Chapter Five: Guilt

Imladris, the Year 59 of the Third Age…

It was the first time Disaran had ever seen an elf. He had obtained the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn just before the formation of the Last Alliance, and had departed into the wilderness. For that reason, and others (namely that he was not Númenórean) he had never had the opportunity to view the fabled Fair Folk back when he had been a lowly foot soldier.

But now…he had to concede it had been well-worth the wait.

The trip to Rivendell had been arduous, and Disaran had grown more tense the closer he came. The tracking abilities of the elves were legendary, as were their senses, and while the idea had seemed a good one at first, doubts assailed him now. How could he hope to penetrate an elf haven and catch one of those powerful beings to take its immortality without raising the alarm? He had nearly abandoned the attempt altogether, but the thought of his life waning away again if he ceased using the Stone had kept him on his path. After all, to forsake the chance at immortality would deem him unworthy of it.

After much deliberation, he had chosen a hiding place well out on the road beyond Rivendell, near an expanse of caves that made a good campsite. Then he settled in the thickest bushes he could find and kept watch on the comings and goings of the Eldar of Rivendell, hoping to find some weakness he could use to his advantage. Or at least an elf being careless out on the road alone.

There was no chance that the first party of elves that passed within his sight could have heard him breathing. That was due to the fact that his breath stopped at the sight of them. The legends of the beauty and grace of the Fair Folk had been exaggerated not at all. He rather thought they had been underrated. Four elves were in this group departing Rivendell for who-knew-where. He marveled at their flowing hair, their bright eyes, and feline grace, and nearly gasped aloud at the sweet sound of their voices raised in merry song. The two she-elves in the party were undoubtedly the fairest maidens he had beheld in his entire lifetime, surpassing thrice over the beauty of any human woman Disaran had ever laid eyes on.

But very soon, admiration turned to resentment. Why was it that the Valar had seen fit to grant so many gifts to this perfect race, and leave men to slog behind in their shadow? They had created a pretty folk indeed, who never had to strive or struggle to achieve any end, and obtained with ease the things that men were forced to labor lifetimes for. Why should they be such a favored race?

Sooner still, resentment gave way to malice. Aye, a pretty folk they were, so confident and sure of their invulnerability. With every contemptuous thought, Disaran’s resolve to take one of them grew. He would be as patient as was necessary, but their immortality, their life energy granted by the Valar, would in the end be his. It took many, many months, but he learned to conceal his presence as he watched them from near and far, and eventually even managed to follow them without their knowledge--albeit from considerable distance. He practiced for weeks at a time, trailing a single company of journeying elves and testing himself and their alertness to see how close he could get. He even hunted and foraged for food in the woods around Rivendell while escaping their detection. He had several narrow escapes, but by the dint of much practice and no small measure of luck, he hunted and evaded them.

At long last, he felt he was ready. The next party to leave the haven of the Last Homely House was a young elven warrior and a maid, obviously on some little romantic venture. Disaran followed them down the banks of the Bruinen until they were well away from the typical range of Rivendell’s guards--obviously a deliberate choice on the courting couple’s part. Valar, how fair they were! The warrior, hardly more than a youth, was nonetheless tall and strong, his hands graceful and sure as he mounted up a tree to fetch his lady love some fruit. His hair, the color of coal, was like a shadow around his fair head, and his eyes flashed with mirth and brilliance. The maiden possessed hair brown as chestnuts, and eyes the same color, and a voice that would easily set a softer man to tears as she sang. The light of the stars was in her eyes, and they danced as she laughed.

Once Disaran was satisfied that they had settled with their picnic along a narrow part of the river, he moved stealthily into the trees as close to them as he dared, and laid his trap. From a village they had passed he had appropriated a small, fat pig (and had a time keeping the thing quiet as he followed them.) Now he waited until the pair were sufficiently involved with each other and crept closer, until he lurked in the undergrowth at the very edge of the trees.

Predictably, they sensed a presence and broke apart. At that moment, Disaran pulled the pig from the sack and unbound it, releasing it onto the bank. The elves’ tense expressions broke into laughter and relief, and the boy was up like a shot, chasing the pig. During his observations of Rivendell, Disaran had picked up a bit of elvish, and it took no great knowledge to know what the maiden shouted laughingly after her suitor as he chased the pig back into the trees. *Come back and leave that poor little piggy alone!* Disaran thought mockingly as he followed the boy, who was too set on catching the pig and impressing his intended to notice his pursuer.

From that point, it wound up being far easier than Disaran had thought it would.

He got ahead of both elf and pig and waited behind a tree. In fact, he was astonished at how easy it was to snatch a hand around the boy’s mouth as he passed and slap the Stone against his bare skin. Even elvish reflexes could not recover quickly enough to make up for the leeching power of the Stone, and within seconds Disaran’s victim had lost the strength to struggle. It was even more elating that when Disaran had taken the Númenóreans. The elf’s heart first raced at the sudden attack, but then it began to slow, and the boy wilted like a flower against Disaran’s hold. Moments later, Disaran laid his lifeless body upon the ground, sighing softly in triumph. Then he retreated a few paces away, and waited.

After only a few moments, a curious voice called out, “Lasbelin? Lasbelin?” He could only guess what she must be calling to her now-late suitor, and smiled in predatory pleasure at the soft sounds of her approach through the trees, undoubtedly wondering where the silly boy had got to. *Elves. So naïve. Therein lies their greatest weakness, the one that shall avail me the most.*

He readied himself as she drew closer and came around the thick cluster of bushes where he waited. She should have seen him, but her eyes were drawn at once to the limp body of her lover, motionless on the ground. “Lasbelin? Lasbelin!” The girl threw herself down to him, turning the boy over and shaking him frantically. Disaran stood over her, and as she gathered breath to scream, clapped a hand over her mouth.

She gave a little squeak of fright, and he hesitated to put the Stone to her. “Silence, girl. Not one move,” he growled, relishing the way her chest heaved in terror. Her hair smelled like flowers. He smiled, wishing he had caught her facing him so he could witness the fear in her eyes. She moaned and sobbed against his grip, and he grinned. “Wonder what I did to him, don’t you?” he whispered in her ear. He brandished the stone with one hand for her to see. “I drained his life with this, pretty maid. It sucks the immortality right out of your pretty people. Not quite so impervious to death as you thought, are you?” With a grin, he slowly brought the stone toward her, feeling her breath coming faster and faster until he pressed it to the base of her throat. Then she gave a great, heaving gasp as she met the fate of her beloved, alone and terrified as her life drained away.

When she was dead, he dropped her like a sack, grinned in satisfaction at his success, and simply walked away, leaving the bodies of his first elven kill there in the brush, a warning to all Eldar that he had now made them his prey.

*****

Minas Tirith, the Year 3020 of the Third Age…

When Disaran’s eyes met his, Legolas recoiled. *How can you see me?* he demanded without thinking.

Disaran stood up, still grinning in that awful, smug way. “None of the others can, it seems. How very interesting.”

*Not the word I would choose,* ground out the elf, scowling at his killer. Eyeing the man with distaste, he remarked, *However impressed with yourself you may be, it seems you no more expected to see me than I did, therefore my presence here must not be of your make.*

“Ah, but it is, even if it was unintentional!” sneered Disaran. He nodded toward the table.

Legolas moved closer, staring in confusion at the dark glass shards scattered across its surface. What did--he froze. That was not glass! He moved his hand close to them, and in spite of being unable to touch them physically, a prickle of real (if unpleasant) sensation ran through him as his spirit came into contact with them. *The stone,* he murmured. *Someone destroyed it.*

“Your dwarf friend did,” said Disaran in an infuriatingly helpful voice. “Funny, I’ve seen some interesting things in my long day--thanks to the gifts of your kind--” he added, knowing full well the fury that would consume the elf for the defilement of his people, “--but a friendship between an elf and a dwarf, well, that’s a new one. And never have I encountered one of the Houseless Ones.”

Legolas thought that had his body been physical, he would have been shaking with rage. Again, he forgot himself and retorted, *I am not one of the dwimmer-laik!* Even as the words passed his lips--or more like his mind--he regretted them, for Disaran’s face changed swiftly from puzzlement to calculation. *I must not give him such information! This beast is as shrewd as he is coldhearted. I will find no aid in this from him, and more likely he would use what he knows to harm me or my friends.*

But it was too late; the damage was done. “You didn’t refuse the summons of Mandos, then, hmmm?” Disaran mused thoughtfully. “That’s interesting. I wonder!” he perked up again in that false cheer. “Could it be that this is the fate of all the elves whose immortality I claim? Maybe your Valar won’t accept you without your immortality. That could be--”

*Be silent, you filthy creature!* cried Legolas savagely.

But Disaran just grinned and went on, clearly enjoying the torment he was inflicting upon the elf. “I wonder, since I can see you and others cannot, could I touch you?”

Legolas glared at him. *You shall not get close enough to me to find out.*

“We seem bound in a strange way, Master Elf. I should attempt to be more civil if I were you. I may be the one chance you have of reaching your living friends. Why, your beloved King Elessar is all but mad with grief. The dwarf had to destroy that stone to keep him from using it on himself.”

*What?* confusion overrode the elf’s ire. *What do you mean?*

Disaran gestured again to the shards. “Elessar first thought to use the stone to take the immortality from me and return it to you. But your wizard friend told him correctly that the stone can work by the will of the possessor alone. Mad with grief, he was. He snuck back in here by night and tried to take the thing to the House of Kings where your body lies, to give his own life to you.”

*You lie!* Legolas roared, surging toward the cell. *Aragorn would never do anything so foolish!*

“Ah, but he tried, Master Elf, it is the truth! Nothing would stop him, not mention of his worth to the world, nor of his wife, nor of his friends. At last the dwarf seized the stone and destroyed it with his axe. My, how disconsolate your great King was then! He grasped at the shards as if trying to put them back together--cut his hands to ribbons on them, he did,” Disaran shook his head in mock-amazement. “All I intended was to sustain my life for another hundred years or so, but I may have destroyed the King of Gondor! A rather intoxicating feeling--”

*You foul beast!* with a cry of uncontrollable rage, Legolas threw himself at Disaran, caring not that he probably would fly right through the wall. As it was, he did pass through the bars, although it was an uncomfortable sensation. But nothing could have prepared him for the shock and horror of when his spirit-body slammed INto Disaran’s physical one--not through it, throwing them both to the ground.

Even worse, no sooner had Disaran gotten over his initial shock at being touched by the spirit of the elf than he seized Legolas by the wrist--and immediately, Legolas felt all strength of movement desert him, leaving him trapped and helpless upon the ground. In surprise and horror, Legolas attempted to pull away and flee, but while Disaran’s foul hands gripped his wrists, he was immobilized. Terror filled him as he found himself once again completely at the mercy of the man who had already murdered him. *No…*

But Disaran, as evil as the forces that had first shaped the stone with which he stole the lives of the Eldar, enjoyed the situation still more, and neither moved to harm his captive nor released him. Instead he simply held Legolas fast, relishing the fear and revulsion in the elf’s gray eyes. “It is said,” he drawled as Legolas squirmed haplessly against his iron hold, “that the Houseless Ones will tempt and taunt the living in order to obtain a body, and then trap the living soul while using the body themselves. Is that so?”

Legolas closed his eyes, aware that even if he cried for help, none would hear him. He felt real, but he was not. “That’s right, little elf. None can hear you. None can help you. I may not have been able to take your immortality, but it matters not, for now you yourself are entirely mine.” Disaran’s voice invaded the maelstrom of terror in his mind, making Legolas bitterly aware that the Black Hunter could hear his thoughts. “In all your history, the spirits of your dead have preyed upon the bodies of men.”

*That’s not true,* Legolas murmured weakly.

“I think those whose bodies have been taken would be grateful if I returned the courtesy now to one of you.” Legolas opened his eyes, horrified. This man was using every past irrational envy and grievance against the Eldar by men to excuse his own actions! “Of course, elven prince of Mirkwood, are you too thick to see? That is my life; that is what I am! I am the man who evens the score, and forces you high and mighty elves to endure what we men have endured, while you bask in the gifts you have done nothing to deserve.”

Shaking his head, Legolas whispered frantically, *We took nothing from you. We were made by Ilúvatar! Immortality is not ours to give or to take!*

Disaran shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He smiled. “But it is mine.” He suddenly released the elf’s wrists. Legolas scrambled backwards away from him and turned to leap from the cell. He was halfway through the bars when he felt as though an invisible net had been cast around his body, preventing him from moving forward while beginning to pull him back. A bark of triumphant laughter made him cringe. “Ha! It’s as I thought! You really are mine!”

*What?* Legolas turned around, staring in terror. *What have you done?*

“I’m using nothing but my will to hold you there, just as my will controlled the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn!” Disaran’s delighted laughter had a faintly deranged tone. “I may not have had time to absorb your immortality from it, but it seems now I possess you--soul and all!”

All at once, there came the clang of an outer door. Disaran glanced past Legolas, but did not release him. At last, there was some measure of displeasure in his cruel voice. “Sounds like either the guards or one of your friends is about to pay me a visit.” He gestured to himself, and Legolas noticed for the first time the bruises and bedraggled appearance of the man. “Roughed me up quite a bit since I took you. Undoubtedly now that they’ve lost hope of saving you, there’ll be more, probably ending with a nasty execution. On the other hand,” he smiled again, and Legolas shivered, “maybe you’ll come in handy for something more than my entertainment!”

There were footsteps coming now; it sounded like several guards, and angry ones at that. Legolas felt Disaran’s will pulling at his spirit again, and he whirled away, trying in vain to free himself. *Help me!* he cried in desperation, though he knew the guards would not likely hear him. *Hear me! Please!*

But the net of the Black Hunter’s will dragged Legolas like a trapped animal toward the man, closer and closer until he seemed about to collide with Disaran again. But this time, to Legolas’s even greater horror, his spirit-body seemed to merge with Disaran’s physical one, and he felt the indescribable sensation of another spirit trading places with his. It was most disorienting.

When the world had stopped spinning, Legolas found himself staring out of a pair of unfamiliar eyes. Physical sensation had returned with a vengeance, but he still was not free. Wait--he was breathing! But no, not quite. He was inside a breathing body, but the breaths were not his own. Staring back at him was the now-incorporeal form of Disaran, a look of terrible triumph on his face. Legolas was in the man’s body, but still very much his prisoner. *By my father’s bones, it actually worked! How deliciously convenient!*

Legolas attempted to cry for help, using Disaran’s mouth, but found himself with no more control than before. He could feel the ground beneath Disaran’s feet, the air Disaran breathed, even the pulse of the man’s heart as if it were his own--but control of this body remained in the hands of its owner, who now watched Legolas from several feet outside the prison cell. *How bitterly ironic.*

*Ironic indeed,* agreed Disaran’s spirit as a group of decidedly enraged-looking guards stormed into the room toward the cell. Legolas felt the body smile mockingly at the soldiers even as he fought to free himself or at least control it. *It seems now I have an easy escape route when these gentlemen come to visit their rage on me for murdering their favorite elf, and the elf is the one who gets to suffer their ministrations in my place.*

*NO!*

*Very odd, having an elf in my body. I can hear your every thought, see your every memory,* Disaran’s body was no longer speaking, but the spirit was. *Oh dear, it seems these men intend to exact revenge on you for reducing their King to such a human wreck in grief! Better brace yourself, Legolas, son of Thranduil!* he added as the cell door swung open.

*You shall pay for this one day!* Legolas railed at him, but felt his--or rather Disaran’s--arms grabbed as the men dragged him from the cell. While Disaran’s body took the beating, Legolas realized that he was the one who was going to feel the pain. Terror filled him as it never had before, terror at the totality of his helplessness, and the knowledge that there was no escape even in death. *A Valar, help me!* He was flung to the ground, and the cracks of a horse whip and the pounding of fists soon filled the prison’s corridor, as the soldiers vented their rage at Disaran’s crimes with a vengeful frenzy completely foreign to the elf trapped in his body. After a time, Legolas discovered that there was in fact one way that he could make Disaran’s body respond to him. Or perhaps this was one action that Disaran allowed him.

He could scream.

“They say you killed elf children too, you foul leech!” growled one of the guards, slamming his mail gloved hands into Disaran’s ribs as Legolas gasped in pain. “You’ll bleed for them and the suffering you’ve caused our King!”

“The people are clamoring for your head, villain!” added another, beating him about the face. “Maybe when you’ve been put to the slow death you deserve, our King Elessar will at last be healed of his grief! Like a brother to him, that elf was, a hero of the War! There’s no punishment strong enough for murdering one such as him!”

Again and again, the blows came. Disaran’s body jerked and tensed reflexively, but Legolas could not even force his captor’s mouth to form a word. At last, his vision began to fade, and the trapped elf felt a surge of relief: Disaran’s body was losing consciousness. Perhaps that would bring freedom. The soldiers pummeling him were so passionate with their hate that they failed to see the signs, and darkness swept up as Disaran’s eyes closed.

Alas, that did not bring blessed oblivion. Instead, Legolas found his spirit was at least thrown free of the imprisoning body, landing heavily and no less painfully upon the prison floor. He lay there for some time, mulling over the irony of how even though he was no longer IN Disaran’s body, the pain had not left him. After awhile, he looked around, and saw no sign of Disaran’s spirit. So the man must be free to roam away from his body now that the soul of his last victim had provided him the means of escaping it. With a silent groan, Legolas decided he had best try and escape this place before his tormentor returned.

Dragging himself to his feet, he noted with wonder that his spirit-body remained unmarred to his eyes. It was not his body that had been hurt, but his own spirit. Yet at the same time, it was more real than the spirit that his mother had led to the Halls of Mandos. Somehow Legolas doubted if he could have experienced such torment in that form. Whatever he was now, he was neither fully spirit nor fully flesh, but something in between. And it seemed that he was condemned to endure the worst of both worlds. *This truly is far too much irony for me to stomach at any one time,* he thought bitterly, and fled the prison.

***

At the same time…

Gimli had been wandering aimlessly all night long. Sleep felt impossible, and even if it had not, he knew it would bring him no peace. Not after what he had seen last night, and certainly not after what he had done.

He had destroyed the Stone. The one hope that had lingered to restore Legolas, slim though it was, had been lost. But it was not as if he had had much of a choice, was it? Aragorn had been completely irrational, trying to give up his own life on the off chance it might have restored the elf. But that was not a gamble anyone, least of all Legolas, would have allowed Aragorn to take, yet the King had refused to hear them. When Gimli had seized the accursed Stone, he had seen the near-madness in Aragorn’s eyes as he lunged after it. And the dwarf had bitterly realized how far beyond himself his friend truly was.

*I have lost Legolas, Aragorn. It hurts so deeply that I wonder how I will survive. But one thing now I know for certain: I cannot also lose you. Or I fear the Eldar would find that they are no longer the only ones who can die of grief.*

So Gimli had flung the Stone of Ar-Pharazôn upon the table and brought his axe blade down upon it. It was not like the One Ring. Anything and anyone could destroy it. How the black obsidian had winked mockingly at him as it exploded into fragments.

Then there had been silence. The first thing Gimli had seen when he looked up from the shattered remains of the stone was the eyes of King Thranduil, Legolas’s father. He had not heard the elven king enter the room during the chaos, but he was there now, staring at Gimli as if the dwarf himself had murdered his son. Gimli, feeling shock of his own as the last vestiges of hope sparkled upon the tabletop, had turned away.

A cry of denial from Aragorn had made him spin back around, as the man lunged at the table and attempted to gather the shards in his hands, cursing at Gimli. Gandalf and the dwarf had stared at each other in dismay at their friend’s continuing refusal to face reality, until Frodo’s cry of horror awoke them. Blood was beginning to streak Aragorn’s hands, sliced by the razor-sharp splinters. Thranduil’s mouth had opened in shock while Maia, dwarf, and hobbit had seized the grief-stricken man by the arms, forcing him to release the fragments, and dragging him back. Gimli had gritted his teeth against Aragorn’s resistance, and the hands of them all had been cut in the struggle, while Gandalf growled that the guards had better be kept out, so that none saw the King in this state.

By the dint of much brute force, the three of them at last restrained Aragorn, but chaos had erupted anew when Sam burst in and went straight for Frodo, followed closely by Faramir racing in and going straight for Aragorn, each adding his shouts to the tumult. The uproar was not silenced until Gandalf finally threatened to knock Aragorn unconscious for a week if the man did not come to his senses. Seething and overwrought, Aragorn had at last ceased his tirade against Gimli and struggles against Faramir, and fell into a bitter silence, glaring at all of them.

Then a soft, trembling voice had whispered, “Gimli did the right thing, Strider.” It was Frodo, watching the madness with huge, tear-filled eyes, as Sam now stood protectively in front of him. “You can’t give your life to Legolas. He’d never let you even if it was likely to work. Please,” he pushed past a reluctant Sam and walked to Aragorn’s side, touching his bloody hand. “We need you. Now more than ever. L-Legolas wouldn’t want you to give up.”

For several moments there had been no sound in the room save everyone’s over-rapid breathing. Aragorn had still been looking at Gimli with those mad eyes. Then, at length, reason crept back into them, and the King’s gaze dropped, first to the floor, then turned slowly to Frodo. He closed his eyes and looked immeasurably weary. Gandalf had loosened his death grip and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll have the healer meet us in your quarters at home. You’ll need those cuts treated.”

Aragorn had looked about to argue, then caught the steely glint in the wizard’s own eyes, and at last he nodded. Faramir too relaxed his grip, and the two of them had walked the King from the prison. Sam had taken Frodo’s arm and led him away as well.

A low groan had turned Gimli’s attention to the cell for a moment. Strange, he had not seen anyone strike Disaran, but the man was practically unconscious on the floor. Perhaps Gandalf had done something to keep him silent so he would not say anything to provoke Aragorn further. The dwarf had contemplating taking his axe and ending the murderer’s life then and there, but decided against it. He had in a way usurped Aragorn’s authority already by destroying the Stone. It would be for Gondor and the Eldar to decide the Black Hunter’s fate. Gimli only hoped that before the end, the man might know the kind of suffering he had inflicted upon his victims.

Turning his back on Disaran, Gimli had seen King Thranduil in the doorway of the cell block, staring at him. *Why does he look at me like that?* Some of the emotions in the elven king’s eyes were no surprise to the dwarf. He had expected to see blame; he deserved it. He expected to see hate, bitterness, resentment, and those he did see. But there was something else in the gaze of his best friend’s father that puzzled the dwarf. Thranduil’s eyes seemed to go through Gimli, searching for something. Gimli wondered why, but Thranduil abruptly turned and vanished.

After that, Gimli had left as well, and found himself wandering the city streets until dawn lit the sky again. *Three days,* he thought numbly. *Only three days you’ve been gone, Legolas, and already some of us have fallen to the depths of despair, while others are going mad.*

A sound made Gimli halt in his tracks near the Halls of the Kings. From over the vine-covered wall in the gardens, the clear, beautiful sound of elven singing reached the dwarf’s ears, a torturous mockery of Legolas’s favorite leisure activity that Gimli had loved so much. Gimli moved a little closer and listened, trying to determine the singer. It was not Arwen; he knew her voice well. Nor the twins, he thought. Though the sound was slightly distorted by the wall, and he had not an elf’s ears, he knew he had heard it before. Therefore, not Celeborn or Haldir.

Gimli sighed. *Thranduil again.*

The dwarf tried for Legolas’s sake not to feel bitter toward the elven king, but the resentment in his friend’s father’s eyes rankled him. *Did he think me unworthy of Legolas? Perhaps I was, but no less worthy than Thranduil.* Long Gimli had known that Legolas’s relationship with his father had not always been an entirely happy one, and his one visit to Mirkwood with Legolas after the War of the Ring had shown him the reasons.

It had swiftly become clear to the dwarf that the elven king of Mirkwood and his youngest son were of very different minds, yet at the same time Gimli had seen many common personality traits between them: the strong will, the hot head (by elf standards anyway), fierce pride, stubbornness, and no small measure of elven self-righteousness. Seeing that, it was no wonder really that Thranduil and Legolas had a tendency to clash, and the eyes of each betrayed an awareness of that. There was a wariness with which father and son approached each other that the son’s best friend could not fail to miss. Especially since Gimli had been the at least part of the cause of much of the clashing when Legolas returned home. Granted, the woods had been a disaster after the battle with Dol Guldur and Thranduil had had much on his mind, but his treatment of Gimli then had been nearly the same as now. He had not actively opposed his son’s declaration of Gimli as elvellon, but he also had not actively acknowledged the dwarf’s title. Nor had he actively acknowledged Gimli at all when it was possible. And when he did deign to look at the dwarf, it was with the same resentment that he displayed now. As though Gimli had no right to call Legolas a friend.

*There are none in Middle Earth worthy of the friendship of that elf, save perhaps Aragorn,* Gimli thought, his eyes suddenly brimming, as Thranduil’s mournful song echoed with memories of Legolas’s voice. *But I saw how he looked at you, Thranduil. Perhaps I was unworthy of his friendship, but you were unworthy of his love!* Choking back a muttered curse, the dwarf turned from the path he’d been walking, not desiring to remain where he could hear the elven king’s voice, and stomped up the steps of the Halls of the Kings.

Unlike Legolas, who immediately fled any solid structure when troubled, Gimli found his greatest solace within a sturdy wall of stone. *Perhaps when all this madness is ended, and Aragorn restored to himself, I shall return to Aglarond. My Glittering Caves, the one underground place Legolas admitted to appreciate, might give me some peace, if not happiness. Never again happiness, Legolas.*

He saw no one in his walk down the corridors to his room save the guards and a few of the King’s ministers. The Court had not been held since Legolas’s murder, and like Gimli, most of Legolas’s friends wandered alone, immersed in their own thoughts and memories.

Reaching his own room, Gimli paused suddenly, seized by a powerful impulse, but all too aware of the agony he would feel if he gave in to it. Nonetheless, his legs suddenly took over for his mind, and carried him past his chamber, to outermost room in this part of the palace. Legolas’s room. Gimli stared at the door for some time, and his heart pounded harder and harder, until at last he swept out a hand and pushed it open.

Coming into the chamber, Gimli gazed around the room in amazement. This room was always reserved for the elf’s frequent visits, having the thinnest stone walls and the largest window. Naught had changed, not that anything should have since Legolas had slept here only three nights ago. But either by order of the Queen or by some reluctance of the servants, the things in the room had not been touched. Even a fire still burned in the hearth, dutifully replenished, and as the early rays of the sun cast golden light through the window, Gimli was certain he could hear an elven voice singing to the dawn in the soft breeze. The only thing missing was Legolas. His extra clothing was laid neatly in a small chest near the foot of the bed, and the pack he carried upon his horse rested against it. Upon the stand beside the bed sat a book, a dwarvish tale that Gimli had given to him. Legolas might be reluctant to enter caves, but he was innately curious, and knowing Gimli had made him wonder about dwarven ways.

Gimli’s vision blurred as he moved further inside. He closed the door and looked around him again, his gaze coming again to the book. Aloud, he whispered, “Much good this dwarf did you when you needed him, Legolas. Much good I ever did you.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his clenched fists against them, feeling hot tears leaking out. Choking on bitter sobs, he growled, “Maybe your father was right. You’d have been better off if you’d never met me, so useless I’ve been to you! What good have I ever done you? What good could I ever do you, a dwarf for an elf! If Thranduil had gone with you that night instead of me, you’d have been safe! Naught but suffering have I brought you, suffering and death!”

With a cry of anguish and guilt, the dwarf seized the book from the table and hurled it into the fire. “Elvellon you called me, but I must be the most worthless elf-friend to ever exist,” Gimli sobbed, tearing at his beard. “Oh Legolas. Would that you had never met me, or any of my kind. Worthless, this dwarf is! We are all worthless!”

***

In the same room at the same time…

*Gimli! GIMLI!!* the pain of the beating Legolas had taken while trapped in Disaran’s body was nothing compared to the agony he felt now. Had he possessed a physical body, his voice would have long ago failed him as he cried out from the very core of his being, trying to reach the grieving friend who was not two feet away. But even though he flung himself at Gimli, trying to end the dwarf’s remorseful tirade against himself and his own people, it was to no avail. Gimli could not hear him. *Oh Gimli, no! It’s not true! You were worth more to me than anything in my life, as dear to me as any elven friend! Ai, why did I not tell you? Did you not see? I would rather have your company than half the elves in Middle Earth. Gimli, Gimli, please stop this! You cannot blame yourself thus! I cannot bear it! GIMLI!*

After a time, Gimli’s hysterics wore down, and the dwarf knelt on the floor of his friend’s room, his head resting against the edge of Legolas’s bed as he cried. Legolas found he still did not possess the ability to cry, but that only led to the pain in his soul growing, more intense than any physical abuse could have inflicted. The dwarf stirred at last from his sobs, murmuring, “Oh Legolas. The only hope left was that stone, and I had to destroy it to save Aragorn from himself. Now I’ve truly lost you. What do I do now?”

*You are not alone,* whispered Legolas, trying again in vain to touch the dwarf’s shoulder, only to have his hand pass through Gimli once again. *I am here. I shall never leave you. Gimli, I’m here!*

But the dwarf could not hear him.

It seemed an eternity before Gimli tearfully roused himself enough to leave Legolas’s chamber and return to his own. The elf was breathing a mental sigh of relief that the dwarf’s anguish was at last returning to a bearable level when Gimli encountered Eomer in the hall. “My lord.”

Legolas was stunned; Eomer looked dreadful. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked as if he had not slept in days. The King of the Mark sighed, leaning suddenly against the wall. “Gimli.”

Gimli sighed as well. “Now what’s happening?”

“The same thing that has been happening since…” Eomer shook his head. “You know. I have just seen the Queen, and she is fearful. Aragorn…he is in a terrible state. He will see no one, save Arwen, and she cannot bring him back to himself. Faramir is doing all he can to keep the councilors and ministers at bay, but they are all clamoring to see the King, the people want the Hunter brought to something resembling justice,” Gimli gave a bark of bitter laughter at that, “and arrangements must be made for Legolas’s…” Eomer swallowed hard and finished in a choked voice, “for Legolas’s funeral.”

Gimli winced, and the two avoided each other’s eyes for a minute. “Should I go to him?” asked the dwarf quietly.

Eomer looked away again. “I do not think it would help.”

“You mean he would be even less likely to see me.”

“Frodo told me what happened, Gimli. You did the right thing. Even if Aragorn could have got the accursed thing to work in such a fashion, his life force would not have been strong enough to restore an elf from death. He would have died for nothing, and Gondor might well have destroyed itself in the aftermath. Nay, Gimli, the Reunified Lands need Aragorn. We both know it, and if Legolas were here, he would say so too.”

“If the elf were here, he’d say many things,” muttered Gimli, his voice growing tight again. “Perhaps someone should remind Aragorn of that. Legolas would berate him within an inch of his life for getting himself into such a state.”

Eomer made a sound that was both a laugh and a sob. “Don’t we know it.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps you should go to Faramir, though. That poor man was as close to Legolas as any of us, and he is now burdened with running the Kingdom and keeping those bloodsucking ministers away from Aragorn. He could use your support.”

“I would be glad to offer it, beginning with giving those ministers a good swing of my axe.”

“Do not tempt him.” They both laughed, and Eomer wiped his eyes. “I shall see you later, Gimli.”

“Whither do you go?”

“To find my sister. She knows Faramir is occupied, but she still is taking…everything…very hard.”

“Are not we all. Until later, Eomer.”

***

Legolas followed Gimli to one of the meeting rooms, where Faramir was speaking to several of Aragorn’s ministers. “My Lord Faramir, I think we cannot continue thus until we have spoken with the King,” one of them was insisting, stubbornly jutting out his chest.

Faramir looked as if he wanted to throw his hands in the air. “My Lord Renim, as you know, the Halls of the Kings are in mourning. There are no regular meetings, and the King himself has suffered a grievous loss.”

“He was only an elf, surely it has been long enou--” Renim began.

Gimli slammed the handle of his axe to the floor. “It has been less than THREE DAYS, ministers of Gondor! Speak not of what you do not comprehend. Many here including King Elessar owed their lives to Legolas!” Glaring at each of the gaggle in turn, he growled, “I would caution you gentlemen to show a little more respect for the memory of a friend of your King, for if Lord Elessar happened to hear any of you speaking with such dismissal, he’d order all your swollen heads lopped off!”

*That’s the spirit, Gimli,* said Legolas, grinning in spite of himself. *That is more like the Gimli I remember.*

Apparently, Faramir thought so too, because the beleaguered Steward smiled faintly. Taking the more diplomatic approach now that he had the ministers’ undivided attention, he said, “Allow the King and Queen a few days to their grief, my lords. Until the regular schedule is restored, I am quite capable of managing what matters may arise for a few days.”

As if suddenly remembering that mourning was the usual result of a death, most of the ministers looked properly abashed, though one of them continued to wring his hands and said, “But if something pressing should come up, my lord--”

“--IF something pressing should come up, be assured that I shall send for the King with all speed, my lords,” said Faramir firmly.

That pacified them on the subject of Aragorn, to the watching elf’s relief, and Faramir had the interest of the group once again. “My lord, has it been decided what is to be done with Disaran?” asked one of the councilors.

Faramir shook his head, and Legolas noticed with alarm how weary the Steward looked. *I have yet to see a single friend who looks to have had enough sleep in the past three days. Ai, Gimli, it was not your fault. You warned me to take care, and I did not heed you; now everyone suffers the consequences.*

“There is still a question of who shall have jurisdiction over him,” Faramir was saying. “He is accused of the murder of as many as a hundred elves in three different realms over the past age.”

“The Eldar would be too soft on him,” muttered someone.

Gimli harrumphed. “I quite agree, but they’re the ones whose children he kills. Like as not, it will probably be for them to decide.”

Another man looked hesitantly at Faramir, “Turning him over to the Eldar may be easier said than done, Lord Steward. The people are calling for justice in the death of a member of the Fellowship, and they may desire to witness justice done. Getting Disaran out of the city to an elven realm could be difficult.”

Faramir frowned, absently rubbing his reddened eyes. “None of the elven lords present in the city now have requested the extradition of Disaran to their own realm thus far, of course all of them are currently mourning as well.”

“From what Le…” Gimli swallowed hard. “From what Legolas once told me, Disaran murdered elves in Rivendell, Lothlórien, and Mirkwood. They have representatives here in Minas Tirith now, two of whom have…” he gave a jerk of his head to avoid having to speak the words. “Perhaps they’ll let Disaran be executed in Gondor with representatives from both elves and men present.”

“I wonder,” said Faramir awkwardly. “Shall there be a trial?”

Initially incredulous glances slowly became thoughtful, as the men digested this. “If he’s been a fugitive all this time, then he’s never been tried,” murmured one.

“Is that truly necessary, we know he’s the one!” protested another.

“That’s not a good enough reason to dispense justice thus.”

Minister Renim seized on that. “That is a matter for the King to decide. We must consult--”

“We shall consult King Elessar, Minister Renim, either when we have something useful to report or when a matter arises that I have not the knowledge or authority to deal with myself. NOT before!” The Steward’s tone brooked no argument. He turned back to Gimli and the other ministers. “All the same, that detail, minor though it may seem, should be attended to.”

“Renim is partly right, my lord,” said someone, “the King is the only one with the authority to ultimately decide what happens to Disaran.”

“True,” Faramir nodded. “However, you ministers and I have the authority to investigate the charges against any accused criminal before bringing our findings to the King.”

“What shall we investigate then?”

Gimli cleared his throat. “Among my people, when one is accused of a crime, he is brought before a group of examiners to answer questions relating to the charges. You could bring Disaran here, and the elves who have knowledge of his attacks on their realms, and take their statements.”

“That is essentially the same as our law,” said Faramir. “When shall we examine Disaran?”

“The sooner the better,” muttered Minister Renim. Several of the other ministers glared at him, but nodded to Faramir.

The Steward in turn sighed. “If you wish, gentlemen, the day is young, and we can question him today. Shall I send for him?”

“Keep him well-guarded,” cautioned someone.

“Of course.”

“My Lord Faramir, with your permission,” said Gimli, raising his chin. “I would like to be present for this.”

Faramir contemplated Gimli, obviously wondering at the dwarf’s interest. Legolas, still watching unseen, was also curious. Apparently, Faramir could find no good reason to deny the dwarf, and after looking at the ministers, who shrugged, agreed. “As you will, Lord Gimli. My lords, I suggest you take this time to consider what questions you would like Disaran to answer.”

“But what if we fail to ask a question the King would want answered?” put in Renim.

“There’s nothing to say the King can’t question him again, man, if he’s not satisfied with what we learn,” snapped Gimli. “Cease harping on this. Lord Faramir is perfectly capable of running things in the King’s absence; that is his office as Steward, after all!” There were murmurs of agreement from the other ministers.

Faramir ordered the guards to have the man Disaran brought to the council chamber. Legolas greatly desired to remain with Gimli, despite the fact that the dwarf could neither see nor hear him, but knew he had best not put himself in a position where Disaran could see him again. *I am here, Gimli,* he called out one last time. *As long as I am forced to remain in Middle Earth, I shall never be far from you.* With that, he fled, desiring to be far away by the time Disaran arrived.

***

Faramir had his misgivings about allowing Gimli to remain present while Disaran was questioned. If the villain’s previous mannerisms were any indication, he cared nothing for the lives he had stolen, and would doubtlessly voice that disrespect in the presence of anyone. And Gimli had already visited his wrath upon the man, not that Faramir cared much for Disaran’s comfort, but it was not for Gimli alone to exact revenge. *If only because I see no reason why Gimli should be the only one allowed to make that beast bleed!* the thought slipped out before he could stop it.

Faramir had tried, truly he had, to keep some level of reason and rationality over the past few days. Valar knew, he needed to keep his head, since--*Blessed Elbereth, what are we going to do?!*--Aragorn seemed to have completely lost his.

He and Gandalf had led the grief-stricken King back to his quarters and seen to his shredded hands, which had, fortunately, looked worse than they truly were. But then Aragorn had retreated again into listlessness, and spoke hardly a word. Arwen seemed to be the only one who could even get him to meet her eyes. So on the advice of Gandalf she had prepared a powerful draught and dosed Aragorn unconscious, a fact which Faramir had no intention of revealing to any of the ministers. That had been around midnight, it was now almost noon, and Aragorn would probably sleep for at least another eight hours.

*We cannot put off the ministers and the people forever. Somehow we must bring him out of this.*

Faramir understood the pain Aragorn was feeling all too well. For himself, the Steward was managing to push it down during the day, but night brought the torment of ill dreams fraught with memory, and desperately-stifled tears. He was not certain how much longer he could endure this way. *Oh Legolas. Why did this have to happen? I wonder, did you ever realize what you meant to us? To Aragorn?*

He was snapped out of his black thoughts by the arrival of the Black Hunter, well-chained, before the King’s ministers. Faramir nodded to a scribe to come forward and note down every word of the proceedings, then turned to Disaran. The mocking smirk on the man’s face made his fists clench almost at once, with a near-irresistible urge to beat the bastard senseless with his bare hands.

Disaran did not give the Steward the chance to start. “Well, the tribunal begins, it seems! Shall I spare you gentlemen the trouble?”

Confirming Faramir’s fears, Gimli responded, “That would make things most useful, villain!”

Disaran bowed mockingly even as Faramir hissed at Gimli to hold his tongue. “Your wish is my command, Master Dwarf.” The ministers leaned forward in amazed disgust. “I believe I am charged with the murder of Legolas, son of Thranduil? Well, it’s quite true; I killed him. Of course, you have a witness to it right with you, Lord Steward, for the dwarf saw me claim the elfling’s immortality.”

“What of the other charges?” put in a minister, as Faramir laid a quick hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “The elves claim you have murdered dozens of their people.”

“Dozens?” exclaimed Disaran, the mirth in his voice making Faramir’s stomach turn. “Hundreds, good sir, hundreds! Do you desire them in any particular order? I remember every one!” He smirked sickly at Gimli, then took on a reminiscent tone, as though telling a story around a campfire to a group of friends. “The last time I went abroad in Middle Earth, I came across a wandering company of elves on their way from Mirkwood to the Grey Havens. They’re always easy prey. Did you know that elven maids are in the habit of washing their clothing and linens in rivers and streams at sunset? Quite a charming little scene to watch, especially when one maiden straggles away from the rest!” He leered, and Faramir felt a wave of nausea while noticing many of the ministers also looking about to be sick. “I fear I couldn’t tell you many names, but I took seven from that band before they fled to Rivendell. Four of them especially lovely maidens. Normally I don’t have time to gather trophies, but one had such a fine crop of golden hair that I could not resist cutting a lock to keep for myself--”

A great dwarven roar of rage drowned out the next words, followed by the crash of a chair being knocked over as its occupant sprang to his feet. As several ministers ran to join the incensed Gimli to vent their fury upon the prisoner, Faramir dove to stop them, thinking, *I KNEW this was a bad idea!*

***

At the same time…

Legolas had finally decided to find Aragorn and see if he might have better luck with him. He had already gone to look in the throne room and several of the studies, and was headed for the King and Queen’s chambers when he felt the invisible net of Disaran’s will seize him once again. *Ai! Valar! No!*

It seemed that Disaran’s hold on him spanned greater distances than he had thought. In spite of all his struggles, Legolas was dragged through walls and rooms and even people, even as he searched desperately for something to cling to, to no avail. He burst through the wall back into the council chamber to find Disaran mockingly telling the ministers, Faramir, and--*A Elbereth!*--Gimli about his exploits against other elves.

*Oh good, you made it,* he heard Disaran’s voice say in his head even as Disaran’s mouth continued to speak aloud. *I think your friends are about to tear me limb from limb, and I thought you would want to be here for that. Especially since you’re the one who gets to feel it all.*

*Stop this!* Legolas shouted at him. *You may be able to force me to feel your pain now, but if my spirit is taken, you shall be left to face the result. And I doubt if your spirit will survive your body’s execution no matter who is inside it at the time!*

Disaran laughed, both aloud and mentally, and continued his provocative words to the council. *Indeed? I begin to wonder what would happen if you were in my body when they executed it. I heard your cries when they thrashed me, and still your spirit suffers the pain. Perhaps you shall simply die--again. Only this time in my place! Ah, well, maybe now we’ll find out!*

*NO!* As Gimli roared in fury at something Disaran had said to them, Legolas felt his soul wrenched back into Disaran’s body as the man’s spirit slipped out, to stand and laugh at the hapless elf even as a crowd of furious men descended on him over Faramir’s shouts for order. And at the forefront of the group was Gimli. *Oh no…Gimli! GIMLI!! NO!!!*

When the dwarf reached him, Legolas could not have made Disaran’s body speak if Disaran’s spirit had allowed him to. For Gimli’s large, strong hands closed around Disaran’s throat, choking the breath from him, squeezing tighter and tighter. As for Legolas, he knew this was not his body, but as breath was cut off and the terrible hold tightened, it might as well have been, for he felt just as keenly the desperate need for air, and the pain. But most of all, the sight of the one inflicting this upon him. It was agony. *Breathe…I cannot…Gimli, no…can’t breathe…hurts…help me…please…* Legolas felt more than ever that it was his own body suffering this torment, as stars appeared in his vision and blood rushed in his face. *Ai! Gimli, please stop! Can’t breathe!* As the world began to spin, the horrible truth dawned upon Legolas. This was what Disaran had meant! If Legolas’s spirit was in Disaran’s body, it was Legolas who would die! And by Gimli’s hands…if the dwarf found out, it would destroy him. *No! Gimli! GIMLI!! Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe…*

“I’ll kill you, villain! There’s no death hard enough for one such as you! Die now, here, fighting as your innocent victims did!” Gimli’s face was contorted with hate in the trapped elf’s dimming vision, and it tortured Legolas to think this was the last sight of Gimli he would ever see. “Die!”

*****
To Be Continued…
*****

Am I evil, or what? Many of us have pondered the question of why we love torturing our favorite characters so much. My theory: we all need therapy. Especially me.

Don’t forget to review!

DEDICATION: This update is dedicated to Ithilien and Jay of Lasgalen for their birthdays (gee, I guess I could’ve picked a less depressing present!)