A/N: Wow, this one came out of the blue. It began as a minor plot bunny inspired by Thundera Tiger’s latest masterpiece (Plug: Check out “Reflections in the Dark!”) that evolved into a team of wild plot horses that refused to leave me alone until I started writing.

This story contains a few references to a previous story “A Little Nudge Out of the Door,” but that fic is not required reading. This tale has a life all its own. It is somewhat AU, but I’ve kept an eye on the LOTR timeline in order to make it as realistic as possible. Please review and let me know what you think.

NOT INCLUDED IN THIS FIC: romance (other than what Tolkien wrote), slash, or Mary-Sueness.

Disclaimer: The only character in this fic that belongs to me is Disaran. All the rest are the property of the Great Tolkien himself, and though I love them, I should not presume to claim them. (Grovels in homage to the Professor)

ELVEN SONG

Setting: Minas Tirith, mid-November 3020 (SR 1420) to January 3021, including various flashbacks to the Second Age

**Note: Frodo resigns the office of mayor on mid-year’s day 3020, and departs Middle-Earth in September of 3021.**

Summary: A slightly AU tale. While the Fellowship and other heroes of the War of the Ring reunite in Minas Tirith, a man who has discovered the secret of stealing the lives of elves to prolong his own comes to Gondor searching for new prey.

WARNING: I swore I would never do this but…Character death!

REVISION NOTES: The additions to this and other chapters are in response for reader requests for more background on the Black Hunter and his weapon. I hope it’s an improvement, and please let me know what you think!

Prologue: The Black Hunter

Númenor, the year 3262 of the Second Age…

The High King of Númenor regarded his chattel with carefully-disguised triumph. There was no power in Númenor or Middle-Earth that could touch him, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, now that he had attained this victory. With this great land, Elenna the Star of Eärendil, firmly under his control, and now the greatest power in Middle-Earth bowing so humbly before him, his power was unquestionable. Still, one had to keep up some semblance of humility. “You surrendered to my forces easily,” he observed, watching his captive carefully.

Without raising his bowed head, Sauron murmured, “I saw no call to destroy myself needlessly, my lord. For to struggle against the might of Númenor and the descendants of Elros would be the height of folly.”

Though the King of Númenor agreed, he did not think to be blinded by flattering words. It was true, the fair Sauron was reputed to possess great wisdom--thus surely a wise man would do just as he had done--and yet…one who had sought to rule all Middle Earth and claim the title of King of Men should possess more pride. *Therefore, I would safely conclude that he seeks to curry a favorable alliance to himself at best, or to spy and seek out an opportunity for treachery at worst. He shall find neither.*

Aloud, he replied, “Your prostrations have been humble indeed, failed Lord of Middle Earth.” He smiled at the slight stiffening of the prisoner’s shoulders. He had meant the remark to offend. *I shall not be unguarded before one who declared his purpose to usurp my place as King of Men and to drive my realm into the sea.*

Nonchalantly, he turned to his waiting guards. “Take the prisoner to the dungeons.”

Sauron’s eyes widened in protest as the men moved to drag him away. “My lord!” he cried. “Have I not done all that you demanded? I struck not a blow against your forces, returned to Númenor as your most humble servant and pledged my fealty! How do you now punish me for it?!”

Ar-Pharazôn laughed aloud. “O fair and supposedly wise Lord of Barad-dur, surely you do not presume to think me a fool! Indeed, you have capitulated most graciously to my rule and pledged to serve me. Many sweet words you have given me, Sauron, sweet words indeed. But I think I shall consider carefully before welcoming you into my confidences on the weight of sweet words alone.”

“My lord,” Sauron pulled away from the guards and knelt even lower, the very image of a wronged and desperate innocent, pleading for justice. “I do entreat you to have my prove my intent and worth. Say only where you would have me demonstrate my loyalty. It shall be done, and I shall prove myself your willing servant. Cast me not off!”

Smiling openly, the King of Númenor beckoned the guards take the prisoner’s arms again. “Oh, I shall have proof of your loyalty, Sauron, mistake me not. I shall find tasks for you to properly prove your words. But for now, I shall leave you alone in the hospitality of my dungeons, where you can consider carefully should your words prove less than sincere.”

Desolately, Sauron bowed again. “As you will, my lord. But in time, I shall prove my worth to you and reward your mercies to me.”

With a chuckle, Ar-Pharazôn motioned him to be led away. “Then I shall expect great rewards indeed,” he said, turning his back.

From behind him, he heard Sauron reply, “You shall have them, my lord. Far exceeding your expectations.”

***

Minas Tirith, November of the year 3020 of the Third Age…

Great cheering throngs lined the streets of Minas Tirith as the legendary figures rode through its gates toward the Halls of the Kings. The soldiers of Gondor stood to keep the crowds back in their excitement, and saluted with great reverence as the procession passed by. Women strewed flowers in its path. The heroes smiled and bowed graciously to the mass, indulging those who had spent the past year singing songs of their legend.

One of the company, riding in the fine open wagon, looked at his closest companion, trying in vain to hide his blushing cheeks, “Ever think they’ve exaggerated our greatness just a bit, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo shrugged at Sam, and then was forced to duck yet another barrage of autumn blossoms, “Obviously they don’t think so. I don’t see any of them looking disappointed.”

Two knights of Rohan and Gondor rode on either side of the wagon on their ponies, waving cheerfully at the crowd. “Why should they be?” demanded Pippin. “The legendary Ring-bearers are returned to Gondor, and Peregrin the Great and Meriadoc the Magnificent! Who wouldn’t be struck with dumb with awe!”

Laughing at that, for they had been forced to shout over the din of the cheers, Sam replied, “Whatever they’re struck with, it is not dumbness, Mister Knight!”

Frodo laughed in turn, and waved back at a small clutch of young girls with a little less discomfort. He glanced around the wagon at the rest of the procession. What a sight it was; all these people together once again, only this time without war. Gandalf, riding Shadowfax as always, led the way through the streets, turning now and then as if to check up on Frodo and Sam. The sons of Elrond rode with a small company of Rangers just behind, and near to Merry on a gray steed rode Eowyn, Lady of Ithilien, followed closely by her brother, King Eomer of Rohan. The two had scarcely seen each other since the War of the Ring, and they too were engaged in happy conversation and reminiscence as the company moved through the streets.

“Aren’t you glad we came now, Mr. Frodo?” asked Sam.

Frodo smiled. “Very glad, Sam. I did not realize how much I was missing everyone. I shall be happy to see Ara--that is, King Elessar again.”

“Aye, and I wager Strider will be happy to see you,” Sam replied.

They heard laughter nearby, and turned as King Eomer pulled his horse up next to them. “You win the wager, Master Samwise. For all that he is revered here in the Reunified Kingdom, Aragorn said nothing shall ever please him more than to always be Strider to you and the other hobbits.”

The hobbits grinned at each other as the procession rounded a final bend, and Sam pointed excitedly. “Look there, lads! We’ve come to the Halls of the Kings!”

“And there upon the steps! It’s Strider himself waiting for us! What a fine meeting this shall be!” cried Merry.

Upon the steps leading up to the White Halls of the Kings, there was indeed a great party waiting to greet the four members of the Fellowship, and their equally-illustrious companions. There stood Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor, slightly to the right upon the steps. He smiled and nodded to the hobbits, his eyes straying happily to his wife, the Lady Eowyn, who had come from their home in Emyn Arnen to take part in this grand celebration. Beside Faramir stood Legolas, son of Thranduil, Elven lord of a small colony in South Ithilien. It seemed to the hobbits that of all the Fellowship, Legolas had changed the least--not that it was surprising with him being an elf and all, they reasoned. His face was as fair as ever, and though his eyes showed the experience of many years, and much darkness, their light remained, and they brightened as he smiled down at them.

Next to Legolas was Gimli, son of Glóin, Lord of Aglarond, the Glittering Caves in Rohan. The elf and dwarf never missed an opportunity to meet each other in Gondor or Rohan, and when they had received the message that the hobbits were coming to Minas Tirith, each had thrust aside all other concerns in their rush to the reunion. Now they stood side-by-side, laughing and grinning at the excited shouts and waves of the hobbits as the procession reached the base of the steps.

In the very center of the steps, surrounded by the lords, ladies, and honor guards of Gondor and Rohan, upon a chair of carven polished wood, sat King Elessar, in his black mail girt with silver and white mantle, with the elfstone shining green at his throat. At his side, with her hand clasped lightly in his, sat Queen Arwen Evenstar, clothed in a shimmering gray raiment, even more radiant and lovely than the hobbits remembered.

Looking at them, Frodo unconsciously touched the white gem that hung at his neck, a gift from Arwen a few days after her wedding. “When the memory of fear and darkness troubles you,” she had said, “this will bring you aid.”

And it had. Frodo had been taken ill more than once since their departure from Gondor, and although the pain never completely faded, he found that when his hand clasped the gem of the Evenstar, the memory’s weight did seem to diminish a little. And for that alone, he owed the Queen of Gondor much gratitude.

The procession came to a halt at the foot of the steps, and a hush came over the crowd as the King and Queen of Gondor rose in unison. The company dismounted and stood waiting, as King Elessar raised his arms to them and proclaimed, “Today is a momentous occasion, for with the return of the Halflings and noble Gandalf the White, the Fellowship of the Ring is once again joined!”

A great cry erupted from the people, and the King spoke again. “Welcome, all honored heroes of the War of the Ring. For all the time that we are together in Minas Tirith, the Reunified Lands shall celebrate and honor the deeds of those who fought, sacrificed, and died in the War against Mordor. Come forth,” he beckoned them up the steps. “You are always the honored guests of the Halls of Kings, and tonight the White City shall honor your arrival.”

The company mounted up to him, each bowing and receiving words of welcome in turn. Eowyn and Eomer joined Faramir at Aragorn’s right hand, while Legolas and Gimli joyously greeted Gandalf and the hobbits. The people of Gondor cheered as Frodo and Sam kissed King Elessar’s hand in homage, and Aragorn and Arwen turned to lead the assembly back into the Halls. “Come, dear friends, you shall precede us,” said Aragorn to Frodo and Sam.

Blushing furiously, Sam replied softly, “We’re most grateful, Strider. But you really didn’t need to make such a fuss.”

***

Among the guards of Gondor stood one of many volunteers in White City’s ranks. But this guard had joined the armed men not out of loyalty or duty to King Elessar. To rise among the soldiers in the king’s service was the only way he might be granted liberty to move through the city and even the Halls of the Kings without being questioned. He had found in many centuries of existence that great rewards could result from patience. So he had endured the rigorous training of the Gondorrim in order to obtain the rank necessary to be granted liberty within the Halls. Liberty was needed, if he was to gain close access to his prey.

Still, it was an arduous task. Somehow the man doubted that he would have the time to ascend to the rank necessary to get within reach of the Queen. This knowledge was not terribly discouraging, for although the challenge of taking the Queen of Gondor had its appeal, the man had to admit that Arwen’s beauty was so great that he would be rather sorry to end her life. Nay, if he could find a source of endurance elsewhere, what better way to enjoy his own good fortune than to live within view of the Evenstar?

Nonetheless, this presented the problem of finding a source of power. The man had discovered the means of tapping this power long ago, when the survivors of Númenor had first come to Gondor. Concealed among them had been a few followers of Ar-Pharazôn, the King who had assaulted Valinor itself, resulting in his own destruction and that of his kingdom. With them had come a single relic of that King’s former plan--a simple device, infused with dark magic, that if wielded properly, could provide the user with immortality.

Assuming said user was able to obtain the one ingredient from which to obtain the immortality: an immortal.

It was this need which had led the man to Gondor. With the Elfstone on the throne, elves were making appearances far more often in the world of men, and it would be much easier for the hunter to move among his own race and stalk his prey than to attempt to steal into a realm full of none but elves--a near-impossible feat for any mortal.

Yet he had succeeded, for an entire age, he had managed, through slowly-gained skill, patience, and occasional luck, in finding elves from whom he could drain the energy that would keep him alive and hale as he had been in 3319 of the Second Age, when Elendil and his sons had founded the Realms in Exile, unknowingly bringing with them the means to bestow upon a mortal the gifts of the Firstborn.

The man was cautious, never drawing attention to himself as a soldier, for as his long survival in the guise of a normal mortal had proven, he was no fool. He dared not reveal his secret to any other, for although he had managed to prey upon the lives of the Eldar for thousands of years, his identity had been discovered more than once, and the kindred of those whose immortality he had claimed still sought him. They knew his identity, but his careful planning had ensured that they would never find his whereabouts. At least not until he had claimed another prize, and then he would vanish again.

After all, why should they be the only ones to enjoy the fruits of eternal youth? Such a privilege belonged to he who had the means to take it. Any means.

***

Thranduil, King of the elves of Northern Eryn Lasgalen, watched with satisfaction as his people tended young seedlings in a scorched clearing. The defeat of Dol Guldor two years before had come with a heavy price: fire had swept through much of the forest and destroyed all of the wood elves’ outer palace. The past months had been spent clearing away the burned timber, much of which they sold to the men of Laketown for their own rebuilding, for the War of the Ring had been hard on their land as well, and the previous spring, they had begun replanting the devastated woods. The seedlings had been gifts from the other elven realms: mallorn from Lothlórien, to the delight of Thranduil’s people, elm and oak from Imladris, beeches from a southern stand in Eryn Lasgalen that had escaped the fire, and pine and redwood from Ithilien.

Legolas had brought the seedlings from his realm on a visit nearly a year before. Thranduil wondered how long it would be before his youngest son visited again. It was true, Legolas had his own realm now to look after, and by all accounts Ithilien had suffered much during the war, and the elves and men there had their work cut out for them. But Legolas spoke with much love for the woods in that fair land, and was determined to restore it to its former beauty.

*Perhaps I should go to visit him and see the place for myself,* Thranduil thought idly. Legolas was very proud of the colony his people were building there, and it would be an honor to him if his father came to view it. He was unlikely to accept much in the way of aid, and even less likely to ask for it, but if the King of North Eryn Lasgalen made a formal visit to the young Elven Lord of Ithilien, one would expect him to be bearing gifts. And if the gifts were substantial, well…Thranduil had always had a bit of a reputation among the Eldar for extravagance. And that Legolas would not be able to refuse.

Thranduil could not pretend he was entirely pleased with Legolas establishing the colony so close to so many mortal realms. Mordor to the near East was bad enough, even if the land was now leaderless, but Thranduil did not place nearly so much stock in the kingdoms of men that Legolas valued so highly. It was true, Gondor and Rohan had distinguished themselves during the War of the Ring, and so far, these past two years, they had managed to keep themselves out of trouble, but what would happen when hard times fell again? Or if the lands of men grew too prosperous? If they swelled enough, soon the mortals would covet the undoubtedly fair lands Legolas was lovingly nurturing, and what would the elf’s friendship to the leaders of men count for then? Thranduil liked not the possibility. Legolas was young yet, and judging by what Thranduil had seen on his return, his son had miraculously maintained his naïveté despite all the darkness he had experienced.

*Naïveté, what other explanation could there be for this bizarre attachment he has formed with a dwarf?* Thranduil had been astonished when Legolas had returned to Mirkwood with a dwarf at his side, his chin raised as though daring any of his kindred to dispute his right to name that dwarf elvellon. The elven king had attempted more than once to gently point out the misguided nature of his son’s judgment of the dwarf’s character, but Legolas would hear no ill words against…what was his name? Ah, Gimli. Or any of the other mortal friends he had acquired during the War of the Ring. The heir of Isildur now sat on the throne of the Reunified Lands, and Thranduil suspected that it was devotion to Aragorn and the other mortals that had led Legolas to remain in such close proximity. He had not disputed his son’s right to establish the colony once enough willing elves had joined the venture, and yet…*I still do not like it.* He knew that Legolas would be able to resist and survive any treachery among mortals, but Thranduil feared more for what it would do to his son’s spirit when these revered friends of his inevitably failed to return his loyalty.

*But it is no use. He is a grown elf, now Lord of his own realm, and it is not my place to interfere. Perhaps in time, when Eryn Lasgalen is well on the mend, I shall visit him, and make it known to him--subtly--that his father shall always be prepared to aid him when others prove less than faithful. When he takes such a gamble on mortal friends, the best I can do is never forsake him.*

“My lord!” a shout from one of the guards startled Thranduil out of his private thoughts. He looked up, and the guard pointed at a group of riding raising dust on the trail as they rode hard and fast toward the clearing.

Thranduil squinted through the obscuring cloud, for it was more ash than dirt, and beheld a golden-haired elven lord leading the small band. He rose at once from the chair in which he had been seated, a spike of alarm running through his heart. “It is Lord Celeborn!”

The riders wasted little time in reaching the clearing and barely managed to slow their horses to avoid charging over the new saplings. By now, all activity among the elves had ceased, for good reason. Celeborn’s face, normally controlled in even the ugliest circumstances (a fact Thranduil greatly admired) wore an expression of anxiety and gravity that Thranduil had never seen before. He crossed over to the elven king in swift, long strides, agitation plain with every step. “Lord Thranduil,” the Lord of East Lórien bowed somewhat hastily.

Thranduil bowed back, protocol forgotten in his concern. “My lord Celeborn, what is amiss?” he asked without preamble.

One of Celeborn’s escorts, Rúmil, was already asking one of Thranduil’s guards to bring the king’s horse. “My lord, I received tidings of the most serious nature, and am departing with all speed for Minas Tirith. But first I am come to urge you most strongly to accompany me.”

*By the Valar, what has happened?!* Thranduil’s heart began to pound. Under normal circumstances, he would not so easily drop all concerns at home at another elf’s word without demanding considerable explanation, but Celeborn’s behavior told him clearly that these were grave circumstances. He seconded Rúmil’s request for his horse, and turned back to Celeborn as the mount was brought. “Of course I shall rely on your judgment that my presence is required, my lord, but can you not tell me what is the need for this haste?”

There was a terrible look in Celeborn’s eyes, a combination of fear, urgency, grief, and a deeply-embedded, long-lasting rage. Thranduil took an involuntary step backward at the low, black tone of the elven lord’s voice. “A party of my elves on their way to Rivendell have sighted the Black Hunter.”

Thranduil’s heart leapt to his throat. Gasps and soft cries of horror reached his ears. It took a moment to find his voice. “Did he…were any of them…harmed?”

With a faint sigh, Celeborn shook his head. “Not that time. The scout saw him from a distance and they remained together and gave him a wide berth. But they have no doubt of his identity. He is on the move again.”

“Valar,” Thranduil whispered. The man Disaran was called many things by the Eldar. The Black Hunter, the Dark Thief, the Slaughterer, the Abomination…all names given to one man. Yet he was a man who could not truly be called a mortal, for he had first begun preying upon elves during the Second Age. The elves of many realms had sought him for centuries, trying to put an end to his evil pursuits, but no sooner did he strike than he vanished again. And when he was sighted…it was only a matter of time before another elf fell victim.

“You understand now, my lord, why I beg you to come,” Celeborn said, watching the elven king’s face gravely. “Not only have you had dealings with this creature before, but…he was moving in the direction of Minas Tirith” His eyes were fearful now.

And Thranduil understood with a surge of new, ever-increasing horror. Minas Tirith. Minas Tirith. Gondor! *The Abomination travels to Gondor, where the Evenstar is Queen, where there is a small elven colony, surrounded by men…A Elbereth! The Black Hunter approaches the home of my son!* Thranduil turned swiftly to two of his elves, ordering travel gear brought at once. “How many guards do you wish to accompany you, my lord?” asked one of his captains as the servants rushed off to do his bidding.

Thranduil looked at Celeborn, Rúmil, and Haldir, and slowly shook his head. “We shall go alone to the realm of Elessar. I do not want any more elves than necessary placed in the path of that creature.”

*****
To Be Continued…
*****

KUDOS: to all the perceptive reviewers who caught that minor detail that Arwen is no longer immortal. That comes into play later in the fic.

NOTE: This chapter includes multiple major departures from canon, but before the purists or (gasp!) the Canon Police write me a ticket, I demand the right to plead my case. Before you hang me, let me finish the story. All shall be explained.

# Check out my salute to David Eddings (another one of the great fantasy authors of our day) in this chapter. Hobbit points to anyone who can tell me which of his books it comes from!

EXPLANATION: This chapter contains more flashbacks to the Second Age with more on the origins of the Black Hunter’s weapon.

Chapter One: The Curse of Death

Númenor, the year 3308 of the Second Age…

Sauron found Ar-Pharazôn storming about the private chambers of his palace in a terrible fit of temper. “My lord? What is amiss?” he asked without preamble.

Ar-Pharazôn did not notice the lack of formality, for it was many years that Sauron had been counted among the closest and most trusted of his councilors. Indeed, he had hoped for just such a visit in this moment of unrest. “The guards reported an intruder beneath the White Tree last night. They believe a fruit was taken from it.” His eyes wild with the combination of fury and hidden fear that so often possessed the King of Númenor of late, he hissed, “An agent of the Eldar, Sauron? Can it be?”

Sauron closed his eyes and sighed heavily, shaking his head in dismay. “I fear so, my lord,” he said gravely. “And I hope you do not think it impertinent to remind you that I had feared just such a conspiracy.”

The High King slammed his fist into a tabletop. “That you did. And I regret most that I did not heed you, for I thought the pitiful servants of the Valar too spineless for such a bold move.”

“Has the intruder been found and the fruit of Nimloth retrieved, sire?”

“Nay. There is no sign of him, though we have searched all Rómenna, among the Faithful to the Valar and their puppets,” he spat the words as obscenities. “They have their spoil well-hidden.”

“What shall you do, then?” Ar-Pharazôn did not reply. Sauron moved closer to the enraged King’s side and spoke softly, “In light of these new and troublesome occurrences, my lord, will you not reconsider my…request?”

There was a long silence. Several times, as Ar-Pharazôn and his councilors had partaken more and more of the worship of Melkor, Sauron had urged them to destroy the one remnant of the Valar’s domination of Númenor. Yet they had not had the stomach for it before, but perhaps now…he waited in silent anticipation. Ar-Pharazôn abruptly whirled and bellowed for a guard. Sauron was forced to stifle a laugh at how his voice cracked; the Dark Lord’s seeds were bearing fruit indeed, between the machinations of the Faithful and Ar-Pharazôn’s own, growing fear of advancing age. Perhaps this time…the guard entered. “My lord?”

“Assemble my councilors!” He offered no details, but Sauron knew his hour had come. The King turned back to him and said darkly, “We shall preserve no pretense of good relations with those who spy and steal into our affairs in the night. The Valar have no might if they are reduced to such stealth. You have proven yourself a far truer benefactor, Sauron the Fair.”

Sauron bowed with all humility, “You honor me, my lord.” There would never be a more opportune moment to push Ar-Pharazôn into the next step down the path to ruin. As though struck by surprise, he observed, “My King, your hands tremble so. Shall a servant not bring you a glass of wine?”

Ar-Pharazôn spat and turned away, his shoulders slumping in a fashion that made the Dark Lord desire to howl in triumph. “It does no good, my loyal friend. No good any longer.” Moving to the window, he sighed and murmured, “I have so much yet to do, yet the years fly past so fleetingly. Cannot the Lord of the Darkness of whom you told me spare me this accursed mortality now?” Turning to face Sauron, there was a hint of despair in his eyes. “For if my strength fails me, what good are additional years?”

Sauron moved hastily to the King’s side, laying a hand upon his arm with great concern. “I see your worry, my great King, and I share it.” He shook his head in anger, “It is not enough that the Valar would curse the deserving with mortality, but they add to the insult with a waning of strength and vigor before the years are even spent.”

“Is there naught our Lord’s power can do to avail me of this affliction?”

Pretending to consider, Sauron stepped back. “It shall require consideration, my lord, but I shall endeavor to find a cure. I shall gather all my crafts and arts, and the best of our men to form some device that might yet stem the tide of age against your strength.”

Looking down at his shaking hand, Ar-Pharazôn’s eyes hardened, the momentary weakness banished by his return to typical ill-temper. “Fail me not in this, Sauron. For I shall bind you to my fate.”

“Have I ever failed you, my lord?”

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

It was a grand feast that the King and Queen of Gondor held for the reunited Fellowship, and merriment and song were as good a fare as the food that was served. With a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes, Arwen turned to Merry and Pippin, who were in the process of scarfing down a small cartload of mushrooms. “Do you find them to your liking, Dear Meriadoc and Peregrin? I was concerned that the mushrooms of Gondor might be of a less-appealing flavor than those you like in the Shire.”

While Pippin struggled to swallow without choking, Merry hastily bowed to her. “They are most delicious, my lady. As fine as any grown in the Shire, along with all the rest of this magnificent meal. We shall be the envy of all Hobbiton when we return with tales of your hospitality.”

Arwen beamed, and Aragorn snickered behind his hand. His queen had been greatly entertained by Aragorn’s stories of the hobbits in the early days of the quest--and their legendary appetites and appreciation for good food. With that in mind, she had arranged the feast with a fierce determination that guests of any race would be impressed.

And judging by the response of hobbits, elves, dwarves, and men alike, she had succeeded remarkably well. Legolas and the sons of Elrond were remarking appreciatively on the wine, Gimli, Faramir, and Eomer were admiring the perfection of the roasted meats, and the hobbits…well, the hobbits liked everything. Gimli turned to them, “On your way back to the Shire, my friends, you must stop in Rohan and view the Glittering Caves. I’ve made a very fine dwarven home there in two years.” Legolas muttered something about dwarven standards of fineness, but Gimli ignored him.

Merry was eager, Pippin willing enough, but Frodo and Sam looked doubtful. “It’s not anything like Moria, is it?” asked Sam.

Instead of being offended, the dwarf laughed. “I expect it is as Moria was when it was filled with dwarves and not orcs, but it is much different from the caves you saw. Many of my people have come to it, and the men of Rohan visit us often to trade for metals and gems. It is quite a bustling place these days. I could scarce find time to leave it.”

Eomer nodded in agreement, “He speaks the truth; I have seen Aglarond as it is now. It is a fine place, beautiful to behold. You should be most welcome in Rohan on your journey home.”

The hobbits exchanged glances. Frodo eyed Gimli’s rather hopeful expression and smiled, “Then of course, we shall come!” He suspected it had something to do with Legolas being Gimli’s best friend, and the member of the Fellowship who Gimli saw most frequently. Though the elf had admitted being awed on his visit to Aglarond during the War of the Ring, it was immensely difficult to get him willingly into a cave of any kind. The least the rest of them could do while they were in the neighborhood was pay a visit to the colony Gimli was so proud to be building.

“I hope you will also come to visit South Ithilien,” said Legolas then. “For the labors of Faramir and myself have given much to the fair land.”

“I owe much to the elves for their work on the gardens of Emyn Arnen,” said Faramir. “My lady’s and my dwelling has grown beautiful, and the colony of Legolas is a sight to behold.”

“Tell me, Lord Faramir, do you run into much…trouble, still being so close to Mordor?” asked Sam.

It was Eowyn who answered. “Orcs and foul creatures were scattered by the Enemy’s fall, but they were not wiped out. We maintain a vigilant guard on the Eastern side, and so far we have fared well. There have been a few marauding bands that attempted to assault some of the outlying dwellings, but my lord’s White Company provides the protection needed.”

Faramir grinned, “There speaks the captain of the guard.” Eowyn shot him a mock-glare.

Leaping to her defense, Merry replied, “I wager Lady Eowyn could do more than her share of protecting if she still fights as well as she did before.”

With a little bat of her eyes, Eowyn said, “I have kept up practice, and none have claimed that my skills are dulled.”

“Nor shall we,” said Faramir, before he found himself the target of more of Eowyn’s admirers. “She keeps the guards on their toes.” The company laughed.

Arwen started as though just remembering something. “I had not thanked you, Samwise, for the rose bushes you brought. They shall earn a place of honor among our gardens.” All of the hobbits had brought gifts of one kind or another for their hosts, and Sam had brought a small cart of carefully-potted flowers from the gardens of the Shire for Minas Tirith.

Sam blushed to his ears. “You’re most welcome, my lady. This was a very good year for Shire roses.”

“I’ll say it was!” added Merry. “Sam married one!”

Shouts of approval and congratulations mingled with laughter and applause all along the tables, and Sam blushed harder. “I had a mind to bring Rosie with me, but we decided she’d better stay and keep an eye on Bag End.”

“She couldn’t make a journey like that anyway,” said Pippin. “She’s expecting!”

Sam glared furiously at Pippin. Legolas and Gimli both froze with food halfway to their mouths and Aragorn dropped his spoon. Gandalf laughed, and even louder exclamations of delight rang out through the banquet hall. “And just how long did you intend keeping that happy news a secret, Master Samwise?” demanded Faramir.

“Just waiting for the right time,” muttered Sam, his face now the color of a beet.

Aragorn decided to spare Sam additional embarrassment by changing the subject to the events in the Shire. “I had heard that grievous was the treatment of the hobbits during the War. Is all well now? I would help if the need exists.”

The hobbits beamed. “All is more than well, lord,” said Frodo. “Thanks to Sam, and also the Lady Galadriel.”

Arwen raised curious eyebrows, and Merry explained, “When the Lady gave us all parting gifts on our way from Lorien, she gave Sam a little box of earth to help start a garden.” The Queen smiled, apparently familiar with the qualities of the soil of Galadriel. “Well, as you probably heard, when we got back to the Shire, things were a right mess. Poor Sam was beside himself, for they’d cut down the party tree where Bilbo Baggins had his birthday celebration, and lots of the fields and gardens spoiled, and trees cut down right and left! We didn’t know how we’d ever recover it.”

The faces of the elves at the table had grown long at hearing this, for they all had heard the hobbits’ tales of the beauty of the Shire. Seeing their saddened eyes, Sam said quickly, “But I had that little box of elf dust--” Legolas chuckled, “--so when we planted the new saplings and seedlings, we put a little speck of it everywhere.”

“Generous, he was,” said Pippin. “Merry thought Sam should use it to make a nursery, and that might have been good too, but not as good to the Shire as spreading it around turned out to be. That spring, why, you would have had to see it to believe it! All the trees, plants, bushes, and flowers grew again, fair and strong; not a one withered or died. Sam had planted the little silver nut on the party field, and it grew a mallorn tree! The most splendid silver tree that ever was seen, and the only one west of the mountains, so we’ve been told. There were fruits aplenty--we brought some with us.”

“And a fine addition to the feast they were,” said Eomer appreciatively, helping himself to a strawberry--astonishingly fat and sweet for so late in the year.

“Sam and Rosie’s wedding was a sight to see,” Merry told the company. “It was on the party field in the spring near that mallorn sapling, and there was more food than Bilbo’s birthday party! We had hoped she would come with us to meet you all, but she’s expecting soon in the spring, so she really couldn’t.”

“I am sorry for that,” said Aragorn with a smile. “I would have liked to meet her.”

“You’d be most welcome in the Shire, my lord,” said Sam. “There was also a very great yield of corn and barley this year; the brews were something marvelous. And the leaf was the best I have ever seen. We brought you a whole bale of it.”

“Now THAT was a gift for a king!” declared Gimli. Aragorn nodded in vigorous agreement, and the company laughed harder.

“There’s a fine big bale of it for you, too, Mr. Gimli.”

There came then a sweet ringing of a utensil upon a silver goblet, and Faramir rose, beckoning for silence and raising his goblet up. “My lords and ladies, I give you the king!”

“The king!” Hobbits, elves, dwarves, and men sprang to their feet and toasted the health of Aragorn, who suddenly looked rather sheepish and more like the Strider they all remembered who disliked such attention.

Legolas rose then, and gave a toast to Queen Arwen. Then Aragorn claimed the right to toast the Ring-Bearers, and so it went on, long into the night. The company was very merry, the wine circulated swiftly, and Legolas and Aragorn were soon eyeing each other across the table. “What ails you two?” demanded Gimli.

Aragorn ignored him, glaring at Legolas. “Do not even THINK about it!”

“I said nothing!” protested the elf, feigning innocence.

“You shall not get me this time!” To prove his point, Aragorn passed up the next round of toasts, and Legolas abandoned his attempts to goad the king.

“This time?” Frodo whispered to Sam.

Sam shrugged. “Legolas and Strider were friends before we were born, so they say. Who knows what sort of mischief they got up to when they were young.”

Legolas heard him of course, and began to laugh. “I could relate stories of our liege that would shock this stately court, Samwise!”

“And I could relate tales of this elven prince that would scandalize his kin,” retorted Aragorn, pretending to scowl.

The hobbits were open-mouthed by now, but Elladan decided to jump in. “Legolas has been scandalizing his kin since the day he was born, and you, my dear Elessar, are so scruffy and unrefined that any royal court would be shocked by you. Were you not so good with that sword, they’d have demanded that Frodo be king!”

Gimli let out a great bellow of laughter. Frodo choked on his wine, and received a swift thump in the back from Sam, and the toasting began again. “My friends, I give you the newly-wed and soon-to-be proud father, Samwise Gamgee!”

“Hear, hear!” The company toasted this news with as much gusto as they had saluted the king.

Sam got into the act next, “I give you Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Great!”

“Let us not forget Mithrandir!”

“My thanks, Lord Faramir!”

“I give you Legolas, Elven Lord of Ithilien!” declared Gimli, deftly dodging an elbow from the elf.

Not to be outdone, Legolas sprang up and cried, “I give you Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves!”

“I give you Eomer, King of the Mark!” announced Aragorn, exchanging an overly extravagant bow with the Rohirrim king.

The toasting was growing progressively louder and more boisterous. Arwen caught Eowyn’s eye, and they rose, soon joined by the other ladies in the room. “I think it is time we retired. I bid you gentlemen good night,” said the Queen of Gondor with a knowing smile.

The ladies exited the banquet hall as the toasting erupted anew, and the door closed on the sound of one of the lords of Rohan saying, “Gentlemen, I give you my dog, Bowser!”#

***

Although most of them were decidedly the worse for a night’s toasting, most of the revelers arrived at breakfast the following morning, though the food was not nearly so celebrated as it had been the previous night. Aragorn had managed to restrain himself, and suffered fewer ill effects than most of the men. The elves, of course, showed not a sign at all. “How does Frodo fare this morning?” the king asked Sam as the hobbit came to the table.

Sam smiled, “He did drink quite a lot of wine, but he’s not too bad off. He’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Exchanging a glance with Gandalf, Aragorn elaborated, “How does Frodo fare otherwise?”

Sam’s face fell slightly, confirming his friends’ worries. “He’s been ill a few times, Strider. I’ve been a mite worried about him. Sometimes he seems to be half-dreaming,, and all melancholy, and his duties as mayor wore him out something dreadful. He left office this past Mid-Year’s Day, but he still seems so out of spirit’s sometimes. That’s part of why I wanted us all to meet again here in Minas Tirith; I thought seeing all of you again would cheer him up.”

Gandalf and Aragorn listened solemnly, and Gimli and Legolas had also joined them, their faces concerned. “Will Frodo ever recover from the darkness?” murmured the elf, his eyes dark.

Sam smiled then. “‘Tis a good thing we made the journey, Mr. Legolas, for Mr. Frodo’s been more lively these past couple of days than in quite a while. Even this morning I know all that wine wasn’t too good for him, but he’s in good spirits because it was fun. Now he’s talking of all the things he wants to do and see while we’re here, and not thinking so much of the War. Oh, Mr. Legolas, you’ll take us to see Ithilien, won’t you? He’s so looking forward to that.”

“Most definitely,” Legolas said with an emphatic nod.

“I will go ahead of you and make sure those orc bands are well taken care of,” offered Gandalf. He did not speak it, but all agreed that there had better not be any orc attacks while Frodo was there. The hobbit needed his peace.

“I shall send a message to the captains with you,” said the elf. Turning back to Sam, he added, “And I am sure Gimli will be equally glad to oblige you with a trip through the Glittering Caves. As caves go, I must admit, they are not so bad.”

The company laughed at that, and Gimli slapped Legolas on the shoulder, and so it was this scene that Frodo came upon when he entered the Hall. “Come and sit beside me, Frodo,” Aragorn bade him, beckoning.

“How long do you intend to stay?” Faramir asked them.

“Well, you understand we can’t be gone from home too long, what with Rosie…” Sam blushed and the others grinned.

“I hope you will stay at least until the Festival of the New Year,” said Arwen. Of course, the hobbits could not refuse.

Sam was right; there was color in Frodo’s cheeks and a smile that came easily to his face as he listened and talked with the rest of the Fellowship, sharing more news of all their doings since they had last been together. Aragorn lingered for some time at breakfast before at last breaking himself away to return to his court. Arwen invited Sam and Frodo to accompany her to the gardens and decide where would be the best spots for Sam’s flowers.

Merry and Pippin, on the other hand, did not rouse themselves until almost noon.

***

Disaran, off-duty in a courtyard not far from the gardens, watched Arwen Evenstar escorting the Halflings through the stone terraces, selecting carefully the location for each of the small plants and bushes that the hobbits carried. He was surprised at how freely the Queen of Gondor moved throughout the White City, and thought that it really would not be hard at all to take her. That was one of the conveniences of Ar-Pharazôn’s little weapon: it was relatively quick, needing only a second to take effect and minutes to do all that was needed. All Disaran had to do was get his target alone.

Experimentally, he ambled a little further into the gardens, just to see how close he could get. Suddenly a guard seemed to materialize before him, “Where are you going, Lafin?” (Lafin was the name Disaran had assumed as a soldier of Gondor.)

Centuries of experience made Disaran quite skilled at dissembling. “I was just…ah…” he blushed at will and glanced at Arwen.

The guard came to the conclusion Disaran had intended, and said sternly, but with understanding, “Look to your duties, man. The Queen’s not to be gawked at…no matter how tempting it is,” he added with a knowing wink.

*So she’s better guarded than I thought. I shall have to try elsewhere. But that is why I came to Gondor, to find easy bait. I shall make for Ithilien if I must, but I may yet find what I seek within the city.*

As if in answer to his thoughts, a musical voice called out to the Queen, and she turned to raise a hand in greeting to the fair-haired elf who walked out into the garden. From his position, Disaran heard all that they said. So this was Legolas, Elven Lord of Ithilien, telling the Queen that he meant to take the hobbits to the colony next week. The Queen readily gave her permission, and said that a guard of Gondor would go with them.

The two elves rejoined the hobbits and raised their voices in a sweet, lovely song of the elves that crossed the sea. The hobbits ceased their planting and sat around the pair, listening silently. Disaran smiled maliciously as the fair notes floated through the clear autumn air. This really was too easy…

***

A few days later…

All the fanfare of the famous Fellowship’s arrival had passed on the previous day, and the people of Gondor did not expect the appearance of any new celebrities. So it came as quite a shock to all when a party of four elves was spotted riding from the north, very fast. The guards at the gate did not recognize them, but knew that all elves were welcome in Minas Tirith, and so let them in.

Faramir was coming down the steps of the Halls when he spotted the elven riders. Having been in Minas Tirith during the wedding of Arwen and Elessar, he recognized one of them. “Lord Celeborn?” he asked in surprise and alarm, noting the elven lord’s grave face and the signs of hard travel upon horses and riders.

Celeborn wasted no time dismounting, and came up the steps swiftly, with another golden-haired elf beside him, who also looked to be noble. It was the second one who spoke first, and his urgent tone startled Faramir greatly. “Where is my son?”

Confused, Faramir glanced at Celeborn, who shot the other elf a quelling look and said, “My Lord Faramir, I present Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the elves of Eryn Lasgalen.”

Faramir’s heart lurched. What was Legolas’s father doing here? By all accounts the King of Mirkwood had little interest in meeting men. What did this mean? Realizing the elves were staring at him, he bowed and said, “By your leave, Lords, I shall bring you before King Elessar. If Legolas is not with him, the king will know where he may be found.”

***

Aragorn was startled when Faramir interrupted the court and said that there were some unexpected but urgent visitors. The King noted in surprise the rather intense look Faramir shot Legolas, who was standing by the throne at the time, as though Faramir were trying to convey something. Aragorn and Legolas had no time to do more than exchange a baffled glance when Lord Celeborn walked swiftly in--followed by King Thranduil.

Aragorn froze, Legolas went rigid, and Elladan and Elrohir stared at the sight of the King of the former Mirkwood, all trying to discern what by the Valar he was doing here. Legolas had sadly voiced the likelihood that Thranduil would never come to Ithilien, let alone Gondor to acknowledge Aragorn’s kingship. Gimli’s head whipped from Legolas to his father and then back again, realizing that Legolas had no idea what had brought the elven king here. Whatever the reason, none of them expected it to be good.

Perhaps in the initial shock, only Aragorn noticed the expression that briefly crossed the elven king’s face when he spotted Legolas beside the throne. Relief. As if he had been concerned for Legolas for some reason (other than his choice in friends, this time) and now that he had found his son, his worry was slightly diminished.

Celeborn bowed, and Thranduil echoed it (if slightly grudgingly.) “My Lord Elessar, forgive our abrupt arrival. We come on matters most urgent and grave.”

Aragorn rose and bowed in return. “Then of course, my court shall hear you, Lord Celeborn, King Thranduil. Pray, speak.”

“My lord,” Celeborn’s face was very tense, “a man has been sighted approaching Gondor who poses a great threat to the elves in this kingdom.” His eyes flicked to the twins. Elladan gasped softly and Elrohir turned pale. Celeborn gave a barely-perceptible nod, and both closed their eyes, swallowing hard.

Aragorn stared at them, then turned a now equally-grave face to Celeborn. “Who is this man?”

“His name is Disaran. Among the Eldar, he is known more often as the Black Hunter.”

Aragorn spared a quick glance around the room. The elves now had the undivided attention of every one of the mortals, and with good reason. Thranduil and Celeborn looked as if they had ridden non-stop through a dust storm to get here, and now their news…Legolas’s jaw was clenched, Elladan was nearly rigid with tension, and Elrohir was white-faced. He wondered if Arwen knew any of these tidings, and hoped she did not. He would not see her so frightened. “What has this man done to the elves?” the king asked quietly, dreading the reply.

Celeborn made no immediate reply, and so Thranduil spoke up. “He has been responsible for the murder of dozens of our kind since the Second Age.” Aragorn blinked, and the elven king went on, “We know not how, but the mortal came into possession of a device that can drain the life from an elf, granting the user with greatly extended youth, but not total immortality. To keep the youth, it must be used again and again, and Disaran has done so. He remains the same age in health and appearance as he was during the days of the foundations of the Realms in Exile, but he has murdered without a qualm in order to keep this youth and health. We know not the exact number of his victims, but the Black Hunter may have drained away the life of as many as a hundred Eldar.”

“He is a cold-blooded killer,” whispered Elladan, and Aragorn turned to him, alarmed by the tone of his voice. “Elven children have oft been preyed upon by him. Any immortal can grant him unchanging youth for a length of time, but as soon as he feels himself beginning to age again, he hunts, killing several elves before disappearing once more.”

Thranduil nodded, “His identity was discovered after one of the murders many centuries ago, and so he hides as long as he can. When he is seen abroad in the land, there can be only one reason. He is seeking new prey. Every elf in Middle Earth is in danger while this creature is abroad, for he has learnt many skills and tricks. For all our efforts to capture him, we have found only his victims, too late.”

Aragorn felt a terrible coldness in his stomach. Thranduil of Mirkwood--Eryn Lasgalen, he corrected himself--was not an elf given to admitting weakness. And yet here he was, practically blurting out that he had no way of protecting the elves from this killer. *Therefore, I had best not underestimate this Black Hunter, if he can drive Thranduil to such fear. Then again,* he glanced at Legolas, *I doubt it is for his own interests that Thranduil has gone to such lengths to reach Minas Tirith.* His mind whirling with these strange and foreboding tidings, he tried to think of an intelligent question to ask, “How was he first identified?”

Wrong question. Every elf in the room winced, and Celeborn briefly closed his eyes. In a very soft voice, the Lord of Lothlorien replied, “He was seen using the device the very second time that he struck, and so we realized what he was doing…when he killed my son.”

For several moments, no one spoke. Aragorn fought the urge to bury his face in his hands. *I did not know Celeborn and Galadriel had ever HAD a son!* Taking a deep breath to calm his thudding heart and churning stomach, he slowly rose, looking around the throne room to each of the witnesses there. “All the strength of Gondor shall be alerted to the defense of the Eldar within and without our borders.”

Eomer caught his eye and Aragorn nodded; the King of the Mark rose. “And that of Rohan as well.”

Celeborn nodded his thanks, but said, “My lords, I warn and beg you not to underestimate Disaran. We know his face, but he shall carry another name. He can conceal himself as many different men, and has much skill at arms. Elves must not travel alone until some clue of his whereabouts is found, or he will strike at the first opportunity. That is how it always happens. I must speak plainly,” he looked sorrowful, but said, “Do not think that the Abomination would not dare attack the Queen. For if he sees the chance to strike her or any other Eldar, he shall use it before any have a chance to come to her aid. His weapon is swift and terrible, for it can drain all the life from the victim in a moment.”

“But Arwen is no longer…” Elladan protested, turning paler still.

“Disaran knows much about elven skills, but little about our lore. He may not realize that. If he attacks the Queen, his weapon would still kill her.”

Aragorn’s hand spasmed, and he realized that he was clenching the arms of his throne. He felt nauseated. It was a deadly foe indeed who could frighten these elven lords so greatly. “I shall issue a proclamation immediately warning of this creature’s presence. Have you a description of him?”

“There is a portrait drawn from memory, but I do not have it with me,” said Celeborn, looking like he wanted to curse himself. “I am still able to describe him well, for I shall never forget his face.”

Aragorn ordered a scroll brought at once and noted down the description Celeborn gave with growing dismay. Perhaps the elven lord did not realize this description fit more than half of the men in Gondor. Why, it even fit Faramir--to some extent, anyway. Black hair, brown eyes, between thirty and forty years of age, an average height for a man…Aragorn tried not to look discouraged. But he affixed his seal to the proclamation and ordered the heralds to read it at once. Eomer dispatched one to Rohan as well.

Ending the Court for the day, the company walked from the throne room through the Halls of Kings, engaging in worried conversation. “How far out of Gondor was he when last seen?”

“He was moving south from the Misty Mountains in the spring before the rains came, but the news did not reach me until a week ago,” said Celeborn.

“Elbereth, he could be in Gondor by now, or Rohan at least!” said Elladan.

“I must get to Ithilien!” Legolas exclaimed, his eyes anxious. “He may see the colony as easy prey!”

“You cannot go alone, Legolas,” Aragorn said. “I shall arrange guards for you.”

“Not just any guards!” said Thranduil sharply.

“Quite right, my lord. Faramir,” Aragorn ordered. “Select a contingent of guards from the White Company to return with Legolas to Ithilien. Make sure they are ones you know.”

“Yes, my lord,” Faramir hurried away.

Legolas glanced out the window. Night was falling, it looked like a storm was coming, and the thought that the Black Hunter might at this moment be drawing nigh unto Ithilien made him ill with fear. Death was always a painful experience among the elves, but the murders that Disaran committed--the most senseless waste imaginable. “I shall get my horse and meet you at the gate--”

“NOT alone!” the entire company chorused.

“I’ll go with him,” growled Gimli. “Any man who would lay hand on him shall have me to contend with.”

“I shall go, and to Ithilien as well,” said Thranduil. “He has never been known to attack elves in pairs.” The elven king apparently expected Gimli to relinquish his claim to accompany Legolas, but the dwarf did not, and so, eyeing each other suspiciously, they both left, flanking the prince.

***

*Curse those elven lords!* Disaran sprinted out of the Halls of Kings. Once that proclamation was made, he would have barely any chance to catch an elf in Gondor. He might have to flee and try his luck at the Grey Havens unless he could get one within a few hours.

He could think of only one chance of succeeding, but it was a gamble. Legolas of Ithilien was leaving, accompanied by guards of Faramir’s White Company. Disaran hid near one of the common areas where the guards often stayed, and watched for someone passing, thankful the storm had driven most inside. Just as he was beginning to fear he would find none, two of the White Company came hurrying through the wind, eager to get under cover before the storm hit, their helmets under their arms. Disaran took up a heavy dagger in each hand, came up behind, and struck both in the heads with the hilts. Blood on the uniforms would give him away. He chose the one closest to his size, and dragged him out of sight. There was little time left.

He saw the younger elf, his target, accompanied by the elven king and the dwarf. They would need to be separated. He would need to arrange some kind of help. Spotting several younger guards coming to start their shift, he affected great panic and shouted frantically for them to come to his aid.

***

The rain had not yet begun to fall, but the wind blew and lightning flashed as two elves and a dwarf hurried into the stables. “I do not like you traveling in this weather, Legolas,” Gimli said. “You should wait until daylight. Even elves may find it hard to see in such conditions.”

“The Black Hunter struck Mirkwood when I was a child, Gimli,” said the elf softly, taking his horse out while Thranduil stood within sight by the door. “He killed six of my kindred before vanishing again. If he reaches Ithilien…” Legolas shook his head. “I cannot delay. These are my people, my charge. I must warn them and make proper precautions.”

“But what if you are right and that creature is headed for Ithilien!” protested Gimli. “Will you be any safer there?”

“Gimli,” Legolas smiled, almost laughing in spite of their anxiety. “Mithrandir is in Ithilien at this very moment, checking the activity of the borders with Mordor. Even the Black Hunter may think twice of attacking my realm while an Istar is there, but first I must warn them that he approaches.”

The sound of running feet startled both of them, and Thranduil moved quickly to his son’s side, as a rider from the White Company burst into the stables, out of breath and wild-eyed. “My duty, Lords!” he cried, saluting hastily. “Lord Aragorn bids you come at once--the Queen has been attacked!”

Legolas wheeled around and raced for the door. “Where?”

“The Houses of Healing, my lord!” the man led him swiftly through the dark streets, with Gimli and Thranduil behind them.

Another group of guards, younger ones from the King‘s Halls, swiftly joined them, “My lords, Lord Celeborn begs you to return to the Halls! They may have the man responsible!”

The three froze, torn and unsure of which way to run. “I will return to the palace,” said Thranduil, sensing that Legolas would want to see Arwen.

“Take the guards with you!” his son cried, and waved the men after the elven king. They obeyed at once, and Legolas sprinted after the White Company rider.

“Legolas, take care!” shouted Gimli, unable to keep up with Legolas at such an all-out run, but the elf could think of nothing but how Aragorn would be destroyed if Arwen were slain. The dwarf soon fell far behind. The street was straight to the Houses of Healing, but the storm made it so dark that Gimli could only see the elf and the guard clearly when the lightning flashed.

***

Thranduil and his escort of guards raced back to the Halls of Kings and found Faramir and Aragorn there with Celeborn. Seeing him, they rushed forward. “What happened?!” all four cried in unison.

Then they froze. The guards spoke first, “One of the White Company guards said the Queen had been attacked and you had the Hunter, my lord!”

“What? The Queen is under guard within the Halls!” cried Faramir.

The flash of lightning showed the color drain from Aragorn’s face as he met Thranduil’s eyes. Leaping off the steps, he roared at Faramir, “Call out the guard but stay with Celeborn!” and tore down the street with Thranduil and the men at his heels. *Valar do not let us be too late!*

*****

Númenor, the Year 3310 of the Second Age…

Upon a hill in the midst of the City of the Númenóreans, stood a mighty temple, Armenelos the Golden, in the form of a circle at the base, with walls fifty feet in thickness that rose from the ground five hundred feet, crowned in a mighty dome five hundred feet across. And the dome was roofed all with silver, rising glittering in the sun so that the light of it could be seen afar off. It was a splendid sight, this new construction, and upon this day within the Temple the altar of fire was to be lit for the first time.

Dressed in their finest garments, Ar-Pharazôn the High King and all his councilors were assembled along with the nobility of Númenor, with the exceptions of a few among their number who stubbornly (and most foolishly) persisted in following the teachings of the feeble Valar. The King’s guards blew their trumpets and all the men bowed as the King’s truest councilor, Sauron the servant of Melkor, stepped to the front of the temple to christen it in the name of the Lord of the Darkness. “Bring the wood for the altar!”

A low intake of breath issued from the assembled as two of the Temple guards brought forth a great pile of wood to start the fire of worship of Melkor, for all could see that it was the hewn wood of Nimloth, the White Tree, felled at last in spite of the Valar. The wood was flung upon the altar, and Ar-Pharazôn stepped forward. “This day, our hearts and our faith shall be placed in the hands of the Lord of the Darkness, the Giver of Freedom, that he may favor us with his power and free us from the curse of death!”

All bowed, including Sauron, but before the King could light the white wood, the Dark Lord stayed his hand. “I beg your indulgence, my lord. I would present to you a token of fealty, to the glory of you and the Lord of All, that this day may show proof of the power of Melkor.”

At the King’s nod, Sauron reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a stone, oval in shape, fitting easily in the palm of his hand. Black it was, but not completely dark, for the faintest flickers of light passed through it as he held it aloft before the curious stares of the King and onlookers. It was cut with wide facets like a great gem and gleamed dully in the light of the sun through the top of the Temple dome. “Behold!” Sauron cried. “Already the Lord’s power shall be displayed, and the High King of Númenor may begin the first steps on the path set by Melkor to true immortality!” With a low bow, he held the stone out to Ar-Pharazôn.

The King took it, examining it cautiously. “And how shall I use this pretty rock, my sweet-worded servant?”

“Forgive me, my lord. I shall demonstrate its use. As I promised, you shall be freed of the ailments of age with this weapon against mortality, and soon the gift of the Valar and the Eldar shall be yours.” Sauron shouted to the guards at the door, “Bring forth the sacrifice!”

To the murmurs of surprise from the Númenóreans, two guards dragged in a struggling figure in white robes. Sauron strode forward and pulled back the robe’s hood to reveal a fair face framed with long, golden hair, and bright, horrified eyes. An elf. With a little smile, Sauron explained, “This creature was discovered after landing a ship against the King’s edicts, attempting to make his way to the traitorous elf-friends in Rómenna.” With a mocking smile, he drew a hand gently down the elf’s cheek, laughing as his prisoner’s lips curled in revulsion. “Thus you see before you the bearer of the gifts of the Valar--an immortal! Freed from the curse of death regardless of whether he is deserving or no. An unjust fate, is it not?”

“The will of Ilúvatar is not for you to dispute!” cried the elf in anger, but a fierce blow to the ribs from one of the guards doubled him over and silenced him.

Sauron laughed again, and addressed the men rather than the captive. “Dispute? Nay. The Valar have possessed themselves of the land where there is no death, and they lie to you concerning it, hiding it as best they may, because of their avarice, and their fear lest the Kings of Men should wrest from them the deathless realm and rule the world in their stead. And though, doubtless, the gift of life unending is not for all, but only for such as are worthy, being men of might and pride and great lineage, yet against all justice is it done this gift, which is his due, should be withheld from the King of Kings, Ar-Pharazôn, mightiest of the sons of Earth, to whom Manwë alone can be compared, if even he.”

Murmurs of agreement were rippling through the men as Ar-Pharazôn lifted his chin proudly at Sauron’s words. Even then, the elf, his eyes wide in dismay, shook his head in despair and grief at the thraldom before him. Hurling off the captive’s cloak, leaving him clad in a tunic and trousers of white linen, Sauron drew the struggling elf to him, bearing his chest. To the men and their King, he shouted, “But great kings do not brook denials, and take what is their due!”

Over the shouts of assent, he pressed the black stone hard against the elf’s chest. The result was instantaneous. The elf gasped, his eyes losing focus, and began to sag back against his captor. The black stone in turn began to burn with orange light as though bright flames burnt within its dark facets. Sauron’s eyes grew visibly brighter, a smile of predatory pleasure upon his face, as stone darkened again and the elf went limp. The onlookers let out a collective exclamation of awe as Sauron drew the stone away, and the elf fell bonelessly to the floor of the Temple, his immortal life quenched.

With a long breath as though savoring a good meal, Sauron held the stone up again. “Thus, men of Númenor! Behold the weapon that will wrest the gift of the Eldar to any deserving one who wields it by the will of Melkor, Lord of All! I henceforth gift it to your King, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, as the one most deserving to possess the bringer of immortality, to use as he sees fit!” With great deference, he presented the stone with Ar-Pharazôn, who took it with far more reverence this second time. “Thus the Lord Melkor shows his favor of you, my lord, and the Temple you have constructed in his name.” He motioned to the guards, who lifted the dead elf, and bade them place him atop the hewn wood of Nimloth. “And here today shall burn the first of our sacrifices, in gratitude for this gift and that he may yet release you all from Death.” Turning to Ar-Pharazôn, he smiled, “Another elf was taken from the ship that brought this one, my lord. Will you partake of Melkor’s gift?” He did not wait for Ar-Pharazôn’s eager permission, but called to the guards who brought in a second elf, fighting desperately when he spied the fate of his companion.

At Sauron’s assurance that the Stone would answer to his will, Ar-Pharazôn seized his victim around the neck and pressed the weapon against his skin. The results were just as they had been for Sauron, and seeing the King’s elation, the men cried, “Hail, Ar-Pharazôn, King of the Earth! The first of Immortal Men!”

Soon the second elf fell dead like the first, and his fair body was laid upon the altar. Eyes wild with mad elation, besotted by the vigor the Stone’s art had given him, Ar-Pharazôn cried, “Let Lord Sauron set the first fire in the altar, most faithful of my servants who has brought to us so many gifts!”

And so the hewn wood of Nimloth was set ablaze and consumed along with the bodies of the first victims of the new servants of Melkor. But the smoke turned the silver of the Temple’s dome black, and men marveled at the reek that went up from it, so that the land lay under a cloud for seven days, until slowly it passed into the west.

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

Legolas raced toward the door of the Houses of Healing, expecting to see a throng of people and guards, but finding no one at all. In confusion, he reached for the door and found it bolted. He turned around and froze--the White Company guard was grinning at him, a look of cold triumph on his face.

In a flash, the elf had his knives out. “Did you harm Arwen?” he demanded, his heart pounding as he realized he was face-to-face with the Black Hunter.

Disaran laughed. “Of course not! Why risk my skin chasing her when I can find easier prey! You are all the same to me, my dear elf!” A small, round object was clasped in the palm of his hand, black as obsidian, and Legolas had no trouble guessing what it was. *By the Valar, why did I not wait for Gimli! This creature knows the hearts of elves well!*

His only chance was to keep the man back, Legolas realized, as he and Disaran circled each other warily. Disaran lunged forward, aiming simply to touch Legolas with the weapon, and the elf leapt away while swiping at the man’s arm. Disaran kept grinning, keeping the elf’s back to the Houses of Healing with nowhere to run.

***

Aragorn did not think he had run so fast in his entire life. Thranduil kept pace with him easily, and they wheeled around a corner onto the street that ended in the Houses of Healing. Lightning flashed and they came close to the building just as Gimli reached it. Somehow he had been left behind by Legolas and the other man. Lightning flashed again…

***

Legolas slashed open the sleeve of Disaran’s jerkin as the man came at him again, trying in vain to pass him and run for safety. He heard shouts behind the man and cried, “Gimli!” knowing the dwarf could end this fight at once. Disaran faltered and glanced behind him--immediately, Legolas surged forward, his long knife ready to end this creature’s career once and for all. But then the man had expected the move and dodged to one side, seized Legolas’s wrist, and before the elf could react or even call out, what felt like a piece of black ice came into contact with his skin.

A shock of terrible cold seemed to surge through him, followed closely by a wave of weakness. With a gasp, Legolas staggered, and his hand lost its grip on the knife. Disoriented, he tried to strike with his other knife, but Disaran swung around behind him, getting an arm around his chest, and pressing the stone against the base of his neck, just below the collarbone. It was so cold… With a gasping moan, Legolas felt the strength draining from him, and the other knife slid from his fingers as he squirmed weakly in a vain effort to get away. *Fight it, fight it!* his mind cried in panic, but his body was losing the ability to obey.

A terrible leaden weakness was coming over his limbs. So heavy…it was growing hard to breathe. Dying in battle was an eventuality Legolas was prepared for; he was a warrior, after all. But this…to perish this way…*No! Fight it…* Legolas’s attempts to pull away were met with a tightening of the iron grip around his chest and cruel laughter in his ear. So heavy…so tired…his head lolled forward. He had lost all sense of time and where he was. His body sagged against Disaran’s grip. His heart was losing the strength to beat anymore. Only Disaran’s hold prevented him from sagging to the ground. So heavy…so heavy…he was dying.

*No! A Valar! Gimli! Aragorn! Father! Help me!* Legolas had never felt so helpless in his life. *Someone help me!*

***

The lightning revealed a man in the garb of a White Company soldier, with Legolas pinned in a terrible embrace and a black stone pressed against the elf’s chest that had begun to glow with its own dark fire. “NO!” Aragorn cried, as he and Gimli rushed Disaran.

Those last few strides to his trapped friend seemed to last an eternity. Legolas’s eyes were glassy, and utterly terrified. His knives lay upon the ground, and Aragorn could see him going limp. “Legolas!”

He and Gimli both reached the elf and his attacker at the same time, but Disaran waited until then to drop the elf. The moment his grip was released, Legolas fell like a marionette with its strings cut. Aragorn caught him, and with a bellow of rage, Gimli charged after the fleeing Disaran. “Gimli,” Legolas said weakly.

“Gimli, wait!” Aragorn shouted, but turned desperately to Legolas. Thranduil had frozen in his tracks, staring at his stricken son in mute horror. But Aragorn had eyes only for Legolas.

“Aragorn?” whispered the elf. His breathing was labored, and his pulse was weakening fast.

“Hold on, Legolas!” the King of Gondor whispered desperately, cradling his friend in his arms. *Valar, no! I cannot lose you! Not now, not like this!* “Please, you must stay with me…no…”

“Gimli,” Legolas moaned, the life flowing out of him.

“Legolas? Legolas!” Aragorn looked around frantically, trying to think of some way to help him. But there was no wound upon him, no mark of the evil spell the black stone had inflicted--how could he heal his friend when there was no visible injury? The guards were catching up with them by then, and the King of Gondor cried out, “Gandalf! Send for Gandalf from Ithilien! At once!” One of the men bolted. “Legolas,” he pleaded. “You must hold on.”

The elf was beyond hearing, his eyes, half-focused and fearful, staring at the stars through a break in the clouds. His body was so limp, and beginning to grow cold. *No. No! NO!!! Legolas! It cannot be this way! Not you! Valar, please fight!* The terror in his friend’s eyes burned Aragorn like a brand as they drifted closed. As though summoning the last of his strength, Legolas sucked in another breath. “Gimli,” he sighed, the air leaving his body.

He breathed no more.

“Legolas,” whispered Aragorn, shaking his friend weakly. *By the Valar, this cannot be happening!* He cradled the elf against his chest, his mind feeling sluggish, unable to comprehend what had happened. It had all happened so fast! “Legolas…”

***

Gimli thundered after the fleeing Disaran, rage searing through him at the vicious attack upon his friend, and for the fear he had visited upon all the elves. No people deserved to be stalked in such a fashion! Disaran had a good lead, and was pulling further away, but lightning flashed and suddenly he skidded to a stop. Gimli heard guards coming down the street from the other end.

Drawing a sword, the man spun and charged Gimli, obviously hoping to get past him to freedom. *So this creature may know the fighting ways of the elves, but he will not get past a dwarf!* Gimli thought, readying his axe.

It was a fact shown all too clearly, for Disaran came at Gimli with the same sort of moves Legolas liked to use when he and Gimli sparred, but not nearly so much finesse. Dodging a wild swing of the sword, Gimli slammed the shaft of his axe into the man’s side, earning a grunt of surprised pain, and Disaran staggered. Whirling behind him, Gimli struck him again in the back of the head, dropping him to the ground in a stunned heap.

“Thought you were attacking just any old elf, weren’t you, villain?” growled Gimli. “Well, this elf is the friend of a dwarf who does not take kindly to attempts to murder him!” He waited until the guards arrived and kicked the black stone from Disaran’s hand. The man attempted to grab it, but Gimli kicked it away, sending it skittering across the paving stones. “You shall never use that accursed thing again! Bring this creature; the King shall decide his fate. Do not touch that stone! Keep it for Aragorn to examine!”

With that, he stalked back to the Houses of Healing, where Aragorn had been seeing to the wounded Legolas. Coming around the corner, he froze in his tracks. The alley was now lit by many torches, and some of the guards surrounding the scene had tears in their eyes. Gimli pushed through them frantically; Legolas must have taken a grievous hurt. What he saw shook him to the very core of his being.

King Thranduil stood in the same spot he had been when Gimli had charged after Disaran, apparently not having moved an inch. His hands hung slack at his side, and he did not seem to notice Gimli at all, having eyes only for the two people on the ground before the Houses of Healing. Why had Aragorn not taken Legolas inside, the dwarf wondered.

Aragorn, who had been staring down at Legolas’s face, looked up suddenly at Gimli. The King of Gondor’s eyes were dull, his face listless. Gimli slowed his approach, staring, unable to believe his eyes, at the form cradled in Aragorn’s arms.

Legolas was so still. He lay in the King’s arms, his eyes closed like a mortal asleep, but somehow this was different. It was very odd, for even when his friend slept, there always seemed to be such life about him, as though the very air danced in the presence of one of the Eldar. Now there was not a flicker of movement, and the light that always seemed to surround him was gone.

No. Gimli could not believe it. He could not comprehend it. It did not seem possible. Legolas was immortal! It could not be possible! His friend was supposed to outlive him! It was a knowledge Gimli had always lived with, always taken comfort in! How could this be?

Yet it was so…

The elf was dead.

*****
To be continued
*****

(Sniff!) I…can…not…believe…I…really…did it! (SOB!)

RESPONSE to questions: I don’t know if Celeborn and Galadriel ever had a son. I made up the one in this story. Some theories have Amroth of Lorien (remember the Lay of Nimrodel) as their son, but it’s not certain. For the purposes of this fic, Celeborn and Galadriel had two children: Celebrian, their daughter who went on to marry Elrond (that’s canon) and Indoran, a younger son who was killed by Disaran (entirely made up.)

In response to all who have threatened me with grievous bodily harm, blame Thundera Tiger! (Laugh) Yes that’s right, Tiger, you are officially in the inspiration hall of fame. I got to thinking after reading “Reflections in the Dark,” how would Gimli and company react to Legolas’s death? That little daydream turned into a ravenous, slavering plot-bunny with fangs, and the rest is history. Your fault! All your fault!

Here we go everyone, Chapter Two. I assure you there will be much more to this fic than just death and grief. I hope you’ll all give it a chance before you kill me. But I warn you: this chapter made ME cry!

Chapter Two: Shock

Imladris, the year 275 of the Third Age…

The child had escaped her tutors again, fleeing the Last Homely House in a gleeful sprint that carried her all the way to the banks of the Bruinen. There she played, knowing it was useless to hide, since it was only a matter of time before she was discovered by the elves sent to fetch her. Instead, she bided what free time she had bought herself, prancing in and out of the water in typical high spirits of elven children, singing carelessly to herself.

A twig snapped. The child turned around curiously, but saw no one. How very odd. She had the distinct impression that she was being watched. With a sigh, she supposed that the tutors had finally found her and that she would soon be back in the schoolroom enduring a good scolding, but no one revealed themself. Come to think of it, she had had this sensation for the last few days. But she had been in the world only thirty-four years, and so the thought that this mysterious watcher might bare her any menace was utterly beyond her imagining.

There came another sound, and the girl spun around with a giggle, intent on discovering the identity of whoever spied on her. Her laughter stopped short when she beheld the figure behind her. A few paces down the riverbank stood a man, one of the first men the child had ever seen--and the very first who was not introduced to her as a guest of her father. He stood very still, having come from the trees where he had apparently been watching her for some time. He made no move and spoke no word, but simply watched her.

For the first time in her young life, a little prickle of fear ran through the child. “Who--who are you?” she asked nervously, looking around and hoping now that her tutor’s had at last caught up with her.

The man merely smiled.

“What do you want?”

His smile grew broader, and even in her youth the child recognized the evil intentions in his gaze. She began to back along the riverbank, and her heart sprang to her throat as he slowly, tauntingly began to match her steps.

“Go away!” she cried. “You are a trespasser on these lands!”

Now the man laughed, and never had she heard the sound so fouled. His steps quickened along with the child’s breath as terror began to race through her. She carried no weapon and could see nothing on the riverbank that might aid her, not even a hard stone. The man, on the other hand, did hold a stone, a stone that shone black like obsidian. What it was she knew not, and instinctively, she feared it as well as him. “Help!” she screamed, sobs of panic tearing at her throat. “Someone help!”

She stumbled as she turned to run, hearing the man’s laughter and quickening steps behind her, but then there was the sound of crashing through the brush, and an elf burst out of the trees. The child sobbed with relief; her tutor must have heard her cries and run off the path to reach her more swiftly. The elder elf, Laegnan, did not pause, but sprang between the child and her attacker, though he too had come out of doors without any weapon.

The girl’s relief did not last long, for the man hardly hesitated, but lunged at her tutor even as she screamed again. Now Laegnan was an elder among her household, but hardly lacking in strength or skill. Yet even as he struck back at the man to defend himself and his young charge, the mortal assailant seized him and subdued him, pressing the black stone to his neck. “Fly, child!” Laegnan cried to the girl as the man pressed his attack, and the girl fled in terror into the trees. Behind her, she heard Laegnan’s voice, sounding strangely weak, as he called after her, “Warn your father, Undómiel!”

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

The darkened, sleepy streets of Minas Tirith that surrounded the Houses of Healing were suddenly wrenched awake by a dwarven howl of grief and rage, so loud that lamps were lit in haste and windows flew open everywhere. Soon the people of Minas Tirith were pouring into the streets, trying to find the source of the noise and adding to the commotion of the already-raised guards. Those who heard it most clearly would later say they had not heard a noise so terrifying since the War of the Ring, and had been convinced the White City was being invaded.

But others said they had never heard a voice so filled with anguish.

***

The Queen of Gondor sat in a quiet sitting room within the Halls of Kings with Lady Eowyn and the hobbits, surrounded by over a dozen guards. Her husband, brothers, and the elven lords had been a little less than forthcoming about whatever danger had entered Minas Tirith, and they had all rushed off, with Aragorn promising to relate it to her as soon as he returned.

However, that was scant consolation now. Arwen was so tense she thought she would scream, and the anxiety on the faces of the hobbits hurt her heart; it reminded her of the fear-filled days of the War of the Ring, and Iluvatar knew Frodo needed no such reminders.

Eowyn stood by the window, trying to see the streets. “Something is wrong.”

Arwen looked at her in confusion, “I think we have already apprehended that much, Lady.”

“Nay, my Queen, I meant something else is wrong,” Eowyn turned from the window, and one look at the Lady of Ithilien’s eyes brought Arwen to her feet and running to the window.

Eowyn was right. The courtyard looked as if a swarm of hornets had attacked; people were racing to and fro, soldiers and civilians alike, and…her heart froze…some were weeping. “Valar,” she whispered. “What has happened?”

“Guard!” Eowyn barked. Arwen turned as one of the soldiers came swiftly to their side. “Send to Lord Faramir at once that the Queen wishes to know what has transpired. If he cannot be disturbed, then find out for yourself!”

“Yes, my lady!” the guard saluted and hurried out.

Arwen quashed a surge of envy. While the guards looked upon her, their queen, with reverence and awe, and never hesitated to obey any command she issued, there was a respect in their eyes for Lady Eowyn that one could not help noticing. Their response to Arwen seemed properly deferential, and awestruck by her beauty, but for Eowyn it seemed more substantial, as though the guards recognized her as their equal in all things, including ability to defend herself and her people if necessary. Arwen was a Queen to be adored and protected in their eyes, but they all knew Eowyn could hold her own.

That fact was frustrating because Arwen could take care of herself. But the duties of the queenship made it impossible for her to practice with weapons as much as Eowyn did, and even less to demonstrate them, not that she was unskilled with them by any means. Aragorn occasionally indulged her with a sparring match, but Arwen knew he pulled his blows (still, she forgave him it, for he would most likely trounce her.)

She and Eowyn spent much time in each other’s company as was proper when Faramir was in Minas Tirith. It was obvious that Eowyn and Faramir loved each other utterly, proven by how often Eowyn accompanied him, and Arwen did not feel threatened by the Lady at all. Still, there was an awkwardness, that Arwen knew came from Eowyn’s deference to her, and from Arwen’s own somewhat irrational envy. *I should simply ask her to instruct me. Aragorn and Faramir are often busy, and time would go more quickly by us practicing at swords and bow than sitting and embroidering.* Arwen understood that certain tasks were considered more appropriate for a queen than others, and indeed she enjoyed so-called “womanly” activities…yet the problem with all of them was that they left her mind far too free to wander to all the cares of the world.

*Any who thought life would be free of anxieties and troubles after the War were sadly mistaken,* she thought, suppressing a sigh. That was the greatest reason she had lately come to prefer practice at weapons to still, quiet tasks. They took her mind off all the worries that seemed to constantly occupy it.

Her musings were interrupted by the return of the guard, looking anguished. “Forgive me, Lady. Lord Faramir bids you remain within the Halls. There is great danger without.” He had nothing more to impart to them.

Arwen dismissed him, and looked at Eowyn, her heart pounding. “Something grave has happened of which he will not speak.”

“Or has been ordered not to, more likely,” whispered Eowyn. Her voice was filled with dread. There had been tears in the man’s eyes.

Arwen looked out the window once more. People were sobbing in the streets now. *Estel…has something happened to Estel? Surely if he were…if he were well, he would order the guards to inform me!* That thought did it. She whirled and snapped to a servant, “Bring me a cloak and a belt!”

“My Queen, the Steward ordered that you be guarded within the palace--” protested a guard.

“And now I, your Queen, order you to stand aside, for I am going to find my lord!” retorted Arwen. This promised to be an ill meeting no matter what. If something dreadful had happened to her husband, she knew not what she would do. On the other hand, if Estel had indeed ordered that she be kept in ignorance of some dreadful tidings out of some misguided protectiveness, she would blister his ears later! She swept into the cloak the servant brought and girded on a sword.

Eowyn had watched the exchange briefly, then said to the servant, “Bring one for me as well.” Arwen turned to her, and the Lady of Ithilien said with a small, humorless smile, “I may not be able to prevent your going, but you shall not venture out alone.”

“Nay, Lady!” added Merry and Pippin fiercely, going for their swords and shields. “The King would never forgive us if anything happened to you! We’ll come as well, and meet death before you meet harm!”

Despite her anxiety, Arwen smiled at their fierceness. Frodo and Sam also went looking for weapons, but Arwen told them, “Nay, Frodo and Samwise, you remain here. Eowyn, Merry, and Pippin are more than enough escort to deal with any threat. Stay in case anyone returns and wishes to know where we are gone.”

Frodo and Sam exchanged a glance, then nodded. “As you wish, my Lady,” said Frodo, his face pale with worry.

“An escort for the Queen!” ordered Eowyn as Arwen headed for the door. Six more guards fell into step surrounding them as they strode out of the Halls and down the steps.

Eowyn and the hobbits had their swords drawn, flanking Arwen and looking sharply about for anything that might threaten their Queen. Gasps and soft cries rang out from the people that saw them pass. Arwen had no difficulty determining which direction to go, for a steady stream of people were moving toward the Houses of Healing. As they drew nearer, the people who turned and saw her began to weep, and avoided her gaze as though the sight of her anguished them still more.

*Estel…something has happened to Estel,* she thought, her mind wild with terror. Abandoning all pretense, Arwen broke into a run.

The wild wind whipped her hair and her cloak, and only Eowyn’s hand stopped her from rushing ahead of the escort. Merry and Pippin ran ahead of them, ordering all to “Make way for the Queen!” Their voices betrayed their fear, for they too had heard the tears of the people.

The crowd parted before them as they neared the Houses of Healing, and Arwen came to a halt, her heart in her throat.

*No…*

Aragorn was unhurt. But it was small consolation, for the scene before the Queen of Gondor was no less devastating. Her husband did not look up at her arrival, but stared down at the limp form cradled against his chest. Legolas. The elf’s eyes were closed, but there was no peace upon his face. Something in his still, pale countenance seemed to suggest that darkness had come over him in a state of intense fear. Arwen stared, trembling slightly, at the motionless body of Legolas, the dear young warrior who had been her friend and a friend to her brothers for so many centuries. His light was gone. His warmth was gone.

Legolas was gone.

A barely-stifled sob from just behind awoke her. Eowyn’s hands were covering her mouth, and tears streamed down her face. She had come to know Legolas well in the past two years during the rebuilding of Ithilien. His loss would be a crushing blow to her and to her husband. In front of Arwen, Merry and Pippin too had frozen in their tracks. Not a sound came from either one. The only sound here in this place of death was the soft weeping of the people who had come out to determine the cause of all the commotion.

Arwen swallowed hard, fighting back a scream of anguish that tried to force its way from her throat. How had this happened? How now, after Legolas had survived the War of the Ring with barely a mark to his body, how now could he be cut down? She saw no blood, no wound that could fell an elf. How? How could this be?

*Why? WHY?!*

She had been holding her breath. It forced her to inhale again suddenly, and Aragorn looked up. His eyes, always so warm and steadfast, now seemed as dead as the elf who lay in his arms. So hopeless, so lost. He who had saved so many lives, including many of the folk who surrounded him now, had been unable to save one of his oldest and closest friends. The hands of the king were the hands of a healer, but not this time. He could not save Legolas.

Arwen’s legs were suddenly carrying her forward. Her eyes still meeting Aragorn’s seeking some response, some explanation, she knelt before him. Something told her that Aragorn wanted to speak, but had lost the ability. She looked down at Legolas, and her vision suddenly blurred with tears. *Oh Legolas! Why?* Reaching out, she took the younger elf’s limp hand in her own and raised it to her cheek. It was so cold. Tears spilled from her eyes and she closed them, conscious of nothing but that cold hand against her face, wishing she could rub warmth into it again. *Oh Legolas…*

A bark of laughter made her raise her head, stunned. There against the wall behind Aragorn, a man stood, his hands bound, held fast by four guards, each of whom looked as though they desired to impale him with their swords right there. He was watching her with a hideous grin of twisted amusement at her grief. It struck her with a wave of nausea--this man had slain the elf. She was looking into the eyes of Legolas’s murderer!

With a gasp of horror, fighting her heaving stomach, Arwen looked away, and jumped at the sound of a dwarven roar of rage. She looked up again, her mind moving too slowly to process all that was happening; she had not noticed Gimli. Legolas’s best friend launched himself at the killer, ripping him from the guards and pummeling him with his fists, looking to finish him then and there. Aragorn did not even turn around, and Arwen watched rather dispassionately.

It was Faramir, his eyes red, who finally ran over and pulled Gimli back. “Enough, Master Dwarf,” he cried in a voice thick with grief and anger, “it is not for you! This creature shall answer to all Gondor and the Eldar for this atrocity! He shall be made to pay!”

Somehow, the dwarf let himself be pulled back. Turning away from the elf’s killer, great, heaving sobs broke through the wind and the thunder as Gimli came to Arwen’s side, staring in disbelief at Legolas’s body. A fat drop of rain splattered to the paving stones. He did not speak, but simply wept, the sobs seeming to come from the depths of his soul.

A drop of rain landed on the elf’s face. Arwen brushed it gently away, and Aragorn pulled him closer as if to shelter him. Again, it was Faramir who spoke. “My lord, my lady…we should not…linger here. We should…get him indoors…and these people back to their homes ere the storm strikes.”

There was a long silence. Then Aragorn drew in a shuddering breath, closing his eyes briefly. When they opened, they were just as listless as before, but this time with a hint of consciousness at least. Slowly, the King of Gondor rose, with Legolas still cradled reverently in his arms. He looked down at the elf’s still face for a moment, then began walking back toward the Halls of the Kings. Gimli stared, about to follow, then suddenly turned away and instead went to join Faramir, who had the unhappy task of seeing to Disaran‘s imprisonment--and protection from the growling mob that stood hoping the murderer might attempt to escape.

Arwen suddenly found she could not get her legs back under her. She knew she must rise, walk at the King’s side in this procession of mourners, but she could not make her legs work. *I am the Queen, Aragorn’s wife. I must join him. I must rise!* She swallowed hard, and suddenly a hand extended to her. Looking up, she beheld her grandfather, Celeborn, and behind him, King Thranduil. She had not even known they were in Minas Tirith! Taking Celeborn’s hand, she was able to rise to her feet, and glanced once more at the man who had slain Thranduil’s son, whose removal was being seen to by Faramir and Gimli. She looked back at Celeborn and Thranduil, and suddenly, the truth struck her.

That was why they had come…to prevent this…Arwen stared in horror at the murderer, realizing for the first time who he was. His face was distorted in her memory, more hideous in the shadow of childhood nightmares, but now that she looked again, she recognized him. He was not laughing now; Gimli’s tender ministrations had wiped the obscene smile from his face at least. Arwen felt a convulsive shudder take her whole body, and then Celeborn laid his hand upon her shoulder and turned her away.

***

To the right and just ahead of Celeborn, King Elessar walked back to the Halls of the Kings, carrying Legolas. The elven lord stared at the man, stunned by the effect Legolas’s death had had upon him. He had known the two were close, yet…Aragorn’s shoulders slumped, and he walked very slowly, as though it took great effort to keep himself moving at all without stumbling. Celeborn could just see his face, and Aragorn stared straight ahead, his eyes bleak. He looked at no one, not even Arwen. Celeborn had his left hand clasping hers, his right around her waist, leading the bereaved Queen as if she had no will to walk on her own. Her head hung. On the other side of Aragorn walked Merry and Pippin, with tears streaming down their faces.

To Celeborn’s left was Thranduil. The elven king had not made a sound, nor shed a tear, nor taken his eyes from Legolas since they had come upon the dying prince. Celeborn found he could not look upon Thranduil for long without feeling the grief welling up in his own throat. *Forgive me,* he thought to his friend, guilt surging through him. *I tried. I came as quickly as I could. Would that I had been faster. I lost my son; I would have done anything in my power for yours. Forgive me, Thranduil. Would that I could spare you this agony.*

The people of Minas Tirith were weeping in the streets. By all accounts, Legolas was a regular visitor to the king, and adored for that and as an elf by the Gondorrim. But the Lord of Lothlorien was stunned by the intensity of the mortals’ grief. He did not harbor feelings quite as ill toward humans as Thranduil, however he still did not expect men to care so deeply for the life of any one elf. Yet here the people cried, and the soldiers bowed their heads, some saluted as the procession walked by. At last they reached the Halls of the Kings, and King Eomer came running down the steps, practically skidding to a stop when he saw Aragorn and the burden he carried. The young King of the Mark stared, disbelieving, and whispered softly, “No.”

Aragorn looked around, apparently uncertain of what to do. Eowyn came up then, touched his shoulder lightly, and motioned him toward the Silent Street, where the House of Kings stood, the place where the kings of Gondor had always been laid to rest, and where Aragorn himself would some day lie. Aragorn wavered, loathe to bear the elf to that place of the dead, but then Eomer came before him, looking first from the King of Gondor to his sister Eowyn. Though her eyes were spilling tears as freely as rain from the sky, she nodded to him, looking then to Aragorn, and Eomer turned his face as well toward the House of Kings, indicating again where Legolas should be taken. Slowly, Aragorn turned as though he had no will of his own, and carried the lifeless elf into the Silent Street.

Followed by the great stream of mourners, King Elessar brought the body of the son of Thranduil to the House of Kings, and carried him inside. There stood an empty stone table, carven exquisitely of the finest marble, meant for the bodies of the Kings themselves. It was a place fitting for the dearest of the King’s friends and one who had many times saved the King’s life.

But Aragorn, still cradling Legolas in his arms, stared silently at the marble slab and would not relinquish his burden to it. His eyes strayed briefly around the dark House, beautiful, but cold and echoing with memories of sorrow. He stared again at the sepulcher, and spoke for the first time. “Legolas hates stone,” he murmured.

Arwen at last pulled away from Celeborn’s supportive hands, and swiftly undid the clasp of the heavy gray cloak that she wore, a soft and beautifully embroidered gift from her kindred in Imladris. Stepping past Aragorn, she laid the cloak across the table. Then she turned and nodded to her husband, her eyes downcast. With a deep, quiet sigh, Aragorn stepped forward and reverently laid Legolas’s body upon the cloak, gently arranging the elf’s hands upon his chest.

It would be proper to shroud him, they all knew. Aragorn’s hands strayed to his own mantle, but then he faltered. His eyes took on a look of renewed horror as he stared at the body of his friend, the second member of the Fellowship of the Ring to die. With the barest shake of his head, he stepped back. He could not do it. He could not shroud the elf and cut him off from the world.

There they stood, for how long no one knew, staring in endless disbelief at the still form lying upon the cloak of the Queen. A very soft sound of sobbing came from behind the King; it was either Merry or Pippin. Eowyn also stood back from the group, leaning slightly against Eomer who had his hands on her shoulders. Both had tears streaming down their faces.

At last, Eomer squeezed Eowyn’s shoulders and she turned to look at him. He nodded toward the door, then to Aragorn and Arwen. Taking a ragged breath, Eowyn nodded, scrubbing at her eyes with little success to stop the tears. She reached out and touched Merry and Pippin gently, beckoning to them. The two hobbits looked at her in dismay, then stared back at Legolas, new despair on their faces. Surely they could not simply leave Legolas here in this stony tomb? After all they had been through…surely they could not just turn and walk away!

Eowyn stood patiently awaiting them, until the hobbits realized her intent was to give Aragorn, Arwen, and the elven lords time alone. Merry bowed his head and looked to Pippin, who stared a moment longer at Legolas, then tearfully nodded. The small knights of Gondor and Rohan took one last look at their fallen friend, their comrade in the Fellowship, and finally turned and came out of the House of Kings with Lady Eowyn, and King Eomer.

Celeborn knew, watching them leave, that the time had come for him to depart as well, and leave Legolas among those who knew and loved him best. He too lingered for one last look at the young elven prince, and his vision blurred slightly as grief nearly overwhelmed him, grief for his own slain child and for this new cruel death. Grief for Indoran had led him here, desperate to prevent another such tragedy.

*I failed. Forgive me, Thranduil.* The King of Eryn Lasgalen did not seem to notice Celeborn leaving. Celeborn suspected Thranduil did not notice anything other than his child lying cold upon that stone. *I know that it is so. I know far too well.* He looked again at Legolas from the doorway. *Fare ye well, son of Thranduil, Legolas of the Fellowship. May you find welcome in the Halls of Mandos. You at least may now know peace.* He forced himself to turn away, trying to think of something practical to do as he walked, slowly and rather aimlessly, back toward the Halls of the Kings.

Haldir and Rumil were waiting there for news. He would tell them. He had to tell them, though a part of him wondered how many more horrified faces slowly turning to crushing grief and tears he could witness before losing his sanity. But he would deliver the news to them as he should, and tomorrow he would send for Galadriel. Yes, that was something he should do. It would be proper for her to be here during the mourning that was to commence for the prince of Lasgalen and Ithilien, the second fallen member of the Fellowship. Besides which, Celeborn had not realized until now how badly he desired her beside him. It would make the pain of what had happened, and what was to come, far easier to bear.

***

There was no one left in the House of Kings but Aragorn, Arwen, and King Thranduil. Not a one of them spoke. Aragorn could not seem to shake the sense of utter disbelief that had covered his mind in a thick shroud of fog. He stared at Legolas, stared hard until his eyes ached, but the elf did not awaken. How could this be?! Legolas was IMMORTAL, by the Valar! Aragorn was not supposed to have to mourn him! Of all those he held dear to his heart, the one he never feared losing was Legolas. The constant one was Legolas, the one member of the Fellowship he had known the longest, and expected to live the longest after Aragorn was gone, the one who would keep the memory of the War of the Ring and the suffering and sacrifices of them all alive.

*Legolas! Legolas!*

The elf did not stir, did not open his eyes and scowl at Aragorn as if daring the King to comment on any perceived weakness. Legolas was not often injured, and even when he was, he tended to be downright cranky about any attempts by Aragorn or others to tend to him. Why did he not now sit up and grumble at them all that he was fine and to stop fussing over him?

*Legolas! Legolas!*

The elf always lay so still, it took a trained eye on normal circumstances to see the rise and fall of his chest, and see the barely-perceptible movements while he slept. Aragorn was usually one of the few who could discern the faint motions of Legolas asleep, and even tell the mood of his elven dreams, but…perhaps he was deeply unconscious from Disaran’s weapon, so much that it was impossible to feel his heartbeat and his breath, perhaps he might yet recover…

*LEGOLAS! By the Valar, LOOK AT ME!! You cannot leave me this way! Legolas, WAKE UP!*

Aragorn had not realized that his heart had begun to pound as a terrible urge came over him to rush forward and shake the motionless elf violently until Legolas awoke and told Aragorn to leave off. Suddenly, something else shook Aragorn, and the soft sound of a stifled sob reached his ears. He had not realized he had his arms around Arwen, who was leaning more heavily against him than before. At last, he tore his eyes from the body of the elf in front of him, and looked at his queen.

Arwen had begun trembling; her grief was overwhelming her. She was still an elf in that respect. Aragorn had to see to her. Blinking as though coming out of a trance, he took in his surroundings more clearly. Everyone else had gone, though the King of Gondor did not remember them leaving. He scarcely remembered how they had gotten here. Across from him, on the other side of the table bearing Legolas’s body, stood King Thranduil, motionless and still staring at his son.

*I should leave him alone. He will wish to be with Legolas in private. I must take Arwen home.* Aragorn shook his head to himself, and gazed at his friend once more. *I shall return soon, Legolas. Gandalf will be here as well, and we shall find a way to restore you. I will not leave you like this.*

For the first time, Thranduil actually looked at Aragorn as the King of Gondor took a quiet step forward, gently covering Legolas’s hand with his own for a brief second. Then Aragorn put his arm around Arwen and guided her from the House of Kings, leaving the elven king of Eryn Lasgalen alone.

***

Frodo and Sam waited in the room where Arwen had left them for what felt like hours. They had been forced to calm a nearly-hysterical pair of elven twins when Elladan and Elrohir discovered that their sister had raced out into the streets to find out what had happened. Only after hearing that Eowyn, Merry and Pippin, and six guards had accompanied her did they cease their attempts to charge out after her. After all, Sam had told them, it would not do to have every elf in Gondor running about when there was a madman on the loose.

So the four had remained together, tense and anxious, awaiting news. And they got it much sooner than any of them would have liked.

The sound of an outer door opening, and the blast of rain and wind down the hall, brought all of them to their feet, and moments later, Merry and Pippin came through the door, joined by King Eomer and the Lady Eowyn. Arwen was nowhere in sight.

Elladan and Elrohir chorused, “Where is my--” before getting a close enough look at the faces of the four new arrivals. They broke off their demands.

Frodo’s heart went to his throat. “What’s happened?” whispered Sam, putting a fearful hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

The stain of many hard-shed tears on the faces of all brought renewed terror to the two hobbits and elves. Frodo voiced the question that was foremost on every mind. “Who’s dead?” he asked softly, knowing that was the only explanation.

Eomer tried to speak, but his voice failed him before he could get a word out, and Eowyn covered her mouth to avoid a new flood of sobs. Choking back a fearful cry of his own, Elladan crossed the floor to Eomer and gripped his shoulders. “Is my sister safe?” he asked desperately, tears already springing into his eyes.

Eomer nodded. “It’s the King then,” gasped Sam. But then Merry shook his head, and Pippin began to sob again.

They all seemed so confused, thought Frodo, as if they themselves couldn’t quite believe it. But if not Arwen or Aragorn, then who? Merry and Pippin, Eowyn and Eomer would not cry so unless it was someone they all knew and loved. Faramir? No, Eowyn would not be here at all if he had fallen. And the man whom Lord Celeborn and King Thranduil had been so afraid of before was hunting elves--

Elves.

For a moment, Frodo was certain his heart had stopped altogether. It must have showed, for Sam turned anxiously to him, “Mr. Frodo?”

Gimli was not here. Nor was Aragorn, nor any of the other elves who had been abroad this night. Frodo’s throat closed with fear, and now a surge of despair as he met Eowyn’s tear-filled eyes. “Legolas,“ he whispered. “It’s Legolas, isn’t it?”

Sam, Elladan, and Elrohir looked at Frodo in surprise then; obviously, the idea seemed absurd to them, after all, Legolas was--then they looked back at the others. Merry squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands, and Eomer nearly had to grab his sister to stop her from falling to her knees as she too crumbled with tears. None of them seemed able to bring their grief under control, but then Pippin suddenly looked up, his red eyes meeting Frodo’s…and slowly nodded.

“What?!” cried Sam, his hands coming halfway to his face but stopping, clenching repeatedly to fists in disbelief. “But…but…that’s impossible! Mr. Legolas…I mean…he…he can’t…he just CAN’T!”

“Eomer?” whispered Elrohir, tears in his voice. The King of the Mark, his arms around his sobbing sister, looked up at the elf and nodded also. Elrohir swallowed hard. “The Hunter?”

This time, it was Eowyn who nodded. “Oh no, no,” murmured Sam.

The sons of Elrond stepped back then. Elladan was still staring at nothing in disbelief, and Elrohir bowed his head, bringing his hands to his face. His shoulders began quaking in silent, deep sobs. Frodo felt as if some deep, hidden pool of water inside had suddenly begun to boil and rise up within him, hot and powerful in its pain. *Legolas! How?* He felt Sam’s hands on his shoulders, guiding him to sink into a chair, and his head sank against his hand, too heavy to be upright on its own. *Legolas!*

Sam was crying openly now, sitting in the nearest chair. “Oh, Mr. Frodo, I just don’t know how to make sense of it! How could Legolas of all people fall? Now, after the war! It doesn’t make any ruddy sense!”

Eowyn and Eomer had gone, but Merry and Pippin were still there. “It w-was that c-cursed Hunter, all right,” said Pippin, choking through his sobs. “I saw him, s-standing there, laughing at us all, and Legolas too! S-Strider was holding him, but it was too late!” The youngest of the hobbits could barely speak for weeping. “It’s not right! The way he looked; he must have been s-so afraid when he…I h-haven’t seen anything so awful since Bor--” he buried his face in his hands again. “It wasn’t right! Dying that way…”

Hiccupping on his own sobs, Sam whispered, “Poor Legolas. The next… I never imagined it would be him.”

“None of us did,” murmured Frodo, not noticing the tears sliding freely down his own face. He could not see his friends anymore, only Legolas. The strange elf clad in green and brown at Elrond’s council, the sound of his sweet voice raised in song around campfires and in the halls of Minas Tirith, the brightness of his grey eyes, both old and young, both wise and mischievous, both gentle and hard. The clear, ringing sound of his laughter, almost like the wind in the branches of the forests, or the song of a bird in the trees, whenever Legolas had been sparring with Aragorn--*funny, he laughed whether he won or lost*, thought the hobbit--or verbally sparring with Gimli--oh! A low moan of renewed anguish and horror rose from Frodo, and the others looked worriedly at him. Choking back harder sobs than ever as the full weight of the elf’s loss and what if would mean to every single one of them, sank in. Looking tearfully at the others, Frodo cried out, “Gimli! Poor Gimli…”

***

Gimli watched, his arms folded tightly, as the White Company guards none-too-gently threw Disaran into a cell and slammed the metal bars shut behind him. The man, sprawled upon the dirty straw on the floor, looked up at them. He was no longer laughing at them (probably still catching his breath from their lack of gentle handling, but Gimli cared not.) Faramir had carefully donned gloves and transferred the black stone to a pouch. “I will take it to King Elessar,” he said roughly. “If there is anything to be learnt from it, he or Mithrandir or perhaps one of the elven lords may know.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes; they were very red and tired, but the Prince of Ithilien had kept himself under control. He looked wearily at Gimli, “They will have taken him to the House of Kings. Aragorn said from the beginning that he wanted that much for every member of the Fellowship. You should not linger here, Gimli. Go to them.”

Gimli sighed himself, and nodded. It was growing hard to keep his mind occupied with the matter of Disaran. Soon it would be forced to turn to the reason Disaran was here…narrowing his eyes once more at the Black Hunter, Gimli growled, “Pray tonight, villain! Pray that someone here in this city learns a way to reverse what you have done to Legolas. Or by Aule’s rule, you shall scream for death and curse your greed for immortality before I am done with you!” With that, he turned and marched out. Faramir moved more slowly, and made no effort to keep up.

The rain was coming down in sheets as Gimli trudged his way past the Halls of the Kings toward the Silent Street. Few people lingered out of doors now; it was simply too wet. Nonetheless, Gimli felt irrational anger at this: did not they realize that a member of the Fellowship had just been murdered?! Did not they care about the heroism of the elf on their behalf, when scarcely a one of other members of his race had joined in the War of the Ring?

*Many nights of rain, wind, and worse, Legolas kept watch for you!* Gimli’s mind railed at the ungrateful Gondorrim. *Why now do you not do the same for him?*

He was drawing nigh upon the House of Kings when he suddenly stopped. What would he see when he went in there? His mind was both slowing down from the adrenaline rush of manhandling the villain into prison, and speeding up with the utter horror of what had happened here tonight.

*Legolas. Legolas! LEGOLAS!!!* The elf’s name was like a growing scream in Gimli’s mind, echoing round and round, louder and louder, until the dwarf wanted to clap his hands over the sides of his head and howl to the heavens. Pain, pain like he had never felt before ripped through him, but he found he could not cry out. *Oh Legolas, it hurts! You must live! I cannot exist in the face of such pain! I cannot endure it!*

In his mind’s ears, the elf’s name crescendoed mercilessly, and in his mind’s eye, the elf’s face swam, laughing, irritated, forlorn, thoughtful, all those odd, controlled yet so revealing elvish expressions that Gimli had learned to read so well. Every aspect of the elf’s personality bombarded Gimli’s memory, tormenting him with each detail, so vivid, so…alive! That overly embellished turn of phrase, his frustratingly vague explanations, and infuriating elvish smugness--*Legolas! Legolas!*

A sound drifting through the wind and rain brought Gimli’s mental hysterics to an abrupt halt, and almost his heart as well. From within the House of Kings came a single voice raised in a low, mournful song. For a moment, Gimli was certain it was Legolas he heard. And that voice was his, and yet…not. It was of a slightly deeper timbre, and terribly beautiful, yet filled with a grief that Gimli could not even imagine in Legolas’s voice. He listened, feeling his insides twist and his body shake. His elvish was still less than perfect (considerably less, according to Legolas) but Gimli could make out some of the words. The song was an elvish lament.

Slipping automatically into light, cautious steps so that he walked in a stealthy fashion taught to him by Legolas (*“It is no good sneaking up on orcs if they hear you stomping from a mile away, Master Dwarf!”*), Gimli cautiously approached the door of the House of Kings.

The elf whose voice was singing could not possibly have heard Gimli breathing this time, for the minute the dwarf’s eyes peered through the threshold, his breath stopped.

The form lying upon a gray cloak atop the sepulcher seemed unreal as could be. How could it be real? This was not to be! He was not meant to be dead, to lie here still and silent while all who loved him wept and sang laments. He was meant to be alive, to laugh and to sing and to walk beneath the trees and to fight and to run and to ride and one day to sail away over the sea to the Undying Lands and live eternally in bliss and peace carrying with him the memories and hopes of all his friends--NOT DEAD!

*Legolas!*

But upon the soft elven cloak covering the cold stone, the pale figure lying in state did not stir amid the anguished mental cries of his friend. Legolas looked cold even from this distance, and starkly pale. The soft flush of light and laughter that always seemed to color his cheeks was gone. The brilliance of his grey eyes was cut off from the world beneath a curtain of dark lashes. Though Gimli desperately willed them open, not once did they flutter. So still…it was not right that any elf should be so still, so devoid of life. Elves WERE life! The Eldar race might be fading, but to look at a single elf, especially Legolas, one might not know it. The air seemed to sparkle around them as if the world recognized a true friend in each of them. They were a part of the earth, the sky, the stars. Eternally alive. Not dead.

Gimli’s body had had enough of holding its breath, and the dwarf gasped involuntarily. Immediately, the song ceased and the singer looked up at the intruder. Their eyes met, and Gimli stared at Thranduil, Legolas’s father. The elven king of Mirkwood gazed back at him, a strange dullness in his own eyes. Had Gimli had a chance to look closely at Thranduil before his son’s life was stolen, he might have noted a similarity between the eyes of Legolas and his father. But even at the worst of times during the War of the Ring and its bitter aftermath, when Gimli accompanied the elf home to find much of Mirkwood devastated by battle and fire, Legolas’s eyes had never seemed so haunted by death.

Yet in the eyes of this elven king, Gimli could see nothing but death. The dwarf did not speak. Neither did the elder elf. The body of Legolas lay between them as their eyes remained locked, each one waiting. What sort of an exchange would follow, neither could be sure, but one thing both of them knew: there was much to be said.

***

Eowyn had declined her brother’s offer to remain with her until her husband returned. Though Eomer, still accustomed to the self-appointed responsibilities of elder brotherhood, had attempted to hover over her longer, she had at last dismissed him rather irately. Then she sat, very still and quiet, in a chair in her chamber, waiting for Faramir.

She felt she had no tears left to cry, yet the anguish still churned and welled up within her, until she wanted to fling herself against the window and scream hysterically into the night. How could this have happened?

Legolas and Faramir had worked so hard, and so closely in Ithilien, that Eowyn saw him almost every week. She had liked the elven prince almost from the moment she met him, since unlike the men she knew, who viewed her taste in warfare with first surprise then some measure of disapproval, Legolas had accepted her immediately and matter-of-factly for what she was. She herself had been surprised, until some of the elf’s kindred rode to join him in Ithilien, and she discovered that the warrior’s craft was permitted and lauded among elven women. How she had envied them, and it may well have been their proximity to the elven colony and its warrior and warrioress guards that had made it so easy for her to keep up her own skill at arms in Emyn Arnen.

Eowyn’s husband had found a true friend in Legolas, and the two often rode together abroad in Ithilien, leading elven and Gondorrim scouts. On other occasions they spent hours spreading maps of the lands and drawings of planned buildings over tabletops and muttering amongst themselves and their captains with the occasional burst of laughter in that irritatingly “male” way. Ithilien had swiftly become a joint venture of Gondor and the Eldar, and it seemed impossible to imagine it without Legolas.

*Legolas!* The elf’s friendly smile, his cordial bow, his respectful and appreciative grey eyes watching her spar tormented Eowyn, and she looked down to discover that her hands were clenched so tight that the nails were biting into her skin. How could this have happened? Faramir had not even had a chance to tell her why the elven lords had arrived before the hue and cry erupted in the city, and then…then…Legolas was dead! How? How? How could the same elf who regularly thrashed Faramir in sparring matches be so swiftly cut down by a marauder in the street? Who was that man who had slain him? Did he know who it was he had robbed from the world? Had he singled out Legolas for some as-yet-unrevealed reason?

*Why? WHY?!*

Just as Eowyn was on the brink of collapsing in another fit of hysteria, the door opened. She leapt to her feet. It was Faramir.

Her husband trudged into their chamber, drenched from head to toe, his hair straggling and dripping, his boots tracking mud in a fashion that Eowyn would normally scold him furiously for. But not tonight. His eyes were downcast, and wind, rain, and grief had scoured all color from his face. He had not wept before in the alley, and seemed still silent in his grief even as Eowyn rose to greet him, her hands tightly knotted.

He suddenly looked up, and their eyes met. Faramir stared at Eowyn, and she saw him waver. The façade of composure upon his face slowly crumpled into an anguish as deep as she had ever seen. She had not known him when his brother fell, but something told Eowyn that the younger son of Denethor must have looked then just as he looked now. Tears leaked from his eyelids, squeezed tightly shut, and with a great, shuddering sob, he sank to his knees.

Eowyn knelt with him, wrapping him in her arms, and his face was soon buried into her shoulder as he wept deep and hard. She wept as well into his soaked hair, feeling him shiver with cold and anguish. “Oh, why?” Faramir sobbed, not raising his face from her arms. “I can-not understand! Why? Of all people--Legolas--how could he? The least deserving of such a cruel, lonely fate!”

Sobs burst anew from Eowyn, as they sat together upon the floor of their room with the rain pounding against the window, water from Faramir’s garments soaking into her own. “I shall miss him so,” she wept. “Ithilien will not be the same without him.” Long they cried, helpless to stem the dreadful tide of grief and shock, until at last their strength was gone and they clung to each other simply to stay upright. “Oh Faramir,” she whispered. “What happens now?”

Catching his breath, gazing at her through the tears in his eyes, Faramir replied softly, “I do not know.”

*****
To Be Continued…
*****

Special Thanks: To everyone on various LOTR Yahoo Groups who answered my questions about elves and death, and gave me info about the Halls of Mandos.

Credit Where Credit Is Due: In the previous chapter, Aragorn is upset about leaving Legolas in the House of Kings because elves hate stone. This idea properly deserves to be credited to Jay of Lasgalen, whose story “To the Ends of Middle Earth” is a masterpiece in its own right, and influenced a lot of my thinking while writing this fic. I don’t want to plagiarize, but I happen to agree with Jay’s interpretation of Legolas’s friends might feel about putting the elf in a tomb, so…here it is! Jay thought of it first! :-)

REVISION NOTES: There is a new flashback section in this chapter as well as changes here and there in the old part. Hope you like.

Chapter Three: Denial

Númenor, the year 3319 of the Second Age…

Nine ships there were: four for Elendil, and for Isildur three, for Anárion two, that east away from Númenor even as the great fleets of Ar-Pharazôn departed. For, besotted by Sauron, the King of Númenor had resolved to assail the Valar themselves. Even after the black Stone of Sauron had been bestowed upon him, Ar-Pharazôn had not been satisfied. For it was soon revealed that while the Stone did indeed draw the life force of its victims into the one who wielded, true immortality could not be achieved through its use. Only by wielding the Stone over and over again could the bearer hope to stave off the ailments of age, and while Ar-Pharazôn did use and revel in it, he desired the ultimate conquest: true immortality without the need for such arts.

The Eldar no longer dared to visit Númenor, even for the sake of the Faithful who lived in fear for their lives, for stories had reached them of elves taken by the soldiers of Ar-Pharazôn, never to return. Thus it was from among the Faithful that the Black Númenóreans chose their victims to extend the life of their King. The life force of a Númenórean did not grant as much strength to Ar-Pharazôn as the elves’ had, but this only led him to seize more men for sacrifice, sucking their lives away with his black stone and then flinging their corpses onto the fire of the altar of Melkor.

And so, in fear of the servants of Melkor and the coming vengeance of the Valar, the Faithful, led by Elendil and his sons, Isildur and Anárion, had prepared their ships off the east coast of Númenor, putting board their wives and their children, and their heirlooms, and a great store of goods. And also aboard went their followers, all who still pledged fealty to Iluvatar and the Valar. But among them went one whose fealty reached no closer to his soul than the tip of his tongue, from which he spilled sweet words of loyalty and assurance to Elendil and his sons. Among them his place was high, though he spilled the same sweet words to Ar-Pharazôn, out of fear that the King of Númenor had chosen a doomed quest against the Valar, and out of desire that he might cast his lot with whichever side emerged victorious.

But though he feared the wrath of the Valar, the former councilor of Ar-Pharazôn still coveted the elusive gift of immortality. Thus, he pledged denied disloyalty to both the King and the Faithful, but spoke truth to neither, and yet was counted among the most prized followers of each. While Ar-Pharazôn was assembling his great armament in preparation for the assault upon Valinor, traitor slipped among the servants and the guards freely, through the stores of weapons and goods, until he reached the chamber of Ar-Pharazôn himself. And while the King of Númenor slept, the traitor slipped a hand the pouch where Ar-Pharazôn kept his most prized possessions, and drew out the Black Stone of Sauron. Ar-Pharazôn always kept it so close with such assurance that in the flurry of preparation he did not even notice its absence, for he was convinced that true immortality was no farther away than the time it would take his fleet to cross the sea to Valinor.

So it came to pass that when the ships of the Faithful fled Númenor in the hour of its doom, the traitor was aboard them, carrying with him the Black Stone of Ar-Pharazôn, the scourge of elves and elf-friends, to be wielded in Middle-Earth even after he that had forged it was destroyed in the wrath of the Valar, whom he had defied.

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

The morning after…

For a few moments at least, the next day began like any other. Or perhaps a little bit worse. Arwen awoke with the dawn as always, only to find herself nursing a colossal headache. Then, before she could wonder about this mortal ailment she was unused to, she was startled to discover the absence of the warm body of her husband beside her. Shaking the sleepy, slightly sore fog from her mind, she looked around to find Aragorn standing by the window, gazing at the lightening sky.

And then she remembered.

*Oh Legolas!*

Aragorn turned from the window as Arwen’s breath caught, and her hands rose to her mouth in a vain effort to choke back convulsive sobs. The sight of his eyes made her need to weep even greater, for they were as empty and dead as they had been last night. There was worry in them that seemed to be directed toward Arwen, but other than that…there was no hope in his gaze.

The grief Arwen felt was already threatening to overwhelm her, and seeing Aragorn like this made it even worse. What would happen today, with Legolas murdered, and Estel in such a state? What would they do about the Hunter, and Legolas’s father, and…Arwen’s heart began to pound and she felt sick and panicky. Aragorn came quietly to her side and put his arms around her, bringing her head to his chest as she trembled and cried. He did not say a word, merely held her, but she could stand it no more.

“What happens now?” she whispered.

Squeezing her slightly, Aragorn murmured, “I sent for Gandalf from Ithilien last night. When he arrives…he will know what to do. We still have that stone. Surely Gandalf can find a way…” he trailed off.

Arwen jerked her head up and looked at him. For the first time since she had found him in the alley holding Legolas, there was a ghost of hope in his eyes. Did he think Legolas might somehow be restored? The idea sent her heart thudding with wild anticipation and hope. Of course! Mithrandir would be able to do something! Why had she not thought of it before? Legolas was not meant to perish with the life drained out of him by some villainous leech! Surely he could still be saved, if they could but find a way to reverse the effect of the Black Hunter’s infamous weapon. If Aragorn had captured it intact, and her grandfather looked at it, and Mithrandir too, why, surely they could return Legolas’s life to him!

***

Late that day…

Gandalf had driven Shadowfax to his absolute limit in the ride from eastern Ithilien back to Minas Tirith. None of the guards who had been sent to deliver him the news of the attack by the Black Hunter had been able to keep up, but the Istar dared not wait for them. All the while, as he rode, he beseeched the Valar, *Do not let the Abomination claim another innocent life. Not the life of one of the Fellowship!*

But in his heart, he feared the worst, for the soldiers had been greatly distressed when they arrived, telling the Maia that Legolas had been gravely injured. Disaran’s path of destruction had already made itself known in Lothlórien and in Imladris by the time the Istari had first arrived in Middle Earth, and in all that time, Gandalf had never heard of an elf surviving the Black Hunter’s attack.

*Yet Legolas is young and strong, and far from ordinary even by elven standards. Perhaps I may yet find him well, or at least alive and within the reach of my aid.*

Anxiety throbbed within him as the walls of Minas Tirith came into view. No black flag of mourning had replaced the banners and standards of the Elfstone and the Evenstar. *Valar! It is so! Legolas lives!* Gandalf praised, bidding Shadowfax ride harder still, and, though weary, the faithful steed obeyed.

The gates swung swiftly open for the wizard, and Gandalf wasted no time racing in and dismounting his horse. It was then that he got the first close glance at the faces of the guards. *Oh no…* “What of Prince Legolas?”

“My lord,” the senior guard bowed to him, and Gandalf’s heart cried in horror at the grief in the man’s face. “He lies in the House of Kings. Lord Elessar begs you come there at once.”

For a few moments, Gandalf found he could not move. He could scarcely breathe. Legolas? Could it be? Of all people, could the young elven lord of Ithilien be the second member of the Fellowship to fall? It did not seem possible. Finding his voice, the Maia asked softly, “Why has the White City not been set to mourning?” He looked at the banners.

Knotting his hands nervously, another guard replied, “It is said the King awaits your counsel, lord. He hopes…you may yet find a way…” the desperate hope in the man’s voice tore at Gandalf.

“I see.” *Would that it could be so. But if Disaran the Slaughterer has used his evil device on Legolas, I fear he is beyond my aid.* Nonetheless, Gandalf took a deep breath. “Then let me to him.”

Gandalf had no sooner reached the Halls of the Kings than Aragorn, followed closely by Arwen, Eomer, Eowyn, Faramir, five elven lords, and all four hobbits came racing down the steps. “Thank the Valar,” the King of Gondor said hoarsely. “I’ve been waiting all night for you to get here. You must not be too late.” Gandalf fought back a surge of despair at the way Aragorn’s weary, anguished eyes seemed to latch onto him, like a drowning man’s eyes might stare at a floating driftwood. The King’s eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, pain, and fear. He had known Legolas for such a long time, and loved the elf as a brother. If Legolas was indeed lost, the toll upon Aragorn would be terrible.

*And not only Aragorn,* the Maia’s despair grew at the pleading, hopeful gazes that fell upon him, from all the legendary heroes of the War of the Ring, begging him with their eyes to save one of their own. And if he could not? What then?

Aloud, Gandalf asked, “Where is he?”

“The House of Kings. This way,” Aragorn’s instincts had taken over and he swiftly led them to the Silent Street.

Lord Celeborn predictably fell into step beside Gandalf. The Maia met the Lord of Lothlórien’s gaze and saw grief and understanding there. “It was in fact the Hunter?” asked Gandalf quietly.

“It was. I came with Haldir, Rúmil, and Thranduil, but Disaran had already chosen his target, and struck even as we were raising the cry. I have seen Legolas,” Celeborn looked down at the paving stones.

*He knows. He knows there is naught that I can do. A Elbereth! What a dreadful and undeserving fate for that poor elf!* Gandalf found himself blinking rapidly as the House of Kings loomed before him, soon to be filled with the shattered hopes of all those the wizard held dear. *Including my own hopes,* thought Gandalf as he strode through the threshold. *Oh…*

A pale, motionless body lay upon a gray cloak of Imladris on the marble table in the very center of the main chamber. No breath moved his chest, no pulse throbbed in his veins. Gandalf’s throat tightened unbearably. It was true. A part of him had prayed that it was all some dreadful mistake, that it was not true. But now bitter reality stared him in the face, and shattered all hope at his feet.

Legolas was dead.

He was too late.

***

There were two other persons already in the House of Kings when the King of Gondor hastily led Gandalf in. Not a word had passed between them all night long, only the occasional glance brought their eyes to meet briefly now and then, before one or the other returned his gaze to the one person in Middle Earth that each loved beyond all others. To one, a treasured child. To the other, his dearest friend in all the world.

Gimli saw the King of Mirkwood’s eyes widen just as footsteps came hurriedly into the chamber, and turned around, freezing at the sight of Gandalf. The wizard also froze in the threshold, staring past Gimli. The dwarf had no trouble knowing what caused Gandalf’s eyes first to widen in shock and horror, then darken into pain.

Gandalf slowly moved up next to Gimli and sighed, resting a light hand on the pale, cold hand of the elf. Silence hung heavy in the air.

“Gandalf?” Aragorn’s voice was soft, urgent. Desperate. “Can you help him?”

The wizard’s large, calloused hand closed briefly over the elf’s long, smooth one. He closed his eyes while the others looked on anxiously. His shoulders slumped. “Gandalf?” whispered one of the hobbits.

Slowly, Gandalf gave Legolas’s hand a small squeeze, and then he turned back to them. There were tears in his eyes, and in his voice. “I am sorry, Aragorn. I am so sorry. Legolas deserved better than this.”

“What?!” the king of Gondor stared, his eyes taking on a look of disbelief. “But…there must be…SOMETHING that you can do! We cannot simply leave him this way.”

Gimli could barely hear for the roaring in his ears as all hope was torn asunder in a tempest of grief. *Legolas! Legolas!* His voice very soft, the wizard said, “He is gone, my friend. There is nothing we can do.”

“No!” Aragorn cried, his numbness torn away by desperation. “It cannot be! Not like this! By the Valar, Gandalf, you must try!” He passed the wizard to stare down at the elf’s body for a moment, biting his lip in anguish. “The stone. Faramir! Where is the stone? Show it to them! Perhaps…”

Faramir fumbled for the pouch at his waist and handed it hastily to Gandalf, who sighed and took it. “Careful,” cautioned the Steward, tears in his eyes.

Gimli felt his heart clench with rage at the sight of the smooth, shiny black stone that Gandalf pulled out. How could such an innocuous-looking rock suck the life out of an elf? Gandalf eyed it for several moments, turning it over a few times. At this moment, Lord Celeborn and the two elven guards he had brought with them, Haldir and Rúmil, came to join the wizard, followed by Thranduil, who still had not uttered a word.

“So it is as you thought, Celeborn,” murmured Gandalf.

“This…thing…is a weapon of Númenor?” Celeborn asked, staring at it.

Gandalf nodded, holding it up to the light. “When it is used, you said…it glows?”

“Yes, as though orange flames were within it.”

“I imagine, if we were to see it thus, we might find words in the flame, just as the inscription upon the One Ring. This was one of many things that Sauron taught the corrupted Númenóreans to create, for he feared the Eldar. When he seduced Ar-Pharazôn, he played upon the envy of men for the elves’ immortality, and this he gave them. To steal what the Valar had decreed would never be rightfully theirs.”

“How?” asked Haldir.

“I know not and would not risk trying to use it to find out.”

“And what does that mean,” demanded Aragorn, his eyes bright with emotion. “That you fear that thing so that you would condemn Legolas to this state forever? We must try! We cannot simply leave him this way--”

“Aragorn!” Gandalf grabbed the distraught king by the shoulders. “Come to your senses, man! This is not some state of eternal suffering or sleep! Legolas is dead! Dead.” He squeezed Aragorn’s arms. “I know your grief, and I share it. I have known Legolas longer than you or many of your fathers drew breath. But it is no use. That stone is no use. Long I labored over the bodies of Disaran’s past victims, I and many of the greatest elven healers in Middle Earth. Believe me, were there a way to reverse this atrocity, we would have found it. His life is taken, Aragorn. There is no undoing it.”

Sounds of muffled weeping reached Gimli’s ears, and he looked past the wizard and the king. Frodo had his hands over his face, trying to stifle his sobs, and Sam was rubbing his shoulders, his eyes red and his face wet with tears. Tears streaked the faces of them all, including, Gimli suddenly realized, himself. *Legolas is lost. What do we do now?*

Gandalf was speaking again. Aragorn still seemed unable to comprehend it. “Gondor must be set into mourning, Elessar. Your people will be looking to you to lead them through this tragedy. For their sake, you must not give into despair. Legolas would never allow that.”

“Gandalf…he cannot be…”

“He is, Aragorn. It grieves me more than I can say, that such a cruel and unexpected thing could happen, but it has. Legolas is gone. You must look to those who remain now.”

Watching the exchange through brimming eyes, Gimli had never seen Aragorn so reduced. The man’s head was bowed, eyes closed and shoulders slumped as though anguish had crushed all hope from him. Gandalf kept the grip on his arms, trying to pull him back from the depths of despair, until at last, Aragorn sighed and gave a little shake of his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were clearer, if still disconsolate. Gandalf squeezed his shoulders once more and released him. “Come. Your people are waiting to hear from you.”

Putting an arm around the grief-stricken king, Gandalf led him from the building. Gimli followed with the rest of Legolas’s friends, and found that as the wizard had said, a large crowd had gathered at the entrance to the Silent Street, waiting for news. Faramir (wiping his eyes repeatedly) muttered to one of the guards before taking his place beside the equally red-eyed Eomer behind King Elessar. The crowd parted before them.

The walk back to the Halls of the Kings seemed to last forever. Then again, everything seemed to last forever, Gimli noticed. Every breath was cruel, without Legolas. *Is this how life shall be from now on?* the dwarf wondered in despair. *Shall I live only aching for what I have lost? Is there no joy left in the world for those who face the passing of an elf? This elf?*

Silence greeted them from the throngs of Gondorrim. Gimli wondered at this, for he had not heard the heralds calling out the people. But a crowd awaited them at the steps of the Halls of the Kings. Aragorn slowly mounted up and stood before them. Gimli gazed down at the King’s subjects. Black was stark in their raiment; the women wore veils, and the men wore dark cloaks. Even the children hung their heads. The silence echoed.

*Legolas! Legolas!*

Aragorn spoke. “A great tragedy has struck the realms of elves and men. My heart is heavy with grief to speak these grievous tidings. Legolas, the son of Thranduil and prince of Eryn Lasgalen, a member of the Fellowship of the Ring, has fallen.” The sounds of soft weeping could be heard. Many cast their hoods over their faces. It was true. “He was…an honored and beloved friend of Gondor. All our lands shall be set into mourning. Legolas…was counted among the great heroes of the War of the Ring and among…the dearest friends of your King. For one year, the Reunified Lands shall mourn.”

There were intakes of breath at this. Such a period of grief was traditionally only reserved for the Kings of Gondor themselves. Aragorn turned then, his eyes and the eyes of all focusing upon the White Tower of Echthelion. The King nodded to Faramir, who raised his sword to the tower guards. The silver trumpets took up a deep, aching dirge as the standard of Elessar was lowered, and a black pennant raised. Gimli’s vision blurred at the sight of that flag catching the breeze, black as a starless night.

*No more stars, Legolas.*

***

About twenty-four hours earlier…

“Gimli,” Legolas could not feel Aragorn’s arms supporting him anymore. His body was so heavy…too heavy to breathe, his heart too heavy to beat. There was supposed to be peace in death, wasn’t there? It should not be this way, attacked alone in a dark alley, filled with terror as the life was sucked from him. And without his best friend at his side. *Gimli!* Where had Gimli gone? Had he not been behind Legolas? The dying elf could barely remember, only that he wanted the dwarf with him now. Desperately, he forced all his energy to draw breath into his aching lungs to whisper one final plea. “Gimli…”

Even as that desperate call echoed in his darkening mind, the last breath left him, and he had not the strength to draw another. A terrible blackness, darker than any unconsciousness he had ever faced, swept up and sucked him down, away from everything. Into the dark. The world went away. *Gimli…*

And suddenly there was light again. HE was light again! The world seemed rather hazy, slightly distant. By the Valar, Disaran must have almost killed him! He tried to rise, only to find that he could not seem to move his body. He looked down--somehow without moving--and made an even more shocking discovery: he did not HAVE a body!

*Then how can I see?* he wondered, and looked around, only to discover that it needed no movement. He needed only will to see around himself. *What did that monster do to me? Surely he did not…surely I am not…*

He seemed to be suspended above the ground, still in the alley outside the Houses of Healing. He looked around again--and had his heart been beating, it would have stopped.

His father was just beside him, standing stock-still, his eyes wide. Legolas did not think he had ever seen Thranduil looking so lost. The elven king’s breath was coming in short gasps; his hands hung loosely at his side, staring in disbelief and no small measure of horror past Legolas, at something on the ground before the Houses of Healing. Legolas looked without having to turn around.

His father was looking at Aragorn, who knelt in the street near the door of the Houses. The King of Gondor was trembling, his eyes listless, empty. And in his arms…

*It cannot be true. Can it?*

It was a strange sensation, to behold this. The limp, lifeless body Legolas saw, cradled protectively in his friend’s arms, was his own. His eyes were closed and his features slack, but in his own face Legolas could see an echo of the fear that had gripped him as his life drained away.

*A Elbereth. I have left my body. I am…dead.*

Aragorn suddenly looked up. Legolas looked back to see Gimli pushing through the guards who had gathered a short distance away. The dwarf shoved his way to the front of the group--and stopped dead in his tracks.

*Oh Gimli.* The dwarf took a few shaky steps forward, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Aragorn looked back at him, and never had Legolas seen such despair in his friend’s face. *Oh Aragorn. Ai, how could I have let myself fall this way, and inflict such sorrow on you. Forgive me!* He wished he could close his eyes as Gimli fell to his knees with a wild howl of grief that was strangely muted to the spirit’s perception.

Soon the streets were filled with guards and city dwellers roused by Gimli’s cry, but Legolas paid them little heed--even when they seemed to run right through him. He felt grief of his own as Faramir and Celeborn came running. *Lord Celeborn. I am so sorry. You tried, but I was a fool and did not take proper care. I hope you will not blame yourself.*

Guilt racked at him. The alley was now very crowded and bathed in the light of many torches. Yet in the center of a great ring of torchlight and chaos, there was an island, where Aragorn remained, unmoving, still cradling the elf’s body in his arms. He seemed unable to tear his eyes from the still face, even when the guards hesitantly called to him. Faramir watched the King for a few moments, then turned to the guards and took command of the ruckus. He gestured for the men to move, and Legolas felt a twinge of bitter satisfaction as the soldiers dragged Disaran into view, his hands tightly bound.

*At least that is something. I would that my friends had been spared this pain, but perhaps my life is a price worth paying for the Black Hunter’s capture.* He sighed mentally, watching as Faramir spoke to Aragorn, gesturing to Disaran, but received no answer, no reaction at all. *If only I could have given my life without causing them such grief.*

Ai, how he longed to shut it out. The men snapped to attention again, and he tried in vain not to see. He would have wept if he could at the sight of Arwen, rushing around the corner, led by Merry and Pippin, with the Lady Eowyn at her side. They all came to a stumbling halt in horror. Eowyn dropped her sword and raised trembling hands to her face as tears sprang into her eyes. Merry and Pippin stood motionless, with identical expressions of quiet anguish. Neither moved with the exception of Pippin quietly fumbling for Merry’s hand.

As for Arwen, she went to Aragorn, as Legolas had expected. *Surely she can help him. They still have each other. They must carry on.*

It gave Legolas some grim satisfaction to see Gimli pummel Disaran within an inch of his life when the man had the audacity to laugh at Arwen’s tears. He wished then that the sounds of the living were not so distant, for he would likely have enjoyed the creative curses the dwarf was undoubtedly spewing. At least his friend managed to wipe the smile from the murderer’s face before Faramir pulled him back.

*How very strange it feels, to see Disaran thus. He is not merely any murderer--he is MY murderer. He stole my life, so that my immortality would sustain him. Ai. Even without a body it is enough to nauseate me.*

At long last, Faramir came to the King and Queen’s side, obviously urging them to return to the Halls. But Aragorn clearly would not release the body to any other. After a few moments, Aragorn slowly nodded and rose, still holding the body tightly.

*Valar, that is my body. I truly am dead,* Legolas thought in wonder as he watched. As the soldiers, elves, and hobbits followed the King, Legolas felt a surge of panic. He had managed to distract himself from the fearful uncertainty of his own situation by watching his friends, but now he discovered that he could not follow them. He tried to will himself after them, terrified. *No! Aragorn! Do not leave me here! What will become of me?* Would he be simply suspended here for all time, in the place where he was murdered, watching the passage of people in the streets, unable to speak and unable to move? He knew much elven lore on the subject of death, but all of it seemed very distant now. It was as he had feared; there was no peace in death. Only loneliness and fear. Rain had begun to fall, very heavy, but he felt none of it, and that frightened him still more. *Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me--*

*Legolas.*

Had Legolas still possessed a body, he would have gasped and jumped. Someone had called to him! Someone…or someTHING…was there, close to him. He could see no living person in the street, but some new sense told him that a presence was very close by. *Who calls to me?*

*You are not alone, child.*

*What has happened?* he asked in a mere mental whisper, feeling very much like a frightened child in this strange, empty world of death.

*Your soul has left your body, son of Thranduil. Now it is called home.*

*Home…Mandos?*

*Yes, Legolas. Your time in Middle Earth is done. You must answer soon.*

*I…* his mind whirled. He did not feel that he should be dead. It seemed like a mistake, even though he was currently suspended midair without a body. He could not hear those still in the world of the living, but he could see them. His father, his friends. How could he abandon them in their grief? But then, he knew what became of the souls of elves who ignored the summons to the Halls of Mandos. It gave him chills--or at least it had when he was alive. Casting his new, strange senses wide, he sought the one who spoke to him. It was close, very close, and he was more frightened of it than comforted by it. *Who are you?*

*I am the one sent to bring you to the threshold of the Halls of Mandos.*

*I cannot move!* Panic was beginning to surge up again. *What will happen?*

*Do not fear, my child. You shall be welcomed, and peace awaits you. When you determine what direction you shall take, your soul shall be free to move again. But first you must choose.*

*Can I not tarry even a little while? I dread leaving my friends in such grief.*

*You can no longer reach them, Legolas. Your presence will bring them no comfort. And end to their sorrow must come from them, from each other. They shall heal with time, that I promise you. All grief heals with time. But you and they are no longer in the same world, child. You must let them go. And in time, they shall let you go, when they have overcome the pain of their own loss, and realized that you are free and safe. No fear shall touch you now, if you come.*

*Am I worthy of such a fate?*

He sensed rather than heard laughter. *There are few more worthy of peace. But I am not to speak of that, though I know it. Come, Legolas, there is little time left. A home awaits you in the Halls of Mandos, but if you forsake it, then your soul must be forever without shelter, and you shall wander.*

*The dwimmer-laik.* Legolas shivered mentally. He had heard many tales of the Houseless Ones, and they were sad at best, terrifying at worst. But what of his friends? He had thought to say goodbye to them. But if what this strange messenger said was true, they would not hear it. Remaining would bring him comfort, for a time, but none to them. *I stare eternity in the face. It is a strange feeling. I might find some solace while my friends live, but one day they shall all be gone: my kindred to Valinor and my mortal friends dead. Then I will be truly alone.* His soul ached with the sadness of either choice, but it had to be made. His spirit’s vision turned its gaze toward the Halls of the Kings, where he knew that those he loved were gathering and beginning the first long stages of mourning. Mourning for him. *They would wish for me to find peace. As I would wish it for them if any of them had met such a fate.* To his surprise, he noticed that the sky was beginning to lighten. *Already the dawn comes?*

*We are a world apart from theirs. Time here moves more slowly.*

Legolas sighed mentally. Then there was nothing left for him here. He could do those he loved no service by wandering Middle Earth for eternity. And they would not want it. After all, perhaps in time, he might yet be reunited with them. But for now…he turned his gaze again toward the Halls of the Kings, where he had feasted, drank, and laughed when them but a night before, and whispered in his heart the one word he had always thought he would be able to wait long before saying.

*Goodbye.*

*You will answer the summons, little one?* the messenger asked him.

*I will.*

A strange flood of warmth seemed to come from the other one, and he heard her say, *Look.*

He looked down and his heart cried with surprise. He had a body again--of sorts. He was still floating, but his spirit had form, a far less corporeal version of himself that glowed more brilliantly than any living elf. Then something puzzled him: how had he known that the messenger was female? He looked back at her, and joy flooded through him, for now she too had taken the form that she had been in life, and he recognized her. *Mother!*

Minuial, elven queen of Mirkwood, smiled at her son, looking just as she had when he last saw her as a child before her death. She held out her arms, and he glided almost effortlessly to her, the exhilaration of being able to move eclipsed by the joy of coming to her arms again. It was not as it had been in life, for there were no physical bodies to touch, but in a way, it was better, for the spirit seemed to feel much more deeply than the body ever could. *I am glad you chose to come, my little one, for I do not know if I could have borne it had you chosen to wander alone in Middle Earth forever.*

*As am I. Ai, I missed you.*

*Come now, my beloved child. Mandos awaits.*

The sun was already climbing to noon, and people were passing in the streets, but Legolas barely noticed them. His mother had come for him. This new world was no longer strange, lonely, and fearful, for he would be among those he loved here as well. He took his mother’s hand, and the two spirits turned from Middle Earth to pass out of the physical world entirely.

But now Legolas did not fear, for he understood at last what was happening. His soul was not alone.

He was going home.

*****
To be continued
*****

But this tale does not end here, so if you give up now, I promise you…you shall regret it! ;-)

WARNING: In this chapter a LOT of our heroes may seem VERY out of character, but consider, few things affect the mind, heart, and soul like the death of a loved one.

REVISION NOTES: New flashback in this chapter and also some major changes in the old section. I had a lot of trouble revising this chapter, so PLEASE let me know what you think!

Chapter Four: Bargaining

Very Early in the Third Age…

“My lords!” Haldir of Lórien sprinted through the golden leaves, knocking branches free in his frantic haste. Celeborn and Amroth looked up from where they had been speaking with several captains. “We have found another!”

“Ai, Valar, no!” gasped Amroth, rushing after Haldir as the young guard beckoned desperately to them. “Who is it?”

“Macil, my lord! He is dead!” the anguished elf led the Lords of Lórien through a crowd of weeping, frightened elves, to where an elven woman knelt in the grass, clutching the limp body of a dark-haired elven youth.

“My son! Ah, my son! What wickedness is this!” wailed Fanya, the boy’s mother. Celeborn’s throat tightened until he could barely speak. Macil was Fanya’s only child, and her husband had fallen at the Battle of Dagorlad.

“I see no wound on him, my lord,” one of the healers whispered in an aside to Celeborn as Amroth went to comfort the grief-stricken lady. “It is the same as the other two.”

“Sweet Elbereth, what is happening here?” breathed Celeborn, feeling a horrid knot of terror inside. “It is the same as Rivendell nearly two centuries ago! Could this truly be some devilry of Sauron? What demon is this that murders our children without leaving so much as a mark?”

“I know not, my lord,” whispered the terrified healer. “But Macil is only the third. In Rivendell, the mysterious killer struck down nine elves before vanishing. Four of them were children!”

Amroth rose then, and Celeborn could see the dark gleam of fear and rage in his eyes. “Call out all the guards. The entire wood must be searched. Order all our people into their homes, and none must venture out alone, even armed. Sound the alarm at once, for we know not the nature of this foe!”

Celeborn ran with young Haldir and a group of guards through the trees, providing escorts for their people back to Caras Galadhon and Cerin Amroth. Celeborn gasped aloud in relief as his daughter rushed to his side from where she and several other maids had been at the river. “Celebrían! Thank the Valar, where is your brother?”

“He was carrying some linens back to the dwellings for us,” she said anxiously. “What has happened?”

“I cannot explain now. Go back home with the guards and stay there. A great evil is among us. I must find Indoran and your mother.”

“Yes, Father.”

After dispatching several guards to escort the maidens back to safety, Celeborn, Haldir, and Haldir’s two brothers hurried on. Celeborn was becoming frantic, for he still had not found his wife and son. “Galadriel!” he cried into the trees. “Galadriel!”

He received an answer, but not the one he had hoped for. The one he had been dreading. A cry of anguish and terror rang through the trees, nearly stopping the warriors in their tracks. Celeborn froze in panic, then raced ahead, nearly leaving Haldir and the others behind. The voice was his wife’s. “My lady! Where are you!” shouted Rúmil.

Tearing through the trees, the elves burst into a wide clearing to a site that stopped them again. The Lady Galadriel, her pale gown and golden hair in disarray from running, was rushing over the grass in terror, straight toward a large, dark-haired man who held her young son in a near choke-hold with what looked like a large black stone against the boy’s neck. Indoran did not struggle, and hung limp in the man’s arms.

The assailant seemed to be leering at Galadriel, but turned his head when Celeborn and the guards burst into view. Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin went for their bows, but the man did not allow himself to become a target.

“Not one move, elves!” he cried, pulling Indoran up in front of his own body. Celeborn’s heart raced. His son did not seem to see him. The man leered again at Galadriel. “One step closer and I’ll finish him.”

The man edged toward the trees, dragging Indoran with him. “Who are you?” cried Galadriel, her voice filled with terror. She seemed to have forgotten everything in fear for her child. “What have you done?”

The intruder gave a mocking half-bow to her. “I am Disaran, beautiful elven lady, and I have claimed what you and all your kin seem to think should belong to you alone. Why should the Eldar be the only ones to enjoy the fruits of immortality?” He jerked his head at the glowing stone still held against Indoran’s neck, now darkening to black.

“Release the child, intruder!” shouted Haldir, taking aim at the man’s head.

“As you wish,” with a mocking laugh, Disaran dropped the elven boy to the ground and dove into the cover of the bushes, vanishing into the trees.

“After that creature!” Celeborn shouted at them, and ran to his son.

Galadriel, her eyes wild with panic, reached Indoran first, pulling him desperately into her arms. “Indoran! My son, speak to me--” her hands fumbled at his throat for a pulse, at his mouth for a breath, and as Celeborn reached her side, she drew back, her hands shaking violently. In a high-pitched whisper, she gasped, “Indoran, no, no--” her weak pleas suddenly dissolved into an anguished wail as she crushed the dead child to her.

“My son,” whispered Celeborn, trying to steady his screaming, sobbing wife. “My son…”

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age, the second day of mourning…

There was a soft knock on the door. “Enter,” said Celeborn quietly, thinking it unlikely that anyone but an elf would be calling on him at this hour.

Haldir came in and paused after closing the door behind him, seeing Celeborn standing by the window of his chamber, gazing into the darkness. “My lord? Is all well?”

The Lord of Lothlórien did not look back at him. “There are no stars tonight.”

“Often the clouds hang low in the autumn,” said the elven guard, walking a few steps closer.

“For some they shall never be dispelled again.”

Awkwardly, Haldir said, “You must not despair, my lord.”

Celeborn smiled humorlessly, “You have never lost a child, Haldir. You may find despair the only path left to trod when you have seen too many youths cut down before your eyes no matter how you try to prevent it.”

“It is not your fault, my lord.”

Celeborn whirled, his eyes bright with pain, both fresh and remembered. “We should have remained together! Had we all gone with Legolas, the Abomination would not have been able to single him out and get him away from Thranduil. I knew what that creature was capable of, but I did not warn Legolas against leaving!” Haldir’s own eyes were brimming, for he too had known Legolas long, and Celeborn was finding it difficult to see clearly. Turning away, the elven lord murmured, “And now another must mourn his dead son. Another…ah, Indoran!” He closed his eyes, unable to fight the pain any longer, and wept softly into his hands. “My son. Thranduil’s son. Why do the Valar force us to bury our children?”

“My lord,” Haldir’s anxious voice broke through his tears. “You did all you could, for Legolas and for…Indoran. None could have done more.”

Celeborn closed his eyes, forcing himself back under control. After a moment, he turned and gave Haldir as reassuring a smile as he could. “Thank you, Haldir. You need not trouble yourself for me.”

The younger elf left and Celeborn turned to gaze out at the starless sky again. *Galadriel said the same thing, once she had returned to herself. But she and Haldir are both wrong. There was more I could have done. There must have been. Surely the Valar would not choose to slay children. We were being tested somehow. And we failed. I failed. And paid with the blood of our children.*

***

Disaran had long since forgotten his father’s name. Not that it had ever meant much to him, since the name was all he had ever known of his father.

His mother had been a village seamstress, bearing the scars of a disease that saved her from the fate suffered by many village women when Elendil’s followers set up camp and barracks in the towns of the Kingdoms in Exile. As Sauron’s power grew and threatened Gondor and Arnor, the Númenórean soldiers had spread throughout the land to protect their territory, settling in many of the small, normally-isolated villages, taking for granted that they had the run of the place.

After the initial period of companies of soldiers roaming the countryside, blustering through the villages, and taking what women they chose, life had quieted again. The exiled Númenóreans had settled all over Gondor, taking wives from the villages they fortified. Disaran’s mother never married, but she made a surprisingly good living, and her son became an errand boy for the local barracks.

He never had cared much for the Númenóreans. So smug, self-righteous, and condescending. Always they paraded their long life-spans and self-professed wisdom, and it rankled Disaran to watch them remaining young and vigorous while others (including himself) aged. There was little hope of advancement for those not of Númenórean blood, and thus Disaran remained a lowly foot soldier while the half-breeds spawned by the Númenóreans were commissioned and promoted.

Only one moment of real distinction marked Disaran’s career. He was in his third decade, serving as a guard in Minas Anor, which was constantly under threat of assault by Sauron’s forces from Mordor. Of cause for great concern was sabotage--spies of the Dark Lord had infiltrated the city, and it was feared that a former follower of Ar-Pharazôn himself was concealed among the highest of Anárion’s councilors. Disaran never learned much of the details, being of low rank and little real interest in the affairs of the world outside himself, but he had the rare good fortune to be in the right place at the right time to obtain something much more valuable than any sop of a promotion his captain might have given him.

He was off-duty when the hue and cry went up, but too disinterested to try and see what it was about. He was entering the barracks when a man dressed in the rich garb of a Númenórean noble staggered in, attempting to hide between the rows of bunks. Disaran had not moved, and looked on rather idly as the man recoiled in terror, realizing he was discovered.

“I beg you!” the fugitive blurted. “Reveal me not and I shall make it worth your while!” His clothes were torn, his face bloodied, but he displayed a large, well-filled pouch at his belt.

Disaran contemplated the nobleman, reduced to groveling at his feet, and found that he enjoyed the sense of power that this position gave him. He had never felt any loyalty to Gondor; he served for the living, nothing more. And if he wished to keep this new inkling of power, he’d best see to it that this man was not taken by his superiors. So he shrugged and went to the door. When the expected mob of pursuers came searching for the man, Disaran told them he had seen nothing.

“Keep an eye out for him, then. He’s old Ar-Pharazôn’s spy! Sauron’s servant!” was the parting remark.

Disaran returned to the barracks and said matter-of-factly, “They’ll have you in irons in a minute if I give the word.”

Breathing raggedly, still on his knees (Disaran was pleased to note), the man fumbled for his pouch. “Good sir, I can ransom myself well, I promise you.” He scooped out a handful of gold coins (more wealth than Disaran had had in his entire life) and offered them. “And I can obtain more for you if you will but see me clear of the city. I have enough gold hidden away to purchase you a commission without a soul the wiser, or buy you a comfortable passage and living anywhere in Middle Earth.”

Disaran had eyed the gold, weighing his options. It was certainly more gold than he had ever even seen, let alone possessed, but to hear this man talk, there was more where that came from. “Before I risk life and limb for you, Master, you had best identify yourself.”

“I am…my name is Nebison.”

Disaran laughed aloud. “I thought as much! So you are the traitor they’re seeking.” He smiled slyly, “Why, to hand you over to Anárion would mean a captain’s promotion for me at least!”

“No!” cried the man, cowering. “You are wrong, my lord. I can repay you in ways you cannot even imagine.”

“I can imagine a great deal of gold, Lord Nebison.”

The man stood up, his attempts to act intimidating hampered by his disheveled appearance. “I was in the confidence of Ar-Pharazôn, high king of Númenor. I am the servant of Sauron. He rewards his followers. I can ensure that he will reward you.”

“I want no party with Sauron. I like my life free of peril.”

“If you wish. I have the means myself, if you will aid me. The means to grant your any desire. I can place you above the same arrogant lugs that have trodden you down all your life.”

Disaran snorted skeptically. “Perhaps you can make me rich, but you cannot make me Númenórean.”

Nebison drew himself up again and smiled coldly. “What if I could?”

“What?”

“If it is wealth you seek, I can provide it. If power you seek, my Lord can grant it. But if it is the long life and health of the Númenóreans you crave, that I can furnish.” Nebison took a step back and eyed his improbable savior. “There is a way, a way that I can give you a youth to outlast even the life span of the Númenóreans. I can give you the gift of the Eldar, what Ar-Pharazôn and the Black Númenóreans destroyed themselves to obtain.”

Disaran eyed him in return, more than a little dubious. Slowly, he replied, “That is a worthy bargaining chip. Very well. Your gold will buy my silence. And this immortality you speak of will buy your safe passage from the city.”

“Done.” Nebison thrust his pouch into Disaran’s hand. “There are fifty pieces of gold there. I can give you five hundred if you will spirit me to the place on the outskirts of the city where I have hidden my treasury. And when we are through the gates, I shall bestow upon you a device made for Ar-Pharazôn himself. It was intended as a weapon, and used properly it can give unending life to the holder.”

“And done.” Disaran took the pouch. “Come, we must be away from here before the next watch comes off, though they are probably still out searching for you. I shall clad you in our uniforms and steal you from the city.”

And so it was done. At dusk, Disaran led Nebison, disguised as a fellow guard, through the streets of the city to a small shack in an area where orcs had broken through in the last raid. The whole street was burnt and there was not a soul about. A perfect hiding place for a secret treasure, Disaran had to concede. He stood watch while Nebison vanished into the half-collapsed building, listening to the man rummaging through the ruins. A few moments later, he returned, carrying a small chest, which appeared very heavy. Grunting, he set it down and opened it. The contents, mostly gold, gleamed at Disaran. “Half of it is for you. After all, I must keep myself fed,” he added in an attempt at humor, which Disaran laughed falsely at to lull him.

“And the other reward?” Disaran prompted. Nebison glanced at the gates, obviously wishing to wait until they were clear before handing over the other half of the payment, but Disaran said, “I should like to see this supposed immortal-maker before accepting it as payment.”

Nebison smiled slyly, and pulled a small, leather pouch from the gold. Carefully, he reached within and pulled out a round object that appeared to be made of black obsidian. There seemed nothing remarkable about it at all. “This, my most gracious benefactor, will endow you with extended youth for as long as you use it. From the first time you make use of it, you shall not age again, as long as you continue to employ it.”

Disaran took the thing, staring at it in wonder. “And how do I use it?” he asked skeptically. “You cannot expect me to take you at your word that this pretty stone will give me immortality.”

“Come. I will show you.” Nebison took the stone, and the two men moved back toward the populated part of the city. They waited until a Númenórean guard, one of Anárion’s captains, passed by their hiding place. “Grab him.”

“But he’ll--”

“Trust me, he’ll tell no tales.” So Disaran clapped a hand over the captain’s mouth and yanked him into the collapsed building, his dagger at the other man’s throat. Even as his quarry grunted and struggled, Nebison sprang up and thrust the black stone against the man’s bare upper chest above the collar of his armor.

The result was instantaneous: the soldier gasped behind Disaran’s hand, and immediately began going limp. His eyes widened first, then rolled back into his head as his struggles swiftly ceased. Disaran noticed the black stone was glowing, as if possessing its own inner fire, as Nebison’s eyes took on a slightly mad glint of predatory joy. The stone flared brilliantly one last time, then darkened, and Nebison pulled it away, while the soldier drooped lifeless in Disaran’s grasp. He dropped the body, and it fell like a sack. The man was dead.

Smiling at Disaran’s stunned face, Nebison explained, “A Númenórean’s life force can grant you several years of unchanging youth, but to use this fine device to its full potential, your best target would be one of the Eldar. Remember, Ar-Pharazôn intended to take Valinor. This was a gift to him from Sauron, to aid him in that end. Shame he didn’t succeed, or the immortality of the elves would belong to many more men.” He handed it to Disaran.

Taking the dark weapon, Disaran stared at it in wonder. “What must I do to make it…work?”

“It works on your will alone, my friend. Act just as you saw me act, and the life force of whoever the stone touches shall be yours. You shall have to continue using it to harvest its gifts, but the life force of an elf can grant you youth for as long as twenty years. For every Númenórean or elf you take, your own life shall extend.”

Disaran smiled. “That seems a reasonable interval. I thank you, Nebison of Númenor. You have been a most profitable ally.”

Nebison smiled back and handed him half of the gold in the chest. “And here is the rest of your fee, Disaran of Gondor. I thank you for your services, and now I shall be on my way.” He started for the breach in the city wall.

“You are most welcome, my benefactor, but before you go, I would test this device in my own hand. How fortunate to have such a convenient test subject--” before Nebison could cry out, Disaran flung an arm around his waist and slapped the stone to the base of Nebison’s own neck.

And now he felt its effects firsthand. It felt just as Nebison had described, an energy flowing from the stone, hot and energizing, the force of a life bleeding into Disaran’s own, that would extend his own youth, while his prey went limp in his grasp, hardly struggling. He felt the current die as its source ran out, and dropped Nebison to the ground. “Yes, you are right, that was quite invigorating. I fear I never could settle for half of the riches in a box, nor could I run the risk of allowing you to escape and tell your tale. This city wants you dead so badly that even finding you dead without so much as a wound, they’re unlikely to ask many questions. As for me, I fear they would ask questions if they found me with a thousand pieces of gold and a Númenórean weapon. I shall have to take your kind gifts and bid you goodnight.”

It was not difficult at all to steal out of Minas Anor in the chaos that erupted when Nebison’s body was found. If anyone did ask questions about the spy’s death, Disaran never heard, for he took his gold and made his way into the Misty Mountains, finding himself a quiet, more isolated village to dwell in, where he quickly became highly-esteemed due to his wealth. There he had waited out the war, snatching the occasional Númenórean soldier to keep himself in good health. However, trouble soon arose when the Númenóreans mingled their blood too often with lesser men, and their life spans began to diminish. Soon, their life force was granting Disaran less and less energy to extend his own.

He decided his only choice was to find a new source, one that would never run out. With that in mind, he had abandoned his village and took to the road, making for the most likely source of youth for himself that he could think of, and that he might be able to find:

Rivendell.

***

Feeling somewhat like he was trapped in a dream, Aragorn walked back to the House of Kings. There he found, as expected, several people keeping watch around Legolas’s body. King Thranduil had returned there, and once again he and Gimli stood on opposite sides of the table, sometimes staring at each other, but never uttering a word. He was rather relieved to see that Celeborn and Gandalf were not there. They would not approve of what he wished to do. On each side of Gimli stood Frodo and Sam on the left, and Merry and Pippin on the right.

But Aragorn was chiefly interested in something else in the gloomy chamber. On a small pedestal, left behind in all the chaos, was the black stone that Disaran used to drain the life from his elven victims. The King went to it and picked it up, then turned to find the eyes of all on him. “What are you doing, Aragorn?” asked Gimli in a dead voice.

“Gandalf and Celeborn think examining this thing is a waste of time, but I…I think there is one source of information they’ve yet to search. One that might yet hold the key to reversing the effect of the weapon,” he said, fingering the cruel instrument with distaste.

Hope sprang into Frodo’s eyes. Had Aragorn not been so consumed by his own grief, he would have been greatly worried for Frodo. The former Ringbearer had faced enough pain in his life without this. “What is it?” the hobbit asked softly. “Where could you find out things about that…thing…that Gandalf and the elves don’t know?”

Aragorn closed his fist around it, and looked at them all. “Disaran.”

Not surprisingly, a small entourage accompanied Aragorn from the House of Kings to the old barracks that had been converted into a prison the previous year. All in all, the King of Gondor had kept order in Minas Tirith so well that few men were held in the cells for any length of time for any serious crime. In fact, Aragorn noted bitterly, Disaran was the first murderer. *And such a murderer.*

Faramir was also at the prison when Aragorn arrived, and quite alarmed when the King wanted to see the prisoner. He ordered Aragorn escorted to the cell, and ducked quickly out. Aragorn did not think to wonder where Faramir had gone. It rankled him no end to see the rather smug look of the man in the cell, guarded by four soldiers, when he spotted his distinguished visitors. Standing up, he gave Aragorn a mocking bow. “Welcome, my lord. I expect I can guess to what I owe the honor of this visit.”

Stepping close to the bars of the cell, his heart burning with rage, Aragorn spoke in a voice that made everyone, even King Thranduil, step backward. “Do not test me, Disaran, or you shall regret it.” He slapped the stone down upon a nearby shelf where the man could see it. “I know this thing drains the life from elves. Is there a way to reverse it and restore their lives? Answer me well and you might just avoid a slow and public execution.” Some of the King’s councilors might have debated his authority to make such a threat, but Aragorn cared not. He cared only for Disaran’s answer. “Speak up.”

For what it was worth, the Black Hunter looked thoughtful. “I admit I have never tried. However…I suppose it might be possible.” Soft intakes of breath behind him mirrored the desperate longing that surged into Aragorn’s own heart. But hope faded rapidly when Aragorn saw the calculating look in Disaran’s eye. “Perhaps if I could…”

“--Do not ask for your freedom, villain, for you shall not have it!” snapped the King. “I offer you only this: if Legolas’s life is restored, I will turn you over to the Eldar, who are more likely to grant you a swift and relatively painless death than what the people of Gondor are clamoring for.” To his relief, Thranduil said nothing to contradict that. “Think hard on your responses.”

Disaran lowered his head. “If I may see the stone, then. You need not open the gate, but only pass it through the bars.”

“And what purpose would that serve?” asked Aragorn suspiciously.

“I have carried it for centuries, my lord. I feel it well. Often by instinct I can bend it to my will, perhaps it might yet tell me how to restore the life of your friend.” Aragorn was relieved that Disaran did not say the elf’s name, for he was not certain he could contain himself if he heard Legolas’s name soiled by the murderer’s mouth.

Slowly, Aragorn nodded, and went to pick up the stone again. He carried it to the cell bars, and Disaran reached through to take it. All at once, the prison rang with running feet. “Aragorn! No!” cried Gandalf’s voice. Aragorn faltered, just as Disaran lunged for the stone. The King instinctively jerked back, and the Black Hunter spat as his prize was pulled again from his reach.

Gandalf, Celeborn, and Faramir burst into the hall. “Do not let him touch that stone again!” cried Celeborn.

“Why?” gasped Sam, stepping in front of the other three hobbits. “What’s he trying to do?”

Breathless, Gandalf snatched the weapon from Aragorn. “The device is activated by will alone, Aragorn, and any life can be taken by it. You are of Númenórean descent; Disaran could easily have used it on you if you had touched it at the same time as he.”

Aragorn turned to glare at Disaran, who in turn looked distinctly thwarted. So it had been a trick then. What now? “I had thought to try reversing its effect,” he murmured, pain welling up inside until it seemed to drown him. “Surely if will alone can drain a life away, will alone can restore it.”

Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder. “Only the will of the one who wields it, my friend.”

“Then why not use it on him to give the life back to Legolas?” cried Merry suddenly, pushing past the others.

“Aye!” cried Gimli, joining him. “Take all the immortality he’s stolen, and surely that could return Legolas to life. It’s worth a try; what’s the worst that could happen? That villain’s death would be no small loss.”

“Poetic justice, I say,” muttered Sam in agreement.

But Gandalf was shaking his head. “That occurred to me, friends, but it is not possible. Even by force of torture, we could not make Disaran will his own life into Legolas, and Legolas possesses no will to take it for himself. That is the only way it would work.” He gripped Aragorn’s shoulder tightly. “I know you wish to reverse this, but it is done. His life cannot be ransomed back.” Aragorn sighed, nodding quietly. But his mind whirled with the implications of what Gandalf had said, and an idea formed in his head even as he feigned resignation.

He was not the only one.

***

Late that night…

Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen passed silently into the block of cells where the Black Hunter was held, easily avoiding and distracting the guards with elven stealth. But it was not the Hunter himself, asleep on the mat of straw in his cell, that the elven king sought. Entering the space outside Disaran’s cell, he found what he was seeking: the black weapon of Ar-Pharazôn remained on the guards’ table, well out of the man’s reach. But not out of Thranduil’s.

*Mithrandir said the device is activated by will alone. Then it will respond to mine.* Thranduil picked it up, feeling its cold weight in his hand. For two days now he had stood at the side of his son, unable to come to terms with the sight of the lifeless body in the House of Kings. Legolas could not die and leave him to grieve again. Thranduil could not bear it. He had seen the eyes of others mourning his son, and knew that their minds were full of cries of grief, of denial, of pleading to the Valar to change what had happen. But for him, Legolas’s father, it was different. His mind, his heart, his soul, had fallen silent at the sight of his child dead. Nothing could shake that terrible inner darkness.

*I cannot live through mourning another child. I have known that for many years. If there is a way to save him, no matter what the cost, I must take it.* His resolve affirmed, he turned to take the stone to the House of Kings. Just then, his sharp elven hearing detected the door being opened outside, and the guards hurrying to return to their posts outside the sleeping man’s cell. Fighting the urge to curse, Thranduil put the stone back on the table and dove into the shadows for cover.

He had expected many people to appear outside Disaran’s cell. Another guard, Faramir perhaps, or one of Legolas’s friends coming to rough Disaran up (which would have given Thranduil grim satisfaction to watch.) But it was Aragorn. The King of the Reunified Lands, the husband of the Evenstar, walked quietly into the room, and to the hidden Thranduil’s astonishment, he also made straight for the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn. Closing his eyes, he clutched the weapon to his breast and murmured, “Valar forgive me for this.”

*By the Valar! He’s come to do what I had intended to do!* thought Thranduil in shock. It did not seem possible. Would this mortal truly give up his life for Legolas?

Alas, the elven king did not have time to find out. No sooner had Aragorn turned toward the door, the stone in his hand, when the room was suddenly ablaze with light. All the braziers burst into flame, and Thranduil sank deeper into the shadows, wondering what new madness was afoot.

Gandalf stepped through the door, barring the King of Gondor’s way. “I thought you had given in too easily, son of Arathorn.”

Aragorn wavered, a strange look in his eyes that none had ever seen, almost as if something in the man’s soul had come off-balance. *He is beyond himself,* thought Thranduil in amazement. He would not have believed it if Galadriel herself had told him. Could this mortal king truly have loved Legolas so much that the unexpected death of Thranduil’s son had driven him nearly mad with pain?

“Get out of my way, Gandalf.”

“You shall not get past me, Elessar.”

“And even if you do,” said a gruff voice from the other door. “I shall stand behind him.” Thranduil felt a surge of bitter grief and anger. It was that stunted dwarf. So he was here too. In their ambush of the King of Gondor, they had made it impossible for Thranduil to save his son. Cursing his own helplessness, he could only watch.

By now, Disaran had awakened and watched them from his cell. “Meant to give your life to him, did you?” came his mocking voice. “I daresay it’d work.” There was a burst of light from Gandalf’s staff, and Disaran fell to the floor of his cell with a grunt, as the wizard growled at the Black Hunter to keep silent.

“You see, Gandalf?” said Aragorn in a low, desperate voice, driven past caring that he was taking a murderer at his word. “I must try. I owe Legolas too much.”

“Legolas would not want this. Your life is too important to Middle Earth, my friend, you must see reason!” said the Maia urgently, seizing the man by the shoulders.

But Aragorn was indeed mad with grief. “I can’t do it, Gandalf! He was my friend, my guest in my city, under my protection, and he died alone in my streets! I cannot live with that!” Shaking his head, he muttered, “I must try.”

“By the Valar, THINK, Aragorn!” cried a new voice.

*Is all of Minas Tirith here tonight?* wondered Thranduil in exasperation as Frodo Baggins appeared in the doorway.

Frodo, his eyes red and his face pale, watched the King in despair. “Legolas would never forgive you! And it wouldn’t just be yourself, you’d be killing Arwen too! Everyone knows what fate awaits her if you should die!”

“And it would be vain,” pleaded Gandalf, not lessening his hold on the distraught man. “You may be of Númenórean descent, but Legolas is an elf. You have not enough life force to restore his immortality. Even if it granted him anything at all, his life would be diminished at best.”

“That’s better than death,” muttered Aragorn stubbornly.

“Legolas might disagree, and it is not for you to make that choice for him,” said Gandalf.

Aragorn sighed, and his shoulders slumped. He trembled slightly in the wizard’s grasp, and Thranduil began to think he had acquiesced. Then he suddenly attempted to jerk past Gandalf, causing cries of alarm from Frodo and Gimli as the Maia rushed to restrain him. “No! Aragorn, no!”

“I must try!” the King cried, attempting to fight his way past them.

He nearly managed to wrench himself from the wizard’s hands and gain the door, but Gimli slammed an open hand into his wrist, forcing his hand to drop the fatal Stone. The dwarf seized it as Frodo threw himself in front of Aragorn, sobbing, “Strider, please! Don’t!”

But still Aragorn struggled to reach the weapon. Gimli tossed it back onto the table and looked hard at the man, trying to get past Frodo and Gandalf’s restraining arms. It was clear to all that the King would not give up this mad attempt to give his own life to Legolas. With a determined grunt, dwarvish stubbornness kicked in, and Gimli seized his axe, which he had left leaning against the wall. In a flash, Aragorn, Disaran, and Thranduil all realized what the son of Glóin intended to do.

“No!” the two men and the elf shouted at the same time. Thranduil burst from his hiding place, Disaran threw himself against the bars of his cell, and Aragorn tried to lunge past Gandalf and Frodo. But none could surpass the speed of the swing of the dwarf’s axe. With a fierce roar of defiance, Gimli brought the blade of his weapon down directly upon the black Stone of Ar-Pharazôn, shattering it into a hundred shards across the tabletop.

***

Over the same period of time…

The passage of two elven souls to the Halls of Mandos was both short and long, but Legolas did not notice. Fear had left him, as his mother had promised, and her warm presence buoyed him as they passed out of the living world. After an indistinct fragment of time, he found himself passing the shores of Undying Lands, approaching the fabled Halls of Waiting.

*Don’t be frightened,* Minuial said to him.

*What happens now, Mother?*

*It is not for me to say. Fear not; you shall see. Come in.*

Legolas sensed the presence of many other elven spirits within the Halls of Mandos, but unlike himself and his mother, these remained invisible. His mother led him toward the threshold. Minuial’s soul passed through without a pause, and Legolas expected to do the same. So it came as a great shock to him when he found himself unable to enter. Moreover, it was not merely that something barring his way, but pulling his soul back.

*Mother! What’s happening?*

*Legolas?! Mandos! What is this?* his mother turned and rushed back toward him, trying to seize his spirit-body with her hands.

*I do not understand!* cried Legolas, trying to cling to his mother in terror. Was he to be thrown back into Middle Earth as one of the dwimmer-laik after all? *I answered the summons! Am I to join the Houseless Ones? Why? What have I done? Mother!* Legolas tried in vain to fight the pull of the invisible tide, but he was dragged out of his mother’s reach even as their spirits desperately strained toward each other.

*Legolas!*

*Mother!* But she and Valinor vanished as he was pulled away.

He landed with a thud and a gasp. Looking down, he found that his body was still that of a spirit, but far more substantial than the one he had had in Valinor. Certainly, there was more sensation reaching him. He could almost feel the cold, damp stone beneath his hands, and sound reached him again. Somehow…somehow he was back in Middle Earth!

Strangely disoriented for a spirit, he sat up, and was startled to discover that his body, though still insubstantial, moved more like a living body. He no longer floated, but stood upon his feet, and looked around, finding himself in a place he did not recognize. It appeared to be a prison ward. Why was he here? Had Mandos sent him back? What else could have forced him back into the living world--or halfway into it, as he appeared to be. Wild anticipation, almost but not quite physical, gripped him as two guards entered the room, but his heart sank as he realized they still did not see him. Feeling confused and dejected at being expelled from the Undying Lands without knowing why, the elf watched them deliver a tray of food to the prisoner in the cell.

The man took the offering without comment and the guards turned and left him. His eyes wandered idly around the room beyond his cage--and stopped directly on Legolas. The spirit stared back. The man was Disaran. Slowly, he rose to his feet, looking straight at where the elf’s soul, housed in a not-quite-physical body, stood outside his cell. Legolas looked around in amazement, but there was no other object in the room that might command Disaran’s attention. There could be no doubt--his murderer could SEE him!

Disaran stared, and Legolas stared back. Then, the man smiled a grotesque, cruel smile, and nodded toward the table in the cell block, where what looked like the broken shards of black glass winked in the torchlight.

“Well now!” the Black Hunter remarked brightly. “Here’s one thing Nebison never warned me about!*

*****
To Be Continued…
*****

Author’s Note: GOTCHA!!! (Evil laugh) Oh come on, you guys didn’t REALLY think I had killed him, did you? (Mental head-shake) As if I could ever do in our favorite elf. But believe me, our heroes’ troubles aren’t over

Chapter Five: Guilt

Imladris, the Year 59 of the Third Age…

It was the first time Disaran had ever seen an elf. He had obtained the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn just before the formation of the Last Alliance, and had departed into the wilderness. For that reason, and others (namely that he was not Númenórean) he had never had the opportunity to view the fabled Fair Folk back when he had been a lowly foot soldier.

But now…he had to concede it had been well-worth the wait.

The trip to Rivendell had been arduous, and Disaran had grown more tense the closer he came. The tracking abilities of the elves were legendary, as were their senses, and while the idea had seemed a good one at first, doubts assailed him now. How could he hope to penetrate an elf haven and catch one of those powerful beings to take its immortality without raising the alarm? He had nearly abandoned the attempt altogether, but the thought of his life waning away again if he ceased using the Stone had kept him on his path. After all, to forsake the chance at immortality would deem him unworthy of it.

After much deliberation, he had chosen a hiding place well out on the road beyond Rivendell, near an expanse of caves that made a good campsite. Then he settled in the thickest bushes he could find and kept watch on the comings and goings of the Eldar of Rivendell, hoping to find some weakness he could use to his advantage. Or at least an elf being careless out on the road alone.

There was no chance that the first party of elves that passed within his sight could have heard him breathing. That was due to the fact that his breath stopped at the sight of them. The legends of the beauty and grace of the Fair Folk had been exaggerated not at all. He rather thought they had been underrated. Four elves were in this group departing Rivendell for who-knew-where. He marveled at their flowing hair, their bright eyes, and feline grace, and nearly gasped aloud at the sweet sound of their voices raised in merry song. The two she-elves in the party were undoubtedly the fairest maidens he had beheld in his entire lifetime, surpassing thrice over the beauty of any human woman Disaran had ever laid eyes on.

But very soon, admiration turned to resentment. Why was it that the Valar had seen fit to grant so many gifts to this perfect race, and leave men to slog behind in their shadow? They had created a pretty folk indeed, who never had to strive or struggle to achieve any end, and obtained with ease the things that men were forced to labor lifetimes for. Why should they be such a favored race?

Sooner still, resentment gave way to malice. Aye, a pretty folk they were, so confident and sure of their invulnerability. With every contemptuous thought, Disaran’s resolve to take one of them grew. He would be as patient as was necessary, but their immortality, their life energy granted by the Valar, would in the end be his. It took many, many months, but he learned to conceal his presence as he watched them from near and far, and eventually even managed to follow them without their knowledge--albeit from considerable distance. He practiced for weeks at a time, trailing a single company of journeying elves and testing himself and their alertness to see how close he could get. He even hunted and foraged for food in the woods around Rivendell while escaping their detection. He had several narrow escapes, but by the dint of much practice and no small measure of luck, he hunted and evaded them.

At long last, he felt he was ready. The next party to leave the haven of the Last Homely House was a young elven warrior and a maid, obviously on some little romantic venture. Disaran followed them down the banks of the Bruinen until they were well away from the typical range of Rivendell’s guards--obviously a deliberate choice on the courting couple’s part. Valar, how fair they were! The warrior, hardly more than a youth, was nonetheless tall and strong, his hands graceful and sure as he mounted up a tree to fetch his lady love some fruit. His hair, the color of coal, was like a shadow around his fair head, and his eyes flashed with mirth and brilliance. The maiden possessed hair brown as chestnuts, and eyes the same color, and a voice that would easily set a softer man to tears as she sang. The light of the stars was in her eyes, and they danced as she laughed.

Once Disaran was satisfied that they had settled with their picnic along a narrow part of the river, he moved stealthily into the trees as close to them as he dared, and laid his trap. From a village they had passed he had appropriated a small, fat pig (and had a time keeping the thing quiet as he followed them.) Now he waited until the pair were sufficiently involved with each other and crept closer, until he lurked in the undergrowth at the very edge of the trees.

Predictably, they sensed a presence and broke apart. At that moment, Disaran pulled the pig from the sack and unbound it, releasing it onto the bank. The elves’ tense expressions broke into laughter and relief, and the boy was up like a shot, chasing the pig. During his observations of Rivendell, Disaran had picked up a bit of elvish, and it took no great knowledge to know what the maiden shouted laughingly after her suitor as he chased the pig back into the trees. *Come back and leave that poor little piggy alone!* Disaran thought mockingly as he followed the boy, who was too set on catching the pig and impressing his intended to notice his pursuer.

From that point, it wound up being far easier than Disaran had thought it would.

He got ahead of both elf and pig and waited behind a tree. In fact, he was astonished at how easy it was to snatch a hand around the boy’s mouth as he passed and slap the Stone against his bare skin. Even elvish reflexes could not recover quickly enough to make up for the leeching power of the Stone, and within seconds Disaran’s victim had lost the strength to struggle. It was even more elating that when Disaran had taken the Númenóreans. The elf’s heart first raced at the sudden attack, but then it began to slow, and the boy wilted like a flower against Disaran’s hold. Moments later, Disaran laid his lifeless body upon the ground, sighing softly in triumph. Then he retreated a few paces away, and waited.

After only a few moments, a curious voice called out, “Lasbelin? Lasbelin?” He could only guess what she must be calling to her now-late suitor, and smiled in predatory pleasure at the soft sounds of her approach through the trees, undoubtedly wondering where the silly boy had got to. *Elves. So naïve. Therein lies their greatest weakness, the one that shall avail me the most.*

He readied himself as she drew closer and came around the thick cluster of bushes where he waited. She should have seen him, but her eyes were drawn at once to the limp body of her lover, motionless on the ground. “Lasbelin? Lasbelin!” The girl threw herself down to him, turning the boy over and shaking him frantically. Disaran stood over her, and as she gathered breath to scream, clapped a hand over her mouth.

She gave a little squeak of fright, and he hesitated to put the Stone to her. “Silence, girl. Not one move,” he growled, relishing the way her chest heaved in terror. Her hair smelled like flowers. He smiled, wishing he had caught her facing him so he could witness the fear in her eyes. She moaned and sobbed against his grip, and he grinned. “Wonder what I did to him, don’t you?” he whispered in her ear. He brandished the stone with one hand for her to see. “I drained his life with this, pretty maid. It sucks the immortality right out of your pretty people. Not quite so impervious to death as you thought, are you?” With a grin, he slowly brought the stone toward her, feeling her breath coming faster and faster until he pressed it to the base of her throat. Then she gave a great, heaving gasp as she met the fate of her beloved, alone and terrified as her life drained away.

When she was dead, he dropped her like a sack, grinned in satisfaction at his success, and simply walked away, leaving the bodies of his first elven kill there in the brush, a warning to all Eldar that he had now made them his prey.

*****

Minas Tirith, the Year 3020 of the Third Age…

When Disaran’s eyes met his, Legolas recoiled. *How can you see me?* he demanded without thinking.

Disaran stood up, still grinning in that awful, smug way. “None of the others can, it seems. How very interesting.”

*Not the word I would choose,* ground out the elf, scowling at his killer. Eyeing the man with distaste, he remarked, *However impressed with yourself you may be, it seems you no more expected to see me than I did, therefore my presence here must not be of your make.*

“Ah, but it is, even if it was unintentional!” sneered Disaran. He nodded toward the table.

Legolas moved closer, staring in confusion at the dark glass shards scattered across its surface. What did--he froze. That was not glass! He moved his hand close to them, and in spite of being unable to touch them physically, a prickle of real (if unpleasant) sensation ran through him as his spirit came into contact with them. *The stone,* he murmured. *Someone destroyed it.*

“Your dwarf friend did,” said Disaran in an infuriatingly helpful voice. “Funny, I’ve seen some interesting things in my long day--thanks to the gifts of your kind--” he added, knowing full well the fury that would consume the elf for the defilement of his people, “--but a friendship between an elf and a dwarf, well, that’s a new one. And never have I encountered one of the Houseless Ones.”

Legolas thought that had his body been physical, he would have been shaking with rage. Again, he forgot himself and retorted, *I am not one of the dwimmer-laik!* Even as the words passed his lips--or more like his mind--he regretted them, for Disaran’s face changed swiftly from puzzlement to calculation. *I must not give him such information! This beast is as shrewd as he is coldhearted. I will find no aid in this from him, and more likely he would use what he knows to harm me or my friends.*

But it was too late; the damage was done. “You didn’t refuse the summons of Mandos, then, hmmm?” Disaran mused thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. I wonder!” he perked up again in that false cheer. “Could it be that this is the fate of all the elves whose immortality I claim? Maybe your Valar won’t accept you without your immortality. That could be--”

*Be silent, you filthy creature!* cried Legolas savagely.

But Disaran just grinned and went on, clearly enjoying the torment he was inflicting upon the elf. “I wonder, since I can see you and others cannot, could I touch you?”

Legolas glared at him. *You shall not get close enough to me to find out.*

“We seem bound in a strange way, Master Elf. I should attempt to be more civil if I were you. I may be the one chance you have of reaching your living friends. Why, your beloved King Elessar is all but mad with grief. The dwarf had to destroy that stone to keep him from using it on himself.”

*What?* confusion overrode the elf’s ire. *What do you mean?*

Disaran gestured again to the shards. “Elessar first thought to use the stone to take the immortality from me and return it to you. But your wizard friend told him correctly that the stone can work by the will of the possessor alone. Mad with grief, he was. He snuck back in here by night and tried to take the thing to the House of Kings where your body lies, to give his own life to you.”

*You lie!* Legolas roared, surging toward the cell. *Aragorn would never do anything so foolish!*

“Ah, but he tried, Master Elf, it is the truth! Nothing would stop him, not mention of his worth to the world, nor of his wife, nor of his friends. At last the dwarf seized the stone and destroyed it with his axe. My, how disconsolate your great King was then! He grasped at the shards as if trying to put them back together--cut his hands to ribbons on them, he did,” Disaran shook his head in mock-amazement. “All I intended was to sustain my life for another hundred years or so, but I may have destroyed the King of Gondor! A rather intoxicating feeling--”

*You foul beast!* with a cry of uncontrollable rage, Legolas threw himself at Disaran, caring not that he probably would fly right through the wall. As it was, he did pass through the bars, although it was an uncomfortable sensation. But nothing could have prepared him for the shock and horror of when his spirit-body slammed INto Disaran’s physical one--not through it, throwing them both to the ground.

Even worse, no sooner had Disaran gotten over his initial shock at being touched by the spirit of the elf than he seized Legolas by the wrist--and immediately, Legolas felt all strength of movement desert him, leaving him trapped and helpless upon the ground. In surprise and horror, Legolas attempted to pull away and flee, but while Disaran’s foul hands gripped his wrists, he was immobilized. Terror filled him as he found himself once again completely at the mercy of the man who had already murdered him. *No…*

But Disaran, as evil as the forces that had first shaped the stone with which he stole the lives of the Eldar, enjoyed the situation still more, and neither moved to harm his captive nor released him. Instead he simply held Legolas fast, relishing the fear and revulsion in the elf’s gray eyes. “It is said,” he drawled as Legolas squirmed haplessly against his iron hold, “that the Houseless Ones will tempt and taunt the living in order to obtain a body, and then trap the living soul while using the body themselves. Is that so?”

Legolas closed his eyes, aware that even if he cried for help, none would hear him. He felt real, but he was not. “That’s right, little elf. None can hear you. None can help you. I may not have been able to take your immortality, but it matters not, for now you yourself are entirely mine.” Disaran’s voice invaded the maelstrom of terror in his mind, making Legolas bitterly aware that the Black Hunter could hear his thoughts. “In all your history, the spirits of your dead have preyed upon the bodies of men.”

*That’s not true,* Legolas murmured weakly.

“I think those whose bodies have been taken would be grateful if I returned the courtesy now to one of you.” Legolas opened his eyes, horrified. This man was using every past irrational envy and grievance against the Eldar by men to excuse his own actions! “Of course, elven prince of Mirkwood, are you too thick to see? That is my life; that is what I am! I am the man who evens the score, and forces you high and mighty elves to endure what we men have endured, while you bask in the gifts you have done nothing to deserve.”

Shaking his head, Legolas whispered frantically, *We took nothing from you. We were made by Ilúvatar! Immortality is not ours to give or to take!*

Disaran shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He smiled. “But it is mine.” He suddenly released the elf’s wrists. Legolas scrambled backwards away from him and turned to leap from the cell. He was halfway through the bars when he felt as though an invisible net had been cast around his body, preventing him from moving forward while beginning to pull him back. A bark of triumphant laughter made him cringe. “Ha! It’s as I thought! You really are mine!”

*What?* Legolas turned around, staring in terror. *What have you done?*

“I’m using nothing but my will to hold you there, just as my will controlled the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn!” Disaran’s delighted laughter had a faintly deranged tone. “I may not have had time to absorb your immortality from it, but it seems now I possess you--soul and all!”

All at once, there came the clang of an outer door. Disaran glanced past Legolas, but did not release him. At last, there was some measure of displeasure in his cruel voice. “Sounds like either the guards or one of your friends is about to pay me a visit.” He gestured to himself, and Legolas noticed for the first time the bruises and bedraggled appearance of the man. “Roughed me up quite a bit since I took you. Undoubtedly now that they’ve lost hope of saving you, there’ll be more, probably ending with a nasty execution. On the other hand,” he smiled again, and Legolas shivered, “maybe you’ll come in handy for something more than my entertainment!”

There were footsteps coming now; it sounded like several guards, and angry ones at that. Legolas felt Disaran’s will pulling at his spirit again, and he whirled away, trying in vain to free himself. *Help me!* he cried in desperation, though he knew the guards would not likely hear him. *Hear me! Please!*

But the net of the Black Hunter’s will dragged Legolas like a trapped animal toward the man, closer and closer until he seemed about to collide with Disaran again. But this time, to Legolas’s even greater horror, his spirit-body seemed to merge with Disaran’s physical one, and he felt the indescribable sensation of another spirit trading places with his. It was most disorienting.

When the world had stopped spinning, Legolas found himself staring out of a pair of unfamiliar eyes. Physical sensation had returned with a vengeance, but he still was not free. Wait--he was breathing! But no, not quite. He was inside a breathing body, but the breaths were not his own. Staring back at him was the now-incorporeal form of Disaran, a look of terrible triumph on his face. Legolas was in the man’s body, but still very much his prisoner. *By my father’s bones, it actually worked! How deliciously convenient!*

Legolas attempted to cry for help, using Disaran’s mouth, but found himself with no more control than before. He could feel the ground beneath Disaran’s feet, the air Disaran breathed, even the pulse of the man’s heart as if it were his own--but control of this body remained in the hands of its owner, who now watched Legolas from several feet outside the prison cell. *How bitterly ironic.*

*Ironic indeed,* agreed Disaran’s spirit as a group of decidedly enraged-looking guards stormed into the room toward the cell. Legolas felt the body smile mockingly at the soldiers even as he fought to free himself or at least control it. *It seems now I have an easy escape route when these gentlemen come to visit their rage on me for murdering their favorite elf, and the elf is the one who gets to suffer their ministrations in my place.*

*NO!*

*Very odd, having an elf in my body. I can hear your every thought, see your every memory,* Disaran’s body was no longer speaking, but the spirit was. *Oh dear, it seems these men intend to exact revenge on you for reducing their King to such a human wreck in grief! Better brace yourself, Legolas, son of Thranduil!* he added as the cell door swung open.

*You shall pay for this one day!* Legolas railed at him, but felt his--or rather Disaran’s--arms grabbed as the men dragged him from the cell. While Disaran’s body took the beating, Legolas realized that he was the one who was going to feel the pain. Terror filled him as it never had before, terror at the totality of his helplessness, and the knowledge that there was no escape even in death. *A Valar, help me!* He was flung to the ground, and the cracks of a horse whip and the pounding of fists soon filled the prison’s corridor, as the soldiers vented their rage at Disaran’s crimes with a vengeful frenzy completely foreign to the elf trapped in his body. After a time, Legolas discovered that there was in fact one way that he could make Disaran’s body respond to him. Or perhaps this was one action that Disaran allowed him.

He could scream.

“They say you killed elf children too, you foul leech!” growled one of the guards, slamming his mail gloved hands into Disaran’s ribs as Legolas gasped in pain. “You’ll bleed for them and the suffering you’ve caused our King!”

“The people are clamoring for your head, villain!” added another, beating him about the face. “Maybe when you’ve been put to the slow death you deserve, our King Elessar will at last be healed of his grief! Like a brother to him, that elf was, a hero of the War! There’s no punishment strong enough for murdering one such as him!”

Again and again, the blows came. Disaran’s body jerked and tensed reflexively, but Legolas could not even force his captor’s mouth to form a word. At last, his vision began to fade, and the trapped elf felt a surge of relief: Disaran’s body was losing consciousness. Perhaps that would bring freedom. The soldiers pummeling him were so passionate with their hate that they failed to see the signs, and darkness swept up as Disaran’s eyes closed.

Alas, that did not bring blessed oblivion. Instead, Legolas found his spirit was at least thrown free of the imprisoning body, landing heavily and no less painfully upon the prison floor. He lay there for some time, mulling over the irony of how even though he was no longer IN Disaran’s body, the pain had not left him. After awhile, he looked around, and saw no sign of Disaran’s spirit. So the man must be free to roam away from his body now that the soul of his last victim had provided him the means of escaping it. With a silent groan, Legolas decided he had best try and escape this place before his tormentor returned.

Dragging himself to his feet, he noted with wonder that his spirit-body remained unmarred to his eyes. It was not his body that had been hurt, but his own spirit. Yet at the same time, it was more real than the spirit that his mother had led to the Halls of Mandos. Somehow Legolas doubted if he could have experienced such torment in that form. Whatever he was now, he was neither fully spirit nor fully flesh, but something in between. And it seemed that he was condemned to endure the worst of both worlds. *This truly is far too much irony for me to stomach at any one time,* he thought bitterly, and fled the prison.

***

At the same time…

Gimli had been wandering aimlessly all night long. Sleep felt impossible, and even if it had not, he knew it would bring him no peace. Not after what he had seen last night, and certainly not after what he had done.

He had destroyed the Stone. The one hope that had lingered to restore Legolas, slim though it was, had been lost. But it was not as if he had had much of a choice, was it? Aragorn had been completely irrational, trying to give up his own life on the off chance it might have restored the elf. But that was not a gamble anyone, least of all Legolas, would have allowed Aragorn to take, yet the King had refused to hear them. When Gimli had seized the accursed Stone, he had seen the near-madness in Aragorn’s eyes as he lunged after it. And the dwarf had bitterly realized how far beyond himself his friend truly was.

*I have lost Legolas, Aragorn. It hurts so deeply that I wonder how I will survive. But one thing now I know for certain: I cannot also lose you. Or I fear the Eldar would find that they are no longer the only ones who can die of grief.*

So Gimli had flung the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn upon the table and brought his axe blade down upon it. It was not like the One Ring. Anything and anyone could destroy it. How the black obsidian had winked mockingly at him as it exploded into fragments.

Then there had been silence. The first thing Gimli had seen when he looked up from the shattered remains of the stone was the eyes of King Thranduil, Legolas’s father. He had not heard the elven king enter the room during the chaos, but he was there now, staring at Gimli as if the dwarf himself had murdered his son. Gimli, feeling shock of his own as the last vestiges of hope sparkled upon the tabletop, had turned away.

A cry of denial from Aragorn had made him spin back around, as the man lunged at the table and attempted to gather the shards in his hands, cursing at Gimli. Gandalf and the dwarf had stared at each other in dismay at their friend’s continuing refusal to face reality, until Frodo’s cry of horror awoke them. Blood was beginning to streak Aragorn’s hands, sliced by the razor-sharp splinters. Thranduil’s mouth had opened in shock while Maia, dwarf, and hobbit had seized the grief-stricken man by the arms, forcing him to release the fragments, and dragging him back. Gimli had gritted his teeth against Aragorn’s resistance, and the hands of them all had been cut in the struggle, while Gandalf growled that the guards had better be kept out, so that none saw the King in this state.

By the dint of much brute force, the three of them at last restrained Aragorn, but chaos had erupted anew when Sam burst in and went straight for Frodo, followed closely by Faramir racing in and going straight for Aragorn, each adding his shouts to the tumult. The uproar was not silenced until Gandalf finally threatened to knock Aragorn unconscious for a week if the man did not come to his senses. Seething and overwrought, Aragorn had at last ceased his tirade against Gimli and struggles against Faramir, and fell into a bitter silence, glaring at all of them.

Then a soft, trembling voice had whispered, “Gimli did the right thing, Strider.” It was Frodo, watching the madness with huge, tear-filled eyes, as Sam now stood protectively in front of him. “You can’t give your life to Legolas. He’d never let you even if it was likely to work. Please,” he pushed past a reluctant Sam and walked to Aragorn’s side, touching his bloody hand. “We need you. Now more than ever. L-Legolas wouldn’t want you to give up.”

For several moments there had been no sound in the room save everyone’s over-rapid breathing. Aragorn had still been looking at Gimli with those mad eyes. Then, at length, reason crept back into them, and the King’s gaze dropped, first to the floor, then turned slowly to Frodo. He closed his eyes and looked immeasurably weary. Gandalf had loosened his death grip and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll have the healer meet us in your quarters at home. You’ll need those cuts treated.”

Aragorn had looked about to argue, then caught the steely glint in the wizard’s own eyes, and at last he nodded. Faramir too relaxed his grip, and the two of them had walked the King from the prison. Sam had taken Frodo’s arm and led him away as well.

A low groan had turned Gimli’s attention to the cell for a moment. Strange, he had not seen anyone strike Disaran, but the man was practically unconscious on the floor. Perhaps Gandalf had done something to keep him silent so he would not say anything to provoke Aragorn further. The dwarf had contemplating taking his axe and ending the murderer’s life then and there, but decided against it. He had in a way usurped Aragorn’s authority already by destroying the Stone. It would be for Gondor and the Eldar to decide the Black Hunter’s fate. Gimli only hoped that before the end, the man might know the kind of suffering he had inflicted upon his victims.

Turning his back on Disaran, Gimli had seen King Thranduil in the doorway of the cell block, staring at him. *Why does he look at me like that?* Some of the emotions in the elven king’s eyes were no surprise to the dwarf. He had expected to see blame; he deserved it. He expected to see hate, bitterness, resentment, and those he did see. But there was something else in the gaze of his best friend’s father that puzzled the dwarf. Thranduil’s eyes seemed to go through Gimli, searching for something. Gimli wondered why, but Thranduil abruptly turned and vanished.

After that, Gimli had left as well, and found himself wandering the city streets until dawn lit the sky again. *Three days,* he thought numbly. *Only three days you’ve been gone, Legolas, and already some of us have fallen to the depths of despair, while others are going mad.*

A sound made Gimli halt in his tracks near the Halls of the Kings. From over the vine-covered wall in the gardens, the clear, beautiful sound of elven singing reached the dwarf’s ears, a torturous mockery of Legolas’s favorite leisure activity that Gimli had loved so much. Gimli moved a little closer and listened, trying to determine the singer. It was not Arwen; he knew her voice well. Nor the twins, he thought. Though the sound was slightly distorted by the wall, and he had not an elf’s ears, he knew he had heard it before. Therefore, not Celeborn or Haldir.

Gimli sighed. *Thranduil again.*

The dwarf tried for Legolas’s sake not to feel bitter toward the elven king, but the resentment in his friend’s father’s eyes rankled him. *Did he think me unworthy of Legolas? Perhaps I was, but no less worthy than Thranduil.* Long Gimli had known that Legolas’s relationship with his father had not always been an entirely happy one, and his one visit to Mirkwood with Legolas after the War of the Ring had shown him the reasons.

It had swiftly become clear to the dwarf that the elven king of Mirkwood and his youngest son were of very different minds, yet at the same time Gimli had seen many common personality traits between them: the strong will, the hot head (by elf standards anyway), fierce pride, stubbornness, and no small measure of elven self-righteousness. Seeing that, it was no wonder really that Thranduil and Legolas had a tendency to clash, and the eyes of each betrayed an awareness of that. There was a wariness with which father and son approached each other that the son’s best friend could not fail to miss. Especially since Gimli had been the at least part of the cause of much of the clashing when Legolas returned home. Granted, the woods had been a disaster after the battle with Dol Guldur and Thranduil had had much on his mind, but his treatment of Gimli then had been nearly the same as now. He had not actively opposed his son’s declaration of Gimli as elvellon, but he also had not actively acknowledged the dwarf’s title. Nor had he actively acknowledged Gimli at all when it was possible. And when he did deign to look at the dwarf, it was with the same resentment that he displayed now. As though Gimli had no right to call Legolas a friend.

*There are none in Middle Earth worthy of the friendship of that elf, save perhaps Aragorn,* Gimli thought, his eyes suddenly brimming, as Thranduil’s mournful song echoed with memories of Legolas’s voice. *But I saw how he looked at you, Thranduil. Perhaps I was unworthy of his friendship, but you were unworthy of his love!* Choking back a muttered curse, the dwarf turned from the path he’d been walking, not desiring to remain where he could hear the elven king’s voice, and stomped up the steps of the Halls of the Kings.

Unlike Legolas, who immediately fled any solid structure when troubled, Gimli found his greatest solace within a sturdy wall of stone. *Perhaps when all this madness is ended, and Aragorn restored to himself, I shall return to Aglarond. My Glittering Caves, the one underground place Legolas admitted to appreciate, might give me some peace, if not happiness. Never again happiness, Legolas.*

He saw no one in his walk down the corridors to his room save the guards and a few of the King’s ministers. The Court had not been held since Legolas’s murder, and like Gimli, most of Legolas’s friends wandered alone, immersed in their own thoughts and memories.

Reaching his own room, Gimli paused suddenly, seized by a powerful impulse, but all too aware of the agony he would feel if he gave in to it. Nonetheless, his legs suddenly took over for his mind, and carried him past his chamber, to outermost room in this part of the palace. Legolas’s room. Gimli stared at the door for some time, and his heart pounded harder and harder, until at last he swept out a hand and pushed it open.

Coming into the chamber, Gimli gazed around the room in amazement. This room was always reserved for the elf’s frequent visits, having the thinnest stone walls and the largest window. Naught had changed, not that anything should have since Legolas had slept here only three nights ago. But either by order of the Queen or by some reluctance of the servants, the things in the room had not been touched. Even a fire still burned in the hearth, dutifully replenished, and as the early rays of the sun cast golden light through the window, Gimli was certain he could hear an elven voice singing to the dawn in the soft breeze. The only thing missing was Legolas. His extra clothing was laid neatly in a small chest near the foot of the bed, and the pack he carried upon his horse rested against it. Upon the stand beside the bed sat a book, a dwarvish tale that Gimli had given to him. Legolas might be reluctant to enter caves, but he was innately curious, and knowing Gimli had made him wonder about dwarven ways.

Gimli’s vision blurred as he moved further inside. He closed the door and looked around him again, his gaze coming again to the book. Aloud, he whispered, “Much good this dwarf did you when you needed him, Legolas. Much good I ever did you.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his clenched fists against them, feeling hot tears leaking out. Choking on bitter sobs, he growled, “Maybe your father was right. You’d have been better off if you’d never met me, so useless I’ve been to you! What good have I ever done you? What good could I ever do you, a dwarf for an elf! If Thranduil had gone with you that night instead of me, you’d have been safe! Naught but suffering have I brought you, suffering and death!”

With a cry of anguish and guilt, the dwarf seized the book from the table and hurled it into the fire. “Elvellon you called me, but I must be the most worthless elf-friend to ever exist,” Gimli sobbed, tearing at his beard. “Oh Legolas. Would that you had never met me, or any of my kind. Worthless, this dwarf is! We are all worthless!”

***

In the same room at the same time…

*Gimli! GIMLI!!* the pain of the beating Legolas had taken while trapped in Disaran’s body was nothing compared to the agony he felt now. Had he possessed a physical body, his voice would have long ago failed him as he cried out from the very core of his being, trying to reach the grieving friend who was not two feet away. But even though he flung himself at Gimli, trying to end the dwarf’s remorseful tirade against himself and his own people, it was to no avail. Gimli could not hear him. *Oh Gimli, no! It’s not true! You were worth more to me than anything in my life, as dear to me as any elven friend! Ai, why did I not tell you? Did you not see? I would rather have your company than half the elves in Middle Earth. Gimli, Gimli, please stop this! You cannot blame yourself thus! I cannot bear it! GIMLI!*

After a time, Gimli’s hysterics wore down, and the dwarf knelt on the floor of his friend’s room, his head resting against the edge of Legolas’s bed as he cried. Legolas found he still did not possess the ability to cry, but that only led to the pain in his soul growing, more intense than any physical abuse could have inflicted. The dwarf stirred at last from his sobs, murmuring, “Oh Legolas. The only hope left was that stone, and I had to destroy it to save Aragorn from himself. Now I’ve truly lost you. What do I do now?”

*You are not alone,* whispered Legolas, trying again in vain to touch the dwarf’s shoulder, only to have his hand pass through Gimli once again. *I am here. I shall never leave you. Gimli, I’m here!*

But the dwarf could not hear him.

It seemed an eternity before Gimli tearfully roused himself enough to leave Legolas’s chamber and return to his own. The elf was breathing a mental sigh of relief that the dwarf’s anguish was at last returning to a bearable level when Gimli encountered Eomer in the hall. “My lord.”

Legolas was stunned; Eomer looked dreadful. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked as if he had not slept in days. The King of the Mark sighed, leaning suddenly against the wall. “Gimli.”

Gimli sighed as well. “Now what’s happening?”

“The same thing that has been happening since…” Eomer shook his head. “You know. I have just seen the Queen, and she is fearful. Aragorn…he is in a terrible state. He will see no one, save Arwen, and she cannot bring him back to himself. Faramir is doing all he can to keep the councilors and ministers at bay, but they are all clamoring to see the King, the people want the Hunter brought to something resembling justice,” Gimli gave a bark of bitter laughter at that, “and arrangements must be made for Legolas’s…” Eomer swallowed hard and finished in a choked voice, “for Legolas’s funeral.”

Gimli winced, and the two avoided each other’s eyes for a minute. “Should I go to him?” asked the dwarf quietly.

Eomer looked away again. “I do not think it would help.”

“You mean he would be even less likely to see me.”

“Frodo told me what happened, Gimli. You did the right thing. Even if Aragorn could have got the accursed thing to work in such a fashion, his life force would not have been strong enough to restore an elf from death. He would have died for nothing, and Gondor might well have destroyed itself in the aftermath. Nay, Gimli, the Reunified Lands need Aragorn. We both know it, and if Legolas were here, he would say so too.”

“If the elf were here, he’d say many things,” muttered Gimli, his voice growing tight again. “Perhaps someone should remind Aragorn of that. Legolas would berate him within an inch of his life for getting himself into such a state.”

Eomer made a sound that was both a laugh and a sob. “Don’t we know it.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps you should go to Faramir, though. That poor man was as close to Legolas as any of us, and he is now burdened with running the Kingdom and keeping those bloodsucking ministers away from Aragorn. He could use your support.”

“I would be glad to offer it, beginning with giving those ministers a good swing of my axe.”

“Do not tempt him.” They both laughed, and Eomer wiped his eyes. “I shall see you later, Gimli.”

“Whither do you go?”

“To find my sister. She knows Faramir is occupied, but she still is taking…everything…very hard.”

“Are not we all. Until later, Eomer.”

***

Legolas followed Gimli to one of the meeting rooms, where Faramir was speaking to several of Aragorn’s ministers. “My Lord Faramir, I think we cannot continue thus until we have spoken with the King,” one of them was insisting, stubbornly jutting out his chest.

Faramir looked as if he wanted to throw his hands in the air. “My Lord Renim, as you know, the Halls of the Kings are in mourning. There are no regular meetings, and the King himself has suffered a grievous loss.”

“He was only an elf, surely it has been long enou--” Renim began.

Gimli slammed the handle of his axe to the floor. “It has been less than THREE DAYS, ministers of Gondor! Speak not of what you do not comprehend. Many here including King Elessar owed their lives to Legolas!” Glaring at each of the gaggle in turn, he growled, “I would caution you gentlemen to show a little more respect for the memory of a friend of your King, for if Lord Elessar happened to hear any of you speaking with such dismissal, he’d order all your swollen heads lopped off!”

*That’s the spirit, Gimli,* said Legolas, grinning in spite of himself. *That is more like the Gimli I remember.*

Apparently, Faramir thought so too, because the beleaguered Steward smiled faintly. Taking the more diplomatic approach now that he had the ministers’ undivided attention, he said, “Allow the King and Queen a few days to their grief, my lords. Until the regular schedule is restored, I am quite capable of managing what matters may arise for a few days.”

As if suddenly remembering that mourning was the usual result of a death, most of the ministers looked properly abashed, though one of them continued to wring his hands and said, “But if something pressing should come up, my lord--”

“--IF something pressing should come up, be assured that I shall send for the King with all speed, my lords,” said Faramir firmly.

That pacified them on the subject of Aragorn, to the watching elf’s relief, and Faramir had the interest of the group once again. “My lord, has it been decided what is to be done with Disaran?” asked one of the councilors.

Faramir shook his head, and Legolas noticed with alarm how weary the Steward looked. *I have yet to see a single friend who looks to have had enough sleep in the past three days. Ai, Gimli, it was not your fault. You warned me to take care, and I did not heed you; now everyone suffers the consequences.*

“There is still a question of who shall have jurisdiction over him,” Faramir was saying. “He is accused of the murder of as many as a hundred elves in three different realms over the past age.”

“The Eldar would be too soft on him,” muttered someone.

Gimli harrumphed. “I quite agree, but they’re the ones whose children he kills. Like as not, it will probably be for them to decide.”

Another man looked hesitantly at Faramir, “Turning him over to the Eldar may be easier said than done, Lord Steward. The people are calling for justice in the death of a member of the Fellowship, and they may desire to witness justice done. Getting Disaran out of the city to an elven realm could be difficult.”

Faramir frowned, absently rubbing his reddened eyes. “None of the elven lords present in the city now have requested the extradition of Disaran to their own realm thus far, of course all of them are currently mourning as well.”

“From what Le…” Gimli swallowed hard. “From what Legolas once told me, Disaran murdered elves in Rivendell, Lothlórien, and Mirkwood. They have representatives here in Minas Tirith now, two of whom have…” he gave a jerk of his head to avoid having to speak the words. “Perhaps they’ll let Disaran be executed in Gondor with representatives from both elves and men present.”

“I wonder,” said Faramir awkwardly. “Shall there be a trial?”

Initially incredulous glances slowly became thoughtful, as the men digested this. “If he’s been a fugitive all this time, then he’s never been tried,” murmured one.

“Is that truly necessary, we know he’s the one!” protested another.

“That’s not a good enough reason to dispense justice thus.”

Minister Renim seized on that. “That is a matter for the King to decide. We must consult--”

“We shall consult King Elessar, Minister Renim, either when we have something useful to report or when a matter arises that I have not the knowledge or authority to deal with myself. NOT before!” The Steward’s tone brooked no argument. He turned back to Gimli and the other ministers. “All the same, that detail, minor though it may seem, should be attended to.”

“Renim is partly right, my lord,” said someone, “the King is the only one with the authority to ultimately decide what happens to Disaran.”

“True,” Faramir nodded. “However, you ministers and I have the authority to investigate the charges against any accused criminal before bringing our findings to the King.”

“What shall we investigate then?”

Gimli cleared his throat. “Among my people, when one is accused of a crime, he is brought before a group of examiners to answer questions relating to the charges. You could bring Disaran here, and the elves who have knowledge of his attacks on their realms, and take their statements.”

“That is essentially the same as our law,” said Faramir. “When shall we examine Disaran?”

“The sooner the better,” muttered Minister Renim. Several of the other ministers glared at him, but nodded to Faramir.

The Steward in turn sighed. “If you wish, gentlemen, the day is young, and we can question him today. Shall I send for him?”

“Keep him well-guarded,” cautioned someone.

“Of course.”

“My Lord Faramir, with your permission,” said Gimli, raising his chin. “I would like to be present for this.”

Faramir contemplated Gimli, obviously wondering at the dwarf’s interest. Legolas, still watching unseen, was also curious. Apparently, Faramir could find no good reason to deny the dwarf, and after looking at the ministers, who shrugged, agreed. “As you will, Lord Gimli. My lords, I suggest you take this time to consider what questions you would like Disaran to answer.”

“But what if we fail to ask a question the King would want answered?” put in Renim.

“There’s nothing to say the King can’t question him again, man, if he’s not satisfied with what we learn,” snapped Gimli. “Cease harping on this. Lord Faramir is perfectly capable of running things in the King’s absence; that is his office as Steward, after all!” There were murmurs of agreement from the other ministers.

Faramir ordered the guards to have the man Disaran brought to the council chamber. Legolas greatly desired to remain with Gimli, despite the fact that the dwarf could neither see nor hear him, but knew he had best not put himself in a position where Disaran could see him again. *I am here, Gimli,* he called out one last time. *As long as I am forced to remain in Middle Earth, I shall never be far from you.* With that, he fled, desiring to be far away by the time Disaran arrived.

***

Faramir had his misgivings about allowing Gimli to remain present while Disaran was questioned. If the villain’s previous mannerisms were any indication, he cared nothing for the lives he had stolen, and would doubtlessly voice that disrespect in the presence of anyone. And Gimli had already visited his wrath upon the man, not that Faramir cared much for Disaran’s comfort, but it was not for Gimli alone to exact revenge. *If only because I see no reason why Gimli should be the only one allowed to make that beast bleed!* the thought slipped out before he could stop it.

Faramir had tried, truly he had, to keep some level of reason and rationality over the past few days. Valar knew, he needed to keep his head, since--*Blessed Elbereth, what are we going to do?!*--Aragorn seemed to have completely lost his.

He and Gandalf had led the grief-stricken King back to his quarters and seen to his shredded hands, which had, fortunately, looked worse than they truly were. But then Aragorn had retreated again into listlessness, and spoke hardly a word. Arwen seemed to be the only one who could even get him to meet her eyes. So on the advice of Gandalf she had prepared a powerful draught and dosed Aragorn unconscious, a fact which Faramir had no intention of revealing to any of the ministers. That had been around midnight, it was now almost noon, and Aragorn would probably sleep for at least another eight hours.

*We cannot put off the ministers and the people forever. Somehow we must bring him out of this.*

Faramir understood the pain Aragorn was feeling all too well. For himself, the Steward was managing to push it down during the day, but night brought the torment of ill dreams fraught with memory, and desperately-stifled tears. He was not certain how much longer he could endure this way. *Oh Legolas. Why did this have to happen? I wonder, did you ever realize what you meant to us? To Aragorn?*

He was snapped out of his black thoughts by the arrival of the Black Hunter, well-chained, before the King’s ministers. Faramir nodded to a scribe to come forward and note down every word of the proceedings, then turned to Disaran. The mocking smirk on the man’s face made his fists clench almost at once, with a near-irresistible urge to beat the bastard senseless with his bare hands.

Disaran did not give the Steward the chance to start. “Well, the tribunal begins, it seems! Shall I spare you gentlemen the trouble?”

Confirming Faramir’s fears, Gimli responded, “That would make things most useful, villain!”

Disaran bowed mockingly even as Faramir hissed at Gimli to hold his tongue. “Your wish is my command, Master Dwarf.” The ministers leaned forward in amazed disgust. “I believe I am charged with the murder of Legolas, son of Thranduil? Well, it’s quite true; I killed him. Of course, you have a witness to it right with you, Lord Steward, for the dwarf saw me claim the elfling’s immortality.”

“What of the other charges?” put in a minister, as Faramir laid a quick hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “The elves claim you have murdered dozens of their people.”

“Dozens?” exclaimed Disaran, the mirth in his voice making Faramir’s stomach turn. “Hundreds, good sir, hundreds! Do you desire them in any particular order? I remember every one!” He smirked sickly at Gimli, then took on a reminiscent tone, as though telling a story around a campfire to a group of friends. “The last time I went abroad in Middle Earth, I came across a wandering company of elves on their way from Mirkwood to the Grey Havens. They’re always easy prey. Did you know that elven maids are in the habit of washing their clothing and linens in rivers and streams at sunset? Quite a charming little scene to watch, especially when one maiden straggles away from the rest!” He leered, and Faramir felt a wave of nausea while noticing many of the ministers also looking about to be sick. “I fear I couldn’t tell you many names, but I took seven from that band before they fled to Rivendell. Four of them especially lovely maidens. Normally I don’t have time to gather trophies, but one had such a fine crop of golden hair that I could not resist cutting a lock to keep for myself--”

A great dwarven roar of rage drowned out the next words, followed by the crash of a chair being knocked over as its occupant sprang to his feet. As several ministers ran to join the incensed Gimli to vent their fury upon the prisoner, Faramir dove to stop them, thinking, *I KNEW this was a bad idea!*

***

At the same time…

Legolas had finally decided to find Aragorn and see if he might have better luck with him. He had already gone to look in the throne room and several of the studies, and was headed for the King and Queen’s chambers when he felt the invisible net of Disaran’s will seize him once again. *Ai! Valar! No!*

It seemed that Disaran’s hold on him spanned greater distances than he had thought. In spite of all his struggles, Legolas was dragged through walls and rooms and even people, even as he searched desperately for something to cling to, to no avail. He burst through the wall back into the council chamber to find Disaran mockingly telling the ministers, Faramir, and--*A Elbereth!*--Gimli about his exploits against other elves.

*Oh good, you made it,* he heard Disaran’s voice say in his head even as Disaran’s mouth continued to speak aloud. *I think your friends are about to tear me limb from limb, and I thought you would want to be here for that. Especially since you’re the one who gets to feel it all.*

*Stop this!* Legolas shouted at him. *You may be able to force me to feel your pain now, but if my spirit is taken, you shall be left to face the result. And I doubt if your spirit will survive your body’s execution no matter who is inside it at the time!*

Disaran laughed, both aloud and mentally, and continued his provocative words to the council. *Indeed? I begin to wonder what would happen if you were in my body when they executed it. I heard your cries when they thrashed me, and still your spirit suffers the pain. Perhaps you shall simply die--again. Only this time in my place! Ah, well, maybe now we’ll find out!*

*NO!* As Gimli roared in fury at something Disaran had said to them, Legolas felt his soul wrenched back into Disaran’s body as the man’s spirit slipped out, to stand and laugh at the hapless elf even as a crowd of furious men descended on him over Faramir’s shouts for order. And at the forefront of the group was Gimli. *Oh no…Gimli! GIMLI!! NO!!!*

When the dwarf reached him, Legolas could not have made Disaran’s body speak if Disaran’s spirit had allowed him to. For Gimli’s large, strong hands closed around Disaran’s throat, choking the breath from him, squeezing tighter and tighter. As for Legolas, he knew this was not his body, but as breath was cut off and the terrible hold tightened, it might as well have been, for he felt just as keenly the desperate need for air, and the pain. But most of all, the sight of the one inflicting this upon him. It was agony. *Breathe…I cannot…Gimli, no…can’t breathe…hurts…help me…please…* Legolas felt more than ever that it was his own body suffering this torment, as stars appeared in his vision and blood rushed in his face. *Ai! Gimli, please stop! Can’t breathe!* As the world began to spin, the horrible truth dawned upon Legolas. This was what Disaran had meant! If Legolas’s spirit was in Disaran’s body, it was Legolas who would die! And by Gimli’s hands…if the dwarf found out, it would destroy him. *No! Gimli! GIMLI!! Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe…*

“I’ll kill you, villain! There’s no death hard enough for one such as you! Die now, here, fighting as your innocent victims did!” Gimli’s face was contorted with hate in the trapped elf’s dimming vision, and it tortured Legolas to think this was the last sight of Gimli he would ever see. “Die!”

*****
To Be Continued…
*****

Am I evil, or what? Many of us have pondered the question of why we love torturing our favorite characters so much. My theory: we all need therapy. Especially me.

Don’t forget to review!

DEDICATION: This update is dedicated to Ithilien and Jay of Lasgalen for their birthdays (gee, I guess I could’ve picked a less depressing present!)

KUDOS to Ithilien and Mari: You’ve stumbled onto a detail of major importance, though I shall not specify which. Thundera Tiger is right, we do have a fine batch of sleuths among the readers! Several other readers have flirted with it, but you’ve hit one essential factor on the head!

More KUDOS to Mercredi, who is the first person to catch the underlying theme in my chapter titles! Can anyone else? Also thanks to Mercredi for reviewing all five chapters in one sitting! That’s always a treat for any author!

And I’ll give you all a foreshadow for this chapter: I also connect the emotional themes of each chapter with the character who feels them most. SO…that said…can anyone guess whose chapter this is? (Uh-oh)

REMEMBER: purists and canon police alike, do not forget that grief can cause a person to act in ways they normally would not, so don’t kill me if you see certain heroes seemingly going way out of character. (That goes especially for Thranduil fans in this chapter.)

REVISION NOTE: Two flashbacks in this chapter, and for anyone who’s curious, Legolas is thirty-two (the rough elven equivalent of an eleven-year-old) in these flashbacks.

Chapter Six: Anger

The Mountains of Mirkwood, the Year 1990 of the Third Age…

Disaran dropped the body of his prey upon the grass and dashed away, hearing the approach of a party of unsuspecting elves, unaware of the carnage he was about to wreak in their realm. He ceased his flight in a shallow cave in a hillside lest they hear his passage and peered down at them.

It was indeed a group of elf maidens doing nothing more than foraging for food in the company of a few warriors. Of course, completely unaware of what they were about to stumble across. The maiden in the lead of the group drew aside the undergrowth in search of berries and froze. Disaran grinned, wishing he were close enough to hear her words. He still did not understand elvish but most often he could guess what the living elves said when they discovered the mark of his passage. At the maiden’s alarm, the warriors and other girls crowded around the motionless form of the elf child that Disaran had taken, anxious to learn what had befallen him.

They found no wound on the boy, and confusion rippled through them. By now, Disaran had made his presence known in all the elven realms from the Misty Mountains eastward, and it did not take the warriors long to think of him. Bows were notched in a hurry, and the gatherers banded together, terror vivid in their beautiful features. One of the maidens tearfully took up the body of the child, and their voices raised in shouts of terror as they fled back to the nearby village from whence they had come.

Disaran grinned to himself. He was gaining quite a reputation in Middle Earth, it would seem. Undoubtedly, messengers would be racing back to the elven king’s halls by nightfall, announcing this, his first visit to the Realm of Thranduil.

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

It enraged Faramir to see Disaran continuing to laugh right up to the point where Gimli’s hands latched around his neck. Several other councilors charged the murderer along with the dwarf, intent on making him suffer than and there for boasting so of his defilement of innocent elves. However distant the Eldar might seem to men now, they were still a revered race, and for anyone to speak so carelessly of murdering them…it deserved retaliation.

So a part of Faramir actually hesitated as Disaran’s lips turned blue while his face turned red, and his eyes began to roll back from lack of air. Had Legolas been unable to breathe as Disaran’s stone drained the life from him? Perhaps this was a fitting end--*no. It is not for us.* And so Faramir waded through the crowd of shouting ministers, seized the dwarf, and with the aid of a few others who had managed to keep their wits, dragged Gimli’s hands off Disaran’s neck. “Gimli! Be off! We’ve not the right to execute him! All of you, back! Gimli! Cease this!” But as the man fell free, Faramir thought he heard a laugh come from the raspy throat, and with a growl of rage, Faramir pushed Gimli aside, whirled back on Disaran, and slammed the man to the ground with a single blow of his fist.

How fine it felt, the connection of his knuckles to left side of the Black Hunter’s jaw, and Faramir delivered several more sound punches to the murderer’s face until Disaran was senseless upon the ground. Breathing hard, with exertion of restraining Gimli, and with fury, Faramir stood up, gesturing sharply to the guards. “Take him back to his cell,” he spat.

***

In the same place at the same time…

Faramir or one of the others must have pulled Gimli back. For a long time, the spirit of Legolas was just as prostrate as his body would have been, had he himself received such a near-throttling, but even after his soul fell out of Disaran’s body when it lost consciousness, he still could not move. Whether this was the cause of the near-death-after-death experience of being choked so, or Disaran’s will, (since the man’s spirit stood nearby still laughing at the elf) Legolas did not know.

It was probably a combination of the two. There was no unconscious bliss for Legolas to retreat into, and escape from the beaten body offered him no relief from pain. He still felt it. If anything, the agony in his soul of watching the dwarf’s face as Gimli tried to choke him to death was even greater than what he had felt physically. He wanted to weep, but in this form, his spirit-body did not have the ability. How strange that such a motive would exist for being physical, because it was a powerful desire. For this body to be real enough, substantial enough, to feel the pain in the flesh, rather than the soul, and to lie where he was and cry and cry and cry…

*Oh, poor little elf!* Disaran’s mocking voice intruded on the elf’s thoughts.

Legolas closed his eyes. *If your only purpose in holding me here is to witness the misery you have caused, then at least do me the courtesy of amusing yourself silently.*

The man laughed. How he soiled the action of laughter, how he defiled the innocent expression of pleasure with his foul smiles and cruel laughter. Legolas did not believe he himself could ever feel pleasure or laugh again. Even if he did somehow survive. *What do I say? There can be no surviving. I already died once.*

*That you did, my dear Legolas.*

*I’m not your ‘dear’ anything!*

*But you are! You are my chattel, my source of power, receptacle of my body’s pain, and in the end, you shall be my means of escape.*

*You shall be made to pay in time. One day you shall know suffering such as that which you have caused and reveled in.*

*How well you know me, Master Elf, oh high-and-mighty Eldar! I do revel in this! It is quite satisfying to see you perfect people humbled! And how many I have humbled! You at least fought! Some have screamed in terror, some have fallen and wept, some have even begged for their lives! The ones I get alone, far from any hope of aid, they are the ones who beg! I suppose that means you elves are only great and wise in numbers, for you’re downright cowards alone--*

*Have done, you bastard!* Legolas cried furiously.

*Did you catch the last bit of that conversation? I sometimes take trophies from the ones I get alone! The best is when I get one who straggled from a group. Then one of their friends inevitably comes looking for them, and well, you know the rest!*

*STOP IT!* the trapped elf began to feel Gimli’s desire to go for the cruel man’s throat, and he surged against the seemingly-limitless strength of Disaran’s will.

Disaran went on, laughing at the torment he was inflicting on the elf. *You’re from Mirkwood, aren’t you? I had some good pickings there. You must have been alive when I stopped in; perhaps I found one of your friends? I remember…there is one family line in your kingdom with remarkable red hair! I followed one of their daughters for three days until I could catch her alone, just so I’d have time to cut myself a lock of that!*

*STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!!!*

Disaran went on gleefully, *In a way, I rather regret having settled for you. I should truly have loved the challenge of getting myself a lock of your Evenstar’s hair, so black and fine--*

With an inarticulate scream of rage, Legolas pushed with all his will and fury against Disaran’s will, driven beyond reason by the man’s defilement of his people, and the pleasure he had taken in that violation. All at once, the invisible grip gave, and Legolas’s spirit flew at Disaran’s, surprising the elf as much as the man. The two spirit-bodies, insubstantial to the living world but solid to each other, collided and tumbled down. Legolas went straight for the man’s face, desiring in his mad rage to gouge Disaran’s eyes out, not caring that they were not even his real eyes.

Before either one had recovered from the surprise of the situation, Disaran suddenly vanished, and Legolas found himself alone. His spirit trembled with anger and pain, and he slowly calmed himself. Where had the villain gone? *His body must be conscious again. So he shall either attempt to drag me back to him or leave me until he is ready to subject me to another of his beatings.* Legolas sighed mentally. If only Faramir and the guards were not quite so loose in their treatment of prisoners. *Not that I myself can claim that I do not believe Disaran deserves it, but none could ever imagine that someone else might be forced to endure his pain in his place.*

Ai, how he ached. It did not seem possible that a spirit could hurt this much, but he did. And he was tired. *At least when I was truly dead I could have found peace away from all this!* Bitterness suddenly surged through him. Had the Valar known this would happen? Had Mandos? Had he been sent back deliberately? To what end? He could not aid those who suffered, and the very one who had sucked his immortality away now had Legolas at his mercy, to torment as long as he willed. *Why?!* he railed at the Valar, at whoever was responsible for this situation. *What have I done to face this? Could I not simply live or simply die? Why this?*

In yet another bitter irony, Legolas felt Disaran’s will latch onto him, and found himself once again unable to fight back. The effort of ripping himself free that one time had exhausted him just as if he were real. Weary and frustrated, he gave over the battle, and let himself be dragged back toward the prison, where his tormentor waited. *Either way, I am lost. If there was no will behind it, then I’ve no way to ever be freed. If there is a higher cause, then the Valar saved me. For this.*

***

King Thranduil was returning to his chambers from the gardens when he encountered Faramir--along with the absolute last person in Middle Earth that Thranduil wanted to see. “Lord Faramir,” he said with a curt nod, deliberately ignoring the dwarf at the man’s side.

Faramir bowed, then narrowed his eyes at the son of Glóin (who had not bowed.) Turning back to the elven king, he said in a forced tone, “My Lord Thranduil. I had intended to send a messenger to you.” He hesitated. When Thranduil did not reply, but did not walk away either, he went on. “I am overseeing the examination of the man Disaran, in preparation for a possible trial of sorts. If you should wish to request the extradition of Disaran to your realm--”

“--I most certainly do!” snapped Thranduil.

Pausing uncertainly, Faramir cleared his throat and nodded. “I see. We recognize that Disaran is accused of murder within your borders as well, but please understand my lord, there are at least two other elven realms that also may have legitimate claims, and Disaran murdered a friend of Gondor in our city streets--”

“--And that claim is surely overridden by the fact that this ‘friend of Gondor’ is my son!” retorted Thranduil. “If any can claim jurisdiction in Legolas’s death, it is I!”

Faramir looked rather weary, but to Thranduil’s irritation, he did not back down. “I shall make certain that your claim in that case is noted,” he said stiffly. “In the mean time, I have the King’s authority to make Disaran available at any time you wish to question him--though I warn you he has been less than cooperative, and said some very…er…provocative things so far.”

Thranduil mulled this over, folding his arms. He had no desire to admit that anything these people had done would be of use to him. They had already deprived him of his youngest son. But then again, he wanted Disaran back in Eryn Lasgalen, to be tried for the murder of Thranduil’s child and no less than seventeen Silvan elves during the two times he had entered Thranduil’s realm. Faramir had obviously assumed the elves would not care where Disaran was executed, as long as they were able to have some say in it. But that would never be enough for Thranduil. He did not want to see the man executed. He wanted to do it himself. *My son…he killed my son…I want his blood on my blade!*

Curtly, he said to Faramir, “I will question Disaran myself.”

Faramir nodded, abandoning all pretense of cordiality and settling for bare civility. Thranduil found that it rather made him think better of Faramir. Slightly. “We shall arrange for Disaran to be brought back to the Halls--”

“That is unnecessary. I will see him in his cell.”

“My lord? Can we not do--”

“I thank you, Lord Steward,” snarled Thranduil, bitterness bursting through his tone. Under normal circumstances, Thranduil would be far more cautious of when and how would be the best way to display hostility, but now he cared not. *My son is dead. Slain by a mortal seeking his immortality, murdered on the streets of your mortal city! You mortals allowed this to happen!* Aloud, he said coldly, “You and your King,” he made the title a slight slur, “have done quite enough already. For me and my son.”

Faramir actually blanched at that, then turned and walked hastily away. So, he was as weak as the rest of them after all! Thranduil cared not. He cared for nothing anymore, in this forsaken place. *My son, my son!* The silence was vanishing from his heart, but that was no blessing. Now the noise was coming, the noise Thranduil had been dreading. The growing scream of grief and pain, deep within his soul, led him to abandon any attempts at civility to these lesser creatures that had drawn in Thranduil’s child and left him to die alone in the streets of Minas Tirith.

Thranduil started to walk on to his chambers, but found the dwarf blocking his path. Black eyes glittering angrily, the stunted creature hissed, “You’ve no right to speak to him in such a fashion, Thranduil! He is the Steward of Gondor!”

Most days, Thranduil would have simply ignored the dwarf, or bade him watch his own tongue. But Thranduil had been forced to look at this creature for nearly three days, since every time he went to the House of Kings where his son lay, that infuriating dwarf was always there! He would not cease plaguing Legolas even in death! Nay, both Thranduil and Gimli had known since the night of Legolas’s death that words would be passing between them soon, as they had not when Legolas was alive. Such words could not be said while Legolas lived, but now…

“I care not if he is the King of all mortals in Middle Earth, stunted one! He, his King, and you are naught but prime examples of the incompetent races whose failings have led to the death of my son.”

“I always thought your mind was slightly off-balance, elven king! If I recall correctly, it was one madman who killed your son, and you were there to see it! What ailed you, Thranduil of Mirkwood, that you could simply stand there and watch while Disaran slew Legolas? Did your hate for mortals so blind you that you would not dirty your hands touching one even to save the life of your son?”

Their voices were rising, rousing the attention of the guards, and only the rapidly-closing circle of alarmed soldiers that prevented the verbal battle from giving way to a physical one. All the same, Thranduil nearly cut the dwarf’s head off at those words, but two of the guards surged forward, so he stayed his hand. Instead, in a cold voice, the elven king hissed, “I most certainly made a mistake, Master Dwarf, leaving my son alone in your company. Had I been thinking clearly in my concern for the Evenstar, I would have realized you could not be trusted with such a task of defending Legolas, even though he was fool enough to name you elvellon, and to trust you and that spawn of Isildur!”

“Do not bring Aragorn into this!” bellowed the dwarf, drawing himself up absurdly. “He cared more for Legolas than you ever have!”

“Yea, he cared for having an elven colony on his lands, tending his forests, bringing prestige and power to his name,” barked Thranduil. “For that he most certainly cared. Cared enough to let Legolas leave the Halls of the Kings even after we came to warn him! I warned Legolas he was a fool to trust you mortals, but the poor misguided child would not hear me, and died for his trust of you!”

“A plague on you, Thranduil of Mirkwood, for your blind hate!” roared Gimli. “We flawed mortals have wept for Legolas, while you seek only to bring more pain to us all! You revel in misery as much as the man who killed your son!”

“And a plague on you and all your race, Gimli son of Glóin!” Thranduil shouted back, abandoning control completely. “Your race’s cowardice and stupidity have claimed my wife and now my son! I would say it is you who revel in misery, or at least look first to your own safety and comfort before giving thought to your guests or those who are fools enough to call you friends! Curse you!” *I could have restored him. With the Stone I could have given him my life. But you’ve shattered it for the sake of that accursed King, and now Legolas is truly lost! Thanks to you and Aragorn!*

“You did not deserve Legolas, you hateful creature!” the dwarf cried. “All you have ever sought to do is isolate yourself and your pleasures from the suffering of the world, while Legolas joined the Fellowship of the Ring to end it. How it must guile you, elven king, to have a son more distinguished than you. How hard Legolas worked to restore Ithilien, but where was his father to celebrate his accomplishments?”

“And where was the one he called ‘elvellon,’” hissed Thranduil, “when he lay stricken in the streets of Minas Tirith? You abandoned him to die in an alley even as he called to you!”

Gimli jerked backward, stunned. “You lie.”

Laughing bitterly, Thranduil shook his head. “Nay, ‘elf-friend,’” he made a cold mockery of the phrase. “I speak the truth. He called you, cried to you, even as he breathed his last. I was there, your beloved Aragorn was there, but it was YOU to whom he called. Your name! Your name, the last word he ever spoke!” His voice was taking on a frenzied pitch, out of control in grief and rage, and also confusion, as he cried out the words that had eaten at his mind since that bitter night.

“Where were you, Gimli son of Glóin?! He declared you elvellon, but I see nothing that made you worthy of such a title, let alone a reason why he would want you of all people at his side at the moment of his death! You think yourself worthy to be his friend? Why were you not there when my son died calling your name?!”

***

From the prison of Disaran’s body, Legolas gazed out of the cell. Valar only knew where Disaran had vanished to, but at least the elf was granted some respite from his taunting. He only wished he could use Disaran’s body to call out to someone.

Or at least go to sleep. It did not seem fair that a spirit should feel this tired.

He felt rather than saw or heard Disaran’s spirit returning, and mentally groaned. Undoubtedly the creature would have plenty of miserable tidings to impart.

He was right. *I’ve just seen your father, son of Thranduil!* said the spirit as he strolled through the wall. *He’s on his way here to question us. Hope you don’t mind if I chat with him from a few feet away from my body.* Legolas did not answer, and tried to keep his mind blank. *He and your dwarf friend just had quite the little spat in the Halls of the Kings. Said some dreadful things to one another about you.*

In spite of himself, Legolas looked at Disaran. *My father and Gimli? Oh no, no…* Such a confrontation could not have gone well.

Disaran laughed, not needing the ability to hear Legolas’s thoughts to know what the elf dreaded. *I didn’t know your father harbored such feelings towards mortals, my, especially the dwarves! Such ugly things, he and your friend said to each other. It makes it all the more amazing that you and…Gimli, was it?…could become friends. So you died calling to the dwarf, rather than your father, did you? He seems to resent that, or at least that’s the impression I got when he told the dwarf.*

*He…* Legolas felt horror surge through him. *He told Gimli?*

*That he did. Of course, the dwarf had just told him that your friends cared more for you than your father, which seemed to ruffle that elf’s feathers a bit, but he got his own back. Rendered the dwarf speechless. He still hadn’t moved when I came back here.*

Legolas had found that with a great deal of effort, he could make Disaran’s eyes close, and did so then. *Oh Father. Even now, you do not understand?*

The outer door opened. Disaran’s spirit grinned at the elf trapped inside his body. *Ah, here he is now.*

*****

Mirkwood, the Year 1990 of the Third Age, two months after the Black Hunter’s arrival…

“Father? What’s happened--” Legolas, still young enough to be foolishly curious, had somehow given Golwen the slip and come outside the outer palace to learn what all the excitement was about.

On most occasions, the elven king would simply have sent Legolas back inside with a sharp word and given him a scolding later. On this occasion, however, he seized the elven guard nearest him, flinging the warrioress in front of him, and crossed the green to where Legolas stood in several swift strides. Legolas had no time to ask more questions as he was bodily seized by his father and carried at a near-run back into the palace.

Thranduil did not set his son down until they were safely in the boy’s chamber, and Legolas stared at him in astonishment as he said harshly, “NEVER do that again, Legolas. Do you understand me? NEVER go outside when you and the other children have been ordered to stay within. Do you understand?”

Wide eyed, Legolas gaped at Thranduil for a moment before nodding shakily. His father rarely raised his voice or behaved in a heavy-handed fashion toward him. After catching his breath and calming the thudding of his heart, Thranduil sighed, reaching out to touch the child’s golden hair. “Forgive me, my son. I did not mean to frighten you. But you must understand that when the children are ordered to remain within doors, it is for a very good reason. There is great danger without of late. Some of our people have been slain by…by an unknown force. You MUST stay inside, Legolas.”

Legolas nodded contritely. “Yes, Father. I am sorry. I’ll not do it again, I promise.”

Fighting the tremors that threatened to take him at the hideous thoughts that came unbidden to his mind, Thranduil caught his son in his arms. “Thank you, little one. You must keep that promise; it shall set my mind at ease. I cannot bear the thought of anything befalling you.” Legolas nodded, his great gray eyes serious in his little face, and Thranduil squeezed him one last time.

The elven king returned to the outer courtyard, to face once again the sight he had been so desperate to keep from his son’s eyes. Two bodies had been recovered this time: another child, and his mother with him. The boy, younger than Legolas, had strayed from his mother’s side when they had been returning from an outer village to take refuge in the palace, and…Thranduil swallowed convulsively as the healers examined the little body.

“It is just as the others, my lord,” said one of them. “The work of the Black Hunter, without any doubt.”

He forced his ears not to hear the muffled sobs that rippled around the crowd of elves. Turning to the palace’s head healer, he asked quietly, “And what of his mother?”

Eirien, the healer (who was also his eldest son’s wife), rose with tears in her eyes from examining the elven woman. “This was not the work of the Black Hunter, my lord.”

There was a murmur of incredulity from the onlookers, and Eirien explained quietly, “It is clear…she found him slain and…was taken by her own grief at that very instant. She died at her own will.”

Sobs rang out anew and many elves collapsed in each other’s arms. This made eight in the time since the first victim had been discovered, with STILL no sign of the foul murderer! How could a mortal elude the best trackers in Mirkwood (and even, in one victim’s case, turn the hunters into the hunted!) And now one elf had died even without the Hunter’s hand, he reminded himself, bitterness and helplessness surging within him. It was all such a waste.

Then again, he mused miserably, gazing at the small, limp hand being covered by an elven funeral shroud, he supposed he could not blame her.

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

It gave King Thranduil some small measure of satisfaction to notice how bedraggled Disaran was when the elven king again came into the cell block. The shattered remains of the stone of Ar-Pharazôn were still upon the table, but now it was Disaran himself that Thranduil wanted to see. He was not certain exactly what questions he wanted to ask, nor what difference it would make, but he did know that he wanted to take up any opportunity to make the mortal suffer.

“Good day to you, Lord Thranduil!”

This was going to be even harder than he had thought. What could he ask? What could he say? Staring at the dark man, his right hand extended in a mock-cheerful wave from his cell, Thranduil knew that there was no certainty in the truth of whatever Disaran might say--unless, of course, the truth was likely to torment the elven king.

*He killed my son he killed my son he killed my son my son my son* Thranduil’s mind spun, his thoughts a fevered combination of rage and horror. The elven king knew the necessity of steeling oneself against the harshness of the world, but this creature’s utter lack of feeling or remorse for the lives of the elves he had taken sickened him. *I could speak long of Legolas’s life, of his brothers, his sisters, his friends, and those to whom I must return and tell that he is dead, and you would laugh. You would mock their sorrow, revel in their grief! What sort of creature are you? You demon! YOU MONSTER!!!*

Before Thranduil knew what he was doing, his own hand shot out and seized Disaran’s wrist. With the other hand, he snatched up the nearest brazier providing light and warmth to the cellblock, and yanked it closer. Then he wrenched Disaran’s arm out between the bars and plunged his right hand directly into the burning coals.

The man’s scream of pain, and the way the face crumpled in surprised agony brought Thranduil more pleasure than he would ever be able to admit to himself. Even though a part of him whispered that this was wrong, he held the Black Hunter’s hand in the flames, listening to the hiss of burning flesh, watching Disaran’s eyes squeeze closed, and noticing with surprise that he did not pull back. The slam of a door warned the elven king that the guards had been alerted, and so with a shade of reluctance, he let go. Disaran staggered back and fell to the floor of his cell, where he lay motionless. Not unconscious though, for his eyes watched Thranduil rather dispassionately.

At last, Thranduil thought of something to say, as the guards peered into the room wondering what had happened. “May the souls of all the elves you have murdered be waiting for you, when at last you appear before the threshold of Mandos.” Deliberately ignoring the guards, he turned and walked from the room.

***

In the same room at the same time…

*Oh Father…Father…I’m sorry…Valar, never let them find out what this creature has done. It would kill them to know it was me.* Legolas watched Thranduil leave, a part of him wishing his father had stayed longer. Seeing Thranduil go made him feel lonelier than ever as he lay, unable to even move Disaran’s burned hand.

He did not blame Thranduil for this action, despite the agony he was in. It had always been his father’s nature to lash out when he was aggrieved, but what devastated Legolas was the knowledge of exactly who the elven king was lashing out against. *You don’t understand. It wasn’t their fault. It was no one’s fault but Disaran’s. Please do not blame them…Father…*

***

The next morning…

Aragorn awoke to find Arwen anxiously watching him. “Undómiel? What is the time?”

“A little past dawn.”

“Strange,” he murmured, sitting up. “I feel as though I have been asleep longer.” She came to sit beside him on the bed, and he caught the look in her eyes. “How long?”

“Just over a day.”

“Arwen!”

“Estel!” her voice cracked badly as she placed a desperate hand over his lips. “Please. This cannot go on. Faramir is doing all he can to keep the kingdom in order, but your people need you. You cannot continue this way, consumed by your grief. Legolas would never forgive you!”

It brought Aragorn up sharp, to see the naked fear in his wife’s eyes. He dropped his gaze, and she took her hand away. Taking her hands in his, he murmured, “Forgive me, Undómiel. I have not been myself.”

Tears sliding easily down her face, she smiled wanly and replied, “None of us have been. Still we grieve, but we need you. There are decisions to be made, that Faramir cannot stand in for you. Legolas…he must have a funeral, and soon. And King Thranduil wishes to extradite Disaran to Eryn Lasgalen, but Lothlórien and Imladris may also make such a claim, and all attempts to question Disaran have gone very ill. The people are clamoring for justice for Legolas, and if we do not answer them soon, they may storm the prison and take it onto themselves.”

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his eyes. “That will never do.” He rose and stared out of the window. “A funeral,” he murmured. “Has Thranduil…”

“Nay, but I suspect he will want Legolas’s body turned over to him as soon as the subject is raised,” said Arwen. “I have heard…he is reacting to Legolas’s murder by a mortal…predictably.”

Aragorn winced. He knew what she meant. “Bad?”

“Very. The guards say he and Gimli had an exchange yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh Valar, no. That could not have been pleasant.”

“Gimli has returned to the House of Kings and will speak to no one.”

With another sigh, Aragorn went to dress himself. “I suppose it is as well I had an extra long sleep. This looks to be a long day.”

“Estel.” He turned and saw Arwen’s nervous expression. “Mithrandir bade me say, you are not to show yourself unless you can promise him that you will have all your wits about you.”

In spite of himself, Aragorn laughed wearily. “I shall do my best. Forgive me, Arwen,” he returned to her side. “In my grief, I fear I forgot many things.”

“Hush. I understand all too well. In the past three days,” she shook her head, her eyes darkening with sorrow. “I have seen many people forget many things. Most of all, Legolas’s friends are forgetting what he most would have wanted.”

***

A little while later, in a council room in the Halls of the Kings…

This was going to be a VERY long meeting. Gandalf the White sat in a chair near the head of the table, gazing at the participants, and fighting the urge to groan. He and Faramir had not been able to think of any better way to go about this, and yet…it was going to be a VERY long meeting.

Next to him sat Frodo, and beside him, as always, Sam. Frodo looked dreadful; the poor hobbit, like everyone, was grieving terribly for Legolas, and being forced to watch Aragorn and other friends of the elf going to pieces was not aiding the Ringbearer’s recovery. Sam, as always, looked to Frodo’s welfare first, but the gardener’s eyes were red and puffy with recent and prolonged weeping. *Poor Sam,* thought Gandalf. *This was not the reunion he planned for Frodo.*

On the other side of the table from the two hobbits was King Eomer. The young King of the Mark had much gratitude from Gandalf for the aid he had given Faramir in the running of things when Aragorn had been overwrought. Eomer had smoothly (and discreetly) assumed command of the handling of the guard of Minas Tirith, while Faramir had looked to the matters of state, and between the two of them, they had well kept everything together in the absence of Aragorn. However, that temporary arrangement could not last much longer. Beside Eomer sat Merry and Pippin. The two hobbits’ faces were so grave and solemn that Gandalf stared at them. Those somber expressions seemed downright foreign on that ever-playful pair. It hurt the Maia’s heart to see them this way.

Beyond the hobbits sat the elves, who were the real reason this assembly had been called. Also the reason why it promised to be so long. There were Celeborn and Haldir of Lórien, composed and solemn to any other than Gandalf, who could see past the calm exteriors to the deep sorrow within, for deaths past and present. There also were Elladan and Elrohir, who represented Imladris. Gandalf had seen little of the twins since the day he had returned to Minas Tirith, for he himself had been preoccupied trying to bring Aragorn back to himself. However, the sound of two eerily similar elven voices singing laments frequently floated through the windows of the palace from the gardens, and so Gandalf suspected the twins had tried to quietly mourn their longtime friend while keeping out of everyone’s way.

Furthest from the head of the table--where the King and Steward of Gondor would sit--was King Thranduil. Now there was likely to be the cause of most of the delays today, certainly most of the strife. Gandalf had attempted to catch Legolas’s father before the meeting, but alas, Thranduil was quite skilled at avoiding people he did not wish to speak to, and thus had evaded the wizard all morning. And now, judging by the stiff way he was sitting, and the hard set of his jaw, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the elven king of Eryn Lasgalen was in a decidedly belligerent mood.

Gandalf forced himself to think charitably. *His son has been murdered. He always harbored ill feelings towards mortals, and a mortal has slain Legolas precisely because he was an elf. It happened in Gondor. Thranduil has never been especially flexible in his opinions, and now this…one can hardly blame him for being a bit irrational. Valar know he has not been the only one to lose his head in recent days.*

Speaking of people losing their heads, at that moment, a muted bell rang, and Faramir entered the room to announce Aragorn. Everyone rose, though it appeared that Thranduil intended not to until Celeborn turned and shot him the most fierce scowl that Gandalf had ever seen coming from the normally good-natured Lord of Lothlórien. “My lords,” said Faramir, and Gandalf winced inwardly at the weariness in the Steward’s voice. “I present Elessar, King of Gondor, and the Reunified Lands.”

Aragorn entered, briefly meeting the Maia’s eyes, and Gandalf nearly sighed aloud to see, at last, alertness in the King of Gondor’s gaze. All the assembled bowed, with the unsurprising exception of Thranduil. Faramir looked about to bristle as he took his place at the King’s left hand, but Aragorn stilled him with a light touch to his arm. That calm, subtle command eased Gandalf’s worries still more, and the company was about to be seated when the bell suddenly rang again.

Everyone blinked, and Aragorn and Faramir turned back to the door curiously. To the surprise of all (including, it appeared, Aragorn and Faramir), the Lady Eowyn entered, garbed formally in a dark blue gown that was nearly black and a belt of silver, her golden hair bound in a net of dark lace beneath the silver circlet upon her head. “My lords,” she declared calmly. “I present the Queen of Gondor and the Reunified Lands, Lady Arwen Undómiel.”

Arwen was clothed in black itself, her raven hair barely distinguishable from the velvet cloak she wore over her gown. Upon entering the room, she lifted the black veil of mourning from her face, giving the barest nod to the startled and hasty bows from the assembled men.

Judging by the look Faramir and Aragorn exchanged, neither man had expected this. The elves exchanged glances as well. Gandalf fought the urge to groan as Thranduil spoke up. “Lord Elessar, I hardly think this is a discussion of matters fit for the presence of women.”

This time, nearly everyone at the oval table turned to glare at the elven king (hobbits included). Eowyn took a step forward, and for the first time, the company noticed that from her silver belt hung a sword. Placing her hand lightly upon the hilt, the Lady of Ithilien said in a low, hard voice, “My Lord Thranduil, the Queen of Gondor has a right to take part in any discussion she chooses.”

Naturally, Thranduil was quite taken aback, and Aragorn traded a quick glance with several of the others. Then Eomer suddenly took a step away from his seat at Aragorn’s right side, bowing to Arwen. “My Lady?”

Arwen’s gray eyes shot him a grateful look as she moved to the proffered seat, feigning socially correct indifference to the stares of all the men at the table (including her husband.) Eowyn did not wait to be offered a seat, for there was no room close to the head of the table unless Gandalf or one of the hobbits relinquished theirs, but instead followed Eomer toward the end of the table to an empty seat that put her dangerously close to Thranduil. The elven king shot her a look that might have been intimidated. Gandalf almost smiled.

*You think you know much of mortal men, Thranduil, but I would wager you have yet to test your self-proclaimed elvish superiority against a mortal woman. Especially that one. Choose your battles well.*

Aragorn and Arwen simultaneously seated themselves, and then the rest followed. Aragorn spoke. “I have called this meeting to address the matter of jurisdiction in the case of the man Disaran, whom the elves call the Black Hunter. He was arrested for…for a crime committed within the borders of Gondor, against one of the Eldar.” It seemed that the King had decided the best way to speak of the painful matters was to take refuge in strict formality. It was a fact for which many of the company were grateful. “Lord Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen has already made a claim upon Disaran’s person, for the murder of seventeen Silvan elves, and also for the--most recent murder.”

At that news, the elves of Imladris and Lórien sat up in surprise, and all four turned to fix accusing stares at Thranduil, who for his part, simply raised his chin stubbornly. Gandalf thought he saw several people wince. He wasn’t surprised; with that expression, Thranduil had looked just like Legolas.

Clearing his throat, Aragorn went on, “Have any of the representatives from the other elven realms a claim to make?”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged glances, then Elladan rose. Celeborn narrowed his eyes once more at Thranduil, and also rose. Then, to the surprise of everyone, Faramir rose. “Lord Faramir?” asked Aragorn.

“By your leave, my lord, I stand for Ithilien.” Intakes of breath sounded up and down the table. Thranduil leapt to his feet, about to shout a protest, but Faramir snatched out a parchment and held it aloft. “Narbeleth, elven captain of the guard of Ithilien, delivered this request to me this morning by way of messenger. It bears her seal.” He displayed it to all, then opened it. “The elves of Ithilien petition also that the murderer of their lord be tried and punished on their land. So it seems there are now four claims of justice to be settled.”

The elves faltered. Closing his eyes for a moment, Elrohir spoke up. “Can there be any doubt of the outcome of a trial in any of our realms? Each of us can produce witnesses proving Disaran’s guilt. And can there be any doubt that nothing less than a penalty of death would serve justice?”

“That creature’s blood should be spilt upon the lands he terrorized,” growled Thranduil.

“You’ll have to kill him at least four times, then,” muttered Sam. The look of utter affrontry upon Thranduil’s face at being interrupted by a mere hobbit was almost comical. Turning slightly red at finding himself the center of attention, Sam nonetheless stood his ground and rose, still looking at Thranduil. “Lord King, no one can blame you for being angry at what that…fiend…did to Legolas. We loved him too. But you won’t accomplish much of anything by trying to gum things up with a demand like this.”

“How dare y--”

“Peace, my lord,” said Gandalf, rising. He motioned to Sam, who reluctantly sat down again. Turning to the company, he spoke the words he had feared would need saying, and bluntly too. But it was time to stop dancing around the bitter truth of what had to be done. None would emerge from this meeting completely happy. *Indeed, the only way for that to happen would be to give these elves their children back.* “Good people, no one here can claim to have suffered the most at Disaran’s hands. Rivendell was the first realm to suffer the Black Hunter’s terror, Ithilien the last. Two of you here have lost sons.” Thranduil stiffened, and Celeborn looked quickly down at his hands. “Everyone here has lost friends. I know our instinct is to rage, but it will avail no one. We must see reason again, and seek a compromise that will bring comfort to more than ourselves.”

Celeborn sighed and looked up again; the elven lord suddenly appeared aged. “What would you suggest, Mithrandir?”

“Disaran was taken in Gondor. He is here now. Representatives of every realm whose people he slew are here now, or can be here within a few days. The people of Gondor have seen a hero of the War murdered in their streets; they too cry for justice. Let the Black Hunter meet his fate here.”

For a few moments, the eyes of all the elves were distant, as each digested this. Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other, then at Aragorn, and were the first to nod their approval. “Imladris will relinquish her claim if the Black Hunter remains in Gondor.”

Celeborn looked at Haldir, then said, “Lórien too shall accede to this, provided that time is granted for additional…representatives of our people to arrive.”

“You have sent for them, my lord?” asked Aragorn.

“I sent Rúmil to Lórien the day after…” Celeborn inclined his head without speaking the words. “There are some among my people who will wish to be present to see the Black Hunter brought to justice. I expect they shall arrive within a few days.”

“That is reasonable,” agreed Aragorn. “Faramir? Do you require time to consult Narbeleth on this?”

“Nay, my lord, I have her authority in writing to speak for the elves of Ithilien.” Thranduil looked quite shocked at this. “I also have it from her that Ithilien will have no objection to the Black Hunter being tried and punished in Minas Tirith, also provided that they may be present.”

The company looked at each other. Three had relinquished their claim; one remained. Slowly, the gazes of all turned to the king of Eryn Lasgalen. “My Lord Thranduil?”

Thranduil looked far less inclined to give in. Folding his arms with a dark resentment in his eyes, he muttered, “Gondor,” as if the name itself were obscene. Ignoring the elves entirely, he locked eyes with Aragorn, and none had any trouble reading his thoughts. Aragorn met the angry, embittered king’s gaze steadily, but his hands were clenching the arms of his chair so tightly that the knuckles had turned white.

The silent exchange threatened to go on for some time, until a very tense voice suddenly blurted, “You can’t bring him back!”

Everyone else jumped. Thranduil and Aragorn broke off their wordless battle to stare at the speaker. It was Frodo. The hobbit’s eyes were large and unhappy, but his voice was clear, if desperately sad. “It doesn’t matter where Disaran dies, or how hard you make everything for Gondor. You can’t bring Legolas back. No one can. I don’t think he’d want us to make it this hard, either.”

As quickly as it had come, his courage seemed to desert him, and he lowered his eyes once again. Sam put a protective hand on his shoulder and shot Thranduil a positively ferocious glare, promising a dire fate if he dared speak harshly to Frodo. Thranduil stared instead at the tabletop, bitterness visible on his face, but sensing the will of everyone else in the room. At last, he looked not at Aragorn, but at Celeborn, and nodded. “Here then.” Celeborn nodded back.

*Not exactly a truce in this little war he’s waging, but I suppose it will have to do,* thought Gandalf.

But there remained one matter in which Thranduil was even less likely to give in. “There is still the matter of…the funeral.” The elven king shot fiercely challenging glares around to all of them, daring them to dispute THIS claim. “There is little time left. I wish to take…my son’s body back to Eryn Lasgalen, where his mother and family are also buried.”

Frodo flinched, and his breath caught in a quiet little sob. “But what about the rest of his friends?” asked Merry quietly. “If he’s buried in Mirkwood, none of us could ever…” he looked down again. Pippin stared at him in dismay, and then cast pleading eyes toward Thranduil. Gandalf could almost hear the youngest hobbit begging, *Please don’t take him away!*

To the Maia’s surprise, the grief of the small ones did seem to affect the elven king somewhat. His face grew less confrontational, and he lowered his eyes, but still murmured, “I’ll not let him be entombed in Gondor. He belongs with his people.”

Suddenly, Arwen stood up. “My lord, would you not consider what Legolas himself would wish?” Thranduil stared at her. There were tears in the Queen’s eyes, but she held her ground under the elven king’s scrutiny. “Many times I spoke to Legolas during the restoration of Ithilien, and he oft spoke of his love for the land, and his people’s new dwelling there. Though he did not say so precisely, I believe that he would have wished for his body to remain there, if anything…befell him.” Her breath caught slightly, but she did not lower her eyes.

Faramir rose then. “Narbeleth made no claim on the subject, but she did ask whether his body would…return to the colony he ruled.”

Thranduil avoided the gazes of them all, and it seemed that everyone in the room held their breath. At length, he said. “I shall consider it, and inform you of my decision on the morrow.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Gandalf.

“Lord Elessar, how long do you expect a trial of Disaran to last?” asked Celeborn.

The King of Gondor knitted his fingers together, looking troubled. As the elves exchanged glances, Eomer said delicately, “I believe in Gondor the judgment of a murderer would always fall to the King. And in this case, as the King himself was witness to the murder…”

“…in all practicality, there need be no trial in Gondor for Disaran’s murder of…of Legolas,” concluded Elladan with a dry smile. Aragorn frowned, clearly uncomfortable with this. “Come, my lord, as Gandalf has said, reality must be faced. A trial for Legolas’s death would be a farce. Lord Thranduil, yourself, and Lord Gimli caught Disaran…in the act.” He looked down for a moment, then continued, “There is no point in wasting time on asking questions. Have a scribe make note of their testimony if you like, but get on with it. Lord Celeborn also…witnessed Disaran’s crimes. Between those of us here, we’ve enough evidence to execute the Black Hunter several times over.”

Though he still looked uncomfortable at being the one to pronounce judgment on Disaran with so intense a bias, Aragorn reluctantly nodded. “Then he shall be held and punished for the murders of…of…Legolas, son of Thranduil, and Indoran, son of Celeborn, by your leave, my lords.” The two elven lords looked at each other, and nodded. “And if you can give the names of any other victims whose deaths were witnessed by any present here, I shall add them. But for the rest, if we have no elves present to take testimony from, their names shall be listed as crimes he is charged with, but not yet found guilty of. As Elladan says, two counts of murder are sufficient for a death sentence, if the lords of the realms will forego demanding trial for the rest.”

“My lord, when the company from Lórien arrives, I can produce witnesses to several more murders in Lórien and Rivendell, if you wish” said Celeborn.

“And…we have an eyewitness to a murder in Imladris here now,” said Elrohir softly. Aragorn blinked, looking from one to the other, but neither of the twins elaborated. Instead, both turned their eyes to Arwen.

Aragorn’s eyes widened as he looked to his wife, seeing the intensity of remembered distress on her face. “Arwen?” Closing her eyes for a moment, she nodded. “When?”

“The second time he appeared in Imladris,” the Queen murmured. “I saw him. I was very young. I think perhaps he was following me in particular. I was by the river, alone, when he came toward me, with the stone in his hand. But another elf, Laegnan, saw him and tried to fight him off. But the Hunter took him. He cried to me to run, and I…I did. When the guards reached the river, they found the Hunter gone, and Laegnan dead. My father never allowed me to leave the House alone again.” She made the faintest little movement that might have been a shudder. “I did not recognize him here at first. I had…I had tried to forget.”

Gandalf noticed that Aragorn’s breathing had quickened. “I imagine the testimony of the Queen shall be more than sufficient evidence to anyone,” he said briskly.

Swallowing hard, Aragorn quickly nodded. “Then it shall be so. For the murder of elves in Rivendell, Lórien, and Mirkwood, Disaran shall be convicted on the evidence of testimony by eyewitnesses. If none object, he shall be sentenced and executed in Gondor.”

“Soon, I hope,” muttered Haldir from next to Celeborn.

“Once all witness statements are taken down, he can be tried and sentenced, and the punishment carried out by the end of the day,” said Faramir helpfully. Aragorn glanced sharply at him, and for a moment Gandalf thought the King was going to take the Steward to task, but Aragorn seemed only troubled by the facts, rather than Faramir speaking of them.

“Then we are agreed,” said Aragorn, and rose. The others rose as well. “My scribes shall speak to all who are to bear witness before the day is out. Good morning, my lords.”

Thus, in a definitely dismal note, the meeting ended. Rubbing his eyes, Pippin joined Merry, Sam, and Frodo with Gandalf as they left. “Where’s Gimli?” he asked them.

“Still at the House of Kings. He knew about the meeting but wouldn’t come,” said Frodo. They fell silent as King Thranduil passed by, and then Frodo went on, “They say he and Legolas’s father had a terrible quarrel yesterday.”

“They did; I saw them,” whispered Sam. “It was dreadful; they were both blaming each other. I wasn’t really surprised that elven king felt the way he did, I mean, we all know how he feels about mortals. But Gimli…the way he’s been acting since then…I worry that maybe he believes it!”

“Believes what?” demanded Merry.

“That…what happened to Legolas was his fault,” said Frodo. “Haven’t you noticed? Before, even in the worst times, Gimli always held his head up and boasted of dwarvish strength. But now…after, after…after we lost Legolas, Gimli just doesn’t seem…proud anymore. He seems almost ashamed. He never leaves the House of Kings.”

“But it wasn’t Gimli’s fault at all!” cried Sam in frustration.

Gandalf sighed, and the hobbits looked up. “I fear, Samwise, as we’ve all seen, grief affects the mind in many different ways. This is something Gimli must face, for he was there when Legolas died, but could not help him.”

“That Thranduil said Legolas died calling Gimli’s name,” muttered Sam. “Terrible thing to leave hanging over his head.”

Gandalf closed his eyes. “Even if that were so, my friends, Gimli’s presence would not have saved Legolas once Disaran touched him with that stone. Believe me when I say this to you, for there are many among us who must still be convinced: there was nothing that anyone could have done.”

Silence descended over the four friends, and they all soon found it hard to see. “Oh Legolas,” whispered Pippin. “I still don’t understand why.”

The wizard laid a hand on his shoulder, looking at the teary faces of the others. “Neither do I, Peregrin. Even if I were to see the Valar tomorrow, and demand and receive an explanation, I doubt if I would ever understand. Legolas deserved better.”

***

In the same place at the same time…

*Please hold on, Pippin,* Legolas whispered as he stood only a few feet from the grieving hobbits. *All of you, Frodo, Sam, Merry, you must hold on. I could kill Disaran myself for bringing you such pain.*

Disaran had returned and popped back into his own body for a nap, which had at last freed Legolas. Though the elf ached, he had lain aside his own pain in his anxiety for how his friends were faring, and had arrived in time to witness the meeting between the lords of elves and men. He was not especially surprised at his father’s actions, though they hurt him nonetheless. *He has always responded to grief thus. He blamed the dwarves for my mother’s death, and now seeks to blame men for mine. Ah Father, when will you learn that tragedies such as these are no one’s fault, save perhaps the Balrog and the murderer.*

But even if Thranduil had been able to hear him, Legolas knew enough of his father to know the elven king would not be convinced. That was simply the way Thranduil was. And it enraged the elf to see those he loved driven to such despair by Disaran’s cruelty. *Perhaps that creature will some day face real justice.*

As for Legolas, it seemed this nightmare might yet end with him being killed again, only this time by being trapped in Disaran’s body at the time of his execution. In a way, Legolas was almost looking forward to it. *It will end. For better or worse, it will be over. I only hope Mandos does not mistake my soul for Disaran’s, but I grow so weary of this half-alive, half-dead state that I would welcome almost any change. It seems very odd that a spirit would feel this tired.*

He was tired, dreadfully tired, and he had learned many new definitions of pain. It was an indescribable sensation, the pain of wounds inflicted to his very soul. While he was trapped in Disaran’s body, there was physical pain all right, but leaving it brought no relief. If anything, it felt worse, for it was not confined like physical pain simply to one limb or one spot on the body. It was everywhere, and inescapable. It wore at him, driving him to such depths of misery and despair that he would have sought to end his own life, had it not already been taken. There was no escape.

And so, though the injustice of it all rankled him, when true death finally claimed him again, Legolas felt he would welcome it.

*****
To Be Continued…
*****

Chapter Seven: Anxiety

That evening…

“All the eyewitnesses have given testimony, my lord,” said Faramir, coming into Aragorn’s quarters with a large collection of scrolls.

Aragorn took them but did not look at them, while Arwen looked on worriedly. “I suppose that’s enough evidence to keep anyone happy.”

“The lords--and lady--” Faramir added with a quick nod to Arwen, “--were very attentive to detail, despite their distress. It is evidence enough, my lord.” Seeing Aragorn’s distant face, he frowned and looked at Arwen.

Aragorn sighed. “Fear not for me, Faramir. I merely…do not like it.”

“What?”

“I want to kill Disaran. I desire his blood on my blade so much that it frightens me. I wonder how I will survive facing him at his trial tomorrow without taking his throat in my bare hands.” He looked at his Steward in dismay. “How am I possibly fit to pronounce justice upon him? Is there no impartial judge?”

Arwen came to stand beside him, her hand resting lightly upon his shoulder. “You have afforded him more fairness than most would, Estel, and far more than he deserves. None can fault you for feeling rage, and only commend you for trying to set it aside.”

“I suppose, it is just that I…” Aragorn looked down.

“Estel?”

In a near-whisper, he finished, “It is just that I wonder if this is what Legolas would have wanted.”

***

In the House of Kings, around the same time…

Legolas was tired. He had, laughing bitterly at the irony of it, chosen the House of Kings as the place to settle himself, for he feared his spirit was losing the strength to move around Minas Tirith. And this was where his best friend seemed to have grown roots, standing before the stone table where Legolas’s own body lay in state. Gimli never spoke, and seemed utterly blind to the comings and goings of Legolas’s other mourners. But Legolas still wanted to be near the dwarf, even if there was no way Gimli could see him.

Strangely enough, Disaran had not dragged Legolas into his body for awhile, which made the elf wonder if his spirit too grew weary if left too long outside its body. If so, that would explain what was happening to Legolas, for the elf’s spirit was definitely waning in strength. He probably should have considered more how to use that to his advantage, but at this point, weariness and despair had made it difficult to care.

*Oh Gimli, I am sorry it came to this. But when at last my soul is free again, I shall await you in the Halls of Mandos.* Watching the dwarf’s silent vigil, Legolas smiled. *I imagine many of my kindred shall be incredulous that I should linger for the sake of a dwarf, but I shall. I wonder what becomes of dwarves when they arrive? If I must, I shall fall to my knees and beg Mandos myself that the Fellowship be reunited when the time of us all in Middle Earth is ended.*

As the spirit watched sadly, Gimli reached out and gently laid his hand upon the hand of the dead elf, and closed his eyes. Then the sound of approaching footsteps made the dwarf hastily step back, and Legolas felt a surge of relief to see the four hobbits quietly enter the chamber. Gimli did not turn around, but they came to stand next to him, with Frodo and Sam on one side, and Merry and Pippin on the other.

“The trial is tomorrow morning, Gimli,” said Sam softly. “It’ll all be over for the Hunter by nightfall at the latest, the guards say. They say they’re going to execute him in the racing field, in front of everyone.”

There was a long silence. At last, Gimli sighed. “Whatever they do to him, it won’t be enough.”

“Probably not,” agreed Frodo. “But at least no other elf will ever have to face…this.” He stepped up to the sepulcher, looking down at the still form upon the Evenstar’s cloak. How strange it was to the hobbit, almost haunting it felt, every time he looked at Legolas. It gave him chills. In death, Legolas looked fairer than ever, his fine features serene and still. He seemed almost unreal, like some kind of lifelike statue. Frodo impulsively reached out and touched a lock of pale hair.

He had often wondered at the difference between old and young elves, for he knew Legolas to be young by his people’s standards. And he had seen, in Legolas, an innocence that elves like Elrond, Glorfindel, and King Thranduil seemed to lack. Legolas in turn lacked the weary wisdom that elder elves seemed to carry. Frodo looked again at the features of the elf’s face, the smooth lips that so often had turned in a quirk before Legolas dissolved into laughter (usually at something Gimli had said or done), and the gray eyes so unnaturally hidden beneath a veil of dark lashes. So much light had been contained in those eyes, so much beauty and youth in those perfect features. They would never convey weariness now, though it had been bought at a hideous price.

Pippin walked closer to the table, tears in his eyes as he stared at the body. Merry walked up and put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Has King Thranduil decided about the funeral yet?”

“He said he’ll decide tomorrow morning,” said Frodo. “Either way, it won’t be until after Disaran’s dead.”

“I wonder,” murmured Pippin. “How we can wait this long.”

“Elves,” said Sam. “Their bodies…they’re not…not like us. They can wait longer to bury their dead. Death is…different for them. At least that’s what people say.”

“Very different,” Gimli said suddenly, so suddenly that all four hobbits jumped. The dwarf stepped up next to Merry and Pippin, looking at the still form of Legolas. He seemed about to speak more when someone else entered the room. “A--”

It was King Thranduil. Watching them all, Legolas cringed mentally and waited, dreading the bitter words that would fly between his father and his best friend and wound the watching hobbits. *Don’t, please don’t...*

The hobbits instantly crowded around Gimli, either flanking or restraining the dwarf, while staring up at the elven king, wearing expressions ranging from wide-eyed fear to fierce challenge. Thranduil looked at them for several moments, his eyes unreadable, then his gaze strayed to the body of his son. *Father, please…*

Thranduil spoke, “I wish to be alone with my son.”

The hobbits exchanged glances while Gimli did not break eye contact with Legolas’s father. Reaching some unspoken agreement among themselves, they turned back to Thranduil. “Yes, my lord,” said Frodo, and put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Come on, Gimli. Let’s go back to the Halls.”

The dwarf did not move. “Gimli,” whispered Sam urgently. “He’s Legolas’s father. It’s his right. Things are bad enough already.”

Gimli at last lowered his gaze, turning from Thranduil to the body of Legolas. After another moment, he gave the barest nod, and walked out of the House of Kings, followed by the hobbits. Legolas sighed with relief. *Thank the Valar many times over for the Halflings.*

His father moved close to the sepulcher, hesitantly touching the cold, white face. “Forgive me,” he whispered to the body, as his son watched. “I know not whether this is what you would have wanted.” He smiled wanly through brimming eyes. “It is long since I have known what you wanted. For that I am sorry. I only hope I have made the right choice.”

*I would see you end your quarrels with my friends, Father. That would be the right choice, which you know better than you pretend.* Then Legolas repented; Thranduil thought he was dead, after all. He would probably have been no more rational if it had been Thranduil who was slain. Moving closer, he whispered, *It is my fault as well. I did not even know you were there when…when the end came. If I had, I would have called you to me. But also I would have begged you to accept Gimli and Aragorn. I would have you know the worth of mortals. Especially these mortals. It would be useless to say so to you now, but they are not all like Disaran.*

***

Within the Halls of the Kings…

The Lady Eowyn walked to one of the outer windows, staring down into the street. An enormous crowd had begun to assemble below. *The trial is not until tomorrow morning, and already they gather.* For the moment at least, the people were content to wait. But not much longer. *King Elessar will probably have to execute him immediately after the trial if he wishes to avoid a riot on his hands.*

Eowyn sighed and closed her eyes, leaning against the window frame. She was exhausted. Compared to her husband, she had little to do, but waiting and worrying about Faramir wore on her just as much as the busiest times. And no matter how hard she tried to occupy her ever free moment, anxiety for her Lord never failed to wriggle its way into her mind.

*How much longer can we continue on this way?* she wondered bitterly. *Faramir will push himself to the limits for the sake of his King, but even his strength is not infinite. He shall falter under the strain if things do not change.*

At least the King was no longer lost to reason. Aragorn had proven that much during the meeting this morning. But there was still the trial and execution of Disaran--a moment Eowyn looked forward to with more vengeance than she cared to admit--while afterwards there would be yet another moment that every single one of them dreaded: the funeral for Legolas. *When that at last is over, I suppose we shall be forced to move on with our lives,* thought the Lady of Ithilien. *Even though a part of us shall never move on. How can we? Legolas was too much a part of us.*

Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes, and she turned hastily to return to her quarters. It was not even that it was unseemly--there had been tears on the faces of many in the past four days--but Eowyn was desperate to keep herself among the few who managed to stay in control. Faramir needed that from her. He carried so many burdens already; he did not need her grief as well, though it tore at her desperately until she felt she was being eaten alive from the inside.

She had nearly made it to her chamber when one of the servants reached her. “My lady, the Queen asks to see you in her sitting room.”

There was no way to refuse, so with a brisk nod, Eowyn turned from her sanctuary. *Get a grip on yourself, woman. If there is anyone in Middle Earth who needs you under control more than your Lord, it is the Queen.* So she forced her pain and fear back down, and went to answer the Lady Arwen’s summons.

The Queen of Gondor, still clad in mourning black, was seated upon a sofa awaiting her. No sooner had Eowyn entered and bowed than Arwen beckoned to her. “Thank you for coming so swiftly, my lady. Pray, come and sit beside me. I would speak with you.”

A trifle perplexed, Eowyn did so, declining the Queen’s offer for refreshment. She was more troubled by Arwen’s distracted face, and the faint twisting of her fingers, for the Evenstar was most certainly not one to fidget. It was clear that the Queen was deeply worried. “How fares your husband?” she asked softly.

“As…well as can be expected,” said Eowyn carefully, watching Arwen’s face.

Grey elven eyes, dark with weariness, sorrow, and anxiety locked onto hers. “I fear I require a more specific answer, though I pray your pardon for invading your privacy. I must know…is Lord Faramir…prepared for what must take place tomorrow?”

Eowyn’s heart was beginning to pound. She had never seen the Queen this way. As the grey eyes probed hers, she probed her own thoughts, startled into being as truthful as she could. “I believe he is, my Queen. The circumstances of the trial and execution of the murderer of…of a friend grieve Lord Faramir deeply, but he is fit to do…what must be done.”

Arwen nodded distractedly. “Emotions shall run high,” she murmured. “I…” she looked candidly at Eowyn. “I am worried.”

“My lady?” Eowyn bit her lip, and then blurted, “Is Lord Aragorn well?”

Releasing a rather sudden sigh, Arwen looked at Eowyn, and the Lady of Ithilien was startled greatly by her Queen’s brimming eyes. “Never have I seen him so afflicted as he was, the first few days after Legolas was lost…taken,” she requalified it, bitterness coloring her tone. “You know what he tried to do!” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. She looked desperately at Eowyn. “Most of his people remain unaware of the effect the grief for Legolas had upon his mind, and should Disaran…I fear he…I know not what will happen tomorrow.”

Before her mind could stop her, Eowyn reached out and seized Arwen’s hand. “Aragorn has never failed his people. I do not believe he will fail them in this. This morning and since, his judgments have been sound and just, perhaps more just than Disaran deserves,” she added darkly. Arwen shivered, and covered Eowyn’s hand with her other hand. “We must have faith in our Lords.”

Closing her eyes, Arwen nodded. “By tomorrow night, the worst shall be over, I think.”

“I think you are right. It is the waiting that is so difficult.”

***

At the same time…

In another part of the Halls of the Kings, Lord Celeborn also kept watch by a high window. A party of riders had been sighted by the guards in the highest watchtower, still nearly a day down the trail, but Celeborn had known at once who they were. *They’ve come. They’ve come at last.*

“My lord?” he turned to see Haldir watching him. “The guards do not expect them to reach Minas Tirith before noon tomorrow. Will you not rest?”

Celeborn sighed; Haldir was right, of course. He could hardly stand by the window all night long, and tomorrow promised to be a thoroughly unpleasant day. “Yes, Haldir. I shall retire presently.”

The younger elf eyed Celeborn with a faint furrowing of his brow before departing. Celeborn turned back to the window and smiled sadly. *Poor Haldir frets over me. It has been so with him and both of his brothers ever since Indoran died. I suppose I often give them cause to worry.*

Celeborn suspected there was more to the trio’s attentiveness than simple devotion to their lord. Ever since Indoran’s murder over three thousand years ago, Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin had served the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien with more zeal than most elven warriors possessed for any task. Celeborn suspected it was some measure of guilt over the fact that they had not arrived in time to save his son.

*They would spare us further suffering, and have always strove toward that end. I only hope that one day I am able to reward them as they deserve, rather than let them linger in East Lórien where our people fade by the day. Nay, it is no longer the place for them. Perhaps I shall send them to Ithilien.* Smiling to himself, Celeborn turned back to the window, his eyes searching for the party of elves still too far from view. *They shall be here tomorrow.*

*Yea, we shall,* said a familiar voice in his mind. *You shall not be alone very much longer.*

*For that I am most grateful, my beloved. Ride swift.*

***

At the same time…

His strength was waning. Disaran had dragged him back to the prison “to have you around in case I need you,” as he put it. However, the man had not forced Legolas into his body, though he assured him that it could be so at a moment’s notice. Not that exercising any kind of hold on the spirit of the elf was even necessary anymore.

Legolas’s spirit-body lay upon the prison floor just outside Disaran’s cell. He could scarcely move it at all. He wondered what this meant. Perhaps at this rate he would die before Disaran had a chance to make him stand in for the man’s own execution, and they would both be slain anyway. It was a comforting thought. More than likely it would be tomorrow afternoon as soon as the trial was done, or at least that was what the guards took great delight in telling Disaran. To the captive elf’s relief, Disaran’s impending doom had led most of the men to cease amusing themselves by roughing up the Black Hunter.

Yet a nagging fear had dogged him as the hour of Disaran’s execution drew closer. What would happen if Legolas was the one whose spirit was in Disaran’s body at the moment of its death? He no longer cared for his own half-life, and would be glad to see it end, but his greatest fear was that those he loved might somehow realize that it was Legolas’s spirit and not Disaran’s that had been slain. *It would destroy them. My father would probably try to kill Aragorn, and Gimli, ai, Gimli would go mad. It might prove the end of Frodo as well.*

Disaran chuckled from nearby, and Legolas groaned mentally. The bastard had heard him thinking again. And, predictably, he had thoughts of his own on the subject. “Perhaps it is the death of the spirit that matters more than the body,” mused Disaran in a mock-thoughtful voice. “Perhaps though the executioner’s blade will strike through my neck, it is your body that shall suddenly lie upon the field for all to see. That would be most interesting.”

Legolas closed his eyes, trying to make his mind blank. It gave him little comfort to think of those he loved in the face of a running commentary from his own murderer. But suddenly, a thought struck him. Disaran was keeping him close, but no longer forced Legolas into his own body as before, which freed the man’s own spirit to wander about. Earlier, that had always been the first thing Disaran did, for the man was eager to escape the prison and view the strife he had caused Gondor, not to mention returning to report it to his own prisoner. Perhaps Disaran’s spirit was losing strength as well. Turning with an effort to smile at the Black Hunter, Legolas tried a little taunt of his own. *It shall be still more interesting if you do not have the strength left to get me into your body by tomorrow.*

Well, he had certainly struck a nerve, although he paid for it. Disaran’s eyes flashed, and he deliberately closed his burned right hand into a tight fist, sending lances of pain shooting through Legolas. Even when Legolas was not in his body, Disaran had determined that the pain of injuries sustained by the elf’s spirit stayed with the elf, rather than with him, no matter who was in the body. So he took great delight in aggravating the hurts, feeling nothing himself, and torturing Legolas in the process.

Legolas turned his gaze away from the man again, but even as pain washed through him, he suspected he was on to something. Perhaps the outlook was no quite so black after all.

***

Back in the Halls of the Kings around the same time…

Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin were also watching the Gondorrim gathering for the morning’s trial. They had coaxed Gimli to come out into the gardens with them, trying to distract the dwarf by pointing out which of the plants there had come from the Shire. Frodo glanced through a gateway at the growing crowd of early arrivals, then blushed and looked away as several men took off their hats when they saw him.

“Did Aragorn say the trial was going to be public?” wondered Sam.

“There’ll never be enough room in that meeting hall,” said Merry. “Not for this many people.”

“Maybe they just want to see the Hunter brought in,” suggested Pippin.

“Or maybe they’ll try to tear him apart themselves as soon as he’s within view,” murmured Frodo.

“Can’t say as I’d mind,” muttered Gimli. The hobbits looked at him; it was the first time he had opened his mouth since they had left King Thranduil alone with Legolas’s body.

“I’ll settle for seeing an end to him at the executioner’s block tomorrow,” replied Sam.

“Trial’s a waste of time,” Gimli grumbled. “They should just get it done.”

“Maybe it’s a waste of time, but it’ll give Aragorn peace of mind,” said Frodo gently, coming to sit next to Gimli on a bench. “He’s the King after all, so justice is his responsibility.”

“All this makes me think more well of him than ever,” remarked Sam. “He’s been more charitable to that Disaran than I think I’d be. Certainly more than Disaran deserves.”

“Charity has nothing to do with it,” said Gimli. “Frodo’s more right; it’s Aragorn’s responsibility to be fair with justice.”

“He’s a good king,” said Pippin.

“That he is,” agreed Sam. “Legolas would say so too.”

Gimli looked away for a moment. Just then, the sound of elven singing floated through the gardens. “Blast those elves!” spat the dwarf. “Don’t they ever give it a rest? Can’t go anywhere in this blasted city without hearing their warbling.”

“You liked hearing Legolas sing!” protested Pippin without thinking.

Merry nudged and glared at him, but Gimli sighed, “True, I did. Nor did I mind hearing elves other than…than Legolas sing, but now…” he gave the barest shake of his head.

Frodo felt tears stinging his eyes. *It’s the same for all of us; we hear an elf sing now and wonder if it’s Legolas--then we remember. It’s just that it’s hardest of all for Gimli.* He listened; as usual it was a lament. “I don’t know that voice.”

“Is it one of the Queen’s brothers?”

“No, I’d recognize their voices, besides, they always sing together.”

“Maybe it’s King Thranduil,” said Sam.

“No,” said Gimli. “I know his voice; it’s like Le…”

Frodo cleared his throat. “It must be one of the elves from Lórien then.” He listened again. “It’s said they lost dozens of their people to Disaran over the Third Age. Rivendell was hit even harder.”

Sam spat a rude word. “How could a human stalk elves the way that Disaran did? On their own lands? What kind of creature was he?”

“The worst possible kind,” said Gimli. “Clever, resourceful, and infinitely patient. On the night he…he even fights like an elf. He must have learned how to move and hide like them. And the elves would never expect that kind of attack on their people.”

“You’re right,” mused Merry. “They always move about freely inside their realms. If he was sneaking around and killing them, by the time they realized what was happening…it would’ve been too late.”

“Always too late,” muttered the dwarf.

“It wasn’t your fault, Gimli,” said Sam. “If Legolas were here, he’d say so himself. You and Strider did everything you could. That devil was too fast, faster than even Legolas expected.”

With a rather shaky sigh, the dwarf’s head bent low. Pippin wiped his brimming eyes. Then a flicker of movement from down the garden caught Frodo’s eye and made his breath catch involuntarily. A tall, fair-haired elf was walking under the trees toward them. Seeing the wide-eyed stares of the hobbits, he stopped and bowed.

It was Haldir. “Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“When are you elves going to learn that sneaking up on people is a sure way of disturbing them,” grumbled Gimli. Before Haldir could reply or any of the hobbits could speak, the dwarf turned and quickly left the gardens.

The hobbits exchanged sheepish glances. “Sorry, Mr. Haldir,” said Sam with a little bow. “He’s not himself, understand.”

The Lórien elf’s eyes softened with sympathy. “Of course, Master Samwise.”

“Is Lord Celeborn planning to be at the trial tomorrow?” asked Frodo, stepping past Merry and Pippin.

Haldir nodded. “Lord Elessar has granted permission for any elves to be present for the sentencing. Lothlórien suffered much at the Black Hunter’s hand; her entire delegation shall be there.”

“That’s just you and Lord Celeborn, isn’t it?” asked Merry.

Shaking his head, Haldir replied, “Nay, a delegation was sent for as soon as Disaran was captured. There are…some among our people still remaining in East Lórien who shall wish to witness the dispensation of justice. We expect them tomorrow.”

There was a heavy silence. Sam sighed. “Mr. Haldir…is it always like this?”

Haldir’s brow furrowed in confusion, “When?”

“When…when an elf dies? Everything just seems so…black!”

The elf looked thoughtful. “Grief for a friend is always black, be he man or elf or hobbit, I expect. Perhaps it was the manner of these deaths, cruel and senseless. That is why we called Disaran the Black Hunter. The days of his hunts were black indeed.” Haldir’s eyes darkened with remembered sorrow.

“Sorry,” said Sam, looking down. “Guess you’ve had enough sadness already without me going and reminding you of it.”

“Do not apologize, Master Samwise, for our sorrow is no fault of yours.” Haldir smiled sadly. “Alas, in grief many would think to place blame upon those who remind them of their loss, rather than the one who first inflicted it.”

“Or blame themselves,” added Frodo, shaking his head.

“Very true.” Haldir pulled his mouth to one side in a faint grimace, and the hobbits had no trouble guessing who he was concerned about. Looking at them, he bowed, “Tomorrow promises to be a difficult day for us all, honored heroes. You would do well to get some rest. I bid you good night.”

The hobbits bowed back, and the elf disappeared back down the shadowy garden path in the faint moonlight, almost like a vanishing mist. Merry stared at the others. “Did he just call us heroes?”

Sam gave a little snort, “Well, there has to be a reason why everyone stares and takes off their hats when we walk by, doesn’t there?”

“But he’s an elf,” protested Pippin. “They’ve had more heroism in their lives than we could. Why would they think so well of us?”

“Well, you and Frodo are the Ringbearers, Sam,” reasoned Merry. “That’s cause enough even for an elf to call you heroes.”

Frodo shook his head, gazing up at the darkening Halls. “I think the time for little insignificant heroes is long past. And right now it’s the warriors, lords, and kings that I’m worried about.”

***

At the Halls of the Kings, the next morning…

The night had been cold, but not one person had left the crowd outside Minas Tirith’s assembly hall to seek the comfort of their homes. Faramir had ordered the guards to light braziers and bonfires to keep the watchers from taking cold, and so the throng crowded together, drawing heat from the blazes and from their numbers. At the break of dawn, nearly all awoke, sensing the arrival of one man’s judgment day. As the sun climbed higher in the morning sky, the people of Gondor waited. The time had come to see justice done.

Inside his chamber, Aragorn fastened his mantle and stood in front of the mirror, his hand straying to the green Elfstone upon the dressing table. But he did not pick it up. “Why do you hesitate, Estel?” asked his wife softly, coming up behind him.

“I know as King I must bow to the wishes of my people, and the living elves who seek justice for their dead,” murmured Aragorn. He took the stone in his hand and stared at it. “But I feel more and more deeply that Legolas would not have wanted this…this spectacle. Legolas would never want blood spilt for him in this grandiose fashion.”

Arwen’s hands came to rest upon his shoulders, and her face looked at him from the reflection. “Perhaps not for himself. But I think that had you or another of the Fellowship been the victim, Legolas would have cried for vengeance just as we do now. We measure one’s worth by how they are loved, not how they love. And some of the elves themselves most certainly think us too lenient.”

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “You mean Thranduil.” She smiled. “True, I suppose.”

Arwen reached past him to pick up the Elfstone by the chain upon which it hung, and fastened the stone around his neck. “Think not only of Legolas today, dearest lord. Think also of the elves who still live, and mourn the children taken by the Black Hunter’s foul greed. Twice every year all my childhood, my mother let a lantern burn in her window all night: one on the day of her brother’s birth, and one for the day of his death.” He turned to face her, and she took his hands. “I saw the Hunter slay Laegnan, and only his sacrifice and my speed of foot saved me from the same fate. The creature is without soul, Estel, without heart.”

With a deep sigh, Aragorn clasped her to him, pressing his face into her hair. “That we have learnt all too well.” He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her. He knew again what needed to be done, but emotion still churned inside him.

“We shall get through today, Estel. We shall.”

“Arwen. Do not come to the execution.” She raised her head and looked at him. “I know it must be done, and I cannot say I shall be sorry at all for Disaran, but I like not carrying the sentence out in public thus. It seems barbaric. I do not want you…to watch.”

Turning to the window, Arwen gazed at the sun. “Have you denied anyone else entry?”

“I do not deny you,” Aragorn answered, coming to her side and placing his hands on her shoulders. “I merely ask.”

Arwen covered his hands with hers. “I shall…consider it.”

There was a knock upon the door. “My lord?”

“Enter, Faramir,” said Arwen, stepping away from her husband.

The Steward came in, followed by Eomer, and the two bowed to them as Aragorn gestured rather impatiently for Faramir to speak. “The prison is secure, my lord, as is the assembly hall.”

“That is good news at least,” mused Arwen.

“But there is still the minor detail of getting Disaran FROM the prison TO the hall,” replied Eomer, shaking his head. “And that, my lord, my lady, may prove troublesome.”

Arwen went curiously to the window, as Aragorn asked, “How many people are out there now?”

“The courtyard is nearly completely filled, and we had to prevent any more coming in there lest there be no room left to move about,” said Faramir. “ Now they are spilling out into the surrounding streets, but for the moment there is no unrest. They merely wish to know what is happening.”

Aragorn frowned. “Whatever the cost, we must not allow any unrest. I shall dispatch a scribe to report the proceedings to the guards outside, and some heralds to read them. But above all, Faramir, the crowds must not disrupt the trial or the…the sentencing.”

“Perhaps if you speak to them before Disaran is brought, my lord,” suggested Eomer. “That keep them under control.”

“That is sound advice,” agreed Arwen, coming back to Aragorn’s side. “They will calm themselves for you.”

Looking from his Steward to the King of the Mark to his wife, Aragorn laughed wryly. “I pray our gathering people share your faith in me.”

***

In the prison at the same time…

“Your time’s come, villain!” said one of the guards as they hauled Disaran to his feet in his cell. “We’re about to be leaving for the trial.”

“Ready to face your judgment day, fiend?” jeered another.

Disaran did not answer, for he was distracted by his conversation with the spirit of the elf he was about to be tried for murdering. Legolas, unseen and unheard by the guards, lay prone upon the prison floor not far away. *I must be dying once more. That can be the only explanation for the way that I feel,* the elf thought dimly. His perceptions of the living world, and even his ability to think coherently were fading.

Strangely enough, his tormentor showed no sign of forcing the elf back into his body again. Hazily, Legolas wondered why. *I’ll send for you if they decide to have their way with me,* Disaran assured him, but even in his growing stupor, Legolas noticed that the cruel man’s remarks had lost some of their cocky tone.

Legolas smiled, enjoying an extremely out-of-place bit of cockiness of his own. *Do not overexert yourself, or you may find yourself facing the executioner’s blade without the convenience of a stand-in.* Though Disaran deliberately threw himself against one of the guards, getting a fist into his already-broken ribs, Legolas hardly felt it. Intense pain had become such a constant to him that he was beginning to grow accustomed to it. *It will all be over soon. I shall be free again.*

“How soon do we have to brave that mob?” one of the guards was asking.

“They’ll signal to us. The King wants all the witnesses into the Hall first before we bring him,” the captain of the guard said, standing close to the door.

“How by Smaug’s spawn are we going to get him through that crowd?” demanded another guard.

“Got me. If there aren’t enough guards to clear us a path, he doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance on Mount Doom.”

“No skin off our noses if the mob wants to have a go at him first!” laughed someone.

“None of that, men. It’s the orders of the Steward and the King; we’re to bring the villain to be charged and tried in the proper fashion. And the families of those elves he killed have got a right to see him brought to justice.”

“What justice? Can’t ever get their children back.”

“Be still. Something’s going on up there. They’re all getting quiet.”

***

Outside the entrance to the assembly hall…

A path opened easily in the crowd for King Elessar and Queen Undómiel, escorted as they were by a small army of guards and the Steward of Gondor. Aragorn and Arwen were each clad entirely in black, Aragorn in black mail and a black mantle, and Arwen in a black velvet gown, cloak, and veil. Faramir mounted the steps until he could be seen by the vast throng waiting and held up his hands, “I pray silence! Silence for King Elessar!”

A hush fell over the waiting Gondorrim as Aragorn came to stand before his subjects, and the people bowed as one. *That is a good sign. I hope,* he thought grimly. *Valar give me strength.* “Good people,” he called out to them. “A common and solemn purpose brings us here this morn. There are many in this city today who desire to see the man Disaran made to answer for his crimes.” A great cry rang out from the throng. Aragorn raised his hands, and they felt silent again. “I know your rage is great, as mine. But never forget! Deserving of justice still more than you or I are the people here whose children have been slain! They shall be watching the trial, as is their right!” A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. “Above all, those who have suffered the worst at Disaran’s hands have a right to witness a peaceful trial, without any disorder!” Aragorn added pointedly.

The Gondorrim were exchanging thoughtful looks by then. Aragorn felt a surge of relief at the nods he could see. “The trial shall begin within the hour. When all the witnesses are gathered, the accused shall be brought to answer the charges. I ask…” he paused significantly, “and EXPECT the accused and his guards to pass freely into the assembly hall for trial. ANY attempts to interfere with the guards or assault the accused will be punished. I understand your anger!” he cried over the growing murmurs. “But none among you have the right to take vengeance into your own hands. JUSTICE,” he gestured to the assembly hall, “justice shall be done today.”

“Hail Lord Elessar!” cried one of the guards, and at once, all the people in the courtyard took up the cry, “All hail the King!”

“That should keep them happy,” murmured Faramir from behind him.

Waving at the guards at the courtyard gate, Aragorn replied, “It had better. We will be in serious trouble if things get out of control.”

“They won’t, my lord. You got through to them.” Faramir nodded toward the crowd, which was parting to make way for the first arrivals. “As long as they know what is going on, they will be satisfied.”

Aragorn gave a neutral little grunt, watching the guards escorting Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin up to the steps. Behind the hobbits came Gandalf and Gimli. Aragorn walked down a few steps to greet them. *Seven of us,* he thought with a surge of intense grief. *Seven left where once there were nine. Deaths in war we were prepared for. But we never thought Legolas would be the second, and never like this. Who will be the next?* the thought slipped out before he could stop it, bringing with it a terrible twinge of apprehension. *Concentrate, man! You must get through this day!*

He took each of them by the hands as they came to join him on the steps. “Well done,” murmured Gandalf.

“Stand behind me, my friend. I will see you inside,” he replied softly.

After the remaining members of the Fellowship of the Ring came the elves. Elladan and Elrohir came first, and went to stand behind the Queen. Aragorn wished he had more time to speak to his foster-brothers. He missed their counsel, their familiarity. But even more…*Valar, I wish Elrond were here.*

Men in mourning wore black; elves wore white. Aragorn wondered if there was a man or elf in that crowd who could not hear his heart pounding as Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen came up the steps. *I suppose it would be too much to ask that he be more concerned with Disaran for once than placing the blame upon the rest of us.* The ire in the elven king’s eyes dashed any of that hope, and for the first time, Aragorn felt a twinge of bitterness despite his awareness of Thranduil’s own grief. *How is it that Legolas, by far the most modest and good-natured elf I have ever known, descended from YOU?!*

Nonetheless, he forced himself to maintain a solemn face, and deliberately bowed to Thranduil first. *If you thought to shame Gondor by refusing to bow, dismiss that idea.* Something flickered in the elven king’s eyes, but as it happened, Thranduil did bow back, though he never once broke Aragorn’s gaze. *Gondor shall prove herself well today, Thranduil, no matter what you wish to believe about mortals…and about me. Before this day is out, you shall see an end to the one truly responsible for your son’s death, and then deny if you will the sincerity of our love for Legolas.*

Thranduil passed Aragorn and went to stand next to Elladan and Elrohir. For a moment, the King of Gondor watched him, but then a collective gasp from the Gondorrim made him turn. His own breath caught: Rúmil and the delegation of Lórien had arrived. Rúmil walked with Haldir before a procession of around two dozen Lórien elves, and in front of them…

Arwen suddenly appeared at Aragorn’s elbow, with Elladan and Elrohir just behind her, and all of them bowed low. *Elbereth,* thought Aragorn. *Why didn’t Celeborn warn me?!*

At the very head of the procession, walking beside Lord Celeborn, was the Lady Galadriel. And on the other side of her…*Father!* Aragorn’s throat tightened in bittersweet joy. Last he had heard, Elrond had been on his way to the Grey Havens to prepare for departing over the sea. How had he managed to return here this swiftly? The Lord of Rivendell’s eyes were full as he gazed at his foster-son, and Aragorn realized just how desperately he had wanted Elrond during all this madness. The relief at the sight of him made the King of Gondor want to weep for joy.

Elrond, Celeborn and Galadriel bowed to the King and Queen of Gondor. “My lady, my lord” said Aragorn, relieved that his voice was steady. “You do us a great honor with your presence here.”

“Lord Elessar,” said Galadriel. “With this trial, you do an honor to all Eldar.” Elrond said nothing, but there was pride and sorrow in his eyes, the former a balm to Aragorn’s aching spirit.

Aragorn and Arwen stepped aside, beckoning to the elves of Lórien and the Lord of Imladris to precede them into the assembly hall. Gandalf, Gimli, the hobbits, and the other elves also went in, but Aragorn lingered outside with Faramir. “Where is Lady Eowyn?”

“She is already inside, making certain the…guests are seated,” the Steward replied.

“That is well,” said Aragorn. He glanced behind him. “Everyone is assembling; I must go. You know what to do?” Faramir nodded. “Good. Take care. Emotions run high, and when they see Disaran…”

“I will keep it under control,” Faramir assured him. With a tense nod, Aragorn walked into the assembly hall. Faramir turned to the guards. “Bring the accused!”

*****
To Be Continued…
*****

ATTENTION: Can anyone find my salute to J.K. Rowling in this chapter? House points (or hobbit points) to the first one to catch it! (I’m a great Harry Potter fan as well.) I also have a nod to the Ellis Peters “Brother Cadfael” stories. (Hint: Only one of the nods is a line.)

A/N: This story contains references to my long fic, “A Little Nudge Out of the Door,” but that one is not required reading. However, most of the events mentioned are just a couple of chapters in the story, so if you’re curious, feel free to email me, and I’ll tell you what chapter to find them in. OR you could just read the whole thing. ;-)

Chapter Eight: Acceptance

In the assembly hall near the Halls of the Kings…

Aragorn and Arwen sat side-by-side before the hall, which was packed with elves and lords of Gondor and Rohan. At his left hand was a place for Faramir, and at Arwen’s right hand sat the Lady Eowyn. Gimli was seated near the seats of the elves, and it startled him clean out of his dark thoughts when the Lady Galadriel suddenly came toward him. He rose and hastily bowed to her. “My Lady.”

The Lady Galadriel gazed thoughtfully at him, her brilliant eyes soft, and for once, the dwarf found himself wishing she could not see his mind so clearly. *I hope you will forgive me, Lady, but my grief is not something I would choose to share with anyone, given the choice.*

Her lips curved into a gentle, sad smile, and she stepped past her husband to suddenly seat herself gracefully next to Gimli. The dwarf practically gaped, and as her eyes continued to meet his, he heard in his mind, *Grief is much like water, Gimli son of Glóin. Trapped it becomes stagnant and sour; only when released can it remain pure.*

*I…* Gimli faltered. The Lady Galadriel lightly placed her hand over his as Faramir came into the hall.

The Steward bowed, and Aragorn rose. “Bring in the accused.”

There was a collective intake of breath as Disaran, well-shackled, was brought before the assembly. Gimli noted with satisfaction the fumbling of the man’s steps, although his expression was still offensively smug. The left side of his face was badly bruised, and his neck still bore the marks of Gimli’s fingers. He was led by two guards to the center of the hall and forced to his knees before the King and Queen. Disaran looked back up at them, and none needed to see his face to know that his attention was focused upon Arwen, judging by the way Aragorn’s eyes darkened. On the other side of Lord Celeborn, Lord Elrond leaned forward slightly, his eyes harder than Gimli had ever seen.

“Disaran, you stand here charged with the murder Laegnan, son of Celeblam of Imladris, Indoran, son of Celeborn of Lothlórien, and Legolas, son of Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen,” said Aragorn formally. Gimli felt his stomach twist, and glanced at Galadriel. Though her face and manner were composed, he caught her fingers tightening upon the arms of her seat ever so slightly upon hearing the name of her son.

Disaran’s little snort of laughter jerked Gimli’s attention sharply back to the center of the room. “Three? Is that all?”

Leaning forward and knitting his fingers together, Aragorn spoke in a low voice that made Gimli’s blood run cold. “You are charged now with three, though the elven realms accuse you of murdering more than five score of their people. As I can add to the number of counts you are charged with at any time, I would suggest that you hold your tongue unless we ask you a question.”

For what it was worth, Disaran did appear slightly intimidated by the King of Gondor at his angriest. Aragorn turned to Faramir and nodded. The Steward opened a scroll. “For the murder of Indoran, son of Celeborn of Lothlórien: Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin, guards of Lórien, stand as witnesses, by your leave, my lord,” he said to Aragorn.

“Proceed.”

“My lords,” Faramir beckoned. The three brothers rose and came into the center of the room. A scribe brought Faramir the scrolls containing their testimony. Faramir presented each scroll to each respective elf. “Are these the statements you provided against the accused?”

“Yes.” “Aye, my lord.” “They are, my lord.”

Faramir turned to Aragorn, who rose. “Have any of you anything further to give as evidence?” asked the King.

The brothers looked at each other. “No, my lord.” “Nay, Lord Elessar.” “That is all.”

Aragorn nodded. “Let it be known then that each of these witnesses identifies the accused as the man they saw murder Indoran, son of Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien.” A murmur rippled through the hall. Gimli glanced to his right and saw the tense faces of the hobbits, watching the trial intently. “Call your next witness in this charge, Lord Steward.”

Faramir turned back to the assembly. “In this charge, Celeborn, Lord of Lothlórien, stands as witness.”

On the other side of the Lady Galadriel, Gimli watched the elven lord exchange a quick, unreadable glance with his wife before he rose and made his way down to stand before the King of Gondor. Aragorn caused a murmur from most of the men in the room when he himself suddenly rose and bowed to Celeborn. The elf bowed back as Faramir presented his testimony. “Is this the evidence you gave against the accused, my lord?”

“It is, Lord Steward.”

“And have you any additional testimony to make?”

“I do not.”

“Let it be known that this witness identifies the accused as the man who slew his son.” From Gimli’s left came the faintest of movements; Galadriel’s fingers had curled tightly around the arms of her chair, and her eyes were briefly closed. “Have you any more witnesses, Lord Faramir?”

“Nay, my lord.”

There was a pregnant pause, then Aragorn turned to the shackled prisoner. “Disaran, four witnesses have presented the evidence of their own eyes, that you killed Indoran of Lórien. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

Galadriel’s knuckles had turned white. Disaran turned and cast a speculative look around the room. When his malicious gaze lingered upon the Lady Galadriel, Gimli felt his hands itching for his axe. Galadriel’s face was more blank than the dwarf had ever seen. Disaran smiled coldly, his cruel brown eyes still watching the Lady of Lórien. “What’s to say? I killed him!”

A collective gasp went up from the assembly, and Aragorn leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “I would reflect a moment on the wisdom of those words, Disaran. By confessing here at your trial, you are offering a plea of guilty, guaranteeing your execution for Indoran’s murder.”

Disaran laughed, “If a confession’s the same as a guilty plea, then I guess I’m pleading guilty. Not much point in denying it when you’d execute me even if I did!”

“That’s for sure,” Gimli heard Sam mutter. Frodo shuddered.

Aragorn’s disgust was unmistakable. “As you will, then. The choice is yours. In the matter of Indoran, son of Celeborn, I find you guilty of willful murder.” Galadriel closed her eyes again. “Lord Faramir, proceed with the next charge.”

“For the murder of Laegnan, son of Celeblam of Imladris: the Lady Arwen, Queen of Gondor, daughter of Lord Elrond of Imladris, stands as witness.” The men in the room whispered to each other at that. Lord Elrond closed his eyes and made the slightest of movements. “By your leave, my lord?”

“Proceed,” said Aragorn. To others, the King had never seemed so commanding, but Gimli could sense his friend’s tension.

Faramir motioned to two of the guards, who brought a chair where the other witnesses had stood. Then he turned and bowed. “My lady?”

Raising the veil from her face, which until then she had kept down, Arwen rose and went to the chair. The two guards remained on either side of her, glaring rather obviously at Disaran. Elrond’s hands were curled with white knuckles around the arms of his chair. Aragorn’s hand was straying ever-so-slightly toward his sword hilt. *I almost wish he’d try something,* thought Gimli.

Faramir presented her with her testimony. Her eyes dutifully scanned the scroll, then she handed it back to him. “My lady, is this the statement you provided against the accused?”

“It is, my lord,” said Arwen calmly, keeping her eyes on Faramir, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

“And have you anything further to give as evidence?” asked the King.

“No, my lord.”

Aragorn nodded. “Then let it be known that the witness has identified the accused as the man she eyewitnessed murdering Laegnan, son of Celeblam of Rivendell.” At Faramir’s nod, Arwen rose and returned to the Aragorn’s side. All three elves on Gimli’s laugh sighed softly. “Lord Faramir, have you any more witnesses?”

“Nay, my lord.”

Aragorn swallowed. “Disaran, the Queen of Gondor has identified you as the murderer of Laegnan of Imladris. Have you any…plea to make?”

Disaran eyed Arwen for a moment, clearly contemplating making a crude remark, then caught the look in her husband’s eyes and seemed to think the better of it. He settled a shrugging, careless reply of “Guilty.”

“Then I find you guilty of the willful murder of Laegnan of Imladris,” said the King. He took a breath. “Lord Faramir, call the witnesses in the final charge.”

Faramir’s face was stony. “In the case of the murder of Legolas, Lord of South Ithilien, son of Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen: Gimli, son of Glóin, stands as witness.”

This was the moment Gimli had been dreading. Feeling ill, he forced himself to stand, making his way down to the floor. Once there, he glanced back impulsively and saw the smiles of encouragement on the faces of the hobbits, and Lady Galadriel’s reassuring eyes. Taking a deep breath, he turned and took the scroll Faramir offered him.

It had been hard enough to tell the tale once, so he read it as quickly as possible:

*I went with Legolas and King Thranduil to the stables to accompany him to Ithilien. A man wearing the uniform of a White Company guard came and told us the Queen had been attacked and was in the Houses of Healing. We were on our way there when another company of guards told us that the attacker was being held in the Halls of the Kings. So Lord Thranduil went with them, and Legolas and I continued to the Houses of Healing, but I could not keep up with Legolas and the man. When I reached the Houses of Healing, I saw the man holding a black stone against Legolas. Lord Thranduil and King Elessar arrived at about the same time, and we tried to stop the attacker. I went after him and disarmed him of the stone, but when I returned to the Houses of Healing, Legolas was dead.*

“Is this the statement you provided against the accused, Master Gimli?” asked Faramir.

“Yes, my lord,” Gimli replied, marveling at how calm his voice sounded despite the turmoil within him. *I was not fast enough I was not fast enough I was not fast enough…*

Aragorn’s voice broke through his bitter thoughts. “And have you any further evidence to give?”

“Nay, I do not.”

“Thank you, Gimli,” said Faramir softly, and nodded to him. Gimli returned to his seat, feeling immensely relieved. *At least now the worst of it is over--or at least the first part of the worst.* “In this charge, Thranduil, King of Eryn Lasgalen, also stands as witness.”

*I stand corrected; after Thranduil is out of Minas Tirith for good, THEN the worst will be over,* thought Gimli bitterly as the elven king walked down to verify his testimony. He found himself staring fixedly at his knees, rather than looking down at Legolas’s father. He wondered suddenly whether Thranduil had made up his mind yet about the funeral. *If he lets us bury Legolas in Ithilien, at least then there will be…somewhere I can go. If he takes his body back to Mirkwood…I’ll have nothing of him at all.*

*You are wrong about that, Gimli.*

*Am I, my lady?* He half-turned toward her, and sure enough, she was watching him out of the corner of her eye.

Her eyes went through him as always. *You are. And you know it.* He sighed, and she smiled sadly. *Still you doubt? Think on what Legolas might say.*

*I fear I am not as certain as I ought to be of what Legolas would say now. He is--he was more charitable and good-natured than most of his people, no offense, of course.*

She made a faint sound that might have been a sad little laugh. *Doubt is an insidious thing, when we have no one to dispel it. But you knew the heart of Legolas well in life, Lock-bearer. Look into your own heart and let not your memories be clouded by self-blame. Then you shall see what you still have of Legolas.*

Gimli’s view of Aragorn, currently adding his own testimony to the record of Legolas’s murder, was suddenly blurred. *As always, Lady, you give me heart.*

*The heart you already had, Gimli son of Glóin. I merely sought to remind you.*

He forced his attention back to the center of the assembly hall, just as Aragorn was saying to Disaran. “In this final charge, I find you guilty. Guilty of the willful, wanton murder of Legolas, Lord of the elves of Ithilien, son of Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen.”

A soft sigh went up from the watchers. “It’s done,” murmured Frodo on Gimli’s right.

“Not quite,” Gimli replied.

Aragorn stood up. The hall was deathly silent--as though everyone there was now holding their breath. “Disaran, known by the Eldar as the fugitive the Black Hunter. Having presented no defense against eyewitness testimony, you have been found guilty of three counts of willful murder. Any one of these charges carries the penalty of death, and with no claims of mitigation, the three together all but guarantee a penalty of death. Have you anything to say before I pronounce sentence?”

Disaran smirked, and Gimli gritted his teeth. *I must hold on. It will all be done with soon. Be patient.*

“Nay, my lord, nothing to say,” said Disaran in a nonchalant voice. “I’ve had a good, long life…thanks to the gifts of the elves.” A little grumble rippled through the room.

Aragorn actually clenched his fists briefly. “Have the representatives of the victims anything to say before sentence is pronounced?”

Galadriel suddenly rose. Gimli sucked in his breath involuntarily and knew he was not the only one. Aragorn’s eyes widened slightly, but he bowed. “My Lady Galadriel, pray, speak.”

She did not say much. She did not need to. Her voice was low, but everyone in the room heard. “I am but one of many mothers, forced to bury her own child.”

Arwen swallowed hard and lowered her eyes. There was a long silence before Aragorn spoke again. “Are there any others who would speak?” Gimli looked curiously at Thranduil, but to the dwarf’s surprise, the elven king did not rise. Aragorn slowly nodded. “Then it is done. Disaran, by my authority as King of Gondor, and under the authority of the elven realms in this matter, I hereby sentence you to the penalty of death.” Everyone in the room released a collective breath; Disaran half-rolled his eyes. Aragorn looked coldly at him. “By the will of the Eldar and the people of Gondor, the sentence shall be carried out in three hours time in the public sporting field. Take the prisoner back to his cell to await execution. You may, if you wish, request last rights,” the King added to Disaran, in a slightly mocking tone of his own.

Disaran had no time to retort before he was dragged out to the cheers of the waiting Gondorrim. Gimli stood up to leave along with the others. He forced a smile to reassure the hobbits, only to frown at Frodo, who was looking rather haggard. “It’s almost over.”

Wearily, Frodo smiled back. “I’ll be most grateful when it’s entirely over.”

Their attention was called back to the King when Aragorn suddenly spoke above the quiet conversations. “My lord Thranduil.” The elven king looked at him, half-surprised, half-irritated. “Have you made a decision concerning Legolas’s funeral?”

Gimli blinked. “My, that was direct,” murmured Sam from the other side of Frodo.

“Maybe that was the idea,” suggested Merry, watching as Aragorn and Thranduil locked eyes.

Galadriel was descending toward the center of the room with Celeborn and Elrond, and the three reached the floor at the same time as the elven delegation from Ithilien. They all looked appealingly at the elven king. Thranduil’s eyes were bright and hard, but he stood before the pleading gazes of many elves, as well as mortals. With a look of resignation, he at last replied, “Legolas shall be buried…in the lands where he was lord. Tomorrow, I, the elves of Ithilien and…any other mourners…shall depart with his body at dawn.”

Gimli sighed in spite of himself, and heard the hobbits sigh. “Thank the Valar he was reasonable,” murmured Sam. “I don’t think I could stand it if he took Legolas all the way back to Mirkwood where we couldn’t even bid him farewell.”

*Bid him farewell…* Gimli turned to them. “This execution’s not going to be pleasant; Disaran will make certain of that. If I were you, I’d get some rest.” Then he turned and left the assembly hall.

***

In the Halls of the Kings, a little while later…

Arwen felt unaccountably weary as she trudged alone back toward her chamber. Her own self-control and the veil she had worn had hidden her intense emotions during Disaran’s trial, but now she felt drained, tired, and upset. She had even evaded her father as he came to her after the trial’s end, asking him instead to seek out and speak to Estel. Aragorn still did not want her at the execution, and she truly felt little real desire to actually go, but what if she did not? If she did not see Disaran die with her own eyes, would his cruel face and cold eyes haunt her for the rest of her life? She was not certain. To be sure, he haunted her now, in dreams and awake, until she wondered if seeing his death would be the only way to assure herself that he no longer stalked her people.

*Legolas was the last. As cruel and needless a death as all the others, but at least he was the last. No other innocent shall ever suffer that creature’s leeching blow again after today.* Arwen shivered. The sun was nearly noon-high, but it was November, and there was a definite chill in the air that was only compounded by the chill in her heart.

“My Queen? Are you unwell?” Arwen jumped. It was a testament to her unsettled state of mind that she had not heard Lady Eowyn coming.

Forcing her pounding heart under control, she replied, “I am not unwell, Lady Eowyn, but thank you for your concern. “

Concern in her blue eyes, Eowyn stepped closer. “May I not send for a servant to bring you something? A hot drink, perhaps?”

“Nay, I need nothing,” said Arwen distractedly. She wanted to hide in her chamber. The urge to cry was beginning to swell in her throat, but Eowyn had not desisted. “I assure you, my lady, I am well…well enough.” Eowyn smiled wanly, and Arwen noticed for the first time how pale the Steward’s wife was as well. “Forgive me. I am, I admit, rather tired. It has been a singularly unpleasant morning.”

With a humorless laugh, Eowyn agreed, “So it has, my Queen. I shall be glad when this day is ended.”

“How is Lord Faramir?”

“Entertaining similar thoughts.”

“I can well imagine,” Arwen sighed. She had thought so much of Aragorn and his grief, but it occurred to her that Faramir must be suffering greatly as well, having been so near to Legolas in Ithilien. “What does he plan to do…when you return to Ithilien?”

Eowyn winced slightly and looked away. “I do not know,” she said softly. “I doubt if he has had time to think about it, and for that I am grateful, for he has had much to occupy his time these past days. But when at last it is done…” she shook her head. “I do not know. I…” her voice cracked, she looked quickly at the floor. “I find it difficult to…think of Ithilien without Legolas. I know for Faramir it shall be even worse.”

“They were close.”

“Most close, my lady. The elves there…they were a great help to us, and not to say I do not think they shall cease to be now,” Eowyn added hastily. “But it was Legolas with whom we had the most dealings, and…” she smiled with brimming eyes, “I need not tell you how pleasant dealing with him is.”

Arwen smiled, and fought back a sob. “Nay, Lady, be assured, you do not. I have known him since he was born--longer than any living man here!” Eowyn smiled too at that. “He and my brothers and their friends, whether we were in Rivendell or Mirkwood, used to get into such extraordinary mischief. It was even worse after he came of age and met Aragorn.”

“I can well imagine,” laughed Eowyn through her tears. “He and Faramir tried my patience on many occasions with their nonsense.” With a sound that was both a laugh and a sob, she asked, “Do you recall the last festival of the new year, when he and Gimli came to celebrate with Aragorn, Faramir, and Eomer?”

“Ai, how could I forget?” Arwen laughed, tears streaking her face. “I am told it is not the first time that Legolas managed to get Aragorn in his cups. I have it on good authority that Estel was fool enough to try to drink with that elf within months of their first meeting.”

“Only last year it was not only Aragorn, but Gimli, Eomer, AND Faramir,” cried Eowyn, smiling helplessly. “Oh, when I came upon my husband and brother, both drunk as village winemen, hanging off each other like fallen trees and singing dwarvish drinking songs, I thought I would kill them both! Faramir could not even stand up straight!”

Arwen sobbed with laughter. “Where was Aragorn? I did not see him until I found him practically unconscious with drink in the bathing room of our chamber?”

“When I found them, Aragorn and Legolas were both quite soused and attempting to teach Gimli how to shoot arrows, but I stopped them before someone was injured,” Eowyn replied, grinning tearfully at the memory. “All three of them tried to challenge me to a duel when I took the bow from them, for they thought I was Eomer.”

Arwen dissolved into great gasps of combined laughter and sobs, and before she knew it, she had flung her arms around Eowyn. The two women clung to each other, laughing and weeping, remembering the shenanigans of their husbands and friends with the elf who had been so dear to them both. “Oh, my lady, I shall miss him so,” sobbed Eowyn.

“And I,” wept Arwen, trying to keep her tears from soaking Eowyn’s gown. “But it is Aragorn, Faramir, and Gimli that I worry for most. Those poor men. How ever shall they recover from this?”

“I know not,” sighed Eowyn, pulling back and wiping at her eyes in vain. “It was all such a waste. He deserved so much better.”

Fumbling in her gown for a kerchief, Arwen blotted at her face. “They all did. Legolas, Laegnan, my uncle…” she shook her head, a surge of impotent fury at Disaran’s careless greed briefly overcoming her sorrow. “There was not an elf or man in Middle Earth who deserved such a cruel end.”

Eowyn looked away. “Faramir has asked me not to come to the execution.”

“Aragorn has asked the same of me. He dislikes the necessity of making it public.”

“Will you go?”

Arwen went to the corridor window, looking out over the tops of the buildings as she thought about it. Then she sighed. “Nay. Aragorn did not order it, but he will feel better if I am not present when he gives the final order, and that is reason enough. And he is right; I do not think Legolas would have wanted it either.”

“Then if you wish, Lady, I shall stay. For I also have no great wish to be there in person, and then you would not have to wait alone,” offered Eowyn.

Arwen looked at her. Eowyn’s face like her own was blotched with tears, but her eyes were clear. And so, Arwen suddenly realized, was her own mind. *And in this ending, there is a beginning also. And that is as it should be.* She smiled and took Eowyn’s hand. “I should be very glad of your company.”

“By your leave then, I shall go to my lord Faramir until the time comes for him to depart, and then I will come to you.”

“Thank you, Eowyn. You are a great comfort to me.”

***

In the Halls of the Kings, soon after…

Aragorn was standing by the window in his private study when the door quietly opened. Under any other circumstances, he would have smiled, for he knew without turning around who it was. Only one person in Middle Earth would dare come into any private room of his without knocking.

“Estel.”

Swallowing hard, he turned and forced a smile. “Father. I did not expect to see you here. But I am very glad you came.”

“The Lady Galadriel sent for me as soon as it happened. She knew even before the messengers arrived in Lorien.”

His throat was so very tight. He swallowed again. “I am most grateful to her.”

Elrond’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder. “You have done well, my son. Very well.”

Unable to completely prevent a shudder, Aragorn murmured, “I wish I could believe that.”

The grip tightened gently. “I know your grief. I share it. Yet you have prevented your judgment from being clouded.”

With a slight snort, Aragorn replied, “Obviously you have not heard how ill I conducted myself, those first few days…”

“But you recovered yourself. And you have seen things put right in the end. I too have conducted myself ill in the first moments of shock and grief.” His foster-father did not elaborate, and there was little need. They both knew of what he spoke.

How long Aragorn had fought to keep down the boiling eruption of grief and rage that churned within. Perhaps now…but he could not. He desired to bury his face in Elrond’s chest as he had when he was a child, to weep desperately until his breath left him, but he could not. There was a great noise in his ears. Not looking at Elrond, he stared again out the window and whispered, “Father…I do not know what to do.”

Now both of Elrond’s hands came quietly down upon his shoulders, gripping Aragorn tightly, providing a small rudder for his sanity as anguish threatened to overwhelm him. “You must do as you have done, these past sad days. Continue through each day, to do as he would have wished, and honor his memory in your actions.”

Aragorn’s stomach lurched, and he grated out, “I cannot think he would have desired all this madness. This bloodlust.”

“Perhaps not. But he would have desired justice, and that you have done all in your power to give him. Do not rebuke yourself, Estel. You have proven yourself well his friend, always.” Elrond’s grip drew him ever-so-slightly closer, and his voice softened still more. “I have great faith in you. And great pride.”

“Father…I am so glad you came.”

“As am I, my son. Remember, even when I am gone over the sea, that when your heart is troubled you shall always find me with you.”

***

In the House of Kings, around the same time…

“We thought we’d find you here,” said Frodo, coming in to see Gimli keeping his usual vigil beside Legolas’s body.

The barest nod was his only answer. Frodo looked at Sam, Merry, and Pippin helplessly, and Sam said softly, “You know, Gimli, Legolas…wouldn’t want you to grieve like this. He’d want you to carry on.”

“Sam is right,” said Frodo. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The dwarf closed his eyes, confirming their worries. “I wasn’t fast enough to…to get there in time. Elves and men…so much faster than dwarves.”

“You shouldn’t think that way, Gimli,” pleaded Sam, his eyes full. “You saved his life many times--and we had that from Legolas himself, so don’t go trying to deny it! Many a time he saved you, and many a time you saved him.”

“And why do you think Legolas didn’t want to go all the way back to Mirkwood after the War?” added Merry. “It wasn’t just for Aragorn that he made his colony so far south. He wanted to be near you. Never have I seen a truer friendship like there was between Legolas and you, Gimli, except maybe Sam and Frodo.”

Sam blushed, and Frodo grinned. “Merry’s right. We’re all right, and you know it. Above all things, Gimli, Legolas would never, ever let you blame yourself this way. It didn’t matter how fast you ran. If Disaran had missed that time, he’d have waited for another. He had Legolas marked out. There was nothing you could have done.”

There was a long silence. “I know,” Gimli murmured.

Merry smiled sadly and put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “After all, at least King Thranduil decided to let him be buried in Ithilien. So we can all go there when we want, and he’ll be back in the woods he loved. We all miss him, but it’s not so very bad.” He looked down at the elf’s body, still as fresh as life. “I think he’d be glad to go home.”

Gimli gave a little shake of his head. “I doubt it matters to him where he’s buried.”

“Don’t say that, Gimli!” cried Pippin. “He never stopped caring about us--”

“You misunderstand me, Pippin,” said Gimli. He looked for a long moment at the body, and sighed. “That…that isn’t him anymore. He’s gone. They say the souls of elves go to Mandos, in Valinor over the sea.”

Frodo took Gimli’s hand, smiling through the tears in his eyes. “Then he’s gone over the sea, just like he wanted to so badly ever since he heard the gulls. He’s safe. ”

“Yes,” Gimli’s voice was barely audible. “He’s free.”

***

An hour or so later…

Nearly everyone had already gone to the field where the execution would be, including Gimli and the hobbits, as well as Lord Elrond. Aragorn had watched them go, then quietly slipped into the Silent Street. He wanted to do this alone.

Coming into the House of Kings, he gazed silently at the body of his friend upon the table, feeling a strange emptiness inside. “It’s almost over now, Legolas,” he said softly. “I don’t know if you would have wanted your murderer executed this way, but there wasn’t much choice. Too many people want to see him pay. I am sorry if you would have disapproved.”

It made him ache; Legolas still looked as if he would sit up and stare at Aragorn at any moment. The King felt his throat tighten fiercely. “I tried. I would have done anything to save you. Anything,” he whispered. “I nearly lost my mind. How did this happen, my friend? You were never meant to fall before me.”

He stood there, and for a little while, his mind carried him away from this place of pain and loneliness. It carried him to the edge of Mirkwood, where he had gone to the aid of a young elf being attacked by spiders, a suspicious elf who refused to even give his name, but who Aragorn had realized was no ordinary elf from the very start. *I did not know what to make of you even more than you knew what to make of me. How we danced around each other, each wary of revealing too much about ourselves.*

His mind wandered to a small vineyard land where he and Legolas had been drawn into a labor dispute, and there they had first revealed to each other their true names. *Strange circumstances those were, that the heir of Isildur and the son of the king of Mirkwood could become friends. But we did.*

And then to Mirkwood, where Aragorn had brought Gollum, imagining that Legolas’s people were just the ones to be entrusted with the task. *I never imagined what I was asking of you, nor the price your people would pay.* Two young guards under Legolas’s command had been killed during Gollum’s escape, and the elf had been wracked with guilt and grief.

Finally, Aragorn’s memories arrived in Rivendell, where Legolas had come to report Gollum’s escape. *I did not blame you for that, once I learned all the facts. How glad I was when Father chose you to join the Fellowship. I knew at once you would be a worthy one to join us, and you proved it. How truly you proved it.*

Then, inevitably, his mind carried him against his will to the alley outside the Houses of Healing, to the memory of his friend that burned into Aragorn’s mind like a hot iron. The vision of the elf’s terrified face as Disaran drained the life from him haunted the King of Gondor always. “Oh Legolas. How could it have ended that way?”

Legolas’s still face blurred, and Aragorn’s throat tightened unbearably. “I’ll kill him today, but it will not bring you back,” he whispered, his voice choked with grief. “Legolas…Legolas, I would have given my life to save you.” He moved close to the table and squeezed the elf’s cold hand. “I know you have found peace and welcome in the Halls of Mandos; you were too good and noble for anything less. But I cannot help but wish that things had been different. For you became such a part of me that now I know not how to go on without you…”

The dam of grief and despair that Aragorn had held inside for so long suddenly broke, and he covered his face, as the first deep sob wrenched from him. His body felt weak with the release of so much pain, and he bent over the sepulcher, letting his forehead brush against Legolas’s chest, still clutching the elf’s hand, and at long last, he wept, not loudly, but deeply, with great, slow, heaving sobs that had been stifled for too long. “Oh Legolas…”

After a time, his weeping died down, and he brought himself back to awareness with slow deep breaths. Then a hand touched his shoulder, and he whirled around and nearly drew his blade. “What--”

Faramir jerked backward. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said, hastily raising his hands. “I apologize; I did not wish to intrude, but--”

Aragorn gaped at his Steward for several seconds before finding his voice. “By the Valar, Faramir, you should have announced yourself! I might have killed you!”

“I’m sorry,” the man’s voice softened, and Aragorn became aware of the tears still drying upon his cheeks.

He wiped his eyes. “How soon until we must go?” he asked wearily.

“We have a few minutes yet,” Faramir assured him. He looked down, coloring slightly. “Again, I am sorry I disturbed you, but I…did not realize you were here.”

“What do you mean--oh.” Aragorn grimaced, and scrubbed at his face. Faramir walked up to look at Legolas, and the King sighed. “Somehow I fear the execution will bring little satisfaction.”

“Even less than those who call for his death expect,” agreed the Steward quietly. “All the same, I’ll not regret Disaran’s death at all.”

“Nor I,” said Aragorn. He closed his eyes. “I find myself dreading tomorrow more every moment.”

Faramir nodded, and then sighed. “We should be going.”

“Yes.”

“Aragorn,” Faramir’s hesitant call stopped him when he would have left the House of Kings. “Should we not shroud him? It’s the proper thing due him.”

Aragorn turned and slowly walked back to the sepulcher, gazing at the body of one of his dearest friends. His hands lingered once again upon the clasp of his mantle, but as before, he found that he could not. “No. Legolas…was never cut off from the world, from the free air.” He shook his head. “I know it foolish of me, but I cannot do it now.” He backed up. “We shall let his people shroud him when the procession leaves tomorrow for Ithilien. I cannot.” Faramir nodded in understanding, and headed for the door.

Aragorn lingered one more moment to look at Legolas, and at last whispered, “Namarie, meldirn.”

***

In the prison, around the same time…

Disaran eyed the fading spirit of the elf that lay motionless outside his cell. *Getting pretty weak there, aren’t you?*

*I would not be so cocky were I you, Disaran. I may not last long enough to inhabit your body for you at the moment of your death, at this rate,* Legolas replied faintly. The living world was becoming a blur, with vague noises. He had half-hoped that he would fade out completely before the trial was over, and even looked for a way to hasten the process, dreaming with satisfaction of the look on the Black Hunter’s face when he returned a condemned man, only to find that the elf he intended to kill in his place was no longer there. Alas, his wretched half-life was somehow clinging to existence, and he remained, trapped between two worlds. Still, there was always the blessed (and very real) chance that he would not last until the execution.

But Disaran, watching the weakening elf with narrowed eyes, apparently recognized the danger. *That will never do, my elf.*

*Sorry to disappoint you, but my spirit may not be strong enough to survive until your death,* said Legolas.

*Maybe yours isn’t, but mine is. It’s true, I grow weary being outside my body for too long, but I’ve strength enough for this. You’ll not fade before MY time has come!* he laughed mockingly, and Legolas felt himself dragged into Disaran’s body once again.

Looking through Disaran’s eyes again, he saw Disaran’s now non-corporeal body appear nearby and thought, *Curse the Valar, I should stop thinking altogether--*

*--WHAT IS THIS?!* Disaran’s thought all but blasted Legolas’s ears off. He blinked and looked down at his body--wait. HIS body! It had to be his--his left hand near his face was no longer broad and blunt, but long and slender, bearing the calluses of an archer. How could this be--his spirit was all but yanked back out of the body before he could examine the situation further, and he lay limp and weak again nearby, while Disaran, once again in his own body, looked himself over and glared at the elf. “How did you do that?” the man snapped aloud.

*Cursed if I know,* Legolas answered, feeling vindictively pleased. *It seems keeping me around shall prove more difficult than you thought.*

*Now you are the one being cocky, elf,* sneered the man, reaching out with his physical hand and grabbing the elf’s spirit by the arm. *You seem to be failing to grasp the situation. If I force you into my body at the right second, and time it just so, the executioner won’t be able to stop his blade in time, and it will still be you that’s executed--body AND soul! And all those dear friends of yours will see the truth of what they’ve done! Quite a shock for them, I expect it’ll be. Might do any number of them in!*

Horror swept through Legolas at the thought. *No! No!*

Desperation seized him, for no longer could he simply be glad and resign himself to his spirit’s fate. He had to fight Disaran somehow, anything to stop Gimli, Aragorn, Faramir, his father, and the others from finding out what had become of him. *I will not let you do this!*

*You didn’t have a choice before, my elf. What makes you think you have one now?*

*I will find a way,* Legolas spat, trying to summon what strength he had left, as several guards entered the room.

“Well, Disaran, the time’s come!” said the captain, sounding downright cheerful. “Let’s be off!”

As they pulled Disaran to his feet and shackled him again, Legolas’s mind raced. *I must find a way. I cannot let him do this to them. It will destroy them all to see what became of me. They will destroy each other!* The guards were leading Disaran from the prison, and the elf felt the man’s will latch onto him, dragging his spirit along behind. Desperately, he summoned all the will he himself had left. *Ai, what can I do? I had not the ability to stop him when my spirit was at its strongest, and now I am nearly faded. How can I stop him now?*

But the thought of Gimli, of Aragorn, his father, Faramir, and all those he loved, those still living, increased his determination. *I must. I must.*

***

At the sporting field in Minas Tirith, a few minutes later…

It seemed to Legolas that all of Gondor had gathered for Disaran’s execution, as the murderer dragged him along behind. Legolas had forced back the weary lethargy that tried to claim his spirit, desperate to summon enough strength to stop Disaran from forcing Legolas to die for him. He knew not how, but something had changed: if his spirit was in Disaran’s body, the body somehow became his own, and he would die in full view of his friends if there was not time to warn them. It took no great thought to perceive Disaran’s plan: he would wait until the executioner’s blade was already in motion, and then force Legolas into his own body once it was too late for anyone to cry “stay!” Legolas himself would die before the very eyes of everyone he loved, Disaran would escape--body and all--and Legolas’s friends and family…it made the elf wish for the physical ability to shudder, wondering what his father would do at seeing him dead on Aragorn’s orders. *I must stop this. I must find a way.*

His own link to the living world was more tenuous, and that made it still more difficult. It grew increasingly difficult to see; the field of sand was a light blur, and the masses of people surrounding it a dark blur. In fact, the only thing Legolas could really see clearly was Disaran just in front of him. *Ai, I did not know it was possible to feel hate such as I feel for that man…that thing.*

They were on the field now. Legolas was surrounded by sandy light. To his left he noticed a particularly dark section, and suspected that it was a set of covered stands where the King and lords of Gondor would sit to witness the execution…and any guests that might be among them. All at once, he noticed that among the dark figures were sources of light, and they seemed more clear to him than the others.

*Elves. They’re here.* The fading spirit focused hard upon the glowing figures, trying to identify them. If he could just…he looked hard at the brightest of them. An elf, clad in white, very tall, probably of Lothlórien…Celeborn. No…wait…

*GALADRIEL!* Hope surged wildly in his heart. It was a slim chance, for no living elf or mortal had been able to hear his voice. Even Mithrandir had not sensed Legolas’s spirit…but Galadriel had possessed great power even without an elven ring. *GALADRIEL! My lady, hear me! Help me!*

***

In the same place at the same time…

Aragorn wondered if he would ever be able to enjoy watching a race or a fighting bout again after today. It relieved him no end that Arwen had agreed not to come, so in the throne beside his where his Queen normally sat, he invited the Lady Galadriel to be seated. He had been dismayed to see her there upon entering the stands to join the lords and honored guests of Gondor, but she had replied simply, “I choose to see the end, Elessar.” Unable to dissuade her, he had surrendered and invited her to sit beside him. Celeborn sat on the other side of her, and Elrond just beyond him.

Faramir was on his right; Eowyn had also decided not to come. On the other hand, all four of the hobbits had stubbornly asserted their right to be there, and they sat in the first row of seats just below Aragorn, between Gimli and Gandalf. The wizard had clasped the King’s hand firmly when he had arrived. “You’ve done well, Aragorn, very well. I know you do not believe it, but Legolas would have been proud.”

*I fear you are right, Gandalf, I do not believe it,* thought Aragorn, looking with intense distaste at the throngs of Gondorrim surrounding the field, watching in eager anticipation as though awaiting the start of a game. Death, even to one who richly deserved it, was not to be celebrated so, and the King was certain that Legolas would be the last one to enjoy this sort of thing. Still, there was nothing to be done now except to end it as quickly as possible. “Faramir, have the men bring him out.”

“Yes, my lord. Captain!” Faramir called to the guard at the gate of the field, who nodded and beckoned beyond Aragorn’s view.

A great roar of excitement and derision erupted from the crowd as Disaran was dragged into view. It interested Aragorn to see that the man seemed almost distracted, concentrating on something other than his impending doom. For once, he was not even making an effort to mock the families of his victims. *Perhaps it has finally dawned on him that this life he was willing to kill to extend is about to come to an end. Perhaps that is what has finally ended his insolence.* Aragorn felt a little solace in that, but not much. The time for rage, vengeance, even satisfaction was over: he simply wanted this to be done with.

A flicker of movement to his left caught his attention. The Lady Galadriel had leaned forward slightly in her chair, the tiniest frown of perplexity furrowing her brow. “My lady?” he asked softly. “Something is amiss?”

Celeborn looked at her and also frowned. Galadriel seemed highly distracted, narrowing her eyes at the field before murmuring, “I…something…” she blinked several times. “Please forgive me, King Elessar. I thought I sensed something…unusual. I must have been mistaken.”

***

For several seconds, the bright figure in the dark blur had come more into focus, and Legolas had been certain that he was reaching Galadriel. If he could make her sense his thoughts, he could warn her what was about to happen. But after several heart-stopping (if he had possessed a beating heart, anyway) moments, the vision had blurred back into the fog, and Legolas knew he had lost her.

*A Elbereth, give me strength. Mandos, I beg you. If I could not be granted a simple life and death like all others, at least spare those I love the agony of learning my fate! Let me die again without them knowing!*

But something told Legolas that simple praying and begging the Valar would not avail him. He had to find another way. And soon. There was not much time.

***

Faramir watched dispassionately as the guards hauled Disaran to the center of the field, where straw had been scattered liberally into a mat. At the center of the mat stood a large wooden pole, the height of a man. There Disaran made to stand, the manacles on his wrists and ankles chained around the pole and fastened to a ring at the top. A good number of the crowd were chanting for the executioner. “Who did you choose?” the King asked him softly.

“Riancam of Bree, my lord. He has been asking permission to return to his home village for some time, and had no objection to this, so I thought he was the best one. He’ll not be plagued by the Breelanders as the guard who executed the Black Hunter,” Faramir told him.

“That is well.” Aragorn watched Disaran for a moment, then sighed. “Let’s get on with it.”

Faramir nodded, and raised his sword. The tall, burly Breelander guard came out, bearing a large sword especially sharpened. Gimli had offered his own axe for the occasion, but Gandalf had finally convinced the dwarf that a criminal chained to a stake was hardly worthy of his blade. In the row of seats below Faramir, Gimli sat directly in front of the King. “Not much longer,” murmured the dwarf. Faramir wondered if it was only himself whom Gimli spoke to.

***

*Curse the Valar, I must THINK!* Legolas fought his disorientation, realizing he had perhaps minutes left to make a move. Any moment now, Disaran would force the elf’s spirit into his body even as the executioner’s blade swung, and it would be Legolas who appeared headless before all of Minas Tirith and the elves of three realms. What would happen afterward…it made him long for the ability to shiver.

Disaran was looking directly at him, knowing that Legolas was trying to find a way to escape him. He did not speak aloud, but as always, the elf heard his thoughts. *You are not strong enough to stop me now, elf. I shall have your spirit where I want it when the time comes no matter how hard you try to escape! Run, cowardly elfling, but your spirit is mine to dispose of again!*

Legolas seethed. *You shall pay even if they must hunt you down again, beast! Perhaps it is you who shall wind up without a body!*

*Or maybe I’ll find myself in my body wherever yours was,* suggested Disaran. *In the chaos of seeing you dead yet again, I’ll have plenty of time to flee Minas Tirith.*

*They shall find you. And you no longer have the stone. Either way, your time of feasting on my people is at an end.*

*Maybe it is, but at least I’ll get one last meal,* taunted the man.

There was another dark figure bearing down on them now. It must be the executioner, for Legolas could vaguely see the sun gleaming off something long and wicked-looking in the soldier’s hands. *A Elbereth!*

*Why not flee, little elf? I’d enjoy one last chase.*

It struck Legolas like a bolt of lightning. Always before he had fled from the Hunter, trying to resist the pull and escape. Always fleeing, but never… *If flight you wish, then you shall not have it this time! Your will pulls my spirit into your body to trade places with yours, but perhaps there is yet room in one man’s body for two!* Instead of retreating, he lunged.

*What--*

***

Silence fell upon the field. The executioner stood with his blade at his side on the opposite side of the pole that held the condemned man secure. The guards stepped back. All was ready.

Galadriel leaned forward in confusion as Disaran seemed almost to flinch at something unseen, then the man appeared to be struggling against his bonds. Much good it would do him, but what she sensed from the man was all but incoherent. Trying to discern the inane mental babble coming from the squirming figure on the field, she blinked to see Aragorn standing up as the executioner took his place, bringing the sword to bear.

*Wait,* she wanted to say. *Wait, something is wrong!* But she could not seem to find words to break the trance that the bizarre, overlapping thoughts held her in.

Sunlight did not gleam off the Flame of the West as King Elessar drew Anduril. No sun reached them beneath the awning over their stands, and the air was cold with November chill, but it did not matter, for the hearts of everyone were beating so rapidly. The King of Gondor held the blade aloft, causing the hobbits to reflexively lean forward.

***

It might just work! Perhaps if Legolas could keep Disaran’s spirit at least partly in his own body at the moment of death, it would be the man they saw, rather than the elf he had tormented. Then at best, Disaran would die, body, spirit, and all, and Legolas would be left to fade away in peace and return to Mandos. At worst, they would both die, as long as it was Disaran’s body that the onlookers saw. Naught else mattered to the elf. His own life was a write-off anyway.

To be sure, that possibility was confirmed by Disaran’s frantic fighting against the elf’s own will. The spirits battled there upon the field, in the battleground of a single mortal body, even as the executioner brought his blade to bear. But neither took any notice.

*Be off, elf! You’ll not get the better of me!*

*Nay, villain! You shall not do this! Not to them!* Disaran’s will was strong, but Legolas’s friendship and love for the people he knew were watching was stronger. He would not let them suffer the horror of mourning him once again. It was more disorienting than ever, being half-in, half-out of Disaran’s body while trying to figuratively “pin” the man’s spirit in, but Legolas suddenly found he could see from the man’s eyes along with Disaran, yet he knew that the body remained Disaran’s rather than changing into his own. It was working! Even if Legolas’s spirit was in this body, as long as Disaran remained even partly there as well, the body would remain the Black Hunter’s! From the corner of their combined vision, he saw the executioner raising his sword.

*Almost over, just fight a little longer!* he exhorted himself wearily, but with triumph. Just a few more seconds and they would both be dead. Desperate to flee his body before it was too late, Disaran had forgotten to keep the elf from gaining control of his movement. The executioner was watching for the signal. *Namarie, my friends,* Legolas thought. *May you never know what happened to me after death, and find peace in each other. That alone will give me peace.*

Not especially wanting to watch his own demise (again), he forced Disaran’s head to turn, focusing the man’s eyes on the shaded stands, so that his last view of the living world might be of those he loved best. There they were: Celeborn and Galadriel, Elrond, Elladan, and Elrohir, Faramir and Eomer, his father, and of course, the remaining members of the Fellowship. Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Gimli, and Aragorn, who raised Anduril to point straight up, then dropped the blade down. He felt the wind of a blade slicing the air, coming up behind him and sensed Disaran’s mental howl of defeat. It was time.

For both of them.
*****
To Be Continued…
*****

TRANSLATIONS (www.councilofelrond.com):

Namarie, meldirn: Farewell, my friend.

Chapter Nine: Judgment Day

Something was terribly wrong. Galadriel’s mouth opened, but she could not seem to find her voice. The turmoil she was witnessing was wreaking havoc with her own mind, but all she could be sure of was that something very strange was taking place in Disaran’s mind. Visibly, the man squirmed and jerked. To the watching mortals and even the elves, it must appear as if the man was finally fearful of death, and fighting in vain to get away, but Galadriel could see that the man was no longer even aware of his impending doom. Thoughts merged, overlapped, swept into and through each other, almost like…almost like a river emptying into the sea, and the endless battle between the river’s current and the ocean’s tide. A battle of wills--wills…more than one will in one body…TWO!

Aragorn had raised Anduril up as the Riancam readied himself.

A sound rather like a squeak came from her, as Disaran’s head turned to face the stands. The struggle was evident in his face, and a soft murmur of confusion rippled through the group, but Aragorn did not notice. His eyes were on the executioner who awaited his signal. Disaran’s eyes focused directly upon the onlookers just as Aragorn dropped Anduril’s blade. As Riancam began his swing, a collective gasp went up at the sight of Disaran’s eyes.

Not brown.

Grey.

“HOLD!!!”

It was impossible. A skilled swordsman like Riancam could complete the swing that would sever Disaran’s head from his body in less than one second. He would never be able to check the stroke in time!

But the cry that came from King Elessar, tinged with such authority and yet such desperation, was a command that no mortal beneath him would be able to ignore.

The edge of the blade bore down upon Disaran’s neck, but in a nearly superhuman feat of agility, Riancam wrenched his own body back, altering his aim so that the tip of the sword came down low, striking not the man’s body, but instead struck off the ring atop the pole that kept Disaran chained in a standing position.

From somewhere within Disaran, a pair of strange-yet-familiar grey eyes focused directly upon Galadriel, and her voice returned at last. “Mithrandir!” she cried over the pain-wracked howl of the executioner, who had actually injured himself in obeying his king’s last-split-second order.

The Maia was on his feet in a flash, aiming his staff even as Disaran staggered. A beam of blinding light, yet also tinged with darkness, shot from it as the wizard roared out an unmistakable command in a tongue that even Galadriel did not know. The energy engulfed the figure chained to the pole, and he fell, still fettered but no longer fastened in a standing position. A collective shout of inarticulate astonishment went up as the brilliance faded, the onlookers uncovered their eyes, and a body hit the ground like a dead weight and lay motionless.

Something had changed.

Still tall, but no longer so broad. Lean, almost lithe. His face was practically in the straw, but his hair…his hair…no longer short and black. Long and golden.

Now the people, all of them including Galadriel herself, cried out in one voice, this time in one word, voicing one shock, one disbelief, one hope.

“LEGOLAS!!!”

There was a burst of movement below her. In a feat that seemed impossible for such a short race, Gimli the dwarf vaulted clean over the railing of the stands, hit the ground upon his feet, and tore across the field at a speed that amazed every man and elf present. Aragorn jumped over Gimli’s empty chair and was out of the stands less than a second later, but for all the King’s unquestionable emotion lent him speed, the dwarf lived up to his race’s reputation for sprinting, and it was Gimli son of Glóin who reached the prone figure in the straw first.

Amid the babble of confusion, shock, and joy as people abandoned their seats and joined the stampede onto the field, Galadriel stood where she was with tears in her eyes. And smiled.

***

Just a few moments earlier…

When the executioner’s blade had come down, Legolas had stared at the faces of those he loved with a sense of triumph as he managed, from some last reserve of willpower, to keep Disaran’s spirit trapped along with him in the man’s body, so that his friends and family would not realize they had also slain Legolas again. His thoughts had been a blur, mostly concentrating on keeping Disaran there, and he had barely registered a shout from somewhere when the sword suddenly struck the loop keeping Disaran chained to the pole.

Neither man nor elf had been thinking about balance, and so once they were no longer chained upright against the pole, Disaran’s body had begun to fall. And then…

Light and indescribable pain had suddenly engulfed Disaran’s body, and both his spirit and Legolas’s had screamed in agony. Legolas felt as if something was rending him, tearing him up and putting him back together, and he had been aware of nothing but pain until the light vanished, and he fell, striking the hay with a great thud.

And then…

*Breathe.* He sucked in a deep, desperate breath. And another. He felt so weak and even less coherent than before; he did not even have the strength to push himself up so his face was not right in the straw. But he breathed. Himself. Again. And again. And again. His heart was pounding so hard--heart. His heart. Beating.

*What…what happened?!*

There was shouting, noise, ai! Terrible noise, all around him, the straw poked at him, and a Valar, how he hurt! He could not remember a time when he had been in so much pain. Where was he? What had happened?

“Legolas!” Someone was coming--nay, many people. The sound of pounding feet pulled itself from the cacophony, but Legolas could not even turn his head to see who it was. But…someone was calling his name! “Legolas!” Could they…was it possible…that now they could SEE him?

*Am I…alive?*

Hands grabbed his shoulders, and pain nearly ripped his consciousness away again. Strong, broad hands attempted to pull him up from the straw. “Legolas! Blessed Aule, Legolas? Legolas, by the Valar, answer me!”

*Gimli?!* “Gimli,” Legolas tried to reply, but no sound would come out. Then someone else was there, another familiar and much-loved voice, another pair of hands trying to lift him into a sitting position. Legolas’s hair fell into his face, obscuring his already-blurry vision, but he knew. *Sweet Elbereth. I am alive. Alive…*

***

Aragorn reached the straw mat and fell to Gimli’s side as the dwarf seized the fair-haired form by the shoulders and attempted to pull him upright. The figure in the straw was utterly limp, and Aragorn seized him from the other side, joining the dwarf’s efforts and trying to fight a dangerous surge of hysteria. “Legolas? Legolas? By the Valar, is it you?”

Abruptly, a hand rose and seized the dwarf’s arm, clutching at him, and Aragorn noticed with mounting panic how weak the grip was. There came a faint moan that might have been a word. Aragorn and Gimli managed to prop the almost-completely limp body against Gimli, and Aragorn frantically pushed the pale hair away from his face.

His eyes were glazed, his breath was ragged, and his entire body trembled. But there was no doubt in man or dwarf’s mind of his identity. The soul behind those half-focused grey eyes was the one they both knew so well. It was Legolas. Alive. *Alive!* “Legolas,” whispered Aragorn, feeling himself starting to tremble as well. “Legolas, it is you. How can this be?”

The pale lips moved, and a voice, as faint as a breeze, whispered, “Alive…”

Gimli squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the elf to him, making Legolas moan weakly in protest. “Legolas!”

“G…Gimli?” Legolas let his head sink further into the dwarf’s beard, clinging weakly to him. “Here…alive…”

They were surrounded by people now, all repeating the elf’s name in various degrees of shock, disbelief, and joy, but Aragorn paid the noise no heed. He struggled to keep his scattered thoughts together. “Faramir,” he said without looking up, and sensed rather than saw the Steward lean toward him. “See to Riancam.” The soldier was howling in agony and looked to have seriously injured himself. “Get that crowd under control.”

“Yes, my lord.” There was a tremor in Faramir’s voice as well.

“Wait! I need--I need the keys to the shackles!” Aragorn exclaimed, trying to keep himself coherent. Faramir also seemed to be fighting hysteria, and fumbled for the keys on his ring, and handed them to Aragorn before hurrying to speak to the guards.

Gimli barely seemed to see Aragorn as the man reached over to unshackle the elf’s ankles, but held Legolas tightly in his arms, rocking slightly, his eyes brimming. “Legolas. You blessed elf, how did this happen? How did it happen, Aragorn?”

“I don’t know,” the King of Gondor whispered, pressing his hand against the elf’s clammy forehead. “Oh Legolas.” His mind had seized on that raspy, whispered word that Legolas kept repeating, and it spun around and around in Aragorn’s head in a great maelstrom of joy and hope. *Alive! Legolas alive! Alive alive alive alivealivealivealive…*

“Aragorn?” came a hoarse whisper, and Aragorn leaned closer.

“I’m here, Legolas. I’m here. I…whatever happened, my friend, it’s all over. All over now.”

“Over,” came the murmured reply, and Aragorn knew the elf was even less coherent than he was.

“What did happen?” someone demanded, one of the hobbits, Aragorn thought.

“I don’t know,” Aragorn murmured, stroking strands of golden hair from the pallid face. “Some foul magic, to be sure. We’d better get him to the Houses of Healing; he seems to be in shock.” He beckoned Faramir back over to assist. Hastily, he undid the fastening of his mantle and wrapped the dark cloak around Legolas’s shivering body.

“Yes--” Gimli began, shifting Legolas, but then the elf’s head fell back, and his hair fell from his neck, also exposing the left side of his face. Gasps rang out, and Gimli froze. “By the Valar!”

Aragorn was not the only one who recoiled. Legolas’s hair had fallen back to reveal terrible bruising and swollen flesh on the left side of his face, as though the elf had been brutally beaten. Gimli’s breath began to catch, hitching in half-sobs, as the eyes of all fell upon the black bruises upon the elf’s neck: the clear marks of strong, vengeful fingers. “Aragorn,” Gimli whispered, his voice beginning to shake. “Aragorn…”

He all but dropped Legolas then, and Aragorn carefully took the trembling elf, supporting his body in his arms while the dwarf pulled away from them both. “Gimli, what--” he looked up to see Faramir also backing away, white-faced and looking about to become ill. “What is it?”

“I did that,” the dwarf whispered in a voice filled with horror. “I…no, oh Aule…I did that. It…”

Faramir had fallen to his knees. “I…Aragorn…it must be…it was him all the time. Legolas, oh Valar, I hit him!” He grabbed the sides of his head. “They…I let them beat him!”

“By the Valar, I begin to understand!” said a new voice, and Gandalf knelt beside Aragorn, touching the shivering elf’s face. Elrond was beside him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the state of Legolas’s injuries. “Aragorn, we must get him to the Houses of Healing at once. He is in shock and badly hurt,” said the Maia.

“Gimli?” Legolas seemed to have just realized that he was no longer in the dwarf’s arms, and looked around with glassy eyes. “Gimli?” His gaze fell upon the dwarf, who had stumbled a few feet away, and there was no mistaking the pleading in his gaze.

“Gimli, come back, he wants you here,” said Gandalf urgently.

But now it was the dwarf who was going into shock. “I choked him…Disaran…but it wasn’t…” He did not hear King Thranduil shoving through the crowd behind him. Aragorn, Gandalf, and Elrond exchanged frantic glances.

“Gimli!” Aragorn snapped, dreading what Thranduil would do if he heard the dwarf’s babbled confession, and feeling Legolas straining against his grip. “Worry about that later, now Legolas needs you! He’s asking for you.”

“I--” Gimli broke off as Thranduil came by him and stared down at the dwarf. Aragorn’s heart froze. *Oh no. He’ll demand retribution…no! Not now!*

“Thranduil!” snapped Gandalf, springing up and seizing the elven king’s arm before he could speak. “This isn’t the time or the place for accusations. All that matters is your son lives!”

For what it was worth, it did make Legolas’s father hold off on seeking vengeance, for he knelt swiftly, still glaring furiously at the dwarf who was confessing to responsibility for his son’s injuries. With a dismissive curse, he turned to look at Legolas, who recognized him and tried to speak, but his voice failed again. As Aragorn carefully removed the fetters from his wrists, wincing at the bruises, Legolas reached weakly to his father. Then Thranduil himself froze. Elrond hissed. Several people recoiled.

Legolas’s right hand was burned, most severely. At the sight of the raw, blistered flesh, Thranduil jerked backward, and the combined amazement and rage on his face gave way to horror. Then…anguish. “No,” he whispered, suddenly seeming not to realize anyone else was there. “Legolas?”

The elf seemed to be regaining his senses a little, and his dark grey eyes were a little clearer as he looked at Thranduil. “Father,” he whispered, urgency in his raspy voice. “N-not…their fault. Disaran, not theirs…” he was struggling to stay conscious and coherent as he tried to speak. “My friends.”

The elven king did not answer. It appeared to Aragorn that he lacked the ability. Gandalf put his hands on the shaken elf’s shoulders. “There was no way you could have known. Not you and not the others. No one could have known, if Disaran did what I suspect he did. Come, Thranduil. We must see to Legolas. He lives and he will recover.”

“Gimli?” Legolas asked again.

Hesitantly, the dwarf came closer. “I’m here, Legolas.”

The grey eyes were losing focus again. “Where? Can’t see you,” he tried to move in Aragorn’s grasp and moaned in pain, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Shh,” Aragorn soothed, rocking him like a child. “Easy, Legolas, easy. He’s here. Gimli, come.”

Gimli was shaking. Carefully, he lifted the elf’s right arm to rest against his chest so the burned hand would not touch the ground. He raised a trembling hand to the bruises on Legolas’s neck. “Oh Legolas…forgive me. I didn’t know!”

Legolas’s eyes were fixed intensely upon the dwarf. “I know,” he murmured faintly. The grey orbs lost focus for a moment, then by the dint of rapid blinking, the injured elf fought off unconsciousness. “Gimli, not your fault.”

“Legolas--”

“--No!” Aragorn had to choke back a sob. Dead, then alive, injured in some way he still could not comprehend, it was amazing how much stubbornness Legolas still managed to get into his voice. “Not your fault! Disaran…” his head lolled against Aragorn’s shoulder.

The King of Gondor shifted his grip and felt the elf’s ribs grate beneath one hand as Legolas cried out. *A Valar!* At least three ribs were broken. “Faramir, we must have a stretcher of some sort. I dare not move him in this condition. Faramir!”

The Steward was still staring in horrified anguish at the injured Legolas and did not seem to hear Aragorn. Fortunately, there was a shout from nearby to make way, and Elladan and Elrohir suddenly appeared, carrying a stretcher and led by Eomer. “Here, my lord. We should get him out of this mob.” Aragorn shot the King of the Mark a grateful glance. Eomer had not yet seen Legolas’s injuries and flinched, his hand lingering over the elf’s bruised face in dismay. “Valar, what happened?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Aragorn replied, easing Legolas carefully down to lie flat upon the straw. “Something to do with Disaran--”

“Disaran? Curses, Aragorn, what happened to him?!” Eomer cried. “Did he escape?”

Aragorn had been so focused upon Legolas, he had completely forgotten about the Black Hunter. Judging by the looks of shock and alarm on the faces of the others, elves and all, he was not the only one. “Gandalf?” he asked uncertainly.

Kneeling next to Gimli, who was still holding the elf’s hand, the wizard frowned. “I am not sure. They were both in his body when I performed the spell to free Legolas, but…it was the elf’s body that appeared. I am not certain exactly how Disaran did it, but I believe he had Legolas’s spirit somehow bound to him. I would imagine he might be found now in the prison near the remains of the Stone. Or perhaps the House of Kings.”

“Seal off the exits to the city!” Aragorn ordered.

“Already done, my lord,” said Eomer.

“Bless you, Eomer. Dispatch guards, search Minas Tirith. Have them start near the House of Kings and the prison.”

“Yes, my lord!” one of the captains hurried away.

Aragorn placed a finger under Legolas’s chin, feeling the elf’s heart hammering far too fast. His eyes were half-focused, and it made the King of Gondor sick to see the haunted look in them. “We must get him out of this chaos. After all he’s been through--Valar, I don’t even know what he’s been through, but he needs peace. Stand back a moment, Gimli.” He and his foster-father carefully readied themselves to lift Legolas onto the stretcher that lay waiting beside them, hoping not to cause him any more pain. “Hold on, Legolas, this will hurt. Ready? Now!”

Legolas groaned as they lifted him up and laid him back down upon the heavy bier. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. “Disaran…”

“Shh, worry not, Legolas. The guards are searching the entire city; we’ll find him. He shall never harm you again,” Aragorn promised his friend.

“Still dangerous,” murmured the elf. “The stone…”

“The stone is gone,” said Gimli from behind Aragorn. “It is destroyed.”

“Gimli? Where?” Legolas asked.

“I am here, my friend, but Aragorn must take you to the Houses of Healing. You’re hurt,” said the dwarf, bowing his head.

“Gimli!”

“Peace, Legolas, he’s here. Elladan, Elrohir, you will aid me?” Aragorn asked his foster-brothers.

“Of course.” The twins knelt at either end. “Ready? Lift.”

“Make way!” cried more than a dozen voices as the elves lifted Legolas up and bore him swiftly away, Elrond following Aragorn closely as they hurried from the field. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Lady Galadriel leaving the field in another direction, but there was no time to determine where she was going.

Aragorn looked down at the elf in the stretcher and grimaced; Legolas was semi-conscious and looking worse than ever. “Hold on, my friend. This madness will be over soon,” he whispered. Legolas moaned and turned his head toward Aragorn’s voice, but the man suspected the elf barely knew who he was. He ran ahead of the stretcher. “To the Houses of Healing! Hurry!”

And so the elves carried Legolas swiftly from the field where his murderer was to have been executed, led by the King of Gondor, and followed by an entourage of all those who had sought to be his avengers.

***

At the House of Kings…

Disaran knew it would not be a wise idea to stick around. Light and pain had finally receded, and he had opened his eyes to find himself lying upon a gray cloak in this tomb. He had nearly laughed with delight. *It worked. The elf failed! I am free!* He had rather hoped to find his spirit in the elf’s body, thus achieving the ultimate conquest, but it was no skin of his nose to be alive and free in his own body. Either way, he had won.

It would not be wise to linger there; Elessar was no fool. Once his people realized what had happened, it would not be long before guards poured into the Silent Street searching for Disaran. The Black Hunter peered out of the building and ducked hastily across the Street. *The real trick will be getting myself out of the city. Perhaps I can reach the stables and steal a horse.*

As predicted, guards were soon swarming all over Minas Tirith, and Disaran wondered how soon he would be able to kill a guard and steal a uniform. In any case, he was running out of time. Keeping his head down, he joined the streams of people running about through the streets. It never ceased to amaze him how dense soldiers could be. Gondorrim were scampering to and fro on all sorts of self-important errands in the wake of the chaos at the execution without even bothering to look at each other’s faces.

Before long, he had the city walls in sight. *I shall be away before they even make sense of what has happened!*

He dodged a party of agitated women and ducked into the stables, hiding behind a squad of White Company riders to avoid the stable guard. Creeping into an empty stall, he waited until the stables fell quiet again. He peered cautiously through the stall door and nearly shouted in delight: some careless White Company guard had left his saddlebags hanging off the nail of the stall that held his horse--with the corner of a spare uniform peeking out. Gleefully, he danced out of the stall, thinking, *And I do not even have to risk a commotion by killing anyone.*

“How terribly convenient for you.”

Disaran jumped nearly into the back stable wall. He stared. Standing between him and the stable doors was an elf, the most beautiful elf he had ever seen in his life. Dressed in flowing white, her veil had fallen back from her golden hair, which spilled past her waist. Her face might have been carved of ivory marble, and her eyes…hard as chips of blue ice. It had been nearly three thousand years…but he recognized her.

With a mocking bow, Disaran smiled. “Galadriel. So we meet again.”

She did not move. “So you remember.”

“Of course! How could I forget the face of an elf as fair as you? Even though you were in the throws of maternal hysterics the last time I saw you.”

There was a quick movement under the folds of her white cloak, and it did give Disaran just the slightest start to see a white elven knife appear in her slim hand. Recovering himself, he smiled. “You find a mother come to avenge the child you slew amusing?” she asked coldly.

He chuckled. “Do forgive me, Galadriel, but I have fought elven warriors far more heavily armed than you. And seeing as how I no longer have the Stone of Ar-Pharazon, I have no need to slay you--although I might like to add a lock of your hair to my collection!” he added, eyeing her appreciatively.

There came a loud thud behind Disaran, and he whirled, finding himself face-to-face with the dwarf-friend of Legolas, perched upon the top of a stall where he had climbed in the window. “That’s LADY Galadriel to you, villain!” He growled before launching himself down at Disaran.

Disaran dodged a swing from the dwarf’s axe and swerved back toward the ends of the stables, not wanting an elf at his back and a dwarf at his front. Grabbing a sword from next to the saddle bag, he brought it to bear. “I must say, Master Dwarf, you’re the last person I expected to see. Why aren’t you busy playing pet to dear Legolas?”

“Say his name again, fiend, and I’ll chop you down to my size!”

Disaran laughed aloud, “Oh, be off! How could an elf possibly merit such loyalty?” He parried another blow. “You’re a dwarf! You spend your lives being sneered at and downtrodden by ones such as him--and her! Elves! So beautiful and powerful and perfect--what are they truly good for?” He backed off and grinned, jerking his head at the elf woman watching the fight dispassionately. “Come now, Master Dwarf! She’ll never consider you or me worthy to kiss her hand!”

The dwarf’s eyes were blazing with fury, and he retaliated with a blow from his axe that very nearly took Disaran’s head off. “You’ll pay for the injuries you’ve done to her, to my friend, and for the way you’ve defiled all the Eldar!”

“The only reason you make up to elves is it makes you feel important when they deign to speak to you!” Disaran retorted, knocking the axe away again with the sword. “Stop deluding yourself! There are other ways to achieve that goal without groveling before them! I’ve done it! And do not tell me you wouldn’t be tempted by the offer of a lock of her hair!”

With a loud clang, the sword was knocked from his hand as the dwarf backed him into the wall, raising his weapon. “I’m not that greedy,” he snarled, and brought the axe down.

The last thing Disaran ever saw was the light from the elf glinting on the curved blade as it swung directly into his neck. There were many final things he would have liked do, even more he would have liked to say, but…it happened so fast.

***

Galadriel felt rooted to the ground where she was as the son of Glóin ended the Black Hunter’s career once and for all. The man’s head rolled under the door of a stall, greeted by a startled whinny, as a lifeless body slumped to the ground against the back wall of the stable. Still she stared. The dwarf lowered his axe again and turned to face her, his blade shining red in the dim light.

He bowed. “Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service, my lady. And your family’s.”

She stared at him. Whatever the other emotions he felt at seeing her confronting her son’s murderer, surprise was not among them. “You knew.”

“I fear so, Lady. Then again, I must confess that our common purpose more likely led to this common path.”

“Disaran.” She had not come to Minas Tirith for a trial. She had not come to witness justice. She knew King Elessar would see to that.

She had come to see with her own eyes the murderer of her child and her people dead. No more and no less.

Gimli glanced down at his axe. “It ends here. I might not have been able to save Legolas from him, but at least that’s the end of him.” *And too late. As usual.*

Galadriel heard him, of course. For several moments, she watched Gimli, standing before her, yet only half-seeing her. Always before, the dwarf had stared at her, every fiber of his soul rapt toward her face. Now he scarcely saw her.

But she got his full attention when she stepped toward him and deliberately sank to her knees, so that her face was level with his. He gaped. “My…my lady? Y-you should not--”

“It is as you said, Gimli son of Glóin. You have done a service, to me and to my family. You have destroyed a scourge that fed upon my people. We are indebted to you.”

“Too late to be of any use to those he slew! I beg you, Lady, rise! I am not worthy--”

“--peace, Lock-bearer. I know the accusations you bring against yourself, but you are wrong.” She looked hard at him. “The loss of the Stone of Ar-Pharazon did not mean that the Black Hunter would cease to visit his hate and malice upon my kindred. You fail to see the worth of what you have done because I cannot tally lives that now shall not be taken by Disaran.”

Gimli turned away, but not before she saw the tears glimmering in his eyes. “I nearly killed Legolas. His neck--he bears the marks of my hands upon his throat. I wanted to kill Disaran, and I tried to kill him, only Faramir stopped me doing it. But it was Legolas! It was Legolas all along, and I cannot imagine the torment he suffers now.”

“Then why are you here and not in the Houses of Healing?” she asked him.

“I’ve hurt him enough already.”

“He called your name, Gimli,” Galadriel said, standing up again.

Gimli’s eyes widened as he looked at her. “What…do you mean?”

*You know precisely what I mean. Then and now, son of Glóin, it is you whom he calls, the one dearest to his heart. Do not allow the guilt you have imposed upon your race to cause you to forsake him now.* She stepped to the side, giving way to the stable doors. “Go to him, elvellon.”

***

In the Houses of Healing, a short time later…

The world was not as blurry as it had been when his spirit had been fading, but Legolas’s mind was moving so slowly that it may as well have been. There were people, so many people, bustling around him, jostling him, touching him, and speaking to him, that he could not make sense of anything. He did not even know where he was. He lay upon a soft bed, his head pillowed, and different faces kept moving close to his to whisper soft words to him, but he could not seem to comprehend what they said. He knew these faces though, or at least he thought he did. If only everything would cease moving for a few moments, he might be able to get his bearings.

“Legolas?”

There they were again! He turned his head toward the face near him, blinking as it swam in and out of focus too fast for him to recognize it. “Wh-who…”

Someone’s hand brushed the hair from the bruised side of his face. The touch was gentle, familiar, and Legolas found himself relaxing. “Legolas, it is I, your father. Do you know me?”

“Father?” He blinked again, and sure enough, Thranduil’s face swam into view over him, only to blur again just as swiftly. “Where…where am I?”

“You are in the Houses of Healing, my son. Fear not. You are safe.”

“Can’t see.”

“Then rest. Recover your strength. I will be here.”

“A moment, my lord,” another voice floated into his ears, and Thranduil suddenly disappeared.

“Father?!”

“I am still here, Legolas.”

“Do not fear, Legolas,” someone else was bending over him. A man…Aragorn. “We must see to your injuries.” The rim of a cup brushed his lips, sending the sweet odor of medicine into his nose. “Drink, it will help you sleep--”

“No!” Legolas jerked his head away, wincing. “No, I cannot--”

“Legolas, it’s only Aragorn!” Gimli’s face appeared, hovering over him.

“Gimli,” he sighed in relief. The dwarf had been gone for a time, though Legolas had called to him.

The cup was offered again, and Legolas pulled away. “Valar, Legolas, Aragorn’s a healer! He would never harm you,” Gimli urged, trying to make the elf accept the draught.

“I know, I…” Legolas blinked, trying to speak coherently. “I don’t, don’t want…”

*Legolas.*

“Who--”

The fair form of the Lady Galadriel came into view above him, and though her light was as dazzling as ever, it did not hurt his eyes. *You fear sleep, son of the Eldar.*

“Yes,” he whispered, disarmed into honesty.

A white hand brushed his cheek, and some of the pain seemed to bleed away. His eyelids grew very heavy. She spoke aloud. “You are safe, Legolas. The Black Hunter is dead, before my eyes. You shall not find death in the night.” She leaned over him and gently kissed his brow. The last thing he saw before his eyes slid closed was her smile. *Sleep now, Legolas of Ithilien. The morning shall find new hope for us all.*

***

King Thranduil watched in numb silence as Aragorn, Lord Elrond, and the twins went to work treating his son’s injuries. He thought to go and offer his own healing skills, for they were not inconsiderable, but found himself lacking the ability to move. On the advice of Galadriel, even the accursed dwarf ceased lurking around Legolas’s bedside to return to the Halls of the Kings and sleep. So now Thranduil stood in the corner of the Houses of Healing, hiding in the shadows like a frightened troll, and looked on.

A part of him desired to rail and rage as Elladan gently propped Legolas up so Aragorn could bandage his broken ribs. It had been Aragorn’s Steward and his guards and that dwarf that had done this to Legolas in the first place; he wanted to tear his son from them and never let him into their clutches again. But how could he? One of Legolas’s most severe injuries had been by Thranduil’s hand. On removing the elf’s clothing, they had found still more wounds; the guards of Minas Tirith had visited their rage upon Disaran often, and brutally from the looks of it, never imagining that it was his last victim who suffered the torment. Elrohir hissed in dismay over the lash marks on the young elf’s back, but though Legolas whimpered occasionally as they worked, he did not wake. Galadriel had assured them that he would sleep through the night.

The Lady of Lórien also lingered in the chamber, just inside the door. Beneath her white hood, her blue eyes twinkled thoughtfully. *Your own skills as a healer might be of service to your son, Thranduil.*

Thranduil looked away, only to have his eyes fall upon the twins, who were attempting to clean sand and dust away from Legolas’s wounds. He closed his eyes. *I have no right to tend injuries that I myself inflicted, Lady.*

*You knew that it was your son who you harmed?*

*What? Of course I didn’t--* he looked incredulously at her and saw the quirk of her mouth. He sighed. *It was not our prerogative to maltreat a prisoner awaiting trial no matter what his crime. Valar, I knew that and still I wounded him--and enjoyed his torment! But it was Legolas! My son!*

Her eyes held his. *Many others were taken by the Black Hunter’s deception, son of Oropher. Even I. Yet Legolas has reproached none of you.*

*Yet,* he replied in a mental grumble.

He was answered by mental laughter. *Your youngest son inherited your stubbornness, Thranduil. I think you may find that it is this which is the cause of much of the strife between you.*

Thranduil bristled. *Whatever the strife between us in the past, when he has been troubled I have never been found away from my son’s side!*

*And yet here you are!*

Never in his life had the son of Oropher heard the Lady of the Galadhrim sound quite so…scornful. His mouth opened, and he blinked at her, which must have appeared ridiculous to any who beheld it, since neither had spoken a word aloud for nearly twenty minutes. Satisfied that she had obtained Thranduil’s full attention, the Lady Galadriel smiled and turned her face toward the bed surrounded by healers. *Go.*

Thranduil doubted that he could have disobeyed her--even if he had wished to.

To his surprise, neither Aragorn nor the other elves questioned him as he joined them at his son’s bedside. Like all elven healers (or in Aragorn’s case, a healer trained by elves) few words were spoken, for glances alone could convey what needed to be done. Elrohir had been painstakingly cleaning Legolas’s burned hand, and Thranduil calmly intercepted the bowl of soothing salve passed over by Elrond. When Elrohir stepped quickly aside, Thranduil took his place by the front of the bed. His heart clenched.

Legolas looked dreadful. With the grime now cleaned from his skin, he looked paler than ever, and the bruises stood out on his fair skin. He slept, but was clearly still in pain, for a faint grimace showed in his countenance. And yet…

*Alive. He lives. Nearly five days I mourned him, and yet he lives.* Thranduil’s throat tightened as he gently touched his son’s face. *Legolas, Legolas, I thought I would never see you asleep again!* There came a light touch upon Thranduil’s shoulder, startling him out of his reverie. He looked up to meet Elrond’s grey eyes. The Lord of Imladris smiled understandingly and nodded toward the salve Thranduil was neglecting. The elven king swiftly turned his attention back to it, and Elrond went away again.

Legolas whimpered softly and flinched in his sleep as his father carefully took up his burned hand, but once Thranduil began applying the salve, he stilled. Elladan appeared at the other side of the bed, dabbing at the dried blood on Legolas’s face, and grimaced at the pain the younger elf was obviously in. As gentle as they were, Thranduil’s fingers still brushed the raw burns from time to time, and Elladan still jarred the tender bruises, until Legolas was nearly rigid where he lay and moaning in his sleep. He calmed a little if they desisted, but the wounds had to be dressed. Finally, when Legolas stiffened and cried out yet again, Thranduil moved closer to his side and began to sing.

It worked. Legolas ceased tossing and sighed, falling into deeper dreams. The twins joined in the song then, and though they continued tending his wounds, Legolas relaxed completely. Having finished bathing the hurts, Elrohir called softly, “Estel.”

What peace Thranduil had gained vanished as Aragorn appeared next to him, examining Legolas as if the elves could not be trusted to treat him themselves. He remembered that Galadriel was present and gritted his teeth, keeping his mind as blank as possible. Galadriel knew he disliked her being able to read his thoughts--more still when she delivered a running commentary on them. Of course, being the greatest among elven women in Middle Earth and thus answering to few, his irritation mattered little to her.

But he nearly gave her cause to remark, for his thoughts became thoroughly resentful (and less than complimentary) as the mortal King of Gondor took up Legolas’s hand, eyeing the burns, and said matter-of-factly, “They are deep. I had thought to keep the hand uncovered, but his palm at least must be bandaged.”

*As if I could not have told him that,* Thranduil griped mentally, but he took the proffered bandages.

At long last, Aragorn and the twins had herded the onlookers and well-wishers (including Galadriel) from the Houses of Healing so the patient could rest, and Aragorn himself had also retired. Elladan remained in the next room, to be relieved by Elrohir later, but Thranduil found himself at last blessedly alone with his son. Legolas was sleeping peacefully, wrapped in blankets and his bandaged hand resting upon his chest. Thranduil softly sang to him for most of the night, and he never stirred. It was very late, or very early, before Thranduil finally allowed himself to seek the peace of dreams.

***

The next morning…

Aragorn awoke feeling thick-headed and bleary, and his first thought was an incredible reluctance to face another miserable day--then he remembered.

Legolas was alive.

The thought set him positively giddy, and he all but flew from bed, anxious to see his friend again and check on his welfare. He had returned to the Halls of the Kings to find Arwen and Lady Eowyn demanding to know what had happened at the execution. His report that Legolas had appeared in Disaran’s place alive--if not exactly well--had been met with near-hysterics from both of them. Each woman had proposed immediately to fly to the Houses of Healing to look upon the resurrected elf for herself, but between his own efforts and Lord Elrond’s, who had accompanied him, they had at last persuaded the women to put it off so Legolas could have some peace.

As it was, Aragorn knew he would be a fool indeed to expect all to be well just because Legolas was alive again. In fact, there was every reason to fear that his friend’s restoration would give way shortly to a whole new set of problems. Some of them were already turning up. Faramir had been completely undone by the discovery of the elf’s injuries, and it had been the Steward’s turn last night to receive an illicit sleeping draught from a certain meddling wizard. Knowing that life was about to become more difficult and confusing, Aragorn wished Faramir was not indisposed right at this moment, but recognized that he himself could hardly complain. *This whole affair has undone nearly everyone in Minas Tirith at one time or another.*

So he left it alone, welcoming Eomer’s assistance once again in keeping Gondor together. *Words cannot express the debt that I owe to the King of the Mark for all he has done this last week.* Nevertheless, Aragorn was determined to let Eomer know it before he returned to Rohan.

Arwen was already dressed, and it was not long before she was pacing about complaining that Aragorn was not dressing quickly enough. Before long (though Arwen disputed that expression) they were on their way to the Houses of Healing, joined by a small army of men, elves, and hobbits.

They arrived to Elrohir’s report that Legolas still slept, and debated whether or not to wake him. “He needs rest,” murmured Aragorn thoughtfully.

“Yea, but he may also need nourishment. We cannot begin to know what befell him at Disaran’s hand--even after we all believed him slain,” replied Arwen. Glancing at her husband and brother, she silently made her way to the elf’s bedside. King Thranduil sat there in a chair and moved to rise, but she placed a hand lightly upon his shoulder, bidding him remain seated. Instead, she simply stood close to the head of the bed where Legolas slept, staring down at him with full eyes, gently touching his face as if to assure herself that he was indeed real and not a ghost of their hopes. Her face grew troubled at the sight of his bruised face and neck, and his bandaged hand, but she bent down and softly kissed his cheek. Then she straightened and returned to Aragorn’s side.

“I think at least we should make him drink,” said Elrond. “He will need all his strength to heal.”

“Nay, make him eat as well,” said a new voice.

The elves and man turned to see Gandalf. “Mithrandir?” asked Arwen, a wealth of questions in speaking his name.

The wizard gave a little half-bow to the company. “If what I think has happened to him did happen, then he is not merely wounded and exhausted, but also suffering hunger and thirst. He will need plenty of rest, but we must rouse him enough to take food and drink.”

“That is word enough for me,” said Aragorn, and though King Thranduil narrowed his eyes slightly and glanced at Elrond, he did not dispute Gandalf’s suggestion.

Arwen accepted the elven king’s offer of his chair this time, and gently touched the elf’s face again. “Legolas? Awaken, my friend. Come, Legolas.” As the others watched, Legolas moved his head ever-so-slightly towards her before his eyes opened, very slowly as if they were nearly too heavy. His lips moved as he looked at her, but no sound came out. “Hush, do not trouble yourself. No, Legolas,” she smiled and shook him gently as his eyelids began drooping closed again, “you must stay awake for a few moments. Mithrandir has said you need nourishment, and you must at least be thirsty. There now, stay awake just for some food.” She took the cup of water offered by Elladan, and held it to Legolas’s lips, and the weak elf drank it without protest. By the time he had finished, he was falling asleep again, and she had to nudge him several more times to keep him conscious long enough to drink the broth Elrohir had prepared. No sooner had the empty mug been taken away than he drifted off again. She smoothed back his hair, her eyes troubled. “He is exhausted.”

“I fear he may have faced what no living being, man or elf, should ever have to face,” said Gandalf.

“What?” Aragorn whispered, fearful of disturbing Legolas. “You have not yet said what you think happened to him!”

“It is only because I am not completely certain. To be sure, even if I know what became of his spirit after it left his body--and it did, Aragorn, there was no mistake there. Legolas was dead in every physical sense of the word. What remains to be determined is exactly how his spirit remained in Middle Earth afterwards, and what befell it,” the wizard explained.

Arwen’s hand went to her breast, and Aragorn pretended not to notice when Thranduil shuddered. “You mean,” murmured Elladan, “his spirit was either remained in Middle Earth, or it was…sent back.”

“Precisely. But there are questions that need answers, many of which can only be answered by Legolas himself, and as you see, he is in no fit state to speak, let alone of what can only have been a hideous experience.” This time, Aragorn noticed that it was himself who shuddered. Gandalf looked at Legolas again and shook his head. “Whatever happened to his spirit, I think it obvious that he suffered terrible torment, the worst sort imaginable after death at the hands of his own murderer.”

“And his friends,” murmured Thranduil. Aragorn looked sharply at the elven king, but realized that Legolas’s father was rebuking himself, as well as the others whose blows were now in evidence upon Legolas’s body.

Speaking of friends of Legolas who might yet run into trouble with Thranduil, at that moment Gimli came in. The dwarf nodded to Aragorn, Gandalf, and the elves, then shared a quick scowl with Thranduil before moving defiantly past the elven king toward Legolas’s bedside. “I thought Legolas was not to be disturbed,” Thranduil said tightly.

“Legolas has asked for Gimli repeatedly since…returning,” said Elrohir in the dwarf’s defense.

***

As quiet as possible, Gimli sat in the chair by the bedside. He thought for a time that Thranduil was going to dispute his right to sit by the elf’s side, but Arwen smoothly took the elven king’s arm and spirited him from the room, speaking blithely of finding him some breakfast. Gimli was infinitely grateful to her. Aragorn had a quiet argument with Elrond and Gandalf over whether he should remain or return to the Halls of the Kings, but eventually the wizard won and sent the King back to deal with his anxious, confused people. Gimli did not envy him the task, especially without Faramir. Gandalf and Elrond continued muttering amongst themselves about what had actually happened to Legolas, and Elladan and Elrohir were busy keeping worried visitors from harrying the door, so Gimli sat in relative quiet by his friend’s side.

After some time, the elf began to moan and toss in his sleep, and Gimli grew worried. He tried gently ending the nightmare without waking Legolas, but the ill dreams continued to plague him, so at last, the dwarf shook his friend. “Legolas. It’s a dream. Wake, Legolas. You are safe.”

Grey eyes flew open in clear fright, and Legolas looked about him, his breath coming quickly. Gimli instinctively squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Legolas! Rest easy, my friend, all is well. You are safe now.”

Legolas’s eyes came to rest upon Gimli, and the dwarf was astonished at how swiftly the fear vanished from his face. *I was never able to protect him before. Why should the sight of me inspire such confidence, unless he is feverish and thinks me someone else.* With that worried thought, he felt the elf’s forehead, but while sweaty, it was not overly warm. He returned his hand to Legolas’s shoulder, thinking, *Strange, he is. Of all the people to find beside him when he wakes from a nightmare, that he would be relieved to see--*

“Gimli,” the relief in the elf’s voice cut off that line of thought. Gimli stared in amazement as Legolas continued looking at him as if he were the only person on earth the elf wanted to see. Satisfied that he was indeed safe from whatever nightmare had been plaguing him, Legolas relaxed against the pillow, covered Gimli’s hand with his own even as his eyes drooped closed again…and smiled.

*****

Chapter Ten: The Houses of Healing

A day or two later…

Some measure of unrest had begun brewing among the friends and kindred of Legolas. During the first days after the abortive execution, it had been understood that Legolas needed rest and quiet, but many of them who had not seen him since that day were growing anxious. “How much longer are we going to have to wait?” demanded Sam as Aragorn came out of the Houses of Healing.

Aragorn sighed, feeling tired and still worried about his friend. Legolas was slowly recovering physically, but what his elven spirit had suffered would require a far longer convalescence. He looked at the agitated hobbit. “Legolas has been through a great deal, Sam. I am merely trying to give him as much peace as possible, without people constantly coming to visit him.”

The hobbit sighed too, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Strider. I spoke too hasty. But…it’s not just me, you know,” he glanced over his shoulder at where Frodo, Merry, and Pippin were talking to the Lady Eowyn. “Frodo’s been in a dreadful state of worry, and we both know it’s not good for him. I know Legolas needs his sleep, but,” he lowered his voice, “couldn’t you let Frodo see him? For just a few minutes? I think it’d do wonders for his peace of mind.”

Looking past Sam, Aragorn frowned. Sam was right; Frodo was looking unwell. The Ringbearer was pale, and his eyes were red-rimmed. No one had fared very well through this accursed week, but Sam was always most concerned for Frodo’s well-being. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn nodded. “Bring Frodo, Sam. I do not know if Legolas will wake, but for a few moments you may see him.”

“Thank you, Strider,” Sam hurried over to the other hobbits and drew Frodo away, and then they followed Aragorn inside.

***

The room where Aragorn led Frodo and Sam was warm, and very quiet. Frodo noted with surprise that the windows were shuttered. Surely Legolas would dislike being closed in--but then again, the air was chill outside. *He must be ill indeed if they’re worried about him taking cold.*

Not surprising was the presence of Gimli; the dwarf was seated in a chair at the bedside. On the other side of the room, watching the quiet movement of the healers and the friends of Legolas with a distinctly hard expression was King Thranduil. Lord Elrond was standing by him and bowed to Frodo and Sam as they entered. Gimli looked up at them, and quietly rose from the chair, beckoning Frodo forward. Sam stayed behind as the other hobbit walked cautiously to the bed.

To Frodo’s immense relief, Legolas looked much better than he had when he first reappeared on the execution field. The bruises upon his face had begun to fade, and most of the swelling had gone down, though his burned hand was wrapped in bandages and still looked terribly painful. His eyes remained tightly closed. Frodo sat beside him for several minutes, feeling grief surging within him at the torment the elf must have experienced, and a soft sigh escaped. Legolas stirred.

Everyone in the room started, leaning forward as Legolas turned his head, and his eyelids drifted open. When his searching gaze met the watching hobbit’s, Frodo felt his heart clench. Those grey eyes, always bright and alert, were now dull and haunted. The weak smile that Legolas mustered for the anxious hobbit passed unnoticed, for Frodo was too transfixed with dismay at the naked pain in the elf’s eyes. Impulsively, he reached out and lightly covered Legolas’s bandaged hand with his own, feeling tears stinging his own eyes. *Oh Legolas, you’re the last person in the world who deserved this.*

Sam came up behind Frodo then, and put a hand on his master’s shoulder. Frodo had no doubt that Sam was also mustering a smile at Legolas, but knew from the way his friend’s hand tightened that Sam was just as aggrieved as he to behold the signs of torment in Legolas’s eyes. In a somewhat hoarse voice, Sam said, “Very glad to see you, Mr. Legolas.”

Legolas swallowed and tried to speak, but nothing came out, so he settled for smiling weakly at the two hobbits. His eyes flicked past them as the door opened, and the soft patter of hobbit feet indicated that Merry and Pippin had been allowed to enter since Legolas was now awake. Frodo did not turn around, but heard their breath catch at the sight of the elf. Pippin came up next to Frodo, Merry next to Sam, and each in his turn spoke softly to Legolas and patted the elf’s hand comfortingly. At last, Legolas’s smile seemed a little closer to meeting his eyes, but then his face grew weary, and he closed them again. Frodo quietly motioned the others away and left the bedside.

***

The hobbits walked in silence back to the Halls of the Kings. Not a one of them made a sound, except the occasional sniffle from desperately stifled tears. By unspoken consent they wound up in Frodo’s room. Merry surveyed his friends as they all sat down, each immersed in his own thoughts. Pippin had tears streaking his face, and Sam’s eyes were brimming. Merry himself felt a terrible tightness in his stomach, a knot of anxiety and grief. How deeply it hurt to see Legolas that way. His eyes…their light was gone. Merry was not as enamored of the elves as Sam and Frodo, but he certainly admired them. Now he realized he had taken the brilliance of Legolas’s eyes and the merriment of his spirit for granted.

*I wonder if he will ever be able to recover from what happened to him. He’s alive now, but is that really a blessing? To us it is, but maybe not to him.* Merry’s view of his friends blurred as his own eyes welled up. It wasn’t fair. After all he had been through…it just wasn’t fair!

A soft sigh drew his eyes to Frodo, who was looking out the window. Sam, still managing not to cry, walked over next to his master and put a hand on his shoulder. “He may yet get better, Mr. Frodo. Once he’s up and about again. Maybe his light’ll come back.”

Frodo seemed to actually be bearing up better than the rest of them, though his eyes were red. Turning to them, he smiled sadly. “Maybe. It depends really on him, on his spirit. There’s only so much we can do.”

“Is there anything we can do at all?” murmured Pippin.

“The same thing we’ve been doing,” replied Sam. “Just…stand by him, I suppose. Let him know that we’re here if he needs us.” He suddenly shuddered. “No elf’s eyes should ever look like that. Like he’ll never come out of the darkness again.”

Softly, Frodo murmured, “I know how he feels.” The others stared. Frodo smiled at them again. “It wasn’t just his body that was hurt, it was…his spirit, from what Gandalf said. His spirit and his will.”

“Best things about an elf,” sighed Sam. Then he suddenly stared at Frodo, realizing what his master had meant. “Yes, I suppose you can understand how he feels, can’t you, Mr. Frodo? In a way, I suppose…what he went through isn’t that different from what you did.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Merry in confusion.

“Well,” Frodo looked away. “If Gandalf’s right, then somehow Legolas’s spirit got sent back, and somehow Disaran had Legolas trapped, under his control. And so…when one of the guards, or one of Legolas’s friends came and struck Disaran, it was Legolas who felt it, Legolas who saw it.”

Pippin shivered. “I can’t imagine anything worse than that.”

“And knowing Disaran, he probably tormented Legolas’s spirit while he had him,” Frodo added, suppressing a shudder of his own. He shook his head. “Not alive, not dead, just trapped. Even the Ring didn’t have that kind of malice. I wonder if he didn’t have it worse than I did.” Sam shivered, and Frodo looked at him. “To be sure, I think I know that look in his eyes. Like someone who had just crawled out of the deepest, darkest hole, and doesn’t really remember what light looked like.”

“Not only that,” murmured Merry. “Like he didn’t think he’d ever be able to enjoy the light again.”

Sam, Pippin, and Frodo nodded, then Sam said, “I guess we’ve just got to hope that having all his friends around him again makes him feel safe again.”

***

That evening…

This was going to be yet another difficult errand, thought Aragorn as he walked toward the Steward’s chambers in the Halls of the Kings. He had arranged the appointed time with Eowyn and Gandalf, now all that remained was what would likely be an unpleasant conversation with Faramir. The Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor had remained in seclusion in his quarters since the discovery of Legolas alive, having fallen under the same shroud of anguish and bitterness that had covered Aragorn in previous days. But now, just as it had been with Aragorn, it was time to drag Faramir back to his senses.

Eowyn met the King of Gondor at the door to their quarters, and Aragorn needed no long look at her face to see that all was not well. He entered the room at her invitation, only to find Faramir waiting for him. The Steward was neatly dressed, his manner stiffly formal, but there was a hopeless look in his eyes that made Aragorn cringe inwardly. Faramir bowed to him, and Aragorn said carefully, “You look improved, my friend.”

“My lord,” Faramir’s voice had a dead tone to it. “I thank you for coming.” Before Aragorn could interrupt, without even waiting for Gandalf and Eowyn to leave, he said swiftly and flatly, “I wish to relinquish my position as Steward of Gondor.”

“Faramir, by the Valar--”

“I beg your indulgence, my lord!” Faramir said, a desperate edge to his voice. “I have committed faults that render me unfit for this position.” From the doorway, Eowyn flinched and closed her eyes, and Gandalf put a hand on her shoulder. “I permitted the wanton mistreatment of a prisoner awaiting justice by the guards of Gondor. I abused him myself, and our actions nearly resulted in the death of a member of the Fellowship! The office of the Steward requires the faith of the people of Gondor, and I failed that utterly.” He raised anguished eyes to Aragorn’s face. “You can find others among the lords of Gondor better suited to fill this role, my lord. Men who have not failed in the responsibilities of this office.”

Eowyn was uncharacteristically silent and wringing her hands, her eyes wide and tear-filled as she watched the exchange. Gandalf’s face was grave and sad. Aragorn glanced past Faramir at them for a moment, then looked back at the son of Denethor. Guilt wracked his face as it had wracked the faces of many in the past few days. The King of Gondor sighed and forced himself to think. He had heard the mutterings of many people, mortal and elf, over who should bear the responsibility for what had happened to Legolas, and none would be terribly surprised to see it fall upon the Steward, since he had been in charge of Disaran. *I suppose in a situation like this, one expects heads to start rolling.*

Yet the thoughts were rather whimsical in nature; he could not imagine himself forcing Faramir out over this. *Disaran fooled every single person in Minas Tirith, up to and including the Lady Galadriel. Perhaps Faramir might deserve a censure for mistreating a prisoner, but he is not to blame for what that villain did to Legolas. Nay, it is out of the question.*

With that thought, he focused again on Faramir’s anxious face. “Your resignation is not accepted, Lord Steward--hearken to me!” he added sharply as the man started to protest. “I shall, if your conscience demands it, formally reprimand you and the guards for abusing a prisoner in your custody, but no one shall be dismissed from their office, you least of all.” He stepped sternly forward and gripped Faramir’s shoulder. “I do not and cannot hold you responsible for what befell Legolas, Faramir, and even if I did, I need you. I need you here, serving as you have, and up to this point you have never failed me.” He smiled, “And somehow I doubt if after this you will allow your judgment to be clouded so again.”

The Steward briefly closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “That I pledge, my lord.”

Aragorn nodded. “If I were to act so harshly against you for that lapse, I should have to render a similar judgment, but harsher, against myself. For it is I who forsook my duties first, and thus I cannot allow all blame to fall upon you.”

“Aragorn, you were grieving--”

“--So were you.” Aragorn shook his head. “So were all of us. I will force none to suffer greater shame than others over what has happened this past week. Very few among us managed to keep our senses.”

“I hit him,” the Steward murmured, his eyes taking on a haunted look that reminded Aragorn of Legolas.

He took a step closer to Faramir. “And had I been rational, I would have been conducting the investigation rather than you, and I would have been in a position to stop it. Nay, Faramir, we all forgot ourselves in our grief. I will not permit you to bear all the blame.”

Faramir sighed. “As you will, my lord.” He visibly straightened, determined to begin living up to his oath then and there. “Where would you have me return to my duties?”

Aragorn paused, then smiled. “As part of your…amends for the lapse you confessed to, son of Denethor, I would have you visit the Houses of Healing. I believe a friend of yours has not yet been granted a visit from you.”

“What? I…”

“Legolas still holds each and every one of us as friends, Faramir, and as I have already told Gimli, we will not trouble him with our self-blaming,” said Aragorn firmly. “He is on the mend, and knowing him, he shall soon be asking for tidings of all his friends. I can promise you: Legolas does not blame you, nor would he have you blame yourself.”

***

A few days later, in the Houses of Healing…

The shadow of uneasy sleep gradually dissipated to an achy awareness. As always when he awoke, Legolas could sense familiar presences close by. “Legolas?” a friendly voice floated out of the haze. “How do you fare, my friend?”

White fog coalesced into an old man with white hair and a long white beard. The groggy elf blinked, and the wizard smiled. “Mithrandir?”

“How do you feel?” the Maia repeated patiently.

Legolas closed his eyes and took a deeper breath. His face still throbbed, his hand stung abominably, his throat ached, and he felt as though someone had his ribcage in a giant vise. “Better,” he replied.

Someone else in the room snorted. It sounded like Elrohir.

Gandalf smiled at him. “In that case, you can surely take some food.”

“Thank you, but I am not hungry.” This time, at least three people snorted.

Predictably, his self-appointed nursemaids would not allow him to avoid eating. However, he was pleasantly surprised to find Elrohir’s broth a little easier to swallow today, and that when he had finished, he no longer felt utterly exhausted. He gave the cup back to Elrohir and glanced around the room. Aragorn had appeared and was speaking in hushed tones near the door to Mithrandir, Lord Elrond, and his father. Their tense, guarded voices raised a prickle of irritation in Legolas, for it meant that they were tiptoeing around him.

“Aragorn?” As he expected, they looked sharply at him, their faces guilty. He suppressed curt words, instead asking mildly, “What news?”

Clearing his throat awkwardly, the King of Gondor replied, “We did not know if you had been told. Disaran is dead.”

Desperately fighting a surge of nausea at the mention of that name, Legolas managed a nonchalant voice. “Indeed? So Riancam did not miss this time?”

Faramir shook his head. “Riancam tore his arm nearly from the socket at the ex--a few days ago. He may never wield a sword again.”

If not at the execution, then how? Or rather, who? He thought he recalled Galadriel saying that Disaran was slain, but he had not been certain whether it had been a dream. To his friends, Legolas simply raised his eyebrows, no longer trusting his voice, and Aragorn said, “It was Gimli.”

Legolas felt a smile come unbidden to his face for the first time in what seemed like an age. He noticed his father’s expressionless face and sighed mentally. *I begin to think you would not forgive Gimli the crime of being a dwarf and my friend no matter how many times he proves his worth.*

Shooting a warning glance at Thranduil, Gandalf approached Legolas’s bedside. The elf instinctively tensed; that concerned-yet-cautious look did not bode well. Aragorn murmured something to Faramir, and with a farewell nod to Legolas, the Steward departed. Lord Elrond spoke softly to Aragorn, and then also left the room, with a glance at Legolas that might have been apologetic. The elf felt a strange tightness inside; a singularly unpleasant subject was about to be raised, that much was certain. And under the circumstances, it could be only one thing. His voice overly mild, Gandalf spoke. “I fear I must make a difficult request of you, son of Thranduil.”

Legolas felt his heart lurch, and his stomach seemed to rise very slowly toward his throat. Such careful words confirmed his suspicion: Gandalf wanted to know. He could see it in Aragorn and Thranduil’s eyes as well; they all wanted to know. Of course they did; they had been treading most delicately around Legolas during his early recovery, but he could tell almost from the beginning that they would soon insist that he speak of what had happened. Gandalf and Aragorn in particular would demand a full accounting down to the last detail, regardless of how relating his defilement would shame Legolas.

For it was indeed shame that he felt, a deep, consuming, gnawing shame at all that had occurred in the past week. It was a shame that only grew under the caring, concerned gazes of his friends and his father. Their pity gave him no ease, only making him more bitterly aware of the irreversibility of his defilement. And its completeness. He would find no escape, not even in death.

In that, Legolas found yet another bitter irony. Before the Black Hunter had come along, he had thought no fate could be worse than the defilement of the body--a feeling shared by all Eldar. But now he wondered. Elves whose bodies had been violated could depart the living world if they chose, but Legolas had no such escape. And in a way, he felt that his spirit had been just as evilly used. But he had no escape. His defilement had been utterly complete: his body, his immortality, his soul. The agony of it grew in his soul with each passing day, rather than diminishing with time. He would never be free of it.

He realized the others were still watching him and swallowed hard. “What would you ask of me, Mithrandir?”

It was all he could do not to cringe away in bitter shame as they closed in, trapping him. *Ai! No, no, I cannot do this! Do not ask it of me!* But Gandalf did. “It is our belief that we could do more to aid your recovery if you would tell us what transpired since Disaran first attacked. Will you not speak of it?”

Forcing back yet another surge of nausea and fear, Legolas turned the empty cup around and around in his hands. “It is no great secret,” he said, his own voice sounding foreign even to himself. “Though I know not how my recollections will be of much use, for they are a puzzlement even to me.”

“Perhaps between your recollections and what knowledge we have obtained, we may yet find some answers,” urged Aragorn gently.

For some unknown reason, intense vexation abruptly surged within Legolas, and he felt an irrational desire to throw something at the King of Gondor. *So all-knowing he would be, that is why he wishes me to recount this. What use can explanations be now, when all is done and too late to be of use to me or any other elf defiled by the Black Hunter? Nay, there is no point, other than to satisfy their morbid curiosity!* Still, he knew that attempting to lash out or put them off would only lead to more persistence, so with a matter-of-fact shrug, he replied, “My memories are somewhat vague. I was restored to some semblance of life, or at least awareness, in the prison near the shards of the Stone. The Hunter was the only one who could see me. I was bound to his will somehow, so that he might wound me as he would, or force my spirit to occupy his body and suffer its torment. That is all I know.”

He had said all of this very fast, looking fixedly at a knot in one of the wooden planks that formed the walls. He sensed rather than saw them exchanging awkward glances. In a coaxing tone that raised his ire yet again, Gandalf questioned, “You say you were bound to his will? Were you able to resist him when he…took hold of your spirit?”

Through clenched teeth, the elf answered, “Nay. I could not stop him.”

“When you were not…in his body, could you feel as a flesh being feels, or were you insubstantial?”

“Yes.”

“Which?” asked Aragorn in confusion.

His heart was beginning to pound, and the tightness inside was growing worse. “I was insubstantial. I could see and hear, but that is all,” he said, trying desperately to keep the tremors from his voice.

“How did he draw you into his body? Was it by will alone or could he touch you?” pressed the wizard.

*By the Valar, have done! Cease this! Can you not see you serve only to torment me?!* His insides clenched tighter until he wanted to fling himself to the window and scream to the heavens. *Leave me alone! Be off!*

“Legolas?”

“By will alone,” he grated out, and knew that his torment was revealed in his voice, to his greater humiliation. *Go away! GO AWAY! Leave me!*

Aragorn’s hand grasped his shoulder in an attempt at comfort, but it only made the elf want to wrench away and flee. But still they pressed him. “At the execution, it seemed as if his eyes became yours. Know you how that came to pass?”

“Toward the end I think he was weakening. I know not how. My body began to appear in place of his when he took my spirit so he intended to wait until the last minute to force me into his place,” Legolas babbled, unable to stop his breath from quickening. *STOP IT!*

He did not see the way Aragorn bit his lip under Gandalf’s urging gaze before the King of Gondor went on, “So there was never a time when you were able to resist him--”

“--Enough!” Legolas exploded, jerking his arm from his friend’s touch. “It is over! There is no point in recounting it! I do not know how he had control of my soul, but he did, and there was naught I could do to stop him! With that you must be satisfied for I do not desire to be endlessly reliving it!” (He did not even notice that he had said “reliving” instead of “recounting.”) “Just leave me be!”

“Legolas!” protested Aragorn, reaching again for the elf’s arm. “We are merely trying to hel--”

“Hardly,” retorted Legolas. “You are merely trying to satisfy your own selfish curiosity of what befell me. Well, I care not to speak of it, and I will do so no longer. Have done with your questions.”

Gandalf sighed heavily and shook his head as though Legolas were an erring hobbit, and the elf nearly boiled over. “I fear we cannot merely leave it at that, my friend--”

Legolas wrenched the blanket from his legs and surged to his feet. “Then I shall be the one to leave,” he snapped, and started toward the door over their exclamations of protest.

Alas, he made it exactly three steps before it occurred to his body that he had not so much as stood upright in well over a week--and had been for all intents and purposes dead for more than half that time. The room instantly closed in as his head violently protested the sudden movement, then the world exploded into brilliant light before his equilibrium failed altogether. “Ah!” He gasped involuntarily as a wave of terrible dizziness swept over him, and there was no time to right himself; he simply dropped to the floor, saved from a hard landing only by his father’s quick reflexes.

For a few moments the world was diminished to a dark haze and a faint, distant buzzing, but gradually his senses began to reorient, and he found himself lying upon the floor surrounded by voices.

Tears of frustrated bitterness stung his eyes, and angry words spun in his head (or perhaps the words stood still and his head did all the spinning), but in the face of this new weakness he simply submitted to black humiliation as his head was eased into Thranduil’s lap.

The world was a blur and spinning so violently that he knew it pointless to struggle, so he lay where he was with his eyes closed, not even feeling in his bitter anguish his father’s anxious hands upon his brow. “Legolas? Legolas?”

He did not respond, but fumed silently as Gandalf and Aragorn joined Thranduil to poke and prod him. Hurried footsteps indicated Elrond’s return, and Legolas heard the Lord of Imladris assure his father, “He merely tried to move too swiftly; I do not think he is ill. Let us return him to bed.”

*Perhaps if they think me unconscious they will go,* thought the elf as his father lifted him. So he did not resist while they shifted him about, until at last he felt the bed beneath his back again. To his dismay, the pillow’s softness immediately began to whisper enticingly to him. *No! I have done naught but sleep for days!* But the bed seem to rise up, gently engulfing him and drawing his eyes closed, until his surroundings faded away, and he slept.

***

Thranduil could not help heaving a frustrated sigh as Legolas drifted off again. Stepping back from the bedside, Aragorn exchanged glances with Mithrandir. “That was helpful,” he remarked dryly.

The wizard was not terribly discouraged. “I did not expect him to be very forthcoming at first. We shall have to be patient--and persistent.”

Aragorn shook his head, “Alas, Legolas possesses enough stubbornness to wear down a Balrog if the mood takes him.”

Chuckling, Gandalf put a hand on the King of Gondor’s shoulder. “I too have worn down Balrogs, son of Arathorn. Do not despair. We shall have it out of him.”

Thranduil bristled. “No matter what the toll upon him, Mithrandir? You speak with great disregard for the welfare of my son.” At their glances, he demanded, “How can being forced to recount his ordeal avail him?”

Lord Elrond gave the elven king a patient look not unlike the one that Gandalf had recently bestowed upon Legolas. “Wounds to the spirit are much like wounds of the flesh, son of Oropher. Unheeded and unattended, they shall fester just as surely. Legolas must bare these memories if he is to be free of them. And we cannot aid him in healing unless we know what befell him.”

With another sigh, Thranduil looked down at his son. Even in deep sleep, there was little peace in his face. “It shall mean more pain.”

“Such is the way of all healing,” replied Mithrandir.

***

Later…

Eomer was in the audience chamber speaking to Faramir when Aragorn returned. Always hoping for news of Legolas’s recovery, many among the elf’s friends gathered there daily. The Queen and Lady Eowyn were engaged in a discussion of swords, and the hobbits of food. Gimli was involved in a heated debate with the sons of Elrond--the dwarf had been ill-tempered since being ordered from the Houses of Healing. Eomer sympathized; he too was concerned for Legolas and had no doubt that the elf’s best friend was beside himself. Yet unlike Gimli, the King of the Mark recognized the need for Legolas to have peace if he was to recover. (And the elf would find little peace with his best friend and his father constantly scowling at each other across his chamber.)

Alas, many among the others in the room failed to see that in their anxiety. No sooner had the King of Gondor entered the throne room than he was set upon from all sides.

“I say, Strider, how’s Mr. Legolas?”

“Are Mithrandir and my father still with him?”

“Should Elrohir and I go keep watch, Estel?”

“What news, Lord Elessar?”

“When can I see the elf?”

Raising his hands against the barrage, Aragorn silenced them. “Peace, friends. Legolas is resting.”

Some persisted. “But why can’t we--”

“Sam! Gimli! Calm yourselves,” said the king, leveling a stern gaze at the two chief agitators. “I seek only to give him his peace, which is indeed his wish at this time. He is weary in body and spirit, and recovery shall take time.”

Both looked repentant, but although Sam desisted at last, Gimli folded his arms, staring at the ground. “I only want to see him,” he muttered. “Expect I would harry him less than you healers with your poking and prodding and nagging him to drink your concoctions.”

Eomer winced, but Aragorn forgave the rather crass remark. “Perhaps, but if I permit you in to see him, you shall become but the first of a long stream of well-wishers--hardly conducive to his recovery.”

Someone cleared their throat, and Eomer turned to see Frodo stepping quietly forward past Sam. “My lord, we won’t begrudge Gimli the chance to see Legolas.” He glanced apologetically at the others and went on, “I daresay Legolas would welcome his company the most, sick or not. The rest of us can wait until he’s feeling more himself.”

Gimli whirled back to face Aragorn so swiftly that Eomer found himself quashing a smile. It was clear that there would be a violent row then and there if the King of Gondor did not grant permission. At the same time, there were counselors hovering about the throne room still wanting to speak to Elessar about other matters, held back by a harried-looking Faramir, and Aragorn could hardly continue spending so much time in the Houses of Healing personally guarding Legolas’s welfare while there was still the welfare of Gondor to be looked after. Reading his face, Eomer stepped forward, “I will escort Gimli to the Houses of Healing if you wish, Lord Elessar.”

Aragorn’s eyes raised from Gimli’s confrontational face to shoot Eomer a look so intense that the King of the Mark was startled. Then it passed and he nodded, “Very well.” He did make them wait until he had personally signed a written and sealed order to admit Gimli (adding a less-than-casual observation that King Thranduil was currently attending his son.) Eomer accepted the dispatch and departed, finding himself having to walk rather swiftly in Gimli’s wake. Who would have suspected a dwarf of being capable of moving so fast?

***

King Thranduil nearly leapt from his seat when a rather-bemused Gandalf opened the door of Legolas’s chamber in the Houses of Healing to admit Gimli. Now the dwarf suddenly realized why Aragorn had been so adamant about sending him with written permission to see Legolas. And from the way Thranduil jerked from Elrond’s restraining touch and moved obstinately between the elf’s bed and the visitors, Gimli wondered if an order under Aragorn’s seal would be enough.

His first instinct was to snarl at the elven king to get out of his way, for the time he had spent away from his friend had driven his anxiety to near-frantic levels. But at the same time, it had taken much effort to prevail upon Aragorn to even allow him this liberty, given Legolas’s still-grave state, and it would not be conducive to the elf’s health to start a quarrel with his father within his hearing. Nor was King Elessar likely to take kindly to an abuse of this privilege he had granted Gimli. And so it was concern for Legolas (and only that) that stayed the dwarf’s hand and tongue in the face of King Thranduil’s fury. “What is the meaning of this?” the elven king hissed, not to Gimli but to Gandalf and Eomer, who remained in the doorway.

“King Elessar granted Gimli permission to sit with Legolas,” came Eomer’s voice from behind. Gimli did not turn around, but maintained eye contact whenever Thranduil looked at him.

Legolas’s father’s eyes did move slowly down to glare furiously at Legolas’s best friend. While not the least bit intimidated (for he and Legolas had been on glaring terms for quite some time when they first met) Gimli had to admit he was startled by the intensity of the ire he saw in the elven king’s gaze. While Legolas could certainly convey anger with a stare when he chose, there was something far deeper (and considerably more disturbing) in the scowl that the King of Eryn Lasgalen was currently bestowing upon the dwarf. This time his eyes remained upon Gimli, though he seemed to be speaking to the others. “I thought it was understood that Legolas would not be disturbed.”

Eomer replied, “And King Elessar has extracted a promise from Gimli that he shall not be. He wishes only to be at his friend’s side.”

“He is my son,” growled Thranduil, as though that in itself was cause for objection.

Elrond’s voice took on a positively cajoling tone, “And you have been admirably steadfast in your defense of him, Lord Thranduil. Indeed, you must be weary, keeping this vigil so long. Surely you would feel easier returning to the palace and taking a meal or a rest?”

Had Gimli‘s mind been working normally, he might have warned the Lord of Imladris that it was the wrong card to play, for he knew all too well how Legolas would react to such tactics. And his past experience with Thranduil (brief though it had been) had demonstrated that Legolas had inherited most of his more difficult characteristics from his father. As suspected, Thranduil wanted no such niceties. “I am more than capable of keeping watch over my son’s welfare, Lord Elrond.” Ignoring Gimli again, he said to Eomer and Gandalf, “You may tell King Elessar that his suggestion is unnecessary.”

He would have sat right back down again in the chair at Legolas’s bedside, had Eomer not stepped delicately past Gimli and held out Aragorn’s message. “If you will look, my lord, you shall see that King Elessar sends an order, not a request. Gimli will be permitted to see Legolas.” Thranduil snatched the scroll and glared at it, the fire in his black eyes growing brighter than ever. Before he could unleash a furious tirade, Eomer added, “I fear I have not his authority to do more than convey this message. If you have…questions, I would advise you to direct them to him.”

“And why is he not here, being the greatest reputed healer in Gondor?” hissed Thranduil.

A note of sharpness entered Elrond’s voice. “Legolas’s condition has been improving for some time, my lord, and you will recall that King Elessar has many demands upon him as ruler of Gondor. He has sacrificed much to give your son his full attention, but such sacrifices cannot continue indefinitely. I too am capable of seeing to Legolas’s needs. I did teach Aragorn everything he knows, after all.” (There was more than a small dose of smugness in that last statement.)

There was a long silence, seemingly broken only by the thudding of Gimli’s heart. He was kept silent himself only by the knowledge that any forwardness by him at this moment would be more likely to prevent him from reaching Legolas--which at this moment was his one and only concern. After what seemed like an eternity, Thranduil growled, “Where is he?”

“At the Halls of the Kings, my lord,” said Eomer mildly.

Shooting a positively venomous glare at Gimli, the elven king marched from the room, his intentions most plain in his purposeful (yet silent) stride. Eomer slouched against the doorframe with a dramatic sigh, and Gandalf grinned. “Perhaps we might hasten back as well, Lord of the Mark. I fear our friend Aragorn shall need all the support he can get in the next few moments.” With a chuckle, Eomer and the wizard departed in mock-urgency. Elrond reached for the door and said softly to Gimli, “I shall be near if you require anything.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the dwarf sincerely. The wizard closed the door and left them alone.

Gimli made his way, as silently as he could, to Legolas’s bedside. Amazing, the elf had not stirred throughout the entire confrontation. Under normal circumstances, Gimli would have tucked that fact away for a future ribbing opportunity, but now it posed far more cause for dismay. He sank into the chair beside Legolas and gazed at his friend. The elf’s face was turned toward the opposite wall, but Gimli could see that his eyes were closed. The bruises on his neck had almost completely faded, but Gimli could still see them. Perhaps it was his own conscience that made the marks of his hands upon his best friend’s throat still so vivid to his eyes. *Ah, Legolas. What I would not give to have prevented all that befell you. Gladly I would have suffered it all in your place.*

Remembering Aragorn’s stern (and repeated) admonition that Legolas was NOT to be disturbed, Gimli sat quietly back in the chair, content for now to simply be near the elf. How much time passed, he could not say, but presently he noticed how stuffy the room felt, even to him who was used to closed quarters. Surely the elf disliked such conditions. Keeping the windows closed had been understandable when Legolas had first…returned…for it was late November and cold, but today was a milder day, and a fire burned low and warm in the small stove to heat the room. Gimli rose and quietly opened the window furthest from the bed to let in a little fresh air, hoping it might ease his friend’s sleep.

After a while longer, when the stale smell had left the air and the warmth of the coals had lulled Gimli into a light doze, a soft sound jerked him back to full wakefulness. Sitting up sharply, the dwarf saw Legolas stirring under the bedclothes, his motions indicating more than simply tossing in sleep. Gimli sat still and waited despite the sudden thudding of his heart as Legolas sighed and slowly blinked himself awake. Bleary dark grey eyes drifted around the room to focus suddenly on the dwarf’s face, and the elf stared for several moments before moistening dry lips and whispering, “Gimli?”

Swallowing hard, Gimli spoke the first words that came to his mind, “Well met, Master Elf. Have you slept long enough at last to sate that lazy body of yours?”

To his surprise, a faint smile turned the elf’s pale lips. “The constant burden of your presence for these two years, Master Dwarf, would be enough to exhaust even the hardiest elf.” Legolas’s voice was soft, weak, and painful to the dwarf’s ears.

Before he could stop himself, Gimli asked him, “How do you fare, my friend? Lord Elrond is near and will bring food if you hunger--”

“No!” the elf said sharply, his eyes brightening in either alarm or annoyance. Gimli must have flinched, for Legolas immediately looked apologetic. “Forgive me. But I am not hungry.”

“Nay, it is I who should apologize,” said the dwarf, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You must be heartily weary of their nagging by now.”

He was relieved to see Legolas smile again, though the apprehension did not leave his eyes, and the elf looked down. “More than you can possibly imagine.” His tone became wry, “You should have long ago taken your axe to them all if you had been the one forced to endure such prying.”

The naked pain in his friend’s face tore at Gimli, and he tightened his grip. “I would have spared you that and more, if only it were in my power.”

Raising his eyes once more, Legolas said softly, “I know it, Gimli. I know you only wish to aid me--that is only anyone wishes.” Bitterness colored his fair voice until it reminded Gimli of Thranduil’s, “But such efforts are vain; there is naught you can do to erase what has happened.”

Around a terrible tightness in his throat, Gimli replied, “Aye, I know it. But can I not be of some assistance now? For I would still make amends for all that I--”

“--Gimli, peace.” There was a sad resignation in the elf’s smile that stung the dwarf. It was a smile utterly without hope. “I had not the chance to speak clearly before, but I shall now and again. What happened was not your fault. None of it,” he added firmly.

Desperately fighting his rising emotions, Gimli whispered, “Is there naught I can do to help you? I beg you, Legolas, do not put me off, I see how you suffer--”

“--Gimli!” the haunted look grew stronger in his friend’s eyes, as did the anguish in Gimli’s heart. “Do not. It is I who beg you, do not ask me to speak of it.” Raising pleading eyes to meet the dwarf’s, Legolas repeated, “I cannot speak of it.”

Gimli sighed, feeling a despair that threatened to crush him under its weight. Nonetheless, he took the elf’s hand and said quietly, “As you wish, Master Elf. I’ll not mention it.” Legolas’s face suddenly blurred before his eyes, and he did ask, “You grow stronger at least. Shall you return to Ithilien when you are recovered, to continue your work there?”

There was silence before he was answered by a sigh. “I fear not, my friend. I fear Ithilien is lost to me now.”

Some strange intuition, borne of Gimli’s limited knowledge of elven custom as well as a little history, raised a sense of horrible foreboding within him. “Back to Eryn Lasgalen, then?”

His fear spiked when Legolas avoided his eyes. “Nay. I cannot return to my father’s realm.”

In a strangled voice, Gimli asked, “Then where? Would you stay in Gondor?” he babbled desperately. “Aragorn would be glad of your counsel, as would Eomer and I, though I venture to imagine you would be less than comfortable with me in Aglarond, despite my endless efforts to culture your tastes.”

The humorless smile Legolas afforded him did little to ease Gimli’s fears. “Nay, Gimli. I will find no place among men or dwarves either.” He lifted his head to meet Gimli’s eyes with deep sadness and remorse for the hurt his words would cause. “I shall find no place of comfort in Middle Earth.”

Something deep inside the dwarf seemed to crack, like a great fault breaking under the earth that would end in a terrible quake to destroy the foundations of the strongest stone halls. “Legolas…”

“Forgive me,” the elf whispered, grief naked in his face. “I did not intend it this way, Gimli. But I cannot remain in Middle Earth this way.”

“What will you do?” Gimli asked, as grief surged up within him like rising water.

Legolas took a deep breath, swallowing hard. “All that has transpired has not dulled the call of the sea in my blood. It is said that even the deepest wounds find healing in the Blessed Realm. Raising his eyes to meet Gimli’s again, he said quietly, “I shall pass to the Grey Havens, and over the sea.”

“No…”

“I am sorry!” Legolas said desperately, seizing Gimli’s arm. “My friend, I would have remained many score years longer as long as you and all of the Fellowship lingered in Middle Earth, had things only been different. But now…Gimli, do not deny me your blessing, I beg you! You know not…you cannot…imagine this torment. Do not lament my departure, that I might be free of it.”

Stifling the sobs that rose in his throat, Gimli shook his head, returning the elf’s grip. “I would deny you nothing, Master Elf, least of all my blessing in any ill-considered venture your elvish head dreams up. But I fear I cannot promise not to lament your departure, for it is beyond me. I would see you free of your suffering, even if it takes you beyond Middle Earth, but I cannot pretend that I will not mourn your absence until the end of my days.”

Releasing his breath, Legolas nodded, “I cannot fault you for it, Master Dwarf. For though I may find an end to the torment of these bitter days, I too shall grieve for your loss until the end of Iluvatar’s song.”

Gimli spoke no more, for he knew his own voice would betray him, and Legolas as well fell silent. The fire hissed softly as the two friends sat, each attempting to comfort the other from the grief of a parting that would come so much sooner than they had anticipated.

*****
To Be Continued…
*****

I owe thanks to many, especially Ithilien for kindly beta-reading, but I’ll not make you wait a second longer! Without further ado, here it is!

*****

Chapter Eleven: Immortality

*****

In the Hall of Kings…

With Gimli finally out of the way and most of Legolas’s more impatient well-wishers settled down, Aragorn and Faramir could at last get down to some of the recently-neglected business of Gondor. Alas, they had barely had the chance to receive the scrolls of messages, petitions, and orders from the councilors before a ruckus reached their ears from outside the door.

“My lord!” the herald was calling to an arrival. “You must wait while I announce you--”

“--Out of my way!” growled a deep, angry, and all-too-familiar elven voice, followed by the herald’s shout of protest and a thud.

The guards at once moved to bar the door against the intruder, but Aragorn heaved an exaggerated sigh and motioned them back. He cast a wry grimace around the room, for there was no question in the minds of anyone present of who the irate visitor was. Then the King of Gondor took up a random scroll from the pile awaiting his approval and casually began to sign it. Faramir caught on, making a little sound in his throat, and turned hurriedly to engage in conversation with one of the guard captains. Arwen casually leaned forward in her seat, feigning interest in Aragorn’s work.

The doors were flung wide open. Aragorn met his wife’s gaze over the document and saw the mirth in her eyes. It was not as if they had not been warned. Hurried footsteps behind the intruder indicated Eomer and Gandalf’s rapid arrival, but still Aragorn gazed at the scroll.

“Elessar!” barked King Thranduil, his voice betraying more anger than Aragorn had ever heard, “what is the meaning of this?!”

Casually, almost lazily, Aragorn turned his face from his work to the enraged elven king. From the corner of his eye, he could see the apprehensive faces of the other elves, alarm from the hobbits, and outrage from the men at the discourtesy to their king. Indeed, Aragorn supposed, he probably should have been affronted, but he was not--though he did not envy Legolas having been reared by such a temperamental father. All the same, there were better ways of dealing with the discourtesy of his fellow ruler than simply shouting back.

In a deliberately bored tone, he asked, “Is there a problem, Lord Thranduil?”

Whether Thranduil’s behavior had been a deliberate provocation or the elf’s temper had simply been pushed over the edge by yet another encounter with Gimli, Aragorn could not be sure (and would put neither past Thranduil.) Fortunately, the King of Gondor’s indifferent reaction had the desired effect of giving the elven king pause. Thranduil’s eyes betrayed the barest hint of confusion before he rallied again and said with a tiny shade more courtesy, “There is indeed a ‘problem,’ my lord, when you permit…visitors to continuously harry my son.”

Clearing his throat delicately, Aragorn replied, “I believe Legolas has only one visitor under my permission at the moment.”

Perhaps nonchalance was the wrong card to play, for the ire in Thranduil’s eyes clearly increased. “I wish for my son to rest undisturbed by that dwarf,” he hissed.

Aragorn eyed him thoughtfully, and wondered if Gimli had somehow provoked Legolas’s father further. Under normal circumstances, it might have been likely, but at this moment Aragorn rather doubted that the dwarf would commit such a breach of trust. Gimli knew how to be diplomatic when the need arose--it was just that most often he did not see the need. But today, if diplomacy had promised Gimli a path to Legolas’s side…no, the dwarf would not risk a fight with Thranduil. More likely this eruption was merely the product of prolonged exposure to Gimli’s presence around his son. *They have been forced to be civil to each other in Legolas’s presence, but the proximity has undoubtedly worn on them, given what I heard of their dealings with each other when we thought Legolas was dead.*

Nonetheless, whatever Thranduil’s personal grievances with Gimli, Aragorn knew Legolas well enough to guess what his friend would desire. Dropping the casual tone, but remaining calm, he said aloud, “I permitted the son of Glóin to see Legolas on condition that he not create a disturbance. I have no reason to believe Gimli would violate that promise.”

Thranduil’s response was predictable, though the sheer venom in his voice startled even Aragorn, “That dwarf’s very presence is a disturbance!”

Forcing himself to remain calm against the first flickers of anger, Aragorn answered, “I do not believe Legolas will see it so. Since his…return, he has asked for Gimli above all of us.”

Something dark and savage flashed in the elven king’s eyes, making the mortal king flinch mentally. *This shall be unpleasant.*

“My son’s judgment is impaired in his illness,” Thranduil fired back, “though he has always been blind where you mortals are concerned. Were he not ailing, he might have realized by now that the very cause of his hurts lies in his foolish trust of your puny lesser race and all those fools mad enough to ally themselves to you!”

Shouts of outrage erupted from around the room. Elves, men, and hobbits all sprang to their feet, their cries ranging from protest to outright challenge. “You forget yourself, Thranduil!” snapped Elladan as Merry’s hand went to his sword-hilt while Pippin cried, “You take that back, Master Elf, or there’ll be trouble!” and any number of men roared, “How dare you?!”

Aragorn cursed mentally as the situation threatened to escalate into violence but remained seated, roaring for order. The voices of the men and the hobbits did subside, to his relief, but a flurry of movement to his left indicated that the elves intended to say more on the subject. Arwen abruptly rose, her grey eyes hard as steel, and Eowyn came swiftly to her side. “Lord Thranduil,” Arwen said in a tone that froze her husband’s blood, “you find fault in elves who would unite themselves to men?”

There was no mistaking the Queen of Gondor’s meaning, and Eowyn’s hand went at once to her own sword. “Eowyn!” whispered Faramir in alarm, but Arwen’s hand came up so swiftly that the Steward actually stepped backward.

“I require an answer, Thranduil of Greenwood,” her voice was low and hard.

Aragorn held his breath. The Evenstar had claimed insult, and if Thranduil did not recant, there was not a doubt in his mind that Eowyn would step forth as the Queen’s champion then and there in avenging it. *And then Elladan and Elrohir shall claim rights to whatever is left!* thought the King of Gondor rather hysterically, for the former shield maiden’s stance was enough to intimidate even him at the moment.

Thranduil and Arwen locked eyes as the room fell dead silent. Merry and Pippin were open-mouthed and Frodo was biting his lip. Faramir’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and Eomer was white-faced. Not a breath could be heard.

Then, miraculously, the elven king’s eyes dropped, and he bowed low. “My lady,” he said tonelessly. “If I have offended you, I offer my most humble apology to you and all your kin.”

More than one person let their breath out suddenly. Arwen’s shoulders loosened, and Eowyn stepped back. “That is well, son of Oropher,” said the Queen of Gondor. “But I would caution you to have a care with your words in the future.”

Thranduil bowed again. He did not seem particularly humble to Aragorn, but the King supposed he had best be grateful the crisis had passed without bloodshed. Thranduil’s opinion of mortals (and of elves who dealt with them as friends) was well-known, and recent events had not helped matters. It did not truly surprise Aragorn that such thoughts had been brought to light in the heat of anger. All the same…it was bound to happen again if it was not dealt with, for the underlying reasons were far from resolved.

Apparently, the elven king was thinking similar thoughts. “Lord Elessar, since tempers appear to be running short, perhaps we had best continue this conversation in private.”

A tight, angry voice behind the elf growled, “Perhaps if you had shown the King and his guests some courtesy, you might have received a private audience from the start.”

“Eomer!” Aragorn said sharply, but the King of the Mark’s patience had evidently worn out.

“With your permission, my lord, I would stay and speak for Gimli.”

*Elbereth, Eomer do not turn violent on me now!* thought Aragorn, and he began, “Eomer, perhaps--”

“I have no objection,” said Thranduil in mocking cordiality.

*Valar help us, now they are both spoiling for a fight!* Aragorn thought in frustrated despair as Eomer’s chin went up. Nevertheless, he nodded and turned to the assembly. “Leave us.”

The hobbits scrambled, the men went shooting dark glances at Thranduil, and the elves lingered doubtfully before going. Arwen did not rise at first, but Aragorn touched her hand and shot her an entreating glance. *Let me deal with this, Undómiel,* he pleaded silently. At length, she nodded and departed with Eowyn and Faramir. The sons of Elrond also looked inclined to protest, but Galadriel quietly spoke to them, and they went away with her and Lord Celeborn.

The guards bowed, closing the doors behind themselves and the guests, and then the three kings were alone. Aragorn rose. “My lord, I think it best that the grievance that appears to exist between us be solved here and now.”

The elven king’s eyes, so like Legolas’s at first glance, gleamed with a cold anger that Aragorn had never seen in Legolas. “My grievance with you, son of Arathorn, is your continued disruption to my son’s life and well-being.”

“Disruption?” asked Aragorn with mock-incredulity. It felt marvelously liberating to have all other parties absent; now he could be as free with his words as Thranduil was. “Legolas has never referred to his friends as such.”

Judging by the sheer fury raging like wildfire in Thranduil’s eyes, the elven king was feeling similarly unhindered by the usual discretions. “Nay, because he is in many ways still a child blinded by mistaken loyalty. Otherwise he would surely see that his associations with mortals such as you have brought him nothing but sorrow. But for you none of this would have happened! He would not have been caught alone in the city streets by yet another of your filthy kin--”

Eomer surged forward. “Do not dare to compare Aragorn’s people or mine to that leeching filth that preyed upon the innocent!” he thundered. “Lest I venture to compare you to the most unsavory of your kindred--those who slew each other for the possession of jewels!”

Aragorn snapped at Eomer to calm himself, but Thranduil fired back, “Then I would remind you that the murder of your own kind is so commonplace that you consider it not even worthy of the laments we sing! For all the shortness of your lives you care naught for the wanton destruction you wreak, upon your own kind and everyone unfortunate enough to stand in your way! And yet you wonder why I liked not my son’s associations with you! You poison everything you touch!”

Hot fury rose within Aragorn. Thranduil’s opinions of mortals had never borne much resemblance to reality, and he wearied of hearing them. In a low, cold voice, he spoke slowly, “I deny not that the history of my race, short that it be, is marked by many failings. Yet I would remind you, son of Oropher, that it was not in Eryn Lasgalen that Legolas chose to settle his colony. Nor was it in the woods of Lothlórien or Mirkwood that the deciding battles against the Dark Lord were fought. Armies of elves did not do battle against the Nazgul and the forces of Saruman. Legolas has fought by the sides of men, dwarves, and hobbits, and seen all that our supposedly lesser races gave in the war for Middle Earth. Perhaps in fighting with us Legolas came to believe that there were things in Middle Earth still worth fighting for! Perhaps Legolas sees mortal races in a different light than yourself because unlike you and yours, Legolas is not fading! Legolas has not given up on the world!”

The way that Thranduil’s face turned white with rage betrayed that a nerve had been struck. “How DARE you--”

“I DARE!” Aragorn roared so wrathfully that Eomer took a startled step back. “How do you ask me what I dare, elven lord? It is YOU who have presumed too much these past days. In my grief for Legolas, and out of understanding for your pain at his loss, I allowed you much liberty, King of Eryn Lasgalen. I have tolerated discourtesies that would see any other cast from within the walls of my city! I REMIND you,” he thundered as Thranduil attempted to retort, “that you are in Gondor. Minas Tirith! MY realm, elven king! You rule nothing here, not my people, not my halls, and not Legolas! I will accept this behavior no longer! If I grant Gimli leave to visit Legolas, who is his FRIEND, in my Houses of Healing, then by the graves of my forefathers, HE SHALL! You have no authority here, Thranduil, over Legolas or over me!”

There was the faintest of smiles upon Eomer’s face, for he had stepped quietly out of the way of the other two raging kings. Thranduil’s eyes were smoldering with anger, but Aragorn allowed himself the satisfaction of having quelled the elven king at least a little. Without breaking eye contact from Aragorn, Thranduil said coldly, “Lord Eomer, I should like to speak with the King of Gondor alone, if you would be good enough to leave us.”

Eomer looked at Aragorn, who nodded, then gave a rather mocking bow. “In that case, my lords, I take my leave.” There was a distinct smugness in his steps as he departed the room, as if to say, “My work here is done.”

No sooner had the door closed behind the King of the Mark than Thranduil said in a tight voice, “You claim to love him. Why then will you not permit him to depart Middle Earth with his people? You know the sea longing burns within him, yet you are so cruel as to hold him here?”

Forcing his temper back down, Aragorn tried to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Now, as always, your words are misdirected. You speak of the friendship between Legolas and myself--and other mortals--as though it be some chain from which Legolas cannot free himself, nor bears willingly. You are wrong. His love for us is equaled only by ours for him, and though it grieves us, we too would see his longing eased. We hold him back no more than you do.”

Thranduil’s voice had grown more quiet, and Aragorn detected something in it aside from the ever-present anger. “I am his father.”

*Yet it was us with whom Legolas chose to build his future. He is a grown elf and seasoned warrior, yet still this decision troubles you. Could your resentment be naught more than jealousy, elven king?* “We are his friends. There is not a one of us who would not have given ourselves to prevent what befell him.”

Anger flashed back to life in the elven king’s eyes. “You have known him for but a few decades! For over a millennium I have raised him! How can you, a mortal with your weak bodies and weaker hearts, speak of knowing an elf, of forging any bond of true depth?” There was bitter resentment in Thranduil’s voice, indicating that although the elf questioned how such bonds could be possible, he no longer denied that they existed. The words seemed to grind their way from between the elven king’s teeth as he hissed, “What proof can a mortal show of his worth to an elf that would draw him away from his people? What right have you to claim his love?”

*By the Valar, it is so! He knows Legolas has chosen us over his kindred with whom to build a future. He had thought to remove his son from us by proving us false somehow, but now he sees that it is not so. And that is the root of his rage.* Quietly, Aragorn said, “If our mortality affects our judgment in friendship, it is only that we cherish the friends we make all the more in our shorter lives.” In an effort to make their shared love for Legolas a source of understanding rather than strife, Aragorn met Thranduil’s eyes and held them. “You know it to be true, son of Oropher. Though it pains me to recall my lack of sense, you saw my grief that night in the prison.” *If all my well-thought deeds have not proven me worthy, did my madness that night not speak for my heart?*

Thranduil actually winced. He made a valiant attempt to remain hardened. “You would have thrown away your realm and your Queen’s life. An ill-considered decision.”

Aragorn smiled wryly, “I do not deny it. My life--short though it be--” he added dryly, “has been dogged by many ill-considered choices, but few so plagued with madness as that. When Legolas finds out, I suspect I shall be hard-pressed to avoid having my ears boxed.”

The elven king did not laugh. He seemed more possessed now by his own thoughts, his gaze focused on nothing. “You should not have gone there that night.”

“Because you would have given your life to him if I had not interrupted?” Aragorn asked pointedly. Thranduil’s eyes jerked back to his. “Aye, son of Oropher, mad I may have been at the time, but my eyes worked. There can be only one reason why you would have been lurking in the shadows of that room before my arrival. Can you claim such a choice was any better than mine?” Thranduil did not answer, but a spark flashed in his eyes. Aragorn pressed his advantage, hoping that, even if he could not win a concession, at least the still-grieving elven king would at last acknowledge Aragorn’s right to claim Legolas as a friend.

“What is to become of him now?” Thranduil murmured.

Aragorn sighed, his heart conflicted by relief that the quarrel seemed at an end along with fear of his own inability to answer the question. “I know not.”

The confrontational pose had not quite left the elven lord. “Think you he will be better off recovering in your city of stone?”

*And still he pushes!* Irritation flared in the King of Gondor, but he forced it down. Thranduil still feared for Legolas, after all. *Amazing how all who love Legolas can be driven to such bitter strife over how best to see to his well-being.*

Aloud, he replied mildly, “I think the question of where he recovers should best be put to Legolas.” *In other words, my lord king, you might find more peace of mind if you were to try regarding Legolas as the grown elf he is, rather than as a stray elfling.*

He did not say so aloud, but it must have shown in his face, for Thranduil looked as if he wanted to spit. Aragorn quashed a smile. *Legolas, you shall be quite shocked if ever you learn the outcome of this conversation.* “My lord, I think we have well established our mutual concern for your son. Given that, is it not best that we set aside our differences and end this quarrel? We aid him not in continuing it.”

The elven king’s jaw set stubbornly in a fashion that reminded the mortal king of Legolas. Thranduil was not one for surrendering. *Neither is his son, for that matter. I only hope Legolas retains this long-taught stubbornness in facing his own inner demons.* Aragorn waited and held his breath. At length, Legolas’s father said curtly, “I do not pretend that I shall ever be easy with my son’s association with you, son of Arathorn, or your other mortal friends. I shall always believe him better off among his own kind. But if it is indeed for his sake that you speak now, then let it be so. I shall contest it no more.”

Aragorn pondered this and decided Thranduil was conceding as much as his pride and his beliefs would allow, and sealed the uneasy truce by stepping back and offering the king of Eryn Lasgalen a slight bow. “Shall we each return to our duties then?”

***

Outside the Halls of the Kings…

King Elessar found King Eomer outside the stables. “Is Thranduil still among the living?” the horse lord asked slyly.

“I fear so,” replied Aragorn. Eomer chuckled. “How fare your men?”

A shadow of regret crossed the younger king’s face. “Their thoughts turn toward home. I confess mine do so as well. We have lingered long in your hospitality, but the time of our departure shall soon be at hand. Matters of my own realm demand my presence in Edoras.”

Aragorn sighed, “I fear this reunion was everything save the one we had planned.”

“How fares Legolas?”

“The strength of his body returns,” said the former Ranger quietly. He turned bleakly from Eomer. “But his spirit wanes.”

A hand calloused from riding came to rest upon his shoulder. “It is as you and I both know, Wingfoot. None can free him from this shadow save himself.”

Aragorn smiled at hearing the old name Eomer had bestowed upon him at their first meeting. “There are times when I wonder if you do not possess more wisdom than I, Horse Master.”

Eomer laughed aloud. “Just as I wonder at times if you possess no sense of humor, Strider of the Dunedain!”

Aragorn laughed in turn, but his next words were spoken gravely, forcing Eomer to meet his gaze. “Yet I say in truth, son of Eomund, on more occasions than I care to account these late days, your wisdom has prevailed where mine hath deserted me. No, let me finish,” he said as Eomer looked about to protest. “Where my grief for Legolas had all but driven me mad, you honored my trust in the care of my city; where my wits failed, you kept yours, and thus have I kept my kingship and dignity in this trial.” He gripped the Eomer’s shoulder firmly. “Gondor shall be forever in your debt, King of Rohan. As shall I. And it shall be written and sworn by me at the soonest date possible that all the strengths and resources of Gondor shall ever be prepared to move to the assistance of Rohan, for all time, if ever her Kings request it, and that Gondor shall require naught in return. For the King of the Mark has shown a friendship so true to Gondor that none in this realm may ever fail to honor it.”

Eomer’s mouth had fallen slightly open. Such a vow by one king to another was not to be made lightly. “Have a care; you make a heavy pledge, King Elessar.”

“And so shall it seal the bond between us, King Eomer,” replied Aragorn firmly, “and my sons and theirs shall be bound to it; Gondor shall ever be a friend of Rohan, and to any faithful request from her people, ours shall be bound to answer.”

Deeply moved, the King of the Mark, raised his own hand to cover Aragorn’s, before saying, “I thank you, my lord, but know that if you would seal such a bond between us, than it shall be a promise of aid to Gondor from Rohan as well, for I would not see all your descendents bound to mine without the assurance of mutual assistance if ever your realm should request it.”

Feeling a little of the tension that had twisted his insides for many days finally beginning to release, Aragorn grinned. “Done,” he replied as though sealing a well-haggled bargain. Then he laughed aloud as Eomer caught onto the jest, and added to it by spitting into his palm and holding it out like a trader. Aragorn pumped his wrist firmly without hesitation, and they both returned to the Halls of the Kings, chuckling earnestly.

***

A few days later…

Legolas had slipped away from the company before the departing riders of Rohan, King Eomer at their head, had vanished from sight. Gimli had lingered beside the Lady Eowyn, who Legolas knew was more grieved than she let on at seeing her brother depart again, and Legolas had taken the opportunity to escape.

Since learning of Legolas’s intention to depart for the Undying Lands and escape his torment, Gimli had attached himself to the elf’s side as though welded there hip-to-helm. Not that Legolas ever minded the dwarf’s company, but Gimli stayed so close to his friend that the elf had more than once been in the embarrassing position of nearly tripping over his stunted companion. At least Legolas’s father had at last ceased his objections to Gimli’s presence--though he often scowled and muttered uncomplimentary things about dwarves under his breath when Gimli was about.

Strength had returned at last to the elf’s limbs; as old as he felt, his body was young yet, and healed quickly. This had at least allowed him to escape the nagging and prodding of Lord Elrond, his sons, and Mithrandir in the Houses of Healing, and led him on long, silent walks over the rooftops and walls of the White City. Walks that ended prematurely when Gimli would spot him and harangue the elf furiously until he came down again.

Today he settled himself on a balcony overlooking the marketplace, loud and bustling even from this distance with farmers and craftsmen selling their wares for the coming winter. Watching them gesturing and haggling over brightly-colored fruits and great bales of grain and bolts of cloth, Legolas felt a smile come unbidden to his face, the expression feeling strange and alien after so much sorrow. He would miss Middle Earth, there was no doubt in his mind of that. Until the sea longing had struck, Legolas unlike most of his kindred did not feel weary of the land at all, and indeed, even until…this…had happened, he had enjoyed the sights and sounds of the realms of Middle Earth, even those not inhabited by his own kindred. Now he felt detached from it, too hopelessly sundered to ever feel easy among these people again.

*I am of no use to any in Middle Earth in this state. What a wretch the Black Hunter has made of me.*

Someone cleared their throat from the balcony doorway. Legolas nearly jumped off the railing. “I’m sorry!” exclaimed a contrite voice. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Catching his breath, Legolas mustered a smile as he turned to face the visitor. “That is all right, Frodo.”

The Ringbearer solemnly came onto the balcony beside Legolas, peering down at the busy throngs below them. “I came to get away from Sam and the others. I do love them, Legolas, but their hovering can be frightfully trying at times.”

Legolas chuckled, settling upon his knees next to Frodo. “You speak for me, Master Hobbit. It would seem that none have ever bothered to explain to our friends that injuries do not necessarily make us invalids. My body is well-recovered, but they badger me still.”

A little sigh reached his ears. Frodo murmured, “I wish that I could say I have recovered in body.”

The remark caused Legolas to look sharply at the hobbit beside him. “Your old wounds still ail you, Frodo?”

Frodo nodded. “I am sure Sam has told you and the others. Old pains do trouble me still.”

“Have you spoken to Aragorn of them?”

“Not since we returned here, but he knows. Sam and I consulted both Strider and Lord Elrond when last we departed Minas Tirith for the Shire.” Frodo shook his head. “The wounds of Morgul blade and venomous sting heal not completely. All that can be done has been.” Legolas noticed as Frodo spoke that he clutched at something beneath his clothing. It reminded the elf of when Frodo had carried the Ring, but of course, it could not be that. It was probably some ornament gifted from one of their friends. “Legolas, I have told none of the others this, not even Sam, but I think I must tell you. I shall not be long remaining in the Shire after Sam and Rosie’s babe is born. I would not miss the occasion for all the world, but after, very soon after, I must depart.”

“What?!” all thought of his own troubles vanished as Legolas stared at Frodo. “Of what do you speak? Where shall you go then, for I know you have loved no land greater than the Shire.”

Frodo looked nervously about, as if fearful of prying ears, then said softly. “To the Havens, Legolas.”

“The Havens?” Legolas breathed, stunned. “To Valinor?” Frodo nodded. “But…how? How is such a thing possible?”

“You think I should not?”

“I, no, I…” Legolas faltered, confused by the thoughts running through his mind. At last, he spoke. “After all you have done, Ringbearer, and all you have suffered in the quest, I should say you are well deserving of the peace of the Undying Lands, and hope that they would impart such relief to a suffering mortal as they are known to give an elf. But such a choice is not in my hands. I wonder only what good and wise fortune has gained you admittance.”

“Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel are certain that the Valar would consent to receive me,” said Frodo, his voice filled with wonder as though he himself could not readily explain the honor. “They shall be taking old Bilbo as well. We Ringbearers shall go together on one last journey. I’m only sorry Sam won’t be able to come. You mustn’t say anything!” he added hastily to Legolas. “For he’d be in a terrible state if he knew of the plans we’re making. I think he may already suspect something; that’s why he arranged this little trip.” Frodo shook his head ruefully. “It was to remind me of all the good things about life, and all the friends we made in spite of such a bitter journey.” He looked remorsefully at Legolas. “I think now it would be better had we never come.”

“Do not speak so, Frodo,” said Legolas softly, meeting the hobbit’s sad eyes. “The Abomination’s strike upon Gondor would have happened regardless, and it is perhaps well that all the greatest and cleverest of the War of the Ring were present when he arrived, or he might yet live, leeching the lives of the people of Middle Earth.” Not quite able to suppress a shudder, he murmured, “Perhaps my fate was a small price to pay that his terror upon this land is ended.”

“Now I tell you not to speak so, Legolas,” said Frodo, folding his arms. “No one deserved that.”

“You mistake my meaning,” Legolas replied. “I said only that I am glad he is at last destroyed, even if it had to be the result of his attack upon me.” For the first time, he realized that he meant it. *The leech is dead. If nothing else…I was the last. There shall be no more tears, no more cruel and lonely deaths at his hand, no more fearful nights. His hunt is ended.*

“Legolas?” Frodo’s voice brought him back to the present.

The elf smiled sadly at Frodo, “I wonder if you might accept another companion when you depart, Ringbearer.”

“Of course,” said Frodo, sounding pleased. “Whatever peace awaits us in the Undying Lands, it shall be a wrench to say goodbye. You would accompany us to the Havens?”

“Much further than that, my friend,” said Legolas softly. Frodo merely smiled. “You seem less than surprised.”

“If my wounds have not fully healed, I am hale nonetheless,” said Frodo matter-of-factly. “Most of the time, anyway. But it is not those old hurts that drive me from these shores, friend Legolas, as you well know. I wondered soon if you would not go for the sea-longing, and now…nay, I am not surprised. I think you have well earned your rest.”

Legolas found himself laughing quietly. “My thanks for the vote of confidence, Master Hobbit. And be sure, if you and your party would consent to have me, that I shall add my voice to those who plead to the Valar for your admittance.”

“My thanks,” said Frodo with a smile. They sat in companionable silence on the balcony as the sun began to set, their eyes turned westward, until Frodo murmured, “Though…you do know…Gimli will miss you terribly.”

“Aye, I know.”

“And Aragorn.”

“And I him.”

“And Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn.”

“I shall be sorry to bid them farewell. I shall miss all of them.” Legolas eyed Frodo. “Will you not miss Merry and Pippin? And Sam and his young family, and all your folk in the Shire?”

“I shall very much miss them, but they’ll get on fine without me.” Frodo turned back to Legolas, “But I wonder that--”

The hobbit’s words were cut off by the sudden blaring of more than one horn of Gondor, and the distant clanging of the alarm bells near the city gates. Frodo and Legolas sprang to their feet as the market below them erupted from orderly high-spirited bustle to complete chaos. Gondorrhim soldiers raced down the street as the crowd parted for them, running full-tilt toward the gates to hear the source of the alarm. For a few moments, elf and hobbit could only watch the scene, paralyzed, and then Legolas sprang up onto the balcony rail and climbed to the roof. “Wait here!” he ordered Frodo.

Upon the roof, he saw the alarm flares raising into the night sky from somewhere beyond the White City’s eastern gate. Many torches and lanterns were being raised to light the flags being set to wave as warning to the people of Minas Tirith: not warning of attack upon the city itself, Legolas translated, but rather an attack without that required Gondor’s soldiers.

*By the Valar, it has been but hours since Eomer’s company left!* Legolas wasted no time, but slipped swiftly down to the balcony again. “There is an attack somewhere beyond the gates,” he told Frodo, ushering the hobbit inside. “To the Halls of the Kings, quickly!”

“But you said it was beyond the city,” Frodo protested, but hurried nonetheless.

“For now it is outside the city, but I suspect the Gondorrhim muster is an effort to keep it that way, and I shall go to learn more of the trouble. But I cannot until I see you safely to the others.”

As it happened, though Legolas was anxious to learn what was taking place beyond the city, he did not have to take Frodo all the way to the Halls of the Kings. They had gone only a ways through the crowded streets before they were beset by three frantic hobbits. “Mr. Frodo! Where by thunder have you be--oh, Mr. Legolas, praise be. I was afraid he was out alone in this mob after running off like that,” Sam babbled, with a protective hand now on Frodo’s shoulder. Merry and Pippin both had their swords out, glaring about them for any enemies who might spring from the lengthening shadows.

Legolas nodded briskly to them, “Take Sam and Frodo in hand, Master Knights, if you would. I must join the muster, if you are able to see them safely back to the Halls of the Kings.”

Merry nodded, raising his chin, and Pippin brandished his sword, “We’ll handle it, Legolas. Go and take care!”

With a final nod, Legolas turned and raced away toward the city gates. There was a rush of soldiers heading now for the stables, and he joined them, sensing from their snatches of chatter and shouted orders that there was an orc attack taking place without, upon some group of travelers or soldiers, perhaps. Their words heightened his anxiety for Eomer’s company, though he reasoned that were the men of Rohan under attack, surely it would already have been said outright. Or perhaps in the growing darkness it was not yet known.

Their responses automatic with training despite all that had occurred, not a soldier questioned the only recently-recovered elf as he pushed through the stables to Arod, seizing the horse and his weapons, and leading him hastily toward the gates. He had not got far before a shout broke through the noise of girding armor and bellowed commands. “Legolas! Where have you been, Elf?!”

“Gimli!” Legolas mounted his harried horse and rode swiftly to the dwarf’s side. “What have you heard?”

“Hardly anything! I was looking for you, you stupid elf! Now that you’ve finally managed to appear, let’s be off!”

Faramir appeared out of the throng as Legolas gave Gimli an arm up onto Arod’s back. “Legolas! A scout has just arrived from Eomer’s company.”

“The Rohirrim are under attack?” cried the elf, his fears rising.

“Nay, but their southern flank spotted a large company of orcs across the Anduin. Their course takes them directly toward South Ithilien!”

Legolas felt his heart freeze within him. Many of his elves were still in Minas Tirith, having come the previous week for what would have been his funeral. Among them were a good number of his warriors! Those who remained…*No!* “Where are my warriors?” he asked, astonished at how calm his voice sounded.

“They await you outside the gate. They are mounted,” Faramir assured him. “Eomer leads his guard south as we speak, but you and the men of Gondor can yet join them before they intercept the enemy if you ride hard.”

“Are you not coming?” asked Gimli as Legolas urged Arod forward.

“Nay, Aragorn leads the Gondorrhim!” came Faramir’s shouted reply as they made for the gates. “Take care and be well!”

“Keep a close watch on your walls, Faramir!” shouted Legolas back as he urged Arod past the scrambling Gondorrhim and out of the gates.

***

Aragorn was mounted with his almost-assembled company of Gondorrhim soldiers when he spotted a familiar horse with two equally-familiar riders upon its back. He felt some trepidation at the idea of Legolas riding into battle barely two weeks after his almost-funeral, but had known even before he spotted the elf that there would be no stopping him once he learned his colony was at risk. Eomer and Aragorn’s own soldiers would serve as sufficient reinforcement for the elven warriors currently awaiting their lord. Not to mention Gandalf, who was mounted upon Shadowfax close to the sons of Elrond, as well as Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin. King Thranduil waited at the head of the elven warriors.

Another horse burst from the gate accompanied by a guard of White Company men, and Aragorn caught a flash of golden hair. “My lady!” he shouted to the fully-armed and armored shield maiden. “Whither goest thou?!”

“Emyn Arnen, by your leave, my lord!” Eowyn called back, wheeling her horse around. “My brother’s remaining men shall wait there to protect the princedom, and we shall receive any casualties of the battle.”

Aragorn nodded and waved her on, “Take care, my lady!” She waved farewell and kicked her mount into a gallop, as Legolas rode up to Aragorn. “Are you ready, Legolas?” The elf nodded, and Aragorn’s heart leapt within him at the sight of his friend’s eyes. Within them, there was a ghost of the brilliance returning; not Legolas’s usual high spirit perhaps, but the fire of battle. A start, to be sure. “Then give the word. It is your colony under attack; we shall follow your lead.”

“As you will, my lord!” Legolas rode swiftly to the head of his warriors, beckoning Aragorn and his father to his side.

The charge of men and elves crossed the newly-rebuilt bridge to Osgiliath and swiftly overtook the Lady Eowyn’s company on its way to Emyn Arnen, then raced south in a great thunder of hooves as the light of the first stars came out. Aragorn felt his blood racing as they galloped over the darkening landscape with the hulking shadow of the Ephel Duath looming like a great lurking dragon to the east. Before long, they heard shouts ahead and could see torches bobbing above the shadows of many more riders--Eomer’s soldiers.

The King of the Mark beckoned them up as they overtook the riders of Rohan. Aragorn saluted swiftly, and was gratified that Eomer at once noticed the relative positions of the riders in front of the group. Pulling his mount up level with Aragorn and King Thranduil’s, he cried, “Lead on, Lord of Ithilien! The riders of Rohan follow!”

“Gondor!” Aragorn cried in affirmation.

Legolas saluted them, taking the lead, his eyes flashing in the light of the torches and lanterns. “To South Ithilien!”

*****

To Be Continued…

*****

Here you are, dear friends, in gratitude for your infinite patience and kind encouragement during these black months of ailing muse: Chapter 12, without a second of waiting! I worked very hard on getting it right, so PLEASE let me know what you think!

And again, many many thanks to Ithilien for struggling through this dead marsh of a double-chapter! I’d never have managed without you! (Bows and grovels and urges all fans of this story to do the same.)

*****

Chapter 12: In The Wounded Wood

*****

As they rode deeper into the night, the low, heavy clouds of autumn concealed both moon and stars, and the long hard ride depended only upon the light of their lanterns and torches for guidance. When at last late in the night they drew nigh upon the elven colony of Eryn Harn, in the place where the River Erui emptied into the Anduin, the cries of orcs and clamor of battle reached their ears.

Legolas and the elves spotted the fight taking place on the outskirts of the elven colony before the men, and the Lord of South Ithilien shouted to Aragorn and Eomer for more speed. Before long, the sight of the great company of orcs charging a much smaller group of elven warriors in the torchlight reached Aragorn’s mortal eyes, and as he rode forward with Eomer and Legolas with Gimli beside him, all shouting their challenges in the darkness, he was struck by a great sense of time reversed. It was very much as the War of the Ring had been, in those last dark battles under the starless sky, but now, it made his heart lift rather than sink. With a renewed roar of challenge, he raised his sword and charged the orcs.

***

To Legolas, the sight of his colony in danger erased all memory from him, projecting him instinctively to an endless here-and-now. He was conscious only of the attacking orcs, of the positions of his warriors protecting the entrance to the woods, of the riders accompanying him into battle. They had ridden very hard, and the few casualties he could see among his elves indicated that the orc army had not long been assaulting them. *Thank the Valar we made it in time!*

The orcs, he could see, were unprepared for an attack on both flanks, but with the much greater army of Rohan and Gondor charging them from behind, they would press their assault forward on his border guards. The lead having been given him by the lords of Rohan and Gondor, he used it without hesitation. “Eomer! Take your men around their east flank reinforce the guards!”

“Aye! Forth Eorlingas!” the riders of Rohan broke away and charged around the orcs to rendezvous with the elven guards in front of the orcs.

“Aragorn! To the West! Do not let them cross the river!”

“Gondor! To me!” cried the king, his men instantly racing to cut the orcs off from retreating across the small bridges built by the elves. Legolas saw Mithrandir pulling ahead of them on Shadowfax. If the orcs reached the crossings, they could gain areas of Eryn Harn and Gondor that were now all but unprotected, but Legolas counted on the skill of the men of Gondor and the staff of the Maia to prevent such a thing from happening.

“Forward!” Legolas shouted to his own warriors, racing to strike the attackers from the rear. Glancing about to ensure that his company was still with him--for Arod was very fast even with Gimli on his back--Legolas saw Thranduil giving him a very intense stare even as they rode on. But there was no time to question such a look: battle was upon them. Legolas notched an arrow and let it fly into the orcs, who were just now noticing that the noise they were hearing was far greater than the battle they were waging against the small group of elven guards.

It was a far-shorter battle than the ones of the War of the Ring, but memorable nonetheless. The soldiers of Rohan and Gondor, and the warriors of the elves came into position and struck the orc marauders at precisely the same time, trapping them in a great square of mounted fighters. Arrows rained upon the creatures of Sauron, and the warriors in the lead dismounted and charged on foot to confront the orcs bearing shields.

“Barak khazud!” roared Gimli, charging at Legolas’s side with his axe ready.

The plain just north of the woods that Legolas had made his new home was thick was fighting bodies, and he set aside his bow in favor of his knives. Panic had driven the orcs to a great frenzy, and in their bid to escape, they slashed indiscriminately at any object that crossed their path, even cutting down their own. Legolas wanted to reach his elves guarding the entrance to the woods, for it was there that their numbers were weakest, but it required cutting through the thick of the battle.

An orc, screeching in agony and half-blinded by a sword strike, lurched toward Legolas, swinging a great scimitar wildly, forcing the elf to dodge and nearly knock a Rohirrim soldier into another orc’s blade. Ducking the wild blows, Legolas put the wretched creature out of its misery in time to hear a challenge in the Black Tongue shouted, and he whirled to face his opponent. It was an Uruk, already aiming a stolen Rohirrim spear at the elf. Legolas danced backward, but stumbled over another fallen orc, just as the Uruk let its lance fly, following it with a swing of a giant sword strong enough to split Legolas in two.

The elf managed to dodge the lance, but he remained off-balance, and his knife would likely be insufficient to stop the massive blade. Legolas braced himself for a vicious blow, but there came a shout of “Khazâd aimênu!” and the hideous creature found himself suddenly spitted by a Gondorrhim sword in the hands of a dwarf.

Gimli kicked the carcass away and turned to Legolas, obviously expecting gratitude. Instead, Legolas straightened amid the fray and said dryly, “I see you have not managed to hang onto your axe, Master Dwarf.”

The dwarf hesitated, then bared his teeth at Legolas before removing said axe from the back of another orc. “I had little interest in wasting effort of my axe in saving YOUR hide, Master Elf! And my count is now nine!”

Legolas heard an elven cry behind them and turned swiftly back toward the woods. Over his shoulder, knowing Gimli was at his back, he called lightly, “Mine is fourteen!” and laughed at the inarticulate bellow of outrage he got in response.

To his left, Aragorn rolled under the sweeping blow of an orkish sword and easily removed the sword from the offending orc--along with the hand holding it. Silencing the creature’s screams with another swift blow of Anduril, the King of Gondor joined Legolas in charging through the fray to reinforce the elven guards of the colony. The orcs’ numbers were waning fast, and at last Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn broke through. “Report!” he shouted to the elven captain leading the defense of Eryn Harn.

“Our scouts saw them coming from the northeast, my lord!” shouted Fimsigil, firing an arrow into the throat of an orc preparing to skewer a Rohirrim soldier. “But we had seen the Rohirrim depart Minas Tirith and sent up flares to warn them. We thought they were making to attack the riders of the Mark.”

“It is well that you did,” said King Thranduil, appearing at Legolas’s left hand and facing the battle with his back to the woods. “The colony’s warriors were too depleted from the past weeks.”

“Is Narbeleth with you, my lord?”

“Aye, Fimsigil. There, she comes,” said Legolas, as the regular captain of his guards led the rest of her warriors to join him. “Form a protective line along the north edge of the woods!” he shouted to the elves.

“Aye, my lord!” Narbeleth summoned half of her company and ordered them to spread out along the line of trees, while the rest gathered with Legolas, Thranduil, Gimli, and Aragorn.

“The rest, forward! Drive them back into the swords of Gondor and Rohan!”

“Elendil!”

“Lasgalen!”

“Ithilien!”

“Barak khazud!”

Falling with a great shout, the elves and men launched themselves back into the fray, pushing the now thoroughly-confused orcs back into the battle--a hammer of elven warriors into an anvil of men. As Legolas slashed, dodged, and parried, he could hear orc shrieks taking on a desperate tone. They were truly lost, and they knew it. The battle ended like the ebbing tide, the sounds growing softer as orc cries diminished and men and elves ran out of foes. At long last, Legolas found himself blinking sweat from his eyes and looking about for an orc to strike, but finding only fallen carcasses and men who appeared as dazed as he felt. Turning his gaze toward the Ephel Duath, he was startled to see the sky beginning to lighten, signaling the start of another rather dreary late autumn day.

King Eomer limped over to them, favoring a bandaged leg, but otherwise unhurt. “Aught to report, Lord Eomer?” asked Aragorn cheerfully.

“Light casualties among the Rohirrim, Lord Elessar,” said Eomer, in equally good spirits. “Lord Legolas? What of your people?”

Legolas looked quickly to where his elves were reforming outside the edge of the wood, hearing their songs of victory in his ears. Seeing a column of smoke, too small to be a dwelling but too large to be a campfire, he replied, “Light casualties, my lords. We may have lost a guard post in the trees, but little damage to the colony itself, from the looks of it.”

“Light casualties among the men of Gondor as well,” said Aragorn. “Shall we accompany you to survey the colony, Legolas?”

At first intending to decline and allow Aragorn and Eomer’s men to return home, Legolas saw his father’s VERY startled expression from the corner of his eye. Thranduil clearly had no expected so sincere an offer from mortals already wearied by battle. It was unlikely Legolas would ever find himself in the company of his father and his mortal friends at the same time again--not with both parties willing, anyway. To Aragorn and Eomer, he smiled. “I should be most grateful, my lords.”

Eomer and Aragorn had not missed Thranduil’s look either. “That is well,” said Aragorn briskly. “Let the bulk of our companies depart north for Minas Tirith. We shall bring a small detachment to see that the elves of South Ithilien have come well from this skirmish.”

“My thanks to Gondor and Rohan for their aid,” said Legolas, bowing and trying to hold back a laugh. “And to the dwarf of Aglarond,” he added with a mischievous grin at the reference to Gimli, who growled at him in return.

“I suppose you’ll insist on riding that white warg of yours into Ithilien,” Gimli grumbled as Legolas whistled to Arod.

Eomer laughed aloud, “But of course, Lord Gimli. How else shall those literally higher beings gain the greatest strategic view of the land?” He received a loud snort in response, and Legolas laughed as he pulled Gimli onto his horse.

“I am pleased to report none of the orcs managed to reach the bridges,” offered Gandalf, returning from guarding the river crossings. “And if Arod is not to your liking, Master Dwarf, you are welcome to a seat upon Shadowfax.”

“Thank you, no. At least Arod does not find it an amusing pastime to rear and scream like a tortured Balrog.”

Gandalf smiled, urging his horse to join the others. “My compliments, Legolas. You led the elves of Ithilien and the men of Gondor and Rohan to a most-decisive victory.”

Legolas blinked, supposing that yes, it was to be considered his victory. He was a creature of instinct in battle, and well-suited to following orders--including the order to take command. Glancing in satisfaction at the elves and men heaping orc carcasses to be burnt and scouting across the river and over the plains for signs of other marauders, he turned back to the Kings who had handed over leadership of their soldiers and bowed. “The aid of the men of Gondor and Rohan ensured such its decisiveness, Mithrandir.”

Riding into the southernmost elven realm in Middle Earth, they were dismayed to find that the outermost village of Eryn Harn had indeed been struck before the guards were able to push the orcs back. Having been warned in advance of the coming attack, most of the elves had escaped, but a number of the dwellings had been destroyed. Legolas sighed at the sight, “I suppose we may be grateful they were not burned.”

“It has rained too much of late. Even the guard post they managed to set afire smoked more than it burned,” said Narbeleth dismissively. The warrioress patted Legolas’s shoulder (she was close to Thranduil’s age and had strong maternal instincts toward the younger elves Legolas had brought with him, which was likely why Thranduil had sent her to serve as Legolas’s captain.) “Worry not, my lord, they had little time to do more than tear down roofs and knock holes in walls. We shall have it repaired in a matter of weeks.”

Legolas agreed with her assessment that there was more for which to feel relief than sorrow, and looked to Fimsigil as the other warrior returned. “Report.”

“This was as far as the orcs got, my lord,” replied the other warrior. “Our people were evacuated from the village before they reached it; no casualties.”

“That is well,” sighed Legolas in relief. He glanced up at the sun through the thick trees. It was afternoon already, and even if the men of Gondor and Rohan departed now and rode hard, they would not reach Minas Tirith or even Emyn Arnen before very late at night. “My lords, I fear the hour has grown late. May the elves of Eryn Harn offer our hospitality to you and your men for the night?”

Aragorn accepted at once, while Eomer glanced at one of his captains, then agreed as well. “My thanks, Legolas, we would be happy to accept.”

“And Mithrandir and Gimli?” Legolas added, and received their acquiescence. “Fimsigil! See to it that Fandoll and Edlothia prepare quarters for our guests.”

“Aye, my lord!”

Legolas turned to King Thranduil, “Will you stay in my house, Father?”

“Of course, my son,” said Thranduil, looking pleased. “Might I not be granted a tour of your realm ere I return to Eryn Lasgalen?”

“I…” Legolas felt heat suddenly rush to his face. “Gladly, Father.”

“I suppose you’ll be nesting me in some tree again,” muttered Gimli from behind him as Thranduil went to speak to the sons of Elrond.

Legolas smiled to himself. “Nay, not this time, friend Gimli. You shall be pleased to hear that since your last visit I ordered a number of dwellings built upon the ground as quarters for our more…faint-hearted guests.”

At Gimli’s outraged sputtering, Eomer put in, “Fear not, Master Gimli, for I too much prefer to live with my feet upon the ground, and do not consider myself faint-hearted--”

“This from the horse master of Rohan?” snorted the dwarf, reminding Eomer of all the times he had sided with Legolas in teasing Gimli about his dislike of riding.

***

In the end, Eomer did consent to sleeping above the ground, for South Ithilien’s ground dwellings were too few for the number of Rohirrim and Gondorrhim soldiers sleeping there that night. But Legolas thoughtfully saw to it that those forced into the trees were settled upon the largest, sturdiest, and lowest talans that his forest had to offer. Gimli, of course, took one of the beds upon the ground, while Aragorn, more accustomed to the ways of the elves, slept upon a flet higher than any of the other mortals present.

After sharing a generous meal with the elves of South Ithilien, most of the warriors went to their beds, but Gandalf the Grey joined Aragorn, King Thranduil, and Legolas in his own talan-house high in the branches of one of the largest trees, where they persuaded him to break out a skin of good Haloel wine. Thranduil, for once, was not glaring daggers at the King of Gondor, but talking seriously with Legolas about the workings of Eryn Harn, as the elves there had come to call it.

“Eryn Harn?” Eomer had asked curiously at supper.

“It means ‘Southern Wood,’” Gandalf had translated. “Of course, it can also mean ‘Wounded Wood.’”

“And thus you follow our reasoning,” Legolas had said dryly. “Both apply to this long-defiled land.”

Eomer, Gimli, and most of the men and elves had retired by nightfall, worn out by a night of fighting and a day of scouting. However, Gandalf, Aragorn, and Thranduil found themselves awake late, sipping Haloel red and quietly assessing the matter of Legolas’s realm--and Legolas himself. For most of the day and previous night, Gandalf had heard (and heartily agreed with) the murmured remarks between Aragorn, Gimli, and others that Legolas seemed much more his old self. Indeed, the elven lord of Emyn Harn had appeared every inch the young and mischievous Legolas who had journeyed with the Three Hunters, or who had set aside the sea-longing to devote his energies to the founding of an elven colony in a world where elves as a race were vanishing.

Now, Legolas was gazing out of the wide windows of his house, its design a combination of the open, pavilion-like Lothlorien architecture and the more solid Mirkwood style, and his eyes were distant, watching the flickering torches lighting the dwellings upon the ground. And yet…though Gandalf sensed the elf’s sorrow, it was not the black despair that had dogged Legolas in the past days. Perhaps at last, the battle’s emotions had reminded Legolas that he was still capable of feeling.

“It is a fair realm you have made, my friend,” Gandalf said lightly.

Without turning his gaze from the softly-lit dwellings of Emyn Harn, Legolas murmured, “It was not difficult, for Ithilien is a fair land.”

Aragorn chuckled softly, “Ever the modest one, Legolas. I suppose you shall say that this day’s victory was due to the fine training of Gondor’s and Rohan’s soldiers, rather than your leadership.”

Legolas still looked out the window, but the others heard mirth in his voice. “It is true, Aragorn, as you are well aware. It would once have been justly thought that no kings of men would take orders from an elf.”

“Nor elves of men?” offered Gandalf.

Legolas nodded, and at last turned to glance at them. His eyes seemed far away, and within them, Gandalf detected a struggle. The elf was torn within; confusion having replaced despair as his predominant emotion, but the wizard rejoiced in this. *It is the warrior’s heart within him, fighting to get out again,* he thought. *Were the old Legolas to see himself as he has been these past few weeks, he would have bade himself seek the counsel of his friends. Perhaps now at last we might be permitted to aid him in his troubled thoughts.*

Aloud, Gandalf said, “There is much to be grateful for this night. It is as you say; we could not have seen so decisive a victory without the presence of Gondor and Rohan, nor the friendships that enabled you to lead them.”

Legolas nodded again, and mused, “And my people have learnt well to be prepared for assault in the short year that we have been here.” He shook his head suddenly, “Eryn Harn ought not to have been left with her defenses so compromised.”

“Well, you were scarcely responsible for THAT decision,” said Gandalf laughingly (ignoring the way that Thranduil flinched and went for the wine skin.)

The Maia sensed rather than saw Aragorn lean forward eagerly as Legolas--to their surprise--replied with a faint smile, “True. And I would take orcs any day over a strike by the Black Hunter. Orcs at least I was prepared for.”

Aragorn raised his glass in a mock-toast and replied, “The Eldar do pride themselves in their preparations, whether for an invasion of orcs or unruly men.”

Chuckling dryly, Legolas refilled Aragorn’s goblet along with his own. “I have had more experience with unruly men than most of my kin, son of Arathorn, thanks to my long tenure in your company.”

Gandalf raised his eyebrows while accepting a refill of his own. “I declare, son of Thranduil, you speak as one to whom the site of unruly behavior is foreign within the circle of your own kind’s company. I seem to recall witnessing any number of episodes involving you and your elven kindred in which you could most certainly be described as unruly.”

Aragorn laughed while Legolas protested in mock-indignation. “And when have I ever behaved in any manner that might be considered less dignified than a mere mortal?”

“I seem to recall a certain feast at the closing of the Gathering of the Realms, in which you and five of your friends slipped out early on the pretense of retiring with a headache, only to be caught two hours later in your cups after eating too many fermented red melons,” said Gandalf blithely.

“What?!” exclaimed Aragorn, struggling to control his laughter as Legolas blushed to the pointed tips of his ears.

“It was a well-established tradition among elven warriors at the Second Coming of Age,” Legolas explained sheepishly. “And it was not by accident that my father’s Stewards allowed so many red melons to ferment,” he added defensively to Gandalf. “It is yet another show of strength to determine who can best hold themselves after eating the flesh of one of the most powerful fermented fruits in Middle Earth.”

“I have never heard of such a tradition.”

“Of course not, Estel, for you are mortal. Fermented red melon would likely kill you. Even the Halorrim do not use it in their wines. It is too strong.”

“And who won, if I may be so bold as to enquire?”

Gandalf snorted. “I could not tell you, Lord Elessar, and I suspect Lord Legolas may offer no answer either. For when I discovered them, he and his friends appeared equally inebriated. Although it was Legolas who was dancing about the banks of the Forest River with a halved melon rind upon his head.”

Aragorn all but howled, doubling over, as Legolas hissed, “Gandalf!” in outrage and glanced toward his father. Then the laughter came to a surprised halt, as man, elf, and Maia discovered that the elven king of Eryn Lasgalen had fallen fast asleep in his chair, his empty goblet and another emptied wineskin forgotten by his side. Legolas looked at Thranduil in bemusement for a moment, then met Gandalf’s suggestive gaze and quietly motioned them to another flet in the trees not far away.

“It has been a long day,” said Gandalf mildly once they settled. “I daresay your lord father’s endless worrying has wearied him.”

“It is the lot in life of fathers to fret, is it not?” added Aragorn, refilling Legolas’s goblet.

Sipping absently, Legolas replied, “I suppose it is, and my father in particular does more than his share.” Then he sighed ruefully. “Not to say that I have never given him cause.”

“We all give our fathers cause to worry at one time or another,” said Aragorn. “Recall you that not only did I embark us all on a mad quest through the paths of the Dead, but I dragged both of Lord Elrond’s natural sons along as well.”

Legolas rolled his eyes. “And saved the Free Lands in the process. You can hardly claim your actions were without cause.”

“And have yours ever been?” demanded Aragorn.

“I did manage to let myself fall within the power of the Black Hunter,” Legolas retorted, too quickly in Gandalf’s view for there to have been much forethought behind it. His suspicion was confirmed by the way that Legolas stiffened the moment the words had passed his lips.

There came only a short pause in response. And then…“It was no lapse of yours, Legolas,” said Aragorn quietly. “Recall that it was my soldiers he infiltrated. Long I shall be burdened with the grief of what befell you within my city.”

Wizard and king held their breaths. Perhaps the wine had calmed nerves while loosening their tongues, perhaps the battle had both wearied and emboldened them. Perhaps a combination of the day’s events had served to remind them of all that need not be lost. Whatever the reason, Legolas neither lashed out, nor changed the subject. He said only, “I think you are not to be held at fault either, Estel. The Abomination found his way into Rivendell, Lothlorien, and even Mirkwood, to kill and torment without once being captured. Elven warriors who had fought the foulest minions of Mordor were taken or evaded by him. In an entire city of men…” Legolas shook his head.

Aragorn sighed to himself. “How was such a thing possible? That a man could walk within the realms of the elves without being caught or killed.”

Gandalf carefully considered his response. “It is not known how Disaran managed it,” he said. “But as his Stone sucked out the life forces of living elves…perhaps it bestowed upon him more than simple immortality.”

“It is possible, I suppose,” murmured Legolas.

“Do you think so?” asked Gandalf, too quickly.

The younger elf’s eyes snapped up to his, and the wizard winced, expecting an abrupt end to the conversation. But he held Legolas’s gaze with what he hoped was a gently entreating one of his own. *Let us understand what befell you at his hands, Legolas, that we might better know how to ease your grief. Many elves whose children were slain within their own realms would know the answers to these questions.*

For a long moment, Legolas did not speak, and resistance was visible in his eyes. Then Aragorn said quietly, “I think it must be so. How else could Indoran of Lorien be slain before the eyes of Celeborn, Galadriel, and their best warriors while Disaran still escaped? Long did Haldir and his elves ponder at this, but to no ready answer. None ever came close enough to Disaran or his Stone to find out--or live to tell the tale, in any case.”

Legolas was at the edge of the flet, staring upward now. Tonight the weather had cleared, and the stars could be seen through the high branches. Without turning around, he answered, “It may well have been so. I do not think Disaran knew or cared what exactly he received from the Stone, so long as it prolonged his life. His manner of fighting that first night was most definitely elvish, but it may have been stealth that he learnt from us best, and that availed him.”

Next to Gandalf, Aragorn let out his breath in a long, silent sigh. Gandalf took the lead. “Do you remember aught that happened immediately after he struck you?”

His eyes still upon the stars, Legolas murmured, “Very little of use. My strength left me and…I was dead. But I could not enter the Halls of Mandos.”

Aragorn jerked forward despite Gandalf’s warning hand, “What do you mean? You were denied?”

“Nay. Pulled back. I knew not why, but that was when I…returned to the prison. The first thing that I saw was the broken Stone.” Legolas sounded as though his teeth were clenched.

“So the destruction of the Stone may somehow have been the cause,” mused Gandalf.

“Perhaps it is because Gimli caught Disaran only moments after the creature struck Legolas,” suggested Aragorn, with a pensive glance at the elf. “If he had not had time to…absorb the immortality taken up by the Stone…”

Legolas turned suddenly toward them. “Were that true, would I have been able to enter the Halls of Waiting even if the Stone had not been destroyed?”

Gandalf pondered this, taking out his empty pipe and chewing on the stem without lighting it within the elven dwelling. At length, Aragorn replied, “I wonder. We came upon Disaran at the very moment of his strike against you. Could it be that it was this process that was left incomplete?”

“I do not see how,” Legolas replied, his voice ironic. “I did die, there was no doubt of that.”

“Yet that could be the matter of too much of your strength being drained by the Stone to live,” suggested Gandalf. “If the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn takes the immortality of an elf as a ‘life energy’, flowing as water through it into the one who wields it, perhaps cutting off this flow at the crucial moment began these events.”

“Meaning what?” demanded Legolas.

“I am not certain,” said the wizard patiently. “Can you not tell us more of what took place? I seem to recall you saying your spirit was somehow bound to him, but that in the end both you and he had begun to lose strength.”

Legolas nodded, turning away again, with the tight set of his shoulders revealing his anguish at recalling the events. It was clear to his friends that every word was being forced through the barrier of the elf’s pride. Tragedy was etched upon the King of Gondor’s face as he listened to the bitter recounting, and realized the depth of Legolas’s shame at the defilement. It had indeed been a violation of his soul, and more than once the wizard was forced to gently motion Aragorn back in order to prevent Legolas from falling back into hopeless despair once again. Gandalf questioned him only lightly, taking in what he could from the rather sparse details and allowing the elf to give the account uninterrupted. At last, the excruciating tale was released in its entirety, and Gandalf breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Legolas raised his eyes to reveal…relief of his own. As humiliating as such a confession had seemed to the proud elf, the memory was now released, no longer to be faced alone. Gandalf gripped Legolas’s shoulder tightly, sensing a break in the bitterness that had threatened to consume the young elf’s soul. “I see. So whatever the cause, your spirits were somehow connected,” he mused. “What took place at the execution?”

There were several long moments before Legolas spoke again. “He intended to wait until the last moment at the execution, then transfer my spirit into his body and cause me to appear, even as the executioner’s blade struck. And he would then escape.”

Aragorn growled and walked a few steps away, but sensing something important would be revealed, Gandalf pushed on ruthlessly, “But you fought him in this? How?”

“Before, when he used me, I had attempted to flee, to no avail; always he dragged me back. In desperation upon the execution field, I attacked him, hoping to keep his spirit in his own body so that both of us would die.”

“Why did you not attempt to take his body, so that we would know it was you?” demanded Aragorn, looking agitated.

“I did not think I could overpower him. My spirit had all but faded,” Legolas said defensively.

“Peace, Aragorn,” said Gandalf, as the mortal king began pacing in remembered anxiety. “It was a close call, but he survived.”

“And has this telling aided you in comprehending better what occurred?” asked Legolas with faint sarcasm.

“Indeed, I think it has,” said the Maia, refusing to the elf’s bait. “It may well be as you say, Elessar, that the arrival of yourself, Gimli, and Lord Thranduil forced Disaran to release his hold upon Legolas prematurely, thus failing to drain all of his immortality away. There remained not enough to sustain Legolas’s life, yet, when the Stone was destroyed, the fëa returned to Middle Earth.”

Aragorn stopped his infernal wandering. “What?”

“I thought I had become one of the dwimmer-laik,” Legolas admitted. Aragorn went pale.

Closing his eyes, Gandalf shook his head, “I know not for certain, son of Thranduil, but if the process of the Stone was indeed disrupted, it is possible that you might well have been something similar to the Houseless Ones, for your fëa could not have entered the Halls of Mandos if part of it remained bound to Middle Earth, and your body had weakened to greatly to live.” He sighed, nibbling his pipe again, “That Stone was clearly the work of Sauron’s blackest arts, that would tear the fëa from a living elf to feed the power lust of a mortal--I do not mean any mortal,” he added as Aragorn looked about to protest. “Only that the Stone could clearly be only of use to those most black at heart, to kill without mercy in order to reap its benefits.”

“But how was the fëa bound up to the Stone?” demanded Legolas. “If its loss to Disaran caused part of my life energy to remain within my body, how could destroying the Stone draw me back from death?”

“Could it be that when the process was disrupted, Legolas’s fëa was trapped in three places at once?” suggested Aragorn. “Some passed on to Disaran through the Stone, some remained in the Stone, and some was left within own body?”

“But how could that be?” Legolas protested. “The fëa of an elf is bound to the body, and departs to Mandos when the body is slain. It could be believed that the strength of an immortal elf, strength rather than the fëa itself, might give extended youth to a man through Sauron’s black arts, but how could my spirit be thus sundered?”

“By the sundering of the Stone from its wielder at the crucial moment,” said Gandalf, sitting down in a chair of carven wood. “My suspicion is this: when wielded against an elf, the power and strength that gives the elf life in body was sucked away, killing the body and freeing the fëa. When Disaran was forced to prematurely release Legolas, he had not yet fully drained away his life.”

“Gandalf…in the past victims of the Black Hunter…” Aragorn looked apprehensively at Legolas before asking, “Were there any who were not discovered dead? Any who lived even moments after being attacked?”

Gandalf narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment, then widened them in comprehension. “Nay. Disaran’s stealthy choosing of his victims made certain that he had time enough to finish his kill--in every case except this one.”

“I do not understand,” said Legolas, folding his arms impatiently.

“Do you remember aught of the attack?” asked Aragorn, looking at the floor. He slowly raised his eyes to meet his friend’s. Legolas nodded warily. “The few eyewitnesses we had of past attacks reported that the victims died in Disaran’s grasp, before any aid could be given them. You did not.” Aragorn swallowed. “When he released you, you still lived, if only just. It was in my arms that you…” he looked away.

Gandalf moved between them, placing one hand upon Legolas’s shoulder, the other upon Aragorn’s, for both looked equally distressed by the memory. Driving them on, he continued, “Only moments later, the Stone was taken from Disaran’s grasp by Gimli. If the fëa had not been freed until AFTER the immortal strength of the victim had passed through the Stone--into whoever wielded it, then it follows that sundering the Stone from its master…”

“Halted the process, trapping at least part of the fëa within it,” breathed Legolas, raising understanding eyes to Gandalf. The Maia measured the elf’s gaze carefully; there was horror in it at what had occurred, but Legolas was no longer crippled by the memories. Having learnt half the tale, answers would grant him at least some peace. “I would have been trapped forever, as long as the Stone existed.”

“I fear so,” said Gandalf gravely. “But then Gimli destroyed it.”

“But if destroying the Stone released the fëa, how is it that I did not ‘die’ fully then? I became even more bound to Arda, not less.”

“I cannot be certain, but I think it likely that along with a small part of your strength, a small part of your fëa remained within your body. The Stone of Sauron inflicted an unnatural death. It may be assumed that the Dark Lord’s arts caused the fëa to follow a different course than the Song of Ilúvatar.”

“Sauron possessed the malice to contrive such a thing, to be sure,” replied Gandalf grimly.

Having pondered this, Legolas suddenly looked up, his expression rather affronted. “Mithrandir…are you telling me I was only slightly dead?”

There was a loud snort, and the elf and Maia turned to glare at Aragorn, who had a hand over his mouth but could not quite stifle his chuckles. With great dignity, the wizard replied, “Well, my friend, that is not the phrase I would choose to describe it…but yes.” Now it was Legolas’s turn to snort, and a sheepish smile crossed his face as the tension in the room of discussing so harsh a subject began to lessen.

Finally getting control of his emotions, Aragorn, with an apologetic smile at Legolas, said, “Forgive me. I was just…imagining Gimli’s reaction…” that set Legolas laughing, and Gandalf as well.

Legolas recovered first, and said soberly, “I think I must tell him this. Then perhaps he will at least be disabused of the notion that what happened is his fault.”

Gandalf shook his head in disgust, “Never will I understand the propensity of this company to blame themselves for the failings of others. Gimli slew a fiend who had preyed upon the innocent of another race for centuries, yet he berates himself; Aragorn mourns because a man joined his guard who has successfully infiltrated elven realms in the past. I suppose when I fell to the Balrog in Moria, you each in turn blamed yourselves for that!” He looked at them, saw their expressions, and all but threw up his hands. “By the Valar, you lot take enough responsibility upon your shoulders for Ilúvatar himself!”

Aragorn simply laughed again and shook his head, dismissing the allegation (or perhaps agreeing with it.) Legolas, however, seemed troubled. “How is it that my fëa did not return to my body when the Stone was destroyed?”

“I do not know. I suspect it has something to do with the manner in which it was sundered. Had Disaran not been facing his own execution, you might have learnt the answer since you say the strength of your spirit waned with time after returning,” said Gandalf.

“You think I would have truly died then?” asked Legolas.

“Possibly. Or perhaps you would indeed have returned then to your own body, but whether the fëa could return after being sundered in such a way…I do not know. It could be that your strength would forever have been diminished.”

“What did you do at the execution?” Aragorn asked Gandalf. “It was you who finally revealed him completely, and thought Disaran might be found at the prison or the House of Kings.”

“I caught Disaran in a beam from my staff that allowed me to sense his thoughts--as ones such as the Lady Galadriel are able to do at will. I found two minds inhabiting his body, or two fëa, if Disaran’s could be called that. But even thus weakened, Legolas’s fëa was by far the stronger presence in my mind, and so when I separated them by force, it was Legolas’s body that appeared in that place, while Disaran’s was cast away. I felt a connection of some sort between them then, but my power was able to sever it, and Legolas was made whole again.” (Legolas for his part looked faintly nauseated.)

“You mean to say that the power of the Stone is what caused Disaran’s hold over Legolas?” Aragorn went on quickly.

“It is the only possible explanation; no other way could the will of a man keep the fëa of an elf in its power. You know the lore of the dwimmer-laik; no mortal mind is so strong--and certainly not a feeble creature with pretentions of greatness like Disaran was. He and the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn were well-suited to each other.” Gandalf grimaced in disgust, toying with his empty pipe again. “I freed Legolas from his grasp with relative ease, and no sooner had I done so and bade each spirit be restored to its rightful body that Legolas appeared before us. The fëa of an elf is always the stronger.”

Legolas shook his head and returned his gaze to the stars, before saying at last in a soft voice, “It was a strange fate.”

Gandalf looked at the others and nodded. “That it was, son of Thranduil.”

***

Long after Mithrandir and Aragorn had retired, Legolas silently walked among the trees of Eryn Harn, his thoughts too troubled for sleep. The moon had set and the stars were at their brightest, sparkling through the leaves like tiny diamond berries, when a “harrumph!” from not far away nearly sent Legolas leaping into a high branch.

Gimli was leaning against the bole of a tree, chewing on his pipe in the same fashion as Gandalf--considerate enough not to smoke in the lands of the elves. “Gimli? What keeps you about at this late hour?”

“I might ask the same of you, Master Elf.”

Seeing the ground beds of their guests still too close, Legolas walked away. Gimli followed. They came to the western edge of the woods where the Anduin gleamed before them before stopping to talk. “I am once again indebted to you for my life, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli dropped his pipe in surprise. “What brought you to that conclusion?”

Legolas sighed. Aragorn knew and Mithrandir knew. He had disliked the telling, though it had not, strangely enough, seemed so insupportable now as it had when he had first been restored to them. He had told them because they wished to know the cause of the strange fate that had befallen him, and while Gimli was in no position to offer such insights as Mithrandir and his father…Gimli was his friend. And it would ease the dwarf’s mind greatly to hear proof of his blamelessness in what had taken place.

Taking a deep breath, Legolas spoke. “When you, Aragorn, and my father caught Disaran, you interrupted him before he could draw all of my life away through the Stone. When the Stone was taken from him by you, it trapped my fëa here in Middle Earth. I would not have been able to enter the Halls of Mandos, Gimli, but trapped here forever, a houseless spirit.” Gimli drew in a sharp breath. “But you then destroyed the Stone. That is how my spirit returned here. My fëa was bound to Disaran during the days leading up to his execution; that is how I came to suffer his wounds,” Legolas swallowed. “But he weakened, as did I, and on the execution field, we strove for control of his body, and when Mithrandir separated us, his power over me was ended.” Forcing a smile, he looked at the solemn dwarf. “So you see, the very actions for which you fault yourself are the cause for my being yet among the living.”

Gimli was silent, his black eyes intense. Then he said abruptly, “Your father blames me.”

Legolas snorted. “My father blames everyone, including himself. But I know that it is useless to reason with him in some matters, whereas I have hope that you possess greater strength.”

“Are you saying that you find me more reasonable than Thranduil?!”

“Eminently.” Legolas grinned. Sincerely, he went on, “But whatever my fathers prejudices, he cannot deny that it was you who chased down Disaran and struck the Stone from his hand before he could absorb its power. And then again it was you who finally brought his hunt to an end on the day of the execution. A dwarf brought down the very beast who had eluded elven warriors for centuries.” He smiled in wry humor. “I am certain your own father would suggest that such a feat is not so very remarkable, but my people owe you their thanks.”

Gimli stared at him, then began to grin as well. “How glad I am to see you at least somewhat restored to yourself, Master Elf. And glad that you would credit me with aiding your return to life, if not preventing your death.”

For an instant, Legolas considered protesting again Gimli’s insistence on considering his failure to prevent the attack some great fault, but decided that in this, Gimli was easily as stubborn as his father. Instead, he smiled, “In that also, you are mistaken, Master Dwarf, for Gandalf has informed me that I was only slightly dead.”

Now Gimli gaped at him. “What?”

“It is quite true,” Legolas said wryly. “It seems that Ar-Pharazôn’s wretched trinket draws the fëa from the body of an elf, giving the elf’s immortal life to the wielder, but when the process was disrupted by your capture of Disaran, my fëa remained somehow bound to both my body and the Stone. I do not entirely understand it myself, but that is Mithrandir’s explanation. The wickedest of the arts of Sauron created such a device as to allow the foulest of creatures to violate Ilúvatar’s design.”

Gimli’s eyes flashed with indignation. “I am sorry that filthy beast died so quick a death. It was far too easy for one such as he.” He put a rough hand upon the elf’s shoulder. “Is that what troubles you so late into this night, my friend? Gandalf’s revelations?”

Legolas turned his gaze upward, to the stars, where Eärendil glowed brightest of all. His voice was so faint that Gimli leaned forward to hear his words. “It has given me cause to wonder and fear, Gimli. Sauron built the Stone for Ar-Pharazôn bearing the greatest of malice for my people. The fëa of an elf is where our immortality lies, or at least that is what we believe, and that which sends us to the Undying Lands after our death. After what I have seen, and what Mithrandir has said, I fear…for those he slew in the past.”

Gimli said slowly, “You can’t be sure what became of them? Whether their spirits went to your Halls of Waiting or whether the Stone left them forever…trapped?”

Eärendil’s light gave him no hope for understanding, and the still night hung heavy between them with unanswered questions. “I do not know. I fear such a question could only be answered in Valinor.”

“You think the Valar would ever have allowed innocent victims to wander forever in torment?” Gimli asked, appalled.

Legolas shook his head. “The Stone of Ar-Pharazôn disrupted the design of Iluvatar in many ways, elvellon. I fear it may be possible that the fëa of Disaran’s victims were forever sundered. And having nearly been one of them, I find now that my desire to know their fates rivals even the longing of the sea in calling me to the Undying Lands.”

*****

To Be Continued…

*****

Author’s Notes:  As usual, this chapter wound up longer than anticipated, so I made it a whole chapter instead of just an epilogue.  Thank you all so very, very much for sticking with me through this arduous journey.  I have to admit I wasn’t entirely happy with the way the plot turned out, but for your sakes, I knew I had to finish and not leave you hanging.  (And I’ve learned two valuable lessons:  # 1, never begin a story while in a state of extreme emotional distress—the plot will turn out very messy, and # 2, never start posting a story before it’s completely finished, because writer’s block can strike at any time, and it’s not fair to your readers.)  I do apologize many times over for forcing these long waits on you, but the wait is finally over.  Another double-update for your feasting pleasure!

And now, without further ado, I give you the final full chapter!

Chapter Thirteen:  The Last Debates

Minas Tirith, a few days later…

     The company of Rohan had elected to delay its departure for a few more days until its wounded riders were able to travel at speed with the group.  King Elessar had gladly extended the hospitality of Gondor, as King Eomer had also offered to provide additional escort to the company of hobbits when they returned to the Shire in a week.  In the mean time, the elves of Imladris, Lothlorien, and Eryn Lasgalen were also making their preparations for departure.

     Gimli, son of Glóin, idly observed the men of Rohan tending their horses as Lord Elrond and his sons spoke to Queen Arwen.  It was not quite time for the Rivendell party to leave, but already Gimli could see that the Queen and her kinsmen were feeling the impending separation acutely.  Indeed, I find myself sympathizing more with the feelings of elves than I would have ever imagined possible.

     With all the madness of the Black Hunter’s terror and the unexpected orc attack past, Minas Tirith and the guests seemed determined to cram as much merrymaking into the next week as possible.  But since returning from Eryn Harn, Gimli had been gripped by a melancholy that even Merry and Pippin’s best antics could not shake.  His sorrow was such that he had overheard Aragorn comparing his mood to that of Legolas under the worst throws of the sea-longing.  Before all this madness, Gimli would have been highly insulted.  Now…

     I suppose it may be much like that.  Then again, it stands to reason, for it is the sea in a way that is the source of my grief.

     Gimli had hoped desperately that the attack on Ithilien would cause Legolas to see how much he was needed in Middle Earth.  Surely the elf would not abandon Eryn Harn with all that remained to be done.  Gimli would never feel the same attachment to the trees that the Eldar did, but even he could see that the forests were still ailing.  Legolas could not leave the only elven settlement in Middle Earth that was growing rather than shrinking.  Did he not see that it was his initiative, his resilience, and his legend that rallied his people?  If he departed, more would follow, and Eryn Harn would vanish, a mere candle’s flicker as the great flames of elven society died out in this world.

     Gimli sighed to himself, leaning on his axe as men and elves moved around him.  His thoughts were noble, but his deepest motives were selfish, as he knew in his heart.  They had been all along.

     Curse you, elf!  How dare you win over all my disinclinations, dislikes, and prejudices toward your race and you yourself, and then abandon me for Valinor!  Do you not realize what I shall suffer with your going?!

     It rose in the dwarf’s throat like a repressed sob, sheer fury with himself, with Legolas, with the cruel fate that had bound his soul to the elf as surely as to any dwarf who had grown by his side in the mines of Lonely Mountain.  He and Legolas had faced a greater darkness than the deepest coal mine, and now, now when it seemed peace had been restored at last, the elf was fleeing like a coward!

     His fists balled in frustration and grief atop his axe, oblivious to the bustle outside the busy stables.  Who would ever have imagined the loss of an elf could leave a dwarf so low?  Gimli chided himself, You should be grateful.  Two weeks ago you would have sold your soul to Morgoth to know Legolas lived.  Let him find his peace in Valinor with his people.

     A throat was cleared nearby, and Gimli looked to see a hesitant King Eomer watching him.  The horse lord was undoubtedly wondering what could lead Gimli to stand so still with eyes far away in contemplation—like an elf.  Why, an elf, of course!

      “Master Gimli,” Eomer smiled.  “My guards wish to know how many we will be escorting.  Will you be returning to Rohan with our company?”

     Gimli shook his head.  “Nay, my lord.  I’ll be remaining in Minas Tirith a while longer.”

     Eomer looked doubtful.  “You’ve been away from Aglarond nearly two months.”

      “And I’ll be away a while longer!” Gimli snapped.  “My dwarves can manage it fine.  We’re just as capable of using our brains as you men!”

     Stepping back in surprise, Eomer nodded.  “So be it, then.  I’ll inform my men.”  With that, he headed toward the stables, shooting a glance back over his shoulder at Gimli.

     The dwarf grimaced.  I ought not to have spoken to him so.  It was a perfectly reasonable question.

     He was in too uncivil a mood to be here among the clamor where anyone might innocently address him and receive a less than courteous reply.  Gimli headed for the Halls, hoping to find some peace of mind within the comfortingly thick walls of Stone.  And unbeknownst to him as he departed, a slender figure clothed in white stepped from within the doorway where he had been standing, feeling a sorrow just as keen as his own.

***

The next day…

     Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen found his son in the gardens leaning against a tree.  Legolas was singing a song of Valinor and the passage over the sea.  Though it filled Thranduil’s heart with dread, it was hardly a surprise; Legolas sang of little else since falling under the gulls’ sway. 

     And these recent events have done naught but hasten the day when I will lose him.  Then again, he reflected, observing the walls of stone surrounding the garden, perhaps that would be for the best.  Even though I shall be left with yet another hole in my heart.

     Legolas’s voice did not falter when his father joined him in the song.  For several minutes, they sat together, with their voices mingling among the small trees, and the elven king fancied that if he closed his eyes, he would find them singing beneath the eves of Eryn Lasgalen, as they had when Legolas was much younger.

     At last, their song died away, and Legolas looked at him.  “I take it you are to depart soon, Father?”

      “I am,” Thranduil said.  “At dusk.”  Knowing the attempt was vain even as he made it, he asked, “Can I not persuade you to accompany me?”

     To his relief, Legolas did not anger, but merely smiled and shook his head with what might have been regret.  “You know that I cannot.”

      “You have suffered,” Thranduil pressed before he could stop himself.  “Surely you would be better off among your kinsmen than—”

      “—Father.”  Now a hint of warning had entered his son’s voice, and Thranduil bit back his words.  Legolas sighed.  “I am Lord of Eryn Harn.  I cannot go to Eryn Lasgalen when my people—our people—need me here.”  That far-off look that Thranduil had seen all too often among his kindred of late returned with a vengeance to his youngest child’s eyes.  “And I shall not find ease anywhere in Middle Earth.”

     Ai!  Legolas!  It was all Thranduil could do not to seize his son in denial of what the Valar had decreed must be.  Legolas was no different from the thousands of other elves who had strayed too close to the sea.  All of them had eventually left their families for Valinor—the only tragedy was in Thranduil’s mind.  Legolas would be happy there, freed in time of the burdens of shame and humiliation that the Black Hunter’s possession had left.  And if nothing else, at least he will finally be freed of those mortal entanglements.

***

Just after sunset…

     The party of Eryn Lasgalen had long since vanished over the horizon, but a lone figure still stood beyond the gates of Minas Tirith beneath the stars.  The light of Valinor did not set his form aglow as with his elders, but his pale gray raiment shone enough in the moonlight for the one who sought him.

     Not that the Lady Galadriel truly needed her eyes to seek anyone out.  As it was, despite the shimmer of Aman that she herself cast, the son of Thranduil did not even sense her presence until she laid a hand upon his shoulder.  Legolas started, then blushed and bowed.  “My lady.”

     She smiled.  “Are you too come to see the stars, Thranduilion?”

      “Yes.”  He used that as an excuse to turn his face from her without discourtesy, and focused his gaze on the diamond-dusted sky.  “Its lack of trees notwithstanding, I find the most trying flaw in my friends’ city is that its light blots out the lights of Elbereth.”

      “Only to unobservant eyes, Legolas, as you should rightly know,” said the Lady Galadriel.  “All the fires and smoke of Mordor could not blacken the lights of the Valar from our hearts—unless we allow them to do so.”  She pointed to the brightest of them.  “Gil-Estel goes dark not in the heavens, but only to the eyes.”

     The Silmaril seemed to burn brighter as Legolas looked at it, and suddenly he had to pull his gaze away.  “Never has its light failed to comfort me before,” he whispered.

     The Lady brushed a finger across his dry cheek.  “Yet your trouble comes not from the star.”

     Legolas said, “I know this is not the greatest darkness that our people have suffered.  But I know not how to dispel it.”

      “Aye, many of our kindred have suffered such torment and worse.  Do you not know why, Thranduilion?” she asked him.  Legolas looked at her and shook his head.  “Because they stood not alone.”

      “But what of those who fell to the Stone, my lady?  It tears at my heart, not knowing their fate.  Were they received at Mandos or were they sundered forever by Sauron’s arts, condemned unjustly to be Houseless?” Legolas asked, hoping she might know the answer.

     The way her eyes slid from him said that she did not.  “Since nearly joining them, your thoughts have been occupied much by the dead, Legolas.”

      “I was among them for a time,” he replied softly.  “Such torment and fear, the uncertainty.  So many children…” then he flinched and broke off, remembering belatedly that Galadriel’s own child had fallen to Disaran.

     Of course, she knew at once when it came to him.  “You need not apologize, Legolas of Ithilien.  Your concern for them does you credit.  But I will impart on you what I myself have learnt, these long years faced with so much sorrow and loss.  We the living are not meant to know the secrets of the dead.  We may only keep faith that the Valar shall not allow an unjust fate upon them.  It is not ours to know yet.  We must concern ourselves with the living.” 

     Her eyes shimmered until he saw the starlight within them, and then it seemed that the faces of all those he loved swam before his eyes unbidden.  He saw his father, not mourning or haggard as he had been these past days, but walking across the plains back toward Eryn Lasgalen with an air of hope about him, his face toward the stars.  In Eryn Lasgalen, several of his sisters and brothers yet lingered, and a niece, and many elven friends who had yet to depart Middle Earth. 

     And then came the Fellowship in his mind’s vision, and Legolas felt as though his heart stretched out its arms to them.  The hobbits, the dear, gentle, laughing hobbits, Pippin and Merry—yes, merry indeed, in spite of it all.  Loyal, steadfast Samwise, with his growing hobbit family whom Legolas had yet to meet, and his legendary gardens.  And Frodo…brave, noble Frodo, the Ringbearer, the savior of them all.  Such friends they were to him.  So precious.  Mithrandir, the wise Maia who had saved Legolas’s life once, very long ago, and whose counsel had carried them so well through the War of the Ring.  Ai, it had been such a wrench, believing him gone.  But he had returned.  And he remained with them again.  Aragorn.  Elessar.  The Ranger had been as a brother to him for so long, through such adventures, when they both had been so much younger.  To see him come to his destiny at last had brought such joy to Legolas—both destinies, as King of Gondor and husband to Arwen Undómiel.  And…

     Gimli.  By far the strangest and yet most beloved being in Middle Earth to Legolas.  Aye, I have known the fabled hospitality of the dwarves.  You have long since introduced me to it, yet none of those great roaring fires or feasts have struck me so as your own friendship, these past years.  How very strange, that it is your loss I shall mourn the most, if the loss of any of you may be measured.

     Galadriel’s eyes sparkled at him.  “It strikes me not as strange, Thranduilion.”

      “Each in his own way has given much in the War, my lady, and in these past days.  Is there no solace for them?” Legolas asked.

      “For each in his own way, there shall be solace.  Do you not know already?”

     Legolas thought.  “Aragorn…he has all that he was born to be, in Gondor, and for himself, there is Arwen.  She is his balm.”

     Galadriel nodded.  “The elven grace of the Evenstar may diminish, but she has gained grace of a different sort, which none shall begrudge her.  It is the same grace that Luthien chose before her, and that the Valar have blessed.  Elessar’s reign shall be so blessed.”

      “And the hobbits…well, Merry and Pippin have each other, I think.  All the hobbits have the Shire still.”  Legolas looked hesitantly at her.  “I know what grace you have given Frodo and Bilbo.  Mithrandir will doubtless go with you.”

     The Lady smiled.  “He will.  And if he should choose one day, Samwise too shall be granted passage as a Ringbearer.”

      “I am glad of that,” said Legolas.  Then he murmured, “And Gimli, he has Aglarond…” but he could not finish.

     Galadriel stepped closer to him.  “Is your own colony solace enough to you, Legolas?”  Closing his eyes, he shook his head.  Her voice was quiet, yet hard.  “Gimli has you, Legolas Thranduilion.  He has also my favor, and one day it shall obtain great grace for him, but that day is not yet come, and while the memories of grief weigh heavy, Gimli son of Glóin has looked to you for ease of them.”  Legolas’s eyes opened, and he stared at her.  “Have you not also turned to him in the past when the War has loomed heavy on your memory?  Why do you hesitate now?”

     The wind whispered over dry winter grass, mingling with his sigh.  “The War of the Ring has been heavy enough upon their hearts.  I would not wish to burden my friends with this sorrow.”

      “Think you their sorrow will be lessened by your flight?” He was startled to hear a sharpness in her voice.  It was reflected in her flashing eyes.  “Would you have them flee Middle Earth in their grief for you?”

     The question was absurd.  “Of course not!” he exclaimed.  “None of my mortal friends could leave Middle Earth save to die—excepting Frodo, I am told,” he added.  But something in the lady’s eyes chilled his heart.  “What?  What are you trying to tell me?”

     Galadriel’s eyes…they seemed to pull him, drawing him in, until…

***

     It was the prison again, late at night.  He could see Gandalf and Gimli, standing in the doorway, their faces shadowed as they had been when they had believed Legolas dead.  Across from them, wearing the look of one mad with grief, was Aragorn. “I can’t do it, Gandalf!  He was my friend, a guest in my city, under my protection, and he died alone in my streets!  I cannot live with that!”  Shaking his head, he muttered, “I must try.”

     Try…what? Legolas wondered in disbelief.  He had not known his death had lain Aragorn so low.

      “By the Valar, THINK, Aragorn!” cried Frodo, appearing behind the dwarf and Maia.  “Legolas would never forgive you!  And it wouldn’t just be yourself; you’d be killing Arwen too!  Everyone knows what fate awaits her if you should die!”

     By the Valar…what did Aragorn intend?  The Stone of Ar-Pharazôn glimmered wickedly in the King of Gondor’s hand.

      “And it would be vain,” said Gandalf.  “You may be of Númenórean descent, but Legolas is an elf.  You have not enough life force to restore his immortality.  Even if it granted him anything at all, his life would be diminished at best.”

     By the Valar…Legolas realized what Aragorn was attempting to do.  This could not be!  He would never have tried something so foolish!

      “That’s better than death,” muttered Aragorn. 

      “Legolas might disagree, and it is not for you to make that choice for him,” said Gandalf.

     Aragorn sighed, and his shoulders slumped.  Then he suddenly attempted to jerk past Gandalf, causing cries of alarm from Frodo and Gimli as the Maia rushed to restrain him.  “No!  Aragorn, no!”

     Legolas cried out instinctively along with them.

      “I must try!” the King cried, attempting to fight his way past them. 

     He nearly managed to wrench himself from the wizard’s hands and gain the door, but Gimli slammed an open hand into his wrist, forcing his hand to drop the fatal Stone.  The dwarf seized it as Frodo threw himself in front of Aragorn, sobbing, “Strider, please!  Don’t!”

***

      “NO!” Legolas returned to himself as his knees gave way and he landed with a jarring thud upon the hard ground.  “No,” he whispered, pleading with the watching Lady Galadriel to deny what he had seen.  “It is not true.  It cannot be!  He would never…”

      “He tried, Legolas.  He tried,” said Galadriel.  “It was then that the Stone was destroyed by Gimli, to prevent Elessar from surrendering his life to it.”

     Legolas suddenly recalled something Disaran had said, soon after the elf’s spirit had appeared in the prison.  “Elessar snuck back in here by night and tried to take the thing to the House of Kings where your body lies, to give his own life to you.  Nothing would stop him, not mention of his worth to the world, nor his wife, nor his friends.  All I intended was to sustain my life for another hundred years or so, but I may have destroyed the King of Gondor!”

      “Disaran…he told me,” Legolas whispered, his insides twisting at the memory.  “I had forgotten.  He told me that first day after I…returned.  I did not believe him.”

      “The Black Hunter spoke the truth, in that at least,” said the Lady Galadriel.  Even as she spoke, Legolas rose to his feet and started back toward Minas Tirith.

***

     As Aragorn returned to his chambers after a rather long evening of hearing petitions, sharp, jarring footsteps coming down the corridor caused him to wonder if King Thranduil had returned.  For the steps were too light to be a man, yet hard and tense for an elf.  He turned to wait, and was highly startled when Legolas came around the corner.  “I must speak with you,” said his elven friend, his gray eyes dark with many emotions. 

     Alarmed, Aragorn simply beckoned for Legolas to accompany him back to his chambers.  Both were silent until they reached the suite, and Legolas visibly bit back his words at the sight of Arwen already there.  She sensed at once something was wrong.  “Legolas?  What is amiss, my friend?” she asked, rising from the chair where she had been half-heartedly embroidering.

     With a hasty bow, Legolas said quietly, “I apologize, my lady.  It is…merely an urgent matter of which I must speak to Aragorn.”  His face colored, but Arwen understood his meaning.

      “I shall make myself scarce then,” she said with a faint smile.

     “Will you be sparring again with Lady Eowyn?” asked Aragorn.

     Arwen shook her head.  “I shall seek her out for instruction perhaps, but I fear there shall be no sparring for some time.”

     Aragorn and Legolas shared a startled glance.  “Something is amiss with her?” asked Legolas.

     Shaking her head again, the Queen of Gondor replied, “Nay, nothing is amiss.  But the Healers banned her today from any rough activity such as sparring, for it might prove injurious in her condition.”

     “In her cond—oh.  I see.” Aragorn felt himself blush a little.

     Arwen glanced back at them from the door, and looked at Legolas with gentle eyes.  “Be well, my friend.” 

     The two watched her go, then Aragorn turned to his friend, troubled by his desire for Arwen’s absence.  “What, Legolas?”

     The elf’s gray eyes were large and dark, almost pleading.  He took a hesitant step forward.  “Aragorn…I had…there was something I was told.  By Disaran, about the manner of my…return.  I had not believed it to be true.  I hope that you will tell me it is not.”

     For a moment, Aragorn was merely confused.  Then his mind connected what Legolas was saying, and a cold knot of dread formed in his stomach.  Yes, he should have expected that Legolas would eventually learn of the chain of events that had led to Gimli’s destroying the Stone.  And that his friend would demand an accounting.  “I know not precisely what the Black Hunter told you.  But I fear that the worst of it is true.”

     Legolas’s breath caught.  “You attempted to use the Stone?”

      “If it is any ease to your mind, I got no further than the prison door.  It seems Gandalf and Gimli anticipated me.  And Frodo and your father.”  Aragorn could no longer meet the elf’s eyes.  “I know many things you would say, Legolas.  I can offer no accounting.  It was a mad notion.  Only that I—” his own breath suddenly caught, and he cursed himself for his weakness, then and now.  He turned his back to hide his brimming eyes.  “In my grief, I could think of naught but escape from the torment.”

      “Not even Arwen?” Unable to speak, Aragorn shook his head.  Strong archer’s hands clapped down upon his shoulders and spun him around, forcing him despite his shame to look into Legolas’s anguished face.  To his astonishment and further grief, the elf was weeping.  “Aragorn, by the Valar, what befell you?  All of you?  You nearly cast aside your life, your Queen, and the entire realm of men, and Gimli—ai Elbereth!  Gimli destroyed the book and cursed his own people…blamed them, his race, himself—it was not grief, it was madness!  I am not the first friend that any here has seen fall before his time, and yet you—”

      “By Ilúvatar’s rule, what do you wish me to say?!” Aragorn cried, cutting Legolas off.  “Yes, it was madness, I know that!  I cannot justify it, but say only that your loss brought me more pain, Legolas, more despair, than I have ever felt in my lifetime.  Is that what you wish to know?  What drove us?”  He gripped his friend’s arms, trying to make him—and himself—understand.  “You are…Legolas, I count you among the greatest friends I have ever known.  I have known death before, but yours left me in such pain that I thought I would die.  You are of the Fellowship, a hero throughout Middle Earth, but do you not realize that each of us was certain that you were the one among us whom we would never have to mourn?  You’re an elf!  You were not meant to die before us!”

     Only then did he realize what he was saying and cut himself off, but it was too late.  Legolas’s lips moved soundlessly for a moment, before he whispered, “It is because I am Eldar that you grieved so?”

     With a half-sob, half-snort of disgust, Aragorn clouted the elf upside the head.  “No, you great fool.  I told you.  It is because to each of us, Gimli, I, and the others, you are the dearest of friends, and we love you.  If your race affected our pain, it is only in our stupidity in taking your presence for granted, as though your immortality went beyond the mere span of life and could protect you from sword and arrow.”  He sat down with a thud on the couch, sheepishly wiping his face.  Legolas thumped down next to him, both of them leaning forward with their elbows on the knees like the sorriest sots upon a fallen log.  That fact seemed to strike them both at once, and they began to laugh through their tears.  Aragorn unashamedly slung an arm around Legolas’s shoulders.  “Ai, my friend, for all that you may have seen or been told of the state of me after your fall, you cannot comprehend my horror.  I feared that I had not taken the proper time to tell you all that you had meant to me, since the first time we met, all your friendship had meant, nor cherished properly the days we spent in each other’s company, for all the time, I felt secure in my faith that you would be here long after I had gone.”

     Legolas wiped his own eyes and stared at his knees, looking thoughtful.  “Nay, my friend.  Not that long.  Even if the Black Hunter had not crossed my path, I would not have lingered in Middle Earth long past your lifetime.”  He looked back up at Aragorn.  “Think you I shall feel any less anguish at your passing?  Think you my immortality comes as any solace to me?  At times it is a torment, this knowledge that I must live to see the end of every life of the Fellowship save my own—and perhaps Mithrandir’s.  Ai, it is enough to send me fleeing to the Undying Lands alone, just for the scant consolation that I would not have to face each of you in your final hours.”

     The elf seemed to cringe in physical pain, and Aragorn put a hand back upon his shoulders.  “We would not deny you the sea.  All of us have seen your suffering.  When you go we shall wish you well.”

     He was given a highly un-elvish snort in reply.  “You hide a lie in the truth, Strider.  You wish me well, but not gone.”

     Aragorn sighed.  “Aye, I suppose so.  But mistake me not, my friend, not a one of us would stand in your way, nor wish you anything but well in your going to the home of your people.  It is your destiny as an elf, and your right now more than ever.”

      “But?”  Legolas sat up straighter and looked at Aragorn, who in turn hunched over a little more.

      “But,” he sighed again.  “It is true that we shall mourn your absence until the very end of our days.  Still,” he forced himself to straighten up again.  “It is not reason enough for you to linger.  We shall endure,” he smiled wryly.  “Knowing that you are safe and well in the Undying Lands, where you may find healing.  Your presence shall be missed desperately, but it shall not be the agony that your death was.  We shall be glad for you.”

     Legolas was quiet, not quite looking at him, his eyes thoughtful.  “I…understand.”  His brow furrowed.

      “Legolas?  What troubles you still?”  Aragorn sat up again and watched the elf, but Legolas did not seem to be listening.

     At length, his friend murmured, “Promise me you shall never attempt such foolishness again for my sake, Aragorn.”

     Soberly, Aragorn took his hand.  “I promise never to attempt suicide again.  But as for foolishness, I fear I can make no such promise,” he said, opting for levity.  Legolas blinked at him, and the King of Gondor smiled.  “I fear I may always be driven somewhat beyond good sense where my truest friends are concerned.  So you shall have to make do.”

     The elf stared at him for several moments, then a smile slowly curved his lips, and he began to laugh, reaching up and slapping Aragorn on the head in his turn.  “Idiot mortal.”

      “Crazy elf.”

      “By the Valar, we sound like Gimli and…and…well, me, I suppose.”

***

The next morning…

     Frodo had risen early and was wandering the Halls of Kings when a familiar elven voice raised in song caught his ear.  The Ringbearer was startled, not by the voice itself but by the song, which had a wistful, almost hopeful tone about it.  This particular voice had sung many mornings and evenings of late in the gardens, yet Frodo had heard nothing but sorrow in the notes until now.  And it sprung hope to life in his own heart as he walked to the gardens to greet the singer. 

     Legolas broke off his song as Frodo approached.  “Good morning, Master Hobbit.  You rise early.”

      “Sometimes I wake earlier than I had planned, but find I cannot go to sleep again,” said Frodo with a shrug.  At the elf’s troubled expression, he explained, “It has always been thus.  Bilbo was the same.  That’s when he would work on the Red Book.”  He sat down on a Stone bench beneath a tree, sighing contentedly in the cool morning air.

     Legolas came to join him.  “What book was that?”

      “His account of his adventures, in Rivendell and Mirkwood.”

      “Ah, I remember,” the elf laughed.  “At the Council of Elrond.  He was persuaded to give up his offer to carry the Ring in favor of finishing the book.  And he owes you a sequel now, I recall.” 

      “Nay, I am writing the sequel,” said Frodo.

     Perhaps it was only wishful thinking, but Legolas’s eyes seemed brighter than they had been recently.  His friend smiled and nodded slowly.  “Then perhaps you should have brought it with you.  The Red Book.”

      “I did.”  Frodo smiled back.  “I worked on it for two hours before my hand became sore,” he rubbed the writing hand and grimaced.  “Then I decided to take a walk.”  Legolas’s gaze fell upon Frodo’s right hand, missing its third finger, and his face grew troubled.  Hastily, Frodo explained, “I write with my left hand now.  It can hold a quill, but it’s not used to writing, so it tires easily.”

      “Such pains you have endured, Ringbearer,” murmured the elf, his gray eyes dark and sad.

      “We all have,” said Frodo, not wanting to talk of such things.  “Anyway, you know my plans.”

      “And I have kept faith and said nothing,” Legolas confirmed with a nod.  Frodo eyed him, and the elf smiled slightly.  The wind brushed his fair hair as he raised his face to the sun, now beginning to rise above the city walls.  “You still think to leave within the year?”

      “Aye,” said Frodo softly.  Hope flickered within him again.  He certainly did not begrudge Legolas the journey over the seas—indeed it was his right far more than Frodo’s, a birthright—nor would he be sorry at all to have another friend’s company on the journey.  Yet…something in the back of Frodo’s heart seemed to sorrow at the thought of Legolas leaving Middle Earth so soon. 

     Evidently, it showed upon his face, for Legolas had turned to look at him.  “What troubles you, Ringbearer?”

      “I…it is nothing,” Frodo began, but the elf merely raised an eyebrow, in a fashion that made him look so like Lord Elrond that the hobbit had to laugh.  He suspected King Thranduil must have looked just this way at Bilbo once.  I must be sure to ask him more about Legolas’s father.  “You see through me, Master Elf.”

      “Well enough,” replied the elf drolly, and Frodo laughed again.  Legolas laughed too, then sat down beside him once more and persisted, “Come, tell me your thoughts?”

      “It’s just…you’ve every right to go, of course,” said Frodo hesitantly.  “It’s only…I know nothing of the sea-longing, or really elves themselves—”

      “Nonsense, Frodo, you know far more of us than most mortals, and understand us better than most may hope to.  Else you would not have been invited to Valinor,” said Legolas.  “Tell me.”

      “I just have this feeling, that’s all,” Frodo sighed.  Seeing that his friend would not desist until the troubling feeling was unburdened, he explained, “Just that you shouldn’t go just yet.  I don’t know why.  You’ve been through so much, and with the sea-longing already—sweet Elbereth, you’ve more than your share of right to go.”  He shrugged helplessly.  “You needn’t mind my silly hunches.”

     Legolas met Frodo’s sheepish smile with solemn gray eyes, then his gaze drifted away, lost in his thoughts.  Frodo was wondering if he should leave, when Legolas murmured, “For all you have been through, my brave and noble friend, it would be a fool indeed who disregarded any feeling or hunch of yours.”

     Frodo felt himself blush.  “You’re kind to say so, Master Elf.”  Legolas looked back at him once more and smiled.  “Are you to join us then?”

     The breeze rustled the dying leaves overhead for several moments before Legolas answered.  “I shall speak to Lord Elrond.  He will tell me when your time has come to go, and even if I am not among the party, I shall send word.”

      “I’m glad of that, Legolas.  Else I’d be worried about you.”

     For some reason, that made the elf laugh out loud.

***

Later that day…

      “Aragorn told me of your meeting with him,” said Gimli by way of greeting when Legolas came to join him on the wall. 

      “Did he?”

      “Aye.”  Legolas frowned to himself.  Gimli seemed out of sorts.  But then the dwarf remarked, “I’m sorry.  I thought by now you had heard all that transpired, or else I’d have told you myself.”

     For some reason, Legolas felt a great aversion to being burdened with ill feelings anymore this day.  He leaned into the breeze, still blowing strong and clean from the northeast—carrying the clean scents of Mirkwood rather than the stench of Mordor or the tormenting salty call of the sea—and answered, “Nay, it is not your fault.  I have avoided hearing tale of the sorrows that passed during that time.  I did not seek out any answers.  I think now it is better that I face what transpired.”

     Gimli shrugged, still leaning on his axe and looking down.  “Is there aught else you wish to be acquainted with?”

      “Naught that I am aware of,” Legolas sighed, deciding that ill memory was going to cloud this clear day whether he wanted it to or not.  Just when I was beginning to feel free.  “I wish Frodo had not been there to see Aragorn in that state.  He has enough sorrow to contend with.”

     Shaking his head, Gimli agreed, “We tried to make him wait, but he wouldn’t.  He had stayed behind the night that…”

      “I see,” said Legolas softly, putting a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.  “He did not wish to be forced to wait for news again.”

      “Aye.  In the end,” Gimli glanced up at the banners of Gondor snapping in the air, “in the end, I think his presence there did Aragorn some good, at least.  Didn’t bring the man all the way back to his senses, but somewhat.  Enough that Gandalf and I could get a grip on him.”

      “I have already had words with him on that score.”

     Gimli let out a bark of laughter.  “Hah!  Good.  Idiot needed to hear it from you.  Mahal knows he wasn’t listening to the rest of us.”

      “You’d do well to heed your own advice, Master Dwarf,” said Legolas softly, watching his friend carefully.

     Gimli’s head snapped up to face him.  “What are you talking about, Elf?  I never—”

     Legolas dropped to his knees, startling Gimli, so that he could look the dwarf straight in the eyes.  “Forget not that I could see you, once the Stone was destroyed.  When you were alone, no longer hiding your grief, more than once I heard words from you that I should have beaten any who told them to me, had I not witnessed it myself.”  Gimli cringed, undoubtedly remembering his actions when he had visited the elf’s empty room, and Legolas went on quietly, “I would have wept, had I been able, to see you place blame upon yourself and your people, where I laid no blame upon you.”

     The axe clattered to the ground, and Legolas quickly picked it up and set it gently to one side as Gimli leaned against the wall, his face long with sad memory.  “Blast it, Elf, why did you have to worm your way into my affections?  I would have done anything to restore you.”

      “Now I am restored.”

      “Only to run away again!” The words burst out before Gimli could stop them, and Legolas saw the dwarf’s eyes widen in dismay, and he raised a hand.  “Legolas, I do not mean—”

      “Nay, my friend, I see your meaning,” said Legolas.  He forced a smile at the dwarf, although inside he felt he was being torn violently in two.  Perhaps Aragorn will console himself at my going; he has lost elven friends and kin to the sea before.  But Gimli!  He shall grieve just as he did at my death!  Despair swept over him, remembering Frodo’s words.  Even the Ringbearer felt that this was wrong.  “Do not apologize for it.  I would always rather have the truth of your heart from you.”

      “Then you know it already, so don’t ask me to say it,” said the dwarf gruffly, looking away.

     Legolas changed the subject.  “What said my father when Aragorn went mad?  I should like to see him deny Aragorn’s friendship still, after that.”

     Gimli snorted.  “Oh, he does, Legolas, he does.  And don’t ask me to repeat what passed between myself and him if you haven’t heard it already.  Much use he did us while Aragorn was trying to steal the Stone from the prison.”

     Then it was Legolas’s turn to snort.  “Aragorn said he had appeared as well.  Followed you to keep his superior elven eyes on things, I suppose?”

      “No, not that time, he showed his superior elven precognition by getting there before us.  I didn’t even see him until the Stone was destroyed.  He certainly didn’t come out during the spat with Aragorn.  Must’ve been hiding and gloating the whole time in the shadows,” said Gimli, shaking his head.  “I can’t deny he grieved for you, my friend, but he certainly made our lives as difficult as he could.”  Then he looked up and saw Legolas’s face.  “Er, no offense.”

      “What?  I…none…take…what do you mean, he was there before you?” asked Legolas, feeling as if an icy hand had squeezed his heart.  “What was he doing?”

      “I don’t know, I told you.  The first I saw of him that night was when he burst out of the shadows on the opposite side of the prison when I took my axe to the Stone.  He didn’t want me to destroy it either; I imagine he held out some hope that…what, Legolas?”

     Legolas put a hand upon the wall, gazing out over Minas Tirith, trying to steady himself.  By the Valar…what had his father been doing there?  “You say he was hidden within the prison when you came?”

      “I assume so, yes,” said Gimli, looking puzzled.  “There’d been no sign of him the whole time we confronted Aragorn, but he is an elf, after all.  You’ve hidden from me in places with less shadow than that prison.”

      “But when you went to destroy the Stone, he tried to stop you?” whispered the elf. 

      “That’s right,” said Gimli, then comprehension filled his face.  “Blessed Mahal, Elf.  You think…” 

     A Elbereth Gilthoniel, Father.  What did you intend to do?  Legolas feared his legs would no longer support him, and sank to the stone ground beside Gimli, who rested a hand on his shoulder.  “Do you think so?” he asked the dwarf numbly.

     Gimli was silent for many heartbeats before answering quietly.  “I don’t like your lord father, Elf.  Never will.  And it’s very mutual, you can be sure.”  Several more heartbeats passed.  “But like as not, I saw plenty of him in the days after Disaran struck.  He was there that afternoon, when Gandalf and Lord Celeborn told us the Stone could only affect him that held it—and we were all too busy watching how Aragorn reacted.”

      “You think he might have attempted it?” asked Legolas.

      “Aye, lad.  Now that I think about it…the way he was that night…I think he meant to do it.”

      “A Elbereth, Gimli!” Legolas buried his face in his hands.  “Why could so many be driven to such utter madness over me?  Aragorn, Faramir, you, and now my father as well!”

      “It’s no fault of yours, Legolas.  He obviously thought you were worth such a sacrifice,” said the dwarf quietly.  “And in that at least, I agree with him.”

      “I will never be worth such a sacrifice as that,” Legolas whispered.

      “Shut up, Elf.  No sense having this argument.  It’s moot now, thank the Valar, and these past events already say you’ll lose.”  Gimli gruffly picked up his axe and jabbed Legolas with the handle.  “Up now, and cease these maudlin thoughts.  It’s not you that gets to judge your worth, anyhow.  It’s those around you.”

     Legolas grinned.  “I know that mortal saying.  ‘No man is measured by the love he gives to others…’”

      “‘…But by how much he is loved.’  Aye, lad.  And like it or not, you’ve been measured and found worthy indeed.”

      “Thank you, Gimli.”

      “You’re welcome.  Great Mahal, are you blushing?!”

      “No!  Of course not!”

      “I think you are!”

      “It is the sun in your eyes, stupid dwarf!”

      “Crazy elf!”

      “Do you know, I had precisely this exchange with Aragorn, last night?”

      “There again, it’s two against one.  You’re mad, elf.  Stark, raving mad.” 

      “If there’s one thing these events have taught us, it is that I may not rely upon your sanity, Master Dwarf.”

      “I shall not dignify that with an answer.”

      “Meaning you’ve none to offer.”

      “Don’t flatter yourself, Elf.  And if you’ve already had words with Aragorn on the subject of his lunacy, I suggest you hasten after that scapegrace father of yours!”

     Legolas sighed and followed Gimli back into the palace.  “I think I shall, my friend.  If he was driven to such a state, then I would like to speak to him.  I fear perhaps I was not aware of the true depth of his feelings.”

      “I doubt you’ll change his feelings towards us,” said Gimli.  “He won’t get over that until you’re well gone from Middle Earth.”

      “Ahem.  Gimli…about that…” Legolas began, then broke off, his own thoughts sweeping him away as surely as waves upon the sea.

     Gimli noticed and frowned at him.  “What, Elf?”  Legolas swallowed convulsively, the feelings of being torn assailing him again, with still more power.  The presence of the dwarf, dearest of so many infinitely dear friends, had been as a balm to his soul in these last moments.  The tears he had shed with Aragorn the night before had done the same, as if washing away the feeling of utter wretchedness that had clung to him like a stench since his escape from Disaran’s hold.  And Frodo…Frodo, the mortal Ringbearer, he himself felt that Legolas had something yet to remain in Middle Earth for.  A hand came to rest upon his shoulder, disturbing his thoughts, but not in the least unwelcome.  “Legolas?”

     “Gimli…” he whispered, looking at the dwarf in confusion.  His friend’s black eyes were rather wide in alarm, disturbed by Legolas’s sudden disorientation.  Indeed, Legolas could not comprehend the feelings, desires, and bonds that seemed to tug at him from every direction.  Finally, he blurted out, “I am an elf.” 

     Now completely baffled, Gimli replied, “That has been brought to my attention.”

     Legolas made a failed attempt to smile at the remark, then tried to explain his thoughts.  “What I mean is…my destiny is not here.”  The dwarf comprehended at last what Legolas was trying to say, and the way his face fell told Legolas that Gimli could not hide his grief at the words.  “It is the fate of all my people, that we must in the end travel over the sea to the Undying Lands.  Indeed, the sea calls me with such urging that there are times when I fear my soul will be torn from my body if I do not obey.  It is as you say, my father wishes me safely there.  It is in my blood.  It is what I am.”  He kept his eyes on the rough surface of the stone wall in front of them, fighting to hide his despair and…he had to admit…fear at the conflict within him.  A battle being fought between two worlds.  He swallowed dryly and went on.  “I am an elf, and my blood calls me back to Valinor.  Only…” he took a deep breath, “…I do not wish to go.”

     A great rush of released breath told him Gimli had been holding his.  The dwarf let out a sudden laugh, but there was a tremor in it, and when he clapped Legolas roughly upon the back, the grip lasted for a moment longer than usual.  “Then don’t, you stupid elf.  Your mad elven senses may be telling you one thing, but your heart tells you another.”

     “But it is not so easy as that!” Legolas cried, turning to face Gimli.  “How can I ignore the destiny of my people?”

     The dwarf looked disgusted.  “By the Valar, Legolas, apparently it’s you who needs to be reminded of your race.  You’re an elf, remember?  Elves are immortal, or have you forgotten?  If you don’t want to go, then don’t…yet.”

     “Yet?” breathed Legolas.

     “Aye, fool Elf.” Gimli shook his head as though speaking to a slow child.  “I may not care much for most of your flighty, fanciful race, but credit me with knowing a few things.  I know most elves who fall to the sea-longing go as soon as possible, but never heard anything to suggest that it’s a life-and-death choice.  They go because they’ve nothing to stay for that won’t be joining them in Valinor sometime in the future.  That’s why your people keep to themselves and avoid mortal entanglements, eh?  Nothing I know of you, the sea-longing, or elves in general leads me to believe this is an all-or-nothing choice you face.  Obviously you do have things to stay for, things which, alas, you won’t be seeing again in your Undying Lands.”  The thought made Legolas wince, and Gimli chuckled, patting his back again.  “If you don’t want to go yet, then don’t.  Stay while you wish to, then go when your elven blood and your heart both tell you to.”

     He made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, yet Legolas gaped at him for several moments.  So simple.  So very simple.  By delaying to go, you give up nothing, Thranduilion.  The Undying Lands will wait for you.  The elf gasped softly; the voice in his mind was not his own. 

     “By the Valar, what ails you, Elf?”

     Legolas could not speak.  He rose swiftly and peered over the wall, but saw no one.  Still, the sense of another’s presence, not physical but in another fashion, did not leave him.  It is a powerful bond you have made, Legolas.  Few mortals are granted the title of elf-friend, and still fewer have been so loved by the Eldar as Eärendil or Beren.  Such a comparison startled Legolas, but it seemed to him as though Galadriel stood before him, the stars bright in her eyes. Aye, Thranduilion, the deeds of the son of Glóin have placed him among them.  Do you disbelieve this?  You know the fate of the Ringbearer.  Legolas listened in shock as comprehension of the Lady’s meaning dawned upon him, and his heart, so torn until now, seemed about to burst with joy.  It seemed to him that he felt her smile.  Gimli has my favor, as I told you before, Legolas.  And the time will come when it shall obtain great grace for him.  You will know when that time arrived.

     Then her presence left him just as a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him vigorously. “Legolas!  What the blazes is the matter with you?”

     Legolas grinned helplessly at Gimli as though seeing him for the first time after a prolonged separation.  “Nothing, elvellon.  Nothing at all.  At last, I see clearly.”

     The dwarf frowned suspiciously at him—with good reason, for such a broad smile was seen most often when the elf had some mischief planned.  “Then what do you intend to do?”

     The smile softened, but lost none of its warmth, as Legolas reached out in turn and gripped Gimli’s shoulder.  “How long has it been since you visited the Lonely Mountain, Gimli?”

     Still eyeing Legolas doubtfully, the dwarf nonetheless pondered the question.  “Not since we left for Aglarond.  Why?”

     Legolas shrugged.  “Oh, it is merely that I must take a trip to Eryn Lasgalen very soon, and thought that perhaps you would care to accompany me.  It would give you the opportunity to see your kinsmen while I am visiting mine.”

     Watching Legolas closely, there was a glimmer of hope in Gimli’s eyes.  “Indeed, that would be a welcome opportunity.  And what occasion have you to see your kindred in Eryn Lasgalen?”

     Legolas pretended to be affronted.  “Must a son have an occasion to irritate his father?”

     Gimli let out a bark of laughter.  “Certainly not, if you’re that son.”  Then he looked seriously at Legolas.  “And how shall you be irritating him this time, Elf, if my presence is not the only means of doing so?”

     Legolas decided it was time to cease teasing his friend.  “It shall not be entirely an irritant,” he said softly.  “For I shall tell my father that while he must put up with my ‘mortal entanglements’ all the longer, both he and said mortals shall find Middle Earth graced with my presence for quite some time yet.”

     The dwarf drew in a shaky breath that startled Legolas in its nearness to a sob.  “Then you’re not to go?”

     With a smile, Legolas returned the fierce grip on his shoulder.  “No.  I shall go, in time.  But not yet.”  Not until I know that you shall be ready to join me.

***

Elsewhere…in a place where time has no meaning…

     Disaran’s initial fury that his quest for immortality had been thwarted by the dwarf was ended by the surprising discovery that death did not seem so bad.  There was a definite slowing sensation, until he found that he could not mark at all the passage of time, and the feeling of flight, or floating, away from his beheaded body and the light of that accursed elf-woman who had come to avenge her son.

     Hah!  In  a way he was rather glad that it had been the dwarf who slew him.  Even in death, he had escaped the hands of the Eldar.  And if this was death, well…it really was not so bad.  All pain and weariness had fallen from him.  Perhaps death was, in a way, an immortality all its own.  He could not complain of that.

     He tried once or twice as his—soul?  spirit?—drifted to direct himself here or there to the Earth, but he seemed to be pulled beyond Middle Earth, ever more swiftly west.  He could not be sure how precisely he knew that he was moving to the West, but it was certain.  After an indistinct fragment of time, he found his soul passing over unfamiliar yet fabulous shores, and then it struck him.  The Undying Lands!  Of course!  Of course!  The very haven of elvendom itself, the home of the Valar!  The goal of the thwarted Ar-Pharazôn!

     As he was drawn ever closer to the fabled Halls of Waiting, he sensed that he was not alone.  Other spirits were present, moving towards the Halls of Mandos and already within it, yet there were no humans here, he sensed.  Only Eldar.  Yes, if a spirit had a sense of smell, these smelled like elves, all right.  And if there were any doubt, the definite sense of revulsion he caught from them laid it to rest.  The other presences did seem to recoil from him, not in fear as they had in life, but in absolute disgust.  He dismissed it as he was passed over the threshold.  They had no say as to his fate here.

     Disaran’s feet touched the ground within the threshold of the Halls of Mandos so suddenly that he stumbled to his knees.  Looking down at his once-again visible body, he felt the rush of air into his lungs and nearly shouted in triumph.  He was alive again!  There could be no doubt!  His body was heavy, but strong and hale, as it had been just before his fall.  He had beaten those accursed elves!

     Before he could do more than examine his limbs and feel that his head was no longer severed from his body, a very powerful presence seemed to loom before him, and Disaran knew at once he was facing one of the Valar.  Its light burned brilliant in his face, half-blinding him, but Disaran could tell through much squinting and flinching that it was the form of an elven man.  Probably Mandos.  Bowing or kneeling did not even occur to him.

     So you are come before me at last, Disaran, the Vala said, the very Halls echoing with his voice.  It did serve to make Disaran flinch.  I have long awaited you.

      “Have you been searching for me, mighty one of Valinor?” asked Disaran, feeling a swell of pride.  “Is your attention drawn to a mortal who defies death?”

     Nay, proud and greedy man, but to them who inflict it through the arts of darkness. 

      “Perhaps if you Valar had offered men immortality we wouldn’t need to resort to those arts,” Disaran retorted bitterly.  Was this Vala judging him evil, simply for trying to have immortality for himself?

     Yea, murderer.  What name would you bestow upon him who slays the innocent to serve himself?

      “You Valar chose to slay us when we’ve barely lived a twinkle in your eyes,” protested Disaran.  “Why don’t we have a right to the gifts you lavish on your elves?”

     The fury of Mandos seemed to burn bright and hot against Disaran’s face, and he flinched involuntarily.  You, child of men, slayer of innocents, you presume to judge the will of Ilúvatar?  You presumed such when you had not lived but a glimmer of light upon the water, but a single beat in an insect’s wings of our life, you presumed then you had a right to rob others of life?  To take what was never meant to be yours?

      “And what do you intend to do to me for it now?” spat Disaran.  “Kill me again?”

     Beyond the Vala, many other invisible spirits lingered; Disaran could still feel them.  All at once, they began to appear to him, as if the light of the angry Mandos was enough to bring them into focus.  He could see them, if vaguely, just enough to make out their faces.  Well, what a surprise!  Just behind and to the left of the Vala was an elven boy, still very much a youth, fair-haired, with shadows of a noble line in his face.  Indoran, son of Celeborn and Galadriel.  Another, close by, was older, a strong, able elven man, cut down in his prime.  Laegnan, the warrior who had exposed himself to Disaran’s stone on the banks of the Bruinen so that a child, Arwen Undómiel, could flee to safety.  And on Mandos’ other side, two stood close together, adult but young, a courting couple that Disaran had lured to their deaths in the woods beyond Imladris.  They had been the first of many.  And there were many, Disaran could see them all now, gathered in the Halls of Waiting, a great crowd large enough to fill a small city.  Hundreds.  Yet he felt no grief from them, not even anger or vengeance from the elves themselves.  No, there was a strange peace in this Hall.  It rankled him to realize he had not taken their immortality; they lingered here now, waiting for him, but their fëa remained free and would live in bliss in Valinor forever.  How he knew it, he could not say; it was not as if he had ever studied elven lore.  But the fëa of his victims watched him placidly, with a hint of idle curiosity of his fate, standing all around Mandos, illuminated by the blinding light of the Vala’s rage. 

     There was something else Disaran suddenly knew, but again he could not say how the knowledge came to him.  It was that Mandos was a Vala seldom moved to any emotion, least of all pity.  All the same, to provoke his wrath to such a state…it seemed this too was quite the dubious honor.

     You have long evaded your due, foul one.  Mortal justice alone cannot atone the crime you have committed.  Disaran had no chance to respond before it seemed that a powerful presence had appeared behind him, dragging him with great force.  He cried out and resisted, but he might as well have been trying to swim in the air.  Darkness rose up, and it seemed that he was flung into a great black room.  There was dust in the air, and the walls and floor were of black stone, with not a single comfort to be seen.

     Staggering to his feet, he coughed and examined himself.  Yes, he was very much alive.  Looking around, he saw a single, somewhat distorted source of light, coming from a window, or a mirror…actually, it seemed to be shaped like the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn.  Walking up to it, Disaran saw the hills and dwellings of Valinor, and the elves, those thrice-damned, accursed elves, living and laughing gaily, as young and infuriatingly hale as ever.  Rejoice, Disaran, you live.  And you shall live, mortal, just as you wished.  But you shall grow old, in the fashion that mortals do.  And you shall weary, and hunger, and thirst, without comfort or ease.  Your fate shall be as the one taken in greed for the One Ring, who knew prolonged life and suffering, but your suffering shall be greater one thousand fold, so great and cruel was your greed.  And you shall see always the Eldar, who were meant by Ilúvatar to be immortal, living by His design.  But you shall not die.  Rejoice, I say, for your wish is granted.

     Disaran surged toward the Stone-window.  “You can’t do this to me!”

     At that same moment, he saw back in Mandos’ Hall, the elf maid he had first slain outside Rivendell, step toward Mandos and kneel.  Speak, Maerien.

     So that was the girl’s name.  Her suitor—what had his name been?  Ah, Lasbelin—was just behind her.  Was she going to appeal for mercy?  Rankling, but still…I beg thee, Lord, let us not return to our kindred with the foul one’s gaze yet upon us, as it was in the last moments of our lives in Middle Earth.  Let him not continue to spy upon our lives with his malicious eyes.  I beg thee, free us from him forever!

     And then the suitor voiced his protest as well, and soon the clamor of the elves was a great chorus about Mandos, all echoing Maerien’s words.  Mandos was silent for a moment, listening to them, while Disaran fumed.  And then…As you wish.

     The Stone-window seemed to slam shut, and Disaran was enveloped completely in a darkness that he knew would never be dispelled.  Farewell, Disaran, and lament not your fate, for your aim is reached.  You shall starve, thirst, and wither with age as a man, but you are granted this immortality you crave.  Your prey is caught, Hunter.

     And then there was silence.  How very loud it was, the wild gasping of his breath, and the pounding of his heart.  And he knew then, standing alone in the shadows and the silence, with the only sounds his breath and his heart, they would never stop.

     They would never stop.

Epilogue:  To the Sea…Coming Soon!

Don’t forget to review! 

Author’s Final Note:  That’s it, that’s it, here it is, the conclusion of Elven Song!  Again, my many heartfelt thanks for the reviews, encouragement, and criticism that have helped drive this tale along!  I’m only sorry that Real Life intervened so often and forced me to take so long to finish.  All in all, I’m very happy with the way this tale ended. 

I dedicate this conclusion to one of my most faithful reviewers, JastaElf, and also to my glorious betas, Ithilien and Jay of Lasgalen.  Worship them!

Epilogue:  To the Sea

May, 1421…

     Sam came racing into the study without knocking, very unlike him, and startled Frodo right out of his chair.  “Oh, bless me, so sorry, Mr. Frodo!  I just had to tell you right away!”

      “What is it, Sam?” Frodo exclaimed in alarm, fearing that trouble had come again to the Shire despite King Elessar’s edicts forbidding men from entering.

      “The Bracegirdles down the lane were buying vegetables from Farmer Maggot; they say they saw a rider on a horse coming through the fields toward Hobbiton—and that it’s an elf!”  Sam was almost beside himself.  “One elf all by himself, with golden hair, wearing a gray cloak!  And that he asked the way to Bag End!”

      “Legolas!” Frodo cried, and rushed with Sam to the door.

     No sooner had they stepped outside than shouts were ringing out down the road, and hobbits were scampering from the fields to view the cause of the hubbub.  It was a splendid sight indeed.  Coming carefully down the dirt path upon a gray horse—small by men’s standards but very large to a hobbit—was an elf, fair and tall, with flowing golden hair and bright grey eyes that held both the wisdom of the long-lived Eldar and yet the merriment of youth, his raiment of green and brown visible beneath his gray elven cloak, which was bound by a brooch shaped like a mallorn leaf.

     Hobbits lined the road as he drew closer to Bag End, open-mouthed in wonder, and though he tried to greet some of them, they reacted with such utter shock at the sound of his fair voice that he soon gave up and merely smiled and nodded as he passed.  Then Sam cried out, “Mr. Legolas!” and tore off down the hill, and accusing eyes turned toward him and Frodo as once again being the causes of a disruption.  Still, as far as the watching hobbits were concerned, the delight of this would in the end outweigh the irritation at Frodo’s eternal, complete lack of hobbit sense.

     Legolas had dismounted by the time Sam reached him.  “Good day, Master Samwise.  I beg your pardon for sending no notice of my coming, but I could find no messenger who could reach you.”

      “Oh, don’t be talking such nonsense, Mr. Legolas, we’re pleased as punch to have you!”  Sam laughed, embracing the elf to the murmurs of amazement from the onlookers.  “On behalf of us all, welcome to the Shire!  Oy there!  Miss Diamond!”  A giggling hobbit lass stepped out from a group crowded in the Green Dragon doorway.  “We’ll be needing Mr. Meriadoc and Mr. Peregrin along smartly.  They’ll be wanting to know that Mr. Legolas, another one of the Nine Walkers, is in the neighborhood!”

      “So you too are one of the Fellowship?” said a voice at Frodo’s elbow, and he saw that Rosie, bold in her curiosity, had come out behind them.

     Legolas, graceful even in a crouch to be at closer level with the hobbits, inclined his head to her in a half-bow, causing a ripple of amazement to run through the crowds.  “I am, my lady.”

     As Rosie turned pink with delight, Sam cleared his throat and said, “Begging your pardon, Mr. Legolas, I’m neglecting my manners.  This is my wife, Rose Cotton Gamgee.  Rosie, this is Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood.  A very dear friend to us.”

     Legolas bowed again.  “I am honored, Lady.”

     Rosie was now quite pink, and looked at her feet, replying, “Thank you, Mr. Legolas.”

      “It is a great joy to me to meet the family of so brave and generous a hobbit as your husband,” said Legolas to her.

     Then it was Sam’s turn to blush.  “Oh, you don’t be needing to say things like that, Mr. Legolas.  I doubt there’s a hobbit in the world as brave and strong as the elves of Mirkwood.”

      “It’s Eryn Lasgalen now, actually,” said Frodo for the benefit of those watching.  “The shadow’s said to be gone, and it’s beautiful again.”

      “That it is,” Legolas agreed.  He looked around with what Frodo thought was real appreciation in his bright eyes.  “But I may safely say, Master Hobbits, that your Shire is as fair as any elven realm in Middle Earth, and I am well glad to have made the journey to see it.”

     A great cry of approval and delight went up from the watchers, and Sam leaned over to Frodo, “That’ll set him in their good opinion forever!”

     Frodo just smiled.  “Better still since he meant it.”  To Legolas, he said, “Please, come be our guest at Bag End.”

***

     The doorway of Bag End had caused Legolas some consternation, to which Frodo laughed and said, “Gandalf always just ducks!”

      “Very well, if Mithrandir can manage it, I do not see why I cannot,” laughed the elf, and had ducked in with the others.  Fortunately, he had managed to keep from bumping his head on the ceiling too often, and was introduced to the two-month-old Elanor.  “How appropriate a name.”

      “You don’t mind then, Legolas?” Sam asked worriedly.  “It’s not presumptuous, is it?  Naming her after a Lórien flower?”

      “Of course not, and certainly not when she appears to have been born to such a name,” said Legolas, watching the hobbit babe with fascination.  It occurred to Frodo that Legolas might well never have seen an infant before.  “She is very beautiful.”

      “There, see, Samwise, it’s not just us,” said Rosie, who had become quite taken with their elven visitor already.

     They’d no sooner put Elanor to bed when there was a wild thumping on the door, and two familiar hobbit voices shouting, “Legolas!  Where is that elf?!”

     And so there was a very merry little dinner at Bag End that night, with all four hobbits of the Fellowship, Rosie, and Legolas.  Merry and Pippin were dismayed to hear that Legolas would only be staying this one night, but promised to ride out of the Shire with him on their ponies.  “Mind you, don’t be getting him lost!” Sam admonished them.

      “Never,” laughed Pippin.  “At least, not beyond more than the scenic route!”  They had all laughed, and Legolas had said he would welcome being shown the sights by Merry and Pippin tomorrow.  He had merely come to the Shire for a glimpse of its beauty, and to see how Frodo was faring.

     After dinner, Legolas and Frodo sat outside Bag End.  “You needn’t have come all this way, you know,” said Frodo.

      “I wished to,” said the elf firmly.  “It is not a terribly long ride by horseback, and I have long desired to see the Shire.  And I did owe you a message.”

      “You owe me nothing,” said Frodo.

     But Legolas’s gray eyes were fierce.  “All Middle Earth owes you something, Master Hobbit.  And I see few of your folk here in the Shire realize it is to you whom they are most indebted.”

     Frodo shook his head sharply.  “You don’t know quite how everything came to pass, Legolas.  If thanks are due to this peace, you’d do better to give them to Sam.”  He looked at the elf. “I’d never have managed any of it without him.”  Then he smiled, “And we might well never have got anywhere without you and your bow.”  This time, it was Legolas’s turn to appear sheepish, and he turned his gaze away.  Frodo watched him.  “You’re not going yet, are you?”

     There was silence for a moment, then Legolas said, “You have the sense of an elf, Frodo Baggins.  How are you so sure?”

      “Because you came to ‘visit,’ as you told Sam and the others, so they wouldn’t know you’d come to tell me goodbye.”

     It seemed almost as if the elf flinched in pain at hearing the word, and his bright eyes were darkened slightly when he looked back at Frodo.  “I could not do otherwise, Master Baggins.  I have kept your confidence, as you asked, but I could not fail to offer you a proper farewell.”  Then he smiled sadly.  “I had intended to bring Gimli with me, only to learn that you bade your goodbye to him already.”

     Frodo smiled.  “We traveled with his company back through Rohan, and had his hospitality in the Glittering Caves for a few days.  While we were there, I told him I was going.  The first thing he wanted to know was whether I had told you.  And Aragorn.”

      “And had you?  Told Aragorn?”

      “The day we left.  It wouldn’t do not to bid the King and Queen a proper farewell.”  Frodo sighed.  “I’ll miss them.  I’ll miss you all.”

     Legolas smiled in the dim light from Bag End’s windows.  “You shall be deeply missed, Frodo.  But in the Undying Lands, you shall find the peace and healing that you have earned.  You and Bilbo together.  The Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond, and Mithrandir shall see to that.”

      “When will you go over the sea, Legolas?  Not for some years now, I think.”

     Legolas nodded.  “Not for a lifetime.”  Frodo was startled, but then the elf smiled and qualified it, “A mortal lifetime.” 

     Frodo understood then, and it awed him.  “Will…I mean…what about the…longing?”  He wished he had not said it, for Legolas flinched again.  “Will you manage all right?”

      “I shall,” said the elf, his voice growing softer.  “I must.  I cannot leave yet.  I have purpose yet in Middle Earth.”  The sorrow left his voice, and he smiled more easily at Frodo.  “The Lady helped me to see it again.  As did you.  My time has not yet come.”

      “I hope I’ll see you again,” said Frodo.

      “You shall, Master Baggins.  You shall.”

***

     The next morning, Legolas bade a reluctant farewell to Frodo, Samwise, his Rosie, and little Elanor, as he, Merry, and Pippin prepared to depart.  It seemed the most heartfelt of his farewells to Frodo had already been given, for the cheerful goodbye they exchanged in the presence of the others was easy, and without bitterness.  It did ache somewhat in the elf’s heart, though, to think of the many years that must pass before he would see the Ringbearer again.

     As they were making ready to ride, with Merry and Pippin debating the loveliest route to take back East out of the Shire, Frodo came suddenly to Arod’s side.  “I’ve something for you, Legolas,” he said softly, and Legolas dismounted, keeping a quick eye on the other hobbits lest they hear.  “Queen Arwen said she knew you weren’t ready to leave Middle Earth just yet, when I said goodbye to her.  And so…I asked her if I could give you something before I left.”

     Legolas raised his eyebrows curiously as the hobbit fished beneath his collar.  “It was something she gave me, you see, just after Aragorn became King.  It’s been a great comfort.”  Then his hands rose, and brought from around his neck a silver chain, from which hung a white gem that Legolas had seen before.

     The elf felt his jaw drop.  He had once seen this stone adorn the neck of Aragorn, and had realized that the mortal had found the favor of the Evenstar.  That it should be given to the Ringbearer neither surprised nor troubled him, but that the Ringbearer should wish to bestow it upon… “Frodo…no, I cannot…”

      “She bade me give it to you, Legolas,” said Frodo, holding out the chain to him.  “She knew even as I tried to find words to ask, and she said it was a wonderful idea.  Please, you must take it.  I’m not going to need it anymore.”  Seeing that the elf was paralyzed, he seized Legolas’s hand and placed the gift in it, closing the elf’s long fingers firmly around it.  “She told me once, ‘When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you, this will bring you aid.’  And it has, Legolas, it has.  I know the memory troubles you too, and not just of the War of the Ring.  I know how few elves linger in Middle Earth when they’ve been struck by the sea-longing.”  He squeezed Legolas’s fist around the gem, as the elf stared at him in utter amazement.  “Take it, and let it aid you as it did me.”

     Trembling slightly, Legolas opened his fingers and stared at the stone, then Frodo took it up again and placed it around his neck, secreting it behind the elf’s tunic out of sight.  When Legolas looked up again, it seemed to him that he saw the fair, innocent Frodo Baggins who had first sat in the Council of Elrond, so full of wonder and bewilderment, before the shadow had ground away two years of his life.  Frodo would find healing in Valinor, and he had given Legolas the means of finding it in Middle Earth.  “Ringbearer…there are no words of thanks that can properly answer this gift.”

     Frodo smiled.  “Then just wish me a safe voyage.”

      “Always,” laughed Legolas, and embraced the hobbit in farewell.  Then he rose to his feet, and felt already that the painful call of the sea and the agonizing stab of the Black Hunter’s violation had been driven further from him.  “May the blessings of the Valar be with you always, Frodo Baggins.  We shall meet again.”  Then he mounted, and rode to where Merry and Pippin waited with their ponies.  He waved once to Frodo, who stood once more beside Sam and Rosie on the steps of Bag End, then followed his eager guides down the road.

     Merry and Pippin led Legolas on a grand tour of the Shire surrounding Hobbiton for most of the morning, until at last Legolas told them he had to be moving on.  There was still much to be done in Eryn Harn, and his people had already been without him for some weeks for his visit to Bag End.  So the hobbits led him back to the East-West Road to Bree, and said their goodbyes.

      “You’ll come back to the Shire some day, won’t you, Legolas?” said Merry.

      “Of course he will!” said Pippin.  “He’ll be wanting to meet all our families, and I’ve heard tell he said this place is as fair as any elf forest!”

     Legolas smiled at them.  “They speak the truth who tell this tale, Master Peregrin.  The Shire is a fair land, and I should be glad to see it again.”

      “If you can find the time with all your elf-home building over in Ithilien,” sighed Pippin.

     Merry laughed.  “He’ll find the time, all right!  He’s an elf!  He has all the time in the world!”

     Legolas laughed and waved a merry farewell to his two friends, then turned his horse about and galloped down the road toward the mid-morning sun.

~The End~