Tears of Confusion:

      Her name was Jei and she answered their questions as if there was no longer a point to anything. Her light eyes seemed bonded to the scene of the boy’s carcass, glazed and lifeless. As lifeless as the child limp upon the wooden floor, feather soft hair falling upon his brow.
      Gimli had returned with the news that the Ringwraith had fled, as had the others. One horse stood stamping still outside the Prancing Pony and he snorted almost in indignation at having been abandoned by his master.
      Legolas looked anxiously toward Pippin who swayed limply upon his feet, supported by Merry. “Is this what it felt like Merry? When you attacked the Lord of the Nazgûl?” But Merry simply stood worried, pulling him toward a forgotten stool and hushing him quietly.
      “Can you feel your limbs at all?”
      Gimli came forth from out of the rain and he stopped before the body of the fair child, remaining just outside the pool of deep red blood that had widened under the boy’s fallen form. He pulled his axe from the wall and slowly knelt then before the dead, bowing his head in sorrow. “A dark day it is,” he said softly.
      Legolas turned to look upon the woman once more, gazing down at her where she sat limply. A dark day indeed, made worse by their interference in a business that had not even been their own. He hesitated for a moment, aware of the total and complete silence in the inn, of the stares from the Bree folk, and sickened by their fascination with the dead child. He kept his back to them, desiring a moment with his thoughts or at the very least a bit of noise other than the high-pitched shriek of silence. It was maddening, even more so for her, no doubt. Very slowly he reached a hand out toward her. As he did so he realized only too late that his hand was covered with her blood and he had half a mind to recoil when something flickered in her gaze, sparking to life. He maintained the gesture, forcing a firm but gentle tone even though inside he felt the icy rock of emptiness. “Your wound, by my blade, needs tending,” he said.
      She paid him no mind, lips parted and trembling and looking as lost as the sun during the night. “What will I do now?” she whispered almost inaudibly, blinking numbly at the boy but no longer seeing as her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “What will I do..?”
      Legolas pulled his hand away, with hardly a blink but still with the same cold dread inside. Instead he lowered his gaze, only then aware that he held his knife still in his hand. He sheathed it dazedly, wanting the gesture to take as long as possible, anything to not have to look the woman in the face again only to see her desolation. He didn’t know what to say to her and no poetic words of any kind came to mind, for nothing he could have said would ever have made the situation right. He looked helplessly to the boy, heart clenching at his innocence and at his tender flesh streaked crimson with his drying blood.
      Merry pulled away from Pippin, untying his cloak and, almost in reverence he laid it upon the child, hiding away the stark image of death. The cloth settled lovingly upon the child, embracing him with the gentleness of falling petals and mist. And they knew the child felt it not.
      “Kingsfoil,” the woman whispered hoarsely, the only sound in the room and it seemed unbearably loud. One gloved hand was still pressed to her wound and she trembled, breath raspy. She looked at Gimli with an imploring expression. “I beg of you. Some kingsfoil.”
      The dwarf rose, setting his axe at his side and without a word he wound about Legolas and headed further back into the inn.
      The woman swallowed in preparation and then slowly reached behind herself with her free hand, looking for leverage. Legolas went to help her and she allowed him to be her aid, hunching with a wince as he lifted her warily. She did not meet his eyes but looked passed him instead, eyes straying out the open back door to fall upon the sky. “It rains still…” she murmured at their heavy grayness. “It will pour always, now.”
      Legolas did not reply. He supported her as she straightened and then gently laid her back against the wall as she inhaled painfully. Her face was pale, lined with weariness, and he became aware of faint blemishes, tiny marks lining her lips. He drew his gaze away, instead taking her in entirely. Black hair fell in a curtain about her slender face, down to her shoulders. Her shoulders seemed a bit too wide for her figure but underneath the fallen hood of the robe he saw the glint of metal and pondered the possibility that armor made her seem large of build. And blackness clothed the rest of her, down to the mud-streaked boots. He lifted his eyes back up and became aware that she stared at him now, dully, but with a small flicker of curiosity. He allowed himself to meet her gaze straight, seeing himself reflected in her pale blue eyes. Pale, pale blue, the color of ice and sorrow.
      “Will you help me out into the rain?” she asked him softly.
      He nodded wordlessly, supporting her once more as she tilted away form the wall, leaning into him. He pulled her gingerly, one arm wrapping about her waist and he noticed when she turned her face away from the corpse of the child. Pain flickered across her features and he doubted that it was due to the wound, but she remained silent, taking hold of the doorframe for more support.
      Outside, the rain fell in a gentle, cleansing drizzle, cool upon the bare skin. The woman hesitated, having only taken one step and she lifted her face to the drops that fell, allowing them to caress her face and vanish into her straight hair. Her breath0lefd her form and she seemed to fall in on herself in defeat. She staggered one last step before her legs gave out from under her and Legolas had but a moment to take her entire weight upon himself. He easily set her down upon a small stone step, oblivious to the patter of the rain.
      “Perhaps I am…not as well as I led myself to believe…” she said with effort and she hunched forward once more, releasing him. She carefully settled herself before leaning her weight back against the doorframe.
      Legolas hesitated before her. “Soon enough it will be but a long forgotten memory,” he said to her in reassurance. He lifted his face to the rain and looked out at the alleyway they sat in. A black horse waited several yards away and though he frowned at the mare he knew it did not belong to any of the Nazgûl.
      “Stormrider,” the woman said and he turned to look at her once more, the unspoken question on his delicate features.
      She studied him for a moment under heavy-lidded eyes, her head having fallen back against the wall. She seemed to consider his race, eyes flickering from his elven ears to his long blond hair. “The horse is called Stormrider for in the rain she rides fastest.” She gave him a patient look before averting her gaze to the wet ground and mud. “He named her that when he had been but a child.”
      Legolas did not question her aloud but as he cautiously sat down beside her she seemed to understand that while he was curious he remained polite toward her.
      “Ask your questions, elven stranger,” she prodded, looking about the alleyway.
      Legolas blinked. “My apologies. I grow forgetful with the situation.” And he added quietly, “My name is Legolas.”
      It seemed she smiled faintly for the smallest moment. “I know. Your friends said your name many a time.” She inhaled deeply and pulled her hands slowly into her lap, straining as she removed her gloves. The skin below was free of blood but she placed her hand once more upon her wound to staunch the blood flow, oblivious to the dark red stains that soiled her fingers.
      Legolas thought better of saying anything but he glanced back into the inn to see if Gimli was returning with the Kingsfoil.
      “Legolas,” she said and she sounded absentminded. As he looked at her once more she frowned, her expression tinged with dreaminess. It alarmed him for fear that she would pass at the very moment but she was still murmuring faintly, weakly. “Legolas Greenleaf? Prince of Mirkwood?”
      The elf tilted his head at her curiously. “Yes. How did you know?”
      She smiled with the same indolence and the gesture did nothing to relieve him. “He taught me much,” she replied and the sorrow descended with her words once more, casting a shadow upon her.
      Legolas thoughtfully observed her. “I was under the impression he was your child,” he said.
      It took her a long moment to reply and she blinked quickly, driving away more tears. “No…” she said faintly, eyes dull and focused on a point far in a distance only she could see. “The Gods were kind enough to place him in my path. That he would be born of my flesh is an honor I do not merit.”
      Legolas blinked at her words but nodded, head bowing as he looked at her wound once more.
      “Kingsfoil,” Gimli’s brusque voice came from behind and Legolas turned quickly, appreciating the moment to turn his attention away from visions of blood and death. Flashing a grateful smile at the dwarf he saw that Gimli held a small bowl of steaming water, bits of herb floating upon its clear surface. Legolas took it from him and set it down beside himself, taking a rag that Gimli then offered. He tore the rag in half and dipped first one piece, soaking it. Without draining it he held the rag out to Gimli. “Set it upon Pippin’s forehead. He needs to inhale the scent for it to revive his limbs and it would help him if the rag was also run over his body.”
      Gimli accepted the rag but went off muttering that he would have Merry run it over Pippin’s limbs because he touched no hobbit unless it was in greeting.
      “I should have expected that an elf would know how to handle athelas,” the woman said in a slightly weary tone and as he looked at her once more she was gazing at him, seemingly fascinated by him.
      Legolas rose, moving the bowl over a bit and wordlessly he urged her to lie back across the wooden floor. She did so, a spasm of pain flitting across her face and as she lay down he saw that her hair came to rest just outside the pool of the child’s blood. He gently set her locks aside and she watched him, seeming to glow with amusement.
      “I make you smile,” he stated, although it sounded more like a question. He soaked the other half of the rag in the kingsfoil water.
      “Yes,” she replied. “You are…endearing.”
      Legolas said nothing as he tugged at her robes, lifting them up her body. He knew, had the slight inkling, that she laughed inwardly. It was merely proven when she said in a slight teasing tone, “And you undress me as I lie bleeding in your care. Perhaps endearing was not the proper word after all.”
      He allowed himself a gentle smile, if only to soothe her but even as he spoke he wondered if it was the only reason. “You may call me what you wish but I will not answer to anything improper.” He folded the robe in upon itself around her waist and very carefully he lifted a section of it to survey the damage done.
      She did indeed wear armor and to his immense relief he saw that the armor had taken the worst of his strike, but she bled nonetheless and he undid the armor and removed it. Her clothes below were just as black as the rest of her, but a deeper tint, and he knew it was due to her blood. He pulled away the soaked material to study the angry slash and noted that though it looked painful it seemed not as bad as he had expected, and even for that he was thankful. His gaze shifted toward her face for a moment, clutching the wet rag in his hand and she stared above, seemingly in search of something. Something out of reach. He went back to the wound, gently wiping away the stains of blood to reveal smooth pale skin underneath. He cleansed the wound silently, dipping the rag again and again, and once it was free of the blood he strained the liquid of the athelas onto the gash.
      “Would that the tears of the Gods deliver me…” she said and he looked at her with a frown at her strange words.
      “Deliver you...?”
      She blinked at the ceiling, inhaling painfully. “From the accursed journey that lies before me now…” she whispered and she closed her eyes, saying no more.
      Legolas sat for a moment, wondering as to what she meant. And slowly, not of his own will, his eyes were drawn back to the corpse that was hidden below the cloak.. All that was visible was the outline of the child’s form but the blood has seeped into the material covering him so that the boy’s figure was an island in the red sea of death. He shuddered inwardly before soaking the cloth once more and settling it upon the woman’s forehead. “Breathe the scent for a moment. I will return.”
      She did not reply and he rose, floating back over to where Gimli sat with Merry and Pippin.
      “Still nothing?” he asked Pippin.
      But Pippin nodded. “It smells wonderful, like a warm air in this cold trap. And my hands are reviving now. What was I thinking to go after the creature?” And he looked at Merry. “What were you thinking, letting me?”
      “What was I thinking?” came the indignant reply.
      “How is the mother?” asked Gimli as the hobbits argued in the background.
      Legolas shook his head, lifting his hands to his hips wearily. “She is not his mother,” he replied, glancing back over. She lay still, pale, but her eyes were open and she blinked numbly. “I can not say for certain…what she was to the child but there is something that perplexes me to no end.”
      “And that would be?” Gimli prodded.
      Legolas paused thoughtfully. “Why her? And the child? And what do they have in common with Ringwraiths?” His blue eyes came back to Gimli, an eyebrow arched. “You know as well as I do that the Ringwraiths were summoned only for the One Ring and with the destruction of it went the Nazgûl. What does one woman and now one dead child have to do with those black creatures?”
      Gimli grunted, thick arms crossing over his large chest. “Have you not asked her? I assure you that asking me will not answer any of your questions.”
      The elf seemed to contemplate the matter. “I haven’t the heart…” he said softly, “to ask her. And I begin to worry now. Would the Nazgûl return to claim her? And should they return, would she be all right?”
      Gimli frowned at his friend, realization slowly but surely washing over him. “My friend, I have seen the look many a time upon your face and to see it again brings no relief. What is it you are saying?”
      Legolas did not answer.
      The dwarf rose although he still came no closer to standing eye to eye with the tall elf. “Legolas-“
      “I would blame myself for all eternity,” he said finally, focused once more on the woman. “She speaks of a journey that she must fulfill on her own and I feel in my heart that alone she will fail.”
      Pippin and Merry had fallen silent at their exchange and now they looked from the dwarf to the elf as each spoke in turn.
      Legolas turned back to Gimli. “I fear our reunion has come to an end, my friend,” he said to the dwarf and then to Pippin and Merry.
      “You blame yourself?” Pippin asked with wide eyes.
      The elf hesitated. “Not entirely. But a fair amount that the fault will return in my weakest hour to drive me mad.” His voice was thoughtful but strangely mournful and he smiled faintly at them, a small twist to his lips. “I know next to nothing about this journey but I know I will do whatever is needed of me to correct my wrong.”
      Merry did not look comforted. “But death, Legolas…” he said slowly. “Nothing is ever sufficient when death is involved.”
      Legolas nodded. “I know it.”
      Gimli shook his head, growling a bit in a snappish way. “I would be the first to think that this was something you wished to do because she was a woman but I know you not to be that kind of soul, my friend.” And he arched a thick, heavy brow. “Do you know her name at the very least?”
      The elf looked at him, the smile wider now. “Jei,” he replied.
All images and works done/altered by ShiNoFuriko and TasogareBan. Please do not steal and always give credit to where it is due.
The Pendulum