A/n: Just a fluffy little plot bunny packed with angst..this a one shot thing, don't really expect a continuation...For once, it is Estel who is ill..Inspired by Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C sharp minor Op. 27 No. 2 " Moonlight" Adagio sostenuto.

Disclaimer: not mine, dur...Tolkien rules.


" Estel."

He heard his name being whispered like a dying breath, a last hope, a heart's outcry of love. It was the soundless wind of an Elf's voice, so beautiful it was, like a melancholy piece of music. It reached him even in the depths of the darkness that he had sunk into, black waters that only blurred into gray as he surfaced. He wanted so much to breathe, to leave his fevered, dreamless sleep. He wanted to answer the blessed being who called for him, who had brought him this far up toward the light again. Yet no matter how he tried, there he lingered in the shades of gray, with the dimmed light above him, so close yet so far.

" Estel."

It was the murmur of a desperate soul, imploring him to return to the light. He felt himself rise farther in his watery grave, nearer to the light, to air. He shut his gray eyes and a morbid image of the fairest being in all the world bent over someone's bed in grief appeared unto him. The being was an Elf - a prince, and someone who he thought he knew, yet could not remember. And thus the Elf remained this elusive, exquisite creature wrought in a vision of dejected color. The Elf's silken tresses of silver-gold hung over his slender shoulders, like a veil that his anguished face. Yet he could see past the Elf's veil, could see through the curtain of hair to the Elf's face contorted with sorrow and with bright eyes closed, pressed shut. The tears fell swiftly, like silver pearls of mithril. The Elf's lips quivered and the lithe body was rigid and trembling, as if in pain. Yet no torment could surpass the agony of his soul.

He wanted so much to go unto the morose creature and bring solace to him. Yet he could not. The Elf only had the crestfallen music that haunted the room to act as understanding compassion in his despondency.

He opened his eyes once more, aware of the aching in his chest.

" Estel."

He was floating ever nearer to the twilight. Finally, he reached it, and, in exhaustion, his eyes of lenient gray truly did open. He looked up into the bittersweet, yet always-fair face of his beloved brother in heart, Legolas Thranduilion. The Elf offered a faint smile, yet even in his current, gravely ill state, Estel noticed the gleam of unshed tears in the pair of blue eyes he loved so deeply. He was glad the prince had been the one to greet him when he had woken up. Estel let his eyes slip closed again as Legolas slowly ran a melting ice cube over the ranger's parted lips. His eyes glistened as he looked upon the face of his most endeared friend that gleamed with the sheen of sweat in the glow of the bedside candle, a result of the merciless fever that raged through the mortal's body. Legolas tenderly stroked the young man's face, brushing away tendrils of damp, dark hair and running his hand smoothly down the side of his best friend's face. He did this in such a manner that it was if Estel was some fragile thing that would shatter if handled any more roughly than that. Legolas gazed upon the distressed face of the ill man, barely pushing his fingertips into the flushed, moist flesh of Estel's cheek. The ranger breathed in sharply at his friend's ministrations, feeling even in his fever the every gossamer touch of Legolas' fingertips, pale and velvet skin upon his own rough and worn. The Elf's ever fingertip was imprinted into his soul, cooling his face and yet radiating love. The tears were pooling in the blonde's boundless, azure eyes, and he let out a breath he had been holding as his lips trembled. Legolas slowly sunk down to lie on the ranger's chest, weeping soundlessly and still in the silent tension that filled the room.

In the shadows of the doorway, Glorfindel watched the archer motionlessly. His own eyes glimmered as he witnessed the scene. It reminded him so much of Elrond and himself. He loved the lord of Imladris just as much as Legolas loved Estel, and many a time before has the Balrog-slayer been brought to despair over his best friend, Elrond Peredhel. He knew all too well the turmoil in which his other beloved young friend, Legolas, suffered. And he knew the way his godson Estel struggled for his young life. And also in his knowledge were the twins, who slept a restless sleep in next room, in anguish for their little brother. He knew the way Elladan cradled Elrohir in his arms, hushing his twin's sobs through his own tears, as the two lay there in bed with their only solace being each other's embrace. But most of all, he knew that Elrond Peredhel, his soul mate friend, sat in the library in silent turmoil, refusing sleep and praying to Blessed Elbereth that he did not lose his mortal son. For the sake of them all, Lord Glorfindel hoped Estel's fever broke by morning.