Aragorn lay flat upon his stomach, stretched out across the loose rocks and stones, his right arm dangling into space over the side of the rim where Legolas had fallen.  His head rested upon his left forearm and silent tears fell from his eyes.  The overwhelming grief and heartbreak that had descended upon him after seeing his Elven friend slip from the ledge now completely consumed him and he cared not if the world around him ended.   He had not the simple desire to make his limbs move nor to think coherently.  He just kept seeing Legolas’ face vanishing into the darkness below and he blamed himself for not being quick enough to clasp the Elf’s arm and pull him to safety.

          “Legolas,” he whispered.  “I cannot bear this pain, mellon nin.”  He choked back a wrenching sob and the constricting pain in his chest felt like a giant hand crushing the breath out of his very existence.  “There is a void within my heart now that can never be replaced.  I need your strength…your wisdom to guide me.  How shall I ever carry the burden of my destiny without you there to hearten me?”

          The darkness of night had fallen and cold gusts of wind whipped about the tops of the peaks of the grey mountains and swept over the prone figure of the ranger.  Slowly and painfully he rolled over onto his back and stared up at the shining stars thorough eyes blurred with tears.  “Eärendil give me the strength to go on,” he whispered, “for now I do not wish to.”

          Strider drifted into an endless void where he lost track of time and reality.  His body lay numbly upon the harsh stones and even though he could feel the cold seeping into his back, he cared not for his own comfort.  When the icy wind finally penetrated his awareness and he was forced to rise from the stones, the moon had already risen high into the night sky.  Still reluctant to leave the broken and jagged rock cliff where his friend had disappeared, but knowing that he must, Aragorn carefully made his way down the steep face of the mountain side toward his awaiting horse.  The pale moonlight cast murky shadows across the rugged terrain, but provided enough illumination for the ranger to safely maneuver among the stones.

          As he reached the bottom of the escarpment he turned to look back up at the dark tower of the cliff.  He would have to ride to Lasgalen to tell King Thranduil that his son had perished—a task he did not relish, but he would have no other relay this dire news.

          I will come back for your body, mellon nin, he thought sadly.  I will not leave you alone and abandoned to spend eternity in some dark cave.

          With a heavy heart and thoughts full of remorse, Aragorn mounted his horse and turned south, heading back to the Forest River and the relief camp at the edge of the gutted forests of Mirkwood.  

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          Strider rode through the dark moonlit plains the remainder of the night, his thoughts centered on the emptiness he felt and the terrible pain in his heart at the loss of his friend.  When at last he finally arrived at the Elven camp, dawn was breaking over the grey mountains and the first stirrings and warm scents of the spring season were upon the air.  Spring is finally here, he thought sorrowfully. The time of year Legolas loved so well. 

          He fought back the hot tears that threatened to start anew and slowly approached the rows of tents beside the riverbank.   A Grey Elf sentry stepped out of the mists and directly into his path barring his way.

          “Daro,” the Elf commanded, and then recognizing the young ranger, his questioning eyes noted that Strider rode alone.  “Manke no caun Legolas Thranduilion?”*

          Aragorn shook his head mournfully, still unable to speak aloud the words, ‘Legolas is dead.’  For if he did, then it would be true and he could not yet acknowledge that unbearable fact.  Even though his mind knew that Legolas was gone, his heart would not accept that certainty.

          The Elven guard paled, knowing that the human’s silence could only mean his beloved prince was dead.  He quietly stepped aside allowing the ranger to enter the encampment and as he rode by, Strider could see the tears glistening within the soldier’s eyes as the harrowing grief overcame him.  Aragorn halted his horse in front of the healing pavilion and wearily dismounted.  He had no idea who he should report to now that Legolas was no longer here, but thought this to be as good a place as any to start.

          He entered the silent tent and glanced about for anyone who might be in charge, or an Elf that he might know, but the tent appeared empty of all save those who were injured and were now resting quietly in the early morning dawn.  As he passed the rows of narrow cots, he could not help but stop and check on the condition of the Elves and men lying injured upon the beds.  He so desperately needed to touch another living being and know that he was of some comfort to them, however small or insignificant his actions might be.  He had to know that he could still help someone; that he was still useful; because he had failed to help Legolas.  Failed to save the only being he loved and cared for more than his own life, and it would haunt him until he no longer walked this earth.

          “May I be of assistance to you?” a melodious voice inquired from behind his back.

          Aragorn turned around with a start to face an elder Sindarin Elf.   Although he did not know him, the Elf healer’s gentle, wise eyes soothed his innermost trauma and he was thankful for his presence.  “How I wish that you could,” he whispered softly, yet the Elf heard and titled his head questioningly.  Strider noted the Elf’s quizzical gaze and took a deep breath.  “I need to speak with someone who can assist me with the recovery of a body.”

          The Elf’s startled expression was soon replaced with one of deep sorrow and compassion for he knew of this young ranger.  He also knew that he was a trusted and devoted friend of prince Legolas.  The Elf looked into Aragorn’s desolate silver-grey eyes and asked. “Is Legolas dead?”

          Strider could only nod as fresh tears appeared at the corners of his eyes and another ragged, shuddering breath escaped his lungs.

          “I see.”  The healer took Aragorn’s arm and gently walked him away from the beds of the wounded and out into the main entryway.  He forced the ranger to sit down and handed him a goblet of mulled wine mixed with a bit of mild sedative to calm his anxiety and then sat down next to him.  “How did it happen?”

          “He fell,” the ranger choked out.  “We were tracking the dragon.  It was wounded and Legolas was going to kill it.”  The ranger took a deep swallow of the wine before continuing.  “He followed it to a rock fissure where it went to ground.  The ledge was unstable.”  Strider’s hand covered his face and he took several quick, ragged breaths.  “I couldn’t reach him. I tried…I tried.”  His words were cut off by a heartrending moan as he once again envisioned Legolas dropping from sight and falling down into the blackness of the shaft.

          The Elven healer placed his strong arm around the young human’s shoulders and drew him closer so that his head rested upon the Elf’s upper chest.  “Peace, my young one,” he said as he softly stroked Aragorn’s dark hair and murmured soothing Elvish words into his ear.  “Rest now.”                   

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          Aragorn opened his eyes and stared up at the white ceiling of the healing pavilion.  His mind was still groggy and a dull headache was throbbing at his temples, the aftermath of the wine he had consumed.  How he had come to be lying on this bed he did not know, but suddenly sensing another presence he turned and looked into the somber face of the grey wizard Gandalf.

          “Gandalf,” he whispered, half rising up upon his elbows.  “Legolas is…”

          The wizard’s blue eyes saddened and he nodded slowly.  “Yes, dear boy.  I know.”  He reached out and clasped Strider’s forearm tightly.

          Aragorn fell back onto the cot and closed his eyes.  He willed his voice to remain steady as he spoke.  “Have you come with news from my father?”

          Mithrandir sat up straighter upon his stool and placed his hands upon his bony knees.  “Indeed I have,” he replied.  “Lord Elrond believes this firebreather to be of the same nature as Smaug.  If that is the case, it is a formidable adversary, but one I believe I can overcome.”  His expression grew quite serious as he glanced down at the ranger.  “But I will need to know who commands this beast in order to counter any spells he might be using to harness the dragon’s will.”

          Aragorn gingerly sat up, rubbing at his eyes and then looked at the wizard with a concerned frown.  “That I do not know,” he answered. “But I’m sure we will find the answers in Gundabad.”

          “Then we must go there, and quickly,” the seer replied, extending his hand to Strider to assist him in rising from the bed.

          The ranger waved away the helping hand and swung his legs onto the floor.  “I cannot.  There is something I must do here first.”

          Gandalf studied the human before him, noting his anguished grief and the intense pain he obviously felt at the loss of his friend.   He placed a hand upon Strider’s shoulder, firmly gripping the young man’s arm.  “Your father also gave me a message for you alone,” he said.

          Strider glanced up at the wizard.  “Yes?”

          “He told me to tell you that ‘Legolas is the light’,” Gandalf stated.

          Sudden irrational anger replaced the grief and hurt within Aragorn’s soul and he snapped at the wizard.  “And what is that supposed to mean?  Of course he is the light!  He’s an Elf!”  His words halted and choked.  “Was an Elf.”  The anger suddenly vanished as quickly as it had come.  “He was my light,” Strider murmured softly.  “And now he is gone.”

          “Does not Lord Elrond have the sight?” asked the wizard.

          Aragorn looked askance at Gandalf as if the Istari had suddenly gone daft.  “Of course he does, you know that as well as I do, Gandalf.  Why would you,” his words dropped off as he stared at the seer, his heart hammering within his chest.

          “Gandalf!” he clutched the old wizard’s arms, staring intently into his face.  “Are you telling me that Legolas is still alive?”  Mithrandir did not immediately reply and Strider gripped his arms tighter.  “Is he?”

          “I only know that I still feel his spirit,” came the wizard’s cryptic reply.  “That is all I can tell you.”

          Aragorn started gathering up his belongings, a wild, insane elation surging throughout his body.  He desperately grasped upon this slim hope and would not let it die.  “Come, Gandalf,” he said.  “We must go back to the mountains immediately.  If he is still alive, he may be injured and will need our help.”

          The ranger hurried toward the tent entrance and did not look back to see whether or not the wizard was following.  His only thought was to get to his horse and ride as fast as he could push the animal, back toward the cliff where he had left the Elven prince.

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          The dragon rolled her giant body over onto its side to better ease the terrible pain in her back.  A long arrow shaft was protruding outward from below her wing.  Because of the angle at which it had entered her body, even with her long sinuous neck, she had been unable to grip the spear and pull it free from her scales.  Her several thwarted attempts had only managed to push the shaft deeper into her flesh and it was now securely lodged between the heavy plates of her armored hide.

          Naurnyar lay her massive head down upon the stone floor and panted heavily, trying to regain some of her lost strength.  Hot, moist clouds of steam puffed out of her nose and from between her teeth as she lay heaving and she let out a low, rumbling croak as another wave of pain ran through her back and down her spine.  The pain was so severe that when she felt something drop onto her hip from the rocks above, she barely took any notice of it until the offending object rolled onto the floor and halted in front of her.

*Halt.  Where is prince Legolas, son of Thranduil?