Though I am young and cannot tell
Either what death or love is well,
Yet I have heard they both bear darts,
And both do aim at human hearts:
And then again, I have been told,
Love wounds with heat, as death with cold
-- Ben Jonson "Though I Am Young and Cannnot Tell"
[Winter Solstice, Year 2713 of the Third Age of Middle-earth, the great cave palace of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood]
With well-trained precision, Glorfindel precisely smoothed the soft bandage into a comfortable yet snug fit, guaranteeing the expertly prepared medicine would remain in constant contact with the offended flesh. "There -- I am finished with you. Now it will properly heal." Carefully lowering the back of the prince's garb to cover the rear of his thighs, the Elvish healer removed the leftover herbs from the edge of the bed and set them on a small table nearby. "Let me help you get settled."
Legolas exhaled loudly, the disgust evident in his voice, low and dense like a valley's morning fog. "I will never be comfortable with my own stupidity." Wincing at the stiffness in his body and the sharp pain shooting through the back of his left thigh, he tried to provide some assistance as Glorfindel rolled him over onto his back, but felt as useless as he had all these past hours.
The forces of Mirkwood, strengthened by Elrond's unexpected and most welcomed contribution of Rivendell's best soldiers, had soundly routed the orc invasion without heavy losses, sending the remainder of the enemy fleeing south far beyond Thranduil's realm. It was in the celebratory confusion of victory's glory that Legolas had become distracted, careless, and had felt the icy heat of pain plunge through his upper leg, the last desperate sword thrust of a dying orc.
Free of poison's taint, the weapon had not inflicted a fatal wound, yet the shame the young prince had felt at being caught so easily seemed nearly incurable. Glorfindel had field-dressed the wound on the spot, and personally escorted the prince's makeshift litter as it returned to Thranduil's subterranean palace.
Now, these many hours later, Legolas was secure in his own bed, safe from his own carelessness, protected within the heavy rock walls of the only home he'd ever known. Why, then, did it suddenly, after all this time, feel as a veritable prison?
"Many thanks, Glorfindel," he murmured sadly, gingerly adjusting himself among the carefully positioned pillows.
The elder elf smiled warmly. "Keep off it for the night, and I will change the dressing in the morning. If you require anything, your father has stationed an aide outside the door for your comfort."
My father! He must think me the blindest of young fools. The sweet sound of merriment softly echoed through the winding stone passages beyond his private chamber, adding further lingering insult to his already painful physical injury. "Go join the true warriors, Glorfindel," Legolas sullenly suggested. "I promise I will not find further trouble."
Mildly amused at the prince's self-loathing, Glorfindel flashed the other a comforting smile. "Do not trouble yourself over this, Legolas. Do you believe that even the eldest among us are safe from mistakes and distractions?"
"Some distractions are more serious than others. One cannot afford to make too many mistakes on the battlefield, if one wishes to live long enough to become one of the eldest."
Nodding in agreement, Glorfindel found himself impressed with the younger elf's depth of understanding. "Then a lesson was learned. It is not a wasted experience, nor a wound received without cause, then."
"I would have rather learned the lesson without shedding my own blood, or my dignity," Legolas grumbled unhappily, picking at the layers of his soft woven bedclothes.
With an understanding smile, Glorfindel affectionately squeezed the prince's shoulder.
"Sometimes we do not get that choice." He surveyed the heavy golden candelabra set upon the bedside table and noted with satisfaction that the candles would easily last the night. "Is there anything that I can get for you to make you more comfortable before I retire?"
Shrugging the blankets around himself, Legolas shook his head, then froze. "Yes, yes there is." Pointing across the room, he gestured toward an ornately carved oak chest set in the far corner. "Inside there is a book, hidden at the very bottom, under a cloak. Bring it to me."
Glorfindel did as was asked of him, fishing out the hefty volume from its hiding place and cradling it in his arms. With a bittersweet smile of recognition on his face, he proudly brushed his fingers over his handiwork as he turned to deliver it to its rightful owner. Legolas studied the other's face with curious interest. "You know that book?" he queried, more a statement of the obvious expression he noted in Glorfindel's face. "You have seen it before."
"Yes, I spent many hours, days, applying ink to its pages." With a flash of a bittersweet smile, he handed over the leather-bound tome. "Lord Elrond had me transcribe it from the original during your last visit."
Accepting the book with both hands, Legolas carefully cradled it in his lap and hesitantly stroked the embossed cover before tightly gripping the sides with his hands. Staring down at the delicate gold-leaf paint strokes adorning the leather, he recognized the design as a battle standard, featuring a brilliant star in its center. He felt as if he should recognize the design, as if it was an image he had heard painted in song, or one of his father's tales of past ages, but at the moment he could not properly place it into its rightful context. "It is a magnificent gift," he whispered. "I have not had the time to enjoy it until now."
Surprise tinged with the hesitation of foreknowledge grew apparent in Glorfindel's manner and voice. "You do not know its contents?"
"No -- Lord Elrond made me promise not to even open its cover until I left Rivendell. I have kept my word." Hearing the unspoken depth in Glorfindel's question, he raised his eyes and met the other's gaze. "What manner of book is this?"
"It is Lord Elrond's personal account of the end of the Second Age."
Lingering in the noticeable sadness in that statement, as well as the glint of time-muted pain in the elder elf's eyes, Legolas felt the full mass of the book and its ominous contents crush his legs as well as his heart. "Those who remember first hand sing of it as a time of great pain," he reverently whispered, lowering his eyes back to the cover. "Including my father."
"It was."
Legolas squeezed shut his eyes, shuddering at the memory of the vivid accounts of his grandfather's death he had heard as a child, sitting by the fire at his father's knee. He remembered seeing in his father's face a hint of the sorrow he had spied in Elrond's heart. Yet to compare the depths of agony fleetingly glimpsed in his lover's eyes to the regret in his father's tales was as to compare the injuries of his grandfather's mutilated corpse to his own minor flesh wound. It insulted both the legacy of his father's sire and the love he felt ever growing more true for the Peredhil Lord. "I know he carries great pain within him, although he will not tell me of it in more than brief whispers," he hushedly explained. Pausing, he sincerely wondered for the first time if he truly wished to know the answer to the question which had often visited his mind. "He lost someone he held most dear, although he will not utter a name in my presence." Slowly opening his eyes, he dared a pained glance up at Glorfindel. "Will I find the answer in these pages?"
"More than merely the answer, Legolas. You will come to understand far more of Lord Elrond than just the burden of loss he carries." With a distant expression in his eyes, Glorfindel carefully sat on the edge of the bed and traced a reverent brush of his fingers across the gold etched star gracing its cover. "You will understand just how brilliant is the light you have brought to Rivendell and its master, that it could illuminate the places in his heart the Second Age made dark." Noting the delicate hint of rose color tinting the prince's cheeks, Glorfindel chuckled softly. "Even the night's deepest curtain could not hide the fire in his eyes when you are by his side," he offered in comforting explanation, "nor the joy in his heart. I have known him far longer than most, and when I tell you he has dwelt in winter for all of this age, I do not lie. Save for his much-cherished children, there has been little to bring cheer to his heart. Until now."
Legolas stared at Glorfindel, not knowing how to respond. The elder elf's words were no mere flattery -- the solemnity in the ageless ancient face made that well understood. It brought boundless delight to his heart to hear affirmation of the happiness he had hoped he had brought to the other's heart and bed. And yet, with that pleasure came an awe-inspiring responsibility. To hold someone's heart in one's hand was no small matter, especially not one so noble, so exceptional, so experienced, and yet so obviously fractured, as that of the Lord of Imladris.
Sensing it was time to leave the prince to the revelations which awaited him, Glorfindel stood up from the bed. "Read the words, Legolas, and hear his voice as you do. They may be written in my hand, but they were born of his heart. Ponder every word, from the first to the very last, and I promise your questions will find their answers." With that he turned to depart, leaving Legolas alone in the silence of his room with his tremulous hopes and countless fears.
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