I leave all that I can remember here and in the accompanying pages are all the rumors and statistics I was able to track down. Everything I have learned is there. Written all by Brendyn, my only surviving warrior—a man I picked up in the plains of Rohan.

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L E G O L A S

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Legolas sat at his desk, erasing his paper for the umpteenth time and redrew.

The lines aren't right.

He sat back, ran a hand through his unbound hair, and stared at the portrait he was trying to draw. The hair—it just wasn't working. It seemed too flat.

Closing his eyes, he brought forth the image; the hair flowed in delicate, fluffy waves. As if floating in a breeze.

Taking in a breath, he leaned forward, gripping his charcoal, and lightly drew a line that flowed across the parchment—

Someone knocked on the door.

His stick of charcoal scored a garish, jagged mark across the charcoal face.

"Um... Prince Legolas? I'm sorry for bothering you but..." Lendalyn sighed.

At the sound of her voice, his annoyance immediately seeped out of him. "You may enter."

The door creaked open, her face tentatively peeking around the frame. A hesitant smile lifted her cheeks once she saw the wearied prince. Her brown eyes caught on the basket of expensive parchment. Perfect for artists.

"Yes?"

"There was a meeting," she averted her eyes, "it was an emergency meeting. I didn't have time to inform you beforehand."

Legolas clenched his jaw, his hand nearly snapping his charcoal stick in half. He didn't need to be treated like a terminally ill pup. He was a prince—one that was hurting, true, but a prince nonetheless.

He hated this treatment. It made him feel even more alone.

"It was about Gwaraith—" Legolas snapped his icy gaze to her's "—they have her."

"Where."

Lendalyn paused at the ferocity in his voice, but her eyes once again trailed to the parchment on his desk. "To the healers. I'm not sure which room."

Legolas stood, simultaneously grabbing one of his white knives, grabbing a handful of paper and coldly handing it to the girl.

Gwaraith... a criminal who dared disgrace Lumornel's legacy. Some attention-seeking whore.

He'd give her the treatment she deserved.

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The healer was an elf.

I watched her face carefully. Watched as she brought forth a bundle of supplies, Elrohir obediently following with a bowl of sweet-smelling, steaming water.

She didn't quite meet my eyes, but she gave a tentative smile. And she didn't shy away.

"Hiril nin, may I assist you in taking off your blouse?"

A blush bloomed across my cheeks. "What?"

I glanced at Elrohir.

And of course, he had to smile.

"Oh don't fret, I'm turning around."

The healer—Moeaniel—bit her lip to hide a smile, then immediately smoothed out her cheeks. "I have a frontal robe for you to wear. Please, hiril nîn, allow me to assist. I cannot clean and address your wound otherwise."

I bit my lip but nodded. I clung to the thin fabric she gave me, allowing her to tie it in a way that left only my back  and shoulder exposed, wounds untouched. I still kept my hands on my chest, even when the cloth was securely bound.

"Hiril Elrohir? I require the bowl, please."

I didn't complain as she cleaned my wounds, hot water and salves and cloth all burning. Instead, I was forced to relinquish my hold on the robe and grip the sides of the table, hissing through my teeth.

Moeaniel was silent, either from her nature or because of my presence and so the only sound was my panting.

"Brennil, I will need to replace your makeshift stitches for something stronger."

I nodded and braced myself, a wave of nausea crashing through me. Elrohir looked on apologetically, remembering his brother's stitches.

"Distract me."

My eyes focused on the light fabric separating us from the rest of the small, empty infirmary, trying to keep my mind from everything. From the pain. From the unwelcome greeting.

From the fact that I had died.

How, I thought, my heart jumping into my throat again, how had I died? How am I even alive?

Nothing made sense. My mind spun with impossible questions.

Isn't that why I'm here? To have my questions answered?

But Dervorin's angry face flashed before me. Command—the people who held my fate in their hands—didn't seem to like me very much.

I felt sick; my future was in someone else's hands, someone else's control. It didn't feel right—I felt like I wasn't grounded, instead, I was floating in space. If only I could take the reins of my life in my hands instead of being pulled around by someone else.

All the more reason to find Legolas.

But what if he is afraid of me—just like everyone else?

Elrohir nodded, pulling over a chair to sit. He thought for a moment, a wicked smile beginning to take form.

"When Dan and I were elflings, our nanny would use us as her own personal laborers. She had us doing all sorts of devilish things; dusting her collection of porcelain flowers, venturing to the river to get water, and worst of all—gardening."

I grimaced as Elladan's makeshift stitches snagged on my torn skin. "I would've thought that two little boys would have loved to play in the dirt."

Elrohir snorted. "We would have—if Hiril Erdel would have let us. If we so much as looked at the dirt in a wrong way we were scolded."

I chuckled, immediately wincing as it caused the stitches to jerk.

"What made the labor worse was the scent. Our nanny would only plant the most horrid smelling flowers and so Dan and I—by the time we were done—would smell like the young ellith who would bat their love-struck eyes at all the ellyn." He paused, casting me a truly forlorn look.

"Glorfindel—" He scoffed and shook his head. "His laughter could be heard all throughout Imladris—and then everyone would know we had been 'playing in the flowers.' Dan and I were mortified. One day we decided to retaliate; when our nanny had gone to fetch a bucket of water for her prize-winning flowers, Dan and I took our gardening spades and catapulted those awful flowers at—"

The door slammed open.

I jumped, making the stitches Moeaniel was pulling out sting. Elrohir was up in an instant, hand on a dagger.

Although I could not see the door, I knew it was not the guards—they would not have thrown the door open, I would have heard the padding of two sets of feet instead of one—

The fabric screen was swept aside in a sudden, frantic blue flurry.

And then there was an ellon, blond hair hastily tied back, eyes as stormy as an autumn sky. And a long, white knife was tightly gripped in his hand.

His hardened eyes met mine. So deep were those pools of blue, so much intensity built up; remorse, anger, grief—

—And then his eyes widened.

His dagger clattered to the ground.

A small breath rushed from his mouth; a whimper.

And he fell to his knees.

The air around me, so tense, so charged, snapped. I knew—I suddenly knew with such clarity that this ellon—broken on the stone ground—was Legolas.

"I—" Legolas swallowed, his disbelieving, swirling eyes never leaving me. Eyes so wide, as if he was trying to see, but could only feel darkness. "You're—you were—"

He squeezed his eyes shut, some unnatural mixture of anger and grief condensing upon his visage, twisting his brows, his mouth, the lines around his eyes. As if holding in a barrage of emotion. "I'm dreaming," he breathed. "I'm dreaming I'm dreaming. This... is not real."

His chest, clad in green, shook as he breathed in deep. In and out. As if shaking off the shock, or breathing out the illusion his mind told him must be there.

"Elrohir," I whispered, making Legolas's blue eyes fly open. I held out a hand to the dark-haired elf, feeling Legolas's stare follow the action. Elrohir took my arm, helping me off the table as carefully as he could.

The healer made a small noise of protest, but did nothing to stop me, even as I gritted my teeth in pain, as I felt blood ooze from the wound.

I knelt before him, warily watching him stiffen. He peered at me as if not believing in what he saw, almost scared, worried Of what? Me?

I did not know him—or at least I didn't then. But I couldn't ignore those eyes. I couldn't ignore such inner turmoil that was so evidently churning within them. So I pushed away all the questions that rushed my mind, those could wait.

With those sturdy shoulders, I knew he was strong. In more ways than one. But at this time he needed comfort.

And so I reached out a tentative hand, my fingers gently brushed his soft hand, my eyes lifting to his. He didn't seem to be breathing.

I let my hand enclosed around his, holding his hand tightly.

Legolas let out a shaky breath. "Lum?"

And although I could not remember my relationship with him, even though I only knew my name from a simple bracelet, I nodded.

And he wept.

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Legolas didn't cry for long—he didn't seem the type that would anyways, not with those strong shoulders that seemed to hold some crazy weight. Instead, after a couple minutes of me silently holding his hand, and then more silent minutes where he sat in silence, processing the unbelievable, he lifted his red eyes to mine and smiled weakly.

But almost as soon as it appeared, it fell away.

"How are you alive?" He asked the question quietly, but his voice was so steady and stern, one could swear he hadn't just been crying.

I bit my lip, shrugging. "I don't know."

I wish I did. I don't even know how I died.

Died.

Oh Valar.

I looked to Elrohir, who watched silently from the corner of his eye. Too curious to leave, too polite to directly stare at us.

Legolas saw the glance and, covertly wiping his eyes, said my name. Quietly, as if he still didn't quite believe I was real. And well, he would be partly right.

I met his stranger's gaze once again, feeling completely out of the loop. The way he looked at me, with all those emotions and memories just beneath the surface, I felt alien. It made my chest constrict.

"How can you not know?" He said, voice hard. Then, his eyes widened, a fraction of an inch. "Did... did you not die?"

"Legolas, you did not leave her alive, you're not at fault," Elrohir said, surveying me.

I could feel Legolas's eyes on me, feel the strong emotions churning within him. I brushed my hair behind my ear, biting my lips, trying not to let the light show. Stop looking at me—

From the corner of my eye, Legolas went still. Still as stone.

Only then did I notice his hand drift upward toward my face—

I jerked away, heart rate flying.

It didn't stop him, didn't seem to notice my movement, my fear, as his hand touched my pointed ear. Involuntarily, I shivered at the light caress.

His wide eyes filled with tears again, meeting mine.

"What?" I asked, feeling the tickle of sweat in my palms, holding my breath. "What's wrong?"

Without warning, he withdrew his hand, rocking back. He clenched his jaw, turning his gaze away. Then looked back, anger flashing through them, then grief, frustration, confusion. All at the same time.

He ran a hand through his golden hair, momentarily forgetting that it was tied back.

"Legolas?"

"How? I—" He stood, shaking his head. "I don't understand."

"How?" He repeated, louder, firmer. Then, quick as lightning, turned back, eyes piercing me.

"How are you elven? How... how are you alive?!" He ran a hand over his face. Then, quietly, "why haven't you been here?"

I stared at him... Had I not always been an elf—?

Legolas grabbed my hand, holding it up, eyes wide—

I yanked it away, backing up towards Elrohir. Maybe... maybe Elrohir and Elladan had been right. About his mental stability...

"Legolas—" Elrohir began, warningly.

"I had cut Sauron's ring off her index finger," Legolas explained, looking ashen. "Why does she have that finger?"

Cut off my finger?!

Legolas stared at me, perplexed, disbelievement written across his features. Pain flashed across his irises.

"I don't remember you," I whispered.

Legolas only stared, then, came closer. Almost protective like. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," I said, voice thick, "I don't remember you. Or anything."

"I don't remember my past and its only getting worse. I don't even know who I was or why everyone seems to hate me or be afraid of me. I don't know why my memory is worsening or why I can shoot strange energy out of my skin or why I can feel energy all around us or why it depends on my strength. I didn't even know I was a 'prophecy written' until, like, two weeks ago or that I had died until today! Or that I hadn't always been an elf. I don't know anything!"

I stood panting, a blush rising as I realized just how loud I had gotten. But I didn't care, despite what my flaming cheeks said.

"Well, wait until you hear your relation to me," Elrohir mused. At my and Legolas's glare, he raised his hands in surrender. "Just trying to lighten the mood."

Legolas met my eyes again, but looked away, shifting through his own thoughts.

"I don't care," Legolas said, taking hold of my gaze, so serious my focus was in rapture with his. "You're still my Lum, memory intact or no."

He paused, seeming to take the sight of me in, and a small, sad smile touched his lips. "I'll help you remember."

My breath caught, so he'll help me? Regain my memory?

Hesitantly, Legolas reached forward again—

As if my whole world hadn't just shifted, the door opened again.

The hunter from Command and the man from earlier—Aragorn—took one step in and noticed Legolas. Aragorn didn't freeze, but instead continued walking in, his eyes calculating the space between the golden elf and I. Yet there was something...

His eyes met mine, something like regret shined in them.

He glanced at Legolas once more as four guards and the hunter entered the room. "Command has made their decision. They've opted for your execution—"

My heart clenched, my palms lit. I glanced at the hunter to find him studying me.

"—but they cannot carry it out without all of Command here. For the time being, you are sentenced to isolation in gaol."

Isolation. I glanced at Legolas, the holder of my memories.

Aragorn paused, face angering. "I won't let them do this."

Aragorn ignored the glance the man with him gave him.

"B-but I've done nothing wrong!"

That I know of.

The hunter raised a brow, startling me. "Did you not volunteer yourself?"

"Not for isolation!"

The thought of it—losing myself—my memory—

"Let me be able to talk to him—" I motioned to Legolas, who was dead silent. "Let me prove myself, or keep me guarded, at least let me be able to talk to Legolas, for my memories—"

But the hunter only stared, thoughtful, those eyes calculating, calculating, calculating but getting nowhere. I turned to Elrohir, "please—"

The guards came forward.

"No—" I reached in me for that wobbly brilliance, shaky and unreliable with such emotion coursing through me but—

Legolas enclosed his hand around my wrist. "Lum, go with them."

"But—"

A guard, clad in dark browns and greens, pulled on my arm, causing me to cry out.

"Leave her," Aragorn commanded. "Can you not see her open wound? The robe she wears? Let the healer finish her work."

The soldier glared, Aragorn held the stare.

"Yeah, go ahead and stare into each other's eyes, why don't you, as the lady bleeds to death. Very gentlemanly of you." The hunter rolled his eyes, striding forward and took something from one of the soldiers' hands—chained cuffs.

Legolas stepped closer as the hunter approached me, gaze darkening.

The iron shackles clinked in the man's grasp. He hesitated a moment before touching my skin, and then enclosed my wrists in the cold, heavy metal. The soft clang was enough to make me meet his gaze.

His eyes narrowed a fraction. "You're not what I expected."

But he laughed, straightening, causing his shaggy brown hair to shift as he turned to leave. "I guess that's a good thing, isn't it?"

He shook his head, patting the glaring soldier on the shoulder. "Let the healer patch up the girl—" he said it as if he wasn't only a few years older than me "—and then carry her away as you wish."

With that, the man left, not bothering to even close the door.

"Bastard," Elrohir spat, not bothering to wait until after the sound of the man's boots left the hallway. Yet there didn't seem to be any true menace behind the word. None that I could tell, at least.

"I heard that!" The hunter yelled, obviously enjoying himself. "The same to you!"

I blinked, somehow not understanding how some not-so-playful bantering was happening while my hands were cuffed together. While soldiers waited for Moeaniel to finish her job before taking me to some isolated place. Away from Legolas, who I just found.

I didn't understand how I came to be in such a place.

Or even how everything seemed to be turning upside down.

The Western Hope was supposed to offer me salvation. Not execution.

So I waited, silent, anger roiling beneath the surface, as my flesh was sown together. I answered Aragorn absent-mindedly as he spoke to me. Ignored Elrohir as he stood, watching. And barely glanced at Legolas as he stared silently at me, lost in his thoughts. Disbelieving his eyes.

They thought I was a murderer, someone violent and someone to be feared?

Fine, I thought, I'll be good. Sit tight in their prison.

But should they keep me from Legolas, should I actually come to stand before them for execution, I won't be so nice.

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So... you like??

And @loteriel_greenleaf if you couldn't tell, I used your "noun, verb, and emotion" in Elrohir's childhood story. Loved it 😅

And thank you again @Stormyskeleton for reading through the Legolas reunion scene!!!