"I can't believe how much trouble that lad is! Every day it seems to be something, doesn't it? And this morning - of all the stupidity!"

Aragorn nodded. "Aye. This morning was one time too many, and I for one am grown intolerably weary of it. I have contemplated taking more . . . permanent action."

"Such as?"

"How about making him somebody else's problem?" Aragorn's deep voice curled, catlike and satisfied, around the idea.

Eyebrows raised, Gimli regarded the King. "And how would ye think to do that?"

"Perhaps a nice long 'errand' somewhere? I would emphasize the word 'long.'"

It was Gimli's turn to nod. "'twould make things certainly quieter around here."

"You would be in agreement then?"

"Oh, aye - most definitely! I would support any "errand" upon which the troublesome youngster could embark, and right now I'm of a mind to say, 'the further away, the better!' Aye, I would raise a glass to it!"

"Gimli!" Aragorn chided gently. "You are skilled at dropping a hint, are you not?"

Gimli shook his head, a mirthless smile disappearing into his beard. "'twas no hint, Aragorn," he sighed. "I have to admit that I am still upset. Most upset. A drop of something might calm me. But what sort of errand do you propose?"

Aragorn moved to the table, selected a decanter with crystal panes that created rainbows of the firelight. Convincing illusions. "I am not certain yet, but when I have decided, you will be the first to know, my friend." Pouring the claret liqueur into delicate glasses, he crossed the den to the hearth. He and Gimli settled in soft chairs, the blaze crackling and warming them as surely as did the drink. They sat in silence for a time, lulled.

"You don't think it's too harsh, then?" Aragorn ventured, finally.

Gimli considered. "Well, Laddie, he had a simple enough set of orders to follow. Stay at his post; stay alert. But what did he do? Got to chatting with one of the ladies, got himself distracted and ignored his duty. And what happened? A thief managed entry to these very halls, and could have injured our Legolas!"

"I don't believe it has ever been intentional, on his part," Aragorn allowed. "He is young, and he forgets himself at times." He sighed meaningfully. "A touch like someone else we know."

"Aye, that may be so. Don't let my earlier temper fool you, Aragorn - I like the lad myself. But he is a member of the palace guard and he should be behaving like one."

"His older brother is a valued, long-time member of the guard."

"I am aware. However I don't believe that young Mendenor is presently endowed with such maturity." Gimli studied his empty glass. "Perhaps a time away seeing to the King's business - and in the escort of experienced diplomats - would do him some good. When he returns a post could be arranged, should you deem him ready for the responsibilities of it . . . ."

Aragorn nodded, satisfied. "I shall see to it on the morrow. For today . . . ."

Gimli placed his glass on the small carved table at his side. "For today," he echoed, "I would like to focus on our own laddie. I still do not know how to convince him to stop taking these risks!"

"Neither do I," Aragorn murmured. "But we shall have to go to him, and sooner rather than later." He smiled a touch sadly, and he and the Dwarf settled back into a silence that was companionable, but of little peace.

*****

They chose to forego the midday meal, their spirits sagging. Their glasses drained, refilled, drained once more, they contemplated the fire and prayed silently for some flames never to die. The sun had achieved its height when finally they rose and made to leave. On the threshold, one foot in the den's lush comfort and one on unyielding stone, Aragorn nodded at a few passing guards and wondered if they too would be useless when needed most. He vaguely noticed that an ornate sculpture - perhaps an item reclaimed from the thief - had been moved to one of the small carved tables by the door; on the other sat a small plain package and a scroll. He looked back to Gimli and stepped to the Dwarf's side, content for a time to follow rather than lead.

In the kitchens Gimli put together a plate of fruit and bread, and they climbed the stairs, traversed the stone halls through which their Elfling had earlier fled. Their arms ached, their hearts. Their minds had yet to fashion the right word or words that would finally reach Legolas. They would perhaps not have words enough, but it had been too long - intolerably long that the Elf had been left alone. Never had they failed to comfort, to hug and pet and forgive after the punishment was done. Never before.

"We made a mistake," Aragorn sighed.

Gimli nodded. "Aye."

"I was so angry. I don’t think I have ever been that angry with him."

"Nor I. It was seeing the knife, for me. That was it."

"Indeed. Do you know what you wish to say?"

"Not really." Gimli pondered his shadow, creeping silent along the wall, eavesdropping on their guilt. "I want to say I love him as completely as one soul can love another. I want to say he means more to me than all the mithril Middle Earth shields in her belly. But I've said that before, and still he imperils himself and wonders at my reaction. Oh, Aragorn, I can only forgive him his latest error, and hope that he forgives me mine. I should have reassured him afterward."

"And I should have, as well. At least we can remedy that."

"And have him eat. He’s too thin."

"Gimli, you sound positively maternal."

The Dwarf managed a wry smile. "The laddie needs a mother, sure enough, but I never expected to become one!"

Aragorn knocked perfunctorily on the heavy door, pushed it along its wide smooth arc and stepped into Legolas’ quarters. His eyes rested briefly on the quiver and long bow which rested against one wall - their friend did not distrust the armoury but ever preferred to keep those weapons close - and the twin blades that lay on the table by the window. He crossed to the threshold of the bathing chamber, glanced inside, stepped back. His eyes met Gimli’s.

The Elf was gone.

*****

When a member of a much-loved royal family disappears or takes gravely ill, all of the kingdom is said to hold its breath. The mills will not grind a single sheaf and the smithy grows quiet and cool. The beasts of burden stand idle in their stalls, for they too know and will turn from any work. Every living thing waits, fearing the worst, but if each and every soul holds true to faith then the missing shall be seen home, the sick shall be seen into health.

Aragorn knew it to be rubbish. A story told to sustain hope in dire times, or perhaps even to enchant, to entice plain people into the belief that their monarchy's fates rest partly in their own work-hardened hands.

Perhaps it was true, but he doubted.

And he was unwilling to rely on wrung hands, sombre faces raised to the heavens. Not when Legolas - as much family to him as would ever be his brothers, or his mate or the children he'd not yet given her - was the one missing. Not when the Elf did not have the benefit of weapon, or even of ration, for they had checked with the kitchen staff and received answer that Legolas had not visited in search of food. And certainly, certainly he would not rely on the prayers of others when it was his own fault those prayers were needed.

The damnable worthless guards searched every square inch of the palace and grounds and did not redeem themselves; many remained long after their duty shifts ended, seeking, moving through the corridors and the gardens and the orchards, exchanging worried glances. The servants, right from the moment word went out, furrowed their brows and clucked their tongues. The Elf was loved by more than the survivors of the Nine.

But the concern of others gave Aragorn and Gimli no comfort. After the halls, right down into the lowest level where it had all begun, had been searched, after the grounds had been searched and the guards had reported back with low faces and dragging steps, the pair found themselves in the stables, noting Arod's presence. Of course Legolas would be in no condition to ride.

"He's alone. Wherever the laddie has taken himself to, he's alone there." The Dwarf's voice was rough.

Aragorn grunted but yielded no further response as he turned away from the fine-boned stallion. One look back - he saw Arod's wedge-shaped head angled out the stall door, watching him.

*****

She worked quietly, as was her way. Occasionally she felt the urge to hum a simple tune whilst her brush scrubbed dirt from the floor, whilst her broom chased dust from corners, but she always resisted. She was not forbidden, nay. Of course she was not forbidden.

The King was a kind man, she knew.

But habits can become things so instinctive as to shape a soul's very essence, and Lina had her habits. She'd not always worked for a King. Not always for a kind man, and long since had passed the day she'd learned to hold her tongue, speak naught unless bidden, shy away from conversation, keep her head down.

Her last employer had routinely beaten her for failing to hold her tongue, for listening to things that did not concern her.

The employer before that had routinely done much worse.

So now she worked quietly and kept her eyes down. The floors had been scrubbed early, the rugs pounded free of dust; the laundry had been hung on the long lines and left for the wind. She floated wraithlike through the corridors, feeling the chill that heralded a turn in weather, polishing glass and wood wherever it showed a mark. From the upper corridors she moved down, sliding her cloth over rich banisters, her mind distanced from the work. She always liked this part of the day, when she could move without thought and dream of fair princes to take her far away, of glittering courts to attend, of fancy dresses to wear. Nay, she would never have such things, but she was content to dream.

On the first level, above the lower corridors that she abhorred and shunned because they reminded her of the girls' rooms under the brothel, she moved to polish a sculpture outside the King's den. Beautiful, the statue was. One of her favourites - a fairy or some such marvellous creature, arms stretched upward as though in praise, or pleading, face innocent and serene. She had heard talk of a commotion early that morning, the scullery women chattering about a thief taking beautiful things, but she had ducked her head and turned to her duties, listening no further. It concerned her not. Still, she shuddered at the thought of such a man slinking unnoticed through these halls, looking and touching and taking. Gentle, though she could not injure the bronze curves, she raised her cloth and ran it over the fairy's sweet head, erasing the marks of foul hands.

She finished, eyed the table and declared it clean, moved past the closed door to the other table. Free of dust, for she had wiped it just the day before, but now the silver candle sticks it had housed were gone - perhaps stolen and then put in another place after being recovered. Instead, the polished surface held a simple wrapped package that she did not recognize, and a scroll. There was no writing she could see.

Untying the scroll, she opened it. Handwriting, flowery and gentle, flowed in neat lines across the page, and she could not help reading:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dearest Estel, Dearest Gimli,

I am so sorry for the trouble to which I have put you, once again. My intentions were never to cause you such grief, and especially not on such a day. In case you have forgotten, my King, this is the day of your birth. A splendid day - a day to be celebrated. Sadly, celebrations have been in short supply of late. This is understandable with the rebuilding - everyone is so tired, so focussed on returning the White City to its greatness. But it is sad nonetheless, and I would see an end to it.

I have failed you both, however. I disobeyed you; I followed my whims once more, and when you asked me for an explanation I was unable to give you one. You certainly deserved it. I pondered that failure later, here in my quarters, and although you, Gimli, bade me stay, I knew that I needed to see both of you again at once, to try better to explain, perhaps to put your minds at ease that I know the gravity of my mistake. I do know - of this you can be assured.

It was thus that I came down to seek you out and heard your voices from the den. Please know I had not a desire to eavesdrop, but I could discern the substance of your discussion and found myself unable to pull away. And so, ashamed as I am to confess it, I heard everything - how upset you are, how much trouble you have been caused . . . and your plan to remedy the situation.

My friends, I have to admit that I was at first angered, perceiving in your intent a betrayal of our long relationship. But I know your hearts, and so I know that you would not come to this lightly or out of spite, or in any haste. I cannot begin to apologize enough for driving you to such a decision, and although I am heartbroken, I do understand why you wish me sent away. My greatest sorrow is that I have destroyed our friendship - I have destroyed that which I value more than life itself. Were I able to turn back these last hours and make different choices, I would. But I possess no such power, and thus can only go from here.

I could sail for the West, true enough, but I shall not. Even while writing these few lines, I know that I do not wish that journey. My ties to Middle Earth endure, despite the calling of the sea. I feel . . . tired, though. Weak, and growing more so. Please do not despair on this, for I have lived a grand life and have few regrets. I do regret leaving you, especially in this way.

I feel a pull northward, toward the woods wherein I was born, but I know that those woods are now empty. Osgiliath lies on the path I will travel, and there, in a place sundered by evil, I shall think of all the great and terrible battles we, as comrades, have fought. I shall think of the day when Osgiliath rises again, when Minas Tirith shines as gloriously as ever it did, when Middle Earth stretches and wakes from the nightmare she has endured. Then, I believe, I shall sleep. I feel I have not much time to waste, so I shall go quickly. Please know that I love you with all my heart.

Legolas

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lina felt a burning behind her eyes, tasted salt in her throat. A most touching and important message, 'twas. Obviously a farewell from the Elf lord - she had not even realized the King would have him gone. But also 'twas obviously private, for the King's eyes, and she experienced a sudden crush of shame. She re-wrapped the scroll, then opened the door and slipped both scroll and package inside. The King would want to see it when he returned from whatever errand presently had his attention. As she eased the door closed again and moved away, she heard King Elessar's voice and that of the Dwarf lord who commanded nigh as much respect. Briefly, as they passed, she considered approaching them, telling them of the message. But the pair seemed engaged in urgent business already: they strode, heads together, conversing in hushed tones. Perhaps they were discussing plans for a special birthday feast, when the cooks and the bakers would create masterpieces, fine cuts of mea! t and fancy pastries, and perhaps later Lina herself would be asked to help hang decorations for the fete. The monarch's eyes flitted momentarily to the empty table near which she stood, then returned to his companion. Her nerve deserted her. Habits.

She watched them as they disappeared, then turned her way down the corridor, cloth in hand, erasing marks as she went.

*****

An Elf's track, it is generally known, will fade from any ground when kissed by the faintest breeze. Snow, mud - naught can hold such a mark, for Elves do not so much travel upon Middle Earth as float just above her. Ethereal they are, like morning mists that hang over the river or the lake. Ephemeral they are, despite their immortality. They linger not, lay not down too much of themselves anywhere. And thus they can not remain. Dew on a dawn leaf is the Elf, and time the sun.

A Ranger, though, can track the marks a butterfly has left in air. So it is said, again. Illusions, eternally. Aragorn knew not what to believe.

Oh, he had believed himself right - he and Gimli both. They had punished Legolas, one after the other, and then they had withheld all manner of forgiveness, granting neither a kiss nor a kind word. They had sent their grieving friend away, up to that lonely small chamber to weep alone, and over time Legolas had surely grown more hurt, perhaps even angry at their rejection, until those dark feelings had overwhelmed a gentle Elven soul and driven it out from hearth and home. Out to Elbereth knew where.

There was a cold wind rising, shaking through the trees, and it did not smell any longer of lilac and rose but seemed to hint at frost. An early change of the seasons, or was all of nature chilling toward him and the Dwarf? To drive an Elf away -

The track was hours old when first his Ranger eyes caught it. So faint, fading. It indicated a run, a flight from their midst, and Legolas had not used the main gates but had slipped unseen over a wall and made speed for the woods, heading north. 'twas close to where the fugitive thief would have fled. Above them the wind wheeled like a thousand grey wings. It had body and voice and it whipped vengefully at them. They returned to the palace, gathered supplies - the weather was taking a frightful direction - and they hied to the stables to saddle Hasufel. Arod would wear no saddle, but they bridled him and tied his line to Hasufel's gear and rode from the city with all intent of bringing their Elf back before a night fell.

*****************************************************************************

Earlier, Just Before Dawn:

Legolas knew the risks of it. He knew that, conceivably, the wrong "victim" might set off his little trap. He knew that Estel and Gimli would be most . . . displeased, should such occur.

But it was the day of King Elessar's birth, after all. It was tradition, after all. And the risks were negligible, after all, unless of course Estel took a maiden to his bed while Arwen visited her Lorien kin . . . nay. The risks were nonexistent.

He rose at his customary hour, the sun not yet over the east mountains. The air was crisp and damp, fragranced with lilac. He dressed quietly, smiling, his eyes straying often to the bedside table where a simply-clad package lay. Knives, their hilts carved from Oliphant tusk. Such was rare, the beasts not hunted for their ivory, and came available only when one died of its own accord. What luck, to have happened upon a carcass on the journey back from his last diplomatic mission! He had taken the tip of one tusk only, bowed to the fallen creature in thanks for the gift, spirited the precious material back and into the hands of a trusted blacksmith who had fashioned for him twin blades. And then he had set to work carving into the hilts Elvish runes, the powerful and ancient words of his people. Words of strength, of courage, of honour. All that Estel - the Man, the Ranger, the King - was. He had laboured over those hilts, head bowed until strain crept into the musc! les of his neck. He had cloistered himself many a fine eve, making his excuses, turning away from the curiosity of his friends.

The knives were ready now, on the day, and as was tradition he would present his gift to Estel after the evening meal. His smile broadened, became a grin.

But first, first there was another tradition to uphold. A tradition of many years, of many busy cities and small towns and gladed forests. Each year, every year. A prank, played on this day, and Estel had to know, somewhere inside, that it was coming.

Legolas slipped from his chamber, leaving the gift behind. Its time would come. For now he needed only a pail, only water and flour and a pail and some rope. And a door, of course. He giggled, imagining. Estel would rise not long hence, would go about the morning's quiet routines, would step from the King's sleeping chamber into the larger private suite beyond.

Would become very sticky, very fast. It took no little skill to erect such a devious contraption, balance the pail delicately above the door, run the rope so that it would all happen as planned. Door open, King through. Pail tilt - but not fall. Wet mess squarely on target, and he to witness it all from behind the heavy drapes!

Oh, he knew Estel would splutter and scold. But he also knew Estel would, after a moment, remember the day, and then would heave a sigh and fashion a resigned twist of the lips, and finally surrender. A smile, grand and beautiful as the Man. King Elessar's smile was a rarity, lost in long days and weeks of toil, of diplomatic envoys, of protocol and procedure and all that came with the crown. Minas Tirith was yet being rebuilt. Gondor was yet being rebuilt. Battle scarred lands were being re-tilled, houses erected, but nigh every farm had lost a farmer, every house a father or a mother or a child. Aye, the war had erased many a smile . . . but this day would see Estel, the King, smile again. And he would be there to see it as well.

He would in all likelihood be ordered to clean it up afterward, while Estel returned to the bathing chamber for another go. But it would be worth that, and he and his oldest friend would descend the stairs together, he perhaps eyeing the Man's hair critically as if to suggest some residual trace of the slop remained. And Gimli would surely have as great a laugh as he, just hearing the tale over breakfast!

He slipped down to the kitchens where cooks and serving girls already flitted, where voices rose brassy on warm bread currents. And he was mere steps from their bright bustle when his eyes caught movement down a shadowy side corridor. He stopped, pivoted silently and cast his senses down that dim length of stone.

Silence and stillness for a moment, and any other might have doubted his eyes. But an Elf - he who could distinguish pollen grains on the bee's legs from fifty paces, he who could study the flat-leafed rhubarb that another would declare simple 'bush,' and discern the fawn motionless beneath - held no doubt. He waited, breath suspended, the kitchen noise fading, filtering out, and then into the silence a shadow moved, disengaged itself from the wall. Into the stillness rose a faint scrape of rough cloth against stone. Legolas cut through the blackness, defined the shape of it. A man.

A man who did not belong there. Ungroomed and smudged with dirt the intruder moved, displaying a practiced stealth. Legolas saw the man's bulging pack, saw the glint of silver that peeked from its mouth. This was no benign trespass, but a thieving in process! He launched himself down the corridor.

*****

A cry went up from the palace guards. Outside it was, outside and below the fortress heights, and carried but faintly on a scented breeze. But it was to a warrior a sound so familiar and meaningful as to rouse him from the deepest sleep, the way even a single low mewl from her child will wake the sleeping mother, send her padding to its side in the dark.

So Aragorn woke, and down the stony corridor Gimli as well. They were up, clothes donned in haste, before the second cry finished echoing from the walls. A trespasser - an intruder! They knew naught of identity, nor intent, nor threat, but they made the strongest assumptions and based their actions thus, gathering weaponry, rushing down the stairs.

The guards were ruffled; a few of the less experienced milled somewhat. Most were engaged in silent seeking through the corridors. The kitchens, apparently, had been evacuated, the staff sent to safety. No one knew what threat this individual might pose, or even if there might be more than one uninvited guest roaming the King's halls.

Aragorn the Ranger, Elessar the Crown argued with each other. The Ranger wanted - eternally wanted - to move forth, to find and fight the enemy himself. He was accustomed to action. The leader of Minas Tirith too felt that surge, that pull into battle, but he had soldiers to send and citizens to consider. He conferred with the head of the Guard, a stocky bush-bearded redhead whose pride was currently suffering greatly. Gimli joined them, axe in hand.

"What is about?" The Dwarf's eyes swept cleanly over boisterous gardens, towering hedgerows so straight they defied the very sun's beams to be more true, tidy stone paths that marched into the greenery. An army could conceal itself neatly within, should it choose.

"A man was spied within the house, down near the kitchens. A thief, we believe, from the laden pack he carried. Apparently, when the guards spotted this man he was running quite swiftly, with -" Aragorn quirked an eyebrow and turned to face Gimli "- an Elf in pursuit."

Gimli shook his head. The urge to be off swelled in him now that he knew his Elfling was involved. Nay, the laddie was formidable and experienced, but protective instincts know little of logic and care even less. "Alright," he growled. "We are assuming the invader has not yet left the palace?"

The guard answered. "Aye, my Lord. When he was spied, he was ducking down a corridor from which stairs branch like the limbs of an oak. Up or down he could have gone, and yet be inside. By the time my men gained the corridor he and Lord Legolas had both disappeared, but he would have been seen had he made for the grounds."

"With all respect due your station, your men did not see him enter the palace," Gimli countered, noting how the guard's pinpoint green eyes lowered.

Aragorn shrugged off his mantle of protectors. "Fan out - into the gardens. The intruder may have indeed made their cover and be concealing himself." He turned, Ranger firmly in control, jogged into the dim open walk, through an archway into greater dimness. Gimli kept to his side. They spied guards yet moving up the stairs, ready to shield the King's quarters, the Councillors. And such diligence was necessary, but this thief's pack had been full, and logic told Aragorn the thefts had been accomplished. Nay, the man would venture down, hoping for a coward's friend the dark, would slink through lower corridors that traversed musty storerooms and cells and that eventually led outward to stables, kennels. Freedom - that was the direction this pursuit would take, and Legolas was doubtless yet in the chase.

The majority of guards had climbed to the upper levels, blithe. The Ranger and the warrior Dwarf descended, went down from half-light and life into a dank grey-black, their steps sounding from the walls and the curved ceiling. They swept through low chambers where crates hunched and waited to be chosen, down corridors winding and straight. Cells to the left and the right of them, bars strung with dust-thickened spiderweb. They cast no shadows in this place, for it was nigh a tomb, and even a Dwarf raised deep within Middle Earth's hard belly found it lifeless, and worried for a Wood Elf in its grasp.

The sound of running footfalls reached their ears, muffled but approaching. It echoed so as to become a rolling low staccato of noise that seemed to come from every direction; Aragorn ran for the distant intersection, not knowing if he moved toward or away from the source, and Gimli grunted approvingly, his ears attuned to the vagaries of rock-borne sounds.

Straight down the corridor they pounded, gazes ahead, but they were yet distant from it when a man darted into the crossing. Dark eyes turned in their direction, saw them. A grin, cold and self-assured, then the man's hand disappeared briefly and reappeared holding a blade. A cruel little dagger, glinting in the dull light. Their corridor was rejected as a viable route and then, having paused for no more than a heartbeat or two, the thief darted from their sight. A lighter, faster shape flashed by; Aragorn saw a flash of golden hair.

"Legolas! Wait!" he called. His voice shrieked off the stone, rattled them as though they had stepped into a beating drum, slammed against their ears as they ran.

*****

The man was fleet and deceptive, ducking around corners, making speed even under the pack's weight. Legolas, his senses impeded by unending stone, nearly chose the wrong turn several times and had to slow to listen, sift through confusing echoes before continuing. Eventually, the thief would either tire or seek the outside, though, and then he would be no longer disadvantaged. He tried not to breathe too deeply of the dust, as though it might stay somehow within him and forever taint what he loved. The smell of new grass, of ivy and wild rose and water over moss-covered stones. What a loathsome place!

But this was Estel's place, his dear friend's home and keep, and he would not suffer any creature of ill-intent within it. He spun round another corner, faced down yet another long stretch of stone, but now he could see the man, distant, sprinting.

Where did the corridor lead? He knew not as he lunged forth once more, eyes locked on that retreating back, those strings of greasy hair. The thief, while slippery in such terrain, could not equal an Elf in speed. He was gaining ground. He would not permit a craven burglar to spoil this day.

Ahead, the man drew up upon meeting another corridor, and Legolas wondered if they would be turning again. But that other route must not have been suitable, for the man then resumed a sprint. He was closer now, much closer. The rejected corridor flashed past him, yet one more dim dust-filled artery in this fortress' breast; an Elf had no use for such things -

"Legolas! Wait!" Estel's voice, hollow, chasing his ears. Aha! That had been the reason for it, the rejection: the King was coming. Likely with a heavy complement of guards. He pressed more speed from his legs, saw the thief make yet another lightning turn. So close now! He skidded around the corner, the only sound their footsteps and the echoes - dizzying, chaotic. Another turn. The walls themselves seemed to shake, as though some giant were pounding the Citadel from above, again, again, again. Was the thief headed back the way they had come? Another turn, fleeting past low chambers that had been empty so long but now held provisions, the signs of rebuilding. He lost sight of his quarry again, so rapid did they shift direction. The world was dark and throbbing; they were two rabbits chasing down a warren-maze, doubling back, quicksilver through the depths. This Man knew the territory.

But this Elf knew the ways and the limits of Man, even of a poor excuse for one, and when he made the last turn into dazzling beautiful light he found a simple flight of stairs to the outside. Up, out, blinking in the early sun. The stone was gone; the dust was gone and he could breathe. The thief was pounding onward, fatigue beginning to show. The bulky pack would have weight. Legolas smiled grimly. Aye - they were entering his territory now, and he would yet win the day.

*****

They slammed around that corner, chased the sound of unseen footsteps. The intruder had turned, obviously . . . and Aragorn suddenly realized. He stopped, Gimli ploughing into him from behind. "This way!" he pointed, and sprinted back the way they had come.

"Where are we going?" Gimli panted.

Aragorn did not slow. "They will exit beside the kennels. 'tis near the woods. He probably wanted to use the corridor we were in but had to alter strategy. Their route will be longer - we will gain ground."

And they did, reaching a stone stairway that exited perhaps a dozen paces from the one their thief would choose, and when they flung open the door and raced out they saw the dark shape of that man. Still running, pounding out that other door and making for the woods. They angled to intercept the path, and in that moment Legolas darted out, blonde hair flashing in the sun. The Elf carried no weapons, and Aragorn remembered the thief's knife and cruel grin -

"Legolas!" he called again. His voice sounded ragged; his breath was thin and he was choking from the dust, and when he tried to call once more his throat failed him. He urged more speed from his tired legs, drawing his own blade, and off to their left Legolas was closing the distance, was about to catch the thief. And Aragorn, still angling toward them, could see the glinting dagger clutched to the man's chest, could see the man draw up, make ready to turn with that blade on the unarmed Elf . . . .

*****

"Legolas, HOLD!" The voice sliced the air from behind and off to his right, and Legolas heard what sounded like panic in it, an absolute incontrovertible order. Gimli's voice - he had never heard Gimli's voice carry such a force. It shattered his determination and he skidded to a halt. The thief looked momentarily confused, then threw back a mocking grin and sprinted away to freedom. Or would have - two members of the palace guard materialized some feet ahead, out from behind a hedgerow, and neatly snagged the fugitive, who cursed and writhed. Legolas could not resist a smile as the guards marched their prisoner off; a third guard had arrived and was already studying the confiscated pack, making note of its contents.

Estel and Gimli, both coughing, made Legolas' side. "Are you alright?" the Ranger asked, panting. Grey eyes ran the length of him, searching for injury and finding none. "Did you not hear us calling you?"

"I did - I am sorry I failed to respond. I wished to catch that thief. I surprised him in the palace, and he appeared to have taken several items! Thank the Valar your guards caught him!"

Estel glanced off for a moment, breathing hard, recovering, then resumed studying Legolas. "What did you intend to do when the man turned on you with a knife in hand?" he demanded suddenly.

Legolas frowned. "I saw no knife -"

"You did not see it?"

"Nay." The pack - that had to be it. From behind all he had seen was that bulging sack. "He carried the results of his thievery, and I suppose it blocked my view somewhat . . . ." Baffled, Legolas looked to Gimli, back to Estel. His friends were absolutely glowering, despite the positive outcome they had been granted. He raised his eyebrows at them. "Why do you two look so grim?"

"Why?" Estel's eyes had narrowed dangerously, and Legolas fought an urge to step backward as the Ranger leaned toward him and seized his bicep. "Did you just ask me 'why,' Legolas?"

*****

They marched him into the palace, past guards and staff who all seemed to know more about what was going on than he. His arm held in the vise of Estel's grip, he imagined that they three must have made a picture similar to the guards and the thief - a condemned soul being led away to his doom always wears much the same face. The servants they passed cast him sympathy-weighted looks and he hung his head.

In the King's study he found himself once more facing two enraged warriors. A lump had formed in his throat; he was certain he would not, if asked to, be able to speak. In truth, he wanted naught more than the chance to hide. Under the heavy oak desk would have been sufficient. Up in the leafy boughs of a sympathetic living tree would have been ideal.

Estel pulled forth an armless chair, sat and regarded him with tilted head, and Legolas felt the fiercest desire to explain, to justify, to placate. To make that disappointed look go away, just go away and not come back . . . ai - how could he put that look there so often, when his intentions were naught but good?

"Tell me, Legolas." Estel's voice had regained its mellifluous tone; it swelled in the room and in his breast, and tears started pricking his eyes even before the crimes were laid out, the sentence determined. "Tell me why you ignored my call - not once, but twice."

"I . . . " He had wanted to help. He had wanted not to see Estel's day marred by anything. He had wanted to contribute to the security of his beloved friend's home and realm. He had wanted to gain justice against any who would dare thieve from such a Man, such a King -

"Legolas?" Estel was watching him, waiting.

"I do not know," Legolas whispered. "I just wanted . . . I wanted . . . ."

"To capture the thief."

"Aye."

Estel nodded. "You told me that already."

"I know."

"You have naught else to say?"

Legolas swallowed, tried to force the lump down. It remained, and his heart kept spewing forth explanations that hovered beyond his tongue's reach. Quenyan, Sindarin, Westron - the rich and diverse languages of Elves and Men, and yet there existed no words great enough. He could not even translate his own reasons, and shook his head.

"Alright then. You will answer to the both of us, and perhaps we can convince you of your error." Estel raised a hand in summons. Legolas stood for a moment, not considering flight, not trying to compose an excuse that would free him from this. Estel was angry - he had caused that. Again. He moved to the Ranger's side, wordlessly lowered his leggings, and eased himself down over the waiting lap. It would not last forever, surely, before he was forgiven.

But it did. Estel's arm was like to a steel band around his waist, and Estel's open hand held fire in it. He stared at the floor as the first few swats landed - hard but bearable, then Estel began moving lower, increasing the force of each slap, and the wood before him became a puddle. His muscles began to stiffen from strain, to match the ache within, then like stars winking out disappeared altogether from his awareness. All he could feel was his friend's rage, massive and searing. Estel did not speak to him after landing the first few blows, and in the absence of that voice he felt lonely, lost. He was small, suddenly, tossed about in a tide of anger. Even the Man's solid legs seemed harder, hard like the stone through which he had run. He could not stop his tears from flowing but he bit his lip to restrain his sobs - he needed to listen, to be able to hear. Estel might murmur some small reassurance, might offer some hint of forgiveness, and he needed to hear that! .

Vaguely, he saw Gimli in a chair, waiting nearby. The Dwarf was impassive. He wanted to reach out, to feel the comfort of a hand holding his. He wanted Gimli to come, to kneel beside him while he endured this, to see him through. He wished silently and alone while his ears registered only the sound of Estel's hand against his flaming backside, while his vision blurred until the world was but a shimmering silver sea. It hurt so much -

*****

Aragorn blinked several times as he landed the last hard slap. He nodded to Gimli and rose, half-carrying the limp Elf, then draped Legolas face down over the Dwarf's thighs. Gimli wrapped one arm around his charge's slight waist, wincing at the thought of inflicting more punishment on a bottom that already glowed. It had been promised, however, and his anger surged anew as he remembered the chase.

"Honestly, Laddie!" he scolded. "Can you not go from sunrise to sunset without ending up in this position? Every day it seems to be something! What are we to do?" He wasted no more time on questions asked and answered, raised his hand and slammed it down on the Elf's scarlet rear. Sobs that had been thus far restrained were finally released, and rang forth from the first blow. Legolas had to be thinking it would go on forever. But the Dwarf ignored their pull on his heart and continued, the slaps echoing, his hand ranging over territory already covered, territory covered again and again and again. Years, it seemed, they'd been going over this same ground; he'd been going over this same slender backside. He could feel still a twinge in his throat, in his breast; he could hear the nigh unreal quality of his own voice, screaming at the Elf to stop. The parent screams that way at offspring that runs heedless toward a strong river or the edge of a cliff, screams with ev! erything and needs it to be enough. Gimli sucked in a shaky breath - he had screamed that way. Childless as he’d always been, he had yet screamed that way, and it had been enough to stop Legolas’ heedless run.

Frustration took him; he was shaking inside. The flash of the blade in morning sun, the flash of blonde hair on the wind -

Nay, he would need to stop. Long minutes had passed; he had landed at least as many blows as had Aragorn. Legolas had long since gone limp over him, those first heartbreaking sobs long since gone hoarse and wrenching. The Elf's bottom and upper thighs were crimson: there'd be no sitting in this lad's near future. But the Dwarf's mind still invented scenes of a body falling, golden hair soaked through with blood, brilliant blue eyes closed . . . forever . . . .

He stopped. His jaw ached; his lungs burned. He'd gritted his teeth, not even breathed? Legolas - his beloved bright young friend - was crying brokenly over his knee. He could hear the Elf struggling to take in air between ragged sobs. And still the scenes played themselves out, the thief turning . . . .

Time - that was surely what he needed. Time to calm himself, although he longed to calm Legolas instead. Aragorn stood by the window, teary and mute, and Gimli could see in the Man's dark eyes the same fear, the same helplessness that he felt. He looked down once more. "Alright, Legolas," he said, forcing the tremor out of his voice, "you may rise now."

*****

He slid from Gimli's lap to the floor, feeling naught but the inferno lit in his backside. The Dwarf stood, shimmering through his tears, and for a moment he was certain strong arms would wrap around him, a beard would gently scratch his cheek and soft love-soaked words would ease the hurt. That was what followed the punishment, always. No matter how much anger they felt, how much pain they inflicted, they always comforted him when it was done. He listed slightly toward the stout figure, seeking that anchor in the storm of his grief, but the arms did not come and the words were stern.

"Laddie, up to your quarters and stay there. I think Aragorn and I are both still too angry about this. Go."

He re-dressed numbly, his fingers fumbling to retie lacings. He nigh flew despite the pain of running, the walls blurred and stony around him. Down corridors at first busy, past servants and guards who started at the sight of him, up stairs and down corridors lonely, forsaken. He could not be forgiven for his crime; his dearest friends were such kind and noble souls and he loved them so much, but they - they . . . .

Finally, finally he reached his small room and closed the door. Then, entombed, he sank back to his knees. Arms wrapped around him, offering comfort.

They were his own.

*****

Gimli trailed Aragorn from the study, wiping tears surreptitiously on his sleeve. He followed the King's determined strides down the main hall, past the council chambers and the library and the parlour where ladies could gather on luxurious cushioned chairs and settees, chat and do their lacework before the fire. Past the King's den, where meetings were less formal, where pacts could be entertained and entered, where problems could be solved without the stiff protocols of the council room. Outside and down wide stone steps. They turned, descended another, simpler flight, opened a plain wood door without knocking and were in the guard room. The shift was changing - the guards involved in the morning's events were shedding their uniforms. Silence fell; every spine snapped to attention at sight of Aragorn.

The bush-bearded head of the guard emerged from a back office, stepped to meet Aragorn, bowed stiffly. "My Lord."

"Captain," Aragorn greeted coolly. "We need to discuss this morning."

Gimli noticed the tiny green eyes shifting, striving to meet Aragorn's steady gaze but failing miserably. Aye, a man shamed always looked like that. And so did a man who wished to hide a thing. He glowered silently, waiting for the excuses to come. Excuses wouldn't be good enough this time.

"Aye, Sire," the Captain replied, firing a brief glare at the watching men. "I have questioned the guards on duty, and through their accounts have determined, I believe, how the thief managed entry."

"And how was that?" Aragorn asked, his tone almost conversational.

"Well, Sire, one of the . . . younger guards became somewhat . . . distracted from his post. He was guarding an entryway, and I believe that the thief . . . took advantage."

"A thief - taking advantage? How unreasonable of him."

The Captain's ruddy face flushed further. "Aye, well . . . of course, My Lord, a thief would - would take any opportunity -"

"Indeed," Aragorn interrupted. "Who is this guard?"

"Ah . . . 'twas Mendenor, Sire." With that, the Captain ceased all attempts to look Aragorn in the eye. Mendenor's older brother had long guarded the King and done so with distinction; the Captain himself had put in a word for the youngster's posting.

Aragorn scowled. "As I understand, Mendenor has encountered, shall we say, 'difficulties' in carrying out his duties in the past. Lateness, inattention to his post . . . ."

"Aye, Sire. He has had a - a few . . . problems."

"A few indeed. Deal with it." The King pivoted on one heel and made for the door; Gimli shook his head and followed, silent, still glowering. On the threshold, silhouetted by an afternoon sun, Aragorn paused, turned back into the dimness below. "How did young Mendenor become 'distracted,' by the way?"

The Captain was a ruddy hunched shadow, already retreating toward the back room. "Sire, I believe . . . he was conversing with a lass."

"I see," Aragorn replied softly. "I see." They climbed the steps, turned, ascended the second flight into the long main hall, strode the marbled floor toward the King's den, a sanctuary of peace.

*****

Hours had passed, he thought. They must have passed, slipped like running water around the room, skirted it while he had remained curled against that door. His tears had been rivers for a time, then salty streams and finally just the occasional drop spilling over from his swollen eyes, chasing the paths of those that had gone before. He was drying up inside, growing quiet, and finally he pushed himself gracelessly from the floor and stood, swaying, leaning against the door.

Hours had not passed. By the shadows he realized no more than an hour could have gone. Making his way to the bathing chamber, he dipped his hands in the basin, washed his face. He caught sight of himself in the small mirror then, and winced. His eyes were red-rimmed; his skin had taken on a startling pallor; his braids had begun to unravel. He swallowed and found his throat raw from tears. Within his breast had settled an ache that rose and fell with each quiet breath he drew. What a change from just that morning, when he'd giggled in anticipation of his grand soon-to-be prank against Estel, smiled joyously at the thought of presenting his beloved friend with a gift so carefully crafted.

He shook his head - there was nothing to be done about it. The day likely could not be salvaged, thanks to his own folly. Estel and Gimli had been so upset, so very upset and angry with him, and now what was left was the need to reassure them, somehow. Somehow. He had to find the words to convince them that he knew his error, that he'd learned his lesson.

Gimli had bade him stay in his room - oh, he had no desire to anger either one of them any further this day. But they were elsewhere and he needed to see them. He needed to speak to them. His own grief could be ignored for the moment - would have to be ignored because only their forgiveness could mend it. Their grief could not be allowed to remain, or it would fester as will an untended wound.

The door opened soundlessly and he was out in the hall. He was moving back over ground he'd covered, back from the quiet and empty places into corridors of life and activity. Head down, wishing contact with none before he could locate his friends, he descended to the main level. Onto a sea of tile floor he stepped, eyes roving, ears taking in every sound, rejecting each as not what he needed to hear.

And then he did hear them. Gimli's words rumbled out from behind a heavy closed door. The King's den - of course. What was the Dwarf saying?

' - much trouble the lad is! Every day it seems to be something . . . .'

He floated closer to the door, raised a hand to knock, and heard Estel reply:

'Aye. This morning was one time too many, and I for one am grown intolerably weary of it. I have contemplated taking more . . . permanent action.'

His hand raised, he froze. Gimli was speaking again - he wasn't eavesdropping - he wasn't - he could just hear them - and then Estel once more. Somebody else's problem? Making him somebody . . . .

'Perhaps a nice long errand somewhere? I would emphasize the word long.'

Oh, gods. Oh gods, oh gods -

He turned from the door, blinking, staring off at the opposite wall. Somebody else's problem. The hall was empty; he felt suddenly -

A nice long errand.

Up to his quarters. Up, he had to get there. He was terribly exposed, lurking in the hall, having disobeyed them again - again . . . . Up the stairs once more. No one was about; no one would see -

The problem. The problem that had to become somebody else's.

Oh, finally. Finally. He darted through the door, closed it, leaned against it clutching the handle, listening. Eavesdropping on the hall. Nay, not eavesdropping. Not disobedience. He stilled his hitched breathing - why did his heart pound so? - and waited, and there was only silence on the other side. He was safe.

But he had never felt less so, and anger flared. How could they claim to be friends to him and then turn him out in such a fashion? How could they sit and drink together and calmly discuss sending him away - for doing only what he had been raised to do, yet? Defending the King, his brother . . . nay, nay . . . they could not! They wanted him docile; they wanted him obedient like a trained dog . . . .

Nay . . . not true. Never had such been true. The hot wave of temper had swelled and broken over him and was cooling already - oh, the vagaries of mood. His Adar had always told him he swayed as the sapling in a strong wind, eternal willing subject to the vagaries of mood. He missed his Adar with every day; now that longing swelled fiercely in him, and he found himself crying once more.

His anger crumbled, became ash within. Nay, Estel and Gimli had not sounded calm at all, but most sorrowed over what he had done. He had, in his singular desire, shunned both their authority and their friendship. He had shunned the wishes of his dearest friends.

And he had disrespected them with his act. He had disappointed them; they were still disappointed. That had to be the root of it, the reason they wanted him gone. No point, there was, in keeping one who never learned, who found a new way to err with each new dawn, who could not follow a simple command . . . .

Another pain was making itself known, and it was unlike the blaze still burning in his hindquarters. It was cold and insidious and it seeped through him, bled through all of him as though it were his blood. It was a black wall in his mind, a looming wall that drowned the light - all the light sinking into it. It was a rock in his stomach, cold and lifeless as the stone corridors through which he'd run. It was a deadness in his limbs, eating through his strength, sapping him. And when it reached his heart - in that instant after its birth somewhere inside him when it reached his weeping heart - it coiled itself around like a snake. It squeezed and he slid down, the wood rough against his cheek. He shivered, huddled on the floor.

The cold was spreading.

****************************************************************

Present

The track led them north, from flat woodland and plain through rugged hills. They stopped riding and led the horses; they tied the horses and let Aragorn scout ahead, pick his way over the rock in silent seeking. They untied the horses and moved on, ever north. An Elf could make speed in almost any terrain, and Legolas had apparently dismissed the pain they had inflicted. Anger and sorrow could mask mere physical hurts.

But why leave without food, or steed? More distressingly, why leave without a single weapon? As they followed the feather-light signs of their Elf, the very wind seemed to hiss at them. 'Move fassster,' it said. 'Make hasssste.' They would have, were the track not so reluctant to yield itself to a Man and a Dwarf.

"Where could he be headed?" Gimli panted as they ascended another rise. "Surely not all the way back to his father's realm!"

"Nay - there is nothing to which he can return. The northern wood is empty, his people gone." Aragorn shook his head, brushed sweat-heavy locks from his brow and re-examined the path. They were following, sure enough. "I know not where he goes, nor what drives him to such flight."

"Surely we do," the Dwarf muttered. "Our failures today were unforgivable, and Legolas is feeling such betrayal that he can no longer abide our presence. He has left because of us."

"But why not take Arod? If not to ride, then at least to lead? Surely, if he intends a trip of any distance, as he seems to, then he realizes the need for a horse! And why not take food, or at the very least his bow and his blades so that he may hunt?"

Gimli sighed. "I don't know! I have no idea, Aragorn, and I am greatly afeard for it." He pushed ahead, made the rise, waited for the Ranger. Before them the gentle hills yielded, angling down once more to the tundra. Flat it stretched, out in all directions, grey and green and fawn under the low cloud. It rolled away to the horizon, a sea of wild grass, and through it rolled the Anduin, strong and blue. In the distance rose what remained of the once great Osgiliath, and beyond that rose deep green forests. The land was staggering, massive.

Somewhere in it was their Elf.

*****

The clouds were roiling, tormented. They vowed rain and much of it, and Legolas shivered more violently. He had been cold for some time - cold like the clouds. But not roiling. Nay, he was quiet inside.

He had run from Minas Tirith while the sun had still shone, while the birds had still sung and the gentle breeze had still carried the scents of lavender and new grass. Around him life had been exultant, riotous. Yet the chill inside him had refused to yield even to such warmth; in his ears the sparrow songs had sounded like dirges, and he had been able to smell naught but the dust of those corridors. After a time he had slowed to a walk, uncommon fatigue sapping his muscles. He had wanted only, only to turn around and go . . . home.

But home was his no longer - he was to be turned out. Sent away to become somebody else's problem, so that his dear friends could finally find their burdens eased. Aye, he'd behaved shamefully. They needed not be constantly worrying after an Elf that just couldn't learn! They had infinitely better things to do. Legolas imagined the day the White City would be returned to its former greatness, the day King Elessar would stand before the people and be cheered once more as their saviour, and he smiled. That day would be glorious.

He would not be there to see it, and a sob rose unbidden in his throat. Loneliness - he had not considered these depths of loneliness when he'd left. Not that such would have altered his choice or his action. Nay - this was the only way. He had nowhere to go, no one to go to. They were home, and they no longer wanted him . . . his resolve returned with that knowledge, and he kept walking. 'twas not far.

Osgiliath was quiet also, when he reached it. Cold broken remnants of towers that sprawled over land barren, land infused with the peace granted to desolate places where life runs thin and brittle under solitude's reign. The Anduin flowed through, a wide blue scarf laid over the grassy plain. It held many bones. Such places worship their own histories, cherish the scars that snake over their flanks, whisper of the glorious past. In the air Legolas could sense something growing close, a thing that ran accusatory and chill. A storm would come - a great savage storm to blow away his grief. He trod flat ground, ground that had seen so much death; he moved to the ruins, the jagged carcass of some great stone beast. He stood alone, the wind whistling through rock, whipping his hair about him, shrieking in his ears. There was little shelter to be had, but he no longer needed shelter. He no longer had such concerns.

Turning in place, he saw it all. The clash of steel on steel, the whirring flight of arrows, the bodies, the blood and rainwater, rivers of red and black. In the wind were the voices of the dead, speaking of business unfinished, of mates and friends left behind. He let it tear at him, let it set him swaying like the sapling sways; he breathed in the cold purity of the place. His eyes ran over patches of moss, lichen, the hardy wild grass. There were a few stunted trees left, but they spoke no more. He saw further back, the way it had been once. Flags rising, towers rising, spires which shone golden in the sun. People laughing, talking. Living.

Was it weakness to feel such cold? A warrior he was, who had faced down the fiercest beasts of Middle Earth, who had battled giant spiders while still wet with childhood's dew, who had travelled to the very bosom of darkness on a Quest to preserve innocence and light. Aye, he had cut his teeth on the wood of a longbow; he had honed his muscles with the steel of a sword. His twin blades were as familiar to him as his own hands, and with them - with all of the tools of his race - he was a swift and deadly veteran of many battles. Yet in the face of no enemy he was now fallen. In the wake of mere sorrow he was now drowned.

Was it weakness to lie down and accept? How many times had he faced grief, before this time? How many souls - his mother, first of all - had he lost in his years? He had shed tears for some of them, stood grim and passive over others, and then he had mourned each one and carried on with what needed be done. Duty and honour had driven him. Hope had sustained him, convinced him to smile and rise anew with each dawn. Yet while Middle Earth revelled in the banishment of evil he could find no more good. While citizens of all the races everywhere were buoyed by hope he could feel only despair.

Was it weakness? He was cold; his soul was lying down and accepting, and inside his mind voices raged. They hissed spitefully about his cowardice. They murmured soothingly that he was Elf, and that all things Elven were doomed to fall.

Sighing, he lay his body down, stretched out on his side, laid his cheek against cold earth. Everything was cooling, and he with it. Briefly he imagined himself pierced with arrows, lying where he had fallen and watching his life drain into the soil. He imagined the bodies around him growing cold and still. The warriors who yet stood were treading careful among them, at times kneeling to turn a corpse, close a pair of clouding eyes, say a prayer for a departed friend. He saw himself, then. Not surrounded by fallen heroes but alone by the bones of a city on a massive plain, memories coursing through. There were no arrows in his body and yet he was growing cold and still. His life was draining into the stone and the soil. More blood for Osgiliath. He looked about, ahead at the scrubby terrain, up at the low grey cloud - 'twas then that time seemed to begin at once stretching itself out and racing by. All of time, all of his life contained in a moment, so that the mo! ment became eternity. His mother's face, serene, loving. His Adar, strong, tall, lifting him under his arms and swinging him in afternoon sun, and he a giddy Elfling, squealing, breathing in life. Mirkwood, his gladed home at peace and at war. The Quest, the Quest and those days, those nights spent walking, fighting, sleeping beneath the stars that watched them through all of it. Gandalf, Frodo, Sam. Merry and Pippin and their tricks, the tinkle of their laughter. Boromir . . . alive. Alive forever in his mind and his heart. Gimli - so strange at first they were, an Elf and a Dwarf (Elves and Dwarves do not become friends, do not do not rise above the biases of their people), Estel the Man, the Ranger, the King. Lothlorien, green and enchanted. Helm's Deep, bright Haldir falling to the enemy. And 'twas as though he could see everything, from every moment, every angle at once, from the past and the present and a future he would not have, from down where he lay an! d from far above. He was a fallen Elf. He was a bird wheeling between soil and sky. He was the wind fleeting over Middle Earth, eternal. But there was nothing left to see in that wreck, and as his eyes drifted closed his mind wandered back to a great White City, a monument to courage and perseverance and hope, and to two beloved souls within.

*****

The night was advancing, morose, drawing a cloak of shadow over the land. No stars would grace the sky this eve, and Aragorn was silently grateful. To see a star and know that it was unreachable - to see a star and know that it was not the one he needed . . . .

They ran over the grasslands, Osgiliath rising before them, and in their hearts was a mixture of anticipation and dread, for they could think of no other place - they'd searched so long, lost the track, would have no other direction to take if 'twas was not right . . . . They circled 'round shattered rock, the air icy in their lungs as if Middle Earth had decided to shun warmth now, never to be warm again. Her anger was palpable in the wind.

They needed look no further. There, near the vast ruins, the sight they most longed to see. The possibility they could not bear to consider. The Elf - but not upright, not a silhouette against stone and iron sky.

Nay. Legolas was prone, lying on one side. The Elf's back was to them; blonde hair was a pennant, a flash on the wind. There was no other movement.

Aragorn did not feel the distance disappear beneath his boots and yet he felt as though a lifetime of miles lay between him and Legolas. He pounded across the hard ground, Gimli at his side, straining, no breath now, no heartbeat for either of them. They existed in the unnatural length of that moment, hanging, reaching for the end. Sooner, faster, now.

They were at the Elf's side on their knees on the cold rocky ground, and their hands were smoothing the wild hair away from the ivory face and the closed eyes ('Elves sleep with their eyes open, do they not?' Frodo had asked once on the journey on a field something like this field when they were all alive and Legolas had laughed crystal as water slipping over rocks and said 'Aye, and I am sleeping right now, friend . . . .'). ~I am sleeping right now, friend~

He was not asleep. Oh . . . .

He was not asleep.

*****

Arod's anxiety was a tangible thing, written in intelligent brown eyes, in pricked ears that followed their words. Elven steeds have a knowing about them. This one snuffled at the prone Elf, pawed impatiently at the ground as if in demand to be off. The wind was frightful, and the stallion in that moment resembled naught so much as an embodiment of the coming storm. Mane and tail flying, diamond-shaped head flung upward, wild-eyed, nostrils flared, wiry legs splayed, he seemed a thing descended from the skies and wont to return there. Hasufel sensed the wildness and the concern but remained calm, head down, eyes shuttered against flying grit. Rain was coming, and they had no warm shelter.

They were off then, fleeing the storm. Gimli rode the calm Hasufel; Aragorn rode Arod, Legolas in his arms. The rain was beginning, heavy drops falling from an iron sky. Tears falling, weeping for a fallen soul. The wind was a lash on their backs, screeching past, and they needed not urge the horses toward home. Arod moved swiftly but seemed unwilling to risk jarring his cargo; Aragorn yielded to the stallion's wishes and held Legolas close. Hasufel yielded also, mindful of a rider more at ease on the ground than alone atop a massive beast. And the storm became every wild thing about them, raging, chasing, biting at their skin, screaming epithets, driving them on. Legolas was still, cold, though Aragorn wrapped his cloak ever more protectively about the Elf, bowed so that his body would be a shield against the weather, pressed his friend's slight frame so tightly to his breast that his own warmth would have to leave him, soak into willing skin, willing blood. Aye, L! egolas would be willing, for no Elf wanted eternal cold.

Gimli's eyes strayed often to the bundle in his arms, but he offered no comfort to the Dwarf. While his own soul shrieked like the wind, there would be no comfort. While all of Middle Earth and nature and the gods screeched like beasts out of their cages, there would be no comfort. Minas Tirith lay ahead - not so far ahead, or perhaps behind. Its spires would still claw at an unknowing sky, but would those spires ever shine so white again?

Would anything?

*****

The gates opened before them and they rushed through, the rain-soaked guards saluting and then catching sight of the prone Elf in their King's arms and growing silent. Legolas was known to all, at once a quiet ethereal presence in their midst and a flashing smile and laugh that rang silvery as the voices of stars, filling the Citadel halls. Filling the stables. Filling the gardens, the lawns, the streets around. Filling Minas Tirith.

Aragorn, silent, handed Legolas down to one of his men, dismounted and immediately reclaimed the Elf. Gimli, once assisted down from Hasufel, never allowed his hand to falter from contact with Legolas, stroking the sodden hair and the cold white brow, whispering soft words in the delicate ears. Lightning snaked erratically above as they entered the palace, Aragorn gripping the Elf as though he could bend life to his will, and they climbed the stairs to the upper hall, strode down it mute, pushed into the King's chamber.

Legolas was wet, wet right through and covered in mud. Clothes clung to skin; Aragorn's hands were clumsy from cold; Gimli knew his hands fared little better; Man and Dwarf were soaked and shivering. But they worked, kneeling on the floor of the King's chamber, silent, frantic. Servants gathered briefly at the door; Aragorn fired a glare that sent them fleeting like starched white shadows. And they worked, Man and Dwarf, shivering though they were, to strip Legolas of boots, leggings, vest, tunic. The Elf lay white and passive, eyes closed to them. They tugged and tore at the sodden clothes, tossed each dripping messy victory aside and groped for the next, tried to wring water from long hair. They faced each other across the divide of Elf. They looked not but to their task.

Gimli climbed to his feet and strode for the bathing chamber, where a steaming bath had been prepared at first word of the King's arrival. He turned to call, but Aragorn had already lifted Legolas and was coming, and together they lowered the Elf into the water, cradled slender shoulders, diligently supported the blonde head. The water seemed so hot - too hot - after such unyielding cold, but they needed Legolas to be warm again. They needed it -

So Aragorn held Legolas in one crooked arm and cupped the other hand in the water and washed the Elf's dirt-smudged face. Gimli used both hands, moved down pale limbs and torso, moved to wash the Elf's hair - square hands moving in the tangled wet mass, washing away the dirt and the cold and the horror - until Legolas was clean again and still in the water and at least feeling warm to the touch.

Aragorn lifted once more; Gimli was ready with thick towels. They cocooned Legolas, rubbed to banish the wetness and restore circulation, then laid their bundle on the soft bed and knelt there. The warmth was leaving, so soon. Too soon, and more than once did Gimli eye the bathing chamber and start to say, 'Let us take him back in there, do this again,' but Aragorn had settled the Elf under layered blankets. That was the right thing. Legolas needed rest and warmth to counter the chill. Gimli felt silence retake him, though in truth he could not remember having spoken. Had he spoken? He remained at Aragorn's side, watching over their friend.

*****

Aragorn ran calloused fingertips down cool skin, absently reading the letter once again. He had read it through a score of times at least since one of the house matrons had risked his wrath to knock at the door, had held it out to him with sadness and worry and a touch of fear flitting over her plain features. She had found it earlier, quite by chance, fallen behind a table just inside the door to his den. Had she not dropped her cloth while cleaning -

He had wordlessly taken the scroll from her, and the simple package, with fingers suddenly awkward and shaking - aye he'd laid eyes on both, himself, outside the den. He had passed them both by. Forsaken them. And for a long time after the servant had slipped out he had just looked at the package, looked at the scroll, and been greatly afraid to do more. What could be contained within? The words of a dying Elf?

He had finally read the letter though, for not reading it seemed tinged with disrespect. There, sitting by the bed with Gimli beside him, he and the Dwarf had both read. Their eyes had skipped disbelieving along the lines, had blurred and regained focus, had reached the end all too soon (how could it be the end?) and hastened to the beginning again, seeking. Each time through Aragorn had understood more, understood less, raged more savagely at himself, at Gimli, at Legolas. Countless times he had moved to the hearth to burn those accursed words, those 'I love you even if you no longer love me' words, those 'I have nothing more to live for so I'll sleep forever' words. Oh gods oh gods - cursed be those words! Aragorn's heart had whispered, 'Destroy them. Make them not be.' Aragorn's mind had commanded his muscles, directed them toward the fire.

Each time his hand had extended for the licking flames, and each time his hand had pulled back, the letter safe. He and Gimli had sat in his den, sometime much earlier, and stared at another fire and been lulled by it. They had talked of sending a problem away, and outside in the hall their beloved heartsick friend had come to hear, had slipped wordless back upstairs to write a lonely farewell, then had returned and laid the letter and a gift, a gift for his birthday, on the small table by the door. Had departed for a crumbling ruin on a barren windswept plain, to lie down there among the wandering spirits and sleep for eternity. And all the while he had been comfortable and warm and lulled by the flame and the drink! Now he stared at this fire and hated it, hated the walls and the floor and the damnable useless attendants outside in the hall. All of it, all of it. But he hated the letter most of all, that beautiful tangible proof of his guilt. He wanted to forget th! at it existed, but something in the depths of his heart would not allow him to let it go for it would be the last -

He read it again, hearing Legolas' sweet low voice. Aye, he and Gimli were guilty of so much. They had failed Legolas in the worst ways a friend can fail a friend, and in their failures Legolas had come to doubt them enough that snatches of conversation, out of context, could become in one Elven mind a cruel plan. Insane, the idea that they would send their Elf away, yet Legolas had believed, and sorrowed, and fled.

And now Man and Dwarf faded, their mortal lights crude and glaring yet growing dim. Such bright souls the Elven race possesses, such brightness and endurance and skill. With sword, with bow, with blade the Elves make themselves known, but for all that strength in battle they live with a singular vulnerability - one to which Man, in his coarseness, in his thoughtlessness, in his ability to hurt a beloved and gentle friend, is seemingly immune. But as the King and the Ranger and the Man caressed a soft curve of cheek, a soft plane of throat, he was no longer certain that grief would not kill him. There were griefs enough to kill anyone, surely, and this . . . this could be the one. He glanced at Gimli and knew the Dwarf was feeling it too. They were perched on the edge of the bed, clawing at the edge of the cliff, and below them was an eternal suffering so dark and without ease that they could fathom it neither in mind nor in heart.

Looking back to the sleeping Elf's placid face, Aragorn imagined. He sank into sweet eternal memory, dove into the warmth of it, for the present was a cold and untenable place. They were again on the Quest, the worst and the best time of their lives. A testament to what willing hearts can achieve. Overcoming obstacles, but oh - in what strangeness they had begun! Aye, he had known Elves, and Legolas had long known him. Gandalf as well, they had known. But Dwarves? Hobbits? They had been strangers, forced in an instant to become allies, fellows, and to trust one another with their lives. Each of them had sworn himself willingly, but none of them could have held immediate trust in his companions. Trust had grown, been fostered and built with every fierce battle, every terrifying encounter with the enemy, and over time that trust had become a foundation upon which each could base his future. But nay, none of them could truly have known, in those first uneasy days, t! he barriers over which they would triumph. The places to which their suffering and sacrifice would bring them. To friendships beyond all friendship, strong enough to destroy a soul that thought the friendship gone. Strong enough to destroy two more that knew of their guilt.

Aragorn focussed again, saw a tear run down the Elf's soft cheek. Not a silver Elf tear, but his own. He watched it slide down willing skin, gentle, kind. It would never hurt; it would never forsake - it was mindless, mindless . . . .

Gimli stiffened beside him, as though seized by something, then turned to stare toward the door. Gandalf? At the Dwarf’s cry he tore his gaze from Legolas. He turned numbly, saw the looming shadow, the whiteness.

Gandalf had arrived.

*****

They'd been there a long time. A lifetime, in fact, although he could see naught of sky nor stars beyond the heavy lined drapes. His ears told him the storm was gone. Perhaps it hung now over some other part of Middle Earth, judged and terrorized other guilty souls. Surely they had reached and perhaps even passed through morning, into a new day, new hope. No birds sang, but that was to be expected.

He had looked only to the Elf, maintaining contact with Legolas, speaking soft words, urging, cajoling, and thus hours had passed. He had fallen silent at some point - when? But he had continued to gaze devotedly, to stroke soft hair and skin that never should have gone so cold.

Yet the contact was gone all of a sudden and he could not remember moving his attention from the bed; he was staring not at the Elf but at the covered window beyond which lay the dark or light heavens, and speaking not to the Elf but in silence to all the gods above and below and everywhere. Legolas would need every bit of all their strength to return - so Aragorn had said some time before. But the gods would have that strength and more, and if one heartsick Dwarf could convince them that, given another chance, he would treat an Elf so much better, then those gods would bring the Elf back.

They probably wouldn't be listening to him, though. He didn't deserve their attention or their mercies. And if any being of Middle Earth or of the worlds beyond were given a chance to take Prince Legolas Greenleaf for its own, it would have to be mad to refuse. He would just pray harder; he would. He would appeal to every deity of every race in Middle Earth, and it would make the difference.

Aragorn was beside him, hunched over what remained of their friend. Not much more, really, than a beautiful array of silken hair and soft curves, delicate features and limbs. Lovely, even so pale and still, even with the glow of life faint, so faint and waiting for the right time to shine brilliant again. He followed the Man's hand as it moved from temple to jaw, a single crooked finger caressing that path down the Elf's face, over and over again.

Something . . . came. He could feel it, although at first he knew not what it was. A shiver ran through him; he could feel eyes on his back. He turned.

"Gandalf!" he exclaimed. The Wizard was arrived, finally. Finally! After an eternity of wrong, things could finally be made right.

*****

Aragorn watched, and he felt the weary curve of his own spine as Gandalf, eternally erect, moved to the bed, pausing not beside them but gliding 'round to the other side. His eyes, Gimli’s eyes followed the flowing robes, the flowing hair, but the Istari focussed on one thing alone, one willowy body that lay infinitely pale. The Elf's light was all but gone, skin a listless white, wet hair dull and limp, like a straw field after the rains. They watched; they waited.

"He needs help." Gimli's voice scratched out the words. No greeting, no 'Well met, my friend.' Niceties did not matter.

Gandalf afforded the pair only a glance before laying one weathered hand on Legolas' brow. Aragorn sighed, already feeling an easing in his heart. They had the Wizard now, and the Wizard could see. Silence fell as an ancient mind sought a much younger one, as an Istari spirit struck out into the void in seeking. Dark, it certainly would be out there, as cold and bleak and black as a tomb. Into it the seeker would fly, a great white winged beast. To its depths, where the almost-dead go, to the wilder lands that border what squinting mortals call 'life.' The bird would beat its wings and the dark would flow around it; it would breathe of nothing; it would hear the whispers of fading souls. It would soar and wheel and dive into the deepest reaches, and ever would its eyes seek but one -

The Wizard’s hand moved, stroking Legolas' hair, tracing a gentle path around one delicate pointed ear. Aragorn stared; beside him Gimli seemed a breathless statue; their two hearts strained in waiting, and finally the voice came: "He is -"

"- very weak," Aragorn interjected.

"Aye." Gimli was nodding. "He needs rest."

The Wizard met the Man's eyes, met the Dwarf's eyes, looked back to the Elf, and Aragorn read in the Wizard's lined face that which was impossible - nay, impossible.

He could see it: Gandalf saw naught.

*****

There was so much nothing, a neverending, unwanting plea to emptiness. The absence of colour - even that non-colour white banished as though too glaring and certain for the reality of such a place. A place, was it? Nay, it looked like no place, like nothing of a place. A place would surely end, yet this did not. It was forever. It was eternity unfolded and laid out.

He was standing, but he could feel no contact between his feet and what lay beneath. Aye, his boots met a surface, but 'twas not like any marbled floor, nor grassy plain, nor rock-strewn height. Indeed 'twas like more of the nothing, without colour, without texture, without change, and thus it swept out in all directions.

But still there had to be something, for he could sense the something. He pivoted slowly, silent. He could hear neither wind nor his own breathing. He kept turning, turning, gazing into the distance. Not such an unpleasant place, ‘twas. Nay, peaceful. He took a step in no particular direction, then another, then another. He turned, walked in a new direction, and could sense that it did not matter. Wherever he was going - wherever he was meant to go - there were infinite paths that led there. It mattered not which he took, for the time of choices was done.

*****

"Gandalf, what can be done to return his good health faster?" Aragorn sat straight-backed and spoke with a reassuring strength. "Can you recite a spell, or should I be sending the healers for herbs?"

Gimli followed Aragorn's example, thrusting out his chin. For such a supposedly sage and powerful being, Gandalf the White, mighty slayer of a Balrog, now demonstrated a reticence that set his temper rising. There was much to be said for bluntness. "Well?" he demanded. "What of it?"

"Gandalf?" Aragorn pressed, staring across the bed. "What can we do? What can you do?"

But their questions were met with silence as Gandalf moved to a sitting area across the room. "Come, my friends," the Wizard beckoned.

"What are you about?" Gimli demanded. "You expect us to leave Legolas and go sit with you over there? Would you order tea and pastries as well?"

Beside him he felt Aragorn startle at his voice and then turn also toward the Istari. Both of them, it seemed, were fast losing patience, and yet Gandalf gave them no aid! Gimli glared at the damnably calm Wizard and held his place at Legolas' side.

"Please come," Gandalf tried again.

"Nay!" he snapped. No more leaving his friend to cope alone. "Gandalf, the laddie needs your help. So help him!"

Gandalf trained grey eyes on him and his temper flared. "Why do you waste time, Wizard?" he demanded. "I have told you the need. Can you not see? Do you not love the Elfling as we do?"

"Gimli -"

"NAY. Legolas needs your help to recover." He glanced at Aragorn and was rewarded with a nod.

"Aye, Gandalf," the Man agreed. "You must try."

*****

Moving was effortless. He could feel neither his muscles working nor the ground as it slipped past, and he nigh floated in whatever direction held his fancy. 'twas almost as though he could be everywhere at once. His thoughts drifted; briefly he turned. Had aught been there, behind him?

Nay . . . surely not. Naught was but what stretched about; naught had ever been but this. He looked forward once more. Whatever lay ahead would be ahead, and when he reached it he would be there. Nearer, that lay. Nearer. It occurred to him that although he had been moving with surety and looking about him like a curious Elfling, his eyes were closed. He opened them and saw a flash of colour, saw a shape before him, and halted.

"Haldir," he said.

*****

"What did you find, when you were . . . there?" Even as the question left his lips Aragorn wanted to take it back, to fist it down into himself. This was not a time for rash questions, but for caution. They had to be careful, to act only in Legolas' best interests. The query was irrelevant; the answer was not something they truly needed. There were options! Of course - there are always options, always other ways . . . .

He stared at Gandalf and could read sadness in the Wizard's eyes. Nay, there was more in that look than sadness. Pity? Elbereth -

His heart beat faster for a moment, then slowed. Everything was slowing . . . he should tell Gandalf not to bother answering, for there were better things to do than speak - they would pull back the warm blankets and take Legolas to the bath again, make Legolas warm again. They had to - he opened his mouth to say it, to tell Gandalf there were options . . . .

"I found naught," the Wizard said simply. "Legolas is . . . dead - and he has been dead for some time now." They had nursed a corpse. They had bathed and caressed and kissed and bundled lovingly into warmth . . . a beautiful corpse . . . .

*****

~why are running pen-neth?~

"Running?"

~aye . . . and why are you speaking?~

"I did not realize."

~there is naught to realize~

"I do not understand."

~you need not . . . that is all . . . you need not~

"I -" He paused, gazed at the Elf before him. Haldir was tall and proud, and something within him stirred at the sight. His mind replayed the fierce pitched battle at Helm's Deep, the sea of Orcs, the rain of arrows. Haldir had been brave and strong and loyal to the end. He had a chilling vision of blood soaking through blonde hair, of bright eyes closed, but before him now stood that warrior, risen. Healed. He noted the Lorien colours but saw not a single weapon. 'You are unarmed,' he thought, and received an answering smile.

~you know~

~aye~

~so why do you look behind?~

~I thought something was there . . . I felt it . . . do you not?~

~nay not I . . . for me all lies ahead . . . I feel no tug over my shoulder~

~why not?~

~I am here~

~I am also here~

~are you?~

*****

Aragorn stared at the Wizard, and the Wizard's eyes flitted past him to look upon Legolas. The Wizard’s lips had moved, words issuing forth. He had listened, but now that the words were out their meaning seemed suddenly to be unravelling the way yarn unravels from its skein - Arwen detested knitting but would sit placid by the hearth and watch her ladies work, their fingers nimble in the yarn, and he would stand at the door and catch her eye and smile a mischievous smile for he knew she would have rather been riding the plains or fighting Orcs or well nigh aught than sitting by their sides - and all of the chamber was starting to fray . . . .

"Dead?" he echoed senselessly. Nay. Nay. He looked to Gimli, who was standing profoundly still. He stared at Gimli, waiting for the Dwarf to deny, to deny -

He was aware of the bed behind him, but he could not look there.

And then . . . and then . . . the room became a chaos, a hellish frenzy of movement and sound.

*****

Gimli glared at Gandalf, at once daring the Wizard to speak and demanding the Wizard be silent. Aragorn had asked what was out there, but he needed not know that. What mattered presently was Legolas, sleeping Legolas who needed their support and their help, not useless talk!

Gandalf did not seem to get the message, however, and kept blithely speaking. He watched the Wizard's lips continue to move, but could not seem to get a sense of the words coming from them. Yet he knew in his heart that Gandalf was betraying them with lies, speaking lies about his Elfling!

Beside him Aragorn croaked out a word, a question. 'Dead?' What? Had Gandalf said - had that damnable lying Istari claimed -

He knew not the motive behind such cruel treason, but he would not tolerate it anyway. If an able sorcerer would not deign to help an Elfling in need, then he would find another way to bring his laddie back. But first he would rid the chamber of this wizened old traitor! With a roar that sounded off the silent walls, a keening snarling visceral roar of agony and rage that would have sent any rival flying, he lunged forward.

*****

~why would I not be here?~

~you look behind~

~I did once~

~there is no once . . . only now~

~there is a then~

~nay~

~I knew things then . . . I was there and I can remember~

~so you are not here~

~do you not remember?~

~there is knowing here . . . we know from where we have come . . . but there is no sadness or longing with the memory pen-neth . . . only now and what is and all who are here~

~but I do feel drawn to the past~

~you are not ready to stay~

~what should I do?~

~I cannot tell you . . . the path is yours to travel~

~I never wanted to leave . . . but they no longer wanted me . . . I could not remain~

~you are loved pen-neth . . . you are wanted~

~there?~

~everywhere~

~I feel like I cannot return~

~there is no cannot pen-neth~

~why won't you tell me what to do?~

~it is your choice~

~what if I choose to stay here?~

*****

With a bellow that surely frightened much of Minas Tirith, Gimli was moving. The Dwarf’s stocky body lunged toward Gandalf, the battle cry still ringing, and Aragorn saw the Wizard rise, stiffen. Aye, that staff was at Gandalf's side, and Gandalf could indeed use it. But Gandalf's hands were empty, open. The Wizard would never fight a friend.

Aragorn, at first transfixed, his mind and body numb, felt the rush of warrior instincts. His muscles, at least, knew what to do. He leaped forward to intercept Gimli, his tall lean body and the shorter, thicker one meeting with a thud that echoed into his very bones, and then they were down on the floor and he was pinning Gimli there. The Dwarf growled and writhed beneath him, fists clenched. Aragorn felt a burning deep in his throat, behind his eyes. He could not breathe.

"He was WARM." Gimli did not shout but spat the words, panting.

"I know," Aragorn said. It had been true.

"Nay!" the Dwarf snarled. "He was warm! After the bath he was warm; he was warm; he . . . he was . . . ."

Aragorn fought to retain his balance, legs splayed, while Gimli thrashed. "I know!" he snapped.

"We bathed him, Aragorn!" Gimli cried. "We got him out of that weather and out of those wet clothes, and we got him into a warm bed! He needs rest - that is all! He will wake! He will wake when he has -" The words choked off, strangled sobs rising to crush them. Still Gimli's lips moved, trying to make words. Trying to make truth.

"Pray, calm yourselves!" Gandalf pleaded, but to Aragorn the Wizard's voice seemed hollow and far away. He felt nigh ready to collapse, so weary, so incredibly weary and staring down at the Dwarf whose frenzy had come in a hot wave like fire courses from the mountain. 'twas as though he rode that tide himself, a mere helpless piece of debris, and he had not the heart to care. His muscles did not fail him, though, and under him Gimli's efforts gradually flagged. The blocky hands were yet curled into fists, but the writhing had stopped. The rush of fury seemed passed; now all emotion was bleeding out and the Dwarf's face was going passive, going calm. The Dwarf's eyes, dark and teary, were going dull. The sobs were easing already, and Gimli's face was taking on a vacant air that matched the yawning emptiness Aragorn could feel in himself. He wondered, briefly, if his own face was shrouded with that same blankness. The Dwarf's ey! es were too dim and distant to tell him.

That moment when all feeling ends, he thought, is worse than the harshest rage.

*****

~if you choose to stay then you will stay~

~they do not want me . . . they are so angry~

~is it anger?~

~aye~

~might it be fear?~

~fear of what?~

~of what has not happened but could~

~I do not know~

~do they fear for you?~

~they were furious . . . I disobeyed them repeatedly and they were furious with me~

~anger can rise to take fear's place . . . anger can take control when love brings too much pain~

~you seem to know more than I~

~I see~

~see what?~

~those who you left . . . they grieve and rage and smite each other over you~

~over me?~

~their grief is a tide that carries them . . . they are helpless against it~

~I do not want that~

~what do you want?~

~peace . . . belonging . . . love~

~you can have all~

~here?~

~anywhere~

The pull had eased, and yet he did not feel more free. Adrift, he seemed to become. Losing himself. Lost. He turned again, looked back. His friends grieved over him, raged over his loss, turned angry words and angry blows against each other . . . .

Anger can rise to take fear's place - or grief's. Haldir's thought echoed in his mind, and suddenly he could hear another voice. Gimli's voice shouting at him, telling him to HOLD. That voice had carried with it such force as to sunder his determination, freeze his legs, root him to the ground. That voice had been . . . afraid. Gimli, his ever-courageous warrior friend, his stoic and stalwart fellow, had been frightened and had wanted him - had needed him - to stop. He remembered the chase, the winding confusion of the dusty lower corridors, the thrill at finally leaving those corridors and breathing of clean air once more. For all his enthusiasm he had been without weapon, had not seen the thief's blade, and it struck him suddenly, intensely: well could he have been wounded, perhaps gravely, had the man been an experienced fighter and taken him unawares. The guards were heavily armed - he could surely have called for their assistance, but he had been so intent on t! he chase . . . .

Haldir was standing silent, golden hair shimmering. In that placid face he sensed eternities of acceptance, serenity, bliss.

*****

Aragorn was atop him, and he had been fighting. He could not quite remember what the fight had been about. He took a deep breath and forced his muscles to relax.

"Are you alright, Mellon?" Aragorn asked. Gimli fought down a sudden urge to laugh - the Man was kneeling on his legs, pinning his arms to the floor, and wanted to know if he was alright! He tried to swallow, couldn't, and knew not what answer to give.

In reply, Aragorn slipped off him and rose. The Man's legs appeared shaky. He lay on the floor until the Man's hand came down, then he grasped it unthinking and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. It occurred to him. "Gandalf," he said, and looked toward the wall, where the Wizard had stood. "Where is he?"

They were alone, it seemed. Gandalf had gone.

*****

~I do not feel it so strongly~

~the door is closing~

~what door?~

~the door between one world and another~

~it closes?~

~aye . . . this is why we feel no pull here . . . once the door closes it is closed~

~so I cannot go back?~

~when the door is open you can go back~

~should I?~

~I have no answer~

~but even if I would I do not know the way . . . tell me~

~I cannot . . . it is your way alone~

~I never make the right choice~

~you do~

~how do I go . . . how do I get there?~

~I cannot say . . . it is your way~

~come with me~

~I cannot go through~

~why not?~

~I am here~

~come as far as the door?~

Haldir smiled again but did not answer. He looked away from the smile, his eyes ranging over nothingness. He grasped Haldir's hand and into his mind flitted two faces, two smiling, laughing, weeping, grieving faces. The two faces he had thought would frown at him forevermore. The two hearts he had believed would close themselves to him eternally, as the door would close and be closed for all time. The two souls he needed to see. He was running - they were flying, the pair of spirits, fleeting in silence, and though their legs did move they felt no fatigue in muscle or impact in bone, and though their hair did fly out behind them they felt no wind against their skin. They were flying, though, for the distant closing door, and he could not yet see it, but he knew that beyond it lay those other faces . . . .

~it is ahead . . . it is ahead is it not?~

~I will not see it . . . it is not mine~

~I feel . . . .~ He stopped, Haldir's fingers still entwined with his. Of a sudden he was tired - nay, exhausted. His limbs were heavy. He was cold, so utterly cold. He looked down at himself, saw mud. Clinging wet mud covered him, as though he had lain himself down in a stagnant ditch. He was filthy and wet. The door was ahead - he was certain - but his legs would no longer move. 'twas closing - would close before he reached it. He sank unsteadily to his knees, nearly keeled over to one side, fought his way back to standing, lurched forward, stopped again. And there it was. There it was, exactly as he had imagined it. Nothing like he had assumed it would be.

~there is a tree here . . . can you see it?~

~nay . . . this is your door . . . to each it shall come cloaked in the colours of their heart~

~this is the door?~

~aye~

~do I climb it?~

~if you wish to return~

'twas right in front of him, a step or two in front of him, and its boughs reached skyward. So out of place it stood, bright and solid and colourful against nothing. Its roots disappeared into . . . what? Was this even soil beneath them? It looked too vague and strange to his eyes. The tree, however, stretched upward from it, and when he gazed up he could not see a top. Strong branches, green leaves beckoned him, yet he was crippled by that leaden cold, that eternal unyielding cold. Death - this was his death he felt, seeping through him, weighting him, making him forever still. He had crossed through the doorway once, but he had done so with all the effort of a rose petal riding the Anduin. To go through again in the other direction, against the flow of it . . . nay. Nay, he would not have the strength. The longing was all but gone - the tree loomed infinitely tall and shunned him, forsook him to the cold hard ground and he knew . . . he knew . . . . He would ne! ver reach them!

Haldir's fingers unwound; Haldir's hand was gone. He closed his eyes and saw the faces of his friends, his lost. He had forgotten their love for a time but they did indeed love him, and they would mourn him even as the door closed and forced his heart to forever surrender its love for them . . . .

He grasped a branch and pulled, but his fingers were numb. His body was growing numb and he could not hold his balance. The cold and the deadness moved through him. Reflexes that had never failed were suddenly gone; the lowest branch was less than an arm's length above his head and yet 'twas an impossible task to gain it. Above it there was another branch . . . another . . . another. The tree was a towering, laughing, mocking mindless beast that stretched up to the sky, no end, no last branch after which he would be there. He could feel it all growing faint, distant, unimportant . . . .

They had laughed, he recalled, on Gimli's last birthday. He had stuffed his dear friend's feather pillow with a few sprigs of catnip, attracting feline visitors from all over Minas Tirith. The Dwarf's brow had furrowed in confusion, Elf and Man had been enlisted to assist in a mass cat eviction, and he might have gotten away with the prank had he not giggled so throughout the day. If he could not make every branch there would be no more birthdays, no more pranks, no more laughter.

Love surged, like one final kick of his heart. Like one final message from the last living cell in his brain. Dying, again, he loved them. He loved them and his fingers wound around the branch. His muscles gave him everything there was left; he stared upward and knew that Estel and Gimli were on the other side of eternity . . . and that they were waiting. He felt death taking him a second time, and then against his ear he felt something more -

Breath. Warm breath, gentle and insistent. A single quiet word - spoken, not thought. Spoken, Haldir's soft voice flowing.

"Go . . . ."

*****

"What happens now?"

Aragorn stared off, somewhere left of the door. Gandalf had left - they had driven another friend away. But he was looking at a spot on the wall - mayhap a moth, or a small spider. He shook his head. "I . . . ."

"I mean, what should we do?"

"Well, first, you mean?"

A pause. Gimli sat silent. "I should think the storm is gone," the Dwarf said then, casually.

"Hm." Aragorn eyed the wall. Was the spot moving? His eyes fixed on it, but a part of his mind refused shock's invitation and set itself to considering the musts. Must notify Lorien and Rivendell. Must send word to Frodo . . . and Sam. 'Dear Friends, a great hero has . . . fallen . . . .' Nay - too vague. 'Dear Friends, Prince Legolas -' Nay. 'twas no formality! 'Our beloved friend Legolas is . . . .' Nay. Nay, nay, naynaynay. His hands shook. There were no words.

He would send word, though, and when the scribe, standing formal before Masters Baggins and Gamgee, broke the official seal of Gondor and unrolled the letter, two Hobbit faces would doubtlessly wear trusting smiles. News from a good friend - is there any who hears news from a good friend far away and at once knows the news to be bad? His words would be read. His words would hang in the air of the mayor's office, or the chamber where Hobbiton's guests were duly greeted, and they would cease to be mere sounds but would become instruments of keening misery. The Hobbits would come, ride in, be met by his escort. Their faces would be tired, their eyes red.

All would gather, then, the survivors of the Nine lessened by one more, in a growing mortal gloom. All would weep, either in the company of other sympathetic and grieving hearts or alone, clutching comfortless pillows in the dark. All would speak of . . . him. Aragorn could hear the voices, the stories -

'D'you remember the time - 'twas just before we reached Lothlorien - when he found that nest of baby rabbits that'd been left alone? Remember? The doe had gone off, and he made us all stop a goodly distance from the nest and wait -'

'Oh, yes! And he climbed up a tree and made his way over so he could look down on the nest, and he sat up there and watched over those babies until the mother rabbit came back! Wouldn't leave!'

'The whole Quest stopped for about an hour . . . on account of bunnies!

'I remember that like 'twas yesterday! But do ye recall the time he . . . .'

Amnesia would settle heavy and soothing and too short, and they would laugh as though there were not a hole in the heart of each of them, not an empty chair, not a silenced voice. No silvery starlit laughter would tinkle up to join theirs, and then one of them would notice, and like a cold wave memory would sluice through them all. The laughter would . . . die; the tears would come, and the guilt. How could they laugh at such a time?

There would be . . . protocols. The flag of Gondor would be lowered halfway in impotent remembrance. People in the street would see it and weep, for the Elf had been loved by more than the survivors of the Nine. There would be arrangements.

Aragorn saw the funeral procession, sad and silent, winding its flower-petaled way through the streets. The Walkers alongside, numb. Standing at the final chosen place (a beautiful place 'twould have to be, with trees and grass and wildflowers so that Legolas could be forever with the things a Wood Elf loved), staring at cold ground, some would lean against their fellows and let themselves cry. Others would stand alone, stoic, would deny that inside they were -

What then? What then? Return to life? Return to sun-filled days and trivial conversations over the dining table and drinking around a hearth with good friends? A voice deep inside him whispered spitefully, 'There is naught. There is naught.' He shook his head - the spot was still there, on the wall. Legolas was still . . . .

A low moan startled him, and he whirled toward . . . toward -

Gimli spun as well, a stout dark flash of movement at his side, and together they looked to the bed . . . .

Legolas' eyes were open.

*****

The nothing had disappeared, become something, and he was swimming in it. Floating on it, mindless, dreamless, formless in the dark. He was a mere spark, dim but brightening, and around him the world was in creation. Existence itself was taking shape, becoming what it would be, and he rolled forward into it.

And, as will happen, the dark faded, lightened, rose. He was swept upward for a time - there was time now - and when he reached a certain place he could feel again. Warmth, softness. Then the blinking into awareness of each fibre of him, the turning on of a million lights. He was taking shape. He was becoming. Again.

His voice returned when he tried to use it, and his ears heard a faint moan. There was light beyond the curtain of his eyelids, and he reached forward to embrace that light.

*****

Gimli raced to the bed. Laddie - Laddie - His voice was gone. But by the gods the Elfling was returned! He reached a hand, cautious, and as his fingertips touched Legolas' brow he sucked in a gasp. Warmth. Blessed warmth where there had been naught but chill for so long. Legolas was breathing, warming, and focus was seeping into blue eyes that he had thought would never open again. He looked to the Man, back to the Elf, trying to make sense. Gandalf had told them Legolas was -

"Gandalf!" he said.

"Elbereth! We must find him." Aragorn rushed for the door, flinging it open. "Make haste!" the Man ordered, speaking to one of the attendants outside. Gimli noticed a high tremor, a hint of hysteria, in the normally mellifluous voice. "Locate Gandalf and bid him come! Tell him it is of the utmost urgency. And that it is good news."

Gimli heard a muffled reply from the hall, saw Aragorn stiffen. "What is about?" he whispered.

Aragorn turned back into the room, shaking his head. "The attendant just came on duty. He knows not where Gandalf is."

"Well, command him find someone who does."

"I have." Aragorn joined him at the bed. Together they watched the Elf's slow rise to consciousness, each at times making as if to speak, each then falling silent and waiting. The mass in Gimli's throat had finally cleared, but his breast ached and 'twas difficult to breathe. They had scared the laddie badly before, hurt their friend so badly, and now he stared at Legolas and wondered if the wrong word or a sudden touch would be enough to scare this returning soul away again.

"Sire?" A guard stood in the open doorway. The young man's eyes alit briefly on Legolas, and there seemed a flash of relief in them. "You request Gandalf the White?"

Gimli matched Aragorn's frown - these soldiers certainly required simplicity of instructions - but held his tongue as the King moved away from the bed and whispered a reply: "Of course I request Gandalf. I need him located and brought here at once."

"Aye, my Lord, but we have no idea where to begin searching for the Istari."

That was it. "He is most likely within the confines of these halls, young sir," Gimli said, struggling to keep his voice low even as his frustration with the guards peaked. "Or at most walking the streets outside. Surely someone saw where he got himself to after he left here, especially since it has been but a few moments!"

The guard appeared nonplussed. "I did not see -"

"Then speak to your Captain," Aragorn interrupted. "Gandalf has been attending Prince Legolas for several hours now, since shortly after our return, and he will not have ventured far from this room." The King turned back toward the bed, tacitly dismissing the guard.

The guard, however, did not take the hint. "But Sire," came a protest, "I have already spoken to the Captain, asking him of this, and he says the Istari has not been here." Wide green eyes flicked from Aragorn to Gimli, back to Aragorn. "F-further, Sire, you and Lord Gimli only returned with Prince Legolas twenty minutes ago."

*****

The light reached him dimly and from what seemed a great distance, at first. He felt as though he trod the length of a great long hall, perhaps a dusty corridor wherein a thief sought escape. Perhaps a path from confusion to certainty, from nothing . . . .

His vision cleared. Above him was ceiling, and it was familiar. He stared at it for a moment, then his ears told him of sound and he listened. A voice - low and careful, soothing. 'Legolas,' it called. 'Return, I pray you.' Another call - a different voice: 'Come back to us, Laddie. Come back to us.' He blinked, the world solidifying around him.

Bed. He was in a bed, but not his own. Soft, so soft it was, and warm. In Aragorn's chambers. He tried to turn his head, found himself weak as a newborn and moved his gaze instead. Estel and Gimli both were there, leaning over him. Their eyes were wide and dark, shining.

"Laddie," Gimli whispered. "It's . . . so good to see you again."

He stared at the Man and the Dwarf for a moment, confused, then the wheeling fragments of his memory began to coalesce. A flat colourless place stretched out in all directions, forever. A tree rose from it, a most unexpected tree, and like the place that tree seemed to entertain no thoughts of an end. Infinity wrapped itself in uplifted boughs and leaves that fluttered even with no wind. He was standing at the base of that tree - he had stood at that tree and he had stared up at its foreverness and known true despair. For two faces had hovered beyond the tree, beyond his futile scrabbling. He had fought, seized and scrambled clumsily onto each branch, reached for another, and all the while those beloved faces had been drawing him - Haldir's voice had been pushing him - he had fought even as the fight seemed lost - he had all but given up -

The room blurred; the faces blurred. He felt hands alight on his brow, on his cheek, and he nuzzled at their warmth. The bed creaked and shifted and then his body was held between two others. He was wrapped in strong arms, clutched to a solid breast as he cried. He smelled them, Man and Dwarf, and they were musky, present. Real. He shook and was held tighter, and in his ear he could still feel Haldir's breath, hear Haldir's low fluted voice bidding him go . . . .

This was it. He knew this was what he had fought for, what he had died in the losing of, what he had faced down death to regain. This was . . . all.

*****

Long after Legolas had stopped crying and succumbed to exhaustion in his arms, Aragorn still found himself lifting his head to glance at the door, searching for something. Or perhaps 'twas not that long afterward at all - his perception of time seemed a bit . . . tremulous. It still seemed that Gandalf had visited the chamber, had stood by the bed and stroked Legolas' brow and spoken to them. That the Wizard had been there in the long hours they had spent . . . .

"Did yon guard mean to say we imagined all of it?" Gimli lay on the other side of their friend, staring at Aragorn, whispering his own deeper fears.

"I do not know," he murmured. "Perhaps -"

"Aye?"

"Perhaps Gandalf . . . wherever he is . . . reached out to us in our need. Perhaps he did in fact search for Legolas, but felt that he had failed in the attempt." He shook his head.

"We should ask the Wizard."

"We shall."

Gimli seemed satisfied with that, falling silent and focussing once more on the sleeping Legolas. Aragorn watched the Dwarf's blocky hands as they caressed a gentle path down the Elf's cheek. But he could not dismiss it all so easily. Aye, they had both seen the flowing robes and the staff and the beard, had both seemingly heard much the same message coming from Gandalf's lips. Surely that meant the Istari had come, or had at least conjured for them the image that had greeted their desperate eyes. Still he felt betrayed by his own mind, fooled into believing something that had never been. He had not felt Gandalf's arrival himself but had heard Gimli say the Wizard's name and had then turned to see. He had not noticed Gandalf leave Legolas' side and glide to the sitting area until Gimli had looked in that direction and made mention of it. Neither he nor Gimli had noticed Gandalf leave - and none but they in the room appeared to have seen the Wizard at all.

Aye, now that the truth had been spoken aloud by one perplexed guard, Aragorn's mind readily agreed. The Wizard's drawn face, sorrowful eyes and breaking voice - even the ragged lurching passage of time itself - now seemed vague and distant, surreal.

Had it all come from his mind, from Gimli's mind? A part of him claimed it did not matter - naught could be helped by delving too deep into some things. But he wondered. Had he and the Dwarf, locked together in the intense spiralling dance of their grief, both imagined Gandalf, each of them feeding the other's delusion, because Gandalf alone could have rewritten reality? A heart could hurt so much that it would compel a mind to create elaborate fantasies. A mind could become so desperate that it would lie even to itself in order to grasp one final, futile thread of hope.

To think that any being could love so much. To think that a soul could rend itself, shred itself over the loss of another. Aragorn studied the curve of Legolas' cheek, and marvelled. Tears welled, spilled over; he let them fall. Their Elfling was . . . alive.

*****

The black receded for a bold sun, and still they lay like the cushions a mother places around her infant to keep it from falling off the bed. Gimli's eyes closed, though he was not ready to stop seeing. Sometime near dawn a servant girl had slipped demurely in, asking after the King's needs, and Aragorn had whispered briefly to her. She had blown out the lamps and pulled the heavy drapes open. Just halfway, enough to let in a bit of natural light. Legolas would enjoy that.

"We must know what to say to him," Aragorn whispered, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Aye. We must."

"What say you?" The Man was propped up on one elbow, the other arm wrapped around Legolas.

"We must explain that our anger came from fear, and that he cannot go haring off without knowing the whole of a story first."

"That is exactly what he did."

"Aye."

"I believe we will need . . . to address that."

Gimli sighed. "I believe you are right," he muttered. "But I do not have to like it."

"Nor do I," Aragorn replied softly. "This is too important to let pass. Legolas must -"

"Aye, Lad. I do agree. The Elfling has to know just how seriously we take every single threat to his welfare. If we punish him for putting himself at risk once, then ignore the time after . . . well - we can't be confusing him."

"We cannot be too severe with him, either, for we have also made that mistake."

"Indeed." Gimli eyed Aragorn. The Man's face was pale, taut. "You need rest, friend," he advised.

"And so do you," Aragorn countered, "but I do not see either of us gaining any just yet."

With another sigh, Gimli nodded. Light was easing through the room; Legolas had been in reverie for hours and would surely soon wake. The discussion would happen. "It must come from both of us," he whispered, and felt more tears threatening. Exhaustion.

*****

Waking was rapid the second time - not the arduous journey he had undertaken before. Half in reverie, Legolas stretched out his legs and felt like purring. He woke to find himself clad in a long shirt and lying in Estel's arms. The Man was stretched out alongside him; to his other side Gimli lay. Twin gazes of concern met his own. He lifted one hand quickly to hide a yawn, and smiled shyly as he caught their grins. "How long have I been asleep?" he asked.

Aragorn turned to glance out the window. "I would say five or six hours." The Man turned back, leaned in to kiss his brow the way a father might check a youngling for fever. "How do you feel, Mellon-nin?"

"A little weary, still," Legolas sighed. He could have denied the fatigue yet lingering in his bones, but his friends watched him with such worry and he would not lie to them.

"I expected as much," Estel murmured, hugging him closer. He snuggled into the Man's embrace.

"You are going to need a mite more rest yet, Laddie," came Gimli's rumbling declaration. "But first . . . ." The Dwarf abruptly slipped from their nest, began straightening rumpled clothing.

"Where are you going?" Aragorn asked.

"To get the laddie some nourishment." Gimli was a stout shadow in the hall outside before the Elf could object.

"I do not believe I'm hungry," Legolas offered.

Estel grinned at him. "You will eat anyway."

"I suppose I have little choice in the matter."

"That is where you are wrong, Mellon-nin. You have NO choice in the matter." Estel grinned more broadly, but Legolas could not find a matching sparkle in the Man's eyes.

Gimli reappeared presently carrying a plate laden with fruit and cheese and bread from the kitchens, and Aragorn assisted Legolas to recline, stacking pillows behind him. Four eyes again stared, and he took a morsel of bread.

"That's right, Laddie," the Dwarf praised. "You did not eat at all yesterday. Time to make up for it."

Reluctantly at first he took the food. It tasted strange, somewhat bland and distant, but he forced himself to take another piece after swallowing the first, and another piece after that. Pleasing his companions, he ate, and found his stomach warmed to the idea. In short order he had finished almost half the plate. He looked to Estel and Gimli and it occurred to him. "Have either of you eaten?"

Their looks told the story. "Pray," Legolas entreated, "take some. I need not this much."

"Alright," Aragorn acquiesced, choosing a bit of fruit and nodding to Gimli. "Eat, Master Dwarf."

So together they sat on the soft wide bed in the sunlit chamber and finished the food. Legolas gazed out the window at a brightening day.

"Better?" Gimli asked.

"Aye," he replied.

*****

The plate laid aside, Aragorn rose. His legs were cramped, his back stiff. He could feel their eyes on him as he stretched.

"Why do you not attend to your needs, Estel," Legolas suggested. The Elf, alone in bed as Gimli sat once more in a chair beside, made no move to rise.

He nodded. "I shall be but a few moments. Gimli?"

"Aye, Laddie - I shall be here."

He hastened, washed quickly, ran water through his hair, and all the while his mind composed the words that he would need. 'twas not always easy to speak one's deeper thoughts. So much had come about in a short time, and things most familiar to him seemed suddenly tinged with strangeness. The water felt different sliding down his cheek. The light shone brighter to his eyes. Back to the bed chamber, then; Legolas had not stirred and was gazing out the window while Gimli leaned forward, forearms on knees, watching the Elf.

Aragorn took the other chair, nodded to the Dwarf. "Go. See to yourself." He received a perfunctory nod. Gimli appeared also stiff from their long vigil, stretching thick arms and shoulders.

"I had to climb," Legolas said, after Gimli had left. The Elf's gaze did not stray from the trees outside.

"What?"

"I had to climb," Legolas repeated quietly. "I had to climb a tree. Thought I would not be able . . . ."

Aragorn blinked. "When did you have to climb this tree?"

"When I was . . . there."

Questions rose in the Man's throat, but Legolas sighed and settled deeper into the pillows, and he let the questions go. If Legolas wished to speak further of it, they would.

Gimli returned, beard obviously combed and braided anew, clothing fresh. The Dwarf settled back in the chair at his side, and Aragorn felt a sudden urge to chuckle. They two had certainly given the furniture its good use.

Legolas turned back to them, smiling faintly. "Do you wish to talk now?"

*****

He waited for Gimli to return, for they would wish to speak of it all. His tongue briefly entertained the notion of telling Estel everything he had experienced - the immense emptiness, the silent reaching void, the ever closing door that would have sealed off his heart from them forever. But 'twas too cruel, to give a mortal Man and Dwarf such.

Perhaps their Halls were different from the Elven realms, but to speak of Haldir and how that noble much-loved friend could feel no sorrow over the distance that stretched between them . . . .

Nay. It had no place, now. He smiled wanly as Gimli slipped back into a chair. "Do you wish to talk now?" he asked.

Estel nodded. "There is much to discuss, Mellon-nin."

"Aye."

"We failed you."

Legolas blinked. "What?"

"I said we failed you, Legolas."

"But . . . but how?"

Gimli leaned toward him. "Laddie, we failed you in a score of ways. We struck you in anger; we offered you no comfort afterward; we left you alone while we worried about our own fears. 'tis nigh unforgivable, what we -"

"Gimli, hold." At sight of the Dwarf's raised eyebrows he tried to smirk, but his mirth had fled. His friends berated themselves over what he had done. "Elvellon," he continued more gently, "neither you nor Estel have committed any regrettable act. Aye, you were severe with me, but my behaviour had caused you great strain and I was unable to grasp that. You had to take strong measures to see that I learned, and you did so even though it hurt you as well. And you did send me off alone, but you were in turmoil. Listen to your own words - you had worries and fears that needed attending. You told me at the time that you were both still too upset over events. Elvellon, all you desired was what every one of us needs on occasion - a spell to reflect, to regain your composure and allow wisdom to guide you. And yet I . . . ."

"What?" Gimli urged.

"I left my chamber to go see you, although you bid me stay and wait. I ignored your orders. Are you angry with me for that?"

"Nay, of course not." The answer flowed in a new voice. Estel sat, head tilted, studying him.

Legolas pondered. "But I disobeyed you both. Again."

Aragorn moved to the Elf's side. "Legolas, I know that I speak for both Gimli and myself when I say we would never have you choose deference to our wishes over what you know in your heart to be right. Never. You needed to see us, so you were right to come."

"Oh." He heard the shakiness of his response and found he could not meet Aragorn's eyes.

"Listen to me, Mellon nin," the Man continued. "You must understand that our anger was not about the fact that you gave chase to an intruder, but about the reasons you did. Had the intruder been not a thief but instead a kidnapper, and had he taken someone - one of the citizens or one of my councillors, or Merry or Pippin, for instance - I would have understood completely that you needed to pursue him. There would have been no question, for you are a capable warrior and I would not have you wait idle while an innocent soul is harmed. Nay, I would not have liked the danger posed to you, but I would have understood that you giving chase was right."

Legolas frowned, shook his head. "But he took things, Estel - I saw the guard looking through his bag as they took him away. He stole many jewels, and sculptures, valuable things -"

"Legolas." Man raised a hand to silence Elf. "Now you must hold. He took nothing of value to me."

"Nor me," Gimli added.

"Aye - nor to Gimli. Legolas, he took things. Things that may not be easily replaceable, but things nonetheless, and none of them could hold a place in my heart. A jewel may sparkle and be worth much coin, but can it smile or laugh or make me do so? A sculpture may have great beauty, but can it toss the hair from its face or climb a tree or feel warm when I wish to embrace it? If I desire a sparkle I have only to look in your eyes. If I desire a beautiful moment captured I have only to seek you in the gardens at night, when you grow still and gaze at the moon. He took nothing, my friend, for you are of more value to me than any 'thing' inside these walls."

"Or beyond." The Dwarf had shifted closer and, as if recognizing coming tears, laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

Aragorn nodded. "That is why we were so angry. You took substantial risk for nothing of real value. And you did so in unfamiliar territory. You have told us naught about your chase through the corridors, but I know that a Wood Elf cannot be at home in such a place . . . ."

"Nay," Legolas whispered. He remembered the labyrinthine turns, the echoes that had slammed against his ears from every direction at once, the twisting run through dust-filled darkness.

"And I would imagine that your senses were much confused. I know that mine were."

"Aye."

"What would have happened if, among all those twists and turns and cross-corridors, that armed thief had decided to stop, perhaps conceal himself in a storage chamber or around a corner, and lie in wait for you? Would you, so buried in stone, have still possessed an advantage over him?"

Legolas looked up again, silver tears flowing. They were right; they were right. "I - I do not know," he confessed.

"Neither do I," Aragorn murmured. "And that is what frightens me so."

*****

Aragorn continued to watch the Elf; he was relieved to see the tears stop quickly. "What I don't understand . . . ." he began, his voice trailing into silence.

"What?" Legolas was leaning toward him.

"You do not run from things, Mellon nin. You do not run from Orcs or Uruk-hai or even a Balrog, which terrifies you like no other beast. You do not run from evil, from hatred, from battle, from pain, or from death itself. Why did you run from this?"

Legolas fell silent, blue eyes reflective, dark, and Aragorn thought the question might go unanswered. He was about to leave off with it, declare it in need of no answer, suggest more reverie, when the Elf spoke again: "I do not run from the monsters of war, as you say, Estel. Nor do I fear physical hurt or the passage into Mandos' Halls. But since we defeated Sauron, you know that I have felt the sea longing, and it has been strong in me. Stronger, at times, than I ever imagined it could be."

Aragorn nodded, holding his tongue.

"My people," Legolas continued, "have poured from Middle Earth like water from a spout, or like blood from a grievous hurt. The woods wherein I was raised lie empty now, though evil plagues them no longer. So many of the places I knew have had their souls rent and thrown to the west, while here I remain. Yet I do not cling to the courage that has seen me through battle. I am tied to this land by those I love here, and it is to that I cling. It is to that I look when a voice deep within me wonders how I could not have sailed to the West with so many of my kin."

"You still can go, Laddie, whenever you wish." Gimli had not spoken; now, the words came out gruff, halting.

Legolas smiled at the Dwarf. "I know, Elvellon, and someday I shall. For now, however, I feel this connection to Middle Earth, and it is strong enough to make me stay. But when I thought . . . ."

"When you thought we had ceased to care about you, you knew not where to go." Aragorn cursed himself inwardly. He had stared out his study window and done naught to ease his friend's grief. The epithets strung together in his mind, but Legolas was speaking again and he forced himself to focus.

"I thought . . . I thought that I had lingered here far too long because of my attachments to you . . . and that those very attachments had then resulted in the destruction of friendships I value over all else. I felt unworthy to remain; I felt equally unworthy to answer the sea's calling. My only option was Mandos' Halls, and in my confusion they beckoned me.

Aragorn stared at the Elf, recalled the hellish search and the desperation and the cold. His eyes burned. "I am so . . . happy that you chose to leave them and return to us," he murmured. "Please never listen to them again. Please."

Gimli turned to Aragorn, rubbed the Man's shoulder. "Lad, I think 'tis time we carry out that 'talk' upon which we had decided.

*****

Legolas' blue eyes went impossibly wide with realization, and Gimli knew that if he allowed himself he would happily drown in their depths. Such was the urge, so intense, so compelling, to slip back onto the bed, lie back as he had during the long black night, and cradle his Elfling. A part of his heart had long since accepted that he would spend his life childless, and there were times when he looked upon that truth with sore regret. Never would he see a beloved youngling grow, blossom into potential, become the respected and noble being of his hopes. Never would he know a precious soul that would carry on his line.

But carrying on a line meant more than simply passing on blood, skin colouring, the same nose or eyes or curve of jaw. It encompassed every value and dream that one could hold dear. It meant passing on faith and honour and courage and hope and all the other things that mattered. Nay - he might never have imagined it, but he could now see his mortal self carrying on within a gold-and-silver soul, within alabaster skin and a heart that, gods willing, would eternally beat in time to the rhythm of the trees. Legolas was as much his youngling as any he could sire, and as he gazed into sky-blue eyes so unlike those of a Dwarfling he felt his breast swell and his throat tighten. They were too much for him, the feelings thus stirred, but he continued to look, to feel. Aragorn was at his side, silent.

"Laddie," he began, "do you know how much we love you?"

"Aye," Legolas whispered. "I forgot, for a time. I cannot believe that I forgot, but I remember now. I do."

Gimli nodded. "I'm so glad of it, my friend. I hope you know that we will always be interested in your welfare. First and last, your safety means everything to us."

The eyes glistened, became shimmering oceans. "Aye," the Elf whispered again.

"Alright then." Gimli surrendered to instinct and wrapped his arms around his friend. "You know, Laddie, that we're going to be having another discussion about this," he continued. Feeling Legolas stiffen, he hastened forth: "'twon't be like last time, Sweetness. Not at all. We shall be here, the both of us, all the way through. We won't be leaving you to your fears or your sorrow. Never again, Laddie. Never again." He stroked soft hair and cooed reassurances and breathed of his young one. That scent was imprinted on the deepest parts of his soul.

Eternally would it be.

*****

Aragorn watched Gimli reluctantly end the embrace and he indulged himself then, reaching out to brush the back of his hand over Legolas' cheek. Such warmth he felt there. 'twould have made a perfect day to spend it such, just talking and listening, revelling in touch. But the time had come, and he pulled his hand away. "Are you alright, Mellon-nin?" he asked quietly.

Legolas nodded. "I believe so. Nay - I am."

"Then I ask you to listen, both to Gimli's words about how important your safety is to us, and to me when I ask you never to run off again. I know that you truly believed we were going to send you away, but I would ask - nay, I would insist - that you always come to us with your troubles."

"I would insist as well, Laddie," Gimli interjected.

Legolas looked from Man to Dwarf and back again. "But if you were indeed ready to have me gone, then would you not have had me take my leave without bothering you further?"

"Nay, Mellon-nin," Aragorn replied firmly, shaking his head. "Nay. Listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Aye, of course."

"Good. Legolas, no matter how angry Gimli and I might be with you, we will always want to see you again. We will always want to be honest with you. And had we actually intended to send you away -"

"Which would never happen!"

"Aye, as Gimli says, which would never happen - but even if we had intended such a thing, we would have been honest about it. We will always tell you the truth, Legolas, and the truth is eternally preferable to an assumption. No matter how painful that truth might be, it is better than not knowing. Come to us, Mellon-nin. I will never fault you your doubts - indeed, I blame our failures for the uncertainties that plagued you - but always come to us and let us explain."

"I will," Legolas nodded. "I promise."

Aragorn studied the Elf. Blue eyes were dry, incredibly, but he could see darkness moving through them, could read remorse and a hint of fear. Of Man and Dwarf? Nay - not of them. "Mellon-nin," he prodded, "what are you thinking?"

Legolas met his gaze squarely. "I am thinking of my unbelievably good fortune. I surrendered to insecurity and ran away from you; I was ready to surrender my very life. You could have . . . let me go."

He smiled at the Elf. "Never," he replied. "And although Gimli may yet tire of my speaking for him -"

"Gimli agrees." The Dwarf sat, thick arms folded, as though daring Legolas to argue.

"Gimli agrees," Aragorn murmured. "Never will we turn away from you. I know your heart, Prince, and 'tis not capable of evil. Never could you commit an act to drive us from your side, nor to extinguish our love for you."

From the corner of his eye he caught Gimli's nod, and moved to sit beside Legolas on the bed. As he gently guided the Elf over his lap Gimli crouched beside them, taking Legolas' hands. "I'll be staying right here, Laddie," the Dwarf promised.

He lifted the tail of the sleep shirt, took an appraising look at the pale skin before him. Legolas looked healed but would undoubtedly still be sore. This would be quick, though, and light. The point had already been made.

"Alright, Mellon nin. You shall receive ten from me, and then ten from Gimli. Are you ready?"

Another nod, unequivocal, but the Ranger could hear a not-quite suppressed whimper. Gimli shifted both Legolas' slender hands into one of his thick square ones, then raised the other to stroke the Elf's hair and nodded to Aragorn.

In reply Aragorn raised his hand and brought it down, his eyes already on the back of Legolas' head. Never again would he mete out mindless discipline. He knew Gimli was watching as well, monitoring Legolas for signs of distress, but still his ears strained. He raised his hand again, looked back to the pale bottom where a single faint palm print showed on one cheek. He matched it on the other cheek, caught Gimli's eye and received another nod.

So he counted out the next eight slowly, cautiously. By the fifth Legolas was weeping; Gimli moved forward at those first tears and wrapped strong arms around the Elf, held the trembling shoulders and pressed kisses to the fair brow. Aragorn paused after each swat, waited for the Dwarf to bid him cease, but Gimli did not speak and he trusted Gimli's judgment. When the ten had been delivered he gently righted his crying friend, murmuring words of reassurance and love until Legolas calmed.

Then it was Gimli's turn to take up position on the bed while Aragorn knelt to tend the Elf. He waited not but took Legolas in his arms as Gimli had done, and as the first light spank landed he whispered, "We love you," into a pointed ear. Legolas nuzzled against him, sobbing, and as the second slap sounded he repeated those three words. Over and over, keeping time. He breathed it into the Elf's ear, into the Elf's heart, a mantra and a vow. Legolas had to know.

And then he realized the spanking had ended, and he had remained there whispering of love while Gimli rubbed Legolas' back and waited on them both. He lifted his head, carefully lifted the Elf. The Dwarf rose from the bed, turned and pulled back the blankets, and Aragorn laid Legolas, who yawned easily against him like the sleepy Elfling yawns against its Ada’s breast, down. He reached for a cup he had set on the bedside table.

"Just drink this," he urged, stroking flaxen hair. He took the empty cup, leaned down to kiss Legolas' brow and whisper another 'I love you,' and watched as sleep claimed his friend.

*****

A sunbeam had found him. He could feel it warm on his face, and for a time he simply drifted, hovered in that space between slumber and waking. No knowledge beyond the instinctive knowledge that everything was alright. No awareness beyond warmth. 'You have been here before,' something deep and far back in his mind whispered, but it mattered not. This was a good place to be. No fear, no pain, naught but instinct and the most primitive of sense.

He drifted upward, blinked as the shreds of reverie fell away and the room returned to focus. Not his room, but the King’s chamber. He still lay in the King’s bed, curled on his side, and the blankets were tucked securely about him. The world was soft, so soft that a place in him claimed it could remember the time before conscious memory even began, when he had been but a tiny part of something larger and all he had known was comfort. He gazed out the open window and saw a cloudless late morning sky, smelled lilac. And then awareness returned in full and he felt a slight burn in his backside and remembered.

It had hurt, as 'twas always supposed to hurt, but not in the same way. He had lain there on the bed and thought about the time before, the loneliness and the ceaseless pain and the shame of knowing they didn't even want to hold him when it was done. But they had both said it would be different, and it had been. Gimli had held his hands at first, while Estel had landed noticeably light slaps. Later, when his tears had come, Gimli had embraced him and kissed his brow and made him feel safe. And when it had come Gimli's turn, Estel had held him all the way through. Aye, it had been cautious and loving and very different.

But it had hurt. Not yet fully recovered from his last trip over their knees, he had felt each swat distinctly. Further, his emotions had risen like a river that has been too long held captive behind the dam. The warm sting in his bottom had made him remember feeling cold. The sound of a hand against his skin had reached his ears and made him remember hearing naught. First Gimli's, then Estel's breath had caressed his face and made him remember Haldir's breath. Could spirits breathe? That one had done so much more, had guided him, opened his unseeing eyes and sent him . . . home. And he had cried not from the sting of his friends' hands but from a sudden and startlingly clear sense of how far he had gone, how willingly he would have made that choice never to return. He could not tell them - he would not tell them. They were the owners of his heart and they did love him. He would remember that, remember how easily his doubts had conspired to turn him from them for ! eternity, and he would never allow such to happen again. But he would not tell them and wound them so.

Nay, for there were times when he could shelter them, as well.

The spankings had ended and Estel had lifted him, settled him on his belly in the soft warm bed, put a cup to his lips. Reverie had beckoned once more, the world slipping ever further away, but he had felt no fear. They had been with him. They would be with him.

He yawned and turned onto his other side, feeling the sting again as his bottom connected with the sheets. Estel and Gimli sat each a chair by the bed, watching him.

"You are here," he breathed.

Estel leaned forward, smiling, and reached out a hand to stroke his hair. "Sweetheart, we never left."

*****

Aragorn had agreed to go, finally, and seek rest, but on the condition that it be only a few hours before the servants would issue a wake-up, and then the King would replace Gimli in his vigil. Truly, there was no more need to watch over the Elf. Legolas was fair of complexion but not pale now, and if touched was reassuringly warm. Gimli had, over the preceding hours, often discovered his fingertips brushing against the Elf's soft cheek, caressing the Elf's silky hair, and each time he had realized himself unaware of having reached out. Instinct, he supposed, rising and taking control, insisting that he check one more time. 'Is he breathing?' Aye. 'Are you certain?' Aye, again. 'Make sure he doesn't catch chill.' Aye, a wise idea.

Legolas had surely gained enough rest during the night, when he and Aragorn had lain themselves down on either side of the bed like watchful first-time parents unable to stop hovering over their young. And there had been more rest come morning, after they had talked about it all while coaxing their friend to nibble from the plate he had brought, after they had unequivocally declared their love through words and kisses and embraces and even through the sting of their palms against the Elfling's backside. Indeed Legolas had protested more sleep, bright eyes proclaiming fitness for all things Elven again. In response, Aragorn had simply prepared another draught, and they had agreed that all was well as their friend had slipped back into reverie.

Gimli stretched and yawned. He knew Aragorn would not have found slumber without the knowledge that he was here, by this bed, in vigil over this soul, and he knew also that his own coming rest would only come if he knew that Aragorn was present at their Elfling’s side.

He heard a soft sigh, and instinctively his hands moved to pull up the blankets a touch. He resisted the urge to lean in with a kiss, for Legolas was stirring and would wake soon enough, and he wanted the reverie to last a bit longer. Just a bit longer before he and Aragorn would be forced to let the precious one out of their sight, out of their sheltering arms. Aye, Legolas was an accomplished soldier, an accomplished warrior, and they had all reaped the benefits of Elven courage during the Quest. Aye, Legolas had lived long centuries before coming to know them, had fought close by their side and travelled far from their reach. Aye, the future would come, and Legolas would battle, dream, laugh, weep, live while their bones rested in the ground, and that would be alright. But for the moment they were together and could reach out with a hug, could bid the Elf stay a little closer to them, could guide and teach and fret . . . and adore. A little sheltering never did a s! oul any harm.

He moved to the window, memory heavy in him, and looked out over spires and shops and low houses, fields once bloody that now shimmered gold with wheat. Minas Tirith was glorious, a great white city shining in afternoon sun. He could see smoke rising from the smithy, hear the occasional snatch of conversation or laughter from the grounds below, smell lilac wafting on a light breeze. The storm was long gone. The rain had washed everything.

*********************************************************************************

Epilogue~

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF -" A bellow, indignation and ire fused into one booming voice, rose on the early morning air. Pages and servants startled from their quiet routines. Birds in the trees just outside hied into flight. For a moment, all activity in the Citadel stopped; for a moment all held their breath. Fair and noble, King Elessar was still known for his sharp temper, and curiosity was not enough to propel any into closer investigation of the regent's current mood. Nay, if Elessar's back was up about something, especially so early in the day, then the staff would just as happily remove themselves from it. So remove themselves they did, and they waited to see what came about.

Except for one. Those in the main upper hall, the hall along which lay the royal chamber and rooms for honoured guests, saw a door down the way being flung open, then heard heavy steps sounding on stone. Gimli - Lord Gimli - ran with axe at hand, ready to defend the King. He had heard Aragorn's yell and been out of his own chamber before the echoes of it finished sliding down the walls. Warrior instincts rise easily, thrusting a body into motion. Now he ran, weapon ready.

A part of him knew the axe would be unneeded, though, for Aragorn's voice had carried not so much alarm as surprise and annoyance. The guards did not seem to be coming either - but then he figured none of their hearts were beating as his now did, in anticipation. None of their lips were likely curving into a smile. He ran faster down the long hall, eager to make that room.

In through the door, and there it was. There it was indeed. Gimli stopped, the axe falling to his side, and could not help but gape. Aragorn stood in the doorway of the bathing chamber, and by the gods no King had ever managed to look so utterly menacing and so utterly ridiculous at the same time! What a mess. From the looks of it, a runny paste - likely flour and water mixed - had been suspended cleverly in a pail above the door. Ropes had been fashioned with no little ingenuity so that when the door opened, the pail would tip but remain in place, and sure enough the target had been thoroughly . . . covered.

Oh, but Aragorn was a sight! Dark locks now dripped with sticky whitish-grey stuff; the Man's face was a surly mask of it. Shirt and cloak and leggings were similarly affected, and some of the unappetizing muck looked ready to run clear into the Man's boots! But what caught Gimli's attention more than the sight of Gondor's once dignified King coated like a pullet ready for frying was the single other witness to that scene.

Across the room, next to the heavy drapes which had recently stood silent guard over a deathbed, Legolas hovered. Light, silvery Elven laughter danced in the air; the Elfling's eyes sparkled at Aragorn. And Aragorn glared at the mischief-maker, saw the brilliant smile, heard the laughter, and began himself to laugh. Gimli chuckled quietly then felt his own laughter rise to join theirs, and 'twas as though a door long closed were finally swinging open once more. In the room, laughter reigned. Down the halls it flowed, exuberant, joyous.

A few servants had seen Lord Gimli run, axe at the ready, toward King Elessar's chamber. A few close by then heard another sound, a long-absent sound, and they smiled and turned back to their work.

Finis