ATTENTION: Can anyone find my salute to J.K. Rowling in this chapter? House points (or hobbit points) to the first one to catch it! (I’m a great Harry Potter fan as well.) I also have a nod to the Ellis Peters “Brother Cadfael” stories. (Hint: Only one of the nods is a line.)

A/N: This story contains references to my long fic, “A Little Nudge Out of the Door,” but that one is not required reading. However, most of the events mentioned are just a couple of chapters in the story, so if you’re curious, feel free to email me, and I’ll tell you what chapter to find them in. OR you could just read the whole thing. ;-)

Chapter Eight: Acceptance

In the assembly hall near the Halls of the Kings…

Aragorn and Arwen sat side-by-side before the hall, which was packed with elves and lords of Gondor and Rohan. At his left hand was a place for Faramir, and at Arwen’s right hand sat the Lady Eowyn. Gimli was seated near the seats of the elves, and it startled him clean out of his dark thoughts when the Lady Galadriel suddenly came toward him. He rose and hastily bowed to her. “My Lady.”

The Lady Galadriel gazed thoughtfully at him, her brilliant eyes soft, and for once, the dwarf found himself wishing she could not see his mind so clearly. *I hope you will forgive me, Lady, but my grief is not something I would choose to share with anyone, given the choice.*

Her lips curved into a gentle, sad smile, and she stepped past her husband to suddenly seat herself gracefully next to Gimli. The dwarf practically gaped, and as her eyes continued to meet his, he heard in his mind, *Grief is much like water, Gimli son of Glóin. Trapped it becomes stagnant and sour; only when released can it remain pure.*

*I…* Gimli faltered. The Lady Galadriel lightly placed her hand over his as Faramir came into the hall.

The Steward bowed, and Aragorn rose. “Bring in the accused.”

There was a collective intake of breath as Disaran, well-shackled, was brought before the assembly. Gimli noted with satisfaction the fumbling of the man’s steps, although his expression was still offensively smug. The left side of his face was badly bruised, and his neck still bore the marks of Gimli’s fingers. He was led by two guards to the center of the hall and forced to his knees before the King and Queen. Disaran looked back up at them, and none needed to see his face to know that his attention was focused upon Arwen, judging by the way Aragorn’s eyes darkened. On the other side of Lord Celeborn, Lord Elrond leaned forward slightly, his eyes harder than Gimli had ever seen.

“Disaran, you stand here charged with the murder Laegnan, son of Celeblam of Imladris, Indoran, son of Celeborn of Lothlórien, and Legolas, son of Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen,” said Aragorn formally. Gimli felt his stomach twist, and glanced at Galadriel. Though her face and manner were composed, he caught her fingers tightening upon the arms of her seat ever so slightly upon hearing the name of her son.

Disaran’s little snort of laughter jerked Gimli’s attention sharply back to the center of the room. “Three? Is that all?”

Leaning forward and knitting his fingers together, Aragorn spoke in a low voice that made Gimli’s blood run cold. “You are charged now with three, though the elven realms accuse you of murdering more than five score of their people. As I can add to the number of counts you are charged with at any time, I would suggest that you hold your tongue unless we ask you a question.”

For what it was worth, Disaran did appear slightly intimidated by the King of Gondor at his angriest. Aragorn turned to Faramir and nodded. The Steward opened a scroll. “For the murder of Indoran, son of Celeborn of Lothlórien: Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin, guards of Lórien, stand as witnesses, by your leave, my lord,” he said to Aragorn.

“Proceed.”

“My lords,” Faramir beckoned. The three brothers rose and came into the center of the room. A scribe brought Faramir the scrolls containing their testimony. Faramir presented each scroll to each respective elf. “Are these the statements you provided against the accused?”

“Yes.” “Aye, my lord.” “They are, my lord.”

Faramir turned to Aragorn, who rose. “Have any of you anything further to give as evidence?” asked the King.

The brothers looked at each other. “No, my lord.” “Nay, Lord Elessar.” “That is all.”

Aragorn nodded. “Let it be known then that each of these witnesses identifies the accused as the man they saw murder Indoran, son of Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien.” A murmur rippled through the hall. Gimli glanced to his right and saw the tense faces of the hobbits, watching the trial intently. “Call your next witness in this charge, Lord Steward.”

Faramir turned back to the assembly. “In this charge, Celeborn, Lord of Lothlórien, stands as witness.”

On the other side of the Lady Galadriel, Gimli watched the elven lord exchange a quick, unreadable glance with his wife before he rose and made his way down to stand before the King of Gondor. Aragorn caused a murmur from most of the men in the room when he himself suddenly rose and bowed to Celeborn. The elf bowed back as Faramir presented his testimony. “Is this the evidence you gave against the accused, my lord?”

“It is, Lord Steward.”

“And have you any additional testimony to make?”

“I do not.”

“Let it be known that this witness identifies the accused as the man who slew his son.” From Gimli’s left came the faintest of movements; Galadriel’s fingers had curled tightly around the arms of her chair, and her eyes were briefly closed. “Have you any more witnesses, Lord Faramir?”

“Nay, my lord.”

There was a pregnant pause, then Aragorn turned to the shackled prisoner. “Disaran, four witnesses have presented the evidence of their own eyes, that you killed Indoran of Lórien. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

Galadriel’s knuckles had turned white. Disaran turned and cast a speculative look around the room. When his malicious gaze lingered upon the Lady Galadriel, Gimli felt his hands itching for his axe. Galadriel’s face was more blank than the dwarf had ever seen. Disaran smiled coldly, his cruel brown eyes still watching the Lady of Lórien. “What’s to say? I killed him!”

A collective gasp went up from the assembly, and Aragorn leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “I would reflect a moment on the wisdom of those words, Disaran. By confessing here at your trial, you are offering a plea of guilty, guaranteeing your execution for Indoran’s murder.”

Disaran laughed, “If a confession’s the same as a guilty plea, then I guess I’m pleading guilty. Not much point in denying it when you’d execute me even if I did!”

“That’s for sure,” Gimli heard Sam mutter. Frodo shuddered.

Aragorn’s disgust was unmistakable. “As you will, then. The choice is yours. In the matter of Indoran, son of Celeborn, I find you guilty of willful murder.” Galadriel closed her eyes again. “Lord Faramir, proceed with the next charge.”

“For the murder of Laegnan, son of Celeblam of Imladris: the Lady Arwen, Queen of Gondor, daughter of Lord Elrond of Imladris, stands as witness.” The men in the room whispered to each other at that. Lord Elrond closed his eyes and made the slightest of movements. “By your leave, my lord?”

“Proceed,” said Aragorn. To others, the King had never seemed so commanding, but Gimli could sense his friend’s tension.

Faramir motioned to two of the guards, who brought a chair where the other witnesses had stood. Then he turned and bowed. “My lady?”

Raising the veil from her face, which until then she had kept down, Arwen rose and went to the chair. The two guards remained on either side of her, glaring rather obviously at Disaran. Elrond’s hands were curled with white knuckles around the arms of his chair. Aragorn’s hand was straying ever-so-slightly toward his sword hilt. *I almost wish he’d try something,* thought Gimli.

Faramir presented her with her testimony. Her eyes dutifully scanned the scroll, then she handed it back to him. “My lady, is this the statement you provided against the accused?”

“It is, my lord,” said Arwen calmly, keeping her eyes on Faramir, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

“And have you anything further to give as evidence?” asked the King.

“No, my lord.”

Aragorn nodded. “Then let it be known that the witness has identified the accused as the man she eyewitnessed murdering Laegnan, son of Celeblam of Rivendell.” At Faramir’s nod, Arwen rose and returned to the Aragorn’s side. All three elves on Gimli’s laugh sighed softly. “Lord Faramir, have you any more witnesses?”

“Nay, my lord.”

Aragorn swallowed. “Disaran, the Queen of Gondor has identified you as the murderer of Laegnan of Imladris. Have you any…plea to make?”

Disaran eyed Arwen for a moment, clearly contemplating making a crude remark, then caught the look in her husband’s eyes and seemed to think the better of it. He settled a shrugging, careless reply of “Guilty.”

“Then I find you guilty of the willful murder of Laegnan of Imladris,” said the King. He took a breath. “Lord Faramir, call the witnesses in the final charge.”

Faramir’s face was stony. “In the case of the murder of Legolas, Lord of South Ithilien, son of Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen: Gimli, son of Glóin, stands as witness.”

This was the moment Gimli had been dreading. Feeling ill, he forced himself to stand, making his way down to the floor. Once there, he glanced back impulsively and saw the smiles of encouragement on the faces of the hobbits, and Lady Galadriel’s reassuring eyes. Taking a deep breath, he turned and took the scroll Faramir offered him.

It had been hard enough to tell the tale once, so he read it as quickly as possible:

*I went with Legolas and King Thranduil to the stables to accompany him to Ithilien. A man wearing the uniform of a White Company guard came and told us the Queen had been attacked and was in the Houses of Healing. We were on our way there when another company of guards told us that the attacker was being held in the Halls of the Kings. So Lord Thranduil went with them, and Legolas and I continued to the Houses of Healing, but I could not keep up with Legolas and the man. When I reached the Houses of Healing, I saw the man holding a black stone against Legolas. Lord Thranduil and King Elessar arrived at about the same time, and we tried to stop the attacker. I went after him and disarmed him of the stone, but when I returned to the Houses of Healing, Legolas was dead.*

“Is this the statement you provided against the accused, Master Gimli?” asked Faramir.

“Yes, my lord,” Gimli replied, marveling at how calm his voice sounded despite the turmoil within him. *I was not fast enough I was not fast enough I was not fast enough…*

Aragorn’s voice broke through his bitter thoughts. “And have you any further evidence to give?”

“Nay, I do not.”

“Thank you, Gimli,” said Faramir softly, and nodded to him. Gimli returned to his seat, feeling immensely relieved. *At least now the worst of it is over--or at least the first part of the worst.* “In this charge, Thranduil, King of Eryn Lasgalen, also stands as witness.”

*I stand corrected; after Thranduil is out of Minas Tirith for good, THEN the worst will be over,* thought Gimli bitterly as the elven king walked down to verify his testimony. He found himself staring fixedly at his knees, rather than looking down at Legolas’s father. He wondered suddenly whether Thranduil had made up his mind yet about the funeral. *If he lets us bury Legolas in Ithilien, at least then there will be…somewhere I can go. If he takes his body back to Mirkwood…I’ll have nothing of him at all.*

*You are wrong about that, Gimli.*

*Am I, my lady?* He half-turned toward her, and sure enough, she was watching him out of the corner of her eye.

Her eyes went through him as always. *You are. And you know it.* He sighed, and she smiled sadly. *Still you doubt? Think on what Legolas might say.*

*I fear I am not as certain as I ought to be of what Legolas would say now. He is--he was more charitable and good-natured than most of his people, no offense, of course.*

She made a faint sound that might have been a sad little laugh. *Doubt is an insidious thing, when we have no one to dispel it. But you knew the heart of Legolas well in life, Lock-bearer. Look into your own heart and let not your memories be clouded by self-blame. Then you shall see what you still have of Legolas.*

Gimli’s view of Aragorn, currently adding his own testimony to the record of Legolas’s murder, was suddenly blurred. *As always, Lady, you give me heart.*

*The heart you already had, Gimli son of Glóin. I merely sought to remind you.*

He forced his attention back to the center of the assembly hall, just as Aragorn was saying to Disaran. “In this final charge, I find you guilty. Guilty of the willful, wanton murder of Legolas, Lord of the elves of Ithilien, son of Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen.”

A soft sigh went up from the watchers. “It’s done,” murmured Frodo on Gimli’s right.

“Not quite,” Gimli replied.

Aragorn stood up. The hall was deathly silent--as though everyone there was now holding their breath. “Disaran, known by the Eldar as the fugitive the Black Hunter. Having presented no defense against eyewitness testimony, you have been found guilty of three counts of willful murder. Any one of these charges carries the penalty of death, and with no claims of mitigation, the three together all but guarantee a penalty of death. Have you anything to say before I pronounce sentence?”

Disaran smirked, and Gimli gritted his teeth. *I must hold on. It will all be done with soon. Be patient.*

“Nay, my lord, nothing to say,” said Disaran in a nonchalant voice. “I’ve had a good, long life…thanks to the gifts of the elves.” A little grumble rippled through the room.

Aragorn actually clenched his fists briefly. “Have the representatives of the victims anything to say before sentence is pronounced?”

Galadriel suddenly rose. Gimli sucked in his breath involuntarily and knew he was not the only one. Aragorn’s eyes widened slightly, but he bowed. “My Lady Galadriel, pray, speak.”

She did not say much. She did not need to. Her voice was low, but everyone in the room heard. “I am but one of many mothers, forced to bury her own child.”

Arwen swallowed hard and lowered her eyes. There was a long silence before Aragorn spoke again. “Are there any others who would speak?” Gimli looked curiously at Thranduil, but to the dwarf’s surprise, the elven king did not rise. Aragorn slowly nodded. “Then it is done. Disaran, by my authority as King of Gondor, and under the authority of the elven realms in this matter, I hereby sentence you to the penalty of death.” Everyone in the room released a collective breath; Disaran half-rolled his eyes. Aragorn looked coldly at him. “By the will of the Eldar and the people of Gondor, the sentence shall be carried out in three hours time in the public sporting field. Take the prisoner back to his cell to await execution. You may, if you wish, request last rights,” the King added to Disaran, in a slightly mocking tone of his own.

Disaran had no time to retort before he was dragged out to the cheers of the waiting Gondorrim. Gimli stood up to leave along with the others. He forced a smile to reassure the hobbits, only to frown at Frodo, who was looking rather haggard. “It’s almost over.”

Wearily, Frodo smiled back. “I’ll be most grateful when it’s entirely over.”

Their attention was called back to the King when Aragorn suddenly spoke above the quiet conversations. “My lord Thranduil.” The elven king looked at him, half-surprised, half-irritated. “Have you made a decision concerning Legolas’s funeral?”

Gimli blinked. “My, that was direct,” murmured Sam from the other side of Frodo.

“Maybe that was the idea,” suggested Merry, watching as Aragorn and Thranduil locked eyes.

Galadriel was descending toward the center of the room with Celeborn and Elrond, and the three reached the floor at the same time as the elven delegation from Ithilien. They all looked appealingly at the elven king. Thranduil’s eyes were bright and hard, but he stood before the pleading gazes of many elves, as well as mortals. With a look of resignation, he at last replied, “Legolas shall be buried…in the lands where he was lord. Tomorrow, I, the elves of Ithilien and…any other mourners…shall depart with his body at dawn.”

Gimli sighed in spite of himself, and heard the hobbits sigh. “Thank the Valar he was reasonable,” murmured Sam. “I don’t think I could stand it if he took Legolas all the way back to Mirkwood where we couldn’t even bid him farewell.”

*Bid him farewell…* Gimli turned to them. “This execution’s not going to be pleasant; Disaran will make certain of that. If I were you, I’d get some rest.” Then he turned and left the assembly hall.

***

In the Halls of the Kings, a little while later…

Arwen felt unaccountably weary as she trudged alone back toward her chamber. Her own self-control and the veil she had worn had hidden her intense emotions during Disaran’s trial, but now she felt drained, tired, and upset. She had even evaded her father as he came to her after the trial’s end, asking him instead to seek out and speak to Estel. Aragorn still did not want her at the execution, and she truly felt little real desire to actually go, but what if she did not? If she did not see Disaran die with her own eyes, would his cruel face and cold eyes haunt her for the rest of her life? She was not certain. To be sure, he haunted her now, in dreams and awake, until she wondered if seeing his death would be the only way to assure herself that he no longer stalked her people.

*Legolas was the last. As cruel and needless a death as all the others, but at least he was the last. No other innocent shall ever suffer that creature’s leeching blow again after today.* Arwen shivered. The sun was nearly noon-high, but it was November, and there was a definite chill in the air that was only compounded by the chill in her heart.

“My Queen? Are you unwell?” Arwen jumped. It was a testament to her unsettled state of mind that she had not heard Lady Eowyn coming.

Forcing her pounding heart under control, she replied, “I am not unwell, Lady Eowyn, but thank you for your concern. “

Concern in her blue eyes, Eowyn stepped closer. “May I not send for a servant to bring you something? A hot drink, perhaps?”

“Nay, I need nothing,” said Arwen distractedly. She wanted to hide in her chamber. The urge to cry was beginning to swell in her throat, but Eowyn had not desisted. “I assure you, my lady, I am well…well enough.” Eowyn smiled wanly, and Arwen noticed for the first time how pale the Steward’s wife was as well. “Forgive me. I am, I admit, rather tired. It has been a singularly unpleasant morning.”

With a humorless laugh, Eowyn agreed, “So it has, my Queen. I shall be glad when this day is ended.”

“How is Lord Faramir?”

“Entertaining similar thoughts.”

“I can well imagine,” Arwen sighed. She had thought so much of Aragorn and his grief, but it occurred to her that Faramir must be suffering greatly as well, having been so near to Legolas in Ithilien. “What does he plan to do…when you return to Ithilien?”

Eowyn winced slightly and looked away. “I do not know,” she said softly. “I doubt if he has had time to think about it, and for that I am grateful, for he has had much to occupy his time these past days. But when at last it is done…” she shook her head. “I do not know. I…” her voice cracked, she looked quickly at the floor. “I find it difficult to…think of Ithilien without Legolas. I know for Faramir it shall be even worse.”

“They were close.”

“Most close, my lady. The elves there…they were a great help to us, and not to say I do not think they shall cease to be now,” Eowyn added hastily. “But it was Legolas with whom we had the most dealings, and…” she smiled with brimming eyes, “I need not tell you how pleasant dealing with him is.”

Arwen smiled, and fought back a sob. “Nay, Lady, be assured, you do not. I have known him since he was born--longer than any living man here!” Eowyn smiled too at that. “He and my brothers and their friends, whether we were in Rivendell or Mirkwood, used to get into such extraordinary mischief. It was even worse after he came of age and met Aragorn.”

“I can well imagine,” laughed Eowyn through her tears. “He and Faramir tried my patience on many occasions with their nonsense.” With a sound that was both a laugh and a sob, she asked, “Do you recall the last festival of the new year, when he and Gimli came to celebrate with Aragorn, Faramir, and Eomer?”

“Ai, how could I forget?” Arwen laughed, tears streaking her face. “I am told it is not the first time that Legolas managed to get Aragorn in his cups. I have it on good authority that Estel was fool enough to try to drink with that elf within months of their first meeting.”

“Only last year it was not only Aragorn, but Gimli, Eomer, AND Faramir,” cried Eowyn, smiling helplessly. “Oh, when I came upon my husband and brother, both drunk as village winemen, hanging off each other like fallen trees and singing dwarvish drinking songs, I thought I would kill them both! Faramir could not even stand up straight!”

Arwen sobbed with laughter. “Where was Aragorn? I did not see him until I found him practically unconscious with drink in the bathing room of our chamber?”

“When I found them, Aragorn and Legolas were both quite soused and attempting to teach Gimli how to shoot arrows, but I stopped them before someone was injured,” Eowyn replied, grinning tearfully at the memory. “All three of them tried to challenge me to a duel when I took the bow from them, for they thought I was Eomer.”

Arwen dissolved into great gasps of combined laughter and sobs, and before she knew it, she had flung her arms around Eowyn. The two women clung to each other, laughing and weeping, remembering the shenanigans of their husbands and friends with the elf who had been so dear to them both. “Oh, my lady, I shall miss him so,” sobbed Eowyn.

“And I,” wept Arwen, trying to keep her tears from soaking Eowyn’s gown. “But it is Aragorn, Faramir, and Gimli that I worry for most. Those poor men. How ever shall they recover from this?”

“I know not,” sighed Eowyn, pulling back and wiping at her eyes in vain. “It was all such a waste. He deserved so much better.”

Fumbling in her gown for a kerchief, Arwen blotted at her face. “They all did. Legolas, Laegnan, my uncle…” she shook her head, a surge of impotent fury at Disaran’s careless greed briefly overcoming her sorrow. “There was not an elf or man in Middle Earth who deserved such a cruel end.”

Eowyn looked away. “Faramir has asked me not to come to the execution.”

“Aragorn has asked the same of me. He dislikes the necessity of making it public.”

“Will you go?”

Arwen went to the corridor window, looking out over the tops of the buildings as she thought about it. Then she sighed. “Nay. Aragorn did not order it, but he will feel better if I am not present when he gives the final order, and that is reason enough. And he is right; I do not think Legolas would have wanted it either.”

“Then if you wish, Lady, I shall stay. For I also have no great wish to be there in person, and then you would not have to wait alone,” offered Eowyn.

Arwen looked at her. Eowyn’s face like her own was blotched with tears, but her eyes were clear. And so, Arwen suddenly realized, was her own mind. *And in this ending, there is a beginning also. And that is as it should be.* She smiled and took Eowyn’s hand. “I should be very glad of your company.”

“By your leave then, I shall go to my lord Faramir until the time comes for him to depart, and then I will come to you.”

“Thank you, Eowyn. You are a great comfort to me.”

***

In the Halls of the Kings, soon after…

Aragorn was standing by the window in his private study when the door quietly opened. Under any other circumstances, he would have smiled, for he knew without turning around who it was. Only one person in Middle Earth would dare come into any private room of his without knocking.

“Estel.”

Swallowing hard, he turned and forced a smile. “Father. I did not expect to see you here. But I am very glad you came.”

“The Lady Galadriel sent for me as soon as it happened. She knew even before the messengers arrived in Lorien.”

His throat was so very tight. He swallowed again. “I am most grateful to her.”

Elrond’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder. “You have done well, my son. Very well.”

Unable to completely prevent a shudder, Aragorn murmured, “I wish I could believe that.”

The grip tightened gently. “I know your grief. I share it. Yet you have prevented your judgment from being clouded.”

With a slight snort, Aragorn replied, “Obviously you have not heard how ill I conducted myself, those first few days…”

“But you recovered yourself. And you have seen things put right in the end. I too have conducted myself ill in the first moments of shock and grief.” His foster-father did not elaborate, and there was little need. They both knew of what he spoke.

How long Aragorn had fought to keep down the boiling eruption of grief and rage that churned within. Perhaps now…but he could not. He desired to bury his face in Elrond’s chest as he had when he was a child, to weep desperately until his breath left him, but he could not. There was a great noise in his ears. Not looking at Elrond, he stared again out the window and whispered, “Father…I do not know what to do.”

Now both of Elrond’s hands came quietly down upon his shoulders, gripping Aragorn tightly, providing a small rudder for his sanity as anguish threatened to overwhelm him. “You must do as you have done, these past sad days. Continue through each day, to do as he would have wished, and honor his memory in your actions.”

Aragorn’s stomach lurched, and he grated out, “I cannot think he would have desired all this madness. This bloodlust.”

“Perhaps not. But he would have desired justice, and that you have done all in your power to give him. Do not rebuke yourself, Estel. You have proven yourself well his friend, always.” Elrond’s grip drew him ever-so-slightly closer, and his voice softened still more. “I have great faith in you. And great pride.”

“Father…I am so glad you came.”

“As am I, my son. Remember, even when I am gone over the sea, that when your heart is troubled you shall always find me with you.”

***

In the House of Kings, around the same time…

“We thought we’d find you here,” said Frodo, coming in to see Gimli keeping his usual vigil beside Legolas’s body.

The barest nod was his only answer. Frodo looked at Sam, Merry, and Pippin helplessly, and Sam said softly, “You know, Gimli, Legolas…wouldn’t want you to grieve like this. He’d want you to carry on.”

“Sam is right,” said Frodo. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The dwarf closed his eyes, confirming their worries. “I wasn’t fast enough to…to get there in time. Elves and men…so much faster than dwarves.”

“You shouldn’t think that way, Gimli,” pleaded Sam, his eyes full. “You saved his life many times--and we had that from Legolas himself, so don’t go trying to deny it! Many a time he saved you, and many a time you saved him.”

“And why do you think Legolas didn’t want to go all the way back to Mirkwood after the War?” added Merry. “It wasn’t just for Aragorn that he made his colony so far south. He wanted to be near you. Never have I seen a truer friendship like there was between Legolas and you, Gimli, except maybe Sam and Frodo.”

Sam blushed, and Frodo grinned. “Merry’s right. We’re all right, and you know it. Above all things, Gimli, Legolas would never, ever let you blame yourself this way. It didn’t matter how fast you ran. If Disaran had missed that time, he’d have waited for another. He had Legolas marked out. There was nothing you could have done.”

There was a long silence. “I know,” Gimli murmured.

Merry smiled sadly and put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “After all, at least King Thranduil decided to let him be buried in Ithilien. So we can all go there when we want, and he’ll be back in the woods he loved. We all miss him, but it’s not so very bad.” He looked down at the elf’s body, still as fresh as life. “I think he’d be glad to go home.”

Gimli gave a little shake of his head. “I doubt it matters to him where he’s buried.”

“Don’t say that, Gimli!” cried Pippin. “He never stopped caring about us--”

“You misunderstand me, Pippin,” said Gimli. He looked for a long moment at the body, and sighed. “That…that isn’t him anymore. He’s gone. They say the souls of elves go to Mandos, in Valinor over the sea.”

Frodo took Gimli’s hand, smiling through the tears in his eyes. “Then he’s gone over the sea, just like he wanted to so badly ever since he heard the gulls. He’s safe. ”

“Yes,” Gimli’s voice was barely audible. “He’s free.”

***

An hour or so later…

Nearly everyone had already gone to the field where the execution would be, including Gimli and the hobbits, as well as Lord Elrond. Aragorn had watched them go, then quietly slipped into the Silent Street. He wanted to do this alone.

Coming into the House of Kings, he gazed silently at the body of his friend upon the table, feeling a strange emptiness inside. “It’s almost over now, Legolas,” he said softly. “I don’t know if you would have wanted your murderer executed this way, but there wasn’t much choice. Too many people want to see him pay. I am sorry if you would have disapproved.”

It made him ache; Legolas still looked as if he would sit up and stare at Aragorn at any moment. The King felt his throat tighten fiercely. “I tried. I would have done anything to save you. Anything,” he whispered. “I nearly lost my mind. How did this happen, my friend? You were never meant to fall before me.”

He stood there, and for a little while, his mind carried him away from this place of pain and loneliness. It carried him to the edge of Mirkwood, where he had gone to the aid of a young elf being attacked by spiders, a suspicious elf who refused to even give his name, but who Aragorn had realized was no ordinary elf from the very start. *I did not know what to make of you even more than you knew what to make of me. How we danced around each other, each wary of revealing too much about ourselves.*

His mind wandered to a small vineyard land where he and Legolas had been drawn into a labor dispute, and there they had first revealed to each other their true names. *Strange circumstances those were, that the heir of Isildur and the son of the king of Mirkwood could become friends. But we did.*

And then to Mirkwood, where Aragorn had brought Gollum, imagining that Legolas’s people were just the ones to be entrusted with the task. *I never imagined what I was asking of you, nor the price your people would pay.* Two young guards under Legolas’s command had been killed during Gollum’s escape, and the elf had been wracked with guilt and grief.

Finally, Aragorn’s memories arrived in Rivendell, where Legolas had come to report Gollum’s escape. *I did not blame you for that, once I learned all the facts. How glad I was when Father chose you to join the Fellowship. I knew at once you would be a worthy one to join us, and you proved it. How truly you proved it.*

Then, inevitably, his mind carried him against his will to the alley outside the Houses of Healing, to the memory of his friend that burned into Aragorn’s mind like a hot iron. The vision of the elf’s terrified face as Disaran drained the life from him haunted the King of Gondor always. “Oh Legolas. How could it have ended that way?”

Legolas’s still face blurred, and Aragorn’s throat tightened unbearably. “I’ll kill him today, but it will not bring you back,” he whispered, his voice choked with grief. “Legolas…Legolas, I would have given my life to save you.” He moved close to the table and squeezed the elf’s cold hand. “I know you have found peace and welcome in the Halls of Mandos; you were too good and noble for anything less. But I cannot help but wish that things had been different. For you became such a part of me that now I know not how to go on without you…”

The dam of grief and despair that Aragorn had held inside for so long suddenly broke, and he covered his face, as the first deep sob wrenched from him. His body felt weak with the release of so much pain, and he bent over the sepulcher, letting his forehead brush against Legolas’s chest, still clutching the elf’s hand, and at long last, he wept, not loudly, but deeply, with great, slow, heaving sobs that had been stifled for too long. “Oh Legolas…”

After a time, his weeping died down, and he brought himself back to awareness with slow deep breaths. Then a hand touched his shoulder, and he whirled around and nearly drew his blade. “What--”

Faramir jerked backward. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said, hastily raising his hands. “I apologize; I did not wish to intrude, but--”

Aragorn gaped at his Steward for several seconds before finding his voice. “By the Valar, Faramir, you should have announced yourself! I might have killed you!”

“I’m sorry,” the man’s voice softened, and Aragorn became aware of the tears still drying upon his cheeks.

He wiped his eyes. “How soon until we must go?” he asked wearily.

“We have a few minutes yet,” Faramir assured him. He looked down, coloring slightly. “Again, I am sorry I disturbed you, but I…did not realize you were here.”

“What do you mean--oh.” Aragorn grimaced, and scrubbed at his face. Faramir walked up to look at Legolas, and the King sighed. “Somehow I fear the execution will bring little satisfaction.”

“Even less than those who call for his death expect,” agreed the Steward quietly. “All the same, I’ll not regret Disaran’s death at all.”

“Nor I,” said Aragorn. He closed his eyes. “I find myself dreading tomorrow more every moment.”

Faramir nodded, and then sighed. “We should be going.”

“Yes.”

“Aragorn,” Faramir’s hesitant call stopped him when he would have left the House of Kings. “Should we not shroud him? It’s the proper thing due him.”

Aragorn turned and slowly walked back to the sepulcher, gazing at the body of one of his dearest friends. His hands lingered once again upon the clasp of his mantle, but as before, he found that he could not. “No. Legolas…was never cut off from the world, from the free air.” He shook his head. “I know it foolish of me, but I cannot do it now.” He backed up. “We shall let his people shroud him when the procession leaves tomorrow for Ithilien. I cannot.” Faramir nodded in understanding, and headed for the door.

Aragorn lingered one more moment to look at Legolas, and at last whispered, “Namarie, meldirn.”

***

In the prison, around the same time…

Disaran eyed the fading spirit of the elf that lay motionless outside his cell. *Getting pretty weak there, aren’t you?*

*I would not be so cocky were I you, Disaran. I may not last long enough to inhabit your body for you at the moment of your death, at this rate,* Legolas replied faintly. The living world was becoming a blur, with vague noises. He had half-hoped that he would fade out completely before the trial was over, and even looked for a way to hasten the process, dreaming with satisfaction of the look on the Black Hunter’s face when he returned a condemned man, only to find that the elf he intended to kill in his place was no longer there. Alas, his wretched half-life was somehow clinging to existence, and he remained, trapped between two worlds. Still, there was always the blessed (and very real) chance that he would not last until the execution.

But Disaran, watching the weakening elf with narrowed eyes, apparently recognized the danger. *That will never do, my elf.*

*Sorry to disappoint you, but my spirit may not be strong enough to survive until your death,* said Legolas.

*Maybe yours isn’t, but mine is. It’s true, I grow weary being outside my body for too long, but I’ve strength enough for this. You’ll not fade before MY time has come!* he laughed mockingly, and Legolas felt himself dragged into Disaran’s body once again.

Looking through Disaran’s eyes again, he saw Disaran’s now non-corporeal body appear nearby and thought, *Curse the Valar, I should stop thinking altogether--*

*--WHAT IS THIS?!* Disaran’s thought all but blasted Legolas’s ears off. He blinked and looked down at his body--wait. HIS body! It had to be his--his left hand near his face was no longer broad and blunt, but long and slender, bearing the calluses of an archer. How could this be--his spirit was all but yanked back out of the body before he could examine the situation further, and he lay limp and weak again nearby, while Disaran, once again in his own body, looked himself over and glared at the elf. “How did you do that?” the man snapped aloud.

*Cursed if I know,* Legolas answered, feeling vindictively pleased. *It seems keeping me around shall prove more difficult than you thought.*

*Now you are the one being cocky, elf,* sneered the man, reaching out with his physical hand and grabbing the elf’s spirit by the arm. *You seem to be failing to grasp the situation. If I force you into my body at the right second, and time it just so, the executioner won’t be able to stop his blade in time, and it will still be you that’s executed--body AND soul! And all those dear friends of yours will see the truth of what they’ve done! Quite a shock for them, I expect it’ll be. Might do any number of them in!*

Horror swept through Legolas at the thought. *No! No!*

Desperation seized him, for no longer could he simply be glad and resign himself to his spirit’s fate. He had to fight Disaran somehow, anything to stop Gimli, Aragorn, Faramir, his father, and the others from finding out what had become of him. *I will not let you do this!*

*You didn’t have a choice before, my elf. What makes you think you have one now?*

*I will find a way,* Legolas spat, trying to summon what strength he had left, as several guards entered the room.

“Well, Disaran, the time’s come!” said the captain, sounding downright cheerful. “Let’s be off!”

As they pulled Disaran to his feet and shackled him again, Legolas’s mind raced. *I must find a way. I cannot let him do this to them. It will destroy them all to see what became of me. They will destroy each other!* The guards were leading Disaran from the prison, and the elf felt the man’s will latch onto him, dragging his spirit along behind. Desperately, he summoned all the will he himself had left. *Ai, what can I do? I had not the ability to stop him when my spirit was at its strongest, and now I am nearly faded. How can I stop him now?*

But the thought of Gimli, of Aragorn, his father, Faramir, and all those he loved, those still living, increased his determination. *I must. I must.*

***

At the sporting field in Minas Tirith, a few minutes later…

It seemed to Legolas that all of Gondor had gathered for Disaran’s execution, as the murderer dragged him along behind. Legolas had forced back the weary lethargy that tried to claim his spirit, desperate to summon enough strength to stop Disaran from forcing Legolas to die for him. He knew not how, but something had changed: if his spirit was in Disaran’s body, the body somehow became his own, and he would die in full view of his friends if there was not time to warn them. It took no great thought to perceive Disaran’s plan: he would wait until the executioner’s blade was already in motion, and then force Legolas into his own body once it was too late for anyone to cry “stay!” Legolas himself would die before the very eyes of everyone he loved, Disaran would escape--body and all--and Legolas’s friends and family…it made the elf wish for the physical ability to shudder, wondering what his father would do at seeing him dead on Aragorn’s orders. *I must stop this. I must find a way.*

His own link to the living world was more tenuous, and that made it still more difficult. It grew increasingly difficult to see; the field of sand was a light blur, and the masses of people surrounding it a dark blur. In fact, the only thing Legolas could really see clearly was Disaran just in front of him. *Ai, I did not know it was possible to feel hate such as I feel for that man…that thing.*

They were on the field now. Legolas was surrounded by sandy light. To his left he noticed a particularly dark section, and suspected that it was a set of covered stands where the King and lords of Gondor would sit to witness the execution…and any guests that might be among them. All at once, he noticed that among the dark figures were sources of light, and they seemed more clear to him than the others.

*Elves. They’re here.* The fading spirit focused hard upon the glowing figures, trying to identify them. If he could just…he looked hard at the brightest of them. An elf, clad in white, very tall, probably of Lothlórien…Celeborn. No…wait…

*GALADRIEL!* Hope surged wildly in his heart. It was a slim chance, for no living elf or mortal had been able to hear his voice. Even Mithrandir had not sensed Legolas’s spirit…but Galadriel had possessed great power even without an elven ring. *GALADRIEL! My lady, hear me! Help me!*

***

In the same place at the same time…

Aragorn wondered if he would ever be able to enjoy watching a race or a fighting bout again after today. It relieved him no end that Arwen had agreed not to come, so in the throne beside his where his Queen normally sat, he invited the Lady Galadriel to be seated. He had been dismayed to see her there upon entering the stands to join the lords and honored guests of Gondor, but she had replied simply, “I choose to see the end, Elessar.” Unable to dissuade her, he had surrendered and invited her to sit beside him. Celeborn sat on the other side of her, and Elrond just beyond him.

Faramir was on his right; Eowyn had also decided not to come. On the other hand, all four of the hobbits had stubbornly asserted their right to be there, and they sat in the first row of seats just below Aragorn, between Gimli and Gandalf. The wizard had clasped the King’s hand firmly when he had arrived. “You’ve done well, Aragorn, very well. I know you do not believe it, but Legolas would have been proud.”

*I fear you are right, Gandalf, I do not believe it,* thought Aragorn, looking with intense distaste at the throngs of Gondorrim surrounding the field, watching in eager anticipation as though awaiting the start of a game. Death, even to one who richly deserved it, was not to be celebrated so, and the King was certain that Legolas would be the last one to enjoy this sort of thing. Still, there was nothing to be done now except to end it as quickly as possible. “Faramir, have the men bring him out.”

“Yes, my lord. Captain!” Faramir called to the guard at the gate of the field, who nodded and beckoned beyond Aragorn’s view.

A great roar of excitement and derision erupted from the crowd as Disaran was dragged into view. It interested Aragorn to see that the man seemed almost distracted, concentrating on something other than his impending doom. For once, he was not even making an effort to mock the families of his victims. *Perhaps it has finally dawned on him that this life he was willing to kill to extend is about to come to an end. Perhaps that is what has finally ended his insolence.* Aragorn felt a little solace in that, but not much. The time for rage, vengeance, even satisfaction was over: he simply wanted this to be done with.

A flicker of movement to his left caught his attention. The Lady Galadriel had leaned forward slightly in her chair, the tiniest frown of perplexity furrowing her brow. “My lady?” he asked softly. “Something is amiss?”

Celeborn looked at her and also frowned. Galadriel seemed highly distracted, narrowing her eyes at the field before murmuring, “I…something…” she blinked several times. “Please forgive me, King Elessar. I thought I sensed something…unusual. I must have been mistaken.”

***

For several seconds, the bright figure in the dark blur had come more into focus, and Legolas had been certain that he was reaching Galadriel. If he could make her sense his thoughts, he could warn her what was about to happen. But after several heart-stopping (if he had possessed a beating heart, anyway) moments, the vision had blurred back into the fog, and Legolas knew he had lost her.

*A Elbereth, give me strength. Mandos, I beg you. If I could not be granted a simple life and death like all others, at least spare those I love the agony of learning my fate! Let me die again without them knowing!*

But something told Legolas that simple praying and begging the Valar would not avail him. He had to find another way. And soon. There was not much time.

***

Faramir watched dispassionately as the guards hauled Disaran to the center of the field, where straw had been scattered liberally into a mat. At the center of the mat stood a large wooden pole, the height of a man. There Disaran made to stand, the manacles on his wrists and ankles chained around the pole and fastened to a ring at the top. A good number of the crowd were chanting for the executioner. “Who did you choose?” the King asked him softly.

“Riancam of Bree, my lord. He has been asking permission to return to his home village for some time, and had no objection to this, so I thought he was the best one. He’ll not be plagued by the Breelanders as the guard who executed the Black Hunter,” Faramir told him.

“That is well.” Aragorn watched Disaran for a moment, then sighed. “Let’s get on with it.”

Faramir nodded, and raised his sword. The tall, burly Breelander guard came out, bearing a large sword especially sharpened. Gimli had offered his own axe for the occasion, but Gandalf had finally convinced the dwarf that a criminal chained to a stake was hardly worthy of his blade. In the row of seats below Faramir, Gimli sat directly in front of the King. “Not much longer,” murmured the dwarf. Faramir wondered if it was only himself whom Gimli spoke to.

***

*Curse the Valar, I must THINK!* Legolas fought his disorientation, realizing he had perhaps minutes left to make a move. Any moment now, Disaran would force the elf’s spirit into his body even as the executioner’s blade swung, and it would be Legolas who appeared headless before all of Minas Tirith and the elves of three realms. What would happen afterward…it made him long for the ability to shiver.

Disaran was looking directly at him, knowing that Legolas was trying to find a way to escape him. He did not speak aloud, but as always, the elf heard his thoughts. *You are not strong enough to stop me now, elf. I shall have your spirit where I want it when the time comes no matter how hard you try to escape! Run, cowardly elfling, but your spirit is mine to dispose of again!*

Legolas seethed. *You shall pay even if they must hunt you down again, beast! Perhaps it is you who shall wind up without a body!*

*Or maybe I’ll find myself in my body wherever yours was,* suggested Disaran. *In the chaos of seeing you dead yet again, I’ll have plenty of time to flee Minas Tirith.*

*They shall find you. And you no longer have the stone. Either way, your time of feasting on my people is at an end.*

*Maybe it is, but at least I’ll get one last meal,* taunted the man.

There was another dark figure bearing down on them now. It must be the executioner, for Legolas could vaguely see the sun gleaming off something long and wicked-looking in the soldier’s hands. *A Elbereth!*

*Why not flee, little elf? I’d enjoy one last chase.*

It struck Legolas like a bolt of lightning. Always before he had fled from the Hunter, trying to resist the pull and escape. Always fleeing, but never… *If flight you wish, then you shall not have it this time! Your will pulls my spirit into your body to trade places with yours, but perhaps there is yet room in one man’s body for two!* Instead of retreating, he lunged.

*What--*

***

Silence fell upon the field. The executioner stood with his blade at his side on the opposite side of the pole that held the condemned man secure. The guards stepped back. All was ready.

Galadriel leaned forward in confusion as Disaran seemed almost to flinch at something unseen, then the man appeared to be struggling against his bonds. Much good it would do him, but what she sensed from the man was all but incoherent. Trying to discern the inane mental babble coming from the squirming figure on the field, she blinked to see Aragorn standing up as the executioner took his place, bringing the sword to bear.

*Wait,* she wanted to say. *Wait, something is wrong!* But she could not seem to find words to break the trance that the bizarre, overlapping thoughts held her in.

Sunlight did not gleam off the Flame of the West as King Elessar drew Anduril. No sun reached them beneath the awning over their stands, and the air was cold with November chill, but it did not matter, for the hearts of everyone were beating so rapidly. The King of Gondor held the blade aloft, causing the hobbits to reflexively lean forward.

***

It might just work! Perhaps if Legolas could keep Disaran’s spirit at least partly in his own body at the moment of death, it would be the man they saw, rather than the elf he had tormented. Then at best, Disaran would die, body, spirit, and all, and Legolas would be left to fade away in peace and return to Mandos. At worst, they would both die, as long as it was Disaran’s body that the onlookers saw. Naught else mattered to the elf. His own life was a write-off anyway.

To be sure, that possibility was confirmed by Disaran’s frantic fighting against the elf’s own will. The spirits battled there upon the field, in the battleground of a single mortal body, even as the executioner brought his blade to bear. But neither took any notice.

*Be off, elf! You’ll not get the better of me!*

*Nay, villain! You shall not do this! Not to them!* Disaran’s will was strong, but Legolas’s friendship and love for the people he knew were watching was stronger. He would not let them suffer the horror of mourning him once again. It was more disorienting than ever, being half-in, half-out of Disaran’s body while trying to figuratively “pin” the man’s spirit in, but Legolas suddenly found he could see from the man’s eyes along with Disaran, yet he knew that the body remained Disaran’s rather than changing into his own. It was working! Even if Legolas’s spirit was in this body, as long as Disaran remained even partly there as well, the body would remain the Black Hunter’s! From the corner of their combined vision, he saw the executioner raising his sword.

*Almost over, just fight a little longer!* he exhorted himself wearily, but with triumph. Just a few more seconds and they would both be dead. Desperate to flee his body before it was too late, Disaran had forgotten to keep the elf from gaining control of his movement. The executioner was watching for the signal. *Namarie, my friends,* Legolas thought. *May you never know what happened to me after death, and find peace in each other. That alone will give me peace.*

Not especially wanting to watch his own demise (again), he forced Disaran’s head to turn, focusing the man’s eyes on the shaded stands, so that his last view of the living world might be of those he loved best. There they were: Celeborn and Galadriel, Elrond, Elladan, and Elrohir, Faramir and Eomer, his father, and of course, the remaining members of the Fellowship. Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Gimli, and Aragorn, who raised Anduril to point straight up, then dropped the blade down. He felt the wind of a blade slicing the air, coming up behind him and sensed Disaran’s mental howl of defeat. It was time.

For both of them.
*****
To Be Continued…
*****

TRANSLATIONS (www.councilofelrond.com):

Namarie, meldirn: Farewell, my friend.