Legolas, walking beside Gandalf at the head of the Fellowship, raised a hand, and the rest dutifully halted. The Elf needed say nothing, only execute that single sweep of limb, the move they all knew so well. Too well, now.

There were Orcs everywhere in this region. They snarled and flowed, viscous black, over Middle Earth; they polluted her with their twisted forms, their hideous cries. They insulted her, mocked her, snuffled over her curves, oblivious. Oblivious to her loathing for them and the way she shrank, flowers wilting ever so slightly, breezes darkening, growing colder, in their presence. They snuffled and scraped at her, and she, repulsed but with no escape, flinched instinctively, and cursed them under her grassy breath.

The Fellowship halted, changed course, moved from open territory into cover. They had clung to the tree line for days, wary of the open spaces and those roving Orcs; now they took to the forest despite its darkness and the threats it might also hold. They hacked through brush thick as flies on a corpse; they gazed back to where the trees thinned, where the open spaces lay, and they watched the Orcs pass by, unaware. They found a path, then, and took it, knowing only that it led deeper into the wood.

Aragorn advanced to walk just behind Legolas and Gandalf. "The Orc bands grow more in number with each day," he stated. "It is as though we move into their territory, yet I know not of this region belonging to them. What say you?"

Gandalf shook his head. "I know not, as you, Aragorn. It is inexplicable that the foul creatures should clog this region so. And grow more numerous, as you have said." He eyed the trees, uneasy. "I believe you are right, however, in that we move deeper into their lands."

"We should know why." Legolas had remained silent to this point; now, he glanced from Wizard to Ranger, tilted his head as he listened for sounds beyond the range of their hearing. "We should send a single scout, one who could slip quietly into the depths of these Orcs' forces and discover what brings so many of them here. I would be the obvious choice."

"Nay, Legolas," Aragorn replied, cutting Gandalf's intended reply short with a raised hand of his own. "There is no reason to investigate these creatures. And we are certainly not going to send you into their midst alone."

"Aragorn, there could be some reason they gather here! Such a mission might-"

"Might get you killed." Gandalf, it was, who managed to speak first this time. Aragorn nodded at his words. "Legolas," the Wizard continued, "this conversation is over, as of now. There will be no further thought of such folly. Do you understand?"

Legolas sighed, but nodded. "Aye. I shan't mention it again." Then he moved off, just slightly, ears trained into the deepening trees.

Gandalf nodded in the Elf's direction as Aragorn stepped forward to walk beside him. "He is reckless with his own life, you know."

"Aye," Aragorn sighed. "Despite his skill in battle, he has much to learn about which battles are indeed worth fighting, and which ones should be left."

"Indeed. I have lost count how many times he has leaped heedless into peril, and I have also lost count of the sleepless nights I owe to him."

Aragorn chuckled. "I understand all too well, Gandalf. Legolas has caused me more than one restless night, and will likely cause me more."

So they continued, down paths that wound, arterial, through the forest, and sought a clearing - any break in the trees that would allow for camp - as night welled.

And they found that which they sought, trudged into what seemed merely a hesitation between trees. The earth was black, rich below their feet. Damp. The treetops crowded above, jostling one another as though regretting that space they had left, resenting any intrusion into it and mindful to hide it from the sun and the moon and the watching stars. And in it, the Fellowship settled, laying down heavy packs, laying down cloaks for use as blankets, building a poor fire that sputtered and choked and did little to warm bones thin from chill. They ate, muted; there were no tales, no adventures related by firelight. They lay down, Boromir pacing out his watch just inside the resumption of trees. They slept, uneasy but exhausted.

Legolas, singly, lay awake. His eyes sought the stars but could see none through towering evergreen limbs. His mind reached out, out into the trees, questioning. What brought the Orcs so to these lands? Why did they gather, and why so blatantly? Never had he seen Orcs in such number, or so willing to traverse open spaces when light still shone down over them. Orcs were timid, cowardly beasts, and the boldness of these Orcs disturbed the Elf. He listened for them even as he knew Boromir listened, even as he heard the Man treading gentle through the wood about their camp.

This was folly. Gandalf had deemed his suggestion foolish, but the true meaning and measure of a fool was in one who did not act, who did not ask questions and seek answers when confronted with such strangeness. It was pure folly to continue this journey whilst knowing naught of the obstacles and dangers before them. And Legolas was no fool, had never been a fool.

He listened, waiting now, the decision resting uneasy at first in his limbs, more still in his loyal heart. His faith was with Aragorn, with Gandalf, with the rest of the Fellowship, and that faith was not one meant to be broken. But even as he avowed and affirmed his loyalty not only to their cause but to their wisdom and the judgements they made, even as he knew he respected their leadership and would never betray such, his limbs moved. Boromir was on the other side of the camp, stepping lightly. This was the time to slip out and be gone, be off to seek answers before any could raise a hand and bid him halt. His limbs moved, curled; his body rose.

He was on his feet, breath measured and light, listening. He was moving, gone.

Nay - he would not do it. He would not break faith with those who owned his heart, who he respected beyond the small reach of words. Beyond reason, if unknown to him, into the surge in his breast where pride and love and loyalty's fathomless realms mingled, remained.

Nay. He would die before dismissing - dishonoring - that faith.

Forty paces - perhaps forty paces - into the forest, night a silk-and-velvet cloak thick about him, he halted. Remained. The decision had seemed so right back in the camp's slumbering peace; now, Legolas turned from it in distaste. It was folly, if not for the reasons Gandalf had laid before him, then for its deceptive slinking nature and the fear it would spark in those eight hearts. He turned, back toward his Fellowship, wanting only to regain their keep. He turned -- and heard that which he had not heard before. That which had not been there before. A disturbance, leaching its way through foliage, scraping over the protesting earth. No silent woodland creature, benign in its nightly search for food, this was. No creation of nature.

Orcs. The scent of them was sudden and heavy in the damp air, death wafting. They surrounded him (how had they managed to surround him?), immediately behind him as well as before. Too close - `twas as though Middle Earth herself had turned and harbored their evil, carried them in her cool belly, birthed them black and viscous into the night. They snuffled over her yielding ground; they surrounded the lone Elf with their darkness.

And they sensed him, as he (too late) had sensed them, and they flowed in on him swifter than night's shadows, swifter than even a Wood Elf could take to the trees in flight.

***************************************************************

Hours had passed. Perhaps moments. Legolas woke to pain binding his muscles, shooting arrows into his joints. He opened his eyes, cautious, cognizant already of restraints tight about his wrists, his arms pulled straight, straight over his head. It was dark - he was in darkness that shamed even the forest's yawning black, and he was in chains.

A cave, dank and stifling. Its maw gaped only paces away, but no light entered. The jagged aperture, barely visible to even an Elf's keen eyes, was covered over by heavy brush. How accurate had his flash of confused speculation been: the Orcs had indeed hidden themselves within the earth, had erupted forth in purulent streams, had been nothing and then something and then upon him, too fast for him to flee.

Snuffling approached from the cavern's depths, and Legolas struggled up to a crouch. His back pressed against the unforgiving chill of stone; his shoulders were twin screams as he shifted pressure off them. His hands tingling echoes, like the memories of lost limbs. The chains muttered in their metallic tongue.

Three Orcs, hideous, twisted. They scraped over the cavern floor, swung graceless toward their prize, smiling. What should have been smiles, mummified lips stretched thin over broken shards of black tooth. Their eyes glittered.

One of them muttered to its companions, and a fierce exchange commenced. Legolas watched, silent as one already broken, still and limp, passive. He knew not what they discussed. He knew they
discussed him. When the guttural gibberish ended, all three moved toward him, one foul intent. He caught his shuddering breath, steeled sore muscles, and swore - vowed - in his heart that they would not take him for their plaything, would not take him before he could kill them, or die in the attempt.

The chains clinked again: one of the creatures was unfastening the shackles from Legolas' wrists. Its fellows loomed, ready, smiling. They were waiting, waiting for the Elf's hands to be free, the Elf's body freed from that cold stone, that they might drag him down to the dark earth and use him as they pleased. The chains fell silent, and Legolas' shoulders screamed once more as his arms fell. The Orcs were upon him, but he was no longer passive, no longer silent.

He screamed in concert with the agony of his limbs, seized the pain and turned it to rage within. It fuelled him, charged him as he threw himself physically into the largest beast, took it to the earth and swung on it with fists still numb. The others were on him, dragging him down, and he wrenched himself back, back off the first and into them, the beasts falling under their prize.

Legolas twisted his body round, kicked out with one leg and caught the first as it rose. He drove his fist into the snarling face of one under him, uttered his own snarl of dark satisfaction as it fell silent. He pushed himself up, used the third to gain his feet. Rounded again on the first, the largest, as it rose a second time.

And that was all he needed, for the three to fall, to sprawl over the cave's dark floor and take but a few heartbeats to rise again. He was running, throwing himself headlong through the cave's jagged maw, through that concealing brush, out. Out, into the familiar night.

He was gone.

****************************************************************

Night trailed off, uncertain about the wisdom of leaving just yet, but dawn was patient, encouraging, and night moved on to other lands. Dawn, gentle and yielding, lived her short life before the advent of day, and then a hard light dropped down over the earth.

Legolas moved constantly, uncertain though he was of the Fellowship's location. He had been taken from the immediate vicinity of camp, but the cave he had exited had been nowhere near that small settlement. The Orcs had transported him some good distance; now, he used the rising sun to guide him, and prayed silently that his comrades had not met his fate.

His body still ached, his shoulders stiff, his legs leaden from hours of flight, but when he looked at his wrists he could see no sign of the chains that had mere hours before cut into his pale skin. Elves were fast healers, and already Legolas had mended - the injuries from his ordeal fading like a night mist under the sun.

The physical injuries, at least. Shaking off a wave of chill that had nothing to do with the damp air, Legolas tried to shake off also the sensation of those clawed hands on him, pushing him toward the damp earth. Their cold eyes, glittering as they looked upon him. Their twisted smiles. They were gone, now, yet still they clung to Legolas' skin, echoed in his ears. And when he let himself see them, built out of the shadows beneath trees; when he let himself hear them in the muted guttural speech of air moving through dry grass, then he lost himself in their clutches, and he shivered. He was not cold.

Ahead, through clinging underbrush, he spied the trail they had taken the previous night, followed it. Once he reached their campsite, even if they were gone already, he could track them. Perhaps they were attempting to track him even as this sun arced up along her chosen path.

Aye! They had not decamped, had not moved on with the journey while missing their Elf. Legolas could hear muted voices, and he covered the remaining distance at a joyous run.

Gandalf was at the centre, the warriors around him; the Wizard was marking upon the earth with a stick. The others nodded. Further, huddled together, the Hobbits watched. Legolas did not draw up, ran straight into their midst.

"Legolas!" Gandalf dropped his stick. "Where have you been? We discovered your absence this dawn, and have been choosing a search area!"

"I was taken!" Legolas exclaimed. His long silent flight was done; now he poured forth the story like an excited child relating a strange adventure. "There are Orcs about here, and close. They took me to a cave…and chained me there. I managed to escape, and made my way back to you."

Aragorn stepped forward, ran his eyes over Legolas. "Are you injured?"

"Nay, Aragorn. I have healed completely."

"Apparently so." The Ranger met his gaze, held it. "We believed you to have gone off in pursuit of the plan you so ardently defended last day."

Legolas shivered again, suddenly, as he remembered his eagerness to be off after those Orcs, and he caught a sudden widening of Aragorn's eyes as he lowered his own, remembering. But the tale was too important to wait. "There is not the time to waste now with discussion. Orcs have caves throughout this region, to be sure. They were able to take me unawares, likely after concealing themselves within such a place. We may not be safe here."

"Indeed."

"Aye. They have numbers here, perhaps, that we have not even suspected."

Aragorn did not reply to that. Instead, "I had believed your acquiescence yesterday, when we forbade your plan, came too easily."

~What?~ "Aragorn, you must listen to me about the threat!"

"I am listening to you, Legolas." Aragorn stood, impassive.

He was sinking then, mired in the surreal treachery of nightmare, and Legolas stared back at Aragorn. The Ranger's eyes glittered, not with the malice of those Orcs (and Legolas could hear their foul mutterings, and trembled again under Aragorn`s scrutiny), but with a cold fire of their own. Legolas could not suppress the shudders that claimed him, speaking to fatigue and shock, and now to growing disbelief.

~Elbereth,~ his mind whispered, canting dangerously. ~He does not believe me….~

****************************************************************

Aragorn shook his head slowly at Legolas. "I never would have believed this day to come," he said, quietly. "You have always been impetuous, Legolas, and I understand that it is your youth, your passionate desire to heal Middle Earth's ails." He stepped closer to the silent Elf. "For you to disregard an order is enough, but to lie about it afterward?"

"Aragorn - I am not -"

"Hush, Elf! I do not wish to hear it. You disappear from camp, return with nary a scratch on you and proceed to weave a tale of capture by Orc. And the whole while you are telling this tale, your eyes are downcast, as though unable to look upon us. You claim to be fully healed, yet you tremble with each detail you relate, as though you cannot yourself abide the words. We have, initially upon realizing you gone, stepped forth from this camp to assure ourselves that you were not merely heeding nature's call, or seeking a solitary walk. But we have found no trace of Orc nearby."

Legolas felt as though he were drowning, being sucked down by the pull of Aragorn's suspicions, and he cast his eyes over the rest of the Fellowship, seeking support.

He found none. Seven other faces, at first sight of him so happy, now darkened with suspicion of their own. It was unbelievable, unthinkable, and Legolas could not form a reply, could do nothing but stand and stare back at them. His shoulders tingled, and he felt the beasts upon him, dragging him down to the earth, smiling. Their plaything falling under them. His friends, his Fellowship, thought him a liar, and he let himself fall into memory, sweet ugly confirming memory of that dank cave, the foul intent.

Aragorn had moved from sadness to anger while Legolas gazed at the earth, silent. He strode to him and seized one slender arm, noting its lack of injury, lack of anything but a few smudges of dirt. He could not, still, comprehend a reason for this deceit, but it did not truly matter.

At the touch, something awakened in Legolas, and he twisted out of the Man's grasp. The Orcs had grabbed him; they had seized him like that -

"Legolas!" Aragorn's voice was a razor, flashing in what early sun pierced their small clearing. "You will not fight me!" He reached out, seized Legolas again. The Elf appeared near panic, undoubtedly as full realization of his transgression and the anger it had aroused struck home. But he could not allow such transparent deception to remain, a shroud over their friendship, between them. He turned and nodded to Gandalf, who quietly ushered the others to their as yet unattended morning tasks, and he dragged Legolas from the clearing.

This was not real. This was surely not real, and Aragorn's hand was not a painful vise on his wrist, a vise as brutal as the chains. He was not being half dragged into the forest, away from the camp to which he had fought to return. Legolas could think of no coherent words to say, nothing that would convince an angry and disbelieving Aragorn to stop, to listen to him, to accept his story as real. He wanted to weep, to scream. Estel was one of his oldest, dearest friends; he was family as well. Estel the honourable, the noble, one of those who owned his heart. Estel thought him a liar, and was angry and hurt and disappointed and dragging him into the woods. It could not be!

Aragorn dragged Legolas down the trail they had taken, out of earshot of their fellows. This did not have to be done in front of all, to humiliate the Elf further than would he already be. Nay, it did not have to be done that way - but it had to be done. He drew up, halted, when they came upon a suitably flat rock, and he released his grip on Legolas' wrist. "Do not move," he warned, then drew his hunting knife and strode to a nearby birch, seeking.

Legolas watched, fingers gingerly massaging his sore wrist, as Aragorn moved with purpose to a birch tree, studied it a moment. When the Ranger cut a thin branch and started back toward him, he felt the full weight of realization sink in, cold stone sinking in his belly. Cold stone like the wall of the cave, unforgiving at his back while the Orcs snuffled near. He wanted only to run, to press his tired legs back into flight and run.

But he had already returned to his companions, his home. There was nowhere else for him to go.

Back at the rock, Aragorn seated himself on it, then grabbed Legolas' wrist again and without preamble pulled the Elf over his knees. There was no resistance offered, no further excuse: perhaps Legolas realized now his sin, and knew why this was necessary. Drawing garments out of the way, he bared Legolas' backside, placed a hand firmly in the small of his back to keep him still, then raised the birch and brought it down.

Legolas could not help himself under the growing pain, and began to fight. His efforts, increasingly desperate though they were, brought him no release, however, for Aragorn was strong and using the force of anger against him. He was trapped there, the Man master to his fate, and he cried out, keening in agony not only from the fire in his backside but the cold heavy ache in his soul. Estel wanted to hurt him terribly, wanted to make him suffer, and that knowledge clawed at him. But there were still Orcs, still likely Orcs, and likely nearby, and Legolas knew he could not cry out like that again. He brought his hand up, bit down on his knuckles as the birch fell, over and over, and silent tears flowed from eyes he squeezed shut. There was nothing in this world he wanted to see.

Silent, regret and sadness tainting his resolve, Aragorn counted out twenty strokes. Apart from one heartrending cry, Legolas took it in silence of his own. That silence was almost harder to bear than would have been the sounds of his sorrow. When it was finally over, he threw the birch into the underbrush, and replaced Legolas' clothing as gently as he could, wincing himself at the angry wheals he had left across the Elf's slender rear.

It was over, at last. Legolas tasted metal, cloying and a touch sweet. Blood - he had bitten through the skin of his knuckles. Shuddering more violently now, he tried to assist Aragorn in getting him to his feet, only to find his legs weak. He sank to his knees on the dark earth, tears still flowing, breath quick and useless in him as he hyperventilated. He could feel Aragorn at his side, holding him by shoulders that still claimed they had once been wrenched painfully by Orc chains, murmuring to him in Elvish. He halted his own breathing by sheer force of will, struggled to collect himself. There were still Orcs nearby.

There was still danger, and he had to move his companions from this polluted realm.

****************************************************************

They followed the path as long as it wound, arterial, through stands of trees that had borne ancient starlight for millennia; they trudged, then, through tangled foliage, over carpeting of dead growth.

Legolas remained silent, subdued after the punishment. The others had all forgiven him, upon his return to the camp, and it was over. But he still ached without and within, and grieved that which he had never thought he would lose. He studied Aragorn, striding just ahead, and wondered if the future would ever allow a rebirth of trust between them. He still trusted the Man. He needed the Man to trust him.

They passed beneath two leaning trees, the shadows between them deep and Orc-like, and Legolas felt his breath hitch, catch in his throat. Elbereth! This was the place! The cave - the cave was near. His eyes scanned the area, probing.

Aye - there. Thick concealing brush, nestled against a rocky growth. Without warning, without thinking, Legolas stepped to it, ears trained into the depths he knew that brush belied. He heard nothing. No snuffling, scraping, muttering Orcs. No threat here, in the place where threat had brought him, had tried to take him for a plaything on the dank ground.

"Legolas! What are you doing?" Aragorn and Gandalf both rushed to follow the Elf as he darted from their midst.

But Legolas did not answer them, not with words. Soundless, still listening, he shoved the brush aside to reveal the cave's dark gape. (He had run from here, run from the evil here) He stepped inside, into the place where his shudders were born.

Aragorn followed Legolas into the cave, saw the Elf tremble with renewed force. Circumspect, the rest of the Fellowship followed them in. There, on the dark floor, were etched the unmistakable signs of battle, of struggle. Aragorn stood, studied them, and a cold formless dread started to rise in his belly.

Legolas did not look to the floor, though, did not look to the Fellowship. He stood apart, just a shade apart, alone, and studied the unforgiving stone wall. The cold stone against which he had pressed his back, shoulders protesting movement. There. He had almost lost it, almost. Almost let it be forgotten, convinced into the realm of the unreal, of the lies he had told (he was lying about the Orcs, was he not?). But there it was, hanging. A shroud over the lies. He sensed Aragorn move to his side, then Gandalf, then the rest. There - before them. Chain, hanging from the stone wall. Hanging, its length coated with dried blood.

~Nay….Nay, it could not be. It could not be.~ Aragorn stared, the dread creeping outward from belly to limbs, seizing his heart, seizing his mind, at the chain. That dry blood had not come from any Orc. He forced his eyes to leave it, to creep over Legolas, and saw the Elf trembling again. Still. Shudders rippled through that slender frame. Nay - it could not be. It could not be….

Gandalf was mute, stunned. As was Boromir. Gimli. Merry. Pip. Sam. Frodo. Mute, stunned. All of them growing numb, seized by that rising dread, the sick canting realization. Oh no, oh no.
This could not have happened.

They could not have stood idle and let this happen.

Aragorn wanted to die then, truly. He wanted to rush in on that hideous hanging chain, swing on it and wrench it from the stone wall. He wanted to pound that wall until his fists bled. He felt small, sick. Still disbelieving, still.

He could not have beaten his friend (his beloved precious friend)...for a nonexistent crime.

****************************************************************

Strange....That which was not ever alive - the unalive - could hold, still, a memory. Air, water, stone, remembering all. Air shaking itself weakly into what those who do not know and do not see blissfully call `breeze,' and perhaps turn their faces to its efforts and speak on how good it feels before turning, once more, away. Water, rippling though touched by nothing, trembling muted fluidity that could not really be anything but the (unalive) breeze on its skin, its stronger pulse hidden beneath, for even those who do not see and do not know must be shielded from that which they cannot hope to comprehend. That which may awaken in them some long-lost long-locked shudder, echoes from a past too ancient for memory, and which should not be remembered. Stone drawing chill from its own unalive body, casting it fervently to friend Air, whispering mute pleas that Air carry it away. Carry it far away, and make it gone.

So the cave remembered what had been. The stone walls and the puddle-splashed earth and the cool air all remembered what had taken place in their keep, and they shuddered to themselves, but of the nine souls gathered before them, only one could truly see, could truly know, and that one reached out now with a graceful trembling hand, and touched the chain that had bound him. Legolas traced one fingertip over its smooth links and the rust-brown that coated them. His skin did not recognize that which had so recently coursed alive beneath it. Now wed irreversibly to that metal, it was only dried blood. It had never been alive.

It had never been him.

Gandalf eyed the group with dispassion made possible only by his extended years. He took careful note of the deepening shudders that claimed Legolas, the haunted look in those normally bright eyes. But his focus did not remain on the Elf: at Legolas' side, profoundly still, Aragorn looked to be slipping into shock. The Man's face had cast out its color and now held a grayness matched only by the stone before him. As he sucked in a ragged breath, Gandalf noticed his teeth were chattering, just slightly. Just slightly.

"Come." It was no request. The Wizard swept his arm expansively, pointing outside. His hands moved to shoulders, guided them in that direction. The Hobbits went easily, gratefully, and Boromir and Gimli kept pace. One would have to keep watch, for Orcs. The life drained gradually from that space, dulling it, until only three stood within.

Gandalf moved to the Elf. "Legolas, come." He took careful hold of trembling shoulders and more eased than pushed Legolas toward the cave mouth. This young soul had been through more than he could know now, and he was mindful of his movements, mindful of the pressure of his hands. "Come," he repeated, softer.

Caught for the moment in that unalive history being echoed around him, Legolas did not at first hear Gandalf, nor feel the Wizard's hands on him. Then, as though stepping across a threshold, he did. Gandalf wanted him to go outside again. Gandalf wanted him to flee this cave and leave the rock and the water and the air to their echoes. He wanted this, too, and went.

And then it was just the two. Aragorn's eyes still reflected the dull glinting chain; his hands clenched into fists at his side. He was shivering - he was cold. Removing his own cloak, Gandalf laid it across the Man's shoulders. "Come now, Aragorn. Let us be off."

Aragorn tried to speak, but at first could only think the words, leave them tangled in the dark halls of his mind. When they finally came, they came in hesitant fits and starts, then stumbled forth. "Gandalf - I...I...oh Gods. What I did - what I...after Legolas was...taken! He was taken, and he faced certain horror from those monsters, and when he escaped and fought his way back to us, I...."

"I know what took place, Aragorn, and I endorsed it, if you remember. So did we all, if only in silence. We believed that Legolas had risked life and limb in pursuit of his plan." Gandalf turned Aragorn to face him, forced the Man to meet his gaze and noticed a tilting erratic flicker in those dark eyes. "Aragorn, what has been done cannot be undone. That is a surety. It needs be spoken of, yes. And it shall be. But not here, my friend. Not here, where danger can come upon us from all sides. We must go."

Aragorn caught his breath, blinked and nodded. "We shall go then. You are right, Gandalf - this place holds evil within. I can feel it still." He stole one last look at the hanging chain, and into his mind flashed an image of an Elf - a beautiful bright Elf - bound by that chain. Waiting for fate to take its course as Orcs drew near. He shuddered at realization that, just last night, this had been Legolas. Then he turned and walked with Gandalf, leaving the evil where it lay.

***************************************************************

They traveled without rest while the sun arced itself over an unseen line, while shadows shortened, died, were born again and grew longer, and dwarfed the land. They traveled despite leaden muscles and sorrowing hearts, until they reached the hills. Those slopes were more barren, but they held no caves, and what cover they afforded was free, it seemed, of Orc. So the Fellowship took to them with gratitude and lightening steps, climbed into their cold unalive embrace and turned their faces toward cool evening breezes, and spoke of how good those breezes felt. The hills were clean, sparse. Their life flowed in thin muted streams, but it flowed clear and did not remember a time when foul beasts had scraped up against it, their evil lingering. They set up camp, exhausted, and Sam started putting together a meal.

Legolas had stopped shivering upon leaving the cave, and his heart had eased. He was not at the mercy of those Orcs now; it was well and truly over. He laid down his things, stood and cast his gaze over their surroundings, and his warrior mind began ticking off points of potential ambush, ingress, egress. Watch would be set… there, for that spot afforded clear view of the area. The perimeter needed not be wide. This was a good place to rest the night. He stepped from his pack, intending to volunteer for first watch - and Aragorn was then in his path, right there. Before he could speak, could ask anything, the Ranger had dropped to his knees before him, head bowed. The others spied, stared at this; Legolas floundered, for that instant, in confusion.

"I must beg your forgiveness, friend," Aragorn began, his voice deep, husky. "I have wronged you...."

It hit him, then. The proud Ranger on - on his knees! On his knees before him, head bowed, begging forgiveness from...from....It was....

Aragorn's gaze snapped up, along with that of seven others, as Legolas fled their midst, ran as though chased by Orcs...and was
gone.

****************************************************************


He wanted to run further, further still. He wanted to keep running, through the bony protuberances of rock, through the scrubby brush. He wanted to run far from their keep, far from their midst. But he could not, for there was nowhere for him to go.

So he stopped, breath catching in his throat, and simply stood, rooted himself to one spot. Staring at grey stone expanses of nothing, but seeing only Aragorn. Only Estel.

That Man had dropped to his knees, there in the middle of the new camp. There in front of everyone, and had bowed his head and proclaimed himself guilty of a wrong, of a breaking of faith. His voice had scraped over the words, his gaze down. Submissive before the Elf as a beaten dog before its master. Those strong shoulders had bowed, trembling.

And he had run from it. Legolas had run from it, and kept running until the coursing beat of blood in his ears had drowned out that voice, until the wind had blurred his tears into a shroud over the vision of that kneeling frame, that bowed head. Estel, kneeling and submissive as a frightened cur - pathetic! He had not the stomach to look upon that, and anger surged in his breast at its memory. The Man, demeaning himself, debasing himself to undo what had already been done, to atone for believing his friend guilty of lies, guilty of breaking faith. Pathetic, he had been. Pathetic.

Now, mercifully alone, Legolas struggled to collect his scattered thoughts, draw them in and piece them together until they resembled something whole. But the shards glittered coldly, strewn about, and resisted his efforts. He was crying again. Shaking still. The tears merged grey stone with green leaves, brown stalks, created from the materials of the earth a swirling coloured veil. It was beautiful.

It was nothing he wished to see.

He backed into a solid rock wall, slid roughly down its face until he was crouching there, arms wrapped around himself but offering little comfort, and wept like a soul forever lost.

****************************************************************

"He is so angry. Oh…I have never seen him like this."

"Nor have I. He has reason."

"Aye, of course he does. Gandalf, what need I do to repair
this?"

"Go. Go after him."

And so Aragorn went, followed a track that lay at times glaring under the daylight, testament to Legolas' grief. An Elf would have to be lost in turmoil or sorrow to lay down such a trail, so easily followed by another. He tracked this Elf up through narrow rock-sculpted arroyos, past boulders scarred from ancient journeys, deeper into the barren hills. And then, there where Middle Earth seemed to decide she had done enough climbing and flattened herself out for a rest, he found him. Legolas was curled up against grey stone, huddled in on himself and shivering as though cold, his face buried in his folded arms.

Aragorn slowed, halted. The Elf had not looked up at him, had not seemed to even hear him approach - and this was alarming. Treading lightly, as one facing a wounded wild creature, he stepped again toward his friend. "Legolas," he called, softly. It was not so much question or statement or even the start of conversation as it was warning of his presence, the way a horseman, stepping behind his mount, will run one hand steady across the beast's flanks. ~I am here,~ the touch says. ~Do not be frightened. Do not run, or lash out at me, for I mean you no harm.~ The Ranger stepped nearer to the Elf, nearer still, but said no more. The alert had been given, and now was Elf's time to speak, to rage. ~I hate you, for you betrayed me. I will lash out because you do mean me harm.~

But Legolas responded sluggishly, seemingly gone mute. Lifted his head, blood-shot eyes unfocussed. Unwrapped his arms from himself, slowly straightened unsteady legs until he stood, one hand on the rock wall, staring at nothing.

"Legolas, we must talk." The words were met with - shunned by - silence. Aragorn swallowed a hitch that threatened to take his voice, and tried once more. "Legolas, please talk to me. I wish only to make amends for what I have done."

Legolas giggled briefly, then fell silent and wondered what had been amusing enough to make him laugh. "Amends?" he said, finally, picking that one word from all the others. "What do you mean?" He did not look at Aragorn.

"I know that it seems I never could right this, but I wish to try. I accused you of disobeying a command, when you had instead been taken by force. I accused you of lying. Legolas, I would make this up to you."

"Make this up?"

"To you. Aye."

"Why, Estel?"

~What?~ Aragorn opened his mouth to ask the question, then stayed his tongue. This discussion was straying, tilting dangerously, and he felt suddenly as though he stood upon a crumbling cliff's edge.

Legolas appeared only partly engaged. His eyes gazed erratically at no particular thing; his words came slowly and suggested he might not be following the conversation's thread. Some sort of emotional break? "Legolas," Aragorn repeated. "Will you look at me?"

He looked. Aragorn was standing now, but all he could see was that moment, the Man prostrating himself in supplication. A thin red veil had dropped into his field of vision, and the Man through it looked dull and bloody. "You beg like a dog, Estel. Did you know that?" Had he said this? Aye - he had said it.

Aragorn only thinned his lips, nodded. His eyes sought the earth near his feet and stayed there. "I know you are angry, and you have every right to be so. If you wish to hurt me, I understand."

"You understand if I wish to hurt you?"

"Aye."

"Those are the words of a fool, Estel." Legolas paced away from the wall, counting out his steps, until he was confronted with another stone barrier. The words of a fool (who wants to understand pain?), the words of a fool.

"They are the words of one whose soul is filled with remorse, Legolas," Aragorn countered.

Remorse. Remorse. Aye...remorse for believing a friend would lie, for believing him guilty when he had not been, and treating him accordingly. Remorse for breaking a faith between friends. Between brothers.

"Legolas, I deeply regret my actions." Aragorn strained toward the Elf, wanted to move to him, to make him see the truth. But Legolas hovered wary and a touch erratic on the other side of the flat rocky scape, hovered as a wounded wild creature might hover at the enemy's approach, waiting as long as possible before launching itself into the pain of flight; and Aragorn believed that each next step, each next word, could be the one to send him flying from this place, from the Fellowship, never to return. He hovered, himself, willing the Elf to remain and listen.

Estel was floundering, there. His words no longer tumbled forth but dripped, crept careful among the rocks, trying to make Legolas believe in them. He glanced at the Ranger, struggling with what next to say, and laughed again. "Estel, I've never seen you in such a state."

"Perhaps I have never been in such a state, my friend. My regret weighs so heavily that I know not what to do with it."

"You should not let it."

"Nay? I wronged you."

"Stop that."

"Stop what, Legolas? Stop apologizing?"

"Aye. Stop it. Stop everything."

"I shall not."

Legolas felt another humourless giggle rise and fought it back down. "Then perhaps," he sighed, "I shall not listen to you."

"You should. I wronged you-"

"Stop it, I said." The anger was there, again. Still. It surged within his breast, crowding out all else, suffocating him. Legolas tried to drown it in air, tried to suck in enough breath to press it back down, but his chest hurt and the world was starting to spin.

Aragorn refused to go away, refused to stop it. That Man kept apologizing, throwing forth those declarations of remorse. Remorse for breaking a faith, for breaking a faith because he believed Legolas had lied, for punishing that lie....

~Why was I not angry before? Why only now, and more so with each apology Aragorn makes? Why do his words make me rage inside, when his actions did not?~

"Legolas, listen to me. Listen. You are my dear friend, my family. I would never happily cause you pain. I made a mistake - a terrible mistake, and I hurt you as I never would have hurt you."

"Estel, will you just go…go back to camp? It is late now." ~Why will he not stop? Why do his words carry so much more pain for me?~

Legolas felt tears rising again, burning behind his eyes. He knew not from where they came, from what new wellspring of pain they could come. Had the river not yet run dry? He was so angry with Aragorn. So angry, now, and growing more so.

"Nay! I will not leave thus. I wronged you - I believed you guilty without cause. You must see my regret!"

"Stop it, Estel!" ~Stop, stop, stop...it did not happen that way. It did not.~ It had not happened that way, and Legolas knew it.

"I accused you. I accused you and judged you guilty when you were innocent-"

"I WAS NOT INNOCENT!" Legolas rounded on Aragorn, whirled to face the Man, screaming. "I was not innocent, Estel! I broke faith with you! I left the camp to go investigate those Orcs and I only changed my mind when it was too late! You seem to think I was snatched while innocently asleep, secure in your keep, but it didn't happen that way!" The dam had ruptured; the words tumbled forth, angry and anguished. Legolas was choking on his own violent tears, but could not stop the words from coming, still. "I lied to you, Estel, and to Gandalf and everyone else! When I found you again, I told you I was taken and left out the reason - I walked willingly into their midst. I know it was not an outright lie that I told, but it was omission and that is as good as blatant deceit. Then we found the cave and I let you think you had been wrong; I let you feel guilt over it! I LET YOU FEEL GUILT, because I wanted to hurt you...." He was down, now, inexplicably, kneeling on dust-bathed rock, choking on his sobs. "I'm sorry, Estel...I'm so sorry...."

Aragorn stood before the fury of that rushing tide for what felt like years, like lifetimes, but was probably much less. A few quickened heartbeats, listening to his friend rage in grief and anger and guilt, and he was then at the Elf's side, kneeling beside him, trying to hold him up as one tries to hold a drowning other's head above water, to pull him back from the crumbling cliff edge he now seemed to tread. Legolas was hyperventilating, shaking again - his voice cracked and deserted him, but still he poured forth his pain, whispering that he was sorry sorry sorry.

"Hush, Legolas. Stop now." Aragorn whispered in turn, whispered into one pointed ear and wrapped his arms around Legolas, straining that slender frame to his own, trying to quell the shudders that still now claimed it. "Shh - it is over. It is truly over. You have told me the truth, and that is what matters."

Legolas calmed enough to suck in a ragged breath. He forced out another whisper. "It does not matter that I betrayed you first?"

"I...nay, I do not believe it does, any more. I do not say it was right for you to leave the camp as you admit doing, but there has surely been enough suffering over this. Do you not believe that?"

"...I am not sure...."

"Well, I am. You were taken by force, Legolas, and whether or not you were disobeying an order when it happened, it was a brutal and terrifying experience for you. One for which you received no support from your fellows. Your friends. You must have felt so alone."

"Aye. But I also felt…I am not certain how to explain it...as though it were fated, somehow. As though it were the price I had to pay for betraying a trust. I was upset that you did not believe me when I told you about it, but my anxiety was born primarily from the knowledge that we were not safe in those parts, and that I could not seem to convince you of the danger." He eased himself back, shifted himself within Aragorn's embrace so that he could look at the Man. "It was not until you begged my forgiveness, believing that you had treated me unfairly, that I began to feel this...rage. I knew not from where it came, or why it waited so. But it was my own guilt, my anger at myself, and your words of apology spurred it forth. I am so sorry to have attacked you with it, Estel, for you did me no wrong. I am the one who has harmed you."

Aragorn reflected a moment. "Perhaps, though, your harm has been addressed, my friend. I did punish you, or had you forgotten?"

"Nay," Legolas laughed softly. "I do not believe I will forget for several days yet."

"Well, then? Can we not call the debt paid?"

"I...." It was Legolas' turn to consider, turning his gaze inward. Into the anger that now faded, the guilt that still surged but might - might - be assuaged by that already done. Could it be?

"I am not certain, Estel," he admitted, finally. "You did not know at the time exactly what you were punishing me for."

"Does it matter, my friend? You knew, and that is usually the point." He squeezed Legolas' shoulder briefly, then rose from a ground being swallowed by shadow. Reaching down, he grasped the Elf's slender hand, urged him gently to his feet. The shudders seemed to have stopped, now. At last.

The End