KUDOS to Ithilien and Mari: You’ve stumbled onto a detail of major importance, though I shall not specify which. Thundera Tiger is right, we do have a fine batch of sleuths among the readers! Several other readers have flirted with it, but you’ve hit one essential factor on the head!

More KUDOS to Mercredi, who is the first person to catch the underlying theme in my chapter titles! Can anyone else? Also thanks to Mercredi for reviewing all five chapters in one sitting! That’s always a treat for any author!

And I’ll give you all a foreshadow for this chapter: I also connect the emotional themes of each chapter with the character who feels them most. SO…that said…can anyone guess whose chapter this is? (Uh-oh)

REMEMBER: purists and canon police alike, do not forget that grief can cause a person to act in ways they normally would not, so don’t kill me if you see certain heroes seemingly going way out of character. (That goes especially for Thranduil fans in this chapter.)

REVISION NOTE: Two flashbacks in this chapter, and for anyone who’s curious, Legolas is thirty-two (the rough elven equivalent of an eleven-year-old) in these flashbacks.

Chapter Six: Anger

The Mountains of Mirkwood, the Year 1990 of the Third Age…

Disaran dropped the body of his prey upon the grass and dashed away, hearing the approach of a party of unsuspecting elves, unaware of the carnage he was about to wreak in their realm. He ceased his flight in a shallow cave in a hillside lest they hear his passage and peered down at them.

It was indeed a group of elf maidens doing nothing more than foraging for food in the company of a few warriors. Of course, completely unaware of what they were about to stumble across. The maiden in the lead of the group drew aside the undergrowth in search of berries and froze. Disaran grinned, wishing he were close enough to hear her words. He still did not understand elvish but most often he could guess what the living elves said when they discovered the mark of his passage. At the maiden’s alarm, the warriors and other girls crowded around the motionless form of the elf child that Disaran had taken, anxious to learn what had befallen him.

They found no wound on the boy, and confusion rippled through them. By now, Disaran had made his presence known in all the elven realms from the Misty Mountains eastward, and it did not take the warriors long to think of him. Bows were notched in a hurry, and the gatherers banded together, terror vivid in their beautiful features. One of the maidens tearfully took up the body of the child, and their voices raised in shouts of terror as they fled back to the nearby village from whence they had come.

Disaran grinned to himself. He was gaining quite a reputation in Middle Earth, it would seem. Undoubtedly, messengers would be racing back to the elven king’s halls by nightfall, announcing this, his first visit to the Realm of Thranduil.

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

It enraged Faramir to see Disaran continuing to laugh right up to the point where Gimli’s hands latched around his neck. Several other councilors charged the murderer along with the dwarf, intent on making him suffer than and there for boasting so of his defilement of innocent elves. However distant the Eldar might seem to men now, they were still a revered race, and for anyone to speak so carelessly of murdering them…it deserved retaliation.

So a part of Faramir actually hesitated as Disaran’s lips turned blue while his face turned red, and his eyes began to roll back from lack of air. Had Legolas been unable to breathe as Disaran’s stone drained the life from him? Perhaps this was a fitting end--*no. It is not for us.* And so Faramir waded through the crowd of shouting ministers, seized the dwarf, and with the aid of a few others who had managed to keep their wits, dragged Gimli’s hands off Disaran’s neck. “Gimli! Be off! We’ve not the right to execute him! All of you, back! Gimli! Cease this!” But as the man fell free, Faramir thought he heard a laugh come from the raspy throat, and with a growl of rage, Faramir pushed Gimli aside, whirled back on Disaran, and slammed the man to the ground with a single blow of his fist.

How fine it felt, the connection of his knuckles to left side of the Black Hunter’s jaw, and Faramir delivered several more sound punches to the murderer’s face until Disaran was senseless upon the ground. Breathing hard, with exertion of restraining Gimli, and with fury, Faramir stood up, gesturing sharply to the guards. “Take him back to his cell,” he spat.

***

In the same place at the same time…

Faramir or one of the others must have pulled Gimli back. For a long time, the spirit of Legolas was just as prostrate as his body would have been, had he himself received such a near-throttling, but even after his soul fell out of Disaran’s body when it lost consciousness, he still could not move. Whether this was the cause of the near-death-after-death experience of being choked so, or Disaran’s will, (since the man’s spirit stood nearby still laughing at the elf) Legolas did not know.

It was probably a combination of the two. There was no unconscious bliss for Legolas to retreat into, and escape from the beaten body offered him no relief from pain. He still felt it. If anything, the agony in his soul of watching the dwarf’s face as Gimli tried to choke him to death was even greater than what he had felt physically. He wanted to weep, but in this form, his spirit-body did not have the ability. How strange that such a motive would exist for being physical, because it was a powerful desire. For this body to be real enough, substantial enough, to feel the pain in the flesh, rather than the soul, and to lie where he was and cry and cry and cry…

*Oh, poor little elf!* Disaran’s mocking voice intruded on the elf’s thoughts.

Legolas closed his eyes. *If your only purpose in holding me here is to witness the misery you have caused, then at least do me the courtesy of amusing yourself silently.*

The man laughed. How he soiled the action of laughter, how he defiled the innocent expression of pleasure with his foul smiles and cruel laughter. Legolas did not believe he himself could ever feel pleasure or laugh again. Even if he did somehow survive. *What do I say? There can be no surviving. I already died once.*

*That you did, my dear Legolas.*

*I’m not your ‘dear’ anything!*

*But you are! You are my chattel, my source of power, receptacle of my body’s pain, and in the end, you shall be my means of escape.*

*You shall be made to pay in time. One day you shall know suffering such as that which you have caused and reveled in.*

*How well you know me, Master Elf, oh high-and-mighty Eldar! I do revel in this! It is quite satisfying to see you perfect people humbled! And how many I have humbled! You at least fought! Some have screamed in terror, some have fallen and wept, some have even begged for their lives! The ones I get alone, far from any hope of aid, they are the ones who beg! I suppose that means you elves are only great and wise in numbers, for you’re downright cowards alone--*

*Have done, you bastard!* Legolas cried furiously.

*Did you catch the last bit of that conversation? I sometimes take trophies from the ones I get alone! The best is when I get one who straggled from a group. Then one of their friends inevitably comes looking for them, and well, you know the rest!*

*STOP IT!* the trapped elf began to feel Gimli’s desire to go for the cruel man’s throat, and he surged against the seemingly-limitless strength of Disaran’s will.

Disaran went on, laughing at the torment he was inflicting on the elf. *You’re from Mirkwood, aren’t you? I had some good pickings there. You must have been alive when I stopped in; perhaps I found one of your friends? I remember…there is one family line in your kingdom with remarkable red hair! I followed one of their daughters for three days until I could catch her alone, just so I’d have time to cut myself a lock of that!*

*STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!!!*

Disaran went on gleefully, *In a way, I rather regret having settled for you. I should truly have loved the challenge of getting myself a lock of your Evenstar’s hair, so black and fine--*

With an inarticulate scream of rage, Legolas pushed with all his will and fury against Disaran’s will, driven beyond reason by the man’s defilement of his people, and the pleasure he had taken in that violation. All at once, the invisible grip gave, and Legolas’s spirit flew at Disaran’s, surprising the elf as much as the man. The two spirit-bodies, insubstantial to the living world but solid to each other, collided and tumbled down. Legolas went straight for the man’s face, desiring in his mad rage to gouge Disaran’s eyes out, not caring that they were not even his real eyes.

Before either one had recovered from the surprise of the situation, Disaran suddenly vanished, and Legolas found himself alone. His spirit trembled with anger and pain, and he slowly calmed himself. Where had the villain gone? *His body must be conscious again. So he shall either attempt to drag me back to him or leave me until he is ready to subject me to another of his beatings.* Legolas sighed mentally. If only Faramir and the guards were not quite so loose in their treatment of prisoners. *Not that I myself can claim that I do not believe Disaran deserves it, but none could ever imagine that someone else might be forced to endure his pain in his place.*

Ai, how he ached. It did not seem possible that a spirit could hurt this much, but he did. And he was tired. *At least when I was truly dead I could have found peace away from all this!* Bitterness suddenly surged through him. Had the Valar known this would happen? Had Mandos? Had he been sent back deliberately? To what end? He could not aid those who suffered, and the very one who had sucked his immortality away now had Legolas at his mercy, to torment as long as he willed. *Why?!* he railed at the Valar, at whoever was responsible for this situation. *What have I done to face this? Could I not simply live or simply die? Why this?*

In yet another bitter irony, Legolas felt Disaran’s will latch onto him, and found himself once again unable to fight back. The effort of ripping himself free that one time had exhausted him just as if he were real. Weary and frustrated, he gave over the battle, and let himself be dragged back toward the prison, where his tormentor waited. *Either way, I am lost. If there was no will behind it, then I’ve no way to ever be freed. If there is a higher cause, then the Valar saved me. For this.*

***

King Thranduil was returning to his chambers from the gardens when he encountered Faramir--along with the absolute last person in Middle Earth that Thranduil wanted to see. “Lord Faramir,” he said with a curt nod, deliberately ignoring the dwarf at the man’s side.

Faramir bowed, then narrowed his eyes at the son of Glóin (who had not bowed.) Turning back to the elven king, he said in a forced tone, “My Lord Thranduil. I had intended to send a messenger to you.” He hesitated. When Thranduil did not reply, but did not walk away either, he went on. “I am overseeing the examination of the man Disaran, in preparation for a possible trial of sorts. If you should wish to request the extradition of Disaran to your realm--”

“--I most certainly do!” snapped Thranduil.

Pausing uncertainly, Faramir cleared his throat and nodded. “I see. We recognize that Disaran is accused of murder within your borders as well, but please understand my lord, there are at least two other elven realms that also may have legitimate claims, and Disaran murdered a friend of Gondor in our city streets--”

“--And that claim is surely overridden by the fact that this ‘friend of Gondor’ is my son!” retorted Thranduil. “If any can claim jurisdiction in Legolas’s death, it is I!”

Faramir looked rather weary, but to Thranduil’s irritation, he did not back down. “I shall make certain that your claim in that case is noted,” he said stiffly. “In the mean time, I have the King’s authority to make Disaran available at any time you wish to question him--though I warn you he has been less than cooperative, and said some very…er…provocative things so far.”

Thranduil mulled this over, folding his arms. He had no desire to admit that anything these people had done would be of use to him. They had already deprived him of his youngest son. But then again, he wanted Disaran back in Eryn Lasgalen, to be tried for the murder of Thranduil’s child and no less than seventeen Silvan elves during the two times he had entered Thranduil’s realm. Faramir had obviously assumed the elves would not care where Disaran was executed, as long as they were able to have some say in it. But that would never be enough for Thranduil. He did not want to see the man executed. He wanted to do it himself. *My son…he killed my son…I want his blood on my blade!*

Curtly, he said to Faramir, “I will question Disaran myself.”

Faramir nodded, abandoning all pretense of cordiality and settling for bare civility. Thranduil found that it rather made him think better of Faramir. Slightly. “We shall arrange for Disaran to be brought back to the Halls--”

“That is unnecessary. I will see him in his cell.”

“My lord? Can we not do--”

“I thank you, Lord Steward,” snarled Thranduil, bitterness bursting through his tone. Under normal circumstances, Thranduil would be far more cautious of when and how would be the best way to display hostility, but now he cared not. *My son is dead. Slain by a mortal seeking his immortality, murdered on the streets of your mortal city! You mortals allowed this to happen!* Aloud, he said coldly, “You and your King,” he made the title a slight slur, “have done quite enough already. For me and my son.”

Faramir actually blanched at that, then turned and walked hastily away. So, he was as weak as the rest of them after all! Thranduil cared not. He cared for nothing anymore, in this forsaken place. *My son, my son!* The silence was vanishing from his heart, but that was no blessing. Now the noise was coming, the noise Thranduil had been dreading. The growing scream of grief and pain, deep within his soul, led him to abandon any attempts at civility to these lesser creatures that had drawn in Thranduil’s child and left him to die alone in the streets of Minas Tirith.

Thranduil started to walk on to his chambers, but found the dwarf blocking his path. Black eyes glittering angrily, the stunted creature hissed, “You’ve no right to speak to him in such a fashion, Thranduil! He is the Steward of Gondor!”

Most days, Thranduil would have simply ignored the dwarf, or bade him watch his own tongue. But Thranduil had been forced to look at this creature for nearly three days, since every time he went to the House of Kings where his son lay, that infuriating dwarf was always there! He would not cease plaguing Legolas even in death! Nay, both Thranduil and Gimli had known since the night of Legolas’s death that words would be passing between them soon, as they had not when Legolas was alive. Such words could not be said while Legolas lived, but now…

“I care not if he is the King of all mortals in Middle Earth, stunted one! He, his King, and you are naught but prime examples of the incompetent races whose failings have led to the death of my son.”

“I always thought your mind was slightly off-balance, elven king! If I recall correctly, it was one madman who killed your son, and you were there to see it! What ailed you, Thranduil of Mirkwood, that you could simply stand there and watch while Disaran slew Legolas? Did your hate for mortals so blind you that you would not dirty your hands touching one even to save the life of your son?”

Their voices were rising, rousing the attention of the guards, and only the rapidly-closing circle of alarmed soldiers that prevented the verbal battle from giving way to a physical one. All the same, Thranduil nearly cut the dwarf’s head off at those words, but two of the guards surged forward, so he stayed his hand. Instead, in a cold voice, the elven king hissed, “I most certainly made a mistake, Master Dwarf, leaving my son alone in your company. Had I been thinking clearly in my concern for the Evenstar, I would have realized you could not be trusted with such a task of defending Legolas, even though he was fool enough to name you elvellon, and to trust you and that spawn of Isildur!”

“Do not bring Aragorn into this!” bellowed the dwarf, drawing himself up absurdly. “He cared more for Legolas than you ever have!”

“Yea, he cared for having an elven colony on his lands, tending his forests, bringing prestige and power to his name,” barked Thranduil. “For that he most certainly cared. Cared enough to let Legolas leave the Halls of the Kings even after we came to warn him! I warned Legolas he was a fool to trust you mortals, but the poor misguided child would not hear me, and died for his trust of you!”

“A plague on you, Thranduil of Mirkwood, for your blind hate!” roared Gimli. “We flawed mortals have wept for Legolas, while you seek only to bring more pain to us all! You revel in misery as much as the man who killed your son!”

“And a plague on you and all your race, Gimli son of Glóin!” Thranduil shouted back, abandoning control completely. “Your race’s cowardice and stupidity have claimed my wife and now my son! I would say it is you who revel in misery, or at least look first to your own safety and comfort before giving thought to your guests or those who are fools enough to call you friends! Curse you!” *I could have restored him. With the Stone I could have given him my life. But you’ve shattered it for the sake of that accursed King, and now Legolas is truly lost! Thanks to you and Aragorn!*

“You did not deserve Legolas, you hateful creature!” the dwarf cried. “All you have ever sought to do is isolate yourself and your pleasures from the suffering of the world, while Legolas joined the Fellowship of the Ring to end it. How it must guile you, elven king, to have a son more distinguished than you. How hard Legolas worked to restore Ithilien, but where was his father to celebrate his accomplishments?”

“And where was the one he called ‘elvellon,’” hissed Thranduil, “when he lay stricken in the streets of Minas Tirith? You abandoned him to die in an alley even as he called to you!”

Gimli jerked backward, stunned. “You lie.”

Laughing bitterly, Thranduil shook his head. “Nay, ‘elf-friend,’” he made a cold mockery of the phrase. “I speak the truth. He called you, cried to you, even as he breathed his last. I was there, your beloved Aragorn was there, but it was YOU to whom he called. Your name! Your name, the last word he ever spoke!” His voice was taking on a frenzied pitch, out of control in grief and rage, and also confusion, as he cried out the words that had eaten at his mind since that bitter night.

“Where were you, Gimli son of Glóin?! He declared you elvellon, but I see nothing that made you worthy of such a title, let alone a reason why he would want you of all people at his side at the moment of his death! You think yourself worthy to be his friend? Why were you not there when my son died calling your name?!”

***

From the prison of Disaran’s body, Legolas gazed out of the cell. Valar only knew where Disaran had vanished to, but at least the elf was granted some respite from his taunting. He only wished he could use Disaran’s body to call out to someone.

Or at least go to sleep. It did not seem fair that a spirit should feel this tired.

He felt rather than saw or heard Disaran’s spirit returning, and mentally groaned. Undoubtedly the creature would have plenty of miserable tidings to impart.

He was right. *I’ve just seen your father, son of Thranduil!* said the spirit as he strolled through the wall. *He’s on his way here to question us. Hope you don’t mind if I chat with him from a few feet away from my body.* Legolas did not answer, and tried to keep his mind blank. *He and your dwarf friend just had quite the little spat in the Halls of the Kings. Said some dreadful things to one another about you.*

In spite of himself, Legolas looked at Disaran. *My father and Gimli? Oh no, no…* Such a confrontation could not have gone well.

Disaran laughed, not needing the ability to hear Legolas’s thoughts to know what the elf dreaded. *I didn’t know your father harbored such feelings towards mortals, my, especially the dwarves! Such ugly things, he and your friend said to each other. It makes it all the more amazing that you and…Gimli, was it?…could become friends. So you died calling to the dwarf, rather than your father, did you? He seems to resent that, or at least that’s the impression I got when he told the dwarf.*

*He…* Legolas felt horror surge through him. *He told Gimli?*

*That he did. Of course, the dwarf had just told him that your friends cared more for you than your father, which seemed to ruffle that elf’s feathers a bit, but he got his own back. Rendered the dwarf speechless. He still hadn’t moved when I came back here.*

Legolas had found that with a great deal of effort, he could make Disaran’s eyes close, and did so then. *Oh Father. Even now, you do not understand?*

The outer door opened. Disaran’s spirit grinned at the elf trapped inside his body. *Ah, here he is now.*

*****

Mirkwood, the Year 1990 of the Third Age, two months after the Black Hunter’s arrival…

“Father? What’s happened--” Legolas, still young enough to be foolishly curious, had somehow given Golwen the slip and come outside the outer palace to learn what all the excitement was about.

On most occasions, the elven king would simply have sent Legolas back inside with a sharp word and given him a scolding later. On this occasion, however, he seized the elven guard nearest him, flinging the warrioress in front of him, and crossed the green to where Legolas stood in several swift strides. Legolas had no time to ask more questions as he was bodily seized by his father and carried at a near-run back into the palace.

Thranduil did not set his son down until they were safely in the boy’s chamber, and Legolas stared at him in astonishment as he said harshly, “NEVER do that again, Legolas. Do you understand me? NEVER go outside when you and the other children have been ordered to stay within. Do you understand?”

Wide eyed, Legolas gaped at Thranduil for a moment before nodding shakily. His father rarely raised his voice or behaved in a heavy-handed fashion toward him. After catching his breath and calming the thudding of his heart, Thranduil sighed, reaching out to touch the child’s golden hair. “Forgive me, my son. I did not mean to frighten you. But you must understand that when the children are ordered to remain within doors, it is for a very good reason. There is great danger without of late. Some of our people have been slain by…by an unknown force. You MUST stay inside, Legolas.”

Legolas nodded contritely. “Yes, Father. I am sorry. I’ll not do it again, I promise.”

Fighting the tremors that threatened to take him at the hideous thoughts that came unbidden to his mind, Thranduil caught his son in his arms. “Thank you, little one. You must keep that promise; it shall set my mind at ease. I cannot bear the thought of anything befalling you.” Legolas nodded, his great gray eyes serious in his little face, and Thranduil squeezed him one last time.

The elven king returned to the outer courtyard, to face once again the sight he had been so desperate to keep from his son’s eyes. Two bodies had been recovered this time: another child, and his mother with him. The boy, younger than Legolas, had strayed from his mother’s side when they had been returning from an outer village to take refuge in the palace, and…Thranduil swallowed convulsively as the healers examined the little body.

“It is just as the others, my lord,” said one of them. “The work of the Black Hunter, without any doubt.”

He forced his ears not to hear the muffled sobs that rippled around the crowd of elves. Turning to the palace’s head healer, he asked quietly, “And what of his mother?”

Eirien, the healer (who was also his eldest son’s wife), rose with tears in her eyes from examining the elven woman. “This was not the work of the Black Hunter, my lord.”

There was a murmur of incredulity from the onlookers, and Eirien explained quietly, “It is clear…she found him slain and…was taken by her own grief at that very instant. She died at her own will.”

Sobs rang out anew and many elves collapsed in each other’s arms. This made eight in the time since the first victim had been discovered, with STILL no sign of the foul murderer! How could a mortal elude the best trackers in Mirkwood (and even, in one victim’s case, turn the hunters into the hunted!) And now one elf had died even without the Hunter’s hand, he reminded himself, bitterness and helplessness surging within him. It was all such a waste.

Then again, he mused miserably, gazing at the small, limp hand being covered by an elven funeral shroud, he supposed he could not blame her.

*****

Minas Tirith, the year 3020 of the Third Age…

It gave King Thranduil some small measure of satisfaction to notice how bedraggled Disaran was when the elven king again came into the cell block. The shattered remains of the stone of Ar-Pharazôn were still upon the table, but now it was Disaran himself that Thranduil wanted to see. He was not certain exactly what questions he wanted to ask, nor what difference it would make, but he did know that he wanted to take up any opportunity to make the mortal suffer.

“Good day to you, Lord Thranduil!”

This was going to be even harder than he had thought. What could he ask? What could he say? Staring at the dark man, his right hand extended in a mock-cheerful wave from his cell, Thranduil knew that there was no certainty in the truth of whatever Disaran might say--unless, of course, the truth was likely to torment the elven king.

*He killed my son he killed my son he killed my son my son my son* Thranduil’s mind spun, his thoughts a fevered combination of rage and horror. The elven king knew the necessity of steeling oneself against the harshness of the world, but this creature’s utter lack of feeling or remorse for the lives of the elves he had taken sickened him. *I could speak long of Legolas’s life, of his brothers, his sisters, his friends, and those to whom I must return and tell that he is dead, and you would laugh. You would mock their sorrow, revel in their grief! What sort of creature are you? You demon! YOU MONSTER!!!*

Before Thranduil knew what he was doing, his own hand shot out and seized Disaran’s wrist. With the other hand, he snatched up the nearest brazier providing light and warmth to the cellblock, and yanked it closer. Then he wrenched Disaran’s arm out between the bars and plunged his right hand directly into the burning coals.

The man’s scream of pain, and the way the face crumpled in surprised agony brought Thranduil more pleasure than he would ever be able to admit to himself. Even though a part of him whispered that this was wrong, he held the Black Hunter’s hand in the flames, listening to the hiss of burning flesh, watching Disaran’s eyes squeeze closed, and noticing with surprise that he did not pull back. The slam of a door warned the elven king that the guards had been alerted, and so with a shade of reluctance, he let go. Disaran staggered back and fell to the floor of his cell, where he lay motionless. Not unconscious though, for his eyes watched Thranduil rather dispassionately.

At last, Thranduil thought of something to say, as the guards peered into the room wondering what had happened. “May the souls of all the elves you have murdered be waiting for you, when at last you appear before the threshold of Mandos.” Deliberately ignoring the guards, he turned and walked from the room.

***

In the same room at the same time…

*Oh Father…Father…I’m sorry…Valar, never let them find out what this creature has done. It would kill them to know it was me.* Legolas watched Thranduil leave, a part of him wishing his father had stayed longer. Seeing Thranduil go made him feel lonelier than ever as he lay, unable to even move Disaran’s burned hand.

He did not blame Thranduil for this action, despite the agony he was in. It had always been his father’s nature to lash out when he was aggrieved, but what devastated Legolas was the knowledge of exactly who the elven king was lashing out against. *You don’t understand. It wasn’t their fault. It was no one’s fault but Disaran’s. Please do not blame them…Father…*

***

The next morning…

Aragorn awoke to find Arwen anxiously watching him. “Undómiel? What is the time?”

“A little past dawn.”

“Strange,” he murmured, sitting up. “I feel as though I have been asleep longer.” She came to sit beside him on the bed, and he caught the look in her eyes. “How long?”

“Just over a day.”

“Arwen!”

“Estel!” her voice cracked badly as she placed a desperate hand over his lips. “Please. This cannot go on. Faramir is doing all he can to keep the kingdom in order, but your people need you. You cannot continue this way, consumed by your grief. Legolas would never forgive you!”

It brought Aragorn up sharp, to see the naked fear in his wife’s eyes. He dropped his gaze, and she took her hand away. Taking her hands in his, he murmured, “Forgive me, Undómiel. I have not been myself.”

Tears sliding easily down her face, she smiled wanly and replied, “None of us have been. Still we grieve, but we need you. There are decisions to be made, that Faramir cannot stand in for you. Legolas…he must have a funeral, and soon. And King Thranduil wishes to extradite Disaran to Eryn Lasgalen, but Lothlórien and Imladris may also make such a claim, and all attempts to question Disaran have gone very ill. The people are clamoring for justice for Legolas, and if we do not answer them soon, they may storm the prison and take it onto themselves.”

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his eyes. “That will never do.” He rose and stared out of the window. “A funeral,” he murmured. “Has Thranduil…”

“Nay, but I suspect he will want Legolas’s body turned over to him as soon as the subject is raised,” said Arwen. “I have heard…he is reacting to Legolas’s murder by a mortal…predictably.”

Aragorn winced. He knew what she meant. “Bad?”

“Very. The guards say he and Gimli had an exchange yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh Valar, no. That could not have been pleasant.”

“Gimli has returned to the House of Kings and will speak to no one.”

With another sigh, Aragorn went to dress himself. “I suppose it is as well I had an extra long sleep. This looks to be a long day.”

“Estel.” He turned and saw Arwen’s nervous expression. “Mithrandir bade me say, you are not to show yourself unless you can promise him that you will have all your wits about you.”

In spite of himself, Aragorn laughed wearily. “I shall do my best. Forgive me, Arwen,” he returned to her side. “In my grief, I fear I forgot many things.”

“Hush. I understand all too well. In the past three days,” she shook her head, her eyes darkening with sorrow. “I have seen many people forget many things. Most of all, Legolas’s friends are forgetting what he most would have wanted.”

***

A little while later, in a council room in the Halls of the Kings…

This was going to be a VERY long meeting. Gandalf the White sat in a chair near the head of the table, gazing at the participants, and fighting the urge to groan. He and Faramir had not been able to think of any better way to go about this, and yet…it was going to be a VERY long meeting.

Next to him sat Frodo, and beside him, as always, Sam. Frodo looked dreadful; the poor hobbit, like everyone, was grieving terribly for Legolas, and being forced to watch Aragorn and other friends of the elf going to pieces was not aiding the Ringbearer’s recovery. Sam, as always, looked to Frodo’s welfare first, but the gardener’s eyes were red and puffy with recent and prolonged weeping. *Poor Sam,* thought Gandalf. *This was not the reunion he planned for Frodo.*

On the other side of the table from the two hobbits was King Eomer. The young King of the Mark had much gratitude from Gandalf for the aid he had given Faramir in the running of things when Aragorn had been overwrought. Eomer had smoothly (and discreetly) assumed command of the handling of the guard of Minas Tirith, while Faramir had looked to the matters of state, and between the two of them, they had well kept everything together in the absence of Aragorn. However, that temporary arrangement could not last much longer. Beside Eomer sat Merry and Pippin. The two hobbits’ faces were so grave and solemn that Gandalf stared at them. Those somber expressions seemed downright foreign on that ever-playful pair. It hurt the Maia’s heart to see them this way.

Beyond the hobbits sat the elves, who were the real reason this assembly had been called. Also the reason why it promised to be so long. There were Celeborn and Haldir of Lórien, composed and solemn to any other than Gandalf, who could see past the calm exteriors to the deep sorrow within, for deaths past and present. There also were Elladan and Elrohir, who represented Imladris. Gandalf had seen little of the twins since the day he had returned to Minas Tirith, for he himself had been preoccupied trying to bring Aragorn back to himself. However, the sound of two eerily similar elven voices singing laments frequently floated through the windows of the palace from the gardens, and so Gandalf suspected the twins had tried to quietly mourn their longtime friend while keeping out of everyone’s way.

Furthest from the head of the table--where the King and Steward of Gondor would sit--was King Thranduil. Now there was likely to be the cause of most of the delays today, certainly most of the strife. Gandalf had attempted to catch Legolas’s father before the meeting, but alas, Thranduil was quite skilled at avoiding people he did not wish to speak to, and thus had evaded the wizard all morning. And now, judging by the stiff way he was sitting, and the hard set of his jaw, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the elven king of Eryn Lasgalen was in a decidedly belligerent mood.

Gandalf forced himself to think charitably. *His son has been murdered. He always harbored ill feelings towards mortals, and a mortal has slain Legolas precisely because he was an elf. It happened in Gondor. Thranduil has never been especially flexible in his opinions, and now this…one can hardly blame him for being a bit irrational. Valar know he has not been the only one to lose his head in recent days.*

Speaking of people losing their heads, at that moment, a muted bell rang, and Faramir entered the room to announce Aragorn. Everyone rose, though it appeared that Thranduil intended not to until Celeborn turned and shot him the most fierce scowl that Gandalf had ever seen coming from the normally good-natured Lord of Lothlórien. “My lords,” said Faramir, and Gandalf winced inwardly at the weariness in the Steward’s voice. “I present Elessar, King of Gondor, and the Reunified Lands.”

Aragorn entered, briefly meeting the Maia’s eyes, and Gandalf nearly sighed aloud to see, at last, alertness in the King of Gondor’s gaze. All the assembled bowed, with the unsurprising exception of Thranduil. Faramir looked about to bristle as he took his place at the King’s left hand, but Aragorn stilled him with a light touch to his arm. That calm, subtle command eased Gandalf’s worries still more, and the company was about to be seated when the bell suddenly rang again.

Everyone blinked, and Aragorn and Faramir turned back to the door curiously. To the surprise of all (including, it appeared, Aragorn and Faramir), the Lady Eowyn entered, garbed formally in a dark blue gown that was nearly black and a belt of silver, her golden hair bound in a net of dark lace beneath the silver circlet upon her head. “My lords,” she declared calmly. “I present the Queen of Gondor and the Reunified Lands, Lady Arwen Undómiel.”

Arwen was clothed in black itself, her raven hair barely distinguishable from the velvet cloak she wore over her gown. Upon entering the room, she lifted the black veil of mourning from her face, giving the barest nod to the startled and hasty bows from the assembled men.

Judging by the look Faramir and Aragorn exchanged, neither man had expected this. The elves exchanged glances as well. Gandalf fought the urge to groan as Thranduil spoke up. “Lord Elessar, I hardly think this is a discussion of matters fit for the presence of women.”

This time, nearly everyone at the oval table turned to glare at the elven king (hobbits included). Eowyn took a step forward, and for the first time, the company noticed that from her silver belt hung a sword. Placing her hand lightly upon the hilt, the Lady of Ithilien said in a low, hard voice, “My Lord Thranduil, the Queen of Gondor has a right to take part in any discussion she chooses.”

Naturally, Thranduil was quite taken aback, and Aragorn traded a quick glance with several of the others. Then Eomer suddenly took a step away from his seat at Aragorn’s right side, bowing to Arwen. “My Lady?”

Arwen’s gray eyes shot him a grateful look as she moved to the proffered seat, feigning socially correct indifference to the stares of all the men at the table (including her husband.) Eowyn did not wait to be offered a seat, for there was no room close to the head of the table unless Gandalf or one of the hobbits relinquished theirs, but instead followed Eomer toward the end of the table to an empty seat that put her dangerously close to Thranduil. The elven king shot her a look that might have been intimidated. Gandalf almost smiled.

*You think you know much of mortal men, Thranduil, but I would wager you have yet to test your self-proclaimed elvish superiority against a mortal woman. Especially that one. Choose your battles well.*

Aragorn and Arwen simultaneously seated themselves, and then the rest followed. Aragorn spoke. “I have called this meeting to address the matter of jurisdiction in the case of the man Disaran, whom the elves call the Black Hunter. He was arrested for…for a crime committed within the borders of Gondor, against one of the Eldar.” It seemed that the King had decided the best way to speak of the painful matters was to take refuge in strict formality. It was a fact for which many of the company were grateful. “Lord Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen has already made a claim upon Disaran’s person, for the murder of seventeen Silvan elves, and also for the--most recent murder.”

At that news, the elves of Imladris and Lórien sat up in surprise, and all four turned to fix accusing stares at Thranduil, who for his part, simply raised his chin stubbornly. Gandalf thought he saw several people wince. He wasn’t surprised; with that expression, Thranduil had looked just like Legolas.

Clearing his throat, Aragorn went on, “Have any of the representatives from the other elven realms a claim to make?”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged glances, then Elladan rose. Celeborn narrowed his eyes once more at Thranduil, and also rose. Then, to the surprise of everyone, Faramir rose. “Lord Faramir?” asked Aragorn.

“By your leave, my lord, I stand for Ithilien.” Intakes of breath sounded up and down the table. Thranduil leapt to his feet, about to shout a protest, but Faramir snatched out a parchment and held it aloft. “Narbeleth, elven captain of the guard of Ithilien, delivered this request to me this morning by way of messenger. It bears her seal.” He displayed it to all, then opened it. “The elves of Ithilien petition also that the murderer of their lord be tried and punished on their land. So it seems there are now four claims of justice to be settled.”

The elves faltered. Closing his eyes for a moment, Elrohir spoke up. “Can there be any doubt of the outcome of a trial in any of our realms? Each of us can produce witnesses proving Disaran’s guilt. And can there be any doubt that nothing less than a penalty of death would serve justice?”

“That creature’s blood should be spilt upon the lands he terrorized,” growled Thranduil.

“You’ll have to kill him at least four times, then,” muttered Sam. The look of utter affrontry upon Thranduil’s face at being interrupted by a mere hobbit was almost comical. Turning slightly red at finding himself the center of attention, Sam nonetheless stood his ground and rose, still looking at Thranduil. “Lord King, no one can blame you for being angry at what that…fiend…did to Legolas. We loved him too. But you won’t accomplish much of anything by trying to gum things up with a demand like this.”

“How dare y--”

“Peace, my lord,” said Gandalf, rising. He motioned to Sam, who reluctantly sat down again. Turning to the company, he spoke the words he had feared would need saying, and bluntly too. But it was time to stop dancing around the bitter truth of what had to be done. None would emerge from this meeting completely happy. *Indeed, the only way for that to happen would be to give these elves their children back.* “Good people, no one here can claim to have suffered the most at Disaran’s hands. Rivendell was the first realm to suffer the Black Hunter’s terror, Ithilien the last. Two of you here have lost sons.” Thranduil stiffened, and Celeborn looked quickly down at his hands. “Everyone here has lost friends. I know our instinct is to rage, but it will avail no one. We must see reason again, and seek a compromise that will bring comfort to more than ourselves.”

Celeborn sighed and looked up again; the elven lord suddenly appeared aged. “What would you suggest, Mithrandir?”

“Disaran was taken in Gondor. He is here now. Representatives of every realm whose people he slew are here now, or can be here within a few days. The people of Gondor have seen a hero of the War murdered in their streets; they too cry for justice. Let the Black Hunter meet his fate here.”

For a few moments, the eyes of all the elves were distant, as each digested this. Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other, then at Aragorn, and were the first to nod their approval. “Imladris will relinquish her claim if the Black Hunter remains in Gondor.”

Celeborn looked at Haldir, then said, “Lórien too shall accede to this, provided that time is granted for additional…representatives of our people to arrive.”

“You have sent for them, my lord?” asked Aragorn.

“I sent Rúmil to Lórien the day after…” Celeborn inclined his head without speaking the words. “There are some among my people who will wish to be present to see the Black Hunter brought to justice. I expect they shall arrive within a few days.”

“That is reasonable,” agreed Aragorn. “Faramir? Do you require time to consult Narbeleth on this?”

“Nay, my lord, I have her authority in writing to speak for the elves of Ithilien.” Thranduil looked quite shocked at this. “I also have it from her that Ithilien will have no objection to the Black Hunter being tried and punished in Minas Tirith, also provided that they may be present.”

The company looked at each other. Three had relinquished their claim; one remained. Slowly, the gazes of all turned to the king of Eryn Lasgalen. “My Lord Thranduil?”

Thranduil looked far less inclined to give in. Folding his arms with a dark resentment in his eyes, he muttered, “Gondor,” as if the name itself were obscene. Ignoring the elves entirely, he locked eyes with Aragorn, and none had any trouble reading his thoughts. Aragorn met the angry, embittered king’s gaze steadily, but his hands were clenching the arms of his chair so tightly that the knuckles had turned white.

The silent exchange threatened to go on for some time, until a very tense voice suddenly blurted, “You can’t bring him back!”

Everyone else jumped. Thranduil and Aragorn broke off their wordless battle to stare at the speaker. It was Frodo. The hobbit’s eyes were large and unhappy, but his voice was clear, if desperately sad. “It doesn’t matter where Disaran dies, or how hard you make everything for Gondor. You can’t bring Legolas back. No one can. I don’t think he’d want us to make it this hard, either.”

As quickly as it had come, his courage seemed to desert him, and he lowered his eyes once again. Sam put a protective hand on his shoulder and shot Thranduil a positively ferocious glare, promising a dire fate if he dared speak harshly to Frodo. Thranduil stared instead at the tabletop, bitterness visible on his face, but sensing the will of everyone else in the room. At last, he looked not at Aragorn, but at Celeborn, and nodded. “Here then.” Celeborn nodded back.

*Not exactly a truce in this little war he’s waging, but I suppose it will have to do,* thought Gandalf.

But there remained one matter in which Thranduil was even less likely to give in. “There is still the matter of…the funeral.” The elven king shot fiercely challenging glares around to all of them, daring them to dispute THIS claim. “There is little time left. I wish to take…my son’s body back to Eryn Lasgalen, where his mother and family are also buried.”

Frodo flinched, and his breath caught in a quiet little sob. “But what about the rest of his friends?” asked Merry quietly. “If he’s buried in Mirkwood, none of us could ever…” he looked down again. Pippin stared at him in dismay, and then cast pleading eyes toward Thranduil. Gandalf could almost hear the youngest hobbit begging, *Please don’t take him away!*

To the Maia’s surprise, the grief of the small ones did seem to affect the elven king somewhat. His face grew less confrontational, and he lowered his eyes, but still murmured, “I’ll not let him be entombed in Gondor. He belongs with his people.”

Suddenly, Arwen stood up. “My lord, would you not consider what Legolas himself would wish?” Thranduil stared at her. There were tears in the Queen’s eyes, but she held her ground under the elven king’s scrutiny. “Many times I spoke to Legolas during the restoration of Ithilien, and he oft spoke of his love for the land, and his people’s new dwelling there. Though he did not say so precisely, I believe that he would have wished for his body to remain there, if anything…befell him.” Her breath caught slightly, but she did not lower her eyes.

Faramir rose then. “Narbeleth made no claim on the subject, but she did ask whether his body would…return to the colony he ruled.”

Thranduil avoided the gazes of them all, and it seemed that everyone in the room held their breath. At length, he said. “I shall consider it, and inform you of my decision on the morrow.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Gandalf.

“Lord Elessar, how long do you expect a trial of Disaran to last?” asked Celeborn.

The King of Gondor knitted his fingers together, looking troubled. As the elves exchanged glances, Eomer said delicately, “I believe in Gondor the judgment of a murderer would always fall to the King. And in this case, as the King himself was witness to the murder…”

“…in all practicality, there need be no trial in Gondor for Disaran’s murder of…of Legolas,” concluded Elladan with a dry smile. Aragorn frowned, clearly uncomfortable with this. “Come, my lord, as Gandalf has said, reality must be faced. A trial for Legolas’s death would be a farce. Lord Thranduil, yourself, and Lord Gimli caught Disaran…in the act.” He looked down for a moment, then continued, “There is no point in wasting time on asking questions. Have a scribe make note of their testimony if you like, but get on with it. Lord Celeborn also…witnessed Disaran’s crimes. Between those of us here, we’ve enough evidence to execute the Black Hunter several times over.”

Though he still looked uncomfortable at being the one to pronounce judgment on Disaran with so intense a bias, Aragorn reluctantly nodded. “Then he shall be held and punished for the murders of…of…Legolas, son of Thranduil, and Indoran, son of Celeborn, by your leave, my lords.” The two elven lords looked at each other, and nodded. “And if you can give the names of any other victims whose deaths were witnessed by any present here, I shall add them. But for the rest, if we have no elves present to take testimony from, their names shall be listed as crimes he is charged with, but not yet found guilty of. As Elladan says, two counts of murder are sufficient for a death sentence, if the lords of the realms will forego demanding trial for the rest.”

“My lord, when the company from Lórien arrives, I can produce witnesses to several more murders in Lórien and Rivendell, if you wish” said Celeborn.

“And…we have an eyewitness to a murder in Imladris here now,” said Elrohir softly. Aragorn blinked, looking from one to the other, but neither of the twins elaborated. Instead, both turned their eyes to Arwen.

Aragorn’s eyes widened as he looked to his wife, seeing the intensity of remembered distress on her face. “Arwen?” Closing her eyes for a moment, she nodded. “When?”

“The second time he appeared in Imladris,” the Queen murmured. “I saw him. I was very young. I think perhaps he was following me in particular. I was by the river, alone, when he came toward me, with the stone in his hand. But another elf, Laegnan, saw him and tried to fight him off. But the Hunter took him. He cried to me to run, and I…I did. When the guards reached the river, they found the Hunter gone, and Laegnan dead. My father never allowed me to leave the House alone again.” She made the faintest little movement that might have been a shudder. “I did not recognize him here at first. I had…I had tried to forget.”

Gandalf noticed that Aragorn’s breathing had quickened. “I imagine the testimony of the Queen shall be more than sufficient evidence to anyone,” he said briskly.

Swallowing hard, Aragorn quickly nodded. “Then it shall be so. For the murder of elves in Rivendell, Lórien, and Mirkwood, Disaran shall be convicted on the evidence of testimony by eyewitnesses. If none object, he shall be sentenced and executed in Gondor.”

“Soon, I hope,” muttered Haldir from next to Celeborn.

“Once all witness statements are taken down, he can be tried and sentenced, and the punishment carried out by the end of the day,” said Faramir helpfully. Aragorn glanced sharply at him, and for a moment Gandalf thought the King was going to take the Steward to task, but Aragorn seemed only troubled by the facts, rather than Faramir speaking of them.

“Then we are agreed,” said Aragorn, and rose. The others rose as well. “My scribes shall speak to all who are to bear witness before the day is out. Good morning, my lords.”

Thus, in a definitely dismal note, the meeting ended. Rubbing his eyes, Pippin joined Merry, Sam, and Frodo with Gandalf as they left. “Where’s Gimli?” he asked them.

“Still at the House of Kings. He knew about the meeting but wouldn’t come,” said Frodo. They fell silent as King Thranduil passed by, and then Frodo went on, “They say he and Legolas’s father had a terrible quarrel yesterday.”

“They did; I saw them,” whispered Sam. “It was dreadful; they were both blaming each other. I wasn’t really surprised that elven king felt the way he did, I mean, we all know how he feels about mortals. But Gimli…the way he’s been acting since then…I worry that maybe he believes it!”

“Believes what?” demanded Merry.

“That…what happened to Legolas was his fault,” said Frodo. “Haven’t you noticed? Before, even in the worst times, Gimli always held his head up and boasted of dwarvish strength. But now…after, after…after we lost Legolas, Gimli just doesn’t seem…proud anymore. He seems almost ashamed. He never leaves the House of Kings.”

“But it wasn’t Gimli’s fault at all!” cried Sam in frustration.

Gandalf sighed, and the hobbits looked up. “I fear, Samwise, as we’ve all seen, grief affects the mind in many different ways. This is something Gimli must face, for he was there when Legolas died, but could not help him.”

“That Thranduil said Legolas died calling Gimli’s name,” muttered Sam. “Terrible thing to leave hanging over his head.”

Gandalf closed his eyes. “Even if that were so, my friends, Gimli’s presence would not have saved Legolas once Disaran touched him with that stone. Believe me when I say this to you, for there are many among us who must still be convinced: there was nothing that anyone could have done.”

Silence descended over the four friends, and they all soon found it hard to see. “Oh Legolas,” whispered Pippin. “I still don’t understand why.”

The wizard laid a hand on his shoulder, looking at the teary faces of the others. “Neither do I, Peregrin. Even if I were to see the Valar tomorrow, and demand and receive an explanation, I doubt if I would ever understand. Legolas deserved better.”

***

In the same place at the same time…

*Please hold on, Pippin,* Legolas whispered as he stood only a few feet from the grieving hobbits. *All of you, Frodo, Sam, Merry, you must hold on. I could kill Disaran myself for bringing you such pain.*

Disaran had returned and popped back into his own body for a nap, which had at last freed Legolas. Though the elf ached, he had lain aside his own pain in his anxiety for how his friends were faring, and had arrived in time to witness the meeting between the lords of elves and men. He was not especially surprised at his father’s actions, though they hurt him nonetheless. *He has always responded to grief thus. He blamed the dwarves for my mother’s death, and now seeks to blame men for mine. Ah Father, when will you learn that tragedies such as these are no one’s fault, save perhaps the Balrog and the murderer.*

But even if Thranduil had been able to hear him, Legolas knew enough of his father to know the elven king would not be convinced. That was simply the way Thranduil was. And it enraged the elf to see those he loved driven to such despair by Disaran’s cruelty. *Perhaps that creature will some day face real justice.*

As for Legolas, it seemed this nightmare might yet end with him being killed again, only this time by being trapped in Disaran’s body at the time of his execution. In a way, Legolas was almost looking forward to it. *It will end. For better or worse, it will be over. I only hope Mandos does not mistake my soul for Disaran’s, but I grow so weary of this half-alive, half-dead state that I would welcome almost any change. It seems very odd that a spirit would feel this tired.*

He was tired, dreadfully tired, and he had learned many new definitions of pain. It was an indescribable sensation, the pain of wounds inflicted to his very soul. While he was trapped in Disaran’s body, there was physical pain all right, but leaving it brought no relief. If anything, it felt worse, for it was not confined like physical pain simply to one limb or one spot on the body. It was everywhere, and inescapable. It wore at him, driving him to such depths of misery and despair that he would have sought to end his own life, had it not already been taken. There was no escape.

And so, though the injustice of it all rankled him, when true death finally claimed him again, Legolas felt he would welcome it.

*****
To Be Continued…
*****