Chapter Seven: Anxiety

That evening…

“All the eyewitnesses have given testimony, my lord,” said Faramir, coming into Aragorn’s quarters with a large collection of scrolls.

Aragorn took them but did not look at them, while Arwen looked on worriedly. “I suppose that’s enough evidence to keep anyone happy.”

“The lords--and lady--” Faramir added with a quick nod to Arwen, “--were very attentive to detail, despite their distress. It is evidence enough, my lord.” Seeing Aragorn’s distant face, he frowned and looked at Arwen.

Aragorn sighed. “Fear not for me, Faramir. I merely…do not like it.”

“What?”

“I want to kill Disaran. I desire his blood on my blade so much that it frightens me. I wonder how I will survive facing him at his trial tomorrow without taking his throat in my bare hands.” He looked at his Steward in dismay. “How am I possibly fit to pronounce justice upon him? Is there no impartial judge?”

Arwen came to stand beside him, her hand resting lightly upon his shoulder. “You have afforded him more fairness than most would, Estel, and far more than he deserves. None can fault you for feeling rage, and only commend you for trying to set it aside.”

“I suppose, it is just that I…” Aragorn looked down.

“Estel?”

In a near-whisper, he finished, “It is just that I wonder if this is what Legolas would have wanted.”

***

In the House of Kings, around the same time…

Legolas was tired. He had, laughing bitterly at the irony of it, chosen the House of Kings as the place to settle himself, for he feared his spirit was losing the strength to move around Minas Tirith. And this was where his best friend seemed to have grown roots, standing before the stone table where Legolas’s own body lay in state. Gimli never spoke, and seemed utterly blind to the comings and goings of Legolas’s other mourners. But Legolas still wanted to be near the dwarf, even if there was no way Gimli could see him.

Strangely enough, Disaran had not dragged Legolas into his body for awhile, which made the elf wonder if his spirit too grew weary if left too long outside its body. If so, that would explain what was happening to Legolas, for the elf’s spirit was definitely waning in strength. He probably should have considered more how to use that to his advantage, but at this point, weariness and despair had made it difficult to care.

*Oh Gimli, I am sorry it came to this. But when at last my soul is free again, I shall await you in the Halls of Mandos.* Watching the dwarf’s silent vigil, Legolas smiled. *I imagine many of my kindred shall be incredulous that I should linger for the sake of a dwarf, but I shall. I wonder what becomes of dwarves when they arrive? If I must, I shall fall to my knees and beg Mandos myself that the Fellowship be reunited when the time of us all in Middle Earth is ended.*

As the spirit watched sadly, Gimli reached out and gently laid his hand upon the hand of the dead elf, and closed his eyes. Then the sound of approaching footsteps made the dwarf hastily step back, and Legolas felt a surge of relief to see the four hobbits quietly enter the chamber. Gimli did not turn around, but they came to stand next to him, with Frodo and Sam on one side, and Merry and Pippin on the other.

“The trial is tomorrow morning, Gimli,” said Sam softly. “It’ll all be over for the Hunter by nightfall at the latest, the guards say. They say they’re going to execute him in the racing field, in front of everyone.”

There was a long silence. At last, Gimli sighed. “Whatever they do to him, it won’t be enough.”

“Probably not,” agreed Frodo. “But at least no other elf will ever have to face…this.” He stepped up to the sepulcher, looking down at the still form upon the Evenstar’s cloak. How strange it was to the hobbit, almost haunting it felt, every time he looked at Legolas. It gave him chills. In death, Legolas looked fairer than ever, his fine features serene and still. He seemed almost unreal, like some kind of lifelike statue. Frodo impulsively reached out and touched a lock of pale hair.

He had often wondered at the difference between old and young elves, for he knew Legolas to be young by his people’s standards. And he had seen, in Legolas, an innocence that elves like Elrond, Glorfindel, and King Thranduil seemed to lack. Legolas in turn lacked the weary wisdom that elder elves seemed to carry. Frodo looked again at the features of the elf’s face, the smooth lips that so often had turned in a quirk before Legolas dissolved into laughter (usually at something Gimli had said or done), and the gray eyes so unnaturally hidden beneath a veil of dark lashes. So much light had been contained in those eyes, so much beauty and youth in those perfect features. They would never convey weariness now, though it had been bought at a hideous price.

Pippin walked closer to the table, tears in his eyes as he stared at the body. Merry walked up and put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Has King Thranduil decided about the funeral yet?”

“He said he’ll decide tomorrow morning,” said Frodo. “Either way, it won’t be until after Disaran’s dead.”

“I wonder,” murmured Pippin. “How we can wait this long.”

“Elves,” said Sam. “Their bodies…they’re not…not like us. They can wait longer to bury their dead. Death is…different for them. At least that’s what people say.”

“Very different,” Gimli said suddenly, so suddenly that all four hobbits jumped. The dwarf stepped up next to Merry and Pippin, looking at the still form of Legolas. He seemed about to speak more when someone else entered the room. “A--”

It was King Thranduil. Watching them all, Legolas cringed mentally and waited, dreading the bitter words that would fly between his father and his best friend and wound the watching hobbits. *Don’t, please don’t...*

The hobbits instantly crowded around Gimli, either flanking or restraining the dwarf, while staring up at the elven king, wearing expressions ranging from wide-eyed fear to fierce challenge. Thranduil looked at them for several moments, his eyes unreadable, then his gaze strayed to the body of his son. *Father, please…*

Thranduil spoke, “I wish to be alone with my son.”

The hobbits exchanged glances while Gimli did not break eye contact with Legolas’s father. Reaching some unspoken agreement among themselves, they turned back to Thranduil. “Yes, my lord,” said Frodo, and put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Come on, Gimli. Let’s go back to the Halls.”

The dwarf did not move. “Gimli,” whispered Sam urgently. “He’s Legolas’s father. It’s his right. Things are bad enough already.”

Gimli at last lowered his gaze, turning from Thranduil to the body of Legolas. After another moment, he gave the barest nod, and walked out of the House of Kings, followed by the hobbits. Legolas sighed with relief. *Thank the Valar many times over for the Halflings.*

His father moved close to the sepulcher, hesitantly touching the cold, white face. “Forgive me,” he whispered to the body, as his son watched. “I know not whether this is what you would have wanted.” He smiled wanly through brimming eyes. “It is long since I have known what you wanted. For that I am sorry. I only hope I have made the right choice.”

*I would see you end your quarrels with my friends, Father. That would be the right choice, which you know better than you pretend.* Then Legolas repented; Thranduil thought he was dead, after all. He would probably have been no more rational if it had been Thranduil who was slain. Moving closer, he whispered, *It is my fault as well. I did not even know you were there when…when the end came. If I had, I would have called you to me. But also I would have begged you to accept Gimli and Aragorn. I would have you know the worth of mortals. Especially these mortals. It would be useless to say so to you now, but they are not all like Disaran.*

***

Within the Halls of the Kings…

The Lady Eowyn walked to one of the outer windows, staring down into the street. An enormous crowd had begun to assemble below. *The trial is not until tomorrow morning, and already they gather.* For the moment at least, the people were content to wait. But not much longer. *King Elessar will probably have to execute him immediately after the trial if he wishes to avoid a riot on his hands.*

Eowyn sighed and closed her eyes, leaning against the window frame. She was exhausted. Compared to her husband, she had little to do, but waiting and worrying about Faramir wore on her just as much as the busiest times. And no matter how hard she tried to occupy her ever free moment, anxiety for her Lord never failed to wriggle its way into her mind.

*How much longer can we continue on this way?* she wondered bitterly. *Faramir will push himself to the limits for the sake of his King, but even his strength is not infinite. He shall falter under the strain if things do not change.*

At least the King was no longer lost to reason. Aragorn had proven that much during the meeting this morning. But there was still the trial and execution of Disaran--a moment Eowyn looked forward to with more vengeance than she cared to admit--while afterwards there would be yet another moment that every single one of them dreaded: the funeral for Legolas. *When that at last is over, I suppose we shall be forced to move on with our lives,* thought the Lady of Ithilien. *Even though a part of us shall never move on. How can we? Legolas was too much a part of us.*

Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes, and she turned hastily to return to her quarters. It was not even that it was unseemly--there had been tears on the faces of many in the past four days--but Eowyn was desperate to keep herself among the few who managed to stay in control. Faramir needed that from her. He carried so many burdens already; he did not need her grief as well, though it tore at her desperately until she felt she was being eaten alive from the inside.

She had nearly made it to her chamber when one of the servants reached her. “My lady, the Queen asks to see you in her sitting room.”

There was no way to refuse, so with a brisk nod, Eowyn turned from her sanctuary. *Get a grip on yourself, woman. If there is anyone in Middle Earth who needs you under control more than your Lord, it is the Queen.* So she forced her pain and fear back down, and went to answer the Lady Arwen’s summons.

The Queen of Gondor, still clad in mourning black, was seated upon a sofa awaiting her. No sooner had Eowyn entered and bowed than Arwen beckoned to her. “Thank you for coming so swiftly, my lady. Pray, come and sit beside me. I would speak with you.”

A trifle perplexed, Eowyn did so, declining the Queen’s offer for refreshment. She was more troubled by Arwen’s distracted face, and the faint twisting of her fingers, for the Evenstar was most certainly not one to fidget. It was clear that the Queen was deeply worried. “How fares your husband?” she asked softly.

“As…well as can be expected,” said Eowyn carefully, watching Arwen’s face.

Grey elven eyes, dark with weariness, sorrow, and anxiety locked onto hers. “I fear I require a more specific answer, though I pray your pardon for invading your privacy. I must know…is Lord Faramir…prepared for what must take place tomorrow?”

Eowyn’s heart was beginning to pound. She had never seen the Queen this way. As the grey eyes probed hers, she probed her own thoughts, startled into being as truthful as she could. “I believe he is, my Queen. The circumstances of the trial and execution of the murderer of…of a friend grieve Lord Faramir deeply, but he is fit to do…what must be done.”

Arwen nodded distractedly. “Emotions shall run high,” she murmured. “I…” she looked candidly at Eowyn. “I am worried.”

“My lady?” Eowyn bit her lip, and then blurted, “Is Lord Aragorn well?”

Releasing a rather sudden sigh, Arwen looked at Eowyn, and the Lady of Ithilien was startled greatly by her Queen’s brimming eyes. “Never have I seen him so afflicted as he was, the first few days after Legolas was lost…taken,” she requalified it, bitterness coloring her tone. “You know what he tried to do!” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. She looked desperately at Eowyn. “Most of his people remain unaware of the effect the grief for Legolas had upon his mind, and should Disaran…I fear he…I know not what will happen tomorrow.”

Before her mind could stop her, Eowyn reached out and seized Arwen’s hand. “Aragorn has never failed his people. I do not believe he will fail them in this. This morning and since, his judgments have been sound and just, perhaps more just than Disaran deserves,” she added darkly. Arwen shivered, and covered Eowyn’s hand with her other hand. “We must have faith in our Lords.”

Closing her eyes, Arwen nodded. “By tomorrow night, the worst shall be over, I think.”

“I think you are right. It is the waiting that is so difficult.”

***

At the same time…

In another part of the Halls of the Kings, Lord Celeborn also kept watch by a high window. A party of riders had been sighted by the guards in the highest watchtower, still nearly a day down the trail, but Celeborn had known at once who they were. *They’ve come. They’ve come at last.*

“My lord?” he turned to see Haldir watching him. “The guards do not expect them to reach Minas Tirith before noon tomorrow. Will you not rest?”

Celeborn sighed; Haldir was right, of course. He could hardly stand by the window all night long, and tomorrow promised to be a thoroughly unpleasant day. “Yes, Haldir. I shall retire presently.”

The younger elf eyed Celeborn with a faint furrowing of his brow before departing. Celeborn turned back to the window and smiled sadly. *Poor Haldir frets over me. It has been so with him and both of his brothers ever since Indoran died. I suppose I often give them cause to worry.*

Celeborn suspected there was more to the trio’s attentiveness than simple devotion to their lord. Ever since Indoran’s murder over three thousand years ago, Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin had served the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien with more zeal than most elven warriors possessed for any task. Celeborn suspected it was some measure of guilt over the fact that they had not arrived in time to save his son.

*They would spare us further suffering, and have always strove toward that end. I only hope that one day I am able to reward them as they deserve, rather than let them linger in East Lórien where our people fade by the day. Nay, it is no longer the place for them. Perhaps I shall send them to Ithilien.* Smiling to himself, Celeborn turned back to the window, his eyes searching for the party of elves still too far from view. *They shall be here tomorrow.*

*Yea, we shall,* said a familiar voice in his mind. *You shall not be alone very much longer.*

*For that I am most grateful, my beloved. Ride swift.*

***

At the same time…

His strength was waning. Disaran had dragged him back to the prison “to have you around in case I need you,” as he put it. However, the man had not forced Legolas into his body, though he assured him that it could be so at a moment’s notice. Not that exercising any kind of hold on the spirit of the elf was even necessary anymore.

Legolas’s spirit-body lay upon the prison floor just outside Disaran’s cell. He could scarcely move it at all. He wondered what this meant. Perhaps at this rate he would die before Disaran had a chance to make him stand in for the man’s own execution, and they would both be slain anyway. It was a comforting thought. More than likely it would be tomorrow afternoon as soon as the trial was done, or at least that was what the guards took great delight in telling Disaran. To the captive elf’s relief, Disaran’s impending doom had led most of the men to cease amusing themselves by roughing up the Black Hunter.

Yet a nagging fear had dogged him as the hour of Disaran’s execution drew closer. What would happen if Legolas was the one whose spirit was in Disaran’s body at the moment of its death? He no longer cared for his own half-life, and would be glad to see it end, but his greatest fear was that those he loved might somehow realize that it was Legolas’s spirit and not Disaran’s that had been slain. *It would destroy them. My father would probably try to kill Aragorn, and Gimli, ai, Gimli would go mad. It might prove the end of Frodo as well.*

Disaran chuckled from nearby, and Legolas groaned mentally. The bastard had heard him thinking again. And, predictably, he had thoughts of his own on the subject. “Perhaps it is the death of the spirit that matters more than the body,” mused Disaran in a mock-thoughtful voice. “Perhaps though the executioner’s blade will strike through my neck, it is your body that shall suddenly lie upon the field for all to see. That would be most interesting.”

Legolas closed his eyes, trying to make his mind blank. It gave him little comfort to think of those he loved in the face of a running commentary from his own murderer. But suddenly, a thought struck him. Disaran was keeping him close, but no longer forced Legolas into his own body as before, which freed the man’s own spirit to wander about. Earlier, that had always been the first thing Disaran did, for the man was eager to escape the prison and view the strife he had caused Gondor, not to mention returning to report it to his own prisoner. Perhaps Disaran’s spirit was losing strength as well. Turning with an effort to smile at the Black Hunter, Legolas tried a little taunt of his own. *It shall be still more interesting if you do not have the strength left to get me into your body by tomorrow.*

Well, he had certainly struck a nerve, although he paid for it. Disaran’s eyes flashed, and he deliberately closed his burned right hand into a tight fist, sending lances of pain shooting through Legolas. Even when Legolas was not in his body, Disaran had determined that the pain of injuries sustained by the elf’s spirit stayed with the elf, rather than with him, no matter who was in the body. So he took great delight in aggravating the hurts, feeling nothing himself, and torturing Legolas in the process.

Legolas turned his gaze away from the man again, but even as pain washed through him, he suspected he was on to something. Perhaps the outlook was no quite so black after all.

***

Back in the Halls of the Kings around the same time…

Sam, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin were also watching the Gondorrim gathering for the morning’s trial. They had coaxed Gimli to come out into the gardens with them, trying to distract the dwarf by pointing out which of the plants there had come from the Shire. Frodo glanced through a gateway at the growing crowd of early arrivals, then blushed and looked away as several men took off their hats when they saw him.

“Did Aragorn say the trial was going to be public?” wondered Sam.

“There’ll never be enough room in that meeting hall,” said Merry. “Not for this many people.”

“Maybe they just want to see the Hunter brought in,” suggested Pippin.

“Or maybe they’ll try to tear him apart themselves as soon as he’s within view,” murmured Frodo.

“Can’t say as I’d mind,” muttered Gimli. The hobbits looked at him; it was the first time he had opened his mouth since they had left King Thranduil alone with Legolas’s body.

“I’ll settle for seeing an end to him at the executioner’s block tomorrow,” replied Sam.

“Trial’s a waste of time,” Gimli grumbled. “They should just get it done.”

“Maybe it’s a waste of time, but it’ll give Aragorn peace of mind,” said Frodo gently, coming to sit next to Gimli on a bench. “He’s the King after all, so justice is his responsibility.”

“All this makes me think more well of him than ever,” remarked Sam. “He’s been more charitable to that Disaran than I think I’d be. Certainly more than Disaran deserves.”

“Charity has nothing to do with it,” said Gimli. “Frodo’s more right; it’s Aragorn’s responsibility to be fair with justice.”

“He’s a good king,” said Pippin.

“That he is,” agreed Sam. “Legolas would say so too.”

Gimli looked away for a moment. Just then, the sound of elven singing floated through the gardens. “Blast those elves!” spat the dwarf. “Don’t they ever give it a rest? Can’t go anywhere in this blasted city without hearing their warbling.”

“You liked hearing Legolas sing!” protested Pippin without thinking.

Merry nudged and glared at him, but Gimli sighed, “True, I did. Nor did I mind hearing elves other than…than Legolas sing, but now…” he gave the barest shake of his head.

Frodo felt tears stinging his eyes. *It’s the same for all of us; we hear an elf sing now and wonder if it’s Legolas--then we remember. It’s just that it’s hardest of all for Gimli.* He listened; as usual it was a lament. “I don’t know that voice.”

“Is it one of the Queen’s brothers?”

“No, I’d recognize their voices, besides, they always sing together.”

“Maybe it’s King Thranduil,” said Sam.

“No,” said Gimli. “I know his voice; it’s like Le…”

Frodo cleared his throat. “It must be one of the elves from Lórien then.” He listened again. “It’s said they lost dozens of their people to Disaran over the Third Age. Rivendell was hit even harder.”

Sam spat a rude word. “How could a human stalk elves the way that Disaran did? On their own lands? What kind of creature was he?”

“The worst possible kind,” said Gimli. “Clever, resourceful, and infinitely patient. On the night he…he even fights like an elf. He must have learned how to move and hide like them. And the elves would never expect that kind of attack on their people.”

“You’re right,” mused Merry. “They always move about freely inside their realms. If he was sneaking around and killing them, by the time they realized what was happening…it would’ve been too late.”

“Always too late,” muttered the dwarf.

“It wasn’t your fault, Gimli,” said Sam. “If Legolas were here, he’d say so himself. You and Strider did everything you could. That devil was too fast, faster than even Legolas expected.”

With a rather shaky sigh, the dwarf’s head bent low. Pippin wiped his brimming eyes. Then a flicker of movement from down the garden caught Frodo’s eye and made his breath catch involuntarily. A tall, fair-haired elf was walking under the trees toward them. Seeing the wide-eyed stares of the hobbits, he stopped and bowed.

It was Haldir. “Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“When are you elves going to learn that sneaking up on people is a sure way of disturbing them,” grumbled Gimli. Before Haldir could reply or any of the hobbits could speak, the dwarf turned and quickly left the gardens.

The hobbits exchanged sheepish glances. “Sorry, Mr. Haldir,” said Sam with a little bow. “He’s not himself, understand.”

The Lórien elf’s eyes softened with sympathy. “Of course, Master Samwise.”

“Is Lord Celeborn planning to be at the trial tomorrow?” asked Frodo, stepping past Merry and Pippin.

Haldir nodded. “Lord Elessar has granted permission for any elves to be present for the sentencing. Lothlórien suffered much at the Black Hunter’s hand; her entire delegation shall be there.”

“That’s just you and Lord Celeborn, isn’t it?” asked Merry.

Shaking his head, Haldir replied, “Nay, a delegation was sent for as soon as Disaran was captured. There are…some among our people still remaining in East Lórien who shall wish to witness the dispensation of justice. We expect them tomorrow.”

There was a heavy silence. Sam sighed. “Mr. Haldir…is it always like this?”

Haldir’s brow furrowed in confusion, “When?”

“When…when an elf dies? Everything just seems so…black!”

The elf looked thoughtful. “Grief for a friend is always black, be he man or elf or hobbit, I expect. Perhaps it was the manner of these deaths, cruel and senseless. That is why we called Disaran the Black Hunter. The days of his hunts were black indeed.” Haldir’s eyes darkened with remembered sorrow.

“Sorry,” said Sam, looking down. “Guess you’ve had enough sadness already without me going and reminding you of it.”

“Do not apologize, Master Samwise, for our sorrow is no fault of yours.” Haldir smiled sadly. “Alas, in grief many would think to place blame upon those who remind them of their loss, rather than the one who first inflicted it.”

“Or blame themselves,” added Frodo, shaking his head.

“Very true.” Haldir pulled his mouth to one side in a faint grimace, and the hobbits had no trouble guessing who he was concerned about. Looking at them, he bowed, “Tomorrow promises to be a difficult day for us all, honored heroes. You would do well to get some rest. I bid you good night.”

The hobbits bowed back, and the elf disappeared back down the shadowy garden path in the faint moonlight, almost like a vanishing mist. Merry stared at the others. “Did he just call us heroes?”

Sam gave a little snort, “Well, there has to be a reason why everyone stares and takes off their hats when we walk by, doesn’t there?”

“But he’s an elf,” protested Pippin. “They’ve had more heroism in their lives than we could. Why would they think so well of us?”

“Well, you and Frodo are the Ringbearers, Sam,” reasoned Merry. “That’s cause enough even for an elf to call you heroes.”

Frodo shook his head, gazing up at the darkening Halls. “I think the time for little insignificant heroes is long past. And right now it’s the warriors, lords, and kings that I’m worried about.”

***

At the Halls of the Kings, the next morning…

The night had been cold, but not one person had left the crowd outside Minas Tirith’s assembly hall to seek the comfort of their homes. Faramir had ordered the guards to light braziers and bonfires to keep the watchers from taking cold, and so the throng crowded together, drawing heat from the blazes and from their numbers. At the break of dawn, nearly all awoke, sensing the arrival of one man’s judgment day. As the sun climbed higher in the morning sky, the people of Gondor waited. The time had come to see justice done.

Inside his chamber, Aragorn fastened his mantle and stood in front of the mirror, his hand straying to the green Elfstone upon the dressing table. But he did not pick it up. “Why do you hesitate, Estel?” asked his wife softly, coming up behind him.

“I know as King I must bow to the wishes of my people, and the living elves who seek justice for their dead,” murmured Aragorn. He took the stone in his hand and stared at it. “But I feel more and more deeply that Legolas would not have wanted this…this spectacle. Legolas would never want blood spilt for him in this grandiose fashion.”

Arwen’s hands came to rest upon his shoulders, and her face looked at him from the reflection. “Perhaps not for himself. But I think that had you or another of the Fellowship been the victim, Legolas would have cried for vengeance just as we do now. We measure one’s worth by how they are loved, not how they love. And some of the elves themselves most certainly think us too lenient.”

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “You mean Thranduil.” She smiled. “True, I suppose.”

Arwen reached past him to pick up the Elfstone by the chain upon which it hung, and fastened the stone around his neck. “Think not only of Legolas today, dearest lord. Think also of the elves who still live, and mourn the children taken by the Black Hunter’s foul greed. Twice every year all my childhood, my mother let a lantern burn in her window all night: one on the day of her brother’s birth, and one for the day of his death.” He turned to face her, and she took his hands. “I saw the Hunter slay Laegnan, and only his sacrifice and my speed of foot saved me from the same fate. The creature is without soul, Estel, without heart.”

With a deep sigh, Aragorn clasped her to him, pressing his face into her hair. “That we have learnt all too well.” He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her. He knew again what needed to be done, but emotion still churned inside him.

“We shall get through today, Estel. We shall.”

“Arwen. Do not come to the execution.” She raised her head and looked at him. “I know it must be done, and I cannot say I shall be sorry at all for Disaran, but I like not carrying the sentence out in public thus. It seems barbaric. I do not want you…to watch.”

Turning to the window, Arwen gazed at the sun. “Have you denied anyone else entry?”

“I do not deny you,” Aragorn answered, coming to her side and placing his hands on her shoulders. “I merely ask.”

Arwen covered his hands with hers. “I shall…consider it.”

There was a knock upon the door. “My lord?”

“Enter, Faramir,” said Arwen, stepping away from her husband.

The Steward came in, followed by Eomer, and the two bowed to them as Aragorn gestured rather impatiently for Faramir to speak. “The prison is secure, my lord, as is the assembly hall.”

“That is good news at least,” mused Arwen.

“But there is still the minor detail of getting Disaran FROM the prison TO the hall,” replied Eomer, shaking his head. “And that, my lord, my lady, may prove troublesome.”

Arwen went curiously to the window, as Aragorn asked, “How many people are out there now?”

“The courtyard is nearly completely filled, and we had to prevent any more coming in there lest there be no room left to move about,” said Faramir. “ Now they are spilling out into the surrounding streets, but for the moment there is no unrest. They merely wish to know what is happening.”

Aragorn frowned. “Whatever the cost, we must not allow any unrest. I shall dispatch a scribe to report the proceedings to the guards outside, and some heralds to read them. But above all, Faramir, the crowds must not disrupt the trial or the…the sentencing.”

“Perhaps if you speak to them before Disaran is brought, my lord,” suggested Eomer. “That keep them under control.”

“That is sound advice,” agreed Arwen, coming back to Aragorn’s side. “They will calm themselves for you.”

Looking from his Steward to the King of the Mark to his wife, Aragorn laughed wryly. “I pray our gathering people share your faith in me.”

***

In the prison at the same time…

“Your time’s come, villain!” said one of the guards as they hauled Disaran to his feet in his cell. “We’re about to be leaving for the trial.”

“Ready to face your judgment day, fiend?” jeered another.

Disaran did not answer, for he was distracted by his conversation with the spirit of the elf he was about to be tried for murdering. Legolas, unseen and unheard by the guards, lay prone upon the prison floor not far away. *I must be dying once more. That can be the only explanation for the way that I feel,* the elf thought dimly. His perceptions of the living world, and even his ability to think coherently were fading.

Strangely enough, his tormentor showed no sign of forcing the elf back into his body again. Hazily, Legolas wondered why. *I’ll send for you if they decide to have their way with me,* Disaran assured him, but even in his growing stupor, Legolas noticed that the cruel man’s remarks had lost some of their cocky tone.

Legolas smiled, enjoying an extremely out-of-place bit of cockiness of his own. *Do not overexert yourself, or you may find yourself facing the executioner’s blade without the convenience of a stand-in.* Though Disaran deliberately threw himself against one of the guards, getting a fist into his already-broken ribs, Legolas hardly felt it. Intense pain had become such a constant to him that he was beginning to grow accustomed to it. *It will all be over soon. I shall be free again.*

“How soon do we have to brave that mob?” one of the guards was asking.

“They’ll signal to us. The King wants all the witnesses into the Hall first before we bring him,” the captain of the guard said, standing close to the door.

“How by Smaug’s spawn are we going to get him through that crowd?” demanded another guard.

“Got me. If there aren’t enough guards to clear us a path, he doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance on Mount Doom.”

“No skin off our noses if the mob wants to have a go at him first!” laughed someone.

“None of that, men. It’s the orders of the Steward and the King; we’re to bring the villain to be charged and tried in the proper fashion. And the families of those elves he killed have got a right to see him brought to justice.”

“What justice? Can’t ever get their children back.”

“Be still. Something’s going on up there. They’re all getting quiet.”

***

Outside the entrance to the assembly hall…

A path opened easily in the crowd for King Elessar and Queen Undómiel, escorted as they were by a small army of guards and the Steward of Gondor. Aragorn and Arwen were each clad entirely in black, Aragorn in black mail and a black mantle, and Arwen in a black velvet gown, cloak, and veil. Faramir mounted the steps until he could be seen by the vast throng waiting and held up his hands, “I pray silence! Silence for King Elessar!”

A hush fell over the waiting Gondorrim as Aragorn came to stand before his subjects, and the people bowed as one. *That is a good sign. I hope,* he thought grimly. *Valar give me strength.* “Good people,” he called out to them. “A common and solemn purpose brings us here this morn. There are many in this city today who desire to see the man Disaran made to answer for his crimes.” A great cry rang out from the throng. Aragorn raised his hands, and they felt silent again. “I know your rage is great, as mine. But never forget! Deserving of justice still more than you or I are the people here whose children have been slain! They shall be watching the trial, as is their right!” A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. “Above all, those who have suffered the worst at Disaran’s hands have a right to witness a peaceful trial, without any disorder!” Aragorn added pointedly.

The Gondorrim were exchanging thoughtful looks by then. Aragorn felt a surge of relief at the nods he could see. “The trial shall begin within the hour. When all the witnesses are gathered, the accused shall be brought to answer the charges. I ask…” he paused significantly, “and EXPECT the accused and his guards to pass freely into the assembly hall for trial. ANY attempts to interfere with the guards or assault the accused will be punished. I understand your anger!” he cried over the growing murmurs. “But none among you have the right to take vengeance into your own hands. JUSTICE,” he gestured to the assembly hall, “justice shall be done today.”

“Hail Lord Elessar!” cried one of the guards, and at once, all the people in the courtyard took up the cry, “All hail the King!”

“That should keep them happy,” murmured Faramir from behind him.

Waving at the guards at the courtyard gate, Aragorn replied, “It had better. We will be in serious trouble if things get out of control.”

“They won’t, my lord. You got through to them.” Faramir nodded toward the crowd, which was parting to make way for the first arrivals. “As long as they know what is going on, they will be satisfied.”

Aragorn gave a neutral little grunt, watching the guards escorting Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin up to the steps. Behind the hobbits came Gandalf and Gimli. Aragorn walked down a few steps to greet them. *Seven of us,* he thought with a surge of intense grief. *Seven left where once there were nine. Deaths in war we were prepared for. But we never thought Legolas would be the second, and never like this. Who will be the next?* the thought slipped out before he could stop it, bringing with it a terrible twinge of apprehension. *Concentrate, man! You must get through this day!*

He took each of them by the hands as they came to join him on the steps. “Well done,” murmured Gandalf.

“Stand behind me, my friend. I will see you inside,” he replied softly.

After the remaining members of the Fellowship of the Ring came the elves. Elladan and Elrohir came first, and went to stand behind the Queen. Aragorn wished he had more time to speak to his foster-brothers. He missed their counsel, their familiarity. But even more…*Valar, I wish Elrond were here.*

Men in mourning wore black; elves wore white. Aragorn wondered if there was a man or elf in that crowd who could not hear his heart pounding as Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen came up the steps. *I suppose it would be too much to ask that he be more concerned with Disaran for once than placing the blame upon the rest of us.* The ire in the elven king’s eyes dashed any of that hope, and for the first time, Aragorn felt a twinge of bitterness despite his awareness of Thranduil’s own grief. *How is it that Legolas, by far the most modest and good-natured elf I have ever known, descended from YOU?!*

Nonetheless, he forced himself to maintain a solemn face, and deliberately bowed to Thranduil first. *If you thought to shame Gondor by refusing to bow, dismiss that idea.* Something flickered in the elven king’s eyes, but as it happened, Thranduil did bow back, though he never once broke Aragorn’s gaze. *Gondor shall prove herself well today, Thranduil, no matter what you wish to believe about mortals…and about me. Before this day is out, you shall see an end to the one truly responsible for your son’s death, and then deny if you will the sincerity of our love for Legolas.*

Thranduil passed Aragorn and went to stand next to Elladan and Elrohir. For a moment, the King of Gondor watched him, but then a collective gasp from the Gondorrim made him turn. His own breath caught: Rúmil and the delegation of Lórien had arrived. Rúmil walked with Haldir before a procession of around two dozen Lórien elves, and in front of them…

Arwen suddenly appeared at Aragorn’s elbow, with Elladan and Elrohir just behind her, and all of them bowed low. *Elbereth,* thought Aragorn. *Why didn’t Celeborn warn me?!*

At the very head of the procession, walking beside Lord Celeborn, was the Lady Galadriel. And on the other side of her…*Father!* Aragorn’s throat tightened in bittersweet joy. Last he had heard, Elrond had been on his way to the Grey Havens to prepare for departing over the sea. How had he managed to return here this swiftly? The Lord of Rivendell’s eyes were full as he gazed at his foster-son, and Aragorn realized just how desperately he had wanted Elrond during all this madness. The relief at the sight of him made the King of Gondor want to weep for joy.

Elrond, Celeborn and Galadriel bowed to the King and Queen of Gondor. “My lady, my lord” said Aragorn, relieved that his voice was steady. “You do us a great honor with your presence here.”

“Lord Elessar,” said Galadriel. “With this trial, you do an honor to all Eldar.” Elrond said nothing, but there was pride and sorrow in his eyes, the former a balm to Aragorn’s aching spirit.

Aragorn and Arwen stepped aside, beckoning to the elves of Lórien and the Lord of Imladris to precede them into the assembly hall. Gandalf, Gimli, the hobbits, and the other elves also went in, but Aragorn lingered outside with Faramir. “Where is Lady Eowyn?”

“She is already inside, making certain the…guests are seated,” the Steward replied.

“That is well,” said Aragorn. He glanced behind him. “Everyone is assembling; I must go. You know what to do?” Faramir nodded. “Good. Take care. Emotions run high, and when they see Disaran…”

“I will keep it under control,” Faramir assured him. With a tense nod, Aragorn walked into the assembly hall. Faramir turned to the guards. “Bring the accused!”

*****
To Be Continued…
*****