Empty darkness. That’s all there was, or at least all there seemed to be. An endless sea of black nothingness seemed to stretch out into eternity all around him. It was not a cold, desolate, or frightening place, just still and very peaceful. There was no up, down, right, or left. Just the sensation of suspended weightlessness.

There was no way to tell the passage of time, but he felt like he had been there a long time. He felt himself stirring, waking. He tried to move but found himself unable to. He relinquished his struggles for a moment and fell back, trying to recover his bearings.

What was going on? Where was he? How did he get here? Why couldn’t he move?

He tried to stretch out his senses to discover the answers to these mysteries, but the darkness refused to yield any answers. He lay there for a moment trying to decide what to do. But before he could, there, in the distance came a dim light. As he watched in fascination, the light began to grow and move towards him.

It was gray and hazy, like a dense fog. As it began to encircle him, he felt a stir of apprehension and fear. What was this? What was happening? At first, he tried to recoil away from the light, frightened by the strangeness of it all. But as it continued to close in around him, he felt a familiar presence nearby, hiding somewhere beyond the fog. He paused. He knew this presence.

Who it was he could not say, but it felt familiar and safe.

Calmed by this mysterious person’s presence, he let himself relax. The fog continued to deepen and close in around him. He suddenly felt himself floating upwards towards the light, but he was no longer afraid. This felt right. He had been in the darkness too long. And he was ready to go back to the light.

******

The Fourth Age

October 18, 1426

Fall had once again descended upon the city of Minas Tirith. The noticeable chill of coming winter was in the air as was the whispered promise of something unforseen to occur. The trees had blossomed into beautiful plumes of deep reds, oranges, and yellows. Every so often a leaf would fall away from its stem and lazily drift to the ground, adding itself to the collection of fallen leaves already blanketing the ground. The sky overhead was bright and clear, small cotton puff clouds dotting the tranquil blue backdrop.

Even in the Hall of Kings, the calm peacefulness of the afternoon was evident. Its darkened hallways and corridors lay quiet and still. Walking down the western wing of the palace strode the dwarf Gimli. He walked with purposeful strides, knowing exactly where he was heading. On either side of him along the hallway were doors to numerous guestrooms reserved for close friends and relatives of the royal family whenever they were visiting the white city of Gondor.

Gimli was well acquainted with this section of the palace. He had stayed there numerous times during the years in which he had still been known to frequent the city of Minas Tirith on a regular basis. But even though it had been over a year since his last visit to the white city, he still knew his way around the large and complex palace as if it were only yesterday.

Actually the only reason Gimli was even in the country of Gondor at that time was to oversee the construction of a new library being added onto the Hall of Kings, by request of King Elessar. Otherwise it would have been very safe to say he would have been found back in his mines of Aglarond. He rarely ever came to Minas Tirith anymore. It wasn’t that he didn’t like coming to the white city and seeing his friends. It was just that there were too many painful memories there. Ever since that terrible rockslide that took Legolas away from them and locked him away in a dreamless black prison of unconsciousness over five years ago, Gimli could not walk down a street or go into a local tavern without somehow being reminded of the lighthearted elf. So after a while – as time dragged on and it became increasingly clear that Legolas was not going to wake from his coma – he just stopped coming at all.

But Aragorn had been insistent on wanting the dwarf there to oversee construction of his new library and also see his old friend again, so Gimli had reluctantly agreed. His return to Minas Tirith had actually not been as bad as he had first expected it to be. He supposed the pain of his missing friend was finally fading. The memory of Legolas’ cheerful smile and laugh was slowly dimming and starting to blur around the corners in his mind’s eye. The thought of all those things he never had had the chance to tell the elf before his untimely accident was still a source of lingering regret for the dwarf, but it no longer sent a stab of pain and sorrow through his heart. It was a sad thing to admit, but only natural after so long a time of hopeless waiting and prayer. He just hoped he wasn’t starting to forget.

And it was that fear that had actually brought him to this section of the palace. He was afraid of forgetting. He was afraid of forgetting Legolas and all they had shared together after the forming of their unlikely friendship. Though he knew he would never actually forget that kindhearted elf he befriended so many years ago, there was still that tiny inkling of fear in the back of his mind.

And it was that fear that had actually driven him to accept Aragorn’s request to come back to Minas Tirith, and drove him now down this hallway. He needed to see his friend and be reminded... lest he forget.

He walked for several more moments of silent reflection before a sudden shout behind him abruptly startled him out of his reverie. "Master Dwarf!"

Gimli stopped and turned around. Down the hallway, coming towards him, were the twin sons of Lord Elrond. Elladan and Elrohir were dressed in identical autumn robes of deep, russet red, their dark haired braided away from their faces and flowing down their back like dark waterfalls.

Damn them, Gimli grumbled to himself. He hated it when Elrond’s twin sons dressed exactly alike. He could barely tell them apart as it was, but when they dressed alike like this it was all but impossible. He hated it when they could use his name so freely in conversation with him with no reservations while he himself struggled not to use names so he wouldn’t look daft by accidentally calling one brother by the other’s name. Sometimes he couldn’t help but think the two elves did that on purpose just to see how confused and befuddled they could make people – especially him.

"Gimli!" called one of the dark haired elves happily as the two of them in unison came to a stop in front of the dwarf, "It has been a long time since we last saw you here in Minas Tirith! When did you arrive?"

"Just this morning," he replied as he surreptitiously eyed the two elves for any markings or distinguishing characteristics that could help tell them apart. He couldn’t see any.

"How long will you be staying with us, Gimli?" asked the other elf with an innocent smile, deliberately emphasizing the dwarf’s name as if an invitation – or bait – to reciprocate the gesture.

"Not long," Gimli answered, still secretly analyzing the brothers, "Probably no more than a few weeks."

"That is a shame," remarked the first elf as he looked to his twin with a mischievous smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, "We had hoped you would be planning on staying with us a little longer. We hardly ever see you these days, Gimli," he said, again putting extra emphasis on the dwarf’s name.

The dwarf pursed his lips together tightly and narrowed his eyes. So these impish elves were trying to get him to slip up and use their names. "A dwarf is always busy, unlike you elves who like to spend your days sitting in trees," he retorted.

"Now that’s not a fair statement, Gimli," said the other brother, raising his hands up in front of his chest as if trying to fend off insult. "We elves happen to work just as hard as any dwarf. We just prefer not wear the dirt of our toils on our bodies as proof of our day’s labors," he said, proudly displaying his pristine clean hands to Gimli as he gave a quick but deliberate glance down at the dwarf’s own dirt-creased nails and hands.

But instead of biting on the elf’s baited comment, Gimli instead let a victorious smile spread across his bearded face. "It would seem not, Master Elladan," he agreed, smiling broadly, "But perhaps you and your brother, Elrohir, just do not understand the feeling of dirt on your hands at the end of the day and knowing you accomplished something."

The elf in question seemed taken by surprise and looked at the dwarf with a certain type of amazement for seeing through their joke. Gimli smiled wider. He remembered sometime long ago Aragorn once mentioning to him over a glass of wine how his older foster-brother Elladan was fond of wearing a ring on his right hand, unlike his twin who did not partake in donning jewelry. Aragorn had then even admitted to Gimli how at times that was the only way he himself could tell his foster-brothers apart. Now it seemed Aragorn’s little inside information had finally proven useful. For there on the right ring finger of the elf standing before him sat a gold ring with a small red stone set into its band while the other twin wore nothing on his hands.

Elladan looked to his brother in bewilderment, still confused by how Gimli had managed to see through their game. Elrohir gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, indicating his own mystification. The two then looked back at the dwarf, as if silently asking him to explain how he had managed such a thing. But the dwarf only smiled back with a smug smirk of triumph.

Shaking his head, the younger twin smiled and bowed his head graciously in defeat to the victorious miner. "So tell us, Master Dwarf," he then said, moving on to slightly more serious things, "Where are you going today? Any place we can accompany you?"

Gimli’s smile slowly faded. "Actually I was on my way to visit Legolas..." he said, trailing off slightly.

The twin brothers’ smiles also slipped from their faces. "Oh," Elladan murmured, looking down at the floor uncomfortably, "We did not know..."

"Would you still like some company?" Elrohir offered hesitantly, all signs of previous mirth gone from his fair voice, "We would be happy to sit there with you for a while if you wish."

"Thank you, but I think I will go by myself," Gimli declined, "I haven’t seen him for so long, I think I just want a moment alone with him..."

"Of course. Of course," Elrohir said, his voice low and laced with old but lingering heartache at the mention of their comatose friend, "We will be nearby if you decide differently or need anything. Just call." With that he and his brother turned and continued down the hallway, heading back towards their own apartments.

Gimli stood for a minute, his resolve to visit his comatose friend slowly dissolving as he watched the elven brothers disappear down the hall. He truly did want a moment by himself with Legolas, but he was nervous to see him alone. The last time he had seen Legolas, the elf had been only a withered shadow of his former self – the strong and beautiful warrior Gimli had once known. And that had been over a year ago. How much more had Legolas’ body deteriorated since then? He did not really want to find out.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Gimli swallowed his misgivings and hardened himself to the task at hand. He would not be kept from his friend’s bedside because of fear. Only a coward would turn back now. Resolving himself to his decision, the dwarf turned and slowly continued down the hall towards the room where he knew Legolas was roomed.

Coming to the door of Legolas’ old guestroom, Gimli hesitated. Did he really want to do this? Did he really want to see Legolas’ thin, wasted body curled up on itself beneath the sheets like some wretched creature? Did he really want to see his friend’s cold, vacant eyes lifelessly staring up towards the ceiling through narrowed eyelids, and know there was nothing he could do to break the elf out of his trance?

He didn’t. He really didn’t. That was one of the reasons he had stopped coming to Minas Tirith – so he could escape those horrible images. But he had to see his friend. He could not help but think how if the situation had been reversed, and it was himself laying there in that bed beyond that door, Legolas would not have turned away from such a simple task as sitting by his friend’s bedside for even just a few minutes.

So with a deep, calming breath, Gimli slowly turned the handle to Legolas’ room and pushed the door open. He stood there in the doorway for several moments, letting his eyes adjust to the slightly brighter lighting of the room and take in the room’s interior.

It was exactly as Legolas had left it. Even after all this time it looked exactly the same way it did that fateful day Legolas left to return to his elven colony all those years ago. Gimli could not help but feel a momentary stab of nostalgia through his heart. He and Legolas had spent that night before Legolas’ accident playing cards in this room, happily enjoying each other’s company with no idea of the horrible event that would soon separate them.

Gimli slowly turned his eyes toward the large bed sitting on the far left side of the room. For a minute, he almost thought it was empty. But as he continued to stare, he was able to make out the thin, motionless form of a body laying beneath the sheets of the bed – only a tiny mound in a sea of bedding.

The dwarf took a hesitant step into the room and slowly approached the bed. On the far side of the bed was a chair positioned next to Legolas’ bedside. Gimli quietly sat back in it, and looked down at his sleeping friend.

Legolas looked no different than the last time he had seen him – except perhaps a little thinner if that was even possible. His body was barely even noticeable beneath the thick covers of the bed he was so thin. High, once finely sculpted cheekbones now protruded from the elf’s face almost obtrusively as if he had been starved for a long period of time, which in a way was not far from the truth despite the force feedings administered to him twice a day by servants assigned to watch over the comatose prince.

The elf lay motionless with his long, withered arms folded up over his stomach. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was barely even perceptible to the dwarf’s watching eyes. Legolas’ long, unbraided hair flowed out over the pillow beneath his head like thick waves of golden silk. Shorter locks of pure white streaked the left side of the elf’s long golden mane near the site of the traumatic head wound he received there over five years ago. Vacant blue eyes stared up towards the ceiling through thin, narrowed eyelids, much like Gimli had already expected.

Gimli slouched forward in his seat and hung his head with a weary sigh. Oh, Legolas... He thought he had moved past the pain. But it seemed he had not. He could feel that partially healed wound deep inside his heart rip open again and weep at the sight of his friend’s miserable state.

Perhaps if the dwarf had not been so consumed by thoughts of pity and sorrow, he might have noticed a sharpened glint of actual awareness spark somewhere deep inside the unconscious elf’s liquid blue eyes.

Gimli’s eyes slowly scanned the elf’s body. He was so still. How could he just lay here so still? He could still remember how Legolas used to fight in battle, his arms and legs moving in swift, quick movements of complete balance and grace so fast he could barely follow with his eyes. Was this really the same elf? It all seemed so long ago he could no longer tell.

His eyes slowly traveled back up to Legolas’ face. He looked so peaceful, lost in his dreamless black nightscape of unconsciousness. Gimli felt his throat constrict with an unbidden rush of emotions. Gods, how much he missed that elf. His smile. His laughter. His witty comebacks that always proved useful for a good round of verbal sparring. But most of all he missed his presence and company. The elf had always had such a way of spreading light wherever he went.

Gimli sighed. If Legolas ever did wake up, the first thing he would tell that elf was how much he and his friendship had meant to him and how badly he had missed him over the years.

Laying across his chest, the tip of one of Legolas’ fingers gave a small twitch, as if jolted by a tiny electric shock.

But almost all hope of Legolas ever waking up again was gone. It had been over five years since the accident and Legolas still lay here lost in this coma.

Gimli’s eyes slowly drifted to the elf’s head. He could no longer see the traumatic head wound that had put his friend into such a deep, death-like sleep, but he could still see its lasting effects. Legolas’ hair had grown back over the twisted scar on the side of his head, but it had come back completely white. Gimli shook his head. Out of all the devastation wrought on the elf, this was what bothered him the most. Legolas had always been so proud of his hair. Gimli had always joked Legolas about how much time and effort he had always put into braiding his hair and keeping it so clean and immaculate. But now it just made his heart ache.

Another barely perceptible twitch came from the comatose elf’s finger.

It was so unfair. Gimli didn’t know what was worse; Legolas’ white streaked hair or the horrible scar he knew lay underneath. Both seemed like such a horrible crime to be inflicted on such a gentle and noble creature. Without really knowing why, Gimli suddenly had the urge to just touch those snowy white strands. Perhaps he just needed to know they were truly real and not just some cheap trick.

He slowly reached out a hand and plucked a small lock of white hair from the rest of Legolas’ golden mane laying on the pillow. He held it for a moment between his fingers. It was impossibly soft and fine, even softer than the rest of the elf’s hair. Gimli could feel the sting of tears beginning to well up in the corners of his eyes. But just as he was about to drop the elf’s hair and lean back in his chair, something startling happened.

Legolas reached up and grabbed his wrist.

Gimli cried out in surprise and instinctively tried to wretch his hand out of Legolas’ grasp, but the elf’s fingers only tightened.

Legolas’ eyes shot open. His back arched up over the bed as if jolted back to life. "The rocks! Landslide!" he cried out blindly, his bright blue eyes suddenly wide and full of life. His body violently twisted under the sheets as if trying to run away from something. "The rocks! The rocks! No! Help!" he screamed, still holding onto the dwarf’s hand as if for dear life. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, glazed with disoriented fear and confusion. "Help! Please!"

Gimli sat frozen in complete shock. He could feel Legolas’ fingers weakly wrapped around his wrist and see the elf’s painfully thin body convulsing beneath the covers of the bed, but the scene still did not seem to fully register in his frozen mind.

Legolas’ cries and thrashes slowly died away as he started to become more aware of his surroundings. Breathing hard, the elf’s eyes darted around wildly, disoriented and confused. "The rocks... The rocks... Landslide..." he stammered deliriously, looking about the room as if expecting to see a towering wall of dirt and rock bearing down on him.

Using the elf’s momentary distraction, Gimli finally wretched his hand free from the elf’s slackened grasp. Legolas’ eyes immediately alighted on the dwarf sitting in the chair beside him. Legolas looked at Gimli for a long moment of silence. "Gimli?" he rasped in a weak, sandpapery voice.

Gimli stared at the elf openly, his mind frozen in disbelief. He tried to move his mouth to speak, but could not find the power to form any words.

"Wh– what happened?" Legolas demanded in a frail voice as he looked around the room in bewilderment, "How did I get here?" Getting no response from the speechless dwarf, he tried to push himself up onto his elbows, but immediately collapsed back down into the pillows, his arms too weak to support him. Startled, the elf again tried to push himself up, but was again met with failure. Becoming frightened by his lack of ability to sit up, Legolas looked to Gimli. "What happened? Why can’t I move?" he demanded, his dry, raspy voice cracking in panic.

Just at that moment there came the sound of running feet from the darkened hallway beyond the door of Legolas’ room. Brought running by Gimli’s cry and panicked shouts, the twin sons of Lord Elrond burst into the room. "Gimli!" Elrohir shouted worriedly as he quickly scanned the room and spotted the dwarf near the side of Legolas’ bed. "What happened? What’s wro..." he trailed off abruptly as he was met by a pair of frightened blue eyes staring back at him from the confines of the large bed. Beside the younger twin came a startled gasp as Elladan also saw the blond prince laying awake against the pillows.

"What happened to me?" Legolas cried, turning his attention from Gimli to the stunned elves in the doorway, "Why can’t I move?"

"Legolas..." Elrohir whispered, staring at the awakened elf with an expression of complete disbelief.

"Oh my gods..." Elladan murmured beside his brother.

"Why won’t you answer me?!" the blond prince cried in rising panic, "Why can’t I move?!"

As if breaking out of their trance at once, the twin brothers rushed Legolas’ bedside. "By Eru’s grace... How did this happen?" Elladan cried as he reached the elf’s bed and leaned down over the archer, his hands automatically reaching out to touch Legolas’ face as if unable to believe such a miracle could have happened without first touching the elf to confirm what he saw was actually true.

"Legolas? Legolas, oh thank the Valar!" Elrohir cried, also converging on the bewildered elf and reaching out to touch him too.

Legolas laid there in confusion as the two brothers rushed towards him and leaned down over him, reaching out to touch and pet him as if they had not seen him for a long time. He was about to open his mouth and demand for answers again when the brothers’ hands finally came into contact with his skin; gently brushing against his cheeks and forehead, softly squeezing his shoulder and upper arm.

A rush of emotions suddenly flooded his senses. Like a lightening bolt they shot through his brain to the back of his skull. Gasping in surprise, the elf’s head snapped back against the pillows. A strangled cry broke from his lips as he stiffened and began to weakly writhe under the brothers’ touch. A storm of emotions flooded his mind, overwhelming him. They flashed in his eyes like a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors; reds, blues, yellows, greens, happiness, shock, amazement, disbelief, fear, purples, pinks, and orange. They all whirled through his head like a spinning vortex, dizzying and drowning his senses. All he could see or feel was this assault of emotions invading his mind.

"What is it? What’s happening to him?!" Gimli demanded as he was finally broken out of his trance by the sound of Legolas’ cries and violent thrashes. The dwarf jumped to his feet and was immediately there by the convulsing elf’s side. "What’s going on?!" he cried helplessly as he grasped the elf’s flailing hand in his own, trying to offer comfort.

The intensity of Legolas cries only magnified at the dwarf’s touch as a new barrage of emotions was added to the colorful assault attacking his mind. His wide blue eyes stared up at the ceiling clouded and distant as if he were looking at something a thousand miles away.

"He’s having a seizure," Elrohir called out over Legolas’ cries as he and his brother tried to pin the thrashing elf down to the bed, "The shock of waking out of his coma must have done something to him."

"Isn’t there anything you can do?" Gimli demanded, holding Legolas’ thin, wasted arm down on the bedcover. Panic laced his voice. Was he going to lose the elf again only right after he just miraculously returned to them?

"We need father’s help!" Elladan cried, almost laying across the bucking elf to keep him from convulsing off the bed.

Looking over his shoulder, Elrohir glanced back towards the open door of the room. Standing there in the doorway were several servants that had been drawn there by the sound of Legolas’ shouts and struggling. They stood dumbly staring into the room and the thrashing elf on the bed, their faces slack with awed disbelief.

"One of you!" Elrohir cried out loudly as he fought to keep one of Legolas’ fists from punching him in the face, "Go and fetch King Elessar and our father, Lord Elrond. Tell them Legolas has woken. Go, now! Hurry!"

A young servant girl immediately broke away from the amassed group of onlookers and hurried away to fulfill the lord’s command. Turning back to his friend, Elrohir desperately tried to sooth the struggling elf. "Legolas, it’s alright. Just hold on. It’s going to be alright. Please, just hold on..."

But Legolas did not hear him. All he could see were the colors.

******

"Aragorn, I know you hate formal banquets and political appearances, but I think this would be a very good way to form some better foreign relations between Gondor and the southern tribes of Rohan," Elrond said as he eyed his foster-son with wise, ancient grey eyes, "It could be very advantageous in securing future trade agreements with the southern Rohirrum," he added, "They are known to possess a large resource of iron ore which you know we are always in need of."

"Father, I am well aware of these things," Aragorn grumbled miserably from where he sat behind his desk which lay half-buried under a mountain of parchments and loose paper. "I just do not see why I have to get dressed up like some overgrown peacock and strut myself in front of my peers in such a fashion. It is pointless! Why can’t we government officials just sit down and discuss what needs to be discussed and leave all this superficial pompery out?" he cried in frustration, throwing his arms up into the air for effect.

"Aragorn, I completely agree with you, but this is just the way it has been done since the beginning of Aman," Elrond said calmly. Ever since coming to Minas Tirith and taking up permanent residence there in the Hall of Kings, the elf-lord had become something of an informal advisor to the king of Gondor. "I am sure the leaders of the southern tribes feel just the same about such political appearances as you do. But you must still follow protocol."

The man groaned miserably. "Do I really have to?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes." Another groan sounded. "Aragorn, do I have to remind you of your responsibility to your country..." Elrond threatened half-heartedly, knowing this little game he and his foster-son sometimes played to help ease the day’s tension of running an entire country.

"No! No, please! Anything but one of your responsibility speeches!" Aragorn cried, drawing a smug smile from the elf. "Fine. I will attend this banquet for the southern Rohirrum but I refuse to host another such events for at least the next several months..."

Elrond chose to ignore the last part of Aragorn’s acceptance. "Good. Then I shall send orders to the servants to prepare for the banquet in two months time– "

"My lords!" came a breathless cry as the door to Aragorn’s study suddenly flew open and banged against the wall.

Elrond and Aragorn whipped around in their chairs. Standing there in the doorway was a young servant girl, desperately panting for air.

"What is it? What happened?" Aragorn demanded, beginning to rise from his seat.

"My lords..." the girl struggled to say between heaving gasps of air from just running the entire length of the palace from the living quarters to Aragorn’s private study, "The prince Legolas..."

Aragorn immediately froze, his face becoming a stony mask before then slowly melting into an expression of despair. "Oh gods..." he murmured softly, turning his face away and looking to the floor, "I knew this day would come..." He dropped back into his chair and hung his head down his chest.

"Aragorn..." Elrond began as he stood from his own chair and came round the side of Aragorn’s desk to stand behind the man. "We always knew this might happen," he tried to consol as he placed a hand on his foster-son’s shoulder.

The man sat for a moment of silence, staring down at the floor with slowly tearing eyes. "The city shall be cast into mourning for one year," he finally said, rising his eyes to meet those of the girl he thought had just come to tell him the elven prince had finally passed away in his sleep, "He shall be given a royal funeral, all rights and honors bestowed."

"No, my lord!" the girl cried, "The prince has woken! Lord Elrohir and Elladan have just sent me asking for immediate assistance!"

Elrond and Aragorn’s heads both snapped up and stared at the girl in shock. "He woke up?" the man demanded incredulously, thinking he had somehow misheard her.

"Yes, my lord, just now. But he struggles and thrashes wildly. The two lords are trying to calm him but they need help. Please, you must hurry!"

Without another word, Aragorn was up and out of his chair and sprinting for the door at full speed. Following close behind him ran his foster-father, Lord Elrond, and the young servant girl.

******

To Be Continued...

******

Did you like it? I know I said it would be quote "one hell of a grand reentrance" but this part of the story once again had to be broken up into two parts so it wouldn’t be a thirty page deal. Don’t worry. This is no where near being done. Legolas still has yet to truly discover his new powers. And believe me, when he does it’ll be nothing like he’s already experienced (bwahaha...)

Please review!  I like to hear if you people like my story or not, and I haven't really gotten any feedback on the story so far except for three people. (Major kudos to you guys that did review! You rock my world!) And I've just discovered that nifty little author reply thingy for reviews, so I'll be sure to use that to the fullest in the future!

Well, ‘till next time!