Building Ithilien [Legolas] LOTR

Without Reserve

Later that evening when he knocked on Miredhel's chamber door to escort her to Aragorn's infernal banquet, Legolas certainly held no illusions about what sort of greeting he might receive. A boot hurled at his visage, perhaps? A well-aimed fist? Legolas had already admitted to himself that he probably deserved her worst. He had been suppressing their bond, keeping her out. He tightened his jaw and knocked again.

Hmm. No answer. "Miredhel, I am sorry about earlier," Legolas said stoically. He rapped again on the door, this time a bit more impatiently. "Miredhel?" Stubborn elleth.

Legolas tried the door knob and found it unlocked. He peered tentatively down the hall and eased inside her room. The candles were unlit, and the wax, still cooling. She must have left only moments earlier. The smell of soap and Miredhel's own scent still lingered, and Legolas swallowed hard.

He loved her, needed her, and had foolishly tried to protect her from himself. If her reaction this afternoon was any measure, she apparently did not appreciate his efforts on her behalf. She misunderstood his intentions. He heard what she had said on the other side of the door after he made her leave. She thought he was denying their bond, and that was not what he wanted at all. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her, with her, under a field of stars with nothing between them. Legolas reached a hand out to the nearest obliging arm chair to steady himself. Valar, her perfume was getting to him.

"Looking for Miredhel?"

A voice from the doorway made him straighten up. He did not need to look over there to know who it belonged to—it was his sister. He glared at her anyway. She had a decidedly smug expression on her face.

"What?" he all but growled at her.

"I was over here before she left," Celeril informed him and added in a small voice. "She told me about Adrendil."

A credit to his upbringing, Legolas did not flinch when she said the name...but he wanted to. Restraint had ever been his fortitude. It was only later, behind closed doors that his famed elven nerves failed him, and he threw up like a wretch. Twice.

"Celeril, I—" Legolas hardly knew what to say to his young, idealistic sister. He had slain an elf that had served in their father's halls since childhood.

"You did what had to be done, Legolas," she finished for him. She joined his side and placed her hand on his shoulder. "I must say it shocked me—on both counts—to find Adrendil a murderer and that you were forced to kill him."

"I don't know anymore, Celeril," he supplied honestly. "I spent the rest of this afternoon thinking about what Father would have done, how he would have handled it." Legolas met his sister's eyes and took her hand in his. "Aragorn seems to believe this banquet tonight will help somehow."

"Then it shall," Celeril confirmed optimistically, and with great aplomb, led her brother to the banquet.

The staff of Minas Tirith, under Queen Arwen's patient guidance, had outdone themselves tonight. To throw such a gala together on such short notice, the outcome was splendid. Every silver candlestick, every silver serving piece down to the cutlery, twinkled atop long white linens and black table runners. In the middle of everything, as glorious and bright as the evening star, was Queen Arwen, smiling and pleasant, setting a friendly, easy example as she mingled among men and elves alike. Aragorn moved beside her, greeting his kinsmen and ladies with charm and grace, and flanking the king and queen, were an unlooked for boon of the evening—Faramir and Eowyn had arrived from Ithilien; their attendance tonight would do much to assuage any remaining doubts that the Gondorian court might have.