KUDOS: to all the perceptive reviewers who caught that minor detail that Arwen is no longer immortal. That comes into play later in the fic.

NOTE: This chapter includes multiple major departures from canon, but before the purists or (gasp!) the Canon Police write me a ticket, I demand the right to plead my case. Before you hang me, let me finish the story. All shall be explained.

# Check out my salute to David Eddings (another one of the great fantasy authors of our day) in this chapter. Hobbit points to anyone who can tell me which of his books it comes from!

EXPLANATION: This chapter contains more flashbacks to the Second Age with more on the origins of the Black Hunter’s weapon.

Chapter One: The Curse of Death

Númenor, the year 3308 of the Second Age…

Sauron found Ar-Pharazôn storming about the private chambers of his palace in a terrible fit of temper. “My lord? What is amiss?” he asked without preamble.

Ar-Pharazôn did not notice the lack of formality, for it was many years that Sauron had been counted among the closest and most trusted of his councilors. Indeed, he had hoped for just such a visit in this moment of unrest. “The guards reported an intruder beneath the White Tree last night. They believe a fruit was taken from it.” His eyes wild with the combination of fury and hidden fear that so often possessed the King of Númenor of late, he hissed, “An agent of the Eldar, Sauron? Can it be?”

Sauron closed his eyes and sighed heavily, shaking his head in dismay. “I fear so, my lord,” he said gravely. “And I hope you do not think it impertinent to remind you that I had feared just such a conspiracy.”

The High King slammed his fist into a tabletop. “That you did. And I regret most that I did not heed you, for I thought the pitiful servants of the Valar too spineless for such a bold move.”

“Has the intruder been found and the fruit of Nimloth retrieved, sire?”

“Nay. There is no sign of him, though we have searched all Rómenna, among the Faithful to the Valar and their puppets,” he spat the words as obscenities. “They have their spoil well-hidden.”

“What shall you do, then?” Ar-Pharazôn did not reply. Sauron moved closer to the enraged King’s side and spoke softly, “In light of these new and troublesome occurrences, my lord, will you not reconsider my…request?”

There was a long silence. Several times, as Ar-Pharazôn and his councilors had partaken more and more of the worship of Melkor, Sauron had urged them to destroy the one remnant of the Valar’s domination of Númenor. Yet they had not had the stomach for it before, but perhaps now…he waited in silent anticipation. Ar-Pharazôn abruptly whirled and bellowed for a guard. Sauron was forced to stifle a laugh at how his voice cracked; the Dark Lord’s seeds were bearing fruit indeed, between the machinations of the Faithful and Ar-Pharazôn’s own, growing fear of advancing age. Perhaps this time…the guard entered. “My lord?”

“Assemble my councilors!” He offered no details, but Sauron knew his hour had come. The King turned back to him and said darkly, “We shall preserve no pretense of good relations with those who spy and steal into our affairs in the night. The Valar have no might if they are reduced to such stealth. You have proven yourself a far truer benefactor, Sauron the Fair.”

Sauron bowed with all humility, “You honor me, my lord.” There would never be a more opportune moment to push Ar-Pharazôn into the next step down the path to ruin. As though struck by surprise, he observed, “My King, your hands tremble so. Shall a servant not bring you a glass of wine?”

Ar-Pharazôn spat and turned away, his shoulders slumping in a fashion that made the Dark Lord desire to howl in triumph. “It does no good, my loyal friend. No good any longer.” Moving to the window, he sighed and murmured, “I have so much yet to do, yet the years fly past so fleetingly. Cannot the Lord of the Darkness of whom you told me spare me this accursed mortality now?” Turning to face Sauron, there was a hint of despair in his eyes. “For if my strength fails me, what good are additional years?”

Sauron moved hastily to the King’s side, laying a hand upon his arm with great concern. “I see your worry, my great King, and I share it.” He shook his head in anger, “It is not enough that the Valar would curse the deserving with mortality, but they add to the insult with a waning of strength and vigor before the years are even spent.”

“Is there naught our Lord’s power can do to avail me of this affliction?”

Pretending to consider, Sauron stepped back. “It shall require consideration, my lord, but I shall endeavor to find a cure. I shall gather all my crafts and arts, and the best of our men to form some device that might yet stem the tide of age against your strength.”

Looking down at his shaking hand, Ar-Pharazôn’s eyes hardened, the momentary weakness banished by his return to typical ill-temper. “Fail me not in this, Sauron. For I shall bind you to my fate.”

“Have I ever failed you, my lord?”

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

It was a grand feast that the King and Queen of Gondor held for the reunited Fellowship, and merriment and song were as good a fare as the food that was served. With a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes, Arwen turned to Merry and Pippin, who were in the process of scarfing down a small cartload of mushrooms. “Do you find them to your liking, Dear Meriadoc and Peregrin? I was concerned that the mushrooms of Gondor might be of a less-appealing flavor than those you like in the Shire.”

While Pippin struggled to swallow without choking, Merry hastily bowed to her. “They are most delicious, my lady. As fine as any grown in the Shire, along with all the rest of this magnificent meal. We shall be the envy of all Hobbiton when we return with tales of your hospitality.”

Arwen beamed, and Aragorn snickered behind his hand. His queen had been greatly entertained by Aragorn’s stories of the hobbits in the early days of the quest--and their legendary appetites and appreciation for good food. With that in mind, she had arranged the feast with a fierce determination that guests of any race would be impressed.

And judging by the response of hobbits, elves, dwarves, and men alike, she had succeeded remarkably well. Legolas and the sons of Elrond were remarking appreciatively on the wine, Gimli, Faramir, and Eomer were admiring the perfection of the roasted meats, and the hobbits…well, the hobbits liked everything. Gimli turned to them, “On your way back to the Shire, my friends, you must stop in Rohan and view the Glittering Caves. I’ve made a very fine dwarven home there in two years.” Legolas muttered something about dwarven standards of fineness, but Gimli ignored him.

Merry was eager, Pippin willing enough, but Frodo and Sam looked doubtful. “It’s not anything like Moria, is it?” asked Sam.

Instead of being offended, the dwarf laughed. “I expect it is as Moria was when it was filled with dwarves and not orcs, but it is much different from the caves you saw. Many of my people have come to it, and the men of Rohan visit us often to trade for metals and gems. It is quite a bustling place these days. I could scarce find time to leave it.”

Eomer nodded in agreement, “He speaks the truth; I have seen Aglarond as it is now. It is a fine place, beautiful to behold. You should be most welcome in Rohan on your journey home.”

The hobbits exchanged glances. Frodo eyed Gimli’s rather hopeful expression and smiled, “Then of course, we shall come!” He suspected it had something to do with Legolas being Gimli’s best friend, and the member of the Fellowship who Gimli saw most frequently. Though the elf had admitted being awed on his visit to Aglarond during the War of the Ring, it was immensely difficult to get him willingly into a cave of any kind. The least the rest of them could do while they were in the neighborhood was pay a visit to the colony Gimli was so proud to be building.

“I hope you will also come to visit South Ithilien,” said Legolas then. “For the labors of Faramir and myself have given much to the fair land.”

“I owe much to the elves for their work on the gardens of Emyn Arnen,” said Faramir. “My lady’s and my dwelling has grown beautiful, and the colony of Legolas is a sight to behold.”

“Tell me, Lord Faramir, do you run into much…trouble, still being so close to Mordor?” asked Sam.

It was Eowyn who answered. “Orcs and foul creatures were scattered by the Enemy’s fall, but they were not wiped out. We maintain a vigilant guard on the Eastern side, and so far we have fared well. There have been a few marauding bands that attempted to assault some of the outlying dwellings, but my lord’s White Company provides the protection needed.”

Faramir grinned, “There speaks the captain of the guard.” Eowyn shot him a mock-glare.

Leaping to her defense, Merry replied, “I wager Lady Eowyn could do more than her share of protecting if she still fights as well as she did before.”

With a little bat of her eyes, Eowyn said, “I have kept up practice, and none have claimed that my skills are dulled.”

“Nor shall we,” said Faramir, before he found himself the target of more of Eowyn’s admirers. “She keeps the guards on their toes.” The company laughed.

Arwen started as though just remembering something. “I had not thanked you, Samwise, for the rose bushes you brought. They shall earn a place of honor among our gardens.” All of the hobbits had brought gifts of one kind or another for their hosts, and Sam had brought a small cart of carefully-potted flowers from the gardens of the Shire for Minas Tirith.

Sam blushed to his ears. “You’re most welcome, my lady. This was a very good year for Shire roses.”

“I’ll say it was!” added Merry. “Sam married one!”

Shouts of approval and congratulations mingled with laughter and applause all along the tables, and Sam blushed harder. “I had a mind to bring Rosie with me, but we decided she’d better stay and keep an eye on Bag End.”

“She couldn’t make a journey like that anyway,” said Pippin. “She’s expecting!”

Sam glared furiously at Pippin. Legolas and Gimli both froze with food halfway to their mouths and Aragorn dropped his spoon. Gandalf laughed, and even louder exclamations of delight rang out through the banquet hall. “And just how long did you intend keeping that happy news a secret, Master Samwise?” demanded Faramir.

“Just waiting for the right time,” muttered Sam, his face now the color of a beet.

Aragorn decided to spare Sam additional embarrassment by changing the subject to the events in the Shire. “I had heard that grievous was the treatment of the hobbits during the War. Is all well now? I would help if the need exists.”

The hobbits beamed. “All is more than well, lord,” said Frodo. “Thanks to Sam, and also the Lady Galadriel.”

Arwen raised curious eyebrows, and Merry explained, “When the Lady gave us all parting gifts on our way from Lorien, she gave Sam a little box of earth to help start a garden.” The Queen smiled, apparently familiar with the qualities of the soil of Galadriel. “Well, as you probably heard, when we got back to the Shire, things were a right mess. Poor Sam was beside himself, for they’d cut down the party tree where Bilbo Baggins had his birthday celebration, and lots of the fields and gardens spoiled, and trees cut down right and left! We didn’t know how we’d ever recover it.”

The faces of the elves at the table had grown long at hearing this, for they all had heard the hobbits’ tales of the beauty of the Shire. Seeing their saddened eyes, Sam said quickly, “But I had that little box of elf dust--” Legolas chuckled, “--so when we planted the new saplings and seedlings, we put a little speck of it everywhere.”

“Generous, he was,” said Pippin. “Merry thought Sam should use it to make a nursery, and that might have been good too, but not as good to the Shire as spreading it around turned out to be. That spring, why, you would have had to see it to believe it! All the trees, plants, bushes, and flowers grew again, fair and strong; not a one withered or died. Sam had planted the little silver nut on the party field, and it grew a mallorn tree! The most splendid silver tree that ever was seen, and the only one west of the mountains, so we’ve been told. There were fruits aplenty--we brought some with us.”

“And a fine addition to the feast they were,” said Eomer appreciatively, helping himself to a strawberry--astonishingly fat and sweet for so late in the year.

“Sam and Rosie’s wedding was a sight to see,” Merry told the company. “It was on the party field in the spring near that mallorn sapling, and there was more food than Bilbo’s birthday party! We had hoped she would come with us to meet you all, but she’s expecting soon in the spring, so she really couldn’t.”

“I am sorry for that,” said Aragorn with a smile. “I would have liked to meet her.”

“You’d be most welcome in the Shire, my lord,” said Sam. “There was also a very great yield of corn and barley this year; the brews were something marvelous. And the leaf was the best I have ever seen. We brought you a whole bale of it.”

“Now THAT was a gift for a king!” declared Gimli. Aragorn nodded in vigorous agreement, and the company laughed harder.

“There’s a fine big bale of it for you, too, Mr. Gimli.”

There came then a sweet ringing of a utensil upon a silver goblet, and Faramir rose, beckoning for silence and raising his goblet up. “My lords and ladies, I give you the king!”

“The king!” Hobbits, elves, dwarves, and men sprang to their feet and toasted the health of Aragorn, who suddenly looked rather sheepish and more like the Strider they all remembered who disliked such attention.

Legolas rose then, and gave a toast to Queen Arwen. Then Aragorn claimed the right to toast the Ring-Bearers, and so it went on, long into the night. The company was very merry, the wine circulated swiftly, and Legolas and Aragorn were soon eyeing each other across the table. “What ails you two?” demanded Gimli.

Aragorn ignored him, glaring at Legolas. “Do not even THINK about it!”

“I said nothing!” protested the elf, feigning innocence.

“You shall not get me this time!” To prove his point, Aragorn passed up the next round of toasts, and Legolas abandoned his attempts to goad the king.

“This time?” Frodo whispered to Sam.

Sam shrugged. “Legolas and Strider were friends before we were born, so they say. Who knows what sort of mischief they got up to when they were young.”

Legolas heard him of course, and began to laugh. “I could relate stories of our liege that would shock this stately court, Samwise!”

“And I could relate tales of this elven prince that would scandalize his kin,” retorted Aragorn, pretending to scowl.

The hobbits were open-mouthed by now, but Elladan decided to jump in. “Legolas has been scandalizing his kin since the day he was born, and you, my dear Elessar, are so scruffy and unrefined that any royal court would be shocked by you. Were you not so good with that sword, they’d have demanded that Frodo be king!”

Gimli let out a great bellow of laughter. Frodo choked on his wine, and received a swift thump in the back from Sam, and the toasting began again. “My friends, I give you the newly-wed and soon-to-be proud father, Samwise Gamgee!”

“Hear, hear!” The company toasted this news with as much gusto as they had saluted the king.

Sam got into the act next, “I give you Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Great!”

“Let us not forget Mithrandir!”

“My thanks, Lord Faramir!”

“I give you Legolas, Elven Lord of Ithilien!” declared Gimli, deftly dodging an elbow from the elf.

Not to be outdone, Legolas sprang up and cried, “I give you Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves!”

“I give you Eomer, King of the Mark!” announced Aragorn, exchanging an overly extravagant bow with the Rohirrim king.

The toasting was growing progressively louder and more boisterous. Arwen caught Eowyn’s eye, and they rose, soon joined by the other ladies in the room. “I think it is time we retired. I bid you gentlemen good night,” said the Queen of Gondor with a knowing smile.

The ladies exited the banquet hall as the toasting erupted anew, and the door closed on the sound of one of the lords of Rohan saying, “Gentlemen, I give you my dog, Bowser!”#

***

Although most of them were decidedly the worse for a night’s toasting, most of the revelers arrived at breakfast the following morning, though the food was not nearly so celebrated as it had been the previous night. Aragorn had managed to restrain himself, and suffered fewer ill effects than most of the men. The elves, of course, showed not a sign at all. “How does Frodo fare this morning?” the king asked Sam as the hobbit came to the table.

Sam smiled, “He did drink quite a lot of wine, but he’s not too bad off. He’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Exchanging a glance with Gandalf, Aragorn elaborated, “How does Frodo fare otherwise?”

Sam’s face fell slightly, confirming his friends’ worries. “He’s been ill a few times, Strider. I’ve been a mite worried about him. Sometimes he seems to be half-dreaming,, and all melancholy, and his duties as mayor wore him out something dreadful. He left office this past Mid-Year’s Day, but he still seems so out of spirit’s sometimes. That’s part of why I wanted us all to meet again here in Minas Tirith; I thought seeing all of you again would cheer him up.”

Gandalf and Aragorn listened solemnly, and Gimli and Legolas had also joined them, their faces concerned. “Will Frodo ever recover from the darkness?” murmured the elf, his eyes dark.

Sam smiled then. “‘Tis a good thing we made the journey, Mr. Legolas, for Mr. Frodo’s been more lively these past couple of days than in quite a while. Even this morning I know all that wine wasn’t too good for him, but he’s in good spirits because it was fun. Now he’s talking of all the things he wants to do and see while we’re here, and not thinking so much of the War. Oh, Mr. Legolas, you’ll take us to see Ithilien, won’t you? He’s so looking forward to that.”

“Most definitely,” Legolas said with an emphatic nod.

“I will go ahead of you and make sure those orc bands are well taken care of,” offered Gandalf. He did not speak it, but all agreed that there had better not be any orc attacks while Frodo was there. The hobbit needed his peace.

“I shall send a message to the captains with you,” said the elf. Turning back to Sam, he added, “And I am sure Gimli will be equally glad to oblige you with a trip through the Glittering Caves. As caves go, I must admit, they are not so bad.”

The company laughed at that, and Gimli slapped Legolas on the shoulder, and so it was this scene that Frodo came upon when he entered the Hall. “Come and sit beside me, Frodo,” Aragorn bade him, beckoning.

“How long do you intend to stay?” Faramir asked them.

“Well, you understand we can’t be gone from home too long, what with Rosie…” Sam blushed and the others grinned.

“I hope you will stay at least until the Festival of the New Year,” said Arwen. Of course, the hobbits could not refuse.

Sam was right; there was color in Frodo’s cheeks and a smile that came easily to his face as he listened and talked with the rest of the Fellowship, sharing more news of all their doings since they had last been together. Aragorn lingered for some time at breakfast before at last breaking himself away to return to his court. Arwen invited Sam and Frodo to accompany her to the gardens and decide where would be the best spots for Sam’s flowers.

Merry and Pippin, on the other hand, did not rouse themselves until almost noon.

***

Disaran, off-duty in a courtyard not far from the gardens, watched Arwen Evenstar escorting the Halflings through the stone terraces, selecting carefully the location for each of the small plants and bushes that the hobbits carried. He was surprised at how freely the Queen of Gondor moved throughout the White City, and thought that it really would not be hard at all to take her. That was one of the conveniences of Ar-Pharazôn’s little weapon: it was relatively quick, needing only a second to take effect and minutes to do all that was needed. All Disaran had to do was get his target alone.

Experimentally, he ambled a little further into the gardens, just to see how close he could get. Suddenly a guard seemed to materialize before him, “Where are you going, Lafin?” (Lafin was the name Disaran had assumed as a soldier of Gondor.)

Centuries of experience made Disaran quite skilled at dissembling. “I was just…ah…” he blushed at will and glanced at Arwen.

The guard came to the conclusion Disaran had intended, and said sternly, but with understanding, “Look to your duties, man. The Queen’s not to be gawked at…no matter how tempting it is,” he added with a knowing wink.

*So she’s better guarded than I thought. I shall have to try elsewhere. But that is why I came to Gondor, to find easy bait. I shall make for Ithilien if I must, but I may yet find what I seek within the city.*

As if in answer to his thoughts, a musical voice called out to the Queen, and she turned to raise a hand in greeting to the fair-haired elf who walked out into the garden. From his position, Disaran heard all that they said. So this was Legolas, Elven Lord of Ithilien, telling the Queen that he meant to take the hobbits to the colony next week. The Queen readily gave her permission, and said that a guard of Gondor would go with them.

The two elves rejoined the hobbits and raised their voices in a sweet, lovely song of the elves that crossed the sea. The hobbits ceased their planting and sat around the pair, listening silently. Disaran smiled maliciously as the fair notes floated through the clear autumn air. This really was too easy…

***

A few days later…

All the fanfare of the famous Fellowship’s arrival had passed on the previous day, and the people of Gondor did not expect the appearance of any new celebrities. So it came as quite a shock to all when a party of four elves was spotted riding from the north, very fast. The guards at the gate did not recognize them, but knew that all elves were welcome in Minas Tirith, and so let them in.

Faramir was coming down the steps of the Halls when he spotted the elven riders. Having been in Minas Tirith during the wedding of Arwen and Elessar, he recognized one of them. “Lord Celeborn?” he asked in surprise and alarm, noting the elven lord’s grave face and the signs of hard travel upon horses and riders.

Celeborn wasted no time dismounting, and came up the steps swiftly, with another golden-haired elf beside him, who also looked to be noble. It was the second one who spoke first, and his urgent tone startled Faramir greatly. “Where is my son?”

Confused, Faramir glanced at Celeborn, who shot the other elf a quelling look and said, “My Lord Faramir, I present Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the elves of Eryn Lasgalen.”

Faramir’s heart lurched. What was Legolas’s father doing here? By all accounts the King of Mirkwood had little interest in meeting men. What did this mean? Realizing the elves were staring at him, he bowed and said, “By your leave, Lords, I shall bring you before King Elessar. If Legolas is not with him, the king will know where he may be found.”

***

Aragorn was startled when Faramir interrupted the court and said that there were some unexpected but urgent visitors. The King noted in surprise the rather intense look Faramir shot Legolas, who was standing by the throne at the time, as though Faramir were trying to convey something. Aragorn and Legolas had no time to do more than exchange a baffled glance when Lord Celeborn walked swiftly in--followed by King Thranduil.

Aragorn froze, Legolas went rigid, and Elladan and Elrohir stared at the sight of the King of the former Mirkwood, all trying to discern what by the Valar he was doing here. Legolas had sadly voiced the likelihood that Thranduil would never come to Ithilien, let alone Gondor to acknowledge Aragorn’s kingship. Gimli’s head whipped from Legolas to his father and then back again, realizing that Legolas had no idea what had brought the elven king here. Whatever the reason, none of them expected it to be good.

Perhaps in the initial shock, only Aragorn noticed the expression that briefly crossed the elven king’s face when he spotted Legolas beside the throne. Relief. As if he had been concerned for Legolas for some reason (other than his choice in friends, this time) and now that he had found his son, his worry was slightly diminished.

Celeborn bowed, and Thranduil echoed it (if slightly grudgingly.) “My Lord Elessar, forgive our abrupt arrival. We come on matters most urgent and grave.”

Aragorn rose and bowed in return. “Then of course, my court shall hear you, Lord Celeborn, King Thranduil. Pray, speak.”

“My lord,” Celeborn’s face was very tense, “a man has been sighted approaching Gondor who poses a great threat to the elves in this kingdom.” His eyes flicked to the twins. Elladan gasped softly and Elrohir turned pale. Celeborn gave a barely-perceptible nod, and both closed their eyes, swallowing hard.

Aragorn stared at them, then turned a now equally-grave face to Celeborn. “Who is this man?”

“His name is Disaran. Among the Eldar, he is known more often as the Black Hunter.”

Aragorn spared a quick glance around the room. The elves now had the undivided attention of every one of the mortals, and with good reason. Thranduil and Celeborn looked as if they had ridden non-stop through a dust storm to get here, and now their news…Legolas’s jaw was clenched, Elladan was nearly rigid with tension, and Elrohir was white-faced. He wondered if Arwen knew any of these tidings, and hoped she did not. He would not see her so frightened. “What has this man done to the elves?” the king asked quietly, dreading the reply.

Celeborn made no immediate reply, and so Thranduil spoke up. “He has been responsible for the murder of dozens of our kind since the Second Age.” Aragorn blinked, and the elven king went on, “We know not how, but the mortal came into possession of a device that can drain the life from an elf, granting the user with greatly extended youth, but not total immortality. To keep the youth, it must be used again and again, and Disaran has done so. He remains the same age in health and appearance as he was during the days of the foundations of the Realms in Exile, but he has murdered without a qualm in order to keep this youth and health. We know not the exact number of his victims, but the Black Hunter may have drained away the life of as many as a hundred Eldar.”

“He is a cold-blooded killer,” whispered Elladan, and Aragorn turned to him, alarmed by the tone of his voice. “Elven children have oft been preyed upon by him. Any immortal can grant him unchanging youth for a length of time, but as soon as he feels himself beginning to age again, he hunts, killing several elves before disappearing once more.”

Thranduil nodded, “His identity was discovered after one of the murders many centuries ago, and so he hides as long as he can. When he is seen abroad in the land, there can be only one reason. He is seeking new prey. Every elf in Middle Earth is in danger while this creature is abroad, for he has learnt many skills and tricks. For all our efforts to capture him, we have found only his victims, too late.”

Aragorn felt a terrible coldness in his stomach. Thranduil of Mirkwood--Eryn Lasgalen, he corrected himself--was not an elf given to admitting weakness. And yet here he was, practically blurting out that he had no way of protecting the elves from this killer. *Therefore, I had best not underestimate this Black Hunter, if he can drive Thranduil to such fear. Then again,* he glanced at Legolas, *I doubt it is for his own interests that Thranduil has gone to such lengths to reach Minas Tirith.* His mind whirling with these strange and foreboding tidings, he tried to think of an intelligent question to ask, “How was he first identified?”

Wrong question. Every elf in the room winced, and Celeborn briefly closed his eyes. In a very soft voice, the Lord of Lothlorien replied, “He was seen using the device the very second time that he struck, and so we realized what he was doing…when he killed my son.”

For several moments, no one spoke. Aragorn fought the urge to bury his face in his hands. *I did not know Celeborn and Galadriel had ever HAD a son!* Taking a deep breath to calm his thudding heart and churning stomach, he slowly rose, looking around the throne room to each of the witnesses there. “All the strength of Gondor shall be alerted to the defense of the Eldar within and without our borders.”

Eomer caught his eye and Aragorn nodded; the King of the Mark rose. “And that of Rohan as well.”

Celeborn nodded his thanks, but said, “My lords, I warn and beg you not to underestimate Disaran. We know his face, but he shall carry another name. He can conceal himself as many different men, and has much skill at arms. Elves must not travel alone until some clue of his whereabouts is found, or he will strike at the first opportunity. That is how it always happens. I must speak plainly,” he looked sorrowful, but said, “Do not think that the Abomination would not dare attack the Queen. For if he sees the chance to strike her or any other Eldar, he shall use it before any have a chance to come to her aid. His weapon is swift and terrible, for it can drain all the life from the victim in a moment.”

“But Arwen is no longer…” Elladan protested, turning paler still.

“Disaran knows much about elven skills, but little about our lore. He may not realize that. If he attacks the Queen, his weapon would still kill her.”

Aragorn’s hand spasmed, and he realized that he was clenching the arms of his throne. He felt nauseated. It was a deadly foe indeed who could frighten these elven lords so greatly. “I shall issue a proclamation immediately warning of this creature’s presence. Have you a description of him?”

“There is a portrait drawn from memory, but I do not have it with me,” said Celeborn, looking like he wanted to curse himself. “I am still able to describe him well, for I shall never forget his face.”

Aragorn ordered a scroll brought at once and noted down the description Celeborn gave with growing dismay. Perhaps the elven lord did not realize this description fit more than half of the men in Gondor. Why, it even fit Faramir--to some extent, anyway. Black hair, brown eyes, between thirty and forty years of age, an average height for a man…Aragorn tried not to look discouraged. But he affixed his seal to the proclamation and ordered the heralds to read it at once. Eomer dispatched one to Rohan as well.

Ending the Court for the day, the company walked from the throne room through the Halls of Kings, engaging in worried conversation. “How far out of Gondor was he when last seen?”

“He was moving south from the Misty Mountains in the spring before the rains came, but the news did not reach me until a week ago,” said Celeborn.

“Elbereth, he could be in Gondor by now, or Rohan at least!” said Elladan.

“I must get to Ithilien!” Legolas exclaimed, his eyes anxious. “He may see the colony as easy prey!”

“You cannot go alone, Legolas,” Aragorn said. “I shall arrange guards for you.”

“Not just any guards!” said Thranduil sharply.

“Quite right, my lord. Faramir,” Aragorn ordered. “Select a contingent of guards from the White Company to return with Legolas to Ithilien. Make sure they are ones you know.”

“Yes, my lord,” Faramir hurried away.

Legolas glanced out the window. Night was falling, it looked like a storm was coming, and the thought that the Black Hunter might at this moment be drawing nigh unto Ithilien made him ill with fear. Death was always a painful experience among the elves, but the murders that Disaran committed--the most senseless waste imaginable. “I shall get my horse and meet you at the gate--”

“NOT alone!” the entire company chorused.

“I’ll go with him,” growled Gimli. “Any man who would lay hand on him shall have me to contend with.”

“I shall go, and to Ithilien as well,” said Thranduil. “He has never been known to attack elves in pairs.” The elven king apparently expected Gimli to relinquish his claim to accompany Legolas, but the dwarf did not, and so, eyeing each other suspiciously, they both left, flanking the prince.

***

*Curse those elven lords!* Disaran sprinted out of the Halls of Kings. Once that proclamation was made, he would have barely any chance to catch an elf in Gondor. He might have to flee and try his luck at the Grey Havens unless he could get one within a few hours.

He could think of only one chance of succeeding, but it was a gamble. Legolas of Ithilien was leaving, accompanied by guards of Faramir’s White Company. Disaran hid near one of the common areas where the guards often stayed, and watched for someone passing, thankful the storm had driven most inside. Just as he was beginning to fear he would find none, two of the White Company came hurrying through the wind, eager to get under cover before the storm hit, their helmets under their arms. Disaran took up a heavy dagger in each hand, came up behind, and struck both in the heads with the hilts. Blood on the uniforms would give him away. He chose the one closest to his size, and dragged him out of sight. There was little time left.

He saw the younger elf, his target, accompanied by the elven king and the dwarf. They would need to be separated. He would need to arrange some kind of help. Spotting several younger guards coming to start their shift, he affected great panic and shouted frantically for them to come to his aid.

***

The rain had not yet begun to fall, but the wind blew and lightning flashed as two elves and a dwarf hurried into the stables. “I do not like you traveling in this weather, Legolas,” Gimli said. “You should wait until daylight. Even elves may find it hard to see in such conditions.”

“The Black Hunter struck Mirkwood when I was a child, Gimli,” said the elf softly, taking his horse out while Thranduil stood within sight by the door. “He killed six of my kindred before vanishing again. If he reaches Ithilien…” Legolas shook his head. “I cannot delay. These are my people, my charge. I must warn them and make proper precautions.”

“But what if you are right and that creature is headed for Ithilien!” protested Gimli. “Will you be any safer there?”

“Gimli,” Legolas smiled, almost laughing in spite of their anxiety. “Mithrandir is in Ithilien at this very moment, checking the activity of the borders with Mordor. Even the Black Hunter may think twice of attacking my realm while an Istar is there, but first I must warn them that he approaches.”

The sound of running feet startled both of them, and Thranduil moved quickly to his son’s side, as a rider from the White Company burst into the stables, out of breath and wild-eyed. “My duty, Lords!” he cried, saluting hastily. “Lord Aragorn bids you come at once--the Queen has been attacked!”

Legolas wheeled around and raced for the door. “Where?”

“The Houses of Healing, my lord!” the man led him swiftly through the dark streets, with Gimli and Thranduil behind them.

Another group of guards, younger ones from the King‘s Halls, swiftly joined them, “My lords, Lord Celeborn begs you to return to the Halls! They may have the man responsible!”

The three froze, torn and unsure of which way to run. “I will return to the palace,” said Thranduil, sensing that Legolas would want to see Arwen.

“Take the guards with you!” his son cried, and waved the men after the elven king. They obeyed at once, and Legolas sprinted after the White Company rider.

“Legolas, take care!” shouted Gimli, unable to keep up with Legolas at such an all-out run, but the elf could think of nothing but how Aragorn would be destroyed if Arwen were slain. The dwarf soon fell far behind. The street was straight to the Houses of Healing, but the storm made it so dark that Gimli could only see the elf and the guard clearly when the lightning flashed.

***

Thranduil and his escort of guards raced back to the Halls of Kings and found Faramir and Aragorn there with Celeborn. Seeing him, they rushed forward. “What happened?!” all four cried in unison.

Then they froze. The guards spoke first, “One of the White Company guards said the Queen had been attacked and you had the Hunter, my lord!”

“What? The Queen is under guard within the Halls!” cried Faramir.

The flash of lightning showed the color drain from Aragorn’s face as he met Thranduil’s eyes. Leaping off the steps, he roared at Faramir, “Call out the guard but stay with Celeborn!” and tore down the street with Thranduil and the men at his heels. *Valar do not let us be too late!*

*****

Númenor, the Year 3310 of the Second Age…

Upon a hill in the midst of the City of the Númenóreans, stood a mighty temple, Armenelos the Golden, in the form of a circle at the base, with walls fifty feet in thickness that rose from the ground five hundred feet, crowned in a mighty dome five hundred feet across. And the dome was roofed all with silver, rising glittering in the sun so that the light of it could be seen afar off. It was a splendid sight, this new construction, and upon this day within the Temple the altar of fire was to be lit for the first time.

Dressed in their finest garments, Ar-Pharazôn the High King and all his councilors were assembled along with the nobility of Númenor, with the exceptions of a few among their number who stubbornly (and most foolishly) persisted in following the teachings of the feeble Valar. The King’s guards blew their trumpets and all the men bowed as the King’s truest councilor, Sauron the servant of Melkor, stepped to the front of the temple to christen it in the name of the Lord of the Darkness. “Bring the wood for the altar!”

A low intake of breath issued from the assembled as two of the Temple guards brought forth a great pile of wood to start the fire of worship of Melkor, for all could see that it was the hewn wood of Nimloth, the White Tree, felled at last in spite of the Valar. The wood was flung upon the altar, and Ar-Pharazôn stepped forward. “This day, our hearts and our faith shall be placed in the hands of the Lord of the Darkness, the Giver of Freedom, that he may favor us with his power and free us from the curse of death!”

All bowed, including Sauron, but before the King could light the white wood, the Dark Lord stayed his hand. “I beg your indulgence, my lord. I would present to you a token of fealty, to the glory of you and the Lord of All, that this day may show proof of the power of Melkor.”

At the King’s nod, Sauron reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a stone, oval in shape, fitting easily in the palm of his hand. Black it was, but not completely dark, for the faintest flickers of light passed through it as he held it aloft before the curious stares of the King and onlookers. It was cut with wide facets like a great gem and gleamed dully in the light of the sun through the top of the Temple dome. “Behold!” Sauron cried. “Already the Lord’s power shall be displayed, and the High King of Númenor may begin the first steps on the path set by Melkor to true immortality!” With a low bow, he held the stone out to Ar-Pharazôn.

The King took it, examining it cautiously. “And how shall I use this pretty rock, my sweet-worded servant?”

“Forgive me, my lord. I shall demonstrate its use. As I promised, you shall be freed of the ailments of age with this weapon against mortality, and soon the gift of the Valar and the Eldar shall be yours.” Sauron shouted to the guards at the door, “Bring forth the sacrifice!”

To the murmurs of surprise from the Númenóreans, two guards dragged in a struggling figure in white robes. Sauron strode forward and pulled back the robe’s hood to reveal a fair face framed with long, golden hair, and bright, horrified eyes. An elf. With a little smile, Sauron explained, “This creature was discovered after landing a ship against the King’s edicts, attempting to make his way to the traitorous elf-friends in Rómenna.” With a mocking smile, he drew a hand gently down the elf’s cheek, laughing as his prisoner’s lips curled in revulsion. “Thus you see before you the bearer of the gifts of the Valar--an immortal! Freed from the curse of death regardless of whether he is deserving or no. An unjust fate, is it not?”

“The will of Ilúvatar is not for you to dispute!” cried the elf in anger, but a fierce blow to the ribs from one of the guards doubled him over and silenced him.

Sauron laughed again, and addressed the men rather than the captive. “Dispute? Nay. The Valar have possessed themselves of the land where there is no death, and they lie to you concerning it, hiding it as best they may, because of their avarice, and their fear lest the Kings of Men should wrest from them the deathless realm and rule the world in their stead. And though, doubtless, the gift of life unending is not for all, but only for such as are worthy, being men of might and pride and great lineage, yet against all justice is it done this gift, which is his due, should be withheld from the King of Kings, Ar-Pharazôn, mightiest of the sons of Earth, to whom Manwë alone can be compared, if even he.”

Murmurs of agreement were rippling through the men as Ar-Pharazôn lifted his chin proudly at Sauron’s words. Even then, the elf, his eyes wide in dismay, shook his head in despair and grief at the thraldom before him. Hurling off the captive’s cloak, leaving him clad in a tunic and trousers of white linen, Sauron drew the struggling elf to him, bearing his chest. To the men and their King, he shouted, “But great kings do not brook denials, and take what is their due!”

Over the shouts of assent, he pressed the black stone hard against the elf’s chest. The result was instantaneous. The elf gasped, his eyes losing focus, and began to sag back against his captor. The black stone in turn began to burn with orange light as though bright flames burnt within its dark facets. Sauron’s eyes grew visibly brighter, a smile of predatory pleasure upon his face, as stone darkened again and the elf went limp. The onlookers let out a collective exclamation of awe as Sauron drew the stone away, and the elf fell bonelessly to the floor of the Temple, his immortal life quenched.

With a long breath as though savoring a good meal, Sauron held the stone up again. “Thus, men of Númenor! Behold the weapon that will wrest the gift of the Eldar to any deserving one who wields it by the will of Melkor, Lord of All! I henceforth gift it to your King, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, as the one most deserving to possess the bringer of immortality, to use as he sees fit!” With great deference, he presented the stone with Ar-Pharazôn, who took it with far more reverence this second time. “Thus the Lord Melkor shows his favor of you, my lord, and the Temple you have constructed in his name.” He motioned to the guards, who lifted the dead elf, and bade them place him atop the hewn wood of Nimloth. “And here today shall burn the first of our sacrifices, in gratitude for this gift and that he may yet release you all from Death.” Turning to Ar-Pharazôn, he smiled, “Another elf was taken from the ship that brought this one, my lord. Will you partake of Melkor’s gift?” He did not wait for Ar-Pharazôn’s eager permission, but called to the guards who brought in a second elf, fighting desperately when he spied the fate of his companion.

At Sauron’s assurance that the Stone would answer to his will, Ar-Pharazôn seized his victim around the neck and pressed the weapon against his skin. The results were just as they had been for Sauron, and seeing the King’s elation, the men cried, “Hail, Ar-Pharazôn, King of the Earth! The first of Immortal Men!”

Soon the second elf fell dead like the first, and his fair body was laid upon the altar. Eyes wild with mad elation, besotted by the vigor the Stone’s art had given him, Ar-Pharazôn cried, “Let Lord Sauron set the first fire in the altar, most faithful of my servants who has brought to us so many gifts!”

And so the hewn wood of Nimloth was set ablaze and consumed along with the bodies of the first victims of the new servants of Melkor. But the smoke turned the silver of the Temple’s dome black, and men marveled at the reek that went up from it, so that the land lay under a cloud for seven days, until slowly it passed into the west.

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

Legolas raced toward the door of the Houses of Healing, expecting to see a throng of people and guards, but finding no one at all. In confusion, he reached for the door and found it bolted. He turned around and froze--the White Company guard was grinning at him, a look of cold triumph on his face.

In a flash, the elf had his knives out. “Did you harm Arwen?” he demanded, his heart pounding as he realized he was face-to-face with the Black Hunter.

Disaran laughed. “Of course not! Why risk my skin chasing her when I can find easier prey! You are all the same to me, my dear elf!” A small, round object was clasped in the palm of his hand, black as obsidian, and Legolas had no trouble guessing what it was. *By the Valar, why did I not wait for Gimli! This creature knows the hearts of elves well!*

His only chance was to keep the man back, Legolas realized, as he and Disaran circled each other warily. Disaran lunged forward, aiming simply to touch Legolas with the weapon, and the elf leapt away while swiping at the man’s arm. Disaran kept grinning, keeping the elf’s back to the Houses of Healing with nowhere to run.

***

Aragorn did not think he had run so fast in his entire life. Thranduil kept pace with him easily, and they wheeled around a corner onto the street that ended in the Houses of Healing. Lightning flashed and they came close to the building just as Gimli reached it. Somehow he had been left behind by Legolas and the other man. Lightning flashed again…

***

Legolas slashed open the sleeve of Disaran’s jerkin as the man came at him again, trying in vain to pass him and run for safety. He heard shouts behind the man and cried, “Gimli!” knowing the dwarf could end this fight at once. Disaran faltered and glanced behind him--immediately, Legolas surged forward, his long knife ready to end this creature’s career once and for all. But then the man had expected the move and dodged to one side, seized Legolas’s wrist, and before the elf could react or even call out, what felt like a piece of black ice came into contact with his skin.

A shock of terrible cold seemed to surge through him, followed closely by a wave of weakness. With a gasp, Legolas staggered, and his hand lost its grip on the knife. Disoriented, he tried to strike with his other knife, but Disaran swung around behind him, getting an arm around his chest, and pressing the stone against the base of his neck, just below the collarbone. It was so cold… With a gasping moan, Legolas felt the strength draining from him, and the other knife slid from his fingers as he squirmed weakly in a vain effort to get away. *Fight it, fight it!* his mind cried in panic, but his body was losing the ability to obey.

A terrible leaden weakness was coming over his limbs. So heavy…it was growing hard to breathe. Dying in battle was an eventuality Legolas was prepared for; he was a warrior, after all. But this…to perish this way…*No! Fight it…* Legolas’s attempts to pull away were met with a tightening of the iron grip around his chest and cruel laughter in his ear. So heavy…so tired…his head lolled forward. He had lost all sense of time and where he was. His body sagged against Disaran’s grip. His heart was losing the strength to beat anymore. Only Disaran’s hold prevented him from sagging to the ground. So heavy…so heavy…he was dying.

*No! A Valar! Gimli! Aragorn! Father! Help me!* Legolas had never felt so helpless in his life. *Someone help me!*

***

The lightning revealed a man in the garb of a White Company soldier, with Legolas pinned in a terrible embrace and a black stone pressed against the elf’s chest that had begun to glow with its own dark fire. “NO!” Aragorn cried, as he and Gimli rushed Disaran.

Those last few strides to his trapped friend seemed to last an eternity. Legolas’s eyes were glassy, and utterly terrified. His knives lay upon the ground, and Aragorn could see him going limp. “Legolas!”

He and Gimli both reached the elf and his attacker at the same time, but Disaran waited until then to drop the elf. The moment his grip was released, Legolas fell like a marionette with its strings cut. Aragorn caught him, and with a bellow of rage, Gimli charged after the fleeing Disaran. “Gimli,” Legolas said weakly.

“Gimli, wait!” Aragorn shouted, but turned desperately to Legolas. Thranduil had frozen in his tracks, staring at his stricken son in mute horror. But Aragorn had eyes only for Legolas.

“Aragorn?” whispered the elf. His breathing was labored, and his pulse was weakening fast.

“Hold on, Legolas!” the King of Gondor whispered desperately, cradling his friend in his arms. *Valar, no! I cannot lose you! Not now, not like this!* “Please, you must stay with me…no…”

“Gimli,” Legolas moaned, the life flowing out of him.

“Legolas? Legolas!” Aragorn looked around frantically, trying to think of some way to help him. But there was no wound upon him, no mark of the evil spell the black stone had inflicted--how could he heal his friend when there was no visible injury? The guards were catching up with them by then, and the King of Gondor cried out, “Gandalf! Send for Gandalf from Ithilien! At once!” One of the men bolted. “Legolas,” he pleaded. “You must hold on.”

The elf was beyond hearing, his eyes, half-focused and fearful, staring at the stars through a break in the clouds. His body was so limp, and beginning to grow cold. *No. No! NO!!! Legolas! It cannot be this way! Not you! Valar, please fight!* The terror in his friend’s eyes burned Aragorn like a brand as they drifted closed. As though summoning the last of his strength, Legolas sucked in another breath. “Gimli,” he sighed, the air leaving his body.

He breathed no more.

“Legolas,” whispered Aragorn, shaking his friend weakly. *By the Valar, this cannot be happening!* He cradled the elf against his chest, his mind feeling sluggish, unable to comprehend what had happened. It had all happened so fast! “Legolas…”

***

Gimli thundered after the fleeing Disaran, rage searing through him at the vicious attack upon his friend, and for the fear he had visited upon all the elves. No people deserved to be stalked in such a fashion! Disaran had a good lead, and was pulling further away, but lightning flashed and suddenly he skidded to a stop. Gimli heard guards coming down the street from the other end.

Drawing a sword, the man spun and charged Gimli, obviously hoping to get past him to freedom. *So this creature may know the fighting ways of the elves, but he will not get past a dwarf!* Gimli thought, readying his axe.

It was a fact shown all too clearly, for Disaran came at Gimli with the same sort of moves Legolas liked to use when he and Gimli sparred, but not nearly so much finesse. Dodging a wild swing of the sword, Gimli slammed the shaft of his axe into the man’s side, earning a grunt of surprised pain, and Disaran staggered. Whirling behind him, Gimli struck him again in the back of the head, dropping him to the ground in a stunned heap.

“Thought you were attacking just any old elf, weren’t you, villain?” growled Gimli. “Well, this elf is the friend of a dwarf who does not take kindly to attempts to murder him!” He waited until the guards arrived and kicked the black stone from Disaran’s hand. The man attempted to grab it, but Gimli kicked it away, sending it skittering across the paving stones. “You shall never use that accursed thing again! Bring this creature; the King shall decide his fate. Do not touch that stone! Keep it for Aragorn to examine!”

With that, he stalked back to the Houses of Healing, where Aragorn had been seeing to the wounded Legolas. Coming around the corner, he froze in his tracks. The alley was now lit by many torches, and some of the guards surrounding the scene had tears in their eyes. Gimli pushed through them frantically; Legolas must have taken a grievous hurt. What he saw shook him to the very core of his being.

King Thranduil stood in the same spot he had been when Gimli had charged after Disaran, apparently not having moved an inch. His hands hung slack at his side, and he did not seem to notice Gimli at all, having eyes only for the two people on the ground before the Houses of Healing. Why had Aragorn not taken Legolas inside, the dwarf wondered.

Aragorn, who had been staring down at Legolas’s face, looked up suddenly at Gimli. The King of Gondor’s eyes were dull, his face listless. Gimli slowed his approach, staring, unable to believe his eyes, at the form cradled in Aragorn’s arms.

Legolas was so still. He lay in the King’s arms, his eyes closed like a mortal asleep, but somehow this was different. It was very odd, for even when his friend slept, there always seemed to be such life about him, as though the very air danced in the presence of one of the Eldar. Now there was not a flicker of movement, and the light that always seemed to surround him was gone.

No. Gimli could not believe it. He could not comprehend it. It did not seem possible. Legolas was immortal! It could not be possible! His friend was supposed to outlive him! It was a knowledge Gimli had always lived with, always taken comfort in! How could this be?

Yet it was so…

The elf was dead.

*****
To be continued
*****

(Sniff!) I…can…not…believe…I…really…did it! (SOB!)