Elladan gently lowered Glorfindel into a seated position on the bed, before stepping back, opening his drawers, and removing a nightshirt. Laying it flat on the bed beside the wounded elf, he bent forward to undo the buttons on Glorfindel’s tunic.

“Ow!” he cried, nursing his slapped hand. “What was that for?”

“I am not an invalid, and I would thank you not to treat me as such,” Glorfindel gasped out between bouts of pain. The walk up to his rooms had taxed even his renowned strength, although he still sought to hide this from the harried twin. “I am perfectly capable of undressing myself, and putting myself to bed; indeed I have been doing it since before your birth.” So saying, he reached his arms up to the top button. Straining a little, he attempted to undo it, before lowering his arms, and his head.

“Are you willing to allow my help now?” Elladan asked, careful to keep all traces of humour or sarcasm from his voice, realising that it would only aggravate his mentor. “Well?” he continued as Glorfindel stared back at him, refusing to uncross his arms and allow the healer access. Elladan sighed. “Glorfindel, you will be uncomfortably warm if you retire dressed as you are, the coarseness of your clothing, and the heat will aggravate your injuries, and you will not pass a peaceful night. This can be remedied if you would only allow me to assist you.”

Glorfindel’s tense features relaxed slightly, but the tight-lipped look did not fade from his face, and Elladan perceived that the elder elf was truly in pain, and so cut short much of his arguments.

“Elladan, should I be required during the night, as appears likely, then I would be ready to move rather than need to find someone to assist me to dress. I am not fatigued,” Glorfindel continued on, despite Elladan’s snort of disbelief, “and I require only to lie down for perhaps an hour before I will be recovered. I thank you for your aid in bringing me here, but I wish to rest now, and you need to tend to your brothers.”

Glorfindel’s ploy was at least partly successful, in that it momentarily distracted Elladan’s attention away from him. The eldest twin’s thoughts turned towards the memory of the hunched shoulders of his little brother as he had fled from the room. The weight of Legolas’ words had submerged him with emotion, most likely guilt, and now the young human was dealing with the certain knowledge that Legolas would die by his hand; his presence was needed. Elladan’s attention was quickly drawn back to Glorfindel, however, as the elf’s grasp around his chest tightened, and a thin sheen of sweat beaded upon his forehead.

Elladan pressed him down, so that he was laying full length upon the bed; determined that the elf would find at least some rest this day. “Very well,” Elladan said, “if you find yourself too bashful to remove your shirt in company, than I will allow you to keep it, to save your pride from any further injury this day.” Elladan suppressed a small smirk at Glorfindel’s embarrassed retelling of how he had come to injure himself, which caused the elf lord to frown.

“You gave your word that the cause of my temporary disability would not be revealed even under duress, do you forget that already?” The elf gasped out, as he closed his eyes against the pain.

The smile was quickly wiped from Elladan’s face as he hastened to the small wash-table and poured a glass of water form the ready filled jug there; the maids had been quick to prepare the room when the scouts had first detected the limping figure, half dragging itself on foot into the grounds of Imladris. Returning to the bed, he lifted a gentle hand behind Glorfindel’s head, raising it, tilting the glass to allow the grateful elf a few sips of the cool liquid. Glorfindel sighed in relief as his pain was eased, and lay back, struggling to keep his head upright and his eyes open. His eyes snapped open and he stared at Elladan in suspicion. Plain water should not have had that effect upon him.

Leaning forward in suspicion he managed, through tremendous effort, to raise his hand steady on the glass and bring it closer to his face. Elladan, who thought his mentor wanted more water, began to tilt the glass again but was stopped by the elf who lowered it beneath his nose and took a knowing sniff. He gazed up angrily at his friend’s eldest son.

“Gilmorn? You gave me that? Elladan…” He mumbled out, voice growing softer with fatigue. His hand slipped down to rest beside him on the bed, and the glass would have spilled its contents were not Elladan expecting such a reaction; he caught it nimbly, before it fell. “There is not time for me,” he yawned, and then mustered a small glare at Elrond’s heir, “to rest, there is too,” he yawned again, “too much to do.” A final yawn, and the spark in his eyes died, as a light glaze took over, allowing the elf Lord to finally surrender to some much needed rest.

Elladan gazed down at his mentor, a terse look across his face as his grey eyes took in the pallor and frown of pain, which Glorfindel could not disguise even in his sleep. Placing the glass upon a table by the bed, within easy reach should the elf awaken earlier than expected, Elladan stepped to the foot of the bed, and with an amused smirk, gently unlaced Glorfindel’s boots, and eased them off his feet. Placing them underneath the bed, he reflected to himself that even if Glorfindel awakened early, he would be unlikely to locate his footwear so soon. Gathering up a blanket, he smoothed it over the relaxed figure, and stepped over to the window to draw the curtains.

Glancing out he saw several flashes in the sky, reflected in the windowpane. The rain was still pounding against the window, the force marginally lessened from earlier. Shivering to himself, he firmly drew the curtains closed on the scene, again thankful that all were within the house. Leaving the room, he quietly pulled the door to, and set off along the corridor to Estel’s room, mentally girding himself to deal with the stubbornness he would find there. He sighed, wondering idly to himself why it was that every person who spent time under the roof of Imladris seemed to acquire a disregard for their own state of health, and developed an irritating stubbornness, refusing any aid.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Neither the fierce thunder overhead, nor the startling slashes of lightening illuminating the path prevented Estel from his full paced fleeing of the storm in his heart. The turmoil that surrounded him reflected but the smallest fraction of the emotions overflowing within him. He paused one last time, gazing back at his former home, magnificent even beneath a roiling sky, before he dragged himself away from it, heading out into the wilderness. Estel gave the horse his head, uncaring which direction he was headed, he had but one thought; to ride onwards, never looking back.

The storm that had appeared as if from nowhere barely registered with him. He sat upright in the saddle, facing full-on the wind before him. Head uncovered, hood flung back, the wind dashed heavily sodden hair into his eyes; he paid it no heed in his manic departure. He did not feel the large hail pellets that connected bruisingly with his body, nor did he heed the rain that permeated its way through his clothing, and down the back of his exposed neck. His clothes, though elven made, were not designed to cope with the sheer quantities of water that was deluging down, and had long given up even the pretence of warmth. His drenched cloak grew still heavier as the rain soaked the weave. Even his clothing reflected his state of mind, the guilt and worry he felt lay heavily upon his youthful shoulders.

Distress, equal to that which had created the storm, was masked in his guilt-shrouded eyes illuminated by a sudden sheet of lightning carving its path through the bulging heavens. His finely carved features were blurred by both water and shadow; his visage was featureless, almost frozen in its immobility. There was no spark of life, of thought in Estel’s face; it was as if with the destruction of all that he acknowledged as home, that his own sense of self had been diminished.

His eyes, normally the spot of greatest life and intelligence, were dark pools reflecting the forks of lightning, making it seem as if anger was foremost in his mind. Indeed anger, even emotion was the furthest thing that Aragorn could summon just now. Colourless apart form the pinpricks of light, which belied his true state, Estel’s eyes resembled the storm overhead, much as his emotions reflected the turmoil. The huge black eyes stared deadly out at the woods around him, not a creature apart from himself stirred; all other beings had the sense to seek shelter from the winds. Urging his mount onwards, Estel paid no heed to the creaking of the trees as their roots struggled to maintain their grasp on the fragile soil. The rain was washing away the very ground beneath his feet, yet still Estel did not heed the treacherousness of the path.

Tinnu whickered in distress as yet another flash of lightning flared across the path, startling him. He ducked his head lower as the wind gusted numerous leaves and small branches at him. Rain streamed along the glistening coat, muscles rippling beneath the slick hair that prevented the worst of the rain from touching him. His rider had no such protection from the elements; and Tinnu could feel the minute tremors of his body, even though the man himself seemed unaware of them. Bright eyes shone vividly with life and worry as the horse strove ever onwards, fighting valiantly against the oncoming gale at his master’s behest. Despite an almost overwhelming desire to return homewards, where a warm stable, and plenty of food awaited him, Tinnu braved the rigours of the storm, determined to protect his master from it. Hooves beat heavily into the ground, sinking deeply into the mud, slipping before gaining purchase. The very sounds of his hoof beats drowned out by the thunder and the gale.

Tinnu was given his head almost the very instant Rivendell was out of human sight, as though Estel cared only to be away from that place and planned nothing further. Selecting his own path, Tinnu pounded along a route that was relatively sheltered from the storm, protected by a wall of trees. The black gazed longingly at the trees, wanted only to be away from the hazardous wind, and the objects that struck him with alarming frequency, yet he was aware that this would not be shelter enough for his master. To remain exposed to the storm in such a condition would be dangerous for the mortal. As the pair rode onwards, a flaming bolt, launched from above, impacted the ground at the edge of the tree wall, sending up a plume of smoke as fire welled up, but was quickly doused by the torrents of water still emptying from the sky. Tinnu shied, terrified by the lightning strike; the sound and sulphurous smell so outside his usual experience. Estel was awoken from his near stupor, coming perilously close to being toppled from his seat, as the horse rose onto it’s back legs, rearing as it tried to avoid the tree that came crashing down.

Managing to settle the horse somewhat, Estel became aware for the first time of the danger that he was in, riding beneath the densely wooded forest in such a storm. Gently squeezing his legs, he encourage a trembling Tinnu to step forward, at a much slower pace than the canter he had left Rivendell with. Riding past what remained of the cluster of trees, Estel was horrified to see a second one swaying with the wind, bending closer to the ground with each gust, roots half burned by the bolt. Hurrying Tinnu onwards, the two moved forward in unison until they reached a place of relative safety.

Crossing over the river at a convenient ford, deeper than usual yet still safe enough to cross, Estel directed Tinnu upstream knowing that it was safer by the water where the trees were less dense. Eventually they reached a clearing, and were protected from falling trees. Dismounting by the river, Estel led Tinnu over to where the water bubbled through, though in truth by this time it was raging past, overflowing due to the unexpected content it was asked to bear. Leaning his head down to drink thirstily at the water Tinnu, still unnerved by the storm, was calmed by the soothing hand of Estel and the murmuring of soft words in his ears. Though the words themselves were made incomprehensible by the noise of the storm, the tone itself was enough to ease the horse’s distress.

Estel held Tinnu’s reins loosely in one hand. Though the horse was elven-trained, and taught remain within calling distance, Estel did not trust that the natural instinct to bolt would not take precedence given the ferocity of the storm. Seating himself on a nearby rock he lowered his head onto his other hand; he was beginning to regret his headlong flight. Not only had he not stayed to check on his friend’s status, for no matter what Legolas thought, Estel was, and always would be, his friend, but he had most likely caused his father and brothers even more distress by remaining out in such weather. He experienced a brief moment of panic at the thought that the twins might ride out in this looking for him, but his common sense took over, knowing that Elrond would have forbidden such an action, even barring the stable to them if he deemed it necessary.

Sighing again, he reached up to the saddle horn and unfastened the water bottle that was tied behind there. Tilting his head backwards, he gulped down several mouthfuls of the cool liquid, grimacing as he felt his shirt stick to his skin. He clutched his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, regretting that in his haste he had not packed more suitable clothing, for he knew that the blanket wrapped bundle would be equally as wet as the tunic he wore now. Sighing again, Estel lay back on the rock, face lifted up to the sky, eyes closed against the pellets of rain that still cascaded down.

He flung his free arm over his eyes, as he felt exhaustion seeping into his bones, along with the chill of the rain. Almost on the point of drifting off, he was startled as another bolt impacted nearby. Flinging himself to his feet, he was in time to see another bolt flash across the sky, this time reflected in the water of the lake. Tinnu, drinking at the water’s edge, lifted his head with astonishing rapidity stepping backwards. Estel, who was tugged along by the rein held in his hand, stepped forward to again soothe the frightened horse, but Tinnu would have nothing of it. Rearing up in alarm, he dragged the rein out of Estel’s hand, and bolted away.

Estel ran forward, yelling at the horse to come back, to calm down, but he was unable to keep up. Standing there, buffeted by the wind, he caressed his bruised hand, staring back at the disappearing figure, hoping that the frightened horse would return to Rivendell, and safety. He headed back towards the river, and the meagre shelter it would provide him. Clutching his water bottle, the only equipment left with him now, he sank down in the lee of the rock, gazing out at the water. Slowly, surrounded by the fading sound of the storm, he sank into a restless, haunted sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Legolas gradually became aware of lying on a slope, the world rocking around him, and the sound of waves outside his door. ‘How did I come to be on a ship? I do not recall setting sail. What is happening?’ He wondered to himself.

Rousing further he opened fully his half-closed eyes and immediately the world settled down somewhat. Gingerly rolling his head over towards the slope, he found the bent head of Elrond creating a dip in the mattress. As the elf turned restlessly in his sleep, the bed was rocked by his movement, creating the sensation of waves. Startled by a sudden clap of thunder from outside, Legolas jumped slightly, though not nearly as far as the shock would have warranted. His body trembled with fatigue, and the small exertion that the movement had demanded, caused him to fall back against the pillows, panting harshly for breath. As his breathing slowed, he eyed the sleeping figure, relieved that Elrond had not awakened, and would not be forcing any vile potions down his throat again. He shuddered at the memory of that concoction he had been persuaded to drink, and even now the aftertaste was in the back of his throat.

Searching around for a glass of water with which to wash away the foul taste, he espied a jug situated on a nearby table, complete with plates and food. Dimly he recognised it as the breakfast that accursed human had tried to poison him with earlier, and rejected it as a source of sustenance. Glancing around the room again, he despaired of finding anything nourishing in such a prison, and with a mighty effort, pushed back the blankets and sat up. Wavering slightly, he leaned against the wall, pushing off with one hand. Careful to make the movements slow in order to keep his footing, and not wake the slumbering elf, he pushed himself to his feet. Immediately his knees buckled depositing him on the floor. Groaning quietly he debated trying to rise again, and then settled for the less painful method of crawling. His current proximity to the floor meant that when his arms gave way, as they inevitably would, his fall would be much shorter, and hurt less.

Crawling over towards the door, Legolas was unprepared for how much strength even this movement would take. Panting and sweating with exhaustion he made it over to the chair by the fireplace and, with a tremendous effort, he hauled himself up onto the seat and sank back into the soft cushion in fatigue. Shutting his eyes against the nausea and pain that appeared to set fires in every nerve ending, he lay motionless, the only movement that of his chest lifting and falling in jerky, sharp movements, as he fought against the pain.

Slowly opening his eyes he stretched out his legs, wincing as his muscles cramped. Staring out through the window, lying conveniently near his head, he watched as the sky wept. Grey streaks showing through the tracks of rain caught on the outside of the pane only depressed him further, and he was about to make the effort to move away when he caught sight of something that intrigued him. Pushing himself forward he leaned against the sill for balance, and stared out at the storm, shivering at the sudden drop in temperature as he moved away from the fire. Peering out at the falling drops, and the enclosed trees of the forest, Legolas was able to discern a shadowy figure mounted on a horse, riding hastily away from Imladris.

Horse and passenger were almost indistinguishable from the forest, distinct only through their motion; a moving shadow against the still ones that enclosed Imladris, coating it with tension. Nevertheless, Legolas was able to identify the figure; it was that accursed human. A feral snarl escaped from the elf’s lips as he glared out the window, hoping for another lightning strike to impact the ground, and fell the human. Sadly, nothing happened, and he stepped backwards feeling behind himself for the chair.

Legolas found himself falling backwards, to land unexpectedly on the floor in front of the chair. Lying down on his back, he twisted himself until he was facing the object, which caused his downfall. The insolent creature, which had dared to upset him, turned out to be none other than Estel’s backpack. With a growl of rage, Legolas opened it, and flung out its contents upon the floor, ready to toss each one upon the fire, and rid himself of anything that would remind him of that human’s treachery. Reaching his hand out to the first object he saw, Legolas lifted it, making ready to set it alight, then paused.

He found himself running his hand gently along the smooth carving of a bird in flight; wings arced out to either side, head thrust forward in an expression of eagerness and strength. Beneath his fingertips, Legolas could detect the slight roughness that Aragorn had used to denote the texture of the feathers. The bird reminded him so clearly of Estel, his friend, and Legolas sat there for several long minutes, enjoying the comfort of the memories it invoked. As he caressed the neck of the figure, trembling hands holding tightly to the carving, lest it fall, Legolas found his memories turning more introspective, to the moment when...Oh Valar no!

“Estel!” Legolas cried out in horror, the carving slipping from his hands, colliding with the floor and rolling underneath the chair. Legolas sank to his knees, scrabbling around blindly for it; eyes blurred with unshed tears of shock. “How could I have said such things?” Legolas muttered to himself, head bowed in shame. “How could I even think them?”

He shuddered at the pain he had awoken in his friend’s eyes, and the burden that he had thrown at the human, who was already needlessly weighted down by his own assumption of guilt. “You did nothing, only tried to help me, and this is how I repay you,” he sobbed out. Lowering his head onto his friend’s pack he breathed great gasps of air in, chest heaving. “He is out there in this storm, alone, because of me!” Legolas’ eyes widened in shock. “Unprovisioned.”

Sitting up, ignoring the pain, he frantically started stuffing the contents back into Estel’s carrier, intent on riding out after the human. In his haste, he tore open a sack, which spilled its contents on the ground. Mentally chastising himself for his carelessness, he hastily began to scoop the small sachets of herbs up, placing them back in the sack, tilting it at an angle so the contents would not disgorge themselves again. His hand paused, trembling, over a collection of leaves that were wrapped loosely in what looked to be a bandage; slowly his hand lowered, brushing gently against the waxy surface, rubbing the fronds together.

The leaf emitted a pleasant aroma with which he was all too familiar. Clenching his hand firmly around the Rucin he raised the handful close to his face, eyes closed in bliss as he inhaled. Almost instantaneously he found his headache alleviated, and much of the tremors he was experiencing began to fade. His weariness began to cast itself off, but not entirely. Scrabbling around on the floor Legolas felt his hand clasp Estel’s faded water bottle. Shaking it, he realised that it was still half-full, and he emptied it into a pot, which he set to boil on the fire. Leaning backwards, he kept one leaf in his hand, which he nibbled on. Eyes closed he inhaled again, relaxing.

As the scent and taste of the plant seemed to penetrate every pore of his body, Legolas found himself drifting away; mind eased as well as body, by the pleasure of the Rucin. He became detached from all worries and concerns, seduced by the euphoria induced by the Rucin. Experiencing only a mild twinge of distress at the thought of Estel alone out in the woods, in this weather, he contemplated gathering up some provisions, to head out in search of the ranger, but the crackle from the fire distracted him. Gazing at the fireplace he found himself experiencing inordinate amounts of pleasure from the warmth and light exuded by it. Sliding along the carpet, he found himself moving closer to the flame, basking in its warmth, feeling the heat spread out over his body, permeating into him.

Draping himself languorously on the rug, Legolas stretched out his body, sighing in relief as this caused him no pain. The heat massaged his muscles, and he felt himself being drawn into the blissful world of dreams. Eyes half closed he stared at the fire mesmerised by the flickering of the flames, which resembled the motion of a bird in flight. Captivated by the flame, he found himself drawn closer to it, reaching out towards the sensation of flight, which he remembered more clearly now from his earlier dreams. Heedless to the boiling of the pot over the fire, to the rattling of the window in the force of the storm, Legolas concentrated only on the red wings soaring in front of him.

Smiling to himself, he leaned up on one elbow, stretching his other hand forward, grasping at the elusive image. He smiled to himself as the wings darted between his fingertips, brushing them with their heat. Ignorant to the smell of burning flesh, to the pain, to anything but the sight of those dancing figures, Legolas sat there, hand thrust in the fire, smiling.