduil was almost a constant presence by his side, always hovering over him and treating him as though he were a young child or helpless invalid. It was like he was determined to never let Legolas out of his sight. He had even gone so far as to request an adjacent guestroom to Legolas’ so that he could be there in an instant should his son need anything. Though Legolas appreciated his father’s show of love and concern for him, he was beginning to wish Thranduil and everyone else would just leave him alone.

He was tired of being treated like this. Always catered to and treated like some spun piece of glass that was too helpless to do anything for himself. It was enough that he had to deal with his new powers of second-sight and avoid physical contact with any other living being. But to be treated like a helpless invalid was too much for the proud elven prince to bear.

As Legolas sat there in the dark shadows of the room mulling these thoughts and others over in his head, the elf was surprised to find himself getting progressively angrier by the moment.

Just because he had not yet regained his ability to walk did not mean he had to be tended to every moment of the day like a tiny baby! Despite his temporary disability he was still a full-grown adult and warrior. He could take care of himself. He did not need his father’s, the twins, Aragorn, Gimli, or anyone else’s help. 

More than ever before, Legolas became determined to break free of this dependancy he had on his friends.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Legolas absentmindedly glanced to his side. He was almost ready to nestle back down into the covers and once again try to go to sleep when a small glint of silver shining dully in the dim moonlight happened to catch his eye. It took him a minute to make out what it was in the darkness, but when he finally did, Legolas’ breath almost caught in his throat.

There, leaning innocently up against the front of the nightstand sitting beside his bed, stood Gimli’s gift to him: a long black walking stick.

For several long moments of silence, Legolas sat there, staring at the polished cane. He remembered setting it there several weeks ago when he first got it to remind him of what he had to work for so that he might finally be able to put the dwarf’s gift to use. It was however somewhat disconcerting how it was only now that he remembered his friend’s gift.

The cane’s polished head seemed to tauntingly shine in the pale moonlight, as if daring the elf to pick it up and run his hands over the masterfully carved leaves and vines adorning its silver head. Suddenly possessed with the desire to do just that, Legolas shakingly reached out and picked the cane up and laid it across his lap. 

His fingers gently traced the outline of the delicate metal foliage. He slowly turned the cane over in his hand. Gripping the silver head, Legolas was momentarily taken aback by how perfect it seemed to fit into the curvature of his palm, as if Gimli had known just the shape and size of his hand to have crafted such a perfectly tailored instrument. It was as Legolas sat there admiring the dwarf’s craftsmanship in the dark shadows of the night that an idea slowly began to form in his head. 

Should he?

Blood suddenly pounding in his ears, Legolas quickly glanced up towards the other side of the room. A large high-backed, velvet-covered arm chair sat near one of the windows on the far side of the room, positioned in such a way so that one sitting in it could look out over the rest of Minas Tirith sprawled out far below the lofty Citadel. Ever since the onset of winter, Legolas had found himself spending much more of his time in that chair than he ever did before his accident. When not preoccupied with the twins or physical therapy or anything else, he would quietly sit there in his chair and let his mind drift as he watched snowflakes lazily float down past his window towards the city below. It had become an almost therapeutic pastime for him when so many things in his life had changed so much and become so complicated and strange. Moonlight spilled into Legolas’ room through the ceiling-high windows, bathing the chair in a ghostly glow of silver-blue, as if illuminating it as a sign for the elven prince.

Suddenly knowing what he had to do, a rush of determination surged though Legolas’ veins. Throwing back the covers from over his legs and scooting to the edge of the bed, Legolas gently eased his feet down to the floor. A jolt of energy and excitement shot up through the elf’s thin body as he felt his bare feet come in contact with the cold, hard floor. He felt almost giddy with excitement at the strange, almost forgotten sensation, like an elfling about to do something he knew was wrong.

But Legolas no longer cared. He had waited too long to finally do this. It would be the final step in declaring independence from his self-appointed caretakers and mark the beginning of a new life for him since his tragic accident and coma five years before.

He was going to walk on his own. Without the aid of anyone else.

Legolas shifted the cane to his left hand and set its tip on the ground beside his feet. Taking a deep, calming breath to calm his rapidly beating heart, Legolas mustered his energy and then with one strong stove against the mattress, pushed himself up onto his feet. He wobbled dangerously for a moment, desperately trying to gain some semblance of balance on the thin supports of his legs. Over the many weeks of rehabilitation with the twins the elven prince had finally regained enough strength in his legs to be able to support his own weight, but he still needed Elrohir and Elladan there to help steady him between them. And now to suddenly try and stand on his own with only a thin third support to help steady him, Legolas was slightly panicked by the thought of losing his balance and crashing to the floor with no one else there to help him should that happen. But pride would not let him dwell on such possibilities, and so quickly pushed the thought from his mind. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by such thoughts anyhow. He needed all his attention for what he was trying to do now.

Desperately gripping his cane and willing his shaking legs to support his weight, Legolas slowly felt himself begin to steady and find a delicate equilibrium between his three legs. Drawing in a shaking breath, the elven prince glanced over towards the waiting chair on the other side of the room. It was perhaps thirty feet or more away. It was a distance, especially now that he stood facing the enormous gulf separating him from his goal on the other side of the room. The whole room seemed to have suddenly doubled in length from when he first decided to undertake this task from the relative comfort and safety of his bed. But he reminded himself that he had walked this course numerous times before, and that he could do so again. He just decided to ignore the fact that all those other times he had had Elrohir and Elladan there to help in his endeavor.

Legolas could feel a thin sheet of sweat spring up over his skin from the physical exertion of just standing there and forcing his withered leg muscles to support his weight. His legs shook and quivered beneath him. His knees felt like they were filled with jelly, but he forced himself to not give into the weakness or pain that was slowly working itself up his calf muscles and thighs. He wasn’t going to give up now. 

Willing himself to focus on the other side of the room, Legolas shakingly extended his cane a foot or so in front of him and then gingerly stepped up onto his left foot. He then slowly followed that with his right foot, all the while heavily leaning on the offered support of his walking stick and trailing his other hand along the side of the bed as an extra support. It was a strange and unnatural gait for Legolas to learn, but his left leg was still worse than his right and required the extra support of the cane as the elf limped along in the darkness like a wounded cripple. As Legolas moved past the end of his bed and into the open space of the room, he was finally forced to let go of his extra support and place all his trust in his own two legs and his only recently regained ability to walk. 

Sweat was now pouring down his face and neck, soaking into his long nightshirt as he continued to hobble his way towards the other side of the room with only a cane to help support him. His whole body was now shaking with the effort it took to keep his legs moving under him. But Legolas did not seem to notice or care. All he could do was revel in the fact that he was walking. His steps were slow, shaky and arduous, but he was actually walking!

Somewhere in the back of Legolas’ mind he could hear Elrohir’s voice asking him to promise that he wasn’t going to try and walk on his own without someone else there. Legolas felt somewhat guilty for breaking his promise, but it was too late to do anything about that now. He wasn’t going to turn back. 

The chair was now only about fifteen feet away.

Legolas could feel his leg muscles beginning to burn and scream in protest to the immense physical exertion he was forcing upon them. His breaths were now coming in short, desperate gasps. He could feel the all-too familiar build-up of pain and weakness that usually signaled the onset of an imminent collapse beginning to steadily grow behind his knees and in his calves, and immediately stopped. Though the elf tried to stop it, a strangled moan of pain escaped through his clenched teeth as he weakly doubled down over the top of his cane, heaving for breath. Both his legs felt like they had been set ablaze for all the fiery agony mercilessly screaming up and down every fiber and sinew of his aching limbs. Legolas could feel his strength and balance waver for a moment as yet another intense wave of pain coursed up through the length of his withered legs. The only thing he could really do to ride out the pain was to grip the head of his cane until he was sure its delicate design of twisting leaves and vines had been permanently imprinted into his palm. By some miracle though, the elven prince managed not to collapse and remain standing. 

As Legolas waited for the angry fire in his legs to slowly die back down into a manageable throbbing burn, he slowly lifted his head and looked back up towards the other side of the room. The chair was now no more than ten feet away. It seemed so close yet so far away. 

Driven by another surge of determination to reach his goal, Legolas gripped the head of his cane tighter and once again started his slow, lurching march. Left foot, then right. Left, then right. He was so close now! So close. Only a few feet away. But he was moving so slow! Every step seemed to take forever. Continuing to struggle and stagger ever forward on his rickety legs and cane, Legolas almost believed for moment he was never going to actually make it. Every step sent fireworks of pain shooting up though his already burning leg muscles. He was sure that if he didn’t reach the chair soon he was going to collapse. He could feel his knees beginning to weaken and turn to jelly beneath him.

But as the lame elf struggled to flounder those last few, seemingly endless feet standing between him and his goal, Legolas pushed one last surge of effort into his already screaming leg muscles and hurriedly closed the remaining distance in a falling, lurching stumble. With a great whoosh of air being knocked out of his lungs, Legolas collapsed face first into the waiting arm chair, heaving for breath. His cane slowly slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor beside him. Weakly kicking off the ground behind him and forcing his withered arms to lift himself up off the chair, Legolas somehow managed to turn himself around in the seat so that he could properly sit in it. Weak with pain and light-headed from exhaustion, Legolas let his head loll back against the tall back of the chair. 

Eyes closed and skinny chest heaving for breath, the elven prince sat for several long minutes of silence trying to regain his strength. He could barely move he was so tired. He felt like his entire body had been drained of all its energy and left as nothing but an empty shell. But as tired as he was, that did not stop a weary smile from creeping up onto his face. 

He did it. He walked the length of his room without the aid of anyone else. Legolas barely even felt the dull, aching throb of his legs anymore. All he could feel was the overwhelming sense of euphoria and satisfaction welling up inside him. 

He did it... He could walk... 

As Legolas sat there in the calm stillness of the night trying to recover his strength, he suddenly became aware of the cold draft seeping into his room through the nearby window. The soft breath of winter gently caressed his skin, setting a chill in his bones and freezing the shiny film of sweat still covering his exposed flesh to ice. Shivering, Legolas weakly reached up over his head and pulled a dark green blanket that had been draped over the back of the chair down over himself. Shaking it out and wrapping it around his boney shoulders, the elven prince once again settled back into his chair. 

Now comfortably swaddled in the thick wool blanket to help ward off the drafty chill, Legolas leaned back in his seat. A pleasant melting sensation overcame the elf as he felt his body slowly relax and sink back into the soft velvety cushions of the chair. His eyelids suddenly felt like hundred pound weights, threatening to drift shut against his will.

He knew he should probably try and return to his bed before he accidentally fell asleep there in the chair, but he was just too tired to try and convince his weary body to move. Besides, even if he really wanted to, he doubted he would have been able to make it across the room again on his own. He had pushed his weakened body to the limit, and there was just no more left to give. Plus, he did not want to ruin this victory he achieved tonight by trying to walk again on his own and only manage to make it half way across the room before collapsing from exhaustion and then have to call for help. That thought alone was enough to prick at the elven prince’s stubborn pride and discouraged him from any such foolish actions. 

This was but the first step in regaining the rest of his ability to walk, he told himself. This was just the beginning. He did it. He could walk on his own. It seemed somewhat strange after all he had done in his life that such a simple thing as walking across the room could hold such meaning to him. But it did. He could walk on his own. And that was all that mattered. 

Smiling to himself again, Legolas leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh of contentment and nestled down into the warm folds of the blanket. Beyond the frost covered glass of the window beside him, snow lay fresh and heavy on the rooftops and streets of the sleeping city below, glistening brightly in the pale silver moonlight overhead. Sitting there looking out over this winter nightscape, Legolas was suddenly taken by how quiet and peaceful everything was. Like a mithril-laced dream suspended in time. 

Legolas could feel his grip on reality slipping as the soft whisper of sleep gently lulled his weary mind and body ever closer towards the edge of consciousness where the waking world and ethereal nightscape of elven dreams blended and folded in on each other to form a dense and heavy fog. Weariness tugged at his mind and senses, slowly dragging the elven prince down into the deep and welcoming embrace of unconsciousness. Surrendering himself to the hazy darkness that seemed to slowly rise up to meet him, Legolas snuggled deeper into the dark green folds of blanket wrapped around his shoulders and gave another contented sigh. 

This was but the first step in the final stage of his recovery. He was no longer some helpless invalid dependant on the help and sympathy of his friends, but rather the returning presence of the strong warrior prince that had almost been lost to darkness five years before. 

Just before finally drifting off in the welcoming embrace of deep, restful sleep, one last thought happened to cross the elven prince’s mind, bringing a small, unbidden smile to his face. Elrohir was probably going to be furious with him for breaking his promise of not trying to walk on his own whenever he and his brother came to get him for breakfast the next morning and found him sleeping in the armchair. Oh well, Legolas mused with a fond smile warming his slackening face. It’s not like I’ve never had to endure one of their scoldings before...

And with that, the elven prince drifted off into deep, untroubled dreams far astray from the waking world he left behind.

But while peace came quickly to the blonde archer, somewhere in the inner circles of the city far below the sleeping Citadel, a shrill, piercing scream rent the still silence of the night. Its terrified echo slowly faded away into the night, unheard by human or elven ears. And though Legolas never heard this scream and continued to drift along the gentle stream of elven dreams unaware of the heinousness crime taking place somewhere far below, it would soon come to haunt and torture him with images of rape, murder, and madness.

******

“Hurry up, elf! We haven’t got all day!”

“Master Dwarf, if you do not learn to control that infamous lack of patience of yours, I will be forced to personally teach you the importance of a little self-control. And I assure you that such a thing will not be a pleasant experience on your part...”

Gimli merely grunted at this implied threat and folded his arms across his chest as he waited for Legolas to descend the last few steps of the grand staircase leading down from the upper levels of the palace to the main entrance hall of the Hall of Kings. Legolas moved slowly, taking only one step at a time. Gingerly lowering his right foot down, the elf then slowly shifted his weight down to join his left foot with his right on that same step, all the while maintaining a constant grip on the railing beside him with one hand and his cane with the other, before then moving to start the whole procedure over for the next step. It was a long and arduous process, but before too long, Legolas finally descended the last few steps and stepped down onto the hard marble tiles of the hallway floor.

“‘Bout time...” Gimli muttered under his breath purposefully loud enough for the elf to hear as Legolas slowly turned away from the bottom of the staircase and began walking over towards him.

The elven prince just threw a narrowed glare at Gimli in reply to the dwarf’s baited comment and swished his thick grey winter cloak behind him as he continued to slowly limp his way across the open hallway to his friend’s side with nothing to aid him in his quest except his long black walking stick. Though the elf walked with a noticeable limp on his left side and still required the use of his cane, Legolas was walking on his own. It had now been almost two weeks since Legolas’ first nighttime attempt at walking on his own. Though it had taken almost two months of physical therapy for Legolas to regain enough strength in his legs to try such a thing, the last two weeks had passed with unparalleled progress. He could now stand, walk, and move around the palace on his own, once again giving the elven prince the freedom and independence he so desperately needed.

Hobbling his way across the hallway with his cane softly tapping the ground ever second step, Legolas finally came to a stop beside his friend. Though Gimli could tell Legolas was still slightly winded from his trip down the stairs, the elf looked positively aglow with excitement. Today was going to be the first day in almost two months since Legolas’ awakening that he was going to actually leave the palace and venture out into the city. “Well, shall we be off?” he chirped, his anxiousness to leave evident in his eyes. 

“Now just hold your horses, elf,” Gimli admonished in his usual gruff voice, “The city isn’t going to go anywhere without us. We don’t have to go running off just so we can go trudging around in the snow for hours on end.” 

“But I thought you were just telling me to hurry up,” Legolas pointed out, smiling smugly when his observation was met with an indignant scowl from his bearded companion.

Shaking his head and muttering under his breath about elves and their strange, annoying ways, Gimli began to slowly walk beside the limping elf as the two of them once more started off towards the door of the large hallway. Though Gimli would have never admitted it to anyone even under pain of torture or death, he was overjoyed to see such youthful excitement and care-free happiness once again shining his friend’s bright blue eyes. Ever since waking out of his coma and discovering his new powers of second-sight, Legolas had grow quiet and reserved in personality. It was a rare occasion now to ever really see him smile or laugh. It was like some small, integral part of him that had always made up his unbreakable spirit had somehow been lost during the long years of his coma. But now to see Legolas acting so much like his old carefree self again made Gimli once again remember why he wasn’t going to ever give up hope on his friend.

As the unlikely pair of friends began to near the far end of the hallway, an excited, high-pitched squeal suddenly rang out behind them, halting both of them in their tracks.

“Leg’lass!!”

Turning around at the odd mispronunciation of his name, the elven prince’s face broke out into a wide grin as he spotted his caller. “Theomir!” he called back in answer as he awkwardly dropped down onto his left knee to meet the toddler running towards him down the hall in a huge, all encompassing embrace. “How have you been, my little one?” he cried as the young child finally reached him and flew into his outstretched arms, wrapping his tiny arms around the elf’s neck like a vice. 

Before Legolas could get any answers directly from the child though, a strong sense of contentment suddenly washed through the elf’s mind and body, flashing a deep, calming blue in his eyes before then just as suddenly disappearing from his senses. Though Legolas still avoided physical contact with others for fear of experiencing another vision such as the one he had with Gimli and the Glittering Caves, he had learned that often times spurts of his psychic ability would come in only bright, colorful flashes of emotions in his mind. And although this was still a little too strange for the elf to get used to and allow other people to unnecessarily touch him, he was willing to subjecting himself to such a vision if only to feel at least some of that unconditional love from the Steward’s young son again like he had during their first encounter.

“Good,” the boy replied in answer to the elf’s previous question, still hugging Legolas’ neck tightly.

“That’s good,” Legolas smiled, trying not to notice the small little arms wrapped around his neck and slowly cutting off his air supply. “So tell me, where’s your mother or father? Surely they wouldn’t let you go running around the palace like this by yourself.”

Just at that moment from down the hall, as if in answer to the elf’s question, came the hurried footsteps of another person jogging towards them. “Theomir! What have I told you about running off like that?” the child’s father, the Steward of Gondor, Faramir admonished sternly as he finally reached the small group and looked down at his son who still stood with his little arms wrapped around the elven prince’ neck.

“It’s Leg’lass!” he exclaimed excitedly, looking back over his shoulder at his father as if that was the only explanation needed to explain why he had rushed off to greet the blonde elf.

“I’m really sorry about that,” Faramir said apologetically as he stooped down to extricate his son from the elf’s arms, “I guess he saw you down the hallway and wanted to come say hi...”

“It’s alright, really,” Legolas assured with a bright smile still warming his gaunt face, “It’s no problem at all. I always love seeing him.” Gripping the top of his cane, the elf awkwardly tried to pull himself back up onto his feet to stand. Faramir saw the prince struggle slightly to stand and went to offer a hand to help steady the prince, but was quickly waved off as Legolas finally managed to pull himself up and stand on his own power. He wavered for a moment, but almost immediately regained his center of balance before either Gimli or Faramir could see anything was amiss.

Faramir shifted his son over to one arm and gently settled the child in the crook of his elbow up against his chest. “So are you and Gimli off to go explore the city then?” he asked, noting the heavy winter cloak wrapped around the elf’s thin form. 

“Yes. Gimli was going to show me some of the improvements he and the other dwarves have made on some of the gates of the city over the last couple years,” Legolas replied, “We should be out for most of the day.”

“That’s nice,” the man said with a nod, “Well, I shall let you two be off then. Theomir and I must be going. Eowyn will be looking for him soon. Say goodbye, Theomir,” he directed as he then turned to walk back into the main part of the palace.

“Bye, Leg’lass!” Theomir called back over Faramir’s shoulder from his father’s arms as the two of them continued down the hallway and finally disappeared from sight down one of the hallway’s many side passages.

Legolas stood smiling after the pair for several moments of reflective silence. He couldn’t quite explain it, but the two of them always made him feel happy. Perhaps it was the way Faramir always doted on his son. Although there seemed to be a social taboo for men of the aristocracy (or from any social class for that matter) to take much interest in their children except as the proliferation of their family lines, Faramir seemed to always go out of his way to spend time with his son, regardless of what others might think of him. Legolas suspected such love and devotion might somehow stem from Faramir’s own strained relationship with his father, Lord Denethor, and a wish not to repeat such a relationship with his own son.

“Well, elf, if you’re done just standing there, you ready to go?” a low voice beside Legolas rumbled, startling the elven prince out of his thoughts.

“Only if you are, Master Dwarf,” Legolas replied with a fond smile as he and Gimli both turned and slowly headed for the door that would lead them out into the city.

******

The crowded streets of Minas Tirith were a flurry of activity as people all dressed in warm winter cloaks and jackets went bustling about their daily business. The sound of women bartering for better prices on their daily groceries drifted along the air like whispers and snatches of song. Men stood in small, huddled groups along the snow-dusted street, exchanging news and bits of talk with one another as steamy trails of vapors rose up into the chilly morning air above them with every breath they took. Children ran about playing in the street, their shouts and laughter adding to the lively din of life and sound permeating the cool winter air. And while many of these local citizens continued to go about their daily business without taking much notice to any of the other activity going on around them, several happened to glance up from their activities and note the strange pair slowly strolling through their midst, seemingly unconcerned with the numerous glances they received.

And what an odd sight it was to behold indeed! An elf and dwarf casually walking down the street together as if it were the most normal thing in the world! But the unlikely pair of two members of two of the most vehemently opposed races in Middle-earth was not what actually caused many of the people’s curious stares. 

It was the elf.

Most of the Firstborn the people of Gondor had become used to seeing in their city since the coronation of their king almost eight years before after the War of the Ring were fair and beautiful beings beyond all measure of grace and beauty. But the creature they beheld slowly walking down the street seemed to fall somewhat short of any of those descriptions. He was an elf without a doubt. His pointed ears and long, braided hair said as much. But that was where most of his race’s distinguishing characteristics ended.

The elf was painfully thin and gangly, as if he had been starved for some long period of time. He also walked with a pronounced limp on his left side which he used a cane to help offset and walk with. Besides this, there was also a stripe of pure white hair streaking the left side of the elf’s golden mane, as if someone had taken a paintbrush dipped in paint and run it down the length of his hair.

No one said anything to the elf and dwarf as they slowly passed by, or dared to outrightly stare at the elf for too long. For whenever some poor soul inadvertently did, he was almost immediately compelled to advert his eyes by the menacing glare sent his way by the stout little dwarf walking beside the elf.

As Gimli sent yet another young youth of Gondor scurrying for cover with a well placed glare, the dwarf had to stifle a chuckle. This walk through the city was proving much more entertaining than he had originally planned... He just wished they would all stop staring at Legolas. The poor elf had gone through enough without now having to be stared at like he was some kind of freak of nature. Sobered by these thoughts, the dwarf stole a quick glance up at his friend walking beside him. 

Legolas, meanwhile, seemed totally ignorant of these unwelcome stares – or most likely choosing to ignore them. His eyes continued to scan from side to side, drinking in all the sights, sounds, and smells around him. It felt so strange walking through Minas Tirith again. Everything around him felt so different and strange, yet familiar all at the same time. It was rather a disconcerting feeling. A bakery stood at the end of the street, just like he always remembered. But when he glanced across the street expecting to see the local apothecary he always remembered being there, he was slightly taken aback to find it gone and replaced by some merchant establishment which seemed to specialize in the trade of foreign cloth. All these changes intermixed with everything else he once knew made the elf feel strangely disconnected and alone, like he was some kind of left over relic from the past that couldn’t quite seem to ever catch up with the present.

Gimli looked up into his friend’s face. Though he could not see any of Legolas’ inner turmoil of warring emotions or nostalgic memories, he did not fail to miss the slightly pained grimace etching the elf’s otherwise blank countenance or the thin sheet of sweat coating his friend’s forehead despite the cold winter breeze buffeting their faces as they continued to walk down the snow-dusted road. It was then that Gimli also noticed the elf’s straining gait. Legolas’ limp had at some point turned into a lurching hobble, his upper body now heavily leaning down over the offered support of his cane as if that was really the only thing keeping him up as he continued to push himself ahead. Legolas was now moving so slowly, Gimli had to slow down to almost a crawl to stay beside the limping elf.

Gimli wanted to kick himself for his inattentiveness. They had been walking the city for several hours now. And though Gimli knew his friend no longer possessed the same stamina or strength he once did, he didn’t once think about stopping to give the elf a short break. Fool elf...he mentally cursed. He could clearly see his friend was tired and in pain, and wanted to yell at him for not admitting this discomfort before and asking for a break. But Gimli knew such actions wouldn’t get him anywhere. Legolas was just too stubborn and full of pride to admit such weakness. Just as he’d always been...

Sighing fondly under his breath, Gimli abruptly stopped in the middle of the street, effectively bringing his friend to a halt beside him. He tried to pretend he didn’t see the pained wince that flashed across the elf’s weary face at the sudden stop, and said in his most casual tone, “Common, elf. It’s starting to get cold. I know you might be able to go trotting around the city all day without taking a break, but I for one want a drink before we go any further.”

An unbidden smile of relief washed over Legolas’ gaunt face. Oh, thank Elbereth... What had only started off as a small, uncomfortable burning sensation in his legs had steadily escalated into all out pain for the northern wood-elf sometime during the last hour of their walk through the city. He was actually surprised they hadn’t already given out on him. “If that is what you so wish to do, then I am willing to oblige to your suggestion.” he replied, casually trying hard to keep his knees from starting to shake as he leaned down harder on his cane.

Gimli just nodded his head in reply, knowing full well the elf was still trying to hide his fatigue from him. “I know a tavern just down the way. Common, it’s not that far.” With that, the two unlikely friends once more set off down the street, this time the dwarf making a conscious effort to walk extra slow to keep Legolas from having to push himself to keep up with him.

Staying true to his word, the tavern the dwarf led Legolas to was not far at all, and before too long the two friends stood before the door of the drinking establishment. “The Golden Goblet?” Legolas said, reading the slightly faded letters painted across the front of the weather-beaten sign hanging over the door. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“It’s a good place. Good ale,” Gimli replied as he pushed the heavy wooden door inwards and stepped inside with the limping elf close behind him, “I discovered it a couple years back when I was repairing part of the third gate for Aragorn.”

Following the dwarf inside, Legolas had to momentarily let his eyes adjust to the darkened lightening before he could finally make out any of the tavern’s interior. It was a small, clean establishment from what Legolas could see. A long bar stood against the opposite wall from the door while numerous tables and chair filled the middle of the room, creating a sort of jumbled maze. Though it was hardly even midday, a good crowd of men already filled the place, sitting in small groups at several of the closely packed tables or in some of the darker corners of the room. It was somewhat darker and more confined than what Legolas probably would have preferred, but it was warm and the thought of finally being able to rest his aching legs held too much of an appeal for the tired elf to complain about the place.

Carefully weaving their way through the jumbled confusion of tables crowding the center of the room, Legolas and Gimli finally reached the far end of the bar which was more secluded and set back from the rest of the tavern’s patrons. As Gimli hefted himself up onto the tall bar stool, Legolas had to stifle a sigh of relief as he slowly slid onto the wooden seat beside him and felt the almost instantaneous ease of pressure off his aching legs. 

“Good afternoon, Masters,” the bartender, an older portly man with thinning grey hair, jovially greeted them as he made his way over to the two and hastily wiped that section of counter off with a rag, “What can I get for you this fine day?”

“One pint of your finest ale,” Gimli answered.

“Just some light wine, thank you,” Legolas replied when the bartender than looked to him for his order. 

“Aw, common, elf! This is the first time you’ve been out of the palace in months. This is a day to celebrate! At least get something a little bit stronger than light wine,” the dwarf protested.

“Just some light wine, thank you,” Legolas repeated, gently smiling back at the bartender. The man hesitated for a moment longer as if waiting to see if the dwarf was going to try and convince his friend to get something stronger again before finally nodding and turning to disappear back down the bar to fill their orders.

A companionable silence descended over the pair as they were once more left to themselves, the soft background murmur of the tavern’s other patrons filling the quiet void. Letting the warmth of the bar’s nearby fireplace work its way down into his cold, weary body, Legolas had to stifle a small sigh of contentment. He could see why Gimli liked this place. Though somewhat small and dark, it was warm and comfortable. As the elf felt the last of the burning sting in his legs begin to fade away and be replaced with a deep, overwhelming sense of warmth and companionship, Legolas finally turned to address him friend. What he saw though when he glanced over at the dwarf quietly sitting beside him immediately banished any compliments he might have been thinking to give the dwarf for his choice of tavern from his mind.

Gimli sat leaning slightly forward on his stool with his thick, muscular arms folded up over the bar, staring down at the counter with a distant smile on his face and soft, unreadable look in his eyes.

“What? What is it?” Legolas immediately inquired, curious as to what could make his friend slip into such quiet reflection. 

“You, elf...” the dwarf replied with a soft chuckle as he slowly raised his eyes from the counter and looked back up at the elven prince, “You never change. Even after all this time, you still refuse to try any other drink except that blasted wine all you elves seem so fond of...” Legolas immediately knew by Gimli’s soft, almost sentimental tone that his drinking preferences were not the actual focus of the dwarf’s affectionate musing.

Before he could inquire about this though, the bartender returned at that moment with their drinks. The man set the tankard of ale and glass of wine he carried down in front of them and then left almost as quickly as he appeared after first collecting several coins from Gimli as payment for their drinks. Legolas took only a tentative sip of his wine as he waited for the dwarf to finish a long draft of ale and continue speaking.

Finally setting his mug back down on the bar and wiping the back of his hand across mouth, the dwarf seemed to revert back into himself as he once stared down at the counter with a soft, distant look in his eyes. 

“Gimli?” Legolas called tentatively, starting to become slightly worried by the dwarf’s odd behavior.

Responding to his name, the dwarf slowly looked back up at Legolas and held the elf’s soft, questioning gaze. “I really missed you, elf,” he finally said, a timid, embarrassed smile slowly forming across his ruddy face, “I might have never said it before or ever come right out and say it again, but I really missed you all these years. I never really knew how much you came to grow on me until after your accident and we all started to believe you weren’t ever going to wake up again.” The dwarf paused for a minute, timidly lowering his eyes back down into his half-filled mug of ale. “Just so you never doubt it, elf, your friendship is worth more to me than all the gold in Middle-earth, and that when you were in that accident and wouldn’t wake up even several months after it happened, I thought I had lost some part of myself. Just know that, elf...” Without looking back up at Legolas, Gimli then casually picked his mug back up and took another swig of ale as if no such confession of friendship had ever just taken place.

Legolas sat for a long minute of stunned silence, running this over in his head. Though he had never doubted his bond with Gimli before, his mind still felt partially frozen with shock at hearing the dwarf’s unforseen, heart-felt admission of friendship. Such honesty concerning their unlikely friendship was something neither of them had ever spoken of before or ever formally acknowledged. It had always just kind of...been. Just a fact that never needed to be spoken or stated to know it existed.

As if in following with their old, well established pattern of indifferent acceptance of their strange friendship, Gimli did not wait to see what the elf’s reaction would be or even seem to expect an answer from Legolas. He just quietly sat there, casually sipping at his drink and staring ahead as if nothing had just passed between them, or that five long years had passed since the last time the two of them had gone out for drinks together like this.

Legolas couldn’t help but smile down into his own drink. Although some things in this world changed, he thought to himself, it seemed some things just never would. And it was because of this he was glad that he had friends like the one that sat beside him. He knew Gimli would probably never admit such a thing to him ever again, but he didn’t need him to. For he knew how deep their bond went, no matter if they spoke of it to each other or not. It was there.

Shaking his head with a smile, Legolas went back to sipping his wine, feeling the comforting warmth of hope and friendship spread through his body and surround him. Yes, it was because of friends like Gimli and Aragorn that gave him the strength to go on, even after everything he had gone through and suffered since waking out of his five year coma.

Falling back into companionable silence, the two friends continued to quietly sip at their drinks, happy to just be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of the other’s presence. 

Their quiet moment together however was quickly broken when the door to the tavern suddenly flew inward and banged back against the wall, letting in a small flurry of icy wind and kicked up snow from the street outside. Several unhappy shouts rang out around the room from some of the bar’s numerous patrons as the sudden chilly draft swept through the place. The young man that stood in the doorway though seemed to take no notice of the disgruntled shouts and hurriedly looked around the darkened tavern as if in search of someone. His eyes looked frantic and cheeks brightly flushed as though he had been running through the cold for quite some times now.

Legolas and Gimli were almost ready to turn back to their drinks again when the young man’s eyes finally happened to fall on them sitting in the far corner of the room. “Lord Legolas and Gimli!” he cried out in something like relief as he spotted the two and hurriedly began weaving his way through the twisting obstacle course of tables and chairs towards the elven prince and dwarf. 

Legolas and Gimli both shared slightly uneasy glances with one another as they watched the young man finally break free from the jumbled confusion of tables and all but run up to them.

“My lords...” he panted heavily, desperately trying to catch his breath.

“Just calm down there, lad, and tell us what’s wrong,” Gimli directed, calmly setting his tankard of ale aside to wait for the boy to catch his breath.

“My lords...” the boy started again, this time a little more coherently, “Lord Elessar just sent me to find you. He told me he requests your immediate presence in the House of Healing.”

Legolas and Gimli instantly tensed in their seats. “Why? What’s happened?” Legolas demanded, rising half way out of his seat at the urgent tone he heard tainting the young man’s voice.

The messenger’s face visibly paled several shades before finally answering the elf in a low, ominous voice. “There has been a murder...”

******

To Be Continued...

******

Like it? Hate it? Please tell me.  Feeback for this story so far as been mediocre at best.  I have since written more than six more chapters for this story since last posting, but if I don't start to get some feedback, I think I'm going to give up on posting here.  Please at least rate the story.  It won't take more than five seconds and it'll at least make me know my work is being read and/or enjoyed.

Till next time
Signing out
-LAXgirl
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