The Exile's Daughter

Frantic Efforts

Eventually, after more than a week, Aragorn decided I no longer needed bed rest, and I was free once more to wander the valley, but never without another.

So it was that, on a bright, frosty morning, I was sat with my back against the willow by the river, my eyes closed against the winter sunlight. Firiel knelt a few feet away, washing clothes in the bubbling water and humming under her breath while she completed her task.

Legolas was on his first patrol since our last, disastrous venture. He and Halbarad had flatly refused to take me with them, even though most of my wounds were healed enough to take on some duties again. The valley, though fair, felt like a prison while I had nothing to do. If I did not start taking on tasks again soon, I thought I would go insane. I resolved to speak to Legolas that evening. He would be going with Aragorn tomorrow, so perhaps he would be more inclined to heed my wishes with our most trusted friend beside us.

Our mattresses had not been returned to their previous places since the first night we had spent in each other's arms. Every night since, he had been a constant comfort, on hand if I awoke from nightmares, or if I could not sleep at all. I doubted that we would ever sleep as we had once done, for it would serve no purpose but to drag ourselves away from the little safety we could find in each other's hold.

The sons of Elrond knew full well what was going on, but I was grateful they seemed to have decided to say nothing of it. I expected they could not bear to take from me my greatest source of joy.

Legolas, I knew, had also been comforted by our new arrangement. He would tense sometimes in his slumber, or mumble some incoherent phrase in a quaking voice, but I could calm him by whispering his name, or snuggling deeper into his chest.

He would not speak of his nightmares if questioned. Aragorn and I had tried, both separately and together, but it appeared the tough exterior he had built up over the aeons of his life would not be easy to break, no matter how much he had tried for me.

"Ness?" I blinked. Firiel was sitting beside me, the washing drying on the rocks a few feet away. I mustered a smile.

"Are you finished?"

"Not quite, but Ancalimë will come with lunch soon. What were you thinking about?"

Nearly everyone in the valley had asked me variations of that question. I rarely gave an answer, much less an honest one, but they didn't seem to expect it. That day, however, I did want to talk. "Legolas. He's not himself."

"Well, there's no mystery in that." Firiel twisted her hands awkwardly in her lap.

"Of course not, but he won't talk to me about it."

Firiel sighed. "Do they ever? I expect he wants to spare you the heartache."

"I know he does," I sighed exasperatedly, "but it worries me more when he's like this. He's usually quite good at telling me things, or at least better than Aragorn says he was before."

"He certainly is freer with his thoughts than when we first met him." Firiel half smiled. "Could Aragorn speak to him?"

"He's tried. He won't speak to anyone".

She frowned for a moment. "Then you'll have to prod him until he comes out with it. he will, eventually, and when he's ready. Tar's the same. Give him time and reassure him that you want to hear whatever is ailing him, and he'll tell you."

It was almost comical, receiving relationship advice from one over nine hundred years younger than me, but Firiel's wisdom was sound. "I worry about the effect this has had on him."

"Any man would find this situation difficult", she acknowledged calmly, "but if you can persuade him to share the grief, it may even bring you closer."