WARNING: This will be a LONG, LONG read.

Recommended:

Coffee and a snack.

Enough leisure time to read it.

Understanding bosses and colleagues (if in workplace).

CHAPTER 31:  IN SHADOW REALM – THE END

“Hush, Pippin! Stop chewing so loudly!” Merry admonished his cousin as they sat propped against a cold stone wall outside the Shadow Realm, appeasing their terrible hunger with some sorry-looking apples.

Many agonizing hours had passed since the company of elves, men and hobbits faced the shock of losing yet another soul to the Realm, and food had been all but forgotten. But night had long fallen, covering the Vale and blanketing the Mountain of the Dead in thick mist; and though it was dark and cold within the tomb-like cavern, the occupants knew that a new day could not be far off. Sleep they could fend off, but Gimli and the hobbits had given in at last to their gnawing stomachs and sat with the King’s men in a dark corner of the huge chamber to stave off some of their hunger. They harbored some guilt for eating while the Elves did not, but they could no longer withstand their mortal needs.

Sadly inadequate were the rations to the hobbits’ minds, but it was all Tobëas could offer. It was fortunate that he had any food in his pack at all, for it had not been high on his list of priorities when the elves had first made the unwelcome proposal to bring the King back to the Paths of the Dead.

“I’m not chewing loudly, Merry; there’s hardly enough substance for me to be munching on,” Pippin responded miserably to his cousin. “What you hear are my teeth knocking against each other. I’m still starved!” 

Gimli grunted. “Stop niggling the lad, Merry,” he said, savoring some bread himself and making it last as long as he could. “You’re not chomping that loudly, Pippin. It’s just… everything else is so deathly quiet around us.”

The three friends looked around them at the depressing gloom, acknowledging Gimli’s observation and eventually resting their eyes on their elven companions seated some distance away. An awed silence fell over the dwarf and hobbits, for, even in the dark of the Paths, the four figures shone with an unearthly glow enhanced by the Light of the Lady that was shining – albeit more feebly than before – from the clasped hands of Legolas and Aragorn. Fair folk they remained despite the ugliness of their surroundings, and the cloaks of melancholy they wore could not hide or dim their beauty.

An emotion that Gimli could not name welled in his throat as he studied the elves. How he had come to admire beings that were once his foes, he could not fathom, but he knew it was due in no small part to the one elf of whom he had grown fonder than he would admit.

But now that elf lay poised on the edge of Death.

Gimli swallowed. It was painful for him to see Legolas lying pale and motionless on the hard floor, so the dwarf chose to look at Lord Celeborn instead. The elf lord had hardly moved for hours, clearly in deep thought. Gimli wondered how much the ancient Firstborn could see or sense what was transpiring in the Realm of Shadow beyond the stone. For a moment, the dwarf felt tempted to ask. But just as quickly, he realized with a shudder that he did not truly wish to know all the frightening details.

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Immersed in the black tide that had drained his life’s essence from him, Aragorn had sunk once more to the depths of mute misery, remaining limp, speechless – all but dead. And deadened he was to the friend before him, the friend who remained with him, holding him, and filled with fear for his life.

Legolas had to fight the despair that threatened to numb him. With no immediate course of action he could pursue, his thoughts strayed ever to the family and the kingdom that would grieve without end should Aragorn succumb to a doom he did not deserve. But hovering on the edges of his thoughts, too, was his dread for himself, for his reflections now took him on a path he did not wish to tread: he began to contemplate on the horror of spending years unknown in this place of shadows and death. If ever the Light of the Phial were to fail, he would have both eyes open and see nothing; all he would know would be the force of a living darkness crushing upon him.

Against his will, the elf felt a moment’s sympathy for the Twice Forgotten who had been imprisoned there as living beings, trapped in this prison till they perished, one by one, in utter darkness, finally to exist only as traitors in the memories of good men.

He knew it would be unimaginably worse for him, for he was a creature of light, one who had been nurtured by a thousand years of sun, his life’s breath drawn from the air of rich green woods, his body and spirit almost one with the living Earth and trees. For him, only the promise of torment lay in wait in this dark realm.

Aye, Legolas knew this. How long he had been in this hateful place the elf could no longer tell, but each moment had been agony. With every aggressive wave of Shadow that threatened to engulf him and Aragorn, he was reminded of the horror of the Curse. Yet… true to his vow he would remain if his friend could not depart from this living nightmare. Not for any price, not even his own salvation, would he leave Aragorn to bear this fate alone.

“With you I remain, Estel,” he whispered. “To whatever end.”

Oddly, now that the elf had made this resolution to stay with his friend – he began to feel less overwhelmed by the evil, and a strange calm settled upon him. Perhaps it was merely a suspension of his fears, but there it was: a tranquility he did not expect, a slow release of the tension that had gripped him since he first entered the Realm. Long moments flowed one into another, in which he and Aragorn remained quiet and unmoving, and nothing stirred but the soundless stream of a dark tide.

And thus it was, in that composed silence – where Legolas’ thoughts sought no particular direction, where he dwelt on nothing save that he was once more in the company of the friend he loved dearer than life – that he became aware of It.

Perhaps it had come unbidden. Then again, perhaps he had – without thinking – sought it. Whatever the manner of its coming – it was here with him, as it had been all the years of his life. And like all things that are with us that we take for granted, it had remained forgotten by Legolas, waiting on the periphery of his knowing, till all else was gone, or dismissed.

Till It was all that the elf could discern.

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Lord Celeborn drew a breath and released it slowly, hardly rippling the lifeless air imprisoned within the harsh unyielding stone walls of the chamber.

“It has come to his awareness,” the elf lord said in a voice barely above a whisper, but voluble enough for his companions to note. “He hears it.”  

Sitting restlessly across from the Eldar, at the feet of the lifeless forms of his two friends, Pippin sat up in alarm and frowned. “Who hears what?” the hobbit hissed to Merry. “Legolas?”

“Hush, Pip!” Merry frowned in return. “Can’t you not ask a question for once? A proper Took you are!”

“But is it Legolas?” the younger hobbit pressed obstinately. “And what is it? What does he hear?”

“The Sound, Pippin,” Hamille answered unexpectedly and, it seemed to the mortals, a little reluctantly. “Legolas hears the Sound.”

Now Gimli sat up. “What sound?” he asked tersely, trying his best to keep his voice low. When he received no response from Hamille, the dwarf hissed his exasperation. “What sound do you mean, Hamille? Tell me!”

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There is a sound that resides in one’s ears. Silent and unnoticed it remains; it does not speak, nor make itself known. It merely resides there. In truth, it exists everywhere, in everyone, in the Space created by the Great Maker. It is the sound of Existence – of a force that resonates in all matter, an unseen thread that ties all.

It is not the Great Song of Creation, but the hum that remained after. The sharp hum comes not from any living being – yet one must be living to know it. It is a sound that vibrates in every fiber of our being – yet we know it not, unless we seek it. To hear it, one must remain absolutely still, absolutely quiet, and allow nothing to intrude. We must reach into the deeper layers of our being, remain devoid of thought, devoid of all other senses, till there is only you – and It.

Every elf knew of the Sound. Legolas had heard it many times before during his long life. Alone, and in utter quiet, he would close his eyes and stop his ears with his fingers, and listen. He had done it in caves, in trees, by his favorite pool, on the cold slopes of lonely mountains. He had heard the Sound, and his spirit had followed its journey through space and time, in millions of other minds and ears: those of the most ancient and wisest of Firstborns, to the humblest mortals, to the vilest spawns of orcs, and every creature that breathed.

In those moments, he had felt one with all matter.

After a time, the Sound was no longer a stranger to Legolas. He merely had to know how to seek it. And on occasion…it came even without being sought.

The elf heard it now. Even in this Shadow Realm, a place forsaken by all that was good, he could hear it; for in the utter silence and deathly stillness, it was all he could hear.

But it did not bring him the comfort it had before.

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The hobbits and Gondorian guards were feeling as perplexed and tense as Gimli after Hamille had told them about the Sound.

“But what does that mean: that Legolas hears it now?” Merry asked the elf. “Is that a sign of something?”

Hamille looked at him with pensive eyes, brown pools beneath the calm surfaces of which lay an unnamed doubt. But he gave no answer, and shifted his gaze back to the unmoving form of his prince. Taking pity on Legolas’ companions, Lanwil responded instead.

“If the prince hears it, it means… it means that he has become still; very, very still,” the elf replied in a voice tinged with concern. “And we cannot tell if that is a good thing.”

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How strange that it should be here, in this place of Death, Legolas thought. How strange that the Sound of Existence, known only to those who live, should speak so loudly to him here.

Yet – perhaps it need not be wondered at, the elf reminded himself, for he had heard it said among the Firstborn, that if one were at the moment of death, on the brink of departing from the circles of Arda, when one’s senses began to withdraw from all that was in the world…all that would be left to one’s awareness was the Sound.

With no other clear course to follow, the elf accepted its presence. Time slipped by – how much, he did not know, but it flowed by him like a dream with no beginning and no end – in one long, meaningless stream. And the Sound rode on the wave of each passing moment.

“Can you hear it, Aragorn? Can you hear the Sound of the life force of the World?” he asked softly to the impassive friend in his arms. “I wonder… I wonder if it will be the last sound we hear.” No answer came, as was expected, yet it gave him some comfort to talk to the man. 

“I have never spoken to you of this, Estel,” the elf began. “Perhaps it was made known to you in your days at Imladris, for I would think that our kin would have drawn your attention to it. But if they did not… then I vow to you, Aragorn: if this omen is not one of our passing, and we should be allowed to escape this fate to breathe the free air and to see the light of the Sun again, I will teach you to hear it in blessed silence. And so you shall ever be aware of the Sound of your being.”

Legolas paused, summoning the strength to continue. “I pray that we shall find such release, Aragorn, but this, too, I vow,” he added, “even if it heralds Death, I will not flee from it so long as you cannot. My body shall lie with yours outside this realm, and my spirit shall ever be your companion in here.”

Then the elf lapsed back into silence, keeping his friend in the comfort of his arms and his Light – and letting them drift with the resonance of the hum.

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But acceptance was not what Gimli expressed after learning about what the Sound signified. His wide eyes bored fiercely into Lanwil’s.

“What are you saying?” the dwarf demanded. “That Legolas is… he’s dying?”

The hiss of anger that erupted from Hamille was as loud as the gasps from the hobbits and Aragorn’s men. He slammed a fist onto the hard ground as his brown eyes shot sparks at Gimli’s startled face.

“Utter not those words!” the elf spat out. “Or they shall spell your own end!”

“Sidh, Hamille, peace!” Lord Celeborn chastised him. “He meant no hurt.”

“Aye, he did not,” Lanwil quickly added, gripping Hamille’s shoulders as the distressed elf passed his bruised hand over his eyes and exhaled a heavy sigh. 

Stunned into muteness by Hamille’s outburst, the mortal members of the company sat unmoving for long moments, though they were far from calm within. In the tense silence, Gimli imagined that he could almost hear the Sound that was the subject and the cause of the company’s present anxiety, his ignorance of which fueled an excruciating desire to voice the questions churning in his mind. His face grew redder as he held his queries in check, and one look at Pippin showed that the latter was also about to explode from the tension of not knowing.

“Nay, Gimli, we do not think that Legolas is dying; it is not what we sense,” Elladan said at last, breaking the strained silence. His quiet announcement was followed by a release of painfully held breaths around him, like water from an engorged dam; yet his next words held no comfort as they conveyed the blunt truth:

“But he may be listening to the Sound because… because he has come to accept the possible approach of that End … and he is preparing for it.”

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Legolas heard not the cries of disbelief that passed many lips outside the dark prison. He was indeed prepared for any end he might face – yet it was not death that occupied his awareness. His whole self was now focused only on Aragorn, and on the Sound, for it stayed with him as the moments lengthened.

How odd, the elf thought after a while. How odd, for it seemed to him that the longer he heard the Sound, the more it began to take on a different quality.

Different… he noted; yes, it was different; more animated than he had ever heard it to be. It was… it was almost… a buzz.

Moved by a sudden instinct, Legolas listened intently. Aye, there it was: a buzz. A peculiar, unexpected buzz.

Perplexity gripped the elf. He trained all his thought on what he was hearing, shutting out all other thought. Slowly, something became clear to him. He realized, to his surprise, that this was not a variant of the familiar Sound. This buzz was altogether a different sound.

Nay, it was a collection of sounds.

And the more he heard it, the more it seemed to be a collection of… voices.

The space around him seemed to be buzzing with throng upon throng of small, mysterious voices, all tumbling rapidly over each other, like many-layered echoes of a hundred thousand secretive whispers.

The elf was astonished beyond measure. The voices were not quite of normal timbre, yet they did not sound like the communication of the Dead. He looked around, peering curiously into the Shadows, but the dark revealed no one else, no other being, save Aragorn. No, he decided, these were most surely not the whispers of the Dead.

Taut with tension, Legolas struggled to make sense of the whispers, calling upon all the elven senses in his possession to gain some insight into what he was confronted with. Whose were these voices?

The elf persisted, and the effort frustrated him at first, for it was hard to separate the sounds; but the longer he listened, the clearer it became to Legolas that the buzz – a seemingly meaningless jumble of sounds – was indeed made up of speech: strings of words; garbled, convoluted statements, all running into one another.

Legolas was astounded. How the voices came to be here, he could not yet fathom, but the fragments of speech were, by some curious means, suspended in the space around him.

No… he slowly corrected himself. No, they were not around him.

The whispers were surrounding…. Aragorn. 

Even more frantically now, Legolas strained his senses, sifting through the muddled speech for something he could recognize, some clue to the mystery.

Then a single word – one from among the millions – leapt at him, and it paralyzed him with awe and disbelief.

Had he been in error? Would he hear it again? Legolas trained every part of himself on those sounds once more, listening.

No, he had not been mistaken, for the word came to him once more. Many times more. And when it was followed by other words he could discern, a suspicion flared within the elf. Those whispers… those voices… they sounded like… Oh Valar! Could they be…? 

As more snatches of speech became known, understanding struck Legolas like a bolt of lightning. Each revelation was a confirmation of the elf’s suspicions, and he could hardly think for the current of excitement running through him.

Trembling even in his wraith form, the elf acted on another suspicion. Quickly, he peered into the darkness where he heard the whispers milling around Aragorn. With his elven sight, he scrutinized the blackness, seeking, watching for what he thought he might see.

And there they appeared before him. Aye, there they were: visions! Visions uncounted!

Joy welled within Legolas as he came face to face with hope unexpected, for the images and voices before him – hazy, vague, confused, but blessedly present – were sights and sounds from Aragorn’s life, including the one word the elf had heard that had first alerted him: the name Estel.

Here at last – lurking in the Shadows – were the memories that had been stolen from the man’s mind, the precious memories that had been made him who he was.

The elf recognized them, for he knew some of them: there was the young Ranger, running, smiling, fighting, eating, roasting some strange fowl; and there the Man, in moods of mirth, despair, asleep, astir; the King, the child, the father, the captain, the healer; the things that had filled his years: swords, clothes, toys, hills, rivers, horses, trees, and all the fruits he had ever eaten, and all the songs he had ever heard! They were the story of his life: lines and chapters in disarray – but they were the tale that was Aragorn!

The memories had been there all along – sharing the space with him. Yet, even Legolas had not been aware of them – not till he had yielded to the call of the Sound and allowed it to open his mind and his spirit to Matter around him.

A thrill ran through the elf as he continued to scan the images and listen to the sounds. There now were all the people Aragorn had known: guards, farmers, children, servants… And those he had loved with heart and soul: Eldarion, his family, his friends, Men, Elves, Arwen… 

Legolas did not dwell too long on Aragorn’s memories of Arwen, for he did not wish to intrude on so private a part of his life, but he had seen enough to feel humbled by the bond he sensed from them; a union, a oneness so great and so steadfast that the elf – despite his joy at the presence of those memories – sorrowed at how this Shadow could have snatched even those memories from him.

And then… as Legolas beheld himself as the subject of many images and many of Aragorn’s thoughts, he almost broke with grief as well, for the strength and depth of the man’s love for him pulsed with life even in the homeless memories. In spite of the oppressive darkness of the place where these truths were revealed, he understood – with crystal clarity – the place he had held in Aragorn’s mind and heart. He knew then the power of the evil that had taken Aragorn – a force so terrible it was able to make the man forget and deny those who had been part of his very being. 

Elation wrestled with sadness within Legolas as he continued to witness the voices, noises, and scenes from Aragorn’s past: shreds of his life dispersed by the mists of darkness, and suspended in them like dust in a whirlwind. They awoke in the elf amusement, surprise, fondness, anger, sadness, compassion… How rich was the library of thoughts and recollections residing in one’s mind! he realized. And how painfully empty that mind would be if it were robbed of this treasure: a soul ambushed, drained dry of everything – to be left a sad, deprived shell of nothingness.

That was the fate that had befallen Aragorn.

Even though the man’s memories were not truly lost, even though they had been within his reach all along, they might as well have been in some other world, Legolas realized, for Aragorn had been unable to retrieve them. The man had tried, Legolas knew, he must have tried, but they had slipped through his fingers, like particles in water that one tries to hold on to but fails. And Aragorn had then given up. Legolas sensed all this, sensed the man’s failure, sensed the helplessness the mortal must have endured.

But perhaps the immortal being would not be as helpless, the elf thought with a glimmer of hope. Here at last he felt some hint of why he had been sent here, why the Light of the Lady had been brought to him across the miles of Middle-earth, why the Lady herself had reached out to Sam – and thence to himself – from beyond this world. Perhaps he could do what Aragorn could not. Armed with renewed strength, the elf reached for his friend.

But Legolas was not prepared for the malevolent force that suddenly caught hold of him, trying to pull him back. Like a living current, it drew him away from Aragorn’s form – just as it must have sucked out the man’s memories, eroding his mind as the strong waves of the Sea erodes the shifting sands.

Legolas shuddered. He had seen the merciless force of the Sea, and now Aragorn was the helpless shore… 

No, the elf determined. Aragorn would be helpless no longer.

“Baw!” Legolas cried defiantly to the Shadows that tried to wrench him from his friend. “Begone, I will not be taken from him!”Fighting the darkness, he spoke firmly to Aragorn. “Listen to me, Estel,” he said. “Your memories are not lost. Lo, they are here – all around you. Listen to them, Estel!”

Legolas watched for a reaction from the man, but none came, and the head remained bowed.

“Estel – you must reclaim them,” the elf urged. “They are what make you who you are. All that you were and all that you went through – that is what you are now. Reclaim them, mellon nin, I will help you – reclaim them with me!”

Aragorn remained impassive, and Legolas’ anger at the Shadows grew. Crying out at them, he swept his hand amidst them. But as he did, awe came upon him one more, for he saw – with unexpected delight – that the darkness did not take the memories with it. The evil parted as black fumes before the Light of Eärendil, but the memories… the memories remained in its radiant beams – for they held no evil, and they feared not the purity of the light from Aragorn’s forefather. There they were: hovering, drifting aimlessly, waiting to be claimed.

“Aragorn!” Legolas called again excitedly. “See how your memories wait for you to repossess them. Take them now!”

But Aragorn did not move, and Legolas’ anxiety grew. What was he to do?

Then from some unknown source, the answer came to the elf: if the memories were beyond Aragorn’s ability to reclaim, he would need to bring the memories to Aragorn.

“Estel,” said the elf. “Here is your past: all that you knew, all that you loved or loathed, all that you felt – all that you were! Listen, and look!”

Once more, Legolas swept aside the dark waves, leaving Aragorn’s memories suspended in the light beams – a myriad of images and sounds, twisting and turning out of time, out of sequence, yet very real. The bowed, silent figure of Aragorn remained sadly unaware of them, but Legolas was sharply alert. The elf trained his sight and hearing on the perplexing whirlpool of voices and visions from the past, reading fleetingly each incident of Aragorn’s life that he could perceive amidst the collection. Then, latching onto one and scrutinizing it quickly before moving onto the next, he described the images and sounds to the man, as many as he could see and hear, delivering his past to him.

“Estel, do you remember?” he said. “The first time you held a sword? It was Lord Glorfindel who taught you… you were but a young boy then…ah, I see you, Estel, your determination. I hear your laughter… the lord’s praises… here it is…how thrilled you were then, but also fearful.

“Now you are in the wilds…What is this you were skinning, Aragorn? What… I do not wish to know, mellon nin; you have had strange diets. 

“And here… what is this? Paint… paint? You brushed paint on yourself… Estel, you were trying to shine like an elf? Oh, young child that you were – you need do no such thing, for you have the heart of an Eldar!”

How long they remained thus, Legolas could not tell. He continued to hold the man, refusing at times to look at his face for fear that he would see the features disappear. He could not lose hope now – he could not lose Estel.

“Rangers! Estel, think of your brothers true and faithful – you cannot have forgotten them! See how you kept their company, became one of them, shed the robes of Imladris and donned poor cloth…

“And here you were…in… in Mirkwood. Do you remember that, Estel? When you first saw Adar… the crown of flowers he wore…how you could find no words to say…and the pool we loved…feel it, Estel!” 

On and on Legolas narrated all that he could see and hear of Aragorn’s life, holding onto single memories and drawing each out like a fine thread from among a moving mass of fibers. There were millions and millions of strands, and each thread tied to countless others: memories of the smallest of details like the first waking moment of each day to the most significant events of the man’s life. Legolas chose quickly from among the memories, ignoring the most trivial and focusing on those he could speak about with confidence. Tirelessly, he reacquainted his friend with his rich past.  

“Lo! Here is your journey with Gollum, Estel. Surely you remember it, for you loathed him, grew sick at his stench. Remember that stench, Estel? Awaken your mind to it again!

“Ah, here you are in battle… but I was not there, my friend. This was… this was in a time when… Thorongil! You were Thorongil at this time, and I missed you. But you were no less a captain then, Aragorn.  

“And there… there, Halbarad’s death. There you saw him dying, his blood spilt to help you reclaim Gondor. Painful to see, but so important to remember, Estel – you cannot forget his sacrifice. Look, Estel! Look, for I can, and so can you again! Reclaim that memory in Halbarad’s honor!

“Ah, now here are all the sick and wounded you healed, Aragorn – see their gratitude, remember the lives you saved, how fulfilled you felt. Remember the smell of athelas, my friend, clean and fresh – ever had it been of use to you. 

“And here – here  is what is closest to your heart, dear friend. Behold Cerin Amroth, and the woods of Lothlorien, fairest elven realm on Middle-earth! Remember it, where first you met your beloved Evenstar… how fair she was then as she is now… remember Arwen, mellon nin; take back the love of your life! Take back the memories dearest to you!”

And to the elf’s delight, the mention of Arwen drew a movement from Aragorn – nothing more than a slight lift of his head – but to Legolas, it was the like the rising of a star. It was hope. Desperately, the elf searched among the memories for one that he needed Aragorn to see and hear, and when it surfaced, he ushered it closer to the man, both with his hands and with his recount.

“And here, my friend, here is Eldarion – blood of your blood, flesh of your flesh! Remember him, for he is part of you, from you, and of you! Behold his birth, my friend – here, his first few breaths in your arms, and here… wait, let me find it… here it is: see his first steps towards you… how he reached for you!

“You must remember him, Aragorn, you cannot leave him, nor desert the memory of him.”

Again, Aragorn responded. It was only a fleeting spark of awareness, quicker than the blink of an eye, but Legolas sensed this, and encouraged him on.   

“Aye, my friend, re-awaken! You are greater than the darkness, stronger than the Shadows! You have but to strengthen your resolve. Reach out to your memories – they will come to you! Fear not the darkness, Estel, I am here with you and I will keep the Shadows from you. Reach out to them!”

Aragorn said nothing in reply, but Legolas could feel him becoming agitated, bewildered… as if he was seeking.

Immediately, Legolas swept more of the dark waves aside, revealing more of the memories in the clear radiance of the Undying Light. The elf continued to chase the Shadows away, repelling them so that only the memories remained – suspended, and waiting.

Then, finally, to his joy, Legolas sensed Aragorn reach out – tentatively, almost fearfully – but he was reaching out, and hope ignited anew within the elf.

But now, as Aragorn began to awaken, Legolas could feel the Darkness approach the man again, trying to consume him and retain its hold on his soul. Even more forcefully, the elf drove the Shadows back.

“Back, vile thing!” he cried to the Darkness. “You have no dominion over me or the Light of Eärendil. Begone!”

And as if Legolas had pulled on some hidden lever, Aragorn came more to life than he had since Legolas first found him. The elf could sense in his friend the slow rebirth of strength, and with it a desire to break free of chains that no one could see.

Legolas felt Aragorn look outward of himself, puzzling at the memories around him, striving to connect with them, battling with some power to make sense of where he was and who he was.

“Yes, Estel!” cried the elf. “Come back, come back! I am here with you – fear not the darkness!”

Firmly, the Firstborn swept back the black waves that threatened to overpower them and drown them both in its greedy malice.

“Estel! Reclaim who you are,” Legolas urged.

Then he felt in Aragorn the stirrings of something that made his hopes rise even higher: the man was coming to awareness. But even as Aragorn teetered on the edge of understanding, the Shadows swooped in again to cloak him. Legolas acted at once.

“You will not possess him twice, Shadows of Isengard and Mordor!” he exclaimed, forcing the Shadows away from his friend. “He is not yours to take; he belongs to another world – the living world. My world. I have him in my embrace, and here he will remain. Begone from him!”

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As Legolas battled the darkness in the Realm, the company outside the stone prison felt a tension they could not explain.

 “Look!” Pippin said suddenly to Gimli, nudging the dwarf and catching Hamille’s attention as well.

“Hush!” Gimli hissed in annoyance. “Did I not tell you –”

“No, look!” the hobbit persisted, pointing excitedly to where Legolas and Aragorn lay. “Look at their hands!”

With a grunt, the dwarf’s followed the hobbit’s finger, and to his surprise, he saw his friends’ hands grasp each other more tightly, and the Lamp between them flickered as if the beams were in a struggle with some other force.

“Aye, we see it,” Lord Celeborn said, preempting what would have been Pippin’s excited shouts. Holding out his hands on either side, the elf lord received the firm grasp of Elladan and Hamille. “It is coming to pass. Legolas is in a fight for Aragorn’s soul,” said the ancient elf.     

And the Eldar bowed their heads gravely, clearing their minds and hearts of all thought save to send their kinsman their strength.

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In alarm, Legolas watched the dense darkness continue its unrelenting approach towards Aragorn.

As if it could sense the coming loss of another soul – perhaps the last to ever enter this Realm if an ancient Elf lord could make it so – the mists of the Shadow Realm rushed forth like a living murderous sea of fierce, almost desperate, waves. Cold rage, too, there was in the approaching tide, for the mists knew Aragorn; aye, they knew him as the one who had thwarted the power of the Realm and released its previous prisoners, and they were eager to keep him as compensation.

Legolas retaliated with no less fury of his own. Mordor and Isengard could try to claim Aragorn, but they did not expect to contend with a resolute Firstborn and an unwavering friend who would stop at nothing to save him.

Yet, the elf realized with horror as the Shadows grew more aggressive, he could not do it alone; Aragorn needed to fight the darkness as well. Keeping the darkness at bay, Legolas urged the man to retain his diminutive hold on what seemed to be his awakening to his Self. “Aragorn, awake! Fight now, fight the Shadows!”

The elf could sense Aragorn begin to struggle with the Darkness – no longer was the man completely submissive, but there was still no sign that he knew what was happening. In dismay, Legolas realized that he could not keep the darkness from him forever; Aragorn had to regain his own strength; he needed to reclaim his memories.

It will not be easy, the elf thought. One memory at a time – that is how his recovery can begin: one memory at a time.

And he would help Aragorn gain cognizance by being aware of the one person in his life who was here beside him.

Turning his back to the Shadows, the elf went as close to Aragorn as he could, so close that their spirits almost felt as one.

“Estel,” the elf called firmly, and when the man turned to him with an almost featureless face, he fought not to recoil. “I am here, my friend. It is I.”

Aragorn did not struggle against him, and Legolas felt encouraged. “See me, Estel, and nothing else,” the elf coaxed. “Know me and nothing else. Feel only me – for there is nothing else around you, Aragorn. There is no darkness, or cold; only I, only a friend who loves you. Reach out to me, reclaim your memory of me,” he urged tirelessly.

The elf then reached into his own memories of which Aragorn had been a part: the times they had fought together and laughed together, the joys and hurts and fears and dangers they had shared, and the moments of most intense emotion each had known in the company of the other. Legolas ignored the threat of the swirling Shadows around them, forgetting all danger, all knowledge of his worlds – inside or out – and his whole being at this moment was to serve but one purpose: to exist only as Aragorn’s link to his past. He  spoke of each memory with all the passion he could evoke, making each recollection a living, breathing account of what the man had felt, tasted, touched… and he willed it all into the man whose spirit he held in his protective embrace.

As the hours passed, weariness came over the elf once more, and only his refusal to lose Aragorn to the Realm gave him strength, kept him speaking ceaselessly, patiently… till at last… he felt once more the stirring of Aragorn’s thoughts.

And with it – in no more than the mere hint of a sigh, like the imperceptible beat of a bird’s wing – came the sound of Aragorn’s voice.

Legolas froze.

It had been but a whimper, the first release of breath upon waking, but the elf heard it like the loudest heartbeat, the clearest sign of life, and he felt the man begin to reach out to him.

Quickly, Legolas drew apart from Aragorn to face him, and what greeted him was a vision more welcome than light in this dark realm: the familiar features of the King – the features Legolas had been afraid he might never see again – were taking more visible form.

With a gasp, the incredulous elf held his friend close again, afraid to let go, afraid to risk distancing them and losing the long-missed voice once more.

But the fear did not return, for finally, finally, the weary elf heard the one word from Aragorn he had hoped to hear since he first entered the Realm. 

“Legolas?” the man breathed.

Whether his wraith form could shed tears, the elf did not know, but he felt awash with relief and joy, and his spirit shone like a cluster of stars as he replied immediately. 

“Yes, Estel, it is Legolas! It is I!” he said. “I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to hear your voice again, my friend.”

He waited for Aragorn to come to knowledge of him, sensing the man’s struggle.

“Think of me, Estel,” he coaxed gently. “Remember me – remember all that I am.”

Resolutely, Legolas ignored the Shadows, bending all his thought only on Aragorn, for he found that as long as he remained so bound to Aragorn, the darkness could not reach the man.

“Legolas,” Aragorn said again like the long-missed sound of rain after a drought, and the elf could hear more conviction now. “Legolas…” the man continued. “Green… green…”

“Yes, Estel, I am Greenleaf,” the elf encouraged. “Keep your attention on me – what else can you remember?”

“Wood, water, arrows…” said Aragorn suddenly, sending a thrill of hope through his elven friend. “Wood…” the man seemed to be deep in thought. “Roch nin… Rallias?”

Rallias – his horse! Legolas’ excitement leapt another notch, for Aragorn was now thinking about the horse Legolas had trained for him. The man was seeking memories beyond his friend, making vital connections.

“Yes, Aragorn – you remember Rallias!” Legolas affirmed. “Keep reaching for your memories, my friend. Think about us, and all we have been through, all we are. Do not stop.”

And the man did not. He continued to breathe words, phrases – snatches of speech about things and places and events that bound his elven companion to him: caves, wounds, songs, conversations they had had, secrets they had shared, even people they had known.  Steadfastly, Legolas repelled the aggressive Shadows that threatened to engulf the struggling soul, and patiently urged his friend on, suppressing the temptation to rush him or to provide the memories himself, for Aragorn needed to recall them on his own.

And then, when the man began to say them with greater conviction, Legolas thought it was time. Firmly, the elf swept away the dense, dark mists from around them, exposing Aragorn to the full array of memories that remained: visions and sounds and sensations suspended in the Light of the Lady. They were waiting, as was Legolas.

Of a sudden, Aragorn began to say a whole string of words, mentioning people and times and events from various points in his life. His speech grew more rapid, tumbling upon itself like the millions of memories wrapped around each other before him; ceaselessly, his voice flowed, too fast for Legolas to follow.

But Aragorn was not confused; he seemed to know what he was saying, for his voice grew in confidence and clarity. He was finally beginning to reclaim his life.

In wonder, Legolas watched Aragorn’s memories approach Aragorn’s form, sweeping towards him like a tide to shore. But unlike the tides of the Sea, they did not ebb from him. As the man continued to recall his memories, they seeped into his form, flowing in one long, unbroken stream into his spirit – and did not depart.

In quiet happiness, Legolas witnessed the essence of Aragorn’s life returning to him, and then – to the elf’s utter joy – he saw, at long last, the reformation of the beloved, kingly countenance: like the slow clearing of vapor from a misted mirror, each detail of Aragorn’s face reappeared – from the lips softly uttering the speaker’s memories to the outline of the man’s high, straight nose, to the sensitive eyes – all ethereal still, but all instantly known to the elf who had brought his own soul into the realm of death so that those features would find their home again.

Triumphantly, Legolas cried now to the Shadows: “Begone, ye Darkness! Leave him; he is no longer yours to have!”

And at the Firstborn’s passionate rebuke, the Shadows rolled back farther, swirling in confusion like a living thing thwarted.

In satisfaction, the elf turned his attention back to Aragorn, watching his friend repossess all that was his from the mists of malice. And then, when it seemed all of the man’s memories had been reclaimed, and there were only the unembellished, brilliant beams of the Phial left before them, Legolas called gently to his friend again.

“Estel?”

Aragorn turned, and he filled the elf with sheer happiness as he responded. “Legolas, it is you,” he said, though bewilderment rang clearly in his voice. “You look… like a moonbeam come to life… but it is you.”

Legolas did not know if his friend could see him smile. I could say the same of you, dear friend, he thought. “Yes, Aragorn, it is I – and no matter how I appear, I am truly here,” he said aloud. “Do you know where you are, and why you are in this place?”

The elf could sense the hesitation and puzzlement in the man as he looked around and noticed – apparently for the first time – the oppressive Shadows beyond the small area   of light enveloping them both.

“Dark have been my dreams of late,” Aragorn murmured, echoing words dredged out from the deep pool of his memories, unknowingly pleasing Legolas with the recollection. “I know now how Theoden of Rohan felt when he uttered them, for I too was lost, Legolas. Lost without knowing where I had been come from, or where I needed to go; not knowing who I was, or… or…” The sorrow in the man’s voice was evident as he struggled to put his ordeal into words and found none adequate. “I… I merely… was. I merely existed.” He turned his face to Legolas again. “But I still cannot tell where I am.”

Legolas understood his friend’s extreme bafflement, for Aragorn had been taken by Saruman’s curse before word of it had reached either of them.

“I feel… I feel I have slept long,” the man finished.

Legolas paused at the understatement. “Indeed, you have, Estel,” he said simply. Swiftly, he told the man all that had befallen him, reminding him about his pardon of the Forgotten Ones, explaining what Saruman had condemned him to and what he and Lord Celeborn were attempting. The elf watched Aragorn study his own wraith form and grow both angry and fearful as awareness sank in.

“Are we not dead then, Legolas?” Aragorn asked.

“Nay, Estel,” replied the elf. “We are not one of the dead, for our bodies still live.” Yet we must revive you very soon; your hold on life is tenuous, he said silently, not wishing to frighten the man more than he needed to. “But now that you are no longer lost, Aragorn, and in possession of your self again – you must return where you belong.”

“Arwen!” the man said suddenly. “Arwen, does she –?”

“She knows all,” Legolas reassured him. “Your lady and your son await you, as does your kingdom. Fear not the Shadows, mellon nin. We will depart from this accursed realm. We will seek the Door and leave.” The elf was not entirely certain how he would do it, but he knew he would not stop till he had found it and brought Aragorn out of the darkness. “Come, let us make haste,” he said, drawing Aragorn away from where they were.

Aragorn watched the Shadows retreat from them as they moved, yet follow them like a hungry predator.

“You came for me,” he said unexpectedly, surprising Legolas. “Into this dark… you came.”

The elf halted, taking a moment to appreciate how, even in this time of what must be intense terror for Aragorn, the man could still be concerned about his friend’s dread.  

“You are here, Estel,” the elf said, allowing the simple statement to convey all that the man meant to him, and the only reason he needed to come.

Aragorn bowed his head. “I wish to remain no longer, Legolas,” he said, suppressing his fear. “For both our sakes, take me home.” 

“Gladly, dear friend,” the elf replied. “Let us depart. Take care to stray not from my side.”

As he led Aragorn in a direction that he sensed would lead them to the Door, Legolas once again breathed thanks to the Lady for the Light she had provided, for without it, he would never have found Aragorn, nor would he have any hope of finding the way back. Yet, the Darkness, the elf found, was not easy to overcome. Along the way, its Shadows reached greedily for Aragorn, filling the man with uncertainty and trepidation.

“Back, vile thing!” Legolas cried in defiance, sweeping his hands around them. “You have no dominion over me or the Light I bear, and you shall not wrest this soul from our embrace!” He turned to Aragorn and comforted the frightened man. “It will not possess you again as long as I am here, mellon nin,” he said, drawing him close. “Come.”

Slowly, the companions traversed the dark realm, seeing nothing around them, and having no guide save elven instinct. Long did their journey feel as their forms waded through the seemingly unending Shadows. No warmth could they feel in this chilling domain of death; no sound could they hear save their own muted, hollow whispers. 

They soon reached the solid shapes that Legolas had seen a little after he had entered the Realm: the morbid remains of cursed Men, the Twice Forgotten that Aragorn had pardoned – and both friends thought silently how ironic it was that the King was now before those very bones, bearing their punishment. Man and Elf turned their backs decisively upon the gruesome sight and hastened on, desiring only to be rid of this morose, meaningless existence.

Their search for the exit seemed unbearably interminable – on and on they went, till at length – Legolas heard the murmur of voices surround them. In dismay, Legolas halted and listened carefully, wondering if this was some trick of the Darkness.

Then his tension melted away and great relief flooded him. “Do you hear them, Estel?” the elf asked. “The Valar be praised!”

Aragorn was puzzled. “What?” he asked. “Hear what? Who – ?”

“Those, my friend, are the voices of deliverance,” Legolas said. “Lord Celeborn’s, and Elladan’s, and Hamille’s. Those are supplications to the Valar, and they will lead us back to the Door as surely as signposts.”

Their hopes and confidence renewed, Legolas and Aragorn resumed their slow passage to freedom. Neither companion spoke as the elf led the man towards the voices, and at last, Legolas gave a cry of delight and halted their movement.

“The Gate, Aragorn!” he said, using the light from his hand to light a wall of stone before them – though no outline of any door could Aragorn see. “We have found it!”

How do you know? Aragorn wondered.

“I know,” the elf said simply, reading his friend’s unvoiced query. “I am drawn to it.”

“How does it open?” the man asked aloud, his question tinged with doubt.

Legolas did not answer, but raised his hand to study the wall before him. He could hear the voices of the Eldar; as soft as they were, they gave him hope. “Lord Celeborn provided no guidance as to the manner by which we should leave, for he had none to offer,” he said honestly. “Yet, we must try, for we are now here.”

Gingerly, the elf extended his illuminated hand to the stone wall, to see what would happen.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

“Merry, look!” Pippin hissed in alarm.

“Ow, steady there, Pip!” Merry hissed back, rubbing his side from where his cousin had given him a sharp jab with his fingers. “I know hunger makes you jittery, but could you not –?”

“Shush, Merry – and look!” the younger hobbit said indignantly, inevitably drawing the attention of a worried dwarf and several Gondorian guards to himself. Ignoring the looks of irritation shot at him, the incorrigible hobbit guided Merry’s line of vision to the Door of the stone prison – pointing out the faintly visible red glow marking the outline.

“Well, I’ll be a mushroom’s uncle,” Merry breathed in awe. “You’re right this time, Pip. Gimli – can you see that?”

The dwarf lord was already studying the scene, his beard fairly bristling with excitement and his stout body – tight with apprehension – halfway off the floor. Like the hobbits, he was bursting with a need to know what was happening. Indeed, the company of mortals were sorely tempted to rain questions upon the Firstborn, but they feared to disrupt the deep concentration of the elves, so they bit their tongues and held their queries in check instead, forcing themselves to wait in tense silence for what would unfold.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

As soon as the Light from his hand touched the wall, Legolas felt the stone tremble, as if it were a living thing – sentient to the touch of en elven hand and elven light.  

Eagerly, he applied greater force, thinking perhaps that the Door would yield to the pressure. It did – but in a way the elf did not expect, for it did not swing open, nor did it retreat. Instead, it allowed his wraith form to meld into it.

At last the elf understood. He would penetrate the stone, for it could not hold the Life and Light that could overwhelm it. But what of Aragorn? In concern, he wondered if he might pass through the Door but Aragorn fail to. The man being left behind was not a possibility he would even consider.

Looking squarely at his friend, Legolas spoke gently but firmly. “Aragorn, in a moment, our spirit forms shall try to breach the Door that has held you prisoner,” he said. “It will be a different battle from any other we have faced, so I do not know how to counsel you as to what you will feel or see – or even whether we shall succeed in passing through it whole and unscathed. But I ask you to have faith, and to know this: whatever happens – whether we should live or perish – I shall never leave you. Do you trust me, Estel?”

Fear radiated from the man as he faced Legolas, but fiercer still was his belief in the love of his friend. “Always,” he answered steadily.

“Then walk with me as one,” said the elf. “As we breach that Door, Estel, your spirit must join with mine. Let us not be parted, not for one moment, so that whatever befalls one of us, the fate shall be the same for the other.” The elf looked unflinchingly at his companion. “We have held on to each other through the long years of our friendship, Estel. Hold on to our bond, trust it and nothing else. Now, with everything in you, Estel, bind your spirit to mine – and we shall leave this place together.”

The elf’s words enveloped Aragorn like the safest arms he had ever known, and he obediently went limp, erasing all doubt, all hesitation. Willingly, he let the elf hold him close, till their souls felt as one, and distance between them was no longer a known thing.

At once, Legolas felt a great evil upon them, an almost physical entity that sought to remove them from the Door, determined to force them back into the Darkness they were trying to depart from. Stunned at the ferocity of the attack, the elf called forth all his strength to resist it, for he now had to fend for two souls.

“Defy it, Aragorn, do not let it take you!” he entreated.

Too bewildered at the sudden assault and depleted of vigor from his long captivity, Aragorn could say nothing in return, but he held to Legolas as to a lifeline.  

Great stress was upon the elf as he fought not to be wrenched from their position at the Door. No sound accompanied the vehemence of the dark Shadow tide, but its fury pressed upon him like the fiercest and loudest of storms, and he began to weary. Desperately, he pleaded for the support of his kin on the other side of the Holding Gate that cruelly separated them.

“Do not fail us, my lord!” he beseeched. “Not when we are so close!”

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

Beyond the impregnable Holding Gate, the Lord of Lothlorien responded to the call of distress and tightened his grip on the hands of his companions. Sweat broke upon the brows of the Eldar as they intensified their implorations to the Valar. Their fair voices built in volume, pulsating through the air of the tomb chamber as they communicated their strength to Legolas.

So obvious was the growing anguish of the Firstborn that Dwarf, hobbits and men rose to their feet, hardly daring to breathe. Their ears were filled with the unwavering voices of the Firstborn, but their eyes were fixed on the outline of the evil Door, for it was now a fierce flame-red as the Great Lidless Eye of Sauron had been.

--------------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------------

“Retreat, depart from us!” Legolas cried as the Shadows continued to churn ferociously around him and Aragorn. “You are naught but the remnants of a defeated evil. No longer do you have power over this soul. Begone!”

Legolas could feel Aragorn’s agonized struggle as well, though no word did he hear from the man. Grievous it was to see the torment on the face of the King, who had wandered lost in the loathsome Realm for too long and was desperate to leave. Again and again the elf raised his hand angrily against the dark storm, struggling to keep it away from his friend. He sought only a space of time – a few critical moments – in which he could thrust them both forward and overcome the final barrier that stood between their life and death. But the pull of the Shadows was strong, and the elf was fast wearying. The threat of failure began to loom before him, taunting him.

No… he thought. No, I cannot fail…

Then renewed strength came to the valiant elf prince, and it was from Hope itself.

“Leave us, foul breath of Saruman! You shall not have my soul!” Aragorn cried out at last in defiance of the Shadows. “No wrong deed did I commit when I released the Cursed Ones from your clutches, and no retribution will I accept! Keep your vengeance for your own Makers, for I will be your prisoner no more!”

Had Legolas been in his living form, he would have shed tears of joy at the return of Aragorn’s confidence, for it uplifted him more than anything else could have. But the boldness of the King had enraged the Darkness. Hardly had Aragorn voiced his defiance before Man and Elf were assailed by yet another onslaught of the Shadows, the most aggressive since they began their bid for freedom. Legolas could almost hear the Darkness shriek its claim on the Heir of Isildur:

Deep in the Shadow Land

Hear the bitter cry:

Return, return, O King of Men,

Where the dead do not die!

Legolas instantly braced himself for one of the hardest battles of his long life, for hard and cold was the stone of the Door that guarded the legacy of Isengard and Mordor, domain of the Dead.

With this Gate I hold thee fast

From this day forth until the Last!

As merciless as the tides of the Great Sundering Seas, the vicious current of hate strove to separate him and Aragorn. Dense, black waves poured in between them, trying to pry them apart. That threat to take his friend from him was all the motive Legolas needed for one final effort to overcome the malicious force.

“Hold to me, Estel!” he instructed for the last time. “Do not let go.”

Steadfast were the Light and Life of the Elves that challenged the Holding Gate: deathless were they, and pure. 

Till Light and Life can overwhelm

The Dark and Death of Shadow Realm.

Without further thought, the elf placed his trust only in the Light in his hand, and turned resolutely towards the Door. Crying the names all Elves hold in reverence: “Elbereth Gilthoniel!” he clasped Aragorn to himself, and propelled them forward as one.

Immediately, a tremor – greater than any Legolas had ever felt – shook their wraith forms.

--------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

And the Holding Gate trembled with the rage of one trespassed.

Of a sudden, the bodies of Legolas and Aragorn began to thrash against the hard floor upon which they lay, drawing loud cries from their shocked companions, mortal and immortal alike. Harsh distress was written upon the faces of Man and Elf, their closed eyes and lips compressing as in pain. Their clasped hands held desperately together, and the Phial lying between them burnt with a fierce radiance.

Before anyone else could act, Lord Celeborn leapt in between the thrashing figures and removed the Phial to place it in Legolas’ free hand.

“Keep it fast!” he instructed a startled Hamille, who clamped his own hands around his prince’s, holding the Phial in place. The elf lord himself grasped the bound hands of the two companions, securing them so that they would not wrench free.   

“Great Mahal!” Gimli exclaimed in fear. “What is going on?”

  --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Violent shudders continued to wrack the spirit forms of Legolas and Aragorn. Blinding black drowned them once more, and a cruel cold surged through them, freezing them beyond endurance, till they could no longer think, and all cognizance was robbed from them.

Shaken to the core, and numb from the bitter unearthly chill, Legolas lost all sense of the friend he had kept him in his embrace, and horror seized him.

Aragorn! He screamed in mute panic. Aragorn, where are you?   

   --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

A cry of terror pierced the air of the tomb chamber, erupting from the throat of the elf prince as if his life were being ripped from him.

“Aragorn!” he called in distress as his head twisted from side to side, seeking the one he named. “Take him not from me! No! Aragorn!” Heavy sobs now shook the body of the elf and tears leaked from his tightly closed eyes.  

Around him, the faces on the men of Gondor turned grey, and a dwarf was no longer breathing.

“Saes, spare him,” Legolas begged in a choked voice. “Aragorn!” he screamed again, drawing tears from two hobbits and his elven kin.

  --------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Estel, Estel! Legolas continued to call frantically, though no sound resounded in the strange dimension he had entered. The elf’s spirit felt it was disintegrating, not from the violent tremors that rocked him, but from a growing despair.

No… he lamented. Saes, I cannot lose him again.

But then a quiet thought – composed and confident – reached the quaking, terrified elf prince from somewhere within his embrace.

You have not lost me, Legolas, it said. I am here. Safe in your keeping, my friend, and one with you.

No face could Legolas perceive in the tempest around him, but the quiet message brought him comfort in the same manner it claimed refuge in the elf prince.

You are my harbor in this storm, said the soundless voice. Nothing can touch me where I shelter. Here I remain as you asked.

As soothing as the touch of a comforting hand in the dark, those words of reassurance eased the elf’s spirit and turned his fear to fortitude. They returned his courage to him and reawakened his senses to the power of the Firstborn.

A bright light began to fill the vision of Legolas, Child of the Eldar. It grew in its radiance and magnitude, and its coming was as a great warmth that drove out the freezing cold and quelled the potent storm. With renewed faith that soared above the Dark and Death of the Shadow Realm, Legolas raised his face to the Light, welcoming it and letting it envelope him and the King of Men in his embrace.

--------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Nestled in the right hand of the elf prince, the Glass of Galadriel passed painlessly through flesh and bone, and flared with the glorious brilliance of the Star of Eärendil whose light it encapsulated. For long, wonderful moments, the walls of the mountain tomb were awash with the Light of Valinor, and darkness and death bowed in humble defeat to it. The beauty and glory of the Lady of Lothlorien held reign as tears welled in the eyes of Lord Celeborn and his grandson, and all who witnessed the splendor were struck with wordless awe.

Then the light slowly diminished. And as soon as it had returned to its quiet radiance within the glass, the shudders that had rocked the Holding Gate with their vehement fury ceased as abruptly as they had begun.

The bodies of Legolas and Aragorn had also ceased their agitation. Their fingers were still firmly twined – but a peace was upon their features.

--------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

A sudden calm and utter silence descended upon the spirit forms of Legolas and Aragorn. And they knew darkness once more.

--------------------------------------<<>>--------------------------------------

Legolas…

The voice came as from a far place.

Legolas!

Faint it sounded, but it was growing louder.

Legolas... Awake, Legolas!  

“Legolas, saes, awake.”

“Wake up, you fool elf!” the frightened voice of Gimli penetrated his sleep.

Ai, sleep. What a dream… The elf opened his eyes wearily, blinking at faces above him, blurred faces he knew, coming into sharper relief in a hazy, gloomy place. It was a place he had once seen: it was the dimly lit tomb chamber on the Paths of the Dead.

Legolas drew in a deep lungful of air. Then all awareness came flooding back to him, and his long, long hours of agony in the Shadow Realm hit him like a hard painful rush of water.

“Aragorn!’ he cried in a voice no longer hollow. “Aragorn – is he – ?”

“He is here, Legolas,” came a quiet voice from above him, and the prince found himself looking into smiling brown eyes unashamedly shedding tears of relief. “Mae govannen, bridhon nin,” said Hamille in a shaky voice. “Well met again.”

Legolas immediately tried to raise himself from his prone position, but the images around him began to swim, and he felt the strong yet gentle hand of Lord Celeborn holding him down easily.

“Be at peace, Child,” the elf lord’s deep timbre resounded in comforting tones. “You have conquered the Realm of Death, and brought Elessar back as you vowed to. Well have you kept the honor of the Elves, and returned Hope to Men. Now, rest.”

A sigh of satisfaction passed Legolas’ trembling lips. As keen as he was to respond to the glad greetings of the men, hobbits, elves and dwarf around him, his eyes merely spanned their smiling countenances swiftly, for at the moment, he sought only one face, one person.

He turned to his left, and there he was: beside him, resting upon the supportive arms of his deeply relieved foster brother. Aragorn’s face, framed by long dark hair, was pale and gaunt, but tranquil. All its features were complete, including grey eyes that were fixed on his.

Though the elf’s heart leapt with boundless joy at the sight, he felt his throat constrict.

“Estel,” he choked out feebly. He felt a pressure upon his hand, and he realized then that it was still bound with Aragorn’s, and the Phial lay between them, reminding him of the role it had played in their salvation from the Shadow Realm.

No response came from Aragorn, who merely continued to gaze at him with a weak smile upon parched lips.

A shade of doubt marred Legolas’ joy as he swallowed and addressed his friend again. “Estel,” he said nervously. “Estel, do you know where you are? Do you… do you know me?”

The King of Men looked unblinkingly at the elf a moment longer before the grey eyes softened.

“And how shall I not know part of my soul, Legolas?” the man replied softly. His words were few, but no further speech was needed. That reply was enough to reach the heart of the elf with whom he shared a bond, a bond for which no name could be found.

Reassured of the man’s presence, Legolas managed a smile before he closed his eyes wearily and lay quiet.

The two friends heeded not the bustle of activity around them as their companions prepared for a welcome departure from the loathsome Mountain of the Dead. Neither did they have the strength to engage in lengthy conversation with a dwarf and hobbits who longed to hear their tale of horror. Not yet did Aragorn feel the cold or hunger that would wrack his body as he recovered from his unearthly sojourn in a tomb for the condemned.

For now, the King desired only to reflect on what he remembered of the people he loved and had lost for a time, and the elf prince sought only the confidence that Hope had been truly returned to them once more.

And both friends were content to rest in peaceful reverie outside the Shadow Realm: a sleep from which they knew they would surely wake.

Note:

Well,  we’ve come to the end of this long, critical chapter, and the end of the tale. Almost. There’s one chapter left. I’m exhausted. So I shall take a little rest (like Aragorn and Legolas) before that final part. My thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter.

By the way:

The Sound I was referring to is what is known in some philosophies as the Cosmic sound, heard only in moments of deep consciousness, where one connects with everything that exists in the universe. I wanted to include it in this story as I think that elves would be even more sensitive to it, but feel free to consider it an AU element if you see it as such. And, oh, it is quite different from Tinnitus :–)