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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Legolas slipped from the camp's reaches, slipped silent through thick underbrush, through the gentle embrace of the trees. Where a Man would no doubt have crackled, crunched over the ground, he well nigh floated, disturbing leaves and twigs no more than would a mere breeze.

But his stealth was not enough this night, not enough, and Legolas heard Boromir's footfalls change in tone, in direction, and knew that the Man had heard him. He cursed softly, under his breath, and froze there, inside the hem of trees.

No Man could possess the stealth of an Elf, but a warrior of many years could walk with great care over fallen branches, dead leaves. There, reached not by moonlight under the evergreen boughs, yet still radiant, stood Legolas, and Boromir stepped to his side, frowning. "Where do you think you are going, Legolas?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper that held not so much question as knowledge. He already knew the answer, asked only for confirmation's sake, and to impel a confession.

Legolas swallowed, cast his eyes toward the dark earth. There was no use in deceit after being caught; his deceit was already great enough, silent though it had been. "I was going to investigate the presence of those Orcs in this territory," he breathed, and sensed more than saw Boromir's answering nod.

"Well," the Man replied, "you will now accompany me back to camp, young Elf." He motioned toward the clearing, only paces through the trees, and Legolas moved at that command, stepped silent back into the midst of the Fellowship. He stood, then, wondering at the future, as Boromir moved to Gandalf's side and placed a hand on the sleeping Wizard's shoulder.

Gandalf roused quickly and listened as Boromir relayed, in muted tones, his capture of one escaping Elf. The Wizard then tapped Aragorn, who came awake with speed trained into him through years of battle, came alert and rose from his bed, frowning at Legolas. Gimli and the Hobbits, too, woke; the entire Fellowship, torn from sleep in the deep quiet night, confronted with, confronting, one of its own, one who had vowed to remain and then broken that vow, broken that faith. And Legolas could only study the black earth while eight faces turned to him, eight pairs of eyes studied and judged and found guilty this one Elf.

Aragorn and Gandalf had a brief discussion, toward the clearing's other side, while Sam worked to restore their sputtering fire. Boromir, then Gimli, and finally the Hobbits as well moved to join the hushed conversation, occasionally glancing at Legolas. He could not hear what they discussed, but that made no matter. It was clear enough. He cast his gaze back out, into the deep wood, and sighed. Leaving had seemed so simple, so easy.

So shameful, he had to admit. Shameful in its craven disregard for wise Gandalf's judgement. Shameful in its cold dismissal of Aragorn's concern. Shameful, because it was not befitting an Elf to creep, silent, from the midst of anything. Was not befitting an Elf to give promise and then break it. Legolas did not try to hear the muted discussion of his fellows, listened instead to the remorse within his own heart, the sadness that welled now. He had disappointed them so.

Gandalf strode back to the center of the camp. "Legolas," he began, his voice sharpened in anger, "you have ignored my direct command, broken faith with us all, and potentially placed your own life in grave danger. What can you say to this?"

"I…I am sorry, Gandalf. Everyone. I am truly sorry." Legolas ran his eyes over the group, met their gazes squarely and spoke with plain truth. "I felt it would benefit this Fellowship greatly if we could know what brings Orcs here in such numbers. I suspected some greater evil at work, and believed that I could detect it and bring valuable information back. I knew it was wrong to betray my word to you, given freely just last day; however, I weighed that regret against the better interests of our journey, our Quest, and found it wanting." He lowered his eyes once more. "It was with the best of intent that I sought to leave here."

"Indeed." Gandalf studied Legolas, appraisingly. "But I do not doubt your motives, Legolas. It is your judgement that I find sorely lacking, and your regard for the value of your own life. It is that for which you will face consequences."

Legolas did not want to ask, did not want to know what consequences were being considered. Or had, perhaps, already been decided upon. Nay, he did not want to know, and yet knew that there was nothing left for him to do but stand humble before them all, show them the truth of his regret and accept that which they deemed necessary to mend his transgression. Without that, there could be no forgiveness, no absolution from any. And none, to be sure, from himself. He lifted his head, met the Wizard's eyes bravely, and waited.

"Legolas," Gandalf continued, "you have a decision to make. You will receive a spanking for your crime, and you will receive it now. But it will be your choice as to who administers it. Look upon Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli and myself, and decide." With that, the Wizard folded his arms and fell silent.

From Gandalf's stern gaze, Legolas looked to Aragorn, found that same anger, that same disappointment and resolve. So, too, in Gimli's eyes, and in Boromir's. Even the Hobbits stood serious, watching. He would be compelled to choose the administrator of his punishment? On what sound basis could such a decision be made? He looked helplessly from one to the next, yet even as his mind denied the reality, it also began to consider the question.

Gandalf, it seemed, was the most logical choice, as it was his decree broken, his direct order ignored, but Legolas looked at him through the veil of long friendship, long centuries of knowing, and could not imagine letting such an act pass between them. Aye, he had betrayed Gandalf's trust, had defied Gandalf's order, but he eyed him still as friend, and held fast to that bond. There would be discomfort between them, and he the cause; there would be strained trust.

There would be no violence. No violence to potentially stain their friendship further than had his sin.

Aragorn, then? Perhaps. He had also passed decree, lent the weight of his authority, his years of experience, to Gandalf's already firm command. And he had been as well ignored, rebutted not through honorable word but dishonorable and secretive deed. He was disappointed, as was the Wizard. But Legolas had also known Estel for many years, had seen him through the passing of his youth, his transformation from eager youngling to competent, strong Man. Estel was, and would always be, his young friend, even as he now commanded Legolas, deemed his decisions right or wrong, passed judgement on them. Nay - it could not be Estel, could not be Estel for many of the same reasons it could not be Mithrandir.

And nay, there was no consideration necessary when it came to Gimli. Elf and Dwarf had in recent times put to rest much, if not all, of the ill feeling held between their two races, but Legolas was not prepared to christen their newfound respect in such a manner.

And that left one. The other Man. The warrior of Gondor, the keen-eared sentry who had brought so rapid a halt to Legolas' plan. Boromir stood, watching and waiting as did they all, his dark eyes and composed countenance belying whatever passions might course beneath the surface. He was far more stranger than friend, and certainly not foe; the space between him and Legolas was uncomplicated by sentiment or animus. There was nothing between them; the lines were clear. Aye.

Turning back to Gandalf, Legolas swallowed hard and drew a steadying breath. "I would choose Boromir," he said, quietly.

A flicker of something passed through Boromir's shadowed eyes, over his smooth features, but he displayed no other reaction. Legolas wondered at him, if the Man felt surprise, anxiety, hesitation, anger…or perhaps nothing at all. Perhaps something else, unknown, unknowable to a stranger.

Gandalf displayed no reaction at all, merely executed a curt nod to acknowledge Legolas' decision. The Wizard then turned to Boromir, nodded again, more meaningfully. Legolas watched and waited, silent, as Boromir crossed their small campsite to a fallen evergreen trunk and took a seat there, then raised a hand in summons.

"Come here, Legolas." The words were quiet, laden in the damp air. They hung with authority that needed no emphasis, no show of force. Quiet, calm, the words were a command that could not be ignored.

Legolas let his gaze fall, and heeded the command. Silently, eyes on no one, he stepped to Boromir's side. When the Man took hold of his arm and pulled, gently, he eased himself forward, down. And he lay, then, pressed unequivocally against those muscular leathered thighs, pulse thready and fast in his ears, humiliation diffusing its heat through him. The Man was all about him, over and under him, ready to lay him bare and take him over as surely as one being could take another outside of the bounds of love. He could do nothing but yield himself, give himself over, and so he lay and waited, still.

Boromir commenced a lecture on the value of prudence, of obedience and the necessary chain of command, as he lifted Legolas' tunic, lowered his leggings to expose him. He raised his hand high, brought it down hard over Legolas' backside, and the Elf gasped, bit down on his lip to avoid crying out. It was, indeed, only the beginning, and Boromir established an unhurried rhythm, turning pale skin first pink, then deepening shades of red.

Legolas fought to remain still, not to fight, not to squirm in mounting desperation. The pain was shocking, relentless; the words were heavy and recriminating. He closed his eyes, tried to focus on the sounds of the forest beyond camp, the scents of pine and damp earth and winds that had caressed distant lands before these, the sensation of night air on his face. But he heard only Boromir's resonant voice, deep in the shame-filled spaces of his heart, only that voice and the sharp cracks of palm meeting backside, and his own ragged sobs. He smelled only the Man's scent, not sour and unwashed as he might have expected, but earthy and tinged with musk. A scent he had never noticed, forthright and unapologetic. A warrior's scent, surrounding him, filling his lungs. He felt only the solid shelf of lap beneath him, the solid hand holding him in place, and the unceasing pain. His world was small then, ruled by one Man, and he could do naught but surrender to its laws.

It lasted forever, and Legolas could not remember that there had been anything else before, could not remember sights beyond dark ground and dead leaves, scents outside of pungent earth and musk, sounds that did not include heavy slaps and sobs and a powerful deep voice. It lasted until it lasted no more, and then it was done, inexplicably. Legolas was confused and simply lay over the solid lap, and cried as though the depths of his soul were being wrenched out of him.

But Boromir only let him lie such, laid bare and open and grieving, for a moment; he pulled the leggings back up, then, gently, and gathered Legolas into his arms. His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for sensitive Elven ears, and his hands transformed themselves from instruments of restraint and pain into healers. He held Legolas close to him and whispered those soothing words, and waited for him to calm.

Hysteria had almost seized him. Almost, and Legolas felt thin and shaky, as though he were stretched out along an erratic precipice. He hovered there, helpless and bewildered, fear clawing at him, fading in the chaos then surging anew. He shuddered and sporadically tried to collect himself, found that his mind would not focus on any one thing, and the world was wheeling too dangerously.

Into his lungs he drew ragged hitches of air, and they were scented with damp earth and musk. As it occurred to him that he was smelling something, his ears became aware of sound, again. Whispered words, soothing and honest and kind. Feeling crept back into limbs forgotten in pain's overreaching presence, and he felt himself restrained, but gently. Held. Cradled in solid arms, his face nestled where neck met shoulder, his tears collected there. He let himself continue to cry, knowing only that such was allowed, and he gave himself over to the gentle rocking that lured him ever closer to sleep. He remained there for seconds, perhaps, or years, while his shudders faded, his tears ran dry. And when he slipped into that dimming mindless realm that ends the waking world, he came distantly aware of motion. Strong safe arms lifted him into gratitude, overarching joy. Strong arms surrounded a warrior Elf exhausted from pain - a tiny Elfling exhausted from the long day. Ada had no time to tell him a story of distant Elf kingdoms, no time to do more than caress his hair and rub gentle circles in the small of his back, and whisper apologies, leaning down with a kiss. He slept.

Dawn was gathering herself for one final stand, reluctant to yield before daylight's bold advance, when Legolas woke. He was lying on his stomach, near the fire. A cloak was warm over him, another bundled carefully into a pillow under his head. About him the Fellowship was going through its early routines, the gathering of wood, the gathering of breakfast. Packs were being arranged, in preparation for another day's travel.

He rolled onto his side and winced, reflexively drawing his knees up and under him. He was incredibly sore, and that movement alone seemed to re-ignite an inferno in his bottom. Drawing a deep breath, he focussed on gathering his gear, arranging his pack for the day. Footsteps neared, but he did not look up from the silent task.

"Legolas? Are you alright?"

"Yes, Boromir. I am fine, thank you." Legolas wanted the Man to go, to resume his own chores, and he kept his gaze determinedly down.

But Boromir only dropped to his knees beside the Elf, studying him. "I would understand, after last night, if you harbored anger toward me."

"I do not. My transgressions deserved such response, and it was I who chose you to be its instrument, after all."

"Aye, that is true. But I would still understand your anger and accept it. It would sadden me, but I would do so." With that, he rose gracefully and returned to his pack.

Legolas watched him go, uneasy, wondering at those words. Boromir was far more stranger than friend. Still not foe. He and Legolas shared nothing, had never shared anything beyond one short intimate eternity of pain and whispered healing. There was no emotion between them, outside of the heavy grief and sorrow and fear, the sheer overarching gratitude for strong arms, carrying him. They shared nothing, surely, as intense and immediate as the long friendships Legolas held with Aragorn, with Gandalf. Nothing that strong, surely, even in the entirety of humiliation, the laying bare of body and soul and the forgiveness that followed. There was no reason for sadness in the warrior of Gondor, no reason for anger.