WARNING: In this chapter a LOT of our heroes may seem VERY out of character, but consider, few things affect the mind, heart, and soul like the death of a loved one.

REVISION NOTES: New flashback in this chapter and also some major changes in the old section. I had a lot of trouble revising this chapter, so PLEASE let me know what you think!

Chapter Four: Bargaining

Very Early in the Third Age…

“My lords!” Haldir of Lórien sprinted through the golden leaves, knocking branches free in his frantic haste. Celeborn and Amroth looked up from where they had been speaking with several captains. “We have found another!”

“Ai, Valar, no!” gasped Amroth, rushing after Haldir as the young guard beckoned desperately to them. “Who is it?”

“Macil, my lord! He is dead!” the anguished elf led the Lords of Lórien through a crowd of weeping, frightened elves, to where an elven woman knelt in the grass, clutching the limp body of a dark-haired elven youth.

“My son! Ah, my son! What wickedness is this!” wailed Fanya, the boy’s mother. Celeborn’s throat tightened until he could barely speak. Macil was Fanya’s only child, and her husband had fallen at the Battle of Dagorlad.

“I see no wound on him, my lord,” one of the healers whispered in an aside to Celeborn as Amroth went to comfort the grief-stricken lady. “It is the same as the other two.”

“Sweet Elbereth, what is happening here?” breathed Celeborn, feeling a horrid knot of terror inside. “It is the same as Rivendell nearly two centuries ago! Could this truly be some devilry of Sauron? What demon is this that murders our children without leaving so much as a mark?”

“I know not, my lord,” whispered the terrified healer. “But Macil is only the third. In Rivendell, the mysterious killer struck down nine elves before vanishing. Four of them were children!”

Amroth rose then, and Celeborn could see the dark gleam of fear and rage in his eyes. “Call out all the guards. The entire wood must be searched. Order all our people into their homes, and none must venture out alone, even armed. Sound the alarm at once, for we know not the nature of this foe!”

Celeborn ran with young Haldir and a group of guards through the trees, providing escorts for their people back to Caras Galadhon and Cerin Amroth. Celeborn gasped aloud in relief as his daughter rushed to his side from where she and several other maids had been at the river. “Celebrían! Thank the Valar, where is your brother?”

“He was carrying some linens back to the dwellings for us,” she said anxiously. “What has happened?”

“I cannot explain now. Go back home with the guards and stay there. A great evil is among us. I must find Indoran and your mother.”

“Yes, Father.”

After dispatching several guards to escort the maidens back to safety, Celeborn, Haldir, and Haldir’s two brothers hurried on. Celeborn was becoming frantic, for he still had not found his wife and son. “Galadriel!” he cried into the trees. “Galadriel!”

He received an answer, but not the one he had hoped for. The one he had been dreading. A cry of anguish and terror rang through the trees, nearly stopping the warriors in their tracks. Celeborn froze in panic, then raced ahead, nearly leaving Haldir and the others behind. The voice was his wife’s. “My lady! Where are you!” shouted Rúmil.

Tearing through the trees, the elves burst into a wide clearing to a site that stopped them again. The Lady Galadriel, her pale gown and golden hair in disarray from running, was rushing over the grass in terror, straight toward a large, dark-haired man who held her young son in a near choke-hold with what looked like a large black stone against the boy’s neck. Indoran did not struggle, and hung limp in the man’s arms.

The assailant seemed to be leering at Galadriel, but turned his head when Celeborn and the guards burst into view. Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin went for their bows, but the man did not allow himself to become a target.

“Not one move, elves!” he cried, pulling Indoran up in front of his own body. Celeborn’s heart raced. His son did not seem to see him. The man leered again at Galadriel. “One step closer and I’ll finish him.”

The man edged toward the trees, dragging Indoran with him. “Who are you?” cried Galadriel, her voice filled with terror. She seemed to have forgotten everything in fear for her child. “What have you done?”

The intruder gave a mocking half-bow to her. “I am Disaran, beautiful elven lady, and I have claimed what you and all your kin seem to think should belong to you alone. Why should the Eldar be the only ones to enjoy the fruits of immortality?” He jerked his head at the glowing stone still held against Indoran’s neck, now darkening to black.

“Release the child, intruder!” shouted Haldir, taking aim at the man’s head.

“As you wish,” with a mocking laugh, Disaran dropped the elven boy to the ground and dove into the cover of the bushes, vanishing into the trees.

“After that creature!” Celeborn shouted at them, and ran to his son.

Galadriel, her eyes wild with panic, reached Indoran first, pulling him desperately into her arms. “Indoran! My son, speak to me--” her hands fumbled at his throat for a pulse, at his mouth for a breath, and as Celeborn reached her side, she drew back, her hands shaking violently. In a high-pitched whisper, she gasped, “Indoran, no, no--” her weak pleas suddenly dissolved into an anguished wail as she crushed the dead child to her.

“My son,” whispered Celeborn, trying to steady his screaming, sobbing wife. “My son…”

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age, the second day of mourning…

There was a soft knock on the door. “Enter,” said Celeborn quietly, thinking it unlikely that anyone but an elf would be calling on him at this hour.

Haldir came in and paused after closing the door behind him, seeing Celeborn standing by the window of his chamber, gazing into the darkness. “My lord? Is all well?”

The Lord of Lothlórien did not look back at him. “There are no stars tonight.”

“Often the clouds hang low in the autumn,” said the elven guard, walking a few steps closer.

“For some they shall never be dispelled again.”

Awkwardly, Haldir said, “You must not despair, my lord.”

Celeborn smiled humorlessly, “You have never lost a child, Haldir. You may find despair the only path left to trod when you have seen too many youths cut down before your eyes no matter how you try to prevent it.”

“It is not your fault, my lord.”

Celeborn whirled, his eyes bright with pain, both fresh and remembered. “We should have remained together! Had we all gone with Legolas, the Abomination would not have been able to single him out and get him away from Thranduil. I knew what that creature was capable of, but I did not warn Legolas against leaving!” Haldir’s own eyes were brimming, for he too had known Legolas long, and Celeborn was finding it difficult to see clearly. Turning away, the elven lord murmured, “And now another must mourn his dead son. Another…ah, Indoran!” He closed his eyes, unable to fight the pain any longer, and wept softly into his hands. “My son. Thranduil’s son. Why do the Valar force us to bury our children?”

“My lord,” Haldir’s anxious voice broke through his tears. “You did all you could, for Legolas and for…Indoran. None could have done more.”

Celeborn closed his eyes, forcing himself back under control. After a moment, he turned and gave Haldir as reassuring a smile as he could. “Thank you, Haldir. You need not trouble yourself for me.”

The younger elf left and Celeborn turned to gaze out at the starless sky again. *Galadriel said the same thing, once she had returned to herself. But she and Haldir are both wrong. There was more I could have done. There must have been. Surely the Valar would not choose to slay children. We were being tested somehow. And we failed. I failed. And paid with the blood of our children.*

***

Disaran had long since forgotten his father’s name. Not that it had ever meant much to him, since the name was all he had ever known of his father.

His mother had been a village seamstress, bearing the scars of a disease that saved her from the fate suffered by many village women when Elendil’s followers set up camp and barracks in the towns of the Kingdoms in Exile. As Sauron’s power grew and threatened Gondor and Arnor, the Númenórean soldiers had spread throughout the land to protect their territory, settling in many of the small, normally-isolated villages, taking for granted that they had the run of the place.

After the initial period of companies of soldiers roaming the countryside, blustering through the villages, and taking what women they chose, life had quieted again. The exiled Númenóreans had settled all over Gondor, taking wives from the villages they fortified. Disaran’s mother never married, but she made a surprisingly good living, and her son became an errand boy for the local barracks.

He never had cared much for the Númenóreans. So smug, self-righteous, and condescending. Always they paraded their long life-spans and self-professed wisdom, and it rankled Disaran to watch them remaining young and vigorous while others (including himself) aged. There was little hope of advancement for those not of Númenórean blood, and thus Disaran remained a lowly foot soldier while the half-breeds spawned by the Númenóreans were commissioned and promoted.

Only one moment of real distinction marked Disaran’s career. He was in his third decade, serving as a guard in Minas Anor, which was constantly under threat of assault by Sauron’s forces from Mordor. Of cause for great concern was sabotage--spies of the Dark Lord had infiltrated the city, and it was feared that a former follower of Ar-Pharazôn himself was concealed among the highest of Anárion’s councilors. Disaran never learned much of the details, being of low rank and little real interest in the affairs of the world outside himself, but he had the rare good fortune to be in the right place at the right time to obtain something much more valuable than any sop of a promotion his captain might have given him.

He was off-duty when the hue and cry went up, but too disinterested to try and see what it was about. He was entering the barracks when a man dressed in the rich garb of a Númenórean noble staggered in, attempting to hide between the rows of bunks. Disaran had not moved, and looked on rather idly as the man recoiled in terror, realizing he was discovered.

“I beg you!” the fugitive blurted. “Reveal me not and I shall make it worth your while!” His clothes were torn, his face bloodied, but he displayed a large, well-filled pouch at his belt.

Disaran contemplated the nobleman, reduced to groveling at his feet, and found that he enjoyed the sense of power that this position gave him. He had never felt any loyalty to Gondor; he served for the living, nothing more. And if he wished to keep this new inkling of power, he’d best see to it that this man was not taken by his superiors. So he shrugged and went to the door. When the expected mob of pursuers came searching for the man, Disaran told them he had seen nothing.

“Keep an eye out for him, then. He’s old Ar-Pharazôn’s spy! Sauron’s servant!” was the parting remark.

Disaran returned to the barracks and said matter-of-factly, “They’ll have you in irons in a minute if I give the word.”

Breathing raggedly, still on his knees (Disaran was pleased to note), the man fumbled for his pouch. “Good sir, I can ransom myself well, I promise you.” He scooped out a handful of gold coins (more wealth than Disaran had had in his entire life) and offered them. “And I can obtain more for you if you will but see me clear of the city. I have enough gold hidden away to purchase you a commission without a soul the wiser, or buy you a comfortable passage and living anywhere in Middle Earth.”

Disaran had eyed the gold, weighing his options. It was certainly more gold than he had ever even seen, let alone possessed, but to hear this man talk, there was more where that came from. “Before I risk life and limb for you, Master, you had best identify yourself.”

“I am…my name is Nebison.”

Disaran laughed aloud. “I thought as much! So you are the traitor they’re seeking.” He smiled slyly, “Why, to hand you over to Anárion would mean a captain’s promotion for me at least!”

“No!” cried the man, cowering. “You are wrong, my lord. I can repay you in ways you cannot even imagine.”

“I can imagine a great deal of gold, Lord Nebison.”

The man stood up, his attempts to act intimidating hampered by his disheveled appearance. “I was in the confidence of Ar-Pharazôn, high king of Númenor. I am the servant of Sauron. He rewards his followers. I can ensure that he will reward you.”

“I want no party with Sauron. I like my life free of peril.”

“If you wish. I have the means myself, if you will aid me. The means to grant your any desire. I can place you above the same arrogant lugs that have trodden you down all your life.”

Disaran snorted skeptically. “Perhaps you can make me rich, but you cannot make me Númenórean.”

Nebison drew himself up again and smiled coldly. “What if I could?”

“What?”

“If it is wealth you seek, I can provide it. If power you seek, my Lord can grant it. But if it is the long life and health of the Númenóreans you crave, that I can furnish.” Nebison took a step back and eyed his improbable savior. “There is a way, a way that I can give you a youth to outlast even the life span of the Númenóreans. I can give you the gift of the Eldar, what Ar-Pharazôn and the Black Númenóreans destroyed themselves to obtain.”

Disaran eyed him in return, more than a little dubious. Slowly, he replied, “That is a worthy bargaining chip. Very well. Your gold will buy my silence. And this immortality you speak of will buy your safe passage from the city.”

“Done.” Nebison thrust his pouch into Disaran’s hand. “There are fifty pieces of gold there. I can give you five hundred if you will spirit me to the place on the outskirts of the city where I have hidden my treasury. And when we are through the gates, I shall bestow upon you a device made for Ar-Pharazôn himself. It was intended as a weapon, and used properly it can give unending life to the holder.”

“And done.” Disaran took the pouch. “Come, we must be away from here before the next watch comes off, though they are probably still out searching for you. I shall clad you in our uniforms and steal you from the city.”

And so it was done. At dusk, Disaran led Nebison, disguised as a fellow guard, through the streets of the city to a small shack in an area where orcs had broken through in the last raid. The whole street was burnt and there was not a soul about. A perfect hiding place for a secret treasure, Disaran had to concede. He stood watch while Nebison vanished into the half-collapsed building, listening to the man rummaging through the ruins. A few moments later, he returned, carrying a small chest, which appeared very heavy. Grunting, he set it down and opened it. The contents, mostly gold, gleamed at Disaran. “Half of it is for you. After all, I must keep myself fed,” he added in an attempt at humor, which Disaran laughed falsely at to lull him.

“And the other reward?” Disaran prompted. Nebison glanced at the gates, obviously wishing to wait until they were clear before handing over the other half of the payment, but Disaran said, “I should like to see this supposed immortal-maker before accepting it as payment.”

Nebison smiled slyly, and pulled a small, leather pouch from the gold. Carefully, he reached within and pulled out a round object that appeared to be made of black obsidian. There seemed nothing remarkable about it at all. “This, my most gracious benefactor, will endow you with extended youth for as long as you use it. From the first time you make use of it, you shall not age again, as long as you continue to employ it.”

Disaran took the thing, staring at it in wonder. “And how do I use it?” he asked skeptically. “You cannot expect me to take you at your word that this pretty stone will give me immortality.”

“Come. I will show you.” Nebison took the stone, and the two men moved back toward the populated part of the city. They waited until a Númenórean guard, one of Anárion’s captains, passed by their hiding place. “Grab him.”

“But he’ll--”

“Trust me, he’ll tell no tales.” So Disaran clapped a hand over the captain’s mouth and yanked him into the collapsed building, his dagger at the other man’s throat. Even as his quarry grunted and struggled, Nebison sprang up and thrust the black stone against the man’s bare upper chest above the collar of his armor.

The result was instantaneous: the soldier gasped behind Disaran’s hand, and immediately began going limp. His eyes widened first, then rolled back into his head as his struggles swiftly ceased. Disaran noticed the black stone was glowing, as if possessing its own inner fire, as Nebison’s eyes took on a slightly mad glint of predatory joy. The stone flared brilliantly one last time, then darkened, and Nebison pulled it away, while the soldier drooped lifeless in Disaran’s grasp. He dropped the body, and it fell like a sack. The man was dead.

Smiling at Disaran’s stunned face, Nebison explained, “A Númenórean’s life force can grant you several years of unchanging youth, but to use this fine device to its full potential, your best target would be one of the Eldar. Remember, Ar-Pharazôn intended to take Valinor. This was a gift to him from Sauron, to aid him in that end. Shame he didn’t succeed, or the immortality of the elves would belong to many more men.” He handed it to Disaran.

Taking the dark weapon, Disaran stared at it in wonder. “What must I do to make it…work?”

“It works on your will alone, my friend. Act just as you saw me act, and the life force of whoever the stone touches shall be yours. You shall have to continue using it to harvest its gifts, but the life force of an elf can grant you youth for as long as twenty years. For every Númenórean or elf you take, your own life shall extend.”

Disaran smiled. “That seems a reasonable interval. I thank you, Nebison of Númenor. You have been a most profitable ally.”

Nebison smiled back and handed him half of the gold in the chest. “And here is the rest of your fee, Disaran of Gondor. I thank you for your services, and now I shall be on my way.” He started for the breach in the city wall.

“You are most welcome, my benefactor, but before you go, I would test this device in my own hand. How fortunate to have such a convenient test subject--” before Nebison could cry out, Disaran flung an arm around his waist and slapped the stone to the base of Nebison’s own neck.

And now he felt its effects firsthand. It felt just as Nebison had described, an energy flowing from the stone, hot and energizing, the force of a life bleeding into Disaran’s own, that would extend his own youth, while his prey went limp in his grasp, hardly struggling. He felt the current die as its source ran out, and dropped Nebison to the ground. “Yes, you are right, that was quite invigorating. I fear I never could settle for half of the riches in a box, nor could I run the risk of allowing you to escape and tell your tale. This city wants you dead so badly that even finding you dead without so much as a wound, they’re unlikely to ask many questions. As for me, I fear they would ask questions if they found me with a thousand pieces of gold and a Númenórean weapon. I shall have to take your kind gifts and bid you goodnight.”

It was not difficult at all to steal out of Minas Anor in the chaos that erupted when Nebison’s body was found. If anyone did ask questions about the spy’s death, Disaran never heard, for he took his gold and made his way into the Misty Mountains, finding himself a quiet, more isolated village to dwell in, where he quickly became highly-esteemed due to his wealth. There he had waited out the war, snatching the occasional Númenórean soldier to keep himself in good health. However, trouble soon arose when the Númenóreans mingled their blood too often with lesser men, and their life spans began to diminish. Soon, their life force was granting Disaran less and less energy to extend his own.

He decided his only choice was to find a new source, one that would never run out. With that in mind, he had abandoned his village and took to the road, making for the most likely source of youth for himself that he could think of, and that he might be able to find:

Rivendell.

***

Feeling somewhat like he was trapped in a dream, Aragorn walked back to the House of Kings. There he found, as expected, several people keeping watch around Legolas’s body. King Thranduil had returned there, and once again he and Gimli stood on opposite sides of the table, sometimes staring at each other, but never uttering a word. He was rather relieved to see that Celeborn and Gandalf were not there. They would not approve of what he wished to do. On each side of Gimli stood Frodo and Sam on the left, and Merry and Pippin on the right.

But Aragorn was chiefly interested in something else in the gloomy chamber. On a small pedestal, left behind in all the chaos, was the black stone that Disaran used to drain the life from his elven victims. The King went to it and picked it up, then turned to find the eyes of all on him. “What are you doing, Aragorn?” asked Gimli in a dead voice.

“Gandalf and Celeborn think examining this thing is a waste of time, but I…I think there is one source of information they’ve yet to search. One that might yet hold the key to reversing the effect of the weapon,” he said, fingering the cruel instrument with distaste.

Hope sprang into Frodo’s eyes. Had Aragorn not been so consumed by his own grief, he would have been greatly worried for Frodo. The former Ringbearer had faced enough pain in his life without this. “What is it?” the hobbit asked softly. “Where could you find out things about that…thing…that Gandalf and the elves don’t know?”

Aragorn closed his fist around it, and looked at them all. “Disaran.”

Not surprisingly, a small entourage accompanied Aragorn from the House of Kings to the old barracks that had been converted into a prison the previous year. All in all, the King of Gondor had kept order in Minas Tirith so well that few men were held in the cells for any length of time for any serious crime. In fact, Aragorn noted bitterly, Disaran was the first murderer. *And such a murderer.*

Faramir was also at the prison when Aragorn arrived, and quite alarmed when the King wanted to see the prisoner. He ordered Aragorn escorted to the cell, and ducked quickly out. Aragorn did not think to wonder where Faramir had gone. It rankled him no end to see the rather smug look of the man in the cell, guarded by four soldiers, when he spotted his distinguished visitors. Standing up, he gave Aragorn a mocking bow. “Welcome, my lord. I expect I can guess to what I owe the honor of this visit.”

Stepping close to the bars of the cell, his heart burning with rage, Aragorn spoke in a voice that made everyone, even King Thranduil, step backward. “Do not test me, Disaran, or you shall regret it.” He slapped the stone down upon a nearby shelf where the man could see it. “I know this thing drains the life from elves. Is there a way to reverse it and restore their lives? Answer me well and you might just avoid a slow and public execution.” Some of the King’s councilors might have debated his authority to make such a threat, but Aragorn cared not. He cared only for Disaran’s answer. “Speak up.”

For what it was worth, the Black Hunter looked thoughtful. “I admit I have never tried. However…I suppose it might be possible.” Soft intakes of breath behind him mirrored the desperate longing that surged into Aragorn’s own heart. But hope faded rapidly when Aragorn saw the calculating look in Disaran’s eye. “Perhaps if I could…”

“--Do not ask for your freedom, villain, for you shall not have it!” snapped the King. “I offer you only this: if Legolas’s life is restored, I will turn you over to the Eldar, who are more likely to grant you a swift and relatively painless death than what the people of Gondor are clamoring for.” To his relief, Thranduil said nothing to contradict that. “Think hard on your responses.”

Disaran lowered his head. “If I may see the stone, then. You need not open the gate, but only pass it through the bars.”

“And what purpose would that serve?” asked Aragorn suspiciously.

“I have carried it for centuries, my lord. I feel it well. Often by instinct I can bend it to my will, perhaps it might yet tell me how to restore the life of your friend.” Aragorn was relieved that Disaran did not say the elf’s name, for he was not certain he could contain himself if he heard Legolas’s name soiled by the murderer’s mouth.

Slowly, Aragorn nodded, and went to pick up the stone again. He carried it to the cell bars, and Disaran reached through to take it. All at once, the prison rang with running feet. “Aragorn! No!” cried Gandalf’s voice. Aragorn faltered, just as Disaran lunged for the stone. The King instinctively jerked back, and the Black Hunter spat as his prize was pulled again from his reach.

Gandalf, Celeborn, and Faramir burst into the hall. “Do not let him touch that stone again!” cried Celeborn.

“Why?” gasped Sam, stepping in front of the other three hobbits. “What’s he trying to do?”

Breathless, Gandalf snatched the weapon from Aragorn. “The device is activated by will alone, Aragorn, and any life can be taken by it. You are of Númenórean descent; Disaran could easily have used it on you if you had touched it at the same time as he.”

Aragorn turned to glare at Disaran, who in turn looked distinctly thwarted. So it had been a trick then. What now? “I had thought to try reversing its effect,” he murmured, pain welling up inside until it seemed to drown him. “Surely if will alone can drain a life away, will alone can restore it.”

Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder. “Only the will of the one who wields it, my friend.”

“Then why not use it on him to give the life back to Legolas?” cried Merry suddenly, pushing past the others.

“Aye!” cried Gimli, joining him. “Take all the immortality he’s stolen, and surely that could return Legolas to life. It’s worth a try; what’s the worst that could happen? That villain’s death would be no small loss.”

“Poetic justice, I say,” muttered Sam in agreement.

But Gandalf was shaking his head. “That occurred to me, friends, but it is not possible. Even by force of torture, we could not make Disaran will his own life into Legolas, and Legolas possesses no will to take it for himself. That is the only way it would work.” He gripped Aragorn’s shoulder tightly. “I know you wish to reverse this, but it is done. His life cannot be ransomed back.” Aragorn sighed, nodding quietly. But his mind whirled with the implications of what Gandalf had said, and an idea formed in his head even as he feigned resignation.

He was not the only one.

***

Late that night…

Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen passed silently into the block of cells where the Black Hunter was held, easily avoiding and distracting the guards with elven stealth. But it was not the Hunter himself, asleep on the mat of straw in his cell, that the elven king sought. Entering the space outside Disaran’s cell, he found what he was seeking: the black weapon of Ar-Pharazôn remained on the guards’ table, well out of the man’s reach. But not out of Thranduil’s.

*Mithrandir said the device is activated by will alone. Then it will respond to mine.* Thranduil picked it up, feeling its cold weight in his hand. For two days now he had stood at the side of his son, unable to come to terms with the sight of the lifeless body in the House of Kings. Legolas could not die and leave him to grieve again. Thranduil could not bear it. He had seen the eyes of others mourning his son, and knew that their minds were full of cries of grief, of denial, of pleading to the Valar to change what had happen. But for him, Legolas’s father, it was different. His mind, his heart, his soul, had fallen silent at the sight of his child dead. Nothing could shake that terrible inner darkness.

*I cannot live through mourning another child. I have known that for many years. If there is a way to save him, no matter what the cost, I must take it.* His resolve affirmed, he turned to take the stone to the House of Kings. Just then, his sharp elven hearing detected the door being opened outside, and the guards hurrying to return to their posts outside the sleeping man’s cell. Fighting the urge to curse, Thranduil put the stone back on the table and dove into the shadows for cover.

He had expected many people to appear outside Disaran’s cell. Another guard, Faramir perhaps, or one of Legolas’s friends coming to rough Disaran up (which would have given Thranduil grim satisfaction to watch.) But it was Aragorn. The King of the Reunified Lands, the husband of the Evenstar, walked quietly into the room, and to the hidden Thranduil’s astonishment, he also made straight for the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn. Closing his eyes, he clutched the weapon to his breast and murmured, “Valar forgive me for this.”

*By the Valar! He’s come to do what I had intended to do!* thought Thranduil in shock. It did not seem possible. Would this mortal truly give up his life for Legolas?

Alas, the elven king did not have time to find out. No sooner had Aragorn turned toward the door, the stone in his hand, when the room was suddenly ablaze with light. All the braziers burst into flame, and Thranduil sank deeper into the shadows, wondering what new madness was afoot.

Gandalf stepped through the door, barring the King of Gondor’s way. “I thought you had given in too easily, son of Arathorn.”

Aragorn wavered, a strange look in his eyes that none had ever seen, almost as if something in the man’s soul had come off-balance. *He is beyond himself,* thought Thranduil in amazement. He would not have believed it if Galadriel herself had told him. Could this mortal king truly have loved Legolas so much that the unexpected death of Thranduil’s son had driven him nearly mad with pain?

“Get out of my way, Gandalf.”

“You shall not get past me, Elessar.”

“And even if you do,” said a gruff voice from the other door. “I shall stand behind him.” Thranduil felt a surge of bitter grief and anger. It was that stunted dwarf. So he was here too. In their ambush of the King of Gondor, they had made it impossible for Thranduil to save his son. Cursing his own helplessness, he could only watch.

By now, Disaran had awakened and watched them from his cell. “Meant to give your life to him, did you?” came his mocking voice. “I daresay it’d work.” There was a burst of light from Gandalf’s staff, and Disaran fell to the floor of his cell with a grunt, as the wizard growled at the Black Hunter to keep silent.

“You see, Gandalf?” said Aragorn in a low, desperate voice, driven past caring that he was taking a murderer at his word. “I must try. I owe Legolas too much.”

“Legolas would not want this. Your life is too important to Middle Earth, my friend, you must see reason!” said the Maia urgently, seizing the man by the shoulders.

But Aragorn was indeed mad with grief. “I can’t do it, Gandalf! He was my friend, my guest in my city, under my protection, and he died alone in my streets! I cannot live with that!” Shaking his head, he muttered, “I must try.”

“By the Valar, THINK, Aragorn!” cried a new voice.

*Is all of Minas Tirith here tonight?* wondered Thranduil in exasperation as Frodo Baggins appeared in the doorway.

Frodo, his eyes red and his face pale, watched the King in despair. “Legolas would never forgive you! And it wouldn’t just be yourself, you’d be killing Arwen too! Everyone knows what fate awaits her if you should die!”

“And it would be vain,” pleaded Gandalf, not lessening his hold on the distraught man. “You may be of Númenórean descent, but Legolas is an elf. You have not enough life force to restore his immortality. Even if it granted him anything at all, his life would be diminished at best.”

“That’s better than death,” muttered Aragorn stubbornly.

“Legolas might disagree, and it is not for you to make that choice for him,” said Gandalf.

Aragorn sighed, and his shoulders slumped. He trembled slightly in the wizard’s grasp, and Thranduil began to think he had acquiesced. Then he suddenly attempted to jerk past Gandalf, causing cries of alarm from Frodo and Gimli as the Maia rushed to restrain him. “No! Aragorn, no!”

“I must try!” the King cried, attempting to fight his way past them.

He nearly managed to wrench himself from the wizard’s hands and gain the door, but Gimli slammed an open hand into his wrist, forcing his hand to drop the fatal Stone. The dwarf seized it as Frodo threw himself in front of Aragorn, sobbing, “Strider, please! Don’t!”

But still Aragorn struggled to reach the weapon. Gimli tossed it back onto the table and looked hard at the man, trying to get past Frodo and Gandalf’s restraining arms. It was clear to all that the King would not give up this mad attempt to give his own life to Legolas. With a determined grunt, dwarvish stubbornness kicked in, and Gimli seized his axe, which he had left leaning against the wall. In a flash, Aragorn, Disaran, and Thranduil all realized what the son of Glóin intended to do.

“No!” the two men and the elf shouted at the same time. Thranduil burst from his hiding place, Disaran threw himself against the bars of his cell, and Aragorn tried to lunge past Gandalf and Frodo. But none could surpass the speed of the swing of the dwarf’s axe. With a fierce roar of defiance, Gimli brought the blade of his weapon down directly upon the black Stone of Ar-Pharazôn, shattering it into a hundred shards across the tabletop.

***

Over the same period of time…

The passage of two elven souls to the Halls of Mandos was both short and long, but Legolas did not notice. Fear had left him, as his mother had promised, and her warm presence buoyed him as they passed out of the living world. After an indistinct fragment of time, he found himself passing the shores of Undying Lands, approaching the fabled Halls of Waiting.

*Don’t be frightened,* Minuial said to him.

*What happens now, Mother?*

*It is not for me to say. Fear not; you shall see. Come in.*

Legolas sensed the presence of many other elven spirits within the Halls of Mandos, but unlike himself and his mother, these remained invisible. His mother led him toward the threshold. Minuial’s soul passed through without a pause, and Legolas expected to do the same. So it came as a great shock to him when he found himself unable to enter. Moreover, it was not merely that something barring his way, but pulling his soul back.

*Mother! What’s happening?*

*Legolas?! Mandos! What is this?* his mother turned and rushed back toward him, trying to seize his spirit-body with her hands.

*I do not understand!* cried Legolas, trying to cling to his mother in terror. Was he to be thrown back into Middle Earth as one of the dwimmer-laik after all? *I answered the summons! Am I to join the Houseless Ones? Why? What have I done? Mother!* Legolas tried in vain to fight the pull of the invisible tide, but he was dragged out of his mother’s reach even as their spirits desperately strained toward each other.

*Legolas!*

*Mother!* But she and Valinor vanished as he was pulled away.

He landed with a thud and a gasp. Looking down, he found that his body was still that of a spirit, but far more substantial than the one he had had in Valinor. Certainly, there was more sensation reaching him. He could almost feel the cold, damp stone beneath his hands, and sound reached him again. Somehow…somehow he was back in Middle Earth!

Strangely disoriented for a spirit, he sat up, and was startled to discover that his body, though still insubstantial, moved more like a living body. He no longer floated, but stood upon his feet, and looked around, finding himself in a place he did not recognize. It appeared to be a prison ward. Why was he here? Had Mandos sent him back? What else could have forced him back into the living world--or halfway into it, as he appeared to be. Wild anticipation, almost but not quite physical, gripped him as two guards entered the room, but his heart sank as he realized they still did not see him. Feeling confused and dejected at being expelled from the Undying Lands without knowing why, the elf watched them deliver a tray of food to the prisoner in the cell.

The man took the offering without comment and the guards turned and left him. His eyes wandered idly around the room beyond his cage--and stopped directly on Legolas. The spirit stared back. The man was Disaran. Slowly, he rose to his feet, looking straight at where the elf’s soul, housed in a not-quite-physical body, stood outside his cell. Legolas looked around in amazement, but there was no other object in the room that might command Disaran’s attention. There could be no doubt--his murderer could SEE him!

Disaran stared, and Legolas stared back. Then, the man smiled a grotesque, cruel smile, and nodded toward the table in the cell block, where what looked like the broken shards of black glass winked in the torchlight.

“Well now!” the Black Hunter remarked brightly. “Here’s one thing Nebison never warned me about!*

*****
To Be Continued…
*****

Author’s Note: GOTCHA!!! (Evil laugh) Oh come on, you guys didn’t REALLY think I had killed him, did you? (Mental head-shake) As if I could ever do in our favorite elf. But believe me, our heroes’ troubles aren’t over