..::TRYING TO PUSH THE PAST AWAY::..

DISCLAIMER: I do not own „Lord Of The Rings". Whole recognizable belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. Written only for fun, no money made.

GENRE: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Romance

WARNINGS: heavy AU, Legolas OOC. This story contains slash, means male/male relationship. Angst, torture, violence, physical/mental/drug abuse, rape. Emotional impact at detailed scenes of healing. Special warnings will be placed before each chapter.

SUMMARY: Enslaved in his childhood and continually abused, Legolas leads a hard life in Mirkwood. One horrible day changes everything, and the Elf's very fëa is at stake. Finally Legolas ends up given to the Lord of Imladris. What will his new Master do?

CHARACTERS: Legolas, Elrond, Glorfindel, Elladan & Elrohir, Erestor.

TIMELINE: 2530 year of the Third Age. Celebrian has sailed over the sea twenty years ago. The new darkness is growing in Dol Guldur. Aragorn is not yet born.

FEEDBACK: Highly appreciated and desired! I try to answer every review. Thanks for reading!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Final and remastered edition. Seemingly my attachment to this story is far too great to leave it just so.

Chapter I : UNNACCEPTABLE GIFT

/*/

The forest was silent.

The thick mist of the steamy morning of laer (1) was crawling over the wet, slick grass between the mossy trunks of trees. No bird disturbed the silence of the last couple of hours before the sunrise. The sky was still deep dark blue, despite the thin line of pink light peeking in the East, in the direction they were heading to. It was hampered by the trees, and the shy light was all but lost amidst surrounding darkness.

There were no stars either; no real, warm light one could take hope from, only a pale blue glow curling over sparkling, heated mist. The air itself was hot and all seemed sticky, sweat making clothes cling to bodies, dampening hair and plastering it to necks. Unnatural silence only heightened the overwhelming impression that the nature itself was wearied by the humid air.

"Why are you not sleeping. You know you will not be able to take a nap on horseback."

The tired, resigned whisper came from the left. A dark-haired Elf glanced at his companion, curled into huge roots of an old willow, who was shivering slightly despite the heat. His smaller, thinner form was pressed tightly to the root by his back, his blond head resting on the ground, both his hands securely enfolded around his ribs in a defensive attitude, as if to conserve warmth.

"The tree is whispering," he said quietly after a while. "It's talking to me."

The dark one sighed, brushing his brown hair out of sight. He glanced thoughtfully at the famished creature. He looked so fragile in comparison to the huge roots he had pressed his back to. Pale hair surrounded his head with matted and dirty knots, tattered garments were positively filthy by now after ten days of traveling. They were giving no protection from the cold which the Elf must have been feeling, given his constant, steady and visible trembling.

"Try to sleep, Legolas," the Elf said finally. "At least try. The tree will understand. Do you want my blanket?"

The blond one didn't answer, only closed his eyes and turned his face away. Yet his tremble only increased at the thought of being covered with something warm. The Elf crouching near him only sighed and lifted his blanket from the moss.

"Move, Legolas," he whispered. "Give me some room."

When the Elf scrambled forward, slightly away from the root, his companion simply laid down beside him, tucking the blanket around him and pressing the tense back to his chest. The struggle came immediately.

"Moreth, no…" the blond whined trying to evade the touch, but was silenced sharply by an iron hold on his arm.

"It's only about warmth. Calm down" The brown one said. He could feel high fever causing the Elf to shake, and could see an unhealthy flush covering both his cheeks in ugly red. How long it is to the sunrise…? Moreth counted.

'Tis too early still, he concluded finally, gazing to the East. He turned to his friend then, stroking his arm in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "You will have to endure an hour more, Legolas. You will do this for me, won't you?"

Legolas didn't answer. He was still and tense as a bowstring, allowing Moreth's touch, but praying for it to disappear. A sigh which was hardly calm was everything Moreth could come up with. He was hot and tired, but determined to endure for the sake of his friend. He sensed his irritation at being interrupted when listening to the tree and being ordered to sleep, but Moreth knew better. If Legolas could catch one more hour of sleep, he should; they were so close to their destination. This terrible march from Mirkwood would soon end. Unfortunately, Legolas' endurance was reaching its limits as well.

The dawn was dark and quiet - too quiet for the thickness of the forest they were in.

Were there no living creatures here? Were these woods dead? The Elf held in Moreth's arms whimpered silently. The very atmosphere of this place was beginning to weigh down on him. He took absolutely no comfort in the arm around his middle; if anything, it was just one more discomfort to endure. There was not much warmth in Moreth also. He was almost as depressed as his friend. The very scent of the other male, his tiredness and strange hardness of the bony chest could bring no reassurance, so the gesture of comfort reversed into an odd, cold and hated habit, causing only more damage to the already abused soul. Legolas buried his face in hands and pressed his cheek to the soft moss. It was damp and clammy.

The last quiet hour before departing was the most exhausting and painfully slow, bringing no sleep, only the soul-consuming wait until the torment of enforced, arid rest ended.

/*/

It was close to midday when the party of eleven Elves was stopped by armed guards.

The contingent was heading to Imladris, carrying a message and gifts from the King of the Mirkwood Forest himself. The group was small, rather poorly provisioned and not heavily armed, but still capable of defending against an unexpected obstacle like an orc attack.

Seven of them, appearing to be warriors, were tall and powerfully built, with apparent craftsmanship to be taken into consideration should it come to a fight. Two others were clad in an envoys' green cloaks and fur collars, so the warriors behind appeared to be their escort. There were also two dirty, tired Elves sharing one mare; the brown haired one, sitting behind the elfling he cradled, was holding himself upright and leading the horse with one hand, his green eyes scared, but determined. The child sitting in front of him was leaning forward, holding the mare's mane for dear life, his wrists clad in iron.

"We cannot let you pass now," the guard said loudly, eyeing the strange group suspiciously. "You shall not enter the realm on your own."

"We are the envoys of King Lathronios of the Mirkwood Forest, and we are heading to see Elrond the Peredhel of Imladris. You will let us pass."

"I heard that the first time. The answer is still no." the Elf responded. He was wearing the colors of Elrond's house, holding his hand ready on his short sword, the typical weapon carried by all guards in the range of sight. The Imladrian party was quite numerous and well organized. The border, for the border it was where the contingent has been stopped, was obviously well guarded.

"You must let us pass, we have important business to conduct here," the Mirkwood envoy spoke with calmness he was far from feeling.

"I said you will not enter the realm alone," the guard repeated stubbornly. "You will have to wait until midday and come with the guards assigned to that task, when their substitutes appear to change them."

"We have no time to spare for waiting!" the envoy said, finally losing his patience. "I see royal envoys are considered not much better than common criminals here, if they need to be led under guard. It is an insult of our King!"

"It is just an assurance of safety, yours as much as ours. We have no permission to let any armed contingent within Imladris. We bear you no ill will." The Elf gestured to a few of his companions to help the newcomers settle down in the camp and they came closer, ready to help. "You shall see Lord Elrond very soon. It will take only an hour to midday and two more to get to the Last Homely House."

The envoys glanced at each other. Irritated, but convinced eventually, they dismounted their stallions and gave the reins over to awaiting guards who led them further away, someplace they could drink and rest after the journey. The warriors followed the example without further arguments. The guard seemed contented with such outcome hoping for some.

In the small bustle the two Elves at the rear were almost forgotten, but the darker one attempted to dismount as well, deeming he needs no explicit permission to do so as it was obvious they wouldn't be setting off in an hour's time. He slipped down quite easily, but his companion needed help. He was uncooperative and seemed to have barely registered that they have been halted at the border.

One of the contingent warriors turned to the two, asking something sharply. The Imladris guard frowned at the tone and glanced over his shoulder, only to see that the blond one refused to answer, which earned him a blow across the cheek that sent him flying down from the horse and landing in the other Elf's extended hands. The guard had no time to shake off his shock, for the armed Elf reached to lift the abused captive up and hit him once again, this time with a nasty looking riding crop he held.

The smaller form was shielded by the other Elf's own body and pushed down to the grass with a sharp order to sit under the tree. The guard, who just ran towards them to put a stop to what was happening, was now close enough to hear the furious words of the warrior Elf.

"How dare you, slave! Move out of the way!" he said angrily, reaching to grab the Elf's shoulder when his order was ignored. He never managed to touch the brown-haired one, though.

"What is this?" the guard demanded, standing between them. "What is this, I ask? What are you doing?"

"These are just slaves," the answer came. "They needed to be shown their place."

The guard found himself speechless; with a quick turn he saw that the taller Elf was no longer standing behind him, but kneeling near his friend - who was no child as previously thought, but a grown male, only so underfed and crumpled on the ground that he looked rather minute.

"Imladris does not adhere to slavery," the guard said finally with renewed determination. "Being in our borders, you will abide our laws; you will not beat them in my presence. Put it down," he gestured at the whip. The warrior glanced briefly at the envoys' direction, but indeed put the crop back near his saddle and turned to his horse, having no incentive to argue with Imladris guard.

"Strange customs indeed in this valley." He muttered, displeased.

"For me, strange is your brutal treatment of them. Why are you leading slaves into our realm? What is this all about?"

"We were ordered to deliver them, the envoys know more," the Mirkwood Elf responded, tending to his horse and taking his pack off its back. "The blond one is to stay here as far as I know. The other is here to help."

"What do you mean, stay here?"

"I know not. What is so strange that you cannot understand, guard? Is slavery something surprising for you?"

"Indeed it is! How come you…" the guard hesitated, both lacking of civilized words and unwilling to start a quarrel with one of the contingent. The other Elf arched an eyebrow at this clamor and laughed quietly, walking away.

The guard turned immediately to the slaves he has just saved and hesitantly knelt next to the blond, who was sitting under the tree with his knees brought up to his chest. He was staring dully at one of the stains on his grey leggings. His breath was ragged and easily heard.

"…Sir?" the brown one sounded after a while. His voice was hesitant and very quiet. It seemed like he was not allowed to speak to strangers.

"My name is Gwaithtir. I am the chief guard of Imladris border. Don't be afraid." He said, looking at the Elf.

"I am Moreth. How can I help you, Sir?"

Gwaithtir returned to staring at the figure sitting unmoving near the tree trunk. Slowly he extended a hand to touch the gash on his forehead, now closed and covered in brownish scabs, but hurting and swollen. The Elf flinched from the hand, turning his head away and closing his eyes like a child would, clumsily lifting his hand to protect his head from the possible blow.

"Don't touch him, Sir, please," Moreth said quickly, uncaring that he was forgetting his place. "Please, he's scared."

Gwaithtir lowered his hand, but the Elf didn't move. Moreth came for help and delicately taking his friend's hand in his, he put it neatly down. Then he took a waterskin from where it was attached to the saddle and put it in the other Elf's hands.

"Drink," he ordered, and the Elf complied, refusing to look at anything except his own hands. He looked like deafened after a hit on the head by a sledgehammer.

"What… has happened to him?" Gwaithtir asked.

"He is just…" Moreth hesitated. But looking at the guard he saw true concern in his eyes; desperate as he was now, he was ready to accept every form of help, from wherever it came, so he settled for the truth. "He had spend some time in the dungeons before we set off. He's exhausted and very scared. I… I wish he could rest and see a healer, Sir… Are we far from the Last Homely House?"

"No," Gwaithtir answered, his brow furrowed in worry. "No, we're not. Three more hours and you will be there. How I am to help you, what do you need?" He asked then, abandoning the staring at the prone body before him with effort.

"Thank you for your kindness, Sir, but… nothing can be done now," Moreth said quietly. "He needs to rest, and to see a healer… but… I don't know, if…" the Elf hesitated, feeling the old fear creep back into his heart. What if his friend wouldn't see the healer in Imladris?

"Lord Elrond is the best healer I know. He will take care of your friend. Is he badly injured?"

Moreth shook his head no. The guard's curiosity was slightly uncomfortable in their current state. It needed only one displeased look from the envoys and a punishment would await them.

"But what that one meant when he said he is to stay here?" The guard pursued. Moreth squirmed in himself, considering the situation. He couldn't say much.

"I… have no idea, Sir," he whispered finally, praying for this to work. The guard sighed.

"If you are to see Lord Elrond, you cannot just go into the Council Hall like that," Gwaithtir observed. "I mean, he is in no shape for that, all bloodied and in rags." He wrinkled his nose slightly, worryingly glancing at Moreth. "Will your friend endure a bath?"

Moreth nodded. "I just hadn't had a chance to wash him properly on the road."

"Alright then, I think he may feel better after a bath, it's so hot today… We shall give you some new clothes, and a blanket or two, then you will eat something." Gwaithtir said. "The spring is over there. I shall tell your… superiors, don't worry about that," the guard lifted a hand to silence Moreth's attempt to protest. "If you are quick, you will have a chance to take your rest afterwards. I shall see to it that you are allowed."

"Thank you, Sir." Moreth whispered. He was taken to the tent then, where Gwaithtir had an unpleasant talk with the envoys, but received their reluctant permission and a key to the chain holding the blond Elf's wrists together. A towel and some spare clothes of the guards' were found and Moreth could return to his friend, still sitting unmoving under the tree, but trembling visibly while left alone.

The camp, placed in a neat glen in the woods was seemingly stationary, assuming from the fact that there was a hot spring behind the meadow. The spring was not very deep, and shielded from view by thick bushes, probably left untouched exactly for the purpose of privacy. The water was hot indeed, but in such a humid day it couldn't send Legolas into shock when immersed. Moreth sighed contently. Finally he could do something.

He undressed his friend quickly, simply tearing the rags open to minimize the effort it required from the blond Elf. Moreth hadn't had even a belt to hold the loose tunic closer to Legolas' body; his tattered, worn out boots were attached to his feet by long, thin straps of fabric, so that they stayed on.

Legolas was silent and still when Moreth washed him. He was just sitting in the water, letting his friend do all the work, concentrating on obeying the commands and enduring the touch. When he was finally clean, multicolored bruises were standing in dark relief on the clean, pale flesh, but at least all accidentally reopened wounds were now clean.

With all the dried blood, dust and grime from the road washed away, his hair was finally its previously fair gold color. Sparse and thin, just as mistreated as its owner, it lay wet on his back as Moreth cleaned the gash on the pale forehead.

Helping him out of the water, Moreth thoroughly dried Legolas with the borrowed towel, then sat him on the blanket spread on the grass. At night Legolas was deadly cold, but now the heat was affecting him more than others, so the other blanket was left on the ground instead of covering the thin shoulders. Leaving him with an order not to leave the spot, Moreth proceeded to wash up, taking comfort in the warm, soothing water for a few short minutes he spared for tending to himself.

Looking at the clothes they were given Moreth chose a simple white tunic for Legolas, as it was smaller, and gray leggings which should fit him better. A thin belt was tied around his waist in a rough knot, as being buckled with a clasp it was still too loose. He kept only his old boots, for Moreth got none to replace them. The final outcome was a bit pathetic, for the garments were too big and hung on Legolas unflatteringly; but that would have to do. In any case, it was better than the dirty, tattered rags he had been wearing until now and the sickening smell of sweat mixed with blood.

Moreth folded their old clothes and put them in his pack. He glanced at the sun – they had half an hour before the change of guards came, so Legolas would be able to rest a little more before being jostled on a horse again. Gathering Legolas' knotted hair back, he tied them together with one of the straps so that he could feel a little bit cooler.

"Legolas, listen to me now," Moreth said quietly, kneeling in front of him and looking around to ascertain that they were alone. "Look at me. Legolas."

The Elf glanced up and some focus appeared on his tired face, but with difficulty.

"Look. Here are the leaves I was giving you during the road. See?" Moreth showed him a small paper sachet with innocently looking, small brown leaves in a wavy shape. "From now on you will have to take them yourself. Do you understand?"

A nod, albeit hesitant, was his response. Blue eyes slowly filled with tears at the thought that he would be soon left alone.

"No, no, don't cry. Focus. You must remember!" Receiving attention again, Moreth nodded. "Good. You take one leaf each morning - only one per day. Don't you dare to take more than that! You must not, understand? A whole day must pass between taking one leaf and the other. Twenty four hours, do you understand?"

Legolas nodded. He took the sachet in his hand and uncertainly glanced up at Moreth.

"Hide it, don't lose it. You know you must take the medicine. You cannot lose it. Don't show anyone you have this, for they will take it away or worse." A serious nod came and Legolas hid the sachet under his tunic. "Good. Now come, you will rest a little more and then we shall be off."

Moreth smiled when Legolas obediently stood up, taking the two blankets with him, but his eyes lost their focus and he returned to just doing what he was told, without thinking. He followed Moreth and laid the blankets under the tree from earlier, then obediently gave his hands to the Elf from the contingent who had hit him before, to let him put the shackles on again and close them tightly.

"So I see you bathed?" the immediate taunt came. "Maybe that was a good idea, you had started to stink badly. What would your new Master say…? Come here, slave, I have something for you," The Elf said and Legolas obediently stepped closer, knowing better than to provoke his anger again.

In the warrior's hand appeared a brown leather collar. Legolas's eyes went wide and he stepped back, suddenly aware and wholly conscious; in seconds he was grabbed roughly close again. The cruel leather was buckled on his nape tight enough to cause discomfort and hamper breathing, especially in such a warm day. Legolas whimpered pitifully when pushed on the ground again, where he curled tightly and covered his head with hands. Whimpering, he tried with one hand to lever the collar looser, even only a bit, putting his fingers between the leather and the skin of his throat, but to no avail.

"Shush, I am here," Moreth said to his friend, kneeling close to the trembling form. The shoulder which he touched him shrugged violently to shake the hand off – and so Moreth stepped back. He just sat close by, letting his head fall down, supported by a tree trunk.

Desperately wishing to reach Lord Elrond's palace, Moreth was left with nothing but prayers. Billions of important questions were pounding in his head, demanding answers; and more - immediate answers. Frustration and fear kindled in his veins when Moreth thought he might be leading his friend so far and so long only to see him finally die of exhaustion and his wounds, and not only physical ones at that. There were four more leaves in the sachet Legolas received. For how long will that last…? Four days more? And then what? We will set off and head for Mirkwood tomorrow, I will never know what then, Moreth thought and his heart clenched painfully.

The thin back on the grass arched and shifted in a try to find a more comfortable position which wouldn't hamper breathing. Moreth didn't intend to help, he knew he would be rejected.

The forest was not so quiet anymore. This time it was almost too loud to Moreth's exhausted senses. The tree behind him stirred, sensing his distress.

And started whispering.

/*/

The Last Homely House was totally different from any possible image both Legolas and Moreth could have had in mind. It was not a thing like the huge, stone fortress in Mirkwood, which cut into the gray sky with its regular, heavy, unpleasant form.

With a strange lightness the slender buildings grew near the stone walls of the valley, like ivy on the thread, creating a delicate and complicated structure of entwined corridors, small towers, never-ending stairs, thin roads and semicircular porches. This Elven town was so bright, so clean and airy. The small kingdom hidden from view of others, shielded by the rocky mountains, with the characteristic building of the Palace it its center. The whole city seemed not to touch the ground on which it was built.

Having dismounted long ago, Legolas and Moreth were separated. Legolas was led by the chain near one of the envoys, while Moreth was moved to the rear. Now and then the blond Elf would shoot his friend a look, more and more terrified as they were approaching to their destination, but a sharp tug on the chain or a hit in his already abused head reminded him not to glance behind. No time for that. No way out.

Legolas was alone.

Through the huge, red, wooden doors they walked into a large chamber, which must have been Lord Elrond's audience hall. The beautiful furniture and white, stone walls brightly lit with daylight coming through many windows made Legolas stare in admiration without thinking of the consequences. He received a hard hit to his head again and so he settled for looking only at the floor. This was bad, in this position there was nothing to distract him from the anguish in his body. His left ankle was shooting pain up his leg, his broken ribs hurt every time he drew breath and the vicious collar drove him mad. Despite the washing in the spring, he was bathed in sweat. He was weak and dizzy; the long journey and the heat did its work of exhausting him past endurance. And now, when in mere minutes his fate would be sealed, he was feeling the unbearable assault of thoughts – a potent mix of despair, fear and fragile hope. Legolas felt like fainting. Hiding in an empty shell, putting a blank mask on his face and escaping into stillness and indifference deep, deep within him wasn't working any more. He bit his lip and promised himself that he would endure.

He was marched further, through the light gray stone floor near the stairs leading to a podium where a few Elves stood around the huge, red table, all dressed in rich robes. Legolas bent his head lower as they approached, not to be accused of disrespect. They were the high royalty of Imladris, and he wasn't allowed to look his betters in the eye. In his current field of vision Legolas could only see many pairs of feet walking around and down the stairs; long robes half-covered their shoes. Wonderful shoes, Legolas thought, comfortable and warm, with real soles, not a scrap of clothing meant just to cover your foot, but to protect from pebbles and rocks on the road.

"Lord Elrond, a gift from King Lathronios of Mirkwood Forest," Legolas heard the voice. Daring to cast a glance up, he saw an Elf dressed in silver robes standing at the base of the low steps leading to the podium, where the table was placed.

The Elves standing there turned their attention to them, setting aside their papers; one briskly approached the group.

"Welcome to my home," said the Elf in a deep, pleasant voice. Legolas assumed it was Lord Elrond. "What news do you bring?"

"Our King sends sincere thanks for the help Imladris has given Mirkwood. We really appreciated the food and healing supplies, my Lord. I have letters from King Lathronios for you," said the leader of the group. "Also, our King wants to repay you personally for your kindness, my Lord. He sends you rare plants from our woods known from their healing abilities, as well as this slave here, for your personal use." The leader moved back a little so that Legolas was now seen. He knelt, happy to ease the weight on his aching ankle, and bowed his head even lower.

The few Elves standing behind the Lord of the valley made some displeased noises at the news. Legolas recognized outraged whispers and shocked intakes of breath. The Lord himself however was silent and unmoving.

"A slave…?" one of royalty behind Elrond whispered loud enough to be heard. "What use may possibly come from a slave…?"

Legolas felt cold sweat on his forehead. They are already displeased with me, what will they say when they find out precisely what use can they have of me? Legolas' heart skipped a bit. He could imagine the look of loathing and despise they were wearing.

"He is for you, my Lord," the leader spoke again at the noises, "to become your personal servant. King Lathronios was assured that you will find the best way to put him into a good use, my Lord." Legolas could easily detect amusement in the leader's voice and felt his cheeks burn. How much he wished to see the reaction of the Elf standing before him, yet dared not to move.

"He is also a good singer," the leader continued, without any ironic note now, and Legolas's head started spinning from relief. "Probably the best from our slaves. The King had hoped that he will please you, my Lord. Your land is known for its love of music."

Silence remained throughout the court. The Elf Lord in front of them made no sound at the revelations and Legolas started to feel uneasy again after a short while of relief. Is he going to be accepted? Or is he not good enough? The Lords didn't like the idea from the beginning, and after the guard's introduction all they feel is despise. He won't keep me, I look awful. He will reject me… And I will… no, not Mirkwood again, please…! Legolas thought desperately. He shut his eyes close, waiting for the inevitable. One word from the Lord and Legolas would positively meet his death.

Elrond still said nothing and when the messenger handed him the keys to the chains hanging from Legolas' wrists, he accepted. Is it done? Did he agree? Legolas could not calm his thoughts, still waiting for the Elf Lord's response. He heard none. The leader politely resumed his speech and signaled the Elves behind him to leave.

The delegation left the baskets on the floor, around kneeling Legolas. He saw with the corner of his eye that they were slowly moving back to leave the hall, but Elrond halted them. Legolas' breath stuck in his throat.

"Wait," the Lord slowly began. "As much as I respect King Lathronios, I cannot accept the gift of a slave," he said in a low voice. His voice seemed not angry, but hardly calm — more like stunned and confused. "I will never agree..."

"My Lord," interrupted one of the Mirkwood Elves. Moreth, Legolas thought immediately, Moreth, 'tis you! The leader made an irritated noise, but Elrond waved a hand dismissively at him and let the Elf speak.

"Please accept him, my Lord," Moreth started hesitantly. "If you do not… and we have to take him back with us… the King won't hesitate to claim he is worthless and he will mete out a punishment for a failure…"

Legolas shut his eyelids close again, expecting the worst. 'Let me stay, let me stay, let me stay,' he was repeating in his mind frantically, feeling dread and cold sweat at the mere thought of being dragged back to the Mirkwood fortress. But even though he was shaking visibly, he forced himself to be still; if he collapsed on the floor or said but a word, it could be considered as an offense. The situation was bad already and Legolas knew that the leader of the group will punish Moreth for speaking without permission. Another sting of panic added to his distress. Guilt and thankfulness choked him to the point where he thought he would fall face-first to the floor if this lasts a second longer.

Lord Elrond stared at the Elves for a moment and considered the sheer desperation in Moreth's eyes. Finally he spoke, looking at the small figure swaying on his knees at his feet.

"You will be shown where you can rest before departing to your homeland," Elrond told the leader of the group. "Feel free to ask for anything you need and be assured that no harm will come to you here. Have your rest today. Lord Erestor will see to your care. As for the slave, he may stay. Tell your King he has my gratitude for the gifts."

The Lord ignored surprised whispers of the royalty at all. With a quick word to a young boy on his left a message to Lord Erestor was on its way and shortly after the boy went out another Elf came into the chamber; Legolas dared a quick glance up and met two disorientated eyes of a nobly looking Elf, staring at him with barely restrained curiosity, before he turned away and saw to his Lord's orders. Bowing, he led the Mirkwood group out of the hall and ordered others to retrieve the baskets. Soon the hall looked as before: clean, grey, and empty.

Legolas shuddered as realization hit him; he belonged to Lord Elrond now. His friend was walking away with the group of Mirkwood Elves, and he was being left alone. His head swam and so he returned to staring at the floor to have a point of reference; he was staying in Imladris… something was choking him deep in his throat and he swallowed nervously, but it did not help much. He wondered how it is possible that the Lord in front of him could not hear the thundering of his heart, which was beating so fast now that it hurt.

Struggling not to fall over, Legolas waited. He saw two legs covered with beautiful, rich robes coming closer and standing directly in front of him.

"Please stand," Lord Elrond said as he placed his wide hands on Legolas's arms to pull him up.

Legolas tried to stand without hissing in pain, but failed and swayed ungracefully. Another blush of shame covered his cheeks and he did not dare to raise his eyes. He kept his head bowed, as taught.

Gently and with some hesitancy Lord Elrond lifted Legolas's chin. Still the blond slave refused to look him in the eye. Taught that someone only lifted your head to better evaluate and judge you, Legolas immediately lowered his head when the fingers were removed.

"Look at me." Lord Elrond commanded as he raised Legolas's head again.

It was clearly an order, so the Elf obeyed immediately. He saw that Elrond had a calm, kind face, totally different than he previously thought, and the eyes which were looking at him with gentleness and curiosity were not cold and evil. Elrond had a high forehead, long nose, finely arched brows and warm grey eyes. His face was framed by dark brown hair that fell loosely around his shoulders and down his back with thin braids in front of his delicate, narrow, lightly rounded ears. He looked regal and powerful in his glory as a Lord. Legolas could sense the dignity and wisdom within. It lingered on this Elf and marked him as the one who should be regarded or even feared.

"Like this. Hold your head high. Do not lower it other than briefly as a sign of respect. What is your name?" Elrond asked, releasing Legolas's wrists from the chains. All the Elf could do was blink surprised and stare at his freed hands. He did not know what exactly he can do with them now, so he just let them dangle on his sides defenselessly, hoping it would not be considered as an offense.

"My name is Legolas," he finally managed to say.

"Legolas, son of...?"

"Son of no one," was the quiet reply as he lowered his head again. Elrond gave the boy a sharp look. He had to lift his chin once more.

"Stay here," his new owner ordered as he turned to a tall blond Elf dressed in riding clothes, seated at the table. Legolas found him impeccably handsome, but he looked obviously bored with the council and a look of resignation appeared on his noble features as he took the letters from his Lord.

Using the moment when his new Master turned his back to him, Legolas quickly looked around the hall, more to see where the exit is than to admire its beauty, but nevertheless what he saw stunned him. There were marble sculptures so real that he swore that the marble maiden in the corner would stand up from her base and begin dancing any moment. But what amazed him the most was the brightness of the room itself. Light poured in from huge windows all around the room and it was such a stunning view. There were very few windows in the Mirkwood fortress.

Elrond came back and took a closer look on the elfling standing before him, causing Legolas to bow his head again. One thing Elrond knew for certain - both from quick, panicked glances around the room and the constant trembling which shook the elfling in waves: Legolas was terrified to the core.

Well, small wonder. He was just given to the keep of another like a thing. He would never see his home again, his friends, his family; and the unknown Master was one to be afraid of. But there was certainly more to that tremble.

Elrond could see that the Elf was unwell. His skin was grayish, his lips bitten and dry; he kept his head submissively bowed not to show his teary eyes, which were blue, but the color was turbid and dull, like one of a disturbed forest pool. The long gash on his forehead had barely closed and was still fresh enough to leak with sluggish blood. His cheek, even if covered by hair partially and hidden from view, was swollen and bruised in an interesting shade of morbid violet. The slave was standing crookedly, as if trying to put as little pressure on his left leg as possible. The clothes he wore were much too big for him; they were surprisingly clean and resembled the clothing of guards patrolling the border. Elrond recognized the round seal of his house embroidered on the left arm. If the guards lent him their clothes, how must have looked his old ones? – Elrond mused. The always present healer hidden in the noble Lord studied every inch of Legolas, looking for some clues which could prompt him details of the ordeal the child was through. The frightened, haunted expression on his face was a proof enough that the road he has underwent exhausted him completely and robbed him of any hope he had left. Elrond did not miss the irony in the leader's voice earlier. He wondered what he had been referring to, yet looking at the boy now, Elrond could not tell whether the suspicions gathering in his head were correct or not.

And then there was the leather collar, a device one would not fasten even on a dog's nape.

Elrond's brow furrowed.

"To be honest, I have no idea what to do with you. We do not adhere to slavery in Imladris," Elrond told the Elf, extending a hand to touch his face. Seeing it, Legolas flinched, but forced himself under control to be able to reply.

"I will do my best, Master, I swear… I will do whatever you order me, Master, it is..." Legolas hesitated.

"It is what?" the Lord asked quietly.

"It's what I am here for, Master," came the quiet response.

That answer was worrying indeed. Elrond decided to give this matter some more thought before pursuing it further. He reached with his hands instead to untie the cruel leather, but the movement made the terrified elfling back away from the immediate reach, even against his will to stay still and prove to be an obedient, good slave. Elrond saw real panic in the youngster's eyes, so he stopped his hands in the air, holding them well visible, palms up, and whispered soothingly.

"I mean no harm. I just want to take off that wretched thing."

Legolas obviously didn't believe him, as his reaction was merely to stand where he stood for a long moment, fighting the upcoming tears and the will to bolt through the door and run for his life. Finally, with enormous effort, his body moved forward, his head bent and he surrendered himself to whatever blow would come. He couldn't stop shaking and he closed his eyes, trying to cut himself off the reality. Elrond fought the sudden, wild urge to just grab him and hold fiercely, whispering that all will be well from now on; such a gesture would be undoubtedly misunderstood and would bring only more damage. Instead, slowly, but with certainty, Elrond brushed the matted hair out of the way and delicately worked with the clamp of the collar. It came off with difficulty, the leather hard and sturdy, but finally Elrond had it in his hand. What he saw under the leather was a wide stripe of violet and blue bruises, covering the entire neck with an unmistakable pattern of a harsh, thick rope.

Legolas lifted one hand to his neck, touching the abrasions and nursing his aching flesh, almost disbelieving that Elrond kept his word and undid the collar. He took a deeper breath and gasped silently at the pain it still caused.

"I will put you under Erestor's care for now." (2) Lord Elrond began quietly. He signaled to an Elf standing in the doorway. "He is my head of household and will find you proper lodging and such. For today I want you to rest, and we will see about tomorrow, alright? Good. Now go on, my Elves will lead you."

He reached slowly again and stroked the fair head of the newest citizen of Imladris. That elicited a flinch as well, but not as violent as the ones before, and Legolas recalled to surrender to the stroking hand faster this time around. The unexpected caress was completely confusing, and not knowing what to do, the slave attempted to kneel again. He was gently stopped by Elrond's hands. He saw his Master shaking his head.

"You do not have to kneel before me, Legolas."

Silence. A strange stare. A few rapid blinks. But then, as if coming to a decision, Legolas bowed, the lowest he could; then, turning away from his Master, he started walking. Just to be certain that he did the right thing, or maybe just disbelieving, he glanced behind at his new keeper. He saw him smile and nod.

Totally confused, he left the hall as quickly as he was able to without showing the injured ankle. His new Master and the blond Elf at the table exchanged meaningful looks while watching him walk away.

(1) laer is sindarin name of summer. I used sindarin here as Legolas would rather use this language than quenya. The Elves counted seasons differently, there were six of them in each year. Here they are: spring, summer, fall, dusk, winter, thaw. In quenya: tuilë, lairë, yâvië, quellë, hrívë and coirë. In sindarin: ethuil, laer, iavas, firith, rhîv and echuir.

(2) We know little about Erestor. In some fics authors prefer to portrait him as a more noble chief councilor, but I have chosen another approach and made him a head of Elrond's household. That's why he seems to have lower status and be more casual, carefree character.

(3) I say in advance: please forgive me if the exact Elvish words or names will mean the same in English, but sound differently; as far I have the books and appendixes only in Polish and I need to translate it roughly.

(4) NOTE ON TIME: I will be using names of the days and short seasons of the year in Sindarin and I will be sticking to the Elven calendar, but in few places you will find the measures of time like "two weeks" or "two months". I decided to leave it to make the story easier to follow. The Elven week has six days and they don't have months stricte at all, so it would be difficult to keep track of the timeline on the long run.