This story is rated Serious R for Many Bad Things. Read Below for Details. This is a kind of AU (Alternate Universe) sequel/concurrent storyline to my other tale, "Leaf and Branch," which explores the theme: what if Elrond had NOT been in time to rescue Legolas? What if the Orcs had made it to Dol Guldur, and the Shadow successfully held the young Prince of Mirkwood hostage to the good behavior of his father and the Elves? This is NOT a happy story, and people are going to be hurt. So please believe me when I say, this is a sad tale.

This story is definitely a No Fluff Zone ™, and any humor in it is likely to be dark. It takes place eighteen years after "Leaf and Branch", and Legolas is therefore about 40 years old--and has just attained his physical maturity, though clearly for even an Elf, is still young. In other words, he is at that awkward age when one is mature enough physically to sire or bear a child, yet hardly emotionally mature enough to handle it. Add in that since his capture he has given a new twist to the old Elvish taunt, "Were you raised by Orcs, or what??" and we have a Not Happy Elf ™. Please bear that in mind as you read. NICE THINGS ARE NOT GOING TO HAPPEN HERE UNTIL WAY LATE IN THE STORY.

Rating Information:

R for non-consenting sex, rape, violence, Orcish mistreatment, major angst and other stuff of that ilk; torture, torment, mental anguish, it's all in a day's work at Dol Guldur. Some implied het content and some possible slash: people who love each other having sex, and people who don't love each other at all, doing bad things to others. Please be assured I will treat this delicately--but if it squicks you, please consider not reading.

Dark Leaf, Chapter One: Songs in the Key of Grief

The voice was low and soft, melodic and deeply impressive. It sang in the utter darkness of the chamber; throbbing with emotion, the voice rose and fell with the level of pain, but never rose to such a level of loudness as might prove irritating to others, for the singer was, if nothing else, polite and considerate of the feelings of others. The singer did not know, however, that his voice could not be heard too well unless one were just outside the door to the chamber in which he dwelt; nor could it be heard much beyond the perimeter of the balcony just outside the often-closed doors. He did not know because whenever he dwelt here he never left the chamber, not until it was time to go. No one in Lothlorien wanted to tell him, either. They did not wish to add to the burden of his grief by suggesting they had all heard the songs, wept for him and for his loved ones about whom the songs were sung, and so no words were ever spoken. But those who passed close enough had indeed heard the songs and knew the story, and grieved for what could apparently never be-- the consolation of a sadness borne.

Every year at this time the singer came to Lothlorien at the request of the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn. He arrived in the night at the start of the full moon and left several days later, also under cover of darkness; it was as if he were ashamed of himself, or of something, and needed to hide in the shadows of the dark hours. Cloaked from head to foot, hooded so that even the colour of his hair was not precisely known, he was the talk of Lorien among those who had no idea who he might be and what his annual errand. Among those who knew all too well who he was there was only silence and sadness, and shared grief.

Late on the first night of his arrival in the eighteenth year, Galadriel walked silently through the wood until she stood at the foot of the tree into which this particular flet had been built. It was small and snug, a comfortable, charming flet, its carved sides clinging to a particularly old and soothing mallorn tree that very well knew when to speak and when to be silent, and was much prized for that reason. The windows on all four sides were shuttered and no light came from within. She knew the entryway would be locked from inside if she climbed the stairs and tried the door. Galadriel listened as one song wound to a close, heard the sob that accompanied the dying of the last note; she closed her eyes as if in pain when the brief silence gave way to yet another mournful, beseechingly lovely song.

"We must do something," she murmured to the presence she felt at her back. "It is the eighteenth year of this; he carries on for the sake of honour, duty, whatever of hope he possesses, but there is no way to know if he will ever find relief from this unless we do something."

Strong arms, loving and protective, encircled her; the hands she so loved reached to take hers, clasping them within and raising them to her heart, his hands and hers conjoined, and Galadriel was pulled gently back into the arms of her lord, Celeborn of Doriath. She closed her eyes and welcomed his strength, cherished the warmth of his breath in her hair and on the tip of her ear.

"We must be patient a while yet, beloved," he breathed, gazing up at the flet, his eyes quicksilver in the blue dimness. "Mithrandir said he would stop in Imladris; that would have been a week ago, he will be here soon. He will know what to do."

"And then we shall have both of them here, telling us how they could have done, should have been able to do, something--anything--eighteen years ago," Galadriel sighed. "Who could have known? None of us could have foreseen it. The worst my mirror showed was nothing compared to this reality."

"This would not be the first time," Celeborn said reasonably, and he kissed the side of her throat in gentle comfort. "Even the best of magic has its limitations, and the world is growing colder. We knew all along diminishment would exact its tolls."

The song above them floated to a soft conclusion. The Lord and Lady looked up, their eyes sad, as the silence resolved into heartfelt weeping.

"Best to let this run its course before even suggesting he look into the mirror," Celeborn said, shaking his head. "I do not wish to even contemplate what he might see this year."

"Mithrandir had better have some extremely fine ideas," Galadriel murmured, turning into her husband's embrace and placing her hands on his shoulders. Her blue eyes were tinged with sadness, but there was something else there, as well: something of battle and command, something that suggested she was more than finished letting this matter lay fallow. Celeborn had seen this look on her before, and remembered what had come of it; his deep grey eyes narrowed slightly, gazing into the depths of hers, and a faint smile touched his lips.

"I have some extremely fine ideas too," he said, and touched his mouth to hers, sweetly at first. Whispering against her lips, he asked, "Would you like to know what they are?"

She wound her fingers into the silver waterfall of his hair, matching her body against his, and kissed him in return. Drawing back, she looked more deeply into his eyes and smiled very, very faintly.

"There are many kinds of magic," she breathed, and traced the line of his jaw with her soft fingertips. "Perhaps if I listen to your ideas, my own mind will find some focus."

"Not at first," he said, and gave a low laugh. "My ideas may, in fact, confuse more than they focus. But after, I think there may be something of coherence helped by a release of tension. There is an answer to every question, my Galadriel. We needs must but search diligently for it."

"That I am more than ready to do," she said, her lovely voice deeper and more ironic; she released him, and they walked away with slow, considered steps, their fingers interlaced for comfort. Behind them, a new song rose up and floated out over the night; Galadriel schooled herself not to listen to it, and instead concentrated on the familiar, beloved sound of Celeborn's heartbeat as they walked. Answers and answers, she thought. Love can answer much... a little belief, even after eighteen years, is not so great a thing. Mithrandir is coming....

But there were other matters to attend to, before then. Just a little belief... just a little love....


Chapter Two

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