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…
*****