A/N: Many thanks to all of you who read and reviewed! I'm working part-time now, so I can't be as on top of things as I used to; but I promise I will respond to each review (when I have time).

Many, many thanks to the brilliant and incomparable Nieriel Raina, my beta and Tolkien nit-picker, who so kindly informed me that there were thirteen, not twelve, dwarves in the Elvenking's dungeons. D'oh!

Le Rouret

5. The Dream

Legolas awoke with a start.

He lay very still, his warrior’s training bidding him assess the situation ere any sudden movement might alert an enemy. His skin was clammy and his forehead damp, and he could feel he clutched with his hands at his bedclothes; slowly he relaxed them, flexing the long fingers, his heart beat drumming against his chest, his breath sounding very harsh and tight. He blinked the tears from his eyes and looked around.

Pale, watery moonlight flooded his chambers, casting periwinkle shadows across the gleaming marble floor, pricking the tufts of the fur rug by the hearth into hedgehog-quills, shimmering across the surface of the water in the crystal pitcher by his bedside. The tall cut-glass windows were flung wide, letting in fragrant cool air, still damp from the previous evening’s rain; he could smell pine, and loam, and the faintest remnant smokiness of fires burning out. A nightingale trilled softly far below, and he descried the tinkle of the inner courtyard fountains, and somewhere far off, the steady monotonous rumble of a waterfall. Something clicked against the glass of the nearest window, and he flinched at the sudden sound; it was but a ladybird, however, striking and falling; it lay on its back, tiny legs undulating in a vain attempt to right itself.

Reluctantly Legolas concluded his mind had deceived his body, and decided there was no sense in lying prone when his bedchamber posed little threat beyond ladybirds and water pitchers. He sat up and wondered why in the midst of deep slumber he had experienced the sudden unnerving sensation of a snake in bed with him.

He could still feel its cold coils, its sinewy body rippling against his own, sensuous, sickening. He brushed nervously at his arms, trying to rid himself of the phantom feeling. Yet he could taste the tongue in his mouth, taste the stench of the poisoned fangs, hot and bitter, the scent of agony and slow death, the foam on his lips, his limbs convulsing, his veins afire. Shivering he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, burying his toes in the plush fur rug, willing his traitorous heart to slow. And in the dark corner of his mind beat still the soft hissing voice, murmuring menacing things that faded even as he struggled to recall them. Only a few stray words still clung to his memory – mud … lick … gold … crawl, harlot; crawl … -- he wrapped his arms round himself and bent over, his hair tickling his bare legs, closing his eyes to the calm dark serenity of his bedchamber, trying to remember the dream. A cavernous darkness, flickering with low fire and filled with the putrid scent of decay; bones, bones, bones …

He shook himself and rose, stretching his long arms up, watching his shadow-fingers graze the high painted ceiling. The gold stars against the blue and red panels were dark now but he knew they were there, grey in the dimness, only the barest glint of gilt in the moonlight, peering round the curving bosses in the vaults. He crossed the cold white floor, bemused by the gold-speckled marble sparkling like stars beneath his bare feet, and walked out onto his balcony.

The moon was at three-quarters and stared lopsidedly down at him, disdaining the wisps and tatters of leftover cloud that whipped by, streaming white and streaky across the luminous dome. Far below in Dol Galenehtar the wind was gentled, soughing in pine and cedar, sighing through the buttresses and mullions, ruffling the feathers of roosting rooks, and rippling the fine linen night-shirt that the Green Knight wore. Legolas rested his palms on the cold smooth marble balustrade and let the wind lift and twine his hair. He took a deep breath, seeking to clear his lungs and therefore his head; but the revolting scent of burnt and rotten flesh persisted, like some black slime clinging to his limbs in stagnant water. He was unnerved; rarely did he dream thus, even when in deep slumber, and found it difficult to shake off the cloying fear.

He closed his eyes to the splendor of his demesne, the rich velvety purple and black shadows, the grey and silver light; gone were the steeps and cliffs, the rocks and thickets and streams, the heady scent of fir and the sound of running water. He lifted his head, breathing evenly. He reached down, far back inside himself, to the still quiet core whence came his perpetual tranquility, seeking clarity to counteract his harrowed mind. Like a small swift ship backed by a stiff gale he sped along, images flashing past him, exhilarating, renewing; he felt himself slip back further, the cool night air abandoned, weightlessly sailing the ruffled surface of his past, watching in a single moment the oak’s acorn sprout, shoot mightily to the heavens, then totter and crumble into mouldy dust. The stars wheeled above him, spinning in their ponderous circle, eternal and comforting; beneath his feet the earth breathed the seasons, from death to life and death again – crisp clean snow; crinkling rusty leaves; pale green shoots –

- Twisted, slimy coils crushing, harsh laughter and nauseating hunger; trees aflame, their pyre reaching to the lowering sky – screams, an arm reaching out from a pile of bones, desperate fingers clutching, and on the forefinger a silver ring with a pale stone – crawl, harlot; crawl -

Legolas’ knees cracked on the marble pavers and his forehead struck the curve of a baluster. He retched and clutched at his stomach. The stench, the taste of poison in his mouth, was too much for him; he scrabbled to his feet and lurched back to his bedside table, fumbling with the pitcher and cup and spilling half of it over his hands. He drank desperately, trying to wash the remnants of the bile from his tongue, tears streaming down his cheeks; he set the cup and pitcher down with a thunk and knelt by his bed, breathing hard.

Where had his serenity gone? How had it betrayed him thus? What was this serpentine nightmare? A branch brushed the wall below his balcony and he started, his mind full of the images of scaly skin crawling up stone. “Ridiculous,” he said aloud; his voice sounded like a large stone dropped into still water. His mind cleared, and he added, “A dream; that is all. Take hold of yourself, Thranduilion! You are no infant to be discommoded thereof; let the ghasties gambol in mortal minds; you are better than this.”

He rose, straightened his night-shirt, and climbed back between the silky-soft sheets, sinking into the downy bed pillows with a sigh. He was irritated to feel the slightest qualm at returning to slumber; what if the dream returned? But dismissing this fear he rolled over and pulled the coverlet round his shoulders, telling himself ‘twas for warmth only and not comfort.

For some moments all he heard was nightly noise, the chirruping of some insect, the breeze through the room, his own breathing; he let the yielding bed surround him, sinking down into its warmth, growing drowsy again. Sleep rose up to meet him, welcoming, pleasant, inviting, and he surrendered.

Now he was running in the sunlight, his people around him; they ought to have been happy, but Legolas was searching for something, something he could not find but desperately needed. All round him were faces he knew – Silmë – Belegtilion – Baranil – Kaimelas, with an arrow protruding from his chest, his leather armor soaked in blood; but he laughed and talked with the others, seemingly unaffected by this – his mother, looking round and round, a puzzled expression on her face; her blue dress and silvery hair were streaked with soot. “Where is she?” she cried. “Where is who, Mother?” Legolas asked her, but he started to look too. Where was she? Where had she gone? Then he remembered he had left his bow and quiver behind and went to fetch it. But it was in a trunk, and the trunk was locked; he looked through his pockets for the key but could not find it. “Bandobras will know where it is,” he thought, but he could not find Bandobras; he only saw poor Thistle, the halfling’s old pony, its stomach ripped open, the ground stinking with hot bile and blood.

Legolas knew he dreamt then and struggled to free himself; but the images wrapped themselves round him like a cocoon to smother him. Before him stood a woman, a mortal woman with immortal eyes; when she smiled at him blood spilled from her mouth. She went to embrace him, her arms and legs enfolding him, but her limbs were serpents; they choked and crushed him, and her head became a serpent’s head and went into his mouth and down his throat so that he could not breathe. He forced an arm free and saw upon his finger a silver ring with a pale stone.

With a sickening lurch Legolas hurled himself out of bed, dragging in hoarse breaths, clutching ineffectively at the phantom limbs he felt yet holding him down. His head was like wool, and there was the taste of serpentine scales in his mouth. He stumbled across the room, eyes blinded by tears, and fetched up against his wardrobe, his palms splayed against the polished mirrors; he could see his breath clouding his reflection, blurring his features. His tousled hair looked dark in the dimness and his face was teasingly familiar; he looked at his right hand, bereft of ornament, and remembered the ring – the silver ring with the pale gem – his father’s ring – Oropher’s ring, on the hand that reached so desperately out of a pile of bones. Then he saw the eaves of his home forest burning, the limbs and branches going up in flame, trunks quivering with the horrible heat – Eryn Lasgalen in its death throes. In his mind’s eye he saw his father’s people, screaming and desperate, trapped in the caverns far below the earth; fire above and cold slimy death in the river beneath.

Legolas did not panic often, and even as he pulled on a pair of breeches and quit his chamber he told himself he was acting a fool. But as he flitted down the dark quiet passageways, he knew he would find no rest ere he had unburdened his mind to another. But whom? Tamin’s door he passed first, but he would not lay such a heavy load on that young innocent heart. Galás? No – he would laugh at him and call him a child. Meivel? He would but stare disbelieving. Meivel was unimaginative and incurious and did not believe in visions. Himbaláth, perhaps … but he was back in the eastern wing, exploring the dubious pleasantries of his chilly, red-haired wife. Kaimelas? No; Seimiel would have his head for disturbing them –

The answer was so obvious Legolas felt lack-witted for having forgotten. Gimli was there in Dol Galenehtar, enjoying the comforts of the tower he had built. Legolas had insisted, when Gimli first drew up the plans for the great Tower and Hall, that the Dwarf construct for himself a chamber, underground if he liked, filled with all the luxuries and conveniences of his own home in Aglarond. And so Gimli had done precisely that – designed a big hexagonal room, filled with bright lamps and heavy carven furniture, rich velvets and plush rugs, and best of all, a huge fireplace, big enough for an entire tree to burn therein, and a quantity of comfortable chairs and cushions spread before it. Gimli would look at him askance as Meivel, but he would listen at least; and though he express Legolas’ thoughts as foolishness would not belittle his friend. So down the stairs Legolas went, down down down into the depths of the Tower; his fingertips trailed the newels and traced the grostesques and carvings, his bare feet making no sound upon the pavers. He ducked into niches to avoid his own guards, and once slipped into a broom closet to evade Tuilíndo, on some nighttime errantry; at last he descended into the very bowels of the main Tower, feeling the earth rise up round him, and thence to Gimli’s door.

Once there, he felt foolish all over again; it was the dead of night, and everyone ought to be asleep, himself included; yet there he stood, thoughtless Elven prince he was, in his night-shirt and a pair of wrinkled breeches, barefoot and tousle-haired, awakened like a small child from a bad dream and seeking comfort from some friendly hand. But the memory of his father’s ring and the lingering ghostly stench of death propelled him forward, and he lightly scratched at the chamber door.

He stood, holding his breath, listening intently for any movement within; he but heard Gimli snoring, and realized he had not made sufficient noise to waken someone with hearing less keen than his own. So he knocked very softly, hoping no one else heard, and behind the door Gimli snorted and grunted; Legolas tapped again, and there was silence, then the creak of the bed, and feet stumping heavily across the floor.

“Who is it?” growled a voice at the latch; Legolas sighed in relief.

“It is I, Gimli – Legolas,” he whispered, keeping his voice low to avoid discovery. “O let me in, please; I must speak to someone or burst!”

There was incoherent grumbling then, and thick fingers fumbling with the latch; then the door creaked open, and Gimli blinked up at him; his ruddy hair was matted and he had so hastily thrown on his gown that it was hitched round his shoulders and lay crookedly across his chest. But he stood aside and let Legolas slip in, and shut and latched the door behind him. Legolas went straight for the hearth, upon which a great log smoldered; he took a handful of kindling and cast it thereupon, and blowing on the embers, watched them catch; taking up the poker, he stirred up the ashes and groped about for another log. He heard Gimli come up behind him, and when he looked up from his place on the hearth rug saw the Dwarf rearranging his robe and looking very put out.

“What in the name of the twelve lower levels of Mandos do you mean, knocking me up at this time of night?” grumbled Gimli, sitting on a pouf and folding his thick arms across his chest. “It is late and I am tired. Do not I beg of you say that you woke me simply because you wanted to talk!”

“It is not that, Gimli,” Legolas assured him. He made sure the fire was stoked, and when it was blazing merrily away, he sat upon a thick cushion and wrapped his arms round his legs, resting his chin on his knees. He was still shivering, and Gimli grunted, rose, and fetched a rug to cast about his shoulders. “Thank you,” said Legolas, and pulled the rug about him. He was not cold, but comfortless, and the warmth reassured him.

After a moment of silence, Gimli said, “Well, what is it? Are you in love? You have the look of a man escaping from some midnight tryst – partially dressed and deeply panicked.”

Legolas looked at Gimli reproachfully; he felt his cheeks flush. “Of course not, Gimli,” he said, offended. “You know I am not like that! Besides which, who in Dol Galenehtar – no, I will not ask that question; I do not wish to know your opinion in this matter!”

Gimli chuckled at his friend’s pink face and busied himself with a heavy decanter; the wine glugged into the goblets, and Legolas gratefully accepted the drink. It was rich, purplish wine, potent and sharp, and he took a deep draught. Gimli sat at his back in a low chair, and Legolas was comforted by his proximity; he nestled further down into the rug and untangled his limbs, leaning against the arm of Gimli’s chair and stretching his bare feet out to the flames. There was comfortable silence for a time; Legolas was marshalling his thoughts, and Gimli was waiting, knowing that Legolas could never keep silent long.

“I dreamt evilly,” Legolas said at last; his voice sounded thin and thready in the large room. “The detritus of the evil lingers still in my mind. I am puzzled and fretful and know not what to do.”

Gimli said nothing a moment, but pondered his friends’ words; at last he drained his goblet, and setting it down on the floor, leant forward, his elbows on his knees. “Well, tell me of it then,” he said gruffly. “I am awake and unlikely to go back to sleep after a declaration like that. Speak, since you cannot be silent.”

So Legolas spoke, and as the words left his mouth, he felt their evil lessen and recede from him, and the poison ingested dwindle in potency; his heart slowed, and the tale seemed stupid, convoluted and meaningless and certainly far beneath Gimli’s attention. But Gimli listened, and when Legolas spoke of the snake’s head sliding down his throat, he put a hand on Legolas’ shoulder and squeezed him soothingly. Legolas shuddered; that yet nauseated him, though the pressing horror of the dream had faded. When he had wound up his tale he felt as though he ought to apologize to Gimli for troubling him with such nonsense, but Gimli was silent, thinking about what Legolas had said.

“The ring,” he said at last. “You saw your father’s ring not once, but twice?”

“Yes, Gimli,” said Legolas. He drained his goblet and handed it to Gimli, who refilled it and gave it back. “Once on his hand, reaching out from the bodies; then on my own hand when the snake-woman took hold of me. And I saw Eryn Lasgalen aflame, and my fears for my father’s kingdom – “ he stopped himself, suddenly annoyed. “It was only a dream; it is foolish of me to so impose upon you. I am sorry, Gimli; I will go and let you sleep.”

“Will you sleep though?” asked Gimli soberly. “The horror of it rests with you yet; I can feel you trembling.”

Legolas shook his head slowly. “I know not, Gimli,” he said, hesitant. “It was not real – I knew it was not real as I dreamt. But that lessened not the terror of it; it served to increase it rather. For though it was but phantasm, I tasted and smelt and felt upon me the snakes, the fire and the poison. And it would not leave me – it pursued me, though I sought to evade it; when my mind stilled it came over me again. O this is foolishness,” he said suddenly, putting his goblet down and running his long fingers through his pale flossy hair. “I have never suffered such torment from a dream before – it is nothing – dismiss it rather, O Gimli; get you to your couch, and I shall leave you; by morning-time I am sure even the echoes will have faded.”

“It is very unlike you to let such specters assail you,” said Gimli, patting Legolas’ shoulder. “For that very reason I think I cannot dismiss this, but will accord it full attention.”

“What do you mean, Gimli?” asked Legolas, turning to him in surprise; Gimli’s face was thoughtful, and he regarded the Elf with concern.

“You are right, my friend,” said the Dwarf. “You do not dream bad dreams, or have evil visions, or are discommoded by midnight terrors. You rarely dream at all, when you do sleep; and though I find you silly at times, I have not seen that you ever let fancies and fears overtake you. But tonight you dreamt not once but thrice of evil, of snakes and fire and death. You are a Sindar prince, and though I am dismayed to admit it, grow wiser as the years pass; it is not inconceivable some deeper insight might be visited upon you.”

Legolas stared at him. “But it was only a dream!” he protested. “It was unpleasant, but one cannot ascribe foresight to a dream!”

“Faramir may,” said Gimli gravely. “So might Fastred.”

With sinking heart Legolas saw Gimli spoke with wisdom; yet he fought against accepting his vision as truth, for the visions had been so horrible. “It is only that I got a letter from my Lord Father,” he said, seeking to convince himself as well as Gimli; “and that we have been so concerned about this vile fellow Malbeach. Why I am certain there is nothing in it – “

“Why; what said your father?” asked Gimli suspiciously; Legolas blushed again.

“I, I cannot speak openly of it; he begged me not to,” he said, very uncomfortable. “O Gimli, it was silly, and meaningless I am sure – now that I sit here with you before the fire and can clear my head, I am sure there is nothing to the dream.”

“You mean you hope there is nothing to the dream,” corrected Gimli with a grim smile. “Drink up, Legolas … do not breach your Lord Father’s confidence, for I know between you and he is the sympathy of father and son at its peak; but do you listen to this, for as your father might confide in you, so does mine in me.” He dug round in his desk a moment, then took out an envelope with a breached seal; Legolas recognized the blue mark of Glóin son of Groin. Gimli withdrew a letter, smoothed it on his knee, and while Legolas sipped at his wine Gimli read:

“There is something funny going on in Esgaroth, Gimli, and I am not comfortable about it at all. Strange as it sounds, I like Thranduil well enough; but I do not think he takes a hard enough line in this, in particular with Malbeach’s wife Renna – she is a nasty piece of work, and no better than she ought to be; perhaps it is because your mother is so pretty but I do not think Lady Renna as beautiful as everyone says. Odd I find her, and Malbeach no less so; I wish Thorin had not agreed to make those collars for him. I would be satisfied if I never went to Esgaroth again. If you see that lad Legolas you might put a flea in his ear over it, and I confess I would not be disappointed if the two of you came up here to give us a clear eye. It seems no one can make a decision, or turn one way or another; we are all muddled, poor Girion in particular, and I am disappointed in the Elvenking – it seems to me that a man who would not turn a hair at throwing thirteen Dwarves in the dungeon for no good reason ought to brace himself up enough to send that little trollop on her way. Why good Lady Edlothiel hesitates to kick him down the front steps is a mystery to me. When last I was at Malbeach’s house I felt odd – heavy-headed and stupid – I do not know what it is, but it is affecting us all to our detriment. If we do not find out what is wrong in Esgaroth I fear we shall all go mad, Elf and Dwarf alike. And people keep going missing – farm folk, and Men, so it is none of our business I suppose – but it unnerves me to see those empty barns and houses. Even the cattle are gone.”

Gimli looked up; Legolas was staring at him in mingled surprise and apprehension, his goblet forgotten in his hands. “So you see, my friend, when you speak of Eryn Lasgalen in flames, and your Lord Father at bay, I too am minded of my father’s words, and my unease increased not lessened. For months it seems have we heard naught but ill dealings from the new Master of Esgaroth, and now the bad tidings come to you from some dream-land, whence have never come such speerings to you. I know you sought sound, earthy advice of me,” he added kindly, seeing his friend’s face grow even paler than before. “I am sorry, but I think you have received a warning, and coupled with our fathers’ missives … well, Legolas, I know not how to counsel you; I am confounded as are you.”

Legolas drained his goblet in one long draught, put it down, and rose to his feet, casting off the rug. “Then we are leaving now,” he declared breathlessly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “We cannot stay here. We must go, and go now!”

“And do what?” asked Gimli, amused. “Will you bring your army with you? All your knights and archers, and the war-dogs too? Will you attack Lake Town and put all to the sword? I bid you good luck convincing Meivel to empty Dol Galenehtar on the strength of a dream and a couple of letters!”

Legolas stared at him in despair. “But we must do something!” he insisted. “I cannot sit back and wait for the worst to happen. Letters take three weeks from my Lord Father’s palace to Ithilien. Who knows what may have happened after he wrote – last week – what may be happening now? O Gimli, surely you must see we must go, and go quickly!”

“Well, we could,” admitted Gimli, refilling his own goblet and holding the decanter out to Legolas; Legolas fetched his cup and let Gimli pour. “I cannot see bringing many with us though, not with such little information. Galás and Meivel would never consent; nor would Nórin; they would think their lords’ wits had gone wool-gathering, and they would not be half wrong. They might let us go for a visit though,” he said thoughtfully, sipping his wine. “Just to make sure our peoples were foregathering well … and of course it would be polite to meet the new Master of Esgaroth … but we would have to go near in stealth, to escape suspicion, and give some other reason. You might pack lightly – only bring courtly items - ”

“Such as my glorious green armor of course,” said Legolas mockingly, and Gimli laughed.

“Certainly, if it pleases you! And a cook so we might have mushrooms. And we ought to travel without urgency, as though this were but a social visit.”

Legolas eyes sparkled over the rim of his goblet. “With waggons and mules,” he said impishly. “And tents and an esquire. And my lances, Gimli; do not forget my dragons-head coronels!”

Gimli regarded him severely. “After all these centuries, when will you grow up?”

“What fun is that, dear Gimli?” Legolas sat on the rug, his back to the fire, grinning. “I shall challenge Girion’s son to a joust – “

“Legolas – “

“No; come; Gimli – it is a good plan – the weather is good, and no one shall suspect us – “

“Do you truly think your seneschal so stupid? He will know the moment you opine – “

“I shall say Tamin misses his cousin,” said Legolas stoutly. “And – and – and that my Lord Father asked me to come. He did; that much I can say with accuracy.”

“Legolas – “

“And that my Lady Mother seeks to keep Dúrfinwen, and I cannot spare her from the tucking-mill and must go to fetch her.”

Gimli grimaced into his goblet. “That will raise more suspicions than you seek to quell.”

Legolas went pink again. “I – er – well,” he stammered, “perhaps I will not use that particular excuse.”

“Why not? It is as good an excuse as any you have postulated. Come, Legolas; do you not be so precipitate! Let us sleep on it at least, and speak to Bandobras tomorrow; he is practical you know, and may give good counsel to us, who fret for our fathers.”

Legolas sighed and wrapped his limbs round himself; he said: “O very well, Gimli; but fill my cup again – I do not think sleep shall visit me tonight, and if she will, shall bring visions odder than before.”

“What a naysayer you are!” exclaimed Gimli, but emptied the decanter into his friend’s goblet. “Drink up then, and do not think any more of leaving straight way; let cool heads prevail, son of Thranduil.”

Legolas smiled and conceded; yet in some moments when Gimli nodded off, he put his goblet down, and fetching another rug he covered the Dwarf, and sat huddled by the fire, staring into its flickering depths. Yet he saw the forest that had borne him engulfed and heard the cries of his people; he knew sleep would be far from him for some time, and he resolved the more to go himself to Eryn Lasgalen, though what he might do there, or what he might find, he did not yet know.