RESPONSE to questions: I don’t know if Celeborn and Galadriel ever had a son. I made up the one in this story. Some theories have Amroth of Lorien (remember the Lay of Nimrodel) as their son, but it’s not certain. For the purposes of this fic, Celeborn and Galadriel had two children: Celebrian, their daughter who went on to marry Elrond (that’s canon) and Indoran, a younger son who was killed by Disaran (entirely made up.)

In response to all who have threatened me with grievous bodily harm, blame Thundera Tiger! (Laugh) Yes that’s right, Tiger, you are officially in the inspiration hall of fame. I got to thinking after reading “Reflections in the Dark,” how would Gimli and company react to Legolas’s death? That little daydream turned into a ravenous, slavering plot-bunny with fangs, and the rest is history. Your fault! All your fault!

Here we go everyone, Chapter Two. I assure you there will be much more to this fic than just death and grief. I hope you’ll all give it a chance before you kill me. But I warn you: this chapter made ME cry!

Chapter Two: Shock

Imladris, the year 275 of the Third Age…

The child had escaped her tutors again, fleeing the Last Homely House in a gleeful sprint that carried her all the way to the banks of the Bruinen. There she played, knowing it was useless to hide, since it was only a matter of time before she was discovered by the elves sent to fetch her. Instead, she bided what free time she had bought herself, prancing in and out of the water in typical high spirits of elven children, singing carelessly to herself.

A twig snapped. The child turned around curiously, but saw no one. How very odd. She had the distinct impression that she was being watched. With a sigh, she supposed that the tutors had finally found her and that she would soon be back in the schoolroom enduring a good scolding, but no one revealed themself. Come to think of it, she had had this sensation for the last few days. But she had been in the world only thirty-four years, and so the thought that this mysterious watcher might bare her any menace was utterly beyond her imagining.

There came another sound, and the girl spun around with a giggle, intent on discovering the identity of whoever spied on her. Her laughter stopped short when she beheld the figure behind her. A few paces down the riverbank stood a man, one of the first men the child had ever seen--and the very first who was not introduced to her as a guest of her father. He stood very still, having come from the trees where he had apparently been watching her for some time. He made no move and spoke no word, but simply watched her.

For the first time in her young life, a little prickle of fear ran through the child. “Who--who are you?” she asked nervously, looking around and hoping now that her tutor’s had at last caught up with her.

The man merely smiled.

“What do you want?”

His smile grew broader, and even in her youth the child recognized the evil intentions in his gaze. She began to back along the riverbank, and her heart sprang to her throat as he slowly, tauntingly began to match her steps.

“Go away!” she cried. “You are a trespasser on these lands!”

Now the man laughed, and never had she heard the sound so fouled. His steps quickened along with the child’s breath as terror began to race through her. She carried no weapon and could see nothing on the riverbank that might aid her, not even a hard stone. The man, on the other hand, did hold a stone, a stone that shone black like obsidian. What it was she knew not, and instinctively, she feared it as well as him. “Help!” she screamed, sobs of panic tearing at her throat. “Someone help!”

She stumbled as she turned to run, hearing the man’s laughter and quickening steps behind her, but then there was the sound of crashing through the brush, and an elf burst out of the trees. The child sobbed with relief; her tutor must have heard her cries and run off the path to reach her more swiftly. The elder elf, Laegnan, did not pause, but sprang between the child and her attacker, though he too had come out of doors without any weapon.

The girl’s relief did not last long, for the man hardly hesitated, but lunged at her tutor even as she screamed again. Now Laegnan was an elder among her household, but hardly lacking in strength or skill. Yet even as he struck back at the man to defend himself and his young charge, the mortal assailant seized him and subdued him, pressing the black stone to his neck. “Fly, child!” Laegnan cried to the girl as the man pressed his attack, and the girl fled in terror into the trees. Behind her, she heard Laegnan’s voice, sounding strangely weak, as he called after her, “Warn your father, Undómiel!”

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

The darkened, sleepy streets of Minas Tirith that surrounded the Houses of Healing were suddenly wrenched awake by a dwarven howl of grief and rage, so loud that lamps were lit in haste and windows flew open everywhere. Soon the people of Minas Tirith were pouring into the streets, trying to find the source of the noise and adding to the commotion of the already-raised guards. Those who heard it most clearly would later say they had not heard a noise so terrifying since the War of the Ring, and had been convinced the White City was being invaded.

But others said they had never heard a voice so filled with anguish.

***

The Queen of Gondor sat in a quiet sitting room within the Halls of Kings with Lady Eowyn and the hobbits, surrounded by over a dozen guards. Her husband, brothers, and the elven lords had been a little less than forthcoming about whatever danger had entered Minas Tirith, and they had all rushed off, with Aragorn promising to relate it to her as soon as he returned.

However, that was scant consolation now. Arwen was so tense she thought she would scream, and the anxiety on the faces of the hobbits hurt her heart; it reminded her of the fear-filled days of the War of the Ring, and Iluvatar knew Frodo needed no such reminders.

Eowyn stood by the window, trying to see the streets. “Something is wrong.”

Arwen looked at her in confusion, “I think we have already apprehended that much, Lady.”

“Nay, my Queen, I meant something else is wrong,” Eowyn turned from the window, and one look at the Lady of Ithilien’s eyes brought Arwen to her feet and running to the window.

Eowyn was right. The courtyard looked as if a swarm of hornets had attacked; people were racing to and fro, soldiers and civilians alike, and…her heart froze…some were weeping. “Valar,” she whispered. “What has happened?”

“Guard!” Eowyn barked. Arwen turned as one of the soldiers came swiftly to their side. “Send to Lord Faramir at once that the Queen wishes to know what has transpired. If he cannot be disturbed, then find out for yourself!”

“Yes, my lady!” the guard saluted and hurried out.

Arwen quashed a surge of envy. While the guards looked upon her, their queen, with reverence and awe, and never hesitated to obey any command she issued, there was a respect in their eyes for Lady Eowyn that one could not help noticing. Their response to Arwen seemed properly deferential, and awestruck by her beauty, but for Eowyn it seemed more substantial, as though the guards recognized her as their equal in all things, including ability to defend herself and her people if necessary. Arwen was a Queen to be adored and protected in their eyes, but they all knew Eowyn could hold her own.

That fact was frustrating because Arwen could take care of herself. But the duties of the queenship made it impossible for her to practice with weapons as much as Eowyn did, and even less to demonstrate them, not that she was unskilled with them by any means. Aragorn occasionally indulged her with a sparring match, but Arwen knew he pulled his blows (still, she forgave him it, for he would most likely trounce her.)

She and Eowyn spent much time in each other’s company as was proper when Faramir was in Minas Tirith. It was obvious that Eowyn and Faramir loved each other utterly, proven by how often Eowyn accompanied him, and Arwen did not feel threatened by the Lady at all. Still, there was an awkwardness, that Arwen knew came from Eowyn’s deference to her, and from Arwen’s own somewhat irrational envy. *I should simply ask her to instruct me. Aragorn and Faramir are often busy, and time would go more quickly by us practicing at swords and bow than sitting and embroidering.* Arwen understood that certain tasks were considered more appropriate for a queen than others, and indeed she enjoyed so-called “womanly” activities…yet the problem with all of them was that they left her mind far too free to wander to all the cares of the world.

*Any who thought life would be free of anxieties and troubles after the War were sadly mistaken,* she thought, suppressing a sigh. That was the greatest reason she had lately come to prefer practice at weapons to still, quiet tasks. They took her mind off all the worries that seemed to constantly occupy it.

Her musings were interrupted by the return of the guard, looking anguished. “Forgive me, Lady. Lord Faramir bids you remain within the Halls. There is great danger without.” He had nothing more to impart to them.

Arwen dismissed him, and looked at Eowyn, her heart pounding. “Something grave has happened of which he will not speak.”

“Or has been ordered not to, more likely,” whispered Eowyn. Her voice was filled with dread. There had been tears in the man’s eyes.

Arwen looked out the window once more. People were sobbing in the streets now. *Estel…has something happened to Estel? Surely if he were…if he were well, he would order the guards to inform me!* That thought did it. She whirled and snapped to a servant, “Bring me a cloak and a belt!”

“My Queen, the Steward ordered that you be guarded within the palace--” protested a guard.

“And now I, your Queen, order you to stand aside, for I am going to find my lord!” retorted Arwen. This promised to be an ill meeting no matter what. If something dreadful had happened to her husband, she knew not what she would do. On the other hand, if Estel had indeed ordered that she be kept in ignorance of some dreadful tidings out of some misguided protectiveness, she would blister his ears later! She swept into the cloak the servant brought and girded on a sword.

Eowyn had watched the exchange briefly, then said to the servant, “Bring one for me as well.” Arwen turned to her, and the Lady of Ithilien said with a small, humorless smile, “I may not be able to prevent your going, but you shall not venture out alone.”

“Nay, Lady!” added Merry and Pippin fiercely, going for their swords and shields. “The King would never forgive us if anything happened to you! We’ll come as well, and meet death before you meet harm!”

Despite her anxiety, Arwen smiled at their fierceness. Frodo and Sam also went looking for weapons, but Arwen told them, “Nay, Frodo and Samwise, you remain here. Eowyn, Merry, and Pippin are more than enough escort to deal with any threat. Stay in case anyone returns and wishes to know where we are gone.”

Frodo and Sam exchanged a glance, then nodded. “As you wish, my Lady,” said Frodo, his face pale with worry.

“An escort for the Queen!” ordered Eowyn as Arwen headed for the door. Six more guards fell into step surrounding them as they strode out of the Halls and down the steps.

Eowyn and the hobbits had their swords drawn, flanking Arwen and looking sharply about for anything that might threaten their Queen. Gasps and soft cries rang out from the people that saw them pass. Arwen had no difficulty determining which direction to go, for a steady stream of people were moving toward the Houses of Healing. As they drew nearer, the people who turned and saw her began to weep, and avoided her gaze as though the sight of her anguished them still more.

*Estel…something has happened to Estel,* she thought, her mind wild with terror. Abandoning all pretense, Arwen broke into a run.

The wild wind whipped her hair and her cloak, and only Eowyn’s hand stopped her from rushing ahead of the escort. Merry and Pippin ran ahead of them, ordering all to “Make way for the Queen!” Their voices betrayed their fear, for they too had heard the tears of the people.

The crowd parted before them as they neared the Houses of Healing, and Arwen came to a halt, her heart in her throat.

*No…*

Aragorn was unhurt. But it was small consolation, for the scene before the Queen of Gondor was no less devastating. Her husband did not look up at her arrival, but stared down at the limp form cradled against his chest. Legolas. The elf’s eyes were closed, but there was no peace upon his face. Something in his still, pale countenance seemed to suggest that darkness had come over him in a state of intense fear. Arwen stared, trembling slightly, at the motionless body of Legolas, the dear young warrior who had been her friend and a friend to her brothers for so many centuries. His light was gone. His warmth was gone.

Legolas was gone.

A barely-stifled sob from just behind awoke her. Eowyn’s hands were covering her mouth, and tears streamed down her face. She had come to know Legolas well in the past two years during the rebuilding of Ithilien. His loss would be a crushing blow to her and to her husband. In front of Arwen, Merry and Pippin too had frozen in their tracks. Not a sound came from either one. The only sound here in this place of death was the soft weeping of the people who had come out to determine the cause of all the commotion.

Arwen swallowed hard, fighting back a scream of anguish that tried to force its way from her throat. How had this happened? How now, after Legolas had survived the War of the Ring with barely a mark to his body, how now could he be cut down? She saw no blood, no wound that could fell an elf. How? How could this be?

*Why? WHY?!*

She had been holding her breath. It forced her to inhale again suddenly, and Aragorn looked up. His eyes, always so warm and steadfast, now seemed as dead as the elf who lay in his arms. So hopeless, so lost. He who had saved so many lives, including many of the folk who surrounded him now, had been unable to save one of his oldest and closest friends. The hands of the king were the hands of a healer, but not this time. He could not save Legolas.

Arwen’s legs were suddenly carrying her forward. Her eyes still meeting Aragorn’s seeking some response, some explanation, she knelt before him. Something told her that Aragorn wanted to speak, but had lost the ability. She looked down at Legolas, and her vision suddenly blurred with tears. *Oh Legolas! Why?* Reaching out, she took the younger elf’s limp hand in her own and raised it to her cheek. It was so cold. Tears spilled from her eyes and she closed them, conscious of nothing but that cold hand against her face, wishing she could rub warmth into it again. *Oh Legolas…*

A bark of laughter made her raise her head, stunned. There against the wall behind Aragorn, a man stood, his hands bound, held fast by four guards, each of whom looked as though they desired to impale him with their swords right there. He was watching her with a hideous grin of twisted amusement at her grief. It struck her with a wave of nausea--this man had slain the elf. She was looking into the eyes of Legolas’s murderer!

With a gasp of horror, fighting her heaving stomach, Arwen looked away, and jumped at the sound of a dwarven roar of rage. She looked up again, her mind moving too slowly to process all that was happening; she had not noticed Gimli. Legolas’s best friend launched himself at the killer, ripping him from the guards and pummeling him with his fists, looking to finish him then and there. Aragorn did not even turn around, and Arwen watched rather dispassionately.

It was Faramir, his eyes red, who finally ran over and pulled Gimli back. “Enough, Master Dwarf,” he cried in a voice thick with grief and anger, “it is not for you! This creature shall answer to all Gondor and the Eldar for this atrocity! He shall be made to pay!”

Somehow, the dwarf let himself be pulled back. Turning away from the elf’s killer, great, heaving sobs broke through the wind and the thunder as Gimli came to Arwen’s side, staring in disbelief at Legolas’s body. A fat drop of rain splattered to the paving stones. He did not speak, but simply wept, the sobs seeming to come from the depths of his soul.

A drop of rain landed on the elf’s face. Arwen brushed it gently away, and Aragorn pulled him closer as if to shelter him. Again, it was Faramir who spoke. “My lord, my lady…we should not…linger here. We should…get him indoors…and these people back to their homes ere the storm strikes.”

There was a long silence. Then Aragorn drew in a shuddering breath, closing his eyes briefly. When they opened, they were just as listless as before, but this time with a hint of consciousness at least. Slowly, the King of Gondor rose, with Legolas still cradled reverently in his arms. He looked down at the elf’s still face for a moment, then began walking back toward the Halls of the Kings. Gimli stared, about to follow, then suddenly turned away and instead went to join Faramir, who had the unhappy task of seeing to Disaran‘s imprisonment--and protection from the growling mob that stood hoping the murderer might attempt to escape.

Arwen suddenly found she could not get her legs back under her. She knew she must rise, walk at the King’s side in this procession of mourners, but she could not make her legs work. *I am the Queen, Aragorn’s wife. I must join him. I must rise!* She swallowed hard, and suddenly a hand extended to her. Looking up, she beheld her grandfather, Celeborn, and behind him, King Thranduil. She had not even known they were in Minas Tirith! Taking Celeborn’s hand, she was able to rise to her feet, and glanced once more at the man who had slain Thranduil’s son, whose removal was being seen to by Faramir and Gimli. She looked back at Celeborn and Thranduil, and suddenly, the truth struck her.

That was why they had come…to prevent this…Arwen stared in horror at the murderer, realizing for the first time who he was. His face was distorted in her memory, more hideous in the shadow of childhood nightmares, but now that she looked again, she recognized him. He was not laughing now; Gimli’s tender ministrations had wiped the obscene smile from his face at least. Arwen felt a convulsive shudder take her whole body, and then Celeborn laid his hand upon her shoulder and turned her away.

***

To the right and just ahead of Celeborn, King Elessar walked back to the Halls of the Kings, carrying Legolas. The elven lord stared at the man, stunned by the effect Legolas’s death had had upon him. He had known the two were close, yet…Aragorn’s shoulders slumped, and he walked very slowly, as though it took great effort to keep himself moving at all without stumbling. Celeborn could just see his face, and Aragorn stared straight ahead, his eyes bleak. He looked at no one, not even Arwen. Celeborn had his left hand clasping hers, his right around her waist, leading the bereaved Queen as if she had no will to walk on her own. Her head hung. On the other side of Aragorn walked Merry and Pippin, with tears streaming down their faces.

To Celeborn’s left was Thranduil. The elven king had not made a sound, nor shed a tear, nor taken his eyes from Legolas since they had come upon the dying prince. Celeborn found he could not look upon Thranduil for long without feeling the grief welling up in his own throat. *Forgive me,* he thought to his friend, guilt surging through him. *I tried. I came as quickly as I could. Would that I had been faster. I lost my son; I would have done anything in my power for yours. Forgive me, Thranduil. Would that I could spare you this agony.*

The people of Minas Tirith were weeping in the streets. By all accounts, Legolas was a regular visitor to the king, and adored for that and as an elf by the Gondorrim. But the Lord of Lothlorien was stunned by the intensity of the mortals’ grief. He did not harbor feelings quite as ill toward humans as Thranduil, however he still did not expect men to care so deeply for the life of any one elf. Yet here the people cried, and the soldiers bowed their heads, some saluted as the procession walked by. At last they reached the Halls of the Kings, and King Eomer came running down the steps, practically skidding to a stop when he saw Aragorn and the burden he carried. The young King of the Mark stared, disbelieving, and whispered softly, “No.”

Aragorn looked around, apparently uncertain of what to do. Eowyn came up then, touched his shoulder lightly, and motioned him toward the Silent Street, where the House of Kings stood, the place where the kings of Gondor had always been laid to rest, and where Aragorn himself would some day lie. Aragorn wavered, loathe to bear the elf to that place of the dead, but then Eomer came before him, looking first from the King of Gondor to his sister Eowyn. Though her eyes were spilling tears as freely as rain from the sky, she nodded to him, looking then to Aragorn, and Eomer turned his face as well toward the House of Kings, indicating again where Legolas should be taken. Slowly, Aragorn turned as though he had no will of his own, and carried the lifeless elf into the Silent Street.

Followed by the great stream of mourners, King Elessar brought the body of the son of Thranduil to the House of Kings, and carried him inside. There stood an empty stone table, carven exquisitely of the finest marble, meant for the bodies of the Kings themselves. It was a place fitting for the dearest of the King’s friends and one who had many times saved the King’s life.

But Aragorn, still cradling Legolas in his arms, stared silently at the marble slab and would not relinquish his burden to it. His eyes strayed briefly around the dark House, beautiful, but cold and echoing with memories of sorrow. He stared again at the sepulcher, and spoke for the first time. “Legolas hates stone,” he murmured.

Arwen at last pulled away from Celeborn’s supportive hands, and swiftly undid the clasp of the heavy gray cloak that she wore, a soft and beautifully embroidered gift from her kindred in Imladris. Stepping past Aragorn, she laid the cloak across the table. Then she turned and nodded to her husband, her eyes downcast. With a deep, quiet sigh, Aragorn stepped forward and reverently laid Legolas’s body upon the cloak, gently arranging the elf’s hands upon his chest.

It would be proper to shroud him, they all knew. Aragorn’s hands strayed to his own mantle, but then he faltered. His eyes took on a look of renewed horror as he stared at the body of his friend, the second member of the Fellowship of the Ring to die. With the barest shake of his head, he stepped back. He could not do it. He could not shroud the elf and cut him off from the world.

There they stood, for how long no one knew, staring in endless disbelief at the still form lying upon the cloak of the Queen. A very soft sound of sobbing came from behind the King; it was either Merry or Pippin. Eowyn also stood back from the group, leaning slightly against Eomer who had his hands on her shoulders. Both had tears streaming down their faces.

At last, Eomer squeezed Eowyn’s shoulders and she turned to look at him. He nodded toward the door, then to Aragorn and Arwen. Taking a ragged breath, Eowyn nodded, scrubbing at her eyes with little success to stop the tears. She reached out and touched Merry and Pippin gently, beckoning to them. The two hobbits looked at her in dismay, then stared back at Legolas, new despair on their faces. Surely they could not simply leave Legolas here in this stony tomb? After all they had been through…surely they could not just turn and walk away!

Eowyn stood patiently awaiting them, until the hobbits realized her intent was to give Aragorn, Arwen, and the elven lords time alone. Merry bowed his head and looked to Pippin, who stared a moment longer at Legolas, then tearfully nodded. The small knights of Gondor and Rohan took one last look at their fallen friend, their comrade in the Fellowship, and finally turned and came out of the House of Kings with Lady Eowyn, and King Eomer.

Celeborn knew, watching them leave, that the time had come for him to depart as well, and leave Legolas among those who knew and loved him best. He too lingered for one last look at the young elven prince, and his vision blurred slightly as grief nearly overwhelmed him, grief for his own slain child and for this new cruel death. Grief for Indoran had led him here, desperate to prevent another such tragedy.

*I failed. Forgive me, Thranduil.* The King of Eryn Lasgalen did not seem to notice Celeborn leaving. Celeborn suspected Thranduil did not notice anything other than his child lying cold upon that stone. *I know that it is so. I know far too well.* He looked again at Legolas from the doorway. *Fare ye well, son of Thranduil, Legolas of the Fellowship. May you find welcome in the Halls of Mandos. You at least may now know peace.* He forced himself to turn away, trying to think of something practical to do as he walked, slowly and rather aimlessly, back toward the Halls of the Kings.

Haldir and Rumil were waiting there for news. He would tell them. He had to tell them, though a part of him wondered how many more horrified faces slowly turning to crushing grief and tears he could witness before losing his sanity. But he would deliver the news to them as he should, and tomorrow he would send for Galadriel. Yes, that was something he should do. It would be proper for her to be here during the mourning that was to commence for the prince of Lasgalen and Ithilien, the second fallen member of the Fellowship. Besides which, Celeborn had not realized until now how badly he desired her beside him. It would make the pain of what had happened, and what was to come, far easier to bear.

***

There was no one left in the House of Kings but Aragorn, Arwen, and King Thranduil. Not a one of them spoke. Aragorn could not seem to shake the sense of utter disbelief that had covered his mind in a thick shroud of fog. He stared at Legolas, stared hard until his eyes ached, but the elf did not awaken. How could this be?! Legolas was IMMORTAL, by the Valar! Aragorn was not supposed to have to mourn him! Of all those he held dear to his heart, the one he never feared losing was Legolas. The constant one was Legolas, the one member of the Fellowship he had known the longest, and expected to live the longest after Aragorn was gone, the one who would keep the memory of the War of the Ring and the suffering and sacrifices of them all alive.

*Legolas! Legolas!*

The elf did not stir, did not open his eyes and scowl at Aragorn as if daring the King to comment on any perceived weakness. Legolas was not often injured, and even when he was, he tended to be downright cranky about any attempts by Aragorn or others to tend to him. Why did he not now sit up and grumble at them all that he was fine and to stop fussing over him?

*Legolas! Legolas!*

The elf always lay so still, it took a trained eye on normal circumstances to see the rise and fall of his chest, and see the barely-perceptible movements while he slept. Aragorn was usually one of the few who could discern the faint motions of Legolas asleep, and even tell the mood of his elven dreams, but…perhaps he was deeply unconscious from Disaran’s weapon, so much that it was impossible to feel his heartbeat and his breath, perhaps he might yet recover…

*LEGOLAS! By the Valar, LOOK AT ME!! You cannot leave me this way! Legolas, WAKE UP!*

Aragorn had not realized that his heart had begun to pound as a terrible urge came over him to rush forward and shake the motionless elf violently until Legolas awoke and told Aragorn to leave off. Suddenly, something else shook Aragorn, and the soft sound of a stifled sob reached his ears. He had not realized he had his arms around Arwen, who was leaning more heavily against him than before. At last, he tore his eyes from the body of the elf in front of him, and looked at his queen.

Arwen had begun trembling; her grief was overwhelming her. She was still an elf in that respect. Aragorn had to see to her. Blinking as though coming out of a trance, he took in his surroundings more clearly. Everyone else had gone, though the King of Gondor did not remember them leaving. He scarcely remembered how they had gotten here. Across from him, on the other side of the table bearing Legolas’s body, stood King Thranduil, motionless and still staring at his son.

*I should leave him alone. He will wish to be with Legolas in private. I must take Arwen home.* Aragorn shook his head to himself, and gazed at his friend once more. *I shall return soon, Legolas. Gandalf will be here as well, and we shall find a way to restore you. I will not leave you like this.*

For the first time, Thranduil actually looked at Aragorn as the King of Gondor took a quiet step forward, gently covering Legolas’s hand with his own for a brief second. Then Aragorn put his arm around Arwen and guided her from the House of Kings, leaving the elven king of Eryn Lasgalen alone.

***

Frodo and Sam waited in the room where Arwen had left them for what felt like hours. They had been forced to calm a nearly-hysterical pair of elven twins when Elladan and Elrohir discovered that their sister had raced out into the streets to find out what had happened. Only after hearing that Eowyn, Merry and Pippin, and six guards had accompanied her did they cease their attempts to charge out after her. After all, Sam had told them, it would not do to have every elf in Gondor running about when there was a madman on the loose.

So the four had remained together, tense and anxious, awaiting news. And they got it much sooner than any of them would have liked.

The sound of an outer door opening, and the blast of rain and wind down the hall, brought all of them to their feet, and moments later, Merry and Pippin came through the door, joined by King Eomer and the Lady Eowyn. Arwen was nowhere in sight.

Elladan and Elrohir chorused, “Where is my--” before getting a close enough look at the faces of the four new arrivals. They broke off their demands.

Frodo’s heart went to his throat. “What’s happened?” whispered Sam, putting a fearful hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

The stain of many hard-shed tears on the faces of all brought renewed terror to the two hobbits and elves. Frodo voiced the question that was foremost on every mind. “Who’s dead?” he asked softly, knowing that was the only explanation.

Eomer tried to speak, but his voice failed him before he could get a word out, and Eowyn covered her mouth to avoid a new flood of sobs. Choking back a fearful cry of his own, Elladan crossed the floor to Eomer and gripped his shoulders. “Is my sister safe?” he asked desperately, tears already springing into his eyes.

Eomer nodded. “It’s the King then,” gasped Sam. But then Merry shook his head, and Pippin began to sob again.

They all seemed so confused, thought Frodo, as if they themselves couldn’t quite believe it. But if not Arwen or Aragorn, then who? Merry and Pippin, Eowyn and Eomer would not cry so unless it was someone they all knew and loved. Faramir? No, Eowyn would not be here at all if he had fallen. And the man whom Lord Celeborn and King Thranduil had been so afraid of before was hunting elves--

Elves.

For a moment, Frodo was certain his heart had stopped altogether. It must have showed, for Sam turned anxiously to him, “Mr. Frodo?”

Gimli was not here. Nor was Aragorn, nor any of the other elves who had been abroad this night. Frodo’s throat closed with fear, and now a surge of despair as he met Eowyn’s tear-filled eyes. “Legolas,“ he whispered. “It’s Legolas, isn’t it?”

Sam, Elladan, and Elrohir looked at Frodo in surprise then; obviously, the idea seemed absurd to them, after all, Legolas was--then they looked back at the others. Merry squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands, and Eomer nearly had to grab his sister to stop her from falling to her knees as she too crumbled with tears. None of them seemed able to bring their grief under control, but then Pippin suddenly looked up, his red eyes meeting Frodo’s…and slowly nodded.

“What?!” cried Sam, his hands coming halfway to his face but stopping, clenching repeatedly to fists in disbelief. “But…but…that’s impossible! Mr. Legolas…I mean…he…he can’t…he just CAN’T!”

“Eomer?” whispered Elrohir, tears in his voice. The King of the Mark, his arms around his sobbing sister, looked up at the elf and nodded also. Elrohir swallowed hard. “The Hunter?”

This time, it was Eowyn who nodded. “Oh no, no,” murmured Sam.

The sons of Elrond stepped back then. Elladan was still staring at nothing in disbelief, and Elrohir bowed his head, bringing his hands to his face. His shoulders began quaking in silent, deep sobs. Frodo felt as if some deep, hidden pool of water inside had suddenly begun to boil and rise up within him, hot and powerful in its pain. *Legolas! How?* He felt Sam’s hands on his shoulders, guiding him to sink into a chair, and his head sank against his hand, too heavy to be upright on its own. *Legolas!*

Sam was crying openly now, sitting in the nearest chair. “Oh, Mr. Frodo, I just don’t know how to make sense of it! How could Legolas of all people fall? Now, after the war! It doesn’t make any ruddy sense!”

Eowyn and Eomer had gone, but Merry and Pippin were still there. “It w-was that c-cursed Hunter, all right,” said Pippin, choking through his sobs. “I saw him, s-standing there, laughing at us all, and Legolas too! S-Strider was holding him, but it was too late!” The youngest of the hobbits could barely speak for weeping. “It’s not right! The way he looked; he must have been s-so afraid when he…I h-haven’t seen anything so awful since Bor--” he buried his face in his hands again. “It wasn’t right! Dying that way…”

Hiccupping on his own sobs, Sam whispered, “Poor Legolas. The next… I never imagined it would be him.”

“None of us did,” murmured Frodo, not noticing the tears sliding freely down his own face. He could not see his friends anymore, only Legolas. The strange elf clad in green and brown at Elrond’s council, the sound of his sweet voice raised in song around campfires and in the halls of Minas Tirith, the brightness of his grey eyes, both old and young, both wise and mischievous, both gentle and hard. The clear, ringing sound of his laughter, almost like the wind in the branches of the forests, or the song of a bird in the trees, whenever Legolas had been sparring with Aragorn--*funny, he laughed whether he won or lost*, thought the hobbit--or verbally sparring with Gimli--oh! A low moan of renewed anguish and horror rose from Frodo, and the others looked worriedly at him. Choking back harder sobs than ever as the full weight of the elf’s loss and what if would mean to every single one of them, sank in. Looking tearfully at the others, Frodo cried out, “Gimli! Poor Gimli…”

***

Gimli watched, his arms folded tightly, as the White Company guards none-too-gently threw Disaran into a cell and slammed the metal bars shut behind him. The man, sprawled upon the dirty straw on the floor, looked up at them. He was no longer laughing at them (probably still catching his breath from their lack of gentle handling, but Gimli cared not.) Faramir had carefully donned gloves and transferred the black stone to a pouch. “I will take it to King Elessar,” he said roughly. “If there is anything to be learnt from it, he or Mithrandir or perhaps one of the elven lords may know.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes; they were very red and tired, but the Prince of Ithilien had kept himself under control. He looked wearily at Gimli, “They will have taken him to the House of Kings. Aragorn said from the beginning that he wanted that much for every member of the Fellowship. You should not linger here, Gimli. Go to them.”

Gimli sighed himself, and nodded. It was growing hard to keep his mind occupied with the matter of Disaran. Soon it would be forced to turn to the reason Disaran was here…narrowing his eyes once more at the Black Hunter, Gimli growled, “Pray tonight, villain! Pray that someone here in this city learns a way to reverse what you have done to Legolas. Or by Aule’s rule, you shall scream for death and curse your greed for immortality before I am done with you!” With that, he turned and marched out. Faramir moved more slowly, and made no effort to keep up.

The rain was coming down in sheets as Gimli trudged his way past the Halls of the Kings toward the Silent Street. Few people lingered out of doors now; it was simply too wet. Nonetheless, Gimli felt irrational anger at this: did not they realize that a member of the Fellowship had just been murdered?! Did not they care about the heroism of the elf on their behalf, when scarcely a one of other members of his race had joined in the War of the Ring?

*Many nights of rain, wind, and worse, Legolas kept watch for you!* Gimli’s mind railed at the ungrateful Gondorrim. *Why now do you not do the same for him?*

He was drawing nigh upon the House of Kings when he suddenly stopped. What would he see when he went in there? His mind was both slowing down from the adrenaline rush of manhandling the villain into prison, and speeding up with the utter horror of what had happened here tonight.

*Legolas. Legolas! LEGOLAS!!!* The elf’s name was like a growing scream in Gimli’s mind, echoing round and round, louder and louder, until the dwarf wanted to clap his hands over the sides of his head and howl to the heavens. Pain, pain like he had never felt before ripped through him, but he found he could not cry out. *Oh Legolas, it hurts! You must live! I cannot exist in the face of such pain! I cannot endure it!*

In his mind’s ears, the elf’s name crescendoed mercilessly, and in his mind’s eye, the elf’s face swam, laughing, irritated, forlorn, thoughtful, all those odd, controlled yet so revealing elvish expressions that Gimli had learned to read so well. Every aspect of the elf’s personality bombarded Gimli’s memory, tormenting him with each detail, so vivid, so…alive! That overly embellished turn of phrase, his frustratingly vague explanations, and infuriating elvish smugness--*Legolas! Legolas!*

A sound drifting through the wind and rain brought Gimli’s mental hysterics to an abrupt halt, and almost his heart as well. From within the House of Kings came a single voice raised in a low, mournful song. For a moment, Gimli was certain it was Legolas he heard. And that voice was his, and yet…not. It was of a slightly deeper timbre, and terribly beautiful, yet filled with a grief that Gimli could not even imagine in Legolas’s voice. He listened, feeling his insides twist and his body shake. His elvish was still less than perfect (considerably less, according to Legolas) but Gimli could make out some of the words. The song was an elvish lament.

Slipping automatically into light, cautious steps so that he walked in a stealthy fashion taught to him by Legolas (*“It is no good sneaking up on orcs if they hear you stomping from a mile away, Master Dwarf!”*), Gimli cautiously approached the door of the House of Kings.

The elf whose voice was singing could not possibly have heard Gimli breathing this time, for the minute the dwarf’s eyes peered through the threshold, his breath stopped.

The form lying upon a gray cloak atop the sepulcher seemed unreal as could be. How could it be real? This was not to be! He was not meant to be dead, to lie here still and silent while all who loved him wept and sang laments. He was meant to be alive, to laugh and to sing and to walk beneath the trees and to fight and to run and to ride and one day to sail away over the sea to the Undying Lands and live eternally in bliss and peace carrying with him the memories and hopes of all his friends--NOT DEAD!

*Legolas!*

But upon the soft elven cloak covering the cold stone, the pale figure lying in state did not stir amid the anguished mental cries of his friend. Legolas looked cold even from this distance, and starkly pale. The soft flush of light and laughter that always seemed to color his cheeks was gone. The brilliance of his grey eyes was cut off from the world beneath a curtain of dark lashes. Though Gimli desperately willed them open, not once did they flutter. So still…it was not right that any elf should be so still, so devoid of life. Elves WERE life! The Eldar race might be fading, but to look at a single elf, especially Legolas, one might not know it. The air seemed to sparkle around them as if the world recognized a true friend in each of them. They were a part of the earth, the sky, the stars. Eternally alive. Not dead.

Gimli’s body had had enough of holding its breath, and the dwarf gasped involuntarily. Immediately, the song ceased and the singer looked up at the intruder. Their eyes met, and Gimli stared at Thranduil, Legolas’s father. The elven king of Mirkwood gazed back at him, a strange dullness in his own eyes. Had Gimli had a chance to look closely at Thranduil before his son’s life was stolen, he might have noted a similarity between the eyes of Legolas and his father. But even at the worst of times during the War of the Ring and its bitter aftermath, when Gimli accompanied the elf home to find much of Mirkwood devastated by battle and fire, Legolas’s eyes had never seemed so haunted by death.

Yet in the eyes of this elven king, Gimli could see nothing but death. The dwarf did not speak. Neither did the elder elf. The body of Legolas lay between them as their eyes remained locked, each one waiting. What sort of an exchange would follow, neither could be sure, but one thing both of them knew: there was much to be said.

***

Eowyn had declined her brother’s offer to remain with her until her husband returned. Though Eomer, still accustomed to the self-appointed responsibilities of elder brotherhood, had attempted to hover over her longer, she had at last dismissed him rather irately. Then she sat, very still and quiet, in a chair in her chamber, waiting for Faramir.

She felt she had no tears left to cry, yet the anguish still churned and welled up within her, until she wanted to fling herself against the window and scream hysterically into the night. How could this have happened?

Legolas and Faramir had worked so hard, and so closely in Ithilien, that Eowyn saw him almost every week. She had liked the elven prince almost from the moment she met him, since unlike the men she knew, who viewed her taste in warfare with first surprise then some measure of disapproval, Legolas had accepted her immediately and matter-of-factly for what she was. She herself had been surprised, until some of the elf’s kindred rode to join him in Ithilien, and she discovered that the warrior’s craft was permitted and lauded among elven women. How she had envied them, and it may well have been their proximity to the elven colony and its warrior and warrioress guards that had made it so easy for her to keep up her own skill at arms in Emyn Arnen.

Eowyn’s husband had found a true friend in Legolas, and the two often rode together abroad in Ithilien, leading elven and Gondorrim scouts. On other occasions they spent hours spreading maps of the lands and drawings of planned buildings over tabletops and muttering amongst themselves and their captains with the occasional burst of laughter in that irritatingly “male” way. Ithilien had swiftly become a joint venture of Gondor and the Eldar, and it seemed impossible to imagine it without Legolas.

*Legolas!* The elf’s friendly smile, his cordial bow, his respectful and appreciative grey eyes watching her spar tormented Eowyn, and she looked down to discover that her hands were clenched so tight that the nails were biting into her skin. How could this have happened? Faramir had not even had a chance to tell her why the elven lords had arrived before the hue and cry erupted in the city, and then…then…Legolas was dead! How? How? How could the same elf who regularly thrashed Faramir in sparring matches be so swiftly cut down by a marauder in the street? Who was that man who had slain him? Did he know who it was he had robbed from the world? Had he singled out Legolas for some as-yet-unrevealed reason?

*Why? WHY?!*

Just as Eowyn was on the brink of collapsing in another fit of hysteria, the door opened. She leapt to her feet. It was Faramir.

Her husband trudged into their chamber, drenched from head to toe, his hair straggling and dripping, his boots tracking mud in a fashion that Eowyn would normally scold him furiously for. But not tonight. His eyes were downcast, and wind, rain, and grief had scoured all color from his face. He had not wept before in the alley, and seemed still silent in his grief even as Eowyn rose to greet him, her hands tightly knotted.

He suddenly looked up, and their eyes met. Faramir stared at Eowyn, and she saw him waver. The façade of composure upon his face slowly crumpled into an anguish as deep as she had ever seen. She had not known him when his brother fell, but something told Eowyn that the younger son of Denethor must have looked then just as he looked now. Tears leaked from his eyelids, squeezed tightly shut, and with a great, shuddering sob, he sank to his knees.

Eowyn knelt with him, wrapping him in her arms, and his face was soon buried into her shoulder as he wept deep and hard. She wept as well into his soaked hair, feeling him shiver with cold and anguish. “Oh, why?” Faramir sobbed, not raising his face from her arms. “I can-not understand! Why? Of all people--Legolas--how could he? The least deserving of such a cruel, lonely fate!”

Sobs burst anew from Eowyn, as they sat together upon the floor of their room with the rain pounding against the window, water from Faramir’s garments soaking into her own. “I shall miss him so,” she wept. “Ithilien will not be the same without him.” Long they cried, helpless to stem the dreadful tide of grief and shock, until at last their strength was gone and they clung to each other simply to stay upright. “Oh Faramir,” she whispered. “What happens now?”

Catching his breath, gazing at her through the tears in his eyes, Faramir replied softly, “I do not know.”

*****
To Be Continued…
*****