Namidia

'For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Peering and flying to and fro,
-- William Butler Yeats, The Two Trees.

The leaves were swirling when he excused himself, a rustling dance of dying brown and pale gold across the shadowy rose quartz terrace. As the doors wafted shut behind him, the sounds of the party within, of clear Elvish voices raised in song fell away and Frodo Baggins let his shoulders slump for the first time that evening. His face felt naked, aching and devoid for the first time of the mask he'd worn earlier, a cheerful visage to prevent Sam from worry or Merry and Pippin from uncomfortable questions or Bilbo from guilt. ‘More guilt,’ he corrected himself, feeling his heart clench at the memory of the old Hobbit's weeping.

The waterfall that ran through the heart of Rivendell, gorged by the clear waters of the Brunien seemed turbulent, echoing the chaotic downturn of his heart. Bilbo had not meant him any harm, of that Frodo was certain but he was equally certain that had he not moved as quick as he had, his beloved Uncle would have taken the Ring this afternoon, by force if necessary. The way his face had seemed to crumple in, transformed into that terrifying visage with its sharp teeth and bulging eyes... He shuddered, reaching up to clutch the Ring, turning it 'round and 'round in his fingers to reassure himself of its presence. True, he was aware of the Ring at all times, the weight of it around his neck heavier or the itch of his fingers to try it on greater than at others but there was some thing more immediate and tangible about this. It was not enough to feel the cold burn of it against his skin, hidden beneath the mended folds of his shirt. The craving to touch, to roll the simple gold band around in his palm, perhaps to place it on his hand was becoming worse, more so now after Gimli's attempt to destroy it in the Council Hall. It called to him, imploring him to escape before these high lords of men and elves and dwarves sought to separate him from his... He shut his eyes, forcing his hand down to clutch the railing. 'I will not call it that... Never that.' He didn't need to with the malevolent sibilance of Bilbo's voice hissing the word over and over in his head. 'Precious. Precious. Precious.'

'Preciouspreciouspreciousmypreciouspreciousmypreciousssssssssssss.'

He did not find the Ring precious; for all its fair seeming, it was loathsome and corrupt, destroying those it sought to use, all save Gollum and Bilbo yet it had changed the two of them. Gollum had been transformed into something mad and cruel, his thought bent as on the Ring with a single-minded determination that rivaled Sauron's. And Bilbo... Poor Bilbo had escaped but even he was touched by its evil, stretched to the breaking point. Allowing the Ring to stay in Rivendell was impossible even had Elrond permitted it. It would provide too much of a temptation for his Uncle and if left to its own devices, the Ring would use Bilbo, taunt and whisper as it did to Frodo until it drove him mad. He could not claim to be any stronger than Bilbo; indeed, he often felt he was less than his Uncle, neither as strong or clever but he still had the will and the youth to resist. Bilbo, after so many years of unchecked, unconscious guarding of the magical item had reached his breaking point. To stay would see his final destruction and Frodo could not allow that while he still had breath. And so he would go, forsaking the shelter and comforts of Rivendell to the fires of Mordor and the very heart of Oroduin, the Mountain of Doom, to cast the Ring into a lake of brimstone in the hopes it would be enough to destroy its evil once and for all.

At least he would not be going alone. His heart was lightened by the knowledge that Gandalf and Sam and Strider would be at his side as would Merry and Pippin. The prospect of Boromir in the Company was more daunting. He gleaned nothing but good intentions from the Lord of Gondor but buried underneath it all, there was sense of mounting desperation. His words rang sincere; in Boromir's place, he, too, would be fearful for the Eye was ever fixed on Gondor and its people, the men who had held Mordor at bay for thousands of years. It was not something the Dark Lord was likely to forget or forgive. However, if they failed in their Quest, if Sauron regained the Ring, then Minas Tirith would simply be the first to fall. He doubted very much that Boromir would agree, seeing only his people's destruction and he was not alone in that. The Council had proven that Middle Earth was divided as Men fought Elves or Elves fought Dwarves or all three fought each other at the same time. The differences between the races seemed so great that even he was uncertain how well this 'fellowship,' this group of nine walkers to be set against the Nine who ride, would work. There was already tension between Strider and Boromir and they were of the same race so how could they expect more from Gimli and Legolas given the ancient enmity between dwarves and elves?

'You borrow trouble before it has a chance to arrive,' he reproved himself. The destruction of the Ring was more important than any of the petty squabbles the other races indulged in and they knew it as well as he did. He had to trust that they would be able to put those differences aside long enough for the task at hand. Trust. Could he trust any of them where the Ring was concerned? Before this afternoon, the answer would have been an unequivocal 'yes' but now, after seeing how its influence had ravaged Bilbo, he found himself without answer.

"Your thoughts must be dark indeed, Frodo Baggins, if you can scowl on such a perfect night as this, with all of Rivendell laid at your feet."

He straightened, a nervous tremor running through him as he pivoted in the direction of that disembodied voice, trying to tell himself that he was in Rivendell, that he was safe; no servant of Sauron he'd run across yet would speak so plainly. It would take nothing to raise his voice and bring Sam, Strider, and quite possibly every creature in the place down. The knowledge was reassuring but it was not enough dispel his unease.

Still garbed in his robes from the Council, the rich umber shimmering in the torchlight as it pooled around him, the Prince of Mirkwood -- Legolas, Frodo remembered, was regarding him with some amusement from one of the house's many trellised alcoves. "Am I disturbing you?"

'Yes,' Frodo wanted to say but bit his tongue. He had nothing against the Elf; indeed, he was quite grateful for his offered assistance earlier today but right now, it was solitude that he wished for and was not likely to have again once Rivendell lay behind him. It would not do, however, to be rude, not to one who was soon to be his companion, to one who had willing laid his life down to protecting the Ring and him. So he shook his head and waited, taking a step back as if to invite the other to join him.

Legolas tilted his head, blond hair given a reddened patina under the firelight. "Are you not enjoying the feast?"

"Oh no," Frodo rushed to assure him. "The feast is quite wonderful, Your Highness. Lord Elrond has truly outdone himself but..."

He trailed off, searching for the words to explain that he was not used to such lavishness, that the presence of so many important people made him feel uneasy, uncertain of his place. All of which, he was quite sure, would sound ridiculous to the Elf.

"I was feeling confined," he replied, wincing at his lame excuse. "I thought a breath of air might help, Your Highness."

"Legolas."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Legolas. Not 'Your Highness' or 'Sir'. You must call me Legolas, Frodo, if we are to be companions," The other chided in gentle remonstrance. Blue-gray eyes appraised him, those deep winter pools flowing over him with keen interest, bordering on open curiosity.

"Of--of course," Frodo stumbled over the words, suddenly flustered by the Elven prince's attention.

The garment rippled like lazy waves as Legolas approached, accentuating rather than hiding the lithe lines of the Elf's body. His tread was light, seeming to ghost across the ground, be it marble floors or earthen fields with no sound or disturbance. He stopped a few paces away, clasping the railing as he leaned forward, face upturned into the night air with eyes closed and a hint of a smile.

Frodo was struck once again by the size discrepancy, by how small he felt standing next to the Elf. He was still unused to finding himself in the company of people so much larger than he. Back in the Shire, Gandalf had been the odd one, singled out by his imposing stature and manner. As a rule, Elves and men, the "Big People" as his kind called them, passed through the Shire on the rarest of occasions, oblivious to their existence outside of tales. Why this was, he was uncertain, although most Hobbits tended to prefer things as such, content to worry about their crops and holes instead of events eddying around them in the outside world. Had he and Bilbo been so odd with their concern? Perhaps, if he had spent less time daydreaming of adventuring with his uncle, he might have grown that 'Hobbit common sense' that Sam had in spades and that he was accused (and rightly so) of lacking. Perhaps if he'd spent less time daydreaming, he would not be caught in events beyond his depth and ken now.

Perhaps, should, would... What difference did it make? He was committed to his road and naught could change it.

"I never tire of this place, no matter how many times or ways I see it," Legolas spoke at last, his voice thoughtful. "Even in dark times as these, Rivendell still shines. I would that things were as well with my own kingdom. The dark things that were driven out in the year of the Dragon's fall have returned in greater numbers and Mirkwood is again an evil place, save where our realm is maintained(1.)."

Frodo had guessed as much from the Council meeting and Legolas' impassioned recitation of his father's message to Elrond and Gandalf, but to hear the words spoken so plainly threw a chill down him, worming deep within. "Has Mirkwood truly become so dark?"

"Dark enough for my father to withdraw his people within the borders of the kingdom." The reply was sobering to say the least, Legolas' face darkening as he spoke.

He turned his gaze outward, fixing on the courtyard below, on the ethereal statues casting shadows with each flicker of the torches. "I used to dream of visiting Mirkwood with Bilbo," he confessed. "Of seeing Laketown and the halls of your father. I suppose I never will now."

"Never visit Mirkwood or never visit there with Bilbo?"

"Either. Both. After all, there's no guarantee that Bilbo will be... If we make it back from Mordor, I mean." It was hard; trying to voice all the fears whispering in his ears, heightened by the ever-present weight of the Ring, heavier now than it was a few moments ago. He tried not to think of his confrontation with Bilbo earlier, tried and failed. He bowed his head, pretending to lean farther out for a better look at the courtyard, concentrating on keeping his breathing normal, on steadying the tight wrench of his chest before it became too difficult to breathe at all.

A hand rested on his shoulder, the grip surprisingly gentle for all the strength he felt in those fingers. Using his free hand, the Elf tipped his chin upward, forcing him to meet Legolas' smoky, concerned gaze. "You've gone pale," he frowned, brushing his cheek with a casual stroke of his fingers. "Cold, too. Frodo... How long have you been out here?"

He bit his lip, trying not to gasp aloud at the unexpected jolt that solicitous touch triggered in him. His body seemed to light up in response, tendrils of warmth branching through him as he struggled to make sense of his companion's words. He shivered, almost leaning towards the Elf before stopping himself, confused by his actions, by sensations he'd never felt before. He felt ... odd, his heart picking up and his legs suddenly unsure of themselves.

Legolas' frown deepened, and he caught Frodo under an arm, leading to one of the benches and pushing him down onto one before he could react or protest. Then he knelt so that they were eye to eye, "Does your shoulder pain you? Shall I fetch Elrond?"

"No," he managed, edging back a bit and rubbing his forearms as if to ward off a chill. "I'm fine. Just...just cold like you said."

It wasn't exactly an untruth but it was enough to cause the Elven prince's eyes to narrow in contemplation. A tiny line appeared in the other's forehead and Frodo wanted to groan at the sight. Not even a foot outside of Rivendell and he was already resorting to subterfuge. What was wrong with him? It wasn't as if he wanted to lie to him; the words came easy, slipping off the tongue far easier than the truth did. And the truth was... Well, truth was no longer something he understood anymore. How could one know the truth when you weren't even sure you knew yourself anymore? When the people around you were changing only you realized that they weren't, that it was you who was changing, seeing the reality behind the comfortable masks worn your entire life? Well, what then? He had lived his entire life within the Shire, within its borders and little streams, safe from the tempests that rocked the outside world. It was only now he understood just what a foolish illusion that was. Everything he counted as certain or facts were passing away, scattered by the wind from Mordor, leaving him tired and afraid.

"I think far more than the cold troubles you this evening, Frodo," Legolas expression was shrewd. "Will you not allow me to help?"

"There is nothing that can be done."

"Will you not let me try?"

"Can you undo what the Ring has wrought in Bilbo? Can you promise me that Gandalf or Sam or Merry and Pippin will make it through this journey unscathed? Can you promise me that I'm not leading us all into destruction?" The words tumbled out, bitter and sad to the dregs and he swallowed, wishing for a draught that would wash away the hollow ache in his chest. "I am sorry, Legolas. I did not mean--"

His words were stayed as the Elf put a hand atop his clenched fists. "There is nothing wrong in being afraid, Frodo. We all are. I think..." He paused. "That this goes deeper than fear though. What has happened to upset you so?"

Frodo studied the elf without reply, the glacial beauty of his features, fair and perfect as the early morning. The way his ears clipped into points at the ends, not as pronounced or sharp as some of Elves he'd seen but softer, slightly rounded around the tips. Flaxen tresses spilled over his shoulders, elaborate braids crowning his temples in a simple weave of hair that he found more becoming than any coronet. For a moment, his vision faded as it had back in the forest and his wound burned anew with an echo of ghostly pain as light seemed to suffuse and halo the Elf much as it had Lady Arwen, so bright that he was almost blinded. The rest of the world was gray, wreathed in fog and ice but Legolas *was* shining, piercing the haze with the mindless determination of a newborn sun. 'Was it some glimpse of his soul?' Frodo wondered. His aura was an unquenchable flame, a mighty corona flaring outward towards him, almost crackling between them. The image flickered then wavered away and Legolas was himself again, a slender elf clad in an elegant robe, his beauty tempered, less awesome and terrible in aspect. His shoulder throbbed, hard enough to rob him of breath then it too dulled, still there but no longer as immediate.

So much of what he felt these days was like that, a quality of unreality invading his waking hours bit by bit until he felt more like a ghost haunting these radiant halls, a body moving beside Sam and the others while his spirit felt unmoored, tied only by the thinnest cords to his flesh. The Ring was real to him, all too real for his liking but its endless droning was like a void, a darkness in his soul, curling and raking a thousand tiny claws over his mind. Its voice was louder these days, almost enough to ring in his ears even in his sleep. That ringing had become a mocking scream when Gimli's axe had attempted to shatter it, the discomfort it had fed him very near enough to throw him from his seat. It was only Gandalf's presence that had stayed him, his strength allowing Frodo to lay the Ring aside and not rush to 'save' it. Not even Gandalf had been enough to prevent him from taking the part Fate had offered. There would be no green rolling hills of the Shire to greet him soon, save in his dreams. Those hills and streams seemed so far away now, brighter in memory than the increasingly dim world that greeted him day by day. Elrond had healed him but he was beginning to fear that it would not be enough. The world was veiled and whether it was due to the influence of the Ring or the sting of the Morgul blade remained to be seen.

It was odd then that when Legolas had touched him a heartbeat and forever ago, he *had* felt something, something concrete and clean, beyond pain, the first such sense he had been blessed with since Amon Sul. His response had been immediate, leaning towards that sensation although why that should be so, he could not say. It was beyond anything he had ever experienced before and even now, he found his skin tingling, scorching away the chill that had been with him for so long now.

"Frodo?" Dark eyes called to him, threatening to drown him where the One Eye had promised nothing but flames. The hands atop his tightened, as if to draw him back and he stirred, blinking away the daze that sought to muddle him.

"It's Bilbo," The words slipped out so easily, prodded by the persistent note of command in the Elf's voice, the way those eyes fixed on him and only him. "And the Ring. And all of this."

He sucked in a breath, letting it rattle through his chest. "I am not hero, Legolas. I'm not a warrior or wizard... I don't know how to fight, not properly anyway. If Strider hadn't been with us at Weathertop..."

"You faced down the Nazgul, Frodo," Legolas interrupted. "The Nine. And you lived. Do you know how many people can boast of such a feat?"

"I put everyone I'm with in danger," He shouted, then lowered his voice, trying to curb his frustration. "I nearly got Sam, Pippin, and Merry killed. And there was nothing I could do! Nothing at all. If Strider hadn't been there, they would have taken the Ring."

"But they didn't. The Nazgul aren't invincible, Frodo. Nor is Sauron. If that were the case, then he'd have no need for the Ring and there would be no hope. Don't you understand? That's what you've given us, Frodo Baggins. Hope. The hope that this long nightmare may soon end, that the Ring may at last be destroyed and Sauron banished from Middle Earth forever. Without you or Bilbo, none of this would be possible. All the free people of Middle Earth owe you a debt greater than can be repaid."

Frodo felt his cheeks grow hot. "You make too much of my part, Legolas. It is Bilbo we owe the debt to, for keeping the Ring safe as long as he did.

His tone became reflective as he found himself confessing, "I'm worried about him. Gan-Gandalf told me about Gollum...About how he thinks he might have been a Hobbit at one time. I didn't believe him at the time but..."

'But now I think I do,' he wanted to say. It was amazing how quickly his self-righteous convictions had crumpled in the face of the Ring's power, in the hunger he'd seen for it -- both in Bilbo and the Nazgul. Such a simple gold band, so innocent it seemed even as it floated from life to life, destroying everything in its path. Isildur had been a king, of the line of Westernesse, and he had fallen pray to its machinations, even Gandalf feared its power... What good could he possibly do?

"He'll be safe here, you know," The almost question caused him to lift his head, meeting soft eyes warm with compassion. He could get lost in those eyes if he let himself and for a moment, he was tempted to.

"Is he?" The words were wistful, reaching for a hope that he found wavering. If Legolas could sound so certain about things, perhaps he could cling to that hope a little longer.

"Rivendell is secure and even the Nazgul hesitate before the power of Elrond. Besides, it is not Bilbo that Sauron and his minions will be after once we leave here."

"And for that I am grateful," he replied then paused. "Legolas, do you think that once the Ring's destroyed, the damage it has done will be repaired?"

He wasn't aware of how much he wanted an answer to that until his question was met by thoughtful silence, an abstract, almost uncomfortable expression crossing the prince's face. It was the sort of expression people wore when they had news you didn't want to hear, truths that were upsetting. He'd seen that face many times in his life, although it had never haunted him as much as that first time, when His Grandfather Brandybuck had taken him aside and explained that there had been a boating accident and his parents had been lost. He'd been fortunate enough then to have Bilbo, the elder Baggins arriving the next day, bringing with him the promise of a new family.

And now so many years later, he found himself at the same crossroads. At least when Bilbo had left before, it had been of his own violation; the divide separating them now was not of their making, and was gaining in distance with each passing moment. The Ring was pulling him away, each step of his road leading to the place he least wanted to go, to Mordor, to the heart of Sauron's domain. He feared the journey, feared even more the possibility of failure, but it was something he was willing to risk. He just wished he could be assured that some good would come out of this.

"I know not," Legolas replied at last. His eyes were distant, as if seeing some destiny that had not yet spun out for the rest of them. "As Lord Elrond mentioned earlier, it is possible that the power of the Three Rings may be enough to heal this world, to restore the balance that has been disturbed."

"But you do not agree?"

"The world is changing, Frodo. The time of my people is passing away and all our love will not keep us in this land. There will come a day when my people are but a memory to those who remain behind. This world will be in the hands of men and dwarves and yes, even hobbits." Melancholy darkened Legolas' voice, his eyes raking over the landscape around him, as if seeking to imprint it on his memory. "I fear the end of this tale will see the failing of much that is fair and pure in the world but we are left with little choice. The Ring must be destroyed or all will perish."

"Yes," he agreed, feeling ashamed in the face of the Elf's quiet determination. His fears seemed so childish, so silly in comparison. At least he could hold to some hope of returning home when this was all said and done, if they survived. What had Elrond, and Legolas and the other Elves to look forward to except the knowledge of their impending exile from their homes? The thought made him cold, bereft of anything save a tight fist of anguish choking him. The Elves had been a part of his life in one way or another since his childhood, sometimes only as figures in beautiful songs Bilbo sang or later still, when his Uncle had allowed him to accompany him on his excursions, as friends. What would happen to this land once their light passed away to the West? Better to pass away than to be blotted out forever, he supposed but he still grieved for what would be lost.

"Thank you."

The words fell, surprising the both of them with their presence, Legolas' gaze now quizzical. "Thank you," Frodo rolled the words around, feeling them with his entire body.

"For?"

"For agreeing to stand with me. For listening to me when I'm sure you have more important matters to attend."

"Little one," the Prince of Mirkwood's smile was brilliant, his dark mood seeming to evaporate as he touched Frodo's cheek with the lightest skim of his fingers. "At this moment, I can think of no matter more important."

There it was again, that strange sense of being drawn out of himself, towards the archer. His awareness seemed to narrow to the graze of fingertips against his flesh, well worn with calluses and hiding a strength that was belied by their slender length. They were so close he could feel the heat of the other's body through the gossamer thin cloth adorning him. He wanted nothing more than to lean forward, to take what warmth and security he could from the Elf. He was so cold, from his wound, from uncertainty and grief.... Would it wrong to ask such a thing? And why did he desire it so from one he had just met? Why not Sam or Gandalf? What was it about Legolas that made him feel so at ease, as if for the first time, he could be himself without the restraints of what was expected of him? He was so many things to so many people -- a 'Master' to Sam, cousin to Merry and Pippin, a 'son' to Bilbo and Gandalf, the Ring-bearer to everyone here. So many titles to lose himself in until there was nothing left but the titles themselves. What did he have of himself that hadn't been given or assigned by someone else? Was there nothing of himself that he could call his own? Even the people of the Shire had made assumptions about him, labeling him as strange because his mind saw farther than the turn of the seasons and the pungent smell of freshly tilled earth. They had made allowances, as if to excuse his behavior because he was 'Mad' Baggin's nephew--and heir to the largest fortune in the Shire. If they knew the truth of why he'd left the Shire so suddenly, they would probably all shake their heads, tongues clucking in feigned sympathy as if to say, "Well, what did you expect? He's a Baggins, after all."

As much as he loved the Shire, he often felt he had no real place in it. His heart loved its hills and fields but often yearned for something more, a restless slither in the back of his mind that urged in quiet whispers every spring, growing stronger as the years passed. As if his mind knew that there was somewhere out there he should be, something he was seeking that couldn't be found in the confines of Bag End. There had always been some small voice in the back of his head, urging him to wait, that his time had not yet come. Over time, that voice had quieted, settling as he had into life as the Master of Bag End, life running at a steady if not sometimes monotonous pace. Safe, uneventful, and on occasion dull but there had been a sense of comfort in that. Gandalf's abrupt return and their consequent flight had brought that feeling back with a vengeance, and despite the fear and danger each step brought him closer to, he couldn't deny how some part of him welcomed it. This was the adventure he had always craved and dreamed of and in spite of the danger, he felt himself coming to life, seeing mountains and the wrecks of ancient towers, striding amongst the lords of Men, Elves, and Dwarves as if he had a right to. The world was wider than he'd guessed and filled with such visions, dark and terrible with islands of beauty like Rivendell.

Legolas was like those mountains, solid and possessing a perilous beauty that alternately intimidated and haunted him. All Elves whether light or dark were fair but there was something luminous about his companion, something that comforted even as it made him nervous. Not even Elrond with all his wisdom or Lady Arwen's unearthly radiance had made as great an impression on him. Perhaps it stemmed from the archer prince's sworn oath to protect him, to help him achieve his quest but Frodo thought it more than that. What it was, he could not say but something about Legolas called to him, called him with the same intensity that the mountains and the road called to him, beckoning him into some mystery he not yet knew the name of.

There would be time enough to figure it out, he supposed. Their road together would be a long one, allowing him more of an opportunity to observe his companion. The prospect excited him, more than it should have and he frowned, wondering if perhaps the poison from his wound hadn't affected his brain.

"Master Frodo?"

He nearly yelped at the sound of Sam's concerned voice, so close to his ear, irritated that for a second time this evening, he had been snuck up on. Legolas stiffened beside him, revealing that in spite his famed elven senses, he, too, had been caught unawares. He bit his lip, trying to not laugh at the slight discomfort on the Elf's face as he came to the same conclusion.

His smile faded just a bit at the sight of Sam's honest face scrunched up in worry. Sam was a dear to him as a brother, more so now than ever, but he couldn't help but resent the surge of guilt he felt around him. Ever since Gandalf had seen fit to appoint Sam as his manservant for this journey, the other Hobbit had been taking his duties very seriously, keeping him in sight at all times if he could manage it. And as much as he enjoyed Sam's presence, there were times when he longed to just be away from his anxious presence, time to think and be alone with his thoughts and not have to be brave for the others. Legolas had seemed to understand that but Frodo very much doubted Sam would and he would not for the world hurt the other's feelings.

"I'm fine, Sam." His voice was gentle, answering the question in Sam's eyes before it could reach his lips. "I wanted some air."

"You should have told me," his friend's voice was almost reproachful but whether that reproach was directed at himself or Sam, he could not say.

"And let you miss observing the Elves, Samwise Gamgee? Never in a million years. Besides, Legolas has been watching out for me."

Sam fidgeted, half bowing in Legolas' direction as if he were uncertain of how he should treat him. The Elf raised his hand, "Please, Samwise, I have already had to instruct your master in using my proper name. It is not fit that you should bow to me if we are to be companions and equals."

"Um, yes, sir. I--” Sam seemed even more flustered than before and Frodo took pity on him, leaving Legolas' side and clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Come along, Sam. The night's young and we still have to be there for Bilbo's recitation," he glanced at the archer. "Will you come with us?"

Legolas' face was grave, turning back towards the sky. "I think I will stay here for now. Rivendell is too lovely to keep me indoors on a night like this."

He nodded, letting Sam lead him away, pausing at the door for one last look at his newfound friend. From this angle, with his face caught in the wonder of some music that only he could hear, his body a study of grace in repose, he seemed little more than a young man, beautiful but no longer terrible. Almost dreamy in expression as those sloe eyes caressed the landscape. Frodo shuddered in silence, wondering for the flickering of an instant what it would be like to feel those eyes touch him in that way. The thought fled as quickly as it had appeared but the feelings it stirred... He shook his head as if to clear it, following Sam inside even as that image seemed to burn itself in his mind.

He wasn't sure he understood, wasn't sure how or why but he felt something inside him moving, changing, leaning towards the Elf as a young tree does the light. Common sense told him that he ought not to entertain such ideas, that he ought to stay out of the affairs of the 'Big People' and mind his place.

But what did common sense know anyway?

End

In the light of the stars

The weeping had stopped.

Somewhere along the treacherous paths leading away from Moira and towards Lothlorien, the tears slowed then stopped, replaced by a grim silence that had deepened with each step. With Aragorn leading and Boromir picking up the end, the Company, now diminished, had trudged onward, almost blindly, as they left their heart back in those dark, accursed mines. The first step had been hard; taking the next had been even harder, even for him. For all his centuries, Legolas found himself reeling from the pain as if he were no older and wiser than Merry and Pippin. His heart wept for their loss, for Gandalf, long after his tears had dried, battered away by the fierce northern winds. Not even the rise of vegetation, the sight of the great forest of Lothlorien in the distance gave him any respite.

They had set up camp several miles out, still close enough to see the looming peaks of the Misty Mountains even now, hours after sunset, but far enough out that anything following them would have been spotted long before. They were not safe, had not been safe since this affair had begun, but such as it was they had some respite for the evening. Perhaps the last they would have before they reached Lothlorien and Lady Galadriel.

Tomorrow would be hard, most likely with Aragorn pushing them all beyond endurance to reach the edge of the Golden Woods before nightfall. Yet he would gladly walk every mile, suffer any discomfort therein, if it meant not having to endure the long night ahead. He doubted that any of them would sleep soundly tonight, if at all. As for himself, he was already planning on volunteering to stand guard through the night, even after this first shift had ended. Better that than the wandering dreams that were the gift and bane of all his kind. He had no desire to retread the halls of Moira this night in mind and spirit, bidden by some unconscious desire to find their lost one. Gandalf was gone and as unthinkable as that seemed, there was no choice but to accept it as Aragorn had and continue forth. Failing to do so would mean that the Fellowship had failed and Gandalf had given his life in vain. And that was the only thing more unpalatable than Mithrandir's fall.

"Legolas."

He pivoted, surprised to find Aragorn at his shoulder and displeased that he had not detected the Ranger sooner. His mind was wandering and that did not bode well if he intended to stand watch tonight. Carelessness would have a band of Orcs on them in no time, whether they were creatures of Sauron or Saruman. Biting off a quick curse, he turned his attention to his friend, noting with concern the lines on Aragorn's face. His friend was not a young man and the toll of this afternoon's events had settled heavily on his shoulders. Although he knew his friend to be blameless, there was guilt nonetheless in Aragorn's eyes. Grief, too. There was no small share of anguish in the Ranger's features though he was striving hard to keep it hidden. He was being strong for them, for all of them, as he thought Gandalf might have wanted it so.

"Anything out there?" Aragorn asked, staring out into the darkness as if he thought to discern something with his human eyes that the Elf might have missed.

"Not as yet," He made his reply cautious. "How are the others holding up?"

"About as well as can be expected. Pippin blames himself for Gandalf... I've tried to talk to him as have Merry and Gimli but I'm not sure he believes any of us. Boromir and Sam are checking our supplies,neither saying a word."

"And Frodo?"

Aragorn's smile was deprecating, almost disheartened. "I fear Frodo's wounds are far beyond my skill to heal."

Legolas knew enough to realize that he was not just speaking of the wound Frodo had sustained from the Morgul blade. Of them all, Frodo had been the closest to Gandalf, not in his councils but in his heart. The wizard had seemed to regard the young Hobbit with almost fatherly affection something Legolas had never seen him grant another living creature, not even Bilbo Baggins. Gandalf's death, in addition to the burden Frodo was already carrying, was a blow indeed and he cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. The image of Frodo's face on the slopes of Moira returned, blue eyes overflowing with tears, filled with a pain deeper than the cold flame that burned in his shoulder. He felt a curious pain at the memory, thinking back to another time, another place, where he had seen sorrow writ on the Hobbit�s earnest features. But this was not Rivendell and all of Elrond�s skill could not cure this wound.

"You should rest," Aragorn interrupted his reverie, drawing him back. "I can take over the rest of your watch."

"That isn't necessary," Legolas objected, not understanding why the Ranger would even offer such a thing. Aragorn knew that Elves did not require sleep in the way humans needed it. He could sit here all night with no ill effects and let his body walk in the morn while his mind refreshed itself. "I--"

"Legolas," Aragorn's voice was quiet. "Go sit with the others, eat and take what rest you can. I can handle the watch for a while. Please."

He thought to protest when he suddenly understood what Aragorn was *not * saying. He wanted to take the Watch because he wanted, needed, to prove to them that he could still care for them even without Gandalf. Legolas nodded, wishing that he could make his friend understand that the only person Aragorn had to prove himself to was Aragorn. It had always been thus with the Ranger and not even the influence of Lady Arwen had rid his friend of all his self-doubt. Aragorn could not afford to doubt himself or his ability to lead them now. To do so might prove fatal and if letting him stay awake in the cold all night would prevent that, Legolas was willing to endure whatever visions haunted him.

He stepped away from the Ranger, then hesitated, letting his gaze drift over the mean campsite they'd set up. Merry, Pippin, and Gimli were by the fire, the two Hobbits huddled together perhaps for warmth, perhaps for companionship. Pippin's head drooped and he noted that Merry's lips were moving in a steady stream, most likely offering reassurances of some sort to the smaller Hobbit. Across from them, Gimli sat stout and squat, running a whetstone across the blade of his axe. He caught the Elf's eye and nodded before turning back to contemplation of his weapon. Boromir, like Aragorn, was standing off, his eyes fixed in the distance, fingering the horn at his side. There was something about the man that bothered Legolas, something nervous and almost fearful. He liked Boromir but he discerned that there was a shadow on him, a shadow that prevented the Elven prince from extending his full trust.

Near a small circle of rocks, Master Samwise was standing, forlorn and holding what appeared to be a plate, his gaze fixed on those worn rocks as if seeking to remove them by the sheer force of his gaze alone. The riddle was not difficult to discern. Frodo was there and not eating or accepting company from the looks of things, preferring to grieve in solitude. He thought back to Rivendell, to that night on the terrace when Frodo had excused himself from the festivities, mourning what the Ring had done to his beloved Bilbo. He had seemed so strong then, so unlike the practical, stolid image his people had of Hobbits. He had not been a creature concerned with the comforts of hearth and stomach but a youth bearing a terrible weight. His bravery had kept the Council from dissolving but at what price? His actions had intrigued Legolas, causing the Elf to seek him out that very night when perhaps Frodo might have preferred solitude. He had found Frodo soft-spoken, but resolute in his conviction to take upon himself the task of destroying the Ring. He had made no attempt to disguise his fear, his concerns over what such a venture might cost their Fellowship and something about his honesty had touched Legolas. More than that, his courage had caused him to look at his companion with new eyes. He could have walked away as Sam had wanted, gone back to the Shire or stayed in Rivendell, leaving the matter before the squabbles of the Council until destruction came upon them all. Instead as Bilbo before him, Frodo had stepped among kings and princes and wizards, taking center stage and shaming them all with his mettle. His admiration for Frodo Baggins grew day by day, as the little figure cut across the land just behind Gandalf, urging his friends forward when even Gimli found his feet stumbling.

Gandalf had spoken truly when he proclaimed that there was more to Frodo than met the eye.

Gandalf. Mithrandir. He felt so heavy again, the air seeming to thicken, making it difficult to breathe. Was this how Frodo felt? Or was it worse for the bearer of the Ring? First, Bilbo and now this� Iluvatar, was Frodo never to have a moment�s peace? He frowned, considering Aragorn's remarks then set out, skirting around the fire. He caught a glimpse of three haunted faces, almost gray in flickering light, half hidden by shadows that stretched long over them all. Boromir half-turned, tracking his progress with a strange, almost hungry expression flitting over his features as his eyes settled on just beyond where Sam was standing. Legolas frowned, increasing his pace without realizing it until Boromir's eyes met his and something akin to revulsion passed over the mortal's face before turning away.

Sam was still as he approached, giving no indication at all that he knew the Elf had come to stand just behind him but he didn't flinch when Legolas laid his hand on his shoulder. His voice was quiet, almost sad. "I told Gandalf I'd take care of him but I don't see how I can when he won't let me."

"Sam--"

"It's hurt him, Master Legolas. Oh, it's hurt all of us and make no mistake but with Mister Frodo, it's different. He thinks he's killed Gandalf, I know he does. Thinks it's his fault because of the Ring..." The Hobbit's voice grew stronger. "It's that accursed ring, if you ask me. It's wearing him out, trying to trick him into putting it on. He's fighting it but with Gandalf gone..."

The words stirred a new fear in his breast, one he could not quite identify. "Sam, do you think he is --"

"I don't know," Sam's voice was awash with misery. "I can see him fighting with it, but he keeps touching it all the same. And his eyes... They're so dark and hopeless. It's killing him, bit by bit and with Gandalf gone, I'm afraid we may lose him."

"That's not going to happen," Legolas replied, stronger than he'd intended. The words sounded harsh, as if they were trying to tear out of his throat. He squeezed the Hobbit's shoulder. "We won't let it happen."

Sam's head bobbed as he scrubbed a hand across his face then straightened. "Right. Right you are, Sir. I'd best go and try to get him to eat again."

He caught him, plucking the plate up with deft fingers. "No, Sam. I'll do it. Go back to the fire and try to rest."

Samwise opened his mouth in protest before he was cut off. "You're dead on your feet, Sam," Legolas pointed out, though not unkindly. "I'll take the food to Frodo and make sure he eats."

Hesitating, Sam narrowed his eyes, not prepared to give up his appointed task without a fight. "You won't leave him alone? Not until he gets something in him? And you'll make sure he sleeps afterwards?"

"I promise," Legolas held a hand over his chest, the first smile he'd felt all day, playing at his lips.

Sam studied him a few seconds more before nodding sharply with one last look towards the rock circle. It was hard, maybe one of the hardest things the Hobbit had ever done to walk away, to lay down his charge for even a second. Legolas was proud of him, once again reminded at how little his people knew about Hobbits. They had long been dismissed as inconsequential, as small and unimportant and yet it was in their hands that the fate of the Quest lay. �In the hands of one in particular,� Legolas thought, letting his attention slide back to present matters.

Stone rose up in sharp spikes, almost seeming to curl into a fist above his head as he strode deeper in, trying to control his unease. He was not fond of rock as Gimli was and this place reminded him too much of Moira for comfort. True, the circle was open and he had the comfort of the sky above but there was something confining and entrapping about this place. Perfect for a small Hobbit, so used to their holes but too enclosed for one used to roaming the woodland.

Surprisingly, the center of the circle was open and he stepped into it, grateful for the way the stones seemed to fall away, retreating until he could just barely detect their presence. They were very old, he could feel that much, older than he and not altogether unfriendly. The grass beneath his feet was brown from lack of sunlight, curling in on itself as if it were choking but the ground was soft, rich with brown earth studded with the occasional bit of granite, catching sight of his quarry sitting atop one of those upturned rocks.

Legolas felt his breath catch as he looked, truly looked at Frodo for the first time since Rivendell, noticing the way the starlight caught in his dark hair, dusting it silvery. His face was upturned, staring skyward, dried tear tracks made visible against fair skin. Frodo's features were odd for a Hobbit, lacking the rough, good-humored quality of his countrymen possessing instead softer, more ethereal features. He was taller than Sam, a slender and nimble creature with an innate grace that was reflected with his every move. He recalled Gandalf once mentioning that the Baggins family were rumored to have a touch of Elven blood although he himself had never before heard of such a liaison.

It was on Frodo that the weight of the Quest truly fell and despite the best efforts of the Fellowship, there was no escaping that. The Ring was a burden that few could carry for long without being betrayed or succumbing to its evil influence. Only two in living memory had survived it, one of whom was the dear Hobbit before him but Legolas feared the damage being done to the Ring bearer. Frodo was strong and brave but there had been others in the past, equally strong and brave who had fallen prey to the Ring's machinations. He would not for this world see Frodo follow Isildur's fate, maddened by a lust for power and left dead when the Ring chose to betray him. Or worse still, like Gollum. Legolas shuddered at the memory of that wizened tormented creature, unable to endure the light of the Sun or Moon, filled with spite and a mortal hunger that could only be quenched by the very thing that had destroyed him in the first place. The creature dogged their steps, was perhaps out there at this very moment, awaiting the opportunity to separate Frodo from them and ... His hand clenched tight around the plate in it. Pity or no, he would slay the creature before he allowed such a thing to occur.

First, however he needed to find a way to keep Frodo strong, both in mind and body. Coaxing him to eat was a start but that would only satisfy his physical needs. There was such a thing as needs of the heart, of the soul and those needs were not ones easily satisfied. He hardly dared hope that he could be of help there, no matter how he might yearn for such an opportunity. There were many things he could show the Halfling, some more pleasurable than others� He caught himself, shaking his head in rueful consternation. He wondered what Gandalf, or Elrond, or Iluvatar forbid, his father, would think of such fancies. While Gandalf might have understood, he did not entertain such hope for his father. Liaisons between males were one thing but between Hobbits and Elves? It would more than likely rank just above his deciding to mate with a Dwarf in his father�s eyes. Humans were acceptable within certain perimeters but Legolas knew that his father�s famed tolerance would not extend so far with his son involved. He was an Elven prince, heir to the kingdom of Mirkwood and son of Thranduil, his choices had been set by precedence and familial wishes for nearly three thousand years.

His father had long attributed his indifference towards taking one of the high born Elven ladies at Court as some show of willfulness and he could not deny that there might be some truth to that. Much of his life, he had spent within the confines of court or the borders of Mirkwood, carrying out his duties when appointed. When his father did not have an errand for him, then Elrond or Mithrandir did. There was very little time he could call his own and he had no wish to sacrifice the few precious moments he did have over to an arranged marriage. He had always said he would marry when he found someone worthy enough to interest him in such a commitment.

And what irony that the one person who did spark his interest was not only male but a Hobbit!

It did no good to dwell on any of this. As much as Frodo interested him, whatever thoughts he might entertain towards the young Halfling came second to helping the other accomplish his Quest. He had no right to burden Frodo with feelings that might not be reciprocated in the first place. �One task at time,� he decided. First the food, then he could work on the other. He could do nothing if Frodo passed out from hunger or weakness.

"Frodo?"

The Hobbit started, surprise writ across that impossibly cherubic face. "Legolas? How--how long have you been there?"

"A moment only," he assured the other, making his steps slow so as not to startle him. "You have not eaten."

"You've talked to Sam," Frodo sounded rueful. His thin fingers played with the chain around his neck, almost clutching the Ring in a protective gesture.

"He is worried about you," Legolas replied. Sam's warnings from earlier seemed to echo louder in his ears as he noted those nervous gestures. His actions were at war with his manner, suspicion wearing a gentle countenance. They could thank the Ring for that, the Elf acknowledged. "We all are. You should try to eat, if only to satisfy Sam."

Frodo's gaze shifted, almost but not quite back towards the sky. "I'm just not very hungry. I'm fine, really, Legolas."

Kneeling down in front of his friend, he set the plate aside then clasped his shoulders. "You don't have to be, Frodo. Gandalf meant a great deal to all of us, you especially. It's all right to mourn him."

Frodo's grip on the chain around his neck tightened, his face whitening under the moonlight. Sea blue eyes grew deeper, almost liquid with the change and Legolas swallowed, feeling the very real threat of being engulfed.

"I-I..." Frodo paused as if unable to find the words he wanted. Tears welled but did not spill over, granting his eyes a preternatural sheen. "I don't know what to do, Legolas. I want to cry but I can't. I haven't been able to since we left Moira. I feel so-so numb. I can't feel anything, not anger or grief, just bits and pieces of feelings. What sort of creature am I that I cannot even summon up the sorrow to mourn for one who was like a father to me?"

"Shh," He surged upward, drawing the smaller man to him. That dark curling head fit perfectly within the hollow of his shoulder, the other�s rapid breaths causing the hair of his neck to rise in a pleasant rush. �Don�t,� he barked at himself. �Don�t think about how good this feels or how you wish� Concentrate on him. Help him through this darkness before you lose him to it.� "You're in shock, Frodo. It's natural. It will pass, I promise you." 'Far sooner than you'd like,' the Elf thought.

"What if it doesn't?" Frodo's voice was muffled as he lifted his head, his small hands clutching the front of the Elven prince's tunic. There was no mistaking the note of real panic lacing the edge of his voice. "What if I can't feel anything solid, not ever again?"

There was no thinking about what happened next. Indeed, it happened so fast, Legolas himself was almost caught unaware. He found himself cupping Frodo's face, his round cheeks downy against his palms, and capturing those soft, grimacing lips wanting, no� needing to erase that panicked note. He could not bring Gandalf back but he could do this, he could offer comfort, no matter what it cost him.

Frodo inhaled sharply, mouth parting and he pursued further, tongue slipping inward just enough to feel teeth then dart away again. The Hobbit went still, his hands near slack where they had been tensed moments earlier, offering no resistance to his advances but neither did he return them.

"Could you feel that?" Legolas whispered, and then realized what he'd done. A sharp, almost embarrassed pain rippled through him and he pulled back, turning his face away.

"I have offended you," he said regretfully. "I apologize. I thought-- I beg your forgiveness."

"No," Frodo placed a small hand under his chin, his eyes large and wondering. "Why--why would you do that, Legolas?"

He licked his lips, nearly groaning at the taste still there. "Because I wanted to. You're beautiful and because I...I wanted you. Wanted to ease your pain if only for a little while."

Frodo's eyes widened and Legolas cursed himself for being a fool, a great blundering fool. His friend was already in pain and all he had done was throw more confusion his way. "Frodo, I--"

"Why would you want me?" His voice was small, threaded with insecurity and doubt. "I am no one special. I'm not strong like Aragorn or Boromir, I'm only a silly Hobbit far from home."

He blushed prettily, falling silent, his hands plucking at the soft tunic beneath them but he hadn�t rejected the archer�s advances, in word or deed. Legolas exhaled in one drawn out breath, reaching out and grasping his friend behind the neck, feeling curls twist around his fingers like silk webs, pulling him closer until their foreheads were resting together. "I think you are the strongest of all of us, little one. You have endured great terrors and suffering yet you have not given into the Ring. I know of no one else who could accomplish such a thing."

Frodo's eyes were drawn back to the gold band, such a simple guise and it seemed to wink at him. Legolas closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sudden gust of whispering filling his ears, promising him power if he so desired. The power to destroy and rule over all dominions, the power to destroy Sauron and restore the might of his people. He could be a great and terrible king, it whispered, greater in power than Elrond or Gil-galad, greater in wisdom than Gandalf. His enemies would fall before him and his people would adore him as a god. All he had to do was take the Ring from this insignificant creature and place it on his own hand. �But not insignificant,� he thought, �Not to me.�

"You hear it, don't you?" Frodo's voice was low, resigned. "It's always whispering, always speaking to me of things I could do, great things."

Legolas clenched his jaw, fighting to suppress his temper. "I hear it and I deny it. I will not succumb to its evil."

"For how long?"

"What do you mean?" He was taken aback by the question, shaken by it when he realized the implications held within those words.

"It is nothing."

"I have no desire to possess the Ring, Frodo," Legolas assured him. "There is nothing it can offer me that I would want."

Frodo was silent, hope warring with some dark haunted emotion he could not understand. Then he sighed, slumping forward so that the Elf was forced to catch him before he slid to the ground. "I'm tired, Legolas. I'm so tired of being afraid--of the Ring, of myself. Tired of the things it tries to make me think and do. The darkness is so great and there are so few of us ... How can we even hope to succeed?"

"You cannot lose hope, Frodo. Nothing is decided or set in stone. It may yet prove to be in the hands of just one that our fates are decided for ill or naught."

The smile the Ring-bearer graced him with was quicksilver and almost nostalgic. "You sound like Gandalf."

"He was a good teacher. We will not abandon you, Frodo,� He paused, squeezing the small hand in his, �*I * will not abandon you so long as you have need of me."

"And if I have need of you now?" The words were vulnerable, shy longing in his touch as he fingered a strand of loose blond hair resting near his face. "What then?"

There they were. The words he had wanted so long to hear, spoken as he had always imagined they might be and he was� hesitating?

�Frodo, are you sure?� He would not risk their friendship on an uncertainty. The idea that Frodo might be humoring him, to fulfill some sense of obligation the Hobbit might feel towards him sickened him. Better to burn for a thousand more years than that. �I don�t want you to feel as if you must humor me-�

�No,� Curls awry, Frodo shook his head. �It isn�t like that. Not at all. This is not something I would entertain if I didn�t��

�If he didn�t care,� Legolas finished for him. The prospect was dizzying, almost too much to be believed. This was a dream, it had to be and soon his mind would wake with his body on the road to Lothlorien, tormented by the figment of a few minutes� rest. But if this proved not to be a dream�

"Then," Legolas pressed his mouth against his unmarred forehead, enjoying the sharp sound of a breath drawn in quickly as his tongue darted out just enough to tease Frodo's skin. "I shall have to oblige you, won't I?"

Frodo laughed, a sweet, unexpected sound that warmed him to hear. Tracing a path over his brow and temple, Legolas felt an upsurge of tenderness like nothing he'd ever experienced before. "That's much better. I've not seen you smile in some time, I'd almost forgotten..."

"Forgotten?" Frodo squirmed in his embrace, coloring a bit. "What? You're staring at me."

"So I am. Does it bother you?" He drew his fingers down, over curving cheeks and the Halfling's straight nose, then down again to brush his thumb against Frodo's lower lip. The soft flesh there gave way sending a pleasant jolt through him as the rasp of warm tongue caressed his callused fingertip. Rosebud lips quirked then drew his thumb in, milking a gasp as small teeth gently nibbled in time with wet, almost suckling strokes. The sound of ragged breathing surprised him, even more so when he realized it was his own.

Frodo realized it as well and seemed pleased by the reaction. With an impish glint he raked his teeth over the soft pad of the Elf's thumb, scraping against nail then lower over joint, almost past the knuckle before flatting the soft inner folds of his lips over every inch of skin available. Taking the archer's larger hand in both of his, the Hobbit appeared to study it then turned it palm upward, placing a kiss in the center. The first of several to be exact as Frodo ran lips and tongue over hand and wrist, Legolas' other fingers suffering the fate of the thumb. Skin afire, he reached upward and stayed Frodo, tipping his head and silencing the question forming in his eyes with a fierce, almost desperate kiss, his tongue rough as it pressed inward. He was in real danger of losing control of the situation, of himself. Forcing himself to slow down, to stop, he pulled back, still clutching that dear face between his hands, Frodo's mouth a small moue of displeasure as he opened his eyes.

"If I move too fast," he panted, his thumb rolling over the other's cheek. "If I frighten or hurt you ... "

Frodo closed his diminutive hand over his larger, long-boned one, turning his face into it. "You won't," his eyes were intense, bluer than the night. "I won't break, Legolas. I promise you."

The Elven prince was not altogether sure of the truth of those words. In this light, Frodo seemed fragile, almost frail. It stirred an odd mixture of emotions in him, not the least of which was a surging sense of protectiveness coupled with the sudden awareness of his own strength, of how if he was not careful, he might well hurt his friend? Lover? It was not such a giant leap to worry about such a thing; after all, the same hands that were now cradling the youth had been used on more than one occasion to kill. Indeed, the Ring was hissing at him again, urging him to put them to the proper use, to reach down and snap Frodo's unprotected neck. He shut out the whispers, focusing on Frodo, his trusting features leaving him open, vulnerable. A small, muffled noise escaped as he took Frodo's mouth again, tongues meeting and lapping at each other. He pulled Frodo into his lap, small legs wrapping around his waist as his hands came to rest on the Ring-bearer's shoulders, wandering upward to run his hands through thick fawn curls, keeping their lips together. He need not have worried for Frodo was in no hurry to separate either, curling his tongue underneath the Elf's, seeking to get closer, the pressure of their kisses deepening until Legolas felt his lips bruising. He changed the angle just a bit, attacking the corner of his lover's mouth, relishing each taste as he sprinkled kisses over any stretch of skin within reach. Frodo's ear proved especially vulnerable, an audible sigh filling the space between them. He swirled his tongue over the outer shell then inward before pulling back just enough to take the lobe between his teeth, rolling the flesh around. Frodo mewled, fingers digging into the back of his neck as he wriggled, his body thrusting against the archer's, wringing a gasp from both of them.

"Legolas," Frodo breathed, turning his face and burying it in the crook of the elf's shoulder, kissing then biting down on the skin there. He groaned, unable to stop as those lips burned fires over throat and jaw then downward. A light touch tugged at his tunic, replaced by the lap of a tongue against flesh even while hands struggled with his lacings. A small line knotted the Hobbit's forehead as he tugged, the knots holding steady against his onslaught. The sight caused Legolas to chuckle, laying his hands atop Frodo's, stilling them before working in tandem to separate the difficult bindings.

Fabric gave way, the night air seeping through the open cloth to touch him with gentle bites made all the more arousing by the hot mouth that followed their trail. Busy hands found his shoulder buckle, the quiver hitting the ground behind him in a soft, loamy thud. His hands were unsteady as he set to work on his lover's clothing, first his outer cloak and practical jacket, then the clever buttons of his sturdy brown vest snapping free to reveal still more buttons set in a sea of white and the flash of mithril silver. Those, too, gave ground and he pulled the shirt free, pushing it down so that one pale peach of a shoulder was revealed, then the other before his lips found their way there, tasting of his skin as if he were one of those summer fruits. Frodo shivered as his hands ghosted over the white scar of his wound, still not completely healed after all this time. His shiver turned to a full fledged groan as Legolas kissed the wound, the cold tear warming under the attention lavished on it. The scent of sweat and earth and fire lingered, reminders of where they'd been and underneath it all was Frodo's own scent, clean and sweet like a fresh-worked field. The taste of salt tinged his lips as he chased a path along shoulder and neck, wringing a shudder from his lover when his tongue flicked over the hollow of his throat. He moved his head, intending to go lower when Frodo caught his face, a soft kiss giving him pause.

"Legolas," he said again, more agitation color his voice. "I want to see you. Please, I--"

"Shh," the archer silenced him with another easy kiss, hands already moving to remove the outer tunic Frodo had been working on. The belt around his waist came loose and he reached down, pulling the brown garment, under tunic and all off in one quick gesture. With one quick toss, it took its place next to the quiver behind him and he turned back to find Frodo's eyes raking over every inch of his exposed chest. "Do I please you, Frodo?"

A tentative hand cupped his neck, then moved down to rest just above his heart, the Hobbit's fingers drawing circles there before Frodo lifted his eyes. "Very much." The words were sensual only in that they were quiet, filled with a hunger that asked but did not demand. A shy blush colored his cheeks. "I've never...been with anyone. Before."

The words hung, almost lame with embarrassment as if ashamed. Those cerulean orbs fluttered in evident concern that the Elven prince would think less of him for that fact. Truth be told, Legolas had suspected as much which was what had prompted his words earlier. It mattered not to him, save in the anxiety it was causing his lover. "And now? Do you wish to continue, Frodo? Say but a word and we can stop this."

His body protested but he found he meant every word. He would not push, would not pressure. He wanted Frodo but he wanted him willing and unafraid. 'Or as unafraid as any virgin could be their first time,' he amended.

Frodo's hand flew to catch his arm, as if to stay him. "No!" The word tore out of him, the glint in his eyes almost a plea for understanding. "I don't want to stop. I'm not afraid, Legolas. I just... I want to get it right and I'm not sure if I know how."

The archer smiled, running his hand down Frodo's shoulder and arm then back up again. "It is not a riddle to be solved, Frodo. It's not something that you can get wrong. At least, not in the way that you're thinking. Think of it more as a puzzle."

"A puzzle?"

His hand found its way to the small of his lover's back, pulling him forward. "We fit together, Frodo," his voice was teasing, almost sly. "Do you understand? How we fit together -- that's what matters."

"As a man and a woman fit?"

Not so innocent perhaps. Then again, Legolas remembered, for all his otherworldly charm, Frodo was a Hobbit, and Hobbits were among the most sensible, practical creatures in Middle Earth. It would not be Sam, he decided. Sam was too like to get tongue-tied and rattled to carry any tales but Merry and Pippin... Well, between Merry and Pippin there was no telling what he'd heard.

Frodo was fidgeting, his hands almost shaking against the Elf's flesh as he waited for an answer. Despite his brave words, he was nervous, anxiety radiating out of every pore. Tender protectiveness rose in him and Legolas wrapped his lover in a tight embrace, feeling the curve of his spine and jut of his ribs. His voice was reflective as he traced those sheathed ridges of bone. "Not like a man and a woman. The mechanics are similar, if that's what you're asking but there are differences and not just physically."

Silence followed as Frodo considered this. "You will show me how?"

It was barely a question but he found himself nodding in agreement. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure."

He leaned forward, as if to kiss Frodo again but caught his bottom lip instead, nibbling before submerging them both into another lengthy, wet-soft press of mouth against mouth. His hands found their way to Frodo's hips, kneading cloth-covered flesh as he broke away, pausing only to maneuver himself onto a less rocky patch of grass before laying back, taking the smaller man with him. It was enough to wring a gasp from them both as erections grazed then were pressed against each other. Frodo whimpered, his hips pushing forward with an urgency Legolas felt deep in his bones. Holding the Halfling's slim hips, he thrust upward, returning and relishing the feel of hard flesh throbbing through rough weave. A simple rhythm was established, Frodo raising himself then leaning over to rake his nails down the Elf's chest, eliciting a harsh groan.

"And here...I thought you didn't know what to do," Legolas managed, hands wandering to the small of Frodo's back, then over the taper of buttock, cupping and squeezing tensing flesh.

"I'm not stupid," Frodo sounded breathless. "Just a little inexperienced."

Words were lost, useless, as Frodo lowered his head, the braze of a tongue against his chest making him start. Alternating between kisses and long, sweeping strokes of his tongue, Frodo marked him, taking inch by inch of his upper chest, hands slipping over his nipples with more than a hint of tease. Down, then back up, then down again with quick flicks of his thumb before he slowed, circling the nubs with more deliberateness, a gentle tweak to the left causing a sigh to rattle out of his chest as his back bowed into his touch. Something akin to fascination seemed to cross the Ring-bearer's face and he repeated his actions, adding more pressure. Another sharp hiss of breath escaped him and a flush of an altogether different sort crawled along Frodo's skin.

Reddened lips pursed then descended swift and ruthless wringing fire along his nerves as teeth nipped and rasped against his tender flesh. Fingers digging into his lover's buttocks, he was helpless to do much more as Frodo took his time, playing with his flesh as if it were a new toy given especially to him. Which, Legolas admitted through the haze of sensation, was not too far off the truth. His skin felt light, as if the slightest touch would shatter him beyond hope of repair and Frodo more than touched. Hands massaged, then slipped lower heralding the advance of his lips, bruised but still triumphant as they stole down him.

With effort, Legolas slid his hands around the swell of thigh and hip, to fumble for the ties of the Hobbit�s breeches. His lover stilled, lifting up just a bit to aid him then arching back as Legolas sought to pull the loosened clothing now hanging off his small hips away. Smooth skin met the upward glide of his hands and Frodo rose to his knees, allow the trousers to puddle before a few awkward jerks kicked them free. Legolas pulled the other out of his straddle, almost sitting him astride his long legs as he sat up again, eyes stalking exposed flesh with a hunger he'd not felt in nearly a thousand years.

Bleached white by the moon and starlight, Frodo seemed almost Elvish yet something completely alien in the same turn. His skin glowed with a blush muted into soft silver, the fine hairs of his body almost colorless. Sweat beaded his flesh, a fine fairy sheen of dew and lust covering him as he brushed his hands over shoulder and collarbone, down and down his chest and abdomen in near worship before his hand came to rest between the dark juncture of his lover's thighs with the proof of desire returned strong and upright in a nest of slick curls. Frodo groaned, the hoarse need in his voice causing Legolas to tighten his grip, tracing shapeless tracks around the soft hard flesh in his hand, the pulse of blood vessels and heartbeat against the soft mound of his thumb and index finger. He let his hand slide up then down again, too slow to achieve satisfaction, instead seeking to tease his lover to distraction. Something warm and sticky dewed the head and Legolas dipped his fingers through the small trickle, bringing it to his mouth for taste. Salt and something bittersweet burst on his tongue and he desired more, lowering his head as he gripped and spread his lover before him. Frodo's voice strangled at the first touch of his lips on that weeping shaft, his body quivering in response as hands came to rest on the Elf's shoulders, his face buried against his back.

He felt rather than heard Frodo's shudders as his tongue curled around the base of his arousal, teasing tickles of touch that had the other gripping his back, the sting of small nails there. One hand stroking the Hobbit's inner thigh, he used the other to cup the heavy warmth of his testicles, rolling them in a gentle massaging motion that nearly gagged him as Frodo bucked upwards again. He was close, so close to letting go that Legolas felt himself twitch in sympathy. With no small amount effort, he reached around and removed Frodo's death grip on him, laving attention on his engorged flesh on the way up. Whimpering, Frodo strove to hold him down, giving another thrust of his hips in silent entreaty.

Shaking his head, Legolas stroked his cheek, "Not yet, little one. It will be worth the wait. I promise you."

With that, he flipped them, pressing Frodo into the rumpled bed of clothing and earth, the fragrant crush of grass, sweat and sex a heavy fog around them. He pulled back only for the time it took to stand, divesting himself of his breeches. Starved twin sapphires glinted up at him, Frodo breathing more than saying the word, "Beautiful."

"I'm glad you approve," he purred, dropping to his knees, placing one hand on either side of his lover's body. He sobered, as a new thought occurred to him, "Frodo... I was not prepared for... That is... It may hurt without the proper preparations."

A tender look stole upon his lover's face, curving cupid's bow lips, a small dimple appearing. "I'll be all right, Legolas. I'm stronger than I appear."

"I doubt that not. It's just that I would spare you pain if I could."

"I've endured pain, Legolas, and I'm sure I'll face it again. I don't mind, not if the pain means something." His hand squeezed the area just above the Elf's elbow, eyes intent. "Make it mean something, Legolas. Make all this mean something."

"Does this mean something?" The words sounded cold, heartless but he knew it not to be true. Not when his heart was pounding so loud in his ears, afraid of the Hobbit's response, afraid of rejection. If it weren't so sad, it might almost be laughable. He was the heir of Thranduil and an Elven prince yet this Hobbit held more power and sway over him than he did over any of his father's vassals. A word could unmake him, could damn him, and he held his breath, almost praying though he could not bring himself to acknowledge it openly. Elves did not show emotions as men or Hobbits did, and this was doubly true of a prince. He wondered how he must appear to Frodo, to the others, wondered if the icy composure he had been taught his entire life would now prove his undoing.

That fragile, haunted expression from earlier returned, and for a brief moment, Frodo appeared careworn, stretched thin. "If it does not, then why are we bothering? Legolas...if this means nothing then why would you..." Although his eyes remained fixed his hand seemed to creep of its own accord to the chain around his neck, cradling it as if it were choking him with its weight. It pained him to see those questions and that nameless fear unspoken but still there in cerulean depths.

"No," he closed his hand around his lover's. The admission came hard and he disliked the raw, exposed feeling of it. "Frodo, Elves do not engage in casual relationships, not ones of intimacy. I know not of Hobbits or their rituals --"

"We--we are not ones for casual encounters either," Frodo stuttered, the worry dropping away to be replaced by shy openness as he answered the other's unasked question.

He was really quite surprised that he wasn't grinning back with an equally silly, besotted expression. "That is good. May--may I?"

"I wish you would," Came the soft reply.

Kneeling, he parted his lover's legs, stroking the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh with one hand while he brought the fingers of the other to his mouth, taking one at a time between his lips. Elbows supporting him, Frodo watched, his mouth opened whether to sigh in sympathy or utter an another question, he knew not. Feeling playful, Legolas winked then removed his hand, bringing it to rest between the Hobbit's trembling limbs. His hand searched, then located a tight ring of muscle, near invisible save for the sight of his fingers. Frodo whined as he used his thumb, applying a tight pressure to the muscle, massaging, willing his little lover to relax. And bit by bit, his body loosened, just enough for Legolas to lean forward and whisper, "I'm sorry."

Capturing the Ring-bearer's lips, he brought his index finger up and pressed inward. Hands clawed at his shoulders, the body beneath his seeking to jerk away but Legolas held fast, not letting him escape the pull of his mouth. Frodo squirmed in discomfort but stilled after a few seconds. With a silent apology, he delved into that tight heat, adding another finger to his search. Frodo hissed and he slowed further, giving him time to adjust. "Just try to relax."

Frodo nodded, his sweat-slickened brow glistening as he gritted his teeth. "Keep going." There was a command couched in his hoarse voice and Legolas found himself complying.

Two fingers were joined by a third and he began a gentle scissoring motion, stretching him as best he could. The process was slow as he took care not to cause his lover anymore pain than was necessary. Fingers searching, he was at last rewarded as Frodo stiffened, eyes flying open and thrusting back against his touch. He made another shallow thrust with his submerged fingers, feeling muscle tighten around them as Frodo moved again, discomfort banished. Legolas felt his heart pick up at the sight the Halfling made, his legs bent at the knee, spread and accepting his intimate touch, hints of pleasure tinting his every move. Removing his fingers, he spat quickly into his palm, grimacing as he coated his aching arousal with saliva and wishing he'd had enough forethought to be prepared... As if anyone could have been prepared for this turn of events, he acknowledged.

Lifting Frodo�s short legs, he rose to his knees, the head of his erection little by little filling him, muscles loosening then clamping around his hard flesh. It was almost too much to take, the sensation sending fire thrumming through his veins to make it molten. So hard not to move when all he wanted was to let loose a howl to shake the night as he claimed the willing body now clinging to him but he forced himself to remain motionless, to give Frodo time to adjust. Tears that had threatened to spill earlier were now streaking his lover's cheeks, tiny rivulets dripping out of the corners of his closed eyes as Frodo worried his lip between his teeth. He stayed still, neither moving nor speaking a word, the moment frozen as if the world had been consumed in ice. The world was not ice, the scorching heat of his blood and skin, the warmth surrounding his sex, told him otherwise. It was alive and consuming and as immediate as the air in his lungs, narrowing down to a pinpoint of awareness that centered on the Ring-bearer and nothing else.

Then Frodo moved, his face slackening with mute pleasure as he began to move his hips in circular thrusts as his legs locked around the Elf's waist and like the shore, Legolas allowed himself to be pulled into the wave of his embrace. "Is this better?" he asked, anxiety coloring his words.

"Ye-es. Legolas?"

"Hmm?"

"Could you move? Please? I'd like to --"

"Know what it feels like?" He was amused to see Frodo nod, with more vigor than he'd displayed moments earlier.

The first thrust he made was slow, shallow enough to allow him to watch Frodo, gauging his reaction. The response was immediate as his lover rising to meet his thrust, holding him tightly about his restive hips, not in a restraining motion but to pull him home. Home. Yes, this was like coming home. He felt safe and warm and most of all, complete; it was if he had spent his life half-finished up to this point without knowing it, without being able to lament that barren fact. The realization hit him with a bittersweet edge and not for the first time, he sympathized with Arwen Evenstar's plight. To love a mortal was to know the highest joy and greatest sorrow an Elf could feel. His body was hard, baked of earth and clay as Frodo's was but unlike the hobbit, his would never tire, never age. He could choose to give up life or have it taken from him by some unnatural fate but he would never suffer firsthand the pangs of a finite existence. Frodo would grow older and older and even if Hobbits proved to be longer lived than humans, it would not be enough time. There would never be enough time, especially now with the Quest and Mordor looming over them. Time was neither their own or on their side. All he could hope for was a few stolen moments of starlight, the robe of night hiding and shielding them for a few brief hours.

His thrusts were coming harder now, withdrawing then plunging forward, needing to go deeper in, to find that one moment and place where they could join forever. Frodo's lips were ravenous against his, tongues battling in an almost violent duet of passionate sensation that swallowed all the half-voiced growls that left his throat. His hand snaked between them, wrapping around Frodo's erection as it lay between their near sealed bodies, stroking in time with each withdrawal and thrust, Frodo's head falling back with a sharp guttural explosion of sound. He attacked the slender column of throat revealed, his tongue tracing over Adam's apple and jaw, never once relenting in his campaign.

Pressed skin to skin with his hand between them, Legolas felt his lover's surrender with every particle of flesh and blood and bone in him. He thrust again and again, rougher than before, so hard he feared injuring Frodo and feared even more that he would not be able to stop himself if it came to that. His hand sliding up and down the Hobbit's arousal, he urged him on, begging without words for him to let go, to not abandon him to this wave alone and Frodo heard, his body stiffening with a shudder as something wet splashed against the archer's abdomen. He stilled, feeling his lover's release echo through his body like a thunderstorm, as old as time, stripping him of control and self. For one instant, an edge of time that cut him with its tender fierceness, all titles, all masks, and reasons 'why not' vanished in the tempest, a summer storm that shook him to the very core.

"Legolas, I--"

He swallowed Frodo's words, devoured them before they could be spoken. He knew what the other would say and how much he longed for those words to be spoken but it was too soon. Words spoken in a moment of shared passion under the moon might be regretted later and he could bear not hearing those words a little longer if it meant they were sincere when they were finally spoken. He let his body speak for him, another couple of thrusts sending him tumbling after his little lover into an abyss that knew no end or name, where even starlight seemed to fade. He wandered here, almost insensible but not alone, not even here. Their time had seemed so short but in this suspended moment, it stretched out before him, as real as the tang of sweat on his lips as he kissed the Hobbit. The separation would come, their flesh would rend and they would follow the paths assigned to them by Iluvatar but in this moment there was a taste of forever, something more permanent than even his immortality.

As one, they rolled so that he now lay on his back with Frodo leaning over him, their bodies rocking together, his lover's hand resting against his chest as they sought to prolong this joining of body and spirit. "Legolas," Frodo panted, "You won't leave me? Not tonight? Tomorrow we..."

He grunted, then caught Frodo, stilling him and pulling him close. "Let tomorrow attend to itself, Frodo. I'll not leave you this night or the next."

"But you will leave," Frodo's voice was subdued, regret incarnate. "And all this will burn away with the morning's light. Like a dream... Am I dreaming?"

"I think you will be sore enough in the morning to know this not to be a dream," the Elf replied, his tone wry before becoming serious again. "As long as I have breath to draw, Frodo, I will stand with you. You have the protection of my body as well as the use of my bow." 'To say little of the holding of my heart,' he thought.

"I wish no one had to lay down their life for me. I wish this were all unnecessary... I--"

Legolas stroked his cheek, causing him to fall silent. "It is not for you to decide. And for my part, I do not mind. What is to be won from this is far greater than I could have imagined."

"Yes, the Ring--"

"I was not speaking of the Ring, Frodo" Legolas said gently, savoring the comprehension lighting the Hobbit's face. "Don't think too much on it tonight, just rest and know that I'll be here. And when you wake, I will still be here. For as long as you have need of me."

For as long as you want me, he let the words hang, mayhap better left unspoken. The young Hobbit already had enough confusion burdening him without adding to it. There would be time later for softer issues and he was determined that there *would* be a later even if he had to crawl to Mordor and spit in Sauron's face to do it.

They had come so far in the space of a night but the road stretched before them, awash with terror and the unknown. Lothlorien loomed ahead, beckoning them on with the promise of sanctuary and respite even as Orcs and the forces of Saruman nipped at their heels. He found himself suddenly longing for the scent of oak and spruce, the sound of leaves whispering their secrets to those who would listen. Long had it been since he'd left Mirkwood and there were few places along the way to rival the Great Wood. Perhaps when this was over, he would take Frodo there, walk with him through dell and stream verdant and lush with spring. He could show his lover the dark places where few, save the Wood Elves walked and the deep glades hidden from view by the twistings of ancient trees. His people would offer the Hobbit a royal welcome, far better than they'd shown Bilbo in the past. He started to mention it when the near dead weight and faint snores told him that during his musings, Frodo had nodded off. Pressing a kiss to his head, Legolas lay back, hands strolling across the Ring-bearer's skin. �Tomorrow,� he thought, �I'll tell him tomorrow.�

End.

Tsuki no Ie

Prologue

Prologue

The Forest of Northern Mirkwood,
The year 2857 (in Third Age of Middle Earth)

The wind tasted harsh here, drier with a musty staleness that burned the back of the throat and eyes. It was dark, sunlight trickling in a slow ooze through the canopy of trees overhead, not strong enough to touch the forest floor but enough to illuminate the dimness. The atmosphere was hot and stifling, closing around the mouth and nose with an oppressive weight that threatened to steal the very breath from one's lungs. Save for the whirring chirrups of insects, it was still, the humidity rolling off in near visible waves, sticky and clinging with its touch.

Had he been mortal, perhaps the heat would have caused some discomfort, some sense of lethargy stealing up his limbs and making them heavy but he was not mortal and as such was spared such matters. Flattened against the branch of an ancient tree, Legolas Greenleaf, son of the King, peered around gnarling trunk, his bow and arrow notched, pointing earthward in repose. It would take little to rouse them, to put them to their proper use; a simple lift and stretch of his arms would cause the weapon to sing, slicing through the air with deadly intent. His eyes raked over the shadowy floor, picking out signs, bits of broken grass and tree limbs that all but the most experienced of trackers or Wood Elves, might have missed. He glanced back, jerking his head ahead in silent command before launching forward. Had he chanced another look behind him he would have been greeted by the sight of several elves clad as he was in dark grays and greens, detaching themselves from the cover of brush and wood, silent and deadly as they followed his lead.

Their mission was simple. Orcs had once again begun making their way north, infesting the borders of his father's land, destroying whatever settlement or group that crossed their path. A little over sixty years earlier, they had made war upon the Dwarves then attacked the Riders of Rohan, slaying King Walda, before being turned back at great cost. Since then, the creatures had increased in boldness, raiding the strongholds of Men and Elves alike up and down the region. They had returned to Mirkwood, infesting the outer edges of the great forest, evil following in their wake. Creatures that had not been seen in some time were now stirring, retaking paths that had been cleansed centuries earlier and making the heart of the forest once again a dangerous place to walk. The Wood Elves had been forced to withdraw their borders once more, security doubling almost overnight as rotating hunting parties were sent out and taken back in again. Loathe as his father had been to accept it, Legolas had insisted that he lead one of those parties, wanting a chance to take back his home and exterminate the accursed Orcs seeking to take it. Besides that, it would be unfair to ask others to suffer, to possibly die on his account without being allowed to share in the danger and so he went.

It was not difficult tracking Orcs, he acknowledged. The damn things were loud, caring little for secrecy and when they passed through an area, it was as if they took especial care to destroy as much of it as they could possibly manage. They desecrated everything they touched and it made his blood burn to bear witness to the destruction they wrought in his homeland. Where they went, trees were destroyed and animal carcasses littered the ground by the dozens or at least those that were not consumed by the fires they lit were. Raging fires had burned much of the southern end of the wood away, aggravated all the more by the unseasonably dry weather. Rain would have been welcome but the days dragged on with ever increasing temperatures and just enough wind to exacerbate those smoldering wrecks into flames again. Were they not stopped, it was altogether likely the Orcs would burn them out of Mirkwood before they drove the Elves out.

They could expect no help at present. Lothlorien was under a siege of its own and Imaldris had not the resources to mount an offensive. They might have made an alliance with Men but Gondor was too far away and Rohan was managing to hang on with the aid of the Dwarves and no self-respecting Elf would make an alliance with *them.* Men at least had a sense of honor and kinship that might be appealed to; all the Dwarves seemed to care about was how much deeper they could delve into the earth, making pretty trinkets of the rich minerals they ripped out of the ground.

Already they had been tracking this particular band of Orcs for almost two days without yet spying a glimpse of them. Somehow, they had managed to keep one step ahead and he liked that not. That they were able to outwit their Elven pursuers in their own homes did not bode well at all. Orcs were not renowned for their cleverness and Iluvatar help them if they gained in intelligence the way they multiplied in numbers. More than likely they had a clever leader, an Orc of some moderate intelligence who was seeking to slip in and out without being noticed.

He wanted only to find these creatures, either here or gone from the wood entirely. This part of the forest� He shivered, his pace slowing just a fraction. Never before had he ventured this deep into Mirkwood�s heart. The trees whispered legends of evil long dormant, sleeping but not gone. Old stories, ones used to frighten babes at the knee, rose in half snatches in the back of his mind. The forest was older than all of them, once stretching beyond its present boundaries and filled with beings here long before the Elves landed on these shores. The ground echoed with the memory of their footfalls even now, so long after they�d vanished into myth.

Long ago in his youth, Legolas had dreamed of those creatures, delighting in stories of the Ents and their wives, of horses bearing a horn of such purity that any who glimpsed them would be blessed all their days, of fair maidens who came ashore in the skins of seals, shucking them to find mates amongst humans and elves alike. His thoughts had been filled with them, imaging he saw the flit of movement amongst the brush and he too slow to catch more than a glimpse, eyes following his every move.

That feeling had returned without the pleasant connotations and naivete of youth. He picked through the thickets and trees, beset by the nasty sensation of being an alien in his own home. Before him the thick press of timber gave way into a small semi-circle, a grove to be precise. These trees were old, older than any he�d ever felt, tense with waiting, a tension that went down to the root and mixed with expectation. Their bark had paled with the years, more pewter-like than brown and into each one a symbol, some relic of a language he did not know, was carved. The largest of these giants dominated the center of the circle, its branches stretching across the intervening space, creating an artificial night. And just inside that open middle lay a small pit, crude and gray-black with the remnants of something once burned. An odd pungent smell, the smell of plant and something else hit his nose the closer in he drew. His bow lifted of its own accord, slowing his steps further. He felt rather than saw those behind him mirror the act, sensing their wariness and confusion as if it were his own.

Something was terribly wrong.

Eyes darting, he became aware of the how enclosed the space was; they were ringed in by a thick swath of tightly grown timber, with nary enough room for even one of them to slip through should they seek to. The only entrance and exit lay behind, a tiny door back to reality, back from this strange, half-frozen seeming place with its eyes and smells seeking to overwhelm the senses.

�We should go back,� he whispered, aware of the words only when they shattered the hush, almost profane in that breaking. He wasn�t the only one who felt it. His companions were nearly back to back with him, a defensive position entered into without thought. He thought to speak again, to break the spell of this place and urge them out but the waiting overtook him as it must have the trees and grass here so long ago. Now afflicted with it, he could do no more than stand, tarrying in silence as one turned to stone might.

Perhaps the wait was not long, perhaps it only mere minutes or seconds but the time stretched out before him, an endless wash that bore down upon his thoughts. The air around him ebbed and crested with rising intensity, thickening in an invisible fog clouding the glade, seeking to steal thought as it did movement.

And then the stillness splintered, a feeling of speed and lethal intent overtaking him before ears and eyes produce the corresponding sounds, seconds and seconds too late. There was cry behind him, clogged and startled, falling in time with the sound of a body hitting the ground. He pivoted, unable to do more than watch helplessly as one of his men lay collapsed, a red staining the ground from a newly formed wedge in his throat. His bow jerked from side to side, seeking, but too slow, always too slow as the atmosphere moved again, sharp slices of time stolen from him as blood spurted in his vision, not his own but belonging to the Elf nearest him. Legolas caught his arm, nearly dragged to the ground by the weight of a body already vacant of spirit and life, dripping flesh a testament to the violence of his death. The ground was crimson, a thin sea of life trickling away in puddles, soaking the leather of his shoes dark. There was something horribly fascinating about it, about the way the grass and dirt seemed to drink of the sticky fluid, the branches of the trees almost leaning towards them.

"Back, get back," he called to his companions, backing away. Loathe as he was to leave the fallen, they would all die unless he led them out of this danger. Better to return later, to barter on the chance that the corpses would remain undisturbed than to risk any more lives.

The very air seemed to be their enemy, a wind cutting through their ranks even as they sought to flee. Another and then another fell, elves he had known for centuries, some of them childhood friends and all he could do was watch numbly as the bodies fell, too sluggish to do anything to abate the wholesale slaughter. Feet and inches became miles and they fought for every inch of ground, arrows raining with useless abandon into thicket and tree, every thwocking hit another disappointment. He forced himself to go still, to tune out the shouts filling the air around him, closing all but his outermost senses as he sought with mind and instinct their assassin unseen. It was difficult to filter everything out -- the metallic keen of now screaming insects, the smothering press of trees against his thoughts, older than he, with an ominous caress. A heavy soaking of scarlet steamed, blood and earth burning with an unseen fire, a raw visceral aftertaste flooding over him. Above it all, was an urgent hunger, a force that had not been seen or reckoned with in his memory, harking back to every nightmare he'd ever had. He concentrated on the hunger, on the way it shifted and shimmered around him, the head of his arrow tracing the air, hands adjusting of their own volition. His movements darted back and forth, no doubt aimless to an outside observer but he kept up, seeing nothing but sensing a deeper evil than any he had yet met; far worse than the simple brutality of the Orcs or the unfettered chaos of a goblin army. This -- this thing did not just enjoy the pain it caused, it appeared to crave it, to need it as much as the lives it took.

"Highness!"

Legolas nearly turned around at the panic-stricken note in his retainer's voice, almost losing that monstrous thread. He had to find it, had to at least try and stop this creature before it stopped playing and had done with them. But that did not mean that anyone else had to stay and possibly die here with him.

"Get out of here," he barked. "Find my father and tell him --"

The haze thickened and for a moment, he could almost see--a distended face, the skin the gray brown of withered bark, spiking hair askew as maddened red eyes flickered. The image came to him in less than a second then shot forward. His fingers twitched to life, releasing the taunt string, rewarded with a shrill wail as it hit home. There was no time to enjoy the victory as sharp claws reached him, shredding and tearing as he was pushed to the ground. He fought, hands waving around as he tried to catch hands there one second and moved elsewhere the next, pain alighting with every cut and tear. Then razor teeth clamped onto his neck, resistant flesh giving way and coupled with the sensation of blood being pulled, fast, away from his body was enough to send him over the edge into the blackness feathering the edge of his consciousness.

***

'Pretty. So pretty.' The words were accompanied by the rough sweep of hands smoothing over his brow and nose.

It wasn't that the touches were harsh; by all rights, they should have been pleasurable but the fingertips caressing him were leathery, scratchy like tree bark left in the sun too long. They cut and raked even without meaning to do so. There was something wrong about this, something wrong about the way the words stirred around his ears and skin without the accompaniment of breath ghosting across him. Something amiss too, in the weakness he felt, not entirely satiation, limbs filled with a languor almost painful. It would take little to let himself slip away again, into the embrace of sleep hovering so tantalizingly along bone and flesh and nerve. He might have done so had not the brunt of a kiss unlooked for attached itself to his mouth with dry insistence. Legolas groaned, willing himself to find some strength to turn away, his lips bruising, cracks of searing sensation telling him that his lower lip was already split, blood welling in the wounds. As if to add insult to injury, a tongue, sandpapery and cold, lapped and brazed those wounds, aggravating his discomfort as it caused his battered lower lip to split further.

Wanderings hands moved upward, leaving swatches of raw flesh before they wove into his hair, twirling locks around long, knotted fingers. For some reason, his hair seemed to hold some fascination for his assailant, weaving through and undoing braids until his tresses were unmarred by any hint of tangle.

'Like sunlight.' Wonder colored the words, suffusing them with the warmth denied by physical touch. 'Light without burning.'

The words made no sense, not juxtaposed with the rest of his situation and he struggled to hang onto awareness, needing to solve this mystery before he dropped his guard so again. Sparks of color swam before his eyes and he realized for the first time they were closed, barred to whatever information might have been provided to them otherwise. The skin around his eyes felt like lead and it was a battle even trying to begin the act of cracking his lids. The weight stretched alongside his body stiffened, that subtle in-between state of moving and not.

'Don't.' Came the whisper. Again, something about this bothered him but he could not understand what that might be. Yet.

Marshalling what strength he could find, he concentrated, sought to find a connection to the rest of his body that wasn't clouded and heavy. He was freezing but a fine sweat broke out along his body as he pushed his eyes open. Darkness met his gaze but of a different sort; this dark was mottled with hints of dark color, hues that might have once been light but were now submerged and muted to grays and dark browns. A branch was just above his head, hanging low with a stringy moss, glowing with emerald phosphorescence. The world was a drowned one, devoid of sound and tint, the air thick and humid, a warm shroud of uncirculating air. A rich coppery aroma surrounded him, salting tree and ground and everything else it touched. He stared uncomprehending, taking stock of his situation, of the fact that he appeared to be on his back, the night sky peering down at him in glimpses from a ring of tightly bound trees surrounding him. He forced himself to sit up, a cry of anguish escaping his lips as the action jarred his damaged body. Lungs sucked in air, muscles spasmed and he caught himself against the trunk of a nearby tree, fearing that he would hurt himself anew should he fall. His stomach roiled and churned, giving him a split second warning before it erupted and he retched. One hand gripping the ground, Legolas sought to control himself, to stop the heaves leaving him further weakened. It was then he noticed his arm, the skin chalky in the mottled darkness but wet with strings of cuts and rips, the flesh shredded in neat furrows. His chest and abdomen were in a similar situation, slow bleeding wounds marring once perfect skin, threads of his tunic stiff and sticking to each cut. 'What�What..?'

And then he remembered. The grove, the blood, and his own helplessness. Had anyone else survived? A glance told him that he was alone which did nothing to ease the pit in his stomach. Memory was almost enough to make him vomit again but he pushed himself backward, hunkering down until he was small and almost hidden by one of the fingers of a tree trunk, ignoring the way it tore his skin anew. He was only half-aware of his actions, obeying an instinctual impulse that shouted over and over, 'Hide. Now.' Beyond that, it was all he could do to focus on anything else save the pain. Curling in on himself, he burrowed deeper, the damp earth silky against his face and tattered arms. He was colder than he could ever remember being. Not even the snowy heights of the Misty Mountains had ever laid him so low and miserable. 'Blood loss,' his mind managed. He was cold because he had been, was, losing too much blood. If he lay here, he would bleed to death and not even his immortality would protect him from that. Elves were no more invulnerable than humans to injury on that account. There were healers at court, in the halls of his father and if he could find his way back, they could heal him. He had to get up, find his way out of this place before there was no hope of leaving at all.

'There is no hope. You're dying, my pretty Elfling.'

Semi-lucid, Legolas again heard the voice, realizing that it was not his ears that listened but rather the words were being spoken directly to his mind. He lifted his head, ignoring the wave of nausea that engendered and peered out of his half-dug hole. There was nothing but trees and bush and�and� No, that wasn't quite right. There was something else; he could feel its presence without seeing, feel the edge of its malevolence and madness, sharp as his wounds.

"Who are you?" His voice was hoarse, not even a shout though it felt as if had thrown all of his strength into that one question. His head throbbed, light-headed and undone by another wave of sickness that caused him to turn his head a fraction, disgusted as his stomach heaved.

'Your skin is so white.' The voice meditated. 'Like bones, the kind I used to eat at sacrifice. If I couldn't smell your heart beating, I might have thought you dead already.'

"I--" His voice failed him and his forehead lay against the ground, with not even enough in him to care that he was lying just inches from his own vomit. 'I don't understand,' he thought.

Movement. The trees seemed to swish and a shadow lay across them, spreading towards him, spilled ink across a macabre tablet. He tensed but was unable to do much more than that. The tree above him creaked, the sound of weight setting on the exposed root just above him.

'She was my sister once, long before your people came. There were so many of us then and the forest was alive. So very alive and we lived with the seasons. Sleeping in winter and dancing through spring and summer evenings.' The nostalgic yearning deepened, turning harsh. 'And then the Elves came and woke evil in the forest. Came with axe and tool, destroying Yavanna's chosen.'

He flinched, the anger rolling across his thoughts overpowering. The air stirred as an arm swung underneath, catching him by his hair and dragging him out. Agonized tears spilled over his cheeks as he tried to wriggle back, the only thing that accomplished was to jar his injuries and cause his eyes to drip anew. There was a sound of mental impatience and he found himself lifted upward, place into the crook of a sinewy arm as if he were no more than a babe. A not so gentle hand patted his head, causing a responding ache to flare in his right temple.

'If you don't stop struggling.' The thought was measured now, still coldly furious. 'I'll kill you now and have done with it.'

He stilled, blinking away at the hot liquid scalding his eyes, already weary and aching. He could slip away, could just let his mind go and retreat to a place where this hurtful reality couldn't intrude. To do so would mean giving up and Legolas had never turned from any battle in his life. Besides�besides that, he was curious. He wanted to know -- where he was and what this thing was and why? Above all, he wanted to know why.

When his vision cleared, he found himself blinking yet again, this time in horrified uncertainty, a face right out of his storybooks glaring back, almost blending in with the tree upon which they sat. Its features were delicate but with a rough-hewn edge to its ash skin made it�her� seem harder, stripped as the bones of the earth. There was an autumn contained in her hair, the swirl of red and gold leaves with the faintest edge of green around the tips. Her arms were twisted and knotted in ways no human or elf might achieve and not be in pain but on her it was natural. She was larger than he was, probably taller, too from the looks of things. Not quite as large as the trees surrounding them but certainly bigger than any Elf or human he'd ever seen.

There had been tales of such beings for as long as he could remember both in human and elven myth, stories of women who lived in trees and were of the trees. Old folklore attributed the rustlings of the wind to their voices, weeping with the approach of a storm or the blissful balm of spring zephyrs. In some stories, they were trapped or carried off, forced into marriage although he had yet to meet the groom of such fantastic tales. Other stories spoke of their withdrawal from the world, a sleep laid upon them by Yavanna who in her infinite mercy had made them insensible to the changes of the world, a world they no longer had a place in. Yet their ghosts remained, firmly trapped in the minds of both mortals and immortals, often spoken of as unparalleled beauties, beauty that proved their bane and downfall. It was men who named them first, the Elves for once adopting a human term because there was nothing in Elvish that came as close to describing these tree maidens.

Dryad.

Never in any of the stories, however, had there been any mention of blood. The dryads of legend were creatures of light, delighting in the wood and protectors of trees. There was none of that in the face of this one, only a sickening corruption that threatened to engulf him with a flick of her mahogany eyes.

"Who," he paused, licking his lips, "are you?"

'I have no name. Not as you would understand it. To those who once worshipped me I was the changing of the seasons, the giver of life and death. Now I have not even that.'

The thought was tinged with an underlying sadness, a softer core beneath the hard edges and it confused him. He did not understand this, not any of it. Didn't understand how such a creature as this could exist, inflicting death and pain upon those that chanced across it and not be known to his people.

'Because there are some secrets that even your father does not know. Secrets that not even the Wise will speak of.'

He tried to digest this, even as his head swam. "Why�why did you attack? We did you no harm."

'Indeed? It was the Elves who drove my people back, who slaughtered without thought, laying low my sisters and their trees. The Elves who in their unthinking arrogance awoke evil in the wood and murdered those who might have held it at bay.'

"No," his throat burned and he swallowed hard, near choking on bile and the ring of truth. "We would not have� We--"

'You did.' The thought had almost a hiss to it. ' It was your people who brought the Orcs to these woods, your people who delved deep in the earth and wood of the Great Forest, awakening those things that should have been left. Those of us who remained were not enough. We could not fight both the Elves and the foulness of Mordor. And so we died, bit by bit, either by axe or through grief.'

"But you remain."

Her grip on his face tightened, sharp fingers scoring his temple and cheek. It was all he could do not to scream aloud. 'I've been alone� So long. Not even the least of my sisters will speak to me now. The trees turn away and their horror is mine. I am cursed. Cursed above all creatures in my sight, forced to live on the blood of others to retain my strength, my existence. Neither living nor dead, a ghoul and ghost with no hope of peace.

Men worshipped me once, brought me offerings so that I might not hunt them. I bred them as though they were sheep, forcing them to choose amongst themselves my offering.' Her face twisted. 'And then the Elves of Finarfin came, a terrible queen and her brother and they forced me back. Flaunting their arrogance, they wounded me and stole what was mine just as your kind stole my home and family.'

'I hate you, as I hate all of your kind.'

He gave up on using his voice. It wrenched to speak with and this rage was something that stole breath. 'I'm sorry--'

The hand tracing small rends into his flesh, found its way around his throat, almost throttling as it lifted him so that he was face to face with the creature. 'Speak that way again and I might yet kill you, youngling. I do not desire your pity or tender sensibilities. I have been wronged. Do you understand that? Your life would be a paltry reward for what I have suffered.'

'I would like nothing better than to kill you, as I have done with others of your kind.' Then she seemed to calm, petting him as if he were one of his father's obedient hounds. 'No. No, I think there is a better use for you. Were I to kill you, I would gain nothing but if I destroyed you� Perhaps there would be an amends in that.'

He found himself lifted into an embrace, face resting against her shoulder and neck as she stroked the hair away from his face and neck, exposing both to the night air, to the rough caress of her face rubbing along the skin there.

'I was never granted a choice, you know. The creature that remade me, that laid this evil upon me took my body for his pleasure and then set this disease upon me. He wanted a slave.' Her voice became reflective, almost filled with a quiet pride. 'He did not count on me awaking before he did. I was eating his heart before he was even aware of it.'

He couldn't stop himself then, the image flittering across his mind, seeing her hunched over another body, blood smeared over her face and hands and he threw up. She held him, his chin hanging over her shoulder, hot sickness spilling down her skin. This did not seem to phase her, even earned him a few comforting croons as a mother might make to a disturbed child.

'What will your father think, I wonder, when I leave him this precious gift?' His eyes widened, his brain picking out for the first time just what she had in mind. 'Will he kill you or will he try to save you?'

Her lips touched his ear and though she never spoke aloud, the words were clear in his mind. 'If he is kind, you will never know the outcome of this.'

There was no struggle, no frantic pushing away only the weight of inevitability as she struck, her teeth gripping hard and fast to his exposed flesh, veins and skin melting away beneath that pull. He heard ragged moans, hoarse sounds filled with pleasure and despair and knew they were his own. He tried to bunch his fists but all he succeeded in was gripping harder, holding her closer to him despite his revulsion and loathing. He hated, hated her, hated himself for this weakness but he yearned for it, wanton as his head lifted upward taking in the scent of leaves, the ghost of her hair tickling him. In his mind, he glimpsed the sun, the sparkle of light diffused through tree limbs, a thousand days of warmth taken for granted, the memory flaring unbearably bright as the cold seeped in, freezing his bones, stealing away even the comfort of that memory. Nebulous, the shadow grew in his mind, slipping over his body with the semblance of waking sleep. The sun was setting, the light going out and he was pulled away in a tide that held nothing but empty desire and hunger.

The feeding went on for so long, veins threading fire beneath her pull but it was not long enough. His body wanted more, aroused and responding without will. Was this death then? A terrible fight, struggles against a siren pull greater than any he had ever known? Was this the hell that mortals feared, a long fall into an abyss, betrayed by body and will.

His heart had slowed, he could hear each labored thud in his ears, the trickle of what little blood remained in him, slow and thin. She pulled away, rivulets of fluid and gore painting her mouth and chin, as black as the sky in the absence of light. Again, she kissed him, not even evoking a sick response as he tasted his lifeblood upon her lips and tongue. Strangely enough, this gesture was not hurtful as the other had been, but tender, coaxing him as she shared a taste with him.

He would die now. Legolas prayed for that, prayed for the mercy that had not been forthcoming. Better to die now than to live in exile, a monster that lived through the death of others. Better to die than never enjoy the sunlight in the trees again.

He was denied even this comfort as she put her talons to her throat, ripping away at a vein, the warmth of his blood pouring back onto his face. He strove to turn away and she made a sound of annoyance, taking him by the jaw, forcing his mouth to both open and stay open as salty liquid slid down his throat. His tears returned, more shed now than ever before in his life and he shuddered, drinking of what she offered, a fluttering of craving awakening in the pit of his stomach. He would take just enough to gain his strength, to thrust himself away and slay them both. The litany repeated itself but all it achieved was the lifting of his hands to grapple her closer, his body betraying its fear that she would pull away. He knew her now, understood the madness singing through her polluted blood, a sickness that now contaminated him bit by bit. Her mind was open to him now, a circuit of blood and thought tangling together and her life was his life. Her mind was fractured, a pendulum swing between sanity and madness wrought by the passage of time and unlife she had been forced into. Her hatred became his for a flickering and he walked paths forgotten with her, back before even his people had reached the shores of Middle Earth, airy laughter ringing in his ears. The forest was different then, more primal, life a simple passage of days without the promise of an end. Then the intruders came, and he recoiled at the scorch of fires raging through the wood, his sisters' screams of agony as they were burned alive or worse still, the slow hacking of an axe, their bodies harvested unknowingly, to become shelter or furniture. Simplicity slipped away and there was only death and the fear of that death, knowing that there was nothing that would save them, unable to leave tree and life. No voice, no way to beg or plead for their lives. Evil crept into the wood, the earth shuddering at its approach and then� The white one, the dead one came, surprising her, taking her down before she could find the protection of her tree. Dead and cold, he toyed with her, seeming to delight as much in her terror and anguish as in the blood. He shared her exultation at his death, devouring first heart then the rest of him, just as she would victims to come�

And through it all, through the maelstrom of thought and lust, a name rose out of the depths, gray with time and disuse. Limladras.

She yanked him away, flinging him to the ground breaking the circuit, silencing the images and voices chasing themselves around his brain. He doubled up, curling around himself as the hunger wracking his body rapidly transformed into something else. The blood filling his stomach turned molten, setting vein and muscles and flesh afire, a cold burn that wrung agonized screams from him. His body seemed to bubble, eaten alive by thousands of worms crawling and slithering beneath his skin.

Death was a welcome relief.

TBC