Special Thanks: To everyone on various LOTR Yahoo Groups who answered my questions about elves and death, and gave me info about the Halls of Mandos.

Credit Where Credit Is Due: In the previous chapter, Aragorn is upset about leaving Legolas in the House of Kings because elves hate stone. This idea properly deserves to be credited to Jay of Lasgalen, whose story “To the Ends of Middle Earth” is a masterpiece in its own right, and influenced a lot of my thinking while writing this fic. I don’t want to plagiarize, but I happen to agree with Jay’s interpretation of Legolas’s friends might feel about putting the elf in a tomb, so…here it is! Jay thought of it first! :-)

REVISION NOTES: There is a new flashback section in this chapter as well as changes here and there in the old part. Hope you like.

Chapter Three: Denial

Númenor, the year 3319 of the Second Age…

Nine ships there were: four for Elendil, and for Isildur three, for Anárion two, that east away from Númenor even as the great fleets of Ar-Pharazôn departed. For, besotted by Sauron, the King of Númenor had resolved to assail the Valar themselves. Even after the black Stone of Sauron had been bestowed upon him, Ar-Pharazôn had not been satisfied. For it was soon revealed that while the Stone did indeed draw the life force of its victims into the one who wielded, true immortality could not be achieved through its use. Only by wielding the Stone over and over again could the bearer hope to stave off the ailments of age, and while Ar-Pharazôn did use and revel in it, he desired the ultimate conquest: true immortality without the need for such arts.

The Eldar no longer dared to visit Númenor, even for the sake of the Faithful who lived in fear for their lives, for stories had reached them of elves taken by the soldiers of Ar-Pharazôn, never to return. Thus it was from among the Faithful that the Black Númenóreans chose their victims to extend the life of their King. The life force of a Númenórean did not grant as much strength to Ar-Pharazôn as the elves’ had, but this only led him to seize more men for sacrifice, sucking their lives away with his black stone and then flinging their corpses onto the fire of the altar of Melkor.

And so, in fear of the servants of Melkor and the coming vengeance of the Valar, the Faithful, led by Elendil and his sons, Isildur and Anárion, had prepared their ships off the east coast of Númenor, putting board their wives and their children, and their heirlooms, and a great store of goods. And also aboard went their followers, all who still pledged fealty to Iluvatar and the Valar. But among them went one whose fealty reached no closer to his soul than the tip of his tongue, from which he spilled sweet words of loyalty and assurance to Elendil and his sons. Among them his place was high, though he spilled the same sweet words to Ar-Pharazôn, out of fear that the King of Númenor had chosen a doomed quest against the Valar, and out of desire that he might cast his lot with whichever side emerged victorious.

But though he feared the wrath of the Valar, the former councilor of Ar-Pharazôn still coveted the elusive gift of immortality. Thus, he pledged denied disloyalty to both the King and the Faithful, but spoke truth to neither, and yet was counted among the most prized followers of each. While Ar-Pharazôn was assembling his great armament in preparation for the assault upon Valinor, traitor slipped among the servants and the guards freely, through the stores of weapons and goods, until he reached the chamber of Ar-Pharazôn himself. And while the King of Númenor slept, the traitor slipped a hand the pouch where Ar-Pharazôn kept his most prized possessions, and drew out the Black Stone of Sauron. Ar-Pharazôn always kept it so close with such assurance that in the flurry of preparation he did not even notice its absence, for he was convinced that true immortality was no farther away than the time it would take his fleet to cross the sea to Valinor.

So it came to pass that when the ships of the Faithful fled Númenor in the hour of its doom, the traitor was aboard them, carrying with him the Black Stone of Ar-Pharazôn, the scourge of elves and elf-friends, to be wielded in Middle-Earth even after he that had forged it was destroyed in the wrath of the Valar, whom he had defied.

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

The morning after…

For a few moments at least, the next day began like any other. Or perhaps a little bit worse. Arwen awoke with the dawn as always, only to find herself nursing a colossal headache. Then, before she could wonder about this mortal ailment she was unused to, she was startled to discover the absence of the warm body of her husband beside her. Shaking the sleepy, slightly sore fog from her mind, she looked around to find Aragorn standing by the window, gazing at the lightening sky.

And then she remembered.

*Oh Legolas!*

Aragorn turned from the window as Arwen’s breath caught, and her hands rose to her mouth in a vain effort to choke back convulsive sobs. The sight of his eyes made her need to weep even greater, for they were as empty and dead as they had been last night. There was worry in them that seemed to be directed toward Arwen, but other than that…there was no hope in his gaze.

The grief Arwen felt was already threatening to overwhelm her, and seeing Aragorn like this made it even worse. What would happen today, with Legolas murdered, and Estel in such a state? What would they do about the Hunter, and Legolas’s father, and…Arwen’s heart began to pound and she felt sick and panicky. Aragorn came quietly to her side and put his arms around her, bringing her head to his chest as she trembled and cried. He did not say a word, merely held her, but she could stand it no more.

“What happens now?” she whispered.

Squeezing her slightly, Aragorn murmured, “I sent for Gandalf from Ithilien last night. When he arrives…he will know what to do. We still have that stone. Surely Gandalf can find a way…” he trailed off.

Arwen jerked her head up and looked at him. For the first time since she had found him in the alley holding Legolas, there was a ghost of hope in his eyes. Did he think Legolas might somehow be restored? The idea sent her heart thudding with wild anticipation and hope. Of course! Mithrandir would be able to do something! Why had she not thought of it before? Legolas was not meant to perish with the life drained out of him by some villainous leech! Surely he could still be saved, if they could but find a way to reverse the effect of the Black Hunter’s infamous weapon. If Aragorn had captured it intact, and her grandfather looked at it, and Mithrandir too, why, surely they could return Legolas’s life to him!

***

Late that day…

Gandalf had driven Shadowfax to his absolute limit in the ride from eastern Ithilien back to Minas Tirith. None of the guards who had been sent to deliver him the news of the attack by the Black Hunter had been able to keep up, but the Istar dared not wait for them. All the while, as he rode, he beseeched the Valar, *Do not let the Abomination claim another innocent life. Not the life of one of the Fellowship!*

But in his heart, he feared the worst, for the soldiers had been greatly distressed when they arrived, telling the Maia that Legolas had been gravely injured. Disaran’s path of destruction had already made itself known in Lothlórien and in Imladris by the time the Istari had first arrived in Middle Earth, and in all that time, Gandalf had never heard of an elf surviving the Black Hunter’s attack.

*Yet Legolas is young and strong, and far from ordinary even by elven standards. Perhaps I may yet find him well, or at least alive and within the reach of my aid.*

Anxiety throbbed within him as the walls of Minas Tirith came into view. No black flag of mourning had replaced the banners and standards of the Elfstone and the Evenstar. *Valar! It is so! Legolas lives!* Gandalf praised, bidding Shadowfax ride harder still, and, though weary, the faithful steed obeyed.

The gates swung swiftly open for the wizard, and Gandalf wasted no time racing in and dismounting his horse. It was then that he got the first close glance at the faces of the guards. *Oh no…* “What of Prince Legolas?”

“My lord,” the senior guard bowed to him, and Gandalf’s heart cried in horror at the grief in the man’s face. “He lies in the House of Kings. Lord Elessar begs you come there at once.”

For a few moments, Gandalf found he could not move. He could scarcely breathe. Legolas? Could it be? Of all people, could the young elven lord of Ithilien be the second member of the Fellowship to fall? It did not seem possible. Finding his voice, the Maia asked softly, “Why has the White City not been set to mourning?” He looked at the banners.

Knotting his hands nervously, another guard replied, “It is said the King awaits your counsel, lord. He hopes…you may yet find a way…” the desperate hope in the man’s voice tore at Gandalf.

“I see.” *Would that it could be so. But if Disaran the Slaughterer has used his evil device on Legolas, I fear he is beyond my aid.* Nonetheless, Gandalf took a deep breath. “Then let me to him.”

Gandalf had no sooner reached the Halls of the Kings than Aragorn, followed closely by Arwen, Eomer, Eowyn, Faramir, five elven lords, and all four hobbits came racing down the steps. “Thank the Valar,” the King of Gondor said hoarsely. “I’ve been waiting all night for you to get here. You must not be too late.” Gandalf fought back a surge of despair at the way Aragorn’s weary, anguished eyes seemed to latch onto him, like a drowning man’s eyes might stare at a floating driftwood. The King’s eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, pain, and fear. He had known Legolas for such a long time, and loved the elf as a brother. If Legolas was indeed lost, the toll upon Aragorn would be terrible.

*And not only Aragorn,* the Maia’s despair grew at the pleading, hopeful gazes that fell upon him, from all the legendary heroes of the War of the Ring, begging him with their eyes to save one of their own. And if he could not? What then?

Aloud, Gandalf asked, “Where is he?”

“The House of Kings. This way,” Aragorn’s instincts had taken over and he swiftly led them to the Silent Street.

Lord Celeborn predictably fell into step beside Gandalf. The Maia met the Lord of Lothlórien’s gaze and saw grief and understanding there. “It was in fact the Hunter?” asked Gandalf quietly.

“It was. I came with Haldir, Rúmil, and Thranduil, but Disaran had already chosen his target, and struck even as we were raising the cry. I have seen Legolas,” Celeborn looked down at the paving stones.

*He knows. He knows there is naught that I can do. A Elbereth! What a dreadful and undeserving fate for that poor elf!* Gandalf found himself blinking rapidly as the House of Kings loomed before him, soon to be filled with the shattered hopes of all those the wizard held dear. *Including my own hopes,* thought Gandalf as he strode through the threshold. *Oh…*

A pale, motionless body lay upon a gray cloak of Imladris on the marble table in the very center of the main chamber. No breath moved his chest, no pulse throbbed in his veins. Gandalf’s throat tightened unbearably. It was true. A part of him had prayed that it was all some dreadful mistake, that it was not true. But now bitter reality stared him in the face, and shattered all hope at his feet.

Legolas was dead.

He was too late.

***

There were two other persons already in the House of Kings when the King of Gondor hastily led Gandalf in. Not a word had passed between them all night long, only the occasional glance brought their eyes to meet briefly now and then, before one or the other returned his gaze to the one person in Middle Earth that each loved beyond all others. To one, a treasured child. To the other, his dearest friend in all the world.

Gimli saw the King of Mirkwood’s eyes widen just as footsteps came hurriedly into the chamber, and turned around, freezing at the sight of Gandalf. The wizard also froze in the threshold, staring past Gimli. The dwarf had no trouble knowing what caused Gandalf’s eyes first to widen in shock and horror, then darken into pain.

Gandalf slowly moved up next to Gimli and sighed, resting a light hand on the pale, cold hand of the elf. Silence hung heavy in the air.

“Gandalf?” Aragorn’s voice was soft, urgent. Desperate. “Can you help him?”

The wizard’s large, calloused hand closed briefly over the elf’s long, smooth one. He closed his eyes while the others looked on anxiously. His shoulders slumped. “Gandalf?” whispered one of the hobbits.

Slowly, Gandalf gave Legolas’s hand a small squeeze, and then he turned back to them. There were tears in his eyes, and in his voice. “I am sorry, Aragorn. I am so sorry. Legolas deserved better than this.”

“What?!” the king of Gondor stared, his eyes taking on a look of disbelief. “But…there must be…SOMETHING that you can do! We cannot simply leave him this way.”

Gimli could barely hear for the roaring in his ears as all hope was torn asunder in a tempest of grief. *Legolas! Legolas!* His voice very soft, the wizard said, “He is gone, my friend. There is nothing we can do.”

“No!” Aragorn cried, his numbness torn away by desperation. “It cannot be! Not like this! By the Valar, Gandalf, you must try!” He passed the wizard to stare down at the elf’s body for a moment, biting his lip in anguish. “The stone. Faramir! Where is the stone? Show it to them! Perhaps…”

Faramir fumbled for the pouch at his waist and handed it hastily to Gandalf, who sighed and took it. “Careful,” cautioned the Steward, tears in his eyes.

Gimli felt his heart clench with rage at the sight of the smooth, shiny black stone that Gandalf pulled out. How could such an innocuous-looking rock suck the life out of an elf? Gandalf eyed it for several moments, turning it over a few times. At this moment, Lord Celeborn and the two elven guards he had brought with them, Haldir and Rúmil, came to join the wizard, followed by Thranduil, who still had not uttered a word.

“So it is as you thought, Celeborn,” murmured Gandalf.

“This…thing…is a weapon of Númenor?” Celeborn asked, staring at it.

Gandalf nodded, holding it up to the light. “When it is used, you said…it glows?”

“Yes, as though orange flames were within it.”

“I imagine, if we were to see it thus, we might find words in the flame, just as the inscription upon the One Ring. This was one of many things that Sauron taught the corrupted Númenóreans to create, for he feared the Eldar. When he seduced Ar-Pharazôn, he played upon the envy of men for the elves’ immortality, and this he gave them. To steal what the Valar had decreed would never be rightfully theirs.”

“How?” asked Haldir.

“I know not and would not risk trying to use it to find out.”

“And what does that mean,” demanded Aragorn, his eyes bright with emotion. “That you fear that thing so that you would condemn Legolas to this state forever? We must try! We cannot simply leave him this way--”

“Aragorn!” Gandalf grabbed the distraught king by the shoulders. “Come to your senses, man! This is not some state of eternal suffering or sleep! Legolas is dead! Dead.” He squeezed Aragorn’s arms. “I know your grief, and I share it. I have known Legolas longer than you or many of your fathers drew breath. But it is no use. That stone is no use. Long I labored over the bodies of Disaran’s past victims, I and many of the greatest elven healers in Middle Earth. Believe me, were there a way to reverse this atrocity, we would have found it. His life is taken, Aragorn. There is no undoing it.”

Sounds of muffled weeping reached Gimli’s ears, and he looked past the wizard and the king. Frodo had his hands over his face, trying to stifle his sobs, and Sam was rubbing his shoulders, his eyes red and his face wet with tears. Tears streaked the faces of them all, including, Gimli suddenly realized, himself. *Legolas is lost. What do we do now?*

Gandalf was speaking again. Aragorn still seemed unable to comprehend it. “Gondor must be set into mourning, Elessar. Your people will be looking to you to lead them through this tragedy. For their sake, you must not give into despair. Legolas would never allow that.”

“Gandalf…he cannot be…”

“He is, Aragorn. It grieves me more than I can say, that such a cruel and unexpected thing could happen, but it has. Legolas is gone. You must look to those who remain now.”

Watching the exchange through brimming eyes, Gimli had never seen Aragorn so reduced. The man’s head was bowed, eyes closed and shoulders slumped as though anguish had crushed all hope from him. Gandalf kept the grip on his arms, trying to pull him back from the depths of despair, until at last, Aragorn sighed and gave a little shake of his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were clearer, if still disconsolate. Gandalf squeezed his shoulders once more and released him. “Come. Your people are waiting to hear from you.”

Putting an arm around the grief-stricken king, Gandalf led him from the building. Gimli followed with the rest of Legolas’s friends, and found that as the wizard had said, a large crowd had gathered at the entrance to the Silent Street, waiting for news. Faramir (wiping his eyes repeatedly) muttered to one of the guards before taking his place beside the equally red-eyed Eomer behind King Elessar. The crowd parted before them.

The walk back to the Halls of the Kings seemed to last forever. Then again, everything seemed to last forever, Gimli noticed. Every breath was cruel, without Legolas. *Is this how life shall be from now on?* the dwarf wondered in despair. *Shall I live only aching for what I have lost? Is there no joy left in the world for those who face the passing of an elf? This elf?*

Silence greeted them from the throngs of Gondorrim. Gimli wondered at this, for he had not heard the heralds calling out the people. But a crowd awaited them at the steps of the Halls of the Kings. Aragorn slowly mounted up and stood before them. Gimli gazed down at the King’s subjects. Black was stark in their raiment; the women wore veils, and the men wore dark cloaks. Even the children hung their heads. The silence echoed.

*Legolas! Legolas!*

Aragorn spoke. “A great tragedy has struck the realms of elves and men. My heart is heavy with grief to speak these grievous tidings. Legolas, the son of Thranduil and prince of Eryn Lasgalen, a member of the Fellowship of the Ring, has fallen.” The sounds of soft weeping could be heard. Many cast their hoods over their faces. It was true. “He was…an honored and beloved friend of Gondor. All our lands shall be set into mourning. Legolas…was counted among the great heroes of the War of the Ring and among…the dearest friends of your King. For one year, the Reunified Lands shall mourn.”

There were intakes of breath at this. Such a period of grief was traditionally only reserved for the Kings of Gondor themselves. Aragorn turned then, his eyes and the eyes of all focusing upon the White Tower of Echthelion. The King nodded to Faramir, who raised his sword to the tower guards. The silver trumpets took up a deep, aching dirge as the standard of Elessar was lowered, and a black pennant raised. Gimli’s vision blurred at the sight of that flag catching the breeze, black as a starless night.

*No more stars, Legolas.*

***

About twenty-four hours earlier…

“Gimli,” Legolas could not feel Aragorn’s arms supporting him anymore. His body was so heavy…too heavy to breathe, his heart too heavy to beat. There was supposed to be peace in death, wasn’t there? It should not be this way, attacked alone in a dark alley, filled with terror as the life was sucked from him. And without his best friend at his side. *Gimli!* Where had Gimli gone? Had he not been behind Legolas? The dying elf could barely remember, only that he wanted the dwarf with him now. Desperately, he forced all his energy to draw breath into his aching lungs to whisper one final plea. “Gimli…”

Even as that desperate call echoed in his darkening mind, the last breath left him, and he had not the strength to draw another. A terrible blackness, darker than any unconsciousness he had ever faced, swept up and sucked him down, away from everything. Into the dark. The world went away. *Gimli…*

And suddenly there was light again. HE was light again! The world seemed rather hazy, slightly distant. By the Valar, Disaran must have almost killed him! He tried to rise, only to find that he could not seem to move his body. He looked down--somehow without moving--and made an even more shocking discovery: he did not HAVE a body!

*Then how can I see?* he wondered, and looked around, only to discover that it needed no movement. He needed only will to see around himself. *What did that monster do to me? Surely he did not…surely I am not…*

He seemed to be suspended above the ground, still in the alley outside the Houses of Healing. He looked around again--and had his heart been beating, it would have stopped.

His father was just beside him, standing stock-still, his eyes wide. Legolas did not think he had ever seen Thranduil looking so lost. The elven king’s breath was coming in short gasps; his hands hung loosely at his side, staring in disbelief and no small measure of horror past Legolas, at something on the ground before the Houses of Healing. Legolas looked without having to turn around.

His father was looking at Aragorn, who knelt in the street near the door of the Houses. The King of Gondor was trembling, his eyes listless, empty. And in his arms…

*It cannot be true. Can it?*

It was a strange sensation, to behold this. The limp, lifeless body Legolas saw, cradled protectively in his friend’s arms, was his own. His eyes were closed and his features slack, but in his own face Legolas could see an echo of the fear that had gripped him as his life drained away.

*A Elbereth. I have left my body. I am…dead.*

Aragorn suddenly looked up. Legolas looked back to see Gimli pushing through the guards who had gathered a short distance away. The dwarf shoved his way to the front of the group--and stopped dead in his tracks.

*Oh Gimli.* The dwarf took a few shaky steps forward, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Aragorn looked back at him, and never had Legolas seen such despair in his friend’s face. *Oh Aragorn. Ai, how could I have let myself fall this way, and inflict such sorrow on you. Forgive me!* He wished he could close his eyes as Gimli fell to his knees with a wild howl of grief that was strangely muted to the spirit’s perception.

Soon the streets were filled with guards and city dwellers roused by Gimli’s cry, but Legolas paid them little heed--even when they seemed to run right through him. He felt grief of his own as Faramir and Celeborn came running. *Lord Celeborn. I am so sorry. You tried, but I was a fool and did not take proper care. I hope you will not blame yourself.*

Guilt racked at him. The alley was now very crowded and bathed in the light of many torches. Yet in the center of a great ring of torchlight and chaos, there was an island, where Aragorn remained, unmoving, still cradling the elf’s body in his arms. He seemed unable to tear his eyes from the still face, even when the guards hesitantly called to him. Faramir watched the King for a few moments, then turned to the guards and took command of the ruckus. He gestured for the men to move, and Legolas felt a twinge of bitter satisfaction as the soldiers dragged Disaran into view, his hands tightly bound.

*At least that is something. I would that my friends had been spared this pain, but perhaps my life is a price worth paying for the Black Hunter’s capture.* He sighed mentally, watching as Faramir spoke to Aragorn, gesturing to Disaran, but received no answer, no reaction at all. *If only I could have given my life without causing them such grief.*

Ai, how he longed to shut it out. The men snapped to attention again, and he tried in vain not to see. He would have wept if he could at the sight of Arwen, rushing around the corner, led by Merry and Pippin, with the Lady Eowyn at her side. They all came to a stumbling halt in horror. Eowyn dropped her sword and raised trembling hands to her face as tears sprang into her eyes. Merry and Pippin stood motionless, with identical expressions of quiet anguish. Neither moved with the exception of Pippin quietly fumbling for Merry’s hand.

As for Arwen, she went to Aragorn, as Legolas had expected. *Surely she can help him. They still have each other. They must carry on.*

It gave Legolas some grim satisfaction to see Gimli pummel Disaran within an inch of his life when the man had the audacity to laugh at Arwen’s tears. He wished then that the sounds of the living were not so distant, for he would likely have enjoyed the creative curses the dwarf was undoubtedly spewing. At least his friend managed to wipe the smile from the murderer’s face before Faramir pulled him back.

*How very strange it feels, to see Disaran thus. He is not merely any murderer--he is MY murderer. He stole my life, so that my immortality would sustain him. Ai. Even without a body it is enough to nauseate me.*

At long last, Faramir came to the King and Queen’s side, obviously urging them to return to the Halls. But Aragorn clearly would not release the body to any other. After a few moments, Aragorn slowly nodded and rose, still holding the body tightly.

*Valar, that is my body. I truly am dead,* Legolas thought in wonder as he watched. As the soldiers, elves, and hobbits followed the King, Legolas felt a surge of panic. He had managed to distract himself from the fearful uncertainty of his own situation by watching his friends, but now he discovered that he could not follow them. He tried to will himself after them, terrified. *No! Aragorn! Do not leave me here! What will become of me?* Would he be simply suspended here for all time, in the place where he was murdered, watching the passage of people in the streets, unable to speak and unable to move? He knew much elven lore on the subject of death, but all of it seemed very distant now. It was as he had feared; there was no peace in death. Only loneliness and fear. Rain had begun to fall, very heavy, but he felt none of it, and that frightened him still more. *Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me--*

*Legolas.*

Had Legolas still possessed a body, he would have gasped and jumped. Someone had called to him! Someone…or someTHING…was there, close to him. He could see no living person in the street, but some new sense told him that a presence was very close by. *Who calls to me?*

*You are not alone, child.*

*What has happened?* he asked in a mere mental whisper, feeling very much like a frightened child in this strange, empty world of death.

*Your soul has left your body, son of Thranduil. Now it is called home.*

*Home…Mandos?*

*Yes, Legolas. Your time in Middle Earth is done. You must answer soon.*

*I…* his mind whirled. He did not feel that he should be dead. It seemed like a mistake, even though he was currently suspended midair without a body. He could not hear those still in the world of the living, but he could see them. His father, his friends. How could he abandon them in their grief? But then, he knew what became of the souls of elves who ignored the summons to the Halls of Mandos. It gave him chills--or at least it had when he was alive. Casting his new, strange senses wide, he sought the one who spoke to him. It was close, very close, and he was more frightened of it than comforted by it. *Who are you?*

*I am the one sent to bring you to the threshold of the Halls of Mandos.*

*I cannot move!* Panic was beginning to surge up again. *What will happen?*

*Do not fear, my child. You shall be welcomed, and peace awaits you. When you determine what direction you shall take, your soul shall be free to move again. But first you must choose.*

*Can I not tarry even a little while? I dread leaving my friends in such grief.*

*You can no longer reach them, Legolas. Your presence will bring them no comfort. And end to their sorrow must come from them, from each other. They shall heal with time, that I promise you. All grief heals with time. But you and they are no longer in the same world, child. You must let them go. And in time, they shall let you go, when they have overcome the pain of their own loss, and realized that you are free and safe. No fear shall touch you now, if you come.*

*Am I worthy of such a fate?*

He sensed rather than heard laughter. *There are few more worthy of peace. But I am not to speak of that, though I know it. Come, Legolas, there is little time left. A home awaits you in the Halls of Mandos, but if you forsake it, then your soul must be forever without shelter, and you shall wander.*

*The dwimmer-laik.* Legolas shivered mentally. He had heard many tales of the Houseless Ones, and they were sad at best, terrifying at worst. But what of his friends? He had thought to say goodbye to them. But if what this strange messenger said was true, they would not hear it. Remaining would bring him comfort, for a time, but none to them. *I stare eternity in the face. It is a strange feeling. I might find some solace while my friends live, but one day they shall all be gone: my kindred to Valinor and my mortal friends dead. Then I will be truly alone.* His soul ached with the sadness of either choice, but it had to be made. His spirit’s vision turned its gaze toward the Halls of the Kings, where he knew that those he loved were gathering and beginning the first long stages of mourning. Mourning for him. *They would wish for me to find peace. As I would wish it for them if any of them had met such a fate.* To his surprise, he noticed that the sky was beginning to lighten. *Already the dawn comes?*

*We are a world apart from theirs. Time here moves more slowly.*

Legolas sighed mentally. Then there was nothing left for him here. He could do those he loved no service by wandering Middle Earth for eternity. And they would not want it. After all, perhaps in time, he might yet be reunited with them. But for now…he turned his gaze again toward the Halls of the Kings, where he had feasted, drank, and laughed when them but a night before, and whispered in his heart the one word he had always thought he would be able to wait long before saying.

*Goodbye.*

*You will answer the summons, little one?* the messenger asked him.

*I will.*

A strange flood of warmth seemed to come from the other one, and he heard her say, *Look.*

He looked down and his heart cried with surprise. He had a body again--of sorts. He was still floating, but his spirit had form, a far less corporeal version of himself that glowed more brilliantly than any living elf. Then something puzzled him: how had he known that the messenger was female? He looked back at her, and joy flooded through him, for now she too had taken the form that she had been in life, and he recognized her. *Mother!*

Minuial, elven queen of Mirkwood, smiled at her son, looking just as she had when he last saw her as a child before her death. She held out her arms, and he glided almost effortlessly to her, the exhilaration of being able to move eclipsed by the joy of coming to her arms again. It was not as it had been in life, for there were no physical bodies to touch, but in a way, it was better, for the spirit seemed to feel much more deeply than the body ever could. *I am glad you chose to come, my little one, for I do not know if I could have borne it had you chosen to wander alone in Middle Earth forever.*

*As am I. Ai, I missed you.*

*Come now, my beloved child. Mandos awaits.*

The sun was already climbing to noon, and people were passing in the streets, but Legolas barely noticed them. His mother had come for him. This new world was no longer strange, lonely, and fearful, for he would be among those he loved here as well. He took his mother’s hand, and the two spirits turned from Middle Earth to pass out of the physical world entirely.

But now Legolas did not fear, for he understood at last what was happening. His soul was not alone.

He was going home.

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

But this tale does not end here, so if you give up now, I promise you…you shall regret it! ;-)