Wildest Storms | Love of Royals: Book III

VI: Wandering Hearts

I make it a priority to blatantly avoid Legolas for the rest of the day. In fact, I avoid most people—except Alëaren, who refuses to leave my side. I don't even seek out Glorfindel in the hope of striking up a conversation, so this quest thing has clearly thrown me rather a lot.

I'm not even sure what I want to say to Legolas.  Would he even have time to hear it, now he's joined his new friends for a new adventure?  I highly doubt it. This whole thing has made me grow to unreasonably dislike Imladris within hours of my arrival, resenting it for causing my half-brother to pledge his bow to a quest bound for Mordor—to leave his family behind in the hope he somehow survives the journey there and back again. Of course, he's likely to survive most of the hardships the world can throw at him, but who's to say how strong one must be to weather the dangers of Mordor itself?

After far too long vainly trying to amuse myself in our guest rooms, I decide to bring Alëaren out for another walk. She obliges, being equally willing as myself to leave Telamír to his third nap of the day—this time curled up sideways across the window seat, one arm dangling off the edge. It only adds to ny annoyance how he's refused all day to listen to either of us talking about what we've seen. Drunk Telamír is someone I feel incredibly inclined to use as a tester to determine the depth of the nearby crevasse.

What Alëaren and I find on the first balcony around the corner makes us stop short.

'Look, just because you and Aragorn fancy being heroic doesn't mean you can go off on this quest. It's far too dangerous,' says Fíria firmly—standing as threateningly as she can before Legolas, who merely sighs.

'I've dealt with danger before, and so have you. This is no different. I'm doing my part against the enemy.'

'You can do your part with the rest of us!' Fíria insists, 'you don't have to go off and do it on your own, so far away. That's not what we came here for. What will your father and Elena think?'

'When will you realise how little I care about what either of them think?' Legolas almost scoffs. 'I've spent so long trying to prove to them that I am my own person. Whatever they say will not sway me.'

'What about us? What about Alëaren? You have a family, Legolas! You cannot just run off on a quest into the wilderness from which you might never return. I won't let you.'

'It's not up to you. This is my choice, and I have made it. If we didn't have Alëaren, you cannot convince me you wouldn't want to come with me. Do something important—go on an adventure.'

Fíria considers this for a moment, her lips pursed. 'Maybe I would, but that's not the point. Surely there are other elves who could go? Why must it be you?'

'You can hardly talk after what you did the night your father died.'

'This isn't about me!' Fíria snaps, inadvertently sending a sprinkling of black sparks from her fingers. Legolas ignores them—but upon looking down at her own hands, Fíria's eyes develop a sheen of tears. She's learned to control her magic in response to heightened emotion, but this... this is something she had not quite prepared for. Her husband leaving, and now acting like this about it... I almost understand why the sparks had to fly.

'I know, but you still did what you did,' Legolas says, 'you must understand at least a little why I've chosen to do this.'

'It was to keep you all out of danger! You know that!' Fíria's voice wobbles—but not nearly as much as her hands, which have begun to tremble so violently that she shoves them inside the pockets of her royal purple winter gown.