The Price of Pride

51: Echoes of Peace

ActV

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Chapter 51: Echoes of Peace

Imladris, September 15th 3018 T.A

Legolas had spent two days avoiding Xena, knowing full well he couldn't continue to sidestep her forever. It wasn't that he lacked an explanation—it was that he couldn't find one that made sense, even to himself. Why had he lingered in her room longer than he should? Why did he feel compelled to be there, watching over her as she slept, listening to the sound of her breathing, and assuring himself she was still alive? He had no answer, or at least none that he was ready to confront.

He wandered through a more secluded area of Rivendell's gardens, where the trees grew wilder and the sound of the waterfalls below was a constant, powerful roar. Here, the foliage was thick, untouched by the manicured hands that shaped the more open parts of the gardens. Legolas found a large tree with a trunk wide enough to lean against, and he did so, folding his arms over his chest as he stared down at the water cascading with a force that was almost angry, almost alive.

The falls reminded him of Xena—wild, unpredictable, and unyielding. A force of nature unto herself, powerful in a way that few men, or elves for that matter, could ever hope to tame. Especially when provoked; she was a storm unleashed. He winced slightly as he touched the bridge of his nose, still tender and bruised from the second punch she had landed without hesitation. The thought should have irritated him, wounded his pride, and in many ways, it did. But there was another part of him—a small, hidden part—that admired her for it. She was fearless, and he had seen few with her audacity. She had not cared that he was an elf, a warrior, or even a prince.

His gaze drifted back to the torrent of water below, its relentless rush echoing his thoughts. A small smile played at the corner of his lips. "She did not even hesitate to punch the son of Thranduil," he murmured to himself, his voice barely louder than the whisper of the wind through the leaves.

A barred owl, perched on a low-hanging branch nearby, tilted its head, its light grey feathers blending seamlessly with the shadows of the tree. Legolas looked at the bird, its wide eyes blinking at him in an almost knowing way. "Had my father known of this," Legolas continued, speaking softly as if confiding in the owl, "it would have been rather amusing."

The owl blinked slowly, as if acknowledging his words, and Legolas chuckled softly. The elves of Mirkwood were known for their bond with the creatures of the forest, and in this moment of solitude, he felt a certain kinship with the bird. It watched him with a quiet intelligence, its head moving in slow, deliberate motions as if it understood the weight of his thoughts.

Legolas reached out, and the owl remained still, sensing no danger. His fingertips brushed against the rough bark of the tree, feeling the life thrumming beneath its surface, the quiet song of nature that only those who listened carefully could hear. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the ancient rhythm of the earth beneath his feet, the rustling of leaves whispering secrets he wished he could decipher.

But he could not escape the reality of his current situation. The owl hooted softly, as if urging him to face his troubles. He opened his eyes and shook his head, his thoughts returning to the problem at hand—what could he possibly say to Xena? How could he explain actions that didn't even make sense in his own mind?

He usually confided in Aragorn, shared his burdens with the twins, or even Arwen when the weight grew too much. But this? The idea of discussing his nightly visits to a maiden's chamber, even if it was only to ensure her safety, felt absurd. He was the Prince of Mirkwood, after all. He was supposed to embody discipline, restraint, and wisdom. Yet here he was, sneaking into a woman's room like some lovesick fool, driven by a feeling he could neither name nor understand.