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Chapter Text

“Aragorn, I do not like it here. The trees, they are not happy to see me.”

“Legolas, this is the swiftest way back to Rivendell. Otherwise we must go along the river Bruinen and with spring floods near, I dare not travel so close to its banks. Merely because a few trees do not extend their finest greetings to a wood-elf does not mean we should spend three days slogging through mud as high as your pointed ears. I wish to be home, a cup of good elvish wine in hand, and my weary feet resting before the hearth.”

“You wish to be home to your Lady Arwen.”

“And what of it if that is also guiding my steps? Nay, is there not someone in Mirkwood to catch the prince’s eye?”

Legolas’ eyes dart away from the man, “There has been no time for folly, not when patrols come back more blood than skin.”

Aragorn sobers swiftly, hearing the undertones of despair in his friend’s voice, “I am sorry, Legolas. I do not mean to make light of that which shadows your every breath.”

“It is no matter, Aragorn. It is my fault for taking offence to that which was obviously jest.”

“Regardless, I will ensure the kitchens have a pot of mushroom stew and loaf of stalwart bread on the table to gladden your heart when we arrive. It is the least I can do for dragging you along.”

They had been gone a mere fortnight in Sleekhollow, a mannish town south of the Trollshaws, following reports of unrest there. Considering it to be an advantageous exercise in diplomacy (and, Aragorn thought secretly, a chance to shove off a less-than-rousing responsibility), Elrond had instructed his foster son to go. Legolas had been staying with them since harvesttime as the mountain passes were too perilous in winter for a return journey to Mirkwood. The wood-elf was exasperating the others of the Homely House with his peculiar Silvan behaviours and Aragorn had not desired to travel alone. So with a heavily-handed suggestion from the elflord to “get Legolas away from Glorfindel before something happens,” they had set out.

An accidental burning of a storehouse was found to be the root of the distress. The resulting shortage of grain and the fear of hunger in the cold drove villagers to the point of desperation. Despite living within Elrond’s purview, the people of Sleekhollow were not particularly cordial to the accompanying wood-elf and Legolas had spent much of his time there on edge. He had been on the receiving end of hostility previously and wished dearly to avoid it here - for his sake and Aragorn’s. After assuring that the community's request for aid would be fairly voiced to the elflord and that a shipment of grain would arrive in a few days’ time, the two gladly bid the stone cottages goodbye.

The steady warmth of spring had not yet graced the lands and both wore heavy cloaks pulled tight against them as they trekked across the sodden fields towards Rivendell. The muddy roads were too dangerous for horses so they travelled by foot. While their task had not proved the most arduous, both desired to be back within the halls of the House, dry and well-rested.

They walk through the wood mostly in silence, the constant pattering of leaves lending an offhand cadence to their steps. Aragorn finds he does not mind the quiet, eyes distant with thoughts of Arwen, of home, and of the nearing heat of summer. He has always enjoyed the warm months the most, leaping from sunbaked rocks into the cool river water with his brothers and eating summer melon beneath a shade tree. These few months he has spent together with Legolas however, have been some of the most merry of his life and he rues the day the elf must return home. No matter how much he and his brothers (and secretly, Lord Elrond) beg him to stay, the prince is needed at his father’s side as the forests of Mirkwood grow more sinister with each passing day.

The man is no fool, he can see how the constant battle weighs heavily on his friend. It is said that one can tell the age of an elf by the glint in their eyes. If that were true, then he would think Legolas to be ten millennia older, despite knowing of the elf’s real age. He is a captain, a master archer, and their prince. No amount of imploring from the man has ever, or will ever, sway him to send others to die in his place. Aragorn knows this wholly, holding the same morals in his own chest and yet they have the same argument each year, the man needing to voice his thoughts before he should lose his closest friend. But more recently, doubt and exhaustion have started to claw at the elf and in the dark of night, he has given voice to them before Aragorn. Legolas is on edge at nearly every moment and his already infrequent sleep is troubled by friends slain and futures bloodsoaked.

It is because of the depth and gravity of these thoughts, so far from where they started with his dear maiden, that Aragorn's attention is taken away from the matter before him. He does not see how Legolas’ gait falters or how the branches above them rustle impatiently but no wind strikes their faces.

A growl of hunger from his own belly has him returning to his body and he opens his mouth to call for a rest. A pace ahead of him, the elf stumbles, instinctually reaching out to catch himself on a tree but the moment his hand makes contact, he jerks back as though burned.

“Master Elf, have you dipped into your cups without sharing?” Aragorn jabs but his friend remains quiet. “Legolas, are you well?”

The prince makes it only a little farther, each step more erratic than the last before he wails, dropping to his knees in the mud. Hands release his beloved bow in order to press over his ears with a clear desperation for silence.

Aragorn darts forward, fearing an attack, a trap, something. But he finds none; only his friend in apparent agony amidst the decay and damp of a thawing forest.

“Legolas, Legolas! Can you hear me?” He attempts to pull a lithe hand away from a pointed ear but the archer's strength keeps it there. “What is the matter? Are you ill? Legolas, speak to me!”

When pale eyes open, there is the hazy wash of delirium across them. Has sickness swept him so quickly? Is it a poison? Something from the town?

“The trees, Estel, the trees.”

“What of the trees? Legolas-” The man grips his friend’s shoulders, “what of the trees?”

“They scream.” And the elf topples listlessly forward.

Chapter Text

From the very moment of his birth, Aragorn had been trained to use his voice properly. Before he ever knew of his lineage, he was being learned in all the languages of Middle Earth, the cultures and races and customs. Elrond had brought him into the healing halls, showed him the ways of a healer, how they should act, what they should say. He was educated in medicines and maladies, yes, but also in mannerisms. How one speaks to an ill patient or to a fearful companion. How to speak to others of your status, as well as those above and below it.

And yet, despite all that he was taught, years spent studying and practising, achieving and erring, he could not think of a single other word to shout other than “Mahal!” as Legolas collapsed into his chest. If he’d had even a hairsbreadth of attention free, he might have imagined Elladan commenting offhand about how appalling it was that their brother spoke dwarvish before elvish.

Come now, dwarvish really? Surely we taught you more curses than that, Estel. No Cirdan’s Beard? Not even a rabê or pellopë? No Aranrúth Bite or Point-ear?

Legolas was utterly limp in his urgent hold, eyes shuttered halfway and distant. Tremors surge through the elf’s muscles and Aragorn is forced to tighten his grip.

“Mellon nin, speak to me! What has happened?” What could work so swiftly and potently in the blood of an elf?

But there is no answer from Legolas and so the man gazes about their surroundings, as if they could provide answers. They do not but he can see no threat. The glade they are in will keep them safe for the eve and Aragorn is loath to move Legolas without determining what has taken him.

“Legolas, mellon nin, can you hear me?”

The elf shifts in his arms, keening moans escaping his lips. “So loud. Like a hundred horses in my ears.”

Aragorn’s eyes search again but he hears naught but silence. The trees scream only into elven ears, cries that centuries of forest fires, blight, axes, and lightning strikes dare not compare to.

It is the elmscream, Legolas knows it. The Silvan tell stories of it, of how the endless lamenting calls drove some elves who heard it to madness. Of the pain the trees felt, of the ways the curse consumes a tree from root to tip, each branch inevitably falling victim on its own. It is said to be a death so cruel that even the great ent in the southern lands fear it. And here he was in the middle of it all. A lone wood-elf, extraordinarily gifted in the art of treespeak, surrounded by that which his kin call an abomination.

Aragorn hums a discordant note, dark brows pinching. His eyes once more search the clearing for advice, something that might help him. Suddenly digging through his pack, he tears a roll of bandages into pieces and forms two into little wads, stuffing them in Legolas’ delicate ears. “Is that better?”

The elf nods, though he doesn’t look as though he believes it. The man lifts him from the ground and settles down against a rock in the centre of the glade, as far from the trees as they can manage. The rustle of leaves grows in intensity with each hour and Aragorn holds Legolas to him as the elf seizes from pain and grief. It is a most horrendous night and the feeling of absolute helplessness, witnessing his friend suffer so intensely without any reprieve, only deepens the mire.

Legolas does not sleep, how could he, but the strain has taken its toll and he slumps weakly against the man’s chest in the early dawn. No matter how much he tries to stir his friend, he cannot get him to respond.

So instead, Aragorn hoists the insensate elf’s arm over his shoulders, “Come on, Legolas, we’ve got to keep walking.”

Chapter Text

For three days, they keep this routine. Forcing what little athelas and water he can manage into Legolas’ lips, hauling him through the dense forest, speaking as if the elf would interrupt at any moment. Maybe talking to him will distract him from whatever he hears. Their progress is excruciatingly slow and they are barely halfway through the wood - at least as far as Aragorn can tell. The stars cannot be seen through the canopy and sunlight is sparse and dappled. They cannot return to the river, Aragorn cannot risk the threat of a flood, not with Legolas in this condition.

On the night of the third, exhaustion finally defeats his anxiety and he slips into unbidden sleep.

A noise stirs him awake and he can see Legolas rummaging through his pack, quiet panting escaping dry lips. The man sits bolt upright, the elf had not stirred all day, let alone been cognizant enough for such movement, “Legolas? Are you awake?”

The elf pulls a short knife from a leather sheath, one he used primarily for eating and carving. And before the man’s eyes, he lifts it up to his pointed ear. Aragorn dives forward to catch Legolas’ arm before he can cut himself. The look he is given makes his heart stutter; it is one so full of pleading anguish that for a single moment, Aragorn considers letting go.

“Legolas, give me the blade.” The hand remains clenched. “Mellon nin, please.”

“Hurts, ‘stel. Need t’make it stop.”

Aragorn places both hands around the elf’s wrist, applying pressure to get him to release the weapon. “I know it hurts, Legolas, but this is not the way to stop it. I can give you herbs to help you sleep instead.”

The elf finally surrenders, his thin hand dropping listlessly to his side. “Sleeping doesn’t make it stop, only quieter… like muffled from another room.”

“You can hear them even in elven dreams?”

“No dreams, only screaming.”

Aragorn's voice is drowned speechless by horror washing upon him like the tide. Whatever has captured his friend, driven him to such fits of desperation, will not even allow him respite in sleep. Fatigue made Aragorn’s decision to enter the forest rash and impatient and now his dearest friend had been left to suffer as a result. He moves to sit behind the elf and pull him in close. “I am sorry, mellon nin. This should not be your burden to bear.”

Curled in the man’s lap, Legolas sobs like a child who has just lost his entire world. Aragorn changes his mind - this is the most horrendous night. What is he to do with an elf - too lost from sensation to move and of such unsound mind as to willingly harm himself - stuck in the midst of this accursed wood? Once more, he wishes the warm halls of Imladris were not so far away. With one arm still around his friend, he buries the blade deep in his own pack. As he withdraws his hand, fingertips catch a thin metal chain that he recognises by touch alone.

The thin whistle, wrought of fine silver and etched with a tengwar prayer to Elbereth, was a gift from Elrond the day Aragorn was old enough to venture around Rivendell unaccompanied.

This was used by elven warriors of old. Should you ever need help, blow long and hard into it. You will not be able to hear it but have faith that we will. And like the Mûmakil, your brothers and I will come rushing to you. Do not be afraid to use it, there is no shame in a warrior calling for aid. Even the men of Gondor use a horn made of bone that can be heard across their entire realm. Perhaps one day, you will greet me with it resting upon your breast.

There had only been a few distinct moments he could remember using it, mainly when injury had forced his hand. Against his chest, Legolas whines. He does not know any prayers or lullabies of the Silvan to comfort his friend, he does not even know if they have any. Stroking his finger over the lettering, Aragorn recites the prayer - one which he knows by heart. And with a long breath, he blows the whistle. It is soundless to him but with hope only a candleflame in his chest, he must believe in the power of its call. Tightening his arms around Legolas, as though his strength alone would protect the elf from all harm, Aragorn settles in to wait.

Please, Elbereth, let my name be not in vain. Let that which Elrond calls me, Estel, hold Legolas to the east. Let my hope alone keep him from straying beyond the sea.

The arriving dawn is far too beautiful, soft and gentle elanor-oranges mocking the sombre air felt below. Aragorn is awoken to a lance of sunlight directly in his face through a narrow gap in the canopy. Legolas’ arms have found their way around him, face pressed into his collarbone. He is still asleep, eyes clenched in distress and golden hair tangled. Heaving a sigh that feels much too old for his bones, Aragorn shakes his friend.

“Legolas, you must wake. I do not know if my brothers have heard my call and we must keep moving regardless.”

But he does not shift and the man’s own shoulders ache from supporting - dragging - the elf for days.

“Please, mellon nin, we must move. We must get you to my father.”

With a pained grimace, he heaves the elf up who mumbles deliriously in response. But it is a response at the very least and Aragorn will take every glint of relief he can. They make it only a mile when the man trips over an exposed root and crashes hard to the ground. After ensuring that his friend has come to no harm, the darkness beckons to him like a temptress. Grey eyes stare at the canopy as the cold ground seeps into the back of his tunic.

As they slide closed, he hears the aft-distant cry of a hopeless soul.

Chapter Text

It is only now, after four days in this wood, that Aragorn has realised how still it is. Yes, the trees continue their impatient dance but he has not seen squirrel or deer nor heard bird or insect.

When he had first awoken from his unplanned slumber, there was a startling moment of panic that Legolas may have done something. But he had been fine, as fine as he could be, curled in with his face hidden against his knees.

Aragorn had set about building a fire and managed to convince the elf to drink a little warm water sweetened with honey. The entire time, Legolas had spoken a ceaseless, haunting prose of pain, yearning, and the relief of darkness.

The thrill of hearing his friend speak faded quickly as the agony stitched into the words caused him to reconsider, maybe silence was the kinder option.

Seeing tears well in such sad eyes, Aragorn opened his arms and pulled the elf in. Pale skin shivered with cold against his chest and the man found himself amused, somehow, amidst all his distress.

Legolas had always been more tactile than others of his kin but seeking such intimate comfort as this was beyond even what he would accept.

Perhaps, he desired the comfort of touch after so long without. Or perhaps, it was a tether, keeping the elf’s ship moored to eastern shores.

Either way the man was more than willing to offer, anything he could do to lessen the stone of remorse sinking in his stomach. Anything that might make these circumstances even the smallest bit more bearable.

Now, through the ever-growing darkness comes a melody, echoing steadily. But one would be hard-pressed to find a bird who calls in such a way for it is Lambäwen - the tongue of birds - an ancient lyrical language used by the birdwardens of Laurelindórenan, and one that his twin brothers had taught him.

Brother, call. Help come. Brother, call. Help come. It repeats over and over.

Relief rushing in his chest, he frees his hand from under Legolas, who murmurs more nonsense at the disruption, before clasping it with his other.

I am here. I am here. I am here, he calls back, losing count of just how many times he does. Each one is borne from the depths of his heart, out of his anguish, out of his fear, and out of his hope.

Leaping out from the trees breaks two elves, daggers in their hands instinctively. The distress that had been surging through his veins finally gives way and he lets out a broken cry, “Elladan, Elrohir!”

The twins’ joy of seeing their brother again is quickly replaced by alarm at his posture. Legolas’ head is resting on Aragorn’s shoulder, breathing warmth against the man’s neck. He has given no recognition to the others, having not moved a hair in quite some minutes.

“We heard your cry! What has happened to him?” Elrohir asks, peeling eyelids back, testing pulse points, and checking for wounds. All things the ranger had been doing every hour to no avail.

“I do not know, we entered the woods four days ago and not a halfday in, Legolas collapsed.”

“Did he eat something? Drink something?”

“Nay, we ate and drank the same. He was not out of my sight in the town as there was some hostility from the people. We have been walking since and to my knowledge, he has not sustained injury; certainly not any that could be so grave as this.”

“What have been his symptoms?”

“For most of the days and nights, he has been like this - insensate to everything with brief moments of clarity but those have become increasingly rare. I have tried to coax water and athelas through his lips with regularity but that cannot sustain him forever. His delirium is restless, he whispers about trees and screams, saying they are so loud he would rather face a life of silence than bear it a single moment more.”

Elladan and Elrohir pale in the dying light. Their eyes go wide and it fills Aragorn with a new kind of dread - one he did not know he had capacity for.

“It is the elmscream.”

“The what?”

“We must get him out of here at once. There cannot be any hesitation."

Another sharp whistle pierces the air and two horses come trotting into the copse. Elrohir, the stronger of the twins, pulls Legolas up onto his. The unconscious elf whimpers and Elrohir murmurs something low into his ear. Elladan helps secure their packs and vaults up behind Estel.

The woodedge appears swiftly - they had been so close to it, so damn close - as the cacophony of rustling leaves and thundering branches grows and grows. Legolas convulses violently and Elrohir is forced to tighten his arms to prevent the elf from falling to the ground. Elladan and Aragorn both call his name intermixed with desperate elvish calls to be still, to hang on, to live.

The moment the horses are free of the canopy, the trees go perfectly silent.

And Legolas’ heart skips once, twice, thrice, in his chest.

Chapter Text

They reach Imladris before nightfall the next day, riding at a truly frantic pace that causes Aragorn’s anxiety to spike further until he too is trembling. Elrond paces at the foot of the entry steps, Glorfindel standing to the side. At the sound of approaching hoofbeats, they both look up. The lord gives a brief sigh of relief at seeing his foster son well but it is quickly robbed away when his eyes settle on the prince.

Aragorn leaps unsteadily off his brother’s steed before the horse has even halted, helping Elrohir remove Legolas from the saddle. Elrond is beside the insensate elf in a moment with fingers pressed against his neck, “What has happened?”

Elladan’s voice is tight, “It is the elmscream, father. It has taken Legolas.”

“Elladan, ensure the prince’s chambers have been cleaned. We will take him there. Glorfindel, fetch my herb case and have two ewers of water sent up. Elrohir and Estel, carry Legolas.” There is a confidence to the elflord’s voice that speaks of centuries of experience. Despite the graveness of what lay before them, Aragorn finds comfort in it, the knowledge that someone seems to finally know what to do. He can shed off the authority and decision-making of his lineage and just be Estel, a child of the Last Homely House returned.

The chambers are exactly as the elf had left them, books stacked away on shelves, spare bowstrings and wax neatly packed in their case, clothes wardrobe latched shut. The only difference is that the windows have been closed (something Legolas never allowed, he loved too much to hear the water and birds) and the bedclothes freshly changed. Elladan is dragging two chairs from the table over beside the bed when everyone converges on the room.

Legolas is stripped of his cloak, boots, and suede jerkin, leaving him in just his trousers. He is thoroughly examined for injury by both elvish and human eyes. Finding none other than the small cut in his ear, Elrond palpates Legolas’ hand, ribcage, and neck.

“It has not claimed his fëa yet. There is still time.” And all three of the elves let go of held breath.

“Does that mean he will be alright?” The man’s voice is pitched higher in fear.

“Yes, Estel. Your call came just in time; all he needs is rest.”

Seeing that the situation is well in hand, Elladan and Elrohir excuse themselves as does Glorfindel after arriving to hand off his lord’s supplies. The only ones left are Estel and Elrond, with Legolas listless in bed. His father passes the wooden case over and instructs the young man to make a paste from a recipe found at the very bottom. The card’s title and instructions are written in fresh ink but the line for the creator’s name is age-faded and thin. The rest must have been rewritten over recently, to ensure it lasts. Just how old is this remedy and who wrote it so that their name is forgotten while their work is not? What must it be like to live an existence in which one can simply do good work without the mantle of legacy or lineage atop them?

Tincture for the Affliction of a Shadowed Fëa
------
Camomile, for restful sleep
Feverfew, for the lessening of aches
Elfwort, for the staying of poison
Lissuin, for the easing of one’s heart
Athelas, for strength of hröa against evil

After thoroughly grinding it, he hands the mortar to the elflord who places half beneath the archer’s tongue and massages Legolas’ chin to encourage his body to slowly ingest the mixture. Elrond sings as he works, a soft elvish lullaby Estel recognises as one of Arwen’s favourites.

His curiosity wins the battle against the calmness of the room, “What is the elmscream? Why do you speak of it as if it is born of darkness itself?”

“It is a curse, rarely set upon Middle Earth but incredibly dangerous. It consumes a tree slowly from roots to tip, with agonising pain. They scream out and those gifted in the art of tree-speak - like Legolas - may hear all of their cries. It is whispered in the Elvenking’s halls that even nearing a single tree blighted with it has caused elves to go mad with despair, even to the point of self-violence. You and Legolas were trapped in the midst of a forest of thousands. It is a wonder he lives at all.”

“He did try… to harm himself. I managed to stop him before any injury of course, but he wished to puncture his ears with a blade. It was my decision to venture through the forest, he told me he did not want to but I did not listen. And now…”

“A leader must accept that they will make some decisions more harmful than good. Legolas trusts your instincts but he would have put up a much greater fight had he known the true extent of what lay before him. It is not your fault, my son. I am merely thankful you were there at all. Had he, or any other wood-elf, stumbled into it alone… well, it is something I dare not think about.”

“What is to be done now?”

“Legolas will sleep - and so will you. His fëa needs time and peace to recover before you two return to gallivanting across Middle Earth. I shall send a letter to Mirkwood, informing Thranduil of the prince’s condition and the state of the forest. I’m afraid that other than that, there is not much to be done for the wood, it is truly a terrible fate indeed.”

“Will the trees die?”

Elrond runs his hand down the elf’s arm absentmindedly, “The elmscream may retreat after some time but the forest will not recover. The pain will lessen but never cease and the strain of such a curse will eventually be its end. Perhaps not in this age, but the trees will lose their will to carry on. I have never heard of it being unleashed upon an entire wood. This does not bode well for our dear friends in Mirkwood and I fear a weakness in their impenetrable hearts. Should an enemy learn of such a power-”

“-the Silvan would perish.” Estel looks down at the elf between them, so full of love for the forest. The past days had been the most harrowing of his life and they had only just escaped the clutches of the dark. If Legolas were to witness his home suffer in such a way… his ship may as well prepare its sails for the journey west.

The older elf nods solemnly, “Come now, Estel. Legolas will be asleep for quite a while and you should do the same. And before you can protest-” He adds, holding out his hands diplomatically, “I will stay and watch him. Your room is only a few paces down the hall should I need you.”

The young man closes his mouth from where it had been ready to plead a defence. He nods once, brushes his hand across his friend’s, and leaves the room. Elrond gives a bone-deep sigh as he sinks back into a chair.

“You came so very close this time, my young sapling. Had Estel been even a sliver more prideful and not called, I’m afraid your fëa would have been too lost in the mire.” He strokes a stray piece of hair back behind a pointed ear, noticing the cut in its conch. “So very close…”

Chapter Text

He has almost finished the letter to Thranduil, thoroughly explaining that his son’s condition is no longer serious so the Elvenking does not march to the gates of Imladris with an army. Once more humming as he works, it takes a few times for him to notice that he is not the only one making sound. Legolas gives a whimper that grows in intensity until it is near a wail.

Elrond has four children, he knows nightmares. The ones that have foundations in memory and those that come purely from imagination. And he knows how to comfort each of his children in their own way.

Elrohir is stubborn, insisting nothing is wrong so they will sit in silence until the dam inevitably breaks. It floods out in shuddering sobs and grasping hands like a drowning man. Elrond cradles him, face pressed in dark hair, and tries to keep his own head above water.

Elladan loathes touch. He wants nothing to do with embraces or gentle, stroking hands. They do not appear to him as kind in the roiling waves of his nightmares. But he does not want to be left alone either. So Elrond will stay and wait, at the end of the bed, until sleep returns to the elf’s eyes.

Estel needs music. Lullabies, lyrical poems, stories, even mindless rambling that can be set to melody. Music discerns conscious reality from the realm of dreams where spoken word is all he hears. Elrond sits beside him, one hand untangling the short curls, singing quietly as the man trembles.

Arwen is always cold, bitterly cold when she wakes. Shivering violently no matter the temperature, weather, or season. Her nightmares are the most foreign to him, he does not know what they are born from, not entirely, and she will not tell him. But he knows to stoke the fire and lay another blanket upon her. Elrond holds her hands in his own, hoping his warmth can thaw whatever ice has pierced her soul.

But despite Legolas’ numerous visits to Rivendell, Elrond does not know how to soothe the wood-elf from nightmare. He had borne witness to them before, yes. Of any elfling or mannish child he knows, Legolas would be most likely to have a collection. Mirkwood was an ever darkening place and the prince was so deeply immersed in the emotions of his people that it was no surprise. He tried holding the elf, staying close to him, singing to him, comforting him. But none of them seem to work in the way they do for his other children. Shame rises in his throat that he has never just asked Legolas, asked him what he needed, what was best for him. And now, when the young elf needed that, whatever it was, he couldn’t offer it.

Legolas twists his head into the pillow beneath him, brow pinching. Exhaustion keeps his eyelids fully closed, it will take a few days of good rest before he sleeps with them open. A hand lifts from the blankets, attempting to reach his ear, but the limb is too weak and it falls back down.

A burst of alarm rushes in the older elf’s veins, “Do you still hear them, penneth?”

The whispering voice that escapes Legolas’ lips is not like his own. It comes from the same lungs, the same diaphragm, it is the same and yet somehow it is not. “Edhel erynuin ed-nalldh - lasto!” Elf of the forest, it calls you - listen!

“Legolas, wake. You are in Imladris, you are safe.”

Legolas tenses, eyes squeezing shut tightly before opening. Elrond places his hands on the elf’s shoulders, “Legolas, I need you to answer me. Do you still hear them?”

“No. It’s silent.”

“Good. You were speaking about the trees in your sleep. They were calling out for you and telling you to listen.”

Legolas’ face twists in confusion and he brushes a hand along his ear. “The trees? It wasn’t the trees…” The words he speaks come out absentmindedly as though he forgot Elrond was there.

“What do you mean it wasn’t the trees? Who speaks to you, young one?”

The younger elf jerks himself out of whatever trace had momentarily consumed him and gives the other a small smile, “It was nothing but a peculiar dream.”

The elflord does not look convinced but concedes to let the topic rest for now.

“What time is it?”

“Just after moonpeak. You arrived here before the evening meal.”

“Where is Estel?!” A tinge of panic bleeds into the young elf’s voice as memories of leaving the man to fend for himself in that forest resurface.

“He is unharmed and resting, as you will be again soon. Is there anything you’d like to eat? Estel said he hadn’t been able to get you to eat since entering the forest.”

“Some fruit maybe?”

“Of course. The cherry trees have been abundant this year and we have plenty. I’ll fetch some right now.” Elrond smiles at him before exiting the chamber.

The windows in the room are shut against the night chill but he can still hear that voice calling to him from outside, “Edhel erynuin ed-nalldh - lasto!” Elf of the forest, it calls you - listen! It is different from the trees, older and more mysterious. The calls are lingering, they have been ever since Estel and he visited Lothlórien nearly a year prior.

“What am I supposed to listen to?” He screams in frustration, tossing his blankets off and running to the window. “Who is calling me?”

The burst of energy he had flees him and he sinks to the floor beneath the sill. A sob breaks loose from his throat and the wall he had so carefully built of stone finally cracks. Misery fully overtakes the young elf. He does not hear the chamber door open, nor the worried cries of Elrond, nor the ceaseless ethereal voice.

For this moment in the echoing halls of Imladris, the prince of Mirkwood cannot hear anything.

When sensation returns to his body, there are arms around him. They are not Estel’s well-built muscled arms, but the lithe strength of his own kind. With a rush of embarrassment, he realises that Elrond is sitting against the wall holding him.

He lurches upright and takes a few hasty steps away. “My apologies, Lord Elrond. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“You’ve done nothing of the sort, Legolas, I assure you. There is a bowl of cherries on the table as well as some strawberries. I know they are your favourite.” The elflord extends his hands placatingly as he stands. He can read in the prince’s body language that he wants no mention of what just occurred. Doing so would do nothing but stress him further. “Come eat and then it is back to sleep.”

The young elf eats only a few cherries but all of the strawberries before climbing beneath the blankets. As Elrond watches his charge’s eyelids close, he feels the need to revise his letter to Thranduil. Perhaps, the prince’s condition may be more dire than they thought; his fëa is suffocating.

He turns his face towards the sky - towards the star that his father had worn upon his brow, had carried into Elbereth’s realm, had fought and struggled for - and says a silent prayer for guidance.

Atar, cast your merciful green eyes upon this child who is so clearly drowning in sorrow. Let the light of your jewelled star bestow him with peace and find him respite. Guide him through this advancing darkness until the dawn of the sun is all he must face.

Chapter Text

A lavender dawn breaks on the third day of Legolas’ rest, as calm as the headwaters of the Bruinen bubbling down from the snowmelt of the mountains. Still, quiet, and sedate; such a drastic turn from the bitter orange morns Aragorn had borne silent witness to in the woods. The elf has been sleeping for nearly two days, both fëa and hröa clearly in dire need of the rest.

The door opens with a creak as Elrond enters. He winces at the sharp noise, spotting his youngest son inside. Estel jerks awake, head lifting abruptly from where it had been resting in his arms on the bed. His dark curls are mussed and though he runs a hand through them, it does little to quell their unkemptness.

“Good morning, Estel. I thought I told you to sleep in your own bed last night.” The elflord scolds gently, setting the food tray down on the table.

“I tried but I heard him last night from my room. I couldn’t just leave him.” The young man’s voice is rough with sleep as he glances down at his friend. Legolas’ hair is freshly braided to one side, the end bound with a gold clasp that Elrond had noticed was missing from his own jewellery box last month. Well, it looks better nestled in those pale strands than it ever did in his own dark ones anyway.

“Come have some breakfast before Legolas eats it all.” Elrond beckons with a wink though he knows the wood-elf has been eating very little in the past few days. Some strawberries, a few dry biscuits, the occasional handful of snap peas - not nearly enough for an elven archer.

“Is this cairbas?” Estel asks, pointing to the tray. On it lies a stack of steaming oblong bread rolls, each hollowed out and filled with an egg and soft cheese.

His foster father nods with a smile, placing one on a plate and handing it to him. “Yes indeed it is. I was up very early this morning kneading the dough.”

The look of shock on his son’s face makes the elf raise a questioning eyebrow. A bit of runny egg drips down the man’s chin, “You made this? Rhoben actually let you into the kitchen?”

Elrond tries very hard not to take offence at that statement, “Believe it or not, my child, once upon a time I did cook for myself each and every day.”

Estel eats three pieces of cairbas (and to think Elrond hadn't believed Glorfindel when the warrior warned him men's stomachs were endless) before intending to return to his vigil beside Legolas’ bed. As he pushes back from the table, a sudden harsh inhale of breath escapes from his lungs. It rapidly descends into a bout of violent coughing and Elrond abruptly realises that what he thought was merely a raspy morning voice is not in fact, that.

“Estel, are you alright?”

“I am fine. It is a simple tickle of the throat, nothing more.” But his response is quickly followed by another coughing spell and he sinks heavily back into the chair. Elrond is beside him in a moment, a hand on the young man’s forehead before moving to tilt his chin from side to side.

The elflord gives a quiet hum of concern, “Traipsing through the woods has not done you any favours.”

Despite the rasp in his throat, Estel is firm. “I had to forgo my own needs to care for him. His condition was more dire.”

“But now, my son, you are home and Legolas has been cared for. So please, let us care for you.”

His son’s grey eyes plead with him, wanting to stay by his best friend’s side, but Elrond knows this must be taken care of immediately. “I’m sorry young one, but rest is calling you.”

As the lord pulls him to his feet, the man hisses sharply. “Are you injured? Where?”

“Only my shoulder, ada. It is merely sore from carrying Legolas through the wood.”

“Nevertheless, I would like to examine it and wrap it. Well, it seems it is fortuitous that you will be spending much time laying in bed - it will allow your muscles to heal.”

The illness worsens almost unnaturally quickly and by the afternoon, Estel is limp in bed as even the strength to cough leaves him. Elrond passes off responsibility for Legolas onto the twins, instead turning his attention wholly on his youngest child.

Having lived so long in the presence of elves who are nearly immune to sickness, the man’s own immune system has weakened. It is uncommon he engages with the company of men and spending nearly two weeks in Sleekhollow had exposed him to the remnants of winter illness. The following four weary days spent in the damp wood had all but sealed the letter.

Breaths pulled in are weak and rasping, punctuated only by the seizing of lungs as the man tries to cough. It is dreadful to see and Elrond can only imagine how miserable it must be to experience. He brews tisane after tisane, mixing feverfew and athelas alongside honey and camomile. Anything he thinks might make his son rest even the slightest bit better. The elflord could lie and say that he is not fearful but taking one look at Estel’s face would betray him. Mannish illnesses are not his expertise and although he had cared for Estel through some childhood sickness, none had held him in such a grip as this. The lungs are a delicate thing. They do not power the body in the same way as the heart and yet without them there is not much hope. A matching set, lungs and heart. One living in the beats between moments, thundering with passion and life, and the other living slower but no less vital for its leisure.

When Estel wakes next, it is clear that fever holds him firm in its clutches. The glow of Ithil casts the room in a cold wash and the man shivers despite the flame of his skin.

“Elendil, forgive me. I have failed you.” He whispers to Elrond, as though the man of old and the elf are the same. A trembling hand reaches for Elrond’s cheek. The elf cups his own over it, unwilling to shatter this moment. Whatever Estel thinks he has done to shame his ancestors does not need to be further aggravated by his sure embarrassment at mistaking his foster father for Elendil. Eventually, Dúnedain strength gives out and the hand drops back to the bed. The ill man is still whispering hoarse apologies to the elf-friend of the past as though repetition would make his penance stronger.

Slumber creeps in slowly, turning his words to nothing. But the fragile peace does not tarry for long before breaking out as terror.

He thrashes in his bed and cries out names, those long dead and those alive within these halls intertwined. Elrond summons Elrohir and together with all of their strength, manage to hold the man long enough for him to inhale sleeping vapours. As tension eases out of sore muscles, Elrond sings a continuous, neverending verse. Elrohir wisely does not mention the tears in his father’s eyes.

An elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey.

Estel abruptly goes alarmingly limp and two sets of distraught hands press against his throat and wrist.

A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs
In Lórien the fair.

A heart still beats, lungs still breathe, and two elves heave a great sigh. Elrohir knows the song of which Elrond sings, he has heard it many a time. As he looks to the elf besides him, he calls to mind a verse of it - one he has always thought of his father’s, strong and wise.

Of old Amroth was an Elven-king,
A lord of tree and glen,
When golden were the boughs of spring
In fair Lothlórien.

He can only hope his younger brother will stay with them in this world so the next does not hold true for the elf:

But from the West has come no word,
And on the Hither Shore
No tidings Elven-folk have heard
Of Amroth evermore.

Watching his father brush the matted curls back from Estel’s face, he is suddenly struck by a question, one he had not expected he would ever have the courage to ask. "Ada, why did you bring Legolas to his chamber and not the healing wing?"

It is rare that Elrohir has seen his father speechless. There was a running joke amongst the household members that Elrond had words for everything (and most times, he had far too many). But here, discussing a topic so embedded in his heart, it seems the older elf could not find those which he wanted, the ones that could make sense of this emotion.

"I thought… that if the worst were to happen, Legolas would be more comfortable in his own bed. And it would give Estel space to grieve and come to terms privately, amongst his family alone and not prying eyes and whispering voices. To lose Legolas would be to lose Estel too and I thought that maybe… maybe it would make his passing kinder. For both of them."

Chapter Text

A storm breaks upon the valley in the midmorning and Glorfindel returns drenched from the swollen banks of the River Bruinen. As he stands before the hearth in Estel's room reporting on the state of the floods, he catches sight of Elrond's eyes finally dragging shut.

Elladan had met the warrior-lord at the gates of the house looking just as miserable as Glorfindel felt. The stone of dread that dropped in his stomach felt like a tree tumbling to the ground or a bow splintering in two. The younger elf had tried to reassure him that Legolas was fine and merely resting but it did not lighten the weight.

"What has happened? If not Legolas then-"

"Estel."

And still that stone sinks deeper.

"He is ill, badly so. Ada has spent the last day at his bedside but he will not let me in to see him and Elrohir told me of the horrible dreams Estel had and I am worried for him and-"

Elladan's rambling is cut off by a tug and the sudden comfort of steady arms around his back. Glorfindel was hugging him and despite his shock, Elladan finds himself returning it.

"Estel is the strongest man I know. And even if he falters, Legolas is so damn stubborn he'd go marching right up to Mandos and demand a duel."

A ragged gasp escapes Elladan’s lips, "You're right, you're right. Cirdan's beard, of course you're right."

"Now come on," Glorfindel throws an arm around the younger elf's shoulder, "I need to warm my hands before the fire and if you find me a cup of hot mead, I won't tell your father that you swore."

Estë, Lady of Healing and Rest, in her infinite kindness had given the Last Homely House a reprieve as both Estel and Legolas slept calmly and soundly through the night. But the fire burning in the young man's body refuses to relent and as the sun climbs to its noon peak behind the rain clouds, the warrior-elf finally wakes his lord.

Elrond startles awake as though he'd merely blinked and not slept for nearly three hours. Confusion writes itself into his face and Glorfindel reaches out a hand.

"Everything is fine, it just seems your children have picked up your self-destructive habits," he chides, gesturing to Estel in bed. "It is just past midday, I thought you may wish to wake him or examine him beyond my own poor observations."

"Your diligence is appreciated. Has anything changed?"

"Nay, his fever still burns though it has stopped rising according to Elrohir. He sleeps like the dead-" Elrond flinches violently at this and Glorfindel immediately winces. "That is to say, he sleeps deeply and peacefully. The twins have taken Legolas for lunch in the communal hall and report that he is as obstinate as ever - which seems to be a good indication of his health."

Elrond rises from the settee and returns to the hard wooden chair beside his son's bed. With gentle hands, he checks the man's temperature and pulse, as well as skin colour and elasticity. From the troubled hum he gives, Glorfindel can tell all is not better.

"He is too dehydrated. We must get him to drink water." The elflord steps away to retrieve the ewer and Glorfindel softly shakes Estel's calf to rouse him. Grey eyes flutter for a moment before sliding open.

"-orfindel." Estel remarks breathlessly.

"Yes indeed. I thought I made you and Legolas promise to stop getting into trouble after the last time."

"Nah, you only made 'Las promise. I was 'aving my arm stitched up." The young man quips, grinning weakly for just a moment before being overwhelmed by grating coughs.

Both elves frown at the sound and Elrond sits his son upright to help ease his burdened lungs.

"Estel, do you think you could drink some water?"

He nods minutely, head lolling to his father's shoulder. The cool trickle down his throat soothes him temporarily and Elrond looks delighted when he drinks two full glasses of water.

Such exertion seems to be the limit of Estel's energy as he sags into the pillows behind him, sinking into slumber just as easily. Together the two elves carefully lift his limp frame and tug the man’s linen undershirt free. As it reaches his shoulder, it catches on a chain. Gently untangling the metal from the cloth, they pull it free.

Dangling from between Elrond's trembling fingers is a whistle, silver and polished bright.

“Is that-?” Glorfindel starts, recognising it instantly.

Elrond smiles, eyes warm as he stares down at his son. “He still carries it.”

The warrior reaches out for it, holding the piece with reverence. "I remember when I carved this - the journey to Doriath. She always wore silver." he says, absentmindedly stroking the single Golden Flower etched near the end. "It did not keep her from harm but it has kept Estel from such fates."

Elrond closes his hand over Glorfindel’s, "And for that, I cannot thank you enough, my friend."

---

Elladan and Elrohir both escort Legolas the entire way around Rivendell which the wood-elf repeatedly insists is not necessary, he is perfectly capable of walking. But the twins do not let him and he finds himself still quietly grateful for their support as his stamina wears thin. Elrond had forbidden him from visiting the gardens or the forest out of fear he may relapse and the separation was beginning to prickle his nerves. He needed to see something other than the walls of his chamber.

As they approach Estel’s room, Legolas shoves off their help, determined to walk in on his own. The twins both sigh deeply in exasperation but relent nonetheless. The door is ajar and he pushes it open easily. Inside, Elrond is supporting his youngest son who is hacking horrible, raw, sounding coughs. With his free hand, the elf smacks the man’s back to dislodge the fluid in his lungs. Legolas winces at the anguish on his friend’s face, if I hadn’t succumb to the elmscream, Estel wouldn’t be ill.

“Oh, Legolas!” Estel manages with a wan smile when he looks up.

Legolas’ eyebrow quirks, “You look miserable, mellon nin.”

“And I feel just about the same.” The man groans and leans over the basin in his lap again, coughing up more phlegm while both his brothers send him sympathetic looks.

Elrond gives a quiet noise of dismay, “No more talking, Estel. It will only make your throat worse. Legolas can sit with you, but no talking.”

“Like that’s going to stop them.” Elladan retorts, crossing his arms disbelieving. The elder elf stares down both Estel and Legolas with a clear warning.

"I understand, Lord Elrond." The wood-elf agrees, dipping his head gently.

With one final glare at his ill son, Elrond leaves the chamber with the twins.

They sit in silence for a number of minutes. Such is the way of their friendship, ever full of vivacity and trust regardless of its volume. Legolas runs his fingers through the fringe on the edge of Estel's knit blanket, watching as strands coil and uncoil with each stroke. But Elrond's warning means very little to them in the face of what has happened this fortnight and the words burst forth without consideration.

“I miss the woods, Estel.”

The man frowns, setting down his water glass. “We were just in the woods, Legolas, did you forget what they did to you?”

“I miss my woods, Estel. My trees, and my paths, and my home.” And my father goes unsaid but surely felt.

“Do you intend to return to Mirkwood soon?”

The silence after is enough of a response and Estel sighs, “I know I cannot stop you, but Legolas please, you must be careful.”

“I do not need you to tell me so, my father tells me each time he sees me.”

“And yet, you do not seem to listen.” the man jabs, “How many times have I received letters from the Eryn Galen healing halls?”

Legolas turns away from his friend’s searching eyes. “The woods are dark and ever growing darker. I cannot control what happens to me.”

“Aye, I know Legolas. But you are my friend and it does not stop me from fretting.”

“Ada! I hear Estel talking!” comes the shout from the hallway as Elladan tattles on his younger brother. The man and wood-elf spin to look at each other, fear kindling in them.

“Quick! The window-” Estel wheezes.

He needs give no further instruction. As the door bursts open to reveal the irate elflord, Legolas darts for the window. The sight of the elf’s blonde hair disappearing as he leaps out the opening makes Estel laugh so hard he spends the following twenty minutes coughing.

Even his father’s lecture can’t break his smile.

Chapter Text

“Hah! That’s Fallenwall, I win!” Legolas smirks as his friend groans and flops back down on the divan.

“Ugh, how do you always win?” There is only the barest rasp to Estel’s voice now; the illness has finally relinquished its hold after many, many herb-laden concoctions from Elrond.

The elf drops his tone dramatically, sounding a bit too similar to Glorfindel when someone asks him about his former House, “It is because, my dear, young, naive, simple, little child, I have been playing this game for many thousands of years. You are but a drop in the ocean of time.”

His voice loses the false gravitas and he grins, “And your brothers cheat so much that I had to learn how to really play to beat them.”

Estel grumbles something under his breath that sounds like “old man” and reaches for the platter of sweets. With all the honour of his ancient lineage watching him, he shoves an entire jam tart in his mouth in a single bite. Legolas snorts as the man chews before taking a deliberately graceful bite out of his own pastry.

The late afternoon breeze whistles in through the open window and Legolas freezes.

“Edhel erynuin ed-nalldh - lasto!” Elf of the forest, it calls you - listen!

The voice, that Valar-forsaken voice is back. It had been so quiet for the last few days, it was like it never existed. He never thought he’d feel so grateful for that. With forced nonchalance, Legolas sets down his half-finished tart and rises to close the window.

“You still hear it, don’t you.” Estel says this not as a question - he already knows the answer. His friend nods his head slightly from where he settles the latch into place.

As the elf turns, his face is chiselled with an unreadable torment, like a sculptor’s stone that has only been coarsely carved. The man pats the space beside him and Legolas settles down on it hesitantly.

“Elrond suspects something.” He mutters bitterly, hands fidgeting with his sleeve.

Estel frowns at his tone, “Is that such a bad thing? To share your burdens with others?”

The man knows that wasn’t the most delicate of responses but over his years as friends with Legolas, he has learned that being upfront is often the better choice. And from the way the elf deflates, he knows he was right.

“Legolas, I know of the burdens you carry, the ones that weigh down your shoulders and your mind. Please, share them with someone. Me, my father, your father, Elladan, Elrohir, someone. When did the voice start again?”

There is pause, a pause so telling Estel feels his lungs stutter. “It hasn’t ever stopped.”

“You’ve heard it all the way since-”

“Since last year, in Cerin Amroth. You were with Arwen and I…” Legolas pauses, turning his face towards the distant bluffs outside. His voice is muffled now, as though he is ashamed. Perhaps he is.

“I was in the trees. The voice, it was so sudden and loud that I fell from the branch. The air was knocked out of my lungs and as I lay there gasping for breath in the flowers - I swear Estel, you must believe me - the voice, it sounded like my naneth.”

A hand settles on his shoulder and gently turns him back. Estel’s eyes are the soft grey of elven wool, the watery dawn of a rainy morn, and the same glimmer of kindness as his mother’s were. It is too much for him to bear and his own eyes fill with tears.

“I believe you, mellon nin. No matter what, I will always believe you.” There is such an unrelenting faith in his friend’s tone, the knowledge that he will never be forsaken. It is something he had ne’er dreamed he would have.

The fissures in his stone heart finally give way and he sobs into the man’s embrace. It feels familiar to him somehow and if he could see Estel’s thoughts, he would see the dampness of a forest and the desperate hold as one elf shed far too many tears than his soul should have to bear.

Legolas’ voice chokes, “Will you tell him?”

Estel shakes his head, “I will only tell him what you wish, Legolas. I would never betray your trust.”

“Would you? For me? I do not think…” He pauses, inhaling a shuddering breath. “I do not think I have the courage to do it myself.”

“Of course, mellon nin.” The man brushes fingers over the chain around his own neck, “There is no shame in a warrior calling for aid.”

And outside in the hall, an elflord (who was very much not eavesdropping but merely monitoring his patients) whispers a thank-you to his father.

Atar, you heard my call and where I asked for a guiding light, you sent me a young man. His heart shines as true as your star. I am certain you and amil would love him.

Chapter Text

“I’m glad you could come see me, Legolas.” Elrond smiles, gesturing to a seat in the study.

“It was you who summoned me here.” The younger elf’s face twists uncertainly. His posture is immediately defensive and it saddens the elflord’s heart. It is not fair that one should feel such unease even in a place he has called a home for many centuries.

“Ah yes, indeed it was… Estel told me of the voice you hear - and the words it speaks.”

Embarrassment flares in Legolas, he had forgotten his tearful plea in the man’s chamber earlier in the week. He turns for the door, “I should be leaving soon. My father needs me in Mirkwood.”

Elrond is desperate to keep him there, to somehow help the so painfully young prince. He lurches forward, arm reaching out.

“Estel likes lullabies. Even now.” He starts and Legolas pauses.

“His favourite is the Song of Nimrodel, but for what reason I do not know. I used to have to change the ending. Nimrodel dying of a broken heart was always too melancholic for his young soul. It wasn’t until after his first battle that he stopped asking me to change it.”

“Why do you tell me this? I surely believe Estel would not be pleased to hear you tell me such things.”

“Legolas, you have been a guest of my home for many years. I have watched you grow from an elfling into a prince. And I have seen how your golden heart has become shuddered and shaded. The encounter with the elmscream opened my eyes to how bad it has become. What does your father intend to do about Mirkwood? You cannot sustain this forever. There is no shame in admitting that certain things one soul cannot handle. Please, I only wish to help you.”

“He will fight until he dies and I become Elvenking. The burden will be passed down.”

“Surely he sees that this is harming you. This cannot continue.”

Legolas whips around, the grey of raging floodwaters in his eyes. “My father has an entire realm to uphold. One elf… struggling,” he bites out, “should not be his greatest concern.”

“You are his son. I know that his love for you runs deeper than tree roots grow. You are not just one elf. And you are not just struggling, Legolas. You are drowning.”

His words seem to finally notch a chip in the elf's so carefully built façade and a sudden drain of energy sends Legolas crashing to the sofa behind him. He stares straight ahead at the waterfall visible through the window. It thrashes and spits in the wind and oh if that doesn't feel like the inside of his chest right now.

His voice is quiet, “Eighty-three.”

Elrond remains silent but moves closer beside Legolas.

“I have written eighty-three letters. Lit eighty-three pyres. Scattered ashes beneath eighty-three saplings. I cannot even be in the same room as lit pipeweed anymore. It smells too much like… like the burning of hröa. I do not have the heart to tell Estel, he finds too much comfort in that pipe.”

“Legolas, it is one of my greatest shames that despite the years you have come here, I have never asked you what you needed - not food or the other needs of the hröa, no - but what your fëa needs. We elves are destined to carry more than any other, our lifetimes bearing witness to the ceaseless stories of the Earth. But you, penneth, are carrying more than even the oldest of elves should. So please, when you are in these halls, tell me what you need and you will have it.”

Legolas tracks the dust motes in the window catching sunlight like jewels. The warmth makes his grey eyes burn gold, “Light.”

“Hmm?”

“Light. I need light. Estel needs lullabies - I need light. Candles, hearthfires, lanterns. Eryn Galen has always been too dark.”

Elrond smiles, placing a hand on Legolas’ knee. “And so you shall have it.”

Chapter Text

Many weeks later, as Legolas turns away from wishing his friends farewell, Elrond presents him with a small travelling lantern made of bronze. Over the glass is delicately carved metalwork of elanor and vines that twist around the Star of Eärendil at the centre. When the candle is lit inside, it will cast that pattern across the entire room.

There is a knowing look in the elflord’s eyes and Legolas finds his arms around the other before he even realises. Elrond’s body shakes as he laughs, reaching up to return the embrace. Nearby Estel, Elladan, and Elrohir all sputter confusedly.

The trees of the Greenwood do not scream at his arrival, they sing. Their prince has returned and they can feel how one of the many blankets of sorrow has been debrided from his soul. His father hugs him when he dismounts and they stay, unmoving, for quite a while. There is a desperation in the grip, more than just from his son’s illness, more than just from months spent apart.

Elrond’s words echo in his head: Legolas, what do you need?

“Ada, what do you need?”

“I need you, my son. I just need you.”

From that day forward, the lantern sits on his bedside table, flint ready nearby and a thin whistle, newly wrought of gleaming silver, hangs around his neck. While nothing can entirely dispel the shadows, one can cast the safe warmth of light upon them. It is a start; kindling for the great flame of hope.