Disclaimer: The characters and settings of Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien. My only gain is the pleasure I get in visiting from time to time.

Summary: In the midst of war and loss, an elf considers friendship – the old and the new.

A/N: This is entirely movie-verse, based on the events concocted by PJackson in his vision/version of THE TWO TOWERS. I still think the idea of Aragorn going over that cliff outlandish, but as I watch the events unfold after that, I am lost in shameless elf-admiration – every time! So…here you have Legolas trying to cope with Aragorn’s ‘death’, up close and personal. This plot bunny bit long ago and has been pestering for posting off and on for a couple of years. One must bow to the bunnies – they are a persistent lot!

“Le Abdollen”

“Aragorn!”

Legolas scanned the rolling plain littered with the carnage of recent battle for a sign of his friend. He knew Aragorn had been unhorsed; he had seen him knocked off by a leaping warg, but had been too occupied with keeping his own head attached to his shoulders to offer any immediate help. The last he had seen of his stubborn friend, Aragorn had dispatched both warg and rider and was squaring off with another opponent.

Where is he? Slate gray eyes noted and swiftly counted the bodies of the dead – wargs, orcs, men and horses alike – strewn haphazardly amongst the tall grass like broken toys. A wounded orc scrabbling for its weapon caught his attention and he dispassionately slit the creature’s throat, wiping his blade clean in the thick grass while his quick eyes still searched the area for Aragorn.

Still no sign of him.

Several riderless horses galloped by in a wild panic, evading the men trying to catch them. Faced with a new concern, Legolas paused to look for his own horse. Yes, there was Arod, right where he had left him, reins trailing and looking none too happy with the situation. The elf smiled; the horse did look miffed. He loosed a melodic whistle, calling the steel gray and white gelding he had been riding since the meeting with Theoden’s nephew to him. Arod came quickly, his dark eyes still disturbed by the pervasive smells of predators and blood. Legolas murmured to him softly, soothing the agitated horse and leading him away from the worst of the gore and bodies.

“Here now, my friend,” he whispered, pulling the gray’s head close and rubbing his cheek against the silky nose. “Stay here and wait for me, hmmm?” He stroked the dappled coat for a few moments until Arod settled enough to butt the elf in the chest with his head.

“Yes, yes,” Legolas crooned. “We will leave as soon as I find my friend. Stay here, Arod nin. I will return shortly.”

With a final caress to the sculpted forehead, he left the horse nervously lipping the grass and resumed his search.

All around him the men of Rohan were seeing to the injured. A dazed Theoden King stood looking at the devastation, ordering men here and there to care for their comrades – or kill any remaining enemies.

Suddenly, Gimli’s gruff voice boomed, “Aragorn?”

Legolas instantly located the dwarf, who seemed intent on his own search, stalking from body to body, pausing only to dispatch a warg with one expert swing of his great ax.

The elf sighed in relief. Good! Two sharp pairs of eyes were now looking for Aragorn. His eyes darted from one pile of lifeless bodies to the next.

Still…nothing.

Quickening his pace, Legolas made his way toward the cliff overlooking the river. Surely Aragorn’s battle had not carried him this far! The elf had knelt to read some marks scratched into soil and stone – drag marks, by the look of them - when rough, creaking laughter drew him to his feet.

He followed the sound to a wounded warg rider laying several dozen paces down the hill, filthy black blood oozing from his mouth. As Legolas crouched beside the orc, his fierce gaze noting the mortal wound, Gimli joined him, raising his ax threateningly.

“Tell me what happened and I will ease your passing,” the dwarf growled.

“He…is…dead,” the orc strained to get the words out, but seemed to enjoy uttering every syllable.

“He took a little tumble off the cliff,” the creature mocked.

Storm gray eyes darkening with fury, Legolas reached out, grabbing the orc by its armor and yanking it up towards him.

“You lie!” the elf hissed from between clenched teeth. The orc laughed defiantly, and then choked, his wheezing breath rasping to a sudden end. Legolas shoved the dead thing away in disgust, his mind a tangled whirl of anger and revulsion and dawning fear.

It cannot be! He lies…

At the point of rising, his eyes were caught by a glittering, shining object clutched in the orc’s dead hand. Something familiar, last seen worn around the neck of his best friend. He reached out in growing horror and pried the stiffening fingers open. It was the Evenstar, Arwen’s pendant, given into Aragorn’s keeping before they had left Imladris.

Gently untangling the chain, Legolas took up the necklace, unsteady fingers stroking the gleaming jewel as he stared at it. Vaguely registering Gimli’s grunt of recognition, he attempted to order his thoughts. Aragorn would never part with this willingly…never!

Gimli reached past him and pulled the long, lethal knife embedded in the orc’s chest free. They gazed silently at the weapon, then at each other.

“Gifted to Aragorn – by the Lady’s lord husband,” Gimli said hoarsely. “Before we left the Golden Wood.” Legolas nodded mutely.

Rising gracefully, the elf made his way swiftly to the top of the cliff. Theoden and Gimli joined him there as he stood, heart pounding, to gaze down, down a great distance to the wild river crashing its way past jagged rocks. There was no sign of life anywhere. No one spoke though all shared one thought; surviving a fall from this height onto those rocks would be nothing short of miraculous.

Legolas tensed; he wanted to shout his denial to the wind, but seemed trapped in a void of horrified disbelief, his voice paralyzed and useless.

Silently, he and Gimli continued to gaze into the abyss. Theoden, too, searched the rocks for any sign and finding none, called orders to one of his captains. “Gamling! Get the wounded on horses! The wolves of Isengard will return. Leave the dead.”

Legolas looked at the man sharply, jaw clenched, perplexed anger darkening the eyes that pierced those of the King.

Leave the dead? How can he possibly give that order? We cannot leave without looking for Aragorn!

He had to begin searching for his friend at once. Now.  There was no time to lose.  There had to be a way down to the river. Legolas longed to protest the King's command, but his voice remained uncooperative. Theoden, seeing the elf frantically scan the cliff for a pathway to the waters below, gently laid his hand on Legolas’ shoulder.

“There’s no way down to that river – not for miles in either direction. Those wargs will return…and we must get the wounded to safety,” he explained. “You cannot search alone, and I cannot spare the men to go with you.” The man watched the elf battle with the truth and saw the moment he surrendered to it.

“Come,” he urged softly, wishing there was some way to ease the blind hurt in the usually calm gray eyes. Theoden turned and walked down the hill, preparing his men to leave.

Legolas and Gimli remained side by side, staring at the madly rushing waters below, the wind jerking at their cloaks with impatient fingers. Gimli bowed his head, leaning heavily on his great ax as if just standing upright had become too great an effort.

Legolas clenched his fist around the pendant, the cool metal biting into his skin, welcoming the brief flare of pain that penetrated the numb desolation gripping his mind.

It was Gimli who stirred and broke the stillness. “Come on, lad. There’s nothing more to be done here,” he muttered gruffly, gently drawing the elf away from the edge. Legolas remained silent, finally allowing Gimli to lead him back down the hill to Arod.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Anor was setting the sky on fire, and the snow-capped mountains with it, when the group of weary, blood-stained warriors reached Helm’s Deep.

As they rode up the causeway and through the massive gates, Legolas looked up at the fortress towering above him. He felt lost – somehow separated and alone. This monstrosity of stone offered nothing to him – no solace, no warmth or life – just cold, dead rock.

Like a tomb. He shivered.

Gimli, perched behind the elf like so much baggage, felt him shudder. He wanted to say something – anything to break the oppressive silence – but they had not spoken a word during the hours it had taken to reach the keep. He wasn’t certain Legolas would respond even if he had.

The party halted before the steps that led up to the main building, the cries of “Make way for the King!” alerting the people to their arrival. Soon they were surrounded by a welcoming throng, the wounded swiftly taken down and brought into shelter. Legolas did not dismount at once, numbly watching women greet their men while others not so fortunate uttered cries of grief as the absence of their loved ones became apparent. From the corner of his eye, Legolas saw Theoden’s niece, Lady Eowyn, making her way towards them, her clear blue eyes eagerly searching the crowd.

Theoden dismounted as she reached his side, his face grim, eyes shuttered as he examined her pale face.

“So few…so few of you have returned,” she said haltingly, her concerned gaze still examining the men wearily dismounting behind the King. She caught sight of Legolas then, still astride Arod, and he could easily read the questions, the hope and fear in her eyes.

His heart sank even further, if that was possible, and he looked away as Theoden replied brusquely, “Our people are safe. We have paid for it with many lives.” He started climbing the stairs into the great hallway.

Eowyn’s eyes followed her uncle. What wasn’t he saying?

Gimli, tired of heights and horses and uncommunicative elves, slid awkwardly from Arod’s back and made his way over to the lady. Someone needed to give her the news, and it looked as if her uncle, blast him, lacked the bottom to do it.

“My lady…” his voice faltered, trailed away.

Eowyns’s voice shook with concern as she asked the question she feared she already knew the answer to.

“Lord Aragorn…where is he?”

Gimli’s voice broke as he answered, “He fell….”

Legolas felt suspended a great distance above the crowd, unable to speak or move…anything. He watched Eowyn question Gimli. He saw the dwarf answer. He saw her freeze as she heard the news; her eyes glazed with tears as she looked to her uncle, who had continued up the stone stairs towards the main keep.

Gravely, Theoden met her eyes for a moment, but continued his slow trudge up to the hall. After all, what was there to say? Eowyn’s legs seemed to give way then, and she sat heavily, staring after her kinsman in disbelief. A tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another.

Legolas realized he and Gimli would not be alone in grieving the outcome of the day’s events, for all the comfort that would afford any of them. He slipped from Arod’s back, giving the horse into the care of one of the stable hands, and pulling his silence close like a protective shield, followed the men into the Hornburg.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Almost immediately, the preparations for defense began. As daylight waned, the fortress was sealed. Guards and lookouts were posted, and the women and children ordered into the caverns at the back of the keep.

Night slowly drew her cloak of darkness over the land. One by one, the glistening stars emerged, bathing the world in their soft, liquid light.

Legolas found a quiet place with a wide window seat in an upper gallery overlooking the broad plain that surrounded Helm’s Deep on three sides. He stood in the window, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Peering into the night, his mind remained in turmoil, full of disbelief and sorrow. He tried to remember the last time he and Aragorn had spoken, but found he could not. His heart and mind refused to believe he would never speak to Aragorn again. He had known the man since he was a child. Known him as Estel.

It was not supposed to be this way. His end should not have come at the bottom of a gorge under some foul beast. Legolas bit his lip. What will I tell Mithrandir? He was the hope of the Dunedain. Ai, what will I say to Arwen…to Lord Elrond and his sons?

A soft breeze caressed his flushed face, teasing him with its song of the mountains and wide plains. There was even a hint of trees in it, and he opened his mind to the melody, allowing it to bathe his battered spirit. Softly, he started humming an ancient Silvan song of mourning, a song of a life cut short, unfulfilled, and of those left behind, bereft of the loved one and alone. He closed his eyes, letting the old words blend with the wind’s song and starlight, finding a small measure of comfort in hearing his own language once more.

“What is that song you are singing?” a soft voice spoke from the doorway across the room.

Legolas looked up, startled, into Eowyn’s wide blue eyes.

“I’m sorry I disturbed you,” she apologized. “But that song…” She paused, at a loss for words. She had heard the elf singing from the concourse below. Drawn by the beauty of his voice and the sadness of the melody, she had sought him out to listen further.

“I just had to listen to it,” she finished.

Legolas bowed his head, but did not resume his singing, much to her dismay. She watched him for long moments, noting the increased pallor of his already fair skin, the disconsolate droop of his proud head.

“Have you eaten?” she asked kindly. “Would you like for me to bring you some food?” He shook his head, yet remained silent, his eyes fixed on the dark night outside the window.

When Gimli appeared at the gallery door a few minutes later, Eowyn turned to him gratefully.

“Gimli,” she said. “Is there nought we can do for him? He will not rest or take food. He only stands there, staring at the night and singing that beautiful, sad song.”

Gimli shrugged. “I don’t know much of the elves and their ways concerning grief, my lady. I know when Gandalf fell in Moria, he eventually took comfort from his own kind once we reached Lothlorien. And when Boromir fell – well – we had the chase to occupy our thoughts and test our strength.”

He paused. “But this is different.”

He examined the softly glowing figure sitting now in the window. “Fool elf,” he grumbled, his voice devoid of heat. “Always singing. Look at him – a musical glowbug he is!”

“Then he sings for HIM,” Eowyn stated, smiling faintly at the reluctant concern shading the dwarf’s voice. She laid a delicate, consoling hand on his strong arm.

“Aye,” Gimli replied softly. “I suppose he does.”

“Tell me more about Aragorn,” she urged. “And his elven friend.”

She led the dwarf over to a low table and chairs shoved up against one wall of the room and they sat, keeping an eye on the figure in the window. Gimli propped his feet up on the table and leaned back with a loud, gusty sigh.

“I haven’t known either of them that long, my lady,” he said. “I only just met them a few months before – at the council in Rivendell.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I heard my uncle and Gandalf speak of it before Gandalf left Edoras.”

Gimli nodded. “I think Aragorn had known the elf a long time before that. They seemed to have that closeness that comes of having journeyed far, and often, together. Their friendship was unusual, you know. The elves keep to themselves mostly, and Legolas there…”

He tilted his head, indicating the elf perched in the window. “Well, he’s one of those Silvan elves of Mirkwood. Quiet they are – private – and as deadly a bunch as you’ll ever meet.”

He frowned, casting another worried glance at Legolas. “Still, Aragorn seemed to understand the flighty creatures. I, myself, don’t take too fondly to them and their strange ways, but Aragorn got along quite well with them.”

The dwarf paused again, reached in a side pocket of his tunic and pulled out a pipe. He gazed at it longingly, then at the elf, huffed and put it back.

Eowyn hid a smile as he grumbled, “Foolish creature. Doesn’t like the smoke – it irritates his tender sensibilities. Still, I suppose I might spare him tonight.”

He looked again at the softly singing elf, whose solemn, fair face was gently illuminated by the glowing torches in the gallery.

“Legolas is a fierce warrior,” Gimli muttered, surprised at his own admission. “We could not have come this far if not for him. He’s saved us several times.”

The dwarf hesitated. “I never thought…”

A long pause, then another irritated huff. “Fool elf…” He fell silent and looked at Eowyn, who was staring at Legolas thoughtfully, her beautiful eyes sad, so sad.

She smiled faintly. “I understand, Gimli. You had all become friends. You both cared for Aragorn…very much.” Gimli coughed, uncomfortable, but did not refute her words.

Legolas stopped singing and glanced at her. He still said nothing, but his storm-gray eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Eowyn got up and walked over to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. She stood beside him, gazing out into the darkness, and as Legolas sang and Gimli kept watch, Eowy wept for the man and the promise of him now lost to them.

Far away to the East, dawn was breaking.

~~~~*~~~~*~~~~

Day came, and Legolas still stood sentinel, alone now, staring across the wide plain of Rohan. Down below in the courtyard, he could see and hear the bustle of men, women, and children as they prepared for whatever the day might bring. He felt duty-bound to go and help, but something held him up here on the ramparts, gazing across the sea of grass into the distance. He had not eaten or slept, but he ignored the grinding hunger and fatigue.

He noted Gimli making his way amongst the soldiers of Rohan, his short, bulky form stalking up and down the stairs in his determined, blustery manner. It almost made him smile.

He remembered the dwarf’s conversation with Eowyn the night before – how Gimli had spoken kindly of Aragorn and “that fool elf”, and marveled how far the two of them had come since Moria. Who would have ever thought they would become friends? Especially when all they wanted at first was to put a period to the other’s existence! He supposed there was some kind of justice in the fact that it had taken the darkness and evil of Moria to show them both the error of their ways. Oh yes, and a very disgruntled wizard!

Weeks earlier…

The unrelenting darkness was beginning to weigh heavily on the Fellowship – and it had not yet seen 24 hours in the depths of Kazad-dum. Of the nine, Gimli seemed to relish the stone and inky blackness of the mines, although his grief at the sight of so many of his kin slain at the entrance still clung to him like a heavy mantle.

But Moria gave him something that lifted his spirit markedly – new ammunition against the son of that “cursed Elvenking of Mirkwood”. And Gimli was making excellent use of that ammunition. Not a barb or arrow slung had missed its mark yet.

In fact, the two most disparate members of the Nine Walkers had just concluded a fierce confrontation, sniping at each other mercilessly until Legolas had muttered something under his breath and dropped back to trail the group. That this position was furthest from Gandalf’s staff and its circle of light; that the elf had stayed close to that light since entering the mine until now, was not lost on anyone – least of all a triumphant, gloating Gimli.

They had traveled only a short distance further when Gandalf located a protected niche and instructed everyone to eat and rest for a time. Aragorn had raised an eyebrow, but remained quiet at a look from the Istar. Even in the dim light, the Ranger could see that the wizard was in a rare rage. He helped Gandalf settle the hobbits, sitting beside Pippin with his share of cheese and stale bread, while Boromir took the first watch.

Once certain everyone was moderately comfortable, Gandalf leaned over Legolas and said, “You – come with me.”

He had crooked an imperious finger at Gimli and beckoned him to follow also. The elf and dwarf trailed after the fuming wizard who led them a distance away from the others before turning on them. He glared at the two standing before him until they both dropped their eyes, feeling like recalcitrant children whose time had just run out.

“Even so,” the wizard snapped, observing their guilty expressions and continuing to stare at them for uncomfortable moments longer.

“Thranduilion,” he barked. Legolas raised his eyes to meet those of the wizard. “You have lived uncounted years in the courts of your father, have you not?”

Legolas nodded. “And your lord father raised you as a Prince of his realm, did he not?”

Legolas nodded again, not liking where he perceived Gandalf was headed, and said, “But…”

“SILENCE!” the wizard thundered; a command all the more powerful as it was uttered in a whisper. “You will NOT speak unless I give you leave to do so.” Legolas subsided, his face grim.

Then Gandalf turned his ire on the dwarf. “And you, Gimli Gloinson, you have also been raised in the court of Dain by a mother and father versed in manners?” Gimli blustered a bit before nodding sullenly.

Gandalf stared at them silently until both shifted their feet in embarrassment.

“I am ashamed of you both,” he finally said. “To think I counted on the strength of each of you to act as a support for our group. I have never been so wrong – not in many, many years.” Legolas flushed, but kept quiet. Gimli opened his mouth in protest, but shut it swiftly at a look from Gandalf.

The wizard studied them again. “Look at Frodo,” he suddenly ordered. The two complied, looking back at the Ringbearer sitting against the wall amongst his kin. He was not eating, but had his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around, his forehead resting against them. His shoulders were slumped – he was the very picture of misery and exhaustion.

“His burden grows by the hour and we can, none of us, help him carry it,” Gandalf said. “BUT we can bolster him in other ways – and it CANNOT be done if you two encourage the darkness eating at him with this incessant, hateful squabbling.”

“Gandalf…” Legolas began hesitantly.

“Nay, son of Thranduil,” the wizard cut him off abruptly. “The time for words is past. I have spoken to you both – aye – and so have others counseled you to cease this childish foolishness. You have ignored all. Apparently the old grudges and hatreds are more important to you than the Quest. Now I will speak to you this one last time.”

He glowered at them, his bright eyes fierce under lowering eyebrows. “You will stay away from one another – you will not speak to each other – is that clear?”

They nodded mutely and Gandalf continued, his voice implacable. “When we leave Moria, we will make our way to Lothlorien, where we will regroup and rest for a time.” Legolas stiffened, his eyes widening at Gandalf’s next words.

“When Lord Elrond named the members of the Fellowship, he charged no member to go farther than they would choose. Well, I am choosing for you. You have become a danger and a distraction to the Ringbearer. The closer we draw to Mordor, the more aware the Ring will become. It will feed off anything around it that is of the Shadow – fear, discord, greed, ambition, hate. I will not subject Frodo to weeks more of this constant conflict. He likes both of you; you hurt him when you hurt each other and take such delight in the pain you cause.”

The wizard paused, lifting a hand to rub his forehead, as if in pain. “I am certain that Lord Celeborn will provide you with an escort to ensure your safe passage home. Now, get you back to the group. Gimli, take the first watch with Boromir. Legolas, you will accompany Aragorn when it is his turn. Go!”

The two turned away to do Gandalf’s bidding, shocked beyond measure at the harshness of his judgment. Later during his watch, Aragorn had spoken at length with Legolas about Gandalf’s words and offered his elven friend what consolation he could. At least he did not say ‘I told you so’.

“I am certain, mellon nin, that if you and Gimli were to show you are contrite…if you show him your feud has ended, he will reconsider,” Aragorn said reassuringly.

Legolas had listened, grateful for the balm of his friend’s words after the acid of Mithrandir’s, although, he knew deep in his heart that every word the wizard had uttered had been the unadulterated truth. And that hurt. He had promised himself that day to change Gandalf’s opinion of him; repair the damage his careless callousness had caused. And then Gandalf fell – and the overwhelming guilt and grief had been almost impossible to bear.

But Aragorn had never let him or Gimli waver, and oddly enough it had been through that time of trial that the first bond of the unlikely friendship between one of the Firstborn and a Naugrim had been forged. Legolas grimaced at the thought that ‘blindfolds’ perhaps had forged the second link. A brief smile followed the grimace. He knew Aragorn had been tempted to hit Gimli and him then. Haldir, too.

The fierce pain of loss struck him again. He leaned his head back against the window and stared sightlessly at the cloudless sky.

Ai, Estel…

The elf banged his fair head once, twice against the unforgiving stone, welcoming the physical pain. Opening his weary eyes, he stared across the plain again, wondering at Saruman’s next move and whether the King of Rohan would have the strength to meet it.

Suddenly, his sharp elven eyes focused on a small figure cresting a hill still leagues from the keep. He leaned forward and shaded his eyes with one hand as he peered more closely. It looked to be a man on horseback. The horse picked up speed even as he watched, and the man swayed, seemingly wounded, or tired, or both.

Legolas stiffened. That man, though he was still far away…there was something familiar about him. Straining his eyes further, Legolas saw the dark hair, the way he sat his horse...The elf stiffened.  Valar! That disreputable Ranger’s coat!  His heart skipped a beat. Could it possibly be...?

Aragorn!

The name leaped to his lips, but he held it back, afraid to give voice to hope. Stepping back to catch his breath, he leaned heavily against the wall. Now the guards from the tower had caught sight of the rider and were shouting to each other. The rider moved closer, the horse held to a steady canter.

“Open the gate!” the watch called.

The gates swung apart ponderously as the horse with its weary passenger made its way up the causeway. Legolas dared not look anymore, fearful now his eyes had betrayed him. Afraid that what he wished to see with all his heart would vanish – become someone else.

He slipped from his perch and made his way down the stairs into the spacious entry hall, now crowded with the wounded, refugees and soldiers. There he stopped and waited, listening intently. In the courtyard below, shouts of the Rohirrim reached his ears; glad voices, filled with jubilant surprise and relief.

“He’s alive! He’s alive!” The excited chant passed from person to person, man to woman to child. Legolas stood frozen in the hall, his mouth dry, his throat tight with emotion. He could not have moved if he tried.

Then Gimli’s voice sounded above all the others.

“Where is he?” it demanded. “Where is he? Get out of my way! I’m going to kill him!” Legolas almost choked on a chuckle. He hoped Aragorn would survive the dwarf’s greeting.

Then Gimli exclaimed, “You are the luckiest, the canniest, the most reckless man I ever knew! Bless you, laddie!”

A low voice, dear and familiar, softly replied in greeting, “Gimli. Where is the King?”

It was the sweetest sound Legolas had heard in a long time. His heart jumped and he wanted to rush down the stairs and embrace his lost friend, but his legs still refused to move.

Then there he came up the stairs and into the big hall…looking weary and tattered…his arm and shirt torn and bloody… but it WAS undeniably Aragorn.

Legolas still stood immobile in the midst of the confusion, and the weary man did not notice him until he almost bumped into him. Startled, Aragorn pulled up short and looked into the gleaming eyes of one very relieved elf.

The man’s face lit up, a glad, welcoming smile blossoming on his face. Their eyes, dark steel and sea-gray, met and locked, and at last, Legolas managed to speak the first words since the horror of the day before.

“Le abdollen,” he announced in a clear voice, staring into his friend’s eyes. He paused, composed himself, his own gaze moving quickly as he assessed Aragorn’s battered state.

“You look terrible…”

Aragorn gaped at him for a moment in bewilderment, before an even wider grin broke over his face, washing away the weariness and pain. Laughing, he raised his good arm and clasped Legolas’ shoulder in the traditional warrior’s greeting. Legolas in turn gripped the man’s shoulder gingerly, and as they stood there, he felt the anguish of the previous day and night melt away, replaced by the strong, welcome presence of his friend.

From across the room where she had been tending the wounded and folding blankets and bandages, Eowyn looked up to see Legolas standing in the great entrance hall. Her eyes widened and she gasped with shocked joy when she recognized who he greeted so warmly. She dropped the blanket she held and took an inadvertent step forward before she stopped, the quiet emotion of their meeting making her hesitate to intrude.

Then she saw Legolas holding something out to Aragorn. The man raised his bloodstained hand and took the object, clasping the elf’s hand just a bit longer than needed, as if to reassure himself Legolas really stood before him. Aragorn opened his hand and looked down in amazement at the glittering pendant. Eowyn heard him say something softly in Elvish, saw the love and understanding shining in Legolas’ eyes, and knew then it was not her place it interrupt them.

“Hannon le,” Aragorn whispered, and Legolas smiled that rare smile again, his beautiful face tranquil once more. He simply nodded to Aragorn in reply.

“I have to see the King,” Aragorn stated as he let go of Legolas. He walked past him towards two large double doors, then turned and looked back.

“Come,” he called to his friend, and pushed open the heavy doors of the great meeting hall.

Legolas still stood where he had been standing since he had first heard Aragorn’s voice below. Perhaps I have taken root, and will remain here for all eternity…a planted elf! Bemused, he shook his head slightly at the picture his thought conjured in his mind and smiled.

A nudge to his ribs brought his eyes down. “Well, lad, did you see him?” Gimli asked, rocking on his heels expectantly.

“Aye, Gimli, I saw him,” Legolas answered, the smile growing.

“Well, then, are you just going to stand there, you crazy elf?” the dwarf sputtered, his exasperation plain. “Come on, let’s see where he’s been all this time.”

The dwarf stalked off, calling over his shoulder, “I’ve a good mind to tie him up so we don’t lose him again.”

As Legolas turned to follow Gimli and Aragorn, he caught sight of Eowyn. She gave him a meaningful glance and smiled back. The joy in his elven heart overflowed, and he bowed his head, holding his hand in front of his heart in a dignified, courtly gesture – a salute of gratitude and respect. Then, he was gone, following his friends into the room beyond.

TRANSLATIONS:

le abdollen – you are late

Arod nin – my Arod

mellon nin – my friend

Thranduilion – son of Thranduil

Estel – elvish for “hope” – the name given Aragorn by Elrond during his years of fostering at Imladris