The Price of Pride

75: In the Grip of Night's Surrender

ActVII

Friends of New/Old

Chapter 75: In the Grip of Night's Surrender

Imladris, October 15th 3018 T.A

The dinner was finally over, and with it, the endless discussions, the conversations with elves whose names he barely knew. Elros had ensured that Legolas kept to his word, arranging one meeting after another with every guest who wanted an audience with someone from the halls of the Elvenking. Legolas had reluctantly agreed days ago, though his original plan had been to avoid as many gatherings as possible. For years, he had stepped down from the duties of prince, a decision agreed upon by both himself and Thranduil. But regardless of this, the title followed him; no matter how he tried to escape it, the other elven realms would not simply forget who he was.

And so here he was, navigating a web of politics and formality that drained him, leaving his mind heavy with thoughts he couldn't shake and nightmares that each night chipped away at his strength. He had noticed the change, this slow weakening that crept in, unrelenting and strange. But his explanations were always the same: it was his own mind, his weakness of heart that sought warmth and closeness he did not deserve. Perhaps these dreams were punishment, his own subconscious lashing out at him for yearning for more than he was entitled to—a consequence for daring to wish for happiness.

The truth, however, remained hidden from him. The nightmares had a source beyond his own mind, something darker and more insidious that stole fragments of him night after night. Proud and stubborn, he had missed the signs, unwilling to see himself as anything but at fault for the torment he suffered.

When he finally reached his room, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, exhaling. His mind wandered back to the evening, despite himself. He had done his best to avoid her for days, but there she was tonight, seated among the dwarves, dressed in one of the finest gowns Rivendell could offer. He knew Arwen was to thank for that; she'd undoubtedly dragged Xena to the seamstresses, insisting she own proper attire. He was sure it hadn't been Xena's happiest experience—she was far more at ease in armor than in silken gowns. And yet, she'd worn it tonight, one of the best of the lot, and looked radiant in it.

Yes, Legolas had noticed her, perhaps too much. She had worn that gown with a strength and elegance that was so unmistakably hers, and though he tried to turn away, his gaze had strayed to her more than once. It hadn't been long since the dwarves' arrival; he had been with Elladan when they arrived, watching them receive him with wary glances. He recognized few of them, save Glóin. It had not been that many years since their paths had crossed in Mirkwood, when Legolas's patrol had found them amidst a spider attack. After saving them, they'd taken the dwarves to Thranduil's halls and locked them up as though they were criminals.

A faint smile tugged at his lips, and a tinge of shame followed. If they'd been in his father's halls tonight, he might have had the dwarves locked up again. And why? For nothing more than the strange, twisting jealousy that crept in as he'd watched Xena laughing and speaking with them. It wasn't her ability to make friends that he envied, nor her ease in overlooking titles and races—qualities he deeply admired. No, his jealousy ran deeper, more painfully to the heart of things.

Because Legolas knew he could never share moments like that with her. He could never have the simplicity of laughter over a casual dinner, nor the lighthearted secrecy of sneaking in contraband bacon for the fun of it. Not after everything his heart had been through, and certainly not with the guilt weighing upon him. The walls of his own making, the restraints he'd built to keep his emotions in check, would not allow him to reach for such things.