Summary: Many years post-LotR, Aragorn remembers his earlier days and contemplates death as it might appear to an elf. An Aragorn and Legolas friendship fic. Rated G. Rather Zen-ish really.

Disclaimer: This story is based upon characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien and his legendary “Lord of the Rings” series. No profit is taken in this endeavor, and this story is simply written for pleasure. Hopefully the old man would have enjoyed it.

Author's Note: I would like to dedicate this story to Nightwing and offer it as a birthday present to her. It’s a little late, I know, but the thought has been there since before her day of celebration, so I think it still counts. And it’s my birthday present to me too (we’re only one day apart). The idea for it, in a very convoluted way, was derived from Thundera Tiger’s “The Day Before,” but truly the full of this came from many a conversation Nightwing and I have shared about nature and death and life and God. Enjoy, dear friend, and Happy Belated Birthday!

End Notes
By Ithilien

I see the corners of my friend’s mouth go down and I read the disappointment that noticeably dims his eyes. I consider apologizing, but know I have no reason to do so. I am doing nothing wrong in admitting surrender and retreat. Long years have gone by since I needed the affirmation that a battle well-fought would give in helping me sleep at night. I sleep well already, if not a little more randomly than what it once was. It matters not. I do not need to do this to myself.

I lower my weapon and step away. A drop of sweat trickles down my neck, staining the fabric of my tunic, a mark of my exertion where a man my age should find none. “No more,” I say a little breathlessly. I walk to the arms master and hand him my sword.

My friend takes a step to follow me. I know he is there even if his footfalls are silent. He has not relinquished his weapon, I note, and that makes it all the clearer to me his thinking.

“But we have only just begun,” he insists, and I consider how prophetic those words are. I wonder if my friend hears them as I do.

“By what clock do you follow?” I question. This is a quip, a witticism aimed at his one true flaw, for my friend has no sense of time and he knows it.

“I can look at the shadows and know they have not moved,” he counters, ignoring my targeted tease.

He is much too serious today and I would rather not dance words with him. I turn, shrugging him off. “That is not what I mean,” I say as I begin my march out of the courtyard. I feel my knees creak as I take the stairs.

“The exercise will be good for you,” he offers, still following me. I can hear the hint of irritation in his voice and I wonder if he has realized the meaning of my words yet.

“There are others who would follow me,” I say as I come around to face him. I glance back to the courtyard. “Eldarion is there. He is as I was at that age, vital and fierce. He would a make good sparring companion to you.”

His eyes narrow as he cocks his head slightly. How young he looks to me. “It is you I seek as companion,” he whispers to me, and I know he no longer speaks of the challenge.

I cannot look at him. His eyes are bright and humorless. Yes, he does realize my words.

I turn away, sighing as I say, “Few get to choose the moment of their end, but it is doubtful it is battle where I will die. I tire of posing in a mantle that no longer fits me. Raising both sword and staff for all to know my might is fatiguing work, and even I grow weary of it. Respite must be had if I am to manage even but one of these emblems of rule. It is time I retire to a place where my limbs might rest.”

“You are stronger than you suppose,” he argues.

“I grow weary,” I reply, then I wait a long pause. “Let me fall.”

I hear his voice catch and I glance up. I can see that he recalls the origins of those words. And then to make certain he understands clearly, I say, “All songs must come to an end, Legolas.” I then walk away.

From behind me I hear his sparring weapon drop to the floor, slipping as if from an arm suddenly gone limp. The note of it is dull like the edge of the practice blade.

****

I would expect him to understand, and yet I know it is not within him to do so. He knows no such thing as endings or finality. He is impatient in this, always curious, always wanting for more, never expecting a conclusion. He is resistant to rest and ends. His energy is boundless and the world is but a garden of play for him, and even in his homeland’s darkest days, he could find joy.

How our roles have changed. There was a time when in my eyes he was the respected elder. I was practically a boy, a young Ranger in the early days of my service. How he could have lowered himself to befriend someone so young I have never ventured to ask. One of his rank and power need not have conferred with the likes of me. Yet he did. We traveled the paths of his forest then, daring to find adventures in our wandering while serving duty to his king.

My mind wanders back on the path of the words I used. I remember the occasion, those days. I was frightened then, yet determined not to show it. I wonder if that is how he feels now.

We had been traveling off the main road, but not so far removed as to be in the more dangerous territories south near the old palace. We were in Mirkwood Forest and doing a normal patrol in maintaining the lands so as to keep the road safe.

I would like to make it understood that I was under no obligation to do this. As a Ranger, I had territory I was assigned to, but nothing put me under any commitment to move into the realms within. Normally elven refuges were well-tended, but Mirkwood had been a troubled land for many lives before mine, and where we could, we Rangers were encouraged to help. I felt it only just that I aid my friends for the elves of Mirkwood were good to most in kind.

We had been hiking a parallel trail to the road, crisscrossing our paths about a mile or so past. Seen above, we would have looked like we wove our route, and one might have asked why we worked this way instead of on a straight course. The reason was one of subterfuge and trapping. Only distanced about thirty meters apart, we were close enough to be near but also far enough that should one of us encounter a danger we had opportunity to surround and destroy it through our aid to each other. This was usually done through a whistle, and we were very clever at imitating birdsong while actually making note to one another. As for the crisscrossing, that was done so as to keep us both at alert and to share the burden of being at the furthermost point from the road.

Guard routes like this were numerous in Mirkwood. All along the Forest Road, there were others repeating the same task as us. The reason that there were just we two assigned in our group is simple -- our mission was not considered dangerous. Had we been traveling further south, our party would have likely been double, or even triple the size we currently had, and the crisscrossing paths would have been far more constant than the way Legolas and I wove them on this trek.

But as I stated, this journey was considered a rather routine one, so much so that several days had passed uneventfully. It was growing late and I knew dark would be falling. That is an amusing statement actually as few parts of Mirkwood were without cover of trees. Thus the forest had an affinity to be grey and shrouded, and for unaccustomed travelers, the sensation was like traveling in perpetual dusk. That is, unless night fell. Then the forest grew very dark. This hardly bothered the wood elves, but they were usually willing to accommodate my inability to see well in the dark. Legolas called whistle for us to make camp and I was more than happy to comply.

We came together at a small clearing, and amazingly enough, there was a patch of sky made visible above us. Aside from this luxury, we were backed by a wall of rock that was too craggy to be used for attack, yet tapered outward so to make flight from it easy enough. At the same time there was a recess at the base that made for a good campsite, and I knew we could camp here without being openly sighted. Legolas also told me there was a spring nearby. The place was nearly as sweet as home if one were to plan a home somewhere out in these woods.

Legolas began to sing while we went about our work. His voice remained low, yet I could clearly hear the tune. He sang in a voice that was as lovely as a bell, and were I a better man, I would have let him go on with his song forever. However, such was not in me. The problem, you see, was that Legolas’ song did not end. He did not stop singing. Over and again, the tune trilled from his throat. Again. Again. Again.

That should not be a complaint. It really is not. Legolas has a wonderful voice, and there are many I have known (Hobbits come to mind among them) who could listen to him go on evermore; anything he should sing would be most graciously welcomed. Yet I grew up among elves, and this was not just a tendency on Legolas’ part but of all the Firstborn. They really did not know when to come to a conclusive ending. If you have ever sat in audience at an elven musical event you will understand what I mean. Elves create songs and poems that are incredibly lengthy and -- I cannot say this without offending-- overly verbose. To be honest, sometimes I believe they only end their words because the author has developed a case of writer’s cramp and the singer has a sore throat.

Thus I will say it, endless singing of the same repeated notes annoys me. I cannot help this failing in me.

I cleared my throat. We had established this as a signal between us after many such times such as this. As much as I hated hearing repeat notes, he hated hearing the same complaints. Thus he stopped. But he smiled as he turned his head to the sky.

“You laugh at me,” I said as I watched the water boil for some tea. It would be another dinner of lembas for us -- we had not snared any game on this day -- but I tried to give myself the pleasure of a hot cup when I could.

“I laugh at your kind. Such children you are. Impatient and easily bored,” he said.

I smiled, not taking offense. When you are the only man among elves you learn not to take yourself too seriously. Still, I could launch barbs when I needed to. “Look who speaks,” I retaliated. “Are you not the elf who gets so lost in other things that he forgets to eat his lunch.”

A look came over him that in subsequent years I came to term as his Fierce Look. This was the daunting expression he took in the heat of battle and war. It was a face one did not argue with. “Mind your tongue!” he snapped and I know I flinched. “I have seen more years than you will ever come to know.” But then his eyes softened to amusement in the speed only an elf could manage. “Besides, I was not hungry,” he said shrugging.

I laughed at the way he had both intimidated me and had put me at ease, and so I asserted myself, preferring to act the man I aspired to be. “If that were so, we could have rewrapped your meal and taken it with us instead of leaving it out on a rock,” I replied in a lecturing tone.

“It was a gift I left for the squirrels,” he answered, indeed sounding much like a child.

“You gave them enough food in that one cake to keep them through the winter. Really, Legolas, I know you are a prince, but you must try to be less wasteful.”

“Yes, Adar,” he intoned in a patronizing voice, and it was clear neither of us took my reprimand very seriously. Usually it was he who spoke to me such. And I allowed it, such admiration did I have for him. Legolas’ accomplishments in the Mirkwood realm were great, even if none outside of these lands really knew of them. That he had such a minor mission at the time of my visit only meant he was on the lesser end of a warrior rotation. Whenever possible, he was assigned the guarding routes further south. Yet even elves needed a rest.

“Still, it was rather forgetful on your part to misplace your meal,” I went on, trying to get us back on topic.

Affronted, he said, “I misplaced nothing. I simply got caught up in the vista and realized I did not have an appetite just then.”

This was rather typical actually. Elves were known as sparse eaters, and one would wonder how elves could manage to keep their weight with how little they took in. However, I can tell you they will eat a lot if their appetite is properly whetted. In fact, elves are fine epicures. Like Hobbits, they can take great pleasure in a good meal. If they remember they are to embark upon one, that is.

Nay, that is not a fair statement! I make it sound as if elves have no mind for memory. That is hardly true. Elves have very keen memories, it is just that they can get distracted if something equally as, or even more enthralling comes along. They put their attentions to the thing that occupies them most. For Legolas, that was usually something other than food. He truly did find beauty in all the world around him, even dark Mirkwood.

I tossed him a lembas wafer. “I hope you are sufficiently hungry now,” I said, watching him catch my offering in his left hand.

”Famished,” he replied, opening the package to expose the thick wafer within.

I took a bite of the one I had doled to myself. The taste melted on my tongue and I could see the pleasure Legolas found in his dinner as well. This was not a surprise. For as many years as I have lived on lembas in the wilds, I have never grown tired of its flavor. That is likely because the flavor is so fulfilling and varied. There is much to be discerned in the taste; honey-sweetness is there at first, but there are also richer, more satisfying tones like that of meat or bread hiding in the layers beneath. They come through with each subsequent bite, and they always seem to vary. Do not ask me how this is done; name it proof of the magic of the elves if you will. My only qualm with lembas was that the texture became a little tiresome after a time. Yet the lembas made by the elves of this realm were unique, crunchier than those of Imladris or Lothlorien. In addition, the Mirkwood varient was especially filling.

Legolas devoured half his meal in three large bites before stopping to take a drink of his tea. Myself, I took small bites that I spaced out much further, but I will go into that in a moment.

As the elf sipped his drink, he seemed to contemplate our conversation. “Tell me, Aragon, what is it about my songs that you do not enjoy?” Legolas knew my heritage, and though I preferred the name Strider, he had always called me by my given name.

I thought about his question for a moment, the furrow in my brow obviously denoting my confusion. “I very much enjoy your songs, Legolas; it is only that I grow annoyed when I hear them repeated relentlessly.”

“But I do not repeat myself,” he claimed.

I laughed. “I beg to differ, but I could have sworn the same tune emanated from your lips at least four times before I stopped you.”

“Nay, your ear is not keen. My song was different each time,” he said in an affronted voice.

I considered that for a moment. “Well, yes,” I agreed. “You are not a machine repeating by rote. But the variations you sang were very small. To me, the song was still the same.”

Now it was Legolas’ turn to contemplate such a thing. “The same you say? How odd. But even more curious... you would prefer that I sang something different each time?” he asked.

I nodded my reply as I took another small bite of my dinner.

“Is this true of all mortals?” he asked, laughing incredulously.

I chuckled at how this mystified him. “I am not representative to all my kind, but I would venture you’d find it true for most. I long for an end and something new to hear lest I grow bored.”

“How truly strange,” he said, obviously baffled by this revelation. Then he turned to me as if I could somehow relay his thoughts to all of my kind as he said, “But The Song does not end. It is continuous and ever-changing. How can you grow bored?”

He was referring now to Iluvatar’s Song, the Music that the Ainur formed in making all of this World. I had to consider how to answer this, for it was apparent that what he lived by was different from mortal perceptions. Hesitantly I said, “You will forgive me, Legolas, but I do not hear The Song.”

“You do not -- ?” he gasped. “That is impossible!”

“It is not. It is --“ I began, getting lost in the thought, but then I corrected myself as I started to reconsider what I would say so that he might readily understand. “I suppose I should say that we mortals feel The Song more than hear it.”

“But... no! Truly? But how can you...?” he stammered in reply. He was incredulous at the possibility of this, shaking his head. “The way if feels... Ai, Aragorn, it feels as if to constantly change! It is too fast! That is why I prefer the way The Song sounds; it is much more comforting in its subtle pace.”

I shook my head, considering that this was how I felt The Song. Such a delicate subject this was. How could I make him understand what The Song was to me? I was not even sure if It was the same for others! All I knew was that, when I opened myself to It, I could feel The Song in my heart and in my soul, and that it was steady, pleasant, and comforting. It was the one thing, above all else, that gave me hope for the world.

Taking another small bite of the lembas and then draining the last of my tea, I said, “I cannot hear The Song, Legolas. And when I do hear song, it is as elves would sing it. Perhaps the changes in the feeling of The Song are the reason why I wish for the change in how I hear music. I like variety. Besides, for me, what I feel of The Song is not fast. It is constant.”

“It is fast, too fast,” he said disagreeing with me with a shake of his head.

“Elves are just too slow,” I teased.

“Impatient, that is what mortals are,” he chided with returned humor. “You prefer quick ditties and tunes.”

“You make it sound as if our choice is for nursery rhymes,” I said, sounding as if I were offended.

“Very close to that, I think,” Legolas replied, shaking his head.

But I shrugged. “Call it just one of the many differences between Elves and Men, my friend. Men want our songs to have an end.”

“They end soon enough; you live such short spans. I would think you would prefer something lengthier and more controlled.”

“Nay,” I laughed. “Brevity suits us. There is too much to do in too little a time. We do not have it in us to listen for the subtle shifts in the tune you would hear.”

“I find that rather sad,” he said as he watched me eat the last bite of my bread.

“Do not mourn us, Legolas. We know no other way. For mortals, all things must end,” I replied pouring more tea for the both of us.

His mood seemed to sober and he frowned as he absently stared into his cup. “You speak of death then. This too is a strange thing to me. I cannot fathom it.”

“I would say the same of immortality,” I replied.

He glanced up, looking at me searchingly. In moments like this, his curiosity was most keen and his blue eyes most intense. I had to fight the impulse to turn away from his stare. “Do you not fear it?”

“What do you mean? Death?” I asked. He nodded and I considered that for a moment. “Death...” I began, “is something I know I must face. It will happen as it always does, and if I am fortunate it will come for me after I have lived a full life and have been allowed the pleasures of love. But do I fear it? Nay, I do not fear it because I cannot escape it. Even if I am not granted my desire for ancient age, I do not think I fear death so much as I fear what I would lose in death.”

“I do not understand, Aragorn,” he said, and I am not sure I did either.

I thought it through as I spoke, never having given words to these thoughts before. “Were I to die now, this night let us say,” I began with example, “I think I would miss those I love more than the idea of dying. I would mourn parting from them.”

“Would they not be joining you in time?” he asked.

I shook my head. “There is no assurance of that. Logically, I know that if I die, my ability to mourn would die as well. I would be oblivious, as one feels in sleep.”

He looked at me quizzically and I knew sleep was another topic in which we differed, but we would have to take that up on another day. Death alone was wearing me down.

“What I am saying,” I continued, “is that despite knowing these things, in conscious thought now, I would wish for my touch upon those I hold dear to come with me. I would wish for my love of them to follow with me.”

He thought about that, nodding slowly, but I do not think he understood, and I decided I was not satisfied with my answer.

“My love,” I continued, “is not physical ... it fills me. It fills my heart. If that feeling came with me--“

“Is it like the way you feel The Song?” he questioned, interrupting me and I was distracted by the comparison. I had to think about that for a moment.

“Yes,” I said slowly, realizing that was exactly how love felt.

“Yet Iluvatar made it so that The Song has no end,” he said in answer to my wandering thought and again I had to pause as I considered what he was trying to say to me.

“So you say that, because The Song does not end and because my sense of others is like The Song, my feelings do not die?” The thought was too deep and the idea became muddy in my head. I had to laugh.

He simply shrugged. “It is said that what comes of the Secondborn in their passing is a mystery only Iluvatar has answer for. I could not guess at His plan.”

“And neither would I try,” I said, shaking my head. “Perhaps some day I will grow old and wise and know all these answers.

“Be warned,” he chuckled. “With age wisdom does not necessarily follow. I am far older than you, yet I ask you these things because I simply do not know the answers.”

“That is because you are a forgetful youth, to caught up in feeding the squirrels to consider deep contemplative thoughts,” I jested, deciding I had had enough of the seriousness of this conversation. I looked to see if there was more tea.

“You will tell me when you have surpassed me in your wisdom of these things, will you not?” he asked, watching me.

“If the speed at which you hear The Song is the same as how I feel It, give me a hundred or so years and I think I may be there,” I replied. The pot was empty and yet I thirsted. I checked my waterskin but I knew I had drained it in the making of the drink.

“That is if age and wisdom are in union,” he sagely replied. He then tossed his pouch to me. “Here, drink the rest of mine and I will go fill them both.”

I nodded to him gratefully. After taking a long pull, I said, “It is usually better if I eat slower, but for some reason lembas bread makes me unreasonably thirsty.”

He laughed as he took the waterskin from my hand and poured the last dregs of liquid into my cup. “My brother, Erhithas, is the same. Only it matters not how slowly he eats, he is insatiable in his thirst afterward, even if eating just a small amount. He spends more time later drinking and relieving himself than he finds it worth. On patrol, after so many years of this problem, he resolved not to eat lembas; that was not a favorable choice in my father’s mind. He would come back from patrol quite emaciated and he’d spend weeks after, under my father’s constant doting, just trying to regain his weight. He was very relieved when he reached the age where his Warrior responsibilities came to an end. So was my father.”

“In my case,” I answered as I watched him quickly devour his last bites. “I take it slow, and the thirst is not so bad. I am glad to see it does not effect you.”

He shrugged. “It does not, but we will still need drink. There is a spring just on the other side of this rise,” he said, tossing his head in the direction he intended as he slung both waterskins over his shoulder.

He left, and I remained by the fire. Contemplating the last bit of our conversation, I realized that I indeed needed to relieve myself. I stood, and stepped out into the brush, away from the blaze.

Click click clack click.

The sound whispered overhead and I twisted my head around, trying to detect what might have made the noise. Spiders, I thought.

Click click clack click.

Carefully, I crept back to the camp, staying low, keeping to the perimeter of our site.

Click click clack click.

I saw nothing, but I stayed to the shadows, letting the bright light of the blaze serve to hide me in the severity of the darkness outside of it. I waited, and the sound dissipated. I waited longer but the sound was no longer there. Then I heard it but from a short distance away.

Click click click clack.

“Legolas,” I whispered in fear, realizing his weapons lay yet in the camp.

Our packs were in the shadows, and I stealthily worked my way to them. I grabbed my bow and knife and without haste, ran toward the noise. I was prepared for danger, but I was surprised nonetheless when I encountered the horror that Legolas was enduring.

There were seven of them, though only five were attacking. Two hung above him, watching the battle, their pincers clacking a ratcheting noise. Of the other five, he was fighting as best he could. He had only a short knife for a weapon -- I assume he kept it in his boot as I do. It was causing some damage, but it was not enough against the biting, stinging creatures. One was on his neck, another on his shoulder. One was wrapped around his waist while two more were dancing at his feet.

Despite tales told otherwise, spiders do not speak, at least not in words you might know. But they do make a clattering noise that might be mistaken for voice, and often that is mistaken for statements and words. I know better, yet that night I could have sworn I heard them speak. The two above seemed to be making the most of this noise.

“Careful! Careful! You stick him too much! You will poison the blood and then there will be nothing for us to drink!”

“He does not hold still! He should have stopped fighting three bites ago!”

“Why do you not help us instead of hanging above?”

“No! What of the other one? There were two of them, I was sure!”

“No others; we saw no more. Perhaps it was a mistake?”

“Then help us!”

The fivesome were trying to spin a web around Legolas’ wrists and ankles and he was fighting them off. Yet I could tell that he was weakening. His movements were growing clumsy. An arrow nocked to my bow I ran forward into the clearing.

“Man!” one shrieked and the spiders turned in unison toward me.

“Foul creatures! Meet your death!” I cried as I fired in rapid succession, taking out the two upon his neck and shoulder.

I dropped my bow and loosed my long knife then, slashing at the ones at his feet in the next second. I heard a howl of pain come from the maw of one as I grabbed for another at Legolas’ waist. I threw it across the clearing and into a tree, hearing the satisfying sound of its hollow smack into a tree. These spiders were not big, no larger than a small chair really. But it struck me odd the way they behaved. Spiders were not social creatures. In fact they were known more for eating their own kind than for working as a pack.

Yet as a one, the two from above descended on me, landing upon my shoulders. I immediately flailed at them, pitching them off, but they launched themselves again quickly, one attempting a sting to my chest. Thankfully, the puncture did not penetrate my jerkin. I pushed them off me again. From the corner of my eye, I saw Legolas fall. One of the spiders leapt upon him and began tangling his hands in its web again.

The elf fought. He kicked, despite his failing rally, and the spider was thrown away. He pivoted around enough to find his knife, and he stabbed at the creature as it launched itself upon him one last time.

I gathered my attention then upon the remaining two. They circled me keeping equal distance in either direction. Their click clack noises no longer sounded as words to me. I swung my sword in circles, my eyes darting from side to side as I warily watched them. And then I made my charge, choosing the one furthest from Legolas, thinking the elf’s fallen body might be a momentary obstacle to give me advantage. The spider before me dodged, and I spun around and speared the one that came from behind. The creature spit a venomous hiss before it died, but the poison merely sprayed upon my garb. I dropped my weapon, thinking no more of the monster as I immediately reached for the short knife I kept in my boot. I swept around and handily launched the blade in the next second. It arced through the air and landed smartly in the last spider’s multi-eyed head. It made no noise but for a last click clack of its moving pincers while I watched it crumble into a heap where it stood.

They were dead, all of them, but they were no longer my concern. “Legolas!” I cried as I ran to my friend.

His lips were parted and his eyes were half-open. I knew he did not see anything before him; his expression was vacant. “Legolas,” I said again, lifting him so I could see his face more clearly.

He turned his eyes to me as he struggled to focus. “It is just a spider bite, Aragorn,” he sighed as his eyes drifted closed.

I paused in horror. “Legolas!” I cried but he did not stir. By my guess, he had taken a deadly number of bites, and I feared for him without even examining his wounds. I had him cradled in my arms and I was frozen by my panic.

But then I scolded myself for my ineptitude. I had to act, not cower in my worries. Legolas would not have hesitated.

I glanced around. There were marsh plants growing near the spring, and I lowered my friend and quickly went to the plants, picking what I knew to have medicinal properties. I then raced to retrieve our weapons. With a level head, I knew I could not forget these whereas in panic I might have. Wasting nothing of time then, I returned to Legolas and lifted him by the shoulders, propping him against me. I grabbed the spider that lay beside him, taking it by a leg. Legolas’ knife was still protruding from its belly as I let the creature dangle at my side. Awkwardly I wrapped my other arm around Legolas and lifted him. He grunted as I pulled his weight onto me.

I do not recall what it took to get back to our camp. My heart was pumping wildly and my mind was racing. I only know that the fire was still burning brightly just as I had left it. I lay my friend upon his bedroll as I looked at his face. Even in the firelight, I could see he was deathly pale. His pulse was weak, and I detected he was in a frail state.

I sat him up and removed his tunic, pulling off his outer garment, and then lifted his under tunic. I saw several marks there, and counted five stings right away. I laid him back down, glancing at his leggings to see what marks there might be on those. I saw a tear at his knee and the wound that had been achieved beneath.

I had dropped the spider carcass next to me and I turned my attention to it. I could not recall ever seeing a spider like this one before. It had long brown legs and a slight body. As I had mentioned, it was smaller than the spiders I oft came upon. But most peculiarly there was the behavior the pack had exhibited.

Spider stings, what I knew of them, tended to act quickly. I really had little experience with them at that point in my career, but I knew that they usually caused unconsciousness, which Legolas most certainly had attained. Normal recourse for one bite, as it had been taught to me, was to let the venom work its way through the body. A time of malaise typically followed reawakening, but the victim almost always recovered.

Normal recourse for multiple bites was to hope that the victim might awaken. Those bitten did not always do so, and even if they did, they did not always recover from the ensuing illness.

But truthfully, I only really knew these effects on Men. Elves usually faired better, or so I had been told. Their natural strength gave them greater tolerance to the poisons of those wicked creatures, and most elves did not even succumb to unconsciousness, let alone to the illness that followed. At least, that is what I had been told. As I said, I had little experience in this area.

However, knowing how many stings Legolas had taken, even if these spiders were normal, I could reasonably predict that he would be ill after. If he woke up, I told myself. And if the spider bites were normal.

I had to think ahead, planning all extra precautions I might take to help him. I immediately pulled the marsh plants out and began to clean them for use. The tubers shone white once I peeled away the outer skin. And then I began to pound them into a paste. I applied the ointment to the wounds, hoping the herbs might neutralize some of the poison as I had been taught they might with orc poisons. I hoped the treatment would work here as well.

I was not satisfied with that though. I went beyond protocol and pulled what herbs I had from my pack. Goldenrod. That only would work if I could find a way to get it into Legolas’ body. As a tea it would help expel toxins as well as ease any pain, but with Legolas unconscious, it would be difficult at best to get it into him. I thought it better if it were used when he was awake. I made the tea in anticipation of that event.

If I could have, I would have left with him then, but I knew I could not. The forest was so dark; there was no chance I could see to find our way to the road. Cursing my mortal eyes, I had to wait until first light.

Instead, I bided my time. I applied more of the ointment to his wounds at regular intervals. It smelled of onions and it made my eyes hurt, but I knew it to be a good anti-toxin.

Yet I feared what lay ahead in these hours. If the stings were not as I knew, could I do more? Again I looked at the creature. I had taken it for a reason, but now I was uncertain of my ability to do anything that might put it to use. Unequipped with a healer’s apothecary, I could not concoct a remedy there in this camp. Yet I chose to act as if I might have access to those stores anyway and I extracted what I could of the venom from the spider. If I could get Legolas back to his home, we could attempt an antivenim there in the Healing House. I did not have a vial to drip the toxin into, so I used one of the discarded wrappers from the lembas, knowing that could keep it whole and fresh, even if it was but a few drops.

And then I waited.

That was the longest night of my life. It seemed he grew ever paler as the hours went on, and his pulse seemed to weaken. I plied more ointment upon him with each passing hour, but his skin took on a chill, and his lips went almost blue. I kept the fire lit brightly so as to keep him warm. I knew it was not the wise choice -- there could have been more of those creatures drawn to the light -- but I chose the heat above my safety. I feared Legolas would not wake if the light was gone. I feared losing him there in the dark.

Elves do not die unless injured to the greatest extreme. Legolas was a strong being, not one who I thought would easily fail. But I had never seen him like this before. It was horrible to see someone I knew to be strong lying before me as one weak. My stomach tightened with my fear as the hours went on. It was one thing to do battle and to take action; it was another to idly wait for something to happen. At times I felt tears threaten to spill my eyes with my worries.

Had I the skills of an elven healer I might have found more confidence. I had done all I could by means of medicine, but were I one of the Firstborn healers I could have applied some of their magic to my remedies. The power of Elven healing all comes down to song. Those menders somehow are able to strengthen what song there is in those they care for. They hear the music there and enhance it with their own, and this makes their patient strong enough to live. At least, this is what I have been told. I had nothing to offer when it came to this skill because I could not hear Legolas’ song.

My thoughts returned to our conversation earlier, about the subtle variants in the Music. I chose then to give as a Healer might, and I sang what he had before, imitating the notes he had earlier intoned. I cried as again and again I repeated his serenade to the night sky. I was not weary of the sound. I only hoped that somehow it might revive him.

“Legolas, awake please,” I whispered as I watched his subtle breaths. He barely seemed to breathe.

It went on like this for hours. The birds serenaded the new day long before the forest began to brighten, but it did not cheer me. He did not move an inch; he was still as a stone.

But with the measure of day’s light at last we could move. Thus I had put the fire out and had packed the remainder of our gear. I was trying to figure out how I might carry Legolas and all our supplies when I noticed the knitting of his brow. His breathing started to quicken and his eyes suddenly flew open.

“What--? Where--?” he cried in confusion, practically gulping on air.

“Legolas, I am here,” I said, taking his hand to calm him. “Do you recall--?“

But I never completed my question. Suddenly Legolas rolled to his side and retched. Black bile spilled from his throat.

Shocked, all I could do was hold him while the horrible mess poured out of him. He repeated the act after a moment’s pause, and then again. I had no idea where this ugliness came from. Nothing in him should have been this color.

The gagging ended a few minutes later and weakly he wiped his hand over his mouth. I gave him the skin filled with water so that he might wash his mouth clean. His hands barely had the strength to hold the sack, and they shook as I aided him in holding it. “Legolas?” I asked, “Do you remember what happened?”

He nodded, spitting out the clean water and staring at the black vomit. “That should not have happened,” he said in a weak voice. His eyes closed briefly though his breath was quick.

I touched his brow. Where it had been chill to the touch before, now it was fever hot.

I feared for him. Though he had come to wake, I worried that the worst was not past.

“Come,” I said, pulling him up. “We must get you to a healer.”

I had spoken this with a confident tone, as if this was just how it was to be. I did not wish to worry him when I worried enough for us both.

He nodded, and that surprised me. I would have expected argument from him, but he nodded and this told me exactly how low he must have felt. To concede to a healer’s touch meant he was in a bad state.

I wasted no time in setting out.

By my estimation, we had about a mile north to go before we might find the road. But our pace was slow. At the rate we traveled I assessed that it might take us the better part of the morning at least to get there. Such a short distance never seemed so far. But I did not think long on this. I had no time for that.

To say that we walked would be misleading. I carried Legolas really, though he tried to take steps. He was horribly weak and could contribute little in our efforts.

He was not a light thing to carry either. So many think that because an elf leaves no mark when he walks or can tread on the surface of snow that he must weigh little to nothing. Not so. An elf weighs just as much as a man. It is his song, and how he alters it to fit the nature of those things around him that allows him to do these things, not his actual weight. And Legolas was heavy! Nearly his full weight was upon me, and to say that was no burden would be a lie.

When he tired shortly after we set out, I readily admit that I was tired too.

“No more,” he moaned, and I gave him reprieve. I laid him to the ground as I gulped on air.

He was weak, and his color had returned to pale nothingness. But he did not lose consciousness. Not yet.

“This is what death feels like,” he softly proclaimed.

I stared at him. How was I to respond to that? It was not like an elf to think such thoughts. “I would not know,” I said a moment later, taking his comment blithely. I took a draw of water then knelt beside him and gave him some as well. “I have yet to die to know how it might feel.”

His smile was very weak and it faded almost immediately as his words feebly came, “My limbs cry for respite and I have not the energy to remain strong. I have never been ... so low, Aragorn. I know not what this is if it is not death,” he whispered.

I could not listen to him say this. I took him by the shoulders and I pulled him upright so that he was forced to look at me. “No elf speaks as such!” I cried, shaking him slightly so that he might see some sense. “You know not death! Do not pretend it is friend to you! You are ill, that is all! This is illness. I will not hear you speak of things that are foreign to you!”

“I grow weary,” he said.

“Then I will carry you.”

“Let me fall.”

“Nay. You are no burden to me,” I canted.

“Just the act of breathing is a burden,” he gasped. “How can you say I am no burden?”

“My reasons are selfish,” I replied, trying to ease my response.

“Let me rest,” he said as his eyes slid closed.

I watched him. I waited. His eyes did not open. And after a time, an hour maybe, I knew I must move him on again or truly I would lose him.

“Legolas,” I nudged him. “Legolas, awake.” But nothing happened. I tried again. “Legolas,” I cried, but he did not stir.

His skin was cold again, and this worried me. At least in fever, I knew his body was fighting the poisons working inside him. But with his skin at chill, it meant his inner workings were shutting down. Temporarily or fully, I could not know. His body was not fighting then and if he was to live he needed to fight. And if he was incapable, he needed someone to fight for him. An elven healer would succor him with his own strength, but I could not.

I lifted him. I carried him. Over my shoulder I hauled him, just as I might haul a stag carcass to the skinning stone. There was no dignity in it for him, but dignity was not my concern, nor was it his. Keeping him alive was what mattered most.

I ran then, or at least it felt as if I did. I moved verily fast, not wishing to waste any more time. He was dying, and I could not be a witness to that. Elves do not die! At least none that I had ever known! I could not bear to make Legolas the first of that band.

We reached the road. Was it hours later? Likely not, yet I was drenched in sweat, breathless and desperate. I laid him down in a soft heap beside me. I knew not where I might find help.

“Please!” I called. “Please, help me!”

I knew none would really come to this plea. It was not likely an elf patrol was on this part of the road at this particular time, but I had to try.

My cry woke him and that at least heartened me.

“Unbecoming,” he whispered. “Has Lord Elrond not taught you better?”

I took him in my arms. There was no strength in him to resist my actions.

“Even Lord Elrond knows he cannot alter mortal behavior. We are uncouth, after all,” I jested, trying to appear light of mood.

“Funny, I had not noticed,” he replied, licking his lips. They were very dry.

“Here, drink this,” I said, first reaching for the water but then remembering the mild tea I had brewed instead. I put the stopper end of the skin to his lips and trickled liquid into his mouth. His eyes fought to stay open and he did not comment on the taste.

He lifted his hand when he had had enough. “It is time to end this, Aragorn.”

“End what?” I asked. I did not know what he meant.

“The pretense of keeping this song going.”

“Nay,” I replied. “I would grow lonely without it.”

“You said it grew tedious and overused.”

“You put words in my mouth, Elf.”

“Perhaps.”

“I rather enjoy your song, Legolas. Do not leave me now.”

“You cannot hear my song, mortal,” he quipped.

“Humor me,” I said, pulling him closer to me.

He drifted off again, and I feared for a moment he had left me. He stayed like that for the next half hour. I had not the nerve to move him. I feared he would die if I pressed him any more. But then he awoke and the conversation resumed where we had left it.

“All songs come to an end,” he said, opening his eyes to me. “You had said so yourself.”

“Not all. Not yours.”

“Eventually... all do,” he sighed, but I turned him to me, angry because of his surrender.

“Not all songs, Legolas. Iluvatar’s Song remains! Do you not remember? It goes on forever.”

He said nothing, and I saw his eyes losing focus.

“Do not do this, Legolas! It goes on! Do you not hear It? Tell me that you do not still hear It!”

His eyes were mere slits, but he looked at me with confusion. “Hear It?” he asked, his tongue barely forming the words.

“The Song!” I demanded of him.

“I am tired,” he moaned.

“Tell me you do not hear It!” I commanded. “Tell me you do not hear It and I will call you a liar! I know It still resides within your hearing! You are elf! It will be with you always!”

He looked at me, and I saw the spark of comprehension there. His eyes seemed brighten slightly, as if something that had not previously been there suddenly was. But then he dropped his gaze and said, “I thirst.”

I plied him with the tea again, remembering the benefits of its medicine, and as he looked up at me, I saw that spark come alive in him again. His voice was not more than a whisper, yet I heard him say, “I hear It, Aragorn.” My heart rejoiced.

He stirred a bit, as if he was uncomfortable, and I realized his need. “I will help you,” I said as I lifted him and we walked to the brush so that he could relieve himself. In the ways of a healer I observed that the toxins were washing out of him. I could see now that the tea was having an effect.

I laid him in the road again. He closed his eyes. Despite the light within him, he was still seriously ill. Dark circles lined his eyes but his skin did not feel so cool.

Within the hour a group of Mirkwood warriors came upon us, and they were quick to rush their prince to a healer’s care. I gave them the tea and the venom and all the details I could recall of the spiders, and then they were gone. I stood alone in the road, left to make the trek to the castle on feet that could not run through the treetops.

It was several days later before I saw Legolas again. When I inquired of him with the healers I had been told he had been moved back to his private quarters at the palace. And though I took that as a good sign, I also took it to mean he was yet recovering. I thought certain it would be a week before he might be strong enough to leave his home or see visitors.

I had also been told that the spiders Legolas and I had encountered were a new breed, and that the toxin had been made into an antivenim in case any came upon creatures of that like again. Legolas had recovered without, but one could not be sure such a thing might happen again on future occasions.

As thanks from the king I was given guest quarters and granted permission to roam the castle grounds at will. After a day of rest, I took him up on that offer and went to the archery range to practice shots.

It was not a sparkling show of my abilities. I had fired off two shots at a fairly close range and had missed my target badly on both. I had never been a great archer, fair to middling at best, but this was despicable, even for me.

“Why is it that you make those shots easily when life is at risk. The other day you picked off both the spider at my shoulder and the one upon my neck like a master archer. Yet here, when you are in casual comfort, the shot becomes impossible.”

The voice came from behind me and I turned around to find my friend there. “Legolas,” I exclaimed, taking him by the shoulders in joy.

But he went on like a master scolding the poor show of his pupil. “I would not want to be on the other side of your bow now! I might die from arrow wounds rather than almost succumb to spider bites.” He smiled at me, though his eyes turned back to the course. “I do not recall seeing you so erratic with your shot when we have been in the wilds before.”

Slightly humbled, I shrugged saying, “I tend to do better when I have no time to think about it.”

“That is ... good, I suppose,” he said, though he looked doubtful about meaning it. “Your body has a learned memory of how to shoot. However, you should have your thoughts on your shot, always -- and the one after that as well. That is where you must focus your skill. If you are good, you will have anticipated five, six, perhaps ten shots ahead, even before you have released the first bolt.”

“At the speed that you fire them?” I asked incredulously referring to the skills I knew Legolas had with a bow. He was a master of the weapon. I shook my head. “I will never achieve that grace.”

“Practice, Aragorn,” he said, nudging my weapon.

“All I wish is that the skill will become rote,” I said, knowing I sounded petulant. I was assuming my part as the student, I suppose.

“Eventually the thinking becomes rote. Your actions will have been that long before.”

I sighed, shaking my head. I did not think such a thing was possible for me.

He looked at me with wise eyes. “Come. Resume your stance. I will show you how to correct your mistakes here.”

And so it was as it had been before. Nothing was said of the spider incident, though I’m sure it had nothing to do with anything either of us said or did. I think, in all honesty, it was just a part of the pattern to him. I think he came to feel the incident was just one note that flowed into another. And so nothing changed really, and we both returned to how we had been.

Yet, I have noticed over the years that our roles have shifted. At some point, I stopped thinking myself the lesser between us and we came to regard each other as peers. Later that changed as well, and by the time we had ventured off on the Quest together, he treated me more like a superior than an equal, though I had no claim to that.

****

I feel his hand upon my shoulder. I halt in my steps and wheel to face him.

“I will stop pursuing you, Aragorn. I understand your weariness. Yet there is one thing I would know if you would tell me. Do you yet feel The Song?”

I consider this question, weighing it in my bones and my tired muscles. I am old, or at least older than I once was. Much older, though I suspect I have years yet to go.

Still, as the thought is put into my mind, I feel a stirring in my soul. I breathe in sweet air and listen to the clang and clatter of the weapons practice court in the background. I feel his hand upon my shoulder and I warm to his contact. And then I feel It and the world fills my heart. I feel as if my next breath will make my chest explode. Yes, here It is. But I recognize It also by another name. My long years have taught me this.

This is love. Love and how I feel when The Song becomes one with me, they are the same.

And this is how I feel for the ones I hold dear and their place in my world. I feel them. They are a part of me, more so than their physicality could ever lead me to believe. More so than Legolas’ hand upon my shoulder. I realize I feel him in my heart, and there I know him better than through the limits of life.

This is the Song, as I feel It, as I have always felt It. It is not him that makes It come alive for me, but something that is always there, has always been there. I have known It from infancy when cradled in my mother’s arms, and I know It now when I walk the forests near my home or dig my fingers into the soil in my wife’s gardens. Even in death. Even in dying. I would always feel the Song. Because It is eternal and It is in me, It is of me, It is through me. It is my bones, and my heart, and my liver, and my mind, and my soul. The Song is there, filling me with hope, giving me a connection to everything I know and love. It is my love. It is all love.

And even in my darkest days, at my weakest moments, I can feel It. I know It is there and I know now that I do not need to mourn a time when I will lose those I love, for I have their love with me, always. They join with me through The Song, and we are bonded within It.

“Yes, I feel It, Legolas,” I admit to him with a soft smile, and I can see by his expression that, to him, I am wise.

He drops his hand, and I can see relief breaking over his fair features. He looks so young. And then he smiles and says to me, “So long as you feel The Song, Aragorn, you will be immortal.”

And with that I smile, for I already know that I will live as such even if I have no physical role in that being. I have learned that I am-- Legolas is-- everything is-- of the Choir that makes up the Music of the World. And I see now that there is nothing of death for either of us to fear. For I am The Song and I shall always be heard.

The End