Orphan Eyes – First Kiss

by May 17, 2003Stories

Orphan Eyes
Part 5
First Kiss

Some time later…

They were out there a week, the company of the Mirkwood elves, Figwit, Maegwen, Gilgnalad and his 5 years the younger brother, Rochon. They were getting very far in their search, but for much of the time, Maegwen’s mind seemed preoccupied. Figwit was able to hide his emotions, but not the girl. Every time she looked at Figwit now, she smiled, or blushed or acted very stupidly. But some of the time, she was able to keep her mind on track, and when she did, she came under unusual luck, and it was usually her that discovered prints or the like, even if she was the only human there. They camped out many nights, but as they drew closer to Dol Guldur they made no fire, which the elves had told tales around when they had been more north. As they grew south and the nights came, Maegwen grew frightened, as she could sometimes hear the very distant cries of an orc, or other howling noises she did not like very much. It made her tremble and dive under her blanket until her head was covered. They elves did not like to travel by night, for they thought it dangerous, and if they had to run from an attack, they might not know where they were going, for though the southern area was Mirkwood, rarely did the elves go there. Maegwen did not like the talk of running. She could imagine herself, running, lost, blind in the night, until the orcs circled around her and killed her, or worse, took her back to their caves and tortured her, for orcs took much joy in hate, pain and such. Maegwen was not an elf, which were what the orcs hated most next to their creator of old, but she figured they would still take delight in her suffering.

It was beginning to become evening again the ninth day they were there, that the elves decided to turn back just slightly, to a place in a patch of trees that they had made camping ground. The ground was smoking thick, and Maegwen tried not to cough, but couldn’t help it. She then, after a few seconds, began a coughing fit, and could not stop. Smoke wasn’t the only thing bothering her. There was the thick smell of blood in the air, and of spilt organs. Figwit gave her some water from a canteen he had, and the hacking stopped. But some elves picked something up with their extreme perceptiveness that they guessed had been attracted from Maegwen’s coughing.

“What is it?” Figwit asked, as he patted Maegwen on the back to help her breathe. She clutched his hand as she straightened up and tried to look around, but the dim light was hard on her eyes.

“Yrch.” Growled Gilgnalad as he stared into one specific part of the wood. There Maegwen saw the moon shimmering in the eyes of an orc, and another, and two beside them.

“Four of them.” Whispered Maegwen in a squeaky voice.

“More than four.” Figwit said, who was looking over her shoulder. “More behind you. A dozen at the most.”

“Oh, no.” Maegwen said. She tightened her grip on his. “What are we going to do?”

“On my count, we will attack.” Legolas said, and he stood poised to reach for his bow, which unfortunately was not in his hand. “One… two…” Maegwen tightened her hold on her dagger, which was about the only weapon she had been trained with heavily. Back in Imalderis, she had never cared for the knowledge of battle training, and figured she probably would not need it. How wrong she was.

“Three!” Legolas said calmly then took his bow in hand, put an arrow into it, then an arrow into an orc. The yrch attacked. Maegwen was able to stay behind Figwit, Legolas, or one of the other elves for cover, but at some points, she had to fight. Maegwen did not like to fight, but these orcs were hard not to hate. The orcs that surrounded them need not weapons: their own teeth and claws were their weaponry. Maegwen was strong, but not this strong, and was thrown about quite a bit. She was thrown back into a tree, and fell to the ground. Her dagger lie inches away, and she grabbed at it. But the orc was too quick. He picked it up, then threw it away. He did not need or want it. He wanted the blood on his own hands, to feel the kill, to tear the flesh and muscle ofthe poor little girl away until there was little less than a mass of blood and viscera. He stared down merciless to the girl that squirmed under his grasp, clawing at him with her own delicate hands, trying to drive him away. He smiled, and let out a viscous cry.

“Figwit!” Maegwen cried desperately as the orc swung at her face and left white and silver stars dancing in her eyes. Another swing, and another. She tried to find Figwit, but could not. Oh, how could this have gone so wrong? Why did she have that cursed ‘vision’? Why did she have to be so noble and come here, when after all, all her trails had come to naught. Renia would not be dead, and Maegwen would not be badly losing this fight as she tried to scoop up her weapon, but it was far from her fingers now. She sobbed, as claws marked up her cheeks and tore at her chest and skin, and blood trickled, seeping her night-blue dress. Then WHAM! Figwit was there, and had hit the orc with such force it went tumbling off, and Figwit was able to help her up.

“Figwit…” Maegwen said faintly, eyes rolling in her head, but with joy and relief. He was not hurt. He was fine. But Figwit felt sick. Maegwen’s beautiful skin had been torn in many places that wounds like this he had only seen Elrond heal with much care. There was a deep gash on her right upper arm, and a long cut along her right cheekbone. There was much blood on her, and when he took one hand away to wipe sweat from his brow he saw it was slick with vital juices, her life support. She had to get out of here. She had seemingly lost a lot of blood, as she fell to her knees.

“Maegwen!” Figwit cried. Legolas looked back after swiftly and effortlessly beheading three orcs, one after another. He thrived in the battlefield and loved to fight; to fight the creatures he hated most in all of Middle-earth and that had caused him much pain over the years.
The state of Maegwen, in fact, brought back a sudden flash of memories he had rather of forgotten. He had been little. So young…

Suddenly, Legolas was not where, or who he ought to be.

“Run, Legolas!” his mother was saying, as the small elf stumbled over the fallen tree. It was when Legolas was a young boy. His mother was right behind him. Oh, she was a beautiful woman. Rich golden hair and such bright blue eyes that seemed to sing no matter what. But now, they were filled of terror and fright for the safety of her and her child. She brought out a long sword from a sheath she kept always: just in case. Legolas’s mother was a good fighter, and skilled greatly with her sword.

“Mother!” cried little Legolas, only young, his big pretty eyes identical to his mothers wide like dinner plates. He tried to come back, but his mother urged him to go on.

“Go, Legolas! Tell your father! I will be right behind you!” shouted his mother, and she turned to fight. Legolas could do nothing but obey. So he ran and ran as fast as his small legs could carry him. His father, luckily, was out side, and smiled upon seeing his pride and joy. But it faded seeing the distress on his son’s face. He kneeled down to be the height of Legolas.

“Legolas, what is it, son?” asked Thranduil, holding the young elf’s shoulders sternly, with eyes of confusion. Then he searched the path behind Legolas. “Where is your mother?”

“She… she is back there!” Legolas squealed in fright, tears welling up. He did not know what would happen. “Orcs came while we were playing… mother said she was right behind me!” he covered his eyes in sadness and dread. A handmaid came out just then, and Thranduil instructed her to take Legolas in side. It took quite some time of coaxing to calm the prince down, but at last, the handmaid was able to convince him things would be all right. All right…

“Legolas!” cried Figwit, snapping Legolas out of his trance. Back in his grown body with acute and sharpened senses, he detected an orc coming from behind. With his knife in hand, he cut it’s outstretched arm from its body then decapitated the head. He ran over, with a sudden care and worry over Maegwen, who was laying on the soft leaves, earlier dry, but now soggy from blood.

“This is not good.” Legolas said. “She will die if she is not taken from here.” He scooped her up in his own arms, so protectful now that those horrible memories had resurfaced. He ran, Figwit in tow, and the others at a distance coming, holding the orcs back. But there were too many. Legolas with Maegwen in his arms and Figwit at his side returned to their camp before the others, who were back some way now, keeping the orcs at bay. Legolas put her on a horse that had earlier carried items here.

“Go.” Figwit said. Legolas looked puzzled.

“I thought you would want to take her.” Said the prince.

“You know these trees better than I, and the slightest delay might cause her death.” Figwit said, but it hurt him to say this. He did not want to be separated from Maegwen. But he knew Legolas would get her to the castle quicker. Legolas nodded, and mounted.

“Figwit…?” Maegwen said. She was rested against an elf’s chest; she did not know who, but it was not Figwit. He did not have the same warmth. She was so tiered; she could not open her eyes. But this was not Figwit, and she knew it. It was growing so dark and black. She called him again. He was so far away. His sweet voice echoed in her head.

“I’m right here, Maegwen.” Figwit said, kissing her hand, as bloody as it was. “It is alright.” He kissed her hand again; knowing this tarry was only worsening her condition. But he could not let go.

“I do not want to leave you. I never want to let go…” her head tossed in pain. Figwit smiled, and let her hand go. She slumped onto the horse, unconscious.

“Hurry, Legolas!” Figwit said. Legolas kicked the horse, and they went. The ride probably would have been slow and painful, had Maegwen been awake to feel it. But in her little dreams, all there was was pain. Then even more pain. Searing hot pain, like a nail being driven into her arms and legs.

Legolas let out cry. A black-feathered arrow was in her arm, and another one zoomed right between her and him. While still going, he searched the scene and saw a lone orc firing shots at them. While commanding the horse go forward and holding Maegwen up with his legs, he fired his own bow, killing the orc. His attention turned back to the girl. He looked at her arm, which was now stiff. Around the arrow her skin was turning purple. It was poisoned. Legolas broke the arrow so it would not catch on anything, and then hurried the horse faster than ever. He came skidding to the castle, took her from the horse’s back, and ran into the castle. Legolas took her to the healer of the house, a drop of nervous sweat trickled down his brow.

“What happened?” asked the woman elf, and then Legolas explained everything. Then he was sent from the room, while the elf took Maegwen’s dress off, and started to bandage her up, and tried to clear out the poisoned wound. Legolas would not leave the outside of the room, and paced. He did not know why he was being so defensive for her. But she herself was so defenseless and hurt: her skin so pale, her eyes in so much pain… he could only remember seeing such pain when he was younger. And his mind drifted back…

Legolas sat in his room, feet dangling off the side of he bed, still a little worried about his mom, but knew she would be alright. His father would go get her, they would come back, and everything would be fine. It would be alright.

Then something caught his pointy little ears. A moaning in the hall, and a sobbing, and a crying for help. Legolas pranced to the door, and then peeked out through the crack of the door. His mother was in his father’s arm, but sobbing and howling in so much horror. He could see his mother, and he fell back into his room. Her face had been coated with blood, her hair was matted, and her eyes were rolling. Thranduil disappeared into a room with three helpers behind him. Legolas ran to go see what had happened, but another elf woman held him back.

“Just a moment, young prince.” Said the elf. “Wait. You can see her soon enough.”

But when his father called Legolas in, the news was not well. He saw his mom, but she was breathing so heavily, and she was shaking. He went to his mother’s side, and took her hand.

“Mother?” he asked softly. She looked at him, but her eyes looked dead with only a little spirit and life left. Legolas’s eyes were brimmed with frightened tears. “Mother!”

“My little Legolas. My dear, beautiful, strong little Legolas…” said his mother in barely but a whisper. Legolas threw himself on his mother’s chest, hugging her, his father behind him, face in his hands, crying tearlessly, but his heart felt like it might burst. His mother looked up at Thranduil, and put out her hand. Thranduil took it, and kissed it, and now the tears came. But his wife did not cry. She lay there, so happy to have Legolas and Thranduil near.

“My wise, loving Thranduil… we have had a wonderful life.” She said, squeezing his hand. She looked at Legolas, who was crying so hard that he himself was in pain besides that of his heart.

“Mother!” sobbed Legolas. “Mother…”

“My little Legolas… little Legolas…” and then the spirit just left her. Her eyes were still opened, but the sparkle and gleam left her eyes. Legolas cried harder and harder, and ran into his father’s arm, crying into his chest. It was his fault. If had not dragged his mother out into the woods to play… if he had run faster…

“Mother…” said Legolas, tossing his head back in pain as he stood outside the room where Maegwen was. He closed his eyes, trying so hard to block out the memories. It felt so real, as if he had been back there, in his mother’s arm, feeling her die around him.

“Legolas?” asked a voice, and the prince’s eyes snapped open. His father was there, and he looked curious. “What is it?”

Legolas bashfully told him about the sudden rush of memories, and then more frightfully what had happened to Maegwen. Thranduil grew frightened of what might happen. But he did not say anything about Legolas’s memories of his mother. There was a fire in Maegwen’s eyes that reminded him of his wife’s eyes. He was silent, and went off, but Legolas stayed there, and listened intently for anything from inside.

Erwina was the healer’s name, and she was tall with golden hair and motherly grey eyes. She had bandaged up Maegwen’s arm and her front which had had a large amount of damage done to it, and was now attempting to clear out the poison. There had not been much on the arrow, but it was still enough to count, and Maegwen was growing pale quickly. She could speak a little, and told Erwina all that she could remember. Of the healing process it’s self, afterwards Maegwen could recall little of it, except it was excruciatingly painful, and she speculated she was unconscious much of the time, going in and out of the world of the living. Sometimes she felt like she was on a high cloud surrounded by so much joyous light, then would be pulled back with a sudden jolt of pain, and see that Erwina was looking at her, saying “All most done, not long now.” Then she would fall back into sleep. But sometimes her dreams were less pleasant. She would be running through the woods, calling for Figwit, but he would not come. Sometimes he was there. But as she went to him, he just grew farther away. It was terribly confusing, and made Maegwen sad when she woke. She was able to tear herself from the intense ache and think of what was happening to him. Surly it would not take this long for him to return. But then, in her world of going unconscious then waking and turning inanimate again several times a minuet made time drone on forever, and what felt like hours was merely minuets.

It was late in the afternoon that she awoke, to feel that most of the pain was gone, and Erwina was patting Maegwen’s head with a moistened cloth. But smiling.

“Good to see that you are awake. We have been worried. But I knew you would find your way back.” She made it seem so dramatic. Maegwen tried to sit up, and Erwina held her down easily and lightly.

“Stay lying down. You still need much rest.”

“Where is Figwit?” Maegwen asked faintly, searching the room. It was not her bedroom, and was also very unfamiliar. But it was cozy.

“He has not arrived back yet.” Erwina said, standing, and pouring a glass of water for her patient. Maegwen took it gladly.

“But it has almost been a day.” Maegwen said, after putting the glass at the side table and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Why has he not arrived yet? He was only holding the orcs back…” she thought about this, and saw Legolas enter the room. He looked relieved. Maegwen did not know why. She and he had never been very close. He bowed to Erwina who afterwards left.

“Figwit and the others are not back yet?” she asked anxiously. Legolas’s grin fell. He was puzzled too about the delay of the others.

“I am afraid not.” Said the prince. “There has been no message, and I would have gone to look for them, but I was frightened about you and your health.”

“It is nice to know you care so much about me, though we know eachother little.” Maegwen said sitting up. Legolas smiled again, but apologetically as he walked over.

“It is not that, exactly.” He said. Maegwen’s eyebrow tilted, not understanding.


“I did not mean it like that. But… your situation resurfaced memories in the mind that I would rather have forgotten. But I felt like it was my duty to help you.” Legolas’s thought seemed drifting off somewhere, like he was not there. “I could not fail… let you die…” he closed his bright, beautiful blue eyes as another quick thought of him in his father’s arm many years ago, crying at the side of his mother’s death bed. Maegwen tapped him carefully.

“Legolas?” she asked. “Prince? What do you mean?”

Legolas looked at her, and sat on the side of the bed. “I just mean that… well, something happened to me when I was very young. I do not like to talk about it, but I will tell you.” He sighed, and stared out the window beside him, which looked out into the tall beech trees. So he told her all about the day his mother died, and how and why. He talked as if it was his own fault, but Maegwen knew it was not. She was shocked to hear this story. It explained why she had not yet met Legolas’s mother. She was so stunned because Legolas always seemed happy, like he had the perfect childhood and life to date, and nothing could spoil it.

“It is a similar case with you.” Legolas said to her after she told him what she thought. “But it is evident that you too had an unfortunate accident in your early years. You are no elf, and yet Elrond is your father. A surrogate father, then?”

Maegwen nodded sadly, but she smiled. “There was no unfortunate accident in my youth. I had the perfect childhood, and could ask for no other, or trade for any other. Yes, Elrond took me in when I was a small infant, only a year old if that. I had been found in the garden of Imladris, by Figwit.”

“Is that a reason you are so taken with him?” asked Legolas with a sly smile. “I see the way to two look at eachother.”

Maegwen blushed, and busied herself looking at a pattern on the comforter sheets. “We do not look at each other in any… ‘way’.” She grumbled. Legolas laughed airily.

“Oh? Is that what you think? No, you two are in love. I think that Figwit loves you very much. He loved you enough to let you go so you could be ridden here safely and quickly. He does not want you to be in pain.”

“Have you ever been in love, Legolas?” Maegwen asked, trying to ignore what he had just said. It wasn’t that she did not agree with the prince that she loved Figwit, but it felt odd talking about it. “Someone as charming as yourself must have found someone to love.”

Legolas grinned again. He was such a joyous man. “No, I have yet to find love. I will though, some day.”

Maegwen smiled too. They talked a bit more about that, until the sun fell, and what they would do and where they would go with their love partner. Legolas said he would take his wife on a walk through the trees that he loved so much; the beech and elm. Maegwen said she would go walking under the stars that wonderful Varda had set in the skies.

The moon rose high, and still Figwit had not returned. Maegwen was not frightened, but just wondered where he was.

“Do not be troubled too much. I am sure they will have returned by dawn. Now I must leave you to get some sleep. It has been nice talking with you, Maegwen.” Said Legolas bowing. Maegwen waved, then covered herself in the sheets, though moving lots hurt. She closed her eyes.

Figwit did not return the next day, or the day after. Maegwen was so frightened and confused why he had not returned yet. Legolas could give no reason. All he could give was the reassurance he would be back soon: the next hour, the next day, when she awoke. But Figwit did not come. Every moment she was kept from him, every moment she thought about his return, she felt her love grow for the elf. She wished she had been able to stay with him, or tell him things that she had not. Her chest swelled, and she blinked back tears as she sat in her room, staring out the window and into the trees, longing for Figwit. She thought about the night before they had set out into the wood, when she had almost kissed Figwit. She played it in her mind as though it had happened. She thought of so many other things. Now more than any other hour did she wish to return to Imladris. Renia was lost to her, and she would then ride with Figwit, holding onto him tightly. All she wanted was to be with him: to be in his grasp, to feel the touch of his skin against hers.

She opened her eyes, driving away her mental images, and saw that out side along a path of trees came a handful of elves that Legolas had gone to meet. They looked tiered and worn, and sad in a way. But Maegwen grinned as she saw Gilgnalad and Rochon enter the building, and she ran from her room to greet them. She felt bursts of emotion. How could she have been so silly? Of course Figwit would come back. And now he was here, and she could tell him everything. She hoped she looked presentable. She wanted to look her best for Figwit. But he wouldn’t care. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she could soon be in his warm embrace. She came to the entranceway, to see the elves, and Legolas turning from them, a look of grief upon his fair face. He spotted her, and Maegwen’s smile dropped.

“Legolas, what is it?” she asked, but was still smiling in her heart as she looked at the door, waiting for Figwit to come.

“Maegwen, will you follow me?” he asked. Maegwen did not want to. She wanted to be the first thing that Figwit saw. But Legolas did not wait for a reply. He took her hand, and led her away to a darkly lit room, where Thranduil was. He was looking into the fire, and upon the arrival of the two he looked up, smiling to see them. But when he saw Legolas’s fallen expression, he looked puzzled.

“Sit there.” Legolas said, and Maegwen obeyed, sitting on the comfortable chair. She was confused, and tried to listen to what the Legolas was telling his father, but did not hear a thing. Then the door opened, and a line of elves entered. They had been the ones from the expedition. She stood, waiting to greet the elf she loved so. Legolas came to her, as if ready for something she did not know. The number was smaller, and she did not see some of the elves she remembered, such as Elfea. Then Rochon entered, and he came to her as well. His face was sullen and his face was smudged with dirt, and his cheeks were stained with silent tears. He embraced her, and Maegwen did not understand. Then she saw. More elves were coming in, but with litters in hand, and grey cloaks over masses of something she could only guess were bodies. She gasped. She wanted to run to Figwit. She knew how much he hated the death of his own. But he would be in there soon enough.

The last couple entered the room, but Figwit was not among them. She was so confused.

“Rochon…?” she said, turning to him. He was shaking his head, his older brother’s hand on his shoulder. She then knew she would not see Figwit again, like she had seen him before their departure. She fell to her knees, and put her palms to her eyes, blocking out the images. But the sound of movement caused her to put her hands down. Two elves had set a stretcher down in front of her, and there lay Figwit, looking like he had been through the worst war ever encountered by his race. Still his eyes stared at her with a gleam that told her he was not dead; not yet.

“Figwit!” She gasped, and put her arms around him, and lifted his torso so she was holding him in her arms. Figwit stared up at her, and smiled as best he could.

“Maegwen…” he said, taking all his strength to wipe away a tear from her eye. Maegwen looked at his body. There was a dagger through his chest that had cloth around it to keep it from moving. They had not taken it out for a number of reasons. It would have caused him to bleed more, caused him more grief and pain, and trying to rescue him was futile. Too much damage had been done, even to save him. And much blood had been loss, even though there was many swathes.

“Oh, please, you can’t…” Maegwen said, shaking her head. “You can not do this… you can not leave me.”

Legolas looked at the others, and his facial expression told them to leave. They did, and left the litters with the dead elves in the room. Figwit was the only one to have made it this far. But even he could not stay his doom.

“Oh please, oh please…” she could not stop saying this: praying for him to live. “You can not leave me. There was so many things we were going to do together. So many things I wanted you to enjoy with me.” But praying was hopeless.

“My time has come.” Figwit said. He was not afraid of death. Though he did not welcome it, this was how it was going to be, and there was no use in denying it. “I must leave you now.”

“No!” Maegwen said. “Not now. Not before your time. You are young. There is so much more you must do.”

“‘Must do’?” Figwit asked. “There is nothing that I must do. Only things that I want.” He coughed, and blood sputtered from his mouth. Maegwen took the bottom of her dress and wiped his mouth.

“And what do you want? Is this what you want?” Maegwen asked, hoping that talking would hesitate the end.

“What I want is something I cannot have. What I want deserves better: a better life. What I want is younger than I, and has her whole life ahead of her. What I want has suffered so much.”

Maegwen bent closer down to his face and kissed his brow. “And I will go on suffering until I may see you again.” She kissed his brow again. “Oh, why did I have the wretched vision? This is all my fault-“

“No!” Figwit said, then gasped for air. “This is not your fault. Do not even begin to think that it is.”

“Blame must be placed.”

“There is no where to place it.”

They stared into eachother’s eyes. Maegwen bent down, and kissed him. His lips were sweeter than anything she had tasted before, but the foul taste of blood lingered too on her tongue, and would years after the death of the elf. She felt so warm and loved, and did not want to pull away. But she had to. There was a brief moment that such a bright light shone from his eyes.

“Tell me you love me.” He whispered.

“I love you.” Maegwen wept.

“I love you.” Figwit said, with a smile upon his lips. Maegwen blinked away a tear. It was so ironic that their first kiss was their last. She looked at him. She knew he was gone. His eyes had not closed, so it was not that which gave him away. It was not the fact his chest no longer rose and fell. It was that his beautiful eyes no longer glittered and smiled and emitted such warmth. Maegwen was cold. So cold. And bitter. She wanted to scream and to cry, and wanted someone to suffer for his death. She wanted vengeance. She screamed silently, and wept openly, and her tears fell onto Figwit’s face, and she rested her head on his motionless and lifeless chest and wept more.

“I don’t want to let go.” She whispered.

**It just occurred to me ‘I don’t want to let go’ is similar to the whole Titanic line thingy. Ugh. I hated that movie. I did not intend it like that. Just happened. Thanks. Oh, yeah, the explanation why Legolas is motherless and all (you know, not getting a name, a background, not even know if she existed…)(which of course she did, or how was Legolas born?)(hmm… maybe from ROCK! Oh, yeah, not a dwarf) is only a possibility. I do not know if Leg’s mom is dead, but you know, we never hear of her, so… just deal with it. If this sucked, complain to my manager, cuz I don’t have one! I should, though.


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