Title: The Middle Days; Chapter Six – Stories and Secrets

            Author's Note:  All right, in about twenty seconds (after you've finished reading this note) you're all probably going to want to kill me.  I apologize (and hide) in advance.  As a peace offering, this chapter is very long.  (At least, compared to the last few.)  And it does explain a few things – though dshael already guessed one of them in a review.  The problem is, it will be the last update for quite awhile.  A case of writer's block means that I have nothing else to post at this moment, and I'm not going to see another computer for at least a few weeks.  This means the next update will be in the somewhat distant future.  I am incredibly sorry for the delay – please don't kill me – but there's not a lot I can do.  And no, I don't torture you guys on purpose.  I love all the reviews, and hey, entertain yourselves by guessing what's going to happen next.  *sigh*  Well, it was worth a shot, no?  Anyway, now that I've finished babbling, enjoy the chapter and forgive me for not being able to get the next one out sooner.  Have a good summer!

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            As soon as he regained consciousness Legolas made for the orc trail, undeterred by his mount's absence or the pain in his side.  He pressed one hand over the gaping wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, half running half falling in his haste to catch them.  In his haste to find Estel.  He made it to the edge of the clearing before collapsing, and whimpered angrily when he found that he could not rise.  Elladan – the better healer of the twins – moved to help him, but as he touched Legolas' side the blonde elf flinched and rolled away.  When he looked at Elrond's two sons, his green eyes were blazing with suppressed fury.  Swallowing hard under that gaze, Elladan put out a calming hand.  "Legolas," he said slowly, evenly, "your wound needs binding."  Snarling at him – which in itself startled Elladan into silence – the usually mild elf spat in his face.

The twins gaped at him, while Legolas shook blood and earth stained hair away from his face.  "We haven't time," he gritted out, steeling himself against the agony in his side.  "Your sluggishness has cost us enough today, and I will not let it cost us Estel's life.  I will not."  His declaration was firm and his accusations well aimed, for neither Elladan nor Elrohir could meet his gaze.  However, as Legolas again struggled to his feet and stood there swaying like a reed in the breeze, Elladan took it upon himself to argue.

"I am eldest," he told Legolas, holding his head like a son of Elrond, "and though you are the better commander I am the better healer.  If we hunt down Estel's captors now, you will not survive the rescue.  Lay down, prince of Mirkwood, and hear wisdom."  Grudgingly, Legolas dropped back down to the grass, his face white with pain.  Elladan hurriedly sent his younger brother out in search of herbs, and crouched beside the wounded elf to tend to him.  Gentle, sure hands slipped off the tunic soaked with blood, hissing as he caught sight of how far the injury ran.  Legolas glowered at him.

"Do you plan to admire it," he ground out irritably, "or treat it?"  Elladan gave a long-suffering sigh, and told Legolas he hoped the prince would faint again.  One look at Legolas' rigid face made him regret it.  The archer ignored him, falling silent for a moment – except for his ragged breathing – then paralyzed Elrond's heir with his next question.  "Why," Legolas panted harshly, "did you call out for 'Arathorn'?"

Elladan focused very hard on ripping the stained tunic into binding strips, lifting one shoulder in a delicate dismissal.  "I was calling for Estel," he replied, staring at the ground.  "You must have misheard."

Legolas scowled, rising stiffly to one elbow until he had Elladan's full attention.  "I do not mishear," the prince denied icily, and the elder elf worriedly helped him back to the ground.

Elladan's jaw trembled slightly, and his eyes darted away.  "Why," he queried lightly, "would I say such a name?  Who is Arathorn, that I would call to him?"  The warrior was not put off by the inquiries, and began to look frustrated by his companion's equivocations.

"I do not ask for your diplomatic lies," Legolas told Elladan, his voice regal if strained.  "You and your brother were as stone on the field today, and I would know why.  As to the bearer of the name you cried, do not think me ignorant merely because I am a forgotten prince.  Arathorn was the son of Arador and the husband to Gilraen, the once ward of your father.  He was the fifteenth and final Chieftain of the Dúnedain."  Legolas closed his eyes briefly in a sign of respect and grief for the ended line of kings, then opened them to stare fiercely at a defeated Elladan.

Folding his legs, the eldest son of Lord Elrond settled beside the wounded prince, speaking honestly.  "Elrohir and I have failed in our duty to both you and Estel, and it is your right to know why."  He paused, and Legolas listened avidly to his reluctant words.  "Arathorn II was indeed the ward of my father, as you have said, and also the dear friend of my brother and myself.  When he came of age he returned to the north, wedded Gilraen, and took his place among the Dúnedain as their chief."  Elladan again grew silent, and his smooth face projected an aged grief.  For once there was no youthful cheer in his grey eyes.  "This was during the time of the orc raids, and I and Elrohir were sent to aid the West men in their defense.  Arathorn came hunting with us one day, and we . . . we were too intent on our quarry, and not on the safety of our friend."  Legolas' hand slid into Elladan's, and he accepted the comfort gratefully.  "He was shot with an orc arrow," narrated the dark haired elf mournfully, "and fell dead before we could even reach his side."  Elladan's voice grew hoarse, and he shook his head.  "We thought that we had learned from his death, but when we saw Estel so far from us we realized we had been wrong.  It would have been the same mistake, all over again."  Legolas' gaze was sympathetic, but he wore a soft frown.

"The same?" he echoed confusedly.  "Because Estel is a man?"  Elladan looked unwilling to reply, but a voice equal to his took up the task.

"Because he is Arathorn's son," said Elrohir as he strode to meet them, eyes flashing, "and the last Chieftain of the Dúnedain."

Legolas could do little more than stare at the younger twin in astonishment, and Elladan turned angrily on his brother.  "Have you no sense," he cried crossly, "to say that here, where anyone could hear you?"  Elrohir snorted, handing the herbs to his brother and moving to Legolas' other side.

"There is no one ignorant here but Legolas," he declared.  "Why do you think that they targeted Estel so?"  Realization paled Elladan's face, and his hand tightened over the athelas plant Elrohir had brought.

Legolas opened his mouth, forgetting about his pain with this new revelation as he looked up at Elrohir.  "Estel?" he murmured weakly, and Elrohir shook his head in understanding.

"His name is Aragorn II, son of Arathorn II and Gilraen.  He was two when his sire was slain, and we brought him to my father for safekeeping."  Legolas felt his head spinning, and fought to maintain his composure as Elladan contradicted his twin.

"He is Estel of the elves, and our brother," countered the elder of them heatedly, "and that is all that matters."

For once the more reasonable of the two, Elrohir said firmly, "It is not all that matters, brother.  Not when his true name has been discovered."  Elladan set his mouth in a tight line and began dressing Legolas' wound as his sibling attempted to reason with him.  "He is almost of the age of majority in any case," argued Elrohir, "and must be told the truth of his heritage in no more than a few months."  He stopped, glancing to the beaten path of the orcs, and his unspoken meaning was clear.  Estel – Aragorn would have to be told, if he lived long enough for them to tell.  "Besides," added the younger twin sincerely, "even if none of this were true, Legolas still deserves to know."  At those words Elrohir glanced meaningfully down at the blonde prince, and Elladan conceded to his brother with a sad nod.

"It is of no import to me," Legolas stated staunchly, spitting out the numbing herbs Elladan had had him chew that he could speak.  "He is still Estel, as he has always been.  It does not change him, this new title.  It does not make him less kind, or more generous.  It will not make his eyes any brighter, or his heart purer to me."

Silence followed Legolas' candid declaration, and even Elladan paused in his binding to listen to the words.  "You love him," Elrohir asked softly, his voice more subdued than Legolas had expected, "don't you?"

The prince looked away, green eyes flickering with pain of a different mean.  "Of course I love him," replied Legolas, his mellifluous voice a little rough.  "Do not we all?  He is Estel."  Elladan inclined his head in respectful agreement – and an acceptance of a dishonesty Legolas would not admit to.

Elrohir, however, either did not understand that Legolas wished the matter to be dropped, or simply decided not to acquiesce to that wish.  "I should hope I do not love him as you do," the younger twin protested with a knowing grin.  His brother pinched him in the leg and set about assisting Legolas to his unsteady feet.

The injured warrior rose shakily, his otherwise sickly white countenance stained with two spots of red at Elrohir's words.  "I–" the prince began heatedly, but his protest was stifled by Elladan's speech

"You would deny it?" the elder twin queried reproachfully, grey eyes – less dear to Legolas than their mortal counterpart's – daring the flaxen elf to say them wrong.  Legolas looked away.

"Have you known then," he questioned, his down turned face tense with mortification, "all this time?"  And he spoke as if he had loved Estel for centuries, had longed after the man for more years than any of them had seen.  Elrohir and Elladan – who still stood behind Legolas to support him – exchanged surprised glances at those words.  Confusion clear in his immortal eyes, the more open of the two brothers hesitantly replied.

"We have suspected," Elrohir admitted somewhat perplexedly.  He was about to add that they had hoped so as well, but Legolas' voice cut the twin off before he could speak.

"You knew," a startled Legolas echoed, "and yet allowed me to remain?"  Elrohir wrinkled his nose, looking to his brother for an interpretation.  Elladan, however, seemed no less bewildered than his sibling.

"What cause would we have to send you away?" wondered Legolas' crutch uncomprehendingly, his expression mirrored on his younger brother's face.

"Because," Legolas answered them mechanically, the words tumbling from his lips in a recitation that – though just known – seemed long used, "though it is hubris enough to desire the son of Elrond, it is that much worse to seek after the Chieftain of the Dúnedain."

Elladan sighed, and Elrohir hastily retorted: "I thought that they were one and the same to you, Prince."  Legolas did not lift his head, but his obvious disapproval closed Elrohir's quick mouth.

"To me they are the same," Mirkwood's last prince replied wearily, sounding like the tutor of a dull witted child.  "But there are others who would not view it so."

Though momentarily quiet, Elrohir never remained so for very long.  Elladan flinched as his brother unthinkingly argued: "But you are an elf – as well as a prince – and Estel is but a man."  And it was lucky for Elrond's son that the elf he spoke to was injured and being held by his brother, for otherwise a finely wrought dagger would have been placed edgewise on his throat.

As it was, Legolas appeared more than ready to strangle the unwitting twin with his bare hands.  "How dare you say that!" cried Legolas furiously, struggling to get away from Elladan and convict Elrohir of his words.  The dark haired elf realized what he had said, and tried to stammer out an apology.  Legolas would have none of it.  "How dare you even let such a thought enter your mind!" he shouted weakly, pushing away from the elder twin to advance shakily on a repentant Elrohir.  "It is because of lies and slurs such as those that Estel believes himself inferior to us all.  It is because of all those like you – who cannot see that he is more wonderful than even the greatest of elves – that he will not confess his heart to the maiden he loves."  Exhausted, one hand pressed over his healing wound, Legolas swayed where he stood between the two freshly stymied brothers.

"What maiden?" they both shrieked at once, tossing their heads in identical displays of distress and disbelief.  Legolas set his teeth against the pain and straightened, standing like a true prince of Mirkwood thought his chest was bare but for the binding and the wound it covered.

"Estel is in love," Legolas said sharply, pretending to attribute the suffering on his face to his injury and not his torn soul.

"Yes," replied Elladan, confused and insistent, "with you."  Elrohir scratched his head, nodding in agreement to his brother's words and attempting to puzzle out the source of Legolas' misguided thoughts about maiden loves.

"You do," he said finally, warily, "look a little feminine, but certainly no one would mistake you for a maid."  Leoglas glared darkly at him, and Elladan elbowed him in the side.

"You're mistaken," the prince said to Elladan, choosing the more favorable option of simply ignoring Elrohir.  "Estel would have told me of this."

It was Elrohir who replied, and his brother's eyes flashed in agreement.  "As you told him?" returned the younger twin gently, and Legolas blushed.  He made as if to argue, then stopped abruptly in mid-word, face darkening with worry as he looked toward the south, where the grass had been trampled by an army of orcs.

"What is it?" inquired Elladan, looking also that way and seeing nothing but the silent trees.

"It is Estel," Legolas murmured distantly, tilting his head to better listen to an unknown noise.  "He is calling for us."

The twins' light grey eyes went wide.  "You can hear him?" Elrohir breathed astonishedly, "but that means –"

Legolas cut him off, the expression in his green eyes final and unyielding.  "It means nothing," he corrected harshly; the trembling of his hands proving – like the twins' eyes – that it was not the truth.  "Nothing but that he is in need of aid, and we must spare no more time."  With that final declaration Legolas turned to the orc trail, maintaining an elf taught lope in spite of his wounded side.  Giving each other one last meaningful look – Legolas had heard him – the coëval brothers swiftly followed the prince of Mirkwood down the freshly trodden path, leaving no footprints behind.