Intercepted

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.

About him Legolas could read the lines along which this forest flowed. He read the stillness of a deep night, the absence of breeze, and knew that within the low hanging clouds a storm gathered. He read the air's moisture, its light expectant touch, and knew that the weather would turn presently cold. He read the silence of the wild creatures and knew that they knew also, and licked their blind young uneasily, waiting. He read the hesitation of trees that had seen millennia pass 'neath their cool patient sight, and knew that Evil walked among them.

Oh, but he felt for the trees, for the primeval jungle of them. His empathy ran deep as only that of a kindred soul could. He knew that which plagued them and the way they shrank from it, for his own kind were in such time of change, marching slow but steady from the realms of Middle Earth. They were as the cringing wood, steeped in the purity of their creation and helpless to conceive of that which was dark. They were light - natural light, and shadow crippled them as surely as Night crippled Day. They would see their dusk, would see their sun lower herself past a waiting horizon, and be gone.

Aye, but they were not gone yet. Not gone, only thinking of one day that might hover still thousands of years ahead. They were still strong, still fighting, and Legolas felt the surge of unrepentant life in him as he glided among cedar and fir. He could sense the Orcs that defiled this forest's sacred heart; he could hear their ugly shuffle and smell their fetid taint upon the air. They were near.

He eased himself into shadow, casting his senses outward, a net unto his surroundings. Something lingered there, within range, nearer to him than he was to the Orcs. Something not of them, not of the wood. At once vague and familiar, it waited, touching the merest edges of his mind, tingling down his spine. He took a silent step, another....

Mithrandir.

Mithrandir. The Wizard was a marble column, a relic and a promise, a silver tower of magic and light. He was echo of Middle Earth's glorious past, hint of her present strength, part of the hope that she would have a future. The trees whispered at him, leaning in close to look upon him and perhaps be learned of his secrets.

Legolas did not need to lean in close to read lines of fury across an ancient face. He did not need to lean in close to glean disappointment from wise eyes. "Mithrandir," he greeted, and his voice betrayed nothing even to his own knowing ears.

"Prince Legolas."

That voice was laden with ice, chilling the space between them, and Legolas groaned inwardly. To disappoint and anger Estel was painful for him, sending him invariably into shame-filled reminiscence of their long friendship. To disappoint and anger Boromir was as a stab wound in his heart, for he and the Man shared a still-fledgling, still-vulnerable friendship of their own, and it promised greatness. To disappoint Frodo or the other Little Ones was singularly unpleasant, for they were possessing of guileless souls that insisted upon loyalty, that gave loyalty to their friends and trusted in loyalty's return, and surely such faith should never be imperiled through word or deed. To disappoint Gimli was a strange discomfort, something akin, Legolas imagined, to scratching fresh blood into a newly healed wound; he and the Dwarf had healed so many old wounds between their people, but their friendship still required a soft touch and a measure of care.

Oh - but to disappoint, to anger Mithrandir? Oh! That was another thing entirely. That was well nigh the destruction of a thing sacred, the purposeful unraveling of threads woven over time's ages. It was a dark and evil word or act that disregarded wise Mithrandir's counsel or defied his decree. Legolas swallowed painfully as he met the Wizard's glare.

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Gandalf sighed. He had been correct in his suspicions, and it pained him. When they had settled for the night, Boromir moving off on first watch, the Wizard had lain wakeful and waiting, a part of him certain that one stubborn young woodland Elf would make off into the dark wood in search of Orc. In search, it sometimes seemed, of a heroic death - the ultimate irrefutable proof of his love for the Fellowship. This could not be allowed.

But as Gandalf had lain and studied the cool watching stars, the onyx cloak upon which those stars rested, and the shadowed looming trees about, he had been gripped not only by wakefulness, but by a growing restlessness, as well. Patience he had, and in scores. A patience developed over millennia, refined and mostly unshakable. Yet in one quiet night, waiting for an Elf to prove that which he already knew, Gandalf had found himself restive and unable to simply wait, and he had slipped from camp so silently that not even the Elf would hear of it, and entered the trees.

Now he stood at the fulfillment of that wait, his speculations affirmed, and he felt no satisfaction. Legolas was straight-backed and impassive before him, bright eyes holding awareness and a measure of shame.

"What do you say for yourself, Legolas?" he asked quietly.

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

"I am sorry. Truly, Mithrandir." As the words passed his lips, their trite familiarity occurred to Legolas, and he hesitated, the breath caught in him as a bird unable to flee its open cage. Only a beat, it was, surely, and yet the resulting quaver that ran through his voice shamed him as if he were lying. He felt color rise in his cheeks, and pushed on. "I only wished to learn what I could of the Orcs that inhabit this region," he said, wondering if such selflessness existed.

Gandalf nodded, but seemed unconvinced. Did the Istari know that which he himself did not? Legolas pursed his lips and waited for a response.

No response came, but in its stead came something else. Sensed, smelled, heard - in that order. Legolas froze as one with Gandalf, trained his Elven senses into the surrounding forest, and knew that Orcs were nigh upon them -

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

Weasels writhing, snapping. Snakes winding fluid, fluent in their bonelessness. Crows, black and raucous and spiteful. Insects, mindless and teeming. These things took the air, sucked it out of its own realm and turned it menacing. These things flowed and fluttered and screeched, and all the wood shuddered and tried to look away.

They were Orcs, and they were all such ugly facets in one. They were the worst of each natural beast, the basest of all creations, and so even the snapping weasel would remember its natural birth and flee them; the snake would hiss sibilant complaints about them and slither off; the crow would be gone in search of higher things and take the crawling ant and beetle with.

Legolas could not comprehend how so many had come at once, for the forest had been quiet and reserved, and his senses had caught nothing. But there was no time for questions, even inward. He whirled and felled one charging beast with an arrow through its black eye. There were too many, racing unsympathetic past their fallen peer - the Elf knew not which to slay first. So he wheeled, fired, fired, fired, stepped a pace to the right, backed against a tree, fired, fired again. The creatures continued their assault; their corpses spurted blood thick like the rot from a necrotic limb. Oh, but they stank.

Impact, blunt and unexpected, stole his wind, and Legolas went to one knee. His fingers grappled to regain control over his bow, his other hand reached back to secure another arrow even as he heard another Orc behind him, as he felt the wind it moved across the back of his neck.

He never retrieved the arrow. That thing had his wrist vised within leathery hide, curving claw-like nails. It yanked back, wrenched his shoulder near clean of the socket, and he was down.

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

Gandalf saw the Elf hit by a charging black beast, saw him go to one knee still fighting. That intrepid soul would fight until his last breath, struggling to operate muscles for which death had already come. An Orc was behind Legolas, reaching for Legolas, it had him!

He acted, then. The Orcs he had already slain lying about him like grotesque trophies, he spun toward his fallen companion. He spun, robes furling and sweeping outward toward glory and settling back about him, knowing of their place. He spun, his staff alight. His tongue clicked and slid over the words; his lips shaped them; his breath gave them life in the dying wood - he uttered them in a language born and risen and dead before Elves lived at all. The staff leaped, blazed with its own fury; the Wizard lifted his voice to all the deities of the heavens, and called on their power then.

Night turned about them to Day, and all the forest creatures halted their steps, held their breaths, waited for the result. The wind kicked up briefly and drew itself back, an abortive scream. The trees watched stolidly.

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

He was down in the snarling writhing mass of them, down under the pounding feet, pressed against Middle Earth's fearful breast, unable to rise. One monster had him by both wrists, and it seemed intent on pulling his arms clear of his body. Another breathed its reek into his lungs, kneeling astride him, leaning down to slaver in his face. Was he being dragged - moved to their lairs? Nay, nay. He was not moving. The world about him screamed, voices like all the voices of the deep forest, streaking upward into hysteria's realms.

He writhed and twisted, adding his own voice to the cacophony, the snapping grunting howling screeching symphony of it all. The Orc wrenched his arms again, and lights flashed before his eyes. A wail rose alongside the screaming - was that him, also? Could he be of two voices at once?

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

Day was in full bloom, brilliant. The Orcs, caught unawares, staggered and reeled, keening their protest. They shrank from the light as Middle Earth shrank from them, for they were creatures of darkness. Gandalf held his staff high; it plunged into the currents of life, snagged on them and disrupted their flow as surely as a stick thrust to the pebbled bottom disrupts the flow of a stream. It was a power not to be trifled with, shocking the deer into flight, the lynx fleeting into the cave where her blind cubs wait. It was an indescribable chaos, a chorus without voice, a reach into the alien void behind reality itself, a conduit into worlds that no eyes would ever see.

But the Wizard's eyes needed not see that, for his mind and heart knew it as surely as a woodland Elf knew the trees. And as he watched, the Orcs fled before it, lurching forth in seeking of their precious black night, the seat of their own vile power. They scraped and shuffled and clambered over fallen trees; they clattered sword against sword through narrow routes of egress. They snarled and grunted their rage, their impotence. And the Wizard and the Elf were alone, and alive.

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

Mithrandir. The Istari was there, at his side, voice low and calming, hands moving over him. Injuries? He could not tell, hazy as his mind now lay, coherent thought trampled by Orcs. There was some pain, some throbbing ache in his shoulders, some echo of claws digging into his wrists. But he could hear and understand, and he listened as Mithrandir soothed him and murmured reassurances. The Orcs were gone - they were safe.

For the moment.

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

"Legolas, can you rise?" Gandalf slipped a hand under the fallen Elf's shoulders and urged him to sit up. "Come now, boy. It's all right - they are gone. Sit up for me there - just like that. Good." He had already checked Legolas over for injuries, found scrapes that would need attention, bruises already swelling into mottled blue beneath the pale skin. That one shoulder had been wrenched, and badly, but it had held. It would be sore for days. Nothing serious, thank the gods. He sighed and ran his fingers through a tangle of silken hair, lingering over might-have-beens.

He might have been asleep when Legolas slipped from the camp. He might have been too late to find the Elf, out there among the trees. He might have been too beset during the battle to turn in time, to drive the Orcs away before they could rend a fair body and soul. Might have been … might have been.

His knuckles whitened around his staff. Legolas was all right. Scratched, bruised, but alert and returning to his bright self again. The Wizard alone remained dark, he with grim knowledge and all the cruel possibilities. It would be a cruel fate for an Elf to be locked in some dank cave and used into death by Orcs. It would be a heartless being that did not rail against such an end, that did not fight its mere possibility with desperate might. Gandalf realized the desperation within his own heart, acknowledged its right to be there. Oh, but Elves were stubborn creatures.

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

Legolas rose slowly to a sitting position, his head vaguely light. He could feel Mithrandir's warm hand on his back, supporting him, and he drew a deep breath, smelled only the forest air flowing into his lungs. It cleaned him of the Orcs, infused him with its damp tingle, ignited his Elven reserves and so began the healing that would come for him so much faster than it would have come for another. His head cleared, the details resolving about him.

"You are truly a mess, young Prince." Gandalf combed his long fingers through disheveled blonde locks, worked briefly at the unraveling braid. "Can you rise now?" he asked, one palm sliding down to cup Legolas' elbow.

"Aye," the Elf nodded, curling his legs up against himself, planting the soles of his boots, shifting forward and up. He leaned against Gandalf then, the Wizard solid as any skyward-thrusting pine. Catching the concern in those ancient eyes, he nodded again. "We are safe here, for now," he confirmed. "And I am feeling better with each passing moment. I was stunned, but I have suffered no grievous hurt." Bolstered by his own reassurances, he extricated himself gently from Gandalf's securing hold, stood unsupported and looked around. "We should return to the camp with haste," he said, "and warn the others."

Gandalf cast his gaze back along the path he had taken, back toward the camp where the Fellowship slept, one still on watch. Boromir would be alert. Aye, of course. Turning back to Legolas, he motioned down the path. "Do you hear anything to suggest Orcs?"

"Nay." Legolas paced a few steps, cast his hearing down that serpentine length of bare earth winding, listened and could hear nothing but the voices of a night wood. An owl called distantly, and was answered - surely by its mate. Chirring insects went about their routines. Somewhere not too far off, a stream gurgled and splashed. "Nay," he repeated. "I hear naught of them. And I do not smell them, either."

"Let us go, then." Gandalf turned down the path, robes furling white against black. Legolas would alert him to any threat ahead or behind, and his strides were easy. There were no Orcs near. Would but his mind relax, however, and not paint such horrors for him to consider. Legolas falling, buried under black death. Legolas alive but taken, chained and shattered and fading in the hopelessness of some hidden cave, his friends weeping and knowing him lost. Would but his mind not carry on so, and yet it did, and Gandalf listened.

He stepped into a brief clearing and spoke, his voice directed to the winding trail ahead, his words to the Elf behind: "We stop here."

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

~Stop here?~ Legolas stepped behind Gandalf into the dim space, more a hiccough of the tree growth than an actual clearing. It lay with a dampness certainly eternal, the stars unaware of it, the sky barred from seeing it, and surely even at the height of a day would it remain bathed in half-light, half-remembrance of the first light from a blazing newborn sun reaching down to burn it and being suddenly repelled by sentries of cedar and fir. It lay, a patch of pine needles thick and brown. It lay, a reservoir of peace that surely not even a horde of Orcs could dispel.

"Mithrandir?" he questioned, eyes roving up and down stout trunks, lingering on patches of trident moss that curled their lacy skirts against themselves in feigned humility. His gaze settled on the Wizard's robed shoulders, planing stiffly out, eternally white. Eternally clean. "Why do we halt in this place?"

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

Gandalf drew a deep breath, listening to that without, that within. He felt himself tense involuntarily at Legolas' question, as though all of his body and mind and heart already knew what he would do and was steeling itself, all of it, for the doing. Could he hold such certainty? Could any being?

"We are not far from camp," he said, turning, choosing to ignore the question itself. For the moment, at least. He studied Legolas, the Elf's blonde hair as fluid and pure as any untouched waterfall, eyes at once and dark and bright and filled now with guileless curiosity, and his weakening resolve thundered back to him. That this brilliant, vibrant, eternally youthful star could be endangered through mere folly nay - that was intolerable. Unthinkable! At Legolas' momentary puzzle of silence, he spoke again: "You can hear camp from this distance, can you not?"

"Aye," the Elf nodded.

"Do you believe that any in camp, or on the watch, can hear us?"

Legolas frowned, considering, then shook his head. "Nay, I do not believe so. Certainly not our words now. Perhaps they would waken if we were to call out."

"Well then, perhaps this is the perfect place." Gandalf set his gaze on a fallen log, moved to lean his staff against the younger, still-towering tree beside. He wondered, briefly, if that monolithic stretch of life had any thought at all for its fallen companion, if it were aware in even the dimmest conscious sense that it shared this patch of forest floor with a corpse that might have once been its brother. Well, of course the tree would know. Of course the tree would feel. Sightless, 'twould still see all, and 'twould, if words befit its station, certainly speak in agreement with the Wizard now. The Woodlands and the Elves were connected, bound by an ancient and seemingly unshakable force; this tree would look at its fair young brother and sigh, and affirm the need of learning.

Legolas had stepped toward him. "The perfect place for what, Mithrandir?"

Such an innocent question, and Gandalf wanted to smile as he turned to face the Elf once more. But he could not smile at Legolas now, could not show him anything but steel and fire in his eyes, in his voice and his stature. He could not waver, for the Elf needed nothing that was not absolute. Uncertainty would only confuse. Gandalf stood, the log convenient behind him, and hardened himself to inward steel. "For your lesson, young Prince," he stated.

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

Legolas could only gaze at Gandalf, mute, as the Istari's words gained meaning, coalesced from their initial confusion into a cold bleak comprehension. He opened his mouth to speak, realized that he had not taken in breath enough to fuel his voice, and inhaled deeply of the clean air. Better - that was better: he could speak again. "My … lesson, Mithrandir?" he asked, at once knowing the answer and insistent on hearing of it.

Nodding once, sharply, Gandalf swept his robes about him as he took a seat on the log. That movement was answer enough: he saw a sad realization settle in the Elf's wide eyes, noticed normally steady hands develop a restive flutter. He would confirm it, anyway. "I intend to impart a lesson, young Elf," he stated simply. "You knew what you were doing when you left camp. You knowingly, willingly defied orders. You recklessly endangered your life in the doing. And whatever your motives, those actions cannot go unanswered." He paused, regarding the Elf with a cool dispassion that lay thin over the shaking of his own soul. His voice could not betray how thin the veneer was, would not betray it as he continued: "You will come and lie over my knee."

But movement was unremembered. The muscles that powered his legs would not shift into it, as though they no longer knew the way. Legolas stood, muteness becoming him, and watched to see what Gandalf would do. Would he rise and come? The world had canted over onto one side, a massive ship heeling before its descent into murky depths. Would those upon it fall from the reeling deck, skitter and slip over the edge, and would there be anyone to catch them if they did?

The Elf's breathing had become quick and shallow; a flush had crept over his fair cheekbones and up to touch his brow. Just the faintest blush, the first hesitant colour on a rose, set against near deathly white. Legolas was sinking into a silent distress, allowing the early stages of panic their reign - `twould soon be that he was distraught, that it was too late. Gandalf could not allow that, and beckoned again. "Legolas," he commanded. "Come. Right now, Princeling."

It was enough, the clear sharp declaration of authority. It was enough, driving in past walls of incredulity, dread, fear. It was enough to spur muscles that had thought themselves frozen, to pull forth from inertia a first shaky step and follow it with a second. And Legolas moved, still silent, still afraid but no longer sinking, to the Wizard's side. He willed down the shudders trying to fly their banner in him, caught and held Gandalf's grey eyes, and waited.

Good. Very good. Gandalf nodded to himself. The lad was a brave one - he had known that. "Alright, Prince," he said, reaching to take the Elf's hand, feeling it as the blooms on Elrond's white geraniums - soft, cool, unassuming ivory. He gripped it not hard enough to crush those petals and guided Legolas forward, and for his part the Elf did not resist.

Legolas found himself of two minds, then. Lying prone, staring into jade-black rivulets of moss, world contracting to the simplicity of that green thoughtless life, his own thoughts ignored his body's immobility and raced forth. They chased themselves down two paths, circling, cycling, fleeing. They told him to lie still and believe; they told him to push away from the Wizard's hold and run. They told him he could endure what would come, that he would die from the shame alone. That this was deserved, that this was too frightening and horrifying to consider. He twitched and shifted as his leggings were lowered, and felt Gandalf's hand come warm to the small of his back. It was the only warmth, for the night about them was cold, and Legolas shivered from chill or fear. From which, it mattered little. Perhaps it mattered not at all.

Forcing his natural urges to a halt (do not falter do not waver do not pull this young one up into your arms and rock him to sleep right now and forget EVERYTHING), Gandalf raised his hand. He stayed it - each heartbeat's delay was an eternity not long enough to render the task easy - and focussed every creeping fibre of his unrealized fear on that short distance, the distance his hand would have to fall.

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

Ai, it hurt. He stared at the moss until its sharp relief was blurred, drowned, then he stared at the muddle of black-green that remained. It swirled like his feelings, dipping into darkness, rising into new life, sweeping down again. His tears were lost, worthless. They could only flee and disappear. He wanted to dive after them and be gone to a place where he could lie quiet and still, where he could think about the Orcs and his need to chase them, and why his companions paled so and fought him in it. He wanted only to shield them; he wanted their safety - and why did they rail against that? They had to realize his fear for them. They had to!

Legolas was pale and light across him, and Gandalf could almost imagine he were holding a breath of air. He tightened his arm around the Elf's willow-waist, half certain that he would meet no resistance, the lithe body vanishing like mist under a morning sun. His vision blurred then, imagining, and he had to bring his hand down harder before he could believe again. Legolas was solid, present … there. Mists were beautiful and pure, but they were mere phantoms of water and light, and they could never be loved.

Would that he could follow the tears, and not remain trapped in such a painful world. He closed his eyes and restrained every rebellious instinct, clung to the blurred sight of earth before him and the certainty that he had to be safe despite the pain and the shame of it, the anger that held him fast, and that sense of something … beyond the anger. There was no reason to doubt Mithrandir's resolve, no reason to doubt the solid set of the ancient body or the firmness of the descending hand. No hesitation, no trembling of muscles held rigid for too long, no hitching of breath each time the hand was raised anew. He struggled to hold his breath that he might hear, but his ears captured only brief muted shudders from above. There was surely nothing to suggest the Wizard might be … crying.

`twould have to be over soon, for anger was finite and the strongest of fears could still only sustain him so long. Each crack of his palm against the Elf's backside was just loud enough to drown the spiteful whisperings of his own mind; the Elf's quiet weeping was just loud enough to wrap itself around his heart and squeeze, and hint at a grief not yet come. But `twould have to soon end all the same, for near-white had yielded already to crimson, and Gandalf's arm ached, his fury long spent. He raised his hand high and simply stopped it there, let it fall undirected to his side. The whispers were gone.

Had it ended? Legolas hung, wilted and shaking, confused. His own sobs demanding attention, he still reached his focus toward Mithrandir. Did the Wizard breathe more easily? Did the arm around his waist tremble, or the legs beneath him? How could it have ended if that were yet true? A fresh wave of tears washed over him, and he knew they fell not for his own sake.

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A muscle, after long forced restraint, is suddenly freed ... and leaps to the opportunity. It kicks out, overcompensating in what must only be primal panic at the anathema of time lost. Instead of gliding forth, it lurches; instead of reaching to its goal, it shoots past. Only natural, though. Such a thing must be only natural. So Gandalf's urges, long confined, forced down under his responsibility for Legolas' education, found themselves let loose, and they tried to make up for that lost time. In the thick of them he reached down, wrapped his arms about the Elf's slender torso, gathered Legolas up and crushed him to his own breast. One hand wove its fingers into flaxen hair; the other wandered instinctively, soothing as it went. Across a sweeping plain of shoulders, down the ridged range of spine. His lips moved, and from them flowed Sindarin affections mingled with words in tongues the Elf could surely not know. Language, primitive and inadequate, ambitious to hope that it could even touch the depths of a heart. Nay, it could not ... but it could try.

The change was so utter, so sudden, and Legolas found himself no longer face down, leggings around his knees. Nay, he was upright, curled into a warmth that washed steeply over him and sought at once to heal all the hurts of body and soul. Mithrandir's hair was surprisingly warm and soft against his face, and he nestled deeper into its comfort. Mithrandir's hands were strong enough to slay a Balrog, and they moved over his skin like the beat of a butterfly's wings. He allowed himself to float along oceans of pain and panic, allowed himself to feel everything he would and cry it out into the Wizard's forgiving embrace, and gradually he felt himself grow calm. The calm did not break as a cresting wave over his heart and mind; it dripped in as water drips itself into stalactite in a cave, eternally slow, eternally patient. And with it returned all that had been wrenched out of Legolas' world - the muted symphony of a night wood, the grind of insect wings, the infrequent hungry voice of owl or wolf or cat, the low thrum that must be life itself, resonating. Smell returned, and the feel of damp air against his throat. His world was complete, yet ....

Gandalf felt Legolas stiffen in his arms, squirming as if to pull away. "What is it, Legolas?" he murmured, allowing the Elf room but maintaining his hold. "Why do you stir so? I thought you would relax a few moments more before we return to the Fellowship."

"Nay," Legolas breathed. Movement hurt, re-ignited in his hindquarters a blaze that had just begun to fade, but he pushed more forcefully away from the Wizard's embrace. There was no comfort in it, now. 

"Legolas," Gandalf urged, "tell me what ails you. Are you angry with me for punishing you?" He kissed the Elf's flushed brow, a parent checking for fever's reign. ~Let this not be anger - let this not be hatred let it not be~

Legolas caught the Wizard's gaze, shocked. "Nay, Mithrandir," he replied. "Of course not. I ...." He shook his head.

"What? Tell me, young one. Pray, tell me."

Mithrandir's eyes were deep kindnesses, reservoirs of abiding love, but Legolas felt the resurgence of his own sorrows as he gazed into them and spied also a shuddering within, as he took in the Wizard's set face and stiff body. There was no anger lurking in the ancient soul. He knew that much and rejoiced in it, and wept more wretchedly then, straining to free himself from Mithrandir's grasp. 

"Nay - Legolas!" Gandalf drew a breath and softened his tone. He refused to relinquish the Elf, though. Not like this, not like this. "Legolas," he tried again, "I pray you tell me: what is wrong? I cannot tell if you indeed do hold anger toward me despite your words, or resentment for my actions this night, or if ... Legolas (~Horror - it cannot be so~), are you ... afraid of me?"

Afraid. Afraid .... Oh, there it was. Fear, shuddering and dark. Fear, cloying. There it was; there it was. Not anger - he had known that. Anger was fleeting, temporal, and action could quell it. Mithrandir was no longer angry with him. Mithrandir had forgiven him his errors, his disobediences, and there was no anger beating with that immortal heart. Yet the Wizard's eyes still held ... something. The Wizard's face was still tense, still guarded, breath still coming too fast. Legolas wanted to collapse, to scream, to run heedless through the dark wood. What did Estel always say? ~You cannot outrun yourself, my friend. You cannot.~ Nay, he could not run far enough to escape this truth, and he lifted his head, tears spilling. "I am ... not," he whispered, breath spare and halting. "I am not ... afraid, Mithrandir ... but y-you - you still are ...."

Gandalf gazed into the Elf's limpid eyes, awed. So blurred with tears and yet they saw clearly. The Elf's heart so quietly breaking under guilt's burden, and yet it could reach beyond its own pain and read another's. Oh, what a soul, to see that within him that he had guarded so carefully, that he had thought gone with the anger - surely gone with the anger. He floated briefly in wonderment. How much more of his guarded self had Legolas already perceived, read as lines in a dusty tome, absorbed and held discreetly close and spoken of never? Those eyes were windows into realms, sweeping quiet reaches, oceans of sorrow, mountains of pride. A universe, burdgeoning and hopeful, wishing upon its own stars. Aye - he was still afraid, but he needed say it not for Legolas knew, so he curled his lips into a smile, willed the love in his breast to reach those waiting eyes, and waited himself.

"Mithrandir ...." Legolas found himself stumbling for words. Sindarin, Quenyan, Westron - all rich and diverse and utterly useless. All the words in Middle Earth could not reach this, could not embrace it and bring it the justice it deserved. Words were not enough. He swallowed them, surrendered them back into their small places. "I am ... oh," he sighed, realizing. "It was not enough," then. Quiet and simple, demanding more than words. Absolution could not come so easily. "The punishment," he continued, meeting the Wizard's confusion, "was not harsh enough for what I ... for what I continue to put you through. I deserve more." There, finally. It was out.

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

"Legolas -" Gandalf spoke the name fully expecting words to spring forth after it, as the tongue occasionally is granted reign when the mind flounders, unable to compose those single notes of speech. And the tongue then oft surprises with spontaneous wisdom, pulling deep concealed truths out into the light, and the mind observes, knowing itself incapable of such delving perception. Gandalf spoke the Elf's name, expecting words to follow it - expecting his tongue, that archaeologist of an ignorant soul, to deliver something. But what truth might have been relevant, whatever poignant message might the Wizard have offered, his tongue failed to find it, and he was left mute and stunned before his young companion's simple declaration. Had Legolas honestly judged himself and returned yet a guilty verdict, after he had been duly punished? Had he honestly cried and grieved and then deemed himself deserving of more pain?

"Aye, Mithrandir." Legolas held the Wizard's gaze, read confusion, read unvoiced questions and answered them all in the affirmative. "Aye," he nodded. "You have heard me correctly. I do not deserve such leniency as you have shown me this night. Not after …." He trailed off momentarily and cursed his own weakness. "Not after I troubled you so, brought you to such a frightful concern." Wanting only to hide within Mithrandir's encircling arms, he set his resolve and pushed further out of the embrace. 'twould make it easier for both of them, were he not nestled so like a child to its parent's breast when Mithrandir agreed with his reasoning. 'twould make it easier for the Wizard to re-position him, to continue with what needed be done.

Legolas was squirming as though seeking release, but Gandalf read into the fitful efforts a more distressing possibility. The Elf fully expected him to resume the punishment! Expected it, and was making ready. He seized Legolas' slender arms, high up the biceps, and caught a sudden wince fleeting over pale features. Those wrenched shoulders … oh, yes. "Legolas, be still!" he commanded, easing his grip, and was relieved when the Elf complied. "Legolas," he continued, "I am not going to simply take such action as you see fit. Tell me what this is about. Tell me." He waited, hanging on the echo of his own words.

"What this is about?" Legolas shook his head. "Mithrandir, I disobeyed you -"

"And you have borne the consequences of that."

"But I caused you terrible worry …."

"Aye, that you did."

Legolas bit his lip. "And you conceded that you are frightened still. I caused that: you must punish me for it."

"Ah, I see."

"Alright, then?"

"Nay, `tis not alright." Gandalf cupped Legolas' chin in one palm and gazed into the night-darkened eyes, willing truth from them. He read their steadiness, their clear intent. "I know you are sincere, young Elf," he continued. "I know that my worry and fright pain you terribly, and you wish to rid me of such feelings. Not only for my sake, but to ease your heart as well."

"I do," Legolas nodded. "I … I want us both to feel better."

"Of course. That is natural. But you must know that you cannot erase my fear by simply submitting to more punishment."

"But -"

Gandalf raised a hand for silence. The explanations, the words that would unite to reach Legolas, tangled themselves before they could gain his tongue. He sighed, reaching to comb his fingers through the Elf's hair. "I understand your confusion, Legolas," he said finally, "for 'tis my confusion as well. I thought that my fear would disappear as would my anger, through disciplining you and seeing that you came to understand your wrong. But the fear did not leave, and I realize `tis because I have failed to teach you - I cannot teach you - that which will ultimately keep you safe. I may have taught you something of obedience and authority, but I am certain I have bestowed naught of self-preservation. And until you learn its value, I will continue to fret over you. I will continue to worry after you. This cannot be helped, and it cannot be changed until you stop flinging yourself madly into danger in your fellows' names."

"I do not know how …." Legolas whispered. And `twas true: how could he halt his steps from any path that spared the Fellowship harm? How could he remain rooted in security while danger flowed foul toward those who owned his heart and soul? How could anyone? He swayed slightly, curled onto the Wizard's lap, while those questions danced answerless about him. Perhaps they were not meant to be answered - mysteries of the heart surely did not cast themselves open to every curious seeker. They ran too deep and precious for such trivial unveiling; his thoughts wheeled over the surface of them but forsook him yet to blindness. Fatigue had leached the strength from his limbs and weighted his mind; all he wanted was sleep.

Gandalf sighed again and cradled the Elf to him, resting his chin on the top of Legolas' head. "I am certain you do not know how," he breathed. "And until you do, your Fellowship shall have simply to watch, and wait, and do what we can to keep you from harm." He glanced down, saw normally sharp eyes unfocused, grown distant. There was so much more to be said, to be heard.

But that could wait. For this night evil had been deterred, the unthinkable averted. They would know another risen sun, and they would speak and be one day wiser beneath it.

Finis