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Chapter Text

Lothlórien basked in the lucid moonlight, filtering through the mallorn trees, as it coated the clearing with an ethereal glow. Thranduil stood across from Celeborn and Galadriel, stiff and detached as he held a tiny newborn elfling in his arms. The baby writhed in his grasp, fighting the confines of the tight cloth she was swaddled in - serving only to irritate the elven king further. The tension hung heavy from the branches, threatening to stifle them all if not for the elfling's gentle cries periodically piercing the silence.

"I cannot care for her. She is a reminder of my failures and a burden I cannot carry. Not after everything." Thranduil announced, voice cold and lacking any semblance of fatherly warmth as he held out the elfling to Galadriel.

"I cannot raise her brother." For a terse moment, Galadriel could have sworn she saw the beginnings of a crack in her brother-in-law's façade as he placed the tiny elfling in her waiting arms. Then, as quick as it came, Thranduil stepped back as though the moment was something he wished to be rid of entirely.

Galadriel gently cradled the tiny child, rocking the elfling ever so slightly to calm her unsettled cries. A moment of stillness passed as she looked down upon the elfling in her arms; her eyes lingering on the baby's delicate features as she committed them to memory. The sharpness of the cheekbones, the subtle tilt of her brow, the narrowness of her jaw. Galadriel's brow furrowed slightly as she traced the small pointed ears, the fine bones of her face, the tufts of russet hair she hadn't seen since the death of her eldest cousin - so familiar, and yet so ancient. Yes, the little elfling had the faintest traces of something old, something far beyond the bounds of the Greenwood - she was certain.

"You cannot simply cast her aside Thranduil, she is your daughter." Celeborn addressed his younger brother sternly, his eyes however, fixed upon his wife - sensing something of unspoken importance.

"She is nothing to me Celeborn, that is the problem. I have not the time nor wish for sentiment but even I can see that no child deserves to be reared in such an environment," Thranduil's voice rung entirely devoid of emotion, his abject detachment making Celeborn's blood run cold - and only serving to intrigue Galadriel further, "She will never know me and I have no desire to know her."

Galadriel held Thranduil's elfling closer still, her expression unreadable as she studied her with a quiet, imperceptible recognition. The weight of her thoughts pressed down upon her as memories of a past never spoken of - of bloodlines long buried - flashed before her eyes."We will care for her. She will have a home here in Lórien", Galadriel proclaimed wistfully, "But you cannot sever the bond of blood, Thranduil. She will grow, and when she is old enough, she will choose her own path. If she wishes to return to the Greenwood, you will have to accept her - whether you wish it or not."

Celeborn kept his voice steady, and yet was unable to dismiss the hint of reproach that encroached on his tone, "Her lineage is her own to claim brother, as is her future. You cannot erase the past nor her blood", his gaze flitting between his brother and his wife as he asserted, "She will be raised with truth."

"So be it. Let her choose then. But do not expect for her a warm welcome into my halls," Thranduil shrugged dismissively, turning away with finality as though the matter was settled. As though his words weren't steeped in the bitterness of unhealed wounds, "I will not stand in her way, but she is no longer my concern."

Galadriel watched closely as Thranduil took his leave, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched his retreating form dissappear amongst the trees. Stuck between pity for the shell of an elf the once mighty elven king had become, and dismay towards his treatment of his newborn elfling. Her gaze softened as it landed on the tiny elleth asleep in her arms. Her thoughts however, remained distant, transfixed on the shadow of elven folk past.

"She is strong Celeborn. Stronger than we know," Galadriel admitted softly, as if it were some sort of mantra, "I will raise her as my own, but she will learn the truth of her blood when the time comes."

"Do you see it too?" Celeborn inquired, placing a gentle hand on Galadriel's shoulder as he studied the elfling closer - a knowing look settling upon his eyes.

Galadriel took a moment to pause, concealing the flicker of recognition that still lingered with a well practiced unreadable expression, as she met her husband's stare, "I see something in her Celeborn. A strength, a fire. But I will not speak of it - not yet at least."

Galadriel held the child tight in loving arms, her voice gentle and pensive, "For now, she is only a child. She deserves to grow without the weight of such knowledge."

"Yes. Let her grow in peace, and when the time is right, she will understand." Celeborn nodded sincerely in agreement, mindful of the weight of their unspoken realisations.

"We will raise her in truth. And when the time comes, Legolas will find her place in this world, no matter where it leads her." Galadriel concurred, her firm resolve not quite reaching the soft smile she gave Legolas - laced instead with an unmistakable tinge of sorrow that even the lady of light couldn't quite shake.

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600 years later.

The Greenwood was tranquil in the hours before dawn - the silver glow of the moon waning as the first hints of sunlight caressed the treetops. The caverns beneath the mighty trees remained shrouded in quiet, the early stirrings of elven life still hours away.

Legolas stirred, waking to the familiar cool morning breeze that seeped into her chambers. She shifted beneath the sheets at the draft, becoming acutely aware that the weight of her restless night had once again etched itself into her stiff limbs.

In sleep, her thoughts often wandered unbidden to Thranduil. His stern, detached gaze haunted her like a spectre, a constant reminder of his disapproval. Try as she might, Legolas could not recall a single moment in her life when her adar had looked at her with anything aside from indifference or just plain annoyance. Her elder brothers too, regular culprits in keeping her from much needed rest. She had once made efforts to form bonds with them, to carve out a place for herself in their lives. But these efforts were always met with polite dismissal at best, and outright disdain at worst.

No, she knew her place here. They were heirs to the Woodland Realm, the rightful princes of their people. And she? She was an afterthought. An inconvenience in a family that had no place for her. Though the hurt never truly faded, it was a bitter truth she had come to terms with long ago. Instead, she had thrown herself into the Greenwood's defenses, finding solace in her place as a warrior among her people. At least in battle, she had something meaningful and tangible to distract herself with.

Legolas rose from her bed, shaking off the last tendrils of sleep and the melancholy that lingered in its wake. Even so, her movements remained slow, and her head light as if she hadn't slept at all. She dressed as if muscle memory, pulling on her armour with practiced ease - securing her bracers, reaching for her quiver - only ever pausing to tie a single loose braid into her hair.

Her assigned patrol that morning would take her deep into the southern borders, into the heart of Dol Guldur’s shadow. A bitter smile tugged at her lips as she continued readying herself, contemplating her continual deployment in the region. A punishment, surely. Her adar’s unspoken way of telling her where she belonged.

As she moved towards the door, a wave of dizziness overcame her. Legolas faltered, clutching the edge of the doorframe as the feeling of nausea became too much to ignore. The sensation only grew until Legolas was keenly aware that the feeling of her stomach tying its guts together was creeping up her throat - she no longer had any option but toward rush to the privy.

Legolas' knees hit the stone floor hard as she leaned over, retching violently. The sharp taste of bile burned her throat as she clung to the edge of the basin, her whole body wracking; gasping for breath as her russet curls tumbled like a veil over her face. The cool air brushed against her flushed skin, but it offered no relief.

Legolas found herself again hunched over the basin, fists clenched at her side in a failed attempt to will the sickness away - accompanied only by the sound of her own breath, coming in shallow gasps. That was until the sound of deliberate, measured footsteps reached her ears and Legolas froze. She didn't even need to look to know it was Thranduil who stood in the doorway. He had always had a way with conveniently showing up at her lowest moments.

Thranduil moved closer, his presence looming in the small privy. Legolas felt his eyes rove over her, not with fatherly concern, but with a detached, critical gaze.

"So this is what has been keeping you from your duties is it?" Thranduil's cold and authoritative voice broke the stifling silence.

"I-" Legolas began before another wave of sickness overcame her. She doubled over the basin gagging, wincing as her throat began burning once more and her body kept pushing up more from her stomach. It let up for a brief serene moment before she felt it edging back up her throat, stomach clenching in pain as she dry heaved until something came out. Legolas had never felt anything like this before. It wasn’t the sickness of exhaustion; this was deeper, leaving her drained and unsteady like she had never felt before. For a long moment, she stayed there, breathing in ragged gasps until the nausea subsided.

Her heart sank as she straightened and faced him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before addressing Thranduil, "It is nothing, Adar. I am fine, just a moment of sickness I am sure."

"Is it now?" Thranduil narrowed his eyes at Legolas, his piercing gaze never leaving her as he leant against the doorframe, "I know exactly what you have been doing, you cannot hide it from me. Did you really think I do not notice what goes on in my own halls, Legolas?"

Her stomach twisted again, but this time, it was not borne of the nausea. There was something in her adar's tone, something accusatory - something that put the fear of the valar into her.

"What do you mean? I don't understand, Adar?" Legolas asked as she attempted to steady herself.

"Do not play coy with me. I know you, Legolas. You are not one to be taken off guard by something as simple as morning sickness." Thranduil spat, a sneer replacing his previously nonchalant expression.

His eyes scrutinized Legolas closely and for the first time, she realised where his gaze was transfixed. Her midsection. The curve that had begun to form, barely noticeable with her tunic on - certainly not enough that Legolas had given it much thought - a subtle change, but one Thranduil had clearly picked up on nonetheless.

"Adar, what are you-" Legolas began, voice imbued with panic before Thranduil interrupted, colder now than ever.

"You are pregnant, Legolas." Thranduil's words hung in the air, sharp and final, like a seal preventing either one of them from breaking the uncomfortable silence that had precariously formed between them.

"What?" Legolas whispered, voice breaking as is sliced through their tentative stillness, "That cannot be."

Thraduil's sneer deepened, purposeful and precise in his scorn, "Do not feign ignorance Legolas, the signs are clear."

His eyes turned hard as he met her tearful gaze, cold and unyielding in his cruelty, "You are not only unmarried, Legolas, but far too young for this; your naneth had seen three millennia by the time we had Oradaer. And you think I will allow this - half-breed to taint the line of the Greenwood?"

Legolas recoiled at his words, unable to hold back the unshed tears any longer. She knew well that Thranduil could be cruel and uncaring but she thought that even he had his limits, "What do you mean half-breed? That is my child adar - your grandchild," Legolas pleaded to him, her voice shaking with confusion and hurt.

"Do not look at me with that innocent face, Legolas. I have seen the way you look at the Peredhel. I will not tolerate you making a mockery of our house," his expression was unforgiving, absent of any semblance of paternal love. Legolas trembled at his overwhelming presence, until his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "You will rid yourself of this mistake before it grows."

Legolas' breath caught in her throat as she stared at him in revelation. Initial shock giving way to fury, as she rose shakily to her feet. This was the final straw, she knew now for certain that nothing she could ever do would even come close to overcoming her adar's abject hatred towards her. She had had enough. No more would she cower to him in hope of a scrap of fatherly warmth.

"No."

"You will not defy me in my own halls, Legolas," the contempt in Thranduil's tone was almost suffocating as he curled his lip, "You leave me no choice. I will not have you spreading your legs for every Noldor you see like some common whore."

Legolas had to hold herself back from punching him square in the face as she stepped forward, "I am not a whore, Adar." Her voice remained low and fierce, "And I will not be rid of my child."

"Then you will leave my halls. You will leave the Greenwood at once." Thranduil announced returning to his uncaring nonchalance.

"What?" Legolas found herself stumped, lost for words at her adar's proclamation - but resolute in herself nonetheless.

"I will not tolerate this. You will be escorted to the borders of Imladris, and after that, you are no longer my concern." Thranduil emphasised, his words dripping with vitriol.

Before Legolas even had the opportunity to protest, he turned his back from her, dismissing her as nothing more than an inconvenience, "You are no longer my responsibility, Legolas. You will leave, and once you are gone, I do not want to hear of you again."

Legolas stared at him, unmoving as she watched the withdrawing figure of her adar fade into the caverns, leaving her alone in the suffocating silence. She sank to the floor, a trembling hand coming to rest upon her abdomen as she memorised the feel of the swell beneath her palm - of the fragile life growing within her. Though her adar’s rejection cut deep, a new resolve hardened in her chest.

She would not let Thranduil break her. Even as it felt as though her entire world was caving in on her. She would not let him have his way.

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"You grow quieter with each day, mellon. Do you not trust me enough to share what burdens you?"

Tauriel rode close to Legolas, galancing sideways as she eyed her friend's pale drawn face with worry. Unable to ignore the unease that had begun to settle within her any longer.

Legolas offered her long standing friend a faint smile, but it did little in the way of disguising the weariness etched deep into her features, "There is nothing to say Tauriel, I am merely tired from the road."

Tauriel narrowed her eyes, unable to stop the sharpening of her tone, "You have never been this fragile before, not even during the most grueling campaigns."

"This is not simply exhaustion Legolas. I see it in the way you ride, the way you clutch your cloak as if to shield yourself." Tauriel's features softened as she pleaded, riding up beside Legolas to place a gentle hand on her arm.

Legolas straightened herself slightly in her saddle, an unconscious response to Tauriel's observations. "I am fine, Tauriel. Let it be," she snapped defensively, shaking off Tauriel's hand.

Tauriel did not let her gaze waver, concern only deepening at Legolas' irritability. "As you wish, but I will not leave your side until I know you are well," she hesitantly relented.

The journey continued in their well practiced game of silence, perfected after many a patrol related disagreement - both too stubborn to be the first to broach the tension. Upon finally approaching the borders of Imladris, Tauriel reined in her horse, dismounting swiftly before moving to approach Legolas.

Tauriel watched closely as Legolas began to dismount before she reluctantly decided she was going to have to be the bigger elf for once. "Legolas, this secrecy must end. You cannot even dismount a horse without trembling. This isn't like you. Tell me what ails you please," she implored her friend, unsure what else she could do for the elf that had saved her life so many times.

"It is not your concern. You are to leave me here anyway, what could you possibly do even if I did seek your counsel?" Legolas avoided her gaze, steady in her reply but distant, detached almost.

Tauriel's jaw tightened, and her voice hardened in turn, "Then it will become mine, for I will not leave you at the borders as Aran nìn commanded. Whatever this is, you need more than just an escort - you need a friend, Legolas."

Much to Tauriel's relief, Legolas finally relented - glancing at her, a flicker of gratitude and a small but genuine smile emerged from behind the wall she had erected between them, "Thank you, Tauriel."

The soft rustle of fallen leaves and gentle trickle of water permeated the courtyard of Imladris as Legolas and Tauriel's steeds slowed to a halt. The tranquility of the valley seemed almost cruelly indifferent to the mounting tension between them, appearing to taunt Legolas in her growing weakness. Tauriel moved to dismount first, sharp eyes never straying from Legolas who sat unnaturally still in her saddle; her hands clutching at the reins as if they were the only thing keeping her upright.

Maglor Fëanorian took in the scene from the entrance to the halls where he had been stood, unaware of their impending arrival - his black hair catching the dwindling sunlight as he observed their approach. His brow furrowed as he noted the pallor of Legolas' complexion, the slight tremor in her hands as she struggled to steady herself. Something was deeply wrong. He stepped forward towards the pair, concern already evident in his usually serene expression.

"Legolas? We were not made aware of your coming. What brings you back to Imladris?" Maglor inquired, tone light but laced with undertones of concern.

Legolas raised her head to answer, but the words died on her lips as quick as they came to her. Her vision began to blur as she felt herself slipping, her grip on the reins loosened and an onslaught of warmth and dizziness overame her. Tauriel, still holding the reins of her own horse watched as Legolas' strength gave out - her eyes widening in alarm as she cried out for her friend. Her fear momentarily replaced by action, as she dismounted swiftly.

Before she could fall, Maglor ran across the courtyard as if his life depended upon it, somehow still maintaining his Noldorian grace. Arms outstretched, he managed to catch Legolas' lithe body in his arms just as she began to collapse. The force of the motion brought him to one knee, as he cradled her with a gentleness that belied his strength and infamy.

Legolas' head lolled against his shoulder, her breaths shallow and uneven. The Fëanorian's expression darkened as he felt the unnatural heat radiating from her skin. He held the back of his hand to her forehead, his touch careful yet urgent.

"She's burning up," Maglor murmured to himself tightly. He shifted her weight ever so slightly in his arms, supporting her with ease as he looked up at Tauriel, sharp and with urgency he commanded "Bring her to the halls of healing. Quickly!"

Maglor's command carried an oppressive weight that stilled Tauriel in her tracks. Though his voice was calm, there was an undercurrent of authority to it like she had never heard before. An ancient power that seemed to shake the very air around him. Almost instantly, his being so ancient and vast, seemed to fill the courtyard in its entirety; she had never felt so small - so mortal - before than in the presence of an elf who had lived through ages so distant they were nearly myth. She had heard whispers of the sons of Fëanor and their fell deeds, but stood before Maglor Fëanorian in that moment, those stories seemed pale echoes of the reality.

As he swept Legolas into his arms, his movements were gentle - caring even - but the sheer force of his being was undeniable. Tauriel’s breath hitched in her throat, he was no mere elf but a relic of an age long past - carrying the weight of unnumbered battles and griefs. His silver eyes, sharp and unyielding, focused on hers - snapping her out of her thoughts. Leaving no room for argument or hesitation, "Tauriel. The healing halls. Now."

Tauriel swallowed hard and nodded, the briefest flicker of awe in her eyes as she turned to obey. Clearing the way ahead, her usual confidence faltered her and she couldn’t help but glance back at him, even in urgency, every step he took seemed to carry the echoes of a world far greater than her own. When they reached the entrance to the halls of healing, Tauriel hesitated, stepping aside to allow Maglor to pass. She watched intently as he carried Legolas - jaw clenched and silver eyes clouded with worry - with a gentleness that seemed in stark contrast to the force of his presence. Maglor laid Legolas carefully upon the nearest bed, his hands lingering for a moment as if reluctant to let go. Even as he joined Tauriel standing in vigil by the door, his gaze remained fixed on her pale face and his face set into a frown.

Elrond arrived within moments, entering the halls with swift purpose. Kneeling beside the bed, he placed his hands delicately on Legolas' forehead and then to her heart, his keen gaze assessing her all the while. The halls were silent, save for the faint rasp of her breathing and the steady rhythm of Elrond's movement - no one dared to break it.

Maglor stood to one side, his arms crossed and eyes fixed on the Lord of Imladris whilst Tauriel hovered nearby; the tension practically radiating from her rigid posture as they watched Elrond work. His hands moved towards Legolas' abdomen where his touch paused, lingering as something came to him. Steadily, his expression shifted, the realisation dawning upon him.

Gently, Elrond moved aside the folds of her tunic. And beneath the fabric, he felt it. What he had feared to be true. The curve of Legolas' stomach - faint but unmistakable. His face hardened, his shoulders tightening with the weight of what he had found.

"Oh, Legolas-" Elrond's disheartened whisper tore through the silence.

Tauriel caught his tone and stepped forward, her voice rising in urgency, "What is it Lord Elrond? What is wrong with her?"

Elrond straightened slightly, his expression grim. He hesitated, his gaze flitting between Tauriel and Maglor, as if weighing how much to tell.

"If there is something amiss Elrond we must know!" Maglor stood to his full height beside her as he echoed Tauriel, pressing Elrond for the truth.

Before Elrond could even attempt to formulate a response, Glorfindel appeared in the doorway demanding answers of his own as he looked upon the scene before him, "Elrond, speak. We need to know what ails her."

Elrond exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly as he met their expectant gazes; heavy with reluctance as he admitted the truth, "Legolas is with child." His voice remained quiet and steady as he continued, "The fever I can only imagine is the result of excess stress or not taking care of her needs as an expectant mother properly."

Elrond's words settled heavily in the air, and a startled silence followed in their wake. Tauriel's lips parted as if to speak, but no words accompanied them. Her hands clenched fiercely at her sides, trembling with both anger and disbelief.

"I'll kill him." The elleth muttered darkly. Without explanation, she turned and stormed out from the halls, her purposeful footsteps echoing through the quiet hallways.

Maglor remained unmoving, his gaze transfixed on Legolas' unmoving body. A flash of anger flickered across his face as his voice came out quiet and cold, "And what of Thranduil? Did he know of this?"

Elrond's expression remained grim as he turned to Maglor, "I would wager he did. Her condition was likely the reason she was sent here."

Maglor's jaw tightened and he found himself having to take a deep breath before speaking, to prevent himself doing something rash, "And discarded, it seems. Disgrace of a king."

"Peace, Maglor. The child’s safety is what matters now." Glorfindel reassured, placing a steadying hand on Maglor's shoulder as he moved closer.

The three watched as Legolas stirred slightly in the bed, a grimace taking over her freckled complexion momentarily before she returned back to her peaceful slumber. At his wits end, Elrond dismissed them from the halls - lest the storm of emotions around Legolas' bedside overwhelm the quiet sanctity of the halls of healing.

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The door to the halls of healing creaked open, and Elrohir slipped in sheepishly. His head slightly bowed in a lacklustre attempt to conceal himself from the expected wrath. Traces of the fresh bruises forming across his cheekbone stood out; deep purple marks visable against his fair skin that his fingers hovered near unconsciously.

Tauriel, leaning against the far wall, fixed him with a glare sharp enough to pierce mithril. Her arms were crossed tightly - almost threateningly - and her posture brimming with tenuously restrained anger. Across the room, Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at the newcomer but said nothing; whilst Maglor smirked faintly from where he stood near the window, his arms folded in quiet amusement.

"It seems you survived." Tauriel sent Elrohir a deadpan stare, her green eyes narrowing with displeasure as she gestured towards his cheek.

"I take it that you delivered that with love, Tauriel?" Elrohir inquired, light hearted as he attempted to broach the tension.

"If it were delivered with love, Elrohir, you wouldn’t still be standing." Tauriel asserted, fighting the urge to scoff at him.

Maglor's lips twitched into a faint smile as he placed a stern hand on Tauriel's shoulder, "Enough, Tauriel. Let them speak. He’s here to see Legolas, not face your wrath again."

Glorfindel titled his head at Elrohir, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he whispered, "Good luck" to his protégé.

With that, the three elves filtered out of the halls, leaving Elrohir alone in the room. He lingered by the door for a moment, alternating between clenching and unclenching his hands as though attempting to summon courage; until his gaze turned towards the figure on the bed.

Legolas sat propped up against a stack of soft pillows, her familiar complexion glowing meekly in the dim lighting. Though weariness still marked her features, her green eyes met with his in a quiet warmth that immediately dissipated the tension that had knotted itself together in his chest.

"Come here, Elrohir." Legolas' voice was soft in beckoning him closer.

His steps were fraught with uncertainty as he approached her bedside, the weight of guilt heavy in his movement. When Elrohir reached her, she lifted a hand - cool fingers brushing against the bruise on his cheek. Legolas' touch was gentle, but her gaze firm as she searched his face, "Tauriel doesn’t hold back, does she?"

"I deserved it." Elrohir admitted hesitantly, shaking his head as a rueful smile crossed his lips.

Legolas gave him a look, as she arched a delicate brow at him. Her expression softened though there was a resolute firmness to her voice as she spoke, "Did you? Tell me honestly, Elrohir, when we laid together did you intend to fill me with your child?"

Her words had barely even begun to hang in the air before Elrohir's breath caught. His eyes widened in horror and he stumbled over his words, "What? No! Legolas, I swear - I would never."

She silenced his rambling with the faintest of smiles, her tone turning almost teasing as she spoke, "Then there is no need to apologise, is there? We can’t change what’s already done."

Elrohir sank into the chair beside her, his composure faltering with him. Guilt and regret lingered in his expression, but Legolas' calm acceptance seemed to have eased the worst of it, "I was reckless Legolas. I should have been more careful."

Legolas' hand found his, holding it tentatively between her own. "From what I recall, we were both equally reckless. And now, here we are," she assured him, gentle but determined. She tilted her head ever so slightly toward him, her gaze softening as she continued, "I don't regret it, Elrohir, not even for a moment."

Elrohir slumped as her words sank in, affirmations washing gently over him. He hesitated at first, before he got a hold of himself - leaning forward to gather Legolas up in a long overdue embrace.

Legolas melted into the touch. She hadn't realised quite how much she had longed to be in Elrohir's arms until she was securely there in his hold. Instinctively, she lifted her hand, running tender fingers through his dark tresses in soothing strokes. Legolas' touch was light, compassionate, and it steadied Elrohir as much as it grounded her.

A comfortable silence settled heavy around them, filled with an unspoken understanding - only disturbed when Elrohir lifted his head to meet her gaze, his words leaving no room for doubt.

"Nor do I."

It was Legolas who ended up closing the distance between them, catching Elrohir's lips in hers and kissing him languidly. She's tired, so tired. Hasn't had any meaningful rest for some time now - what with the state of affairs in the Greenwood and relentless morning sickness. She couldn’t exactly press into the kiss in the way that she wanted, but she thinks Elrohir knows this, felt it in the way Elrohir smiled uninhibitedly into her lips. She had missed this so badly that she was powerless to do anything when she began to feel the tears that pricked the corner of her eyes.

I love you went unsaid.

Chapter Text

No trace of the merriment that usually furnished the hall of fire remained, transformed instead to a chamber of grave deliberation. No song accompanied the sombre atmosphere besides the uncertain murmers of the hall's occupants. The light of the morning sun filtered through Imladris' grand arched windows, settling across the diverse assembly in a foreboding embrace.

Men and Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits all sat encircling the ring in tense silence. The air had grown heavy and awkward around them, as if it had placed a seal upon their mouths, keeping any of them from speaking up in fear of what the Lord of Rivendell might say.

Lord Elrond rose from his seat, his voice carrying through the hall, weighted with the authority of all his many years and the gravity of their purpose, "Strangers from distant lands, friends of old."

His gaze swept purposefully across the council before he continued, "You have been summoned to answer the threat of Mordor. Never before has such a council gathered, we stand on the precipice of destruction. Here, we must decide the fate of the one ring."

Unease made itself at home within the assembly at the mention of the ring. At the centre of the circle, it rested upon a stone pedestal - taunting them, exuding a distant malevolence that seemed to pull all eyes toward it. The golden band glistening with an unnatural light, as though it was aware of all they said, even the very deliberation surrounding it.

Boromir was the first to offer response. Standing tall with the pride of Gondor upon his shoulders, his voice echoed with conviction across the hall, "Why not use this ring against Sauron? Isildur's bane could give Gondor the strength to drive back the enemy once and for all."

Elrond turned to him, solemnly, keenly aware of Boromir's wanton expression transfixed upon the ring, "You cannot wield it Boromir. None of us can. The ring answers only to Sauron. Its power corrupts and destroys. It was forged to enslave, not to liberate."

The dwarf, Gimli, let out a gruff snort as he struck the hilt of his axe againt the stone floor, commanding the council's attention, "And yet here we are, debating what should be obvious - destroy the damn thing."

Elrond spoke gravely but not unkindly, "It cannot be destroyed by any means within our reach, master dwarf. It was forged in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade."

Boromir's brow creased in scepticism, "One does not simply walk into Mordor," the man uttered, with an ever sharpening edge of incredulity. "Its gates are guarded by more than just orcs. The great eye is ever watchful. It is madness to think we could succeed."

Legolas took a slight step forward from her place near the edge of the circle, with the rest of the elven delegate. Her voice rung calm but carried with it the weight of hardship, "You speak of madness Boromir, but the true madness would be to leave the ring in the hand of Sauron. I have fought on the borders of the woodland realm, I have seen as the shadow of Dol Guldur creeps closer and closer. We have no choice but to act."

Boromir turned to the elf sharply, scoffing to himself as his scrutinising eye took her in - braided copper curls, tall stature, elven lilt and all. "And what does the woodland realm know of such matters?" Boromir sneered dismissively. "What do elves know of the struggles of men, who have borne the weight of war for so long?"

Maglor Fëanorian sat entierly still as he listened to the man of Gondor speak, yet his mind was anything but. He could not tear his eyes away from the ring, for it was all too familiar - like a wound reopened, a searing reminder of his past. The one ring glimmered before him in mockery of all that his nephew had striven for. It's golden light echoed a poor immiation of the cold, unfeeling gleam of the silmarils. Beautiful and terrible, bound to the fates of all his kin.

He had long been thankful that Celebrimbor had escaped swearing the oath - escaped damming his own future before it could even start. And yet his sweet nephew had suffered the worst fate of the lot of them, oath or no oath, it got him all the same in the end. The weight of his memories pressed on him now, a phantom ache in his palm resurfacing where he had once clutched one of his father's precious jewels.

His voice broke through the torment as he turned to face Boromir - interjecting before Legolas could formulate her own response, "You speak of burden and battle, son of Gondor." Maglor continued without prompt, his voice quiet and yet filled with a force that silenced all others, "But have you ever known what it is to carry the weight of true loss?"

His eyes, a once vibrant silver, hollowed by millennia of regret and melancholy locked onto Boromir's, "I have lived with the consequences of my father's choices and my own for millennia. I know the toll it takes more than any alive on these shores."

Maglor's voice grew softer, his words lamentful and dripping with sorrow, "The ring is no mere weapon. It is an abyss - forged from the mutilation of my nephew as the silmarils were forged from the breaking of light itself. It will destroy you as surely as it destroyed me."

The silence that followed the son of Fëanor's warning was profound. Even Boromir, so defiant only moments ago was chastened, unable to meet Maglor's gaze.

Legolas watched Maglor with a quiet understanding before she spoke, her expression too marred with contemplation, "Arguing amongst ourselves over who bears the heaviest burden will not win us this fight. Surely we here have all seen enough battle to know the cost of inaction - enough at least to know that despair cannot be our guide. If we do not act now, all will be lost."

Elrohir placed a kind hand on Maglor's shoulder as he stood - grounding the ancient elf back into the present before echoing his wife's sentiment, "Legolas speaks the truth. We have fought alongside the Dúnedain for years and yet even here in Imladris we feel its shadow encroaching." Elrohir paused for a moment, taking his time to observe the reactions of all those sitting amongst the council, "The ring must be destroyed. Regardless of the cost."

Boromir stiffened his jaw, his voice little more than a low grimace as he posited to the elves, "You would send us all to our doom, then."

Legolas approached him, green eyes unwavering as she shot him a sharp, unrelenting look. "I would face the darkness and die with purpose rather than live in fear," she practically spat at the man as he cowered beneath her glare, "The enemy is already at both our doorsteps Boromir. What choice do we have?"

A taut, uneasy silence overcame the council, all eyes laid fixed on Boromir who stood rigid under Legolas' piercing gaze - his jaw tight and pride bruised. A palpable tension rippled throughout the room as if a single wrong word might ignite it into untold chaos. Not a word was uttered, yet the clash of wills rang louder than any argument could. The elves regarded Boromir with a measured stillness, tempered with disapproval; while Gimli's hand flexed over the shift if his axe, dwarven disdain for the man's hesitation barely concealed. The hobbits - Bilbo and Frodo - shrank back into their seats as if wishing themselves to be entirely consumed as they watched the scene unfold before them, wide-eyed and uneasy. Legolas remained steadfast as the weight of her words hung heavy above them, daring anyone to challenge the truth she had laid bare.

The tension mounted unbearably, inescapably so until Aragorn's deep voice severed the silent agitation that had befallen them.

"Enough."

The ranger commanded a dignified authority; rising from his seat, his steady gaze first set its sights on Boromir, before it shifted to Legolas. "We are here to come to a consensus, not deepen old grievances." Aragorn let his gaze linger on Boromir once more as he continued, “We cannot allow ourselves to become divided. This is no time for pride, nor for despair. Boromir, Legolas speaks the truth. The enemy is at all of our doorsteps, and no realm will be spared if we falter."

Aragorn paused, allowing his words to settle over the gathered company before his tone softened, "And yet if we succeed, middle earth may yet have hope. The Ring does not care for our arguments, nor does it wait for us to decide who amongst us is right. The only thing that matters is whether we have the courage to act, and the strength to see this through."

Chairs creaked as weary bodies settled back into their seats in the wake of Aragorn's words. His reminder of their shared plight had kindled a fragile truce, but it was one precariously balanced and thus the uneasy silence remained.

Gimli sat arms crossed, his axe resting against his knee as he continued to glare at Boromir, barely even bothering to conceal his indignation. Across from him, Legolas' stiff posture betrayed her lingering frustrations; though Elrohir's calming hand on her arm eased her fiery temper. Bilbo and Frodo exchanged nervous glances, feeling dwarfed by the gravity of both the situation and those around them. Boromir too sat uptight in his seat amongst the delegation of men, feelings of affront from Legolas' earlier scorn and Aragorn's measured rebuttle clear upon his countenance. His hand rested upon the hilt of his sword as if hoped for some sort of reprieve in the solid weight of the blade. Maglor watched intently as the man appeared to be fighting some sort of inward battle; his gaze occasionally darted towards the ring before just as quickly he tore it away in shame - as though afraid of what he might see.

Gandalf's gaze swept across those gathered in the halls of Rivendell with an unreadable but firm expression hardening upon his face, betraying nothing. "We stand on the edge of a knife." The wizard spoke, low and grim, "Stray but a little, and we will fail. It matters not whether the task is perilous or impossible. It is a matter of whether we are willing to risk everything for the future of middle earth."

His words lingered, and for a long moment no one moved, scarcely even a breath could be heard amongst the council. It was Frodo Baggins in the end - small and unassuming as he was - who finally stepped forward. "I will take the ring." The hobbit's hands trembled, but his voice remained steady, "I will carry it to Mordor. Though I do not know the way."

Gandalf flashed Frodo a sorrowful smile, placing a supportive hand upon the hobbit's shoulder. "I will help you bear this burden Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear."

Aragorn moved to kneel before Frodo, a sincere determination gracing his eyes as his lip quirked up at the young hobbit, "If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. You have my sword."

Legolas - next to follow - stepped forward, smooth and deliberate in her movement as she came to stand beside Frodo. Her discerning green eyes meeting his with a steady resolve as she inclined her head slightly toward him.

"And you have my bow."

Not one to be outdone by an elf, Gimli rose to his feet only moments later. The heavy thud of his boots resonated throughout the hall as he planted himself firmly in front of Frodo. The dwarf struck the stone floor with the butt of his axe, gripping his weapon tight as if to underscore the incoming words. "And my axe." Gimli declared, proud and unwavering, shooting Legolas a gruff - if not begrudgingly respectful - glare as he proceeded to the elf's side.

All eyes turned to Boromir.

The man of Gondor hesitated, drawing together his brows into a subtle frown as though he were wrestling with something deep within himself. Boromir's gaze briefly flitted to the ring, before turning to Frodo, and finally to Aragorn - Isildur's heir who regarded him silently but with an unspoken provocation in his eyes.

"You carry the fate of us all little one." Boromir drew a deep breath as his eyes settled on Frodo. His expression remained dimmed by doubt though a hint of reluctant respect had begun to surface. Nodding solemnly, Boromir placed a hand over his heart, "If this is indeed the will of the council, Gondor will see it done."

Before the council could even begin to contemplate Boromir's declaration; Samwise Gamgee surged forward, face flushed with determination, from where he had concealed himself behind a large ornamental tree. The hobbit's stout frame - humble compared to the towering figures of the lords, legends and warriors that surrounded him - seemed to expand with the sheer force of his emotions, his gaze burning with a protectiveness rivalling even the mightiest among them.

"Mr Frodo's not going anywhere without me!" Samwise declared, his voice appearing to tremor not from fear, but from the utter conviction of his loyalty - no hesitation in his words, no room for any doubt.

Elrond turned to Samwise, his well practiced stern demeanor failing him as a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. A hint of something akin to amusement crossed his countenance, though his tone remained measured as always, "Indeed," he said with a hushed warmth, "It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not."

Samwise blushed but stood firm as Frodo glanced at him with gratitude, his lips curving into a small smile despite the immense burden that weighed upon him.

A further rustling at the back of the council caught Elrond off his guard once again, as two more hobbits came tumbling out. Merry and Pippin stepped before the Lord of Rivendell with faces set with determined mischief. Merry crossed his arms resolutely in the face of the ancient elf. "And we’re coming too." he informed the council, his voice filled with a naïve confidence that dared anyone to tell him otherwise. "You'll have to tie us up in a sack to stop us." Pippin assured, addressing Elrond with a tentative mix of defiance and youthful eagerness.

Elrond exhaled a long drawn out sigh, though a flicker of amusement softened the corners of his eyes. The race of hobbits continued to astound him, so earnest in there determination in the race of ruin. For all their naivety, their courage was unshakable - a courage that seemed to echo the very hope they fought to preserve.

“So be it,” Elrond spoke at last, his voice quiet but resonating with the authority of one who had seen countless ages of Middle-earth pass by him. The traces of reluctant affection for the hobbits, and their ability to stand so bravely where others faltered, remained in his tone. Elrond rose from his seat at the head of the council gracefully, the folds of his robes sweeping softly across the floor as he stood. His commanding presence filled the room, and all eyes turned to him as he sealed their fates together.

"You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

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As the aftermath of the council's decision began to settle, the tension eased giving way to the quiet hum of acceptance. Legolas and Elrohir found themselves stood apart from the others, separated by an imposing pillar. A silent understanding passed between them, as the thrum of superficial conversation faded into the background.

Elrohir turned to face his wife, expression weary but eyes still sharp with concern. "We knew this day would come," the tinge of sorrow to his words apparent, as he softly spoke, "Yet I had hoped the ring would find another path."

Legolas met his gaze, her own heart heavy with the same burdens, yet there was no room for doubt in her eyes. "There is no other path now, Elrohir," she told him vehemently, though not without sadness, "The world has already begun to change, and we must change with it, or be lost entierly."

He stepped a little closer to her, looking upon Legolas with a combination of love and concern. Elrohir switched to sindarin, lowering his voice as he spoke - careful for them not to be overheard, "I have fought beside you countless times Legolas," his words slow and deliberate, "I know your strength well, yet I cannot help but worry about you joining the fellowship."

Elrohir's voice faltered as he searched for the right words, "This journey, it will be perilous. More than any of us can truly comprehend. And you-" His voice cracked, words breaking off. Elrohir took a moment to steady himself, hand brushing against Legolas' slender fingers - searching for a gentle reassurance. "I do not wish to see you face the darkness alone. I do not wish for our children to lose their mother as we have both lost ours."

For a moment, Legolas said nothing, tilting her head ever so slightly - her expression softening, though the flicker of pain that tarried across her face at the mention of their lost mothers was clear to see. Legolas reached out and took his hand fully, her fingers twining with his as she spoke, "I cannot stand idly by whilst others fight this war, Elrohir," her words brimmed with the unwavering determination that had seen her safely through countless battles, "I will return to you, melleth-nîn, but this is something that I must do.”

A crease between Elrohir's brow made itself evident as he shook his head, his worry etched deeply into his countenance. "You always speak with such certainty," he murmured, voice scarcely above a whisper. "I wish I could share it, but my heart fears for you."

A subdued smile tugged her lips as the anguish she wore heavy upon her face all but fell away. Tilting her head up towards him, her tone lightened just slightly. "You sound like Tauriel, always fretting over me. It's a wonder you two don't conspire together to keep me locked away."

Elrohir’s lips too, twitched into a reluctant smile - the faintest suggestion of humour returning to his eyes as he spoke earnestly. "Don't tempt me. If it meant keeping you safe, I'd gladly endure her wrath."

Her smile deepened, the subtle traces of dimples in her cheeks becoming more pronounced as she danced her fingers across his cheekbone, allowing herself the luxury of cradling his face gently in her hand. Her thumb brushed lightly against his skin, green eyes discerning his with a soft resolve. "It is for hope that we must endure, Elrohir," Legolas whispered. "Whatever comes, you and I shall face it together."

Elrohir allowed himself to close his eyes briefly, drawing in a steadying breath as if steadying himself in Legolas' presence. "Together," he echoed.

For a moment, the pair stood in silence, the quiet yet unshakable promise lingering between them. Eventually, Legolas drew back, her resolve solidifying as she straightened. "Let us prepare for what is to come," she spoke, her voice once more steady and assured.

Elrohir watched her carefully, though his expression remained clouded with anxiety a shred of his usual dry humour broke through. "You shall be the one to tell the children you are about to march into the fires of Mordor," he warned her with an amused shake of his head, "I want no part in that Legolas."

Chapter Text

Come dusk, with the road behind them long and weary, the fellowship halted their trek to set up camp; a small clearing nestled into the shadow of the misty mountains their home for the night. The evening air was crisp with the chill of winters approach and a biting breeze rustled through the trees, whispering of distant lands and unseen hardship. A fire crackled at the centre of the camp, its warmth drawing the company close as the night began to settle.

Above them, Legolas sat perched on the sturdy branch of one of the tall pines that encompassed the clearing. Her keen eyes scanned the surrounding forest as it darkened, attention wandering far beyond their small circle as she sought any signs of movement in the encroaching shadows. She had remained silent since they stopped for the night, content instead to just watch and listen from afar - her presence melding seamlessly with the tree she occupied.

Gandalf was seated on a log close to the fire, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe as he stared absentmindedly into the flames. The wizard had been uncharacteristically quiet for much of the day's march, his mind clearly preoccupied elsewhere. Legolas thought it probably for the best not to press the maiar for any sort of explanation - nothing good ever came from the mouths of contemplative wizards. Frodo and Sam sat close to him, finding comfort in his steady presence, whilst Merry and Pippin sprawled out on their bedrolls, their energy somehow undeterred from the day's long march.

The three stragglers had settled into a steady silence towards the edge of the camp. Boromir leaned against a tree, his sword resting on his knees as he ran a whetstone along its blade, sharpening it with measured strokes. Aragorn sat across from him - calm but watchful as he methodically cleaned his knife - and to the ranger's immediate left sat Gimli, tending to his axe with a practiced ease.

Boromir's voice broke the companionable atmosphere, his gaze flickering towards the hobbits. "I'll give the hobbits credit - they carry their weight, though I don't think they’d last a day on Gondor's training fields," he noted, his tone edged with a reluctant admiration alongside his scepticism.

Aragorn glanced up at him but said nothing, letting Boromir's words drift unacknowledged. At the lack of response, Boromir allowed his focus to wander until his eyes landed squarely upon Legolas in the branches above them. "That elf of yours is a quiet one. Does he ever speak?"

Without ceasing his task, Aragorn answered his fellow man evenly, "Legolas speaks when there is something to say. You will find that elves do not like to waste their words, Boromir."

"Well, I hope he fights as well as he broods. We’ll need more than pretty faces to get through this journey," Boromir remarked, shaking his head cynically.

Gimli let out a gruff laugh from Aragorn's side. "Pretty faces won't count for much when the orcs come sniffing." Gimli gestured toward Legolas with his axe as he continued, "But don't let that one’s silence fool you laddie."

Boromir leaned closer towards the dwarf, raising an intrigued brow, "Oh?"

Gimli shuffled closer, lowering his voice to little more than a hoarse whisper as if what he was about to share was a secret of the utmost importance. "I've heard tales of the Woodland Realm's archers. A quiet, ghostly lot - moving through the trees as if part of the very forest itself. They say Thranduil's bowmen never miss, and when they take aim. It's to kill."

He tossed a glance toward Legolas' tree as his tone grew more somber, "That elven king of theirs has no tolerance for weakness. Treats every elf in his halls like a soldier, and none are spared - not even his own kin. He drills them hard, pushes them to the brink. Whispers reach the mountain now and again, carried from the forest. Whispers of discipline, harsh enough to break even the most steadfast. They believe only those strong enough to endure the cruelty of their comrades can hope to survive the greater cruelty of the enemy.”

Gimli paused momentarily, steadying his gaze on the elf. "I wouldn’t doubt that one has been through the worst of it."

Boromir similarly glanced upward towards Legolas, a dubious if not curious look donning his face. "Impressive, if true. Though I'll believe it when I see it."

The flimsy silence was disrupted before it had the chance to settle by Legolas' voice, calm and undeviating as it drifted down from the tree, "For once, master dwarf does not exaggerate." She moved nimbly, descending from the tree with an uncanny ease - the serious look that graced her freckled features, softened by the flickering firelight as she seated herself with the utmost composure at Aragorn's side. “My people are trained to endure and excel for the sake of the Greenwood’s continued survival - though not all would call it kindness.”

Boromir straightened in unconscious response to the command Legolas' presence demanded. "Rest assured," she continued, meeting Boromir's stare in a battle of wills, "My bow will not fail when the time comes."

Gimli gave her a begrudgingly satisfied grunt in response, "Aye. See that it doesn’t, elf. I'll have enough to worry about without watching over you as well."

From across the fire, Sam - emboldened by curiosity - hesitantly cleared his throat. "Begging your pardon mister Legolas - er, if you don't mind my asking. Well, see I've been wonderin' about elves." The tension that had been brewing in the air dissipated slightly with the hobbit's words.

Legolas' ears perked up at the admission. As she moved to face Sam, her gaze turned tender and the corners of her lips lifted ever so slightly. "What do you wish to know, Samwise?"

Sam shifted a little, glancing down at his hands self consciously - testing the feel of words in his mouth, as he tried desperately to find the right string of words to best convey all he wished to know. "Well, it's just - I mean, you live forever don't you? And you’ve got all those songs and poetry and stories. I’ve heard stories about elves all my life, ever since I was a lad - mostly from old Bilbo, of course. He’s full of tales, he is. Well you must've seen a lot in your time?"

Legolas' voice softened wistfully as she spoke, "I have lived many years, master Gamgee, though I would not call it forever for I am still young in the eyes of my people. It is true elves age slower than men, but the years mark us still, we are not immune to time nor the wounds it inflicts - we endure, yes, but we do not forget."

Sam nodded intently, absorbing the words as quick as she spoke them, though he still looked thoroughly awestruck, "Even so, you’ve seen things I can’t imagine. Lived longer than I can wrap my head around. Is it true what they say about elves living in trees like birds, singing all day long?"

Legolas’ lips quirked into a small smile, a gentleness in her gaze as she observed the hobbit closely, "Bilbo is a kind soul master Gamgee but prone to flights of fancy nonetheless. There is truth in his tales, though much of it shines brighter in his words than it does in reality. Elves do sing, but I would hazard no more than hobbits - not anymore at least." She took a scant moment to pause and collect herself before continuing, "And it is true that my people share a deep love for the forests. But we do not live untouched by darkness, we are bound to this world just as you are. In the Greenwood, my people have long since migrated underground into vast caverns built underneath the forest floor to escape the darkness that has infected the forest. Though I have not called it my home in many years."

Sam blinked as his brow furrowed, "You haven't?"

"No." Legolas tilted her head slightly, as though studying him anew. "I have dwelled in Imladris for the past six centuries."

"Six centuries! That's longer than my old Gaffer's been alive - six times over at least." Sam exclaimed in astonishment, he could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Pondering on Legolas' words a little further his curiosity piqued again, "But if you’ve been living in Rivendell all this time, does that mean you've got family there?" Sam questioned himself again, he had never truly considered the idea of elves having families like hobbits before, being tied to one another - with parents, loved ones, and siblings. "Do elves even have families, or do you just sort of - appear?"

She considered him for a moment, as though weighing how much to reveal to her companions. "We have families, Sam." Legolas' voice, though gentle, carried traces of years lived in silence, "My father and I no longer speak, which is why Lord Elrond welcomed me into his halls, but I am wed with three children - two grown and one nearly so."

Sam stared at her, eyes widened in wonder. It was a hard thing for him to reconcile - the otherworldly and ethereal elves, having families just like his. He had imagined elves to be far apart from the domestic struggles of everyday life, that vision shattered in front of him as he noticed the distant sorrow in Legolas' eyes as she spoke of her father - in spite of the calm demeanor she tirelessly maintained. He couldn't help but ponder on what had happened between them, but his old Gaffer had taught him better than to pry.

"You've got children? I never imagined - I mean you don't look a day over 20 if you'll pardon my saying so." Sam fumbled momentarily, embarrassed by his ignorance, but the awe in his voice remained ever clear, "An elf with children. I can hardly believe it. Makes you seem - well, more like us I suppose. More real."

"That's something that is." He whispered to himself softly, a faint blush travelling up his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. "To think, all those years, all those stories - and here you are sitting with us around the fire."

Gimli snorted from his place beside the fire, though not unkindly, clearly amused by the exchange. "I don’t know what’s more surprising," he grumbled with a tinge of sarcasm. "That the elf has children, or that Sam managed to have a whole conversation with him without tripping over his own feet."

Sam wrestled with a sheepish grin, unsure how to respond but thankful for the shift in conversation all the same. Even so, he found himself unable to avert his gaze from the elf across from him - still contemplating the weight of her words.

Legolas smiled at Gimli's jest but in time, turned her gaze back to the inquisitive hobbit. "You and I are not so different Samwise Gamgee," she spoke softly, the warmth in her eyes deepening the longer she looked at him. "Elves may live long, but our hearts are much the same."

Sam could do little else but nod, his mind working strenuously to grasp the depths of what she spoke of. "Thank you for telling me, mister Legolas. I think I understand a bit more now," he admitted gingerly, heart swelling with newfound understanding and respect.

The conversation lulled around them, the fire crackling as its sparks leapt into the bitter night sky. Sam allowed himself to peer back at Legolas now and then, snatching terse looks at her gentle smile. A modest quirk of the lips, small and yet somehow more sincere than any Sam had ever seen before - the smile of one who had lived through much, and yet seen even more.

Gandalf remained seated, still wedged between the two hobbits. The wizard listened quietly and yet intently as ever, his eyes shining with jovial amusement beneath his bushy brows all the while as he periodically took deep inhales from his pipe. Aragorn, too, watched the exchange closely as he puffed on his own pipe. A faint smile broke partially through the unease that his features had upheld ever since they left Rivendell; the ranger clearly content to see a bond between the fellowship slowly begin to solidify itself.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

Later, after the fire had burned down to embers, Aragorn and Legolas found themselves resting side by side against a rocky outcrop at the far side of the camp - a quiet moment shared between old friends. The hobbits had long since wandered off to sleep, Gimli too laid fast asleep upon his bedroll and Boromir had retreated out of sight to his own corner of the camp. Gandalf, who took the first watch, had settled in the far reaches of their line of sight - though Aragorn had no intention of resting just yet.

It was he, who ultimately broke their comfortable silence. "Sam was enthralled by your stories mellon," Aragorn mused lightly. "I don’t think he’ll sleep for hours with all the questions spinning in his mind."

"He is endearing." Legolas admitted, the whisper of a maternal smile touching her lips. "His curiosity is untainted by malice or doubt. It is refreshing."

Aragorn chuckled wistfully in concurrence. "It is a rare quality among mortals, and rarer still amongst our present company." His expression darkened notably, as he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms upon his knees."Boromir's doubts run deep. He underestimates you, and it does not sit well with me."

Legolas' collected demeanor did not falter her. "It matters little to me, Estel," she spoke - serene yet simultaneously entirely resolute. "The path before us is fraught with far greater challenges than the opinions of a captain of Gondor. Boromir will see what he must when the moment demands it, as all men do."

"And yet," Aragorn pressed - his gaze steady and mindful of the elf beside him, "It must sting, even if you will not admit it outwardly. He questions your worth without knowing you, and worse still he disrespects your kin. Elrohir would not take kindly to such words."

A flicker of amusement passed across Legolas’ countenance. "No, he would not." she agreed, her tone betraying her fondness. "Then, Elrohir has always been more ardent than I."

"Ardent is definitely one word for it." Aragorn said dryly; traces of the laughter he attempted to stifle clear, in the way a subtle smile played on his ever so slightly trembling lips. "Your husband has always had a strong sense of justice - something I suspect Leithiassel has inherited in droves, if Arwen is to be believed."

Legolas' usual tranquil expression faltered, flickering with a vague shadow of longing, as the mention of her eldest daughter settled over her and her mind drifted unsolicited to her children.

She thought first of Leithiassel with her fierce and unyielding spirit - the fire in her daughter’s eyes had always reminded Legolas of Elrohir's own. Upon reaching her majority, Leithiassel was firm in her desire to follow in her mothers footsteps as a warrior - soon after she left for Lothlórien's Galadhrim. Her daughter's aim, unparalleled in their ranks and her resolve as sharp as the arrows she loosed. Legolas found herself smiling at the thought even though she felt Leithiassel's absence keenly.

Her thoughts drifted then to Faelher, her only son, stubborn and proud but with a quiet strength that belied his softer heart. His hands, more accustomed to healing than wielding weapons. Faelher had remained for many years in Imladris under the tutelage of his grandfather - but in the end he too had all but left, spending most of his time wandering with the rangers of the north to aid them in his capacity as healer.

Both answered noble callings, ones that filled Legolas with the utmost pride but it did little to balm the ache of the leagues of forest and mountains that separated them.

Finally, her heart lingered on Ialwen, her youngest - still in Imladris. The thought of her daughter, nearly grown, bought Legolas a bittersweet ache. Ialwen had long been the light of their family, a purity in her presence that reminded Legolas of the peace she longed for but rarely found. Ialwen was the one she had spent the most time with before the fellowship embarked - the one whose laughter and curiosity had been her constant companions in Imladris. Now, the distance between them felt like an unspoken wound.

"She has." Legolas admitted softly, tearing herself away from her yearning. "And Faelher his father’s stubborn pride."

Aragorn nodded nostalgically. He knew Faelher intimately from his years travelling with the Dúnedain - and was well aware of exactly what Legolas meant. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he replied, "I am less certain about Boromir. He carries his pride like a shield, and his doubts like a blade. He sees you as a rival Legolas, though you have given him no cause."

"A rival?" Legolas questioned, a delicate brow arched and tone laced with dry humour. "For what? The most feminine-looking man?"

"Legolas." Aragorn warned, he wore the look of exasperation, though a trace of a smile lingered at the corners of his mouth.

"No, not quite," he continued earnestly. "I fear he resents you for what you represent - strength that does not stem from Gondor. He is fiercely loyal to his people, but that loyalty blinds him to the value of others. He feels threatened by our kinship Legolas and he takes it out on you."

Legolas tilted her head towards him, more serious now as she studied him. "Because of your claim to the throne of Gondor?"

"Aye." Aragorn agreed with an audible sigh, one that gave the impression he had been holding it in for some time. "Boromir knows I am no mere ranger and he fears what that means for Gondor. Your presence reminds him of the alliances between men and elves - alliances he may not entirely trust.”

"Perhaps." Legolas murmured, her gaze drifting towards the far bounds of the clearing where her elven eyes could just about discern Boromir's figure - sat, broad shoulders hunched over in thought.

An elephant lingered in the familiar bouts of silence between them, and Aragorn wasn't entirely sure how to approach it without scaring it away. "You know," he hesitated before lowering his voice, "I am still not used to the way Boromir regards you."

Aragorn tested a lot of words out in his mouth, running his tongue over them as he tried to pick them apart - to help decide what the best way to approach the conversation would be. In the end he settles on their shared elven language, quiet and honest. "It is strange. Never before have I had cause to question your appearance. But Boromir, the hobbits - even Gimli I would wager - none of them have even the faintest idea. How long do you intend to let them believe you are male, Legolas?”

"Until it no longer serves me." Legolas replied, lips curving ever so slightly into a smile as if it were a forgone conclusion.

Aragorn frowned slightly, but shook his head fondly nonetheless. "Sooner or later, you will have to clear it up mellon - especially with the way Boromir’s disdain lingers."

Legolas' expression grew somber, any trace of her former mirth lost as she switched to her native sindarin. "He barely tolerates the presence of an elf as is. Imagine the outrage if he discovers I am not only an elf, but a woman too."

She allowed herself a fleeting pause as her gaze turned inward. "He has a stout heart Estel, and I truly believe him to be a good man. But there is no denying we come from vastly different worlds. I will not cause further strife when it is just as easy to go along with this façade." Her voice softened as she spoke, returning to the common tongue, but her resolve remained firm as ever. "There is no place for further division among us. If I must bear this alone to ensure unity, then so be it."

Legolas watched attentively as Aragorn's brows knitted together with concern. The ranger placed a reassuring hand to her arm, his tone gentle but firm. "The differences between the ways of man and elf are not your responsibility to bear alone."

He leaned closer towards her, voice filled with a quiet but assured conviction. "You have always had my trust Legolas, and you always will. I will not allow you to take on this burden alone. Not while I am here."

Legolas allowed a rare glimpse of vulnerability to slip though her mask as she addressed her long suffering friend. "Thank you Estel," she spoke, as soft as a whisper. "Your faith is a gift I do not take lightly."

Chapter Text

Their ascent across the pass of Caradhras began early; the cloaks the fellowship wrapped taut around themselves, their only protection against the biting chill that seeped into their very beings. Dense clouds shrouded the mountain top, heavy and ominous, whilst the sun offered little in the way of warmth in it's pale light. The path ahead was steep, and the snow underfoot slowed their pace demonstrably - only deepening the further they climbed.

Legolas moved lightly over the snow, elven grace seemingly unhindered by the terrain - much to the chagrin of her companions. She barely left so much as a footprint in her wake, appearing to move as if she was part of the wind itself. Behind her, Gimli ploughed through the snow with stubborn determination - his breath visible in the cold air as he muttered complaints about the folly of trusting Caradhras.

"Curse this mountain." Gimli grumbled, swinging his axe defiantly. "Caradhras is not in a fair mood. The rock is buried so far beneath this infernal snow, there's no footing to be had at all."

Legolas halted abruptly ahead of the fellowship, her sharp elven eyes narrowing at the grey skies above. The harsh wind whipped through her russet hair, plastering it across her face - yet she stood uncannily still, entirely focused on the distant shapes circling above.

"Crebain of Dunland." Her voice cut through the howling wind, quiet but urgent. There was something in their flight pattern - purposeful, coordinated - that didn't sit right with her and a creeping unease began to settle in her chest. "They fly far from their homelands."

Boromir frowned, leaning his body weight against his shield to steady himself in the thick snow. "Scouts, then?" he considered, "Or simply vultures blown off course?"

Legolas shook her head, gaze unwavering. "Neither. Crebain are not aimless wanderers, they move with purpose. Their flight here is no accident." Her words were clipped, betraying an edge of tension, "They have been sent to spy."

"We must press on." Aragorn insisted. Though he successfully kept the urgency off his face, it was obvious in his enlistment of Boromir's help to carve a path through the drifts for the hobbits.

The hobbits huddled together, shivering under their cloaks - the snowdrift threatening to obscure their small frames entirely, even from Legolas' keen eyes. Sam caught Frodo's arm as he stumbled, "Keep close, mr. Frodo," he urged. "This wind'll blow us right off the mountain if we're not careful."

Legolas stepped closer to the hobbits in concern, her eyes darting between the halflings and Boromir who trudged a few paces ahead. The man's stunt from earlier still lingered unflinchingly in the back of her mind, Boromir's fascination with the ring had been undeniable. There had been no malice in his words toward Frodo, but there was a lust - dangerous and irrefutable - lurking just beneath the surface. She had seen men fall to the temptation of great power before, but it was rare to witness it displayed so viscerally, so vulnerably. She decided it would be for the best to treat Boromir with caution, for now at least. Not for any sort of deep distrust of his character, but because the ring possessed an unnerving way of uncovering even the deepest shadows of the heart.

Legolas moved among the group, looking over each member as she did with quiet efficiency. "Stay close to Aragorn." She instructed the hobbits, gentle but firm as she helped him adjust Frodo's cloak. "He will shield you from the worst of the wind."

Each step felt heavier than the last as they pressed, the very mountain itself seeming to push back against them. Legolas tilted her head slightly, as if listening to something beyond the storm.

Legolas' expression tightened. "This storm is no coincidence." Her voice carried above the gale, "The mountain itself is against us."

Boromir eyed her with scepticism, brows furrowing ever deeper. "Mountains do not take sides, elf. This is a storm, nothing more."

Legolas' gaze sharpened as it fell on him. "Is it?" As she continued, her voice became laced with a quiet intensity as if she spoke of truths that eluded any hopes of mortal understanding. "Perhaps you should ask the wind what it carries, or the snow why it seeks to bury us alive."

A dubious laugh left Boromir's lips, though there was an unspoken edge to it. "Forgive me if I don't put stock in the fanciful tales of elves."

From behind, Gimli's gruff voice cut through the wind. "Listen to the laddie, Boromir. The elves know more of the world's whispers than you or I ever could."

The dwarf adjusted his footing, grumbling as he sunk nearly half his height into the snow. "Caradhras has no love for travellers." Gimli's expression darkened as he continued, "But he does not usually persecute dwarves so. If the elf says the mountain is against us. I'll wager he's right."

"Keep your wits about you." Gimli warned, puffing into the cold air.

Boromir said nothing more, but his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword and he trudged closer - more protectively - at the side of the hobbits. His unease grew like a blight upon his movements as the storm worsened, the wind howling around them with a sentient fury. The fellowship laboured through the snow, but the drifts now laid chest-deep in places and progress was agonisingly slow. The hobbits especially, struggled to keep up with Boromir and Aragorn, battered by the relentless wind and snowfall.

"Mithrandir." Legolas called out in haste, a frantic flicker darting across her gaze. "There is a fell voice in the air."

"Saruman." Aragorn grimaced as he stiffened.

Legolas turned to Gandalf, her eyebrows knitting together, casting a shadow over her eyes. "He's trying to bring down the mountain! Gandalf, we must turn back."

The wizard stood unyielding at the front of the group, planting his staff firmly into the grating snow. He lifted his voice above the roar of the wind, the power of his ancient tongue sending tremours through the surrounding snow. "Sleep, Caradhras. Be still. Lie still. Hold your wrath!"

Boromir glanced warily at the avalanches that threatened to crash down from above, pulling his cloak tight around himself and Merry and Pippin beneath him. "We must get off the mountain!" He shouted in frustration, "Make for the gap of Rohan. Take the west road to my city!"

Aragorn turned to him, shaking his head. "The gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard."

"If his arm can reach us even here, any closer and we'll be done for." Legolas remarked in agreement.

Gimli trudged at the rear, heavy strides barely getting him through the snow. "If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it." His dark eyes glinted at the thought, "Let us go through the mines of Moria."

Legolas stiffened. "Nothing good will come from our descent into darkness, Gimli." She winced, voice subdued in unease, "I fear a great evil lurks within those caverns."

Gandalf leaned against his staff, turning to face his companions, his gray cloak dusted white with frost. "Let the ring-bearer decide."

Boromir strode forward in urgency, exasperation seeping through his demeanor. "We cannot stay here!" He gestured toward the hobbits who huddled together for warmth - their faces drawn. "This will be the death of the hobbits! They cannot endure much more of this cold."

Gandalf leaned down to Frodo's height, eyes softening as they rested on his small figure. "Frodo?"

Frodo looked up, expression torn as he contemplated their impasse. His gaze darted between Sam, Merry, and Pippin - who stared back at him wide eyed and expectant - then to Aragorn and Legolas, grave but patient the both of them. He took a deep breath before nodding tentatively, "We will go through the mines."

Gandalf bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment though the concern in his eyes did not fade. Frodo's words hung in the freezing air between them, final and unavoidable.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The fellowship approached the sheer rock face where the doors to Moria laid, the weariness that had settled within the company easing them into a tense silence. The soft light of the moon bathed them in an uneasy security, casting an ethereal glow over the carved stone. Gandalf walked ahead, staff held high as he searched for the concealed entrance with the tip's faint light.

Gimli's spirits rose as they approached. "Ah, soon master elf-" the dwarf exclaimed, brimming with pride, "You shall enjoy the fabled hospitality of dwarves. My cousin Balin is lord here, he will receive us with grandiosity!"

Legolas glanced at him civilly but said nothing, her face unreadable. Gandalf halted in front of them, a measured tap from his staff against the smooth stone triggering the outlines of the doorway to emerge. The lines glowed delicately with a silver light, revealing runes and delicate carvings.

The wizard murmured, a hint of reverence as he spoke. "Here lies the doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter." He paused, uttering the inscription to himself again, "Speak, friend, and enter."

Pippin titled his head, frowning. "Well, what do you suppose that means?"

Legolas let the voices around her blur into a meaningless hum, hesitating at the sight of the doors. She would never admit it to him aloud, but Gimli had been right about their magnificence. Her gaze fixed onto the delicate emblem etched into the ancient stone - an eight-pointed star. She had seen it before of course, the star of Fëanor, in texts and tapestries, decorating the halls of Imladris in secluded corners. Yet the way it shone before her now, basking in the pale moonlight, its presence tugged at something deep within her - a strange almost aching familiarity. Her fingers lightly brushed the air around the engraving, careful not to touch it. The star seemed to pulse faintly beneath her fingers, like the final flicker of a dying ember - as if it held the memory of a light long since faded, beautiful and sorrowful all at once.

Legolas felt torn. Fëanor's name was seldom spoken in her father’s halls, who had been present in Doriath as a boy during its sacking, and when it was - it was with bitter contempt. She knew Maglor well enough to know that there were two sides to the downfall of the house of Fëanor, but still. To revere such a symbol felt almost like a fundamental betrayal and yet she felt drawn to it in a way that defied any explanation.

The foreboding sound of stones skimming against water drew her out of her stupor and she took a step back, almost reluctantly, turning to check on her companions. The star’s soft glow appeared to follow her as she moved, as if it were watching - as if it, too, had questions it longed to answer.

"Stay away from the water." Legolas cautioned the hobbits sternly.

Gimli chuckled, crossing his arms. "What's the matter, elf? Scared of a bit of still water?"

Legolas shot him a pointed look that carried a clear warning, sharp and deliberate. "There is a malice beneath it, Gimli. Something that watches. You would do well not to take its threat lightly."

Gimli opened his mouth to reply but before he had the chance was cut off by Frodo's sudden exclamation, "It's a riddle!"

The fellowship turned to look at the young hobbit, who stared intently at the inscription - his expression alight with understanding as he approached the door.

Aragorn didn't even catch Frodo asking Gandalf about the elvish word for friend, his attention firmly elsewhere. Instead, he leant towards Legolas, pressing a comforting hand against her back. Aragorn regarded her with a look of gentle concern, "You are not yourself Legolas, what troubles you mellon?"

As he spoke, the imposing stone doors rumbled deeply - the fellowship's murmurs ceased, replaced by a stunned hush as all eyes fixed on Aragorn.

The doors began to inch open, and the fellowship stood back warily as the grinding sound of the ancient doors echoed across the lake. And yet their caution came too late, the surface of the water behind them rippling unnaturally in response.

"Frodo, behind you!" Aragorn called out, drawing his sword aloft as the creature that dwelled beneath the water raised a huge tentacle.

It wrapped its appendage around Merry's waist, snatching the hobbit off his feet, Merry let out a strangled cry as he was dragged towards the water.

“Merry!” Pippin shouted in panic, unable to move as he watched his cousin get yanked towards the agitated lake.

Aragorn moved first, drawing his sword to the beast in a fluid motion. Boromir followed close behind, his sword slashing at the tentacle; though his strikes were strong, the creature barely faltered, tightening its grip on the struggling hobbit. The tentacle whipped violently, sending a spray of water and mud into the air as Legolas drew her bow. Her arrow struck true, embedding itself in the fleshy tentacle. The beast screeched - a piercing, unnatural sound that reverberated around them.

Aragorn ducked beneath its curve, sword slicing into the thrashing tentacle as Gimli barreled forward. His heavy boots kicked up loose stones as he roared, raising his axe high above him. With a single, powerful swing, he severed the tentacle in a spray of dark, viscous liquid.

The tentacle writhed as it fell, releasing the hobbit with a sickening thud. Aragorn was at Merry's side in an instant, sheathing his sword and pulling him upright as the hobbit gasped for air. Boromir stood guard, blade drawn as he deflected the creature’s next attack - Legolas' arrows echoing from above him. "Into the doors," Boromir shouted over the chaos, "Now!"

The company retreated into the darkness beyond the vast doors, the water behind them erupting as more tentacles surged from the lake. Gandalf slammed his staff against the stone floor, the heavy doors groaning as they began to close - cutting off the creature’s reach. With a final tempestuous slam, the doors closed, leaving the fellowship in a thick, oppressive silence. Merry leaned against Pippin to sturdy himself, breath still coming in shallow gasps. The others exchanged cautious glances, weapons still drawn.

Legolas stood motionless, her keen senses attuned to the ominous air around them. "The air in this place is thick with sorrow." Legolas whispered, her voice laden with lament, "It remembers death."

Boromir looked around the shadowed hall from Legolas' side, his grip tight on the heel of his sword. "This is no mine." His voice was grim as he spoke. "This is a tomb."

Chapter Text

Legolas' senses, sharp and well attuned to the rhythms of the world, felt the tension soaring in the air the further they descended into the mountain. The darkness seemed to press on them, the weight of ages past negligently forgotten by most. She couldn't shake the suspicion of something ancient, malevolent, stirring in the depths of the caverns below. Ahead of her, Gandalf led them forth with deliberate strides, his staff faintly lighting up the way onwards. Yet even the wizard in all of his dominion seemed unsettled, his eyes narrowed as though searching the shadows for an unseen hostility.

Nerves ran rampant through the rest of the fellowship, though none spoke of it - settling instead for wary glances over their shoulders. Legolas, however, felt the danger with a clarity that sent a chill to her very core; for she, like Gandalf, could sense what they walked into the territory of. The unimaginable power that lay in wait.

Gandalf paused at the precipice of the narrow bridge before them, so close to their escape from the mines, a grim expression falling upon his face. Even the light of the wizard's staff flickered as if it too sensed the dark might that befell the company. Legolas stopped a pace behind him, her hand gripping her bow instinctively - the rest crowded behind, but none truly understood the true nature of what was to come. "A balrog - a demon of the ancient world. Its shadow is upon us," The wizard warned.

In that moment, Legolas' breath caught in her throat. She had heard the stories, the tales - but nothing could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes as the towering figure of flame and shadow emerged from the depths. The derelict halls of Khazad-dûm trembled under the load of the balrog's presence, a remnant darkness of the first age that had scarred the world so deeply it had never truly healed. Its very being seemed to warp and flicker with unholy light. Legolas watched as its wings unfurled, great tattered things that made her blood run cold.

Her thoughts raced uncontrollably, and yet despite the peril before her, Legolas' thoughts turned to Elrohir. Would he sense her terror, even from Imladris? They had shared so much over the years, hearts intertwined in ways that defied distance. She dwelled on his steady presence, how he had faced countless dangers with unwavering courage. Yet she knew even Elrohir, unshakable as he was in his determination, would falter before such an ancient obscenity. She thought then of Glorfindel, who had been slain by such a creature and returned from Mandos still bearing the scars of his encounter deep upon him. And now here she stood, facing the same horror.

Gandalf stepped forward, interrupting her spiraling thoughts as he planted himself firmly on the bridge. "You cannot pass!" He bellowed, staff held high, defying the ancient evil before him.

The balrog's fiery whip crackled as it struck air, sending sparks into the abyss as it eyed Gandalf with a malevolent intelligence. The wizard did not falter, slamming his staff against the bridge in sharp defiance. "I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Anor!" He announced, biting words filling the cavern. The light of his staff flared brighter as his voice rose in power, "The dark fire will not avail you! Flame of Udûn!"

Legolas flinched, catching the faint tremor in Gandalf's voice - not one of fear, but of finality. Her heart clenched as the understanding dawned on her. She knew then that Gandalf had never intended to leave these mines once he had entered. He meant to hold the balrog here, to ensure the rest of the fellowship's escape. Even if it cost him his life. The realisation left her paralysed in grief and fury.

Her lips parted desperately as she shouted, "Mithrandir!" The cry tore from her throat, raw with anguish at the sudden realisation. She wanted to run to him, to scream that they needed him - that he couldn't leave them like this. But it was useless. She knew that he would not yield.

The balrog roared in fury, so deep and resonant, that it shook the very stone beneath their feet. The hobbits staggered, clutching one another in fear whilst Boromir instinctively raised a protective shield. Aragorn shot a glance at Legolas that betrayed his worry - his jaw tightening as he watched the balrog raise its flaming sword and swing. Gandalf met the strike with his sword and staff, holding the foul beast off as the clash reverberated around the cavern. The wizard held strong even as his strength waned - he refused to allow this echo of Morgoth’s power to claw itself back into their world.

"You. Shall. Not. Pass!" Gandalf roared above the balrog's growl. He drove his staff into the stone bridge, the impact triggering the ancient structure to crumble slightly.

Aragron turned sharply, voice laced with urgency. "Legolas! With the others, go!" He commanded, moving towards her as though preparing himself to drag her away.

She stood firm, though Aragron didn't miss the way her lithe body trembled. Her hand reached into her quiver on instinct, though she knew it was futile. She couldn’t bring herself to leave Gandalf alone - not in the face of a fate like this.

Aragorn grabbed her arm, tearing her away from Gandalf's side, "We must go. Now." His words were firm, but not unkind. Borne of understanding more than anything. "Gandalf has made his choice. You cannot do this Legolas, it's a death sentence. Think of your husband, your children. Live for them."

Legolas eyed him carefully before replying with a hesitant nod - grabbing ahold of Sam as she ran to catch up with the others.

The balrog let out another despicable roar, its whip cracking through the air as it advanced. Gandalf raised his staff in one final stand against the beast of Morgoth, channeling all his remaining strength into the staff's flaring light. With a final, straggled shout, the wizard struck the bridge beneath the balrog with all his might.

The bridge gave way entirely, collapsing into the abyss and the creature fell - twisting and flailing as it was swallowed by the darkness. Without time for so much as a sigh of relief from Gandalf, the balrog's whip lashed out in fury, catching the wizard's ankle in its grasp. His cry echoed throughout the halls of Khazad-dûm as he was dragged to the edge of the falling bridge.

"Fly you fools!" Gandalf shouted, a final call of desperate insistence. His hands grappled at the bridge's disintegrating lip for a fleeting moment - and then he was gone. Lost in the chasm alongside the balrog of old.

Frodo's scream that followed cut through the chaos with its raw, unfiltered pain. "Gandalf!" The hobbit wailed, his small hands reaching out in vain.

Aragorn's voice, sharp and commanding, snapped them all back to reality - overriding their shock. "He is beyond our reach. We must leave this place. Now." He pushed the hobbits forward, motioning for them to run. Boromir bundled a distraught Frodo into his arms and rushed towards the flight of stairs that separated them from their escape. Legolas hesitated for one last moment, observing the flurry of anguish, and with a final silent prayer for their fallen comrade she turned to follow the others. Her steps remained heavy as they fled the oppressive darkness, leaving Khazad-dûm - and their faithful friend - behind.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The fellowship stopped their trek just beyond the great gates of Khazad-dûm, at the threshold of Moria, to collect themselves - enough at least to make it to Lothlórien. Though the dark depths of the mine laid behind them, the memory still echoed palpably through their minds. The sun cast a golden light upon them as it set, spilling over the surrounding hills in stark contrast to the shadow that clung to them all.

Legolas stood apart from her companions, slender frame leaning against her bow as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her gaze was fixed upon the mountains, but her mind was far removed. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel the fiery heat and utter despair of the balrog's very being as if it were just a pace away. The weight of Gandalf’s demise pressed heavily on her heart and cloaked her demeanor.

"You're quieter than usual, laddie." Gimli said as he approached. His voice was steady as ever but a hint of something melancholic betrayed his collected appearance.

Legolas turned her head, long copper curls catching the fading sunlight. Her sharp features had weariness etched upon them, and her usually bright eyes were dim in contemplation.

"And you're as blunt as ever, Gimli." She replied, but the lack of her tone's usual mirth gave Gimli even more cause for concern.

"Aye. That I am." He rebutted with a small nod, studying her carefully.

There was a long pause between them both, the silence not uncomfortable per se but it laid heavy with their unspoken grief. It was Gimli who ultimately broke it, "You think it your fault, don't you?"

Legolas stiffened slightly at his words, hesitating, but she did not look up. "It is not my fault, nor any of ours. But I cannot help feeling as though I failed him."

Gimli frowned, gripping the shaft of his axe tightly - savouring the comfortable familiarity of his weapon in his grasp. "I feel something of the same laddie. No matter how many times I swung my axe in those cursed halls - it was never enough. There was nothing I could do but watch as Gandalf faced that demon."

Legolas let his words sit between them, hands tightening around her bow as she considered her next words carefully. And yet no amount of careful consideration could've stopped her usual grace and composure cracking as she spoke with uncharacteristic vulnerability. "I was so afraid, Gimli."

"Afraid? Of what? I watched you face trolls and orcs without so much as flinching." Gimli inquired, his tone laced with confusion.

Legolas finally met Gimli's gaze, eyes filled with a sorrow unlike any the dwarf had seen before. "A troll is a simple thing, Gimli. But a balrog-" she paused, as though the very word itself was the object of her dread. "You do not understand what it means to face such a creature. A balrog is no mere beast, Gimli. It is a maia, twisted and corrupted through the depths of time, a servant of Morgoth himself. It is power and malice given form - an ancient wound upon this world - a relic of the darkness that once consumed everything. Its very presence here is a violation."

"I have seen firsthand what it leaves behind," she continued, her voice softer now but anguished nonetheless. "Tell me, Gimli, do you know of Glorfindel of Rivendell?"

"Aye." Gimli spoke after a short pause. "I've heard tales of him. A mighty elf-lord they say."

"In the first age of this world, he was slain by a balrog in single combat - protecting his people as they fled Gondolin." Legolas' eyes turned distant, as though she were seeing a memory not of her own, but one carried generation to generation by her people. "Even now, having returned from the Halls of Mandos with his spirit re-embodied, the mark of that encounter lingers within him. It is a shadow, a scar that runs far deeper than flesh. I see it in his eyes when the night is deepest, he gets this look in his eye, as though he sees the creature still."

Legolas turned from him, in a feeble attempt to hide the unshed tears that pricked the corners of her eyes. "He carries himself with such strength and poise, but I know the memory of that battle haunts him. Even in immortality - the fear does not fade, Gimli. It is not something one can simply cast off, even after death and rebirth."

Gimli's throat tightened as he tried to comprehend the enormity of what she had described. "You feared you'd 'ave suffered the same fate?"

"It was not just for myself that I feared. I thought of all of you - of Frodo, Aragorn, Gandalf, even Boromir. To stand in the presence of a balrog Gimli -" Legolas' voice trembled at the admission, "It was like facing a nightmare that has lived in my people's memories for thousands of years."

Gimli placed a sturdy hand on her arm, his touch grounding her in a way she could never have even conceived before they left Imladris. "I cannot pretend to know what that's like, laddie. But I'll say this: fear doesn’t make you weak, it just proves you’re alive. What matters is you didn't let it stop you. Your friend fought so that others could live, didn’t he? So did Gandalf. And so shall we, if the time comes."

For a long while, Legolas said nothing. Instead she opted to study the dwarf carefully - as if seeing him in a new light. A faint smile breaking through the grief as she spoke, "You speak with surprising wisdom, Gimli."

"Don't let it get out." Gimli muttered gruffly yet a levity returned to his tone as he did. "I've got a reputation to maintain."

Legolas chuckled softly, bittersweet but with an air of hopefulness, "I shall keep your secret, master dwarf."

"Aye," Gimli said with a firm nod, his expression softening - in a way he never thought possible toward an elf. "We'll keep movin' laddie. For him."

Gimli grunted as he picked up his axe, his eyes settling on Aragorn who stood apart from the fellowship - scanning the horizon restlessly. “Come on, now. Aragorn’ll be barkin’ at us to get movin’ soon enough. Best we’re ready.”

As if directly influenced by Gimli's words, Aragorn turned towards the group, his voice firm but laced with the tense urgency of their situation. "By nightfall, these hills will be teeming with orcs!" Aragorn called, "We must reach the woods of Lothlórien before the enemy overtakes us. Boromir, Legolas, Gimli - get the hobbits up.”

Boromir, who had been sitting beside the hobbits - providing them with what little comfort he could - straightened and shot Aragorn a barbed look. "Give them a moment, for pity's sake." He pleaded, one edged with frustration.

Aragorn treaded closer, crouching beside the ring-bearer. "Come Frodo, I know you are weary. But we must keep moving."

Legolas moved to the front of the group, sharp eyes scouring the land ahead. The golden trees of her childhood home glistened faintly in the distance. The sight stirred a familiar ache within her, a longing entwined with uncertainty. The very same canopies where she had once run freely under - not a care in the world - were now a beacon of survival. A fleeting haven in a journey marred by loss and danger. "We are not far now." She said softly, more as a reassurance to herself than anyone else. "If we reach the woods before nightfall we shall be safe."

Aragorn's expression softened as he briefly watched her, before turning back to the others, his voice steady and commanding - leaving no room for argument. "Let us move quickly. Stay close and keep your wits about you. The enemy will not wait."

Chapter Text

The fellowship wandered through the threshold of Lothlórien, weary and wary after their harrowing escape from Moria, and from the grief that still oppressively lingered. Their steps faltered them as they were greeted by the towering mallorn trees that lined their path. The silver trunks appeared to glisten faintly, in the waning daylight. Above, their golden boughs swayed gently in the wind, leaves catching the light as though each fragments of the sunset itself. At the outskirts of the ancient forest, the word seemed to hold bated breath. The air here was different, imbued with perpetuity and the gentle hum of life and each step deeper into the woods served as a balm, soothing their woes. None was exempt from the marks of their trials, grime and sorrow clinging to the drained faces of each member of the company. And yet as the fellowship looked forth to the shimmering depths of the forest before them, unfamiliar emotions began to stir - a tentative hope. Fragile, but persistent nonetheless.

Legolas' gaze softened as she took in the familiar sights and sounds of her childhood home. She moved ahead of the group, steps slow and deliberate letting the golden light of Lothlórien bathe her in its serene glow. For a terse moment, the lines of weariness from their journey appeared to ease from her features. The tree's whispers carried on the wind, a gentle melody that called her home - a song she had not heard in decades. The forest's scent - earthy and sweet, unchanged by the passing of the years - filled her lungs, grounding her in its comforting embrace. The ache of nostalgia bloomed within her, images of her formative years flickering through her mind. Her younger self, wild and unruly, weaving garlands with Galadriel, learning the secrets of the trees under the watchful eye of her uncle Celeborn. Laughter filling the canopies of Caras Galadhon.

Legolas let out a quiet breath, her hand brushing against the smooth bark of a nearby tree as if greeting an old friend. She turned to her companions, her voice breaking the stillness. It was low and steady, bearing the weight of a certainty only born through familiarity. "We will be safe here."

Though much had changed in the world beyond these borders, Lórien remained. Steadfast and eternal, as if waiting for her return.

The hobbits looked to her with cautious hope, but their faces betrayed the underlying grief. Gimli muttered something beneath his breath, clearly unconvinced but for the rest of the Fellowship, Legolas' words hung in the air like a protective veil.

"Safe?" Gimli grumbled in outrage. His brow furrowed deeply as he clutched his axe closer, throwing an almost comically protective hand to Merry's chest. "Stay close, young hobbits! They say a great sorceress lives in these woods. An elf witch of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell and are never seen again."

Legolas turned, fixing him a sharp but amused look - no hostility behind her eyes where there once may have been. "Gimli exaggerates."

"Well." Gimli huffed, "Here is one dwarf she won’t ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox."

Before Gimli's words had enough time to even settle, an unfamiliar voice - clear and firm - cut through the air. "The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark."

The fellowship froze as three elves emerged from the shadows. Their steps soundless and their presence commanding. The elves' bows were raised, arrows nocked and aimed with precision, each movement radiating a practiced grace. At their head stood a tall golden haired elf, his posture straight and unyielding - exuding an air of quiet authority. His sharp eyes swept over the group, taking in every detail, suspicion etched in the faint crease of his brow. Though his bow was steady, his gaze betrayed the caution of one who had spent centuries guarding the borders of this land.

For a moment, no one spoke, engaging in an uneasy standoff - the stillness of the forest only interrupted by the faint rustle of leaves around them. Legolas, seeing no resolution in sight, stepped forward delicately, her hands open and empty in a gesture of peace. "Haldir," she spoke up, voice calm and with a note of familiarity.

The leader of the elves inclined his head slightly towards Legolas, his gaze softening a fraction. "Legolas," he replied, tone guarded but by no means unfriendly. "Many times have the leaves fallen since you last graced our woods, you have been missed."

Uneasy glances dotted the fellowship, still keenly aware of the bows drawn in their direction. Gimli shifted his weight, muttering something inaudible whilst the hobbits stayed rooted beside him - their wide eyes flitting nervously between Legolas and the new company.

Haldir gave the companions another once over before lowering his bow, his companions following in suit soon after. "You travel in strange company, Legolas." he said, voice tinged with curiosity and caution.

The tension eased slightly, but the Fellowship could tell their presence here was not yet fully welcomed.

"We shall speak up there." Haldir declared, gesturing towards a flet high in the trees above.

Legolas followed closely, her head inclined slightly in a gesture of deference to her kinsman as he led the way towards the platform. She cast a glance over her shoulder, motioning for the Fellowship to follow. Her companions hesitated for a moment, uncertain and wary of the elves surrounding them, but when Aragorn gave a nod of encouragement, they reluctantly fell into step behind her.

At last, they reached the talan - a wide, sturdy platform, simple in its appearance. The sound of the forest below seemed distant and muted, replaced by a profound stillness. Haldir turned to face them, his sharp eyes scanning the Fellowship once more before settling on Legolas.

“It is good to see you again, Haldir” Legolas said, her voice softening with genuine warmth. Though her words were simple, they carried the weight of years and the unspoken bond of kinship.

Haldir gave her an appreciative nod, a silent understanding between them both, before introducing himself and his companions to the rest of the fellowship. "My brothers here are Rúmil and Orophin, I am Haldir. Marchwarden of Lothlórien."

Aragorn stepped forth to address the marchwarden, calm and deliberate as he bowed his head in respect - a careful hand pressed against his heart. "Our fellowship stands in your debt, Haldir of Lórien."

Haldir regarded Aragorn with a mix of curiosity and practiced formality. "Aragorn of the Dúnedain." Haldir replied, voice smooth but edged with suspicion. "You too are known to us."

Aragorn straightened under Haldir's scrutiny, his expression grave as he chose his words carefully. "We seek rest and protection. Our journey has been long and perilous. Though I do not know how much I can say here."

Haldir's sharp gaze fell upon Gimli, his eyes narrowing as he arched a golden brow. "The dwarf travels with you?"

Legolas moved, placing herself slightly between Gimli and Haldir protectively. "Gimli is a companion of ours." She declared, steady and unyielding. "He means no harm."

Before Haldir could respond, Gimli interrupted their conversation, letting out a scoff bristled with indignation. "So much for the legendary courtesy of the elves!" He spat, crossing his arms firmly across his chest. "Speak words we can all understand."

Haldir's serene expression barely faltered, but a flicker of disdain crossed his eyes as he spoke cooly, almost detached. "We have not had dealings with dwarves since the dark days."

Gimli bristled further, grip tightening in anger on the shaft of his axe. "And you know what this dwarf says to that?" He leaned forward dangerously, his voice dropping into a growl - the khuzdul words laden with venom. "Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!"

The elves flanking Haldir shifted, their stances firming and their hands tightening on their bows. Sharp eyes flickered towards Gimli warily, measuring him intently. Though they did not raise their weapons outright, the tension was palpable.

Aragorn turned toward his companion sharply, his jaw tightening as he shot the dwarf a glare that could have pierced through mithril - a firm hand hitting Gimli's chest. "That," He said, voice low but cutting, "was not so courteous."

Legolas' eyes flickered between Gimli and Haldir, and for a scarce moment, she feared their exchange may escalate further. Haldir, however, surprised her - inclining his head ever so slightly, acknowledging Gimli's defiance with reluctant respect. "The dwarf, as rude as he may be, is not the issue." He spoke gently, but his voice was edged with stern warning.

Haldir stepped closer, his harsh gaze meeting Aragorn’s. "You bring great evil with you." The elf spoke, low and firm, "I can feel it." His eyes flitted towards Frodo, who instinctively clutched the Ring tighter. “You can go no further.”

The fellowship stood uneasy, the weight of Haldir's words settling heavy upon them. A tense silence emerged as Legolas, Haldir and Aragorn exchanged rapid words in incomprehensible sindarin. Sam shifted awkwardly, glancing at Frodo who looked pale and uneasy as the conversation appeared to grow more heated.

Haldir’s words were sharp, his gaze fixed on Aragorn with a mix of respect and mistrust. Legolas interjected occasionally with a calm but firm tone, her green eyes steady as she addressed her kinsman, voice carrying the weight of both plea and command. Aragorn on the other hand spoke quieter, more measured despite the urgency of his tone - his body language betraying him as a man accustomed to diplomacy but weary of the necessity.

The fellowship could only watch, feeling increasingly out of place amidst the exchange. All they could do was wait apprehensively, caught in an uncomfortable liminality - entirely unaware of the deliberations surrounding their fate.

Finally, Haldir sighed and straightened, turning to face the rest of the fellowship. "You will follow me." He instructed curtly in the common tongue, a hint of resignation behind his words.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The fellowship ascended the spiraling stairs of Caras Galadhon, their steps slow under the burden of their weariness. The gentle moonlight above filtered through the mallorn leaves, casting an ethereal glow upon the elven city.

Haldir led them steadily, his posture calm and watchful as the Fellowship followed in a quiet unease. The hobbits clung to the railings, wide-eyed at the height and the faint echoes of elven song that managed to reach them even at their vast height. Gimli grumbled softly under his breath, his awe poorly masked by dwarven gruffness. Legolas' keen eyes scanned the surroundings as though reacquainting herself with the home of her youth. She murmured a word or two in Sindarin to Haldir as they climbed, her tone soft but tinged with a distant sadness.

At last, they reached the highest flet - a vast platform suspended among the trees where the lord and lady of Lothlórien, hand in hand, awaited their arrival. Beneath the shimmering light Celeborn stood tall, stately and solemn, Galadriel at his side radiant with an otherworldly beauty. Her gaze was calm but piercing, telling of a timeless wisdom, and the Fellowship felt as though their every thought lay bare before her.

Haldir stepped aside, gesturing for them to approach. "Here is where we leave you, for now." He said quietly, placing a hand over his heart before he departed.

Celeborn regarded the fellowship with a combination of concern and curiosity. "The enemy knows you have entered here," he began, his voice deep and authoritative. "What hope you had in secrecy is now gone."

He let his gaze drift over the company, counting each face. A soft look passed over Celeborn's solemn expression as his eyes laid upon his niece, though he quickly regained his composure as he spoke. "Eight there are here, yet nine there were, set out from Imladris. Tell me, where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him."

The weight of the question pushed them into a tense silence, none able to broach the topic - their grief still too raw.

It was Celeborn himself who broke the stillness. "I can no longer sense him from afar." He admitted softly.

Galadriel's voice, gentle and firm, carried across the flet like a breeze through the night's air. “Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land. He has fallen into shadow.”

In the presence of her aramillë, who had been both a mentor and mother figure to her - Legolas felt the weight of her words more deeply. Her voice came out low and unsteady. "He was taken by both shadow and flame," she began, each word heavy with sorrow. "A balrog of Morgoth. For we went needlessly into the net of Moria."

The admission stung like an open wound across the fellowship, guilt seeping into the air. Galadriel's expression relaxed, the wisdom of centuries mingling with maternal concern. She stepped closer, reaching out to gently lift Legolas’ chin as their eyes met. "Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life." Galadriel spoke steadily and reassuringly, "We do not yet know his whole purpose.”

The lady of light looked then to Gimli, her voice softening further as she observed the downtrodden look upon the dwarf’s face. "Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart, Gimli, son of Glóin." She said wistfully. “For the world has grown full of peril. And in all lands, love is now mingled with grief.”

Gimli, caught off guard by her words, looked up in unconcealed awe. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he nodded. Not a gesture of dismissal, nor one of acceptance - more so an acknowledgment of the depth of his grief and the understanding that it had been seen, even by an Elf.

Celeborn turned, his eyes shifting from his wife to the fellowship in front of him, his voice filled with sobriety as he spoke. “What now becomes of this Fellowship?” He asked. “Without Gandalf, hope is lost.”

"This quest stands on the brink." Galadriel announced, gaze sweeping over the fellowship. Her voice resonated with a quiet strength and an even quieter optimism. “And yet hope remains whilst the company is true. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil.”

The fellowship began to disperse, following their elven guides from down the flet to the resting places prepared for them. Galadriel's voice cut through the soft rustle of movement. "Legolas."

Galadriel raised a slender hand, firm but graceful, halting Legolas mid step - immediately aware of the weight to her aramillë's voice. Slowly, she turned to face Galadriel, the moonlight illuminating them both - singling Legolas out amongst the dozens of silver and golden haired elves as it caught in her russet curls.

"I would speak with you." Galadriel said, meeting Legolas' gaze, her words carrying an unspoken urgency that concealed the note of affection for anyone unfamiliar.

Legolas inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the request. “As you wish.”

The rest of the fellowship paused, exchanging wary glances. Sam in particular, stared at Legolas wide eyed - as if wondering what could possibly warrant such a private audience with the lady of the woods. Aragorn however, broke him out of his stupor, placing a gentle hand upon the hobbit's shoulder and carefully guided him forward.

"Come," he spoke softly. "It is not for us to linger."

Reluctantly the others moved forth, footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the golden wood. Left alone, Legolas moved closer to her aramillë, venturing towards a quiet alcove - her features betraying a quiet apprehension as she awaited Galadriel’s words.

Galadriel's regal expression transformed into something more familiar, maternal even, her face lighting up with a warm smile as she embraced her niece

Legolas, momentarily caught off guard by the outward display of affection, hesitated before melting into the embrace. Her tense shoulders relaxed as she closed her eyes briefly, breathing in the comforting scent of starlight and fresh niphredil that always seemed to linger around her aramillë.

Galadriel’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper, as she murmured, “Tithiniel.” Her hands lingered on Legolas’ shoulders as she drew back, her smile still warm but gaze searching, as if reading her niece’s heart with a mere glance. "I have missed you."

Legolas dipped her head gently, a small smile gracing her lips as if all her woes had abated in the comforting arms of Galadriel. "Aramillë." She let out the title one of deep love and reverence.

Galadriel's gaze swept over Legolas with both pride and a hint of sorrow. "You have grown well, little leaf. Many years have passed since our woods last felt your presence. The years have shaped you strong and graceful Legolas - though I can see the trials of this world weigh heavily upon your feä."

Legolas looked to Galadriel with a touch of uncertainty, pondering the trajectory of their journey so far. "What is it you see, aramillë?"

Galadriel's gaze drew distant, as though looking somewhere elsewhere - into realms unseen. "The call of the sea stirs in you Legolas," she spoke softly, almost pitifully. "Though you may not feel it yet, it slumbers within your heart. Waiting to awaken. The shores will call to you, a longing like no other - a song of home and sorrow that you can never silence this side of the sea."

Legolas' brow creased slightly accentuating the frown that grew upon her face. "The sea?" She asked agog, "I've never seen the sea, nor do I wish to. My heart belongs to the song of the trees." Her voice betrayed the conviction of one's heart deeply rooted in the forests of her kin.

Galadriel's expression remained firm but an air of gentleness bled into her tone. "Perhaps," she spoke, "But the gulls are not so easily denied. They are just as much a part of the song of your kin as the trees - the inheritance of your blood, even from afar. When it awakens, Tithiniel, it will pull at you. Stronger than any love or duty."

Legolas shifted uncomfortably, unease clear in the way her hands fidgeted at her sides. "I do not understand. Why tell me this now?"

Galadriel took a reassuring step closer, her gaze warm yet unyielding. "Because the journey ahead may rouse it sooner than you expect. The longer you are bound to this world, the stronger its call will grow." Galadriel rested a comforting hand upon her niece’s face, "But take heart, child. Even as the sea's song stirs, you are not alone. You carry a great deal more than just your bow on this journey Legolas."

Legolas met her aramillë's gaze, confusion mingling with a flicker of frustration she was unable to keep at bay. "What do you mean, Aramillë? Speak plainly, please. "

A faint smile curved Galadriel’s lips, one Legolas was well acquainted with. A smile that made Legolas keenly aware she would not find the answers she sought in her aramillë. "You will understand in time, Legolas," Galadriel reassured. "And when you do, you will see that it is a gift, even amidst the trials you face."

A soft sigh parted Legolas' lips as her shoulders eased ever so slightly. "You speak in riddles as always. Is this your way of easing my mind or burdening it further?"

Galadriel chuckled lightly as her smile deepened. "It is my way of preparing you, little one. Trust yourself, and you will find your way through the darkness. There is more strength in you than you know."

"I shall try to heed your wisdom, aramillë. " Legolas nodded slowly as the weight of Galadriel’s words settled.

A comforting silence settled between the pair as Legolas glanced around her surroundings. "Is Leithiassel around?" Her expression softened as she asked.

Galadriel's gaze froze upon the northernmost woods of Lothlórien, a flicker of solemnity passed her face before she composed herself once again. "She is on patrol. The border with Eryn Galen."

Legolas did not speak, it wasn't necessary. Instead, Galadriel reached out, placing a comforting hand against Legolas' shoulder. "Go with hope in your heart, tithiniel. Return to your fellowship before they worry." A deep and genuine smile graced Galadriel's face as she continued, "Your adatheg and I are always glad to see you."

Legolas offered Galadriel a small smile, bowing her head in gratitude as her aramillë's words lingered in her mind. She stepped back into the silver glow of Caras Galadhon, moving to rejoin her companions - a quiet rekindled determination stirring within her.

Chapter Text

By the banks of the Anduin, the fellowship settled into the quiet rhythm of camp; though even such a simple act felt reverent beneath the ancient mallorns. The gentle waters of the Anduin reflected the light of the stars above as the hobbits huddled at the fireside, voices hushed as they spoke of their awe and wonder. Sam meticulously went about preparing supper for the companions, pausing occasionally to marvel at the twinkling leaves overhead. Frodo sat slightly apart, face pensive as he stared solemnly into the flames. Whilst Aragorn and Boromir stood towards the edge of the clearing, speaking softly in the common tongue - their words lost in the hum of the forest and the muffled hustle of elves from the talans far above.

Legolas, however, was notably absent.

Drawn by a profound, ineffable yearning, she had left their camp and wandered into the heart of Lothlórien, retracing the paths of her youth. Her steps were silent as she moved through the glades, light footfalls disturbing neither earth nor leaves as she meandered through the trees. The forest embraced her as an old friend, branches delicately caressing her as she walked, its whispers familiar and soothing. This was her home, in a way - she had never felt as content as she had in her youth under the forest's golden boughs. Though the Greenwood was her ancestral home, it was Lórien where she truly felt at home; despite the comparatively few years she had spent within its borders, she longed for it all the same. Imladris had treated her well over the years, she had no qualms with Lord Elrond nor his valley, but at her core Legolas was still a child of the forest.

She paused beneath the towering silver trunk of a mallorn, fingers brushing against its smooth bark. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to feel the ancient life force thrum beneath her touch. Her mind wandered towards her adar - something she usually made a pointed effort not to think of. Legolas wondered perhaps in that moment if she looked so fondly upon her time in Lórien because it was the last place she lived entirely unaware of the depth of her adar's resentment towards her. The last time in her life she had been able to imagine a loving adar.

But those days were long gone, and the golden woods now held a bittersweet beauty. Lothlórien stood unchanged in all its majesty, a constant in the ever shifting world she inhabited. She envied the trees for their stillness, their quiet existence untouched by the pain of loss and the horrors of battle.

Legolas had forged her own family, one she loved and cherished more than anything. Elrohir and her children were her whole world and yet there was a gaping hole within her, one nothing could quite manage to patch up. Despite all her years, Legolas yearned for a loving adar - supportive or even just tolerant of her existence. The great trees of Lórien seemed to taunt her with the memories of a time before she was ladened with the knowledge of Thranduil's disdain.

She exhaled softly, breath stirring the air as her mind lingered on memories both cherished and painful. The familiar song of the woods brought her much needed comfort after their escape from Khazad-dûm, and yet it also reminded her of all that had been lost - friends, kin, and the innocence of simpler times.

"Legolas!" A gruff voice shattered the quiet she basked in, breaking through the soft rustle of leaves that she had been too engrossed in her thoughts to even notice.

Startled, she turned, pointed ears perking up as her keen eyes caught a familiar figure approaching through the mottled moonlight. Gimli strode towards Legolas with purposeful gait, his stout frame moving more swiftly than she knew possible of him. His beard glinted faintly in the silvery light, a mixture of irritation and concern decorating his face.

"There yer are," he shouted, stopping just a few paces away and planting his hands upon his hips. "The hobbits were looking all over for you."

Legolas straightened under the scrutinising glare of the dwarf, her usual composure returning as she gave him a small nod. "Apologies, master dwarf." she said apologetically, "I grew up in these woods, I let myself become distracted by old memories."

Gimli's brow furrowed into a frown, tilting his head as he studied her intently. The gruff edge to his tone softened as curiosity crept into its place. "These woods? I heard you were one of Thranduil’s runts?"

Legolas' expression shifted at the mention of her adar, a flicker of discomfort flashed across her face and she had to make a concerted effort to smooth it away. "I am." she replied evenly, although her voice carried with it a clear undercurrent of reluctance. "It's complicated. I'd rather not talk about the elvenking if you don't mind, master dwarf."

Gimli raised his thick hands in a gesture of peace. "Aye, no skin off my teeth," he said, gruff tone lightening. "Better get back to camp though, the little 'uns will be worried."

"Of course." Legolas agreed, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. "I shall accompany you."

The two began their walk towards the camp and though neither spoke at first, the silence that stretched between them carried no awkwardness. It was a companionable quiet, one born of the weight of a shared understanding. Above them, the golden mallorn leaves swayed gently and the woods appeared alive with subtle anticipation - as if the very forest itself held a baited breath, waiting for the words that would inevitably pass between them.

After a while, Gimli paused, glancing towards Legolas with a curious expression. "Why do you never correct them?" He inquired abruptly.

Legolas turned her head, brows knitting together ever so slightly. "Whatever do you mean, Gimli?"

"I mean the hobbits, and Boromir too." Gimli clarified, "They call you mister Legolas, but you never correct them."

Legolas' steps faltered, but she recovered herself quickly. Her voice remained steady and her expression neutral, but there was a hint of unease to her response all the same. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Gimli."

Gimli chuckled, low but hearty, a knowing sound that seemed to echo throughout the forest. "Aye, I believe you."

Legolas did not rise to the bait and a silence began to stretch between them again, but Gimli was not done yet. "Perhaps elves and dwarves are more alike than either of us would like to believe, Legolas, because I know a lassie when I see one."

Legolas halted in her step and turned to face him fully. She tilted her head, long red curls catching the moonlight that filtered through the trees as her piercing green eyes searched his face with guarded apprehension. And yet, to her surprise, Gimli just stood there; steady and unbothered, his expression calm and devoid of mockery. There was no gloating, no pointed remarks - only quiet acceptance, as if the revelation meant little to him.

For a moment, she hesitated - said nothing as the weight of his unspoken understanding hung between the pair - before she sighed softly. Gimli's nonchalance began to ease the tension that knotted within her chest. If Gimli had uncovered her lie, it seemed he saw no reason to make it a matter of concern.

Her shoulders, usually so straight and proud, dipped ever so slightly, betraying a flicker of vulnerability as she spoke even as her voice was tinged with a hint of amusement. "A keen eye you have, Gimli."

"Aye, one would have to be in the mountain." Gimli flashed her a grin as he replied, "Dwarrowdam are near indistinguishable from the rest of us."

His smile faltered him slightly as he continued, expression growing more serious. "Why do you let them believe?" Gimli asked genuinely, his tone more curious rather than accusatory.

Legolas' gaze grew distant and her voice firm, more measured. "The fighting forces of the Greenwood do not discriminate between ellon and elleth, Dol Guldur does not give us the opportunity even if we wished to." She chose her next words carefully, and resolutely. "But the race of men is not so accustomed; they are set in their ways, Gimli. I have proved my skill time and again, but that does not change the fact that if they were to realise the truth - they would no longer see me as a warrior. But as a woman in need of protection, a hindrance. And I am neither of those things."

Gimli took a moment to consider his companions' words, his brow furrowing as he took in the elf's dilemma. "Aye. Erebor is much the same. The ranks are filled with any dwarf of fighting spirit - it's what makes the menfolk think we don't have any lasses. Mahal knows how many times I've had my backside handed to me by a dwarrowdam. I'd wager some are more terrifying on the field than any man could ever hope to be."

Legolas allowed herself a small laugh at that, her expression softening toward the dwarf. Gimli however, unconsciously scratched his beard - sharp eyes still studying Legolas with the remnants of his earlier curiosity and a newfound understanding.

"Aragorn knows?" Gimli asked, his tone cautious as much as intrigued.

Legolas couldn't help the breathy chuckle that she let out, lips curving into a faint smile. "I am wed to Aragorn’s foster brother, Gimli. I should hope he knows," she replied, a hint of wry humour tinging her voice.

Gimli blinked, momentarily caught off guard by Legolas' blunt admission before letting out a throaty laugh. "Well, that explains why you were so close with that Elrohir lad back in Rivendell. I had thought it strange, the way he looked at you." Gimli's laughter faded, replaced instead by an earnest sincerity as he spoke on. "I'll keep your secret, lass. As much as I loathe to admit it, yer a fine warrior. We'd be sorely disadvantaged without you."

The honesty in his words stunned her, and for a terse moment, she was so moved that she left Gimli entirely without reply. Slowly, she inclined her head in gratitude, "Thank you, Gimli. You do me a great kindness." She hesitated before continuing, gaze softening and words filling with warmth. "I fear I have let my prejudices against dwarves cloud my judgement for far too long, Gimli. For you have proved yourself to be a stout friend and fine warrior yourself."

The dwarf grunted, cheeks flushing ever so slightly as he waved off her words. "Aye well don't go getting sentimental on me now, lass. We've still a way to go yet."

A faint smile graced Legolas' lips as she cast a sidelong glance at Gimli, and a genuine warmth settled between them as they walked on. The tension that had once lingered between them, born of centuries of mistrust between their peoples, seemed to dissipate. In its place, a growing sense of camaraderie - of trust - a bond forged not just through words, but through the silent understanding of standing side by side against the darkness. Perhaps for the first time, it felt to Legolas as though the rift between elf and dwarf was not so insurmountable after all.

Chapter Text

The golden canopies of Lothlórien rustled softly in the morning breeze, bathing in the supple light of dawn. The fellowship gathered at the banks of the Anduin, their boats awaiting them. The air surrounding them filled with a hushed revere, and the mingled scent of evergreen and the faint fragrance of elanor blossom. Each member of the fellowship carried an unspoken weight, a shared understanding that their time in this haven - the limbo of false security - was drawing to a close.

Frodo lingered tentatively toward the edge of the clearing, adjusting his small pack. His eyes flickered to Legolas, who too stood apart from the rest of the group. She stood inattentive to her companions, hands resting lightly on the bow slung across her back - as if muscle memory - and her gaze fixed upon some unseen point beyond the surrounding trees.

"Legolas?" Frodo's voice was soft as he called for her, but it carried clearly across the tranquil glade nonetheless.

Pulled from her thoughts, she turned to face Frodo, olive eyes meeting with his as she replied. "Yes, Frodo?"

"Are you ready?" The hobbit asked warily, not wanting to disturb Legolas from whatever had transfixed her so.

"Of course," she replied with a quiet certainty. Whatever she had been so focused on only minutes earlier, entirely forgotten. "Are you?"

Frodo hesitated, mulling over his words, before he eventually gave Legolas a small nod. "As much as I can be."

A gentle smile curved Legolas’ lips. "That is the best any of us can hope for," she spoke, her voice carrying a deliberate warmth that soothed Frodo's nerves significantly.

Frodo offered her a faint smile, but a grateful one all the same before they both turned to join the others where Galadriel and Celeborn now awaited them. The lady of Lothlórien stood tall and resplendent, Celeborn beside her, with a serene yet grave look upon his countenance. As the fellowship assembled before them, Galadriel's piercing gaze swept over each of them, lingering on Frodo for a moment longer before she spoke.

In her hands, she cradled a selection of items wrapped in a delicate cloth that shimmered like woven starlight. "To each of you, I give a gift," Galadriel began, her voice resonating through the tense air like a song. "For the road ahead will test your hearts as much as your strength."

Galadriel moved gracefully amongst the group, her words carefully chosen for each member of the fellowship as she presented them each with a token of Lothlórien’s blessing. When she reached Legolas, she paused, her gaze softening into one of deep tenderness - spilling over with love and sorrow.

"For you, my dear niece," Galadriel spoke, her voice rich with emotion as she drew a silver, velvet-wrapped sheath from her side. Slowly, she unsheathed the dagger revealing a blade of exquisite craftsmanship. "My brother Finrod's dagger."

Legolas' breath hitched in her throat, as she gazed in awe at the blade. "I have held onto it for many millennia." Galadriel continued, as her fingers brushed wistfully over the weapon. "But it seems only right now that it should come to you. This blade was more than a weapon, tithiniel - it was a symbol of his unwavering courage, his devotion to those he loved. You, my dear, share that same spirit."

Legolas hesitated for a moment before reaching out to accept the blade, her hands trembling ever so slightly as they closed around the hilt. "Let it guide you, as it once guided him," Galadriel concluded, taking a small step back.

The runes etched along the blade's surface appeared to shimmer faintly, as if responding to Legolas' touch. She ran her fingers along the intricate metalwork of the hilt, tracing the delicate intertwining patterns of gold. The craftsmanship was impossibly fine even for elven hands, almost unnerving, as though it had been forged with a precision beyond comprehension.

There was something in the dagger’s weight, its balance, the smoothness of the blade's edge - it felt alive. Thrumming under her touch, as if it were aware of her, knew her. She felt a faint flicker of energy, harsh and bright, struggling to make itself known to her. It wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t entirely comforting either. A strange unease settled in her chest, coursed through her fingertips - there was something about it - something deeper, older, entirely alien and yet familiar all the same.

"It is beautiful." Legolas finally spoke, a murmur, barely above a whisper. Though her gaze was still firmly focused upon the blade, unable to avert her eyes.

Galadriel smiled faintly, her gaze filled with both pride and sorrow as she addressed Legolas. "It was forged long ago by the hand of Fëanor himself - a gift meant to endure through the ages."

Legolas' brow creased, her fingers stopping to hover just above the hilt. That name ignited something in her, the feeling was familiar, though she only recognised it now. The doors of Durin, the eight-pointed star that had adorned it, it had pulled to her in the same way - though she didn't understand why. It was as though they carried a resonance that spoke to some as yet undiscovered part of her soul. Like the blade recognised her - whispering truths to her in a language she couldn’t grasp.

Legolas straightened, collecting herself in spite of her welling emotions. "Thank you, Aramillë." She spoke reverently, bowing her head ever so slightly in thanks, "I shall use it well."

"I know you will, Legolas." Galadriel smiled warmly, her hand lightly brushing against her niece's shoulder. She turned then to Frodo, an insightful gaze settling on him as she held out a small crystal vial.

"Farewell, Frodo Baggins." Galadriel said to the hobbit, the liquid in the vial reflecting onto her face with an unearthly light. "I give you the light of Eärendil, our most beloved star. May it be a light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out."

Frodo accepted the gift with trembling hands as he held it close to his chest, his voice little more than a whisper through his awe. "Thank you, my lady."

With her gifts bestowed, Galadriel stepped back, gaze lingering upon the fellowship one final time - a tinge of sadness passing over her serene expression. "Go now," she instructed calmly. "By river, you have the chance of outrunning the enemy to the falls of Rauros. May the Valar watch over you."

The fellowship's departure from Lothlórien was marked by solemn silence. They pushed their elven boats into the water, gliding effortlessly along the gentle current. The river wide and deep, carried them away as Lothlórien’s golden shores faded into the mist. It's light, a distant memory as they journeyed towards the unknown.

Gimli sat stiffly near the stern of the boat he and Legolas shared. The dwarf grumbled as he adjusted his weight, discomfort on the delicate vessel evident. "You'll need a steady hand with that bow while we’re on the river." Gimli remarked to Legolas, tone tinged with both humour and challenge.

Legolas sat at the bow, turned her head slightly, a faint smirk gracing her lips. "Then let us hope my hand is not needed." Legolas replied in jest, though her sharp eyes scanned the riverbanks nervously all the while.

The boats moved quietly, the fellowship paddling in rhythm as they navigated the meanders of the Anduin. The sun rose higher as they neared midday, radiating a warm glow upon them that lulled them into an uneasy silence - thoughts of the peril that laid ahead cast to the side momentarily as they rowed.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The sun sank well beyond the horizon, leaving the Anduin shrouded in twilight as the fellowship pulled their boats to shore. The river lapped gently against the pebbled bank as they disembarked, soothing the weariness from their travels. They moved about their duties quietly, unloading supplies and preparing a fireless camp to avoid detection.

Boromir, however, was anything but silent. He placed his shield and sword by his bedroll haphazardly and turned to face Aragorn, his expression hard and brimming with a barely contained frustration that he seemed to have been harbouring for some time.

"You place too much faith in the elves, Aragorn." He said, voice low enough to allow it to go unheard by the rest of the fellowship - but still sharp enough to cut through the evening stillness. "It is not they who will defend Gondor when the time comes. It is not they who hold back the tide of Mordor."

Aragorn, who had been crouched by the boats checking the straps on a pack, looked up - expression calm and resolute yet with a hint of annoyance. "I do not place blind faith in anyone, Boromir." He stood meeting the captain's fiery gaze. "But neither do I dismiss the wisdom and strength of the elves. They have fought against the darkness for untold ages, long before Gondor was even a dream."

Boromir took a threatening step closer, his voice rising with every word. "And yet you doubt the strength of men. You carry Isildur’s blood but none of his pride. Do you think us so weak that we cannot stand without the aid of elves?"

Aragorn's jaw tightened in a momentary lapse of his composure, but his voice remained steady, "I have seen the weakness of men, Boromir. I have seen it in our history, in my own line. I will not allow pride to blind me to the truths of this world. It is not strength alone that will win us this war - it is solidarity."

"Solidarity?" Boromir laughed mirthlessly, bitter and filled with scorn. "The elves hide in their forests, the dwarves in their mines and all the while men are left to stand alone. You preach unity and yet your faith lies elsewhere."

Legolas rose from behind a pine tree, where she had been quietly inspecting her newly gifted dagger, her gaze sharp as she addressed Boromir. "You yourself sow the division Boromir, even amongst our fellowship," she said candidly. "Is this what you wish to bring your precious city? Discord among allies?"

Boromir's face darkened, frustration boiling over at the elf's words. "You think yourself above us all, elf," he spat. "But you know nothing. Nothing of our hardships nor of our burdens."

Legolas took a step closer, toe to toe with Boromir now, her stance poised and unyielding. "I have seen your people fight, Boromir, just as I have seen them fall." Legolas spoke evenly but with an edge of harshness. "I do not dismiss the courage of men, but neither do I ignore their failings. None among us are perfect - not men, not elves, not dwarves. If we have any hope of succeeding, we must trust each other, Boromir. We must rely on each other without shame."

Boromir's jaw clenched as he glared at her, lips pressed into a thin line and knuckles white. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his frustration, but no retort came. The truth in her words burned, stoking the fire of his indignation, and yet he found himself unable to refute her.

Boromir turned sharply on his heel, striding off toward the edge of the camp. His movements were jerky with pent-up anger and his muttering became less coherent the more distance he put between himself and the fellowship.

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a wary glance, the ranger’s expression heavy with concern whilst Legolas remained stoic. Aragorn let out a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Thank you, Legolas. I had hoped he would come around, but his frustration only seems to grow by the day."

Legolas observed quietly for a moment as Boromir's retreating figure disappeared into the shadows. "It is not frustration, Aragorn. It is fear," she replied, soft and firm.

Aragorn frowned, brow furrowing. "Fear?" He inquired.

"The weight of his burden clouds his judgment." Legolas explained scrupulously, "It is only natural for men."

Aragorn tilted his head slightly, studying her intently. "You have been watching him closely."

"I watch all of you closely," Legolas replied with a faint smile. "It's in my nature."

Aragorn chuckled at the elf's words, but the lightness quickly faded as he regarded her further. He stepped closer, voice dropping to a hush. "You've been quiet these last few days. You seem distracted."

Legolas' gaze shifted to the darkened forest beyond their camp, her posture stiffening at Aragorn's words. "We are being followed," she admitted quietly, her voice leaving no question of certainty.

Aragorn's hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword, "You're certain?"

"Aye," Legolas affirmed, her tone unwavering. "I have felt eyes on us ever since we left Lothlórien. I thought it was the enemy at first, but now? I'm not so sure."

"Who, then?" Aragorn asked, voice grave and laced with urgency.

Legolas shook her head, her expression troubled. "I cannot say," she admitted, "But its presence does not bode well."

"We should be extra vigilant in our watches tonight," Aragorn nodded grimly.

"I will take the first." Legolas inclined her head toward him.

Aragorn clapped her shoulder briefly in gratitude before turning toward the others to relay the news. Legolas on the other hand, moved to the edge of the camp - gripping her bow tightly, her keen eyes scanning the shadowed trees. The night stretched on, and though no danger revealed itself, whatever watched them from the darkness - Legolas knew it would not remain hidden forever.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

Their boats scraped against the rocky shore of Amon Hen as the fellowship dismounted one by one from the vessels. An oppressive silence settled over them as the towering hill loomed ahead, shrouded in dense forest.

Legolas stepped lightly onto the shore, sharp gaze scanning the surrounding wilderness. A knot of unease tightened in her chest - something was wrong. She just couldn't shake the sensation that they were being watched, followed by some kind of unseen presence.

As the others busied themselves with unloading the boats, Boromir and Frodo moved away from the group, their departure unnoticed at first, but Legolas felt it. Her instincts whispered that something had shifted.

Legolas frowned, and a knot of unease tightened in her chest.

Time stretched on, and neither returned. Legolas moved closer to Aragorn, whispering over his shoulder her voice laced with heavy concern, "Boromir and Frodo are gone."

Aragorn turned to reply but before he had the chance to speak, Boromir's panicked voice suddenly echoed through the trees.

"I tried to take it." Boromir confessed, a hysterical cry as he stumbled into their view. His face was drawn, as white as a sheet and his expression told of deep shame and anguish. "I couldn't stop myself."

Aragorn stepped forward, bracing Boromir firmly. "Where is Frodo?" The ranger asked harshly.

"Gone," Boromir shook his head, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his guilt. "He is gone."

Before anyone could so much as speak, a low, guttural growl reverberated through the trees. Distant but unmistakable. It was followed by another, then another, then another until the harsh cries of orcs rose like a storm from the forest depths. The primal, foreboding sound sending a jolt of alarm through the already unsettled fellowship.

"Orcs!" Boromir bellowed, drawing his sword.

Legolas was already moving, "Go!" She commanded Aragorn and Gimli, her voice steady despite the ensuing chaos. "I will find Frodo."

Without waiting for response, Legolas turned from the group and slipped into the forest, her steps as silent as falling leaves as she made her way across the uneven terrain.

Her voice was clear and urgent as she called out through the woods. "Frodo!" She cried, her tone carrying both authority and desperation. But the only answers she received were the faint echoes of her own voice mingling with the distant cries of orcs.

Her sharp eyes swept every corner of the forest, straining to catch any trace of the hobbit. The forest grew darker, the trees looming like silent sentinels as she pushed deeper. Her senses heightened and then, through the dim light, she spotted him.

Frodo stood at the edge of a small clearing, hunched over and trembling. His hands clutched something tightly to his chest, the faint glint of gold through his fingers catching the light. He looked so fragile, as though the burden he carried was threatening to crush him entirely.

At the sound of her approach, Frodo's head snapped up. His fearful eyes locked onto hers and for a moment, he looked as though he might flee. His face was pale, fear and distrust painting his expression, Legolas felt her heart twist at the very sight.

"It has taken Boromir!" Frodo cried, his voice breaking in anguish, his wide eyes darting nervously between the shadows and Legolas.

Legolas slowed her steps, her movements deliberate and non-threatening. She held her hands open and empty, bow left on the ground in the urgency of the moment. Her voice was purposefully calm, though a faint tremor betrayed her worry. "I know, Frodo. I know. But where is the ring?"

Frodo's face contorted, his fear giving way to suspicion. "Stay away!" He snapped, his voice sharp and edged with panic. He took a frenzied step back, gripping the ring desperately.

Legolas stopped in her tracks, heart aching at the sight of the poor hobbit's terror. She kept her voice soft, soothing. "Calm yourself, Frodo." She pleaded, "I swore to protect you, to keep you safe. I do not intend to forsake that vow now."

For all Legolas' attempts to calm him, Frodo's gaze only darkened. "Can you protect me from yourself?" He asked, voice wavering but laced with accusation all the same.

The question struck Legolas like a physical blow and for a moment, she could not find the words to respond. The memory of Boromir’s guilt-laden confession had plagued her; she knew Frodo's fears were not unfound.

"Would you destroy it?" Frodo pressed, his voice scarcely above a whisper. his eyes searched hers intensely as he unfurled his hand in front of her.

For a fleeting moment, the ring appeared to quiver in Frodo's hand as if it had sensed something in Legolas. There, far beneath the surface, something ancient stirred - something the ring feared. A power older and more enduring than even the ring's dark might, something its power recognised but never expected to face again.

It was just a whisper, an instinctive recoil, but Frodo felt it all the same. He regarded Legolas with confusion, disbelief, whispering to himself in bewilderment almost too quietly for Legolas to hear.

Legolas knelt before him, lowering herself to his level, snapping the hobbit out of his daze. Her green eyes, clear and resolute, softened as they met his. "There is nothing I wouldn’t have done for you, Frodo," she said, her voice firm even through the tinge of sorrow. "Even if that means letting you go now."

Frodo's grip on the ring tightened, but his expression shifted, conflicted. Legolas straightened, her gaze unwavering as her voice gained strength. "Go, Frodo. Run!" She commanded, firm and absolute.

Frodo hesitated - only for a terse moment - before he turned, his feet carrying him swiftly into the trees. Legolas remained rooted, watching him disappear into the shadows, her eyes fixed on the spot where he had disappeared. Her chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths, the weight of his departure pressing down heavily on her. She had let him go. It was the right choice, the only choice, but it did not feel like much of a victory at all.

The faint sounds of pursuit, and the guttural cries of orcs grew louder, but it was the sudden desperate blast of the horn of Gondor that pulled her from her stupor. The call cut through the air, urgent and defiant, causing her head to snap up and her focus to sharpen like a blade.

Without hesitation, she turned and sprinted toward the source, her long strides carrying her briskly through the trees. The forest became a blur of movement as she fought her way forward. Each arrow brought her closer to the source of the horn, the blasts now growing weaker, more desperate. The image of Boromir flashed through her mind - whatever his faults, he was still one of their own. She would not let him fall without aid.

The orcs' cries grew louder as she neared, mingling with the clamour of weapons and Boromir’s distressed shouts. Breaking through the dense trees, she came upon a skirmish in a clearing. The sight that greeted her was harrowing, Gimli cleaved through countless orcs with his axe and Aragorn's sword likewise danced with a deadly grace. In the middle of the chaos, Boromir knelt; his tunic stained with blood and black-feathered arrows jutting from his chest - his sword still gripped in his bloodied hand.

Aragorn crouched beside him after the last of the immediate orcs were slain, his hands hovering uncertainly over Boromir's wounds. Even with all of lord Elrond's tutelage, there was little he could do.

"They took the little ones," Boromir rasped, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. His face, pale and drawn, was etched with pain and regret as he sought Aragorn’s gaze. "I couldn't stop them."

Aragorn gritted his teeth as he listened, his heart heavy with sorrow for both the absent hobbits and his fellow man.

"I failed them," Boromir's voice cracked as he continued. "I failed you," He let out a shuddering breath, averting his gaze to the ground as if the weight of his guilt was too much to bear even in the face of death. "I tried to take the ring."

"You fought bravely Boromir." Aragorn insisted, steady and resolute as he reached out, placing a firm hand on Boromir’s shoulder. "You kept your honour. You did not fail."

Boromir's eyes glinted, a faint flicker of relief crossing his face, but it was only fleeting. "Save them," he pleaded, his voice growing weaker by the second. "Protect them."

"I will." Aragorn vowed, his grip on Boromir’s shoulder tightening, as though a last ditch attempt to will strength into his fallen comrade.

Boromir's lips quirked into the faintest of bittersweet smiles. His gaze met Aragorn’s again, his eyes filling with an earnestness that seemed to transcend his pain. "I would have followed you." His voice began faltering him but it lost none of its sincerity. "My brother. My captain." Boromir took a ragged breath, his next words coming out little more than a whisper, "My king."

Boromir’s head fell back, and one final breath left his body. Aragorn closed his eyes with delicate fingers, grief threatening to spill over as he gently laid Boromir down.

Legolas and Gimli stood silently, side by side nearby, both bow and axe lowered in respect. Her heart was heavy with sorrow for the man she had clashed with so often - she had seen his flaws but she had also seen his courage, his love for his people. Middle earth would be worse off without him. As silence settled over the battlefield, the weight of the fellowship’s breaking became uncomfortably real.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The three worked in grim silence as they prepared Boromir for his final journey. The golden light of the setting sun reflected off the water, casting a warm glow over the somber scene.

Aragorn stepped back, his face set in quiet resolve as he looked down at Boromir’s lifeless form; the weight of the man's final words hanging heavy on his shoulders. To his side, Gimli stood with his head bowed in respect whilst Legolas lingered by the boat - her expression unreadable but grief palpable nonetheless.

"Frodo's fate is no longer in our hands," Legolas broke the silence at last, her voice steady despite the hint of regret that plagued her tone.

Gimli glanced up, expression dark beneath his furrowed brows. "Then it has all been in vain?" He asked, his anger and sorrow coming through as little more than a gruff.

Aragorn straightened, turning to face them both. "Not if we hold true to each other." His gaze was firm, and voice resolute as he spoke. "We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death. Not while we have strength left."

The ranger's words carried a distinct determination, rekindling a spark of hope amidst their despair. Gimi's shoulders raised, carrying himself with purpose, and Legolas' green eyes met Aragorn’s in quiet understanding.

"Leave all that can be spared behind." Aragorn continued, no room left for argument in his tone. "We travel light."

“Let us hunt some orc!”

Chapter Text

Dawn broke quietly over the plains of Rohan, its first light spilling across the rolling hills and painting the grasslands with muted crimson hues, the night’s chill still clinging to the air. Legolas slowed her pace, coming to a complete halt as the horizon transfixed her gaze. The red-tinged sky seemed almost alive, a stark warning from the heavens etched upon its very being. Her hand tightened briefly, almost instinctively, around the bow at her side.

She took a deep breath, her voice cutting softly through their companionable silence. "A red sun rises," she spoke, low and mournfully. "Blood has been spilt this night."

Her words hung heavily between them, drawing the uneasy attention of Aragorn and Gimli. The dwarf who had been trudging along steadily behind her, his axe resting over his shoulder, stopped to take a critical glance at the horizon. His expression was grim even though he could not understand the warning in the way Legolas' keen eyes could. Aragorn came to stand beside her too, brow furrowing as he too observed the reddening dawn.

Aragorn's jaw tightened as he pulled his sharp gaze away, dropping it instead to the ground. "We are drawing closer." The ranger spoke soberly, tracing the faint footprints in the trodden ground with even more urgency than before. "The tracks lead away from the battle. Into Fangorn Forest."

At the mention of the ancient forest, Gimli's face darkened. "Fangorn?" He muttered without any attempts to conceal his apprehension. "What madness drove them in there?"

Legolas remained silent, her sharp senses focused on the subtle shift of the wind, and the way the distant cries of crows appeared to herald death. Things looked poor for their dear friends, and it took every ounce of her willpower to maintain her composure in front of her companions.

Aragorn placed a steadying hand on her shoulder before she spoke. "Let us move quickly." He commanded, determined not to forsake their friends. "We cannot afford to lose their trail."

The three hunters pressed onwards, steps quickening as they followed the subtle traces of their lost companions struggle. The forest loomed ahead, ancient trees twisted and gnarled, branches clawing toward the sky but it was not long before the pounding of hoofbeats pulled them from their determined tracking.

The three tensed, Gimli and Legolas reaching for their weapons as a line of riders crested a nearby hill. Their spears glinted in the early morning light, and their banner billowed in the wind. With a harsh shout, the riders fanned out, encircling Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn with practiced precision.

Aragorn stepped forth, a hand raised in peace. His stance was calm but undoubtedly ready for if things soured. "Riders of Rohan!" He called. "What news from the Mark?"

The leader of the riders, a tall man with piercing eyes and a noble bearing, reigned his horse in sharply - his company following suit, their movements precise and disciplined. He wore a grim expression, gaze sweeping over the group with suspicion. "What business does an elf, a man, and a dwarf have in the Riddermark?" He demanded, "Speak quickly!"

Gimli bristled at the man’s tone, his grip on his axe purposely tightening. "Give me your name, horsemaster," he growled, "And I shall give you mine."

The rider’s eyes narrowed dangerously in indignation. "I would cut off your head - dwarf," he spat coldly, "If it stood but a little higher from the ground."

Legolas' eyes, sharp and unwavering, narrowed toward the rider and before anyone could react further, her hand was already reaching for her quiver. With a swift, practiced motion, she drew an arrow and nocked it to her bow. In an instant, her bow was raised - string taut - her aim unerring, pointed directly at the Rohan Rider who had dared threaten her friend.

Her expression was cool, but there was a steel in her eye - one Argorn knew well, and was eternally thankful never to have been on the receiving end of. Legolas' steadfast words cut through the tense silence like a blade, "You would die before your stroke fell."

Aragorn, ever the diplomat, stepped between them quickly. His voice remained calm as he attempted to deescalate the confrontation. "Stand down, Legolas," he commanded firmly. Aragorn had witnessed the deadly grace of Legolas' bow in action many times, enough to know that a single, unprovoked movement would lead to a very short clash.

Legolas' gaze shifted slightly, just enough to acknowledge Aragorn’s command, but her eyes never left the rider’s. Another beat of silence passed before Legolas finally lowered her bow.

Aragorn's calming presence seemed to have soothed both sides, as the rider too eventually lowered his weapon slightly. Though his expression remained one of continued distrust.

Aragorn released a breath he hadn't even realised he had been holding in, allowing himself a moment to collect himself before he spoke. His voice was firm but measured as he addressed the rider again. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn." He continued, motioning towards his companions. "This is Gimli son of Glóin, and Legolas of the Woodland Realm - we are friends of Rohan and of Théoden, your king."

At the mention of Théoden, the rider's expression darkened, as did the Rohirrim surrounding him. "Théoden no longer recognises friend from foe. Not even his own kin." He said bitterly, "Saruman had poisoned the mind of the king, and his spies slip past our nets unseen."

"We are no spies," Aragorn insisted, pleading with the rider. "We track a band of Uruk-hai westward across the plains. They took two of our friends captive."

The man's expression softened considerably, though his wariness remained. "We hunted and slew a host of Uruks two nights past," he spoke, words heavy as they passed his lips. "If your friends were among them, I fear they are no longer alive."

Gimli's voice hastened at the rider’s words, tinged with desperation. "But there were two hobbits!" He pressed, "Did you see two hobbits with them?"

Aragorn stepped closer, interjecting in urgency. "They would be small - only children to your eyes."

The rider shook his head in solemn certainty. "We left none alive." He said, "I am sorry."

For a moment, the crushing weight of the rider’s words hung heavy amongst them, pressing on their hearts. "It is Éomer," the rider finally spoke, identifying himself as he gestured to one of his men. "You may take what mounts you need. May these steeds bear you to better fortune than their former masters. Farewell."

With that Éomer gave a sharp nod, spurring his horse forward and signalling to his riders. One by one, the Rohirrim turned their steeds, hooves drumming monotonously against the earth as they rode away; their figures retreating into the distance until they were swallowed entirely by the morning mist and the vast plains of Rohan.

The sound of hooves soon faded, leaving only the soft rustle of the wind through tall grass and the three companions with heavy hearts - a near suffocating tension lingering between them.

As they approached the edge of Fangorn forest the air grew colder in a way that defied explanation. The landscape drew darker, more foreboding, and the dense canopy of ancient trees cast long shadows across the ground in front of them; its twisted branches reaching like skeletal fingers toward the sky.

Legolas' pace dwindled as she carefully scanned the darkened woods. "They are restless," she said softly, her sharp ears dropping ever so slightly as she sensed the trees' unrest and anguish. "Angered by the orcs who passed through. But there is more - something older. It watches us closely."

"Let them watch," Gimli muttered, low and defiant. "I'd sooner trust stone than these accursed trees."

Just as she was about to retort to Gimli about how he should treat the trees with more respect, Aragorn spoke up from where he had been knelt, examining the tracks on the forest floor. "Merry and Pippin came this way." A hint of hope returned to the downtrodden ranger's tone. "They may still live."

A flicker of movement caught Legolas’ attention as Aragorn muttered to himself about the tracks. She tensed, eyes narrowing upon the far distance. "Aragorn." She said, her voice low and urgent. "Something is out there."

Aragorn rose swiftly, his hand firmly grasped around the hilt of his sword, "What do you see?"

"The white wizard approaches." Legolas whispered, instinctively raising her bow.

As if on command, an intense, radiant light burst forth from the shadows, illuminating the depths of Fangorn forest. No natural light, but a searing white that pierced through the forest's gloom. The three hunters instinctively raised their arms to shield their eyes, for fear that the sudden glare would blind them.

The very air around them seemed to hum with its power as the light grew steadier. Slowly, a figure began to emerge, indistinct at first, as if veiled by some sort of higher power. As the light dimmed ever so slightly, they could just about make out the figure; a tall man cloaked in robes of pure white. In his hand, he held a long staff of pale wood, smooth and unmarred - and at its tip, the source of the light still glowed faintly like a star brought to earth.

The figure stepped forward with measured grace, his presence commanding, as if Fangorn itself bent to his will. "You seek your lost companions." A voice spoke, resonant and commanding.

Aragorn took a tentative step closer to the light, his voice riddled with suspicion just as much as hope. "Where are they?"

"They passed this way the day before yesterday." The figure told them, tone lacking either warmth or malice.

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli each exchanged wary glances - their weapons held loosely in their hands but no longer raised. There was something familiar about the figure, something that tugged at the edges of recognition.

Aragorn took a sharp intake of breath as he searched the light further. "Who are you?" He demanded cautiously, "Show yourself!"

The light dimmed, withdrawing gently like a tide receding from the shore. The figure's features emerged from the luminescence, becoming clearer with each step he took toward them. The face was both familiar and foreign. It bore the lines of wisdom and untold ages, yet it shone with an otherworldly radiance that had not been there before. Hair, once grey and untamed, was now as white as snow. His eyes, sharp and piercing, looked as though they had seen beyond the veil of time itself.

It was Legolas who first realised, gasping softly as her fingers trembled against the smooth wood of her bow. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped at first, her voice frozen in disbelief - caught somewhere between her throat and her heart. "It cannot be," she eventually found herself whispering, her voice barely audible through the trembles of hope and uncertainty.

"Gandalf!" Aragorn murmured, the name tumbling from his lips like a prayer.

The man nodded softly, the motion weighted with acknowledgment and a hint of warmth. "Indeed." Gandald said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I am Gandalf the White, returned to you from the darkness."

"You fell." Legolas said, her eyes searching his face in disbelief as she took another step closer.

"Aye!" Gimli exclaimed his voice laced with astonishment, almost stumbling as he tried to take a closer look. "We thought you lost in Khazad-dûm!"

Gandalf's gaze softened, and he inclined his head considering their words. "I was." He spoke gently, his voice like a balm - deep and resonant. "I fell through fire and water and from the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, I fought him - the Balrog of Morgoth. But I have been returned until my task is done and I come back to you now, at the turn of the tide."

The companions stood in stunned silence. Here was their friend, their guide, their beacon of hope returned to them - yet he was something more now, something greater and more radiant than they had ever known. Perhaps he had been all along.

The wizard's expression grew grave as he continued. "There is much to do, and little time to mourn what has passed. Your friends, the hobbits, are safe."

Gimli's eyes widened in relief, "Safe? Where are they?"

"With Treebeard, shepherd of this forest." Gandalf raised his staff, the faintest glow returning to its tip, illuminating his kind yet resolute face. "He will guard them."

Gandalf turned to face what remained of the fellowship, his expression resolute. The light from his staff dimmed as he lowered it, replaced by a quiet sense of urgency that seemed to hum around him. His piercing gaze swept over each of them, as though weighing the burdens they each carried - and the strength they would need for what laid ahead.

“One stage of your journey is over,” he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of both wisdom and command. “But another begins. War has come to Rohan. We must ride to Edoras with all speed."

Gandalf's tone left no room for doubt nor argument. The newly returned wizard turned hastily, his white robes sweeping behind him like a banner of hope as he led them out of the forest.

Chapter Text

The vast plains of Rohan stretched endlessly before them, as far as they eye could see; a sea of golden grass swaying gently in the morning breeze. The horizon, indistinguishable from the sky, bathed the land in the soft light of the dawn sun. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf rode hastily toward Edoras through wooden gates - etched with countless intricate horse carvings that stood resolute against the sorrow that seemed to seep from within.

The seat of the Riddermark loomed ahead, wooden halls rising against the sky - a bastion of fading glory against the shadow that crept across all lands now. Uneasy tension marked their approach, somber-faced Rohirrim eyeing them warily as the guards of Edoras stepped forth - barring their path.

"Halt." The guard called, his voice firm, eyes scanning each and every one of them with suspicion. "State your business," he demanded.

Gandalf nodded respectfully and addressed the guard with his usual measured tone. "We come in friendship." He informed them, his voice carrying the weight of long-standing authority tempered with a hint of warmth. "We seek an audience with King Théoden."

The guard, however, was not so easily swayed by Gandalf's diplomatic words. His gaze lingered upon the wizard and his companions - suspicion obvious from his stance alone. "I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame." He insisted, no room for any argument. "Your weapons must be surrendered."

Aragorn, with a quiet but steady movement, reached for the hilt of his sword and in a fluid motion, drew it from his side and handed it to the guard. His fingers lingering for just a moment on the familiar leather of the hilt before releasing it. His gaze remained unwavering, meeting the guard’s eyes with a quiet strength.

Gimli, on the other hand, was not so quick to comply. His hands tightened around the handle of his axe, and for a long moment, he simply glared at the guard. "I don’t like this." Gimli muttered under his breath, "A dwarf should never be parted from his weapon." With a grunt of displeasure, Gimli finally relented, handing over his axe to the guard. The guard nodded, but his expression remained impassive as he took the weapon. His eyes momentarily lingered on Gimli's face but he said nothing in return, merely gesturing for Legolas to step forward.

Legolas felt a small flare of irritation rise within her chest at the thought of surrendering her weapons. She had never been one to be disarmed, especially in unfamiliar territories. With deliberate precision, she removed the bow from her back, her fingers brushing the smooth wood one last time before handing it over. The guard accepted it with a stiff nod, and waited patiently for her to relinquish her dagger and twin knives into his care as well.

A second guard who stood unmoved, turned his attention to Gandalf’s staff, his eyes narrowing sceptically. "Your staff." He said bluntly, making it clear he would have every weapon - regardless of form.

Gandalf glanced down at his staff, raising an eyebrow at the guard. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. "Oh. No, you would not part an old man from his walking stick?" He asked, poorly feigning a shocked expression.

The lightness of his tone contrasted with the seriousness of their situation and Legolas couldn't believe Gandalf thought he was going to get away with it. But to her surprise, the guard hesitated - his eyes flicking nervously between Gandalf and the staff. The guard was clearly torn but after a few beats of silence passed, he waved them through with a small grunt.

Legolas gave a small, almost imperceptible nod as she passed. She hadn't felt right all day, an unease lingering within her that she had been unable to banish. Now with her weapons gone she felt even more vulnerable, and though she masked her discomfort as they entered the hall - the absence of the familiar weight at her back and sides only made her feel worse.

The great hall of Meduseld threatened to overflow with tension as the confrontation unfolded. Gandalf’s staff glowed with an otherworldly light as he pressed Théoden - the king firmly ensnared in Saruman's insidious influence. His three companions all stood to the side, giving the wizard space, quietly observing as he worked to free the bewitched king.

Legolas, however, could admit she was not fully present in the moment. Her mind, whilst partly focused on the proceedings, was distracted - drawn inward by a growing, unshakable feeling. Something had shifted within her, something big, though she did not know how to name it.

She stood near the farthest window of the golden hall, her back to the scene unfurling, but her sharp ears caught the murmurs of exchange clearly - well attuned to the ebb and flow of the magic in the room. Yet, as Théoden’s form seemed to return closer to his former glory with each passing moment, Legolas couldn’t shake the deep unease that settled deep within her.

She glanced briefly down at her body, placing an instinctive hand over her abdomen, feeling a soft swell beneath her tunic. The feeling was subtle, but it was there nonetheless - an unfamiliar weight, an unspoken shift. Something delicate, profound even.

Her thoughts tumbled over themselves as she stared pensively out at the horizon. She couldn't make head nor tail of it, she had always been in tune with her body; felt its rhythms, and fluctuations keenly. But this - this felt entirely foreign and yet unnervingly similar at the same time.

She could feel it clearer now - the tender shifting of life within her. The faintest flutter within her fëa. Though the sensation had gone unnoticed until this moment, it now felt inescapable.

How long has this been so?

A memory from Lothlórien surfaced and the voice of her aramillë echoed through her mind. "Even as the sea's song stirs, you are not alone. You carry a great deal more than just your bow on this journey."

She shook her head slightly, a desperate attempt to dispel the faint images of Galadriel's warning. Her aramillë had spoken of sea-longing and the restlessness of the gulls' ceaseless call, but it hadn't occurred to Legolas that there might have been something else at play in Galadriel’s words.

A soft, breathless laugh escaped her lips - quiet enough that no one else picked up on it above the commotion, but a bitter one all the same. A child, she thought ruefully. How could I not have known?

She had already borne three children in her lifetime - Leithiassel, Faelher and Ialwen - and she had known the signs well with each of them. But this, this was different, though she couldn’t place it yet. She had carried her children during times of both relative peace and unrest, but always with an awareness - a feeling of certainty as her elflings grew within her. This time though, there had been no sudden epiphany, no sense of connection. The child had grown quietly - entirely unnoticed by the one who should have known best.

Her thoughts turned then to Elrohir. It had been months since she had left Imladris, since they had last laid together. Her heart ached at the memory of his touch, what would he think? She pondered, How would he ever face her if he knew the truth? That she had been so blissfully unaware that his child stirred within her. Yet there had been no obvious signs - nothing to warn her; It was the first time in days she had even had the opportunity to stand still, let alone turn her gaze inwards. And yet here she stood now, cradling the awareness of the new life within her as the world outside fragmented by the day.

She couldn’t do this.

Her train of thought was broken by a faint flicker of movement across the hall. It was an almost imperceptible shift - but her elven senses caught it nonetheless. Turning her head, she found her gaze drawn unquestionably toward the throne where Gandalf's commanding figure stood silhouetted in front of Théoden. The wizard’s voice was low and powerful as he spoke, words of enormous power meant to dispel the lingering shadows that clung to Théoden's mind.

The room seemed to hold its breath as the air hummed with an ancient, otherworldly energy - as though the very fabric of their world had shifted to accommodate the wizard's will. The oppressive weight of Saruman’s influence clashed against Gandalf's intent and Théoden's fingers gripped the arms of his throne, knuckles whitening as though he were trying to resist salvation with every fibre of his being.

A shadow flickered across Théoden’s face, twisting and writhing as if it were a living thing. Legolas tensed instinctively, her hand brushing her side where her weapons usually rested. Though she made no move to interfere, watching intently as the wizard worked. His presence in the once mighty hall was overwhelming, as though he were a force entirely unto himself - completely untethered from the laws of nature.

In the midst of it, she felt her stomach tighten slightly and a wave of nausea came up to her chest. It was as if her body was punishing her for her inattentiveness, and now she had finally recognised the subtle changes, it refused to let her focus lie elsewhere.

The light in the hall brightened as Gandalf's power surged, and Théoden’s once-sunken and drawn face seemed to lift. She could feel the shift keenly - something intangible that filled the hall as Saruman’s foul influence was purged from the king. Yet all the while, Legolas remained caught in the grip of her own unease.

She wanted to call out to him, seek some sort of solace from the wizard who seemed to know it all. But she felt foolish, unprepared to hear the truth she knew was blossoming inside her. She knew the signs of an oncoming storm, of battle and of fear like the back of her hand - but this was something else entirely.

As Théoden slowly began to regain clarity and the shadows left his eyes, Legolas felt herself swaying under the weight of her own dilemma. She found herself drawn to a window overlooking the plains of Rohan, a gentle hand coming to rest once again against her abdomen. A child, she thought to herself again as the breeze from the ajar window stirred her unruly curls.

Her thoughts were interrupted once more, this time by the sound of purposeful footsteps approaching her. Gandalf, having finished his work with Théoden, gently drew closer. His eyes met her troubled gaze - deep and knowing - and for a terse moment, she wondered if he had sensed the inner turmoil that wracked her.

The rest of their companions had retired to a smaller chamber, to rest before they embarked on the next leg of their journey. The king too, had left in search of his niece, leaving only Legolas and Gandalf remaining in the vast hall.

"Legolas." Gandalf broached the silence first, his tone gentle but probing, his keen eyes studying her as if he already knew what weighed her down so heavily.

She hesitated, fingers tightening instinctively against the windowsill. She parted her lips as if to speak, but no words followed. She had spent years battling countless enemies, facing some of the most grueling threats middle earth had to offer, but this. This was not something she could fight, not something she could simply will away.

"Something troubles you." Gandalf pressed gently, his voice low enough that only she could hear even if there had been others remaining in the hall.

Legolas exhaled tentatively, gaze flickering from the window to meet his. "There is something-" she hesitated again, words faltering her. "Something stirs within me. It is familiar, and yet at the same time something altogether different."

Gandalf's expression softened, the faintest hint of a knowing smile touched his lips though his words remained serious. "You have always been perceptive, Legolas," The wizard spoke warmly. "I fear you suspect the truth already."

"Mithrandir." She began, her voice trembling - a far cry from her usual pristine composure. "I cannot-" her words caught in her throat, and she looked away, as if afraid to give them shape and make it real.

"You carry new life within you." Gandalf spoke gently, his words a quiet revelation in Legolas' own tongue, "A gift in these dark times."

Legolas' breath caught in her throat, her hand now firmly resting atop her abdomen - there was no denying it now. "A child," she whispered, her voice barely audible as the weight of the unquestionable truth settled over her. "A child in such times-" her voice broke as she trailed off, unable to finish the thought for fear of what it would bring.

Gandalf placed a hand on her shoulder, a steadying touch. "Such times make life all the more precious, Legolas." His words were warm but firm, a balm to Legolas' woes but it did little to settle her racing thoughts.

Legolas shook her head slightly in disbelief, her eyes shrouded with uncertainty. "I should have known," she murmured despondently. "How could I not have known? Three times I have carried a child before, and still, I did not have so much as an inkling. It has been months since I last saw Elrohir, how could I not realise?"

"There is no shame in that." Gandalf insisted, his tone both resolute and reassuring. "The path you walk is fraught with danger, and your focus has been on protecting those around you. But now that you do know, you must not dwell on what has passed. You must look forward."

Legolas closed her eyes in anguish, her voice trembling as she spoke, "The world is on the brink of war, Mithrandir. How can I bring an elfling into this? How can I protect this child when everything around us is crumbling?"

"You have faced countless trials with courage and resolve," Gandalf spoke with unwavering conviction, his gaze firm upon her. "This will be no different. Trust in your strength, Legolas. Trust in those who stand beside you."

Legolas' eyes glistened with unshed tears as she met his gaze. "I fear enough for the children I already have, Mithrandir," she admitted quietly. "And yet none of that even comes close to the fear I feel for this child, for what lies ahead."

"Do not let fear rule your heart," Gandalf urged, fastening his grip on Legolas' shoulder. "This child is a testament to the strength and love that endure even in the darkest of times. And that love will protect them, as it protects you."

She nodded slowly, taking in the wizard’s words, a faint but grateful smile touching her lips. "Thank you, Mithrandir." She said softly, and heartbreakingly earnest.

Gandalf inclined his head in gentle encouragement. "Take heart, Legolas," he spoke softly as he stepped back. "You are stronger than you realise."

Legolas stood for a moment longer in quiet contemplation. The fear had not left her completely, but it was tempered by a growing resolve - she would not falter. No matter what laid ahead. She had faced darkness head on before, and she would face it again - for the future of the child growing within her, for her dear friends and family, and for the world they sought to save.

Chapter Text

The plains of Rohan stretched wide and far, seemingly endless as its grasses basked in the sun's warm rays. The wind swept across the land like gentle waves, carrying the faint scent of earth and wildflowers toward the column of refugees. The air around them, alive with the subtle hum of life that mingled with the steady rhythm of hooves against the ground; though conversation remained steady, an undercurrent of tension lingered amongst the company.

Gandalf had ridden north to seek reinforcements from Éomer and the riders of Rohan, leaving Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas alone to accompany the people of Rohan to Helm's Deep. The weight of what laid ahead hung heavily over them all, unspoken but keenly felt. Each rider carried it differently: Aragorn with his usual grim determination, Gimli with a gruff readiness to face whatever Saruman throws at them, and Legolas with a quiet yet composed alertness that masked her inner turmoil.

She rode near the rear of the group, her hand resting lightly on the reins as her eyes scanned the rolling hills for any signs of danger, noting every shifting shadow and flicker of movement among the tall grass. Yet her thoughts, usually so disciplined and attuned to the road, drifted inward of their own accord - tugged by the enormity of the revelation she had only just begun to grasp.

A child. Her child. Elrohir’s child.

She found herself absentmindedly placing a hand over her abdomen, a gesture so subtle that none would notice. But for Legolas, it was a small connection to the fragile life that now tied her to her husband in a way that transcended distance. Legolas shifted ever so slightly in her saddle, her hand moving back to the reins where they tightened. Her gaze swept across the horizon warily but her focus once again wavered, pulled back to the quiet but persistent awareness of life within her.

She wondered, not for the first time, whether Elrohir could sense her turmoil - after all such bonds were not unheard of amongst the Eldar. Would he feel the faint stirrings of life or the inexplicable sense of change within her? Would some distant part of him recognise the presence of their child across the leagues? The thought brought her both comfort and restlessness. She longed to see him again, to tell him, share with him both the wonder and the burden of what they had created. But the shadow of war stretched long between them, and there was no telling when - or even if - that opportunity would come. For now, she could only hope, and refuse to falter.

Legolas' musings shifted as her gaze fell on Éowyn who rode toward the middle of the column. The shieldmaiden sat rigid and proud upon her stead, tension bleeding through her every movement, a quiet defiance in the way she carried herself. Her hair, loose and untamed, fell in a cascade of gold over her shoulders, rippling like sunlight with every movement of her horse. Yet even in the light of day, there was a shadow upon Éowyn’s countenance, a jaded look in her eyes - signs of a burden Legolas recognised all too well.

Éowyn’s predicament stirred a kindred ache within Legolas, a resonance born not of shared circumstance but of shared struggle. Though the worlds they hailed from were leagues apart, the weight of unspoken assumptions and the sting of dismissed capabilities were burdens Legolas understood all too well. She had observed it, experienced it first hand time and again in her dealings with mortals. The way they would overlook the women in their midst, assuming fragility where resilience burned fierce.

Éowyn's predicament was one of quiet rebellion, a refusal to bow to the limitations her society placed upon her station and yet the weight of her people’s expectations clearly pressed heavily upon her.

Legolas' horse quickened at her behest, drawing her level with Éowyn. The shieldmaiden turned briefly, surprised but by no means dismayed by the elf's approach. Legolas' gaze settled upon the woman, steady and insightful despite her internal tangle of thoughts.

"Lady Éowyn," Legolas spoke softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach Éowyn's ears without drawing the attention of others.

Éowyn turned to meet her gaze, startled from her thoughts, "Master elf?"

"Please, just Legolas." She replied, a faint smile gracing her lips. "May I speak freely?"

Éowyn hesitated, eyeing her sceptically before she tentatively nodded. "Of course, Legolas."

Legolas took a moment to study her further, keen eyes taking in the shadows that framed the underside of Éowyn’s eyes, and the tight set of her jaw. "I see how you struggle, Éowyn. I see how it bears down upon you." Legolas spoke carefully as she continued, as though testing the weight of her words in her mouth, "It is not unlike one I know well."

"You see much, Legolas." Éowyn spoke, her tone tinged with incredulity as she eyed the elf cautiously, "Yet I wonder if you can truly understand my plight."

"Perhaps more than you think." Legolas paused as an admission formed on her lips. It felt strange to speak of it openly, to be the first to approach it. But she pressed on regardless, determined not to allow Éowyn to suffer in silence any further, "I too am a woman, Éowyn."

Éowyn blinked in shock, her words coming out as a muted hiss, quiet enough that unwanted ears wouldn't overhear. "You? A woman?" Éowyn could scarcely believe what she was hearing, "But you fight alongside men? They treat you as if one of their own."

Legolas smiled faintly, though there was a clear trace of bitterness to it. "In the eyes of mortal men, I am assumed to be what they expect." She allowed her gaze to wander briefly to the horizon, her voice softening as she considered her own station. "Among my people, women and men fight side by side - they always have. And yet even so, I have faced doubt and prejudice from those unfamiliar with our ways. There is a reason I do not correct those who assume I am male."

Legolas regarded Éowyn once more, sending a reassuring smile her way. "I see it clearly in you now Éowyn - the burden of being dismissed, of being underestimated. It is a heavy weight to bear."

Éowyn's gaze dropped to her reins as Legolas' words washed over her. "Such a way seems so far removed from the world I know," Éowyn said wistfully, "Strength is so often assumed to lie only in the hands of man."

"That is the failing of men, not of you," Legolas spoke firmly, with no room for any doubt in her words. "I see your strength, Éowyn. It shines through your every step, every word of encouragement you offer your people. You are a warrior in every sense that matters.”

"It is difficult." Éowyn's voice trembled despite how hard she worked to maintain her composure. "To stand amongst men who look at me as though I were fragile, as if my only worth lies in hearth and home. They tell me to stay behind, to mind the people and let the men do the fighting. But I have trained with a blade; I know how to defend myself and my people. Why must that not be enough?"

Legolas leaned slightly toward Éowyn, her expression earnest and laced with sympathy. "You mustn't let them temper your spirit. Our worth is not determined by their judgment, Éowyn. It is determined in what we choose to do - in how we rise despite their doubts."

"You have strength, Éowyn." Legolas continued, her voice unwavering. "Do not let their blindness dim your light."

Éowyn looked up, eyes glistening with unspoken emotion as she met Legolas’ firm stare. "You have a way with words, Legolas. I never imagined an elf would understand me so well, let alone offer such kindness."

Legolas’ lips tugged into a faint smile, the expression subtle but warm nonetheless. She gave Éowyn a curt nod - a silent reassurance, unspoken yet felt deeply. A quiet acknowledgment of their emerging friendship.

Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she turned, nudging her steed forward to weave her way through the column as she sought Gimli's steady presence.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The camp slowly settled as night coated the plains of Rohan in a veil of uneasy serenity. The air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of trampled grass and a faint smokey tang from the crackling fire at the centre of their encampment. The company was weary after a long day’s march, and though they were safe for the moment, the weight of what awaited them at Helm's Deep cast a tense atmosphere over the camp.

Éowyn sat a little apart from the others, deep in thought, her form outlined by the flickering glow of the campfire. Her blonde hair, unbound and tousled from the day's journey, shimmered like molten gold in the smouldering light. It was in that moment of solitude, that Legolas sought her out. Approaching from the far edges of the camp where she, Aragorn and Gimli had been gathered.

Legolas paused a few paces away with a quiet grace that barely stirred the air, as if waiting for the right moment to make herself known. "May I join you?" Legolas asked, inclining her head softly and gesturing to the ground beside Éowyn.

Éowyn looked up, startled by the voice that interrupted her contemplation. "Of course."

Éowyn's curiosity piqued as the elf settled down behind her and gently lifted a strand of her golden hair. "May I?" The elf inquired.

A wordless nod was all the response Éowyn gave, the gentle crackling of the fire the only sound passing between them as Legolas began to move her deft fingers through the shieldmaiden's golden tresses.

Éowyn’s head tilted slightly at the sensation, her curious voice breaking the cordial quiet. "What are you doing?" She asked softly, attempting to glance over her shoulder.

Legolas’ hands paused momentarily before continuing her careful work. "In my people’s custom, warriors wear their hair in braids as a mark of their readiness for battle." She spoke as her fingers continued nimbly parting and weaving the strands of Éowyn’s golden hair. "Each braid tells a story - of victories won, of loved ones cherished, of strength found even in despair."

Éowyn's breath caught, her eyes widening slightly as she took in Legolas' words, "You honour me, Legolas."

Legolas' lips curved into a faint smile as her hands continued to work. "You deserve to be seen Éowyn. And if your own people fail to do so, then I will see to it that my people shall." Her tone was firm but not without kindness, carrying the weight of one who understood keenly what it was like to be overlooked.

Éowyn lowered her gaze, voice quiet and reverent. “I am grateful, truly.”

"Then wear these braids with pride, shieldmaiden of Rohan." Legolas said with a gentle insistence. For a time, the two women sat in companionable silence, broken only by the distant sounds of night and the occasional rustle of the camp. Legolas' hands moved with practiced precision through Éowyn's tresses, nimble fingers weaving intricate patterns that spoke of centuries of practice and tradition.

It was Éowyn who ultimately broached the silence, voice hesitant yet curious as she spoke. "Legolas, may I ask you something?"

"You may ask anything you wish." Legolas chuckled softly, her tone inviting as her hands stilled for a terse moment.

Éowyn hesitated for a moment, making sure to choose her words carefully before she spoke. "I have never seen nor heard of an elf with hair like yours." She inquired mindfully, "Your kind are known for their shades of gold and raven black hues, but your hair. It is like fire. Are you the only one among your people with such a gift?"

Legolas’ hands faltered, stilling for the briefest moment before continuing their gentle work. “You are not alone in your curiosity, Éowyn. It is rare, even among my kind.” Her voice took on a measured quality, as though weighing each word individually before speaking them. “There is only one other elf I have heard of with such hair - Maedhros, son of Fëanor.”

Éowyn frowned slightly, tilting her head in confusion. "Fëanor? I have heard that name whispered in the old tales, but I know little of his sons. Who was Maedhros?"

Legolas sighed softly, and her expression turned solemn. "A kinslayer." Her tone shifted to one of quiet reflection, "Bound by an oath that led him to untold grief and loss. His deeds, and his fate, are dark chapters in the history of my people."

Éowyn peered over her shoulder, her brow furrowing as she studied Legolas carefully. "You speak of him as though you bear the burden yourself."

Legolas’ hands paused mid-braid, her fingers gently resting against Éowyn’s hair as her gaze dropped. She stopped to draw in a steadying breath before lifting her eyes to meet Éowyn’s.

"In a way, I do." She admitted quietly. "My kin suffered greatly at the hands of Maedhros and his brothers when they sacked Doriath. My father, uncle, and grandfather escaped with their lives - but the rest of their kin were not so fortunate."

A hint of something - anger, grief, perhaps even resignation - flitted across her features as she straightened her posture. "To share his hair," she continued, voice firmer and more assured, "Is to share a faint thread of his legacy. Among my people, the survivors of the kinslayings at Doriath and Sirion see this colouring as an ill omen - a bitter reminder of the horrors wrought by Maedhros and his kin. When they look at me, it is not my deeds they see, but his shadow cast over me.”

Her lips pressed together in a thin line, the weight of her words evident in how she carried herself in that moment - her expression betraying no weakness. "It is a burden I do not carry lightly," her tone was calm but resolute, her hands resuming their work with delicate precision.

Éowyn reached out gently to touch Legolas' arm, "I am sorry if my question caused you pain, it was not my intention."

Legolas' smile returned, small but genuine. "It is well," she said, her voice carrying the quiet strength of one who had long since made peace with the unchangeable. "The past cannot be changed just as much as we cannot stop it from shaping us. We must simply deal with the hand we are given."

Her hands, steady and sure, tied off the final braid with deliberate care. She let her hands linger for a moment, her fingers lightly brushing the golden strands, as if offering Éowyn a silent blessing. "There," she spoke - soft and firm. "A warrior’s braid for a warrior’s heart."

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

"Wargs! We are under attack!" Aragorn's voice rang out, a sharp and urgent cry that shattered the morning's relative peace, erupting the plains of Rohan into chaos. The riders of the Rohirrim spun their horses, forming a defensive line as the snarls and howls of the encroaching wargs grew ever louder.

Legolas was already in motion, her hand coming to rest on her quiver as her sharp eyes scanned the horizon. A scout surged forward in the near distance, the orc atop it wielding a jagged blade. She drew her bow, firing an arrow with a swift, purposeful motion that buried it firmly into the eye of the beast.

Thèoden rode into the fray, commanding and authoritative - a far cry from the shell of a man he had been only days prior. "Prepare yourselves!" He bellowed, rallying his riders.

The king pulled sharply on the reins of his mount, turning towards Éowyn who marched with the group of refugees. "You must lead the people to Helm's Deep, and make haste." He told his niece firmly.

"I can fight." Éowyn insisted, her voice remained steady but her eyes pleaded for her uncle to allow her the opportunity to prove herself.

"No!" Théoden snapped, no room for even an ounce of discussion left in his tone. He softened ever so slightly as he continued, "You must do this - for me. Protect them, Éowyn."

Frustration flared in Éowyn’s eyes, a sharp glint of defiance that spoke of her yearning to fight for her people. But Théoden’s words bore a weight she could not ignore, a command rooted in love and trust that she could not betray. Her jaw tightened as she swallowed her protest and slowly, she nodded.

Éowyn turned to face the frightened refugees, her voice ringing out steadily despite the undercurrent of fear that coursed just beneath the surface. "Make for the lower ground!" Her gaze swept over the terrified faces of children clutching their mothers, the elderly who struggled to keep pace, and the barely grown who uncertainly clutched makeshift weapons. "Stick together!" She called out, her words carrying a quiet authority that cut through the chaos.

Legolas spared a brief glance at Éowyn as she guided the refugees away from the skirmish, her fresh braids catching the morning light like a golden banner. But there was no time to linger, not with the wargs upon them.

The air filled with the clash of steel, and the guttural snarls of wargs as the beasts rammed into the riders mercilessly. Legolas moved with fluid precision as she drew and loosed an arrow, the shaft striking a warg that had been pursuing Gimli mid-leap. The beast crumpled to the ground with an abrupt thud, its rider tumbling down lifelessly beside it. Another arrow was already nocked before the first warg even fell; her movements seamless as she shot three more arrows in rapid succession, each finding its mark with unerring accuracy.

Through the cacophony, she saw Aragorn engaged in fierce combat atop a warg. Though the ranger appeared to have slain the orc rider with relative ease - the beast beneath thrashed violently and she lost sight of him.

Legolas urged her horse towards where she had last seen Aragorn, firing two more arrows - one burying itself into an orcs' throat and the other, silencing a warg with lethal precision through its skull.

"Aragorn!" Legolas shouted, her voice echoing through the commotion.

Gimli turned at the sound of her cry, swinging his axe with ferocious strength. "Aragorn?" He bellowed, shoving a fallen warg carcass out of his path as he made his way to her side.

Legolas' heart sank as they reached the scene, Aragorn was gone - no trace of the ranger aside from the signs of struggle at the disturbed cliff edge. An orc lay nearby, laughing weakly in spite of the blood that bubbled from its mouth.

Gimli stormed towards its broken form, his axe glinting menacingly. "Tell me what happened, and I will ease your passing!" He growled unforgivingly.

The orc sneered through broken and bloodied teeth. "He's dead," it choked out, blood spilling from the corners of its mouth. "Took a little tumble off the cliff." The orc laughed feebly - cruel to the very end, even as life left its body.

Gimli's grip on his axe tightened in fury, but it was Legolas' voice that ultimately broached the uneasy silence between them.

"I would know if he were gone." She said softly, eyes transfixed on the rushing waters below. Though her words were quiet, hesitant, they carried a certainty that could not be shaken.

Gimli turned to her, his expression softening as he placed a reassuring hand on her arm. "Then trust in that, lassie." Gimli's voice took on a gentler tone than usual, "Trust in him. He's not one to give up."

Legolas drew in a steadying breath, fingers tightening around the string of her bow as Gimli continued. "If there’s one thing I know about that ranger." Gimli spoke gruffly, an edge of humour returning to his tone, "It's that he's too stubborn to let a bit of water do him in."

Théoden rode up beside them, his countenance grim and lined with the weight of leadership. "The wolves of Isengard will return." He spoke firmly but not without a hint of sorrow for their fallen companion, "We must continue to Helm's Deep. There is no time to linger."

Legolas nodded in acknowledgment, though her gaze lingered on the cliff for a moment longer. "Aragorn will find his way back to us," she said, her voice steady, more of a reassurance for herself than anything else.

“Aye,” Gimli spoke, his tone laced with a rough kind of dwarven affection. “And when he does, I’ll wring his neck for scarin’ us like this.”

A faint smile curved Legolas' lips at Gimli's words. They rejoined the company with heavy hearts, but a fragile thread of hope lingered between them as the group moved onwards to Helm's Deep.

Chapter Text

The night was heavy with tension, a discernible weight that pressed down upon the defenders of Helm’s Deep without prejudice. Even after Aragorn's triumphant return, the outlook was poor for Rohan.

Every sound seemed amplified in the cool, damp air. The mournful call of the horns rising like a lament above the clash of metal as the Rohirrim fastened their armour and tested their blades. It appeared to linger in the valley, carried by the wind to each ear, an inescapable reminder of what approached.

The fortress was awash with frantic activity as men moved with a grim sense of purpose, rushing to reinforce barricades and hammering away at last minute repairs. Young boys, barely able to hold their swords, fumbled with helmets too large for their heads as civilians hurried past with armfuls of supplies. Shouted commands echoed throughout Helm's Deep's stone walls; some crisp and authoritative, others tinged with an unmistakable edge of fear.

Legolas stood silently atop the battlements, with Gimli at her side as they observed the unfolding chaos. Her cloak billowed in the wind behind her, but she remained still, sharp elven eyes fixed on the distant horizon. From her vantage point, she sought any and all signs of the enemy's approach - though the deceptive vast emptiness of the beyond seemed to mock her vigilance.

Above, the moon hung incomplete and distant - its light faint against the encroaching darkness as if an ill omen for their success. Legolas tilted her face toward the sky, drawing a long, steadying breath. The army that approached was vast, relentless, and merciless - a force driven entirely by hatred and destruction. She could understand well the hopelessness that crept into the hearts of mortals when faced with such overwhelming odds. Though her own spirit was strong, even she could not entirely banish the doubts that lingered at the edges of her mind.

She pressed a hand briefly to her abdomen, a faint unassuming gesture, but one that grounded her in the midst of the turmoil. Fear for her unborn child gnawed at her, a sharp contrast to the calm exterior she maintained. Her mind raced unbidden - resolve, dread, uncertainty and courage all battling for her attention. The weight of what was to come was not hers alone to bear, but in this moment - even with Gimli at her side - it felt as though the world itself rested on her shoulders.

Legolas' ruminations were broken by a sound so faint it was almost lost amid the restless murmurs of Helm’s Deep. She froze, her sharp ears catching the far sound of rhythmic pounding - hoofbeats - steady and deliberate, growing louder with each passing moment.

Her brows knitted as she searched the darkness, gaze settling upon the shadows that stirred among the trees. Though at first faint and indistinct, they grew clearer, and through the dark emerged a column of disciplined riders. The Galadhrim. Legolas' breath caught in her throat, a tentative flicker of hope surfacing in her chest, one she dared not dwell on too long in case she scared it away. They had prepared for the impossible, an unwinnable final stand. But now, seeing the Galadhrim draw near. She dared to believe they might stand a chance.

She spared a brief glance down toward Aragorn, whose expression mirrored her own - deep seated astonishment and hesitant relief.

She gripped the stone of the battlements, as she watched them draw closer. The Galadhrim's approach, silent and purposeful as their silver and green armour caught the faint light of the moon. At their head rode Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlórien, his posture straight and movements unwavering.

The gates of Helm’s Deep swung open with a creak, and the Galadhrim filtered into the fortress. Haldir dismounted from his mount gracefully; his calm, resolute gaze taking in the grim faces of awe that scattered around the fortress. He strode toward Aragorn, the elf's very presence an unspoken reassurance to all.

Haldir inclined his head slightly in greeting, voice steady and measured as he spoke. "I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell. An alliance once existed between elves and men. Long ago, we fought and died together."

The weight of his words settled over the fortress as the elf straightened his back before continuing, his voice firm and assured. "We come to honour that allegiance."

Aragorn inclined his head back in response, a faint smile breaking through the somber lines etched onto face. A genuine warmth seeping into his tone. "Mae govannen, Haldir. You are most welcome."

Haldir’s gaze shifted briefly to the battlements where Legolas stood, before it returned to Aragorn. "We are proud to fight alongside men once more."

Amidst the ranks of the Galadhrim riders who flowed into Helm’s Deep, Legolas’ sharp eyes discerned three figures that set her heart racing. Elladan and Elrohir rode together, their near identical forms unmistakable even from a distance. Slightly apart from the twins rode Maglor, carrying himself with the familiar aura of timelessness and immense burden - his face worn by centuries of grief and hard-won endurance.

Legolas' breath hitched as relief surged within her unrestrained, mingling with her lingering apprehension. They had come. The words echoed through her mind as if to reassure herself that it was truly real. That despite her fears, despite the dangers - they were here.

Elrohir’s piercing gaze locked onto her, his relief evident even from afar and without hesitation, she descended the battlements. Graceful purpose in her movements as she weaved through the gathered Rohirrim until she reached Aragorn’s side.

The ranger turned to her, his expression questioning, and in response she simply nodded toward the three elves in the far corner. Aragorn followed her gaze, his features twisting into a knowing expression as he clocked the figures. Aragorn gave her a reassuring nod, "Go to them, Legolas."

She hesitated for a moment, moving to clasp Haldir's hand briefly - a grateful gesture before she moved forth through the Galadhrim. Her movements were nimble but the urgency of her steps betrayed the storming emotions within her.

"Legolas!" Elrohir called as she neared, his voice breaking ever so slightly.

She ran to him at the sound of his voice, her composure breaking for a moment as she threw her arms around him - holding him tightly as though to reassure herself that he was truly there. Elrohir wrapped her in a protective embrace, hands resting gently against her back. His familiar scent, the warmth of his presence, it filled her senses and grounded her firmly.

A long moment passed before Elrohir drew back, hands moving to rest carefully upon her shoulders as he studied her. His brow furrowed, keen brown eyes searching her face intently for any sign of injury. "You are unharmed," He spoke at last, his voice low but thick with relief, his hands lingering on her arms as though afraid to let go.

Legolas' lips quirked into a faint smile. "I am well," she assured him, though her words carried a heaviness not easily missed.

For a moment, there was nothing but quiet understanding between them, a silent exchange of relief and unspoken fears. Until she shook her head slightly, her expression shifting and sobering. Her gaze flickered to Elladan and Maglor beside them before returning to Elrohir. "You should not have come," her face was stern but her tone betrayed her worry.

Elrohir’s brow knitted further as he straightened, his hands falling to his sides. "And leave you here alone?" He asked, voice tinged with disbelief. "I could never."

Elladan stepped between them, expression softening as his gaze flitted between Legolas and his twin. "And we could hardly leave him to ride all alone." Elladan's familiar grin offered a welcome reprieve against the grim backdrop of war, "It gladdens my heart to see you in one piece, Legolas."

Legolas inclined her head, managing a small smile for him. "I am glad to see you both," she admitted earnestly though her voice maintained a note of worry. "But this is no place for more lives to be risked."

Elrohir touched her hand lightly, dark eyes soft yet determined. "You speak as though we have not faced peril before," he spoke gently, quiet but insistent. "We came because you are here, Legolas. And because this fight is just." Elrohir hesitated, his gaze holding hers as he weighed his next words. "Do not ask me to let you face death alone, for it is a request I cannot obey."

Before Legolas could respond, another voice joined the conversation, low and measured. "You carry a heavy burden, little one." Maglor carried an air of authority as he stepped closer, his perceptive yet compassionate eyes resting on Legolas. "One that is not just the weight of this war. "

Legolas stiffened under Maglor's gaze, feeling as though her entire soul had just been laid bare for all to see. She glanced quickly at the soldiers and elves who bustled around them, "Do not speak of it here." She said sharply, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper.

Maglor’s brow furrowed, but he nodded regardless, understanding her wish for discretion.

Elrohir frowned, confusion evident. "Burden?" He echoed, tone hushed as he glanced between Legolas and Maglor, "What burden?"

Legolas' gaze flitted to him, and she shook her head firmly. "Not here," her features softened slightly as she glanced at the others. "We will speak later," she added warmly, giving Elrohir a reassuring look as she stepped back to compose herself.

As they made their way toward the battlements, where the Galadhrim had begun to take their places along the walls, Elladan reached out to place a comforting hand on Legolas' shoulder. His voice was quiet but no less resolute. "Whatever it is you carry, Legolas. We will face it with you."

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

Despite the unexpected reinforcements, the night only grew more restless. Legolas had found herself a quiet corner of the battlements, set away from the hurried preparations and tense murmurs. She rested against the wall in her solitude, eyes fixed on the horizon and mind unwilling to quiet.

Legolas didn't even notice Elrohir’s approach until he was nearly beside her. Lost in her thoughts, she had tuned out the sound of his familiar footsteps, and his sudden presence startled her. Turning quickly, her face betrayed a brief flicker of surprise before her calm composure returned. Elrohir came to settle quietly at her side, his gaze joining hers as it swept across the darkened plains.

"What did Maglor mean, Legolas?" Elrohir's voice was soft but insistent as his eyes searched hers for truth.

For a moment, her gaze dropped to the ground and Legolas was silent, unable to muster the words she needed. Finally, she met his eyes, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. "I carry your child."

The weight of her confession settled thick in the air between them, as if it had put a seal on their mouths. And for a moment, Elrohir simply stared at her, as the depth of her words took root. His eyes widened, a flicker of astonishment giving way to something deeper. Awe softened the edges of his features as his lips parted, his words coming out faintly, tinged with wonder and disbelief. "Another." He murmured, the single word carrying so much joy and reverence and at the same time laced with the unspoken weight of what they faced.

Legolas nodded, her hand unconsciously moving to her abdomen, to cradle the beginnings of a swell. "I only found out this week past. I should have realised sooner, I-" She faltered, voice trembling, "I'm sorry."

Elrohir stepped closer, gently taking her hands in his own. "Sorry?" He repeated, his tone incredulous as he pressed a soft kiss to Legolas' forehead. "What is there to be sorry for, meleth? This is a blessing."

Legolas shook her head, expression clouded with doubt despite her husband's assurances. "In such times, how can it be?" Her voice was filled with an unconcealable anguish as she spoke. "The world faces ruin, and we are to bring an elfling into the midst of it. How can we possibly hope to protect them?"

Her voice broke, and she looked away with trembling shoulders. "I fear for this child, Elrohir. For all of them."

"You fear because you care. That is no weakness, Legolas." Another voice joined them, steady and resonant as it spoke.

They turned to see Maglor emerging from the shadows, his gaze - sharp and yet softened by wisdom - resting firmly upon Legolas. At first, there was no need for further words; the look in his ancient eyes spoke volumes itself. It was a look of deep understanding, as if he could see right through the layers of her fears and burdens, straight to the heart of what she carried.

"The world has never made allowances for such things," Maglor's gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he spoke again, voice low and steady. "New life is a defiance of the world's constant turmoil and chaos - a testament to love and resilience, not despair. This child is a reminder of what we fight for. Do not lose sight of that."

Legolas' shoulders relaxed slightly, though she did not reply immediately. Her gaze flickered back to the dark expanse before them before she narrowed it firmly upon Maglor. "You speak as though you understand, but how could you?" Her voice, though tinged with scepticism, was not unkind toward the ancient elf.

Despite the harshness of Legolas' words, Maglor’s expression softened and he took a step closer. "Perhaps I do," he spoke quietly, the weight of millennia etched ruefully onto his features. "I am old, Legolas. I have seen many lives lost and futures cut short. And yet, life finds its way even in the darkest of times. If I can help protect this one, I will."

Legolas' lips parted as if to respond, but her words faltered her at the last minute. Her hand tightened around Elrohir’s as she looked back at him. "And if we fail?" she asked, her voice trembling once again. "If we are overrun?"

Elrohir's grip on her hand firmed, his voice both steady and unwavering. "Then we will fight until our last breath, and this child will know that we stood against the darkness. That we did everything we could to give them a future." He took a step closer, forehead touching hers as he whispered quiet reassurances. "We shall face this together, Legolas. You need not bear this alone anymore."

"What you carry, Legolas, is hope. More powerful than any weapon. Hold onto it." Maglor's tone was gentle, but it carried an edge to it that Legolas didn't miss. Her gaze flickered to where he had settled against the wall, a short distance away, his silhouette outlined by the dim torchlight.

There was a weight to him, an agelessness that both drew and unsettled her. Maglor had never shown her anything but kindness and yet still, she did not trust him completely. How could she in good conscious, knowing the blood that stained his hands and the tales of fire and grief that shadowed his name? Yet, against seemingly all reason, she felt a strange sense of comfort in his presence.

He had not sought to justify his past nor sought her forgiveness for crimes committed long before her birth. Instead, he had offered quiet understanding, a steadfastness in her life that felt like the roots of an ancient tree. Her hand fell once again to her abdomen as her thoughts drifted. It was strange, how he seemed to understand so intently her fears without her needing to voice them. Perhaps it was his age, she thought, the countless centuries he had spent wandering a world that had long left him behind. Or perhaps it was something deeper entirely.

Maglor turned slightly, as though sensing the gaze upon him, and his dark eyes met hers. For just a terse moment, she could have sworn she saw a flicker of something in his eyes - a quiet acknowledgment that neither would speak aloud. Maglor settled instead for a small nod, his expression once again unreadable.

Legolas turned back to the horizon, one hand still in Elrohir's and the other, gripped firmly onto the stone wall. She could not erase the shadow of Maglor's past, but in the uncertain present, she was grateful for his presence. Legolas took a deep, steadying breath as her resolve hardened. She straightened, her fierce gaze focused upon her companions, "Then let us make this stand."

Maglor nodded, a faint smile ghosting across his lips, one borne of untold years holding back the enemy. "Let them come." He announced, his voice ringing through the tense silence of the battlements like steel. "We will hold the line."

And they would.

Chapter Text

The sun's steady ascent had cast a pale, golden light across the bloodied fields of Helm’s Deep. The once seemingly endless green plains, now marred by deep crimson stains - the lifeless bodies of man, elf and orc alike sprawled out like a shroud on the land. The screams and clashing of steel had faded into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the faint groans of the wounded and the soft rustle of wind over the fields of the fallen.

Legolas stood amidst the carnage, taking in the devastation that surrounded her, heart aching at the senseless loss of life. Legolas' expression betrayed none of her inner anguish - no, there was no time for her to lose her composure. In the thick of the battle's chaos, her gaze had caught a fleeting glimpse of a familiar figure. One she had been unable to stop thinking of since. A Galadhrim archer with long dark brown hair - a rare sight among the folk of the Golden Wood - that stood out even from a distance, and a presence and poise on the field that was unmistakably her eldest daughter’s.

Legolas' sharp eyes roved over the field, searching intently for the Galadhrim archer once more, but the shifting movements of the living and the stillness of the dead obscured her view significantly. She barely even noticed Elrohir's approach, his usually reassuring presence lost amid the overwhelming weight of unease and exhaustion.

"Legolas?" His voice reached her, low and brimming with concern as he observed Legolas frantically scan the aftermath. Elrohir placed a steadying hand on her arm, his touch grounding Legolas and bringing her back to him.

She turned to him, her green eyes clouded with unspoken worry. "Leithiassel," Legolas' voice was urgent as she spoke, her expression taut with concern. "I saw her during the battle, among the Galadhrim. She was here, fighting."

A deep frown etched itself onto Elrohir's features as he glanced over the battlefield with his own keen gaze. "You’re certain?"

"I would not mistake my own child." Legolas' gaze met his, a mixture of fear and resolve fighting for dominance behind her eyes.

Elrohir planted his hand on her shoulder, firm and steady in his grip as he managed to muster a feeble smile in an attempt to reassure his wife. "Then we will search for her together."

The two moved swiftly across the field, their steps purposeful as they navigated the endless rubble and bodies. Each step brought more of the same into view - broken bows, shattered swords, and the lifeless forms of those who had fought valiantly strewn across the plain. The weight of dread lingered heavily in their hearts as their sharp eyes constantly scoured for any signs of their eldest daughter among the Galadhrim who had come to Rohan's aid.

The Galadhrim stood out starkly among the dead, their golden hair and fair features dulled and bloodied by death as their blood soaked into the earth. The sight of so many fallen elves cut Legolas deeply and struck her with a profound sorrow that she struggled to suppress, her grief mingling with the grim determination that drove her forward.

Legolas paused suddenly, her breath catching as her eyes fell upon a dark-haired elf among the dead. Her steps faltered as she knelt beside the still figure, her trembling hand hesitating before it reached out to turn their face toward her. Relief flooded through her unbidden as she studied the fallen elf - her features though peaceful in death, were unfamiliar. It was not Leithiassel. Her hand lingered a moment longer, a silent gesture of mourning for a life lost too soon. Legolas found herself whispering a soft prayer in Sindarin for the fallen before rising to her feet. She steeled herself and continued onwards, though the weight in her chest only seemed to grow heavier.

Elrohir observed her silently, sympathetic to the turmoil that wracked her. He moved closer, his presence a quiet comfort as they resumed their search. The pair wove through the carnage with bleak efficiency, their eyes never ceasing in their hunt for any trace of Leithiassel. They passed through the looming gates of Helm’s Deep, its heavy iron hinges twisted and shattered only to be met by Elladan - his tall frame weary and battle-worn as he directed a group of men in clearing debris from the collapsed wall.

Elladan's face was streaked with dirt and blood, some his own, but most belonging to enemies and the allies he fought beside alike. His expression was grim with exhaustion as he observed his twin, and yet he met their sharp eyes with purpose.

"Elrohir?" Elladan called unsurely, sensing the tension that ran rampant through his twin, "What troubles you, brother?"

"Leithiassel." Elrohir said without preamble, "Legolas saw her during the battle, but not hide nor hair of her since."

Elladan's eyes widened, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips at his brother's words, "Leithiassel? She was here?"

"Among the Galadhrim." Legolas nodded, her voice steady despite the worry that threatened to close her throat off entirely for fear of what it might reveal. "I take it you haven't seen her?"

Elladan shook his head and though his expression softened, his face remained grave, "No, I have not. But I will alert anyone still searching the field to keep watch for her. She cannot have gone far, especially if she was injured."

"Thank you, brother." The gratitude was evident in Elrohir's tone as the brothers clasped arms, exchanging a quick look of shared determination, "We will keep looking."

Legolas exhaled slowly, the tension in her chest easing only slightly as she steadied herself. Her hand brushed lightly against Elrohir’s arm as they pressed further onwards, their resolve unbroken - determined to locate their wayward daughter.

Alive, if the valar were kind.

A faint rustle of movement ahead broke the heavy silence, the sound cutting through the stillness like a blade. Both Legolas and Elrohir turned sharply, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. The source of the sound soon revealed itself, as Maglor emerged cautiously from behind the ruins of a broken wall.

His imposing frame seemed almost to blend with the shadows of the ruin, dark hair falling loosely around his face as he moved with a quiet grace that belied the surrounding chaos.

As he stepped further into view, Legolas noted a bloodstained cloth in one hand. Behind him, slumped against the remains of the crumbling wall, was a young Rohirrim soldier. The boy’s face was ghostly pale, his features tight with pain, though his breathing remained steady. The sleeve of his tunic had been torn away, and a crude but carefully wrapped bandage sheathed the stump where his hand had once been. The bloodied cloth in Maglor’s grip told the rest of the story.

Maglor’s gaze shifted from the boy to Legolas and Elrohir, his attention fully focused on them now. His expression was as calm as ever, his stoic demeanor masking whatever thoughts churned within him. Yet there was a flicker of concern in his piercing eyes as they fell upon the pair. "Legolas, Elrohir?"

"Leithiassel," Elrohir responded without hesitation, "Have you seen her?"

Maglor stilled, his expression hardening. "I was not aware she marched with the Galadhrim destined for Helm's Deep."

Legolas' sharp eyes narrowed as she caught the faintest flicker of something unfamiliar in his expression - a crack in the stoic façade he always wore. His voice, though steady, carried a weight that had not been there before. His gaze briefly shifted downward, as if the news unsettled him more than he was willing to admit. There was a rawness in his stance, a quiet tension in the way his fingers flexed around the bloodied cloth, betraying emotions he rarely allowed to surface.

But there was no time to be pondering Maglor's peculiarities, not now. Legolas' voice was tight with emotion as she spoke, "If you see her-" her words betrayed her, trailing off before she could finish.

Maglor clearly caught the jist regardless, his eyes softening as he nodded. "You have my word. I will not rest until she is found."

Legolas tilted her head toward Maglor, offering him a faint nod of gratitude. Though distant, her expression remained composed even as her thoughts lingered upon Maglor's unexpected display of vulnerability. Without a word, Legolas and Elrohir exchanged a brief glance, a silent agreement passing between them before they set off once more.

The devastation thinned as they moved toward the outskirts of the battlefield where the air was lighter, less saturated with the metallic remnants of blood - though the tension remained tangible.

Out of nowhere, Legolas' sharp ears caught the faint murmur of voices carried on the wind. She paused, head tilting slightly as she strained to determine the source.

Elrohir noticed the shift in her posture and stopped beside her, a gentle hand placed to the small of her back as his own senses sharpened. The voices were faint, but persistent and with renewed purpose - Legolas and Elrohir adjusted their course toward the source.

"Hold still, lass!" a gruff voice barked - one Legolas was well acquainted with. "Quit your squirming, you'll only make this harder than it needs be. Now this'll sting, but you’ll live to curse me for it."

Legolas froze mid-step, her breath hitching sharply in her chest as a second voice - weaker but achingly familiar - broke through the air. Despite the evident fatigue, it carried strained humour. A spark of life and defiance that was unmistakable.

"You've the touch of an orc, master dwarf. Are you certain you’re not doing more harm than good?"

The words struck Legolas like a well placed arrow, her heart pounding as recognition dawned on her. The voice belonged to Leithiassel - there could be no doubt. She was alive.

"You've some nerve for someone who was lying in the dirt, bleeding out," Gimli grumbled as they drew closer. "If you’ve the strength for cheek, then you've the strength to sit still!"

The voices were clearer now; they were close.

"If your stitching is as rough as your words, I'll be lucky to keep this arm." Leithiassel quipped with a weak laugh, though it was edged with pain. The sound of her daughter’s discomfort sent a jolt of unease through Legolas, and she exchanged a wary glance with Elrohir.

Legolas couldn’t wait any longer. “Gimli!” she called out, her voice sharp with urgency, carrying over the quiet desolation of the battlefield.

There was a clatter of movement and then a gruff reply. “Eh? Over here, elf!” Gimli’s familiar voice rang out, rough but unmistakable. “Found myself a stubborn young Galadhrim who won’t stop arguing while I’m saving her life!”

Relief surged through Legolas, and she sprinted toward the sound of her friend's voice with Elrohir close at her heels. They came upon Gimli crouched beside a slender figure. His thick calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he tied a strip of cloth around her injured arm. His face was set in deep concentration, though he glanced up at their arrival, his expression momentarily flustered before settling back into his usual gruff demeanor.

Legolas dropped to her knees beside the injured elf, her breath catching painfully in her throat at the sight of her daughter.

Leithiassel's dark brown hair was tangled, streaked with blood and dirt, framing her drawn face. Her Galadhrim armour battered, and a deep gash on her upper arm that had been hastily tended to still seeped blood through the makeshift bandages. Yet despite it all, there was a stubborn light in Leithiassel's half-lidded eyes, a defiance that was so utterly her.

She cupped her daughter’s face with trembling hands, thumbs brushing away the grime smudged across her cheeks. At the touch, Leithiassel turned her head slightly, her pale face lighting up despite the pain etched across her features. "Naneth?" she whispered, her voice soft with relief.

"Leithiassel," Legolas breathed, trying to fight off the tears that threatened to spill over. Mindful of her injuries, she pulled her daughter into a gentle embrace. "Thank the valar you are alive."

Leithiassel gave her a faint, wry smile though it was betrayed by the weakness in her voice as she spoke, "They chose a good day not to forsake me."

Elrohir knelt beside them, hands gently probing her wound as he examined the crude bandages. "An orc blade," he murmured to himself, brow furrowing in concern. "The cut is deep, but it missed anything vital."

Elrohir's glance flitted between Legolas and Leithiassel wistfully as he brushed his daughter’s hair from her face. "You are far too much like your mother," he said with a small, sad smile. "Reckless and brave in equal measure."

Leithiassel managed a faint smirk, her voice teasing - defiance undimmed even in her weakened state. "Only reckless? You’ve called me far worse for far less before. "

Gimli cleared his throat, wiping his hands on his tunic with a gruff huff. "Aragorn found her on the field. Told me to keep an eye on her and patch her up best I could until someone came for her." He grumbled before glancing up at Legolas, "Didn’t bother to tell me she was kin to you."

"She is my daughter." Legolas spoke softly, her words filled with equal parts pride and worry. She couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at her lips as she regarded her dwarven friend despite the tension that still brewed in her chest. "Thank you, Gimli. Truly." She reached out to place a hand on his shoulder as she continued, voice steeped in earnestness, "I owe you more than I can say."

Gimli waved her off, his expression gruff but unquestionably sincere. "Think nothing of it. But next time, warn a dwarf when he’s looking after someone’s daughter. Especially one as stubborn as yours." He fixed Legolas a stern look before continuing, his tone playful even in spite of his growing exhaustion. "And you owe me the story of how you’ve got a daughter running around in Galadhrim armour."

“You’ll get your story, Master Dwarf,” Legolas replied, the corner of her mouth twitching upward despite herself.

Elrohir's voice was steady but edged with urgency as he interrupted their exchange, rising from Leithiassel's side, "We need to get her to a healer before infection sets in."

Leithiassel, pale and trembling, tried to shift her weight as if to prove she could stand, but her legs gave way beneath her before she could even push herself upright. Legolas was at her side in an instant, catching her before she could fall. “Don’t,” Legolas murmured, her voice soft but firm, as she gently supported her daughter. “You’ve done enough, iell-nín. Let us take care of you now.”

Leithiassel gave a faint shake of her head, her pride flaring even in her weakened state. “I can walk-.”

“No, you cannot,” Elrohir’s eyes narrowed, his tone brokering no argument as he moved closer with his arms outstretched. “Let me carry you, Leithiassel. There is no shame in accepting help when it is needed.”

Leithiassel hesitated, defiance flickering briefly in her tired eyes, but the look on her father’s face softened her resistance. With a weak nod, she relented, Leaning against Legolas as her strength waned further.

Elrohir slipped his arms beneath her with practiced ease, lifting her over his shoulder as though she were just a little elfling again. Leithiassel let out a quiet sigh, resting her head against him, the fight in her finally giving way to exhaustion. Legolas hovered close, her hand brushing briefly against her daughter’s arm in a gesture of comfort as she fell into step beside Elrohir.

"It was forty-three by the way, Legolas." Gimli's rough voice cut through the sombre moment just as they turned to leave. A sly grin emerged upon his countenance, no malice to his words as he crossed his arms firmly, "My final count."

Legolas halted in her path, her brows arching as she turned to face Gimli, the faintest hint of amusement in her eye despite her worry. Legolas tilted her head slightly in respect toward Gimli before admitting her own.

"Forty-two."

Chapter Text

The remnants of the fellowship rode with purpose as their company approached Isengard under a pall of unease. The air around them was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, the lingering tension of battle leaving them weary and their limbs heavy with exhaustion.

Aragorn rode at the front, flanked by a grim looking Gandalf and Théoden. Legolas and Gimli followed closely behind sat astride Arod, Legolas' piercing eyes scanning the desolation with a practiced wariness borne from centuries of conflict. Though she tried to focus on the task at hand, her mind wandered to Leithiassel - who remained at Helm’s Deep recovering, under Maglor's watchful eye until the remainder of the Galadhrim force returned to Lothlórien. Elrohir and Elladan brought up the rear, determined despite the fatigue that clung to them.

The closer they neared, the more the air reeked of burnt wood and warped metal. The waters of the Isen flooded the land ahead, smoke curling from Saruman's drowned war-machines. The once mighty fortress of Isengard was now little more than a desolate ruin. Where mighty trees had once stood proud, only stumps remained - their trunks blackened and twisted.

Orthanc, dark and foreboding as it was, remained untouched at the heart of the wreckage. A black spike defying the Ents’ wrath.

Legolas slowed Arod's pace as her eyes meticulously scanned the devastation that laid before them. Her breath caught as her gaze fell upon the countless fallen trees - they lay lifeless across the plain, their mighty forms broken and mutilated. Some had been torn up by their roots, their branches now withered and splintered; whilst others had been burned beyond recognition, their trunks charred and twisted into grotesque shapes.

The whispers of the Ents filled the air, deep and mournful; a sorrowful lament that told of lives ended too soon - of a forest that had once stood tall and proud, now reduced to ruin.

She pressed a hand to her chest, as if trying to still the ache that had taken root there. Every fiber of her being resonated with the loss, and she could feel the pain of the Ents as if it were her own. Their sorrow echoing through her fëa like a haunting melody.

"Legolas?" Gimli's voice came from behind, low and concerned as it tore her from her distress. Elrohir too noticed the shift in Legolas' demeanor, riding closer to the pair, though his expression remained impassive so as not to betray his worry.

Legolas couldn’t bring herself to reply, instead giving Gimli an appreciative nod as they continued toward Orthanc. The grief stayed with her, and yet something stirred beneath it - something akin to resolve. The forest might be gone, but its memory would endure. And perhaps one day, its song would rise again too.

As they drew near, a burst of laughter rang out, breaking the stillness - a light, carefree sound that seemed wholly out of place amidst the desolation. As they rounded a corner, Merry and Pippin came into sight. The hobbits seated atop a pile of rubble; surrounded by barrels, crates and half-eaten provisions looking utterly unscathed.

"Merry! Pippin!" Gimli dismounted hurriedly, his booming voice echoing across the ruins.

Merry turned toward the group unphased, a wide grin spreading across his face as he spoke with mock solemnity, "Welcome, my lords - to Isengard!"

"You young rascals!" Gimli stormed forward, his expression torn between relief and indignation, "A merry chase you’ve led us on, and now we find you feasting and... and smoking!"

Pippin, entirely unbothered by Gimli's ire, leaned back with his pipe in hand. "We are sitting on the field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts," he said, puffing a smoke ring into the air defiantly.

The tension that had gripped the company began to ease as Aragorn and Gandalf exchanged bemused glances at the hobbit's antics. Even Legolas managed a faint smile, despite her anguish for the Ents.

As Gimli grumbled, Merry’s gaze landed on the newcomers accompanying the fellowship. His eyes widened in delight. "Elves!" he exclaimed, tugging at Pippin’s sleeve, "Pip! Look! They're like Legolas, only shinier!"

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged glances, their expressions flickering between amusement and mild offense. "Shinier?" Elrohir echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Pippin squinted at the pair, tilting his head. "Are you two brothers, or is Legolas just an especially strange-looking elf?"

"We are twins." Elladan chuckled, his tone warm as he regarded the hobbits, "Elrohir and I are sons of Elrond."

The hobbits froze, jaws dropping almost in unison. "Elrond?" Merry repeated, his voice hushed in awe, "You mean like our Strider's Arwen?"

Elrohir inclined his head, unable to restrain a smile at their wonder, "She is our sister."

The hobbits exchanged a look of astonishment before turning back to the twins, "And you're both warriors?" Merry inquired, eyes alight with curiosity.

Legolas scarcely even registered the excited chatter of Merry and Pippin as they inundated Elladan and Elrohir with questions. Their youthful voices seemed far away, drowned out by the quiet, agonising whispers of the fallen trees.

Her gaze was fixed upon a great oak lying near the edge of the ruin. It must have been ancient, its trunk wide enough that six men could not have encircled it. And now it laid silent, its branches stripped bare, roots clawing at the air as if in protest against the malevolence that had torn it from the earth. She moved towards it, steps slow and hesitant as she reached out and laid her hand against the rough bark.

It was still warm to the touch, though its life had long since faded.

Images filled her mind, visions of the forest as it had once been. She could feel its strength, its wisdom, its deep connection to the world around it. And then she saw it end - she saw the flames consume its branches, heard it's silent screams as its life was extinguished.

Her hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach, a gesture so instinctive it startled her. The tiny, growing life within her felt impossibly fragile in the face of such devastation. What kind of world will you inherit? she thought, heart tightening. Will you know forests untouched by war? Will you ever know their ancient song?

The hobbits' laughter drew her back, their innocent joy a sharp contrast to the sorrow that weighed her down. She turned slightly, catching a glimpse of Elrohir’s indulgent smile as he answered Merry's questions.

"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice called softly, his gaze steady and knowing upon her, "Saruman awaits."

With a nod and a harsh swallow, she pushed her thoughts aside. The forest’s grief and her own fears would have to wait. For now, there was work still to be done. Her hand lingered over her stomach for a terse moment longer, before she moved to follow Aragorn.

Treebeard stood near the foot of Orthanc, where he greeted them with a slow bow, his towering form a bygone sentry amidst the wreckage.

He turned his ancient head steadily as they approached, the deep groan of shifting wood echoing softly. "Young master Gandalf." He rumbled, voice resonating through the air like a low, mournful hymn. "I am glad you have come. There is a wizard to manage here, locked in his tower."

Legolas' gaze wandered to Orthanc's peak, her sharp eyes catching the faintest traces of movement near the top.

Saruman.

The very air around the tower seemed tainted, heavy with the residue of his malice. She could feel it suffocating her senses, smothering the natural world that laid maimed and wounded around it.

Treebeard's focus shifted briefly to Legolas, his sorrow deepening as if he too felt her turmoil just as keenly. "Be wary, young ones." The Ent rumbled. "Saruman may be caged, but his voice is still dangerous."

No one moved to speak, Treebeard's words lulling them into a tense silence. It was Aragorn who breached the stillness in the end, "Show yourself!" His voice rang out clear and commanding, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword.

For a long while, the only response Aragorn received was silence. Then, a faint stirring atop the tower drew their eyes upward.

Saruman emerged onto the high platform, stepping into view with an air of refined authority. His once-pristine robes hung in tattered folds, stained and frayed around him. The wizard's bearing remained imperious despite his sullied state, clutching at his staff like a remnant of the power he still clung to in spite of his clear defeat.

Saruman's cold eyes swept over the group, a cruel smile curling his thin lips. He exuded malice, and his voice when it came was smooth with venom. "So," he sneered, heavy with derision, "The fellowship returns, battered and broken, with Gandalf the White playing saviour. What a pitiful sight you all make."

His words were a calculated strike, purposefully designed to unsettle and provoke. Yet the company stood firm. Gandalf's expression remained calm, his piercing gaze fixed on the man he had once known as his equal.

Saruman’s gaze shifted from his counterpart, settling instead on Aragorn. His smile deepened, becoming something darker - a grievous leer that unsettled Legolas to her very core. "Come now Gandalf." He continued with a pointed scoff, "You cannot think that this Ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile, crept from the shadows, will never be crowned king."

Aragorn straightened, his shoulders squaring deliberately as he met Saruman’s gaze, unflinching. There was no trace of self-doubt in his expression, no crack in his resolve. Nothing. The words simply slid off him, their intended harm finding no purchase.

Unperturbed, Saruman’s gaze shifted again - this time falling upon Legolas - and the very air around them seemed to shift with it. His eyes gleamed with malicious intent as he studied her, his smile twisting into something sharpern something meant to pierce. "And you." He spoke, quieter but no less venomous.

His words were laced with something more personal, and Legolas felt the weight of his attention and contempt settle heavily upon her. Though she kept her face composed, her heart quickened. As much as she tried, she was unable to simply disregard the wizard's scorn as Aragorn had. No, she could sense the storm gathering behind his measured tone, the malice he was about to unleash.

"Hiding behind your veil of heroism, but even now you cannot escape your disgrace. Banished from your homeland, unwanted by your own kin. Is this what you call a victory?" Saruman's voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip.

Legolas felt her breath catch, Saruman’s words lashing against her like an unruly storm. Banished. Unwanted. The words echoed in her mind, dragging to the surface the memories she had tried so hard to bury. She stiffened, forcing herself to stand tall under his scrutiny - but the wizard’s words hit their mark, striking at the very core of her insecurities.

The details of her exile was not a story she had shared with the fellowship. It was a tale she scarcely talked of full stop, in fact she could probably count on her hands the number of people who knew the full story. It was a wound she carried silently, too painful, too raw to expose even among friends. And now, Saruman had laid it bare before them all, his voice dripping with vitriol as he spoke each carefully chosen word.

She could feel the weight of their gazes settling on her. Curious, concerned, bewildered.

Gimli's sharp intake of breath was audible, and she could sense the way his eyes narrowed in preparation to leap to her defense. Elrohir's steady presence beside her was an anchor, but she dared not look at him for fear of what would greet her. No, her gaze remained locked on Saruman even as her vision wavered at the edges.

Her raging emotions tormented her; shame swirled with anger, and humiliation mingled with defiance. And somewhere beneath it all, buried but not entirely extinguished, was a flicker of pain. Not for the accusations Saruman hurled, but for the truth that lay behind them.

Thranduil’s cold and detached dismissal rose unbidden in her mind - his final words toward her still stinging like a fresh wound even after centuries.

And yet she refused to give the wizard the satisfaction of seeing her crumble. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and met his gaze with steely resolve; forcing herself to speak in spite of her turmoil. Whatever pain or shame she carried, it would not define her - not now, not ever. "Your words are hollow, Saruman." She said, her tone far sharper than she felt. "They hold no power."

But even as she spoke, she could feel the Fellowship’s eyes lingering on her. They had questions now, questions she wasn't prepared for. Unspoken but undeniable. Would Gimli ask? Would Aragorn ask? Would Gandalf already know as Saruman clearly did? She clenched her jaw in an attempt to steady herself.

Saruman’s smile deepened into a smirk, as if he could sense the turbulence within her - that his words had struck true. "Don't they?" His tone dripped in mockery as he leaned forward, savouring her reaction. "Tell me, Legolas. Do you know why your father could never love you? Why you never felt at home among your own people?"

The world seemed to tilt slightly, Saruman’s spiteful words throwing her completely off balance. Her normally steady composure faltered, and her hand tightening unconsciously around the bow at her side. She fought to maintain her usual calm but the wizard’s voice echoed persistently in her mind. Why your father could never love you.

His words struck a raw nerve, one she had long suppressed. The accusation was one she had never spoken aloud, even to herself. Though she had endured centuries of Thranduil’s cold unfeeling detachment, she had always found ways to excuse it - his pride, his grief over her mother’s death, his duty as king. But now, Saruman had ripped those defenses clean away. To hear the words spoken aloud, cruelly laid bare for all to hear, felt like a slap. She struggled to breathe past the sudden tightness in her chest as the pain of exile flared anew - sharper than it had felt even on the day she had been cast out.

He does not know you. He does not define you. The thought was a lifeline, a fragile thread of defiance that she clung to in the face of her storming emotions. Whatever the truth of her father’s love - or lack thereof - it did not diminish her worth. She was more than Thranduil’s daughter, more than Saruman’s mockery.

When she finally spoke, her voice was calm even in spite of the edge of unease that laced her words. "What could you possibly know of my father? Of my people?" Each word deliberate and sharp. She forced her gaze to meet Saruman’s, daring him to press further.

Saruman’s smile widened, and his voice softened, almost coaxing. "I know of oaths sworn in blood," he said, "Of fates bound by the stars that neither love nor league of swords could deny."

Her heart skipped a beat, the disgraced wizard's cryptic words cutting through her like the sharp edge of a blade. Oaths sworn in blood? Fates bound by the stars?. The phrasing made no sense, and yet each syllable resonated with an almost primal weight, as if they touched on a truth buried deep within her. She couldn't understand them, and yet they felt as though they belonged to her - as though they were threads of an ancient tapestry that she had, without noticing, always been woven into.

Saruman’s words seemed to stir something long dormant, her thoughts spiraling with half-formed memories and fleeting emotions.

Thoughts of Thranduil and his distant demeanor that she had always struggled to understand. There had been moments - too many - when she had caught him looking at her as if she was the very embodiment of some ancient pain, a shadow of his past that he could neither name nor escape.

She thought then of Galadriel, the kindness and the love her aramillë had raised her with. But then her mind wandered to the instances - brief and fleeting - where Galadriel's gaze, so ancient and all knowing, seemed to search for something unspoken in Legolas' features. Some hidden truth Legolas never understood. Then there had been the occasions - too many to dismiss - when Galadriel’s words had trailed into silence just as she had seemed on the verge of revealing something, stopping herself as if the knowledge was too dangerous to voice.

"What do you mean?" she asked, the words escaping her before she could stop them. There was a tremor in her voice that she hated, a betrayal of her inner turmoil.

Legolas felt her composure slipping further, her breath quickening as unease coiled tightly around her heart. She wanted to shout at him, demand answers, but fear and doubt kept her rooted in place. It was Gandalf who spoke next, shattering the oppressive silence that had followed Saruman’s final taunt. His commanding voice drew attention away from Legolas onto himself, "Enough, Saruman! Your lies have no place here!"

Saruman's smirk only grew at Gandalf’s words, his mocking laughter echoing down from the balcony. But before he could speak, Gimli stepped forward, his stout frame trembling with indignation.

Gimli's grip tightened around his axe, face flushed with fury. "I've heard enough." Gimli growled as his gaze flickered to Legolas. She stood motionless across from him, her bow lowered but fingers curled tightly around it nonetheless. "Shoot him. Stick an arrow in his gob and be done with it!"

Legolas didn't move, though the idea was tempting, her mind still echoed with Saruman’s cruel words. Her knuckles were white against the smooth wood of her bow yet her posture betrayed none of the upheaval within her. All eyes briefly turned back toward her, awaiting her response.

No such response came before Gandalf raised a firm hand to forestall Gimli. The wizard shook his head, his tone brooking no argument, "No."

Gandalf took a step forward, planting his staff firmly into the stone ground. "Come down, Saruman." He commanded, his expression a mixture of stern resolve and reluctant mercy, "And your life will be spared."

The wizard sneered, prideful laughter echoing through the ruins - it was clear for all to see that Saruman had no intention of surrendering, not even at the bitter end. "Save your pity and your mercy. I have no use for it!"

A new voice broke the exchange, low and steady, filled with a quiet resolve. "Gríma." Théoden called as his gaze fell on the shadowed figure lingering warily behind Saruman. "You need not follow him, you were not always as you are now. You were once a man of Rohan. Come down!"

For a moment, nothing stirred. Then, tentatively, Gríma Wormtongue stepped ever so slightly more into their view. He trembled under their watchful eyes, his gaunt face a mask of fear and uncertainty.

Legolas thought for a brief moment that Théoden's words may have reached him, but Saruman's derisive voice shattered the fragile peace. "A man of Rohan?" Saruman spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and rats roll on the floor with the dogs? Victory at Helm’s Deep does not belong to you, Théoden, Horsemaster! You are a lesser son of greater sires."

Théoden's jaw tightened, but his gaze did not falter, his focus remaining firmly on Gríma. "Gríma," he said again, quieter but no less resolute. "Come down. Be free of him."

Saruman’s lips curled into a cruel smile. "Free?" He mocked, turning toward Gríma with a look of twisted amusement. "He will never be free."

"No more." Gríma muttered as if something deep inside of him finally broke, the words were barely audible but the intent in them was unmistakable. With a sudden cry, Gríma lunged forward, his dagger flashing in the dim light.

The blade struck Saruman in the back once, and then again, and again - each stab fueled by years of fear and resentment. Saruman’s scream was a sound of rage and pain, his hands clawing futilely at Gríma.

Legolas moved instinctively, her bow rising and an arrow already nocked before Saruman could retaliate. The arrow she loosed struck true, embedding itself into Gríma's chest.

Gríma gasped as the force of the shot toppled him backward, his body falling from the balcony and hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Saruman followed soon after, his staff clattering to the ground before he slumped against the railing and his body slid lifelessly down the tower.

Legolas slowly lowered her bow, her hand trembling despite her effort to steady it. The ruins of Isengard fell into an uneasy silence, their gazes moving between Saruman and Gríma’s broken forms below.

Pippin's curiosity got the better of him, and as the others remained fixated on the state of ruin and loss of life that consumed Isengard, the hobbit moved quietly toward the wizard’s lifeless body. Something had caught his eye - a faint gleam amid tattered robes. His small hands reached out, brushing against smooth glass - a dark orb, heavy and cold with an unsettling glow beneath its surface. A strange pull coursed through him, almost hypnotic as if the stone were whispering to him. Pippin stared at it, entranced, until Gandalf’s sharp approach snapped him from his trance. Startled and chastened, he reluctantly handed over the orb into Gandalf's care.

Gandalf held the palantír carefully, his expression grave as he studied it. Legolas' senses pricked at the very sight of it, feeling a shift in the air, an oppressive weight radiating from the dark glass. The wizard hurriedly secured the orb beneath his cloak before it caused further strife amongst the company, and they prepared for their departure to Edoras.

Legolas lingered at the rear of the group with Elrohir close by. His presence was quiet but steady, a reassuring shadow beside her that grounded her amidst the chaos of her thoughts. As they turned away from the crumbling remains of Isengard, an uneasy stillness settled over the company, wrapping around them like a heavy shroud.

Though Saruman was defeated, his fall brought them little in the sense of triumph. Only the bitter taste of betrayal, and fear for the far greater evil who awaited their next move.

Chapter Text

The golden hall of Meduseld seemed to breathe with renewed life in the flickering orange hearth light. Its sturdy and ancient walls had long withstood the battering of time and turmoil but tonight they bore witness to neither grief nor fear, but to celebration.

Sounds of revelry filled the great hall, a witness to man's warmth and vitality that - for one night - overshadowed the memories of blood and battle. The clinking of tankards, hum of conversation and well earned laughter overlapped, mingling together into a joyous symphony.

The people of Rohan had seen their fair share of sorrow. The shadow of war hung heavy over their lands, the memory of its cold grip and the fate of the Westfold still mercilessly raw; but tonight, that shadow had been cast aside. For a few precious hours, their hearts were lightened, and burdens forgotten.

Helm’s Deep had held.

Their home, their families, their king had endured. The cost had been great, but they were still standing - and just for tonight, that was enough.

At the head of the hall stood King Théoden, his solemnity a striking contrast to the celebration around him; though even he was not without cheer. Théoden bore himself with the dignity and nobility of a ruler who had faced the abyss and against all odds, returned. His eyes, lined with both age and sorrow, scanned the hall as he took in the faces of his people - his warriors, his kin, his unlikely allies.

Though weariness still clung to him like a second skin, Théoden seemed taller now and his shoulders no longer bowed under the weight of abject despair. He held his goblet aloft, voice rising above the companionable noise to command the attention of all.

"Tonight." Théoden began, his voice steady and resonant despite the softness that threatened to bleed into his words, "We remember those who gave their blood to defend this country." His words carried the gravitas of one who had seen too many lives cut short, a father who felt his son's loss keenly despite outward appearances.

The hall fell silent as the weight of his words settled over them. Théoden paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, lingering briefly on those whose faces bore fresh scars of battle - and then on the awkward gaps, the uncharacteristically empty spaces where others should have stood.

"Hail the victorious dead!"

Meduseld erupted in response, a thunderous roar echoing off the intricately carved beams that stretched above. "Hail!" They cried, voices rising as if one. Goblets and tankards clinked in unison, mead spilling over the rims as warriors and civilians alike drank in honour of their fallen.

For a terse moment, their grief was transformed into something powerful - a tribute, a shared acknowledgment of sacrifice, and a reminder of what they fought for. This was their night to remember their lost friends and comrades, to celebrate their sacrifice, and to gather their strength for the battles yet to come.

At a long table toward the centre of the hall, Gimli son of Glóin leaned back into his chair, his stout frame nearly vanishing behind a tankard almost as large as his head. The dwarf's face was flushed with drink and the fervor of storytelling as he regaled the Rohirrim with tales of the battle. "Forty-six, I tell you!" Gimli bellowed, slapping the table for emphasis. "Forty-six fell to my axe!"

Legolas shifted gracefully in her seat opposite, her red hair catching the firelight - glinting like burnished copper. Her calm expression remained outwardly untouched by the boisterous atmosphere as she spoke. "You recall incorrectly, Gimli," she interrupted, and though her words were precise and measured, they did not conceal her levity entirely. "It was forty-three. And I felled forty-two."

Gimli spluttered, thick fingers tightening around his tankard. "Forty-three you say? Bah! Perhaps I’ll recount them myself in the morning," for all his grumbling, a gleam of humour lit Gimli's eyes.

Elrohir, from his seat at Legolas’ side, smirked over his own tankard. "You'll not win against her, master dwarf." He remarked, dark hair falling over one shoulder as he leaned forward to whisper to Gimli. "Her memory is almost as sharp as her aim. Not once in almost six hundred years of marriage have I bested it."

"Aye, and don’t I know it laddie." Gimli replied, his tone exasperated but affectionate nonetheless. "That elf remembers everything, even down to the way my beard twitched when I killed the first one."

Legolas tilted her head, a wry smile playing on her lips as she regarded her companion. "You did have quite the determined look when you felled the first." She teased lightly, "It's hardly my fault I couldn't keep my focus on the Uruks with your face so close to mine."

Gimli roared with laughter, though he shook his head as if scandalised. "It was not my face you should have been watching, elf! It was my axe which need I remind you, was responsible for clearing the path!"

The laugh Legolas let out in response to the dwarf was not the soft, melodic laughter that seemed to drift effortlessly from the firstborn. Nor was it the graceful chuckle she often employed in mannish company. It was raw, and unrestrained, a burst of mirth so unexpected that it shattered the careful façade she so tirelessly upheld and immediately drew Éowyn’s attention.

The lady of Rohan turned her head sharply, golden hair catching the warm glow of the hall’s lanterns as her curious gaze sought the source of the laughter. Her eyes settled on Legolas, whose head was tipped back slightly and her face alight with an expression Éowyn had never seen upon an elf before - unguarded, radiant, entirely caught in the moment.

Éowyn began to weave her way through the throng of people, the hem of her flowing gown trailing softly over the stone floor behind her as she pursued her elf-friend.

"You've escaped the dancing then?" Éowyn said gently when she reached Legolas. Her lips curved into a small smile and her eyes shone with a spark of amusement as they flicked briefly toward the centre of the hall where drunken men whirled in lively dance.

Legolas turned to her with a faint smirk. "For now," she replied, casting a glance toward Pippin, who was in the process of cajoling a grumpy-looking dwarf into joining the fray. "Though Pippin seems determined to change that."

Éowyn chuckled, her gaze softening as it returned to the elf - lingering for a moment longer than usual. "You look well, Legolas," she said, her voice tinged with genuine affection.

Legolas inclined her head. "I am," she replied, a faint note of wistfulness lacing her voice. Almost too quiet to catch as she idly brushed a hand over her abdomen. "Though I long for quieter days."

Éowyn’s expression shifted, her own thoughts briefly casting a shadow across her features. "I think we all do," she hesitated before continuing, her tone quieter and more subdued. "I envy your freedom, to chose your path as you will."

Legolas turned to her, green eyes bright and clear, and yet tempered by a hard wraught understanding. "It is a freedom that comes at a price," she spoke gently. "A freedom that carries its own burdens."

Legolas paused, her gaze dropping for a terse moment and Éowyn could have sworn she saw something flicker across her face - something old and deeply personal. "You are your uncle’s world, Éowyn. There have been times where I would have given up all freedom just to have my father look at me in the way Théoden looks at you."

Éowyn's lips parted slightly at the quiet admission, her heart aching for the Elf who so often seemed untouchable. The vulnerability in Legolas' voice and words betrayed a depth Éowyn had never fully glimpsed before.

Legolas, sensing her companion’s sympathy, offered a small but encouraging smile in reassurance. "Though I understand what you mean," she continued steadily, "In time, you will find your own path Éowyn. And you will be happy, of that I am certain."

Before Éowyn could find the words to respond, Gandalf’s clear, commanding voice cut through the merriment from across the hall. "Legolas! Elrohir! Join us."

Legolas inclined her head toward Éowyn in a silent gesture of farewell, her russet hair catching the golden light of the hall as she turned. Her movements were hurried and yet graceful as she moved toward the hearth, exuding an aura that seemed to part the crowd as she walked. Elrohir rose from his seat mere moments after, his sharp eyes fixed on her retreating form and with practiced ease he fell into step behind her.

By the hearth, Aragorn sat with his usual commanding presence, hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his sword as he spoke in low tones with Elladan. Beside him, Gandalf leaned forward, features illuminated by the flickering flames as he exchanged the occasional wary glances with the ranger.

Maglor sat opposite them, his posture poised but not rigid, a quiet confidence evident in the way his hands rested on the arms of his chair. It was not the authority of one who demanded obedience but of one who carried the weight of a millenia of experience, and of wisdom tempered by regret.

Between them, velvet cloth lay spread across the table and upon it rested a dark orb - the palantír. It's surface gleamed faintly, catching and refracting the light, as though lit from within by some malevolent flame.

Legolas paused a few steps away, her gaze locking onto the orb. "Saruman’s palantír?" Her tone was cautious, almost reverent as she asked.

Maglor's attention shifted, his dark gaze lifting to meet hers as he inclined his head in grim confirmation. "Aye," he replied - resonant and deep - his voice layered with the weight of unnumbered years.

There was a distant, almost mournful tinge to his tone, as if he spoke not just of the palantír but of the history and memories it bore. "One of the seeing stones," Maglor continued, returning his focus to the palantír. "Forged by my father, long ago in the undimmed light of Valinor. The palantíri were crafted to unite my family, to keep my brothers connected across the vast distances of Arda. This one-"

Maglor fell silent for a moment, his words betraying him. He moved his hands to rest lightly on the edge of the table, long fingers tightening almost imperceptibly as he considered is next words. When he spoke again, there was a subtle shift in his voice - a flicker of emotion almost too brief to name. "This one," his voice was barely above a whisper as his eyes hardened, "Was my brother Caranthir’s."

"Caranthir." Legolas echoed, running the name over her tongue. She lifted her gaze to meet Maglor's, her green eyes searching his face as if trying to reconcile the sorrow in his tone with the weight of the legacy tied to the name he had just uttered.

"The name of a kinslayer," she continued, her voice low and edged with an unmistakable tension. Though her words were firm, there was something in them, something deeper - disbelief, perhaps even alarm. "And yet spoken with such sorrow."

Legolas struggled to hold his gaze, her thoughts instead turning inward. Her disdain for Caranthir was instinctive, as sharp and visceral as the tales she had heard of Alqualondë and Doriath. And yet, the sorrow in Maglor’s voice had struck a cord she could not so easily dismiss. How could a name so dark be spoken with such warmth, with such aching regret? With a love that seemed to transcend even the lofty weight of his crimes?

Her mind turned unwillingly to her own heart. The irony was not lost on her, in the gradual and reluctant softening she had felt toward Maglor - kinslayer, exile, and one of the very figures she had been raised to loathe. She had warmed to him in spite of herself; unable to ignore the quiet kindness in his actions, the patience in his gaze, the subtle ways he seemed to carry the weight of his past. Perhaps, if her instinct to reject Maglor for all he represented was so at odds with the undeniable connection they had forged - then Caranthir may not such be an unredeemable evil either.

Maglor's expression remained steady under her scrutiny, but a flicker of something ancient and pained crossed his face. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving only quiet gravity and a distant expression. "He was many things, Legolas. Not all of them are honourable. But before the oath marred our souls, he was a brother - shrewd, and fiercely protective of what he loved."

"And now his palantír serves Sauron." Gandalf said gravely, his piercing gaze fixed on the palantír with a grimace, "Warped from its original purpose into a weapon of manipulation and despair."

"If he wasn't damned to the void, Moryo would be rolling in his grave." Maglor's lips pressed into a thin line, though his tone betrayed irreverence.

Elrohir's brow furrowed in thought as he spoke, "How did it come to be in Saruman’s possession?"

Maglor sighed, the sound deep and weighted with centuries of grief and contemplation. "I cannot say for certain," he began wearily, "The treasures of our house were scattered and lost to time when Beleriand sank beneath the waves. Maedhros entrusted his palantír to Elros before the War of Wrath; perhaps this one, too, was claimed by Númenor or recovered from some forgotten ruin."

"That it ended up in Saruman’s hands grieves me deeply," Maglor mused sorrowfully.

Aragorn, seated across from the ancient elf, rested his forearms on the table. His eyes fixed upon the palantír as if trying to unravel its secrets through sheer force of will alone. "We must ensure it is never used again to harm this world," his words were steady, with a firm edge of resolve. "Can it be destroyed?"

Maglor shook his head, expression somber. "The palantíri cannot be broken by any force in Middle-earth," he replied, his tone that of a quiet lament. "Save perhaps the unmaking of the world itself. But their influence can be countered - if one has the strength of will to withstand it."

Legolas stood infront of him - Elrohir close at her side - with her arms crosed and eyes narrowed as she regarded the palantír with visible unease. The faint pulse of its inner light seemed almost alive, as though it mocked them, daring them to confront it. "I don't trust it." She murmured, "There is something not right about it. I can feel it."

"Nor should you," Gandalf interjected. "But knowledge is power, and if we can learn from it without succumbing to it, we may gain an advantage against the Enemy."

The flickering firelight illuminated the wizard’s face, deepening the lines of concern that had etched into his features. The palantír sat between them like a malevolent spectator, a stark contrast to the laughter and celebration that that filled the hall - silent yet menacing

Its gleam promising both insight and ruin; whispering of the cost of failure should they falter.

Chapter Text

The night was hushed, wrapped in a deep stillness - the kind that only comes in the small hours, when even the world itself seems to pause and draw breath.

Outside the golden hall of Meduseld, Legolas stood at the edge of the verandah; her slender form leant lightly against the railings, half-illuminated by the silvery light that penetrated through the clouds. She was completely still, save for the slightest rise and fall of her shoulders and the way the breeze rustled through her russet hair, spilling the loose curls over her back.

Her gaze was captivated by the heavens, by the thick banks of clouds that veiled the stars above, leaving the night sky dark and overcast. The air around her was cold, the crispness of late winter still lingering stubbornly, though it did not seem to touch her. One hand rested absently on the growing curve of her belly - a gesture that was as instinctive as it was protective - whilst the other curled into the intricately carved wooden railing, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood.

Her eyes lingered on the eastern horizon as if searching for something unseen whilst her brow furrowed deeply. Legolas' usually serene expression clouded with something that hovered somewhere between unease and contemplation. She wasn't sure what she sought in the dark expanse - perhaps a sign, perhaps the reassurance of nothing at all - but the absence of the stars left her with a hollow feeling she could not quite name all the same.

"You have been staring at the sky for a while now." Elrohir spoke from where he had been leant against a pillar behind her, he kept his voice low as if not to disturb the tentative quiet of the night. "What do you look for melleth?"

"Nothing." She replied, though her tone betrayed a wistful perceptiveness that he had come to know well. "Or perhaps everything. It feels strange not to see the stars. It is as though they have hidden themselves away tonight."

Elrohir tilted his head, his brow knitting ever so slightly as his gaze shifted briefly to the clouded sky before flitting back to his wife. "And that unsettles you?"

She nodded reluctantly, fingers brushing against the subtle curve of her abdomen. "I suppose it does. The stars have ever been a guide, a comfort. Even in the darkest of times. Their absence - it feels foreboding."

Elrohir regarded her with concern as he stepped closer, his hand brushing Legolas' where it rested on the railing. "You have been even more attuned to such things than usual lately", his voice warmed as a faint smile began to play on his lips. "I wonder if the little one shares your instincts."

Legolas chuckled softly, her fingers curling over his. "They could do with inheriting my patience too." She let out weary sigh, though it was not without mirth as she quipped, "This little one is already even more restless than Faelher ever was, and that is certainly no mean feat."

Elrohir raised an unconvinced brow, a teasing glint in his eye as he leaned closer to Legolas. "Your patience? If they are as restless as you say, I fear they already take after you entirely." His tone was serious, but the corner of his mouth twitched with the effort to hold back a grin.

Legolas turned to him sharply, though her narrowed eyes gleamed with amusement. "You are fortunate I am in no mood to argue, meleth," her voice carried a mock warning to match her glare as she spoke.

She shifted her weight slightly, one hand returning to her slightly rounded belly. "And mark my words," she added, and whilst her tone softened it too grew more serious. "They will be as stubborn as both of us combined. You and I will have our hands full."

Elrohir's chuckle softened into something warmer, his teasing tone giving way to a quiet tenderness. His dark eyes searched Legolas’ face, catching the faint flicker of uncertainty behind her poised exterior and without hesitation he reached out - calloused fingers brushing against hers before gently talking her free hand in his. Elrohir’s touch was steady, grounding in the midst of her unease.

For a moment, he simply stood there, gazing at her with an affection so unwavering it seemed to quiet even the restless breeze around them. As if compelled by a silent thought, he brushed aside a stray curl of copper hair that had fallen onto her cheek. His touch was light, almost reverent as his knuckles grazed against her skin, tucking the wayward lock behind her ear before pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. "Then we shall meet that challenge together." Elrohir murmured a quiet promise, his voice low and certain as his gaze held hers - steady and sure.

Legolas' expression softened, her lips quirking into a smile - faint but no less genuine - as she tilted her head slightly toward where their hands intertwined. In that small, fleeting moment, the uncertainties of the night appeared to recede leaving them to bask in the unspoken bond between them - one that had endured countless trials, and would endure countless more.

The moment stretched between them, until the faint sound of footsteps on the wooden boards drew their attention. Both turned toward the shadows beyond, where Aragorn’s familiar figure emerged. His dark cloak blending into the night around him, and rugged features illuminated ever so slightly by the hearth light that filtered through the cracks of Meduseld's great doors. The ranger's steps were unhurried but heavy, as though the weight of his thoughts pressed down on him with every movement.

"I hope I am not interrupting anything." Aragorn said, his voice warm but subdued as he brought his unlit pipe to his mouth, gaze wandering between the two elves.

Elrohir released Legolas' hand slowly, but kept close by her side as he turned to face Aragorn fully - noting the lines of weariness that etched into his foster brothers features. Elrohir's posture shifted subtly as if unconsciously bracing himself for whatever troubled Aragorn. "Not at all," he replied. "Though you have been unusually quiet tonight, Estel. Has something been troubling you?"

Aragorn hesitated, his gaze distant as he regarded both his long time friend and foster brother. "The weight of what lies before me, perhaps." He admitted mournfully, "And I fear for Arwen."

Elrohir's expression softened, his voice carrying a note of firm reassurance that concealed his pity. "You cannot let my sister's choice weigh you down. No matter what father may tell you, she is a law unto herself."

"She loves you, Estel." Elrohir continued, his voice final and unyielding, "That is all that matters. Fretting about her future will get you nowhere, it is out of your control."

Aragorn nodded slowly, though the shadow in his eye and upon his countenance remained. His gaze shifted to Legolas, who not for the first time had fallen silent, her attention solely focused on the shrouded sky above.

"And you, mellon?" The ranger inquired hesitantly, "You seem contemplative."

Legolas’ sharp gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, as though even a fleeting glance elsewhere might allow an unwelcome truth to manifest. "Something stirs in the east," her voice was quiet, laced with a foreboding unease. "A sleepless malice. The eye of the enemy is moving."

Aragorn's brow furrowed as he regarded her, the words hanging in the air around them like a shadow, Legolas' vigilance lending them an almost tangible gravity. Before he could speak, a sharp cry from within the hall shattered the stillness of the night.

Legolas straightened immediately, her hands instinctively tightening on the wooden railings. Her sharp gaze set upon the flickering light that spilled from the cracks in the great hall's door, and it didn't take elven senses to catch the frantic edge to Gandalf’s voice - "Peregrin Took!" came the wizard’s commanding bellow, his words heavy with a mix of alarm and disapproval, "What have you done?"

Aragorn pushed off from the pillar where he had been leant with a sense of urgency. "Come," he ordered grimly, glancing between Elrohir and Legolas, "This cannot bode well." Without waiting for reply, he strode purposefully toward the doors.

Legolas was already moving, her lithe frame a blur of movements as she followed close behind the ranger. Elrohir trailed after her, his hand dancing upon the hilt of his sword - whether out of habit or unease, she couldn't tell.

The three entered the hall, eyes quickly adjusting to the waning golden light of the embers as the scene before them came into focus. Gandalf stood at the heart of it all, his commanding presence unmistakable as he loomed over a trembling Pippin. The young hobbit knelt on the floor, his small form unnaturally lit by the object he clutched in his trembling hands; the palantír.

Legolas felt Elrohir’s hand brush hers briefly as they both moved closer, concern for the young hobbit etched across their faces as they watched the dark orb pulse with an eerie malevolence.

"Stay back!" Gandalf snapped at the newcomers, his voice sharp enough to still the room. He gestured for the others, too, to keep their distance with his staff held aloft as though to shield the hobbit from some unseen force.

Gandalf's face was grave, his piercing eyes fixed on Pippin, who had gone rigid under the palantír’s pull, wide eyes staring blankly into the unchartered depths of the seeing stone.

"He is caught in Sauron's gaze."

Gandalf's words sent a ripple of dread through the room, and Gimli had to physically hold a distraught looking Merry back from running to his cousin's side.

Maglor stepped forward into the fray, his presence commanding the hall in a way that was both regal and terrible - and in that moment he seemed every bit the relic of the former High King of the Noldor he was. His long fingers extended steadily, as he addressed Pippin. "Give it to me," he said and though his words were spoken softly, they held the weight of a command that had no room for refusal.

Pippin's tremouring hands reluctantly released their grip on the palantír, which rolled into Maglor’s waiting palm. The elf closed his fingers around the smooth surface with practiced familiarity - the air seemed to grow thick as he navigated the scant traces of Caranthir's touch and the crimson glow of the palantír intensified, flickering, as the hall grew deathly quiet around him.

Maglor lifted the stone slightly, his keen eyes locking onto something within its swirling depths. As he stared, the fiery light that reflected in his gaze flared, and the silence was shattered. A mocking voice, cold and insidious, hissed into his mind.

"Makalaurë Fëanorian," it sneered. "How fitting that you, of all your accursed line should be the one to stand before me now. The last, the weakest, the one who abandoned all."

Maglor's jaw tightened, his grip on the palantír firm and defiant. "You will not prevail," he spoke aloud, each word carrying the force of a blade cutting through the suffocating air.

The malevolent presence within the stone surged, pressing against Maglor’s mind with a force that would have shattered lesser wills - like unfeeling tendrils seeking to entwine and strangle. Visions filled his thoughts; swan ships burning on the sea, the bloodied swords of his brothers, the crumbling ruins of Beleriand. Sauron's voice taunted him, twisting his memories into a weapon.

"You failed them all," it whispered, a sound laced with mockery and malace. "You failed your oath, your father, your brothers, your people. Even your precious Maitimo, strong as he was, could not withstand it. He fell, broken and despairing didn't he? And where were you? Singing to the waves as he cast himself into the flames?"

Maglor flinched ever so slightly, the words striking at a wound that had never fully healed - one he didn't think ever would. But his resolve hardened at the enemy's cruel words, and his voice rang clear in the heavy silence. "You have no power here, thrall of Morgoth."

The presence recoiled briefly, only to return with even greater ferocity. The desecrated light from within the palantír errupted and Maglor had to wonder whether anyone else could hear the all encompassing laughter that filled his mind - dark and triumphant.

"No power? You dare speak to me of power, son of Fëanor? Your father was consumed by his own arrogance, and your brothers by their madness. And you, what are you but a shadow? A ghost of ages past clinging to songs no one will hear."

Maglor's fingers tightened on the stone, gritting his teeth as his knuckles whitened. "Return back to Morgoth’s shadow, Lieutenant," he commanded, his words laced with a defiance that burned brighter even than the stone’s infernal glow.

The presence snarled and the force behind it intensified. Maglor’s mind was once again assailed by visions - Maedhros atop the cliffs of Thangorodrim, hands bound in irons; Caranthir, Curufin and Celegorm lying bloodied and lifeless, fates sealed by their own choices; and Celebrimbor in Eregion - his sweet nephew Celebrimbor, mutilated almost beyond recognition.

"You think yourself strong?" Sauron hissed. "You are nothing but a relic of a time long gone, a fool who clings to a broken legacy. You could not save Maedhros, and you will not save them."

Maglor’s lips curled in a grim smile, his voice rising in strength, steady despite the strain etched into his features. "Your master fell before the light, and so shall you. Your time is ending."

The palantír flared violently, frantic in a last ditch attempt to overcome him. But Maglor did not waver. He pushed back with memories not of despair but of hope - Elrond and Elros as children, their laughter chasing away the shadows of Amon Ereb; he and his brothers in Valinor under the golden light of the two trees; and the song he had sung as he cast the silmaril into the sea, defying its cursed hold on his very soul.

The presence within the stone faltered, its power waning. A final, furious scream echoed through Maglor’s mind before the palantír’s glow dimmed - the malevolent energy within retreating into silence and its sinister light extinguishing in an instant.

Maglor lowered the stone, his shoulders straight in spite of his weariness. The hall seemed to exhale, the oppressive weight lifting as Maglor retrieved the cloth from Pippin's side. Without a word, he wrapped the palantír in the dark fabric, its sullen gleam now shrouded and inert.

Turning to Gandalf, he held it out with an air of finality. "Keep it safe," Maglor said, his voice ladened with the weight of ancient sorrow mingling with a newfound resolve.

The wizard accepted the stone with a solemn nod, his keen eyes meeting Maglor’s with a flicker of understanding. Around them, the hall was silent, the gathered company watching in awe and uncertainty.

"Is he alright?" Legolas was the first to speak, her voice soft but urgent as her gaze settled on Pippin's ashen form, cradled in Merry’s arms.

Gandalf knelt briefly beside the hobbits, his hand brushing against Pippin's forehead as he examined the young Took. Though the wizard’s face was grave, his voice carried a reassuring steadiness, "He will be after some rest."

The wizard straightened, his expression darkening as he stood. "But we cannot linger, the enemy's gaze has been drawn here."

All eyes were on Gandalf now, the weight of his words pressing down on the room like a storm brewing on the horizon. His gaze swept over them - lingering on Aragorn, Maglor, and finally Théoden.

"The enemy knows the heir of Elendil has come forth." Gandalf settled with these words, his voice calm but undeniablely grim as he continued. "Men are not as weak as he supposed; there is courage still, strength enough perhaps to challenge him."

Gandalf paused for a moment, his gaze flickering back toward Maglor who stood silent and watchful - his hands folded before him as if daring Gandalf to voice his next words. "And worse still, Maglor Fëanorian of old stands among them. Sauron fears this. He will not risk the free peoples of Middle-earth uniting under one banner."

Théoden watched the wizard cautiously, his face set in a mask of staunch determination. "What must be done?"

Gandalf turned toward the king of Rohan, his expression softening notably. "I must take Pippin to Minas Tirith." He asserted, "The Steward of Gondor must be warned, and the palantír must be kept far from Sauron’s reach."

Théoden nodded, his voice firm. "Then go, Gandalf. But what of Rohan?"

Gandalf's gaze locked with Théoden's, steady and penetrating, as though seeking to instill within Théoden King the full weight of his words. "If the beacons of Gondor are lit." Gandalf commanded, "Rohan must be ready for war."

The words hung between them, a solemn decree that seemed to reverberate in the stillness of the hall. Théoden did not flinch under the intensity of Gandalf’s gaze; his shoulders straightened, his jaw tightened, and any residual weariness was replaced by the resolute strength of a king who had found purpose.

Théoden King uttered no words in reply, but none were needed.

Chapter Text

"An heirloom such as this is rarely given lightly."

Maglor's voice carried across the stillness, deep and resonant as it echoed softly against the worn stone of Edoras. His footsteps were deliberate, yet soundless on the worn pathway as he approached where Legolas sat. Her legs dangled over the edge of a wall, posture relaxed but not careless - her head was tilted slightly, russet hair spilling over her shoulders like molten copper, catching the sun's rays in a fiery glow. The elleth's hands rested in her lap, delicate fingers tracing the intricate patterns etched into the hilt of a dagger.

Maglor paused a few steps away, his gaze lingering on her, and the weapon that glinted faintly under scrutiny. There was something almost otherworldly about the sight: legolas lost in thought as she absentmindedly caressed the blade - a bygone relic of his family’s long and tragic history. For a moment, he hesitated, the weight of his long years pressing heavily on his shoulders as he regarded her with something between curiosity and sorrow. "It is Fëanorian work, my father's hand if I'm not mistaken. Tell me, how did you come by it?"

Legolas did not startle; she simply turned her head slightly to acknowledge him, her fingers pausing their motion along the hilt. Her expression was serene, though her eyes held a depth that betrayed her calm exterior - filled with her own unspoken questions and a desire for answers. "Galadriel bequeathed it to me," she told him simply and truthfully. "She said it was only right that it came to me, though I'm not sure I understand why."

Maglor stilled at her words, though his expression betrayed little of what ravaged him from within. 'It was only right that it came to me.' It was as if Galadriel's voice had echoed through Legolas' own, her deliberate choice of words resounding with implications. That his cousin would see fit to pass this dagger to Legolas was no small thing. It was not a gesture made lightly nor would Galadriel's reasoning have been without deeper intent.

If Galadriel had bequeathed this heirloom, it was because she believed Legolas had a right to it. A claim.

It meant somehow, she knew the truth.

Maglor stepped closer, his movements fluid and deliberate as he reached out - not to touch the dagger, but to look upon it, with a reverence that bordered on sorrow. "And yet you feel the pull of it," he pressed gently. "Do you not?"

Legolas hesitated, her gaze flickering between Maglor and the blade. "I do," she admitted, so quiet it was as if it was never really meant to be heard. "But I cannot explain it. It's like a song I know is there, but can’t quite hear."

Maglor's lips curved into a faint, wistful smile. "Fëanorian work carries the will of its maker," he explained, voice thickening with memory. "A blade like this knows its bearer. It recognises the one who should wield it, even if they themselves do not understand why."

Legolas frowned slightly, her fingers brushing against the hilt once more. Maglor’s words lingered in her mind, there was an undeniable truth to them, an understanding that stirred something unspoken deep within her. Her grip tightened momentarily as she considered his words; the blade did feel familiar, receptive to her touch - as though it wasn’t just a weapon but a part of her, waiting patiently to be understood.

She opened her mouth to speak, to put voice to her questions but hesitation held her back. What would she even ask? What answers could Maglor possibly give her that wouldn't serve to trouble her further? Her gaze flitted from the dagger to him, and though his expression was inscrutable it was marred by an intensity that unnerved her. There was something he too was not saying - something he seemed to be grappling with himself.

Before she could find the words, the stillness they had settled into was broken by the crunch of heavy boots against dew-laden grass. The sound was steady, deliberate and it carried a familiar weight. Legolas turned her head toward the disturbance, her sharp ears catching the rhythm of the dwarf's stride even before his figure emerged.

"Well, well. Is this where you’ve been hiding, elf?" Came Gimli’s gruff voice, his tone coloured with both irritation and amusement. His hands rested on his belt, eyes narrowing as he regarded her with mock suspicion. "Your Elrohir said you might be sulking out here."

Legolas straightened at his words but did not move from her perch. Her expression shifted slightly, and the contemplative frown was replaced by a faint smirk, "Sitting in quiet contemplation is hardly sulking, master dwarf."

He snorted, clearly unimpressed. "Call it what you will," Gimli replied, waving a dismissive hand. "It makes no difference to me."

His eyes fell to the dagger in Legolas' hands, its blade reflecting the sun as she idly turned it. Gimli's brows furrowed, and a hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Do you never tire of admiring that blade of yours, elf?" Gimli retorted, his tone carrying an edge of teasing as he folded his arms across his broad chest. "It looks far too dainty to be of much use."

Legolas turned her gaze toward him, raising a delicate brow. Her grip on the hilt tightened just slightly as her lips quirked into a measured smile. "Dainty, you say?" She replied calmly, though the glint in her eye betrayed her amusement. "Would you like to test its sharpness for yourself, master dwarf?"

Gimli's grin widened, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. "I'll take your word for it, lass." He said with a hearty chuckle, "But I still say that a good axe is worth at least ten of those trinkets."

Before Legolas could reply, a smooth voice interrupted from behind them. "Only to one with no finesse."

Elrohir stepped into their circle, his presence as natural as if he’d always been there. Gimli snorted at the elf's words, though there was no malice behind the sound. "Finesse, you say? I’ve seen the mess you lot make of a battlefield."

A knowing smirk tugged at Elrohir's lips, "Should you need any assistance in providing the blade’s worth, melleth, I would be more than happy to oblige."

Legolas shook her head, laughter soft as she stood, sheathing the dagger at her thigh. "Your kindness is noted, Elrohir." She replied, her tone wry. "But I think Gimli has seen enough of my skill to know better than to challenge me."

"Ha!" Gimli barked, his laughter ringing out though the twinkle in his eyes betrayed his affection for her. "That remains to be seen."

Legolas' lips curved into a small, self-assured smile but before more could be said she stiffened - her entire demeanor changing in an instant, as her sharp eyes narrowed upon the horizon. A faint flicker of orange light danced against the distant mountains - and then another, higher and farther - an unmistakable signal.

"The beacons!" She exclaimed, the urgency in her tone making both Elrohir and Gimli snap to attention.

Elrohir stepped closer to Legolas, his gaze following the direction of hers. His features were taut with focus as he squinted, scanning the horizon for the flickering signal. "We must find Estel," he said swiftly, already moving toward the hall with an urgency that almost mirrored the tension radiating from Legolas.

Legolas turned sharply on her heel and followed Elrohir, her long strides quickly matching his. Maglor walked just a pace behind and Gimli trailed further back still - his shorter legs moving at a surprising speed, and his usually gruff demeanor tempered by the unease that now filled the air.

As they approached the stairs leading to Meduseld, Legolas caught sight of Aragorn ascending from the opposite side. The ranger's steps were deliberate, his posture radiating purpose and though his expression was grim, his eyes burned with clarity. Without breaking his stride, he reached the great doors of the Golden Hall and swung them open with a force that sent the echoes reverberating through its carved interior. "The beacons are lit." Aragorn announced, his voice firm and resonant as it filled the grand hall, silencing all conversations and movements from those within. His voice was steady as he continued, masking the urgency that rippled beneath, "Gondor calls for aid."

All eyes turned toward Théoden, whose weathered face betrayed no hesitation. Slowly, the king rose from his seat, gaze unwavering as it met Aragorn's. Théoden's voice carried across his ancestral halls, his tone brimming with the weight of his people's resolve.

"And Rohan will answer."

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The sun dipped low over the golden plains of Edoras, its light casting long shadows across the bustling capital. The air hummed with activity; the rhythmic thud of boots, clinking armour and the occasional whinny of restless horses. Everywhere, Rohirrim moved with purpose in their preparations to march to Dunharrow. Amid the organised chaos, Legolas stood quietly beside Arod, her slender fingers moving deftly over the saddle straps, tightening them with practiced precision.

Her copper hair, loose save for a few small braids at her temples, caught the waning sunlight like strands of fire that framed her pensive expression. Her keen eyes remained sharp and thoughtful, as she flicked over every buckle and loop on the saddle.

Elrohir approached silently, catching the subtle tension in her movements. He stopped a few paces away, head tilting slightly as he observed her in silence for a few moments. "You are unusually focused, Legolas. Is everything all right?"

Legolas did not look up immediately, her hands moving instead to adjust the buckle for what Elrohir noted to be the third time. "If we are to ride into the mountains, I’d rather not have Arod throw me because of a loose strap." A faint smile tugged at her lips as she continued, "I'd never hear the end of it from Gimli."

The humour in her words was betrayed by the subtle tremor in her voice, one Elrohir caught immediately. He stepped closer, dark brows drawing together as his expression shifted into one of deep concern.

"Everything is fine, Elrohir." She reassured him, trying to flatten out any hint of a waver in her voice.

"Fine, you say?" He replied, his voice soft but edged with scepticism. "Yet you've checked that strap three times now, melleth."

Legolas paused, her hands stilling against the leather as Arod shifted slightly under her touch, sensing her unease. She exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing over the strap one last time before she turned to face Elrohir. "Perhaps I am being overly cautious." She admitted reluctantly; she had never been good at dealing with her own unease, even at the best of times. "But given my condition, I think I'm entitled to a little bit of worry."

A flicker of something warm - concern, admiration and love all intertwined - passed over Elrohir's expression. He stepped closer still, his hand lightly brushing against Legolas' forearm in silent reassurance. "And you are not alone in that," he said softly.

Legolas' lips curved into a faint smile, though her gaze remained stern. "I am still perfectly capable, Elrohir," her words, though warm, were firm, and left no room for argument. "Pregnancy hasn’t made me fragile."

Elrohir's fingers lingered on her arm a moment longer before he dropped his hand. His gaze remained steady on her, and though his words were laced with gentle humour, there was an undeniable earnestness beneath. "I know better than to think you fragile." His deep voice was soft but sure, a faint smile touching his lips, "I trust you to know your own limits, Legolas. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop watching over you."

Legolas' shoulders relaxed slightly, the faint tension she carried in her frame easing with his words and her expression softened into something almost wistful. "I wouldn't expect you to." Though her voice was quiet, it was filled with an unspoken understanding. "But trust me when I say I am fine."

Elrohir studied her intently for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers for any hint of doubt or hidden pain. Yet, what he found instead was resilience - a quiet strength, undimmed and boundless within her, even now.

He inclined his head, a small knowing smile playing at his lips. "Then I will trust you," Elrohir said softly, his words carrying the weight of years of companionship and unwavering faith.

"Now come on then." Elrohir cleared his throat, his voice carrying an easy warmth.

Legolas glanced up at him, an elegant brow raised in confusion. Before she could so much as think of a response, he reached out and ruffled her hair. A playful, affectionate gesture that completely threw Legolas off as she felt his fingers mussing the loose waves of russet that spilled over her shoulders.

"We have leagues to march." Elrohir added, his tone teasing but gentle as his hand lingering briefly on her shoulder.

Chapter Text

The encampment at Dunharrow stretched out beneath the darkening sky, its fires casting flickering shadows across the plateau. The distant clatter of armour and the tense murmur of voices drifting through the night air. Legolas stood near the edge of the camp - leant lightly against a weathered tree trunk just outside of Théoden's tent - where the noise softened measurably, giving way to a quieter hum.

Her gaze wandered over the camp, taking in the soldiers preparing dutifully for their forthcoming battle for Minas Tirith. Though her attention was not really on them, nor the dark mountains that loomed further in the distance. Instead, her sharp ears focused on the soft voices coming from within the tent, muffled by its heavy fabric. She couldn’t make out the words, but she recognised well the deep timbre of Elrond’s voice and the measured tones of Aragorn’s replies.

She shifted her weight, glancing up at the canopy of stars that began to emerge above. The air in the camp felt heavy, ladened with the weight of whatever conversation was being had within the tent - the decisions that would shape the fate of all the free peoples of Middle-Earth. Yet it was not only the fate of Arda that pressed on her mind; deep within, a quieter, more intimate weight rested just as heavily. Her hand drifted almost unconsciously to her abdomen, fingers tracing over the faint curve that had begun to show beneath her tunic. The life she carried was still small, still fragile, yet its presence was as profound as any battle on the horizon.

Legolas steeled herself, tucking her private thoughts back into the recesses of her mind as she heard the tent flap stir. Aragorn emerged, his shoulders were squared but his expression was lined with the weight of whatever he and Elrond had settled on.

He paused when he saw Legolas, his grey eyes meeting hers in the dim light. "You too?" His voice was low and yet tinged with a faint note of humour.

A small smile touched her lips as she pushed off the tree, folding her arms loosely across her chest. "It's like being an elfling all over again," she replied wryly. "Waiting for my turn to be scolded."

Aragorn chuckled softly, a small smile forming - brief but genuine - though his brow remained furrowed all the same. "Well, I wish you better luck than I, mellon."

"That bad?" Legolas murmured with a grimace. If there was one person whose bad side she dreaded being on the most, it was her father-in-law.

A rustling sound drew her attention back to the tent, where the flap shifted again to reveal Elrond. He stood tall in the opening, sharp eyes falling on the pair. His expression was as calm and unreadable as ever, though there was a flicker of something softer beneath the surface as he inclined his head toward Legolas - beckoning her to enter with the subtle gesture.

"Legolas," he called out, his voice carrying a quiet authority that left no room for argument. "Come."

Legolas straightened, smoothing a hand over her tunic as she stepped forward. She cast a brief glance toward Aragorn, who offered her a slight nod in acknowledgment before she turned toward Elrond - her steps measured but purposeful as she followed him into the tent.

The soft glow of a single lantern illuminated the space, casting gentle shadows over the maps and scattered parchments that littered the wooden table. Elrond gestured for her to sit, his sharp gaze assessing her with the precision of a healer and the concern of a father as the tent flap closed behind them.

"What are we to do with you, Legolas?" He asked, tone exasperated but not unkind.

Legolas met his gaze evenly. "Advise me, perhaps." she replied, her tone light but tinged with an edge of sincerity. "Or remind me of the folly of my choices. Depends on your prerogative I imagine."

Elrond raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. Though his expression was stern, there was a flicker of reluctant admiration in his eyes - a faint hint of amusement that he tried desperately hard to conceal. "One day, penneth, I have faith that you will be able to take such matters seriously."

Legolas simply hummed a response, letting the silence sit between the space between them and make itself at home.

Elrond's silver-grey eyes - ancient and piercing - seemed to assess not just her physical state but the turmoil within her heart too. "You do not have to do this, Legolas." Elrond regarded her sympathetically, his voice calm and laden with earnestness. "You swore no vow. No one would fault you if you stayed behind - if you prioritised the babe."

Tension lingered in her posture, the faint glow of a nearby lantern illuminating her features - slightly softening the resolve in her expression. She met his gaze with quiet determination. "Call me selfish, but I would fault myself," she spoke after a brief pause, her voice steady despite the edge of vulnerability it carried. "I cannot leave others to fight this battle in my stead. Not in good conscience."

Elrond studied her closely, his brow furrowing slightly as the weight of her words settled. "You would risk both your lives?" He asked, his tone softening, though hints of concern and resignation edged every word.

Legolas lowered her gaze, placing a gentle hand over the curve of her abdomen, her slender fingers resting there as though to shield the life she carried. The tenderness of her actions belied the steel in her voice, "I would fight to save both our lives from the scourge of Sauron." When she looked up again, her eyes were firm and fiercely determined, "Until the very end."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant murmur of voices outside the tent. Elrond’s gaze softened, his shoulders relaxing as if yielding to the force of her resolve. A flicker of something crossed his eyes - pride perhaps, mingled with sorrow.

"It is your choice, Legolas." He said at last with a slow exhale, and though his voice was quiet, his tone was filled with reluctant acceptance of Legolas' determination. "But at least let me look over you and ensure the elfling is well before you depart."

Legolas nodded, her expression softening as she stepped closer. Her voice came out quieter now, though it carried a clear hint of gratitude that spoke volumes of the trust she placed in him. "Of course," she murmured, accepting Elrond's extended hand.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

Maglor approached Legolas slowly, his movements deliberate though his face was shadowed with apprehension. "You intend to follow him?" Maglor said, his voice calm but threaded with concern. Though it wasn’t so much a question; he already knew the answer.

"I do," Legolas replied, her tone even and silhouette sharp against the glow of the fire's flames.

Maglor tilted his head slightly, dark eyes piercing her gaze. "You know the risks," he pressed, stepping closer. "This is no ordinary journey into danger. It is a path directly into the realm of the dead - they are cursed, Legolas, bound to a broken oath. None who enter are guaranteed to leave."

"I know the risks." She answered swiftly, her voice firm despite the knot that twisted in her chest at the prospect. Though her gaze did not waver, eyes determined and filled with the quiet strength that had seen her through countless battles. "And I know what lies ahead if we fail. If Aragorn falters here, Middle-Earth may be lost to us entirely. I will not let him face this alone."

Maglor studied her intently, as though searching for something deeper within her words. After a terse moment, he sighed softly - the sound carrying the weight of all his long years. "You have your mother’s stubbornness in you, Legolas." His soft voice was tinged with both fondness and sorrow, so quiet it was as if it was never really supposed to be heard.

Legolas froze, her breath catching as Maglor’s words struck her with the precision of a well-aimed arrow, shattering the composure she worked tirelessly to maintain. Her lips parted slightly, but no words followed as if the weight of what she had just heard had stolen her voice. Another beat of silence passed before she managed to muster a whisper, her tone fragile, almost childlike as she spoke. "My mother? How-"

Her half-spoken question hung in the air, trembling with unsaid emotion. It was not just the surprise of hearing Maglor speak of her mother - Thranduil, after all, had kept her mother’s memory shrouded in silence her entire life - but the familiarity in the Noldor's tone, the ease with which the words left his lips. It unsettled her.

Maglor's knowledge felt intimate, almost reverent, as though her mother had been more than just a name or a distant memory to him. The very idea sent a jolt of disbelief through her.

For a moment, Maglor did not meet her gaze. His expression flickered, his features softening in a way that was so contrary to everything that he usually embodied - unguarded as if he were caught off balance. His dark eyes, so frequently distant and impenetrable, held something that she couldn't quite read - regret maybe, or sorrow too old and raw to be easily spoken of. He turned his head slightly, a small almost insignificant movement but enough to betray the conflict within him - shame, she settled on. Shame that the admission had slipped from his mouth unbidden.

When he finally spoke, his voice was gentler than before, though it carried the same resolve. "If you insist on following Aragorn into the Paths of the Dead." he said, his tone measured and deliberate, "Then I will go too."

There was no answer to her question, no acknowledgment even of the name Maglor had spoken, and yet his deflection carried its own weight. It left Legolas standing in silence, the echoes of his words and the unspoken truths between them filling the spaces that yearned for answers.

Legolas swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze once more as her brows knitted together in confusion. "But why?" She asked, her voice carrying an edge of incredulity - almost accusatory. "You have no obligation to do so."

"Perhaps not," Maglor admitted, his gaze turning distant as though he was reliving a long, painful history. When his eyes returned to hers, they were filled with an unshakable determination and his lips curved into a rueful smile. "But I swore an oath long ago that I would not stand by and allow harm to come to those I care for - not again."

"Maglor-"

Maglor raised a hand, cutting her off with a gentle but firm gesture. "You are determined, Legolas. I will not try to dissuade you - I know better than to waste my breath." He paused momentarily, dark eyes locking with hers seriously, the firelight casting solemn shadows across his face. "But neither will I let you go alone, not whilst you carry such precious cargo."

Her hand instinctively moved to her abdomen, her expression shifting to one of quiet vulnerability. The sincerity in his voice stirred something deep within her, and for once, she found herself at a loss for words.

"You have already carried too many burdens for one lifetime, Maglor." She said at last, her voice soft and tinged with both gratitude and weariness as she spoke. "Why would you take on another?"

"Because I can bear it," he said simply, his voice steady and honest. "And because you should not have to bear it alone."

For a moment, the silence between them was thick with unspoken understanding. Legolas closed her eyes for a brief moment, exhaling slowly as though releasing a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying.

Then she nodded, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips as her resolve firmed. "Very well," she said, her voice carrying a note of gratitude she did not try to hide. "If you are so determined to follow me, I will not stop you."

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The fires at Dunharrow burned low, reduced to little more than dying embers that glowed faintly against the surrounding cliffs from afar. Aragorn stood near the entrance to the Paths of the Dead, his tall frame tense as he adjusted Andúril at his side. The ranger's jaw was set grim, and a distant look overcame his grey eyes as they remained fixed on the cursed entrance.

A gruff voice and the steady crunch of boots of gravel broke his daze. "Just where do you think you're off to?" Gimli demanded as he came into view, his axe slung casually over one broad shoulder and his keen eyes fixed on Aragorn with a mingled look of concern and stubborn determination.

Aragorn turned toward his friend, his gaze softening slightly despite the finality to his words. "Not this time," he said firmly, though there was a hint of regret in his tone. "This time, you must stay, Gimli."

The dwarf snorted loudly, brows drawing together in defiance. "And let you wander into that cursed place all by yourself? Do you take me for a fool, laddie?" Gimli asked incredulously, stomping closer as his boots kicked up small clouds of dust.

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest but before he could, another voice joined the conversation - soft and unmistakable. "Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of dwarves?" Legolas emerged from the shadows, bow slung over her shoulder as she came to stand firmly at Gimli's side.

Aragorn sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as his gaze flickered to her. "Legolas," he began, tone softer now, almost pleading. "You at least must understand that this path is mine to walk alone, it is not a burden I can share."

"I do understand." Legolas tilted her head ever so slightly, regarding him thoughtfully as she spoke. "And that is why I will not let you walk it alone."

Gimli shot her an appreciative sidelong glance, and though his expression was gruff, there was an unmistakable hint of fondness for both the man and the elf. "Might as well accept it. We're going with you, laddie."

Aragorn hesitated, his grey eyes distant as his hand lingered on the hilt of Andúril, his fingers curling tightly around the leather-bound grip of the reforged sword. He drew a slow breath, his chest rising as if gathering not only air but resolve. His gaze flicked toward Legolas and Gimli, the faintest trace of vulnerability flashing across his face before his expression hardened once more. With a reluctant nod, Aragorn finally conceded, surrendering to the inevitable.

Without so much as another word, Aragorn turned sharply on his heel - the folds of his cloak sweeping behind him as he began to stride toward the shadowed entrance of the mountain pass. Legolas moved quickly to fall in behind him, her steps light and purposeful. Beside her, Gimli stomped forward with his usual determination - axe held tightly in one hand as he muttered something under his breath about the stubborn madness of men. Further behind still, Maglor trailed silently and though he said nothing, there was a faint tension in the set of his shoulders - as if the air of the cursed mountain pressed more heavily on him than the others.

Gimli glanced up at Legolas with a furrowed brow as he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "That elf follows you like he’s stalking his prey," he muttered, low enough for only her to hear as he nodded subtly toward Maglor. "Do you wish for me to do something about him, lassie?"

Legolas' lips twitched into a faint smile as she turned her gaze toward Maglor who stood some distance away, a look of concern etched into his ancient features as the wind rustled the edges of his dark cloak. "It is fine, Gimli." She said with a soft sigh, "For some unknown reason, Maglor seems to feel grave responsibility for my wellbeing."

Gimlo raised an eyebrow, shooting her a sceptical 'really' look as he studied Maglor's quietly imposing figure. "Strange character," he muttered under his breath.

Legolas turned her attention fully to Gimli. "He means no harm," she assured the dwarf firmly, her tone carrying a quiet sincerity. She hesitated momentarily before continuing, her gaze growing distant as if recalling something from another time. "Besides," she added with a faint smile. "You do not want to find yourself on the wrong side of a son of Fëanor - even the most well-adjusted of them all."

Gimli's bushy brows shot up at that, and he gave her a long look before letting out a low chuckle. "Well," he grumbled, shifting his axe to his other shoulder. "I'll take your word for it."

Aragorn, who had been listening into the exchange with baited exasperation finally spoke, his tone low but commanding. "Stay close," he asserted, grey eyes hardening as they flicked between his three companions. "The Dead do not take kindly to trespassers, even those with just intentions."

And so, with the prospect of the dead in their midst and their future uncertain, they marched onward to the Dark Door. The four figures forming an unlikely procession as their steps carried them ever closer to the shadowed entrance of the mountain pass.

Chapter Text

The air was heavy, dense with an oppressive stillness that seemed to press in from all sides the further they ventured into the Paths of the Dead. Shadows clung to the passage's jagged walls, twisting and shifting in the dim torch light. The stone beneath their feet was uneven, worn smooth in some places as though countless feet had once regularly tread this path, though no living soul had walked it in an age. A bone-deep chill pervaded the air, a coldness that had little to do with the temperature and everything to do with the ancient spirits that lingered around them - restless and unseen. The silences between them grew longer as they moved further into the mountain, as if speaking too loudly might disturb something best left alone. The suffocating quiet the four of them had settled into was broken only by the occasional sound of loose stones tumbling down into unseen crevices.

Every so often, the sound of what might have been faint whispers brushed past their ears - too soft to be understood, but unmistakably agitated.

Legolas walked near the back of their procession, her sharp eyes darting to every shadow and her unease growing with each step. The air felt wrong in there - tainted, warped, almost alive. She gripped her bow tighter, her fingers brushing over the cool wood as though it might offer some measure of protection against the oppressive fear that clung to them all.

Maglor walked just ahead, casting occasional worried glances at her from over his shoulder. Though his expression was calm, his eyes betrayed a not unfound wariness.

Aragorn, who led the group, paused for a moment to study the path ahead. His face was unreadable but his hand never left Andúril's hilt. The sword seemed to gleam faintly, even in the near-total darkness, as if it could sense the corruption that surrounded them.

A sudden gust of cold air swept through the passage, carrying with it a faint, mournful wail that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand. It was as if the mountain itself exhaled, its breath heavy with sorrow and an ancient malice. A cold voice, as distant as the void, followed.

"Who enters my domain?"

The King of the Dead loomed before them, his ghostly form almost ethereal and yet the weight of his presence on the air around them made him almost tangible. His tattered robes billowed like smoke in the windless cavern, and his hollow eyes gleamed with an unnatural light.

Aragorn stepped forth without hesitation, his bearing assured despite the tension in the air. His eyes locked on the King of the Dead with a commanding authority that left no room for doubt. "One who will have your allegiance."

The King of the Dead's laughter was a dry, rasping sound not dissimilar to grinding bones, "The dead do not suffer the living to pass." His spectral form seemed to grow larger, towering over them, his eyes flickering with an ancient resentment. "The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead, and the dead keep it."

"The way is shut." The King of the Dead repeated, his voice hollow and resonant, reverberating through the cavern as though the mountain itself voiced its will through his incorporeal mouth. "Now you must die."

Aragorn remained unphased by the spectre's threats, his tone steady and filled with resolve. He drew Andúril aloft defiantly, "I summon you to fulfill your oath."

The King of the Dead sneered, a flicker of rage crossing his spectral face. "None but the King of Gondor may command me!" His hand rose bitterly, summoning his ghostly warriors - with a shout, the dead surged forward, their eerie wails filling the mountain.

Before any of them could move to reach for their weapons, the King of the Dead swung his cursed blade toward Aragorn. The ranger met the strike with Andúril, the clash of steel ringing throughout the mountain ominously and sending the dead into a whisper of panic.

For a moment, the King of the Dead faltered, surprised by the strength and assurance of the man before him. He recoiled, ghostly eyes narrowing in disbelief.

"That line was broken." His voice was both incredulous and laced with long held indignation.

Aragorn, undeterred, lifted his sword high, his voice steady and firm. "It has been remade."

Legolas stood toward the edge of the group, her sharp gaze fixed on the luminescent figure of the King. The weight of unseen eyes upon her left her feeling unsettled, uneasy. And yet a fire burned steadily within her, she understood the stakes; failure here was not an option.

At her side, Gimli gripped his axe tightly, his knuckles pale against the shaft as his eyes darted toward Legolas, searching her face for any sign of fear. She offered him a quiet look of reassurance, fingers brushing lightly over her bowstrings, though she made no move to draw an arrow just yet.

Her gaze flitted to Maglor who lingered further back in the shadows, his posture deceptively relaxed, though she could tell his keen eyes missed nothing. He made no move to join them, keeping a deliberate distance, as though the burden of the dead's gaze weighed on him harder than he let on.

Her gaze then settled on Aragorn, their eyes meeting in a brief moment of silent understanding. He stood firmly in front of the King, Andúril gleaming faintly against the King of the Dead's own incorporeal sword. With a small nod, Legolas stepped forward, moving carefully to position herself to cover his flank, her instincts attuned to even the dead's slightest movements.

"Fight for us, and regain your honour. What say you?" Aragorn turned to face the King of the Dead once more, his gaze unwavering even under the ghost's scrutiny.

Gimli scowled, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief as he tightened his grip on his axe. "You waste your time, Aragorn! They had no honour in life, and they have none now in death," his voice rang out gruff, laced with impatience as he took a step closer to Aragorn.

Aragorn did not deign Gimli's protests with a response. Instead, he stepped forward and raised Andúril once more, the reforged blade gleaming as if alive with its own purpose and will. His jaw was set firm and his expression a mixture of determination and command - the legacy of his bloodline etched into every single line of his face. "I am Isildur's heir. Fight for me, and I will hold your oaths fulfilled. What say you?"

The dead began to stir, voices rising in a low, dreadful cacophony that threatened to drown the living. Aragorn's voice carried above the spectral hum, demanding to be heard. "You have my word! Fight, and I will release you from this living death! What say you?"

Maglor's expression darkened, a flicker of regret crossing his ancient eyes as he watched the restless spirits seethe - their broken forms caught in the torment of unfulfilled oaths. It was a sight he knew only too well, a curse he had carried for longer than any mortal could comprehend. The weight of unkept promises and the chains of a vow sworn in fire and blood were far from unknown to him. Maglor felt a pang of sympathy - a bitter understanding of what such an oath could demand.

"It is futile Aragorn." Maglor murmured, the faintest tremour of weariness threaded through his words - his voice low, as though he spoke more to himself than anyone else. "They are bound to their dishonour, now and forever."

"Stand, you traitors!" Gimli's voice was sharp with exasperation as he raised his axe in defiant challenge.

The King of the Dead threw back his head and laughed, an eerie hollow laugh - one of despair and mockery. The ground beneath their feet trembled violently in response, cracks snaking across the stone floor as though the mountain itself joined in his cruel mirth.

With a deafening crack, the far doorway burst apart, stone fragments cascading to the ground. From the darkness, an avalanche of skulls spilled out, tumbling and clattering as their pale surfaces glowed faintly in the ghostly green light.

The group froze for a moment, eyes transfixed by the horrifying sight. Maglor’s hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword, though even he seemed momentarily stunned by the unnatural surge. Gimli cursed under his breath, his grip too tightening around his axe as he glanced warily between his companions.

Aragorn, unshaken, turned sharply to the group, his voice cutting through the chaos, "Out!" he barked, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

He caught sight of Legolas lingering a moment too long, her wide eyes fixed on the flowing skulls. "Legolas!" He shouted, urgency lacing his tone, "Run!"

Without question, Legolas obeyed, the alarm in Aragorn's tone cutting through the fear before it could settle fully in her chest. She darted forward, following Gimli's heavy, pounding footsteps close behind.

Maglor lingered a second longer, casting a final, sorrowful look at the advancing spirits before falling into step behind them. The four companions sprinted through the caverns in spite of the wailing voices that followed. The chill of death nipped at their heels, but their oath, their destiny, would not be denied for long.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The group emerged from the oppressive shadow of the mountain, breaths sharp and hurried as if they had held them in all through the passage. The air outside felt like a blessing at first, fresh and untainted by the malice they had left behind. But for Legolas, the relief was short-lived.

The air was thick with the scent of salt, a tangy, unfamiliar breeze that rolled in from the distant sea - carrying with it a feeling of something ancient, of primal longing. She stopped mid-step, her gaze drawn irresistibly to the horizon. Beyond the rolling hills and scattered rocks, the ocean stretched out like a living, breathing force. Its breaking waves caught the light of the setting sun, refracting across the whitewater in a swirl of gold and azure.

Her breath hitched. A sudden ache gripped at her chest, sharp and unrelenting as though the sea itself had reached out and dug its nails into her heart in a cold, unyielding grasp. The piercing cry of distant gulls reached her ears. Each call from the sea-birds struck her like a blunt weapon, she had never heard anything quite like it before and yet it resonated so deeply within her it was as if it had always been there.

The King of the Dead's reluctant conceding to Aragorn's offer barely reached her, little more than a faint echo drowned out by the pounding of her heart and the whispers of the ocean in her fëa. It felt as though the waves themselves were crashing against her fëa, each one breaking it apart bit by bit. She pressed a trembling hand to her stomach, grounding herself as the tide of longing threatened to consume her.

"Legolas?" Maglor's voice came softly at her side, pulling her back from the edge of her thoughts. His ancient gaze followed hers to the horizon, his eyes shadowing with understanding. Though his expression remained steady, his own pain flickered briefly across his face. "It's the sea, isn't it? You've heard the gulls."

She didn't respond at first, her gaze fixed firmly on the horizon. Her lips parted slightly as if to speak, but no words followed. After another beat of silence, the words seemed to fall out of her mouth like a strained breath. "It feels like something inside of me is breaking."

"The sea-longing is not a gentle thing." Though Maglor's presence was a comfort, his words were no such thing - instead, his voice was low and heavy with the weight of his own anguish. "It strikes deep, awakening a part of us that yearns for what lies beyond these shores. It is a pull that never truly fades."

She turned to him, green eyes wide and filled with an agony that made his heart ache. "Why now?" She asked, voice trembling, "Why has it only come to me now, after all this time?"

"It feels as though I'll shatter into pieces if I don't follow it"

"You will not shatter." It might have been the waver in her voice, or the slip in the poised, collected mask she always made sure to maintain, or perhaps the traces of unshed tears in the corner of her eyes. It might have been all three. Maglor wrapped a reassuring arm around her all the same. "You are stronger than this pain, even if it does not feel that way now. The longing is fierce, but it does not command you."

The breeze carried the scent of the sea to her once more, distant traces of the waves weaving through the air as it wrapped around her - an insidious salt-laden caress. The wind rose, teasing loose tendrils of her red curls and plastering them across her face as her hand clenched into a fist at her side. Legolas met his gaze, desperation etched into her features as she pleaded, "How can I live with it? How can I endure this ache? It feels endless, like a wound that will never heal."

Maglor's gaze softened as he took in Legolas in all her distress, tightening his embrace briefly before stepping back to regard her fully. His voice lowered as he attempted to flatten any hint of a waver. "It is a wound of the spirit, but wounds can be borne", he said gently. "I know this pain well, Legolas. I have carried it for many long years myself. I will not lie to you and say it gets easier, but you learn to live with it. And you will not do so alone."

"You feel it too?" Her voice broke, the words catching in her throat as she struggled to breathe through the sudden pressure in her chest. "All the time?"

He nodded slowly, the weight of his admission clear in the lines of his face. "Every waking moment, ever since I cast my silmaril into the ocean."

Legolas' heart tightened at his words, over six-thousand years of this - this torment. She could scarcely comprehend it. She knew of the pain that had followed him since casting away his precious jewel, but she had never imagined suffering like this. She wouldn't wish this upon anyone, not even a kinslayer.

"But it is bearable, because I have learned to find strength in what remains to me. You will find that strength too, penneth." Maglor continued, a rare display of tenderness in the midst of their shared sorrow, an offering of comfort that Legolas couldn’t have been more grateful for.

"But what if I can’t? What if it’s too much?" The longing seeped into her very bones now, a constant presence that gave her no reprieve, no matter how hard she tried to resist it.

"You can," his voice was firm but kind, leaving no room for argument. "Even the mightiest trees in the forest sway in the storm, but they do not fall. You are stronger than you know, Legolas. Let yourself lean on those who love you when you need to. This is not something you can bear alone."

Legolas nodded slowly, though the tremor in her heart remained. She wasn’t certain if she could truly endure this, the way the longing clawed at her spirit and threatened to unravel her. Yet Maglor’s words lingered, a steadying presence amidst the turmoil - a sliver of hope. This pain, though sharp and relentless, was not her whole being. It did not have to define her. There was still strength to be found, still pieces of herself untouched by the sea’s call, waiting to be reclaimed.

Maglor placed a tentative hand over her heart, his voice soft yet certain. "Remember what binds you to this world - your family, your friends, your purpose. These things will anchor you, even when the sea seems to claim your very soul."

Legolas felt the weight of Maglor's words settle within her, the warmth of them wrapping around her like a blanket. For a fleeting moment, it softened the edges of her pain, grounding her in something steady and real. Yet as her hand drifted unconsciously to the gentle curve of her abdomen, she stilled. Her breath caught in her throat, as an even deeper fear took root within her.

"Maglor," she spoke his name as though asking for something more, something she couldn’t put into words.

The question that followed was a quiet whisper, barely audible, but it held the weight of her deepest fear - fear for the fragile life within her. "The baby. Do you think - can my baby feel it too? Does it hurt them as much as it does me?"

Maglor's face softened, the sharp lines of his usually guarded expression melting into something gentler. "I don't know," he said at last, the simple words heavy with a truth he could neither soften nor deny.

Legolas looked at him, searching for answers, reassurance in his expression but all she found was uncertainty. "You don't know? How can you not know?"

Maglor exhaled slowly, his expression darkening in concern. "Few elflings are born in these days, Legolas, and none that I know of to mothers burdened with the sea-longing. I have never seen this before, nor heard of it in any of the stories of old. I cannot give you the answer you seek."

Legolas' breathing grew shallow, panic creeping into her voice as her thoughts turned toward the child growing within her. "But what if it's too much for them? What if they're suffering - in pain because of me?"

Maglor reached out, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. His voice when he spoke again was gentle but firm, as though he were speaking wisdom from the deepest part of his soul. "Does it feel that way, Legolas? Does it feel like your child is in pain?"

Legolas hesitated before she closed her eyes, focusing inward, trying to feel for the small life growing within her. A soft, relieved breath escaped her as she shook her head. Though her voice was quiet it was filled with a tender certainty. "No. No, it doesn’t. I think - I think they're alright. They are so small, so fragile. But they feel safe, calm."

"Then trust in that feeling," Maglor smiled faintly, his voice soothing as he rested his hand gently on her shoulder once more. "The bond between mother and child is strong - stronger than the sea-longing. If your heart tells you they are well, hold on to that."

Legolas nodded, though her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. "I feel so small," her voice cracked, "So lost."

Maglor’s expression softened, his voice unwavering. "You will learn to bear it," Maglor told her, his tone both gentle and resolute. "In the end, we all must find our way with the sea."

His words were soft, a quiet promise that she would find her way, even if the path ahead seemed impossible now.

"You are not alone, Legolas. Remember that."

Before Legolas could find the words to respond, their lull of silence was broken by Gimli's gruff voice - the dwarf's tone rough yet edged with an unmistakable concern that softened it. "You alright lass?" He asked, the deep rumble of his voice pulling her temporarily from the sea-longing's cruel grasp

Legolas turned to him, offering a weak smile, her voice steeling itself as she wiped away any trace of lingering tears. "I'll be fine, Gimli. It's just the sea."

Gimli's brow furrowed, his tone laced with a touch of humour, but the worry still remained beneath. "The sea, eh? Looks to have shaken you badly."

Legolas nodded, her voice steadier now, as though speaking the words aloud made them easier to bear. "It calls me, every fibre of my being, as though it reaches the very depths of my soul, tearing it asunder." She paused, exhaling slowly as her gaze turned resolute. "But I won't let it win."

Gimli's scowl deepened, his voice growing unusually tender. "Aye you'd better not. I've fought beside you through too much just to lose you to some blasted waves."

Legolas' gaze darted affectionately between Gimli and Maglor as her heart settled, "I will not be lost, Gimli." She reassured him, "There is too much still to fight for."

Gimli chuckled, clapping her on the back in his usual rough manner, though his tone betrayed an undeniable endearment. "That's the spirit," he said with a nod. "We’ll keep moving forward, no matter what. And if you feel the sea creeping in too close, you tell me. I’ll take you to the mountains - no seas there."

He allowed his gaze to linger on Legolas for a moment longer before he turned, his voice grim as he gestured toward the distant corsair ships. "Now let’s get to those ships before I change my mind about this whole ‘fighting alongside ghosts business."

Chapter Text

"I don't like this." Gimli muttered, the words not so much spoken as they were grumbled under his breath, "Sailing on a ship crewed by shadows. It’s unnatural."

The Corsair ship cut through the dark waters of the Anduin, its eerie sails rippling in the silent wind and the ship's timbers creaking beneath the weight of its spectral crew. The river itself seemed unnaturally still, its surface barely disturbed by the ship's passage. An early morning mist clung low to the water, curling in ghostly tendrils around the hull. On the western bank, the rolling hills of Gondor lay cloaked in shadow, the landscape was subdued, as if holding its breath before the storm of war.

Gimli stood near the ship's railing, gripping it with both hands, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he surveyed the deck. The ethereal forms of the Dead moved like wraiths, their faces blank and unfeeling. He cast an uneasy look toward Maglor who stood at his side, his lithe and tall frame seemingly untouched by the palpable unease in the air. The elf's dark hair moved slightly in the breeze, though the expression on his face was as still as the river.

Maglor's gaze shifted toward him at the dwarf's words, feeling the weight of Gimli's eyes upon him. His features were unreadable as ever, and yet there was a flicker of something - perhaps a shadow of sorrow - beneath his stoic expression. "Unnatural, perhaps," he replied quietly, "But necessary all the same. Would you rather we face the orcs at Gondor without any aid at all?"

Gimli scowled, whether at the thought of the dead or Maglor's words, he couldn't be sure but he was unwilling to voice any further protest all the same. "I didn't say I wouldn’t do it," Gimli growled. "I'll fight beside the dead if I must, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. At least I can trust you lot to bleed if things go wrong."

Maglor let out an empty chuckle followed by a soft sigh, as if the weight of millennia pressed down against him once more, tearing him from any sense of levity. His old eyes flitted briefly toward the far side of the ship, where Aragorn and Legolas stood in quiet conversation. He could tell Aragorn’s demeanor was tempered by an undercurrent of warmth as he spoke, hands gesturing gently as though he sought to reassure Legolas - who appeared tense, but no less attentive to his words.

"They are the remnants of a broken oath, Master Dwarf. That wound festers even in death. Their presence is not meant to bring comfort." Maglor's gaze returned to Gimli, his voice low and sorrowful as he spoke.

"Aye," Gimli muttered, tone edged with bitterness and a touch of accusation. "And you’d know by all accounts."

Maglor's face hardened slightly, but he did not rise to the challenge. "So would you, master Gimli, if you had carried the weight of such a burden for as long as I have." He countered softly, the words laced with resignation. His voice was as steady as the Anduin beneath them, though there was a heaviness to it, as though the millennia-old burden weighed on him more than he could bear.

Gimli grunted, crossing his arms and eyeing the elf with a combination of suspicion and reluctant understanding. "So it's true then? The tales of that oath of yours, of what you and your brothers did to keep it."

Maglor's eyes grew distant, even the ethereal light of the two trees within them seeming to dim. For a moment, it appeared as though he was lost entirely in memories of long-past tragedies. His voice when he spoke, came out as a soft, haunting murmur. "Every word of it. Though I fear no amount of songs and stories can ever hope to capture the full weight of what we did, of what it cost us. We swore to recover the silmarils at any cost, no matter the price, no matter who stood in our way. And it consumed us absolutely."

Gimli’s jaw tightened and his brow furrowed in thought. His voice was quieter this time, as though he wasn’t quite sure what he expected Maglor to say in return. There was no anger in his words, only the hard edge of a man who had heard many tales of death and loss, who had seen too much of the same in his own time. "Aye, I’ve heard the tales. Kinslayings, betrayals, all for a handful of jewels."

Maglor's eyes flickered with a pain so old, so vast it seemed to pulse in the very air around them. His voice was tinged with an ancient sorrow and regret as he lamented, "Not just jewels. They were infused with the light of the Two Trees, the last remnant of a purity that Morgoth sought to extinguish. But we - my brothers and I - in our obsession, our pride, turned even that light into a curse. The oath devoured everything - our honour, our people, our family."

He fell silent for a moment, his dark eyes drifting past the Dwarf and across the deck. His gaze landed again upon Legolas at the far side of the ship. Maglor's keen eyes studied her, noting the slight, unconscious clenching of her hands at her sides. The way her shoulders, though held high with the poise of an experienced warrior, seemed just a fraction too stiff. Aragorn, for his part, appeared calm, speaking with the steady confidence of a man accustomed to carrying the weight of many lives on his shoulders. Yet even his steady presence did little to soften the tension etched into Legolas' frame. Maglor's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, a faint flicker of something indefinable crossing his demeanour, before with a slow exhale he turned back to Gimli.

"It is why, for all Legolas and I are civil, there is a shadow that lingers between us," he continued, his voice quiet, withdrawn, as though confessing his greatest of shames. "Sometimes, when she looks at me, I see it in her eyes - a flicker of hatred, of disdain. Her father was there, in Doriath, when my brothers and I brought ruin upon it. He was but a child then, but even a child could not escape the horror of what we did. Thranduil was lucky, fortunate to escape with his life. So many others were not."

Gimli's eyes narrowed at him in incredulity as he leant more of his weight against the ship’s railings, his voice a low rumble that cut through the eerie quiet of the Dead’s spectral presence. "Then why follow her? Why put yourself at her side, knowing she has every reason to hate you?"

Maglor did not deign him with an answer immediately, as if the Dwarf’s question was one he could not - or would not - answer so readily. Instead, his gaze once more strayed toward Legolas. Maglor’s eyes lingered on her, his expression inscrutable but tinged with something deeper - a shadow of emotion so precisely contained it could not quite be named. It was not guilt alone that softened his gaze, though guilt was undoubtedly there. No, it was something heavier, more complex, that tightened his features and silenced his tongue.

Gimli, unwilling to let the silence stretch further, pressed on, his tone sharper this time. "Following her into a realm where not even her husband would tread. That's no small thing. And I don't believe it's just guilt for old sins driving you."

Maglor's gaze drifted back to Gimli, his expression calm despite the tinge of melancholy that seemed etched into his very being. "Elrohir would follow Legolas to the ends of Arda if she asked it of him." He said softly, his voice carrying an undeniable certainty. "Of that, I have no doubt. But he is, at heart, a soldier - just as much as she is - and not one to defy orders."

Gimli frowned, but did not move to interrupt, his thick brows knitting together as he waited for the elf to continue.

"He trusts in her strength, her skill, her resolve," Maglor went on, his voice steady but filled with a quiet respect for the son of Elrond. "It is not a lack of love or care that keeps him from her side - it is the deepest of respect for who she is."

Gimli gave a grunt, though it was difficult to tell whether it was one of agreement or scepticism. He folded his arms across his broad chest, fixing Maglor with a firm gaze. "That's all well and good, but you're not answering my question, Elf. Why her? What's the connection?"

For a moment, Maglor hesitated, his ageless features betraying a flicker of something raw, something unguarded. He inhaled deeply, the hum of the dead, and the gentle stir of the river filling the brief silence before he spoke again.

"It is not guilt alone, no." He admitted at last, his voice quiet and yet laden with reluctant earnestness. "But Legolas reminds me of something I thought I had lost long ago - a spark of light in a world that has grown so dim."

Maglor paused, his eyes lowering briefly, as though searching for the right words. "I cannot change the past, master dwarf." Maglor continued, his voice softening, "But I can strive to protect what remains."

"Perhaps this is my way of atonement for what I could not save."

Gimli's eyes flicked from Maglor to Legolas, and back again. For a moment, the dwarf seemed to wrestle with the complexity of their relationship. He settled with a grunt that accompanied his firm voice. "Atonement is all well and good, but Legolas isn't some broken shard of the past for you to fix. She's my friend, and I don't take kindly to people playing at motives where she’s concerned."

Maglor inclined his head, a faint but genuine look of respect passing between them. "Nor do I. My reasons for protecting her are not a game, master dwarf. I would give my life for her if it came to that."

His words hung in the air between them, and for once, Gimli did not reply immediately. He studied the elf before him, his stern gaze softened ever so slightly by a grudging understanding

Though his eyes remained stern, there was an underlying warmth in Gimli's voice. "You care for her."

Maglor's gaze softened as well, his words curt but filled with a depth that spoke all he needed. "I do."

Gimli nodded once, his expression growing serious. "Good, because if you hurt her - or give her any reason to regret trusting you - you'll have to answer to me. And I doubt even your mighty oath of Fëanor is preparation enough for a dwarf’s wrath."

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Maglor's lips, even though his eyes remained solemn. "Your loyalty to her is admirable, master dwarf. She is fortunate to have such a steadfast friend."

Maglor’s smile lingered for a moment, before his gaze drifted again toward the restless, incorporeal forms of the Dead manning the vessel. The elf’s expression grew contemplative, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, though Gimli’s proud presence at his side kept him grounded. For a while, neither spoke, the silence stretching between them as Gimli’s eyes followed Maglor’s line of sight, narrowing as they settled on the ghostly figures. Their translucent forms moved with an eerie fluidity, bound not by mortal laws but by something far older, far more implacable. The dwarf’s brow furrowed, and his grip on the railing tightened.

"And what of this oath then?" Gimli inquired warily. "The Dead, bound to Aragorn by the promises they made to his ancestor. Do you think they'll find peace when this is done?"

Maglor's expression remained thoughtful and distant, as though his mind wandered far beyond the deck of the corsair ship. "I hope they will," he said at last, his voice low and measured. "Oaths, once sworn, cannot be undone. They bind tighter than iron, and their weight only grows heavier with time. But theirs was a promise of aid, made in good faith - a pledge to defend their people, to fight for what was right."

"Mine," he added, voice darkening, "Was a vow of vengeance, forged in fire and fury. Perhaps that will make the difference."

Gimli studied the elf’s face, his brow furrowed as he considered the weight behind Maglor’s words. There was a grimness there, an understanding that ran deeper than the the elf cared to admit.

"And you, master elf?" Gimli asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with an odd note of curiosity. "Reckon you’ll ever find peace?"

"I do not know." Maglor admitted, the words heavy with the weariness of all the long ages of this world. "My doom was sealed long ago, and yet the sea calls to me as it does to Legolas," his voice softened almost wistfully as he continued. "Perhaps one day, I will follow it and know peace again. Or perhaps the weight of my oath will follow me even there."

Gimli huffed, his beard twitching as he gave a curt nod. "Aye, well." He began, tone gruff but not unkind as he continued, "Just don’t go swearing any more oaths, eh? We’ve enough of those hanging over this company already."

A smile ghosted across Maglor's tight lips, and a hint of warmth emerged upon his complexion. "A fair warning, master dwarf." He said, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. "One I will endeavor to heed."

Before Gimli could respond, Aragorn's voice rang out across the deck - commanding and sure. "We are nearly there. Prepare yourselves, your moment is near. Gondor stands on the brink of despair. Fulfill your oath, and their salvation will be your freedom."

Even Legolas, now turned her head at Aragorn's words - the sea-longing momentarily baiting as the weight of their purpose pressed upon her once again.

The King of the Dead stepped forward to address Aragorn, his voice a hollow echo. "Lead, and we shall follow."

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The timbers groaned softly as they scraped against the river’s edge, a low, ominous sound that mingled with the distant cries of battle echoing from Pelennor Fields. The crunch of sand and gravel greeted them as the ship pulled ashore.

"Late, as usual! Pirate scum! There's work that needs doing!" A surly voice called out, laced with impatience and disdain. "Come on, ya sea rats! Get off your ships!" The orc barked, though his sneer faltered as the figures emerging from the ships became clear.

Without another word, Aragorn leapt from the ship, his boots sinking briefly into the sand before he strode forward. Legolas followed in his wake, her movements fluid and purposeful, eyes scanning the fields ahead. Maglor descended next, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Finally, Gimli clambered down with a grunt, hefting his axe onto his shoulder as his boots kicked up dirt upon landing.

The battlefield stretched before them, a grim parade of chaos and bloodshed. Orcs swarmed the plain, their guttural cries blending with the clang of steel and the screams of the soon to be dead. Fires burned in scattered patches, like malign beacons basking in the destruction. Beyond it all, the White City loomed in the distance, its towers barely visible through the haze of smoke and flame.

Gimli's eyes lit up as he surveyed the scene. "There are plenty for the both of us!" He called to Legolas, already gripping his axe with anticipation. "May the best dwarf win!"

Legolas gave him a fond smile, but her attention was already shifting to the nearest cluster of orcs. Without hesitating, she drew her bow, loosing an arrow at the group. Her next two arrows followed in quick succession, felling another pair of enemies.

"Five, six." She counted far calmer than the situation demanded. "You are already falling behind, Gimli."

Gimli let out a hearty laugh, swinging his axe as he barreled toward the fray. "Seven! Eight!" He shouted, his weapon cleaving through the chest of an unsuspecting orc. He cast a glance back at Legolas, his grim undimmed. "Don't get comfortable, Lass. I'm catching up!"

As they descended further into the battlefield, the ghostly army began to spill from the ships behind them. The dead moved silently, their spectral forms gliding across the ground with an undeterred purpose. The orcs faltered as the Dead surged forward in their droves, vacant eyes fixed on their enemies with a chilling intensity.

Gimli swung his axe with relentless fervour, grunting with each foe he dispatched. "Nine!" He called, his voice cutting through the chaos to reach Legolas.

Legolas darted between the orcs, her dagger flashing as she struck down one, then another; her movements unsettlingly graceful and her strikes ever precise. "Eleven, Twelve." Her tone remained light, though there was an edge of challenge in her gaze, "You were saying, Gimli?"

The tide of the battle began to shift in their favour as the dead swarmed the field, their incorporeal forms unrelenting as they cut through the orcs like a flood. Aragorn fought at the forefront, Andúril blazing as it hewed through the enemy ranks.

Maglor moved like a shadow not far from Legolas' side, his blade singing as it struck down his foes with an elegance that belied its deadly purpose and betrayed the dark haired Noldor undoubtedly, as one of the scattered survivors of the First Age. Legolas could only be grateful it wasn't Maglor she was competing against as she watched him saunter across the battlefield, kill what could only be a dozen orcs in less than two minutes, and still come away breathing evenly.

Gimli was entirely undeterred despite the way he panted, and he shot Legolas a smug glance as he downed another orc. "Oh, I’ve plenty more where that came from!"

Legolas' laughter rang out clear despite the carnage surrounding them, "We shall see, master dwarf. We shall see."

The orc captain roared from the rear, his voice straining as he attempted to rally his faltering troops. "Hold the line! They cannot-"

The captain's command was cut short as Legolas' arrow struck him firmly through the throat. She lowered her bow with a faint smile, "Fifteen."

"Fifteen?" Gimli bellowed in mock outrage, though the content look in his eye betrayed him as he swung his axe into another orc. "I myself am sitting pretty on seventeen!

Legolas tilted her head slightly, expression remaining unruffled even as she lunged forward - her knives dispatching two more orcs in swift succession. "Not anymore," she told him coolly.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The dead had kept their oath, and the White City would see another dawn.

The battlefield lay in a fraught silence. The metallic stench of blood and smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the fey chill left in the wake of the army of the Dead. At the helm of the quiet ruckus, the King of the Dead stepped forth, his translucent form seeming to shimmer faintly with every step. His hollow eyes locked onto Aragorn's, filled with an ancient longing, one that had endured when all else faltered. Behind him, the spectral army stood motionless with bated breath - though their purpose had been fulfilled and their word stuck to, their fate remained undecided.

The King's voice echoed, low and resonant across the front. "Release us."

Stood nearby, Gimli tightened his grip on his axe, his stout frame bristling under the tension. "Bad idea," he grumbled as he cast a wary glance at Aragorn. "Very handy in a tight spot, these lads. Despite the fact they're dead."

The King of the Dead's incorporeal form seemed to harden, his spectral features etched with outrage, "You gave us your word!"

Aragorn stepped forward, meeting the ghostly monarch's unyielding gaze with one of equal intensity. His voice rang out steady and authoritative, "I hold your oath fulfilled. Gondor stands because of your courage and honour." His tone softened as he continued, though his conviction did not falter, "Go, be at peace."

For a terse moment, silence prevailed as the King of the Dead stood motionless, as though Aragorn’s words needed time to sink into the depths of his soul. Slowly, he bowed his head in what could only be described as relief, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his spectral mouth.

The air shifted around him and with a soft, rising breeze, his form began to dissipate.

The Dead followed their King, vanishing one by one as their ghostly forms faded into the wind. Their shackles of unfulfilled oaths finally broken, leaving behind only the faintest traces of their presence.

Legolas' gaze lingered upon the place where the Dead had only moments before stood, her expression thoughtful, almost melancholic. Her voice, when it came, was quiet and carried an edge of sorrow. "It is a strange thing to see such power vanish so quietly. They were an unnatural weight upon this world, and yet now their absence feels... hollow."

"Aye." Gimli agreed from her side, joining her in vigil, his tone gruff but entirely sincere. "But they did their duty, and that's what matters. Still, I won’t miss their ghostly eyes staring through me." He gave an exaggerated shudder, though the tension in his shoulders eased.

The silence stretched for a moment longer before Gimli turned his head toward Legolas, a mischievous tinge in his eyes despite the battle’s toll. "What's the final tally then, lass?"

Legolas shifted her gaze to him, arching an eyebrow slightly in amusement. "Thirty-five," she replied, her voice calm as though it was simply a mundane errand she was recounting.

"Thirty-five?" Gimli sputtered, his mouth falling open in mock outrage. "Cheating with that bow again, are you?"

"Only using the tools I was given, Gimli." Legolas countered smoothly, her tone light but with an unmistakable edge of teasing.

Before Gimli could mount a rebuttal, Aragorn’s voice cut through their exchange, calm but commanding as it rang out. "Come, my friends," he said, gaze fixed ahead on the silhouette of Minas Tirith. "Gondor awaits."

Chapter Text

The White City was a mess of equal measures triumph and tragedy. The air still carried the acrid bite of smoke from the fires that had ravaged parts of the city during the siege, and the saturated smell of blood mingled indiscriminately with the cries of the injured. Soldiers moved among the wounded, many limping through the streets whilst others cleared the bodies of the dead. Healers moved with purpose, their faces set with grim determination as they carried men of Rohan and Gondor alike to the Halls of Healing. Though the city had survived, it bore its scars - and so did its people.

Legolas moved swiftly through the chaos, her heart pounded against her ribs as her sharp eyes scanned every face she passed, searching desperately. She knew Elrohir had ridden with the Rohirrim into the heart of the battle and yet even though she had scoured for him in the field afterward - she caught no sign of him. Every body she passed, every still and lifeless form, twisted her stomach into tighter knots. She forced herself to look at them, to search for his face even as her heart begged her to turn away.

The fear that had gripped her was a cold, unrelenting thing, coiling around her chest and squeezing until it was difficult to breathe. It gnawed at her with every step she took through the streets, refusing to loosen its hold. She knew Elrohir was a skilled warrior, one whose blades had felled countless enemies without so much as even breaking a sweat, but she knew well that even the greatest warriors could fall.

She had seen Elladan amidst the fray - weary but alive - his twin blades and armour still streaked with orc blood. He had assured her that Elrohir was unharmed, but even his words had not quite managed to quell her fears. Not until she saw him for herself, whole and alive, would she believe it.

Her stride quickened, hands clenching at her sides as she approached the Halls of Healing. If he was alive, if Elladan was right and he had survived, she was certain he would be there. He would have sought out the wounded, lending his strength and aid to those in need. It was who he was - steady, selfless, even in the face of despair. The great stone doors were open, and the sound of soft weeping and murmured prayers drifted out into the street. She hesitated only a moment before pushing inside.

Then, as she rounded a corner, she saw him - stepping out of one of the inner rooms, his dark hair slightly disheveled, and his armour streaked with blood. For a moment, she froze, her breath catching in her throat. Relief and disbelief warred within her, leaving her momentarily stunned.

"Elrohir!" She called, the name tumbling out of her mouth as easy as breathing.

He turned sharply at the sound of her voice, his eyes widening in surprise. A smile broke out across his face but before he could say a word, she was there, throwing her arms around him. Her momentum carried him back a step, but his arms came up instinctively to catch her. She pressed her face against his chest, fingers gripping the edges of his tunic as if to anchor herself.

"You’re alive!" Her voice was muffled against his chest, trembling with emotion and an indescribable sense of comfort washed over her as she settled into the familiarity of his embrace. "I thought - when I did not see you - I thought I had lost you."

Elrohir rested his chin gently against her hair, his arms tightening around her. "And I feared the same for you," he murmured, voice low and soothing. "But look, meleth. We are both here, still standing."

Legolas pulled back slightly, her hands moving to his shoulders as she looked up at him. Her green eyes glistened with unshed tears as they roamed over his blood splattered face and down to his bloodied armour. "But you are hurt - you're covered in blood," she observed, voice edged with panic.

He shook his head defiantly, reaching up to gently cup her face with both hands. "Not mine," he assured her. "It belongs to others. I am unscathed, I promise you."

Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she moved to place them over his relief palpable. "And you, you're unharmed too?" Elrohir asked, his gaze searching hers intently.

"Aye," Legolas nodded, her voice steadier now. "Not a scratch on me."

"That I can believe," a faint smile tugged at the corner of Elrohir's lips, a gentle spark of humour returning to his eyes. "You look as fierce as ever, meleth. It’s hard to tell whether I should be worried for the orcs or for you."

Despite herself, a small laugh escaped her lips though her tone remained firm. "Worried? About me? Hardly. You should be more concerned for yourself, charging into the fray without thought."

Elrohir raised a brow, his tone teasing but edged with sincerity all the same. "Without thought? Need I remind you that I survived it. The same cannot be said for every warrior on that field."

"I'm serious, Elrohir." Her expression softened slightly, but her concern did not waver.

Elrohir nodded, his gaze steady as he met hers. "I am here," he asserted, firm but not unkind. "I would not leave you, not now. Not ever."

Her lips parted, as if to respond, but she found herself hesitating. Instead, her gaze dropped, lingering for a moment on the swell of her abdomen - the outline barely noticeable beneath her tunic.

Elrohir followed her gaze, an understanding dawning in his eyes.

"I cannot lose you, Elrohir." She said at last with a trembling voice, "Not when-"

He interrupted before she could finish, placing his own hand gently against her stomach. "You won’t." Elrohir told her, his tone steady and sure with no room left for debate. "But you, Legolas. If there was ever a moment to let another bear the weight of battle, it is now."

Her jaw tightened, gaze snapping firmly back to him. "You know I can't do that."

Elrohir sighed, voice tinged with a mixture of both exasperation and admiration, "I know." He took a step closer, hand skills from her abdomen to her shoulder, "But if you cannot stand back, then promise me this - you will let me fight beside you. I will not let you face what lies ahead alone, meleth. Not this time."

She wavered for a second before nodding, her expression softening as she placed her hand over his. "I can manage that."

He smiled faintly, relief flickering in his eyes. "Come," he said, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. "There is still much to be done."

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

Sunlight filtered through the high, arched windows. Its pale rays illuminated the cold stone floor, catching on the white tree banners that hung solemnly along the walls.

At the head of the council stood Aragorn, the rightful king of Gondor, though he had yet to claim his throne. His face was lined with exhaustion, the toll of their journey and the battle evident in the shadows beneath his eyes. Yet even in spite of the weight of responsibility pressing down upon his shoulders, his presence remained steady, commanding.

To his right was Gandalf, the wizard’s white robes pristine in stark contrast to the bloodied armour of those around him. His piercing eyes scanned the room, sharp and discerning as he prepared to guide the free peoples of Middle-Earth toward their next move. Beside him, Imrahil and Éomer - in his newly inherited position as King of Rohan. Éomer leaned cautiously on the hilt of his sword, his jaw set in grim determination and his golden hair still tangled and matted in blood from the battle.

Legolas lingered near the edge of the gathering, her lithe frame tense beneath her battle worn attire. Though she had discarded her armour, she still bore her twin knives at her hips and her bow slung across her back. Her red curls, now tied into a loose braid, caught the sunlight, highlighting the flecks of blood that still coated her tresses.

Elladan and Elrohir stood together close to her side, their near identical faces bearing the same grim resolve. Clad in armour still battered from battle, their dark hair framing their fair features. Elrohir's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, his keen eyes narrowed in anticipation. Whilst Elladan's fingers drummed softly against his arm, betraying the restless energy simmering beneath his composed exterior. Further back still lingered Maglor Fëanorian, his tall frame and quiet demeanor giving him an air of shadowed authority, even amongst kings. Though his stormy eyes told of eons of grief and hardship.

On the far side of the hall, Gimli had claimed the steward’s throne, his sturdy frame slouched with a deliberate casualness. Smoke curled from his pipe as his sharp eyes took in the gathering. The remnants of battle clung to him as much as the rest of them, but his demeanor carried an air of quiet defiance.

"Frodo has passed beyond my sight." Gandalf began, his voice ladened with regret.

The declaration was met with silence, the weight of the wizard’s words settling over the room like a pall. Gandalf pressed on nonetheless, his tone grim, "The darkness is deepening."

Aragorn took a step forward, his voice ringing out with unwavering conviction, "If Sauron had the ring, we would know it."

"It is only a matter of time." Gandalf replied, his tone fraught and his face etched with worry, "Has suffered defeat, yes. But behind the walls of Mordor, our enemy is regrouping."

Gimli's gruff voice broke the tension as he took a drawn out puff from his pipe. "Let him stay there. Let him rot! Why should we care?"

Gandalf turned sharply, his gaze searing upon the dwarf and when he spoke, the words were filled with reproach. "Because ten thousand orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom." The wizard paused, the faintest tremor in his voice betraying his inner turmoil, "I've sent him to his death."

"No." Aragorn proclaimed, a glint of defiance in his eyes even in spite of the odds. "There is still hope for Frodo. But he needs time, and safe passage across the Plains of Gorgoroth."

"And how," Gimli asked bluntly, "Do you propose we give him that?"

Aragorn straightened, his hand coming to rest firmly on the sword at his side. "We draw out Sauron’s armies. Empty his lands. Then, we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate."

The words, the weight of the proposition sent a ripple of unease through the room. Warriors and leaders alike exchanged wary glances. Gimli muttered something under his breath from where he sat, puffing furiously on his pipe. And Legolas tilted her head slightly where she stood at the edge of the gathering, her eyes narrowing as if she were already calculating the odds Aragorn had laid bare.

The mantle of kingship, newly assumed, seemed heavier now than it ever had before and as he spoke, Éomer folded his arms across his chest. His gaze swept across the gathered company, pausing momentarily on Aragorn. His tone was respectful, but beneath it lingered a cautious scepticism. "We cannot hope to storm the Black Gate with the strength we have left. Even with what remains of Rohan’s forces, we are too few."

"No," Aragorn's expression did not waver, "But we can give Frodo his chance if we keep Sauron’s Eye fixed upon us. Keep him blind to all else that moves."

"A diversion." Gimli muttered, as the realisation dawned upon him.

Legolas - who had until now remained silent - stepped forward, her tone calm but tinged with an edge of dry humour. "Certainty of death, small chance of success, what are we waiting for?"

Gimli let out a deep chuckle at her words, though Aragorn did not share his friend's levity. The ranger's gaze shifted sharply to Legolas, his expression hardening.

"You will not be among them, Legolas," Aragorn said, his voice quiet but edged with an authority that left no room for misunderstanding.

The laughter died on Gimli’s lips as he turned to look at his Legolas and a heavy silence fell over the room. Legolas straightened, her brow furrowing slightly, and she met Aragorn's gaze with the calm defiance of one who had long since stopped cowering to kings.

"That is not your decision to make, Estel." She asserted, her voice soft but resolute with a spark of challenge edging her tone.

"It is when your safety - the safety of the child you carry - is at stake." Aragorn's eyes searched hers, his voice dropping low, switching to sindarin as if to soften the blow. "Or did you think I could not hear you and Maglor at Morthond Vale?"

The atmosphere in the room grew taut, each second stretching uncomfortably. The Men in the room collectively stilled in various stages of surprise or discomfort, unable to grasp the elvish words. Though the shift in tone escaped no one, nor did the knowing glances exchanged between the elves.

Elrohir, who stood silently beside his twin's side, shifted imperceptibly closer to Legolas, his gaze flicking to her abdomen with a protective intensity. Maglor's attention too sharpened, his ever watchful gaze darting warily between Aragorn and Legolas.

Legolas stiffened, her hands curling into loose fists at her sides. She was sick, sick to death of it. Of being treated as though she might shatter beneath the weight of her own weapons. Of being perceived as diminished, rendered incapable, just because she carried child - as if silvan elves hadn't fought throughout their pregnancies for millenia. She knew Aragorn's words were born of care, but was it so wrong for her to believe that care shouldn't come cloaked in chains? She hadn't fought through battlefields drenched in the blood of her enemies, or felled creatures of darkness that would bring lesser warriors to their knees just for a man to dictate where she might stand in this war, what battles she may face.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but her words faltered her and for a moment, she worried her composure would slip entirely. When she did find her voice, it was steady, but the faint tremor of indignation lay beneath her words.

"I have not come this far to stand idly by while others march to the Black Gate,” she said firmly, her tone as sharp and unyielding as the edge of her knives.

Aragorn sighed, his head bowing for a brief moment though he remained adamant. "You risk too much, mellon. This is no ordinary battle. The Black Gate is a death trap, and it is not just your life on the line now."

"I am well aware of what I carry." Legolas countered almost bitterly, her voice quieter now but no less resolute. Her gaze softened for the briefest of moments, flicking toward Elrohir, whose hand had instinctively reached out toward her but stopped short of touching her. "But it does not change my duty. I will not sit here cloistered away whilst Frodo and Sam risk their lives to destroy the Ring."

Aragorn turned to Elrohir, desperation flickering in his eyes. "And you? You would allow this?"

Elrohir stood tall, the quiet authority in his movements drawing all eyes to him. His voice was calm and steady, yet carried an undercurrent of steel. "I do not 'allow' Legolas anything," his eyes shifted to meet his foster brother's gaze directly. "She is my equal, not my subordinate. If she believes she must go, then I will stand beside her."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint creak of Gimli shifting uncomfortably in his chair and Éomer clearing his throat as he exchanged an uneasy glance with Imrahil - even though the words meant nothing to them.

Maglor, standing near the edge of the room, regarded Elrohir with quiet approval, a faint look of respect passing over his ageless face.

Legolas cast Elrohir a brief, grateful glance before she turned back to Aragorn. Her voice was sharp, determined as she spoke. "I will not be caged like some fragile thing. I am not helpless, nor am I yours to command. If I choose to march to the Black Gate, I will do so - with or without your permission."

Gandalf's voice cut through the tension, authoritative and final. "This council was called to decide our course of action, not to debate the personal choices of those among us. Legolas' intentions are quite clear. Now, let us move forward."

Aragorn sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly as he ceded. "I apologise mellon. If you believe you can fight, I shall not stop you."

Though Legolas did not reply, she inclined her head softly in appreciation.

"Sauron will suspect a trap. He will not take the bait." Gandalf proclaimed, turning the discussion back to the broader plan.

Aragorn took a moment to consider his words before his lips curved into a grim smile. "Oh, I think he will."

Chapter Text

Legolas had tried, time and time again, to imagine Mordor. She had conjured every nightmare her mind could meld into shape, every shadowed tale the Eldar told in hushed voices - but none of it, nothing, could compare to the lifeless ruin that stretched before her now. It was a desolation beyond reckoning; a scorched expanse smouldering beneath the ashen sky. The very air around them seemed to be soaked in the scent of decay in a way so utterly abhorrent and twisted, she had to wonder if even death provided an escape for the thralls of the Dark Lord's dominion.

The jagged tower of Barad-dûr loomed before them, impossibly distant yet inescapably near. His eye, ever watching.

The Black Gate seemed almost to taunt the host, the immense construction of iron and stone with its great hinges and age old filth caked upon its bars that covered the crude marks of the orcs who had fashioned it. Such great lengths gone to defend his decrepit land even though he viewed the free peoples of Middle-Earth as little more than an inconvenience. He was toying with them, Sauron, she was certain of it; letting them believe in the illusion of hope just long enough to take pleasure in shattering it.

Legolas had fought many battles in her years, but none in a place so barren as this. There was no forest here to shield her, no whispering boughs guiding her or even so much as a patch of grass to steady her spirit. There was only rock and ruin, the remnants of something that had once lived and had long since been erased. No, Mordor was a land stripped bare of all but malice, and in its midst she felt exposed like nothing before. She could only hope that her child remained oblivious to the encompassing darkness, safe and untouched within her. The elfling's fëa felt as it should, but she knew better than to let her guard down in the great deceiver's own dominion.

From behind, she felt Gimli tighten his grip around her waist - whether to reassure her or himself, she couldn't be sure but she was grateful for it all the same.

She curled her fingers around her bow, grounding herself as her gaze drifted forward to Elrohir who rode just ahead with his twin. The Peredhel's dark hair, loose and unbraided, whipped in the foul wind. If she were a better elf, she might have admonished Elrohir for going into battle in such a state. Being that she wasn't, she had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing as Elladan made a visible effort not to flinch when strands of his brother’s hair lashed across his face.

Elrohir did not speak, but she knew his mind as well as her own. Their bond was such that words were often unnecessary; she could feel his unease in the way his fingers tightened on the reins, in the slight tension of his jaw. And yet, she could also tell what he was doing, what he always did - trying to alleviate Elladan and Legolas' worries by taking them upon himself. Doing exactly what he knew would give his twin and wife levity even in such dismal circumstances.

She loved him for it.

Maglor rode at her and Gimli's side, protective as ever. His dark hair - unlike Elrohir's - was bound back from his face, but the wind still toyed with the few loose strands, catching them in the delicate embroidery of his cloak. If he felt anything at the sight of Sauron’s gates, he did not show it. Though of course Maglor was impossibly old; he had seen ages come and go, had fought battles before the world was even shaped as it is now. He had stood against Sauron’s master for centuries - what was the servant in comparison?

At the helm of the host, Aragorn reigned in his horse and lifted his sword, halting them before the colossal gates. He bore the mantle of a king now, a far cry from the little Estel they had once known. Though the Enemy’s land sought to break all hope, Aragorn's presence was a steady flame against the encroaching dark. He was already every bit the king they had known he would become. Aragorn turned his gaze upon the gate and spoke, his command carrying unyielding across the barren waste. "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Let justice be done upon him!"

For a long moment, no answer came. Then, after several beats of silence, came the deep rumble of chains and the grinding of iron as the gates of Mordor began to creak open. Achingly slowly, and with a weight that seemed to reverberate through the earth itself, the gates parted to reveal a single rider.

Clad in dark armour and cloaked in malice, the Mouth of Sauron emerged from within the darkness, mounted upon a black steed. His twisted face, half-hidden beneath his helm was a grotesque mockery of what had once been fair with his mouth stretched into a cruel and unnatural grin.

He stopped his steed just beyond the line of assembled captains and kings, his voice cold and biting as he spoke. "My master, Sauron the Great, bids you welcome. Is there any in this rout with the authority to treat with me?"

Gandalf rode forth to the host's front line, his staff in hand, its faint light a dwindling defiance against Sauron's all encompassing shadow. The wizard's voice, when he spoke, was calm and yet utterly unyielding. "We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed. Tell your master this: the armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return."

The Mouth of Sauron chuckled, a low, grating sound that sent a ripple of unease through the assembled soldiers. "Old Greybeard," he sneered in recognition as he reached beneath his cloak, "I have a token I was bidden to show thee."

With deliberate slowness, the Mouth of Sauron lifted his hand, theatrical in his movements as he savoured their unease. Held between his long, blackened fingers, a small object gleamed even in spite of Mordor's dim light - a shirt of Mithril, impossibly fine and undeniably Frodo's.

A collective breath caught in the throats of those who beheld it, of those who knew. Gasps rippled through the ranks, a murmur of disbelief spreading like a cold wind among them.

"Frodo." Pippin whispered, his voice barely audible above his despair.

"Silence." Gandalf commanded sharply, the urgency in his tone leaving no room for sympathy, his eyes never leaving the Mouth of Sauron.

"No!" Merry cried out, unable to restrain his anguish, but he too was silenced by another forceful command for silence from the wizard.

The Mouth of Sauron grinned, the ruined flesh of his lips curling into a malformed smile, his jagged teeth gleaming as he relished in their pain. "The halfling was dear to thee, I see. Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host. Who would've thought one so small could endure so much pain? And he did, Gandalf. He did."

As the Mouth of Sauron's cruel words settled in the air, the world around Maglor dimmed - swallowed by a darkness that was not merely shadow, no, something deeper, older entirely. Familiar. Another voice, colder and more intimate, poured into his mind.

"Makalaurë Fëanorian. Kánafinwë. Did you think I had forgotten you? Did you think I would not feel your presence, even after all this time?"

Maglor stiffened, his breath hitching in his throat. He had known - of course he had known - that standing at the foot of Sauron's domain, so close to the Enemy’s grasp was a risk given their sordid history. But he had not expected Sauron's awareness to reach him so swiftly, so directly. He had thought - perhaps foolishly in hindsight - that he would be little more than another soldier in the host, another blade in the tide. And yet Sauron had felt him. Not just that, he loathed him. Even now, after all these ages. Not even all the worldly horrors he had subjected to sweet Tyelpë had been enough for him, Gorthaur's hatred for the Fëanorians still hadn't been sated.

A touch, gentle and real, pressed against his arm. "What is it?" Legolas' voice, quiet and concerned, pulled him from his spiral. She had felt something shift in him, though he couldn't place quite how.

He forced himself to breathe, to shake off the echoes of Sauron's foul voice. But before he could give Legolas her answer, another voice sliced through the thick air.

"Ah, the last pitiful son of Fëanor."

The Mouth of Sauron grinned from where he sat astride his monstrous steed; his cracked lips stretched too wide over his rotting teeth in a cruel sneer. His voice was steeped in mockery, each word dripping with derision.

"Hiding amongst mortals are we?"

The company turned to Maglor, confusion and alarm flickering on their faces. Aragorn shot him a questioning look, but Maglor’s gaze was too firmly locked on the Mouth of Sauron to take notice.

Legolas' hand tensed against Maglor’s arm, but she too said nothing.

"How unexpected," the Mouth of Sauron continued. Maglor would have called his tone gleeful, if he thought the corrupted herald capable of such a thing. "My master felt your wretched song long before we saw you. How well my master remembers you and your brothers. You, who would burn the world for trinkets. You, who failed to keep even what you swore to protect."

Maglor's hands, ever steady in battle - steady even when the silmaril he clutched near burnt through his palm - now curled into fists. The air around him felt heavy, thick with something unseen that clawed at his very fëa. The Mouth of Sauron saw and pressed on in delight.

"Oh yes, my master remembers your brothers well - he always had a soft spot for proud, defiant Maitimo."

Maglor inhaled sharply, a breath that barely made it past the sudden tightness in his chest as his vision started to blur.

"My master delights in the memory of him - broken upon Thangorodrim, dangling by a single wrist from the precipice for thirty years of sweet agony. Thirty years, Makalaurë. Do you recall the sound of his screams? My master does. They echoed through the mountains, a song of suffering that pleased him greatly."

Maglor tightened his grip on the reins, his knuckles white. He knew the weight of his own guilt well, but in this place, before this creature, it was as though the wound had been ripped open anew.

The Mouth of Sauron's gaze did not once leave him, his head tilted, lips twisted into something akin to pleasure. He knew. He could see it.

The hand on his arm tightened, pulling him back. Maglor barely heard Legolas murmur something under her breath, something soothing, but distant - so very distant.

"Do you remember how he begged, Maglor?" The Mouth of Sauron's voice was relentless, pressing into him like a dagger against his ribs. "How his pride crumbled under the weight of despair? He pleaded - not for rescue, no, but for death, sweet release from the torment. And even that was denied to him when your valiant cousin brought him back a mere shell. Your brother’s agony was exquisite, prolonged, and unending - just as my master intended."

The battlefield blurred, the present moment slipping away as something older, something terrible clawed its way to the surface. Maglor almost wished it had been Sauron assailing his mind with twisted visions rather than face the very real memories of his past. Images of the husk Nelyo had been when Fingon first returned him to them flashed before his eyes, inescapable.

His brother's body, once strong, had been whittled down to little more than bone and sinew - his skin stretched too tightly over the frame of his face, gaunt and hollow. Layer upon layer of dried blood had crusted his lips, the skin cracked from thirst. Dark bruises had bloomed along his arms, the shades of black and purple stark against the pallor of his flesh. What remained of his right arm was raw, fresh, brutal where Fingon had severed it. The flesh around the stump of his wrist was blackened, twisted - burned, as though the very act of taking it had been an afterthought, in a desperate bid to free him.

But who was he to judge the execution of the rescue, at least Fingon had tried.

"And where were you, Maglor?" The Mouth of Sauron's sadistic grin stretched wider, "Where was the loyal brother?"

Maglor did not move, did not speak.

"You left him there to rot, to suffer beyond imagination for thirty years. You failed him." The words felt like hands around his throat, suffocating him. "Tell me, does his ghost haunt you still? Does the sound of his cries echo in your mind when all else falls silent? My master thinks it does, and oh, how it amuses him."

Maglor's breath came in short, shallow draws. He knew the Mouth of Sauron's words for what they were - poison, cruelty sharpened to a fine edge, meant to wound, to break. But Maglor had known grief and guilt far longer than this creature had known breath.

"You speak as though you understand grief." Maglor eventually spoke, his voice low but unshaken. "You know nothing of it. You revel in pain and call it power but your dominion is built on lies, and your cruelty shall be your undoing."

Maglor continued, all but spitting the scorn. "You are no more than Morgoth's thrall lieutenant, a wretched remnant of your master. You are not Morgoth - you never were and you never shall be - and when this day ends, you shall not even be a memory."

The Mouth of Sauron let out a rasping chuckle, just the sound of it making Maglor's skin crawl. "Brave words from one so broken." The Mouth's voice echoed his master's malice, "My master will enjoy teaching you the true meaning of despair."

Beside him, Legolas shifted in her saddle. The movement was only slight, but Maglor caught it all the same - the faintest tightening of her grip on her bow, the small lift of her chin.

"Do not listen." She said, her voice little more than a whisper and yet there was steel beneath the quiet as she pleaded. "He seeks only to wound you."

Maglor wanted to tell her that he knew. That no words from this creature could cut deeper than what had already been carved into his fëa. But before he could, the Mouth of Sauron turned his gaze fully upon her, and something flickered across his marred face - interest, amusement, something worse even.

"Ah." He murmured, something insidious slithering into his voice as he flashed his blackened teeth, "And here is something new. A curious attachment, Maglor. My master wonders-"

Maglor felt his own breath still in his chest. His every muscle coiled, and his hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword.

"My master wonders what she might look like strung up as your brother was." The Mouth of Sauron mused, dragging out each word, savouring every syllable, "Left to dangle in agony. Perhaps it would take even longer for her to break. Do you think she would beg as Maedhros did? Or would her screams be sweeter?"

Something in Maglor snapped.

Mordor fell away. The battlefield, the waiting armies, the blackened sky; all of it was gone, none of it mattered. He saw her - Legolas - bound in iron, her body limp and bloodied, suspended high above the spires of Barad-dûr. Her red hair hung in filthy, tangled strands and her delicate hands twisted against cruel shackles as her limbs trembled in exhaustion.

The sheer rage that overtook him was unlike anything he had ever known - even in the madness of the Oath, the blood of Doriath, the flaming ruin of Sirion. His hand shot out before he realised what he was doing, gripping Legolas' arm with such a force that she startled, looking up at him with wide eyes, as did her similarly surprised dwarf.

"Your master will not touch her." Maglor vowed, his voice steeling, raw and sharp with the weight of many millennia behind it.

The Mouth of Sauron hesitated. Maglor did not.

"Nor anyone here." He continued, his words measured and deliberate carrying through the air like the calm before a storm. "His time is over, and all his servants shall fall with him."

A tense silence stretched between them, the air thick with something unspoken and for a fleeting moment, the foul creature seemed to waver.

Maglor exhaled slowly, deliberately. His grip on Legolas loosened, but he did not let go entirely. He would not - could not - leave her unguarded. He straightened in his saddle, and something seemed to shift in the air around him as the full weight of his presence made itself known.

He was no mere soldier standing on the eve of battle, no wandering exile. He was the son of Fëanor - for better or for worse - and the last of the oathbound. He had sung the world into ruin, and he had lived to carry the weight of its consequences. But he was still here. And the darkness that sought to consume him would break before he did.

He had lost too much already, he would not lose her too.

"Return to your pit." Maglor's voice rang clear in the lifeless air, "And tell him his end is near."

The Mouth of Sauron's lips twisted into a perverse sneer at Maglor's assertion, his rotting face contorting with mockery and malice

"You will all suffer." The certainty that laced his words sent a wave of unease through the company. The Mouth of Sauron turned his gaze upon them, letting his words settle, savouring the weight of them. "And your suffering will be remembered long after you are gone. That you have Isildur's heir makes no difference."

His blackened teeth bared in something akin to a smile, "It takes more to make a king than a broken Elvish blade."

The words had barely left his mouth before Aragorn moved.

The strike was swift, merciless. Final. Andúril flashed in the dim light - the sword of Curufin's hand that had once belonged to Elros, and to Maedhros before him - its reforged steel gleaming as it cut through flesh and bone with effortless precision.

The Mouth of Sauron's head tumbled from his shoulders, his ruined lips frozen in one last unnatural sneer. The Herald's body remained upright for a moment, swaying slightly in his saddle before slumping sideways and collapsing into the dust. Black blood seeped into the cracked earth, already steeped in corruption and for a moment no one dared speak. A hush fell over the gathered armies. Even the wind seemed to still, as if it too was holding its breath.

"I guess that concludes negotiations." Gimli exhaled tensely, but Legolas could tell even he struggled to find any levity to grasp a hold of.

Then, from the depths of Mordor, came a sound. A deep, resounding tremor, as if the very land itself had taken notice of what had just transpired. Something far worse was now in motion.

From the great spires of Barad-dûr, not nearly far enough away for Legolas’ liking - watching, waiting - The Eye of Sauron turned.

A wave of nausea crashed over Legolas as its gaze locked onto them - pressing down with a weight so vast, so consuming, it felt like drowning in shadow. A flicker of something cold, unnatural, scraped against the edges of her fëa - searching, seeking. She was powerless against the Enemy’s gaze.

Lingering, burning, reaching, watching.

A sharp pull at her wrist pulled her from her stupor. Maglor. His grip was firm, grounding, pulling her back from the Enemy’s grasp. He did not spare a look at her - his own gaze transfixed upon the dark tower as if he were fighting Sauron in a battle of wills there and then - but his hand remained tight around hers, unyielding.

A deep, grinding groan echoed through the wasteland and the Black Gate began to edge open once again. Maglor released his hold on Legolas to grasp the reins of his horse and steady the mare as the great iron doors shuddered against their rusted hinges - scraping open to reveal the darkness beyond.

Then the horde poured forth

Orcs. Legions upon legions of them, their twisted forms shifting in the dim light, armour clanking as they moved like a flood of rot and ruin. Ranks of them, with their shields locked and spears gleaming. And behind them, darker shapes than even they lurked - creatures far fouler than orcs, creatures that did not belong in the waking world. Wargs paced restlessly, the commands of their riders, akin to snarls and growls that merged into a guttural chorus amidst the cacophony.

A tremor of fear ran through the host of the free peoples of Middle-Earth, though Aragorn spurred his horse forward regardless - raising Andúril high above him in defiance.

"Hold your ground!" His voice rang out, steady as it cut through the din of their approaching doom. "Hold your ground!"

The alliance of men shifted, gripping their weapons tighter. Some whispered soft prayers, while others clenched their jaws tight.

"Sons of Gondor! Of Rohan!" Aragorn’s voice grew, reaching each and every trembling heart among their ranks. "My brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me."

"A day may come when the courage of Men fails," Aragorn continued, steady, unwavering in his conviction. "A day may come when we forsake our friends, and break all bonds of fellowship. But it is not this day."

The men stirred, the flicker of doubt in their eyes hardening into something else entirely - something stronger.

"An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down-"

The orc legion grew closer, their howls of rage and bloodlust filling the air.

"But it is not this day!" Aragorn turned in the saddle, meeting the eyes of his comrades - his friends, his kin, his people. His voice rose fierce and defiant. "This day we fight!"

A roar erupted from the army, voices lifted as one, fear burning away into fury. Swords were drawn, shields raised, bows nocked.

"By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West."

Steel rang as the army readied themselves.

Legolas breathed in sharply, her fingers tightening around her bow. The weight of it was familiar, steadying, but even that comfort could not silence her rampant mind. The horde before them swelled, an endless sea of shadow and steel, yet it was not the enemy responsible for the ache in her chest.

Her free hand drifted, almost without thought, to rest against the growing curve of her abdomen, hidden beneath the layers of her tunic and armour. The elfling within her stirred faintly, a presence warm and real, untouched by the malice and ruin surrounding them. A part of her wanted to weep for them, for this little life that had not yet seen the sunlit leaves of spring, had not yet heard the whispers of the trees or felt the leaves beneath their feet.

She indulged herself briefly, allowing her gaze to flicker to Elrohir. He sat tall in his saddle, Andúril’s gleam reflected in his own drawn sword. His posture was unwavering, his shoulders squared, the very image of an Elven warrior prepared to meet his fate. The wind had once again caught his hair, sweeping strands across his face, but he did not seem to notice. She had never loved him more than in that moment - standing unbowed in the face of despair, his heart beating alongside hers even in silence.

Elrohir's eyes were fixed firmly upon the endless horde before them, but there was a moment - a flicker - where his gaze shifted, seeking her. It was brief, but it was enough.

In that single glance, she felt everything.

She felt his fear - not for himself, but for her. For their children. For the life she still carried, the child yet unborn who knew nothing of this war. Fear of the shadow that loomed above them all. She felt his longing, the desperate ache to turn to her, to reach across the battlefield and shield her from all that threatened to tear their world apart.

And yet, beneath it, there was love. Steady, unbowed love.

It radiated from him as surely as the strength in his sword arm, as surely as the marriage oath he had made to her all those centuries ago beneath Imladris' starlit sky. He was not an elf who spoke of his heart lightly, but she knew it in every glance, in every breath, in the way his fingers curled ever so slightly against the reins, resisting the urge to ride to her side.

She had never feared death before. Not truly. But now, with so much to lose; Elrohir, their son, their daughters. Not to mention the child still nestled within her, and the weight of a life not yet lived pressing against her heart. Fear curled at the edges of her thoughts.

She let out a gentle exhale, forcing the thought from her mind. If this was to be their final battle, if this was to be the last time she beheld him beneath the sky of Middle-Earth, then let it be with love in her heart, not despair.

For all the darkness clawed at them, love was a light even Sauron could not smother.

It was Gimli, ultimately, who drew her attention back from her thoughts. "Never thought I'd die fighting side by side with an elf." He huffed with rare solemnity as he adjusted his grip on his axe.

Legolas turned to him then, her keen eyes searching his face even as the roar of the enemy filled the air around them. With a small, earnest smile, she met his gaze and spoke, her voice softer than the battle cries rising around them but no less assured. "What about side by side with a friend?"

There was no jest in her tone, no lightness to soften the weight of what lay before them. Only truth, raw and unguarded and she meant it with every part of her being.

For a moment, something shifted in Gimli’s face, his eyes crinkling beneath his helm and for a moment Legolas could've sworn she had seen the glint of unshed tears. Then, with a nod as firm as the mountains he hailed from, he grunted his reply. "Aye, I could do that."

Aragorn's gaze swept once more over his gathered host, his eyes lingering for the briefest moment on Legolas and Gimli before he turned forward once more. His expression was solemn and his voice, when it came, was scarcely more than a breath - soft, yet carrying the weight of all that had led them to this final stand.

"For Frodo."

Chapter Text

Golden light filtered through the high arched windows of the Houses of Healing, casting long shafts across the stone floor. The air was filled with the faint scent of crushed athelas and clean linen, soothing and yet tangled with something inextricably heavier - grief, exhaustion, relief even. At first, Frodo felt nothing but a strange weightlessness, a sensation of drifting in and out of darkness. Then, voices, far away but achingly familiar. The sound of soft murmurs, the shuffle of feet, the rustle of robes.

"Frodo?"

A voice came. Deep, warm, impossibly gentle.

Frodo forced his heavy lids open, the sudden light searing against his eyes. His vision swam before him until, slowly, a figure emerged from the haze.

"Gandalf?" Frodo's voice was hoarse, his throat raw, and the name came out barely above a whisper. Though the response was instant.

"Yes, Frodo. It is me." Gandalf smiled, his face etched with a warmth that Frodo had almost forgotten existed entirely. The wizard's eyes were unfetteringly gentle as he regarded the hobbit, "You are safe now."

Safe.

He ran the word over his tongue in disbelief, it felt foreign to him - strange.

Frodo swallowed against the dryness of his throat, half-formed memories taunting him. He searched for the weight that had once rested so heavily around his neck. But there was nothing. No chain, no gold band burning into his skin. Just the dull ache of exhaustion and the sharp memories of fire and darkness. Fragments of his memories began to piece together and Frodo recalled the fire, the weight of the ring in his hand - the voice whispering in his mind. The temptation, the fall and Sam-

"Sam!" The name escaped him in a rasp, laced with a hint of panic as he struggled to sit up.

"Steady, Frodo. Do not push yourself." Gandalf soothed, resting a hand lightly on the hobbit's shoulder, "Sam is here. He is safe, just as you are."

Before Frodo could fully process the wizard’s words, a sudden shuffle of movement to his right caught his attention - a rustle, the sound of breath catching.

"Oh, Mr Frodo!"

The bed dipped slightly as Sam rushed to his side, grasping Frodo's uninjured hand in both his own. Sam's fingers were warm, solid, calloused from their treacherous journey. There was an aching relief in his gardener's brown eyes, shining with unshed tears that threatened to spill over at any moment.

"You're awake!" Sam's voice cracked, thick with emotion, "I was awfully worried, thought I'd lost you for a moment there."

Frodo swallowed, tightening his grip just enough to reassure them both, "You didn’t, Sam." His voice was little more than whisper, but there could be no doubt of the truth in his words. "You never let go."

A quiet laugh of relief escaped Sam, though his eyes remained suspiciously damp. And if he found himself gripping Frodo’s hand a little tighter, no one mentioned it.

A new voice, low and steady, joined them. A hand too, came to rest upon Frodo's brow - cool against his fevered skin.

"You have been through much, Frodo." Aragorn murmured with quiet concern, "Rest easy now."

But Frodo could not rest, not yet. The hollow ache in his chest told him something was still unfinished. A cold emptiness, like a space where something had once been torn away. His fingers twitched, brushing over the linen of his tunic, as if seeking - yet there was nothing to find. He swallowed, his throat tight, and his breath came unevenly as he lifted his gaze, searching the faces around him. Frodo's voice was barely above a whisper when he finally spoke.

"The ring-" The words trembled in the air, fragile and uncertain. He forced himself to continue. "It’s gone, isn't it? It's destroyed?"

For a moment, no one answered.

Gandalf could hear it in Frodo's tone; the fragile optimism, the remnants of a hope scarcely dwelt on for what might come of it. It almost breaks him. The wizard took a moment to collect himself before softly exhaling. His expression shifted - into something akin to pride, tempered with sorrow, and a relief so deep it seemed to weigh upon his very soul.

"It is gone."

Gandalf rested a gentle hand over Frodo’s. "You did it, Frodo. The ring is no more."

The words should have lifted a weight from his heart, should have brought him the peace he had longed for. But instead, a terrible guilt settled in its place, heavy and unrelenting, curling around him like iron chains.

Frodo's fingers tightened against the sheets, his breath catching in his throat. He had done what he set out to do; the ring was gone. Middle-Earth was safe. But it had not been by his will that it was cast into the fire. At the very end, he had failed. He had claimed it.

He had kept it.

Frodo turned his face away, unable to meet their eyes. What would he see there? Gratitude? Admiration? He did not deserve it. He could scarcely bear it.

"I couldn’t do it, Gandalf." Frodo whispered, "At the end, I couldn’t let it go."

Silence met his confession, not the silence of shock, nor of condemnation but something deeper entirely - an understanding too vast to put to words. The truth instead hung between them like something fragile, something raw.

It was Sam's voice who ultimately broke it, fierce and unwavering.

"It doesn’t matter how, Mr Frodo." Sam's brown eyes burnt with conviction, his hands curled into fists as if willing Frodo to understand.

"What matters is that it's gone." Sam continued, his voice thick with care. "You carried it farther than anyone else ever could."

Frodo’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, wanted to protest, but Sam wasn’t finished.

"You saved us all."

There was no doubt in his voice, no hesitation. Only certainty, the kind that only Samwise Gamgee could possess; as unshakable as the roots of the Shire itself. The room seemed to brighten with the warmth of the moment and for the first time, Frodo became aware of the others in the room. The quiet hum of their presence wrapped around him like a reassuring embrace.

At the foot of the bed, Merry and Pippin sat perched, their faces a mix of relief and unrestrained joy. To his right stood Aragorn, tall and steady, his expression softer than Frodo had ever seen, a deep, quiet understanding etched into the lines of his face. Beside him, Gimli stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression gruff yet betrayed by the unmistakable glint of emotion in his deep-set eyes.

But it was the figure lingering by the doorway that truly caught Frodo’s attention. For a moment, he barely recognized them. Legolas - yet not as he had known him.

Legolas' russet hair, free from the warrior’s braids that had marked her as a creature of battle, cascaded down her back in untamed curls. Her features, so often composed, veiled in quiet resolve, seemed somehow different - more open, more vulnerable.

But it was not her face that stilled him. It was her figure: the undeniable curve of her abdomen.

Her hands rested lightly over the swell, fingertips brushing absently against the fabric of her tunic, but she made no move to conceal it. She simply stood, bearing quiet proof of the life she carried within her.

Frodo's mind reeled, stumbling over the memory of their months spent traveling together, the nights spent huddled around a dwindling fire. The elf with the sure hand and sharp eye, the quick tongue and steady voice - the one who had stood between them and death more times than Frodo could count - had never once been the he Frodo had so carelessly assumed.

Had there ever been a moment when she had told them otherwise? Had anyone? Or had they all simply decided for themselves, never thinking to ask?

A flustered heat rose to his face. Whether from shock, embarrassment, or sheer disbelief - he couldn’t say. It felt almost absurd, to be so taken aback by something so simple after all they had been through.

At the foot of the bed, Pippin gaped at the elf, his mouth opening and closing without sound. His hands flailed slightly, as if trying to grasp onto the right words before they slipped through his fingers. "Legolas? You're- You're-"

Beside him, Merry was hardly faring better. He leaned forward, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The incredulous words practically tumbled from his lips, "A woman?"

Legolas exhaled sharply, an edge of amusement flickering within her weary eyes. "I always have been."

There was a beat of silence, during which Frodo could feel his own disbelief mirrored in the expressions of his friends. He was almost grateful - relieved, even - to see that he was not the only one caught so completely off guard.

Pippin, however, was still not finished. His gaze flickered down to the curve of Legolas' abdomen before darting back up to her face, and his hands flailed again, more wildly this time.

"And you're-" he gestured vaguely at her.

Legolas tilted her head slightly, arching an amused brow. Expectant, but not unkind.

Pippin gaped at her, then at Aragorn, then back at Legolas, as if searching for an explanation that made sense. The young hobbit tried again, voice just shy of a squeak. "Well, you’re-"

Taking pity on Pippin, Aragorn simply raised a brow and supplied, "Expecting?"

Legolas met the hobbit's stunned gazes steadily, though there was an unmistakable tension in her shoulders, a wariness that had nothing to do with battle.

"But why?" Sam finally spoke, shaking his head, his eyes searching her intently. "Why didn't you tell us? About - about any of it?"

Legolas inhaled softly. "I hid the truth because, at the time, it was what I felt I had to do." Her gaze flickered to each of them in turn, "You would not have let me fight as I needed to if you knew. You’d have shielded me, and I could not bear that - not when the fate of Middle-Earth hung in the balance."

"I have fought for as long as I can remember, against creatures you can scarcely comprehend. I know battle like the back of my own hand. I have held a blade since before your grandfathers' grandfathers were born, and I have never once hesitated to use it." Her jaw tightened ever so slightly. "I would not stop during the hour of greatest need simply because of the prejudices of Men."

Legolas continued before anyone else could speak, her voice steady, but laced with something heavier - something raw.

"As for my child," her hand drifted almost unconsciously to her bump. "I only discovered the truth after our journey began. The knowledge weighed heavily on me, but I could not turn back. I could not abandon the fight against Sauron, even knowing what I risked. It is not my way, nor the way of my people."

Merry's brow furrowed in deep thought. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but seemed unable to find the words.

"But now?" Merry finally asked after letting out a shaky breath, "Why tell us now?"

Legolas met his gaze without hesitation. "Because the shadow is lifted. The ring is destroyed. I have no more need for secrecy, no more reason to hide. What we set out to do is done, and the weight I carried can finally be laid down."

Frodo swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. "New life," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "After so much death."

A solemn, knowing smile touched Legolas’ lips. "Yes, Frodo." She said gently, "New life. And it is because of you that this life will have a chance to flourish."

Frodo looked up at her, blinking rapidly against the stinging in his eyes. In the quiet certainty of Legolas' gaze, there was something steady. Something that, after so much darkness, whispered of hope.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The sound of soft voices and careful footsteps carried through the corridors of the Houses of Healing. Though in one secluded corner, away from the murmuring healers and the fellowship who gathered at Frodo's bedside, silence stretched awkwardly between two elven lords.

Maglor stood with his back against the cool stone, arms crossed over his chest, and his gaze distant. He had spent long ages learning to hold his tongue, perfecting the art of restraint, but now he found the words unwilling to be swallowed. Across from him, Elrond waited, patient as ever, though his sharp eyes missed nothing in his foster father's demeanor. It didn't take long for Maglor to break under the scrutiny.

"She has stopped hiding it."

Elrond exhaled calmly, nodding as he followed Maglor's gaze toward a closed door down the hall - the chamber Legolas and the rest of the fellowship currently resided in. "It was inevitable." He spoke quietly, "The strain of the journey could not conceal her condition forever. And now the battle is won, there is no longer a reason for pretense."

Maglor did not immediately respond, instead leaving space for the words to settle. He turned toward Elrond, ever so slightly, though his face remained unreadable. When he finally replied, there was an unmistakable edge of something - concern perhaps, unease - beneath the quiet words. "She is strong, but even strength has its limits." He hesitated before continuing, "I see the sea-longing in her eyes, Elrond, I hear it in her voice. It grows worse, gnawing at her more fiercely every day. She hides it well, but I know what it is doing to her."

Elrond's expression darkened measurably, the lines of his face etched deeper with quiet worry as he pondered his daughter-in-law's dilemma. "She is resilient, there is no doubt about that. But she is untested in what is to come all the same." He admitted. "Childbirth is no small ordeal for any being, least of all for an elf. It changes us in ways we cannot always anticipate."

Maglor shot him an uneasy glance, the weight of millennia-old sorrow behind his eyes. "You fear for her?"

Elrond nodded, no attempt at false pretenses. "Yes."

The silence that stretched between them was weighted, thick with unspoken fears. Maglor did not press Elrond, though the urge sat heavy within him. He wanted to give voice to the knot of unease tightening in his chest, to the quiet dread curling at the edges of his thoughts. But he did not. Instead, he waited.

Elrond, ever measured, ever careful with the weight of his words, took his time. The Lord of Imladris turned his gaze toward the floor, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture Maglor had seen countless times before. To any other, he might have seemed unshaken, as composed as ever. But Maglor had raised this man - had held him as a child, soothed his nightmares, watched him grow into the leader he had become. He knew the subtle shifts, the minute signs that betrayed the burdens Elrond carried.

A slow breath, carefully measured. A slight furrow between his brows. The faintest tension in his shoulders; nearly imperceptible but there, just beneath the surface.

"But it is not only the immediate dangers that I fear." Elrond continued sorrowfully. "The sea-longing is a cruel torment. You know as well, if not better than I, what it can do. How it deepens in times of great pain or transformation."

Maglor's fingers curled unconsciously into where they rested against his arm. He knew it well. "You think the birth will awaken it fully in her," he said at last. "That she will have no choice but to sail."

Elrond's mouth pressed into a thin line. "I do."

Maglor's gaze flickered uneasily back to the closed door, though he said nothing.

"Her heart is still bound to Middle-Earth," Elrond continued, "But I fear childbirth will only deepen the sea-longing's grip on her. I fear that even Legolas' strength will not be enough to guard against the call of the sea."

Maglor remained silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable as he studied Elrond’s face. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual, a rare softness tinging his words. "You've seen her through all her births, Elrond. If anyone can guide her through this, it must be you."

Elrond inclined his head slightly, but his expression did not ease. Instead, the evening sunlight played upon his features, deepening the lines etched by long years of care - of loss. "I will do all that I can," Elrond promised, "But this is a trial of fëa as much as it is one of hröa."

A silence settled again, and Maglor let the hush stretch between them. It was a silence they had shared many times before - once by the firelight of Amon Ereb before Beleriand was lost, later in the quiet halls of Imladris, and now here, in a city still licking its wounds from war.

There had been a time, an age now buried beneath the waves, when he had been able to ease Elrond's burdens. When his voice alone had been enough to chase away the shadows that haunted his childhood dreams. Before the weight of grief had settled into Elrond’s bones, shaping him into the man he had become. But those days were long gone. Elrond was no child now. He was a father, a grandfather, a lord whose wisdom was sought by kings and warriors alike. And yet, as Maglor glanced at him, he still saw the same quiet sorrow in his eyes - the familiar burden of one who carried far more than he ever should have been asked to bear.

Perhaps that was why when Elrond finally broached his troubles, Maglor was not surprised.

"Do not take this the wrong way, Atya." Elrond spoke at last, his voice quiet but firmly inquisitive, "But why did you follow her into the paths of the dead? Why risk so much for an elf you have no allegiance to?"

Maglor's expression did not shift, but something in his bearing went still.

Sensing no response was coming, Elrond continued. "Even my son, who loves her more than life itself did not follow her into that darkness. And yet you would do so without hesitation. Why?"

Maglor inhaled slowly, closing his eyes - just for a moment or two - as he considered his next words. "Because I owe it to her," he settled with.

Elrond frowned slightly at the admission, "What debt could you possibly owe her to justify such lengths, Atya? She is not even of your kin."

"Perhaps." Maglor admitted at last, his voice measured, as if he carefully weighed each word before speaking them, "And yet she bears so many burdens, ones she should never have had to carry. Burdens born of my failures, of the choices I made - of the pain I caused."

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his eyes fixed on some unseen point at the far end of the corridor. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost reluctant. "Worse still, she doesn't even know how deeply those choices have marked her life."

Elrond regarded his foster father sceptically, studying the elf before him as though he might unravel some hidden truth simply by the force of his gaze. Maglor had never been easy to read; he had spent too many centuries guarding his thoughts, too many lifetimes speaking in measured words that hinted at meaning without ever fully revealing the truth behind it. But Elrond had been raised alongside Maglor's guarded silences; he had learned in his earliest years how to listen between the words, how to recognize when something was being carefully left unsaid.

There was more to this than guilt. Of that, he was certain. Guilt, Elrond understood - Maglor carried it like a shroud around his fëa, woven into the very essence of his being. But this was something deeper, something personal.

Elrond narrowed his eyes slightly, his voice quiet as he spoke. "Her red hair is peculiar among the Silvan folk, and even more out of place among Thranduil's scion," The peredhel's tone was contemplative, as though he were speaking more to himself - sifting through his own thoughts - rather than to Maglor. "Perhaps her time as Galadriel's ward can explain some of Legolas' more Noldorian traits. But her features, her bearing - they remind me of another house entirely."

Maglor's shoulder's stiffened.

"You speak as though you know more than you claim," Maglor warned, his voice careful, guarded.

Elrond held his gaze steadily, "I have known her since she was a small girl, Atya. She is the mother of my grandchildren, like another daughter to me. I care for her deeply."

There was a pause, and then he added, almost unnervingly softly, "I know only what I see. And I suspect there is more to your concern for her than mere duty or sentiment."

Maglor turned away sharply, his expression unreadable as he exhaled through his nose, a slow, controlled breath that did little to ease the tension coiling within him. And in that moment, he cursed Elrond for his perceptiveness and inability to let things lie.

"Leave it Elrond." There was something in Maglor's voice - something raw and weary, something that might have been regret, or perhaps something even deeper. "Some things are best left unspoken."

Elrond did not look away, nor did he let it go. "Does she know how much you care for her?"

Maglor’s throat tightened, though his face remained unreadable. "No," he said, and there was something undoubtedly bitter in the word. "And she cannot know. It would serve no purpose but to confuse her, to add to her burdens. Whatever truth you suspect, keep it to yourself, Elrond. For her sake."

Elrond held his gaze for a long moment, before he finally inclined his head. "Very well," he said, though there was something in his voice that led Maglor to believe he was not fully satisfied.

He let the silence linger for a beat longer before speaking again. "But Atya, she will need you - more than you think. If the sea-longing worsens, she may not be able to fight it alone."

"Then I will not let her fight it alone," he said at last, his voice steady, unwavering. "No matter what it costs me."

Chapter Text

"Now come the days of the King."

The White City had never shone so brightly, its pale stone bathed in golden light as the midday sun crowned its towers. Banners unfurled in the breeze, bearing the emblem of the White Tree, at last in bloom. Flowers spilled from window sills and lined the streets, their fragrance mingling with the murmurs and joyous cries of the people of Gondor who gathered to witness a moment beyond living memory - the return of their King.

At the top of the Citadel's great steps, beneath the banner of the White Tree, stood Gandalf. Clad in pristine white robes, he surveyed the assembled crowd before turning his wise gaze back to the man stood before him. Even Gandalf couldn't resist the fond smile that tugged at his lips as he regarded the once ranger.

"May they be blessed," the wizard declared, his voice carrying far beyond the courtyard.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn - now crowned Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor - stood straight and proud, yet there was no arrogance in his bearing. Only the quiet strength that had always defined him. He allowed Gandalf's words to settle before turning his gaze outwards, addressing not just the lords, soldiers and people of Gondor - but the gathered elves, Rohirrim and all the humble folk who had suffered under Sauron's shadow.

"This day does not belong to one man." Aragorn said, his voice steady though laced with emotion, "But to all. Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace."

The crowd stirred, and a murmur of agreement rippled through the vast assembly. Then, from among the gathered lords Faramir stepped forward. Though his bearing was solemn, his grey eyes held a quiet light - a reverence for the king before him, and the hope he represented.

"My Lord King." Faramir bowed deeply, out of both duty and willing devotion, his voice coming steady and clear, "Gondor welcomes you. The Stewards are honored to see the line of Kings restored."

For a moment, Aragorn studied the man before him - not as a ruler assessing his subject, but as one comrade beholding another. Then he bent forward, grasping Faramir’s forearm in a warrior’s grasp, firm and unwavering. No words passed between them in that moment, but understanding flowed freely - that of respect, gratitude, and hope.

Beside Faramir, Éowyn moved with practiced grace, lowering into a curtsy. There was an undeniable warmth in the gesture, and her voice, when it came, was edged with quiet respect.

"My King."

Aragorn inclined his head toward her, his gratitude unspoken, but evident all the same.

Then came Éomer, King of the Mark, standing tall and proud as he stepped forward from his sister's side - the sword at his hip gleamed in the light. His shoulders squared and he looked upon Aragorn with not only the unshakable strength of a seasoned warrior, but also the loyalty of a treasured brother-in-arms.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn." Éomer proclaimed, "You have my sword and my friendship. Rohan stands with Gondor, now and always."

Aragorn took his arm in the grip of warriors, his hold as steady as his vow. "And Gondor with Rohan, my friend."

Then, a lighter voice followed - sure, familiar, and touched with a warmth he knew achingly well.

"The crown suits you, Estel."

Aragorn turned, and there stood Legolas. Even in the finery of the occasion, she remained a creature of the wild, ever herself. Her hair, a cascade of burnished red, was braided in intricate Noldorian fashion - catching the sunlight like strands of firelit copper.

Her hands rested gently over the curve of her belly, the fullness of her form now undeniable beneath the rich green dress she wore. Heavily pregnant, she carried the weight of new life as she had once carried the weight of war - with unshaken grace. There was no fragility about her, no hesitation, only a calm certainty and the same quiet resilience that had seen her through darkness and peril

A faint smile played at her lips, something warm and knowing in her gaze

"You look every bit the king." She said, her eyes gleaming with something between amusement and deep, abiding pride.

"And you, Legolas, look as radiant as ever." Aragorn replied, the warmth of their familiarity breaking through the solemnity of the occasion. "Strength and grace suit you far better than any crown suits me, mellon nín."

A warm chuckle came from beside Legolas, and Aragorn turned to see Elrohir smirking at his wife's side. "Careful, Estel. You might just make her blush."

Legolas rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her expression did not fade.

Elrohir's teasing softened and gave way to something deeper and more serious. He stepped closer, resting a firm hand on Aragorn’s shoulder; a brother’s touch, steady and sure. When he spoke again, his voice softened, and he found himself unconsciously slipping into sindarin - as if the weight of all he wished to say could only be carried in his native tongue.

"You treat my sister well now, little brother."

Aragorn inclined his head, his voice quiet but firm and entirely sincere. "Hannon le."

Elrohir and Legolas exchanged a glance, a silent understanding passing between them before they stepped aside, revealing three figures stood behind them.

Leithiassel, Faelher, and Ialwen stood together. Though the eldest carried themselves with quiet confidence, Ialwen - still on the threshold of adulthood - stood between her elder siblings wide-eyed. Though the three were clad in the finery of their House, there was nothing ostentatious in their bearing, no pretense; only the raw, honest pride of kinship.

Further behind them still, stood Elrond.

The Lord of Rivendell was as composed as ever, his face a mask of unreadable wisdom, but his eyes betrayed him. Keen and knowing, they carried the weight of ages, both of joy and sorrows. Of a father who had guided his children across the long years of Arda and now stood at the threshold of parting. But beneath it all was something softer, something more precious still - a grandfather’s love, quiet and enduring.

For a terse moment, Aragorn’s gaze lingered upon them all, taking in the sight of his kin, of the family that had helped shape him into the man he was today. But then, with slow, deliberate grace, they stepped aside once more.

And there she was. Arwen.

He did not wait.

In a heartbeat, Aragorn closed the distance between them, his hands reaching for her as though she might vanish any second. But she did not waver. She met him halfway, her smile soft and knowing, her eyes shining with all the love she had carried across the long years of waiting.

And when their lips met, the world around them fell away. And as the city beheld them, a great cheer rose rolling like thunder across the stone streets.

At last, Aragorn turned; to those who had walked with him through fire and shadow. Four small and unassuming figures stood humbly before him, heads bowed in quiet reverence.

Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin - shuffling awkwardly in the face of such grandeur.

Aragorn would have none of it.

"My friends," he called, his voice ringing out across the courtyard, filled not with command, but with love. "You bow to no one."

Then, before the eyes of all Gondor; the King of Men fell to one knee.

A hush fell, and it was as if even the wind had paused to witness the moment. Then, one by one, he was followed.

Lords and captains, smiths and healers, men and women of Gondor, the Rohirrim - even the gathered elves and dwarf. All knelt.

Not for the King, nor the crown.

But for four small souls who had borne the weight of the world upon their shoulders, and lived to tell the tale.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The great hall of Minas Tirith was bathed in the glow of countless lanterns, their golden light flickering against the high stone walls. Tapestries woven with the histories of kings long passed, swayed gently in the evening breeze that carried with it the faint scent of summer blooms and embers from the torches that burned along the city's streets. Overhead, the stars shone cold and clear, and Legolas couldn’t help but think Eärendil shone especially radiant tonight. The White City still hummed with celebration, voices raised in song and laughter, but within the walls, the night had settled into something softer, a more intimate kind of joy.

Lords and captains sat in easy conversation, their voices mingling with the soft strains of lutes and the echoes of revelry. Near the great hearth, a company of warriors recounted tales of deeds of great honour and valour of those who no longer lived to celebrate their liberation.

Legolas sat among her family at a particularly animated table, the weight of the evening resting upon her shoulders like a familiar cloak. Leithiassel and Faelher sat close together, in the easy closeness of siblings who had long leaned upon one another. While Ialwen perched beside them, her bright gaze darting between the conversations around her. Arwen listened with quiet amusement as she spoke with her young niece, though part of her attention remained on the lively debate unfolding beside her. Gimli, gesturing broadly, tankard sloshing slightly with the force of his argument - whilst Elrohir smirked behind his own drink, clearly enjoying the well-worn exchange.

Legolas did not join in the conversation, though she listened intently; her keen ears caught every rise and fall of laughter, every warm exchange between her kin. A faint smile ghosted across her lips as she watched them, and without thinking, her hand drifted to rest over the gentle swell of her belly. Her fingers splayed in a light, absent-minded gesture and the warmth of life beneath her palm grounded her amidst her lingering inner turmoil.

She was not weary, not truly, but there was something disorienting about this peace, about the way it had settled so suddenly over them. Only weeks ago, war had been their constant companion. Now she sat draped in fine silks, surrounded by her family in laughter and light, and the contrast was almost too sharp.

And yet, the stars stretched overhead unobscured. The sky was vast and open. There was no enemy left to fight; no shadow creeping ever closer on the horizon, whispering of doom.

The war was over. They had won.

"I never imagined I would see so many men and elves together in one place." Ialwen turned to her mother, eyes wide in fascination, "It's impressive."

"Impressive indeed." Gimli agreed, setting down his tankard with a solid thump and a huff, "Though I'd wager most of them couldn’t hold a proper axe to save their lives."

"You think everyone needs an axe, Gimli." Legolas smirked, though her eyes betrayed her fondness for the dwarf as she regarded him.

"Aye lass, because an axe never fails you." Gimli replied as if it were the most obvious thing in all of Arda.

Leithiassel, who had taken a particular shine to Gimli since Helm’s Deep, leaned forward with an amused glint in her eyes. Arching a brow, she tilted her head in mock curiosity, "So is it only axes you trust then, Gimli? Or do you make an exception for other weapons."

"Axes, swords, ladles." Gimli replied with a shrug, "I don't care as long as they're solid, none of that flimsy bow business you and your mother are so fond of."

"Flimsy?" Leithiassel scoffed, "Those 'flimsy' bows have felled more foes than I care count. In fact, I seem to recall my naneth saving you life once or twice with her own bow at Helm’s Deep."

Gimli grumbled into his ale, unwilling to refute the claim. "Aye, that she did," he admitted at last. "But don't think that means I'll change my mind. A bow is only good if you’re running away, and I'd rather not have to rely on running."

"You're impossible, Gimli. You'll never change your mind about anything." Aragorn mused from where he stood a short distance away. Though he was dressed in the regalia of a king, he stood with the same quiet ease he always had, letting his gaze drift warmly over them all - his family, and his friends alike.

"And why would I?" Gimli shot back, "The world would be a far simpler place if everyone just listened to dwarves."

Legolas exhaled with a quiet laugh, a look of mock horror settling across her features, "It would be a far louder place too. And that, Gimli, is something I can do without."

Aragorn's own amusement softened as he regarded Legolas, giving way instead to something gentler, his gaze flickering with something akin to relief. "It is good to see you so at peace, mellon nín. It suits you."

Legolas hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly over the curve of her stomach before she met his gaze. "Peace is a fleeting thing," she told him softly, "I have learned to value it when it comes."

Gandalf lingered near the gathering, watching on in silence, save for the occasional chuckle. His wise eyes gleamed beneath heavy brows, and when the wizard finally spoke, a knowing light passed across them, "It is a peace earned by sacrifice, and it must be nurtured carefully. But tonight is not for burdens or worry. Tonight, we celebrate.”

The conversation might have continued in that vein, were it not for the sudden stiffness in Faelher’s posture. Legolas, ever attuned to her children, turned toward him in question - though it was Ialwen who got there first.

"Faelher, why do you look like you're about to throw something?" Ialwen asked, nudging him with her foot beneath the table.

Faelher’s jaw clenched, but he did not look at his sister nor his mother. Instead, his gaze flicked toward the far edge of the hall. "He’s watching us again."

Legolas felt something tighten in her chest before she even needed to ask.

"Who?" Ialwen pressed, brow furrowing.

Faelher’s voice was edged with carefully restrained anger when he replied, "Thranduil."

The name alone was enough to make Legolas' posture shift, though her expression remained composed.

Legolas inhaled slowly, schooling her features into practiced neutrality before she turned her head. Across the hall, against an ivy-draped column, stood Thranduil wearing an all too familiar look of disdain. Even amongst kings and elven lords of old, his presence was as unmistakable as it was pronounced. But it was his eyes that unsettled Legolas the most in that moment - cool, assessing, and fixed firmly upon their table.

"Ignore him, Faelher." Legolas said evenly, trying to flatten out any hint of a waver in her voice that may betray her fears. "He has no sway here."

Faelher exhaled sharply, clearly unconvinced, as he spared Legolas a hesitant look. "But why is he even here, naneth? He has never shown any care for us before."

Legolas curled her fingers ever so slightly over her stomach in an attempt to steady herself, her voice remaining almost painfully calm, "He has come for Aragorn’s coronation. Nothing more."

"Perhaps he wishes to speak. It has been long enough." Leithiassel suggested hesitantly, her eyes too, drawn toward their scowling grandfather.

Legolas' lips pressed into a thin line, "If he wanted to speak, he would have. Thranduil never holds his tongue."

Faelher's gaze trailed back to Thranduil with a grim shake of his head, "I don't trust him. He doesn’t deserve to speak to you after all these years."

Elrohir, who had remained silent throughout much of the exchange, finally stirred. His sharp eyes flicked between Legolas, Leithiassel, and Faelher before finally settling on his wife. There was no immediate judgement in his gaze, only quiet consideration.

Gently, he reached for Legolas' hand beneath the table, his fingers curling around hers in a grounding touch. It was a small thing - likely unnoticed by the others - but Legolas felt the warmth of it, the silent reassurance he offered her without need for words. He knew how discussion of Thranduil unsettled her, how it stirred old wounds she rarely gave voice to.

When he at last spoke, his voice came out measured and thoughtful. "Perhaps it is not about deserving," Elrohir said quietly, his thumb brushing lightly against Legolas' knuckles. "But about what is necessary now."

Faelher's expression remained hard despite his father's words, "It still doesn't seem right, adar. He has been watching us like we’re some sort of curiosity - not his own flesh and blood."

"I'm sure naneth can handle it, Faelher. She’s faced worse than him before." Ialwen interrupted.

Legolas exhaled slowly, forcing a gentle smile in an attempt to diffuse the growing tension between her children. "Do not let your grandfather ruin this night. After all, we have earned this peace, have we not?"

A new voice, warm and knowing, joined the conversation from beside Elrohir. "Indeed," Arwen echoed, "Tonight is not for old grudges, but for the future we are building together."

But before Arwen's words could even begin to settle, a shadow fell across their table.

"Legolas."

The voice was unmistakable. Even after centuries, it had not lost any of its weight - nor any of the power it had once held over her.

Legolas stilled, the familiar cadence of his voice sinking into her bones like the echo of a life she no longer belonged to. Though her posture remained graceful and resolute, something cold settled deep in her stomach

Thranduil stood before her, his presence as formidable as ever. The elven king's expression was unreadable, but his eyes remained fixed upon her with an intensity that sent something twisting in her chest.

"A word in private, if you please." He ordered at last, his tone carrying the same effortless authority it always had and leaving no room for any refusal.

The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken history, before Legolas finally inclined her head.

"Of course, Aran nín."

Legolas did not look to her friends nor her husband nor her children for reassurance. Her expression remained painstakingly composed and her movements fluid as she rose to her feet - though those closest to her could see the way her fingers briefly curled at her sides before she smoothed them out again. She tilted her head to her companions - a silent gesture, though what it meant even she was unsure. Then, without a word, she followed Thranduil as he curtly turned on his heel and led the way toward the courtyard.

Gimli huffed, muttering into his drink as he watched the elf leave. "This will not end well," he grumbled, the words half-lost in his ale, though the tension in his shoulders spoke just as loud.

Across from him, Aragorn exhaled a slow breath, rubbing his temple as if steeling himself for whatever was to come. "No," he murmured, his voice heavy and knowing. "It will not."

Chapter Text

Legolas had envisioned this moment countless times over the centuries, weaving and unraveling the conversation in the quiet hours of the night. She had rehearsed the words in her mind, shaped them into something sharp enough to wound yet steady enough to finally command his respect. She had imagined herself standing before him, unflinching, with the perfect retort poised on her tongue; each syllable honed by the years of unspoken grief and unanswered questions. And yet, now that she finally stood before Thranduil, with the weight of his gaze pressing down upon her for the first time since her exile - every carefully crafted phrase dissolved into nothing. A breath hitched in her throat, and her thoughts scattered. And in that moment, she found herself utterly bereft of words.

Truthfully, she had not expected to see him here, not among those gathered to celebrate a king not of their kind, in a city of stone and men. Yet here he was regardless, his presence as much an intrusion as it was inevitable.

A heavy silence stretched between them before Thranduil finally broke it, his voice as smooth as it was detached, "I suppose congratulations are due."

Legolas stiffened at the words, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. She met his gaze, wary, searching, "What do you mean, Aran nín?"

"You are with child, are you not?"

A sharp breath caught in her throat, but she refused to let it show. Her face remained an unreadable mask, every last ounce of her willpower poured into keeping her composure intact. And yet, despite her efforts, her body betrayed her - fingers twitching before drifting, unbidden, to rest lightly against the gentle swell of her stomach, a gesture so fleeting it could almost be dismissed. Almost.

Still, she would not falter before him. Lifting her chin ever so slightly, she met Thranduil’s gaze with a quiet defiance. There was no need to confirm what was already obvious. Her voice rang out cool and steady despite the simmering tension between them. "I fail to see how that is any of your concern, Aran nín."

Thranduil’s lips curled into the barest hint of a sneer. "It is my business if you will insist on finding yourself constantly fraught with child like some common whore. You defile my name, Legolas."

Legolas felt the words like a strike. Her jaw tightened and her hands shook slightly at her sides as she gritted her teeth, "I am not a whore."

"Perhaps if you did not parade yourself around as one, I would be more inclined to believe that."

Legolas' nails dug into her palms as she fought to keep her voice level. But there was an unmistakable tremour beneath her words, a rawness she could not entirely suppress.

"Perhaps," she said, her tone measured but laced with quiet fury. "If you had bothered to attend my wedding, you would see things differently."

Thranduil scoffed, a cold, mirthless sound that sent a fresh wave of anger coursing through her veins. He regarded her with a disdain that felt honed over many long centuries, his piercing gaze sweeping over her as though she were something lesser, something unworthy.

"And what, pray tell, could a lowly Silvan elf such as yourself possibly have to offer one of the Noldor." He mused, "Besides what lies between your legs?"

The slap cracked through the stillness of the courtyard like the snap of a bowstring, echoing against the stone walls. Her hand had moved before she could think, before she could even process the depth of her fury. The force of the strike sent his head snapping slightly to the side, but Thranduil did not stumble, did not reel. He merely turned back to her, slow and deliberate, the ghost of a smirk curling at the corner of his lips - as if daring her to do it again. But Legolas was trembling with rage now, her breath coming fast, and her palm still tingling from the force of the blow.

"What is your problem with me?" She demanded, her voice raw as the emotions she had worked long and tirelessly to suppress spilled over. "What could a babe have done to you to warrant such abject hatred? You are supposed to be my adar, and yet all you can do is offer scorn and insult. You barely even know me and still you act as if I am the bane of your existence. I just want to know why?"

A muscle in Thranduil’s jaw tensed, his expression unreadable as he regarded her for a long, heavy moment. Then, with a finality that sent ice through her veins, he said simply - "I am not your adar"

"I- what?" The words barely escaped Legolas' lips, coming out as little more than a breathless whisper, as if voicing them aloud might somehow force the world to make sense again. Shock coursed through her body, rooting her in place and rendering her limbs unsteady. She lifted her gaze to Thranduil, searching his face with wide, disbelieving eyes, but she found no trace of hesitation - no hint that he might take back what he had just said. The weight of his words settled upon her, heavy and unrelenting, and sinking deeper into her bones with each passing second.

"You are not my daughter, Legolas. I did not sire you." Thranduil’s gaze never wavered and his voice, when it came, was low and bitter.

Legolas recoiled, her chest tightening, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. The truth she had lived with for centuries, the very foundation of her existence, cracked like fragile glass. Her mind struggled, desperately seeking understanding, grasping for some shred of coherence amidst the chaos. "I don't understand, why would aramillë tell me a man who hates my very existence is my father, if it were not true?"

Thranduil's jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened, though his face maintained its inscrutable edge. "Galadriel doesn't know. No one does."

Legolas' eyes narrowed, her disbelief turning to anger. "You'd better have a fucking good explanation for this."

Thranduil’s gaze flickered, almost imperceptibly, as he spoke with a detachment that could only have come from years of secretly harbouring a truth too painful to bear. "Your naneth and I, we were not married out of love. Do not get me wrong, she was my best friend and I loved her fiercely, but not in the way that was expected of me. I'm quite sure it isn't news to you that I prefer male company, but as king, I needed heirs. Lithuineth wanted nothing more than to get her family off her back about settling down, and so she and I were wed. Your naneth bore your brothers early into our marriage and we did not lay together again after Calethor. So you see, Legolas, you could not be mine."

Legolas could hardly breathe, the weight of his words crushing her chest. She fought the bile rising in her throat, though an edge of disbelief and bitterness bled into her words, "If not you, then who is my adar?"

Thranduil's eyes shifted away from hers, as if the very thought of speaking the name repelled him. "Your naneth was a free spirit at heart. She was born and bred amongst the trees and amongst them was where she truly belonged. She found the caverns of Eryn Galen stifling, oppressive - and when it all became too much, she would take refuge in a small cottage near the forest river. It was there she first met Maglor Fëanorian."

Legolas blinked, her mind struggling to grasp the enormity of the confession. "Maglor-" she echoed his name like a curse.

"Yes, Maglor." Thranduil's voice lost none of its coldness, though now there was a strange, almost regretful edge to his words.

"Elrond had sent him as a delegate to the Greenwood, but Maglor found himself waylaid among the trees, unfamiliar with their paths. Your naneth found him and took him in for the night, kept him out of harm's way before escorting him to my halls come morning. I knew there was something in her eye that first time she brought him into my throne room - a certain radiance about her that I could not place then. Maglor stayed with us in Eryn Galen for some time, I didn't trust him but I let it go for posterity's sake - he stayed out of my way, and I out of his for the most part. But your naneth, she had fallen utterly in love with him."

Legolas could feel the fury rising inside her untamed. It burned hot and bright, but its edges were jagged with something colder, something dangerously close to grief. The truth hung between them, raw and gaping, and she didn’t know which cut deeper - the revelation itself or the fact that it had been hidden from her for so long.

For a millenia, she had lived under the weight of a lie; believing herself the unwanted daughter of a king who had never looked at her with anything more than disappointment and disdain. She had carried that burden, bent beneath it, forced herself to believe that somehow she had been the cause of his indifference - though how she had not known. But now she saw the truth of it. It had never been about her. It had been about her blood. About his blood.

Fëanorian. Kinslayer.

She felt sick, furious. Her own blood, the very essence of who she was, tainted by the legacy of a house that had burned its name into history with fire and slaughter. And worst of all, they had all known - Thranduil, her mother (for all the good it had done her), even Maglor himself. They had let her live in ignorance while they hid away the truth like a shameful secret.

She clenched her hands into fists, her nails biting into her palms as she fought against her anger. Was she supposed to be grateful that they had spared her from the knowledge? That they had decided, without her, what she could and could not bear?

Her voice was akin to a low growl, trembling with barely contained rage. "And you did not stop it?"

Thranduil’s expression hardened, the grief in his eyes tempered by cold practicality. "I could have, but I chose not to. You must understand, Legolas. Lithuineth sacrificed everything for me - her heart, her dreams, her love. How could I deny her that small joy? I could never begrudge her that, even if the thought of him sickened me. And so we went on, for near half an age. Every few months, Maglor would visit the Woodland Realm and he and Lithuineth would retreat to her cottage - keep him out of my way - whilst I was left able to enjoy Galion's company. That was until she fell pregnant."

Thranduil's voice softened for a moment, but his eyes remained hard. "We agreed - Maglor, Lithuineth, and I - that it would be unwise to incite political unrest given the darkness was exponentially engulfing the forest. Not when it could be so easily avoided. It was safest for you to be raised as my heir. Maglor could come and see you as and when he wished, but no one else was to know you were not mine. Only then, your naneth died birthing you, and I was left with a babe that wasn’t even mine, and my closest friend passed into the Halls of Mandos."

Legolas' heart ached with a deep, guttural pain and her freckled skin flushed with rage. "Safer? Safer for whom? You had me grow up believing that the man who despised me was my adar. You let me carry that weight all my life without ever telling me the truth. You have no right - no right - to call that protection."

"And what would you have had me do, Legolas?" Thranduil demanded, his tone edged with something between frustration and weariness. "Admit to all that your mother lay with a Kinslayer? That her child bore the blood of a cursed house? What life would you have had in the Greenwood if that had been known? The whispers alone would have destroyed you before you ever came of age."

His words struck her like a lashing. Legolas wanted to refute it, to tell him she would rather have known the truth than live under the weight of his resentment, but the words caught in her throat. She had known whispers. She had felt the weight of the court’s scrutiny, the way their gazes lingered on her too long, the way she never quite fit. But that had been the result of half-told rumours - baseless to many - how much crueler would they have been if they knew there was truth in them? She couldn't say. Didn't even want to think about.

Thranduil turned from her, his gaze growing distant as though he had seen something long past. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, and for the first time, there was something almost fragile beneath it. "I remember it so clearly," he murmured, "Holding you in my arms - a little elfling, so unmistakably Fëanorian, I could hardly bear to look at you."

His jaw tightened, but he forced himself to go on, "Most would not have remembered the sons of Fëanor well enough to see the truth. Your features would not have raised too much suspicion. But when I looked into your eyes - all I could see was the men I watched slaughter my kin. The slant of your eyes, your nose, your hair - there could be no doubt. You were Maglor’s scion."

"I knew then that I could not raise you," Thranduil admitted, "Regardless of my feelings toward you, no elfling deserves to grow up in such circumstances. But I had given my word and I had to follow through."

A bitter laugh caught in Legolas' throat - Given his word. A promise made out of duty, not love. A promise that had left her abandoned in all but name.

"So I gave you up." Thranduil continued, his voice hollow now. "To my brother and Lady Galadriel. I asked them to raise you as their own in safer lands, away from the shadow of your parentage."

He turned back to Legolas then, his eyes searching hers for something - understanding, forgiveness perhaps - but there was none to find.

"I never told them the truth of your sire," he admitted, "But there is something so distinctly Noldor in you, Galadriel must have had an inkling."

Legolas' heart twisted in her chest, a sob caught in her throat, but she swallowed it down, fighting to maintain a hold over her composure. "You let me believe I was unwanted. That I was unloved. All to protect your pride and your lies. You turned your back on an elfling and allowed hatred to fester in its place, all because I looked like my sire?"

"You were better off with your kin, Legolas." Thranduil met her gaze, his voice steady and impassive, as if he had convinced himself of this truth long ago. "My halls were no place for a child with Fëanorian blood."

Legolas recoiled and a bitter laugh, sharp and breathless, left her lips. "Are you not my kin also? Or did your marriage to my mother mean nothing to you?"

Thranduil’s eyes flashed with a sharp, cruel edge. "What could you possibly know of it?"

Legolas inhaled sharply, her hands trembling at her sides. "I know that I spent centuries wondering what was so wrong with me that even my own adar would abandon me - trying to work out what I did or said to make you hate me so." She choked, her words fierce with years of unspoken pain, "I know that I spent centuries after discovering I had brothers wondering why you hadn't abandoned them like you had me. Why you loved them and not me. Wondering what it was that they had that I did not."

Thranduil's eyes softened ever so slightly, but his voice remained cold all the same, "You were better cared for in Lothlórien than you ever would have been in the Greenwood."

"You could have tried!" Legolas' voice cracked, raw with the force of her anger. The unshed tears that had been gathering in the corners of her eyes finally spilt over. "You could have tried to love me instead of shipping me off like some unwanted burden."

Thranduil’s expression did not waver in the slightest, though there was something in his eyes - something deep and old, something bitter. But nothing akin to remorse crossed his features. Only weariness, as if he had long ago made peace with the cruelty of his choice and resented having to further defend it.

"And what would you have me do, Legolas?" Thranduil's voice was quiet, but there was an unmistakable steel behind each word. "Pretend I did not see Maedhros in your hair - that flame red marking you as unmistakably Fëanorian? Or Maglor in your eyes? Though their colour are your mothers, the slant and shape - they are all his."

Legolas felt a sob catch in the back of her throat, but Thranduil pressed on, unrelenting.

"Or even Celegorm in the tilt of your jaw?" His gaze darkened, something haunted lurking beneath the fervor of his words. "How could I look at you and not see their shadows?"

"Every time I looked at you," Thranduil continued, "I saw the blood of the Kinslayers staring back at me. The same blood that shattered Doriath and left it in ruin. The same blood that mercilessly slaughtered the refugees at Sirion."

Legolas inhaled sharply, but it felt jagged, too shallow - as if the very air in her lungs had turned against her. She couldn't fathom it, could not comprehend how he spoke so calmly of casting her aside like it was a kindness; as if it had been for her own good. As if abandoning her had been some noble sacrifice rather than a choice he had made, over and over again.

"I did not slay your kin at Doriath or Sirion," she spat, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. "Nor did I burn any ships at Alqualondë. I was a child, innocent of all that bloodshed."

Her voice rose, her fury uncontained now. "You punished me for a legacy that was never mine to bear."

Thranduil's voice grew colder still, his expression contorting into one of disgust. "The curse of the Fëanorians is never innocent, Legolas. Wherever their blood runs, sorrow follows. It already killed your mother, I would not have it destroy my kingdom any further. Nor my sons."

Legolas' fury raged within her, scorching through her veins. Thranduil’s words did not merely wound; they burned, and seared into her soul. Her breath came ragged, her chest heaving with the effort of holding herself together when all she wanted was to break - to lash out, scream, to make him understand what he had done to her. Legolas' fingers curled into fists so tight she thought she might draw blood; he had taken everything from her. Her name. Her home. Her very sense of self. He had let her believe she was unwanted, that she had been cast aside - all to protect his own pride, his own peace of mind. How dare he stand before her now and speak of curses and fate, as if he had not been the very architect of her suffering?

"And yet you allowed it to destroy me." She spat, her voice trembling under the weight of the years spent wondering why she had never been enough.

"Do you not see what you have done?" Her voice rose as if the dam within her finally broke, "You claimed me as your daughter and yet you cast me aside as if I were nothing! I was not Maedhros. I was not Maglor. I was not Celegorm. I was your daughter! And you despised me for little more than the sins of my bloodline."

She searched his face for something - anything - that might tell her she was wrong. That there was some part of him, however small, that had loved her. That had ever wanted her. But Thranduil’s expression was distant, as though she were a stranger before him and not the child he had abandoned.

When he spoke, his voice was eerily quiet, nothing more than a cold dismissal.

"But that's just the thing, isn't it?" Thranduil's gaze hardened, unreadable. "You are not my daughter, Legolas."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Then, with cruel finality, he added, "You are nothing to me."

Without so much as another word, Thranduil turned, his steps slow and measured; the very picture of cold indifference as he strode away. The long folds of his robe whispered against the stone as he disappeared into the darkness beyond the courtyard. He didn't look back, not once.

The silence he left in his wake was almost unbearable.

Legolas stood frozen, her heart pounding furiously against her ribs as her vision blurred at the edges. Though the cool night air wrapped around her, it did nothing to soothe the fire seething beneath her skin, burning hot and unforgiving in her chest.

She had always known Thranduil's love to be something to be earned, something to be proven worthy of - a distant thing, guarded and conditional - never freely given. She had spent long years trying to grasp it, always reaching, always hoping. And yet, through all those centuries of silence, of distance, she had still believed - foolishly, perhaps desperately believed - that there had been something beneath it. Some lingering affection, some sliver of care, hidden beneath his cold exterior.

But there had been nothing. Not anger, not disappointment, not even disdain really - nothing.

The weight of it pressed down on her, an unbearable, crushing thing. For all her fears, for all her doubts, she had never once imagined that he would look at her, not as a daughter, not as a disappointment, not even as a stranger, but as something empty. As if she had never mattered at all.

Her breath shuddered, and she clenched her fists tighter. The fire inside her did not dim. It brandished itself, unchecked and all consuming, but it could not burn away the hollow ache that had settled in Thranduil’s wake.

Chapter Text

Legolas sat inert on the stone bench, her hands curled loosely in her lap. Her posture was rigid, far too meticulously composed to be anything but a front. The courtyard was quiet now, save for the occasional trace of the merriment inside carried on the breeze, though the silence did little to settle her thoughts either way. Her eyes burned and her breath remained uneven despite her efforts to steady it. She had wiped the tears away, but she could not erase the evidence of their falling; the faint dampness on her cheeks, and the redness of her under eyes.

She heard Sam long before he spoke, the gentle shuffle of the hobbit's sturdy footsteps against the stone floor. She didn't turn to look at him, but she could tell he had paused near the bench. Hesitant, perhaps unsure if he even ought to speak at all.

"I don’t mean to be dropping no eaves or anything, Mr-Miss Legolas." Sam said carefully, and though he spoke cautiously, his voice lost none of its usual warmth. "But I couldn’t help but overhear you and that elven king having it out, you see. An’ you don’t half seem upset about whatever it was he said."

Legolas exhaled slowly, schooling her features into something calm and unreadable; even though she knew Sam would likely see right through it.

"Do not worry yourself about me, Sam." She murmured, the edges of her voice rough with unspoken emotion in spite of her best efforts. "I'm fine, just a little shaken up is all."

It was a weak deflection, and she knew it. Samwise Gamgee had a too kind a heart to be fooled so easily. But she did not know what else to say - how to explain the aching weight in her chest, how her whole world had just been pulled out from under her, or the way Thranduil's words still rang in her ears like a cruel echo. So she forced a small, tired smile, hoping he would let it lie.

"Well, if yer sure, Miss." Sam said gently, almost hesitantly as his brow creased in concern despite his words. "But, y'know, when folk start having words like that, it don’t just go away easy. You've been through a lot, and I can't imagine it's easy, being caught up with someone who - well, someone who's supposed to be your kin and yet acts like that."

Legolas' breath hitched, only ever so slightly, not enough that Sam, without elven hearing, would have noticed. Her grip tightened over the swell of her belly before she forced her fingers to relax.

He couldn't have known, of course, what had unfolded between her and Thranduil. None of them did. He had heard the argument, that much was clear, though unfamiliar as he was with the silvan tongue he wouldn't have understood the exchange.

Legolas couldn’t help the relief that swept over her that Sam - perceptive as he was - had elected to leave it at that. The hobbit hadn't pried into the worst of it nor questioned the unfamiliar words that had left Legolas so utterly distraught.

Legolas inhaled slowly, willing her voice to steady before she turned slightly toward him, "Thank you, Sam." She murmured offering him a small, fleeting smile, "For checking up on me. I appreciate it, truly. But you needn’t get caught up in my business, especially not when there’s a celebration going on. Go and enjoy yourself, please. There's enough joy in the hall to be shared."

Sam shifted on his feet, as if uncertain, casting wary glances back toward the warm glow of the hall. His gaze flickered briefly to where her hand rested over her stomach, but he said nothing of it. After a stretched moment, he gave a short nod. "Well, if you insist, Miss Legolas. I suppose there’s no harm in enjoyin' the festivities a bit. But i'll be around if you need anything, alright? You just let me know, you hear?"

"I shall, Sam. Thank you," Legolas inclined her head, the ghost of something softer dancing across her features as she regarded the stout hobbit. "Now, go on, enjoy the feast. You've earned it."

Sam lingered a moment longer, hesitating as if he might say something more but he ultimately settled on bobbing his head in a quick nod. The hobbit disappeared through the archway and the warmth of the hall swallowed him back in. The torches flickered in the cool hush of the courtyard and Legolas let out a slow exhale, her shoulders loosening slightly now that she was once again left to her own solitude. She let her gaze drift over the darkened gardens beyond, where the night breeze stirred the leaves.

It was only the faint sounds of footsteps from across the courtyard that brought her back to herself. She knew who it was before she turned her head. Maglor's steps were too light for a mortal, lighter than even that of most elves. Maglor had the footsteps of an elf who had learned long ago how to move unnoticed, and yet in this moment he did not try to hide his presence from her. He crossed the courtyard without a word and Legolas couldn't help but notice the look upon his face - one that struck her with a strange sense of familiarity, though she could not name it. When Maglor reached her, he hesitated - briefly, almost imperceptibly - before settling onto the bench at her side.

"I heard you and Thranduil." Maglor spoke, his voice quiet. Regretful.

Legolas angered at his words. She hadn't wanted to be angry, not like this, not in a way that left her feeling raw and unmoored. But the feeling clung to her like a second skin, seeping into her very fëa.

Maglor. He had lied to her. Not directly perhaps, but by emission certainly, by allowing her to believe a falsehood for the entirety of her life. She had thought they were beginning to understand one another, thought that there was, if not trust, then at least something approaching it. But how could she trust him now? How could she trust anything he said when he had let her believe a lie for so long? When he had watched her struggle beneath Thranduil’s scorn as a father, and had said nothing?

And yet - she could not hate him, not like she did Thranduil.

That was the worst of it. The anger did not sit easily when she looked at him and saw not a coldhearted and detached monster, but a man who carried grief in his very bones. A man who had spent ages of this world alone with nothing but his guilt and his songs - until of course her naneth came along. But she had taken her from him long ago hadn't she?

Her naneth. Legolas' chest ached as she thought of her and yet for the first time, she had to wonder why? She had never known her naneth. There were no memories to hold onto, no voice to recall, no warmth to miss. Just a name. Just the knowledge that her naneth had died bringing her into the world.

Legolas couldn’t help but find herself growing angry with her naneth too. Not for dying, no, she couldn't truly be angry about that. But for leaving her to this, to the tangle of lies and half-truths that had shaped her entire life without her even knowing. That enraged her.

Legolas didn't know what to do with all of it. Did not know how to carry it, how to shape it into something that would not tear her apart from the inside out - and she certainly did not know how to broach it with Maglor.

Piercing the silence that had settled uneasily between them, Legolas let out an empty breath - not quite a laugh, but not quite a sigh. "Clearly half of Minas Tirith did." She said dryly.

Maglor made a soft sound, something caught between amusement and acknowledgment as he pressed his lips together - not in disapproval, but understanding. "Well, you've never been one to do things in halves."

Legolas tilted her head slightly, considering him, before allowing a wry smile to tug at the corner of her mouth. It was almost enough for Maglor to ignore the tear tracks painting her freckled skin, almost. "No," she admitted. "I suppose not."

Maglor's expression did not change all that much, but something in his gaze sharpened measurably. He studied her for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter now. "I know what he told you."

Legolas stiffened. It was barely a flicker, barely a breath of movement, but it was enough that she knew Maglor would have noticed. She did not look at him, and there was no need to ask what he meant. Her fingers tightened slightly as she drew them to her stomach, seeking comfort from the steady presence of the child growing within her.

She could still hear Thranduil’s voice in her mind - sharp, cutting, laced with old wounds and pride older still. But she didn't want to think about Thranduil any longer, so instead she deflected - latching onto the first thought that crossed her mind, "You never told me you could speak the silvan tongue."

The shift in topic was abrupt, a clear deflection from Legolas, but Maglor let it happen all the same, his expression unreadable save for the faintest quirk of his lip. "You never asked," he said simply. He paused for a brief moment before continuing, "Your naneth taught me a little. She thought it might help me blend in a little better."

That prompted a short, but incredulous laugh from Legolas, "Blend in?" She repeated, turning fully toward him now. "You? One of the sons of Fëanor trying to blend in among the silvan folk? I'd pay to see that."

Maglor gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "No," he conceded, "I was never one to fade in the background."

His gaze drifted toward the shadowed gardens, as if caught in some distant memory - watching it play out all over again before him. "Still, your naneth insisted. I'm hardly fluent, but I know enough to stumble through a conversation or two."

Silence stretched between them once again, taut and thick with the weight of words left unspoken. Maglor shifted beside her, his movements careful and deliberate, though neither met the other's eye. It took a few more beats of silence before at last, Maglor spoke again.

"Are you okay?" His voice came out quietly, and there was something tentative in the way he asked, as if he already knew the answer. "I know it must be a lot to take in."

Legolas inhaled sharply, drawing her head back as she attempted to steady herself. "I am as well as one can be." She started, her voice edged with something brittle and carefully restrained, "After finding out their father isn’t really their father."

Maglor closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. "Legolas-"

"All those years," she cut him off, turning to face him head on now. There was something raw in her gaze, unruly and unable to be contained. "You could have told me any time. You were there in Lothlórien sometimes, weren't you? I remember catching glimpses of you speaking with aramillë. I've been in Imladris for the past six hundred years and still you did not deign to tell me." Legolas' voice tightened with each word, "Why didn’t you ever say anything?"

Maglor looked at her for a long moment - his expression unreadable - before he sighed, his hands coming to rest lightly on his lap. "Your parentage was already so complicated, Legolas," he said at last with a sigh, carefully as though he were navigating his way across treacherous ground. "You were suffering so much for an elleth so young, growing up in the shadow of Thranduil’s choices and exile. Would you really have wanted to add 'kinslayer's daughter' to your burdens?"

Legolas swallowed hard, but she did not dare look away. Maglor on the other hand, struggled to hold her gaze. "The house of Fëanor is cursed," he murmured and Legolas wasn't sure whether it was directed at her or just himself. "Our bloodline is stained with sorrow and tragedy. It was supposed to be a kindness, allowing you to grow up without knowing the weight of that curse."

Legolas scoffed though there was no malice behind the sound, only resignation. "A kindness," she echoed, the word sounding bitter on her tongue.

How many times had she heard that justification before? How many choices had been made for her, not out of malice, but out of some twisted sense of mercy? Always someone else deciding for her what was best. Always others determining what burdens she should or should not bear. And where had it left her?

She was tired of it. Tired of people making choices for her as though she were some fragile thing, incapable of bearing the truth. She shook her head at the implications of Maglor's words, "All I ever wanted was a father who didn’t hate my very existence."

Maglor regarded her hesitantly. "Celeborn and I may have our disagreements," he said at last, his voice quiet but steady in its conviction. "But I'm quite sure he doesn't hate you, Legolas."

A sharp, humorless breath left her lips; too bitter to be laughter but too resigned to be anything else. "It's not the same," she murmured, her voice raw despite all attempts to keep it steady.

She had spent a millenia believing Celeborn was her kin. More than just kin, a father figure when she had none, a steady presence in the uncertain years of her childhood. He hadn't been overly affectionate - not like Galadriel had been - but he had been there, a much needed certainty in her life. Something to anchor her when all else was shifting tides. And now even that had been pulled from under her.

Legolas exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face wearily whilst the other cradled her bump. "Celeborn was kind, yes." She told him, "But he was never really mine was he? He was a father figure to me, all I had for a long time, and now he's not even my uncle." Her throat ached, but she forced the words out regardless, "It feels so hollow, like everything I believed about where I belonged, about who I was, has been stripped away."

Her voice cracked on the last words and she hated herself for it.

The sound of Maglor sharply exhaling caught her attention, and when she turned to regard him, she saw something in his demeanor - regret, guilt, sorrow, a tangle of emotions far too complicated to name.

"I know." He said, and for once, he sounded tired. Defeated, almost. "I know it isn’t the same, and I know I failed you."

"I didn't mean to cause you hurt, Legolas." He continued softly, "All I wanted was to protect you. I stayed away to shield you from my sins. The world has not yet forgiven the sons of Fëanor, and neither should it." His voice dipped lower, almost to a whisper. "But you- you, Legolas, are untainted by my darkness."

Legolas swallowed hard, unsure if she wanted to laugh or cry.

Maglor searched her green eyes intently as he pressed on, "In you, penneth, I see a light that even the curse of our family could not dim."

Legolas let out a tentative breath, shaking her head again, slower this time. "You say that," she murmured, "Yet here I stand, caught between two worlds. Thranduil's hatred burns like a scar on my soul, and now I must wrestle with the legacy of your family too." She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, hands pressing into the stone bench beneath her in a desperate attempt to halt the tears that threatened to spill over. "How do I reconcile that with what I am?"

Maglor did not answer right away. He studied her, in the way he often did, as though he could see past the walls she had put up. As if he could peer past the sharp edges she wielded to keep herself from breaking apart.

"By being yourself, Legolas," Maglor spoke at last.

The words settled between them like the first winter snow and Legolas resented him for how simple he made it sound.

"You are not your father, nor are you Thranduil's shadow." Maglor continued, firm but gentle, and his hands which had been curled into fists before, slowly unclenched. "You are a light in this world that no curse can extinguish."

Maglor's voice softened, but his conviction remained as firm as ever. "Do not let the burdens of our past dictate who you are," he encouraged her. "Shape your own path, iell nín. Walk the road you choose, for it is yours and yours alone."

Legolas did not reply. She did not know how to reply. Instead, she let the silence stretch, neither comfortable nor entirely tense - an uneasy truce between the two of them. Somewhere beyond the walls, the distant hum of laughter and music from the halls drifted to her ears, muffled by the stillness here in the courtyard. She shifted slightly, the fabric of her dress rustling in the quiet. The weight of her pregnancy settled differently in this position, a small but ever-present reminder of the life growing within her. Another child she would have to explain all of this to someday. Another child who would ask questions she might never have the answers to.

She was tired. Tired of anger, tired of grief, tired of wrestling with the ghosts of a past she had nothing to do with and knew nothing of.

She tilted her head back, exhaling softly as she stared up at the sky.

Legolas turned her head slightly, studying the elf beside her in the flickering torchlight. Maglor, who had been silent all this time, waiting for her to steer the conversation. Maglor, who despite the revelation had given her no stories of the elleth who had birthed her, who had never once spoken of the past they both carried.

She hesitated, then exhaled softly. Her voice was quieter when she finally spoke, uncertain in a way she rarely allowed. "Do you see my naneth in me?" Legolas asked, unable to look him in the eye. "I know very little of her aside from that I have her eyes."

Maglor exhaled softly, his gaze going distant for a terse moment before he turned to regard her fully. "Every day, penneth. You remind me of her so much," he said, his tone touched with something that almost sounded like reverence. "More than just your eye colour. You have her freckled skin too, that same warm glow to your face. And the way you carry yourself, with that fierce spirit - unyielding and brave - sometimes it's like she's still here." His lips curved into a wistful smile, "And that smile of yours - it's all Lithuineth."

Legolas swallowed, pushing past the knot of emotion coiling in her chest. Her thoughts felt as unsteady as the sea she had never seen but could feel all the same - pulling at her bones, at her very fëa.

"What do we do now?" She asked, her voice quieter than before, and suddenly she felt like an elfling all over again in his presence.

Maglor's gaze did not waver. "What we must," he said resolutely, "The sea calls to both of us, Legolas. For us, the battle does not end at Barad-dûr. The gulls endure."

Legolas exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but there was no humour behind it. The words sat heavily between them, steeped in a truth neither of them could ignore. She knew it too well - that distant cry in her soul, relentless, inescapable. She could scarcely imagine enduring it as long as Maglor already had.

Maglor shifted, moving a hand to rest reassuringly upon Legolas' thigh - his posture still at ease despite the weight of their conversation. "I do not ask for your forgiveness, nor your affection," he told her, his voice steady and undoubtedly heartfelt. "But know this, iell nín - I will always be here for you. You are not alone in this."

Legolas' fingers curled slightly where they rested in her lap, tension threading through her limbs. She had spent a lifetime longing for this, even before her exile - a father who didn't resent her. Now, suddenly, Maglor was here, offering something she was not sure she knew how to take.

"Why are you doing this?" Legolas asked at last, regarding him with an edge of scepticism, "After all this time, why now?"

Maglor did not hesitate. "Because I should have done it long ago," he said almost intuitively, "Because I am your father, and I love you. That is all I have to offer. My love and truth, no matter how flawed I may be."

Love. Legolas didn't know what to do with it. Her entire life, she had never heard those words from a father’s lips. Thranduil had certainly never spoken them. Even Celeborn, in all his quiet kindness, had never truly claimed her in that way.

And now here was Maglor, speaking the words she had longed to hear all her life - and she could not trust them. Because if she let him in, if she let herself believe his words, then what did that make her? A daughter abandoned? A daughter denied?

Legolas wanted to be angry. She was angry. But deep beneath the anger, beneath the betrayal, there was something quieter, something rawer, something she was almost afraid to acknowledge.

She wanted to believe him.

Because if Maglor was telling the truth - if he had truly loved her all this time, even from a distance - then perhaps she had never been as alone as she had thought. Perhaps she had never been as unwanted as Thranduil had made her feel.

And that was more terrifying than anything.

She lifted her gaze to Maglor, searching his face for something, though she did not know what. Reassurance? Regret? A trace of the lies that had built the foundation of her life? She found none.

What she found instead was quiet certainty, a patience that made her ache.

"I don’t know if I can forgive you," she admitted at last, her voice softer than she intended. "Not yet."

Maglor did not flinch at her words. He did not look away, nor did he let any degree of disappointment flicker across his countenance. Instead, he inclined his head, accepting the weight of her words as if he had already prepared for them. "I understand," he said simply. "I will wait as long as it takes. Just know that whether you forgive me or not, I will never stop being proud of the elleth you have become."

Legolas couldn't help the way her lips quirked, into a small but no less genuine smile at Maglor's words. Though it would be only fleeting, as the sea-longing swelled up, stirring in her veins. Restless and insistent as it was, it drew Maglor's attention toward her - his eyes narrowed slightly in concern.

Legolas managed to settle herself, offering a faint, almost imperceptible nod to Maglor. "When the time comes, will you sail with me?" She finally spoke, her soft and pained voice so quiet, it was as if it was never really meant to be heard.

"We will face the west together," Maglor promised.

For the first time that night, something in her chest loosened, just slightly. Not enough to call it relief, not enough to ease the ache that lingered still. But for now, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The chamber lay nestled in the highest reaches of Minas Tirith’s white towers, far from the distant murmur of revelry and celebration still winding through the city's veins below. The air inside however was hushed, thick with the weight of unspoken words. Scattered oil lamps flickered across the room, painting soft shadows across the stone walls and gilded archways half-lost to the night.

Legolas sat curled into a high-backed chair, her spine rigid despite the weariness that clung to her like a second skin. Her hands, usually so sure and steady, now rested protectively over the swell of her belly, fingers splayed as if to shield the life within from her turmoil. The firelight caught in the loose strands of her russet hair, braided hastily back but fraying and unkempt at the edges - indicative of her restless hands' futile attempts at seeking purchase in a world that had tilted beneath her. Even her eyes, usually bright with sharp clarity, were now clouded, darkened by exhaustion and betrayal.

Elrohir perched on the arm of her chair, his presence a silent anchor, fingers tracing idle, soothing circles against her shoulder. Though his touch was gentle, his gaze was sharp, watchful - as though he meant to ward off the weight of her sorrow by sheer will alone. Beside them, Arwen sat with the quiet grace of one who had long mastered the art of quiet contemplation, her dark eyes holding a depth of understanding that left no need for words.

Across the room, Elladan leaned arms crossed against the hearth, his expression near unreadable save for the faintest tension in his jaw. Near the window, Gimli folded his broad arms - his usual gruff demeanor tamed by an uncharacteristic concern even for him - seeming to tread carefully as though the very air around them might fracture beneath a misspoken word.

Moonlight filtered through the high windows, threading through Legolas' disheveled braids like liquid starlight welding with molten copper. Her breath came out unevenly, shoulders drawn as taut as a bowstring; the only outward sign of the storm within. Legolas' world felt fractured, torn and shredded before her very eyes and now here, in the aftermath, she struggled with where to even begin piecing herself back together.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until at last, she shattered it - her voice low, rough with the strain of holding back a flood too vast to name.

"All these years." Legolas' voice trembled, not once lifting her gaze from her lap to face them, "I thought Thranduil was my father. That everything he did, all the harshness and scorn, was born from some twisted form of love. And now I find out it was all a lie."

Her voice cracked on the last word, followed by a bitter laugh. She lifted her gaze ever so slightly to stare absently into the hearth, as if the flames might hold the answers she sought. "I thought I understood my life," Legolas continued, eyes fixed upon some distant memory, "My past. Even the pain Thranduil caused me - I tried to make sense of it, to find meaning in it. I told myself it was just his way, that there was something in me he saw and feared losing. Even after he cast me out - banished me from my home - I clung to the belief that he was still my blood. My kin. That maybe, deep down, that meant something.”

Legolas finally lifted her head fully, and the anguish in her eyes made even Gimli flinch.

"But now," her voice was little above a whisper, "Now it feels empty. Like I was holding onto an illusion all along."

a profound stillness permeated the air following her words, like the breath of the world itself had gotten caught. Arwen reached for Legolas' hand, her touch gentle but firm in its intention. "It changes nothing of who you are," Arwen spoke with a quiet authority. One that Legolas had forgotten how much she'd truly missed, "The pain you endured - it was real. And so was the strength you found in it. That strength, that resilience, that light - it belongs to you. Not to Thranduil. Not to Maglor. You, Legolas."

Legolas' mouth trembled as Arwen's hand squeezed hers, "But what does that make me now?" She asked, voice cracking like a trodden branch. "A Fëanorian? Part of a line cursed by pride and bloodshed? How can I reconcile that with who I thought I was, with who I have tried to be?"

"You are not defined by their choices, meleth." Elrohir spoke up, no longer able to contain himself. Though his voice was soft, it was just as steady - in a way that anchored rather than pressed. "Not by Thranduil’s cruelty, nor by the shadow of Fëanor’s deeds. You are defined by your own heart, your own choices. And that heart, that light, has never wavered. You are still the elleth I fell in love with, still the mother of our children."

Legolas closed her eyes, as if the words might settle more deeply that way, might begin to mend something raw and unspoken within her. But even as Elrohir’s voice wrapped around her like a balm, doubt stirred beneath still. How much of her strength had grown as a reaction to Thranduil’s scorn, to his indifference? Was it truly hers, or only borrowed armour - hammered into shape by necessity? She wanted to believe Elrohir, to lean into the comfort of his certainty, but a splinter of fear remained. If her roots had always been tangled in falsehoods, what did that make the tree she had grown into?

Legolas gave a shaking breath, clenching her jaw. "And yet it still feels like I’ve been living a lie, Elrohir. If Maglor had spoken sooner, if Thranduil had told me the truth-"

Gimli cleared his throat before Legolas could continue, the sound gruff but by no means unkind. He stepped forward from where he had been leant against the window, determination set into his shoulders. "Then maybe you'd have known sooner, lass," he said, voice echoing slightly off the walls, "But it wouldn't have changed who you are."

His arms were folded across his broad chest, but there was a softness in his eyes that only tended to surface when it came to Legolas, "Truth be told, I don't give a damn who your father is - Thranduil, Maglor, or even you blasted Valar themselves. What matters is yer you. The same elf who fought beside me in the deep places of Middle Earth, who soothed the hurt of my kin with kindness after blood and grief. You did that, you chose that. No lineage or bloodline can take that away."

Legolas looked at him, lips parted slightly with something uncertain flickering behind her eyes as she assessed her friend. For a long moment she simply studied him, as though trying to measure the weight of Gimli's certainty, as if she did not know quite what to do with a love so steadfast and uncomplicated. Silently but surely, she inclined her head toward Gimli - one of acknowledgment, of gratitude. There were no words for what his unwavering loyalty meant, not yet. Perhaps not ever. So she let the silence speak for her, allowing her gaze to soften and her shoulders to ease ever so slightly.

A brief moment passed before she turned her attention toward Arwen, the question forming behind her eyes before her mouth even had a chance to give it shape. Legolas' voice rang out quieter, wary even, "Did you know, Arwen?" She asked pointedly. "You do not seem surprised."

Arwen fixed her gaze upon Legolas, her expression unreadable at first. A long pause hung between the elleth's before she finally answered, hands folding loosely in front of her, fingers twining and untwining between the folds of her dress. "I had... suspicions." She admitted cautiously.

Arwen glanced toward the window, allowing herself a brief moment to gather her thoughts before she continued, "Maglor has always been an enigma, even to those who know him well. But there were moments, only brief and fleeting things, where he looked at you, or spoke of you. I could see there was something more beneath the surface - something unspoken when it came to you. He always seemed hesitant, as if there was something he wanted to say but could not bring himself to."

"But I never imagined." Her gaze returned to Legolas, voice wavering ever so slightly as her tone softened, "Never this."

Elladan, who had been silent up until now, shifted from where he leant against the far wall. His expression was taut with thought and when he finally spoke, it was with the weight of one still trying to untangle his own feelings aloud. "It is strange, I admit." Elladan's eyes narrowed as he spoke, not out of suspicion but from a place of honest and open quandary.

"For all the pain Maglor caused - for all the blood on his hands - our father still speaks of him with reverence. Calls him Atya himself. Even now." He shifted his weight, gaze flicking briefly toward Elrohir before returning to Legolas, "Maglor gave our father and Elros a home when they had no one else, even if it was his own doing that left them orphaned - he loved them. And now for him to be your father as well... it is-"

"Unnatural." Gimli cut in, dwarven bluntness evident as ever - though his tone was far from cruel, more so gruff with unease, pity.

"Unexpected." Arwen corrected gently, her tone cordial, but even she couldn't help the barest flash of a disapproving glare shot in Gimli's direction.

Legolas had been listening in silence, letting their words settle as she took in their perspectives on the truth she was still trying to grasp. Maglor. Father. The words did not sit easily upon her tongue.

"And yet." Legolas spoke slowly, hesitantly. "He raised your father."

Her gaze flitted from Elladan to Arwen, then to Elrohir sat dutifully by her side before returning to Elladan. "He was there for Elrond. He gave him what I longed for - what I never received from Thranduil."

There was no bitterness in her voice, perhaps it would have been easier if there had been. But no, only a bone-deep ache - not the type to be easily vanquished. Legolas let her hand drift down to rest over the swell of her belly again, fingers splayed across the growing life inside her. Atya. She had never had a name for a father that wasn't accompanied by a sting.

Elrohir's voice came softly, interrupting her thoughts as it stepped into the fragile stillness her words had left behind. "You deserved so much more, meleth." He said, gaze steady upon hers as he reached out to gently lay his hand upon hers, "You deserved kindness. Joy. Truth. And though Maglor failed you in the past, it does not mean he cannot try to make amends now. That choice lies with him - and with you."

Legolas looked down at their hands, entwined across the swell of their child, his warmth grounding her. She wanted to believe so desperately in that possibility. In healing. But the knot in her chest was wound tight, and it would not yet loosen.

"I do not know if I can face him, Elrohir." She admitted, her voice low, almost ashamed. "Let alone forgive him."

The words tasted like salt on her tongue. Truth, but far from peace. She thought back to the way Maglor had looked at her, of the silence that had hung between them like a half-sung chord. She thought of Thranduil’s cold dismissal, scorn worn like a crown. How different it might have been - how different she might have been - if someone had called her daughter without flinching.

Elladan's gaze moved to focus on her from where it had been half lost in flame, his voice ringing out steady and deliberate, "Perhaps you do not need to say anything yet. Give yourself time to understand what this truth means for you. Our father waited centuries before confronting some of his own questions about Maglor, and even then, he chose to keep some questions in his heart alone. You have that same right."

Legolas exhaled slowly, her posture still rigid under the weight of staying composed. It was strange to think of Elrond - so often the voice of certainty and measured wisdom, a father figure to her in his own right - carrying unanswered questions about the man who had shaped his formative years. Stranger still to think that she and Elrond now shared a tether that they had not known; a history bent toward the same elusive Fëanorian.

Arwen's voice reached her then, soft but sure. "Forgiveness takes time, Legolas." she reassured. "You do not need to decide now."

That gentleness nearly undid her. Legolas looked down at her hands - one nestled atop the rise of her stomach, the other curled tightly in her lap - as she tried to bury her tumultuous emotions. It was all too much. The weight of her lineage. This child. And beneath it all, the ceaseless call of the sea, its relentless longing, singing in her blood like a tide she could neither outrun nor ignore. Everything was moving at a pace she could not escape.

Then came Gimli’s voice, firm and grounding like the earth itself.

"I've seen you in battle, lass." He said, stepping closer, his arms still folded but a telling warmth spreading behind his eyes. "You stared down cave trolls and walked into Mordor like it was a woodland stroll. If there’s anyone who can weather a truth like this, it’s you."

A huff of breath left her - half-laugh, half a broken sound of resignation. Legolas met his eyes, offering a look that held both thanks and a quiet ache. "This is different, Gimli." Her voice came out wearier than intended as she spoke, "I cannot cut through it with a blade or shoot it with an arrow. It just sits with me. Heavy. And I carry it alone."

The weight of a name withheld, the hunger for a father's kindness that never came. The hollow emptiness where belief had once lived, cracked open to reveal something all too raw, too new to touch. Thranduil’s disdain had been a wound in its own right - but one she had long learned how to tend. But this? This was a wound she did not yet know the shape of.

"You do not carry it alone." Elrohir did not hesitate, his voice low and full of certainty as he addressed his wife. "You never have. You belong with us, Legolas. Bloodlines and histories aside, you are one of us - and nothing can change that."

She turned to look at him fully, her jaw tightening. There was love in his gaze. Unbridled faith. But something in her rebelled at the comfort of it - the part of her that felt hollowed out, undone.

"Then why does it feel like the ground is gone beneath me?" she asked with a quiet desperation.

Because it did. Every step she’d taken, every belief she’d held, every sharp edge she’d sanded down in herself in order to survive Thranduil’s cold distance - it had all been shaped by a lie. And now that lie was gone, and there was nothing beneath it but the terrible vulnerability of truth.

"Because the truth shakes us." Arwen spoke, her voice laced with the steel that ran beneath all her gentleness, "But it also gives us the chance to rebuild. Stronger than before."

Rebuild. Legolas' breath caught at the word. It was such a fragile thing, the idea of it - so mannish, almost. She had spent so long surviving, never once thinking there could be something more than endurance. That she could take what was shattered and build from it, not just bury it deeper.

"You can rebuild anything, lass." Gimli said firmly, arms braced against his broad chest as if trying to demonstrate his point. "Even if it has to be stone by stone."

"And not alone," Elrohir added, his hand still warm in hers. His voice was low, almost reverent. "Never alone."

Legolas turned her face away slightly, not to hide tears - there were none yet - but to make space for the words rising in her like a tide she could no longer suppress.

"He looked at me as though I was a stranger." She said, voice rough and pained. "Even when I stood before him and begged him to even just try."

Elladan straightened, "Thranduil?"

Legolas nodded, a bitter laugh catching in her throat. "I thought if I was good enough, if I fought hard enough, then maybe he would see me. Perhaps he would stop hating me."

The admission hung in the air like the snow on Caradhras - thick and unrelenting. There was no spectacle in it, only weariness; the kind that came from trying for far too long and failing in ways that left scars no blade could ever hope to etch.

"He failed you Legolas." Arwen's voice came gentle, soft as she placed a hand upon Legolas' thigh, "Not the other way around."

Legolas started at the hearth, unable to meet Arwen's gaze. She wanted to believe that. Truly. But the old reflex to take the blame was hard to abandon. Hadn't she been taught to see herself as the reason for Thranduil's scorn? Had she not spent centuries internalising every slight, every wound, as something earned?

"You spent your life trying to earn something that should have been freely given," Elladan said quietly, his voice brimming with despair at the injustice of it all.

Legolas closed her eyes. There was no pride in her, not now. Only the fragile, aching child she had once been. Desperate for her father's gaze to soften. For approval that never came. For a place to belong.

"And if Maglor is half the fool I suspect he is," Gimli gruffed, "he'll spend the rest of his immortal life making up for what you were denied."

She let out a breath - slow, uncertain. Her hand had returned to her belly without her realising it. The child stirred softly, a flicker of life, of future.

"Do you think he can?" she asked, to anyone who would listen, "That anyone can?"

"I don't know." Elrohir said, honest and unwavering, "But I know that you can heal. With time. And I will be here through every breath of it."

Legolas looked at him then, fully, her walls lowered just enough to let the pain be seen. To let his words settle somewhere deeper than her doubt.

She did not know if she could believe in Maglor, not yet. But there could be no doubt that she believed in Elrohir. In Arwen and Elladan and Gimli. In the arms that had caught her when the ground beneath her gave way.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

Their chamber was quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes in the deepest hours of the night - broken only by the faintest sounds; the low rustle of wind beyond the carved stone window and the slow, rhythmic cadence of Elrohir's breathing. Legolas lay still amidst the tangle of sheets, red curls fanned out on the pillow. Her back pressed lightly against Elrohir's chest, whose arm draped heavily over her waist in sleep. His breath was slow and even against the nape of her neck, a steady rhythm that should have lulled her into slumber.

But alas her eyes remained open, unfocused, searching the shadows of the ceiling. Sleep eluded her. Every time she closed her eyes, her thoughts pressed inward, loud as a mumakil despite the hush. Her mind was at war with itself, circling endlessly around the same aching truths. Fëanorian blood. The memory of Thranduil’s treatment. The phantom weight of all the years spent grasping at a father who had never truly been hers.

She let her eyes drift over Elrohir's sleeping face. He was turned toward her, even in rest, his brow smooth and his mouth soft in repose. She studied carefully the dark sweep of his lashes, the faint scar just beneath his jaw - half-faded, from a wound that had long since healed. She reverently took all of him in, until a sharp movement pulled her from her rumination - a sudden stretch from within that made her wince, then exhale slowly through her nose. She moved a hand to her belly, palm pressed flat against the warm swell, fingers splayed. The little one was strong tonight. Determined.

She rubbed slow circles just beneath her ribs, whispering something low and melodic in Silvan, almost without realising. A lullaby she had sung more times than she could count when her children were little more than elflings, one she knew like the back of her hand. "Rest now, gwinig. The trees are still. The stars are watching."

But the babe did not settle. Another kick. Another tumble beneath her skin. It was like being hollowed out and filled with brimstone all at once, too full of life and yet too void of peace.

Elrohir shifted behind her. Not yet fully awake - his hand merely twitched where it rested on her belly, as if drawn by the movement there. Then he stilled again, his body warm and heavy against hers. His presence was comfort and safety wrapped in skin and bone, and yet tonight even that constant could not soothe her unrest.

She swallowed thickly. Her chest ached, though not entirely from the child pressing into her lungs, no there was something deeper than breathlessness in it. Grief, perhaps. Grief for what she never had. But a measure of fear, too - for what was coming.

Elrohir stirred again, this time rolling slightly, his arm tightening around her middle. His lips brushed the line of her neck, breath stirring the fine hairs there.

"You are restless," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep but threaded with knowing and gentle concern.

Elrohir shifted again, the movement slow and unhurried as he surfaced more fully from sleep. He let his hand spread across her belly where hers already rested. The skin there was taut and firm with life, the babe within pressing boldly against both their palms. Elrohir hummed a soft sound, part amusement, part wonder, as he murmured, "And so is our little one."

Legolas tilted her head slightly, allowing her temple to rest against his cheek. "It feels as though they cannot settle," She whispered. "Perhaps they sense my turmoil."

A particularly strong kick answered her words, and she inhaled sharply, her hand smoothing instinctively along the skin.

Elrohir was quiet a moment, his hand steady and grounding where it lay. "Perhaps," He allowed softly. "But perhaps it is not so complicated. Perhaps they are simply testing their strength as all children do." He shifted again, nuzzling into her curls, his voice a little clearer now. A little more awake.

Legolas huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if not for the sheer weariness of it. "Then they are certainly your child."

"Oh?" He raised a brow, tone rising in mock-offence. "And not at all like their naneth, who has always been a picture of patience and restraint?"

She turned in his arms just enough to catch a glimpse of his expression in the moonlight. His eyes were bright with a uniquely Elrohir brand of sleep-softened mischief. "A model of composure, truly." She said dryly. "I have never once launched an arrow into someone’s helmet just to make a point."

Elrohir let out a muffled laugh, pressing his face briefly into the crook of her neck. "Terrifying." He murmured. "But just as beautiful."

There was a pause between them, one of those rare silences that held no weight, only affection. The baby moved again, but this time the kick was softer, less insistent - as though even the child had for the time being been adequately soothed.

"I suppose we are both to blame, then." Legolas relented. "This child will be fierce and unreasonable."

Elrohir smiled against her skin, the curve of his lips a tender weight pressed to her temple. "And deeply loved, just as the others."

She felt the truth of the words resonate through his every touch, every breath. His hand remained twined with hers, their fingers interlaced, a silent reassurance in the dark. The warmth of his skin bled into her, a balm to the unrest simmering just beneath the surface of her fëa. For a while, he said nothing more, though she could sense the movement of his thoughts; the way his breath caught slightly, the subtle tightening of his fingers, the way his chest rose and fell with deliberate control as if measuring his next words with care.

When he did speak, his voice was gentle and unhurried, "Legolas-"

But Legolas stopped him before he could go further. Her voice was soft, but it carried an edge born of too many sleepless nights.

"You need not ask." She interrupted, voice low and tight. Her eyes didn't meet his - she couldn't, not yet. It was too raw, too close to breaking open at this hour. But her grip on his hand did not loosen, if anything, she found herself holding tighter. "You already know what troubles me."

Of course he did, there was no point pretending otherwise. Elrohir always knew. Even in the silence, in the spaces where her pain grew wild and untamed - he knew its form.

Elrohir did not argue, he only whispered, "You do not have to speak of it if you do not wish."

"And yet it festers if I do not." Legolas mumbled, absentmindedly stroking his knuckles as her gaze drifted once more to the shadowy stonework of the ceiling, "But what does it change? I have lived an age believing one thing, and now I must reconcile that with another. I do not know how to be his daughter, Elrohir."

There it was - bitter, unsoftened, spoken aloud into the unwitting hush of the night. And still, it did not bring her peace. The truth gnawed at the edge of Legolas' very being, her very fëa, like spider venom working its way into a wound - slow, persistent, seeping into places she had tried desperately to forget.

She was exhausted by the circling of it, by the same questions, the same fears returning again and again like waves upon the shore. This was far from the first time she had confessed these thoughts to Elrohir, and yet they were here again; as though nothing she did could still the noise inside her mind.

Why could she not be done with it? Why couldn't she just cast it off like an old cloak and leave it behind?

Because it mattered. She scolded herself. Because she had let it matter, for so long.

Legolas exhaled slowly, her hand still cradled in Elrohir’s, gaze flickering toward him in the dimness. He had not sighed. Had not urged her to move on. He was not asking her to be healed before she was ready. He only listened, steady and present.

"You do not have to know," Elrohir spoke gently, maddeningly kindly. "Not yet. Love, trust, they are not born in an instant."

Legolas let it sit between them for a moment. Not yet. It was such a small thing to offer, and yet it landed in her chest with the weight of something far greater. A reprieve. A space to breathe. But still - still it gnawed, curling itself tighter inside her ribs.

"He had an age to tell me." She said at last, quietly, as if her words would shatter if spoken any louder - with any more conviction. "He never did."

The truth of it burned behind her eyes. She wanted it to be simpler. Wanted to feel relieved, or hearted, or even just something clearer than the mess she'd been wading through. But instead, everything inside her was a tangle. Resentment and curiosity mingled with anger and yearning. And underneath it all, the persistent hum of a loss not name could ever hope to undo.

"He was afraid." Elrohir brushed his thumb over the curve of her belly, as if trying to anchor her in the now.

"And I was alone." She whispered, a barely audible admission. "Does my pain weigh less than his fear?."

No anger bled into her voice - none of the usual fire or sharpness. Only sorrow, raw and steady. Her eyes stung and as she blinked, and Legolas felt a solitary tear slip past her lashes, tracing the bridge of her nose.

The child moved within her, twisting and stretching against the curve of her hand and Legolas couldn't help but wish she had been like that. Unafraid to take up space. Unafraid to demand love.

Elrohir's hand tightened slightly in hers, a firm pressure as his breath ghosted against her temple. When he eventually spoke, his words came out quiet, sure. Unwavering. "No. It does not."

"I do not know how to look at him and not feel anger." She confessed, the admission pulled from some deep, jagged place inside of her.

"Then be angry." Elrohir asserted, voice sharpening just enough to cut through the fog in her mind without scaring her away.

He shifted beside her, propping himself up on one elbow, his dark hair loose around his shoulders and falling like silk across the pillow. His gaze met Legolas' fully, dark and earnest and yet bright with a quiet defiance. "Be angry, meleth." He said again, "Be hurt. Grieve what was taken from you, what was kept from you. You do not owe him forgiveness."

Legolas blinked, startled by the force of his words. Elrohir had never tried to temper her feelings, never tried to make her smaller and in this moment, she loved him all the more for it. Still, a seed of doubt lingered in her chest, refusing to be banished.

"But do I owe him a chance?" She whispered tentatively.

"That is for you alone to decide." Elrohir settled on these words, gentler now as he brushed her errant curls from her face with the back of his fingers. "It is not a debt. It is a door - one you may choose to open or not. You are not beholden to him simply because of your blood."

She closed her eyes for a breath, reaching for stillness; searching for it in the steady rhythm of Elrohir’s breathing, in the slow drag of his thumb across her knuckles. She tried to let the warmth of him settle her, to find her footing in the quiet circle of his embrace. But peace was elusive. Her thoughts tumbled on, impossible to still once set it motion.

"Everything feels so uncertain." She said at last, a tremble threading through each word. "The Ring is destroyed. Sauron is gone. Things should be quieter now. Lighter. Simpler."

She swallowed. The words pressed too close to bone for her liking, "And yet I feel more adrift than I ever did during the war

Her breath hitched, and she turned her face further into the pillow, as if she could hide from the heaviness plaguing her chest. "It is as though the very foundation of my being is crumbling beneath me. All I thought I knew - who I am, where I come from - has been unmade just as the Ring was. Fëanorian blood runs through my veins, Elrohir." The name came out like a plea, barely above a whisper. "And now the sea calls to me, stronger each day. Assaulting my very fëa. And to bring another elfling into all of this-."

The silence that followed was thick, brimming with things left unsaid. Legolas found her voice faltering, caught in her throat like a sob that never quite formed. "I feel as though I am drowning, Elrohir."

Elrohir gathered her close, drawing her back against his chest and wrapping his arms around her fully - with the kind of care that did not demand anything in return. Legolas, for all her unravelling, let herself lean into him as he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

"Then let what is certain be enough for now." He muttered. "You are not alone. You are not without love. You are not adrift."

Elrohir's hand moved once more to her stomach, fingers spreading over the gentle swell as if to remind them both that something steady still existed; that not all things were fractured. The elfling stirred beneath his touch, an insistent kick that made Legolas flinch and exhale - startled - before softening once again into his warmth.

Elrohir’s voice broke gently through the quiet, low and certain in the hush between their breaths. "You are here." he said, each word a tether drawn taut between them. "With me. With this child we made. The rest can wait."

Legolas exhaled shakily, leaning into his embrace. It was simple. Uncomplicated. And for a moment, it was enough. "I will try."

Legolas turned her face toward his throat, nestling closer, allowing herself to be drawn in. His arms closed around her without hesitation, warm and sure. Elrohir smiled faintly as his lips brushed her hair, "That is all you need do, meleth."

Chapter Text

The citadel's gardens stretched far out before them, bathed in the tendrils of golden light of a Gondorian sunset. Minas Tirith still bore the scars of war and yet seemed to be blooming anew under Aragorn’s reign - it felt to Legolas as though the very city itself exhaled in the peaceful warmth of early summer. The white tree stood in fresh leafed grandeur, teeming with song she had long thought lost in mannish civilization.

She sat perched atop a low garden wall, her bare feet swinging slightly above the cobbled path below. Her crimson curls, burnished copper in the sunset, cascaded freely about her shoulders, stirred by the warm breeze that carried the scent of flowering athelas from Pelennor fields below.

Pregnancy had softened the sharp angles of her body, rounding her belly where her child grew; but her eyes still carried the keen, watchful light of a hardened warrior. Legolas had been silent for some time, fingers absently tracing the embroidery along the sleeves of her loose gown - a reluctant concession to her changing form.

The revelation of Maglor's true relation to her still sat strangely between the pair. Their bond was still fragile, like a sapling bending beneath the weight of unspoken regrets. Yet, in quiet moments like this, she found herself understanding him more - how love and fear could entwine so deeply that one might choose distance over the risk of causing pain. And though trust between them was still tentative, laced with hesitation, she no longer turned away when he reached out.

Progress was slow, measured in shared silences and halting words, but it was progress all the same.

Maglor had been sitting contemplative at her side for a while now, his gaze distant and fixed upon some unseen horizon beyond the leagues of Pelennor. The quiet between them was not uncomfortable, but neither was it entirely at ease. It was the silence of two souls feeling their way around an unfamiliar kinship.

Almost out of nowhere, with little preamble, Maglor broke it. "May I braid it?" The words escaped before he could reconsider them.

Legolas turned her head slightly, studying him sceptically from the corner of her eye. The request was unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome. There was an intimacy to such an act, a tenderness that went beyond mere grooming - braids were memory, legacy, the unspoken language of elves woven into each twist and and plait. For Maglor to offer such a thing, here, now, after all that lay between them - it was a claim. A quiet, stubborn insistence that despite centuries of silence, in spite of bloodshed and the yawning chasm of a fractured family - a thread of connection remained if she wished for him to tender it.

the ghost of a smile played upon Legolas' lips. "You can certainly try." She said at last, her words lighter than the moment warranted, but a deflection that left the door ajar nonetheless.

Maglor exhaled, something between a laugh and a sigh as he leant closer. His calloused fingers were surprisingly gentle as they gatherd the spin of curls at the nape of her neck. "I am very used to hair like yours and its unruly ways," He admitted tenderly.

"Unruly, is it?" She arched her brow, though her tone held no real challenge, no true bite behind them. "Elrohir says it has a will of its own."

"Perhaps it does." He conceded, carefully separating the curls with practiced motions and weaving through the strands with surprising deftness. There was something almost fond in the way he said it, as if her hair's rebellion amused him. Or perhaps it was simply that he recognized the stubbornness in it.

Legolas exhaled slowly, a little tension leaking from her posture. "You are careful," She observed.

"You say that as though you expected me to tug at your hair like a scolding nursemaid." Maglor mused.

A laugh escaped her, small and hesitant. It surprised her, the lightness of it, the way it left her without warning. "I expected you to be more -"

She paused, searching.

"Deliberate?" Maglor supplied, his voice tinged with something she couldn't quite place.

She nodded, her movements making the curls slip slightly through his fingers onto her freckled shoulders.

Maglor's hands stilled briefly, the weight of memory pressing firm upon him. "I was more deliberate, once." He admitted, voice low and pained with a sorrow that had outlived kingdoms. "I braided my brothers' hair before battle, tied it tight as though the braids alone could keep them safe."

A beat of silence followed, heavy with the echoes of loss, "They never did, of course."

The admission laid between them raw and unvarnished. Legolas did not attempt to offer empty consolation - some wounds were too old for platitudes, too deep for gentle words to mend. And though she and Maglor had found a tentative peace - bound by blood if not yet by trust - the same could not be said for her thoughts on the rest of the sons of Fëanor.

And so Maglor, whose hands had both wrought melody and ruin, resumed his task, his hands gentle in her hair as he continued weaving errant strands together.

"And Maedhros?." The words slipped out before she could think better of them.

The name landed between them like a fallen leaf upon still water and Maglor's hands - those ancient, battle-worn hands that had only moments before been so gentle in her hair - stilled again abruptly. The golden light deepened the lines of his face and for a terse moment he looked every bit as ancient as he was.

"His was always the most difficult." The admission came slowly, as though each word had to be carefully extracted from some long-sealed part of his fëa. "After Nelyo lost his hand, I would braid his hair often. It became a ritual of sorts, a quiet moment of normalcy amidst all the chaos." A faint, rueful smile touched his lips, "No matter how tightly I braided it, within the hour strands would be slipping free and curling at his temples as though they refused to be tamed."

His fingers twitched, as if remembering the texture of those defiant tresses, "He used to swear that our mother had cursed him with her wild hair for being such a monstrously big elfling."

Legolas exhaled through her nose, a quiet, uneven sound. There was recognition in it - familiarity - but something else too, something unsettled. To hear the figure of her childhood nightmares spoken of with such open affection, it left her off kilter.

"I know the feeling," She murmured at last.

Maglor studied her profile, where the dying light gilded the curve of her lashes and turned the scattering of freckles across her nose to tiny flecks of gold. His gaze was too knowing, too perceptive for Legolas' liking.

"It frustrated you, did it not?"

Her fingers plucked at the fabric of her gown where it draped over her rounded belly. Maglor's touch returned to her hair, his fingers carding through the strands with that same careful gentleness, but the question lingered between them, unavoidable.

"It wasn't the hair itself," she admitted after a pause. "It was what it meant."

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile as the last rays of sunlight. Then, softer still, "It's his, isn't it? My hair. It's Maedhros'."

Maglor went very still. The light seemed to deepen around them, catching in the dark hair at his temples as he turned fully to face her. For a long moment he simply looked at her - really looked - taking in the fiery cascade that tumbled over her shoulders, so reminiscent of his brother's own.

When he finally spoke, his voice was firm yet gentle, carrying the weight of all his millennia. "No, Legolas." He reached out, carefully tucking one of the escaped strands back behind her ear. "It is yours."

Maglor laid the braid neatly over her shoulder, already a few strands had slipped free, curling defiantly at her temples. She reached up absently, her fingers brushing against the escaped tendrils before tucking one behind the delicate point of her ear.

For a moment, the quiet between them felt almost peaceful - until Legolas drew a slow breath and shattered it with words long held inside. "All my life," She began, her voice softer than the evening breeze but edged with something sharp, "I have been compared to Maedhros for my hair - the same blood-soaked colour, the same untamable curls."

Legolas' fingers twitched slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach up and twist a lock around them. "From the moment I was old enough to understand the whispers, they were always there. Always lingering."

Maglor did not interrupt, he simply shifted ever so slightly closer to her side - listening with the stillness of one who had learned long ago how to bear the weight of uncomfortable truths.

"Even Galadriel could not hide it." Legolas continued, her gaze drifting toward the distance. The words came slowly, carefully, as if she were lifting stones from a riverbed - each one heavier than it appeared, each revealing something long buried and internalised. "She never said it outright, but I could feel it. My hair, my very presence, reminded her of something - or someone - she wanted to forget." A shadow passed over her face, fleeting, and her voice dropped to a whisper, raw with the frustration of centuries. "And I hated it for that. I hated myself for that. I wanted none of it. I wanted to tear it away, to be free of it. But no matter what I did, it was always there. A part of me I couldn't change."

"My hair belonged to him all along, didn't it?." The words came quieter than she intended, almost resigned. There was no accusation in them - only weary acceptance, as though some little part of her had always known the truth behind the stares.

Maglor was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable and when he finally spoke, his voice was softer than she had ever heard it, "It does."

The admission landed between them, stark and undeniable. Legolas didn't know what to do with it. But then he continued, tone shifting, warming like the embers of a fire stirred back to life.

"But it comes from my ammë, just as much as it does Maedhros." A faint smile touched his lips, something wistful and fond - it seemed almost out of place upon Maglor's countenance. "Her hair burned like copper in the sun even more so than my brother's."

Legolas turned her head slightly, studying him. There was something in his eyes - something she couldn't name, but it made her chest tighten all the same.

"You remind me of my ammë in so many ways." He admitted, voice gaining strength. "She, too carried herself with grace, even when she was burdened with more than she deserved." His gaze held hers, unwavering. "There's a fire in you, yes. But it is not a destructive one. It is a guiding light, much like hers - a quiet strength that could hold its ground even against my atya's tempests. Where others saw chaos or conflict, she sought understanding. She made the world better simply by being in it."

A pause, deliberate. "As do you."

Legolas felt something inside her shift, like a knot loosening after years of being pulled too tight. For the first time, the thought of her hair - of all it carried, all it meant - did not feel like a chain.

"You two seem deep in thought."

Elrohir's voice, warm with amusement, broke the quiet the pair had settled into as he emerged from behind a flowering bush. His boots scuffed softly against the cobbled path, dark hair slightly tousled from the breeze coming off the Anduin. Legolas did not turn, but her mouth curved faintly.

"Just talking." She replied, glancing up at him, her posture relaxed in a way it rarely was when she sat still for so long.

"Good." Elrohir pressed a kiss to her temple, right where one of the escaped copper strands had rebelliously curled. "It's about time the two of you found something in common besides stubbornness."

Maglor arched an eyebrow but didn't deny the charge.

Elrohir's gaze lingered on the soft curve of Legolas' shoulder, then dropped lower, tracing the path of a fresh braid. The strands were woven with unexpected precision, each twist and tuck deliberate, careful. It wasn't a warrior's braid, meant to be practical and tight against the skull, nor a courtly plait designed to impress. It was something gentler - personal.

"You braided her hair?" Elrohir asked, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at Maglor with a look that hovered somewhere between amusement and scrutiny.

It wasn't an accusation, not quite. But it was a question layered with more than just surprise. Elrohir knew how much meaning Legolas placed in her hair - how rarely she allowed anyone to touch it. The act was never casual for her. Not with all it held. Not with all she had carried in those red tresses since childhood.

"He insisted." Legolas said, her lips quivering knowingly.

"I did not insist." Maglor corrected mildly, though there was a new ease in his voice that hadn't been there before, "I merely asked."

Elrohir gave a quiet chuckle, circling around to examine Maglor's handiwork closer. "Not bad." He conceded after a moment's appraisal. "Though if you really want to test your mettle, you should see if you can get Ialwen to sit still long enough for one."

"I take it she is not so cooperative," Maglor observed dryly.

"Cooperative?" Legolas echoed with fond exasperation and a snort of disbelief, "No, she is a force unto herself."

"Ialwen treats sitting still as if it were a mortal affliction." She continued, her lips quirking into a wry smile.

Elrohir nodded solemnly, folding his arms as he came to stand at her side. "We used to try when she was younger, but it was always a losing battle. She would squirm away before I could even finish a single plait."

"She climbs trees just to avoid hair brushes." He added, with the long-suffering air of a father who had been bested more than once.

"Once," Legolas added, "She spent two hours in an elm and refused to come down until Leithiassel swore not to come near her with combs, ribbons, or soap."

Maglor blinked. "An elm."

"A very tall elm," Elrohir clarified.

Maglor made a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren't so dignified, "A natural-born tactician."

He clasped his hands loosely in his lap, the motion casual, but his gaze distant - somewhere beyond the garden walls, somewhere in the echoes of Ages past.

"She will either lead armies or start uprisings." He mused, voice tinged with the ghost of a smile. There was something in his tone that spoke of familiarity, as if he had seen such fire before, had known another who carried that same restless spark.

"Both, probably." Elrohir said, nudging Legolas gently with his elbow. "If she learns to sit still long enough to finish a strategy."

Maglor gave a thoughtful nod. "Then I must admit defeat before I have even begun. If I could not tame Maedhros' wild mane, I have little hope of succeeding with Ialwen."

"A wise decision." Elrohir bowed his head in mock solemnity.

"Though I would pay good money to see you try." He added, the barest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Legolas shot him a glare - half exasperation, half amusement - but Elrohir looked utterly unrepentant regardless.

Maglor's lips quirked. "Then perhaps it is best I start small." His gaze flitted to Legolas' intricate braid and he found his voice softening, just slightly. "One unruly redhead at a time."

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

Since the fellowship returned to their homes - save for Gimli, who remained loyally seconded in the lower levels of Minas Tirith, elbow-deep in the city's forges, and of course Aragorn whose days were filled with newly acquired kingly duties - Legolas had found herself with little to distract her from the slow hours of waiting. The days no longer passed in a rush of peril and purpose. There were no orc tracks to follow, no dark woods and caves to navigate, no towers to topple or kings to crown. There was only quiet. And in that quiet, the things she had long avoided pressed closer.

Elrohir, ever watchful, had urged her to rest. And so she did, or pretended to; but rest was not peace, and stillness had its own sharp edges. She had thought that once the war ended, her path would become clear. That there would be space to breathe, to return to some version of herself she had left behind in the Greenwood or Imladris or somewhere between. Instead, the end of the war had unraveled her in quieter, stranger ways.

The world was healing, yes - but what did one do, when the world no longer needed saving?

With Elrohir often at her side and the ever-present stirrings of the child she carried reminding her that the future was not so distant, Legolas might have buried herself in motherhood - but she had never truly been one for idle domesticity. Even if she had, Leithiassel and Faelher had returned back to their own duties, and Ialwen to Lothlórien with Galadriel - delighting in being spoiled by Galadhrim kin.

There was, for the first time in what felt like centuries, nothing that demanded her immediate attention.

Nothing, except Maglor.

He had not tried to force the issue - not after the first, tentative conversations. He moved through the White City as a guest in exile, polite but distant; his presence tolerated by many, welcomed by few. But Legolas had no such luxury of cordial distance, how could she when his blood sang in her veins?

So, in the absence of war, she let herself drift closer. Out of curiosity, perhaps. Or lingering defiance of Thranduil. Or, though she hesitated to admit it, need.

And now, weeks into this uneasy truce of proximity and half-formed trust, she had to admit the truth of it: she had begun to know him. Not as the shadow of elven tragedy or as a blood tied annoyance, but as a person - flawed, strange, and unexpectedly careful. And in the long, unhurried hours of early summer, she found herself returning to him. Sharing space. Beginning conversations. Letting him braid her hair with his fingers still calloused from the blood of her kin.

It was not always easy. There were times she bristled at his presence for no reason she could name. Other times she saw him watching her with a look she did not yet know how to bear - longing, maybe. Or guilt. Or some intricate mingling of the two.

Still, she kept coming back.

"You look thoughtful." She said, lowering herself far from gracefully into a worn seat opposite him - but this far along into her pregnancy, she found herself no longer caring.

Maglor closed the book he had been reading, marking his place with a ribbon before setting it aside. The tightness in his brow eased, and though he didn't smile, there was a flicker of amusement in his expression.

"I was." Maglor said wryly, "But then you arrived."

She observed him for a moment, noting how the book he had been reading had been some sort of dense-looking volume, the kind Elrond might frown thoughtfully over. Yet here he was, gaze softened, his attention turned fully toward her. For all his past, for all the weight he carried in his voice and his name, there were moments - like now - when she couldn't help but think he simply looked like someone trying to learn how to live all over again.

Legolas rested her hands over her stomach, thumbs lightly brushing across the curve of it, and when she spoke again, her voice had lost its teasing lilt.

"You are not afraid of quiet." She said thoughtfully, "Most people are."

"I've had more than enough years to grow used to it." Maglor replied, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. "Though, these days, I find I prefer when it is broken."

She looked up, surprised by his honesty - and perhaps a little unsure how to answer it. But something in his expression told her he didn't expect her to. That he simply meant what he said.

There was another pause - tentative, but not hesitant. Then, Maglor tilted his head slightly, voice lowering just enough to draw her attention back to him.

"Have you chosen a name yet?"

Legolas' hands moved slowly over the curve of her belly, as if some small part of her thought that she might find the answer written there in the shape of a kick. She didn't look at Maglor when she spoke, not at first - her gaze focused intently on the outward signs of the child she was nurturing.

"Not yet. Naming a child feels like trying to shape the wind." Her fingers stilled, resting lightly atop the soft fabric of her dress. "Whatever I choose will define them in ways I cannot predict."

Maglor leaned forward slightly, his elbows braced on his knees, long fingers laced together, "I know the feeling." He said quietly.

That brought her gaze back to him, sharp and curious.

"Oh?" She challenged, a brow arching as she spoke. "And what great deliberation went into choosing my name?"

"None at all." Maglor shook his head wistfully, "Because I didn't choose it."

"Your naneth did." He admitted, a softness creeping into his voice.

For a long moment, Legolas said nothing.

The realization settled over her, strange and tender. Some part of her had assumed - had feared - that her name, like her hair, had been another thread tying her to a legacy she wanted nothing to do with. But no. It had come from her naneth. From an elleth who she knew nothing about, whose face and voice were both foreign to her. Legolas' breath caught slightly, just enough to betray how tightly she held herself.

"She did?" She asked at last, and there was something fragile in it - hope wrapped in disbelief.

Maglor nodded. "She said it came to her the moment she first felt you stir within her." He looked not at her, but past her, as if drawing the memory forward from some hidden alcove of his mind where he had kept it safely stored all these centuries. "Greenleaf, she called you. She wanted you to be strong enough to bend without breaking, to grow despite the storms. A promise that you would endure. That you would grow into yourself, no matter where the winds carried you."

Legolas swallowed. There was a strange tightness in her throat, and she didn't know whether it was grief or gratitude that clung more fiercely. Perhaps both.

"She had such faith." Legolas murmured, "In someone she never even met."

Maglor looked at her then, his expression open in a way it rarely was, unguarded and gentle. "She knew your heart before you ever drew breath."

Legolas lowered her eyes. Her thumb moved in slow circles over her stomach again, and she let the silence settle for a few heartbeats before speaking.

"I wish I had known her." she said, and though the words were not bitter, they were undeniably heavy. It sat in the room between them like a shadow that had always been there, unnoticed until the light shifted just enough to catch it.

Maglor's gaze rested on her, unmoving. There was no easy reply to give her. No neat way to offer something back for a loss he could never unmake.

But when he finally spoke, his voice was different - roughened at the edges. "She would have loved you."

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped even lower, quiet enough that the words felt like a secret entrusted rather than just mere sentiment, "Beyond reason, Legolas."

He let the silence fall again, not to avoid it, but because it was deserved. He did not move to fill it with anything. Just the simple, undeniable truth of the love he knew Lithuineth would have held.

But as the hush lingered on, he felt something shift.

Maglor's gaze, still softly fixed on her, caught the subtle changes he knew all too well: the way her body had gone ever so slightly too still, her shoulders - no longer curled inward with thought - poised as if she were listening to something beyond the walls of the room. Her breath too, drew shallow as her fingers flexed faintly against the fabric of her dress.

Legolas was no longer entirely here. Not in this room. Not in Minas Tirith. Her eyes had glazed ever so slightly, pulled in by the call of gulls and a sea breeze she was powerless to resist.

"You're thinking about the sea." Maglor lulled, drawing her gently back to him without reaching across the tentative space between them.

Legolas blinked slowly, as if surfacing and her voice, when it came, was far away - quiet and strange, as though it still carried the rhythm of waves.

"It's always there, isn't it?" She pondered. "Calling us."

She shifted slightly in the chair, her arms curling protectively around the swell of her abdomen, as though to anchor herself as much as it was to shield the growing elfling. Legolas' eyes flitted toward the window but she didn't move to rise. Perhaps - Maglor considered - she was afraid that if she stood, her feet would take her toward the tide without meaning to.

"Do you think I'll find peace there?" Legolas asked, and then her voice caught - just for a moment, as she moved her mouth to continue.

"Do you think-" Her breath hitched again, "Do you think I'll ever see her again?"

Maglor let the question hang between them, gentle and devastating. It was a delicate thing - not even quite a hope, just a wondering, laid bare. He did not have it in him to answer straight away. Legolas looked impossibly young in that instant, despite everything she had endured - young in the way grief often rendered someone, stripped of all the meticulously crafted armour they wore to protect and already broken fëa.

"I think peace is something we carry within ourselves." He ultimately settled with, his voice threaded with the weight of long years of isolation and hard-learned truths. "The sea. It might help you find it, but it won't grant it to you."

Legolas' eyes were on him - bright, searching, and raw in a way that undid him. There was pain in them, yes, but something else too. Something he didn’t know if she had ever let anyone else see before.

"As for your naneth." He continued, his voice gentler now, the name held like a fragile thing in his mouth, "I'm not sure even in death she could bear to leave the Greenwood."

Legolas gave a faint, breathless laugh - fragile, as though it could very well collapse under its own weight.

"No." She murmured, lips barely moving. "I suppose not."

Legolas' gaze drifted again, though not as far this time - not cast out to some unreachable distant shore, but turned inward, to the deeper waters of her own memory. There was a faint trace of shimmer in her eye that Maglor knew almost instantly. Grief, not fresh and bleeding, but old and worn smooth by time; like sea-glass softened by relentless waves.

When she finally spoke again, her voice came fragile and half-frayed.

"I’ve spent so long running from the pain of my past." She whispered, not quite to Maglor but not quite to herself either, "Maybe the sea will teach me how to finally let go of it."

Maglor was quiet for a heartbeat. Then another. And then, with more tenderness than she had ever heard from him, he spoke.

"Or maybe, iell-nín. You will teach yourself."

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The courtyard was quiet, hushed beneath the waning stars, swathed in the tender stillness that only the early hours could bring. The first hints of dawn crept over the horizon - a slow bleed of grey into blue tracing far reaches of the eastern sky. Ths air was cool, heavy with the scent of damp stone, crushed grass, and the faint remnants of night blooming flowers beginning to close with the coming sun.

Maglor had not meant to rise so early. And yet, sleep had never been his companion for long - not in Beleriand, and not here. The weight of millennia had carved habits too deep to be unlearned in peace. And so he had slipped from the quiet of his chambers in search of solitude beneath the sky.

But solitude, it seemed, was already occupied.

Legolas was pacing. Barefoot on the flagstones, wrapped in a robe the colour of soft dusk. She moved with a restless rhythm, one hand pressed against the base of her spine, the other braced low beneath the heavy curve of her belly. Her red hair, wild and unbound, spilled in a cascade of curls that in the soft pre-dawn light looked like embers scattered upon water.

She did not notice him at first, too focused on her slow, careful strides and the quiet murmuring under her breath. There was no urgency in her stride, but neither was there peace. Instead a peculiar sort of tension - the kind that came not from fear, but from a body too full of life to rest.

Maglor hesitated in the archway. He should have left her to her solitude - she deserved it, and had clearly sought it out herself - but something in the line of her shoulders, weary and taut, held him still.

"You're up early." He said gently, announcing his presence as he stepped out into the secluded courtyard.

Legolas paused and looked over her shoulder, her eyes a little bleary but sharp with awareness nonetheless. "Or late," She replied dryly, though her voice was tempered by fatigue.

He approached cautiously, as one may a startled deer, stopping just for a moment to glance at her bare feet upon the cold stone. "Couldn't sleep?"

Legolas huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so thin, casting Maglor a pointed look from beneath sleep-heavy lashes. Her tone was flat with well-practised sarcasm as she turned on her heel to resume pacing. "No, of course not. I just thought now that Sauron is vanquished, I'd celebrate by finding new ways to assert my autonomy at four in the morning."

She made a vague gesture with one hand - half a flourish, half surrender - before letting it fall back to the curve of her spine and nodding toward her stomach. "They've been kicking since the bells tolled midnight. It's like a camp on the eve of battle."

"Truly, it’s been a delight." Legolas gave him a tight, tired smile to emphasise her point.

Maglor's mouth twitched, half out of condolence, half amusement. "My sympathies lie entirely with your ribs."

"They no longer belong to me." Legolas replied with a wistfulness that Maglor couldn't quite gauge the sincerity of, "As seems to be the case for my lungs, my appetite, and the entire right side of my bladder." Legolas smiled - a wry, fleeting thing, but real nonetheless - and resumed her slow steps across the stone slabs.

He laughed softly and folded his arms loosely, leaning against one of the carved stone columns that edged the courtyard as he watched Legolas continue to circle the courtyard. Her measured steps were more deliberate now, less restless. Legolas' gait was slow but unbowed, the weight of late pregnancy lending a quiet gravity to her movements. She did not hurry - nor, these days, did she often feel the need to.

Maglor's eyes followed her, not intrusively, but with the same quiet attentiveness he offered any of his compositions, as though to miss a note would be to lose the whole.

Legolas had turned to begin another lap across the courtyard when she heard Maglor's voice carry from the far corner.

"Are you sure you should be walking so much?." He asked, brow furrowed. "You've barely slept. Your steps are uneven, and your hand keeps shifting lower down your back - does it ache?"

Legolas paused, gaze sliding toward him as the corners of her mouth tugged upward - tired, but undeniably amused. "You're fussing again."

"And you're carrying my grandchild." Maglor said without missing a beat. "Indulge me."

Legolas huffed - a breath caught somewhere between exasperation and mirth. "You act as though I am delicate."

"I do not," Maglor's reply came out quiet, unwavering, "Even warriors need care from time to time."

Legolas came to a halt beside one of the low stone walls bordering the herb beds, bracing her hand against its cool edge. The courtyard, still cloaked in the grey hush before dawn, held its breath around them. The torchlight from the walkway above gilded her features in soft gold, tracing the curve of her cheekbones, before catching in the tired crease between her brows.

"Care?" She repeated, turning toward him with a questioning tilt of her head. "Is that what this is?"

Maglor did not flinch under her scrutiny. Instead, he met her gaze with that same infuriating calm, the kind that suggested he had centuries of practice weathering sharper glares than hers. "What would you call it?"

She didn't hesitate. "Hovering. Fretting. Fussing - as I said."

His lips twitched - not quite a smile, but something dangerously close, "And if I am?"

She met his gaze head-on, her own sharp with a familiar edge. "Then you are wasting your energy. I have done this before, Maglor. Three times over. I will not shatter simply because this one has decided to test the limits of my endurance in the middle of the night."

There was a beat of silence, stretched and soft, and for a moment, the only sound was the distant murmur of the waking city below. The faint gleam of humour in Maglor's countenance shifted, giving way to something quieter, gentler - tinged with a sadness too old to name and too familiar to startle. He looked at her not as though he saw weakness, but as though he saw something precious, something long believed lost.

"Ah," He said, almost to himself, his fingers flexed slightly at his sides as if resisting the urge to reach out. "But if I do not fuss, how else am I supposed to make up for lost time?"

Her expression faltered - just slightly - and her gaze drifted past him to the dim sky above. When she spoke, her voice was measured, each word carefully selected and emphasised. "You could start,” She told him, "by treating me as you would any other warrior, and not as something fragile."

"You misunderstand me, iell nín,” He spoke softly. "It is not fragility I see. It is worth."

The weight of his words landed not with force, but with quiet precision and Legolas stilled, unsure of quite what to do with the admission.

"Worth?" She echoed, the word shaped in her mouth with a wary disbelief, and the guarded wariness of one who had learned too well that hope, once extended, could be pulled away just as swiftly. Legolas hadn't expected him to say that. And worse still - she wanted to believe it. But she had believed too many things before, and most of them had ended up hurting.

Maglor, to his credit, didn't hesitate. His voice was sure, his footing steady.

"Do you think I worried for Maedhros because I believed him fragile?" He asked, voice low but with that same quiet insistence that had carried him through darker times than she could possibly imagine. "Or Elrond and Elros - had they merely been hostages in my keeping? No. I worried because they mattered to me. Because they were loved."

Legolas didn't answer right away. She didn't know how. Her mouth had gone dry, and her thoughts tangled in the sudden, unfamiliar predicament of being seen. Loved. Mattered. Those were not words she had often claimed for herself. Something in her - old and scarred, but still listening - shifted under the weight of his truth.

She turned to him more fully, edging closer across the courtyard whilst the breeze gently stirred through her russet curls.

"And I matter to you?" She asked at last, her eyes unreadable save for the way they held Maglor's. Her voice came out quieter than she meant, almost breakable, as if speaking too loudly might crack whatever fragile thread now stretched between them.

Maglor did not look away. His gaze was unwavering, not demanding, simply offering. And when he spoke again, there was no room for doubt in the way he answered.

"More than you know."

Legolas didn't reply at once. The breeze lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek, and she made no move to tuck it away. There was a stillness to her now - aside from gentle circles she rubbed at the small of her back - as though part of her was testing the integrity of the moment, uncertain if it would hold.

Maglor remained steady, hands loosely clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed but attentive - as though, if she were to falter, he would catch her before she even realized she'd stumbled. There was no expectation lingering on his countenance, no demand, only the quiet and open weight of presence. It was the patience of one who had long ago stopped chasing what fled from him, one who had been forged not just by time, but by grief and silence and the bitter knowledge that some things, once lost, might never return.

And yet, still - he waited.

Legolas stood very still, watching him, studying him; searching perhaps for some trace of irony in his features, some hidden edge to his words. But there was nothing, only raw honesty.

Something in her softened.

Ever so slowly, the corners of her mouth lifted. It wasn't quite a full smile - she didn't have the energy for that - but it crinkled faintly at the edges of her tired eyes, wry and quiet all the same.

A breath of levity threaded back into her worn voice, "Even though I am stubborn?"

Maglor didn't hesitate. The warmth in his answer was dry, but undeniably genuine. "Especially because you are stubborn."

That drew a laugh from her at last - not a bright one, not unburdened, but true. The kind of laugh that bore its history plainly and did not apologise for it; worn at the edges like everything else in her, and yet still standing. Still capable of joy.

She tilted her head, one brow arched, lips curling into something almost sly. "You realise that means you will never win an argument with me?"

Maglor's expression shifted - his solemnity easing just enough to let a touch of amusement surface, subtle but sincere. His mouth quirked at the corner, not quite a smile either, but something near to it.

"Then it is a good thing I do not seek to win," he said, his tone quiet, steady. "Only to be heard."

And so they stood - two figures in the peace before dawn, the courtyard still wrapped in the pale hush of dew and the last traces of starlight clinging to the sky’s edge. No grand declarations had passed between them, no ancient wounds healed in a single moment. There were no apologies offered, nor absolutions sought. Only silence, and the quiet weight it carried - not one of absence, but something far gentler.

Understanding, hard-won and tentative, but sincere all the same.

Legolas did not reach for him as she resumed her slow pacing, hands braced instinctively against the curve of her belly, curls tumbling loose around her face with every shift of the breeze. Nor did Maglor move to stop her, though his gaze followed her with something almost akin to a melancholic reverence.

Chapter Text

There was a southern wind creeping through the white city, one that brought with it the breathless heat of high summer. It carried no salt or brine from the sea, only a dry, stifling warmth that settled thick upon the pale stones of Minas Tirith - seeping into every crevice of its walls. The heat dulled the senses, made tempers short and comfort hard to come by. The city bowed under the weight of it, and even the smattering of elves currently dwelling within its halls moved through the citadel with furrowed brows and restless energy - left decidedly agitated.

Within the chamber where Legolas laboured, the air was dense with sweat; mingling with crushed herbs, warmed linen, and the faintest, inexplicable trace of salt air - though no ocean layed nearby. Legolas laboured beneath the weight of it all - not just the heat, nor even the fierce ache of childbirth, but something stranger. Heavier. It clung to her bones and coiled low in her belly like a shadow trying to claw its way out from within.

The familiar weight of impending motherhood pressed on her, but this time it was stronger, more consuming on her body. She had known childbirth before - had brought three children into the world prior. But this, this was harder than anything she had endured before. The pain was deeper, the labour longer - nothing felt as it should.

It had begun with the first hints of dawn, and now even as the sun slid low toward the western hills, the contractions showed no mercy. The hours had become meaningless, marked only by the ebb and surge of pain and the steady rhythm of her breath when she could catch it.

Elrohir remained at her side throughout, his presence constant and stricken. Words between them were rare, pared down to gasped comforts and soft, instinctive sounds; the small mewls Legolas could no longer stifle, and his murmured replies - strained and useless though they felt to him.

He had seen her in pain before - seen her bloodied and bruised in battle - but nothing made helplessness gnaw at him more than watching his wife in the birthing bed. He would have given anything to take her pain away, would rather stand swordless before Morgoth than sit helpless while she trembled and cried beneath his touch.

He did what little he could - tracing steady, grounding circles between her shoulder blades, combing sweat-damp curls away from her flushed cheeks. Her hair had been neatly tied back at first, the spin of curls bound in a loose braid he had plaited with care. But one by one, the strands had escaped, sticking to her temples and neck, wild as flame.

Her skin had paled alarmingly, lips bitten raw. Every tremor of her body struck him like a blade, and yet still she fought, gritting her teeth as each contraction tore through her.

Legolas' hand clutched at his wrist in a bruising grip, her strength undiminished by exhaustion.

Another wave surged through her, and she cried out, head thrown back, voice ragged and unrestrained. Elrohir felt her nails dig into his skin, but said nothing, only leaned closer, anchoring her with whispered words and a steady presence. Then, at last, a flicker of hope amidst the chaos. Elrond's voice cut clean through the haze from where he knelt at the foot of the bed, calm and firm.

"Legolas. You are nearly there, penneth. When the next contraction comes, I want you to push."

There was no time to reply before the pain crashed over her again, tidal and immense. She went taut as a drawn bow, a cry breaking free from deep in her chest as she bore down. Her hand sought Elrohir's, fingers lacing through his with a strength born of desperation.

"Elrohir-" She gasped, voice fraying into little more than a sob.

He pressed his lips to her damp brow, his voice a soft tremor against her skin, "I am here, meleth. I am with you."

Legolas' body quaked beneath his hand, her muscles rigid as another contraction began to swell. The silence between his murmur and what followed was only a heartbeat long, but in that space, the tension in the chamber seemed to rise near to its breaking point.

Then Elrond's voice cut through - low and even, but sharpened now with new urgency - the calm of a seasoned healer giving way to necessity. "Push, Legolas. That's it - breathe, now push."

She had no breath to answer, no strength to question it. There was only the pain - white-hot and roaring - and the instinct to obey. Her cries rang sharp against the stone walls, sweat dripping from her brow as she curled inward, straining with what felt like the last of her strength. Her body shook and another sob burst from her lip, her hands moving as if of their own accord. One flailed to Elrohir's wrist, seeking anchor; the other reached down, almost instinctively, toward the round of her swollen stomach as though by sheer will alone she could wrench the elfling into the world. Her fingers splayed wide over her skin, trembling, desperate for contact, for control, for something.

"You are doing so well." Elrond reassured, though his jaw was clearly tight with worry. "That's it, penneth. Just like that."

She bore down again, her knuckles whitening where they clutched Elrohir’s hand, her whole frame convulsing. A raw, guttural cry tore itself from her throat, echoing off the pale stone walls. It was not a scream of fear, nor of weakness - but the cry of a warrior forced to endure the one battle no sword could win. Legolas drew her knees up, spine arching like a bow before collapsing back against Elrohir, gasping for air.

Before she could even begin collecting herself - even before the pain had fully receded - Elrond's voice rang out again with practiced authority. "Stop pushing. Slow your breath."

The words cut through the haze, but her body was already shaking, locked in a tremor that had not yet subsided. Legolas choked on a sob, the sound raw and hoarse as it caught in her throat. Her chest heaved with shallow, panicked breaths, struggling to follow even as the contraction ebbed.

Her body continued to unwittingly tremble - her muscles quivering from the effort, her limbs weak and slick with sweat. Her fingers twitched against the linens beneath her, clutching for something solid, something real in a world that had narrowed to primal heat and pain.

Elrond's voice came again, low and firm, grounding her. "Easy now. Pant for me, Legolas."

It was Elrohir who answered first - not in words, but in breath.

At her side, he inhaled slowly, deliberately, then let the breath out in a soft, steady panting rhythm. He exaggerated the motion, loud enough for her to hear above her own frantic breathing - his own expression tight with worry and fierce tenderness.

"With me, meleth." He murmured, barely above a whisper.

His hand moved with aching gentleness as he brushed a soaked lock of red hair from her eyes - strands that had long since slipped free of their braids, curling wildly around her damp temples. His fingers lingered there a moment longer, offering touch as comfort, as tether.

"Breathe with me." He coaxed again.

Legolas turned her head toward him, eyes wide and glassy with exhaustion, searching his face like a lifeline. She tried - her chest rose in a shuddering inhale, caught, then steadied as she mimicked his pattern. Shallow, even pants.

In and out. In and out.

Her lips parted, breath stuttering at first, but slowly evening under Elrohir's guidance. She locked her gaze to his, as if afraid that if she looked away, she'd be swept back under the tide of pain. The trembling remained, but her breathing began to calm, the frantic edge softening. The silence in the chamber was thick, broken only by her ragged exhales and the steady sound of Elrohir's voice guiding her through.

Elrond gave a small, quiet nod to his son and there was the faintest shadow of a smile before he returned to the grave clarity of a healer in the thick of urgency. His voice was steady as stone, composed even through the tension that coiled tightly around the room. "Good. Now, when the next contraction hits, I need you to push again."

Legolas' breath hitched before the next wave could even take her. Her voice, breathless and cracked.

"It hurts." She whimpered, lips barely forming the words as her weary body quivered. They were raw with truth, stripped of her usual grace - the admission of someone at the end of herself.

Elrohir's heart clenched. He swallowed hard, his thumb stroking along the back of her hand as he reached to intertwine their fingers. He leaned closer, close enough for his breath to ghost over her cheek, anchoring her with his presence.

"I know, Las. I know." He whispered, his voice thick with helpless love. "But you're almost there. Just a little longer."

For a moment, his touch was enough. Just the weight of his hand in hers, the soft rhythm of his words in her ear. She nodded faintly, unable to speak, and the smallest trace of strength rallied within her, fragile but present.

But then the next contraction slammed into her - a wave of agony more brutal than the last. There was no time to prepare, no breath to gather, just pain. Immediate and overwhelming.

She screamed.

It tore from her throat with no restraint, no shame - a cry that rang off the high stone arches of the chamber and hung in the air, dampening out the sound of her father in-law urging her to keep pushing. Her whole body curled forward as if folding in on itself, her arms trembling with the effort. She clutched at Elrohir's arm, fingers digging into his skin, seeking anything to hold onto as her world splintered beneath the force of labour.

"I can see the head!" Elrond called, but the words barely registered, blurred by the blood pounding in her ears. She was beyond words, beyond thought - pain, blinding and all-consuming, devoured everything.

Elrohir wrapped his arm around her shoulders, holding her upright. He pressed his forehead to hers, their sweat mingling and his breath catching against her skin.

"Just once more, meleth nín." He pleaded, fierce and aching and utterly devoted. "You can do this."

In the storm of her agony, she clung to that voice - to him - and drew upon the last ember of strength left in her battered body.

Legolas arched her back, grip tightening on Elrohir's hand as she let out a final strangled cry - raw, ragged, breaking apart mid-breath. It was not a scream of fear, but of culmination - the sound of every last ounce of strength leaving her body in one final, excruciating effort.

She bore down with all that remained, every muscle in her trembling frame clenched, her breath shuddering as if the act itself might tear her apart. As she endured one final push, the world seemed to blur at the edges - nothing existed but the blinding pain, the gulls, the crushing exhaustion, and the desperate need for this to end.

And then - stillness, relief mingled with a sea breeze.

The agonized screams of the mother were replaced by the feeble cries of a newborn elfling.

Relief broke over her like a crashing wave. Her body went slack, crumpling against Elrohir with a violent shiver, her brow resting against his shoulder as she sobbed without sound. The room exhaled with her.

Legolas could hardly lift her head. Her arms hung limp at her sides, body soaked in sweat, hair plastered to her cheeks in red coils. Her breaths came shallow and broken.

Her eyes, glassy with exhaustion, stared toward nothing - unfocused, dazed. But even through the haze, her ears caught the sound of movement: Elrond's quiet command, the rustle of linen in practiced hands, the squall of new life. And then, his steps approaching.

Elrohir cradled her gently, his free hand brushing along her back, murmuring soft words she barely heard as Elrond knelt beside them - his own face softened by something that might have been awe. In his hands, swaddled in a linen wrap far too large for her tiny form, lay a newborn elfling, her hair darkened with moisture and fists curled tightly to her chest.

A daughter.

Legolas blinked slowly, as if coming back into her body, and looked down. She found the strength - somehow - to raise her trembling arms and wind them around the newborn infant, cradling her daughter flush against her chest. The moment her skin met the elfling's, the tears returned - silent now, cutting slow paths through the grime and sweat on her cheeks.

The little one was still crying, though softer now, as if sensing the closeness of her mother. Legolas pressed her lips to the newborn's damp brow in a motion barely more than a tremble.

"It's alright, iell nín." She whispered, her voice hushed and hoarse. "Nana's here."

"Legolas-" Elrohir breathed out, his heart in his throat as he watched in reverent wonder as the little elfling - their little elfling - curled her tiny hand around his finger, "She is beautiful, melleth nín."

But as the infant nestled in her mother's arms, something in Legolas' demeanor changed.

Her breath caught, like the first chill wind before a storm. Her grip on the child tightened instinctively, protectively, just for a heartbeat, before it slackened. A quiet sound escaped her lips, no louder than a sigh but filled with such aching that it seemed to thrum against the very stones of the chamber. It was not pain, nor fear - but longing.

Intrinsic, bottomless longing.

Elrohir, still watching in wonder as his daughter curled her hand around his finger, felt the atmosphere around them darken. He turned his gaze upward just as Legolas stilled. Her body had not moved, but something in her had receded - he saw it in the blankness of her eyes, in the trembling of her fingers as they ghosted across their daughter's downy cheek.

"Legolas?" He said softly, the joy in his voice dimming with concern.

Her gaze was wide and shimmering, but not with tears; no, something else haunted those eyes. She was not looking at the child. Nor at him. She was looking through them

The elfling stirred, letting out a soft whimper, and that tiny sound seemed to call Legolas back - just enough. Just for a moment. She blinked once and parted her lips.

"Ýrwen," She whispered, the name falling from her mouth like a leaf upon wind. "Her name is Ýrwen."

Elrohir's breath caught as he nodded slowly, solemnly. "Ýrwen." He repeated, cradling the name with care, like something sacred.

At the sound of her daughter's name, Legolas cast a look down toward the elfling again. She brushed a trembling fingertip along the curve of Ýrwen’s cheek, her breath catching in her throat.

"Like the first dawn over the water." She murmured, scarcely audible. "She- she looks like the light through mist. Like morning over the sea."

And then, as if the words themselves had unlocked some deep floodgate within her-

The wave broke.

Her eyes widened further, suddenly wild. She inhaled sharply, then again, as though the air was wrong - too dry, too heavy. Her chest began to rise and fall in frantic rhythm, and her arms tightened around Ýrwen with an unthinking urgency.

"Legolas, what is it?" Elrohir said again, more firmly this time, reaching for her.

But she could not answer him.

The scent of salt had returned. Not from the baby, nor from sweat, nor the herbs - but from far away, from a place far beyond the walls of Minas Tirith. It filled her lungs, her senses, her entire being. She heard gulls again, closer now and circling, calling to her from a shoreline she could not see. The stone beneath her felt wrong, suffocating, like chains pulling her downward.

The sea.

She had fought it - ignored it - since arriving in the city. Pushed the longing down to where it could not surface. But now, the seal had broken.

The sea was calling.

Ýrwen stirred, letting out a soft cry that cut through the daze. Legolas blinked hard, her arms still locked around her daughter, though she seemed not to see her. She was trembling violently now, her skin gone pale as sea foam, her eyes glassy and distant. Elrohir moved immediately, shifting beside her, his hand coming up to steady both her and the child.

"I have you," He murmured, voice taut with fear. "Just breathe, meleth, look at me. Stay with me."

But her head lolled slightly, and her gaze drifted toward the window, where the horizon lay beyond the white stone - somewhere, far away, where the waves broke on unseen shores.

"Atar!" Elrohir called hoarsely but the healer was already on his feet.

"It is as I feared." Elrond lamented, his voice grim and low as he crossed the room. He reached for the child first, gently easing Ýrwen from Legolas' unresisting arms, and then placed a steadying hand on her brow.

Legolas did not speak. She could not. Her lips parted, but no words came - only the echo of the sea, vast and inescapable, pulling at her from unseen realms.

Elrohir's heart ached as he cupped her cheek with one hand, his other arm around her shoulders. "Come back to me, meleth."

But her gaze was already far beyond the walls of the chamber - drawn westward, to the place where morning broke over the tide, and where her fëa, at last, had begun to drift.

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

They had moved her to the adjoining chamber - quieter, dimmer - though the sea seemed no further away. Legolas lay propped against the cushions, her hair still damp with sweat and her limbs wrapped in blankets she barely felt. Ýrwen had been taken gently to rest, and Elrohir had not left her side, though she hardly registered his hand in hers.

The sea's pull no longer roared - it whispered now, insidious and soft. A song older than language, older than her fear. It curled in her bones like a promise and a threat all at once.

Elrond stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded and face unreadable.

She was the one to speak first. Her voice was hoarse from the ordeal, but steady all the same. "You mean to tell me that I am fading?"

A silence followed, and then a slow, grim nod.

"Yes." Elrond trod carefully around his words. "Childbirth was the catalyst. Your strength was already strained. You had fought it with such will, but this-"

He hesitated before continuing, and that alone frightened her. "It has accelerated the sea-longing beyond what you can withstand. It is no longer something you can fight, Legolas. It has already begun to take you."

Her mouth went dry. Her fingers closed around Elrohir's hand so tightly his knuckles whitened. She clung to him as though he were the last thing tethering her to solid ground - the last shape she could hold against the currents rising to swallow her.

Elrohir's voice was rough with desperation. "Is there no other way?"

Elrond did not flinch, instead he met his son's gaze squarely, his own face carved with sorrow. "No," He said, quietly but without hesitation. "If she remains in Middle-earth, she will fade."

Something splintered within Legolas, sharp and unseen - not bone, but something older, deeper. A root, perhaps. One that ran far beneath the surface of her fëa, threading through every forest she had ever walked, every hill she had climbed, every river she had stood beside. It cracked - and with it, the world around her shifted.

All at once, the weight of her years pressed down upon her. Not as pride, but as grief.

She had spoken languages now barely remembered by the world. She had loved and been loved - fiercely, wildly, in defiance of fear and fate. She had fought, and bled, and carved space for joy between the tragedies.

She had lived.

And now the sea had come to claim her.

She closed her eyes and it was as if she could still smell the soil after a spring rain, still feel the light touch of the wind through green canopies. She could hear the faint calls of birds she knew by name, and the hush of the world in the quiet hours of dawn when all things seemed to hold their breath.

Her children's laughter echoed in her memory - and then Elrohir's voice, not now but then, whispering meleth nín into the hollow of her throat.

All of it.

All of it was her.

And all of it was what she would lose.

"I do not wish to leave." The words broke from her in a voice that barely belonged to her - thin, frayed at the edges. The last syllable caught in her throat, warping into a raw, shattered sound as if speaking the truth aloud had torn something loose inside her.

"I do not wish to leave." She said again, more fiercely now, as though repetition might bind her more tightly to what was already slipping away. "Not our children, not my friends. Not you."

Her gaze turned to Elrohir - desperately searching - as though if she looked hard enough, if she reached far enough, he might bend the truth to her will by sheer force of love. Her eyes glinted with pain and disbelief, begging him to tell her it was a mistake; that there was another way that she could stay.

But he could not lie to her.

His face crumpled, lips parting around a word he could not quite form. "Meleth-"

"I have lived in these lands all my life." she said, her voice ringing with an iron edge of grief. "I know nothing else. I grew here - I have fought for these lands, bled for them." Her hand trembled as she pressed it to her chest, "I have loved them."

She looked away for a moment, breath shuddering. "I do not want to leave my home."

Legolas' voice cracked again, quieting into something too old and too young all at once - the voice of one still clinging to a world slipping ever more through her fingers. One of someone who had weathered centuries, only to be undone by a whisper from the waves.

The silence after was heavy. And then-

"I know," came a voice from the doorway.

Legolas turned her head slowly, too spent to be truly startled, though her breath hitched nonetheless. Maglor.

She had not heard him approach. Had not even thought to wonder where he had gone. He had been waiting outside, she supposed - pacing, likely - the way he often seemed to do when worry pressed too tightly around the edges of his composure.

Part of her wanted to shut her eyes and pretend she hadn't heard him. She wasn't sure she had the strength to withstand him too. Not now. Not when everything else was falling away: her body, her home, the air from her lungs. But then she looked at him - truly looked - and saw something reflected there that startled her.

"How do you bear it?" she asked, quietly - not demanding answers so much as confessing to her own breaking.

His eyes, so like hers, flickered. "I do not."

Her lips parted, but nothing came. The dam inside her had already begun to crack; now it had veritably burst. Her eyes fluttered shut, and tears began to spill freely down her cheeks.

"I am so tired." She whispered. The words slipped from her lips like breath from the wounded, fragile and trembling. There was no strength left in her to temper the truth, no pride to hold it back. No composure left to maintain.

It was the kind of tired that knew no remedy but surrender.

Maglor did not speak at first. He only stepped closer, slowly - quietly - as if afraid too much sound might send what remained of her fleeing inward, never to return. His presence was careful, restrained, but steady in all the ways she needed.

Elrohir sat close beside her still, his hand enveloping hers, murmuring soft comforts - half-formed endearments, fragments of love - but she barely heard him. Not because his voice lacked any truth, or warmth or even care, but because the tether that had once tied her so tightly to this world was unwinding at a rate she couldn't even begin to halt.

She could feel it, as though she were being unstitched from the inside out. Piece by piece. Memory by memory. Drawn by a call older than the ground they walked upon. It was rising, surging in her chest like a tide that would not be turned back, tearing through her.

She barely even noticed when Maglor knelt at her side.

He did not reach for her, nor did he speak her name. He only looked at her, and whatever he saw in her face seemed to break something in him too.

"I will not let you go alone." He promised, and though his voice was soft, it rang with quiet, irrevocable truth. "I will sail with you."

Legolas blinked, slow and disbelieving, turning her head toward him. "You would leave Middle-earth?" She asked, barely more than a breath. There was no accusation in it, only disbelief. She struggled to fathom it. He had wandered its shores longer than she had drawn breath, longer than they all had drawn breath; the last thread of a tale that should have ended long ago.

Maglor did not flinch. "I would." he said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The next word came out of her unbidden and small. "Why?"

His gaze settled upon her then - not a passing glance, nor the distant look of a man lost in memory, but a deep, deliberate study. And in his eyes, she saw nothing of the exile, no shadow of the kinslayer, nor the husk of the bard whose songs seemed to slip further into myth with each passing year. She saw only a father. A man who had been shattered, again and again, by the weight of his own choices, his losses, his regrets. One who had through the fractures, somehow managed to gather the broken shards of himself - carrying them each with a quiet, aching care, as though even the sharpest edges were worth holding onto.

Maglor's voice - when it eventually came - was low, raw and rough with feeling. "Because I will not let you fade, iell nín."

Legolas did not - could not - speak. Her throat felt too tight, her breath too shallow. The ache in her chest had deepened into something vast and unnameable, far more than just the pull of the sea.

The edges of the room blurred and everything narrowed to Elrohir - his hand gripping hers, his presence anchoring her in a reality that felt like it was slipping away one heartbeat at a time.

"You will not be alone, meleth nín," Elrohir said, voice rough and thick with the weight of all he could not change. "You and I will not be parted for long."

"I cannot-" She began, but her breath hitched and the words fell apart before they could carry the truth of what she meant.

Elrohir's grip tightened on hers, his fingers trembling. "You can," He said, fierce now, desperate and loving and broken all at once. "You must."

"Elrohir-" Legolas' voice cracked on his name

He leaned in close until his brow pressed gently to hers, their foreheads touching, his red rimmed eyes never leaving her own.

"I will follow you." He whispered, voice shaking with promise. "By the stars above and by all that I am, I swear it, meleth. I will follow you."

"Please-" Legolas' voice strained, a plea without shape, torn between love and desperation.

"You know I cannot, Legolas." He said, and this time his voice broke in earnest. "I cannot leave our children to face this world alone."

And though she had known it - though some deep, unspoken part of her had understood it from the moment Elrond had named the truth - hearing it aloud was another thing entirely. Unbearable.

She closed her eyes, and tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She did not sob, the grief was too heavy for that. It simply spilled from her, quiet and constant, as if her hröa had accepted what her fëa could not.

Elrohir gathered her closer, his arm coming around her back, holding her, steadying her. She leaned into him, strength unraveling in his embrace.

"They are old enough to make their own choices," He murmured against her temple. "But I will guide them. Stand by them. Until they are ready to decide their own path. They need one of us to remain."

She looked at him, fully, as if the act of seeing could preserve him within her; could etch every line of his face into the very foundation of herself. The soft angle of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the glint of tears in his eyes that he refused to let fall. She wanted to carry it with her, across sea and sorrow, wherever it may lead her.

Her thumb traced over the back of his hand, brushing lightly over knuckles gone pale beneath her grip. It was such a small touch, but it felt like everything.

"I love you." She said, the words brittle upon her lips. A prayer, a truth, and a farewell all at once.

"And I you, meleth." He murmured, hand tightening in hers. "More than anything."

His voice fractured then, like glass under strain.

"And that is why I must let you go," He continued, with the quiet agony of a man tearing his own soul in two. "Because if I held you here, you would slip through my fingers forever."

She dropped her gaze, blinking fast, but the tears came anyway. It was mere moments before Elrond stepped forward, the sound of his approach gentle against the quiet, yet unmistakably firm. His tone was calm, but there was no softness in the truth he brought.

"Legolas." He said cautiously, "It must be soon. If you wait too long, you will not have the strength to make the journey."

Legolas shut her eyes against the weight of it all, against the gulls and the tide pulling her ever closer to something she could not bear to face. When she finally spoke, her voice was no louder than the breeze.

"Our children?"

The question was laced with longing, and grief mingled with a guilt that ran deeper than she could name.

"I will tell them." Elrohir said, his voice steadying itself out as he leaned in and kissed her brow with a devotion that made her ache. "And I will give them time. Perhaps they will come with me. Perhaps they will choose to stay. But no matter what; I will see them safe before I follow."

She nodded slowly, but her chest was tight. The silence that followed was long and stifling - the kind that only grief and inevitably could muster.

She did not want to ask the next question. To give it voice would be to surrender to it. But she asked anyway.

"When?"

Elrond's voice was as soothing as it was woeful. "As soon as you are strong enough to travel."

Beside her, Maglor moved. He had been quiet, a still presence at her side, watching without pressing but now, he placed his hand over hers - a touch neither hesitant nor demanding. Simply there. Solid and steady.

"I will see to the arrangements." He offered quietly, his tone lined with the steadiness of one who refused to let her face this alone.

The finality of it settled around her like a shroud - silent, inevitable, and suffocating in its certainty. It did not descend all at once, but crept slowly over her like the incoming tide, each heartbeat pulling her further from the shore of all she had known. There were no words left to speak, only the quiet, bitter unfolding of goodbye

She did not weep again, not outwardly, but something in her had gone quiet; deep into the recesses of her own mind. It was not peace. Not yet. But the first aching step toward surrender - a weary resignation to the truth she could neither fight nor flee.

Chapter Text

The morning sun rose slow and solemnly over the white towers of Minas Tirith, coating the city's high walls and polished stone in a sorrowful light. Its rays spread like tender fingers across the courtyard, casting a pale gold against the flagstones. The breeze that wound its way between the pillars was still cool with night's last breath, but beneath it - subtle and insistent - came the taste of salt, the faintest call of gulls; the promise of a sea far beyond the horizon. It teased at Legolas' senses, whispering of ships waiting at anchor and shores unseen. And beneath it all, it whispered, come.

Legolas stood alone in the quiet, at still as one of the statues carved amongst the stone walls. The light touched her hair, drawing out its copper and fire, catching in her eyes - though they seemed dulled now by weariness. There was little strength left in her slender frame; the sea-longing had taken its toll more than she had anticipated, hollowing her out with each passing day until she felt like little more than shadow and memory. Only the elfling in her arms kept her tethered now. Ýrwen slept against her breast, the soft rise and fall of her breath and her delicate weight, a grounding comfort.

Legolas heard him before she saw him - the steady and familiar rhythm of boots upon stone. She could feel his approach as surely as she felt the sea's pull.

Gimli.

He came into view slowly, his broad form framed by the great white arch that led into the courtyard. There was hesitation in his step, as if every stride cost him something. He stopped a few paces away, close enough that she could see the glint of moisture in his eyes. Though he tried to mask it with a gruffness, he wasn't fooling her, she knew him too well. His gaze first fell upon Ýrwen, and there his breath caught. The strength of him seemed to falter beneath the sight.

"She's perfect, lass." Gimli said at last, his voice rough as though the words cost him more than he could say. He took a halting step closer, as if drawn in despite himself, and for a long moment, he simply looked at them - at the frail elf who had been his fiercest companion, and at the child she would now carry across the sea. "Perfect."

Gimli reached out with a hand that had once hewn stone and felled foes, now trembling as it brushed lightly against the soft curve of Ýrwen's cheek. His throat did not falter him, but the next words came slower, as though they hurt to speak.

"I had thought that you and I would-" He began, but the words betrayed him, breaking beneath the weight of all he could not express. He swallowed hard, trying again. "I thought we'd have more time."

Legolas felt the burn of tears, though her eyes remained dry, as if even that part of her was too weary now to weep. "I'm sorry." She murmured, and though Gimli deserved more, it was all she could offer. The weight of it was too great for more.

But Gimli shook his head, fiercely. "Nay, lass," He said, voice rough with unshed tears. "I'm the sorry one."

His gaze searched her face, seeing the pallor beneath the golden light, the exhaustion drawn fine across her features. "You look half the elf you were. This-" His hand swept outwards, encompassing the city, the land, the world they had fought for. "This place is killing you."

And yet still she clung to it. To him, to all of them. But the sea's call was always stronger.

"I'll miss you, Gimli." She admitted at last, her voice trembling, soft and near-spoken, as if she feared the sound of it might shatter the fragile peace of this final morning.

When Gimli managed to gather himself enough to reply, his voice cracked under the weight of his grief, too large to be hidden. "Not half as much as I'll miss you."

He lifted a hand as if to reach for hers, but let it fall again, curling it into a fist at his side. His gaze dropped for a moment, to the child cradled at her breast, before it rose again. "A dwarf doesn't share his heart lightly - and you've had mine since that cursed mountain."

He tried for a smile, but it trembled, as unsteady as his voice. "What a tale we've made of it, eh? Elf and a dwarf. Friends! Folk'll speak of us for an age."

Legolas managed a faint laugh, though her heart ached with it. "They'll wonder how we ever endured each other." She said, and for a heartbeat, the sorrow lifted, the warmth of all they had shared rising between them like a shield against their parting.

"Aye." Gimli chuckled, though it came wetly, thick with emotion. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to hide the tears. "And they'll never know the half of it."

For a long breath, Gimli stood silent, as if searching for some way to hold this moment fast. As though gathering all his courage, he drew a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. Then, with a rough finality, he spoke. "Goodbye, lass."

Legolas, weary though she was, shook her head, slow and firm - as if defying the weight of that word. "Come now, Gimli." She chided gently. "Haven't I taught you anything? We don't say goodbye. We say Namárië."

His eyes glistened again, and his voice dropped low, worn ragged with grief and love in equal measure. "Aye... go towards goodness, then. And may it find you, lass."

"This isn't the end, Gimli." Legolas said, though the words trembled on her tongue. She forced herself to steady them, to hold tight to the small flame of hope she offered him, even as the sea's pull frayed her from within. Her voice was soft but resolute, and her gaze - though glistening with unshed tears - did not waver as it met his. "Perhaps one day you'll follow me."

Gimli gave a rough, choked laugh that was as much sob as it was mirth, the sound echoing strangely in the stillness of the courtyard. He cleared his throat, swiping at his eyes with a hand that trembled more than he'd like, and squared his shoulders in that stubborn, unyielding way of his. "Oh, I'll follow you. Don't you doubt that."

His voice was thick with feeling, but beneath it was iron determination. "I don't care what your Valar have to say about it. Someone's got to keep you out of trouble, lass. Mahal knows you'll need it."

For a heartbeat, the ache in her chest loosened, and Legolas found a smile despite the tears that finally slipped free, trailing warm down her cheeks. She cradled Ýrwen closer, as if anchoring herself to the moment. "Then I will be waiting," she promised, her voice laced with a quiet sort of certainty.

The soft sound of approaching footsteps broke gently into their parting. Legolas felt rather than saw the presence beside her, the familiar warmth of kinship. Elladan came to her side, his face pale with sorrow, dark eyes shadowed but tender. He hesitated, as though unsure if comfort would help or harm, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"I will see to it that Elrohir follows soon." Though his words were measured, his voice carried the same ache that throbbed in all their hearts. Elladan held her tightly as if trying to lend her what strength he could, even as his own seemed to crack at the edges.

Legolas lent into his touch for the briefest moment. "Thank you." She whispered, heavy with everything she could not say - gratitude, grief, trust. Then, with a flicker of mischief she had thought the sea had robbed from her entirely, she added - "Just make sure he doesn't do anything too stupid whilst I'm gone."

Elladan let out a quiet huff of laughter, dry and fond and aching all at once. "Have you met my brother?" He said, and for a breath they were as they had been - comrades, family, bound by love deeper than blood.

Then came Aragorn.

The King of Gondor; her friend, her brother in arms, the boy she had watched grow since he was little more than a babe in her arms. He approached slowly, as if time itself sought to stretch these last moments. His face was carved with sorrow, every line of it bared to her, for he would not hide the weight of his heart. He stood before her, tall and proud and yet broken in this farewell - for a long moment no words would come, there were no words for his loss.

"I should command you to stay." Aragorn's voice broke the heavy hush between them at last, low and ragged, as if the words cost him dearly. His eyes, so often clear with purpose, were shadowed now with sorrow. He drew a slow breath, but it did little to steady him. "You are one of my most loyal allies. One of my dearest friends."

She managed a faint smile, though it trembled at the edges. "I'm not convinced I have ever once followed a command of yours before, mellon.” She said, voice soft, the fondness in her gaze unshaken even now.

Aragorn gave a huff of breath that might have been laughter in another time, another parting. A sad smile curved his mouth. "No," He agreed, his eyes lined with unshed tears. "But you have always followed your heart. And I have never faulted you for it."

Legolas swallowed hard, the weight of those words crashing over her like the sea she so dreaded and yet yearned for in equal measure. Follow my heart? She thought bitterly. How can I when it pulls me in two? She felt it like a tidal force inside of her - one half anchored to Middle Earth, to all she loved here, and the other drawn westward to a distant shore she could no longer resist.

"And now-" Her voice faltered, cracking beneath the burden of farewell. "It wars with itself."

The honesty of it left her raw, exposed. And Aragorn, dear Aragorn, stood witness to it all even as his own composure crumbled. He took a step closer, as if proximity could somehow lessen what neither of them could change. "You have been with me since the beginning, Legolas," He said, his voice breaking apart on the edges of grief. "I do not know what this world will be without you in it."

For a moment, she saw as he did - empty forests where they had once walked side by side, dawns unshared, victories lonely. The future stretched out before him, and she would not be there to share in it.

She took his hand, fingers brushing his for the briefest instant, as though to leave something of herself behind. "It will be beautiful," she said gently, certainty in her tone despite the sorrow in her eyes. "Because you will see to it."

She meant it - knew it as surely as she knew the sea's pull. Aragorn would shape this world into something worthy of all they had fought for, even if she was not there to witness it. And still, how it pained her to go.

Then another presence joined them. Arwen, coming to stand at her husband's side, the morning sun catching in the dark fall of her hair. Her gaze met Legolas', and in it Legolas saw understanding - of choice, of sacrifice, of the ache that came with both; and behind that understanding, the sorrow of one who had already given up much.

"I wish I could see it." Arwen spoke quietly, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace of this parting. "Valinor. The land beyond the sea."

Legolas' heart clenched. How much she wished for the opposite - wished for a world where she might stay, where the sea did not tear at her fëa and force this farewell.

"And I wish I could stay." She whispered, the words weighted with all the longing she could not give voice to.

"But we are both bound to our choices." Arwen said quietly and a flicker of something deeper passed through her gaze - memory of her mother, perhaps, and all else that had already been lost to the sea.

"Yes," Legolas breathed, feeling the finality of it all settle around them. No matter how many times she said namárië, assured herself this was not a goodbye. It still felt to her like the end of a chapter she was nowhere near done with.

Arwen stepped forward, leaned in, and pressed a tender kiss to Legolas' brow. The gesture was gentle, a final gift of closeness before the sea would take her away permanently.

"Go, mellon nín," Arwen said, the words thick with love, and a tender prayer. "Go home."

Legolas closed her eyes, drawing in one last breath of this air - the scent of stone and earth, of green things growing, of friendship and battles shared. She let it fill her, as if she could carry it with her across the sundering sea. And when she spoke, it was scarcely more than a breath.

"Namárië."

─────── ·𖥸· ───────

The gulls circled high above the Grey Havens, their cries sharp against the hush of the waiting sea. The waves lapped against the pale stones of the harbour, as if urging the ship onward, impatient for the moment Legolas dreaded more than anything. The ship lay at anchor, its white sails trembling in the salt-laden breeze, ready to bear them westward. Beyond it, the sea stretched endless, silver and blue and terrible in its beauty.

Legolas stood upon the quay, hands trembling as they clutched the rail of the threshold, her heart torn near in two. The sea-longing burned within her, fierce and relentless. And yet, how fiercely she fought it for the sake of the ones she would leave behind. Elrohir stood close, the weight of parting heavy between them, so heavy she thought it might break her before she even had a chance to board the ship.

Just a few paces away, Maglor held Ýrwen in his arms. The sight struck her; their daughter resting against the ancient elf's chest, his head bowed as he murmured soft words only the elfling could hear. Ýrwen’s tiny fingers curled in the edge of his cloak, she was content in her grandfather's hold - her breathing slow and even, her trust absolute.

"I do not want to leave you. Not like this." Legolas said, the words dragging from her as if torn from the raw places of her heart. Her voice was unsteady, and she hated it. Hated that she could not be strong enough to ease the pain in his eyes at the sight of their child about to be carried beyond his reach.

Elrohir's hand came to cup her cheek, his touch warm and trembling. "You must," He asserted, though she could see in his face that it cost him everything. His gaze flitted to Ýrwen in Maglor’s arms, and softened with a grief so deep she thought she might drown in it. "She deserves a mother whole, Legolas. They all do. I won't let them watch you fade."

Legolas closed her eyes, trying to steady herself, to still the storm within. The gulls called, louder now, pulling at her fëa. And yet - here was Elrohir, here was love, and she was to leave it behind.

"I know," She whispered. "But knowing does not make it any easier."

"No." Elrohir said, his voice as ragged as her own. "No, it does not."

His gaze flickered again to Maglor, who stood a little apart, the child still held tenderly against him. Ýrwen lay with her head tucked beneath his chin, one small fist now tangled in the dark lengths of his hair. Maglor's expression was one of quiet sorrow, as it so often was - a sorrow born of too many wounds that time could not heal. But his arms were steady, as unshakeable as the sea itself.

"Keep her safe," Elrohir said, his voice low, each word heavy with trust and heartbreak. "I entrust her to you."

Maglor inclined his head solemnly, his eyes dark with shared grief. "On my life." He said softly, but his words carried across the salt-laced wind like a vow. "No harm will come to them. I swear it."

Elrohir gave the smallest nod, but his hands - his hands betrayed him. His fingers curled as if they ached to hold his daughter, to cradle her one last time, to commit every line of her face to memory. Though he did not reach for her, the longing in his eyes near undid Legolas.

"Tell her of me," He said, voice breaking, splintering under the weight of his love. "Let her know how I love her, though I cannot not watch her grow."

Legolas felt a sob rise in her throat, sharp and bitter. She fought it down, swallowing the pain that threatened to overwhelm her. She stepped closer, close enough that her fingers brushed his hand - just a fleeting touch, but it spoke all that her voice could not. "She will know," She promised. "Every day."

Elrohir stepped back then, as if distance might somehow help him hold together the pieces of himself that this moment was shattering. His face crumpled despite his efforts, and in his eyes she saw the same despair that threatened to drown her.

"Now, Go." He urged, his voice hoarse. "Before I break, and beg you to stay."

"I will come for you." He promised.

Her heart twisted at that, torn between the pull of the sea and the ache of his words; at how much she wanted him to beg - because oh, she would stay, if she could. But she could not linger, nor could she fight it - not anymore. The tide was rising. The sea claimed what was its own.

"I will hold you to it." She said, tears blurring her vision. "Don't make me wait forever."

Elrohir tried for a smile, that crooked, beloved smile that had warmed her heart a thousand times over. But it faltered, broke beneath the weight of his grief. "Have I ever?" He asked, his voice achingly soft.

She managed a breath of laughter, choked though it was. "Namárië, meleth," She whispered, a farewell full of all the love she could not speak aloud.

Namárië." He echoed, his voice the sound of a heart shattering.

And then Maglor shifted beside her, his arms sure around Ýrwen as the breeze tugged at his dark hair. His voice was quiet but undeniably firm. "The tide is rising, iell nín. We must go."

Legolas turned, but not before casting one last look at Elrohir - at the ellon who held her heart, at the life she had built and now must leave behind. The weight of it settled upon her chest until she thought she might break beneath it.

How does one walk away from the very air that they breathe?

But the ship waited, as did the sea - vast and implacable, its voice in the gulls’ cries and the steady hush of the waves. Their calls grew louder now, wild with urgency and insistence. The tide tugged at the shore, at her fëa, and she knew: she could not linger. Not if she meant to survive.

And so, with a breath that felt like both the breaking of her heart and her world - she turned at last, and stepped forward. Toward the ship. Toward the sundering sea.

Toward the west and what she could no longer outrun.