Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings is not mine. It's Tolkien's.

AN and WARNING: This chapter is lemony too (meaning it contains sex), so don't read it if you're underage or have a problem with the depiction of what is after all a very natural process.

And huge thanks again to Ella who was nice enough to beta this for me.

Btw., reviews are very welcome, especially given the somewhat ambiguous nature of this fic. Alas, how can I improve without feedback? I can't, so there. If you manage to read this, it would be realy nice to leave a note. ;)

~ Personal Demons ~

- Chapter 2 -

The rain has been going on for days now -- chilly and driving, it discourages even my nature-loving people from venturing out for too long. The ground is a muddy mess, the trees are damn slippery, and the colour of the sky fits my mood -- sullen and grey.

It surprises me as she walks into the hall like a small lost child. Her clothes cling to the delicate body I know so well; her long dark hair clings to her skin, a perfect frame for her pale face.

I know well enough that I am the reason for the traces of sadness I can discern beneath her carefully guarded expression. Gimli would know it too -- for all his brash joviality, he isn't stupid -- and he would have my hide. Thankfully he is away visiting his kin . . . I wouldn't want our long friendship to be endangered by the way I treat my wife.

For a moment I wonder how I could be so sure he would side with her, but it is no use playing mind games with myself -- I invariably end up losing. I keep forgetting that he is our friend rather than mine, and he could not find it in his large heart to ignore her pain, or her fragility.

Well, unlike Alafiel, Gimli is direct. He wouldn't try to soothe her by stealing moments with her behind my back (although the thought is unexpectedly hilarious) -- he would come after me with the axe. And the way her face looks now, that might be a well-deserved fate.

Damn, Anna . . .

"I think I want to be human again," she says quietly and without preamble. The words stop me cold, the chill spreading outwards from the center, freezing the easygoing smile on my face.

I can think of nothing to say. This is no clever maneuvering, no ploy to get my attention or gain my forgiveness. She is going to do it.

"You want to forget," she adds in that small, dead voice as it becomes clear that I am unable or unwilling to answer. "And you are only going to forget if I leave. I asked Ilúvatar. I'd like to leave. I don't--" she swallows, a strange choked sound and the first sign of emotion. "I don't want to live with you like this. I don't think I can."

She is serious. She is dead serious, and I am still unable to string a coherent sentence together. Until now, I have been able to coerce, manipulate or intimidate everyone into doing what I wanted. I get the horrible feeling that I won't manage to coerce or manipulate her into staying. Not this time.

Her composure is crumbling. I reach out, cupping her wet, miserable face between my hands. I resist the urge to cage her in my arms.

"Do you really think you'd be happy as a human after you've tasted of life as an elf? You're basically contemplating suicide, and now you're telling me you prefer it to living with me."

She closes her eyes. "We both know death isn't the end."

I search desperately for means to sway her. Maybe the time has come to be honest. "I won't say remembering isn't painful, or sickening, or degrading. But I need you, and that isn't going to change just because I hate it. Yes, I hate depending on someone -- the fact that it's you does not make it more bearable. I hate it that your face seems the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, although I see truly magnificent elves every day. That doesn't change anything. I still love you."

She laughs, a small, choked sound. "Do you even listen to yourself? It's not enough."

"What is? You'll be miserable without me."

"I'm miserable with you."

I crowd her against the wall with my body, trap her with my hands. She's never failed to become soft and yielding when I did that, and she doesn't now. But this is not a stolen moment between lovers in an open place. This is a desperate attempt to right whatever's going so horribly wrong between us.

"We'll get through this. But I need you to stay."

"I don't want to. It hurts." She sobs. "Give me something. Anything."

I feel the fury rise, drowning the fear. I welcome it, allow it to reach my eyes, to simmer there. "No." I say it calmly, and my eyes betray me only because I want it that way. "If this is going to work, I need something from you. If you really love me, you will not run away at the first sign of trouble. You'll stay, and give me time to fix it." Her eyes widen with dismay, but underneath is a tremulous hint of hope. Ah, but I am playing her like an instrument. There's satisfaction in that, and hope, because her feelings are strong enough to overrule a keen intellect.

Outside, the rain continues its steady patter upon the leaves. Anna is looking at me, unblinking. What are you thinking, pet? I cannot discern her thoughts under the layered shroud of hurt, bitterness, betrayal . . . but I need to if I am to decide on a strategy that is going to work.

Would I invade her mind if I could? Strip her of all her secrets until she'd lie trembling and naked in my arms?

I would.

Everything to keep her. She isn't making it easy, though. She's just standing there, trapped between the wall and my body. Wet and chilled and trembling slightly -- not wanting to stay, but not daring to go either. And despite my other, more ambiguous feelings, I feel a sudden rush of tenderness well up.

"You are cold," I say calmly. "Let me warm you."

This time it is no sexual innuendo, although she could take it that way. Does take it that way. Something sparks in her eyes. "No. Legolas--"

But my arms are already closing about her. She stiffens a little. Maybe she expects me to use the attraction between us as a weapon -- I have done it often enough in the past, and she has always yielded. Strange that she should be so resistant now, when all I want is to comfort her -- and myself.

Maybe I have been approaching this from the wrong side. Maybe I should let my feelings -- dark and twisted and raw though they are -- do the work. I cradle her carefully, though tightly enough that I can feel every shivering inch of her, and kiss her forehead. I can feel a protest coming up -- she doesn't want to be placated. I kiss her nose before she can utter it.

"Anna, no. Don't speak. Not right now." I find myself rocking her, smoothing wet black strands away from her face. "Get out of the wet clothes first. Drink something hot -- I'll bring you something. Let us talk. Maybe I have been driving you away, but we can change that. Just don't run." There's more anger in my voice than I wanted to put there, and definitely too much raw emotion, but it seems to work.

She's softening. Accepting the embrace, my arms around her. She's growing softer on the inside too. Her lips are parting in that special way that tells me she's longing for a kiss, so I lean a little closer, touching my mouth to her cheek. Ah, there it is, the little fluttering sigh of surrender.

"All right."

I kiss her eyelids before I lift her up into my arms. "I love you. Even if I don't say it often enough."

She nuzzles her face into my throat, although she doesn't want to. It pleases me to know that, on this level at least, she can't resist me.

"I don't want you to say it," she mutters. "It's enough to show it, and you don't. You're so cold. And you never, ever talk to me. Really talk."

"Anna--" She shakes her head, stopping me, but clutches me closer.

"I've tried. I really have. But instead of talking you make some joke and we end up having sex. Mindblowing sex, I'll grant you that, but it doesn't solve anything. And there's that look you get sometimes . . . I can't really describe it, but it's not loving. It's more like you would like to rip my throat out, but decide you don't want to do it just yet."

I never thought she'd see so much. I wonder how long she's been living with that. How long I've made her live with that.

Setting her down for a moment I cup her wet, sulky face in my hands and kiss her thoroughly. Not in order to distract her, but because I need it. I already am a self-centered bastard -- I don't want to imagine what I would become without daily doses of Anna's kisses. The way she clings to my neck right now, I don't think I want to imagine what she'd be without me either. It seems the time when we could function separately is long past.

"We will talk. I promise," I say when I finally raise my head. "I can't promise you'll like what I have to say, but I'll share." Share my dreams and my jealousy, and the insane need to lock her away somewhere so that she's all mine. Well, I may be a bastard, but I keep my promises.

She looks up at me, bright-eyed and a little dizzy. "Why?"

"Because the alternative is too horrible to contemplate." I smile, this time genuinely. "You would go away and become mortal again, and I'd start drinking and sleeping around. Then I'd probably kill myself someday, although I know I would land in the halls of Mandos for an eternity of boredom. And I still wouldn't be together with you." Hell, I'd probably even become mortal for her, and that after I've managed to survive three thousand years of fighting. That should count for something.

"I'm staying," she mumbles tonelessly, and I want to scream out my victory. She's defeated. The signs are everywhere -- the lowered head, the sagging shoulders, the little forlorn sniffle that escapes her although she tries so valiantly to keep it in . . .

All the hate I felt, all the malice . . . everything is dissolving in a long, warm flood of contentment as I lift her back into my arms and realize that I don't want her defeated. I simply want her happy.

Oh, I haven't changed that much -- I'm still rather cold, I can be manipulating, and I have no real problems with killing, but that's elves in general. I'm only better at it than most. And of course there's still the ugly truth to tell, since I intend to keep that promise. So I won't lock her in a tower; I'll even survive the occasional smile she bestows on others. But just because I'll lay most of my cards on the table that doesn't mean I'll stop indulging at least some of my whims. This includes stripping her naked in that little alcove in the great hall whenever I feel like it -- or the broom cupboard or the armoury, for that matter. Not that I'll ever do it with others looking -- I'm much too possessive of that sweet, yielding expression on her face to ever allow somebody else to see it. But she'll be horribly embarrassed anyway, and I'll still tease her about it.

Maybe we'll almost have what passes for a normal relationship.

However, all I want right now is to wipe that sad look off her face; make her realize that this is a beginning rather than the dead end she believes it to be. And as I carry her out of the hall and into the now warm summer rain I have to grin at the memory rising unbidden at the sight of the large gates.

I turn and lift her a little higher, so that her face is level with mine. "Well, say it already," I demand. She looks quizically at me, then back to the doors I've just stepped through with her in my arms, and finally that brilliant, sunny smile lights up her face.

"You're doomed," she declares, linking her arms tighter behind my neck. The downpour continues undiminished; it seduces me into drinking the rain from her lips until I find myself swamped with joy, relief, and a great deal of lust. My hot little she-elf has her greedy hands all over me, our home is only a few feet away, and a good lay lies in my immediate future. I am also quite sure half the forest is watching us by now, but I don't care. We're young, we're in love, and I have just managed a steep climb with Anna in my arms, and also to kick the door open without letting go of her, although she's endangering my balance by violently ripping off my second sleeve.

Her eyes promise she won't go easier on the rest of my clothing, and somehow I find I feel free to touch her without the ugliness of the past or the shadow of doubt at the back of my mind.

I'm almost ready to give myself up to mindless need when something suddenly stops me. Taking her again, however satisfying for both of us, won't solve a lot. It won't prove how I feel about her. It won't prove what I'm willing to give up for her.

So I do the only thing that makes sense considering how flushed and aroused we both are -- I take hold of her shoulders and gently push her away. Then I throw myself on the bed so that I lie on my back, arms spread, and give her an inviting grin. "I'm all yours, lady."

Sometimes even royalty has to relinquish the reins.

"Oh," she murmurs, pursing those eminently kissable lips in thought.

Lucky for me, she's a fast thinker. I grin up at her as she straddles me, adorable and already very naked. And there's a mischievous look in her eyes I've never seen before -- but then again, I've never let her play.

I've been an idiot.

She's bending down now, lashing my heated skin with the fall of her wet, heavy hair. She hasn't even touched me properly, yet I find myself shivering. Her mouth skims along my jaw to my ear, then across the sensitive shell to a spot right below the earlobe. She starts licking me there, with small flicks of her tongue that drive me mad, then she suddenly bites my neck.

I buck so forcefully that I almost throw her off the bed. She laughs, clutching my shoulders for support. Down, boy.

I arch my neck as she suckles on the exposed skin. I gradually become aware of the hot weight of her breasts pressing against my bare chest, the way her parted thighs cradle my arousal through the material of my breeches . . .

Why the hell am I still having pants on?

A last nip at my chin and she's sliding down, dragging those firm, luscious breasts over my chest, nuzzling my collarbone, using that hot mouth to suckle at skin that's grown wet and chilly under the dripping cover of her hair.

Now her small tongue is licking a downward path towards the fastening of my breeches and across a taut layer of muscles I suddenly can't control anymore. She nibbles teasingly all over my abdomen while her fingers go to work on the fastenings. A small tug, a longer one, a little fumbling around my ankles and the offending garment is already sailing into a corner where it lands with a thud. Unheeded.

She smiles sweetly up at me and lets her fingers dance teasingly over my thighs, flutter delicately across my lower belly, delicately and picking up speed now . . . What the--

I stare, horrified, as the first wince escapes me, and the first . . . giggle? What the hell is she doing? Tickling. Me?

No. It can't be. Assassins and hardenend warriors aren't-- ticklish. I mean, it's been ages since I-- No. I've never been tickled. Never in three thousand years. I've been beaten; I've been stabbed a few times. I've always returned the offence in kind. Had anyone ever thought to tickle me, I'd have done a lot more than simply rearrange their face.

As the shock subsides I realize I'm still simply lying there and taking it -- twitching and giggling, too. How undignified. Anna, on the other hand, is hooting with laughter as she attacks me again. She hasn't counted on a counter-attack, but she can only laugh louder as I take my revenge by mercilessly tickling her midriff.

I can't really believe it. What started out like very promising sex has ended with us rolling on the bed and screaming with laughter like a couple of children. And here I thought that after three thousand years I was running out of firsts.

Ah, at least I'm the undisputed winner of our little romp. I only stop torturing her as her giggle-strewn squeals for mercy become a little too breathless. I smile as I wipe the tears of laughter from her flushed cheeks and kiss her tenderly because I feel like it. I honestly haven't expected her to throw herself at me, sniffling a little with a mixture of residual laughter and tears.

And then she's hugging me. Me, warrior and killer and elf prince. There's nothing sexual in the almost childlike way her arms cling to my waist, and I don't know if I should feel insulted or relieved. Actually, I'm ridiculously pleased.

"Idiot," she mumbles, clutching me, if that were possible, even tighter. I kiss the top of her head.

You forgot to mention assassin and fighter and future king. And, yes, idiot. Your idiot, Anna.

I don't think I'll ever tell her aloud how right she is. It might go to her head.

Damn. I'm lost.