Building Ithilien [Legolas] LOTR

No Turning Back Now

She could hardly believe her eyes when she first saw her brother at the edge of camp. There had been soldiers blocking her view, but now she knew that in fact she had not been merely dreaming, and that Eledhel was actually there. He looked horrible, really, and Miredhel feared that he had been injured. Blood, both fresh and dried, streaked his tunic irregularly, and his face was weary. He did not look at all pleased to see her.

"Eledhel," she greeted him concernedly, her arms outstretched. "How did you ever manage to find us? What brings you here?"

Her face was flushed, her eyes bright and skin luminescent, and from her appearance, her brother knew that she had not seen him come in with the prince. She looked remarkably well and apparently knew nothing of what had happened to Legolas, and Eledhel dreaded being the one to have to tell her. From different conversations with his sister and Legolas in the Brown Lands, Eledhel had concluded that the two were both a short piece from either desperately hating each other or loving each other with an equally strong passion.

And he had warned them both of the risks to her heart and her Grief, if they recklessly fell in love. Now Legolas lay in the next tent dying, for all Eledhel knew. How could he bear this news to her?

Eledhel draped his arm around his sister's shoulders and faltered, pushing back his revulsion of the words he must say to his sister, words he knew would surely hurt her.

"Miredhel..." he softly began, and the ache in his eyes was unmistakable, especially to one so versed in Grief as his sister.

"What has happened?" she whispered and instinctively turned her head to search about the camp for her prince. From the dark fields, she saw Adrendil returning to the camp with several soldiers. He held Legolas' bow next to his own in his hand and his quiver and knives under his other arm.

Miredhel's face drained white. The whole camp shrunk around her. All she could see or care about was the sight of those weapons in the Captain's arms. Legolas' bow! She could hardly hear her brother's words above the sound of her own panicked breathing. Then her strength wilted away, and she groped for her brother's shoulder before she wordlessly crumpled to the ground.

Meanwhile inside Aragorn's tent, the king's face was grim as he surveyed the damage done to his dearest friend. There were some superficial wounds across his face. A deep gash scored one of his cheekbones. Bruises and swelling already marred his fine features.

Aragorn's anger flared beyond measure. These injuries were so different from any received in battle. There was no honor in what his friend had been forced to suffer. A mortal man might have succumbed to such wounds, but Legolas was strong, even by elven standards. He would live. Aragorn would see to that.

And Legolas had suffered, greatly. There was no doubt in the king's mind. The orcs had divested him of his tunic, and the evidence of their cruelty was plain to see, exquisite hate spelled through blood. The elf had been tortured, carefully so, in order to prolong his misery.